Mother of Jesus, night is come,And wearily we fall to sleep;Ask Him to guard our cloister home,From powers of ill His flock to keep.Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria.
Mother of Jesus, night is come,And wearily we fall to sleep;Ask Him to guard our cloister home,From powers of ill His flock to keep.Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria.
Mother of Jesus, night is come,And wearily we fall to sleep;Ask Him to guard our cloister home,From powers of ill His flock to keep.Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria.
Mother of Jesus, night is come,
And wearily we fall to sleep;
Ask Him to guard our cloister home,
From powers of ill His flock to keep.
Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria; Ave, Maria.
We then undress, perform our ablutions, redress, praying at each holy garment we put on; finally we lie down, making the sign of the cross, and saying, “I will lay me down in peace,” etc. The “peace” is a query. It was more often “I will lay me down in sorrow,” worn out in mind and body, and thus closes the peaceful, perfect, sublime, happy, holy day!
In summer the rule differs a little, and is not quite so strict. But during the season of Lent it is much stricter, and we only have the 9 o’clock pittance, and one meal at 5 o’clock, and we actually rise in the morning at 1.45, and do not rest any more till night. On Ash Wednesday we had nothing to eat or drink until six o’clock in the evening; we stayed in church practically the whole of the day. The floor of the church is strewn with ashes and cinders from the grates, and we sit on the ground in the ashes instead of in our stalls.[16]The 6 o’clockmeal is scarcely touched, as every one is feeling too cold and ill to eat. After compline we have to lash ourselves with the “Discipline,” and then we have to go to bed unwashed, as a penance for our sins. We are not even allowed to shake the ashes out of our serge habits before retiring for the night; to do so would be to break solemn silence, so we actually sit in ashes all day, and sleep in them all night. On Good Friday we go through a somewhat similar day, but the ashes are dispensed with. Every day, over and above the divine office and prayer, continual supplication for the conversion of sinners, and for the dead, are offered, each person taking an hour’s watch before the reserved Sacrament, so that the church is not left from 5 a.m. till 10 or 11 p.m.
I recollect how a poor orphan boy at Llanthony monastery was almost always in disgrace, and had to endure the “Discipline.” The lads, when doing penance, were stripped, then laid on a long table, their faces downwards, and lashed for such faults as talking in silence time, slamming doors, leaving dust about.
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 wereconstantly 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]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 theMagnificat.
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 todwellon 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 andBlood, Soul and Divinity” of Jesus Christ are there present in the reserved Sacrament in the tabernacle.
N.B.—To a nun this is an awful penance, as she has been taught that the “Body andBlood, 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 earthkeep silencebefore 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;SOshall the King have pleasure in thy beauty.”
Penance.—Any one the SuperiorLIKESto 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 crucifixat 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.
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.
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 theintentionof 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,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.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 BlessedSacrament.” 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 thecloth 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 andsay, “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 thebaby 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 notthen, as I donow, so muchblame 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. On seeing her, I approached her and put my arms round her neck, and was about to kiss her, when she shook me off as if I had been a viper. 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.
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 apeace 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, inWales, 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. I began to fancy myself put down in a lonely country road, with no house near, darkness reigning, and all this experience coming to one who had been shut up in convents for so many years. What was I to do? I was frightened at every one I met, and as to aman, I feared the whole race. As I was thinking that mybest 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. The gentleman again told me to be off. 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 beenallowed 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 carefuland 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 plainlywhenI 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 therefour 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) wasmadenough 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.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 verykind 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 daysaccordingly 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 afuneral 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.
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 wellI 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. She subjected me to all manner of petty insults and penances, even in the presence of little children. 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 Iam 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.
If you will only let me rest in peace until Father Ignatius comes back, I will then ask his leave to go, as Iam 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, andask 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 mycell, 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. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, causing such a scandal in coming out likethat.”
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, andwhenyou are told to take your habit off you will do it, and notbefore. Go and put your scapular on.”
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 couldbestglorify 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£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 thevow 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: