Chapter XIII “Which is the Better Life?”
After the departure of Ceolwulf and Athelhune from Boseham, only three days before the restoration of Ælfhere to his homestead had been so happily accomplished, considerable anxiety was caused to the worthy monks and Ædric as to what had become of Wulfstan. Father Dicoll had got the children and several of the older men to search everywhere, but naturally to no purpose, and as night set in the hopelessness of the search became evident.
“Oh! Father Dicoll, what can have become of him?” asked Ædric, piteously.
“My son, God will take care of him, and I should not be astonished if he had gone somehow with the others; if he has not, I feel sure, seeing that the lad is a quick lad and naturally endowed with the instincts of self-preservation, he will come in later on. He may, perchance, have gone out to kill some wild animal, a hare or a coney, maybe; but, wherever he is, he is in God’s hands, so let us not be over-anxious, but pray for his safe return.”
This was not very hopeful comfort, but certainly there were no means of giving any other, and Ædric had to spend a weary night, waking up frequently and putting out his hand in the darkness to feel if his brother had come back, and was sleeping on the pile of skins beside him; but in every case he was disappointed, and after an anxious reflection as to what could have become of him, Ædric fell off to sleep again.
The anxiety of the monks and Ædric was not allayed the next morning, when they found that it had been snowing during the night, and there were one or two ugly-looking footmarks outside the door of their hut, which looked very much as though a wolf or two had been prowling round during the night.
“Well, my son, it is no good making thyself unhappy about him,” said brother Corman. “I think it is more than likely he managed to hide himself away on board the boat, and has sailed away to Wihtea as he wished.”
“But he might have told me he was going. Why, and now I think of it, and so he did. What a stupid I was not to mind what he said! But I did not give heed to his words then, because I did not think he could possibly get on board without Ceolwulf seeing him, but, of course, he must have done it. Oh, how glad I am! But what a lucky fellow he is!” added Ædric, wistfully. “He will see our old home, and perhaps father; who knows?”
“Then, no doubt, he will send over and fetch thee, if all goes well; so now thou canst be happy again. But we shall have to take leave of thee soon, Ædric. Thou art to go to Wilfrid, the bishop, in Selsea.”
“But I don’t want to go. Why should I? I am much happier here with thee, Father Dicoll.”
“Yes, but thou art not safe here, especially now that thy old ceorl has fought so well at Cissanceaster. All the country is talking about him, and they will soon know that he is gone on an expedition to Wihtea to turn out the ally of the South Saxons.”
“Oh! I don’t want to leave thee; thou hast been so kind to me. Canst thou not come too if I have to go?”
“I am afraid Wilfrid will not care to have us; and to tell thee the truth, I don’t think he will say we are the sort of men who ought to bring thee up.”
“Why not? You both believe in the same God. You are both Christians, are you not?”
“Yes; but I shall never make thee understand how little it takes to make men cease to be of one mind in a house. We think we are right, and Wilfrid thinks he is right, but we are willing to think the differences are of little importance, only we don’t like to give up our old custom, while he thinks we are stubborn schismatics and obdurate stumbling-blocks, stiff-necked in our ignorance and blinded by our own conceits. Truly our blessed Lord was right when He said, ‘I came not to bring peace upon the earth, but a sword.’”
This was all impossible for Ædric to understand. That Christians who took their lives in their hands to convert the heathen, whose whole doctrine turned upon love, charity, peace, should yet be so bitter against each other, was incomprehensible to him, and still more so that they should let this appear in the face of strangers and the common enemy.
“Well, brother Corman, Wulfstan and I often quarrel, but we always make it up and fight like anything against anyone who is our enemy, and we don’t let them know we quarrel.”
The conversation was interrupted by breakfast, after which arrangements were talked about for taking Ædric to Wilfrid.
