23070	----	Clara Maynard; The True and the False--A Tale of the Times, By W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ This is a short book, about a quarter of the length of a typical Kingston novel. Clara is the daughter of a retired Royal Navy Captain, who owns a large yacht, a cutter. She can take a large number of guests to sea, even more than the cutter in Marryat's "The Three Cutters". They use the yacht as a means of getting to a picnic spot on a beach, where they are met by even more people, including the new incumbent of the local parish, the family who own the presentation to the living, and a couple of Roman priests who are staying with them. In chapter two Clara's father dies after a series of strokes. Her betrothed young man, who had been at the picnic, returns on Army service to India, and she falls under the influence of the new vicar of the parish, who persuades her to enter a nunnery. This is an absolute disaster, as the cruelty and lack of goodness and charity of what went on in that nunnery is quite intolerable. Eventually she breaks free, and is reunited with her fa ily. Her betrothed comes back, she marries him and all is well. ________________________________________________________________________ CLARA MAYNARD; THE TRUE AND THE FALSE--A TALE OF THE TIMES, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. The blue waters of the British Channel sparkled brightly in the rays of the sun, shining forth from a cloudless sky, as a light breeze from the northward filled the sails of a small yacht which glided smoothly along the southern coast of England. At the helm of the little vessel stood her owner, Captain Maynard, a retired naval officer. Next to his fair young daughter, Clara, the old sailor looked upon his yacht as one of the most beautiful things in existence. Though her crew consisted but of two men and a boy, and she measured scarcely five-and-twenty tons, he declared that if it were necessary he would sail round the world in her without the slightest hesitation. "Flatten in the jib, and take a pull at the main-sheet, my lads, and we shall run into the bay without a tack, if the wind holds as it does now," he sang out. The men, as they came aft to execute the latter order, had to disturb some of the passengers, of whom there were several, seated on cloaks round the skylight, or standing up holding on to the weather rigging, or leaning against the main-boom. Clara Maynard, accustomed to yachting, promptly moved to windward, aided by Harry Caulfield, a young military officer, who had ridden over that morning to Luton, for the pleasure of making a trip on board the yacht; but her aunt, Miss Sarah Pemberton, looked somewhat annoyed at being asked to shift her seat. Harry, however, came to her assistance, and placed a camp-stool for her against the weather bulwarks. "I am sorry, Sarah, to inconvenience you," said the captain, good-naturedly, "but we haven't as much room on board the _Ariadne_ as on the deck of a line-of-battle ship." The captain had called his yacht after the first ship in which he went to sea. The cutter having rounded a lofty point, a small and beautiful bay opened out ahead; and the wind remaining steady, without making another tack, she stood in directly for it. "We could not have chosen a more lovely spot for our picnic," exclaimed Clara. "See, Aunt Sarah--I am sure you will be pleased when you get there. Watch those picturesque cliffs, ever changing in shape as we sail along--and see those breezy downs above them, and the fine yellow sands below, and that pretty valley with the old fisherman's cottage on one side, and the clear stream running down its centre, and leaping over the rocks in a tiny cascade." "I shall be very glad to get safe on shore," answered Miss Pemberton, who had been persuaded, much against her will, to venture for the first time on board the little _Ariadne_. She had been invited, on the death of Clara's mother, her younger sister, to take up her abode with her widowed brother-in-law, and had only lately accepted his frequently repeated offer. Whatever good qualities she might have possessed, she was certainly not attractive in appearance, being tall and thin, with a cold and forbidding manner. Clara treated her aunt with due respect, and did all she could to win her affections, though she tried in vain to bestow that love she would willingly have given. Miss Pemberton presented a strong contrast to her niece, who was generally admired. Clara was very fair, of moderate height, and of a slight and elegant figure, with regular features and a pleasing smile; though a physiognomist might have suspected that she wanted the valuable quality of firmness, which in her position was especially necessary; for she already possessed a good fortune, and would inherit a considerable one. Her father, although a sailor of the old school, was not destitute of discernment, and thoroughly understanding her character, earnestly wished to see her married to a sensible, upright man, who would protect her and take good care of her property. He had therefore given every encouragement to Harry Caulfield, son of his old and esteemed friend, General Caulfield. He had known and liked Harry from his boyhood, and fully believed that he possessed those sterling qualities which would tend to secure his daughter's happiness. Harry had met her when staying with some friends at Cheltenham, and admired her before he knew that she possessed a fortune. He had thus the satisfaction of feeling that his love was purely disinterested. Of this she was aware, and it had greatly influenced her in returning his affection. When Clara wrote to her father, from whom she had no concealments, to tell him of the attention she was receiving from Captain Caulfield, his reply was, "I am very glad indeed to hear it; nothing could give me greater pleasure. Tell him to come down to Luton, and that I shall be delighted to see him." Clara shortly afterwards returned home with her Aunt Sarah, and Harry of course followed, accompanied by his father, the general, who, finding a house in the neighbourhood vacant, engaged it for the sake of being near Captain Maynard, and thus enabling the young people to be together without depriving himself of his son's society. Harry's regiment was in India, and he was under orders to rejoin it. Though fond of his profession, in which he had gained distinction, and had every prospect of rising, he at first thought of selling out; but to this his father objected, and even Captain Maynard agreed that, as Clara was very young, they might wait a couple of years till he had obtained another step in rank, and that he would then consent to her accompanying him back, if necessary, to India. The course of true love in this instance appeared to run smoothly enough. Harry was most devoted in his attentions, and admired Clara more and more every day he spent with her--while she was satisfied that it would be impossible for her to love any one more; and had not she felt that it was her duty to remain with her father, she would willingly have married at once, and gone out to India. She saw clearly, however, that her Aunt Sarah was not suited to take her place or attend to her father, as she had observed of late that his health was failing, so that even for Harry's sake she could not bring herself to quit him. She had therefore consented to Harry's leaving her, though not without a severe struggle. It was the first shadow which had come over her young and hitherto happy life since the loss of her beloved mother. She was convinced that Harry was in every way worthy of her affections. He was a fine, handsome fellow, with frank agreeable manners, and a large amount of good sense and judgment. He had managed even to win the good opinion of Miss Sarah Pemberton, who was not in general inclined to think well of young men especially of officers in the army, whom she designated generally as an impudent, profligate set, with fluent tongues and insinuating manners, whose chief occupation in life was to break the hearts of young girls foolish enough to trust them. Among the rest of the company on board the yacht was Mary Lennard, a girl of about fourteen years old, a sweet young creature, and a great favourite of Clara's. She was the daughter of the Reverend John Lennard, who had been for some years vicar of the parish of Luton-cum-Crosham, but only as _locum tenens_, he having been requested to take charge of it by the patron, Sir Richard Bygrave, who had promised to bestow it on his young relative, Dick Rushworth, as soon as Dick was of an age to take orders. The said Dick Rushworth, however, having lately unexpectedly come into a fortune, had quitted the university, and declined becoming a clergyman; and Sir Reginald, influenced by his wife, had bestowed the living on her cousin, the Reverend Ambrose Lerew, who had graduated at Oxford, and had been for some time a curate in that diocese. He had lately married a lady somewhat older than himself, possessed of a fair fortune, who had been considered a belle during two or three London seasons, but had failed to secure such a matrimonial alliance as she and her friends considered that she ought to make when she first came out. At length, awakening to the fact that her youth was passing away and her beauty fading, she had consented to give her hand, and as much of a heart as she possessed, to the fashionable-looking and well-connected young curate, an especial favourite of her friend, Lady Bygrave. Mr Lennard had held the living longer than he had expected, and to the best of his ability had done his duty to his parishioners. He was a genial, warm-hearted man, of good presence; his manners urbane and courteous; fond of a joke, hospitable and kind, being consequently a favourite with all classes. The more wealthy liked him for his pleasant conversation and readiness to enter into all their gaieties and amusements, and the poorer for the kind way in which he spoke to them, and the assistance he afforded on all occasions when they were in distress. He had lost his wife two or three years after he became vicar of Luton-cum-Crosham. She had left two children, his dear little Mary, and a son, Alfred, a tall, pale-faced youth, who was now on board the yacht. The young gentleman had been with a tutor, and was about to go up to Oxford. He was considered very well-behaved; but as he seldom gave expression to his opinions, no one could ascertain much about his character, or how he was likely to turn out. His father always spoke of him as his good boy, who had never given him any trouble, and he fully believed never would cause him a moments' anxiety. His tutor had sent him home with a high character for diligence in his studies, and attention to his religious duties, which consisted in a regular attendance at church and at the morning and evening prayers of the family; and his father was happy in the belief that he would do very well in the world as a clergyman, or at the bar, or in any other profession he might select. Still, Mary was undoubtedly his favourite, and on her he bestowed the full affection of a father's heart. She was indeed a most loveable little creature. Clara was especially fond of her. Mary was so clever and sensible, that she was always a welcome guest at Luton. Besides the persons already mentioned on board the yacht, there was Lieutenant Sims, of the coastguard, with his wife and daughter; a Mrs and Miss Prentiss, the latter young and pretty; Tom Wesby, a friend of Alfred Lennard's, very like him in appearance and manner; and an artist engaged in sketching in the neighbourhood, who had brought a letter of introduction to Captain Maynard. As the cutter rounded the headland before spoken of, most of the party evinced their admiration of the scenery by expressions of delight, and the artist exhibited his skill by making a faithful sketch in a few minutes. The wind freshening, the cutter made rapid progress towards the bay. Harry had taken the telescope, and was directing it towards the shore. "Some of our party are there already," he exclaimed; "I see my father and Mr Lennard, and I conclude that the other people must be the new vicar and his wife, from the unmistakable cut of the gentleman's coat, and the lady's irreproachable costume. There are several more, though I cannot exactly make out who they are; I see, however, that the servants are bringing down the baskets of provisions, so we need have no fear of starving." "I did not expect that they would arrive so soon. The wind has been light, and we have had the tide against us," observed Captain Maynard. "It will run long enough, however, to take us home again, if you young people are on board in good time. I must trust to you, Harry, to collect all our passengers; or, should the wind drop, we may find ourselves drifting down Channel for the best part of the night." "Oh! that will be capital fun," cried Mrs Sims. "Mary, you'd like it amazingly. We can sit on deck, and look at the stars, and sing songs, and have our tea, and listen to the sailors' yarns--" "And have the chance of being run down and sunk by one of those big blundering iron steam-kettles," growled the lieutenant, who had the antipathy long felt by old sailors to all the modern innovations, as he considered them, in the navy. As the cutter glided up towards the shore, the party standing on the beach waved their handkerchiefs, and the ladies on board waved theirs. The jib was taken in, the foresail hauled down, and the yacht rounding to, the anchor was let drop at a short distance from the beach. "Haul the boat up alongside, Tom," said Captain Maynard. "Now, Mr Sims, I must get you to take charge of the first party for the shore." "With the greatest pleasure in the world; I am always at the service of the ladies," answered the lieutenant, bowing round to them, "but my difficulty is to know who is to go first, unless I select by seniority. Miss Sarah Pemberton, suppose I ask you--age before honesty, you know." "You do not wish to insult me, Mr Sims?" answered the lady, bridling up. "Come, come, Sally, Sims never thought of such a thing; he was only joking, or rather, let the words slip out of his mouth without knowing what he was saying," said Captain Maynard. "I am not fond of joking," replied Miss Sarah; "but if you wish me to go first, I shall be very glad to get on shore, I assure you." "Pardon me, madam," said the lieutenant, looking very penitent, and offering his hand. "I wouldn't say a word to ruffle your sensitive feelings, I do assure you." Miss Pemberton, being appeased, gave her hand to the lieutenant, and though she at first showed some signs of trepidation, stepped without difficulty into the sternsheets of the boat. She was followed by Mrs and Miss Sims. "Come, young Lennard, you get into the bows, and help to trim the boat," said Mr Sims; and shoving off, they pulled for the shore. The boat soon reached the beach, when Mr Alfred, jumping out, wetted his shoes, greatly to his annoyance, and went running off without stopping to offer his assistance to the ladies. Some of the rest of the party, however, came down to welcome them, and Mrs and Miss Sims, being, accustomed to boating, having jumped out, the lieutenant was able to aid Miss Pemberton in performing that, to her, hazardous operation. "Trust to me, my good lady," he said in an encouraging tone; "now step on this thwart--now on the next--now on the gunwale." "What's that?" asked Miss Pemberton. "The side of the boat, I should have said," answered the lieutenant. "Now spring with all the agility you possess." At which the lady gave a bound which nearly overset the gallant officer, and would have ended by bringing her down on the sand, had not General Caulfield caught her in his arms. "I hope you are not hurt, my dear madam!" he exclaimed. "I have nearly dislocated my ankle, I believe," answered Miss Pemberton. "It is the first time I have ventured on board a yacht, and I intend that it shall be the last, with my own good pleasure." On this the Reverend Mr Lerew stepped forward and expressed his sympathy to Miss Pemberton, offering her his arm to conduct her up to a rock under the cliff, where she could sit and rest her injured foot. "I feel grieved for you, my dear madam, that what was intended to be a party of pleasure should commence with so untoward an event," he said. "Do allow my wife to examine your injured ankle--she is all tenderness and sympathy, and a gentle rubbing may perhaps restore it to its wonted elasticity." "I hope that I shall recover after a little rest, without giving Mrs Lerew the trouble," answered Miss Pemberton, touched with the interest exhibited by the new vicar. "I am deeply grateful to you. But those sea-officers, though well-intentioned, including my poor dear brother-in-law, are dreadfully rough and unmannerly, and have not ceased to alarm and annoy me since I got on board that horrible little vessel, misnamed a pleasure yacht." "True charity would make me wish to gloss over their faults--though I must confess I agree with you, my dear lady; but we must consider it the result of their early education, or rather, want of education," observed Mr Lerew, in a soft voice; "I fear, too, that their religious training is as defective as their manners--we must, however, use our best endeavours to correct the former, though it may be hopeless to attempt an improvement in the latter--indeed, it is of so infinitely less consequence, that provided we are successful in imparting the true faith, we must rest satisfied." "Oh, yes, I daresay I do," answered Miss Pemberton, who was thinking more about her ankle than of what Mr Lerew was saying to her; catching one of his words, she added, "but I don't accuse my brother-in-law of being irreligious; I assure you, he reads prayers every morning as the clock strikes half-past eight, and every evening at ten, with a chapter from the Old and New Testaments, with Ryle's expositions." "Pray, what prayers does he use?" asked Mr Lerew, in a tone which showed that he considered the matter of great importance. "He generally uses Bickersteth's prayers," answered Miss Pemberton. "Sad! sad!" exclaimed Mr Lerew, in a tone of horror, "thus to neglect the Prayer-Book and submit to the teaching of men the most deadly enemies of the catholic faith. Do let me entreat you to beg that he will banish Ryle and Bickersteth from his library, or rather, commit them--I should say their works--to the flames at once, lest they should fall into the hands of other ignorant people." "I never thought there was any harm in them," answered Miss Pemberton, somewhat astonished at the vehemence with which the new vicar condemned his two brother divines, whom she had hitherto considered sound, trustworthy teachers. "I will mention what you say to my brother-in-law, but I suspect that he will not be easily induced to do as you advise. I know that he considers Canon Ryle a very sensible and pious man, and I have often heard him say that he could understand his writings better than those of any one else he ever met with." "Blind leaders of the blind," said Mr Lerew. "The pernicious principles of such men are calculated to produce the overthrow of our Holy Church, and to undermine all catholic doctrines." "Dear me, Mr Lerew, I always thought Ryle and Bickersteth very sound churchmen and firm advocates of the truth," said Miss Pemberton. "Alas! alas! my dear lady; I fear there are many wolves in sheep's clothing who have long beguiled their flocks by teaching them to rely on their own judgment, instead of seeking for counsel and advice from those pastors who, knowing themselves to be duly appointed from on high to administer the holy sacraments, and grant absolution to humble penitents, feel the importance of their sacred office," replied Mr Lerew. Miss Pemberton did not quite understand Mr Lerew's meaning; but as he exhibited so much feeling and sympathy for her sprained ankle, she sat and listened, and thought that, though he was less agreeable than Mr Lennard, he at all events must be a very pious and excellent young clergyman, and that since the vicar, who had been so generally liked, was compelled to resign his office, it was fortunate for the parishioners that they had obtained so _superior_ a _minister_. In the meantime the boat had returned to the yacht for another freight, Captain Maynard, with Harry, Clara, and Mary, being the last to land. By this time most of the party had collected on the beach to welcome them. General Caulfield, after shaking hands with the captain, led off Clara, for the sake, as he said, of having a little talk with her. He was very fond of his future daughter-in-law, who was exactly the girl he desired as a wife for his son. While they were absent, the captain chose a shady spot under the cliff for spreading the tablecloth. The younger members of the party, under the superintendence of Mrs Sims, were busily engaged in unpacking the hampers and baskets, and arranging their contents. "Alfred, ahoy! bear a hand, and place the knives and forks alongside the plates; I like to see young men making themselves useful, instead of throwing all the work upon the ladies," exclaimed Captain Maynard, as he saw young Lennard sauntering off by himself, to avoid the trouble of speaking to any one. Thus summoned, Alfred was compelled to return, when Mary, with a merry laugh, put a bundle of knives and forks into his hands, and told him to go and arrange some on the opposite side of the cloth. The picnic had been got up by some of the principal people in the parish, as a compliment to their former vicar, as also for the purpose of enabling his successor to become acquainted with them in an easy and pleasant way. Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave had been invited, but had not yet arrived, and it would, of course, have been uncourteous to commence luncheon, hungry as everybody was, till they appeared. The party had, in the meantime, to amuse themselves according to their tastes; some of the ladies had brought their sketch-books, others their work--though the greater number preferred doing nothing. The ever busy Lieutenant Sims had sent off to the yacht for an iron pot, which he filled up with potatoes and salt water, and having called some of the young gentlemen to assist him in collecting a quantity of dry wood which was seen scattered along the beach, he made a large fire, and put on the pot to boil. "Now, by boys, take a lesson from an old tar," he observed. "Whenever you want to cook potatoes to perfection, boil them in salt water if you can get it, or if not, put in plenty of salt, and let them remain till the water has evaporated. You will then have them come out like lumps of meal, as these will, you'll see, before long." Harry had soon stolen off, and joined Clara and his father. The latter shortly after left the young people to themselves, while he went back to meet Captain Maynard and Mr Lennard, who were strolling along the beach. "I feel perfectly satisfied with my successor, as far as I am able at present to judge," observed Mr Lennard. "He is a wonderfully zealous and earnest man. He shows an evident desire to make himself popular, and to win the affections of the people; and I cannot blame him if he seems surprised that I have not introduced some of the more modern improvements in churches." "For my part, I hope that what he calls improvements will not follow the direction of the changes which have been made in some parishes," observed General Caulfield. "There are many who would object to them, as I should myself, and they can produce no real good." "New brooms sweep clean," said Mr Lennard. "He naturally wishes to be doing something, and I shall not be jealous. It is all-important to have peace and good-will in the parish." "It may be bought at too dear a price," said General Caulfield, "but we will hope for the best. Here comes Mrs Lerew; she was, I understand, a good deal in London society, and is an elegant and fashionable-looking person, though she is somewhat older than Lerew, I suspect." "She may not make the worse wife for that," observed Captain Maynard. Harry and Clara had wandered away from the rest of the party, and were seated on a rock, at some distance off. She had brought her sketch-book, and was endeavouring to make a drawing of the bay, with the headland to the eastward, round which they had come, and the little yacht at anchor off the beach; but anxious as she was to produce a satisfactory sketch, a duplicate of which Harry had begged her to give to him, her hand trembled, and her heart felt very sad. It was the last day they were to be together, and she thought of the long, long months which must elapse before he was to return. "My memory will often fly back to this spot when I am far away," said Harry; "and though leagues of land and ocean divide us, we shall here meet in spirit and talk to each other, shall we not, dearest?" "I am sure of it," said Clara, looking into his handsome, honest countenance. "I wish that I could make a better sketch, but I will try to improve it at home." "Oh! no, no! leave it just as it is; I wish to think of you as you are now," said Harry, "my own dear girl; and I would rather see every line as you have traced it on the paper before my eyes." "Well, then, I will keep the copy for myself," said Clara; "or I can come here with papa in the yacht, and take it over again." The sketch was finished, and seeing their friends assembling, and Mrs Sims beckoning vehemently to them, they rose to return. "I hope that my father will remain at Updown till I come back," said Harry. "You will always trust to him, Clara, as to one who loves you as his daughter; and it will be a happiness to me to know that he will be near you, should Captain Maynard's health fail." Clara sighed. "I much fear that is likely to happen--indeed, I have been unable to conceal from myself that he has greatly altered lately." Harry, wishing to avoid melancholy thoughts, changed the subject. "I am not quite satisfied with your new vicar," he observed; "I am afraid that he belongs to a school of which I have the utmost possible dread. Believe me, dearest, I was most thankful to find, when I first came down to Luton, that Captain Maynard held the opinions I do, and that your parish was free from any of the ritualistic practices of the day. Much as all must like Mr Lennard for his pleasant manners and kind heart, he is not exactly what I should wish a clergyman to be, but he is at all events thoroughly sound in practice. Believe me, Clara, that however much I might admire a girl, and be inclined to love her, I would not risk my domestic happiness by marrying, should I find that she was enslaved by those plotting the overthrow of the Protestant principles of our Church. You know, dearest, how strongly I feel on the subject, and I trust that you will, for your own sake, as well as mine, withstand all the allurements and artifices which either lay or clerical ritualists may use to induce you to support or take a part in their practices." "I hope so," said Clara, "though Lady Bygrave, when last she called on us, told me that there are many true and devoted men who are called ritualists; and I cannot say that I see any objection to good music and elegantly built churches, which it is their chief aim to introduce for the purpose of forwarding the cause of religion and devotion. Many people are dissatisfied with the untrained attempts at harmony in our too often unsightly churches." Harry was going to reply, but he found that the last remark had been made unintentionally in the hearing of Mr Lerew. That gentleman watched his opportunity, and while Harry had left Clara's side for a moment, he observed in a low, soft voice, "I see, Miss Maynard, that you are a young lady of good taste, and above the vulgar prejudices of the Calvinistic school, who stubbornly refuse to dedicate the best of their substance and talents to God, and rest satisfied with offering to Him the ugliest buildings their imaginations can devise, and the refuse of their possessions." He stopped on seeing Harry, who quickly rejoined Clara. "Here they come! here they come!" exclaimed several of the most hungry of the party, as a tall gentleman and lady, accompanied by two sombre, well-dressed persons, were seen descending the hill. "Who can those people be with Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, I wonder?" cried Mrs Sims; "they look to me for all the world like Jesuit priests." Mr Lerew's countenance brightened, and Master Alfred Lennard showed more interest than he had hitherto exhibited in any of the proceedings of the day. "So I fear they are," observed General Caulfield. "What can have induced Sir Reginald and his wife to bring them here?" Mr Lerew, however, with several other persons, hurried up the pathway, to greet the chief people of that part of their county. Lady Bygrave, escorted by one of the priests, who gave her his hand at the steeper parts of the path, came first, and at once introduced their friend Monsieur l'Abbe Henon, who with his companion, Father Lascelles, had arrived only that morning, and had begged leave to accompany them. They had come to see Sir Reginald on the subject of forming a new settlement in South America, as it was well known he was deeply interested in the subject of colonisation, and they hoped to obtain his influence and support. "They are most delightful people," whispered Lady Bygrave to Miss Pemberton, who met her ladyship at the bottom of the descent; "everybody will be pleased with them, they are so full of information, and so free from prejudices--they will disabuse all our minds of the vulgar notion that Catholic priests can talk of nothing but masses and penances; and they are so noble-minded and philanthropic." The abbe, who overheard what was said, smiled blandly, and addressed himself to Miss Pemberton. He spoke English perfectly, with only a slight foreign accent, in a melodious voice, attractive and soothing to his hearers. He and Father Lascelles bowed politely as they were introduced to the company, and at once made themselves at home, uttering not a word to which even the most prejudiced could object. Lady Bygrave was still young, with a decidedly aristocratic appearance, and very pleasant manners when she had to be condescending. Sir Reginald was a tall, good-looking man, who seldom expressed an opinion, his florid countenance not exhibiting any large amount of intellect; but as he was considered straightforward and honest, he was generally liked. With as little delay as possible, not to show the last comers too much that they had been waited for, the party assembled round the ample repast; and while the older gentlemen were employed in carving, the younger ones, aided by Mrs Sims, busied themselves in carrying round the plates. The usual conversation at picnics then became general. The abbe and his companion, having glanced round the company, and carefully noted each person present, were soon enabled to take part in it. They said nothing very remarkable, but managed, notwithstanding, to draw out the opinions of most of those to whom they addressed themselves. The abbe was especially attentive to Mr and Mrs Lerew, and both seemed highly flattered with what he said. He fixed his glance on Master Alfred, and having ascertained who he was, spoke to him in a gentle, encouraging tone. Mr Lennard himself seemed pleased with Sir Reginald's visitors, and remarked to General Caulfield that he had seldom met more agreeable foreigners. "I don't trust them," answered the general; "the more pleasant and insinuating they are, the more necessary it is to avoid them. I would never allow such men to enter my house or become intimate with any of my family." Captain Maynard entertained much the same feeling as his friend. Lieutenant Sims never did care about foreigners, and thought the idea of getting Englishmen to emigrate to such a country as they talked of was all humbug. The abbe and his friends might have heard many of the observations made; but whether complimentary or not, they did not allow a muscle of their countenances to change. Lady Bygrave happened to upset her wineglass, and soon afterwards the abbe did exactly the same thing; on which he turned with a bow to her ladyship, observing, "I am sure whatever Lady Bygrave does is the right thing, and cannot therefore be reproved." "I am thankful, Monsieur l'Abbe," said Lady Bygrave, smiling. "I am sure that I can always rely upon you for support." "Ah, yes, madam, in spiritual matters as in temporal," whispered the abbe. The conversation was, however, generally of a lively character, and all agreed that the picnic was a success, and that they had enjoyed themselves amazingly. Captain Maynard, however, looking at his watch, declared that those who intended to return in the yacht must come on board without delay. Miss Pemberton declined, if she could possibly get a conveyance, and Lady Bygrave offered to take her in her carriage; Father Lascelles begging leave to return in a pony-carriage which had brought the hampers, if some one who knew the way would drive him--on which Alfred Lennard requested to be allowed the honour of doing so. Harry and Clara of course went back in the yacht, as did the rest of the party who had come in her. "Mr Lennard must take care that that Jesuit priest does not get hold of his son," observed Harry to Clara; "you might get Mary to speak to her father and warn him, for he seemed as much pleased with the strangers as Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave. I hold with my father about them; and I would as soon trust a couple of serpents within my doors." "Are you not rather severe on the poor men?" asked Clara. "Knowing their principles and their great object--to bring under subjection the minds of their fellow-creatures, and thus to amass wealth for the purpose of raising their order above all the ruling powers on earth--I cannot say anything too severe. To attain their ends they will allow nothing to stand in their way; they will hesitate at no crime, no deceit; they will assume any character which suits them, and will undertake the lowest offices, and will employ the vilest means, or will pretend to the most exalted piety." "Surely, Harry, the men we saw to-day could not be guilty of such conduct," said Clara. "Every Jesuit is trained in the same school, and I therefore make no exceptions," answered Harry. "We shall find that even those gentlemen, fascinating as they appeared, had some object in visiting Sir Reginald, ulterior to that of presenting him with a scheme of colonisation. He is wealthy; and depend on it, they were informed of the proclivities of Lady Bygrave." Clara was not quite convinced. It was not likely, however, that the abbe and his companion would pay a visit to Luton. CHAPTER TWO. Harry had gone. Clara felt very sad; her eye was constantly at the telescope in the drawing-room, looking out for the steamer which was conveying him to Alexandria. She at length caught sight of a long white line and a puff of grey smoke above it, which she believed must belong to the ship. She was still watching it as it was growing less and less distinct, when her aunt, entering the room, said, "I am afraid that your father is very ill. I went into his study just now; when I spoke to him, he was unable to answer me." Clara flew to the study, and found her father seated in his arm-chair. There was a pained expression in his eyes, and he was speechless. He had been seized with a paralytic stroke. The servant was immediately despatched to bring the doctor, who was found not far off, and quickly came. He pronounced the captain to be in considerable danger. Clara, ever dutiful and affectionate, was constant in her attendance on her father. Even Miss Pemberton's manner softened, and she did her best to comfort her niece. In the course of two or three days, Captain Maynard had somewhat recovered, and was able to speak without much difficulty. General Caulfield, who had heard of his illness, came over to see him. The brave sailor believed himself to be dying. "It is a knock at my door to which I am bound to attend, General," he said. "I have no fear for myself, for I trust in One `mighty to save;' but I am anxious about my gentle Clara, so ill able to battle with the troubles of life. I wish that we had not let Harry go; I could have left her with confidence in his care. Would that he could be recalled!" "His ship is across the bay by this time. We acted for the best, and must trust to Him who ever cares for the orphan and widow. While I live, I will be a father to your child, and assist her aunt in watching over her," answered the general; "but cheer up, my friend, I do not speak to one ignorant of the truth, and therefore I can say that God may still preserve your life for her sake, though you will undoubtedly be the gainer by going hence, as all are who die in the Lord. We can pray to Him to protect her." And the gallant old soldier knelt down by the side of his friend, as by that of a beloved brother, and together they lifted up their voices to Him in whom they trusted. Though Captain Maynard could but faintly repeat the words uttered by the general, his heart spoke with the fervency of a true Christian who expects soon to be in the presence of his Saviour. He pressed the general's hand. "And whatever happens, my dear friend, I feel confident that you will fulfil your promise," he said. Before the general left the house, he spoke for some time to Miss Pemberton, who was fully convinced that her brother-in-law had not many hours to live. The captain, however, the next day had greatly recovered; and while Miss Pemberton was seated in the drawing-room, Clara being with her father, Mr and Mrs Lerew were announced. Mrs Lerew advancing, took Miss Pemberton's hand, and sank into a seat, her husband following with the most obsequious of bows and blandest of smiles. "My dear lady, I rejoice to find you within," he said, "as I am anxious to have some earnest conversation with you, while perhaps, if I may venture to make the request, your niece will show the garden to Mrs Lerew." "Clara is with her father, who is still, I regret to say, very ill," answered Miss Pemberton; "but I will summon her, that she may have the pleasure of seeing Mrs Lerew." "Not for the world," answered the vicar: "the present opportunity is propitious. I was aware of Captain Maynard's serious illness; indeed, I am most desirous to speak to him on the subject of his soul's welfare. From what his medical attendant tells me, I fear that his days are numbered; and you will pardon me when I say it, I grieve to hear that he has been sadly neglectful of his religious duties." "I hope you are mistaken," answered Miss Pemberton, somewhat astonished at the remark; "though I have not resided long with him, I have always understood that he was specially attentive to them." "Not to some of the most important," said Mr Lerew: "he has not once been to the celebration of the Holy Eucharist since I became vicar of the parish, nor has he attended matin-song or even-song, which I have performed daily; and I regret to observe that neither you nor your niece have been present." "My brother-in-law has not been in the habit of attending any but Sunday services, nor have I, I confess," said Miss Pemberton; "but I shall be very happy, if he gets better, to drive over with my niece, should you think it right." "Right!" exclaimed Mr Lerew in a tone of amazement; "I consider it a great sin to neglect such means of grace, and by neglecting them you encourage others to do so likewise; whereas if people of position set a good example, it will be followed by their inferiors. But, my dear lady, I fear that I have said what may sound harsh in your ears. One of my great objects to-day is to see your brother-in-law alone, and I must ask you to enable me to do so while Mrs Lerew is paying her respects to your niece." Miss Pemberton, seeing no objection to this, undertook to send Clara down, and to beg Captain Maynard to receive the vicar. She went upstairs for this purpose. Of course the sick man could not decline the vicar's visit, and Clara having very unwillingly left her father, Mr Lerew was ushered into his room. The new vicar spoke softly and gently, and expressed his sorrow to hear of the captain's serious illness. He then went on to speak of the importance of being prepared for death. "I would urge you, therefore, my dear sir, to confess your sins to me, that I may absolve you from them, as I have authority from my office." "Yes, sir, I have many sins to confess, and I have already with hearty repentance done so to my God," answered the captain, sitting up in bed. "I am very sure, too, that they are all washed away in the blood of Jesus Christ." The vicar gave a suppressed hem. He at once saw that he must drop the point of confession. "Then, my dear sir," he added, "I should have no hesitation in administering to you the Holy Eucharist, which, knowing your dangerous state, I reserved for you on Sunday last, and have now brought in my pocket." "I do not exactly understand you, sir," answered the captain, wondering what his visitor could mean. "You would surely wish to enjoy the benefit of that Holy Sacrament," said the vicar, "and I have brought the consecrated elements with me, the wafer and the wine mingled with water, which latter it is lawful in the Anglican Church to administer." "I understand you now, and am much obliged to you for your kind intentions," said the captain, "but the truth is, I should prefer taking the sacrament with my old friends, Mr Lennard and General Caulfield, with my daughter, and sister-in-law, and the members of my household. We have always an ample supply of bread and wine for the purpose." "Of my predecessor I say nothing, and hope that he will be brought ere long to the knowledge and practice of the truth," exclaimed Mr Lerew. "General Caulfield--pardon me for saying it--is, I understand, a schismatic with whom we are bound to hold no communion. He has for several Sundays attended a dissenting conventicle, and actually takes upon himself to preach and to attempt to teach his ignorant fellow-creatures; for ignorant and benighted those must be who listen to him. It will be at the peril of your soul, I am bound to tell you, Captain Maynard, should you invite him to be present at the awful ceremony you propose to hold." "I will be responsible for the risk I may run," answered Captain Maynard, the spirit of the old sailor rising within him. "I cannot allow my dearest friend, in whose truly religious character I have unbounded confidence, to be so spoken of without protest. In my state, especially, I would quarrel with no man. You made a mistake, Mr Lerew, in thus speaking of that excellent man." "I deeply regret it," said the vicar. "I must not longer intrude on you, but I am bound to tell you, Captain Maynard, that I consider your soul in imminent danger, and I earnestly pray that another day, ere it be too late, a benign influence may induce you more willingly to receive my ministrations. Farewell." And Mr Lerew, rising with a frowning brow, walked to the door, while the captain, sinking back on his pillow, rang his bell. Soon after Mr Lerew had returned to the drawing-room, the servant entered to say that the captain wished to see Miss Clara, and she, without even stopping to say good-bye to her guests, hurried upstairs. The vicar's manner was calm as usual. Miss Pemberton had scarcely time to ask whether he had had a satisfactory interview with her brother-in-law, when Lieutenant and Mrs Sims entered the room. Miss Pemberton was compelled to shake hands with them, as the lieutenant advanced in his usual hearty fashion, but she showed that their arrival caused her no great satisfaction. Mr Lerew and his wife received them in a stiff manner, and the former held out two fingers, which Sims nearly dislocated as he grasped them in his rough palm. The lieutenant, having enquired after Captain Maynard, and being informed by Miss Pemberton that he was as well as she could hope, found himself compelled to relapse into silence, as Mr Lerew, giving a hint to his wife to attend to Mrs Sims, requested a few moments conversation with Miss Pemberton in the bay window. Leading the lady to it, he spoke in so low a voice, that even Mrs Sims, much as she might have wished to do so, could not catch a word--while the honest lieutenant, who did not trouble himself about the matter, endeavoured to make amends for the somewhat unintelligible replies which his wife gave to Mrs Lerew. The first portion of the vicar's conversation had reference to Clara; he then continued in the same suppressed tone, "The General, also, is not a man on whose religious opinions you should place reliance, my dear madam, and I would especially urge you to prevent him, by every means in your power, from coming here. He can only lead your poor brother-in-law from the right path, and may induce him to refrain from taking advantage of the sacred offices I am so anxious to render." In a few minutes Mr Lerew and Miss Pemberton returned to their seats, the former observing in a voice which he intended should be heard, "General Caulfield may be a very worthy soldier, but I unhesitatingly say, and I wish it to be known, that I consider any person, whatever his rank, is to be greatly blamed who enters a dissenting chapel, and without authority pretends to preach to the ignorant populace." "But, sir, I can say I once listened to as good a sermon preached by the general as I ever heard from parson or bishop, begging your pardon," exclaimed Mr Sims, the colour mounting to his honest cheeks as he spoke; "he preaches simply from the Bible, and just says what the Bible says; and that, I hold, is the best test of a good sermon." "The Bible, Mr Sims, is a very dangerous book, if read by the laity, without the proper interpretation of those deputed by Holy Church to explain its meaning," emphatically replied Mr Lerew. The lieutenant gave an involuntary whew. "Then I suppose that you mean the Bible should not be read by us laity," he exclaimed. "Certainly, not without the written or verbal explanation of the priests of our Church," answered Mr Lerew. "And that is your opinion?" asked the lieutenant, resolving then and there that he would never allow the vicar an opportunity of explaining the Bible to him or any of his family according to his interpretation; "and you wish this to be known in the parish, Mr Lerew?" "Certainly, I do not desire to conceal my opinions--I speak with authority," answered the vicar. "But, my dear, the people may misunderstand you," observed Mrs Lerew, who reflected that her husband had made an acknowledgment which some of his parishioners might take up, and perhaps cause him annoyance; but the vicar was not a man to be withheld from expressing his opinion by any such fears. He was aware that he would be supported by Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and he secretly held such persons as Lieutenant Sims and the rest of his parishioners of inferior rank in the utmost contempt. "I will take good care that your opinion is known, though I do not agree with it, I can tell you, Mr Lerew," exclaimed the lieutenant, rising. "I am sorry, Miss Pemberton, that I cannot see my excellent friend this morning. I served under him six years or more--there is no man I more esteem, and I know what his opinion is of General Caulfield. Give him my love and respects, and say I hope to have a talk with him another day when he is better. Come, my dear, it is time we should be jogging home." This was said to his wife; and the two rising, took their departure, receiving the most freezing of looks from the vicar and the two ladies. At that instant a servant girl entered, to beg that Miss Pemberton would come up immediately into her master's room. "We didn't like to interrupt you, marm, but I am afraid the captain's in a bad way," she said, "I will attend you," exclaimed Mr Lerew: "a priest is ever in his proper place beside the bed of the dying." Without waiting for permission, he followed Miss Pemberton into Captain Maynard's room. Clara was at her father's bedside, holding his hand. She had found him, when she returned from the drawing-room after his interview with the vicar, speechless. He had endeavoured to say something to her, but his tongue refused its office; his mind was, however, it was evident, unimpaired. He looked up with a pained expression, and tried to show that he wished to write; but when a slate was brought him, his fingers were unable to hold the pencil Clara had immediately sent off for the doctor, and was now endeavouring, by chafing her father's hands, to restore their power. On seeing the vicar in the doorway a peculiar expression passed over Captain Maynard's countenance, and he made another desperate effort to utter a few words in his daughter's ear, but in vain--no articulate sounds proceeded from his lips. "I feel the deepest sympathy and compassion for you, my dear young lady," said the vicar in a gentle tone. "We will pray for the soul of the departing--join me, I beseech you--induce your niece to kneel with us," he whispered to Miss Pemberton, who nodded, and placing a chair by the bedside, almost compelled Clara to kneel on it, while she continued the act of filial affection in which she had been engaged. The vicar then taking from his pocket a book, read a service, of which poor Clara, agitated as she was, did not comprehend a word. Captain Maynard all the time was looking into her fair face with the same pained expression in his eyes which they had assumed on the entrance of the vicar. Doctor Brown, a worthy and excellent man, arrived just as the vicar had concluded; and exercising his authority, requested him and Miss Pemberton to leave the room, observing that perfect quiet was necessary for his patient. "You may stay," he whispered to Miss Maynard, as he felt the captain's pulse. "The captain has had another attack--very slight, I assure you-- he'll rally from it, I hope, but we must allow nothing to agitate him. There, there, he understands what we say. Don't be cast down, Captain; God will take care of her, and she has many true friends. It is about you, my dear, he is thinking--I know it by the way his eyes turn towards you." Clara could no longer restrain her tears, though she tried to conceal them from her father. The doctor's predictions were in part verified: Captain Maynard again rallied sufficiently to make signs for everything he wanted, and showed that his intellect was perfectly clear. With the doctor's permission he received several visits from General Caulfield, though no one else was allowed to see him. Mr Lerew called frequently. On each occasion he had an interview with Miss Pemberton, and twice he saw Clara, when she was not in attendance on her father. He did his best, as he well knew how, to ingratiate himself with both ladies. He was making way with Miss Pemberton, and hoped that he was gradually winning over Clara. He took good care in her presence to say nothing harsh of General Caulfield, though what he did say was calculated to undermine him in her opinion, but he so cautiously expressed himself that she had no suspicion of the object of his remarks. He managed also never to call when the general was likely to be at the house, as he especially wished to avoid meeting him in the presence of Clara or her aunt. The vicar on three occasions ventured to speak much more openly to Miss Pemberton than he did to Clara. "What a blessed thing it is, my dear lady, that our Holy Church possesses divinely appointed priests who can unerringly guide and direct their flock; who can rightly administer all the sacraments and interpret the Scriptures! and how sad it is that any should obstinately refuse to take full advantage of all these spiritual blessings!" he remarked. "You and your sweet niece will, I trust, not be among those who thus risk the loss of their souls." "I hope not," answered Miss Pemberton, becoming somewhat alarmed. "I am sure that I wish to do everything which religion requires." "There is one great omission of which you have been guilty," continued Mr Lerew. "I wish to speak with all love and gentleness. You have never yet come to confession." "Is that necessary?" asked Miss Pemberton, feeling more than ever uneasy, "I did not know that it was required by the Church of England." "You have read your Prayer-Book to little purpose, if you think so," said Mr Lerew, with more sternness than he had hitherto shown. "Only think of the unspeakable comfort obtained through priestly absolution, which will be thus afforded you. You will then know that your sins are put away. You will feel so holy, and clean, and pure. Let me, with all loving earnestness, urge you and your sweet niece to come without delay to that holy ordinance, too long ignored and neglected in our Church; and let me assure you that I believe every true daughter of that Church, were she aware of the blessed advantages to be gained, would avail herself of the opportunities now being offered throughout the kingdom." "Your remarks take me, I own, by surprise," answered Miss Pemberton. "None of my acquaintance, that I am aware of, have ever been in the habit of confessing." "`Wide is the gate and broad is the way which leadeth to destruction; many there be that go in thereat.' Think of that text, Miss Pemberton; join the privileged few, and I shall be most thankful to receive you as a penitent," answered Mr Lerew. "Endeavour, also, by all means to induce your niece to follow your pious example. My dear friends, Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and many other persons of distinction, come regularly to confession; and I trust that by degrees the whole of my flock will take advantage of the opportunity, which I shall have the happiness of offering them, of being absolved from sin." Miss Pemberton did not exactly say that she would go to confession, as she felt rather doubtful whether Clara would accompany her, but she promised that she would consider the matter; and the vicar on leaving felt satisfied with the way he had made. As yet, however, he had not got so far as to set up a confessional box in his church. He intended, in the first instance, to employ the vestry for that purpose. He had his doubts whether Mr Lennard might not withdraw the support he was now affording him; still, he had made considerable progress. His first step was to select a dozen of the schoolboys of the parish to form a choir, and to clothe them in surplices; the instruments which had hitherto led the parishioners in their singing being banished, an organ, presented by Lady Bygrave, was put up, and an organist with high ritualistic proclivities appointed. The hymn-books with the good old tunes which all the parish knew by heart were discarded, and Hymns Ancient and Modern were introduced. The communion-table was next raised and adorned with a richly embroidered cover, and on the following Sunday four magnificent branch candlesticks appeared upon it. Mr Lennard had hitherto not made any remarks on the alterations going forward; but when he saw the candlesticks, he enquired of Mr Lerew, who was calling on him, what funds he possessed for the purchase of such articles, and what was their object, as he feared that they would not be appreciated by the parishioners at large. "I have ample funds for all such purposes; and ignorant as the people are at present, we will so educate them that by degrees they will see the value and significance of the improvements we are introducing," answered Mr Lerew; "I contemplate having a reredos erected, which will add greatly to the beauty of the church; as it will be expensive, I own, I trust that you and other friends will contribute from your means towards the important work. I wish to ornament those blank spaces along the aisle with appropriate pictures. I should prefer having them painted on the walls, of medallion shape; but as it may be difficult to get an artist down here, we must be content to have them in moveable frames. I purpose also having a large picture of the Crucifixion, or perhaps one of the Holy Virgin, put up over the altar, instead of the Ten Commandments, which greatly offend my eye; while I confess that I cannot consider the altar complete without the symbol of our faith placed on it. I should have preferred a crucifix of full size, and I think that the cross might be so arranged that the figure can at any time be added; but I fear that at present some of the parishioners in their ignorance might raise objections which would cause us some trouble." "I should think, indeed, that they would object!" exclaimed Mr Lennard. "Are you not going on too fast? I do not complain that your improvements cast some reflection on me; as being a mere _locum tenens_, I could not have made the alterations you propose, even had I wished to do so; but others might find very great fault with you." "You will come over fully to agree with me, as my kind friends Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave have done," said the vicar, and with a gentle smile he bid his host good-bye. Scarcely had Mr Lerew gone than a note was brought to Mr Lennard, from Lady Bygrave, requesting him, with his son and daughter, to spend a few days at Swanston Hall. Lady Bygrave was a very charming person, and pleasant people were generally to be met with at the Hall. He gladly accepted the invitation. Alfred was delighted; Mary would rather have gone back to stay with Clara. Mr Lennard was somewhat surprised to find that the abbe and Father Lascelles were still there. "The friends to whom they were going were unable to receive them, and Sir Reginald requested them to stay on as long as they found it convenient," remarked Lady Bygrave. Mr Lennard was disappointed at finding no one else at the house, with the exception of a young lady rather older than Mary, of grave and sedate manners. As she was dressed in black, Mr Lennard concluded that she was in mourning for a parent or some other near relative, which accounted for the gravity of one so young. She, however, smiled very sweetly when Mary was introduced to her, and said in a gentle voice, "I know that we shall become good friends, so pray let us begin at once, and talk to each other without reserve." Mr Lennard, who had often wished that Mary could enjoy the companionship of a girl of her own age, was glad to find so apparently amiable a young lady in the house. The abbe, on entering the room, expressed his pleasure at seeing Mr Lennard, and certainly did his best to make amends for the want of other society. Father Lascelles, observing that Alfred did not know what to do with himself, proposed taking a turn round the grounds. "I am not much of a sportsman," he said as they walked on, "but I am fond of fishing, as I dare say you are, and we will fish together to-morrow, if you like." He had discovered that angling--an art in which he was an adept in more ways than one--was the only amusement which suited Alfred's tastes. The few days spent at the Hall went rapidly by. At first the abbe carefully avoided any but secular subjects, and being a remarkably well-informed man, he made himself very agreeable. Even when Sir Reginald or Lady Bygrave seemed inclined to speak on religion, he quickly turned the conversation, but by degrees he, with apparent unwillingness, entered into matters of faith. Mr Lennard, who had never given any attention to the Papal system, was surprised to find how little, according to the abbe's showing, the Church of England differed from that of Rome in all matters of importance. "Ah," remarked the abbe, with a smile, "your Church is like a wandering child--though you have gone away from the parent, you retain all your main features and doctrines, and have but to own obedience to the chief head, and you would again be one with us. What a happy consummation! Would that it were brought about! Why should those of the same kindred be divided?" "It is sad that it should be so," remarked Lady Bygrave, "perhaps, if His Holiness, the Pope, were not so exigeant in his demands, the glorious union might soon be accomplished." "It is there that you are in error, my dear lady," remarked the abbe, blandly; "His Holiness is too loving a parent to be exigeant without good reason. Think of the parable of the Prodigal Son--what a warm welcome! what rich treasures the father had for him, who was willing to return! such as all will experience who, having eaten of the husks of Protestantism, fly back to the bosom of the mother-Church." Mr Lennard above all things hated an argument, and would always rather side with a companion than oppose him; still he was not won by the sophisms of the abbe; but he did not, unhappily, reflect on the effect they might produce on Alfred and Mary. He had studied the Thirty-nine Articles when he had taken his ordination vows, and he saw that the opinions expressed by Lady Bygrave, and occasionally by Sir Reginald, who was even more open than his wife, could not be reconciled to them. The abbe never uttered a word which showed that he considered there were any material differences in the two creeds, with the exception of the single one of want of obedience to the heads of the Church. "You have simplified your services; you have eliminated several doctrines which we consider of importance; but such doctrines are, I rejoice to see, in the course of being rapidly restored to their proper position, as are many of the practices and observances of our Holy Church," said the abbe, "and all you have now to say is, I will return, I will obey, and the union is complete." "You make the matter certainly very easy," said Mr Lennard; "but having been for forty years of my life accustomed to consider that there is a much wider gap between our Churches than that you have so quickly passed over, you must not be surprised if I hesitate to take the leap; but I will consider the subject." "Far be it from me to advise you to do what your conscience might disapprove," observed the abbe. Father Lascelles found that he could be more open with Alfred. His chief aim was to impress upon the young man's mind that there was but one true Church, and that of Rome being the most ancient and most powerful, and holding out unspeakably greater advantages to its followers, must be that true one. Still, Alfred was neither very impressive not communicative; the Jesuit priest could draw no positive conclusion as to the effect his remarks had produced, though he felt sure that, could he obtain time to play the fish he had hooked, he should land him safe at last. Mary's friend, Emmeline Tracy, was unexpectedly called away from the Hall. Even to Mary she did not say where she was going, as she bid her good-bye, but she hoped, she said, ere long to see her again. Mr Lennard observed that his daughter looked more thoughtful and in less good spirits than usual; it reminded him of his often expressed determination of sending her to a finishing school, that she might have the benefit of young companions, and form pleasant friendships. He mentioned his idea to Lady Bygrave. "By all means, Mr Lennard; it is what I should strongly recommend," answered her ladyship. "It is curious that I was thinking of the same thing. There is a school at Cheltenham exactly of the character you would wish for your daughter. Mrs Barnett, the mistress, is a lady of high attainments and amiable disposition, and she receives only girls of the first families; so that Mary would be certain of forming desirable acquaintances. I shall have great pleasure in writing to Mrs Barnett, saying who you are, and requesting her to receive your daughter directly she has a vacancy." Mr Lennard returned home; and a few days afterwards Lady Bygrave sent him a letter from Mrs Barnett, who said, that in consequence of the very satisfactory account her ladyship had written of Mr Lennard and his daughter, she should be happy to receive the young lady as an inmate immediately, to fill up the only vacancy in her establishment, and which she regretted that she could not keep open beyond a week or so. "Let me earnestly advise you to send Mary at once," added her ladyship. "It would be a grievous pity to lose so favourable an opportunity of placing her in a satisfactory school; for good schools are, I know, rare enough." Mr Leonard accordingly made up his mind to take his daughter to Cheltenham. Mary had only time to drive over and pay a short visit to Clara. "I hope you will be happy," said Clara. "As I never was at school, I don't know what sort of life you will have to lead, but I should think with the companionship of a number of nice girls it must be very cheerful. You can never for a moment feel out of spirits for want of society, as I do too often here, now that I am unable to converse with my poor father, and you know that Aunt Sarah is not the most entertaining of persons." Mary went away in good spirits, promising to write to Clara, and tell her all about the school. Mr Lennard and his daughter arrived safely at Cheltenham, and reached Mrs Barnett's handsome mansion. Everything about it appeared to be as he could desire; the sitting-rooms were well furnished, and the bedroom his daughter was to occupy with several other girls looked remarkably comfortable, the walls being adorned with pictures, of which, however, he did not take much notice, though he saw by a glance he gave at them that they were Scripture subjects. As they were passing along a passage, the mistress hastily closed a door, but not until he observed at the farther end of the room a table, on which stood vases of flowers and candlesticks surmounted by what looked very like a crucifix; but he was too polite to interrogate Mrs Barnett on the subject, and she evidently did not intend that he should look into the room. To most of his inquiries he received satisfactory answers: the young ladies attended church regularly, and were visited and catechised periodically by a clergyman in whose judgment and piety Mrs Barnett said she had the most perfect confidence. Poor Mary threw her arms round her father's neck as he was taking his leave, and burst into tears. "I wish that I had not come, papa," she whispered. "I don't know why, but I can't bear the thoughts of parting from you." He endeavoured to comfort her, and consoled himself that he had acted for the best, though it cost him much to leave his little girl in the hands of strangers. He had another duty to perform, less trying to his feelings, however. It was to take Alfred up to Oxford. Alfred had specially requested to be allowed to go to--College, which, though not enjoying the fame of older institutions, Alfred averred that he should feel more at home at than in any other. He was duly introduced to the head of his college, where rooms were allotted to him, and forthwith matriculating, he became an undergraduate. Mr Lennard, believing that he had performed his duty, left his son to make his way as thousands of young men have had to do before him. CHAPTER THREE. Clara was seated in the drawing-room. She had just written a long letter to Harry, in which she told him of the various events which had taken place in the neighbourhood. She wrote unreservedly, describing, among other persons, Mr and Mrs Lerew, and the constant attention and kindness they had shown her. She naturally spoke of the church, and of the various improvements, as she called them, which had been introduced. "Nothing can be more elegant than the reredos which our excellent vicar has erected at his own expense," she wrote. "The altar, too, is beautifully adorned, and the music, considering the performers, is wonderfully good; for Mrs Lerew has taken great pains to instruct the choir, and we occasionally have a first-rate musician from London to lead them; while an air of solemnity pervades the service, both on Sundays and week-days, very different to anything we have before had in this neighbourhood." She did not say that she went to confession, but she remarked that she derived great comfort from the spiritual advice of the vicar. The letter was closed ready for the post, when General Caulfield was announced. He came to bid her and her father a hurried farewell, as he had just been summoned by telegram to the north of England, to the bedside of a dying brother, whose executor he was, and he greatly feared that some time might elapse before he should be able to return. "I wish to suggest to you, my dear Clara, before I go," he said, "that it will be well, in the position in which you are placed, to avoid too great an intimacy with the vicar and his wife, of whose constant visits to you I have heard. He may be, according to his own notions, a religious man, but he is not acting faithfully to the Church of which he is a minister. He has already made many innovations in this parish which are contrary to the spirit and practice of that Protestant Church, and, from what I hear and observe, he intends to make others; while he has openly pleached several Romish doctrines, and I see his name among the members of the Church Union, which avowedly repudiates Protestant principles. I am sure that Harry would give you the advice I do, and I deeply regret that I cannot remain to afford you any assistance you may require." A blush rose on Clara's brow. She could not openly express any disagreement with the general, but she thought he was harsh and illiberal in the opinion he had uttered. She replied that she had already written to Harry, and told him all about the church and the vicar, and hoped that he would not find any great fault with her. The general appeared satisfied. He remained but a short time with his poor friend, whom he believed that he should never again see on earth; for he remarked, what Clara had failed to do, the great change in her father's countenance since his last visit. He took an affectionate farewell of his intended daughter-in-law and, not being aware of the influence the vicar had already obtained over her and her aunt, he did not further warn her against him. Still, he left her with some anxious forebodings, regretting the stern necessity which compelled him to be away from her at the time when his advice might be of so much importance. The general's absence was felt by others in the parish; he was looked upon as the person best calculated, from his position and truly Christian character, to lead those desirous of opposing the ritualistic practices introduced by the new vicar, which were already making rapid progress. The general had been faithfully attached to the establishment; he had gone, as usual, to the parish church, in spite of the introduction of the surpliced choir, of "Hymns Ancient and Modern," the richly adorned communion-table, and several other additions which had been cautiously introduced; but when he heard from the lips of the vicar the doctrine of transubstantiation clearly and unmistakably enounced, and afterwards saw him habited in a robe resembling that of a Romish priest elevate the elements, he felt compelled to absent himself, and on the next Sunday to attend the service at a Congregational chapel. He had, in in the meantime, expostulated with Mr Lerew, both personally and by letter, but had received only a curt and unsatisfactory reply. He had afterwards heard, from undoubted authority, that the doctrine of purgatory was taught to the schoolchildren; that prayers for the dead were offered up, as also prayers to the Virgin Mary; that the saints were invoked; that a font had been placed at the entrance of the church for the reception of holy water. A considerable number of the parishioners had for some time withdrawn themselves from the church; Lieutenant Sims had declared that he would never enter it to listen to Mr Lerew, after he had heard him say that the Bible was a dangerous book. Many sided with the lieutenant; others asserted that he must have misunderstood the vicar-- he could not have uttered such an opinion; some even went so far as to say Mr Sims had through envy, hatred, and malice stated what he knew to be a falsehood. The lieutenant, supported by his wife, boldly adhered to what he had said; the parishioners were by the ears on the subject. Miss Pemberton had been appealed to, but declared she could not understand what Mr Lerew had said, and her evidence went rather against Mr Sims; but when candles and flowers appeared on the altar, and a rich cross rose above it, and the vicar, habited in new-fangled robes, turned his back on the congregation, the partisans of the gallant lieutenant increased, and each innovation introduced by the vicar brought Mr Sims a fresh accession of supporters. They talked seriously of building another church, and made arrangements to apply to the bishop; but it was found that both parties were so scattered over the two parishes, which were of very considerable extent, that their object was unattainable. While General Caulfield remained among them, he prevented the flame of discord from bursting forth. He allowed no angry word to escape his lips, but contented himself with simply preaching the Gospel, either in the Congregational Chapel on a week-day evening, or in a large barn he had hired and fitted up for the purpose of holding meetings. It was always full, and many came from the farther end of the parish. Calm and calculating as Mr Lerew generally was, he became excessively indignant on hearing of this; but he considered the general too important a person to be attacked personally, though he spoke everywhere in the strongest terms of his unwarrantable conduct, denominating him as a schismatic of the worst description. Great was his satisfaction when he heard that the general had gone away. He now fancied that he could carry on his proceedings without opposition. He was mistaken, however; for Lieutenant Sims and his party ceased not to protest against all he did; and petitions were sent to the bishop, who, however, if he did not encourage Mr Lerew's proceedings, took no steps to put a stop to them. Mr Lennard was appealed to, but he declined to interfere, declaring that he saw nothing so very objectionable in the changes which had been made; and as to doctrines, the vicar of the parish was more likely to know what was right or wrong than the parishioners whom he came to teach. "In my opinion, our late vicar is as bad as the present one," exclaimed Lieutenant Sims; "but how the poor man, whom all thought so much of, has been so completely bamboozled is more than I can tell." Mr Lerew had lately, by the advice of Lady Bygrave, designed a grand scheme. It was the establishment of a college or school for eighty young ladies in the parish, for whose accommodation handsome buildings were to be erected; and Lady Bygrave, with other ladies of consequence in the county, undertook to be patronesses. In his prospectus Mr Lerew dwelt especially on the importance of young ladies being carefully trained in religious principles, and removed from the pernicious influence of unauthorised instructors; whereas at Saint Agatha's they would be placed under the direct superintendence of their lawful priests, and instructed in catholic doctrine. Lady Bygrave had already recommended as mother superior a lady of great piety and experience, and the teachers were to be sisters of the community of Saint Mary the Virgin, in the neighbouring town of Bansfield, who were celebrated for their truly religious and self-denying lives. The young ladies, thus judiciously trained, would, it was hoped, become the mothers of England's future legislators, and materially contribute to the establishment of catholic principles throughout the land. Mr Lerew had, however, another prospectus more generally circulated among those of whose principles he was uncertain, and in which he simply set forth that an excellent first-class school was about to be established for the benefit of their own and neighbouring counties, and asking for subscriptions and support to so desirable an institution. Subscriptions, however, did not come in with the same rapidity as he had hoped, and he saw that he must employ other means for raising the necessary funds. Mrs Lerew wrote to all her more wealthy acquaintances, and Lady Bygrave was, as usual, most liberal. Few of the parishioners would subscribe, with the exception of some of the principal tradesmen, who hoped to do business with the new establishment, Mr Rowe, an apothecary, who expected to be employed as medical attendant, and the solicitor who had been engaged in making the legal arrangements. People had begun to grow suspicious of the vicar, and even of Lady Bygrave, in consequence of the long