The day before the king died, he dreamed that he was let blood by a surgeon; and that the stream, reaching to heaven, clouded the light, and intercepted the day. Calling on St. Mary for protection, he suddenly awoke, commanded a light to be brought, and forbade his attendants to leave him. They then watched with him several hours until daylight. Shortly after, just as the day began to dawn, a certain foreign monk told Robert Fitz Hamon, one of the principal nobility, that he had that night dreamed a strange and fearful dream about the king: “That he had come into a certain church, with menacing and insolent gesture, as was his custom, looking contemptuously on the standers by; then violently seizing the crucifix, he gnawed the arms, and almost tore away the legs: that the image endured this for a long time, but at length struck the king with its foot in such a manner that he fell backwards: from his mouth, as he lay prostrate, issued so copious a flame that the volumes of smoke touched the very stars.” Robert, thinking that this dream ought not to be neglected, as he was intimate with him, immediately related it to the king. William, repeatedly laughing, exclaimed, “He is a monk, and dreams for money like a monk: give him a hundred shillings.” Nevertheless, being greatly moved, he hesitated a long while whether he should go out to hunt, as he had designed: his friends persuading him not to suffer the truth of the dreams to be tried at his personal risk. In consequence, he abstained from the chase before dinner, dispelling the uneasiness of his unregulated mind by serious business. They relate, that, having plentifully regaled that day, he soothed his cares with a more than usual quantity of wine. After dinner he went into the forest, attended by few persons; of whom the most intimate with him was Walter, surnamed Tirel, who had been induced to come from France by the liberality of the king. This man alone had remained with him, while the others, employed in the chase, were dispersed as chance directed. The sun was now declining, when the king, drawing his bow and letting fly an arrow, slightly wounded a stag which passed before him; and, keenly gazing, followed it, still running, a long time with his eyes, holding up his hand to keep off the power of the sun’s rays. At this instant Walter, conceiving a noble exploit, which was while the king’s attention was otherwise occupied to transfix another stag which by chance came near him, unknowingly, and without power to prevent it, Oh, gracious God! pierced his breast with a fatal arrow.[359] On receiving the wound, the king uttered not a word; but breaking off the shaft of the weapon where it projected from his body, fell upon the wound, by which he accelerated his death. Walter immediately ran up, but as he found him senseless and speechless, he leaped swiftly upon his horse, and escaped by spurring him to his utmost speed. Indeed there was none to pursue him: some connived at his flight; others pitied him; and all were intent on other matters. Some began to fortify their dwellings; others to plunder; and the rest to look out for a new king. A few countrymen conveyed the body, placed on a cart, to the cathedral at Winchester; the blood dripping from it all the way. Here it was committed to the ground within the tower, attended by many of the nobility, though lamented by few. Next year,[360] the tower fell; though I forbear to mention the different opinions on this subject, lest I should seem to assent too readily to unsupported trifles, more especially as the building might have fallen, through imperfect construction, even though he had never been buried there. He died in the year of our Lord’s incarnation 1100, of his reign the thirteenth, on the fourth before the nones of August, aged above forty years. He formed mighty plans, which he would have brought to effect, could he have spun out the tissue of fate, or broken through, and disengaged himself from, the violence of fortune. Such was the energy of his mind, that he was bold enough to promise himself any kingdom whatever. Indeed the day before his death, being asked where he would keep his Christmas, he answered, in Poitou; because the earl of Poitou, wishing anxiously to go to Jerusalem, was said to be about to pawn his territory to him. Thus, not content with his paternal possessions, and allured by expectation of greater glory, he grasped at honours not pertaining to him. He was a man much to be pitied by the clergy, for throwing away a soul which they could not save; to be beloved by stipendiary soldiers, for the multitude of his gifts; but not to be lamented by the people, because he suffered their substance to be plundered. I remember no council being held in his time, wherein the health of the church might be strengthened through the correction of abuses. He hesitated a long time ere he bestowed ecclesiastical honours, either for the sake of emolument, or of weighing desert. So that on the day he died, he held in his own hands three bishoprics, and twelve vacant abbeys. Besides, seeking occasion from the schism between Urban in Rome and Guibert at Ravenna, he forbade the payment of the tribute[361] to the holy see: though he was more inclined to favour Guibert; because the ground and instigation of the discord between himself and Anselm was, that this man, so dear to God, had pronounced Urban to be pope, the other an apostate.
