“Day followed day for many a month, of which I have no recollections,

nor wish to have any. I must have experienced many emotions, but they

all subsided like the waves of the sea under the darkness of a midnight

sky,--their fluctuation continues, but there is no light to mark their

motion, or trace when they rise and fall. A deep stupor pervaded my

senses and soul; and perhaps, in this state, I was best fitted for the

monotonous existence to which I was doomed. It is certain that I

performed all the conventual functions with a regularity that left

nothing to be blamed, and an apathy that left nothing for praise. My

life was a sea without a tide. The bell did not toll for service with

more mechanical punctuality than I obeyed the summons. No automaton,

constructed on the most exquisite principles of mechanism, and obeying

those principles with a punctuality almost miraculous, could leave the

artist less room for complaint or disappointment, than I did the

Superior and community. I was always first in my place in the choir. I

received no visits in the parlour,--when I was permitted to go, I

declined the permission. If penance was enjoined, I submitted; if

relaxation was permitted, I never partook of it. I never asked a

dispensation from morning prayers, or from vigils. I was silent in the

refectory,--in the garden I walked alone. I neither thought, nor felt,

nor lived,--if life depends on consciousness, and the motions of the

will. I slept through my existence like the Simorgh in the Eastern

fable, but this sleep was not to last long. My abstraction and calmness

would not do for the Jesuits. My stupor, my noiseless tread, my fixed

eyes, my ghastly silence, might indeed have impressed a superstitious

community with the idea that it was no human creature who stalked

through their cloisters, and haunted their choir. But they had quite

different ideas. They considered all this as a tacit reproach to the

struggles, the squabbles, the intrigues, and the circumventions, in

which they were immersed, body and soul, from morn till night. Perhaps

they thought I was lying in reserve, only to watch them. Perhaps there

might have been a dearth of some matter of curiosity or complaint in the

convent just then,--a very little serves for either. However it was,

they began to revive the old story of my being deranged, and resolved to

make the most of it. They whispered in the refectory, consulted in the

garden,--shook their heads, pointed at me in the cloister, and finally,

I faithfully believe, worked themselves into the conviction that what

they wished or imagined was actually true. Then they all felt their

consciences interested in the investigation; and a select party, headed

by an old monk of influence and reputation, waited on the Superior. They

stated to him my abstraction, my mechanical movements, my automaton

figure, my meanless words, my stupified devotion, my total alienation

from the spirit of the monastic life, while my scrupulous, _wooden_,

_jointless_ exactness in its forms was only a mockery. The Superior

heard them with great indifference. He had held secret intelligence with

my family, had communicated with the Director, and pledged himself that

I should be a monk. He had succeeded by dint of exertions, (the result

of which has been seen), and now cared very little whether I was mad or

not. With a grave air he forbid their further interference in the

matter, and reserved its future cognizance to himself. They retired

defeated, but not disappointed, and they all pledged themselves to each

other to _watch me_; that is, to harass, persecute, and torment me into

being the very character with which their malice, their curiosity, or

their mere industry of idleness and wantonness of unoccupied invention,

had invested me already. From that hour the whole convent was in a

tumult of conspiracy and combination. Doors were clapped to wherever I

was heard to approach; and three or four would stand whispering near

where I walked, and clear their throats, and exchange signs, and pass

_audibly_ to the most trifling topics in my hearing, as if to intimate,

while they affected to conceal it, that their last topic had been _me_.

I laughed at this internally. I said to myself, “Poor perverted beings,

with what affectation of dramatic bustle and contrivance you labour to

diversify the misery of your hopeless vacancy;--you struggle,--I

submit.” Soon the toils they were preparing began to tighten round me.

They would throw themselves in my way with an assiduity I could not

avoid, and an appearance of kindness I did not willingly repel. They

would say, in the blandest tones, “My dear brother, you are

melancholy,--you are devoured with chagrin,--would to God our fraternal

efforts could banish your regrets. But from what arises that melancholy

that appears to consume you?” At these words I could not help fixing on

them eyes full of reproaches, and I believe of tears,--but I did not

utter a word. The state in which they saw me, was a sufficient cause for

the melancholy with which I was reproached. * * * * * *

“This attack having failed, another method was tried. They attempted to

make me a party in the parties of the convent. They told me a thousand

things of unjust partialities,--of unjust punishments, daily to be

witnessed in the convent. They talked of a sickly brother being

compelled to attend matins, while the physician pronounced his

attendance on them must be his death,--_and he died_,--while a young

favourite, in the bloom of health, had a dispensation from matins

whenever he pleased to lie till nine in the morning;--of complaints that

the confessional was not attended to as it ought,--and this might have

made some impression on me, till another complainant added, and the

_turning-box is not attended to as it ought to be_. This union of

dissonant sounds,--this startling transition from a complaint of

neglecting the mysteries of the soul in its profoundest communion with

God, to the lowest details of the abuses of conventual discipline,

revolted me at once. I had with difficulty concealed my disgust till

then, and it was now so obvious, that the _party_ gave up their attempt

for the moment, and beckoned to an _experienced_ monk to join me in my

solitary walk, as I broke from them. He approached, “My brother, you are

alone.” “I wish to be so.” “But why?” “I am not obliged to announce my

reasons.” “True, but you may confide them to me.” “I have nothing to

confide.” “I know that,--I would not for the world intrude on your

confidence; reserve that for friends more honoured.” It struck me as

rather odd, that he should, in the same breath, ask for my

confidence,--declare that he was conscious I had nothing to intrust to

him,--and, lastly, request a reserve of my confidence for some more

favoured friend. I was silent, however, till he said, “But, my brother,

you are devoured with ennui.” I was silent still. “Would to God I could

find the means to dissipate it.” I said, looking on him calmly, “Are

those means to be found within the walls of a convent?” “Yes, my dear

brother,--yes, certainly,--the debate in which the convent is now

engaged about the proper hour for matins, which the Superior wants to

have restored to the original hour.” “What is the difference?” “_Full

five minutes._” “I confess the importance of the question.” “Oh! if you

once begin to feel it, there will be no end of your happiness in a

convent. There is something every moment to inquire, to be anxious

about, and to contend for. Interest yourself, my dear brother, in these

questions, and you will not have a moment’s ennui to complain of.” At

these words I fixed my eyes on him. I said calmly, but I believe

emphatically, “I have, then, only to excite in my own mind, spleen,

malignity, curiosity, every passion that your retreat should have

afforded me protection against, to render that retreat supportable.

Pardon me, if I cannot, like you, beg of God permission to take his

enemy into compact against the corruption which I promote, while I

presume to pray against it.” He was silent, lifted up his hands, and

crossed himself; and I said to myself, “God forgive your hypocrisy,” as

he went into another walk, and repeated to his companions, “He is mad,

irrecoverably mad.” “But how, then?” said several voices. There was a

stifled whisper. I saw several heads bent together. I did not know what

they were meditating, nor did I care. I was walking alone,--it was a

delicious moon-light evening. I saw the moon-beams through the trees,

but the trees all looked to me like walls. Their trunks were as adamant,

and the interlaced branches seemed to twine themselves into folds that

said, “Beyond us there is no passing.” I sat down by the side of a

fountain,--there was a tall poplar over it,--I remember their situation

well. An elderly priest (who, I did not see, was detached by the party)

sat down beside me. He began some common-place observations on the

transiency of human existence. I shook my head, and he understood, by a

kind of tact not uncommon among Jesuits, that _it would not do_. He

shifted the subject, remarked on the beauty of the foliage, and the

limpid purity of the fountain. I assented. He added, “Oh that life were

pure as that stream!” I sighed, “Oh that life were verdant and fertile

to me as that tree!” “But, my son, may not fountains be dried up, and

trees be withered?” “Yes, my father,--yes,--the fountain of my life has

been dried up, and the green branch of my life has been blasted for

ever.” As I uttered these words, I could not suppress some tears. The

father seized on what he called the moment when God was breathing on my

soul. Our conversation was very long, and I listened to him with a kind

of reluctant and stubborn attention, because I had involuntarily been

compelled to observe, that he was the only person in the whole community

who had never harassed me by the slightest importunity either before my

profession or after; and when the worst things were said of me, never

seemed to attend; and when the worst things were predicted of me, shook

his head and said nothing. His character was unimpeached, and his

religious performances as exemplary and punctual as my own. With all

this I felt no confidence in him, or in any human being; but I listened

to him with patience, and my patience must have had no trivial trial,

for, at the end of an hour, (I did not perceive that our conference was

permitted quite beyond the usual hour of retirement), he continued

repeating, “My dear son, you will become reconciled to the conventual

life.” “My father, never, never,--unless this fountain is dried up, and

this tree withered, by to-morrow.” “My son, God has often performed

greater miracles for the salvation of a soul.”

