Part 8

“It is difficult to suppose,” said Mr. Hertford, thoughtfully, “that all the money that was given for pretended miracles was paid for nothing. Persons whose constitutions or disorders were of a nervous character probably received some benefit. Their spirits would be raised by their anticipations and the brilliance of the scene. Some recovered from natural causes, and those who grew worse soon died, or were not inclined to be profane in their sufferings. You remember the remark of Diogenes?”

“I have read some things he said,” I returned, “and some attributed to him which he did not say.”

“He was visiting a temple,” continued Mr. Hertford, “and was shown the offerings made by those who had been cured. ‘Yes,’ he replied to the priest; ‘but if those who had not been cured had offered gifts, they would have been far more numerous.’”

It is said that the transference of St. Swithun’s body, which had lain between the old wooden tower and the church, was delayed by forty days’ rain--and hence the proverb. The postponement may seem strange, as the tomb was but a few feet from the church; but it was a main object to have a great concourse of people.

And let me here notice a coincidence. We know that in the early centuries sun worship was much intermingled with Christianity; we have traces of it in our “Sunday,” in the orientation of churches, and several observances.

It has been maintained that the Elias of Scripture--the great herald and harbinger--in some way represented the sun, Helios, and in modern Greece that luminary is personified, and St. Elias is supposed to preside over the rainfall. The churches to this saint stand on the sites of ancient temples to Apollo, and here at Winchester we have a cathedral close to the site of a temple of Apollo, dedicated to St. Swithun, who regulates the weather.

Æthelwold acquired the reputation of being a prophet, in a manner which does not reflect much credit upon some of his friends. During Lent he preached a powerful sermon on mortification, telling the people to abstain from meat, courtship, and other pleasant things. On hearing this, some wild fellow among the crowd made a profane jest, and the bishop, in reply, said that he foresaw his approaching death. Next morning the offender was found really dead, “his throat cut by the devil.”

Many bodies of the great were moved by this bishop, and, in turn, after he himself had been buried, he was taken up and made to work.

[Sidenote: The Monks’ Success.]

In these days of Dunstan there was great activity in ecclesiastical affairs, a great conflict between the priests and monks. The authority of the Pope, which had not been hitherto fully recognized by the English Church, was now established. We are told that the canons of Winchester shirked the trouble of chanting, consumed in country residences the goods of the Church, and deputed their duties to poorly-paid vicars. “The Golden History” states that the canons were in the habit of turning off the wives they had illicitly taken, and taking others, and were guilty of gluttony and drunkenness. Such were the charges made against them by the monks, and the King turned out the canons of the old and new monasteries (St. Swithun’s and Hyde); but it may be observed that in the early English Church marriage of priests was not forbidden. We read that at the New Monastery all the canons were in 968 called on to take the Benedictine habit, “and robes and cowls were brought into the choir,” Dunstan having established the Benedictines in England. But the old clergy were not without friends, and determined not to yield without a struggle. A great meeting was held in the refectory of the old monastery. All the magnates of the country came to support the dispossessed canons; on the other side were Oswald, Archbishop of York, Æthelwold, Bishop of Winchester, and the monks. Dunstan sat next to King Edgar, who had his back to the wall, whereon was a cross, placed there it is remarked, in the days of Ethelred, when the canons first succeeded the slaughtered monks. The temporal lords now promised that the canons would reform their manners, and begged for their restitution. Edgar was moved by their “sighs and tears,” and was about to consent, when Dunstan’s genius, heaven-born or not, came to the assistance of the monks. A voice suddenly came from an image on the cross behind Edgar, “Let this not be; ye have judged well. Ye may not change for the better.” Edgar and Dunstan alone heard the voice. They were struck dumb, and fell to the ground. The voice was then heard a second time: “Arise, fear not, for justice and peace have kissed each other in the monks.”

“It is evident that the speaker, whoever he was, had no sense of the ludicrous,” said Mr. Hertford.

