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Lessons from the Fabric and Furniture of the Church
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Title: Stones of the Temple; Or, Lessons from the Fabric and Furniture
of the Church

Author: Walter Field

Release date: November 9, 2011 [eBook #37958]
Most recently updated: January 25, 2021

Language: English

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STONES OF THE TEMPLE

RIVINGTONS
London Waterloo Place
Oxford High Street
Cambridge Trinity Street

STONES OF THE TEMPLE

or

Lessons from the fabric and furniture
of the Church

By WALTER FIELD, M.A., F.S.A.

RIVINGTONS
London, Oxford, and Cambridge
1871

"When it pleased God to raise up kings and emperors favouring sincerely
the Christian truth, that which the Church before either could not or
durst not do, was with all alacrity performed. Temples were in
all places erected, no cost was spared: nothing judged too
dear which that way should be spent. The whole world did
seem to exult, that it had occasion of pouring out gifts
to so blessed a purpose. That cheerful devotion which
David did this way exceedingly delight to behold,
and wish that the same in the Jewish people
might be perpetual, was then in Christian
people every where to be seen.
So far as our Churches and their
Temple have one end, what
should let but that they
may lawfully have one
form?"—Hooker's
"Ecclesiastical

Polity."
✠

CONTENTS
PREFACE.
Chap. Page
I. THE LICH-GATE 1
II. LICH-STONES 11
III. GRAVE-STONES 19
IV. GRAVE-STONES 31
V. THE PORCH 43
VI. THE PORCH 51
VII. THE PAVEMENT 63
VIII. THE PAVEMENT 73
IX. THE PAVEMENT 81
X. THE PAVEMENT 91
XI. THE WALLS 103
XII. THE WALLS 111
XIII. THE WINDOWS 123
XIV.A LOOSE STONE IN THE BUILDING 145
XV. THE FONT 155
XVI.THE PULPIT 167
XVII. THE PULPIT 175
XVIII. THE NAVE 187
XIX.THE NAVE 197
XX. THE AISLES 209
XXI.THE TRANSEPTS 217
XXII. THE CHANCEL-SCREEN 225
XXIII. THE CHANCEL 235
XXIV. THE ALTAR 245
XXV. THE ORGAN-CHAMBER 255
XXVI. THE VESTRY 265
XXVII. THE PILLARS 275
XXVIII. THE ROOF 285

XXIX. THE TOWER 295
XXX. THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS 311

INDEX OF ENGRAVINGS
Page
St. Mildred's Church and Lich-Gate, Whippingham 3
Lich-Gate at Yealmton 5
Lich-Gate at Birstal 7
Heywood Church, Manchester 13
Lich-Stone, Great Winnow, Cornwall 15
Lich-Stone at Lustleigh 18
Church of St. Nicholas, West Pennard 21
Grave-Stones in Streatham Churchyard 23
Grave-Stones in High-Week Churchyard 24
Easter Flowers 28
Stinchcombe Church 33
Grave-Stones 35, 39, 41
Llanfechan Church 42
Godmersham Church 45
Porch of Lübeck Cathedral 53
Porch and Parvise of St. Mary's Church, Finedon 55
Parvise, Westbury-on-Trim 60
Church of SS. Philip and James, Oxford 65
Brass of John Bloxham and John Whytton in Merton College,
67
Oxford
Heywood Church 75
Brass of Henry Sever, at Merton College, Oxford 77
Chancel of Whippingham Church 83
Brass of Sir Roger de Trumpington 85
Church of St. John the Baptist, Kidmore End 93
Encaustic Tiles, Brooke Church 95, 97
St. Andrew's Church, Halstead 105
Ancient Wall Paintings in Kimpton Church 108, 109
St. Michael's Church, Gloucester 113

Ancient Wall Painting in Bedford Church 118
Wall Painting 121
Church of St. John, Brandenburg 125
Doorway, St. Stephen's Church, Tangermünde 127
Crowmarsh Church 131
137, 139,
Stained Glass Windows in Great Malvern Church
141
Rose Window, Cremona Cathedral 143
Amberley Church, in ruin, and restored 147
Ancient Font in West Rounton Church 157
Stone Pulpit in Dartmouth Church 169
Church of St. Mary, Henley-on-Thames 177
Stone Pulpit in North Kilworth Church 179
St. Mary's Church, Sherborne 189
All Saints' Church, Bradford 199
Castle Cary Church 211
Church of SS. Peter and Paul, Ringwood 219
Church of St. John, Walworth 227
Sutton Benger Church 237
Llanfaenor Church 243
St. Alban's Church, Holborn 247
Icklesham Church 257
Harpsden Church 267
Church of St. John, Highbridge 277
Keynsham Church 287
Clerestory Window 294
Meopham Church 297
Tower, Saragosa 303
Window, Church of St. Petronius, Bologna 309

"Who is able to build Him an house, seeing the heaven and heaven of
heavens cannot contain Him? who am I then, that I should build
Him an house, save only to burn sacrifice before Him?
"Send me now therefore a man cunning to work in gold, and

in silver, and in brass, and in iron, and in purple, and
crimson, and blue, and that can skill to grave with the
cunning men that are with me in Judah and in Jerusalem,
whom David my father did provide. Send
me also cedar-trees, fir-trees, and algum-trees,
out of Lebanon: for I know that thy servants
can skill to cut timber in Lebanon;
and, behold, my servants shall be
with thy servants, even to prepare
me timber in abundance:
for the house which
I am about to build
shall be great and
wonderful."—
2 Chron. ii.
6—9.
✠

PREFACE
The following chapters are an attempt to explain in very simple language the
history and use of those parts of the Church's fabric with which most persons
are familiar.
They are not written with a view to assist the student of Ecclesiastical Art
and Architecture—for which purpose the works of many learned writers are
available—but simply to inform those who, from having paid little attention
to such pursuits, or from early prejudice, may have misconceived the origin
and design of much that is beautiful and instructive in God's House.
The spiritual and the material fabric are placed side by side, and the several
offices and ceremonies of the Church as they are specially connected with
the different parts of the building are briefly noticed.
Some of the subjects referred to may appear trifling and unimportant; those,
however, among them which seem to be the most trivial have in some
parishes given rise to long and serious disputations.
The unpretending narrative, which serves to embody the several subjects
treated of, has the single merit of being composed of little incidents taken
from real life.
The first sixteen chapters were printed some years since in the Church
Builder.
The writer is greatly indebted to the Committee of the Incorporated Church
Building Society for the use of most of the woodcuts which illustrate the
volume.
W. F.

Godmersham Vicarage,
Michaelmas, 1871.

CHAPTER I

THE LICH-GATE
"These words which I command thee;
thou shalt write them on thy gates."
Deut. vi. 6, 9.

"Who says the Widow's heart must break,
The Childless Mother sink?—
A kinder, truer Voice I hear,
Which even beside that mournful bier
Whence Parent's eyes would hopeless shrink,

"Bids weep no more—O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!
A Widow o'er her only Son,
Feeling more bitterly alone
For friends that press officious round.

"Yet is the Voice of comfort heard,
For Christ hath touch'd the bier—
The bearers wait with wondering eye,
The swelling bosom dares not sigh,
But all is still, 'twixt hope and fear.

"Even such an awful soothing calm
We sometimes see alight
On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some Churchyard gate,

Their summons to the holy rite."

Christian Year.

THE LICH-GATE
ny port in a storm, Mr. Ambrose,"
"A said old Matthew Hutchison, as with
tired feet, and scant breath, he
hastened to share the shelter which Mr.
Ambrose, the Vicar of the Parish, had
found under the ancient and time-worn
Lich-gate of St. Catherine's Churchyard.
For a few big drops of rain that fell
pattering on the leaves around, had warned
them both to seek protection from a
coming shower. "Ah, yes, my old friend,"
the Vicar replied, "and here we are pretty
near the port to which we must all come,
when the storm of life itself is past."
"I've known this place,—man and boy,—Mr. Ambrose, for near eighty years;
and on yonder bit of a hill, under that broken thorn, I sit for hours every day
watching my sheep; but my eye often wanders across here, and then the
thought takes me just as you've said it, sir. Ah! it can't be long before Old
Matthew will need some younger limbs than these to bring him through the
churchyard gate;—that's what the old walls always seem to say to me;—but
God's will be done." And as the old Shepherd reverently lifted his broad hat,
his few white hairs, stirred by the rising gale, seemed to confirm the truth of
his words.
"Well, Matthew, I am glad you have learnt, what many are slow to learn, that
there are 'Sermons in stones,' as well as in books. Every stone in God's
House, and in God's Acre—as our Churchyards used to be called,—may
teach us some useful lesson, if we will but stop to read it."
"Please, sir, I should like to know why they call the gate at the new
churchyard over the hill, a lich-gate;—these new names puzzle a poor man
like me[1]."

"The name is better known in some parts of the country than it is here; but it
is no new name, I assure you, for in the time of the Saxons, more than
thirteen hundred years ago, it was in common use; but I will tell you all
about this, and some other matters connected with the place where we now
stand."
"I shall take it very kind if you will, sir, for you know we poor people don't
know much about these things."
"Very often quite as much as many who are richer, Matthew,—but here
comes our young squire, anxious like ourselves to keep a dry coat on his
back; so I shall now be telling my story to rich and poor together, and I hope
make it plain to both." After a few words of friendly greeting between Mr.
Acres and himself, the three sat down on the stone seats of the Lich-Gate,
and he at once proceeded to answer the old Shepherd's question. "The word
Lich[2]," he said, "means a Corpse, and so Lich-Gate means a Corpse-gate,
or gate through which the dead body is borne; and that path up which you
came just now, Matthew, used formerly to be called the Lich-path[3], because
all the funerals came along that way. In some parts of Scotland is still kept
up the custom of Lyke-wake (Lich-wake), or watching beside the dead body
before its burial[4]. The pale sickly-looking moss, which lives best where all
else is dead or dying, we call lichen. Then you know the Lich-owl is so
called because some people are silly enough to think that its screech foretells
death. And I must just say something about this word lich in the name of a
certain city; it is Lichfield. Now lich-field plainly means the field of the
dead: and where that city now stands is said to have been the burial-place of
many Christian Martyrs, who were slain there about the year 290. You will
remember, Mr. Acres, that the Arms of the City exhibit this field of the dead,
on which lie three slaughtered men, each having on his head, as is supposed,
a martyr's crown. Now, Matthew, I think I have fully replied to your
question; but I should like to say something more about the use and the
history of these Lich-Gates."

"Will you kindly tell us," said Mr. Acres, "how it is that there are so few
remaining, and that of these there are probably very few indeed so much as
four centuries old[5]."
"I think the reason is, that at first they were almost entirely made of wood,
and therefore were subject to early decay—certainly they must at one time
have been far more general than at present. The rubrical direction at the
beginning of the Burial Office in our Prayer Book seems to imply some such
provision at the churchyard entrance. It is there said 'the Priest and Clerks'
are to 'meet the Corpse at the entrance of the Churchyard.' But in this old
Prayer Book of mine, printed in the year 1549, you see the Priest is directed
to meet the corpse at the 'Church-stile,' or Lich-Gate. Now as in olden times
the corpse was always borne to its burial by the friends or neighbours of the
deceased, and they had often far to travel, their time of reaching the
Churchyard must have been very uncertain, and this uncertainty no doubt
frequently caused delay when they had arrived, therefore it was desirable
both to have a place of shelter on a rainy day, and of rest when the way was
long. Hence I suppose it is, that the older Lich-Gates are to be found, for the
most part, in widespread parishes and mountainous districts; they are most
common in the Counties of Devon and Cornwall, and in Wales[6]. But even
where the necessity of the case no longer exists, the Lich-Gate, adorned, as it
ever should be, with some holy text or pious precept, is most appropriate as
an ornament, and expressive as a symbol. Its presence should always be
associated in our minds with thoughts of death, and life beyond it. It should

remind us that though we must ere long 'go to the gates of the grave,' yet that
it is 'through the grave and gate of death' that we must 'pass to our joyful
resurrection.' It is here the Comforter of Bethany so often speaks, through
the voice of His Church, to His sorrowing brethren in the world:—'I am the
resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live[7]."
"Ah! sir," said the shepherd, "many's the poor heart-bowed mourner that's
been comforted here with those words! They always remind me of Jesus
saying to the widow of Nain, 'Weep not,' when he stopped the bier on which
was her only son, and the bearers, and all the mourners, at the gate of the
city."
"Yes! and all this makes us look on the old Lich-Gate as no gloomy object,
but rather as a 'Beautiful Gate of the Temple' which is eternal,—a glorious
arch of hope and triumph, hung all round with trophies of Christian victory.
But I see the rain is over, and the sun is shining! so good-bye, Mr. Acres, we
two shepherds must not stay longer from our respective flocks:—old
Matthew's is spread over the mountains, mine is folded in the village below."
The old shepherd soon took his accustomed seat under the weather-beaten
thorn, the Vicar was soon deep in the troubles of a poor parishioner, and the
young Squire went to the village by another way.

CHAPTER II

LICH-STONES
"Man goeth to his long home, and the
mourners go about the streets."

Eccles. xii. 5.

"Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss,
One bright and balmy morning, as I went
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot—
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base
The blue significant Forget-me-not?
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope,
The pious choice had pitch'd upon the verge
Of a delicious slope,
Giving the eye much variegated scope;—
'Look round,' it whisper'd, 'on that prospect rare,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh and fair,
But'—(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!)
'Priez pour les Malheureux.'"

T. Hood.

LICH-STONES

"G ood morning, Mr. Acres, and a happy Easter-Tide to you. This is
indeed a bright Easter sun to shine on our beautiful Lich-Gate at its re-
opening. I little thought on what good errand you were bent when last
we parted at this spot. Hardly however had I reached my door when William
Hardy came with great glee to tell me you had engaged his services for the
work. May God reward you, sir, for the honour you have shown for His
Church."
"And an old man's blessing be upon you, sir, if you will let Old Matthew say
so; for the Church-gate is dearer to me than my own, seeing it has closed
upon my beloved partner, and the dear child God gave us, and my own poor
wicket shuts on no one else but me now."
"Thank you heartily, honest Matthew, and you too, sir," replied the squire,
giving to each the hand of friendship; "I am rejoiced that what has been done
pleases you so well. The restored Gate is in every respect like the original
one, even to the simple little cross on the top of it. I have added nothing but
the sentence from our Burial Office, 'Blessed are the dead which die in the
Lord,' which you see over the arch, and which I hope will bring comfort to
some, and hope to all who read it. But the work would never have been done

by me, Mr. Vicar, had you not so interested Matthew and myself in these
Lich-Gates when last we met. And so, as you see, your good words have not
been altogether lost, I hope you will kindly to-day continue the subject of
our last conversation."
"Most gladly will I do so; and as I have already spoken of the general
purpose and utility of these Lich-Gates, I will now say a little about their
construction and arrangement.
"Their most common form, as you know, is a simple shed composed of a
roof with two gable ends, covered either with tiles or thatch, and supported
on strong timbers well braced together. But they are frequently built of stone,
and in the manner of their construction they greatly vary. At Burnsall there is
a curious arrangement for opening and closing the gate. The stone pier on
the north side has a well-hole, in which the weight that closes the gate works
up and down. An upright swivel post or 'heart-tree,' (as the people there call
it,) stands in the centre, and through this pass the three rails of the gate; an
iron bent lever is fixed to the top of this post, which is connected by a chain
and guide-pulley to the weight, so that when any one passes through, both
ends of the gate open in opposite directions. The Gate at Rostherne
churchyard, in Cheshire, is on a similar plan. At Berry-harbour is a Lich-
Gate in the form of a cross. At only one place, I believe,—Troutbeck, in
Westmoreland,—are there to be found three stone Lich-Gates in one
churchyard. Some of these gates have chambers over them, as at Bray[8], in
Berkshire, and Barking[9], in Essex. At Tawstock there is a small room on
either side of the gate, having seats on three sides and a table in the centre. It
seems that in this, as in some other cases, provision is made either for the
distribution of alms, or for the rest and refreshment of funeral attendants. It
was once a common custom at funerals in some parts, especially in
Scotland[10], to hold a feast at the Church-gate and these feasts sometimes
led to great excesses: happily they are now discontinued, but the custom may
help to point out the purpose for which these Lich-Gate rooms were
sometimes erected. In Cornwall it is not customary to bear the corpse on the
shoulders, but to carry the coffin, under-handed, by white cloths passed
beneath and through the handles[11] and this partly explains the peculiar
arrangement for resting the corpse at the entrance to the churchyard,
common, even now, in that county, and which is called the Lich-Stone. The
Lich-Stone is often found without any building attached to it, and frequently

without even a gate. The Stone is either oblong with the ends of equal width,
or it is the shape of the ancient coffins, narrower at one end than the other,
but without any bend at the shoulder. It is placed in the centre, having stone
seats on either side, on which the bearers rest whilst the coffin remains on
the Lich-Stone. When there is no gate, the churchyard is protected from the
intrusion of cattle by this simple contrivance:—long pieces of moor-stone, or
granite, are laid across, with a space of about three inches between each, and
being rounded on the top any animal has the greatest difficulty in walking
over them, indeed a quadruped seldom attempts to cross them.
"Lich-Stones are,—though very rarely,—to be found at a distance from the
churchyard; in this case, doubtless, they are intended as rests for the coffin
on its way to burial.
"At Lustleigh, in Devonshire, is an octagonal Lich-Stone called Bishop's
Stone, having engraved upon it the arms of Bishop Cotton[12]. It seems not
unlikely that the several beautiful crosses erected by King Edward I. at the
different stages where the corpse of his queen, Eleanor[13], rested on its way
from Herdeby in Lincolnshire to Westminster, were built over the Lich-Stone
on which her coffin was placed. And now, my kind listeners, I think I have
told you all I know about Lich-Stones."

"These simple memorials of Church architecture are very touching," replied
Mr. Acres, as he rose to depart; "and the Lich-Stone deserves a record before
modern habits and improvements sweep them away. They have a direct
meaning, and surely might be more generally adopted in connexion with the
Lich-Gate, now gradually re-appearing in many of our rural parishes, as the
fitting entrance to the churchyard."

CHAPTER III

GRAVE-STONES
"When I am dead, then bury me in the
sepulchre wherein the man of God is
buried; lay my bones beside his bones."
1 Kings xiii. 31.

"I've seen
The labourer returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call the children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,
And in his rustic manner, moralize.
We mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave."

H. Kirke White.

"I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

"Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

"With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and acre of our God:
This is the place where human harvests grow."

Longfellow.

GRAVE-STONES
nd so, Matthew, the old sexton's little
"A daughter is to be buried to-day. What
a calm peaceful day it is for her
funeral! The day itself seems to have put
on the same quiet happy smile that Lizzie
Daniels always carried about with her,
before she had that painful lingering
sickness, which she bore with a meekness
and patience I hardly ever saw equalled.
And then it is Easter Day too, the very day
one would choose for the burial of a good
Christian child. All our services to-day will
tell us that this little maid, and all those
who lie around us here so still beneath
their green mounds, are not dead but
sleeping, and as our Saviour rose from the grave on Easter Day, so will they
all awake and rise up again when God shall call them. I see the little grave is
dug under the old yew-tree, near to that of your own dear ones. Lizzie was a
great favourite of yours, was she not, Matthew?"
"Ah, she was the brightest little star in my sky, I can tell you, sir; and I shall
miss her sadly. She brought me my dinner, every day for near two years, up
to the old thorn there, and then she would sit down on the grass before me,
and read from her Prayer Book some of the Psalms for the day; and when
she had done, and I had kissed and thanked her, she used to go trotting home
again, with, I believe, the brightest little face and the lightest little heart in
England. Well, sir, it's sorry work, you know, for a man to dig the grave for
his own child, and so I asked John Daniels to let me dig Lizzie's grave: but it
has been indeed hard work for me, for I think I've shed more tears in that
grave than I ever shed out of it. But the grave is all ready now, and little
Lizzie will soon be there; and then, sir, I should like to put up a stone, for I
shall often come here to think about the dear child. Poor little Lizzie! she
seemed like a sort of good angel to me,—children do seem like that

sometimes, don't they, sir? Perhaps, Mr. Ambrose, you would be so good as
to tell Robert Atkinson what sort of stone you would like him to put up."
"Certainly I will; and I think nothing would be so suitable as a simple little
stone cross, with Lizzie's name on the base of it. And as she is to be buried
on Easter Day, I should like to add the words, 'In Christ shall all be made
alive.'"
"Thank you, sir; that will do very nicely. I'm only thinking, may be, that
wicked boy of Mr. Dole's, at the shop, will come some night and break the
cross, as he did the one Mr. Hunter put up over his little boy. But I think that
was more the sin of the father than of the son, for I'm told the old
gentleman's very angry with you, sir, 'cause he couldn't put what he call's a
'handsome monument' over his father's grave; and he says, too, he's going to
law about it."

"Ah, he'll be wiser not to do that, Matthew. The churchyard is the parson's
freehold, and he has the power to prevent the erection of any stone there of
which he disapproves; and I, for one, don't mean to give up this power. 'Tis
true that every one of my parishioners has a right to be buried in this
churchyard, nor could I refuse this if I would; but then, if I am to protect this
right of my parishioners, as it is my duty to do, and to preserve my

churchyard from disfigurement and desecration, I must take care that the
ground is not occupied by such great ugly monuments as Mr. Dole wishes to
build[14]. Why I hear he bought that large urn[15] which was taken down
from Mr. Acres' park gates, to put on the top of the tomb. And then I suppose
he would like to have the sides covered with skulls and crossbones, and
shovels and mattocks, and fat crying cherubs, besides the usual heathen
devices, such as inverted torches and spent hour-glasses; all which fitly
enough mark an infidel's burial-place, but not a Christian's. For you see, my
friend, that none of these things represent any Christian truth; the best are
but emblems of mortality; some are the symbols of oblivion and despair, and
others but mimic a heathen custom long gone by. The stones of the
churchyard ought themselves to tell the sanctity of the place, and that it is a
Christian's rest[16]. The letters we carve on them will hardly be read by our
children's children. The lines on that stone there tell no more than is true of
all the Epitaphs around us:

'The record some fond hand hath traced,
To mark thy burial spot,
The lichen will have soon effaced,
To write thy doom—Forgot.'

But even then, if the symbol of our redemption is there, 'the very stones will
cry out,' and though time-worn and moss-grown, will declare that it is a
Christian's burial-place. If, then, as Christian men and women 'we sorrow
not as others without hope,' let us not cover our monuments with every
symbol of despair, or with heathen devices, but as we are not ashamed of the
doctrine, so neither let us be ashamed of the symbol of the cross of Christ.
Besides, if we wish to preserve our graves from desecration, this form of
stone is the most likely to do so; for in spite of outrages like young Dole's,
which have been sometimes committed, we continually find that such
memorials have been respected and preserved when others have been
removed and employed for common uses. Why, Matthew, I've seen hundreds
of grave-stones converted into fire-hearths, door-steps, pavements, and such
like, but I never saw a monument on which was graven the Christian symbol
so desecrated; and I believe such a thing has hardly ever been seen by any
one."

"Well, Mr. Ambrose, I should like there to be no doubt about little Lizzie's
being a Christian's grave. I was thinking, too, to have a neat iron railing
round the stone, sir."
"I would advise you not to have it, Matthew; for the grave will be prettier
without it. Besides, it gives an idea of separateness, which one does not like
in a place where all distinctions are done away with; and, moreover, the iron
would soon rust, and then the railing would become very untidy."
"Yes, to be sure it would; I was forgetting that I shan't be here to keep it
nicely painted:—but see, sir, here come the children from the village with
their Easter flowers. I dare say little Mary Acres will give me some for
Lizzie's grave."
"Ah, I like that good old custom of placing flowers and wreaths on Christian
graves at Easter, and other special seasons[17]. It is the simple way in which
these little ones both show their respect for departed friends, and express
their belief in the resurrection of the dead. I would say of it, as Wordsworth
wrote of the Funeral Chant:—

'Many precious rites
And customs of our rural ancestry
Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,
Will last for ever.'

But you remember the time, Matthew, when there were very different scenes
from this, at Easter, in St. Catherine's churchyard. If I mistake not, you will
recollect when the Easter fair used to be kept here."

"That I do, sir, too well. There was always a Sunday fight in the churchyard,
and the people used to come from Walesborough and for miles round to see
it. It's just forty years ago to-day poor Bill Thirlsby was killed in a fight, as it
might be, just where I'm now standing[18]. But, thank God, that day's gone
by."
"And, I trust, never to come back again. But have you heard, Matthew, that
some great enemies of the Church are trying to spoil the peace and
sacredness of our churchyards in another way? They want to bring in all
kinds of preachers to perform all sorts of funeral services in them; and if
they gain their ends, our long-hallowed churchyards, where as yet there has
only been heard the solemn beautiful Burial Service of our own Church, may
be desecrated by the clamour of ignorant fanaticism, the continual janglings
of religious discord, or perhaps, the open blasphemy of godless men."

"What! then I suppose we should have first a service from Master Scoff, the
bill-sticker and Mormon preacher, and next from Master Scole, the Baptist
preacher, then from Father La Trappe, the Roman Catholic minister, and
then, perhaps, sir, it might be your turn. Why, sir, 'twould be almost like
going back to the Easter fair."
"Well, my friend, in one respect it would be worse; for it would be discord
all the year round. But I trust God will frustrate these wicked designs of our
Church's foes. Long, long may it be ere the sanctity of our churchyards is
thus invaded."
"Amen, say I to that, sir, with all my heart."
"And, thanks be to God, Matthew, that Amen of yours is now re-echoing
loudly throughout the length and breadth of England."

CHAPTER IV

GRAVE-STONES
"And he said, What title is that that I
see? and the men of the city told him, It is
the sepulchre of the man of God."
2 Kings xiii. 17.

"I never can see a Churchyard old,
With its mossy stones and mounds,
And green trees weeping the unforgot
That rest in its hallow'd bounds;
I never can see the old churchyard,

But I breathe to God a prayer,
That, sleep as I may in this fever'd life,
I may rest, when I slumber, there.

"Our Mother the Church hath never a child
To honour before the rest,
But she singeth the same for mighty kings,
And the veriest babe on her breast;
And the bishop goes down to his narrow bed
As the ploughman's child is laid,
And alike she blesseth the dark brow'd serf,
And the chief in his robe array'd.

"And ever the bells in the green churchyard
Are tolling to tell you this:—
Go pray in the church, while pray ye can,
That so ye may sleep in bliss."

Christian Ballads.

"It is an awful thing to stand
With either world on either hand,
Upon the intermediate ground
Which doth the sense and spirit bound.
Woe worth the man who doth not fear
When spirits of the dead are near."

The Baptistery.

GRAVE-STONES

A golden haze in the eastern sky told that the sun which had set in all his
glory an hour before was now giving a bright Easter Day to Christians
in other lands. The evening service was ended, and a joyful peal had just
rung out from the tower of St. Catherine's,—for such was the custom there
on all the great festivals of the Church,—the low hum of voices which lately
rose from a group of villagers gathered near the churchyard gate was hushed;
there was a pause of perfect stillness; and then the old tenor began its deep,
solemn tolling for the burial of a little child. The Vicar and his friend Mr.
Acres, who had been walking slowly to and fro on the churchyard path,
stopped suddenly on hearing the first single beat of the burial knell, and at
the same instant they saw, far down the village lane, the flickering light of
the two torches borne by those who headed the little procession of Lizzie's
funeral. They, too, seemed to have caught the spell, and stood mutely
contemplating the scene before them. At length Mr. Acres broke silence by
saying, "I know of but few Parishes where, like our own, the funerals of the
poor take place by torch-light; it is, to say the least, a very picturesque
custom."

"It is, indeed," replied Mr. Ambrose, "I believe, however, the poor in this
place first adopted it from no such sentiment, but simply as being more
convenient both to themselves and to their employers. Their employers often
cannot spare them earlier in the day, and they themselves can but ill afford to
lose a day's wages. But these evening funerals have other advantages. They
enable many more of the friends of the departed to show this last tribute of
respect to their memory than could otherwise do so; and were this practice
more general, we should have fewer of those melancholy funerals where the
hired bearers are the sole attendants. Then, if properly conducted, they save
the poor much expense at a time when they are little able to afford it. I find
that their poor neighbours will, at evening, give their services as bearers, free
of cost, which they cannot afford to do earlier in the day. The family of the
deceased, too, are freed from the necessity of taxing their scanty means in
order to supply a day's hospitality to their visitors, who now do not assemble
till after their day's labour, and immediately after the funeral retire to their
own homes, and to rest. I am sorry to say, however, this was not always so.
When I first came to the Parish, the evening was too often followed by a
night of dissipation. But since I have induced the people to do away with
hired bearers, and enter into an engagement to do this service one for
another, free of charge, and simply as a Christian duty, those evils have

never recurred. I once preached a sermon to them from the text, 'Devout men
carried Stephen to his burial' (Acts viii. 2), in which I endeavoured to show
them that none but men of good and honest report should be selected for this
solemn office; and I am thankful to say, from that time all has been decent
and orderly. When it is the funeral of one of our own school-children, the
coffin is always carried by some of the school-teachers; I need hardly say
this is simply an act of Christian charity. Moreover, this custom greatly
diminishes the number of our Sunday burials, which are otherwise almost a
necessity among the poor[19]. The Sunday, as a great Christian Festival, is
not appropriate for a public ceremony of so mournful a character as that of
the burial of the dead; there is, too, this additional objection to Sunday
burials: that they create Sunday labour. But, considering the subject
generally, I confess a preference for these evening funerals. To me they seem
less gloomy, though more solemn, than those which take place in the broad
light of day. When the house has been closed, and the chamber of death
darkened for several days (to omit which simple acts would be like an insult
to the departed), it seems both consonant with this custom which we have
universally adopted, and following the course of our natural feelings, to
avoid—in performing the last solemn rite—the full blaze of midday light.
There is something in the noiseless going away of daylight suggestive of the
still departure of human life; and in the gathering shades of evening, in
harmony with one's thoughts of the grave as the place of the sleeping, and
not of the dead. The hour itself invites serious thought. When a little boy, I
once attended a midnight funeral; and the event left an impression on my
mind which I believe will never be altogether effaced. I would not, however,
recommend midnight funerals, except on very special occasions; and I must
freely admit that under many circumstances evening funerals would not be
practicable."
"I see," said Mr. Acres, "that the system here adopted obviates many evils
which exist in the prevailing mode of Christian burial, but it hardly meets the
case of large towns, especially when the burial must take place in a distant
cemetery. Don't you think we want reform there, even more, perhaps, than in
these rural parishes?"
"Yes, certainly, my friend, I do; and I regret to say I see, moreover, many
difficulties that beset our efforts to accomplish it. Still something should be
done. We all agree, it is much to be deplored that, owing to the necessity for

extramural burial, the connexion between the parishioner and his parish
church is, with very rare exceptions, entirely severed in the last office which
the Clergy and his friends can render him, and the solemn Service of the
Burial of the Dead is said in a strange place, by a stranger's voice. Now this
we can at least partly remedy. I would always have the bodies of the
departed brought to the parish church previous to their removal to the
cemetery; and the funeral knell should be tolled, as formerly, to invite their
friends and neighbours to be present, and take part in so much of the service
as need not be said at the grave. It would then be no longer true, as now it is,
that in many of our churches this touching and beautiful Service has never
been said, and by many of the parishioners has never been heard. Then let
the bearers be men of good and sober character. How revolting to one's sense
of decency is the spectacle, so common in London, of hired attendants,
wearing funeral robes and hat-bands[20], drinking at gin-palaces, whilst the
hearse and mourning coaches are drawn up outside! Then I would have the
furniture of the funeral less suggestive of sorrow without hope; and specially
I would have the coffin less gloomy,—I might in many cases say, less
hideous: let it be of plain wood, or, if covered, let its covering be of less
gloomy character, and without the trashy and unmeaning ornaments with
which undertakers are used to bestud it. As regards our cemeteries, I suppose
in most of them the Burial Service is said in all its integrity, but in some it is
sadly mutilated. 'No fittings, sir, and a third-class grave,' said the attendant of
a large cemetery the other day to a friend of mine, who had gone there to
bury a poor parishioner; which in simple English was this:—'The man was
too poor to have any other than a common grave, so you must not read all
the Service; and his friends are too poor to give a hat-band, so you must not
wear a hood and stole.' My friend did not of course comply with the
intimation."
"Well, Mr. Vicar, I hope we may see the improvements you have suggested
carried out, and then such an abuse as that will not recur. Much indeed has
already been done in this direction, and for this we must be thankful."
"Yes, and side by side with that, I rejoice to see an increasing improvement
in the character of our tombstones and epitaphs."
"Ah, sir, there was need enough, I am sure, for that. How shocking are many
of the inscriptions we find on even modern tombstones! To 'lie like an

epitaph' has long been a proverb, and I fear a just one.
What a host of false witnesses we have even here
around us in this burial-ground! There lies John Wilk,
who was—I suppose—as free from care and sickness to
his dying hour as any man that ever lived; yet his
grave-stone tells the old story:—

'Afflictions sore long time I bore,
Physicians was in vain.'

And beyond his stands the stone of that old scold
Margery Torbeck, who, you know, sir, was the terror of
the whole village; and of her we are told:—

'A tender wife, a mother dear,
A faithful friend, lies buried here.'

I often think, Mr. Ambrose, when walking through a
churchyard, if people were only half as good when
living, as when dead they are said to have been, what a
happy world this would be; so full of 'the best of
husbands,' 'the most devoted of wives,' 'the most dutiful of sons,' and 'the
most amiable of daughters.' One is often reminded of the little child's inquiry
—'Mamma, where are all the wicked people buried?' But did you ever notice
that vain and foolish inscription under the north wall to the 'perpetual'
memory of 'Isaac Donman, Esq.'? Poor man! I wonder whether his friends
thought the 'Esq.' would perpetuate his memory. I wish it could be
obliterated."
"I have told John Daniels to plant some ivy at the base of the stone, and I
hope the words will be hidden by it before the summer is over. I find this the
most convenient mode of concealing objectionable epitaphs. But is it not an
instance of strange perversity, that where all earthly distinctions are swept
away, and men of all degrees are brought to one common level, people will
delight to inscribe these boastful and exaggerated praises of the departed,
and so often claim for them virtues which in reality they never possessed?
What can be more out of place here than pride? As regards the frail body on

which is often bestowed so much vain eulogy, what truer words are there
than these?—

'How loved, how valued once, avails thee not;
To whom related, or by whom begot:
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, 'tis all the proud shall be.'

These kind of epitaphs, too, are so very unfair to the deceased. We who
knew old Mrs. Ainstie, who lies under that grand tombstone, knew her to be
a good, kind neighbour; but posterity will not believe that, when posterity
reads in her epitaph that 'she was a spotless woman.' It is better to say too
little than too much; since our Bibles tell us that, even when we have done
all, we are unprofitable servants. There are other foolish epitaphs which are
the result of ignorance, not of pride. For instance, poor old Mrs. Beck, whose
son is buried in yonder corner (it is too dark now to see the stone), sent me
these lines for her son's grave-stone:—

'Here lies John Beck, aged 19 years,
Father and mother, wipe away your tears.'

I persuaded her instead to have this sentence from the Creed:—'I believe in
the communion of Saints.' When I explained to her the meaning of the
words, she was grateful that I had suggested them.

The two things specially to be avoided in these memorials are flattery and
falsehood; and, moreover, we should always remember that neither grave-
stone nor epitaph can benefit the dead, but that both may benefit the living.
Therefore a short sentence from the Bible or Prayer Book, expressive of
hope beyond the grave, is always appropriate; such as:—'I look for the
resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come;' or words which
either may represent the dying prayer of the deceased, or express a suitable
petition for ourselves when thus reminded of our own approaching
departure, such as: 'Jesus, mercy,' or 'God be merciful to me a sinner,' or 'In
the hour of death, good Lord, deliver us.' How much better is some simple
sentence like these than a fulsome epitaph! But the funeral is nearly at the
gate; so I must hasten to meet it."
"And I will say good evening," said Mr. Acres, "as I may not see you after
the service; and I thank you for drawing my attention to a subject on which I
had before thought too little."
Mr. Ambrose met the funeral at the lich-gate. First came the two torch-
bearers, then the coffin, borne by six school-teachers; then John and Mary
Daniels, followed by their two surviving children; then came old Matthew,
and after him several of little Lizzie's old friends and neighbours. Each
attendant carried a small sprig of evergreen[21], or some spring flowers, and,

as the coffin was being lowered, placed them on it. Many tears of sadness
fell down into that narrow grave, but none told deeper love than those of the
old Shepherd, who lingered sorrowfully behind to close in the grave of his
little friend.