“We parted, and I retired to my cell. I know not how he and the others

were employed, but, before matins, there was such a tumult in the

convent, that one would have thought Madrid was on fire. Boarders,

novices, and monks, ran about from cell to cell, up and down the

stair-case, through all the corridors, unrestrained and

unquestioned,--all order was at an end. No bell was rung, no commands

for restoring tranquillity issued; the voice of authority seemed to have

made peace for ever with the shouts of uproar. From my window I saw them

running through the garden in every direction, embracing each other,

ejaculating, praying, and counting their beads with hands tremulous, and

eyes uplifted in extacy. The hilarity of a convent has something in it

uncouth, unnatural, and even alarming. I suspected some mischief

immediately, but I said to myself, “The worst is over, they cannot make

me more than a monk.”--I was not long left in doubt. Many steps

approached my cell, numerous voices were repeating, “Hasten, dear

brother, hasten to the garden.” I was left no choice; they surrounded

and almost bore me to the garden.

“The whole community were assembled there, the Superior among them not

attempting to suppress the confusion, but rather encouraging it. There

was a suffusion of joy in every countenance, and a kind of artificial

light in every eye, but the whole performance struck me as hollow and

hypocritical. I was led, or rather hurried to the spot where I had sat

and conversed so long the preceding evening. _The fountain was dried up,

and the tree was withered._ I stood speechless with astonishment, while

every voice around me repeated, “A miracle! a miracle!--God himself has

sealed your vocation with his own hand.” The Superior made a signal to

them to stop. He said to me in a calm voice, “My son, you are required

only to believe the evidence of your own eyes. Will you make infidels of

your very senses, sooner than believe God? Prostrate yourself, I adjure

you, before him this moment, and, by a public and solemn act of faith,

recognise that mercy that has not scrupled a miracle to invite you to

salvation.” I was amazed more than touched by what I saw and heard, but

I threw myself on my knees before them all, as I was directed. I clasped

my hands, and said aloud, “My God, if you have indeed vouchsafed this

miracle on my account, you will also doubtless enrich and illuminate me

with grace to apprehend and appreciate it. My mind is dark, but you can

illuminate it. My heart is hard, but it is not beyond the power of

omnipotence to touch and subdue it. An impression made on it this

moment, a whisper sent to its recesses, is not less worthy of your mercy

than an impression on inanimate matter, which only confounds my senses.”

The Superior interrupted me. He said, “Hold, those are not the words you

should use. Your very faith is incredulous, and your prayer an ironical

insult on the mercy it pretends to supplicate.” “My father, put what

words you please in my mouth, and I will repeat them,--if I am not

convinced, I am at least subdued.” “You must ask pardon of the community

for the offence your _tacit_ repugnance to the life of God has caused

them.” I did so. “You must express your gratitude to the community for

the joy they have testified at this miraculous evidence of the truth of

your vocation.” I did so. “You must also express your gratitude to God,

for a visible interposition of supernatural power, not more to the

vindication of his grace, than to the eternal honour of this house,

which he has been pleased to irradiate and dignify by _a miracle_.” I

hesitated a little. I said, “My father, may I be permitted to utter this

prayer internally?” The Superior hesitated too; he thought it might not

be well to push matters too far, and he said at length, “As you please.”

I was still kneeling on the ground, close to the tree and the fountain.

I now prostrated myself, with my face to the earth, and prayed

internally and intensely, while they all stood around me; but the

language of my prayer was very different from what they flattered

themselves I was uttering. On rising from my knees, I was embraced by

half the community. Some of them actually shed tears, the source of

whose fountain was surely not in their hearts. Hypocritical joy insults

only its dupe, but hypocritical grief degrades the professor. That whole

day was passed in a kind of revelry. Exercises were abridged,--the

refections embellished with confectionary,--every one had permission to

go from cell to cell, without an order from the Superior. Presents of

chocolate, snuff, iced water, liqueurs, and (what was more acceptable

and necessary than any of them) napkins and towels of the finest and

whitest damask, circulated among all the members. The Superior was shut

up half the day with two _discreet_ brethren, as they are called, (that

is, men who are elected to take part with the Superior, on supposition

of their utter, superannuated incapacity, as Pope Sixtus was elected for

his (supposed) imbecillity), preparing an authenticated account of the

miracle, to be dispatched to the principal convents in Spain. There was

no need to distribute the intelligence through Madrid,--they were in

possession of it an hour after it happened,--the malicious say _an hour

before_.

“I must confess the agitating exhilaration of this day, so unlike what I

had ever witnessed before in a convent, produced an effect on me I

cannot describe. I was caressed,--made the hero of the _fete_,--(a

conventual fete has always something odd and unnatural in it),--almost

deified. I gave myself up to the intoxication of the day,--I did verily

believe myself the favourite of the Deity for some hours. I said to

myself a thousand flattering things. If this deception was criminal, I

expiated my crime very soon. The next day every thing was restored to

its usual order, and I found that the community could pass from the

extreme of disorder in a moment to the rigidity of their usual habits.

“My conviction of this was certainly not diminished within the few

following days. The oscillations of a convent vibrate within a very

short interval. One day all is relaxation, another all is inexorable

discipline. Some following days I received a striking proof of that

foundation on which, in despite of a miracle, my repugnance to a

monastic life rested. Some one, it was said, had committed a slight

breach of monastic duty. The _slight breach_ was _fortunately_ committed

by a distant relation of the Archbishop of Toledo, and consisted _merely

in his entering the church intoxicated_, (a rare vice in Spaniards),

attempting to drag the matin preacher from the pulpit, and failing in

that, getting astride as well as he could on the altar, dashing down the

tapers, overturning the vases and the pix, and trying to scratch out, as

with the talons of a demon, the painting that hung over the table,

uttering all the while the most horrible blasphemies, and even

_soliciting the portrait of the Virgin_ in language not to be repeated.

A consultation was held. The community, as may be guessed, was in an

uproar while it lasted. Every one but myself was anxious and agitated.

