Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers | Page 5

her own reputation was a little blown upon in the

earlier days of her earthly pilgrimage; then things were so apt to be
misrepresented--in short, she would leave the whole affair to St. Austin,
who being a gentleman, could interfere with propriety, avenge her
affront as well as his own, and leave no loop-hole for scandal. St.
Austin himself seems to have had his scruples, though of their precise
nature it would be difficult to determine, for it were idle to suppose him
at all afraid of the Baron's boots. Be this as it may, the mode which he
adopted was at once prudent and efficacious. As an ecclesiastic, he
could not well call the Baron out--had his boots been out of the
question; so he resolved to have recourse to the law. Instead of
Shurland Castle, therefore, he repaired forthwith to his own
magnificent monastery, situate just without the walls of Canterbury,
and presented himself in a vision to its abbot. No one who has ever
visited that ancient city can fail to recollect the splendid gateway which
terminates the vista of St. Paul's street, and stands there yet in all its
pristine beauty. The tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns
its battlements is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said to
have been added some centuries after by a learned but jealous
proprietor, for the purpose of shooting any wiser man than himself,
who might chance to come that way. Tradition is silent as to any
discharge having taken place, nor can the oldest inhabitant of modern
days recollect any such occurrence. [Footnote: Since the appearance of
the first edition of this Legend "the guns" have been dismounted.
Rumor hints at some alarm on the part of the Town Council.] Here it
was, in a handsome chamber, immediately over the lofty archway, that
the Superior of the monastery lay buried in a brief slumber, snatched
from his accustomed vigils. His mitre--for he was a mitred Abbot, and
had a seat in parliament--rested on a table beside him: near it stood a
silver flagon of Gascony wine, ready, no doubt, for the pious uses of
the morrow. Fasting and watching had made him more than usually
somnolent, than which nothing could have been better for the purpose
of the Saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all the colors of the
rainbow.
"Anselm!" said the beatific vision,--"Anselm! are you not a pretty
fellow to lie snoring there when your brethren are being knocked at
head, and Mother Church herself is menaced?--It is a sin and a shame,
Anselm!"

"What's the matter?--Who are you?" cried the Abbot, rubbing his eyes,
which the celestial splendour of his visitor had set a-winking. "Ave
Maria! St. Austin himself! Speak, _Beatissime!_ what would you with
the humblest of your votaries?"
"Anselm!" said the saint, a "brother of our order, whose soul Heaven
assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He had been ignominiously
kicked to the death, Anselm; and there he lieth check-by-jowl with a
wretched carcass, which our sister Bridget has turned out of her
cemetery for unseemly grinning. Arouse thee, Anselm!"
"Ay, so please you, _Sanctssime!_" said the Abbot. "I will order
forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirty _Paters,_ and thirty _Aves."_
"Thirty fools' heads!" interrupted his patron, who was a little peppery.
"I will send for bell, book, and candle--"
"Send for an inkhorn, Anselm. Write me now a letter to his Holiness
the Pope in good round terms, and another to the Sheriff, and seize me
the never-enough-to-be anathematized villain who hath done this deed!
Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm!--up with him!--down with his
dwelling place, root and branch, hearth-stone and roof-tree,--down with
it all, and sow the site with salt and sawdust."
St. Austin, it will perceived, was a radical reformer.
"Marry will I," quoth the Abbot, warming with the Saint's eloquence:
"ay, marry will I, and that instanter. But there is one thing you have
forgotten most Beatified--the name of the culprit."
"Robert de Shurland."
"The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!" said the Abbot, crossing himself,
"won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir Robert is a bold baron, and a
powerful: blows will come and go, and crowns will be cracked and--"
"What is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?"
"Very true, _Beatissime!_--I will don me with speed and do your
bidding."
"Do so, Anselm!--fail not to hang the Baron, burn his castle, confiscate
his estate, and buy me two large wax candles for my own particular
shrine out of your share of the property."
With this solemn injunction, the vision began to fade.
"One thing more!" cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.
"What is that?" asked the Saint.
"_O Beate Augustine, ora pro nobis!_"

"Of course I