CHESTER CATHEDRAL*. Chester was a station of considerable importance in the time of the Romans. In all probability Christianity had, under their rule, extended its blessings to this remote corner of the world. But, when the legionaries were recalled to Italy, and the Saxon pagans had overspread the land, the light of the gospel was well-nigh, if not entirely, extinguished here. Ere long, however, Christianity was again introduced, and paganism entirely rooted out. There is a legend-it does not appear to deserve a better name-that Wolphere, the first Christian king of Mercia, founded a nunnery at Chester in 670, for his daughter Werburgh and some other virgins. But, whatever foundation there may be for this story, it would seem certain that there was here, pretty early in the Saxon times, a religious house, dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul, to which it is said that in 875 the relics of St. Werburgh were brought, as to a place of safety. This monastery was afterwards repaired by Elfleda, countess of Mercia, as a foundation for secular canons, and it was also largely indebted to the munificence of kings Edmund and Edgar, and other benefactors. But in the year 1093, at the instigation of the celebrated Anselm, then archbishop of Canterbury, Hugh Lupus, earl of Chester, ejected the seculars, and settled in their place a company of Benedictine monks from Bec, in Normandy, Anselm's own monastery; Richard, Anselm's chaplain, being the first abbot. In the possession of this order St. Werburgh's church continued Winkles's Cathedrals and other accounts have been consulted. It is satisfactory to see that Winkles's work is now likely to be completed. VOL. XII.-No. CCCXLVI. till the dissolution by king Henry the eighth. It seems probable that Chester was in the early Saxon times the seat of a bishop. In a later age we know that it was united to the see of Lichfield, and that, shortly after the conquest, the bishops of Lichfield fixed their residence here for many years. At the reformation, a separate see was erected in this city; and the abbey-church of St. Werburgh became the cathedral of the new diocese, being dedicated to Christ and the blessed Virgin. No part of the present fabric can be supposed earlier than the time of Hugh Lupus; and even the portions of that date are few. They are chiefly to be found in the north transept, the northern aisles of the nave and choir, and a part of the cloister court. The choir, as at present existing, is supposed to have been begun about the middle of the thirteenth century; while the nave was not completed as it now stands till nearly three hundred years later. Chester cathedral is in the form of an The western front is not irregular cross. imposing in fact, it is in an unfinished state, and is disfigured by a building jutting out against it. It was doubtless the original design to erect two western towers; and of the northern one the foundations still remain : the place of the southern is occupied by the consistory court. The west entrance exhibits a Tudor arch, inclosed within a square head. On each side are four niches, and pedestals, on which statues were placed. Above is the great west window of eight lights, with elaborate tracery. This front is flanked by octagonal turrets, with belts of panelled [London: Joseph Rogerson, 24, Norfolk-street Strand.] с с tracery, and embattled parapets. On turning | noble buildings, as it were into distinct por to the south, we find behind the consistory court a rich and deep porch. The south side of the nave with its aisle is plain, yet striking; but the most remarkable feature of this part of the church is the south wing of the transept. Instead of resembling the northern wing, as is generally the case, this is nearly as long as the nave or the choir, broader than either, and with aisles on each side; while the north wing is very short, only as broad as a side of the central tower, and without aisles. The aisles of the choir extend to the east beyond the choir itself, and form the aisles of the Lady chapel at the extreme eastern end of the church. The eastern window of the choir is seen over this chapel; but the whole of this part of the cathedral is of very plain pretensions. On the north side is the chapter-house and cloister, to which is attached a building used as a school. By far the best external feature of this cathedral remains yet to be described. This is the central tower, rising at the intersection of the transepts with the nave and choir. It is only of one story above the roof: still it is lofty, and of imposing appearance. In cach side are two pointed windows, with a single mullion down the middle, and a quatrefoil at the top. All of them have crocketted canopies with finials. At the four angles of the tower are four octagonal turrets, terminated, as the tower itself is, with an embattled parapet. The material of which this church is composed is a red and crumbling sandstone. This detracts from its character, causing it, on nearer inspection, to look dilapidated: still it is not under some circumstances a disadvantage. When the writer first visited Chester, it was on a