Contents. Index

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List of Illustrations (In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] clicking on this symbol , or directly on the image, will bring up a larger version.)

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C A N T E R B U R Y

CANTERBURY

BY W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE PAINTED BY W. BISCOMBE GARDNER · PUBLISHED BY ADAM & CHARLES BLACK SOHO SQUARE · LONDON · W.

Published April 1907

TO

E. A. B.

FROM

E. G. O.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CANTERBURY FIRST VIEW

As we stand upon the summit of Bell Harry Tower—more happily called the Angel Steeple—of Canterbury Cathedral, looking down upon city and countryside, much of the history of England lies spread beneath our feet: the Britons were at work here before the Romans came marching with their stolid legions; here to Ethelbert, Saxon King of Kent, St Augustine preached the gospel of Christ; in the church below, Becket was murdered and the Black Prince buried; to this city, to the shrine of St Thomas, came innumerable pilgrims, one of them our first great English poet; then the crash of the Reformation swept away shrines and pilgrims, the mirk and romance of mediævalism vanished into the mists of history, and the city to-day lives chiefly in the past. Away to the east and south are the narrow seas, crossed by conquering Romans and Normans, crossed for centuries by a constant stream of travellers from all ends of the earth, citizens of every clime, to some of whom the sight of the English coast was the first glimpse of home, to others the first view of a strange land; away to the north and west are the Medway and the Thames, Rochester and London. From no other tower, perhaps, can so wide a bird’s-eye view of our history be obtained; Canterbury is so situated that ever since England has been and as long as England shall be, this city has been and will be a centre of the nation’s life.

At first entrance to it, Canterbury does not impress with its antiquity; there are, indeed, the ancient Cathedral, ancient gates and ancient houses. But as the sights of the city grow familiar, as its atmosphere enters into our souls, as its story becomes known, gradually and surely we realise that most of what we see now is but youthful compared with the great age of the place; and we feel that when all this of the present day has mouldered to dust, as must all man’s works, here will be another city, perhaps even fairer than the one we are looking on, and that the men of those days to come will wonder and speculate as to the likeness of us of to-day. Canterbury is ancient and beautiful; no place for the mere tourist who fancies that in an hour or two of sight-seeing he can learn to know and love her: she is like a beautiful woman, whose charms never stale; like a good woman, ever showing to those who love her some fresh enchantment.

But it is not history—not the story of dead events—that chiefly fascinates us in Canterbury, or, indeed, in any such city; it is the lives of the men who made that history, who took part in those events. Here, as we walk the streets, we think of Augustine, of Thomas, of the Black Prince, of many another; and of many great men of letters—Chaucer, Erasmus, Marlowe, Thackeray, Dickens, Stanley: the first painting for us the Canterbury of his own days, the last that of past times. To understand fully the beauty of such a place, we must allow not only its spirit to enter into us, but we must in our mind’s eyes people its ways with those who have walked there aforetime, with the shadows not of the great only but of the humble, who all in their degree helped to the making of history and of this historic city.

It is to the Cathedral that most men, when set down here, first turn their steps; and rightly so. We must not refuse to listen to the voices of its stones, must not look upon them as dull, dead, dumb things; to those who are ready to hear they will always a tale unfold—of beliefs gone beyond recall, of the men whose untiring patience and skill raised for us this splendid monument of the past, of saints and of sinners, of victors and of vanquished. The least advantageous way to attempt the attainment of any true sense of the fascination of Canterbury Cathedral is to enter it straightway, intent on seeing rapidly all that it contains of interest; though every stone in its fabric is of interest, almost every charm that it possesses will be lost to those who thus wrongly approach. Rather walk slowly round, entering the close by Christ Church gateway, completed in 1517, sadly battered by time but unspoiled by the hand of the destroying restorer; without stands the monument to Christopher Marlowe, son of the city. But we pass in to the quiet trees and the trim grass; we look up at Bell Harry Tower, the centre of the Cathedral as the Cathedral is of the city. Walk round, not troubling to seek out the name or the record of this portion of the building or of that;

round by Becket’s Crown and the ruins of the Infirmary, by the Dark Entry and so out into Green Court.

The face of Nature never grows so familiar to us that we know her every tone and expression; so is it with some of the handiworks of man—with this Cathedral, for instance. Great changes are wrought in its aspect by the seasons of the year, by daylight, by the lights of night, by sunrise and by sunset; changes which every man may see; and slight yet never insignificant changes are touched in upon the picture by every passing cloud that casts a shadow upon the grey towers and walls, by every snowflake that finds a lodgment on its countless graven stones; changes which only the few who love will discern.

