Part 10

When folk come into Roodborough for the market ’tis easy to tell the Blewberry people from all other. For these, when they will take oath in their talk, say ‘By blessed Peter,’ or ‘By Saint Thomas of Canterbury,’ or ‘By Saint George,’ but folk from Blewberry swear never but by Saint Simon, and this Saint Simon is not the Holy Apostle whose festival we keep with Saint Jude’s in the month of October, but is indeed a Blewberry Saint born and bred.

Like many other holy men, Saint Simon of Blewberry was of lowly and obscure birth. Of his parentage little certain is known. Some say that his father was a man-at-arms broken in the French wars, others a wandering tumbler and rope dancer, and others again one Rutterkin, a travelling scribe. Lo, did not five cities of Greece contend to be accounted the birthplace of Dan Homer, that great and famous Greekish poet? Among so many claimants I may not any more decide who was the father of the Holy Simon. Certainly, however, his mother was the daughter of a poor villein of Sir Robert of Blewberry, a woman much noted in her younger days for the sin of gadding and haunting alehouses. In her latter years, however, it was granted to her to repent and, when she was somewhat past her prime, she entered into wedlock with one Walter Thinshanks, an aged villein of some threescore winters.

Simon’s infancy and boyhood were marked by no signs of the grace and piety which distinguished his maturer years. Him indeed in his green days Satan seems to have especially tempted and tried, and full seldom, as he himself was accustomed afterwards to relate, did he escape the snare of the fowler. Chiefly at this time was he filled with carnal desires for dainty food, and to satisfy these ravenous lusts he was wont to steal meat and pies even from the neighbours’ ovens, to rob the Parson’s orchard of pears and apples while they were yet unripe, and to kill and devour in secret such pullets and tender fowls as he could come at. When he was accused of any such sins he would lie remorselessly to save himself from deserved chastisement, saying secretly, ‘Better a soft answer than a sore breech,’ and so deft was he with his tongue, that his tender boy’s flesh usually escaped correction at the expense of his immortal soul. He was a stout lad of his body and a lusty and a great quarreller, so that he was ceaselessly embroiled with the other lads of the village, and generally by reason of his uncommon physical strength had the victory. Folk noted him as a rare companion of wenches at a somewhat premature age, and there were not to lack (and among them observant and sagacious men) who prophesied that his end would be sudden, and neither on the earth nor in the water.

But even while they spoke thus, honestly misled by appearances, the spirit of inward grace was stirring in the bosom of the young man, and though now he hid his light under a bushel, it was soon to shine forth with glorious radiance before the eyes of men. Yet such was the jealous humility with which he veiled the true piety of his disposition, that perhaps it had never been brought to light, nay, not during the whole course of his life, had it not been for a chance so happy and unexpected as to more than smack of God’s Providence. It fell out in this way.

One Holy Day Master Parson was officiating at Mass, and at the solemn moment when he says ‘Hoc est Corpus’ a loud burst of laughter interrupted him. Casting his eyes towards whence it came, he spied Simon seated between two fat wenches and laughing as though his sides would burst. Whereupon Master Parson closed his lips on that very blessed word ‘Corpus,’ and would not proceed with the Sacrament until Simon had ceased. After Mass was finished he had Simon sent for and brought to him in the vestry.

Master Parson was a very devout man and a charitable, although somewhat simple, and was much loved therefore on all sides in the village. So Simon came without fear and stood before him cap in hand, humbly and gravely. The Parson gazing upon and noting his bowed head, downcast eyes and clasped hands, thought there was no more godly-looking young fellow in the whole village, and marvelled that the Lord should fashion so deceptively a church-brawler and a ribald.

‘Thou profane knave,’ quoth he, ‘how was it thou didst belch forth such a loud guffaw in the midst of the Blessed Sacrament?’

‘“Belch”? “Guffaw”?’ said the young man in meek surprise. ‘Good Sir John, I wot full well I had laughed, but methinks it had not been so loud.’

