The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nunnery life in the Church of England; or, Seventeen years with Father Ignatius, by Sister Mary Agnes This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Nunnery life in the Church of England; or, Seventeen years with Father Ignatius Author: Sister Mary Agnes Editor: W. Lancelot Holland Release Date: January 31, 2018 [EBook #56468] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NUNNERY LIFE--CHURCH OF ENGLAND *** Produced by MFR and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
NUNNERY LIFE
IN THE
CHURCH OF ENGLAND;
OR,
Seventeen Years with Father Ignatius.
BY
SISTER MARY AGNES, O.S.B.
EDITED, WITH PREFACE,
BY THE REV.
W. LANCELOT HOLLAND, M.A.,
Vicar Of All Saints’, Hatcham.
FIFTH THOUSAND.
London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCXCI.
Butler & Tanner,
The Selwood Printing Works,
Frome, and London.
| PAGE | |
| Preface | ix |
| Introduction | xxv |
| CHAPTER I. | |
| My Reasons for Becoming a Sister | 1 |
| CHAPTER II. | |
| Convent Life Entered Upon | 17 |
| CHAPTER III. | |
| The Vow of Poverty | 28 |
| CHAPTER IV. | |
| The Vow of Chastity | 34 |
| CHAPTER V. | |
| The Vow of Obedience | 42 |
| CHAPTER VI. | |
| The Dawn of Spiritual Light | 49 |
| [vi]CHAPTER VII. | |
| Life at Feltham Convent | 57 |
| CHAPTER VIII. | |
| Convent Life at Slapton, in Devonshire | 64 |
| CHAPTER IX. | |
| Convent Life at Llanthony | 79 |
| CHAPTER X. | |
| Daily Routine at Llanthony | 108 |
| CHAPTER XI. | |
| Ill-Treatment of Children | 115 |
| CHAPTER XII. | |
| Some of the Llanthony Rules, with Accompanying Penances | 121 |
| CHAPTER XIII. | |
| Of What Religion is Father Ignatius? | 128 |
| CHAPTER XIV. | |
| My Departure from Llanthony | 136 |
| [vii]CHAPTER XV. | |
| At Llanthony Again | 146 |
| CHAPTER XVI. | |
| Apparitions and Miracles | 158 |
| CHAPTER XVII. | |
| Liberty | 176 |
| Appendix A | 193 |
| ” B | 197 |
| ” C | 199 |
In the summer of last year (1889), I first heard of the authoress of this autobiography: not accidentally, as some might put it, but rather by the good providence of Jehovah, who “worketh all things after the counsel of His own will.”
Ex-sister Mary Agnes, or Miss J. M. Povey, had been attending one of Mrs. Edith O’Gorman Auffray’s (better known as “The Escaped Nun”) lectures at the Town Hall, Kensington, and after the lecture she obtained an interview with the lecturess, during which she gave her a short account of her own experiences in convents nominally connected with the Church of England. The following day I happened to meet Mrs. Auffray, who passed on to me what Miss Povey had told her. I at once made up my mind to request this lady, if possible, to publish her experiences, and I wrote a letter to her offering any assistance in my power, if she[x] entertained the idea of making her experiences more widely known.
I should have mentioned that Mrs. Auffray had recommended Miss Povey to communicate with me, and had urged upon her the importance of bearing witness to the merciful deliverance God had vouchsafed to her.
I feel bound, therefore, to express to Mrs. Auffray my thanks for the good advice she gave Miss Povey; and let me say here that though perhaps no woman has been more vilified, and persecuted, by the Roman Catholics, and I fear too by many Ritualists and weak, half-hearted Protestants, than has Mrs. Auffray, yet no woman has been more blessed by God in exposing the errors of Romanism. To my mind, it is as easy to prove the perfect veracity of Mrs. Auffray’s story, told with such power, as it is to prove that once Queen Elizabeth reigned in England, or that the Duke of Wellington led his soldiers to victory when the battle of Waterloo was fought. I had not long to wait before receiving from Miss Povey a small portion of her manuscript; and, being struck with the unaffected style, and genuine[xi] appearance of the story thus commenced, I consented at her request to correct and revise, or, in one word, to edit, the whole of the material she might feel disposed to place in my hands.
I need hardly say, considering the many other engagements devolving upon the vicar of a parish of 20,000 people, that I have been obliged to make a somewhat slow progress with the work, short though it may appear, and when I had come to the close of it, I could not but feel that the book was worthy of an editor who could have devoted more time, attention and talent to it, than it was within my reach to do.
I would acknowledge here, with a feeling of deep gratitude, the assistance given me towards the close of my editorial duties, in connection with the book, by a gentleman whose name I am not at liberty to divulge. This gentleman introduced the manuscript to the publishers, and he has most kindly cast his eye carefully over the whole work, correcting or rescinding where he thought it advisable. Perhaps there are few men in England who know more than he does on the subject of English sisterhoods. He has lectured with ability on the[xii] subject, and is likely to become ere long a well-known writer. Since I made him acquainted with the work I was editing, and had had some conversation with him upon these matters, I only wished he had taken my place as editor.
I think that those who read through this book will readily acknowledge that Miss Povey has done her work well, and I feel sure she will receive the hearty congratulations of a great number of persons. She has been obliged to write under some considerable disadvantages, arising from the nature of her employment, which does not allow a very wide margin of time for writing; consequently, as she reminded me, she has had no time to look over and correct what force of circumstances compelled her to write somewhat hurriedly.
“I shall be much obliged,” she has written to me, “for any improvement you think fit to make, in correcting, revising, rescinding, in all the manuscript.” Any excellence that may be found in the book must be wholly due to the authoress; none could have written in the forcible and graphic way she has done, who had not herself passed through so strange and painful an experience.
I have only had one interview with Miss Povey, and that when the book was well nigh finished. But before then I took great pains to find out the thorough trustworthiness of her antecedents and statements. God forbid that I should ever venture to send before the public a work of such deep import, were I not perfectly convinced that ex-sister Mary Agnes was in a position to write, and actually was writing, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I have by me a letter written by the Mother Abbess of the Feltham convent, to the lady in whose employment Miss Povey is now living, giving her, as will be acknowledged by all, a very high character for truthfulness and uprightness.
The Convent, Feltham,
Sept. 14th, 1887.
Dear Madam,—
Miss J. M. Povey lived in my house for ten years, and I knew of her before and since.
She bears, and has always borne, the highest moral character; all her relations are highly respectable people. She is thoroughly conscientious and trustworthy, clever and observant, and speaks well. She is a good needlewoman, and I should think quite capable of undertaking what you[xiv] require of her, and is one who would do her work quite as well in your absence as if you were at home superintending her.
She is quite above the ordinary station of domestic servants. There is no mystery in her life.

Miss Povey has also received the two following letters from the same lady:—
The Convent, Feltham,
Feb. 15th, 1886.
Poor dear Child,—
I am not in the least surprised at your leaving, and I pity you much for several reasons.
Mary Hilda.
The Convent, Feltham,
Feb. 20th, 1886.
Dearest Child,—
However good F. Ignatius may be (and he has much goodness), I never thought he had much tact; but that he could be so utterly devoid of it as to tell M. Wereburgh that you knew about her history after leaving here first time, I could not have imagined. Of course, knowing her as I did, I can but feel sure that she was anxious for you to leave, lest you should hint it to others. I am, as I have said, very sorry for you, and hope you will not stay in the world.
Your always sincere friend, and affectionate Sp. Mother,
Mary Hilda, M. Sup.
I have ample testimony to the truth of her statement, “Seventeen Years with Father Ignatius,” since I am able to give the following extract from a letter written by “Ignatius” himself to Sister Mary Agnes, soon after she had left the convent:—
Jesus Only.
Pax.
Llanthony Abbey,
Dec. 30th, 1884.
My dearest Child,—
… You have profited nothing from all my teaching and patience of nearly seventeen years: you cannot imagine the grief you have given me.
I have no time for more. I shall always pray for you, and love you, and you must think of me as always
Your affectionate, but disappointed Father,
Ignatius, O.S.B.
Most of the readers of this book will probably know the meaning of the letters “O.S.B.” They mean the “Order of St. Benedict.” Now, although Sister Mary Agnes never became what is called in conventual phraseology a “professed” nun in that Order, that is to say, she never “took the black veil,” yet for all these years she was a[xvi] novice nun, and was always looked upon and called a nun.
In a letter Father Ignatius wrote to her in the year 1879, whilst she was in the convent, this sentence occurs: “You are really a little nun”; and again: “If I find you really grown in a nun-like spirit, I really hope we may fix (D.V.) your profession, say, this year.”
I might very easily add more to prove that this simple story of seventeen years of convent life is not a fabricated one, but the evidence I have produced, out of a mass which I have at my disposal, will surely be enough.
Miss Povey has decided to make known her life as a nun, in order that others may take warning, and profit by her experiences. No young lady who may become acquainted with this book can ever say, should she be deluded into taking the veil, that she took that terrible leap, as I fear many do take it, in the dark.
Convents, or sisterhoods, in connection with the Church of England, are by no means few and far between, and it is to be hoped that this book will bring conviction to many of the transparent[xvii] fact, that the teaching and practices within their walls are not so widely different from the same within the walls of Roman Catholic convents.
I hope that Miss Povey’s work may do good in making known the danger of being misled by the apparently pure evangelical teaching which Father Ignatius is said to give. Now, it seems to me, that here in this book we have the means of subjecting this specious-looking metal to a severe test. His so-called Gospel sermons and orations contain some good metal with which the counterfeit coin is covered and made to pass as genuine.
It is an incumbent duty to let her revelations be known far and wide, so that souls be not led astray.
Is there not a cause? Consider it, I beg of you, who may read this book. Remember that with scarcely an exception (I don’t think the infallibility of the Pope is acknowledged in these convents) every Roman Catholic tenet is unblushingly held and taught in the three convents which this book refers to. Roman Catholic literature of the most advanced type is constantly used in them.
Another advantage that I hope and feel sure[xviii] will arise from studying this little book, will be found in the remarkably clear definition Miss Povey has been enabled to give of the three celebrated and essentially Romish vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. These self-same vows are just now being spoken of a good deal, and many are telling us that they are to be an essential element in the new brotherhoods which the Bishop of Rochester has so lately, in the Upper House of Convocation and in his Triennial Charge, advocated. I cannot but hope that God has raised up, at a most opportune moment, a witness against the imposition of such vows, whether on men or women. I hope it may lead those who are favourable to the scheme to favour it no more. Is it not palpable to all that just as sisterhoods are made the secret repositories of extreme Romish education, practices, and literature, so likewise will brotherhoods be made to serve a similar purpose?
We are certainly living in “perilous times,” and it is amazing to behold the spirit of indifference in quarters where we might least expect it, not only with regard to the great strides Ritualism is making, so that Protestant Evangelicalism is well[xix] nigh eclipsed, but this indifference is as great with regard to the advance of Romanism and Jesuitism,[1] and (saddest result of all) to the building of so many hundreds of Roman Catholic convents and monasteries in the United Kingdom.
There are in existence societies for the prevention of cruelty to children, and for the prevention of cruelty to animals; but although the cruelties and tortures, called penances, which are inflicted on many a poor helpless nun are greater than those inflicted on animals, the man who raises up his voice against this worst form of inhumanity is counted unloving and bigoted. Believe me, the unloving ones are those who lend any countenance whatever to, or who do not make a righteous protest against, the conventual and monastic system, according to which disciplines, hair-shirts, scourgings, and various other forms of cruelty and degradation are employed.
Do we not see that, if this system is allowed to advance in the Church of England, these very penances (many of which do exist, all of which may exist, in the Church of England convents), which, without any doubt, exist in Romish convents, will be inflicted with equal severity in English Church convents.
Sister Mary Agnes does not speak of prison-like underground cells in Father Ignatius’s convents, and we believe, therefore, that anyhow at present they do not exist in them. But she does speak of penances, and she has felt them.
In bringing my Preface to a close, I will give a statement with regard to the Church of England convent in Woodstock Road, in the City of Oxford, founded by the late Dr. Pusey. This statement has been made by a clergyman of the Established Church, who is perfectly prepared, if need be, to give his name.
In the summer of 1866, I was travelling from Oxford to London, and there happened to be in the same railway carriage one of the leading tradesmen in the city of Oxford.
Our conversation turned upon the advances which Romanism was apparently making in the United Kingdom,[xxi] and conspicuously by the influence of a certain section now well known as Ritualists in our own Church.
He asked me if I had noticed a building which was being erected in “The Parks” (Oxford), and whether I was aware that owing to a clause in the lease of the ground, and some complications arising therefrom, the owners of the edifice had determined even, if necessary, to surrender the lease, and transfer the materials to a freehold site in another part of the city? I remarked that such a course looked suspicious, made my own comments on it, and, when opportunity offered, acted.
During a stay in Oxford a few days subsequently, I went one afternoon to see for myself, and on coming to the building, asked the clerk of the works, or foreman, if I might look round it. Having done so, I found the fabric almost completed, but was struck by an apparent loss of space owing to the height of the walls from the ground, without any ostensible object. I observed a small door, directly underneath the main entrance, and on examination found it padlocked, but seeing that the staple was not clenched, I removed it with the point of my umbrella, and thus gained entrance to what proved to be a long corridor, right and left of which cells were erected, but not completed.
As rapidly as I could I took a general survey of the whole arrangements, replaced the staple and padlock, and before leaving expressed my best thanks to the foreman, who was engaged with some workmen in a shed at the entrance to the premises, erected quite apart from the building.
I then talked with him about the peculiar construction of the building, and asked him why the walls were built so as to leave a great space between the foundations and first[xxii] floor. He stated that this was for the purpose of ventilation only. I then remarked that it was unusual to see buildings so constructed, and then I said, “Was that all?” He volunteered the statement that there was nothing in this space underneath the fabric but the external walls. Happening to know differently, I drew my own conclusions, and left.—(Signed) ⸺.
Finally, let us hope that God’s people throughout England will make it a matter of daily intercession to the throne of Grace that convents, whether Anglican or Roman Catholic, may be utterly abolished. I sincerely trust that this book will be read as a witness of what God’s good providence and sovereign grace have done for the writer of this interesting narrative, and therefore can do for others. May the Spirit of the living God that opened the eyes of Sister Mary Agnes, be poured out abundantly to open the eyes of many in this land, who are sitting in darkness and the shadow of death. And may they be led, by the same Spirit, through the one only Mediator between God and man, even Jesus Christ, to obtain fellowship with the Father, together with all other spiritual blessings in Christ Jesus, “according as God hath chosen us in Him before the foundation[xxiii] of the world.” And, finally, may He also enable them to “stand fast in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made them free.”
W. LANCELOT HOLLAND.
All Saints’ Vicarage, Hatcham Park, S.E.,
February, 1890.
In sending forth this book to the world, I would have it clearly understood that it is not my desire to injure any one. I only wish that the mistakes of my life may prove a warning to others and prevent them from taking the step I did. I feel it to be a solemn duty, which I owe to God, to put before the public convent life in the Church of England, as I found it.
Naturally I shrink from the task, for the Mother of the Feltham convent has always acted, as far as my experience goes, conscientiously, and it was in no way on her account that I felt bound to withdraw from convent life. Besides Father Ignatius himself once seemed to love me as his “little daughter,” and was exceedingly kind to me. Let it be remembered that I was then but a child and a very simple and inexperienced one.
In one sense, it is not against him personally[xxvi] that I am writing, yet, in another, it is, because he was head over all, added to which, he made a personal application to my mother to give me up to him for God’s service, and thus he was responsible for seeing that my life was made at least endurable; instead of which, he gave me up entirely into the hands of a certain Mother Superior, who (I would speak the truth in love) was a zealous and tyrannical woman.
Believing it, then, to be my duty, I now take up my pen, and may God guide it, so that, in His hands, it may be the means of saving young girls and women, and young men and boys, from inflicting on their relatives the bitter pain and sorrow which I caused my own dear mother and friends. May many by this warning be saved from the bitter disappointment which was my lot, when I found convent life so different in practice and reality from what in theory and fancy it seemed to be. Instead of it being the “Gate of Heaven,” as it is sometimes said to be, my experience was that it is much nearer another gate.
I feel convinced too that, if the truth could only[xxvii] be got at, it would be discovered that my experience was not an exceptional one. I have heard that it was St. Chrysostom who said, “A monk, by the very nature of the life he leads, is either an angel or a devil,” and I seldom, if ever, knew a monk or boy, a girl or woman, who, sooner or later, did not turn into something which was far removed from that which is angelic, though at their entrance into that name of “Pax,” they were, to all appearances, “perfect saints.”
Instead of being ennobled by the monastic and conventual life, my experience has been (and I have had an experience of some seventeen years, and have come in contact with a goodly number of persons living under vows) that the life is far from having an ennobling influence. Life of this kind generally causes those who lead it to become mean, petty, and selfish, and no selfishness can equal a nun’s, particularly when nature inclines her to be so.[2] Nuns are either crushed slaves or[xxviii] tyrants, and often so puffed up with pride that they look upon “seculars” as a race of beings far below themselves, and who, as the Lady Prioress Wereburgh used to say to us, “should think themselves highly honoured to have the privilege of a nun condescending to speak to them.”
I would ask all who read this story to overlook the lack of style and order which may be apparent, but I am now very much occupied in earning my bread, and can only give a few night-hours occasionally to the task, and I have never been accustomed to work of this kind.
From the earliest time that my memory goes back, I loved Jesus, though I knew very little about Him—only what my dear mother taught me, and she was what is termed a “shy Christian.” But I often wished that people would talk more about Him, at least to me; and as a little girl I used to look at people, and wish they would speak to me of Jesus, though I was too timid to put my thoughts into words.
When I was about fourteen years of age, in the year 1868, there was a great stir about a new preacher who preached at several city churches, including St Edmund’s, Lombard Street, and St. Ethelburga’s, Bishopsgate. His name was Father Ignatius; he was a Church of England clergyman, and called himself a monk. At that period I happened to be on a visit to my aunt, and my[2] sister wrote and told me that Father Ignatius preached monasticism, that he had a monastery and would soon open a convent. I remember how I thought everybody was turning to Roman Catholicism; and I made up my mind not to go near this strange man. So at first I would not go to hear him, though somehow I was very anxious to see him. At last my mother persuaded me to go, and I heard him preach the love of Jesus as I had never before heard it.  Though he said neither more nor less I was won, and from that moment I felt compelled to dwell on all his doings, and to drink in his words. What extraordinary power, or mesmerism, is it that this man possesses, enabling him to exert such an influence, not only over a simple child, but also over young and old, man and woman, noble and peasant? How often have I asked myself this question, yet in the course of twenty years I have not solved the mystery! But does he retain the friendship of those he wins? For a short time he does, but as a rule they[3] eventually turn away from him, and sometimes even become his greatest enemies; for he possesses a strange power not only of winning love, but also of casting it away from him when won.
But I have somewhat departed from my story, which I will now resume. I remember being in church one evening, and we sang the words:
I thought to myself, “Who are His loved ones?” Day after day I went about wondering who they were. I would look into every face I met, but the love of Jesus did not seem to me stamped there; yet I was determined to find out, for, I said to myself, “I must be His loved one!” At last I saw a gentle, pale-faced sister; and she looked so good and pure (my favourite text was, “Blessed are the pure in heart”) that a sudden thought flashed into my mind that it was these sisters, or nuns, who were the “loved ones,” and that therefore I must be a sister. But I was not bold enough to tell any one my thoughts, besides which I thought I was very much too young to be a nun. I recollect that just at this time I went to some[4] private meetings,[3] held by certain sisters, and one of them asked me, on one of these occasions, “Should you like to be a sister?” My heart jumped on hearing the question, and I replied, “Yes.” No more was said then; but when I again went, Father Ignatius asked me the same question, and I made the same reply as before. He then told me to ask my mother to allow me to be “given to God” as a nun. Of course my mother would not hear of it, and only laughed at me, and called me “a goose to want to shut myself away from mother and everybody.” The idea, however, had so taken possession of me, that I begged over and over again to be allowed to go; but my mother would not give her consent. Every time Father Ignatius saw me he asked if I had obtained my mother’s consent, and I was obliged to say “No.” One day, I remember, he said to me,[5] “Well, ask your mother to let you go for a month on a visit!” I dared not ask her for a month, knowing she would not grant me so long a time, so I asked her to let me go for a week, and after considering my request for two days, she told me I might go for a week. I therefore went for that period. I was fifteen years of age then; and the convent was at Feltham, where I stayed for ten years. But before the week had expired, I asked for another week, saying I was so happy in this new life. To my request she made answer, “Another week, but not a day over.” During this week the Father called upon my mother, and persuaded her to “give me to God.” Very reluctantly she gave her consent, as she told me, “for one year, to sicken you of it, and you will soon be glad to come back home to your mother.” No one but God ever knew for years after how I longed to get back to my mother, though I dared not allow it even to myself. When my mother gave me up, she had Father Ignatius’s promise not to let me take life-vows until I was twenty-one or twenty-five years of age.
The first year passed away very happily. I was[6] young; and being small in stature, I was made a pet of, until another young sister came. Then the Mother changed, and she who had so petted me suddenly took a dislike to me; not that she was so very unkind. But how I yearned to be loved! No one seemed to love me, and I loved her, oh, so much! When I went up to her and said, “Mother, dear,” instead of opening her arms, and folding me in them as she used to do, she would turn away with a shudder. Why she did this, I never knew. I could not fail to feel surprise at it, as she had often taught me that “a spiritual father’s, and mother’s, and sister’s love is far greater than that of any earthly parents.” I was sure my mother would never thus turn away from me. Oh, how keenly I felt this coldness! and when I went to bed, I would cry and sob for hours, knowing that no one in that house loved me, and my heart seemed fit to break at such a loveless life. My mother’s smile, her words, and her every look and action, would rise up before me. I remembered my sister and dear little brother, both of whom I so fondly loved, and I would think, “Oh! if it was not wicked of me, I wish I was[7] home”; but I would then blame myself for thinking thus, for I considered it showed unfaithfulness to God to allow such thoughts even for a moment, and I was afraid lest God should take my “holy vocation” from me, and I would also remember how God would have His spouse forsake all other love that she may love Him, and be His alone.
Was there ever a more cruel and bitter mistake? Cruel is the teaching which requires a young girl to separate herself from the dear good mother, whom God has given her, in order that she may, as is falsely said, serve God without hindrance. What folly and delusion is it that takes possession of us, to think that we can get nearer to God, be more pure, more holy in this life, and be brought to greater glory in the next life, by shutting oneself up in a particular house and never going out except to the garden, I cannot fathom!
Listen to the text which brings us up to this unnatural life, or, as we were told, this “supernatural life.” “A garden inclosed is My sister, My spouse; a spring shut up,” etc. Year after year this text bears us up, coupled with the thought that such a life is only a short time in[8] comparison with eternity, when we shall reap the great reward of our life of self-sacrifice. Blinder than the very heathen was I!
Sometimes I would stand and look around that small enclosure and think, “Shall I never in this life go farther than this garden surrounded with trees?” Often my brain seemed to turn at the very thought. If only I could have seen a great space, or a great sea, it would be better; but there were those trees in a flat country, and nothing beyond (a true type indeed). But then I would come back to my text, as above quoted, and think that as God is pleased with me, nothing else is of consequence. So I went on year after year, anything but happy, yet not daring to let myself think of turning back. Often did I LONG to speak of mother and of the dear ones at home, but I could not without breaking the rule, “never to speak of our earthly relations except to God in prayer.” If we broke this rule, we had to confess it the same day, and perform the prescribed penance of losing the hour’s recreation, do some menial work, and keep silence during the only hour we had set apart for conversation.
At the end of my first year my mother wrote to Father Ignatius demanding me back. She wrote to me at the same time, telling me she was coming to fetch me; but the Father gave me no advice on the subject, and I could have gone back as far as consent from my superiors went. At that time they gave me my mother’s letter, which of course they had read (all letters are read by the Mother first); but what about the teaching and instruction that had gone before? What about the awful words I had heard that, “should I ever even look back, I should then be unmeet for the kingdom of God”? What about the example of Lot’s wife, so often set before us? She only looked back, and how terrible the immediate result! What would happen (I thought) to one espoused to Christ, if she not only looked back, but deliberately turned from the “path that leads to life,” as we were instructed? Not even for one second did I dare to allow myself to think it. I would not go back, and did not.
My mother waited another year, and came this time to the convent without writing, so that I might not be influenced beforehand.  But it is equally a great sin to hide anything from our Superior; we are distinctly told never to conceal anything, not even our most secret thoughts, from our Superior. Should we have a great temptation to leave the life we had entered on, or any great temptation to rebel against convent rules, we were expressly told to make it known at once, that we might have the benefit of our Superior’s advice. Remember, too, that self-examination comes three times a day!
One morning, at the Communion, the Father suddenly turned round, saying:
“If any sister in this chapel has one single unfaithful thought of going back to the world, I dare her to come to this altar, and touch with her lips the sacred Body and Blood of her God. ‘Woe be to him through whom the offence cometh!’”
