University of Virginia Library

Strange stories bin there in mine Author's book;
And much I marvel whether all be sooth:
For hugely he that made this tale mistook,
Or I, who weave it in my rimes uncouth
Do touching heavenly things false doctrine hold.
Yet speaketh he as one that speaketh truth;
And, as a garment, that the Heavens wax old
And change, as saith the Psalmist, I believe—
Believe who list the tale mine Author told.

When Fulke Fitzurse deceased one Christmas Eve,
His neediest villein, Dudman, also died.
Most meritoriously the Earl took leave
Of this vain world with all its pomps and pride:
Clean shrift he made, and many a holy vow,
As Christian Earl became at Christmas-tide.
His soul he willed to Heaven: the out-lying plough
Of arable to Saint Werewulf's, with release
From fine or claim: Saint Werewulf holds it now.
Moreover, in expectance of decease
He made great oath that if God took him hence
He would with Ralph Grentmeynell die in peace,
And bear no further malice. Penitence
So full, said Bishop Wulstan, ne'er before
Gladdened the heart of angels. Forty pence
Bequeathed he also to relieve a score
Of crippled bedesmen at the Maunday dole,
Beside his gifts to Wulstan and the four
Who aye sing mass in chantry for his soul.
In brief, no temporal Earl e'er slipped his clay
With fairer claim to saintly gloriole.

Poor Dudman went less orthodox a way,
The churchmen all being busy with the Earl.
He prayed, indeed, such prayer as villeins pray,
And mused if Lazarus, too, were less than Churl:
And Cis, the goodwife, bade him be of cheer,
Because our Lady was no foolish girl,
And knowing, certes, that the pious Peer
Needed good father Roch to help him die,
Would make allowance, holding Dudman clear.

So died both Earl and Hind. With vigilant eye
What time Fitzurse's spirit should leave his lips,
His Angel and his Fiend watched hovering nigh,
And, as it shuddered forth like chick that chips
The encumbering egg-shell, each swooped down amain
And clutched the prize—Hell, Heaven at tugs and grips.
In truth, the poor soul had been rent in twain,
And half flown up to Heaven, half down to Hell,
So fierce and yet so equal was the strain,
Had not Saint Michael—who had flown to tell
The Wardens of the Pit that certain ghosts
Might spend that Christmas-tide without their cell,
Just then, back-soaring from the dolorous coasts,
Espied the fray, and with celestial foot—
The foot that trampled on the Infernal hosts
In Heaven's first warfare, golden-sheathed, acute
With diamond toe-piece—spurned the yelping fiend
Prone through the void from the Archangelic boot
Six thousand leagues toward Limbo. “Had I weened,”
He said, “that one so piously renowned
As my lord Fulke Fitzurse had been convened
To join our Christmas revels, I had found
An escort worthier his so high degree,
That long ere now had scotched yon pestering hound!
As 'tis, no worse is lucky.” Thus the three,
Slow-footing, started toward the Eternal Gate;
The Earl still somewhat stiff in hip and knee.

Dudman, the while, had died with none to wait
Either from Hell or Heaven to claim his sprite:
Poor souls like his being batched in six or eight
And given in charge, as 'twere a single wight,
To prentice-angels and to prentice-imps,
Who, like their wards, can scarce tell left from right,
Fiends, angels, souls scarce counted more than shrimps
Compared with those of nobles like Fitzurse.
So, when he died, the villein caught no glimpse
Of guide at all, for better or for worse;
His ghostly warders, then five miles away,
Watching for ale-wife Sybil to disburse
Such soul as she possessed, not worth a fray—
And thus, lone-wandering, finding none to tell
Which road were best, he chose the upward way
For two good reasons: one, that paths to Hell
Lay always downward, so the Parson said;
The other that the Earl, he knew full well,
Would never condescend, alive or dead,
To mingle with the rabble—argal, he,
Dudman, who spied his lordship just ahead,
Could scarce do less than follow. Of the three,
Moreover, those to left and right wore wings,
And one, at least, if mightier Earl could be
Than Fulke himself, seemed mightier Earl—which things,
He argued, left no reasonable doubt
As to the road toward Heaven. The only stings
That pricked him were misgivings lest the rout
In front should enter Heaven and spar the door,
Leaving himself, poor Hind, unblessed without.

