_Seville, ---- 1803._
I have connected few subjects with more feelings of disgust and
pain than that of the Religious Orders in this country. The evil of
this institution, as it relates to the male sex, is so unmixed, and
unredeemed by any advantage, and its abuse, as applied to females,
so common and cruel, that I recoil involuntarily from the train of
thought which I feel rising in my mind. But the time approaches, or
my wishes overstep my judgment, when this and such gross blemishes
of society will be finally extirpated from the face of the civilized
world. The struggle must be long and desperate; and neither the
present nor the ensuing generation are likely to see the end. Let
me, however, flatter myself with the idea, that by exposing the
mischievous effects of the existing system, I am contributing--no
matter how little--towards its final destruction. Such a notion alone
can give me courage to proceed.
Gibbon has delineated, with his usual accuracy, the origin and
progress of monastic life;[28] and to his elegant pages I must refer
you for information on the historical part of my subject. But his
account does not come down to the establishment of the Mendicant
Orders of Friars. The distinction, however, between these and
the Monks is not very important. The Monks, as the original name
implies, retired from the world to live in perfect solitude. As these
fanatics increased, many associations were formed, whose members,
professing the same rule of religious life, were distinguished by the
appropriate name of _Cœnobites_.[29] When, at length, the frantic
spirit which drove thousands to live like wild beasts in the deserts,
had relaxed, and the original _Eremites_ were gradually gathered into
the more social establishment of convents, the original distinction
was forgotten, and the primitive name of Monks became prevalent.
Still holding up their claims to be considered _Anachorites_, even
when they had become possessed of lands and princely incomes, their
monasteries were founded in the neighbourhood, but never within the
precincts of towns: and though the service of their churches is
splendid, it is not intended for the benefit of the people, and the
Monks are seldom seen either in the pulpit or the confessional.
[28] Chapter xxxvii.
[29] Persons who live in common.
The Friars date their origin from the beginning of the thirteenth
century, and were instituted for the express purpose of acting as
auxiliaries to the clergy. Saint Dominic, the most odious, and Saint
Francis, the most frantic of modern saints, enlisted their holy
troops without any limitation of number; for, by quartering them
on the productive population of Christendom, the founders took no
concern for the daily supply of their numerous followers.
The Dominicans, however, having succeeded in the utter destruction
of the Albigenses, and subsequently monopolized, for more than three
centuries, the office of inquisitors, enriched themselves with the
spoils of their victims, and are in the enjoyment of considerable
wealth. The Franciscans continue to thrive upon alms; and, relying
on the promise made to Saint Francis in a vision, that his followers
should never feel want, point to the abundant supplies which flow
daily into their convents as a permanent miracle which attests the
celestial origin of their order. With the historical proofs of St.
Francis’s financial vision I confess myself perfectly unacquainted.
But when I consider that the general or chief of these holy beggars,
derives from the collections daily made by his friars, a personal
income of twenty thousand a year, I cannot withhold my assent to its
genuineness; for who, except a supernatural being, could possess such
a thorough knowledge of the absurdity of mankind?
It would be tedious to enter into a description of the numerous
orders comprehended under the two classes of Monks and Friars.
The distinguishing characters of the first are wealth, ease, and
indulgence--those of the last, vulgarity, filth, and vice. I shall
only add that, among the Monks, the Benedictines are at the top of
the scale for learning and decency of manners, while the Hieronimites
deservedly occupy the bottom. To the Friars I am forced to apply the
Spanish proverb--“There is little to choose in a mangy flock.” The
Franciscans, however, both from their multitude and their low habits
of mendicity, may be held as the proper representatives of all that
is most objectionable in the religious orders.
