choir.  In the north aisle of the nave, between the sixth and seventh pillars, is a door-way, now closed, and converted into a bench, through which the people formerly adjourned after prayers in the choir to hear the sermon, which was preached in the green yard, now the palace gardens,

prior to the Great Rebellion.  Galleries were raised against the walls of the palace, and along the north wall of the cathedral, for the mayor, aldermen, their wives and officers, dean, prebends, &c.; the rest of the audience either stood or sat on forms, paying for their seats a penny, or half-penny each.  The pulpit had a capacious covering of lead, with a cross upon it.  On the church being sequestered, and the service discontinued during the Commonwealth, the pulpit was removed to the New Hall Yard, now the garden of St. Andrew’s Hall, and the sermons were preached there.  The devastations committed in and about the building at that period, formed the subject of grievous lamentations from the pen of good bishop Hall, then the Bishop of the see, whose sufferings from persecution have become a part of our country’s history.  Hall spent the last melancholy years of his life in the little village of Heigham, where the Dolphin Inn, with its quaint flint-work frontage, mullioned windows, and curiously carved chamber roof and door, yet remain to associate the spot with his memory: his tomb is in the little village church close by.

In the centre of the roof of the nave is a circular hole, the purpose of which for many years puzzled enquirers; but one of the industrious and intellectual archæologians of the present day, to whom we are indebted for many interesting discoveries connected

with the cathedral, has reasonably suggested that it was the spot from whence was suspended the large censer swung lengthwise in the nave at the festivals of Easter and Whitsuntide.  On the north side of the choir there still exists the small oriel window, through which the sepulchre was watched from Good Friday to Easter Morning.  This ceremony consisted of placing the host in a sepulchre, erected to represent the holy sepulchre, covering it with crape, and setting a person or persons to watch it until Easter Sunday, as the soldiers watched the tomb of Christ.  During the time, no bells sounded, no music was heard, and lights were extinguished.  In silence and gloom these three days were passed.  In reference to the length of time usually so denominated, that is from Friday to Sunday, a curious solution, attributed to Christopher Wren, the son of the architect, has recently been published; he seems to have puzzled himself over such like problems, and says, “that the night in one hemisphere was day in the other, and the two days in the other were nights in the opposite,” so that in reality there were three nights and three days on the earth; and as Christ died for the whole world, not only for the hemisphere in which Judea was, he therefore truly remained in the grave that time.

It is difficult for us, accustomed to the sober undemonstrative, not to say cold demeanour of modern

Protestantism, to form a conception of the effect of the seasons of festivity or humiliation, as observed even in our own land in earlier times.  The setting apart the greater portion of the day for weeks together, for religious ceremonies, and especially the almost dramatic scenes of the Passion week, sound to our ears as tales of mummery.  Whether we have gained much by the acquisition of the wisdom that sees nothing in them but occasion for ridicule, or pity, may be a question.  Certain it is that many of the practices were gross and debasing; many, had beauty and truth in them.

Amongst those peculiar to the season of Easter, are the ceremony of creeping to the cross on Good Friday, and the kindling of the fires and lighting of the paschal on Easter Eve.  As these are distinctly mentioned in ancient Norfolk wills, as practised in this cathedral, we may just describe them in connection with our visit to it.  It was often customary to leave lands chargeable with the payment of offerings at this season, both at the creeping of the cross, and to furnish new paschals or tapers for lighting at Easter.

The creeping to the cross is mentioned in a proclamation, black letter, dated 26th February, 30th Henry VIII., in the first volume of a collection of proclamations in the archives of the Society of Antiquaries, where it is stated, “On Good Friday it

shall be declared how creeping to the cross sygnyfyeth an humblynge of oneself to Christ before the cross, and the kyssynge of it a memory of our redemption made upon the cross.”  In a letter from Henry to Cranmer, of later date, a command is issued that the practice should be discontinued as idolatrous.  The ceremony is described by Davies in his rites of the cathedral church of Durham, where he relates, “that within that church, upon Good Friday, there was a marvellously solemn service, in which service time, after the passion was sung, two of the ancient monks took a goodly large crucifix, all of gold, of the picture of our Saviour Christ nailed upon the cross, laying it upon a cushion, bringing it betwixt them thereupon to the lowest greese or step in the choir, and there did hold the said cross betwixt them.  And then one of the monks did rise, and went a pretty space from it, and setting himself upon his knees, with his shoes put off very reverently, he crept upon his knees unto the said cross, and after him the other did likewise, and then they set down again on either side of it.  Afterward, the prior came forth from his stall, and in like manner did creep unto the said cross, and all the monks after him in the said manner, in the meantime the whole quire singing a hymn.  The service being ended, the two monks carried the cross and the sepulchre with great reverence; kings,

queens, and common people, all followed the same custom; it was, however, usual to place a carpet for royal knees to creep upon.”

The paschal, or taper as it was called, was lighted from fire struck from a flint on Easter Eve, all previous fires being extinguished.  The paschal was often of great size: that of Westminster Abbey, in 1557, weighed three hundred pounds.  Many curious records of church disbursements for these and such like things are recorded; in those of St. Mary-at-Hill, in London, stands, “For a quarter of coles for the hallowed fire of Easter Eve, 6d.; also for two men to watch the sepulchre, from Good Friday to Easter Eve, 14d.; for a piece of timber to the new paschal, 2s.; paid for a dish of pewter for the paschal, 8d.”

The church on Easter morning presented another scene.  The sepulchre removed, tapers were lighted, fires kindled, incense burned, music pealed from the bells, Te Deums from organs, flowers fresh gathered lent their fragrance to the hour, birds set loose from the crowd, all joined to celebrate the joyful festival of the resurrection, and altars glittered with the whole wealth of silver and gold, that munificence or penitence had enriched them with.  We have left off all these things—but we sing the Easter hymn.

On the north side of the entrance from the nave into the anti-choir was placed the chapel, dedicated

to the Lady of Pity; and above the spot where Herbert laid the foundation stone, was placed the altar, dedicated to St. William.  As this sounds rather an unsaintly name, we must explain that St. William was a little boy, aged nine years,