Chapter V (3)

“I must confess the agitating exhilaration of this day, so unlike what I had ever witnessed before in a convent, produced an effect on me I cannot describe. I was caressed,--made the hero of the _fete_,--(a conventual fete has always something odd and unnatural in it),--almost deified. I gave myself up to the intoxication of the day,--I did verily believe myself the favourite of the Deity for some hours. I said to myself a thousand flattering things. If this deception was criminal, I expiated my crime very soon. The next day every thing was restored to its usual order, and I found that the community could pass from the extreme of disorder in a moment to the rigidity of their usual habits.

“My conviction of this was certainly not diminished within the few following days. The oscillations of a convent vibrate within a very short interval. One day all is relaxation, another all is inexorable discipline. Some following days I received a striking proof of that foundation on which, in despite of a miracle, my repugnance to a monastic life rested. Some one, it was said, had committed a slight breach of monastic duty. The _slight breach_ was _fortunately_ committed by a distant relation of the Archbishop of Toledo, and consisted _merely in his entering the church intoxicated_, (a rare vice in Spaniards), attempting to drag the matin preacher from the pulpit, and failing in that, getting astride as well as he could on the altar, dashing down the tapers, overturning the vases and the pix, and trying to scratch out, as with the talons of a demon, the painting that hung over the table, uttering all the while the most horrible blasphemies, and even _soliciting the portrait of the Virgin_ in language not to be repeated. A consultation was held. The community, as may be guessed, was in an uproar while it lasted. Every one but myself was anxious and agitated. There was much talk of the inquisition,--the scandal was so atrocious,--the outrage so unpardonable,--and atonement so impracticable. Three days afterwards the archbishop’s mandate came to stop all proceedings; and the following day the youth who had committed this sacrilegious outrage appeared in the hall of the Jesuits, where the Superior and a few monks were assembled, read a short exercise which one of them had written for him on the pithy word “Ebrietas,” and departed to take possession of a large benefice in the diocese of the archbishop his relative. The very next day after this scandalous scene of compromise, imposture, and profanation, a monk was detected in the act of going, after the permitted hour, to an adjacent cell to return a book he had borrowed. As a punishment for this offence, he was compelled to sit for three days at refection, while we were dining, barefooted and his tunic reversed, on the stone floor of the hall. He was compelled to accuse himself aloud of every crime, and of many not at all fit to be mentioned to our ears, and exclaim at every interval, “My God, my punishment is just.” On the second day, it was found that a mat had been placed under him by some merciful hand. There was an immediate commotion in the hall. The poor wretch was labouring under a complaint that made it worse than death to him to be compelled to sit or rather lie on a stone floor; some merciful being had surreptitiously conveyed to him this mat. An investigation was immediately commenced. A youth whom I had not noticed before, started from the table, and kneeling to the Superior, confessed _his guilt_. The Superior assumed a stern look, retired with some old monks to consult on this new crime of humanity, and in a few moments the bell was rung, to give every one notice to retire to their cells. We all retired trembling, and while we prostrated ourselves respectively before the crucifix in our cells, wondered who would be the next victim, or what might be his punishment. I saw that youth but once again. He was the son of a wealthy and powerful family, but even his wealth was no balance against his contumacy, in the opinion of the convent, that is, of four monks of rigid principles, whom the Superior consulted that very evening. The Jesuits are fond of courting power, but they are still fonder of keeping it, if they can, to themselves. The result of their debate was, that the offender should undergo a severe humiliation and penance in their presence. His sentence was announced to him, and he submitted to it. He repeated every word of contrition they dictated to him. He then bared his shoulders, and applied the scourge till the blood flowed, repeating between every stroke, “My God, I ask pardon of thee for having given the slightest comfort or relief to Fra Paolo, during his merited penance.” He performed all this, cherishing in the bottom of his soul an intention still to comfort and relieve Fra Paolo, whenever he could find opportunity. He then thought all was over. He was desired to retire to his cell. He did so, but the monks were not satisfied with this examination. They had long suspected Fra Paolo of irregularity, and imagined they might extort the confession of it from this youth, whose humanity increased their suspicion. The virtues of nature are always deemed vices in a convent. Accordingly, he had hardly been in bed when they surrounded him. They told him they came by command of the Superior to enjoin him a further penance, unless he disclosed the secret of the interest he felt for Fra Paolo. It was in vain he exclaimed, “I have no interest but that of humanity and compassion.” Those were words they did not understand. It was in vain he urged, “I will inflict whatever penance the Superior is pleased to order, but my shoulders are bleeding still,”--and he shewed them. The executioners were pitiless. They compelled him to quit his bed, and applied the scourge with such outrageous severity, that at last, mad with shame, rage, and pain, he burst from them, and ran through the corridor calling for assistance or for mercy. The monks were in their cells, none dared to stir,--they shuddered, and turned on their straw pallets. It was the vigil of Saint John the Lesser, and I had been commanded what is called in convents an hour of recollection, which was to be passed in the church. I had obeyed the order, and remained with my face and body prostrate on the marble steps of the altar, till I was almost unconscious, when I heard the clock strike twelve. I reflected the hour had elapsed without a single recollection on my part. “And thus it is to be always,” I exclaimed, rising from my knees; “they deprive of the power of thinking, and then they bid me recollect.” As I returned through the corridor, I heard frightful cries--I shuddered. Suddenly a phantom approached me--I dropt on my knees--I cried, “Satana vade retro--apage Satana.” A naked human being, covered with blood, and uttering screams of rage and torture, flashed by me; four monks pursued him--they had lights. I had shut the door at the end of the gallery--I felt they must return and pass me--I was still on my knees, and trembling from head to foot. The victim reached the door, found it shut, and rallied. I turned, and saw a groupe worthy of Murillo. A more perfect human form never existed than that of this unfortunate youth. He stood in an attitude of despair--he was streaming with blood. The monks, with their lights, their scourges, and their dark habits, seemed like a groupe of demons who had made prey of a wandering angel,--the groupe resembled the infernal furies pursuing a mad Orestes. And, indeed, no ancient sculptor ever designed a figure more exquisite and perfect than that they had so barbarously mangled. Debilitated as my mind was by the long slumber of all its powers, this spectacle of horror and cruelty woke them in a moment. I rushed forward in his defence--I struggled with the monks--I uttered some expressions which, though I hardly was conscious of, they remembered and exaggerated with all the accuracy of malice.

“I have no recollection of what followed; but the issue of the business was, that I was confined to my cell for the following week, for my daring interference in the discipline of the convent. And the additional penance of the unfortunate novice, for resisting that discipline, was inflicted with such severity, that he became delirious with shame and agony. He refused food, he got no rest, and died the eighth night after the scene I had witnessed. He was of a temper unusually mild and amiable--he had a taste for literature, and even the disguise of a convent could not conceal the distinguished graces of his person and manners. Had he lived in the world, how these qualities would have embellished it! Perhaps the world would have abused and perverted them--true; but would the abuses of the world ever have brought them to so frightful and disastrous a conclusion?--would he have been first lashed into madness, and then lashed out of existence? He was interred in the church of the convent, and the Superior himself pronounced his eulogium--the Superior! by whose order, or else permission, or at least connivance, he had been driven mad, in order to obtain a trivial and imaginary secret.

”During this exhibition, my disgust arose to a degree incalculable. I had loathed the conventual life--I now despised it; and every judge of human nature knows, that it is harder to eradicate the latter sentiment than the former. I was not long without an occasion for the renewed exercise of both feelings. The weather was intensely hot that year--an epidemic complaint broke out in the convent--every day two or three were ordered to the infirmary, and those who had merited slight penances were allowed, by way of commutation, to attend the sick. I was most anxious to be of the number--I was even resolved, by some slight deviation, to tempt this punishment, which would have been to me the highest gratification. Dare I confess my motive to you, Sir? I was anxious to see those men, if possible, divested of the conventual disguise, and forced to sincerity by the pangs of disease, and the approach of death. I triumphed already in the idea of their dying confession, of hearing them acknowledge the seductions employed to ensnare me, deplore the miseries in which they had involved me, and implore, with convulsed lips, my pardon in--_no--not in vain_.

“This wish, though vindictive, was not without its palliations; but I was soon saved the trouble of realizing it at my own expence. That very evening the Superior sent for me, and desired me to attend in the infirmary, allowing me, at the same time, remission from vespers. The first bed I approached, I found Fra Paolo extended on. He had never recovered the effects of the complaint he laboured under at the time of his penance; and the death of the young novice so (fruitlessly incurred) had been mortal to him.