CHAPTER V

THE PORCH
"Keep thy foot when thou goest to the
house of God."
Eccles. v. 1.

"When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.

God is more there than thou: for thou art there
Only by His permission. Then beware
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoilt silk stockings: quit thy state,
All equal are within the Church's gate.

"Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part:
Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures thither.
Christ purged His temple; so must thou thy heart.
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together
To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well;
For churches either are our heaven or hell."

George Herbert.

"One place there is—beneath the burial sod,
Where all mankind are equalized by death:
Another place there is—the Fane of God,
Where all are equal who draw living breath."

Thomas Hood.

THE PORCH

M r. Ambrose only remained in the churchyard a few moments after little
Lizzie's funeral, just to say some kind words to the bereaved parents
and the attendant mourners, and then hastened to comply with the urgent
request of a messenger, that he would without delay accompany him to the
house of a parishioner living in a distant part of the Parish.
It was more than an hour ere the Vicar began to retrace his steps. His nearest
way to the village lay through the churchyard, along the path he had lately
traversed in earnest conversation with Mr. Acres. He paused a moment at the
gate, to listen for the sound of Matthew's spade; but the old man had
completed his task, and all was still. He then entered, and turned aside to
look at the quiet little grave. A grassy mound now marked the spot, and it
was evident that no little care had been bestowed to make it so neat and tidy.
Mr. Ambrose was slowly walking on, musing on the patient sufferings of his
little friend, now gone to her rest, when just as he approached the beautiful
old porch of the church his train of thought was suddenly disturbed by
hearing what seemed to him the low, deep sobbing of excessive grief. The
night was not so dark but that he could see distinctly within the porch, and
he anxiously endeavoured to discover whether the sound had proceeded
from any one who had taken shelter there for the night; but the place was
evidently tenant less. "It must have been only the hum of a passing breeze,
which my fancy has converted into a human voice," thought he, "for
assuredly no such restless sobs as those ever escape from the deep sleepers
around me here." And so the idea was soon banished and forgotten. But as he
stood there, his gaze became, almost unconsciously, fixed upon the old
church porch. The dim light resting upon it threw the rich carvings of its
graceful arches, and deep-groined roof, with its massive bosses of sculptured
stone, into all sorts of fantastic forms, and a strange mystery seemed to hang
about the solemn pile, which completely riveted his attention to it, and led
him into the following reverie:—"Ah, thou art indeed a 'beautiful gate of the
temple'! Well and piously did our ancestors in bestowing so much wealth
and labour to make thy walls so fair and lovely. And well ever have they

done in crowding these noble porches with the sacred emblems of our holy
faith. Rightly have they deemed that the very highest efforts of human art
could not be misapplied in adorning the threshold of God's House, so that,
ere men entered therein, their minds might be attuned to the solemnity of the
place[22]. All praise, too, to those honest craftsmen who cemented these old
stones so well together that they have stood the storms of centuries, and still
remain the unlettered though faithful memorials of ages long gone by. Ah,
how many scenes my imagination calls up as I look on this old porch!
Hundreds of years ago most of the sacred offices of our Church were there in
part performed. Now, I think I see the gay bridal party standing in that dusky
portal[23]; there comes the Priest to join the hands of the young and happy
pair; he pronounces over them the Church's blessing; and the bridegroom
endows with her bridal portion her whom he has sworn to love till one shall
die. A thousand brides and bridegrooms, full of bright hopes of happy years,
have been married in that porch. Centuries ago they grew old and died, and
were buried in this churchyard, but the old porch still remains in all its
beauty and all its strength. There, kneeling upon that well-worn pavement, I
see the mother pour forth her thankfulness to God for her deliverance from
sickness, and for the babe she bears[24]. And now, still beneath that porch,
she gives her tender infant into the arms of God's priest, that he may present
it to Him in holy Baptism. In yon dark corner I seem to see standing the
notorious breaker of God's commands; his head is bent down with shame,
and he is clothed in the robe of penance[25]. Now the scene is changed: the
old walls resound with the voices of noisy disputants—it is a parish
meeting[26], and passions long since hushed find there a clamorous
expression; but there stands the stately form of the peace-maker, and the
noisy tongue of the village orator is heard no more. Yes, rise up, Sir Knight,
who, with thy hands close clasped as if in ceaseless prayer, hast lain upon
that stony couch for five long centuries, and let thy manly step be heard
beneath that aged roof once more; for, though a warrior, thou wast a good
and peace-loving man, and a devout worshipper in this temple, or, I trust, thy
burial-place would never have been in this old porch[27]."
The eyes of the Vicar were fixed upon the recumbent effigy of an old knight
lying beneath its stone canopy on the western side of the porch (of which,
however, only a dim outline was visible), when the same sound that had
before startled him was repeated, followed by what seemed the deep

utterance of earnest prayer, but so far off as to be but faintly heard. He stood
in motionless attention for a short time, and then the voice ceased. He then
saw a flickering light on one of the farthest windows of the chancel; slowly
it passed from window to window, till it reached that nearest to the spot
where he was standing. Then there was a narrow line of light in the centre of
the doorway; gradually it widened, and there stood before him the venerable
form of the old shepherd.

CHAPTER VI

THE PORCH
"Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
and into His courts with praise."
Ps. c. 4.

"Why should we grudge the hour and house of prayer
To Christ's own blind and lame,
Who come to meet Him there?
Better, be sure, His altar-flame
Should glow in one dim wavering spark,
Than quite lie down, and leave His Temple drear and dark.

"What if the world our two or three despise
They in His name are here,
To whom in suppliant guise
Of old the blind and lame drew near,
Beside His royal courts they wait,
And ask His healing Hand: we dare not close the gate."

Lyra Innocentium.

THE PORCH
he Vicar's first impulse, on recovering
"T from his surprise at so unexpectedly
meeting with the old Shepherd in
such a place, at such an hour, was, if
possible, to escape unnoticed, and to leave
the churchyard without suffering him to
know what he had heard and seen; but at
that instant the light fell full upon him, and
concealment was impossible.
"You'll be surprised, Mr. Ambrose," said
the old man, "at finding me in the church at
this late time. But it has, I assure you, been
a great comfort for me to be here."
"My good friend," replied the Vicar, "I know you have been making good
use of God's House, and I only wish there were more disposed to do the like.
I rejoice to hear you have found consolation, for to-day has been one of
heavy sorrow to you, and you needed that peace which the world cannot
give. How often it is that we cannot understand these trials until we go into
the House of the Lord, and then God makes it all plain to us."
"I've learnt that to-night, sir, as I never learnt it before. When I had put the
last bit of turf on the little grave, and knew that all my work was over, there
was such a desolate, lonely-like feeling came over me, that I thought my old
heart must break; and then, all of a sudden, it got into my head that I would
come into the church. But it was more dull and lonesome there than ever. It
was so awful and quiet, I became quite fearful and cowed, quite like a child,
you know, sir. When I stood still, I hardly dared look round for fear I should
see something in the darkness under the old grey arches, and when I moved,
the very noise of my footsteps, which seemed to sound in every corner,
frightened me. However, I took courage, and went on. Then I opened this
Prayer Book, and the first words I saw were these in the Baptismal Service:
—'Whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child, he shall

not enter therein.' So I knelt down at the altar rails and prayed, as I think I
never prayed before, that I might in my old age become as good as the little
maid I had just buried, and be as fit to die as I really believe she was. Then I
said those prayers you see marked in the book, sir (she put the marks), and at
last I came to those beautiful words in the Communion Service (there is a
cross put to them, and I felt sure she meant me particularly to notice them):
—'We bless and praise Thy holy Name for all Thy servants departed this life
in Thy faith and fear.' I stood up, and said that over and over again; and as I
did so, somehow all my fear and lonesomeness went away, and I was quite
happy. It was this that made me so happy: I felt sure, sir, quite sure, that my
poor dear wife and our child and little Lizzie were close to me. I could not
see nor hear them, but for all that I was somehow quite certain that they were
there rejoicing with me, and praising God for all the good people He had
taken to Himself. Oh! I shall never forget this night, sir; the thought of it will
always make me happy. You will never see me again so cast down as I have
been lately."
"Well, Matthew, you cannot at least be wrong in allowing what you have felt
and believed to fix more firmly in your faith the Church's glorious doctrine
of the communion of saints."
For some time each stood following out in his own mind the train of thought
which these words suggested. Matthew was the first to break silence, by
begging the Vicar kindly to go with him into the room above where they
were standing, as he wished there to ask a favour of him.
Matthew returned into the church to find the key of the chamber, and Mr.
Ambrose at once recognized the volume which he had left on the stone seat
of the porch, as that from which Lizzie was used to read when she sat beside
the old Shepherd on the neighbouring hill. He took it up, and, opening it at
the Burial Office, he found there a little curl of lovely fair hair marking the
place. The page was still wet—it was the dew of evening, gentle tears of
love and sorrow shed by one whose night was calmly and peacefully coming
on.
The old man soon returned with the key, and, bearing the lantern, led the
way up a narrow, winding stone staircase, formed in the masonry of a large
buttress, to the little chamber. As soon as they had reached it, he said,
"Before I beg my favour, Mr. Ambrose, I should much like you to tell me

something about this old room. Ever since I was a boy it has been a sort of
lumber-room, but I suppose it was not built for that?"
"Well, Matthew, there is not much here to throw light upon the history of this
particular chamber; but I will tell you what I can about such places generally.
The room is most commonly, but not correctly, called the parvise[28]. The
word parvise, or paradise, properly only applies to an open court adjoining a
church, and surrounded by cloisters; but in olden times a room in a private
house was sometimes called a paradise[29], and hence, I suppose, the name
came to be used for the porch-room of the church. It was also called the
priest's chamber[30]; and such, I think, was the room in which we now are.
You see it is provided with a nice little fire-place[31], and it is a comfortable
little place to live in. Sometimes it was called the treasury[32], or record-
room, because the parish records and church books were kept in it; or the
library[33], from its being appropriated for the reception of a church or
parochial library. There are many of these chambers furnished with valuable
libraries which have been bequeathed from time to time for this purpose. It is
also evident, from the remains of an altar and furniture connected with it,
that not infrequently it was built for a chapel[34]. Occasionally it has been
used as the parish school[35]; and I have heard that in some of the eastern
counties poor people have occasionally, in cases of extreme distress, claimed
sanctuary or refuge, both in the porch and parvise, and lived there
undisturbed for some weeks together. But latterly, in many places, the parish
clerk or sexton has been located in the parvise, that he may watch the
churchyard and protect the church[36]; and I am inclined to think this is a
much more sensible thing to do, than to give up the room to the owls and
bats, as is very often the case now, but even that is better than to use it as it
has sometimes been used—as a common prison[37]."
"I am glad to hear you say that, sir, for it makes the way for me to ask my
favour. John Daniels wants to give up the place of sexton; and as I am
getting too old now to walk far, and to take care of the sheep as I used to do,
I'm going to make so bold as to ask you to let me be sexton in his stead, and
to live in this little room, if you please, sir. I could then keep the key of the
church, and it would be always at hand when wanted: I should be near to
ring the bell for morning and evening prayer; I could watch the churchyard,
and see that no one breaks the cross on Lizzie's grave—I shall be able to see

it from this window. And then, sir, if you will have this little window opened
again into the church[38], why I can keep guard over the church too; and
that's rather necessary just now, for several churches about us have been
robbed lately. Besides all this, the room is much more warm and comfortable
than mine in the village, and I shall enjoy the quiet of it so much."
"Most glad, Matthew, shall I be to see the office of sexton in such good
hands. You will not yourself be equal to all the work, but you will always be
able to find a younger hand when you need one. And then, with regard to
your living here, it's just the thing I should like, for, apart from other reasons,
it would enable me to have the church doors always open to those who
would resort thither for prayer or meditation. It is a sad thing for people to be
deprived of such religious retirement. I almost wish that the church porch
could be made without a church door altogether, as it used to be[39], and then
the church would be always open. But, my friend, have you considered how
gloomy, and lonely, and unprotected this place will be?"

"You mus'n't say gloomy, if you please, sir; I trust and believe my gloomy
days are past; and lonely I shall not be: you remember my poor daughter's
little boy that was taken out to Australia by his father (ah! his name almost
does make me gloomy—but, God forgive him!)—he is coming home next
week to live with me. He is now seven years old; I hear he is a quiet, old-
fashioned boy. He will be a nice companion for me, and I hope you will let
him help in the church; but we can speak of that again. Then for protection,

sir, you must let my fond old dog be with me at nights; the faithful fellow
would die of grief were we altogether parted. Come, sir, it's an old man's
wish, I hope you'll grant it." This last sentence was said as they were
returning down the little winding staircase back to the porch.
"It shall be as you wish; next week the room shall be ready for you. And as I
have granted all the requests you have made, you must grant me one in
return. You must let me furnish the room for you. No, I shall not listen to any
objections; this time I must have my way. Good night."

CHAPTER VII

THE PAVEMENT
"The place whereon thou standest is holy
ground."
Exod. iii. 5.

"Mark you the floor? that square and speckled stone,
Which looks so firm and strong,
Is Patience;

"And the other black and grave, wherein each one
Is checker'd all along,
Humility;

"The gentle rising, which on either hand
Leads to the quire above,
Is Confidence;

"But the sweet cement, which in one sure band
Ties the whole frame, is Love
And Charity."

George Herbert.

THE PAVEMENT
hy, my dear Constance," said Mr. Acres, as one
"W morning he found the eldest of his three children
sitting gloomy and solitary at the breakfast-
room window, "you look as though all the cares of the
nation were pressing upon you! Come, tell me a few of
them; unless," added he, laughingly, "my little queen
thinks there is danger to the State in communicating
matters of such weighty import."
"Oh, don't make fun of me, dear Papa! I have only one
trouble just now, and you will think that a very little
one; but you know you often say little troubles seem
great to little people."
"Then we must have the bright little face back again at
once, if, after all, it is only one small care that troubles
it," said he, kissing her affectionately. "But now, my
darling, let me know all about it."
"Well, Papa, I think it's too bad of Mary to go up to the
church again to-day to help Ernest to take more
rubbing's of those dull, stupid old brasses. I don't care
any thing about them, and I think it's nonsense spending so much time over
them as they do. I wish Mr. Ambrose would not let them go into the church
any more, and then Mary would not leave me alone like this."
"That's not a very kind wish, Constance, as they both seem so much
interested in their work; but I dare say this is the last day they will give to it.
Suppose we go this afternoon to look after them: we can then ask Ernest to
bring home all the copies he has taken, and when Mr. Ambrose comes in by-
and-by, perhaps he will tell us something about them; and who knows but
your unconsciously offending enemies may turn out to be neither dull nor
stupid, after all?"

The proposal was gladly accepted, and at four o'clock they were enjoying
their pleasant walk up to St. Catherine's Church.
As they entered the church Mr. Acres heard, to his surprise, the clear ring of
Mary's happy laugh. She was standing in the south aisle, beside the paper on
which she had been vainly attempting to copy a monumental brass. Seeing
her father approach with a serious and somewhat reproving countenance, she
at once guessed the cause, and anticipated the reprimand he was about to
utter. "You must not be angry with me, Papa," she said, in a very subdued
tone, "for indeed I could not help laughing, though I know it is very wrong
to laugh in church; but, you know, I had just finished my rubbing of the
brass here, and thought I had done it so well, when all of a sudden the paper
slipped, and the consequence was that my poor knight had two faces instead
of one; and he looked so queer that I could not help laughing at him very
much."
"No doubt, my dear child," said her father, "there was something in your
misfortune to provoke a laugh, but I think you must have forgotten for a
moment the sacredness of this place, when you gave vent to the merry shout
I heard just now. You should always remember that in God's house you are
standing on holy ground, and though it may be permissible for us to go there
for the purpose of copying those works of art, which in their richest beauty
are rightly dedicated to God and His service, and these curious monuments
which you and Ernest have been tracing, yet we should ever bear with us a
deep sense of the sanctity of the building as the 'place where His honour
dwelleth,' and avoid whatever may give occasion to levity; or should the
feeling force itself upon us, we ought, by a strong effort, to resist it."
Although the words were spoken in a kind and gentle voice, many tears had
already fallen upon Mary's spoilt tracing, so her father said no more on the
subject; but, taking her hand, led her quietly away to a chapel at the north-
east corner of the church, round which was placed a beautifully carved open
screen. It was the burial-place of the family that formerly tenanted the Hall,
and there were many brass figures and inscriptions laid in the floor to their
memory. Here, attentively watched by old Matthew the sexton, Ernest was
busily engaged tracing the figure of a knight in armour, represented as
standing under a handsome canopy. He had already completed his copy of
the canopy, and of the inscription round the stone, and was now engaged at
the figure. Two sheets of paper were spread over the stone, and he had

guarded against Mary's accident by placing on the paper several large
kneeling hassocks, which were used by the old people. He was himself half
reclining on a long cushion laid on the pavement, and having before marked
out with his finger on the paper the outlines of the brass underneath it, was
now rubbing away vigorously with his heel-ball[40], and at every stroke a
little bit more of the knight came out upon the paper, till, like a large black
drawing, the complete figure appeared before them. They had all watched
Ernest's labours with the greatest interest, and, this being the last, they
assisted in rolling up the papers, that they might be taken home for more
careful examination in the evening.
"I wish Master Ernest could take a picture of good old Sir John, as we call
him, Mr. Acres," said Matthew; "I mean him as lies in the chancel, right in
front of the altar; but he's cut out in the flat stone, and not in the metal, so I
suppose Master Ernest can't do it. I remember the time, sir, when people as
were sick and diseased used to come for miles round to lie upon that stone,
and they believed it made them much better[41]; and if they believed it, I dare
say it did, sir. And 'tisn't but a very few years back when it would have been
thought very unlucky indeed if a corpse had not rested over good Sir John all
night before its burial. We still place the coffins just in the same place at the
funerals, but of course nobody any longer believes that good Sir John can do
good or ill to those inside them."
"I must bring some stronger paper than that I use for the brasses, to copy the
stone figure, Matthew," said Ernest; "so that must be done another day."
All said good-bye to the old sexton, and as he wended his way up the narrow
stone stairs to his little chamber, Mr. Acres and his family returned to
Oakfield Hall.
The dining-room was soon decorated with the trophies of Ernest's four days'
labour, and other rubbing's which he had before taken; and when Mr.
Ambrose arrived he was met by several eager petitioners, praying him to
give some explanation of the strange-looking black and white figures that
hung upon the walls.
"It would take me a whole day to tell you all that might be said about them,"
said he; "but I shall be very glad to give you a short description of each, and
I will follow the course which Ernest has evidently intended me to adopt, for

I see he has arranged all the bishops and priests together, and the knights, the
civilians, and the ladies, each class by itself. But first I must tell you
something of the general history of these brass memorials. There are an
immense number of them in this country—it is supposed about 4000—and
they are chiefly to be found in Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, and Kent; but indeed
there are comparatively few old churches in England in which you cannot
find upon the pavement some traces of these interesting memorials. Though,
however, so many remain, probably not less than 20,000 have been either
stolen or lost. You will see on the pavement at St. Catherine's, marks of the
force which has been used in tearing many from the stones in which they had
been firmly fixed."
"But who could have been so fearless and wicked as to take them away?"
exclaimed Constance, who already had begun to feel a real interest in the
subject.
"Alas! Constance, that question is easily answered. There was indeed a time,
long ago, when people would not have dared to commit these acts of
sacrilege. You know among the ancient Romans there was a belief that the
manes or spirits of the departed protected their tombs, and so persons were
afraid to rob them; but people since then have been deterred by no such fear,
indeed by no fear at all. Within the period between 1536 and 1540
somewhere about 900 religious houses were destroyed, and their chapels
were dismantled and robbed of their tombs, on which were a great number of
brasses. And this spirit of sacrilege extended beyond the monasteries, for at
this time, and afterwards, very many of our parish churches were also
despoiled of their monumental brasses; indeed the evil spread so much that
Queen Elizabeth issued a special proclamation for putting a stop to it. The
greatest destruction of brasses, however, took place a hundred years after
this, when thousands were removed from the cathedrals and churches to
satisfy the rapacity or the fanaticism of the Puritan Dissenters, who were
then in power[42]. In later times, I am sorry to say, large numbers have been
sold by churchwardens, for the just value of the metal, and many have been
removed during the restoration of churches and have not been restored; of
course, those whose special duty it was to protect them have been greatly to
blame for this. Then not a few have become loose, and been lost through
mere carelessness. Some of the most beautiful brasses in our church I
discovered a few years since under a heap of rubbish in the wood-house of

Daniels, the former sexton[43]. So you see it is no wonder we find so many of
those curiously-indented slabs in the pavement of our churches, which mark
the places where brasses have formerly been.
A few of these memorials are to be found in Wales, Ireland, and Scotland.
Some also exist in France, Germany, Russia, Prussia, Poland, Switzerland,
Holland, Denmark, and Sweden. In these countries, however, they have
never been numerous.
But now I must say a few words about their origin. The oldest memorials of
the dead to be found in our churches are the stone coffin-lids, with plain or
floriated crosses carved upon them. The stone coffins were buried just below
the level of the pavement, so their lids were even with the floor of the
church. Afterwards, similar crosses were graven on slabs of stone above the
coffin; then the faces of the deceased were represented; and at length whole
figures, and many other devices, were carved on the stone, and around the
stone was sometimes an inscription consisting of letters of brass separately
inlaid. Then the figures and inscriptions were either altogether made of
brass, or were partly graven in stone and partly in brass; specimens of both, I
see, Ernest has provided for us. The earliest of these incised slabs are
probably of the ninth century, but the faces of the deceased were not carved
on them till about 1050. The earliest brass of which we have any account is
that of Simon de Beauchamp, 1208; and the most ancient brass figure now
remaining is that of Sir John Daubernoun, 1277.
"The form of the brass has evidently been often suggested by the stone and
marble effigies we see on altar-tombs. For we find that not only the costume
and position of the figures are closely copied, but also the canopies above
them, the cushions or helmets on which their heads rest, and the lions, dogs,
or other animals on which the feet are placed. I have something more to say
on the subject generally, before I come to speak particularly about Ernest's
copies; so after the general interval of ten minutes I will resume the subject.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PAVEMENT
"They bowed themselves with their faces
to the ground upon the pavement, and
worshipped, and praised the Lord,
saying, For He is good, for His mercy
endureth for ever."
2 Chron. vii. 3.

"This is the abode where God doth dwell,
This is the gate of Heaven,
The shrine of the Invisible,
The Priest, the Victim given.

"O holy seat, O holy fane,
Where dwells the Omnipotent!
Whom the broad world cannot contain,
Nor Heaven's high firmament.

"Here, where the unearthly Guest descends
To hearts of Innocence,
And sacred love her wing extends
Of holiest influence;

"Let no unhallow'd thought be here,
Within that sacred door;
Let nought polluted dare draw near,
Nor tread the awful floor;
Or, lo! the Avenger is at hand,
And at the door doth stand."

The Child's Christian Year.

THE PAVEMENT

A s soon as the short pause was over, all ears were
open to learn something more on a subject which
had been hitherto entirely without interest to most of
the Vicar's little audience.
"We find sometimes upon the pavement of our
churches," said Mr. Ambrose, "memorials just like
those I have spoken to you about, except that they are
made of iron or lead instead of brass, but they are
comparatively very rare, and, except in the metal of
which they are composed, differ nothing from the
brasses.
"Sepulchral brasses must have been a great ornament to
our churches before they were despoiled of their beauty
by the hand of Time, and the still less sparing hand of
man. The vivid colours of the enamel with which they
were inlaid, and the silvery brightness of the yet
untarnished lead which was employed to represent the ermine and other
parts of official costume, must have added greatly to the splendour of these
monuments. At first they were no doubt very costly, for there appear to have
been but few places where they were made in this country, and, in addition
to the cost of the brasses themselves, the expense of their carriage in those
times must have been considerable. A great many of these monuments,
however, are of foreign manufacture, and were chiefly imported from
Flanders. It is easy to distinguish between the English and the Flemish
brasses, for whereas the former are composed of separate pieces of metal
laid in different parts of the stone, and giving the distinct outline of the
figure, canopy, inscription, &c., the latter are composed of several plates of
brass placed closely together and engraved all over with figures, canopies,
and other designs. The later English brasses are, however, very similar to the
Flemish. You see that little copy of a brass about three feet long by one foot
deep which Ernest has somehow obtained from the church at Walton-on-

Thames? Now that is a square piece of metal just like those they made in
Flanders, but it was evidently engraved in England. It is dated 1587, and is
in memory of John Selwyn, keeper of Queen Elizabeth's park at Oatlands,
near Walton. It represents, as you see, a stag hunt, and is said to refer to this
incident:—'The old keeper, in the heat of the chase, suddenly leaped from
his horse upon the back of the stag (both running at that time with their
utmost speed), and not only kept his seat gracefully, in spite of every effort
of the affrighted beast, but, drawing his sword, with it guided him to wards
the Queen, and coming near her presence, plunged it in his throat, so that the
animal fell dead at her feet[44].'"
"But, my friend," said Mr. Acres, "it seems to me that the record of such an
event, even if it ever happened—which I must take the liberty to doubt—is
quite as objectionable as any of those epitaphs in our churchyard which you
once so strongly and justly condemned."
"I quite agree with you. But this was made at a time when sepulchral
monuments were frequently of a very debased character. At this period the
brasses underwent a great change. They began to rise from their humble
position on the pavement, and the figures were occasionally made without
their devotional posture, which up to this date had been almost universal.
They were then placed on the church walls, on tablets, or on the top and at
the back of altar-tombs, and this led the way for the erection of a large
number of monuments in stone of similar design, but more cumbrous and
inconvenient. Inferior workmen also were evidently employed at this time to
engrave the brasses, and they became more and more debased, till they
reached the lowest point of all, a hundred years ago, and soon after their
manufacture altogether ceased. It was near the time when this brass was put
up to the old park-keeper, that that ugly monument in memory of Sir John
York, with its four heathen obelisks, and its four disconsolate Cupids, was
put up in our chancel, covering so much of the floor as to deprive at least
twenty persons of their right to a place in God's House. About this time, too,
that uncomfortable looking effigy of Lady Lancaster was put upon its
massive altar-tomb. To judge from the position of her Ladyship, and
hundreds of other similar monuments, represented as reclining and resting
the face upon the hand, we might imagine that a large proportion of the
population in those days died of the toothache. However, the attitude of

prayer was that most commonly adopted, as well in stone as brass effigies,
till long after this period.
"If any thing more than the figure, canopy, inscription, and shield is
represented on a brass, it is commonly a sacred symbol, a trade mark, or
some badge of rank or profession. To this there are but a few exceptions,
besides the brass of John Selwyn. At Lynn, in Norfolk, on one brass is a
hunting scene, on another a harvest-home, such as it was in the year 1349,
and on another a peacock feast, the date of which is 1364. Founders of
churches frequently hold in their hands the model of a church. The emblem
of undying love we find in the heart, either alone or held by both hands of
the effigy. A long epitaph was often avoided by the simple representation of
a chalice, a sword, an ink-horn, a wool-sack, a barrel, shears, or some such
trade or professional emblem. Some—comparatively few—of the
inscriptions on brasses are, however, profusely long, and sometimes, but
very rarely, ridiculous.
In very early times the epitaphs were always written in Latin or Norman
French; and if that practice had continued, it would not much matter to
persons generally even if they were absurd, as few could read them: but
about the year 1400 they began to be written in English, and then of course
these foolish inscriptions must have been distracting to the thoughts of those
who attended the church. But it very often happened that persons had their
brasses put down some time before their decease, as is evident from the
circumstance that in many cases the dates have never been filled in. This
custom would much tend to prevent foolish and flattering inscriptions.
"I have noticed that there is in nearly all brasses a solemn or serious
expression in the countenance suitable to their presence in God's House.
They were frequently portraits of the persons commemorated[45]. This was
no doubt the case in later brasses, and I think in the earlier also. Latterly the
faces were sometimes coloured, no doubt to represent the originals more
exactly. It seldom happens that the age of the person is otherwise than pretty
faithfully portrayed.
"I must next tell you something of the dresses of the clergy, the soldiers, and
the civilians, as we see them engraved upon the pavements of our churches."

CHAPTER IX

THE PAVEMENT
"It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it."
John xi. 38.

"On the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appear'd, with emblems graven
And footworn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid."

Wordsworth's Excursion.

"The warrior from his armed tent,
The seaman from the tide—
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent,
In Christian nations wide,—
Thousands and tens of thousands bring
Their sorrows to His shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring
Of Jesus' love Divine.

"If at the earthly chime, the tread
Of million million feet
Approach whene'er the Gospel's read
In God's own temple-seat;
How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep
To see God's saints arise,
And countless hosts of angels keep

The Sabbath of the skies!"

Lyra Sacra.

THE PAVEMENT
hat costumes are pretty accurately represented on
"T brasses," continued Mr. Ambrose, "we are sure,
from the fact that many different artists have
made the dresses of each particular period so much
alike; and this circumstance adds much interest and
importance to these monuments. I will now describe
some of these dresses, and you must try to find out, as I
go on, the several parts of the dress I am describing on
Ernest's rubbing's which hang upon the wall. But I shall
only be able to say a little about each. First there come
the persons holding sacred office in the Church. The
priests are usually, you see, dressed in the robes worn at
Holy Communion, and they commonly hold the chalice
and wafer in their hands. The robe which is most
conspicuous is the chasuble. It is usually richly
embroidered in gold and silk. This robe is one of the
ornaments of the minister referred to in the rubric at the
commencement of the Prayer Book. At the top of it you see the amice. This
too is worked in various colours and patterns. The academic hood, some
suppose, now represents this part of the priest's dress. You must remember
we are looking at the dresses worn five hundred years ago, and which had
been in use long before that time, and we cannot be surprised if some of
them, as now worn, are a little changed in shape and appearance. The narrow
band which hangs from the shoulders nearly to the feet, embroidered at the
ends, is called the stole. This, you know, is still worn by us just as it was
then. It is one of the most ancient vestments of the Church, and is intended
to represent the yoke of Christ. The small embroidered strip hanging on the
left arm is the maniple. It is used for cleaning the sacred vessels. Beneath the
chasuble is the albe, a white robe which—changed somewhat in form—we
still wear. It is derived from the linen ephod of the Jews. Sometimes on
brasses, as on that beautiful one to the memory of Henry Sever[46], the cope
is represented. This is a very rich and costly robe, and is still always worn at
the coronations of our Kings and Queens; it is also ordered to be worn on

other occasions. Then the bishops wore, you see, other robes besides those I
have mentioned:—the mitre, like the albe, handed down from the time of the
Jews to our own period; the tunic, a close-fitting linen vestment; the
dalmatic, so called because it was once the regal dress of Dalmatia; the
gloves, often jewelled. They hold the crozier, or cross staff, or else the
crooked, or pastoral staff, in their hand. As bishops and priests were then, as
now, very often buried in their ecclesiastical vestments, the brass probably in
such cases represented, as near as could be, the robed body of the person
beneath. The earliest brasses of ecclesiastics are at Oulton, Suffolk, and
Merton College, Oxford. The date of both is about 1310.
"We must next come to the monumental brasses of knights and warriors; and
that curious brass to Sir Peter Legh, which is taken from Winwick Church,
will do well for a connecting link between the clergy and the warriors. He is,
you see, in armour, but over the upper part of it is a chasuble, on the front of
which is his shield of arms. And this tells his history. He was formerly a
soldier, but at the decease of his wife he relinquished his former occupation,
and became a priest of the Church. You see before you soldiers in all kinds
of armour, and you can easily trace the gradual change from the chain mail
to the plated armour, till you find the former almost entirely abandoned, and
the latter adopted, in the early part of the fifteenth century. Now I should
soon tire you if I were to describe all the curious sorts of armour these
soldiers wear, so I must just take one of them, and that will go far to wards
explaining others. There hangs Sir Roger de Trumpington[47], of
Trumpington, Cambridgeshire; his date is 1289. You see he is cross-legged,
and so you would put him down for a Knight Templar, and a warrior in the
Holy Land. And so he was; but nevertheless you must remember all cross-
legged figures are not necessarily Knights Templar. He rests his head upon a
bascinet (A), or helmet. His head and neck are protected by chain mail (B),
to which is attached his hauberk (D), or shirt of mail. On his shoulders are
placed ailettes (C), or little wings, and these are ornamented with the same
arms as those borne on his shield. They were worn both for defence and
ornament, as soldiers' epaulettes are now. The defence for the knees (G) was
made of leather, and sometimes much ornamented. At a later time it was
made of plated metal. The legs and feet are covered with chain mail, called
the chausse (F), and he wears goads, or 'pryck spurs,' on his heels (H). Over
the hauberk he has a surcoat (E) probably of wool or linen. Here you see it is
quite plain; but it is frequently decorated with heraldic devices; and such

devices on the surcoat or armour are often the only clue left to the name and
history of the wearer.
"On the brasses of civilians we find nothing like the present ungraceful and
unsightly mode of dress; indeed we can scarcely imagine any thing more
ridiculous than the representation of the modern fashionable dress on a
monumental brass. But on these memorials, you see, the robes are, with rare
exceptions, flowing and graceful. In the sixteenth century there was but
slight difference between the male and female attire of persons in private
life. Of course the dresses of professional men have always been
characteristic. Civilians were, with hardly an exception, always represented
on brasses bare-headed. Happily for the good people in those times they did
not know the hideous and inconvenient hat which continues to torture those
who live in towns, but from which we in the country have presumed to free
ourselves.
"The dresses actually worn by the deceased are probably sometimes
represented on the brasses of ladies. You have before you every variety of
costume, from the simple robe of the time of Edward II. and III., down to the
extravagant dresses of Elizabeth's reign. On the early brasses the wimple
under the chin marked the rank of the wearer. Till about the year 1550 ladies
are not infrequently represented with heraldic devices covering their kirtles
and mantles; but I should think such ornamentation was never really worn by
them. The different fashions of wearing the hair here represented are most
fantastic. St. Paul tells us that 'if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her;'
but these English matrons too often forgot that simplicity which gives to this
beauty of nature its chief charm. See, here is the butterfly head-dress, of the
fifteenth century, extending two feet at the back of the head; and there is the
horn head-dress, spreading a foot on either side of the head. The fashions
among women then appear to have been as grotesque as they have been in
our own day.
"Children on these tombs are represented either behind or beneath their
parents; sometimes they wear the tabard, a short coat, with heraldic figures
upon it—as on this brass to John Ansty; you see there are twelve sons below
the father, and four daughters below the mother—sometimes they wear a
dress which marks their occupation; and in a few instances the name of each
child is placed below it. Skeletons and emaciated figures, sometimes in
shrouds, were represented on brasses after the fifteenth century. Crosses,

with or without figures of the deceased, are very frequently to be met with,
and their form is often exceedingly elegant[48]. You will not fail to notice the
canopies of many of these brasses; the beauty of some of these designs it
would be impossible to surpass. But I fear you must be tired of my long
lecture, so I must hasten to bring it to a close. These memorials I like better
than any others for churches; for, first, they are by far the most durable of
all; then they are the most convenient, for they take up little space, and are a
great ornament to the pavement of the church; moreover they teach their own
moral, they occupy a lowly place in God's House, and are all on one common
level. I am, therefore, very glad to see them introduced again into many of
our cathedrals and parish churches. And, my dear Constance, I must end
with a word to you. I fancy by this time you have learnt that monumental
brasses are not dull and stupid. To the student of antiquity, history,
genealogy, heraldry, and architecture, these pavement monuments are, I
assure you, of the greatest interest and value. They help to fix dates to
ancient documents, to illustrate various periods of ecclesiastical architecture,
and throw much light on the manners and customs of other times. They are,
too, a constant protest against that excess in 'wearing of gold and putting on
of apparel,' against which St. Paul wrote, and which is one of the great sins
of our day; for though we find elaborate and costly robes represented on the
brasses of the great and the wealthy, you always see the figures of the
humbler classes clothed in neat and simple attire. If people would only
follow the good advice of old Polonius to his son,

'Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy[49],'

there would be less sin, and less want, and less misery in the world."