There was much talk of the inquisition,--the scandal was so

atrocious,--the outrage so unpardonable,--and atonement so

impracticable. Three days afterwards the archbishop’s mandate came to

stop all proceedings; and the following day the youth who had committed

this sacrilegious outrage appeared in the hall of the Jesuits, where the

Superior and a few monks were assembled, read a short exercise which one

of them had written for him on the pithy word “Ebrietas,” and departed

to take possession of a large benefice in the diocese of the archbishop

his relative. The very next day after this scandalous scene of

compromise, imposture, and profanation, a monk was detected in the act

of going, after the permitted hour, to an adjacent cell to return a book

he had borrowed. As a punishment for this offence, he was compelled to

sit for three days at refection, while we were dining, barefooted and

his tunic reversed, on the stone floor of the hall. He was compelled to

accuse himself aloud of every crime, and of many not at all fit to be

mentioned to our ears, and exclaim at every interval, “My God, my

punishment is just.” On the second day, it was found that a mat had been

placed under him by some merciful hand. There was an immediate commotion

in the hall. The poor wretch was labouring under a complaint that made

it worse than death to him to be compelled to sit or rather lie on a

stone floor; some merciful being had surreptitiously conveyed to him

this mat. An investigation was immediately commenced. A youth whom I had

not noticed before, started from the table, and kneeling to the

Superior, confessed _his guilt_. The Superior assumed a stern look,

retired with some old monks to consult on this new crime of humanity,

and in a few moments the bell was rung, to give every one notice to

retire to their cells. We all retired trembling, and while we prostrated

ourselves respectively before the crucifix in our cells, wondered who

would be the next victim, or what might be his punishment. I saw that

youth but once again. He was the son of a wealthy and powerful family,

but even his wealth was no balance against his contumacy, in the opinion

of the convent, that is, of four monks of rigid principles, whom the

Superior consulted that very evening. The Jesuits are fond of courting

power, but they are still fonder of keeping it, if they can, to

themselves. The result of their debate was, that the offender should

undergo a severe humiliation and penance in their presence. His sentence

was announced to him, and he submitted to it. He repeated every word of

contrition they dictated to him. He then bared his shoulders, and

applied the scourge till the blood flowed, repeating between every

stroke, “My God, I ask pardon of thee for having given the slightest

comfort or relief to Fra Paolo, during his merited penance.” He

performed all this, cherishing in the bottom of his soul an intention

still to comfort and relieve Fra Paolo, whenever he could find

opportunity. He then thought all was over. He was desired to retire to

his cell. He did so, but the monks were not satisfied with this

examination. They had long suspected Fra Paolo of irregularity, and

imagined they might extort the confession of it from this youth, whose

humanity increased their suspicion. The virtues of nature are always

deemed vices in a convent. Accordingly, he had hardly been in bed when

they surrounded him. They told him they came by command of the Superior

to enjoin him a further penance, unless he disclosed the secret of the

interest he felt for Fra Paolo. It was in vain he exclaimed, “I have no

interest but that of humanity and compassion.” Those were words they did

not understand. It was in vain he urged, “I will inflict whatever

penance the Superior is pleased to order, but my shoulders are bleeding

still,”--and he shewed them. The executioners were pitiless. They

compelled him to quit his bed, and applied the scourge with such

outrageous severity, that at last, mad with shame, rage, and pain, he

burst from them, and ran through the corridor calling for assistance or

for mercy. The monks were in their cells, none dared to stir,--they

shuddered, and turned on their straw pallets. It was the vigil of Saint

John the Lesser, and I had been commanded what is called in convents an

hour of recollection, which was to be passed in the church. I had obeyed

the order, and remained with my face and body prostrate on the marble

steps of the altar, till I was almost unconscious, when I heard the

clock strike twelve. I reflected the hour had elapsed without a single

recollection on my part. “And thus it is to be always,” I exclaimed,

rising from my knees; “they deprive of the power of thinking, and then

they bid me recollect.” As I returned through the corridor, I heard

frightful cries--I shuddered. Suddenly a phantom approached me--I dropt

on my knees--I cried, “Satana vade retro--apage Satana.” A naked human

being, covered with blood, and uttering screams of rage and torture,

flashed by me; four monks pursued him--they had lights. I had shut the

door at the end of the gallery--I felt they must return and pass me--I

was still on my knees, and trembling from head to foot. The victim

reached the door, found it shut, and rallied. I turned, and saw a groupe

worthy of Murillo. A more perfect human form never existed than that of

this unfortunate youth. He stood in an attitude of despair--he was

streaming with blood. The monks, with their lights, their scourges, and

their dark habits, seemed like a groupe of demons who had made prey of a

wandering angel,--the groupe resembled the infernal furies pursuing a

mad Orestes. And, indeed, no ancient sculptor ever designed a figure

more exquisite and perfect than that they had so barbarously mangled.

Debilitated as my mind was by the long slumber of all its powers, this

spectacle of horror and cruelty woke them in a moment. I rushed forward

in his defence--I struggled with the monks--I uttered some expressions

which, though I hardly was conscious of, they remembered and exaggerated

with all the accuracy of malice.

“I have no recollection of what followed; but the issue of the business

was, that I was confined to my cell for the following week, for my

daring interference in the discipline of the convent. And the additional

penance of the unfortunate novice, for resisting that discipline, was

inflicted with such severity, that he became delirious with shame and

agony. He refused food, he got no rest, and died the eighth night after

the scene I had witnessed. He was of a temper unusually mild and

amiable--he had a taste for literature, and even the disguise of a

convent could not conceal the distinguished graces of his person and

manners. Had he lived in the world, how these qualities would have

embellished it! Perhaps the world would have abused and perverted

them--true; but would the abuses of the world ever have brought them to

so frightful and disastrous a conclusion?--would he have been first

lashed into madness, and then lashed out of existence? He was interred

in the church of the convent, and the Superior himself pronounced his

eulogium--the Superior! by whose order, or else permission, or at least

connivance, he had been driven mad, in order to obtain a trivial and

imaginary secret.

”During this exhibition, my disgust arose to a degree incalculable. I

had loathed the conventual life--I now despised it; and every judge of

human nature knows, that it is harder to eradicate the latter sentiment

than the former. I was not long without an occasion for the renewed

exercise of both feelings. The weather was intensely hot that year--an

epidemic complaint broke out in the convent--every day two or three were

ordered to the infirmary, and those who had merited slight penances were

allowed, by way of commutation, to attend the sick. I was most anxious

to be of the number--I was even resolved, by some slight deviation, to

tempt this punishment, which would have been to me the highest

gratification. Dare I confess my motive to you, Sir? I was anxious to

see those men, if possible, divested of the conventual disguise, and

forced to sincerity by the pangs of disease, and the approach of death.

I triumphed already in the idea of their dying confession, of hearing

them acknowledge the seductions employed to ensnare me, deplore the

miseries in which they had involved me, and implore, with convulsed

lips, my pardon in--_no--not in vain_.

“This wish, though vindictive, was not without its palliations; but I

was soon saved the trouble of realizing it at my own expence. That very

evening the Superior sent for me, and desired me to attend in the

infirmary, allowing me, at the same time, remission from vespers. The

first bed I approached, I found Fra Paolo extended on. He had never

recovered the effects of the complaint he laboured under at the time of

his penance; and the death of the young novice so (fruitlessly incurred)

had been mortal to him.

“I offered him medicines--I attempted to adjust him in his bed. He had

been greatly neglected. He repelled both offers, and, feebly waving his

hand, said, “Let me, at least, die in peace.” A few moments after, he

unclosed his eyes, and recognized me. A gleam of pleasure trembled over

his countenance, for he remembered the interest I had shewn for his

unfortunate friend. He said, in a voice hardly intelligible, “It is you,

then?” “Yes, my brother, it is I--can I do any thing for you?” After a

long pause, he added, “Yes, you can.” “Tell me then.” He lowered his

voice, which was before almost inaudible, and whispered, “Let none of

them come near me in my dying moments--it will not give you much

trouble--those moments are approaching.” I pressed his hand in token of

acquiescence. But I felt there was something at once terrifying and

improper in this request from a dying man. I said to him, “My dear

brother, you are then dying?--would you not wish an interest in the

prayers of the community?--would you not wish the benefit of the last

sacraments?” He shook his head, and I fear that I understood him too

well. I ceased any further importunity; and a few moments he uttered, in

tones I could hardly distinguish, “_Let them, let me die._--They have

left me no power to form another wish.” His eyes closed,--I sat beside

his bed, holding his hand in mine. At first, I could feel he attempted

to press it--the attempt failed, his hold relaxed. Fra Paolo was no

more.

“I continued to sit holding the dead hand in mine, till a groan from an

adjacent bed roused me. It was occupied by the old monk with whom I had

held a long conversation the night before the miracle, in which I still

believed most firmly.

“I have observed, that this man was of a temper and manners remarkably

mild and attractive. Perhaps this is always connected with great

weakness of intellect, and coldness of character _in men_. (It may be

different in women--but my own experience has never failed in the

discovery, that where there was a kind of feminine softness and

pliability in the male character, there was also treachery,

dissimulation, and heartlessness.) At least, if there be such an union,

a conventual life is sure to give it every advantage in its range of

internal debility, and external seductiveness.--That pretence of a wish

to assist, without the power, or even the wish, that is so flattering

both to the weak minds that exercise it, and the weaker on whom it is

exercised. This man had been always judged very weak, and yet very

fascinating. He had been always employed to ensnare the young novices.

He was now dying--overcome by his situation, I forgot every thing but

its tremendous claims, and offered him every assistance in my power. “I

want nothing but to die,” was his answer. His countenance was perfectly

calm, but its calmness was rather that of apathy than of resignation.

“You are, then, perfectly sure of your approach to blessedness?” “I know

nothing about it.” “How, my brother, are those words for a dying man to

utter?” “Yes, if he speaks the truth.” “But a monk?--a catholic?” “Those

are but names--I feel _that truth_, at least, now.” “You amaze me!” “I

care not--I am on the verge of a precipice--I must plunge from it--and

whether the by-standers utter outcries or not, is a matter of little

consequence to me.” “And yet, you expressed a willingness to die?”

“Willingness! Oh impatience!--I am a clock that has struck the same

minutes and hours for sixty years. Is it not time for the machine to

long for its winding up? The monotony of my existence would make a

transition, even to pain, desirable. I am weary, and would change--that

is all.” “But to me, and to all the community, you seemed to be resigned

to the monastic life.” “I seemed a lie--I lived a lie--I was a lie--I

ask pardon of my last moments for speaking the truth--I presume they

neither can refuse me, or discredit my words--I hated the monastic life.

Inflict pain on man, and his energies are roused--condemn him to

insanity, and he slumbers like animals that have been found inclosed in

wood and stone, torpid and content; but condemn him at once to pain and

inanity, as they do in convents, and you unite the sufferings of hell

and of annihilation. For sixty years I have cursed my existence. I never

woke to hope, for I had nothing to do or to expect. I never lay down

with consolation, for I had, at the close of every day, only to number

so many deliberate mockeries of God, as exercises of devotion. The

moment life is put beyond the reach of your will, and placed under the

influence of mechanical operations, it becomes, to thinking beings, a

torment insupportable.

