daughter of Judith, which Judith was the niece of the Conqueror, only
narrowly escaped being a gallant knight. As a boy, indeed, he used
to build churches with his box of bricks, while his brothers built
castles; but at least he gave promise of being a true knight, and,
once, not only accepted the gift of a ring from a lady, but wore
the sparkling diamond on his finger. “Ah! ah!” exclaimed the saucy
courtiers, “Knight Walthen is beginning to have a tender heart for the
ladies!” Poor Walthen! he called this a devil’s chorus, tossed the
ring into the fire, broke the lady’s heart, and went into a monastery
for the remainder of his days. He escaped better than St. Clarus, who
had a deaf ear and stone-blind eyes for the allurements of a lady of
quality, and who only barely escaped assassination, at the hands of
two ruffians hired by the termagant to kill the man who was above
allowing her holy face to win from him a grin of admiration. But though
I could fill a formidable volume with names of _ci-devant_ knights who
have turned saints, I will spare my readers, and conclude with the
great name of St. Bernard. He did not, indeed, take up arms, but when
he adopted a religious profession, he enjoyed the great triumph of
inducing his uncle, all his brothers, knights, and simple officers, to
follow his example. The uncle Gualdri, a famous swordsman and seigneur
of Touillon, was the first who was convinced that Bernard was right.
The two younger brothers of the latter, Bartholomew and Andrew, next
knocked off their spurs and took to their breviary. Guy, the eldest
brother, a married man, of wealth, broke up his household, sold his
armor, sent his lady to a convent and his daughters to a nunnery, put
on the cowl, and followed St. Bernard. Others of his family and many
of his friends followed his example, with which I conclude my record
of saints who have had any connection with arms. As for St. Bernard, I
_will_ say of him, that had he assumed the sword and been as merciless
to his enemies as he was, in his character of abbot, without bowels of
compassion for an adversary whom he could crush by wordy argument, he
would have been the most terrible cavalier that ever sat in saddle!
Perhaps the most perfect cavalier who ever changed that dignity for the
cowl, was the Chevalier de Rancé. Of him and his Trappist followers I
will here add a few words.
THE CHEVALIER DE RANCE AND THE TRAPPISTS.
De Rancé was born in 1626. He was of a ducal house, and the great
Cardinal de Richelieu was his godfather. In his youth he was very
sickly and scholastic. He was intended for the Church, held half a
score of livings before he could speak--and when he _could_ express
his will, resolved to live only by his sword. He remained for a while
neither priest nor swordsman, but simply the gayest of libertines. He
projected a plan of knight-errantry, in society with all the young
cavaliers, and abandoned the project to study astrology. For a period
of some duration, he was half-knight, half-priest. He then received
full orders, dressed like the most frivolous of marquises, seduced the
Duchess de Montbazon, and absolved in others the sins which he himself
practised. “Where are you going?” said the Chevalier de Champvallon to
him one day. “I have been preaching all the morning,” said De Rancé,
“like an angel, and I am going this afternoon to hunt like the very
devil.” He may be said to have been like those Mormons who describe
their fervent selves as “Hell-bent on Heaven!”
Nobody could ever tell whether he was soldier or priest, till death
slew the Duchess de Montbazon. De Rancé unexpectedly beheld the corpse
disfigured by the ravages of small-pox or measles, and he was so
shocked, that it drove him from the world to the cloister, where, as
the reconstructor, rather than the founder, of the order of Trappists,
he spent thirty-seven years--exactly as many as he had passed in the
“world.”
The companions and followers of the chivalrous De Rancé claim a few
words for themselves. The account will show in what strong contrasts
the two portions of their lives consisted. They had learned obedience
in their career of arms, but they submitted to a far more oppressive
rule in their career as monks. Some century and a half ago there was
published in Paris a dreadfully dreary series of volumes, entitled
“Relations de la Vie et de la Mort de quelques Religieux de l’Abbaye
de la Trappe.” They consist chiefly of tracts, partly biographical
and partly theological, uninteresting in the main, but of interest as
showing what noble soldiers or terrible freebooters asked for shelter
in, and endured the austerities of, La Trappe. I have alluded to the
unreserved submission required at the hands of the brothers. The
latter, according to the volumes which I have just named, were sworn
to impart even their _thoughts_ to the Abbot. They who thus delivered
themselves with least reserve appear to have been commanded in very bad
Latin; but their act of obedience was so dear to Heaven, that their
persons became surrounded with a glory, which their less communicative
brethren, says the author naïvely, could not possibly gaze at for any
length of time:--the which I implicitly believe.
