confess that what little learning remained in the world was amongst the
priests and religious orders. Books, before the invention of paper, and
the art of printing, were so dear, that few private persons possessed
any. The only libraries were in convents; and the monks were often
employed in transcribing manuscripts, which was a very tedious, and
at that time a very necessary task. It was frequently enjoined as a
penance for some slight offence, or given as an exercise to the younger
part of the community. The monks were obliged by their rules to spend
some stated hours every day in reading and study; nor was any one to
be chosen abbot without a competent share of learning. They were the
only historians; and though their accounts be interwoven with many
a legendary tale, and darkened by much superstition, still they are
better than no histories at all; and we cannot but think ourselves
obliged to them for transmitting to us, in any dress, the annals of
their country.
They were likewise almost the sole instructors of youth. Towards the
end of the tenth century, there were no schools in Europe but the
monasteries, and those which belonged to episcopal residences; nor any
masters but the Benedictines. It is true, their course of education
extended no further than what they called the seven liberal arts, and
these were taught in a very dry and uninteresting manner. But this
was the genius of the age, and it should not be imputed to them as a
reproach that they did not teach well, when no one taught better. We
are guilty of great unfairness when we compare the school-men with the
philosophers of a more enlightened age: we should contrast them with
those of their own times; with a high-constable of France who could
not read; with kings who made the sign of the cross in confirmation of
their charters, because they could not write their names; with a whole
people without the least glimmering of taste or literature. Whatever
was their real knowledge, there was a much greater difference between
men of learning, and the bulk of the nation, at that time, than there
is at present; and certainly, some of the disciples of those schools
who, though now fallen into disrepute, were revered in their day by the
names of the subtle, or the angelic doctors, shewed an acuteness and
strength of genius, which, if properly directed, would have gone far in
philosophy; and they only failed because their enquiries were not the
objects of the human powers. Had they exercised half that acuteness on
facts and experiments, they had been truly great men. However, there
were not wanting some, even in the darkest ages, whose names will be
always remembered with pleasure by the lovers of science. Alcuin, the
preceptor of Charlemagne, the first who introduced a taste for polite
literature into France, and the chief instrument that prince made
use of in his noble endeavours for the encouragement of learning; to
whom the universities of Soissons, Tours and Paris owe their origin:
the historians, Mathew Paris, William of Malmsbury; Savanarola; the
elegant and unfortunate Abelard; and, to crown the rest, the English
Franciscan, Roger Bacon.
It may be here observed, that forbidding the vulgar tongue in the
offices of devotion, and in reading the scriptures, though undoubtedly
a great corruption in the Christian Church, was of infinite service
to the interests of learning. When the ecclesiastics had locked up
their religion in a foreign tongue, they would take care not to lose
the key. This gave an importance to the learned languages; and every
scholar could not only read, but wrote and disputed in Latin, which
without such a motive would probably have been no more studied than the
Chinese. And at a time when the modern languages of Europe were yet
unformed and barbarous, Latin was of great use as a kind of universal
tongue, by which learned men might converse and correspond with each
other.
Indeed the monks were almost the only set of men who had leisure or
opportunity to pay the least attention to literary subjects. A learned
education (and a very little went to that title) was reckoned peculiar
to the religious. It was almost esteemed a blemish on the savage and
martial character of the gentry, to have any tincture of letters. A
man, therefore, of a studious and retired turn, averse to quarrels, and
not desirous of the fierce and sanguinary glory of those times, beheld
in the cloister a peaceful and honourable sanctuary; where, without the
reproach of cowardice, or danger of invasion, he might devote himself
to learning, associate with men of his own turn, and have free access
to libraries and manuscripts. In this enlightened and polished age,
where learning is diffused through every rank, and many a merchant’s
clerk possesses more real knowledge than half the literati of that æra,
we can scarcely conceive how gross an ignorance overspread those times,
and how totally all useful learning might have been lost amongst us,
had it not been for an order of men, veiled with peculiar privileges,
and protected by even a superstitious degree of reverence.
Thus the Muses, with their attendant arts, in strange disguise indeed,
and uncouth trappings, took refuge in the peaceful gloom of the
convent. Statuary carved a madonna or a crucifix; Painting illuminated
a missal; Eloquence made the panegyric of a saint; and History
composed a legend. Yet still they breathed, and were ready, at any
happier period, to emerge from obscurity with all their native charms
and undiminished lustre.
But there were other views in which those who devoted themselves to
a monastic life might be supposed useful to society. They were often
employed either in cultivating their gardens, or in curious mechanical
works; as indeed the nuns are still famous for many elegant and
ingenious manufactures. By the constant communication they had with
those of their own order, and with their common head at Rome, they
maintained some intercourse between nations at a time when travelling
was dangerous, and commerce had not, as now, made the most distant
parts of the globe familiar to each other: and they kept up a more
intimate bond of union amongst learned men of all countries, who
would otherwise have been secluded from all knowledge of each other. A
monk might travel with more convenience than any one else; his person
was safer, and he was sure of meeting with proper accommodations.
The intercourse with Rome must have been peculiarly favourable to
these northern nations; as Italy for a long time led the way in every
improvement of politeness or literature: and if we imported their
superstition, we likewise imported their manufactures, their knowledge,
and their taste. Thus Alfred sent for Italian monks, when he wanted
to civilize his people, and introduce amongst them some tincture of
letters. It may likewise be presumed that they tempered the rigour
of monarchy. Indeed they, as well as the sovereigns, endeavoured to
enslave the people; but subjection was not likely to be so abject and
unlimited where the object of it was divided, and each showed by turns
that the other might be opposed. It must have been of service to the
cause of liberty to have a set of men, whose laws, privileges, and
immunities the most daring kings were afraid to trample on; and this,
before a more enlightened spirit of freedom had arisen, might have its
effect in preventing the states of christendom from falling into such
entire slavery as the Asiatics.
Such an order would in some degree check the excessive regard paid to
birth. A man of mean origin and obscure parentage saw himself excluded
from almost every path of secular preferment, and almost treated as
a being of an inferior species by the high and haughty spirit of the
gentry; but he was at liberty to aspire to the highest dignities of
the church; and there have been many who, like Sextus V. and cardinal
Wolsey, have by their industry and personal merit alone raised
themselves to a level with kings.
It should likewise be remembered that many of the orders were
charitable institutions; as the _knights of faith and charity_ in the
thirteenth century, who were associated for the purpose of suppressing
those bands of robbers which infested the public roads in France;
the _brethren of the order of the redemption_, for redeeming slaves
from the Mahometans; the _order of St. Anthony_, first established
for the relief of the poor under certain disorders; and the _brethren
and sisters of the pious and christian schools_, for educating poor
children. These supplied the place of hospitals and other such
foundations, which are now established on the broader basis of public
benevolence. To bind up the wounds of the stranger, was peculiarly the
office of the inhabitants of the convent; and they often shared the
charities they received. The exercise of hospitality is still their
characteristic, and must have been of particular use formerly, when
there were not the conveniences and accommodations for travelling which
we now enjoy. The learned stranger was always sure of an agreeable
residence amongst them; and as they all understood Latin, they served
him for interpreters, and introduced him to a sight of whatever was
curious or valuable in the countries which he visited. They checked
the spirit of savage fierceness, to which our warlike ancestors were
so prone, with the mildness and sanctity of religious influences;
they preserved some respect to law and order, and often decided
controversies by means less bloody than the sword, though confessedly
more superstitious.
A proof that these institutions had a favourable aspect towards
civilization, may be drawn from a late history of Ireland. “Soon after
the introduction of christianity into that kingdom,” says Dr. Leland,
“the monks fixed their habitations in desarts, which they cultivated
with their own hands, and rendered the most delightful spots in the
kingdom. These desarts became well policed cities, and it is remarkable
enough, that to the monks we owe so useful an institution in Ireland as
the bringing great numbers together into one civil community. In these
cities the monks set up schools, and taught, not only the youth of
Ireland, but the neighbouring nations; furnishing them also with books.
They became umpires between contending chiefs, and when they could
not confine them within the bounds of reason and religion, at least
terrified them by denouncing divine vengeance against their excesses.”
Let it be considered too, that when the minds of men began to open,
some of the most eminent reformers sprung from the bosom of the
church, and even of the convent. It was not the laity who began to
think. The ecclesiastics were the first to perceive the errors they
had introduced. The church was reformed from within, not from without;
and like the silk-worm, when ripened in their cells to maturer vigour
and perfection, they pierced the cloud themselves had spun, and within
which they had so long been enveloped.
And let not the good protestant be too much startled if I here venture
to insinuate, that the monasteries were schools of some high and
respectable virtues. Poverty, chastity, and a renunciation of the
world, were certainly intended in the first plan of these institutions;
and though, from the unavoidable frailty of human nature, they were
not always observed, certain it is, that many individuals amongst them
have been striking examples of the self-denying virtues: and as the
influence they acquired was only built upon the voluntary homage of
the mind, it may be presumed such an ascendancy was not originally
gained without some species of merit. The fondness for monkery is
easily deduced from some of the best principles in the human heart.