CHAPTER X

THE PAVEMENT
"Behold, I will lay thy stones with fair
colours."
Isa. liv. 11.

"How all things glow with life and thought,
Where'er our faithful fathers trod!
The very ground with speech is fraught,
The air is eloquent of God.
In vain would doubt or mockery hide
The buried echoes of the past;
A voice of strength—a voice of pride—
Here dwells amid the stones and blast!

"Still points the tower, and pleads the bell,
The solemn arches breathe in stone,
Window and wall have lips to tell
The mighty faith of days unknown;—
Yea! flood, and breeze, and battle shock
Shall beat upon this Church in vain,

She stands a daughter of the rock—
The changeless God's eternal fane!"

R. S. Hawker.

THE PAVEMENT

M r. Acres and his family attended Morning Prayer
at St. Catherine's the day following the Vicar's
lecture; and after service they examined with greater
interest than ever they had done before the floor of the
church—indeed Mr. Acres confessed that till that
morning he had never had the curiosity to walk up
either of the aisles of the church with the view of
finding any object of interest on the pavement. In the
course of their search they now discovered a large flat
stone, hitherto unknown even to the Vicar; the stone, when cleansed from
the dust which had accumulated upon it (for it was placed in a remote
corner of the church), was very white; it was engraved with the figure of a
priest, and the incised lines were filled with a black resinous substance, so
that it almost looked like a large engraving on paper, or still more like one
of the copies of brasses which Ernest had exhibited the night before[50]. But
what most attracted their attention was the curious old pavement tiles, of
various patterns, which they found in different parts of the floor of the
church. Their admiration of these ancient works of art was soon so deeply
engaged, and their desire to know more about them so excited, that Ernest
was speedily despatched to the vestry to request the Vicar to come and
satisfy their inquiries.
"I rejoice to see you, Mr. Vicar," said the Squire, as Mr. Ambrose
approached; "pray come and save me from any further confessions of
ignorance: the children have been persecuting me with a hundred questions
about these ancient tiles, and I really am not able to answer one of them. We
must again be dependent upon your kindness for some information on the
subject."
"Then, if you please, we will walk and talk, as I must go this morning to see
old Wood, at the Warren Lodge; the poor man is very ill."

"Oh, we shall enjoy that," exclaimed Constance, "and do, Mr. Ambrose,
give us a nice lecture like you did last night."
"Well, my dear, if it is to be a real lecture, we will suppose this gravel path
to be my platform, and your father and yourselves to be my highly
respectable and most intelligent audience; and so, making my bow to the
company, I will begin.—There is considerable uncertainty as to the origin
of these tiles. Most people suppose that the old Roman tessellated pavement
suggested the idea of representing figures on tiles. But we may imagine
them to be merely the result of successive improvements. First, there was
the rude tile or brick; then, in very early times, the makers impressed their
own particular marks upon them; and from this simple practice we can
easily imagine the gradual introduction of the elaborate patterns you were
looking at in the church."
"If you please, Mr. Ambrose," said Constance, "will you tell us what was
the Roman tessellated pavement?"
"It was composed of a number of square pieces of hard-burnt clay, like dice,
of different colours; these were arranged to form a pattern, and then firmly
fixed in very strong cement. They were exceedingly durable, and often of
most elegant design. When found in the ruins of Roman villas, which they
frequently are, they generally appear almost as fresh as when they were put
down. Tessellated or mosaic pavements are to be found in a few old
churches; the most beautiful now existing in England, are in Westminster
Abbey, and in Canterbury Cathedral, near the tomb of Thomas à Becket."
"But don't you think it probable," inquired Mr. Acres, "if these tiles date
pretty nearly back to the time when the mosaic pavement was used, that the
pavement suggested the tiles? there seems to be some similarity of pattern,
and I noticed that in one part of the church there are plain tiles of different
colours arranged so as to form a pattern[51], which seems, on a larger scale,
a close imitation of the mosaic pavement."
"It may be so; and this view seems confirmed by the circumstance that in
some foreign churches the tiles are mixed in the same pavement with
mosaic work. It certainly seems a natural transition from the one to the
other.

Encaustic tiles exist in abundance and great beauty in
Normandy; and though, as I have said, we cannot fix a
precise date to their introduction, it seems not
improbable that we are indebted to that country for the
first idea of using them in the pavement of our
churches, since in some instances they appear to be
coeval with the erection of the Norman churches in
which they are found. Some have upon them the semi-
circular headed arch, which is characteristic of
Norman times; and as no doubt the later tiles frequently indicate by their
patterns the period of ecclesiastical architecture to which they may be
referred, most likely these may be equally relied upon as marking the
Norman period. In Ireland, tiles of this date are more common than in this
country. Their general use, however, has prevailed among us from about
A.D. 1250 to A.D. 1550, and the finest and most interesting specimens we
have remaining are at Gloucester and Malvern.
There are several different kinds of ornamental pavement of which
specimens remain. In the ruins of Fountains Abbey are specimens having
the pattern pierced through the entire tile, and afterwards filled in with clay
of another colour. At Canterbury there are circles of stone pavement with
patterns cut in relief, the spaces being filled in with dark cement. In the
early stages of the art the pattern of the tiles was sometimes left in relief,
the tile being of one colour only, but the uneven surface was found to be
very inconvenient for walking upon. Encaustic tiles—so called because the
patterns are burnt into them—are by far the most common sort of tile
pavement in our English churches, especially in the southern and western
counties."
"I suppose, Mr. Ambrose," said Constance, "that the tiles in our church are
of that sort?"
"Yes, all of them, both the new and old, except the few of a different kind
which Mr. Acres spoke of just now."
"And will you be so kind as to tell us how they contrived to make those
pretty patterns on them?"

"Oh, yes; it was a very simple process: very much in the same way as
Bridget makes those pretty pats of butter we admire so much; quite the
same, if Bridget would only fill in the spaces between the patterns with
butter of another colour. They first made the tile of clay, and then impressed
it with a wooden stamp; then it was dried or burnt, then some thin clay or
cement of another colour (usually white) was poured into the pattern, then it
was glazed over and burnt, the glazing material making the white a rich
yellow, and deepening the colour of the tile. The pattern is sometimes
perfect in a single tile, sometimes four, eight, or a large number are required
to perfect the design. Several ancient kilns for their manufacture have been
discovered[52]. Some of these manufactories, it is evident, were very
popular; for we find that the same kiln sometimes supplied a great number
of churches. Most of our old churches have at some time been paved with
these encaustic tiles; but in all cases they have in great measure been
destroyed or removed when other beauties of God's house have been
defaced, but often too where the hand of man has spared, the hand of Time
has obliterated.
"We find every variety of pattern upon these tiles. At Malvern and
elsewhere are many letters on single tiles: sometimes they are
alphabetically arranged, sometimes they read backwards, and sometimes to
a centre. Frequently the tiles have upon them texts of Scripture or other
inscriptions, such as 'The time is short,' 'Wait for the knell.' At Malvern is a
very remarkable tile; it contains the following curious direction to
executors, and was probably intended to be placed over a tomb:—

'Thenke . mon . þi . liffe
maij . not . cũ . endure .
þat . þow . dost . þi . self
Of . þat . þow . art . sure .
but . þat . þow . kepist
un . to . þi . sectur . care .
and . eũ . hit . auaile . þe
hit . is . but . aventure[53].'

Sacred emblems are very common on encaustic tiles, and especially
symbols of the Passion; within a single shield is sometimes to be found the

cross, crown of thorns, the nails, hammer, scourge, spear, ladder, dice,
vessel for vinegar, sponge on a rod of hyssop, and rarely, a sort of bill,
perhaps representing an instrument used in removing the Body from the
cross. The cross alone, floriated, is frequently composed of many tiles; but
it enters too into the great majority of those geometrical and floriated
patterns which form so large a portion of the encaustic pavements of most
churches. Armorial bearings and mottoes of benefactors, founders, and
others are frequently met with. At Great Bedwyn, and in the ruins of
Chertsey Abbey, have been found knights in armour and other most
interesting figures, throwing considerable light on the history of the armour
and costumes of the period. At Westminster are figures of a king, queen,
and abbot, which are supposed to represent King Henry III., his Queen, and
the Abbot of Westminster. Then I have often seen the cock, the emblem of
vigilance; the fox, the emblem of subtlety; the pelican, of piety."
"Why," quietly inquired Ernest, "is the pelican an emblem of piety?"
"There is an old legend which tells us that the young of a pelican were once
saved from death by starvation by the parent bird tearing open her breast
and feeding them with her own blood. This has from very early times been
considered a very beautiful emblem of that Sacrifice which has been offered
by Jesus Christ to save us from eternal death. Other emblems are—the
circle, of eternity; the fleur de lis, of the Blessed Virgin; the triangle, of the
Trinity; the fish, of the Second Person of the Trinity."
"Now do tell me what that means, please, Mr. Ambrose," said Constance; "I
cannot see why the fish should be so sacred an emblem."
"As you don't understand Greek, my dear, it is not a matter of surprise that
you have not understood this oft-recurring emblem. You must know that the
Greek word for fish is ἱχθὑς [ichthys], and the letters in this word form the
first letters of each word of a Greek sentence, of which this is the English
translation:—'Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour;' hence the
employment of this sacred symbol. Other devices are stags, hounds,
antelopes, and other animals; swans, and other birds; emblems of trades,
&c. Some appear ludicrous to us, though no doubt many of them were
originally intended to teach some useful lesson. At Little Marlow is a fool's
head, or cock's comb; at Godmersham, on several tiles is a bending old

man, with a staff in his hand, and on his head a fool's cap, representing age
and folly. It would seem, however, that some of these grotesque figures
were manufactured for no very useful purpose, as is evidenced by the
penance once inflicted on a monk of Normandy for making tiles of this
description[54]. Encaustic tiles have sometimes been used for memorials of
the departed[55]. In the ruins of Evesham Abbey, under a stone coffin, was
found a pavement of tiles, on which were initials and a cross. Above a stone
coffin, in the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, was found, in 1713, a pavement of
similar tiles; in Gloucester Cathedral is a tile to the memory of John
Hertford; and at Monmouth one to Thomas Coke and Alice his wife. These
works of art are not only to be admired as the most suitable decorations for
the floors of God's house; they are also interesting as specimens of art at
various periods; frequently they throw light on the history of churches and
religious foundations, and occasionally also of private families. I rejoice to
see them again claiming the attention of modern artists and manufacturers,
and finding a place once more in the churches, which on all sides are
happily being restored to their former beauty and appropriateness.—But
here we are at Wood's cottage."

CHAPTER XI

THE WALLS
"Peace be within thy walls."
Ps. cxxii. 7.

"Now view the walls: the church is compass'd round,
As much for safety, as for ornament:

'Tis an enclosure, and no common ground;
'Tis God's freehold, and but our tenement.
Tenants at will, and yet in tail, we be:
Our children have the same right to't as we.

"Remember there must be no gaps left ope,
Where God hath fenced, for fear of false illusions.
God will have all or none: allows no scope
For sin's encroachments, or men's own intrusions.
Close binding locks His Laws together fast:
He that plucks out the first, pulls down the last."

George Herbert.

THE WALLS

T he Warren Lodge was one of those pretty little cottages which are often
to be found nestling in bright, peaceful corners, about the parks and
estates of such wealthy squires as Mr. Acres; men whose kindliness of heart
and whose refinement of taste induce them to combine the picturesque with
the comfortable, in the houses they provide for their tenants and retainers. It
was built very near to the Warren Gate of the park, and old Wood had been
placed here because, being a spot little frequented, it was a quiet resting-
place for him in his old age. Opposite the cottage was a lovely glen, where
yew-trees and laurels, mingling with oaks and beeches, hung in many
beautiful and fantastic forms over a greensward which all the year round
never lost its verdure or its softness. Seldom did old Master Wood and his
wife wander farther from their cottage than the end of this quiet glen; but
that was their daily walk, and Mr. Acres had put up two rustic seats for them
to rest upon, so that the old couple might accomplish their daily journey
without any great fatigue. But the old man was now too weak for this.
"I think you and the children had better go in, and leave me outside," said
Mr. Acres, "as possibly poor Wood may feel more at his ease if I am not
present."
So Mr. Ambrose and the three children entered the cottage. It was, as
always, the picture of neatness and cleanliness; there were a few well-
tended geraniums in the windows, and some nice pictures on the walls—not
the gaudy, vulgar prints which are so commonly found in the cottages of the
poor, but really good and well-coloured engravings of sacred subjects—a
supply of which Mr. Ambrose always kept on sale at a very low price[56].
There was enough of neat furniture in the rooms; and on a nice bed, with
snow-white drapery, lay the poor old man. After a short conversation Mr.
Ambrose read the twelfth chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, and
then, when he had given a short explanation of the chapter, all knelt down
whilst he said some collects from the Office of the Visitation of the Sick,
and a prayer applicable to the special circumstances of these humble
cottagers.

The prayers ended, the old man rose up in his bed, and said, "Ah, sir, I have
often thought of that chapter you read just now, when I was able to go to
our dear old church. Just opposite my seat, you know, was the picture on the
wall of the man giving a poor thirsting creature a cup of water, and of
another giving a loaf of bread to somebody that looked very hungry. When
Mr. Greekhurst was at our church, years ago, you know, sir, he used to
preach very learned sermons, and we poor people couldn't understand much
about them, but there was my text and sermon too, straight before me, and I
always remembered the picture if I didn't remember the sermon. I really
think that looking on the old picture made me somehow more kindly
disposed to some of my neighbours. I suppose it has been there a great
many years, sir?"

"Yes, my friend; I should think about five hundred years."
"So long as that! Well then, I hope it has taught a good lesson to many
before me."
"No doubt it has; and though it is now almost worn away from the wall, you
will be glad to know that we have the same subject in the new painted
window close by, so the old sermon will not be lost."
"'Tis strange, sir, how well one remembers pictures of this sort, and how
they make one think about things which, but for them, we certainly might
not care to inquire much about. Now when I was a young man I never
thought a great deal of that beautiful chapter where St. Paul says so much
about charity. I had often heard the chapter read, and sometimes read it
myself, but still it never came to my mind how necessary a thing charity
was for us to have, till one day I went to Sunday-morning service at an old
church near our home. I got to the church some time before service, so I
walked about the churchyard, and looked round the church, and there were
pictures all round the outside of the walls of the church[57], explaining that
chapter. There was one man bringing all his riches, and every thing he had,
to give to the poor, and there was another poor man being burnt to death,
and so on; and then at the last it said that, without love to God and man, all
this was good for nothing. Now, sir, I don't recollect a single word of
hundreds of sermons I have heard, but I shall never forget those pictures."

"Very likely, for most of us remember better what we see than what we
hear, and it is a great mistake not to teach people through the eye as well as
the ear. But we must say good-bye, as Mr. Acres is waiting for us in the
park. God bless you, and, if it is His will, I hope you may yet be strong
enough to enjoy many of your old walks."
On their return home they followed a path which led them again through the
churchyard of St. Catherine's, and were soon joined by the Squire, whose
patience had been somewhat exhausted by the long stay of the little party at
old Wood's cottage.

CHAPTER XII

THE WALLS
"Thou shalt call thy walls salvation, and
thy gates praise."
Isa. lx. 18.

"Behold in heaven yon glorious bow,
Which spans the gleaming world below!
The hues distinct in order glow,
Yet each in each doth melt unseen,
That none can mark the bound between:
Lo, such is Faith's mysterious scroll,
A multiform harmonious whole,
Together gather'd for our aid,
And in the darken'd heights display'd:
The Church shall ne'er that emblem want

Of her eternal covenant."

The Cathedral.

THE WALLS

M r. Dole, the proprietor of the village emporium, where all sorts of
inferior wares were to be had at the highest obtainable prices, was one
of those persons who seem sent into the world for the special purpose of
preventing others from being too happy in it. There are persons, no doubt,
who go through life always frowning upon their fellow-creatures, ever
throwing a dark shadow along the path before them; people who
persistently turn their backs upon the sunny side of human life; who seem to
think it wicked to take a bright and cheerful view of any thing or any body
on all God's earth; whose whole countenances would be utterly
revolutionized by the faintest approach to an honest, friendly smile. Such
persons, we must believe, are often very sincere, and are endeavouring to
do good in their own way; nor must we say that they always fail in their
endeavour; nevertheless they are not the sort of persons we care to have as
our frequent companions. It is true, there is enough about the lives of most
of us to make us often sorrowful; but no less true is it, that the man who,
leading a Christian life and doing God's work in the world, preserves "a
conscience void of offence to wards God and to wards men" will take care
that his outward demeanour does not make his religion unlovely and
repulsive in the sight of others. Mr. Dole being of the class we have
described, it was no wonder that the village lads had honoured his name
with an affix, and that he was generally known among them as old Doleful;
nor shall we be surprised that his appearance in the churchyard just as Mr.
Acres and the Vicar entered it was not welcomed by them with any
excessive pleasure.
"Good evening, Mr. Dole," said both gentlemen, as they approached him.
But there was no responsive "Good evening" from Mr. Dole. Now it is
always a bad sign when a man will not return such a simple salutation as
that: I never knew but one who made me no answer when I wished him
"Good evening;" I was at once impressed with the idea that there was little
good in him, and my impression was correct, for in a few moments after the
fellow had put a light to the thatched house of a poor neighbour who had
offended him, and very soon the poor man's house and goods were

crackling in a mass of flame. But, it must be confessed, Mr. Dole withheld
his salutation from no such motive as influenced this man. There was
something far too pleasant and cheerful about a kindly "Good evening" to
harmonize in any way with the tone of Mr. Dole's voice or manner; but
beyond this, he never said "Good morning" or "Good evening" to any one
on principle. The fact is, Mr. Dole belonged to a portion of the sect of
Anabaptists called "Calvinist Baptists," and the extreme Calvinistic feature
of his Creed had become with him quite a monomania. The idea of
predestination haunted him every where and in every thing; it ran through
his whole life of thought, word, and action; with it he justified all his own
shortcomings, and it made him insensible to the right motives and doings of
others. He had become so accustomed to look on the dark side of men and
things, that he had gained for himself a settled character of gloominess and
suspicion, and had quite lost sight of the Apostolic precept—"Be
courteous." Thus he did not believe that these two gentlemen meant what
they said, and really wished him to have a "Good evening;" and, as regarded
himself, he would have considered the words as a flying in the face of
Providence, a direful offence against the phantom idol of inevitable
Predestination which he had set up in his own heart. To him it seemed only
a mockery to use those words of common courtesy, when—as he said to
himself—it was already ordained whether these persons should have a good
or a bad evening, and no words of his could affect or alter their destiny. And
so he simply said, "How do you do, gentlemen?" But it was spoken in a
deep, sepulchral voice, as though he reserved to himself a mental protest
against even this small conformity to the world's civility.
"People are talking about the painting you have been doing in the church,
Mr. Ambrose, and I have just come up to look at it; not that I like that sort
of thing, and I don't think the parish money should be spent in that way."
"You need not be at all anxious on that score, Mr. Dole, as my friend here
has defrayed the whole cost of the work; but let us go into the church
together."
Now the line of thought which this man had so long adopted, and the one
idea he had cherished, had so dulled his heart and mind to all sense of the
beautiful that he could never appreciate, like other people, what was pure
and lovely, either in nature or in art. No wonder then that he failed to

admire the beautiful decoration with which the Squire had adorned St.
Catherine's Church.
First of all, Mr. Ambrose pointed out to him some old wall-paintings of
great interest, which had been recently discovered. From these Mr. Acres
had had the successive coats of whitewash carefully removed, and, though
they were several centuries old, the colours were but little faded. Among the
most curious were a series of paintings which quite covered the north wall
of the chancel.
"You will see, Mr. Dole, that these all represent events in the life of our
Blessed Lord. Here is the beginning of the series; it is the Tree of Jesse,
showing the descent of our Lord in the line of David,—next is the Nativity,
—next the Adoration of the Magi,—then, the Massacre of the Holy
Innocents,—then, the Presentation in the temple; and there, on the upper
part of the wall, are—the Betrayal, our Lord before Pilate, being Mocked,
being Scourged, bearing His Cross, His Crucifixion, and there, below the
Crucifixion, His descent from the Cross, and His Entombment[58]. These,
you see, Mr. Dole, are not only valuable as showing one way in which our
Church five hundred years ago set before the eyes and minds of the people
the human life of our Lord; but they are still well suited for the sacred place
they adorn, inasmuch as they still serve to remind the worshipper in this
House of Prayer of the great truths they represent. I must, however, confess
that we brought to light some paintings on the walls of a different character;
some of these were very grotesque, others were from some cause or other
objectionable. These were copied, as possessing antiquarian interest, and
were then obliterated. It was long before we could bring our minds to
destroy these curious relics of old days[59], and had they occupied less
conspicuous places in the church, I think we should have been tempted to
preserve them, but the House of God has a higher use than to be a mere
preserver of curiosities, and to this higher use its decorations and all within
it should contribute."

Mr. Ambrose then explained the new wall-decorations which had been
painted by Mr. Acres. These consisted of groups illustrating sacred subjects,
texts of Holy Scripture mixed with foliage and tracery; and, by clever
introduction of foliage and holy texts among the old work, he had made the
old and the new to harmonize very well. The colours were well arranged,
and all was done with a due reference to the architectural features of the
church. Before this time the only attempt at ornament for the walls of the
church consisted of some square boards, put up about fifty years ago, on
which were painted some ill-selected sentences, whilst beneath each
sentence was painted a human head of inhuman ugliness.
Not one word had as yet been spoken to the Vicar by his seemingly
attentive listener. At length he said, in his usual dismal tone, "I don't see any
use in it, sir. To my mind, our little Rehoboth down in the village is more
like the simplicity of the Gospel. Besides, I call all this a breaking of the
second commandment."
"I leave you to judge whether the mean little meeting-house you call
Rehoboth, or this beautiful church, is most in accordance with the only
patterns we have in God's Word of houses dedicated to His worship, or most
fitting as types of the Heavenly Temple whose magnificence is described in
such glowing language by St. John; but as regards these paintings, the

pictures and toys you sell in your shop are just as much a breaking of the
second commandment; for these are no more made to worship than are
those."
"But nobody will kneel down before my toys and pictures; if they kneel at
all, however, in your church, they must kneel before these pictures. I call
them idolatrous images, and I say they are worshipped."
"And, by the same mode of reasoning, I say, Mr. Dole, that the people at
your meeting-house break the second commandment; for they fall down to
whitewash, and worship it."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Why, only this: that turn whichever way they will to worship, they must
turn to one of your four whitewashed walls. But let us be quite fair to each
other. The truth is, you don't worship whitewash, nor do we worship
images; but whilst we think it most in accordance with reason and religion
to decorate our walls with sacred subjects, such as are likely to suggest
solemn and holy thoughts, and to make our churches as beautiful as
possible, you, on the contrary, seem to regard it as a religious duty to make
your meeting-houses as ugly as possible. And now I must say good-bye, Mr.
Dole."
"Sir, I should like to meet you here again some day."
"I only wish we could at least meet here every Sunday. Good-bye."
"I almost think," said Mr. Acres, as they left the church, "the outside of our
church walls are as interesting as their interior. The north wall is evidently
the earliest part of the church. It contains some Roman bricks, placed
herring-bone fashion, among the old Norman rubble. This, doubtless, was
erected immediately after the destruction of the little Saxon church with its
wooden walls[60] which once stood on this very site; then come the Early
English walls of the chancel, then the very interesting specimens of brick-
work of the sixteenth century in the tower and western walls. But you have
given Mr. Dole and us all such a long and useful lecture on the inside of the
walls, that we must not stop to say any more about their outside."

"I must just say this, my friend, respecting the outside walls, that I can
forgive a builder for any fault more easily than for want of reality in the
exterior of a church. For the sake of decoration and neatness it may be
desirable that the internal walls should be covered with cement or plaster,
but there is no excuse for so covering the church externally. If mean
materials are used, let the mean materials appear; but it is unpardonable to
use the mean and spread over it a false pretence of the costly. Brick walls
are often very beautiful, and not inferior to flint or stone; but if they are of
brick, let the brick be seen, and let it not pretend to be stone."

CHAPTER XIII

THE WINDOWS
"I will make thy windows of agates, and
thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy
borders of pleasant stones."
Isa. liv. 12.

" ... Sometimes thoughts proud and wild
Have risen, till I saw the sunbeams steal
Through painted glass at evensong, and weave
Their threefold tints upon the marble near,
Faith, Prayer, and Love, the spirit of a child!"

Faber.

THE WINDOWS

M r. Acres and his family had now learnt, from their many conversations
with the Vicar on the subject, to take a deep interest in church
architecture, and were ever seeking and finding some new beauties either in
the solid building or the ornaments of their own ancient church, which now
they looked upon with quite a new feeling of pride and admiration. When,
therefore, Mr. Ambrose was a visitor at the Hall, he was not unfrequently
called upon to deliver a short drawing-room lecture on some portion of the
church or its furniture. "Now, Mr. Ambrose," said the Squire, on one of
these occasions, "as we are only a family party this evening, will you kindly
give us some more information on our favourite topic of conversation
lately? I see the same request is on the lips of all these little people, but they
are not so impudent, I suppose, as I am. You will, I hope, find us more
profitable pupils than Mr. Dole, to whom you specially addressed your
lecture in the church the other day."
"I am not so sure of that; for what I said to him, if it did no more, at least set
him thinking; and that is a great point, you know. You see, those kind of
people, as a rule, never read and never hear any thing really worth reading
or hearing about matters of this sort. They are simply taught to believe that
all outward form and ceremony in the Services, and all outward meaning
and beauty in the fabric of the church, are idolatrous and superstitious, and
they care to inquire no further than that. Their prejudice is fostered by
ignorance, and to lead them to inquire is the first step to wards inducing
conviction. Then, how very little our own people generally know about
these things, and how seldom comparatively they are prepared with a ready
answer with which to meet the objections of persons who are even more
ignorant than themselves! This surely ought not to be. If we place beautiful
and costly ornaments and furniture in our churches, the poorest person in
the parish should be taught the meaning of them; and if the Stones of the
Temple have each a lesson to teach, the poorest person in the parish ought
to know what they say. But I am wandering from my point: our last subject
was the walls of the church; what shall we talk about to-day, Constance?"

"Oh, I think the windows should come next, Mr. Ambrose; but there are so
many different kinds of windows, that, of course, you cannot tell us all that
might be said about them."
"No, indeed, my dear; I can only tell you a very small part of their history,
but still enough, perhaps, to increase the interest you already feel on the
subject. First, then, I shall say something about the stone-work of the
windows; and what I say about windows applies very much also to the
doors of a church, only the doors are generally much more richly
ornamented. Now there are some very simple rules by which we may
commonly know from the windows pretty nearly at what period that
particular part of the church was built. You cannot, of course, always tell
from any thing still existing at what time the church was first built, because
often no part whatever of the first church is remaining. The font, from its
sheltered position, is the most frequently preserved relic of the original
church; sometimes one doorway alone remains, and sometimes but a single
window to mark the earliest date of the church.
"As I must not puzzle your brains with the hard words employed by persons
learned in church building, I do not profess to give you the nice distinctions
by which they arrive almost at exact dates. Ours must be a very rapid glance
at the whole subject. The two great distinct characters, then, in church
windows, as also in other parts of the building, are the semi-circular arch
and the pointed arch. The former is to be found in churches erected before
the year 1150, and the latter since that year; but of course there are
exceptions. The earliest round-headed windows (that the few buildings in
which they are found were originally intended as Christian temples, I do not
of course affirm) are the Roman, and these are easily known, for they are
nearly always partly composed of red bricks[61]. Then come the Saxon;
these are built of stone, but are quite plain, and generally as rude and rough
as the Roman. You know the Romans held possession of our country from
the year 50 before Christ till A.D. 450; and then the Saxons held the country
till A.D. 1066; but it is impossible accurately to fix the dates of most of the
churches they built. Next follow the Norman; these are more ornamental,
and not so roughly executed; and after the Norman Conquest, when many
clever builders and masons came over from Normandy, they were often
most beautifully decorated. The figures of persons and animals, indeed, that
are sometimes to be found (but more especially above the doorways) at this

time seem very quaint and curious to us now, and often quite unintelligible,
but no doubt they once all had an useful meaning and were specimens of
the highest art of the time; very many of them are Scripture subjects.
Sometimes triangular windows are to be met with of the Saxon and Norman
periods, but very rarely. As I said before, some of their stone carvings
appear to us to be very quaint and grotesque, and so too the arrangement of
their windows was sometimes fanciful; they seem to have attempted
occasionally[62], to represent the features of the face, the doorway
representing the mouth, and the windows the eyes and nose.

"The reason why the windows were in some instances so small, we may
imagine was because they were sometimes not glazed, and it was desirable
that, to keep out the wind and rain and the winter's cold, they should be only
just large enough to admit the necessary light. I have lately seen an old
Norman window which had been long bricked up, in which there had
evidently never been any glass[63]. We need not be surprised at this, for
even so lately as in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it was no uncommon thing
for the windows in private houses to have no glass in them.

"Now we come to the pointed-headed arches. From
about A.D. 1150 to A.D. 1200, which is called the
Transition period the two styles were a good deal
mixed. People have different, opinions as to the origin
of these pointed arches. A learned friend of mine has an
idea of his own about it, which he calls the finger theory. He supposes that
all church arches and tracery may be derived from different positions in
which the fingers may be placed when the hands are clasped as in prayer,
and that from these, first the round, and then the pointed arch was suggested
as a fit design to be adopted for a House of Prayer. It is at least an ingenious
and a pleasing conception. Some have imagined that the meeting of
branches in a grove of trees first gave the idea of the pointed arch. Often, as
I have looked down the avenue by old Wood's cottage, has the opening at
the opposite end reminded me of the eastern window of some splendid
cathedral, whilst the long intervening rows of trees, with their branches
uniting overhead, has suggested to my mind the pillars and groined roof of
the building. Our old heathen forefathers knew well the grand effect of
these magnificent temples of nature's building, when they selected them as
the places best adapted for their awful sacrifices, and the worship of their
'Unknown God[64].' But it seems most probable that one style of
architecture naturally introduced another, and that the pointed followed
naturally from the semi-circular arch. When the builders saw what a
beautiful arch was produced by a number of their old semi-circular arches
intersecting each other, they gradually introduced the newly-discovered
pointed arch, and at length, finding that it admitted of such a far greater
variety of beautiful tracery in the window, they abandoned the old style
altogether.

"The first pure style of pointed windows is called the Early English[65],
which prevailed from about A.D. 1200 to A.D. 1300. It is often very simple,
the plain lancet-shaped window being the most common; it frequently has
the same ornaments as the Norman, but its peculiar ornament is a flower,
almost round, called the ball-flower. This was followed, up to about A.D.
1400, by a more graceful flowing style, called the Decorated or Florid, and
it is chiefly to be distinguished by the waving flame-like character of the
stone-work in the upper part of the window. Then next we have quite a
different style, which is called the Perpendicular, so named from its upright

or perpendicular lines, some of which run up uninterruptedly from the
bottom to the top of the window. This style is peculiar to England, and
windows of this character are very rarely to be found elsewhere. In the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the arch of the window gradually
becomes depressed, first sinking to the Tudor arch, and then losing its
pointed character altogether and becoming quite flat; and this introduced
what, from its comparative want of beauty, is called the Debased style. The
windows of this period were usually square-headed, and possessed, like the
other parts of the building, little ornament. It prevailed till the middle of the
seventeenth century, and may be considered the second childhood of
Church Architecture; and it was certainly far inferior to the first.
Succeeding to this period came all those hideous semi-classical erections,
most of which, I believe, were built in the reign of Queen Anne, though
some were before and some after; and those still more unsightly parodies on
Gothic architecture which were erected at the close of the last and
commencement of the present century. In our own day we have far
advanced by a complete retrogression, and churches are mostly copies of
one or other of the styles I have mentioned. If, however, our present age
may boast of a church architecture of its own, it will undoubtedly be that of
those most beautiful brick churches which have been but lately erected,
such as All Saints' and St. Alban's, London, and St. James', Oxford."
"You have not told us any thing about the round windows, Mr. Ambrose,"
said Constance; "you know we have a very pretty one in our church."
"Yes, I ought to have told you that these circular windows are to be found in
all styles of architecture, usually at the west end of the church. They are
called rose windows and marigold windows, from their supposed likeness
to those flowers; and St. Catherine's windows, from their resemblance to the
wheel on which she suffered martyrdom. It is likely that this window was
placed in our church because it is dedicated to St. Catherine."
"That leads me to ask," said Mr. Acres, "what symbolism there may be in
the windows of a church; for in your sermon last Sunday you said that there
was a lesson to be learnt from all the speechless stones of the sanctuary."
"Yes; and every window in the church should remind us of certain Christian
truths. The light which they admit should make us think of Him who is the

'Light of the world,' 'a Light to lighten the Gentiles,' 'the Day-spring from
on high,' 'the Sun of Righteousness,' 'that lighteth every man that cometh
into the world.' The window with its double compartments reminds us of
the two natures of Christ; the triple window, and the many triple forms in it,
of the Trinity[66]. But it is of course most chiefly in its storied panes that the
church window becomes our teacher."
"Certainly; I see that: and, by-the-by, as I am as ignorant as my children
about the history of stained glass, please tell us something about that before
we part."
"I will, gladly. As far as we know, stained glass was never used before about
the year 850; but when it once came into general use, it would appear that
no church was considered complete unless every window was furnished
with it. At first, it probably consisted of rude imitations of old mosaic
patterns[67]. Then figures were introduced, which depended for their general
effect upon broad black lines either produced by lead or colour. The old
stained glass may always be known by the deep richness of its colours,
especially of the blue and ruby. Probably Canterbury Cathedral possesses
the earliest and best specimens remaining, the date of some of which is
about A.D. 1120[68]. In the glass of this time you find small medallions
containing several figures, the surrounding parts being filled with tracery.
Next come small single figures, or groups of figures, with or without
canopies, with border tracery and foliage; sometimes there are the shields of
founders and benefactors. About A.D. 1350 larger figures of saints were
painted, each occupying a whole compartment of the window, with larger
and more elaborate canopies. Now, too, windows began to be mortuary, and
contained figures of deceased persons, with their shields and banners. In the
following century single subjects often extended over several
compartments, or even the whole of the window. Sentences in old English
letters were frequently painted, issuing from the mouths of figures (just as
we find them on monumental brasses of the same date), and also in various
other parts of the window. One colour only, commonly yellow, with black
lines to mark the features and dresses, was now, and also before this time,
frequently used.
"At this period glass painters fell into a great error by studying more to
paint pictures, correct in all the lesser and unimportant parts of the drawing,

than to produce a pleasing and solemn distant effect; they often lost the
effect of a grand accessory to the beauty and harmony of a Gothic temple,
in order to gain that of a piece of painted calico. From about A.D. 1600 this
art gradually declined, and, with some exceptions, the glass painting and
architecture of our churches fell together, the inferior artist of the former
being often employed in depicting the debased style of the latter. Immense
quantities of stained glass were destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of the
Puritans in the seventeenth century[69], and of course much, from its brittle
nature, has otherwise perished; enough, however, remains to show how
splendidly our churches were formerly decorated with it, and to afford
invaluable aid to those who are now engaged in promoting the happy
revival of this noble art.

