tremble for the consequences of my next visit, if
the same disorders exist,--I promise you it shall be repeated soon.” He
then returned, and standing at the door of my cell, said to the
Superior, “Take care that all the abuses committed in this cell are
rectified before to-morrow morning.” The Superior signified his
submission to this order in silence. “That evening I went to sleep on a bare mattress, between four dry
walls. I slept profoundly, from exhaustion and fatigue. I awoke in the
morning far beyond the time for matins, and found myself surrounded by
all the comforts that can be bestowed on a cell. As if magic had been
employed during my sleep, crucifix, breviary, desk, table, every thing
was replaced. I sprung from bed, and actually gazed in extasy around my
cell. As the day advanced, and the hour for refection approached, my
extasy abated, and my terrors increased;--it is not easy to pass from
extreme humiliation and utter abhorrence, to your former state in the
society of which you are a member. When the bell rung I went down. I
stood at the door for a moment,--then, with an impulse, like despair, I
entered, and took my usual place. No opposition was made,--not a word
was said. The community separated after dinner. I watched for the toll
of the bell for vespers,--I imagined that would be decisive. The bell
tolled at last,--the monks assembled. I joined them without
opposition,--I took my place in the choir,--my triumph was complete, and
I trembled at it. Alas! in what moment of success do we not feel a
sensation of terror? Our destiny always acts the part of the ancient
slave to us, who was required every morning to remind the monarch that
he was a man; and it seldom neglects to fulfil its own predictions
before the evening. Two days passed away,--the storm that had so long
agitated us, seemed to have sunk into a sudden calm. I resumed my former
place,--I performed the customary duties,--no one congratulated or
reviled me. They all seemed to consider me as one beginning monastic
life _de novo_. I passed two days of perfect tranquillity, and I take
God to witness, I enjoyed this triumph with moderation. I never reverted
to my former situation,--I never reproached those who had been agents in
it,--I never uttered a syllable on the subject of the visitation, which
had made me and the whole convent change places in the space of a few
hours, and the oppressed take the part (if he pleased) of the oppressor. I bore my success with temperance, for I was supported by the hope of
liberation. The Superior’s triumph was soon to come. “On the third morning I was summoned to the parlour, where a messenger
put into my hands a packet, containing (as I well understood) the result
of my appeal. This, according to the rules of the convent, I was
compelled to put first into the hands of the Superior to read, before I
was permitted to read it myself. I took the packet, and slowly walked to
the Superior’s apartment. As I held it in my hand, I considered it, felt
every corner, weighed it over and over again in my hand, tried to catch
an omen from its very shape. Then a withering thought crossed me, that,
if its intelligence was auspicious, the messenger would have put it into
my hands with an air of triumph, that, in spite of convent etiquette, I
might break open the seals which inclosed the sentence of my liberation. We are very apt to take our presages from our destination, and mine
being that of a monk, no wonder its auguries were black,--and were
verified. “I approached the Superior’s cell with the packet. I knocked, was
desired to enter, and, my eyes cast down, could only distinguish the
hems of many habits, whose wearers were all assembled in the Superior’s
apartment. I offered the packet with reverence. The Superior cast a
careless eye over it, and then flung it on the floor. One of the monks
approached to take it up. The Superior exclaimed, “Hold, let _him_ take
it up.” I did so, and retired to my cell, making first a profound
reverence to the Superior. I then went to my cell, where I sat down with
the fatal packet in my hands. I was about to open it, when a voice from
within me seemed to say,--It is useless, you must know the contents
already. It was some hours before I perused it,--it contained the
account of the failure of my appeal. It seemed, from the detail, that
the advocate had exerted his abilities, zeal, and eloquence to the
utmost; and that, at one time, the court had been near deciding in
favour of my claims, but the precedent was reckoned too dangerous. The
advocate on the other side had remarked, “If this succeeds, we shall
have all the monks in Spain appealing against their vows.” Could a
stronger argument have been used in favour of my cause? An impulse so
universal must surely originate in nature, justice, and truth.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

On reverting to the disastrous issue of his appeal, the unfortunate
Spaniard was so much overcome, that it was some days before he could
resume his narrative. CHAPTER VII. Pandere res alta terrâ et caligine mersas. I’ll shew your Grace the strangest sight,--
    Body o’me, what is it, Butts?--

    HENRY THE EIGHTH. “Of the desolation of mind into which the rejection of my appeal plunged
me, I can give no account, for I retain no distinguishing image. All
colours disappear in the night, and despair has no diary,--monotony is
her essence and her curse. Hours have I walked in the garden, without
retaining a single impression but that of the sounds of my
footsteps;--thought, feeling, passion, and all that employs them,--life
and futurity, extinct and swallowed up. I was already like an inhabitant
of the land where “all things are forgotten.” I hovered on the regions
of mental twilight, where the “light is as darkness.” The clouds were
gathering that portended the approach of utter night,--they were
scattered by a sudden and extraordinary light. “The garden was my constant resort,--a kind of instinct supplying the
place of that choice I had no longer energy enough to make, directed me
there to avoid the presence of the monks. One evening I saw a change in
its appearance. The fountain was out of repair. The spring that supplied
it was beyond the walls of the convent, and the workmen, in prosecuting
the repairs, had found it necessary to excavate a passage under the
garden-wall, that communicated with an open space in the city. This
passage, however, was closely watched during the day while the workmen
were employed, and well secured at night by a door erected for the
purpose, which was chained, barred, and bolted, the moment the workmen
quitted the passage. It was, however, left open during the day; and this
tantalizing image of escape and freedom, amid the withering certainty of
eternal imprisonment, gave a kind of awakened sting to the pains that
were becoming obtuse. I entered the passage, and drew as close as
possible to the door that shut me out from life.