The inveterate superstition which still supports these institutions
among us has lost, of late, its power to draw recruits to the
cloister, from the middle and higher classes. Few monks, and scarcely
a friar, can be found, who by taking the cowl, has not escaped a life
of menial toil. Boys of this rank of life are received as novices at
the age of fifteen, and admitted, after a year’s probation, to the
perpetual vows of _obedience_, _poverty_, and _celibacy_. Engagements
so discordant with the first laws of human nature could hardly stand
the test of time, even if they arose from the deepest feelings of
enthusiasm. But this affection of the mind is seldom found in our
convents. The year of noviciate is spent in learning the cant and
gestures of the vilest hypocrisy, as well as in strengthening, by the
example of the professed young friars, the original gross manners
and vicious habits of the probations.[30] The result of such a system
is but too visible. It is a common jest among the friars themselves,
that in the act of taking the vows, when the superior of the convent
draws the cowl over the head of the novice, he uses the words _Tolle
verecundiam_--“Put off shame.” And indeed, were the friars half so
true to their profession as they are to this supposed injunction, the
Church of Rome would really teem with saints. Shameless in begging,
they share the scanty meal of the labourer, and extort a portion of
every product of the earth from the farmer. Shameless in conduct,
they spread vice and demoralization among the lower classes, secure
in the respect which is felt for their profession, that they may
engage in a course of profligacy without any risk of exposure. When
an instance of gross misconduct obtrudes itself upon the eyes of the
public, every pious person thinks it his duty to hush up the report,
and cast a veil on the transaction. Even the sword of justice is
glanced aside from these consecrated criminals. I shall not trouble
you with more than two cases, out of a multitude, which prove the
power of this popular feeling.
[30] See Note I.
The most lucrative employment for friars, in this town, is preaching.
I have not the means to ascertain the number of sermons delivered
at Seville in the course of the year; but there is good reason
to suppose that the average cannot be less than twelve a-day.
One preacher, a clergyman, I know, who scarcely passes one day
without mounting the pulpit, and reckons on three sermons every
four-and-twenty hours, during the last half of Lent.
Of these indefatigable preachers, the greatest favourite is a young
Franciscan friar, called Padre R----z, whose merit consists in a
soft clear-toned voice, a tender and affectionate manner, and an
incredible fluency of language. Being, by his profession, under a vow
of absolute poverty, and the Franciscan rule carrying this vow so
far as not to allow the members of the order to touch money, it was
generally understood that the produce of these apostolical labours
was faithfully deposited to be used in common by the whole religious
community. An incident, however, which lately came to light, has
given us reason to suspect that we are not quite in the secret of
the internal management of these societies of saintly paupers, and
that individual industry is rewarded among them with a considerable
share of profits. A young female cousin of the zealous preacher in
question, was living quite alone in a retired part of this town,
where her relative paid her, it should seem, not unfrequent visits.
Few, however, except her obscure neighbours, suspected her connexion
with the friar, or had the least notion of her existence. An old
woman attended her in the day-time, and retired in the evening,
leaving her mistress alone in the house. One morning the street was
alarmed by the old servant, who, having gained admittance, as usual,
by means of a private key, found the young woman dead in her bed, the
room and other parts of the house being stained with blood. It was
clear, indeed, upon a slight inspection of the body, that no violence
had taken place; yet the powerful interest excited at the moment,
and before measures had been taken to hush the whole matter, spread
the circumstances of the case all over the town, and brought the
fact to light, that the house itself belonged to the friar, having
been purchased by an agent with the money arising from his sermons.
The hungry vultures of the law would have reaped an abundant harvest
upon any lay individual who had been involved in such a train of
suspicious circumstances. But, probably, a proper _douceur_ out of
the sermon fees increased their pious tenderness for the friar; while
he was so emboldened by the disposition of the people to shut their
eyes on every circumstance which might sully the fair name of a son
of Saint Francis, that, a few days after the event, he preached a
sermon, denouncing the curse of Heaven on the impious individuals who
could harbour a belief derogatory to his sacred character.
