We generally knew him by the alias of "Roger," in memory of the
Ingoldsby Legends, where
"Roger the Monk
Got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed,
And tucked him in."
There was no friend to bestow such care upon our Roger, he therefore lay
helplessly upon the bare stone until refreshing sleep restored his
eyesight and his perpendicular.
Our particular friend the head of the Church was a very different
character, and was a most simple-minded and really good religious man. I
employed a photographer of the Royal Engineers (kindly permitted by
Major Maitland, R.E.) specially to take his picture, as he sat every
morning knitting stockings, with a little boy by his side reading the
Greek Testament aloud, in the archway of the monastery. This was his
daily occupation, varied only when he exchanged the work of knitting
either for spinning cotton, or carving wooden spoons from the arbutus:
these he manufactured in great numbers as return presents to those poor
people who brought little offerings from the low country. Never having
mixed with the world, the old man was very original and primitive in his
ideas, which were limited to the monastery duties and to the extreme
trouble occasioned by the numerous goats which trespassed upon the
unfenced gardens, and inflicted serious damage. The chapel, which was
under his control, was of the usual kind, and at the same time rough and
exceedingly gaudy, the pulpit being gilded throughout its surface, and
the reredos glittering with gold and tawdry pictures of the lowest style
of art, representing the various saints, including a very fat St.
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