# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/York Minster

YORK MINSTER.
I stood within a Minster of old time,
Ornate and mighty. Like a mount it reared
Its massy front, with pinnacle and tower,
Augustly beautiful. The morning sun
Through noblest windows of refulgent stain
Mullioned, and wrought with leafy tracery,
Threw o'er the pavement many a gorgeous group
Of cherubim and seraphim and saint,
And long robed patriarch, kneeling low in prayer,
While as his golden finger changed the ray,
Fresh floods of brilliance poured on all around. —O'er the long vista the delighted eye
Bewildered roved, transept, and nave, and choir,
And screen elaborate, and column proud,
And vaulted roof that seemed another sky.
—Methinks I hear a murmur, that 't is vain
To note mine etchings of an older world,
Since all their vague impressions fall as short
Of abbey or cathedral, as the wing
Of the dull beetle, that would scale their heights.
—It may be so. I'm sure 't is loss of time,
For me to speak of pediment and tower,
Saxon or Norman, and debate with warmth,
Whether the chevrar-work, and foliage knots
Are of the third or second Gothic school;
The wise man knows, perchance, the school-boy too.
But poets' cobweb line hath ever failed
To measure these aright, and set them forth
With Euclid's skill. Go see them for yourselves.
Yet can we people every vacant niche,
And mend the headless statue, and restore
The rusted relics of a buried age,
And spread the velvet pall the moth did eat
All fresh and lustrous o'er the ancient dead.
So be ye patient with us, and not ask
The admeasurement of transept or of nave,
But let us perch like bird, where'er we choose,
And weave our fleeting song, as best we may.
Fain would I tell you, what a world of sound
Came from that pealing organ, when its soul
Mixed with the chanter's breath bade arch and aisle
Re-echo with celestial melody.
Its mighty tide bore off the weeds of care
And sands of vanity, and made the words,
Such common words as man doth speak to man,
All tame and trifling to the immortal soul.
I would not say devotion may not be
As heartfelt, in the humblest village church
That flecks the green; but yet, it seemeth fit,
That those, who thus from age to age have been
Unresting heralds of the Eternal Name,
Should deck themselves in princely garniture,
As Heaven's ambassadors.
 To Him who bade
The broad-winged cherubs beautify the Ark
That taught His worship to the wilderness,
And mitred Aaron stand in priestly robes,
And Zion's temple wear its crown of rays,
Like a king's daughter, thou majestic pile,
Dost show thy reverence by thy glorious garb,
And with a lofty tone require of man
Unceasingly that incense of the heart,
Which he doth owe to God.
 And when he drops
Thy lesson in the grave, and fades away,
With what unwrinkled patience dost thou teach
Each new-born race Jehovah's awful name,
And press upon their infant lips His praise. —Again we came, and on the Sabbath-day,
And marked amid the throng of worshippers
A poor old man, bent low with years of toil.
His garb was humble, and his lowly seat
Fast by the reader in the sacred desk,
Because, methought, his ear was dull to sound.
It seemed as if his travel had been sore,
Along the barren wilds of poverty,
But yet that mid its flint-stones he had found
That pearl of price, which the rich merchantman
Too oft o'erlooketh on his prosperous way.
Meekly he bowed, nor cast a wandering glance
Toward kingly scutcheon, or emblazoned arms
Of prince and peer, but listened earnestly,
As for his life, to what the King of kings
Commanded or forbade. When solemnly
The deep responsive litany invoked
Aid and deliverance by the agony
And cross of Christ, his trembling hands he raised
Horny, and brown with labor, while a tear
Crept slowly down its furrowed path.
 Old Man!
Thou hast within thee that which shall survive
This temple's wreck, and if aright I read
Our Master's spirit in thy moistened eye,
That which shall wear a crown, when earthly thrones
Have name no more.
 And then we knelt us down
Around the altar, in that solemn feast
Which Jesus in his dark betrayal-night
Enjoined on his disciples. There we took
The broken bread and cup, remembering Him
In all his lowliness, in all his love,
Who sought the straying sheep.
 So lift thy crook,
Shepherd Divine! that we may follow thee
Where'er thou will'st to lead, nor miss thy fold,
When the slant beams of life's declining day
Call home the wanderers to eternal rest.
