The Election
Accordingly our Prior assembles us in Chapter; and, we adjuring
him before God to do justly, nominates, not by our selection, yet
with our assent, Twelve Monks, moderately satisfactory. Of whom
are Hugo Third-Prior, Brother Dennis a venerable man, Walter the
_Medicus,_ Samson _Subsacrista,_ and other esteemed characters,--
though Willelmus _Sacrista,_ of the red nose, too is one. These
shall proceed straightway to Waltham; elect the Abbot as they
may and can. Monks are sworn to obedience; must not speak too
loud, under penalty of foot-gyves, limbo, and bread and water:
yet monks too would know what it is they are obeying. The St.
Edmundsbury Community has no hustings, ballot-box, indeed no open
voting: yet by various vague manipulations, pulse-feelings, we
struggle to ascertain what its virtual aim is, and succeed better
or worse.
This question, however, rises; alas, a quite preliminary
question: Will the _Dominus Rex_ allow us to choose freely? It
is to be hoped! Well, if so, we agree to choose one of our own
Convent. If not, if the _Dominus Rex_ will force a stranger on
us, we decide on demurring, the Prior and his Twelve shall demur:
we can appeal, plead, remonstrate; appeal even to the Pope, but
trust it will not be necessary. Then there is this other
question, raised by Brother Samson: What if the Thirteen should
not themselves be able to agree? Brother Samson _Subsacrista,_
one remarks, is ready oftenest with some question, some
suggestion, that has wisdom in it. Though a servant of servants,
and saying little, his words all tell, having sense in them;
it seems by his light mainly that we steer ourselves in this
great dimness.
What if the Thirteen should not themselves be able to agree?
Speak, Samson, and advise.--Could not, hints Samson, Six of our
venerablest elders be chosen by us, a kind of electoral
committee, here and now: of these, `with their hand on the
Gospels, with their eye on the _Sacrosancta,'_ we take oath that
they will do faithfully; let these, in secret and as before God,
agree on Three whom they reckon fittest; write their names in a
Paper, and deliver the same sealed, forthwith, to the Thirteen:
one of those Three the Thirteen shall fix on, if permitted. If
not permitted, that is to say, if the _Dominus Rex_ force us to
demur,--the Paper shall be brought back unopened, and publicly
burned, that no man's secret bring him into trouble.
So Samson advises, so we act; wisely, in this and in other
crises of the business. Our electoral committee, its eye on the
Sacrosancta,_ is soon named, soon sworn; and we striking up the
Fifth Psalm, _'Verba mea,_
`Give ear unto my words, O Lord,
My meditation weigh,'
march out chanting, and leave the Six to their work in the
Chapter here. Their work, before long, they announce as
finished: they, with their eye on the Sacrosancta, imprecating
the Lord to weigh and witness their meditation, have fixed on
Three Names, and written them in this Sealed Paper. Let Samson
Subsacrista, general servant of the party, take charge of it. On
the morrow morning, our Prior and his Twelve will be ready to get
under way.
This then is the ballot-box and electoral winnowing-machine they
have at St. Edmundsbury: a mind fixed on the Thrice Holy, an
appeal to God on high to witness their meditation: by far the
best, and indeed the only good electoral winnowing-machine,--If
men have souls in them. Totally worthless, it is true, and even
hideous and poisonous, if men have no souls. But without soul,
alas what winnowing-machine in human elections, can be of
avail? We cannot get along without soul; we stick fast, the
mournfullest spectacle; and salt itself will not save us!
On the morrow morning, accordingly, our Thirteen set forth; or
rather our Prior and Eleven; for Samson, as general servant of
the party, has to linger, settling many things. At length he too
gets upon the road; and, 'carrying the sealed Paper in a leather
pouch hung round his neck; and _froccum bajulans in ulnis'_
(thanks to thee Bozzy Jocelin), 'his frock-skirts looped over his
elbow,' skewing substantial stern-works, tramps stoutly along.
Away across the Heath, not yet of Newmarket and horse-jockeying;
across your Fleam-dike and Devil's-dike, no longer useful as a
Mercian East-Anglian boundary or bulwark: continually towards
Waltham, and the Bishop of Winchester's House there, for his
Majesty is in that. Brother Samson, as purse-bearer, has the
reckoning always, when there is one, to pay; 'delays are
numerous,' progress none of the swiftest.
But, in the solitude of the Convent, Destiny thus big and in her
birthtime, what gossiping, what babbling, what dreaming of
dreams! The secret of the Three our electoral elders alone know:
some Abbot we shall have to govern us; but which Abbot, O which!
