Why I Came Out From Rome
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Introduction
THIS little book was not written from a diary containing minute details of the events as they occurred day by day, and therefore it cannot pretend to be more or less than what it really is—recollections of past events as they have come to my mind at different times. This will account for the somewhat unconnected form in which they are presented to the reader. As for the truth of what is contained in this pamphlet, I can vouch for every statement, not having written it at the suggestion or desire of any one, but really to serve the cause of truth.
Whether it will be believed or not I do not know, but I fear no criticism that may be passed by any, being fully conscious of the trustworthy statements of its pages, however faulty the style of expressing those statements may be.
The pernicious and wide-spreading influence of monasticism is in no need of exaggeration to excite interest and attention of those who desire to see our common faith—that faith which was once delivered to the saints—preserved in all its purity and holiness, unmixed or contaminated by the subtle poison of Priestcraft.
We live in a day of what men call great and rapid progress, progress indeed in the world of science, advancement in all the worldly economy of this life; but alas! in all that pertains to the glory of our God and His church the movement cannot be spoken of as anything else than retrograde.
Yes; indeed, events travel very fast in our day, and Romanism, too, is making rapid strides in the country, in proof of which I have only to quote the following extract from a recent article in the "Weekly Register," a Roman Catholic journal: — “In England the work of conversion has continued during the past year with steady and not very slow steps. To name or even indicate individuals who have been received during the past twelve months would be foreign to our purpose. This much we may say, that the number of converts in London alone has been upwards of two thousand during the past year, and has during the past few weeks increased very much. From every Ritualistic congregation in London there is a continual stream of converts drifting towards us, and the number would be increased had we priests sufficient.
“In various parts of the country different Anglican clergymen have been received into the church, to the number of some ten or a dozen: and at least as many ladies connected with the various Anglican sisterhoods have followed in the same direction.”
It is perhaps no wonder that Rome walks forward with gloomy footsteps, yet confident of victory, to what she believes will be a great consummation in her history, and will make amends for her humiliation in the past. For the time when all that seductive show of outward sanctity was, through the mercy of God, torn aside, revealed to the world at large the real character of that system which professes to be the only true church of God on earth, with direct succession from apostolic times and many other pretensions equally false.
The following recollections are the history of ten years, which have been years of peculiar interest in my life. I have been separated from the world, from my kindred and friends, from all life's ordinary pursuits and objects, its anxieties, hopes, and fears, and been trained in spirit like men are sometimes trained in body who have to struggle desperately for mastery, or to perform feats of skill which seem impossible to ordinary men.
I learned to wrench myself from mother, brother, friends, and, indeed, all my connections, or, as we may say in a word, from society root and branch, in order to be reconstructed as an individual. But perhaps you will ask, what, was the high and lofty object that would induce any one to undergo this painful process—what was the goal to which such instructions would tend?
I can only reply that although I had an ideal state before my mind to which I hoped to attain, yet on looking back from the present time I can see that it was for no better purpose than to further the plans of Rome.
Since leaving the monastic state I have spoken of these experiences to some of my friends from time to time, and as they have been interested with the recital I thought that perhaps a narrative of my spiritual training under the influences of monasticism would be instructive to many, especially at the present time when the religious world all the country over seems to be yearning after change or novelty in forms of worship.
These pages, therefore, consist mainly of just such hidden thought and feelings as a great many are apt to indulge in, but which they are too cautious and prudent to lay before the world; but my object is not to gratify any personal feeling, but to give a clear idea of the nature and spirit of that monasticism which is now working so successfully in our very midst.
Chapter 2: Early Recollections
IN looking back over the past how busy memory ever is as it brings out the various events in review before the mind, and every little circumstance that lives once more before the vision of the mind, is often thought of in connection with what might have been, as well as what did actually take place.
It is easy for fancy to fill up the picture, putting in the light and the dark shades, but alas! in recalling thus the memories of a life-time how they become shadowed and mellowed down by time, for time and death dig graves for those whom we love best, and oh! what sorrow may be ours from a single grave.
In writing thus, I am thinking of the death of my father, but I must first give a few particulars of my early days.
I am the youngest son of a crape manufacturer of the quaint old capital of East Anglia. My father was a Protestant, and for forty years a local preacher in connection with the Wesleyan body; my mother, on the contrary, was a Catholic, though by no means a bigoted one. My early training was in many respects more mental than physical; for instance, while other boys of my own age were engaged in healthful recreations, such as boys usually delight in, my favorite resort was to be seated with a book in my father's study, which I was permitted to enter at all times.
My father took special care to encourage me in reading, and also helped me in my studies. As to his character, he was exceedingly generous, and of all occupations he delighted most in traveling. My mother was a large-hearted liberal woman, very charitable to any who were in affliction, yet prudent and careful in all the affairs of the household.
When I had reached the age of twelve years, I began to read and study books of a religious character, especially those works that touched on controversial subjects. In this way I became acquainted with the tenets of Roman Catholicism; and drinking in one by one the errors of this religious system, I virtually argued my self into being a Romanist, greatly to the grief of my dear father. The seeds seemed to sink deeply into my mind and heart as into virgin soil, and resulted in a plentiful crop of works of the flesh. Among other activities I was found regularly at confession and communion every week. Alas! what will not man do, whether it be by mortifying the poor body or the outward show of charitable act, if he may only earn salvation by his own good deeds instead of receiving it in all the fullness and freeness wherewith our God is ready and willing to bestow it on all who will come unto Him through Christ.
Up to this time I had had no thought of being a monk, but I was now fast approaching the moment that was to be a turning point in my life: it may be that God was over it all and allowed my feet to go astray into the by-paths of religious life that I might be taught certain lessons that it would have been difficult for me to learn in any other way.
I was in my fourteenth year when I met my first great loss in this life—my dear father was taken away by death. It was the first time I had ever been face to face with death, and it consequently made a great impression on my mind.
It had been my father's custom to assemble us both morning and evening for prayer, and I well remember one old familiar prayer that he often sent up to the throne of grace; it was that we might be preserved from sudden death and also preserved from a lingering illness. In both these particulars it was answered to a remarkable degree as regards himself. Only three days before he died he had a strong presentiment of his approaching end. So much so that he actually made the arrangements for his funeral, and then urgently requested to partake of the Lord's supper.
On the morning of his last day on earth I was summoned hastily from bed and told that if I wanted to see my father once more before he died, I must make haste. What a scene was that death-bed! Well may we recall the words, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" He was fully prepared for it, and therefore there was no terror at death or fears at what might lie beyond it. His face lit up with a smile as he calmly sank to rest as a child would fall asleep on its mother's breast.
Chapter 3: Leaving Home
I SHALL never forget the evening of the day on which my father died. For a long while I knelt at a table in one of the quiet darkened rooms, and burning thoughts and emotions passed through my mind. I was thinking of the past, and made many resolutions for the future. It was then also that I first conceived the idea of entering the ecclesiastical state.