It was indeed necessity, that in the third century first drove the
christians to shelter themselves from the Decian persecution in the
solitary desarts of Thebais, but the humour soon spread, and numbers
under the name of hermits, or eremites, secluded themselves from the
commerce of mankind, choosing the wildest solitudes, living in caves
and hollows of the rocks, and subsisting on such roots and herbs as
the ground afforded them. About the fourth century they were gathered
into communities, and increased with surprising rapidity. It was then
that, by a great and sudden revolution, the fury of persecution had
ceased, and the governing powers were become friendly to christianity.
But the agitation of men’s minds did not immediately subside with
the storm. The christians had so long experienced the necessity of
resigning all the enjoyments of life, and were so detached from every
tie which might interfere with the profession of their faith, that upon
a more favourable turn of affairs they hardly dared open their minds
to pleasurable emotions. They thought the life of a good man must be
a continual warfare between mind and body; and having been long used
to see ease and safety on the one side, and virtue on the other, no
wonder if the association was so strong in their minds, as to suggest
the necessity of voluntary mortification, and lead them to inflict
those sufferings upon themselves, which they no longer apprehended
from others. They had continually experienced the amazing effects of
christianity in supporting its followers under hardship, tortures,
and death; and they thought little of its influence in regulating the
common behaviour of life, if it produced none of those great exertions
they had been used to contemplate. They were struck with the change
from heathen licentiousness to the purity of the gospel; and thought
they could never be far enough removed from that bondage of the senses
which it had just cost them so violent a struggle to escape. The minds
of men were working with newly-received opinions, not yet mellowed
into a rational faith; and the young converts, astonished at the
grandeur and sublimity of the doctrines which then first entered their
hearts with irresistable force, thought them worthy to engross their
whole attention. The mystic dreams of the Platonist mingled with the
enthusiasm of the martyr; and it soon became the prevailing opinion,
that silence, solitude, and contemplation, were necessary for the
reception of divine truth. Mistaken ideas prevailed of a purity and
perfection far superior to the rules of common life, which was only
to be attained by those who denied themselves all the indulgences of
sense; and thus the ascetic severities of the cloister succeeded in
some degree to the philosophic poverty of the Cynic school, and the
lofty virtues of the Stoic porch.
Indeed, it is now the prevailing taste in morals to decry every
observance which has the least appearance of rigour; and to insist only
on the softer virtues. But let it be remembered, that self-command and
self-denial are as necessary to the practice of benevolence, charity,
and compassion, as to any other duty; that it is impossible to live
to others without denying ourselves; and that the man who has not
learned to curb his appetites and passions is ill qualified for those
sacrifices which the friendly affections are continually requiring of
him. The man who has that one quality of self-command will find little
difficulty in the practice of any other duty; as, on the contrary,
he who has it not, tho’ possessed of the gentlest feelings, and most
refined sensibilities, will soon find his benevolence sink into a mere
companionable easiness of temper, neither useful to others nor happy
for himself. A noble enthusiasm is sometimes of use to show how far
human nature can go. Though it may not be proper, or desirable, that
numbers should seclude themselves from the common duties and ordinary
avocations of life, for the austerer lessons of the cloister, yet it
is not unuseful that some should push their virtues to even a romantic
height; and it is encouraging to reflect in the hour of temptation,
that the love of ease, the aversion to pain, every appetite and
passion, and even the strongest propensities in our nature, have been
controuled; that the empire of the mind over the body has been asserted
in its fullest extent; and that there have been men in all ages capable
of voluntarily renouncing all the world offers, voluntarily suffering
all it dreads, and living independent, and unconnected with it. Nor
was it a small advantage, or ill calculated to support the dignity of
science, that a learned man might be respectable in a coarse gown,
a leathern girdle, and bare-footed. Cardinal Ximenes preserved the
severe simplicity of a convent amidst the pomp and luxury of palaces;
and to those who thus thought it becoming in the highest stations to
affect the appearance of poverty, the reality surely could not be very
dreadful.
There is yet another light in which these institutions may be
considered. It is surely not improper to provide a retreat for those
who, stained by some deep and enormous crime, wish to expiate by severe
and uncommon penitence those offences which render them unworthy of
freer commerce with the world. Repentance is never so secure from a
relapse as when it breaks off at once from every former connection,
and entering upon a new course of life, bids adieu to every object
that might revive the idea of temptations which have once prevailed.
In these solemn retreats, the stillness and acknowledged sanctity of
the place, with the striking novelty of every thing around them, might
have great influence in calming the passions; might break the force of
habit, and suddenly induce a new turn of thinking. There are likewise
afflictions so overwhelming to humanity, that they leave no relish in
the mind for any thing else than to enjoy its own melancholy in silence
and solitude; and to a heart torn with remorse, or opprest with sorrow,
the gloomy severities of La Trappe are really a relief. Retirement is
also the favourite wish of age. Many a statesman, and many a warrior,
sick of the bustle of that world to which they had devoted the prime
of their days, have longed for some quiet cell, where, like cardinal
Wolsey, or Charles the Fifth, they might shroud their grey hairs, and
lose sight of the follies with which they had been too much tainted.
Though there is, perhaps, less to plead for immuring beauty in a
cloister, and confining that part of the species who are formed to
shine in families and sweeten society, to the barren duties and austere
discipline of a monastic life; yet circumstances might occur, in which
they would, even to a woman, be a welcome refuge. A young female, whom
accident or war had deprived of her natural protectors, must, in an age
of barbarism, be peculiarly exposed and helpless. A convent offered her
an asylum where she might be safe, at least, if not happy; and add to
the consciousness of unviolated virtue the flattering dreams of angelic
purity and perfection. There were orders, as well amongst the women
as the men, instituted for charitable purposes, such as that of the
_Virgins of love_, or _Daughters of mercy_, founded in 1660, for the
relief of the sick poor; with others for instructing their children.
These must have been peculiarly suited to the softness and compassion
of the sex, and to this it is no doubt owing, that still, in catholic
countries, ladies of the highest rank often visit the hospitals and
houses of the poor; waiting on them with the most tender assiduity, and
performing such offices as our protestant ladies would be shocked at
the thoughts of. We should also consider, that most of the females who
now take the veil, are such as have no agreeable prospects in life. Why
should not these be allowed to quit a world which will never miss them?
It is easier to retire from the public, than to support its disregard.
The convent is to them a shelter from poverty and neglect. Their little
community grows dear to them. The equality which subsists among
these sisters of obscurity, the similarity of their fate, the peace,
the leisure they enjoy, give rise to the most endearing friendships.
Their innocence is shielded by the simplicity of their life from even
the idea of ill; and they are flattered by the notion of a voluntary
renunciation of pleasures, which, probably, had they continued in the
world, they would have had little share in.
After all that can be said, we have reason enough to rejoice that
the superstitions of former times are now fallen into disrepute.
What might be a palliative at one time, soon became a crying evil in
itself. When the fuller day of science began to dawn, the monkish
orders were willing to exclude its brightness, that the dim lamp might
still glimmer in their cell. Their growing vices have rendered them
justly odious to society, and they seem in a fair way of being for ever
abolished. But may we not still hope that the world was better than
it would have been without them; and that he, who knows to bring good
out of evil, has made them, in their day, subservient to some useful
purposes. The corruptions of christianity, which have been accumulating
for so many ages, seem to be now gradually clearing away, and some
future period may perhaps exhibit our religion in all its native
simplicity.
So the pure limpid stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents, and descending rains;
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on its borders grows,
And a new heaven in its fair bosom shews.
ON THE PLEASURE DERIVED FROM OBJECTS OF TERROR;
WITH SIR BERTRAND, A FRAGMENT.
That the exercise of our benevolent feelings, as called forth by the
view of human afflictions, should be a source of pleasure, cannot
appear wonderful to one who considers that relation between the
moral and natural system of man, which has connected a degree of
satisfaction with every action or emotion productive of the general
welfare. The painful sensation immediately arising from a scene of
misery, is so much softened and alleviated by the reflex sense of
self-approbation attending virtuous sympathy, that we find, on the
whole, a very exquisite and refined pleasure remaining, which makes us
desirous of again being witnesses to such scenes, instead of flying
from them with disgust and horror. It is obvious how greatly such a
provision must conduce to the ends of mutual support and assistance.
But the apparent delight with which we dwell upon objects of pure
terror, where our moral feelings are not in the least concerned, and
no passion seems to be excited but the depressing one of fear, is a
paradox of the heart, much more difficult of solution.
The reality of this source of pleasure seems evident from daily
observation. The greediness with which the tales of ghosts and
goblins, of murders, earthquakes, fires, shipwrecks, and all the most
terrible disasters attending human life, are devoured by every ear,
must have been generally remarked. Tragedy, the most favourite work
of fiction, has taken a full share of those scenes; “it has supt full
with horrors,” and has, perhaps, been more indebted to them for public
admiration than to its tender and pathetic part. The ghost of Hamlet,
Macbeth descending into the witches’ cave, and the tent scene in
Richard, command as forcibly the attention of our souls as the parting
of Jaffier and Belvidera, the fall of Wolsey, or the death of Shore.
The inspiration of _terror_ was by the ancient critics assigned as the
peculiar province of tragedy; and the Greek and Roman tragedians have
introduced some extraordinary personages for this purpose: not only the
shades of the dead, but the furies, and other fabulous inhabitants of
the infernal regions. Collins, in his most poetical ode to Fear, has
finely enforced this idea.
Tho’ gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine.