University of Virginia Library

BROTHER FABIAN'S MANUSCRIPT.

HOW THE ABBEY OF SAINT WEREWULF JUXTA SLINGSBY CAME BY BROTHER FABIAN'S MANUSCRIPT.

Scene—Saint Werewulf's Cloisters. A.D. 1497. Time—Afternoon. Prior Hugo speaks.
You know Saint Wigbald's,—yonder nunnery cell
Out there, due South, some fourteen furlongs hence?—
Well, five years since,—five?—six, come Michaelmas,
While old Dame Chesslyn, bless her pious soul,
Still Prioress, tended that good Saint's ewe-lambs,
This tome you speak of, then itself a nun,
Fruitlessly holy, waxing year by year
Yellow and yellower in virginity,
Graced the refectory lettern. Truth to tell,
Of all the sisters, six besides the dame,
Was only Margery who could read at all.
Now, John the Archbishop, (some four years it was
Since Bourchier peradventure went to Heaven,
And John, translated to the archbishopric
From Ely, himself as slippery as an eel,
Wriggled right busily in the Church's mud,)
Just then, to clinch his pastoral on the wear
Of broidered girdles, silken liripoops,
Swords, daggers and such vanities, thought meet
To swinge Saint Werewulf's with a special charge,
A rasping monitory, five skins long;
Four and nine-tenths a schedule of our sins
Item on item, bearing each the name
Of some delinquent brother fairly engrossed,
And, these recited, stinglike in the tail,
Came threats of visitation, Heaven knows what,
All ills on this side Purgatory and Hell,
Unless we all in three-score days exact
Abjured the nether trinity, world, flesh, fiend,
And donned the radiant nimbus of the Saints.
But how? Well, maybe you remember him,
Young Randal, nephew of the Prioress?
A scholar here at the Abbey, where he learnt
At least how not to learn the sciences:
For what with our abundant lack of clerks,
Our liking for the lad and his for play,
The schooling, trivial and quadrivial, all
Fared at the best but evil. Doctrinal,
Donat and Æsop, Cato, small and great,
At seven years' end, I take it, still for him
Were dark as Daniel or the Apocalypse.
No less he found books useful. Once, indeed,
He sent a poet soaring through the skies
Who never else had reached them, Theodule,
With his Æthiopum terra torn to strips
And twisted in a kite-tail. More, he learnt
To play at knucklebone with augrim stones,
And found his abacus expressly scored
For nine-men's morris on an indoor scale.
So that, you see, all told, he might have trussed
His sum of scholarship in one round O,
Had it been worth the trussing. Blaize himself,
Not being poet Marcian, who contrived
That wondrous wedding of Dan Mercury
Once on a time to Dame Philology,
Could find no foil to fix his quicksilver.
Well,'t was one Thursday, just on Michaelmas,
At daydawn, Randal starts him off to fish
Down at Saint Wigbald's;—Whether he knew no trout
Were in the brook, or whether he hoped for sport
More to his mind in the Dame's private pond
Behind the cell,—or whether as I surmise,
Diabolo instigante,—God best knows;
But down he walked to the triangular stew
Sacred to poor Dame Aylse's favourite luce.
The Dame,—she had some wry whimsies in her skull,—
Had wont each morn and even, rain or shine,
To cross the croft to this triangular pool
And ring her silver sanctus on the marge,—
The bell, by the way,—a gift from Ulverscroft,
Rang oftener far at mass for Sir John Pike
Than for the sisters, and Sir John, who lurked
Plotting his raids among the chestnut roots
That weave a wattled rampart round the bank
Against the lower floodgate,—when he heard,
Would dart from out his hiding with a swirl,
And shoal on shoal of startled sticklebacks
Leap silver-sided, flash on flash before,
Like sprays of osier when the summer wind
Toys with their upturned leaves, while to and fro,
All proud at heart of argent-damasked mail
And glistening hinges of his golden fins,
The knightly vassal of the pool glanced by
To claim his sovereign's largess. If to-day
She brought a full-fed frog, (she docked the feet
Before she gave him frogs,) to-morrow came
A brace of gudgeon or a slice of beef;
Except indeed on Fridays, when the fare
Was only rye-bread manchet, soaked in milk.
She had her faults, good dame,—for who is free?
But none can say she ever gave her fish
Flesh on a Friday. Once in every year
Moreover, at Saint-John's-tide, after mass,
The Prioress marched with all the sisterhood
And Abel and Ben Gogolai to the pool
And weighed her darling. 'T was a sight to see
Ben Gogolai wheedling with a landing-net,
And Abel with the steel-yard, Michael-like,
Waiting, till spooned out on the shaven turf
Ben clutched the brute adroitly by the eyes
And coiled him gasping in the scale;—that year
I well remember, he just turned nine pounds.
Well, down steps Randal to the pool, when, lo,
Just as he pinned his gudgeon on the hook,
A herd of fat geese from the grange-yard gate
Marched cackling through the meadow. Quick as thought,
Randal was in among them, gripped the neck
Of him who gabbled loudest, held him tight,
Bore him, a fluttering prisoner to the pool,
Made fast his line,—the gudgeon on the hook,
About the fowl's left leg and let him swim.
Dame Juliana Berners, by the way,
Had taught this double treatment in her tract
Then lately printed with new-fangled types
By Caxton at Saint Alban's, which discourse
Being sent, a gift from Sopwell to my Dame,
Was read to Randal through by Margery,
Not without profit,—as the gander felt.
Meanwhile, Ben Gogolai,—What?—You don't know Ben?
The curst old Hebrew with the wooden leg?
Why, he was half the income of the cell!
'T was Blaize,—of course, first saw the man's true worth,
Transmuted him by alchemy to gold,
And minted him. You see, when first he came,
Ben stumped on errands for the Prioress,
Tended the geese, fetched water, piled the logs,
Did all that none else would, got cuffs and kicks,
Victualled on orts,—if ever he got the bones
Before the greyhound, he fared sumptuously.
Blaize came, saw, christened!—Why, the noise it made
Was worth a farm in fee. A Hebrew Jew
Christened at Easter in Saint Werewulf's font!
Never a hallow in five counties round
Was half so holy! Blaize and Ben were saints.
And the whole house a pattern to the world
Alas! so warm a piety, zeal so true
Found such sweet favour with the Cherubim
That soon 't was all sranslated to the skies!
At least, none lingered here below. Ere long
Blaize was again but Blaize, and Ben was Ben,
Not saints, nor one nor 't other. Still, our fame
Bruited abroad, pricded other Abbots' souls
To achieve the like, and Blaize, who deemed it shame
To waste such wealth of glory on himself,
Farmed the old Jew to others. Twenty marks
In gold the Abbot of St. Alban's gave
To rebaptize Ben Gogolai,—twenty-five
The Abbot of St. Edmund's, so throughout,
As each in turn converted and baptized,
Called the lost sheep of Judah to the fold,
And showed the world an Israelite indeed.
Ben's single leg was a sore cross to Blaize:
Had he had two, Ben might have dyed his beard,
Filched a new suit, and been another Jew,
Aaron or Levi, Solomon or Saul,
Fit for a fresh conversion. As it was,
'T was hardly politic to baptize him twice
Within a lifetime in the self-same font.
Failing more baptism, Blaize, who ever sought
The glory of God, next thought of miracle.
Could Heaven restore the Hebrew's missing shank,
We, too, might walk more firmly, and support
Fresh fame on that new pillar of the Church.
Deaf brother Cradock was a skilful leech
And mainly cunning in chirurgery.
All that Salerno, all that Oxford taught
Of medicine, magic and astrology
From Galen, Haly or Averröes,
Gilbert or Gatsden, Gordon, Glatisaunt,
Was Cradock skilled in. Marry, if e'er a leech
By leechcraft could work miracle, 't was he!
But though the leg he fashioned was a leg
As natural as a Christian's, for indeed
'T was shaped in willow on Saint Luke's day hewn,
The planets all propitious, save perhaps
That envious Saturn stood just one degree
Too nigh the ascendant,—though the Hebrew's stump
To fit it featly had been seared again
With actual cautery when the moon was full,
Though the fair childlike skin, right cheveril, shamed
Its fellow's true Jew leather,—still, the knee,
Perversely unmiraculous, eschewed
All offices of kneeship; first too lax,—
Then, when the thews were braced, as much too stift,
Then, when the happy medium seemed just hit,
Lax when 't was wanted stiff, and stiff when lax.
Maugre all Cradock's art, apostate still,
Ben without crutch could only at best achieve
Good-fellow's gait, two stumbles and a fall;
And though Saint Werewulf, doubtless, at a pinch
Would have wrought fifty miracles at once,
Had each one single leg to stand upon,
'T was clear the leg that foundered with a Jew
Could never bear both Jew and miracle.
““Yea, brother Cradock,'t is a goodly leg,”
Quoth Blaize, “a marvel! Avicen himself
“Ne'er wrought more artificial counterfeit!
“Yet, for we live not in the good old days,
“And these New-Learning firebrands of the faith
“Singe us so closely, that 't were well to fling
“No touchwood nigh them,—'t were improvident
“For Providence to interpose herein!
“'T were best, I think, to drop the miracle:
“The leg will give us a name for works of alms.”
And so the miracle dropped, and Ben dropped too,
Into a mere Jew menial of my Dame's,
A mongrel cowherd, verdurer, messenger,
Lord Paramount of Saint Wigbald's geese and fish.
Well, as I said before you snapped my web
Of chronicle, Randal scarce had turned adrift
His gander with the gudgeon tied to his leg,
When down limps Ben, blaspheming through the croft,