‘“Loud?”’ quoth Sir John. ‘“_Loud?_” ’Twas loud enough to set the steeple tumbling about our ears. If it had been a common vulgar laugh, it might have been pardoned, but a guffaw like a thunder-clap, why boy, ’tis an outrage, ’tis rank blasphemy!’

‘Then I humbly and unfeignedly beseech pardon, good Sir John,’ said Simon in a gentle and subdued voice.

‘This shall not serve thy turn,’ cried Master Parson wrathfully, for he weened Simon played the hypocrite. ‘I will know what it was that made thee laugh like the Bull of Bashan in the middle of my Latinity. Why sattest thyself down between those fat and wanton wenches?’

‘Fat and wanton wenches? “wenches,” Sir John?’ repeated Simon in great wonderment.

‘Yea, fat wenches, two fat wenches, wenches fat as Flanders mares, dost understand English?’

‘If thou sayest so, Sir John, then indeed I must have sat between two fat wenches. But my mind was so on the matter of my devotion that I wot not of it.’

The pious Simon spoke in so quiet and humble a tone, and with such a grave face, that Master Parson was struck all of a heap. He bethought himself that he must have erred in his judgment of the young man, who stood so meekly and transparently sincere before him.

‘Come now,’ quoth he, ‘tell me why thou didst laugh. Happen thou hadst some reason that may excuse thee somewhat.’

‘Dost thou command me to speak, good Sir John, for I had lief not for humility’s sake.’

‘“Humility’s sake?” I do indeed command thee to speak.’

‘Then,’ said Simon, ‘I will tell thee why I laughed, but, good Sir John, thou wilt bear witness for me if ever in the future question be made, that I told thee against my will and at thy express command?’

‘Yea,’ quoth Sir John, much mystified, ‘I will bear witness.’

‘Thou didst notice who sat on either side of me, Sir John, the which I omitted, but didst thou also note the gossips who sat on the bench before me?’

‘Nay, yea--one was the Bailey’s wife and the other--the Saints bless me--the other----’

‘The other was the Miller’s.’

‘Yea, yea.’

‘They are the two most notorious gossips in the town, good Sir John, as thou knowest full well. Their tongues drop adders and vipers, their mouths are full of backbiting and scandal, so that there is no man or woman in this town, wed or unwed, but hath suffered from their malice and slander. Even of thyself, good father, I have heard them say full often that----’

‘Pass that over, pass that over,’ interrupted Master Parson hastily.

‘Yea, it is shameful, but I will pass that over,’ said Simon. ‘As these two old women sat before me during the Blessed Mass they chattered together loudly like monkeys, how Cicely’s petticoat was shorter than it had been, how Sir Robert was too often to see the Smith’s bonny daughter, how ’twas somedeal late for Tom the Hedger and Rose of the Crown to patch their sinful bodies together in Holy Matrimony, and a great deal more of such scandalous stuff as made my ears burn and my eyes water to harken to it, so that I could not for their infernal cackling keep my thoughts on thy words or my devotions. Sorely was I vexed with them, and, groaning in spirit, I turned my eyes towards Heaven to invoke the aid of the Blessed Saints, when lo! upon the great beam just above the heads of the two impious women I saw a little black Devil.’

‘Devil?’ quoth the Parson.

‘Yea, a little black Devil, and he held himself fast on the beam by his feet and his tail. In one hand he had a long scroll of parchment and in the other a quill, and there was an inkhorn slung round his neck such as Rutterkin the scribe carries. Anon he listened with one hand behind his ear to the gossips, and anon he dipped his quill into the ink and wrote at great pace every evil word that they said. Blessed Virgin, how he scribbled and scribbled until he had already filled one side of his scroll and the sweat ran in great drops down his brow. Then he turned over to the other side of the scroll and scribbled and scribbled again until he was ready to drop with exhaustion and had filled every corner of the parchment on both sides. Then was he mightily perplexed and annoyed, for the gossips ceased not to commit sin with their tongues, and he had no fair parchment left whereon to record their foul words. So having considered for a little, as it seemed to me, he grasped one end of the roll with his teeth and seized the other end with his claws and pulled so as to stretch the parchment. He tugged and tugged with all his strength, jerking back his head mightily at every tug, and at last giving such a fierce jerk as should have lengthened the scroll by an inch at least, but lo, such was the fury of the jerk that he suddenly lost his balance and fell head over heels from the beam to the floor. At this it was, good Sir John, that I was constrained to burst into laughter.