Crimes of the blackest description were left unpunished during the
last reign, from a fixed and avowed determination of the King[31]
not to inflict the punishment of death upon a priest. Townsend has
mentioned the murder of a young lady committed by a friar at San
Lucar de Barrameda; and I would not repeat the painful narrative,
were it not that my acquaintance with some of her relatives, as
well as with the spot on which she fell, enables me to give a more
accurate statement.
[31] Charles III.
A young lady, of a very respectable family in the above-mentioned
town, had for her confessor a friar of the Reformed or _Unshod_
Carmelites. I have often visited the house where she lived, in front
of the convent. Thither her mother took her every day to mass, and
frequently to confession. The priest, a man of middle age, had
conceived a passion for his young penitent, which, not venturing to
disclose, he madly fed by visiting the unsuspecting girl with all
the frequency which the spiritual relation in which he stood towards
her, and the friendship of her parents, allowed him. The young woman
now about nineteen, had an offer of a suitable match, which she
accepted with the approbation of her parents. The day being fixed
for the marriage, the bride, according to custom, went, attended by
her mother, early in the morning to church, to confess and receive
the sacrament. After giving her absolution, the confessor, stung
with the madness of jealousy, was observed whetting a knife in the
kitchen. The unfortunate girl had, in the mean time, received the
host, and was now leaving the church, when the villain, meeting her
in the porch, and pretending to speak a few words in her ear--a
liberty to which his office entitled him--stabbed her to the heart
in the presence of her mother. The assassin did not endeavour to
escape. He was committed to prison; and after the usual delays of
the Spanish law, was condemned to death. The King, however, commuted
this sentence into a confinement for life in a fortress at Puerto
Rico. The only anxiety ever showed by the murderer was respecting
the success of his crime. He made frequent enquiries to ascertain
the death of the young woman; and the assurance that no man could
possess the object of his passion, seemed to make him happy during
the remainder of a long life.
Instances of enthusiasm are so rare, even in the most austere orders,
that there is strong ground to suspect its seeds are destroyed by
a pervading corruption of morals. The Observant Franciscans, the
most numerous community in this town, have not been able to set up
a living saint after the death, which happened four or five years
since, of the last in the series of servants to the order, who, for
time immemorial, have been a source of honour and profit to that
convent. Besides the lay-brothers--a kind of upper servants under
religious vows, but excluded from the dignity of holy orders--the
friars admit some peasants, under the name of Donados, (_Donati_,
in the Latin of the middle ages,) who, like their predecessors of
servile condition, give themselves up, as their name expresses it,
to the service of the convent. As these people are now-a-days at
liberty to leave their voluntary servitude, none are admitted but
such as by the weakness of their understanding, and the natural
timidity arising from a degree of imbecility, are expected to
continue for life in a state of religious bondage. They wear the
habit of the order, and are employed in the most menial offices,
unless, being able to act, or rather to bear the character of
extraordinary sanctity, they are sent about town to collect alms for
their employers. These idiot saints are seen daily with a vacillating
step, and look of the deepest humility, bearing about an image of the
child Jesus, to which a basket for alms is appended, and offering,
not their hand, which is the privilege of priests, but the end of
their right sleeve, to be kissed by the pious. To what influence
these miserable beings are sometimes raised, may be learned from a
few particulars of the life of Hermanito Sebastian (Little Brother
Sebastian) the last but one of the Franciscan collectors in this town.
During the last year of Philip V. Brother Sebastian was presented
to the _Infantes_, the king’s sons, that he might confer a blessing
upon them. The courtiers present, observing that he took most notice
of the king’s third son, Don Carlos, observed to him that his
respects were chiefly due to the eldest, who was to be king. “Nay,
nay, (it is reported he answered, pointing to his favourite) this
shall be king too.” Some time after this interview, Don Carlos was,
by the arrangements which put an end to the Succession War, made
Sovereign Prince of Parma. Conquest subsequently raised him to the
throne of Naples; and, lastly, the failure of direct heirs to his
brother Ferdinand VI. put him in possession of the crown of Spain.