The Avenging Fate of goose-rape, halt but dread,
Breathing out scourge and cudgel, foam on beard:—
“Thief, thief!—The goose, the goose!—Thou Nazarene hound,
“Come thou within the circle of my crutch
“I'll score a charm on thy Barabbas hide
“Shall teach thee chant Peccavi for a month
“To the tune of Os fregisti!” Down he bears
Like a lop-sided pirate caravel
Banging his mangonels as he rolls and nears.
Now clangs the din of battle!—Gander, pike,
Pike, gander, tugging, wrestling for the life!
“Hooked, by Saint Wigbald, hooked!”—Off Randal skips,
Flinging Ben's leg and crutch with dexterous aim
Athwart the feathered fisher's mid career;
Clapping his hands and dancing on the marge
As though Saint Vitus kicked him. Ben the while,
Dumb-struck at first, incredulous of the crime,
Sits up and stares bewildered: then, the truth
Through the eyes brainward filtering drop by drop,
'Gins howl “Thieves!—murder!—help! my leg! the pike!”
Till, as the royal fray 'twixt fowl and fish
Still fiercer waxes, he forgets to howl,
And watches—eye, mouth, nostril all agape.
Gabbling and plashing half across the pool,
A fleet of goose-down scudding in his wake,
Wrestles the gander, straining web and wing.—
Suddenly halts,—a charm-wrecked argosy
Dreamily foundering in enchanted deeps,
The feathery poop half tugged beneath the waves
By a live anchor. Up he flaps again,
Like a mad trampler in a vintage-vat,
Churning the ripples into foam, his head
Now ducking fruitlessly beneath the surge,
Now lifted cackling his despair to Heaven!
A lull!—Sir John fights sulky. Randal's bird
Now prematurely jubilant, as before
Despairing prematurely, wags his tail
And prunes his ruffled pinions, gabbling low
The while a ditty of gracious self-applause.
Again the poop bobs under!—Off he starts,
The craziest he of biped lunatics,
A gander desperate! Universal earth,
Itself fast shuddering into chaos, holds
But one thing certain, that the pool's bewitched!
Within the unhallowed banks weird sorcery lurks
Fatal to goose-kind! With a spooming plunge
That trails his torturer victim in his wake
He wrestles shoreward, paddling piteously
With impotent neck outstretched beyond the marge,
So freely near, so inacessible,
With that lithe fiend still jerking at his leg:
Till Randal, conscious of the coming Dame,
Clutching the chance and outstretched neck at once
With his right hand, falls flat, and with his left
Gropes for his pike-line in the muddy ooze,
Unmoors the hapless proxy of his rod,
And lands Sir John in triumph.—Ben, the while,
Weary of shouting, emptied of his oaths,
Turns his grey muzzle to the grass and groans.
But what about this volume? Nay, no haste!—
You laymen are impatient,—live too quick!
Albertus, in the unfathomable gloss
Which moats his version of the Apocalypse
Against the siege of modern heretics,
'T is true, interpreted beyond a doubt
The world to verge on Antichrist and Doom
More than two centuries since:—still, here we are!
And, say these lollard Doctors speak sheer truth
About the Scarlet Woman in the sun
And other like conundrums, here we are,
Walking Saint Werewulf's cloisters. Two hours hence
We sup with Blaize in the refectory:
Till then, what matter how we slay the time?
Granted your science and philosophy
Divine and human are momentous things:—
I am loath to cavil:—still, my tale's of geese!
Patience! The tale will end before we sup.
Back strides the Abbot to the buttery hatch,
Leaves the Dame's pike in charge of pantler John:
“Mark,—stuffed, and sodden with sweet herbs and wine,
“And, mind, no hint of garlic!”—starts once more
Down to Saint Wigbald's sorely vexed at heart.
Meanwhile, the Dame and Margery, hearing Ben
Bawling for help, steered Jewry-ward full sail,
Almost ere Randal's heels were out of sight.
Ben, who till now had ever known the Dame
Tender and pitiful-hearted as a Saint,
Whined out his grief with groans that might have wrung
A crab-tree with compassion; but the Dame,
No crab-tree, certes,—toward the martyred Jew
Was more than crab-tree callous! When she heard
'T was Randal's hand had widowed her, “Take that!”
Says she, and flings three minnows in his face,
Meant for the breakfast of the late Sir John,—
“Judas! and that!”—here spits upon his beard
And kicks him; “Marry, a dastard Hebrew dog!
“Randal!”—another kick, but Margery here
Catches and holds her back by sleeve and hood:
“May all the lies that gender in thy heart
“Be turned to weevils, fiery canker-worms
“To fret thy vitals, ere they reach thy lips!
“Randal, forsooth! And thou, thou polecat Jew,
“Sittest and watchest, waitest patiently,
“Heedless and helpless, scarecrow as thou art!
“And Randal—Randal,” here the wrath broke down
Into a pitiful whimper, “killed my pike!
“Killed!—Margery, Margery! Randal killed my pike!”