“I never ate with appetite, because I knew, that with or without it, I

must go to the refectory when the bell rung. I never lay down to rest in

peace, because I knew the bell was to summon me in defiance of nature,

whether it was disposed to prolong or shorten my repose. I never prayed,

for my prayers were dictated to me. I never hoped, for my hopes were

founded not on the truth of God, but on the promises and threatenings of

man. My salvation hovered on the breath of a being as weak as myself,

whose weakness I was nevertheless obliged to flatter, and struggle to

obtain a gleam of the grace of God, through the dark distorted medium of

the vices of man. _It never reached me_--I die without light, hope,

faith, or consolation.”--He uttered these words with a calmness that was

more terrific than the wildest convulsions of despair. I gasped for

breath--“But, my brother, you were always punctual in your religious

exercises.” “That was mechanism--will you not believe a dying man?” “But

you urged me, in a long conversation, to embrace the monastic life; and

your importunity must have been sincere, for it was after my

profession.” “It is natural for the miserable to wish for companions in

their misery. This is very selfish, very misanthropic, you will say, but

it is also very natural. You have yourself seen the cages suspended in

the cells--are not the tame birds always employed to allure the wild

ones? We were caged birds, can you blame us for the deception?” In these

words I could not help recognizing that _simplicity of profound

corruption_(15),--that frightful paralysis of the soul, which leaves it

incapable of receiving any impression or making one,--that says to the

accuser, Approach, remonstrate, upbraid--I defy you. My conscience is

dead, and can neither hear, utter, or echo a reproach. I was amazed--I

struggled against my own conviction. I said, “But your regularity in

religious exercises--” “_Did you never hear a bell toll?_” “But your

voice was always the loudest and most distinct in the choir.” “_Did you

never hear an organ played?_” * * * * * * *

(15) Vide Madame Genlis’s “Julien Delmour.”

I shuddered, yet I still went on with my queries--I thought I could not

know too much. I said, “But, my brother, the religious exercises in

which you were constantly engaged, must have imperceptibly instilled

something of their spirit into you?--is it not so? You must have passed

from the forms of religion into its spirit ultimately?--is it not so, my

brother? Speak on the faith of a dying man. May I have such a hope! I

would undergo any thing--any thing, to obtain it.” “There is no such

hope,” said the dying man, “deceive not yourself with it. The repetition

of religious duties, without the feeling or spirit of religion, produces

an incurable callosity of heart. There are not more irreligious people

to be found on earth than those who are occupied always in its

_externals_. I verily believe half our lay-brothers to be Atheists. I

have heard and read something of those whom we call heretics. They have

people to open their pews, (shocking profanation you will call it, to

sell seats in the house of God, and you are right), they have people to

ring bells when their dead are to be interred; and these wretches have

no other indication of religion to give, but watching during the whole

time of service, (in which their duties forbid them to partake), for the

fees which they extort, and dropping upon their knees, ejaculating the

names of Christ and God, amid the rattling of the pew-doors, which

always operates on their associations, and makes them bound from their

knees to gape for a hundredth part of the silver for which Judas sold

his Saviour and himself. Then their bell-ringers--one would imagine

_death might humanize them_. Oh! no such thing--they _extort money in

proportion to the depth of the grave_. And the bell-ringer, the sexton,

and the survivors, fight sometimes a manual battle over the senseless

remains, whose torpidity is the most potent and silent reproach to this

unnatural conflict.” I knew nothing of this, but I grasped at his former

words, “You die, then, without hope or confidence?” He was silent. “Yet

you urged me by eloquence almost divine, by a miracle verified before my

own eyes.” He laughed. There is something very horrible in the laugh of

a dying man: Hovering on the verge of both worlds, he seems to give the

lie to both, and proclaim the enjoyments of one, and the hopes of

another, alike an imposture. “I performed that miracle myself,” he said

with all the calmness, and, alas! something of the triumph of a

deliberate impostor. “I knew the reservoir by which the fountain was

supplied--by consent of the Superior it was drawn off in the course of

the night. We worked hard at it, and laughed at your credulity every

pump we drew.” “But the tree--” “I was in possession of some chemical

secrets--I have not time to disclose them now--I scattered a certain

fluid over the leaves of the poplar that night, and they _appeared_

withered by the morning--go look at them a fortnight hence, and you will

see them as green as ever.” “And these are your dying words?” “They

are.” “And why did you deceive me thus?” He struggled a short time at

this question, and then rising almost upright in his bed, exclaimed,

“Because I was a monk, and wished for victims of my imposture to gratify

my pride! and companions of my misery, to soothe its malignity!” He was

convulsed as he spoke, the natural mildness and calmness of his

physiognomy were changed for something that I cannot describe--something

at once derisive, triumphant, and diabolical. I forgave him every thing

in that horrible moment. I snatched a crucifix that lay by his bed--I

offered it to his lips. He pushed it away. “If I wanted to have this

farce acted, I should choose another actor. You know I might have the

Superior and half the convent at my bed-side this moment if I pleased,

with their tapers, their holy water, and their preparations for extreme

unction, and all the masquerade of death, by which they try to dupe even

the dying, and insult God even on the threshold of his own eternal

mansion. I suffered you to sit beside me, because I thought, from your

repugnance to the monastic life, you might be a willing hearer of its

deceptions, and its despair.”

“Deplorable as had been the image of that life to me before, this

representation exceeded my imagination. I had viewed it as excluding all

the enjoyments of life, and thought the prospect blasting; but now the

other world was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. The genius of

monasticism seemed to wield a two-edged sword, and to lift it between

and against time and eternity. The blade bore a two-fold inscription--on

the side next the world was written the word “suffer,”--on that opposed

to eternity, “despair.” In the utter hopelessness of my soul, I still

continued to question _him_ for hope--him! while he was bereaving me of

its very shadow, by every word he uttered. “But, must all be plunged in

this abyss of darkness? Is there no light, no hope, no refuge, for the

sufferer? May not some of us become reconciled to our situation--first

patient of it, then attached to it? Finally, may we not (if our

repugnance be invincible) make a merit of it with God, and offer to him

the sacrifice of our earthly hopes and wishes, in the confidence of an

ample and glorious equivalent? Even if we are unable to offer this

sacrifice with the unction which would ensure its acceptance, still may

we not hope it will not be wholly neglected?--that we may become

tranquil, if not happy--resigned, if not content. Speak, tell me if this

may be?” “And you wish to extort deception from the lips of death--but

you will fail. Hear your doom--Those who are possessed of what may be

called the religious character, that is, those who are visionary, weak,

morose, and ascetic, may elevate themselves to a species of intoxication

in the moments of devotion. They may, while clasping the images, work

themselves into the delusion, that the dead stone thrills to their

touch; that the figures move, assent to their petitions, and turn their

lifeless eyes on them with an expression of benignity. They may, while

kissing the crucifix, believe that they hear celestial voices

pronouncing their pardon; that the Saviour of the world extends his arms

to them, to invite them to beatitude; that all heaven is expanded to

their view, and the harmonies of paradise are enriched to glorify their

apotheosis. But this is a mere inebriation that the most ignorant

physician could produce in his patients by certain medicines. The secret

of this ecstatic swoon might be traced to an apothecary’s shop, or

purchased at a cheaper rate. The inhabitants of the north of Europe

procure this state of exaltation by the use of liquid fire--the Turks by

opium--the Dervises by dancing--and Christian monks by spiritual pride

operating on the exhaustion of a macerated frame. It is all

intoxication, with this difference only, that the intoxication of men of

this world produces always _self_-complacency--that of men of the other

world, a complacency whose supposed source is derived from God. The

intoxication is, therefore, more profound, more delusive, and more

dangerous. But nature, violated by these excesses, exacts a most

usurious interest for this illicit indulgence. She makes them pay for

moments of rapture with hours of despair. Their precipitation from

extasy to horror is almost instantaneous. In the course of a few

moments, they pass from being the favourites of Heaven to becoming its

outcasts. They doubt the truth of their raptures,--the truth of their

vocation. They doubt every thing--the sincerity of their prayers, even

the efficacy of the Saviour’s atonement, and the intercession of the

blessed Virgin. They plunge from paradise to hell. They howl, they

scream, they blaspheme. From the bottom of the infernal gulph in which

they imagine themselves plunged, they bellow imprecations against their

Creator--they denounce themselves as damned from all eternity for their

sins, while their only sin is their inability to support preternatural

excitement. The paroxysm ceases, they become the elect of God again in

their own imaginations. And to those who interrogate them with regard to

their late despair, they answer, That Satan was permitted to buffet

them--that they were under the hidings of God’s face, &c. All saints,

from Mahomet down to Francis Xavier, were only a compound of insanity,

pride, and self-imposition;--the latter would have been of less

consequence, but that men always revenge their imposition on themselves,

by imposing to the utmost on others.”

