Part 3
The two western transepts are the building of Prior Chillenden. Opening out of the southern is the chapel of St Michael or the Warrior’s Chapel, built by whom is uncertain, but, according to Willis, probably by Chillenden. The tomb here of Archbishop Stephen Langton is curious: in shape like a coffin of stone, half of it in the chapel and half under the eastern wall. It was Cardinal Archbishop Langton who forced Magna Charta from King John, and who divided the Bible into chapters--both permanent works. In the centre of this chapel is the beautiful sepulchre of Lady Margaret Holland (d. 1437) and her two husbands, John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset (d. 1410), and Thomas, Duke of Clarence (d. 1420), the lady thus surviving her second husband by some seventeen years. The monument is of marble and alabaster, and the three effigies of striking interest.
Then through the passage beneath the steps of
the choir into the transept of the Martyrdom. There remains here little, if anything, that was seen by Becket’s eyes. Here lie buried Archbishop Peckham (1279-92), an interesting monument, and Archbishop Warham (1503-32). The latter was notable--among other things--for his lavish hospitality, and for spending an immense sum upon his palace at Otford, money which he would have lavished upon Canterbury had not the citizens indiscreetly quarrelled with him. He was the friend of Colet and Erasmus, of whose visit here we shall have something to say later on. To the east of this transept is the Lady Chapel, built by Prior Goldstone, the fan-vaulting of which is rich and beautiful.
We may now descend into the crypt, so ending our brief survey of the interior of the Cathedral. This crypt, which we owe to Prior Ernulf, subsequently Bishop of Rochester, is most impressive in its massiveness, its Norman sturdiness, the square bases of the round pillars, the ponderous capitals; the roof, which seems as though too heavy even for such strong supports; the narrow, round-headed windows. The carving, executed after the capitals were put in place, is worthy of note--rough and ready, but thoroughly characteristic. In that portion of the crypt beneath the south transept a French service is still celebrated, an institution which dates from about 1575, when many Protestants sought refuge in Canterbury. They were weavers for the most part, but neither in their works nor their speech do they now survive, though many families of French lineage and name live here still. In the centre of the crypt was the altar and chapel of the Virgin, once glorious with riches, now a dismal desolation, unfrequented, a shadow of a cult no longer here followed. Close by lies buried Cardinal Morton of the famous “fork,” and in the beautiful screen is the tomb of Lady Mohun of Dunster. There is something creepy, uncanny, about these tombs lying dark beneath the mass of building above, something fateful as compared with a grave in some quiet village churchyard. Then there is the chapel of St Gabriel, with the tomb of the Countess of Athol of Chilham Castle (1292), defaced of its splendours. Ernulf’s work ends where the crypt suddenly assumes loftier proportions in the easternmost part built by William the Englishman; here Becket was first buried, here he slept until his remains were translated to the gorgeous shrine in the church above. Here, too, have been found bones, including a skull with marks of violence, which may be, which may not be, the martyr’s. Not only is this eastern portion of the crypt loftier, but also lighter in its architectural features: the Norman style has vanished, we have here very early Early English, pointed arches, circular capitals, the beginning of “sweetness and light.”
THE EXTERIOR
There is a passage in _The Stones of Venice_ that should be in everyone’s mind when walking in any cathedral close: “Let us go together up the more retired street, at the end of which we can see the pinnacles of one of the towers, and then through the low grey gateway, with its battlemented top and small latticed window in the centre, into the inner private-looking road or close, where nothing goes in but the carts of the tradesmen who supply the bishop and the chapter, and where there are little shaven grass-plots, fenced in by neat rails, before old-fashioned groups of somewhat diminutive and excessively trim houses, with little oriel and bay windows jutting out here and there, and deep wooden cornices and eaves painted cream colour and white, and small porches to their doors in the shape of cockle-shells, or little, crooked, thick, indescribable wooden gables warped a little on one side; and so forward till we come to larger houses, also old-fashioned, but of red brick, and with gardens behind them, and fruit walls, which show here and there among the nectarines, the vestiges of an old cloister arch or shaft, and looking in front on the Cathedral square itself, laid out in rigid divisions of smooth grass and gravel walk, yet not uncheerful, especially on the sunny side where the canons’ children are walking with their nurserymaids.” Is not the atmosphere exactly caught and held? Then, as did Ruskin, look on the Cathedral itself. Up high soars the beautiful central tower, now known as Bell Harry, but once and better called the Angel Steeple. Of this perfect building the beginning was in 1433, under Prior Molash, and after delays and intermissions it was brought to completeness by Prior Goldstone, of whose handiwork it has been written: “He vaulted it with a most beautiful vault, and with excellent and artistic workmanship, in every part sculptured and gilt, with ample windows glazed and ironed. He also with great care and industry annexed to the columns which support the same tower two arches or vaults of stone-work, curiously carved, and four smaller ones to assist in sustaining
the said tower"--a remarkable feature of the interior. The west front of the Cathedral is flanked by two towers: the south-west known as the Chichele or Oxford tower, basely imitated by the north-west tower--the Arundel--which dates from 1834, when Lanfranc’s work was destroyed.