Well, Margery led the Dame across the croft,
Fetched spice and comfits, milk and peppermint,
Then found and sent old Abel to the Jew.
Blaize in the meantime enters, finds the Dame:—
“Lord, Abbot, here so soon?—You've heard our news?”
She whimpered, “take a draught of peppermint;
“'T is sovereign to corroborate the heart!”
A sniff—“That Judas, Ben!”—another sniff:
“'T is my belief Ben helped him!”—“H'm!” quoth Blaize,
“I have baulked Dan Randal's poaching, anyway!
“Why, let such tales get wind about the court,
“And Heaven knows what might happen!” “True,” says she,
“But, Abbot, what do you mean about the boy?”
“Oh, he,—the thief? I packed him off at once
“With Joce,”—now mark ye, Joce had angered Blaize
Again the night before, rebuking him
The brethren by, for swearing at the dice
When Cradock won the dagger and silver sheath,
And Blaize, five cups of Rhenish in his brain,
Vowed that he'd roast him at the stake ere Yule
In Slingsby bull-ring for a heretic:
So Joce ere morrow morning took the hint,
His books and his departure. Blaize, you see,
In lying, always built his lies on truth;—
“Joce hates me, as you know, and I hate Joce;
“So when I knew't was Randal killed your pike,
“I packed the brace of traitors off at once
“To Grimleysdyke, to try our penitent cell.”
“Gramercy, Blaize,—why Joce will kill the lad!'
“Breaks in the Prioress. Kill the lad? Not he!
“I scarce suppose he loves him overmuch,
“But kill,—Besides, I bade on no account
“To keep him fasting more than twice a week,
“Nor scourge him more than twice, nor then with knots
“Bigger than beans.” The Prioress stared and paled.—
“Good Lord, Blaize Archer!”—then she clutched his arm,
Glared straight into his eyes, nor breathed, nor winked,
Then loosed her fingers on his arm, and sighed,—
“You're a hard man, Blaize Archer, hard and false!
“What is't you want? God knows I am poor enough!”
Blaize gulped a dose of peppermint and coughed.
“Nay, Dame, 'tis I should ask what is't you want,
“I—I want nothing!”—“This, forgive the lad!
“'Twas but a madcap frolic!”—“Yea,” quoth he,
“But madcap tricks are rank as murder now!
“Hath he not brought our holy faith to shame,
“And jeoparded our houses? Still, perchance;—
“Well, Dame, I'll think about it!” Then, as one
Who knows he has lied to one who knows he lies,
With brazen courtesy bids good day, and parts.
Returned, he had scarce dispatched three larded quails
With a half-stoup of egg-whip hypocras,
When lo, my Dame rides ambling on her mule
Up to Saint Werewulf's, Abel close behind,
Puffing and staggering under half a buck.
Blaize lifts the Prioress from the selle;—“Why, Dame,
“What cheer? How fresh thou'rt looking! By my hand,
“This evil time hath been so busy of late
“Vexing the souls of statesmen and of clerks,
“He clean forgets you quiet godly dames;
“Withers us doctors,—leaves you fair and young!”
So kisses her and enters, hand in hand,
And leads her, fluttered, to the Solomon-room.
“Abbot,” says she, “I have brought ye half a buck:
“'Twas killed—our Lady's octave—why, let's see,
“To-morrow will be the fortnight. Come, the lad!
“Say you forgive him!”—Randal, who the while
Behind the arras—'twas a Flanders piece
Of the Wise King's just judgment—watched the twain
Through a small rent whose dog's-ear lid curled wide
Just where the right hand of the doomsman grasps
The huge gold-hilted falchion, heaved to halve
The live child 'twixt the mothers, pricked his ears.
“Tell me, at least, he's safe!” “Yea, safe enow,”
Quoth Blaize, “I'll warrant Joce will see him safe!
“They are safe enough at Grimleysdyke ere now!
“As to the penance, maybe—” “Blaize,” says she,
“I'll swear thou'rt lying by thy naughty smile!
“'Twas just that smile was ever on the lips
“Of my poor darling”—Here she wiped her eyes
And fell to whimpering: “Tell me where he is!
“Look, here's the silver bell from Ulverscroft:
“Now my pike's gone, I want no silver bells,
“And you, perhaps, may value it! Nay, come,
“Tell me where Randal is, and take the bell!”
“I tell thee, Dame, he's gone to Grimleysdyke
“With Joce, to do strict penance in the cell.
“Still, since thou plead'st for him so urgently,
“Suppose I say three months instead of twelve,
“And take him back at Christmas? Art content?”
“Bless thee, my son!” quoth Blaize: “Man's life's a span!
“Why make that span unhappy? Here, you see,
“We all are happy! Thou, thou hast caught thy luce,
“And a fine brace of parents! This good Dame
“Finds, for the nonce, a sweetheart and a son!
“And I,—thus ever virtue reaps reward,—
“I, too, achieve my guerdon:—first, the fish,
“Item, a side of venison, nearly ripe,
“Item, a silver sanctus,—item, this,
“This goodly volume, useless to my Dame,
“And last, a conscience void of all offence!”