stay at the Hall of the abbe and Father Lascelles. Lady Bygrave did her utmost to maintain her popularity by incessantly driving about and visiting the houses of the better-to-do people and the cottages of the poor, much as she would have done on an electioneering canvass. She was, of course, politely received by all classes; but though she won over some, a large number of people were too sound Protestants to be influenced by her plausible and attractive manners. It would have been happy for poor Clara and her Aunt Sarah, had they been equally on their guard. Miss Pemberton, indeed, declared that whatever so charming a person as Lady Bygrave did must be right, and she now not only attended all the services at the church on Sundays and week-days, but induced Clara to accompany her. Though Clara went, she often felt that it was her duty to be watching by the bedside of her father; she, indeed, sometimes begged on that plea to remain at home. "But, my dear, your duties to God and the commands of our Holy Church are superior to those you owe to a human parent, and you should therefore not allow yourself to be influenced by the natural affections of your heart," observed Miss Pemberton, using the argument she had previously learned from Mr Lerew. Clara had been absent at one of these week-day services, and the vicar had promised to call and have some conversation with her and her aunt, when on her return she observed an expression of subdued sorrow and alarm on the countenances of the servants. "Is my father worse?" she asked anxiously; and before any one could stop her, she rushed upstairs, and entered Captain Maynard's room. She approached the bed. There was no movement--his eyes were closed, and the nurse was standing by the bedside--her father was dead. She knew it at once, and as she leant over him, she sank fainting on his inanimate body. Miss Pemberton, having learned the truth, quickly followed, and directed that she should be carried from the room. On the application of restoratives Clara revived; but scarcely had she returned to consciousness than Mr Lerew drove up to the door. Though he was told what had happened, he insisted on seeing Miss Maynard. "As a priest, I can afford her spiritual comfort and support," he said, almost forcing his way in. Miss Pemberton, not daring to decline his visit, ushered him into Clara's room. He took a seat by her side. He spoke softly and gently. "We must look at what has happened as a dispensation of heaven," he remarked; "but though, unhappily, your father to the last refused the ordinances of our Church, I am fain to believe that he did so under malign influence, and from weakness of mind induced by sickness. It is a consolation to know that prayers continually offered in his behalf by a true votaress to the loving Mother of God can in time release him from the condition in which I fear he is placed. With what thankfulness you should receive this glorious doctrine, my dear Miss Maynard! what calm should it bring to your troubled heart! I will not fail, believe me, to offer the prayers of the Church for the same object; and if you did but consider their efficacy, you would cease to mourn as you now do." Poor Clara was too completely overwhelmed by grief to understand the meaning of what the vicar said, though she heard the words issuing from his mouth. "I will relieve you," he continued, "from all the painful arrangements connected with the funeral, in conjunction with your aunt, whom I will now join in the drawing-room." "Oh! thank you! thank you!" exclaimed Clara, between her sobs. "I shall be most grateful--do whatever you think best." Mr Lerew retired; and after a conversation of some length with Miss Pemberton he drove away. Clara--so absorbing was her grief--could with difficulty regain her power of thought. She felt alone in the world. Had General Caulfield been at home, she would have had him to consult; but she had no confidence in her Aunt Sarah's judgment, though she had of late been more guided by her than she was aware of. "Our excellent vicar and I have arranged everything," said Miss Pemberton, on entering the room some time afterwards; "so do not further trouble yourself about the matter." Clara expressed her thanks to her aunt. Completely prostrate, she remained in bed. Workmen sent by the vicar came to the house, and were employed for some time in her father's room. She dared not inquire what they were about. At length she arose and dressed. She felt a longing desire once more to gaze on those dear features. She inquired whether she might go to the room. "Oh, yes, miss," was the answer. "It's all done up on purpose, and looks so grand." She hurried on, and, entering, what was her astonishment to find the room draped in black, the windows closed, and several long wax candles arranged round the bed on which her father's body lay, dressed in his naval uniform. She approached, and leant over the bed, on which, after standing gazing at his features for some minutes, she sank down with her arms extended, almost fainting. At that instant the vicar appeared at the doorway. "What a lovely picture!" he whispered, as if to himself; "can anything surpass it?" Clara heard him, and had still strength sufficient to rise. "We have done what we can to do honour to your father," he said, advancing and taking her hand. "Had General Caulfield been present, we should have been prevented from making these arrangements; and I lay all the blame of Captain Maynard's neglect of the sacred ordinances on him, as I am sure it will be laid at the day of judgment; therefore, my sweet young lady, I would urge you to mourn not as those without hope. I come to console and sympathise with you. Let me lead you from the room, as others are anxious to pay their last respects to your parent; it will be trying to your feelings to receive them." Clara submitted, and was led by the vicar into the drawing-room, where she found her aunt. Mr Lerew now became more cheerful in his conversation, and spoke of his new college, and of a society of Anglican sisters of mercy, in which he was deeply interested. He enlarged on their pious, self-denying labours, so admirably adapted to distract the minds of the sorrowing from worldly cares and the thoughts of the past, and the charming qualities of the lady superior, and of the calm happiness enjoyed by all under her rule. "You will find subjects for consideration in these volumes," said Mr Lerew, taking two books from his pocket; "the one describes fully the joys of a religious life, and the other points out to you rules for your daily government. Your aunt has already several works I left with her some time ago, to which I would also draw your attention; and may they prove a blessing to your soul." Saying this, the vicar took his leave. In the meantime several persons had come to the house; and scarcely had the vicar left the room than the voice of Mr Sims was heard exclaiming, "By whose authority, I should like to know, has the death-bed of my poor friend been surrounded by those popish play-acting mummeries which I witnessed just now? He was one of the last men on earth who would have sanctioned such proceedings." "Sir, sir!" exclaimed Mr Lerew in an angry tone, "I scarcely understand your meaning; but if you allude to the arrangements in the chamber of death above, I have to inform you that they were made by those who had ample authority for doing as they thought right; and I have to add that I consider your remarks indecorous and highly impertinent." "I differ with you on that point," answered the lieutenant, restraining his anger; "and I only hope my poor friend's daughter has had nothing to do with the matter. It signifies very little to him, or I believe he'd get up and capsize all the candles, and cut down the black cloth rigged round his bed. Why, I'm as sure as I am of my own existence that he died like a true Christian, and is now in the glorious realms of the blest, or I don't know what the Gospel means. What does he want with all that black stuff round him? It's just robbing the orphan to put money in the pockets of the undertakers. And now you've got my opinion, I'll wish you good morning;" and Mr Sims walked out of the house, leaving the vicar fuming and boiling with unwonted rage. Mr Sims had intended leaving a message expressive of his and his wife's sympathy for poor Clara; but his indignation at what he had witnessed very naturally threw everything else out of his head. He notwithstanding attended Captain Maynard's funeral, which was conducted with more ceremonies than had ever yet taken place in the parish. Numerous carriages followed the hearse, and the procession formed in the church walked after the coffin, the individuals forming it surrounding the grave, chanting a requiem as the coffin was committed to its last resting-place. The vicar had kept secret the last interview he had had with Captain Maynard, who, he let it be supposed, had gone through all the required ordinances of the Church before the last seizure, which had deprived him of the power of speech. Those who knew the captain best averred that he would never have consented to the performance in his presence of any Romish ceremony, and that the vicar had some object in view in allowing the idea to get abroad. The parish became more divided than ever, but the original cause of dispute held its ground, and those who sided with the vicar would no longer visit or speak to those who believed that he had declared the Bible to be a dangerous book. Clara's grief for the loss of her father was sincere and deep. Her nature was one requiring such consolation as a sympathising friend could afford. Her aunt was never sympathising or gentle, and she had become still less so since she had attended the frequent services of the Church. Early rising did not suit her constitution; but though she thoroughly disliked it, she considered it her duty to induce her niece to accompany her. Thus time went on at Luton. General Caulfield was detained in the North; he wrote frequently to Clara. Not aware of the influences to which she was exposed, he did not mention the vicar, and failed to caution her, as he otherwise would have done. She, knowing his opinions, did not venture to tell him all that was occurring, though he saw by the tone of her letters that she was unhappy and ill at ease from some cause or other, besides the natural grief she felt for the loss of her father, and her anxiety about Harry. She had heard of his arrival, and that his regiment was ordered up the country, but she had received no answer to the letter she wrote, describing the services at the church, and the various changes introduced by the vicar. Her aunt had, in the meantime, become less agreeable and communicative even than before. She was constantly absorbed in the books lent her by Mr Lerew, and she very frequently drove over to the Vicarage to see him. Clara had at first felt but little interest in the two works he had presented to her; she had glanced over their pages, and was somewhat startled at the language used and the advice given in them, so different to that to which she had been accustomed. On one of his visits he inquired whether she had studied them, and she had to confess the truth. He then entreated her not to risk her spiritual welfare by any longer neglecting to read the works so calculated to advance it. She promised to follow his advice. Had Clara known more of the world, and possessed more self-reliance, her eyes might have been opened by what she read; but she wanted some one to lean on, and on her aunt's judgment she had no reliance. The vicar appeared, from his position and serious manner, to be the person in whom she ought to confide. Had the general been at Luton, she would have gone to him; but she could not write what she might have spoken; and she finally gave herself up to the guidance of Mr Lerew, as her aunt had long since done. The following Sunday the communion was to be held, or, as the vicar expressed it, the Holy Eucharist was to be celebrated; "But," he added, "I have made it a rule that I will administer it to none who have not made confession and received that absolution I am authorised to grant." "I was not aware of that," said Clara; "how long has that rule existed?" "I have only lately made it," he replied, "and from it I cannot depart." Clara hesitated; but her aunt, who had several times gone to confession, assured her that there was nothing in it very terrible, and overcame her scruples. Clara promised to go. It was held in the vestry, one person at a time only being admitted. The questions asked and the answers given cannot be repeated. Clara, as she knelt leaning on a chair in front of the priest, could with difficulty support herself; her heart felt bursting; she was nearly fainting; the colour mounted to her cheeks and brow; she could not lift her eyes from the ground towards the man who was questioning her. More than once she was inclined to rise and flee from the room rather than continue to undergo the mental torture she was suffering. Never afterwards did she look the vicar in the face. At length the ordeal was over, the _Te absolvo_ was pronounced, and she, with trembling knees, hanging down her head, tottered to her pew by the side of her aunt, where she knelt to conceal her features, while uncontrollable sobs burst from her bosom. "What's the matter?" whispered Miss Pemberton. "Take my smelling-bottle. Don't let people hear you; they'll fancy there must be something very dreadful." The music that day was unusually good. Several first-rate performers had been engaged to attend, with three or four clergymen from various parts of the county. They, in their richest robes, glittering with embroidery, walked round the church. There were the acolytes with lighted candles, the thurifer, with the cross-bearer, and others carrying banners; while the organ played, and the fumes of incense filled the church. Clara's agitation ceased, but no peace was brought to her soul. She returned home with her aunt, humbled and more wretched than she had ever before felt in her life. CHAPTER FOUR. Monday morning brought Clara Harry's looked-for letter. She hurried with it to her room. It was full of love and tenderness, but Harry expressed his regret at hearing of the changes which had been made in the church, and still more of the ritualistic practices of the new vicar. "I need scarcely urge you, dearest, not to be inveigled by them," he continued, "as I have often said I cannot conceive a man in his senses marrying a girl who has submitted to the abominable confession--it must ultimately deprave her mind, and prevent her from placing that confidence in her husband which he has a right to expect; while it proves her ignorance of one of the most vital truths of our holy faith, that we have a High Priest in heaven, who knows our infirmities, and is touched by our sorrows, and who is more tender and loving than any human being, and is ever ready to receive those who come to Him. Oh! do warn any girls of your acquaintance not to yield to the sophistries which would persuade them that Christ allows a human being to stand in His stead between Himself and the sinner. It is one of the numberless devices of Satan to rob Him of the honour and love which are His due. We are told when we have offended a fellow mortal to confess our fault, and to ask pardon; but we are emphatically charged to confess our sins to God alone, trusting to the all-sufficient atonement made once for all for us by Christ on Calvary, and through His mediation we are assured of perfect forgiveness. These impious sacerdotalists, for the sake of gaining influence over the minds of those they hope to deceive, step in, and daringly arrogate to themselves the position which our loving Lord desires alone to hold. But I must not continue the subject--I know that it is not necessary to say this to you. Should you ever be perplexed, or require assistance, I am sure that you will apply to my kind and excellent father, who is ever anxious to treat you as a beloved daughter." Clara read the letter with burning cheek. "Oh, what have I done!" she exclaimed; "I am unworthy of the confidence he places in me." Directly afterwards she tried to find an excuse for herself. "Perhaps he is mistaken in his ideas; and Mr Lerew says that the general is a schismatic, and Harry has imbibed his views. I dare not refuse to obey the voice of the Church, and Mr Lerew tells me that that insists on confession before absolution can be granted, and without absolution we cannot partake of the Holy Eucharist." Such was her line of thought, and she determined to try and persuade Harry to agree with her. She sat down and wrote to him, quoting several passages from the books lent to her by the vicar. She implored him seriously to consider the matter, and not to imperil his soul by refusing obedience to the Church. So eager did she become as she warmed in her subject, that she forgot to put in those affectionate expressions which her previous letter had contained. No sooner had the epistle been despatched than she began to regret having said some things in it and omitted others. She tried to think over its contents; as she did so she became more and more dissatisfied. At last she resolved to write another, to confess that she was sorry she had written the first, to tell Harry of her difficulties, and to ask his advice. Her aunt came in just as she had closed it, and offered to post it for her. That letter never reached its destination. Poor Clara, agitated by conflicting emotions, and all her previous opinions upset, at last thought of writing to General Caulfield, telling him of all her doubts and troubles, that perhaps he might see things in the light in which the vicar presented them. Miss Pemberton found the letter on the hall table, and suspecting its contents, took it to the vicar, who advised that it should not be forwarded. Clara in vain waited for a reply; no letters reached her from the general, and she ultimately came to the conclusion that he was so much offended with her for what she had said, that he would write no more. Week after week passed by, and no letter came from Harry. "Can he have cast me off because I show an anxiety about my spiritual welfare?" she exclaimed, somewhat bitterly to herself. "Mr Lerew must be right when he speaks of the bigotry of the Evangelical party." Mr Lerew called the next day, and spoke pathetically of the trials to which the true sons and daughters of the Church must expect to be exposed; and left some tracts, which especially pointed out the holy delights of a convent life; one, indeed, declared that the only sure way by which a woman could avoid the trials and troubles of the present evil world and gain eternal happiness was by entering a convent and devoting herself to the service of religion. Clara read them over and over, and sighed often. Miss Pemberton expressed her high approval of them. "I am, indeed, my dear niece, contemplating myself becoming a Sister of Charity, and only regret that I was not led in early life to do so--how many wasted days of idleness and frivolity I might have avoided." Miss Pemberton did not like to speak of years. The vicar, who had now become an almost daily visitor, just then appeared. He held forth eloquently on the subject of which the ladies had been speaking; a friend of his, a most charming, delightful person, was the Lady Superior of one of the oldest and most devoted sisterhoods which had been established in England since, as he expressed it, true Catholic principles had been revived in the Church, He was sure that no lady could do otherwise than rejoice to the end of her days, who should become a member of her community. The Sisters were employed in numerous meritorious works of charity; he had hoped that Miss Maynard would take an active part in Saint Agatha's College; but some time must probably elapse before more than a very limited number of teachers could find occupation, and he besides doubted whether she would find the duties of an instructress suited to her taste. "I should not, I fear, find my powers equal to them," answered Clara, humbly; "and yet I have a longing for some occupation in the service of the Church. Such means as I possess, however, I would gladly devote to the establishment of Saint Agatha's." "Ah, my dear young lady, I rejoice to hear you say that," exclaimed Mr Lerew. "Whatever you give, you give to the Church, remember, and she has promised to repay you a hundredfold." Mrs Lerew frequently called on Clara, as also did Lady Bygrave. Both spoke enthusiastically of the holy and happy life of Sisters of Mercy, and still more so of those nuns who gave themselves up to religious meditation. Lady Bygrave, especially, warmly pressed the subject on Clara's consideration. "Were I young, I should certainly devote myself to a religious life; but as I am married, my husband might raise objections," she remarked. Clara thought and thought on all she heard, and became more and more interested in the books her advisers put into her hands. She resolved, however, to wait before deciding till she received a letter from Harry. She could not easily give him up; and she hoped, when she should be his wife, to win him over to support the cause of the Church, which she persuaded herself would be as acceptable to Heaven as should she become a nun. While Clara had gone one day to return a visit from Lady Bygrave, Miss Pemberton received and opened the postbag. It contained a letter for Clara from India. She saw that it was from Harry. She turned it over several times. "I must obey my spiritual adviser," she said to herself; "it can do the child no harm." Replacing several other letters for Clara, she took this one up into her own room. She had been instructed how carefully to open letters by the vicar, for he had been at an English school, and having been taught in his boyhood to consider breaking the seal of another person's letter a disgraceful act, was glad to escape it. After a little time she succeeded in reaching the enclosure. She glanced over the first portion. "A part of your letter, dearest one, though I delight in hearing from you, gave me great pain. I had hoped and believed that you were better grounded in the fundamental truths of the Gospel than to express yourself as you have done. You speak of Holy Church as if there were one visible establishment on earth which all are bound to obey, when Christ founded only one spiritual Church, on the great truth enunciated by Peter, that He was the Christ, the Son of the living God. From that time forward, throughout the whole of the New Testament, no other Church is spoken of. Churches or assemblies existed, founded by the apostles, but they were independent of each other, and were solely united by having one faith and one allegiance to one great head, Jesus Christ; but in such simple forms as were introduced for the convenience of public worship they materially differed from each other. Under the new covenant no material temple or worldly sanctuary exists; the old covenant had ordinances of divine service and of worldly sanctuary, but these, the apostle tells us, have waxed old and vanished away, Christ being come, the High Priest of good things to come, by a greater and more perfect tabernacle not made with hands; and he assures us that the only temple now existing is the spiritual Church of the living God. `Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? ye also as lively stones are built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices to God by Jesus Christ, whose house are ye, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone;' and our Lord Himself tells us that where two or three are gathered together, even there is He in their midst. The priest, the sacrifice, the altar, and the temple of the old covenant were only types of the good things to come under the Gospel. When Christ ascended on high, all human priesthood was abolished; our only priestly mediator or intercessor is Jesus Christ, the one Mediator between God and men, who is the one righteous Advocate, the one ever-living Intercessor, and His glory will He not give to another, He who has once suffered for sinners, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God. The apostles themselves never assumed the character of priests; they pointed to the Great High Priest, Jesus Christ the righteous, and would have looked upon it as blasphemy for any man to presume to act as such. To our Great High Priest alone must we confess our sins; He is faithful and just to forgive all those their sins, who put faith in the all-cleansing power of His blood to absolve them. He, too, is One who knows our infirmities, and can sympathise with us, having been tempted as we are. With the Scriptures in our hands, we need no mortal man to declare this glorious truth to us; and knowing it, we can come boldly to the throne of grace, and He is ever ready to receive all who come to Him. All the forms and ceremonies, the embellishments which you describe, are but imitations of those of the Church of Rome, which are themselves taken from the ceremonies of the old heathen temples, with large admixtures from those of the Jews. From the earliest times, Satan has induced men to assume the character of priests, for the purpose of deceiving their fellow-creatures. The same spirit exists at the present day; and as he can become an angel of light in appearance, so may those men who thus blasphemously take the name of priests appear pure and holy in the sight of those whom they deceive. Let me entreat you, my beloved Clara, to break from the chains which have been thrown around you. Seek for grace and strength from above, and consult my kind father. Tell him frankly all that the vicar has endeavoured to teach you to believe, and I feel assured that he will thoroughly satisfy your mind." Harry said more to the same effect. "It will never do for Clara to see this letter," thought Miss Pemberton; "I must take it to Mr Lerew, and ascertain what he thinks." She set off at once, that she might get to the vicarage and back before Clara's return. The vicar read it with knitted brow. "You did right, my dear sister," he said; "it might defeat all our plans. Far better commit it to the flames. Let me think--will you permit me to take possession of the letter? good may result from it; the end, as you know, my dear lady, sanctifies the means." "Whatever you consider right, I of course will do," said Miss Pemberton, giving the letter, which with the envelope the vicar put into his desk; and the lady hastened home. "It is the aunt's doing, not mine," he muttered to himself; "but were the poor girl to receive this abominable production, it might destroy the result of all the training I have given her. No priest! no sacrifice! no confession! no power of absolution! What would become of the Church--what of us--if such principles were to regain their ascendancy over the minds of the people? These abominable evangelical notions must be crushed by every means in our power, or the efforts which for years we have made to introduce Catholic doctrine would be utterly lost. We must get the girl without delay to enter a convent, and the sooner she is induced to do so the better." Mr Lerew waited for some days before he paid Clara another visit. She had discovered that the Indian post had come in, and had brought her, as she supposed, no letter from Harry. She began to imagine all sorts of things; she saw that there were accounts of engagements with the hill-tribes--could he have gone up the country with a detachment of his regiment? or perhaps her letter had so offended him that he would not again write. Mr Lerew, when he called, perceived that she was very unhappy, and having drawn from her the cause of her grief, he assured her that there was but one way by which she could regain peace of mind, and insinuated that so bigoted a person as Captain Caulfield would in all probability discard her when he found that she was anxious to serve the Church. "It will prove a great trial to you, my dear sister," he said; "but for such you must be prepared; and I would urge you to seek in the duties of a religious life that comfort and consolation you are sure to find." Several weeks more went by, during which the vicar's influence over poor Clara increased. No letter came from Harry or from his father. "He has discarded me," exclaimed Clara. "I must seek for that peace and rest where alone, Mr Lerew assures me, I can find it, or I shall die." The very next day, accompanied by Mr Lerew and his wife, Clara set off to the town of --, in the neighbourhood of which was situated Saint Barbara's, as the convent was called. It had originally been a religious house, as the term is, and was encircled by a high wall, which enclosed the garden and outhouses. It was a dark, red brick, sombre pile, and the additions lately made to it had given it a thoroughly conventual appearance. The carriage drove under an archway in front of the entrance, closed on the outside, Mr Lerew got out and tugged at a large iron bell-pull, when a slide in the door was pulled back, and the face of a female, who narrowly scrutinised the visitors, appeared at the opening. Mr Lerew quickly explained their object; no further words were exchanged, and after a short delay the bars and bolts were withdrawn, and the door was opened sufficiently to allow him and his wife and Clara to pass through into a small hall, where they were left standing, while the portress by signs summoned two serving Sisters dressed in dark blue, with brass crosses at their necks, to bring in Clara's luggage. The same person then beckoning the visitors to follow, led them into a waiting-room on one side. All the time she had kept her eyes fixed on the ground, not once looking at the vicar's countenance. Having by signs desired them to be seated on some antique-looking chairs, which with a table and writing materials were the sole furniture of the room, she retired. Poor Clara felt dreadfully oppressed, and very much inclined to beg that her trunks might be put back again into the carriage, as she wished to return home; but pride, not unmixed with fear of the remarks Mr Lerew would make, prevented her. She sat with her hand on her sinking heart, wondering whether all the members of the sisterhood would be expected to keep a perpetual silence. "This reminds me much of the convents I have visited in France and Belgium," observed Mr Lerew, turning to his wife. "Our young friend will soon learn the rules of the house, and see how suitable they are, and calculated to advance the religious feelings." He spoke in a low tone, as if afraid of disturbing the solemn silence which reigned in the building. Some time passed away, when the door slowly opened, and a lady habited in grey, with a large cross inlaid with ivory on her breast, glided into the room. She was of commanding figure, and, in spite of her unbecoming head-dress and the white band across her brow, she had evidently once been handsome. She smiled benignantly as she glanced at Mrs Lerew and Clara, and advancing to the vicar, bowed gracefully to him, and taking his hand, raised it to her lips; then retiring without further noticing her other guests, sank into a seat. "I have come with my wife to introduce a young friend who is desirous of commencing, and I trust continuing, the life of a _religieuse_," said Mr Lerew; "and from my knowledge of your admirable sisterhood, I feel confident that she will here obtain all she desires." The Lady Superior now turned a piercing glance on Clara, which made her involuntarily shrink and cast down her eyes on the ground. The former did not speak till she had finished her scrutiny; she then said slowly-- "If you truly desire to embrace our holy calling, you will be gladly received, understanding that you must conform to the rules of our order in all respects. You will in the first instance enter as a postulant for a short time, during which you will wear your secular habit; after which you will become a probationer, and then, as I trust, we shall receive you as a confirmed Sister on your vowing obedience to the three fundamental rules of our order. Are you prepared to remain with us at once?" "Certainly, certainly," exclaimed Mr Lerew; "Miss Maynard has come with that especial object in view. He who puts his hand to the plough must not turn back, nor would she, I am sure, wish to do so." "What I would urge upon you," said the Lady Superior, "is complete self-surrender, and strict observance of the rule of holy obedience; without that you cannot expect to enjoy spiritual life, nor can the affairs of the community be properly carried on." "I will endeavour to the best of my power to observe the rules of the order," said Clara, in a trembling voice. "Of course she will, of course," observed Mr Lerew; "it will be her glory and pride to do so. Oh what a beneficent arrangement is that by which a poor frail woman or layman can, by opening his or her heart to the priest, obtain all the instruction or advice for which their souls yearn!" "You will soon be accustomed to the quiet life we lead within these walls," observed the Lady Superior, turning to Clara, without noticing Mr Lerew's remark; "and I will invite you now to accompany me, when I will make you known to the Deane, who will initiate you into the rules and observances to which you will at once conform; and you may now bid farewell to your friends, for they will excuse me, as my official duties require my attention." Clara rose, and put out her hand to take that of Mr Lerew. Instead, he bade her kneel, and placing his hands above her head, uttered a benediction. She felt inclined to embrace Mrs Lerew--not that she had any great affection for her, but it seemed as if Mrs Lerew was the only link between her and the world she was leaving; at that moment, however, the Lady Superior, taking her hand, led her towards the door. "May I request an interview with Dr Catton, should he be now living here?" asked Mr Lerew. "Our spiritual adviser is at present in residence," answered the Lady Superior, "and I will mention your wish to see him, should you be able to remain till he is at leisure." "Oh, certainly, certainly. I must not hurry Dr Catton; but as it is a matter of much importance, I much wish to consult him. I will wait his pleasure," said Mr Lerew. Without having shown any act of courtesy to Mrs Lerew, the Lady Superior left the room, still holding fast to Clara's hand. "Had I expected to be so treated, I should not have come," exclaimed Mrs Lerew, as the door closed. "If these are conventual manners, I hope that Clara may not adopt them. What caused the Lady Superior to act as she did?" "If you insist on knowing, you must understand that she probably considers priests ought to be celibates, and therefore looks upon you in no favourable light," answered the vicar, with some acerbity in his tone. Mrs Lerew was about to retort, when the door opened, and the spiritual adviser of the establishment, Dr Catton, entered. He was a small thin man, with sallow complexion, and that peculiar pucker about the mouth which seems a characteristic of those who hold his views. The two gentlemen were well known to each other. "I am anxious, my dear Doctor, to obtain your further advice regarding my new female college," said Mr Lerew, "as I hope in a short time it will be in a sufficient state of advancement to receive pupils." "I would gladly afford you my assistance in so holy a work," answered Dr Catton, "as I consider it will tend greatly to the advancement of the Church; but--" and he looked at Mrs Lerew. "She is discreet, and takes a deep interest in the institution," said the vicar. Dr Catton looked as if he considered women were better out of the way when any matter of importance was to be discussed. However, as the vicar did not tell his wife to retire, he entered into the subject, speaking more cautiously perhaps than he otherwise would have done. Mrs Lerew sat on, her countenance expressing her dissatisfaction at the want of confidence the Doctor placed in her. The rules and regulations of the new college were discussed, as well as the means for obtaining the necessary funds. "You will understand that the young lady who is about to enter into this institution has a considerable fortune at her disposal, with which I have every hope she will endow our college. It must be a point of honour between us that she does not bestow it on the convent, and I beg that you will impress that on the mind of the Lady Superior. You will remember that I induced her to come here for that important object, for she will not be of age for upwards of two years, and she might in the meantime, were she to remain in the world, change her mind and marry, and her property would be lost to the Church." "Of course," said Dr Catton, "I am equally interested with you in the college, which I look upon as the nursing mother of those who will do much to forward the great cause." After some further conversation on the subject, Mr and Mrs Lerew took their departure, Dr Catton again promising that Clara's fortune should be appropriated as her father confessor desired. Clara had, in the meantime, been introduced to the Mother Eldress, a pleasant, fair lady of about forty, who took her round the establishment. The chapel was first visited. Over the high altar stood the crucifix, with paintings of the Virgin Mary on one side, and that of Saint John on the other, and on it were the usual candlesticks with large wax candles and vases of flowers; while the walls were adorned with other paintings illustrating the lives of various saints, in which monks and nuns frequently appeared. The Mother Eldress drew aside a curtain which hung across a small side-chapel, when Clara saw, with considerable astonishment, the figure of the Virgin, richly dressed, standing on a small altar with candles burning on it, and also vases of flowers, with which the whole of the chapel was decked. The Mother Eldress bowed and crossed herself. "You should do as I do," she said, turning to Clara; "the Blessed Virgin demands our most devoted love and adoration; we can never do her honour enough." "I thought," observed Clara, "that as Protestants we did not worship the Virgin." "Let me entreat you, my child, never to utter that odious word Protestant," exclaimed the Mother Eldress. "We are Catholics of the Anglican Church; we do not worship the Virgin either; but we love to do her honour." Clara was puzzled; but thought it better just then to ask no further questions. The refectory and other public rooms were next visited; they were neat and scrupulously clean, but were destitute of every article of luxury, or which might conduce to comfort--no sofas, no easy arm-chairs were found in them. "You will now like to see the cells," said the Mother Eldress, as she led the way upstairs. Passing along a gallery, she opened a door, and exhibited a long narrow room containing a camp-bedstead, covered by a white quilt, a small table and a chair, and in one corner a desk with a Bible and a few books of devotion on it, as also a lamp, and above it a picture of the crucifixion. It was lighted by a small, deep, oriel window, with a broad sill, on which were arranged some flower-pots, sweet-scented flowers growing in them. No carpet covered the floor; but it was brightly polished, as was all the woodwork in the room. "Such will be your dormitory," observed the Mother Eldress. "Is there no fireplace?" asked Clara. "There are in some of the cells; but such are not allowed to novices," was the answer. Clara, who had been accustomed to a fire in winter all her life, shuddered; for even now, in the height of summer, the room felt cold. "I will now show you the rules," said the Mother Eldress, producing a book in manuscript. "No letters must be written or received by the Sisters of Saint Barbara, and any presents that may be made must be given to the Mother Superior for the use of the community. Sisters are always, whether by night or day, to enter the chapel with all alacrity, and in a perfect spirit of recollection, in order to prepare their souls for prayer. No Sister must be absent from the chapel without leave, and all must recite the offices. You see how well our time is divided," continued the lady; "we rise at three a.m.; there are primer, meditation, etcetera, until seven, when we enjoy the Holy Communion. After this we have prayers and self-examination until nine, and from that hour till ten we work. At ten we dine, which is the first meal we partake of in the day. We then take an hour for recreation, and another till twelve for meditation. From one till four we work, when we attend vespers, and from half-past four to half-past five we take tea and listen to spiritual reading. From half-past five to six we have again recreation, from six to seven prayers, at which hour we retire for the night; but we rise for prayer during one hour of the night, and at midnight on Thursdays we rise to spend an additional hour in prayer. Thus, you see, every moment of the day is portioned out. During the hours of work we tend the sick and visit the dying; we also are employed in other good undertakings, and we hope before long to establish fresh ones. So you see, my dear, that we work out our own salvation, though those who have a vocation to a purely religious life can enter our contemplative order, and devote themselves entirely to prayer and meditation. You will be able to judge by-and-by to which you would wish to belong, though you will, of course, be guided by the advice of the Mother Superior." "Alas!" said Clara, "I do not feel myself fitted for either at present; but I believe that I should prefer attempting to teach the young--at least, the very young, for I should never manage big boys and girls. I used to teach some of the cottagers' little children in our neighbourhood, till I had entirely to devote myself to my dying father." "You will learn by experience," said the Mother Eldress. "I will mention your wish to the Mother Superior, and she will probably appoint you to the duty you select. She has great discernment, and will perceive for which you are best fitted." Clara thought that she herself could judge best of what she could do. She expressed as much to the Mother Eldress, who smiled, and reminded her of the rule of obedience. Altogether, Clara was tolerably well contented with the prospect before her. She was afterwards introduced to a number of the Sisters during their hour of recreation; but she could not help remarking that whenever one addressed another, a nun, who she was told was the Deane, instantly interfered, and reminded the speaker that private conversation was against the rule. She discovered that there were to be no private intimacies, and that any conversation must be general. "Can I not associate with any one whom I like?" asked Clara afterwards of the Mother Eldress. "It is against the rule," was the answer; "private friendships would destroy the harmony which must exist in our sisterhood." "But cannot I express my sorrow or anxiety to a sympathising friend?" asked Clara, ingenuously. "Such must be poured into the ear alone of the Mother Superior or of your father confessor," said the Mother Eldress in a stern tone; "discipline could not be otherwise maintained." Clara felt unusually hungry at teatime, as she had had but a slight luncheon; but as it was Friday--dry bread alone was allowed during the meal. One of the Eldresses read an allegorical work, the meaning of which Clara did not exactly comprehend, and from it therefore she did not gain much spiritual advantage. Another half-hour was spent in conversation, which was anything but spiritual, and then the nuns adjourned to the chapel, where they joined in reciting prayers, the same being repeated over and over again; and at seven they retired to their cells. Clara, unaccustomed to go to bed at so early an hour, could not sleep: the past would recur to her. Against all rule she thought of Harry and the way she had treated him; then she remembered all must be given up for the sake of following Christ--but was she following Him by entering a convent? The conflict was severe; she burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Hour after hour went by, sleep refusing to visit her eyelids, till, long after midnight, thoroughly worn out, she sobbed herself into forgetfulness. The convent clock was striking three when a Sister entered her cell and summoned her to rise and repair to the chapel. Hastily dressing, she followed her conductress, who had remained to assist her. She there found all the nuns assembled, and for four hours they remained repeating prayers and chanting alternately, till Dr Catton entered, and after going through a service, administered the Holy Communion, giving the wafer instead of bread, and wine mixed with water. Faint and weary, for nearly two hours more Clara remained, while the nuns repeated the prayers, or sat silent, engaged in self-examination. Some of them who had undertaken the duty of teachers then went into the schoolroom, where some fifty children were assembled. Clara begged leave to accompany them, and gladly took charge of three or four of the youngest, though by this time she felt so exhausted that she could with difficulty speak. The school over, the nuns hurried to the refectory, where a frugal dinner was placed on the table by the serving Sisters. In silence the nuns took their places; in silence they ate the portions served to them. Clara, sick from hunger, had the greatest difficulty in swallowing the coarse and unpalatable food. It notwithstanding restored her strength, and she went through her duties in the schoolroom with rather more spirit than in the morning. The following day was passed much as the first. Clara saw but little of the Mother Superior, who kept herself much aloof from the community, in her own apartments, which were furnished very differently to those of the nuns. Several weeks passed by. Though Clara got accustomed to the ways of the establishment, and strictly followed the rules, she did not find herself more at home than at first, nor was she at all more intimate with the Sisters; yet, girl as she was, she possessed an indomitable spirit. Although the false religious fervour which had induced her to consent to enter a nunnery had vanished, she was determined not to give in on account of the disagreeables she experienced. Her aunt Sarah had promised to write to her, and she herself had written several times; but she received no letters, and dared not ask whether any had come for her. She remembered that till she wrote her aunt would not know her address, unless Mr Lerew had given it. The short time that it was necessary to remain as a postulant had expired, and in a formal service in the chapel she was received as a probationer, and assumed the dress of the order. Scarcely a day had passed before she found herself exposed to annoyances which she had not hitherto experienced. During the hours of recreation the Deane, whose duty it was to keep the Sisters in order, was continually rebuking her for some transgression of rules, either for laughing or talking too much, or addressing a Sister in a voice which the rest could not hear; and she had to undergo in consequence all sorts of penalties. She submitted, as she considered that she was in duty bound to do, though she felt that they were far severer than the faults demanded. She could discover none of the religious fervour which she had expected to find among the Sisters, or of love or sympathy. Her own spirit, though not broken, was kept under a thraldom, against which her judgment rebelled. It appeared to her that the system was far better adapted to keep in subjection a household of people out of their minds than a collection of ladies in their right senses, who wished to serve God and do their duty to their fellow-creatures. No Sister was allowed to visit another in her cell, and sometimes for days and weeks together Clara did not see some of the Sisters whom she had met on her first arrival. Where they had gone, or what they were about, she could not learn. Little attention was paid to those who were ill, and no sympathy was expressed. A young Sister who had been sent out on a begging expedition for the order, and had to trudge through the wet day after day, caught cold, and was obliged to return. She grew pale and thin, and the ominous red spot appeared on her cheek. She coughed incessantly, but still went through her duties. At night she suffered most; and to prevent the sound from disturbing others, she was ordered to move to a distant cell, without a stove by which it could be warmed. Clara determined, against the rules, to speak to her, and offered to come and sit by her; but she shook her head, replying, "It must not be--you are wrong;" at the same time the countenance of the dying girl expressed her gratitude. Clara's infraction of the rules being discovered, she was ordered to remain during the hours of recreation in solitude in her own cell. The invalid Sister had crawled into the chapel one morning, and contrived with tottering steps to find her way back to her cell. The next morning she did not appear at matins, and when the Eldress went to see what had become of her, she was found stretched on her bed, dead, her pillow and sheets stained with blood, which had flowed from her mouth. She was not the only one whose life was thus sacrificed during Clara's novitiate. One day there was great commotion in the convent; the father of a novice had appeared at the gate, armed with legal powers which the Lady Superior dared not disobey, insisting on taking away his daughter. The young lady was told that she might go, with a warning that by so doing she was risking her soul's welfare. She had to take her departure in the dress of the order, leaving behind every article she had brought in, her own clothes having been sold for the benefit of the community. The dreadful fate to which she was doomed, and the fearful crime of her father, were daily expatiated on. Some months passed by, when her father died, and Dr Catton immediately wrote, urging her to return, and stating that if she did not do so, he could no longer remain her spiritual director, and thus she would lose the benefit of absolution. Letter after letter was sent to the same effect, and at length the poor girl, terrified by the consequences to which, as she supposed, her conduct had exposed her, came back to the convent. She was received in a stern manner by the Mother Superior, in the presence of the community, being told that it was through love for her soul that she had been readmitted; but that she must for a whole year hold no intercourse with the other novices, and must remain in solitude during the time allowed each day for recreation; while she was pointed to as a warning to the rest. This discipline preyed greatly on her mind, and Clara, whose cell was next to hers, heard her weeping night after night. When she appeared in public, she hung down her head, and scarcely tasted any of the meagre fare placed before her; taught to suppose that fasting was a virtue, or else weary of the life she was doomed to lead, she was starving herself to death. Notwithstanding all the vigilance exercised, the novices did contrive at times to hold communication with each other, and one young girl, who looked very sad, and was evidently dangerously ill, confessed to Clara that she had escaped from her home to join the convent against the express wishes of her father, whom notwithstanding she asserted that she loved dearly. She had ever been among the most obedient to the commands of the Lady Superior, and the strictest in complying with the rules of the order. Her illness increased; she at last received the news of the death of that parent whose wishes she had disobeyed. The thought that her disobedience had deeply grieved him whom she was bound to love preyed on her mind, and tended much to aggravate her disease; the arguments brought forward by the Lady Superior, and Mother Eldress, and her father confessor, that God had the first claims on her, failed to assuage her sorrow, or to persuade her that she had acted rightly. Clara, observing that she looked more than usually ill when they parted in the evening, could not refrain from going into her cell. She found her on her bed, gasping for breath. "Thank you for coming," whispered the poor girl; "it would have been hard to die all alone. My poor father! my poor father!" she murmured; "would that I could have been with him!" She could utter no more. Clara, to her horror, while bending over her, found that the poor sufferer had breathed her last. She hurried to the apartment of the Mother Eldress, who came somewhat agitated to the dead Sister's cell; but instead of expressing any grief at the occurrence, she sternly rebuked Clara for breaking the rules, and ordered her back to her own cell. The Sisters assembled at the usual hour in the chapel; but not a word was said of the occurrence of the night. The nun was buried with ceremonies resembling those of Rome, and things went on as usual. The Mother Eldress, who was looked upon as a very saintly person, was at length taken ill, and Clara was ordered to attend on her. The medical adviser of the sisterhood was sent for, and prescribed certain remedies which Clara had to administer. A small spoon had been provided for giving some powders in preserve; Clara used it daily for some time, till the Mother Eldress recovered, when the Lady Superior took possession of it. She had been in the habit of late of sending for Clara to impart religious instruction, which, she observed, she much required; not failing at times, however, to lecture her severely. The day after the Mother Eldress had recovered from her illness the Lady Superior addressed Clara in a more serious tone even than usual. "You will observe, my daughter," she said, "that miracles have not ceased; but that some communions, alas! have not faith to perceive them. We, holding the Catholic doctrine in its purity, have been more favoured. Let me ask of what metal you conceive that the spoon with which you used to administer the medicine to our beloved Mother Eldress is composed." "It was, I should say, of silver, or rather plated," answered Clara. "Originally it might have been; but see here, it is turned to gold," answered the Lady Superior, producing the spoon, which had now evidently a yellow tinge. "I observed that before," said Clara, "and believed that it was produced by the nature of the medicine." "Oh, hard of heart, and slow to believe!" exclaimed the Lady Superior; "can you not now perceive that it is gold, pure gold? By what other than by miraculous power could this change have been wrought? Let the glorious fact be known among the Sisters, and all who desire may come and witness it." Clara was not convinced; she went away wondering whether the Lady Superior was deceived herself, or desired to deceive others. Many of the nuns were highly delighted at hearing of the miracle, which tended so much to prove that their establishment was under the especial protection of Heaven. The Mother Eldress crossed her hands on her bosom, while she meekly bowed her head, and expressed her gratitude that she should have been so remarkably favoured. It was evident, however, to Clara, that some of the Sisters were sceptical on the subject. Clara found the life she was doomed to lead more and more irksome; but when she compared it with that of the Sisters who belonged to the order of the Sacred Heart, the true nuns, who were even more strictly enclosed (as the term is) than were she and her associates, she felt that she had no right to complain. The nuns of the Sacred Heart, or as they were frequently called, of the order of the Love of Jesus, were supposed to spend their time in perpetual prayer for the living or the dead. The whole of the twenty-four hours, Clara learned, are divided into what are denominated watches; the night watches being kept by the nuns in the following manner. The Sisters retire at seven o'clock, with the exception of one who remains watching till eight. She then summons another Sister, who rises and watches till nine, the latter again summoning a fresh watcher, and thus they continue till three o'clock, when all assemble in the chapel for matins. They also join in prayer seven times in the day, at fixed periods, though they may be separated. To the order of the Love of Jesus are attached companions who may mix in the world, and whose real duties are to obtain proselytes. They are expected to join in prayer at stated hours, wherever they may be, and on every Thursday night, from midnight till one o'clock, the companions unite in prayer. The Lady Superior in one of her more confidential moods invited Clara to join the order. "My dear child," she observed, "it is a glorious thing to be thus constantly engaged in prayer when you may; in every service and homage you render, call to your aid the choirs of angelic spirits, and unite yourself to them in spiritual companionship, in order that they may supply your deficiencies." Clara had never before heard that it was necessary to obtain the aid of angels for offering up prayer to God, and was somewhat startled at the novelty of the notion; but she knew perfectly well that it would not do to state her objections to so determined a person as her spiritual mother. She did not, either, feel inclined to become one of the order of the Sacred Heart, not having formed the very highest opinion of the nuns belonging to it whom she had met. They appeared to her generally weak-minded enthusiasts, and she still retained a belief that God is best served by those who, in imitation of our blessed Lord and Master, engage in the duties of active benevolence. On her declining, therefore, the Lady Superior dismissed her in a stern manner, reminding her that those who put their hands to the plough, and look back, are not worthy of the kingdom of heaven. Clara, without uttering a word, left the room, and hoped to devote herself with more zeal than ever to the duties she had actually undertaken. With this feeling, she repaired at the appointed hour to the schoolroom, where she took her class of children. They were, as it happened, inclined to be less attentive and more unruly than was their wont; some of them had only lately been induced to attend the school, and were unaccustomed to the rules and regulations. A biggish boy was trying to see how far he could proceed in impudence and lead on the others, when Clara, finding that appealing to him was useless, gave him a box on the ear. The Deane, at that moment entering, observed the act. "Sister Clare," she exclaimed, "I must take your class; retire to your cell." Clara, not believing that she had done anything wrong, got up and obeyed the order. Had she remained, she would have seen that the Deane's temper was tried as much as hers had been. On reaching her cell she sat down, wondering whether any further notice would be taken of her conduct. Scarcely had the convent clock announced that school was over, than the Deane appeared, and ordered her to go to the Lady Superior. She was met with a frowning brow. "You have given way to temper--you require humbling, my daughter," exclaimed the lady; "I must take means to lower that proud and haughty spirit of yours. Return to your cell, and wait till the Mother Eldress comes for you." Clara bowed and obeyed. After she had waited for some minutes, the Mother Eldress appeared, and taking her hand, led her along the gallery to an empty room, which, not having been used for many months, the floor was covered with dust. "Enter there," she said, "and show your contrition by kneeling on your knees, and licking with your tongue the form of the Blessed Cross on the ground." Clara stood aghast. "Are you serious?" she asked. "It is the command of the Lady Superior, and you are bound by your vow of obedience to obey her orders--break them at the peril of your soul, Sister Clare," was the answer. "Go in, and let me be able to report that you have exhibited sorrow for your fault by performing the penance which your spiritual superior in her wisdom has thought fit to inflict." No sooner had Clara entered the room than the door was locked on her. Degraded and abased in her own eyes, all her moral feelings revolting against the abominable indignity imposed on her, yet the threat which had been uttered made her tremble. She had vowed implicit obedience. With loathing at her heart, with a feeling too bitter to allow her tears to flow, she performed the debasing act, forgetting that the marks she was thus making on the ground was the accepted symbol of the Christian faith. Still, the words occurred to her, "Rend your hearts, and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God." Could the God of all love and mercy and gentleness be pleased by such an act? It might degrade her in her own sight; but could it make her heart more truly humble, more anxious to serve Him who said, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Clara had a Bible in her pocket. To calm her agitation, she read a portion, earnestly praying for instruction. The words which brought conviction to Luther met her sight. Light beamed on her troubled mind. The mists which the vicar's sophistries had gathered round her rolled away. "From henceforth I will look to Jesus alone, to the teaching of His Word, the guidance of His Holy Spirit," she exclaimed. Clara was free. CHAPTER FIVE. At length General Caulfield, having arranged the affairs of his brother who had died, returned to Luton. He had been made very anxious and unhappy by the letters he received from Harry, who expressed his astonishment at not hearing from Clara. The general, supposing that she was still at home, and fearing that she must be ill, immediately on his arrival set off to pay her a visit. "Miss Maynard is away; Miss Pemberton is at home, sir," said the servant who opened the door. Miss Pemberton received him in a stiff and freezing manner. He immediately enquired for Clara. "My niece has, for some time, left home, and has not communicated her address to me, nor has she thought fit to write, so that I am in ignorance of where she is," was the unsatisfactory answer. "That is most extraordinary," cried the general; "can you not give me any clue by which I may discover her?" "I conclude, as she has not informed me of her abode, that she does not wish it to be known," answered Miss Pemberton, evasively. "Though you do not know where your niece is, is Mr Lerew, or is her father's old friend, Mr Lennard, acquainted with her present address?" asked the general. "I should think that she would have informed me rather than any one else," replied Miss Pemberton; and the general at length, finding that he could get no information out of the lady, took his leave. "I will try, at all events, to ascertain what either Lennard or Lerew know," said the general to himself, as he drove off. Though he suspected that the vicar knew something about the matter, he decided first to call on Mr Lennard. He believed him to be an honest man, but he had no great opinion of his sense. Mr Lennard was at home; he received the general in a kindly way. The latter observed that his manner was unusually subdued. Without loss of time, the general mentioned Miss Maynard, and expressed his regret at not finding her at home. "Can you tell me where she has gone to?" he asked, "for her aunt declares that she does not know, though it was evident from her manner that she is not anxious about her." "I regret to say that I know no more than you do," answered Mr Lennard. "I had been for some time absent, and on my return I was greatly surprised to find that she had left Luton; and when I enquired of the Lerews, they told me that she had resolved to devote herself to works of charity, and was about to enter a sisterhood, but in what neighbourhood they did not inform me." "In other words, that she is about to become a nun, to discard my poor son, and to give up her property, as soon as she has the power of disposing of it, to the safe keeping of one of those Romish communities," exclaimed the general, with more vehemence than he was accustomed to exhibit; "what do you say to that, Mr Lennard?" "I don't suppose that Miss Maynard purposes entering a Romish convent; her intention, I conclude, is to join a sisterhood of the Anglican Church," said Mr Lennard. "The Church of England, of which I suppose you speak, recognises no such institutions," replied the general; "they are contrary to the spirit of the Reformation. Unhappy will it be for our country if they ever gain ground." "I had been inclined to suppose that they would prove a great advantage, by enabling ladies to unite together and work under a good system in visiting the sick and poor, and in the instruction of the children, and in other beneficent labours; and I have, when requested, subscribed towards their support," remarked Mr Lennard. "I do not insist that ladies should not thus employ themselves," observed the general; "but my objection is to the mode in which they unite themselves in the so-called religious system under which they are placed. They may, in most instances, serve God far better by staying at home and doing their duty in their families, instead of assuming the dress and imitating the customs of the nuns of the middle ages." "I do not look at the subject in that light," observed Mr Lennard, "and I know that it must be a hard matter for some young ladies to be religious at home, where the rest of the family are worldly-minded." "Much more reason for them to stay at home and endeavour to improve the tone of the rest of the household," answered the general. "Those who know what human nature is should see that with whatever good intentions these sisterhoods are begun, they must in the end lead to much that is objectionable. If Miss Maynard has joined one of them, I must endeavour to find the means of getting her out, or of ascertaining if she was induced to join it, and remains of her own free will. I fear that Lerew will not afford me any assistance, as from his Romish tendencies he will probably consider them admirable institutions, and would think that he had done a laudable act in inducing Clara to enter one. I must now wish you good-bye. I hope that you have good accounts of your young daughter Mary, and your son at Oxford." Mr Lennard shook his head. "I received a letter to-day from my little girl, saying that she was very ill, and begging me to come and take her home; but as the mistress did not write, I do not suppose that her illness is serious. However, I intend to go to-morrow to Mary, and ascertain how she is, and I trust that I shall not be obliged to take her away from school." The general considered whether he should call on Mr Lerew; but he first bethought himself of paying a visit to a lawyer in the neighbouring town, with whom he was well acquainted, and who had been a friend of Captain Maynard's. He was also an earnest religious man, and strongly opposed to ritualism. The general was not a person to let the grass grow under his feet. He was driving rapidly along, when he met Lieutenant Sims, who made a sign to him to stop. The general did so, and invited the lieutenant to accompany him into the town. "With all my heart, for I want to have a talk with you, general," answered the lieutenant, springing in. "I have long been wishing for your return. We've had some extraordinary goings on in this place. What has concerned me most is the disappearance of my old friend's daughter, in whom you, I know, take a deep interest. All I know is that she went away with the vicar and his wife, and it is my belief that they had an object in spiriting her off; but whether to shut her up in a Romish or Ritualist convent is more than I can say. I don't think there is much to choose between them; the vicar might select the Ritualist, or the Anglican, as he would call it, as he, though a Papist at heart, would prefer keeping his living, while his lady would recommend the former; for it is said, and I believe it to be a fact, that she herself has turned Romanist, with her dear friend Lady Bygrave. Haven't you heard that both Sir Reginald and her ladyship were received last week into the bosom of the Church of Rome, as the expression runs?" "Is it possible!" exclaimed the general; "but I ought not to be surprised when I saw the characters they admitted into their house. I thought that French abbe and Father Lascelles had some other object in view than the establishment of a colony; but perhaps you have been misinformed." "I tell you, general, I haven't a doubt about the matter," answered Mr Sims. "They and Mrs Lerew attended the Romish church together, and I am told had been baptised with all ceremony a few days before. I know that two or three priests have been staying at the Hall ever since, and Mrs Lerew goes there regularly. They are about to have a chapel built in their grounds, and an architect came down from London about it; and in the meantime they have got a room fitted up in the house. What surprises me is that the vicar should allow his wife to turn; but that she has done so seems probable, for she was not at church last Sunday. Should Lerew object to his wife's perversion, he has only himself to thank for it; he has led her up to the door as carefully as a man could do, and cannot be surprised at her going inside. Of course she thinks it safer to join what she has been taught to look upon as the true church, and has therefore honestly gone over to it; while whatever he may think, putting honesty and honour aside, he considers that it is more to his advantage to retain his living, and lead others in the way he has led his wife." "I suspect that you are right," observed the general; "too many have set him the example. He, like them, has been trained in the school of the Jesuits, who are fully persuaded that evil may be done that good may come of it, and banish from their minds the principles which guide honest men, and which they themselves would advocate in the ordinary affairs of life. I can only wish that, unless Mr Lerew's mind is enlightened, he would go over himself; as I am afraid, while he remains in the Church of England, he may lead others in the same direction." "Not much fear of that," observed the lieutenant; "except a few silly young people of the better classes, and the poor, who look out for the loaves and fishes in the shape of coals and blankets and other creature comforts, I don't think many are influenced by him. He is more likely to empty his church, and to fill the Dissenting chapels." "Still," said the general, "he sows broadcast the germs of Romanism through the doctrines he preaches, while he accustoms people to the sight of the ceremonies and paraphernalia of Rome, keeping them in ignorance at the same time of the simple truths of the Gospel, at the bidding of those whose commands he obeys; for he and his ritualistic brethren are but instruments in the hands of more cunning men than themselves. I have little doubt that he was carefully educated at the university for the part he is now playing, though he then had no idea of the designs of his tutor. People laugh at the notion that a Jesuit plot has long existed in England for the subversion of Protestantism; but I have evidence, which receives daily corroboration, that Jesuits in disguise matriculated at the universities for the express purpose of perverting the minds of all whom they could bring under their influence. The pupils in numberless instances went over to Rome, while the tutors remained nominally in the Church of England, for the sake of trapping others. The scheme has succeeded, and has since been greatly enlarged; the Jesuits have now agents in every shape--some as incumbents of parishes, as lay supporters, men and women, guilds and sisterhoods; they have encouraged works of charity, schools, hospitals, refuges for the fallen and destitute, _creches_, mothers' meetings, and other institutions, all excellent in themselves, knowing how much such would forward their object. Of that object, those who take part in them are, I am ready to believe, in many instances utterly ignorant; they are influenced by the desire to obey the commands of Christ, and to make themselves useful to their fellow-creatures, though the idea that they are thereby meriting heaven, and what they call working out their own salvation, underlies all they do, as they misinterpret the passage. They ignore the glorious truth that through simple faith in the atoning blood of Christ salvation is gained--that it is their own, and that the right motive of action must be through love and obedience to Him who has already saved them. All the forms and ceremonies in which they indulge are but will-worship, tending to obscure their view of Him, and to destroy their spiritual life." "General," said the lieutenant, "I have seen a good deal of Roman Catholic countries, where the priests have full sway, and I am very sure that the system these Ritualists have introduced is tending in the same direction. I know from experience that true religion makes a man all that can be expected of him. We had a dozen or more such men on board the last ship in which I served, and they were out and out the best men we had; they could be trusted on all occasions; and if any dangerous work had to be done, they were the first to volunteer. They were Dissenters of some sort, I believe, and were not in favour with our ritualistic chaplain, who had his followers both among officers and men. I can't say much about those officers, and as to the men who pretended to agree with him, they were the most sneaking rascals in the ship. He tried to bring me over to his way of thinking, but my eyes were opened. `No, no,' I answered; `if the ship was going down, and you had to take your chance in one of the boats, which would you choose, the one manned by those fellows you anathematise, or with the men you call obedient sons of the Church?' He couldn't answer; but one day, he being left on shore, the heretics, as he called them, brought him off through a heavy surf, when no other men would venture. So you see, thanks to our chaplain, when I found the new vicar working changes in the church, I knew pretty well what he was about." The general found Mr Franklin, his solicitor, at home. "I am very glad you have come, general," said the latter. "Miss Maynard, as you are probably aware, has been induced to leave home, or, rather, has been entrapped by one of those conventual establishments, to which she will in due course, when she has the power, be persuaded to give up her property. Our business must be to get her out of their hands before that time arrives; and yours, general, more especially to point out to her the errors of the system which has thrown its glamour over her; for, if I understand rightly, she has sacrificed an excellent and satisfactory marriage, as well as the independence and comforts of home. It was not for a considerable time that I discovered her absence from Luton, when her aunt (who, no disrespect to the lady, I consider it a misfortune was left one of her guardians) positively declared that she did not know where she had gone. I, however, took steps to find out, and lately ascertained that she is an inmate of Saint Barbara's, near Staughton, to which place I discovered that she drove on leaving the railway, in company with Mr and Mrs Lerew. Convinced that Miss Pemberton was not likely to render any willing assistance, I awaited your return to take legal measures to obtain her release. Our first difficulty will be to communicate with her, for the nuns are allowed to receive no letters till they are first seen by the Lady Superior. It would be as well first to ascertain whether the young lady desires of her own free will to leave the convent; she has had some experience of it, and may by this time perhaps have repented of the step she has taken. My belief is that she has been deceived and cajoled. I know well of what those Ritualists are capable, influenced by what they believe the best of motives, and I strongly suspect that there is some misunderstanding between her and your son, brought about, I say without hesitation, by their means. Either her letters have not been forwarded to him, or his have not been received by her--perhaps the entire correspondence has been intercepted--I will not go farther than that. I say this as I wish to plead for your ward, at whose conduct you naturally feel deeply grieved." "Poor girl! notwithstanding all the pain and suffering she has caused my son, I am not angry with her," said the general; "my indignation is directed against the system and persons by whom she has been deceived. I suspect as you do with regard to the correspondence between her and my son, for I am very sure she would not have given him up without assigning any reason, or answering his letters." "Our first object must be to open a free communication with her; letters sent in the ordinary way are sure to be read by the Lady Superior, and the answers dictated by her, so that we shall not be wiser than at first," remarked Mr Franklin. "I must try that simple plan, however, and if it fails, resort to stronger measures," observed the general. "I will go to Staughton myself, and write to say that, as her guardian, I wish to have a private interview with her on a matter of importance, and to beg that I may be allowed to call on her at the convent, or that she will come and see me at my hotel." "I am afraid that means would be taken to prevent her from seeing you alone," observed Mr Franklin. "What course do you then advise?" asked the general. "We must take legal proceedings, and they are very certain to have their due effect, as the Lady Superior would be exceedingly loth to have the internal arrangements of her convent made public, and she is well aware that if she resists she will run the risk of that being the case. I have already had something to do with her ladyship, as well as with two or three other convents, and I know how jealous the managers are that the secrets of their prison-houses should be revealed. Their aim is to prove they have nothing to conceal, and that all is open as noon-day; but the moment troublesome questions are asked, they exhibit a reticence as to their rules and practices which shows how conscious they are that outsiders will object to them." Before the general took his leave, it was arranged between him and Mr Franklin that they should go over together to Epsworth, and act according to circumstances. As he drove home he expressed a hope to the honest lieutenant that he might be the means of emancipating Miss Maynard from her present thraldom. "She has too much sense and right feeling not to be open to conviction," answered Mr Sims; "what she wants is to be freed from the evil influences to which she has of late been exposed, and to have the simple truth placed before her; only don't let her meet her aunt or Mr Lerew till she has thoroughly got rid of all her erroneous notions, and understands the simple gospel as you well know how to put it." "You may depend on my following your advice," said the general. On reaching home, the general found a note from Mr Lennard. He wrote in great distress of mind. He had received a letter from a friend at Oxford, telling him that his son had left the university in company with a Romish priest, and had declared his intention of seeking admission into the Church of Rome. Mr Lennard was anxious, if possible, to find out his son, and prevent him from taking the fatal step, at the same time that he wished to be with his poor little girl at Cheltenham. "I am afraid," he continued, "that the tutor under whom I placed my boy, by Mr Lerew's advice, has had much to do with it. I now hear that three or four of his previous pupils have become Romanists, and others, by all accounts, are likely to go over. I object to my son's becoming a Romanist, though I consider that the Church of Rome is the mother of all Churches, and has the advantage of antiquity on her side." "The mother of all abominations!" exclaimed the general to himself. "I must endeavour to set my friend right on that subject, if he holds that fundamental error." The general was a man of action. After taking a hurried meal, he drove on to the house of Mr Lennard. His journey to Cheltenham had been delayed, and he was now hesitating whether first to go in search of his son or to proceed there immediately. The thought at once struck the general that should he succeed in getting Clara out of the convent, he might go on to Cheltenham with her, and that if Mary was fit to be removed from the school, it would give Clara occupation to nurse her friend. "I shall indeed be most grateful to you," said Mr Lennard, with the tears in his eyes; "I was sorely perplexed what to do, and I specially wish that Mary should not remain longer at the school than can be helped, as from her letter it is evident that she is not only ill, but very miserable there. "You must give me your written authority, and I will act upon it," said the general. This was done. "Now, my friend," he continued, "I wish to speak to you on the remark made in your letter, in which you say that you consider the Church of Rome the mother of all Churches, and that it has the advantage of antiquity. You evidently go first on the assumption that our Lord instituted a visible Church on earth, and that that Church, though corrupted, is the Church of Rome. Now I wish to draw your attention to the origin of that wonderful establishment which has for so long exerted a baneful influence over a large portion of the human race. For three centuries true Christians, though becoming less and less pure in their doctrine and form of worship, existed in Rome as a despised and subordinate class, the purity of their faith gradually decreasing as their numbers, wealth, and influence increased. At length the Emperor Constantine professed himself to be a Christian, which he did for the sake of obtaining the assistance of the Christians against his rival Licinius, who was supported by the idolaters. Constantine being victorious, and Licinius slain, the idolaters saw that they could no longer hope to be predominant. There existed in Rome from the days of Numa a college, or curia, the members of which, called pontiffs, had the entire management of all matters connected with religion. The post of head pontiff, or Pontifex Maximus, had been assumed by Julius Caesar and his successors. They had probably no real belief in the idolatrous system they supported; such secret faith as they had was centred in Astarte, the divinity of the ancient Babylonians, whose worship had been introduced at an early period into Etruria, as it had been previously into Egypt and Greece. They were, in reality, the priests of Astarte, and from them we derive our festival of Christmas, our Lady Day, and many other festivals with Christian names. It had been their principle from the first to admit any gods who had become popular, and thus were added in rapid succession the numberless gods and goddesses of the heathen mythology. At length Jesus of Nazareth was added to their pantheon. These pontiffs, on perceiving that Christianity, patronised by the Emperor, was likely to gain the day, saw that to maintain their power they must themselves pretend to belong to the new faith. This they did, and one of their number soon managed to get himself chosen the Bishop of Rome, while the other pontiffs by an easy transition formed the College of Cardinals. The title of Pontifex Maximus, being held by the Emperor, was not assumed by the bishop of Rome till the Emperor Gratian in 376 refused any longer to be addressed by that title. Having banished some of the grosser practices of idolatry, they introduced the remainder under different names, so that the pagans might readily conform to the new worship. The apostles took the place of the various gods, and the martyrs those of the inferior divinities; above them all was raised Astarte, who, now named Mary the Mother of God and Queen of Heaven, became the chief object of adoration. In truth, the established worship at Rome remained as truly idolatrous as it had ever been, while the great aim of the pontiffs was to increase their power, amass wealth, and strengthen their position. From that period they acted, as might have been expected, in direct opposition to all the principles of Christianity. Bloody struggles often took place between rivals aiming at the pontificate, while they endeavoured to destroy all those who refused to obey them. It was not till a somewhat later period, when the head pontiff set up a claim of superiority above all other bishops, that, to strengthen it, it was asserted that he was in direct apostolic succession from the apostle Peter, the pontiff who first made it being ignorant, probably, that the Christian Church at Rome was founded exclusively by Paul, and that the apostle Peter never was at Rome, he having been all his life employed in founding churches in the East. `By their fruits ye shall know them;' and we have only to reflect on the lives of the popes, many of them monsters of atrocity, and the fearful acts of persecution which they encouraged and authorised, to be convinced that paganism, the invention of Satan, had usurped the name of Christianity, and that the Romish Church, as it is called, instead of being the mother of all Churches, is truly the Babylon of the Apocalypse; yet this is the system which ministers of the Church of England are endeavouring to introduce into our country, with its idolatrous rites and dogmas, and which you and many excellent men like yourself look at with a lenient eye, instead of regarding it with the abhorrence it deserves." "My dear friend," said Mr Lennard, greatly astonished, "I certainly had never regarded the Church of Rome in that light; I looked upon it as the ancient Church, corrupted in the course of ages." "It has no true claim to be a Christian Church at all," said the general; "it is like the cuckoo, which, hatched in the nest of the hedge-warbler, by degrees forces out the other fledglings, and usurps their place. So did paganism treat Christianity; although, fostered by God, the latter was enabled to exist, persecuted and oppressed as it was, and still to exert a benign influence in the world. On examining the tenets of many who are called heretics, we find that it was not the creed they held, but the opposition they offered to the Romish system, which was their crime, and brought down persecution on their heads. When we read of the horrible cruelties practised on the Waldenses and Albigenses, the followers of Huss in Bohemia, the true Protestants of all ages down to the time of Luther, the detestable system of the Inquisition, the treatment of the inhabitants of the Netherlands by Alva and the Spaniards, when whole hecatombs of victims were put to death at the instigation of the pope and his cardinals, the destruction of thousands and tens of thousands of Huguenots in France, the martyrdoms of the noble Protestants of Spain, the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, and the fires of Smithfield--all these diabolical acts performed with the concurrence and approval of the papal power--can we for a moment hesitate to believe that that power owes its origin, not to the Divine Head of the Church, but to that spirit of evil, Satan, the deadly foe of the human race? Can any system founded on it, however much reformed it may appear, fail to partake of the evil inherent in the original itself. It is from not seeing this that so many are led to embrace the errors-- I would rather say the abominations--of Rome; while others are taught to look at them with lenient eyes, and to believe that the system itself is capable of reformation. Before true and simple faith can be established throughout the world the whole must be overthrown and hurled into the depths of the sea, as completely as have been the idols and idolatrous practices of the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands, where Christianity has been established." Mr Lennard leant his head on his hand. "I must think deeply of what you say; you put the whole matter in a new light to me. I have had no affection for Rome; still, I have always regarded her as a Church founded on the apostles and prophets." "Yet which virtually forbids its followers to study those prophets and apostles," remarked the general. "But what I want you to do is to look into the subject for yourself. I have merely given you a hint for your guidance; by referring carefully to the Scriptures, you will find more and more light thrown on it, till you must be convinced that the view I have taken is the correct one; and would that every clergyman and layman in England might do the same! these ritualistic practices would then soon be banished from the land." Never in his life had poor Mr Lennard been so perplexed and troubled. He was invited to reconsider opinions which he had held, in a somewhat lax fashion it may be granted, all his life. He had to search for his son, and prevent him if possible from becoming a slave to the system he had just heard so strongly denounced, and he was painfully anxious about the health of his dear little Mary. While he was still in this unhappy state of mind, the general left him to return home. The next morning they both set off to their respective destinations, the general to Epsworth, having called for Mr Franklin on his way, and Mr Lennard to London. On reaching Epsworth, the general wrote a note to Clara, saying that as her guardian it was necessary for him to see her at once, and that he would either pay her a visit at the convent, or would request her to come to his hotel. After waiting for some time, he received a note in a strange handwriting; it was from a lady, who signed herself Sister Agatha. She stated that she wrote by the command of the Lady Superior, who was at present unwell, but would, on her recovery, reply to the letter General Caulfield had addressed to Sister Clare, or, as she was called in the world, Miss Clara Maynard. "We must give her ladyship a taste of the law," said Mr Franklin; "she fancies that she can play the same game with us which she has successfully employed with others. You shall write a note, stating that your legal adviser, Mr Franklin, is with you; address it to the Lady Superior, and say that you insist on seeing Miss Maynard at once." As soon as the letter was despatched, Mr Franklin, observing that he had some business to transact, went out, leaving the general engaged in writing. He had been for some time absent, when he hurriedly entered the room. "I thought it would be so," he observed. "The Lady Superior is about to remove Miss Maynard to some other establishment, and she will then coolly inform you that, Sister Clare not being an inmate of the convent, she cannot be answerable for her. I learnt this from one of several people I placed on the watch, and I find that one of the serving Sisters has come in to say that a conveyance is wanted immediately at the convent. I have ordered our carriage, and we will follow the other; and you can either speak to Miss Maynard as she comes out of the convent, or meet her at whatever railway station she goes to." The general did not quite like this plan; he had hoped to see Clara alone, and be able to speak to her for as long as might be necessary, so as to convince her of the fearful mistake she had made, should she at first show an unwillingness to leave the convent; still, he had no other course but to follow Mr Franklin's advice. They accordingly entered their carriage, and soon overtook another driving in the direction of the convent. At a short distance from it, Mr Franklin ordered the coachman to pull up, and got out. He and the general then walked leisurely towards the gate, just as they got in sight of which, they caught a glimpse of three muffled figures stepping into the carriage. "Now is our time," exclaimed Mr Franklin; "I've bribed the coachman not to move on till I have given him leave, so that should one of those dames prove to be the Lady Superior--and I know her very well--we shall have an opportunity of addressing her; and I think what I say will make her hesitate to use force in preventing Miss Maynard from accompanying you, should you desire her to do so." The next instant they were alongside the carriage, just as the Lady Superior--for she was one of those inside--had put her head out of the window, peremptorily ordering the coachman to drive on as fast as he could. Though he flourished his whip, he kept his reins tight; but Mr Franklin, putting his hand on the door said, "Madam, my friend General Caulfield, whom I have the honour to introduce to you, desires to have some conversation on a matter of importance with Miss Maynard, and I am glad to see that she is here to answer for herself." As he spoke, Clara sprang up, and though the Lady Superior and the other Sister attempted to hold her back, she threw herself forward into the general's arms. "Sister Clare, remember your vow of obedience; sit quiet, I order you," cried the Lady Superior, in a stern tone; but Clara paid no attention to the command. With an imploring look for protection, she gazed into the general's countenance. "I wish to accompany you," she whispered; "take me, take me away! don't scold me!" The general recognised the features of the once bright and blooming girl, though her dress looked strange. "I have come on purpose to take you, my dear girl," he answered, holding her tightly. "I am in your good father's place--trust to me." He then, turning to the Lady Superior, said, "I have the right, as this young lady's guardian, to take her away from you, as she has expressed her wish to accompany me. Mr Franklin will explain all that is necessary. I bid you good morning, Madam." "Sister Clare, remember your vows," again repeated the Lady Superior, in a solemn voice; "the anathema--" "I cannot allow such language to be uttered to my client," said Mr Franklin; and he went on to explain the legal rights of guardians in a way which was calculated to keep the Lady Superior silent. The general, meantime, half leading, half carrying poor Clara, reached his carriage, which at a sign to the coachman approached to receive them. Mr Franklin, observing that the general had handed in Clara, followed, having directed the coachman to drive off, leaving the Lady Superior and her companion in a state better imagined than described. Looking back, the lawyer observed that they had re-entered the convent. Clara was no sooner seated than she burst into tears. "I have been very miserable, but I have myself alone to blame," she said. "I knew what you would think, while I obstinately listened to Mr and Mrs Lerew, and to what they had taught Aunt Sarah to say to me. Still, I wanted to consult you, but as you were too angry with me to write, I could not have my doubts solved; and even Harry cast me off, and refused to have any further correspondence with me. I don't blame him, for I knew his opinions, and he warned me--" "My dear Clara, do you think it possible that I should not have written to you, or that Harry should have neglected to do so?" interrupted the general. "I wrote letter upon letter, and got no answer, and Harry told me that he had written over and over again, and at last had enclosed a letter to your aunt, but that she had returned it, saying that she did so at the recommendation of your spiritual adviser, who considered that it would be highly improper for you, who had become a bride of the Church, to receive a letter from a mortal lover." "Then I have been deceived and betrayed," exclaimed Clara, "entirely through my own folly, and I have caused Harry terrible pain and annoyance." "There is no doubt that you have been deceived and betrayed," said the general; "but we do not blame you, except that instead of seeking guidance and direction from the loving Father who is ever ready to afford it, you allowed yourself to be led by fallible human beings, who in this instance had, I suspect, an object in inducing you to follow the line they had pointed out. You did not distinguish between the works which these Sisters of Charity propose undertaking and the system and principles by which they are guided. The works themselves are such as all Christians are bound to engage in or support, whereas the system is idolatrous, and encourages will-worship; the works are made to support the system, instead of, as it should be, love and obedience to our heavenly Master producing the works. Our loving Father wishes His children to be happy and to enjoy the good things with which He provides them. No monastic rules, no peculiar dress, no vows of obedience to fallible mortals like ourselves, no fasts or penances are required to enable us to obey His laws; all we need is to seek for grace and strength from Him to do His will; and knowing that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin, we can go boldly to Him in prayer, offered up through our sole High Priest and Mediator, who ever pleads the efficacy of that blood." "I know you speak the truth," said Clara; "but I felt myself so unworthy, I fancied that God would not receive me unless I made some sacrifices in His service." "You dishonoured Him, my dear child, by thinking so," answered the general; "He will in no wise cast out those who come to Him, and He desires all to come just as they are, with humble and contrite spirits; but not under the idea that they can first put away their sins, and merit His love by any good deeds or penances they may perform. Such acts as are pleasing in His sight must spring from loving obedience to Him; all He does is of free grace; we can merit nothing, because we owe Him everything. When you see this clearly, you will understand more perfectly the wrong principles on which the whole Romish and ritualistic systems, and, believe me, they are identical, are founded." Through the general's remarks Clara's eyes were quickly opened; it appeared as if a thick veil had been thrown over them, which had suddenly been removed, and she wondered how she could have been so lamentably deceived. She looked upon her convent life, with its rigid rules, its senseless silence, its hours of solitude, its meagre fare, the cold and suffering uselessly endured, its unnatural vigils, its mockeries of religious observances, the cruelties she had seen practised, all tending to depress the spirits and lower the physical powers, with just abhorrence; and then a choking sensation came into her throat, and the colour rose to her cheeks as she thought of the abominable confessional, the questions asked her, and the answers she had had to give. She tried to shut them out from her thoughts. Could she ever be worthy of the pure, honest-minded, open-hearted, noble Harry? On reaching their sitting-room at the inn, the general looked at Clara's costume. "I suppose, my dear child, that you would like to assume the ordinary dress of a young lady of the nineteenth century," he said with a smile, "in lieu of those garments of the dark ages." A smile almost rose to Clara's lips, though her cheeks were blushing and her eyes suffused with tears as she answered, "Yes, I should very much, and I must ask if you will be good enough to send them back to the convent, as they belong to the community, and I have no right to keep them." "With all imaginable pleasure," exclaimed Mr Franklin; "and I am happy to say that I can assist you in procuring a desirable costume. I have a relative residing here who is much about your height and figure, and as she has some interest with the mantua-makers, I have no doubt that by to-morrow morning she will induce them to supply you with a travelling-dress and such other articles of apparel as you may require." Clara expressed her thankfulness, and added, "Pray let it be as simple as possible." "Oh yes, it shall be such as will become a quakeress if you wish it; I will lose no time about it," said Mr Franklin, hurrying out of the room. "Why, he has gone without taking anything to eat; he must be almost starving," observed the general. "I know that I am; and, my dear, I am afraid that you must be hungry, unless you took a late luncheon." "We had dinner at ten, though I took but little," answered Clara; "but we are accustomed to go a long time without food." "Your looks tell me that, my dear," exclaimed the general, ringing the bell. "We must take more care of you in future than you have received lately. I never knew starving enable a person the better to go through the duties of life." The waiter entered, and the general ordered luncheon to be brought up at once, in a tone which showed that he intended to be obeyed, adding, "Let there be as many delicacies as your cook can provide off-hand." The lawyer had not returned when luncheon was placed on the table. "Come, my dear, I want to see you do justice to some of these nice things," said the general. Poor Clara hesitated; it was a fast-day in the convent--could she at once transgress the rule? She was going to take simply some bread and preserve, but the general placed a cutlet on her plate. "I must insist on your eating that, and taking a glass or two of good wine to give you strength for your journey to-morrow," he said. Clara had to explain her difficulty. "I know of no command of the Lord to fast," he observed, "though He stigmatised vain fasts and oblations. The apostles nowhere command it, and the early Christians, until error crept in among them, did not consider fasting a religious duty. In your case let me assure you that it would be a sin to fast when you require your strength restored. You have had much mental trial, and will have more to go through. The mind suffers with the body, and it is your duty to strengthen both. Come, come, eat up the cutlet, and take this glass of sherry." Clara obeyed, and in a wonderfully short time began to see matters in a brighter light. The general did not fail to explain that one of the great objects of the system from which he wished to emancipate her was that of weakening the minds of those it got into its toils to keep them in subjection. "Such was their aim in insisting on confession, on fasting, and on vigils. What is even a strong man fit for, who is deprived of his sleep and half-starved? How completely does a man become the slave of the fellow mortal to whom he confides every secret of his heart! and how much more thoroughly must a weak woman become a slave, who is subjected to the same system! Add to that the rule of obedience which you tell me is so much insisted on. Obedience to whom? to a woman as full of faults and weaknesses as other human beings. How sad must be the result! It is terrible to see the name of religion prostituted in such a cause." Clara ate up the cutlet without any further objection, and meekly submitted to take some of the other delicacies the general placed before her. "You'll do, my dear," he said, smiling; "we shall have the roses in your cheeks again, I hope, in a few weeks. What I want you to do is to distinguish between God's and man's religions. You have erred from confounding the two. Our loving Father wants a joyous, willing obedience; He allows no one to come between Him and us poor sinners, but our one Mediator and great High Priest, to whom we must confess our sins. He invites us to come direct to Him in prayer. Those dishonour Him who fancy that either ministering angels or departed saints can interfere with our glorious privilege. He who said, `Rend your heart, and not your garments,' desires no debasing penances, no fasts, nothing which could weaken the powers of the mind. When you come to look into the subject, you will see that all such practices were invented by the great enemy of souls to draw men off from their reliance on their loving Father, who is ever ready to give grace and help in time of need." Before luncheon was quite over Mr Franklin returned. "You will excuse us for not waiting for you," said the general. "Miss Maynard was nearly starving." "I am glad you did not wait, indeed," answered Mr Franklin, "for I may compliment Miss Maynard on looking much better than she did an hour ago. I have been entirely successful in my mission; my cousin and her milliner will be here in a few minutes. I have a message from my aunt, Mrs Lawson, who begs that you and Miss Maynard will stay the night at her house, as she can there make the arrangements about her dress with far more convenience than here." The general, without stopping to consult Clara, at once accepted the offer. Clara herself was thankful to move to a quiet house. Miss Lawson, who was a sensible girl, understanding Clara's position and feelings, with much thoughtfulness made every arrangement she could require. Having supplied her from her own wardrobe, she took away the conventual garments, which Mr Franklin with infinite satisfaction carefully packed up and sent with a note, couched in legal phraseology, to the Lady Superior, requesting that Miss Maynard's property might be sent back by return. "I don't suppose we shall get it," he remarked to his cousin; "but it is as well to see what her ladyship has to say about the matter." Late in the evening a note arrived from the Lady Superior, who had to assure Mr Franklin that she possessed nothing belonging to Miss Maynard, who was well aware that any articles brought into the convent became the property of the community, and that all secular dresses were immediately disposed of as useless to those devoted to the service of the Church. "I call it a perfect swindle," observed Mrs Lawson, who was not an admirer of convents. "Miss Maynard tells me she took two trunks full of summer and winter clothing. She had not a notion before she went to the convent how she was to dress or what she was to do." "I am afraid, notwithstanding, that we cannot indict the Lady Superior as a swindler, whatever opinion we may secretly form of her," answered Mr Franklin, laughing. "I daresay that Miss Maynard will soon be able to replace her loss. We would rather not have her adventure made public, except for the sake of a warning to others." Miss Lawson, whose garments fortunately fitted Clara, begged that she would take such as she might require until the dressmaker could forward those which had been ordered. The next morning, heartily thanking Mr Franklin and his relations, Clara and the general set off for Cheltenham. It was not to be expected that Clara would at once recover her spirits and serenity of mind; but fortunately they had the carriage to themselves, and thus the general had an opportunity of further explaining the subjects he had touched on on the previous day. As he never was without his Bible, he was able to refer to that, and to point to many texts which of late Clara had heard sadly perverted, or which had been carefully avoided. He explained to her the origin of the whole Romish system, and showed her how identical that of the Ritualists was with it; the great object being to exalt and give power to a priestly caste, who, pretending to stand between God and the sinner, thus obtain power over the minds and property of their fellow-creatures. "Such has been the object of certain men imbued with a desire to rule their more ignorant and more superstitious fellows, from the earliest ages; it was this spirit which influenced the priests of Egypt, Greece, and Rome; it exists throughout India, among the savages of America in their medicine--men, in the islands of the Pacific, and indeed in every region of the world. It is the object of the Romish system, and is now exhibiting itself in a more subtle form among the ministers of the Church of England. We properly apply the term sacerdotalism to any system the spirit of which seeks to place a human being in any intermediate character between God and man. Sacerdotalism is in direct opposition and antagonistic to the genius of the Gospel, which enunciates the great truth that there is but one Mediator between God and man, the Man Jesus Christ; that through the atoning blood of Christ, man, if truly turning to Him, and heartily believing, receives directly, and without any other agency whatever, pardon and absolution. He, and He alone, pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent, that is, look to Him and unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel. Christ, and Christ alone, is the Way, the Truth, and the Life to seeking, travailing, heavy-laden man; whereas the Romanists, as do the Ritualists, assert that without the priestly function there is no complete remission, no claim to all the benefit of the Passion, no assurance of God's sanctifying grace. There must be, say these people, contrition, confession, and satisfaction united with the sacerdotal function, a succession of acts, the priest being the organ of God's sanctifying grace." "Oh, then, of what mockery, of what sin, have I been guilty?" exclaimed Clara. "Turn from it, and look to Jesus, and He grants immediate forgiveness," answered the general. "Would that all who are misled as I have been might receive that glorious truth!" cried Clara. "Oh, general, tell it everywhere, and show me how I may help to open the eyes of others as mine have been opened." "God alone can open the eyes of the blind; but we can become active instruments in His hands by conveying to them the remedy for their blindness," said the general, taking Clara's hand. "Your words afford me infinite satisfaction, and remove an anxious weight from my heart on your own account, and on that of one naturally still dearer to me. Depend on it that, with God's grace, I will not relax in my efforts to make known the simple Gospel, and to exhibit the sacerdotal system of Rome, and of the so-called ritualism of England, in its true light." CHAPTER SIX. On reaching Cheltenham, the general took Clara to the house of his sister-in-law, a Scotch lady, who received her with the most motherly kindness. "I very well know the sort of glamour which has been thrown around you, my dear," she said, "so that I can heartily sympathise with you; and I praise God that it has been removed. You can now therefore look with confidence for grace and strength from Him who is the giver of all good, to walk forward in the enjoyment of that true happiness which God in His mercy affords to His creatures. There is abundance of work for our sex, which can be carried out in a straightforward, Protestant, English fashion." "I shall be thankful to find it," said Clara. "You will not have long to wait, my dear," answered Mrs Caulfield; "but at present you require being nursed yourself: you must let me take you in hand." As soon as the general had deposited Clara with his sister-in-law, he set off and paid his promised visit to Mary Lennard. On reaching Mrs Barnett's establishment, he was shown into a handsome drawing-room, where that lady soon presented herself, under the belief that he had come to place a daughter with her. She bowed gracefully as she glided into a seat, and smilingly enquired the object of his visit. "I have come to see Miss Mary Lennard, daughter of my particular friend, the Reverend John Lennard," answered he. "She is too ill, I regret to say, to see visitors," answered the schoolmistress. "Had her father come, I of course should not have objected." "I am acting in the place of her father," said the general, "and I must insist on seeing the young lady, who has, I understand, been made ill by a system of fasting and penances which all right-minded people must consider objectionable." "Sir, you astonish me," exclaimed Mrs Barnett. "I should suppose that every clergyman would wish his daughter to fast on Fridays and other days ordered by the Church; and with regard to penances, such have been imposed by the priest to whom she has duly gone to confession." "Why, I thought this was a Protestant school," exclaimed the general, astonished. "That term I repudiate," answered the lady. "I am a daughter of the Anglican Church, and as such I wish to bring up all my pupils." "You may act according to your conscience, but parents may differ from you as to whether you are right in compelling growing children to fast, as also in allowing them to confess to a person whom you call a priest," answered the general. "I regret having to act in any way which is disagreeable to you, but I must insist, madam, with the authority given me by Mr Lennard, on seeing his daughter alone, and judging what steps I shall take." The lady hesitated; the general put Mr Lennard's letter into her hand. She still hesitated. "Have you any reason for wishing me not to see Mary?" he asked. "She may appear worse than she really is," said Mrs Barnett. "Our medical attendant has visited her daily." "That makes it more necessary for me to see her and judge for myself," said the general, in a firm tone. Mrs Barnett rang the bell, and a servant appearing, she told her to inform Miss Lennard that a friend of her father wished to see her. "She isn't able to get up, marm, I'm afraid," was the answer. "Then show me her room," said the general, rising; and without waiting to hear Mrs Barnett's remarks, he followed the servant, who led the way upstairs to a room containing four beds. A cough struck his ears as he entered. On one of the beds lay poor Mary; her once rosy cheek was pale and thin, and her large eyes unusually bright. She knew him at once, and stretching out both her hands, said, "I am glad to see you; but I thought papa would come." The general explained that Mr Lennard was prevented from doing what he wished. "Then, will you take me away from this?" she asked, in a whisper; "I am sure that papa would do so. I am not happy here; but do not let Mrs Barnett know I said so." "If you can be removed without risk, I certainly will take you," answered the general. "Oh, yes, yes! I shall be well soon. I could get up now if they will give me my clothes," exclaimed Mary. The day was bright and warm; and as the general felt sure that Mary could be removed without danger, he determined to take her to his sister-in-law's immediately. "Take me! take me!" said Mary; "I feel quite strong enough, and the doctor said that there was nothing particularly the matter with me." Her eagerness to go was still further increased when she heard that she was to be taken care of by Clara Maynard. "I thought that she had been shut up in a convent," she exclaimed. "The girls here were saying that it is a very holy life, though I don't know that there are many who wish to lead it; but I was very, very sorry to hear of Clara's being a nun, because I thought that perhaps I might never see her again, and of all people I wondered that she should turn nun." "I trust that she has given up all intention of becoming one," said the general; "but you will see her soon, and she will tell you what she thinks about the matter." The general then