In the close we must try to forget the present day. When we go to Canterbury to see the Cathedral, when that is practically all in all to us, we must endeavour to call back the past, to put back the “horologe of time,” to remember that this fine pile was once the busy centre of a great monastic community, of whose buildings there are many interesting remnants, stone records crumbling away. St Augustine, who founded this powerful monastery, was a Benedictine. The rules were severe, enjoining silence, work, and divine worship. The monastery flourished, and when Lanfranc was appointed archbishop by the Conqueror, its fortunes received a great impetus from the ambitious prelate. It was not only the church that showed the marks of his strong hand but the monastic buildings also, which he surrounded with a great wall. He added to the riches of the community and to the number of the monks, whom he endeavoured to bring back to strict obedience to their rule; he encouraged learning and literary work; he placed the governance of the monastery in the hands of a prior instead of the archbishop, as heretofore. The monastery, as the years went by, grew more powerful, more rich, more proud, achieving much work of splendid usefulness, some of no use at all. And then came Henry VIII. The buildings inside the monastery walls were numerous--the church, the chapter-house, the cloisters, the dormitories, the buttery, the kitchen, the dining-hall, the infirmary, store-houses and bakeries, stables, houses of entertainment for guests of high and low degree--a beehive of industrious monks. What remains of it all? But little; the memory of a greatness gone for ever--a few buildings, some ruins. These are the picturesque ruins of the infirmary adjoining the east end of the Cathedral, portions of its hall and of the chapel attached to its east end, so that the sick might not be deprived of the solace of the service of God. There is a lovely view of the Cathedral through the fine archway that still stands. Passing westward we come to the Dark Entry, which, turning to the right, takes us to Green Court: it is a dark, gruesome passage, meet for the habitation of the ghost whose history has been sung by Ingoldsby; but it is
beautiful also. Close by is the Baptistry, as the Lavatory Tower is now miscalled, which nestles snugly against the Cathedral, whence was distributed the supply of water to the various buildings. Green Court is worthy a visit for its own picturesque sake, but above all because it contains one of the most delightful specimens of Norman architecture, the magnificent staircase leading up to the King’s School; there are those who say that the Normans built splendidly, but not beautifully, to whom this one work is sufficient answer. Of the chapter-house, what can we say save that the hand of the restorer has been laid heavily upon it?--translator-traitor we have been told; we may say with almost equal truth, restorer-destroyer. And then we may go into the cloisters, which next after the church was the centre of monastic life. The present cloister is chiefly the work of Prior Chillenden, but traces of many periods are to be found--Norman, Early English and Perpendicular. Do not hurry here; it is a place in which to loiter, examining its many beauties, watching the Cathedral the while; as the white clouds sail behind the great tower, or as the storm darkens the day. The lightning flashes, the thunder rolls and mutters, and as the mirk grows deeper and deeper, as though night were upon us--what do we hear? The echoes from long ago of the cries of terror-stricken men, the imperious tones of a haughty priest, the shouts and clamour of armed men. We have travelled back to the dark night of December 29, in the year 1170, the night of Becket’s murder. There have been penned many accounts of this tragedy, but we shall not do ill to follow closely that handed down to us from the clerk Edward Grim, who stood stoutly by his master almost to the end, stood by him till severely hurt himself.[3]
The four murderers, Fitzurse, Moreville, Tracy, and le Bret, arriving in Canterbury on the afternoon of this fatal Tuesday, acted in a curiously hesitating manner, due either to nervousness or to want of any settled plan. After an interview with Becket of which the accounts vary considerably, the murderers retired to arm themselves. But they quickly returned with swords and axes, only to find all entrance barred. But they were not to be baulked, and, guided by Robert de Broc, the custodian of
the palace during Becket’s long exile, the knights forced their way in through a window. Terror-stricken at the noise, the servants and almost all of the clerks fled like sheep before hungry wolves. Those with the archbishop in his chamber besought him to fly, to seek safety in the church where vespers were being sung; but he strenuously refused, unmoved by either arguments or prayers. Then the monks took courage to act, and half dragging, half pushing, half carrying, forced him to fly. But the door leading into the cloister had some days previous been barred up; yet when one of the monks laid his hand upon the bar it yielded to him, coming out of the socket as “though fastened by nothing stronger than glue.” The cross was carried before by the clerk, Henry of Auxerre; and beside Grim there were with him his faithful friend