Read Ebook: Tales of English Minsters: St. Paul's by Grierson Elizabeth W Elizabeth Wilson

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 163 lines and 15621 words, and 4 pages

The Archbishop's words were not in vain. Nobles and Barons crowded round him, and, laying their hands upon their swords, took a solemn oath that they would insist upon the principles of Henry's Charter being maintained, and would do their best to protect the liberties of the people.

This was just before Christmas-time, and when the King came to hold his Christmas Court in London, these same Nobles, armed to the teeth, and accompanied by the Churchmen and the principal citizens, appeared before him, and demanded that he should listen to their requests, and make proper laws to guard their liberties.

King John was frightened, but he did not want to give in; so, like the weak man that he was, he did not return a direct answer, but said that he would think over the matter, and meet them again at Easter. He thought that in this way he could put them off, and never give them an answer at all. But the people were determined, and formed themselves into an army, which they called the 'Army of God, and of Holy Church,' and all the clergy, and all the citizens of London, and Exeter, and Lincoln, supported them, and the King was obliged to yield.

So it came about that one June day a great assembly of people met on the banks of the Thames near Windsor. On one side was encamped the King, with a handful of followers, and on the other the great army of Barons, and nobles, and citizens had pitched their tents on a piece of marshy land known by the name of Runnymede. In the middle of the river was a small island, and on this island a few men chosen by the King, and a few men chosen by the Nobles, met to discuss matters; at least, they pretended to discuss matters, for everyone knew what the end would be. The King was powerless to resist the wishes of the great concourse of people gathered across the river, and before nightfall 'Magna Charta,' the 'Great Charter,' had been drawn up and signed.

But if the great bell of St. Paul's could call the citizens to fight for their liberty as Englishmen against the oppression of the King, it could also summon them to fight for their liberty as Churchmen against the oppression of the Pope. We must always remember that when first Christianity was brought to England, in the time of the Romans, and the ancient British Church was formed, it did not owe allegiance to the Bishops of Rome as it did in later days. It was only after it had been swept away by the invasion of the Angles and Saxons, and then brought back again to the South of England by St. Augustine, who came direct from Pope Gregory of Rome, that the belief arose that it was right that the Church of England should be ruled by the Pope.

Up in the North, on the other hand, in Scotland and in Northumbria, where Christianity had been brought by St. Columba and his followers, who, as you remember, came from Ireland, it was a very much longer time before the Church would admit the Papal claims, though at last it did so. And St. Aidan and St. Cuthbert, who founded the Northumbrian Church, being missionaries from the ancient British Church, which St. Columba represented, did not feel obliged to obey the Pope in the same way that St. Augustine did. It would take me too long to tell you about the differences that existed between the Church in the North and that in the South, the chief of which was that they did not keep the festival of Easter on the same day. The Church of St. Augustine, following the example of Rome, kept it on one day; the Church of St. Columba, following the example of the British and Eastern Churches, observed it some ten days later, as the Russians and Greeks do still.

But as time went on the rule of the Pope began to weigh heavily upon the English people. They thought that they had the right to elect their own Bishops and Archbishops, while the Pope thought that he had the right to do so, and at first he very often sent foreigners to fill the English Sees.

Sometimes, indeed very often, they were good men. The saintly Bishop Hugh of Lincoln came from Savoy. Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury was a Greek, who came from far-away Tarsus, the city of St. Paul. But some of them were bad men, haughty and insolent, who wanted to override English laws and English freedom. And when this happened the people were apt to rebel, and declare that only English Bishops should rule in the Church of England.

Things came to a crisis when, in the thirteenth century, a great many Italians came over to England, and were given some of the highest offices in the country. Among them were two brothers of good birth, Peter of Savoy and his brother Boniface. Peter, who had a grand house in the Strand, called Savoy House, was made a Privy Councillor, and was given the chief seat at the King's Council Board. Boniface, who was a priest, was, by the wish of the Pope, made Archbishop of Canterbury. Now, Boniface of Savoy had mistaken his vocation. He was young, and handsome, and full of roistering spirits; he would have made a good soldier, and doubtless his men would have admired him for his reckless daring; but he was haughty, and insolent, and overbearing, and sadly lacking in common sense--not fit to be placed in the great position in which he found himself.

He brought with him a band of armed retainers, who, when they rode through the streets of London, robbed the stalls in the market-places as though they had been wild marauders, instead of the servants of a Christian Bishop. Their Master behaved no better than they did. There was in the City a monastery called St. Bartholomew's, in Smithfield. He resolved to visit it, and, appearing at the gate with his men, demanded an entrance. For some reason the Prior resented this--perhaps Boniface's insolent manner made him angry; perhaps he felt that it was the Bishop of London's place to inspect his monastery, and not the Archbishop of Canterbury's. At any rate, he refused to admit the Prelate.