[A.D. 1100.] OF THE CISTERTIAN ORDER.
In his time began the Cistertian order, which is now both believed and asserted to be the surest road to heaven.[362] To speak of this does not seem irrelevant to the work I have undertaken, since it redounds to the glory of England to have produced the distinguished man who was the author and promoter of that rule. To us he belonged, and in our schools passed the earlier part of his life. Wherefore, if we are not envious, we shall embrace his good qualities the more kindly in proportion as we knew them more intimately. And, moreover, I am anxious to extol his praise, “because it is a mark of an ingenuous mind to approve that virtue in others, of which in yourself you regret the absence.” He was named Harding, and born in England of no very illustrious parents. From his early years, he was a monk at Sherborne; but when secular desires had captivated his youth, he grew disgusted with the monastic garb, and went first to Scotland, and afterwards to France. Here, after some years’ exercise in the liberal arts, he became awakened to the love of God. For, when manlier years had put away childish things, he went to Rome with a clerk who partook of his studies; neither the length and difficulty of the journey, nor the scantiness of their means of subsistence by the way, preventing them, both as they went and returned, from singing daily the whole psalter. Indeed the mind of this celebrated man was already meditating the design which soon after, by the grace of God, he attempted to put in execution. For returning into Burgundy, he was shorn at Molesmes, a new and magnificent monastery. Here he readily admitted the first elements of the order, as he had formerly seen them; but when additional matters were proposed for his observance, such as he had neither read in the rule nor seen elsewhere, he began, modestly and as became a monk, to ask the reason of them, saying: “By reason the supreme Creator has made all things; by reason he governs all things; by reason the fabric of the world revolves; by reason even the planets move; by reason the elements are directed; and by reason, and by due regulation, our nature ought to conduct itself. But since, through sloth, she too often departs from reason, many laws were, long ago, enacted for her use; and, latterly, a divine rule has been promulgated by St. Benedict, to bring back the deviations of nature to reason. In this, though some things are contained the design of which I cannot fathom, yet I deem it necessary to yield to authority. And though reason and the authority of the holy writers may seem at variance, yet still they are one and the same. For since God hath created and restored nothing without reason, how can I believe that the holy fathers, no doubt strict followers of God, could command anything but what was reasonable, as if we ought to give credit to their bare authority. See then that you bring reason, or at least authority, for what you devise; although no great credit should be given to what is merely supported by human reason, because it may be combated with arguments equally forcible. Therefore from that rule, which, equally supported by reason and authority, appears as if dictated by the spirit of all just persons, produce precedents, which if you fail to do, in vain shall you profess his rule, whose regulations you disdain to comply with.”
Sentiments of this kind, spreading as usual from one to another, justly moved the hearts of such as feared God, “lest haply they should or had run in vain.” The subject, then, being canvassed in frequent chapters, ended by bringing over the abbat himself to the opinion that all superfluous matters should be passed by, and merely the essence of the rule be scrutinized. Two of the fraternity, therefore, of equal faith and learning, were elected, who, by vicarious examination, were to discover the intention of the founder’s rule; and when they had discovered it, to propound it to the rest. The abbat diligently endeavoured to induce the whole convent to give their concurrence, but “as it is difficult to eradicate from men’s minds, what has early taken root, since they reluctantly relinquish the first notions they have imbibed,” almost the whole of them refused to accept the new regulations, because they were attached to the old. Eighteen only, among whom was Harding, otherwise called Stephen, persevering in their holy determination, together with their abbat, left the monastery, declaring that the purity of the institution could not be preserved in a place where riches and gluttony warred against even the heart that was well inclined. They came therefore to Citeaux; a situation formerly covered with woods, but now so conspicuous from the abundant piety of its monks, that it is not undeservedly esteemed conscious of the Divinity himself. Here, by the countenance of the archbishop of Vienne, who is now pope, they entered on a labour worthy to be remembered and venerated to the end of time.
