It was thought by many then, as by many now, that a “regular” life, led under strict rule, with self-denial and in retirement from the world, helped men and women to attain nearer to the example of Christ than could otherwise be hoped. The rule of St Benedict was by no means so ascetic as those of some of the other orders. It was introduced into England by Augustine in 597. Then—dealing only with those whom once we should have met often in Canterbury—there were the Dominicans, or Black Friars, so called on account of the black cloak and hood which they wore over their white tunic when they went out of the bounds of their houses; they were a preaching brotherhood, their work in life being to convert the heathen and the heretical; they crossed over to this island in 1221. The Franciscans, or Grey Friars, also called Minorites, in their humility holding themselves the least of all the orders. The Augustinian, Austin, or Black Canons, a monastic order, whose first foundation in this country was at Holy Trinity, Aldgate. The Austin Friars, the shadow of whose presence lingers familiarly in London ears, were ranked as “mendicants.”
Though there were considerable differences between the different “rules,” the life and occupations of monks of different orders were, on the whole, not dissimilar. So let us turn back again to the priory of Christ Church and endeavour to restore in our mind’s eye some of the monastic buildings that centred round the Cathedral, and the ways and manners and aims of those who dwelt therein. Once for all let us abandon the too common idea that the “religious” led an existence of laziness, and frequently of over-indulgence in the good things of the world from which to so great an extent they had taken a vow of abstinence.
Of the church we have already written sufficient. The building of next importance was always the cloisters, which usually stood to the south of the church, so securing a shelter from cold winds—necessary, indeed, in our climate. Here let us turn aside for a moment; recall, such of us as can do so, Magdalen College, Oxford, with its chapel, cloisters, hall, and buttery, then we can conjure up at once a general idea of a great monastic establishment. Returning to Canterbury, we find the cloisters nestling on the north side of the church, so situate on account of pressing reasons of space. After the church, after opus dei, the life of a monk may be said to have centred in the cloister. Here the novices and junior monks “learned their lessons,” which were many and arduous; here the elders put those lessons into daily practice. It cannot have been a sybaritic life; far from it. Then the refectory, or frater, which at Canterbury ran along the north side of the cloisters—and here again we may well recall one of the old college halls, or that beautiful hall of the Middle Temple; the dim beams of the great roof, the dark wainscotting, the screen at the lower end, the daïs at the upper, the long tables running lengthwise; and—what we do not, luckily, see now—the floor strewn with rushes, only too seldom changed. Opening off the cloisters, generally on the east side, the chapter house. The dormitories at Canterbury were situated in the angle formed by the frater and the chapter house. Other buildings of importance were the infirmary,
the prior’s lodging, the almonry, and ample accommodation for the entertaining of guests.
So that we may not gain too rosy a view of monastic hospitality, let us turn to an account of it given by one of the ungodly, Denys of Burgundy, who had no such stomach for monkish entertainment as had his comrade Gerard. This was his indictment: “Great gate, little gate, so many steps and then a gloomy cloister. Here the dortour; there the great cold refectory, where you must sit mumchance, or at least inaudible.... ‘And then,’ said he, ‘nobody is a man here, but all are slaves—and of what? of a peevish, tinkling bell that never sleeps. An ’twere a trumpet now, aye sounding alarums, ’twouldn’t freeze a man’s heart so. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, and you must sit to meat with maybe no stomach for food. Ere your meat settles in your stomach, tinkle, tinkle, and ye must to church with maybe no stomach for devotion; I am not a hog at prayers, for one. Tinkle, tinkle, and now you must to bed with your eyes open. Well, by then you have contrived to shut them, some uneasy imp of darkness has got to the bellrope, and tinkle, tinkle, it behoves you say a prayer in the dark, whether you know one or not. If they heard the sort of prayers I mutter when they break my rest with their tinkle! Well, you drop off again and get about an eyeful of sleep; lo, it is tinkle, tinkle, for matins.’”