There are moments in one's history when the hollowness and emptiness of this world and all connected with it are brought home so closely to us that we instinctively long for something more elevating, to breathe a purer atmosphere, or walk a path that shall not prove so evanescent and disappointing as is our ordinary lot down here.
At such times as these certain objects spring up before the mind and seem to offer, to some extent, that for which our hearts are longing. With some it may be greater activity in public life that attracts them, while others lean more to retirement and solitude. With me it was the cloister that captivated my mind, and I desire in the following pages to describe what my experiences were, as following the dictates of my heart, I chose the path of a monk and threw in my lot with others whom I found in the same road before me.
I first made known to my confessor that I had a desire to embrace the ecclesiastical state, and he immediately urged me to enter monastic life, and so prepare for the "regular" priesthood, as he called it.
This involves the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, which all must subscribe to who would attain to absolute perfection.
This man was a Jesuit, and not only my confessor but my director. The system of direction is being extensively adopted by the Anglicans throughout this country. It consists in seeking the advice of your confessor on all the minutest details of daily life, whether they be individual or domestic, which is supposed to be highly pleasing to God; but in effect the character of any one thus directed is rendered morbid and weak, and in many cases cast at the feet of a man least qualified to guide it.
All this is perfectly natural, it is human nature, for the priests who chiefly strive to become directors are the most narrow and egotistic of men, and are the first to wield those who are eagerly seeking for perfection. They appear to have divine motives to guide their actions, which, as clever men, they use like bellows to render the subject malleable, porous, and ductile. The poor deceived heart eventually discovers its error, but alas! generally too late to retrace its steps, and all the while is cheered with short-lived hopes, which though under a mark of sanctity, really deceive no one more than themselves.
There are three vows which they look upon as the symbols of perfection in a monk, and which form the goal of his lofty ambition. They are voluntary poverty, perpetual chastity, and entire obedience. The trainer takes great pains to instil these principles so thoroughly into the minds of those under his charge, that they shall become part of their very selves, while the ones who are trained also exercise determined efforts in the same direction. This seems to promise great reward in the complete power over mind and will, till every thought is brought into subjection; but this is an end that has never yet been reached by such carnal means as these.
But to return to my narrative. I shall never forget the day when I first left home for a foreign land. I was still but quite young, having only just attained my fifteenth year. It was on a cold, dark morning of the new year, a very cloudy day, with rain threatening, but I had bidden my friends good-bye the day before, and the moment of departure drew near.
My dear mother had been up the greater part of the night packing my trunks, and had now prepared tempting food for my last breakfast at home. This was indeed my last meal with her; but, how little I knew that I should never look upon her face again when once my back was turned from the house, yet she looked so loving and tender I thought I loved her more than ever before.
Even now memory brings her vividly back to me as she used to sit by the corner of the fireside on Sunday afternoons, her arm lying over the elbow of an old arm chair, which was her favorite seat. A devotional volume perhaps in her hand, with the forefinger between the leaves, while in a low, soft voice she would repeat any line that particularly attracted her attention.
Her faith was not the Neo-Catholicism of to-day, but the faith as taught by a Gotter or Butler. The solemn declaration made by Rome, whereby Catholic emancipation was obtained, would now be considered heresy, for the modern Vatican teaches that the pope has always been infallible, that he is by divine right supreme in all matters he deems important, over all potentates and all individuals. Almost every absurdity possible to imagine has at one time or other been proclaimed, and the victims of this creed must now receive them as articles of faith, and intentionally to doubt any dogma would, they teach, entail eternal perdition.
At length all the preparations were completed; one of my old schoolfellows came in and said the cab was waiting, while his mother, an Irish lady, the wife of an officer, now came to my side, and told me to be a man, to study to be faithful to my vocation and to the holy mother of God. She said I should have a capital time with the good fathers.
In spite of my thinking it a right state I was taking, I could not overcome all sense of sinking of heart at thus leaving my home, perhaps forever, and the railway station seemed to present a most dismal appearance to my imagination. There were the long line of carriages with the doors standing open; but, as in those days no lights were given in the train, they looked dismal enough, and but few passengers at that early hour to share the darkness.
The final leave-takings were now given, the doors slammed, and with a shrill whistle from the guard, we moved out of the station through mist and fog, which slowly turned gray in the morning twilight, and on to London, which was reached in due time. From there I embarked for my nearest seaport. We passed down the Thames amid broad sailing yachts, black, square colliers from the Tine, and heavy three-decked Indiamen, drifting slowly down upon the tide. After a while the smooth waters of the river were gradually exchanged for the waves of the ocean, which now lay stretched out before us.
The last head-lands of England sink under the horizon, while water—nothing but water—is to be seen all around, with the exception perhaps of a solitary white sail on the horizon now and again. Thus the morning and noon passed away and evening drew on. Hour after hour I sat on the deck, now lighted up by the silver light of the moon. All this time my reader can easily imagine how busy was my mind, first going forward and vainly endeavoring to pierce the future that holy life into which I hoped so soon to enter—then back to the home of my childhood, with all its early associations.
But ocean life has its many storms, and my present voyage, though but a short one, was to be no exception to the rule. The night to me was most dreadful, for the rain came down in torrents, while the thunder roared in the sky, and lightning flashed about us and was reflected by the waters. The ship pitched madly up and down, and I, sick and faint at heart, was glad to grope my way below, where most of the passengers had already clustered.
On looking back to that night, from the dangers of which it pleased God to preserve us, I cannot help thinking how like my outward condition was to many a poor soul who eagerly looks towards Rome as a haven of rest, where peace for the present may be obtained and holiness laid up for the future; but alas! where all the hollowness of that vast system is seen and laid bare, what storms and tossings of the heart and conscience take place, as the bright dreams of anticipated purity and perfection are rudely thrust aside, leaving naught behind but a spiritual desert denuded of every living hope, and leaving despair in the soul more dark and drear than very death itself.
If, on the other hand, we take the word in all its living simplicity, and drink in the refreshing draft from Him who is the fountain of life, how wonderful the effect, how blessed the result; for the wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein, and peace shall flow into his soul from the One who said, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
The long stormy night at length came to an end, and quiet seas succeeded the storm, and soon I could see in the distance the port to which we were bound, and then my eyes could rest upon the coveted fields of a Roman Catholic country and have my day-dreams realized, for I had often longed to see Roman Catholicism in its true dress and drink in its spirit at the fountain head.
That night I slept far away from the old house at home and the city of my birth, but I was nearer the spot where I was to devote my life to what I then believed the highest, holiest vocation to which a mortal could be called, the service of the church. Weary as I was in body, it was hours before I could compose myself to sleep, and when towards morning I fell into an uneasy slumber my dreams were of my home and my mother.
