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; and there 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 mournfulest 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,' showing
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, oh, 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 show 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 see! 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 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,'--_Galfridus Cancellarius_,
Henry's and the Fair Rosamond's authentic Son 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.
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, money with gilt
carriages, 'fame' with newspaper-paragraphs, whatever name it bear,
you will find 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 your 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 Speciosities _into_ your
Sincerities; and you find that 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!--