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE.

ST. BERNARD.

The holy man sits chanting in his cell,
Bernard, than whom the golden gloriole
None fitlier circleth with its saintly spell.
“Venite exultemus!” All his soul
Makes music of the words, and harmonies
Well up unbidden as he sings, and roll
Echoes of harping from half-opened skies
Flooding the cloistral glooms with angel song,
Till the full strain of those sweet symphonies
Swells in his heart with eloquence too strong
For human speech, and o'er his organ keys
Flinging his quivering fingers, to prolong
That hymn celestial—by his side he sees
Him who is aye beside him, with a smile—
His own smile—on his lips, and words like these,
Hissing between them: “Aye, this hour awhile
“They have been listening—Roch and Flamian,
“Sigar and Blaize, and all the saintly file.
“Look at the grating there! When you began,
“Did you not mark the bald-pates? aye, and feel
“How the whole cloister hearkened as you ran
“So sweetly through the gamut? I appeal
“To your own conscience.” But the saint was mute,
And a strange horror crept from head to heel.
Then with himself as who had held dispute,
“I am a sinful man, O Lord!” he said,
“And viler in thine eyes than the dumb brute;
“Yea, guilt is with me even as I tread
“These holy heights of song: Be merciful,
“That I may worship thee without all dread!
“Get thee behind me, Sathanas! Thou dull
“Snake! not for thee did I begin my song,
“For thee will I not stint it.” And the full
Aisles heard the saint till morn chant loud and long.

A CHARM.

OF ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL.

JUDAS ISCARIOT'S PARADISE.

De Sancto Brendano Filio Finloch.

Incipit de Juda Iscariote.

Explicit de Juda Iscariote.

CHARLEMAGNE'S DAUGHTER.

Sed peream, Christe, dignus si perditus iste!
Quoth Fabian.

NICKAR THE SOULLESS.

Ex nihilo nil fit: Sathanas ut perderet, emit;
Perdere cùm voluit, perdidit at noluit.
quoth Fabian.

THE FIFTEEN DAYS OF JUDGMENT.

Ast illi semper modò “cras, cras,” umbra docebit.