“I offered him medicines--I attempted to adjust him in his bed. He had been greatly neglected. He repelled both offers, and, feebly waving his hand, said, “Let me, at least, die in peace.” A few moments after, he unclosed his eyes, and recognized me. A gleam of pleasure trembled over his countenance, for he remembered the interest I had shewn for his unfortunate friend. He said, in a voice hardly intelligible, “It is you, then?” “Yes, my brother, it is I--can I do any thing for you?” After a long pause, he added, “Yes, you can.” “Tell me then.” He lowered his voice, which was before almost inaudible, and whispered, “Let none of them come near me in my dying moments--it will not give you much trouble--those moments are approaching.” I pressed his hand in token of acquiescence. But I felt there was something at once terrifying and improper in this request from a dying man. I said to him, “My dear brother, you are then dying?--would you not wish an interest in the prayers of the community?--would you not wish the benefit of the last sacraments?” He shook his head, and I fear that I understood him too well. I ceased any further importunity; and a few moments he uttered, in tones I could hardly distinguish, “_Let them, let me die._--They have left me no power to form another wish.” His eyes closed,--I sat beside his bed, holding his hand in mine. At first, I could feel he attempted to press it--the attempt failed, his hold relaxed. Fra Paolo was no more.

“I continued to sit holding the dead hand in mine, till a groan from an adjacent bed roused me. It was occupied by the old monk with whom I had held a long conversation the night before the miracle, in which I still believed most firmly.

“I have observed, that this man was of a temper and manners remarkably mild and attractive. Perhaps this is always connected with great weakness of intellect, and coldness of character _in men_. (It may be different in women--but my own experience has never failed in the discovery, that where there was a kind of feminine softness and pliability in the male character, there was also treachery, dissimulation, and heartlessness.) At least, if there be such an union, a conventual life is sure to give it every advantage in its range of internal debility, and external seductiveness.--That pretence of a wish to assist, without the power, or even the wish, that is so flattering both to the weak minds that exercise it, and the weaker on whom it is exercised. This man had been always judged very weak, and yet very fascinating. He had been always employed to ensnare the young novices. He was now dying--overcome by his situation, I forgot every thing but its tremendous claims, and offered him every assistance in my power. “I want nothing but to die,” was his answer. His countenance was perfectly calm, but its calmness was rather that of apathy than of resignation. “You are, then, perfectly sure of your approach to blessedness?” “I know nothing about it.” “How, my brother, are those words for a dying man to utter?” “Yes, if he speaks the truth.” “But a monk?--a catholic?” “Those are but names--I feel _that truth_, at least, now.” “You amaze me!” “I care not--I am on the verge of a precipice--I must plunge from it--and whether the by-standers utter outcries or not, is a matter of little consequence to me.” “And yet, you expressed a willingness to die?” “Willingness! Oh impatience!--I am a clock that has struck the same minutes and hours for sixty years. Is it not time for the machine to long for its winding up? The monotony of my existence would make a transition, even to pain, desirable. I am weary, and would change--that is all.” “But to me, and to all the community, you seemed to be resigned to the monastic life.” “I seemed a lie--I lived a lie--I was a lie--I ask pardon of my last moments for speaking the truth--I presume they neither can refuse me, or discredit my words--I hated the monastic life. Inflict pain on man, and his energies are roused--condemn him to insanity, and he slumbers like animals that have been found inclosed in wood and stone, torpid and content; but condemn him at once to pain and inanity, as they do in convents, and you unite the sufferings of hell and of annihilation. For sixty years I have cursed my existence. I never woke to hope, for I had nothing to do or to expect. I never lay down with consolation, for I had, at the close of every day, only to number so many deliberate mockeries of God, as exercises of devotion. The moment life is put beyond the reach of your will, and placed under the influence of mechanical operations, it becomes, to thinking beings, a torment insupportable.

“I never ate with appetite, because I knew, that with or without it, I must go to the refectory when the bell rung. I never lay down to rest in peace, because I knew the bell was to summon me in defiance of nature, whether it was disposed to prolong or shorten my repose. I never prayed, for my prayers were dictated to me. I never hoped, for my hopes were founded not on the truth of God, but on the promises and threatenings of man. My salvation hovered on the breath of a being as weak as myself, whose weakness I was nevertheless obliged to flatter, and struggle to obtain a gleam of the grace of God, through the dark distorted medium of the vices of man. _It never reached me_--I die without light, hope, faith, or consolation.”--He uttered these words with a calmness that was more terrific than the wildest convulsions of despair. I gasped for breath--“But, my brother, you were always punctual in your religious exercises.” “That was mechanism--will you not believe a dying man?” “But you urged me, in a long conversation, to embrace the monastic life; and your importunity must have been sincere, for it was after my profession.” “It is natural for the miserable to wish for companions in their misery. This is very selfish, very misanthropic, you will say, but it is also very natural. You have yourself seen the cages suspended in the cells--are not the tame birds always employed to allure the wild ones? We were caged birds, can you blame us for the deception?” In these words I could not help recognizing that _simplicity of profound corruption_(15),--that frightful paralysis of the soul, which leaves it incapable of receiving any impression or making one,--that says to the accuser, Approach, remonstrate, upbraid--I defy you. My conscience is dead, and can neither hear, utter, or echo a reproach. I was amazed--I struggled against my own conviction. I said, “But your regularity in religious exercises--” “_Did you never hear a bell toll?_” “But your voice was always the loudest and most distinct in the choir.” “_Did you never hear an organ played?_” * * * * * * *

