Another little boy, of nine or ten—motherless—his father a dipsomaniac, after being at the monastery four or five years, was turned out and sent to London, to do the best he could, with only 2s. 6d. in his pocket. Father Ignatius said Bertie was a perfect little devil. But I can assure the reader that the end of all the boys was very much like this. Sooner or later they are turned out, or else they run away. The two mothers at the Llanthony convent were[116] constantly dropping down on the boys, when Father Ignatius was away, for breaking solemn silence, and made even the youngest of them recite the Psalms aloud, after they were tired out by the long service of compline. Very little children, I know, had constantly to go without their breakfast as a penance. I remember well two dear little children, Ada and Alice ⸺. They were sent to the convent by their father, a tradesman in Hereford, who doubtless thought it a great privilege to have them there. Alice was only between three and four years of age. Mother Mary Ermenild had charge of them, and she would lash them both with the “Discipline”[17][117] for the most trifling offences. I often found little Alice holding her arms and crying, and would say to her (if no one was near to hear me):
“What’s the matter, darling?”
She would hold up her little red arms, and sob:
“Mother Ermenild gave me the ’splin” (she could not say “Discipline”).
Little Ada, too, would constantly be carried to her cell, which was next to mine, and there laid on the bed, and lashed on her bare flesh by Mother Ermenild. When the child cried, she would say:
“If you don’t stop that noise, I will give it to you harder.”
Then another lash would come, and then another scream, after which she would say:
“Are you going to make any more noise? because I will give it to you again, if you are!”
The child would say:
“No, Mother,” and would try to smother her sobs in the bed-clothes.
Once, being in my cell, I heard this Mother scolding Ada dreadfully, as a naughty, wicked, disobedient little girl, for touching the ink and spilling a little (poor child! she had been trying to write a letter to her father, whom she worshipped). The Mother then made this dear child lie down, and she gave her seven lashes with the “Discipline” on her bare flesh, in all forty-nine cuts. Later in the day I went to look at the table expecting to find it spoilt, but there was only one spot of ink on it, about the size of a pea. On another occasion I heard her lashing this poor child, who shrieked so loud that I could not endure it, and I ran to her, calling out:
“Oh, you—oh, you⸺”
I felt so angry that I did not know what to call her; but I was reported to the Lady Prioress, and sent for, and severely reprimanded for daring to interfere, and take a child’s part, and call Mother Ermenild names for punishing and penancing the child. I was forbidden ever to speak to the children again on any pretence whatever. This was a great trial to me, for I loved the children dearly.
Now, when Mother Ermenild first came to the convent, she was a sweet and gentle girl, but she was first crushed by the life she led, and then, when power was given her, she became as hard and tyrannical as the Novice-mistress and the Dame Mary Wereburgh.
Rule 1.—Never to ask for anything that is not necessary.
Penance.—To be kept without it.
Rule 2.—Never to ask for anything that is necessary a second time, unless permission to do so be granted by the Superior.
Penance.—To be kept without it.
Rule 3.—Never to hold possession of, or make use of, anything, unless given or lent by the Superior.
Penance.—To hold it up before the Blessed Sacrament for a week, at the Magnificat.
Rule 4.—Never to touch or look at a book, letter, or newspaper, unless holy obedience compels us to do so.
Penance.—To wear such article tied round the neck for two days.
Rule 5.—Never to look at, or speak to, a secular or extern,[18] unless commanded by holy obedience to do so.
Penance.—To confess it at once, and to repeat exactly what we have said.
Rule 6.—In speaking to a secular or extern, to do so with eyes fixed on the ground.
Penance.—To be blindfolded at each office on the following day.
Rule 7.—Never to go beyond enclosure, or the bounds permitted by holy obedience.
Penance.—To be confined to our sleeping-cell for a week.
Rule 8.—Never to speak about our Superiors to others.
Penance.—To confess it at once, and mention what we said.
Rule 9.—Never to allow criticising thoughts upon the action of a Superior to dwell on the mind.
Penance.—Not to be allowed to genuflect to the Blessed Sacrament for two days.
N.B.—To a nun this is an awful penance, as she has been taught that the “Body and[123] Blood, Soul and Divinity” of Jesus Christ are there present in the reserved Sacrament in the tabernacle.
Rule 10.—If we have a tendency to criticise a Superior’s wisdom or the correctness of any action, to believe that thereby our Lord is injured and the vocation weakened by such thoughts, since we are under our Superiors in and for the Lord, and that the Lord reveals His will only through our spiritual Father or Mother.
Rule 11.—To conceal nothing, even our most inmost thoughts, from the abbot, or abbess.
Rule 12.—Never to repeat anything said to us by our Superiors, unless commanded to do so.
Penance.—To confess it at once.
Rule 13.—Never to speak unnecessarily during “silence,” and, when necessary, only while kneeling upon both knees, with the hands under the scapular, the eyes fixed on the ground, and the words we speak must be uttered in a soft whisper, “for the Lord is in His holy temple, let all the earth keep silence before Him.”
Penance.—To recite five psalms at recreation for each breach of this rule.
Rule 14.—To obey the convent bell as the voice of an angel calling us.
Penance if late for matins.—To recite the whole of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, kneeling.
Rule 15.—Never to be late at meals, choir, dormitory, or work.
Penance.—If late at meals, to eat off the floor; if late for choir, to kneel at the door during the office; as to the rest, any penance the Superior likes to impose.
Rule 16.—Never to speak about home or our earthly relations, except to God in prayer: “Forget also thine own people, and thy father’s house; SO shall the King have pleasure in thy beauty.”
Penance.—Any one the Superior LIKES to appoint.
Rule 17.—To be joyful and ready in our obedience.
Penance.—To confess it at once, and wear front scapular pinned over the left shoulder for two days.
Rule 18.—Never to excuse ourselves if in fault.
Penance.—To kneel in front of the altar, holding a large crucifix at every office, for one day.
Rule 19.—Never to excuse ourselves, even if unjustly accused of any fault, unless it be necessary for God’s glory that the true offender should be discovered.
Penance.—Same as 18.
N.B.—Our Superiors never did think it for God’s glory that we should give any reason or explanation (so that this part of the rule is nothing else than a farce). Under this rule they would keep us on our knees for hours.
Rule 20.—To receive the words of our Superior humbly kneeling.
Penance.—Any one the Superior likes.
Rule 21.—Never to be demonstrative in our affections, even towards a spiritual sister.
Penance.—Not to be allowed to speak to such sister for any length of time our Superior likes to appoint.
Rule 22.—To zealously observe our distribution of work, and to do so wholly to the glory of God, keeping before us the memory of eternal years, our reasons for entering holy religion, and so to glorify God and benefit His holy Church.
Penance.—To lose our recreation.
Rule 23.—Never to touch food or water out of meal times.
Penance.—To wear a piece of bread tied round the neck for two days, and to go without the next meal.
Rule 24.—To keep our affections and interests perfectly detached from all things, so that our whole hearts may be given to the Lord.
Penance.—If we broke this rule by getting attached to a picture, or any other trifle, our Superiors would deprive us of it.
N.B.—If we had anything they especially wanted, they would take it from us, as they had (so they said) noticed us breaking the rule; and of course we dared not murmur, as that would be transgressing our vow of holy poverty.
The last two of the forty-nine rules are as follows:
Rule 48.—To read over these observances each day, with the intention of making them known to our Superior at the close of each week.
Penance.—To write out the whole of these forty-nine observances at recreation.
Rule 49.—In confessing our breaches of these observances to state them thus, e.g.: “On Sunday, I transgressed observance ⸺ by secretly feeling annoyed at being told to do such and such a thing. Jesus only.—‘They shall go from strength to strength, until they all appear before God in.…’”
These forty-nine observances (with their penances) were given to us by the abbot, and written out for us by him, with about forty-nine others. The Superiors being above the rule, there is no occasion for them to keep them, though they are very, very strict in seeing that their subjects do so, and were always dropping down on us at every nook and corner, and making out that we had broken them, when all the time we were trying our best to keep them.
We were the slaves; they were the taskmasters, and very hard ones too.
I have often been asked this question, and in some respects it is not a very easy one to answer, because Father Ignatius has such a wonderful way of being all things to all men. He has stood on the platform and preached by the side of General Booth’s wife, and has joined in their processions. He has himself told me that he has gone to a Roman Catholic Dominican monastery, and was welcomed there by the monks under the designation of the “Abbot Ignatius.” He has himself told us not to let poor ignorant Roman Catholics know there is any difference between us and them, as they will not know the difference unless they are told.
Whilst we were bid to read the Bible, yet we were taught to regard it as giving a clear proof that the monastic life is the highest life on earth,[129] and our Lord’s example for such a life was ever put before us: we were taught that He was an enclosed monk from the age of twelve until thirty, when He commenced His public life, because there is not a word mentioned in the Bible about Him during this period. This was supposed to afford a clear proof that the life of a monk or a nun is much higher than that even of a sister of mercy.
Though we were allowed to read a non-Roman Catholic Bible, yet with regard to other books we went to Rome for them; such as: “The Life of St. Teresa,” “Life of St. Gertrude,”[19] “Life of St. Mary Magdalene of Piazzi,” “Life of St. Catherine of Sienna,” “Life of St. Thomas Aquinas,” “Life of St. Alphonsus Liguori,” “Life of the Curé de Ars,” “The Diurnal of the Soul,” “The Glories of Mary,” and “The Paradise of the Earth.”
Many other books from the same source, too many to enumerate here, were given us by Father Ignatius (and truly a man is known by his books), or were read with his sanction.
He did not approve of one thing which St.[130] Thomas Aquinas taught; namely, that if a Superior should teach what is sinful or contrary to God’s law, the obedience would be illicit, and the nun would not be breaking her vow if she refused to obey. Father Ignatius taught us that he himself could not command what was wrong, because he was the father and founder of the revived monastic life in the Church of England. I cannot put this matter any plainer, for I never could quite understand what he meant, but I did foolishly believe he could not tell us to do wrong, because he said so, and for no other reason whatever. Our Office Book, too, was the Roman Catholic “Benedictine Breviary,” and for years the Roman Catholic “Ordinary of the Mass” was used at the altar. Lately Father Ignatius has taken a fancy to use the Sarum missal, which seems more elaborate than the Roman ritual. The High Church party is not in great favour with him, and, as a good many of them ignore him, they are put down as “namby pamby.”
The nuns were and are (when there are sufficient to perform the ceremony) to be called “Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed[131] Sacrament.” At present this perpetual adoration is, as a fact, only for certain times and great festivals. I will attempt to describe it.
The altar is for the occasion adorned with about 105 lighted candles. These are intermingled with vases of exquisite flowers. I have known them to cost £60.
The “Sacred Host” is always in the tabernacle; but on these days, when the altar is decorated out so finely, the Host is put into a Monstrance, and enthroned amidst lighted tapers, flowers, jewels, and clouds of incense, and at the sound of sweet music and singing (in Latin) bottles of Eau de Cologne are poured over the altar, to be, as he frequently said, “wasted on Jesus,” like Mary’s alabaster box of ointment. The tabernacle is of exquisite beauty and workmanship, with crimson velvet curtains, looped up with massive gold chains, over which is a real diamond cross. The beautiful images of angels have enough bangles hanging on their arms to set up a jeweller’s shop with, and there is a piece of cloth of gold used for the Host, on which are many jewels; one small corner of the[132] cloth alone has, I think, seventeen rings, which formerly belonged to a certain sister. The boys on this occasion are clothed in scarlet cassocks, each with a white cotta, trimmed with lace; the abbot himself appears in gorgeous apparel, as also those who assist him. The nuns used to wear long white veils down to the ground, over which were their crimson veils, used only during the adoration of the Host, with long trains. Though these are attractive-looking, yet the weight of about twelve yards of material hanging from the head is anything but pleasant, especially in hot weather; and what with wearing these veils, inhaling the incense, and singing with all one’s power for two hours or more, I generally had a very bad headache.
