When folk come into Roodborough for the market ’tis easy to tell the
Blewberry people from all other. For these, when they will take oath in
their talk, say ‘By blessed Peter,’ or ‘By Saint Thomas of Canterbury,’
or ‘By Saint George,’ but folk from Blewberry swear never but by Saint
Simon, and this Saint Simon is not the Holy Apostle whose festival
we keep with Saint Jude’s in the month of October, but is indeed a
Blewberry Saint born and bred.
Like many other holy men, Saint Simon of Blewberry was of lowly and
obscure birth. Of his parentage little certain is known. Some say
that his father was a man-at-arms broken in the French wars, others
a wandering tumbler and rope dancer, and others again one Rutterkin,
a travelling scribe. Lo, did not five cities of Greece contend to be
accounted the birthplace of Dan Homer, that great and famous Greekish
poet? Among so many claimants I may not any more decide who was
the father of the Holy Simon. Certainly, however, his mother was
the daughter of a poor villein of Sir Robert of Blewberry, a woman
much noted in her younger days for the sin of gadding and haunting
alehouses. In her latter years, however, it was granted to her to
repent and, when she was somewhat past her prime, she entered into
wedlock with one Walter Thinshanks, an aged villein of some threescore
winters.
Simon’s infancy and boyhood were marked by no signs of the grace and
piety which distinguished his maturer years. Him indeed in his green
days Satan seems to have especially tempted and tried, and full seldom,
as he himself was accustomed afterwards to relate, did he escape the
snare of the fowler. Chiefly at this time was he filled with carnal
desires for dainty food, and to satisfy these ravenous lusts he was
wont to steal meat and pies even from the neighbours’ ovens, to rob
the Parson’s orchard of pears and apples while they were yet unripe,
and to kill and devour in secret such pullets and tender fowls as
he could come at. When he was accused of any such sins he would lie
remorselessly to save himself from deserved chastisement, saying
secretly, ‘Better a soft answer than a sore breech,’ and so deft was he
with his tongue, that his tender boy’s flesh usually escaped correction
at the expense of his immortal soul. He was a stout lad of his body and
a lusty and a great quarreller, so that he was ceaselessly embroiled
with the other lads of the village, and generally by reason of his
uncommon physical strength had the victory. Folk noted him as a rare
companion of wenches at a somewhat premature age, and there were not to
lack (and among them observant and sagacious men) who prophesied that
his end would be sudden, and neither on the earth nor in the water.
But even while they spoke thus, honestly misled by appearances, the
spirit of inward grace was stirring in the bosom of the young man, and
though now he hid his light under a bushel, it was soon to shine forth
with glorious radiance before the eyes of men. Yet such was the jealous
humility with which he veiled the true piety of his disposition,
that perhaps it had never been brought to light, nay, not during the
whole course of his life, had it not been for a chance so happy and
unexpected as to more than smack of God’s Providence. It fell out in
this way.
One Holy Day Master Parson was officiating at Mass, and at the
solemn moment when he says ‘Hoc est Corpus’ a loud burst of laughter
interrupted him. Casting his eyes towards whence it came, he spied
Simon seated between two fat wenches and laughing as though his sides
would burst. Whereupon Master Parson closed his lips on that very
blessed word ‘Corpus,’ and would not proceed with the Sacrament until
Simon had ceased. After Mass was finished he had Simon sent for and
brought to him in the vestry.
Master Parson was a very devout man and a charitable, although somewhat
simple, and was much loved therefore on all sides in the village. So
Simon came without fear and stood before him cap in hand, humbly and
gravely. The Parson gazing upon and noting his bowed head, downcast
eyes and clasped hands, thought there was no more godly-looking young
fellow in the whole village, and marvelled that the Lord should fashion
so deceptively a church-brawler and a ribald.
‘Thou profane knave,’ quoth he, ‘how was it thou didst belch forth such
a loud guffaw in the midst of the Blessed Sacrament?’
‘“Belch”? “Guffaw”?’ said the young man in meek surprise. ‘Good Sir
John, I wot full well I had laughed, but methinks it had not been so
loud.’
‘“Loud?”’ quoth Sir John. ‘“_Loud?_” ’Twas loud enough to set the
steeple tumbling about our ears. If it had been a common vulgar laugh,
it might have been pardoned, but a guffaw like a thunder-clap, why boy,
’tis an outrage, ’tis rank blasphemy!’
‘Then I humbly and unfeignedly beseech pardon, good Sir John,’ said
Simon in a gentle and subdued voice.
