them as they appear through the mists of centuries, the distance
distorting some things, obscuring others, but leaving upon us, on the
whole, an impression that, after all, these men and women of the past,
whose circumstances were so different from our own, were perhaps not so
very unlike what we should be if our surroundings were as theirs. Now
that we have come to that conclusion, if indeed we have come to it, let
me ask you all a question or two. Should we like to change with those
forefathers of ours, whose lives were passed in this parish in the way
I have attempted to describe, six hundred years ago? Were the former
times better than these? Has the world grown worse as it has grown
older? Has there been no progress, but only decline?
My friends, the people who lived in this village six hundred years ago
were living a life hugely below the level of yours. They were more
wretched in their poverty, they were incomparably less prosperous in
their prosperity, they were worse clad, worse fed, worse housed, worse
taught, worse tended, worse governed; they were sufferers from
loathsome diseases which you knew nothing of; the very beasts of the
field were dwarfed and stunted in their growth, and I do not believe
there were any giants in the earth in those days. The death-rate among
the children must have been tremendous. The disregard of human life was
so callous that we can hardly conceive it. There was everything to
harden, nothing to soften; everywhere oppression, greed, and
fierceness. Judged by our modern standards, the people of our county
village were beyond all doubt coarser, more brutal, and more wicked,
than they are. Progress is slow, but there has been progress. The days
that are, are not what they should be; we still want reforms, we need
much reforming ourselves; but the former days were not better than
these, whatever these may be; and if the next six hundred years exhibit
as decided an advance as the last six centuries have brought about, and
if your children's children of the coming time rise as much above your
level in sentiment, material comfort, knowledge, intelligence, and
refinement, as you have risen above the level which your ancestors
attained to, though even then they will not cease to desire better
things, they will nevertheless have cause for thankfulness such as you
may well feel to-night as you look back upon what you have escaped
from, and reflect upon what you are.
III.
DAILY LIFE IN A MEDIEVAL MONASTERY.
"Now I think on't,
They should be good men; their affairs as righteous:
But all hoods make not monks."
[The commemoration of the birth of Martin Luther, which people would
have called his quater-centenary if they had not been deterred by the
terrific appearance of so huge a word, was the occasion of many
preachments and much lecturing, besides a great deal of heroic talk in
public and private. With so much to encourage cynicism and persiflage
among us it was comforting to find that the instinct of hero-worship is
not quite dead, and that the story of a great man's life still stirs
the heart. It was inevitable that, among the many utterances with which
we were treated in the year 1883, many should be very foolish, and not
a few mischievous and erroneous. Itinerant Windbags are rarely
scrupulous about their facts, and the allusive style flavoured with
stinging invective is far more telling than any historical narrative,
however picturesque and eloquent it may be. Luther the Monk will always
be a more attractive subject in the lecture hall than Luther the
Theologian, and an audience prepared to be harrowed and shocked will
greedily listen to broad hints about _abominations_-the word is a very
favourite one--which the author could disclose, but mercifully
withholds in pity for the shuddering hearts of a too sensitive
assembly. The consequence was that an altogether disproportionate
amount of declamation was wasted up and down the country by gentlemen
on the stump, in girding at monks and nuns, their vices and crimes,
till some men's minds were not a little exercised, and some, horrified
by what they were told, asked in their perplexity, "Can these things
be?" The present writer knows nothing of the condition of the German
Religious Houses in the fifteenth or the sixteenth century, and not as
much as he would wish to learn of the condition of the English houses
during the same period, but he has been painfully convinced that the
peripatetic orators are about as qualified to lecture upon the subject
as he is to lecture on astronomy.
It was while musing in my solitude upon the harm done by ignorant
pretenders in sowing error broadcast in the waste places of the world
that I received a call from one of the class, who came to beg my
countenance for a lecture upon Luther the Monk and Monkery. He was a
vociferous personage and prodigal of his words. He added to all his
sins this one, that he did not know when to go. He had no tact, only
talk. Irritated at last beyond endurance, my normal suavity forsook me,
and I spoke with brutal plainness. Of course he was wroth, and pressed
for an explanation. In a weak moment I yielded. "To begin with," said
I, "Luther, strictly speaking, was not a monk at all!" [Footnote: He
belonged to the order of Friars Eremite under the Augustinian Rule.] It
was a foolish speech: first, because it made my friend an offender for
a word; and, secondly, because there was more truth in it than the man
was capable of understanding or was prepared to receive; but it had the
effect of ridding me of a bore. As he took his leave he shot at me this
Parthian shaft--"If you are above learning, sir," he said, "perhaps
teaching might not be beneath you. Could you not, for instance, let the
world know something about monks and monasteries some day? Even I,
ignorant as you pronounce me, have heard of your lecturing on a
thirteenth-century village. Why not try a thirteenth-century monastery
next?" I politely thanked him for his valuable suggestion, and promised
to give it my respectful attention. The following sketch is the outcome
of our interview. "Facit indignatio versus."]