‘’Tis strange,’ mused the Parson, much astonished at this narration. ‘’Tis indeed strange that thine eyes should have been opened to this while mine were closed. But didst thou observe the Devil narrowly?’

‘Yea, indeed,’ quoth Simon, ‘I beheld him while thou mightest have said two dozen _Pater Nosters_ and three dozen _Aves_.’ With that he described him from the tips of his horns to the end of his tail, and with such wonderful detail and exactness that Master Parson was able to recognise him as the devil Tutivillius, of whom he had read a description lately in one of his learned books.

‘Truly,’ said he, ‘thou art an Israelite in whom there is no guile, for never else but by beholding this sly Devil wouldst thou be able to describe him so aptly. It is clear to me that the Lord hath endowed thee with the gift of spiritual sight for His own holy purposes; I must ponder the matter more at large.’

Then he blessed Simon and dismissed him with many words of commendation and good comfort.

Presently the story of what Simon had seen got all over the village, and he was forced to tell it again a round dozen of times, and the more it was told and heard the more true it seemed (for such as the learned Lollius saith is the strange character of truth). More especially was it believed because Sir John told it everywhere he came, and because the Bailey’s wife and the Miller’s were heartily hated of every one. So it came to pass that people openly jeered at these two wicked women in the way, and, whenever they went abroad for business or delight, the little boys would pursue them, crying after them, ‘Tutivillius hath it in his roll,’ or ‘Tutivillius listeneth,’ or some such like admonition, the very babes and sucklings thus crying shame upon them.

Good Master Parson had been so much impressed by the humble piety and reverence of demeanour with which Simon had related his wonderful vision, that he marvelled much at his own lack of discernment in not earlier recognising that the young man’s wildness and seeming irregularity of behaviour had been nothing more nor less than the frothy turbulence of a saintly soul, secretly consumed with religious fervour, although not yet fully broken in to the yoke of the Lord. After due consideration, therefore, he went up to the Great House to Sir Geoffrey, and fully explained to that devout Lord how the Almighty had bestowed upon Simon the gift of Divine Vision, and craved his permission that the young man might be made a priest. Sir Geoffrey marvelled much at what he heard, and gave his consent gladly to all that the Parson proposed, giving thanks to God with tears in his eyes that such a saintly soul should be born in his village.

But when Master Parson came to Simon and proposed to him that he should become a priest, Simon violently opposed himself thereto, crying at the top of his voice with surprising vehemence that he had no call to serve the Lord, that he was a mean, worthless, unlettered rascal and unfit for such an office; and further, moreover, that he would much rather succeed his father, Walter Thinshanks, in his holding. Then Sir John understood his deep humility, and thanked the Lord, that He had let him live to see and hear such religion. But he pleaded with him earnestly and went on to show him that if he took Holy Orders, Sir Geoffrey would entirely release him from his servility and would liberally provide for him in the future, exhorting him to beware by the example of Jonah from shrinking from the burden that the Lord had clearly laid upon his shoulders. So in the end this humble Christian man was compelled, as it were against his will, to serve God as a priest.