‘This shall not serve thy turn,’ cried Master Parson wrathfully, for he
weened Simon played the hypocrite. ‘I will know what it was that made
thee laugh like the Bull of Bashan in the middle of my Latinity. Why
sattest thyself down between those fat and wanton wenches?’
‘Fat and wanton wenches? “wenches,” Sir John?’ repeated Simon in great
wonderment.
‘Yea, fat wenches, two fat wenches, wenches fat as Flanders mares, dost
understand English?’
‘If thou sayest so, Sir John, then indeed I must have sat between two
fat wenches. But my mind was so on the matter of my devotion that I wot
not of it.’
The pious Simon spoke in so quiet and humble a tone, and with such a
grave face, that Master Parson was struck all of a heap. He bethought
himself that he must have erred in his judgment of the young man, who
stood so meekly and transparently sincere before him.
‘Come now,’ quoth he, ‘tell me why thou didst laugh. Happen thou hadst
some reason that may excuse thee somewhat.’
‘Dost thou command me to speak, good Sir John, for I had lief not for
humility’s sake.’
‘“Humility’s sake?” I do indeed command thee to speak.’
‘Then,’ said Simon, ‘I will tell thee why I laughed, but, good Sir
John, thou wilt bear witness for me if ever in the future question be
made, that I told thee against my will and at thy express command?’
‘Yea,’ quoth Sir John, much mystified, ‘I will bear witness.’
‘Thou didst notice who sat on either side of me, Sir John, the which
I omitted, but didst thou also note the gossips who sat on the bench
before me?’
‘Nay, yea--one was the Bailey’s wife and the other--the Saints bless
me--the other----’
‘The other was the Miller’s.’
‘Yea, yea.’
‘They are the two most notorious gossips in the town, good Sir John,
as thou knowest full well. Their tongues drop adders and vipers, their
mouths are full of backbiting and scandal, so that there is no man or
woman in this town, wed or unwed, but hath suffered from their malice
and slander. Even of thyself, good father, I have heard them say full
often that----’
‘Pass that over, pass that over,’ interrupted Master Parson hastily.
‘Yea, it is shameful, but I will pass that over,’ said Simon. ‘As these
two old women sat before me during the Blessed Mass they chattered
together loudly like monkeys, how Cicely’s petticoat was shorter than
it had been, how Sir Robert was too often to see the Smith’s bonny
daughter, how ’twas somedeal late for Tom the Hedger and Rose of the
Crown to patch their sinful bodies together in Holy Matrimony, and a
great deal more of such scandalous stuff as made my ears burn and my
eyes water to harken to it, so that I could not for their infernal
cackling keep my thoughts on thy words or my devotions. Sorely was I
vexed with them, and, groaning in spirit, I turned my eyes towards
Heaven to invoke the aid of the Blessed Saints, when lo! upon the great
beam just above the heads of the two impious women I saw a little black
Devil.’
‘Devil?’ quoth the Parson.
‘Yea, a little black Devil, and he held himself fast on the beam by his
feet and his tail. In one hand he had a long scroll of parchment and in
the other a quill, and there was an inkhorn slung round his neck such
as Rutterkin the scribe carries. Anon he listened with one hand behind
his ear to the gossips, and anon he dipped his quill into the ink and
wrote at great pace every evil word that they said. Blessed Virgin, how
he scribbled and scribbled until he had already filled one side of his
scroll and the sweat ran in great drops down his brow. Then he turned
over to the other side of the scroll and scribbled and scribbled again
until he was ready to drop with exhaustion and had filled every corner
of the parchment on both sides. Then was he mightily perplexed and
annoyed, for the gossips ceased not to commit sin with their tongues,
and he had no fair parchment left whereon to record their foul words.
So having considered for a little, as it seemed to me, he grasped one
end of the roll with his teeth and seized the other end with his claws
and pulled so as to stretch the parchment. He tugged and tugged with
all his strength, jerking back his head mightily at every tug, and at
last giving such a fierce jerk as should have lengthened the scroll
by an inch at least, but lo, such was the fury of the jerk that he
suddenly lost his balance and fell head over heels from the beam to the
floor. At this it was, good Sir John, that I was constrained to burst
into laughter.
‘’Tis strange,’ mused the Parson, much astonished at this narration.
‘’Tis indeed strange that thine eyes should have been opened to this
while mine were closed. But didst thou observe the Devil narrowly?’
‘Yea, indeed,’ quoth Simon, ‘I beheld him while thou mightest have
said two dozen _Pater Nosters_ and three dozen _Aves_.’ With that
he described him from the tips of his horns to the end of his tail,
and with such wonderful detail and exactness that Master Parson was
able to recognise him as the devil Tutivillius, of whom he had read a
description lately in one of his learned books.
