"No wonder. Thou, son Jocelin, sharest in my good things, in
food and drink, in riding and such like; but thou little
thinkest concerning the management of House and Family, the
various and arduous businesses of the Pastoral Care, which harass
me, and make my soul to sigh and be anxious." Whereto I, lifting
up my hands to Heaven: "From such anxiety, Omnipotent Merciful
Lord deliver me!"--I have heard the Abbot say, If he had been as
he was before he became a Monk, and could have anywhere got five
or six mares of income,' some three pound ten of yearly revenue,
'whereby to support himself in the schools, he would never have
been Monk nor Abbot. Another time he said with an oath, If he
had known what a business it was to govern the Abbey, he would
rather have been Almoner, how much rather Keeper of the Books,
than Abbot and Lord. That latter office he said he had always
longed for, beyond any other. _Quis talia crederet,'_ concludes
Jocelin, 'Who can believe such things?'

Three pound ten, and a life of Literature, especially of quiet
Literature, without copyright, or world-celebrity of literary-
gazettes,--yes, thou brave Abbot Samson, for thyself it had been
better, easier, perhaps also nobler! But then, for thy
disobedient Monks, unjust Viscounts; for a Domain of St. Edmund
overgrown with Solecisms, human and other, it had not been so
well. Nay neither could _thy_ Literature, never so quiet, have
been easy. Literature, when noble, is not easy; but only when
ignoble. Literature too is a quarrel, and internecine duel, with
the whole World of Darkness that lies without one and within
one;--rather a hard fight at times, even with the three pound ten
secure. Thou, there where thou art, wrestle and duel along,
cheerfully to the end; and make no remarks!