The monks had shown a certain animosity and bitterness in speaking of Wilfrid which had communicated itself to Ædric, and he was very unwilling to go to him. He was eager to know more about him, but the monks, to do them justice, were not willing to speak against the bishop, or to prejudice the mind of the boy in any way; while feeling as they did that the branch of the Christian church which they represented was older than the later form introduced by St. Augustine the Monk, they could not but be irritated at the superiority which Wilfrid assumed, and his assertion that they were in error. Worst of all, the new missionaries from Rome had sided with the victorious and pagan Saxon, and had added insult to injury by branding the suffering British with the odious name of unorthodox. And after all, what were these great differences? A fashion of shaving the head dissimilar to that prevailing at Rome, and a different system for calculating the Paschal moon. For practical purposes this last was the more serious difficulty, for it occasioned the inconvenient anomaly of one set of Christians fasting while the other set were feasting, according as they observed the Roman or the Eastern custom of calculating Easter; but the fashion of the tonsure was quite as warmly disputed, and the Irish monks were taunted with being the imitators of Simon Magus!1
The preparations of the monks did not take very long, but it suddenly occurred to brother Corman that Ædric could not walk, and they had no conveyance by which he could be carried. It certainly would have seemed a matter of no great difficulty to have thought of this before, but their minds were so occupied with speculation, and the little daily round of their religious services, teaching the few children that came to be taught, and providing for their small daily wants, that they had not given any thought as to how Ædric was to get to Selsea, a distance of some five or six miles.
“Beate Columba!” said Father Dicoll, “but my head gets duller every day. Why did I not think of this before? We shall have to send someone to tell Wilfrid, and who will go?”
“True,” said Corman, looking at Dicoll with a perplexed air. “We have nought that will tempt any of these South Saxons to go. I shall have to go myself.”
“The matter is one that is somewhat urgent, I fear, for the boy ought to be with Wilfrid before night, in case the eorldoman Berchthune should send for him. But let us see if we cannot get any of these children to take a message for us.”
So saying, Father Dicoll called out to a group of children that were making mud pies on the shore a little way off.
The children paid no attention at first, for they were making too much noise among themselves to be able to hear Father Dicoll. At last, a curly pated, blue-eyed, young Saxon heard him, and thumped a few of the other children to make them keep quiet, which, strangely enough, had the desired effect, which caused brother Corman, who was of a moralising turn, to observe how strangely the same process produced different results.
“For if I beat these younglings they don’t keep quiet, but raise a greater clamour; whereas when that yellow-haired pagan beats his brethren they keep as quiet as mice. Perhaps they know that the process will go on until they stop, with him; whereas they have found out that after the blow has fallen there is no more danger from me. Truly, to get what one wants in this world, one ought to have no heart, and keep on thumping.”
“Here, Ceolric, my child,” called Father Dicoll, “I want to know if thou wilt do something for me.”
The youngster ran up to the monk readily when he understood he wanted him, for the monks were favourites with the children and their mothers, and were not disliked by the men; indeed, by most they were decidedly liked.
“Dost thou think thou couldest find thy way to Cymenesora if brother Corman were to put thee over the creek?”
“I don’t know, Father Dicoll; it is a good long way and father said I wasn’t to go away far from home.”
“Is thy father in?”
“Not as I know, but mother is. There she stands yonder, thou hadst best ask her.”
“But wouldest thou go if she would let thee?”
Upon this the boy fell to scratching his head. It was quite clear he did not want to go, but, at the same time, did not want to disappoint the monks.
“Look here, Ceolric, if I were to promise thee a fishing line and hook, wouldest thou go then?”
“I’ve got one.”
“Then what would make thee like to go?”
“I don’t know as anything would that thou hast got to give me.”
The poverty of the poor monks was very well known, and certainly, if they had made any converts from the rough and boorish South Saxons, such conversion must have been entirely brought about by conviction, unalloyed with any thoughts of earthly gain.
Seeing the hopelessness of finding a messenger among the Boseham children, and, consequently, among the rest of the population—for if they could not prevail on the children, among whom their influence was greatest and their little rewards most prized, they certainly would have no success with the adults—it became evident brother Corman would have to go himself.
Ædric could not help seeing what a great deal of trouble he was giving these excellent monks, and, being a good-hearted boy, he felt very grateful to them, and more than ever sorry to leave them. The contrast of their simple, unworldly ways, their gentleness, and readiness to do good to others, with the rough, quarrelsome boastfulness of the men among whom he had lived, was not lost upon him.
The conversations, too, that he had with Father Dicoll had taught him many things he had never dreamt of before. When he was suffering great pain from his leg, it had been a relief to him to listen to Corman telling him of the terrible sufferings of Him who had no need to suffer, but had voluntarily undergone the most dreadful agony of body and mind for the sake of His enemies. It had been quite a new thing to hear that pain was a blessing, that it purified and sanctified; and now, when Corman had started on Malachi’s little raft to row down the creek, and cross about a mile further down to the other shore, and thence walk to Selsea, he longed to ask Father Dicoll a few questions, and fortunately Father Dicoll seemed in a talkative mood, for he presently turned to Ædric, and said:
“My son, this is perhaps the last time we may meet. Thou wilt go to a much more learned man than we are, if report speaks true, and one who has great reputation for piety. But remember, my son, that before honour is humility, and that the first thing in life is to be meek and lowly in heart, and then, loving unto all men; if we heartily desire to think others are better than ourselves, thou mayest depend upon it we shall live happier and die better. But what dost thou think should be the aim of our lives?”
