Monk Samson
Within doors, down at the hill-foot, in our Convent here, we are
a peculiar people,--hardly conceivable in the Arkwright Corn-Law
ages, of mere Spinning-Mills and Joe-Mantons! There is yet no
Methodism among us, and we speak much of Secularities: no
Methodism; our Religion is not yet a horrible restless Doubt,
still less a far horribler composed Cant; but a great heaven-
high Unquestionability, encompassing, interpenetrating the whole
of Life. Imperfect as we may be, we are here, with our litanies,
shaven crowns, vows of poverty, to testify incessantly and
indisputably to every heart, That this Earthly Life, and
its riches and possessions, and good and evil hap, are not
intrinsically a reality at all, but _are_ a shadow of realities
eternal, infinite; that this Time-world, as an air-image,
fearfully _emblematic,_ plays and flickers in the grand still
mirror of Eternity; and man's little Life has Duties that are
great, that are alone great, and go up to Heaven and down to
Hell. This, with our poor litanies, we testify and struggle
to testify.
Which, testified or not, remembered by all men, or forgotten by
all men, does verily remain the fact, even in Arkwright Joe
Manton ages! But it is incalculable, when litanies have grown
obsolete; when _fodercorns,_ _avragiums,_ and all human dues and
reciprocities have been fully changed into one great due of _cash
payment;_ and man's duty to man reduces itself to handing him
certain metal coins, or covenanted money-wages, and then shoving
him out of doors; and man's duty to God becomes a cant, a doubt,
a dim inanity, a 'pleasure of virtue' or such like; and the
thing a man does infinitely fear (the real _Hell_ of a man) is
'that he do not make money and advance himself,'--I say, it is
incalculable what a change has introduced itself everywhere into
human affairs! How human affairs shall now circulate everywhere
not healthy life-blood in them, but, as it were, a detestable
copperas banker's ink; and all is grown acrid, divisive,
threatening dissolution; and the huge tumultuous Life of Society
is galvanic, devil-ridden, too truly possessed by a devil! For,
in short, Mammon _is_ not a god at all; but a devil, and even a
very despicable devil. Follow the Devil faithfully, you are sure
enough to _go_ to the Devil: whither else _can_ you go?--In such
situations, men look back with a kind of mournful recognition
even on poor limited Monk-figures, with their poor litanies; and
reflect, with Ben Jonson, that soul is indispensable, some degree
of soul, even to save you the expense of salt!--
For the rest, it must be owned, we Monks of St. Edmundsbury are
but a limited class of creatures, and seem to have a somewhat
dull life of it. Much given to idle gossip; having indeed no
other work, when our chanting is over. Listless gossip, for most
part, and a mitigated slander; the fruit of idleness, not of
spleen. We are dull, insipid men, many of us; easy-minded;
whom prayer and digestion of food will avail for a life. We have
to receive all strangers in our Convent, and lodge them gratis;
such and such sorts go by rule to the Lord Abbot and his special
revenues; such and such to us and our poor Cellarer, however
straitened. Jews themselves send their wives and little ones
hither in war-time, into our _Pitanceria;_ where they abide
safe, with due _pittances,_--for a consideration. We have the
fairest chances for collecting news. Some of us have a turn for
reading Books; for meditation, silence; at times we even write
Books. Some of us can preach, in English-Saxon, in Norman
French, and even in Monk-Latin; others cannot in any language or
jargon, being stupid.
Failing all else, what gossip about one another! This is a
perennial resource. How one hooded head applies itself to the
ear of another, and whispers--_tacenda._ Willelmus Sacrista, for
instance, what does he nightly, over in that Sacristy of his?
Frequent bibations, _'frequentes bibationes et quaedam tacenda,'_
--eheu! We have _'tempora minutionis,'_ stated seasons of
bloodletting, when we are all let blood together; and then
there is a general free-conference, a sanhedrim of clatter. For
all our vow of poverty, we can by rule amass to the extent of
'two shillings;' but it is to be given to our necessitous
kindred, or in charity. Poor Monks! Thus too a certain
Canterbury Monk was in the habit of 'slipping, _clanculo_ from
his sleeve,' five shillings into the hand of his mother, when she
came to see him, at the divine offices, every two months. Once,
slipping the money clandestinely, just in the act of taking
leave, he slipt it not into her hand but on the floor, and
another had it; whereupon the poor Monk, coming to know it,
looked mere despair for some days; till, Lanfranc the noble
Archbishop, questioning his secret from him, nobly made the sum
_seven_ shillings, and said, Never mind!