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

I shuddered, yet I still went on with my queries--I thought I could not know too much. I said, “But, my brother, the religious exercises in which you were constantly engaged, must have imperceptibly instilled something of their spirit into you?--is it not so? You must have passed from the forms of religion into its spirit ultimately?--is it not so, my brother? Speak on the faith of a dying man. May I have such a hope! I would undergo any thing--any thing, to obtain it.” “There is no such hope,” said the dying man, “deceive not yourself with it. The repetition of religious duties, without the feeling or spirit of religion, produces an incurable callosity of heart. There are not more irreligious people to be found on earth than those who are occupied always in its _externals_. I verily believe half our lay-brothers to be Atheists. I have heard and read something of those whom we call heretics. They have people to open their pews, (shocking profanation you will call it, to sell seats in the house of God, and you are right), they have people to ring bells when their dead are to be interred; and these wretches have no other indication of religion to give, but watching during the whole time of service, (in which their duties forbid them to partake), for the fees which they extort, and dropping upon their knees, ejaculating the names of Christ and God, amid the rattling of the pew-doors, which always operates on their associations, and makes them bound from their knees to gape for a hundredth part of the silver for which Judas sold his Saviour and himself. Then their bell-ringers--one would imagine _death might humanize them_. Oh! no such thing--they _extort money in proportion to the depth of the grave_. And the bell-ringer, the sexton, and the survivors, fight sometimes a manual battle over the senseless remains, whose torpidity is the most potent and silent reproach to this unnatural conflict.” I knew nothing of this, but I grasped at his former words, “You die, then, without hope or confidence?” He was silent. “Yet you urged me by eloquence almost divine, by a miracle verified before my own eyes.” He laughed. There is something very horrible in the laugh of a dying man: Hovering on the verge of both worlds, he seems to give the lie to both, and proclaim the enjoyments of one, and the hopes of another, alike an imposture. “I performed that miracle myself,” he said with all the calmness, and, alas! something of the triumph of a deliberate impostor. “I knew the reservoir by which the fountain was supplied--by consent of the Superior it was drawn off in the course of the night. We worked hard at it, and laughed at your credulity every pump we drew.” “But the tree--” “I was in possession of some chemical secrets--I have not time to disclose them now--I scattered a certain fluid over the leaves of the poplar that night, and they _appeared_ withered by the morning--go look at them a fortnight hence, and you will see them as green as ever.” “And these are your dying words?” “They are.” “And why did you deceive me thus?” He struggled a short time at this question, and then rising almost upright in his bed, exclaimed, “Because I was a monk, and wished for victims of my imposture to gratify my pride! and companions of my misery, to soothe its malignity!” He was convulsed as he spoke, the natural mildness and calmness of his physiognomy were changed for something that I cannot describe--something at once derisive, triumphant, and diabolical. I forgave him every thing in that horrible moment. I snatched a crucifix that lay by his bed--I offered it to his lips. He pushed it away. “If I wanted to have this farce acted, I should choose another actor. You know I might have the Superior and half the convent at my bed-side this moment if I pleased, with their tapers, their holy water, and their preparations for extreme unction, and all the masquerade of death, by which they try to dupe even the dying, and insult God even on the threshold of his own eternal mansion. I suffered you to sit beside me, because I thought, from your repugnance to the monastic life, you might be a willing hearer of its deceptions, and its despair.”