Chapter 4: Arrival at Bruges
EARLY the following morning I recommenced my journey, another stage of twenty-four miles, and I entered the sombre old city of Bruges. Never shall I forget what a strange indefinable air of romance and mystery seemed to invest almost every object on which my eye rested. I remembered, too, and not without interest, how important a part it had played in Flemish history, having been several times besieged and retaken in the wars between France and Flanders. It was hardly noon when I entered the city. The sun was shining brightly, and a golden glory rested alike on dark gabled roofs, deserted palaces, and the tall spires of its many stately churches. It seemed to me like a vision of almost perfect beauty. My heart beat high with hope and expectation when the sound of a bell reminded me it was the hour at which high mass would be said in the cathedral. So wishing to return thanks for my safe journey, I entered. I have only a confused recollection of its interior. Sculpture, painting, gilding, had each given of their best, and altogether the scene was a grand and imposing one. Strangely sweet and solemn music pealed forth from the organ, and I knelt before an image of the Virgin Mary and tried to pray. But the exhaustion of my body and the emotion of my mind combined were too much for me and I fainted away.
My swoon did not last long, and after hearing mass I set out on foot for the monastery to whose superior I had been commended before leaving England. It was, I had been told, about nine miles distant from Bruges. The day was one of rare loveliness. It was early in February, and ice crystals on every tree and hedge shone and sparkled like gems in the sun shine.
The roads were good, and I pressed on mile after mile without meeting any one. Still I could not, even had I wished it, have forgotten that I was in a Roman Catholic country. Sometimes a simple stone cross placed where two or more roads met served as a guide-post. While at every mile or two I came upon what seemed to have been intended as a wayside chapel, as in each a shrine or canopy covered an image of Mary holding the infant Savior in her arms.
I enjoyed that walk greatly, for though I was at the time without any saving knowledge of Christ, legends and incidents in the lives of Romish saints, many of which I had heard from the lips of my much loved mother, filled my mind. More than once I paused to repeat the litany of the Virgin or call upon some of the many mediators by whose aid I had been taught I could obtain favor with God.
But fast gathering shadows warned me I must not linger. I was very tired, still I quickened my pace, and just before sunset saw at some distance the towers of the abbey church, and hardly less welcome sight, I could trace in dim outline the walls of the monastery so soon to be my home.
Another hour's quick walking, and having entered the abbey grounds by climbing a low stone wall, I stood before the gates of the monastery. The silence had become almost oppressive. I rang the visitors'
bell, and started at the echoes it awoke.
Some birds disturbed by the noise flew out from the ivy branches overhead and flapped their wings almost in my face.
My summons not having brought any one to the gate, I rang a second time, and then feeling very tired sunk down on the bench which runs on either side of the principal entrance. I do not know how long I waited, but at last I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A key turned in the lock, and the door was opened by a gentle, kindly faced old monk who was, as I afterward learned, a lay brother.
Monks, I may explain for the information of any of my readers who do not understand the details of monastic life, are divided into two classes, lay and choir brethren. The former do all the cooking, household work, &c., of the establishment. The latter pass their time in chanting psalms, saying masses, and in various branches of study.
Having presented my letters of introduction, I followed my guide into a small room, the windows of which were neatly curtained, and the walls adorned with framed prints of the saints. There I was left to await the arrival of the guest master, who welcomed me to my new home in very broken English, but with much kindness and many expressions of pleasure.
He then took my hand, it being quite dark, and led me across a paved court-yard to the lady chapel, where kneeling before a large and richly adorned image of Mary, whom I then addressed as Queen of Heaven and Mediatrix of the New Covenant I again said we Marias and Paternosters for my safe journey.
Chapter 5: The Haven of Rest
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.”
Chapter 6: The Postulant
I HAD now entered upon my retreat or season of retirement, for the purpose of prayer and meditation. My father had taken great pains to accustom me to thoughtful, studious habits at an age when most boys are absorbed by their play. But never till I became a Postulant had I the slightest idea of what a weariness alike to mind and body meditation may become. Every mental power must be concentrated upon a given subject in such a way and for so long a time that complete nervous exhaustion is the unvarying result.
I had four meditations daily, the intervals of time between being occupied in verbal prayer, devotional reading, and examination of conscience before going to confession.
At the close of each meditation I received a visit from the venerable monk in whose care I had been placed and in whom I faithfully confided. The fervor and earnestness of this monk, who bore the title of Novice Father, often impressed me greatly. His influence over me was almost unbounded. But I often found myself trying, though in vain, to find some cause for the sad, almost troubled look his face always wore.
About the middle of the retreat I began my confession. This I had been directed to make as minute as possible, so that it was really a very detailed account of my whole past life, with all its sins, as far as I could remember them, of thought, word, and deed. I never felt any shame in confession, my early training having been such that I looked upon the priest as the vice-regent of God; to him I told all.
I received instruction also as to the nature of the monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. What are these vows? Let us consider them singly for a few moments.
Holy poverty, as it is generally called, taught us that a monk can possess nothing, however small and valueless. Everything, even the clothes we wore, and the books we used, belonged to the order. If a postulant has money he cannot retain the smallest coin for his own use, but is expected to make it over to the order by deed of gift before his reception. I have seen a brother reproved and compelled to do penance for having broken his vow of poverty by some such offense as lending a shoe-string or a pin without having asked and received permission to do so, the string or pin being the property of the order.
We heard much, too, about the gift of chastity, passages from the lives of Romish saints, who were said to have attained to a high state with regard to this grace, being frequently read or repeated to us. One I remember, as having impressed me greatly. It occurs in the life of St. Aloysius, who, Cardinal Bellerman writes, "Never looked at any woman, kept his eyes strictly guarded, and generally cast down; would never stay alone with his mother, and if she sent him a message by one of her ladies, he received it and returned answer in a few words with his eyes shut.”
I have had many opportunities of observing the low state of public morals in Austria, Spain, and Italy, and believe much may be traced to the false and unscriptural teaching of Rome on this subject.
But it was of holy obedience that I heard most from the lips of the novice father. Obedience, he told me, was the highest virtue to which the monk could attain. It was to be complete, blind, and unquestioning. Every power of mind and body must be held at the entire disposal of another. Perhaps a story will best explain what is required.
A monk was told by his abbot to water a dry stick set upright in the convent garden. He obeyed without a question, or even the thought of one, when the stick put forth leaves and branches and grew into a stately tree. At least so says the story. The will of our superior, we were taught to believe, was the will of God, for he stood to us in the place of God, and could we doubt or dispute His authority?
Did any command received by us seem unreasonable or even impossible, we were taught to banish the thought that our abbot could be wrong or mistaken as a temptation of the evil one. For was not the voice of the Savior, the voice of God, to be heard and obeyed as such by every member of the community?
Chapter 7: The Novice
MY probation ended, and the long-looked for day on which I was publicly to take the vows and receive the habit of a monk came at last. According to custom, my reception had been arranged to take place on one of the festivals of the Virgin, Candlemas day, so-called because on that day candles blessed during the mass are distributed among the people.
At ten o'clock in the morning two monks came to my room, and placing themselves one on each side conducted me to the end of the corridor and on toward a staircase leading to the cloisters. Without, the sun was shining brightly; within the cloisters all was dim and shadowy. The cloisters were the burial ground of the order. A large stone crucifix was placed in the center, while here and there an almost leafless fir waved its branches and threw gloomy shadows across the grass.