‘Truly,’ said he, ‘thou art an Israelite in whom there is no guile,
for never else but by beholding this sly Devil wouldst thou be able to
describe him so aptly. It is clear to me that the Lord hath endowed
thee with the gift of spiritual sight for His own holy purposes; I must
ponder the matter more at large.’
Then he blessed Simon and dismissed him with many words of commendation
and good comfort.
Presently the story of what Simon had seen got all over the village,
and he was forced to tell it again a round dozen of times, and the more
it was told and heard the more true it seemed (for such as the learned
Lollius saith is the strange character of truth). More especially was
it believed because Sir John told it everywhere he came, and because
the Bailey’s wife and the Miller’s were heartily hated of every one. So
it came to pass that people openly jeered at these two wicked women in
the way, and, whenever they went abroad for business or delight, the
little boys would pursue them, crying after them, ‘Tutivillius hath it
in his roll,’ or ‘Tutivillius listeneth,’ or some such like admonition,
the very babes and sucklings thus crying shame upon them.
Good Master Parson had been so much impressed by the humble piety and
reverence of demeanour with which Simon had related his wonderful
vision, that he marvelled much at his own lack of discernment in
not earlier recognising that the young man’s wildness and seeming
irregularity of behaviour had been nothing more nor less than the
frothy turbulence of a saintly soul, secretly consumed with religious
fervour, although not yet fully broken in to the yoke of the Lord.
After due consideration, therefore, he went up to the Great House to
Sir Geoffrey, and fully explained to that devout Lord how the Almighty
had bestowed upon Simon the gift of Divine Vision, and craved his
permission that the young man might be made a priest. Sir Geoffrey
marvelled much at what he heard, and gave his consent gladly to all
that the Parson proposed, giving thanks to God with tears in his eyes
that such a saintly soul should be born in his village.
But when Master Parson came to Simon and proposed to him that he should
become a priest, Simon violently opposed himself thereto, crying at the
top of his voice with surprising vehemence that he had no call to serve
the Lord, that he was a mean, worthless, unlettered rascal and unfit
for such an office; and further, moreover, that he would much rather
succeed his father, Walter Thinshanks, in his holding. Then Sir John
understood his deep humility, and thanked the Lord, that He had let him
live to see and hear such religion. But he pleaded with him earnestly
and went on to show him that if he took Holy Orders, Sir Geoffrey
would entirely release him from his servility and would liberally
provide for him in the future, exhorting him to beware by the example
of Jonah from shrinking from the burden that the Lord had clearly
laid upon his shoulders. So in the end this humble Christian man was
compelled, as it were against his will, to serve God as a priest.
He gained such schooling as was fit for his holy calling from Master
Parson, and, although he was by nature ever more apt to seek the Lord
in His wonderful works than in mere books, yet, God willing, he became
in process of time a subdeacon. When good Sir John departed this life
Sir Geoffrey gave to him the benefice of Blewberry, saying that it
was indeed fit that he should minister in the Church where God had
first called him in a vision. Never did priest take more delight in
his pastoral labours than Simon; he was never absent from love-feasts,
at christening and churching ales none was more welcome than he; he
mingled with his parishioners in pleasant Christian sort, laughing with
them merrily in all honest mirth as though he had been a man of no more
religion than they, and openly saying that he was not one of those who
show how they love God by hating their neighbour, and that nothing kept
the Devil and his Angels so much at a distance as clean and hearty
conviviality. For which things he was much loved by all the people,
except for a few malicious and hypocritical backbiters, who, seeing him
hale-fellow-well-met with all sorts and conditions of men at all times
and places, imitated the wickedness of the Pharisees of old, and called
him a glutton and a wine-bibber.
A little time after Simon had succeeded to the benefice, the Bishop of
the diocese, who loved, after the manner of bishops, to put his finger
in every pie whether of his own or other’s making, sent round in his
presumption certain vain and supercilious clerks to examine the parish
clergy of the diocese as to their proficiency in Divine Learning and,
more especially, as to their ability to read the services of Holy
Church with a just pronunciation and understanding of the Latin tongue.
When these fellows came to Blewberry, they called before them Master
Simon and caused him to read aloud to them from the Canon of the Mass.
This he did with an enunciation so clear and accurate as to be little
short of miraculous, giving every syllable its just quantity whether
short or long. So finding that they might catch him in no fault of
pronunciation, they straightway impertinently proceeded to question him
upon the grammar thereof, not considering in their vain hearts that
the words of the Holy Mass are no fit subject for the wranglings of
schoolmen.
