It is not pleasant to watch the growth of such gross materialisms over the sacred truths and symbols of Christian worship; nor can we wonder at the re-actionary enthusiasm that came and swept them all away, however much good taste may deplore the loss of many beauties and solid treasures, that disappeared amid the tumult of the “dissolution.”
Passing beneath the rood loft, now the gallery for one of the finest organs and choirs our country can boast, we enter the choir, which, as it extends westward considerably beyond the tower, is of unusual length, and imposing in its effect; the lantern, or lower part of the tower, rising in the centre, supported by four noble arches, that bear the weight of the whole tower and spire, is impressively beautiful, albeit modern decorators have been at work to spoil the harmony that should prevail, by medallionsand wreaths that should have no place there, however pretty in themselves.
The connoisseur may here find an abundant field to exercise his architectural knowledge, in deciding the various dates of the several portions of this beautiful part of the building. The long row of stalls, with their high-backed and projecting canopies, crowned with multitudes of crocketted pinnacles, the richly decorated screen-work, that shuts out the plainer Norman aisles, the mysterious-looking triforium running round the curious apsidal termination, the light clerestory, with its tier of windows, divided by feathered and canopied niches, whence spring the main ribs of the vaulted roof,—form a whole, that it needs no skill in art or science to be enabled to appreciate and enjoy. Of painted glass, perhaps the less said the better—we may be wanting in taste or judgment; certain it is, it forms no very prominent feature of beauty, and a kaliedoscope of mediocre arrangement, and a rather indifferent illumination transparency, may, we fancy, each find a counterpart among the specimens of colour that do exist. Something is in progress—perhaps on an improved scale.
But we must not omit to glance at a few of the quaint old carvings, that remain almost as sole relics of the ancient furniture of the church. Entering any stall, we observe the seat turns up on hinges,and beneath is a narrow ledge, which it has been presumed was a contrivance to relieve the old monks from the fatigue of standing, during the parts of the service where that position is prescribed by the rubric; they were supposed to lean upon these ledges in a half-sitting posture; but a much more reasonable conjecture is, that they were intended as rests for the elbows and missal when kneeling in prayer; a glance at them when turned up instantly suggests the idea of aprie dieu, which they closely resemble. The lower parts of thesemisereres, as they were called, are decorated in a most elaborate manner with carving, and supported by bosses, sometimes of one or more figures, often foliage, fruit, and flowers, or shields. Among them may be found the figures of a lion and dragon biting each other; owls and little birds fighting; Sampson in armour (?) slaying the lion; monkeys fighting, one holding a rod, another in a wheelbarrow; the prodigal son feeding swine; a monk tearing a dog’s hind legs; another flogging a little boy, amid a group of other urchins; and numerous other equally inexplicable designs. If, indeed, such objects did occupy the place under the eyes of the monks at their devotions, they must have served admirably to train the risible muscles to self-command.
It is among these carvings that the presumed satires are to be found, that are attributed to the dissensionsexisting between the secular and regular clergy, about the period of the building of the Cathedral; they would have us interpret them as something akin to liberty of the press, with all its caprices, sarcasms, and ironical sneers; but as the self-same subjects have been found to range over the works of the carvers from the thirteenth century down to the Reformation, and on the Continent as well as in this country, it is much more probable that they were copies from the illustrations of books, at that time popular, or from the illuminations of fanciful legends, upon which the monks were continually engaged, and which were always at hand to serve as patterns for the workmen. The Bestiaria, a work very celebrated, has been suggested as the source of many of the figures; among its pages figured mermaids, unicorns, dragons, &c.; and the calendars also, in which the agricultural pursuits of each month were depicted on the top of the page, might form another copy to be modelled from. Such is the most probable way of accounting for the presence of such objects, although it is possible that in an age when the church offered scope for every talent to display itself, so, obscure recesses were found for the offspring of these original, though not very refined, creations of fancy, often, however, executed by the hands of skilful craftsmen.
One look at the antique specimen of the readingdesk—a pelican supporting it with the clot of blood on its breast, symbolizing, we are told, the shedding of the blood of Christ, as that bird sheds its blood for its young. It may, or may not be so—but if it be, it is indeed a gross substitute for the eagle, a symbol that has at least poetry and spirituality to recommend it.
Beyond this, and behind the high altar, in the recess of the apse, once stood the bishop’s throne, a plain stone chair, in the days when the priests did occupy their places in the church. The seat may still be seen in the aisle, at the back of this spot, by any one adventurous enough to climb a ladder, and peep into a niche they will find high up in the wall.
We let pulpits and thrones of the present day speak for themselves, and leaving the choir, take a brief look at the fine old chapels of St. Luke and Jesus, on the north and south side of the apse. The former still remains in good preservation, and is used as the parish church of St. Mary in the Marsh, destroyed by Herbert, the founder of both these chapels, as well as the Cathedral. The only font within the precincts is here; it is an ancient affair, brought hither from the demolished church, and is decorated with carvings, representing the seven sacraments, the four evangelists, and divers figures of popes, saints, confessors, &c. Over this chapel is the treasury of the dean and chapter, from amongst whosestores, hid up where moth and rust do corrupt, a beautiful and curious painting of scenes in the life of Christ, has been of late years rescued, and promoted to the honour of a place in the vestry room (the ancient prison of the monastery), where it has been placed under a glass case. It appears to have served originally as some part of the decoration of an altar, and was set in a frame, the mouldings of which are richly diapered and ornamented with gilding, with impressed work and fragments of coloured glass inserted at intervals, a mode of enrichment of which specimens are very rare in this country. The corners of the frame had been removed to adapt it to the purpose of a table, at the period of the great “dissolution,” where it had remained with its back serving for the top of the required table, until accident revealed it to the eyes of archæological research.
The painting is divided into five compartments, each on a separate panel, the subjects being the Flagellation of Christ, Christ bearing the Cross, the Crucifixion, and the Ascension. The entire back-grounds of the paintings are gilded and diapered in curious patterns, and the ornaments, such as the bosses of the harness on the horses of the soldiers, the goldsmith’s work on the cingulum or belt, are in slight relief. This mode of painting is described as being executed upon a thin coating of composition, made of whiting and white of egg, laid on theoaken panel; upon this the outline of the design was traced with a red line, and the spaces designed to receive gilding were then marked out with fresh whitening and egg; the stems marked with a modelling tool, and leaves added by filling moulds with the paste, and fixing them by pressure on the surface of the picture; the puncture work and little toolings were then produced, and the modelling finished. The gilded portions were next covered with gold leaf, and the artist proceeded with his pictures, using transparent colours liquefied by white of egg.
At the extreme end of the Cathedral once stood another chapel, dedicated to St. Mary the Great, of considerable note in early times—the offerings at the high altar amounting to immense sums—daily mass was said here for the founder’s soul in particular, his friends, relations, benefactors, &c. The chapel was about seventy feet long and thirty broad, and had a handsome entrance from the church; it has long since disappeared. The Jesus chapel on the opposite side is rather a melancholy looking place at present, one high tomb of some pretensions in the centre alone distinguishing it from a lumber room; near this chapel, in the north aisle, is the speculatory before alluded to, as the opening through which the sepulchre was watched at Easter; it has, until recently, been called the ancient “confessional,” a somewhat extraordinary position for such a priestly office to be exercised in, as wereit so, the penitent must of necessity have stood in the aisle on tiptoe to reach the ear of his confessor in the choir, who must equally of necessity have lain upon the ground to receive the confession.