Certainly many of their regulations seem severe, and more particularly these: they wear nothing made with furs or linen, nor even that finely spun linen garment, which we call Staminium;[363] neither breeches, unless when sent on a journey, which at their return they wash and restore. They have two tunics with cowls, but no additional garment in winter, though, if they think fit, in summer they may lighten their garb. They sleep clad and girded, and never after matins return to their beds: but they so order the time of matins that it shall be light ere the lauds[364] begin; so intent are they on their rule, that they think no jot or tittle of it should be disregarded. Directly after these hymns they sing the prime, after which they go out to work for stated hours. They complete whatever labour or service they have to perform by day without any other light. No one is ever absent from the daily services, or from complines, except the sick. The cellarer and hospitaller, after complines, wait upon the guests, yet observing the strictest silence. The abbat allows himself no indulgence beyond the others,—every where present,—every where attending to his flock; except that he does not eat with the rest, because his table is with the strangers and the poor. Nevertheless, be he where he may, he is equally sparing of food and of speech; for never more than two dishes are served either to him or to his company; lard and meat never but to the sick. From the Ides of September till Easter, through regard for whatever festival, they do not take more than one meal a day, except on Sunday. They never leave the cloister but for the purpose of labour, nor do they ever speak, either there or elsewhere, save only to the abbat or prior. They pay unwearied attention to the canonical[365] services, making no addition to them except the vigil for the defunct. They use in their divine service the Ambrosian chants[366] and hymns, as far as they were able to learn them at Milan. While they bestow care on the stranger and the sick, they inflict intolerable mortifications on their own bodies, for the health of their souls.
The abbat, at first, both encountered these privations with much alacrity himself, and compelled the rest to do the same. In process of time, however, the man repented;[367] he had been delicately brought up, and could not well bear such continued scantiness of diet. The monks, whom he had left at Molesmes, getting scent of this disposition, either by messages or letters, for it is uncertain which, drew him back to the monastery, by his obedience to the pope, for such was their pretext: compelling him to a measure to which he was already extremely well-disposed. For, as if wearied out by the pertinacity of their entreaties, he left the narrow confines of poverty, and resought his former magnificence. All followed him from Citeaux, who had gone thither with him, except eight. These, few in number but great in virtue, appointed Alberic, one of their party, abbat, and Stephen prior. The former not surviving more than eight years was, at the will of heaven, happily called away. Then, doubtless by God’s appointment, Stephen though absent was elected abbat; the original contriver of the whole scheme; the especial and celebrated ornament of our times. Sixteen abbeys which he has already completed, and seven which he has begun, are sufficient testimonies of his abundant merit. Thus, by the resounding trumpet of God, he directs the people around him, both by word and deed, to heaven; acting fully up to his own precepts; affable in speech, pleasant in look, and with a mind always rejoicing in the Lord. Hence, openly, that noble joy of countenance; hence, secretly, that compunction, coming from above; because, despising this state of a sojourner, he constantly desires to be in a place of rest. For these causes he is beloved by all; “For God graciously imparts to the minds of other men a love for that man whom he loves.” Wherefore the inhabitant of that country esteems himself happy if, through his hands, he can transmit his wealth to God. He receives much, indeed, but expending little on his own wants, or those of his flock, he distributes the rest to the poor, or employs it immediately on the building of monasteries; for the purse of Stephen is the public treasury of the indigent. A proof of his abstinence is that you see nothing there, as in other monasteries, flaming with gold, blazing with jewels, or glittering with silver. For as a Gentile says, “Of what use is gold to a saint?” We think it not enough in our holy vases, unless the ponderous metal be eclipsed by precious stones; by the flame of the topaz, the violet of the amethyst, and the green shade of the emerald: unless the sacerdotal robes wanton with gold; and unless the walls glisten with various coloured paintings, and throw the reflexion of the sun’s rays upon the ceiling. These men, however, placing those things which mortals foolishly esteem the first, only in a secondary point of view, give all their diligence to improve their morals, and love pure minds, more than glittering vestments; knowing that the best remuneration for doing well, is to enjoy a clear conscience. Moreover, if at any time the laudable kindness of the abbat either desires, or feigns a desire, to modify aught from the strict letter of the rule, they are ready to oppose such indulgence, saying, that they have no long time to live, nor shall they continue to exist so long as they have already done; that they hope to remain stedfast in their purpose to the end, and to be an example to their successors, who will transgress if they should give way. And, indeed, through human weakness, the perpetual law of which is that nothing attained, even by the greatest labour, can long remain unchanged, it will be so. But to comprise, briefly, all things which are or can be said of them,—the Cistertian monks at the present day are a model for all monks, a mirror for the diligent, a spur to the indolent.