York, Monday, October 5, 1840.
It seems impossible to be disappointed in York Minster, however high may have been previous expectations. When you first gain a view of this mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, or at entering cast your eye through a vista of 524 feet, or from the tesselated marble pavement gaze through column and arch up to the ribbed and fretted dome, 99 feet above you, or catch the light of a thousand wreathed and trembling rainbows, through gloriously refulgent windows, you are lost in wonder and astonishment. Its different parts, nave, transept, choir, chapter-house, and crypt, with the rich decorations of screen, statue, tracery, and monument, where sleep the illustrious dead, require many surveys, and repay all with the fulness of admiration. The original erection on this site is of geat antiquity, and the present edifice, though more than one hundred and fifty years in building, displays, amid variety of taste and style, great unity of design. It has loftily withstood the attacks of time and the depredations of war, but some portions have been considerably injured by recent conflagration, and are now in the process of repair. The magnificent swell of the organ, and the majesty and sweetness of the chants, especially during the Sabbath's worship, seemed unearthly. Twice on every week-day the service of prayer and praise ascends from this venerable cathedral, and it is a touching thought, that its great heart of stone keeps alive that incense to Jehovah, which too ​often grows dim and cold on the altar of the living soul.
York is situated in a rich vale, of a peninsular form, between the rivers Ouse and Fosse, and equi-distant from the capital cities of Scotland and England. It is fortified, and tradition says, that Agricola planned and labored upon its walls. However this may be, it was early distinguished by the Romans, during their dynasty in Britain. The Emperor Adrian made it his residence as early as the year 134, and it was the camp, the court, and the sepulchre of Severus. Here, about 272, Constantine the Great was born, and here in the imperial palace his son Constantius died. The footsteps of old Rome upon this spot are attested by altars, inscriptions, seals, and sepulchral vessels, which have been from age to age exhumed. Not more than thirty years since, some workmen, in digging the foundation of a house, struck about four feet below the surface on a vault of stone, strongly arched with Roman bricks. It contained a coffin, enclosing a slender human skeleton, with the teeth entire, supposed to be a female of rank, who had lain there at least one thousand four hundred years. Near her head was a small glass lachrymatory, and not far from her tomb was found an urn containing ashes and calcined bones of another body. Still more recently, the remains of a tesselated pavement, with other relics, have been found and presented to the Yorkshire Philosophical Society. Our own antiquarian tastes were easily and simply ​gratified, by finding in various repositories during our walks slight utensils, such as boxes, vases, inkstands, and candlesticks, wrought and neatly polished from the charred beams of the venerable Minster.
It is impossible to explore the city of York, without reverting to the scenery of the past, which History has so indelibly traced, as almost to give it existence among the objects that surround us. Imagination rekindles on the neighboring hill the fires of the funeral pile of Severus, or recalls the tumult of the sanguinary battles of Towton and Marston Moor, fought in the vicinity, one of which terminated the bitter wars of the Roses, and the other, through the imprudence of Prince Rupert, crushed the hopes of the Royalists.
We fancy that we listen to the chimes of the first Christmas, as it was here celebrated by Prince Arthur, or gather traits of its more splendid observance, under Henry the Third or Edward the Second, from the pages of the old Chroniclers. Still following the annals of war, we perceive the blood of Scot, Pict, and Dane, Roman, Saxon, and Norman, mingling beneath these walls. Sack and siege darken the picture. William the Conqueror, flushed with success and domination, held his armies for six months before these walls, until famine compelled capitulation, and then satiated his vengeful cruelty by the slaughter of the nobility and gentry, and the devastation of the whole country between York and Durham.
In the wars under Charles the First, a siege by the ​parliamentary forces was endured for several months, which some of the present inhabitants are fond of saying would have been longer withstood, had not Fairfax pointed a battery of cannon against the venerable Cathedral, and threatened to destroy that glory of their ancestors.
We may now hope with regard to York, that the days of its warfare and mourning are ended, and the traveller is gratified to find the turmoil of the battlefield exchanged for the Christian cares of the Hospital, the Dispensary, the Retreat for the Insane, the Institution for the education of the Blind, the Charity Schools, and the twenty parish churches that diversify its bounds.