And now we must pass on to the cloisters, where one almost involuntarily cries out for “the monks of old,” to come and give life to the walks among the tombs, no other earthly figure or garb, save a cowled monk, seeming to have place in such a scene. The long lines of beautiful windows, on the one side of pure early English tracery, on another of the decorated period, and another line still more elaborate in its turnings and twistings, while the last bespeaks the perpendicularism that prevails among so many of the windows of the church—each and all are beautiful. The splendidly carved doorway entering into the church, that has puzzled learned and simple alike to interpret truly, is a gem, and the perfectly preserved lavatories at the opposite corner have their own features of interest. The roof, groined and vaulted with sculptured bosses, is covered with fanciful and legendary carvings—the martyrdoms of saints, St. Anthony roasting on his gridiron, &c., St. John the Baptist and Herodias with his head in a charger; the mutilated body of another headless saint has received from some kind charitable hand the blessing of a new head, while the old one is under his arm; the date of this addition or growth is uncertain—itlooks very white, rather new; above the door leading into the ancient refectory is a carving of the Temptation, Adam and Eve and the serpent as usual; about this said carving hangs a tale, another than the story of the Fall of man, and too good to be omitted. The great historian of this comity, and all the little historians that have condensed, contracted, extracted, and dove-tailed little bits of his history together, have all with wonderful precision agreed that above this arch was carved theespousalsor Sacrament of Marriage; and upon that foundation, or perhaps ratherunderthat head we should say, entered into elaborate details of how this spot was the chosen site for the celebration of the sacrament of marriage, which every one knows was performed in theporchof the church, and not in the church itself as now, but as this spot is a very considerable number of yards distant from either church or porch, some of those troublesome people who will be continually saying Why? and seeking for a Because, began to look for theseespousals, and found only aTemptation. One of these individuals, of a peculiarly persevering nature, earnestly desirous of reconciling these strange discrepancies between the assertion of a respectable old historian, and his own eye-sight, set to work, and the following was the result. He found that much of this good historian’s description of the cloister was a tolerably free translation of an old Latin work byWilliam of Worcester, the original manuscript of which exists in the library of Corpus Christi, at Cambridge. It was printed and edited, many years ago, by one Nasmith, and an extract is to be found in the last edition of the Monasticon, where the work of a bishop who built one side of the cloister is described as extending to the arches, “in quibus maritagia dependent,” which must be translated “in which the espousals or marriages hang.” Now it seemed to this inquisitive individual that a very trivial error of the transcriber might have entirely altered the sense of the passage; that if the word “maritagia” should turn out to be “manut’gia” for “manutergia,” all the mystery would be explained. Upon inquiry, and inspection of the original manuscript, this proved a correct surmise on the part of the ingenious as well as inquisitive individual, and the arches in which the (manutergia)towelshang,close by the lavatories, turn out to be the substitute for the arches in which theespousals hang. Overlooking the single stroke of a pen, produced these queer misconceptionsfor above a century.
The following is an epitaph composed for Jacob Freeman, who was buried in the cloister yard, where he used often to lie upon a hill and sleep, with his head upon a stone. The old man was very hardly used by thecommitteefor so doing, and for frequenting church porches, and repeating thecommonprayerto the people, in spite of ill treatment, he being often sent to Bridewell, whipped and reproved for it.
EPITAPH.“Here, in this homely cabinet,Resteth a poor old anchoret;Upon the ground he laid all weathers,Not as most men, goose-like, on feathers,For so indeed it came to pass,The Lord of lords his landlord was;He lived, instead of wainscot rooms,Like the possessed, among the tombs.As by some spirit thither led,To be acquainted with the dead:Each morning, from his bed so hallowed,He rose, took up his cross, and followed;To every porch he did repair,To vent himself in common prayer,Wherein he was alone devout,Whenpreaching,jostled,praying out,In sad procession through the city,Maugre the devil or committee,He daily went, for which he fellNot intoJacob’s, butBridewell,Where you might see his loyal backRed-lettered, like an almanack;Or I may rather else aver,Dominickt, like a calendar;And him triumphing at that harm,Having nought else to keep him warm.With Paul he always prayed, no wonderThe lash did keep his flesh still under;Yet whip-cord seemed to lose its sting,When for the church, or for the king,High loyalty in such a deathCould battle torments with mean earth;And though such sufferings he did pass,In spite of bonds, stillFreemanwas.’Tis well his pate was weather-proof;The palace like it had no roof;The hair was off, and ’twas the fashion,Thecrownbeingunder sequestration.Tho’ bald as time and mendicant,No fryer yet, but Protestant—His head each morning and each evenWas watered with the dews of heaven.He lodged alike, dead and alive,As one that did his grave survive,For he is now, though he be dead,But in a manner put to bed,His cabin being above ground yet,Under a thin turf coverlet.Pity he in no porch did lay,Who did in porches so much pray;Yet let him have this Epitaph:Here sleeps poor Jacob, stone and staff.”
EPITAPH.
“Here, in this homely cabinet,Resteth a poor old anchoret;Upon the ground he laid all weathers,Not as most men, goose-like, on feathers,For so indeed it came to pass,The Lord of lords his landlord was;He lived, instead of wainscot rooms,Like the possessed, among the tombs.As by some spirit thither led,To be acquainted with the dead:Each morning, from his bed so hallowed,He rose, took up his cross, and followed;To every porch he did repair,To vent himself in common prayer,Wherein he was alone devout,Whenpreaching,jostled,praying out,In sad procession through the city,Maugre the devil or committee,He daily went, for which he fellNot intoJacob’s, butBridewell,Where you might see his loyal backRed-lettered, like an almanack;Or I may rather else aver,Dominickt, like a calendar;And him triumphing at that harm,Having nought else to keep him warm.With Paul he always prayed, no wonderThe lash did keep his flesh still under;Yet whip-cord seemed to lose its sting,When for the church, or for the king,High loyalty in such a deathCould battle torments with mean earth;And though such sufferings he did pass,In spite of bonds, stillFreemanwas.’Tis well his pate was weather-proof;The palace like it had no roof;The hair was off, and ’twas the fashion,Thecrownbeingunder sequestration.Tho’ bald as time and mendicant,No fryer yet, but Protestant—His head each morning and each evenWas watered with the dews of heaven.He lodged alike, dead and alive,As one that did his grave survive,For he is now, though he be dead,But in a manner put to bed,His cabin being above ground yet,Under a thin turf coverlet.Pity he in no porch did lay,Who did in porches so much pray;Yet let him have this Epitaph:Here sleeps poor Jacob, stone and staff.”
We must not close our chapter on cathedrals and bishops without some little further notice of the more important branch of the subject, although we venture not upon biographies of the many whose names shine forth from among the list of “spiritual fathers,” well meriting more detailed sketching than would be here in place. Hall, Nix, Lyhart, and Goldwell, have had their share of passing comment, but there are other names that must not be looked over in silence. Among the earliest stands Pandulph,the notorious legate from the Pope, during the troubled reign of John, when disputes about the appointment of Stephen Langton to the archbishopric of Canterbury had had our country under the interdict of his papal majesty; and for six years all Christian rites were suppressed, save baptism and confirmation, in consequence of jealousies between these rival powers upon the vexed question of the right of investiture. It was mainly through the agency of Pandulph that the king was at last inclined to submit, in return for which the bishopric of this diocese was conferred on the successful diplomatist. Walter de Suffield, another name of at least great local repute, was the founder of the Old Man’s Hospital, an institution at this day in the receipt of £10,000 a year, out of which sometwo hundredold men and women are maintained in clothes, food, and a shilling a day, andlodgedin a beautifulold church, founded by Lyhart at a later period, the trustees of such a fund thinking this arrangement preferable to restoring the church to its original use, and providing more suitable buildings for the accommodation of the recipients of the charity. The tomb of Suffield, in his own chapel, at the east end of the cathedral, became a shrine for worship, to which pilgrimages were frequent, and miracles in abundance were said to be wrought.