And what do you think happened? Without more ado the Archbishop clenched his fist, and knocked the Prior to the ground. It was a foolish as well as a wicked act, for of course the news of what had been done spread through London, and the citizens began to say to each other that a man who could do a deed like that was not fit to be an Archbishop.

A little time afterwards, Boniface determined to visit St. Paul's Cathedral, and call upon the Bishop of London for his tithes or first-fruits. He may have been acting quite within his rights to do this: I do not know; but the citizens, at any rate, made up their minds that, if he came with his demands to their Cathedral Church, he would find out what they thought of him. So the big bell was rung, and they gathered round the Cross in their thousands. Archbishop Boniface heard of this in his Palace at Lambeth, and, although he would not be turned from his purpose, he put on a suit of armour under his robes before he ventured near the Cathedral. When he arrived there, he found, to his rage, that the citizens had closed the gates against him, and instead of being awed by his angry remonstrances, they jeered and hooted at him, and even threatened him with violence, so that at last he thought it wise to go home.

But worse was to follow. Now that an Italian Archbishop sat on the throne of Canterbury, a great many Italian priests came over, and were given the best livings in the Church. Their manners were no better than those of their countryman, and the citizens became so enraged at the behaviour of these foreigners, and at the unjust way in which the Pope had forced them upon them, that they determined that not one of them should set foot in the church that they looked on as especially their own.

And they were in such deadly earnest that it actually came about that, when two of these priests attempted to enter the precincts one day, the people crowded into the churchyard and killed them on the spot. After this they rushed to Lambeth, and besieged the Palace there, uttering such threats that Boniface, the 'Handsome Archbishop', as they called him, was glad to escape as best he could, and fly abroad for safety. He never came back, and we can fancy that the Pope was more careful in future whom he sent to England, for the citizens of London had taught him a lesson, and shown him that he could not lord it over them with impunity.

Just one more story about these old days, and then we must come to the St. Paul's that we know.

The Reformation was yet a long way off, but there were two men in the country who wanted to put an end to this state of affairs, and they wanted to do so for two very different reasons. You have all heard of John Wyclif, the earliest of the English Reformers. He was one of those two men, and he wanted to weaken the power of Rome, because he saw that the poor people of this country were being robbed, in order to enrich the Pope and his favourites, who, as we have seen, were put into high places in the Church. So he began to point out the abuses that existed, and to urge people not to submit to them any longer.

The other man was a powerful Noble, 'John of Gaunt--Time-honoured Lancaster,' as Shakespeare calls him; and I am afraid that the reason why he wanted the power taken from the clergy was, that he hoped that when they could no longer collect great sums of money from the common people, he and his brother Nobles might be able to do so instead.

So when, one day, Wyclif was summoned to appear before the Bishop of London, Bishop Courtenay, to answer for the heretical notions which it was reported that he was spreading, the Duke of Lancaster espoused his cause, and stood by his side.

It must have been a curious scene--the grave Bishop in his robes, seated on his throne, with his advisers round him; the thin, worn priest from Lutterworth, with his pale, studious face and black gown; and the proud Noble, who was, at that time, one of the most powerful men in the country.

Some of the citizens had crept into the church, to hear what the monk had to say, but they did not hear him say very much, for the Duke of Lancaster soon began to wrangle with the Bishop. He hated the clergy, because he was envious of their position and the power that they had over the simple folk, and his pride could not brook the questions that the Bishop put to his friend. At last he lost his temper altogether, and, after speaking very rudely to the Prelate, he threatened to drag him out of the church by the hair of his head. In an instant, the listening citizens sprang to their feet. They were not very interested in Wyclif's reforms--probably, at that time, they did not know very much about them--but this powerful Duke was no friend of theirs, and they were enraged at the thought that he dared come into their Cathedral and threaten their Bishop. With one accord they rushed to the belfry and tolled the great bell, and when, as was their duty, crowds of other citizens gathered in the churchyard to see what had happened, they told them, in excited tones, that John of Gaunt was in the church with his followers, and threatening to lay hands on the Bishop.

Then a perfect tempest arose. Some of the crowd rushed into the church, declaring that they would murder the Duke; others went off to his Palace in the Strand, determined to break into it and pillage it, in order to punish him for his insolence. And they were in such deadly earnest that they would have carried out both threats had not Bishop Courtenay himself interfered, and saved his enemy from their violence.