“Deplorable as had been the image of that life to me before, this representation exceeded my imagination. I had viewed it as excluding all the enjoyments of life, and thought the prospect blasting; but now the other world was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. The genius of monasticism seemed to wield a two-edged sword, and to lift it between and against time and eternity. The blade bore a two-fold inscription--on the side next the world was written the word “suffer,”--on that opposed to eternity, “despair.” In the utter hopelessness of my soul, I still continued to question _him_ for hope--him! while he was bereaving me of its very shadow, by every word he uttered. “But, must all be plunged in this abyss of darkness? Is there no light, no hope, no refuge, for the sufferer? May not some of us become reconciled to our situation--first patient of it, then attached to it? Finally, may we not (if our repugnance be invincible) make a merit of it with God, and offer to him the sacrifice of our earthly hopes and wishes, in the confidence of an ample and glorious equivalent? Even if we are unable to offer this sacrifice with the unction which would ensure its acceptance, still may we not hope it will not be wholly neglected?--that we may become tranquil, if not happy--resigned, if not content. Speak, tell me if this may be?” “And you wish to extort deception from the lips of death--but you will fail. Hear your doom--Those who are possessed of what may be called the religious character, that is, those who are visionary, weak, morose, and ascetic, may elevate themselves to a species of intoxication in the moments of devotion. They may, while clasping the images, work themselves into the delusion, that the dead stone thrills to their touch; that the figures move, assent to their petitions, and turn their lifeless eyes on them with an expression of benignity. They may, while kissing the crucifix, believe that they hear celestial voices pronouncing their pardon; that the Saviour of the world extends his arms to them, to invite them to beatitude; that all heaven is expanded to their view, and the harmonies of paradise are enriched to glorify their apotheosis. But this is a mere inebriation that the most ignorant physician could produce in his patients by certain medicines. The secret of this ecstatic swoon might be traced to an apothecary’s shop, or purchased at a cheaper rate. The inhabitants of the north of Europe procure this state of exaltation by the use of liquid fire--the Turks by opium--the Dervises by dancing--and Christian monks by spiritual pride operating on the exhaustion of a macerated frame. It is all intoxication, with this difference only, that the intoxication of men of this world produces always _self_-complacency--that of men of the other world, a complacency whose supposed source is derived from God. The intoxication is, therefore, more profound, more delusive, and more dangerous. But nature, violated by these excesses, exacts a most usurious interest for this illicit indulgence. She makes them pay for moments of rapture with hours of despair. Their precipitation from extasy to horror is almost instantaneous. In the course of a few moments, they pass from being the favourites of Heaven to becoming its outcasts. They doubt the truth of their raptures,--the truth of their vocation. They doubt every thing--the sincerity of their prayers, even the efficacy of the Saviour’s atonement, and the intercession of the blessed Virgin. They plunge from paradise to hell. They howl, they scream, they blaspheme. From the bottom of the infernal gulph in which they imagine themselves plunged, they bellow imprecations against their Creator--they denounce themselves as damned from all eternity for their sins, while their only sin is their inability to support preternatural excitement. The paroxysm ceases, they become the elect of God again in their own imaginations. And to those who interrogate them with regard to their late despair, they answer, That Satan was permitted to buffet them--that they were under the hidings of God’s face, &c. All saints, from Mahomet down to Francis Xavier, were only a compound of insanity, pride, and self-imposition;--the latter would have been of less consequence, but that men always revenge their imposition on themselves, by imposing to the utmost on others.”