Percy, brother of the famous Earl of Northumberland,was another who wore the mitre of the see; he lies buried before the roodloft door. Henry de Spencer, the warrior bishop, is another, who raised and headed an army of three thousand men, and conducted it in person to Flanders, where he figured prominently in the wars between Richard and the French king, as well as in the struggles of Urban and Clement for the papacy. His military fame was rivalled by his notorious zeal in the cause of his church, evidenced by unmitigated persecution of the Lollards, whose adherence to the doctrines of Wickliffe was rewarded by every variety of penance or punishment that could be devised to exterminate the heresy. A splendid monument of this spirit of the man and age is left us in the magnificent gateway opposite the West entrance to the cathedral, erected by Sir Thomas Erpingham, at the bidding of De Spencer, as a penance for his sympathy with these heretical doctrines. Above the doorway is an effigy of himself in armour, kneeling and asking pardon for his offence. Rugg—an instrument of Henry’s, in obtaining the divorce of Catherine of Arragon; Hopkin—a notorious persecutor of the Protestants in Mary’s reign; Parkhurst—a literary celebrity; Wren—the victim of Puritanism, which placed him a prisoner in the tower for eighteen years without a trial; Butts—a friend of Cranmer; Horne, whose letters on infidelity have given him a fame; andBathurst, respected in the memory of many yet living; are names conspicuous in the catalogue; not yet complete without two others, Stanley and Hinde. Of Hinde we can but say his work is yet in hand, he is earning his place in history, for some future pen to chronicle; but may be, no fitter subject could be offered for a closing scene to this chapter on the bishops and cathedral of this see, than memory can recal of that day, when beneath the lofty nave of the one, a grave was opened to receive the mortal remains of the loved and honoured Stanley. Who, among the thousands that then gathered themselves together, wearing not alone the outer symbols of mourning and grief, but carrying in their hearts deep sorrow, and in their eyesunbiddentears—who will forget the solemn stillness of the thronged multitude as the simple pall was borne, unmocked by plumes or other idle trappings of fictitious woe, through the avenues of unhired mutes, whose heads were bowed in heartfelt reverence, and lines of infant mourners, clad in the livery of their benefactor’s bounty, and watering the pathway to his tomb with honest tears of childhood’s love—the attitudes of grief and saddened faces that filled the crowded aisles, and no less crowded walks above—the hushed breathing that left the air free to echo the tones of the wailing dirge, as it rose upon the voices of the surpliced choir, who mourneda child of harmony, and wafted their strains of lamentation through all the heights of the vaulted roof, while beneath its centre the grave was receiving the earthly tabernacle of the good, the noble-hearted, and the great in deeds of love and charity? Who does not remember the measured tread of the dispersing thousands, as each took his last look of the simple coffin in its last resting-place, and as the dead march sent forth its full low notes from the organ’s peal, and the rich closing bursts of harmony proclaimed like a rush of mighty wind the soul’s release and triumph? and who has not often since lingered around the simple marble slab that marks the spot, and felt that it had been consecrated as a shrine, by a baptism of tears from the fountain of loving hearts on that memorable day?
The Castle.—Present aspect.—Grave of the Murderer.—Historical Associations.—View from the Battlements.—Thorpe.—Kett’s Castle.—Lollard’s Pit.—Mousehold.—Plan of Military Structure of Feudal Times.—Marriage of Ralph Guader.—Roger Bigod.—Feudal Ranks.—Social Life.—Field Sports.—Hawking.—Legend of Lothbroc.—Laws of Chivalry.—Tournaments.—Feminine Occupations.—Tapestry.
In the centre of the Old City rises one of those huge mounds, heaped up by our ancient warrior forefathers, which here and there, over the surface of our island, yet stand out in bold relief against the blue back-ground of the sky, like giant models for some modern monster twelfth-cake, only, however, occasionally crowned by the original structures, of which they were the ground-works, and in no other case, perhaps by one whose outward coating of modern date more thoroughly might carry out the suggested idea of a frosted moulding, designed to grace the summit of a supper-table fortification.
How involuntary is the longing to peel off thepasty composition and find the substance hidden beneath, be it as crumbly and mottled as the most luscious monument ever reared in honour of the feast of the Epiphany, from the era of the Magi downwards. But so it may not be; the flinty roughnesses of the past are hidden from our eyes by the soft covering of refined stucco, and we must be content with the attempt of ingenious modern masonry to give us an impress of what the castle called Blanchflower was, in lieu of beholding it unspoiled save by the hand of time. It is, however, something to know that there really does exist beneath that outer casing, a bonâ fide mass of flint and stone, some portions of which at least have stood, even from the days of the sea-king Canute; by him raised on the site of the royal residence of East Anglian princes, and yet earlier dwelling place of Gurguntus and other British kings, and by him suffered to retain the name of “Blanchflower,” first given, so legends say, by one of its royal owners in honour of his mother, Blanche, a kinswoman of the mighty Cæsar. There it yet stands, its very roots planted high above the topmost stories of all meaner habitations, its battlements towering to the sky, as though climbing from their earthen base through the turrets and towers, reared as a stronghold for human pride and ambition, to heights that would rival the lofty spire in the valley beneath, that blends itself withthe heaven to which it points in the solemn attitude of silent devotion, as if to ask, “Which can do the greatest works, man serving man, or man serving God?”
With the monuments of two such spirits side by-side, fancy might wander into perfect labyrinths of mystic and speculative thought, not void of beauty, tracing the unseen workings of the spirit-powers there sought to be embodied, each lingering about and shedding itself around the temple consecrated as its shrine—devotion, yet meetly expressed in the tapering spire—human Despotism and human frailty, finding in every age a fitting representative within the lordly castles of the robber chiefs, from the day when its walls formed the boundary of life to feudal wives and slaves, and its dungeons, the tombs of vanquished foes, through every age of its isolated grandeur, down to the picture of aggregated solitudes and woes, that it presents in the character now assigned to it, of a prison-home for criminals.
But for some such sense of the invisible links that make the present purposes to which its limits are devoted, one with the past, there might seem to be much difficulty in connecting the picture of the felon-town now enclosed within its walls, with any associations of history; or the accumulations of red brick, slate-roofed ranges of well-lighted, well-ventilated and comfortable chambers, made dark or miserableonlyby the spirits that tenant them, with the ideas or expectations a castle-prison could suggest. That such should be the onlycellsto be found or seen, is to the eye and ear of mere curiosity an absolute disappointment. One feels half angry at the sudden annihilation of the vague and undefined fillings up that fancy had given to the outline of the feudal relic. The learned may know it all before-hand, but the uninitiated cannot fail to receive an unwelcome surprise, in finding the substantial and important looking keep, withal its crust of stucco, little more than a shell, whose kernel is made up of modern habitations, as fresh-looking as though they had but yesterday sprung up as pimples on the face of nature, a title not inappropriate to most red brick emanations of architectural skill. But our visit to the Castle must not be spent in such vague lamentations over what isnot; neither would we in our regrets desire to be classed among the morbid cravers after horrors, that can find pleasure in condemned cells, gibbets, chains associated with murderers, or any such like appurtenances of a county gaol; thankfully we claim exemption from any such mental disease, nor even as the chroniclers of facts would we dwell one moment on the points of detail that would pander to such a taste in our fellow beings.
