_CONVENT LIFE ENTERED UPON._
In the beginning of November, 1868, I went on a short visit to the
“Benedictine convent of cloistered nuns,” at Feltham. Father Ignatius,
who claims to be the father, founder, and reviver of monasticism in the
Church of England, had turned an old farm-house at Feltham into a convent.
The “rule” given to the nuns by him can be procured at any Roman Catholic
publishers. It is entitled “The Holy Rule of St. Benedict, translated by
a Priest of Mount Melleray.” There are other translations of the rule,
but this one is much more strict than any other which I have read.
After a time Father Ignatius gave us forty-nine observances to keep.
These were really much stricter than the rule itself, and they were to
be read every day, and the least transgression had to be written down
and sent in to our Superior at the close of each week, in addition to
the usual confession to a priest. The Feltham Mother never wished us to
make a confession to her, though the Mother at Llanthony insisted upon
everything being disclosed to her.
To these forty-nine observances, later on, were added about forty-nine
more, so that we were hedged all round by them, sleeping or waking.
Transgressions of these observances were “convent sins.” I have already
related how my visit for a week was soon lengthened out, and I will not
particularize those first and early experiences.
It was in February, 1869, that I was received into Feltham convent as a
postulant. There is a form to go through when a postulant is received.
The Superior asks:
What dost thou desire of us?
_Postulant._—To be admitted into the house of God.
_Superior._—None can enter our gates but such as seek to be the
spouse of the Lamb.
_Postulant._—I postulate for the habit of the heavenly
espousals in the Holy Order of St. Benedict.
_Superior._—Dost thou promise to obey the rules?
_Postulant._—I do.
After a few more questions and answers, I was properly made a postulant,
and thought myself at heaven’s gate.
On April 13th, two months after my reception as a postulant, I took, as
a novice, the three conventual vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.
I would remind those of my readers who may be ignorant of these things,
that whilst the vow of obedience is put last in order, yet it is of
the first importance. I remember well the day I took these vows. I was
attired in white, and wore a bridal veil and wreath. I recollect that
another girl (Florence S⸺ by name) stood with me—I should rather say
knelt. Together we waited to sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of
God,—not by the sacrificial knife, that would be but the work of a few
seconds—but by the daily and hourly sacrifice of everything that we loved.
When some of the difficulties and trials of my new life were set before
me, I had no fears. I was in a state of high joy at the thought which
had been burnt into my soul, viz., that I was espoused to the King of
kings, and that I was the Lamb’s bride now and for ever. How could fear
ruffle my spirit whilst under this spell? Besides, how should a girl of
my age (I was but fifteen at this time) have any notion of what sorrow,
and trial, and trouble meant, especially, as was the case with me, when
an affectionate mother had lovingly and carefully concealed from me any
evils that might come in after years?
The anticipation of any evil in the future seemed, however, to fade
into insignificance, since I was uplifted above terrestrial things by—I
really know not how best to describe it—by the thought of Him whom I
regarded as my heavenly Lover. Never did any girl or woman love her
lover or her husband more than I did the Lord Jesus Christ, whose bride
I _thought_ myself to be, _because_ I had taken those three vows of
poverty, chastity, and obedience. I sometimes felt as if I must die; so
overpowered was I with love that I could scarcely breathe.
Often since that time have I asked myself, “What was it that I so
loved?” If it had been the love of the heavenly Bridegroom, that seemed
as it were to saturate me, would that sister who knelt at my side on
this occasion have been permitted in after years to make my life such
a misery to me, that I could no longer live a cloistered life? What or
who it was I know not; all I know is that whoever or whatever it was,
it obtained possession of my first love—the undivided love of my whole
being; but that love is gone, and I do not think I could ever love
with the same full, pure, and intense love again. That love, fixed on
a lover existing only in the imagination, and impressed on my plastic
and youthful mind, carried me through a convent experience lasting for
seventeen years. And then it vanished. The illusion was dissipated, the
_ignis fatuus_ was quenched, and I was left alone in my misery, and it
seemed, for a time, that nowhere could I find the loved one for whom
everything and every one had been sacrificed; but better for me was this
misery than that fool’s paradise.
But I must return to my story, after this digression, which, however, I
hope many youthful readers may peruse and take warning from. My companion
and I knelt, as I have mentioned; and thus, upon our knees, we waited for
the august ceremony attending ever this mock marriage. All heaven seemed
to open, and all of earth seemed to be passing away. I recollect that,
after many questions had been put to, and responses made by us, and when
sweet words, set to sweeter music, had been sung, there reached our ears
some such words as these:
The Bridegroom would have His bride leave father, mother,
houses, lands, and all earthly loves, in order that, as the
apostle saith, she may be one spirit with Him. My daughter,
canst thou do this?
To this we made reply severally:
In His strength I leave all, that I may follow Christ.
Then the reverend Father uttered these words:
_Beware_, my daughter, before putting thy hand to the golden
plough, for _cursed_ shalt thou be if perchance thou lookest
back.
To which the novice then replied:
I should then be unfit for the kingdom of God,
and repeated the words of Scripture:
When any one voweth a vow unto the Lord, he shall do all that
proceedeth out of his mouth (Num. xxx. 2);[4]
and again we quoted Ecclesiastes v. 4.
After which there was sung in sweetest music, three times over:
To obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat
of rams: promise unto the Lord your God, and keep it.
I truly imagined that I was vowing to the Lord; and I had heard that God
was love, and that therefore it must be sweet to obey His voice, and so I
willingly vowed unto the Lord in these words:
1. I vow _holy poverty_, that I will possess nothing as my own,
or receive aught, save at the hands of my Superiors, or with
their permission. So help me, God. Amen.
2. I vow _holy chastity_ during the time of my noviciate. So
help me, God. Amen.
3. I vow entire, unquestioning, and absolute obedience to the
Father and Mother Superior, during the term of my noviciate. So
help me, God. Amen.
My bridal veil was then removed, and my hair cut off quite short; then I
retired, and put on the serge habit of a nun, and came back, and I had
placed upon me the scapular of obedience, the cord of chastity, and the
sandals of poverty. Besides these, I again put on the nun’s veil and
bridal wreath. My companion and myself were then given new names. I,
Jane Mary Povey, was called “Sister Mary Agnes of the Holy Child Jesus”;
Florence S⸺ was called “Sister Mary Wereburgh of the Blessed Sacrament.”
The following hymn was then sung, which I must give in full, as it
affords such an insight into the _delusion_ of convent life. I believe
Father Ignatius is the writer of this hymn:
Farewell, thou world of sorrow,
Unrest, unpeace, and strife;
I leave thee for the threshold
Of the celestial life.
Farewell, world of sadness;
Farewell, earthly joys;
Lo! my heart is seeking
Bliss that never cloys.
Strains of heavenly music,
Sights surpassing fair,
Steal upon my senses,
Fall upon mine ear.
Joy of ageless gladness,
Peace that none can tell,
Banishes all sadness,
Satisfies me well.
Languishing for Jesus,
Longing for His love;
Thus I’ll journey onwards,
To my home above.
Body, soul, and spirit,
To my Lord I give;
Yearning to behold Him,
Dying whilst I live.
In the lone, still night-watch,
’Mid the noon-tide light,
Yearns my soul for Jesus;
Here it seems all night.
Pant I for the morning,
And the day-star’s gleam,
When in endless sunshine
Dies earth’s weary dream.
Upwards, then, and onwards,
Soars my joyful soul
Jesus’ arms are open,
Jesus’ heart my goal.
Then my Love shall kiss me,
Call me all His own,
Wrap me in His brightness,
Rest me near His throne.
Smiling fondly on me,
Mindful of this day,
When I vowed me to Him,
I shall joy for aye!
’Mid the throng of virgins,
In the lily’s vale,
Where our Spouse is feeding,
Sunbeams never pale.
All is love and beauty—
Jesus, He is there;
All is peace and pleasure,
All surpassing fair.
Alleluia! chant we,
In our convent praise;
Shadowing forth the hymnals,
Which we then shall raise.
Praise we now the Father,
With the glorious Son;
Praise to God the Spirit
Likewise shall be done. Amen.
During the singing of this hymn the newly made novice kneels, and all the
sisters come, with lighted tapers, to kiss and embrace their new sister;
after which a procession is formed, tapers are carried, incense is burnt,
and these words are sung:
The wise virgins took oil in their lamps; they went in with Him
to the marriage, and the door was shut.
These words were scarcely finished, when a door was suddenly and loudly
slammed; and it seemed hard to realize that we were still in the flesh,
and there came to my heated imagination some strange expectation of the
beatific vision.
No wonder that brains are turned, and young and inexperienced hearts are
deluded and led astray by such an imposing ceremony, which no words of
mine can adequately describe. You must have been on the spot fully to
realize it.
I would impress very strongly on all who read these pages a fact that
I think is not generally known, viz., that there is in the convent
no difference whatever between a novice and a black-veiled or fully
professed nun with regard to vows or rule, save that the latter vows for
life, and the novice for a time. Yet the novice believes that she has no
more right in the sight of God to go back from her vows than a life-vowed
nun has.