[A.D. 1100.] HERBERT, BISHOP OF NORWICH.
At this time three sees in England were transferred from their ancient situations; Wells to Bath, by John; Chester to Coventry, by Robert; Thetford to Norwich, by Herbert; all through greater ambition, than ought to have influenced men of such eminence. Finally, to speak of the last first: Herbert, from his skill in adulation, surnamed Losinga,[368] was first abbat of Ramsey, and then purchased the bishopric of Thetford, while his father, Robert, surnamed as himself, was intruded on the abbey of Winchester. This man, then, was the great source of simony in England; having craftily procured by means of his wealth, both an abbey and a bishopric. For he hood-winked the king’s solicitude for the church by his money, and whispered great promises to secure the favour of the nobility: whence a poet of those times admirably observes,
“A monster in the church from Losing rose,
Base Simon’s sect, the canons to oppose.
Peter, thou’rt slow; see Simon soars on high;
If present, soon thou’d’st hurl him from the sky.[369]
Oh grief, the church is let to sordid hire,
The son a bishop, abbat is the sire.
All may be hoped from gold’s prevailing sway,
Which governs all things; gives and takes away;
Makes bishops, abbats, basely in a day.”
Future repentance, however, atoned for the errors of his youth: he went to Rome, when he was of a more serious age, and there resigning the staff and ring which he had acquired by simony, had them restored through the indulgence of that most merciful see; for the Romans regard it both as more holy and more fitting, that the dues from each church should rather come into their own purse, than be subservient to the use of any king whatever. Herbert thus returning home, removed the episcopal see, which had formerly been at Helmham, and was then at Thetford, to a town, celebrated for its trade and populousness, called Norwich. Here he settled a congregation of monks, famous for their numbers and their morals; purchasing everything for them out of his private fortune. For, having an eye to the probable complaints of his successors, he gave none of the episcopal lands to the monastery, lest they should deprive the servants of God of their subsistence, if they found any thing given to them which pertained to their see. At Thetford, too, he settled Clugniac monks, because the members of that order, dispersed throughout the world, are rich in worldly possessions, and of distinguished piety towards God. Thus, by the great and extensive merit of his virtues, he shrouded the multitude of his former failings; and by his abundant eloquence and learning, as well as by his knowledge in secular affairs, he became worthy even of the Roman pontificate. Herbert thus changed, as Lucan observes of Curio, became the changer and mover of all things; and, as in the times of this king, he had been a pleader in behalf of simony, so was he, afterwards, its most strenuous opposer; nor did he suffer that to be done by others, which he lamented he had ever himself done through the presumption of juvenile ardour: ever having in his mouth, as they relate, the saying of St. Jerome, “We have erred when young; let us amend now we are old.” Finally, who can sufficiently extol his conduct, who, though not a very rich bishop, yet built so noble a monastery; in which nothing appears defective, either in the beauty of the lofty edifice, the elegance of its ornaments, or in the piety and universal charity of its monks. These things soothed him with joyful hope while he lived, and when dead, if repentance be not in vain, conducted him to heaven.[370]