An Evening Service.

Evening Post, Volume LXXI, Issue 148, 23 June 1906, Page 10

An Evening Service.

It .was delightful to pass from the busy streets into the aisles of the solemn old minster and to drink deep from it 3 fountains of silence and peace. The contrast was dramatic in its intensity. It was like question and answer — the troublous problems without, the solution within. It involved no subscription to creeds, no endorsing of articles ; here was something more permanent and satisfactory than the changeful letter, — here, it seemed, was the abiding spirit. In some sort, it was this spirit that had attracted hermits and solitaries of old, but they had made the mistake of neglecting the contrast, they sought to convert their life into a monologue instead of a drama ; that way lay madness. Health is in the junction of the two aspects — the peaceful solitude, the pulsing companionship. He who gives himself utterly to the crowd, to the social circle, the rush and hurry and idle chat of the multitude is losing himself ; ho who gives himself utterly to retreat and solitariness is killing himself. We want to keep our lives vital by being in touch with our fellows, and to keep them sweet by the healing influence of solitude, the nurse of individuality. Here in the minster the passing of an hour was an inspiration, fitly preluded by Ihe walk thither through the crowded street, and as fitly confirmed by the bustle of the traffic afterwards. There were beauties to note even in the city, and to bear them with one — grand effects of sunlight, it mjghii be, on the smoky walls and tiles, or on dull days the floating mist giving a wondrous blue to the distances. Without was the spacious green, with its trees touched by the seasons ; a delicate suggestion of verdure in early spring, rich foliage in summer, and in autumn the leaves raining upon the short grass. Below at the foot of the ascent lay the quay-side v the sight of masts and rigging blending intimately with shops and street traffic ; and, passing upward, the expanse t)f the cathedral green came upon the eye like an open horizon, with something of the alluring breadth of open spaceß. Here at least was some generous allowance for the imagination, some breathing room spared from the crushing and crowding of tiles and chimneypots, something that told of old-time repose and mediaeval colour and an age when the artistic spirit was at one with the religious, Commercialism did not reign quite supreme in those days ; we owe something to our forefathers. To them we owe the building of this minster, restored to primitive proportions by the piety" of a later generation. There were some things that were good in the old times of brutality and bloodshed, and the good things have survived, though not untouched. But to pass through the porch into the grave aisles was not going back into a former age ; rather was it to be merged in the atmosphere of an eternal Present, in the atmosphere of pure spirit that knows not past or future. He who would find this spirit must at least bring its inception with him, or he may find pnly gloom and monotony and bare walls. Most impressive was it when the dim glow of a fading afternoon blended with the partial lights of the chancel. Those were days when the choir-stalls stood farther towards the altar, when it was possible to sit within the curtained screen and feel within tlie sanctuary, not too far removed to be in touch, not near enough to be irreverently familiar. There might be a faint stain of sunset on the higher pillows and arches, but the vest of the building remained in solemn vaporous shadow, save where the chancel lights were twinkling. A church should never be lighted too brilliantly; it gains effect by obscurities and glooms and half-lights. These leave room for the imagination; they are like the haze that gives such fine atmospheric tinting and chastening to an English landscape. The lights played upon parts of the columns, but they passed upward into gloom, with a suggestion of mystory and unguessed height. In this suggestiveness, rather than in the finish of trivial detail, lies the true glory of architecture. There was a joy in stealing within the curtain on such a late afternoon, while the whiterobed choir and clergy were already in their places — they also gaining by the slight touch of indistinctness. It might be that the grand old liturgical words were resounding with fine echo through the building, or perhaps the Psalms were being chanted, the poignant tone of boyish trebles touching the heart with indefinite emotion. Or some low note of a deep bass voice would prolong the intoned cadence of the r»»sponses, , ,*£..«rfiastical doctrine— intellectual assent or dissent were equally uncalled for; the heart responded to certain eternal verities that it might be difficult to formulate in words. It might be a sensuous luxury that took possession at such moments, something far removed from stern spiritual conflict — a soothing languor and lassitude that visited the soul like a healing balm. The cathedral was perhaps more impressive when there were fewest persons present — it is not cynical or unsocial to say so. A crowded church has its own noble impressiveness, but it involves to some extent a merging of identities; the solemn solitude of the minster, almost empty, allowed an emphasised luxuriating m personality that might be a little selfish if too much indulged, but that in moderation is delightfully stimulating. There was a vague charm in certain week-night services, held perhaps in Lent or Advent, when very few persons responded to the chiming of the bells, but those few, let us flatteringly imagino, were select. Shall it be said that because the attendance was small the services wero wnsted? Not to the memory of one among that scanty assemblage. The vastness and the shadows of the building gave avenues for glorious dreamings. Such dreams might not always bo in touch with the words of the preacher; but they were in complete concord with tho voice of the choristers, the tones of the organ, the centre of light within which we were seated, the mystic dimnesses beyond. These massive piles are built of I something other than mere stonb and ' > mortar; we cannot yet despiso them as cast-off clothes. Tho bare bench and naked wall do not yet wholly satisfy t us ; we thirst for space and colour end tho glories of sound— we crave also the r converse of cloistral silences. We do not yet know the exact border line between senso and soul. — Arthur L. Salmoiy St., James's Budget,. _ \