HERMITS.
Mr. J. Pettit Andrews has two anecdotes concerning hermits, which exemplify the strength of the “ruling” passion, when the individual is “dead to the world:” viz.
St. Romuald.
Born at Ravenna, of noble parentage; he embraced, towards the middle of the tenth century, the state of a hermit, under the direction of a solitary, whose severity at least equalled his piety. Romuald bore for a long time, without a murmur, the repeated thumps which he received from his holy teacher; but observing that they were continually directed to his left side, “Honour my right ear, my dear master,” said he, meekly, “with some of your attention, for I have nearly lost the use of my left ear, through your partiality to that side.” Romuald, when he became master of his own conduct, showed that he could on occasion copy the rigour of his preceptor; for, hearing that his own father, who had embraced a monastic life, entertained thoughts of re-entering the world again, he hurried to the monastery, and, by the rhetoric of a very hearty drubbing, brought his unsteady parent over to a more settled way of thinking.
Amadeus, Duke of Savoy.
This prince, in the fifteenth century, took upon him to become a hermit; with how much abstinence and moderation he demeaned himself, may be judged from this circumstance, that the French make use of the expression “faire ripailles,” when they would speak of giving way to every indulgence and enjoyment; and they take the term from “Ripailles,” the name of this pious recluse’s hermitage.
Besides his attachment to every possible luxury, this holy anchoret had a peculiar pride in his beard, which was singularly fine and picturesque. Political motives made the cardinals seek him in his retreat, to confer on him the dignity of pope; but no persuasions nor representations would make him consent to part with that favourite beard, until the ridicule which its preposterous appearance under the tiara occasioned, brought him to agree to its removal. Even the pomp of the papal chair could not long detain him from Ripailles. He soon quitted the triple crown, that he might repossess his beloved retreat.
A HERMIT’S MEDITATION.
In lonesome cave
Of noise and interruption void,
His thoughtful solitude
A hermit thus enjoy’d:
His choicest book
The remnant of a human head
The volume was, whence he
This solemn lecture read:—
“Whoe’er thou wert,
Partner of my retirement now,
My nearest intimate,
My best companion thou!
On thee to muse
The busy living world I left;
Of converse all but thine,
And silent that, bereft.
Wert thou the rich,
The idol of a gazing crowd?
Wert thou the great,
To whom obsequious thousands bow’d?
Was learning’s store
E’er treasur’d up within this shell?
Did wisdom e’er within
This empty hollow dwell?
Did youthful charms
E’er redden on this ghastful face?
Did beauty’s bloom these cheeks,
This forehead ever grace?
If on this brow
E’er sat the scornful, haughty frown,
Deceitful pride! where now
Is that disdain?——’tis gone.
If cheerful mirth
A gayness o’er this baldness cast,
Delusive, fleeting joy!
Where is it now?——’tis past.
To deck this scalp
If tedious long-liv’d hours it cost.
Vain, fruitless toil! where’s now
That labour seen?——’tis lost.
But painful sweat,
The dear-earn’d price of daily bread,
Was all, perhaps, that thee
With hungry sorrows fed.
Perhaps but tears,
Surest relief of heart-sick woe,
Thine only drink, from down
These sockets us’d to flow.
Oppress’d perhaps
With aches and with aged cares,
Down to the grave thou brought’st
A few, and hoary, hairs:
’Tis all perhaps!
No marks, no token can I trace
What, on this stage of life
Thy rank or station was.
Nameless, unknown!
Of all distinction stript and bare,
In nakedness conceal’d,
Oh! who shall thee declare?
Nameless, unknown!
Yet fit companion thou for me,
Who hear no human voice
No human visage see.
From me, from thee,
The glories of the world are gone;
Nor yet have either lost
What we could call our own.
What we are now,
The great, the wise, the fair, the brave,
Shall all hereafter be,
All Hermits—in the grave.”