splendid summer's evening that he approached this antique city. The rays of the departing sun gave the old tower of the cathedral a richer hue, and its dark red walls glowed with the mellow light, impressing on his memory a picture which will not easily be effaced. Entering through the western doorway, we descend by several steps into the nave; and the first feeling is perhaps one of disappointment. There is no triforium: the ceiling is flat, and of wood, resting on wooden brackets. It would seem, however, that it was the original plan to vault the roof with stone, and some indications are left of the commencement of this work. The clerestory is lofty; the windows deeply recessed with galleries, constructed through the intervening piers. The pillars of the nave are clustered with rich bases and foliated capitals; the arches are pointed. I have before had occasion, in describing other cathedrals, to animadvert on the miserable taste which separates these tions, by lofty screens, destroying thus the sense of vastness which their magnitude and the character of Gothic architecture are well calculated to inspire in the spectator: but nowhere have I seen, except in Scotland, an interior so marred as in Chester cathedral. There are actually two churches formed under the same roof. For not only is a heavy screen and organ interposed between the nave and choir, but the southern wing of the transept is partitioned off to make a parish church. There may be a scarcity of churches in Chester, and this, as a temporary expedient, might be unobjectionable; but surely an additional church ought to be erected, and the cathedral left free to its own particular office. The central tower stands on four massy piers: above the arches is a flat wooden ceiling. Five pointed arches separate the choir from the aisles on each side: above these is an arcade of pointed arches, supported by slender shafts: higher still are the clerestory windows. The pavement is of black and white marble; and there are stalls on each side. The bishop's throne is interesting. It is the stone case of the shrine of St. Werburgh, and is a rich specimen of Gothic architecture, finely decorated with carved work, and embellished with a range of thirty curious little statues, variously habited and gilt, holding in their hands scrolls originally inscribed with their names, but now defaced. It has been supposed that they were intended to represent kings and saints of the royal Mercian line, relatives of St. Werburgh. In the south aisle of the choir is an altar tomb, which tradition appropriated to Henry the fourth, emperor of Germany; but, as this prince was interred first at Liege, and afterwards at Spires, it seems difficult to imagine what connexion he could have with a sepulchre in Chester cathedral. The tomb was doubtless that of one of the later abbots. In the choir are also the monuments of bishops Stratford and Peploe. Under the east window is an arch opening into the Lady chapel, which consists of a middle and two side aisles, the stone vaulting of which is ornamented with richly carved key-stones. The chapter-room is an elegant building, 35 feet high, 50 feet long, and 26 broad. The cloisters form a quadrangle of 110 feet square: the south walk and the dormitory over the east walk are destroyed. The dimensions of the cathedral are- The first bishop, on the erection of the see in 1541, was Bird. Among later prelates who have sat on the throne of St. Werburgh, we find the eminent names of Morton, Brian Walton, Wilkins, Pearson, Porteus, Blomfield, and Sumner. The old diocese of Chester contained the counties of Chester and Lancaster, with parts of Westmoreland, Cumberland, Yorkshire, Denbighshire, and Flintshire. By the new arrangement it is to comprise Cheshire, Flintshire, and part of Shropshire, and to be altogether in the province of York. S. persons clustered together, and one standing by himself a little way apart. The former seemed to be raising something from the ground. A horrid suspicion at once flashed upon my mind, and I hurried across the field to the group; and O! shall I ever forget the spectacle? there lay a gentleman upon the grass, his head just supported upon another's knee, while a surgeon was examining a wound in his side, from which the blood trickled fast: blood was also gushing from his mouth. A pistol had fallen at his feet; and at a little distance stood his unhappy antagonist, pale and haggard, still grasping the deadly weapon in his hand, and fixing intently his eyes upon his fallen victim. They were both personally known to me the wounded man was a Mr. H., at whose hospitable board I had sat but that day week, and saw him in health and cheerfulness, the beloved husband, the honoured parent. The other was a captain F., an officer quartered at a neighbouring market-town. Just as I reached the spot, the surgeon, rising, said in mournful accents, "I am deeply grieved to tell you that there is no hope: the wound must prove mortal in a few hours." Captain F. POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF ISAAC EMERSON. slapped his forehead vehemently with his hand: No. VI. THE DUEL. ABOUT a