Just before the Reformation the great church was at the very height of its glory--from an outward point of view, at least. We read that there were no less than one hundred and thirty clergy who were supposed to minister there, and that there were so many people connected with it--schoolmasters, schoolboys, singing-men, choir-boys, bedesmen, bookbinders, sextons, gardeners, bell-ringers, etc.--that employment must have been given to more than a thousand people. It all seems very grand and glorious; but if we read further, we find that it had grown just like the Temple in our Lord's time: there was a great deal of outward magnificence, and yet the very purpose that the church had been built for--the Service and Worship of God, was in danger of being forgotten. Instead of being kept as God's house, entirely for His Worship, we find that the great nave was the fashionable meeting-place of the good folk of London, and they used it as we should use a promenade to-day.

Francis Osborne, an old historian, writes: 'It was the fashion in those days ... for the principal Gentry, Lords and Courtiers, and men of all professions, to meet in S. Paul's by eleven of the clock ... and walk in the middle aisle till twelve, and after dinner from three till six, during which time some discoursed of business, and others of news.'

Then came the Reformation; and, as always happens when a great change like that is taking place, people were so zealous to sweep away all the abuses that had crept in, that they 'lost their heads,' as we say, and did many wrong and unseemly things. It was right and needful that the Church should be reformed; but it was not right nor needful that all the splendid carving, and decorated stonework, and beautifully illuminated books, and gold and silver altar vessels, which had been given for the Service of God by pious men and women, should be broken by hammers, or burned, or carried away and melted down, to fill the pockets of worthless noblemen.

It was right that the nave should no longer be the place of resort for all the fashionable loungers in the city; but it did not improve matters when the same nave was turned into cavalry barracks for Oliver Cromwell's soldiers, and the rough men were allowed to play games and behave in any way that they liked in the church.

No, the history of that time is not pleasant reading; and we feel almost glad when we hear that, first of all, the wooden spire was struck by lightning, and set on fire, and then that the whole church was burned down by the Great Fire that devastated London in September, 1666; for then a new beginning could be made, and those unhappy old stories forgotten.

You all know about the Great Fire of London: how it came after the Plague, and how it seemed such a calamity at the time, but proved, after all, a blessing in disguise, for it burned down all the old plague-infested, unhealthy wooden houses, which were so crowded together that the streets were narrow and dark, and made room for better buildings and wider streets, and brought in a healthier mode of living altogether.

Just before the Fire broke out, a proposal had been made to restore the old Cathedral, and a famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren, had been called on to discuss the matter. He had agreed to undertake the work, and was prepared to do so, when the Great Fire took place, and when it was over, there was nothing left of the church but the blackened walls.

Then people shook their heads, and said that it would be impossible to restore it. A new Cathedral might be built somewhere else, but the St. Paul's that they had known on Ludgate Hill had gone for ever.

But Sir Christopher Wren differed from them. 'It would be impossible to restore the church,' he said, 'or even to rebuild it on its old foundation, but there was no reason why a new foundation should not be laid, and a new church built upon it.'

'That was all very well,' answered the objectors to the scheme; but how did Dr. Wren propose to take down the walls and level the old foundations?

He suggested gunpowder; and with a little care he could have blown down the walls quite safely, but a stupid master-builder thought that he could do the work himself, without the architect superintending, and he set to work one morning, and used such a big charge of the explosive that a great many of the half-ruined houses in the neighbourhood fell with the force of the explosion, and people got such a fright that they objected to gunpowder being used at all.

The famous architect was not dismayed, however, at this opposition. He believed in the proverb that says, 'Where there's a will, there's a way.' So he procured a great beam of wood, forty feet long, and had it covered at both ends with iron. Then he slung this beam up in a wooden erection, something like a triangle, and used it as a battering-ram to break down the walls. At first it appeared as if it would be in vain. The workmen battered at the walls for a whole day, and not a stone fell. But Wren persevered, and the next day he was rewarded, for the great buttresses fell at last with a crash, and he was able to proceed with his work.

And this he did most thoroughly. Someone has said of him that he 'built for eternity,' and, as far as any man can do so, the saying is true.

Everyone knows that the security of a building depends greatly upon the kind of foundation it rests upon. No matter how well built it is, no matter how showy the walls may be, if the foundation is not firm and solid, sooner or later it must fall to pieces, unless something is done to repair it.

Christopher Wren knew of this danger, and the first thing that he set his workmen to do was to dig down forty feet into the earth to find out if the ground on which he intended to build was quite solid and secure. Doubtless many people laughed at him, and said that he was too particular, but he did not care, and they stopped laughing when it was discovered that right down at the north-east corner there was a pit, and if the new Cathedral had been built over this, sooner or later the ground would have sunk, and the wall of the building have cracked, and in all probability fallen to pieces. However, Dr. Wren made his workmen dig deeper, till they got to the bottom of this pit; then he filled it up with a pier of solid stone. It took him a whole year to do this, but at the end of that time he was ready to begin the church, knowing that underneath it was a foundation that was absolutely secure.

Then arose the great Cathedral that we see to-day. It took some thirty years to build, and when it was finished, the highest stone in the lantern that rests on the dome was laid in its place by Sir Christopher Wren's son.