“We are led,” I added, “to think of the peculiar orifice there is in the Castle Hall just behind the daïs.”

[Sidenote: Cathedral Treasures.]

When the Danes obtained the sovereignty the butter-boat of the monks was still safe. Cnut enriched the Cathedral with a mass of gold and silver and of jewels, the brilliance of which “frightened strangers.” His own crown, either in his lifetime, or more probably after his body had lain in State before the high altar, was placed on the head of the Saviour, on the Cross which stood here. He gave a splendid shrine for Birinus, and a silver candelabrum with six branches. A magnificent golden cross, two large images of gold and silver, and shrines for relics were also bestowed.[65] Much of this munificence was suggested by his queen, Emma, who was a devotee.[66] She had Alwyn, a relation of her own, made Bishop of Winchester. Perhaps her partiality for this monastery caused some jealousy, for after her son, Edward the Confessor, had been crowned here in 1042, she was accused of being improperly familiar with the bishop, of consenting to the death of her son, Alfred and of opposing Edward’s accession. The King himself came down here in disguise to watch her, and soon her treasury in Winchester was seized, and she was compelled to retire to the convent of Wherwell. We are told that she felt greatly her reduced circumstances, “because the worst part of poverty was that it made people contemptible.” A memorable, if not legendary, scene is now recorded by Rudborne. “Emma the Lady,” once the “Flower of Normandy,” demands to have her innocence tried by walking over red-hot ploughshares. The day draws near. She spends the night in prayers and tears, and in visiting the tomb of St. Swithun: the saint bids her be of good courage. Next morning a crowd of clergy and laity collect in the Cathedral; the King is in his State robes. Nine dreadful red-hot ploughshares are brought forth. The Queen advances and addresses the King. “My lord and son, I, Emma, that bore you, accused before you of crimes against you and Alfred, my son, and of base conduct with Alwyn the bishop, call God to witness in my person whether I have had in my mind any of these things attributed to me.” She then throws off her outer robe and takes off her shoes. A tremor of terror passes through the vast multitude, and the cry rends the air, “St. Swithun, save her!” Rudborne does not minimize it; he says that it was so loud that the saint must have come then or never. “Heaven suffers violence, and St. Swithun is dragged down by force”--such are his words. Thus encouraged, the Queen advances between two bishops, and walks over the ploughshares, with her eyes turned towards heaven, exclaiming, “God, who delivered Susannah from the wicked old men, and the boys from the furnace, deliver me, for the sake of St. Swithun.” She seemed to be walking “on roses,” and so little did she feel the fire that when all was over she asked when the trial was to begin!

[Sidenote: Ordeal by Fire.]

We cannot spoil the prettiest picture in Winchester’s history by a suggestion of falsehood or over-colouring. One of the ploughshares is said to have been afterwards found; and, as to the feat, there was no difficulty, for was she not treading on ground radiant with miracles?

Under the Conqueror and Rufus the Cathedral was rebuilt, with the exception of the tower, by his kinsman, Walkelin. This bishop was an estimable man, and possessed such an unusual disposition that, although ascetic himself, he was tolerant to others. Never was he known to speak a harsh word, and, it is said, that he loved the monks “as if they were divinities.” The man who built this great edifice, and much of whose work still remains, neither ate fish nor flesh.

“The vegetarians ought to be proud of him,” observed Mr. Hertford.

“And the teetotalers,” I continued, “will be glad to hear that he very seldom touched wine or beer. His end was sad. Rufus demanded £200 from him, and he knowing that he could not obtain that sum without oppressing the poor or despoiling the Church, prayed that he might die; and we are told that ten days afterwards his prayer was granted, but we hear no details about it. His brother Simeon, at one time prior here, was of an equally genial disposition. Being shocked at the sight of the monks devouring meat on the fast days, he ordered some fish to be exquisitely cooked and set before them. The brethren relished the dish so much that they said they never wished to eat meat any more, and by this savoury device the worthy prior enabled them to indulge their appetites without endangering their souls.”