One Monk of a taciturn nature distinguishes himself among these
babbling ones: the name of him Samson; he that answered
Jocelin, "_Fili mi,_ a burnt child shuns the fire." They call him
'Norfolk _Barrator,'_ or litigious person; for indeed, being of
grave taciturn ways, he is not universally a favourite; he has
been in trouble more than once. The reader is desired to mark
this Monk. A personable man of seven-and-forty; stout-made,
stands erect as a pillar; with bushy eyebrows, the eyes of him
beaming into you in a really strange way; the face massive,
grave, with 'a very eminent nose;' his head almost bald, its
auburn remnants of hair, and the copious ruddy beard, getting
slightly streaked with grey. This is Brother Samson; a man
worth looking at.
He is from Norfolk, as the nickname indicates; from Tottington
in Norfolk, as we guess; the son of poor parents there. He has
told me, Jocelin, for I loved him much, That once in his ninth
year he had an alarming dream;--as indeed we are all somewhat
given to dreaming here. Little Samson, lying uneasily in his
crib at Tottington, dreamed that he saw the Arch Enemy in person,
just alighted in front of some grand building, with outspread
bat-wings, and stretching forth detestable clawed hands to grip
him, little Samson, and fly off with him: whereupon the little
dreamer shrieked desperate to St. Edmund for help, shrieked and
again shrieked; and St. Edmund, a reverend heavenly figure, did
come,--and indeed poor little Samson's mother, awakened by his
shrieking, did come; and the Devil and the Dream both fled away
fruitless. On the morrow, his mother, pondering such an awful
dream, thought it were good to take him over to St. Edmund's own
Shrine, and pray with him there. See, said little Samson at
sight of the Abbey-Gate; see, mother, this is the building I
dreamed of! His poor mother dedicated him to St. Edmund,--left
him there with prayers and tears: what better could she do? The
exposition of the dream, Brother Samson used to say, was this:
_Diabolus_ with outspread bat-wings shadowed forth the pleasures
of this world, _voluptates hujus saeculi,_ which were about to
snatch and fly away with me, had not St. Edmund flung his arms
round me, that is to say, made me a monk of his. A monk,
accordingly, Brother Samson is; and here to this day where his
mother left him. A learned man, of devout grave nature; has
studied at Paris, has taught in the Town Schools here, and done
much else; can preach in three languages, and, like Dr. Caius,
'has had losses' in his time. A thoughtful, firm-standing man;
much loved by some, not loved by all; his clear eyes flashing
into you, in an almost inconvenient way!
Abbot Hugo, as we said, has his own difficulties with him; Abbot
Hugo had him in prison once, to teach him what authority was, and
how to dread the fire in future. For Brother Samson, in the time
of the Antipopes, had been sent to Rome on business; and,
returning successful, was too late,--the business had all misgone
in the interim! As tours to Rome are still frequent with us
English, perhaps the reader will not grudge to look at the method
of traveling thither in those remote ages. We happily have, in
small compass, a personal narrative of it. Through the clear
eyes and memory of Brother Samson, one peeps direct into the very
bosom of that Twelfth Century, and finds it rather curious. The
actual _Papa,_ Father, or universal President of Christendom, as
yet not grown chimerical, sat there; think of that only!
Brother Samson went to Rome as to the real Light-fountain of this
lower world; we now--!--But let us hear Brother Samson, as to
his mode of traveling:
'You know what trouble I had for that Church of Woolpit; how I
was despatched to Rome in the time of the Schism between Pope
Alexander and Octavian; and passed through Italy at that season,
when all clergy carrying letters for our Lord Pope Alexander were
laid hold of, and some were clapt in prison, some hanged; and
some, with nose and lips cut off, were sent forward to our Lord
the Pope, for the disgrace and confusion of him (_in dedecus et
confusionem ejus_). I, however, pretended to be Scotch, and
putting on the garb of a Scotchman, and taking the gesture of
one, walked along; and when anybody mocked at me, I would
brandish my staff in the manner of that weapon they call
_gaveloc,_* uttering comminatory words after the way of the
Scotch. To those that met and questioned me who I was, I made no
answer but: _Ride, ride Rome; turne Cantwereberei._ ** Thus did
I, to conceal myself and my errand, and get safer to Rome under
the guise of a Scotchman.
