Robert Annys: Poor Priest
Robert Annys: Poor Priest
A Tale of the Great Uprising
By
ANNIE NATHAN MEYER
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1901
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1901,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Norwood Press
J. B. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
TO THE READER
Admirers of William Morris—among whomI count all his readers—will recognize the personaldescription of John Ball as taken from his"A Dream of John Ball." They will also notethat some parts of his sermon as well are fromthe same book. It seemed to me that certainbits of Morris's imaginative work were too fineand true to be spared in any attempt to set theblunt old poor priest before the modern reader.I have no fear of bearing off undeserved palms;for just as a few of the sayings of John Ball bearthe marks of authenticity too clearly upon themto be mistaken for mine, so such as are takenfrom Morris are as clearly distinguished by themarks of supreme beauty and genius.
In the course of many years of close reading,it is inevitable that there should have been woveninto this book some of the ideas and prepossessionsof certain Church historians. Althoughmany other writers have been exceedingly helpfuland suggestive, I want especially to acknowledgemy indebtedness to Renan, Kingsley, Fisher,Baldwin Brown, Gosselin, Braun, Montalembert,Vincent, and Sheppard.
I
The great Minster of the Fens never lookedlovelier than at the close of a November day, 1379.The coloring of Fenland is not attuned to thebrightness of Spring or Summer, but there is inthe late Autumn a subtle quality that brings outits true charm. The dull browns and yellows ofthe marshes, the warm red-browns of the rushes,the pale greens of the swamp grasses with theglint of the sun low down at their feet,—all onthis day found just the right complement in thegreat, heavy, gray clouds that broke here andthere only to show irregular bars of saffron sky.Just before night fell there was one suprememoment when a patch of gold lingered in thenorth just over the wonderful octagon, the gloriouscrown of St. Audrey, and the great west frontwith its noble tower and its wealth of windowsflung the orange gleam of the setting sun over[2]the landscape as a gauntlet proudly thrown inthe face of Night. The lordly outlines of thevast edifice looked lordlier than ever as the slowlygathering darkness descended and drew it up intoitself.
The east wind blowing from over the sea, pungentwith the odor of marsh plants, was keen,and caused a man who was surveying the sceneto gather his thin gown more closely about him.Until he stirred, this man might almost have beentaken for a part of the landscape, so admirablydid his garb of coarse russet sacking harmonizewith his surroundings. Alt