e plight. Know
ye the interpretation of that Dream? St. Edmund proclaims himself
naked, because ye defraud the naked Poor of your old clothes, and
give with reluctance 'what ye are bound to give them of meat and
drink: the idleness moreover and negligence of the Sacristan and his
people is too evident from the late misfortune by fire. Well might our
Holy Martyr seem to lie cast out from his Shrine, and say with groans
that he was stript of his garments, and wasted with hunger and
thirst!"

This is Abbot Samson's interpretation of the Dream;--diametrically the
reverse of that given by the Monks themselves, who scruple not to say
privily, "It is _we_ that are the naked and famished limbs of the
Martyr; we whom the Abbot curtails of all our privileges, setting his
own official to control our very Cellarer!" Abbot Samson adds, that
this judgment by fire has fallen upon them for murmuring about their
meat and drink.

Clearly enough, meanwhile, the Altar, whatever the burning of it mean
or foreshadow, must needs be reedified. Abbot Samson reedifies it, all
of polished marble; with the highest stretch of art and sumptuosity,
reembellishes the Shrine for which it is to serve as pediment. Nay
farther, as had ever been among his prayers, he enjoys, he sinner, a
glimpse of the glorious Martyr's very Body in the process; having
solemnly opened the _Loculus_, Chest or sacred Coffin, for that
purpose. It is the culminating moment of Abbot Samson's life. Bozzy
Jocelin himself rises into a kind of Psalmist solemnity on this
occasion; the laziest monk 'weeps' warm tears, as _Te Deum_ is sung.

Very strange;--how far vanished from us in these unworshipping ages of
ours! The Patriot Hampden, best beatified man we have, had lain in
like manner some two centuries in his narrow home, when certain
dignitaries of us, 'and twelve grave-diggers with pulleys,' raised him
also up, under cloud of night, cut off his arm with penknives, pulled
the scalp off his head,--and otherwise worshipped our Hero Saint in
the most amazing manner![24] Let the modern eye look earnestly on that
old midnight hour in St. Edmundsbury Church, shining yet on us,
ruddy-bright, through the depths of seven hundred years; and consider
mournfully what our Hero-worship once was, and what it now is! We
translate with all the fidelity we can:

'The Festival of St. Edmund now approaching, the marble blocks are
polished, and all things are in readiness for lifting of the Shr