Thus on they footed some three miles or four,
And as they paced, a joyous dawn-like glow
In front waxed bright and brighter evermore.
No need to tell whence that sweet sheen should flow,
For even the villein felt that aught so fair
Only the Lord's own Paradise could show.
And now, the last ridge mounted, o'er the bare
And desolate waste of rocks and desert sand
They hailed the City of God with silent prayer.
Clear shone the inviolate walls on either hand,
League after league, a girdle as of Morn:
Golden, their gold was of the Sinless Land,
Self-lustrous, roseate—not the dross forlorn
That only to the living seems divine,
But ore in Eden, not in Ophir born.
And o'er the bulwarks, builded as of wine
Smitten to stone, they saw tall citadels
Of crystal in interminable line
Cresting the scarp, and broad-winged sentinels
Tramping full-armed between in twos and threes
On pathways paven as with lips of shells;
And, crown of all celestial mysteries,
Spiring in sunbright splendour o'er the whole—
The temple-palace where God sits and sees
Flashed rainbow-wrought—the eternal capitol
That veils the ineffable shrine and throne above,
And fills the land with glory, as the soul
Within makes lovely the bright eyes we love.
That light the City's life-blood seemed to be,
And swift throughout with living pulse to move.

And now the four drew nigh. “Guests, one, two, three,”
Reckoned Saint Peter, with a triple blast
Upon his bugle: “One of them, I see,
A stranger and a noble”—for the last,
Dudman, who slunk behind the Archangel's wing,
If seen, was not worth counting. Thus they passed
On to the drawbridge—Dudman, with a spring
Lurking so close behind the giant stride
Of Michael, hugest captain of the King,
That neither angel nor apostle spied.
Poor villein, how he trembled! He, unshriven,
Unblest, to thrust him that great lord beside,
A Saint, nay, Earl, with all his sins forgiven,
And these dread gentle folk with wings so white!
Still, men will make strange shifts to win to Heaven,
And Dudman was no craven, though the fright
Shook all his limbs like ague. So they came
Under the archway to the Gates of Light.

The Saint—who hath not heard Saint Peter's fame?
The Janitor of Heaven—by bugle-call
Of a soul's advent having made proclaim,
Shouldered his key, and from the embattled wall
Descended to the portal. Straight, a clang
That shook like thunder, yet more musical
Than sweetest hymn Saint Cecily e'er sang
To intervals of organ psalmody—
A burst of trancing sound, through Eden rang,
As now revolving, Heaven's imperial key
Traversed the maze of amethystine wards
And rolling back the diamond bolts, set free
The aye-inviolable Gate that guards
The glories of the Paradise of God.
Then with a sweep like Doom's, which nought retards
Nought speeds, the eternal Door swung wide, and showed
Free access to the Lord's own Holy Land.
Yet not to enter that divine abode
Even Michael willed, before with outstretched hand
The Saint gave blessing, and then bade rehearse
The style of him for whom he did demand
Passport so priceless. “'Tis my Lord Fitzurse,”
Quoth Michael: “never yet did Earl evince
Such piety as he, when he waxed worse
Ten days before he died.” The Apostle-Prince
Smiled with benignest unction as he blessed
The lordly Pilgrim. “'Tis a se'nnight since
My lord,” he said, “we heard of your bequest
To fair Saint Werewulf's house, and your good will
Toward even Sir Ralph so gracefully expressed—
'Tis to be hoped that your last codicil
May, 'spite all tyrannous mortmain-law, stand good:
Wulstan, I doubt not, will his trust fulfil
As one who knows what 'tis to wear a hood.
Enter, my Lord Fitzurse; within you'll find
Glad welcome to our Christmas Interlude.”
Quoth Fulke with low obeisance, “'Tis most kind!
If e'er my aid may serve you, pray command!
To friend or foe Fitzurse ne'er came behind.”
Then, right and left, an angel hand-in-hand,
Into his birthright forward stepped the Earl,
In Heaven itself a freeman of the land.

Meanwhile, the villein, all his wits a-whirl,
Still crouching low behind the Archangel, crossed
Heaven's threshold that same moment. “Ho, Sir Churl!”
Thundered Saint Peter, as he spied the ghost
So deftly skulking in Saint Michael's wake;
“Who taught your Churlship manners?” All seemed lost!
Just as the dawn of heavenly bliss 'gan break
Upon his night of life, and every sense
Waxed keener, in perfection to partake
Of joy beyond all earthly joys intense:
Just as he first breathed air of Paradise
Fragrant with odorous balm and frankincense;
First heard the chant of angel symphonies,
First saw Heaven's inward splendour—thus to hear
That terrible voice chide in such awful wise:
“Out, out, vile serf! Dost dream that Heaven makes cheer
For hinds and villeins? Think you this the place
Where slaves like thee may sit with kings as peer?
Off, ere I ban thee, off!” With rueful face
The villein eyed the Sàint from top to toe,
And, seeing he bore no staff, took heart of grace:
“Sir Janitor,” quoth he, “three hours ago,
'Tis true, I was a villein, but the cock
Which called me forth to labour with his crow
Ne'er smote my conscience with so smart a shock
As that which crew when thou deniedst thy Lord!
And now why He, thy Master, called thee Rock,
Full well I see, for well thy words accord,
Thou stony-hearted! Yet will I not stir!
Against my God ne'er spoke I treacherous word;
And much I marvel why He should prefer
So false a follower thus to ward His door!”

