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 suchlike; 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 blood-letting, when we are all let
blood together; and then there is a general free-conference, a
sanhedrim of clatter. Notwithstanding 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,[7] 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 gray. 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, had 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 travelling 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 travelling:
'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_,[8] 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_.[9] Thus did I, to conceal
myself and my errand, and get safer to Rome under the guise of a
Scotchman.
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.'[10]
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, and 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![11]--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 dextrous practice on the Nurse's part will not be
necessary!
It is a new 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 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] _Eadmeri Hist._ p. 8.
[8] Javelin, missile pike. _Gaveloc_ is still the Scotch name for
_crowbar_.
[9] 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!
[10] _Jocelini Chronica_, p. 36.
[11] _Jocelini Chronica_, p. 7.