“There is no more horrible state of mind than that in which we are

_forced by conviction to listen on, wishing every word to be false, and

knowing every word to be true_. Such was mine, but I tried to palliate

it by saying, “It was never my ambition to be a saint; but is the lot of

all, then, so deplorable?” The monk, who appeared to rejoice in this

opportunity to discharge the concentrated malignity of sixty years of

suffering and hypocrisy, collected his dying voice to answer. He seemed

as if he never could inflict enough, for what had been inflicted on

himself. “Those who possess strong sensibility, without the religious

character, are of all others the most unhappy, but their miseries are

soonest terminated. They are harassed by trivial constraints, stupified

by monotonous devotion, exasperated by dull insolence and bloated

superiority. They struggle, they resist. Penance and punishment are

applied. Their own violence justifies increased violence of treatment;

and, at all events, it would be applied without this justification, for

there is nothing that delights the pride of power, more than a

victorious strife with the pride of intellect. The remainder is easily

to be conceived by you, who have witnessed it. You saw the unfortunate

youth who interfered about Paolo. He was lashed to madness. Tortured

first to phrenzy, then to stupefaction,--he died! I was the secret,

unsuspected adviser of the whole proceeding.” “Monster!” I exclaimed,

for truth had made us equal _now_, and even precluded the language that

humanity would dictate when uttered to a dying man.--“But why?”--said

he, with that calmness which had once attracted, and now revolted me,

but which had at all times undisputed possession of his

physiognomy;--“his sufferings were shorter, do you blame me for

diminishing their duration?”--There was something cold, ironical, and

jeering, even in the suavity of this man, that gave a certain force to

his simplest observations. It seemed as if he had reserved the truth all

his life, to utter it at his dying hour. “Such is the fate of those who

possess strong sensibility; those who have less languish away in an

imperceptible decline. They spend their time in watching a few flowers,

in tending birds. They are punctual in their religious exercises, they

receive neither blame or praise,--they melt away in torpor and ennui.

They wish for death, as the preparation it might put the convent to

might produce a short excitement, but they are disappointed, for their

state forbids excitement, and they die as they have lived,--unexcited,

unawakened. The tapers are lit, they do not see them,--the unction is

applied, they do not feel it,--prayers are uttered, they cannot partake

in them;--in fact, the whole drama is acted, but the principal performer

is absent,--is gone. Others indulge themselves in perpetual reverie.

They walk alone in the cloister,--in the garden. They feed themselves

with the poison of delicious, innutritive illusion. They dream that an

earthquake will shake the walls to atoms, that a volcano will burst

forth in the centre of the garden. They imagine a revolution of

government,--an attack of banditti,--any thing, however improbable. Then

they take refuge in the possibility of a fire, (if a fire bursts out in

a convent, the doors are thrown open, and “Sauve qui peut,” is the

word). At this thought they conceive the most ardent hope,--they could

rush out,--they could precipitate themselves into the streets, into the

country,--in fact, they would fly any where to escape. Then these hopes

fail,--they begin to get nervous, morbid, restless. If they have

interest, they are indulged with remission from their duties, and they

remain in their cells, relaxed,--torpid,--idiotical; if they have not

interest, they are forced to the punctual performance of their duties,

and then idiotism comes on much sooner, as diseased horses, employed in

a mill, become blind sooner than those who are suffered to wear out

existence in ordinary labour. Some of them take refuge in religion, as

they call it. They call for relief on the Superior, but what can the

Superior do? He is but human too, and perhaps feels the despair that is

devouring the wretches who supplicate him to deliver them from it. Then

they prostrate themselves before the images of the saints,--they invoke,

they sometimes revile them. They call for their intercession, deplore

its inefficacy, and fly to some other, whose merits they imagine are

higher in the sight of God. They supplicate for an interest in the

intercession of Christ and the Virgin, as their last resort. That resort

fails them too,--the Virgin herself is inexorable, though they wear out

her pedestal with their knees, and her feet with their kisses. Then they

go about the galleries at night, they rouse the sleepers, they knock at

every door,--they cry, “Brother Saint Jerome, pray for me,--Brother

Saint Augustine, pray for me.” Then the placard is seen fastened to the

rails of the altar, “Dear brothers, pray for the wandering soul of a

monk.” The next day the placard bears this inscription, “The prayers of

the community are implored for a monk who is in despair.” Then they find

human intercession as unavailing as divine, to procure them a remission

of the sufferings which, while _their profession_ continues to inflict

on them, no power can reverse or mitigate. They crawl to their

cells,--in a few days the toll of the bell is heard, and the brethren

exclaim, “He died in the odour of sanctity,” and hasten to spread their

snares for another victim.” “And is this, then, monastic life?” “It

is,--there are but two exceptions, that of those who can every day

renew, by the aid of imagination, the hope of escape, and who cherish

that hope even on their dying bed; and those who, like me, diminish

their misery by dividing it, and, like the spider, feel relieved of the

poison that swells, and would burst them, by instilling a drop of it

into every insect that toils, agonizes, and perishes in their

net,--_like you_.” At these last words, a glare of malignity flashed on

the features of the dying wretch, that appalled me. I retreated from his

bed for a moment. I returned, I looked at him,--his eyes were

closed,--his hands extended. I touched him,--raised him,--he was

dead,--those were his last words. The expression of his features was the

physiognomy of his soul,--they were calm and pale, but still a cold

expression of derision lingered about the curve of his lips.

“I rushed from the infirmary. I was at that time indulged, like all the

other visitants of the sick, to go to the garden beyond the allotted

hours, perhaps to diminish the chance of infection. I was but too ready

to avail myself of this permission. The garden, with its calm moon-light

beauty, its innocence of heaven, its theology of the stars, was at once

a reproach and a consolation to me. I tried to reflect, to feel,--both

efforts failed; and perhaps it is in this silence of the soul, this

suspension of all the clamorous voices of the passions, that we are most

ready to hear the voice of God. My imagination suddenly represented to

me the august and ample vault above me as a church,--the images of the

saints grew dim in my eyes as I gazed on the stars, and even the altar,

over which the crucifixion of the Saviour of the world was represented,

turned pale to the eye of the soul, as I gazed on the moon “walking in

her brightness.” I fell on my knees. I knew not to whom I was about to

pray, but I never felt so disposed to pray. I felt my habit touched at

this moment. I at first trembled, from the idea of being detected in a

forbidden act. I started up. A dark figure stood beside me, who said in

indistinct and faultering tones, “Read this,” and he thrust a paper into

my hand; “I have worn it sewed into my habit for four days. I have

watched you night and day. I had no opportunity but this,--you were in

your cell, in the choir, or in the infirmary. Tear it in pieces, throw

the fragments into the fountain, or _swallow them_, the moment you have

read it.--Adieu. I have risked every thing for you,” and he glided away.

I recognized his figure as he departed; it was the porter of the

convent. I well understood the risk he must have run in delivering this

paper, for it was the regulation of the convent, that all letters,

whether addressed to or written by boarders, novices, or monks, were

first to be read by the Superior, and I never knew an instance of its

infringement. The moon gave me sufficient light. I began to read, while

a vague hope, that had neither object or basis, trembled at the bottom

of my heart. The paper contained these words:

“My dearest brother, (my God! how I started!) I see you revolt at the

first lines which I address to you,--I implore you, for both our sakes,

to read them with calmness and attention. We have been both the victims

of parental and priestly imposition; the former we must forgive, for our

parents are the victims of it too. The Director has their consciences in

his hand, and their destiny and ours at his feet. Oh, my brother, what a

tale have I to disclose to you! I was brought up, by the Director’s

orders, whose influence over the domestics is as unbounded as it is over

their unhappy master, in complete hostility against you, as one who was

depriving me of my natural rights, and degrading the family by your

illegitimate intrusion. May not this palliate, in some degree, my

unnatural repulsiveness when we first met? I was taught from my cradle

to hate and fear you,--to hate you as an enemy, and fear you as an

impostor. This was the Director’s plan. He thought the hold he had over

my father and mother too slight to gratify his ambition of domestic

power, or realize his hopes of professional distinction. The basis of

all ecclesiastical power rests upon fear. A crime must be discovered or

invented. The vague reports circulated in the family, my mother’s

constant dejection, my father’s occasional agitation, offered him a

clue, which he followed with incessant industry through all its windings

of doubt, mystery, and disappointment, till, in a moment of penitence,

my mother, terrified by his constant denunciations if she concealed any

secret of her heart or life from him, disclosed the truth.

“We were both infants then. He adopted immediately the plan he has since

realized at the expence of all but himself. I am convinced he had not,

from the first hour of his machinations, the least malignity against

you. The aggrandizement of his interest, which ecclesiastics always

individualize with that of the church, was his only object. To dictate,

to tyrannize, to manage a whole family, and that of rank, by his

knowledge of the frailty of one of its members, was all he looked to.

Those who by their vows are excluded from the interest which natural

affections give us in life, must seek for it in the artificial ones of

pride and domination, and the Director found it there. All thenceforth

was conducted and inspired by him. It was he who caused us to be kept

asunder from our infancy, fearful that nature might frustrate his

plans,--it was he who reared me in sentiments of implacable animosity

against you. When my mother fluctuated, he reminded her of her vow, with

which she had rashly intrusted him. When my father murmured, the shame

of my mother’s frailty, the bitter feuds of domestic discussion, the

tremendous sounds of imposture, perjury, sacrilege, and the resentment

of the church, were thundered in his ears. You may conceive there is

nothing this man would shrink at, when, almost in my childhood, he

disclosed to me my mother’s frailty, to insure my early and zealous

participation in his views. Heaven blast the wretch who could thus

contaminate the ears, and wither the heart of a child, with the tale of

a parent’s shame, to secure a partizan for the church! This was not all.

