Mediæval London, Volume 2: Ecclesiastical

by Walter Besant

The anchorite’s cell was not always of the same shape or form. Sometimes it was partly or wholly underground; sometimes a grated window communicated with the outside and enabled the occupier to see and to be seen; sometimes the grated window was too high for the anchorite to see his visitors or to be seen by them. In the nunnery of Marmoustin at Tours there was an anchorite’s cell in which the occupant was totally secluded; at Royston there was a subterranean cell to which there was an approach from the outside and an opening on the top. The approach was probably blocked up when the recluse entered the cell and all communications were through the upper opening. At Bengeo, Herts. (see Appendix VII.), the anchorite’s cell consisted of a wooden hut placed against the north-east end of the chancel. It was eight feet long and six feet high; there was a recess in the wall for the anchorite’s bed and seat; there was an entrance into the church; perhaps the anchorite was a chantry priest.

ALL HALLOWS, LONDON WALL

Sometimes there were two ankresses living in the churchyard, but not in the same cell. Henry the Fourth before his accession to the throne endowed an anchorite’s cell in a village of Lancashire. The ankress very often took care of the church and kept it clean. As regards London, the bequests to anchorites are numerous. We read of ankresses at St. Michael’s and St. Giles, Cornhill; at St. Giles, St. Benedict, and St. Mary Manny, we read of a lady getting so many square feet of ground for the purpose of building an anchorite’s cell; we read of anchorites at St. Albans, St. Giles, and Westminster Abbey.

One of the earliest Old English works is the Ancren Reiwle or Rule for Anchorites. It was written for three ladies who had resolved upon adopting the recluse life in a village in Dorsetshire. The author is doubtful. It was perhaps Richard Poor, Bishop successively of Chichester, Salisbury, and Durham, in which case it is older than 1237, the year of Richard Poor’s death; or else by Simon of Ghent, a native of London, Archdeacon of Oxford, 1284, Bishop of Salisbury, 1297. He died in 1315. The dates are of importance, because the recluse life would not seem to have become common before the middle of the thirteenth century, and it would further seem to have fallen into disuse by the end of the fourteenth century. The work itself seems to show that these ladies were adopting a new thing, or at least an unusual thing.

During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, however, we must remember that in every Monastic House, and in most churches, the cell of the anchorite was built against the chancel wall with an opening to allow the occupant to “see God,” i.e. to witness the elevation of the mass every day; that at all hours of the day and night were to be heard the prayers, the praises, the ejaculations, the groans of the man or woman thus buried alive.

It is difficult to understand the attraction of such a life. Probably the very horror of it attracted some minds. To be alone day and night so long as life should last, to pray continually, never to enjoy one single comfort or solace or relief from physical pain, to be always cold, always hungry, always clad in rags, always unkempt and unwashed, to have to battle every night with superstitious terrors and the invention of an excited imagination, to dwell perpetually on images of death, these things make the life so terrible that the mere merit of choosing it appeared extraordinary; the Gates of Heaven would surely be thrown open to one who had passed years of such endurance and such combat.

Picture to yourself such an anchorite. He rises slowly from his knees; his limbs are full of rheumatic pains; he straightens himself with difficulty; he advances to the grating and looks through the bars. He is a gaunt tall man, as thin as living man can be; he is clad in rags; his hair flows over his shoulders; his beard falls down to his waist; his cheeks are hollow; his shrunken eyes are like coals of fire. He prays for the Church and all the souls of those who belong to the Church, that is to say, the dead as well as the living. Great are the blessings conferred on a parish by the prayers of an anchorite! He prays all day and all night; while others sleep the anchorite is offering continual supplication. He is racked with pains; he is always cold, always hungry, always unwashed; yet he is not unhappy. He is supported by Faith undoubting; and he has consolations and compensations. The Virgin Mary sends him angels who sing carols for him alone to hear; they are a foretaste of the singing in Heaven; he is allowed even to see the gates of Heaven standing open and the blessed saints sitting on their thrones exactly like the barons at a coronation. And he is visited by devils who are always beaten back and are always returning with fresh whispers and fresh temptations. Sweet are the joys of battle! He wrestles nightly with the Fiend, and every night sends him out of the barred window screeching with rage and disappointment. Oh, the anchorite is a happy man! And sometimes he is blessed with the gift of prophecy: he knows what is coming: in the morning he remembers his vision, and perhaps the very words are taken down and preserved. He is also, if he chooses, the parish oracle: he is asked to advise on all subjects, for there is no subject into which religion cannot enter. Merchants consult him about their ventures; women about their love affairs; princes about their policy. See, there is a girl tripping over the long grass: she bears a basket; it contains a gift of food for the anchorite, such simple food as he will receive; and she comes with heightened colour because she is going to ask a question of a most delicate nature concerning a young man. In some churchyards, where the anchorite is good-humoured and popular, or where there is an ankress, the grating of a cell has been known to become a place of resort; it is said that scandals and mischievous gossip were sometimes first started outside the ankress’ cell; all the women went there to talk of what was going on in the parish; the cell became a nuisance; the parish priest spoke about it; the Bishop heard of it.

Think of the effect upon the imagination produced outside by the mere voice of the unseen solitary who, as long as he lived, would never change his clothes, nor wash himself, nor cut his hair or beard, nor look upon the face of other men, nor see the sunshine and the blue sky, nor look for any physical comfort or solace so long as life should endure. They knew he was there; they came and spoke to him; the hollow voice came out of the grave in reply; they lowered food; one day they came and heard no voice in reply; they removed the stones and looked in. God had summoned the man of long endurance; who would take his place?