A prison must ever teem with painful associations, one scarcely more so than another, nor does the factof an apartment, in no way differing from those around it, having been tenanted by a Rush, whom some would call the mighty among murderers, make it an object to our ideas more worthy either a visit or description. The simple initials in the wall of the prison-yard, above the dishonoured grave where he lies, with the few others who have met a like miserable fate, speak to the heart—and we turn from them with an inward whispering, there—who washismurderer?—was it justice, human or Divine? Did the child speak with folly, or childhood’s own wisdom, when it asked if Rush died for breaking God’s commandment, “Thou shalt not kill,”didnot those who killed him also break it? Such is not fiction—its simple baby logic answers for it—but we say as to the child’s query, We cannot answer you. Many a great and noble heart recognises the minister of justice, as God’s own delegate, to claim the yielding up of his Creature’s life, a satisfaction to the broken laws of God and man. Many as great and noble, and we would think as mindful of the great ends of justice and design of punishment, would say, Leave the gift of God, the breath of life, at His disposal, who has said, “Vengeance is mine;”—trust toHis justiceas toHis mercy, to which alone you appeal, when sending the soul into his presence, reeking with guilt and sin. As spoke the child, on that sad, solemn day of darkness,—when the spirit of sinseemed to breathe over the debased city, and spread its contaminations through every channel where its subtle essence could find an inlet, till the moral vision of the very purest seemed to be obscured, and the atmosphere tainted for a while, by the sickening familiarity with the face of crime;—the last day of the wretched victim of unrestrained passions in life and in death,—whose struggles of vanity and egotism, with the quailings of the flesh, evidenced by the whitening hair, the trembling hand, and vapid mutterings, through a trial prolonged to an unheard-of length, had drawn around him a host of witnesses, almost without a parallel in history; and not alone of the mass of unlearned and ignorant, whom we are wont to charge with insensibility and coarseness, nor of the stern philosopher, nor even sickly religionists, who find some concealed duty in witnessing elaborations of torture, but of the gentle hearts that move within the mothers and daughters of England; and white-gloved and richly-dressed ladies thronged to use the tickets that gained them privileged entrance to a gallery that overlooked this spectacle of human agony—(oh! is there one among that assembled galaxy of England’s fair ones that can recal that scene, without a shudder and a blush for the very refinements that cast their cloak around the horrors of the reality?)—that day,—when the festivities of concert and party over, when the merriment of thebustling, noisy fair outside the court of trial had died away, and room was left for the last act of the drama—as then, the child lifted up its saddened voice, with its question so quaintly simple—so was it echoed back to us from the grave of that poor criminal, and a torrent of memories, linked with that fearful time, came flooding back upon us, as the fruit of the tree of crime, whose seed was then sown before our eyes, seemed to lie scattered at our feet, in the later-made grave, and sin-filled cells around us. But enough of this—the darkest tragedy of later days associated with our castle prison—how many more silent, but not less sad, have been enacted within its limits, in chambers now inaccessible to human tread, we may not know! how many death sighs have been breathed out from its hidden dungeons, how many spirits violently sundered from their earthly tabernacles, and sent wandering through eternity before a home had been prepared for their rest, the record books of earth yield no account, but they are registered above; shall it avail to plead, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” when the great final day of reckoning shall come, and the judges and rulers of the earth shall be summoned to give an account of their stewardship? But these arenotthe thoughts awakened upon crossing the threshold of this portal, for, strange to say, the first greeting offered us, is the smiling welcome of gay, liberty-lovingflowers, blooming as sweetly and merrily in that atmosphere of sin and sorrow, as ever they could have done on mountain heath or valley’s dell. Who knows what messages of hope and love these simple tenants of the miniature conservatory have breathed to weary, sin-laden hearts, bowed down in penitence for guilt! There was kindness in the heart that placed them there, and justice is blessed in owning servitors that do her bidding with such gentle mien. Modern prisons, their advantages and defects, have formed subjects for the pens of many writers; no need, therefore, that we longer dwell on this aspect of our city stronghold. Colonies of zebra-clad prisoners tenant the wards, and thread the intricate passages leading through tiers and radiating wings of cells, so cunningly arranged that, amid all the appearance of congregations, separation and solitude is ensured, even upon the giant wheel itself, and still further, even in the place for worship, where boardings, shelvings, and all manner of strangely devised contrivances, prevent communion between the several classes of the unfortunate, that suspected and condemned may not mingle, the felony and the misdemeanour may not be in juxtaposition; these are the features that meet the eye, and it would not be right to leave such judicious arrangements unnoticed,—albeit our visit to the castle walls may have more to do with its past than present history.
Tradition assigns the foundation of this castle to Gurguntus, the son of Belinus, the twenty-fourth king of Britain from Brutus, who, having observed in the east part of Britain a place well fitted by nature for the building a fortress on, founded a certain castle of a square form, and of white stone, on the top of a high hill near a river, which castle was completed by his successor, Guthulinus, who “encompassed it with a wall, bank, and double ditches, and made within it subterraneous vaults of a long and blind or intricate extent.” Another early writer ascribes to Julius Cæsar the honour of being its founder, and explains the origin of certain rents and fissures, perceptible in its sides before its recent restoration, to the earthquake that shook the earth “when the vail of the temple was rent in twain;”—he adds, that afterwards Thenatius, Lud’s son by marriage with Blanche, kinswoman of Julius, gave it the name of “Blancheflower.” Others attribute this title to the whiteness of its walk, and assign to the Normans its appropriation to the edifice they found existing here.
Without doubt, as the metropolis of the Iceni, it was an important place prior to the advent of the Saxons, who made it the royal seat of the kings of East Anglia, and afterwards the residence of governors, called aldermen, dukes, or earls. During the Danish wars, the castle was often lost and won again,until Alfred the Great wholly subdued the Danes, and he is said to have greatly improved its fortifications. The original structure, however, is said to have fallen a sacrifice to the ravages of the Danes under Sweyn, and the present edifice is attributed to Canute, his son, upon his return after his flight upon the accession of Ethelred. The supposition of its being the work of the Normans after the Conquest is totally refuted by the events recorded as having transpired within its precincts, while in the custody of Ralph Guader, who took possession of it in the seventh year of William’s reign. The elevation upon which the castle and its fortifications were founded, some writers have conjectured to be originally the work of heathen worshippers, who raised such like giant temples to the sun; others have suggested the possibility of its forming a portion of the famous Icknild Way.
This, in common with other military structures of the same period, which were mostly built upon one plan, their chief strength consisting in their height and inaccessibility, originally included within its boundaries a considerable space of ground; the outer ballium (bailey or court) having an elevation of about one hundred feet above the level of the river; and the inner, upon which stands the keep, raised by art about twenty feet higher, with the soil of the inner ditch—still remain entire; originallythree ditches surrounded the castle, from their circular form betokening great antiquity; the second and third have been long filled up and built over, but are distinctly traceable to the eye of persevering enquiry.
The original entrance to the outer court was from Burgh Street, at the end of which was the barbican, or passage leading to the first draw-bridge and gate; the second was opposite, and intermediate between it and the present bridge; a draw-bridge formerly occupied the site of the present road-way across, at the end of which stood the gateway for raising it with a strong tower above it, only removed within the last century.
Two round towers at the upper end of the draw-bridge, whose foundations still remain, constituted additional defences of the upper ballium. Connected with the tower on the west side, were dungeons or vaults, until recently in use for prisoners before their committal.