From the first hour I was able to hear and comprehend him, he poisoned

my heart by every channel he could approach. He exaggerated my mother’s

partiality for you, which he assured me often contended vainly with her

conscience. He represented my father as weak and dissipated, but

affectionate; and, with the natural pride of a boy-father, immoveably

attached to his eldest offspring. He said, “My son, prepare yourself to

struggle with a host of prejudices,--the interests of God, as well as of

society, demand it. _Assume a high tone with your parents_,--you are in

possession of the secret that corrodes their consciences, make your own

use of it.” Judge the effect of these words on a temper naturally

violent,--words, too, uttered by one whom I was taught to regard as the

agent of the Divinity.

“All this time, as I have since been informed, he was debating in his

own mind whether he would not adopt your part instead of mine, or at

least vacillate between both, so as to augment his influence over our

parents, by the additional feature of suspicion. Whatever influenced his

determination, the effect of his lessons on me may be easily calculated.

I became restless, jealous, and vindictive;--insolent to my parents, and

suspicious of all around me. Before I was eleven years of age I reviled

my father for his partiality to you,--I insulted my mother with her

crime,--I tyrannized over the domestics,--I was the dread and the

torment of the whole household; and the wretch who had made me thus a

premature demon, had outraged nature, and compelled me to trample on

every tie he should have taught me to hallow and cherish, consoled

himself with the thought that he was obeying the calls of his function,

and strengthening the hands of the church.

“Scire volunt secreta domus et inde timeri.”

“On the day preceding our first meeting, (which had not been intended

before), the Director went to my father; he said, “Senhor, I think it

best the brothers should meet. Perhaps God may touch their hearts, and

by his merciful influence over them, enable you to reverse the decree

that threatens one of them with seclusion, and both with a cruel and

final separation.” My father assented with tears of delight. Those tears

did not melt the heart of the Director; he hastened to my apartment, and

said, “My child, summon all your resolution, your artful, cruel, partial

parents, are _preparing a scene_ for you,--they are determined on

introducing you to your spurious brother.” “I will spurn him before

their faces, if they dare to do so,” said I, with the pride of premature

tyranny. “No, my child, that will not do, you must appear to comply with

their wishes, but you must not be their victim,--promise me that, my

dear child,--promise me resolution and dissimulation.” “I promise you

resolution, keep the dissimulation for yourself.” “Well, I will do so,

since your interests require it.” He hurried back to my father. “Senhor,

I have employed all the eloquence of heaven and nature with your younger

son. He is softened,--he melts already,--he longs to precipitate himself

into the fraternal embrace, and hear your benediction poured over the

united hearts and bodies of your two children,--they are both your

children. You must banish all prejudices, and----” “I have no

prejudices!” said my poor father; “let me but see my children embrace,

and if Heaven summoned me at that moment, I should obey it by dying of

joy.”--The Director reproved him for the expressions which gushed from

his heart, and, wholly unmoved by them, hurried back to me, full of his

commission. “My child, I have warned you of the conspiracy formed

against you by your own family. You will receive a proof of it

to-morrow,--your brother is to be introduced,--you will be required to

embrace him,--your consent is reckoned on, but at the moment you do so,

your father is resolved to interpret this as the signal, on your part,

of the resignation of all your natural rights. Comply with your

hypocritical parents, embrace this brother, but give an air of

repugnance to the action that will justify your conscience, while it

deceives those who would deceive you. Watch the signal-word, my dear

child; embrace him as you would a serpent,--his art is not less, and his

poison as deadly. Remember that your resolution will decide the event of

this meeting. Assume the appearance of affection, but remember you hold

your deadliest enemy in your arms.” At these words, unnatural as I was,

I shuddered. I said, “My brother!” “Never mind,” said the Director, “he

is the enemy of God,--an illegitimate impostor. Now, my child, are you

prepared?” and I answered, “I am prepared.” That night, however, I was

very restless. I required the Director to be summoned. I said in my

pride, “But how is this poor wretch (meaning you) to be disposed of?”

“Let him embrace the monastic life,” said the Director. At these words I

felt an interest on your account I had never recognized before. I said

decidedly, for he had taught me to assume a tone of decision, “He shall

never be a monk.” The Director appeared staggered, yet he trembled

before the spirit he had himself raised. “Let him go into the army,” I

said; “let him inlist as a common soldier, I can supply him with the

means of promotion;--let him engage in the meanest profession, I shall

not blush to acknowledge him, but, father, he shall never be a monk.”

“But, my dear child, on what foundation does this extraordinary

objection rest? It is the only means to restore peace to the family, and

procure it for the unfortunate being for whom you are so much

interested.” “My father, have done with this language. Promise me, as

the condition of my obedience to your wishes to-morrow, that my brother

shall never be compelled to be a monk.” “Compelled, my dear child! there

can be no compulsion in a holy vocation.” “I am not certain of that; but

I demand from you the promise I have mentioned.” The Director hesitated,

at last he said, “I promise.” And he hastened to tell my father there

was no longer any opposition to our meeting, and that I was delighted

with the determination which had been announced to me of my brother

eagerly embracing the monastic life. Thus was our first meeting

arranged. When, at the command of my father, our arms were entwined, I

swear to you, my brother, I felt them thrill with affection. But the

instinct of nature was soon superseded by the force of habit, and I

recoiled, collected all the forces of nature and passion in the terrible

expression that I dared to direct towards our parents, while the

Director stood behind them smiling, and encouraging me by gestures. I

thought I had acted my part with applause, at least I gave myself

enough, and retired from the scene with as proud a step as if I had

trampled on a prostrate world,--I had only trampled on nature and my own

heart. A few days after I was sent to a convent. The Director was

alarmed at the dogmatizing tone he himself had taught me to assume, and

he urged the necessity of my education being attended to. My parents

complied with every thing he required. I, for a wonder, consented; but,

as the carriage conveyed me to the convent, I repeated to the Director,

“Remember, my brother is not to be a monk.”

“(After these lines several were unintelligible to me, apparently from

the agitation under which they were written;--the precipitancy and fiery

ardor of my brother’s character communicated itself to his writings.

After many a defaced page I could trace the following words.) * * * * *

*

“It was singular enough that you, who were the object of my inveterate

hatred before my residence in the convent, became the object of my

interest from that moment. I had adopted your cause from pride, I now

upheld it from experience. Compassion, instinct, whatever it was, began

to assume the character of a duty. When I saw the indignity with which

the lower classes were treated, I said to myself, “No, he shall never

suffer that,--he is my brother.” When I succeeded in my exercises, and

was applauded, I said, “This is applause in which he never can share.”

When I was punished, and that was much more frequently, I said, “He

shall never feel this mortification.” My imagination expanded. I

believed myself your future patron, I conceived myself redeeming the

injustice of nature, aiding and aggrandizing you, forcing you to confess

that you owed more to me than to your parents, and throwing myself, with

a disarmed and naked heart, on your gratitude alone for affection. I

heard you call me brother,--I bid you stop, and call me benefactor. My

nature, proud, generous, and fiery, had not yet quite emancipated itself

from the influence of the Director, but every effort it made pointed, by

an indescribable impulse, towards you. Perhaps the secret of this is to

be found in the elements of my character, which always struggled against

dictation, and loved to teach itself all it wished to know, and inspire

itself with the object of its own attachments. It is certain that I

wished for your friendship, at the moment I was instructed to hate you.

