LIFE IN A CONVENT. BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS DAY, FORMERLY OF THE ORDER OF THE PRESENTATION; 66 NATURE, AND TENDENCY. (Continued from page 215.) "Idolaters and slaves! would ye impart Peace to yourselves, the peace which cannot fade ? Of that immortal temple which God made, Not built by human hands; cleanse that, nor vain, As now, Remorse, not penance, shall remove the stain Of sins that, still indulg'd, corroding there remain." PROGRESS, READE'S ITALY. WHAT a dreadful, but withal, a pitiable delusion, insensibly steals over the spirits, and mars the minds of those who, either disappointed in their anticipations of happiness, sick of society, or of themselves, or lost in the deep dangerous sea of love, seek the cloistered cell, and the eremitical tomb, as the only existing panacea for the relief of their broken hearts and bleeding sorrows-wherein they might forget their insupportable woes, and bury them for ever! Strange, to seek for the attenuation of misery from a source of all others the most unlikely to afford the desired relief! True, the wild ravings of the mind may, for a brief moment, become abated by the opiate of monastic quiet rendering the spirit of the unhappy sufferer insensible to its agonies and unconscious of its woes. But the accumulated flood of grief, pent up and rendered impassable for a time, will, ere long, with a power unconquerable as the mighty avalanche, and with destruction as severe, burst its weighty waters with overwhelming and irresistible fury over the devoted spirit-blasting its idolized hopes, frustrating its visionary bliss, tearing from it, with remorseless grasp, the last weak reed to which it clung for support, and deluging with the bitterest of disappointment, its innermost recesses, waking up and creating pangs unknown, unfelt, unborn before! Sir Bulwer Lytton, in the "Pilgrims of the Rhine," after making mention of that truly wretched visionary Mary de Medicis, whose bruised spirit sought rest in the cloister, thus beautifully, quaintly, and affectingly pourtrays the monastic life : "Alas! the cell and the convent are but a vain emblem of that desire to fly to God which belongs to distress; the solitude soothes, but the monotony recalls regret. And for my own part, in my frequent tours through Catholic countries, I never saw the still walls in which monastic vanity hoped to shut out the world but a melancholy came over me! What hearts at war with themselves—what unceasing regrets-what pinings after the past-what long and beautiful years devoted to a moral grave, by a momentary rash act-an impulse-a disappointment!" Oh, my heart shudders, my mind recoils, my blood chills, my soul sickens, at the very thought of those convent prisons, wherein are incarcerated the blooming maiden, and the promising youth-the woman of charms, and the man of worth-whilst all their hopes, their prospects, and their peace lie buried in its sullen gloom. Gladly would I weep tear for tear with those children of misfortune; gladly help them to burst from their captivity, and undo the ties that bind their spirits down! Oh, what is life to you, unhappy being, debarred from its blessings, wretched beyond description, desponding, without hope's bright beam to cheer you, or love's fond flame to warm your frozen hearts? Nay, tell me not that thou art happy in thy misery, and need no solace for thy many woes. Cast off that facetious smile, it is no part of thee. It may deceive the beholder, unacquainted with thy hidden anguish, but it cannot me, for I know thy bosom thoughts, I am acquainted with the doubts that disturb, and the fears that distress thee, having been a participator in thy despondency, and a prisoner like thee. Thy feelings are thwarted, thy affections are congealed, thy desires are unsatisfied. The best happiness you possess is bitter remorse for the past, and dark forebodings of the future. In the unlimited rovings of thy mind (for this cannot be bound by the fell chain of despotism), never have you descried the dove bearing the olive-branch of peace to you. Enlivening spring brings no freshness to thy drooping spirit, nor does the bloom of summer afford thee joy; for winter, dreary, protracted and eternal, encircles thee. Remembrance of family and friends galls thee. Thoughts of former admirers pierce like a dagger thy bleeding breast. Thy present companions in misery are as regardless of thy sorrows, as thou art of theirs. You dare not venture to embosom thy griefs to them, nor can they embosom theirs to you! Affection, friendship, love, the finer feelings of humanity, claim no entrance to the tomb wherein thy living body is enshrouded! And can'st thou, then, be happy there? Oh, what is life devoid of love? A barren waste without a flower, A desert land, without a stream To quench the thirst of those who stray