“There is no more horrible state of mind than that in which we are _forced by conviction to listen on, wishing every word to be false, and knowing every word to be true_. Such was mine, but I tried to palliate it by saying, “It was never my ambition to be a saint; but is the lot of all, then, so deplorable?” The monk, who appeared to rejoice in this opportunity to discharge the concentrated malignity of sixty years of suffering and hypocrisy, collected his dying voice to answer. He seemed as if he never could inflict enough, for what had been inflicted on himself. “Those who possess strong sensibility, without the religious character, are of all others the most unhappy, but their miseries are soonest terminated. They are harassed by trivial constraints, stupified by monotonous devotion, exasperated by dull insolence and bloated superiority. They struggle, they resist. Penance and punishment are applied. Their own violence justifies increased violence of treatment; and, at all events, it would be applied without this justification, for there is nothing that delights the pride of power, more than a victorious strife with the pride of intellect. The remainder is easily to be conceived by you, who have witnessed it. You saw the unfortunate youth who interfered about Paolo. He was lashed to madness. Tortured first to phrenzy, then to stupefaction,--he died! I was the secret, unsuspected adviser of the whole proceeding.” “Monster!” I exclaimed, for truth had made us equal _now_, and even precluded the language that humanity would dictate when uttered to a dying man.--“But why?”--said he, with that calmness which had once attracted, and now revolted me, but which had at all times undisputed possession of his physiognomy;--“his sufferings were shorter, do you blame me for diminishing their duration?”--There was something cold, ironical, and jeering, even in the suavity of this man, that gave a certain force to his simplest observations. It seemed as if he had reserved the truth all his life, to utter it at his dying hour. “Such is the fate of those who possess strong sensibility; those who have less languish away in an imperceptible decline. They spend their time in watching a few flowers, in tending birds. They are punctual in their religious exercises, they receive neither blame or praise,--they melt away in torpor and ennui. They wish for death, as the preparation it might put the convent to might produce a short excitement, but they are disappointed, for their state forbids excitement, and they die as they have lived,--unexcited, unawakened. The tapers are lit, they do not see them,--the unction is applied, they do not feel it,--prayers are uttered, they cannot partake in them;--in fact, the whole drama is acted, but the principal performer is absent,--is gone. Others indulge themselves in perpetual reverie. They walk alone in the cloister,--in the garden. They feed themselves with the poison of delicious, innutritive illusion. They dream that an earthquake will shake the walls to atoms, that a volcano will burst forth in the centre of the garden. They imagine a revolution of government,--an attack of banditti,--any thing, however improbable. Then they take refuge in the possibility of a fire, (if a fire bursts out in a convent, the doors are thrown open, and “Sauve qui peut,” is the word). At this thought they conceive the most ardent hope,--they could rush out,--they could precipitate themselves into the streets, into the country,--in fact, they would fly any where to escape. Then these hopes fail,--they begin to get nervous, morbid, restless. If they have interest, they are indulged with remission from their duties, and they remain in their cells, relaxed,--torpid,--idiotical; if they have not interest, they are forced to the punctual performance of their duties, and then idiotism comes on much sooner, as diseased horses, employed in a mill, become blind sooner than those who are suffered to wear out existence in ordinary labour. Some of them take refuge in religion, as they call it. They call for relief on the Superior, but what can the Superior do? He is but human too, and perhaps feels the despair that is devouring the wretches who supplicate him to deliver them from it. Then they prostrate themselves before the images of the saints,--they invoke, they sometimes revile them. They call for their intercession, deplore its inefficacy, and fly to some other, whose merits they imagine are higher in the sight of God. They supplicate for an interest in the intercession of Christ and the Virgin, as their last resort. That resort fails them too,--the Virgin herself is inexorable, though they wear out her pedestal with their knees, and her feet with their kisses. Then they go about the galleries at night, they rouse the sleepers, they knock at every door,--they cry, “Brother Saint Jerome, pray for me,--Brother Saint Augustine, pray for me.” Then the placard is seen fastened to the rails of the altar, “Dear brothers, pray for the wandering soul of a monk.” The next day the placard bears this inscription, “The prayers of the community are implored for a monk who is in despair.” Then they find human intercession as unavailing as divine, to procure them a remission of the sufferings which, while _their profession_ continues to inflict on them, no power can reverse or mitigate. They crawl to their cells,--in a few days the toll of the bell is heard, and the brethren exclaim, “He died in the odour of sanctity,” and hasten to spread their snares for another victim.” “And is this, then, monastic life?” “It is,--there are but two exceptions, that of those who can every day renew, by the aid of imagination, the hope of escape, and who cherish that hope even on their dying bed; and those who, like me, diminish their misery by dividing it, and, like the spider, feel relieved of the poison that swells, and would burst them, by instilling a drop of it into every insect that toils, agonizes, and perishes in their net,--_like you_.” At these last words, a glare of malignity flashed on the features of the dying wretch, that appalled me. I retreated from his bed for a moment. I returned, I looked at him,--his eyes were closed,--his hands extended. I touched him,--raised him,--he was dead,--those were his last words. The expression of his features was the physiognomy of his soul,--they were calm and pale, but still a cold expression of derision lingered about the curve of his lips.

“I rushed from the infirmary. I was at that time indulged, like all the other visitants of the sick, to go to the garden beyond the allotted hours, perhaps to diminish the chance of infection. I was but too ready to avail myself of this permission. The garden, with its calm moon-light beauty, its innocence of heaven, its theology of the stars, was at once a reproach and a consolation to me. I tried to reflect, to feel,--both efforts failed; and perhaps it is in this silence of the soul, this suspension of all the clamorous voices of the passions, that we are most ready to hear the voice of God. My imagination suddenly represented to me the august and ample vault above me as a church,--the images of the saints grew dim in my eyes as I gazed on the stars, and even the altar, over which the crucifixion of the Saviour of the world was represented, turned pale to the eye of the soul, as I gazed on the moon “walking in her brightness.” I fell on my knees. I knew not to whom I was about to pray, but I never felt so disposed to pray. I felt my habit touched at this moment. I at first trembled, from the idea of being detected in a forbidden act. I started up. A dark figure stood beside me, who said in indistinct and faultering tones, “Read this,” and he thrust a paper into my hand; “I have worn it sewed into my habit for four days. I have watched you night and day. I had no opportunity but this,--you were in your cell, in the choir, or in the infirmary. Tear it in pieces, throw the fragments into the fountain, or _swallow them_, the moment you have read it.--Adieu. I have risked every thing for you,” and he glided away. I recognized his figure as he departed; it was the porter of the convent. I well understood the risk he must have run in delivering this paper, for it was the regulation of the convent, that all letters, whether addressed to or written by boarders, novices, or monks, were first to be read by the Superior, and I never knew an instance of its infringement. The moon gave me sufficient light. I began to read, while a vague hope, that had neither object or basis, trembled at the bottom of my heart. The paper contained these words:

“My dearest brother, (my God! how I started!) I see you revolt at the first lines which I address to you,--I implore you, for both our sakes, to read them with calmness and attention. We have been both the victims of parental and priestly imposition; the former we must forgive, for our parents are the victims of it too. The Director has their consciences in his hand, and their destiny and ours at his feet. Oh, my brother, what a tale have I to disclose to you! I was brought up, by the Director’s orders, whose influence over the domestics is as unbounded as it is over their unhappy master, in complete hostility against you, as one who was depriving me of my natural rights, and degrading the family by your illegitimate intrusion. May not this palliate, in some degree, my unnatural repulsiveness when we first met? I was taught from my cradle to hate and fear you,--to hate you as an enemy, and fear you as an impostor. This was the Director’s plan. He thought the hold he had over my father and mother too slight to gratify his ambition of domestic power, or realize his hopes of professional distinction. The basis of all ecclesiastical power rests upon fear. A crime must be discovered or invented. The vague reports circulated in the family, my mother’s constant dejection, my father’s occasional agitation, offered him a clue, which he followed with incessant industry through all its windings of doubt, mystery, and disappointment, till, in a moment of penitence, my mother, terrified by his constant denunciations if she concealed any secret of her heart or life from him, disclosed the truth.

“We were both infants then. He adopted immediately the plan he has since realized at the expence of all but himself. I am convinced he had not, from the first hour of his machinations, the least malignity against you. The aggrandizement of his interest, which ecclesiastics always individualize with that of the church, was his only object. To dictate, to tyrannize, to manage a whole family, and that of rank, by his knowledge of the frailty of one of its members, was all he looked to. Those who by their vows are excluded from the interest which natural affections give us in life, must seek for it in the artificial ones of pride and domination, and the Director found it there. All thenceforth was conducted and inspired by him. It was he who caused us to be kept asunder from our infancy, fearful that nature might frustrate his plans,--it was he who reared me in sentiments of implacable animosity against you. When my mother fluctuated, he reminded her of her vow, with which she had rashly intrusted him. When my father murmured, the shame of my mother’s frailty, the bitter feuds of domestic discussion, the tremendous sounds of imposture, perjury, sacrilege, and the resentment of the church, were thundered in his ears. You may conceive there is nothing this man would shrink at, when, almost in my childhood, he disclosed to me my mother’s frailty, to insure my early and zealous participation in his views. Heaven blast the wretch who could thus contaminate the ears, and wither the heart of a child, with the tale of a parent’s shame, to secure a partizan for the church! This was not all. From the first hour I was able to hear and comprehend him, he poisoned my heart by every channel he could approach. He exaggerated my mother’s partiality for you, which he assured me often contended vainly with her conscience. He represented my father as weak and dissipated, but affectionate; and, with the natural pride of a boy-father, immoveably attached to his eldest offspring. He said, “My son, prepare yourself to struggle with a host of prejudices,--the interests of God, as well as of society, demand it. _Assume a high tone with your parents_,--you are in possession of the secret that corrodes their consciences, make your own use of it.” Judge the effect of these words on a temper naturally violent,--words, too, uttered by one whom I was taught to regard as the agent of the Divinity.

“All this time, as I have since been informed, he was debating in his own mind whether he would not adopt your part instead of mine, or at least vacillate between both, so as to augment his influence over our parents, by the additional feature of suspicion. Whatever influenced his determination, the effect of his lessons on me may be easily calculated. I became restless, jealous, and vindictive;--insolent to my parents, and suspicious of all around me. Before I was eleven years of age I reviled my father for his partiality to you,--I insulted my mother with her crime,--I tyrannized over the domestics,--I was the dread and the torment of the whole household; and the wretch who had made me thus a premature demon, had outraged nature, and compelled me to trample on every tie he should have taught me to hallow and cherish, consoled himself with the thought that he was obeying the calls of his function, and strengthening the hands of the church.