We stood there for some time waiting for the procession of monks that I was to join. Often in after years have I recalled that scene, never without feeling it to have been a fitting picture of the strange, unnatural life of repression and restraint on which I then entered.
Far different were the thoughts that then filled my mind. I moved and spoke like one in a dream. Visions of beauty seemed to fill my soul. For was I not about to become one with the saints and holy fathers of all ages? Nay, more, was I not to be the very bride of Christ? The dream while it lasted was a bright and beautiful one. Painful and bitter indeed was the awakening, but I must not anticipate.
The grand procession came slowly on, brilliant with white and gold, waving with banners, and sparkling with gems. A place with several other postulants, who were like myself to take the vows, having been pointed out to me, we entered the church, already crowded with spectators, who knelt as the monks passed.
Raising my eyes for a moment, I saw seats had been placed round the high altar for the use of the superiors. Each postulant then received the white serge habit of the order, with a high-peaked cowl of the same color and material drawn tightly over the head and face, to these was added a long black vest reaching nearly to the feet. We were then placed in the center of the choir. A pause followed. We were then commanded to kneel before the altar while the abbot and his assistants repeated certain prayers. Then came the crowning ceremony of the morning—our supposed death to the world. We were required to extend ourselves with our faces to the ground on the stone pavement of the church as if already dead, while the monks chanted a solemn funeral dirge, and the muffled, mourning tolling of the abbey bells announced to the busy world of Bruges what was taking place within the church.
It must have been an impressive scene, and if one might judge from the smothered sobs I heard from time to time, during the whole ceremony, many of the onlookers were deeply moved.
The chanting continued for about half an hour. We were then allowed to sit down while the abbot addressed to us an exhortation lasting nearly an hour, his subject being the loss of the soul. "Earthly love would," he said, "burn the soul to all eternity. The only way to tear away all roots and traces of such love from the heart was by a long course of fasting, prayer, and penance. Thus, and only thus, might we hope to be counted worthy to be numbered among the bride of our divine Lord. Then prayer would obtain power, and we might hope to secure our eternal salvation.”
I tried to understand and remember all he said, but tried in vain, though this may in some measure be accounted for by the overwrought state of my nerves. At last the sermon came to an end, and while sweet, solemn music once more filled the cathedral the spectators withdrew. The ceremony over, I remained with the monk who had me in charge; he took me over the monastery, giving me at the same time somewhat lengthy instructions as to the rule of the order as to the hours of rest, rising, meals, &c., also a long list of things that might and might not be done. My guide then led me up a narrow winding staircase into a long corridor, on either side of which were doors leading to the cells of the monks.
Over each door was the religious name of the monk who occupied the cell. The names chosen are often very curious. We had a Brother Mary in our community, and I have heard of more than one Sister Joseph among nuns. I had already received the name of Raphael. Perhaps you, my reader, would like a peep into my cell.
It was small and poorly furnished, more than half the space being taken up by a bedstead of very primitive construction, two rough boards placed lengthways across trestle’s; the bedding was a piece of matting and a straw pillow, one blanket in summer and two in winter. I need hardly add that with such uncomfortable surroundings the temptations to self-indulgence were not many or great. A table of unplaned deal held a few books, over it was a large and somewhat clumsy wooden crucifix. A smaller and very shaky table held a basin and jug of common brown earthenware. By a special permission from the abbot I had been allowed to retain my mother's parting gift, a manuscript book.
I had now entered on my noviciate. The vows were upon me, though I knew they must at the end of twelve months be rendered final and irrevocable by another public profession. Should I find the reality of life in a monastery very different from what I expected?
The first bell for vespers sounded, my companion rose and stood in the doorway of the cell, I followed him, and looking down the corridor, saw the monks formed a long double line, each at his own door waiting the summons of the second bell. It sounded, and we entered the church.
Vespers is the last hour but one of the seven into which the monastic day is divided: Matins at midnight, Lauds at daybreak, Sext at six, Terce at nine, Nones at eleven, Vespers at three, Compline at seven o'clock in the evening.
On retiring to my cell after Compline, I received a visit from the novice-father, who gave me his blessing, commended me to the Virgin, and presented me with two aids to self torture, The Discipline, or whip made of several strands of whipcord knotted at the ends of each; and the chain, made of a number of links of steel wire, bent into the shape of a horseshoe, each link having an end of wire about half an inch long, sharply cut or filed. The chain was intended to be worn on the person next to the skin, the points turned inwards in such a way as to form a wound thus causing great pain.
I received these gifts joyfully, for my desire was one day to become a great saint, my prayers, penances, and self-inflicted suffering being, I thought, so many steps towards perfection; for I did not then know the high calling of those who are children of God by faith in Christ Jesus is that of saints, or holy ones, elect according to the foreknowledge of God the Father "through sanctification of the Spirit unto obedience and sprinkling of the blood of Jesus Christ." (1 Peter 1:2.)
Chapter 8: A Days Occupation
AS it may interest my reader to know how monks pass their time, I give some account of the occupations of a day, not of every day, but one as a fair sample of most days in the year.
On all great festivals we rose at midnight, the sacristan went from door to door giving a sharp rap on each, and uttering the words "Deo gratias." We were each required to answer "Deo gratias," and rise instantly. The first bell rang, and within four minutes we all took our places in the choir. Matins occupied three hours. At its close we went in single file into the cloisters, where a few moments were spent in silent prayer; after which a subject for meditation was read by one of the fathers. We meditated kneeling and standing by turns for about an hour and a half.
As we only saw the fathers, or fully professed monks, at mass, I suppose they meditated in their cells. Mass was said daily by every father—these daily masses were a source of considerable profit and brought a large yearly income to the abbey. We were taught to look upon the mass as a sacrifice offered for the sins of the living and the dead. Great numbers are said or sung for the repose or deliverance from purgatory of the souls of the dead at a price agreed on with the priest. Many have as their only object the hope of gaining some temporal advantage, sometimes recovery from illness; at others, for the cure of a sick horse or cow, or the finding of a lost article. There are masses to the Holy Trinity, to the Holy Spirit, to the Virgin Marv, and a multitude of Romish saints.
I had a great reverence for the mass, as I was at the time a devout believer in the doctrine of transubstantiation, never for a moment doubting that any person must go to hell who dared to dispute or even question the truth of all the flesh, blood, and limbs of the Lord Jesus as Man being in each particle of the bread after a few Latin words have been said over it by the priest, also His human soul and His divinity. Such is the theology Rome binds on all. Mass commenced at the various altars at four in the morning, and we joined in spirit in what I then called its awful sacrifice.”
Meditation over, we rose, eyes downcast, cowl almost covering the face, head inclined a little, hands crossed on the breast, and walked in solemn order to our cells for half an hour's reading of "The Lives of the Saints" We were not allowed to select or even to ask for any book, our course of reading being always chosen for us. I had a decided taste for such books, and so for me this half hour always passed quickly and pleasantly.
