I HAD entered upon a monastic life with I a very sincere desire to serve God, and by so doing secure, as I then blindly hoped, my own eternal safety. I am not sure that the sweet message of the gospel, “For by grace ye are saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast" (Eph. 2:8, 98For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: 9Not of works, lest any man should boast. (Ephesians 2:8‑9)), had at that time been heard, even by my outward ear, or if it had my weary heart was still a stranger to the saving power of that grace.
But God, who is rich in mercy, was about to disturb my false peace, and in this and the two following chapters I shall attempt to give some account of the way in which I was led through the darkness toward the light.
One thing about our daily life in the cloisters I disliked exceedingly was the spy system. I think, to an Englishman, it must always be trying and unpleasant to act as an informer. Yet every monk is expected to keep a strict watch on the conduct of his brethren, and report to the superior not only their faults and failings but the slightest and most unintentional breach of rules. In such an atmosphere mutual confidence and affection, I need hardly add, soon sicken and die; but personal friendships we were taught were sinful, and every impulse of kindness, every feeling of honor, must be sacrificed to the real or fancied good of our order.
Having on one occasion reported an offending brother, I felt so thoroughly ashamed of myself that I resolved never again to purchase the goodwill of my superiors at such a price, though I could not help seeing that those who allowed no opportunity of making a report to pass, rose rapidly in favor and were even commended for zeal and faithfulness.
An excommunication scene I witnessed one Palm Sunday in our Abbey church impressed me greatly. Preparation had been made for it by draping the altar and stalls with black, while far down the choir a funeral pall with a white cross in the center was exhibited. From the chapter house arose the low wailing music of a mournful chant, seeming at times almost to die away on the night air only to rise again into tones of deeper melancholy.
At last the procession entered. First in order walked the lay brothers bearing lighted torches, followed by the choir monks chanting the Maryology, a company of priests were next in order, then the fathers and superiors in scarlet robes brought up the rear.
The torches gave a red lurid light as the monks moved slowly to their places in the stalls. The music grew louder, then ceased altogether, a solemn silence followed, and a cold shudder came over me as I listened to the sound of curses. While they were being pronounced, several lay brethren advanced, bearing on their shoulders the bier we had seen covered by a pall in the choir. On the bier lay a figure intended to represent a dead man wearing the vestments of a priest.
The wax candles on the high altar were extinguished, and the abbot put on a purple cope and pronounced, in a deep, hoarse voice, the words: "O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth, show Thyself," to which the monks responded "Amen" in low tones of horror and distress. More cursing followed, at the close of which, with the words, "Fiat, fiat," the prior dashed a lighted torch upon the stone pavement of the church.
But the service was not over. One by one, with bitter words of scorn and hate, the priestly vestments were torn from the figure intended to represent the supposed apostate. The scene was one calculated to make a deep and lasting impression on the mind. The great bell tolled as if for a funeral, and in solemn silence we re-entered the cloisters.
Against whom had those high sounding curses been uttered. Against one, we were told, who had despised his high vocation and been guilty of mortal sin. The offender being, as I learned long afterward, a simple hearted monk who, having in some way procured a copy of the New Testament, had boldly confessed his faith in that Savior of whom he had read in the gospels and epistles, and at the same time dared to question some of the teachings and practices of the Romish clergy.
Toward the close of my year of probation, a good deal of time was taken up in what was called manifestation. How shall I attempt to describe the system? It is the strange, deadly power Rome acquires over so many of her sons and daughters by which every secret thought and feeling is unvested, not to a compassionate, merciful God in prayer, but to the cold, pitiless gaze of a superior.
At the end of every three months, each monk was required to enter on a ten days' retreat. During the whole time he was not allowed to see or converse with any one but the abbot, who paid him a short visit in his cell twice daily and received at each visit a written statement of his thoughts, feelings, and experiences.
Not only are the inner and outer life of each monk thoroughly known to his abbot, but through him, to the General of the Order, who, though he resides at Rome, receives a yearly and fully detailed account of the age, height, figure, character, and attainments of every monk. It will be readily understood how such knowledge renders the task of selection comparatively easy when a brother has to be sent on a journey, or entrusted with a special mission.
The cloister, I had been told, was the abode of love and harmony. My disappointment on finding it to be the reverse was very bitter, but by degrees I got accustomed to the idea of living alone, solitary in the midst of a crowd, unloving and unloved, in a community where all professed to be followers of Him who said, "A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another." (John 13:34, 3534A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. 35By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another. (John 13:34‑35).)
How often I longed for the sound of my mother's voice, the touch of my mother's hand. But all such longings were, according to the rule of our order, sins I must accuse myself of at my next confession, and for which I could only atone by repeating, in a very uncomfortable posture, a number of we Marias and Paternosters.