After the service called “Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament,” all leave the chapel, except the monk or nun who remains to take the watch. After this one has remained motionless in prayer for an hour, the great abbey bell (which was consecrated to and named St. Bernard) tolls five strokes, when everybody (no matter where or in what occupation) must kneel down and[133] say, “Blessed and praised at every moment be the most holy and divine Sacrament.” Then some one else takes the watch before the reserved Sacrament for another hour, and this goes on all the day, which closes with the most solemn and gorgeously bewildering “Benediction of the Sacrament,” more so, I verily believe, than in any Roman Catholic Church in England.
At Christmas the Bambino is the first object of worship and adoration. This Bambino is a beautiful figure of a baby, for which (I have been told) eighty guineas were paid. This figure is laid in the manger at midnight of Christmas, amid much ritual and ceremony, after which we all formed in procession, with lighted tapers, veiled in our crimson veils, to kiss the feet of the holy Child, which adoration we also performed about nine times on Christmas Day, and every day afterwards until the octave of the Epiphany, though not so frequently as on Christmas Day.[20]
As seculars are not allowed within the precincts of the monks’ or nuns’ choir, the right reverend Lord Abbot, vested in cope and mitre, holds the[135] baby in his lap at the grating, for the faithful laity to pay to it their adoration. If the Abbot should not be there, the Mother Superior, Mary Wereburgh (otherwise Mrs. B.⸺), represents the Virgin mother, robed in a cope of white satin or silk.
We were not taught to believe in the infallibility of the Pope. Father Ignatius had been to Rome and kissed the Pope’s toe, and was very proud of it too. There was no need to believe much in the Pope, for Father Ignatius and the Lady Prioress were practically our two infallible Popes.
Neither were we taught the doctrine of the immaculate conception of the blessed Virgin Mary.
I think, with these two exceptions, we were identical in doctrine with the Church of Rome. And now I leave it to my readers to decide for themselves as to what is the religion of Father Ignatius.
The morning for my departure at last arrived. One of the first thoughts that came to me was, “I wonder if, after all, I am mad, as they tell me I am? Perhaps I am, and that is the reason for my leaving.” In solitude on that morning I made a cup of tea, feeling too ill to eat, but I cut a small portion of bread and butter, in case I should want it. No one came near me. I thought I should much like to say good-bye to some one, but I dared not speak, for it was a period of solemn silence. But I still had no small attachment to the “Novice-mistress,” and would have stayed in the convent had I only the assurance that I should be permitted to live in peace, for I had been a sister so long, and (strange as it may appear) the life itself had still a certain fascination for me. I did not then, as I do now, so much[137] blame the system, but those who treated me so strangely, and often with cruelty.
At last I went into the community room, where I knew I should find the Mother-mistress.  Had she spoken but one kind word then, my courage to leave might have been seriously shaken. But now hot tears rushed to my eyes. I looked straight into her face, and knew I had made no mistake. A few minutes after this she sent me a note:
Dear Child,
I could not wish you good-bye; the reverend Mother had forbidden me to do so, or even to come near you.
It was a cold, clear, bright frosty morning, when I left the monastery at 7 o’clock. I was driven down that beautiful valley, and how I enjoyed that drive! To my surprise, my conscience did not accuse me of sin in thus leaving. The morning air seemed to clear my brain, and I knew with a happy certainty that I was not mad; a feeling of peace with God seemed to fill my soul. Such a[138] peace I had not experienced for a very, very long time—so calm, so soft and sweet, so free!
It was sixteen years and a month since I took my first journey to a convent, and I had not taken a journey since, except when we went to Devonshire, and from Devonshire to Llanthony, and then we saw nothing, being in closed carriages, and having strict orders not to raise our veils from our faces. Those veils were thick and heavy, covering our faces, and reaching down far below the chin.
But I must return to my narrative. I have explained elsewhere, I think, that the Prioress would not allow any of my letters to be sent to my sister, in which I had asked for journey-money, and requested that she would meet me, and give me instructions as to my best way of finding her. None of my letters were ever sent. When I left home to go for the first time to the convent, my sister was about seventeen years of age. Since then she had married, and was living near Gloucester. Knowing so little about the world outside a convent, I fancied that if I only asked for a ticket to Gloucester, I was certain to find my sister. Accordingly, when we arrived at Llanfihangel, in[139] Wales, I booked to Gloucester. On my arrival I asked the first man I saw with a fly to drive me to the post office, as I thought my sister lived near it. Just as I was getting into the fly I thought I had better tell the driver the name of the place where my sister lived. He replied that he had never heard of such a place; so I inquired at the booking-office, and found I must take the train to a place some miles beyond Gloucester. On my arrival at this place I went outside the station (it was now dusk) and saw what seemed to me a stage-coach, and requested that I might be driven to the post office. When I told the driver the name of the place, he said he could not take me all the way there. “I will take you,” he said, “as near to it as I can, and you will then have to walk a few miles farther on.” My readers may imagine what a terror I was in.  What was I to do? I was frightened at every one I met, and as to a man, I feared the whole race. As I was thinking that my[140] best plan would be to try and take the next train back to Wales, I saw a carriage passing near me, in which was a sweet, gentle, pale-faced lady in mourning. I ran to the carriage, and said to the lady, tears streaming down my cheeks:
“Oh, will you please take care of me for a night, for I am looking for my sister, and cannot find her?”
She said: “Dear child, you cannot come with us. Who are you?”
I replied: “I cannot tell you who I am.”
I was so afraid of saying I was one of Father Ignatius’s nuns, knowing that the newspapers might be full of it shortly, and that I should be bringing trouble on Ignatius, and scandal on religion.
A gentleman now came up to me and told me to be off, speaking very roughly to me. Again I appealed to the lady, assuring her I would go away and look for my sister directly the morning came, if only she would take care of me for this one night.  But the lady spoke for me, saying:
“We can’t leave the poor child here, like this!”
I felt grateful to her, though it seemed useless to appeal again. Just then a still, small voice seemed to whisper these words to me: “Never mind; you are my child; I will take care of you.” I stopped crying at once, and, looking up to the lady, I said:
“Thank you so very much for being willing to take care of me, but never mind; I am God’s child, and I know He will take care of me.”
These words were hardly uttered when the gentleman said, “Jump up.” I looked in surprise, and could not think where I was to jump to, but I found he wanted me to jump up and take a seat by the coachman; but I could not manage this, as I was tired, ill, and worn out, and I had scarcely tasted food for two days. The gentleman, seeing my inability, kindly assisted me, and I was taken care of until I eventually found my sister, who was glad enough to see me. But I was so frightened at every one. Directly I heard a knock at the door I used to run up to my bed-room, in case any one should see me, so strong was the force of the habit I had acquired at the convent. My sister thought it disgraceful that I should have been[142] allowed to come out of the convent without even a change of clothes, especially so when Father Ignatius had begged my own dear mother to give me up to him for the service of God, and after working as I had done for all those years. I explained that Father Ignatius was on one of his preaching missions, and knew nothing about my leaving. She told me to write and ask for some money. Father Ignatius sent me two pounds, with which he expected me to buy clothes, to settle myself in life, to pay my journeys, and purchase any other necessaries I might require. Two pounds! Less than half of what he has paid, or allowed others to pay, to purchase one cowl for a monk to wear at meal times and in church; less than the sum he has spent to give the Prioress and Novice-mistress Christmas presents! Two pounds, after sixteen years of hard work!
I stayed with my sister about three months, until I was a little less frightened, and then went to my sister in London. I had to be provided with every article of clothing, for the habit in which I came forth from the convent I had worn for about six winters. I was naturally careful[143] and liked to make my “religious” dress last a long time. One habit I had worn for nine summers, so really I was never an expensive or extravagant nun.
At this period, my thoughts often went out to my first Mother Superior at Feltham; I longed to see her, but for some time I felt afraid to go to her or even to write, as Father Ignatius had said so much about the members of the Feltham convent being under God’s curse, and had made us think that any one who held communication with them would be committing a grave sin. At last, however, I summoned sufficient courage to write and tell her that I had left Llanthony. She wrote me a most kind letter, and asked me to go and see her; this I did, and told her all my Llanthony experiences. She seemed to take it for granted that I was coming back to her, and even asked me plainly when I thought of taking up my abode in the community once more? I told her I had never thought of doing so. I must frankly acknowledge that I had a very deep affection for this Mother Superior, and I did not like to disappoint her, so I arranged to return, and after being there[144] four days she allowed me to have the novice’s veil, and promised that I might take the black veil in six months’ time. I must confess that this Mother, in comparison with the one at Llanthony, was kindness itself. I never found at Feltham that one sister is permitted to tyrannize over another.
After I had been there about three months the reaction came. I compared the two convents, and actually (with shame I say it) was mad enough to think that because the Feltham rule was not strict, therefore the life could not be so perfect! Father Ignatius’s sermons now seemed to come back to me word for word, especially all he had taught me on monastic obedience and the will of God. I kept thinking it all over, and could not banish it from my memory; I felt convinced that it applied to me, that I had sinned by leaving Llanthony, and was not doing God’s will by remaining at Feltham. I found no rest till I had unburdened my mind to the Feltham Mother, and I then implored her to allow me to return. She thought it nothing short of infatuation, and reminded me of what I had told her of Mother Wereburgh.[145] However, she left me free to do what I thought best, advising me first to write to my sister, and to see her before leaving Feltham. My sister came, but she could make no impression on me, and she could not comprehend my conduct. Indeed, I must confess I could not understand it myself; for I did not want to return, yet a mysterious something seemed to draw me, and force me on against my own will. Some such experience as this occurred to the Nun of Kenmare, for on page 29 in her “Autobiography” I read: “I was to all appearances a free agent, and I was still young, I had full liberty of choice, yet I felt in some strange way, as I have often felt since, that I had no choice, that I was led or moved or influenced by some exterior power.” So was it with me in my infatuation for Llanthony: I could not help myself; I seemed forced by an invisible yet very real power, which I did not pray against, and therefore yielded to.
IN the month of August, in the year 1885, I found my way back to Llanthony. It was dark when I arrived at the monastery, and on reaching it I seemed, for the first time, to realize all this return implied, and I now trembled at the thought of going into the convent. I walked round about the building for some time, and then looked in at the kitchen window. The first sight that came to my view was the Novice-mistress’s face, and that of Mother Ermenild, whose face and eyes, seemed swollen with crying. It was now 9 o’clock, and I was wondering as to the best course for me to take. I dared not go into the convent, I could not stay outside all night, and of course I did not like to go to the monastery. Of these three evils, I chose the latter, for I was not afraid of Father Ignatius. He was always very[147] kind to me, and would not have changed, had it not been for the influence which the Mother Superior exerted over him.