We next said a Rosary, or devotion to the Virgin Mary, consisting of a hundred and fifty we Marias, fifteen Paternosters, and the Gloria, followed by a meditation on the principal incidents in the life of the Queen of heaven and Christ. Stranger as I then was to the gospel of the grace of God, I often found myself wondering why we prayed so much to Mary and so little to the Lord Jesus.
Lauds was sung at daybreak. At the close of this office a bell rung. It called us to the chapter house to receive a lecture on the rules of our order. Each monk has a small manuscript book written in Latin, containing about thirty rules copied from the Constitutions of the order. We were expected to commit these rules to memory. Every novice has also another book in which to enter any breach of rule in word, thought, or deed he may commit, as well as any fault he may notice in a brother. He must not speak to the offender but is bound to manifest him.”
The chapter house is octangular in shape; at each angle is a window of stained glass; along the sides are the carved stalls of the monks, at the end the abbot's throne, approached by seven steps is placed. The Litany of the Saints is sung by the whole community as they proceed from church to the chapter.
The abbot sat on his throne, the monks, with the exception of a few kneeling penitents, stood around. After a silence, lasting a few moments, the abbot would say, "Now let us talk about our holy order." And the chapterings would follow by the penitents making a public confession. I give one or two such from memory. A brother would stoop, kiss the floor, and say, “Holy father abbot, I acknowledge my fault in having neglected the custody of my eyes on one or two occasions, by forgetting to place my cowl in a proper position, for which fault holy obedience enjoins me to do penance.”
The abbot gave a reprimand and a penance more or less severe, probably the “Miserere” for the souls in purgatory, that is, the penitent still kneeling with arms outstretched in the form of a cross, repeated the fifty-first Psalm. The penance over, he again kissed the floor, then rose and went to his place in the stalls.
The second penitent would say, "Holy father abbot, I acknowledge my fault in having neglected several duties, and in scandalizing my brethren by my indolence.”
His penance was perhaps to drink the draft of humiliation, and would have to be performed by his rising from table after having dined; he then knelt before a brother to whom he presented his can to be filled. It was returned full, and he was required to drink its contents still kneeling.
Another pause, and one of the fathers would chapter a brother, calling him by name, his only reply being to leave his stall and walk to the center of the chapter house, where he was required to prostrate himself face downwards.
Again a pause, and the father would state what he had observed contrary to rule in the conduct of the prostrate brother. Other fathers would frequently bring other charges against him. After each charge he received a severe lecture from the abbot. Several monks were often compelled thus to submit to the ordeal of reproach.
At the close of the chapter we went to study. I, for one, would very gladly have gone to breakfast. It was certainly very tantalizing for tired, hungry men, even though they were monks, to pass the kitchen door and smell the delicious odors of beefsteaks, fried ham, &c., being made ready for breakfast. For whom were these dainties being prepared? For the sick fathers, we were told. And if we might judge from the crowded state of the infirmary most of the fathers were sick, and so took shelter under a special dispensation by which they "fared sumptuously every day.”
To eat meat in the refectory would have been to commit mortal sin, such sin, we were taught, as would exclude a soul from heaven, unless absolution be received by the penitent, who must promise never to repeat the act of disobedience.
We novices did not belong to the same privileged class, so as we could not go to breakfast we went to our studies.
Our course of study extended over several years, and comprised regular instruction in the Greek and Latin languages, elocution, history, sacred and profane, algebra, and the higher branches of arithmetic, composition in prose and verse, natural philosophy, metaphysics, and chemistry.
The course of theology occupied a period of five years. We had a large and valuable library, a studio for painting, a printing press, well supplied with type, &c., also a chemical laboratory, an observatory and various workshops.
Our studies were directed by the abbot. We were expected to prepare for the classes before dinner, as well as to write short sermons twice a week. At two minutes to eleven the bell sounded for Nones, at the close of this office we recited the Angelus of three sentences and three we Marias in memory of the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. We then went to the refectory for our first meal, dinner. The refectory was a large hall capable of seating two hundred. It was very simply furnished; we sat at long tables, the superior in solitary state at a table somewhat raised at one end of the hall. Halfway down was a pulpit in which the reader stood during the meal, for it was according to rule that while the body was refreshed the soul should have its food. The first thing read was a brief account of the saint of the day, followed by a commendation of some saint of our order. The reader then proceeded with a book chosen by the abbot. The meal proceeds in silence, when the reader suddenly entones, "By order of holy obedience." In an instant eating and drinking are suspended, hands crossed, and all eyes turned to the abbot, who repeats the magic words, "By order of holy obedience," and I find myself the observed of all, as he continues:
“Brother Raphael is hereby required to ascend the pulpit and give the subject of his morning's meditation. He is also reprimanded for his sleepiness during meditation. He must remember what the rule requires of him. Holy obedience enjoins him to kiss the feet of all the monks when he has done so.”
The reader sat down, and I took his place, though with heightened color, and went through my appointed penance. Dinner proceeded as if nothing unusual had taken place.
Such reproofs were given either from the personal observation of the abbot, or from reports and information received from other members of the community. It may be a little out of place to give the story here, but while I am writing of penances, an incident that occurred as my novice year was drawing to a close comes so forcibly to my recollection that I will trespass upon the kindness of the reader by recording it.
I was met one morning in the cloisters by Father Francis, who handed me a dish very much cracked and so shaky, I felt sure it would fall to pieces in my hands, telling me to carry it at once to the cook. As enjoined by holy obedience, I did my best to comply with his instructions, but before I could reach the kitchen the dish was broken. What was to be done? At the next chapter I was among the penitents, kissing the floor and confessing my carelessness.
The abbot gave me a very severe reproof for thus destroying the property of the community, and appointed my penance. I was to make a necklace of the broken pieces, and after wearing it during the day, to receive, immediately after Compline, twenty strokes from the discipline while the monks chanted the "De Profundis" (Ps. 130) I knelt, stripped to the waist, at a low stool in the center of the choir and received the lashes on my quivering flesh.
Yet such was my blind folly and so great my desire to attain perfection by my penances and supposed good works, that I asked and received permission to administer an extra discipline.
During the whole of Lent the discipline was used, if I remember rightly, twice a week by each member of the community.
Now I must return to the refectory. Some reader may ask, What had you for dinner? Nothing very tempting to one accustomed to the wholesome variety of a well-spread English table, though I must own of such food as it was we had plenty. The first course was invariably soup maiger, with the exception of Good Friday, when we only broke our long fast by taking a little bread and water.
I have written soup maiger, and very poor and unsatisfying we found it. I, from the first, disliked it very much on account of its being so greasy. It is prepared in the following way. Look up your broken bread and chop some vegetables fine. While the water is boiling, you may toast the bread. When the water boils, stir in a quantity of olive oil, add the vegetable?, and break the bread into small pieces. Let all boil well together, and your soup maiger is ready to be served.
Second course: Fish; and had the fish been always fresh we might have had no reasonable ground for objection. Vegetables as much as we desired.
Third course: Pudding; boiled rice or sago, very dry and eaten without sugar or milk, followed by a small piece of cheese with an apple or pear by way of dessert.
