Brother Copas | Page 5

in England, and none in any other country; and is proud of its
singularity. It, too, has its stream of life, and on the whole a very
gracious one, with its young, careless voices and high spirits. It lies, as
I say, south of the Close; beyond the northward fringe of which you
penetrate, under archway or by narrow entry, to the High Street, where
another and different tide comes and goes, with mild hubbub of carts,
carriages, motors--ladies shopping, magistrates and county councillors
bent on business of the shire, farmers, traders, marketers. . . . This
traffic, too, is all very English and ruddy and orderly.
Through it all, picturesque and respected, pass and repass the bedesmen
of Saint Hospital: the Blanchminster Brethren in black gowns with a
silver cross worn at the breast, the Beauchamp Brethren in gowns of
claret colour with a silver rose. The terms of the twin bequests are not
quite the same. To be a Collegian of Christ's Poor it is enough that you
have attained the age of sixty-five, so reduced in strength as to be
incapable of work; whereas you can become a Collegian of Noble

Poverty at sixty, but with the proviso that misfortune has reduced you
from independence (that is to say, from a moderate estate). The
Beauchamp Brethren, who are the fewer, incline to give themselves airs
over the Blanchminsters on the strength of this distinction: like
Dogberry, in their time they have "had losses." But Merchester takes,
perhaps, an equal pride in the pensioners of both orders.
Merchester takes an even fonder pride in St. Hospital itself--that
compact and exquisite group of buildings, for the most part Norman,
set in the water-meadows among the ambient streams of Mere. It lies a
mile or so southward of the town, and some distance below the School,
where the valley widens between the chalk-hills and, inland yet, you
feel a premonition that the sea is not far away. All visitors to
Merchester are directed towards St. Hospital, and they dote over it--the
American visitors especially; because nowhere in England can one find
the Middle Ages more compendiously summarised or more charmingly
illustrated. Almost it might be a toy model of those times, with some of
their quaintest customs kept going in smooth working order. But it is
better. It is the real thing, genuinely surviving. No visitor ever finds
disappointment in a pilgrimage to St. Hospital: the inmates take care of
that.
The trustees, or governing body, are careful too. A few years ago,
finding that his old lodgings in the quadrangle were too narrow for the
Master's comfort, they erected a fine new house for him, just without
the precincts. But though separated from the Hospital by a roadway,
this new house comes into the picture from many points of view, and
therefore not only did the architect receive instructions to harmonise it
with the ancient buildings, but where he left off the trustees succeeded,
planting wistarias, tall roses and selected ivies to run up the coigns and
mullions. Nay, it is told that to encourage the growth of moss they
washed over a portion of the walls (the servants' quarters) with a weak
solution of farmyard manure. These conscientious pains have their
reward, for to-day, at a little distance, the Master's house appears no
less ancient than the rest of the mediaeval pile with which it composes
so admirably.

With the Master himself we have made acquaintance. In the words of
an American magazine, "the principal of this old-time foundation,
Master E. J. Wriothesley (pronounced 'Wrottesley') Blanchminster,
may be allowed to fill the bill. He is founder's kin, and just sweet."
The Master stepped forth from his rose-garlanded porch, crossed the
road, and entered the modest archway which opens on the first, or outer,
court. He walked habitually at a short trot, with his head and shoulders
thrust a little forward and his hands clasped behind him. He never used
a walking-stick.
The outer court of St. Hospital is plain and unpretending, with a
brewhouse on one hand and on the other the large kitchen with its
offices. Between these the good Master passed, and came to a second
and handsomer gate, with a tower above it, and three canopied niches
in the face of the tower, and in one of the niches--the others are
empty--a kneeling figure of the great cardinal himself. The passageway
through the tower is vaulted and richly groined, and in a little chamber
beside it dwells the porter, a part of whose duty it is to distribute the
Wayfarers' Dole--a horn of beer and a manchet of bread--to all who
choose to ask for it. The Master halted a moment to give the porter
good evening.
"And how many to-day, Brother Manby?"
"Thirty-three, Master, including a