To the monastery porch I went, and pulled the bell. A monk, whose face I could not see, came down, and I asked for Father Ignatius. To my surprise, I discovered that it was the reverend Father himself who was speaking to me. He was very kind, but told me I must go to the convent. I told him I was too frightened to go. He then asked me what I had come back for, if I was afraid to go to the convent. I told him that I had intended to re-enter, but when the moment came I had not the courage. He then took me into the Church, giving me the opportunity of telling him why I had gone away. He did not give me one word of blame, except about my going to Feltham, and was most kind. He then left me, and sent the Novice-mistress to me, who did not say much; but the tone of her voice seemed to send a chill through me. The day after, the reverend Father again saw me and was very kind, and told me he had given orders that I was to be treated with the greatest kindness. For some few days[148] accordingly I was kindly treated, and soon, at my own request, I was received as a postulant. I did not object to begin the life again from the lowest step; in fact, I believed more firmly than ever that “the nun’s life is the very highest and nearest to God that any human being can live on earth.” It was on a Sunday that I was received back as a postulant. There were several strangers in the Lady Chapel, and a clergyman from Hereford.
On entering the church I saw on the altar steps a funeral pall, and the black altar hangings that are used for the dead. A cold shudder ran through me as I wondered what they were there for. At last Father Ignatius and his brother monks came in and sang the “Adoremus in æternum sanctissimum Sacramentum” (“Let us for ever adore the most holy Sacrament”). Ignatius then turned to the grille gates that divide the monks’ choir from that of the seculars, and gave out that before the little ceremony, which was presently to take place, it might be advisable to give a little explanation of the cause thereof. He said:
Our dear little sister has incurred excommunication by holding communication with excommunicated members of our Order, i.e., people who have been cut off from our Society, etc., etc.
The gates were then opened, a cloth was spread, and I was told to prostrate myself upon it. The burial pall was then placed over me, and some prayers were muttered. On rising, Father Ignatius gave me the blessing, and the excommunication I had incurred was taken off me. I then went through the same postulant’s service that I had gone through nearly seventeen years before. After this Father Ignatius preached a sermon, in which he highly praised me, saying that I had endured great temptations, which had caused me to leave the convent, and that he only wondered I had not left before, but that now I wished to return; and he concluded by saying, “We hold out a loving hand to her, for our dear sister has humbled herself, and she shall be exalted.”
After this, I was again admitted into community, and the Lady Prioress was for a time kind to me.
On September 29th I took novice vows again, and Father Ignatius promised me, if all went well[150] I should receive the black veil in six months’ time. It was shortly after this that Ignatius went away on one of his preaching tours, and directly he had left the Prioress made me kneel at her feet, and in her old, terrible voice inquired whether or not I intended to submit to her, etc., etc. In wonder and surprise at the sudden storm that was bursting after so long a calm, I replied: “Yes, dear Mother, indeed I do.” She haughtily replied, “That’s a good thing; now we shall soon see.” From that moment she was just as severe as ever in her treatment of me. The more I submitted, the more tyrannical she became.  I soon felt convinced that it was quite useless for me to submit or even to attempt to live in the convent any longer. I could see plainly that she could never forgive me.
After a while I wrote a note to her, as I was not allowed to speak, in which, to the best of my memory, I used the following words:
If you will only let me rest in peace until Father Ignatius comes back, I will then ask his leave to go, as I[151] am convinced you do not wish me to stay, and will never be satisfied, no matter how submissive I am. I am convinced also that if you go on treating me with such severity, I shall in reality become a lunatic, for my mind will not continue long to bear this heavy strain.
After this note she left me alone, and did not again worry me. When Father Ignatius came home a few days before Christmas, he sent for me on Christmas Eve. I went to him and said:
“Dear Father, I am very sorry, but I cannot live with reverend Mother. I do not wish to give up serving God, or to break my vows; and if you will send me to another convent, I will gladly go, or to General Booth (Ignatius was a great admirer of the Salvation Army). I don’t mind where it is so that I am under obedience, and serving God.”
He replied: “Well, I’ll think over the matter, whether to write to Mr. Booth about you, or to write to the Abbess Bertha, and to tell her that you are a very dear child of mine, who has been with me for a great many years, but that you cannot get on with this reverend Mother, and[152] ask her if she will take you under her charge for a time.”
He spoke most kindly to me about it. I then asked him if I might come to Holy Communion on the next day (Christmas Day), to which he replied:
“Certainly not.”
Later on he wished me a happy Christmas, though he must have known that my heart was nearly breaking with sorrow and disappointment. I asked no more questions about my leaving, as he had promised to do all he could for me, and I implicitly believed him, and was content to wait patiently, asking no questions, striving to do my duty, as a sister, to the best of my ability.
One evening, soon after this interview, he sent me a note commencing, “Jesus only.”
“You are,” he wrote, “to take your habit off to-morrow; you ought to have done so weeks ago”; and he signed it “Ignatius, of Jesus, Abbot.”
This note surprised me, for I had been patiently waiting his pleasure all this time. Next morning there were not any other clothes put into my[153] cell, so I was obliged to put on the nun’s dress again; but in order to show my willingness to obey, I omitted to put on my scapular. When the Novice-mistress saw me, she said:
“Go and put on your scapular at once.
I knelt down and kissed the hem of her holy habit, and said:
“Mother-mistress, reverend Father said⸺”
But she would not let me finish the sentence, and interrupted me by saying:
“I know quite well what the reverend Father said; I read the note before you, and when you are told to take your habit off you will do it, and not before.
I obeyed in silence, and I now knew I should have to undergo a public scene. At 12 the bell for a visit to the blessed Sacrament tolled out, after the “Angelus” was sung in Welsh. Nuns, monks, boys and girls, and seculars, were all present in the Llanthony Church. Then Ignatius spoke:
“Sister Agnes, come down to the grating.”
In fear and trembling Sister Agnes obeyed. Then, in a sepulchral voice, Ignatius said:
“As in the days of old, after great long-suffering and forbearance of our loving God, His patience at last came to an end with His people, so at last, after great patience and forbearance on the part of her Superiors, they must ask Sister Agnes to take off her veil and habit, and lay them on the altar steps.”
I felt this so acutely, that I sobbed aloud:
“Will you please forgive me, dear Father, for all and whatever I have done wrong.”
After which, in the presence of all, I took off my veil, and laid myself down on the altar steps. When I had become somewhat calm, I realized that a trick had been played on me, and that my Superiors had made me pass through this ordeal in order to make others believe that I had been, so to speak, suddenly cut off by the will of my Superior, and not by my own free will.
In reality, I had quite of my own free will been waiting for Ignatius’s sanction, and the result of his letters to Mrs. Booth and the Abbess Bertha.
During the above scene I reminded Ignatius of his promise to write to the Abbess Bertha, but he replied:
“Yes, but that was before I knew you were not converted,—when I thought you were a child of God.”
Now I thought I had been converted some fourteen years ago, when I was made to realize so fully that Jesus Christ was my personal Saviour, and had determined, so far as I had light, “to show forth the praises of Him who had called me out of darkness into His marvellous light.” Surely, I thought, had I not been converted, I could never have endured all that I had suffered during those long years of misery! And had not Ignatius taught me that I could best glorify Him who had washed me from my sins in His precious blood by being a true nun? Then I believed that this was the best way of glorifying God; but now I know that I was under a great delusion.
This scene took place on a Saturday. On Sunday Ignatius told me I must leave the convent before 7 a.m. on the following morning, giving to the reverend Mother orders to give me[156] £2, and to supply me with all necessary clothing. I sent this message back:
“I do not need anything at all; but will the reverend Mother please let me have the box of clothes I brought back with me.”
After some hours the box was sent to me with my clothes all turned about, and with the following message:
“The reverend Mother was obliged to look over your clothes, to see what you wanted.”
I found that she had put two old table napkins full of holes, in the box, two old towels full of darns, and two coarse tea cloths (which treasures I keep to this day), a petticoat; and besides these she gave me permission to keep a new habit. I examined closely the contents of my box, and found that a dictionary, a quantity of fine linen and other things had been taken from it. I asked her for the linen, saying that I had bought it with money my brother had given me before I returned. She sent back this message:
“Tell her I have taken nothing but what belongs to me.”
I imagined she meant that as I had taken the[157] vow of poverty, she had a right to give or retain whatever she liked. After I had taken my departure, I wrote for my things, but I never received an answer.
This was the second time I had left convent life, which had so often been described to me as “angelic.” I had endured quite enough of its misery.
It will be as well, before making the very few remarks I am able to give on the alleged “apparitions at Llanthony,” that I should give my readers a few extracts from Father Ignatius’s oration on the subject, which was delivered on Tuesday evening, May 5th, 1885, at, as far as I recollect, Westminster Town Hall. This oration was based professedly on Hebrews xii. 1: “Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses,” etc. It would appear from this oration that Ignatius looks upon the alleged supernatural events at Llanthony as affording witness to the truth of nineteenth century Christianity. Let Ignatius tell his own story:
Apparition 1.—On Monday, the 30th of August, 1880, Brother Dunstan went as usual, at 9 o’clock, into the church to take his watch before the blessed Sacrament. He was[159] kneeling about twenty feet from the altar.  The brother who left the watch had no communication with the sister who next came in to take her watch. She (Sister Janet) had been a schoolmistress in the neighbourhood for many years, and was now an associate of our Order.
The brother had been half an hour at his watch, when he raised his eyes and saw, in front of the tabernacle, a kind of blue mist playing. As he looked at the mist, he thought that his eyes must be affected, and he rubbed them, thinking it was an illusion; but as he still looked, the mist thickened and densified, until he saw the Monstrance, or silver vessel which contained the Host, within the tabernacle glimmering in the mist, outside the massive door of the tabernacle, which was locked. This door is of iron, nearly an inch thick. The key was in my cell, which I had not left that morning because I had been very unwell, and had had a good deal of writing to do.
The mist gradually cleared away, and then the sacred vessel containing the Host was plain before the brother’s eyes, and the sunlight in the window flashed upon it. He saw this for half an hour, and, on leaving his watch, still looked upon the vision as he went out.
Sister Janet then came in to take her watch, and knelt down, as usual, at the screen in the outer church. When she looked at the altar, she saw the same appearance; but she did not dream of its being supernatural; she imagined only that the blessed Sacrament was exposed for some reason or other; but she was much astonished to find that the Host was exposed without the usual signs of reverence[160] and devotion which we always render when we have our three expositions in the year.
We only have the Host exposed three times a year, and they are very solemn occasions; and we pay our Lord a great deal of honour during those days. On this occasion there was no light burning, there were no flowers, and the sister was consequently much astonished, knowing how particular we are in these matters of detail and reverence. Directly her watch was over at 11 o’clock she went to the monastery porch, rang the bell, and asked to see the brother who had taken the watch before her. When he came to the grating, she said: “Why has the reverend Father left the blessed Sacrament out?”
When she had explained precisely what she had seen, and Brother Dunstan knew that the tabernacle had not been opened, he at once came to my cell to tell me what had happened.
I suggested that we should go to the church. When we went in, the apparition had disappeared.
