CHAPTER VI.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as

possible, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and

punctuation. Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been

made. They are listed at the end of the text.

Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.

The motto for Chapter VI is misquoted from Iliad XXIII 72; it has

been left as printed.

MELMOTH

THE

WANDERER:

A

TALE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “BERTRAM,” &c.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY,

AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO. CHEAPSIDE,

LONDON.

1820.

MELMOTH.

CHAPTER VI.

Τηλε μἐιργουσι ψυχαι ειδωλα καμοντων.

HOMER.

When, after some days interval, the Spaniard attempted to describe

his feelings on the receipt of his brother’s letter, the sudden

resuscitation of heart, and hope, and existence, that followed its

perusal, he trembled,--uttered some inarticulate sounds;--wept;--and

his agitation appeared to Melmoth, with _his uncontinental feelings_,

so violent, that he entreated him to spare the description of his

feelings, and proceed with his narrative.

“You are right,” said the Spaniard, drying his tears, “joy is a

convulsion, but grief is a habit, and to describe what we never can

communicate, is as absurd as to talk of colours to the blind. I will

hasten on, not to tell of my feelings, but of the results which they

produced. A new world of hope was opened to me. I thought I saw liberty

on the face of heaven when I walked in the garden. I laughed at the jar

of the doors as they opened, and said to myself, “You shall soon expand

to me for ever.” I behaved with uncommon complacency to the community.

But I did not, amid all this, neglect the most scrupulous precautions

suggested by my brother. Am I confessing the strength or the weakness of

my heart? In the midst of all the systematic dissimulation that I was

prepared and eager to carry on, the only circumstance that gave me real

compunction, was my being obliged to destroy the letters of that dear

and generous youth who had risked every thing for my emancipation. In

the mean time, I pursued my preparations with industry inconceivable to

you, who have never been in a convent.

“Lent was now begun,--all the community were preparing themselves for

the great confession. They shut themselves up,--they prostrated

themselves before the shrines of the saints,--they occupied themselves

whole hours in taking minutes of their consciences, and magnifying the

trivial defects of conventual discipline into offences in the eye of

God, in order to give consequence to their penitence in the hearing of

the confessor,--in fact, they would have been glad to accuse themselves

of a crime, to escape from the monotony of a monastic conscience. There

was a kind of silent bustle in the house, that very much favoured my

purposes. Hour after hour I demanded paper for my confession. I obtained

it, but my frequent demands excited suspicion,--they little knew what I

was writing. Some said, for every thing excites inquiry in a convent,

“He is writing the history of his family; he will discharge it into the

ears of the confessor, along with the secrets of his own soul.” Others

said, “He has been in a state of _alienation_ for some time, he is

giving an account to God for it,--we shall never hear a word about it.”

Others, who were more judicious, said, “He is weary of the monastic

life, he is writing an account of his monotony and ennui, doubtless that

must be very long;” and the speakers yawned as they uttered these words,

which gave a very strong attestation to what they said. The Superior

watched me in silence. He was alarmed, and with reason. He consulted

with some of the _discreet_ brethren, whom I mentioned before, and the

result was a restless vigilance on their part, to which I supplied an

incessant fuel, by my absurd and perpetual demand for paper. Here, I

acknowledge, I committed a great oversight. It was impossible for the

most exaggerated conscience to charge itself, even in a convent, with

crimes enough to fill all the paper I required. I was filling them all

the time with _their_ crimes, not my own. Another great mistake I made,

was being wholly unprepared for the great confession when it came on. I

received intimations of this as we walked in the garden,--I have before

mentioned that I had assumed an amicability of habit toward them. They

would say to me, “You have made ample preparations for the great

confession.” “I have prepared myself.” “But we expect great edification

from its results.” “I trust you will receive it.”--I said no more, but I

was very much disturbed at these hints. Others would say, “My brother,

amid the multitudinous offences that burden your conscience, and which

you have found necessary to employ quires of paper to record, would it

not be a relief to you to open your mind to the Superior, and ask for a

few previous moments of consolation and direction from _him_.” To this I

answered, “I thank you, and will consider of it.”--I was thinking all

the time of something else.

“It was a few nights before the time of the great confession, that I had

to entrust the last packet of my memorial to the porter. Our meetings

had been hitherto unsuspected. I had received and answered my brother’s

communications, and our correspondence had been conducted with a secrecy

unexampled in convents. But this last night, as I put my packet into the

porter’s hand, I saw a change in his appearance that terrified me. He

had been a comely, robust man, but now, even by the moon-light, I could

perceive he was wasted to a shadow,--his hands trembled as he took the

papers from me,--his voice faultered as he promised his usual secrecy.

The change, which had been observed by the whole convent, had escaped me

till that night; my mind had been too much occupied by my own situation.

I noticed it then, however, and I said, “But what is the matter?” “Can

you then ask? I am withered to a spectre by the terrors of the office I

have been bribed to. Do you know what I risk?--incarceration for life,

or rather for death,--perhaps a denunciation to the Inquisition. Every

line I deliver from you, or to you, seems a charge against my own

soul,--I tremble when I meet you. I know that you have the sources of

life and death, temporal and eternal, in your hands. The secret in which

I am an agent should never be intrusted but to _one_, and _you are

another_. As I sit in my place, I think every step in the cloister is

advancing to summon me to the presence of the Superior. When I attend in

the choir, amid the sounds of devotion your voice swells to accuse me.

When I lie down at night, the evil spirit is beside my bed, reproaching

me with perjury, and reclaiming his prey;--his emissaries surround me

wherever I move,--I am beset by the tortures of hell. The saints from

their shrines frown on me,--I see the painting of the traitor Judas on

every side I turn to. When I sleep for a moment, I am awakened by my own

cries. I exclaim, “Do not betray me, he has not yet violated his vows, I

was but an agent,--I was bribed,--do not kindle those fires for me.” I

shudder,--I start up in a cold sweat. My rest, my appetite, are gone.

Would to God you were out of this convent;--and O! would that I had

never been instrumental to your release, then both of us might have

escaped damnation to all eternity.” I tried to pacify him, to assure him

of his safety, but nothing could satisfy him but my solemn and sincere

assurance that this was the last packet I would ever ask him to deliver.

He departed tranquillized by this assurance; and I felt the dangers of

my attempt multiplying around me every hour.

“This man was faithful, but he was timid; and what confidence can we

have in a being whose right hand is held out to you, while his left

trembles to be employed in transferring your secret to your enemy. This

man died a few weeks after. I believe I owed his dying fidelity to the

delirium that seized on his last moments. But what I suffered during

those moments!--his death under such circumstances, and the unchristian

joy I felt at it, were only in my mind stronger evidences against the

unnatural state of life that could render such an event, and such

feelings, almost necessary. It was on the evening after this, that I was

surprised to see the Superior, with four of the monks, enter my cell. I

felt this visit boded me no good. I trembled all over, while I received

them with deference. The Superior seated himself opposite to me,

arranging his seat so as that I was opposite the light. I did not

understand what this precaution meant, but I conceive now, that he

wished to watch every change in my countenance, while his was concealed

from me. The four monks stood at the back of his chair; their arms were

folded, their lips closed, their eyes half shut, their heads

declined--they looked like men assembled reluctantly to witness the

execution of a criminal. The Superior began, in a mild voice, “My son,

you have been intently employed on your confession for some time--that

was laudable. But have you, then, accused yourself of every crime your

conscience charges you with?” “I have, my father.” “Of all, you are

sure?” “My father, I have accused myself of all I was conscious of. Who

but God can penetrate the abysses of the heart? I have searched mine as

far as I could.” “And you have recorded all the accusations you found

there?” “I have.” “And you did not discover among them the crime of

obtaining the means of writing out your confession, to abuse them to a

very different purpose?”--This was coming to the point. I felt it

necessary to summon my resolution--and I said, with a venial

equivocation, “That is a crime of which my conscience _does not accuse

me_.” “My son, do not dissemble with your conscience, or with me. I

should be even above it in your estimation; for if it errs and deceives

you, it is to me you should apply to enlighten and direct it. But I see

it is in vain to attempt to touch your heart. I make my last appeal to

it in these plain words. A few moments only of indulgence await you--use

them or abuse them, as you will. I have to ask you a few plain

questions, which, if you refuse to answer, or do not answer truly, your

blood be on your own head.” I trembled, but I said, “My father, have I

then refused to answer your questions?” “Your answers are all either

interrogations or evasions. They must be direct and simple to the

questions I am about to propose in the presence of these brethren. More

depends on your answer than you are aware of. The warning voice breaks

forth in spite of me.”--Terrified at these words, and humbled to the

wish to propitiate them, I rose from my chair--then gasping, I leant on

it for support. I said, “My God! what is all this terrible preparation

for? Of what am I guilty? Why am I summoned by this warning voice so

often, whose warnings are only so many mysterious threatenings? Why am I

not told of my offence?”

“The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till

that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated,

all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of

a sepulchre, “Your crime is--” The Superior gave them a signal to

be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is

certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect

that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their

consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible

exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed

to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine

correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard

the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I

felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me,

as I had a few moments before to evade it. These indefinite fears were

soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions.

“You have procured a large quantity of paper--how did you employ it?”

I recovered myself, and said, “As I ought to do.” “How, in unburdening

your conscience?” “Yes, in unburdening my conscience.” “That is false;

the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages with

the record of his crimes.” “I have often been told in the convent, I

_was_ the greatest sinner on earth.” “You equivocate again, and convert

your ambiguities into reproaches--this will not do--you must answer

plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have

you employed it?” “I have told you already.” “It was, then, employed

in your confession?”--I was silent, but bowed assentingly.--“You

can, then, shew us the proofs of your application to your duties.

Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?” I blushed and

hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as

my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth

part of the paper which I had received. “And this is your confession?”

“It is.” “And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper

entrusted to you for that purpose.”--I was silent. “Wretch!” said the

Superior, losing all patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose

you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that

it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.”--At

these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest

peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, “Why am I suspected

if _you_ are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I

complain of if there were no cause? Your own consciences must answer

this question for me.” At these words, the monks were again about to

interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with

his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion.

“You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed

to you?”--I was silent.--“I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to

disclose it this moment.”--His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and

this operated as a signal on mine. I said, “You have no right, my

father, to demand such a declaration.” “Right is not the question now.

I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus

Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.” “You have no right to

demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house--I am responsible

to the confessor.” “Do you, then, make a question between right and

power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.” “I

make no question--perhaps they are the same.” “And you will not tell

what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most

infernal calumnies?” “I will not.” “And you will take the consequences

of your obstinacy on your own head?” “I will.” And the four monks

chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, “The consequences be

on his own head.” But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in

my ears, “Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent

knows you have been writing.” I answered, “I have nothing to give

up--nothing on the faith of a monk. I have not a single page in my

possession, but what you have seized on.” The monks, who had whispered

in a conciliatory tone to me before, quitted me. They conversed in

whispers with the Superior, who, darting on me a terrible look,

exclaimed, “And you will not give up your papers?” “I have nothing to

give up: Search my person--search my cell--every thing is open to you.”

“Every thing shall be soon,” said the Superior in fury. In a moment

the examination commenced. There was not an article of furniture in

my cell that was not the object of their investigation. My chair and

table were overturned, shaken, and finally broken, in the attempt to

discover whether any papers had been secreted in them. The prints were

snatched from the walls,--held up between them and the light.--Then

the very frames were broken, to try if any thing was concealed in

them. Then they examined my bed;--they threw all the furniture about

the floor, they unripped the mattress, and tore out the straw; one of

them, during this operation, actually applied his teeth to facilitate

it,--and this malice of activity formed a singular contrast to the

motionless and rigid torpor with which they had clothed themselves

but a few moments before. All this time, I stood in the centre of the

floor, as I was ordered, without turning to right or left. Nothing was

found to justify their suspicions. They then surrounded me; and the

examination of my person was equally rapid, minute, and indecorous.

