“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