His first and unexpected promotion to the sovereignty of Parma had
strongly impressed Don Carlos with the idea of Sebastian’s knowledge
of futurity. But when, after the death of the prophet, he found
himself on the throne of Spain, he thought himself bound in honour
and duty to obtain from the Pope the _Beatification_, or Apotheosis,
of _Little Sebastian_. The Church of Rome, however, knowing the
advantages of strict adherence to rules and forms, especially when a
king stands forward to pay the large fees incident to such trials,
proceeded at a pace, compared to which your Court of Chancery would
seem to move with the velocity of a meteor. But when the day arrived
for the exhibition, before the Holy Congregation of Cardinals, of
all papers whatever which might exist in the hand-writing of the
candidate for saintship, and it was found necessary to lay before
their Eminences an original letter, which the King carried about his
person as an amulet; good Carlos found himself in a most perplexing
dilemma. Distracted between duty to his ghostly friend, and his
fears of some personal misfortune during the absence of the letter,
he exerted the whole influence of his crown through the Spanish
ambassador at Rome, that the trial might proceed upon the inspection
of an authentic copy. The Pope, however, was inexorable, and nothing
could be done without the autograph. The king’s ministers at home,
on the other hand, finding him restless, and scarcely able to enjoy
the daily amusement of the chase, succeeded, at length, in bringing
about a plan for the exhibition of the letter, which, though attended
with an inevitable degree of anxiety and pain to his majesty, was,
nevertheless, the most likely to spare his feelings. The most active
and trusty of the Spanish messengers was chosen to convey the
invaluable epistle to Rome, and his speed was secured by the promise
of a large reward. Orders were then sent to the ambassador to have
the Holy Congregation assembled on the morning when the messenger
had engaged to arrive at the Vatican. By this skilful and deep-laid
plan of operations, the letter was not detained more than half an
hour at Rome; and another courier returned it with equal speed to
Spain. From the moment when the King tore himself from the sacred
paper, till it was restored to his hands, he did not venture once out
of the palace. I have given these particulars on the authority of a
man no less known in Spain for the high station he has filled, than
for his public virtues and talents. He has been minister of state to
the present King, Charles IV., and is intimately acquainted with the
secret history of the preceding reign.[32]
[32] Jovellanos; see Appendix.
Great remnants of self-tormenting fanaticism are still found among
the Carthusians. Of this order we have two monasteries in Andalusia,
one on the banks of the Guadalquivir, within two miles of our gates,
and another at Xeréz, or Sherry, as that town was formerly called in
England, a name which its wines still bear. These monasteries are
rich in land and endowments, and consequently afford the monks every
comfort which is consistent with their rule. But all the wealth in
the universe could not give those wretched slaves of superstition a
single moment of enjoyment. The unhappy man who binds himself with
the Carthusian vows, may consider the precincts of the cell allotted
him as his tomb. These monks spend daily eight or nine hours in the
chapel, without any music to relieve the monotony of the service.
At midnight they are roused from their beds, whither they retire at
sunset, to chaunt matins till four in the morning. Two hours rest
are allowed them between that service and morning prayers. Mass
follows, with a short interruption, and great part of the afternoon
is allotted to vespers. No communication is permitted between the
monks, except two days in the week, when they assemble during an
hour for conversation. Confined to their cells when not attending
church-service, even their food is left them in a wheel-box, such as
is used in the nunneries,[33] from which they take it when hungry,
and eat it in perfect solitude. A few books and a small garden, in
which they cultivate a profusion of flowers, are the only resources
of these unfortunate beings. To these privations they add an absolute
abstinence from flesh, which they vow not to taste even at the risk
of their lives.
[33] See Letter V. page 141.