Every thing I wore was on the floor in a moment: The very seams of my

habit were ript open; and, during the examination, I covered myself

with one of the blankets they had taken from my bed. When it was over,

I said, “Have you discovered any thing?” The Superior answered, in a

voice of rage, struggling proudly, but vainly, with disappointment, “I

have other means of discovery--prepare for them, and tremble when they

are resorted to.” At these words he rushed from my cell, giving a sign

to the four monks to follow him. I was left alone. I had no longer any

doubt of my danger. I saw myself exposed to the fury of men who would

risk nothing to appease it. I watched, waited, trembled, at every step

I heard in the gallery--at the sound of every door that opened or shut

near me. Hours went on in this agony of suspense, and terminated at

last without an event. No one came near me that night--the next was to

be that of the great confession. In the course of the day, I took my

place in the choir, trembling, and watching every eye. I felt as if

every countenance was turned on me, and every tongue said in silence,

“Thou art the man.” Often I wished that the storm I felt was gathering

around me, would burst at once. It is better to hear the thunder than

to watch the cloud. It did not burst, however, then. And when the

duties of the day were over, I retired to my cell, and remained there,

pensive, anxious, and irresolute.

“The confession had begun; and as I heard the penitents, one by one,

return from the church, and close the doors of their cells, I began

to dread that I was to be excluded from approaching the holy chair,

and that this exclusion from a sacred and indispensible right, was to

be the commencement of some mysterious course of rigour. I waited,

however, and was at last summoned. This restored my courage, and I went

through my duties more tranquilly. After I had made my confession, only

a few simple questions were proposed to me, as, Whether I could accuse

myself of any _inward_ breach of conventual duty? of any thing I had

_reserved_? any thing in my conscience? &c.--and on my answering them

in the negative, was suffered to depart. It was on that very night the

porter died. My last packet had gone some days before,--all was safe

and well. Neither voice or line could bear witness against me now, and

hope began to revisit me, as I reflected that my brother’s zealous

industry would discover some other means for our future communication.

“All was profound calm for a few days, but the storm was to come soon

enough. On the fourth evening after the confession, I was sitting alone

in my cell, when I heard an unusual bustle in the convent. The bell was

rung,--the new porter seemed in great agitation,--the Superior hurried

to the parlour first, then to his cell,--then some of the elder monks

were summoned. The younger whispered in the galleries,--shut their

doors violently,--all seemed in agitation. In a domestic building,

occupied by the smallest family, such circumstances would hardly be

noticed, but, in a convent, the miserable monotony of what may be

called their internal existence, gives an importance,--an interest, to

the most trivial external circumstance in common life. I felt all this.

I said to myself, “Something is going on.”--I added, “Something is

going on against me.” I was right in both my conjectures. Late in the

evening I was ordered to attend the Superior in his own apartment,--I

said I was ready to go. Two minutes after the order was reversed, and

I was desired to remain in my cell, and await the approach of the

Superior,--I answered I was willing to obey. But this sudden change of

orders filled me with an _indefinite_ fear; and in all the changes of

my life, and vicissitude of my feelings, I have never felt any fear

so horrible. I walked up and down, I repeated incessantly, “My God

protect me! my God strengthen me!” Then I dreaded to ask the protection

of God, doubting whether the cause in which I was engaged merited

his protection. My ideas, however, were all scattered by the sudden

entrance of the Superior and the four monks who had attended him on

the visit previous to the confession. At their entrance I rose,--no

one desired me to sit down. The Superior advanced with a look of fury,

and, dashing some papers on my table, said, “Is that your writing?” I

threw a hurried and terrified eye over the papers,--_they were a copy

of my memorial_. I had presence of mind enough to say, “That is not my

writing.” “Wretch! you equivocate, it is a copy of your writing.”--I

was silent.--“Here is a proof of it,” he added, throwing down another

paper. It was a copy of the memoir of the advocate, addressed to me,

and which, by the influence of a superior court, they had not the power

of withholding from me. I was expiring with anxiety to examine it, but

I did not dare to glance at it. The Superior unfolded page after page.

He said, “Read, wretch! read,--look into it, examine it line by line.”

I approached trembling,--I glanced at it,--in the very first lines I

read _hope_. My courage revived.--I said, “My father, I acknowledge

this to be the copy of my memorial. I demand your permission to read

the answer of the advocate, you cannot refuse me this right.” “Read

it,” said the Superior, and he flung it towards me.

“You may readily believe, Sir, that, under such circumstances, I could

not read with very steady eyes; and my penetration was not at all

quickened by the four monks disappearing from the cell, at a signal I

did not see. The Superior and I were now alone. He walked up and down my

cell, while I appeared to hang over the advocate’s memoir. Suddenly he

stopped;--he struck his hand with violence on the table,--the pages I

was trembling over quivered from the violence of the blow,--I started

from my chair. “Wretch,” said the Superior, “when have such papers as

those profaned the convent before? When, till your unhallowed entrance,

were we insulted with the memoirs of legal advocates? How comes it that

you have dared to----” “Do what, my father?” “Reclaim your vows, and

expose _us_ to all the scandal of a civil court and its proceedings.” “I

weighed it all against my own misery.” “Misery! is it thus you speak of

a conventual life, the only life that can promise tranquillity here, or

ensure salvation hereafter.” These words, uttered by a man convulsed by

the most frantic passion, were their own refutation. My courage rose in

proportion to his fury; and besides, I was driven to a point, and forced

to act on my defence. The sight of the papers added to my confidence. I

said, “My father, it is in vain to endeavour to diminish my repugnance

to the monastic life; the proof that that repugnance is invincible lies

before you. If I have been guilty of a step that violates the decorum of

a convent, I am sorry,--but I am not reprehensible. Those who forced me

into a convent, are guilty of the violence which is falsely ascribed to

me. I am determined, if it be possible, to change my situation. You see

the efforts I have already made, be assured they will never cease.

Disappointment will only redouble their energy; and if it be in the

power of heaven or earth to procure the annulment of my vows, there is

no power in either I will not have recourse to.” I expected he would not

have heard me out, but he did. He even listened with calmness, and I

prepared myself to encounter and repel that alternation of reproach and

remonstrance, of solicitation and menace, which they so well know how to

employ in a convent. “Your repugnance to a conventual life is then

invincible?” “It is.” “But to what do you object?--not to your duties,

for you perform them with the most edifying punctuality,--not to the

treatment you receive, for it has been the most indulgent that our

discipline admits of,--not to the community itself, who are all disposed

to cherish and love you;--of what do you complain?” “Of the life

itself,--that comprehends every thing. I am not fit to be a monk.”

“Remember, I implore you, that though the forms of earthly courts must

be obeyed, from the necessity that makes us dependent on human

institutions, in all matters between man and man, they never can be

available in matters between God and man. Be assured, my deluded child,

that if all the courts on earth pronounced you absolved from your vows

this moment, your own conscience never can absolve you. All your

ignominious life, it will continue to reproach you with the violation of

a vow, whose breach man has connived at, but God has not. And, at your

last hour, how horrible will those reproaches be!” “Not so horrible as

at the hour I took that vow, or rather at the hour when it was

extorted.” “Extorted!” “Yes, my father, yes,--I take Heaven to witness

against you. On that disastrous morning, your anger, your remonstrances,

your pleadings, were as ineffectual as they are now, till you flung the

body of my mother before my feet.” “And do you reproach me with my zeal

in the cause of your salvation?” “I do not wish to reproach you. You

know the step I have taken, you must be aware I will pursue it with all

the powers of nature,--that I will never rest till my vows are annulled,

while a hope of it remains,--and that a soul, determined as mine, can

convert despair itself into hope. Surrounded, suspected, watched as I

have been, I yet found the means of conveying my papers to the hands of

the advocate. Calculate the strength of that resolution which could

effectuate such a measure in the very heart of a convent. Judge of the

futility of all future opposition, when you failed in defeating, or even

detecting, the first steps of my design.” At these words the Superior

was silent. I believed I had made an impression on him. I added, “If you

wish to spare the community the disgrace of my prosecuting my appeal

within its walls, the alternative is easy. Let the door be left

unguarded some day, connive at my escape, and my presence shall never

molest or dishonour you another hour.” “How! would you make me not only

a witness, but an accomplice in your crime? Apostate from God, and

plunged in perdition as you are, do you repay the hand stretched out to

save you, by seizing it, that you may drag me into the infernal gulph

along with you?” and he walked up and down the cell in the most violent

agitation. This unlucky proposal operated on his master-passion, (for he

was exemplarily rigid in discipline), and produced only convulsions of

hostility. I stood waiting till this fresh burst had subsided, while he

continued to exclaim incessantly, “My God, for what offence am I thus

humiliated?--for what inconceivable crime is this disgrace precipitated

on the whole convent? What will become of our character? What will all

Madrid say?” “My father, whether an obscure monk lives, dies, or recalls

his vows, is an object of little importance beyond the walls of his

convent. They will forget me soon, and you will be consoled by the

restored harmony of the discipline, in which I should always be a

jarring note. Besides, all Madrid, with all the interest you ascribe to

it, could never be made responsible for my salvation.” He continued to

walk up and down, repeating, “What will the world say? What will become

of us?” till he had worked himself into a state of fury; and, suddenly

turning on me, he exclaimed, “Wretch! renounce your horrible

resolution,--renounce it this moment! I give you but five minutes for

consideration.” “Five thousand would make no change.” “Tremble, then,

lest you should not have life spared to see the fulfilment of your

impious purposes.”

“As he uttered these words he rushed from my cell. The moments I passed

during his absence were, I think, the most horrible of my life. Their

terror was aggravated by darkness, for it was now night, and he had

carried away the light along with him. My agitation did not at first

permit me to observe this. I felt I was in the dark, but knew not how or

why. A thousand images of indescribable horror rushed in a host on me. I

had heard much of the terrors of convents,--of their punishments, often

carried to the infliction of death, or of reducing their victim to a

state in which death would have been a blessing. Dungeons, chains, and

scourges, swam before my eyes in a fiery mist. The threatening words of

the Superior appeared emblazoned on the darkened walls of my cell in

characters of flame. I shuddered,--I cried aloud, though conscious that

my voice would be echoed by no friendly answering tones in a community

of sixty persons,--such is the sterility of humanity in a convent. At

last my very fears recovered me by their excess. I said to myself, “They

dare not murder me,--they dare not incarcerate me;--they are answerable

to the court to which I have appealed for my forthcoming,--they dare not

be guilty of any violence.” Just as I had come to this comfortable

conclusion, which indeed was the triumph of the sophistry of hope, the

door of my cell was thrown open, and the Superior, attended by his four

satellites, re-entered. My eyes were dim from the darkness in which I

had been left, but I could distinguish that they carried with them a

rope and a piece of sackcloth. I drew the most frightful presages from

this apparatus. I altered my reasoning in a moment, and instead of

saying they dare not do so and so, I instantly argued, “What dare they

not do? I am in their power,--they know it. I have provoked them to the

utmost,--what is it monks will not do in the impotence of their

malignity?--what is to become of me?” They advanced, and I imagined the

rope was to strangle me, and the sackcloth to inclose my murdered body.