John of Salisbury, his chaplain William Fitzstephen and a few monks. They were now in the cloister and dragged the still unwilling man along the north wall and so on to the chapter house. “What means this, sirs? What is your fear?” he continued asking them, as he angrily resisted their importunity. At last they reached the door opening into the church from the south-east corner of the cloister. As they passed through, the knights were heard following at full speed; and, on the other hand, the monks who had been singing the vespers, broke off, hastening to meet him, glorifying God because they saw him living and unharmed. So almost in the dark they must have stood, for it was late of a winter afternoon. The monks made to bar the door, but Becket bade them forbear, bidding them not to make “into a tower the house of prayer.” The murderers pushed in, with swords unsheathed, shouting, “Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to King and realm?” Receiving no reply, they called again, “Where is the archbishop?” Whereon he advanced to meet them from the steps to which he had been carried by the retreating crowd of monks, and answered, “Here I am, no traitor to the King, but a priest. What do you seek of me?” He turned aside to the right, under a pillar, on one hand the altar of the Virgin and on the other that of St Benedict. The knights followed him, bidding him restore those whom he had excommunicated, only to be met with blank refusal. They attacked him, endeavouring to drag him outside the church; but they could not move him from the pillar. Then one of the knights, to whom Becket spoke roughly as he shook him off, raised
his sword to strike, and the archbishop, bending his neck as though for prayer, and raising his hands, prepared for the martyrdom which he seems almost to have sought. The knight struck, shearing away the top of the skull, and with the same blow almost cutting off the arm of Edward Grim, who was supporting him. Another blow and another, then Becket fell on his knees, saying in a low voice, “For the name of Jesus and for the protection of the Church I am prepared to die.” Then Bret struck at him, wounding him severely: struck with such violence that he not only shivered his sword against the pavement, but also cut the crown from off the martyr’s head so that the blood, whitening from the brain and the brain reddening from the blood, “empurpled the face with the whiteness as of the lily and redness as of the rose, the colours of the Church as Virgin and Mother.” Another of the murderers placed his foot on the neck of the prostrate man, and with his sword’s point scattered the brains and blood about the pavement, calling out, “Let us go hence! This fellow will not rise again any more.” As the murderers fled out into the thick mirk of the night; as the monks cowered in terror in the black darkness of the silent Cathedral; as the crowds surged anxiously in the narrow streets of the city; as the dead archbishop lay there upon the blood-stained pavement, a few trembling but faithful friends near by,--there burst forth a tempestuous storm of rain and thunder. Then the silence of night and of fear. By-and-by the monks plucked up courage to approach the spot where lay the dead archbishop; turning the body they saw that the face was peaceful, no trace of terror or of wrath, he looked as one sleeping. After binding up the frightful wound in the head, they carried the body through the choir and laid it on a bier before the high altar. There in the dim light of the candles the monks mourned the fallen man, listening to Robert of Merton, who told them that Becket had lived a saint as he had died a martyr, showing them the monk’s habit beneath the dead man’s garments and the hair shirt next the skin. Then the monks broke out in praises of the man they had sometimes misjudged, knelt, kissed the hands and feet of the corpse, crying “_Saint_ Thomas.”
The body was first laid to rest in the crypt, until the translation in 1220. In 1173 Becket was canonised, December 29th being the feast of St Thomas of Canterbury. To this tomb in the crypt came Henry II. to do penance for his own
sin and his servants’, in the darkest hour of his reign. Barefoot and fasting he came; with rods he was beaten by bishops, abbots and monks; in the crypt he passed the hours of night; so his sin was washed away.
The bones of the martyr brought greater prosperity to the monastery and church than ever it had known, and as their fortunes rose, so those of their rival St Augustine’s declined. In 1220 the martyr’s remains were translated from the crypt to the new chapel of the Trinity which had arisen from the ashes of the old one burnt down in 1174--moved thither with splendid pomp and ceremony, and laid in a glorious shrine. The feast of the Translation of St Thomas of Canterbury was commemorated for over three hundred years, until by Henry VIII. it was suppressed. To this shrine, glowing with gold and gems, journeyed pilgrims from every quarter of the world; before it they knelt, and were cured of their ills of the flesh and of the spirit; to it they made their offerings, many of great price, such as the magnificent carbuncle, “the Regale of France,” which, when Louis VII. was reluctant to part with it, flew from out the ring upon the King’s finger and stuck fast to the wall of the shrine.