Apparition 2.—In the evening (of the same day) after vespers, the choir-boys were in the meadow playing. All at once the noise of the game was stopped, and in a very short time one of the boys came running up to my cell, soon followed by others, saying: “Father, we have seen such a beautiful spirit in the meadow.” The eldest boy, who was fifteen years old, said he was certain that what they had seen was the blessed Virgin Mary—quite certain. He said that first of all, as he was waiting for his turn to run in the game, he was looking towards an old ruined hut, where there had been a farm-house, and he saw a bright light over the hedge and the figure of a woman, with hands upraised as if in blessing, and with a veil over her face, coming to[161] him. He stood still, and was much astonished and alarmed. The figure came almost at right angles to him, and then she passed close enough even for him to see the material of the garments that she wore. The figure passed off at right angles, and stood in a bright light in a bush about fifty feet from the boy. The bush was all illumined with phosphorescent light. The figure passed through the bush, and the light was there for some little time after the form had disappeared. The rest of the boys saw and described the same appearance.
I had all the boys in the church, where I spoke solemnly to them, separately, and heard what they had to say. I told them what an unlikely story it was, and that no one would believe them; and I asked them what could have put it into their heads to think such a thing.
But they still maintained that what they had said was true.
We watched Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings after that.
Unfortunately I had to leave Llanthony on the Saturday, being under a promise to take the duty for a clergyman in the diocese of Exeter, where we had a convent at that time; but I left strict orders that the brothers and boys should watch every night at the same time, about eight o’clock, and then write to me, telling of any experience they might have.
On Saturday night, Sept. 4th, the boys were out playing as usual, when, all at once, the same bush became illuminated with a very bright light.
For some time they watched the light; then they ran to the monastery to call out an elder brother.
In the meantime a junior brother had come out, had[162] knelt down in the meadow before the illuminated bush, and had begun to say prayers and hymns. The boys were indignant because he was saying collects and hymns that had no relation to what they considered the vision to be, and they said: “Do not say those prayers, but say a ‘Hail, Mary’; for we are certain it was the blessed Virgin. If we do, our Lord will perhaps let the vision appear again.”
While they were discussing, the senior brother came up, and he agreed that they should begin to sing “Ave, Maria.” That instant the figure flashed again, in a cloud of light, in the same place where the first boy had seen it on the Monday.
As they sang, the figure sent out rays of light, sometimes appearing behind and sometimes in front of the hedge, and sometimes coming straight towards the illuminated bush. When they said the words in the “Hail, Mary,” “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb—Jesus,” they saw a second figure as of a man, with only a cloth round his loins, appearing in the light, with his hands stretched out.
Father Ignatius returned from Devonshire to Llanthony on Tuesday, September the 14th, and on that night, he says, “we watched, but saw nothing.” But, in the words of the oration, Ignatius thus describes the scenes of the following night:
On the 15th of September, between eight and a quarter-past eight, we watched again. It was a very close, muggy evening. There was a heavy Scotch mist descending, and the mountains were looking very dull and the sky leaden.[163] It was so damp that we did not go into the meadow; but Sister Janet, who was not allowed to come to the monastery door where we were standing, went into the meadow.
We were in the monastery porch. The boys were standing on the front steps; I was standing on the top step; one brother was at my left, and another brother on my right. Two farmers were behind in the back of the porch; and a gentleman visitor—an undergraduate of Keble College, Oxford, now in Holy Orders—was a little behind me to the right.
I suggested that we should sing three “Hail, Mary’s,” in honour of each person of the blessed Trinity. We began a “Hail, Mary” in honour of God the Father.[21] Between the “Hail, Mary’s,” we, all of us, expressed our amazement at some very curious flashings of light, which we saw in all directions in the meadow, like the outlines of figures. That was the impression I had.…
I then said, “Let us sing a ‘Hail, Mary,’ in honour of the blessed Virgin herself;” and we began to chant the fourth “Hail, Mary.”
Directly we began to do so I saw a great circle of light flash out over the whole heavens, taking in the mountains, the trees, the ruined house, the enclosure, the monastery, the gates and everything; the light flashed upon our feet, upon the steps, and upon the buildings; and from that one great circle of light, small circles bulged out, and, in the centre of the circles, stood a gigantic figure of a human being, with hands uplifted, standing sideways.
In the distance this gigantic figure appeared to be about[164] sixty feet in height; but as it descended it took the ordinary size of a human being. At the moment it struck me that a dark appearance over the head of the figure was hair, not a veil; but I am convinced from comparing notes with the others, and also from other reasons, that it was a veil which I saw over the head.
Ignatius, after mentioning that the two brothers, and Sister Janet had seen the same vision (he does not mention whether the farmers saw it), said: “From that time no further visions appeared.”
Two important reasons Ignatius then gave for “our Lord” giving these apparitions.
1. “For the good of the Church of England.”
2. “For the comfort of those in the outer world.”
Father Ignatius, in his oration, gave an account of his sending, a few days after this memorable apparition, to each of his nuns at Slapton, in Devonshire, “pieces of a wild rhubarb leaf, which had stood up dark against the dazzling garments of the apparition, as it appeared in the bush.”[22]
He then went on to describe how a certain[165] nun at Slapton, “a middle-aged lady,” who had been a cripple for thirty-eight years, was healed by applying the said charm to her diseased limb. I will give you his own account of this supposed miracle.
On Tuesday, Sept. 21st, 1880, just seven days after the last apparition had been seen, she was quivering from head to foot with pain. She was going to lie down without lifting her diseased limb with the other limb on the bed, when something told her to use the leaf, which she had put, wrapped up in an envelope, in her pocket. She took the leaf out. She took the rosary and said ten “Hail, Mary’s”; and, at the end of the “Hail, Mary’s,” she took the piece of leaf and laid it upon these painful abscesses. The very instant the piece of withered leaf was laid upon the abscesses they closed up and the discharge ceased; her knee was loosened at the joint, her foot was on the ground, and she was cured instantaneously.
The next morning she told and showed the reverend Mother and her sister nuns the miraculous wonder of God’s infinite goodness towards her; and the news quickly spread in the village.
The vicar of the parish came to the convent, and the village people rang the village bells, for they were very fond of the nuns; and, in a day or two, there was a service of thanksgiving in the Priory Chapel, for the miracle that God had wrought. There was also an account in the local papers of what had taken place.
Father Ignatius then mentions other miracles[166] of healing that were, he affirms, wrought by the use of the withered rhubarb leaf. The following words may be interesting to some of my readers; they appear at the close of the oration:
To sum up, then:
A solemn, public testimony has now been given to a most startling, supernatural phenomena, in a Church of England monastery, in the midst of this unbelieving, materialistic age.
By these phenomena the mysteries of Christianity have been solemnly confirmed; and the Word of God has received one more “So be it.”
The Church of England has been supernaturally recognised as a true portion of the Catholic Church, and her Sacraments acknowledged by a miracle.
The monastic revival, long persecuted[23] because of the two special points above alluded to, viz., the restoration of the reserved Sacrament, and the cultus of the mother of our Lord, have now received a sanction from on High, by these marvellous manifestations.
English Churchmen have received from God a special approval for their ancient Church, in spite of her sadly isolated position.
Having thus given, in Father Ignatius’s own words, an account of the alleged apparitions and[167] miracles, I feel sure many will naturally ask me for my opinion of them. My opinion is simply this: I believe something was seen which Ignatius really did believe to be supernatural, but which appearance I firmly believe to have been nothing more or less than a practical joke performed by a certain young man, who never intended it to be taken for anything supernatural, in the serious manner with which it was taken.
With regard to the vision of the “Sacred Host,” I simply do not believe it at all. I believe that one of them imagined it, and told the other about it in some way, and that that other was only too ready to believe it. This is my firm conviction about the matter, and I hope that as I am no longer a nun I have not only the right to have an opinion of my own, but also a right to express it.
During my sojourn at Llanthony, I never saw anything supernatural, although there were some who ofttimes tried to work my mind up to such a state, that it was with difficulty something of the kind was not forced upon my heated imagination.
I recollect a somewhat ridiculous circumstance in this direction, that occurred on the “eve” of the “anniversary of the apparition of our Lady of Llanthony.”
We were watching the procession of the Shrine, and its accompanying and subsequent rites, when suddenly the reverend Mother exclaimed:
“I see something; it’s moving!”
“Where?” I asked, “for I cannot see anything.”
The Mother then pointed to the “Abbot’s Meadow.” There was something moving slowly, and I watched for a few moments, and then said:
“Why, it is the cow, with patches of white on her.”
And so it was, as she was obliged to acknowledge. This Mother I believe often professed to see visions, and dream supernatural dreams; and I might have thought that I saw visions, but being somewhat of an inquiring and matter-of-fact turn of mind, I preferred to be very cautious, and carefully sifted everything that had any appearance of the miraculous about it. For instance, I was once kneeling at the prayer-desk before the “altar,”[169] supposing myself to be quite alone in the church; when I suddenly saw the curtains at the back of the “altar” gently moving for some time, and I wondered what this movement could mean. Then all was all quiet again, and I resumed my devotions, thinking that possibly I had only fancied it. Suddenly, behind the flowers and candlesticks, I beheld a face, and I began to tremble, and feared even to look up again; but at last I did so, and I beheld the reverend Mother, who was, I believe, engaged in dusting. Now if I had been half asleep, I might easily have imagined I had seen a vision of a departed saint; and I think the semi-darkness in which the sanctuary was enveloped, together with the soft rays of the ever-burning sanctuary lamp, can with little difficulty lead the devotee to imagine the supernatural, especially as we were always taught that on the “altar,” that miracle of miracles, or rather that imposture of impostures, took place in the transubstantiation of the bread and wine, into the body, blood, soul, and divinity of the Lord Jesus Christ.
But to return to the apparitions, an account[170] of which I have already given, and about which I have stated shortly my opinion.
I was at Slapton, in Devonshire, at the time they took place, and therefore I only heard what the boys had told Father Ignatius.
He asked us all: “Do you believe them?”
The other nuns said, “Yes.”
Father Ignatius then said: “Do you believe them, Sister Agnes?” I replied, “No, dear Father, of course I don’t. I never believe anything the boys say.”
I had a particular dislike to the monastery boys, and I had often heard from the reverend Father what lying boys some of these very ones were, and as to ⸺ he scarcely ever spoke the truth.
Then, as to poor Sister Janet, she was certainly very eccentric and peculiar, and when any one injured her she usually threatened to “call up the ghost” of her dead father. She once thus threatened a man, and a priest, knowing of it, disguised himself, and frightened the poor man so much, that he refused to go back to the hut where he lived. Apart from this she had her good points, and was Father Ignatius’s devoted slave.
As you will have noticed, the reverend Father was at Slapton Convent during most of the time when the said apparitions took place, and he heard of the visions through the letters of the brother at Llanthony, and I believe he was the only brother at Llanthony at the time, and he was but a novice-monk.
Father Ignatius read the letters to us, and I hardly knew what to make of the matter; but at last the reverend Father returned and saw for himself the most marvellous and glorious vision, after which I very naturally—considering my state of mind at that period of my life—thought it must be true, which in a sense was fortunate for me, for on his next visit he again asked me if I believed in it, and I remember well I replied:
“Yes, certainly, dear Father, I do not doubt your word.”
He then told us that he was determined that no one should stay in monastery or convent who did not believe in it.
And now a word or two about the story of the “middle-aged lady,” otherwise the Novice-mistress,[172] the account of whose miraculous cure I have already given in the words of Father Ignatius.