* * * * * * *
It may be assumed as a fact which scarcely requires to be more than
stated that there are few subjects which the great mass of Englishmen
are so curiously ignorant of as the History of Monasticism, of the
constitution of the various Orders, of the fortunes of any single
religious house, or the discipline to which its members were, in theory
at least, compelled to submit. The assumption being granted, it may
naturally be asked, How is such ignorance to be accounted for? It is
due to more causes than one, but chiefly and primarily to the vastness
of the subject itself.
When the monasteries were suppressed by Henry VIII. there was an utter
obliteration of an order of things which had existed in our island for
certainly more than a thousand years, and how much longer it is
impossible to say. The names of religious houses which are known to
have existed before the Norman Conquest count by hundreds; the names of
men and women who presided over such houses during the centuries
preceding that event count by thousands. Some of these religious houses
had passed through the strangest vicissitudes; they had been pillaged
again and again; they had been burnt by Danish marauders; their inmates
driven out into the wilderness or ruthlessly put to the sword; their
lands given over to the spoiler or gone out of cultivation; their very
existence in some cases almost forgotten; yet they had revived again
and again from their ashes. When William the Conqueror came among us,
and that stern rule of his began, there was scarcely a county in
England and Wales in which one or more religious houses were not to be
found, and during his reign of twenty-one years about thirty new
monasteries of one sort or another were added to those already existing.
To begin with, the very word monastery is a misnomer: the word is a
Greek word, and means the dwelling-place of a solitary person, living
in seclusion. But, misnomer though it be, the employment of the word in
a sense so widely different from that which it first bore, until it got
to designate the dwelling-place of a corporate body, among whom no
solitude was allowed and privacy was almost impossible, is of itself
very significant as indicating the stages through which the original
idea of monasticism passed.
It was natural enough, when society was in a condition of profound
disorganization, and sensuality and violence were in the ascendant,
that men and women of gentle nature should become convinced that the
higher life could only be lived in lonely retirement, far from the
sound of human voices and the contact of human creatures, whose very
nearness almost implies sin. But what a vast step from this to that
other conviction which the developed form of monasticism expresses,
when experience has convinced the devout searcher after God that no
great work can be done in improving the world, or raising the tone of
society, or in battling with our own weaknesses and vices, except by
earnest, resolute, and disciplined co-operation. It is when we draw
together that we are strong, and strongest when we are labouring
shoulder to shoulder for some common object, and that no mean and
sordid one; it is then that we best find deliverance from our
self-deception and most inveterate delusions, whilst living in the
light of other's eyes, and subjected to the influence and control of a
healthy and well-instructed public opinion.
In the thirteenth century (and I shall as much as possible confine
myself to the limits of that period), a monastery meant what we now
understand it to mean--viz., the abode of a society of men or women who
lived together in common--who were supposed to partake of common meals;
to sleep together in one common dormitory; to attend certain services
together in their common church; to transact certain business or pursue
certain employments in the sight and hearing of each other in the
common cloister; and, when the end came, to be laid side by side in the
common graveyard, where in theory none but members of the order could
find a resting-place for their bones. When I say "societies of men and
women" I am again reminded that the other term, "convent," has somehow
got to be used commonly in a mistaken sense. People use the word as if
it signified a religious house tenanted exclusively by women. The truth
is that a convent is nothing more than a Latin name for an association
of _persons_ who have _come together_ with a view to live for a common
object and to submit to certain rules in the ordering of their daily
lives. The monastery was the common dwelling-place: the convent was the
society of persons inhabiting it; and the ordinary formula used when a
body of monks or nuns execute any corporate act--such as buying or
selling land--by any legal instrument is, "The Prior and Convent of the
Monastery of the Holy Trinity at Norwich;" "the Abbot and Convent of
the Monastery of St. Peter's, Westminster;" "the Abbess and Convent of
the Monastery of St. Mary and St. Bernard at Lacock," and so on.
Bearing in mind, then, that the term convent has to do with a
corporation of men or women united into an organized society, and that
the term monastery can strictly be applied only to the buildings--the
_domus_, in which that society has its home--it will be well at
starting that we should endeavour to gain some notion of the general
plan of these buildings first, and when we have done that that we
should proceed to deal next with the constitution of the society itself
and the daily routine of conventual life.