Here is a description of the shrine by a Venetian who saw it about the year 1500:--“The tomb of St Thomas the Martyr, Archbishop of Canterbury, exceeds all belief. Notwithstanding its great size, it is wholly covered with plates of pure gold; yet the gold is scarcely seen because it is covered with various precious stones, as sapphires, balasses, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds; and wherever the eye turns something more beautiful than the rest is observed. Nor, in addition to these natural beauties, is the skill of art wanting, for in the midst of the gold are the most beautiful sculptured gems both small and large, as well such as are in relief, as agates, onyxes, cornelians, and cameos; and some cameos are of such size, that I am afraid to name it; but everything is far surpassed by a ruby, not longer than a thumb-nail, which is fixed to the right of the altar.[4] The church is somewhat dark, and particularly in the spot where the shrine is placed, and when we went to see it the sun was near setting, and the weather was cloudy; nevertheless I saw that ruby as if I had it in my hand.”
Hither came Richard Cœur de Lion from his Austrian prison, Henry V. from Agincourt, and--strange irony of fate--Henry VIII. and the Emperor Charles V. Then came the storm of the Reformation; by the King’s order the treasures of the shrine were carried off to the royal treasury, and the Regale adorned the thumb of the royal humbug. Of the shrine nothing remains now, nothing but a memory. A memory, only a memory; but no one can realise what mediævalism was, how powerful superstition was, or the place in English and Continental history that Canterbury held for those three hundred years, to whom this memory is not present as he stands where once stood the shrine of St Thomas of Canterbury. We are very far removed from those days, but if we would understand them aright, we must here endeavour to probe the spirit which brought weary pilgrims to this holy shrine, some of them to scoff, but the majority in faith. Nor is it seemly to jeer at that superstition--to those whom it guided it was light in darkness; and maybe we have some superstitions of our own to-day, the folly of which will remain for future generations to point out. So from this darkness of mediævalism let us pass out into the daylight, not foolishly thinking that we have seen all or half all that there is to see, but content if we have drunk in somewhat of the beauty and solemnity of this great church.
CANTERBURY PILGRIMS
When seeking for the bright, sweet English daylight, who better could be our guide than Geoffrey Chaucer?
We have outlined briefly the story of the shrine, and of the resort to it of pilgrims high and low; but in order to paint effectively and to call up a true picture of mediæval Canterbury, let us betake ourselves back through the centuries and set out from Southwark on an April morning, adding our humble selves to that immortal band of Canterbury Pilgrims, who whiled away the tedium of the journey with jest and story. Let Chaucer limn the day for us:--
“Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye,-- So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,-- Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seeken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes kowthe in sondry londes; And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were to seeke.”
They formed a company of nine-and-twenty, and in fellowship we’ll go toward Canterbury, with a right merry cheer. This is our route--
“Lo, Depeford, and it is half wey pryme. Lo, Grenewych, ther many a shrewe is inne”;
then--
“Lo, Rouchestre stant heer faste by!”
and so along our pilgrims’ way through the pleasant country of Kent until we reach
“A litel toun, Which that y-cleped is Bobbe-up-and-doun, Under the Blee in Caunterbury weye”;
maybe Harbledown, where we will loiter anon. And so to close sight of the Angel Steeple and of the hospitable red roofs nestling round the church, wherein stands the shrine we have set forth to see. Then down the steep way into the city, perchance to the music of Canterbury bells. We have arrived toward dusk, and naturally we shall at once seek out our lodging for the night, as did Chaucer’s company--
“When all this fresh feleship were com to Cantirbury.”[5]
Alack, we cannot lay our heads under the same roof as did they--
“They took their in and loggit them at mydmorowe, I trowe, Atte Cheker of the Hope that many a man doth knowe.”
There is little room for doubt but that this inn, the “Chequers of the Hope,” occupied the west corner of the angle formed by the High Street and Mercery Lane, hard by the old Butter Market and Christchurch Gate. Of the original building only fragments remain, for fire was only too busy here in the year 1865. Here was the dormitory of the Hundred Beds, the Pantry, the Buttery, the Dining Room, and the beautiful garden with its herbs and flowers, to all of which the writer of the “Supplementary Tale” makes reference. In olden days Canterbury might almost have been described
as a city of churches, religious houses, and hostelries and other accommodations for pilgrims--that was the atmosphere of mediæval Canterbury. On the opposite side of High Street to the “Chequers” was a lodging for pilgrims erected by Prior Chillenden in the fifteenth century, which was for long years after the Reformation an ordinary inn for travellers.
Pilgrims came throughout the year in companies large and small, but the throng and press was tremendous at the festival of the Martyrdom on December 29, and in summer for the festival of the Translation on July 7, which also was the first day of Canterbury Fair. Larger still the crowds in the years of jubilee, 1270, 1320, 1370, 1420, 1470, and 1520, when on each fiftieth anniversary of the Translation the feast lasted for two weeks and indulgences were granted to all pilgrims.
Beside the inns, there was plenty other accommodation for pilgrims of all degrees, in the hospitals and convents, and, above all, in the Priory of Christ Church.