In visiting the interior the usual course pursued by visitors is curious and unsatisfactory, leaving but a confused impression upon those who have not read the story of the building, and killing what may be called its humanity. Of course, the traveller who desires to see as much as possible in the shortest possible time must not complain if he sees much and understands little; but those who have sufficient time at their disposal will do well to make several short visits rather than one of prolonged duration, each visit being devoted to a specific end. The two principal points of interest are the history of the fabric, and the martyrdom or murder of St Thomas à Becket, with its consequences.

THE STORY OF THE CATHEDRAL

To the eye of the expert the buildings of any ancient church or cathedral tell their story with simplicity and directness. Even to the eye of the inexpert in such matters, it is at once apparent that Canterbury is a growth of long ages, the handiwork of many generations of builders. The grey weather-beaten exterior, with its varied architecture, is evidently not the design of any single brain, and the dim, religious aisles and chapels echo with hints of memories of architects and masons into whose various hands came the glory of carrying on the work which their forefathers had begun and left for them to continue or to complete.

It is believed that on this same site there stood once a Roman or British church, which was granted to Augustine by Ethelbert, and by him consecrated and reconsecrated “in the name of the Saviour, our God and Lord Jesus Christ, and there he established an habitation for himself, and for all his successors”; in short, he founded the monastery of Christ Church. To this church additions were made by Archbishop Odo toward the end of the tenth century, concerning whom is narrated a pretty monkish legend: “The roof of Christ Church had become rotten from excessive age, and rested throughout upon half-shattered pieces: wherefore he set about to reconstruct it, and being also desirous of giving to the walls a more aspiring altitude, he directed his assembled workmen to remove altogether the disjointed structure above, and commanded them to supply the deficient height of the walls by raising them. But because it was absolutely necessary that the Divine Service should not be interrupted, and no temple could be found sufficiently capacious to receive the multitude of the people, the archbishop prayed to Heaven that until the work should be completed, neither rain nor wind might be suffered to intrude within the walls of the church, so as to prevent the performance of the service. And so it came to pass: for during three years in which the walls of the church were being carried upwards, the whole building remained open to the sky; yet did no rain fall either within the church, or even within the walls of the city, that could impede the clergy standing in the church in the performance of their duty, or restrain the people from coming even to the beginning of it. And truly it was a sight worth seeing, to behold the space beyond the walls of the city drenched with water, while the walls themselves remained perfectly dry.”[1]

Of this Saxon building it is not likely that there are any remnants in the present church, though it is barely possible that there are some relics of it in the west wall of the crypt.

When Alphege was archbishop, in the year 1011, the Danes attacked the city, sacked it, slaughtered the citizens, the while the monks sought refuge in the church. The archbishop went forth to utter an appeal to the marauders, who however, turning a deaf ear to his entreaties for mercy, seized and bound him: “Then these children of Satan piled barrels one upon another, and set them on fire, designing thus to burn the roof. Already the heat of the flames began to melt the lead, which ran down inside.” Driven from their sanctuary, the wretched monks went out to their death, only four of them escaping. Alphege was carried away to prison and to torture, and, after seven months, was put to death at Greenwich. Years after, the saint’s body was restored to his own church.

Fire without the sword wrought havoc in 1067, when “the devouring flames consumed nearly all that was there preserved most precious, whether in ornaments of gold, of silver, or of other materials, or in sacred and profane books.” Three years later when Lanfranc, Abbot of Caen, became archbishop, he found himself without a cathedral, and set to with vigour to restore the monastery and the church. In seven years he had raised a fair, new edifice upon the site of the wrecked building. “But before this work began, he commanded that the bodies of the saints, which were buried in the eastern part of the church, should be removed to the western part, where the oratory of the blessed Virgin Mary stood. Wherefore, after a three days’ fast, the bodies of those most precious priests of the Lord, Dunstan and Alphege were raised, and in the presence of an innumerable multitude, conveyed to their destined place of interment, and there decently buried. To which I, Edmer,

can bear witness, for I was then a boy at the school.”

Under the high altar of the old church the relics of St Wilfrid were found, and eventually buried to the north of the altar in the new building. Here may be quoted another story told us by Edmer: “In our own time, it happened to one of the elder brethren of the church, Alfroin by name, who filled the office of sacrist, that he, on the night of the festival of St Wilfrid, was resting in a certain lofty place in the church, outside the choir, and before an altar, above which, at that time, the relics of the blessed Wilfrid were deposited in a shrine. There, as he lay between sleeping and waking, he saw the church filled with light, and angelic persons performing the service, and beheld those whose duty it was to read or sing, ascend the cochlea or winding-stair, and ask a blessing before the altar and body of the blessed man, which done, they straightway descended, returned, and resumed the usual office of the church with all solemnity.”