“Scire volunt secreta domus et inde timeri.”

“On the day preceding our first meeting, (which had not been intended before), the Director went to my father; he said, “Senhor, I think it best the brothers should meet. Perhaps God may touch their hearts, and by his merciful influence over them, enable you to reverse the decree that threatens one of them with seclusion, and both with a cruel and final separation.” My father assented with tears of delight. Those tears did not melt the heart of the Director; he hastened to my apartment, and said, “My child, summon all your resolution, your artful, cruel, partial parents, are _preparing a scene_ for you,--they are determined on introducing you to your spurious brother.” “I will spurn him before their faces, if they dare to do so,” said I, with the pride of premature tyranny. “No, my child, that will not do, you must appear to comply with their wishes, but you must not be their victim,--promise me that, my dear child,--promise me resolution and dissimulation.” “I promise you resolution, keep the dissimulation for yourself.” “Well, I will do so, since your interests require it.” He hurried back to my father. “Senhor, I have employed all the eloquence of heaven and nature with your younger son. He is softened,--he melts already,--he longs to precipitate himself into the fraternal embrace, and hear your benediction poured over the united hearts and bodies of your two children,--they are both your children. You must banish all prejudices, and----” “I have no prejudices!” said my poor father; “let me but see my children embrace, and if Heaven summoned me at that moment, I should obey it by dying of joy.”--The Director reproved him for the expressions which gushed from his heart, and, wholly unmoved by them, hurried back to me, full of his commission. “My child, I have warned you of the conspiracy formed against you by your own family. You will receive a proof of it to-morrow,--your brother is to be introduced,--you will be required to embrace him,--your consent is reckoned on, but at the moment you do so, your father is resolved to interpret this as the signal, on your part, of the resignation of all your natural rights. Comply with your hypocritical parents, embrace this brother, but give an air of repugnance to the action that will justify your conscience, while it deceives those who would deceive you. Watch the signal-word, my dear child; embrace him as you would a serpent,--his art is not less, and his poison as deadly. Remember that your resolution will decide the event of this meeting. Assume the appearance of affection, but remember you hold your deadliest enemy in your arms.” At these words, unnatural as I was, I shuddered. I said, “My brother!” “Never mind,” said the Director, “he is the enemy of God,--an illegitimate impostor. Now, my child, are you prepared?” and I answered, “I am prepared.” That night, however, I was very restless. I required the Director to be summoned. I said in my pride, “But how is this poor wretch (meaning you) to be disposed of?” “Let him embrace the monastic life,” said the Director. At these words I felt an interest on your account I had never recognized before. I said decidedly, for he had taught me to assume a tone of decision, “He shall never be a monk.” The Director appeared staggered, yet he trembled before the spirit he had himself raised. “Let him go into the army,” I said; “let him inlist as a common soldier, I can supply him with the means of promotion;--let him engage in the meanest profession, I shall not blush to acknowledge him, but, father, he shall never be a monk.” “But, my dear child, on what foundation does this extraordinary objection rest? It is the only means to restore peace to the family, and procure it for the unfortunate being for whom you are so much interested.” “My father, have done with this language. Promise me, as the condition of my obedience to your wishes to-morrow, that my brother shall never be compelled to be a monk.” “Compelled, my dear child! there can be no compulsion in a holy vocation.” “I am not certain of that; but I demand from you the promise I have mentioned.” The Director hesitated, at last he said, “I promise.” And he hastened to tell my father there was no longer any opposition to our meeting, and that I was delighted with the determination which had been announced to me of my brother eagerly embracing the monastic life. Thus was our first meeting arranged. When, at the command of my father, our arms were entwined, I swear to you, my brother, I felt them thrill with affection. But the instinct of nature was soon superseded by the force of habit, and I recoiled, collected all the forces of nature and passion in the terrible expression that I dared to direct towards our parents, while the Director stood behind them smiling, and encouraging me by gestures. I thought I had acted my part with applause, at least I gave myself enough, and retired from the scene with as proud a step as if I had trampled on a prostrate world,--I had only trampled on nature and my own heart. A few days after I was sent to a convent. The Director was alarmed at the dogmatizing tone he himself had taught me to assume, and he urged the necessity of my education being attended to. My parents complied with every thing he required. I, for a wonder, consented; but, as the carriage conveyed me to the convent, I repeated to the Director, “Remember, my brother is not to be a monk.”

“(After these lines several were unintelligible to me, apparently from the agitation under which they were written;--the precipitancy and fiery ardor of my brother’s character communicated itself to his writings. After many a defaced page I could trace the following words.) * * * * * *