By the Rev. Arthur Fane. 55 
cold-blooded neglect to replace, to restore, to regenerate; and that 
whether in this church or in the one I last treated of, we may say 
with Horace of old— 
‘‘Delicta majorum immeritus Iues, 
Romane, donec templa refeceris, 
ANdesque labentes deorum, et 
Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.” 
The names ‘of two ecclesiastics of fame—the one for his prosperity 
and intellect, the other for his misfortunes—must be briefly men- 
tioned ere I close this paper. William of Edington, Bishop of 
Winchester, is the first of these prelates: from his bounteous liberality 
arose the beautiful church of which we have been treating. The 
other ecclesiastic whose name is connected with this building is the 
unfortunate Bishop Ayscough, or Askew. It would seem that he 
was a singular favourite of the weak and vacillating Henry VI. 
Apparently employed about the Court, he rose to the post of Bishop 
of Salisbury. For twelve years he administered the diocese; and, 
uniting high offices of courtly employment with his more sacred 
work in his diocese, he was Confessor to the King. He had retired 
from his more worldly occupations, and had sought out the quiet 
retirement of Edington for a short repose, and for celebrating the 
holy offices in more private and calm retreats. The mass was 
chaunted, the holy Eucharist was about to be administered, the 
Bishop was himself administering at the altar. Was ever retreat 
more suited for a mind palled with the splendours, anxieties, and 
cares of a court? Can any din of war, or strife of tongues, reach 
that holy temple of God, in the midst of that calm village? The 
Bishop kneels and partakes of the holy elements—he turns to offer 
the same privilege to the monks and the waiting congregation. 
What meant that wild shout which reigns through the vaulted 
church? The worshippers start from their knees—the awful sounds 
increase—the surging voices of a crowd again echo through the 
church. The doors are burst open—the crowd rushes in—the 
Bishop, in his episcopal robes, faces the approaching crowd—the 
monks, aghast, expect instant death; but the Bishop stands before 
the altar, calmly awaiting whatever violence may be in store, 
Again and again the fatal cry is heard—“ Death to the Bishop— 