A monastery in theory then was, as it was called, a Religious House. It
was supposed to be the home of people whose lives were passed in the
worship of God, and in taking care of their own souls, and making
themselves fit for a better world than this hereafter. As for this
world, it was lying in wickedness; if men remained in this wicked world
they would most certainly become contaminated by all its pollutions;
the only chance of ever attaining to holiness lay in a man or woman's
turning his back upon the world and running away from it. It was no
part of a monk's duty to reform the world; all he had to do was to look
after himself, and to save himself from the wrath to come. It is hardly
overstating the case if I say that a monastery was not intended to be a
benevolent institution; and if a great religious house became, as it
almost inevitably did become, the centre of civilization and
refinement, from which radiated light and warmth and incalculable
blessings far and wide, these results flowed naturally from that growth
and development which the original founders had never looked forward to
or could have foreseen, but it was never contemplated as an end to be
aimed at in the beginning. Being a home for religious men, whose main
business was to spend their days and nights in worshipping God, the
first requisite, the first and foremost, the _sine qua non_ was, that
there should be a church.
On the church of a monastery, as a rule, no amount of money spent, no
amount of lavish ornament or splendour of decoration, was grudged.
Sculpture and painting, jewels and gold, gorgeous hangings, and
stained-glass that the moderns vainly attempt to imitate, the purple
and fine linen of the priestly vestments, embroidery that to this hour
remains unapproachable in its delicacy of finish and in the perfect
harmony of colours--all these were to be found in almost incredible
profusion in our monastic churches. You hear some people work
themselves into a frenzy against the idolatrous worship of our
forefathers; but to a monk of a great monastery his church was his one
idol--to possess a church that should surpass all others in
magnificence, and which could boast of some special unique glory--that
seemed to a monk something worth living for. The holy rood at Bromholm,
the holy thorn at Glastonbury, were possessions that brought world-wide
renown to the monasteries in which they were found, and gave a lustre
to the churches in which they were deposited; and the intense _esprit
de corps_, the passionate loyalty, of a monk to his monastery is a
sentiment which we in our time find it so extremely difficult to
understand that we can hardly bring ourselves to believe that it could
exist without some subtle intermixture of crafty selfishness as its
ruling force and motive.
The church of a monastery was the heart of the place. It was not that
the church was built for the monastery, but the monastery existed for
the church; there were hundreds and thousands of churches without
monasteries, but there could be no monastery without a church. The
monks were always at work on the church, always spending money upon it,
always adding to it, always "restoring" it; it was always needing
repair. We are in the habit of saying, "Those old monks knew how to
build; look at their work--see how it stands!" But we are very much
mistaken if we suppose that in the twelfth or the thirteenth or the
fourteenth century there was no bad building. On the contrary, nothing
is more common in the monastic annals than the notices of how this and
that tower fell down, and how this and that choir was falling into
ruins, and how this or that abbot got into debt by his mania for
building. There was an everlasting tinkering going on at the church;
and the surest token that a monastery was in a bad way was that its
church was in a shabby condition.
The church was, almost invariably, built in the form of a cross, facing
east and west, the long limb of the cross being called the nave, the
cross limbs being called the transepts, and the shorter limb, or head
of the cross, being called the choir. The choir, as a rule, was
occupied exclusively by the monks or nuns of the monastery. The
servants, workpeople, and casual visitors who came to worship were not
admitted into the choir; _they_ were supposed to be present only on
sufferance. The church was built for the use of the monks; it was
_their_ private place of worship.
Almost as essential to the idea of a monastery as the church was the
cloister or great quadrangle, inclosed on all sides by the high walls
of the monastic buildings. Its usual position was on the south of the
church, to gain as much of the sun's rays as possible, and to insure
protection from the northerly and easterly winds in the bitter season.
All round this quadrangle ran a covered arcade, whose roof, leaning
against the high walls, was supported on the inner side by an open
trellis work in stone--often exhibiting great beauty of design and
workmanship--through which light and air was admitted into the arcade.
[Footnote: In other words the thirteenth-century monk passed far the
greater portion of his time in the open air, except that there was a
roof over his head. As time went on, and monks became more
self-indulgent, they did not by any means like the draughts and
exposure in the cloister, and the old-fashioned open arcades were
glazed, and the old open walks were turned into splendid lounges,
comfortable and luxurious, such as the cloisters of Gloucester could be
made into at a small outlay at the present day.] The open space not
roofed in was called the _garth_, and was sometimes a plain grass plat
and sometimes was planted with shrubs, a fountain of running water
being often found in the centre, which afforded a pleasant object for
the eye to rest on. The cloister was really the living-place of the
monks. Here they pursued their daily avocations, here they taught their
school, they transacted their business, they spent their time and
pursued their studies, always in society, co-operating and consulting,
and, as a rule, knowing no privacy.