The candidates for admission included, without doubt, many very pious
persons, but with them were degraded priests, with whom we have little
to do, and ex-officers, fugitive men-at-arms, robbers who had lived by
the sword, and murderers, of knightly degree, who had used their swords
to the unrighteous slaying of others, and who sought safety within the
cloisters of La Trappe. All that was asked of them was obedience. Where
this failed it was compelled. Where it abounded it was praised. Next
to it was humility. One brother, an ex-soldier reeking with blood, is
lauded because he lived on baked apples, when his throat was too sore
to admit of his swallowing more substantial food. Another brother, who
had changed arms for the gown, is most gravely compared with Moses,
because he was never bold enough to enter the pantry with sandals on
his feet. Still, obedience was the first virtue eulogized--so eulogized
that I almost suspect it to have been rare. It was made of so much
importance, that the community were informed that all their faith, and
all their works, without blind obedience to the superior, would fail in
securing their salvation. Practical blindness was as strongly enjoined.
He who used his eyes to least purpose, was accounted the better man.
One ex-military brother did this in so praiseworthy a way, that in
eight years he had never seen a fault in any of his brethren.
It was not, however, this sort of blindness that De Rancé required,
for he encouraged the brethren to bring accusations against each
other. Much praise is awarded to a brother who never looked at the
roof of his own cell. Laudation more unmeasured is poured upon another
faithful knight of the new order of self-negation, who was so entirely
unaccustomed to raise his eyes from the ground, that he was not aware
of the erection of a new chapel in the garden, until he broke his head
against the wall.
On one occasion the Duchess de Guiche and an eminent prelate visited
the monastery together. After they had left, a monk entered the Abbot’s
apartment, threw himself at the feet of his superior, and begged
permission to confess a great crime. He was told to proceed.
“When the lady and the bishop were here just now,” said he, “I dared to
raise my eyes, and they rested upon the face--”
“Not of the lady, thou reprobate!” exclaimed the Abbot.
“Oh no,” calmly rejoined the monk, “but of the old bishop!” A course of
bread and water was needed to work expiation for the crime.
Some of the brethren illustrated what they meant by obedience and
humility, after a strange fashion. For example, there was one who
having expressed an inclination to return to the world, was detained
against his will. His place was in the kitchen, and the devastation he
committed among the crockery was something stupendous--and probably
not altogether unintentional. He was not only continually fracturing
the delf earthenware dishes, but was incessantly running from the
kitchen to the Abbot, from the Abbot to the Prior, from the Prior to
the Sub-Prior, and from the Sub-Prior to the Master of the Novices to
confess his fault. Thence he returned to the kitchen again, once more
to smash whole crates of plates, following up the act with abundant
confessions, and deriving evident enjoyment, alike in destroying the
property, and assailing with noisy apologies the governing powers whom
he was resolved to inspire with a desire of getting rid of him.
In spite of forced detention there was a mock appearance of liberty at
monthly assemblies. The brethren were asked if there was anything in
the arrangement of the institution and its rules which they desired
to see changed. As an affirmative reply, however, would have brought
“penance” and “discipline” on him who made it, the encouraging phrase
that “They had only to speak,” by no means rendered them loquacious,
and every brother, by his silence, expressed his content.