A thousand images of blood swam before me,--a gush of fire choaked up my

respiration. The groans of a thousand victims seemed to rise from the

vaults of the convent, to which they had been hurried by a fate like

mine. I know not what is death, but I am convinced I suffered the

agonies of many deaths in that moment. My first impulse was to throw

myself on my knees. I said, “I am in your power,--I am guilty in your

eyes,--accomplish your purpose, but do not keep me long in pain.” The

Superior, without heeding, or perhaps hearing me, said, “Now you are in

the posture that becomes you.” At hearing these words, which sounded

less dreadful than I had feared, I prostrated myself to the ground. A

few moments before I would have thought this a degradation, but fear is

very debasing. I had a dread of violent means,--I was very young, and

life was not the less attractive from its being arrayed only in the

brilliant drapery of imagination. The monks observed my posture,--they

feared its effect on the Superior. They said, in that choral

monotony,--that _discordant unison_ that had frozen my blood when I

knelt in the same posture but a few nights before, “Reverend father, do

not suffer yourself to be imposed on by this prostituted

humiliation,--the time for mercy is past. You gave him his moments of

deliberation,--he refused to avail himself of them. You come now not to

listen to pleadings, but to inflict justice.” At these words, that

announced every thing horrible, I went on my knees from one to the

other, as they all stood in a grim and executioner-like row. I said to

each with tears, “Brother Clement,--Brother Justin,--why do you try to

irritate the Superior against me? Why do you precipitate a sentence

which, whether just or not, must be severe, since you are to be the

executioners? What have I done to offend you? I interceded for you when

you were guilty of any slight deviation--Is this my return?” “This is

wasting time,” said the monks. “Hold,” said the Superior; “give him

leave to speak. Will you avail yourself of the last moment of indulgence

I can ever afford you, to renounce your horrible resolution of recalling

your vows?” Those words renewed all my energies. I stood upright before

them all. I said, in a loud distinct voice, “Never--I stand at the bar

of God.” “Wretch! you have renounced God.” “Well, then, my father, I

have only to hope that God will not renounce me. I have appealed to a

bar also, over which you have no power.” “But we have power here, and

that you shall feel.” He made a signal, and the four monks approached. I

uttered one short cry of fear, but submitted the next moment. I felt

convinced it was to be my last. I was astonished, when, instead of

fastening the cords round my neck, they bound my arms with them. They

then took off my habit, and covered me with the sackcloth. I made no

resistance; but shall I confess to you, Sir, I felt some disappointment.

I was prepared for death, but something worse than death appeared

threatened in these preparations. When we are driven to the precipice of

mortality, we spring forward with resolution, and often defeat the

triumph of our murderers, by merging it in our own. But when we are led

to it step by step, held often over it, and then withdrawn, we lose our

resolution along with our patience; and feel, that the last blow would

be mercy, compared with its long-suspended, slowly descending, wavering,

mutilating, hesitating stroke. I was prepared for every thing but what

followed. Bound with this rope as fast as a felon, or a galley-slave,

and covered only with the sackcloth, they dragged me along the gallery.

I uttered no cry, made no resistance. They descended the stairs that led

to the church. I followed, or rather was dragged after them. They

crossed the aisle; there was a dark passage near it which I had never

observed before. We entered it. A low door at the end presented a

frightful perspective. At sight of it I cried aloud, “You will not

immure me? You will not plunge me in that horrible dungeon, to be

withered by damps, and devoured by reptiles? No, you will not,--remember

you are answerable for my life.” At these words, they surrounded me;

then, for the first time, I struggled,--I called for help;--this was the

moment they waited for; they wanted some repugnance on my part. The

signal was instantly given to a lay-brother, who waited in the

passage,--the bell was rung,--that terrible bell, that requires every

member of a convent to plunge into his cell, as something extraordinary

is going on in the house. At the first toll I lost all hope. I felt as

if not a living being was in existence but those who surrounded me, and

who appeared, in the livid light of one taper burning faintly in that

dismal passage, like spectres hurrying a condemned soul to his doom.

They hurried me down the steps to this door, which was considerably

below the level of the passage. It was a long time before they could

open it; many keys were tried; perhaps they might have felt some

agitation at the thoughts of the violence they were going to commit. But

this delay increased my terrors beyond expression; I imagined this

terrible vault had never been inclosed before; that I was to be the

first victim inhumed within it; and that their determination was, I

should never quit it alive. As these thoughts occurred, in unutterable

agony I cried aloud, though I felt I was beyond all human hearing; but

my cries were drowned in the jarring of the heavy door, as it yielded to

the efforts of the monks, who, uniting their strength, pushed it with

extended arms, grating all the way against the floor of stone. The monks

hurried me in, while the Superior stood at the entrance with the light,

appearing to shudder at the view it disclosed. I had time to view all

the furniture of what I thought my last abode. It was of stone; the roof

formed an arch; a block of stone supported a crucifix, and a death’s

head, with a loaf and a pitcher of water. There was a mat on the floor,

to lie on; another rolled up at the end of it formed a pillow. They

flung me on it, and prepared to depart. I no longer struggled, for I

knew escape was in vain, but I supplicated them at least to leave me a

light; and I petitioned for this with as much earnestness as I could

have done for my liberty. Thus it is that misery always breaks down the

mind into petty details. We have not strength to comprehend the whole of

our calamity. We feel not the mountain which is heaped on us, but the

nearest grains press on and grind us. I said, “In Christian mercy leave

me a light, if it be but to defend myself against the reptiles that must

swarm here.” And already I saw this was true, for some of extraordinary

size, disturbed by the phænomenon of the light, came crawling down the

walls. All this time the monks were straining their strength to close

the heavy door; they did not utter a word. “I adjure you to leave me

light, _if it is but to gaze on that skull_; fear not the exercise of

sight can be any indulgence in this place; but still let me have a

light; think that when I wish to pray, I must _feel my way_ to that

crucifix.” As I spoke, the door was with difficulty closed and locked,

and I heard their departing steps. You will hardly believe, Sir, that I

slept profoundly; yet I did; but I would rather never sleep again, than

awake so horribly. I awoke in _the darkness of day_. I was to behold the

light no more; nor to watch those divisions of time, which, by measuring

our portions of suffering, appear to diminish them. When the clock

strikes, we know an hour of wretchedness is past, never to return. My

only time-keeper was the approach of the monk, who every day renewed my

allowance of bread and water; and had he been the object I loved most on

earth, the sound of his steps could not have made more delicious music.

These æras by which we compute the hours of darkness and inanity are

inconceivable to any but those who are situated as I was. You have

heard, Sir, no doubt, that the eye which, on its being first immersed

into darkness, appears deprived of the power of vision for ever,

acquires, imperceptibly, a power of accommodating itself to its darkened

sphere, and even of distinguishing objects by a kind of conventional

light. The mind certainly possesses the same power, otherwise, how could

I have had the power to reflect, to summon some resolution, and even to

indulge some hope, in this frightful abode? Thus it is, when all the

world seems sworn to hostility against us, we turn friends to ourselves

with all the obstinacy of despair;--and _while all the world is

flattering and deifying us, we are the perpetual victims of lassitude

and self-reproach_.

“The prisoner whose hours are visited by a dream of emancipation, is

less a prey to ennui than the sovereign on a throne, begirt with

adulation, voluptuousness, and satiety. I reflected that all my papers

were safe,--that my cause was prosecuting with vigour,--that, owing to

my brother’s zeal, I had the ablest advocate in Madrid,--that they dared

not murder me, and were answerable with the whole credit of the house

for my re-appearance whenever the courts demanded it,--that the very

rank of my family was a powerful protection, though none of them but my

generous fiery Juan was probably favourable to me;--that if I was

permitted to receive and read the advocate’s first memoir, even through

the hands of the Superior, it was absurd to imagine that I could be

denied intercourse with him in a more advanced and important stage of

the business. These were the suggestions of my hope, and they were

plausible enough. What were the suggestions of my despair, I shudder

even at this moment to reflect on. The most terrible of all was, that I

might be murdered _conventually_ before it was possible that my

liberation could be accomplished.

“Such, Sir, were my reflections; you may ask, what were my occupations?

My situation supplied me with those, and, revolting as they were, they

were still occupations. I had my devotions to perform; religion was my

only resource in solitude and darkness, and while I prayed only for

liberty and peace, I felt I was not at least insulting God by the

prayers of hypocrisy, which I would have been compelled to utter in the

choir. There I was obliged to join in a sacrifice that was odious to me,

and offensive to him;--in my dungeon I offered up the sacrifice of my

heart, and felt it was not unacceptable. During the glimpse of light

afforded me by the approach of the monk who brought me bread and water,

I arranged the crucifix so as that I could feel it when I awoke. This

was very often, and not knowing whether it was day or night, I uttered

my prayers at random. I knew not whether it was matins or vespers; there

was neither morning or evening for me, but it was like a talisman to me

to touch the crucifix, and I said as I felt for it, “My God is with me

in the darkness of my dungeon; he is a God who has suffered, and can

pity me. My extremest point of wretchedness can be nothing to what this

symbol of divine humiliation for the sins of man, has undergone for

mine!”--and I kissed the sacred image (with lips wandering from the

darkness) with more emotion than I had ever felt when I saw it

illuminated by the blaze of tapers, amid the elevation of the Host, the

tossing of the perfumed censers, the gorgeous habits of the priests, and

the breathless prostration of the faithful. I had other occupations less

dignified, but quite as necessary. The reptiles, who filled the hole

into which I had been thrust, gave me opportunity for a kind of

constant, miserable, ridiculous hostility. My mat had been placed in the

very seat of warfare;--I shifted it,--still they pursued me;--I placed

it against the wall,--the cold crawling of their bloated limbs often

awoke me from my sleep, and still oftener made me shudder when awake. I

struck at them;--I tried to terrify them by my voice, to arm myself

against them by the help of my mat; but above all, my anxiety was

ceaseless to defend my bread from their loathsome incursions, and my

pitcher of water from their dropping into it. I adopted a thousand

precautions, trivial as they were inefficacious, but still there was

occupation. I do assure you, Sir, I _had more to do in my dungeon than

in my cell_. To be fighting with reptiles in the dark appears the most

horrible struggle that can be assigned to man; but what is it compared

to his combat with those reptiles which his own heart hourly engenders

in a cell, and of which, if his heart be the mother, solitude is the

father. I had another employment,--I cannot call it occupation. I had

calculated with myself, that sixty minutes made an hour, and sixty

seconds a minute. I began to think I could keep time as accurately as

any clock in a convent, and measure the hours of my confinement or--my

release. So I sat and counted sixty; a doubt always occurred to me, that

I _was counting them faster than the clock_. Then I wished to be the

clock, that I might have no feeling, no _motive for hurrying on the

approach of time_. Then I reckoned slower. Sleep sometimes overtook me

in this exercise, (perhaps I adopted it from that hope); but when I

awoke, I applied to it again instantly. Thus I oscillated, reckoned, and

measured time on my mat, while time withheld its delicious diary of

rising and setting suns,--of the dews of dawn and of twilight,--of the

glow of morning and the shades of the evening. When my reckoning was

broken by my sleep, (and I knew not whether I slept by day or by night),

I tried to eke it out by my incessant repetition of minutes and seconds,

and I succeeded; for I always consoled myself, that whatever hour it

was, sixty minutes must go to an hour. Had I led this life much longer,

I might have been converted into the idiot, who, as I have read, from

the habit of watching a clock, imitated its mechanism so well, that when

it was down, he sounded the hour as faithfully as ear could desire. Such

was my life. On the fourth day, (as I reckoned by the visits of the

monk), he placed my bread and water on the block of stone as usual, but

hesitated for some time before he departed. In fact, he felt a

repugnance at delivering an intimation of hope; it was not consonant

either to his profession, or the office which, in the wantonness of

monastic malignity, he had accepted as penance. You shudder at this,

Sir, but it is nevertheless true; this man thought he was doing service

to God, by witnessing the misery of a being incarcerated amid famine,

darkness, and reptiles. He recoiled when his penance terminated. Alas!

how false is that religion which makes our aggravating the sufferings of

others our mediator with that God who willeth all men to be saved. But

this is a question to be solved in convents. This man hesitated long,

struggled with the ferocity of his nature, and at last departed and

bolted the door, that he might indulge it a few moments longer. Perhaps

in those moments he prayed to God, and ejaculated a petition, that this

protraction of _my_ sufferings might be accepted as a melioration of his

own. I dare say he was very sincere; but if men were taught to look to

the _one great Sacrifice_, would they be so ready to believe that their

own, or those of others, could ever be accepted as a commutation for it?