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* Javelin, missile pike. _Gaveloc_ is still the Scotch name for
_crowbar._
** Does this mean, "Rome forever; Canterbury _not"_ (which
claims an unjust Supremacy _over_ us)! Mr. Rokewood is silent.
Dryasdust would perhaps explain it,--in the course of a week or
two of talking; did one dare to question him!
----------
'Having at last obtained a Letter from our Lord the Pope
according to my wishes, I turned homewards again. I had to pass
through a certain strong town on my road; and lo, the soldiers
thereof surrounded me, seizing me, and saying: "This vagabond
(_iste solivagus_), who pretends to be Scotch, is either a spy,
or has Letters from the false Pope Alexander." And whilst they
examined every stitch and rag of me, my leggings (_caligas_),
breeches, and even the old shoes that I carried over my shoulder
in the way of the Scotch,--I put my hand into the leather scrip I
wore, wherein our Lord the Pope's Letter lay, close by a little
jug (_ciffus_) I had for drinking out of; and the Lord God so
pleasing, and St. Edmund, I got out both the Letter and the jug
together; in such a way that, extending my arm aloft, I held the
Letter hidden between jug and hand: they saw the jug, but the
Letter they saw not. And thus I escaped out of their hands in
the name of the Lord. Whatever money I had they took from me;
wherefore I had to beg from door to door, without any payment
(_sine omni expensa_) till I came to England again. But hearing
that the Woolpit Church was already given to Geoffry Ridell, my
soul was struck with sorrow because I had laboured in vain.
'Coming home, therefore, I sat me down secretly under the Shrine
of St. Edmund, fearing lest our Lord Abbot should seize and
imprison me, though I had done no mischief; nor was there a monk
who durst speak to me, nor a laic who durst bring me food except
by stealth.
Such resting and welcoming found Brother Samson, with his worn
soles, and strong heart! He sits silent, revolving many
thoughts, at the foot of St. Edmund's Shrine. In the wide Earth,
if it be not Saint Edmund, what friend or refuge has he? Our
Lord Abbot, hearing of him, sent the proper officer to lead him
down to prison, clap 'foot-gyves on him' there. Another poor
official furtively brought him a cup of wine; bade him "be
comforted in the Lord." Samson utters no complaint; obeys in
silence. 'Our Lord Abbot, taking counsel of it, banished me to
Acre, and there I had to stay long.'
Our Lord Abbot next tried Samson with promotions; made him
Subsacristan, made him Librarian, which he liked best of all,
being passionately fond of Books: Samson, with many thoughts in
him, again obeyed in silence; discharged his offices to
perfection, but never thanked our Lord Abbot,--seemed rather as
if looking into him, with those clear eyes of his. Whereupon
Abbot Hugo said, _Se nunquam vidisse,_ he had never seen such a
man; whom no severity would break to complain, and no kindness
soften into smiles or thanks:--a questionable kind of man!
In this way, not without troubles, but still in an erect clear-
standing manner, has Brother Samson reached his forty-seventh
year; and his ruddy beard is getting slightly grizzled. He is
endeavouring, in these days, to have various broken things
thatched in; nay perhaps to have the Choir itself completed, for
he can bear nothing ruinous. He has gathered 'heaps of lime and
sand;' has masons, slaters working, he and _Warinus monachus
noster,_ who are joint keepers of the Shrine; paying out the
money duly,--furnished by charitable burghers of St. Edmundsbury,
they say. Charitable burghers of St. Edmundsbury? To me Jocelin
it seems rather, Samson and Warinus, whom he leads, have privily
hoarded the oblations at the Shrine itself, in these late
years of indolent dilapidation, while Abbot Hugo sat wrapt
inaccessible; and are struggling, in this prudent way, to have
the rain kept out!--Under what conditions, sometimes, has Wisdom
to struggle with Folly; get Folly persuaded to so much as thatch
out the rain from itself! For, indeed, if the Infant govern
the Nurse, what dexterous practice on the Nurse's part will
not be necessary!
It is regret to us that, in these circumstances, our Lord the
King's Custodiars, interfering, prohibited all building or
thatching from whatever source; and no Choir shall be completed,
and Rain and Time, for the present, shall have their way.
Willelmus Sacrista, he of 'the frequent bibations and some things
not to be spoken of;' he, with his red nose, I am of opinion,
had made complaint to the Custodiars; wishing to do Samson an
ill turn:--Samson his _Sub_-sacristan, with those clear eyes,
could not be a prime favourite of his! Samson again obeys
in silence.