tension." This is granted by Benedict upon certain terms, which were that Abbot Hugo should give him new bonds, sealed with the seal of the Saint, for 40,000 dollars, payable in four years. The four years pass, and still there is no money in St. Edmund's treasury. So Benedict and Hugo make a new arrangement. The Abbot shall give to the Jew a bond for 88,800 dollars, to be paid in installments at the rate of 8,000 dollars a year. Somehow all this has grown out of loans amounting in all to 10,540 dollars. Nor is this the whole. Benedict has memoranda of certain "small debts, fourteen years old," due him from St. Edmund. Putting all together, the Hebrew's whole claim foots up 120,000 dollars "besides interest."

All these abuses, and many more, Abbot Samson undertook to put an end to; and he accomplished the work in an incredibly short space of time, and thereafter came to be in many ways one of the most notable men of his time. Yet of him after times narrowly missed knowing anything at all. Such profound historians as Hume and Lingard never heard of the man; nor would Carlyle or we have ever heard of him save for a sort of accident. But it so happened that there was in the monastery a young monk, Jocelyn de Brakelond by name, who knew him very well, being, as he says, "Chaplain to my Lord Abbot, living beside him night and day for the space of six years." This Jocelyn got into the way of jotting down

from time to time, in the most monkish of MonkLatin, a kind of Boswellian record of what he saw or had heard concerning the sayings and doings of Abbot Samson, which record grew into a manuscript of considerable size, the title of it being, "Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda, de Rebus Gestis Samsonis Abbatis Monasterii Sancti Edmundi" ("Chronicle of Jocelyn of Brakelond, of Things Done by Abbot Samson of the Monastery of St. Edmund "). Of this monk and this manuscript of his Carlyle thus writes:

• JOCELYN OF BRAKELOND.

"He was a kind of born Boswell, though an infinitesimally small one; neither did he altogether want his Johnson even there and then. Johnsons are rare; yet as has been asserted, Boswells still rarer,—the more is the pity on both sides! This Jocelyn, as we can discern well, was an ingenious and ingenuous, a cheery-hearted, innocent, yet withal shrewd, noticing, quick-witted man; and from under his monk's cowl has looked out on that narrow section of the world in a really human manner; not in any simial, canine, ovine or otherwise inhuman manner, afflictive to all that have humanity! The man is of patient, peaceable, loving, clear-smiling nature; open for this and that. A wise simplicity is in him; much natural sense; a veracity that goes deeper than words. Veracity: it is the basis of all; and some say it means genius itself; the prime essence of all genius whatsoever.

"Our Jocelyn for the rest, has read his classical manuscripts, his Virgilius, his Flaccus, Ovidius Naso; of

course still more, his Homilies and Breviaries, and if not the Bible, considerable extracts of the Bible. Then also he has a pleasant wit; and loves a timely joke, though in a mild subdued manner, very amiable to see. A learned grown man, yet with the heart as of a good child; whose whole life indeed has been that of a childSt. Edmundsbury monastery a larger kind of cradle for him, in which his whole prescribed duty was to sleep kindly, and love his mother well! This is the Biography of Jocelyn; 'a man of excellent religion,' says one of his contemporary Brother Monks, 'eximia religionis, potens sermone et opere.'

"For one thing, he had learned to write a kind of Monk or Dog Latin, still readable to mankind; and, by good luck for us, had bethought him of noting down thereby what things seemed notablest to him. Hence gradually resulted a Chronica Jocelini; new manuscript in the Liber Albus of St. Edmundsbury. Which Chronicle, once written in its childlike transparency, in its innocent good-humor, not without touches of ready pleasant wit and many kinds of worth, other men liked naturally to read; whereby it failed not to be copied, to be multiplied, to be inserted in the Liber Albus; and so surviving Henry the Eighth, Putney Cromwell, the dissolution of Monasteries, and all the accidents of malice and neglect for six centuries or so, it got into the Harleian Collection-and has now therefrom, by Mr. Rokewood of the Camden Society, been deciphered into clear print; and lies before us, a dainty thin quarto, to interest for a few minutes whomsoever it can."

Of this "Chronica Jocelini," Carlyle, who was at the time, we suppose, mainly busied upon his

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Cromwell," undertook to give a sort of abstract and summary, intending it most likely for some review; but at length made up his mind to add to it, by way of prefix and supplement, sundry pages of his own upon matters and things in general which had gradually accumulated upon his table without having been "translated into print." This prefatory and supplementary matter grew, as not unfrequently happens in such cases, to be more than double the bulk of the rest; and altogether it constitutes what we have ventured to denominate the olla podrida, "Past and Present."

In this dish the "Past "that is the summation of Jocelyn's Chronicle, here entitled "The Ancient Monk"-is the essential meat, a little tough perhaps, yet always sound; while the remainder, under such chapter heads as "Midas," "Sphinx," "Morrison's Pill," "Gospel of Mammonism," "Happy," "Gospel of Dilettantism," "Plugson of Undershot," "Labor," "Democracy," "Sir Jabesh Windbag," "Captains of Industry," "The Landed," "The Gifted," and "The Didactic," are the scraps, the potatoes, the turnips, the garlic, and the dishwater, which were thrown in to fill the big pot. Not that one can not, by dextrous use of the critical fork and spoon, fish out many wholesome bits from this olla podrida. Thus we fish up the following from the chapter entitled "Captains of Industry":

THE CHIVALRY OF LABOR.

"The Leaders of Industry, if Industry is ever to be led, are virtually the Captains of the World; if there be no nobleness in them, there will never be an Aristocracy more. But let the Captains of Industry consider; once again, are they born of other clay than the old Captains of Slaughter; doomed forever to be no Chivalry, but a mere Gold-plated Doggery-what the French well name 'Canaille, Doggery,' with more or less Gold carrion at its disposal. Captains of Industry are the true Fighters, henceforth recognizable as the only true ones: Fighters against Chaos, Necessity, and the Devils and Jötuns; and lead on Mankind in that great, and alone true and universal warfare; the stars in their courses fighting for them, and all Heaven and all Earth saying audibly, 'Well-done!' Let the Captains of Industry retire into their own hearts and ask solemnly, If there is nothing but vulturous hunger, for fine wines, valet reputation, and gilt carriages, discoverable there? . . . . Our England, our World, cannot live as it is. It will connect itself with a God again, or go down with nameless throes and fire-consummations, to the Devils. Thou who feelest aught of such a Godhead stirring in thee, any faintest intimations of it, as though heavy-laden dreams, follow it, I conjure thee. Arise, save thyself, be one of those that save thy country!

"You cannot lead a Fighting World without having it regimented, chivalried; and can you any more continue to lead a Working World unregimented, anarchic? . . . Will not one French Revolution and Reign of Terror suffice us, but must there be two? There will be two if needed; there will be twenty if needed; there will be just as many as are needed.

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