‘“Te igitur, clementissime Pater,”’ quoth one of them, ‘and in what
case falleth “Te,” Master Simon?’
The good Simon was silent, and hung his head, and cast down his eyes
as though ashamed. Whereat these insolent clerks sniggered audibly,
thinking that he was confounded, and asked him again and badgered him
much to reply, but yet he would not.
Quoth one, ‘Tell us at least, then, what governeth “Te”?’
Then Simon lifted up his face and beholding them steadily made answer
that ‘Pater governeth “Te,” for Pater governeth all things.’
At this the examiners (as might have been expected of such base
fellows) burst into a roar of coarse laughter, and said he was an
ignoramus and an unlettered ass. But when folk heard how the Blessed
Simon had replied to them, they much approved his answer, and said that
surely he had been inspired to speak such good religion, and if what he
had said was not in the Mass Book, then it was time it was put there.
Simon’s divine gifts of supernatural vision and for working miracles
began now to be clearly seen on all sides. Such by God’s favour was the
clearness of his sight that folk who had lost or mislaid anything, by
coming to him with a small offering for the Church, were often resolved
by him where that they had lost lay hid. In this way Sir Geoffrey
recovered his lost purse.
One Holy Day this pious knight came to Mass with the great silken purse
he bore at his girdle plainly crammed with French crowns. With it thus
dangling by his side he went up to receive the Blessed Sacrament at
the hands of the good Simon. When after Communion he returned to his
pew, great was his perturbation and distress to find that his purse
had vanished, the strings thereof having been cut clean through, as
though with a sharp knife. After Mass, therefore, he went, as was his
wont when in any trouble, to the good Priest and told him of his heavy
loss. Master Simon said he was in no way surprised thereat, for it had
been granted him in a vision to see how the fiends raged against Sir
Geoffrey because of his pious way of life and especially because of
his almsgiving, and that he made no manner of doubt that the devils
had stolen his purse, out of the bitter spite they cherished towards
him. At this Sir Geoffrey was much gratified, and said that he was
glad to have lost the purse and the French crowns into the bargain if
it was for God’s sake. ‘Therein thou showest thyself a truly devout
Christian,’ quoth Simon; ‘but trust me, I will pray to the Lord this
night that the purse may be returned to thee nevertheless.’ This the
holy man did according to his promise, and such was the efficacy of
his prayers, that shortly after he was enabled to take Sir Geoffrey
into the Church (as he had been directed in a vision) and to bring
forth the purse from behind the Altar, with the strings thereof clean
cut, just as it had been stolen from the Knight’s girdle. When Sir
Geoffrey opened it, however, instead of twenty crowns therein he found
only ten, the others having been changed by the malice of the Devil
into worthless pebbles. Nevertheless, so grateful was Sir Geoffrey
for the prayers of the Blessed Simon that he generously gave these
remaining crowns into his hands for the poor of the parish, to which
use they were punctually applied in due course.
Not only were Simon’s eyes thus clear to see the things of the present,
but he could often see also far into the future. Of this one example
must suffice.
There was in Blewberry an ancient villein who had been married some
six years to a lusty young wench and had yet gotten neither son nor
daughter by her. This ancient man coming from his work at mid-day met
the Blessed Simon upon his threshold and complained bitterly to him
that the Lord had not yet seen fit to bless him with children. Simon
turned to him with eyes glowing with the celestial light of prophecy.
‘Be of good cheer,’ quoth he. ‘Verily, I say unto thee that in nine
months she shall bring forth to thee a man-child.’
In the end it fell out just as Simon had foretold, even to the very day.
Many were the miracles this good man wrought, of which perhaps his
casting out of the devils from the clergy-boys of Roodborough is the
most famous.
These lads were possessed by certain evil spirits, which tormented them
grievously, compelling them to quiver from head to foot as though with
an ague, to roar and gnash with their teeth like wild beasts, to hurl
themselves on the ground, and to kick like mad horses, to vomit nails,
and stones, and straw, and ofttimes to dance until they dropped with
exhaustion. More especially were they afflicted thus when there was
any question of their going into the Abbey Church to sing, to their
book-learning, or to any other wholesome labour. Many priests and holy
men had attempted to exorcise them by prayers, holy water, and precious
relics, some of which last were brought many miles for the purpose,
but all to no effect. At length the sanctity of Master Simon being in
every one’s mouth, and coming to the ears of the Roodborough folk,
entreaty was made by a special messenger to him that he would come
over forthwith and heal them, if so he might. The good Simon having
been informed of every detail of the matter, replied that the morrow
he must commune with God thereon, but the day following he would come
without fail, and do whatever it might be revealed him to do.