I have on different occasions spent a day with some friends at the
_Hospederia_, or Stranger’s Lodge, at the Carthusians of Seville,
where it is the duty of the steward, the only monk who is allowed to
mix in society, to entertain any male visitors who, with a proper
introduction, repair to the monastery. The steward I knew before
my visit to England, had been a merchant. After several voyages to
Spanish America, he had retired from the world, which, it was evident
in some unguarded moments, he had known and loved too well to have
entirely forgotten. His frequent visits to the town, ostensibly upon
business, were not entirely free from suspicion among the idle and
inquisitive; and I have some reason to believe that these rumours
were found too well grounded by his superiors. He was deprived of the
stewardship, and disappeared for ever from the haunts of men.
The austerity of the Carthusian rule of life would cast but a
transient gloom on the mind of an enlightened observer, if he could
be sure that the misery he beheld was voluntary; that hope kept a
crown of glory before the eyes of every wretched prisoner, and that
no unwilling victim of a temporary illusion, was pining for light and
liberty, under the tombstone sealed over him by religious tyranny.
But neither the view of the monks, fixed as statues in the stalls of
their gloomy church, nor those that are seen in the darkest recesses
of the cloisters, prostrate on the marble pavement, where, wrapt up
in their large white mantles, they spend many an hour in meditation;
nor the bent, gliding figures which wander among the earthy mounds
under the orange-trees of the cemetery--that least melancholy spot
within the wall of the monastery,--nothing did ever so harrow my
feelings in that mansion of sorrow, as the accidental meeting of a
repining prisoner. This was a young monk, who, to my great surprise,
addressed me as I was looking at the pictures in one of the cloisters
of the Carthusians near Seville, and very politely offered to shew me
his cell. He was perfectly unknown to me, and I have every reason to
believe that I was equally so to him. Having admired his collection
of flowers, we entered into a literary conversation, and he asked
me whether I was fond of French literature. Upon my shewing some
acquaintance with the writers of that nation, and expressing a mixed
feeling of surprise and interest at hearing a Carthusian venturing
upon that topic, the poor young man was so thrown off his guard,
that, leading me to a bookcase, he put into my hands a volume of
Voltaire’s _Pièces Fugitives_, which he spoke of with rapture. I
believe I saw a volume of Rousseau’s works in the collection; yet
I suspect that this unfortunate man’s _select library_ consisted
of amatory rather than philosophical works. The monk’s name is
unknown to me, though I learned from him the place of his birth; and
many years have elapsed since this strange meeting, which from its
insulation amidst the events and impressions of my life, I compare to
an interview with an inhabitant of the invisible world. But I shall
never forget the thrilling horror I felt, when the abyss of misery
into which that wretched being was plunged, opened suddenly upon my
mind. I was young, and had, till that moment, mistaken the nature
of enthusiasm. Fed as I saw it in a Carthusian convent, I firmly
believed it could not be extinguished but with life. This ocular
evidence against my former belief was so painful, that I hastened
my departure, leaving the devoted victim to his solitude, there to
wait the odious sound of the bell which was to disturb his sleep, if
the subsequent horror of having committed himself with a stranger,
allowed him that night to close his eyes.
Though the number of Hermits is not considerable in Spain, we are not
without some establishments on the plan of the _Lauras_ described
by Gibbon.[34] The principal of these solitudes is Monserrat in
Catalonia, an account of which you will find in most books of
travels. My own observation on this point does not, however, extend
beyond the hermitages of Cordoba, which, I believe, rank next to the
above-mentioned.
[34] Chapter xxxvii.
The branch of Sierra Morena, which to the north of Cordoba separates
Andalusia from La Mancha, rises abruptly within six miles of
that city. On the first ascent of the hills the country becomes
exceedingly beautiful. The small rivulets which freshen the valleys,
aided by the powerful influence of a southern atmosphere, transform
these spots, during April and May, into the most splendid gardens.