The keep, which occupies but a small portion of the original plan, is about seventy feet high, and ninety-two feet long, by ninety-six broad.
The walls are composed of flint rubble, faced with Caen stone, intermixed with a stone found in the neighbourhood.
The keep bore the same relation to the castle as the citadel to a fortified town; it was the lastretreat of the garrison, and contained the apartments of the baron or commandant. Little of these is, however, left us to explore; the outer wall with its ornamental arches being, as we before hinted, nothing more than a shell surrounding an open yard, now filled by detached modern buildings, occupying the site of the spacious and magnificent chambers that once filled the interior.
Upon the surface of these walls, within are distinctly traceable the original openings to the various compartments, now filled up by masonry; but within the memory of some yet living, the dungeons and storehouses of the basement story were standing, and were accessible by stair-cases in the north-east and south-west angles.
The entrance to the first floor is on the east side, by a flight of steps leading to a platform projecting outside fourteen feet from the wall. It is now covered in, and forms a spacious vestibule, having three open arches towards the east, one on the north, and one on the south, in which is the entrance. It is usually called Bigod’s tower, its erection being by some attributed to Roger Bigod, in the reign of William Rufus, and by others to Hugh Bigod, during the twelfth century; the whole of it has undergone restoration. The doorway from the vestibule is through an archway of Saxon character, supported by five columns with ornamented capitals;two columns only remain; upon the capital of the first, on the left, is a bearded huntsman in the act of blowing a horn, with a sword by his side, and holding with his left hand a dog in slips, which appears to be attacking an ox; on the second capital is another huntsman, spearing a wild boar of an unusual size.
The fable of the wolf and lamb, the wolf and crane, a monstrous head and arms, attached to the bodies of two lions, are amongst the other ornamental carvings, traceable on the other portions of the capitals and arches, but greatly mutilated.
Prior to the restoration of the tower, this archway had been totally concealed by masonry; it is only surprising, therefore, that so much of it should still be in so good a state of preservation.
A corridor led from this entrance to the chapel, which was on this floor in the south-east angle, with an oratory or sanctum in the corner, separated from it by an archway supported by two columns, the capitals of which are ornamented, and at the angles are figures of pelicans. The columns are decidedly Norman, the costumes and helmets bearing close resemblance to those on the Bayeux tapestry. On the east side of the oratory is a curious altar-piece in five compartments, representing the Trinity, St. Catherine, St. Christopher, St. Michael and the Dragon, and another figure too much mutilated to be recognized.
We confess ourselves indebted for these details, to more erudite and heroic adventurers in the voyage of discovery among these ruins than ourselves, the inaccessible looking archway of the oratory high upon the wall, to be attained only by crossing a plank from a tier of cells opposite, offering little temptation to us to ascertain for ourselves the accuracy of statements made by learned authorities, whose researches we presume neither to question nor emulate. We do not venture to trespass on paths so much more ably trodden; what pleases or strikes the eye of the simple observer, we may note, perhaps often deriving sensations of pleasure from objects that may offend the cultivated taste of the connoisseur, but as we plead ignorance, we trust to meet with indulgence. Associations, rather than details of outline, cluster round our minds in visiting these scenes, and on them we dwell.
The kitchens and dormitories were also on this floor, the former accessible by a long narrow passage in the north wall, from the spiral stairs in the north-east angle.
The next floor was occupied by the state apartments; and on the exterior of the west side are four large windows with central columns, opposite to corresponding openings in the inner wall for the admission of light into the interior. The gallery on this side contains three little recesses, or chambers,as they would have us call them, benched on either side, and probably intended as waiting-rooms for the attendants. It communicated with the south-west flight of stairs, but although these yet remain, they are not safe to be explored.
The gallery on the north side has similar windows, and is reached by the north-east staircase, with which the kitchen gallery communicates; the passage is vaulted, and the tracings of large archways, in the inner wall, filled in by masonry, have led to the idea that a large banqueting chamber traversed this side of the building, the entrance to which would be immediately connected with the grand entrance from the tower. Another gallery, somewhat similar, runs along the south wall, not now accessible. These three galleries are all that remain entire of the original apartments, the various archways and outlines in the walls, rather suggesting than deciding questions concerning the arrangement of the interior filling up.
Having finished our explorings among these hollow portions of the walls, the winding stairs lead on to the giddy heights of the ramparts, where a scene awaits the adventurer’s eye, that may well repay a steady effort to conquer the propensity to walk over the unprotected side towards the court within. And here we pause to take a survey of the picture as it lies out before us; houses, slated, tiled,thatched and leaded, with their forests of chimneypots, the growth and accumulations of centuries; high pinnacles of brick, sending forth their volumes of smoke from huge factories, telling their tales of human skill and genius triumphing over the powers of earth, air, and water, bringing into subjection the sinews of rock and veins of ore, and training them, by the aid of invisible and subtle fluids, to yield obedience to the will of man, and minister to the wants and luxuries of his being; windmills spreading out their giant arms to stay the very winds of heaven in their path till they have done their work; waters checked in their onward course till their rebellious force has been turned to profit; all speak of matter visible and invisible, made subject to spirit power, and ministering to the will and wants of man. Tales, too, of human toil and suffering, of wasting labour, spent in the service of luxury and indolence, burthen the air breathed forth from groaning engine-houses, and rising up from hidden nests of poverty that lie sheltered beneath the eaves of rich men’s habitations, whose fair frontings to modern streets or road-ways, too often form but outer coatings of decency to masses of corruption hidden away in close yards, courts, and alleys, at their back—church towers, and spires, and turrets in manifold variety and abundance; and prominent among the host, stands out in all the glory of haleold age, fine old St Peter’s, looking down from his proud eminence in solemn dignity, and smiling at all the feeble efforts of the mushrooms clinging to his very base to hide his fair proportions; far and wide may we look to find his peer, even among such gems of beauty as the patron saints so lavishly have scattered among the lanes and thoroughfares of this very garden of churches. Such are the city features of the panoramic see; turning to another point of view, away, beyond the foreground of the sheep and cattle pens that bespeak the conversion of the ancient inner ballium into a modern market-place for live stock, and across the deep running channel laden with crafts not yet wholly superseded in their labours by steam—that infant Hercules, whose leading-strings are compassing the surface of the globe—we catch a glance of the hanging woods of the fairest village our Norfolk scenery may boast, whose Richmond-like gardens skirting the pathway of the winding river, and meadow lands beyond, dotted here and there by the alder cars that once gave a name to the Benedictine convent close by, form a landscape of mingled animation and quiet rural beauty, not often to be equalled in the suburbs of a manufacturing city. No marvel why gala spots for pleasure-loving citizens should be found interspersed among the more refined parterres of the wealthy upon the shores; no marvel that a summer’sevening should witness crowds of holiday-seeking folks, thronging to taste the sweets of fresh air, and rest from labour, in the midst of so fair a scene.