The Apostle quailed before the villager.
Athwart a thousand years uprose once more
That eve of judgment in the High Priest's hall,
That third denial, those false oaths he swore,
The cock-crow shrilling forth his crime, the fall
Of the Divine eyes, pleading mournfully,
And the wild tears that answered that dread call!
Doubtful he stood, one hand upon his key,
The gate still open, fain to bid begone,
Yet shamed to silence by the villein's plea.

Just then, the Kingly Brethren of Cologne,
The Three Wise Men, who erst to Bethlehem bore
Rich offering from the East to Mary's Son,
Passed with Saint Thomas toward the temple-stair,
Rehearsing each his part, for in the Play
At Heaven's high Christmas-feast all actors were.
The Porter-Saint, who saw them pass that way,
Beckoned Saint Thomas: “Bid this knave depart!
Unmannered clown, he heeds not aught I say!”
“What!” quoth Saint Thomas, “knows he what thou art,
Yet dares defy thee? Out, thou rascal, out!
And best were swiftest, ere thy bones shall smart!”
Dudman quaked inly, but his words were stout:
“Rascal I may be, yet no Infidel!
Sir Saint, I have heard that one of old durst doubt
Whether our Lord Himself could rise from Hell:
Made hard his stubborn heart, nor would believe
Till He whom he mistrusted did compel.
I never doubted! Ne'er did I receive
Gospel as fable! Save it be God's will
The faithful of the faithless must crave leave
To win to Heaven, I, Dudman, bide here still!”

The good Saint reddened. Tingling once again
Through to the heart and marrow shot the thrill
Of bitter-sweet remorse and joyous pain,
As when of old he touched the wounded side
And knew the living Christ was Christ the slain.
But to the sturdy clown he nought replied.
“What can we do?” quoth Peter, sorely vexed,
“The gate will stand agape all Christmastide
If thus he sticks so closely to his text.
Fie! This gro ss ploughman-chattel of the farm
Plague us with stickling for his rights? What next?”

“Sir Saint,” quoth Dudman, “thou wast scarce so warm
When thou didst net fish down in Galilee!
If ploughman sort with fisherman, what harm?”
Even as he spoke, like brass rung suddenly
A third shrill voice set all his hair astart;
“A villein, and not budge? Draw forth the key
Peter, and let the base-born cow-herd smart!
'Tis like thee, Peter, thus to have let him pass;
With thee 'twas ever ‘Simpleness is Art.’”
“Paul, brother,” quoth the first, for Paul it was,
“Oust him thyself, for us he heedeth not!”
To which Saint Paul: “Ho, there, Sir Front-of-brass,
Sir Villein-in-gross, wilt truss thy prate and trot!
Out, ere I lay yon key athwart thy back,
And on thy clown's hide levy scot and lot!
Get forth, I say! I am loath to touch thee! Pack!”

“Paul,” quoth the villein, “for I know thy name,
Though all the twelve signs of the Zodiac
Have titles scarce so many as thou dost frame
Thus to miscall me, 'twere an easier thing
To clepe me Dudman. All unknown to fame,
'Tis true I am no godson of a king,
Nor child of a king's harlot. These my curls
Crisp not like his who weareth the Queen's ring.
I am no scion of the blood of Earls—
At least I trow not: none of all my kin
Within man's memory e'er took rank with churls,
Not even a saint among them. If 'tis sin
To be born villein, I confess the crime,
And to repent long since did I begin!
Yet, though I boast no pedigree sublime,
I ever loved God's nobles, and to hear
Of doughty deeds and champions of old time.
I know old tales of many a gallant peer
By beasts or men more bloody done to death
For that sweet Lord whose name they held so dear.
I know which Saint won Christ's first martyr-wreath,
When, as he told God's love, those murderous ones
Ran on him with stopped ears and gnashing teeth,
And all-to brake his holy head with stones:
Stephen, men called him. Him, too, well I know,
Who stood with dry white eyes and heard his groans—
Watched how the murderers smote him, blow on blow,
And held their garments—bade their hearts not faint
While limb could stir or drop of lifeblood flow!
Saul was his name. Why tremblest thou, Sir Saint?
Thy name is Paul, not Saul! Art thou the same?
If Saul be Paul, then why not Saint be Paint,
The fair outside that cloaks the inward shame?
The white upon the tomb that hides within
Mere carrion filth and things without a name?
Thou Saint of Paint! Saul, Paul! Is Sin the Pin
That pricks thy conscience? Wilt thou drive me forth,
While heaven finds harbour for thine own foul sin?
Dost still make havoc here as erst on earth?
I tell thee, Saint, I stir not till worse crime
Be proven upon me than my villein's birth!”