But now we learn something about Sir Christopher that shows that he was a good as well as a clever man. Do you remember what is said in the Bible about people who can rule their own spirits, and are slow to be angry? That they are really greater than the men who conquer cities, and whom the world admires. Tried by this standard, Sir Christopher was a really great man. For he was not only clever enough to build St. Paul's Cathedral, but he could rule his own spirit, and not vex himself over the way in which his enemies treated him.

The story of Sir Christopher Wren's life--for he was knighted as a reward for his work--is as interesting as any of the stories connected with St. Paul's Cathedral. He was the son of a Wiltshire clergyman, and his love of architecture dated from a time when the roof of his father's church had grown so old that it threatened to fall down. And, as often happens in a country parish, there were not very many rich men living there who could give money to pay for the building of a new one. So the Vicar determined that, instead of paying for an architect, he would draw the plans, and superintend the building of the roof himself.

And we can imagine how little Christopher would hear all about the new church roof, and how he would look over his father's shoulder and watch him when he was drawing the plans, and how he would spend all his play-time in the church, looking at the joiners putting up the wooden beams, and the other workmen working on the walls, while his father went up and down, superintending everything, and very likely lending a helping hand himself. Perhaps it was in these early days that the boy determined that he, too, would build churches when he was grown up.

Then he had an 'Uncle Matthew,' who was Bishop of Ely, and as he grew older he would go and visit him, and would wander across from the Palace into Queen Etheldreda's beautiful Minster Church, and stand and look up in wonder at the Lantern Tower; and his uncle would tell him the story of how it once fell, and how Alan de Walsingham built it up again, and perhaps it was that which gave him the idea, which he carried out afterwards at St. Paul's, of a great church with an enormous dome in the centre of it, under which thousands of people could assemble, as they do on Sunday afternoons at St. Paul's to-day, and listen to the sermon of some great preacher.

He did something else first, however, for he was very fond of watching the stars, and when he went to Oxford he watched them so closely, and learned so much about them, that he was made Professor of Astronomy.

But although he was made Professor of Astronomy, he seems to have gone on all the time studying architecture, and drawing plans of churches, and at last King Charles heard of him, and asked him to draw some plans of churches for him. In this way he became known as a clever architect, and when the Great Fire took place, and a large part of London had to be rebuilt, he not only built a new Cathedral, but forty-two other churches as well; besides which he built Marlborough House, and a great part of Greenwich Hospital.

So you see that he had a useful, busy life, and it was a very long one as well, for he lived till he was an old man of ninety-one. He was not very kindly treated towards the end of his life, and this was because of what is called 'political jealousy.' It had been the Stuart Kings who had brought him into notice, and given him the post of Surveyor-General; but when the House of Hanover came into power, their followers said, 'Oh, we cannot have any of the friends of the Stuarts holding good posts; we must take them from them, and give them to those of our own party.'

And so Sir Christopher Wren's office was taken from him, and given to another man, and something else was done that vexed him quite as much as losing his post.

He had meant his great Cathedral to stand as it stands to-day, with an open space all round it. Someone suggested that it would look much better if it were enclosed by a wall. And, in spite of Sir Christopher's remonstrances, a wall was built, which quite spoilt the effect in his eyes.

He might have gone up and down the world trying to prove to everyone that his idea was best, and he might have made himself and his friends very unhappy over the unkindness and injustice that had been shown him, but, instead of this, he only shrugged his shoulders when he looked at the unsightly wall, and said, with a little laugh, that 'ladies thought nothing looked well without an edging.' Then he retired quietly to Hampton Court, where he had a house, and occupied himself until he died with his old hobby of Astronomy, and with reading Theology and Philosophy.

We read that occasionally the old man would 'give himself a treat,' and do you know what that treat was? He would come to London, and walk quietly up the Strand to St. Paul's Churchyard, and stand and look for a while at the great and beautiful Cathedral that he had built, and then he would go home feeling quite content and happy, for he knew that it would stand for long centuries after the ugly wall had been pulled down again, and that future generations would forget all the unkind and untrue things that people had said about him, while they would always remember that it was he, Christopher Wren, who was the builder of St. Paul's.

And there was something else, I think, which must have made him very happy towards the close of his life. In those days people were not above taking bribes--that is, they would take money, let us say, from a timber merchant, and promise that they would use his timber, whether it was good or bad; or from a stonemason, and use his stones, no matter how badly they were hewn. But Wren had never done this; his hands were clean, and he left such a splendid name for uprightness and honesty behind him that after his death someone wrote of him, 'In a corrupt age, all testimonies leave him spotless.'

Now let us go inside the Cathedral, and walk round it, although it is so full of monuments that it is impossible to tell you the story of each.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet