And I doubt whether prayers more sincere were
ever offered within these walls, than those I uttered that night amid
helplessness, terror, and persecutions!”--“Did you not obstruct and
deter the community next morning by your cries, as they attempted to
enter the church?”--“I was paralyzed from the effects of lying all night
on the stone pavement, where they had flung me. I attempted to rise and
crawl away at their approach, and a few cries of pain were extorted from
me by my efforts to do so--efforts rendered more painful by their
refusing to offer me the slightest assistance. In a word, the whole is a
fabrication. I flew to the church to implore for mercy, and they
represent it as the outrages of an apostate spirit. Might not the same
arbitrary and absurd construction be put on the daily visits of
multitudes of afflicted souls, who weep and groan audibly as I did? If I
attempted to overturn the crucifix, to deface the images, would not the
marks of this violence remain? Would they not have been preserved with
care, to substantiate the accusation against me? Is there a trace of
them?--there is not, there cannot be, because they never existed.” The
Bishop paused. An appeal to his feelings would have been vain, but this
appeal to facts had its full effect. After some time, he said, “You can
have no objection, then, to render before the whole community the same
homage to the representations of the Redeemer and the holy saints, that
you say it was your purpose to render them that night?”--“None.” A
crucifix was brought me, which I kissed with reverence and unction, and
prayed, while the tears streamed from my eyes, an interest in the
infinite merits of the sacrifice it represented. The Bishop then said,
“Make a deed of faith, of love, of hope.” I did so; and though they were
extempore, my expressions, I could perceive, made the dignified
ecclesiastics who attended on the Bishop, cast on each other looks in
which were mingled compassion, interest, and admiration. The Bishop
said, “Where did you learn those prayers?”--“My heart is my only
teacher--I have no other--I am allowed no book.”--“How!--recollect what
you say.”--“I repeat I have none. They have taken away my breviary, my
crucifix;--they have stript my cell of all its furniture. I kneel on the
floor--I pray from the heart. If you deign to visit my cell, you will
find I have told you the truth.” At these words, the Bishop cast a
terrible look on the Superior. He recovered himself, however,
immediately, for he was a man unaccustomed to any emotion, and felt it
at once a suspension of his habits, and an infringement of his rank. In
a cold voice he bid me retire; then, as I was obeying him, he recalled
me,--my appearance for the first time seemed to strike him. He was a man
so absorbed in the contemplation of that waveless and frozen tide of
duty in which his mind was anchored, without fluctuation, progress, or
improvement, that physical objects must be presented before him a long
time before they made the least impression on him,--his senses were
almost ossified. Thus he had come to examine a supposed demoniac; but he
had made up his mind that there must be injustice and imposture in the
case, and he acted in the matter with a spirit, decision, and integrity,
that did him honour. “But, all the time, the horror and misery of my appearance, which would
have made the first impression on a man whose feelings were at all
_external_, made the last. They struck him as I slowly and painfully
crawled from the steps of the altar, and the impression was forcible in
proportion to its slowness. He called me back and inquired, as if he saw
me for the first time, “How is it your habit is so scandalously ragged?”
At these words I thought I could disclose a scene that would have added
to the Superior’s humiliation, but I only said, “It is the consequence
of the ill treatment I have experienced.” Several other questions of the
same kind, relating to my appearance, which was deplorable enough,
followed, and at last I was forced to make a full discovery. The Bishop
was incensed at the detail more than was credible. Rigid minds, when
they yield themselves to emotion, do it with a vehemence inconceivable,
for to them every thing is a duty, and passion (when it occurs) among
the rest. Perhaps the novelty of emotion, too, may be a delightful
surprise to them. “More than all this was the case now with the good Bishop, who was as
pure as he was rigid, and shrunk with horror, disgust, and indignation,
at the detail I was compelled to give, which the Superior trembled at my
uttering, and which the community dared not to contradict. He resumed
his cold manner; for to him feeling was an effort, and rigour a habit,
and he ordered me again to retire. I obeyed, and went to my cell. The
walls were as bare as I had described them, but, even contrasted with
all the splendour and array of the scene in the church, they seemed
emblazoned with my triumph. A dazzling vision passed before me for a
moment, then all subsided; and, in the solitude of my cell, I knelt and
implored the Almighty to touch the Bishop’s heart, and impress on him
the moderation and simplicity with which I had spoken. As I was thus
employed, I heard steps in the passage. They ceased for a moment, and I
was silent. It appeared the persons overheard me, and paused; and these
few words, uttered in solitude, made, I found, a deep impression on
them. A few moments after the Bishop, with some dignified attendants,
followed by the Superior, entered my cell. The former all stopped,
horror-struck at its appearance. “I have told you, Sir, that my cell now consisted of four bare walls and
a bed;--it was a scandalous, degrading sight. I was kneeling in the
middle of the floor, God knows, without the least idea of producing an
effect. The Bishop gazed around him for some time, while the
ecclesiastics who attended him testified their horror by looks and
attitudes that needed no interpretation. The Bishop, after a pause,
turned to the Superior, “Well, what do you say to this?” The Superior
hesitated, and at last said, “I was ignorant of this.”--“That is false,”
said the Bishop; “and even if it was true, it would be your crimination,
not your apology. Your duty binds you to visit the cells every day; how
could you be ignorant of the shameful state of this cell, without
neglecting your own duties?” He took several turns about the cell,
followed by the ecclesiastics, shrugging their shoulders, and throwing
on each other looks of disgust. The Superior stood dismayed. They went
out, and I could hear the Bishop say, in the passage, “All this disorder
must be rectified before I quit the house.” And to the Superior, “You
are unworthy of the situation you hold,--you ought to be deposed.” And
he added in severer tones, “Catholics, monks, Christians, this is
shocking,--horrible!