The Saint was silenced. He recalled, what time
He journeyed to Damascus, that dread blaze,
The stroke, the terror, and the voice sublime.
Once more the eclipse of those three nights and days
That sealed his eyelids, mocked their blind distress
With the new keenness of that inward gaze.
Once more alone in Edom's wilderness,
In trance apocalyptic, o'er his brain
The hope divine flashed on his grief's excess.

The three mused mutely. And, behold, a train
With opal-shimmering wings, like rack that speeds
Athwart the belted moon, sailed nigh amain.
As when at eve a flight of plumy seeds
Skims o'er a pool, light-wafted on the sigh
Of dying June that faints among the reeds
And frets no ripple on the mirrored sky—
Each feathery pilgrim now flies on before,
Now lingers while his brethren pass him by,
One tiny diamond on the liquid floor
Greeting with starry kiss the poising toe
On which he hovers ere he fleet once more—
So did afar that angel-escort show,
Each floating first a moment, and each last,
Swift change, yet order in the sheeny row.
And in the midst, Himself a light that cast
A shadow even from angel-glorioles,
Yet sweet as darkness to hot eyes, there passed
The Holy Shepherd, only Lord of souls,
Whose love knows nought of earthly small nor great,
But all He made still succours and controls.

And now they halted nigh the Heavenly Gate,
And the three shamefast Saints bowed reverently
To Him they knew the umpire of debate.
Before his Lord the villein bowed the knee
And whispered, trembling, his unlessoned prayer:
“Mercy!” he prayed: “Afar, dear Lord, from Thee
These Saints of Thine would fain forbid me share
In this Thy kingdom—would have driven me hence
Into yon outer darkness and despair,
But I withstood them. If mine insolence
Merit reproof, do Thou, O Lord, reprove,
And in Thy mercy visit mine offence.
Full well I know that none may win above
Save Thou hast judged him in Thy righteousness;
Search me and try my heart, Thou God of Love,
And deal just sentence, or to curse or bless!
Thou knowst I have lived in sorrow from my birth,
A villein, outcast, friendless, comfortless:
A hewer of wood and tiller of the earth
With which twice o'er I have been bought and sold,
And paid my new lord fine upon my hearth.
I have toiled in summer's heat and winter's cold,
Yet aye the grey wolf loped within my door;
And bairns and wife spake things that make men old
Or ere their prime to hear. Thou knowst how sore
The lot Thou dealtest—toil that ne'er had end,
Hunger and sickness and those bonds I bore.
Yet with Thy dealings did I ne'er contend:
I wrought my work and blest Thee, for I knew
That what was good, Thou in good time wouldst send.
I ever to thy Priests showed reverence due;
And all they taught received for gospel pure:
Though much, not less impossible than true
Thou knowst was hard to accept with credence sure
For simple villein, whom to subtile creeds
No book-lore of the schools did e'er inure
Tis true, I cannot boast of godly deeds
Like Fulke, my lord's—nor gold nor fee were mine;
Yet have I many a time denied my needs
To serve one needier. Oft did I assign
My ingle-stool to grandam Petronill,
And pinched to let Wat charcoal-burner dine.
None did I ever wrong by word or will—
Thou knowst, O Lord, I lie not. If Thou wilt,
Bid Father Roch tell all I e'er did ill,
And, though he shrove me, count up all my guilt!
I ask no better! I will ne'er misdoubt
That even for me Thy precious blood was spilt!
Still to Thy promise yield I faith devout,
Which saith that him who cometh unto Thee,
Dear Jesus, Thou in no wise wilt cast out!”

He ceased, and Heaven was mute. With wordless plea
Imploring answer, crept he suppliant-wise
Anigh the Lord of Lords and clasped His knee,
And gazed unfaltering into God's dread eyes.
Then spake the Holiest: “I have heard thy prayer
Long since, and willed thee to my Paradise,
Thou last of all my brethren! Equal heir
With saints and martyrs, nor of less esteem
Than they which erst did crown and sceptre bear:
Enter, thou faithful servant, nor misdeem
Whate'er thine eyes have seen, thine ears have heard!
In Heaven as earth, things are not as they seem!”

Thus to the villein spake the Eternal Word,
And a new joy woke harmony supreme
Of angel-voices praising Christ the Lord!