Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

At length, however, the doors unclosed, and he rode into the avenue that led through the gardens to the back of the abbey, the monk preparing to walk beside his horse. A feeling, however, of respect for a certain mildness and dignity in the old man's manner, induced him to dismount; and giving his horse to one of the servants, he entered into conversation with his conductor, while, as they went along, his clanging step and glistening arms called several of the brethren from their meditative sauntering, to gaze at the strange figure of an armed knight within their peaceful walls.

"Surely, father," said Sir Osborne, as they walked on, his mind drawn naturally to such thoughts, "the silent quietude of the scene, and the calm tranquillity of existence which you enjoy here, would more than compensate for all the fleeting unreal pleasures of the world, without even the gratification of those holy thoughts that first call you to this retirement?"

"There are many who feel it so, my son, and I among them," answered the old man; "but yet, do not suppose that human nature can ever purify itself entirely of earthly feelings. Hopes, wishes, and necessities produce passions even here: pettier, it is true, because the sphere is pettier. But, depend upon it, no society can ever be so constructed as to eradicate the evil propensities of man's nature, or even their influence, without entirely circumscribing his communion with his fellows. He must be changed, or solitary: must have no objects to excite, or no passions to be excited: he must be a hermit or a corpse; have a desert or the grave."

"'Tis a bad account of human nature," said the knight. "I had fancied that such feelings as you speak of were unknown here: that, at all events, religious sentiments would correct and overcome them."

"They do correct, my son, though they cannot overcome them," said the monk. "I spoke of monastic life merely as a human institution; and even in that respect we are likely to meet with more tranquillity within such walls as these than perhaps anywhere else, because the persons who adopt such a state from choice are generally those of a calm and placid disposition, and religion easily effects the rest. But there are others, driven by disappointment, by satiety, by caprice, by fear, by remorse, by even pride; and urged by bad feelings from the first, those bad feelings accompany them still, and act as a leaven amongst those with whom they are thus forced to consort. Even when it is but sorrow that, weaning from worldly pleasure, brings a brother here, often the sorrow leaves him, and the taste for the world returns, when an irrevocable vow has torn him from it for ever; or else, if his grief lasts, it becomes a black and brooding melancholy, as different from true religion as even the mad gaiety of the thoughtless crowd. There was a youth here, not long ago, who was wont to call the matin bell the knell of broken hearts. Others, again, circumscribed in the range of their feelings, become irascible from the very restraint, and vent their irritability on all around them."

"But example in the superior does much," said the knight; "and I have heard that your lord abbot----"

"Whether you are about to praise or blame," said the monk, "stop! I am the abbot. If it were praise you were about to speak I could not hear it silently; if 'twere blame, I would fain save you the pain of uttering to my own ears what many doubtless say behind my back."

"Indeed, my lord abbot," answered the knight, "I had nothing to speak but praise; and had it been blame, I would sooner have said it to yourself than to one of your monks. But to the business which brings me hither. His grace the Duke of Buckingham, by this letter, commends him to your lordship; and knowing that I purpose journeying to the court, he has desired me to conduct, and protect with my best power, a young lady, whose name I forget, till I have rendered her safely to her royal mistress, Queen Katherine."

"I thank you for the trouble you have already taken, my son. We will in to the scriptorium," said the abbot; "and when I have perused his grace's letter, will have the lady informed that you are here."

Although that art was rapidly advancing which soon after entirely superseded the necessity of manual transcription for multiplying books, yet the scriptorium, or copying-room, was still not only to be found, but was also still employed for its original purpose, in almost every abbey or monastery of consequence. In that of the Benedictines of Wilsbourne, it was a large oblong chamber, vaulted with low Gothic arches, and divided into various small compartments by skreens of carved oak. Each of these possessed its table and writing apparatus; and in more than one, when Sir Osborne entered, was to be seen a monk copying some borrowed manuscript for the use of the abbey. The approach of the abbot, whose manners seemed to possess a great deal of primeval simplicity, did not in the least derange the copyists in their occupation; and it is probable that, when unengaged in the immediate ministry of his office, he did not exact that ceremonious reverence to which the mitred abbot was by rank entitled.