How it must have grieved the soul of Walkelin to be associated with such a creature as Ralph Flambard, who was a contrast to him in everything! When the King went abroad the entire government of the country was committed to these two opposing spirits. Flambard was unscrupulous and ingenious, and but for the injury done to religion there would seem to have been something almost comic in his career. Rufus, whose chaplain he was, never tired of heaping promotion upon one as unprincipled as himself. He was made Abbot of Hyde at Winchester, Bishop of Chichester, and Bishop of Lincoln. Many of the churches under his supervision were without priests or ministrations, and such were his exactions from rich and poor that they “did not care whether they were dead or alive.” This genius was thrown into prison by Henry I. when he came to the throne, but was too slippery for him: soon made his escape, and was over in Normandy abetting Duke Robert, who had a right to the English crown, and managing affairs so skilfully that upon a temporary reconciliation between the brothers, Flambard was received back and made Bishop of Durham.

[Sidenote: Scandals.]

A few years later the bishop’s misdoings became so notorious that reports of them reached Rome, and the Pope’s legate, John de Crema, was directed to visit the diocese and make inquiries. Flambard was equal to the occasion. He received the legate with great ceremony, and entertained him at a sumptuous banquet. While the bowl was flowing, he introduced him to his niece, whom he instructed to do her best to captivate him. John, who it seems had not the gifts of St. Anthony, was soon “with love and wine at once oppressed,” fell into the trap, and finally arranged with the fair deceiver to come to his room. She kept her promise only too faithfully. But scarcely had she entered when in rushed the bishop with a crowd of priests and acolytes carrying lamps and goblets, and calling out “Benedicite, benedicite! we congratulate you on your marriage--drink--we drink your health!” The legate was overwhelmed with confusion. Before daybreak he was up and off on his way to Rome leaving the gay bishop and his peccadilloes to take care of themselves.[67]

The history of this Cathedral has not been entirely one of peace. In 1188 armed men were brought into it, who, at the instigation of certain nobles, “not afraid to lift their hands against God’s anointed, dragged forth some of God’s servants.” In 1274, Andrew, Prior of Winchester, came here with a body of armed men. Sentinels were placed by the bishop to prevent their entering, and the prior made an attack on the third day. The bishop called his adherents together, barricaded the Cathedral, and excommunicated the prior. The King hearing of this immediately sent down justiciaries, and cooled by terms of imprisonment the “anger in celestial minds.”

[Sidenote: Construction.]

By the time two hundred and fifty years had elapsed, Walkelin’s nave had become somewhat dilapidated, and Bishop Edington undertook its renovation. He built the west porch and one of the westernmost windows in the south aisle and two in the north. Wykeham carried on the good work for ten years, till his death in 1404, having commenced it as a septuagenarian. He finished the south aisle and began the north, and left 500 marks to glaze the windows. His work was that of adaptation--pulling down the triforium and casing the pillars. Portions of the old Norman pillars, then concealed by chapels, can still be seen near the stairs to the choir.

The work of construction was finished by Cardinal Beaufort and Bishop Wayneflete. We now come to a less pleasing subject for consideration--the work of demolition.

“Thomas did us more harm than Oliver”--such is the saying at Winchester. Among the spoils which the creatures of the former catalogued here for Henry VIII., we find:--

“_Imprimus._ The nether part of the high altar being of plate of gold garnished with stones. The front above being of broidery work and pearls, and above that a table of images of silver and gilt, garnished with stones.

“_Item._ Above that altar a great cross and an image of plate of gold.

“_Item._ Behind the high altar, St. Swithun’s shrine, being of plate of silver and gilt, garnished with stones.

“_Item._ In the body of the Church a great cross and an image of Christ and Mary and John, being of plate silver, partly gilt.