To begin with, that account differs somewhat from the one I can give; but as I am matter-of-fact in my statements, I think it best to give the facts as I know them, for I was one of the Slapton nuns at the time. Yes, I was a nun then, although life-vows had not been pronounced by me; I was what is termed a “life-vowed novice,” that is, in making my vows I made them “until the time of my profession.” But I have in a previous part of this book explained that novice-vows were to all intents and purposes well nigh as binding as those made in full profession. I merely give this explanation to show you the position I was in at that period when at Slapton. Father Ignatius, in his oration on the apparitions speaks of me as a nun, for, in touching upon the healing of the Novice-mistress in the Slapton Convent, he said:
“Next she told and showed her sister nuns the miraculous wonder”; i.e., the withered rhubarb leaf. Now, as a matter of fact, she[173] neither told the nuns, nor showed to them this great wonder; she may have showed and told the Mother Prioress, but no one else.
The Vicar of Slapton came to celebrate, and spoke of the wondrous miracle which had taken place in our midst. (I believe this was on a Saturday, and the miracle of healing had taken place on the previous Tuesday.)
Now, certainly we had been more or less with her all this time, and yet we knew nothing about it; so when the Slapton Vicar gave his address, I was very puzzled to know what he meant.
When the celebration was over, and we had come out of the Chapel, I asked:
“What did the Vicar mean?” and I said to the Mother, “Have you really been cured Mother mistress?” (It was then that I discovered that only the Mother Prioress knew of it.)
“Yes; have you not noticed it,” she replied.
I had to confess that I had not noticed it, and, what is more, I never did, for she still limped, and still does. In fact, I once said, “Mother mistress, is it not strange that our Lady did not quite cure you? It would have been so much[174] nicer if she had!” She replied, “Yes, but I must be grateful for what she has done.”
Now I really did then believe she had done something, but what it really was I could not make out, as I saw no difference in her whatever. In fact, many times have I seen the poor nun flushed with pain at the exertion of moving. Most probably the abscess had run its course and closed naturally just about the time when the rhubarb leaf arrived; and as to the raising of the limb which she had been unable to do for thirty-eight years, we all know how easy it is for some persons to imagine almost anything. But all I have to say is, she was about the same when I last saw her as when I first saw her; and if any one went to see her, they would see for themselves that she still limps. While she was a novice, she had a bad attack, after which a crutch was procured for her, which she used once or twice, and then went back to her old stick; but both crutch and stick had been given up long before the apparitions, though occasionally she would take the stick to go up the hill with, to the summer-house (and I often wished I had[175] one, for it was a tiring climb). Nevertheless the stick and the crutch are now laid at the “Shrine of our Lady of Llanthony” as “memorials of God’s wonders!”
I remember how I have looked at this stick and crutch, and thoughts passed through my mind which I need not mention.
Since I finally left the convent, I have been told that a certain young man acknowledged to a priest that he had enacted the whole of the apparition with a magic lantern, and that the priest had written to Father Ignatius, advising him not to say anything more on the subject, or else he would make known how the whole thing came about, or words to this effect. Probably the young man was the railway clerk, who witnessed the boys’ excitement on the subject, for nowhere do you hear of his having seen the apparition himself. Doubtless he was too busy amusing the others. Now I do not say positively the apparitions were produced by a magic lantern, but I was told so, and I think this is the general opinion.
I cannot but add a chapter in which I shall especially endeavour to give a word of counsel and warning to all who may in any degree be looking upon convent life, whether in the Church of England or in the Church of Rome, with a favourable eye. I may say sincerely this book has been written with this object. And if, in doing what seemed to me so bounden a duty, I have hurt the feelings of any who are mentioned in its pages, it was not with the object of doing so that I was led to speak out the truth. My prayer for them is that they may be brought out into the same liberty that I, through God’s infinite mercy, am now in the enjoyment of. I can truthfully say that in doing this I have fully counted the cost, and it has already cost me no small amount of pain. I have[177] spoken the truth, and I have endeavoured to do so in no vindictive manner, but in love. Distinctly this book has been written to warn all against making the terrible mistake in life that I made. Had I but listened to and obeyed my mother, her advice would have saved me from wasting (I can use no other word, though God will doubtless overrule this mistake for my own good, and for the good of others) the best and youngest years of my life, and have prevented me from enduring years of mental suffering and misery. But when I went astray on the path that seemed so attractive and pleasant, I was very young; I was but fifteen years of age, and like, I fear, so many young and inexperienced people, I was foolish, self-willed, and fancied that I was better able to judge for myself than others were to judge for me. And so I was led to deliver myself over to the tender mercies of High Church Fathers and Mothers. I was simply bewitched by their “fair speeches,” high professions of sanctity, and solemn assurances of the happiness belonging to the cloistered life.
When I think of such “false prophets,” I am[178] forcibly reminded of the words we read in 2 Timothy iii. 6:
Of these are they that creep into houses, and take captive silly women, laden with sins, led away by divers lusts, ever learning and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.
I was led by Ignatius to believe that by my action I was doing God’s will, and that by leaving my home and relations I was but obeying the command of Christ to “leave all and follow Him.” Was there ever such an absurdity as this? I was not called to go on a mission to the teeming millions living in heathen darkness, and take to them the Gospel of God’s grace; nor yet to work amongst the heathen in our own large towns; but positively to make myself a prisoner in one particular house, to be shut up where I could engage in no Christian or even philanthropic labour, and in such an isolated position I was told over and over again that I could live the highest, the holiest, and the happiest life on earth, and withal, bring down to the world around me blessings and health through the merits of “holy obedience.” I was taught that I could bless,[179] and be made a blessing to others, by “telling the beads,” “invoking the saints,” “confessing sins to man,” by “hearing mass,” and by “reciting various offices.” What incredible folly!
On looking back, I find how great was my delusion, and I do heartily trust that my experience of this folly may be the means of saving girls and boys, men and women, from wasting so much precious and God-given time, which it was my sad lot to lose. I sowed the seed of blind enthusiasm, and reaped the harvest of untold misery, and blighted hopes. All the high-flown promises (which I so greedily swallowed) of the joy, the glory, the peace, the happiness of the nun’s life, are false promises and vain delusions. Certainly at one of the three convents in which I resided it was (as some of the sisters have said) “like living in a bear-garden.”
I do from the depths of my heart thank God for delivering me out of the “bear-garden,” and I pray that He will deliver others, and give them courage to “come out.”
It needs some courage to enter, but a hundred times as much to leave. I fear in many convents,[180] humanly speaking, it is, after full profession, almost an impossibility to do so, for, as I have said, the moral bolts and bars are even more difficult to break through than the material ones; and these latter are, especially in Roman Catholic convents, not few or easily to be broken through. During all the years spent by me in nunneries I cannot look back to one sister, and say I know she is happy, that she has found true peace and satisfaction; but I can recollect the many who were disappointed at finding the life so utterly different from what they had been led to expect.
Alas! alas! When once we have taken up the “golden plough,” there is virtually no “looking back.” When once we have made our choice, we must abide by it. Many I know bitterly regret that they ever put their hands to this golden or, rather, this gilded plough.
If nuns were only free, and not conscience-bound, they would tell the self-same, true story which I do. But alas! they dare not speak, they even scarcely dare to think for themselves. Their reason has been given up to their Superiors (do[181] remember this), and they have no right to think anything but what their Superiors think.
It is not your place to think, but to obey.
These words were often spoken to us. And again:
A nun is always sure of doing God’s will, because her Superior’s voice is God’s voice to her, and even should I, your Superior, tell you to tell a lie (which of course I should not), you would be committing the sin of disobedience if you did not do as you were told.
I recollect well that a certain dear young sister was told to tell what she believed to be a lie. She was in great distress about it, and went to the Mother Superior we then had, telling her that she did not know what to do, as she must either commit the sin of lying or of disobedience.
When a monk or nun is under vows, such a man or a woman is but a tool to be used as the owner of that tool sees fit. Individuality is sunk in the order in which such vows have been made. Practically, men and women under vows (and it matters not whether these vows are made in the established Church of England or in the alien Church of Rome) are dead—dead to the world,[182] dead to father, mother, sisters, brothers and friends; above all, dead to the “still small voice” of an enlightened conscience which once had power to speak. Yes, they are dead in another sense of the word, for have they not, knowingly or unknowingly, committed an act of moral suicide? They are no longer responsible beings. They have given up their souls, their bodies, their wills, their consciences and reason itself into the hands of their Superiors, who from the moment those terrible vows are taken are to them in the place of God; and whatever command the Superior gives, that must they obey without question and blindly. And should one Superior give a sister over into the hands of another (as was the case with me), then that one must be obeyed with the same blind obedience. We were taught by the Superior:
If the order given is sinful, that is my sin, and you are not responsible; but you would be guilty of greater sin in not obeying, because it would be the sin of disobedience, and God hates that sin more than any other, because it was the sin that brought death into the world, and it will bring death to your soul.
Such being the case, we may define a nunnery as a place where slaves drag on a weary existence[183] day and night.  Murmuring at our condition is most strictly forbidden.
Indeed, should the relatives or friends of a poor nun go to the convent and there hold converse with her, that conversation must be held only through a grating, and (in our case, at any rate) the nun must have her face closely veiled. And even then it would not be possible to lodge a complaint with one’s relative or friend, or even with one’s own mother, since another nun is usually sent to listen. Thus it is that we were often forced to appear perfectly happy, when, in truth, we were just the opposite.
I have had thus to appear when speaking to my own sister; my heart at that time was well nigh breaking. But should a nun complain, the training she has gone through would cause her to be very distressed in mind at having been unfaithful enough to bring scandal upon the so-called “religious life,” and she would feel bound to confess it at once to her Mother Superior.
I should have written this account of my experiences of convent life some two years ago, had I not then feared that by doing so I should be doing more harm than good, by exposing to the outside world what a farce and sham some who make so much profession are, to say nothing of what a farce the whole system is.
But, little by little, I have become more free from the chains which held me, and I now trust that this book will do more good than harm by saving others from being led away by the power of Satan, for I believe it to be through Satanic influence that this system exists. I sincerely hope that this book will be read in the spirit in which it is written, and that thus it will be the means of saving many parents from heart-breaking separations from their beloved children.
I would ask those who are not believers in Christianity not to use it in order to bolster themselves up in their atheistical views, or to see in it a proof of the fallacy of true religion. Although I have given up convent religion, yet I am a firm believer in God. I believe that the Lord Jesus Christ died and rose again to atone for and save[185] His people from their sins, that the Holy Spirit can and does give to all who believe in Christ a new and a clean heart, and grace to walk in the footsteps of the Saviour.
However misguided I was when I entered in my convent life, yet I was induced to do so because I had a deep love to my Saviour, and thought I could not in a better way prove my love and increase it.
But who can be surprised at a young girl being deluded and led astray when “false prophets” arise, who profess so much holiness and so great and exact a knowledge of God’s will?
Many there are, like myself, who have been misdirected and deceived by ritual, candles, flowers, incense, gorgeous vestments, genuflexions, sentimental music and sermons, and I know not what other nonsense. I was seeking Jesus. I asked for bread, but I was given a stone. For a time the excitement arising from convent life made me think I had found what I sought, but it was a vain delusion, as I found to my cost.
There are in English convents to-day many unhappy souls, groping in the dark. Are we to[186] let them share my fate, and that of others, which may be worse? Nay, rather let us use our pens and voices to awaken and enlighten the men and women of England as to the truth.
Others have exposed conventual life as it exists in the Roman Catholic Church; but still the people of England can scarcely be alive to the fearfully rapid increase in the number of such convents,[24] or of the degrading and un-English and un-Christian nature of the life of a nun therein. It is not my lot to expose Roman Catholic convents; the discoveries I have made have been made in connection with the Church of England, which, alas, through the fearful growth of Ritualism, is becoming a recruiting ground for Rome.
My opinion may not be worth much, but I hold the strong conviction that unless Protestants make a great stir, and unless the bishops of the Church set the example, England, at no very distant period, will be Romanized.
I can point to more than two or three convents in connection with the Established Church where not only Roman Catholic books are in constant use, but where the Roman Catholic Ordinary of the Mass is used, instead of our own Protestant Communion Service; and, worse than all perhaps, I know the Mass was on several occasions celebrated by a Roman Catholic priest in a Church of England convent!!
When I came out of convent life and mixed with Christian people, I discovered that the most earnest workers were those who were in the enjoyment of peace. They were living in the sunlight of God’s love; they were, so to speak, good without knowing it, they had no time to be always thinking of themselves, but they were ever looking to God. Now, in the convent it had been far otherwise; we had been taught by man to try with all our might to be good according to set[188] rules, and ceremonies, and methods handed down to us by Roman Catholic saints, or so-called Fathers of the Church, and to be continually examining and fingering our spiritual muscles to see how we were getting on in the spiritual life. In consequence of such a method, there was constant failure, as there ever will be under such a system.
I feel I have much to be thankful for that God should have led me to see my mistake in life. It was His work, for, in spite of the treatment I received, I still clung to the convent life. My motive for leaving it was mainly to get away from being misunderstood and misrepresented, and from the endurance of cruel penances. But since then my eyes have been further opened, so that I now totally disagree with the whole system, and I thank God for having so providentially taken me by the hand. He and He alone has delivered me from so many Satanic delusions, and He and He alone has made known to me the “truth as it is in Jesus,” and not in Romish rites and ceremonies. I can and do indeed rejoice in the liberty wherewith Christ has made me free; I am free to serve[189] Him “without fear,” and I am free to let my light shine that others may learn thereby to glorify my heavenly Father.
I thank Him especially for not letting me remain in the convent any longer, wasting time and precious opportunities of doing good and helping others. And I do pray that He will ever keep me in a listening and waiting attitude of mind upon Himself, so that I may “hear what the Lord will speak: for He will speak peace unto His people, and to His saints.” And may He so speak to me that I may never “turn again to folly.”
That God may use these poor efforts of mine to open the eyes of many, is the prayer of her who, with the man whose eyes the Lord once opened, can say, “Once I was blind, now I see.”
“Manual of Devotions to our Holy Father, St. Benedict, Abbot and Patriarch of the Western Monks; to his Sister, St. Scholastica, Virgin and Abbess; and to all Saints of his Order.” (London: Catholic Publishing and Bookselling Co. Limited.)
Father Ignatius calls himself a Benedictine monk, and his nuns belong to the same order. One would have supposed that though he imitated Rome in the worship of the wafer and of the Virgin, he would still have hesitated to go the full length of Romish superstition by obliging his nuns to put their trust in such questionable characters as Gregory VII., Thomas à Becket, etc. Yet on page 185 of the above book they are required to ask Gregory VII. to pray for them, and on the following page Thomas à Becket is invoked in the same manner. Who and what these two Romish saints were, truthful English history abundantly proves.
As the title of the book shows, it is intended to foster devotion to St. Benedict, to his sister Scholastica, and to all the other canonized saints of the Benedictine Order. Now, who canonized these supposed saints? Was it not Rome?
The first part is entirely devoted to the honouring and invoking of St. Benedict. Throughout this part we frequently[194] meet with the verse, “Pray for us, O holy Father St. Benedict.” There are also a number of litanies, in which he is called upon as being now “placed over the choirs of monks,” as “the star of the world,” as “the equal of the prophets,” as “protector of his order,” as “the scourge of devils,” as the “Abraham of the New Testament,” and is entreated with the cry, “We beseech thee to hear us.” On page 47 the following invocation occurs: “Beseeching thee (holy Father St. Benedict) to be so faithfully present to me at the hour of my death, as to oppose thyself on every side where thou shalt see the assaults of the enemy most violently raging against me, that, being defended by thy presence, I may securely escape the snares of the enemy, and arrive at the joys of heaven.”
Similar impieties occur throughout this and the other parts. Thus, in the part devoted to St. Scholastica, on page 131, we find the following collect: “Mercifully look down upon Thy family, we beseech Thee, O Lord, through the merits of Thy blessed Virgin, St. Scholastica; and as by her prayers Thou didst cause the rain to descend from heaven deign, through her supplications,” etc. A number of litanies also occur, in which she is addressed in the most gushing way, and asked to pray for those who thus address her.
Moreover, this book introduces prayers for the dead. Thus, on page 165, the versicle, “May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”
There are many other superstitious practices contained in the book, notably the medal of St. Benedict, the wearing of which is declared on page 223 to be “a constant silent prayer to God, … that He would have regard to the merits of our holy Father, and for his sake would extend His own protection,” etc.
Sister Mary Agnes says that the whole of this book, with the exception of the part on Indulgences, was in constant use by the nuns under Father Ignatius.
Must not then monasticism be a fostering garden of superstition, since even those who claim to reject Rome resort to the same subterfuges as Rome does to fill the void that must necessarily exist in the aching hearts of all the deluded followers of monasticism?
The next book, under Appendix B, will appear, if possible, even more grossly superstitious than the former.—(Editor.)
“The Exercises of Saint Gertrude, Virgin and Abbess of the Order of St. Benedict.” (London: Burns & Oates.)
In the preface a short account is given of the life of St. Gertrude, which is chiefly a legendary history, and made up of some of the most absurd and ridiculous tales.
“Once, when she was pouring out her whole heart in love to its Divine Spouse, it received the impression of the five wounds of the Divine Redeemer, and Gertrude felt them continually to the moment of her death with an ever-increasing anguish and love.”
Again, “On another occasion, on the Feast of Annunciation, the Mother of God fastened on her breast a heavenly jewel, wherein were seven precious stones.”
Again, we have another still more extraordinary miracle vouchsafed to her; for “once she received in her heart the Divine Infant, who sprang from his crib to attach himself to her.”
Must not such teaching as this be in the highest degree degrading? And must not those who can swallow such stuff be spiritually demented?
It is almost needless to point out that Saint Gertrude is said to have been devoted to the worship of the Virgin Mary. We find the following most blasphemous words on[198] the subject: “The love of Gertrude towards Mary was in proportion to the tenderness with which the Mother of God regarded the dearest of the Spouses of her Son. Gertrude has bequeathed to us the expression of her devotion to the glorious Queen of heaven in that exquisite prayer which so expressively reveals the deep and touching character of her piety: ‘Hail, fair lily of the effulgent and ever-glorious Trinity! Hail, radiant rose of heavenly fragrance, of whom the King of heaven willed to be born, and with thy milk to be fed, feed our soul with thy Divine insinuations!’” I will only give the last prayer in the book to show how the invocation of supposed saints is inculcated, as in the other book so commonly used in monastic and conventual institutions.
“O God, who hast prepared for Thyself a dwelling-place of delights in the most pure heart of the blessed Virgin Gertrude, deign, we beseech Thee, through her merits and intercession, to wipe away all stains from our hearts, that they may become meet abodes of Thy Divine Majesty, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen!”—(Editor.)
Review of “Visits to the Most Holy Sacrament and the Blessed Virgin Mary. By St. Alphonsus Liguori.” (Published by Burns & Oates.)
This book was sent to me by Sister Agnes, who wrote as follows when forwarding it:
“I send the book which we used daily. It was my constant friend for years; my troubles and sorrows I confided to it. The hymns with the word ‘Ignatius’ at the end are his, but not the others; the writing in the first part of the book, written in MS. on foreign note paper, is taken from St. Alphonsus Liguori, and was approved of by Ignatius, except the part I have covered over: that he did not approve of. It treats of sinful obedience. I cannot quite make it out. The book it is culled from is, I think, entitled ‘The Religious Life.’”
Before reviewing the book itself, I purpose to place before you a part of the matter “written on foreign note paper,” and stuck carefully into the book, acting as a kind of preface to it, as we may say.
Remember this matter is taken from St. Alphonsus Liguori’s “Life of the Religious.”
“There is no consecration so profound, so entire as that of ‘religious’ on the day of their profession, because there is none so purifying, so constant, or so religious. The consecration[200] of bishops and priests is more exalted, as being a Sacrament; it is more noble, as conferring a more sublime dignity and ineffable character; yea, it is more powerful, because it imparts to a mere creature some of the powers of God. But it is not so complete as the monastic consecration, because it does not include a man’s entire separation from himself and from the world; it is not so entire, because it does not absolutely consume the liberty, the independence, and the spontaneousness of his nature: it is a great sacrifice and a great Sacrament, but not a TRUE HOLOCAUST.”
I would urge my readers to stay a moment and mark carefully, and inwardly digest this description of a nun’s life. Where is the liberty that is so vainly spoken of? Are we not here told that a nun by her profession has her liberty absolutely consumed; that is to say, she is a prisoner for life?
Notice, I pray you, the words “it is a true holocaust.” In fact, the sin of the children of Israel, who “caused their sons to pass through the fire,” is committed over again. As king Manasseh “caused his children to pass through the fire in the valley of the son of Hinnom,” so under the pretence of offering the nuns to the service of God, the Roman Catholics, and alas! members of the Church of England, “sacrifice their sons and daughters to devils” (Ps. cvi. 37). It is nothing but Moloch worship over again. But to proceed with Liguori’s description of the life of the religious:
“The violation of the vows is then a very grievous sin against the virtue of religion—(it is) the crime of sacrilege. Man, consecrated to God and to His service, becomes something divine; he owes himself, therefore, a religious respect, which rebounds ever to God; and if ever he should dishonour by mortal sin the virtues of poverty, obedience, and virginity,[201] of which he has made profession, he would commit an outrage against the Divine honour, he would be guilty of sacrilege. What rashness! what crime! what impiety would it not be then in you to violate your vows!
“The infidelity of consecrated persons is more awful than the sacrilege committed against holy places, Eucharist vessels, holy pictures, or relics. Your soul would shudder at the mere thought of a desecrated temple, a dishonoured ciborium, a broken crucifix, or of a saint’s body cast into the flames: would it then consent to far more horrible crimes, or to more infamous violations? Virginity derives not its nobility and worth from itself, but rather because it is an offering to the Lord, inspired and preserved by prudence and piety of the soul.
“If it should happen that a religious, in drawing comparison between his life and that of Christians in the world, should be seized with a holy fear lest he be less zealous, less pure, or less fervent than many of them, he may still find a legitimate reassurance in the thought that his actions, though they may be apparently less virtuous and brilliant, derive, notwithstanding, greater value and more real devotion than theirs from the virtue of religion, which is their chief source, and which has so high a place amongst the more virtuous.”
Do we not see here how a nun is taught to meet what must be an oft-recurring thought—that her life is utterly useless, and that she is unable to devote herself actively to the service of God, and that misery and unhappiness surround her, and that she cannot be so pure as many who, living in the world, are not shut up, so to speak, with only their own heart’s corruptions to brood over. She is taught that all these serious failings are more than atoned for by[202] the mere fact that she has made a solemn profession of poverty, chastity, and obedience. But to proceed.
