At least I thought so, and lingered
there so long that twilight had fallen before I found myself under the
darkness of the great Priory of Christchurch, the goal of my desire.
It was not without due cause and reason that I wished to see, instead
of an Apostle disputing, England before the fall. Indeed I am sure that
I should not have been unwise to exchange "Rome in her flower" for such
a sight as that; Christchurch proves it.
We march up and down England and count up our treasures, of which this
Priory of Christchurch is not the least; but we never pause perhaps to
remember what, through the damnable act of Thomas Cromwell and Henry
Tudor, we have lost. What we have lost! hundreds of churches, hundreds
of monasteries as fine as Christchurch, and hundreds far more solemn
and reverent. Reading, which now gives a title to an Isaacs, (God save
us all!) was, before the fall, just a great monastery, a Norman pile as
grand as Durham or Ely. What of Glastonbury and Amesbury, older far,
and of those many hundred others which stood up strong before God for
our souls--without avail? They are gone; Christchurch in some sort
remains.
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