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 OR, 
 
 THE MISTAKEN CALLING : 
 
 A TALE OF TUE ISLE OF WIOUT IN THE XllliH CENTURY 
 
 BY 
 
 AUTUOU OF LECTURES ON ENGLISH HISTOKY. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RIVINGTONS, WATERLOO PLACE. 
 OXFORD : W. R. BOWDEN ; RYDE : GIBBS, WAGNER, UNION-STREET. 
 
 1862.
 
 
 t. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE LAST OF HEU NAME, 
 
 A NAME WHOSE MEMORY, LIKE THAT OF THE ABBOTS OF QUAKR, IS 
 
 FAST FADING FROM THE SUNNY ISLAND WHERE BOTH WERE ONCE 
 
 FAMILUR AS HOUSEHOLD WORDS, 
 
 BUT WHICH YET LIYES 
 
 IN THE AFFECTIONS OF NOT A FEW, 
 
 THIS LITTLE ATTEMPT TO REGAL THE FORGOTTEN PAST 
 
 IS, 
 
 WITH TRUE REGARD, 
 
 DEDICATED BY HER SINCERE FRIEND,
 
 i
 
 
 
 . /jt-CV .-- J. 
 
 :izi^St>iK"G"si' 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 ^J^J '^.»>lt <-''>' C^ 
 
 I 
 
 ^i^ 
 
 PART I. 
 PART II. 
 
 Iftfe m tj)c §.bbcn- 
 
 PART III. 
 PART IV. 
 
 Cljt llctuni |)omc. 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 ( 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ^
 
 Iprcfiia, 
 
 S the Abbot of Quarr may appear to the 
 reader to bo a mythical personage, a 
 sort of " lusus naturae," of whose exis- 
 tence'reasonable doubts can be enter- 
 tained, it is as well to state that he is in some sense 
 a historical reality. But not, it may be argued, 
 historical in the sense of the poem ; since instead 
 of the beautiful character there described, he 
 was a liauglity, imperious churchman, and his quarrel 
 with Isabella de Fortibus nothing more nor less than 
 an ambitious struggle for the ])atronage of livings to 
 whicli, as sovereign of the Isle of Wight, she had 
 clearly the right of prcsentjitioii. But wa,s the right 
 so clear ? On tliis point a doubt may fau-ly be sur- 
 
 I
 
 miBed. There are two sides to most questions ; and 
 it is more tlian probable that an excellent case might 
 be made out for the Abbot of Quarr had we but access 
 to the documents of the period. Nevertheless, as this 
 is neither the place nor the moment for controversial 
 discussion, a single fact in the Abbot's favour is all 
 that shall now be adduced. It is this : — that when 
 the noble lady to whom allusion has been made, lay 
 upon her death-bed, although two Bishops were in 
 attendance upon her, she could not die in peace 
 untQ the Abbot of Quarr had been duly summoned. 
 She was at this time far aw^ay from the Isle of Wight. 
 But it was her wish, nay, her injunction, that he 
 should be sent for ; and her wish was obeyed, and 
 he aiTived in time to close her eyes. 
 
 S'ui'cly such a desire, expressed at such a moment, 
 looks like a bcHef in his sanctity. Let it stand, how- 
 ever, for as much as it is worth, and no more ; for 
 scarcely any particulars of the Abbey history are now 
 extant. Ruthlessly destroyed by Henry VIII., 
 almost razed to the ground, its records have disap- 
 peared. Not even a catalogue of its Abbots remains. 
 There was a Stephen of Lexington among the nvini- 
 bcr, famed for holiness of life and manners : he was a 
 disciple of S. Edmund of Canterbui-y. There was an 
 Andi-ew, (possibly our Abbot,) and afterwards a
 
 Thomas, wlio lived in the reign of Edward IV., and 
 whose name occui'S upon an ancient deed to which 
 the seal of his Abbey is appended ; but little more 
 can be authenticated. The waves of time, more 
 relentless than those that lash the adjacent coast, have 
 swept away its fan- proportions, its walls are mostly 
 removed or reconstructed, the quai'ries are no longer 
 worked, the woods are felled, 
 
 J ust enough of the ruin remains, just enough of its 
 history can be revived, to invest the deserted pre- 
 cincts with a more than ideal interest. And those, 
 who, with the writer, have felt that such memories 
 are good, and that their influence, rightly received, 
 is improving ; as leading us to emulate, if not the 
 actual regulations of past institutions, the piety and 
 self-sacrifice of many amongst their founders and 
 occupants, will scarcely deem that the tale has been 
 written in vain. Its publication, however, at the 
 present time, has other than an ethical object. 
 Originally written merely as the recreation of a pass- 
 ing horn', it is now printed to aid the funds of a 
 school in which the writer is deeply interested, as 
 supplyiag what is much wanted in the present day — 
 a home where young girls are protected dm-ing the 
 dangerous interval between leaving the National 
 Schools and entering respectable service, and where
 
 they likewise receive elementary instrnction in the 
 duties of their futxire calling. 
 
 Such institutions are humble attempts to combine 
 the spirit of the past with the iitilitarian views of the 
 nineteenth century ; and the object being one with 
 which most persons can sympathize, it is hoped that 
 it will plead in behalf of the poem more eloquently 
 than any intrinsic merit which may seem to bo 
 assumed by its publication. 
 
 And with this hope the writer bids each kind and 
 sympathizing reader a hearty " Farewell !" 
 
 Tho profits of this littlo publication ^vill bo given in aid of 
 tho funds of St. Michael's School foi- Training Servants, Wan- 
 tage, Berks.
 
 ^ ^-^,^ 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A few rude foot-prints of far-off times, 
 
 Set in a frame of homely rhymes. 
 
 Exhumed sub-strata, and fossil remains, 
 
 From the " Grardcn Isle," and her sea-gii't plains. 
 
 Primary rock from the Abbey walls ; 
 
 And moss from its ruins that prostrate lie ; 
 Reader, my tale for forbearance calls ; — 
 
 Who knock about stones, hit tho passers by !
 
 QUAKR ABBEY: 
 
 ^■c. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Whj ^bbot. 
 I. 
 
 " So, separate from the world, his breast 
 Might duly take, and strongly keep 
 The print of Heaven." 
 
 KehWs Christicm Tear. 
 
 HE Knight, he tlirew his armour down, 
 And ho turned liis back on tower and town, 
 And he told his beads as he rode along, 
 
 For his licart was weary of slight and wrong. 
 
 "He would fain to the Abbey," he said, "repair, 
 
 To end his days in repose and prayer." 
 
 And when he came to the Abbey gate 
 
 He had but a little time to wait ; 
 
 B
 
 The coming was quickly noised abroad, 
 
 Of the mighty man, with the mighty sword, 
 
 Who had vowed to lay down his earthly cares, 
 
 And give to the Chiu'ch his wealth and prayers. 
 
 Very happy he felt that day ; 
 
 Though he fell asleep when he meant to pray ! 
 
 II. 
 
 But time went on, and the Knight ' professed,' 
 
 With his hands laid meekly across his breast :- 
 
 And glad were the bretliren all to see 
 
 His air of deep humility. 
 
 And humble he meant to be, no doubt, 
 
 Though how he had not yet found out. 
 
 " You must part with your horse and hound, 'tis plain, 
 
 Sir Knight," said the Abbot frank ; 
 
 " They will win back yom* thoughts to earth again. 
 
 And remind you of your rank." 
 
 The Knight loved to look on a holy look, 
 
 ^Vnd a spai'c ascetic frame, 
 
 Much self-denial liinisclf could brook,
 
 And could stand some words of blame ; 
 
 But a thrust that came home in such very plain fomi 
 
 Stirred his veiy hot temper (juitc into a storm ! 
 
 " What ?" said he, and he stamped his foot 
 
 As he'd stamped in days of yore, 
 
 Forgetting that now he had never a boot 
 
 'Twixt lais skin and the hard stone floor. 
 
 What ? shall he " must his must" to me, 
 
 As if I his serf had come to be ! 
 
 Sui'cly my good old steed might range 
 
 For the rest of his days in the Abbey Grange. 
 
 Hundreds of acres I gave by deed 
 
 To enlarge his Abbey's bound ; 
 
 How dares ho grudge my good horse a feed ? 
 
 Or to kennel my noble hound ? 
 
 'Tis pity, my bretlu*en, you're all consigned 
 
 To the rule of a man with a nari'ow mind !" 
 
 This said, to the cloister he hied away, 
 
 To chafe and to fret — but not to pray.
 
 III. 
 
 " I will make that lordly Abbot fear ; 
 
 He shall hear again of this !" 
 
 But the Abbot was siBging the Vespers clear, 
 
 And did never the novice miss 
 
 Till night ; when his toils and cai'os were done, 
 
 And he counted his children one by one. 
 
 " How fares with our novice, good Brother John ? 
 
 Does he take to om' rule of life ?" 
 
 " Dear Father, his will is very strong, 
 
 And, fresh from a world of strife, 
 
 He suffers no contradiction yet ; 
 
 He cannot his ancient state forget." 
 
 "'Tis sad; j'et, my brother, his failings bear; 
 
 Remember, we all are weak : 
 
 Let liis horse and his hound have the best of care ; 
 
 To gain him by kindness seek : 
 
 'Twill be on our Order a grievous blot 
 
 If the power of holiness touch him not !" 
 
 "Father, I fear wc shall lose liim." "Son, 
 
 'Tis by love and by prayer that souls ai'e won."
 
 •' Father, your blessing," his head he bent, 
 It was given : then eacli to his slumber went. 
 And the Abbot rose 'ere the dawn of day 
 For the soul of the restless Knight to pray. 
 
 rv. 
 
 The morning dawned — the woods were still : 
 
 As the night her shades withdi'ew, 
 
 Like a silver gauze o'er the heath-clad hill 
 
 Lay the bright and sparkling dew. 
 
 The Abbot prayed in the Chui-ch alone 
 
 The soul of the Knight to win ; 
 
 Till over each fretted and sculptui'ed stone, 
 
 Wliich in darkness long had been. 
 
 Came gleams from the eastern window pane, 
 
 Rich with many a gorgeous staia : 
 
 And in burnished glory shone 
 
 Those flowered mazes, more fail" than thoug-ht, 
 
 Wliich the skill of the sculptor had fondly wrought. 
 
 And the Abbot was glad, for it seemed to show 
 
 How stony hearts may in Heaven's light glow,
 
 Which we in our imbelief despise, 
 
 And the beauty of holiness o'er them rise. 
 
 Then came the solemn and soothing tone 
 
 Of the deep-mouthed Convent bell ; 
 
 iVnd, one by one, stole the brethren in, 
 
 And down on then" knees they fell ; 
 
 And all for a moment was hushed agaia 
 
 Tni the echoes died away, 
 
 And up-soared in the air the exulting strain 
 
 That blesses the coming day : 
 
 Three hundred voices are singing ' Prime ! ' 
 
 And the Knight, is he with them there ? 
 
 Alas ! he stays in his cell all the time ; 
 
 The seasons of nraise and prayer. 
 
 He dares not their sacred call obey : 
 
 He is weary and sick, and he cannot pray. 
 
 V. 
 At length in these words his plaint he made 
 " Good brother John, I would ask your aid, 
 And your counsel ; my heart is sad :
 
 Of old when the Abbey bells did ring, 
 
 I loved the Mattins and Prime to sing ; 
 
 Now, nothing can make me glad : 
 
 My body is sick, and so is my mind ; 
 
 My feelings are very drear !" 
 
 " Dear Knight, I am pained," said the brother kind, 
 
 " I sometimes begin to fear 
 
 That an active life under less control, 
 
 Fai' better would suit both your body and soul : 
 
 Shall I go to the Abbot and state your case ?" 
 
 " Nay, brother, you argue wrong ; 
 
 It is not my life that is out of place ; 
 
 I should do very well 'ere long 
 
 If more sympathy were to my feelings shown ; 
 
 Your proud Abbot leaves mc too much alone. 
 
 Three whole days have I looked in vain 
 
 For the smallest notice ; — but stay, 
 
 I see you arc vexed, so I won't complain ; 
 
 Yet the Abbot should hear what I say : 
 
 That if he will not at times unbend 
 
 He may tlu-ow back one who may stand his friend."
 
 " Dear Kniglit, the Abbot gets little rest ; 
 
 By many and weiglity cai'es, 
 
 And work of all kinds, he is sore opprest ; 
 
 But we all have his love, and his prayers. 
 
 And now, I bethmk mc, he bid nie say 
 
 He rides to the Manor of Chale to day, ^ 
 
 And he asks yoiu' company by the way." 
 
 " 'Tis well," said the Knight in reply, " I had deemed 
 
 That he meant me a slight : for so it seemed." 
 
 " Dear Knight, we read in the saci'ed Book 
 
 That appearances oft deceive :" 
 
 We should not alone on the outside look. 
 
 But ever the best believe. 
 
 Did you know how three hundred imperfect men 
 
 Can respect and love him, 0, doubtless, then 
 
 You would see how deep 'neath the surface lies 
 
 That life which he makes a sacrifice." 
 
 The Knight was silent : at last he said, 
 
 " If your wcn'ds are Ij'uu, Inother John, 
 
 ' The mill at Chalo, and the meadows romul it, belonged to 
 the Abbey. - S. John vii. 2i.
 
 These tlircc long days, tliougli my licai-t has bled, 
 
 I have done the good AhhoL wrong. 
 
 I see I gave way to the moment's -wliiin, 
 
 And cared for myself, while i juLsjudged him," 
 
 " Dear Knight, it is blessed our faults to own. — 
 
 But listen : the bell, with its silver tone, 
 
 Calls us." Thus saying, they went theu" way : 
 
 But the novice was far too sad to pray. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The good steed neigheth beside the gate. 
 
 And prances in very pride ; 
 
 The good steed pricketh his velvet ears 
 
 For joy that his master's voice he hears. 
 
 The Abbot his mule doth ride : 
 
 Then the party start without any state, 
 
 The Abbot and Knight before. 
 
 Brother Juhii, and andtlier monk, behind ; 
 
 Right tlu'ough the Coi)piee, and down the moor 
 
 And where the brooklet doth wind : 
 
 And the bloodhound bays as he bounds along,
 
 And plunges the fens and reeds among. 
 
 Oh the summer air, it is soft and free ! 
 
 And sports o'er the face like an infant's smile : 
 
 And the sweet birds are singing cheerily, 
 
 And their song doth the hour beguile : 
 
 And tlie lessons of nature are lessons of grace, 
 
 Where in faithful hearts they can find a place. 
 
 The Abbot at fii-st he Httle said, 
 
 Perchance he did think, or pray. 
 
 But when they came to the river-bod, 
 
 Ho stopped to inquire the way. 
 
 Tlicn he asked of the Knight if his steed looked well. 
 
 And smoothed down his arching crest, 
 
 And his manner was that of such perfect rest 
 
 That the Knight felt under a speU : 
 
 And as they rode soberly side by side. 
 
 Deep in his heart, but not exprest, 
 
 Was the grief and remorse that filled his breast 
 
 At his fooUsh cliargc of pride. 
 