told the servant to assist Miss Lennard in dressing, while he went out to obtain a conveyance. On returning to the house, he desired again to see Mrs Barnett. The lady was somewhat indignant, and warned him that he must be responsible for the consequences of removing Miss Lennard. "Of course I am, and I am taking her where she can be more carefully nursed than is possible in a school," answered the general. Mary was soon ready, and her box packed up. The thoughts of going away restored her strength, and she walked downstairs without difficulty. The general carefully wrapped her up, and telling her to keep the shawl over her head and mouth, lifted her into the carriage. They had but a short distance to go. Clara was delighted to find that Mary was to remain; but on perceiving how ill the poor girl evidently was, she felt very sad. Mary was, however, not at all the worse for being removed, and Mrs Caulfield immediately sent for her own medical man to see her. He looked very grave, but gave no decided opinion. "She has been poorly fed, and her mind overtaxed for one so young," he remarked. "We must see what proper care and nourishment will effect; but I must not disguise from you that I am anxious about her." Clara begged that Mary might be placed in her bed, while she occupied a small camp-bed at its foot. "But you will have no room to turn," observed Mrs Caulfield. "It is wider and far softer than the one to which I have been accustomed," she answered, smiling, "and I shall be much happier to be near Mary than away from her." Clara had now ample occupation in attending on her sick friend, though Mrs Caulfield insisted on her driving out every day, and advised her to receive the visits of several friends who called. With the consciousness that she was of essential use to Mary, her own spirits returned and her health improved. The rest of her time was spent in working, or reading to Mary, or playing and singing to her. The healthy literature the general procured for Mary benefited Clara as much as it did her friend; it was an invigorating change from the monastic legends and similar works which were alone allowed to be perused in the convent. She thought it better not to say much about her own life there; but Mary was not so reticent with regard to her school existence. The only books allowed to be read were those written by priests, ritualists, or Roman Catholics. "The books were mostly very dull," said Mary; "but as we had no others, we were glad to get them. Then a clergyman came, who told us that we were all very sinful, but that when we came to him at confession he would give us absolution; and as we thought that very nice, we did as he advised us; but I did not at all like the questions he put; some of them were dreadful, and I know he said the same to the other girls. Still, as we were kept very strict in school, we were glad to get out to church as often as we could; there was the walk, which was pleasant in fine weather; and then we could look at the people who were there, and the music was often very fine, and the sermon was never very long; and sometimes the young gentlemen used to come and sit near us, and talk to the elder girls when no one was looking--at least, we thought they were young gentlemen, but, as it turned out, they were anything but such. One of them, especially, used to give notes to one of the girls, and she wrote others in return, and we thought it very romantic, and of course no one would tell Mrs Barnett of it. At last, one day, we thought that the girl had gone into confession; but instead of joining us she slipped out of the church at a side door, where her lover was waiting to receive her. Away they went by the train to a distance, where they were married, and could not be found for some time. At last they came back, when it was discovered that the young man was the son of a small tradesman in the place, though he had pretended that he had a good fortune and excellent prospects. Mrs Barnett was horrified, and tried to hush matters up, and I believe the parents of the girl did not like to expose her for their own sakes. I know that I and the rest were very wrong in our behaviour, and I will not excuse myself, except to say that everything was done to make us hypocrites. Religion was very much talked about on Sundays and saints' days; but I have learnt more of the Gospel since I came here, from you and dear General Caulfield, than I ever knew before." Clara sighed as she thought how little she herself had known till lately. "You had better not talk any more about your school," she said; "let us speak rather about what we read, and things of real importance." Clara had become very much alarmed about Mary. Wholesome and regular food, and gentle exercise in the carriage when the weather was fine, somewhat restored her strength; but there was the hectic spot on her check, and the brightness of the eyes, which too surely told of consumption. Mr Lennard at length arrived; he looked much depressed, and was shocked at seeing the change in his daughter. He had a most unsatisfactory account to give of his son, whom he had searched for for some time in vain. At last he discovered that the young gentleman had been formally received into the Romish Church, and that his friend the priest was concealing him somewhere in London. The poor father found out where his son was through a letter which was forwarded from Luton, in which the youth asked for a remittance for his support, as he had expended all his means, and could not longer, he observed, encroach on the limited stipend of his friend, Father Lascelles. Mr Lennard, still hoping that it might be possible to win back the youth, wrote entreating him to return home, and on his declining to do this, he offered to let him continue his course at Oxford, that he might fit himself for entering one of the learned professions. After a delay of two or three days, Alfred wrote saying that he had applied to his bishop, who would not consent to his doing so, and that as he was now under his spiritual guidance, he must obey him rather than a heretic father. "You will pardon me for calling you so," continued Master Alfred; "but while you remain severed from the one true Church, such you must be in the eyes of all Catholics, one of whom I have become." "I was too much grieved to laugh, as I might otherwise have done, at the boy's impertinence," observed Mr Lennard to the general; "but as I look upon him as deceived by artful men, I cannot treat him with the rigour he deserves. What do you recommend, general?" "We must, if possible, get him to come home, and then put the truth clearly before him," remarked the general. "I am afraid that I cannot say enough to induce him to change," said Mr Lennard, with a deep sigh. "We must have recourse, whatever we do, to earnest prayer," observed the general. "I cannot suppose that your son's mind is already so completely perverted as to be impregnable to the truth." "Alas, it is not for so short a time," answered Mr Lennard; "the seed was sown by the tutor with whom he spent a year or more, and finally matured by this same Father Lascelles and his tutor at college. He is the very man with whom Mr Lerew read, I find. I wonder that he was not the means of his older pupil's perversion." "Mr Lerew is not so honest a man as your son," answered the general; "Mr Lerew was about to take orders, and would prove a useful tool, while it was more prudent to secure your son at once, as he, it was supposed, would inherit your property. I wish that I could offer you consolation; but I fear that you would consider me a Job's comforter at the best." Mr Lennard had come hoping to take Mary home; but she appeared scarcely able to undertake so long a journey, and Clara confessed that she herself was unwilling to return as yet to Luton. Poor Mr Lennard was nearly heart-broken on hearing from the doctor that he thought very badly of Mary's case. "Could I not take her abroad, to Madeira, or the south of France?" he asked. "It would be, I feel confident, useless," was the melancholy answer; "had she strength to stand the journey, her life might possibly be prolonged for a few weeks; but she would probably lose more by the exertion of travelling than she would gain by the change. Here she is under loving care, and we may alleviate her sufferings." Some more weeks wore by, and Mary grew worse. Mr Lennard felt, what some parents do not, that it was his duty, though a painful one, to tell his daughter that her days were numbered, and at the same time to afford her such comfort as, according to his knowledge, he could. He gently broke the subject. "I know it," she answered. "I asked Clara if she thought I was dying, and she told me that the doctor said I could not recover; but, dear papa, I am prepared to go away to One who loves me, though I am sorry, very sorry, to leave you, and Clara, and the general, and those who have been kind to me." The tears were falling from Mr Lennard's eyes. "You have been a dear good girl, and have enjoyed the blessing of baptism, and have been confirmed, and have received the sacrament; you shall receive it again if you wish, and I hope that God will take you to heaven." "Oh, dear, dear papa, don't speak so," answered Mary; "I know that I am a wretched sinner; I have done nothing to merit God's love and mercy; but I know that Jesus Christ died for me, and that His blood cleanseth from all sin; and, trusting to Him, I am sure that He will receive me in the place He has gone before to prepare for those who love Him. I have faith in Christ; that is my happiness, hope, and confidence. I am not afraid to die, for I know that He will be with me through the shadow of the valley of death." Mr Lennard gazed at her, unable to speak. He could not ask her further questions, but was revolving in his own mind the meaning of what she had said. She had no confidence in any of the objects which he had been accustomed to present to the minds of the dying, if he believed them to be good Churchmen, and if not, he had always urged them to repent of their sins and to take the sacrament, in the hope that thus God might receive them into heaven. Mary's remarks had brought new light to his soul; she trusted solely to the _all-finished work_ of Christ, to whom she looked as her Saviour, with full assurance that He would welcome her to heaven. She thought not, she spoke not, of any of the rites and ceremonies in which he had trusted himself, and had taught others to trust, rather than to the blood of the Atonement. She did not ask even him, her father, and, as he had fancied himself, a priest, to offer a prayer on her behalf. No, she was resting joyfully on Christ as her all-sufficient Saviour. "I see it all now," he said, half aloud; "it is this of which the general has been speaking to me lately, but which I did not comprehend." "Yes, dear papa; Jesus did it all long ago; He saved me then, and I am trusting in Him; that makes me so happy, so very happy," exclaimed Mary. "I believe as you do," answered Mr Lennard; "would that I had known and taught your poor brother the same truth! it would have prevented him from falling into the toils of Rome." "We can pray for him, that he may be rescued from them," said Mary. "I wished to make him a sound Churchman, and taught him that there is but one true Church, and that that is the Church of England; and miserable has been the result," said Mr Lennard. "Alfred may be brought back. God will hear our united prayers," whispered Mary. "I cannot pray with faith that my prayer will be answered," he murmured. "I did my utmost to instil the belief into him, and he has ever since been with those who have done their utmost to forward the same notion." Mary now became her father's comforter. She lingered with those who loved her for some time longer, proving an especial blessing to Clara, who had, as her ever-watchful nurse, constant employment and occupation for her thoughts and feelings. The general remained with his sister, and afforded Clara that instruction and guidance she so much needed, while he put into her hands such books as were best calculated to strengthen her mind and to do away with all traces of that mysticism which she had imbibed both before and during her life in the convent. With clearer perceptions of truth than she had ever before enjoyed, she was now better able to perform her duties in life. She had written to her aunt, saying that she hoped some day to return home, but was at present employed in nursing her young friend Mary Lennard, whom she could not at present leave; but she did not think it necessary to speak of her escape from the convent, or to enter into other particulars, so that Miss Pemberton remained in ignorance of her change of opinions. Mr Lennard had twice gone away in the hope of meeting his son and inducing him to attend the death-bed of his sister; but the priests, who were well-informed of the religious opinions of those who had taken charge of Mary, made him send various excuses, and poor Mary was deprived of the satisfaction of seeing her brother again. When Mr Lennard returned, Mary had become much weaker, and she could only whisper, "Pray for poor Alfred; don't be angry with him--he may be brought back;" and her young spirit went to be with the Saviour in whom she trusted. Clara aided the general in comforting their friend. The bereaved father found peace at last; but often before that, in the bitterness of his heart, he would exclaim, "It was that school, that abominable system of fasting and penance, and that accursed confessional, which killed her; and to have my poor weak misguided boy carried off and enslaved body and soul by those wolves in sheep's clothing, it is more than I can bear! It was I--I alone, who in my blindness and ignorance and folly exposed them to the malign influences which have caused their destruction. I have been the murderer of my children!" A few days after Mary's funeral, Clara, with the general and Mr Lennard, returned to Luton. Miss Pemberton received her niece with a look of astonishment. "Why, I expected to see you dressed as a nun, Clara," she exclaimed; "have you given up your vocation? Dear me! Mr Lerew will be very much disappointed; he fully expected that you would devote your fortune to Saint Agatha's." "I will explain matters to you, aunt, by-and-by," answered Clara, not wishing on her first arrival at home to enter into any discussion. "I hope that you have not felt yourself very solitary during my long absence." "As to that, I can't say I have been very lively, for the whole neighbourhood is divided, and because I go to church and confession, all of your father's old friends have ceased to call on me; but of late I have begun to think that they are not altogether wrong. I must acknowledge that since Sir Reginald and Lady Bygrave, and Mrs Lerew, and two or three other people turned Catholics, my confidence in the vicar and the High Church has been a little shaken. Mrs Lerew wanted me to turn too; but I was not going to do that, and even the vicar did not advise it, though he said he couldn't help his wife going over; for if so many went, people's suspicions would be aroused, and he should be unable to establish his college." "I am truly thankful that you did not go over," answered Clara. "I have learnt a good deal about the Ritualists of late, and I am very sure that their tendency is towards Rome. I have one favour to ask, that is, should Mr Lerew call, that you will not admit him, as it would be painful to me to see him again, for I cannot receive him as a friend." "Why, have you found out anything about him?" asked Miss Pemberton, her conscience accusing her. "There is much, aunt, to which, I object in him," answered Clara, firmly. "Well, I don't wish you to be annoyed, my dear, in any way," said Miss Pemberton; "and, in truth, I suspect that he wanted to get hold of your fortune for his new college. If he finds that he has no chance of that, I don't think he will trouble you much." "I would rather not think about him in any way," said Clara; "and do pray tell me how Widow Jones and Mrs Humble and her blind daughter, and the poor Hobbies, with their idiot boy, are getting on. I must go and see them and my other friends as soon as possible." Clara then went on to make further enquiries about her poorer neighbours, and was grieved to find that her aunt had not troubled herself about them during her absence. "It was all my fault," she said to herself; "I was placed here to help them, and I have neglected that very clear duty by giving way to delusive fancies." Clara lost no time in carrying out her intentions, and was received with a hearty welcome wherever she went. Very frequently remarks were made which showed her that the poor had a clearer perception of the tendencies of the ritualistic system than she herself had previously possessed. "We be main glad to see you again looking so like yourself, Miss," exclaimed Dame Hobby. "They said as how the vicar had got you to go into a monkery that he might spend your money to pay for his fripperies in the church, his candles, and that smoky stuff, and his pictures and gold-embroidered dresses, and flags and crosses, and all they singing men and women, and dressing up the little boys, as if God cared for such things, or they could make us love Him and serve Him better, for that's my notion of what religion should do. The Bible says we can go straight to God through Jesus Christ, and pray to Him as our Father; and all these things seem to me only to stand in the way; and when we want to be praying, we are instead looking about at the goings on, and listening to the music. 'Tisn't that I haven't a respect for the parson and the church; but when I go to church, I go to pray and to hear God's word read and explained from the pulpit in a way simple people can understand." Clara found much the same opinions expressed by all she visited. The general came every day to see her, to strengthen and support her. His conversation had a very good effect on Miss Pemberton, whose eyes having once been opened to the tendencies of the ritualistic system, she was enabled to see it in its true light. She resolved to have nothing more to say to Mr Lerew, and to refuse to receive him, should he call. Soon after Clara returned home he had started on a tour to collect funds for his college, and as he was absent, Clara was saved from the annoyance she had expected. The general was fortunately paying a visit to Clara and her aunt when Mr Lerew at length came to call on Miss Pemberton to enquire why she had not during his absence attended church. It was agreed that it would be better to admit him. He tried to assume his usual unimpassioned manner as he entered the room; but the frown on his brow and his puckered lips showed his annoyance and anger. He had not had the early training which enables the Jesuit priest effectually to conceal his feelings. He had evidently heard that Clara had left the convent, as he showed no surprise at seeing her. He probably would have behaved very differently to what he did, had not the general been present. Shaking hands with all the party, he took a seat, and brushing his hat with his glove, cleared his throat, and then said, "I was afraid, Miss Pemberton, that you were ill, as you have not, I understand, favoured the church with your presence for the last two Sundays." "I had my reasons for not going," answered Miss Pemberton; "and I may as well tell you that I purpose in future not to attend your church, as I see clearly that your preaching and the system carried on there leads Romeward; and I have no wish to become a Romanist or to encourage others by my presence to run the risk of becoming so either." "Romanist! Romanist!" exclaimed Mr Lerew; "I have no dealings with Rome; I don't want my people to become Romanists." "The proof of the pudding is in the eating, Mr Lerew," answered Miss Pemberton, dryly. "I have expressed my resolution, and I hope to adhere to it." Mr Lerew was not prepared with an answer; but turning to Clara, he said, "I trust, Miss Maynard, that though you have thought fit to abandon the sacred calling to which I had hoped you would have devoted yourself, you will still remain faithful to the Church." "I cannot make any promise on the subject," answered Clara, being anxious not to say anything to irritate the vicar. "I believe that I was before blinded and led away from the truth, when I was induced to enter the sisterhood of Saint Barbara, and I now desire to retrieve my error." "I understand you, ladies," exclaimed the vicar, losing command of his temper. "Remember that by deserting the Church you are guilty of the heinous crime of schism, for which, till repented of, there is no pardon here or hereafter. General Caulfield, I fear that you have much to answer for in having set the example in my parish; you will excuse me for saying so." "It is you and those who side with you who are guilty of the schism of which you speak," said the general, mildly. "The Church of England protests clearly against the errors of Rome; and you, by adopting many, if not all those errors, are virtually cutting yourself off from that Church, although you retain a post in it. But let me explain that the schism spoken of in the New Testament is the departing from the truth of the Gospel, and the practices it inculcates; in other words, those who leave Christ's spiritual Church. My great object is to draw my fellow-creatures into that Church; to induce them to accept Christ as the Way, the Truth, and the Life; to persuade them to grasp that hand so lovingly stretched forth to lead them to the Father. I ignore the schism of which you speak, invented by the sacerdotalists to alarm the uneducated. You have my reply, Mr Lerew, and I wish you clearly to understand that I purpose, with God's assistance, by every means in my power to make known the truth of the Gospel in this parish and in every place where false teaching prevails." "Then I shall look upon you as a schismatic and a foe to our Church," exclaimed Mr Lerew, rising. "I have already explained to you the true meaning of schism," said the general, quietly, "and have particularly to request that all further discussion on this subject may cease. Miss Pemberton and her niece have expressed their sentiments, and you have long known mine. I trust that none of us will change; and anything further said on the subject can only cause annoyance." Mr Lerew saw that he had lost his influence over Clara and her aunt, and not wishing to remain longer than he could help in the general's society, quickly took his departure. He had not as yet seen Mr Lennard since his return, nor had he heard the cause of poor Mary's death; he at once drove over to his house. Instead of the hearty manner Mr Lennard usually exhibited, he received his visitor with marked coldness. Mr Lerew was puzzled. "I am sorry that my absence from home has prevented me hitherto from calling on you," he said; "but I rejoice to have you back, and I hope that you will assist at the celebrations in my church." "I come to a sad home, deprived of my young daughter by death, and my son by his perversion to the Church of Rome," answered Mr Lennard, gravely, not noticing the last remark. "I know that my child has left this world for a far better; but I cannot forget that the seeds of her disease were produced by the system practised at the school you recommended, Mr Lerew, as also that my son's perversion was much owing to the instruction received from the tutor under whom, by your advice, I placed him. The daughter of my late friend Captain Maynard has happily escaped from the toils you threw around her; and though I am ready heartily to forgive the injuries you have inflicted on me, I feel myself called on to expose the traitorous efforts you and others with whom you are associated are making to uproot the Protestant principles of the Church. I believe that I am actuated by no hostile feeling towards yourself personally; but I will take every means in my power to put a stop to the practices which you pursue in your church." "You acknowledge yourself, then, an enemy to me and to the Church!" exclaimed Mr Lerew, who felt braver in the presence of Mr Lennard, whom he considered a weak man, than he had in that of General Caulfield. "I desire not to be an enemy to you personally," answered Mr Lennard, mildly; "but to your system, which is calculated to lead your flock fearfully astray, I am, and trust I shall ever remain, an inveterate foe." In vain did Mr Lerew endeavour to win back his former dupe. Mr Lennard had clearly seen the chasm which divides the Protestant Church of England from the Romish system and its counterpart, Ritualism, and, as an honest man, he was not to be drawn over. Again defeated, the vicar of Luton-cum-Crosham had to take his departure. He still, however, found dupes to subscribe sufficient funds for the establishment of his college, and a Lady Superior of high ritualistic proclivities to take charge of it, and masters who, provided they got their stipends, cared nothing about the object of the institution. By putting out his candles and omitting some of the ceremonies at his church whenever the bishop or rural dean came to visit it, he was able to retain his living. By means of a plausible prospectus, he, with other ritualistic brethren, induced the parents and guardians of a number of young ladies, tempted by the moderate expense and advantages offered, to send them to the college, where, with the usual superficial accomplishments they received, their minds were thoroughly imbued with ritualistic principles. General Caulfield and Mr Lennard prevented several of their friends from being thus taken in. A good many people were staggered when they heard that the vicar's wife and his patrons--Lady Bygrave and Sir Reginald--had become Romanists. They had all three lately set off for Rome itself, under the escort of the Abbe Henon. They were there received with due honour by the Pope, and had the satisfaction of hearing from the infallible lips of his Holiness that England would, ere long, be won from the power of the infidel Protestants, and restored to the bosom of the Catholic Church; and believing themselves to be not the least important members of the British race, they returned home to spread the joyful intelligence among those who were ready to believe them. The chapel erected in their park had almost as large a congregation as that of the parish church, especially as winter approached, and blankets and coals were liberally distributed among the worshippers. Clara, meantime, had pursued the even tenor of her way. Her aunt was greatly changed for the better; she had become kind and considerate to her, and frequently accompanied her in her visits among the poor and suffering in the wide district she had taken under her charge. Though Clara generally drove in her pony-carriage, she occasionally, when the distance was not too great, went on foot. She had one day thus gone out, carrying a basket stored with delicacies for several sick people, when, as she was proceeding along a sheltered lane, overhung with trees, she heard a quick footstep behind her. She turned her head and saw Harry. Her first impulse was to rush towards him--then for a moment she stopped. He held out his arms. "Can you forgive me for my folly, and the pain and grief I have caused you?" she exclaimed. "I have forgotten it all in the happiness of seeing you thus employed, exactly as I should wish," he answered; "never let us speak about it; my father has told me all. You were ever dear to me, even when I thought that I had lost you. You have learned to distinguish the true from the false, and I shall never for a moment, in future, have the slightest fear that, seeking for guidance from above, you will mistake the one for the other." THE END. 
55703	----	By Agnes Repplier IN OUR CONVENT DAYS. 16mo, gilt top, $1.10, _net._ Postage extra. COMPROMISES, 16mo, gilt top, $1.10, _net._ Postage 9 cents. THE FIRESIDE SPHINX. With 4 full-page and 17 text Illustrations by Miss E. BONSALL. 12mo, $2.00, _net._ Postage 14 cents. BOOKS AND MEN. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. POINTS OF VIEW. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. ESSAYS IN IDLENESS. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. IN THE DOZY HOURS, AND OTHER PAPERS. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. ESSAYS IN MINIATURE. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. A BOOK OF FAMOUS VERSE. Selected by Agnes Repplier. In Riverside Library for Young People. 16mo, 75 cents; _Holiday Edition_, 16mo, fancy binding, $1.25. VARIA. 16mo, $1.25. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. BOSTON AND NEW YORK. IN OUR CONVENT DAYS IN OUR CONVENT DAYS BY AGNES REPPLIER, LITT.D. [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1905 COPYRIGHT 1905 BY AGNES REPPLIER ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published October 1905_ To "Elizabeth" Robins Pennell "Thou know'st that we two went to school together." JULIUS CÆSAR Introduction It has been many years since I went to school. Everything has changed in the Convent that I loved, and I am asked to believe that every change is for the better. I do not believe this at all. I am unmoved by the sight of steam registers and electric lights. I look with disfavour upon luxuries which would have seemed to us like the opulence of Aladdin's palace. I cannot wax enthusiastic over the intrusion of Mr. Matthew Arnold and Mr. Pater upon the library shelves, where Chambers' Miscellany used to be _our_ nearest approach to the intellectual. The old order changes, and that unlovely word, modernity, is heard within the tranquil convent walls. Even the iron hand of discipline has been relaxed; for the long line of girls whom I now watch filing sedately in and out of the chapel have been taught to rule themselves, to use their wider liberty with discretion. I wonder how they like it. I wonder if liberty, coupled with discretion, is worth having when one is eleven years old. I wonder if it be the part of wisdom to be wise so soon. The friends whom I loved are scattered far and wide. When Tony died, she took with her the sound of laughter into the silent land, and all things have seemed more sober since she left. To those who live, these pages will, I hope, bring back the sentiment of our early days. We made one another's world then,--a world full of adventures, and imaginings, and sweet absurdities that no one of us would now wish less absurd. Our successors to-day know more than we knew (they could not well know less), they have lectures, and enamelled bathtubs, and "Essays in Criticism;" but do they live their lives as vehemently as we lived ours; do they hold the secrets of childhood inviolate in their hearts as we held them in ours; are they as untainted by the commonplace, as remote from the obvious, as we always were; and will they have as vivid a picture of their convent days to look back upon, as the one we look at now? A. R. Contents Marianus 1 The Convent Stage 36 In Retreat 72 Un Congé sans Cloche 107 Marriage Vows 148 Reverend Mother's Feast 183 The Game of Love 220 Marianus I do not know how Marianus ever came to leave his native land, nor what turn of fate brought him to flutter the dovecotes of a convent school. At eleven, one does not often ask why things happen, because nothing seems strange enough to provoke the question. It was enough for me--it was enough for all of us--that one Sunday morning he appeared in little Peter's place, lit the candles on the altar, and served Mass with decent and devout propriety. Our customary torpor of cold and sleepiness--Mass was at seven, and the chapel unheated--yielded to a warm glow of excitement. I craned my white-veiled head (we wore black veils throughout the week and white on Sundays) to see how Elizabeth was taking this delightful novelty. _She_ was busy passing her prayer-book, with something evidently written on the fly-leaf, to Emily Goring on the bench ahead. Emily, oblivious of consequences, was making telegraphic signals to Marie. Lilly and Viola Milton knelt staring open-mouthed at the altar. Tony was giggling softly. Only Annie Churchill, her eyes fixed on her Ursuline Manual, was thumping her breast remorsefully, in unison with the priest's "mea maxima culpa." There was something about Annie's attitude of devotion which always gave one a distaste for piety. Breakfast afforded no opportunity for discussion. At that Spartan meal, French conversation alone was permitted; and even had we been able or willing to employ the hated medium, there was practically no one to talk to. By a triumph of monastic discipline, we were placed at table, at our desks, and at church, next to girls to whom we had nothing to say;--good girls, with medals around their necks, and blue or green ribbons over their shoulders, who served as insulating mediums, as non-conductors, separating us from cheerful currents of speech, and securing, on the whole, a reasonable degree of decorum. I could not open my bursting heart to my neighbours, who sat stolidly consuming bread and butter as though no wild light had dawned upon our horizon. When one of them (she is a nun now) observed painstakingly, "J'espère que nous irons aux bois après midi;" I said "Oui," which was the easiest thing _to_ say, and conversation closed at that point. We always did go to the woods on Sunday afternoons, unless it rained. During the week, the big girls--the arrogant and unapproachable First Cours--assumed possession of them as an exclusive right, and left us only Mulberry Avenue in which to play prisoner's base, and Saracens and Crusaders; but on Sundays the situation was reversed, and the Second Cours was led joyously out to those sweet shades which in our childish eyes were vast as Epping Forest, and as full of mystery as the Schwarzwald. No one could have valued this weekly privilege more than I did; but the day was clear, and we were sure to go. I felt the vapid nature of Mary Rawdon's remark to be due solely to the language in which it was uttered. All our inanities were spoken in French; and those nuns who understood no other tongue must have conceived a curious impression of our intelligence. There was a brief recreation of fifteen minutes at ten o'clock, which sufficed for a rapturous exchange of confidences and speculations. Only those who have been at a convent school can understand how the total absence of man enriches him with a halo of illusion. Here we were, seven absurdly romantic little girls, living in an atmosphere of devout and rarified femininity; and here was a tall Italian youth, at least eighteen, sent by a beneficent Providence to thrill us with emotions. Was he going to stay? we asked with bated breath. Was he going to serve Mass every morning instead of Peter? We could not excite ourselves over Peter, who was a small, freckle-faced country boy, awkwardly shy, and--I should judge--of a saturnine disposition. We had met him once in the avenue, and had asked him if he had any brothers or sisters. "Naw," was the reply. "I had a brother wanst, but he died;--got out of it when he was a baby. He was a cute one, he was." A speech which I can only hope was not so Schopenhauerish as it sounds. And now, in Peter's place, came this mysterious, dark-eyed, and altogether adorable stranger from beyond the seas. Annie Churchill, who, for all her prayerfulness, had been fully alive to the situation, opined that he was an "exile," and the phrase smote us to the heart. We had read "Elizabeth; or the Exile of Siberia,"--it was in the school library,--and here was a male Elizabeth under our ravished eyes. "That's why he came to a convent," continued Annie, following up her advantage; "to be hidden from all pursuit." "No doubt he did," said Tony breathlessly, "and we'll have to be very careful not to say anything about him to visitors. We might be the occasion of his being discovered and sent back." This thought was almost too painful to be borne. Upon our discretion depended perhaps the safety of a heroic youth who had fled from tyranny and cruel injustice. I was about to propose that we should bind ourselves by a solemn vow never to mention his presence, save secretly to one another, when Elizabeth--not the Siberian, but our own unexiled Elizabeth--observed with that biting dryness which was the real secret of her ascendency: "We'd better not say much about him, anyway. On our own account, I mean." Which pregnant remark--the bell for "Christian Instruction" ringing at that moment--sent us silent and meditative to our desks. So it was that Marianus came to the convent, and we gave him our seven young hearts with unresisting enthusiasm. Viola's heart, indeed, was held of small account, she being only ten years old; but Elizabeth was twelve, and Marie and Annie were thirteen,--ages ripe for passion, and remote from the taunt of immaturity. It was understood from the beginning that we all loved Marianus with equal right and fervour. We shared the emotion fairly and squarely, just as we shared an occasional box of candy, or any other benefaction. It was our common secret,--our fatal secret, we would have said,--and must be guarded with infinite precaution from a cold and possibly disapproving world; but no one of us dreamed of setting up a private romance of her own, of extracting from the situation more than one sixth--leaving Viola out--of its excitement and ecstasy. We discovered in the course of time our exile's name and nationality,--it was the chaplain who told us,--and also that he was studying for the priesthood; this last information coming from the mistress of recreation, and being plainly designed to dull our interest from the start. She added that he neither spoke nor understood anything but Italian, a statement which we determined to put to the proof as soon as fortune should favour us with the opportunity. The possession of an Italian dictionary became meanwhile imperative, and we had no way of getting such a thing. We couldn't write home for one, because our letters were all read before they were sent out, and any girl would be asked why she had made this singular request. We couldn't beg our mothers, even when we saw them, for dictionaries of a language they knew we were not studying. Lilly said she thought she might ask her father for one, the next time he came to the school. There is a lack of intelligence, or at least of alertness, about fathers, which makes them invaluable in certain emergencies; but which, on the other hand, is apt to precipitate them into blunders. Mr. Milton promised the dictionary, without putting any inconvenient questions, though he must have been a little surprised at the scholarly nature of the request; but just as he was going away, he said loudly and cheerfully:-- "Now what is it I am to bring you next time, children? Mint candy, and handkerchiefs,--your Aunt Helen says you must live on handkerchiefs,--and gloves for Viola, and a dictionary?" He was actually shaking hands with Madame Bouron, the Mistress General, as he spoke, and she turned to Lilly, and said:-- "Lilly, have you lost your French dictionary, as well as all your handkerchiefs?" "No, madame," said poor Lilly. "It's an Italian dictionary she wants this time," corrected Mr. Milton, evidently not understanding why Viola was poking him viciously in the back. "Lilly is not studying Italian. None of the children are," said Madame Bouron. And then, very slowly, and with an emphasis which made two of her hearers quake: "Lilly has no need of an Italian dictionary, Mr. Milton. She had better devote more time and attention to her French." "I nearly fainted on the spot," said Lilly, describing the scene to us afterwards; "and father looked scared, and got away as fast as he could; and Viola was red as a beet; and I thought surely Madame Bouron was going to say something to me; but, thank Heaven! Eloise Didier brought up her aunt to say good-by, and we slipped off. Do you think, girls, she'll ask me what I wanted with an Italian dictionary?" "Say you're going to translate Dante in the holidays," suggested Tony, with unfeeling vivacity. "Say you're going to Rome, to see the Pope," said Marie. "Say you're such an accomplished French scholar, it's time you turned your attention to something else," said Emily. "Say you're making a collection of dictionaries," said the imp, Viola. Lilly looked distressed. The humours of the situation were, perhaps, less manifest to her perturbed mind. But Elizabeth, who had been thinking the matter over, observed gloomily: "Oh, Boots" (our opprobrious epithet for the Mistress General) "won't bother to ask questions. She knows all she wants to know. She'll just watch us, and see that we never get a chance to speak to Marianus. It was bad enough before, but it will be worse than ever now. He might almost as well be in Italy." Things did seem to progress slowly, considering the passionate nature of our devotion. Never was there such an utter absence of opportunity. From the ringing of the first bell at quarter past six in the morning to the lowering of the dormitory lights at nine o'clock at night, we were never alone for a moment, but moved in orderly squadrons through the various duties of the day. Marianus served Mass every morning, and on Sundays assisted at Vespers and Benediction. Outside the chapel, we never saw him. He lived in "Germany,"--a name given, Heaven knows why, to a farm-house on the convent grounds, which was used as quarters for the chaplain and for visitors; but though we cast many a longing look in its direction, no dark Italian head was ever visible at window or at door. I believe my own share of affection was beginning to wither under this persistent blight, when something happened which not only renewed its fervour, but which thrilled my heart with a grateful sentiment, not wholly dead to-day. It was May,--a month dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and fuller than usual of church-going, processions, and hymns. We were supposed to be, or at least expected to be, particularly obedient and studious during these four weeks; and, by way of incentive, each class had its candle, tied with the class colour, and standing amid a lovely profusion of spring flowers on the Madonna's altar. There were six of them: white for the graduates, purple for the first class, blue for the second, red for the third, green for the fourth, and pink for the fifth,--the very little girls, for whom the discipline of school life was mercifully relaxed. All the candles were lighted every morning during Mass, unless some erring member of a class had, by misconduct the day before, forfeited the honour, not only for herself, but for her classmates. These tapers were my especial abhorrence. The laudable determination of the third class to keep the red-ribboned candle burning all month maddened me, both by the difficulties it presented, and by the meagre nature of the consequences involved. I could not bring myself to understand why they should care whether it were lit or not. To be sent downstairs to a deserted music-room, there to spend the noon recreation hour in studying Roman history or a French fable;--that was a penalty, hard to avoid, but easy to understand. Common sense and a love of enjoyment made it clear that no one should lightly run such risks. But I had not imagination enough to grasp the importance of a candle more or less upon the altar. It was useless to appeal to my love for the Blessed Virgin. I loved her so well and so confidently, I had placed my childish faith in her so long, that no doubt of her sympathy ever crossed my mind. My own mother might side with authority. Indeed, she represented the supreme, infallible authority, from which there was no appeal. But in every trouble of my poor little gusty life, the Blessed Mother sided with me. Of that, thank Heaven! I felt sure. This month my path was darkened by a sudden decision on Elizabeth's part that our candle should not be once extinguished. Elizabeth, to do her justice, did not often incline to virtue; but when she did, there was a scant allowance of cakes and ale for any of us. She never deviated from her chosen course, and she never fully understood the sincere but fallible nature of our unkept resolutions. I made my usual frantic, futile effort to follow her lead, with the usual melancholy failure. Before the first week was over, I had come into collision with authority (it was a matter of arithmetic, which always soured my temper to the snapping point); and the sixth of May saw five candles only burning at the veiled Madonna's feet. I sat, angry and miserable, while Madame Duncan, who had charge of the altar, lit the faithful five, and retired with a Rhadamanthine expression to her stall. Elizabeth, at the end of the bench, looked straight ahead, with an expression, or rather an enforced absence of expression, which I perfectly understood. She would not say anything, but none the less would her displeasure be made chillingly manifest. Mass had begun. The priest was reading the Introit, when Marianus lifted a roving eye upon the Blessed Virgin's altar. It was not within his province; he had nothing to do with its flowers or its tapers; but when did generous mind pause for such considerations? He saw that one candle, a candle with a drooping scarlet ribbon, was unlit; and, promptly rising from his knees, he plunged into the sacristy, reappeared with a burning wax-end, and repaired the error, while we held our breaths with agitation and delight. Madame Duncan's head was lowered in seemly prayer; but the ripple of excitement communicated itself mysteriously to her, and she looked up, just as Marianus had deftly accomplished his task. For an instant she half rose to her feet; and then the absurdity of re-attacking the poor little red candle seemed to dawn on her (she was an Irish nun, not destitute of humour), and with a fleeting smile at me,--a smile in which there was as much kindness as amusement,--she resumed her interrupted devotions. But I tucked my crimson face into my hands, and my soul shouted with joy. Marianus, our idol, our exile, the one true love of our six hearts, had done this deed for me. Not only was I lifted from disgrace, but raised to a preëminence of distinction; for had I not been saved by _him_? Oh, true knight! Oh, chivalrous champion of the unhappy and oppressed! When I recall that moment of triumph, it is even now with a stir of pride, and of something more than pride, for I am grateful still. That night, that very night, I was just sinking into sleep when a hand was laid cautiously upon my shoulder. I started up. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but I knew that the shadow by my side was Elizabeth. "Come out into the hall," she whispered softly. "You had better creep back of the beds. Don't make any noise!"--and without a sound she was gone. I slipped on my wrapper,--night-gowns gleam so perilously white,--and with infinite precaution stole behind my sleeping companions, each one curtained safely into her little muslin alcove. At the end of the dormitory I was joined by another silent figure,--it was Marie,--and very gently we pushed open the big doors. The hall outside was flooded with moonlight, and by the open window crouched a bunch of girls, pressed close together,--so close it was hard to disentangle them. A soft gurgle of delight bubbled up from one little throat, and was instantly hushed down by more prudent neighbours. Elizabeth hovered on the outskirts of the group, and, without a word, she pushed me to the sill. Beneath, leaning against a tree, not thirty feet away, stood Marianus. His back was turned to us, and he was smoking. We could see the easy grace of his attitude,--was he not an Italian?--we could smell the intoxicating fragrance of his cigar. Happily unaware of his audience, he smoked, and contemplated the friendly moon, and wondered, perhaps, why the Fates had cast him on this desert island, as remote from human companionship as Crusoe's. Had he known of the six young hearts that had been given him unbidden, it would probably have cheered him less than we imagined. But to us it seemed as though our shadowy romance had taken form and substance. The graceless daring of Marianus in stationing himself beneath our windows,--or at least beneath a window to which we had possible access; the unholy lateness of the hour,--verging fast upon half-past nine; the seductive moonlight; the ripe profligacy of the cigar;--what was wanting to this night's exquisite adventure! As I knelt breathless in the shadow, my head bobbing against Viola's and Marie's, I thought of Italy, of Venice, of Childe Harold, of everything that was remote, and beautiful, and unconnected with the trammels of arithmetic. I heard Annie Churchill murmur that it was like a serenade; I heard Tony's whispered conjecture as to whether the silent serenader really knew where we slept;--than which nothing seemed less likely;--I heard Elizabeth's warning "Hush!" whenever the muffled voices rose too high above the stillness of the sleeping convent; but nothing woke me from my dreams until Marianus slowly withdrew his shoulder from the supporting tree, and sauntered away, without turning his head once in our direction. We watched him disappear in the darkness; then, closing the window, moved noiselessly back to bed. "Who saw him first?" I asked at the dormitory door. "I did," whispered Elizabeth; "and I called them all. I didn't intend letting Viola know; but, of course, sleeping next to Lilly, she heard me. She ought to be up in the 'Holy Child' dormitory with the other little girls. It's ridiculous having her following us about everywhere." And, indeed, Viola's precocious pertinacity made her a difficult problem to solve. There are younger sisters who can be snubbed into impotence. Viola was no such weakling. But now the story which we thought just begun was drawing swiftly to its close. Perhaps matters had reached a point when something had to happen; yet it did seem strange--it seems strange even now--that the crisis should have been precipitated by a poetic outburst on the part of Elizabeth. Of all the six, she was the least addicted to poetry. She seldom read it, and never spent long hours in copying it in a blank-book, as was our foolish and laborious custom. She hated compositions, and sternly refused the faintest touch of sentiment when compelled to express her thoughts upon "The First Snow-drop," or "My Guardian Angel," or the "Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots." Tony wrote occasional verses of a personal and satiric character, which we held to sparkle with a biting wit. Annie Churchill had once rashly shown to Lilly and to me some feeble lines upon "The Evening Star." Deep hidden in my desk, unseen by mortal eye save mine, lay an impassioned "Soliloquy of Jane Eyre," in blank verse, which was almost volcanic in its fervour, and which perished the following year, unmourned, because unknown to the world. But Elizabeth had never shown the faintest disposition to write anything that could be left unwritten, until Marianus stirred the waters of her soul. That night, that moonlit night, and the dark figure smoking in the shadows, cast their sweet spell upon her. With characteristic promptness, she devoted her French study hour the following afternoon to the composition of a poem, which was completed when we went to class, and which she showed me secretly while we were scribbling our _dictée_. There were five verses, headed "To Marianus," and beginning,-- "Gracefully up the long aisle he glides," which was a poetic license, as the chapel aisle was short, and Marianus had never glided up it since he came. He always--in virtue of his office--entered by the sacristy door. But realism was then as little known in literature as in art, and poetry was not expected to savour of statement rather than emotion. Elizabeth's masterpiece expressed in glowing numbers the wave of sentiment by which we were submerged. Before night it had passed swiftly from hand to hand, and before night the thunderbolt had fallen. Whose rashness was to blame I do not now remember; but, thank Heaven! it was not mine. Some one's giggle was too unsuppressed. Some one thrust the paper too hurriedly into her desk, or dropped it on the floor, or handed it to some one else in a manner too obviously mysterious not to arouse suspicion. I only know that it fell into the hands of little Madame Davide, who had the eyes of a ferret and the heart of a mouse, and who, being unable to read a word of English, sent it forthwith to Madame Bouron. I only know that, after that brief and unsatisfactory glimpse in French class, I never saw it again; which is why I can now recall but one line out of twenty,--a circumstance I devoutly regret. It was a significant proof of Madame Bouron's astuteness that, without asking any questions, or seeking any further information, she summoned six girls to her study that evening after prayers. She had only the confiscated poem in Elizabeth's writing as a clue to the conspiracy, but she needed nothing more. There we were, all duly indicted, save Viola, whose youth, while it failed to protect us from the unsought privilege of her society, saved her, as a rule, from any retributive measures. Her absence on this occasion was truly a comfort, as her presence would have involved the added and most unmerited reproach of leading a younger child into mischief. Viola was small for her age, and had appealing brown eyes. There was not a nun in the convent who knew her for the imp she was. Lilly, gay, sweet, simple, generous, and unselfish, seemed as wax in her little sister's hands. There were six of us, then, to bear the burden of blame; and Madame Bouron, sitting erect in the lamplight, apportioned it with an unsparing hand. Her fine face (she was coldly handsome, but we did not like her well enough to know it) expressed contemptuous displeasure; her words conveyed a somewhat exaggerated confidence in our guilt. Of Elizabeth's verses she spoke with icy scorn;--she had not been aware that so gifted a writer graced the school; but the general impropriety of our behaviour was unprecedented in the annals of the convent. That we, members of the Society of St. Aloysius, should have shown ourselves so unworthy of our privileges, and so forgetful of our patron, was a surprise even to her; though (she was frankness itself) she had never entertained a good opinion either of our dispositions or of our intelligence. The result of such misconduct was that the chaplain's assistant must leave at once and forever. Not that _he_ had ever wasted a thought upon any girl in the school. His heart was set upon the priesthood. Young though he was, he had already suffered for the Church. His father had fought and died in defence of the Holy See. His home had been lost. He was a stranger in a far land. And now he must be driven from the asylum he had sought, because we could not be trusted to behave with that modesty and discretion which had always been the fairest adornment of children reared within the convent's holy walls. She hoped that we would understand how grievous was the wrong we had done, and that even our callous hearts would bleed when we went to our comfortable beds, and reflected that, because of our wickedness and folly, a friendless and pious young student was once more alone in the world. It was over! We trailed slowly up to the dormitory, too bewildered to understand the exact nature of our misdoing. The most convincing proof of our mental confusion is that our own immaculate innocence never occurred to any of us. We had looked one night out of the window at Marianus, and Elizabeth had written the five amorous verses. That was all. Not one of us had spoken a word to the object of our affections. Not one of us could boast a single glance, given or received. We had done nothing; yet so engrossing had been the sentiment, so complete the absorption of the past two months, that we, living in a children's world of illusions,--"passionate after dreams, and unconcerned about realities,"--had deemed ourselves players of parts, actors in an unsubstantial drama, intruders into the realms of the forbidden. We accepted this conviction with meekness, untempered by regret; but we permitted ourselves a doubt as to whether our iniquity were wholly responsible for the banishment of Marianus. The too strenuous pointing of a moral breeds skepticism in the youthful soul. When Squire Martin (of our grandfathers' reading-books) assured Billy Freeman that dogs and turkey-cocks were always affable to children who studied their lessons and obeyed their parents, that innocent little boy must have soon discovered for himself that virtue is but a weak bulwark in the barnyard. We, too, had lost implicit confidence in the fine adjustments of life; and, upon this occasion, we found comfort in incredulity. On the stairs Elizabeth remarked to me in a gloomy undertone that Marianus could never have intended to stay at the convent, anyhow, and that he probably had been "sent for." She did not say whence, or by whom; but the mere suggestion was salve to my suffering soul. It enabled me, at least, to bear the sight of Annie Churchill's tears, when, ten minutes later, that weak-minded girl slid into my alcove (as if we were not in trouble enough already), and, sitting forlornly on my bed, asked me in a stifled whisper, "did I think that Marianus was really homeless, and couldn't we make up a sum of money, and send it to him?" "How much have you got?" I asked her curtly. The complicated emotions through which I had passed had left me in a savage humour; and the peculiar infelicity of this proposal might have irritated St. Aloysius himself. We were not allowed the possession of our own money, though in view of the fact that there was ordinarily nothing to buy with it, extravagance would have been impossible. Every Thursday afternoon the "Bazaar" was opened; our purses, carefully marked with name and number, were handed to us, and we were at liberty to purchase such uninteresting necessities as writing-paper, stamps, blank-books, pencils, and sewing materials. The sole concession to prodigality was a little pile of pious pictures,--small French prints, ornamented with lace paper, which it was our custom to give one another upon birthdays and other festive occasions. They were a great resource in church, where prayer-books, copiously interleaved with these works of art, were passed to and fro for mutual solace and refreshment. All these things were as well known to Annie as to me, but she was too absorbed in her grief to remember them. She mopped her eyes, and said vacantly that she thought she had a dollar and a half. "I have seventy-five cents," I said; "and Elizabeth hasn't anything. She spent all her money last Thursday. We might be able to raise five dollars amongst us. If you think that much would be of any use to Marianus, all you have to do is to ask Madame Bouron for our purses, and for his address, and see if she would mind our writing and sending it to him." Annie, impervious at all times to sarcasm, looked dazed for a moment, her wet blue eyes raised piteously to mine. "Then you think we couldn't manage it?" she asked falteringly. But I plunged my face into my wash-basin, as a hint that the conversation was at an end. I, too, needed the relief of tears, and was waiting impatiently to be alone. For Marianus had gone. Of that, at least, there was no shadow of doubt. We should never see him again; and life seemed to stretch before me in endless grey reaches of grammar, and arithmetic, and French conversation; of getting up early in the morning, uncheered by the thought of seeing Marianus serve Mass; of going to bed at night, with never another glance at that dark shadow in the moonlight. I felt that for me the page of love was turned forever, the one romance of my life was past. I cried softly and miserably into my pillow; and resolved, as I did so, that the next morning I would write on the fly-leaves of my new French prayer-book and my "Thomas à Kempis" the lines:-- "'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all." The Convent Stage "From this hour I do renounce the creed whose fatal worship of bad passions has led thee on, step by step, to this blood-guiltiness!" Elizabeth was studying her part. We were all studying our parts; but we stopped to listen to this glowing bit of declamation, which Elizabeth delivered with unbroken calm. "I drop down on my knees when I say that," she observed gloomily. We looked at her with admiring, envious eyes. Our own rôles offered no such golden opportunities. Lilly's, indeed, was almost as easily learned as Snug's, being limited to three words, "The Christian slave?" which were supposed to be spoken interrogatively; but which she invariably pronounced as an abstract statement, bearing on nothing in particular. It was seldom, however, that we insignificant little girls of the Second Cours were permitted to take part in any play, and we felt to the full the honour and glory of our positions. "I come on in three scenes, and speak eleven times," I said, with a pride which I think now strongly resembled Mr. Rushworth's. "What are you, Tony?" "A beggar child," said Tony. "I cry 'Bread! bread!' in piercing accents" (she was reading from the stage directions), "and afterwards say to Zara,--that's Mary Orr,--'Our thanks are due to thee, noble lady, who from thy abundance feeds us once. Our love and blessings follow her who gave us daily of her slender store.'" "Is that all?" "The other beggar child says nothing but 'Bread! bread!'" replied Tony stiffly. "What a lot of costumes to get up for so many little parts!" commented Elizabeth, ever prone to consider the practical aspect of things. "I am dressed in rags," said Tony. "They oughtn't to give much trouble." "Lilly and I are to be dressed alike," I said. "'Slaves of the royal household.' Madame Rayburn said we were to wear Turkish trousers of yellow muslin, with blue tunics, and red sashes tied at the side. Won't we look like guys?" I spoke with affected disdain and real complacency, gloating--like Mr. Rushworth--over the finery I pretended to despise. Elizabeth stared at us dispassionately. "Lilly will look well in anything," she remarked with disconcerting candour, at which Lilly blushed a lovely rose pink. She knew how pretty she was, but she had that exquisite sweetness of temper which is so natural an accompaniment of beauty. Perhaps we should all be sweet-tempered if we could feel sure that people looked at us with pleasure. "You will have to wear Turkish trousers, too," said Tony maliciously to Elizabeth; "and get down on your knees in them." "No, I won't," returned Elizabeth scornfully. "I'm not a Turk. I'm a Moorish princess,--Zara's niece." "Moors and Turks are the same," said Tony with conviction. "Moors and Turks are not the same," said Elizabeth. "Turks live in Turkey, and Moors live--Whereabouts is this play, anyway, Marie?" "Granada," said Marie. "The Spanish army, under Ferdinand and Isabella, is besieging Granada. I wish I were a Moor instead of a pious Spanish lady. It would be a great deal more fun. I've always got pious parts." This was true, but then most of the parts in our convent plays _were_ pious, and if they were given to Marie, it was because she was so good an actress,--the only one our Second Cours could boast. Elizabeth, indeed, had her merits. She never forgot her lines, never was frightened, never blundered. But her absolutely unemotional rendering of the most heroic sentiments chilled her hearers' hearts. Marie was fervid and impassioned. Her _r-r_'s had the true Gallic roll. Her voice vibrated feelingly. She was tall for thirteen, without being hopelessly overgrown as Emily and I were. Strangest of all, she did not seem to mind the foolish and embarrassing things which she was obliged to do upon the stage. She would fling her arms around an aged parent, and embrace her fondly. She would expound the truths of Christianity, as St. Philomena. She would weep, and pray, and forgive her enemies, as the luckless Madame Elisabeth. What is more, she would do these things at rehearsals, in her short school frock, with unabated fervour, and without a shade of embarrassment. We recognized her as a Heaven-sent genius, second only to Julia Reynolds and Antoinette Mayo (who I still think _must_ have been the greatest of living actresses), yet in our secret souls we despised a little such absolute lack of self-consciousness. We were so awkward and abashed when brought face to face with any emotion, so incapable of giving it even a strangled utterance, that Marie's absorption in her parts seemed to us a trifle indecent. It was on a par with her rapid French, her lively gestures, her openly expressed affection for the nuns she liked, and the unconcern with which she would walk up the long classroom, between two rows of motionless girls, to have a medal hung around her neck on Sunday night at Primes. This hideous ordeal, which clouded our young lives, was no more to Marie than walking upstairs,--no more than unctuously repeating every day for a fortnight the edifying remarks of the pious Spanish lady. Plays were the great diversions of our school life. We had two or three of them every winter, presented, it seemed to me, with dazzling splendour, and acted with passionate fire. I looked forward to these performances with joyful excitement, I listened, steeped in delight, I dreamed of them afterwards for weeks. The big girls who played in them, and of whom I knew little but their names, were to me beings of a remote and exalted nature. The dramas themselves were composed with a view to our especial needs, or rather to our especial limitations. Their salient feature was the absence of courtship and of love. It was part of the convent system to ignore the master passion, to assume that it did not exist, to banish from our work and from our play any reference to the power that moves the world. The histories we studied skipped chastely on from reign to reign, keeping always at bay this riotous intruder. The books we read were as free as possible from any taint of infection. The poems we recited were as serene and cold as Teneriffe. "Love in the drama," says an acrimonious critic, "plays rather a heavy part." It played no part at all in ours, and I am disposed to look back now upon its enforced absence as an agreeable elimination. The students of St. Omer--so I have been told--presented a French version of "Romeo and Juliet," with all the love scenes left out. This _tour de force_ was beyond our scope; but "She Stoops to Conquer," shorn of its double courtship, made a vivacious bit of comedy, and a translation of "Le Malade Imaginaire"--expurgated to attenuation--was the most successful farce of the season. Of course the expurgation was not done by us. We knew Goldsmith and Molière only in their convent setting, where, it is safe to say, they would never have known themselves. Most of our plays, however, were original productions, written by some one of the nuns whose talents chanced to be of a dramatic order. They were, as a rule, tragic in character, and devout in sentiment,--sometimes so exceedingly devout as to resemble religious homilies rather than the legitimate drama. A conversation held in Purgatory, which gave to three imprisoned souls an opportunity to tell one another at great length, and with shameless egotism, the faults and failings of their lives, was not--to our way of thinking--a play. We listened unmoved to the disclosures of these garrulous spirits, who had not sinned deeply enough to make their revelations interesting. It was like going to confession on a large and liberal scale. The martyrdom of St. Philomena was nearly as dull, though the saint's defiance of the tyrant Symphronius--"persecutor of the innocent, slayer of the righteous, despot whose knell has even this hour rung"--lent a transient gleam of emotion; and the angel who visited her in prison--and who had great difficulty getting his wings through the narrow prison door--was, to my eyes at least, a vision of celestial beauty. What we really loved were historical dramas, full of great names and affecting incidents. Our crowning triumph (several times repeated) was "Zuma," a Peruvian play in which an Indian girl is accused of poisoning the wife of the Spanish general, when she is really trying to cure her of a fever by giving her quinine, a drug known only to the Peruvians, and the secret of which the young captive has sworn never to divulge. "Zuma" was a glorious play. Its first production marked an epoch in our lives. Gladly would we have given it a season's run, had such indulgence been a possibility. There was one scene between the heroine and her free and unregenerate sister, Italca, which left an indelible impression upon my mind. It took place in a subterranean cavern. The stage was darkened, and far-off music--the sound of Spanish revelry--floated on the air. Italca brings Zuma a portion of bark, sufficient only for her own needs,--for she too is fever-stricken,--but, before giving it, asks with piercing scorn: "Are you still an Inca's daughter, or a Castilian slave?"--a question at which poor Zuma can only weep piteously, but which sent thrills of rapture down my youthful spine. I have had my moments of emotion since then. When Madame Bernhardt as La Tosca put the lighted candles on either side of the murdered Scarpia, and laid the crucifix upon his breast. When Madame Duse as Magda turned suddenly upon the sleek Von Keller, and for one awful moment loosened the floodgates of her passion and her scorn: "You have asked after Emma and after Katie. You have not asked for your child." But never again has my soul gone out in such a tumult of ecstasy as when Zuma and Italca, Christian and Pagan sisters, the captive and the unconquered, faced each other upon our convent stage. And now for the first time I--I, eleven years old, and with no shadowy claim to distinction--was going to take part in a play, was going to tread the boards in yellow Turkish trousers, and speak eleven times for all the school to hear. No fear of failure, no reasonable misgivings fretted my heart's content. Marie might scorn the Spanish lady's rôle; but then Marie had played "Zuma,"--had reached at a bound the highest pinnacle of fame. Elizabeth might grumble at giving up our recreation hours to rehearsals; but then Elizabeth had been one of the souls in Purgatory, the sinfullest soul, and the most voluble of all. Besides, nothing ever elated Elizabeth. She had been selected once to make an address to the Archbishop, and to offer him a basket of flowers; he had inquired her name, and had said he knew her father; yet all this public notice begot in her no arrogance of soul. Her only recorded observation was to the effect that, if she were an archbishop, she wouldn't listen to addresses; a suggestion which might have moved the weary and patient prelate more than did the ornate assurances of our regard. With this shining example of insensibility before my eyes, I tried hard to conceal my own inordinate pride. Rehearsals began before we knew our parts, and the all-important matter of costumes came at once under consideration. The "play-closet," that mysterious receptacle of odds and ends, of frayed satins, pasteboard swords, and tarnished tinsel jewelry, was soon exhausted of its treasures. Some of the bigger girls, who were to be Spanish ladies in attendance upon Queen Isabella, persuaded their mothers to lend them old evening gowns. The rest of the clothes we manufactured ourselves, "by the pure light of reason," having no models of any kind to assist or to disturb us. Happily, there were no Spanish men in the play. Men always gave a good deal of trouble, because they might not, under any circumstances, be clad in male attire. A short skirt, reaching to the knee, and generally made of a balmoral petticoat, was the nearest compromise permitted. Marlow, that consummate dandy, wore, I remember, a red and black striped skirt, rubber boots, a black jacket, a high white collar, and a red cravat. The cravat was given to Julia Reynolds, who played the part, by her brother. It indicated Marlow's sex, and was considered a little indecorous in its extreme mannishness. "They'll hardly know what she" (Mrs. Potts) "is meant for, will they?" asks Mr. Snodgrass anxiously, when that estimable lady proposes going to Mrs. Leo Hunter's fancy ball as Apollo, in a white satin gown with spangles. To which Mr. Winkle makes indignant answer: "Of course they will. They'll see her lyre." With the same admirable acumen, we who saw Marlow's cravat recognized him immediately as a man. Moors, and Peruvians, and ancient Romans were more easily attired. They wore skirts as a matter of course, looked a good deal alike, and resembled in the main the "Two Gentlemen of Verona," as costumed by Mr. Abbey. It is with much pleasure I observe how closely--if how unconsciously--Mr. Abbey has followed our convent models. His Valentine might be Manco or Cléante strutting upon our school stage. His Titania is a white-veiled first communicant. The Turkish trousers worn by Lilly and by me--also by Elizabeth, to her unutterable disgust--were allowed because they were portions of feminine attire. Made of rattling paper muslin, stiff, baggy, and with a hideous tendency to slip down at every step, they evoked the ribald mirth of all the other actors. Mary Orr, especially, having firmly declined a pair as part of Zara's costume, was moved to such unfeeling laughter at the first dress rehearsal that I could hardly summon courage to stand by Lilly's side. "The more you show people you mind a thing, the more they'll do it;" Elizabeth had once observed out of the profundity of her school experience,--an experience which dated from her seventh year. Her own armour of assumed unconcern was provocation-proof. She had mistrusted the trousers from the beginning, while I, thinking of Lalla Rookh and Nourmahal (ladies unknown to the convent library), had exulted in their opulent Orientalism. She had expressed dark doubts as to their fit and shape; and had put them on with visible reluctance, and only because no choice had been allowed her. The big girls arranged--within limits--their own costumes, but the little girls wore what was given them. Yet the impenetrable calm with which she presented herself dulled the shafts of schoolgirl sarcasm. You might as well have tried to cauterize a wooden leg--to use Mirabeau's famous simile--as to have tried to provoke Elizabeth. "Isabella of Castile" was a tragedy. Its heroine, Inez, was held a captive by the Moors, and was occupying herself when the play opened with the conversion to Christianity of Ayesha, the assumed daughter of the ever-famous Hiaya Alnayar,--a splendid anachronism (at the siege of Granada), worthy of M. Sardou. Inez embodied all the Christian virtues, as presented only too often for our consideration. She was so very good that she could hardly help suspecting how good she was; and she never spoke without uttering sentiments so noble and exalted that the Moors--simple children of nature--hated her unaffectedly, and made life as disagreeable for her as they knew how. The powers of evil were represented by Zara, sister of Hiaya, and the ruling spirit of Granada. Enlightened criticism would now call Zara a patriot; but we held sterner views. It was she who defied the Spaniards, who refused surrender, and who, when hope had fled, plotted the murder of Isabella. It was she who persecuted the saintly Inez, and whose dagger pierced Ayesha's heart in the last tumultuous scene. A delightful part to act! I knew every line of it before the rehearsals were over, and I used to rant through it in imagination when I was supposed to be studying my lessons, and when I was lying in my little bed. There were glowing moments when I pictured to myself Mary Orr falling ill the very day of the performance, Madame Rayburn in despair, everybody thunderstruck and helpless, and I stepping modestly forward to confess I knew the part. I saw myself suddenly the centre of attention, the forlorn hope of a desperate emergency, my own insignificant speeches handed over to any one who could learn them, and I storming through Zara's lines to the admiration and wonder of the school. The ease with which I sacrificed Mary Orr to this ambitious vision is pleasing now to contemplate; but I believe I should have welcomed the Bubonic plague, with the prospect of falling its victim the next day, to have realized my dreams. "One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name." It was a pity that none of this dramatic fervour found expression in my own rôle, which, though modest, was not without its possibilities. But I was ardent only in imagination, dramatic only in my dreams. When it came to words, I was tame and halting; when it came to gestures, I was awkward and constrained. In vain Madame Rayburn read and re-read me my lines, which, in her clear, flexible voice, took on meaning and purpose. In vain she sought to impress upon me my own especial characteristics,--a slavish spitefulness and servility. It was my privilege to appear in the first scene, and to make the first speech of any importance,--to strike, as I was told, the keynote of the play. The rising curtain revealed Ayesha (Julia Reynolds) in her father's palace; Lilly and I in attendance. _Ayesha._ Send hither Inez. _Lilly._ (Her one great effort.) The Christian slave? _Ayesha_ (impatiently). Is there another Inez in the household? You may both retire. Obediently we bowed and retired; but on the threshold I remarked to Lilly in a bitter undertone, audible only to the house: "Ay! ay, we may retire. And yet I think her noble kinsmen would deem our songs and tales better amusement for a winter's eve than all these whispered controversies on the Christian faith that last sometimes the whole night through. I've overheard them. But wait until Zara returns." "Try and say those last words threateningly," Madame Rayburn would entreat. "Remember you are going to betray Ayesha's secret. '_Wait_ until Zara returns.' And you might clench your right hand. Your _right_ hand. No, no, don't raise it. Julia, if you giggle so, I shall never be able to teach the children anything. You embarrass and confuse them. Try once more: '_Wait_ until Zara returns.' Now enter Inez. 