mile from my residence at E- was a retired little nook, whither in summer I used often to resort with some favourite volume, on which I could occupy myself secure from interruption. In order to reach this sequestered spot, I had to turn off from the high road just by a water-mill, where a narrow winding | lane conducted me to the entrance of a small wood. Passing through this, I came into a triangular field, enclosed on two sides by the wood, and on the third by a remarkably high quick-set hedge. In this field a few cows were generally grazing; but other living being was rarely seen there. At the farther extremity I used to climb a gate, and, pursuing for a few yards a tangled path, I turned short round a jutting limestone rock, and found myself in a kind of natural alcove, with overhanging trees, and a clear stream murmuring and sparkling about twenty feet below me. I took a little pains to make myself a rude seat; and here I often spent an hour in the freshness of the morning, or sought shelter from the hot rays of the noon-day sun. One day in the latter end of June I had risen early, and, with my favourite Herbert in my pocket, sought my pleasant hermitage. After reading about an hour, I was reminded by the distant church-clock striking seven, that it was time to return home to my solitary breakfast. I therefore closed my book, and, while gazing for a moment at the ocean, which I could just see through a break in the range of hills to the far east, glowing like molten gold in the sun, I was startled by the double report, as it seemed, of a gun at no great distance behind me. It was not the shooting season, and I could not at first account for the explosion; but, soon settling it in my mind that some farmer's boy was protecting, as he imagined, his master's corn, I commenced my walk homeward. I had just climbed the gate into the meadow, when before me, by the side of the wood, I espied three or four | "Merciful God, forgive me! am I then a murderer?” He staggered a few paces and leaned against a tree, almost overcome with mental agony. It was deemed unadvisable to convey Mr. H. to his own house, and therefore he was carried as gently as possible to the mill at the head of the lane turning from the high road, which was but a quarter of a mile distant. Here he was laid upon a humble but very clean bed, and received every attention that could be paid him from the miller's family; while I was despatched on the miserable errand of acquainting Mrs. H. with the fearful tidings. I was soon at H-park, and as I passed up the avenue-endeavouring with little success to calm my own mind, so as in the gentlest way to break the news-I was unexpectedly met by Mrs. H. herself, who, leading one of her little boys by the hand, was enjoying a stroll through the delightful grounds. "Good morning, Mr. Emerson," she said, "I hope you are come to breakfast with us. I expect my husband every moment: he went out about an hour ago to give some directions, I fancy, at the farm. He will be delighted to see you." Then observing my uncontrollable emotion, she suddenly changed her tone-"O! Mr. Emerson, are you ill? or has-has-any accident happened?" I cannot describe the scene which followed: it was one of the most painful moments of my life. She was speechless for some moments. I feared she would have fainted. But Mrs. H. was a real Christian, and she looked in that trying hour for more than earthly help. At last she said-"This is indeed a heavy dispensation." Kneeling upon the grass, she made her child kneel too, and raising her clasped hands and streaming eyes to heaven, “O my God, my compassionate Saviour," she cried, "lay not upon me a weightier burthen than thou wilt enable me to bear: O Father of the fatherless, Husband of the widow, have pity upon us." Little Henry sobbed too; but he was too young to comprehend the extent of his misfortune. Then, suddenly rising, she said to me-"Lead me to him: I must go to him directly." The child was carried back to the house by a servant, and I attended the unhappy | Mr. and Mrs. H. Stretched upon the bed, pale and lady to the mill. But what was the cause of this fatal quarrel? Mr. H. and captain F. had met two days before at the town of T— on an occasion of public business, which was terminated by a dinner. In the evening a disagreement had taken place on some trifling topic, and, an opinion in rather strong terms having been given by the captain, Mr. H. had hastily, and perhaps somewhat excited by wine-though let me carefully say that he never indulged to a degree at all approaching intoxication-expressed himself contemptuously both of the opinion and of the individual who had uttered it. Friends immediately interfered, and separated the disputants. Next morning captain F., who was a mild-tempered man, was very willing to overlook what had passed; but his brother-officers, observing his hesitation, gave him distinctly to understand that his honour required satisfaction, and that, unless he demanded it, they should be compelled to take very unpleasant steps. The captain was brave: he had distinguished himself in action; but he could not brook the idea of incurring the scorn of his companions: he therefore deputed a friend to wait on Mr. H. motionless, his anxious eye gazed unquietly upon her as she entered. He had but just recovered his consciousness, and still could not utter articulate words. But O how angel-like did gentle, Christian, woman minister beside that couch of anguish! Suppressing her own emotion, she moistened his parched lips, she cooled his burning brow, she pressed his clammy hand, she spoke of the compassionate Saviour; and, with soft but sometimes faltering voice, urged on her beloved one the virtue of that blood which can wash all sin away. After offering a brief prayer I left the house, and sought capt. F. Incapable of flight, he had been apprehended by the peace-officers, and was then awaiting an examination before a neighbouring magistrate. I never witnessed greater agony of spirit. "O, Mr. Emerson," he cried, when he saw me, "would that I had borne all the taunts that could have been flung upon me!—would that I had risked all consequences-aye, even quitted my professionrather than embrue my hands in blood. Unjust compulsion-fatal compliance! I would give ten worlds, if I possessed them, to undo this dreadful At an early hour in the afternoon, I was summoned by a hasty messenger to the mill-house. Mr. H. was dying. As I entered, I saw that indeed all was almost over. Mr. H. was good-natured, but high-deed." spirited he had been debating in his own mind whether he had not been most in the wrong, and whether he ought not to make some retractation; but, the moment he was apprised that satisfaction was demanded, his pride took fire-he should be deemed a coward to yield a jot. The preliminaries were therefore adjusted by the seconds, the parties met in the place I have described, and this was the result. For a hasty word, which both parties were afterwards anxious to forget, the laws of honour had required blood. Never, surely, is language more prostituted than when the term honour is so used. Honour, indeed! Is it honour to break God's strict command, and shed the blood of a fellow-creature? Is it honour proudly to resent a very often but imaginary offence; and, for it, to send a brother, with all his sins upon his head, to the bar of the eternal Judge? But it is courage. A man shews thereby that he dares venture his own life. Nay, it is rather cowardice. It is because he dares not withstand the world's contumely that, with an aching—aye, and with a trembling heart, he goes to take his appointed station. But it is necessary for keeping society in order, and checking the insults which would otherwise have to be endured, and would destroy the courtesy in which gentlemen must live together. Then I suppose the clergy, who are exempted from the operation of this said law of honour, are subjected to daily insults! Nay, a more studied respect is every where on this very account paid them; and he that should presume, on their allowed inability to demand a bloody satisfaction, to insult a clergyman, would, by common consent, be as much banished from society as he who refuses to fight a duel with a layman. O when will juster, more Christian, more humane notions prevail; and this practice, fit only for the barbarism of the savages we despise, be swept by the indignant public voice from our land? Deeply affecting was it to witness the meeting of His unhappy wife was kneeling beside him; but he seemed to know her not. A thick film was stealing over his eyes, and the hand of death plainly was on him. His two eldest children, brought to see their father for the last time, were standing in frightened sadness at the foot of the bed. The bible, which Mrs. H. had been reading, yet lay open. He had been glad to listen to her, but scarcely had he been able to say anything to her. Occasionally he muttered something; and I thought I could distintinguish-" God be merciful to me a sinner." I took up the book, and read from the sacred page the words which first caught my eye-" Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon." He evidently understood the words, for he made a strong effort to speak; but it was too much for him. After a short struggle, his head sunk back upon the pillow, his features settled, his jaw gradually dropped, and in a few minutes Arthur H. had left, at the early age of 26, his children orphans, his wife a widow. Over his untimely fate I must drop a veil. It is not for me to judge how an all-merciful but yet an all-just God may have dealt with him: to the great day of final retribution that secret must be left; but this I must say, that, if such a death-bed does not altogether exclude a hope, it cannot extinguish fear. Captain F. was tried, and acquitted because, as usual in such cases, it was esteemed sufficient that there had been nothing unfair in the duel. He continued, however, as long as I knew him, a melancholy man. In about two years his regiment went to India, and some months afterwards I saw his death in a newspaper. Mrs. H. exhibited a rare example of Christian principle. She bore up nobly under her heavy burden-for the grace of God sustained her-and unremittingly devoted herself to the education