After thinking a little Ædric answered, “I should have said a little while ago to be great and honoured in war, to kill a great number of my enemies, and to leave a great name behind me, was the noblest aim in life for a hero and a warrior.”
“Dost thou think so now?”
“No, I don’t think I do; and yet it is a great thing to be very brave, and do great deeds, and leave a name behind thee, is it not, Father Dicoll?”
“Certainly it is, my son; but what braver deed could anyone have done than He did who gave His life for us? What greater name can anyone leave behind than the name of Him who gave His life a ransom for many? Is not saving life as noble as killing? Is not making more noble than destroying? But what dost thou now think the aim of life?”
“I think,” answered Ædric, slowly and meditatively, “the aim of a life ought to be to do something great, but I don’t quite know what that ought to be.”
“No, my son, no doubt thou dost not, for it all depends upon what we call ‘great.’ Hitherto thou hast thought—and no blame to thee, for thou knewest no better—that to live the life of a warrior, and make thy name more famous than others, was the highest object. It has never occurred to thee to think of others, but if thou wilt think, thou wilt see that in proportion as thy warlike fame should increase, others must suffer, and according to thy ideas of glory the more who suffer the greater will be thy renown. In other words, thy reputation would be the reputation of the most ferocious wild beast which preys on human food.”
“But, Father, everybody I ever met praises the great warrior, the hero. Where canst thou meet a poet or skald who does not sing the fame of some noble chieftain?”
“True, my son, but because many are in error, does that make the mistake any the less? Now let us begin at the beginning: what is the thing in daily use thou thinkest has called for the most cleverness in making?”
Ædric thought a little; there were not many things in daily use at that time that were the result of much ingenuity, but at last he said, “I think a plough, or a boat, is a very useful thing, and must have taken a clever man to think of!”
“Well, yes; but I think a plough is much the more ingenious of the two, for a bit of wood will make a boat, and it is very easy to improve on that when once the idea is started, which any child can do by throwing a stick into a pond; but a plough requires much more thought. However, let us take a plough. Thinkest thou it is easier to make a plough—one that is complete and useful in all its parts—or to destroy one that is made?”
“Why, it is much easier to destroy it.”
“Just so; and would the man who destroyed it be thought a more celebrated man than the one who made it?”
“No, certainly not; he would be thought an idle fool.”
“Then the destroyer of what is useful is very much the same as an idle fool, is that so?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Now we all agree, heathen and Christian alike, that man was made by some Divine power: your legends say that the All-Father made men, which is exactly what Christians say. Is not a man more useful than a plough, and infinitely more cleverly made? Of course he is. Well, what must the man be who, to amuse himself, or gain glory, which is the same thing to him spends all his life in smashing the most wonderful of all created things? Is he not a destroyer? and we have said that a destroyer is the same as an idle fool. Now, dost thou think that to be an idle fool is a worthy aim? But I need not ask such a question.”
“But, Father Dicoll, it is a glorious thing, whatever thou sayest, to die fighting, or, better still, to live fighting for what is one’s own, to protect those who are being robbed by those who have no right to take from the weaker.”
“Part of what thou sayest is not devoid of truth, and to the weak nature of man, who does not understand divine mysteries, it certainly seems to be a fine thing to be up and doing, to protect from wrong those who are too weak to protect themselves; but I think more is done in this world by the example of Christian meekness and heavenly wisdom, than by all the blows struck by earthly arms even in a just quarrel. What said our Lord Himself? ‘If he smite thee on one cheek, offer to him the other also’; and again: ‘Put up thy sword into his place, for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’ To fight with carnal weapons has always seemed to me to show an utter want of faith. Look at the Christian religion: it grew not by the power of earthly grandeur, but by the blood of the blessed martyrs. Through three centuries almost they died one after the other, until at last men came to see that killing would not stop the faith, but that, like a fabled monster, from each death a thousand more believers sprung up. It was the beauty of holiness that captivated the world at last, not the victory of Constantine: that was but the effect of the growth of Christianity, not the cause of its universal acceptance. But there was one part of thy remark, Ædric, that was wholly wrong: it is not a glorious thing to die or to live fighting for one’s own; for what is thine own? Is anything thou hast thine own?”