 Yet he could not resist a passing thought : — 
 
 " These kind of men, so averse to strife,
 
 Arc only fit for the cloister life. 
 
 1 should very much like to jJiit him astride 
 
 On Grey Sultan — I don't much think lie can ride ; 
 
 We should have some excellent sport. 
 
 There are some that for tight and for tournament 
 
 Are formcHl ; 'ti.s a fate their nature meant ; 
 
 And some, like our Abbot, for Iwoks and cell : 
 
 Any looker on could this lesson spell. 
 
 First example ; myself and my noble grey : 
 
 No wonder I find it dull to pray." 
 
 VII. 
 The river ran deep, the river ran strong-, 
 And the ford it was fiir away ; 
 
 Said the Knight, " with youi" leave I'll go gently along 
 Wliilc you on the bank do stay. 
 If I cross uuhai'med you can mend youi- pace, 
 And follow when I have passed ; 
 If I fail, we must go to another place 
 Where the sti'cam sweeps not on so fast." 
 " Agreed," said the Abbot, " but be not rash ;
 
 Let my words of warning tell." 
 
 Scarce liad lie said wlien they heard a splasli, 
 
 As the steed in the ton'ent fell, 
 
 Through catching his hoof in a rocky ledge 
 
 Just as he stept from the river's edge. 
 
 Help was in vain for man or horse : 
 
 You could barely their pathway trace 
 
 As down with the current's rushing force 
 
 They drifted with rapid pace. 
 
 At length, where a tree o'er the stream had bent, 
 
 The coui'sc of the Knight was staid ; 
 
 But not till his breath was well-nigh spent. 
 
 And his forehead a gash displayed. 
 
 The good Abbot lifted the Knight on land. 
 
 The horse made his way to the nearest strand. 
 
 An hour sped by ; on theii* nags again 
 
 The party were ready to mount, 
 
 J>ul the Knight hud met with an awkward sprain 
 
 In his side ; and on (his account 
 
 The Al)l)()< proposed they shoukl cliange then- plan 
 
 " Brother John, let the good Kjiight ride
 
 Oil my gentle imili', wlien he feels tliat he can ; 
 
 And see that you keep by his ^de. 
 
 And if he gets faint, or is needing- rest, 
 
 With the Rector of Gatcombe wait : 
 
 I -will go on my errand, for time doth press ; 
 
 Ah-eady I fear I am late." 
 
 Then he turned where the Knight on the gi*ound did 
 
 lay, 
 And stooping beside him, said, 
 " Will you lend yom- horse ? where I have to stay 
 I will see him di-est and fed." 
 " I tuill lend, Holy Father, with right good will ; 
 You will find him a little hot ; 
 'Tis not his mode to be calm and still ; 
 I beseech you provoke him not : 
 If your skill as a horseman you doubt at all. 
 You had better not mount, or you'll get a fall." 
 But the Abbot, though thin and spare and meek, 
 Little the caution did seem to need, 
 For his clear eye flashed, as it would bespeak 
 Pride and delight in the gallant steed :
 
 And when he was up 'twas a goodly sight ! 
 His scat in the sad^Jle and hand on the rein 
 Were those of a Prince ; and the prostrate Knight 
 Found his conscience doing its work again ; 
 And I saw, as the Abbot rode away, 
 That he covered his eyes and tried to pray.
 
 PART 11. 
 
 He in tl;c Jibbcn 
 
 " So may wo knock at heaveu'a door, 
 And strive the prize of life to win ; 
 Continually, and evermore, 
 Guarded without and pure within." 
 
 Ancient Hymn. 
 
 AL^MLY and softly the days sped on, 
 And many a week had passed and gone, 
 Wliilc time, like the wheel of the Abbey mill, 
 Cai-ried life's torrent adown it still. 
 Long had the Knight in the Abbey staid, 
 And long with the brethren knelt and prayed. 
 Yet his love of rctii'ement seemed to cool, 
 And he did not keep to the Convent rule. 
 ' Then wherefore stay,' you ask ; would you know ? 
 He loved the Abbot too well to go.
 
 Every day lie saw sometliing neAV, 
 
 \^Tiich showed what a holy man can do. 
 
 With the thought, " I am only a novice stiU, 
 
 And free as a bird to depart — if I will ;" 
 
 Another his conscience did sorely rack, 
 
 " I have made my election, and dare I go back ?" 
 
 And thus when he felt in the mood to leave, 
 
 His want of devotion his soul would gi*ieve. 
 
 Not on the life did he lay the blame, 
 
 But on his self love, so hard to tame ! 
 
 He had come to the Abbey to seek relief 
 
 From earthly cares and from human gi'ief ; 
 
 'Twas an act of self pleasing ; he saw it now : 
 
 And yet, at the time, his life to vow 
 
 To the Highest, so pure a work had seemed, 
 
 'Twas humbling to find he had only di'eamed. 
 
 "But the aim was a true one?" "most true, good 
 
 Knight." 
 Your motives, the' mixed, were partly right ; 
 And this you will find, as day by day, 
 You humble your stubborn will, and pray.
 
 II. 
 
 O think not this good man's life was lost, 
 
 Or his mind on its troubles for ever tossed : 
 
 The Abbot his service oft would need, 
 
 And send him forth on his noble steed ; 
 
 Would ever find calls for the skill and might, 
 
 And the generous aid of the sturdy Knight ; 
 
 And when wearied and worn through much employ, 
 
 As the evening onwards drew, 
 
 Would his hearty affectionate talk enjoy ; 
 
 And the brethren loved him too : 
 
 And kind brother John fixed his gentle eyes 
 
 Freqiiently on him in glad surprise. 
 
 And yet 'twould be more than truth if I said, 
 
 That the Knight's self-conquest was perfected 
 
 In so brief a time ; it could not be so ; 
 
 For evil habits like ill-weeds grow, 
 
 And they root them deeper do\vn than vice : 
 
 Then prejudice comes the heart to cramp. 
 
 Her chill breath laden with clouds of damp, 
 
 Wliich form o'er the soul in crusts of ice.
 
 Do you doubt me ? Is it not mostly seen, 
 
 That the humbler vii'tues we count as mean ? 
 
 And doth not each human spirit know, 
 
 How in danger of death, or by sin brought low, 
 
 It cannot its deepest convictions smother : 
 
 And how, when life's sunshine hath re-appeared, 
 
 The judgment has either changed or veered, 
 
 And we seem, not our better self, but another ? 
 
 At such moments, in nine cases out of ten, 
 
 Our good resolutions grow out of date ; 
 
 We decide, " I was weak as a woman then ; 
 
 My mind was not ia a healthy state !" 
 
 Our Knight proved the mie case in ten ; he might fall 
 
 But he kept a time heart in spite of all. 
 
 Still, his temper continued his greatest bane ; 
 
 An example will make my meaning plain ; 
 
 And put what I wish to imply in form. 
 
 Though it shews the poor Knight in a terrible storm. 
 
 III. 
 
 Tlie Abbot had sent him to Haven-street ; 
 He could not the matter in hand complete
 
 To return for the mid-day meal ; he '//'' try, 
 
 But when he got back to Qiiarr 
 
 The lioui' of refection had long gone by ; 
 
 He was hungry and cold, and he saw 
 
 That most of the brethren had left the hall; 
 
 While no one appeared to heed his call. 
 
 He rushed to the kitchen : the cook away, 
 
 The Infirmarer's place was keeping ; 
 
 The latter had watched till break of day 
 
 With a poor sick monk, and was sleeping : 
 
 Only old Peter sat there with the dog, 
 
 As deaf as a post, and as still as a log. 
 
 " Will no one hear ? 'tis too bad," he said, 
 
 " They might have considered my toil ; 
 
 I am worked like a cart-horse, and can't get fed ; 
 
 I am not out of temper— but hard bestead ; . 
 
 Hot? my blood is too chilly to boil !" 
 
 Such a noise he made, such a roaring and din, 
 
 That all the lay brethren came huiTjnng in. 
 
 Then he vowed that he would not a day remain 
 
 In the Abbey, where even a saint must complain !
 
 He would leave it, and tell men why : who'd prevent 
 
 him ? 
 Just then brother David came running apace, 
 And begged he'd be calm, with a piteous face, 
 And his dinner should quickly be sent him. 
 " Calm ?" and he stamped again on the floor, 
 As his voice crescendoed almost to a roar. 
 " I am calm, — mind your business — take care not to 
 
 venture 
 Your betters to bid whom you ought to obey ; 
 For I may shew my teeth ! Sirrah, take down that 
 
 trencher. 
 Or I'll take yo7irself down in a summary way ! 
 YouHl set up as Abbot another day, will you ? — 
 Don't shako so, you wTctched old sham, I won't kill 
 
 you !" 
 He turned on his heel, and the Abbot stood there ; 
 His fine brow contracted, and -saddened his air ! 
 " My son, this is sorrow indeed ; and I fear, 
 That, however it grieves you, my duty is clear. 
 You must go to your cell for a season." " Good Father,
 
 ^e Mistahcn (Talliuq. 21 
 
 I don't mind.that penance, I'd very much rather." 
 " My son add not thus to my pain ; you were tempted ; 
 I can feel for you ; mine in a measure the blame : 
 I could wish you from all inconvenience exempted, 
 But we never should shun cither eensui-e or shame. 
 If our conscience upbraid : these are small ills to take. 
 When the Saviour of men bore so much for our sake." 
 Here the good Abbot paused, for the Knight looked 
 
 distressed ; 
 Conviction, at last, had awoke in his breast. 
 " Take heart, my dear son, and from fretting refrain ; 
 You never may so fail in trial again ! 
 As far as I can, your privation I'll share ; 
 We both have much need of contrition and prayer." 
 " O Father, your gentleness cuts to my soul ; 
 Will you pray its besetting disease be made whole ? 
 Were you always at hand, I could never forget." 
 " My son. One far nigher Avdl succour you yet. 
 His pardon implore : contrite love hath prevailed, 
 Where pride and self-confident boasting have failed, 
 His compassions aa-e deep as their compass is wide ;
 
 O'er the poor stranded soul they flow in like a tide. 
 
 Remain in yoiu- cell till the close of the day, 
 
 And if then you would seek me you well know the 
 
 way : 
 Meanwhile, don't despond or feel cheerless, but pray." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Church in those bygone ages taught 
 We should make amends for wrong ; 
 Or done in malice, or done in sport, 
 To the culj^rit it would belong, 
 ITot only an empty pardon to ask, 
 But to do for his brother some humbling task. 
 He had sinned against order and love, made confusion. 
 And his grief should be real, no mere self-delusion. 
 So when his incarceration had ended, 
 And the novice was reconciled — 
 For they did shut up full-grown men who offended. 
 As we shut up a half-groAvn child — 
 The Knight was reduced to friend David's depai-tment. 
 And went where the " wretched old sham" and his 
 cart went.
 
 " What ! a man of his rauk in a menial phicc ! " 
 
 1 think I hoar sumc exclaim, 
 
 " I can't stand that, 'tis a foul disgrace : " 
 
 But 'tis surely the greater shame 
 
 When one who has entered a sacred calling 
 
 Can disgrace his profession by stamping and brawh'ng. 
 
 You think, and I think, it thus will remain ; 
 
 ^VTio argue, revert to their owti views again. 
 
 It so chanced that our Knight in his hearty contrition 
 
 Really grew quite at homo with his humble position ; 
 
 And so zealously took to old David and carting, 
 
 That both felt distressed when the time came for 
 
 parting. 
 Oft o'er the breezy hills they were wending. 
 What time the orb of day was ascending 
 In golden sheen : 
 
 Or they lingered late in the copse-wood, chopping, 
 Heaving the cumbrous log, or stopping 
 To rest between. 
 
 But whatever their way or their work might be, 
 They grew towards each other in sympathy.
 
 If cramped was tlie old man's mental state — 
 
 And he'd puzzle and twist his words about 
 
 Before he could get his expressions out — 
 
 His gentleness gave their meaning Aveight : 
 
 And a look there was in his honest face 
 
 Which lent what he said a nameless grace : 
 
 A singleness, too, of heart and aim, 
 
 That frequently put the brave Knight to shame. 
 
 And taught him, not to contemn, but prize 
 
 The meekness he once could criticize. 
 
 David's conduct, moreover, seemed truly grand 
 
 To one Avho its spring could understand. 
 
 He would do what he did do with all liis might, 
 
 And could not be swerved from his sense of right ; 
 
 Stop the pleasantest task when the time came for 
 
 praying. 
 His whole soul absorbed in the ' houi-' he was saying • 
 And yet, when they iiuished iheii- daily employment, 
 He was fresh as a boy in his nairtli and oiijoymeut. 
 Thus, in life, how oft we tlie lesson rcuil, 
 That the simple peasant or child will lead
 
 The ficiy spirit naught else can rule ; 
 
 Wliicli starts from the yoke of a sterner school : — 
 
 Strange that the Iculjlc the strong should sway ! 
 
 law of a Providence ill understood ; 
 
 Which makes e'en oui* weaknesses work out our good, 
 
 If only we cleave to truth's perfect way, 
 
 And long for the temper for which we pray !
 
 PART III. 
 
 l^l^i .^bljcn sEnbabcb. 
 
 " Faiut not, and fret not, for threatened woe, 
 Watchman on tnith's great height ! 
 Few though the faithful, and fierce though the foQj 
 Weakness is aye Heaven's might." 
 
 Lyra Apostolica. 
 
 m 
 
 SAID that the year was steaKiig by, 
 Aiid now the snow on the woods did lie. 
 The oaks of Quarr were a goodly sight, 
 
 As they reared their heads in the morning light, 
 
 Massive, and rugged, and gnarled, and wliite ! 
 
 With thcii' autlered crests aiad then- spreading boughs. 
 
 And their huge and upright boles ; 
 
 Beneath them the Abbey cattle browse : 
 
 Hark ! as the clock-bell tolls, 
 
 Dreamily telling the passing hour.
 
 You may cluincc to soe somctliing strange : 
 
 How the creatm-os start and assemble as one, 
 
 And then together go oil" at a run, 
 
 For the call to prayer from the heavy tower, 
 
 It is feeding time at the grange ! 
 
 The cattle are gathered, and calmly wait 
 
 To pass the j'ard by the forest gate ; 
 
 With pendent heads and attentive ears : 
 
 They pause till a quiet monk appears, 
 
 Just as the bell goes down ; 
 
 And the men of the farm di-aw round in a ring. 
 
 And the " Angelus " strongly and sweetly sing : (^ 
 
 While far towards the busy town, 
 
 With the moan and the wave, and the voice of the rill 
 
 The sound is wafted when winds auc still. 
 
 A " Credo" and " Pater" the sei-vice end : (-) 
 
 Then the hinds and the shephei'ds the cattle tend. 
 
 Morning, and noon, and eve, and night. 
 
 When the shadows fall, with the dawn's grey light. 
 
 By souls tlu-ough this simple method trained 
 
 May the truest object of life be gained.
 
 Mark me, I do not mean to say 
 
 All other teaching was cast aside ; 
 
 But only that each retui'ning day 
 
 Was by devotion sanctified. 
 
 Briefly the Abbey bell suspended 
 
 The ploughman's toil on the distant hill, 
 
 And as in prayer his head he bended, 
 
 The patient ox at his side stood still : 
 
 No work so ui'gent, no time so prest, 
 
 That the Giver of Life remained unblest ! 
 
 And we ? in oui' more enlightened day. 
 
 Are full of good deeds, — but neglect to pray. 
 
 II 
 
 To our Kjiight we turn : he had drawn a seat 
 
 Near to the fire to warm his feet, 
 
 And was busily pUing the glowing logs 
 
 In the form of an arch o'er the ii-on dogs ; 
 
 When from his side his sleeping hound 
 
 Uprose with a start, and loudly bayed ; 
 
 And there fell on the ear a tram})ing soiuid,
 
 And some of the brethren were sore afraid ; 
 
 But tlie Knight looked pleased, and his glance grew 
 
 bright 
 As the eagle's, that eyes the coming fight. 
 Then the clanging bell an arrival told : — 
 'Twas a trying thing for the monks of old. 
 When a mounted band, without warning or word, 
 Came down on the brethren for bed and board. 
 Let this be as it uiight : the Abbot of Quarr, 
 So loved that his simple word was law. 
 Not for an instant surprise displayed, 
 No sign of offence or annoyance made : 
 But received, his guests with a quiet grace, 
 Giving orders to find for all comers place. 
 Would you leai'n who he had to entertain ? 
 A noble widow and all her train. 
 The " Lady," the title by which she was known, (^) 
 O'er the whole of the Island she rule did bear ; 
 At her Courts she sat on a royal throne, 
 The gi'cat in the earldom her homagers were, 
 Save those, not a few, who their titles di'aw,
 
 And hold tlieir fiefs of the Abbot of Qnarr. 
 
 You may fancy aE was bustle and fuss 
 
 In an ancient community so surprised ; 
 
 By no means ; they did not manage thus 
 
 In days when religious calm was prized, 
 
 Remember the Abbot's resoui'ces vast, 
 
 And the many brethren who Hved at Quarr ; 
 
 What he did, was chiefly his mind to cast 
 
 On the Monks whom he thought most fitted for 
 
 The task of contriving to meet the need 
 
 Of the numerous class he must house and feed. 
 
 The " Lady" was led to a chamber of state 
 
 Reserved for visitors, near to the gate ; 
 
 Through the Abbot's own room, approached by a 
 
 stair. 
 His room, and two others, were placed at her will : 
 Brother John and his Monks of her comfort had care ; 
 The guards and attendants the corridors fill : 
 Over these the Knight was called to preside. 
 And see that their wants were well supplied. 
 And Martin, the cellarer, went to arrange
 
 fljc iglistuhcn (("nUing. 31 
 
 For the horses and men to be lodged at the Grange. 
 
 Then tlie Abbut a Chapter of mouks eleven (*) 
 
 Summoned to meet at the horn- of seven, 
 
 After Vespers ; for sadly his heart forbode 
 
 This visit no good to the Convent shewed. 
 
 All done, to the Chui'ch he went away 
 
 To chasten his anxious heart — and pray. 
 
 III. 
 The Chapter met their affairs to discuss : 
 And each one sat in his stall 
 While the Abbot opened the business thus, 
 As a matter concerning them all. 
 " You know how since among you I came, 
 My teaching has ever been the same : 
 To overcome hatred by love, and bo 
 Through meekness known in adversity. 
 Not to struggle, nor strive, when life's billows rave, 
 But to rise by faith o'er theu' foaming crest ; 
 Well knowing that they who thus mount the wave, 
 Are carried unscathed to a certain rest.
 
 Yet liaply a higher law controls, 
 
 And those whom the Holy One hath given 
 
 A charge involving the cure of souls, 
 
 To a stronger course are, reluctant, driven ; 
 
 May be called to wage, if in trust for ECim, 
 
 What may seem to the world like a carnal fight. 
 
 But 'tis time to make ending of metaphors dim : 
 
 Kaiow, the Lady of Fortibus claims the right 
 
 To appoint to our churches : but I can shew 
 
 By our founder's law it was never so : 
 
 When Father Jordan and Father Paul 
 
 Go hence to Palestine, 
 
 Brading and GodshUl wUl vacant fall : — 
 
 And Father Ambrose has had a call 
 
 To a parish a hundred miles away, 
 
 And will Kingston soon resign. 
 
 And dear Father Christopher dying lies — 
 
 Even now he may rest in Paradise ! 
 
 " The Lady" announces that Canon Gray, 
 
 Her kinsman, shall be to Brading ordained ; 
 
 And a Sherborne priest has her promise gained
 
 For Kingston and Yaverland. — Well-a-day 
 For the hapless flock, if the shepherds stray : 
 Already his livings are forty-tlu'ce ! (^) 
 And he farms them out to unworthy men ! 
 If she her vmholy will obtain, 
 Vainly to us will our churls complain : C') 
 No relief can we give them then ! 
 I cannot my way through these troubles see. 
 Quarr Charter, I told her, expressly said, 
 The livings were all in the gift of its head. C^) 
 But no ! she looked angry, and did not choose 
 To acknowledge the rights I so strongly urged ; 
 And if she appeal to the Crown, we lose. 
 And our peaccftd island in strife is merged. 
 Alas ! my brethren, we all shall need 
 Patience and feith, for our hearts must bleed !" 
 Sadly the brethren theii* Abbot heard ; 
 And as evening wore along, 
 Many a wise and solemn word 
 Was uttered by many a tongue : 
 Tho' opinions differed as to the way
 
 They must meet the coming snare ; 
 
 But all were agreed to fast and pray, — 
 
 For the staff of the monk is prayer. 
 
 While pensively thus the monks conversed, 
 
 The Knight, by the Abbot's leave, 
 
 Sat behind the stalls, so he knew the worst ; 
 
 And deeply his heart did grieve. 
 
 And he thought, " what would I give to close 
 
 In mortal fight with the Abbot's foes !" 
 
 You fight them, my friend, in the truest way. 
 
 When you learn to subdue yourself, and pray. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wait we awhile by the Abbot's couch. 
 When night had closed around him ; 
 He bends to kneel, but doth rather crouch 
 And thus that brother found him 
 Whose name sweetly on memory falls, 
 The " beloved disciple" its sound recals. 
 Right worthy " John" that name to bear, 
 Endowed with riches and graces rare.
 
 Ever ho copied its pattern high, 
 
 Dwelling in love unceasingly. 
 
 But e'en love like his could not now remove 
 
 The anguish that One alone could soothe. 
 
 Still, while the tender brother knelt 
 
 Long at his side, the mourner felt 
 
 Such love was the earnest left hira yet 
 
 Of a Higher that cannot sleep, forget ! 
 
 Wakefully passed the weary night ; 
 
 Clearly before the Abbot's sight 
 
 The future outspread he saw, 
 
 (Or seemed to see, as in a glass 
 
 O'er which successive objects pass :) 
 
 Some of the brethren, well he knew, 
 
 Would chafe at his strong unbending view. 
 
 Wish to change their ancient law. 
 
 To yield to the " Lady's" haughty " fiat" 
 
 All that she"asked for the sake of quiet. 
 
 So disaffection might make its way, 
 
 Creeping in silence on, 
 
 Till the peace of the Abbey became its prey ;
 
 And tmited feeling gone, 
 
 The monks, by timidity urged and led, 
 
 Might begia to wish for another head. 
 
 Some ambitious spirit would thus find scope 
 
 For a scarce-acknowledged but cherished hope, 
 
 As yet but seen in the distance dim, 
 
 That their reverend Father, if forced to yield, 
 
 Would resign the struggle and quit the field. 
 
 And the choice of the brethren fall on him ! 
 
 Did he really know what his monks would do ? 
 
 We need not to such a conclusion leap : 
 
 He only those in his guidance knew 
 
 As a careful shepherd knows his sheep. 
 
 Not that sheep I compare to the human race, 
 
 Men are far more wise and less innocent ; 
 
 But they say that each sheep has a difierent face ! 
 
 You will find it if on the search intent. 
 
 Just so an experienced ruler knows 
 
 Those who in trouble would prove his foes ; 
 
 For a Convent is but a minor realm, 
 
 A little world ia a narrow sphere ;
 
 And the master spirit who guides the hebn 
 Sees that his power would disappear, 
 (In spite of laws in wliich all agreed,) 
 If its ' prestige ' failed him in time of need — 
 Through the working of either a secret faction, 
 Or his failure in any great transaction. 
 What made the Abbot's prospects lower. 
 And seem more in gloom from hour to hour. 
 Was this : — To most of the brethren dear, 
 One in the Abbey he weU might fear. 
 Sub-Prior of a house not far from thence, 
 He left in disgrace, I wiU not tell why ; 
 Was received through the Abbot's benevolence, 
 But worked him evil continually. 
 The Abbot in fact had kno-wm for long 
 That much in his fold was going wrong, 
 Through this man's efforts a feud to raise. 
 Whore all should bo love and prayer and praise. 
 Can we wonder ho watched till break of day. 
 Looking in faith for the living ray 
 That gilds the soitows of those who pray.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 l!Ilj^ 
 
 thxxn "lf>0nu. 
 
 "And peace, for war is needless, 
 And rest, for stoiin is past. 
 And goal from fimshed laboui". 
 And anchorage at last." 
 
 N" silence the noble Abbey lies, 
 Till the dawn of returning day 
 Draws the sunbeam down from the glow- 
 ing skies, 
 
 To kiss the dew away ; 
 
 While the hare sits on the sparkling lawn, 
 
 Side by side with the Abbot's fawn : 
 
 That fawn, the gift of a little cluld, 
 
 Plaything, or ward, alternate styled ; 
 
 An orphan, left in the world alone. 
 
 Whom the gentle Abbot had made his own.
 
 He was fairly dowered, that orphan cliild ! 
 
 And, in \'irtuo of wardship, tlio Abbot mild 
 
 Might his rental claim till he came of age : (") 
 
 But a higher ambition his thoughts engage. 
 
 The little one he would train to know 
 
 The God who protected his childish years ; 
 
 On the rental he did not a thought bestow : 
 
 It was all laid by, and he had no fears 
 
 That the noble boy would his wealth misspend, 
 
 Whom ho taught to make the poor man Ms fi-iend. 
 
 But the time goes on, I must tell my talc : 
 
 And see ! all assembled around the gate, 
 
 An array of Knights, till a lady pale 
 
 Mounts her white steed as the clock tolls eight. 
 
 And departs on her way. But who doth ride 
 
 On that war-horse, unmatched in form, by her side ? 
 
 'Tis the Knight ! who has said a long farewell 
 
 To'Quarr Abbey ; and hiuTies back 
 
 In his Norman Keep once more to dwell : 
 
 Sorely hia heart will lack 
 
 The loving converse so long enjoyed ;
 
 Nor fail to experience an aching void. 
 
 " For his duty," his fi-iend the Abbot said, 
 
 " Was to live with his vassals, and be their head. 
 
 It was work for Heaven, and Heaven's work was blest ; 
 
 In later years he might look for rest ; 
 
 And from time to time, might his struggling will 
 
 Humble in prayer in their cloister still." 
 
 But plainly the Abbot before him set, 
 
 He had not a monk's vocation yet. 
 
 " He had kept him," he said, " for many a day. 
 
 For his soul's health received his vow ; 
 
 For they only can rule who have learned to obey : 
 
 But he earnestly charged him now 
 
 Not to go thence, and his true aim hide, 
 
 By giving way to his nature's pride. 
 
 But to show that reHg-ion can be of use 
 
 To the warrior, as well as the calm recluse." 
 
 The lady of Fortibus tried to seek, 
 
 As they ambled to Carisbrooke, 
 
 For the good Knight's thoughts of the Abbot meek ; 
 
 He could scarcely her manner brook,
 
 Till it came in his mind he might help the riglit, 
 
 By putting resentment out of sight. 
 
 So he talked of the Abbot's gentle rule, 
 
 Of his work with such patience done ; 
 
 Of the ardour that never seemed to cool, 
 
 If ought might for heaven be won ; 
 
 Of the love that he bore him : ho faltered here, 
 
 And let fall on his charger's neck a tear ! 
 
 "The Lady" was struck, as she well might bo, 
 
 The sturdy soldier so moved to see ! 
 
 But her speech she resumed : " Her opinion ran, 
 
 [She feared she was giving pain,] 
 
 That the Abbot must be an ambitious man. 
 
 And full of the love of gain. 
 
 "Why else does ho grasp at the livings all 
 
 That vacant within my earldom fall ?" 
 
 I need not stay to describe the rest 
 
 Of the converse ; sufl&ce, that the Knight was prcst ; 
 
 But he kept his temper, and held liis own, 
 
 Till " the Lady" spoke in a softened tone. 
 
 " Good Knight," she exclaimed at last, " I was wrong
 
 To promise those livings ; I would recal, 
 
 If I miglit, my steps ; but my promise has long 
 
 Been given : the preferment soon will fall. 
 
 Can you tell me how I can ease my mind, 
 
 An d a better mode of arranging find ?" 
 
 He paused for a moment, then spake again : 
 
 " Mj offer a thousand marks ensui-es, 
 
 An' it please you, to both the reverend men 
 
 To whom you assigned the Abbot's cures : 
 
 This amount wiU well reimburse your friends, 
 
 And for all disappointment make amends. 
 
 I can spare the money ; I only need 
 
 For payment to know that my plans succeed. 
 
 " The Lady" was silent, and almost shamed ; 
 
 But the Knight had her haughty feelings tamed. 
 
 In spite of her wealth, she the gift could deign 
 
 To take, and her claim withdraw ; 
 
 For herself and her heirs, she would henceforth refrain 
 
 From presenting the livings of Quan'. (^) 
 
 How the heart of the good Knight leaped that day 
 
 As he bent o'er his horse's mane to pray !
 
 II. 
 
 The Norman Castle to sounds of mirth 
 
 Re-echoed : from vale and hill 
 
 At the Klnight's return come his vassals forth, 
 
 And its ample courtyard fill. 
 
 And long on his accents with joy they hung ; 
 
 For the boy he had made his heir was young, 
 
 And seldom among them came. 
 
 And the time, how heavily it had passed ! 
 
 Unmarked and unmeasured by feast and fast, 
 
 It was ever one dreary same. 
 
 But now the hours go merrily round, 
 
 For each tenant his master and chief has found. 
 
 Did this chief his duties neglect or slight ? 
 
 Was he less on good deeds intent ? 
 
 Less bold in the saddle, less brave in the fight, 
 
 Than Avhen to the Abbey he went ? 
 
 No ! his heart that of yore for its on?n sorrow bled. 
 
 Now the sorrows of all would share ; 
 
 Wberever occasion his footsteps led, 
 
 The grieved and oppressed were liis cai-e :
 
 And all who roam homeless the land about, 
 
 The Knight or his chaplain would find them out. 
 