Your mild eyes and affectionate looks haunted me perpetually in the

convent. To the professions of friendship repeatedly made me by the

boarders, I answered, “I want a brother.” My conduct was eccentric and

violent,--no wonder, for my conscience had begun to operate against my

habits. Sometimes I would apply with an eagerness that made them tremble

for my health; at others, no punishment, however severe, could make me

submit to the ordinary discipline of the house. The community grew weary

of my obstinacy, violence, and irregularities. They wrote to the

Director to have me removed, but before this could be accomplished I was

seized with a fever. They paid me unremitting attention, but there was

something on my mind no cares of theirs could remove. When they brought

me medicine with the most scrupulous punctuality, I said, “Let my

brother fetch it, and if it be poison I will drink it from his hand; I

have injured him much.” When the bell tolled for matins and vespers, I

said, “Are they going to make my brother a monk? The Director promised

me differently, but you are all deceivers.” At length they muffled the

bell. I heard its stifled sound, and I exclaimed, “You are tolling for

his funeral, but I,--I am his murderer!” The community became terrified

at these exclamations so often repeated, and with the meaning of which

they could not accuse themselves. I was removed in a state of delirium

to my father’s palace in Madrid. A figure like yours sat beside me in

the carriage, alighted when we stopped, accompanied me where I remained,

assisted me when I was placed again in the carriage. So vivid was the

impression, that I was accustomed to say to the attendants, “Stop, my

brother is assisting me.” When they asked me in the morning how I had

rested? I answered, “Very well,--Alonzo has been all night at my

bed-side.” I invited this visionary companion to continue his

attentions; and when the pillows were arranged to my satisfaction, I

would say, “How kind my brother is,--how useful,--but _why will he not

speak_?” At one stage I absolutely refused nourishment, because the

phantom appeared to decline it. I said, “Do not urge me, my brother, you

see, will not accept of it. Oh, I entreat his pardon, it is a day of

abstinence,--that is his reason, you see how he points to his

habit,--that is enough.” It is very singular that the food at this house

happened to be poisoned, and that two of my attendants died of partaking

of it before they could reach Madrid. I mention these circumstances,

merely to prove the rivetted hold you had taken both of my imagination

and my affections. On the recovery of my intellect, my first inquiry was

for you. This had been foreseen, and my father and mother, shunning the

discussion, and even trembling for the event, as they knew the violence

of my temper, intrusted the whole business to the Director. He undertook

it,--how he executed it is yet to be seen. On our first meeting he

approached me with congratulations on my convalescence, with regrets for

the constraints I must have suffered in the convent, with assurances

that my parents would make my home a paradise. When he had gone on for

some time, I said, “What have you done with my brother?” “He is in the

bosom of God,” said the Director, crossing himself. I understood him in

a moment,--I rushed past him before he had finished. “Where are you

going, my son?” “To my parents.” “Your parents,--it is impossible that

you can see them now.” “But it is certain that I will see them. Dictate

to me no longer,--degrade yourself not by this prostituted humiliation,”

for he was putting himself in a posture of intreaty,--“I _will_ see my

parents. Procure for me an introduction to them this moment, or tremble

for the continuance of your influence in the family.” At these words he

trembled. He did not indeed dread my influence, but he dreaded my

passions. His own lessons were bitterly retaliated on him that moment.

He had made me fierce and impetuous, because that suited his purpose,

but he had neither calculated on, or prepared himself for, this

extraordinary direction which my feelings had taken, so opposite to that

which he had laboured to give them. He thought, in exciting my passions,

he could ascertain their direction. Woe be to those, who, in teaching

the elephant to direct his trunk against their foes, forget that by a

sudden convolution of that trunk, he may rend the driver from his back,

and trample him under his feet into the mire. Such was the Director’s

situation and mine, I insisted on going instantly to my father’s

presence. He interposed, he supplicated; at last, as a hopeless

resource, he reminded me of his continual indulgence, his flattery of my

passions. My answer was brief, but Oh that it might sink into the souls

of such tutors and such priests! “And that has made me what I am. Lead

the way to my father’s apartment, or I will spurn you before me to the

door of it.” At this threat, which he saw I was able to execute, (for

you know my frame is athletic, and my stature twice that of his), he

trembled; and I confess this indication of both physical and mental

debility completed my contempt for him. He crawled before me to the

apartment where my father and mother were seated, in a balcony that

overlooked the garden. They had imagined all was settled, and were

astonished to see me rush in, followed by the Director, with an aspect

that left them no reason to hope for an auspicious result of our

conference. The Director gave them a sign which I did not observe, and

which they had not time to profit by,--and as I stood before them livid

from my fever, on fire with passion, and trembling with inarticulate

expressions, they shuddered. Some looks of reproach were levelled by

them at the Director, which he returned, as usual, by signs. I did not

understand _them_, but I made them understand me in a moment. I said to

my father, “Senhor, is it true you have made my brother a monk?” My

father hesitated; at last he said, “I thought the Director had been

commissioned to speak to you on that subject.” “Father, what has a

Director to do in the concerns of a parent and child? That man never can

be a parent,--never can have a child, how then can he be a judge in a

case like this?” “You forget yourself,--you forget the respect due to a

minister of the church.” “My father, I am but just raised from a

death-bed, my mother and you trembled for my life,--that life still

depends on your words. I promised submission to this wretch, on a

condition which he has violated, which--” “Command yourself, Sir,” said

my father, in a tone of authority which ill suited the trembling lips it

issued from, “or quit the apartment.” “Senhor,” interposed the Director,

in a softened tone, “let not me be the cause of dissension in a family

whose happiness and honour have been always my object, next to the

interests of the church. Let him go on, the remembrance of my crucified

Master will sustain me under his insults,” and he crossed himself.