Our daily allowance of bread was ten ounces, this we divided as well as we could between the mid-day and evening meals. In place of tea or coffee we were allowed a kind of light German wine, often so sour through long standing that we only drank it as a mortification.
Our rule forbade us to ask for anything at table. Once I remember having made a sign for the salt to be passed to me. I was reproved for having done so, and told such conduct was irregular. I might use salt if it were placed near me, but I must not ask for it by word or sign.
Dinner over, we stood while a long thanksgiving was repeated, then went into the church for a few moments, the object of this visit being to adore the blessed sacrament of the altar, in other words the consecrated bread always placed in a silver case, richly inlaid with gems on the high altar.
This visit over, we walked with downcast eyes to the recreation room, on entering we knelt down and commended ourselves to the protection of the Virgin.
An hour was allowed for recreation, we might sing songs, tell comic stories, or play games of chance. I think backgammon, cards, dice, chess, and drafts were among the favorites. I often wondered how the absorbing interests of cards and dice could be conducive to "holy living," but was told that I should find them very useful in curbing my temper and in giving me numerous opportunities to afflict and mortify a rebellious spirit. I had not been very long an inmate of the monastery before the recreation hour became the most trying part of the day.
Recreation over, the bell dismissed us to our cells, as to make up for the broken rest of the night, we were allowed an hour's sleep before Vespers.
After Vespers, on three afternoons in the week, to the workshops till six O'clock we were expected to occupy ourselves in learning some trade. The afternoons not so employed were spent in study.
Work and study over, we went to our cells to wash, and as soon as the bell sounded we said the Angelus and went to the Refectory. Our supper was a very light one, being only as much bread as we had been able to save from dinner, with some preserves and a little more sour wine.
Our subject for the morning meditation was given out, we then went to Compline, followed by a ceremony called Blessing. The abbot stood at the church door holding a relic in his right hand and a small napkin in the left. We were each allowed to kiss the relic and were well sprinkled with holy water by the prior. We then retired to our cells, as we did not undress we were soon in bed and asleep, tired out alike in body and mind.
Chapter 9: An Excommunication Service
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, 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, 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.
Chapter 10: Letters From Home
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, 17.)
Chapter 11: Return to the Cloister
I FOUND little to detain me in the home of my boyhood after the funeral of my mother. I had loved her passionately, and very truly did I mourn her loss. I had been a little disappointed, too, in finding true peace and rest in the life of a monk. More than once the thought that perhaps I had mistaken my vocation and had better return to the world crossed my mind. But if for a moment I dared to indulge it, the excommunication scene I have already described rose before my mental vision, solemn and terrible as on the day I witnessed it; I seemed almost to hear the curses that would, I knew, be pronounced upon my head should I ever become an apostate, and I shrunk away in horror.
Never believe those who tell you that the doors of monastic institutions stand always open, and monks and nuns may quit them at any time should they wish to do so. Rome acquires far too great a power over her votaries, holding them by countless links. The habit of obedience, too, when once formed, is very hard to shake off and adds greatly to the difficulties felt by those who desire spiritual freedom.
I visited several old friends who gave me a cordial welcome, and, I think, the time passed in social intercourse would have been very pleasant had the memory of recent loss been less fresh and painful.
Leave-takings were over at last, and I once more on my way to Bruges. It will be remembered I had left at the wish of my then dying mother; but without the blessing of the abbot. How should I be treated on my return? Possibly, I thought, obliged to recommence my probation, or, if not, subjected to degrading penances. But I was mistaken. On reentering the abbey I was met by the prior, who received me with marked kindness. After vespers I was conducted to the richly-furnished apartments of the abbot, who treated me with far greater courtesy than usual and invited me to take chocolate with him, As we sat together at table, for he would not allow me to remain standing, as was customary in his presence, he put several questions to me as to my mother's death, my journey, and appearing pleased with my answers, encouraged me to speak freely. He then spoke at some length of the blessed life of those who, having left a deceitful world, consecrate themselves to God in the calm and untroubled recesses of the cloister. He
expressed great pity for any who, though they might desire to serve God, had not received the gift of a vocation.
“When shall I resume my studies?" I at last ventured to ask. The abbot smiled and replied kindly, "Take three days' rest in the infirmary, you look pale and worn; a little quiet will do you good. I hope much from you my son." He then rang the bell. The prior entered, and the abbot, after embracing me, confided me to his care.
My interview with the abbot, as it stands recorded on paper, may seem and probably was not very important; yet for a time the whole currents of my thoughts and feelings were changed by it. How could I have dared to question the wisdom or justice of any act of one so far above me, not only in position, but in sanctity, or think of him whom I was bound to obey, and honor as my spiritual father, as hard or unfeeling?
My desire, too, for monastic life revived in all its ardor. I had, it was true, seen some things in it I did not like, others I could not approve; but surely, I thought, my own ignorance and want of experience might account for this.
Though the great design of the order was to educate us for the priesthood, each monk was allowed to choose some trade or profession in which he received regular instruction. I had a decided taste for the study of medicine, and was much gratified by receiving permission to study under and assist the father who had charge of the laboratory, and also of a small hospital connected with our monastery. I can never forget this man, who treated me with uniform kindness, and whose confidence it was my privilege to enjoy. He was a doctor of no mean skill. In early life he had been a medical student, walked several hospitals, and graduated with honors at the university of Louvain. He could hardly have been called young when he joined the order. But his abilities were too marked to pass without notice, and he rose rapidly to his high position. And having really been very successful in his treatment of a certain class of cases, great numbers of the afflicted came often from long distances to place themselves under his care. Beds were provided for a few of the most needy cases, and several monks were employed in the care of the sick, while the room in which he saw his outpatients was frequently crowded. I was in constant attendance on the doctor, assisted him in the preparation of his medicines, and for some years, when his strength began to fail, wrote out nearly all his prescriptions.
It was the ardent desire, the darling wish of our order, to be engaged in the reconversion of England to the dogmas of the Romish faith. We heard much of the importance of the conquest, and were encouraged to pray daily for victory over the heretics whose land we piously coveted. Great, indeed, was our joy when told by the abbot that our order was about to found a priory in England.
England is worth all the efforts the Romish clergy are now bringing to bear upon her. Popery is far-sighted, and knows full well that it is in our own beloved land the great battle now raging all over Europe must be lost or won. Her cause may triumph in Spain or America, and yet lose the day if defeated on British ground, while success in our island home must affect all English-speaking races, and through them the world.
A Catholic bishop in England had invited our order to establish a branch within the limits of his diocese. With a view to this a community of twenty monks, selected with great care, were sent to take possession of their new home to attempt, as we fondly hoped, another Roman conquest of England. I was among their number.
Chapter 12: Gleams of Light
MY recollections of monastic life are drawing to a close. Nine years had passed since I first became an inmate of the cloister. My quiet cell had been the scene of many a conflict. I had prayed, wept, and fasted it seemed in vain. For I had not found rest of soul, peace of conscience, and I found myself daily more unable to shake off a growing dislike to many things in the teaching and practice of Rome. Most of all, I felt and saw the evils of the confessional. I was convinced the system was utterly wrong, and could only debase and degrade alike the men who received the confessions, and those who attended as penitents.
