Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 January 1875 — The Custom of Dunmow. [ARTICLE]

The Custom of Dunmow.

One sunny autumn day, hundreds of years ago, when the religion of Rome prevailed in England, the prior of the old Convent of Dunmow, a gentle End holy man, was told that two young strangers, were at the door and solicited an interview with him. He rose, and accompanied by two or three of the brothers betook himself to the portal of the convent, where he found a very handsome young man and a fair young woman kneeling reverently on the stones. They were dressed like peasants, but the youth had a stately air, while the beauty of his companion shone through her coarse dress like a star from out a cold, gray cloud. “ What is it that you desire, my chil-dren?—-and why do you kneel here so humbly?” asked the Kind old prior. The young man looked up with a happy smile, most beautiful to see, and replied: “ Father, twelve months and a day have passed since we were wedded —and from that blessed hour we have lived in perfect peace, confidence and love. Not one word of bitterness, unkindness or dissension has passed between us. We have gone on, growing more and more happy, grateful and loving day by day, and now we have come to this holy house of our blessed Lady of Dunmow to crave your blessing on the wedded love that has stood so good a test.” The prior smiled benignly, and, stretching out his thin, white hands, he blessed them fervently, rejoicing, devout old monk though he was, in their beauteous youth, their faith and joy and tender love. The wedded lovers bowed their fair heads yet more humbly, seeming to feel that gracious benediction falling upon them like an invisible celestial shower. Then they rose up, murmured their thanks and were about to turn away from the door when they caught sight of the convent cook coming down into the court bearing on his back a huge flitch of brown bacon. The cook was a fat, lazy, short-breathed old fellow, and he seemed so overwhelmed by his burden that the happy young couple, beholding him, laughed out right merrily. The old prior laughed also and even the solenfh monks behind him seemed glad of an opportunity to stretch the stiff muscles about .heir mouths and smiled grimly at the ludjerous sight. * All at once a pleasant thought seemed to strike the venerable prior and he said to the pleasant couple: “My children, take you that mighty flitch of bacon as a testimonial for your fidelity and tender affection toward one another. Methmks such love as yours maketh the whole world better and brighter. The story of it hath given a sweetness to this autumn morn beyond the sweetness of summer roses. So take our lovely gift—feast your friends upon it, and think sometimes on the Convent of Dunmow and on the old man who has done with the life of the world but not with gentle, human sympathies.” The young man seemed touched, and smiled softly as he responded: “We thank thee, good prior, for thy gift. It is dear to us, not for its value, but because it proves that thou esteemest our love a good and beautiful thing, and that the blessing of the priest came from the heart of the man. I now give in return, to the Convent of Dunmow, certain broad lands near by, which will yield thee and the holy "brothers a thousand marks a year. But to this grant I annex this condition: , Whenever a wedded pair shall come to the convent and swear by the blessed Lady of Dunmow that they have lived as we have lived, in perfect love and concord, for a year and a day, they shall receive a goodly flitch of bacon. So, reverend father, out of a simple chance a useful and pleasant custom shall grow—and as long as hungry folks shall relish good bacon the example of our love shall endure, and our names and thine be blessed. So mote it be!” The prior and the monks looked at the speaker in silent astonishment, and it was noticed that even the pretty young wife stepped a little back from her husband and gazed at him fixedly, like one bewildered. “My son,” at length spoke the prior—“thou art light-hearted as beseemeth one of thy years, but thou should’st not jest with reverend men like us—if so be thou dost jest—if not, who art thou, and of what degree?” “Nay, father, replied the young man gravely, “ I do not jest. In me thou se 3st thy neighbor, Sir Reginald Fitzwatcr. I am, as thou knowest, rich enough to fulfill my promise to the convent. lam indeed the richest of men, since Heaven hath blessed me with this E riceless treasure” —and he drew to his reast the beautiful ladv, who still gazed on him in blushing bewilderment. Then he continued: “It was by a happy chance, while journeying idly, far from my own domains, that I first saw my love, the sweetest flower of womanhood, blooming in a cottage garden. In the disguise of a peasant I wooed and won her, and now after our trial of a year and a day 1 am conducting her in pride and joy to the noble halls she is to grace and brighten. Dear love, pardon me that I did play a part. I have been happy in sharing thy lowly condition, may’st thou be happy in sharing my higher estate. Holy prior and my good fathers, I will send a man and a mule for the convent’s gift—mine may you all live many years to enjoy.” There was great rejoicing at the convent—but greater at the castle, when Sir Reginald, who had been sorely missed, came walking quietly and smilingly through its great arched portal, with his gentle bride—and when the rare beauty of the young couple came out from under the eclipse of. their rude peasant dress, and shone .resplendent in the rich costume becoming their station. But all said that the light of love and content in the young husband’s eyes was a rarer and more beautiful sight to see than the diamond circlet he placed on the fair head of his bride—and that even those costly jewels seemed to pale in the radiance of her sweet, simple graciousness—the “ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” which she always wore. It is said that Sir Reginald and Lady Fitzwater lived manny happy years, and died on the same day and were buried in one grave.— Grace Greenwood, in The Record.