I SUFFERED much, and often from seasons of depression. I believe now that such seasons were, in part at least, induced by physical causes and were the outcome of the unnatural life I led, as well as of the unsatisfying food I ate. Be that as it may, I know that to have been allowed to write to or receive letters from my much loved mother would have been an unspeakable joy and comfort.
But holy obedience will not allow a monk to write or receive a letter, or even possess a sheet of paper unless he obtains a special permission from his abbot.
My possessions, when I became a novice, were few and simple. Two I valued highly were one, my father's Bible, the other a small packet of letters in his hand writing, addressed to myself, and written during his occasional absences from home. They were, I must own, a good deal worn and somewhat soiled through my frequent reading, but it was with a sorrowful heart I obeyed the command to deliver them into the hands of my superior. What would be their fate? Should I ever be allowed to see them again? I was not long left in uncertainty. Trembling, and only half believing the speaker could be in earnest, I heard the command given that the letters and Bible were to be destroyed.
“What, destroy the Bible!" I almost seem to hear some reader exclaim in a tone of mingled distress and surprise.
Yes; for although we went through a long course of studies in theology we were not allowed to read the Bible. Romanism is very absolute on this point, as it teaches that the private reading of the scriptures only exposes the unlearned reader to numberless temptations to doubt the authority of the church in matters of faith.
I had not been a novice long before a great longing to write to my mother seemed to take possession of me. I asked leave of the novice father, but he only laughed at the idea, and reproved me for being weak and childish. Still I could not stifle the wish to write her just one letter, and after some weeks ventured, though against rule, to make the same request a second time. He replied, "I have no power to give the permission you ask, for only the abbot can do that.”
I made up my mind at once to apply to the abbot, and on the following morning, at the appointed hour, found myself in the company of three other monks who, like myself, desired a permit. A permit is the golden key to every privilege inside the walls of a monastery. The monk who can obtain one may not only violate rule with impunity, but enjoy many comforts and indulgences denied to his less-favored brethren.
We took our seats with downcast eyes and in perfect silence on a bench in the corridor leading to the apartments of the abbot. We knew he must pass that way. If he spoke to us we might present our petitions; if not, we had no other alternative but to withdraw and wait for a more favorable opportunity.
The abbot was a man of fifty, or hereabouts, handsome, though I did not like the expression of his face, it was too heavy and sensual. He ruled his little kingdom with the sway of a despot, and was haughty and imperious in his disposition. We knew him to be fond of good living, and it was even whispered he was a first-rate judge of cigars and wine.
After what seemed to me a very long time, the abbot made his appearance, walking with a quick, heavy step, and evidently much out of temper. Of course, we dare not address him, and as the only notice he took of us was a look of displeasure, we sorrowfully enough saw him enter his private room, the door closed with a bang that seemed to awaken all the slumbering echoes of the building, and we withdrew each to his own cell.
Our letters were always opened by the abbot, who sometimes destroyed them at once, portions were often torn off or rendered illegible from the few we were allowed to receive.
One such letter I can never forget. It was torn, yet enough remained for me to understand that my mother was dying; she longed for my presence, and begged that I might be allowed to return home for a short visit. Her request appeared to me so reasonable that I at once sought an interview with the abbot. He granted me an audience and allowed me to ask for a few days' leave of absence. Then gave his answer, in a cold, imperious tone. "It was, Enough! no more of this. Submit yourself to the state in which you have been placed by the divine will. If any man come to Me, and hate not his mother, yea, his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.”
I had often heard the verse, and felt sure it was wrongly quoted. The roused blood seemed to boil in my veins. I grew sick and dizzy with mingled anger, grief, and disappointment, and forgetting for the moment in whose presence I was, exclaimed: "I am an Englishman, I must go home." I cannot remember what else I said. I think the reminder that I was, an English subject was not without its effect on the abbot, who, however, dismissed me to my cell in disgrace. I was very sorrowful, and prayed earnestly for help in this my hour of need.
Early the next morning my sorrow was turned into joy by a message from the abbot, who sent me a small sum of money for my traveling expenses, and gave me permission to depart; but without the blessing of the order.
I went home by rapid stages, thinking all the way of the mother I was so impatient to see. I expected to find her somewhat changed. I knew she had suffered much, and was quite prepared to see traces of pain and weariness on her calm, sweet face. But she would, I felt sure, greet me with her old smile, and her words of welcome, however faintly spoken, would be very precious to my lonely heart.
Busy with such thoughts, I arrived at the home of my boyhood. The old house seemed strangely silent and deserted. I glanced at the windows, all the blinds were closed. Then, but not till then, the first suspicion of the truth—my gentle mother was dead—dawned upon me.
A young girl, whose face bore traces of recent tears, opened the door in answer to my knock, and invited me to enter the sitting-room, where I was soon found by my mother's old servant. She did not know me, and asked if I had any message. I tried to speak, but for some moments my lips refused to utter a word.
The domestic looked surprised, but maintained a respectful silence. At last I took her hand and calling her by name, said: "Surely you know me, you cannot have forgotten George?”
She started and turned very pale. "Your mother, Sir," she said, and appeared confused. I answered, "Yes; I must see my mother.”
“My mistress died at an early hour this morning," she replied, and considerately withdrew from the room.
I could not shed a tear. It seemed as if in the first moments of my great loss all the light and gladness had gone out of my life. I felt I was indeed orphaned and alone. After a time I rose, left the room, and made my way to the chamber of death. Could the form that lay upon the bed calm and still, yet beautiful in the repose of death, be that of my mother? How I craved for one look of love, one word of tenderness.
The old servant, who had also been the faithful though humble friend of my mother, and whose unremitting kindness and attention had done much to soothe and cheer her last days, found me there. I learned from her that though my mother had suffered greatly when first attacked by the illness that ended fatally, she had died without pain or struggle, commending her soul to the mercy of God through the merits of Christ. Her last words had been of me, her long-absent son. She had longed for my presence, and wondered why I neither came nor wrote. She did not murmur, but would lie for hours together looking at a likeness of me, taken just before I left home. She left me her blessing, and desired a small packet containing family papers, &c., might be given or sent to me.
According to her own wish, her body was interred in the same grave as that of my father. There they sleep together awaiting the morning of the first resurrection. "For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord." (1 Thess. 4:16, 1716For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: 17Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. (1 Thessalonians 4:16‑17).)