ST. EDMUNDSBURY.
The _Burg_, Bury, or 'Berry' as they call it, of St. Edmund is still a
prosperous brisk Town; beautifully diversifying, with its clear brick
houses, ancient clean streets, and twenty or fifteen thousand busy
souls, the general grassy face of Suffolk; looking out right
pleasantly, from its hill-slope, towards the rising Sun: and on the
eastern edge of it, still runs, long, black and massive, a range of
monastic ruins; into the wide internal spaces of which the stranger is
admitted on payment of one shilling. Internal spaces laid out, at
present, as a botanic garden. Here stranger or townsman, sauntering at
his leisure amid these vast grim venerable ruins, may persuade himself
that an Abbey of St. Edmundsbury did once exist; nay there is no doubt
of it: see here the ancient massive Gateway, of architecture
interesting to the eye of Dilettantism; and farther on, that other
ancient Gateway, now about to tumble, unless Dilettantism, in these
very months, can subscribe money to cramp it and prop it!
Here, sure enough, is an Abbey; beautiful in the eye of Dilettantism.
Giant Pedantry also will step in, with its huge _Dugdale_ and other
enormous _Monasticons_ under its arm, and cheerfully apprise you, That
this was a very great Abbey, owner and indeed creator of St. Edmund's
Town itself, owner of wide lands and revenues; nay that its lands were
once a county of themselves; that indeed King Canute or Knut was very
kind to it, and gave St. Edmund his own gold crown off his head, on
one occasion: for the rest, that the Monks were of such and such a
genus, such and such a number; that they had so many carucates of land
in this hundred, and so many in that; and then farther that the large
Tower or Belfry was built by such a one, and the smaller Belfry was
built by &c. &c.--Till human nature can stand no more of it; till
human nature desperately take refuge in forgetfulness, almost in flat
disbelief of the whole business, Monks, Monastery, Belfries, Carucates
and all! Alas, what mountains of dead ashes, wreck and burnt bones,
does assiduous Pedantry dig up from the Past Time, and name it
History, and Philosophy of History; till, as we say, the human soul
sinks wearied and bewildered; till the Past Time seems all one
infinite incredible gray void, without sun, stars, hearth-fires, or
candle-light; dim offensive dust-whirlwinds filling universal Nature;
and over your Historical Library, it is as if all the Titans had
written for themselves: Dry Rubbish shot here!
And yet these grim old walls are not a dilettantism and dubiety; they
are an earnest fact. It was a most real and serious purpose they were
built for! Yes, another world it was, when these black ruins, white in
their new mortar and fresh chiselling, first saw the sun as walls,
long ago. Gauge not, with thy dilettante compasses, with that placid
dilettante simper, the Heaven's-Watchtower of our Fathers, the fallen
God's-Houses, the Golgotha of true Souls departed!
Their architecture, belfries, land-carucates? Yes,--and that is but a
small item of the matter. Does it never give thee pause, this other
strange item of it, that men then had a _soul_,--not by hearsay alone,
and as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they _knew_, and
practically went upon! Verily it was another world then. Their
Missals have become incredible, a sheer platitude, sayest thou? Yes, a
most poor platitude; and even, if thou wilt, an idolatry and
blasphemy, should any one persuade _thee_ to believe them, to pretend
praying by them. But yet it is pity we had lost tidings of our
souls:--actually we shall have to go in quest of them again, or worse
in all ways will befall! A certain degree of soul, as Ben Jonson
reminds us, is indispensable to keep the very body from destruction of
the frightfulest sort; to 'save us,' says he, 'the expense of _salt_.'
Ben has known men who had soul enough to keep their body and five
senses from becoming carrion, and save salt:--men, and also Nations.
You may look in Manchester Hunger-mobs and Corn-law Commons Houses,
and various other quarters, and say whether either soul or else salt
is not somewhat wanted at present!--
Another world, truly: and this present poor distressed world might get
some profit by looking wisely into it, instead of foolishly. But at
lowest, O dilettante friend, let us know always that it _was_ a world,
and not a void infinite of gray haze with fantasms swimming in it.
These old St. Edmundsbury walls, I say, were not peopled with
fantasms; but with men of flesh and blood, made altogether as we are.
Had thou and I then been, who knows but we ourselves had taken refuge
from an evil Time, and fled to dwell here, and meditate on an
Eternity, in such fashion as we could? Alas, how like an old osseous
fragment, a broken blackened shin-bone of the old dead Ages, this
black ruin looks out, not yet covered by the soil; still indicating
what a once gigantic Life lies buried there! It is dead now, and dumb;
but was alive once, and spake. For twenty generations, here was the
earthly arena where painful living men worked out their
life-wrestle,--looked at by Earth, by Heaven and Hell. Bells tolled
to prayers; and men, of many humours, various thoughts, chanted
vespers, matins;--and round the little islet of their life rolled
forever (as round ours still rolls, though we are blind and deaf) the
illimitable Ocean, tinting all things with _its_ eternal hues and
reflexes; making strange prophetic music! How silent now; all
departed, clean gone. The World-Dramaturgist has written: _Exeunt_.
The devouring Time-Demons have made away with it all: and in its
stead, there is either nothing; or what is worse, offensive universal
dust-clouds, and gray eclipse of Earth and Heaven, from 'dry rubbish
shot here!'--
* * * * *
Truly it is no easy matter to get across the chasm of Seven Centuries,
filled with such material. But here, of all helps, is not a Boswell
the welcomest; even a small Boswell? Veracity, true simplicity of
heart, how valuable are these always! He that speaks what _is_ really
in him, will find men to listen, though under never such impediments.
Even gossip, springing free and cheery from a human heart, this too is
a kind of veracity and _speech_;--much preferable to pedantry and
inane gray haze! Jocelin is weak and garrulous, but he is human.
Through the thin watery gossip of our Jocelin, we do get some glimpses
of that deep-buried Time; discern veritably, though in a fitful
intermittent manner, these antique figures and their life-method, face
to face! Beautifully, in our earnest loving glance, the old centuries
melt from opaque to partially translucent, transparent here and there;
and the void black Night, one finds, is but the summing-up of
innumerable peopled luminous _Days_. Not parchment Chartularies,
Doctrines of the Constitution, O Dryasdust; not altogether, my erudite
friend!--
Readers who please to go along with us into this poor _Jocelini
Chronica_ shall wander inconveniently enough, as in wintry twilight,
through some poor stript hazel-grove, rustling with foolish noises,
and perpetually hindering the eyesight; but across which, here and
there, some real human figure is seen moving: very strange; whom we
could hail if he would answer;--and we look into a pair of eyes deep
as our own, _imaging_ our own, but all unconscious of us; to whom we,
for the time, are become as spirits and invisible!