"But surely a monk always lived in a cell, didn't he?"
The sooner we get rid of that delusion the better.
Be it understood that until Henry II. founded the Carthusian Abbey of
Witham, in 1178, there was no such thing known in England as a monk's
_cell_, as we understand the term. It was a peculiarity of the
Carthusian order, and when it was first introduced it was regarded as a
startling novelty for any privacy or anything approaching solitude to
be tolerated in a monastery. The Carthusian system never found much
favour in England. The Carthusians never had more than nine houses, all
told; the discipline was too rigid, the rule too severe, the loneliness
too dreadful for our tastes and for our climate. In the thirteenth
century, if I mistake not, there were only two monasteries in England
in which monks or nuns could boast of having any privacy, any little
corner of their own to turn into, any place where they could enjoy the
luxury of retirement, any private study such as every boy nowadays, in
a school of any pretension, expects to have provided for himself, and
without which we assume that nobody can read and write for an hour.
The cloister arcade was said to have four _walks_. The south walk ran
along the south wall of the nave, the north walk was bounded by the
refectory or great dining hall, the east walk extended along the south
transept, and where the transept ended there usually came a narrow
passage called _slype_, passing between the end of the transept and the
chapter-house, which may be described as the council-chamber of the
convent. Beyond the chapter-house, and abutting partly upon the east
wall of the cloister, but extending far beyond it till, in some cases,
it made with the refectory a block of buildings in the form of a T, ran
the dormitory or common sleeping-place for the fraternity. The
dormitory was always approached by steps, for it was invariably
constructed over a range of vaulted chambers, which served for various
purposes; one of these chambers was set apart for the reception of
those monks who had been subjected to the monthly bleedings which all
were supposed to require, and which all were compelled to submit to,
that so by a mechanical process, if in no other way, the flesh might be
subdued. The beds of the monks were arranged along the walls of the
dormitory, at regular intervals; and in some monasteries a wainscot
partition separated the sleepers from each other, thus making for each
a little cubicle, with a low door leading into it. The broad passage,
running from end to end, between the sleeping-places in the dormitory
was strewn with rushes; and at the end opposite to the flight of stairs
were the latrines or washing-places, which were open to the air, and
under which was always a sewer that could be flushed by a water-course
hard by.
In the dormitory and the latrines lights were kept burning through the
night; a provision necessary, if for no other reason, because the
services in the church at night-time had to be kept up and attended by
the whole house. They who went from the dormitory to the church always
passed under cover--sometimes by going through the cloister, sometimes
by passing straight into the transept.
We have been round three sides of the cloister: on the north the
church; on the east the chapterhouse and dormitory; on the south the
refectory. There remain the buildings abutting on the west wall. In the
arrangement of these no strict rule was observed. But generally the
western buildings were dedicated to the cellarer's hall with cellars
under it, the pitanciar's and kitchener's offices or _chequers_ as they
were called, and a guest-chamber for the reception of distinguished
strangers and for the duties of hospitality, to which great importance
was attached.
These were the main buildings, the essential buildings of a monastery
great or small. Where a monastery was rich enough to indulge in
luxuries of "modern improvements and all the best appliances," there
was hardly any limit to the architectural freaks that might be indulged
in. There were the infirmary and the hospital; the calefactory or
warming apparatus, the recreation hall and the winter hall, the
locutorium and the common hall, and I know not what besides. You
observe I have as yet said nothing about the library. I must remind you
that in the thirteenth century the number of books in the world was, to
say the least, small. A library of five hundred volumes would, in those
days, have been considered an important collection, and, after making
all due allowances for ridiculous exaggeration which have been made by
ill-informed writers on the subject, it may safely be said that nobody
in the thirteenth century--at any rate in England--would have erected a
large and lofty building as a receptacle for books, simply because
nobody could have contemplated the possibility of filling it. Here and
there amongst the larger and more important monasteries there were
undoubtedly collections of books, the custody of which was intrusted to
an accredited officer; but the time had not yet come for making
libraries well stored with such priceless treasures as Leland, the
antiquary, saw at Glastonbury, just before that magnificent foundation
was given as a prey to the spoilers. A library, in any such sense as we
now understand the term, was not only no essential part of a monastery
in those days, but it may be said to have been a rarity.