He gained such schooling as was fit for his holy calling from Master Parson, and, although he was by nature ever more apt to seek the Lord in His wonderful works than in mere books, yet, God willing, he became in process of time a subdeacon. When good Sir John departed this life Sir Geoffrey gave to him the benefice of Blewberry, saying that it was indeed fit that he should minister in the Church where God had first called him in a vision. Never did priest take more delight in his pastoral labours than Simon; he was never absent from love-feasts, at christening and churching ales none was more welcome than he; he mingled with his parishioners in pleasant Christian sort, laughing with them merrily in all honest mirth as though he had been a man of no more religion than they, and openly saying that he was not one of those who show how they love God by hating their neighbour, and that nothing kept the Devil and his Angels so much at a distance as clean and hearty conviviality. For which things he was much loved by all the people, except for a few malicious and hypocritical backbiters, who, seeing him hale-fellow-well-met with all sorts and conditions of men at all times and places, imitated the wickedness of the Pharisees of old, and called him a glutton and a wine-bibber.

A little time after Simon had succeeded to the benefice, the Bishop of the diocese, who loved, after the manner of bishops, to put his finger in every pie whether of his own or other’s making, sent round in his presumption certain vain and supercilious clerks to examine the parish clergy of the diocese as to their proficiency in Divine Learning and, more especially, as to their ability to read the services of Holy Church with a just pronunciation and understanding of the Latin tongue. When these fellows came to Blewberry, they called before them Master Simon and caused him to read aloud to them from the Canon of the Mass. This he did with an enunciation so clear and accurate as to be little short of miraculous, giving every syllable its just quantity whether short or long. So finding that they might catch him in no fault of pronunciation, they straightway impertinently proceeded to question him upon the grammar thereof, not considering in their vain hearts that the words of the Holy Mass are no fit subject for the wranglings of schoolmen.

‘“Te igitur, clementissime Pater,”’ quoth one of them, ‘and in what case falleth “Te,” Master Simon?’

The good Simon was silent, and hung his head, and cast down his eyes as though ashamed. Whereat these insolent clerks sniggered audibly, thinking that he was confounded, and asked him again and badgered him much to reply, but yet he would not.

Quoth one, ‘Tell us at least, then, what governeth “Te”?’

Then Simon lifted up his face and beholding them steadily made answer that ‘Pater governeth “Te,” for Pater governeth all things.’

At this the examiners (as might have been expected of such base fellows) burst into a roar of coarse laughter, and said he was an ignoramus and an unlettered ass. But when folk heard how the Blessed Simon had replied to them, they much approved his answer, and said that surely he had been inspired to speak such good religion, and if what he had said was not in the Mass Book, then it was time it was put there.

Simon’s divine gifts of supernatural vision and for working miracles began now to be clearly seen on all sides. Such by God’s favour was the clearness of his sight that folk who had lost or mislaid anything, by coming to him with a small offering for the Church, were often resolved by him where that they had lost lay hid. In this way Sir Geoffrey recovered his lost purse.

One Holy Day this pious knight came to Mass with the great silken purse he bore at his girdle plainly crammed with French crowns. With it thus dangling by his side he went up to receive the Blessed Sacrament at the hands of the good Simon. When after Communion he returned to his pew, great was his perturbation and distress to find that his purse had vanished, the strings thereof having been cut clean through, as though with a sharp knife. After Mass, therefore, he went, as was his wont when in any trouble, to the good Priest and told him of his heavy loss. Master Simon said he was in no way surprised thereat, for it had been granted him in a vision to see how the fiends raged against Sir Geoffrey because of his pious way of life and especially because of his almsgiving, and that he made no manner of doubt that the devils had stolen his purse, out of the bitter spite they cherished towards him. At this Sir Geoffrey was much gratified, and said that he was glad to have lost the purse and the French crowns into the bargain if it was for God’s sake. ‘Therein thou showest thyself a truly devout Christian,’ quoth Simon; ‘but trust me, I will pray to the Lord this night that the purse may be returned to thee nevertheless.’ This the holy man did according to his promise, and such was the efficacy of his prayers, that shortly after he was enabled to take Sir Geoffrey into the Church (as he had been directed in a vision) and to bring forth the purse from behind the Altar, with the strings thereof clean cut, just as it had been stolen from the Knight’s girdle. When Sir Geoffrey opened it, however, instead of twenty crowns therein he found only ten, the others having been changed by the malice of the Devil into worthless pebbles. Nevertheless, so grateful was Sir Geoffrey for the prayers of the Blessed Simon that he generously gave these remaining crowns into his hands for the poor of the parish, to which use they were punctually applied in due course.

