where ever since has sounded the chanting of the monks and of sweet-voiced choirs.
One unusual structural feature at once strikes even the usually unobservant; the trend inward of the walls as they reach toward the east, accounted for by the builders having to accommodate themselves to the two towers of St Anselm and St Andrew, left undestroyed by the great fire which called for the rebuilding of the choir. It is not possible to say with any degree of surety at what point the work of French William ended and was succeeded by that of English William; and, indeed, it is most probable that the latter worked from and completed the designs of the former. Striking, however, is the exquisite contrast in the combination of the French stone from Caen and the English Purbeck marble. Glorious as was the choir of Conrad, this that succeeded to it is far more beautiful and, of course, more ornate. The mouldings are very varied—billet-work, dog-tooth, zigzag and so forth, Norman intermixed with the succeeding style. Gervase states that “The old capitals were plain, the new are most artistically sculptured. The old arches and everything else either plain, or sculptured with an axe and not with a chisel; but in the new work first-rate sculpture abounded everywhere. In the old work no marble shafts, in the new innumerable ones.” But excellent work in stone can be executed with the axe in skilful, practised hands—easy tools do not necessarily mean fine output; and Willis points out the interesting fact that down to his day at any rate French masons used the axe “with great dexterity in carving.”
A noteworthy feature of the triforium is the curious conjuncture of an outer round-headed arch enclosing two that are pointed, again a mingling of the Norman and Early English styles. To quote Willis yet again, this “may have arisen either from the indifference of the artist as to the mixture of forms, or else from deliberate contrivance; for as he was compelled, from the nature of his work, to retain round-headed arcades, windows, and arches in the side-aisles, and yet was accustomed to and desirous of employing pointed arches in his new building, he might discreetly mix some round-headed arches with them, in order to make the contrast less offensive by causing the mixture of forms to pervade the whole composition, as if an intentional principle.” Commentators are very fond of reading into the works of dead and gone writers, in particular into the plays and poems of Shakespeare, thoughts and speculations and intentions entirely alien to past ages. Is it not more than likely that architectural critics fall not seldom into the same blunder? Probably the sheer truth concerning these old builders is that they builded better than they knew, and that we with the light of later and present days attribute to design what was the result of inadvertence. But why analyse and speculate? Let us be thankful for what we have received; if it be justifiable to say grace before books, how much more so to return thanks for these pictures drawn in stone.
Around the choir stands the screen of Prior Henry de Estria, dating from about 1305, at least partly his handiwork; and noteworthy is the Norman doorway.
The altar stands high, situated as it is above the later and loftier portion of the crypt. Rich indeed it must have been in pre-Reformation days, glowing with its costly and precious vessels; in a grated vault beneath it, the treasury of gold and silver, which would have made Crœsus and Midas feel poor, so says Erasmus. Most of this splendour was swept up by the greedy hands of Henry VIII., the “professional widower” and equally professional thief, and what of beauty this sinner left undespoiled was destroyed by Puritan saints. The present altar is rich, but not religiously impressive.
The vast difference between the Christianity of mediæval times and of the days that followed the Reformation cannot be more forcibly emphasised than by recalling that this choir, now the centre of a simple ritual, was then one of the most famous homes of relic worship. To the new choir when ready to receive them were restored—they had stood in its predecessor—the remains of St Dunstan and of St Alphege, “the co-exiles of the monks.” Says Gervase: “Prior Alan, taking with him nine of the brethren of the Church in whom he could trust, went by night to the tombs of the saints, so that he might not be incommoded by a crowd, and having locked the doors of the church, he commanded the stone-work that enclosed them to be taken down. The monks and servants of the Church, in obedience to the Prior’s commands, took the structure to pieces, opened the stone coffins of the saints, and bore their relics to the vestiarium. Then, having removed the cloths in which they had been wrapped, and which were half-consumed from age and rottenness, they covered them with other and more handsome palls, and bound them with linen bands. They bore the saints, thus prepared, to their altars, and deposited them in wooden chests, covered within and without with lead; which chests, thus lead-covered, and strongly bound with iron, were enclosed in stone-work that was consolidated with melted lead.” There is eloquent evidence of the morality of the times in that “in whom he could trust”; thefts of relics were common enough, and monks earned high recompense for showing themselves successful “cracksmen.”