The day is night, and night is day; The spirit feels its deep despair; It feels that it is all alone! Then does the pulse that once beat high, More slowly move to pleasure's strain: The soul, too early taught to die Affects to smile-but smiles in pain! It is sad enough when the anxious enthusiast becomes so deluded as to embrace with eagerness the monastic state, wherein he anticipates the realization of his vain and sanguine expectations, unhappily but too frequently frustrated. But is it not horrifying to think that individuals, whose inclinations and feelings revolt at, and are entirely adverse to, such a retreat, should be compelled, as well by intimidation as entreaty, to adopt so ungenial a condition. I have witnessed an instance of this cruelty; and cruelty is by far too mild a term for such a barbarous mode of driving human beings to become saints, by immuring them in monastic retirement. A Roman Catholic curate with whom I was on terms of intimacy, had a sister, an intelligent and interesting young lady, residing with him. In consequence of slender pecuniary resources, he determined upon resigning his dwelling, and taking up his future abode with the priest of the parish. His first step, therefore, was, to solicit, and finally to compel his sister to enter a community of inclosed nuns in the same town where I, when a novice, was located. Notwithstanding her repeated refusals and entreaties, and the interposition of a younger brother who had just returned from Maynooth College for the vacation, she was compelled, though in all the bitterness of grief, to comply with the priest's unnatural demand! Previous to her entering the convent, she declared to me how painful it was to her feelings, and how deeply it wounded her heart to be obliged to become a nun in opposition to her inclinations. Frequently have I beheld her bathed in tears, and indulging in secret the grief of her heart, at the consideration of the unhappy destiny that awaited her. This young lady still remains in the gloomy cloister, having taken perpetual vows, and received the black veil-fit emblem of that sorrow, which in all probability consumes, like a canker, the heart of her who wears it! This is not a solitary instance of the barbarity exercised in order to compel persons to become secluded from the world; although many who are ignorant of the system foolishly imagine that the act is a voluntary one.* "Thus in Rome," as Mr. Ciocci remarks, "even the signification of words is changed; weakness, which yields to force, is termed docility; and the yes extorted by violence, is called consent!" Michelet, in treating of convents in his "Priests, Women, and Families," relates a brief but touching tale. I cannot but transcribe it: "Fifteen years ago I occupied, in a very solitary part of the town, a house, the garden of which was adjacent to that of a convent of women. Though my windows over-looked the greatest part of their garden, I had never seen my sad neighbours. In the month of May, on Rogation Day, I heard numerous weak, very weak voices, chanting prayers, as the procession passed through the convent garden. The singing was sad, dry, unpleasant, their voices false, as if spoiled by sufferings. I thought for a moment they were chanting prayers for the dead, but listening more attentively, I distinguished, on the contrary, "Te rogamus, audi nos," the song of hope which invokes the benediction of the God of life upon fruitful nature. This Maysong, chanted by these lifeless nuns, offered to me a bitter contrast. To see these pale girls crawling along on the flowery verdant turf* Vide "Monastic Institutions." By Samuel Phillips Day, pp. 183-5. these poor girls, who will never bloom again! The thought of the middle ages, that had at first flushed across my mind, soon died away, for then monastic life was connected with a thousand other things; but in our modern harmony what is this but a barbarous contradiction, a false, harsh, grating note? What I then beheld before me was to be defended neither by nature nor by history. I shut my windows again, and sadly resumed my book. This sight had been painful to me, as it was not softened or atoned for by any poetical sentiment. It reminded me much less of chastity than of sterile widowhood: a state of emptiness, inaction, disgust, of an intellectual and moral fast, the state in which these unfortunate creatures are kept by their absolute rulers." So far the pen of Michelet. To the young enthusiast a retreat such as the monastic state affords has a peculiar attraction; and intoxicated with the air of solemnity that pervades the cloister, he vainly imagines undisturbed peace to reign within its walls, and unalloyed happiness to possess and influence its inmates. After some consideration he is induced to become a "religious," and, stoic-like, severs from his