Surrounded, as I was, by thousands of the poorest and most ignorant Roman Catholics, I had frequent opportunities of observing the system in all its workings, I conversed on the subject with many out of the crowds who daily thronged our church, and became daily more and more convinced that while the openly wicked only looked upon the frequent use of the confessional as the easy way of escape from punishment, the really anxious and earnest were not led into true peace by its teachings.
I could not help being impressed by the fact that Cyprian, Augustine, and others, whose names were loved and honored in the early Christian church, had written very little if anything in favor of auricular confession, and some of them had died without receiving priestly absolution.
Owing in part to my time having been so much taken up in the study and practice of medicine, I had not taken the final vows that set me apart to the Romish priesthood; but I knew they could not be delayed much longer. I would not, I thought, have objected to become a priest could I have been allowed to preach, say mass, dispense medicines, visit the sick and poor, and not compelled to receive confessions. But this I knew could not be. Rome teaches that confession is necessary to salvation, and I, if I become a priest, must enforce and conform to her teachings.
I suffered much during that long season of soul exercise and trial. While the struggle was still going on, I received a summons to attend the bishop and pass my final examination. I obeyed with trembling, came out well as to results, but was much relieved to find my ordination was to be delayed for six months. More than once I almost resolved to write to the abbot, telling him that I could not, dare not, take the priestly vows. But had not I gone too far to retrace my steps? The curses I had once heard seemed again to ring in my ears, and resolution failed me. I must, in some way or other, gain time before taking the final step. I began to pray earnestly for light as to my future path.
Matters were still in this state when I was sent for by the prior, who told me that as I had some knowledge of drawing, I had been chosen to assist a priest, who lived at about eight miles from our monastery, in preparing plans for a new church. As the work would require me to be on the spot, I was to reside with him while it was in progress. I went, and having given much satisfaction by my skill and industry, the prior was induced to consent to my remaining to give further help. After an absence of two months from my monastery, I received orders to return. This I had determined not to do, so resolved upon a bold step, taking a small house. I hardly knew at the time why I did so; but as I now look back with adoring wonder on all the way the Lord has led me, I can only acknowledge that the hand of God was upon me for good, and He guided me in my efforts to escape from the living death of the cloister.
I took possession of my new abode, sad and gloomy thoughts filling my mind. True it was that at least in part I had cast off the fetters of Rome, but I was not yet a free man. I had not looked in simple faith to Christ as an all-sufficient Savior. I had not even heard of salvation as the free gift of God. (Rom. 6:23.) I was often sorely tempted to doubt, and sometimes feared the struggle would end in my becoming an atheist.
It was about this time that a very old book fell into my hands. It was compiled by a writer of the twelfth century and consisted of extracts from the writings of early Christians, decrees of church councils, &c., all proving the Romish doctrine of transubstantiation to be merely a human invention quite unsupported by the authority of scripture. I felt as if the last inch of solid ground were slipping from beneath my feet. Often had I spent whole nights before the altar in what was called the adoration of the Host. Only one hope remained to me, these so-called quotations might prove to be forgeries. I determined to sift the matter, and knowing that most, if not all the books quoted, were to be found in a very good public library to which I had access, went there at once and found them all. I learned, too, that the word Eucharist was derived from the Greek, that its meaning was simply thanksgiving, and that there was no thought of a victim or sacrifice in it, while I had been taught to call the Mass an unbloody sacrifice for the sins of the living and the dead, and to believe that bread and wine were changed into the real body and blood of Christ by a few Latin words being pronounced over them.
I will not attempt to record all the gloomy doubts, all the mental conflicts through which I had to pass. But I can and do bless and praise the God of all grace who led me by the teaching of the Holy Spirit to a saving knowledge of His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, as my own personal, living Savior.
I became acquainted with a pious and intelligent man, whose friendship I have now enjoyed for more than twenty years, and still value as one of my greatest earthly blessings. He showed a marked interest in my spiritual state and often invited me to take walks with him. On such occasions we always conversed on matters of faith. The way in which he always referred to the written word of God in every difficulty impressed me greatly. During the nine years I had resided in the monastery I could only remember having once seen a Bible. I had been sent to dust the books in the library, and saw, not without surprise, a copy of the sacred volume on one of its shelves.
I obtained a Bible, and began to read the book with great interest and delight. The more I read the more I wondered that it had been so long withheld from me.
I saw it was indeed wondrous grace on the part of a holy God to speak to men on the earth, as He had done to Abraham, Noah, and others, and so I was led on and prepared to hear the voice of God speaking to me through the Son of His love.
I learned much also from my friend of how greatly the early Christians had loved and valued the inspired writings, and I saw with sorrow and shame that the great cause of the church's decline had been in the fact that the writings of the fathers and the legends of the saints had been allowed to take the place of the word of God.
“Did not Christ commit His word to His church, and give her authority alone to interpret and explain that word? A revelation without an interpreter would be no revelation at all," I asked during one of our conversations.
He replied by desiring me to give him proofs of Rome being the whole or even the true church of Christ. I said I was unable to do so. My friend went on to show how by the teaching of Romish bishops and clergy the pure word of God has during long years of error and unbelief been a sealed book to the mass of the people, reminding me that at the famous Synod of Toulouse. A.D. 1229, the Pope's legate set forth forty-five orders, most of them against heresy. The fourteenth order runs thus: — “We likewise prohibit, the permitting of the laity to have the books of the Old and New Testaments, unless perhaps any one should wish from a feeling of devotion to have a psalter or breviary for divine service or the honor of the Blessed Virgin. But we strictly forbid them to have the above-named books translated in the vulgar tongue.”
How I longed for peace, peace with God. I saw and felt myself to be a sinner, lost, guilty, and condemned already. But I had not yet seen God, not only satisfied but glorified by the work of His Son. At times my soul trouble seemed almost greater than I could bear. It was always a welcome relief when living, as I did, on the northern coast, I was able to walk out to the sea-shore. The low murmur of the waves, the music of the winds, had a strange power to calm and soothe me. One well-remembered night my thoughts formed themselves into verse, and found expression in the following lines: —
Under a starless sky,
Without one ray to cheer the moonless light,
To Thee I cry.
Father look down upon me; it will be light
If Thou art nigh.
Out on a barren waste,
The way is stony and the wind is bleak;
O Lord, make haste!
My feet are bleeding and my faith is weak—
Father, make haste!
I cannot see Thy light;
The frowning tempest veils Thee from my eye;
My failing sight
Cannot discern the Star of Hope on high,
So dark the night.
May I not now come home?
I fear the darkness and the blinding hail;
I cannot roam
Further without Thee, or my strength will fail—
O take me home!
God, who is rich in mercy, was indeed leading me by a way I knew not. The moment of my deliverance from the galling chain that had so long bound me was not far distant. But on the way to this an event took place of sufficient importance to change all my plans for life work. But I must not begin its narrative till my next chapter.
Chapter 12: Rest in Christ
ALL through the long hours of a wild, stormy night I had wandered restlessly along the shore, the conflict raging in my own soul seemed hardly less fierce than that of the elements around. I had watched the first gray light of morning break in the east, till at last, weary alike in mind and body, I turned my steps homewards.
I was told on my return that a stranger wished to see me, and recognized in my early visitor a young man who, only a few weeks before, had recovered from a dangerous illness, and to whom my knowledge of medicine had enabled me to suggest treatment that had proved of benefit.
He asked, as a personal favor, that I would accompany him home, as he was anxious I should see a sister of his who was very ill. I would much rather have declined the visit, and made several excuses for not going. But he seemed so much disappointed that in a short time his earnestness overcame my objections, and I consented to pay the sufferer "just one visit.”
How little I knew how that visit was to influence my whole after-life.
The young lady I had been so urged to visit, from the first interested me greatly. I will not attempt to express on paper all I thought of her, or you, my fair reader, would smile and say I had fallen in love, and I could not say you were wrong. I will not tax your patience by telling you if her eyes were black, brown, or blue, if her hair waved in dark masses or fell in golden curls round her fair, almost girlish face. But I may write that after my first visit I saw her very often. She got well quickly; I could not have been long in her company without feeling daily increasing respect and admiration for the sweetness of her disposition, the strength of her understanding, and above all her simple and unaffected piety.
I told her my story; she was very kind and expressed much sympathy. Her family too, always gave me a cordial welcome. Only one thing gave me much trouble, the recollection of my vows. I received several visits from my old companions, the fathers, who tried by every argument to induce me to re-enter the monastery, using at times threats so terrible that my blood seemed to run cold as I listened to them. But my resolution was formed. God, I believed, had set me free, and though at times the way seemed very dark I dared not retrace my steps. It was by no means easy to shake off old superstitions and habits of thought. And I often trembled as the fear that my affection might prove a curse instead of a blessing to her whom I hoped one day to call my wife, crossed my mind. Might it not prove the blight of her whole future life? I asked myself again and again.
Matters were still in this state when the prior paid me a visit. He was very angry, spoke of the penalties I had incurred, drew a terrible picture of the woes that must be the portion of the apostate here and hereafter, and concluded by advising me to throw myself at his feet and ask the forgiveness he was, he said, in the name of God, empowered to grant me.
I grew strangely calm and self-possessed as I listened to his threats, and much to his surprise and mortification, told him I would not return to the monastery. At last, finding his attempts to terrify and persuade me alike useless, he withdrew.
After some further waiting, and with the consent and approval of her parents, I spoke to the object of my affections, and to my great delight found she was willing to enter into an engagement with a view to marriage.
A few months later we were married. Although I had taken this important step in direct defiance to the teaching of Rome, I did not see at the time, or indeed till long after, how false and unscriptural the whole of the system is. I am fully convinced that nothing but the mighty ministry of God the Holy Ghost can truly deliver a soul from its blinding darkness and corrupt idolatry.
The Romish church says: "God pardons the sinner on account of the works of satisfaction performed by him and for his merits.”
The Bible teaches: That God pardons the sinner not out of consideration of any merit in him, but freely and for the sake of His beloved Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, who died upon the cross.
Two statements so utterly opposed to each other cannot both be true. Which then was I to accept?
The more I read the Bible the more certain I became that it was possible for a Christian to know, even in this life, that his sins were forgiven. I felt the burden of my sins to be a terrible load. I was seeking light but still walking in darkness. I longed for peace with God, but still the battle raged.
Through all this season of exercise and soul trouble, my dear wife proved a true helpmeet to me. We often read the word of God and prayed together.
My misery seemed to have reached its climax one Wednesday evening. I felt unable to remain in the house and resolved upon taking a long walk I had proceeded about two miles when I came upon a little road side chapel. The congregation were singing, I stood still to listen, and heard the words:
“My faith would lay her hand
On that dear Head of Thine,
While like a penitent I stand
And there confess my sin.”
I felt compelled to go in. Never in all my life had I listened to such a prayer as the one which followed the hymn. I had been accustomed to read or recite ready-made forms of prayer. But on that never to be-forgotten night I saw that true prayer did not consist in the use of vain repetitions, but in asking God from the heart for the grace and help needed.
Prayer over, I listened with intense interest to a simple, but very earnest gospel address founded on the words, "Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy." (Heb. 4:16.) Then and there I not only realized my condition as a sinner, but found in Christ a precious Savior; I knew in whom I had believed, I could say of Him, "Who loved me and gave himself for me.”
My soul was filled with joy as I learned for the first time in my life something of the true meaning of such words as "God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16.)
“But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name." (John 1:12.)
“The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin." (1 John 1:7.)
How contrary to the teaching of Rome. Her doctrine with regard to cleansing being that sin merits two kinds of punishment, one eternal, the other only for a limited period. Thus, one who has confessed and received absolution from his priest may still have to suffer in the fires of purgatory. God is thus presented in the light of an unjust creditor requiring a second payment of the same debt; having received full payment from the Lord Jesus Christ when on the cross, and yet exacting another from the sinner.
Purgatory, indulgences, works of supererogation of every kind must disappear when Christ is known as an all-sufficient Savior.
Readers of English history will doubtless remember that the suppression of monastic institutions in England took place during the reign of Henry VIII, and was one of the acts that preceded the Reformation.
Roman Catholics often speak of it as an act of robbery and spoliation, as a measure that could only have been devised by a heretic and carried out by a tyrant. Perhaps it may not be generally known that the measure they condemn so strongly was devised by a cardinal, and sanctioned by a pope.
Cardinal Morton was papal legate in this country at the court of Henry VII. He found the monasteries in such a state of disorder that he applied to the pope for the requisite power to amend and improve them. Pope Innocent VIII, then at Rome, at once complied with the request, and issued a Bull, or papal order, giving the needful authority.
But long-standing abuses cannot be reformed in a day, and ere his work was well begun Cardinal Morton died. Henry VII, too, had left this scene, and his son Henry VIII crowned king, while the papal chair was filled by another pope, Clement VII.
Cardinal Wolsey was appointed papal legate; he reported serious abuses as existing in some of the monasteries, and asked permission of the pope, not like his predecessor to reform, but to suppress some of the establishments, and shortly after received full power to suppress as he saw fit any or if needs be every monastic institution in England.
I have simply stated facts, as may be proved by any reader who will take the trouble to refer to the papal decrees of Innocent VIII and Clement VII.
And now in much conscious weakness the story of how and why I came out from Rome is told. To the God of all grace I commend these few recollections. May He in His infinite mercy bless them to any into whose hands they may fall who may have been induced by the high-sounding claims and unreal glitter of Roman Catholicism to give up the true for the false, to exchange the substance for the shadow, to accept human inventions in the place of the inspired word of God. That word declares plainly that "By grace ye are saved through faith; and that not of your selves: it is the gift of God.
“Not of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship created in Jesus Christ unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them." (Eph. 2:8-10)
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