The Anatomy of Melancholy

We arrive at a ruined house which must, at great loss to ourselves, be repaired before it is habitable. We are compelled to sue for the cost of the dilapidations, or are sued ourselves. Scarcely settled, we are called upon to pay our predecessor’s arrears. First fruits, tenths, subsidies, benevolences, visitation fees and so on must be paid at once. And, worst of all, we may find that our title to the living is defective.

This happened to Clenardus of Brabant with his rectorship and charge of the Beguines. No sooner was he inducted than he was sued: “And we began,” he says, “to litigate fiercely and fight an implacable war.” At last, after ten years of litigation—as long as the siege of Troy—when he had exhausted himself and spent his money, he was forced to abandon everything for the sake of peace and surrender it to his opponent.

Or else domineering officials insult us and trample on us; those greedy Harpies fleece us to obtain more fees. We fear some prior lapse of the right of appointment. We find ourselves among stubborn, seditious sectarians, obstinate Puritans, perverse papists, a lustful rabble of atheistical Epicureans who refuse to reform, or litigious people—those wild beasts of Ephesus must be fought—who will not pay their dues without much grumbling, or unless compelled by a long lawsuit.

For, as the old maxim has it, “laypeople are exceedingly hostile to the clergy.” They think anything taken from the Church is a fair gain, and by such uncivil, harsh dealings they make their poor minister weary of his post, if not his life. And suppose they are peaceable, honest people—take the best case, as often happens: from a polished, refined university scholar he must become rustic and uncultivated, melancholy and alone, learning to forget; or else, as many do, turn maltster, grazier, merchant and so on. Banished from the university and all fellowship with the Muses, confined to a country village as Ovid was sent from Rome to Pontus, he must spend his days in the company of unlearned people and country boors.

As for us, meanwhile—for we are not free of this offence—the same guilt remains; the same charge, if not a much heavier one, can be brought against us. It is through our fault, our negligence, our greed that such frequent and shameful trafficking goes on in the Church—“the temple is for sale, and God too”—that so much filth is brought in, so much impiety and wickedness run rampant, such a mad Euripus of miseries, such a seething tide of troubles. It happens, I say, through the fault of us all, and especially of university men.