We were all startled, and I said,“Lord, is it I?” But it was not me, for I would rather have suffered[11] torture than commit so great a sin. A certain lay-sister stayed behind at that time, and I asked her, when the next opportunity offered itself to me, if she had thoughts of looking back? She replied:
“I told the reverend Father last night, I thought I ought to go home to my father to keep house for him, as my mother was dead.”
The reader will perceive that though we were not shut in by literal bolts and bars, we were bound by something very, very much more effectual—even by the nameless and unexplainable fear of being guilty of the terrible sin of going back to the world. How fearfully real and effectual is this feeling!
My mother and sister then came to fetch me, and I was sent alone into the parlour, that they might see how little I was apparently influenced by any outside pressure, and that I might tell them that I had a wish of my own free will to remain in the convent. At this interview, some one, unknown to my mother, was, of course, within earshot, according to rule; but I did not fear that, for I had no intention of going back, and thus[12] losing the virgin’s crown in heaven, which I so much coveted, and which could only be obtained, as I then supposed, by remaining true to my holy calling. My sister was evidently exercising great self-restraint at this interview, and could scarcely refrain from weeping; my own mother sobbed, and my heart was wrung, and yet I dared not think of going home. Almost choking with emotion, and stretching out my arms and folding them around my mother’s neck, I gasped:
“Mother, darling, I DO love you; but I belong to God, and I dare not go back.”
Tears blind me, even now while I write, as I think of that awful struggle, which I had been taught was right and pleasing to God.

My reply was (remembering what a great pet he made of me, and also how I had read and been told that “the love of spiritual parents was so much stronger than that of any earthly parent”):
“You are, dear mother, very kind; but I am sure the reverend Father will never change.”
And so I truly thought.
This wrench from all home-ties well nigh broke my heart; yet I dared not even think of leaving the convent, though in my heart of hearts I deeply wished I had never taken up that “golden plough.” Ah! had I only not taken it up, there would have been no sin in wishing for home again; but now it was far different, for it seemed to me, at the time, that in God’s great goodness the path had been shown to me down which I must walk, and that I must with determination choose the good, and cast aside every thought of returning to the world. And so I chose what I had been taught was the good, and no one until now knows the bitter[14] struggle I passed through. How often did I recall this day, or rather I could not drive it from my memory whilst sleeping or waking! It often drove sleep from my eyes, and my constant thought was, “If only I could put my arms round my mother’s neck, and kiss her just once more!”
At last all was arranged for me to take the black veil, and I even had orders to write for my mother to come and see this imposing ceremony, as it is really a novice’s entire death to the world, and we are allowed to see our nearest relative before we die. I was told I might go into the visitor’s room to see my mother if she came; but though my Superior said it was lawful to see her, yet she advised me not to go, as it might prove a cause of great distraction. When I was first told I might go into the room where my mother was to come, my heart leaped for joy. “Now,” I thought, “I shall be able to kiss her once again.” But then I remembered all the advice I had been given, and I wanted to be “perfect”; so, for the love of Jesus, as I thought, I gave up the privilege and joy of kissing my own dear mother!
As a rule, we only saw friends behind the grille,[15] with a third person, who must be a professed nun, to listen and report us should we make a slip in our conversation, or scandalize a secular by repeating anything that should not be told.
However, after all, my taking the black veil and thus becoming a professed nun was put off, as the superiors could not agree as to what place I was to take in the community. The reverend Mother wished me to keep where I was—the reverend Father wished me to be raised above six or seven who were older, and had been professed some years back. Since neither would waive their wishes, I had to wait, and consequently, I never took the black veil, or life-vows, and never saw my mother again, as when I left convent life she was not alive.
In the beginning of November, 1868, I went on a short visit to the “Benedictine convent of cloistered nuns,” at Feltham. Father Ignatius, who claims to be the father, founder, and reviver of monasticism in the Church of England, had turned an old farm-house at Feltham into a convent.
The “rule” given to the nuns by him can be procured at any Roman Catholic publishers. It is entitled “The Holy Rule of St. Benedict, translated by a Priest of Mount Melleray.” There are other translations of the rule, but this one is much more strict than any other which I have read.
After a time Father Ignatius gave us forty-nine observances to keep. These were really much stricter than the rule itself, and they were to be read every day, and the least transgression had to[18] be written down and sent in to our Superior at the close of each week, in addition to the usual confession to a priest. The Feltham Mother never wished us to make a confession to her, though the Mother at Llanthony insisted upon everything being disclosed to her.
To these forty-nine observances, later on, were added about forty-nine more, so that we were hedged all round by them, sleeping or waking. Transgressions of these observances were “convent sins.” I have already related how my visit for a week was soon lengthened out, and I will not particularize those first and early experiences.
It was in February, 1869, that I was received into Feltham convent as a postulant. There is a form to go through when a postulant is received. The Superior asks:
What dost thou desire of us?
Postulant.—To be admitted into the house of God.
Superior.—None can enter our gates but such as seek to be the spouse of the Lamb.
Postulant.—I postulate for the habit of the heavenly espousals in the Holy Order of St. Benedict.
Superior.—Dost thou promise to obey the rules?
Postulant.—I do.
After a few more questions and answers, I was properly made a postulant, and thought myself at heaven’s gate.
On April 13th, two months after my reception as a postulant, I took, as a novice, the three conventual vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. I would remind those of my readers who may be ignorant of these things, that whilst the vow of obedience is put last in order, yet it is of the first importance. I remember well the day I took these vows. I was attired in white, and wore a bridal veil and wreath. I recollect that another girl (Florence S⸺ by name) stood with me—I should rather say knelt. Together we waited to sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of God,—not by the sacrificial knife, that would be but the work of a few seconds—but by the daily and hourly sacrifice of everything that we loved.
When some of the difficulties and trials of my new life were set before me, I had no fears. I was in a state of high joy at the thought which had been burnt into my soul, viz., that I was espoused to the King of kings, and that I was the Lamb’s bride now and for ever. How could fear ruffle my[20] spirit whilst under this spell? Besides, how should a girl of my age (I was but fifteen at this time) have any notion of what sorrow, and trial, and trouble meant, especially, as was the case with me, when an affectionate mother had lovingly and carefully concealed from me any evils that might come in after years?
The anticipation of any evil in the future seemed, however, to fade into insignificance, since I was uplifted above terrestrial things by—I really know not how best to describe it—by the thought of Him whom I regarded as my heavenly Lover. Never did any girl or woman love her lover or her husband more than I did the Lord Jesus Christ, whose bride I thought myself to be, because I had taken those three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. I sometimes felt as if I must die; so overpowered was I with love that I could scarcely breathe.
Often since that time have I asked myself, “What was it that I so loved?” If it had been the love of the heavenly Bridegroom, that seemed as it were to saturate me, would that sister who knelt at my side on this occasion have been permitted in[21] after years to make my life such a misery to me, that I could no longer live a cloistered life? What or who it was I know not; all I know is that whoever or whatever it was, it obtained possession of my first love—the undivided love of my whole being; but that love is gone, and I do not think I could ever love with the same full, pure, and intense love again. That love, fixed on a lover existing only in the imagination, and impressed on my plastic and youthful mind, carried me through a convent experience lasting for seventeen years. And then it vanished. The illusion was dissipated, the ignis fatuus was quenched, and I was left alone in my misery, and it seemed, for a time, that nowhere could I find the loved one for whom everything and every one had been sacrificed; but better for me was this misery than that fool’s paradise.
But I must return to my story, after this digression, which, however, I hope many youthful readers may peruse and take warning from. My companion and I knelt, as I have mentioned; and thus, upon our knees, we waited for the august ceremony attending ever this mock marriage. All heaven seemed to open, and all of earth seemed[22] to be passing away. I recollect that, after many questions had been put to, and responses made by us, and when sweet words, set to sweeter music, had been sung, there reached our ears some such words as these:
The Bridegroom would have His bride leave father, mother, houses, lands, and all earthly loves, in order that, as the apostle saith, she may be one spirit with Him. My daughter, canst thou do this?
To this we made reply severally:
In His strength I leave all, that I may follow Christ.
Then the reverend Father uttered these words:
Beware, my daughter, before putting thy hand to the golden plough, for cursed shalt thou be if perchance thou lookest back.
To which the novice then replied:
I should then be unfit for the kingdom of God,
and repeated the words of Scripture:
When any one voweth a vow unto the Lord, he shall do all that proceedeth out of his mouth (Num. xxx. 2);[4]
and again we quoted Ecclesiastes v. 4.
After which there was sung in sweetest music, three times over:
To obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams: promise unto the Lord your God, and keep it.
I truly imagined that I was vowing to the Lord; and I had heard that God was love, and that therefore it must be sweet to obey His voice, and so I willingly vowed unto the Lord in these words:
1. I vow holy poverty, that I will possess nothing as my own, or receive aught, save at the hands of my Superiors, or with their permission. So help me, God. Amen.
2. I vow holy chastity during the time of my noviciate. So help me, God. Amen.
3. I vow entire, unquestioning, and absolute obedience to the Father and Mother Superior, during the term of my noviciate. So help me, God. Amen.
My bridal veil was then removed, and my hair cut off quite short; then I retired, and put on the serge habit of a nun, and came back, and I had placed upon me the scapular of obedience, the cord of chastity, and the sandals of poverty. Besides[24] these, I again put on the nun’s veil and bridal wreath. My companion and myself were then given new names. I, Jane Mary Povey, was called “Sister Mary Agnes of the Holy Child Jesus”; Florence S⸺ was called “Sister Mary Wereburgh of the Blessed Sacrament.”
The following hymn was then sung, which I must give in full, as it affords such an insight into the delusion of convent life. I believe Father Ignatius is the writer of this hymn:
During the singing of this hymn the newly made novice kneels, and all the sisters come, with lighted tapers, to kiss and embrace their new sister; after which a procession is formed, tapers are carried, incense is burnt, and these words are sung:
The wise virgins took oil in their lamps; they went in with Him to the marriage, and the door was shut.
These words were scarcely finished, when a door was suddenly and loudly slammed; and it[27] seemed hard to realize that we were still in the flesh, and there came to my heated imagination some strange expectation of the beatific vision.
No wonder that brains are turned, and young and inexperienced hearts are deluded and led astray by such an imposing ceremony, which no words of mine can adequately describe. You must have been on the spot fully to realize it.
I would impress very strongly on all who read these pages a fact that I think is not generally known, viz., that there is in the convent no difference whatever between a novice and a black-veiled or fully professed nun with regard to vows or rule, save that the latter vows for life, and the novice for a time. Yet the novice believes that she has no more right in the sight of God to go back from her vows than a life-vowed nun has.
I purpose now to write a short chapter on the Vow of Poverty. By this vow a nun has stripped herself of everything; she no longer possesses the right to use anything, or any member of her body, without the permission of her superior. Body and soul, hands, eyes, and feet, are all given up; therefore the nun may not use her hands or her feet even to perform a kind and helpful action for her fellow-nuns, without first going to ask the leave of her Superior. Often, especially at first, I did not understand my obligation, and consequently I would act without permission, and bring upon myself the necessity of performing some penance, that my sin might thus be atoned for. A nun may be almost parched with thirst, yet she must not drink even a cup of cold water without first finding the Superior and asking her leave, and[29] even then she may not obtain it; and if leave is granted, she may be censured for her alleged want of mortification. The nun who has taken this vow of poverty must never possess or make use of anything which has not been either given or lent to her by the Superior, neither can she borrow or lend anything without leave. This kind of existence really engendered the most abominable selfishness, and I never saw any selfishness to equal a nun’s. Her vow of poverty makes her selfish. She has nothing but what is doled out scantily by her Superior; and when she does get anything, she takes good care to keep it, not knowing when she will receive the like again. This does not apply to anything great and valuable, but such trifles as pins and needles, or cotton, or a piece of paper, or a flower-pot. To give or lend a flower, a picture, a thimble, a needle, a book, or anything else, without leave, is to break the Vow of Poverty, for which confession must be made, and reparation by public penance.
Anything sent by the parents or relations of the nuns may be disposed of as the Superior likes; and should it be given to another nun, we were[30] told, “Let the sister for whom that gift was sent beware of murmuring at her Superior’s wisdom.” Often did I have presents taken from me, without form or ceremony, and given to another, my face being carefully watched whilst the transfer was being made, to see how I bore the trial, or if I betrayed any signs of criticising the actions of my Superior.[5]
I remember that once a dear little child was brought into our community; and being very fond[31] of children, and thinking of my brothers, I held out my arms to the child, and was on the point of kissing him, when I heard the authoritative voice of the rev. Father, saying, “Sister Agnes, sit down. Not without leave; you should ask first.” I coloured as if accused of some great crime, and sat down, but was too ashamed when recreation time came to ask to kiss him then. I had only been a novice for a few months, and did not think of my vow of poverty being broken by using my arms, or lips, or will, without leave.
Another time—it was at Christmas—I saved a mince-pie to give away to the first poor person who came to the door. I was portress then. An old man came, and I related at recreation how pleased he was with my gift; but, alas! I brought down upon myself a little lecture, and was told that I had no right to give convent property away. “But,” said I, “it was mine—my very own.” Whereupon I learnt that for me the words “mine” and “thine” did not exist, since by this vow of poverty everything belonged to the Father Superior.
We might not even borrow a pocket-handkerchief,[32] though, as we were allowed but three, it was often very necessary to borrow one, for we could not without permission even wash them without breaking rule. If a sister brought with her several dozens, they would be distributed according to the needs of the community, and the rest put away for future use, as the new novice would be breaking her vow by retaining more than she needed for present use.
We were very fortunate in being allowed pocket-handkerchiefs at all. I know another English sisterhood where the nuns are only allowed hard blue-checked dusters, and as the rev. Father and Mother and sisters have the disgusting habit of snuff-taking, they must find these dusters very inconvenient.
Should we use any other article in lieu of a pocket-handkerchief, it must be confessed, and reparation made by holding such article up high at the Magnificat, in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, so that all who were assembled might see that we had robbed God of what we had promised.
Again, if we broke any article, or put it to an[33] improper use, the penance consisted in placing the said article, or piece of it, upon the head. Unfortunately for me, I was famous for breaking machine needles, and consequently I had to balance them on the top of my head, which was no easy matter.
Again, should we carelessly leave anything out of its proper place, we had to wear that thing the whole of the day. On two or three occasions I have been adorned with a pail; I have had a brush and dustpan round my waist, and a large coil of clothes-line round my neck. I hope my readers will now understand a little better what is implied by the vow of poverty. This has been a short chapter, but not, I think, an unimportant one.
The Vow of Chastity is broken by allowing any part of the arm to be seen above the wrist, so that if we should be engaged in cleaning furniture, or scrubbing floors, or washing clothes, we are not allowed to turn up our sleeves; and as the under garments are made of coarse serge with long sleeves, which are only changed once a fortnight throughout summer and winter, the discomfort of this may easily be imagined. However, the feet may be quite bare all the year round, for those of us, at least, who were considered strong enough, as it is quite in accordance with the Vow of holy Poverty, to go without socks, stockings, or sandals.
As I was very anxious to become a saint, I gladly went about with bare feet for two winters, until I had a bad cough, and was then not allowed[35] to do so any more. Often my feet were so swollen and covered with blood that I could scarcely move, but I was rather pleased at this, because the saints endured like afflictions. By saints I mean those men and women who have been canonized by the Church of Rome. To this source we went in order to find examples of how we might follow Christ. Of course our lady, the “Mother of God,” as the Church of Rome calls the mother of Jesus, was always set before us as an example. Then we were in the habit of placing our holy Father St. Benedict before us; then to the various saints, monks and nuns of our holy Order throughout the world we went, and again to all the saints who had been pronounced blessed by all the Popes who had ever lived.
There is one saint, “blessed John Berchmans,”[6][36] who is brought prominently forward in the “Diurnal of the Soul,” who particularly irritated me, because he was so perfect in every iota of his life. I used to almost wish he had been occasionally careless, or had now and again lost his temper. Whilst reading “The Monks of the West,” I was quite staggered by the wholesale self-butchery several of these saints practised after their conversion.
I could never understand some of these saints. St. Benedict, in order to overcome temptations to break his Vow of Chastity, is said to have jumped into a bed of thorns and briars. I thought I would be before him, and prevent evil thoughts even presenting themselves, so I obtained permission to sting myself with stinging nettles twice a week, and continued to do so for years, though it hurt me dreadfully for two days after the operation.
A nun or novice breaks her Vow of Chastity by allowing the dress of a secular lady to brush by her sacred habit, or by raising her eyes to a lady’s face when speaking to her, or by raising her eyes at any time except during the one hour’s recreation. Should her brother or father come to see her, she must keep her face closely veiled from their view. Very, very seldom is she sent to speak to any other man, and then only if convent duty makes it a necessity. It was quite impossible to kiss or shake hands with any one, as we were only allowed to see visitors through a small grille, the holes of which were about an inch square, while a professed nun was always near to hear what was said. After a time the rule became stricter, and the[38] grille was covered with a thick baize curtain, and we received orders, in addition to keeping our large thick veils down below the chin, not to draw the curtain back to speak even to a woman. It was also a great sin to speak to, or let any secular women see our faces.
I remember at one time we had a charwoman to work, and I was sent to sweep the kitchen, with orders to keep the veil low down over my face. In vain did I try to sweep, for I could not see, and dared not raise my veil. At last the poor woman tried to take the broom, saying, “Let me do it.” I dared not allow this, for in so doing I should have been guilty of the sin of disobedience, and for the same reason I dared not speak. She tried hard to get the broom, and I tried hard to keep it, without speaking. At last I was almost forced to open my mouth, and I said to her, “Thank you, but I must do it.” So I finished the work, and then in fear and trembling confessed my fault to the reverend Father. He was very angry, and made no excuse for my awkward position, but told me not to attempt to justify my conduct, and that there was no excuse for an act[39] of disobedience. As a punishment, he sent me then and there to recite the whole Psalter.
Should we grow to love a sister very much, we are speedily forbidden to speak to, or hold any communication with her. This of course does not refer to our Superior, as she is in the place of God to us.
Should we put our arm around a dear young sister’s neck or waist, or even take hold of her hand, such conduct would be a breach of this Vow of Chastity, and we must confess that we have been too demonstrative in our affections towards a spiritual sister. In Butler’s “Lives of the Saints,” we read that “St. Clare was so chaste that she would not even touch her father’s hand.” It was different with our Superior’s hand, as it was the rule to kiss that hand when receiving the blessing.
In regard to confession, the same rules were observed as have always existed in the Church of Rome. Every thought, word, and deed had to be confessed, and we had to answer any question the priest might put to us, as nothing is wrong the priest asks in confession; at least this is what we were told.
The priest I confessed to for the greater part of my convent life made me clearly to understand that all he said to me was for myself alone, and was not to be repeated. He bid me keep nothing back, and told me that if I did hide any known sin I should be guilty of sacrilege, my confession would be rendered invalid, and I should be putting myself in the position of Ananias and Sapphira. When I had finished my confession, he used to ask several times, “Are you sure you have told me everything?” It will thus be seen that there is no loophole or excuse to keep anything back, and I never did. Twice he asked me the most outrageous questions, which made me almost shriek, “No! Oh, no!”[7] I had been to him for some[41] years, and had laid my whole life open to him, and there really could be no occasion for him to put such questions to me on subjects that had never before been presented to my mind, in any shape or form. This priest is dead now, and I seldom confessed to another. After I had been a sister and under his direction for nine years, he advised me to leave that convent. Why he gave this advice, I do not know; but I replied at once that I would never go back.
The Vow of entire, unquestioning, and absolute Obedience renders the Superiors tyrants and their subjects slaves. A novice, or nun, must give up her will, conscience, judgment, reason, and her intellect, and must be merely a tool in her Superior’s hands.[8] She may not speak to her[43] Superior without first prostrating her whole body to the ground, kissing the hem of her “sacred habit,” and then, leave to speak being given, she may address her Superior, kneeling on both knees, with the eyes fixed on the ground. She must listen to her voice as the voice of God; for has not God addressed each nun with some such words as, “The Lord hath in His wisdom set thy Superior, and her alone, over thee, and He will only accept thy obedience through thy Superior”?
Of course we soon learnt to look upon our Superiors as possessing infallibility. In the[44] words of the Lady Prioress of Llanthony convent:
What the Pope is to Roman Catholics, that a Superior is to a nun. I cannot err, in regard to you; though I may do wrong or make mistakes in regard to matters belonging to myself, yet I cannot err as regards you, for our Lord would not permit this. Therefore, no matter what I do or say to you, it must be right, so far as it concerns you; it is God’s will for you, and the very slightest rebellion against my wish or orders, even in thought, is rebellion against God.
In “The Rule of our Most Holy Father St. Benedict” (Burns & Oates), on page 53, these words occur: “The third degree of humility is that a man, for the love of God, submit himself to his Superior in all obedience, imitating the Lord, of whom the apostle saith, ‘He was made obedient unto death.’ … And in order to show that we ought to be under a Superior, the word of God says, ‘Thou hast placed men over our heads.’”
That this is a most extraordinary and utterly unwarranted application (?) of Scripture, I need scarcely point out to my intelligent readers.
Of course the Father Superior is as infallible as the Mother Superior; and yet I have heard the Llanthony Mother frequently criticise the reverend[45] Father’s doings when his actions did not exactly fall in with her ideas, or if they at all clashed with her will. This Mother, too, often accused me to the reverend Father of things I had never done. I recall to mind an occasion when I was smarting under one of these unfounded accusations, and how, in an agony of mind, I exclaimed, “It is not true, and she knows it is not true.” The Father Superior commanded me to be still, and listen to God speaking to me. Practically we were taught that the Lord only reveals His will to us through our Superiors. A nun must obey the convent bell as if it were the voice of an angel. If she should be writing when the bell sounds, she must instantly lay down her pen, without even waiting to finish the formation of a letter; and as an example of how pleasing such instant obedience is to God, we were told that a certain saint was called three times whilst reciting the office of the Blessed Virgin; she obeyed promptly, and on returning and taking up her book, she found the letters written in gold;[9] and thus, even[46] in this life, was her perfect obedience rewarded. When the bell rings, or a Superior calls, everything must be left at once, even though the nun knows full well she will be penanced for leaving things about, and yet she dares not stay to put them away without a breach of this Vow of Obedience.
Once I was in the “Lady Chapel,” decorating the shrine, and the bell rang before I had cleared the faded flowers away. By rule I dared not leave them, and by rule I dared not clear them away, and of the two evils I chose to clear away[47] the faded flowers. Soon the Lady Prioress of Llanthony came down, looked at me, and then slammed the doors, which shut me out of the nun’s choir. I was afterwards reproved by the Superior, who said to me:
“Sister Agnes, if you go on in this way very much longer, you will find yourself at last where you are now, outside the doors of heaven, with the gate shut.”
The truth is, a nun’s obedience must be blind in its character; there must be no waiting to consider consequences, for by her vow she has renounced all claim to herself, and should the Superior command her to do what she believes to be even wrong and sinful, it is her duty to simply obey without a question, since the responsibility rests rather upon the Superior who gave the command than upon the nun who obeys it. In obeying a Superior, a nun is more sure of doing God’s will than if an angel came down from heaven to give a command, seeing that Satan can transform himself into an angel of light; but there can be no possibility of mistaking the Superior’s voice! (so we were taught).
Obedience to God being the only sure road to[48] heaven, such obedience,[10] for a nun at least, can only be rendered pleasing and acceptable to God through the channel of her Superior; so, without strict obedience to the Superior, there can be no hope of heaven. Thus a nun must act as one who is not responsible to God for her actions! I pity the Superiors, who have not only upon them the weight of their own sins, but also that of all the nuns under their care! They have yet to learn that salvation is not the reward of man’s obedience, but the free gift of God, by faith, without works.
I had been in the convent now for some eight years, striving after perfection; but a wearisome task it was, ever striving to observe all the minutiæ of convent rules, ever confessing every little deviation from the three vows aforementioned. I had been taught that baptism had made me a child of God; that original sin had, by virtue of that rite, been taken away; but that, subsequently, if I wished to retain God’s favour, I must confess every sin of omission and commission, in thought, word and deed; and that should I conceal wilfully any matter, however trivial, my eternal salvation would be endangered by any such concealment. It is perhaps difficult for those who have never been under such a hard yoke to imagine the mental torture such a system creates. I was often filled with fear lest I had not remembered[50] everything, and it is no easy matter to look back through a whole life and lay everything bare before God, in the presence of a man, whom we are told to forget entirely, and think we are but repeating everything to God, who knows all beforehand, but who wills that we should come to Him in this way; and whatever shame is felt in thus opening our hearts and all its windings, must be accepted willingly as a small suffering for our sins. Sometimes a matter seems so silly or trivial that one thinks it not necessary to confess it. But the very fact of not wishing to confess it proves it to be wrong, and therefore it must be confessed. For years I went thus to confession, conscientiously and scrupulously declaring the whole of my inner and outer life. Thus did I strive to find the peace I so longed for, and I must say I did enjoy a certain satisfaction of mind until I inadvertently broke some convent rule. A sin of anger would be mortal; and had I died without confession of this sin to a priest and obtaining absolution, there would have been very little, if any, hope of my soul’s salvation. I would often confess, and weep tears of real pain and[51] bitter sorrow at my ingratitude to God, after His wonderful condescension in calling me into the “Religious Life,” while so many who possibly would have grown far holier than myself were left in the world, never even having the opportunity of gaining so bright a crown, or of being so near to Jesus hereafter. I would resolve and pray that I might never do anything wrong against rule (the rule is the nun’s guide to perfection, it being the only way that God intends her to reach perfection) or anything else; and to attain this perfect state, I would often spend my recreation and sleep time in making novenas to the blessed Virgin, reciting the Rosary and Litany of the blessed Virgin, or in invoking the saints; but they never seemed to answer me, and even when I redoubled my efforts, I sought their help in vain.
It was very difficult for me not to break rule sometimes, and often it would be impossible to perform obedience, as we had sometimes half a dozen obediences to fulfil at the same time, or we had some order given, and when it was accomplished, we would be severely reproved for taking upon us to dare to do such or such things; and[52] should we try and explain our conduct, by that very explanation at least half a dozen rules were broken straightway, namely, silence broken, self-justification, answering the Superior, unwillingness to take unjust rebuke with great gratitude, etc., for all of which we had hard penances imposed. The result was that at times I was in a state of continual penance, and consequently in prolonged disgrace, whilst some sisters who were not so conscientious in confessing faults, and doing penances prescribed by rule, were deemed far holier and much higher up the ladder than myself. At last I thought myself so bad that I literally despaired of ever reaching perfection, or of going to heaven at all. But my Father Confessor did not think me so bad, and, in fact, he flattered me, and declared that he thought very highly of me; but this only tended to alarm me, as I thought I must be deceiving myself and him too, and I told him this, but he assured me that I must not think so, and that he felt sure I could not have such a bad opinion of myself. However, for months and months I was afraid to go to sleep lest I should awake in hell; and I was equally afraid to get up[53] lest some accident should come upon me, and then I should be cast into perdition. So I was always asking to go to confession at every little fault or breach of rule.
At last the climax came, when one day the following passage from the writings of St. Alphonsus Liguori was read aloud: “A soul may yet be damned for sins which have already been confessed.” How to keep silence I knew not, for I felt how terribly I had been deceived in being told that sin confessed is sin forgiven. The next day I asked leave to go to my Father Confessor, and when I was in his presence he asked me:
“Sister Agnes, have you come to confession?”
I replied, “No, I have not, for I don’t believe in confession, or in anything, or anybody, or even in myself, and I scarcely believe there is a God at all.”
“Dear sister, what is the matter with you? I have never seen you like this before. I always thought you very good.”
Then I quoted the words of Liguori which had so upset me, and added:
“You told me that everything I confessed was[54] forgiven, and I believed you; but now I find it is not true.”
He made at once the best explanation he could of Liguori’s meaning, reconciling the words with his own apparently contradictory statement: both were right then. Be that as it may, I think that from that day I lost faith in the value and efficacy of confession, though I was obliged still to go to it.
It was just at this phase of my experience that I began to think about certain teaching that I had heard vague and indistinct rumours of; namely, that salvation was wholly the work finished for sinners by the Saviour’s atoning blood. I had fancied that there was no truth in this, and had imagined it was some new doctrine introduced by Methodists. Finding myself in such a dilemma, I began to think a good deal about this doctrine, and at last I heartily wished it was true. But I had been so long taught that sacraments were the only sure way to heaven, that I had much to do, and after doing my utmost, I must look to Christ’s work, so to speak, to supply my deficiencies, and that only when I appeared in the presence of God[55] after this mortal life could the great question of my salvation be settled. I had so long been living under the influence of such teaching that it may be easily seen I was not very ready to accept any other form of doctrine. Yet I could not get the new idea out of my head. I somehow felt convinced of the truth of it, but I was as yet too fast bound in the old chains, and in this state of hovering between two opinions I remained for some time, until at length one night I made up my mind I would not sleep till I had settled the question between my own soul and God. The result of this decision was that I determined to lay down at the feet of Jesus all my sins, sorrows, and failings, and even my best intentions, and just to trust in His finished work. I thought I had actually done this, and soon fell asleep; but on awaking I felt greatly disappointed, and, kneeling down before the crucifix in my cell, I confessed to Christ how bitterly I had been disappointed in finding that in trusting in His finished work, I had not been able to find anything beyond a very momentary peace. It was whilst thus kneeling I felt—as truly I thought as it is represented in[56] “Pilgrim’s Progress”—the whole burden of everything roll off, and a new life seemed then to thrill through me.
I had now been, as I have already said, a nun for about eight years, but my new experience did not force me out of the old routine of convent life. I quite well remember that Father Ignatius sometimes taught a doctrine very closely allied to that which I seemed lately so attracted by, but he muddled it up with a lot of teaching that seemed to contradict it. He certainly taught that all the sacramental superstructure, saint-worship, confession, etc., were only acceptable to God after we had received Christ, and thus it was that I was somehow led to believe that my new experience was right, but yet that my old life need not be set aside. I remember I was rather strengthened to continue with new vigour my self-imposed religiousness. Thus I continued, and it was only after an experience of some seventeen years that I saw that convent life—and any other life but that of the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave His life for me—was nothing else but a delusion.
Ten years were passed by me at Feltham. Father Ignatius did not have very much to do with us there. The Mother, I think, used to let him know that she did not consider it a man’s place to govern a number of women so entirely as he wished to do. Besides, he sometimes gave orders which she thought very indiscreet, from which great scandal might arise; and, being somewhat older than Father Ignatius, she took the liberty of representing to him, rather strongly, her views about his orders and doings. At times he would suddenly give orders from the so-called “altar,” where of course no one could well remonstrate, and which would put the household arrangements out for the whole day, though he seemed to be in a great state of consternation when matters did[58] not go forward smoothly in consequence of his orders. Sometimes, before breakfast, he would order that no one, not even the reverend Mother, should speak for a whole day, thus causing the utmost confusion, especially amongst the servants in the kitchen, who were included in the eccentric command. And yet if his own dinner was not properly cooked and served in time, he would show great displeasure. Another time I recollect how he ordered a young and delicate sister, who was very ill and consumptive, to walk bare-footed in the snow up and down the garden. On another occasion he ordered her to carry a number of stones till she had made a great heap, and then, when she had done this, he ordered her to carry them all back again! I remember also that once he ordered a young monk, who had come to Feltham with him, to put on a high hat, and then to hop up and down the centre path in the convent garden, so that all the nuns might see him. He did this to test the young monk’s humility and obedience, and to see if he was willing to become a fool for Christ’s sake. The nuns did see this extraordinary sight, and exclaimed:
“Dear Mother, do look at Brother ⸺. Is he not a perfect fool?”
Nothing was too idiotic to impose in the name of holy obedience. I have seen, for instance, a brother, instead of kneeling to receive Holy Communion, standing afar off, holding up a black kettle, and at grace, in the refectory, with the muddy street door mat on his head. I have seen a sister with a handkerchief tied over her eyes, as if she was just ready for a game of blind man’s buff. Remember, these follies were ordered to be done as penances, and penances were said to be special gifts of love from the Lord Jesus Christ! What profanity!
I am sure the reverend Mother had the greatest trial in Father Ignatius’ freaks, or whatever they may be called; and she soon began to get sick of them, and would dread the ten days he would sometimes spend at Feltham; for she never knew what he was going to do or order next. Once he intended to bring a young monk, ill from his monastery, to be nursed by a young novice nun, and she was to devote the whole of her time to looking after him. This might[60] have been well enough if we had been sisters of charity; but we were enclosed nuns, and were not allowed to see the face of a man, except, of course, our Superior. The Mother would not hear of such a thing, or allow the sick monk to come to the house, as she was sure it would prove an occasion of scandal. She thus set up her will and judgment to oppose Father Ignatius, and she did this on more than one occasion. But at last Father Ignatius boldly asserted that he was quite determined to have nothing but unconditional obedience. The Mother, and the majority of nuns in the Feltham convent, refused to accept such an unconditional obedience, and the result was that a split took place. The Mother would not sign a paper of unconditional and personal obedience, and so Father Ignatius said to those who refused: “You no longer belong to the order of the Monk Ignatius of Llanthony in the nineteenth century.” However, he took with him three nuns who were ready to render the obedience he required. I was one of the three. Another of the number was the nun who took novice vows when I did.  Her husband and child having died, she had returned to Feltham a few months before this split had taken place.
It is astonishing to contemplate how absolutely Father Ignatius required us to yield our wills to his will. Whatsoever he demanded was, he said, distinctly God’s will for us, and whatsoever we did for him was God’s will. To use his own oft-repeated words:
“It must be so sweet for you to wait upon your Superior, because in so doing you are really waiting upon God; in fact, in waiting upon your Superior, like Martha of old, you are waiting upon the Lord Himself.”
I can assure my readers that we poor deluded nuns believed in all this; and, so far as obedience would permit, we literally vied with each other in waiting upon our Superior and preparing for him the very best we could, for we felt that nothing could be too well prepared in waiting, as we thought, upon the Lord. There was no greater penance to us than to be debarred from waiting[62] upon his will. If any one was in disgrace for breaking rule, he would neither speak nor even look at her, nor even allow her to kiss the hem of his sacred dress!
After we had left Feltham a few weeks, Father Ignatius, and the widowed nun who had accompanied him, wrote several letters, in which the rebel nuns of Feltham were exhorted to return to their Father, by submitting to unconditional obedience. He allowed them, I think, three weeks to consider the matter; and if, at the close of that time, they remained obstinate, he would, he declared, excommunicate them, and then the awful curse of broken vows would rest upon them. The threatened curse was at length pronounced. The altar was draped in black, and an excommunication service was read through. I was greatly terrified at this most strange yet solemn act. I remember well the words that were uttered at this service:
Unless they repent of this their sin, may they be blotted out of the book of life. Amen, Amen.
Here the bell tolled. I was well nigh petrified with fear, and thought to myself, “Can all the[63] Feltham nuns really be under this awful curse?” At the first opportunity I asked Father Ignatius if the bell was really tolled for the Feltham Mother and nuns? He said, “Certainly it was.” I exclaimed, “How awful!” He replied, “True, my child, but it had to be done.” I remember how he often prophesied that the community at Feltham would only flourish like a green bay-tree for a time, and that ere long it would pass out of existence; and I must honestly confess that he did his very utmost to bring it to nought, by efforts to draw away friends and support from it. It has ever been a peculiarity of Father Ignatius to curse and excommunicate people; but those who are thus cursed only flourish all the more.
I will now pass on to say a few words about my life at the Slapton convent, in Devonshire, where we took up our abode after leaving Feltham.
We commenced life in our new home, which was part of an old chantry house, with glad, bold, and brave hearts, determined to keep the rules which were imposed upon us. Our motto was “In omnibus glorificetur Deus.” We were under stricter rule than we had ever been before, but we were glad of this, as we believed we were brought nearer to Jesus the stricter the rule we kept.
I cannot say much for the peace and happiness that fell to me here after two years had passed away. During that period I was housekeeper—Mother Wereburgh sacristan, and Mother Cecilia scribe. I was greatly praised and flattered; but[65] there was one fault found with me, and this was my unwillingness to obey implicitly the two sisters who were put above me as my Superiors. The fact is that both these nuns were jealous of me, on account of the good opinion Father Ignatius had of me. Besides, I am certain that Mother Cecilia had no right to be made Novice-mistress, nor had Mother Wereburgh right to be made Lady Prioress. The former had not been properly professed, and the latter was what is termed a “desecrated virgin,” and it was unlawful, according to the constitutions of St. Benedict, for either of them to hold office. It was not right of Father Ignatius to place these women over me in the place of God, and to command me to see God in them. Although I tried hard, I could not submit to them, and thus my life became by no means a smooth or happy one.
I may mention here that, whilst residing at Slapton, a poor old woman was somehow induced to sell her little home in Herefordshire, that she might come to our convent; but alas! she “found everything,” as she told me, “so different from what I expected. My life is a misery to me. I shall[66] never believe in anything again.” I must say she seemed at times somewhat peculiar; but when a person of fifty years of age begins life over again, and is expected to be as obedient as she was required to be when quite a little child, is it to be wondered at that such a return to an artificial childhood causes bewilderment? It was nothing else than devotion to Father Ignatius that caused her to give up her home.
It was the rule in choir to hold books; when sitting, to have the palm of each hand resting on each knee; and when kneeling, to do so perfectly upright, with hands crossed on each breast. Now this old woman had not taken any vow of obedience, and she either forgot to keep her hands in a proper position, or did not choose to do so; consequently the reverend Father, during the service, would cross the choir to her seat, and put her hands in the proper position. Five minutes afterwards she would have them clasped or folded, whereon the Father had to come to her again repeatedly.  Mother Wereburgh told her she had better go home, but[67] she had none to go to, for she had parted from her own home, believing that she was coming to one. Once she ran away and scandalized the nuns to the villagers. When she came back, the Mother sent for the village policeman, as she made out that the poor old woman was violent; and with the help of the policeman, she was conveyed away in the carrier’s cart, and she gave the constable the money to pay her fare to her own home again.
The unkindness of the two sisters was quite sufficient to make the old woman strange and angry. I remember how she denounced these nuns, assuring them that the Lord would take vengeance on them, and it was such a speech that caused the Mother Superior to draw the policeman’s attention to the alleged fact that she was mad. The simple-minded man said he could “see it.” Now this policeman was made favourably disposed to the nuns, when we first went to Slapton, by the present of a leg of mutton going to his family for a Sunday dinner, and other gifts of a similar kind. The old woman was really no more mad than I am at present, but she was often made frantic with[68] anger by the conduct of the Mother. After her return home she wrote for some clothes she had left behind at the convent, and asked the Mother to return everything that belonged to her, upon which the Mother assured Father Ignatius that she had taken all her belongings with her. Soon after this I happened to be at the linen-press with the Mother, and there I saw some of the old woman’s clothes, and exclaimed, “See, here are the things she asked for!” The Mother replied, “Oh, they are only old rags.” They were not. “But,” said I, “are they not what she wrote for?” Three times afterwards she wrote for them, for she was badly off, having sold all her little earthly possessions to enter the “holy, happy cloister.” Father Ignatius again asked the Mother to send the things off; yet in my presence she said: “I assure you, dear Father, there is nothing here of hers, and to make certain of this, I looked all through the linen cupboard the other day, and could not find a single garment belonging to her.” I dared not open my lips, or even say a word to help this poor old woman to regain her clothes. They were of no value to the Mother; but once having denied[69] that they were there, she would not acknowledge she had made a mistake, and would stick to it.
 She knew nothing of any kind of religion whatever, yet in a few months she made her first communion, and took novice vows for one year. I am sure she had no more idea than a new-born babe of what she had undertaken, or what was expected of her; and the hundred and one rules we had to conform to in each day were frightfully bewildering. This poor creature consequently was frequently breaking rule, and was therefore plunged in penance, disgrace and misery, and really for no fault of hers. After about two months she was sent back to the world, as she was always in trouble, especially as she was very fond of talking to the gardener, and could not see the sin of an enclosed novice talking to a man, or why she should cover her face with her veil when she wanted to see him, or any one else. As she could not make head or tail of the “glorious holy life,” and was thoroughly miserable in it, she was dispensed from her vows,[70] and sent away in a kind spirit, which was from a prudent motive.
I will mention the case of another young lady who came to our convent as a postulant. When she had been there a few days, she felt she had done wrong in leaving her only brother, as she had so much influence over him for good, and they were orphans. With the Mother’s permission, she went back. The reverend Father was absent at the time. On his return, he sent off a letter to her, telling her that the curse of God would be upon her—that she had no faith in God. She should leave her brother in His hands, and he actually told her that she was a spiritual adulteress.
It is important that my readers should thoroughly grasp this fearful moral compulsion, which is exercised on impressible and easily influenced minds. And yet the world is told that postulants, and novices, and professed nuns, are quite free to go back if they choose. The letter of Ignatius brought this young lady back, and she was duly put to penance for leaving. She had to cover her face with a black mask, during the[71] divine office, which is recited seven times a day and once at night. She had to sit upon the ground during the time allowed to sitting in those offices, and she was ordered to sit on the floor to eat her food. After meekly going through all her penances for the space of six weeks, she took novice vows, when her beautiful long hair was cut off quite short, in token of her renunciation of the world. She was a sweet girl of about nineteen at the time, and I know full well that she was as thoroughly miserable as she could be. When she had been a novice some time, the Lady Prioress announced to her publicly:
“Sister Ermenild, you have been a novice now over two years. Reverend Father and I both think it time you made your profession; so please to get ready to take the black veil.”
Although this profession was made after we had removed to Wales, I may as well give a short account of it in this chapter.
A solemn service was performed, in which the nun was “married to Jesus Christ, Son of the most high God.”  The Burial Service from the Book of Common Prayer was then read over her, earth being solemnly dropped upon her. The De Profundis was sung for the repose of her soul, after which the altar was then divested of its black funeral hangings (which had been put on for this part of the service), and soon afterwards Sister Ermenild appeared in her bridal attire. She was a new creature now, raised, so to speak, to a new life. She was then led to the altar, bearing in her hands a massive lighted taper, and wearing a virgin’s crown, during which proceeding a hymn was sung:
After which came “the cursing,” a ceremony which is always used in the Roman Catholic Church in the consecration of a virgin, and is to the effect that—
“Should any one attempt to draw aside this present virgin, let him be cursed in his rising up and sitting down, in his standing or walking, in sleeping or waking, in eating or drinking, etc., etc., and may[73] his flesh rot from his bones, and may he be blotted out of the book of life. Amen, amen, so be it.”
After all this cursing was finished, the now reverend Dame Mary E. was enthroned on a seat covered with rich crimson plush, which was placed upon the altar steps, that from thence she might give all who went up to her the blessing. Father Ignatius led the way, followed by monks, boys, nuns, girls, and as many seculars as felt inclined to go. The service was then finished.[11]
In less than a month after, being in great trouble and disgrace with her Superior (for what[75] it would be a puzzle to find out), Sister E. said to me:
“Oh! how I wish I had never taken the black veil!”
“But,” said I, “you wanted to?”
She said, “No, I never asked to. You yourself heard what the reverend Mother said to me; and previous to that, she had not uttered a word on the subject.”
“But,” said I, “you know what the reverend Father said before every one, how eloquently he told them that the virgin about to be professed was not yet bound, and even at that last minute she was perfectly free to return to the world if she chose; but that only after she had taken this awful step she could not go back?”
To which she replied: “Yes, he did, I know, say so in public, but you do not know what he said to me in private.”
Oh, how easily the world is deceived by such high-sounding phrases! “The doors are open—all are free to leave as soon as they like, etc.” When people speak of inspecting convents, they should remember that to do so thoroughly, something[76] beyond what is visible to the eye must be investigated, even the interior of each nun’s heart, and the terrible moral force that has been brought to bear upon it. And remember, too, that if a sister’s own mother or sister came to see her, she could not discover the deep distress that so often lies upon her daughter’s heart. No nun would dare to tell it, even to her mother, though her heart might be breaking with misery. She would have to appear before her mother with the look of one who is perfectly happy, and even smiling, otherwise she would be instrumental in bringing disgrace and scandal upon the convent, and this, at all cost, must be avoided. I have had to appear thus, looking happy and free before my own mother, when a few minutes before I had been crying, wishing and praying that I might die.
After this digression, I will return to give an account of a novice at Slapton, who took vows on the same day as Sister E. just mentioned. They promised to let her take the black veil soon, provided only that she showed herself a submissive child (this child was over thirty), who had no wish or opinion but that of her superiors. But[77] unfortunately for her, she had a very natural habit of forming an opinion for herself, and admitted that she thought it no harm to do so, as long as she kept that opinion to herself. But there was great harm in this (so the Superior said), inasmuch as a novice should be in all things of one mind with her Superiors, in thought, word, and deed. This novice brought with her a valuable gold watch, which she was content to give up for the time being, and, according to novice rules, she had given up her box and keys. The Mother had looked into Sister F.’s box, and there saw some things she wanted for use in the convent, and she told Sister F. so. The novice, however, was not willing that they should be used, as she had not taken life vows; in this way she first drew upon herself the Mother Superior’s displeasure and censure. Shortly after this she was asked to give up her money to help in building a new cloister at Llanthony. She said she was willing to give up a part but not the whole, and would very much like to put a stone in the building. Thus by exercising her own opinion she was again brought into disgrace, and was told she[78] could keep her money, and would not be allowed the privilege of putting a stone to the building. She must give up all her money or none. From that time she was treated with the greatest severity, and looked upon as the offscouring of all things. To make a long story short, she was soon packed off from Slapton as having no vocation to the “religious life.” How strange it was that her Superiors were unable to detect this until they discovered that she was unwilling to give up her money to build a holy cloister! Before this they had a very good opinion of her.
I was looking forward to taking the black veil, but somehow the Mother had made a firm resolve to keep me, if possible, from taking this step. I may be permitted to write a few words about the present Lady Prioress of Llanthony. This lady took novice vows with me in 1869. She gained a great reputation for sanctity by an assumed air of humility, and by performing innumerable voluntary penances and antics, which put her less saintly sisters to much discomfort and disgust. I recollect her once sitting next to me in the refectory at dinner, when I saw a roasted maggot on her plate, which made me feel quite ill. I signed to her, fearing she would eat it unperceived, whereupon she at once took it upon her fork, salted it, and put it into her mouth, looking the very picture of goodness. She would of her own free[80] will throw herself down on the floor, and meekly kiss everybody’s feet, beg their prayers, and thank them for bearing with her, saying she was not worthy to be amongst us, etc. This continued until we were all perfectly sick of her, as we knew quite well by her other words and actions that she considered herself the best in the house. Sometimes she would bang her head purposely against the wall; in fact, she copied every saint, whose life she happened to be reading at the time, in his or her foolish actions, whilst if they did anything sensible, she left it out. St. Mary Magdalene of Piazzi, was her special favourite. Sister Wereburgh once planted a rotten cucumber, to see if our Lord would make it grow into a plant, which, of course, He did not, though she quite thought He would. This was in imitation of a St. Teresa, who, we read, once gave a rotten cucumber to one of her novices in order to test her obedience, desiring her to plant it in the garden. The novice obeyed without a question, when, in reward for her perfect obedience, a plant sprang from it, and bore fruit. This is one of the miracles recorded in the life[81] of Saint Teresa. Sister Wereburgh would obtain leave to go without her dinner, and fast till tea-time, very often, but was desired to have some lunch, which would consist of dry bread. The Mother Superior at that time never asked her what lunch she had, but at last some of us found out that she had a good helping of bread and butter, and a good-sized cup of hot cocoa. She was housekeeper then, and thus had no difficulty in taking what she wanted. Thus she really had more than we did at dinner, which often consisted of two small sardines, three or four small potatoes, and half a slice of bread, thinly cut, and some water. As I do not wish to appear in the least vindictive, I will not now add more about this sister. She was the cause of distress to more persons than myself, though she managed to keep herself in favour with Father Ignatius, and became quite his model nun.
I will now tell my readers more of my experiences at Llanthony. I cannot say Father Ignatius gave us a very warm welcome to our new convent. In the first place, I remember well how dreadfully he frightened me by telling us that[82] the place was haunted by evil spirits, as well as good. We were told by Ignatius that he had watched a whole procession of devils cross the church, while they were at matins. The brothers, we were assured, had often seen them about the house. One brother at the monastery declared that he had felt their hot breath on his cheek. This brother was a life-vowed monk, though only about twenty-one years of age. He ran away and came back so many times, that at last he said, “To prevent myself from ever returning, I shall get married,” which he fulfilled by marrying an opera girl. I was told that afterwards he became a billiard-marker.
The Novice-mistress came into our room one day, saying:
“I have seen him.”
“Seen whom?” we asked.
“The devil,” she replied.
I was really frightened by the tales of the devils who inhabited the cloister; and to add to my terror, Father Ignatius and the Novice-mistress told me:
“Sister Agnes is SURE to see him.”
I used to go about night and day, making the sign of the cross, praying to our Lord, the blessed Virgin, and to our holy Father St. Benedict, not to let me see anything, either good or evil. Sometimes I did not hear the call for the night office, and would only awake at the sound of the bell. This necessitated my going down a long dark passage alone, and returning alone to and from the church; besides, I had to stay in the church alone after matins and lauds, to recite the whole of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, as a penance for not rising when called. Not hearing was no excuse; and if we only remained in bed thirty seconds after being called, and attempted to leave the church with the others, the Novice-mistress would make signs for the sister who failed to rise, to stop and perform her penance. It used to take me a long time to do my penance, as I kept leaving off to watch for a devil.
There is supposed to be a miraculous light over the “altar,” which was pointed out to us on the first day of our arrival at Llanthony. I looked for a long time, but failed to see anything but the sunshine. At last the reverend Father said:
“Do you see it, Sister Agnes?”
I replied, “No, dear Father, I do not see anything but cobwebs and sunshine.”
I must not omit to write on a very distressing subject, and that is the ill-treatment I received from the Lady Prioress. After I had been about a week at Llanthony, she sent for me. On coming into her presence I knelt at her feet, and she gave me the hem of her dress to kiss. It should be remembered that we were not usually allowed to speak to the Superior without first prostrating our faces to the ground, and kissing the hem of her “holy habit.”[12] But I had better give the very words of the rule: “To receive the words of our Superior, humbly kneeling, with eyes fixed on the ground.” Should we break this rule, the order was “to receive any penance our Superior liked to inflict.” My Superior on this occasion said,[85] “Sister Agnes, you often say you wish to submit to me.” I replied, “Yes, dear Mother.” On which she said, “Hold your tongue, and listen to me, for now I am going to prove you; and the first thing, before I say any more, I must ask you to take off your scapular, for you are not fit to wear it.” You, my readers, must please understand that to give up the scapular was a terrible disgrace, and it quite cut any sister off from many privileges which are highly prized, such as communion and recreation. She now imposed a severe penance upon me.  I did not mind the nuns and girls treading upon me, but my nature did recoil from lying down for men to walk over me. They themselves hesitated a moment, and then deliberately walked over me. They were under obedience, and had they refused, would have incurred punishment. This penance was to last seven times a day for a week. The next penance she imposed was to make me lie prostrate on my[86] face in front of my stall for a week during the night office, which lasts from 2 a.m. to 3.45 a.m. Then a third penance I had to undergo was to be deprived of my breakfast, and thus to go without food till 12.30 p.m.; and when I was permitted to eat, I remember I had to take my plate and kneel before each sister, and beg food from each in turn. Though they afforded me a generous supply, I was often too ill to partake of it. After enduring two days’ fasting in this fashion, the Novice-mistress begged that I might have a cup of tea, and a piece of bread at 9 a.m.  Ah! I did feel ill, quite wretched! but yet I longed to be quite good, pure, and holy, and this made me submit so willingly to these dreadful penances. Often at this and subsequent periods my life was such a burden to me, that I have begged and prayed that God would let me die. “O God, if you would only grant me death!” has been my prayer over and over again.
At that time I had not allowed myself to think of giving up convent life. Such a thought to me then would have been sacrilege, and the very[87] greatest unfaithfulness to the Lord, to whom I believed myself espoused. These words which had been repeated in my ears, sounded loudly:
“Knowest thou not that the novitiate is a solemn espousal to our Lord Jesus Christ, and the consummation of the bridal tie with thy Lord will be expected of thee when thou shalt take the final vows?”
I could not forget that when I had been asked at the service of taking novice vows.
“What will become of you if you ever turn back, after taking up the golden plough?”
I had to make this reply: “I should then be unfit for the kingdom of God.”
Awful words were these, words which seemed like the announcement of our own eternal damnation. Father Ignatius now says, “Why did you do these penances? You were at liberty to refuse, and leave the convent.” But I would ask my readers to try and understand what that implied, what terrible mental torture (a form of torture more cruel and bitter than that imposed of old by the Inquisition) such a step involved. I am afraid no one can realize it who has not herself passed through it. It is a maddening kind[88] of torture, because one is strained up to such a pitch, and made to think of the awful sin against God and one’s own soul by going back; when for all eternity, by a little submission here, one would hereafter become the spotless bride of the Lamb, and gain a glorious crown to lay at His feet.
I am sure that never did any girl enter a convent, and remain in it for so many years, with a more sincere intention of serving and pleasing God through the will of her Superior than I did. I had been told many times that—
“God in His wisdom has appointed the reverend Mother, and declares that He will only accept your obedience through her, and through her alone.”
And yet she was the very one that made obedience impossible, by giving me rules that were beyond my power to fulfil; and often orders were given me, which I fulfilled, and yet would after all be reprimanded severely for daring to take upon myself to do them.
After suffering much at her hands for three years, I became convinced that she would never treat me better, and I made up my mind to leave[89] the convent. When I asked her permission to leave, she always replied, “Yes, you can go. You may go at this moment if you like.” Yet she never did anything to further my departure. How could I go without clothes to put on? and I had nothing but my serge habit and cap, and was without money for my fare. Besides, it was many miles through a wild country to the nearest railway station, and I was ignorant of the way, and had been shut away from the world for sixteen years, from the early age of fifteen. The only journeys I had made were from convent to convent, and even then we had thick veils over our faces all the way, and were told not to put them up, though we were in close carriages. I wrote several times to my sister, asking her to send me some money to pay for my journey, and to tell me how to get to her, and to meet me. Over and over again I wrote to her, and received no reply. At last I discovered that my letters were not sent. Yet the world is told that nuns have free intercourse with their friends outside. Nothing of the kind!
At last I wrote another letter, and forced myself into my Superior’s presence (for she had now forbidden[90] me to go near her), and asked her to allow the letter to go by this post. I told her that it was to my sister, and that I had written for journey money, as I intended to leave. At this she quite raved, saying:
“Go out of my room this instant! I shall not allow your letter to go to your sister.
This was not true, as my sister has since told me that she wrote to the Superior requesting her kindly to give me a few details about my mother’s death. I had often written to my sister asking for a piece of my mother’s hair, and it worried her so, as my darling mother was burnt to death, and there was nothing left of her but a charred coal. I had been told only that she was dead, and, very naturally, I wanted to know all about it, and continually asked for the circumstances of her death, and a piece of her hair.
The reverend Mother knew all about it, my sister having written it in the first letter announcing my[91] mother’s death, and yet she never told me what had taken place. My sister had now again written to the Superior asking her to tell me all about it, so that I should not be always asking the same question, which so worried my sister to have repeated unnecessarily as she thought.[13] My brothers, I learnt afterwards, had sent me their photographs, but they had been returned, after which they never wrote to me again, and I had meanwhile been wondering why I never heard from them.
I now felt utterly desolate to think I could not write to my sister, and I was in terror what would happen to me next: somehow I did not like to run away, as it then seemed to me dishonourable, so I said to a young sister, who I knew would report it:
“You know, I have asked over and over again to be allowed to go, and the reverend Mother will not let me. Now I am determined to watch my opportunity and run away; I shall stop at the[92] first house I come to, and send some one up here to ask for money to pay my fare.”
An hour after this, the Novice-mistress came with a sun-bonnet, a black and white shawl, and a sovereign, saying:
“The reverend Mother says you have asked to go so many times. Now George is going to the station, and can drive you down there to-morrow. These are all the clothes she has to give you, and that money” (putting the sovereign down on the table) “belongs to the altar. If you choose to do so, take it, and you are to take nothing away with you, not even a change of clothes.”
To this I replied: “Tell the reverend Mother I cannot go out a beggar; all I want is a change of clothes.”
She sent an answer back by a new sister.
“You came to her a beggar, and you will go away a beggar.”
It may be asked how it was that I felt so determined to leave. Before going on to relate how at last I did leave, I will mention that which provoked me to my determination. I am sure that my readers will not think it a trifling provocation.[93] It was as follows. One day the Mother Superior summoned us all to chapter, and commenced speaking to us thus:
“My dear children, I have come to the conclusion, which has now for some time been growing upon me (but I am now convinced of it), that poor Sister Agnes is mad.”
Every one seemed to start at this absurdity. I could only smile.  You must never contradict them, and, therefore, you must never contradict Sister Agnes. If you do, the madness will increase; you must just say ‘yes’ to everything, unless you know she wants you to say ‘no’; you need not take the trouble to talk to her, or put yourselves out for her, unless she asks you a question; then simply smile at her and say ‘yes.’”
She then turned to me and said:
“I forbid you to go into church at all, or to speak to any one, unless it is absolutely necessary; but of course you will do as you like about it.”
My first thought was, “What a blessing! for I shall get a little peace now!” I was in peace for two days, and, if I asked questions about my work or anything, the sisters all smiled graciously, and nodded their heads, or replied, “yes.” After two days had passed, I began to wonder whether I really was mad or not. This thought took such hold upon me that I would sit for hours with my head in my hands, wondering if I had really lost my reason. The thought drove sleep from me, and, in fact, was slowly driving me really mad. I asked that new sister (L⸺ W⸺, from Devonshire) if she thought I was mad. She told me she did not think me so; but I supposed that perhaps she only said this to please and humour me, according to the instructions given by the Mother Superior. She assured me, however, that she really knew I was not mad. In spite of this assurance, my mind was in as much doubt as before, and I arrived at the conclusion that if I was not already mad, I soon should be, with this awful doubt on my mind.
I again asked leave to go, and the reverend Mother replied before them all:
“I have nowhere to send you; directly I have, you shall go.”
“But,” I replied, “I want to go to my sister.”
Turning to the chapter again, she said:
“I assure you I only keep her here out of love. She is a poor child, without a friend in the world, entirely dependent on my charity, and that of the reverend Father.”
A strange suspicion was now borne into my mind, from what the Mother Superior had said about sending me away when she had a place to send me, that she was actually trying to drive me mad, and would then send me to a lunatic asylum. Hence arose my final decision to leave the convent at any cost.
To show my readers the kind of treatment I received from this lady, I will mention that one evening I was sitting alone, when suddenly I felt a great pain go through my head—so great that it almost stupified me. Then I felt a sudden box on my left ear, another on my right. I cried out, “Oh! oh!” not quite making out what it was, for the first blow had nearly stunned me.
Then a voice sounded, “I don’t care if I kill[96] you,” and I saw close to me the Lady Prioress, or the reverend Mother Mary Wereburgh of the Blessed Sacrament!
O God, Thou knowest what I write is true, without adding to it or taking aught from it; and yet I had been induced to leave my own precious mother, and had been told that the love of a spiritual father and mother and sister was so great, that the love of one’s own parents and sisters was not to be compared to it. I always craved to be loved. I had left all my earthly relations only to gain what I was told was a higher, purer, holier, and more noble love.
Behold my reward! And such shall be yours, my reader, if you should unhappily follow in my footsteps. Yes, disappointment will follow you, bitterness of heart beyond all description, a longing to go back to those dear ones whom you have left, and yet not daring to go lest the curse of God should fall upon you. I have spent seventeen years in the cloister, and let me tell you that nearly all, or, at least, a full half of that period was one of bitter sorrow and disappointment.
It was quite a common thing to have our ears[97] boxed by the Lady Superior. In consequence, I became quite deaf in one ear, and, consequently, was often unable to hear the orders given me. I was reported to the reverend Father for disobedience, and I told him that it was through no fault of mine that I had failed in obeying orders, but that I had had my ears boxed to such an extent that I had become quite deaf in one ear.
One day I was coming from nones at 2.45 p.m. This “Mother” commanded me to stay where I was, and not to return to work, and then said:
“You have got the DEVIL in you, and I am going to beat him out.”
All left the sacristy but myself, the Mother Superior, and one nun, who was ordered to be present at the casting out of the devil. I was commanded first to strip. I saw “the Discipline,” with its seven lashes of knotted whipcord in her hand, and I knew that one lash given (or taken by oneself) was in reality seven. I should mention that at certain times it was the rule to discipline oneself.[14]
Now my first thought when commanded to strip was, “I can’t;” it would not be right or modest to strip (it meant to the waist). Then it came into my mind that Jesus did not thus think, when the soldiers ordered Him to strip to be scourged. He simply obeyed, and I felt sure that what He did I might imitate. So I said inwardly, “Yes, dear Lord, for love of Thee I can.” Then I began to undress; but when I came to my vest, shame again overcame me.
“Take that thing off,” said the Mother Superior. I replied, “I cannot, reverend Mother; it’s too tight.” The nun who was present was told to help me to get it off. A deep feeling of shame came over me at being half nude!
The Mother then ordered the nun to say the “Miserere,” and while it was recited she lashed me several times with all her strength. I was determined[99] not to utter a sound, but at last I could not restrain a smothered groan, whereat she gave me one last and cruel lash, and then ceased.
Even three weeks after she had “Disciplined” me, I had a very sore back, and it hurt me greatly to lie on it (our beds were straw put into sacks).
There was a looking-glass in the room I now occupied (nuns do not usually have them), and I looked to see if my back was marked, as it was so sore. Never shall I forget the shock it gave me. I turned quickly away, for my back was black, blue, and green all over.
I will explain to my readers what “devil” in me it was that the Lady Prioress had been attempting to drive out. You have seen how very unkind she had been to me, and, not daring to speak to her, I made a cake, which I knew her to be very fond of, and sent a note with it, begging her to be kind to me; and I told her I was willing to do anything if only she would be kind. I asked what she would have done if kindness had not been shown to her, when she asked for readmission to the Feltham convent; and I implored her, by the remembrance of that[100] kindness which had been shown her, to be kind to me, and I signed myself, “Your loving child, M. A.,” or words as near to this as I can now remember. This was the “devil” I had at this and at all other times. The fact is, that I knew too much about her, which no other sister did, and yet I never even breathed it to a soul!
Owing to the hard life we had to lead at the convent, I was not at all strong; in fact, I frequently felt ill and tired. I was often so weary that I could have laid down and willingly died. I often found it difficult to walk downstairs and up again in the middle of the night. The novice-mistress would then sometimes roughly push me, to make me go faster. I would often faint whilst reciting the Psalms aloud, and drop down on the floor, thus always hurting my head. If Father Ignatius happened to be near, they would show me some degree of kindness; but if he was away, they would drag me out of chapel and try to make me walk upstairs, or I was roughly pushed or dragged up when I had not the strength to walk. Once I remember they put me out into the sacristy, and laid me on the step of the[101] folding door which led to the garden, and, opening the door wide, they left me there whilst they went back to prayers. I had fainted, and on recovering I would have given anything for some water, but not a drop did they give me. After a while I got so cold, and could not move myself, but, notwithstanding my pitiable condition, I had to wait till they came out of chapel. I was only partly dressed, and it was in the depth of winter. The next day I could not speak, and had a severe attack of bronchitis.[15]
It certainly was no temptation to faint, and they must have known I was not shamming, because Father Ignatius, who was always very kind in any illness, once brought Dr. Hanson to see me whilst in a faint, who said, “It comes from weakness. This young nun is very weak.”
Once the Mother Superior actually pinned a large paper in front of me, and another on my back. On the latter was written in large letters: “Jesus”—“Mercy”—“Pray for me”—“Beware of me.” All through that day I had to wear this,[102] and saw the partly hidden smiles, and heard the loud laugh of those about me. I did not criticize or make any objection, and tried to bear with equanimity this humiliation.
At another time she wrote a confession for me to copy, sign, and send to Father Ignatius. In this confession were these words: “I felt great repugnance to obey, when reverend Mother desired me to give up all the letters and books which reverend Father had given me.” This was untrue, but holy obedience compelled me to write the untruth, and I copied the confession out, and sent it over to the monastery. In a few hours the reverend Father came over, called a chapter, and quoted what I had written as a proof that I would not submit to the reverend Mother.
“But,” I said, “dear Father, I did not feel a repugnance, or let myself think anything; I obeyed at once.”
“Then why did you write this note to me?”
I replied, “The reverend Mother told me to write it.”
“Did you, dear Mother?” he asked.
“No!” was her answer.
I then said, “Well, she did not exactly tell me. She wrote the confession, and sent a note telling me to copy and sign it.”
The reverend Father then said, “Give me her note.”
I said, “I cannot, for she told me to send it back to her directly I had read it, and I did so.”
He then turned to her, and she put on the most innocent face, looking at the same time aghast at me, and groaned:
“Oh!” she cried, shaking her head, as if it was too awful to listen to me. After a great deal of talking on their part, I was finally dismissed with:
“Poor child! She is not accountable for anything she says. She is quite possessed.”
These words from Father Ignatius, who I thought would at last see how unjust she was to me, caused me deep grief.
This was by no means the first time I had a false confession to copy, and send as my own. Mother Cecilia (the Novice-mistress) once gave me a confession, in her writing, to copy and send to the reverend Father. I read it, and then knelt down, and kissed the hem of her dress, and said:
“I am very sorry, but I cannot write this, as it is untrue.”
Her reply was, “You can do anything you are told.”
I then knew that I must obey, and therefore I wrote at the end of the confession:
“Dear Father, this is not true, I have only copied it.”
I sealed the letter, and was going to send it, but Mother Cecilia took it, read it, and severely lectured me, saying:
“You have not a spark of the spirit of obedience in you.”
She often told me to do or say what was not true, and I could not, and often I used to cry and say:
“Mother mistress, I really do want to be obedient; but that is not true, and I cannot write it.”
“No,” she would tauntingly reply, “I know you cannot. You have plenty of sense, you are quick and clever, etc.; but there is one thing you cannot do. You cannot give up your will, you cannot do as you are told. Therefore you cannot be a nun.”
The truth was, that they did not want me to[105] become a fully professed nun, because, as such, I should have had a voice in the community; and having been with Father Ignatius so long, I was not afraid of him, and used to speak about everything to him, and let him know what otherwise he would not have known. In order, then, to gain their own ends, they must first lower me in his eyes, and prove by all manner of intriguing that I had “no vocation.” After four years they succeeded in convincing him of it, and he finally told me I had no vocation for the “religious life.” He must have been very slow of discernment not to have found that out before, considering that I had been a sister for seventeen years.
I trust all this will not appear wearisome to my readers. I hope that this book will be read by many who may possibly have very little idea of what convent life is. On the surface convent life has a great attraction for some minds. When we were in Devonshire, a girl of the name of Lily W., who lived just opposite the convent, was desperately in love with it, having seen all the glitter and outside show, and heard the sweet music and singing, and having seen the bridal ceremony of Sister Ermenild[106] taking the white veil, and observed the peaceful looks of the nuns whom she watched walking in the garden. I would observe here, that what appears a peaceful look is simply an attitude that rule drills us into. Now, Lily W. thought that convent life must be heaven upon earth. This girl came to us at Llanthony, but she received a very cold welcome. She was given plenty of hard work, was taken no notice of, and had to keep silence all day, like the professed novices and nuns, except during recreation hour. When she had been there three days, she said to me:
“Oh, dear! it is all so different from what I thought.”
She spent her days and nights in sighing and crying, and seemed so miserable that I remarked to the Prioress:
“Poor Lily seems so miserable, and she is always crying and sighing, more or less, day and night.”
The Prioress replied, “Serve her right; she should not have pushed herself into a hornet’s nest. If people will push themselves into a hornet’s nest, they must expect to be stung.”
Nuns have said to me more than once: “If it were not for my vows, I would not stay in the convent another day.” Another has said to me:
“Alas! I often look round and think can this be what I gave up my beautiful home for? If ever a woman came into a convent with a sincere desire to serve God, I did.”
And I am sure she spoke the truth. Afterwards she became a hard and tyrannical woman; but it was not her fault; for convent life does one of two things—it either crushes, or hardens its victims.
I assure my readers that convent life must crush every bit of self out of its victims. I was crushed by the life, and not seldom felt inclined to drown myself.
At 1.45 every morning the sisters are called by the words, “Benedicamus Domino.” Each sister must instantly arise, saying, “Deo gratias,” then prostrate herself and kiss the floor; and after tidying herself, she must kneel upright with her back toward the bed, in silent prayer, until the first chime of the bell ceases. The nuns then form themselves into a procession, with lighted tapers in their hands, and sing as they go to church, where they remain, singing, praying, and reciting psalms, etc., until 4 a.m. They then retire to their cells, and rest until quarter to five (unless they have the lamentations of Jeremiah to recite, or it is Lent, for during that season they remain in church from 2 to 6), when they are again awakened by the same words, and have the same routine to perform. Then follows the office of[109] “Prime.” If a priest is there, mass is said, or sung, after which the “Martyrology” follows, and “prayers for the faithful departed.” We then remain in silent meditation until the Angelus bell is rung, when we sing the “Angelus,” and then form in procession and go to spiritual reading till 8. At that hour the bell calls us to church again, when we recite the offices of Terce and Sext, and listen to a meditation. At 8.45 the “Pittance bell” rings, and we form in procession again, and go into the refectory, where we find half-a-pint of unsweetened coffee, some dry bread, potatoes, rice or porridge, and salt, some of which we must eat, whether we are hungry or not. Many a time, like David, have we mingled our bread with weeping, and well nigh washed our bed with tears. Of course, the rule about eating this pittance of a meal did not apply to the Superiors, for they had whatever they liked, and had it whenever they liked.
At 9 o’clock the bell again rings, and we go to the Sacristy and sing, “Veni, Creator.” After this the work of the day commences, and real hard work it is.
But at 12 o’clock (midday) the bell is again rung, and we go to church and sing the “Angelus,” and listen to a meditation on the blessed Sacrament from St. Alphonsus Liguori, etc. We then come out of church and go to chapter, where each sister accuses herself of any fault against rule. Should a sister omit anything, or her fellow-sisters consider she has not told everything, it is their duty to say, “I accuse sister so-and-so of doing, or saying, or leaving undone, such a thing.” It may be true or false, but the person accused cannot justify herself, while the sister who has accused her is praised for doing so, and is told that it wants great courage to perform such a kindness to her sister. Sometimes (more often than not) the Superior will keep the sisters there an hour or two accusing some sister, whom she has some special spite against, of faults she never committed or even thought of, and the least transgression of rule is severely punished; while want of true charity, and the Superior’s temper, are highly praised as in accordance with the will of God.
Besides these daily “chapters,” each day we had to write down every transgression of rule, and to[111] present the record to the Novice-mistress every Saturday morning. If she felt inclined, she would write two or three more pages of our sins, which of course she knew nothing about. Then she would pass these confessions on to the Mother Prioress, who would do a little more scribbling, and then, in turn, pass them on to the reverend Father, who would often write underneath, “Most disgraceful,” and keep us away from Sunday Communion, and return our books on Monday morning to commence the same thing over again. Chapter being over, we went back to work till three, when the bell rang again for nones.
At 3.30 the dinner bell rings, and we all formed in procession, said a long grace, and then sat down to our meal, consisting of fish or eggs, vegetables, pudding, or soup, and water. On Sundays we had chicken and pudding. Flesh meat (with this exception) was not allowed except for the Superiors, who had it every day, or twice or even three times a day, except Friday.
At 4 o’clock, the “recreation” bell rings, and again we formed in procession, and recited a prayer, offering the silence of the day past to[112] God. And now we all must talk, even though we may have nothing to speak about. If we keep silence for five minutes, we are supposed to be in a temper, and the erring sister is told to go to her cell till she is sent for. At 5 o’clock, the bell again rings; we form in procession, and go to church, and sing Vespers and the “Angelus.”
At 6 o’clock the tea bell rings. Tea consists of bread-and-butter, or jam, or treacle, and tea. At 6.30 the bell again rings for conference (“Lives of the Saints”).
At 7.30 the bell rings for compline, which often lasts till 9 o’clock, for there is compline to sing, De Profundis, prayers for the dead, litany of the blessed Virgin, and hymn and prayers to our holy Father St. Benedict, meditation, and the closing hymn, after which we go in procession, singing “Ave, Maria,” to the dormitory, when each sister, kneeling at the entrance of her cell, closes her eyes, and sings:
We then undress, perform our ablutions, redress, praying at each holy garment we put on; finally we lie down, making the sign of the cross, and saying, “I will lay me down in peace,” etc. The “peace” is a query. It was more often “I will lay me down in sorrow,” worn out in mind and body, and thus closes the peaceful, perfect, sublime, happy, holy day!
In summer the rule differs a little, and is not quite so strict. But during the season of Lent it is much stricter, and we only have the 9 o’clock pittance, and one meal at 5 o’clock, and we actually rise in the morning at 1.45, and do not rest any more till night. On Ash Wednesday we had nothing to eat or drink until six o’clock in the evening; we stayed in church practically the whole of the day. The floor of the church is strewn with ashes and cinders from the grates, and we sit on the ground in the ashes instead of in our stalls.[16] The 6 o’clock[114] meal is scarcely touched, as every one is feeling too cold and ill to eat. After compline we have to lash ourselves with the “Discipline,” and then we have to go to bed unwashed, as a penance for our sins. We are not even allowed to shake the ashes out of our serge habits before retiring for the night; to do so would be to break solemn silence, so we actually sit in ashes all day, and sleep in them all night. On Good Friday we go through a somewhat similar day, but the ashes are dispensed with. Every day, over and above the divine office and prayer, continual supplication for the conversion of sinners, and for the dead, are offered, each person taking an hour’s watch before the reserved Sacrament, so that the church is not left from 5 a.m. till 10 or 11 p.m.
I recollect how a poor orphan boy at Llanthony monastery was almost always in disgrace, and had to endure the “Discipline.” The lads, when doing penance, were stripped, then laid on a long table, their faces downwards, and lashed for such faults as talking in silence time, slamming doors, leaving dust about.