"There is just one other point to which I must briefly allude—the value of
stained glass windows as historical records. There can be no objection to
windows in some parts of the church (specially those placed over the arches
of the nave which are called clerestory windows) being thus employed,
though the presence of these subjects in some parts would be most
objectionable. There are some most interesting windows of this character
still remaining. I have only time to notice some of those in Great Malvern
Church. I have brought you some drawings of these windows; they
represent some events in the life of St. Werstan, who was martyred in a
small chapel near to the spot where these windows are. This glass preserves
the only ancient record we have of this saint. In the first pane you see there
is a representation of Werstan himself; the hills at the back, with the flowers
and ferns upon them, probably represent the Malvern hills; and the painting

above, the plot of ground on which his church was built. The key has
reference either to the material fabric or the spiritual efficacy of its sacred
services, and the four corner-stones, held by four angels, each with three
fingers raised in the attitude of blessing in the name of the Trinity, are
doubtless intended to indicate the favour of Heaven on his pious work. In
the next pane the figure and hills are repeated, and above is a representation
of the different ceremonies attending the consecration of the completed
church. In the third pane you see the hills, with their flowers and ferns,
covering the whole background; in the lower part, the now regular services
of St. Werstan's little church appear to be represented by three choristers;
and standing near them are two persons who are probably their instructors.
The upper part represents the martyrdom of the saint in his own chapel. The
stained glass in Great Malvern Church contains other historical records, but
we have not time to notice them."

CHAPTER XIV

A LOOSE STONE IN THE BUILDING
A DIGRESSION
"Let the priests repair the breaches of
the house, wheresoever any breach shall
be found."
2 Kings xii. 5.

"Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy
Their forefathers; lo! sects are form'd, and split
With morbid restlessness;—the ecstatic fit
Spreads wide; though special mysteries multiply,
The saints must govern, is their common cry;
And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ
Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit
Beneath the roof of settled modesty."

Wordsworth.

A LOOSE STONE IN THE BUILDING

A DIGRESSION

S ince the last conversation which we recorded between the Vicar and Mr.
Dole, the character of the latter had become much softened. On various
occasions they had been brought into each other's company, and the
consequence was that each had begun to think more favourably of the other,
and to find some unsuspected good qualities which promised well to
establish between them that cordial good feeling and mutual respect which
ought always to exist between a Pastor and each member of his flock.
The following close of a long conversation might explain the loss of esteem
and influence which many a parish priest, besides the Vicar of St.
Catherine's, has had to deplore:—
"Well, Mr. Ambrose, had we known each other more, we should have
understood each other better; my lips, at least, would have been saved the
guilt of many hard words; perhaps, too, sir, you would have thought of me a
little more charitably."
"There may be truth in that, Mr. Dole," said the Vicar; "but then you must
own that you have always shown such sternness and severity to wards me
as to forbid any friendly approach on my part. I have, indeed, put it down,
in a great measure, to that harsh judgment of the conduct and opinions of
others which I considered your form of dissent tended to foster—but this
has not relieved me of my difficulty."
"I suppose I must confess that those who hold very strictly to the doctrines
in which I have been brought up, have generally a severe and sour bearing
to wards others who do not believe as they do, and, indeed, very often to
wards members of their own body also. Then, you see, sir, at their prayer
meetings, and their Sabbath services, they get much more excited and
animated than people do at church, and so, perhaps, it's natural for them to
be a little more subdued and less lively when they are out of 'meeting.'"
"Yes, that's natural; and no doubt what you say accounts for some
differences in the opinions we form of each other's characters. At 'meeting' I

am aware persons are commonly wrought up, by exciting appeals, loud
words, and wild gestures, to a state of high pressure, of which we at church
know little; and so they consider the calm, dignified solemnity of our
services as cold and lifeless. Out of 'meeting' a reaction takes place, and
they become comparatively depressed and undemonstrative, and we
consider them morose and ill-tempered; we have no such reaction to
undergo, and to us the world seems brighter than to them, and so they think
us frivolous and worldly. But for my part, Mr. Dole, I can't possibly see
what is the use of a man's speaking ten times louder than is necessary in
order to make himself heard, just that he may produce a fever-heat in the
pulses of his congregation. If continued for any length of time, it leads to
something very like temporary madness; if not, it is likely to subside into a
dull, sullen apathy. Moreover, I have yet to learn that it is wrong, provided
we do not abuse them, to enjoy the good things God gives us, with a
cheerful countenance—aye, and with a merry heart, too.
"On that point I have for some time been inclining to your opinion, sir;
though, I fear, you will think I have not given much outward proof of it.
But, nevertheless, you have in this matter as yet partly mistaken me—
indeed we have partly mistaken each other. Perhaps my religion may, in
some degree, account for my seeming gloominess and indifference; but
these have arisen quite as much from home sorrows and disappointments,
and the coldness and cruelty I have experienced from others. I will not,
however, trouble you with these matters now, more than to say, that if you
could have overlooked the ungracious words I may sometimes have said to
and of you, and have looked in upon me, and for my evil have returned
good, by speaking some kind and friendly words to me, you would have
done much to brighten a life that has known but little sunshine; for I have
longed more than I can tell you for a friend to whom I could fearlessly tell
the sorrows of my heart. I know I have been to blame, for I always used to
think you too proud to take much interest in my cares and troubles; may be,
sir—I am sure you will forgive my plain speaking—may be we have been
both a little to blame.
"Now, Mr. Ambrose," continued his parishioner, in a far more cheerful
voice than was usual with him, "you know that since your friendly
conversation with me that day in the church, I have followed the advice you
then gave me, and have never failed to be one of your congregation at least

once on the Sunday. I trust I have profited by what you have taught me: will
you not be offended if I for a moment turn the tables, and preach a few
words to you? I don't mean to you yourself personally, sir, but I mean to you
as one of the ministers of the Church."
"I am sure you will not say any thing that will give me just cause for
offence, my friend, and so I promise not to be offended."
"Well then, sir, you know I have always lived amongst Dissenters, so I
know pretty well who and what they are. You will agree with me, that there
are many excellent people among them, and there are some learned people
among them; but generally they have but little learning. Very often their
attention has been almost solely directed to a single point of doctrine which
itself forms the ground of their dissent from the Church—just as with me;
though I do not think the Church is quite right on some other matters, yet I
should not separate from it could I be persuaded that the Church was right
about Baptism. That has always been my one great stumbling-block. But I
think, sir, speaking with all respect for yourself, that there is one great
cause in the Church ministers themselves which has kept the Dissenters
from coming back to the Church. I know that this has more to do with the
past than the present; I know too that it could not of itself justify any one in
separating from the Church. But, sir, look at the class of people Dissenters
are of, in this country; their whole strength lies in the middle and the small-
trade class. There are among them comparatively very few rich and
educated, very few poor. You will say the love of the power and position
which those people obtain for themselves in the meeting-house, but which
they could not possess, in the same way, in the Church, naturally draws
them to the Dissenters. That is no doubt partly true; giving them also credit
—as I am sure you do, sir—for higher motives. But I see another reason;
and that is, the wide difference between the Church ministers and the
people."
"I see what you mean," said the Vicar: "the difference in their social
position. I admit that the social position of the dissenting preacher is more
on a level with that class of which, as you say, Dissenters are chiefly
composed than is that of the Clergy. But then, Mr. Dole, the Church does
not only retain its hold on the upper and the educated classes, but also on

the poor (of course I speak generally; for there are, alas! a large number of
these which are beyond the reach of any religious ministrations whatever)."
"Ah, yes, sir, that's the very point. I think in times past the Church ministers
have stood too much on their social and worldly dignity: they have made
too much of the man, and too little of the office. It's different now almost
every where. But you see, sir, this just separated them from the
tradespeople, but it didn't separate them from the poor. They didn't feel their
pride wounded when they took the horny hand of the labourer; but it was a
greater trial of humility to shake hands with the tradesman over the counter,
and to go and sit down in the parlour behind the shop, in the same friendly
way in which they visited the poor cottagers. Then, you know, sir, there
were many other ways in which this class was neglected: we think it was
lest too great attention should lead to too great familiarity. The wealth and
education of a tradesman perhaps sometimes made his social position
border too closely on that of the Church minister, and perhaps the minister
felt it his duty carefully to guard the narrow barrier; but, oh, dear me, sir,
what is all that compared with the work God has given him to do! I don't
think that one who has the salvation of his people at heart will stop to
consider whether a friendly, faithful pastoral visit may or may not result in a
more familiar nod from his parishioners for the future. Do you know, sir, I
think this is one of the loose stones in your spiritual House."
"I agree with much that you have said, as regards past years: but you must
not put all down to pride; you must make more allowances for men's
peculiar habits, and circumstances, and manners. Only just now you
excused a kindred fault in yourself on the ground of private cares and
anxieties. However, our views on this matter are not far apart. I consider,
with you, that a clergyman's office overrides all social distinctions; and that
he should be equally at home at the squire's mansion, the tradesman's
parlour, and the meanest cottage in his parish; none should be too high for
his familiarity, none too low for his friendship: as Chaucer says, 'the beggar
is his brother.' His social position is certainly as nothing compared with his
official, and should always be made subservient to it. I cannot understand
how any clergyman, who rightly estimates the high dignity of his sacred
office as a priest, can take a different view from this. However—God be
praised!—times are altered in this respect: the Clergy have thrown away
almost every where that reserve which no doubt lost to the Church many of

the class which the Dissenters have gained. And we see now the good
results; for in thousands of parishes the sons and daughters of these very
people are working hand-in-hand with their Pastor, and are among the most
zealous and faithful children of the Church, bringing again within the walls
of her Temples multitudes of those who have been fellow-wanderers with
themselves, and so helping to repair, one by one, the many breaches which
have, alas! been made in the House of the Lord."

CHAPTER XV

THE FONT
"Suffer the little children to come unto
Me, and forbid them not; for of such is
the kingdom of heaven."
Luke xviii. 16.

"There is a Font within whose burnish'd face
The o'erarching pile itself reflected sleeps,
Columns, arch, roof, and all the hallow'd place,
Beauteously mirror'd in its marble deeps;
And holy Church within her vigil keeps:
Thus round our Font on storied walls arise
Scenes that encompass Sion's holy steeps,
Rivers of God and sweet societies,
The mountain of our rest, and Kingdom of the skies."

The Baptistery.

THE FONT

A few weeks after the interview mentioned in the last chapter, the Vicar
preached three sermons from the same text, St. John iii. 5: "Except a
man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of
God." The first sermon was on the necessity of Baptism; the second, on its
benefits; and the third, on its mode of administration, specially in the case
of infants. Mr. Ambrose could not help noticing that Mr. Dole was on each
occasion deeply affected, for he saw tears on his face, which evidently
manifested deep emotion within. He was, therefore, hardly surprised, when,
after his third sermon, a knock at the vestry-door announced a visit from his
parishioner.
"I have listened very attentively to your last three sermons, Mr. Ambrose,"
said he, "and the subjects of them have also, as you know, for a long time
past been seriously and prayerfully considered by me; I am now come to
ask you to receive me into the Church by Baptism."
"Have you never yet been baptized, my friend?" inquired the Vicar, taking
his hand in a kind and friendly way.
"No, I have not; when I was an infant, my parents objected to my being
baptized, and since I became a man, I must confess with shame, that I have
never had the courage to go through the service at our meeting. That
service, you know, sir, is such as to deter far more courageous men—and
specially women—than I am, and I have always, too, had my doubts about
its propriety."
"I am not surprised at that. I once, when a boy, attended a baptism at one of
your meetings, and I shall never forget it; for a more unseemly spectacle I
never witnessed. There were several young men and women immersed by
the preacher, in a large tank of water, in the middle of the meeting-house.
Each was clothed in a flannel garment fitting almost closely to the body,
and the appearance of the first of them was the signal for a general rush to
the best places for seeing; men and boys climbed noisily over the pews, and

some took their places on the backs of the seats, so as to get a good view;
and the whole scene was most disorderly and irreverent.
"I have explained to you that our own Church also admits of baptism by
immersion[70], but it does not require it, nor even recommend it.
Nevertheless occasionally persons desire it; and there are a few churches,
chiefly in Wales, where a large tank of water, as well as a smaller font, is
provided for such special cases. But this mode of baptizing is not
encouraged by the Church, for these among other reasons:—It is not
necessary—for 1, the word Baptism, in the original, does not necessarily
mean entire immersion; 2, in the absence of proof to the contrary, we may
fairly conclude, from the peculiar circumstances[71] of the cases, that many
of whose baptism we read in the New Testament were not so immersed; 3,
the Church from the earliest period has not considered immersion as
necessary to the validity of Baptism. It is also inconvenient—for 1, in some
cases it would be most difficult to obtain sufficient water for the purpose; 2,
in many cases there would be much risk and danger attending its practice;
3, in all cases there would be difficulty in securing that solemnity, propriety,
and order so desirable in the administration of this holy sacrament. But the
Baptism of adults, even according to the Church's ordinary rules, is no
small test of courage, as well as sincerity. You are aware, no doubt, that
your own Baptism and reception into the Church must be in the face of the
congregation. The law of the Church is very plain on this point; it distinctly
forbids Baptism to be administered privately, either at home or in the
Church, 'unless upon a great and reasonable cause;' and it is much to be
regretted that this rule has ever been departed from."
"Yes, sir, I have well considered that point."
The Vicar remained long that afternoon in the vestry in serious conversation
and earnest prayer with his parishioner. He again went over the subject of
the last three sermons; showing, 1st, how the text could refer to nothing else
than holy Baptism, and that, if it did refer to it, then no doubt, where it can
be had, Baptism must be necessary for us, in order that we may "enter into
the kingdom of God;" 2ndly, that the promise is as sure as the warning; and,
3rdly, that the terms of the text are unexceptional, that they refer to all
mankind without any exception whatever, men, women, and children. In
speaking of these different subjects, of course he had to meet the various

objections which Dissenters are used to adduce; but on all these points it
was not very difficult to satisfy the mind of one who had already freed
himself from the trammels of prejudice, and was earnestly seeking for the
truth.
On the following Sunday afternoon therefore, after the second lesson, Mr.
Dole presented himself, with his chosen witnesses, at the Font of St.
Catherine's. The service was a very solemn one, and all the congregation
evidently took the greatest interest in it. Mr. Dole made the responses in a
firm manly voice, its very tone seemed to say, "This is the result of my deep
and honest conviction; I have been wrong, and I am not ashamed to say so
before all those who are here present, from whom I have so long been
separated, but who are henceforth my brethren in Christ." And then for the
first time, he quietly and calmly took his place on a bench at the west end of
the building—a sincere member of the Christian Church.
It was natural that the Squire and Vicar should have some conversation after
service on an event of so much importance in the village as was this. They
both foretold, and rightly, the downfall of the little village "Bethel" as soon
as its chief supporter had left it.
Its former attendants came back to the Church one by one, till at length the
owner of the building, finding no prospect of receiving his rent, closed the
"Meeting," and appropriated it to another purpose.
The Vicar and Squire were standing near the Font, and the conversation
took its rise from the object before them.
"How often, Mr. Vicar, we find these old Norman Fonts preserved, when
there is hardly another bit of masonry remaining in the church of the same
date."
"Yes; and it is remarkable it should be so, considering the exposed part of
the church in which they are placed, and the perishable stone of which they
are not unfrequently composed; besides which, the carvings upon them are
often of so mysterious and grotesque a character as naturally to excite the
wrath of the Puritan fanatics who so relentlessly destroyed the beauty of our
Houses of God, and 'brake down all the carved work thereof with axes and
hammers.'

"It is very interesting to watch the progress of architectural changes as
delineated on Fonts. Each period of ecclesiastical architecture, as well in its
general features as in its details, is abundantly illustrated by the carvings
and mouldings to be found on Fonts. The early Fonts were with few
exceptions made of stone. Marble was seldom used till in comparatively
recent times. Some of the early Fonts had a solid leaden bowl, placed on a
stone base[72]; I have never seen but one ancient wooden Font[73]; that was
placed on a stone base of the Norman period, but was itself no doubt much
later. The sculpture on very ancient Fonts, as well as other church carving
of the time, sometimes borrowed its symbolism from the heathen
mythology which preceded it[74]."
Constance Acres, who had been hitherto a quiet listener, here asked Mr.
Ambrose why the Font was always placed near the door of the church.
"It's a natural inquiry, my dear, for one of your age," said the Vicar, "but the
reason is evident. Its position there, at the entrance of the material fabric,
fitly represents Baptism as the outward form of admission into the Christian
Church. The Font, too, thus placed, should ever remind us, as we enter the
church, of the vows and promises made in our name when first we were
brought in our helpless infancy to be presented to God, and to be made
members of Christ through the grace of our second birth. If people would
only accustom themselves to associate such thoughts with the baptismal
Font, then just a glance at it as they come into the church would be enough
to solemnize their minds, and help to fit them for the sacred services in
which they are about to take a part. It was once the custom, Constance, to
place what were called stoups, at the entrances to our churches, and there
are still remains of them at the doors of many old churches. These were
small basins, made of stone, for the purpose of holding water, which—like
the water in the Font—was consecrated by the priest. When persons came
into the church, they dipped a finger in the basin, and crossed their forehead
with the water, just as the priest now crosses the brow of the person who
has been baptized. The forehead, you know, is always regarded as the seat
of shame or courage[75]; and so the person, when baptized, is signed with
'the sign of the Cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to
confess the faith of Christ crucified.' The old custom of frequent crossing
with holy water has now for a long time been discontinued by us, the

practice was regarded by many as superstitious, nor does there appear to be
authority for it in the Primitive Church. The same motive which prompted
the use of the stoup, however, still induces some persons to use the sign of
the Cross on entering a church: I do not myself do so; not that I see any
harm in the practice in itself, as it is intended to remind persons of the
Sacred Presence to which they are about to enter, and to drive away worldly
thoughts by this memento of the crucifixion of their Lord; but I think it is
better, in my own case, as some would be offended by it, to try to
accomplish this right object by other means."
"People's minds have very much changed in late years respecting the use of
the Cross," said Mr. Acres. "A few years ago not only was the sign of the
Cross in baptism considered superstitious, but it was considered even wrong
to use it in church architecture, or as an ornament within the church, or as a
part of a memorial in the churchyard; there are few now, I suppose, who
regard such use of the sacred symbol as superstitious. I was in a bookseller's
shop the other day when a 'Baptist' preacher came in to purchase a Prayer
Book to present to a friend; the bookseller said to him, 'Of course that will
not suit you, sir, as it has a Cross upon it.' 'I like the book very much,' was
his reply; 'and as for the Cross, why the Puritans may object to that if they
like, I don't.' But I am of opinion that people are going a little in the
opposite extreme, and, at least as a personal ornament, the Cross is become
too common."
"Why do you fall into the popular error, my good friend," said the Vicar,
reprovingly, "of calling these Anabaptist preachers, Baptists? Surely they
ought to be called any thing rather than Baptists, for they make more light
of Baptism than any other people who can properly be said to believe in
Baptism at all. Do let us call things by their proper names;—why, to call
them Baptists, is almost as bad as to call Roman Catholics, Catholics, and
so to ignore our own claim to be members of the Christian Church, because
we allow them a name which would imply that they are the only Church in
the world. I need not tell you that the word ANAbaptist[76] exactly
expresses what they are, namely, they who baptize a second time those who
have already been baptized in infancy. The term 'Baptist' is far more
applicable to Church people than to them."

"I see, I deserve your rebuke: mine is a mistake too often made. By-the-bye,
Mr. Vicar, I was very pleased to hear your reply to Mr. Dole, when he
inquired what was the fee to be paid for his baptism. I heard you tell him
that the sacraments of the Church were always free."
"Yes, certainly I did; and I confess I cannot understand how any one can
dare, in these days, to demand a fee for Baptism; the claim is as illegal as it
is unchristian, and I believe goes far to make the poor take a low view of
this holy rite. I wish, too, I could make the poor understand that Baptism
has nothing to do with Registration; many of the most ignorant of them
really regard them as the same thing. Some of them, too, will persist in
thinking that to be privately baptized, is to be 'half baptized.' Of course they
must be altogether baptized, or not baptized at all; but they do not readily
see that the baptism is complete, though the reception into the Church is not
perfected till the service is concluded in the face of the congregation."

CHAPTER XVI

THE PULPIT
"He commanded us to preach unto the
people."
Acts x. 42

"The pulpit, therefore (and I name it, fill'd
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that Holy thing),
I say the pulpit (in sober awe
Of its legitimate peculiar powers)

Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,
The most important and effectual guard,
Support and ornament of virtue's cause.
There stands the messenger of truth: there stands
The legate of the skies! His theme divine,
His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
As angels are, the Gospel whispers peace."

Cowper.

THE PULPIT
suppose we must not expect you to conform to all our usages at first,
"I Mr. Dole," said Mr. Acres, as they walked out of the churchyard one
Sunday, after the Afternoon Service; "but no doubt you will soon see
the fitness of our several forms and ceremonies, and then you will do as we
do. Of course these things are—compared with others—of no great
importance; but still it is better, even in small matters, to avoid differences
in our mode of worship."
"Yes, that is so, sir; but you must give me time, and I shall be glad if you
will tell me what you have specially noticed in my manner different from
others? I don't wish to seem particular."
"Well, to be candid then, Mr. Dole, it seems strange to us to see a man when
he comes into church stand up and say his prayers in his hat, instead of
reverently kneeling down."
"I never thought of that before, but I dare say it does; but then you know,
sir, that is our way at the meeting. I see, however, that it is much more
proper in God's house to obey the precept of His Holy Word, and 'fall low
on our knees before His footstool.'"
"Then for the same reason you will, I am sure, see that, instead of sitting
during the other prayers, as I notice you do, it is proper to kneel at those
times too. You will find that all in our church, from the oldest to the
youngest, except poor Old Reynolds and Tom Barham (who are too infirm
to kneel), do so. Then again, when the Creed is said, I see you do
sometimes stand up, but not always; and I notice you don't turn to the East,
as all the rest of the congregation do."
"No, I confess I don't do that. I like the idea of repeating our Confession of
Faith whenever we meet at church: I suppose the want of this practice is
one reason why the different leading sects of Dissenters are constantly
being broken up into fresh divisions. Yes, there is certainly something very
supporting to a Christian in so declaring with the Church every where, his

belief in the great doctrines of their common Faith; but the fact is, I have
some scruples about turning to the East at that time. Even old Mrs. Tubbs,
who, you know, is a Church-woman, says she thinks it is superstitious."
"All I can say, then, is, that Mrs. Tubbs doesn't know the meaning of the
word she uses; and in this she is like a great many more people who think
themselves very wise about these matters. Now, my good friend, when you
next come to church, stand up with the rest, and turn to the East as the
others do, and first say to yourself some such words as these:—'We all
stand, to signify that we are not ashamed of our Belief, and that, if need be,
we will manfully defend it. We all turn in one direction, to signify that we
all hold one and the same faith. We all turn to the East, because there in the
east of our churches every thing reminds us of the presence of Him in
whom we profess our belief; because there, in remembrance of Him, we
celebrate the highest and most sacred mysteries of our Faith; and because
the East specially reminds us of the holy life, the Divine teaching, the
miracles, the suffering, the death of our Blessed Lord—"the Sun of
Righteousness," "the Day-spring from on high"—in the East[77].' Do this,
Mr. Dole, and you will never again be disposed to regard this custom as
superstitious. Why, some people even think it is superstitious to bend the
head reverently at the name of Jesus, when it is mentioned in the Creeds
and the other parts of the Service."
"I don't think so, though once I did. Since I have considered more about it,
it has seemed to me that some outward show of reverence at the mention of
the Sacred Name is quite Scriptural[78]. But as I am yet only a learner about
these outward forms, will you kindly tell me, sir, whether there is any rule
of the Church about this custom?"
"The Vicar will be able to answer that better than I can."
"I could not help overhearing our friend's question," said Mr. Ambrose, "as
I was close behind you, and I will answer it at once. The rule of our Church
is very plain on this point; it is this: 'All manner of persons present shall
reverently kneel upon their knees, when the general Confession, Litany, and
other prayers are read; and shall stand up at the saying of the Belief,
according to the rules in that behalf prescribed in the Book of Common
Prayer; and likewise, when in time of Divine Service the Lord Jesus shall

be mentioned, due and lowly reverence shall be done by all persons present,
as it hath been accustomed: testifying, by these outward ceremonies and
gestures, their inward humility, Christian resolution, and due
acknowledgment that the Lord Jesus Christ, the true eternal Son of God, is
the only Saviour of the world[79].'"
"Thank you, Mr. Ambrose, nothing could be plainer, or more reasonable
than that direction; but, you see, I have for so many years sat under Mr.
Scole, who never taught us any thing of this sort, that you will forgive me if
I seem a little more ignorant than those who have been all the time sitting
under you."
"What do you mean by 'sitting under,' my friend?" said the Vicar, very
innocently.
"I mean hearing you preach," was Mr. Dole's reply. "It's a curious
expression, now I come to think about it."
"It certainly is so, and the meaning of it is not very clear. But in our Church
we don't talk about sitting under, or hearing this or that preacher. We
simply say we attend this or that church, as the case may be. And the reason
is, that—although very important in its proper place—we consider
preaching of little moment (and the preacher of far less), when compared
with the other objects of Christian worship,—Prayer and Praise. We look
upon God's House as pre-eminently 'a House of Prayer.'"
"Well, I do think we used to make too much of the sermon at the meeting;
and I remember all our conversation afterwards was about the sermon or the
preacher. One Sunday we had a young gent. from London, Mr. Sweetly, to
preach, and our people never ceased to talk about him. I believe, however,
none of them recollected a word he said; but they could remember well
enough 'his lovely voice,' and 'how nice he looked in his beautiful black silk
gown' (you know, sir, our people always preach in black gowns), 'and those
charming lavender gloves! and then the sweetest embroidered white lawn
pocket-handkerchief imaginable!' It had just been presented to him, he told
me, by a young lady—Miss Angelina Gushing—who sat under him at his
London meeting-house. I never was a preacher-worshipper myself, sir."

"Save me from the man with the lavender gloves and the white embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, I say," said Mr. Acres. "If there is one thing in nature I
shrink from more than another, it is a fop, and a fop in the pulpit is beyond
endurance."
"A most offensive person, indeed," said the Vicar, "and one that brings great
discredit upon the ministry; but it can be no matter of surprise that men
sometimes a little over-estimate themselves in some of our fashionable
towns, where the people (specially the ladies) flock to hear 'dear' Mr.
Somebody, and so abundantly supply him with those articles of personal
furniture which are usually the reward of a popular preacher. It is not so
very long ago that in our own church every thing was made to give way to
the sermon. You remember, Mr. Acres, when many of the people in St.
Catherine's used to sit and sleep through the prayers[80], and just wake up
for the sermon. Then the pulpit was every thing, and little else could be seen
by the people; the galleries were built so that the people might sit and see
the preacher, and the pews were likewise built up only with a view to sitting
comfortable during the sermon. It is all different now, I am thankful to say,
and the pulpit takes once more its old and appropriate position. But we must
take care not to esteem too lightly the office of the preacher, in our
contempt for one who preaches merely to please the people. To 'preach the
Word' is one of the solemn duties laid upon us at our ordination; and woe be
to us if we neglect to do so earnestly and faithfully!"

CHAPTER XVII

THE PULPIT
"Because the preacher was wise, he still
taught the people knowledge; yea, he
gave good heed, and sought out, and set
in order many proverbs."

Eccles. xii. 9.

"Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray."

Goldsmith's Country Parson.

"Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:
Praying's the end of preaching."

George Herbert.

THE PULPIT
t's curious to note," continued the
"I Vicar, "how the Pulpit and the Gallery
have kept company in rising higher
and higher. At first the pulpit was placed
at a moderate height above the
congregation, and then the church
improvers (?) were usually contented with
erecting a small low gallery at the west
end of the church[81]. It is true, that was
bad enough; for in order to construct it, it
was nearly always thought necessary to
fill in the tower arch and to hide the
western window—often the most
beautiful features in the church; and then
the organ was taken up into this gallery,
and the singers followed it; and nothing,
you know, could be more inconvenient
than that those who help to lead the
services of the Church should be behind
those they profess to lead. But when
people had once tasted the luxury of sitting in a church gallery, the demand
for it rapidly increased, and my Lady Pride, who had very comfortable
crimson-cushioned seats in her box at the theatre, could not be content
without an equally comfortable and elegant box in the gallery at her church,
where she could see all the people quite as well as in her box at the theatre,
and had such a good view of the pulpit and its occupant, that, with a good
opera-glass, she could even read the manuscript from which the clergyman
was preaching. As the taste spread, of course galleries multiplied, and not
only extended in a lateral direction over all available parts of the church,
but sometimes mounted up one above another (as witness many of our
London churches) till they almost touched the very roof. Indeed, to build a
new gallery was one of the most popular things a local magnate could do;

and even Members of Parliament, who desired to make sure of their next
election, could hardly adopt better means for recommending themselves to
their constituents than by disfiguring their church with one of these hideous
structures, and recording the same on some conspicuous part of the
church[82]. But worse still; these galleries were sometimes even still more
nearly connected with the political parties of the day. I know one church[83]
—and that is not the only instance—in which are galleries, having complete
opera-boxes, furnished with luxurious chairs, stoves, &c., and every box is
a two-pound freehold, and the boxes are, from time to time, advertised for
sale, with the inviting recommendation that each one gives a vote for the
county. One great piece of presumptuous vanity connected with these
galleries, is the numberless instances in which the names of churchwardens,
that otherwise would have been unknown to fame, have been emblazoned
upon them."
"You remember, no doubt," said Mr. Acres, "the inscription, in large gilt
letters, that covered the front of our old gallery—'This gallery was erected
A.D. 1716, Thomas Grubb and Matthew Stokes, Churchwardens; enlarged,
and newly painted and ornamented, A.D. 1760, Peter Jenks and Samuel
Styles, Churchwardens.' I believe I have read that inscription thousands of
times, and those names used even to haunt me in my dreams. Had those
churchwardens been four of the greatest saints in the calendar, it would
have been gross impiety to emblazon their names so conspicuously as thus
to force them upon one's notice during the whole service. If, however,
tradition does not speak falsely of them, those men were by no means too
correct either in their private life or in their parish accounts. But let them be
never so good, people who go to church for Christian worship, don't wish to
have the names and exploits of these worthy or unworthy men staring them
in the face every moment they are there. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Vicar, I
interrupted you when you were speaking of the pulpit."
"Well, you know, when the gallery had reached the ceiling, it could go no
higher; but then its upper tenants could no longer see the preacher. So the
pulpit rose too, and, to enable all to see it, sometimes took its place just in
front of the altar, so as completely to hide that from most of the
congregation; nay, I have seen it even over the altar itself[84]. Then the
prayer-desk came climbing up after the pulpit; and then the clerk's desk

came creeping up below them, till that, too, became one of the most
conspicuous and important objects of the church. Thus the three together
grew into that clumsy, unsightly mass which has been not inaptly called the
Three Decker!"
"Ah, I shall never forget poor old Mowforth's perplexity," said Mr. Acres,
"when he looked about for his peculiar box in our restored church. First he
looked doubtingly at your prayer-desk; then he examined the lectern from
which you read the lessons; then he looked with some faint hope at the
pulpit; at last he came to me, and said, 'Please, sir, which of these is to be
my place?' and his look of dismay was indescribable when I told him that,
as you intended that henceforth the choir should lead the responses, he
would be absorbed in the congregation, and would in future be able to take
his place with the rest of his family. But the man is a sensible fellow, and he
confessed to me the other day that he considers the new arrangement a great
improvement, and wonders that the people could have so long endured the
duet service in which only the voices of the parson and himself could be
heard. But we have again wandered a little from our subject. Let us go back
to the pulpit; it must have a history of its own, like every other part of the
church. Will you kindly enlighten me and our friend here on the subject? for
it must be one of much interest to us both."
"Well—to begin at the beginning—I suppose we must look for the origin of
our pulpits in the 'brazen scaffold' which Solomon set 'in the midst of the
Temple[85],' and the 'pulpit of wood[86]' from which Ezra read the Book of
the Law.
"There are in this country many very beautiful examples of ancient pulpits;
these are, with but very few exceptions, constructed of stone, and very
generally of the same date as the church itself. Sometimes they were erected
outside the church[87], but usually in the place where we are still
accustomed to see them. Sometimes stone pulpits were quite separate
buildings, erected in some much frequented place, usually near a cathedral
or other church[88]. 'In the ancient rites of Durham there is mention of a
"fine iron pulpit, with iron rails to support the monks in going up, of whom
one did preach every holiday and Sunday at one o'clock in the afternoon."
This was situated in the Galilee, or western division of the church, which
was open to the public even when the entrance to the rest of the church was

interdicted[89].' Although the most beautiful pulpits, both ancient and
modern, are of stone—many of them being richly carved and inlaid with
costly marbles—yet the greater number of the more modern pulpits are
made of wood[90]. By an injunction of Queen Elizabeth in 1559, pulpits
were ordered to be erected in all churches[91], and by a canon of 1663 it was
ordered that pulpits should be placed in all the churches of the country not
already provided with them. The pulpits then erected were in almost every
case made of wood, and their pattern has since then been generally, though
by no means universally, followed.
"A curious appendage to the pulpit sometimes found is the horologium, or
hour-glass. Whether this was placed there for the information of the
congregation as to the progress of the hour, or to teach them its own solemn
moral, or as a guide to the preacher respecting the length of his
discourse[92], I cannot say. Another adjunct to the pulpit is the sounding-
board, or, as it should rather be called, the lid or cover of the pulpit; and a
thing more useless, and usually more ugly, one cannot conceive[93]. It
certainly always seems to me rather to impede the sound of my voice than
to assist it; and then it has, to say the least, a most uncomfortable
appearance; and though I never heard of the accident really happening, yet
it always appears to me to be on the point of falling and crushing the poor
preacher below it. It is not, however, difficult to trace the origin of these
covers to the pulpit; they were really necessary where the pulpits were
separate buildings—as at St. Paul's Cross—in order to protect the preacher
when the weather was inclement. At St. Paul's Cross, and at the Cross Pulpit
at Norwich, and probably elsewhere, not only the preacher, but also the
audience, were provided with such a shelter[94]."
"Will you kindly tell us," said Mr. Dole, "why you discarded the large
handsome velvet cushion that was once on your pulpit, and have, instead,
adopted the embroidered piece of velvet which now hangs in front of the
pulpit?"
"Well, as a matter of taste, I think you will agree with me that the present
beautiful frontal, with its richly-embroidered cross, is an improvement upon
the old cushion. But I discarded the old big pillow—for such, indeed, it was
—not only because it was unsightly, but also because it was useless, for my

head is not so much more tender than that of other persons, that I, any more
than they, should require a pillow to rest it on during my private devotions;
and as I am not accustomed to perform the part of a mountebank in the
pulpit, or, as some say, to use much action when preaching, I need no such
protection in order to preserve my limbs safe and sound. But, besides this,
there is a manifest objection to these huge cushions; undoubtedly they tend
to impede the sound of the preacher's voice[95]; so I was very glad to get rid
of your handsome cushion, and adopt our more convenient and more
beautiful pulpit frontal."
"I often think," said Mr. Acres, "if the old pulpits could speak, what a
strange account they would give of the various preachers that have occupied
them. Take our own old stone pulpit, for instance. In early times, of course,
there were only sermons at long intervals, perhaps often dependent upon the
occasional visits of some old preaching friar. At length there came the
quaint old Homilies of the Church; then there came an interruption to all
true religion and order, and the old pulpit poured forth the mad ravings of
the fanatical Puritans who got possession of it. Now and then came a noisy
soldier to hold forth, and there was—as our old registers show—the
Reverend Ebenezer Bradshaw, the Presbyterian, who left his snuff and
tobacco shop to enlighten our poor benighted people; next came the
Reverend Obadiah Brent, late of the 'Green Dragon,' the Independent
preacher; and then the Reverend Jabez Zanchy, the baker of Starchcombe,
the Anabaptist preacher[96]; then there was a century of long learned essays
freely interspersed with Greek and Latin, so that, if the prayers were said in
a language 'understanded of the people,' the sermon certainly was not.
Following upon this came what we may call the muscular style of
preaching—usually extempore—requiring the pillows of which you have
been speaking to save the knuckles of the preacher from entire demolition.
Thank God, amid these many changes, there have always been some good
men to be found in our pulpits; but, for my part, I like the quiet, sober,
persuasive style, which—saving your presence, Mr. Vicar—I am thankful to
say, characterizes the sermons at St. Catherine's. I think sermons cannot be
too practical; and, whilst they should be addressed both to the heart and the
intellect, they should most of all be designed to touch the heart."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NAVE
"My brethren, have not the faith of our
Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of Glory,
with respect of persons."
S. James ii. 1.

