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.