of her children. But she had received a fatal stroke. Consumptive symptoms in a short time manifested themselves. Her constitution was undermined, and, after various fluctuations, in three years she slept peacefully in Jesus, and her body was laid beside that of her husband. Such was the catastrophe of honourable satisfaction. Reader, scenes like that which I witnessed and have here detailed are not uncommon. I call upon thee as a man, as a father, as a husband, as a Christian, to do thy endeavour to efface the foul stain from the land. I. [In inserting this paper, we avail ourselves of the opportunity of saying, that we have lately learned with the greatest satisfaction, that an association has been formed in London for the purpose of putting a stop to duelling: already many members of both houses of parliament, and many distinguished officers of both the army and navy, have joined it. We heartily wish this association God speed; and we beg to say, that we most readily offer it whatever influence our columns may possess for the furtherance of its truly Christian object.-Ed.] CONSI THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY THE BY THE REV. J. E. GOLDING, M.A. tions; yet it lands us on a rock from which no human reasonings can remove us-God's omnipotent rule over his own machinery. He therefore is the sole author of all that is good in us, and of all the means which tend to produce it. That man then whose soul is set in a perpetual motion of endeavours as St. Paul's was, by such injunctions as this-" Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling," accomplishes all he does, as St. Paul did, in virtue of his using God's means; so that in all cases he has as completely the merit and the glory of all the good done in us and by us, as the maker of a beautiful machine has all the glory and merit of its performances, resulting as they did from his skill in arranging the parts of inanimate matter. I pass on to one particular view of God's omnipotent rule. The distinctions made in the moral and civil world must assuredly be traced up to his will. No hostility to an abused theory can blind the eyes of an impartial observer to distinctions between nations and individuals which our faculties, according to their natural constitution, compel us to trace up to what we call choice or preference. To pass by the well-known case of choice or preference which bestowed on the Jews, of all nations on the earth, spiritual advantages which might well earn for them the name of the beloved of God; to pass by this, let us look at what lies before us. How is it that one amongst us is born in a mansion and another in a workhouse? As I am not writing for atheists, I antiment of God. It was his will, his choice or preference, cipate the undisputed answer-it was by the arrangeto bring one upon the stage of life as a pauper, and the other as the noble. Again, as I am arguing with men and not with angels, I cannot admit any objections that after all such distinctions are, in their essence, unimportant; for in our own practices you feel and act upon the conviction, that the distinction is worth almost any sacrifices of health and personal comfort which we can make, to bestow the favourable side of it upon our own offspring. But, admitting that this is an instance of choice confined in its advantages to time, yet here is what I contend forchoice or preference in God's administration, which we can assign no reason for, but his own will. To meet, however, the objection that such advantages are temporal only, and therefore fugitive as life's emblems-"the early cloud and the morning dew," and "the frost" and "the eagle that hasteth to the prey;" let us look at the spiritual advantages which seem to us to be of necessity connected with these distinctions. By whose arrangement is it, that of two brothers one is snatched away almost ere the baptismal water is dry upon his face; and the other survives his full three-score years and ten, to be assaulted and overcome by ten thousand temptations? Regarding that moral helplessness which is the inevitable law of our present being, and which, unchecked by the direct power of God's indwelling Spirit, "grows with our growth, and strengthens with our strength," must we not allow that the chances (to use the world's language) of endless happiness resulting from the two conditions of dying at two months, and dying at seventy years of age, hardly admit of comparison; the baptized child being sure of eternal happiness-the other being sure, in virtue of his own doings, of eternal misery, unless all the probabilities and improbabilities of repentance are taken into the calculation? The advantages, which the infant has over the hoary-headed probationer in this case, are painfully obvious to all; and the fact that we think there is something real in them, is proved by the wish that has escaped at times from the lips or the heart of almost every man-that he had perished in infancy, without being exposed to the flaming fiery furnace of an earthly probation. The arrangement of such distinctions must be laid at the feet of God the Omnipotent; and, in asking the |