If death was the suicidal object of many, the end appears to have been
generally attained with a speedy certainty. The superiors and a few
monks reached an advanced age; only a few of the brethren died old
men. Consumption, inflammation of the lungs, and abscess (at memory of
the minute description of which the very heart turns sick), carried
off the victims with terrible rapidity. Men entered, voluntarily or
otherwise, in good health. If they did so, determined to achieve
suicide, or were driven in by the government with a view of putting
them to death, the end soon came, and was, if we may believe what we
read, welcomed with alacrity. After rapid, painful, and unresisted
decay, the sufferer saw as his last hour approached, the cinders strewn
on the ground in the shape of a cross; a thin scattering of straw was
made upon the cinders, and that was the death-bed upon which every
Trappist expired. The body was buried in the habit of the order, as
some knights have been in panoply, without coffin or shroud, and was
borne to the grave in a cloth upheld by a few brothers. If it fell into
its last receptacle with huddled-up limbs, De Rancé would leap into the
grave and dispose the unconscious members, so as to make them assume an
attitude of repose.
A good deal of confusion appears to have distinguished the rules of
nomenclature. In many instances, where the original names had impure
or ridiculous significations, the change was advisable. But I can not
see how a brother became more cognisable as a Christian, by assuming
the names of Palemon, Achilles, Moses, or even Dorothy. Theodore, I can
understand; but Dorothy, though it bears the same meaning, seems to me
but an indifferent name for a monk, even in a century when the male
Montmorencies delighted in the name of “Anne.”
None of the monks were distinguished by superfluous flesh. Some of
these ex-soldiers were so thin-skinned, that when sitting on hard
chairs, their bones fairly rubbed through their very slight epidermis.
They who so suffered, and joyfully, were held up as bright examples of
godliness.
There is matter for many a sigh in these saffron-leaved and worm-eaten
tomes, whose opened pages are now before me. I find a monk who has
passed a sleepless night through excess of pain. To test his obedience,
he is ordered to confess that he has slept well and suffered nothing.
The submissive soldier obeys his general’s command. Another confesses
his readiness, as Dr. Newman has done, to surrender any of his own
deliberately-made convictions at the bidding of his superior. “I am
wax,” he says, “for you to mould me as you will and his unreserved
surrender of himself is commended with much windiness of phrase. A
third, inadvertently remarking that his scalding broth is over-salted,
bursts into tears at the enormity of the crime he has committed by thus
complaining; whereupon praise falls upon him more thickly than the salt
did into his broth: “Yes,” says the once knight, now abbot, “it is not
praying, nor watching, nor repentance, that is alone asked of you by
God, but humility and obedience therewith; and _first_ obedience.”
To test the fidelity of those professing to have this humility and
obedience, the most outrageous insults were inflicted on such as in
the world had been reckoned the most high-spirited. It is averred
that these never failed. The once testy soldier, now passionless
monk, kissed the sandal raised to kick, and blessed the hand lifted
to smite him. A proud young officer of mousquetaires, of whom I have
strong suspicions that he had embezzled a good deal of his majesty’s
money, acknowledged that he was the greatest criminal that ever
lived; but he stoutly denied the same when the officers of the law
visited the monastery and accused him of fraudulent practices. This
erst young warrior had no greater delight than in being permitted
to clean the spittoons in the chapel, and provide them with fresh
sawdust. Another, a young marquis and chevalier, performed with ecstacy
servile offices of a more disgusting character. This monk was the
flower of the fraternity. He was for ever accusing himself of the most
heinous crimes, not one of which he had committed, or was capable of
committing. “He represented matters so ingeniously,” says De Rancé,
who on this occasion is the biographer, “that without lying, he made
himself pass for the vile wretch which in truth he was not.” He must
have been like that other clever individual who “lied like truth.”
When I say that he was the flower of the fraternity, I probably do
some wrong to the Chevalier de Santin, who under the name of Brother
Palemon, was undoubtedly the chief pride of La Trappe. He had been an
officer in the army; without love for God, regard for man, respect for
woman, or reverence for law. In consequence of a rupture between Savoy
and France, he lost an annuity on which he had hitherto lived. As his
constitution was considerably shattered, he at the same time took to
reading. He was partially converted by perusing the history of Joseph;
and he was finally perfected by seeing the dead body of a very old and
very ugly monk, assume the guise and beauty of that of a young man.
This was good ground for conversion; but the count--for the chevalier
of various orders was of that degree by birth--the count had been so
thorough a miscreant in the world, that they who lived in the latter
declined to believe in the godliness of Brother Palemon. Thereupon he
was exhibited to all comers, and he gave ready replies to all queries
put to him by his numerous visiters. All France, grave and gay, noble
and simple, flocked to the spectacle. At the head of them was that
once sovereign head of the Order of the Garter, James II., with his
illegitimate son, from whom is descended the French ducal family of
Fitz-James. The answers of Palemon to his questioners edified countless
crowds. He shared admiration with another ex-military brother, who
guilelessly told the laughing ladies who flocked to behold him, that
he had sought refuge in the monastery because his sire had wished him
to marry a certain lady; but that his soul revolted at the idea of
touching even the finger-tips of one of a sex by the first of whom the
world was lost. The consequent laughter was immense.
From this it is clear that there were occasionally gay doings at
the monastery, and that those at least who had borne arms, were not
addicted to close their eyes in the presence of ladies. Among the most
remarkable of the knightly members of the brotherhood, was a certain
Robert Graham, whose father, Colonel Graham, was first cousin to
Montrose. Robert was born, we are told, in the “Chateau de Rostourne,”
a short league (it is added by way of help, I suppose, to perplexed
travellers), from Edinburgh. By his mother’s side he was related to the
Earl of Perth, of whom the Trappist biographer says, that he was even
more illustrious for his piety, and for what he suffered for the sake
of religion, than by his knighthood, his viceroyship, or his offices
of High Chancellor of England, and “Governor of the Prince of Wales,
now (1716) rightful king of Great Britain.” The mother of Robert, a
zealous protestant, is spoken of as having “as much piety as one _can_
have in a false religion.” In spite of her teaching, however, the young
Robert early exhibited an inclination for the Romish religion; and at
ten years of age, the precocious boy attended mass in the chapel of
Holyrood, to the great displeasure of his mother. On his repeating
his visit, she had him soundly whipped by his tutor; but the young
gentleman declared that the process could not persuade him to embrace
Presbyterianism. He accordingly rushed to the house of Lord Perth,
“himself a recent convert from the Anglican Church,” and claimed his
protection. After some family arrangements had been concluded, the
youthful protégé was formally surrendered to the keeping of Lord Perth,
by his mother, and not without reluctance. His father gave him up with
the unconcern of those Gallios who care little about questions of
religion.
Circumstances compelled the earl to leave Scotland, when Robert
sojourned with his mother at the house of her brother, a godly
protestant minister. Here he showed the value of the instructions he
had received at the hands of Lord Perth and his Romish chaplain, by a
conduct which disgusted every honest man, and terrified every honest
maiden, in all the country round. His worthy biographer is candid
enough to say that Robert, in falling off from Popery, did not become
a protestant, but an atheist. The uncle turned him out of his house.
The prodigal repaired to London, where he rioted prodigally; thence
he betook himself to France, and he startled even Paris with the bad
renown of his evil doings. On his way thither through Flanders, he had
had a moment or two of misgiving as to the wisdom of his career, and
he hesitated while one might count twenty, between the counsel of some
good priests, and the bad example of some Jacobite soldiers, with whom
he took service. The latter prevailed, and when the chevalier Robert
appeared at the court of St Germains, Lord Perth presented to the
fugitive king and queen there, as accomplished a scoundrel as any in
Christendom.
There was a show of decency at the exiled court, and respect for
religion. Young Graham adapted himself to the consequent influences. He
studied French, read the lives of the saints, entered the seminary at
Meaux, and finally reprofessed the Romish religion. He was now seized
with a desire to turn hermit, but accident having taken him to La
Trappe, the blasé libertine felt himself reproved by the stern virtue
exhibited there, and, in a moment of enthusiasm, he enrolled himself a
postulant, bade farewell to the world, and devoted himself to silence,
obedience, humility, and austerity, with a perfectness that surprised
alike those who saw and those who heard of it. Lord Perth opposed the
reception of Robert in the monastery. Thereon arose serious difficulty,
and therewith the postulant relapsed into sin. He blasphemed, reviled
his kinsmen, swore oaths that set the whole brotherhood in speechless
terror, and finally wrote a letter to his old guardian, so crammed with
fierce and unclean epithets, that the abbot refused permission to have
it forwarded. The excitement which followed brought on illness; with
the latter, came reflection and sorrow. At length all difficulties
vanished, and ultimately, on the eve of All Saints, 1699, Robert Graham
became a monk, and changed his name for that of Brother Alexis. King
James visited him, and was much edified by the spiritual instruction
vouchsafed him by the second cousin of the gallant Montrose. The new
monk was so perfect in obedience that he would not in winter throw
a crumb to a half-starved sparrow, without first applying for leave
from his spiritual superior. “Indeed,” says his biographer, “I could
tell you a thousand veritable stories about him; but they are so
extraordinary that I do not suppose the world would believe one of
them.” The biographer adds, that Alexis, after digging and cutting wood
all day; eating little, drinking less, praying incessantly, and neither
washing nor unclothing himself, lay down; but to pass the night without
closing his eyes in sleep! He was truly a brother Vigilantius.
The renown of his conversion had many influences. The father of Alexis,
Colonel Graham, embraced Romanism, and the colonel and an elder son,
who was already a Capuchin friar, betook themselves to La Trappe,
where the reception of the former into the church was marked by a
double solemnity--De Rancé dying as the service was proceeding. The
wife of Colonel Graham is said to have left Scotland on the receipt of
the above intelligence, to have repaired to France, and there embrace
the form of faith followed by her somewhat facile husband. There is,
however, great doubt on this point.
The fate of young Robert Graham was similar to that of most of the
Trappists. The deadly air, the hard work, the watchings, the scanty
food, and the uncleanliness which prevailed, soon slew a man who was
as useless to his fellow-men in a convent, as he had ever been in the
world. His confinement was, in fact, a swift suicide. Consumption
seized on the poor boy, for he was still but a boy, and his rigid
adherence to the severe discipline of the place, only aided to develop
what a little care might have easily checked. His serge gown clove
to the carious bones which pierced through his diseased skin. The
portions of his body on which he immovably lay, became gangrened, and
nothing appears to have been done by way of remedy. He endured all with
patience, and looked forward to death with a not unaccountable longing.
The “infirmier” bade him be less eager in pressing forward to the
grave.--“I will now pray God,” said the nursing brother, “that he will
be pleased to save you.”--“And I,” said Alexis, “will ask him not to
heed you.” Further detail is hardly necessary: suffice it to say that
Robert Graham died on the 21st May, 1701, little more than six months
after he had entered the monastery, and at the early age of twenty-two
years. The father and brother also died in France, and so ended the
chivalrous cousins of the chivalrous Montrose.
The great virtue inculcated at La Trappe, was one of the cherished
virtues of old chivalry, obedience to certain rules. But there was no
excitement in carrying it out. Bodily suffering was encountered by a
knight, for mere glory’s sake. At La Trappe it was accounted as the
only means whereby to escape Satan. The knight of the cross purchased
salvation by the sacrifice of his life; the monk of La Trappe, by an
unprofitable suicide. With both there was doubtless the one great
hope common to all Christians; but that great hope, so fortifying to
the knight, seemed not to relieve the Trappist of the fear that Satan
was more powerful than the Redeemer. When once treating this subject
at greater length, I remarked that there was a good moral touching
Satan in Cuvier’s dream, and the application of which might have been
profitable to men like these monks. The great philosopher just named,
once saw, in his sleep, the popular representative of the great enemy
of man. The fiend approached with a loudly-expressed determination to
“eat him.” “Eat me!” exclaimed Cuvier, examining him the while with the
eye of a naturalist. “Eat me! Horns! Hoofs!” he added, scanning him
over. “Horns? Hoofs? _Graminivorous!_ needn’t be afraid of you!”
And now let us get back from the religious orders of men to chivalrous
orders of ladies. It is quite time to exclaim, _Place aux Dames!_
FEMALE KNIGHTS AND JEANNE DARC.
Mein ist der Helm, und mir gehört er zu.--SCHILLER.