One Monk discerns in a vision of the night-watches, that we shall
get an Abbot of our own body, without needing to demur: a
prophet appeared to him clad all in white, and said, "Ye shall
have one of yours, and he will rage among you like a wolf,
_saeviet ut lupus."_ Verily!--then which of ours? Another Monk
now dreams: he has seen clearly which; a certain Figure taller
by head and shoulders than the other two, dressed in alb and
_pallium,_ and with the attitude of one about to fight;--which
tall Figure a wise Editor would rather not name at this stage of
the business! Enough that the vision is true: that Saint Edmund
himself, pale and awful, seemed to rise from his Shrine, with
naked feet, and say audibly, "He, _ille,_ shall veil my feet;"
which part of the vision also proves true. Such guessing,
visioning, dim perscrutation of the momentous future: the very
clothmakers, old women, all townsfolk speak of it, 'and more than
once it is reported in St. Edmundsbury, This one is elected; and
then, This one and That other.' Who knows?
But now, sure enough, at Waltham 'on the Second Sunday of
Quadragesima,' which Dryasdust declares to mean the 22d day of
February, year 1182, Thirteen St. Edmundsbury Monks are, at last,
seen processioning towards the Winchester Manorhouse; and in
some high Presence-chamber, and Hall of State, get access to
Henry II in all his glory. What a Hall,--not imaginary in the
least, but entirely real and indisputable, though so extremely
dim to us; sunk in the deep distances of Night! The Winchester
Manorhouse has fled bodily, like a Dream of the old Night; not
Dryasdust himself can skew a wreck of it. House and people,
royal and episcopal, lords and varlets, where are they? Why
_there,_ I say, Seven Centuries off; sunk so far in the Night,
there they _are;_ peep through the blankets of the old Night,
and thou wilt seel King Henry himself is visibly there, a vivid,
noble-looking man, with grizzled beard, in glittering uncertain
costume, with earls round him, and bishops and dignitaries, in
the like. The Hall is large, and has for one thing an altar near
it,--chapel and altar adjoining it; but what gilt seats, carved
tables, carpeting of rush-cloth, what arras-hangings, and a huge
fire of logs:--alas, it has Human Life in it; and is not that
the grand miracle, in what hangings or costume soever?--
The _Dominus Rex,_ benignantly receiving our Thirteen with their
obeisance, and graciously declaring that he will strive to act
for God's honour, and the Church's good, commands, 'by the Bishop
of Winchester and Geoffrey the Chancellor,'--_Galfrides
Cancellarius,_ Henry's and the Fair Rosamond's authentic Sons
present here!--commands, "That they, the said Thirteen, do now
withdraw, and fix upon Three from their own Monastery." A work
soon done; the Three hanging ready round Samson's neck, in that
leather pouch of his. Breaking the seal, we find the names,--
what think _ye_ of it, ye higher dignitaries, thou indolent
Prior, thou Willelmus _Sacrista_ with the red bottle-nose?--the
names, in this order: of Samson _Subsacrista,_ of Roger the
distressed Cellarer, of Hugo _Tertius-Prior._
The higher dignitaries, all omitted here, 'flush suddenly red in
the face;' but have nothing to say. One curious fact and
question certainly is, How Hugo Third-Prior, who was of the
electoral committee, came to nominate _himself_ as one of the
Three? A curious fact, which Hugo Third-Prior has never yet
entirely explained; that I know of!--However, we return, and
report to the King our Three names; merely altering the order;
putting Samson last, as lowest of all. The King, at recitation
of our Three, asks us: "Who are they? Were they born in my
domain? Totally unknown to me! You must nominate three others."
Whereupon Willelmus Sacrista says, "Our Prior must be named,
_quia caput nostrum est,_ being already our head." And the Prior
responds, "Willelmus Sacrista is a fit man, _bonus vir est,"_--
for all his red nose. Tickle me Toby, and I'll tickle thee!
Venerable Dennis too is named; none in his conscience can say
nay. There are now Six on our List. "Well," said the King,
"they have done it swiftly, they! _Deus est cum eis."_ The
Monks withdraw again; and Majesty revolves, for a little, with
his _Pares_ and _Episcopi,_ Lords or _'Law-wards'_* and Soul-
Overseers, the thoughts of the royal breast. The Monks wait
silent in an outer room.
--------
* or "Lawyers"--digital editor
--------
In short while, they are next ordered, To add yet another three;
but not from their own Convent; from other Convents, "for the
honour of my kingdom." Here,--what is to be done here? We will
demur, if need be! We do name three, however, for the nonce:
the Prior of St. Faith's, a good Monk of St. Neot's, a good Monk
of St. Alban's; good men all; all made abbots and dignitaries
since, at this hour. There are now Nine upon our List. What the
thoughts of the Dominus Rex may be farther? The Dominus Rex,
thanking graciously, sends out word that we shall now strike off
three. The three strangers are instantly struck off. Willelmus
Sacrista adds, that he will of his own accord decline,--a touch
of grace and respect for the _Sacrosancta,_ even in Willelmus!