Not only were Simon’s eyes thus clear to see the things of the present, but he could often see also far into the future. Of this one example must suffice.

There was in Blewberry an ancient villein who had been married some six years to a lusty young wench and had yet gotten neither son nor daughter by her. This ancient man coming from his work at mid-day met the Blessed Simon upon his threshold and complained bitterly to him that the Lord had not yet seen fit to bless him with children. Simon turned to him with eyes glowing with the celestial light of prophecy.

‘Be of good cheer,’ quoth he. ‘Verily, I say unto thee that in nine months she shall bring forth to thee a man-child.’

In the end it fell out just as Simon had foretold, even to the very day.

Many were the miracles this good man wrought, of which perhaps his casting out of the devils from the clergy-boys of Roodborough is the most famous.

These lads were possessed by certain evil spirits, which tormented them grievously, compelling them to quiver from head to foot as though with an ague, to roar and gnash with their teeth like wild beasts, to hurl themselves on the ground, and to kick like mad horses, to vomit nails, and stones, and straw, and ofttimes to dance until they dropped with exhaustion. More especially were they afflicted thus when there was any question of their going into the Abbey Church to sing, to their book-learning, or to any other wholesome labour. Many priests and holy men had attempted to exorcise them by prayers, holy water, and precious relics, some of which last were brought many miles for the purpose, but all to no effect. At length the sanctity of Master Simon being in every one’s mouth, and coming to the ears of the Roodborough folk, entreaty was made by a special messenger to him that he would come over forthwith and heal them, if so he might. The good Simon having been informed of every detail of the matter, replied that the morrow he must commune with God thereon, but the day following he would come without fail, and do whatever it might be revealed him to do.

On that day, having come to Roodborough as he had promised, he ordered the clergy boys to be brought into the Abbey Garden and, standing before them there, he addressed the evil spirits that possessed them in the following fashion:

‘Imps of Satan and Spawn of Hell, I am told that ye grievously vex and torment these boys’ bodies whenever they strive to go to the Abbey Church, to their book learning or any other labour which it is meet for them to perform. Now, give heed to my solemn words and mark me well. Much as ye grieve their bodies, mayhap I shall grieve them still more.’ (Here he brought forth from under his cassock a birch rod, such as schoolmasters use, but huge in size and cunningly wrought, and indeed most painful and terrible to behold, and bared his hairy and muscular right arm to the shoulder.) ‘The first boy whom ye cause to quiver, to dance, to vomit, to squeal, nay even to tremble a hair’s-breadth, shall I beat with this birch rod until he is black and blue from head to foot, and there is no more life left in his miserable body than there is in a stone. Yea, I will do it an there be forty thousand devils in his body.’

The holy man waved the birch three times in the air with religious fervour and cried, ‘Boys, loosen the hinder points of your hose so they may fall the more easily if there should be need.’ Anon trembling, the clergy boys did as he commanded. ‘Now,’ quoth he, ‘we will go into the Church.’

Thereat the boys walked into the Church as soberly and staidly as the Lord Abbot himself. At the sound of the Blessed Simon’s voice the devils had slunk away out of them, defeated and ashamed, neither dared they trouble the boys any more after that, for they knew that the man of God was more powerful than they. By this miracle the Saint’s fame was enlarged in all corners of the realm, so that people came from afar to see and converse with him, often bringing with them gracious gifts for the Church at Blewberry, and to these, under God, he was able to give much spiritual assistance and comfort.

But now, even while the holy man was in the prime of his years and labours, and long before he had fulfilled the natural term of man’s life, it pleased the Lord in his Providence to call him from this vale of tears to Himself, and it was sweet and comfortable to the lovers and admirers of the Saint to reflect that the summons came to him even as he was engaged in the actual discharge of his sacred functions. The manner of his decease was in worthy keeping with the manner of his life, and it is hard to write of it without tears.