You are surprised, Sir, at these sentiments from a Catholic; but another

part of my story will disclose the cause of my uttering them. At length

this man could delay his commission no longer. He was obliged to tell me

that the Superior was moved by my sufferings, that God had touched his

heart in my behalf, and that he permitted me to quit my dungeon. The

words were scarce out of his mouth, before I rose, and rushed out with a

shout that electrified him. Emotion is very unusual in convents, and the

expression of joy a phenomenon. I had gained the passage before he

recovered his surprise; and the convent walls, which I had considered as

those of a prison, now appeared the area of emancipation. Had its doors

been thrown open to me that moment, I don’t think I could have felt a

more exquisite sensibility of liberty. I fell on my knees in the passage

to thank God. I thanked him for the light, for the air, for the restored

power of respiration. As I was uttering these effusions, (certainly not

the least sincere that were ever poured forth within those walls),

suddenly I became sick,--my head swam round,--I had feasted on the light

to excess. I fell to the ground, and remember nothing for many hours

afterwards. When I recovered my senses, I was in my cell, which appeared

just as I had left it; it was day-light, however; and I am persuaded

that circumstance contributed more to my restoration, than the food and

cordials with which I was now liberally supplied. All that day I heard

nothing, and had time to meditate on the motives of the indulgence with

which I had been treated. I conceived that an order might have been

issued to the Superior to produce me, or, at all events, that he could

not prevent those interviews between the advocate and me, which the

former might insist on as necessary while my cause was carrying on.

Towards evening some monks entered my cell; they talked of indifferent

matters,--affected to consider my absence as the result of

indisposition, and I did not undeceive them. They mentioned, as if

incidentally, that my father and mother, overwhelmed with grief at the

scandal I had brought on religion by appealing against my vows, had

quitted Madrid. At this intelligence I felt much more emotion than I

showed. I asked them how long I had been _ill_? They answered, Four

days. This confirmed my suspicions with regard to the cause of my

liberation, for the advocate’s letter had mentioned, that on the fifth

day he would require an interview with me on the subject of my appeal.

They then departed; but I was soon to receive another visitor. After

vespers, (from which I was excused), the Superior entered my cell alone.

He approached my bed. I attempted to rise, but he desired me to compose

myself, and sat down near me with a calm but penetrating look. He said,

“You have now found we have it in our power to punish.”--“I never

doubted it.”--“Before you tempt that power to an extremity, which, I

warn you, you will not be able to endure, I come to demand of you to

resign this desperate appeal against your vows, which can terminate only

in dishonouring God, and disappointing yourself.”--“My father, without

entering into details, which the steps taken on both sides have rendered

wholly unnecessary, I can only reply, that I will support my appeal with

every power Providence puts within my reach, and that my punishment has

only confirmed my resolution.”--“And this is your final

determination?”--“It is, and I implore you to spare me all further

importunity,--it will be useless.” He was silent for a long time; at

length he said, “And you will insist on your right to an interview with

the advocate to-morrow?”--“I shall claim it.”--“It will not be

necessary, however, to mention to him your late punishment.” These words

struck me. I comprehended the meaning which he wished to conceal in

them, and I answered, “It may not be necessary, but it will probably be

expedient.”--“How?--would you violate the secrets of the house, while

you are yet within its walls?”--“Pardon me, my father, for saying, that

you must be conscious of having exceeded your duty, to be so anxious for

its concealment. It is not, then, the secrets of your discipline, but

the violation of it, I shall have to disclose.”--He was silent, and I

added, “If you have abused your power, though I have been the sufferer,

it is you who are guilty.”--The Superior rose, and quitted my cell in

silence. The next morning I attended matins. Service went on as usual,

but at its conclusion, when the community were about to rise from their

knees, the Superior, striking the desk violently with his hand,

commanded them all to remain in the same posture. He added, in a

thundering voice, “The intercession of this whole community with God is

supplicated for a monk who, abandoned by the Spirit of God, is about to

commit an act dishonourable to Him, disgraceful to the church, and

infallibly destructive of his own salvation.” At these terrible sounds

the monks, all shuddering, sunk on their knees again. I was kneeling

among them, when the Superior, calling me by my name, said aloud, “Rise,

wretch! rise, and pollute not our incense with your unhallowed breath!”

I rose, trembling and confounded, and shrunk to my cell, where I

remained till I was summoned by a monk to the parlour, to meet the

advocate, who waited for me there. This interview was rendered quite

ineffective by the presence of the monk, who was desired by the Superior

to witness our conference, and whom the advocate could not order away.

When we entered into details, he interrupted us with declarations, that

his duty would not permit such a violation of the rules of the parlour.

When I asserted a fact, he contradicted it, gave me the lie repeatedly,

and finally disturbed the purpose of our conference so completely, that

in mere self-defence, I spoke of the subject of my punishment, which he

could not deny, and to which my livid looks bore a testimony invincible.

The moment I spoke on this subject the monk became silent, (he was

treasuring every word for the Superior), and the advocate redoubled his

attention. He took minutes of every thing I said, and appeared to lay

more stress on the matter than I had imagined, or indeed wished for.

When the conference was over, I retired again to my cell. The advocate’s

visits were repeated for some days, till he had obtained the information

requisite for carrying on my suit; and during this time, my treatment in

the convent was such as to give me no cause of complaint; and this

doubtless was the motive of their forbearance. But the moment those

visits ceased, the warfare of persecution commenced. They considered me

as one with whom no measures were to be kept, and they treated me

accordingly. I am convinced it was their intention that I should not

survive the event of my appeal; at least it is certain they left nothing

unaccomplished that could verify that intention. This began, as I

mentioned, on the day of the advocate’s last visit. The bell rung for

refection;--I was going to take my place as usual, when the Superior

said, “Hold,--place a mat for him in the midst of the hall.” This was

done, and I was required to sit down on it, and supplied with bread and

water. I eat a little, which I moistened with my tears. I foresaw what I

had to undergo, and did not attempt to expostulate. When grace was about

to be said, I was desired to stand without the door, lest my presence

should frustrate the benediction they implored.

“I retired, and when the bell rung for vespers, I presented myself among

the rest at the door of the church. I was surprised to find it shut, and

they all assembled. When the bell ceased, the Superior appeared, the

door was opened, and the monks hurried in. I was following, when the

Superior repelled me, exclaiming, “_You, wretch, you!_ Remain where you

are.” I obeyed; and the whole community entered the church, while I

remained at the door. This species of excommunication produced its full

effect of terror on me. As the monks slowly came out, and cast on me

looks of silent horror, I thought myself the most abject being on earth;

I could have hid myself under the pavement till the event of my appeal

was over.

“The next morning, when I went to matins, the same scene was renewed,

with the horrible addition of audible reproaches, and almost

imprecations, denounced against me, as they entered and returned. I

knelt at the door. I did not answer a word. I returned not “railing for

railing,” and lifted up my heart with a trembling hope, that this

offering might be as acceptable to God as the sonorous chaunt of the

choir, which I still felt it was miserable to be excluded from joining.

“In the course of the day, every sluice of monastic malignity and

vengeance was thrown open. I appeared at the door of the refectory. I

did not dare to enter. Alas! Sir, how are monks employed in the hour of

refection? It is an hour, when, while they swallow their meal, they

banquet on the little scandal of the convent. They ask, “Who was late at

prayers? Who is to undergo penance?” This serves them for conversation;

and the details of their miserable life supply no other subject for that

mixture of exhaustless malignity and curiosity, which are the

inseparable twins of monastic birth. As I stood at the door of the

refectory, a lay-brother, to whom the Superior nodded, bid me retire. I

went to my cell, waited for several hours, and just when the bell for

vespers had rung, was supplied with food, which famine itself would have

shrunk from. I tried to swallow it, but could not, and hurried away, as

the bell tolled, to attend vespers; for I wished to have no cause of

complaint against my neglect of duties. I hastened down. The door was

again shut; service began; and again I was compelled to retire without

partaking of it. The next day I was excluded from matins; the same

degrading scene was acted over when I appeared at the door of the

refectory. Food was sent to my cell, that a dog would have rejected; and

the door was shut when I attempted to enter the church. A thousand

circumstances of persecution, too contemptible, too minute, either for

recollection or repetition, but infinitely harassing to the sufferer,

were heaped on me every day. Imagine, Sir, a community of upwards of

sixty persons, all sworn to each other to make the life of one

individual insupportable; joined in a common resolution to insult,

harass, torment, and persecute him; and then imagine how that individual

can support such a life. I began to dread the preservation of my

reason--of my existence, which, miserable as it was, still fed on the

hope of my appeal. I will sketch one day of my life for you. _Ex uno

disce omnes._ I went down to matins, and knelt at the door; I did not

dare to enter. When I retired to my cell, I found the crucifix taken

away. I was about to go to the Superior’s apartment to complain of this

outrage; in the passage I happened to meet a monk and two boarders. They

all shrunk close to the walls; they drew in their garments, as if

trembling to encounter the pollution of my touch. I said mildly, “There

is no danger; the passage is wide enough.” The monk replied, “Apage

Satana. My children,” addressing the boarders, “repeat with me, apage

Satana; avoid the approach of that demon, who insults the habit he

desecrates.” They did so; and to render the exorcism complete, they spit

in my face as they passed. I wiped it off, and thought how little of the

spirit of Jesus was to be found in the house of his nominal brethren. I

proceeded to the apartment of the Superior, and knocked timidly at the

door. I heard the words, “Enter in peace;” and I prayed that it might be

in peace. As I opened the door, I saw several monks assembled with the

Superior. The latter uttered an exclamation of horror when he saw me,

and threw his robe over his eyes; the monks understood the signal; the

door was closed, and I was excluded. That day I waited several hours in

my cell before any food was brought me. There is no state of feeling

that exempts us from the wants of nature. I had no food for many days

requisite for the claims of adolescence, which were then rapidly

manifesting themselves in my tall, but attenuated frame. I descended to

the kitchen to ask for my share of food. The cook crossed himself as I

appeared at the door; for even at the door of the kitchen I faultered at

the threshold. He had been taught to consider me as a demon incarnate,

and shuddered, while he asked, “What do you want?”--“Food,” I replied;

“food;--that is all.”--“Well, you shall have it--but come no

further--there is food.” And he flung me the offal of the kitchen on the

earth; and I was so hungry, that I devoured it eagerly. The next day I

was not so lucky; the cook had learned the secret of the convent, (that

of tormenting those whom they no longer have hopes of commanding), and

mixed the fragments he threw to me, with ashes, hair, and dust. I could

hardly pick out a morsel that, famished as I was, was eatable. They

allowed me no water in my cell; I was not permitted to partake of it at

refection; and, in the agonies of thirst, aggravated by my constant

solicitude of mind, I was compelled to kneel at the brink of the well,

(as I had no vessel to drink out of), and take up the water in my hand,

or lap it like a dog. If I descended to the garden for a moment, they

took the advantage of my absence to enter my cell, and remove or destroy

every article of furniture. I have told you that they took away my

crucifix. I had still continued to kneel and repeat my prayers before

the table on which it stood. That was taken away,--table, chair, missal,

rosary, every thing, disappeared gradually; and my cell presented

nothing but four bare walls, with a bed, on which they had rendered it

impossible for me to taste repose. Perhaps they dreaded I might,

however, and they hit on an expedient, which, if it had succeeded, might

have deprived me of reason as well as repose.

“I awoke one night, and saw my cell in flames; I started up in horror,

but shrunk back on perceiving myself surrounded by demons, who, clothed

in fire, were breathing forth clouds of it around me. Desperate with

horror, I rushed against the wall, and found what I touched was cold. My

recollection returned, and I comprehended, that these were hideous

figures scrawled in phosphorus, to terrify me. I then returned to my

bed, and as the day-light approached, observed these figures gradually

decline. In the morning, I took a desperate resolution of forcing my way

to the Superior, and speaking to him. I felt my reason might be

destroyed amid the horrors they were surrounding me with.

“It was noon before I could work myself up to execute this resolution. I

knocked at his cell, and when the door was opened, he exhibited the same

horror as at my former intrusion, but I was not to be repelled. “My

father, I require you to hear me, nor will I quit this spot till you do

so.”--“Speak.”--“They famish me,--I am not allowed food to support

nature.”--“Do you deserve it?”--“Whether I do or not, neither the laws

of God or man have yet condemned me to die of hunger; and if _you_ do,

you commit murder.”--“Have you any thing else to complain of?”--“Every

thing; I am not allowed to enter the church,--I am forbid to pray,--they

have stripped my cell of crucifix, rosary, and the vessel for holy

water. It is impossible for me to perform my devotions even

alone.”--“_Your_ devotions!”--“My father, though I am not a monk, may I

not still be a Christian?”--“In renouncing your vows, you have abjured

your claim to either character.”--“But I am still a human being, and as

such--But I appeal not to your humanity, I call on your authority for

protection. Last night, my cell was covered with representations of

fiends. I awoke in the midst of flames and spectres.”--“So you will at

the last day!”--“My punishment will then be enough, it need not commence

already.”--“These are the phantoms of your conscience.”--“My father, if

you will deign to examine my cell, you will find the traces of

phosphorus on the walls.”--“_I_ examine your cell? _I_ enter it?”--“Am I

then to expect no redress? Interpose your authority for the sake of the

house over which you preside. Remember that, when my appeal becomes

public, all these circumstances will become so too, and you are to judge

what degree of credit they will attach to the community.” “Retire!” I

did so, and found my application attended to, at least with regard to

food, but my cell remained in the same dismantled state, and I continued

under the same desolating interdiction from all communion, religious or

social. I assure you, with truth, that so horrible was this amputation

from life to me, that I have walked hours in the cloister and the

passages, to place myself in the way of the monks, who, I knew, as they

passed, would bestow on me some malediction or reproachful epithet. Even

this was better than the withering silence which surrounded me. I began

almost to receive it as a customary salutation, and always returned it

with a benediction. In a fortnight my appeal was to be decided on; this

was a circumstance I was kept in ignorance of, but the Superior had

received a notification of it, and this precipitated his resolution to

deprive me of the benefit of its eventual success, by one of the most

horrible schemes that ever entered the human (I retract the expression)

the monastic heart. I received an indistinct intimation of it the very

night after my application to the Superior; but had I been apprised,

from the first, of the whole extent and bearings of their purpose, what

resources could I have employed against it?

“That evening I had gone into the garden; my heart felt unusually

oppressed. Its thick troubled beatings, seemed like the vibrations of a

time-piece, as it measures our approach to some hour of sorrow.

“It was twilight; the garden was empty; and kneeling on the ground, in

the open air, (the only oratory they had left me), I attempted to pray.

The attempt was in vain;--I ceased to articulate sounds that had no

meaning--and, overcome by a heaviness of mind and body inexpressible, I

fell on the ground, and remained extended on my face, torpid, but not

senseless. Two figures passed, without perceiving me; they were in

earnest conversation. One of them said, “More vigorous measures must be

adopted. You are to blame to delay them so long. You will be answerable

for the disgrace of the whole community, if you persist in this foolish

lenity.”--“But his resolution remains unbroken,” said the Superior, (for

it was he).--“It will not be proof against the measure I have

proposed.”--“He is in your hands then; but remember I will not be

accountable for----” They were by this time out of hearing. I was less

terrified than you will believe, by what I had heard. Those who have

suffered much, are always ready to exclaim, with the unfortunate Agag,

“Surely the bitterness of death is past.” They know not, that that is

the very moment when the sword is unsheathed to hew them in pieces. That

night, I had not been long asleep, when I was awoke by a singular noise

in my cell: I started up, and listened. I thought I heard some one hurry

away barefooted. I knew I had no lock to my door, and could not prevent

the intrusion of any one into my cell who pleased to visit it; but still

I believed the discipline of the convent too strict to allow of this. I

composed myself again, but was hardly asleep, when I was again awoke by

something that touched me. I started up again; a soft voice near me said

in whispers, “Compose yourself; I am your friend.”--“My friend? Have I

one?--but why visit me at this hour?”--“It is the only hour at which I

am permitted to visit you.”--“But who are you, then?”--“One whom these

walls can never exclude. One to whom, if you devote yourself, you may

expect services beyond the power of man.”--There was something frightful

in these words. I cried out, “Is it the enemy of souls that is tempting

me?” As I uttered these words, a monk rushed in from the passage, (where

he had been evidently waiting, for his dress was on). He exclaimed,

“What is the matter? You have alarmed me by your cries,--you pronounced

the name of the infernal spirit,--what have you seen? what is it you

fear?” I recovered myself, and said, “I have seen or heard nothing

extraordinary. I have had frightful dreams, that is all. Ah! Brother St

Joseph, no wonder, after passing such days, my nights should be

disturbed.”

“The monk retired, and the next day passed as usual; but at night the

same whispering sounds awoke me again. The preceding night these sounds

had only startled me; they now alarmed me. In the darkness of night, and

the solitude of my cell, this repeated visitation overcame my spirits. I

began almost to admit the idea that I was exposed to the assaults of the

enemy of man. I repeated a prayer, but the whisper, which seemed close

to my ear, still continued. It said, “Listen,--listen to me, and be

happy. Renounce your vows, place yourself under my protection, and you

shall have no cause to complain of the exchange. Rise from your bed,

trample on the crucifix which you will find at the foot of it, spit on

the picture of the Virgin that lies beside it, and----” At these words I

could not suppress a cry of horror. The voice ceased in a moment, and

the same monk, who occupied the cell next to mine, rushed in with the

same exclamations as on the preceding night; and, as he entered my cell,

the light in his hand shewed a crucifix, and a picture of the blessed

Virgin, _placed_ at the foot of my bed. I had sprung up when the monk

entered my cell; I saw them, and recognized them to be the very crucifix

and picture of the Virgin which had been taken from my cell. All the

hypocritical outcries of the monk, at the disturbance I had again caused

him, could not efface the impression which this slight circumstance made

on me. I believed, and not without reason, they had been left there by

the hands of some human tempter. I started, awake to this horrible

imposition, and required the monk to leave my cell. He demanded, with a

frightful paleness in his looks, why I had again disturbed him? said it

was impossible to obtain repose while such noises were occurring in my

cell; and, finally, stumbling over the crucifix and picture, demanded

how they came there. I answered, “You know best.”--“How, then, do you

accuse me of a compact with the infernal demon? By what means could

these have been brought to your cell?”--“By the very hands that removed

them,” I answered; and these words appeared to produce an effect on him

for a moment; but he retired, declaring, that if the nightly disturbance

in my cell continued, he must represent it to the Superior. I answered,

the disturbance did not proceed from me,--but I trembled for the

following night.

“I had reason to tremble. That night, before I lay down, I repeated

prayer after prayer, the terrors of my excommunication pressing heavy on

my soul. I also repeated the prayers against possession or temptation by

the evil spirit. These I was compelled to utter from memory, for I have

told you that they had not left a book in my cell. In repeating these

prayers, which were very long, and somewhat verbose, I at last fell

asleep. That sleep was not to continue long. I was again addressed by

the voice that whispered close to my bed. The moment I heard it, I rose

without fear. I crept around my cell with my hands extended, and my feet

bare. I could feel nothing but the empty walls,--not a single object,

tangible or visible, could I encounter. I lay down again, and had hardly

begun the prayer with which I tried to fortify myself, when the same

sounds were repeated close to my ear, without the possibility either of

my discovering from whence they proceeded, or preventing their reaching

me. Thus I was completely deprived of sleep; and if I dozed for a

moment, the same terrible sounds were re-echoed in my dreams. I became

feverish from want of rest. The night was passed in watching for these

sounds, or listening to them, and the day in wild conjectures or fearful

anticipations. I felt a mixture of terror and impatience inconceivable

at the approach of night. I had a consciousness of imposture the whole

time, but this gave me no consolation, for there is a point to which

human malice and mischief may be carried, that would baffle those of a

demon. Every night the persecution was renewed, and every night it

became more terrible. At times the voice would suggest to me the most

unutterable impurities,--at another, blasphemies that would make a demon

shudder. Then it would applaud me in a tone of derision, and assure me

of the final success of my appeal, then change to the most appalling

menaces. The wretched sleep I obtained, during the intervals of this

visitation, was any thing but refreshing. I would awake in a cold

perspiration, catching at the bed-furniture, and repeating in an

inarticulate voice, the last sounds that had rung in my closing ears. I

would start up and see the bed surrounded by monks, who assured me they

had been disturbed by my cries,--that they had hurried in terror to my

cell. Then they would cast looks of fear and consternation on each other

and on me; say, “Something extraordinary is the matter,--something

presses on your mind that you will not disburden it of.” They implored

me, in the most awful names, and for the interests of my salvation, to

disclose the cause of these extraordinary visitations. At these words,

however agitated before, I always became calm. I said, “Nothing is the

matter,--why do you intrude into my cell?” They shook their heads, and

affected to retire slowly and reluctantly, as if from pity of my

dreadful situation, while I repeated, “Ah, Brother Justin, ah Brother

Clement, I see you, I understand you,--remember there is a God in

heaven.”

“One night I lay for a considerable time without hearing any sound. I

fell asleep, but was soon awoke by an extraordinary light. I sat up in

my bed, and beheld displayed before me the mother of God, in all the

glorious and irradiated incarnation of beatitude. She hovered, rather

than stood, in an atmosphere of light at the foot of my bed, and held a

crucifix in her hand, while she appeared to invite me, with a benign

action, to kiss the five mysterious wounds(1). For a moment I almost

believed in the actual presence of this glorious visitor, but just then

_the voice_ was heard louder than ever, “Spurn them,--spit on them,--you

are mine, and I claim this homage from my vassal.” At these words the

figure disappeared instantly, and the voice was renewing its whispers,

but they were repeated to an insensible ear, for I fell into a swoon. I

could easily distinguish between this state and sleep, by the deadly

sickness, the cold sweats, and the horrid sense of _evanition_, that

preceded it, and by the gasping, sobbing, choaking efforts that attended

my recovery. In the mean time the whole community carried on and even

aggravated the terrible delusion, which, while it was my torment to

detect, it was my greater to be the victim of. When art assumes the

omnipotence of reality, when we feel we suffer as much from an illusion

as from truth, our sufferings lose all dignity and all consolation. We

turn demons against ourselves, and laugh at what we are writhing under.