On that day, having come to Roodborough as he had promised, he ordered
the clergy boys to be brought into the Abbey Garden and, standing
before them there, he addressed the evil spirits that possessed them in
the following fashion:
‘Imps of Satan and Spawn of Hell, I am told that ye grievously vex and
torment these boys’ bodies whenever they strive to go to the Abbey
Church, to their book learning or any other labour which it is meet for
them to perform. Now, give heed to my solemn words and mark me well.
Much as ye grieve their bodies, mayhap I shall grieve them still more.’
(Here he brought forth from under his cassock a birch rod, such as
schoolmasters use, but huge in size and cunningly wrought, and indeed
most painful and terrible to behold, and bared his hairy and muscular
right arm to the shoulder.) ‘The first boy whom ye cause to quiver, to
dance, to vomit, to squeal, nay even to tremble a hair’s-breadth, shall
I beat with this birch rod until he is black and blue from head to
foot, and there is no more life left in his miserable body than there
is in a stone. Yea, I will do it an there be forty thousand devils in
his body.’
The holy man waved the birch three times in the air with religious
fervour and cried, ‘Boys, loosen the hinder points of your hose so they
may fall the more easily if there should be need.’ Anon trembling, the
clergy boys did as he commanded. ‘Now,’ quoth he, ‘we will go into the
Church.’
Thereat the boys walked into the Church as soberly and staidly as the
Lord Abbot himself. At the sound of the Blessed Simon’s voice the
devils had slunk away out of them, defeated and ashamed, neither dared
they trouble the boys any more after that, for they knew that the man
of God was more powerful than they. By this miracle the Saint’s fame
was enlarged in all corners of the realm, so that people came from afar
to see and converse with him, often bringing with them gracious gifts
for the Church at Blewberry, and to these, under God, he was able to
give much spiritual assistance and comfort.
But now, even while the holy man was in the prime of his years and
labours, and long before he had fulfilled the natural term of man’s
life, it pleased the Lord in his Providence to call him from this vale
of tears to Himself, and it was sweet and comfortable to the lovers and
admirers of the Saint to reflect that the summons came to him even as
he was engaged in the actual discharge of his sacred functions. The
manner of his decease was in worthy keeping with the manner of his
life, and it is hard to write of it without tears.
It chanced that he officiated at the churching of Robert’s wife of
Haydock, and after the churching he was asked to the ale, whither many
gossips had repaired to celebrate the occasion with plenty that was fit
both to eat and to drink. Being, as has been said, no enemy of honest
mirth, Simon courteously consented to drink somewhat with them for good
fellowship’s sake, and being much importuned remained with the company
until late that evening. But after it had grown dark, and the moon was
gotten up and most of the guests had well drunken, he took his leave
with some haste, saying that he had bethought him of certain devotions
he was bound to make that night. About an hour after, three others took
their leave also, going the same way to town as the good Simon had gone
before them. These three fellows had not gone more than a mile from
Haydock, making their way along the road with arms lovingly linked for
friendship’s sake, when one of them spied something dark lying by the
wayside. They made their way slowly toward it, and, when they had gazed
upon it for some time, they recognised Master Simon lying peacefully
upon his back as though absorbed in a deep meditation. His face was
turned upward towards the bright moon and his feet lay in a great pool
of water. They took him by the shoulder and shook him with all the
force they might, saying, ‘Rise, Master Parson, or thou wilt perish
from wet and cold.’
The good Simon stirred uneasily, opened his eyes slowly, and blinked
solemnly at the moonlight.
‘Put some more clothes on my feet,’ quoth he in a full soft and broken
voice, ‘and blow out the light and leave me to the contemplation of
God.’
Whereat these three men, after much contention and sagacious
deliberation, concluding that he was absorbed in divine meditation,
left him anon and brought each other home in safety.
The same night it came on heavily to rain.
Next morning an old woman going to drive pigs, found the holy man dead,
exactly as he had been left the night before, his eyes rapt and fixed
upon the Heavens as though in the last and greatest of his visions.
Then folk called to mind his last words, how he had asked to be left
alone to the contemplation of God, and they knew that he had foretold
his own death, albeit to dull and uncomprehending ears. Also they
called to mind divers others of his prophecies and wonderful works and
said one to another, ‘Surely there has been a Saint among us.’ After
his interment many sick folk were miraculously healed of their diseases
at his tomb.
Thus it is that when you go through Roodborough market-place on a fair
day, you will hear Blewberry folk swear never by Saint George or Saint
Peter or Saint Thomas of Canterbury, but by Saint Simon, and this Saint
Simon, as I have told you, is a Blewberry Saint born and bred.