Roses and lilies, of the largest cultivated kinds, have sown
themselves in the greatest profusion upon every space left vacant by
the mountain-herbs and shrubs, which form wild and romantic hedges to
these native flower-plots. But as you approach the mountain-tops to
the right and left, the rock begins to appear, and the scanty soil,
scorched and pulverized by the sun, becomes unfit for vegetation.
Here stands a barren hill of difficult approach on all sides, and
precipitous towards the plain, its rounded head inclosed within a
rude stone parapet, breast high, a small church rising in the centre,
and about twenty brick tenements irregularly scattered about it. The
dimensions of the huts allow just sufficient room for a few boards
raised about a foot from the ground, which, covered with a mat, serve
for a bed: a trivet to sit upon, a diminutive deal table supporting
a crucifix, a human skull, and one or two books of devotion. The
door is so low that it cannot be passed without stooping; and the
whole habitation is ingeniously contrived to exclude every comfort.
As visiting and talking together is forbidden to the hermits, and the
cells are at some distance from one another, a small bell is hung
over the door of each, to call for assistance in case of sickness or
danger. The hermits meet at chapel every morning to hear mass and
receive the sacrament from the hands of a secular priest; for none
of them are admitted to orders. After chapel, they retire to their
cells, where they pass their time in reading, meditation, plaiting
mats, making little crosses of Spanish broom, which people carry
about them as a preservative from erysipelas, and manufacturing
instruments of penance, such as scourges and a sort of wire bracelets
bristled inside with points, called _Cilicios_, which are worn near
the skin by the _ultra-pious_ among the Catholics. Food, consisting
of pulse and herbs, is distributed once a day to the hermits, leaving
them to use it when they please. These devotees are usually peasants,
who, seized with religious terrors, are driven to this strange method
of escaping eternal misery, in the next world. But the hardships of
their new profession are generally less severe than those to which
they were subject by their lot in life; and they find ample amends
for their loss of liberty in the certainty of food and clothing
without labour, no less than in the secret pride of superior
sanctity, and the consequent respect of the people.
Thus far these hermitages excite more disgust than compassion. But
when, distracted by superstition, men of a higher order and more
delicate feelings, fly to these solitudes as to a hiding-place from
mental terrors; the consequences are often truly melancholy. Among
the hermits of Cordoba, I found a gentleman who, three years before,
had given up his commission in the army, where he was a colonel of
artillery, and, what is perhaps more painful to a Spaniard, his cross
of one of the ancient orders of knighthood. He joined our party, and
showed more pleasure in conversation than is consistent with that
high fever of enthusiasm, without which his present state of life
must have been worse than death itself. We stood upon the brow of the
rock, having at our feet the extensive plains of Lower Andalusia,
watered by the Guadalquivir, the ancient city of Cordoba with its
magnificent cathedral in front, and the mountains of Jaén, sweeping
majestically to the left. The view was to me, then a very young man,
truly grand and imposing; and I could not help congratulating the
hermit on the enjoyment of a scene which so powerfully affected the
mind, and wrapt it up in contemplation. “Alas! (he answered with
an air of dejection) I have seen it every day these three years!”
As hermits are not bound to their profession by irrevocable vows,
perhaps this unfortunate being has, after a long and painful
struggle, returned to the habitations of men, to hide his face in
an obscure corner, bearing the reproach of apostacy and backsliding
from the bigoted, and the sneer of ridicule from the thoughtless;
his prospects blasted for ever in this world, and darkened by fear
and remorse, in the next. Woe to the incautious who publicly engage
their services to religion, under the impression that they shall be
allowed to withdraw them upon a change of views, or an abatement of
fervour. The very few establishments of this kind, where solemn vows
do not banish the hopes of liberty for ever, are full of captives,
who would fain burst the invisible chains that bind them; but cannot.
The church and her leaders are extremely jealous of such defections:
and as few or none dare raise the veil of the sanctuary, redress is
nearly impossible for such as trust themselves within it. But of this
more in my next.