All day long I was exposed to the stare of horror, the shudder of

suspicion, and, worst of all, the hastily-averted glance of hypocritical

commiseration, that dropt its pitying ray on me for a moment, and was

then instantly raised to heaven, as if to implore forgiveness for the

involuntary crime of compassionating one whom God had renounced. When I

encountered any of them in the garden, they would strike into another

walk, and cross themselves in my sight. If I met them in the passages of

the convent, they drew their garments close, turned their faces to the

wall, and told their beads as I went by. If I ventured to dip my hands

in the holy water that stood at the door of the church, it was thrown

out before my face. Certain extraordinary precautions were adopted by

the whole community against the power of the evil one. Forms of exorcism

were distributed, and additional prayers were used in the service of

matins and vespers. A report was industriously diffused, that Satan was

permitted to visit a favoured and devoted servant of his in the convent,

and that all the brethren might expect the redoubled malice of his

assaults. The effect of this on the young boarders was indescribable.

They flew with the speed of lightning from me, whenever they saw me. If

accident forced us to be near each other for a moment, they were armed

with holy water, which they flung at me in pailfuls; and when that

failed, what cries,--what convulsions of terror! They knelt,--they

screamed,--they shut their eyes,--they cried, “Satan have mercy on

me,--do not fix your infernal talons on me,--take your victim,” and they

mentioned my name. The terror that I inspired I at last began to feel. I

began to believe myself--I know not what, whatever they thought me. This

is a dreadful state of mind, but one impossible to avoid. In some

circumstances, where the whole world is against us, we begin to take its

part against ourselves, to avoid the withering sensation of being alone

on our own side. Such was my appearance, too, my flushed and haggard

look, my torn dress, my unequal gait, my constant internal muttering,

and my complete isolation from the habits of the house, that it was no

wonder I should justify, by my exterior, all of horrible and awful that

might be supposed passing in my mind. Such an impression I must have

made on the minds of the younger members. They had been taught to hate

me, but their hatred was now combined with fear, and such a union is the

most terrible amid all the complications of human passion. Desolate as

my cell was, I retired to it early, as I was excluded from the exercises

of the community. The bell for vespers would ring, I would hear the

steps of those who were hastening to join in the service of God, and

tedious as that service had once appeared to me, I would now have given

worlds to be permitted to join in it, as a defence against that

_horrible midnight mass of Satan_(2), that I was awaiting to be summoned

to. I knelt however in my cell, and repeated what prayers I could

recollect, while every toll of the bell struck on my heart, and the

chaunt of the choir from below sounded like a repulsive echo to an

answer which my fears already anticipated from heaven.

(1) Vide Mosheim’s Ecclesiastical History for the truth of this part

of the narrative. I have suppressed circumstances in the original too

horrible for modern ears.

(2) This expression is not exaggerated. In the dreams of sorcery, or

of imposture, the evil spirit was supposed to perform a mass in

derision; and in Beaumont and Fletcher there is mention of “_howling a

black Santis_,” _i. e._ Satan’s mass.

“One evening that I still continued to pray, and audibly, as the monks

passed my cell they said, “Do _you_ presume to pray? Die, desperate

wretch,--die and be damned. Precipitate yourself into the infernal gulph

at once, no longer desecrate these walls by your presence.” At these

words I only redoubled my prayers; but this gave greater offence, for

churchmen cannot bear to hear prayers uttered in a form different from

their own. The cry of a solitary individual to God, sounds like

profanation in their ears. They ask, Why do they not employ our form?

How dare they hope to be heard? Alas! is it forms then that God regards?

or is it not rather the prayer of the heart which alone reaches him, and

prospers in its petition? As they called out, passing my cell, “Perish,

impious wretch, perish,--God will not hear you,” I answered them on my

knees with blessings,--which of us had the spirit of prayer? That night

was one of trial I could no longer support. My frame was exhausted, my

mind excited, and, owing to our frail nature, this battle of the senses

and soul is never long carried on without the worst side remaining

conqueror. I was no sooner laid down than the voice began to whisper. I

began to pray, but my head swam round, my eyes flashed fire,--fire

almost tangible, my cell appeared in flames. Recollect my frame worn out

with famine, my mind worn out with persecution. I struggled with what I

was conscious was delirium,--but this consciousness aggravated its

horror. It is better to be mad at once, than to believe that all the

world is sworn to think and _make_ you be so, in spite of your own

consciousness of your sanity. The whispers this night were so horrible,

so full of ineffable abominations, of--I cannot think of them,--that

they _maddened my very ear_. My senses seemed deranged along with my

intellect. I will give you an instance, it is but a slight one, of the

horrors which----” Here the Spaniard whispered Melmoth(3). The hearer

shuddered, and the Spaniard went on in an agitated tone.

(3) We do not venture to guess at the _horrors_ of this whisper, but

every one conversant with ecclesiastical history knows, that _Tetzel_

offered indulgences in Germany, even on the condition that the sinner

had been guilty of the _impossible_ crime of violating the mother of

God.

“I could bear it no longer. I sprung from my bed, I ran through the

gallery like a maniac, knocking at the doors of the cells, and

exclaiming, “Brother such a one, pray for me,--pray for me, I beseech

you.” I roused the whole convent. Then I flew down to the church; it was

open, and I rushed in. I ran up the aisle, I precipitated myself before

the altar, I embraced the images, I clung to the crucifix with loud and

reiterated supplications. The monks, awakened by my outcries, or perhaps

on the watch for them, descended in a body to the church, but,

perceiving I was there, they would not enter,--they remained at the

doors, with lights in their hands, gazing on me. It was a singular

contrast between me, hurrying round the church almost in the dark, (for

there were but a few lamps burning dimly), and the groupe at the door,

whose expression of horror was strongly marked by the light, which

appeared to have deserted me to concentrate itself among them. The most

impartial person on earth might have supposed me deranged, or possessed,

or both, from the state in which they saw me. Heaven knows, too, what

construction might have been put on my wild actions, which the

surrounding darkness exaggerated and distorted, or on the prayers which

I uttered, as I included in them the horrors of the temptation against

which I implored protection. Exhausted at length, I fell to the ground,

and remained there, without the power of moving, but able to hear and

observe every thing that passed. I heard them debate whether they should

leave me there or not, till the Superior commanded them to remove that

abomination from the sanctuary; and such was the terror of me into which

they had _acted_ themselves, that he had to repeat his orders before he

could procure obedience to them. They approached me at last, with the

same caution that they would an infected corse, and dragged me out by

the habit, leaving me on the paved floor before the door of the church.

They then retired, and in this state I actually fell asleep, and

continued so till I was awoke by the bell for matins. I recollected

myself, and attempted to rise; but my having slept on a damp floor, when

in a fever from terror and excitement, had so cramped my limbs, that I

could not accomplish this without the most exquisite pain. As the

community passed in to matins, I could not suppress a few cries of pain.

They must have seen what was the matter, but not one of them offered me

assistance, nor did I dare to implore it. By slow and painful efforts, I

at last reached my cell; but, shuddering at the sight of the bed, I

threw myself on the floor for repose.

“I was aware that some notice must be taken of a circumstance so

extraordinary--that such a subversion of the order and tranquillity of a

convent, would force an inquiry, even if the object was less remarkable.

But I had a sad foreboding, (for suffering makes us full of presages),

that this inquiry, however conducted, would terminate unfavourably to

me. I was the Jonah of the vessel--let the storm blow from what point it

would, I felt the lot was to fall on me. About noon, I was summoned to

the apartment of the Superior. I went, but not as at former times, with

a mixture of supplication and remonstrance on my lips,--with hope and

fear in my heart,--in a fever of excitement or of terror,--I went

sullen, squalid, listless, reckless; my physical strength, borne down by

fatigue and want of sleep; my mental, by persecution, incessant and

insupportable. I went no longer shrinking from, and deprecating _their

worst_, but defying, almost desiring it, in the terrible and indefinite

curiosity of despair. The apartment was full of monks; the Superior

stood among them, while they formed a semicircle at a respectful

distance from him. I must have presented a miserable contrast to these

men arrayed against me in their pride of power,--their long and not

ungraceful habits, giving their figures an air of solemnity, perhaps

more imposing than splendour--while I stood opposed to them, ragged,

meagre, livid, and obdurate, the very personification of an evil spirit

summoned before the angels of judgment. The Superior addressed me in a

long discourse, in which he but slightly touched on the scandal given by

the attempt to repeal my vows. He also suppressed any allusion to the

circumstance which was known to every one in the convent but myself,

that my appeal would be decided on in a few days. But he adverted in

terms that (in spite of my consciousness that they were hollow) made me

shudder, to the horror and consternation diffused through the convent by

my late tremendous visitation, as he called it. “Satan hath desired to

have you,” he said, “because you have put yourself within his power, by

your impious reclamation of your vows. You are the Judas among the

brethren; a branded Cain amid a primitive family; a scape-goat that

struggles to burst from the hands of the congregation into the

wilderness. The horrors that your presence is hourly heaping on us here,

are not only intolerable to the discipline of a religious house, but to

the peace of civilized society. There is not a monk who can sleep within

three cells of you. You disturb them by the most horrible cries--you

exclaim that the infernal spirit is perpetually beside your bed--that he

is whispering in your ears. You fly from cell to cell, supplicating the

prayers of the brethren. Your shrieks disturb the holy sleep of the

community--that sleep which they snatch only in the intervals of

devotion. All order is broken, all discipline subverted, while you

remain among us. The imaginations of the younger members are at once

polluted and inflamed, by the idea of the infernal and impure orgies

which the demon celebrates in your cell; and of which we know not

whether your cries, (which all can hear), announce triumph in, or

remorse for. You rush at midnight into the church, deface the images,

revile the crucifix, spurn at the altar; and when the whole community is

forced, by this unparalleled atrocity of blasphemy, to drag you from the

spot you are desecrating, you disturb, by your cries, those who are

passing to the service of God. In a word, your howls, your distortions,

your demoniac language, habits, and gestures, have but too well

justified the suspicion entertained when you first entered the convent.

You were abominable from your very birth,--you were the offspring of

sin--you are conscious of it. Amid the livid paleness, that horrible

unnatural white that discolours your very lips, I see a tinge like

crimson burning on your cheek at the mention of it. The demon who was

presiding at your natal hour--the demon of impurity and

anti-monasticism--pursues you in the very walls of a convent. The

Almighty, in my voice, bids you begone;--depart, and trouble us no

more.--Stop,” he added, as he saw I was obeying his directions

literally, “hold, the interests of religion, and of the community, have

required that I should take particular notice of the extraordinary

circumstances that have haunted your unhallowed presence within these

walls. In a short time you may expect a visit from the Bishop--prepare

yourself for it as you may.” I considered these as the final words

addressed to me, and was about to retire, when I was recalled. I was

desired to utter some words, which every one was eager to put into my

mouth, of expostulation, of remonstrance, of supplication. I resisted

them all as steadily as if I had known (which I did not) that the Bishop

had himself instituted the examination into the deranged state of the

convent; and that instead of the Superior inviting the Bishop to examine

into the cause of the disturbance in his convent, (the very last step he

would have taken), the Bishop, (a man whose character will shortly be

developed), had been apprized of the _scandal_ of the convent, and had

determined to take the matter into his own hands. Sunk in solitude and

persecution, I knew not that all Madrid was on fire,--that the Bishop

had determined to be no longer a passive hearer of the extraordinary

scenes reported to pass in the convent,--that, in a word, my _exorcism_

and my appeal were quivering in alternate scales, and that the Superior

himself doubted which way the scale might incline. All this I was

ignorant of, for no one dared to tell it to me. I therefore was about to

retire without uttering a word in answer to the many whispered speeches

to humble myself to the Superior, to implore his intercession with the

Bishop to suspend this disgraceful examination that threatened _us_ all.