“He may be consoled that he has eternally consecrated to the Lord the root of his actions in such a way that they all bear the threefold character of a profound religion, ardent generosity (?), and eternal attachment to that which is good. We may reasonably suppose that on its entrance into religion, by making profession of the vows, the Christian soul obtains remission of all its sins. Not that the religious profession, considered in itself, possesses a sacramental virtue, operating by its own intrinsic and independent office, or that it can, like baptism and penance, blot out the stain of sin; but if it be sincere, it is a most excellent act of perfect charity, which unites us very closely to God, by an effectual outpouring of His sanctifying grace, and by an abundant remission of those temporal punishments which remain due to sin after its guilt has been forgiven.
“Before dismissing this noble subject of religious profession let us not omit to observe that the vow of obedience is its chief feature. That which is done by obedience is more agreeable to God than that which is performed by one’s own will. Your Superior is like a sacred vessel wherein God has placed for us all His desires and graces, and the true proof of religious sanctity, the sure token of perfection, is the perfection of obedience to all Superiors.
“Need we add that obedience has its limits. There are, firstly, things forbidden by the law of God, which a Superior cannot prescribe without injustice, since, being then no longer subordinate to the Divine will, he can no longer serve as a medium between him and his subject. They are without the pale of obedience, and the Superior has no authority to enforce them. The subject, therefore, is not to act contrary[203] to the law of God, or to the rule which they profess to follow; in such obedience would be illicit.”
I must make a few observations on this matter of obedience. Notice how, by such an obedience, a professed nun (or monk) transfers to an erring mortal the whole responsibility of her actions. She has to find out God’s will through the Superior’s. The Superior is to her in the place of God, and practically his law and order becomes for her God’s law and order. How can she remonstrate, when the Superior commands what is against the law of God, when she has been taught that she can only learn what is God’s law through the medium of the Superior? And if she dared to resist her Superior’s will because she felt it to be leading her astray, do you suppose that the Superior would ever acknowledge himself or herself to be in the wrong? And is it likely that the poor nun would escape some terrible penance for daring to doubt the propriety of any behest?
But the last paragraph, commencing “Need we add that obedience has its limits,” and closing with “Such obedience would be illicit,” was carefully hidden, for Father Ignatius had told his nuns to paste a piece of paper over it, since he could not agree with the Romish doctor! He required an absolute and unconditional obedience, and believed it impossible for a Superior to prescribe any law that was against the law of God.
St. Alphonsus Liguori has always been considered an extreme exponent of Romish doctrines; but now we find a man holding orders in the Church of England going even beyond Liguori. I beg my readers to make a special note of this. I will now finish my extracts from the writing on foreign note-paper inserted in the book I am about to review.
“The religious is a person consecrated for ever to the divine service” (mark this “for ever”—a prisoner for life, my friends, nothing more or less), “and who cannot disgrace his high dignity without committing sacrilege. He has solemnly vowed that he will belong to no other but God; he has devoted himself to follow after eternal wisdom in order to become perfect, and the religious, in sinning, has stripped himself of his justice and merits and become a shameful ruin, a horrid corpse.”
(This is enough to frighten a poor, timid girl, and to bind her in chains to her prison.)
“The spiritual dangers of the religious life are not to be attributed to the vows, but rather to the fault, of him who, by changing his mind, transgresses those vows. Do not then, under the pressure of most cruel temptations”—(who makes them cruel? Read the experiences of Miss Povey or any other nun who has had the good fortune to escape, or to be turned out of her prison, and you will find out)—“regret the profession you have made in the fulness of liberty”—(remember that previous to profession the Superiors have cunningly woven their entangling web around the nun, and the profession may be compared to the spider, after he has secured his prey, carrying the poor helpless fly into the inner precincts of his home)—“but rather behave the more diligently to subject your impatient nature to so salutary a yoke.” Mark the word “salutary.” Is it not a well-attested fact that many nuns go mad from the unnatural confinement within convent walls?
I can only hope to give a very short review of this book, which was placed in the hands of a nun who was a member of the Church of England. I have not time for an elaborate or lengthy account of its contents. I do not think that it[205] was only at Llanthony that this book was used, and it is to be feared that whilst the Feltham convent is now no longer under the wing of Father Ignatius, yet that, with the exception of unconditional obedience, the teaching there is as extreme and as Romish as at Llanthony, and yet I believe a clergyman, holding a licence to officiate in the diocese of London, acts as chaplain there. How long our bishops are going to allow and wink at this state of things, I know not! May God raise up many faithful men who will demand that the laws of our Protestant Church be complied with!
The above work is one of the so-called devotional books prescribed by Father Ignatius, to be used by the nuns under his control.
It is a Roman Catholic publication, in constant use in all the monastic and other institutions of that Church; was composed in Italian by Liguori, the founder of the Redemptorist Order, translated into English by the Rev. R. A. Coffin, a member of that order, and published by Burns & Oates, the leading Romish publishers in Great Britain.
The nature of this book may be readily ascertained from the fact that it presupposes the consecrated wafer to be really and truly Christ himself, and that it insists upon the Virgin Mary as being the Saviour of every one that is saved. For, in the beginning of the introduction, Liguori says:
“Our holy faith teaches us, and we are bound to believe, that in the consecrated host Jesus Christ is really present under the species of bread”; and, further on, speaking of the visits to the Virgin, he says:
“The opinion of St. Bernard is well known and generally believed. It is that God dispenses no graces otherwise than[206] through the hands of Mary.… Hence, Father Suarez declares that it is now the sentiment of the universal Church that ‘the intercession of Mary is not only useful, but even necessary to obtain graces,’” and he concludes:
“Do you then be also careful to always join to your daily visit to the most blessed Sacrament a visit to the most holy Virgin Mary in some church, or at least before a devout image of her in your own house.”
Hence on page 25 we find a prayer to the Virgin, beginning with the words:
“Most holy immaculate Virgin, and my mother ‘Mary,’” in which she is styled the “queen of the world,” “the hope, the refuge of sinners,” and the following blasphemous expressions are used:
“I worship thee, O great queen, and I thank thee for all the graces which thou hast hitherto granted me; and especially I thank thee for having delivered me from hell, which I have so often deserved.… I place all my hopes in thee, and I confide my salvation to thy care, etc.”
Hence throughout the book occur such expressions as the following:
“Sole refuge of sinners, have mercy on me.” “O Mary, grant me the grace always to have recourse to thee.” “Hail, our hope.” “My hope, help me.” “Therefore, my lady, and my hope, if thou dost not help me, I am lost.” “All who are saved obtain salvation through thee; thou then, O Mary, hast to save me,” and the like.
Extracts might be piled upon extracts, but enough have been given to show the nature and tendency of the book. Yet this book the nuns, under Father Ignatius’s jurisdiction, are induced to keep as a constant companion.
It does not seem necessary to say anything further on the[207] head of this book: for its antichristian nature must be apparent to all students of the pure word of God. In Christ alone is salvation, and He alone is our Mediator between God and man.—(Editor.)
[1] I read as follows in the October number of the Protestant Observer:—“I remember hearing Father Ignatius tell an Oxford audience some years ago that he was called Ignatius, not after the famous Father of the early Church, but ‘after my patron-saint, Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuit Order.’ May we not call him Ignatius Loyola the Second?”
[2] “There are persons, even amongst ‘Religious,’ so insensible to the sorrows and sufferings of others, that we might ask whether they possess a human heart” (“Thoughts and Suggestions for [Ritualistic] Sisters of Charity,” page 81 London: Hodges, 1871).
[3] These were held in Hunter Street, Brunswick Square; the sisters were of the third order, or associate sisters, living in the world, but wearing a dress similar to that in my photograph. They used to accompany Father Ignatius when he went to preach or attend meetings of a more private character in Hunter Street. It was at one of these meetings that I first met the Feltham Mother, early in the year 1868.
[4] If the reader will look at the last verse of this chapter in the Book of Numbers, he will see that the vows there spoken of can have no connection with convent vows, nor can they supply any authority for them. We read in the last verse: “These are the statutes which the Lord commanded Moses between a man and his wife, between the father and his daughter, being yet in her youth in her father’s house.” Please note this. Oh, how clever and subtle are some people in twisting Scripture and wresting it from its proper bearing!—Editor.
[5] In “The Rule of our Most Holy Father St. Benedict,” edited, with English translation and explanatory notes, by a monk of St. Benedict’s Abbey, Fort Augustus, occur these words, which show that the rules which regulate the convents connected with this Order are very similar to those regulating the monasteries of the same order in the Church of Rome:
“By no means let a monk be allowed to receive, either from his parents, or any one else, or from his brethren, letters, tokens, or any gifts whatsoever, or to give them to others, without permission of the abbot. And if anything be sent to him, even by his parents, let him not presume to receive it, until it hath been made known to the abbot. But even if the abbot order it to be received, it shall be in his power to bid it to be given to whom he pleaseth, and let not the brother to whom it may have been sent be grieved, lest occasion be given to the devil. Should any one, however, presume to act otherwise, let him be subjected to the discipline of the Rule” (p. 155).—Editor.
[6] John Berchmans was the son of a master shoemaker named John Charles Berchmans, and was born in the year 1599. His biographers tell us that as a child he grew up as gentle and guileless as a lamb, and early shared his time between the school and the altar.
When about fifteen years of age, he joined the Society of Jesus, although his parents were somewhat opposed to his taking this step. In a letter to his mother at that time he tried to bring his parents to be reconciled to his taking this step; he wrote, “God is now pleased, after much prayer, out of His goodness to give me a vocation to religion and to the ‘Society of Jesus,’ the hammer of all heresies, the vessel of virtue and perfection. I hope you will not be so unreasonable as to oppose Him, but as (as I have read in history,) the Egyptians offered their children to the crocodile, which they looked upon as a god, and, while it was eating them up, the parents made high festival, so too, I hope you will rejoice as they did, and praise God, and thank Him that your son should be found worthy,” etc.
This Jesuit saint seems to have been “celebrated for devotion to His Lord in the blessed Sacrament” and devotion to the Virgin Mary. He was looked upon as a “portent of holiness.” He is said “to have preserved unstained by grievous sin the white robe of baptism.” He died in the year 1621. At eight o’clock on Friday, Aug. 13th, 1621, with “his eyes on his crucifix,” and with “the holy names of Jesus and Mary on his lips he went to his reward.”
Miracles of course were said to be wrought through his relics. In 1865, Pius IX. published the decree for his beatification, and on Jan. 15th, 1888, Leo XIII., amidst the splendid festivities of his sacerdotal jubilee, solemnly canonized him as a saint.—Editor.
[7] The late Rev. Dr. Pusey recommended Ritualistic Father Confessors to give the following advice to those Sisters of Mercy who might happen to be their penitents: “I would have great respect paid in confession to your confessor, for (to say nothing of the honour due to the priesthood) we ought to look upon them as angels sent by God to reconcile us to His Divine goodness; and also as His lieutenants upon earth, and therefore we owe them all reverence, even though they may at times betray that they are human, and have human infirmities, and perhaps ask curious questions which are not part of the confession, such as your name, what penances or virtues you practise, what are your temptations, etc. I would have you answer, although you are not obliged to do so.” (“Manual for Confessors,” p. 190. London, 1878.) Heaven help the poor sisters who have to answer the “curious questions” of an inquisitive or wicked Father Confessor.—Editor.