“Wretch!” I cried, grasping his habit, “you are a hypocrite, a

deceiver!” and I know not of what violence I might have been guilty, but

my father interposed. My mother shrieked with terror, and a scene of

confusion followed, in which I recollect nothing but the hypocritical

exclamations of the Director, appearing to struggle between my father

and me, while he mediated with God for both. He repeated incessantly,

“Senhor, do not interpose, every indignity I suffer I make a sacrifice

to Heaven; it will qualify me to be an intercessor for my traducer with

God;” and, crossing himself, he called on the most sacred names, and

exclaimed, “Let insults, calumnies, and blows, be added to that

preponderance of merit which is already weighed in the scales of heaven

against my offences,” and he dared to mix the claims of the intercession

of the saints, the purity of the immaculate Virgin, and even the blood

and agony of Jesus Christ, with the vile submissions of his own

hypocrisy. The room was by this time filled with attendants. My mother

was conveyed away, still shrieking with terror. My father, who loved

her, was driven by this spectacle, and by my outrageous conduct, to a

pitch of fury,--he drew his sword. I burst into a laugh, that froze his

blood as he approached me. I expanded my arms, and presented my breast,

exclaiming, “Strike!--this is the consummation of monastic power,--it

begun by violating nature, and ends in filicide. Strike! give a glorious

triumph to the influence of the church, and add to the merits of the

holy Director. You have sacrificed your Esau, your first-born, already,

let Jacob be your next victim.” My father retreated from me, and,

revolted by the disfigurement which the violence of my agitation had

caused, almost to convulsion, he exclaimed, “Demon!” and stood at a

distance viewing, and shuddering at me. “And who has made me so? _He_

who fostered my evil passions for his own purposes; and, because one

generous impulse breaks out on the side of nature, would represent or

drive me mad, to effectuate his purposes. My father, I see the whole

power and system of nature reversed, by the arts of a corrupt

ecclesiastic. By his means my brother has been imprisoned for life;--by

his means our birth has been made a curse to my mother and to you. What

have we had in the family since his influence was fatally established in

it, but dissension and misery? Your sword was pointed against my heart

this moment; was it nature or a monk that armed a parent against his

child, whose crime was--interceding for his brother? Dismiss this man,

whose presence eclipses our hearts, and let us confer together for a

moment as father and son, and if I do not humiliate myself before you,

spurn me for ever. My father, for God’s sake examine the difference

between this man and me, as we stand before you. We are together at the

bar of your heart, judge between us. A dry and featureless image of

selfish power, consecrated by the name of the church, occupies his whole

soul,--I plead to you by the interests of nature, that must be sincere,

because they are contrary to my own. He only wishes to wither your

soul,--I seek to touch it. Is his heart in what he says? does he shed a

tear? does he employ one impassioned expression? he calls on God,--while

I call only on you. The very violence which you justly condemn, is not

only my vindication but my eulogy. They who prefer their cause to

themselves, need no proof of their advocacy being sincere.” “You

aggravate your crime, by laying it on another; you have always been

violent, obstinate, and rebellious.” “But who has made me so? Ask

himself,--ask this shameful scene, in which his duplicity has driven me

to act such a part.” “If you wish to show submission, give me the first

proof of it, by promising never to torture me by renewing the mention of

this subject. Your brother’s fate is decided,--promise not to utter his

name again, and----” “Never,--never,” I exclaimed, “never will I violate

my conscience by such a vow; and his who could propose it must be seared

beyond the power of Heaven to touch it.” Yet, in uttering these words, I

knelt to my father, but he turned from me. I turned in despair to the

Director. I said, “If you are the minister of Heaven, prove the truth of

your commission,--make peace in a distracted family, reconcile my father

to both his children. You can effect this by a word, you know you can,

yet you will not utter it. My unfortunate brother was not so inflexible

to your appeals, and yet were they inspired by a feeling as justifiable

as mine.” I had offended the Director beyond all forgiveness. I knew

this, and spoke indeed rather to expose than to persuade him. I did not

expect an answer from him, and I was not disappointed,--he did not utter

a word. I knelt in the middle of the floor between them. I cried,

“Deserted by my father and by you, I yet appeal to Heaven. I call on it

to witness my vow never to abandon my persecuted brother, whom I have

been made a tool to betray. I know you have power,--I defy it. I know

every art of circumvention, of imposture, of malignant industry,--every

resource of earth and hell, will be set at work against me. I take

Heaven to witness against you, and demand only its aid to insure my

victory.” My father had lost all patience; he desired the attendants to

raise and remove me by force. This mention of force, so repugnant to my

habits of imperious indulgence, operated fatally on intellects scarcely

recovering from delirium, and too strongly tried in the late struggle. I

relapsed into partial insanity. I said wildly, “My father, you know not

how mild, generous, and forgiving is the being you thus persecute,--I

owe my life to him. _Ask your domestics if he did not attend me, step by

step, during my journey?_ If he did not administer my food, my

medicines, and smoothe the pillows on which I was supported?” “You

rave,” cried my father, as he heard this wild speech, but he cast a look

of fearful inquiry on the attendants. The trembling servants swore, one

and all, as well they might, that not a human being but themselves had

been suffered to approach me since I quitted the convent, till my

arrival at Madrid. The small remains of reason forsook me completely at

this declaration, which was however true every word of it. I gave the

lie to the last speaker with the utmost fury,--I struck those who were

next me. My father, astonished at my violence, suddenly exclaimed, “He

is mad.” The Director, who had till then been silent, instantly caught

the word, and repeated, “He is mad.” The servants, half in terror, half

in conviction, re-echoed the cry.

“I was seized, dragged away; and this violence, which always excited

corresponding violence in me, realized all my father feared, and the

Director wished for. I behaved just as a boy, scarce out of a fever, and

still totally delirious, might be supposed to behave. In my apartment I

tore down the hangings, and there was not a porcelain vase in the room

that I did not dash at their heads. When they seized me, I bit their

hands; when at length they were compelled to bind me, I gnawed the

strings, and finally snapt them by a violent effort. In fact, I

completely realized all the hopes of the Director. I was confined to my

apartment for several days. During this time, I recovered the only

powers that usually revive in a state of isolation,--those of inflexible

resolution and profound dissimulation. I had soon exercise enough for

both of them. On the twelfth day of my confinement, a servant appeared

at the door of my apartment, and, bowing profoundly, announced, that if

my health was recovered, my father wished to see me. I bowed in complete

imitation of his mechanical movements, and followed him with the steps

of a statue. I found my father, armed with the Director at his side. He

advanced, and addressed me with an abruptness which proved that he

forced himself to speak. He hurried over a few expressions of pleasure

at my recovery, and then said, “Have you reflected on the subject of our

last conversation?” “I have _reflected on it_.”--“_I had time to do

so._”--“And you have employed that time well?”--“I hope so.”--“Then the

result will be favourable to the hopes of your family, and the interests

of the church.” The last words chilled me a little, but I answered as I

ought. In a few moments after the Director joined me, He spoke amicably,

and turned the conversation on neutral topics. I answered him,--what an

effort did it cost me!--yet I answered him in all the bitterness of

extorted politeness. All went on well, however. The family appeared

gratified by my renovation. My father, harassed out, was content to

procure peace on any terms. My mother, still weaker, from the struggles

between her conscience and the suggestions of the Director, wept, and

said she was happy. A month has now elapsed in profound but treacherous

peace on all sides. They think me subdued, but * * * * *

“In fact, the efforts of the Director’s power in the family would alone

be sufficient to precipitate my determinations. He has placed you in a

convent, but that is not enough for the persevering proselytism of the

church. The palace of the Duke de Monçada is, under his influence,

turned into a convent itself. My mother is almost a nun, her whole life

is exhausted in imploring forgiveness for a crime for which the

Director, to secure his own influence, orders her a new penance every

hour. My father rushes from libertinism to austerity,--he vacillates

between this world and the next;--in the bitterness of exasperated

feeling, sometimes reproaches my mother, and then joins her in the

severest penance. Must there not be something very wrong in the religion

which thus substitutes external severities for internal amendment? I

feel I am of an inquiring spirit, and if I could obtain a book they call

the Bible, (which, though they say it contains the words of Jesus

Christ, they never permit us to see) I think----but no matter. The very

domestics have assumed the _in ordine ad spiritualia_ character already.

They converse in whispers--they cross themselves when the clock

strikes--they dare to talk, even in my hearing, of the glory which will

redound to God and the church, by the sacrifice my father may yet be

induced to make of his family to its interests.

* * * *

“My fever has abated--I have not lost a moment in consulting your

interests--I have heard that there is a possibility of your reclaiming

your vows--that is, as I have been told, of declaring they were extorted

under impressions of fraud and terror. Observe me, Alonzo, I would

rather see you rot in a convent, than behold you stand forth as a living

witness of our mother’s shame. But I am instructed that this reclamation

of your vows may be carried on in a civil court: If this be practicable,

you may yet be free, and I shall be happy. Do not hesitate for

resources, I am able to supply them. If you do not fail in resolution, I

have no doubt of our ultimate success.--_Ours_ I term it, for I shall

not know a moment’s peace till you are emancipated. With the half of my

yearly allowance I have bribed one of the domestics, who is brother to

the porter of the convent, to convey these lines to you. Answer me by

the same channel, it is secret and secure. You must, I understand,

furnish a memorial, to be put into the hands of an advocate. It must be

strongly worded,--but remember, not a word of our unfortunate mother;--I

blush to say this to her son. Procure paper by some means. If you find

any difficulty, I will furnish you; but, to avoid suspicion, and too

frequent recurrences to the porter, try to do it yourself. Your

conventual duties will furnish you with a pretext of writing out your

confession,--I will undertake for its safe delivery. I commend you to

the holy keeping of God,--not the God of monks and directors, but the

God of nature and mercy.----I am your affectionate brother,

JUAN DI MONÇADA.”

“Such were the contents of the papers which I received in fragments, and

from time to time, by the hands of the porter. I swallowed the first the

moment I had read it, and the rest I found means to destroy unperceived

as I received them,--my attendance on the infirmary entitling me to

great indulgences.”

* * * * *

At this part of the narrative, the Spaniard became so much agitated,

though apparently more from emotion than fatigue, that Melmoth intreated

him to suspend it for some days, and the exhausted narrator willingly

complied.

END OF FIRST VOLUME.

Transcriber’s Note:

The following is a list of corrections made to the original.

The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

see any extravagance or waste in it “Oh never, never, your honor.”

see any extravagance or waste in it?” “Oh never, never, your honor.”

congregation answersed,--“Because he deserved his fate.” The murmurs of

congregation answered,--“Because he deserved his fate.” The murmurs of

(2) Vide Pope, (copying from Doune).

(2) Vide Pope, (copying from Donne).

majesty could not posssibly have understood), and converted him and his

majesty could not possibly have understood), and converted him and his

Between the pages were cut most exquisitely in paper the liknesses of

Between the pages were cut most exquisitely in paper the likenesses of

Aphra Beha’s plays, where the cavaliers are denominated the _heroicks_,

Aphra Behn’s plays, where the cavaliers are denominated the _heroicks_,

smote Goliah. It was _the man’s_ (such was the indecent language in

smote Goliath. It was _the man’s_ (such was the indecent language in

breeze blows, as if it meant to tantalize yon with a sigh from that

breeze blows, as if it meant to tantalize you with a sigh from that

He, whom he has for twelve hours been vociferating “is the loveliest

“He, whom he has for twelve hours been vociferating “is the loveliest

his life that very night in the most deperate and fruitless attempt to

his life that very night in the most desperate and fruitless attempt to

announced safety was near and--impossisible;--lanthorns held aloft in all

announced safety was near and--impossible;--lanthorns held aloft in all

expression formidable, revolting, and unnatural. At this moment, at

expression formidable, revolting, and unnatural. At this moment, a

contracted habits of my earily life had had their usual effect, of

contracted habits of my early life had had their usual effect, of

The brethren always assumed before me an air of tranquillity, that

“The brethren always assumed before me an air of tranquillity, that

As we went to the church, they conversed in whispers, but those

“As we went to the church, they conversed in whispers, but those

I was disappointed at the measured phrase he addressed me in, and this

“I was disappointed at the measured phrase he addressed me in, and this

My dear son, why have you thrice answered me in the same monotonous,

“My dear son, why have you thrice answered me in the same monotonous,

I was now in a state quite fit for the Director’s purpose; but he was

“I was now in a state quite fit for the Director’s purpose; but he was

I was overpowered with congratulations, blessings, and embraces. I

“I was overpowered with congratulations, blessings, and embraces. I

streaming with b ood. The monks, with their lights, their scourges, and

streaming with blood. The monks, with their lights, their scourges, and

excitement. The paroxysm ceases they become the elect of God again in

excitement. The paroxysm ceases, they become the elect of God again in

this delaration, which was however true every word of it. I gave the

this declaration, which was however true every word of it. I gave the