No marvel that a water frolic becomes dignified into a regatta there, that for once, within the circuit of the year, the great and small, the proud and humble, rich and poor, can mingle, to look together upon a common object of amusement—that fashion and poverty can meet in the field of pleasure—St. Giles and St. James acknowledge the existence, nor frown at the presence of each other. And who does not rejoice in the festivity, almost the sole remnant of national sport left us in this iron-working age? Who that can spare an hour from the counter or the loom, or desk—from scribbling six-and-eight-penny opinions, or scratching hieroglyphical prescriptions foraqua puradraughts, does not contrive to find some mode of transit by earth, air, or water to the scene of mirth. Even a soaking shower is unavailing to damp the ardour of the multitude, and not unseldom lends fresh stimulus to fun and laughter among the merry-hearted denizens of smoke-dried city streets and lanes. But we must not linger in their midst—the gay pleasure-boats, with their shining sails, tacking and bending to the breeze, the swift skullers in the gay uniforms, the eager faces that line the course, the signal guns and flags of victory, the music, and the mirth—all tell that thespirit of enjoyment is not yet quite gone out from among us. We must now pass to other, and far different objects, and from the present, travel back to the past, whose page of history unfolds itself in the nearer object that meets our eye, the whitened sides of the “Lollard’s pit,” where martyrs of old poured forth their dying prayers; and yielded up their bodies to be burned as witness of their faith—where Bilney listened to the words of his murderers, beseeching him to release them before the people from all blame, that they might not suffer loss of popularity or alms—and where he turned and said: “I pray you, good people, be never worse to these men for my sake, as though they should be the authors of my death. It is not they;”—then was bound to the stake and slowly burned, in the presence of the multitudes that clothed the natural amphitheatre around. The heights above are crowned by the ruins of the old priory of St. Leonards, on the one side, and on the other by a few fragments of St. Michael’s chapel, whose vestiges, under a name assigned to them through their later notoriety, as the stronghold of the rebel Kett, yet linger as landmarks on the early pathway of national progress and reform.
There sat the “King of Norfolk,” as he was styled, and held his councils of state under the old oak, which bore thenceforth the title of the “oak ofthe Reformation;”—there morning and evening service were daily read to the rebel forces, and the Litany and Te Deum were listened to with solemn earnestness. There Parker, the future archbishop of Canterbury, ventured into the midst of the rebel camp, and, under the shade of the oak, sent forth the voice of exhortation to the discontented, but to little effect. Enclosed lands, commons stolen from the public, and other grievances suffered by the poor from the hands of the rich, lay at the hearts of the people, and the prelate’s errand of peace had well nigh terminated ill, but for the power of music—the solemn Te Deum burst forth from the voice of the rebel’s chaplain, and swelled by many “singing voices” into a loud strain of sweet harmony, fell upon the ear of the multitude, like oil upon the raging waters, and by its sweetness shed peace for the time on all around. In this rebellion fell the gallant Earl of Sheffield, in his zeal to aid the efforts of the Earl of Warwick to quell the outburst of the people’s will; while beside him figured Dudley, the hero of Kenilworth, and cruel husband of the hapless Amy Robsart. The popular prophecy—
The country gnoffes, Hob, Dick, and Hick,With clubs and clouted shoon,Shall fill the vale of DuffendaleWith slaughtered bodies soon—
The country gnoffes, Hob, Dick, and Hick,With clubs and clouted shoon,Shall fill the vale of DuffendaleWith slaughtered bodies soon—
was fulfilled, and besiegers and besieged were amongthe victims. That there is no war like civil war was verified; the wounded plucked the arrows from their wounds, that they might be sent back dripping with their blood to the hearts of their kinsmen and foes. The watchword, “Gentlemen ruled aforetime, a number will rule now another while,” testified to the turning of the worm when trodden on—evidencing the ripening germ of the same spirit that had in earlier times wrung from the tyrant monarch a “Magna Charta,” and will yet, by agencies far other than arrow, spear, or sword, obtain for an independent people, who can reverence the laws of order and of right, every charter that shall be needed to gain them their due place in the pillar of the state, where neither capitol nor column can bear its own weight, without a base of solid and fair proportions, to give harmony, strength, and beauty to the whole.
Among the aggravating causes that led to this insurrection, so famous in our country’s annals, the desecration of church furniture and vestments, that had followed the footsteps of the Reformation, stood prominently forth; the people’s hearts rebelled against the havoc made amongst the objects they had been taught to look upon as holy—and as these deeds of licence had been simultaneous with encroachments upon their temporal rights of pasture and common land, a double feeling was engendered—a longing for social and political freedom, and adesire to reform a Reformation that was marked by such atrocious want of reverence for all that had been sacred. Conservatism and ultra-radicalism were blended, even as in many minds to this hour they grow together. Connected with this event of history, are two memorials that mark it as of national interest—the Homily on Rebellion which was written against the insurgents, and the institution of lord lieutenants of counties, as safeguards against such another sudden and formidable outbreak in any part of the kingdom.
Stretching away far as the eye may reach, is the broad moor, laid bare of forest trees by these same rebel forces, now clothed with yellow furze and purple heather, intertwined with clovewort and ranunculus, and hiding beneath, the crimson-tipped lichen, whose sanguine clubs and cups would seem to have drank from the soil the blood of the slain, and rendered it immortal. Bowl-shaped excavations dotted over its surface, testify of Celtic habitations hollowed out in remote ages, beneath the forest shades, roofed by its boughs, and lying hidden among the leaves like lower birds’ nests,—now in barren desolation, serving well the vagrant purposes of gypsy life, and lending a feature to the scene that Lavengro has painted with a master-hand.
And now the eye reposes from its survey—and thought flies back to the day when the distant seaswept around the base of the castle of Blanchflower, and filled the valley below—to the era of the brave Iceni, and the sorrows of the warrior queen, Boadicea—to the advent of the mighty Cæsar,—the appropriating Saxons,—and the savage Danes and Norsemen, with their pirate hordes, storming the outposts of the military camp from their uncouth naval fleets,—and thence to the era of the Norman hero planting his foot upon our soil, when barons multiplied in the land; and one scene of history enacted within the castle walls, bearing this date, tells much of feudal laws and feudal power.
The earldom of the city, castle, and meadow lands, being then possessed by a Breton, named Ralph de Gael, or Guader, partly by gift from the Conqueror, partly perhaps by force of arms, this local sovereign designed to wed the daughter of one Fitz-Osborn, a relation of William.
This matrimonial scheme not pleasing his lord the king, without ceremony it was prohibited; but in that day of mightversusmight, earls and barons would sometimes have a will of their own, and the fair affianced was made a bride within the chapel walls, whose doorway in an angle, marks the site of the act of disobedience; the banquetting room then received the bridal guests, and the sumptuous feast, with its attendant libations, witnessed a yet more decided scene of rebellion; the bridegroom and thebride’s own brother, the Earl of Hereford, already committed by carrying the forbidden marriage into effect, became eloquent and bold in their language and designs, until a chorus of excited voices joined them in oaths that sealed them as conspirators against their absent sovereign. Treachery revealed the plot, and the church lent its aid to the crown to crush the rebels. Lanfranc, the primate and archbishop, sent out troops, headed by bishops and justiciaries, the highest dignitaries of church and law, to oppose and besiege them; the bridegroom fled for succour to his native Brittany, leaving his bride for three months to defend the garrison with her followers, at the end of which time the brave Emma was compelled to capitulate, but upon mild terms, obtaining leave for herself and followers to flee to Brittany; her husband thenceforth became an outlaw—her brother was slain, and scarcely one guest present at that ill-fated marriage feast escaped an untimely end. Each prisoner lost a right foot, many their eyes, and all their worldly goods. A sorrowful romance of real life, to mark the early history of our castle halls.
Nor did the city go unscathed, the devastation carried into its midst by the siege was heavy; many houses were burnt, many deserted by those who had joined the earl, and it is curious to read in the valuation of land and property that was taken soon after this event, how many houses are recorded as “void” both in the burgh or that part of the cityunder the jurisdiction of the king and earl, as well as in other portions subject to other lords, for it would seem that the landlords of the soil on which stood the city were three, the king or earl of the castle, the bishop, and the Harold family, relatives of him who fell at Hastings. Clusters of huts then congregated round the base of the hill and constituted the feudal village; its inhabitants consisting of villains, of which there were two classes, the husbandmen or peasants annexed to the manor or land, and a lower rank described in English law as villains-in-gross, in simple terms, absolute slaves, transferable by deed from one owner to another, whose lives, save for the ameliorations of individual indulgences, were a continued helpless state of toil, degradation and suffering; the socmen or tenants holding land by someservice, (not knightly) and bordars or boors, who occupied a position somewhat above the serfs or villains, and held small portions of land with cottages orbordson them, on condition they should supply the lord with poultry, eggs, and other small provisions for his board and entertainment.
Freemen seem to have included all ranks of society holding in military tenure; they lived under the protection of great men, but in their persons were free; the rural labourers were divided into ploughmen, shepherds, neat-herds, cow-herds, swine-herds, and bee-keepers. The “haiae” belonging to the manorhouses were enclosed places, hedged or paled round, into which beasts were driven to be caught. At the time of the survey in William’s reign the estimate of the tenants and fiefs of the earl and king is taken as one thousand five hundred and sixty-five burgesses, Englishmen paying custom to the king, one hundred and ninety mansions void, and four hundred and eightybordars; the bishop’s territory contained thirty-seven burgesses, and seven mansions void; and on the property of the deceased Harold, there were fifteen burgesses and seven mansions void.
After the banishment of Earl Ralph, the castle was given to Ralph Bigod, who was styled the Constable, as was usual when any castle was committed to a baron or earl, and he exercised royal power within the jurisdiction of the castle. To him succeeded Roger Bigod, a great favourite and friend of Henry I., and one of the witnesses to the laws made by him during his reign. William, the son of Roger, succeeded his father, and by King Henry was made steward of his household. This William was drowned at sea, and his brother Hugh became possessed of his estate and honours. To him is referred the finishing and beautifying of the tower of the castle; but he was supplanted in the office of constable by William de Blois, Earl of Moreton, son of King Stephen. He in his turn was dispossessed of it by Henry II. Hugh Bigod joined with the son of Henry, afterwardsHenry III., in his revolt against his father, for which adherence he was reinstated in the Castle of Blancheflower, but was obliged again to surrender when the son repented of his rebellion, and submitted to his father.
To Hugh succeeded another Roger Bigod, his son, who received from the hands of Richard I. the earldom of Norfolk and stewardship of the king’s household, and most probably was constable of the castle also. During the troubled reign of John, it passed into the hands of Lewis, son of the French king, who made William de Bellomont, his marshal, constable, and placed him with a garrison within its walls. To him succeeded Roger Bigod, who figured amongst the revolting barons in the reign of Henry III. At the memorable interview between the confederated nobles and the king, at the parliament in Westminster, he took a leading part in the proceedings. All the barons having assembled in complete armour, as the king entered, there is described to have been a rattling of swords; his eye gleaming along the mailed ranks he asked, “What means this? Am I a prisoner?” “Not so,” replied Roger Bigod, “but your foreign favourites and your own extravagance have involved this realm in great wretchedness, whereof we demand that the powers of government be made over to a committee of bishops and barons, that the same may root up abusesand enact good laws.” The committee when formed numbered in its list both Roger of Norfolk earl marshal, and Hugh Bigod. In this reign it is mentioned that the castle became a gaol for the county, and state prisoners were confined here. Many a dark tragedy was doubtless witnessed by its dungeon walls during those troubled times, when civil wars were hourly peopling them with political offenders. In Edward II.’s reign the castle was partly re-fortified, but in the following reign, falling completely out of repair, it came to be regarded simply as a county jail, and its jurisdiction vested in the hands of the sheriff of the county.
Among the historical facts of later date, connected with the castle, and bearing date of the same year as that in which Queen Elizabeth visited the city, is an order issued from Whitehall, to the sheriff of Norfolk, to imprison within the castle walls certain persons who refused to attend the service of the church; the letter is preserved among Cole’s manuscripts in the British Museum; the copy of it which is published by the Archæological Society, runs thus:
To our loving Friend Mr. Gawdry, Sherif of the Countie of Norfolk.After our hearty Commendations: whereas We have given order to the Sheref of the Countie of Suffolke to deliver certain Prisoners into your hands, who were by our ordercommytted for their obstinacy in refusing to come to the Church in time of Sermons sad Common Prayers: Thes shal be to require you to receive them into your chardge and forthwith to commytt them to such of her Majesty’s gaoles within that Countie as shall seeme good unto the Lord Bishop of Norwiche, by whose direction they shall be delivered unto you, ther to remayne in Cloase Prison untill such tyme as you shalbe otherwise directed from us. And so we bid you heartely farewell.From Whitehall, the xxiijrd of February, 1878.Your loving FreandsW. Burghley. E. Lyncoln. T. Sussex.F. Knollys. E. Leycester.Chr. Hatton. Fra. Walsingham. Tho. Wilson.
To our loving Friend Mr. Gawdry, Sherif of the Countie of Norfolk.
After our hearty Commendations: whereas We have given order to the Sheref of the Countie of Suffolke to deliver certain Prisoners into your hands, who were by our ordercommytted for their obstinacy in refusing to come to the Church in time of Sermons sad Common Prayers: Thes shal be to require you to receive them into your chardge and forthwith to commytt them to such of her Majesty’s gaoles within that Countie as shall seeme good unto the Lord Bishop of Norwiche, by whose direction they shall be delivered unto you, ther to remayne in Cloase Prison untill such tyme as you shalbe otherwise directed from us. And so we bid you heartely farewell.
From Whitehall, the xxiijrd of February, 1878.
Your loving Freands
W. Burghley. E. Lyncoln. T. Sussex.
F. Knollys. E. Leycester.
Chr. Hatton. Fra. Walsingham. Tho. Wilson.
In 1643 an order was sent to fortify the castle, at the request of the deputy lieutenant of the county; the order is signed by seven staunch and influential opponents of the royal party, viz. Tho. Wodehouse, John Palgrave, Tho. Hoggan, Miles Hobart, J. Spelman, Tho. Sotherton, Gre. Gawsett.
Information concerning it from this period is scanty, probably little of interest is connected with its later history, beyond the calendar of prisoners who have been lodged within its precincts, of which we have no record, and were it otherwise, we should be reluctant to consult its pages for materials to enhance the attractions of our “Rambles.”
It is to the history of the period prior to its appropriation as a prison, that we must look for a picture of the life once animating its halls and banquetchambers, and from the general outlines of feudal society and government, a tolerably faithful portrait of it may be drawn.
The age of feudalism has been extolled with enthusiasm only equal to that which has deprecated it beyond measure; it has even been proposed as a model for future ages by the cotemporary voice to that which has pronounced it as exclusively a time of immorality, despotism, and superstition; between the two extremes, a wide field of truth lies open to be explored.
“It was a time,” as Guizot says, “when religion was the principle and end of all institutions, while military functions were the forms and means of action.”
All social movements partook of this twofold character, as questions of commerce and industry were decidedly subordinate.