[8] The following is an extract from a lecture delivered by Mr. W. Walsh, at Bath, reported in the English Churchman, Nov. 26, 1886:
“He (Mr. Walsh) had now to direct attention to the Vow of ‘Obedience,’ taken by many Ritualistic Sisters of Mercy. The rule as to ‘obedience’ varied considerably. In Dr. Pusey’s sisterhood, it was very objectionable indeed. The rule of holy obedience commands the sisters: ‘Ye shall ever address the spiritual Mother with honour and respect; avoid speaking of her among yourselves; cherish and obey her with holy love, without any murmur or sign of hesitation or repugnance, but simply, cordially, and promptly obey with cheerfulness, AND BANISH FROM YOUR MIND ANY QUESTION AS TO THE WISDOM OF THE COMMAND GIVEN YOU. If ye fail in this, ye have failed to resist a temptation of the evil one.’
“Would not such a rule as this, Mr. Walsh continued to say, if placed in the hands of a wicked Mother Superior, lead to the most fearful results? In Father Benson’s ‘Religious Life Portrayed for the Use of Sisters of Mercy,’ the teaching was, if possible, placed in a still more fearful light. In that book the sister is taught that—
“‘A religieuse has made the sacrifice of her will in taking the Vow of Obedience. She is no more her own, but God’s; and she must obey her Superiors for God’s sake, yielding herself as wax to be moulded unresistingly.’”
Well did Mr. Walsh observe: “Persons who had to submit to ‘obedience’ such as this were as truly slaves as any negro.”—Editor.
[9] There must be many similar lying legends of this kind, in order to stamp upon ignorant and superstitious minds the necessity of obedience.
In “The Secret Plan of the Jesuits,” by the Abbot Leone, the following story is told: “Father Saetti, knocking at my door one morning, according to his custom, I did not open it. ‘Why this delay?’ he asked me. I replied that I could not open the door sooner. He then reminded me that, in all things, the most prompt obedience was the most perfect; that, in obeying God, we must make every sacrifice, even that of a moment of time. ‘One of the brethren,’ he continued, ‘was occupied in writing, when some one knocked at the door. He had begun to make an “O,” but he did not stay to finish it. He opened the door, and on returning to his seat, he found the “O” completed, and all in gold!  Did not St. Paul prophesy that those would arise who would “speak lies in hypocrisy,” and did he not say, “Refuse profane and old wives’ fables”? (1 Tim. iv. 1-7).—Editor.
[10] See Appendix C. for the teaching we received concerning the nature of the Vow of Obedience.—Editor.
[11] While these pages were passing through the press, the Western Mail, of Cardiff, on March 3rd, 1890, published a report, from the pen of its special correspondent, of the reception of three new monks at Llanthony Abbey by Father Ignatius. We reprint this report, slightly abridged:
“The great event at the morning service was the consecration of three brethren as monks. They were given new names after their consecration. The abbot gave Cymric names to the three new monks, naming one Mihangel Dewi Fair, another Catwg Fair, and the third Dyfrig Fair. The great organ thundered forth sweetest melody, and the voices of unseen choristers singing a Welsh chant ushered in the solemn service. The three monks in reply to the abbot—who was most gorgeously appareled in cloth of gold and hood, which caught and held the lights which blazed forth from all parts of the building—who asked whether it was their wish to depart, said, ‘We wish to dwell in the House of the Lord for ever!’ The abbot asked, would they make a solemn vow of celibacy, obedience, and poverty. That was answered in the affirmative. After some other ceremonies of the most gorgeous description had been observed, the three brethren who sought to be made monks laid themselves down on their backs on the floor of the church. A funeral pall was placed over them to signify that they were henceforth dead to the things of this world. A long wax candle was placed at each of the four corners of the carpet on which they laid. This was followed by the Burial Service being performed by the abbot, and the great bell tolled as if for the dead, and the De Profundis was solemnly chanted. Moving around the prostrate figures, the abbot, now robed in black vestments, scattered ashes upon them, and said, ‘Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.’ He then sprinkled holy water upon the prostrate forms.  Subsequently that was withdrawn, and it was then seen that the three monks had commenced their spiritual existence. The head of each bore the tonsure, and was encircled with a wreath as described above. The abbot received the three monks, each of whom held beneath his chin the houseling white cloth. Later on in the service the abbot, standing in wedding garments on the steps of the altar, proclaimed the three new monks as being ‘the spouses of our Lord Jesus Christ,’ and on the third finger of the left hand of each he placed a plain wedding ring. After the ceremony of consecration was over, the three young monks took their seats, covered with crimson cloth, and thirteen or fourteen nuns, completely concealed in white wraps, descended from somewhere, and bowed low, to receive the blessing of the monks. The above will give the reader some idea of the extraordinary and gorgeous ritual observed on the occasion.”—Ed.
[12] In the “Little Manual of Devotions,” for the use of the “Pilgrims” to Llanthony Abbey, Father Ignatius teaches that—“It is a pious custom of devout Christians, on seeing a monk, to kneel and kiss the hem of the sacred habit; if done from love to Jesus, and reverence to the habit of the Consecrated Life, a great blessing will be received” (page 6).—Editor.
[13] At that period my letters were not kept back; but you will see that at any time that suits the Superiors letters may be and often are never sent.
[14] In the Church of England Catholic and Monastic Times for June 24, 1884 (which was the organ of Father Ignatius), there appears an article entitled “Lent at the Monastery.” It is stated that in the evening of Ash Wednesday, “Compline was said, and then, while the nuns retired to their Priory for the Service of the Discipline, the monks proceeded to the Discipline in the solemn choir” (page 5). This confirms the statement of Sister Mary Agnes that the “Discipline” was in use at Llanthony.—Editor.
[15] This last event, I should mention, took place in Devonshire. There are no stairs at the Llanthony convent.
[16] In the article on “Lent at the Monastery,” which we have already quoted from the Monastic Times, it is stated that on Ash Wednesday, at Llanthony, “First the Superior [Father Ignatius] received the holy ashes on his tonsured head, then the monks; after this the nuns descended.… One by one they knelt before the priest, received the ashes on their veiled heads, and disappeared behind the Great Shrine.… Nones, Litany, and the seven penitential Psalms were said; the latter kneeling or lying prostrate in the ashes in the centre of the choir.”—Editor.
[17] Probably few people credit what I know to be a fact, that such instruments of torture are in use in probably all monastic and conventual institutions. I have by me now a book called “Priests, Women, and Families,” by J. Michelet, published in 1874 by the Protestant Evangelical Mission.
In the editor’s preface to this book there are two sets of engravings of “Articles of Piety”; or, Instruments of Torture in English Convents. Under the first set of engravings, I read thus:
“Instruments of torture are now practised upon nuns in Romish convents in London, and in all parts of the country.”
The Romish “Articles of Piety,” named on the next page, were bought at Little’s Ecclesiastical Warehouse, 20, Cranbourne Street, and at the convent of the “Sisters of the Assumption of the Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.” (London.)
Such instruments of torture are fitter for the worshippers of Baal, than for the worshippers of God; and a person using them upon cattle would lay himself open to a prosecution by the “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.” Both the parties who purchased these articles are intimately known to Mr. Robert Steele, the secretary of the Protestant Evangelical Mission and Electoral Union, 5, Racquet Court, Fleet Street, E.C.
Christian reader, it is your duty to testify, on God’s behalf, against the blasphemy and cruelty of Romanism. The Maker and Preserver of man is the loving Father, who gave His only begotten Son to die for us, and thus make atonement for our sin.
The second engraving is headed, “Iron Disciplines of the Church.” There I read:
“Saint Liguori, the Doctor of the Romish Church” (and an author strongly recommended to the nuns and monks under Father Ignatius), “commends the use of Disciplines to the ‘True Spouse of Christ,’ thus:
“Disciplines, or Flagellations, are a species of mortifications strongly recommended by St. Francis of Sales, and universally adopted in religious communities of both sexes.”
Then after a minute description of some fifteen of the instruments of torture, I read these words:
“Were such cruelties perpetrated upon the heathen, all our Christian churches would resound with appeals to the sympathy of the people to come to the help of the sufferers. This would be commendable. Why, then, is the same course not adopted on behalf of nuns, who, as Rev. Pierce Connelly says, ‘are not only slaves, but who are, de facto, by a Satanic consecration, secret prisoners for life, and may any day be put an end to, or much worse, with less risk of vengeance here in England than in Italy and Spain’?”—Editor.
[18] An extern is a boarder, or associate.
[19] See Appendix A, and B, and C, where some Romish literature used is reviewed.—Editor.
[20] Father Ignatius has himself described this service in his book entitled “Brother Placidus,” and records, in connection with it, a wonderful “miracle,” which he declares actually occurred in his monastery. It is hard to understand how any person outside a lunatic asylum can believe in such a “miracle”:—
“Matins were over at five minutes before midnight. A procession quickly formed in the Refectory; and, as the hour of joy and gladness struck, the figure of the holy Child was borne in state to the crib, with lighted tapers, incense, and chanting—
The infant figure is lying on its linen swaddling bands, in the straw; the countless tapers are flaming, amid clouds of sweetest incense, and shouts of triumph song. The little figure was charmingly lifelike—the head slightly raised, the hand also lifted, as if in blessing. In due order all present approached to kiss the sacred emblems of Incarnate Love. With long, lighted tapers they approached, and kneeling down, kissed the upraised hand. First the Abbot; then Fathers Theodore, Philip, and Drostan; after them Brothers Pancras, Oswald, Ethelred, and then Placidus. How pale the fair face of the young novice looks! How his hand is trembling, as he grasps the burning taper!… The novice has been longing for this moment—longing to press his burning lips upon that infant hand—longing to make his adoring confession of faith in Mary’s little Babe. ‘O my Jesus, my King, my God, let me come and adore Thee.…’ With words like these bursting from his heart, but all unheard by aught save Him for whom they all were uttered, Brother Placidus knelt to kiss the little hand. ‘Oh! oh!’ burst from the lips of the children, while the elder brothers fell involuntarily on their knees. Brother Placidus had kissed the holy Child, and, as he did so, the figure became animated with life, and bowed its head, and returned the kiss, and the little hand had been laid on the novice’s head. The taper dropped from his hand, and he fell into a deep swoon, on the floor, before the shrine of the Nativity” (pages 115-118).
[21] I almost tremble at allowing such blasphemy as this to appear; it is too shocking.—Editor.
[22] I have seen this charm in the shape of a dried piece of leaf. Miss Povey has one now in her possession.—Editor.
[23] God grant that it may never be revived, and that it will never be recognised as a part of the Church of England’s machinery!—Editor.
[24] I believe there are now in England, Wales, and Scotland, no less than 458 Roman Catholic convents. Besides, there are about 48 houses for Jesuits, and 171 monasteries. If the people of England make no protest against this system, which is so essentially un-English, if our Government do not enforce the existing laws against the entrance of Jesuits into this country and the setting up of monasteries, and if our Government refuse to listen to the wishes of thousands in our land for convents to be impartially inspected, will not the masses, though such a course must be deplored, ere long feel almost impelled, at least with some convents, to take the law in their own hands?—Editor.
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