 " The Chaplain ?" no matter from whence he came, 
 
 But " good Brother John" was his usual name ! 
 
 And through many a season, day by day, 
 
 " Brother John" and the Knight together pray. 
 
 m. 
 
 They pray and they work : they do their parts 
 With patient faith and unswerving hearts. 
 The same kind of trial the Knight befals 
 Which vexed his soul in the Abbey walls ; 
 But temptation baffled soon loses force, 
 TlU it comes to be met as a thing of course. 
 Then we learn that the cares of life fulfil 
 The work of Heaven on the chastened will : 
 That the rugged heart in its prido and might 
 Needs the sharp file of suffering to keep it bright. 
 And if aU in this world that we highest prize 
 Must bo compassed by stern self-sacrifice ; 
 The merchant's wealth, the mechanic's fame.
 
 The statesman's ambition, the student's aim : 
 
 Not to mention love, which doth know no rest, 
 
 Till through long-tried constancy truly blest : 
 
 What wonder the glories that faith can trace 
 
 Must be won — as a runner wins a race ! 
 
 True, the runner's strength he may scarce control. 
 
 But he trains his body, and girds his soul ; 
 
 And but gains the reward of his toil at last, 
 
 When the fight is o'er and the stmggle past. 
 
 " So the doctrine of works you mean to preach !" — 
 
 Dear reader you should not chide, 
 
 I do but quote what the Scripttu'cs teach, 
 
 And add not a word beside. (}^) 
 
 "Well ! morals I hate : they lead one a dance !" 
 
 I stand rebuked ; and will only glance 
 
 At one more fact in the Eaiight's career. 
 
 You may see him his Norman fortress near : 
 
 Fair is the sight to the gazer's eye. 
 
 As it shews in the grandeur of bastion and keep, 
 
 Terraced high on the gi'assy steep. 
 
 Boldly against the glowing sky.
 
 Dotli he realize that the whole was given 
 
 To his heir, when he gave himself to Heaven ? 
 
 He does : at his monarch's strong behest 
 
 Its charge he will still retain, 
 
 But he walks its halls as a passing guest, 
 
 Nor calls it his own again : 
 
 Save the holy precincts where rest awhile 
 
 His gentle bride in her early grave : 
 
 She whose sweet presence, whose gladdening smile 
 
 Fell soft as the oil on the troubled wave. 
 
 Madly he loved her, with all the power 
 
 Of his own strong nature : but, like a flower 
 
 That shows no symptom of quick decay. 
 
 She was only lent for a jtassing day. 
 
 No one the cause of her illness knew ; 
 
 More gentle, and loving, and still, she grew ; 
 
 More closely around his heart she twined, 
 
 As her spirits drooped and her health declined : 
 
 Remedies reached not her weakened state. 
 
 They were wrongly chosen, or came too late. 
 
 One short summer and she was gone !
 
 The poor Knight's anguish was deep and long, 
 
 But the trial of lengthened suffering 
 
 No blessing seemed to his soul to bring. 
 
 He indulged in a bitter, resentful mood, 
 
 (As one who is under Heaven's ban,) 
 
 To his vassals and all the neighbourlK^od ; 
 
 And lived a lonely and morbid man, 
 
 Both with the world and himself at war — 
 
 You knoAv the rest, how he came to Quarr, 
 
 Dreaming his grief might pass away. 
 
 If his mind could rest, and his heart could pray. 
 
 lY. 
 
 He dreamed : but it is not delusion now 
 
 That brightens his eye and calms his brow. 
 
 We left him just when he turned to gaze 
 
 On his fair demesne ; while the air tint's haze 
 
 Fell like the earnest of peace and love 
 
 O'er his distant future lying. 
 
 Mark him : his eyes are fixed above, 
 
 The resemblance in thought applying :
 
 And doubt not tlie same deep holy calm, 
 
 Shall the present of life console, embalm. 
 
 But the King his services needs ; to quell 
 
 A raid of the "Welsh : he must once more dwell 
 
 In a noisy camp, and his Kfe resign 
 
 To the fortune of war, or to Love Divine ! 
 
 That fortune how blest, and that Love how near. 
 
 When he falls transfixed by a foeman's spear : 
 
 For his spirit, by earthly toils is prest, 
 
 And longs to escape to its heavenly rest. 
 
 He has swooned ; and his life-blood ebbs away ; 
 
 They would bear him back to his castle grey. 
 
 But no : he opens his languid eye, 
 
 And looks at his friends beseechingly. 
 
 He fain would speak 'ere they rise to go, 
 
 But his thoughts half wander, his voice is low. 
 
 " Take me to Quarr ;" he cries, " I would bo 
 
 On the peaceful shore of the Solent sea. 
 
 Take me to Quarr ; I would hear the chime 
 
 Of the Abbey bells, at the hour of " Prime." 
 
 My soul is athirst for the strains of praise
 
 The brethi'en in clioii- so sweetly raise. 
 
 Take me to Quair ; I would lay my head 
 
 In my quiet cell : on the pallet bed 
 
 Wliere of yore, like a tired child, I slept, 
 
 While the moonlight across the water crept. 
 
 Take me to Quarr : for my soul doth sigh 
 
 For the Abbot's blessing 'ere I die !" 
 
 His desire is granted ; the way seems long, 
 
 But the tide of life in its ebb gi'ows strong, 
 
 And lasts till his resting place is won. 
 
 And " Bless thee, my true, my noble son," 
 
 Is the greeting that falls on his dying ear 
 
 From the holy lips of the Abbot dear. 
 
 They must lose no time, for his honr is nigh,- — 
 
 The Abbot removes the standers by. 
 
 And stays awhile with the Knight alone : 
 
 The last good Food was softly given ; 
 
 And 'ere a calm half houi- had flo\vn. 
 
 So cahn, 'twas the blending of earth and Heaven, 
 
 The brethren repaired to the Chm-ch to pray, 
 
 For the soul of the Knight had passed away.
 
 drmtthisron. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 MUST bid you " good bye," for my tale 
 is done : 
 
 Oue-sided, I'll not deny ; 
 But whenever we speak of the rays of the svm, 
 They suggest a cloudless sky. 
 I admit that dark clouds o'er the faith arose, 
 The bHndest this fact must allow ; 
 Yet, though slu'ouded at times, it were wrong to 
 
 suppose 
 That old annals no rays of that glory (lisclose 
 Which kindles our atmosphere now. 
 And whatever xve think, Holy Love is the same ; 
 It leads to self-sacrifice, passions must tame. 
 'Tis the sum of perfection in all Christian men ; 
 The Cloister gave scope for its exercise then ;
 
 And wealth lent its aid the same truth to work out ; 
 That the Momks were good landlords no wise man 
 
 will doubt : 
 And yet through thcii' riches they fell : it is clear, 
 Had their lives been more simple, they still had been 
 
 here. 
 A dispassionate study of histoiy displays 
 More Abbots of Quarr than our guesses would raise. 
 Let us own it ; nor deem wo perfection have gained, 
 As a nation, because from excesses restrained 
 By our strong moral code : it w blessed, I Bay, 
 For the frail and imperfect to be 
 So hedged by opinion, they scarcely can stray : 
 But in looking around we must see 
 That our fathers a purer ideal maintained ; 
 That the true marks of sancitity farther off Ho : 
 And that if, in despite of this, wickedness reined, 
 And wo don't sink so low : yet we rarely rise high.
 