The land was divided between the military barons possessed of regal authority and governing as kings in their petty kingdoms—the church, also proprietors of large estates, and the cities, then only beginning to rise from their abject nullity into an importance that has gone on increasing until commerce has become the sovereign of the world—Mammon its god. The individualism of barbarism was sunk in the centralisation to which this system gave birth; and from the social arrangements connected with it,sprung up that spirit of chivalry that was so marked a characteristic of the times, than which nothing more fully exemplified the singular combination of military and religious fervour. Isolated from all communion with general society, a castle was at once a city and a family in itself, youths were apprenticed, as it were, to learn the usages of knighthood, and in the capacity of pages, from earliest boyhood, were initiated into the forms and courtesies of chivalrous and military exercises. In this task women bore their part, the youths being ever treated as sons of the lord or knight under whose tutelage they had been placed; from this they became promoted to the rank of esquires, and perfected in the arts of tilting, riding, hunting, and hawking, frequently of music, and in case of war were qualified to follow the banner of their instructors. The rank or military renown of a baron helped to swell the list of esquires and pages in his retinue; hence many castles were complete colleges of chivalry. The close association of years in such familiar relationship cut off from all other social communion, engendered strong attachments, and fraternities, superseding often the ties of common relationship, sprung up.
The imposing ceremony that accompanied the distinction of knighthood was the finishing touch to this education. The candidate, after several lonely nights of prayer and watching in some church orchapel, during which period he received the sacraments of religion, was finally arrayed in full splendour, conducted in grand procession to a church with the sword of knighthood suspended by a scarf; the weapon was blessed by an officiating priest, and the oaths administered which bound him to defend the church and clergy, be the champion of virtuous women, especially the widow or orphan, and to be gentle ever to the weak. Warriors then of high degree, or ladies, then buckled on the spurs, clothed him in suits of armour, and the prince or noble from whom he received the knighthood, finally advanced, and giving the accolade, which consisted of three gentle strokes with the flat of the sword, exclaimed, “In the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I make thee a knight; be hardy, brave, and royal.” From this date he might aspire to the highest offices and distinctions.
The domestic comforts that graced the private life within these castle halls, formed striking contrasts to the magnificence of the knightly and military displays, although the walls often were hung with gorgeous tapestries, and the banqueting table groaned beneath the weight of gold and silver, the refinements essential to modern ideas of comfort were unknown. The fingers of the eater supplied the place of forks, and when withdrawn from rich dishes, were often employed in tearing the morsels of foodasunder. Straw and rushes were the substitutes for carpets, and clumsy wooden benches and tables supported the guests and viands at these entertainments; those who were unfortunate enough not to obtain a seat at the board were compelled to make use of the floor. Several English estates were held upon condition of furnishing straw for royal beds, and litter for the apartment floors of a palace; and the office of rush strewer remained in the list of the royal household to a very late period. Doubtless these deficiences were of slight importance to an active out-door people, whose happiness consisted in large retinues, rich armours, and splendid tournaments; even the ladies, with hunting, hawking, and the occasional amusement of displaying their skill in archery from the loop-holes or ramparts of their castles, when acting as viceroys for their sovereign lords, no doubt could well dispense with the minor occupations of refined civilization.
The bill of fare of a feudal banquet would possibly astonish and puzzle the gastronomic powers and digestive organs of the nineteenth century, although cookery was esteemed as a noble science even then, in the days when Soyer was not. The boar’s head, the peacock, occasionally served up in his feathers, the crane or young herons, might not have been altogether bad substitutes for turkeys and geese, but whether larded, roasted, and eaten with ginger, andoften served in their feathers, they might have been suited to our modern tastes is problematical; porpoises and seals that often appeared in the list of “goodly provisions” for special occasions, may scarcely be deemed more of dainties; and the compounds that figure in some of the recipes extant, of the more mystical entrées, present to the eye such medleys, that we feel certain of a preference for the plain “roast” or “boil,” in feudal times, at least, if not at all others. Force-meats, compounded of pork, figs, cheese, and ale, seasoned with pepper, saffron, and salt, baked in a crust, and garnished with powderings of sugar and comforts, may be quoted as a sample of their made dishes, while beef-tea, enriched with pork fat, beaten up with cream and sweetened with honey, as directed by their form, possibly was classed among the delicate soups, or ranged under the head of “sick cookery.”
The bread that formed the substitute for our best and “second households,” was of various kinds, the finest being a sort of spice-cake of superior quality; simnel and wastel cakes were the ordinary food for the aristocracy, while commoners were content with a coarse brown material manufactured from rye, oats, or barley, that would at this day cause a revolution in prisons, or pauper workhouses, were it to be found in the dietary table of either, much less on the dinner-table. The special wines, hippocras,pigment, morat, and mead, were the temptations to inebriety among the rich; cider, perry, and ale, the form of alcoholic drinks common to the less affluent.
The record of Peter de Blois, in one of his letters from the Court of Henry II., may be estimated perhaps as a faithful, if not attractive, description of the ordinary fare on which many unfortunate knights and retainers were sometimes compelled to subsist. He tells us that a priest or soldier had bread put before him, “not kneaded, not leavened, made of the dregs of beer, like lead, full of bran, and unbaked, wine spoiled by being sour or mouldy, thick, greasy, rancied, tasting of pitch, and vapid, sometimes so full of dregs, that they were compelled rather to filter than drink it, with eyes shut and teeth closed; meat stale as often as fresh; fish often four days old.” The picture is heightened by sundry details of a pungent character, all tending to prove the truth of his assertion, that powerful exercise was an essential assistant to overcome the evils of such diet. Early hours possibly contributed to lessen its injurious effects; and these of course, at any rate as far as regarded the “early to bed,” were enforced by the curfew, which has so mistakenly been attributed to the Norman Conqueror’s despotism, whereas it had long prevailed as a custom here, as on the continent, prior to his era, and was, in fact, a necessary precaution against the dangers of fire,when the dwelling-houses that formed a town or city were little more than bundles of faggots, well dried and bound up ready for burning.
Among the social amusements of that time, gambling seems to have prevailed to a great extent. The curious prohibitions that were enacted in the reign of Richard, would indicate that it had then grown into a formidable vice; kings were permitted to play with each other, and command their followers, but the nobles were restricted to losing twenty shillings in one night; priests and knights might, with permission, play to the same amount, but were to forfeit four times twenty shillings if they exceeded it; servants might also play to a limited extent, at thecommandof their master, but if they ventured without such permission, they subjected themselves to the penalty of being whipped three successive days; and mariners at sea, for a like transgression, were sentenced to be ducked three times for the offence. Chess, that infinite and insoluble intellectual problem, whose origin is lost in oriental obscurity, was introduced by the Crusaders on their return from their expeditions to the Holy Land, if, indeed, as some believe, it was not known in this country prior to that date; but if we may judge by inference, we may presume it to have been no favourite recreation in those spirit-stirring times, when crusades, tournaments, and military prowesswere the end and aim of men’s lives. The amusements and sports naturally partook of the character of the age, and hunting, hawking, tilting, and tournaments were at once the schools for gaining strength and dexterity, as well as safety-valves for the overflowing mobility engendered by the spirit of the times. These pursuits were elevated to the rank of perfect sciences, and the education of a youth was incomplete that did not embrace regular tuition in all of them. Nor were they, as we know, confined to the “lords of the creation.” In hunting, ladies not only often joined in the sport, but frequently formed parties by themselves, winding the horn, rousing the game, and pursuing it without assistance, the female Nimrods manifesting especial partiality to greyhounds—or hare-hounds, as they were then called. The objects of these hunts were somewhat more numerous and varied then than now, and were divided into three classes; first, the beasts for hunting, viz. the hare, the hart, the wolf, and the wild boar; secondly, the beasts of the chase, the buck and doe, the fox, the martin, and the roe; and a minor class, which were said to afford great disport in the pursuit, thegrey, or badger, the wild cat, and the otter.