Its wonder lies in its size and its antiquity. It is now
the longest mediaeval church not only in England, but in Europe, though
once it was surpassed by old St Paul's. It is five hundred and twenty-
six feet long, but it lacks height, and perhaps rightly, at least I
would not have it other than it is, its greatness lying in its
monotonous depressed length and weight, an enormous primeval thing
lying there in the meads beside the river. Winchester itself might seem
indeed to know nothing of it. The city does not rejoice in it as do
Lincoln and York in their great churches; here is nothing of the sheer
joy of Salisbury, a Magnificat by Palestrina; the church of Winchester
is without delight, it has supremely the mystery and monotony of the
plainsong, the true chant of the monks, the chorus of an army, with all
the appeal of just that, its immense age and half plaintive glory,
which yet never really becomes music.
And Winchester, too, has all and more than all, the surprise of the
plainsong; the better you know it the more you are impressed. No one
certainly has ever come by the narrow way out of the High Street, down
the avenue of limes to the West Front without being disappointed; but
no one thus disappointed has ever entered into the church without
astonishment, wonder and complete satisfaction.
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