I broke from them as they surrounded me; and standing calm and sullen at

the door, I threw a retorting look at them, and said, “God forgive you

all, and grant you such an acquittal at his judgment-seat, as I hesitate

not to claim at that of the Bishop-visitant.” These words, though

uttered by a ragged demoniac, (as they thought me), made them tremble.

Truth is rarely heard in convents, and therefore its language is equally

emphatical and portentous.

“The monks crossed themselves, and, as I left the apartment, repeated,

“But how then,--what if we _prevented_ this mischief?”--“By what

means?”--“By any that the interests of religion may suggest,--the

character of the convent is at stake. The Bishop is a man of a strict

and scrutinizing character,--he will keep his eyes open to the

truth,--he will inquire into facts,--what will become of us? Were it not

better that----” “What?”--“You comprehend us.”--“And if I dared to

comprehend you, _the time is too short_.”--“We have heard of the death

of maniacs being very sudden, of----” “What do you dare to hint

at?”--“Nothing, we only spoke of what every one knows, that a profound

sleep is often a restorative to lunatics. _He_ is a lunatic, as all the

convent are ready to swear,--a wretch possessed by the infernal spirit,

whom he invocates every night in his cell,--he disturbs the whole

convent by his outcries.”

“The Superior all this time walked impatiently up and down his

apartment. He entangled his fingers in his rosary,--he threw on the

monks angry looks from time to time; at last he said, “I am myself

disturbed by his cries,--his wanderings,--his undoubted commerce with

the enemy of souls. I need rest,--I require a profound sleep to repair

my exhausted spirits,--_what would you prescribe?_” Several pressed

forward, not understanding the hint, and eagerly recommended the common

opiates--Mithridate, &c. &c. An old monk whispered in his ear,

“Laudanum,--it will procure a deep and sound sleep. Try it, my father,

if you want rest; but to make the experiment sure, were it not best to

try it first on another?” The Superior nodded, and the party were about

to disperse, when the Superior caught the old monk by his habit, and

whispered, “But no murder!”--“Oh no! only profound sleep.--What matter

when he wakes? It must be to suffering in this life or the next. _We_

are not guilty in the business. What signifies a few moments sooner or

later?” The Superior was of a timid and passionate character. He still

kept hold of the monk’s habit;--he whispered, “But it must not be

known.”--“But who can know it?” At this moment the clock struck, and an

old ascetic monk, who occupied a cell adjacent to the Superior’s, and

who had accustomed himself to the exclamation, “God knoweth all things,”

whenever the clock struck, repeated it aloud. The Superior quitted his

hold of the monk’s habit,--the monk crawled to his cell _God-struck_, if

I may use the expression,--the laudanum was not administered that

night,--the voice did not return,--I slept the entire night, and the

whole convent was delivered from the harassings of the infernal spirit.

Alas! none haunted it, but that spirit which the natural _malignity of

solitude_ raises within the circle of every heart, and forces us, from

the terrible economy of misery, to feed on the vitals of others, that we

may spare our own.

“This conversation was repeated to me afterwards by a monk who was on

his dying bed. He had witnessed it, and I have no reason to doubt his

sincerity. In fact, I always considered it as rather a palliation than

an aggravation of their cruelty to me. They had made me suffer worse

than many deaths,--the single suffering would have been

instantaneous,--the single act would have been mercy. The next day the

visit of the Bishop was expected. There was an indescribable kind of

terrified preparation among the community. This house was the first in

Madrid, and the singular circumstance of the son of one of the highest

families in Spain having entered it in early youth,--having protested

against his vows in a few months,--having been accused of being in a

compact with the infernal spirit a few weeks after,--the hope of a scene

of exorcism,--the doubt of the success of my appeal,--the probable

interference of the Inquisition,--the _possible_ festival of an auto da

fe,--had set the imagination of all Madrid on fire; and never did an

audience long more for the drawing up of the curtain at a popular opera,

than the religious and irreligious of Madrid did for the developement of

the scene which was acting at the convent of the Ex-Jesuits.

“In Catholic countries, Sir, religion is the national drama; the priests

are the principal performers, the populace the audience; and whether the

piece concludes with a “Don Giovanni” plunging in flames, or the

beatification of a saint, the applause and the enjoyment is the same.

“I feared my destiny was to be the former. I knew nothing of the Bishop,

and hoped nothing from his visit; but my hopes began to rise in

proportion to the visible fears of the society. I argued, with the

natural malignity of wretchedness, “If they tremble, I may exult.” When

suffering is thus weighed against suffering, the hand is never steady;

we are always disposed to make the balance incline a little on our own

side. The Bishop came early, and passed some hours with the Superior in

his own apartment. During this interval, there was a stillness in the

house that was strongly contrasted with its previous agitation. I stood

alone in my cell,--_stood_, for I had no seat left me. I said to myself,

“This event bodes neither good or evil to me. I am not guilty of what

they accuse me of. They never can prove it,--an accomplice with

Satan!--the victim of diabolical delusion!--Alas! my only crime is my

involuntary subjection to the delusions they have practised on me. This

man, this Bishop, cannot give me freedom, but he may at least do me

justice.” All this time the community were in a fever--the character of

the house was at stake--my situation was notorious. They had laboured to

represent me as a possessed being beyond their walls, and to _make_ me

appear as one within them. The hour of trial approached. For the honour

of human nature,--from the dread of violating decency,--from the dread

of apparently violating truth, I will not attempt to relate the means

they had recourse to the morning of the Bishop’s visitation, to qualify

me to perform the part of a possessed, insane, and blasphemous wretch.

The four monks I have before mentioned, were the principal executioners,

(I must call them so).--Under pretence that there was no part of my

person which was not under the influence of the demon, * * * * * * *

“This was not enough. I was deluged almost to suffocation with

aspersions of holy water. Then followed, &c. * * * * *

“The result was, that I remained half-naked, half-drowned, gasping,

choaking, and delirious with rage, shame, and fear, when I was summoned

to attend the Bishop, who, surrounded by the Superior and the community,

awaited me in the church. This was the moment they had fixed on--I

yielded myself to them. I said, stretching out my arms, “Yes, drag me

naked, mad--religion and nature alike violated in my abused

figure--before your Bishop. If he speaks truth,--if he feels

conscience,--woe be to you, hypocritical, tyrannical wretches. You have

half-driven me mad!--half-murdered me, by the unnatural cruelties you

have exercised on me!--and in this state you drag me before the Bishop!

Be it so, I must follow you.” As I uttered these words, they bound my

arms and legs with ropes, carried me down, and placed me at the door of

the church, standing close to me. The Bishop was at the altar, the

Superior near him; the community filled the choir. They flung me down

like a heap of carrion, and retreated as if they fled from the pollution

of my touch. This sight struck the Bishop: He said, in a loud voice,

“Rise, _unhappy_, and come forward.” I answered, in a voice whose tones

appeared to thrill him, “Bid them unbind me, and I will obey you.” The

Bishop turned a cold and yet indignant look on the Superior, who

immediately approached and whispered him. This whispering consultation

was carried on for some time; but, though lying on the ground, I could

perceive the Bishop shook his head at every whisper of the Superior; and

the end of the business was an order to unbind me. I did not fare much

the better for this order, for the four monks were still close to me.

They held my arms as they led me up the steps to the altar. I was then,

for the first time, placed opposite to the Bishop. He was a man, the

effect of whose physiognomy was as indelible as that of his

character.--The one left its impress on the senses, as strongly as the

other did on the soul. He was tall, majestic, and hoary; not a feeling

agitated his frame--not a passion had left its trace on his features. He

was a marble statue of Episcopacy, chiselled out by the hand of

Catholicism,--a figure magnificent and motionless. His cold black eyes

did not seem to see you, when they were turned on you. His voice, when

it reached you, did not address _you_, but your _soul_. Such was his

exterior:--for the rest, his character was unimpeachable, his discipline

exemplary, his life that of an Anchorite hewed out in stone. But he was

partially suspected of what is called _liberality_ in opinions, (that

is, of an inclination to Protestantism), and the sanctity of his

character went bail in vain for this imputed heterodoxy, which the

Bishop could hardly redeem by his rigid cognizance of every conventual

abuse in his district, among which my convent happened to be. Such was

the man before whom I stood. At the command to unloose me, the Superior

shewed much agitation; but the command was positive, and I was released.

I was then between the four monks, who held me, and I felt that my

appearance must have justified the impression he had received. I was

ragged, famished, livid, and on fire, with the horrible treatment I had

just received. I hoped, however, that my submission to whatever was to

be performed, might, in some degree, redeem the opinion of the Bishop.

He went with evident reluctance through the forms of exorcism, which

were delivered in Latin, while all the time, the monks crossed

themselves, and the _Acolytes_ were not sparing of holy water and of

incense. Whenever the terms “diabole te adjuro” occurred, the monks who

held me twisted my arms, so that I appeared to make contortions, and

uttered cries of pain. This, at first, seemed to disturb the Bishop; but

when the form of exorcism was over, he commanded me to approach the

altar alone. I attempted to do so; but the four monks surrounding me,

made it appear an act of great difficulty. He said, “Stand apart--let

him alone.” They were compelled to obey. I advanced alone, trembling. I

knelt. The Bishop, placing his stole on my head, demanded, “Did I

believe in God, and the holy Catholic church?” Instead of answering, I

shrieked, flung off the stole, and trampled in agony on the steps of the

altar. The Bishop retreated, while the Superior and the rest advanced. I

collected courage as I saw them approach; and, without uttering a word,

pointed to the pieces of broken glass which had been thrown on the steps

where I stood, and which had pierced me through my torn sandals. The

Bishop instantly ordered a monk to sweep them away with the sleeve of

his tunic. The order was obeyed in a moment, and the next I stood before

him without fear or pain. He continued to ask, “Why do you not pray in

the church?”--“Because its doors are shut against me.”--“How? what is

this? A memorial is in my hands urging many complaints against you, and

this among the first, that you do not pray in the church.”--“I have told

you the doors of the church are shut against me.--Alas! I could no more

open them, than I could open the hearts of the community--every thing is

shut against me here.” He turned to the Superior, who answered, “The

doors of the church are always shut to the enemies of God.” The Bishop

said, with his usual stern calmness, “I am asking a plain

question--evasive and circuitous answers will not do. Have the doors of

the church been shut against this wretched being?--have you denied him

the privilege of addressing God?”--“I did so, because I thought and

believed--” “I ask not what you thought or believed; I ask a plain

answer to a matter-of-fact question. Did you, or did you not, deny him

access to the house of God?”--“I had reason to believe that--” “I warn

you, these answers may compel me to make you exchange situations in one

moment with the object you accuse. Did you, or did you not, shut the

doors of the church against him?--answer yes or no.” The Superior,

trembling with fear and rage, said, “I did; and I was justified in doing

so.”--“That is for another tribunal to judge. But it seems you plead

guilty to the fact of which you accuse him.” The Superior was dumb. The

Bishop then examining his paper, addressed me again, “How is it that the

monks cannot sleep in their cells from the disturbance you cause?”--“I

know not--you must ask them.”--“Does not the evil spirit visit you

nightly? Are not your blasphemies, your execrable impurities, disgorged

even in the ears of those who have the misfortune to be placed near you?

Are you not the terror and the torment of the whole community?” I

answered, “I am what they have made me. I do not deny there are

extraordinary noises in my cell, but they can best account for them. I

am assailed by whispers close to my bed-side: It seems these whispers

reach the ears of the brethren, for they burst into my cell, and take

advantage of the terror with which I am overwhelmed, to put the most

incredible constructions on it.”--“Are there no cries, then, heard in

your cell at night?”--“Yes, cries of terror--cries uttered not by one

who is celebrating infernal orgies, but dreading them.”--“But the

blasphemies, the imprecations, the impurities, which proceed from your

lips?”--“Sometimes, in irrepressible terror, I have repeated the sounds

that were suggested to my ears; but it was always with an exclamation of

horror and aversion, that proved these sounds were not _uttered_ but

_echoed_ by me,--as a man may take up a reptile in his hand, and gaze on

its hideousness a moment, before he flings it from him. I take the whole

community to witness the truth of this. The cries I uttered, the

expressions I used, were evidently those of hostility to the infernal

suggestions which had been breathed into my ears. Ask the whole

community--they must testify, that when they broke into my cell, they

found me alone, trembling, convulsed. That I was the victim of those

disturbances, they affected to complain of; and though I never was able

to guess the means by which this persecution was effected, I am not rash

in ascribing it to the hands that covered the walls of my cell with

representations of demons, the traces of which still remain.”--“You are

also accused of having burst into the church at midnight, defaced the

images, trampled on the crucifix, and performed all the acts of a demon

violating the sanctuary.” At this accusation, so unjust and cruel, I was

agitated beyond controul. I exclaimed, “I flew to the church for

protection in a paroxysm of terror, which their machinations had filled

me with! I flew there at night, because it was shut against me during

the day, as you have discovered! I prostrated myself before the cross,

instead of trampling on it! I embraced the images of the blessed saints,

instead of violating them! And I doubt whether prayers more sincere were

ever offered within these walls, than those I uttered that night amid

helplessness, terror, and persecutions!”--“Did you not obstruct and

deter the community next morning by your cries, as they attempted to

enter the church?”--“I was paralyzed from the effects of lying all night

on the stone pavement, where they had flung me. I attempted to rise and

crawl away at their approach, and a few cries of pain were extorted from

me by my efforts to do so--efforts rendered more painful by their

refusing to offer me the slightest assistance. In a word, the whole is a

fabrication. I flew to the church to implore for mercy, and they

represent it as the outrages of an apostate spirit. Might not the same

arbitrary and absurd construction be put on the daily visits of

multitudes of afflicted souls, who weep and groan audibly as I did? If I

attempted to overturn the crucifix, to deface the images, would not the

marks of this violence remain? Would they not have been preserved with

care, to substantiate the accusation against me? Is there a trace of

them?--there is not, there cannot be, because they never existed.” The

Bishop paused. An appeal to his feelings would have been vain, but this

appeal to facts had its full effect. After some time, he said, “You can

have no objection, then, to render before the whole community the same

homage to the representations of the Redeemer and the holy saints, that

you say it was your purpose to render them that night?”--“None.” A

crucifix was brought me, which I kissed with reverence and unction, and

prayed, while the tears streamed from my eyes, an interest in the

infinite merits of the sacrifice it represented. The Bishop then said,

“Make a deed of faith, of love, of hope.” I did so; and though they were

extempore, my expressions, I could perceive, made the dignified

ecclesiastics who attended on the Bishop, cast on each other looks in

which were mingled compassion, interest, and admiration. The Bishop

said, “Where did you learn those prayers?”--“My heart is my only

teacher--I have no other--I am allowed no book.”--“How!--recollect what

you say.”--“I repeat I have none. They have taken away my breviary, my

crucifix;--they have stript my cell of all its furniture. I kneel on the

floor--I pray from the heart. If you deign to visit my cell, you will

find I have told you the truth.” At these words, the Bishop cast a

terrible look on the Superior. He recovered himself, however,

immediately, for he was a man unaccustomed to any emotion, and felt it

at once a suspension of his habits, and an infringement of his rank. In

a cold voice he bid me retire; then, as I was obeying him, he recalled

me,--my appearance for the first time seemed to strike him. He was a man

so absorbed in the contemplation of that waveless and frozen tide of

duty in which his mind was anchored, without fluctuation, progress, or

improvement, that physical objects must be presented before him a long

time before they made the least impression on him,--his senses were

almost ossified. Thus he had come to examine a supposed demoniac; but he

had made up his mind that there must be injustice and imposture in the

case, and he acted in the matter with a spirit, decision, and integrity,

that did him honour.

“But, all the time, the horror and misery of my appearance, which would

have made the first impression on a man whose feelings were at all

_external_, made the last. They struck him as I slowly and painfully

crawled from the steps of the altar, and the impression was forcible in

proportion to its slowness. He called me back and inquired, as if he saw

me for the first time, “How is it your habit is so scandalously ragged?”

At these words I thought I could disclose a scene that would have added

to the Superior’s humiliation, but I only said, “It is the consequence

of the ill treatment I have experienced.” Several other questions of the

same kind, relating to my appearance, which was deplorable enough,

followed, and at last I was forced to make a full discovery. The Bishop

was incensed at the detail more than was credible. Rigid minds, when

they yield themselves to emotion, do it with a vehemence inconceivable,

for to them every thing is a duty, and passion (when it occurs) among

the rest. Perhaps the novelty of emotion, too, may be a delightful

surprise to them.

“More than all this was the case now with the good Bishop, who was as

pure as he was rigid, and shrunk with horror, disgust, and indignation,

at the detail I was compelled to give, which the Superior trembled at my

uttering, and which the community dared not to contradict. He resumed

his cold manner; for to him feeling was an effort, and rigour a habit,

and he ordered me again to retire. I obeyed, and went to my cell. The

walls were as bare as I had described them, but, even contrasted with

all the splendour and array of the scene in the church, they seemed

emblazoned with my triumph. A dazzling vision passed before me for a

moment, then all subsided; and, in the solitude of my cell, I knelt and

implored the Almighty to touch the Bishop’s heart, and impress on him

the moderation and simplicity with which I had spoken. As I was thus

employed, I heard steps in the passage. They ceased for a moment, and I

was silent. It appeared the persons overheard me, and paused; and these

few words, uttered in solitude, made, I found, a deep impression on

them. A few moments after the Bishop, with some dignified attendants,

followed by the Superior, entered my cell. The former all stopped,

horror-struck at its appearance.

“I have told you, Sir, that my cell now consisted of four bare walls and

a bed;--it was a scandalous, degrading sight. I was kneeling in the

middle of the floor, God knows, without the least idea of producing an

effect. The Bishop gazed around him for some time, while the

ecclesiastics who attended him testified their horror by looks and

attitudes that needed no interpretation. The Bishop, after a pause,

turned to the Superior, “Well, what do you say to this?” The Superior

hesitated, and at last said, “I was ignorant of this.”--“That is false,”

said the Bishop; “and even if it was true, it would be your crimination,

not your apology. Your duty binds you to visit the cells every day; how

could you be ignorant of the shameful state of this cell, without

neglecting your own duties?” He took several turns about the cell,

followed by the ecclesiastics, shrugging their shoulders, and throwing

on each other looks of disgust. The Superior stood dismayed. They went

out, and I could hear the Bishop say, in the passage, “All this disorder

must be rectified before I quit the house.” And to the Superior, “You

are unworthy of the situation you hold,--you ought to be deposed.” And

he added in severer tones, “Catholics, monks, Christians, this is

shocking,--horrible! tremble for the consequences of my next visit, if

the same disorders exist,--I promise you it shall be repeated soon.” He

then returned, and standing at the door of my cell, said to the

Superior, “Take care that all the abuses committed in this cell are

rectified before to-morrow morning.” The Superior signified his

submission to this order in silence.

“That evening I went to sleep on a bare mattress, between four dry

walls. I slept profoundly, from exhaustion and fatigue. I awoke in the

morning far beyond the time for matins, and found myself surrounded by

all the comforts that can be bestowed on a cell. As if magic had been

employed during my sleep, crucifix, breviary, desk, table, every thing

was replaced. I sprung from bed, and actually gazed in extasy around my

cell. As the day advanced, and the hour for refection approached, my

extasy abated, and my terrors increased;--it is not easy to pass from

extreme humiliation and utter abhorrence, to your former state in the

society of which you are a member. When the bell rung I went down. I

stood at the door for a moment,--then, with an impulse, like despair, I

entered, and took my usual place. No opposition was made,--not a word

was said. The community separated after dinner. I watched for the toll

of the bell for vespers,--I imagined that would be decisive. The bell

tolled at last,--the monks assembled. I joined them without

opposition,--I took my place in the choir,--my triumph was complete, and

I trembled at it. Alas! in what moment of success do we not feel a

sensation of terror? Our destiny always acts the part of the ancient

slave to us, who was required every morning to remind the monarch that

he was a man; and it seldom neglects to fulfil its own predictions

before the evening. Two days passed away,--the storm that had so long

agitated us, seemed to have sunk into a sudden calm. I resumed my former

place,--I performed the customary duties,--no one congratulated or

reviled me. They all seemed to consider me as one beginning monastic

life _de novo_. I passed two days of perfect tranquillity, and I take

God to witness, I enjoyed this triumph with moderation. I never reverted

to my former situation,--I never reproached those who had been agents in

it,--I never uttered a syllable on the subject of the visitation, which

had made me and the whole convent change places in the space of a few

hours, and the oppressed take the part (if he pleased) of the oppressor.

I bore my success with temperance, for I was supported by the hope of

liberation. The Superior’s triumph was soon to come.

“On the third morning I was summoned to the parlour, where a messenger

put into my hands a packet, containing (as I well understood) the result

of my appeal. This, according to the rules of the convent, I was

compelled to put first into the hands of the Superior to read, before I

was permitted to read it myself. I took the packet, and slowly walked to

the Superior’s apartment. As I held it in my hand, I considered it, felt

every corner, weighed it over and over again in my hand, tried to catch

an omen from its very shape. Then a withering thought crossed me, that,

if its intelligence was auspicious, the messenger would have put it into

my hands with an air of triumph, that, in spite of convent etiquette, I

might break open the seals which inclosed the sentence of my liberation.

We are very apt to take our presages from our destination, and mine

being that of a monk, no wonder its auguries were black,--and were

verified.

“I approached the Superior’s cell with the packet. I knocked, was

desired to enter, and, my eyes cast down, could only distinguish the

hems of many habits, whose wearers were all assembled in the Superior’s

apartment. I offered the packet with reverence. The Superior cast a

careless eye over it, and then flung it on the floor. One of the monks

approached to take it up. The Superior exclaimed, “Hold, let _him_ take

it up.” I did so, and retired to my cell, making first a profound

reverence to the Superior. I then went to my cell, where I sat down with

the fatal packet in my hands. I was about to open it, when a voice from

within me seemed to say,--It is useless, you must know the contents

already. It was some hours before I perused it,--it contained the

account of the failure of my appeal. It seemed, from the detail, that

the advocate had exerted his abilities, zeal, and eloquence to the

utmost; and that, at one time, the court had been near deciding in

favour of my claims, but the precedent was reckoned too dangerous. The

advocate on the other side had remarked, “If this succeeds, we shall

have all the monks in Spain appealing against their vows.” Could a

stronger argument have been used in favour of my cause? An impulse so

universal must surely originate in nature, justice, and truth.”

* * * * *

On reverting to the disastrous issue of his appeal, the unfortunate

Spaniard was so much overcome, that it was some days before he could

resume his narrative.