"At length a generation more refined
Improved the simple plan....
And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd,
Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought,
And woven close, or needlework sublime."

Cowper.

THE NAVE
h, Mr. Beeland, I'm so glad to see you!" said the Vicar, as, on leaving
"A the church, he met his neighbour the newly-appointed Vicar of
Droneworth. "I have been much grieved to hear of the sad opposition
you have had to encounter in restoring your fine old church; but this was
sure to be the case in a parish like yours, which has been so long neglected;
indeed it must be so, more or less, in every parish, so long as there are
people who honour themselves much more than they honour God; and such,
I suppose, there will be till the end of the world. You may be sure, my
friend, the woe of universal commendation[97] never yet fell upon any
church restorer."
"Never, certainly. But what makes our position often so difficult and so
painful is the fact that, whilst we are fully sensible of the rectitude of our
own course, we cannot help, to some extent, sympathizing in the feelings of
those who blame us. For instance, in almost every case of church
restoration it is necessary to disturb a large number of human bones, and yet
we can but sympathize in that feeling of respect for the departed, which
sometimes expresses itself in the most strenuous opposition to any work
involving this painful necessity. Then, you see, there is the rooting up of
long-cherished associations. We have a case in point close at hand. There's
the grand old church of Rainsborough will be left in its miserable condition
so long as the present Vicar lives, and for no other reason than this:—ten
years since he lost a favourite daughter, and she had always been
accustomed to sit in one particular corner of their large pew." Now the Vicar
fears (and no doubt justly) that should the church be altered, the old pew
with its fond associations would be swept away—and so the church will
never be improved as long as he lives[98]. We must respect the old man's
tender love for the spot sacred to the memory of his dear child, yet we
plainly see it is all wrong that for the sake of the private feelings (however
praiseworthy) of any one person, God's house should remain in a state of
neglect, and the poor should be uncared for therein. This, however, is an
oft-told tale. But most of all, we have to contend against wounded pride in

its most cherished strong-hold—alas!—the Church of God; and the enemy
is all the more fierce because it is prostrate.
"My two great opponents, Sir John Adamley and Mr. Parvener, are to meet
me this evening, and I am come to ask you and Mr. Acres to walk back with
me to Droneworth, so that I may have the benefit of your support. You see
these two gentlemen had pews in the nave of our church, lined, cushioned,
and carpeted in dazzling crimson; each pew was as large as a good-sized
room, and the two occupied nearly half the nave. Mr. Parvener was
generally at church once on a Sunday, and then he sat not only in luxurious
ease, but also in solitary dignity. Sir John never came to church, as there
was some old feud respecting the right owner of his pew; but the door was
always locked, and a canvas cover was stretched over the top. These
precautions, however, failed to keep out an occasional intruder, and at last
the door was securely nailed up[99]. The worst of it was, that all this time
there was not a seat in the church which a poor man could occupy with any
chance of either seeing or hearing the ministering Priest. Now people talk
about proper distinctions in church between the high and the low, and we
sometimes hear much about old ancestral pews. Believe me, it's all
nonsense, my dear sir; the distinction is solely between riches and poverty.
If a man has plenty of money, he may (or rather, till lately he might) secure
the biggest pew in England; and if he has not money, though he be entitled
to quarter the royal arms on his escutcheon, he will get no pew at all. Mr.
Parvener is an exact instance of this. But a few years since he was working
for half-a-crown a day. No sooner did he become wealthy than he obtained
a large pew at our church, whilst its former owner, whose fall had been as
complete and rapid as was the rise of his successor, was driven to a remote
corner of the church allotted to degraded poverty."
The walk to Droneworth was soon accomplished, but the Rector with his
two friends only reached the Parsonage a few moments before the arrival of
the two aggrieved parishioners. It was evident from the first greeting that
they had come in no friendly spirit. But few words passed before Sir John
came direct to the object of the interview.
"The purpose of our visit," said Sir John, "you are aware, is to protest
against the removal of our pews at church, and to declare our determination
to have them replaced if it is possible."

"But, gentlemen, you are aware that we have provided good
accommodation for you in the restored church," replied the Vicar.
"Good accommodation, sir!" exclaimed Sir John. "Why, you have given us
nothing but low wooden benches to sit upon; and, to add to the insult, sir,
there is not the semblance of a door; so that our devotions may at any time
be interrupted by the presence of an inferior. Why, sir, the very labourers,
who earn their half-crown a day, have seats in the church just as good as
ours!"
The last sentence made poor Mr. Parvener writhe a little; and that indeed
was its real intention, for the two neighbours had, in truth, little love for
each other. The words, however, accomplished another and a better
purpose; they broke up at once any thing like united action on the part of
the opposition.
"Let me ask you, gentlemen, a very simple question," said the Vicar. "Why
should not the labourer have as good a place in God's house as yourselves?"
"You might as well ask," said the Baronet, "why they should not have as
good houses as we have."
"The cases are in no way similar. You live in better houses than the poor,
simply because your worldly means enable you to do so; but I have yet to
be taught that in the Church wealth is to be exalted and poverty degraded.
No, Sir John, be sure this distinction is out of place there. We go to church
to worship and to learn, and if favour is shown to any class, no doubt it
should be to the ignorant and the poor; but this is a matter on which we are
not left to our own judgment. There are not many instructions in our Bibles
as to the manner of arranging our churches, but here the direction is plain
and unmistakable."
"Indeed, sir! I had no idea that any thing about church seats was to be found
in the Bible."
"Oh, but indeed there is. The passage to which I refer is in St. James'
Epistle; and it is this: 'My brethren, have not the faith of our Lord Jesus
Christ, the Lord of Glory, with respect of persons. For if there come unto
your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in
also a poor man in vile raiment; and ye have respect to him that weareth

the gay clothing, and say unto him, Sit thou here in a good place; and say to
the poor, Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool: are ye not then
partial in yourselves, and are become judges of evil thoughts[100]?'"
"If those words are in the Bible, I must confess the Bible is against me; but
I had no idea that they were there."
"I assure you they are the exact words of Holy Scripture."
"It's clear enough to me," interposed Mr. Parvener, "that the labourer ought
to have as good a place at church as the lord. I don't think the church is the
place to show off aristocratic pride. Why, for that matter, there's many a
man that doesn't know who was his grandfather doing more for the glory of
God and the good of his fellow-creatures than your grandest aristocrats."
This was intended as a counter-thrust, and it created a wider breach in the
enemy's camp. "But," continued he, "I don't see why, if all have good places
in the church, we should not make our own seats as comfortable as we can."
"Ah, but there comes in just what St. James tells us we ought to keep out:
the distinction between riches and poverty, distinctions which among our
fellow-men have their advantages, but not before God in His house. Just
hear what St. James says again: 'Hearken, my beloved brethren, Hath not
God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom
which He hath promised to them that love Him? But ye have despised the
poor[101].' I was much struck with a sermon I heard the other day on this
subject. The preacher said, 'If our Lord Jesus Christ were to enter some of
our churches just as He went to the temple at Jerusalem, do you think He
would take His seat in the luxuriously furnished pew of the rich, or in the
open bench of the poor[102]?' Now, let me ask you too, Mr. Parvener (for
this is, after all, the sum and substance of the matter), do you think that He
'who was rich, yet for our sakes became poor[103],' and whose life was a
perfect pattern of humility, would sanction the distinctions which either
pride of station, or pride of riches, would create in the House of Prayer?"
"Well, sir, I must say that's a solemn question, and it sets one a-thinking
more than I have thought before about this."
"But, Mr. Beeland," said Sir John, interrupting, for he saw the ground of his
arguments was slipping from under him, "you will acknowledge that these

open benches in church are a novelty, and you often talk to us about keeping
to the old paths. Now, here you are teaching us to strike out a new way
altogether. I wish I knew something more than I do about the history of
these pews."
"I anticipated some such remark from you, and knowing that my friend Mr.
Ambrose is more learned than I am in all these subjects, I induced him to
join us this evening, and if he will kindly give us the benefit of his
information, he will, I am sure, convince you that pews, and not benches,
are the modern innovation."
"If you can have patience to listen to me," said the Vicar of St. Catherine's,
"I will gladly give you the history of pews, as far I know it."

CHAPTER XIX

THE NAVE
>"Take theses things hence; make not
My Father's house a house of
merchandise."
John ii. 16.

"Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy; for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately cross'd,
Like leafless underboughs, 'mid some thick grove,
All wither'd by the depth of shade above,

... The floor
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
In seemly rows."

Wordsworth.

THE NAVE
n order to trace the history of pews[104] to their first source, I must, as
"I Mr. Beeland has hinted, go back to a time when pews, as we now see
them, had never been thought of. It is pretty certain that the first seats in
churches were stone benches placed round the north, south, and west walls,
portions of which are still remaining in many old churches[105]. In some
ancient churches in Ireland the stone bench has also been found adjoining
the eastern wall, the altar being placed a little distance before it. In those
early times people were far less self-indulgent than at present in God's
House, and the usual custom was to stand or kneel during the whole service.
The first wooden seats were small stools, each intended to seat one person,
and placed in the nave as suited the convenience of each occupier. Then
came plain benches, and next, benches with backs to them. The priest's
reading-pew was probably the origin of all pews. They seem to have been
unknown in any form till the end of the thirteenth century, but the earliest
record we have of a pew is 1602[106]. Next to the 'reading-pew' came the
'bride's pew[107],' the 'churching-pew,' and the 'churchwarden's pew.' In the
nave of Little Berningham Church, Norfolk, is a pew erected by a shepherd;
a skeleton carved in wood is fixed at the south-west corner of it, and these
lines are carved on the pew:—

'For couples join'd in wedlock; and my friend
That stranger is: this seat I did intend,
But at the coste and charge of Stephen Crosbee.
All you that do this place pass by,
As you are now, even so was I—
Remember death, for you must dye,
And as I am, soe shall you be.

'Anno Domini, 1640[108].'

The general adoption of pews began with Puritanism, and with its increase
they too grew in width and stature. First of all, people were satisfied with
the uniform arrangement and space of the old oak benches, only erecting on
the top of them an ugly and useless panelling of deal. This was bad enough,
but worse soon followed; and, to make the seats more luxurious, first one
bench was taken away, and the two benches made one pew; then two were
removed, then three, till at last it required the removal of six benches, which
formerly would accommodate thirty persons, to make one pew to
accommodate two or three. Now, either men are giants in these days and
were pigmies in those days, or else the pride and luxury of man claim a
prominence now in God's House, which was quite unknown then. I will ask
either of you, gentlemen, to decide which is the true explanation."
"I fear it must be against ourselves," said Mr. Parvener.

"I fear so, indeed[109]. But now let me explain to you more fully what are
the real evils of this wretched pew system. And first, as to the private pew
—for, besides sharing in the evils of all the rest, it has some peculiarly its
own. Of these, the pride it fosters, and the 'respect of persons,' so severely
condemned by St. James, are the worst. My dear sir, I assure you it has
often made my blood boil to see some poor old man with his venerable bare
head exposed to the cold draught of a neglected part of the church, whilst a
young, pampered son of fortune has been cushioned up under the stately
canopy of his own pew[110]. Oh, sir, I'm sure you must agree with me that
this is altogether against the spirit of Christianity! I'm no leveller out of
church; the social distinctions must be there kept up; but in God's House
these should have no place at all. Then, surely, the luxury of many of these

private pews is altogether inconsistent with the object of our meeting in the
House of Prayer. It is—as it shows the progress of luxury, and its
concomitant, effeminacy—a curious circumstance, that when the custom of
having pews in our churches began to spread, they were, by our hardy
ancestors, considered as too great indulgences, and as temptations to
repose. Their curtains and bed-furniture, their cushions and sleep, have, by
a long association of ideas, become intimately connected. The Puritans
thought pews the devil's baby, or booby hutches[111]. I have heard that in
America they go even beyond us in the luxury of pews, and that in Boston
some of them are actually lined with velvet[112]. I believe that both there and
here the private pew system has done very much, not only to force the poor
from the Church, but to drive many of all classes over to dissent."
"I can't see how that can be," said the Baronet.
Why, "naturally enough, sir, for they find all this the very opposite to what
the Church professes to be and to teach. They see the rich exalted, and the
poor debased; they find a house of pride, instead of a house of prayer.
"The exclusiveness of this system is one of the most curious as well as
absurd features in its history. True, the change in our social habits has
created a change for the better here; but much of the old temper survives.
You would hardly believe, perhaps, that years ago it was not only
considered an impropriety for the squire and the dame to sit in the same
pew with any of their inferior fellow-worshippers, but the presence of their
own children[113] was even considered an indecent intrusion. This was,
indeed, ridiculous; but, in truth, the whole system would be monstrously
grotesque, were it not so very wicked.
"There is a curious inscription on an old seat in a church at Whalley, which
seems to throw some light on the early history of private pews; it is this:
—'My man Shuttleworth, of Hacking, made this form, and here will I sit
when I come, and my Cousin Nowell may make one behind me if he please,
and my sonne Sherburne shall make one on the other side, and Mr. Catterall
another behind him; and for the residue, the use shall be first come first
speed, and that will make the proud wives of Whalley rise betimes to come
to church[114].'

"The first seat thus appropriated was, no doubt, a rude wooden bench; but
certain it is, that no sooner were even these claimed as private property than
quarrelling began[115]; and the quarrel has, alas! been kept up to our own
day. The right to these faculty pews, as they are called, is, however, in most
cases very questionable, and often leads to costly law processes[116]. Many
sensible men and earnest Churchmen are giving up their supposed right to
them, and are contented to take their place in church like ordinary mortals.
I sincerely trust, gentlemen, this may be your case.
"Now, let me notice a few of the evils which are common to all pews. They
tend to destroy the unity and uniformity of common worship, which forms
so grand a feature in our church system. 'They are very inconvenient to
kneel down in, necessarily oblige some to sit with their backs to the speaker,
and when they rise up, present a scene of confusion, as if they were running
their heads against one another[117]. As God's House is a House of Praise
and Prayer, so before all things the arrangement there should have reference
to the proper posture[118] of praise and prayer. Then see how these pews
shelter and encourage levity in God's House. As long ago as the year 1662, a
bishop of Norwich wrote this satire upon pews: 'There wants nothing but
beds to hear the Word of God on. We have casements, locks and keys, and
cushions—I had almost said bolsters and pillows—and for those we love
the church. I will not guess what is done within them: who sits, stands, or
lies asleep at prayers, communion, &c.; but this, I dare say, they are either
to hide some vice or to proclaim one[119].' I will only mention one more
objection to pews: they harbour dust and dirt[120], and otherwise disfigure
the beauty of our churches."
"Well, Mr. Ambrose, I must confess myself brought to the same opinion as
yourself," said Sir John, "and the reformation of the evil may commence at
Droneworth to-morrow without any obstacle whatever from me."
"Nor yet from me," rejoined Mr. Parvener: "I certainly never heard the case
fairly stated before, and now I have, I own I'm convinced."
"Heartily glad, I'm sure, my friend here must be to part with the old half
empty packing-cases, and to see proper benches in their place. And as you
have been kind enough to listen to me so far, I will just say a few more
words to explain the two desks which the Vicar has placed in the nave of

your church, and of which I heard you had disapproved. One is the Litany-
desk, or faldstool[121],—as it is called in the Coronation Service. The Litany
is a very solemn, penitential service, and from very early times it has been
said from the appropriate place where the Vicar has placed the Litany-desk
in your church—namely, just at the entrance to the chancel. Its position
there has reference to that Litany of God's own appointing, of which we
read in the Book of Joel[122], where, in a general assembly, the priests were
to weep between the porch and the altar, and to say, 'Spare Thy people, O
Lord.' In allusion to this, our Litany—retaining also the same words of
supplication—is enjoined, by the royal injunctions[123], still in force, 'to be
said or sung in the midst of the church, at a low desk before the chancel-
door[124].' The other desk is called the lectern, or lettern, and sometimes the
eagle-desk; and, as you are aware, is the desk from which the lessons are
read. They were first made of wood, and often richly carved; afterwards
they were commonly made of brass or copper. They were first used about
the end of the thirteenth century, and although most of our country churches
have been despoiled of them, yet they have never ceased to be used in our
cathedrals, as well as many other churches[125]. The desk is often supported
by a pelican feeding its young with its own blood, the emblem of our
Saviour's love; more frequently it is supported by an eagle, the symbolic
representation of the Evangelist St. John. It is true that both the faldstool
and the lectern have long been unknown at Droneworth, yet I feel sure you
will not, on second thoughts, consider the restoration of such convenient
and appropriate furniture as objectionable."
The two late dissentients agreed that as they had overcome the greater
difficulty, they should withdraw all opposition in the matter; and, it being
now late, the party broke up, each one feeling glad that a good thing had
been done on a good day.

CHAPTER XX

THE AISLES
"Praise ye the name of the Lord; praise
Him, O ye servants of the Lord. Ye that
stand in the house of the Lord, in the
courts of the house of our God."
Ps. cxxxv. 1, 2.

"Three solemn parts together twine
In harmony's mysterious line
Three solemn aisles approach the shrine,
Yet all are one."

Keble.

THE AISLES

M r. Beeland accompanied his two friends some distance on their way
home.
"I remember noticing," said Mr. Acres, "that the pews of your two
parishioners very much blocked up the centre aisle of the church; their
removal will much widen the aisle, which will be a great improvement."
"Forgive me for correcting you," said Mr. Ambrose, "there can be no such
thing as a centre aisle. You are speaking of the centre alley or passage. The
word aisle[126] can only refer to the wing of a building, and it always
denotes that portion of a church which runs laterally north or south of the
nave or chancel. I see, Mr. Beeland, you have some work to do in that aisle
of yours before your church will be in good order."
"Yes, that is my greatest remaining difficulty. I have observed that those of
the congregation who occupy that aisle are far less attentive and devotional
than the rest; and the reasons are obvious. They are cut off from the main
portion of the church, not only by the high backs of the existing pews, and
by the hat and cloak rails which run from pillar to pillar, but also by
needless masses of modern masonry. Moreover, they can see nothing of that
part of the church which is sacred to the most solemn offices of our
worship. Then, again, what the people do see is enough to divert all
devotional thought and feeling from any but the most seriously and
religiously disposed."
"You mean the hideous heathen monument which occupies the east end of
the aisle. If I remember rightly, it is a sort of monstrous Roman altar, with
four huge bull's heads at each corner."
"Yes; it is in the centre of a mortuary chapel, once belonging to a family
named Bullock, and their frightful crest, in gigantic proportions, is the one
object on which the eyes of at least a third of our congregation must rest, if
they open their eyes at all. I can hardly conceive any thing more calculated
to deaden the fervour of Christian worship than an object like this placed

before the gaze of the worshipper. Much as I object to the bare walls of
Dissenting meeting-houses, and the many-altared aisles of Roman Catholic
churches, I believe neither are so distracting to the minds of the
congregation generally as are the mortuary chapels, with their uncouth
adornments, which occupy so large a space in the aisles of many of our own
churches. Unfortunately, this chapel now belongs to a young man who has
recently seceded to the Church of Rome, and he will neither allow me to
appropriate for the use of the parishioners any of the space we so much
need, nor will he consent to have the unsightly monument removed to a less
conspicuous place."
"The bitter hostility to wards the Church of their baptism, and the utter
absence of Christian sympathy in good works of this nature, which
characterize so many of those who have fallen away from our Communion,
is indeed most deplorable. But even if your unreasonable and narrow-
hearted parishioner will oppose all improvement in that part of the aisle
which—stolen from God and His people—he claims as his own private
property, there is much you can do, when you set about your work of
restoration, to make that part of the church less isolated than at present. At
least, you can remove much of the useless wood and masonry which now
separate the aisle from the nave."
"I propose also to re-open the ancient hagioscope in the south wall of the
chancel, by which means the people in the aisle will once more gain a view
of the altar, and be enabled to see and hear the priest when officiating
there."
"Will you kindly tell me, Mr. Beeland," said Mr. Acres, "what are
hagioscopes[127]? I never remember having heard the word before."
"You probably have heard them called by their more common name of
squints. They are openings in the north or south walls of the chancel, or
perhaps more commonly in the walls supporting the chancel arch, and are
intended to give a view of the altar to those who are worshipping in the
aisles. They are to be found in most old churches, but they have commonly,
as in our case, been bricked up. It is manifestly very desirable that in all
cases they should be restored, not only on account of their architectural
beauty, but also for their practical utility in the services of the Church."

The party then separated, and the Vicar of Droneworth took back to his
parish a lighter heart than he had known for many a day.

CHAPTER XXI

THE TRANSEPTS
"Strength and beauty are in His
sanctuary."
Ps. xcvi. 6.

"Pace we the ground! our footsteps tread
A cross—the builder's holiest form—
That awful couch where once was shed
The blood with man's forgiveness warm,
And here, just where His mighty breast
Throbb'd the last agony away,
They bade the voice of worship rest,
And white-robed Levites pause and pray."

Hawker.

THE TRANSEPTS
uch of the objection which you have expressed to the prevailing
"M arrangement of the aisles," said Mr. Acres, continuing the
conversation with his Vicar, "seems to me to apply also to that of the
transepts—I believe that is the proper name for those portions of a church
which extend in a transverse direction north and south?"
"Yes," replied the Vicar; "and the remedies for the evil are in both cases
nearly the same. Great inconvenience often arises from the exclusive
character of the parclose. I would have the solid part of this made lower,
and the upper part more light and open."
"Pardon me, my friend, but I am ignorant as to what you mean by the word
parclose."
"I refer now to the screen which encloses the chancel on the north and south
sides; but I believe the word may apply to any screen in the church. By
means of these screens, however, the persons in the transepts are needlessly
excluded from a view of the altar."
"Yes; but the change in them which you suggest would not fully meet the
difficulty, even if a squint or hagioscope should also be provided."
"I see that," said the Vicar; "and for that reason I would, as a rule, only have
those portions of the transepts nearest the chancel fitted with permanent
seats. On special occasions chairs could be placed in the back parts; or,
perhaps, the whole of the transepts might be given up to the children of the
parochial schools, the elder children, who could best understand the nature
of the services, being placed in the front."
"A very proper arrangement, indeed, I should think, for all of them would
be able at least to hear, and they would be conveniently placed for assisting
in the musical parts of the service. It has often struck me as the refinement
of cruelty to place these children in the remote damp corners of country
churches, where too often they are to be found; or, worse still, in the

topmost galleries of city churches, where the air they breathe is heated and
impure. In both cases there is a manifest unconcern as well for the temporal
as for the spiritual welfare of these little ones of Christ's flock."
"To whatever use, however, they may be applied, or even if they are entirely
unappropriated, so far as regards affording accommodation for the
congregation, I would, by all means, wherever practicable, retain the
transeptal arrangement of our churches, not only as being the most
ornamental form of structure, but as preserving in the entire building the
distinct form of the Cross; and as symbolizing in the gathering together of
each congregation of Christ's Church—which is His Body, that Body itself.
Thus the nave represents the body, the transepts the outstretched arms, and
the chancel—being the most excellent part of the church—the head[128] of
our Lord. Some perhaps might think it fanciful, but to me there is
something very solemn and beautiful in the idea, not only of the church's
whole fabric assuming these symbolic forms, but also of the united prayers
and praises of the congregation making, as it were, in their very sound the
sign of the Cross."
"I think so too. And to my mind it has always seemed that the grand
symbolism which looks through, as it were, the whole fabric of the church,
and the whole congregation therein assembled, was formerly much marred
in our churches, when there were many altars, dedicated to many saints,
instead of the one altar, which we now only retain, dedicated to the one
Head of the Christian Church."
"Yes; and your remark, of course, applies specially to the transepts about
which we were speaking, since even in our country churches every transept
had its separate altar, the piscina attached to which is still to be found in
almost every old church."
"I suppose," said Mr. Acres, "that beautiful Gothic niche in our south
transept which you recently restored is a piscina?"
"Yes, it is. The piscina was always placed on the south side of the altar, and
it was used chiefly as the receptacle for the water used in cleansing the
sacred vessels, or for that used by the priest in washing his hands[129]. It is
to be found in our earliest Norman churches, and evidently dates from the

time of their erection. There is often a shelf placed over the basin of the
piscina, which was used as a credence[130]."
"We heard much about the credence-table some time since," interrupted the
Squire, "when there was a suit in law about this and some other matters; but
I confess I am still ignorant as to the purpose of the credence-table."
"It is usually a small table, or, when forming part of the piscina, a shelf, on
which the elements intended for use at the Eucharist are placed before their
consecration. Just before the prayer for the church militant in the
Communion Service there is this direction: 'The priest shall then place upon
the table (i.e. the altar) so much bread and wine as he shall think sufficient.'
Now, you see, it would be very inconvenient, and a sad interruption of that
part of the service, to bring these from a distant part of the church. The
ancient custom, therefore, of placing the elements on the credence-table at
the commencement of the service is most convenient for the proper
observance of this rubric. And so, although the credence has only been
preserved as an interesting relic, or ornament in other parts of the church, in
the chancel it has been preserved or restored[131], as being still a most useful
and important part of the furniture of the church."
Having now arrived at the vicarage-gate, the two friends bade each other
good-night.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CHANCEL SCREEN
"The vail shall divide unto you between
the holy place and the most holy."

Exod. xxvi. 33.

"I love the Church,—the holy Church,
The Saviour's spotless bride:
And, oh, I love her palaces
Through all the land so wide!
The cross-topp'd spire amid the trees,
The holy bell of prayer;
The music of our mother's voice,
Our mother's home is there.

"I love the Church,—the holy Church,
That o'er our life presides;
The birth, the bridal, and the grave,
And many an hour besides!
Be mine, through life, to live in her,
And when the Lord shall call,
To die in her—the spouse of Christ,
The mother of us all."

Christian Ballads.

THE CHANCEL SCREEN

P erhaps, gentle reader (all readers are supposed to be "gentle,"—they
ought to be), if you live in a retired village, you will find that in the
course of many years, your village annals present little or nothing worthy of
record, as matter of general interest or importance; you will, therefore,
understand how that the past six years at the little village of St. Catherine's
have been so uneventful as to be noticed only by a blank in our narrative.
But now, on this twenty-sixth day of June, in the year 1866, an event of no
common interest in a country parish is about to take place.
Since their first meeting, four years ago, at the vicarage of Droneworth, a
close intimacy had grown up between the families of Mr. Acres and his
neighbour Sir John Adamley; the upright integrity and manly candour
which marked both their characters soon begat a deep mutual respect,
which, in course of time, ripened into a warm friendship, now about to be
sealed in the marriage of the Baronet's eldest son Egbert with Mr. Acres'
eldest daughter Constance.
The place is all astir betimes. Early in the morning a merry peal is sounding
from the old church tower, and many hands are busy in decorating with
flowers and evergreens arches placed at intervals between the church and
the Hall. It is by no order of the Squire or his steward that these arches—
erected at no slight cost of money and labour—are put up; they are the
spontaneous expression of the interest which the villagers themselves take
in the day's rejoicing. There are William Hardy, Robert Atkinson, Mr. Dole,
even old Matthew and his grandson, and indeed half the village, as busy as
bees in and out of the church, vying with each other in their endeavour to
make every thing look bright and joyful. Every one has put on something
gay and cheerful, purchased specially for the occasion; there is the light of
honest gladness on every face; and now that the children with their baskets
of fresh flowers stand ranged on either side of the pathway that leads from
the main road to the lich-gate, the scene is one of the most picturesque that
can be imagined....

"Does Mr. Ambrose particularly wish that the first part of the service should
take place near the chancel screen?" inquires Sir John.
"Yes," answers the Squire; "it is always the custom here, and I think you
will afterwards acknowledge that this arrangement is very fitting and
appropriate; and, indeed, adds not a little to the impressiveness of the
ceremony."
"I can quite imagine that; but what authority has the Vicar for the practice?"
"Oh, that is very plain. If you just look at your Prayer Book, you will see
this rubric at the commencement of the Marriage Service: 'At the time
appointed for the solemnization of matrimony, the persons to be married
shall come into the body of the church with their friends and neighbours,
and there standing, the priest shall say'—then follows the address to the
congregation assembled, and the rest of the service, till the priest
pronounces the first blessing; and after that, the priests and clerks, 'going to
the Lord's Table,' are directed to say or sing one of the Psalms, and it is
evidently intended that the newly-married persons should accompany them,
for when the Psalm is ended they are mentioned as 'kneeling before the
Lord's Table.' This procession to the altar of course loses much of its
meaning and impressiveness when there is no celebration of Holy
Communion. But, then, this ought not to be omitted, except in very extreme
cases."
"I quite see now that Mr. Ambrose is following the rule of the Church. I
certainly never read the directions in the Service before. I suppose,
however, there is no particular part of the body of the church named?"
"No; I believe it is only ancient custom which decides upon the chancel
screen; it is, too, the most convenient part of the church for this purpose." ...
Why is it that all those young eyes are so bright with love, as from each
ready hand falls the gay flowers at the feet of the happy pair? Why is each
knee bent during every prayer in that solemn service? And, now, when the
hands of Mr. Ambrose rest on the heads of Constance and her husband, as
he pronounces over them the last blessing of the Church, why does the deep
Amen sound from every lip? Why is there that breathless silence as those
happy ones kneel before the altar to bind themselves yet more closely

together, and to God, in Holy Communion? And now, as they come forth
from God's House, how is it that there is no faltering voice in all that
assembly as the glad shout of Christian joy rings up through the air to
heaven? I'll tell you. It is because the priest and the Squire have ever
recognized their joint duties in that parish; because Constance has been a
sister of charity and mercy among the poor; because they have striven with
all their might to do the work God gave them to do; and now they have their
reward in the hearty affection and respect of all their neighbours.
There were but two exceptions to this general manifestation of good feeling
among the villagers, and they were the last evil growth of the old
Anabaptist schism in the parish. At the same time that Egbert and
Constance were breathing their mutual vows beneath the old chancel screen
of St Catherine's, William Strike and Sally Sowerby were being "married"
by Mr. Gallio at the new register-office at Townend....
"There is something very touching," said the Squire to Mr. Ambrose, as
they walked back together to the Hall, "in that old custom preserved in our
village of hanging a white glove on the chancel screen[132]. That was the
very glove my dear Mary wore when she promised to be the wife of
Edward Markland, and poor Edward himself placed it there. I saw
Constance's eyes fill with tears to-day as she ventured to give one look at
the sad memento."
"The custom is fast dying out, and only survives in a few rural parishes.
Indeed, the very screens themselves have, you know, in most churches been
swept away[133]. The finer carving is often to be found worked up into
pews, and the large timbers have been used in building galleries. Where
these screens were made of stone[134], they have generally been preserved
unharmed. In some cases, alas! people have not been contented with
demolishing the screen, but have actually in their place built a gallery[135]
for a family pew, extending all across the front of the chancel, but I am
thankful to say such instances are very rare."
"Will you kindly tell me the origin of the chancel screen?"
"It was formerly called the rood screen, or rood gallery, and where the rood
has been restored, it is still properly so called. The Gospel used to be read

from this gallery, and sometimes the psalms were sung there by the priests
and choristers. The custom of reading the Gospel from this position was
evidently intended to express a special respect for this portion of God's
Word; and so, for the same reason, now the Gospel is read from the north
side of the chancel, whilst the Epistle is read from the south. The rood[136],
which consisted of a crucifix with the figure of the Blessed Virgin on one
side, and of St. John on the other, was placed at the top of the screen. Over
this, and between the chancel arch and the roof, the wall was painted, the
subject usually being the Doom, or representation of the Last Judgment. To
replace this, it would seem that, at the Reformation, the Commandments
were ordered to be painted at the east end of the church."
"You think, then," said the Squire, "that the order in the canons does not
refer to the east end of the chancel?"
"It is a disputed point, but I think not. Had the chancel been intended, I
think it would have been so stated. Besides, it was ordered that they should
be so placed that the 'people could best see and read the same,' and certainly
they could not do the latter if they were painted at the east end of the
chancel. Indeed, I regard that as the least convenient and appropriate place
in the whole church for them. If we have them any where, the east end of
the nave or aisles is the best place for them; but, really, the need to have
them at all is now passed away, as those who can read, can read the
Commandments in their Bibles and Prayer Books; and for those who
cannot, it is useless placing them on the walls of the church[137]. However,
it is far better to have the Commandments over the chancel arch than the
royal arms. It is wonderful how silly people become when they have a
superstitious dread of superstition. For instance, I know a church where the
congregation were offended by an old painting in the church, the subject of
which was at least calculated to inspire solemn thoughts, yet could be
contented that the most conspicuous object in the church should be a
hideous representation of the royal arms, with this sentence below it in large
characters: 'Mrs. Jemima Diggs, widow, gave this painting of the Queen's
arms, A.D. 1710[138].' I should like to know what there is in that to remind
us that we are in the House of God?"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHANCEL
"In this place is One greater than the
temple."
S. Matt. xii. 6.

"Our life lies eastward: every day
Some little of that mystic way
By trembling feet is trod:
In thoughtful fast, and quiet feast,
Our thoughts go travelling to the East
To our incarnate God.
Fresh from the Font, our childhood's prime,
To life's most oriental time,—

"Still doth it eastward turn in prayer,
And rear its saving altar there:
Still doth it eastward turn in creed,
While faith in awe each gracious deed
Of her dear Saviour's love doth plead;
Still doth it turn at every line
To the fair East—in sweet mute sign
That through our weary strife and pain,
We crave our Eden back again."

Faber.

THE CHANCEL
hope you and my friend Mr. Beeland here are now working
"I harmoniously together at Droneworth," said Mr. Ambrose to Sir John
Adamley, as with Mr. Acres and the Vicar of Droneworth they were
enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll in the gardens of the Hall.
"Well, I think we must say yes and no to that, for though we have never had
any difference of opinion respecting the restoration of our church since the
evening when I first had the pleasure of meeting you—and, indeed, I am
proud, and we are all proud, of our renovated and beautiful church—yet
there is one point on which we cannot quite agree. You see I am Lay Rector,
and though I have long ago given up my old selfish idea about pews, and
only claim the space in the church which I really want to occupy, yet I do
consider that, as the chancel belongs to me, I have a right to a place there
for my family and servants, as well as for myself. But, unfortunately, Mr.
Beeland thinks otherwise."
"The chancel is furnished with handsome oak stalls for the choristers, I
believe; as every chancel ought to be. You propose, if I understand you, to
remove the choristers, and to occupy the stalls for yourselves and servants?"
"I think I have a right to do so."
"The right is very doubtful. The position of a lay rector is altogether an
anomalous one; but the duty and the privilege connected with it are, to my
mind, definite and plain enough. The duty is to keep out the wind and water
from the chancel, the privilege is to receive the great tithes of the parish.
Now, of course, this privilege and duty were originally never intended to be
associated with other than a spiritual office. The tithes were for the support
of the parish priest, and in return for them, there was laid upon him not only
the spiritual supervision of the parish, but also the duty of keeping the shell
of that portion of the church which was occupied by him and the assisting
clerks sound and entire. Now, of course, the rector, being a priest, had a
right to his proper place in the chancel; and I by no means deny that the lay
rector succeeds to the same right; but my belief is that the right (if any)

extends no farther than himself. He represents the clerical rector, who
certainly could only claim a right to a seat for himself, and it is my opinion
the layman can claim no more. But, my dear sir, this is surely a case where
higher considerations than mere legal rights should have influence. Even if
you have the right, ought you not to waive it? For you cannot doubt that the
chancel was never built to supply seats for the Squire's family, but for the
priest and those whose office it is specially to assist him in leading the
prayers and praises of the congregation. No church is properly ordered
where the chancel stalls are not occupied by the choir; and you can only
rightly occupy a place there as one of them. So I venture to advise you to
follow the example of our friend Mr. Acres, and next Sunday put on a
surplice, and take your place as a member of the choir, for you have a good
bass voice, which would be of great assistance there."
"So you really think my claims as a lay rector should come down to this?"
"Nay, I think they should come up to this, for your highest, as well as most
fitting office as a lay rector, is to assist in his duties the Vicar of your
parish."
"Well, I will think about that. You have studied these matters much more
deeply than I have, and you always have the best of the argument. But I
have something more to say. I should like to have your opinion as to the
proper arrangement and furniture of the whole of the chancel[139], for ours
has not yet been completed, and I have undertaken to finish it."
"I will gladly give you my opinion on the subject. Of course, the altar
should be the central and principal object in the church. For this reason, the
east of the chancel should be the highest part, but for evident reasons the
whole of the chancel should be higher than the nave[140]. There should be a
marked difference between the chancel—or choir, and the sanctuary—or
space immediately surrounding the altar; a difference which had its type in
the 'Holy Place' and the 'Holy of Holies' of the Jewish temple. The lectern—
or desk, from which the lessons are read, and the faldstool—or Litany desk,
may be either just without or within the chancel screen. The sedilia[141]—a
stone recess for the seats of the officiating clergy, with the piscina[142]—
should be on the south side, and the credence[143] table may be on the north
or south side of the altar. The reredos[144], at the east end of the chancel,

should be the most costly and elaborate part of the church, as it is connected
with the most dignified portion of the building. Its most prominent feature
should be the symbol of our salvation, and whatever adornment is
employed, it should have distinct reference to the 'sacrifice of the death of
Christ.' Empty niches should here and every where be carefully avoided; for
they have little beauty and no meaning. Without their tenants, they are
ridiculous forms of ornamentation, for the corbel—or bracket, has no
meaning unless it is intended to support a figure, nor its canopy, unless
intended to shelter and protect one. I have seen slabs containing epitaphs
and the armorial bearings of private persons, as well as the royal shield,
substituted for a proper reredos, but this is a sad profanation[145]. There is
one thing worse; and that is engraving armorial bearings on the sacred
vessels. The prayer desk[146] should form part of the choir stalls, and look in
the same direction; this desk should not face the congregation, as the priest
does not preach the prayers to the congregation, but says the prayers with
them. When the Absolution is said, the case is different, and the propriety of
the change of posture and position is evident. This is directly addressed to
the congregation, and to be 'pronounced by the priest standing.' So in the
Communion Office the Priest is directed to stand up, and, turning himself to
the people, pronounce the Absolution."
"I quite acknowledge the justness of what you say on these points, and shall
gladly avail myself of your further counsel; specially I shall be grateful for
your advice respecting the construction of the altar, and providing its
proper furniture: but I have now already trespassed so long on your time,
that I must only ask you to explain one thing more, and that is the meaning
of the two little hollow square places in the north wall of our chancel."
"They formerly were closets, and had doors, no doubt, of carved oak. They
are commonly called almeries, and are to be found in all old churches, their
use in the chancel being to hold the sacred vessels used at the altar; even
where they can no longer be utilized, they ought to be preserved as objects
of interest[147]."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE ALTAR
"We have an altar."
Heb. xiii. 10.

"Whene'er I seek the holy altar's rail,
And kneel to take the grace there offer'd me,
It is no time to task my reason frail,
To try Christ's words, and search how they may be.

Enough, I eat His flesh, and drink His blood;
More is not told—to ask it is not good.

"I will not say with these, that bread and wine
Have vanish'd at the consecration prayer;
Far less, with those, deny that aught Divine,
And of immortal seed, is hidden there.
Hence, disputants! The din which ye admire
Keeps but ill measure with the church's choir."

Lyra Apostolica.

THE ALTAR

I t was late in the evening before the other guests had left the Hall, and our
four friends sat down together in the library, without fear of interruption,
to continue the conversation of the afternoon.
"I should like you to tell me, Mr. Ambrose," said Sir John, "whether you
consider that the word altar is properly applied to a table made of wood."
"Oh, most certainly it is. The term is equally applicable, whether the altar
be made of wood or stone. No doubt stone was the material first used[148],
yet at so early a period as the building of the tabernacle, we read that God
commanded Moses to make an altar of wood[149]. In the earliest days of the
Christian Church the altars were, probably without exception, made of
wood; but afterwards it became the practice to erect them of stone, and
from the sixth[150] to the sixteenth century this rule was all but universal."
"How is the change to be accounted for?"
"During the persecutions of the early Christians under the heathen
Emperors of Rome, they resorted, as you are aware, to the subterranean
catacombs there, as the only places where they could, in comparative safety,
hold their religious services. Here the stone altar-tombs of those who had
suffered martyrdom offered the most convenient and fitting altars for the
celebration of the Holy Eucharist. In after times, when the Church was
prosperous and at peace, the remembrance of these altar-tombs not only
suggested the material for the Christian altar, but also the custom of erecting
it over the relics of saints and martyrs. This custom of building the altar
over the bones of martyrs (which is still continued in the Roman Church,
but which has for many years ceased to be the practice in our own), is,
moreover, supposed to have reference to that mysterious vision in the
Revelation of St. John, which you will remember he thus describes: 'When
the Lamb had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them
that were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony which they
held[151].'

"The use of stone instead of wood was, no doubt, adopted also for other
reasons than the one I have stated. Stone altars were less liable to
desecration; they possess, too, a symbolism of their own, representing both
the incarnation and entombment of our Blessed Lord[152]. The scriptural
symbol of a Rock[153], as representing our Lord, might appear to be more
evidently connected with the stone than the wooden altar, but this symbol
must always be associated with the idea of altar, of whatever material it is
made. The wooden altar, on the other hand, may seem to refer more directly
to the institution of the Lord's Supper; and the altar candlesticks have, of
course, a peculiar and very manifest appropriateness when the altar is so
considered."
"But surely, my friend, the word table seems to be here exactly applicable."
"Yes, so it is; but you must not try to separate things which are inseparable.
Every altar is a table, though every table is not an altar. Both terms are
correct, but the one must not be supposed to exclude the other; and it would
be strange indeed if, having a priest and an oblation[154], the church should
be without an altar. The top slab of the altar is the table[155], whether it is
made of wood or stone. Where this slab is of stone, it has from early times
been considered to represent the stone rolled to the mouth of the sepulchre
of our Lord. In the Greek Church the seal that was set on the stone[156] is
represented by the consecrated wafer; in the Roman Church this seal is
represented by the small square stone let into the centre of the altar
table[157]. In the primitive Church there was but one altar in each church,
but afterwards it became a custom to erect many others, dedicated to as
many saints and martyrs. This was the custom in our own Church—just as it
is still in the Roman Church—before Queen Elizabeth ordered all altars to
be removed in every church, except the high altar, which is the only one we
now retain; and, for my part, I certainly wish for no other. But at the same
time all stone altars were ordered to be removed, and then altars of wood
were once more placed in almost every church. I am sorry to say the old
stone altars were broken up and desecrated. Some few, however, of them
escaped[158], and many more have since that time been erected. There are
probably hundreds of stone altars to be found in our cathedrals, college
chapels, and parish churches, and I don't suppose (though some seem to do
so) that people attach more superstitious meaning to them than to the most

modern oaken Communion table. But, as I said before, to my mind it is
indifferent whether the altar be of wood or stone."
"I should like your opinion about the proper furniture for the altar."
"First, with regard to its covering: the canon directs that the altar shall be
covered with 'a carpet of silk, or other decent stuff' on ordinary occasions,
and with 'a fair linen cloth' at the time of the celebration of Holy
Communion. This order allows considerable liberty as to colour and
pattern; but it appears to imply that it should be as rich as the circumstances
of each case will allow[159]. Where cloths of more than one colour are used,
these five—in accordance with very ancient practice—are commonly
employed as specially adapted to the different seasons of the Christian year:
white, at Christmas and certain other festivals, as emblematical of purity;
red, as representing the blood of martyrs, and at Pentecost, as emblematic
of the fiery tongues; green, for general use, as the prevailing colour of
nature, and a sort of middle colour between the rest in use; violet and black
as colours of mourning."
"But, surely, this variety is unnecessary?"
"Most assuredly. Nevertheless, where they can conveniently be had, they
are appropriate, and teach their own lesson. It was not necessary to put a
cloth of black on the altar at Droneworth when your father died two years
since; and I am doubtful whether Mr. Beeland was quite right in doing so.
But surely if you thought it was right for him to do this at the funeral of a
mere mortal man, you cannot say that it is wrong to use a black altar-cloth
on Good Friday; and, of course, the same argument applies to all the rest.
With regard to the custom in some places of covering half the church with
black for a month, because some rich man has died in the parish—I say
plainly that I regard that as next to impiety and profanation."
"I see the justness of your words. What do you say to cushions on the
altar?"
"Say! they ought never to be there. I can imagine nothing more out of place.
I have often wondered for what purpose they could originally have been put
there. They are certainly not required, nor yet convenient as a rest for the
Altar Service Book. It is too shocking to suppose they were intended to

enable the priest to rest his arms and head softly on God's altar! I have
sometimes fancied I see their origin in an old custom observed in the
Roman Church of placing the two lambs, whose wool was used for making
the palls[160] with which the Bishop of Rome invests his archbishops with
their archiepiscopal authority, on two richly embroidered cushions, one of
which was placed on the north, the other on the south side of the altar; but I
know not. A desk of brass or oak is convenient to support the office-book,
and two candles are ordered to be placed on the altar."
"But, my dear sir, I am told that is a very Romish custom."
"Well, Sir John, and so it is a very Romish custom to say the Lord's Prayer,
and it is a very Hindoo custom for a wife to love her husband with a special
devotion; but we shall not, for either reason, be disposed to blame either
custom. The thing with us, like every thing else, is either right or wrong in
itself, independent of the use of any other Church. But it so happens that
this is the very reverse to a Romish custom, for these two candles were
ordered to be placed on the altar in direct opposition to the custom of the
Roman Catholic Church[161]. Nothing can be more expressive, and utterly
unobjectionable, than the symbolism of these two candles (of course, it is
not necessary that they should be lighted in order to preserve their
emblematic meaning), and I should be very sorry to see this simple
symbolism broken into by the introduction of more than two lights upon the
altar[162]. I have not by any means mentioned all that is required for the
service of the altar; I have only spoken of its ordinary furniture. That which
is specially required for the Eucharistic services is, doubtless, already
provided in your church."
"Before we say good-night," said Mr. Acres, "let me ask you one question
indirectly connected with this subject. I notice that many of my neighbours
receive the consecrated bread on the palm of the hand, some holding both
hands in the form of a cross. I suppose this is in accordance with your
instruction: I should like to know the reason for it. Where there are high
altar-rails—which I much object to, and which, of course, are altogether
unnecessary when the chancel screen is properly arranged, as with us—this
custom would be very inconvenient."

"The short rail, north and south, for the use of the aged and infirm, is
certainly all that is required. As regards the manner of receiving the sacred
element, to which you refer, I certainly have recommended it, and for these
reasons: it is much more convenient both for the priest and the
communicant; it avoids all danger of any portion of the bread falling on the
floor; and it is most in accordance with the rubric, which directs that the
minister shall deliver the communion into the hands of the recipients."
"Thank you. I consider your reasons as amply sufficient, and I see no
possible objection to the custom."

CHAPTER XXV

THE ORGAN-CHAMBER
"Samuel ministered before the Lord,
being a child, girded with a linen
ephod."
1 Sam. ii. 18.

"But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowèd roof,
With antique pillars, massy proof,
And storied windows, richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes."

Il Penseroso.

THE ORGAN-CHAMBER.
nd so, Harry, my boy, you have really made up your mind to be a
"A chorister?" said Mr. Ambrose to old Matthew's grandson, one Sunday
morning.
"Yes, if you please, sir," was his reply. "Grandfather says he should like me
to be one."
"And you wish it yourself, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You are a well-conducted boy, and God has given you a good
musical voice, so we shall be very pleased to have you amongst us. But you
must never forget that there is not only a high honour, but also a very
solemn responsibility connected with the office of a chorister. Always
remember, then, that you are in a very especial way God's servant, that His
eye is upon you, and that He will expect you to do your duty in the very
best way you possibly can. You must sing and give praise with the best
member that you have[163]—that is, you must devote to God's praise and
glory the very best service you can render. You are a little boy to talk to
about setting a good example to a congregation, composed for the most part
of persons so much older than yourself, but yet that is one of your chief
duties. When you are in the choir, the eyes of all the congregation are upon
you, and they should not only hear you singing as well as you can, and so
be led themselves to join heartily in the musical parts of the service, but
also at all other times they should see you reverent and devout in your
conduct; and be sure, my boy, this good and serious behaviour of yours will
have its influence upon others, though perhaps they may be hardly
conscious of it. Now there is enough in this to make you very serious, but
yet the thought that God permits you in your young years thus to help in
promoting His glory, and to be such a blessing to your fellow-creatures,
should make you very happy and very thankful to Him." ...

Before the commencement of the Morning Prayers little Harry was
solemnly admitted a member of the choir. The ceremony was a very simple,
but yet a very solemn one. On this occasion the usual order of entering the
church was reversed. Mr. Ambrose came first, then the eight senior
members of the choir, then the seven boy choristers, and last came Harry.
All wore their surplices except Harry, and he carried his new little surplice
on his arm. During the procession solemn music was played on the organ.
As soon as it ceased, all knelt down to say their private prayers, Harry
kneeling on a cushion prepared for him at the entrance to the chancel. It was
the custom at St. Catherine's for all the congregation to stand up when the
priest and choir entered; which custom, besides being a mark of respect for
His presence to whom they were about to dedicate their worship and
service, had this advantage—that it induced all to say their private prayers
at the same time, and thus avoided much confusion; it tended also to
prepare the mind at once to enter into the spirit of the public service.
After a short pause, Mr. Ambrose read a portion of the third chapter of the
first book of Samuel. He then addressed Harry in these words:—
"Henry, before I proceed to admit you a member of the choir of this church,
you must promise, before God and this congregation, that in the solemn
office on which you are about to enter, you will always strive above all
things to promote His glory. Do you so promise?"
Little Harry, in a timid, trembling voice, answered, "I do so promise."
The Vicar and choir then sang, alternately, the following sentences:—
Priest.—"Our help is in the name of the Lord;"
Choir.—"Who made heaven and earth."
P.—"O Lord, bless and keep this Thy servant;"
C.—"Who putteth his trust in Thee."
P.—"Accept his service in this Thy House;"
C.—"And make the voice of Thy praise to be glorious."
P.—"Lord, hear our prayer;"

C.—"And let our crying come unto Thee."
Mr. Ambrose then read these verses:—
"And it came to pass, when the priests were come out of the holy place—
also the Levites, which were the singers, all of them of Asaph, of Heman, of
Jeduthun, with their sons and their brethren, being arrayed in white linen,
having cymbals and psalteries and harps, stood at the east end of the altar,
and with them an hundred and twenty priests sounding with trumpets:—it
came even to pass as the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one
sound to be heard in praising and thanking the Lord; and when they lifted
up their voice with the trumpets and cymbals, and instruments of music,
and praised the Lord, saying, For He is good; for His mercy endureth for
ever: that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the
Lord; so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud:
for the glory of the Lord had filled the house of God[164]."
The choir then sang, "Glory be to Thee, O God," during which time the
senior choir boy led little Harry into the middle of the choir, where he knelt
down on a cushion prepared for him.
Mr. Ambrose then said this prayer: "O most merciful Father, before whom
'Samuel ministered, being a child, girded with a linen ephod,' give, we pray
Thee, to this Thy youthful servant such gifts as shall enable him to sing Thy
praise, and promote Thy glory in this Thy Temple, and grace to worship
Thee acceptably in the beauty of holiness, and to adorn the doctrine of
Christ his Saviour in all things. Amen."
Harry then stood up, and as Mr. Ambrose placed on him his little surplice,
he said,—
"Henry, I robe you in this surplice in token that you are now set apart to be
a chorister, and, together with those around you, to assist in the high and
glorious work of leading the praises of God in this church: let the whiteness
of this robe always remind you of that purity which should mark the service
you here offer up to God. I pray you never, either here or elsewhere, to
disgrace this robe of your solemn office. What you sing with your lips
believe in your heart, and what you believe in your heart fulfil in your life;
and may God so bless and protect you, that when this life is ended, you may

join that angel choir who in robes of white sing before the Throne, 'Glory to
God and to the Lamb for ever and ever.' Amen."
The new chorister then took his place in the choir, whilst the organ almost
thundered the following chorus, in which all joined:—
"O Great and Mighty God, with angels and archangels we laud and magnify
Thy glorious name. Amen."
The usual morning service then proceeded. Many eyes were fixed on the
earnest, thoughtful little face that appeared for the first time in the choir;
and with not a little pardonable pride did old Matthew watch the hearty
efforts of his grandson to fulfil the promise he had just made.
It had long been a custom for the Vicar and Mr. Mendles, the organist, to
partake of a late meal at the Hall when their Sunday duties were ended; and
on this Sunday evening the Squire accompanied them home from church.
"Our little friend," said he, "will be quite an acquisition to the choir; he has
a very sweet voice."
"Yes, he has," replied the Vicar; "and what is of no less importance, he is
sure to conduct himself well. But, for that matter, I have no reason to
complain of any one of our choir; for, thanks to Mr. Mendles, and to their
own sense of propriety, I don't believe there is a better conducted choir in
any parish than ours."
"That is very much owing to your allowing no men to be there who are not
communicants."
"That's a good rule, no doubt, and accounts, perhaps, more than any thing
for their reverent behaviour. You well know, Mr. Mendles, there was little
reverence enough once."
"The great difficulty," said Mr. Mendles, "is to persuade the choir that they
should sing to God, with the congregation, not to the congregation. I strive
both to learn myself, and to teach them, that our singing should be worship,
not the mere exhibition of talent, and that we ought to rejoice when the
congregation join in, not when they only listen to our hymns and chants. I
believe we have now learnt the lesson, and are the happier for it."

"And we all feel the benefit of that lesson too," said the Vicar, "for whereas
formerly nothing but flashy tunes which enabled them to show off their own
talent would please the choir, we have now, thank God, a solemn and
devotional character in the music of our liturgical services, and a joyful
gladness in the music of our hymns—equally far removed from levity and
from mournfulness—which, with our praises and our prayers, seem to float
up our very souls to heaven."
"I think we must attribute the success of our musical services in some
measure to the new position of the organ, must we not, Mr. Mendles?" said
the Squire.
"Most certainly. There can be no doubt that the most convenient position for
the organ-chamber is either on the north or south side of the chancel; or, if
the organ is divided, on both sides. It is a misfortune that, as organs were
but little known when most of our old churches were erected[165], we find
no fitting place provided for them in the original structure. There is,
however, no excuse for our modern architects who are guilty of such an
omission; and it is a matter of surprise to me that they do not make the
organ-chamber a feature of more prominence and greater beauty, both
externally and internally, than they are accustomed to do."
"True," said the Squire; "specially as in our days the organ is regarded as all
but a necessity in every church. Certainly, there is no musical instrument so
suitable for congregational worship, for whilst it represents all kinds of
music, it exactly realizes the description given in the account of the
dedication of the temple which Mr. Ambrose read this morning, and brings
together the cymbals and the psalteries and the harps, and the trumpeters
and the singers 'as one.'
"It is a curious fact—is it not, sir?—that whereas the presence of organs in
our churches used to be the source of great offence to Dissenters in this
country, and has recently been the subject of much dispute among
Presbyterian Dissenters, yet you can now hardly find a Dissenting meeting-
house of any size but can boast of its organ, and often a very good one too.
Let us hope, Mr. Vicar, that ere long they, may become reconciled also to
other things in our Church which now they may regard with the same horror
with which they once looked upon the church organ."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE VESTRY
"Let all things be done decently and in
order."
1 Cor. xiv. 40.

"Avoid profaneness! Come not here.
Nothing but holy, pure, and clear,
Or that which groaneth to be so,
May at his peril farther go."

George Herbert.

THE VESTRY

T o the close friendship which existed between the Squire and the Vicar,
constantly cemented by such meetings as we have just described, was
owing, in a considerable degree, the general harmony and goodwill which
made St. Catherine's one of the most peaceful villages in England. When,
many years ago, Mr. Ambrose first became Vicar there, he felt it his duty to
make many changes in a parish which had been long neglected, and in a
church which was almost a ruin. His labours were then regarded with much
suspicion and disfavour; but he had now been long enough resident in the
parish to live down all that hostile feeling. Nevertheless, it was not all peace
at St. Catherine's. From time to time there would be an importation of cross-
grained malcontents, who usually succeeded in stirring up some parochial
strife.
Such had for some time past been the laudable occupation of William Strike
and his too faithful companion, whom, by kind permission of Mr. Gallio,
the registrar, he was allowed to call his wife. He had never promised to love
her, and she had never promised to obey him, and on these little points each
scrupulously maintained a right to act in perfect independence of the other:
nevertheless, they heartily united in a common effort to instil into the minds
of their neighbours a feeling of hostility to wards the church; and some
discord in the parish was the natural consequence. An opportunity offered
on the morning of Easter Monday for Strike to find a full vent for all his
spleen.
It is a sad, sad thought, that at this season of the Christian year, when all
should be peace, the bitterness of party strife should break up the harmony
of so many parishes. But so it is; and so it was at St. Catherine's; and this
one man was at the bottom of all the mischief.
"I am sorry to see you are going to the vestry this morning, William," said
Mr. Dole, as they met in the village street.
"I've as much right there as you have, I suppose," he replied; "you're going
to support the Vicar, and I'm going to oppose him thick and thin."

"Peace is better than war, William."
"Well, you used to be on our side once, and I should like to know what's
made you turn round?"
"It would take too long to answer that question fully, William. It will be
enough if I tell you that where I thought I knew most, I found myself all
wrong; and the more I thought and inquired, the more convinced I was that
there could be only one true Church committed by Christ to His Apostles
and their successors, and that to separate from that, and cause division and
schism, must be a sin. After long and prayerful consideration, and many
conversations with Mr. Ambrose on the subject, I was convinced that the
sect to which I belonged—and you do still—was not the one true Church;
and so I left it."
"Well, I don't mean to leave it; and I don't mean that the parson shall have it
all his own way in this parish."
Mr. Dole had in vain tried to bring his companion to a better mind when
they reached the vestry[166]. It was a small chamber on the opposite side of
the chancel to the organ[167], and there was a sombreness about it that
harmonized with the solemn use for which it was intended. On the eastern
side were two small windows filled with stained glass, and over them, in
large letters, was the sentence, "Let thy priests be clothed with
righteousness, and let thy saints sing with joyfulness." Between these two
windows stood an oaken table, on which was a small desk or lectern; and on
this, written in beautifully illuminated characters, were the prayers used by
Mr. Ambrose and the choir before and after the Church services. Before the
table was a small embroidered kneeling cushion for the priest at these times.
The parish chest[168], and two ancient chairs, all of oak and richly carved,
completed the furniture of the vestry; whilst on its walls were hung the
surplices of the choir and the vestments of the priest[169].
The meeting was called together for the double purpose of electing
churchwardens and making a church-rate, and it was soon evident to the
Vicar that Strike and his friends had come determined on a stormy meeting.
But few angry words, however, had been spoken, when Mr. Ambrose rose
and said, "My friends, I had hoped that this meeting would have been

conducted in that spirit of Christian charity and peacefulness which has
been our custom; but as I find this is not to be the case, I will not allow any
part of God's House to be desecrated by the exhibition of party animosity
and angry strife[170]. This vestry is known to those of you who are
associated with me in conducting our religious services, as the place of holy
meditation and solemn prayer; nor are its associations less sacred to those
among you who have come here, with unquiet consciences or troubled
minds, to seek my counsel and advice. All around us here, my friends,
reminds us of the service of a God of love; so if the Demon of Discord must
come into our little parish, let this place, at least, not be the scene of his
unhallowed presence."
It was then proposed to adjourn the meeting to the house of Mr. Walton; and
he, having both a good heart under his waistcoat, and a large room in his
house, readily agreed to the proposal. He was, moreover, one of the
churchwardens, and, though the village blacksmith, was a man in good
circumstances, and exercised considerable influence for good in the parish.
Nothing can be less profitable than to read the "foolish talking" which
commonly characterizes a discordant vestry meeting; we will, therefore,
pass that over. The churchwardens were re-elected, and the church-rate was
carried. The Vicar then endeavoured to pour oil upon the troubled waters by
delivering a kind and friendly address, which he ended in these words: "Mr.
Strike tells you that he will always oppose the Church so long as it is in any
way supported by the State. But let me remind him that the Church did not
receive from the State the possessions with which she is endowed for the
maintenance of true religion in this land. Those were, for the most part,
given to our Church by pious men and women, many hundreds of years
ago; and the State, in securing these to us, is only acting with common
honesty, and doing no more for the Church than it does for every other
society—indeed, for every person—in the country. But Mr. Strike tells you,
too, he will not give a penny for keeping up the fabric of the Church,
because he is a Dissenter. Now, my friends, to take the very lowest view of
the Church, and regarding her temples only as places in which a high
standard of morality is set up, it is surely for the advantage of the State, and
for the community, that they should be maintained; and, therefore, all
should help to maintain them. 'Yes,' you say, 'but we teach morality, too, in
our little Salem Chapel at Droneworth: why should not our meeting-house

be supported as much as your Church?' My answer is, that your Salem
Chapel may any day share the fate of the Little Bethel Meeting-House that
used to be in our parish. Besides, on your own principles, you cannot accept
State aid to keep it up. Of course I have myself higher reasons for
considering it the duty of the State to secure the proper reparation of the
fabric of our churches; but I have only taken the lowest ground; I think,
however, that even that is firm enough to bear the weight of the whole
argument. But now, my friends, let us part in peace, and let all angry feeling
die away."
"The church-rates will soon be done away with altogether, depend upon it,
sir," shouted Mr. Strike, in a tone which was an evident protestation against
that spirit of peace which Mr. Ambrose was so anxious should pervade his
parish.
"It may be so," said the Vicar; "and if so, I believe and pray that God will
overrule even that for the benefit of His Church."
And so the St. Catherine's vestry ended.
"I am heartily glad," said Mr. Acres to the Vicar, "that we did not have all
that row in the church to-day. Sorry as I am to make Mr. Walton's house the
scene of such discord, yet I am sure he would far rather have it here than in
the church vestry."
"Any where's better than the church," said Mr. Walton, "for such quarrels as
these."
"By the bye," said Mr. Acres, as they both rose to depart, "do you remember
the time when the churchwardens used to retire to the vestry before the
conclusion of the service to count up the alms? We could, you know, hear
the jingling of the money during all the later prayers of the service, and a
most indecent interruption it was. How far more seemly is your custom of
reverently presenting the alms at the altar, where it remains till the close of
the service. And I am so grateful to you for abandoning that objectionable
and most ridiculous custom of holding the plates at the church door. The
custom seemed so completely to do away with the idea of almsgiving as an
act of worship. How many a wickedly grotesque scene has occurred at the
door of our own church, plainly showing that many who contributed their

alms simply gave them to Mr. Walton or Mr. Acres, and least of all thought
of giving them to God. Nay, so anxious was dear old Lady Angelina
Hilltower and her daughter to confer upon us equal honour, and to avoid
any just cause of jealousy between us, that they used to create quite a
pantomime at the door whenever there was a collection, by crossing over to
put half-a-crown in each plate, making at the same time a profound
obeisance to each of us."
"Yes," said Mr. Acres, "I certainly am glad all that's done away with; but I'm
more glad that at last we have been able to get rid altogether of the plates
for collecting the offertory, and to substitute Bags. There has been some
opposition, as you are aware; some pleaded long custom as a reason for
retaining the plates, and some, who were rather proud of their stereotyped
shilling, did not wish their benevolence to be hidden. In fact all those who
did their alms before men, to be seen of them, were of course hostile to the
change."
"I know," said the Squire, "that some were at first offended, but none knew
why. I never heard the faintest approach to a reasonable objection to this
plainly scriptural manner of secret almsgiving; nor did I ever hear an
argument of any weight in favour of the plate system, except that it
sometimes forces money from unwilling contributors, and that argument is
too contemptible to notice.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE PILLARS
"The church of the living God, the pillar
and ground of the truth."

1 Tim. iii. 15.

"See, the Church her head once more hath lifted;
Seemly order dwells within her gate;
God-sent art adorns her holy precincts,
And no more she lieth desolate.

"What is it that she is saying, brothers?
All the subtle skill of graver's hand,
All the heavenward shafts, and bended arches,
Utter speech to those that understand.

"You can hear them telling some things loudly,
Telling of ungrudging love and care;
But I catch an inner voice that pleadeth
Soft and sweet, like music in the air.

"And it saith,—from every wreathèd column,
Every leafy carving, breathing low,—
'Take our message, O ye living temples,
Fold it in your breasts, before ye go.

"'Purge the shrine of your own souls within you
From all stain of pride and sloth and sin,
Grace it with all saintly decoration:
Then your God shall come and dwell within.'"

W. W. H.

THE PILLARS

I t was the day before the Festival of the Ascension, and Ascension Day
being not only one of the greatest festivals of the Christian year, but
being, moreover, the day on which the people of St. Catherine's were used
to commemorate with great rejoicing the restoration of their now beautiful
temple, old Matthew and the Vicar were busily engaged assisting those of
the parishioners, old and young, who had the time to spare and were
sufficiently skilful, in decorating the church with flowers and evergreens.
"I remember, sir, when I was a boy, we used to call those twelve pillars that
the ladies are putting the flowers on, the twelve Apostles," said old Matthew.
"It's a common number in large churches," replied the Vicar, "and the name
for them which you remember is not an unusual one. I remember one
church where there are eleven pillars, and the old sexton told me they stood
for eleven of the Apostles, and that there would have been twelve, but Judas
was omitted. The pillars of the church, as the chief supports of the fabric,
are said to represent the Apostles, Prophets, and Martyrs[171]. As I have
often told you, there is hardly a part of the church without its special
meaning: 'even the smallest details should have a meaning, or serve a
purpose[172],' and whatever has a meaning serves a purpose, and whatever
serves a purpose, has a meaning, and a very important one too. The four
main walls of the building have a similar meaning to the pillars. They are
supposed to represent the four Evangelists[173]. The stones of which they
are composed represent Christians—the living stones of the spiritual
building[174]; the cement which joins them together is charity, 'the bond of
perfectness[175]' which binds together the members of the Christian Church.
The door[176] represents the means of entrance to the invisible kingdom; the
windows remind us of that sacred presence which keeps out the storm of
angry and sinful life, and admits the light of Christ and His Word. You see,
Matthew, the old church builders were themselves Churchmen; sometimes
even bishops were famous architects, like Gundulph, Bishop of Rochester,
and William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester; and then they made

themselves felt in all their works—I mean, they gave a religious character
and meaning to all parts of the structure they reared. And so there were
always a hundred preachers in the Church, though not a tongue uttered a
single word."
"I understand what you mean, sir—the stones were the preachers."
"Just so, Matthew; and then the churches were always open, and people
used to go and meditate and pray there at all hours; for in church they found
themselves surrounded by so much that reminded them of Heaven and
God's presence, and sacred things, and so little to remind them of the world
and of sin, that they could think and pray there better than any where else.
But in after times the old churches became neglected and dilapidated, and
the new churches were so mean and cold and bare, that there was every
thing to chill and nothing to warm devotion, and so people gave up the good
old custom of going to hear the stones preach, and to say their daily prayers
to God in His sanctuary. But the time is coming back again, I am thankful to
say, and church builders are again good Churchmen, and regard the building
of churches as a sacred art and a religious work; and the people are less
contented to be ignorant about these things; and the churches are no longer
closed from Sunday night to the next Sunday morning, as they used to be."
"I haven't read my Bible right, Mr. Ambrose, if it isn't a very wicked thing
to allow God's House to go to decay. In our old church people seemed to
have forgotten all about the 'beauty of holiness,' both in their manner of
worship and in the house where they worshipped. They had their own
houses 'ceiled with cedar and painted with vermilion,' and this house was
'laid waste[177].' I have been told how grand Queen Victoria's Palace is, and
how beautiful the Parliament House is, and I have often thought that surely,
sir, the house of the great King of kings, and the great Ruler of all our rulers
should be grand and beautiful too. But our churchwardens not only didn't
try to make the old church beautiful, sir, but hid as much as possible of
whatever beauty they found."
"Too true, my friend," said the Vicar: "these old pillars had become so
coated over with whitewash that their rich carved work could hardly be
seen at all. Whitewash was the cheapest thing they could use to hide the

green damp and the plaster patches, and for that reason I suppose they used
it."
The work of decoration went on rapidly; the many busy hands soon effected
a wonderful change in the appearance of the church, which gave it a very
festive character. The choicest flowers were placed at the back of the altar,
others were used in various ecclesiastical designs, or woven into wreaths of
evergreens. The texts of Holy Scripture painted above the arches from pillar
to pillar were neatly framed in borders of evergreens, and wreaths of the
same were already twined around many of the columns[178].
The capitals of all the pillars were carved in imitation of the many wild
flowers and ferns which grew in the neighbourhood[179]. Although these
had been carved not less than five hundred years ago, the same wild flowers
were still to be found in the parish; and every year on Ascension Day it was
the custom at St. Catherine's to decorate each of these pillars with the same
natural flowers that had been imitated in stone. It was a pretty custom, for
as the natural leaves and flowers faded or were removed, their more
enduring likenesses were disclosed, and remained throughout the year the
faithful representatives of their bright and gay originals.
"Well, my dear," said the Vicar, addressing Ellen Walton, his
churchwarden's little daughter, "you have really shown great taste in
arranging those ferns; they look beautiful indeed."
"I deserve but little credit, sir, for any taste of my own," she replied, "for I
have but copied the stone carving as near as I could."
"Yes, but you do deserve great credit, as every body does who copies
exactly that which is worth copying. The workman who so cleverly imitated
in stone these beautiful works of God, in order to adorn God's House
throughout the year with memorials of His goodness in making our summer
fields so lovely, deserved much praise; and now, though yours is a lighter
task, that you have given life, as it were, to his work, by your nice
arrangement of leaf to leaf, and flower to flower, I must give you some
praise too. But I see you are anxious to ask me a question."
"Yes, sir. I was talking to Sally Strike this morning about the decorations,
and she says they are all nonsense and unmeaning; she says, too, it's very

wicked to put flowers about the church, for it's nothing but a heathen and
idolatrous custom. Of course, I don't much notice what she says about it,
but I don't very well know what to answer her, and I was going to ask you,
sir, to be kind enough to tell me."
"Sally Strike doesn't often say any thing very wise, my dear, and this is no
exception to the rule. You had better answer her out of her own mouth. Ask
her, when she gathered all the flowers her own garden could produce to
decorate the little 'Rehoboth'—as they call that meeting-house on
Wanderer's Heath—when they held their last 'love feast,' and had tea and
cake in their chapel, did she put the flowers there to make the place look
gloomy, or to make it look festive and gay? Or, why did she do the same
thing a little while ago, when they gave a children's treat in their meeting-
house? Was it because it was a time of sadness or of rejoicing? No doubt,
she will tell you it was the latter. Well, we decorate our churches for a
similar reason. We regard all the Christian festivals as seasons for great
gladness and rejoicing, and whilst at other times we are obliged, for the
most part, to content ourselves with such ornamentation of God's House as
our own poor imitations of the forms and colours of Nature can supply, on
these high days we press into the service of the temple the lovely originals
of all those forms and colours, fresh and pure as when they first left the
hand of their Divine Maker.
"'Tis true that the heathen used flowers in decorating their temples and
altars, and also their victims prepared for sacrifice[180]. But they used them
just as Sally Strike uses them at her meeting-house, for the sole purpose of
decoration. Now, though we use flowers to give a festive appearance to our
churches, our use of them has, too, always a meaning beyond that: how they
remind us of the love of God in arraying this earth with so much beauty for
our enjoyment; how they remind us of the pure and lovely delights of the
Paradise that is lost; and of our future resurrection[181] to a Paradise of yet
greater beauty. And it is from our Bibles that we learn to give, too, an
emblematic meaning to particular flowers, so that, whether carved by man,
or moulded by the hand of Nature, each one teaches its own useful lesson.
There we find the lily mentioned as the emblem of God's providence; the
rose as the type of youthful beauty; the cedar, of manly strength. Nay, my
dear Ellen, we may even find in Holy Scripture itself our authority for
decorating our churches with these pure and unsinning works of God. You

remember, no doubt, the verse to which I allude: 'The glory of Lebanon
shall come unto thee: the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to
beautify the place of My sanctuary[182]'."
"Thank you, sir, I quite understand your explanation. But Sally Strike said
she didn't object to the way the church used to be decorated thirty years ago,
when plain twigs of evergreen were put at the corners of the pews, and
some large branches fixed here and there on the walls; but she does not like
the triangles and circles and crosses, and the other designs we now use."
"And yet nothing could be more silly than the dislike, though I fear it is one
in which many—for mere want of thought—share. Surely, the twigs
themselves must be at least as harmless when bound together as when used
singly; and certainly it is better that they should be formed into beautiful
and religiously suggestive designs, than scattered unmeaningly about the
church. The cross, often repeated, reminds us, you know, of the one grand
pervading truth of our religion; the circle, of eternity; the triangle, of the
Holy Trinity. We almost even forget the beauty of the design itself in the
beauty of its symbol.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE ROOF
"Thou shalt overlay it with pure gold,
the roof thereof."
Exod. xxx. 3.

"Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely calculated less or more:
So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars,—spread that branching roof,
Self-poised, and scoped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Ling'ring and wand'ring on, as loth to die,
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality."

Wordsworth.

THE ROOF
'm glad to see you both among the helpers to-day," said the Vicar, as he
"I shook hands with William Hardy and Richard Atkinson, "though I
know this must cost you at least the value of a day's work."
The village carpenter and mason were always accustomed on these
occasions to give their services gratuitously.
"Very glad indeed to come and do the best we can, sir," replied William
Hardy, "though we couldn't quite agree about it at home, my wife and me,
till we'd talked it over a bit."
Now Hardy's wife, though not generally unamiable, was like many other
wives in this respect; namely, she had acquired a habit of always
questioning the wisdom or sincerity of her husband's actions, which she
could now no more shake off than she could her own identity.
"I'm sorry to hear that," said the Vicar; "but how was it?"
"Well, you see, sir, my wife says to me, 'William, you might turn your time
to better account than going up to the church with Richard Atkinson to-day.
You'd be able to earn five shillings, and that would just pay for the new
ribbon for my bonnet, which indeed I do want very much.' 'I really believe
you do, my dear,' says I, 'and so I must just alter my plans a little. I thought
I wanted a new Sunday hat very much indeed, and I was just going to buy
one at Master Dole's the other day, when thinks I to myself—no, I mustn't
buy it, because I shall lose a day's earnings at church next week, so I'll give
the new hat to the church, and have one for myself six months hence. But
that's no reason why you should lose your ribbons, so I'll over-work for a
few days, and earn the ribbons that way.' You see, Mr. Ambrose, I was
thinking of that text, 'God forbid that I should offer to the Lord my God of
that which doth cost me nothing.' Well, sir, them words softened her a good
deal; but then she says to me, 'William, what's the use of all them ornaments
at the church? I really do call it waste of time and money.' 'My dear,' says I,
'there's something better than use, I mean as you and I talk of use, there is

such a thing as doing things out of love and reverence for God, and for
nothing else, and that's what I should like to do if I can. There wasn't no
more use in the precious ointment which the good woman poured on our
Saviour's head, than in these ornaments we put up in His church. And you
know who it was that called that a waste, and you know who it was too that
praised her for what she did[183].' 'I think you're right,' says she; and so I
came away."
"And so you were, my friend. But it's hard to persuade people that there is
such a thing as a worship of adoration, prompted simply by a sense of love,
gratitude, veneration, entirely apart from all idea of benefit, advantage, or
use to ourselves in any way. As you rightly say, however, there is.—But I
see the children have finished the frames for the clerestory[184] windows, so
you had better put them up."
"You mean the windows just under the roof, sir?"
"Yes; it is not safe for them to climb so high."
"I suppose you won't attempt to carry your decorations higher than that, Mr.
Vicar?" said the Squire, as he approached to see how the work was going
on.
"No, that must satisfy us. Indeed, this roof is so rich in colour and carving
that we could hardly make it look more festive than it does."
"It is, indeed, a grand old roof; but I rather prefer the high-pitched roof of
the chancel to this flatter one of the nave, though certainly nothing can be
more beautiful than its carving. The figures of angels on the corbels[185]
supporting the principal timbers are exceedingly well done. What do you
imagine to be the dates of these two roofs?"
"I should say that that in the chancel was built about A.D. 1350, and this in
the nave about A.D. 1500. These flatter roofs of our perpendicular period do
not any of them date much farther back than A.D. 1500[186]."
"I quite agree with you in preferring the older high-pitch for our timber
roofs. By-the-bye, it is a curious conception that this particular kind of roof
has a likeness to the inverted keel of the ark[187]—itself an emblem of the

Christian Church. But I prefer to regard it, as I do the windows, and doors,
and arches of pointed architecture, as an emblem of the incompleteness of
our worship here. As I look up through the intricate multitude of timbers,
and my gaze becomes lost amid the dark top beams of the roof, my thoughts
are insensibly led higher still[188]. There is something in these lofty open
roofs that always seems to invite one's thoughts above them—so different
from the flat ceilings of most dissenting meeting-houses, and some of our
churches built a hundred years ago. To me these flat ceilings are very
depressing."
"Yes; and not a little irritating too, when you consider what splendid timber
roofs in old churches, they often conceal. Ugly, however, and objectionable
as they are, they have the one merit of being unpretending; and give me any
thing rather than a sham—a lath-and-plaster roof with papier-maché or
stucco bosses, and all sorts of painting and shading in perspective, in
imitation of wood or stone, making the poor roof guilty of a perpetual lie. I
do own that tries my temper immensely!"
"There can be no doubt, too, that the high-pitch better suits our variable
climate than any other. I fear, however, that many of those which were built
but a few years since are not very enduring. Young, or badly-seasoned
wood, thin, poor timbers, which cannot last long, have too often been put
into the roof. Sometimes this has been the dishonest act of the builder; but
we have been too much in the habit of building for ourselves only—not like
our forefathers, who put up those big masses of timber over our heads. They
built for themselves and for posterity too.

"'They dreamt not of a perishable home,
Who thus could build[189].'"

"Ah, yes! and that is, of course, especially true of those who erected the
noble stone roofs of our cathedrals, and many parish churches too. Nothing,
of course, can equal the stone roof with its beautiful carvings and
mouldings, richly gilt and coloured. Nothing like stone for colour! How
very beautiful is the deep blue, with its golden stars, over the altar in our
own cathedral! They look well in our own church, but the colours are richer
there, not so much faded. That representation of Heaven's canopy mantling

over the most holy part of our church always seems to me so very
appropriate and suggestive."
"It is a matter of surprise to me," said the Squire, "that more care has not
generally been taken to beautify the external part of our church roofs. What
relief is given to the long line of a nave roof by a good patterned row of
ridge tiles, or by some ornamental ironwork on the ridge! The gable cross
considerably relieves the chancel roof. And where the roof is of stone, why
don't we have richly-carved external, as well as internal, stone-work? That,
to my mind, is the perfection of a stone roof[190]."
At this point, the attention of both was directed to little Harry, old
Matthew's grandson, who, with a fixed expression of deep thoughtfulness,
was looking up to wards the roof of the church.
"Why so very serious just now, my dear boy? What may your thoughts be
about, Harry?" said the Vicar.
"Please, sir, I was wondering what they used to do with the roof-gallery,
where we've been putting the evergreens?"
"What does he mean by the roof-gallery?" said Mr. Acres.

"Oh, he means the triforium[191]."
"I must confess that is still more unintelligible to me. Please explain it to
me, as well as to Harry, for we are evidently equally ignorant about it."
"The triforium is the gallery you see just above the arches of the nave—
between them and the clerestory. It is not commonly found in parish
churches, but I believe all cathedrals have it. It generally extends nearly all
round the building. There are different opinions as to its original purpose.
Some suppose that it was reserved for the use of women. On the Continent,
it has been set apart for young men, or for strangers. It is the opinion of
some that it was merely built for affording ready access to the various parts
of the roof. As an architectural feature, it is very effective, and occupies a
space which would otherwise be a blank wall. In this country, however, we
know that it was often used for a similar purpose to that for which we have
now been using it—the ornamentation of the church on special festivals,

when banners and tapestry and other ornaments were suspended from the
several arches[192]."
"I have often, like little Harry, looked up at those arches and wondered what
they were built for; and, not knowing, I came to the conclusion that the
passage must have been used for religious processions."
"It is not at all improbable that occasionally they were so used. And I can
hardly imagine any thing more solemn than a torch-light procession of
chanting choristers threading their way round the sacred building, the sound
of their voices undulating in solemn cadence as they would pass the arches
of the triforium, and then dying away amid the groined or timber roof above
them."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE TOWER
"The house that is to be builded for the
Lord must be exceeding magnifical."
1 Chron. xxii. 5.

"Lift it gently to the steeple,
Let our bell be set on high;
There fulfil its daily mission,
Midway 'twixt the earth and sky.

"As the birds sing early matins
To the God of nature's praise,
This its nobler daily music
To the God of grace shall raise.

"And when evening shadows soften
Chancel-cross, and tower, and aisle,
It shall blend its vesper summons
With the day's departing smile.

"Year by year the steeple-music
O'er the tended graves shall pour
Where the dust of saints is garner'd,
Till the Master comes once more."

J. M. Neale.

THE TOWER

W hen the Vicar and the Squire met on their way to church the following
day, the conversation of the previous evening was thus resumed:—
"You will, I am sure, agree with me," said Mr. Ambrose, "in regarding the
church spire as ever teaching outside the building the same lesson that the
open timber roof, as you so truly said yesterday, is teaching inside. It is
always pointing the thoughts of thoughtful men up above the earthly
temple."
"Quite so; and, as is the case with many other great teachers, the earthly
fabric has, I believe, in both these cases, a very humble origin; for as the
grandest cathedral roof is but a development of the simple tent which
formed the early habitation of the once rude inhabitants of this and other
countries, so has its lofty and elegant spire gradually raised itself from the
low and unpretending roof which covered in the towers of our earliest
parish churches.
"I am inclined myself to think that, as a matter of taste and beauty, no
church tower is complete without a spire in some form[193], and it is a
question whether, in every case, the tower was not at first built with a view
to such an ornament. The termination with a flat or only embattled cornice
does not harmonize well with pointed architecture; the spiral form seems to
me the only appropriate termination; and, as you say, the symbolic teaching
of this part of the building depends upon it. And yet, though it may almost
seem a contradiction to what I have said, the spire always needs some
object for the eye to rest upon at its summit. The time-honoured weather-
cock which every body knows to be the emblem of watchfulness, seems by
far the most convenient and suitable, though I am aware that other forms—
such as a dragon, and a boat—are fixed to the summits of some spires."
"We do not generally succeed well," said Mr. Ambrose, "in our imitations of
the Norman style of architecture. Its extreme massiveness, on which so
much of its beauty depends, renders it very costly; and if this is abandoned,
as it often is, for the sake of saving expense, and only the details of the style

are copied, whilst the walls are thin and unsubstantial, the building has
always a mean and cardboard appearance. But where the style is faithfully
carried out, it is a matter of surprise to me that the round tower is not more
often adopted. It harmonizes so well with the semi-circular arches and the
apsidal termination of the chancel. We have, you know, many splendid
examples of such towers[194]. It is true, indeed, that the architects may in
some cases have adopted this form, in places where there was difficulty in
obtaining the stone required for the corners of a square tower, as being the
most convenient for a building composed of flint only; but that they did not
always choose this form as a mere matter of convenience, and not for its
own peculiar beauty, is evident from the fact that in the construction of
some round towers not only flint, but also stone, is largely employed. The
objection to these towers, founded on the supposition that they are not
adapted for the use of bells, may, I think, be easily met by a little
constructional arrangement of the interior of the belfry."
"The erection of towers detached from the church has not, I am glad to say,
gained much favour in this country[195]. They certainly lose much of their
beauty when separated from the main building. The custom, however,
greatly prevails in Italy. The appropriation of a portion of the tower as a
priest's chamber is, I believe, far more common with us than it is
abroad[196]."
At this moment the bells of St. Catherine's commenced a cheerful peal.
"After all," said the Vicar, "that sound indicates the real purpose of the
tower."
"True enough," answered Mr. Acres; "no doubt our towers were built to
hold the bells[197]; and so, if the tower is good and sound, and the bells are
there, we must not complain if the spire is wanting."
"Yes; but I wish the bells were under better control than they commonly
are."
"Ah, so indeed do I. There's no part of the church so much desecrated as the
tower. Now, I grieve for this; for to my mind there's no music so delightful
as that of the church bells, provided there is nothing in the occasion of their
being rung which grates upon one's feelings. I often think of the story of a

savage people who had never seen a church bell before, when for the first
time they heard it ringing, they believed that it was talking to them[198].
There is certainly no music that speaks to us like that of the church bells.
What call is there more eloquent than the chimes 'going for church'? What
voice more reproachful than theirs to one who disobeys their summons?
What sound so solemn as the deep-toned knell? What so happy as the
marriage peal? Ah, my dear friend, you and I know full well what joys and
sorrows, what hopes and fears, the dear old church bells can tell of. How
the old memories of half-forgotten home-scenes come back to us when we
listen to their merry Christmas ringing! Nothing like them to fill the arm-
chairs that have so long stood empty, to tenant the old places with the once
familiar forms which have long gone from us! Nothing like them to bring
back the dear old voices and the dear old faces; nothing like them to put
back the old furniture in its old places again; nothing like them to revive the
bright and happy hours that are past! Then, somehow, the bells always seem
to adapt their voices to each particular season. What joyful hope there was
in their music at Easter! a still gladder song they sing to-day. They seem to
me to have their own peculiar utterance for Sunday and for saints' day, for
fast and for festival. What a joyful song of thanksgiving they sang at our
harvest festival last year! I shall never forget what the bells said to me on
that day.
"You must forgive me, my dear Vicar, for intruding this long rhapsody into
our conversation, my fondness for the music of church bells is so intense,
that I fear you will consider the expression of my admiration to be quite
childish. I don't mean to say they always make me feel cheerful and happy.
Oh, no, they don't do that; but most commonly they induce a sort of
pleasant melancholy—harmless, and even good in moderation, but morbid
in excess. These simple lines exactly express what I often feel when the
bells are ringing:—

"When twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,
One, two, three, four, and five;
I at my study window sit,
And, wrapt in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.

"But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad,
A tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet, I cannot tell thee why,
I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad[199]."

"I know the feeling well," said Mr. Ambrose; "we love the silent eloquence
of each feature of the church's fabric as we love the vivid expression of
each feature of a dear friend, and we love—as we love his familiar voice—
the well-known uttered language of the old church tower."
"Yes; and not more discordant would be the merry voice of a friend, with a
heart bowed down with sorrow, than seems to me a merry peal of the
church bells, with the penitential seasons of the Christian year. I greatly
admire your custom of only ringing three bells during Lent and Advent, and

tolling a single bell on Good Friday. The contrast to the usual joyful chimes
cannot fail to strike every one."
"I am most thankful that in our parish we have a set of bellringers who
really feel a proper interest in the work, and regard theirs as a religious
office. I have only allowed men of well-known steady habits and good
moral character to be among them. From the time I came here, as you know,
I have been their president, and have always attended their annual dinners.
Then their rules[200] are good. No drinking is allowed in the belfry, no one
is allowed to wear his hat there, and no loud and boisterous language is
permitted: any one using offensive words or swearing is at once expelled. In
fact, I think we do all that can be done to teach the ringers that they are
engaged in a religious duty, in a part of God's house. I am fully sensible that
much of our success is due to your influence among them, and I very much
wish that more Church laymen in your position would follow your example,
and take part in the actual ringing of the church bells[201]. On one occasion,
long ago, I had some difficulty with our ringers. You remember old Sir
Perrygal Biber? a greater profligate or drunkard perhaps never lived. He
had wit enough, however, to secure his election for the county, and money
enough to reward those who voted for him. I am sorry to say that in many
parishes the church bells, which had once been solemnly dedicated to God's
service, were impressed to do honour to that man, whose immorality was
patent to the whole county. Our ringers naturally thought that what was not
wrong elsewhere would not be wrong here, and so begged permission to
follow the example of their neighbours. However, they were good fellows,
and open to reason. I explained to them first that our church bells had
nothing whatever to do with mere secular matters, such as the election of a
member of Parliament; and then I showed them that their neighbours were
specially wrong in this instance, because they were employing what was
intended for God's service in doing honour to an impious man. I believe
they were all of them, at heart, glad to get out of it; and, in fact, would
never have thought of ringing at all had not William Strike put it into their
heads. Since then they have not caused me a moment's trouble.
"The church bells have, alas! often been sadly ill-used; sometimes broken
up and employed for secular purposes[202]; sometimes sold to pay the cost

of repairing the building: but this, to my mind, is not half so bad as their
desecration when rung on improper occasions."
"No doubt, Mr. Vicar, you have often read with interest the very quaint
legends which are to be found on many church bells. I very much like the
terse Latin sentences, and the oft-repeated 'Jesu, miserere mei,' we meet
with on the oldest of them. Not a few, too, of the more modern bells have
simple pious inscriptions[203]. But there are some, both ancient and modern,
that have foolish or otherwise objectionable sentences upon them[204]. In
some cases they are merely laudatory of the donor; in others of the founder,
or of the churchwardens of the parish. I should think, however, that there is
scarcely a peal of bells in the country, except, perhaps, a few very recently
cast, but possesses some both interesting and instructive inscriptions. Of
course, many volumes would be filled with them, could they be all
collected. I once copied one of these legends which much pleased me, but I
cannot now call to mind where I found it. Let me repeat it to you.

'Men's death I tell by doleful knell,
Lightning and thunder I break asunder,
On Sabbath all to church I call,
The sleepy head I raise from bed,
The winds so fierce I do disperse,
Men's cruel rage I do assuage.'"

"It was a curious conceit, which I suppose every body once accepted, that
the ringing of the church bells cleared the air of all evil and discordant
spirits, and caused the storm and the tempest to cease. But the Church had
another and a better reason for ordering the bells to be rung at such times;
and that was, 'that the faithful might be admonished to be urgent in prayer
for the instant danger[205].' I like the idea of the Church bell inviting to
private prayer as well as public worship, but we have almost lost it. The
passing bell used to ask the private prayers of the faithful in behalf of the
spirit passing from earth. This was truly a Christian custom; nevertheless, I
see difficulties in the way of its general revival."
"You have not, however, lost sight, my dear friend, of the invitation to
private devotion as associated with church bells; for it is in this light I
regard the ringing of the little sancte bell just before the consecration of the

elements at the celebration of Holy Communion. I was very glad when you
restored the old bell to its little turret over the chancel arch; and I know that
when it is rung, many who cannot come to church bend their knees and join
heartily with us in our prayers and adoration."
"Yes, that is a good old practice of the early Church, and I am very glad to
know that its revival has been a blessing and a comfort to many by
awakening solemn thought and earnest prayer."

CHAPTER XXX

THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS

"Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a
spiritual house."
1 Pet. ii. 5.

"One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er,—
I'm nearer home to-day
Than I have been before;

"Nearer my Father's House,
Where the many mansions be,
Nearer the great white Throne,
Nearer the jasper sea;

"Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down,
Nearer leaving the Cross,
Nearer gaining the Crown."

Carey

THE HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS
must just go up for a minute to see poor Matthew. I hear he is not quite
"I so well," said the Vicar, as he parted from his companion, and entered
the little door that led up to the old sexton's chamber.
"My dear friend," said the Vicar, taking the old man's trembling hand, "I see
you are still very weak; but I trust you are not suffering much?"
"Weak, very, sir; but, thank God, no pain. I feel, however, that the end can't
be very far off. You must look out for another sexton, sir, for old Matthew's
work is nearly over."
"His will be done," said the Vicar; and the old man breathed a solemn
"Amen," which seemed spoken for no earthly ears.
"I've been thinking," at length said Matthew, "that it's ten years since you
and I, sir, and Mr. Acres, met at the old lych gate in that terrible storm. I
remember I said then that it wouldn't be long before some younger ones
would have to carry me through the gate, but God has spared me these ten
years more, and now I shall need none to bear me through the gate; for here
I am—thanks to your kindness, sir—already within the gate, and even
within the House of God itself."
"Yes; and so when God calls you to Himself, He will but take you from one
temple to another—from the courts of His House here, to live for ever in
His heavenly mansions. 'Those that be planted in the House of the Lord
shall flourish in the courts of our God[206].'"
"If you please, sir, I should like to be buried beside little Lizzie Daniels. 'Tis
long ago now since I made that little grave, and I fear the flower-bed is a
good deal overgrown with grass, for I have been too poorly to look after it
as I used to; but I think you'll know it, sir. She helped in her own quiet,
simple way to teach an old man the way to Heaven; and I have never
forgotten her lessons. How often she used to talk about this day—Ascension
Day! She once said to me, sir, that you had told her we ought to remember

this day throughout the year, and to try and lead an Ascension life, and let
our thoughts and desires dwell as much as possible where our Saviour has
gone before. I have tried to do so—God forgive me, for I have often failed!"
He then drew the Vicar nearer to him, and whispered in his ear, "Be good to
dear little Harry, sir, when I'm gone. He loves me so, I fear 'twill break his
heart."
The "parson's bell," as it was called, was now ringing, so the Vicar, having
promised that his wishes should be fully carried out, was compelled to
hasten into the church. He first laid his hand on the noble brow of the good
old man, and pronounced the blessing of Heaven upon him, and then bade
him farewell, adding, "I hope, my dear friend, we may be permitted to meet
again in this earthly house of God; but if not, my heart-deep hope and
prayer is, that we may meet in His house not made with hands, eternal in
the heavens[207]."
The little window that looked into the church from the sexton's chamber
was opened, and none listened more earnestly to the festive service, and to
the Vicar's sermon, on that Ascension Day than did old Matthew
Hutchinson.
Although it was a common practice with the Vicar on festivals not to preach
from any particular passage of Holy Scripture, but simply to make the
festival itself the subject of his discourse, yet on this occasion he selected
these words as his text: "The patterns of things in the heavens[208]." He
showed how that all this world of ours, in which so much that is beautiful
and lovely has survived the fall, is full of patterns, or symbols, or types of
things in that Heaven to which Christ has ascended; how that the whole
Bible abounds with the most vivid symbolism and the most graphic imagery
representative of the glories of that Heavenly kingdom; and then, looking
round the beautiful church, now so richly adorned with its festive
decorations, he explained how the earthly building, in its several parts,
possessed a thousand patterns of those heavenly things which make up the
spiritual fabric of the Church of Christ. "When we regard the material fabric
of the Christian Church," he said, "as a type of the spiritual house, ever
rising higher and higher in honour of its Divine Founder, of which the saints
on earth and the saints in Heaven are the living stones, we are arraying the

noblest work of man with its grandest and most exalted dignity. 'Ye are built
upon the foundations of the Apostles and Prophets,' writes St. Paul to the
Church of Ephesus, 'Jesus Christ Himself being the chief corner stone; in
whom all the building fitly framed together groweth unto an holy temple in
the Lord: in whom ye also are builded together for an habitation of God
through the Spirit[209].' Here, in the symbol of the foundation stones of the
material structure, we have represented to us, as it were, at one view, all
those heavenly graces and blessings which from the day of Pentecost down
to this time have flowed to God's people through the visible ministry and
appointed ordinances of the Christian Church. Then, under the figure of the
corner stone—the key stone of the edifice—we have gathered up all those
old prophecies and types which pointed on forward, through the sufferings
and death of the Saviour, up to the time when, having established His
Church in the world, He should be Himself the heavenly life of its living
members. Long had it been 'contained in the Scriptures: Behold, I lay in
Zion a chief corner stone, elect, precious; and he that believeth on Him
shall not be confounded[210],' and in the fulness of time 'the stone which the
builders refused became the head stone of the corner[211].'
"And next see, my friends, how the figure is carried out by the two
Apostles, St. Paul and St. Peter, so as to embrace all the faithful members of
Christ's Church. They are represented by St. Paul as 'the whole building fitly
framed together[212],' and by St. Peter, as the living stones which compose
this living temple—'Ye also as lively stones are built up a spiritual
house[213].' And this figure of a living temple is thus constantly employed
by the sacred writers: 'Know ye not that your bodies are the Temple of
God?' writes St. Paul to the Corinthian Church; and, again, 'Ye are the
Temple of the living God[214].' St. Jude is following out the same idea when
he exhorts Christians to build up themselves in their most holy faith."
The Vicar ended his sermon with an earnest, practical application of the
subject. "Let me entreat you, my dear friends, often to suffer the solemn
thoughts which this sacred symbol suggests to dwell on your minds: 'The
temple of the Lord is holy, which temple ye are.' Holy Prophets and Holy
Apostles, and confessors, and martyrs, are the foundation of the sacred
building; the Holy Jesus is the corner stone, in whom ye—the living stones
—must be fitly framed together. Mark, my friends, there must be no schism,

no division, no rent or fissure, that ye may be a spiritual house perfect in all
its parts, and pure in all its adornments. Oh, then, cherish that heavenly life
within you, which alone can keep the building compact and firm! Be
fruitful in good works. Remember faith without works is not living, but
dead[215]. 'Put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness[216],' and will be
the best evidence to God and man, and to your own souls, that you possess
a living faith; that you are, indeed, living stones in a living temple. Be sure
the cement that must unite the living stones of the spiritual house is
brotherly love and fervent charity. Without these, the house will be divided
against itself; its walls will be 'daubed with untempered mortar[217],' and,
instead of living stones, there will be but the dead, outlying blocks of a
ruined house. 'Except the Lord build the house, their labour is but lost that
build it[218].'
"Be it yours, then, 'by patient continuance in well doing, to seek for glory
and immortality[219]' in that 'house eternal in the heavens, whose Builder
and Maker is God.' Learn to see in the whole earth, and air, and sky—with
their countless beauties and wondrous harmonies—reflections of the glories
of Heaven, and promises of the coming bliss of eternity. Learn to read
lessons of wisdom and religion from the many instructive patterns, and
symbols, and emblems in nature, and in art, with which you are ever
surrounded. Thus go on, day by day, advancing nearer to your mansion in
Heaven. Thus, in these earthly temples of Jehovah, be ever purifying your
hearts, and attuning your voices to share in that glorious song of the Lamb
when the sweet music of angels' harps shall vibrate on this regenerate earth,
when her ten thousand choirs shall join with theirs in joyful harmony—and
melt their united praises in one never-ending rapture, singing, 'Holy, holy,
holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come;' 'Blessing and
honour, and glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the Throne, and
unto the Lamb for ever and ever[220].'"
In the prayer for the Church militant, which followed the sermon, the Vicar
paused longer than usual when he prayed God to succour and comfort those
who were in sickness. All knew that he was inviting a special prayer for the
old man whom all the village loved; and had they been offered for the
proudest potentate, the most learned philosopher, or even the greatest
philanthropist that ever lived, the prayers that went up to Heaven amid that

solemn silence for him "for whom the prayers of the Church were desired,"
could not have been more fervid and sincere. When Mr. Ambrose proceeded
with the prayer, a slight stir in the porch chamber was heard by those near at
hand, but it was little noticed.
At the conclusion of the service Mr. Acres met the Vicar in the vestry.
"I should like," said he, "to go with you to see our poor old friend once
more."
"It will probably be the last time," replied the Vicar, "for he was evidently
sinking when I saw him before service. I told little Harry to go up to him as
soon as we had sung the last hymn."
Both went up together. The Vicar was not mistaken. Calm and peaceful,
without a line of care or pain, there lay the placid face, and the eyes were
closed in the last, long sleep. One hand lay motionless upon the bed,
grasped by his little grandson, who was kneeling beside him, still robed in
the snow-white surplice with which he had recently left the choir.
"Poor little fellow!" said the Vicar; "I will keep my promise to the old man.
He shall not be left without a friend, though his best is gone."
But Mr. Acres saw that the little hands were white as the aged hand they
clasped.
"He's with a better Friend now, my dear Vicar," said he, "than this earth can
give him. We shall hear his sweet voice no more in our choir here; he has
gone to join the choir of angels in a nobler temple than ours."
Old Matthew's words were true; the loving little heart was broken. The old
oak had fallen, and crushed the tender sapling as it fell[221]. On the morning
of Trinity Sunday, there stood under the old yew-tree of St. Catherine's
churchyard, three little stone crosses side-by-side, where but one had been
before.

THE END
GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE, LONDON.

Footnotes
[1] In some parts of Devonshire and Cornwall, Lich-Gates are called "Trim-Trams." The origin of
this word is not easy to determine; it is probably only a nickname.
[2] Anglo-Saxon, lic,—a dead body. In Germany the word leiche has doubtless the same original; it is
still used to signify a corpse or funeral. The German leichengang has precisely the same meaning as
our Lich-Gate.
[3] It is stated in Britton's Antiquities that there was formerly a Lych-Gate in a lane called Lych-lane
in Gloucester, where the body of Edward II. rested on its way to burial in the Cathedral.
[4] A Lyke-wake dirge:—

"This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle;
Fire and sleete, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive theye saule."
(Scott's "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.")

[5] On the Lich-Gate at Bray, Berks, is the date 1448; but there are very few examples so early.
[6] The following are among the most interesting of the ancient Lich-Gates still remaining:—
Beckenham, Lincolnshire; Berry-Harbor, Devonshire; Birstal, York; Bromsgrove, Worcestershire;
Burnside, Westmoreland; Compton, Berkshire; Garsington, Oxon; Tawstock, Devonshire; West
Wickham, Kent; and Worth, Sussex. The construction of the gate at Burnside is very curious, and
Tawstock Lich-Gate possesses peculiar features of interest, which are noticed in the next Chapter.
One of the finest Lich-Gates was at Arundel, in Surrey, but it has been removed, and is now the
Church Porch.
[7] St. John xi. 25. The first words of the Burial Office, said by the Priest at the entrance to the
Churchyard.
[8] A very interesting paper on Lich-Gates, in the "Clerical Journal," affords much information on
this subject. Over the gate at Bray are "two chambers, connected with an ancient charitable bequest."
[9] This chamber was formerly called the Chapel of the Holy Rood.
[10] The custom of distributing "cakes and ale" at the churchyard on the occasion of funerals in
Scotland, has been but very recently given up. Dean Ramsey, in his interesting "anecdotes," has
informed us that at the burial of the Chief of a clan, many thousands would sometimes assemble, and
not unfrequently the funeral would end in a disgraceful riot.
[11] In Cornwall the now common practice of placing a wreath of white flowers on the coffin is a
very ancient and still prevailing usage.
[12] Consecrated Bishop of Exeter A.D. 1598.
[13] These crosses were erected at the following places:—Lincoln, Northampton, Dunstable, St.
Alban's, Waltham, Stratford, Cheapside, Blackfriars, and Charing; those at Waltham and

Northampton alone remain. The statue of King Charles now stands where the Charing ("Chère
Reine") Cross formerly stood.
[14] In a churchyard in Oxfordshire, a large altar-tomb, surrounded by iron railings, occupying a
space of ground in which at least thirty persons might be buried, covers the grave of an infant of three
months.
The erection of these masses of stone without restraint would make our churchyards only the burial-
places of the rich, and would soon entirely exclude the poor from a place in them; whereas the poor
have an equal claim with the rich to be buried there, and when buried, the same title to respect and
protection.
[15] The urns which are placed upon so many tombs in our cemeteries and churchyards, unless they
have reference to the heathen custom of burning the dead, and placing the ashes in funeral urns, can
have no meaning at all. We moreover not unfrequently see a gilded flame issuing from these urns,
and here of course the reference is most clearly marked. The Christian custom of burying the dead,
which we practise in imitation of the entombment of Christ, dates from the earliest history of man;
and as well from the Old as the New Testament we learn that it has ever been followed by those who
professed to obey the Divine will. The first grave of which we have any account was the grave of
Sarah, Abraham's wife (Gen. xxiii. 19), and the first grave-stone was that over the burial-place of
Rachel, Jacob's wife (Gen. xlix. 31).
[16] There are comparatively but few churchyard grave-stones more than 250 years old, and probably
there are very few of an earlier date but have engraved upon them the sign of the Cross. There are
two very ancient grave-stones of this character, having also heads carved upon them, in the
churchyard of Silchester. It is likely that the old churchyard crosses were often mortuary memorials.
Probably there is hardly an old churchyard but has, at some time, been adorned with its churchyard
cross; in most cases, some remains of this most appropriate and beautiful ornament still exist, and
doubtless is often older than the churchyard as a place of Christian burial. In many places this cross
has been lately restored to its proper place, near to the Lich-Gate. "Let a handsome churchyard cross
be erected in every churchyard."—Institutions of the Bishop of Winchester, A.D. 1229.
[17] The interesting custom of placing natural flowers and wreaths upon graves, is in every respect
preferable to that which we see practised in Continental burial-grounds, where the graves are often
covered with immortelles, vases of gaudy artificial flowers, images, &c. We have seen as many as
fifty wreaths of artificial flowers and tinselled paper, in every stage of decomposition, over one grave
in the cemetery of Père la Chaise, in Paris. In Wales it is a more general practice than in England, to
adorn the graves with fresh flowers on Easter Day.
[18] This story is true of a parish in Monmouthshire.
[19] It is comparatively seldom that any other than the funerals of the poor take place on Sunday, and
the reason commonly assigned is—that it is the only day on which their friends can attend. In one, at
least, of the large metropolitan cemeteries, exclusively used as a burial-place for the rich, no funerals
ever take place on a Sunday.
[20] Let us hope that the time is near when this objectionable and unsightly appendage will be
banished from our funeral processions. The late Mr. Charles Dickens, in his will, forbad the wearing
of hat-bands at his funeral.
[21] "In several parts of the north of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of
boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who

attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of the boxwood and throws it into the grave of the
deceased."—Wordsworth (Notes, Excursion, p. 87).
[22] Great care was taken by the medieval architects to make the porches of their churches as
beautiful as possible. During some periods, especially the Norman, they seem to have bestowed more
labour upon them than upon any other portion of the building. Both externally and internally they
were richly decorated, and often abounded in emblematic tracery.
[23] "The custom formerly was for the couple, who were to enter upon this holy state, to be placed at
the church door, where the priest was used to join their hands, and perform the greater part of the
matrimonial office. It was here the husband endowed his wife with the dowry before contracted
for."—Wheatley. In a few church porches there are, or have been, galleries, which seem to have been
intended to accommodate a choir for these and other festive occasions.
[24] "The porch of the church was anciently used for the performance of several religious ceremonies
appertaining to Baptism, Matrimony, and the solemn commemoration of Christ's Passion in Holy
Week," &c.—Brandon's Gothic Architecture. The Office for the Churching of Women also used to be
said at the church porch.
[25] As our Commination Service declares, persons who stood convicted of notorious sins were
formerly put to open penance. The punishment frequently inflicted was—that they should stand at the
church door, clothed in a white sheet, and holding a candle in each hand, during the assembling and
departure of the congregation on a Sunday morning. The old parish clerk of Walton-on-Thames,
Surrey, remembers, when a boy, seeing a Jew perform this penance in Walton church.
[26] "Formerly persons used to assemble in the church porch for civil purposes."—Brandon.
[27] "At a very early period, persons of rank or of eminent piety were allowed to be buried in the
porch. Subsequently, interments were permitted within the church, but by the Canons of King Edgar
it was ordered that this privilege should be granted to none but good and religious men."—Parker's
Glossary.
[28] The parvise is to be found over church porches in all parts of England. It is more common in
early English than in Norman architecture, and very frequently to be found in churches of the
Decorated and Perpendicular periods. Probably the largest parvise in England is at Bishop's-Cleeve,
near Cheltenham. There are interesting specimens at Bridport, Bishop's Auckland, Ampthill, Finedon,
Cirencester, Grantham, Martley, Fotheringay, Sherborne, St. Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, Stanwick,
Outwell, and St. Peter's-in-the-East, Oxford. In a few instances there are two parvises, one over the
north and one over the south porch, as at Wellingborough. In some cases, as at Martley,
Worcestershire, the upper moulding of the original Norman doorway has been concealed by the
parvise of later architecture.
[29] "The name was formerly given to a favourite apartment, as at Leckingfield, Yorkshire. 'A little
studying chamber, caullid paradise.' (Leland's Itinerary.)"—Glossary of Architecture.
[30] The room may have been the residence of one or more of the ordinary priests of the church, or
perhaps only a study for them (see previous note), or it may have been occupied by an anchorite or
hermit, or by a chantry priest. Rooms for these several purposes are also not unfrequently to be found
over the vestry, as at Cropredy, near Banbury, and at Staindrop, Durham.
[31] Fire-places are of frequent occurrence in these chambers; many of them are coeval with the
porch, but others appear to have been erected at a later date.

[32] At Hawkhurst, Kent, the porch-chamber is called the treasury. At St. Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, the
room over the grand north porch, in which are the remains of the chests in which Chatterton
professed to find the manuscripts attributed to Rowley, was at one time known as the treasury house.
[33] "The chamber over the porch was generally used for the keeping of books and records belonging
to the church. Such an appendage was added to many churches in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries; and some of these old libraries still remain with their books fastened to shelves or desks by
small chains."—Brandon's Gothic Architecture.
Over the porch at Finedon (of which we give an engraving) is a parvise in which is contained a
valuable library of about 1000 volumes, placed there by Sir John English Dolben, Bart., A.D. 1788.
At St. Peter's-in-the-East, Oxford, and many other places, are similar libraries.
[34] These were probably small chantries. It is comparatively seldom that any vestige of the altar
remains; but the credence and piscina—certain proofs of the previous existence of the altar—are very
commonly found.
[35] "The custom of teaching children in the porch is of very early origin; it is distinctly mentioned
by Matthew Paris in the time of Henry III."—Glossary of Architecture.
After the reigns of Henry VIII. and Edward VI., in which reigns all chantries were suppressed, the
children were promoted from the porch to the parvise.
[36] "Above the groining of the porch is a parvise, accessible by a turret-stair, having two Norman
window-openings, unglazed, and a straight-gabled niche between them on the outside. In former days
this chamber was constantly inhabited by one of the sextons, who acted as a watchman, but since the
restoration of the church it has been disused."—Harston's Handbook of Sherborne Abbey.
In the church accounts of St. Peter's-in-the-East, Oxford, A.D. 1488, there is a charge for a "key to
clerk's chamber." This no doubt referred to the parvise.
[37] As, a few years ago, at Headcorn in Kent.
[38] There was frequently, but not always, a window or opening from the room into the church; and it
would seem that it was so placed to enable the occupant of the room to keep a watchful eye over the
interior of the church, and not for any devotional exercise connected with the altar, as we never find
this window directed obliquely to wards the altar, as is commonly the case with windows opening
from the vestry, or chamber above the vestry, into the church.
[39] Many porches seem originally not to have had doors, but marks exist which indicate that barriers
to keep out cattle were used.
[40] It is composed of lamp-black, bees'-wax, and tallow, and is commonly used by shoemakers to
give a black polish to the heels of boots.
[41] These superstitions existed a few years since in connexion with an old incised slab in the
chancel of Christ Church, Caerleon.
[42] "In the year 1657, the adherents of a Preacher of the name of Cam obtained the grant of the
chancel of the Holy Trinity Church, Hull, from the council of state under the Protectorate, and whilst
the mob without were burning the surplice and the Prayer Book, those within were tearing the brasses
from the grave-stones."—History of Kingston-upon-Hull.

s. d.

"1644, April 8th, paid to Master Dowson, that came with
the troopers to our church, about the taking down of
images and brasses off stones 60

"1644, paid, that day, to others, for taking up the
brasses of grave-stones before the Officer Dowson came 1 0

—Churchwarden's accounts; Walberswich, Suffolk.
"This William Dowing (Dowson), it appears, kept a journal of his ecclesiastical exploits. With
reference to the Church of St. Edward's, Cambridge, he says,—
"'1643, Jan. 1, Edward's Parish, we digged up the steps, and broke down 40 pictures, and took off ten
superstitious inscriptions.'
"Mr. Cole, in his MSS., observes,—
"'From this last entry we may clearly see to whom we are obliged for the dismantling of almost all
the grave-stones that had brasses on them, both in town and country; a sacrilegious, sanctified rascal,
that was afraid, or too proud, to call it St. Edward's Church, but not ashamed to rob the dead of their
honours, and the church of its ornaments.—W. C.'"—Burn's Parish Registers.
[43] The very interesting brasses in Chartham Church, Kent, were found a few years since as here
described, by the present rector, and replaced by him on the chancel pavement.
[44] "Manual of Monumental Brasses," vol. i. p. 34.
[45] "If any one will lay the portrait of Lord Bristol (in Mr. Gage Rokewode's Thingoe Hundred) by
the side of the sepulchral brass of the Abbess of Elstow (from whom he is collaterally descended)
figured in Fisher's Bedfordshire Antiquities, he cannot but be struck by the strong likeness between
the two faces. This is valuable evidence on the disputed point whether portraits were attempted in
sepulchral brasses."—Notes and Queries.
[46] See page 77.
[47] See page 85. [The engravings of sepulchral brasses and of stained glass windows are kindly
supplied by the Editor of the Penny Post.]
[48] See page 67.
[49] Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 3.
[50] Monumental slabs of this description are most common on the pavement of churches in the
midland counties.
[51] This is the case in Ely Cathedral.
[52] At Bawsey, Lynn; Droitwich; Great Malvern; and recently near Smithfield, London, when
excavating for the subterranean railway.
[53] Thus translated in the Gentleman's Magazine for October, 1833:—

"Think, man, thy life But that thou keepest

May not ever endure, Unto thy executor's care,
That thou dost thyself If ever it avail thee
Of that thou art sure; It is but chance."
[54] "Anno 1210. Let the Abbot of Beaubec (in Normandy), who has for a long time allowed his
monk to construct, for persons who do not belong to the order, pavements, which exhibit levity and
curiosity, be in slight penance for three days, the last of them on bread and water; and let the monk be
recalled before the feast of All Saints, and never again be lent, excepting to persons of our order, with
whom let him not presume to construct pavements which do not extend the dignity of the order."—
Martini's Thesaurus Anecdotorum.—Extracted from Oldham's "Irish Pavement Tiles."
[55] Specially in Normandy, where they are occasionally found under trefoil canopies, resembling
our sepulchral brasses.
[56] Some excellent coloured engravings for cottage walls, of a large size, have been published by
Messrs. Remington, under the direction of the Rev. J. W. Burgon, of Oriel College, Oxford. Others,
both large and small, suitable for this purpose, are published by the Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, and also by several other publishers.
[57] These wall paintings exist (or did till recently) on the outside of a church at High Wycombe.
They are curious, and very grotesque; no doubt, however, in their day they have served a good and
useful purpose.
[58] These mural paintings still remain, as here described, on the north wall of the chancel of
Chalgrove Church, Oxon. There are also on the east and south walls of the chancel of the same
church, many other paintings possessing great interest.
[59] A very interesting mural painting, of which the above is a copy, has been lately discovered in a
recess in the north wall of the nave of Bedfont Church. The colour is exceedingly rich and well
preserved. The painting measures 4 ft. 6 in. by 4 ft., and is supposed to be of the thirteenth century. It
represents the Last Judgment. Our Lord is sitting on His Throne, showing the five wounds. On the
right hand is an angel showing the Cross, on the left an angel with a spear. Four nails are represented
near the head of our Lord. In the lower part of the painting are two angels holding trumpets, and
below them three persons rising out of the tomb.
It is probable that the interior of almost every old church in the country has at some time been
decorated with wall-paintings—very many of them have been brought to light in recent works of
church restoration. The favourite subjects were representations of Heaven and Hell, and of the Day of
Judgment. In many cathedrals and some parish churches the Dance of Death was painted on the
walls. This was one of the most popular religious plays about four centuries ago.
[60] No doubt the earliest church walls were made of wood. Greenstead Church, in Essex, affords a
most interesting example of these old wooden walls.
[61] Roman bricks are generally easy to be distinguished from others by their colour and shape. They
were not all made in moulds of the same size, as we now make bricks, and on this account we find
them to vary much in size and form.
[62] As at Crowmarsh, Oxfordshire, of which an engraving is given.
[63] At Godmersham, Kent.

[64] It is certain that many of the splendid yew-trees in our old churchyards are far older than the
churches themselves. And it is more than probable that in many instances they mark the places where
heathen rites were once celebrated. It was natural for our Christian forefathers to select these spots as
places of worship, since, being held sacred by the heathen people around them, they would be
regarded by them with reverence and respect, and thus the cross which they reared, and the dead
which they buried beneath the wide-spreading branches of these old trees would be preserved from
desecration.
[65] These styles are now frequently called first, second, and third pointed.
[66] "The glass windows in a church are Holy Scriptures, which expel the wind and the rain, that is,
all things hurtful, but transmit the light of the True Sun, that is, God, into the hearts of the faithful.
These are wider within than without, because the mystical sense is the more ample, and precedeth the
literal meaning. Also, by the windows the senses of the body are signified: which ought to be shut to
the vanities of this world, and open to receive with all freedom spiritual gifts. By the lattice-work of
the windows, we understand the Prophets or other obscure teachers of the Church Militant: in which
windows there are often two shafts, signifying the two precepts of charity, or because the Apostles
were sent out to preach two and two."—Durandus on Symbolism.
[67] Stained glass is said to have been first used in churches in the twelfth century. Windows were at
first filled with thin slices of talc or alabaster, or sometimes vellum. As the monks spent much time in
illuminating their vellum MSS., it has been thought likely that they also painted on the vellum used
in the windows of their monasteries, and that afterwards, on the introduction of glass, their vellum
illuminations suggested their glass painting.
[68] At Brabourne, Kent, is a Norman window filled with stained glass of the period, which is still
quite perfect.
[69] "One who calls himself John Dowsing, and, by virtue of a pretended commission, goes about ye
country like a Bedlam, breaking glasse windows, having battered and beaten downe all our painted
glasse, not only in our Chappels, but (contrary to order) in our Publique Schools, Colledge Halls,
Libraries, and Chambers."—Berwick's Querela Cantabrigiensis.
[70] The rubric in the Service for the Public Baptism of Infants directs the priest, if the godfathers
and godmothers shall certify that the child may well endure it, to dip it in the water. In the first
Prayer Book of Edward VI. the priest is directed to "dyppe it in the water thryce."
[71] Acts xvi. 15, 33. 1 Cor. i. 16.
[72] As at Dorchester and Warborough in Oxfordshire, and Brookland in Kent; each of these have
very elaborate mouldings upon them.
[73] At Llanvair Discoed, Monmouthshire.
[74] The Font at West Rounton, of which we have given an engraving, is one of many examples of
this. The Centaur, the arrow from whose bow is just about to pierce the monster, probably represents
the Deity conquering Satan, or perhaps the continual conflict of the baptized Christian against sin and
Satan. The other figure may represent the Divine and human natures united in our Lord. This
exceedingly curious Font was discovered during the recent restoration of the little Norman Church of
West Rounton, Yorkshire. It was found under the pulpit, of which it formed the base, having been
turned over so that the bowl rested on the floor, and so carefully plastered that there was no external
indication of its original form. It has now been restored to its former position near the south-west
door of the church.

[75] Ezek. iii. 7, 8; ix. 4. Rev. vii. 3; ix. 4; xiii. 16; xiv. 1, 9; xxii. 4.
[76] βαπτἱζω [baptizô], to baptize, ἁνἁ [ana], again.
[77] "God planted a garden eastward;" man went westward when he left it; he turns eastward to
remind him of his return. Almost every church in England is built east and west, with the altar at the
east.
[78] Phil. ii. 10.
[79] Canon XVIII. 1603.
[80] "Many monuments are covered with seates, or pewes, made high and easie for parishioners to sit
or sleepe in, a fashion of no long continuance, and worthy of reformation."—Weaver's Funeral
Monuments. Temp. James I.
[81] It is likely that the idea of a gallery at the west end of the nave, was first suggested by the gallery
of the Rood Screen at the eastern end.
[82] At H.... church, Kent, for instance.
[83] Chertsey, Surrey.
[84] One of the churches in Edinburgh, for instance.
[85] 2 Chron. vi. 13.
[86] Nehem. viii. 4.
[87] As at Magdalene College, Oxford. "Formerly, when the annual sermon was preached on the
feast of the nativity of St. John the Baptist, from the stone pulpit before the chapel of Magdalene
College, Oxford, the whole area before it was covered with rushes and grass, to represent, it is said,
the wilderness: and doubtless also for the accommodation of the hearers; the seats being set for the
University authorities."—History of Pues.
[88] Such an one formerly existed near the cathedral of Exeter.
[89] Parker's "Glossary of Architecture," part i. p. 171. At the west end of Boxley Church, Kent, is a
Galilee. There are very few—if any—other churches in which the ancient Galilee is to be found.
[90] Many of the wooden pulpits have dates upon them. The earliest of these is A.D. 1590, on a
pulpit at Ruthin, Denbighshire.
[91] "The Churchwardens, at the common charge of the Parishioners in every parish, shall provide a
comely and honest pulpit, to be set in a convenient place within the Churche, and to be there seemly
kept, for the preaching of God's worde."—Injunctions given by the Queen's Majestie, 1559.
[92] It seems most probable that the last of these was the real object. In some old discourses the
following phrase is met with:—"Let us now take another glass," meaning another period of time to
be measured by the hour-glass: and the preacher reversed the glass at this point. Ancient hour-glasses
remain in the church of St. Alban's, Wood Street, City; and at Cowden, Kent. The iron frames of
hour-glasses still remain in the churches of Stoke Dabernoun, Surrey; Odell, Bedfordshire; St. John's,
Bristol; Cliff, Kent; and Erdingthorpe, Norfolk, and doubtless others are to be found elsewhere. The
Queen has lately presented an hour-glass of the measure of eighteen minutes for the pulpit of the
chapel royal in the Savoy, to replace the old one, which was destroyed in the recent fire.

[93] Some few of these sounding-boards are, however, very handsome. At Newcastle there is, or
lately was, a sounding-board which was a representation of the spire of the church.
[94] Gentleman's Magazine, vol. 1. p. 364. Preaching-Crosses are also at Hereford, near the Friary of
the Dominican (or Preaching) Friars; and in the churchyards of Iron Acton, Gloucestershire, and
Rampisham, Dorsetshire.
[95] See a curious letter on this subject in the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. 1. p. 527.
[96] See Walker's "Sufferings of the Clergy," p. 310.
[97] S. Luke vi. 26.
[98] The Vicar of the church here referred to has lately deceased, and his successor has commenced
the much needed improvements. The Vicar's good daughter, who was quite a sister of mercy in the
parish, is not likely to be forgotten, though the old pew has gone. A beautiful window of stained glass
has been erected to her memory by the parishioners.
[99] This phase of the pew system is not over coloured. A few years since, a pew in the nave of Old
Swinford Church was so nailed up; but other instances of this might be mentioned.
[100] James ii. 1-4.
[101] James ii. 5, 6.
[102] Sermon by the Rev. E. Stuart, preached at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Munster Square,
London.
[103] 2 Cor. viii. 9.
[104] Much information on this subject can be obtained from "The History of Pues: a Paper read
before the Cambridge Camden Society, November 22, 1841."
[105] Stone seats were often placed round the bases of the columns of the nave; examples are at St.
Margaret-at-Cliffe, and Challock, in Kent.
[106] British Critic; see History of Pues.
[107]
"'1612, 27 May.—Ye Ch. Wardens meeting together for seekeing
for workmen to mak a fitt seete in a convennent
place for brydgrumes, bryds, and
sike wyves to sit in ijs.

—Extract from Parochial Books of Chester-le-Street, Durham.
"It is plain that at this period the privilege of a separate pew was confined to
persons of the first rank; the rest sat promiscuously on forms in the body of
the church, and the privilege is here extended only to sick wives and brides,
who sat to hear the preacher deliver 'The Bride's Bush,' or 'The Wedding
Garment beautified.'"—Surtees' Hist. of Durham.
[108] Blomfield's Norfolk, vi. 317.

[109] "Several congregations find themselves already very much straitened; and if the mode
increases, I wish it may not drive many ordinary women into meetings and conventicles. Should our
sex at the same time take it into their heads to wear trunk breeches, a man and his wife would fill a
whole pew."—Satire on Female Costume. Spectator, No. 127.

"At church in silks and satins new,
And hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes."—Goldsmith.

[110]

"He found him mounted in his pew,
With books and money placed for shew."
The Lawyer's Pew, Butler's Hudibras.
"A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep."
Swift's Baucis and Philemon.

[111] European Magazine, 1813.
[112] History of Pues, p. 77.
[113] "1617. Barnham contra Hayward Puellam.—Presentatur—for that she being but a young maid
sat in ye pew with her mother, to ye great offence of many reverent women: howbeit that after I Peter
Lewis the Vicar had in the church privately admonished her to sit at her mother's pew-door, she
obeyed; but now she sits with her mother again."—God's Acre, by Mrs. Stone.
[114] Whittaker's Whalley, p. 228.
[115] "We have also heard that the parishioners of divers places do oftentimes wrangle about their
seats in church, two or more claiming the same seat, whence arises great scandal to the Church, and
the divine officers are sore set and hindered; wherefore we decree that none shall henceforth call any
seat in the church his own, save noblemen and patrons: but he who shall first enter shall take his
place where he will."—Quivil, Bishop of Exeter, A.D. 1287.
[116] In the vestry of the church of East Moulsey is suspended a map of considerable size, showing
the land that has been left to the parish for the sustentation of the church. The land ought to produce
120l. but some years since the parishioners engaged in a law-suit respecting a pew in the church, and
lost the suit, and the income from the charity land was year by year absorbed in the payment of the
debt then incurred. One evidence brought forward to prove the faculty was the following inscription,
which is still (or was till lately) over the altar, painted at the foot of a daub, having the Ten
Commandments surrounded by drapery, &c.:—
"In lieu of the Commandments formerly written on the wall (when by
consent of the parish he made his pew) these tables were placed
here by—Mr. Benson, MDCCXII."

[117] Gentleman's Magazine, A.D. 1780, p. 364.
[118] We are so used to speak of the seats in church, that we commonly forget
the more proper appellation of kneeling. This, however, was not always so. An
old metal plate formerly on a pew in a church in the diocese of Oxford, has this
inscription:—
"No 83. Vicar and Churchwardens, two kneelings. Trustees of Poor House three
kneelings."
[119] See History of Pues, p. 37.
[120]

"Item. Paid to good wyfe Wells for salt to destroy the fleas in the d.
Churchwardens' Pew vi.

St. Margaret's Accounts. Dublin Review, xiii.
[121] So called, as some suppose, because it could be folded and removed when necessary.
[122] Joel ii. 17.
[123] Injunctions of Edward VI. and Queen Elizabeth.
[124] See Wheatly on the Common Prayer, p. 161.
[125] "The earliest examples remaining are of wood, many of them beautifully carved, as at Bury and
Ramsay, Huntingdonshire; Swancombe, Debtling, and Lenham, Kent; Newport, Essex; Hawstead,
Suffolk."—Parker's Glossary.
There are beautiful examples of brass lecterns at Magdalene and Merton Colleges, Oxford, in most of
our cathedrals, and many parish churches.
[126] Derived from the French aile, a wing. It is no uncommon thing to hear persons who ought to
know better talk about side aisles, as if there were any other than side aisles.
[127] Derived from the Greek, ἁγιος [hagios], holy, and σκοπἑω [skopeô], to view. There are very
good specimens at St. Clement's, Sandwich, and at St. Mary's, Gloucester. The latter has three
compartments.
[128] In some few churches—as at Rottingdean, Sussex—the chancel, by the deviation of its north or
south wall from the line of the nave, represent the inclined head of our Lord upon the cross.
[129] The German word for piscina is Wasserhälter, water-holder.
[130] Derived from the Italian credenzare, to test by tasting beforehand; which refers to an ancient
custom for the governor of a feast to taste the wines before presenting them to his guests. The
application of the word to this piece of Church furniture is supposed to have its origin in an attempt
once made to mix poison with the eucharistic elements.
[131] The rubric at the commencement of the Prayer Book concerning "the Ornaments of the Church,
and of the ministers thereof," still directs a credence-table to be placed in every church.
[132] In Flamborough Church, Yorkshire, a few years since, a white glove was hanging over the
centre arch of the very beautiful chancel screen,—perhaps is hanging there still. Sometimes a bridal

wreath was hung up with the glove.
[133] When the rood screens were pulled down by the Puritans and the chancels were alienated from
their proper use, it became necessary, in order to protect the immediate precinct of the altar from
general intrusion, to erect around it some barrier; hence the origin of altar-rails, which were first
ordered to be put up by Archbishop Laud. There are a few instances of ancient screens of
considerable height immediately surrounding the altar.
[134] As in Bottisham Church, Cambridge; Westwell, Kent; and most of our cathedrals.
[135] Such galleries existed in the parish churches of Whitby, Yorkshire, and of Sandon,
Staffordshire, a few years ago, but these have probably been since removed.
[136] Rood is analogous to our common word rod. It is a Saxon word, and means a cross.
[137] It is a question whether the order in the canons for placing the Commandments in churches was
intended to be other than temporary. At the time few comparatively had Bibles or Prayer Books, so
there was then a reason for the order, which no longer exists. One of many churches in which the
Commandments were painted at an early date over the chancel arch, is Fordwich, Kent; the date is
1688. At Dimchurch, in Kent, there is an old painting of the Commandments over the chancel arch,
and a modern one over the altar.
[138] As at C.... Church, Kent.
[139] "Cancellæ are lattice-work, by which the chancels being formerly parted from the body of the
church they took their names from thence. Hence, too, the Court of Chancery and the Lord
Chancellor borrowed their names, that court being enclosed with open-work of that kind. And so to
cancel a writing is to cross it out with the pen, which naturally makes something like the figure of a
lattice."—Pegge's Anonymiana.
[140] Some of our chancels, however, were originally made considerably lower than the nave. When
the church has been built on a slope it has sometimes followed the fall of the ground from west to
east.
[141] So called from the Latin word sedes, a seat. This position, on the south side of the altar, is in all
respects the most convenient for the clergy when not officiating. To sit facing the people is a most
painful position for the priest, as the eyes of all the congregation naturally rest upon him; it has, too,
the appearance of irreverence.
[142] See p. 223.
[143] See p. 223.
[144] This word is tautological, derived from our common word rere, back, and the French dos, back,
from its position at the back of the altar. Many of these altar-screens have in recent years been
restored at immense cost, as at Ely Cathedral.
[145] In Braburn Church, Kent, an altar-tomb, with armorial bearings around and above it, occupies
the very place of the altar itself. In the church of Prendergast, South Wales, large marble slabs with
elaborate epitaphs occupy the entire east end of the chancel. The most prominent of these—
immediately over the altar—records that the departed "had learned by heart the whole Book of
Psalms, and all the Collects of the Book of Common Prayer, with twenty-four chapters of the Old and
New Testaments, before she was thirteen years old, and several more after" However praiseworthy
and marvellous these accomplishments, this is surely no fitting place for proclaiming them!

[146] It is probable that the prayers and the sermon were formerly read from the same lectern. The
first authoritative document of which we have record in which mention is made of the prayer desk, is
the Visitation Articles of the Bishop of Norwich (Parker), in A. D. 1569.
In the parish accounts of St. Mary's, Shrewsbury, is an item in 1577 for "colouring the Curate's desk."
But prayer desks were used at a much earlier time.
[147] So called from the Latin word almarium, a closet or locker. The almery had many uses, and is
to be found in all parts of the church, but chiefly in the chancel. Sometimes it was used to hold the
priest's vestments; and in conventual churches, to hold the gold and silver vessels belonging to the
monastery.
[148] Gen. viii. 20; xii 7; xxxv. 1.
[149] Exod. xxvii. 1.
[150] The Council of Epaone in France (A.D. 509) ordered that none but altars of stone should be
consecrated with chrism. The custom of consecrating the altar with chrism is supposed to symbolize
the anointing of our Lord's Body for the burial.—See The Stone Altar, by Rev. J. Blackburn, p. 46.
[151] Rev. vi. 9-11.
[152] "A type both of the womb and of the tomb."—The Stone Altar, p. 41.
[153] 1 Cor. x. 4.
[154] See "Prayer for the Church Militant."
[155] Queen Elizabeth's Advertisements, A.D. 1564, require "that the Parish provide a decent
TABLE, standing on a frame, for the Communion Table." Hence it appears that by the word table at
the era of the English Reformation, the slab only was meant.—Parker's Glossary.
[156] Matt xxvii. 66.
[157] "The seal of the altar—that is, the little stone by which the sepulchre or cavity in which the
relics be deposited, is closed or sealed."—Durandus, p. 128.
[158] As at St. Mary's Hospital, Ripon. These ancient stone altars may always be known by the five
crosses on the table, emblematic of the five wounds of Jesus. Not infrequently, alas! this slab is to be
found as part of the church flooring. The altar table of Norwich Cathedral is (or was lately) to be seen
in the floor of the nave.
[159] "Have you a Communion Table with a handsome carpet or covering of silk stuff, or such
like?"—Visitation Articles, Bishop Bridges, 1634.
"Have you a carpet of silk, satin, damask, or some more than ordinary stuff to cover the Table with at
all times?"—Visitation Articles, Bishop Montague, 1639.
[160] The pall is an archiepiscopal vestment, forming at the back a figure like the letter Y, as seen on
the armorial bearings of our archbishops.
[161] "All Deans, Archdeacons, Parsons, Vicars, and other Ecclesiastical persons shall suffer from
henceforth no torches nor candles, tapers, or images of wax to be set before any image or picture. But
only two lights upon the high altar (the only altar now retained in our Church) before the Sacrament,
which, for the signification that Christ is the true Light of the World, they shall suffer to remain
still."—Injunctions of King Edward VI.

"And here it is to be noted, that such ornaments of the Church and of the ministers thereof, at all
times of their ministration, shall be retained and be in use, as were in this Church of England by the
authority of Parliament in the second year of the reign of King Edward the Sixth."—Rubric before
morning Prayer.
[162] Durandus, who wrote about A.D. 1290, says, "At the horns of the altar two candlesticks are
placed to signify the joy of Jews and Gentiles at the Nativity of Christ."
In the Sassetti Chapel at Florence is a beautiful fresco painting, by Ghirlandaio (A.D. 1485),
representing the death of St. Francis. The painting, which has been copied by the Arundel Society,
has all the character of a really historical work, and is particularly interesting as representing an altar
with the two candlesticks upon it.
[163] Ps. cviii, 1.
[164] 2 Chron. v. 11-14.
[165] Organs appear to have been used at a very early period, and some have thought that allusions to
them are to be found in the Psalms of David; but till the commencement of the last century they were
probably used in very few country churches. In cathedrals the organ was sometimes placed in the
clerestory; its position over the choir screen is in every respect most objectionable.
[166] Vestry, so called because it is the place where the vestments of the priests and their assistants
are kept. It is also called the sacristy, because the sacred vessels and other furniture for use at the
altar are kept there. The keeper of the vestry is properly called the sacristan. This word has now
degenerated to sexton.
[167] Some of the subterranean and other small chambers in churches, supposed to be chantries or
mortuary chapels, have probably been used as vestries. The following is extracted from Neal and
Webb's edition of Durandus:—"On eache side of this chancelle peradventure (for so fitteth it beste)
should stand a turret; as it were for two ears, and in these the belles to be hanged, to calle the people
to service, by daie and by night. Undre one of these turrets is there commonly a vaulte, whose doore
openeth into the quiere, and in this are laid up the hallowed vesselles, and ornamentes, and other
utensils of the churche. We call it a vestrie."—Fardle of Facions. Printed 1555.
[168] Early examples of these chests for containing the parish records may be found in most old
churches. Frequently they are of very rude design, and the box is formed of a single block of wood
strongly bound with iron hoops. Sometimes, however, they are richly carved, as in the churches of
Clymping, Sussex; Luton, Bedfordshire; and Faversham, Kent. The proper place for the parish chest
is the vestry, but it is not unfrequently to be found in some other part of the church. We often meet
with several large chests of common deal in various parts of the church containing useless papers and
other rubbish. The sooner these are swept away the better.
[169] See pages 85 and 86 for a description of some of these vestments.
[170] It is always lawful, and almost always desirable, to hold "vestry" meetings in some hall or
room in the parish, and not in the church vestry.
[171] Eph. ii. 20.
[172] Pugin's True Principles of Architecture.
[173] Durandus.
[174] 1 Pet. ii. 5.

[175] Col. iii. 14.
[176] John x. 9.
[177] Jer. xxii. 18.
[178] Most persons know—at least from engravings—the famous "Apprentice Column" in Roslin
Chapel. That was perhaps the first church pillar that ever was wreathed with flowers, and those stone
flowers are as fresh and beautiful now as when they were carved five hundred years ago.
[179] This old custom of copying in stone or marble the surrounding objects of nature has been
imitated on the capitals of pillars in the church of St. Mary, Devon, which has recently been so
beautifully restored in memory of the late Bishop of Exeter.
[180] Acts xiv. 13. Virgil, Æneid, i. 417; ii. 249.
[181] 1 Cor. xv. 42.
[182] Isa. lx. 13.
[183] Mark xiv. 4.
[184] This word, formerly spelt clear story, plainly expresses its own meaning—a clear or separate
story or flight of windows. They are placed between the roof and the nave arches of a church.
[185] The word corbel, French corbeille, means literally a large flat basket. It is curious to note how
the word obtains its present use in architecture. After the destruction of the city of Caryæ in Arcadia
by the Greeks, Praxiteles, and other Athenian artists, employed female figures, instead of columns, in
architecture, to commemorate the disgrace of the Caryatides, or women of Caryæ (see Dr. Smith's
Dict. of Greek and Roman Antiquities, Caryatis). These figures were always represented with corbels
or baskets on their heads. The basket, being thus placed between the head of the figure and the roof,
was that which immediately supported the roof. Hence those projecting pieces of stone or wood
which support the roofs of our churches, as well as other buildings, have received the name of
corbels. Caryatides may be seen on the north and south sides of New St. Pancras Church, London—a
church which externally possesses all the appearances of a heathen temple, and few of a Christian
church.
[186] Although the carved roofs of this period cannot compare in point of elegance and beauty with
those of an earlier date, yet, for the abundance of rich and elaborate detail in wood-carving (oak and
walnut), no period equalled this. The bench-ends, screens, rood-screens, tombs of wood at this time
were exquisitely beautiful. The roofs, however, were too flat, and externally they were concealed
altogether by parapets.
[187] In some chancels the idea of the keel of a ship is fully carried out, the walls widening as they
ascend.
[188] The flat roofs well suited the heathen worship of ancient Greece and Rome, where the object of
worship was shut up within the walls of the temple itself. It is far different with us, who worship a
Deity who, though specially present there, is "not confined to temples made with hands."
[189] Wordsworth.
[190] See the Builder, Jan. 29, 1865, "The Roof and the Spire."
[191] So called from the triple form of the arches it most commonly has.

[192] See Parker's Glossary, "Triforium;" and Hook's Church Dictionary.
[193] It is probable that all Norman towers originally had low-pointed roofs covered with tiles (as at
Sompting, Essex); tower roofs of this period with gable-ends are also sometimes to be found.
[194] Chiefly in Norfolk and Suffolk. Of these the round towers of Little Saxham and Brixham are
perhaps the most interesting.
[195] There are several instances, however, in England of bell-towers standing detached from the
church, as the beautiful tower at Evesham, Worcestershire, and the curious belfry at Brookland in
Kent.
[196] Evidences of these priests' chambers exist throughout England: there are instances at Challock,
Sheldwich, and Brook in Kent. In the last mentioned are the remains of an altar, with a portion of the
original rude painting above it still remaining.
[197] Bells are said to have been introduced into the Christian Church by Paulinus; Bishop of Nola,
at the end of the fourth century. The first peal of bells in England was put up in Croyland Abbey,
about A. D. 870.
[198] "When they heard the bell of the chapel of Isabella sounding through the forests as it rung for
mass, and beheld the Spaniards hastening to wards the chapel, they imagined that it talked."—
Irving's Life of Columbus, ch. iv.
The office of the church bell in summoning the people to prayer and holy worship was regarded in
olden times with such respect that the bell was very solemnly set apart by a special religious service
for this sacred use.
In the churchwarden's accounts of St. Lawrence, Reading, is the following curious entry:—
"1449. It payed for halowing of the bell named Harry, vjs. viijd., and over that, Sir William Symys,
Richard Cleck, and Maistres Smyth, being Godfaders and Godmoder at the consecraycyon of the
same bell, and beryng all oth' costs to the suffrygan."
[199] Kirke White.
[200] In the last century it was a favourite custom with village bellringers to set forth their rules in
verse. They were generally painted on a board and fixed in the belfry. In all cases the rhyme appears
to be the production of native talent. The rules are themselves unexceptionable. The following are
examples:—
In the belfry, Charlwood,—

"Ye men of action, strength, and skill,
Observe these rules which I do will:
First,—Let none presume to swear,
Nor e'er profane the house of Prayer.
Next,—He that doth a bell o'erthrow
A groat shall forfeit where'er he go;
And if he do refuse to pay,
Be scorn'd, and simply go his way,
Like one who will for ever wrangle
As touching of a rope to jangle."

In the belfry, Bredgar,—

"My friendly ringers, I do declare
You must pay one penny each oath you do swear.
To turn a bell over
It is the same fare;
To ring with your hats on you must not dare.
"MDCCLI."

In the belfry, All Saints', Hastings,—

"This is a belfry that is free
For all those that civil be;
And if you please to chime or ring,
It is a very pleasant thing.
There is no music play'd or sung
Like unto bells when they're well rung;
Then ring your bells well if you can;
Silence is best for every man.
But if you ring in spur or hat
Sixpence you pay, be sure of that;
And if a bell you overthrow
Pray pay a groat before you go.
"1756."
[201] In the preface to the Prayer Book the curate is directed to "cause a bell to be tolled" for
morning and evening prayer; but Durandus says that this ringing of the bell was itself once part of the
minister's own duty.
[202] At Cairnwent, in Wales, the parish clerk "used often to knock a bit or two from one of the bells
when any one wanted a bit of metal." In a neighbouring church two bells were taken down and sold
to pay for the ceiling of the roof. Many church bells in England have, alas! met with as sad a fate. The
same parsimony which has sacrificed the bells has, in many cases, not spared the belfry. It seems
hardly credible—but it is true—that some years ago, at St. Bride's, Monmouthshire, there being no
ladder in the village long enough to reach the top of the tower, the tower was lowered to meet the
length of the ladder.
[203] The following are a few examples taken from village church bells in Wales. At Nevern,—

"I to the church the living call,
And to the grav do summon al.—1763."

At Llandyssil,—

"Come at my call,
Serve God, all.—1777."
"Fear God, honour the king.—1777."

At Llangattock,—

"Be peaceful and good neighbours."

[204] Such as:—on six bells at Northfield Church,—

1st. "We now are six, tho' once but five,"
2nd. "But against our casting some did strive;"

3rd. "But when a day for meeting they did fix,"
4th. "There appear'd but nine against twenty-six:"
5th. "Thomas Kettle and William Jervis did contrive"
6th. "To make us six that were but five."

At Tamworth,—

"Be it known to all that doth me see,
That Newcombe, of Leicester, made mee.—1607."

At Nevern,—

'Thomas Rudall
Cast us all.—1763.'
[205] Durandus, "Of Bells."
[206] Ps. xcii. 13.
[207] 2 Cor. v. 1.
[208] Heb. ix. 23.
[209] Eph. ii. 20-22.
[210] Isa. xxviii. 16. 1 Pet. ii. 6.
[211] Ps. cxviii. 22. Matt. xxi. 42.
[212] Eph. ii. 21.
[213] 1 Pet. ii. 5.
[214] 2 Cor. vi. 16.
[215] S. James ii. 17.
[216] Col. iii. 14.
[217] Ezek. xiii. 10.
[218] Ps. cxxvii. 1.
[219] Rom. ii. 7.
[220] Rev. iv. 8; v. 13.
[221] In the parish registry of Dymock, in Gloucestershire, is the following entry:—"Buried: John
Murrel, aged 89 years. Thomas Bannister, aged 13 years." To which is appended the following note:
"John Murrel and Thomas Bannister died nearly at the same moment, though the latter was in
apparent good health. He had always attended upon Murrel, who was much given to prayer, and
being by his bed at the time, Murrel, in his last struggle, extended his hand to him, when both
instantly expired."

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