“The treasures of gold are--

Five crosses garnished with silver. One pair of candlesticks. Three chalices--one with stones. Four Pontifical rings. Two saints’ arms in plate of gold.[68] St. Philip’s foot in plate of gold and stones. A book of the four Evangelists written all with gold and the outer side of plate of gold.”

[Sidenote: Demolition.]

Bishop Horne, who died in 1580, and was buried near Bishop Edington’s chantry, was a detrimental reformer. To make himself conspicuous in taking what appeared to be the winning side he did a great amount of damage to the Cathedral, not only removing crucifix, images, and paintings, but actually knocking down the cloisters and chapter-house. A few arches on the back of the Deanery still remain sad memorials of these buildings, and of his misdirected zeal.

[Sidenote: Civil War.]

Much damage, but of a more petty character, was done here by the Roundhead soldiery during the Civil War. In the middle of December, 1642, the city, having been taken by Waller, was pillaged and the Cathedral doors burst open. “As if they meant to invade God Himself as well as His profession,” writes Mercurius, “they enter the Church with colours flying, drums beating, matches fired; and that all might have their part in so horrid an attempt, some of their troops of horse also accompanied them in their march, and rode up through the body of the church and choir until they came to the altar: there they begin their work, they rudely plucked down the table and break the rail, and afterwards carried it to an alehouse; they set it on fire, and in that fire burnt the books of Common Prayer, and all the singing books belonging to the choir; they throw down the organ and break the stones of the Old and New Testament, curiously cut out in carved work, beautified with colours, and set round about the top of the stalls of the choir; from hence they turn to the monuments of the dead, some they utterly demolish, others they deface. They begin with Bishop Fox’s chapel which they utterly deface, they break all the glass windows of this chapel not because they had any pictures in them, but because they were of coloured glass, they demolished and overturned the monuments of Cardinal Beaufort, they deface the monument of William of Wayneflet, Bishop of Winchester, Lord Chancellor of England, and founder of Magdalen College, Oxford. From thence they go into Queen Mary’s Chapel, so called because in it she was married to King Philip of Spain; here they break the communion table in pieces, and the velvet chair whereon she sat when she was married.” After speaking of the chests containing the bones of kings and others, the narrative proceeds: “But these monsters of men to whom nothing is holy, nothing sacred, did not stick to profane and violate these cabinets of the dead, and to scatter their bones all over the pavement of the church; for on the north side of the choir they threw down the chests wherein were deposited the bones of the bishops; the like they did to the bones of William Rufus, of Queen Emma, of Harthacnut, and of Edward the Confessor, and were going on to practise the same impiety on the bones of all the rest of the West Saxon kings. But the outcry of the people detesting so great inhumanity, caused some of their commanders to come in amongst them and to restrain their madness. Those windows which they could not reach with their weapons they broke by throwing at them the bones of kings and saints. They broke off the swords from the brass statues of James I. and Charles I., which then stood at the entrance to the choir, breaking also the cross on the globe in the hand of Charles I., and hacked and hewed the crown on the head of it, swearing they would bring him back to his Parliament.... After all this, as if what they had already done were all too little, they go on in their horrible wickedness, they seize upon all the communion plate, the Bibles and service books, rich hangings, large cushions of velvet, all the pulpit cloths, some whereof were of cloth of silver, some of cloth of gold. And now, having ransacked the church, and defied God in His own house and the king in his own statue, having violated the urns of the dead, having abused the bones and scattered the ashes of deceased monarchs, bishops, saints, and confessors, they return in triumph bearing their spoils with them. The troopers (because they were the most conspicuous) ride through the streets in surplices with such hoods and tippets as they found, and that they might boast to the world how glorious a victory they had achieved they hold out their trophies to all spectators, for the troopers thus clad in the priests’ vestments, rode carrying Common Prayer books in one hand and some broken organ pipes, together with the mangled pieces of carved work in the other.”[69]

“The last part of your narrative makes me feel melancholy,” said Miss Hertford. “Let us go into the fresh air and see the Cathedral which has survived these Goths and Vandals.”