“My life is, my clothes are, lots of things are.”
“What dost thou consider thine own to mean?”
“Why, what is my own, what I can give away, keep to myself if I like; that nobody else can have or take away from me; that I can destroy, do what I like with, of course.”
“Well, that is what most people understand by their own. But think if that is the correct description of what is thine own. Is thy life thine own? Canst thou keep it to thyself? Can nobody else take it away from thee? Thou canst certainly destroy it, or give it away, and therein lies the responsibility of ownership, which I will talk about later on, if we have time. But is it not the same with all that thou hast got? Cannot everything be taken from thee that thou hast? Dost thou not see that thou art entirely at the mercy of some over-ruling Power? If, then, thou wouldst fight for what thou callest thine own when anybody comes or wishes to take it away from thee, to save one thing thou wilt most likely lose another. Even if thou succeedest thou art certain to be the worse off; for no one would attempt to take away the goods of another unless he were pretty nearly equal to the other in strength, or some other quality; while he would not attack thee unless he thought he were superior to thee, or had a good chance of succeeding. Is it not better to have no ‘thine own’? He who taught us the way of life, who, having all things, who being God, yet thought it not unworthy of Him to be the poorest man upon earth; who, having all things offered to Him (which He could have had indeed without such offer) by the Tempter, yet chose to wander upon earth, having nowhere to lay His head—He had no ‘His own.’ No, He preached, and practised what He preached—the universal love of God to man, and of man to his fellow. ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ is all we ought to ask for ourselves in the way of earthly wants; all else has to do with our spirits, our souls.
“The instinct that causes us to wish for our own, to fight for our own, or to die for our own, is not the instinct of a Christian. ‘Sell all thou hast and give to the poor,’ are our Lord’s words: for all we want in this world are food and raiment, which having, let us be therewith content. How did the first disciples of our Lord live after He was taken from them? ‘Neither said any of them that ought of the things which he possessed was his own, but they had all things in common.’ The more all of us realise that this is not our life, that our home is not here, the happier we shall be. A man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of things which he possesseth, but in the possession of the Holy Spirit of God, which no human power can take from him; in fact, the more they try to take it away, the more the Spirit abideth, for as the soul resisteth temptation, so it becometh stronger, holier, purer. The aim of our lives should be to live like Christ; and I have often told thee how He lived. But we cannot attain to perfection by our own efforts, it must be the faith in Jesus, which will only do this; and this comes with His Holy Spirit. But by prayer and fasting and unceasing watchfulness we may prepare our bodies, and make them more fit to be the tabernacles of the Holy Ghost. But remember, my son, that the great danger to all men is to think of themselves. In deep religious meditation there is much danger of thinking only of yourself. The rule of life should be to work and to obey: laborare est orare—abolish self, forget self, annihilate self. So know thyself that thou mayest know thy faults; think not so to know thyself as to think thou hast any virtues. We have none but by the Spirit of God.
“But I fear I have not done my duty in telling thee how to live. Thou hast a mission before thee, my son, and God will help thee. Thou dost not yet know Him; but He will draw thee to Himself. If, as thou growest older, the pleasures of the world, the gibes of others, or the temptations of the flesh, should allure thee into sin, remember that a little endurance here will procure everlasting happiness hereafter. And, above all things, work; work is the great and homely friend that drives away temptation. Flee youthful lusts which war against the soul; yea, run away from them. Get up, run about; above all, work and pray. And now, my son, may the blessing of God go with thee. Thou hast been brought here in His wonderful wisdom to be as a brand plucked from the burning, and, perhaps, to be a great instrument to win souls to God. The aim of thy life must be to cast self on one side, and imitate the life of Christ. This will be a hard task. Thou wishest to be a hero. The greatest hero is he who unconsciously does simple or great deeds for the sake of others, but which may cause him unutterable suffering. But, remember, it is the unconsciousness of the actions that makes the heroism; I mean the unconsciousness that thou art doing anything great. And it is not the actions that the world calls great that are always great. I believe the greatest heroes are known only to God.
“And now, my son, let us pray that His Holy Spirit may fill thy heart, for thou hast a worthy object in life before thee, and wilt need much strength to fulfil it.”
Notes
1 Vide Milman. Latin Christianity, vol. ii., pp. 247-269.