The King then orders us to strike off a couple more; then yet
one more: Hugo Third-Prior goes, and Roger _Cellerarius,_ and
venerable Monk Dennis;--and now there remain on our List two
only, Samson Subsacrista and the Prior.
Which of these two? It were hard to say,--by Monks who may get
themselves foot-gyved and thrown into limbo, for speaking! We
humbly request that the Bishop of Winchester and Geoffrey the
Chancellor may again enter, and help us to decide. "Which do you
want?" asks the Bishop. Venerable Dennis made a speech,
'commending the persons of the Prior and Samson; but always in
the corner of his discourse, in _angulo sui sermonis,_ brought
Samson in.' "I see!" said the Bishop: "We are to understand
that your Prior is somewhat remiss; that you want to have him
you call Samson for Abbot." "Either of them is good," said
venerable Dennis, almost trembling; "but we would have the
better, if it pleased God." "Which of the two _do_ you want?"
inquires the Bishop pointedly. "Samson!" answered Dennis;
"Samson!" echoed all of the rest that durst speak or echo
anything: and Samson is reported to the King accordingly. His
Majesty, advising of it for a moment, orders that Samson be
brought in with the other Twelve.
The King's Majesty, looking at us somewhat sternly, then says:
"You present to me Samson; I do not know him: had it been your
Prior, whom I do know, I should have accepted him: however, I
will now do as you wish. But have a care of yourselves. By the
true eyes of God, _per veros oculos Dei,_ if you manage badly, I
will be upon you!" Samson, therefore, steps forward, kisses the
King's feet; but swiftly rises erect again, swiftly turns
towards the altar, uplifting with the other Twelve, in clear
tenor-note, the Fifty-first Psalm, _'Miserere mei Deus,_
'After thy loving-kindness, Lord,
Have mercy upon _me;'_
with firm voice, firm step and head, no change in his countenance
whatever. "By God's eyes," said the King, "that one, I think,
will govern the Abbey well." By the same oath (charged to your
Majesty's account), I too am precisely of that opinion! It is
some while since I fell in with a likelier man anywhere than this
new Abbot Samson. Long life to him, and may the Lord _have_
mercy on him as Abbot!
Thus, then, have the St. Edmundsbury Monks, without express
ballot-box or other good winnowing-machine, contrived to
accomplish the most important social feat a body of men can do,
to winnow out the man that is to govern them: and truly one sees
not that, by any winnowing-machine whatever, they could have done
it better. O ye kind Heavens, there is in every Nation and
Community, a _fittest,_ a wisest, bravest, best; whom could we
find and make King over us, all were in very truth well;--the
best that God and Nature had permitted _us_ to make it! By what
art discover him? Will the Heavens in their pity teach us no
art; for our need of him is great!
Ballot-boxes, Reform Bills, winnowing-machines: all these are
good, or are not so good;--alas, brethren, how _can_ these, I
say, be other than inadequate, be other than failures, melancholy
to behold? Dim all souls of men to the divine, the high and
awful meaning of Human Worth and Truth, we shall never, by all
the machinery in Birmingham, discover the True and Worthy. It is
written, 'if we are ourselves valets, there shall exist no hero
for us; we shall not know the hero when we see him;'--we
shall take the quack for a hero; and cry, audibly through
all ballot-boxes and machinery whatsoever, Thou art he; be
thou King over us!
What boots it? Seek only deceitful Speciosity, godlike Reality
will be forever far from you. The Quack shall be legitimate
inevitable King of you; no earthly machinery able to exclude the
Quack. Ye shall be born thralls of the Quack, and suffer under
him, till you hearts are near broken, and no French Revolution or
Manchester Insurrection, or partial or universal volcanic
combustions and explosions; never so many, can do more than
'change the _figure_ of your Quack;' the essence of him
remaining, for a time and times.--"How long, O Prophet?" say
some, with a rather melancholy sneer. Alas, ye _un_prophetic,
ever till this come about: Till deep misery, if nothing softer
will, have driven you out of your Speciosites _into_ your
Sincerities; and you find there either is a Godlike in the
world, or else ye are an unintelligible madness; that there is a
God, as well as a Mammon and a Devil, and a Genius of Luxuries
and canting Dilettantisms and Vain Shows! How long that will be,
compute for yourselves. My unhappy brothers!--