[Sidenote: The Square.]

We accordingly made our way down the High Street, and proceeded through the passage by the Butter Cross. Passing through the Square, we stopped before entering the graveyard to visit Mr. Chalkley’s, the taxidermist’s--which may be regarded as a kind of “dead-alive” place. Here are the beautiful remains of natives of many sunny climes. Can we suppose that such little beings with cherub wings and voices are--

“Denied in heaven the souls they held on earth”?

Opposite we observed the Mechanics Institute, on the site of which--then at the south side of the Market--there was, until 1790, an anomalous building--a butchery below, a theatre above. There were plenty of stalls here, containing, not cushions, but meat, and along them and at the corners stood strong oaken columns, while hooks for joints were fastened into the rafters which supported the floor of the theatre. Warton humorously describes this strange combination--

“Divided only by one flight of stairs The monarch swaggers and the butcher swears! Quick the transition when the curtain drops From meek Monimia’s moans to mutton chops! While for Lothario’s loss Lavinia cries, Old women scold and dealers d---- your eyes. Cleavers and scimitars give blow for blow, And heroes bleed above and sheep below! Cow-horns and trumpets mix their martial tones, Kidneys and kings, mouthing and marrow bones.”

The fashionable patrons of the drama must have been shocked not only at the sight of the butchers’ business, but also at that of the iron fastenings of various heights and sizes to hold the hands and feet of vagrants during flogging, all of which were placed close to the entrance of the theatre. The cries of suffering culprits would have formed a discordant accompaniment to the harmonies of the orchestra.[70]

We now approach the Cathedral, through the avenue of tall lime trees. Enthusiasts say they were planted by Charles II., and let us hope that was the case, for he is the last monarch around whom there is any halo of romance. He had certainly a design to connect the Palace with the Cathedral by means of an avenue. But the tradition which points to one of the larger elms on the south side of the Cathedral as having been planted by his hand, appears to me more credible.

[Sidenote: West Front.]

“What an immense west window,” exclaimed Mr. Hertford. “It seems to monopolize all the façade and to be out of proportion to the stone-work around it--a very large picture in a very narrow frame.”

“This was the work of Bishop Edington,” I observed, “begun about 1345. He did not like the ‘dim religious light’ of the Middle Ages.”

What a different front did the Norman knights here behold; something as stern and cold as their own iron armour. A vast blank face of masonry rose before them, broken only by a few plain, round-headed windows, without even a pane of glass to reflect the setting sun.[71] There is proof from excavations, and some remains in the wall of the garden on the south, that some kind of portico was commenced in front of the present façade, with a tower forty feet square at either end, but that the work was abandoned a few feet above ground. The interior was also severe. The pillars indeed were about the same size and height as those we now see--their Norman terminations still remain under the roof--and the eight westernmost on the south side have not been even re-cased, but only slightly chiselled into rounder form. But they did not originally break into graceful fans upon the vaulting, nor were there between them lofty arches crowned with ornamental windows. No; the spaces were occupied by three tiers of low, round arches, producing a monotonous effect, such as we still see in the transepts. The vaulting of the side aisles was also low and heavy, supporting the deep triforium gallery. The whole structure had a Spartan simplicity and strength characteristic of a rude age. It terminated eastward in an apse under the place where now glows the stained-glass window of Bishop Fox.[72]

Such was the building to which the body of Rufus “dropping blood” was brought by night in a peasant’s cart, and where it was buried with little lamentation. Seven years afterwards the great tower fell, because, as the monks thought, it could not bear to have such a wicked man buried under it.

[Sidenote: The Nave.]

On entering, the full effect of the great length and height is felt.[73] We seem to be looking down a lofty avenue in some primeval forest. This is the most beautiful nave in England or in the world, 250 feet long and 77 feet high. Truly this pile was not raised by the

“lore Of nicely calculated less or more;”

but by men--

“With a far look in their immortal eyes.”