I said, above, that for a hundred years there were anchorites attached to most churches. My reason for assigning this period is that the London citizens began to bequeath property to anchorites in the middle of the fourteenth century, in the year 1341, and left off the practice at the same time as they left off bequeathing property to the Friars about the year 1400. For sixty years there was a general formula with all those who had property to leave. They bequeathed small sums to their own parish church, to all the five orders of friars, to every anchorite in London, or to every anchorite, man or woman, in and about the City of London, to every hermit in London, to every leper in London, to every poor prisoner in London. The reason why the fashion of giving bequests to the maintenance of solitaries began so late and ended so quickly was, I suppose, that the practice of building anchorites’ cells became more common in the fourteenth century than it had been in former times; that men clutched at every chance of getting prayers as well as masses for their souls; that the appearance of so many newly built cells struck their imagination; that they thought the prayers of a holy anchorite must be of great efficacy inasmuch as the man not only led a saintly life but endured continual sufferings. In the same way they left money to lepers and to prisoners in order to obtain their prayers.

And the reason why the fashion of bequeathing money to anchorites suddenly ceased was that by the end of the fourteenth century the mind of London was saturated with that part of Lollardy which scoffed at hermits, friars, and monks. At the time when the House of Commons was petitioning the King to suppress all Religious Houses of every kind, the rich men of the City left off, as if by common consent, as if by a kind of conspiracy or secret resolution, the bequeathing of money to friars, hermits, and anchorites. A broad black line is drawn. No more money shall be left to these people. It would be interesting, if it were possible, to learn what became of the anchorites and the hermits. Some of them, no doubt, survived till the Reformation. Can we imagine, with the Dissolution of the Monastery, the suppression of the Anchorite? Can we imagine the old man, with his grey hair, his beard flowing to his waist, scarcely clad decently in the rags which he has worn for fifty years, with sunken cheeks and haggard face and wild eyes blinking at the light, and wondering why after so many years he is dragged out once more into the sunshine and the sight of his fellow-men?

[CHAPTER V]
PILGRIMAGE

Pilgrimage, never so great a craze in London as in the country, or in England as in France, plays an important part in the mediæval life. The earliest pilgrimage was, of course, to the Holy Places of Jerusalem: it began in the second century with a journey to the site of the Ascension. The other sites multiplied with the increase of pilgrims and the demand for sites and sacred relics and associations. The desire to go pilgrimaging grew and spread with great rapidity among all classes. In the century before the Crusades the roads to Palestine were black with swarms of pilgrims: we have the history of many early pilgrimages, including that written down by the Abbot Adamnanus of Scotland from the lips of the shipwrecked pilgrim Arnulfus, and that of Willibald the English pilgrim who started with his father and sister Walfunga, his brother Wunibald, and a large party of followers and servants: in Italy the father died and the brother and sister went home: Willibald persevered and reached Jerusalem safely.

It is easy to understand why the pilgrimage attracted so many. It was full of adventure and of danger. On the other hand, it was greatly meritorious: if one was killed on a pilgrimage, the doors of heaven were thrown open: if one returned in safety the term of purgatory was shortened. Then the pilgrim got away from his work: he had nothing to do but to plod on: he wanted no money: every day brought him to some hospitable monastery where he found supper, bed, and breakfast: he made new acquaintances and new friends perpetually: the way was enlivened by talk, and by casual potations: in the evening there was sometimes revelry at an inn, with wine or ale and music and dancing and the shows of the jogleurs. Who would not exchange the dull and tedious life in the country for a time of such varied experience and entertainment?

The practice quickly became an abuse. The peasant deserted his plough, his wife, and his children, to go pilgrimaging. The craftsman left his bench and his shop, in search of adventures as a pilgrim: even the monk left his monastery to wander out into the world, sometimes never to come back again: sometimes he did come back, with the confession of broken vows. The Church, therefore, interfered. No one must go on pilgrimage without the Bishop’s license. This granted, the pilgrim was solemnly invested with the scrip and staff, and the long woollen robe which formed the chief part of his dress. The parish priest with his friends accompanied him to the boundaries of his parish and he set forth, armed with the Bishop’s license and a passport which procured him hospitality in all Christian countries.

“In the name of God,” ran the commendatory letter, “we would have your highness or holiness to know that the bearer of the present letters, our brother, has asked our permission to go peaceably on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, either for his own sins, or to pray for our preservation. Thereupon, we have given him these present letters, in which we salute you, and pray you, for the love of God and Saint Peter, to receive him as your guest, to be useful to him in going and coming back, so that he may return in safety to his house: and as is your good custom, make him pass happy days. May God the Eternal King protect you, and keep you in His kingdom!”

The Church did more than bless the pilgrim: it celebrated in one of those dramas by which so much was taught, the act of pilgrimage itself, in a service which has been preserved. The following is an abridgment:—

“In the nave of the church was erected a fort, ‘castellum,’ representing the house at Emmaus where the two travellers entered and broke bread with Christ. At the appointed time two priests, ‘of the second seats,’ appointed for the day, came forth from the vestry singing the hymn which begins ‘Jesu, nostra redemptio.’ They were to be dressed in tunics, ‘et desuper cappis transversum,’ were to have long flowing hair and beards, and were each to carry a staff and scrip. Singing this hymn, and slowly marching down the right aisle, they came to the western porch, where they put themselves at the head of the procession of choristers waiting for them, and all began together to sing, ‘Nos tuo vultu saties.’ Then the priest for the day, robed in alb and surplice, bare-footed, carrying a cross on his right shoulder, advanced to meet them, and ‘standing suddenly before them,’ asked, ‘What manner of communications are these that ye have one to another as ye talk and are sad?’ To which the two pilgrims replied, ‘Art thou a stranger in Jerusalem, and hast not known the things which are come to pass there in these days?’