 (i) " And the Angelus strongly and sweetly sing." 
 The Angelus is the Angelical Salutation : see Luke i. 28. This is 
 sung in religious houses at what are called the Canonical Houi'S, viz : 
 nine, twelve, three, and sis : nine a.m. being the hour at which om' 
 Lord was sentenced to death, and also the time of day when the 
 Holy Ghost descended at Pentecost ; twelve, the hour when our Lord 
 was crucified ; three, when He gave up His Spirit into the Hands of 
 His Fatuer ; six, when He was taken down from the Cross and laid 
 in the grave. These hours wei-e also "canonical," orhoui'S of public 
 prayer under the Jewish dispensation. See Acts ii. 15 ; iii. 1 ; &c. 
 
 (~) "A credo and pater the service end." 
 From the earhest period of om- national history after the introduc- 
 tion of Christianity, it was the custom for the farm servants to stop 
 work when the bells of the nearest Abbey rang for the service ; at 
 such times they were taught to say the Belief, and the Lord's Prayer, 
 with heads uncovered. The practice was British as well as Saxon. 
 An old Welsh triad of the sixth century makes allusion to it. 
 " Hast thou heard what Bnmo sung ? 
 Chant thy Pater and thy Creed : 
 Fi-om death flight will not avail." 
 And again in the words of a very old Welsli poet : 
 
 " Tliou didst not chant thy Pater Noster 
 Either at Matins or Vespers." 
 See Ecclos : remains of the CjTiuy, &c.
 
 C^) " The Lady," the title by whicli she was known." 
 Tho Lady here alluded to is Isabella do Fortibua, who possesHcd 
 the sovereignty of the Isle of Wight in tho reign of Henry III. and 
 the earKer part of that of Edward I. Upon her death-bed, being child- 
 less, she was persuaded to make over the Earldom to tho Crown. 
 But subsequent remonstrances, raised by parties claiming tho Island 
 by descent from its ancient possessors, led to a judicial inquiry as to 
 the kind of persuasion which had been used. Those who aro conver- 
 sant with tho reign of Edward I. will feel tolerably sure that the 
 decision was in favoui" of the Crown. It was made upon tho evidence 
 of one of the Bishops who assisted at the signing of tho Will, and who 
 assorted upon oath that sho was a consenting party to the transfer. 
 Many historians, however, aro of opinion that it was an xm willing con- 
 sent, forced from her by moral coercion, rather than a matter of 
 unbiassed choice ; and it must be acknowledged that the whole aflfair 
 has an awkward look. 
 
 (*) "Then the Abbot a Chapter of monks eleven." 
 
 Monasteries were govcracd by Chaptci-s, or what we should call a 
 Council. There were small private Chapters held for occasional pur- 
 poses, and lai'ger, or general Chapters, for matters of deeper deUbera- 
 tion. A Council of eleven, under tho Abbot, in days when symbolism 
 prevailed as a popular fonn of teaching religious truths, would be 
 looked upon as representing figm-ativcly our Lo«D and His eleven 
 faithful Apostles. Tho omission of Judas from the number may 
 account for the superstitious prejudice which still prevails against 
 any assembly of persons who number thirteen, called together for 
 any purpose, either serious or conviWal.
 
 (5) " Already his livings are forty- tlii-ee !" 
 The holding of forty-thi-ee livings at once was far from uncommon 
 in the tJiirteenth century. John Mausell, a favourite of Henry III, 
 held no less than seven hundred ! The thing was managed in this 
 way. The hvings were let, or fanned out, as it was called, to certain 
 parties, who agreed to see that the Chm-ches were served, and the 
 parishioners cared for. Poor Clerks, or Cm-ates, were then put into 
 residence on very meagre allowances : the profits of the living, above 
 what was paid to the incumbent, went into the pocket of the factor 
 or agent tp whom it was fanned. 
 
 (8) " Vainly to us will our churls complain." 
 Chm-1 at that period was not a term of reproach, it merely signified 
 agi-iculturalist. Churl is dei-ivcd from the Saxon word Ceorle, a 
 husbandman. 
 
 (7) " Quari' charter, I told her, expressly said 
 
 TJio Hvings were all in the gift of its head." 
 
 It is not pretended that all tlieso livings were in the Abbot's gift. 
 Tho names are inserted at hap-hazard to fill up the narrative, exactness 
 of detail not being necessary to its general timtlifnluoss. I have 
 already stated that tho main features are coiTCCtly given. Groat 
 accuracy can hardly be expected when so fcw records are extant. 
 That many more might be elicited by indirect research there can be 
 little doubt, but unless the object wore more immediately liistorical 
 tho result of such research would hardly repay tho time and labour 
 expended upon it.
 
 (^) " In virtue of wardship the Abbot mikl 
 
 Might his rental claim till ho camo of ago." 
 
 Thia was tho usual law of wardsliip in that period. Wards wore 
 legitimate soui-cea of profit, and aa such wore let by tho Crown, or 
 given away in remuneration of services done to tho Crown. An heir 
 had often great difficulty in recovering hia own estate when entitled 
 to its cnjojTiicnt, from tho reluctance sho^ni by his Guardian to part 
 with such lucrative property. 
 
 (^) " For herself and her heirs she would henceforth refrain 
 From presenting tho livings of Quarr." 
 
 See her Charter to Quarr Abbey, Dugdalo's Monasticon. Vol. V. 
 (New Edition) page 319. 
 
 For the information of tho curious in such matters, tho following 
 list of parishes in which tho Abbey had property, or Chm*ch pati*onage, 
 is appended. 
 
 Isle of Wight. 
 
 Binstcad, cloae to tho Abbey. Binstoad was in iill pi*obability the 
 (7ra7i;/c, which supplied tho Abbey with food. Tho w<>!-.l /./,,^/,..,7 
 means standing place or station for corn, &c. 
 
 New Church. — The old parish Chui'ch of Rydo. Pati-ouago and 
 land. 
 
 NowpM't. — Chm'ch patronage. Fisheries, Mills, and Salt Marahea. 
 
 Cai'isbrooke. — Land and Preaentation, itp to a certain period, to 
 the pai-ish Chm-ch, and tho titles of the Chapel of St. Nicholas 
 within tho Castle walls.
 
 Arreton. — Clmrch and land. 
 
 Whippingliam. — Church patronage and land. 
 
 Godshill. — Church and land. 
 
 Gatecomb. — Land. • 
 
 Chale, Mill, and land, and, probably, the charge of keeping the S. 
 Catherine's light burning. Chale farm shews the remains of accom- 
 modation for a cell or small body of monks. 
 
 Besides the above, Quarr Abbey had property in the parishes of 
 ShaUfleet, Newtown, Ningwood, Bonchui'ch, S. Boniface, Comptou, 
 CalbomTie, &c. 
 
 The Abbey property in England was situated in Hampshire, Dorset- 
 shire, Somersetshire, and Devonshire. 
 
 In Hants, the following parishes are on record : — Newnham, 
 Lymington, Sway, Christ Church, Fleet, Staplehm-st, Eownams, 
 Cosham, Barbeflete, near Portsmouth, and Milford. 
 
 In Dorset, — Wraxhall S. Maiy, and Piddletown. 
 
 In Somerset, — Hardington Mandeville. 
 
 In Devonshire, — Ford and Forway. 
 
 Two other manors, those of Drayton, and Besselsleigh, I am inclined 
 to locate in Berksliiro, near Abingdon ; one branch of a veiy important 
 Isle of Wight family, the De Lisles, having possessed large estates in 
 that county, and intermarrying with the family at Besselsleigh ; but 
 it must be owned that this idea is rather hj^othetical, and rests 
 upon no very sure foundation. 
 
 The Abbey of Quarr was likewise endowed with considerable 
 property in Normandy. 
 
 ('") 1 Cor. ix. 24. 
 
 PRINTED BY W. K. BOWDEN, HOLYWELL STREET, OXFORD.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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