MY visit to the chapel over, I was again led across the courtyard and through arched corridors into the guest parlor. A fire of logs burnt brightly on the wide hearth, and by its cheerful blaze I was able to see that the room was large, the walls having been painted with a variety of sacred subjects, a beautifully illuminated scroll ran round the ceiling, a carpet covered the center of the room, and warm curtains shut out the drafts. Over the fire-place was a large and valuable picture of the crucifixion, somewhat faded by time and smoke. Still I could not look on the calm majestic beauty of its central figure, a representation of the Savior on the cross, without deep emotion.
As it was time for the evening meal, I was soon seated at the table. During the repast, the guest master treated me with marked kindness and attention, though I could not help noticing that the monks who waited at table not only did so in perfect silence, but without raising their eyes from the ground. Supper ended, I drew near the fire, thinking that if what I had seen was a fair specimen of life in a monastery, it must indeed be calm and peaceful.
I had not sat long before the church bell commenced ringing, the guest master told me it was the hour of Compline, and said if I would follow him, he would conduct me to my place in the church. I arose at once and followed him through the cloisters into the grand old abbey. The moon was almost at its full, and poured a flood of pale, silvery light through the church windows. There was no other light in the building except the seven lamps which are kept burning day and night before the high altar in every Roman Catholic Church.
The monks were chanting when we entered. There was a pause at the end of each psalm, during which all knelt in unbroken silence for a few moments. And then the chant began again, growing louder and deeper till the vaulted roof rang and the balcony of the choir seemed to tremble, so great was the volume of sound. Then it sank again into the low mournful wail of a single voice, so full of deep passionate longing that my eyes filled with tears as I listened to it.
God only knows from how many weary hearts, crushed and groaning under the terrible burden of unpardoned sin, such cries and prayers go up. I believe the number of those who long and sigh for rest and peace, even as I myself once did, is very great. Never can I forget the weary, sorrowful years I passed before, through the simple preaching of the gospel, I was enabled to rest in the finished work of the Lord Jesus Christ. But I must go on with my story.
It was quite dark when we left the church, and the stillness was unbroken by a sound, for the great silence had commenced, and no one could speak, not even the guest master to his guest, till after Lauds the next day.
I was led to a pleasant little guest chamber and soon after fell asleep. The next few days passed very pleasantly, I being still considered and treated as a guest. I learned too, that the order into which I sought admission was one especially devoted to the service of Mary.
An image of Mary as large as life stood in the church, on its head was placed a crown, the gems and gold of which were of considerable value. I will not attempt to describe the robes of the Madonna, as they were changed on all her feasts and festivals. All were costly, one being of cloth of gold, richly embroidered with jewels. Indeed, changing the dresses and adornments of this image, which the monks said possessed the power of working miracles, took up the greater part of the time of more than one of the fathers.
I cannot recall the part I afterward took in such occupations without a strong feeling of shame, I do not believe that any man in the community really liked them. It was before this image that most of the prayers of our community were offered up. The intercession and grace of Mary were besought for every favor needed by the monks, whether for life or death. We had been taught, and firmly believed, that whoever died wearing two small squares of brown cloth blessed by a priest need have no fear of going to hell, and would certainly be delivered from the fires of purgatory by Mary on the first Saturday after death.
To doubt such a statement would have been mortal sin, and must have been confessed as such. The month of May is, in all Roman Catholic countries, set apart in a special way to this false worship, and though on my first arrival at Bruges, it did not commend itself to me, I was young, easily impressed, and with a great, hungry longing for sympathy and affection. Mary, I was told, would repay my devotion by her favor and protection, and so, little by little, I was drawn into the current of things around.
I almost seem to hear a question put by some one who has followed my narrative thus far: "Do Romanists really worship the Virgin Mary?”
Perhaps I cannot answer the question so fully by any words of my own as by making a few brief extracts from Catholic writers. Turning to the pages of Liguori's "Glories of Mary," a standard and much approved work commended to English Romanists by Cardinals Wiseman and Manning, I find such passages as the following: “The salvation of all depends on their being favored and protected by Mary. He who is protected by Mary will be saved, he who is not will be lost.”
“Often we shall be heard more quickly, and be thus preserved if we have recourse to Mary and call upon her name than we should be if we called on the name of Jesus our Savior.”
“Mary is our only refuge, hope, and asylum.”
“In Judea in ancient times there were cities of refuge wherein criminals who fled there for protection were exempt from the punishment they had deserved. Nowadays these cities are not so numerous, there is but one, and that is Mary.”
“God, before the birth of Mary, complained, by the mouth of the prophet Ezekiel, that there was no one to rise up and withhold Him from chastening sinners. Then He could find no one, for this office was reserved for our Blessed Lady, who withholds His arm until He is pacified.”
“At the command of the Virgin all things obey, even God.”
Another authority on the subject, St. Bernard, writes: —
“Consider with what tender devotion God wishes us to honor this great and ever glorious Virgin, in whom He has placed the treasure of all His gifts, so that whatever hope or grace or salvation we receive from Him we may thank this most amiable Queen, because all comes to us from her hand and through her intercession.”
Surely there can be no need for me to multiply such quotations.
The few days during which I had been a guest at the monastery had passed so agreeably and produced so favorable an impression of monastic life that my name, age, height, and other details respecting my admission having been entered in a book kept for the purpose, I received with great delight permission to enter upon a retreat of fourteen days, a probation required of all comers before the rules of the order would allow of their public reception as Postulants.
A room was set apart for this purpose, the only person with whom I was permitted to converse being one of the fathers appointed by the abbot, not only to give me instruction in the nature of the threefold vow I was so soon to take, but to learn and report all that was passing in my mind.
Let me describe the scene of my first retreat. The room was entered from a long corridor. On the right was my bed, opposite to it a small table on which was a crucifix and an image of Mary, a cushion to kneel on, and a solitary chair completed the furniture of the apartment.
I passed hours, sometimes almost entire days, kneeling before that crucifix, strange, sad emotions filling my mind. As I gazed on those pictured wounds and recalled the suffering they were intended to portray, I seemed to hear again the solemn words, “He that taketh not his cross and followeth after me is not worthy of me.”