bosom every social, every domestic tie. The new mode of life he has adopted appears pleasant at first, for it has all the power of novelty to charm. He finally receives the "religious habit," and binds himself by vows the most solemn to his monastery. Soon he regrets the undue step he has taken; but no alternative remains. He feels the routine of discipline to which he is subjected, becoming daily more monotonous and distressing, and discovers, when too late, that he had acted injudiciously by imposing upon himself a burden greater than he had ability to sustain. At length he becomes remiss and negligent-experiences a growing distaste for his profession-and the result is, inward and ceaseless grief gnawing his soul and feeding upon his vitals. Rude health and a cheerful mind are now exchanged for consumption, nervous irritability, hypochondriasis and ennui. And how can it be otherwise? For there is nothing to be found within cloistered walls, but (to use the language of the last-mentioned writer) "trifling, insipid ceremonies, a sort of modified austerity, and an idle and empty routine of monotonous life." Indeed, "destruction of the body" is one of the two principles upon which monasticism is based! The language which Bulwer employs in his description of satiety, may with equal propriety be used to pourtray convent life: "Oh, that fearful prostration of the mind, that torpor of the affec tions, that utter hopeless indifference to all things Full little can he tell who hath not tried ་ ་ ་ To rise and see through the long day no object that can interest, no pleasure that can amuse, with a heart perpetually craving excitement, to pass mechanically through the round of unexcitable occupations→→ to make an enemy of time-to count the moments of his march-to be his captive in the prison-house-to foresee no delivery but death-to be a machine and not a man, having no self-will and no emotion— wound up from day to day-things in a dream, in which we act involuntarily feeling the best part of us locked up and lifeless, and that VOL. IX.-August, 1847. New Series, No. 20. S which is active, a puppet to a power that fools us with its objectless fancies-passive, but not at rest :-the deep and crushing melancholy of such a state let no happier being venture to despise." This, reader, is not an unreal picture. The celebrated MADAME DE CHANTAL has left her confession upon record; and here it is: "All that I have suffered during the whole course of my life are not to be compared to the torments I now feel. I am reduced to such a degree that nothing can satisfy me, nor give me any relief, except one word— death!" CASSIAN likewise, describes from bitter experience the ascedia," or listlessness of mind and body, to which he was subjected when he sighed to find himself alone! And LUTHER, in his letter to George, Duke of Saxony, states that had he continued in his convent much longer, he would become a martyr unto death! Even some of my own acquaintances have not hesitated to confess that they never felt so miserable as when within the enclosure of their convents. well remember that whenever I made known my mental disquietude to the master of novices, I was immediately consoled with an opiate like this:-"O brother, custom will reconcile you to your convent and its duties. I have never known one that did not feel as you do now!" All this afforded me little relief. And I was necessitated to drag the heavy chain of my captivity as best I might. I It is said that Charlemagne, seeing from his palace always the same sight a lake with its verdant border at last fell in love with it. But I have not the good fortune to know one who had ever fallen in love with the cloister! True, on the countenances of some monastics, contentment may seem depicted, but it is only a shadow,-an artificial gloss to conceal what dare not be revealed- -a delusion similar to the hectic flush on the fevered cheek. "Ah, how often does the gayest and most fascinating appearance but serve to hide a broken or bleeding heart. Smiles that seem the offspring of joy hover around a sepulchre in which are enshrined the dearest and best hopes of life." (To be continued.) ROMISH CATECHISM IN ITALY. WE give the following from a work published by Messrs. Seeley, Burnside, and Seeley, Fleet-street, London : Dottrina Christiana Breve composta per ordine Di Papa Clemente VIII. Dal R. P. Roberta Bellarmino, Della Compagnia Di Gesu, poi Cardinale Di Santa Chiesa. Riveduta ed approvata della Congregatione della Riforma. In Roma, 1836. Presso Pretro Aurelj, Stampatore e Librajo, in via dé Sediari, N. 24. Con licenza dé Superiori, e Privilegio. Si vende del medesimo Librajo Sciolta baj, 2 legata in Castoncino baj, 3. DE COMANDAMENTI DI DIO. M. Veniamo ora a quello, che si ha da operare per amare Iddio, ed il Prossimo: dite i dieci Comandamenti. |