'Lady, you sent for me.'" Rehearsals were, on the whole, not an unmixed delight. A large circle of amused critics is hardly conducive to ease, and the free expression of dramatic force,--at least, not when one is eleven years old, and painfully shy. I envied Marie her fervour and pathos, her clasped hands and uplifted eyes. I envied Elizabeth her business-like repose, the steady, if somewhat perfunctory, fashion in which she played her part. I envied Lilly, who halted and stammered over her three words, but whose beauty made amends for all shortcomings. Yet day by day I listened with unabated interest to the familiar lines. Day by day the climax awoke in me the same sentiments of pity and exultation. Moreover, the distinction of being in the cast was something solid and satisfactory. It lifted me well above the heads of less fortunate, though certainly not less deserving, classmates. It enabled me to assume an attitude toward Annie Churchill and Emily which I can only hope they were generous enough to forgive. It was an honour universally coveted, and worth its heavy cost. The night came. The stage was erected at one end of our big study-room (classic-hall, we called it); the audience, consisting of the school and the nuns, for no strangers were admitted on these occasions, sat in serried ranks to witness our performance. Behind the scenes, despite the frenzy of suppressed excitement, there reigned outward order and tranquillity. The splendid precision of our convent training held good in all emergencies. We revolved like spheres in our appointed orbits, and confusion was foreign to our experience. I am inclined to think that the habit of self-restraint induced by this gentle inflexibility of discipline, this exquisite sense of method and proportion, was the most valuable by-product of our education. There was an element of dignity in being even an insignificant part of a harmonious whole. At the stroke of eight the curtain rose. Ayesha, reclining upon cushions, and wearing all the chains and necklaces the school could boast, listens with rapture to the edifying discourse of Inez, and confesses her readiness to be baptized. Inez gives pious thanks for this conversion, not forgetting to remind the Heavenly powers that it was through her agency it was effected. Into this familiar atmosphere of controversy the sudden return of Zara brings a welcome breath of wickedness and high resolve. Granada is doomed. Her days are numbered. The Spanish army, encamped in splendour, awaits her inevitable fall. Her ruler is weak and vacillating. Her people cry for bread. But Zara's spirit is unbroken. She finds Inez--in whom every virtue and every grace conspire to exasperate--distributing her own portion of food to clamorous beggars, and sweeps her sternly aside: "Dare not again degrade a freeborn Moslem into a recipient of thy Christian charity." She vows that if the city cannot be saved, its fall shall be avenged, and that the proud Queen of Castile shall never enter its gates in triumph. Dark whispers of assassination fill the air. The plot is touching in its simplicity. Inez, a captive of rank, is to be sent as a peace offering to the Spanish lines. Ayesha and Zoraiya (Elizabeth) accompany her as pledges of good faith. Zara, disguised as a serving woman, goes with them,--her soul inflamed with hate, her dagger hidden in her breast. Ayesha is kept in ignorance of the conspiracy; but Zoraiya knows,--knows that the queen is to be murdered, and that her own life will help to pay the penalty. "Does she consent?" whispers a slave to me; to which I proudly answer: "Consent! Ay, gladly. If it be well for Granada that this Spanish queen should die, then Zara's niece, being of Zara's blood, thinks neither of pity nor precaution. She says she deals with the Castilian's life as with her own, and both are forfeited." The scene shifts--by the help of our imagination, for scene-shifters we had none--to Santa Fe, that marvellous camp, more like a city than a battlefield, where the Spaniards lie entrenched. It is an hour of triumph for Inez, and, as might be expected, she bears herself with superlative and maddening sanctity. She is all the Cardinal Virtues rolled into one. To live with the Saints in Heaven Is untold bliss and glory; But to live with the saints on earth Is quite another story. When I--meanly currying favour--beg her to remember that I have ever stood her friend, she replies with proud humility: "I will remember naught that I have seen, or heard, or suffered in Granada; and therein lies your safety." The rôle of Isabella of Castile was played by Frances Fenton, a large, fair girl, with a round face, a slow voice, and an enviable placidity of disposition; a girl habitually decorated with all the medals, ribbons, and medallions that the school could bestow for untarnished propriety of behaviour. She wore a white frock of noticeable simplicity ("so great a soul as Isabella," said Madame Rayburn, "could never stoop to vanity"), a blue sash, and a gold crown, which was one of our most valued stage properties. Foremost among the ladies who surrounded her was Marie, otherwise the Marchioness de Moya, mother of Inez, and also--though this has still to be divulged--of the long-lost Ayesha. It is while the marchioness is clasping Inez in her maternal arms, and murmuring thanks to Heaven, and all the other Spanish ladies are clasping their hands, and murmuring thanks to Heaven, that Zara sees her opportunity to stab the unsuspecting queen. She steals cautiously forward (my throbbing heart stood still), and draws the dagger--a mother-of-pearl paper knife--from the folds of her dress. But Ayesha, rendered suspicious by conversion, is watching her closely. Suddenly she divines her purpose, and, when Zara's arm is raised to strike, she springs forward to avert the blow. It pierces her heart, and with a gasp she falls dying at Isabella's feet. Every word that followed is engraven indelibly upon my memory. I have forgotten much since then, but only with death can this last scene be effaced from my recollection. It was now that Elizabeth was to make her vehement recantation, was to be converted with Shakespearian speed. It was now she was to fall upon her knees, and abjure Mohammedanism forever. She did not fall. She took a step forward, and knelt quietly and decorously by Ayesha's side, as if for night prayers. Her volcanic language contrasted strangely with the imperturbable tranquillity of her demeanour. _Zoraiya._ Oh! Zara, thou hast slain her, slain the fair flower of Granada. The darling of Hiaya's heart is dead. _Spanish Lady._ The girl speaks truth. 'Twas Zara's arm that struck. _Zoraiya_ (conscientiously). From this hour I do renounce the creed whose fatal worship of bad passions has led thee on, step by step, to this blood-guiltiness. _Zara._ Peace, peace, Zoraiya! Degrade not thyself thus for one not of thy blood nor race. _Zoraiya._ Thy brother's child not of our blood nor race! Thy crime has made thee mad. _Zara._ Thou shalt see. I would have word with the Marchioness de Moya. _Marchioness de Moya_ (springing forward). Why namest thou me, woman? O Queen! why does this Moslem woman call on me? _Isabella_ (with uplifted eyes). Pray, pray! my friend. Naught else can help thee in this hour which I see coming. For, oh! this is Heaven-ordained. _Zara._ Thou hadst a daughter? _Marchioness de Moya._ I have one. _Zara._ One lost to thee in infancy, when Hiaya stormed Alhama. If thou wouldst once again embrace her, take in thine arms thy dying child. _Marchioness de Moya_ (unsteadily). Thy hatred to our race is not unknown. Thou sayest this, seeking to torture me. But know, 'twere not torture, 'twere happiness, to believe thy words were words of truth. _Zara._ I would not make a Christian happy. But the words are spoken, and cannot be withdrawn. For the rest, Hiaya, whose degenerate wife reared as her own the captive child, will not dispute its truth, now that she is passing equally away from him and thee. _Spanish Lady._ Oh! hapless mother! _Marchioness de Moya_ (proudly). Hapless! I would not change my dying child for any living one in Christendom. And now, alas! that I must tell it, came the burning humiliation of my childhood. Until this moment, as the reader may have noticed, no one had offered to arrest Zara, nor staunch Ayesha's wound, nor call for aid, nor do any of the things that would naturally have been done off the stage. The necessity of explaining the situation had overridden--as it always does in the drama--every other consideration. But now, while the queen was busy embracing the marchioness, and while the Spanish ladies were bending over Ayesha's body, it was my part to pluck Zara's robe, and whisper: "Quick, quick, let us be gone! To linger here is death." To which she scornfully retorts: "They have no thought of thee, slave; and, as for me, I go to meet what fate Allah ordains:" and slowly leaves the stage. But where _was_ I? Not in our convent schoolroom, not on our convent stage; but in the queen's pavilion, witness to a tragedy which rent my soul in twain. Ayesha (I had a passionate admiration for Julia Reynolds), lying dead and lovely at my feet; Marie's pitiful cry vibrating in my ears; and Zara's splendid scorn and hatred overriding all pity and compunction. Wrapped in the contemplation of these things, I stood speechless and motionless, oblivious of cues, unaware of Zara's meaning glance, unconscious of the long, strained pause, or of Madame Rayburn's loud prompting from behind the scenes. At last, hopeless of any help in my direction, Zara bethought herself to say: "As for me, I go to meet what fate Allah ordains:" and stalked off,--which independent action brought me to my senses with a start. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too late; and, realizing the horror of my position, I turned and fled,--fled to meet the flood-tide of Mary Orr's reproaches. "Every one will think that I forgot my lines," she stormed. "Didn't you see me looking straight at you, and waiting for my cue? The whole scene was spoiled by your stupidity." I glanced miserably at Madame Rayburn. Of all the nuns I loved her best; but I knew her too well to expect any comfort from her lips. Her brown eyes were very cold and bright. "The scene was not spoiled," she said judicially; "it went off remarkably well. But I did think, Agnes, that, although you cannot act, you had too much interest in the play, and too much feeling for the situation, to forget entirely where you were, or what you were about. There, don't cry! It didn't matter much." Don't cry! As well say to the pent-up dam, "Don't overflow!" or to the heaving lava-bed, "Don't leave your comfortable crater!" Already my tears were raining down over my blue tunic and yellow trousers. How could I--poor, inarticulate child--explain that it was because of my absorbing interest in the play, my passionate feeling for the situation, that I was now humbled to the dust, and that my career as an actress was closed? In Retreat We were on the eve of a "spiritual retreat,"--four whole days of silence,--and, in consideration of this fact, were enjoying the unusual indulgence of an hour's recreation after supper. The gravity of the impending change disturbed our spirits, and took away from us--such is the irony of fate--all desire to talk. We were not precisely depressed, although four days of silence, of sermons, of "religious exercises," and examinations of conscience, might seem reasonably depressing. But on the other hand,--happy adjustment of life's burdens,--we should have no lessons to study, no dictations to write, no loathsome arithmetic to fret our peaceful hearts. The absence of French for four whole days was, in itself, enough to sweeten the pious prospect ahead of us. Elizabeth firmly maintained she liked making retreats; but then Elizabeth regarded her soul's perils with a less lively concern than I did. She was not cursed with a speculative temperament. What we all felt, sitting silent and somewhat apprehensive in the lamplight, was a desire to do something outrageous,--something which should justify the plunge we were about to make into penitence and compunction of heart. It was the stirring of the Carnival spirit within us, the same intensely human impulse which makes the excesses of Shrove Tuesday a prelude to the first solemn services of Lent. The trouble with us was that we did not know what to do. Our range of possible iniquities was at all times painfully limited. When I recall it, I am fain to think of a pleasant conceit I once heard from Mr. Royce, concerning the innocence of baby imps. Thanks to the closeness of our guardianship, and to the pure air we breathed, no little circle of azure-winged cherubim were ever more innocent than we; yet there were impish promptings in every guiltless heart. Is it possible to look at those cheerful, snub-nosed angels that circle around Fra Lippo Lippi's madonnas, without speculating upon the superfluity of naughtiness that must be forgiven them day by day? "We might blow out the lights," suggested Lilly feebly. Elizabeth shook her head, and the rest of us offered no response. To blow out the schoolroom lamps was one of those heroic misdeeds which could be attempted only in moments of supreme excitement, when some breathless romping game had raised our spirits to fever pitch. It was utterly out of keeping with our present mood, and besides it was not really wrong,--only forbidden under penalties. We were subtle enough--at least some of us were; nobody expected subtlety from Lilly--to recognize the difference. A silence followed. Tony's chin was sunk in the palm of her hand. When she lifted her head, her brown eyes shone with a flickering light. An enchanting smile curved her crooked little mouth. "Let's steal the straws from under the Bambino in the corridor," she said. We rose swiftly and simultaneously to our feet. Here was a crime, indeed; a crime which offered the twofold stimulus of pillage and impiety. The Bambino, a little waxen image we all ardently admired, reposed under a glass case in the wide hall leading to the chapel. He lay with his dimpled arms outstretched on a bed of symmetrically arranged straws; not the common, fuzzy, barnyard straws, but those large, smooth cylinders, through which all children love to suck up lemonade and soda water. Soda water was to us an unknown beverage, and lemonade the rarest of indulgences; but we had always coveted the straws, though the unblessed thought of taking them had never entered any mind before. Now, welcoming the temptation, and adding deceit to all the other sins involved, we put on our black veils, and made demure pretence of going to the chapel to pray. Except to go to the chapel, five little girls would never have been permitted to leave the schoolroom together; and, under ordinary circumstances, this sudden access of piety might have awakened reasonable suspicions in the breast of the Mistress of recreation. But the impending retreat made it seem all right to her (she was no great student of human nature), and her friendly smile, as we curtsied and withdrew, brought a faint throb of shame to my perfidious soul. Once outside the door, we scuttled swiftly to the chapel hall. It was silent and empty. Tony lifted the heavy glass cover which protected the Bambino,--the pretty, helpless baby we were going to ruthlessly rob. For a moment my inborn reverence conquered, and I stooped to kiss the waxen feet. Then, surging hotly through my heart, came the thought,--a Judas kiss; and with a shudder I pulled myself away. By this time, I didn't want the straws, I didn't want to take them at all; but, when one sins in company, one must respect one's criminal obligations. "Honour among thieves." Hurriedly we collected our spoils,--ten shining tubes, which left horrid gaps in the Bambino's bed. Then the case was lowered, and we stood giggling and whispering in the corridor. "Let's"--said Tony. But what new villainy she meditated, we never knew. The chapel door opened,--it was Madame Bouron,--and we fled precipitately back to the schoolroom. As we reached it, the clanging of a bell struck dolorously upon our ears. Our last free hour was over, and silence, the unbroken silence of four days, had fallen like a pall upon the convent. We took off our veils, and slipped limply into line for prayers. The next morning a new order of things reigned throughout the hushed school. The French conversation, which ordinarily made pretence of enlivening our breakfast hour, was exchanged for a soothing stillness. In place of our English classes, we had a sermon from Father Santarius, some chapters of religious reading, and a quiet hour to devote to any pious exercise we deemed most profitable to our souls. Dinner and supper were always silent meals, and one of the older girls read aloud to us,--a pleasant and profitable custom. Now the travels of Père Huc--a most engaging book--was laid aside in favour of Montalembert's "Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary,"--which also had its charm. Many deficiencies there were in our educational scheme,--it was so long ago,--but the unpardonable sin of commonplaceness could never be counted its shortcoming. After dinner there was an "instruction" from one of the nuns, and more time for private devotions. Then came our three-o'clock _goûter_, followed by a second instruction, Benediction, and the Rosary. After supper, Father Santarius preached to us again in the dimly lit chapel, and our fagged little souls were once more forcibly aroused to the contemplation of their imminent peril. Death, Judgment, Hell, and Heaven--which the catechism says are "the four last things to be remembered"--were the subjects of the four night sermons. Those were not days when soothing syrup was administered in tranquillizing doses from the pulpit. A sense of mystery attached itself to Father Santarius, attributable, I think, to his immense size, which must have equalled that of St. Thomas Aquinas. It was said that he had not seen his own feet for twenty years (so vast a bulk intervened), and this interesting legend was a source of endless speculation to little, lean, elastic girls. He was an eloquent and dramatic preacher, versed in all the arts of oratory, and presenting a striking contrast to our dull and gentle chaplain, one of the kindest and most colourless of men, to whose sermons we had long ceased to listen very attentively. We listened to Father Santarius, listened trembling while he thundered his denunciations against worldliness, and infidelity, and pride of place, and many dreadful sins we stood in no immediate danger of committing. The terrors of the Judgment Day were unfurled before our startled eyes with the sympathetic appreciation of a fifteenth-century fresco, and the dead weight of eternity oppressed our infant souls. Father Santarius knew his Hell as well as did Dante, and his Heaven (but we had not yet come to Heaven) a great deal better. Moreover, while Dante's Hell was arranged for the accommodation of those whom he was pleased to put in it, Father Santarius's Hell was prepared for the possible accommodation of _us_,--which made a vast difference in our philosophy. Perhaps a similar sense of liability might have softened the poet's vision. The third night's sermon reduced Annie Churchill to hysterical sobs; Marie was very white, and Elizabeth looked grave and uncomfortable. As for me, my troubled heart must have found expression in my troubled eyes, when I raised them to Madame Rayburn's face as we filed out of the chapel. She was not given to caresses, but she laid her hand gently on my black-veiled head. "Not for you, Agnes," she said, "not for you. Don't be fearful, child!" thus undoing in one glad instant the results of an hour's hard preaching, and sending me comforted to bed. The next afternoon I was seated at my desk in the interval between an instruction on "human respect"--which we accounted a heavy failing--and Benediction. We were all of us to go to confession on the following day; and, by way of preparation for this ordeal, I was laboriously examining my conscience, and writing down a list of searching questions, which were supposed to lay bare the hidden iniquities of my life, and to pave the way to those austere heights of virtue I hopefully expected to climb. It was a lengthy process, and threatened to consume most of the afternoon. "Is my conversation always charitable and edifying?" "Do I pride myself upon my talents and accomplishments?" "Have I freed my heart from all inordinate affection for created things?" "Do I render virtue attractive and pleasing to those who differ from me in religion?"--I wrote slowly in my little, cramped, legible hand. At this point Elizabeth crossed the schoolroom, and touched me on the shoulder. She carried her coral rosary, which she dangled before my eyes for a minute, and then pointed to the door, an impressive dumb show which meant that we should go somewhere, and say our beads together. There were times when the sign language we used in retreat became as animated as conversation, and a great deal more distracting, because of the difficulty we had in understanding it; but the discipline of those four days demanded above all things that we should not speak an unnecessary word. We became fairly skilled in pantomime by the time the days were over. On the present occasion, Elizabeth's rosary gave its own message, and I alacritously abandoned my half-tilled conscience for this new field of devotion. We meant to walk up and down the chapel hall (past the de-spoiled Bambino), but at the schoolroom door we encountered Madame Rayburn. "Where are you going, children?" she asked. This being an occasion for articulate speech, Elizabeth replied that we were on our way to the corridor to say our beads. "You had better be out of doors," Madame Rayburn said. "You look as if you needed fresh air. Go into the avenue until the bell rings for Benediction. No farther, remember, or you may be late. You had better take your veils with you to save time." This _was_ being treated with distinction. Sent out of doors by ourselves, just as if we were First Cours girls,--those privileged creatures whom we had seen for the last three days pacing gravely and silently up and down the pleasant walks. No such liberty had ever been accorded to us before, and I felt a thrill of pride when Julia Reynolds--walking alone in the avenue--raised her eyes from the "Pensées Chrétiennes" of Madame Swetchine (I recognized its crimson cover, having been recently obliged to translate three whole pages of it as a penance), and stared at us with the abstract impersonal gaze of one engrossed in high spiritual concerns. It was a grey day in early June, a soft and windless day, and, as we walked sedately under the big mulberry trees, a sense of exquisite well-being stole into my heart. I was conscious of some faint appreciation of the tranquillity that breathed around me, some dim groping after the mystery of holiness, some recognizable content in the close companionship of my friend. I forgot that I was going to free myself from all inordinate affection for created things, and knew only that it was pleasant to walk by Elizabeth's side. "Let us contemplate in this second joyful mystery the visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to her cousin, St. Elizabeth," she said. Why, there it was! The Blessed Virgin's cousin was named Elizabeth, too. Of course they were friends; perhaps they were very fond of each other; only St. Elizabeth was so much too old. Could one have a real friend, years older than one's self? My mind was wandering over this aspect of the case while I pattered my responses, and my pearl beads--not half so pretty as Elizabeth's coral ones--slipped quickly through my fingers. When we had finished the five decades, and had said the _De profundis_ for the dead, there was still time on our hands. The chapel bell had not yet rung. We walked for a few minutes in silence, and then I held up my rosary as a suggestion that we should begin the sorrowful mysteries. But Elizabeth shook her head. "Let's have a little serious conversation," she said. Not Balaam, when he heard the remonstrance of his ass, not Albertus Magnus, when the brazen head first opened its lips and spoke, was more startled and discomfited than I. Such a proposal shook my moral sense to its foundations. But Elizabeth's light blue eyes--curiously light, by contrast with her dark skin and hair--were raised to mine with perfect candour and good faith. It was plain that she did not hold herself a temptress. "A little _serious_ conversation," she repeated with emphasis. For a moment I hesitated. Three speechless days made the suggestion a very agreeable one, and I was in the habit of consenting to whatever Elizabeth proposed. But conversation, even serious conversation, was a daring innovation for a retreat, and I was not by nature an innovator. Then suddenly a happy thought came to me. I had brought along my Ursuline Manual (in those days we went about armed with all our spiritual weapons), and I opened it at a familiar page. "Let's find out our predominant passions," I said. Elizabeth consented joyfully. Her own prayer-book was French, a _Paroissien Romain_, and the predominant passions had no place in it. She was evidently flattered by the magnificence of the term, as applied to her modest transgressions. It was something to know--at twelve--that one was possessed of a passion to predominate. "We'll skip the advice in the beginning?" she said. I nodded, and Elizabeth, plunging, as was her wont, into the heart of the matter, read with impressive solemnity:-- "The predominant passion of many young people is pride, which never fails to produce such haughtiness of manner and self-sufficiency as to render them equally odious and ridiculous. Incessantly endeavouring to attract admiration, and become the sole objects of attention, they spare no pains to set themselves off, and to outdo their companions. By their conceited airs, their forwardness, their confidence in their own opinions, and neglect or contempt of that timid, gentle, retiring manner, so amiable and attractive in youth, they defeat their own purpose, and become as contemptible as they aim at being important." There was a pause. The description sounded so little like either of us that I expected Elizabeth to go right on to more promising vices. But she was evidently turning the matter over in her mind. "I think that's Adelaide Harrison's predominant passion," she said at length. Somewhat surprised, I acquiesced. It had not occurred to me to send my thoughts wandering over the rest of the school, or I should, perhaps, have reached some similar conclusion. "Yes, it's certainly Adelaide Harrison's passion," Elizabeth went on thoughtfully. "You remember how she behaved about that composition of hers, 'The Woods in Autumn,' that Madame Duncan thought so fine. She said she ought to be able to write a good composition when her mother had written a whole volume of poems, and her brother had written something else,--I don't remember what. That's what _I_ call pride." "She says they are a talented family," I added maliciously. ("Is my conversation always charitable and edifying?") "That she taught herself to read when she was six years old, and that they all speak French when they are together. I don't believe that." "It must be horrid, if they do," said Elizabeth. "I'm glad I'm not one of them. Vous ne mangez rien, ma chère Adelaide. Est-ce que vous êtes malade?" "Hélas! oui, mon père. J'ai peur que j'étudie trop. Go on, Elizabeth, I'm afraid the bell will ring." Thus adjured, Elizabeth continued: "There are many young people whose predominant passion is a certain ill-humour, fretfulness, peevishness, or irritability, which pervades their words, manners, and even looks. It is usually brought into action by such mere trifles that there is no chance of peace for those who live in the house with them. Even their best friends are not always secure from their ill-tempered sallies, their quarrelsome moods. Pettish and perverse, they throw a gloom over the gayest hour, and the most innocent amusement. As this luckless disposition is peculiarly that of women, young girls cannot be too earnestly recommended to combat the tendency in youth, lest they become, when older, the torment of that society they are intended to bless and ornament." Another pause,--a short one this time. Elizabeth's eyes met mine with an unspoken question, and I nodded acquiescence. "Tony!" we breathed simultaneously. It was true. Tony's engaging qualities were marred by a most prickly temper. We knew her value well. She played all games so admirably that the certainty of defeat modified our pleasure in playing with her. She was fleet of foot, ready of wit, and had more fun in her little brown head than all the rest of us could muster. She would plunge us into abysses of mischief with one hand, and extricate us miraculously with the other. She was startlingly truthful, and lived nobly up to our wayward but scrupulous standard of schoolgirl honour, to the curious code of ethics by which we regulated our lives. She might have been Elizabeth's vice-regent; she might even have disputed the authority of our constitutional sovereign, and have led us Heaven knows whither, had it not been for her pestilential quarrelsomeness. How often had she and I started out at the recreation hour in closest amity, and had returned, silent and glowering, with the wide gravel walk between us. If she were in a fractious mood, no saint from Paradise could have kept the peace. Therefore, when Elizabeth looked at me, we said "Tony!" and then stopped short. She was our friend, one of the band, and though we granted her derelictions, we would not discuss them. We could be ribald enough at Adelaide Harrison's expense, but not at Tony's. "Why don't you lend her this book?" said Elizabeth kindly. I shook my head. I knew why very well. And I rather think Elizabeth did, too. By this time it looked as if we were going to fit the whole school with predominant passions, and not find any for ourselves; but the next line Elizabeth read struck a chill into my soul, and, as she went on, every word seemed like a barbed arrow aimed unswervingly at me. "A propensity to extravagant partialities is a fault which frequently predominates in some warm, impetuous characters. These persons are distinguished by a precipitate selection of favourites in every society; by an overflow of marked attentions to the objects of their predilection, whose interests they espouse, whose very faults they attempt to justify, whose opinions they support, whether right or wrong, and whose cause they defend, often at the expense of good sense, charity, moderation, and even common justice. Woe to him who ventures to dissent from them. The friendship or affection of such characters does not deserve to be valued, for it results, not from discernment of merit, but from blind prejudice. Besides, they annoy those whom they think proper to rank among their favourites by expecting to engross their whole attention, and by resenting every mark of kindness they may think proper to show to others. However, as their affections are in general as short-lived as they are ardent, no one person is likely to be long tormented with the title of their friend." I was conscious of two flaming cheeks as we walked for a moment in silence, and I glanced at Elizabeth out of the tail of my eye to see if she were summing up my case. It wasn't true, it couldn't be true, that extravagant partialities (when they were _my_ partialities) were short-lived. I was preparing to combat this part of the accusation when Elizabeth's cool voice dispelled my groundless fears. "I think that's silly," she said. "Nobody is like that." The suddenness of my relief made me laugh outright, and then,--Oh, baseness of the human heart!--I sought to strengthen my own position by denouncing some one else. "Not Annie Churchill?" I asked. Elizabeth considered. "No, not even Annie Churchill. What makes you think of her?" It was an awkward question. How could I say that two nights before the retreat, Annie had slipped into my alcove,--a reprehensible habit she had,--and, with an air of mystery, had informed me she was "trying to do something,"--she didn't like to tell me what, because she thought that maybe I was trying to do it, too. Upon my intimating that I was trying to go to bed, and nothing else that I knew of, she had said quite solemnly: "I am trying to gain Elizabeth's affections." As it was impossible for me to adduce this piece of evidence (even an unsought confidence we held sacred), I observed somewhat lamely: "Oh, she does seem to get suddenly fond of people." "Who's she fond of?" asked the unsuspecting--and ungrammatical--Elizabeth. "Oh, do go on!" I urged, and, even as I said it, the Benediction bell rang. A score of girls, serious, black-veiled young penitents, appeared, as if by magic, hastening to the chapel. We joined them silently, and filed into rank. Already my conscience was pricking. Had our "serious" conversation been either charitable or edifying? Was it for this that Madame Rayburn had sent us out to walk under the mulberry trees? It pricked harder still--this sore little conscience--the next day, when Lilly came to me, looking downcast and miserable. "Madame Duncan said I might speak to you," she whispered, "because it was about something important. It _is_ important, very. Father Santarius is sure to tell us we must put those straws back, and I've broken one of mine." Straws! I stared at her aghast. Where were my straws? I didn't know. I hadn't the faintest idea. I had lost them both, as I lost everything else, except the empty head so firmly, yet so uselessly fixed upon my shoulders. It was really wonderful that a little girl who had only three places in the world in which to put anything--a desk, a washstand drawer, and a japanned dressing-case (our clothes were all kept for us with exquisite neatness in the vestry)--should not have known where her few possessions were; but I could have lost them all in any of these receptacles, and never have found one of them again. When a mad scramble through my desk had furnished incontestable proof that no straws were there, and Lilly had departed, somewhat comforted by my more desperate case, I sat gloomily facing the complicated problem before me. I must confess my sin, I would be called upon to make restitution, and I had nothing to restore. The more I thought about it, the more hopeless I grew, and the more confused became my sense of proportion. If I had stolen the Bambino himself,--as a peasant woman, it is said, once stole the Baby of Ara-Coeli,--I could not have felt guiltier. "Agnes," said Madame Rayburn's voice, "you had better go to the chapel now, and prepare for confession." She was looking down on me, and, as I rose to my feet, a light broke in upon my darkness. I knew where to turn for help. "If you've taken a thing, and you haven't got it any more to give it back, what can you do?" I asked. The suddenness with which my query was launched (I always hated roundabout approaches) startled even this seasoned nun. "If you've taken a thing," she echoed. "Do you mean stolen?" "Yes," I answered stolidly. She looked astonished for a moment, and then the shadow of a smile passed over her face. "Is it something you have eaten?" she asked, "and that is why you cannot give it back?" I laughed a little miserable laugh. It was natural that this solution of the problem should present itself to Madame Rayburn's mind, albeit we were not in the fruit season. But then, it had once happened that a collation had been set for the Archbishop and some accompanying priests in the conference room, and that Elizabeth, Lilly, and I, spying through a half-open door the tempting array of sandwiches and cake, had descended like Harpies upon the feast. This discreditable incident lingered, it was plain, in Madame Rayburn's memory, and prompted her question. "No, it wasn't anything to eat," I said; and then, recognizing the clemency of her mood (she was not always clement), I revealed the sacrilegious nature of my spoliation. "And I've lost them, and can't put them back," I wound up sorrowfully. Madame Rayburn looked grave. Whether it was because she was shocked, or because she was amused and wanted to conceal her amusement, I cannot say. "Did you do this by yourself?" she said; and then, seeing my face, added hastily: "No, I won't ask you that question. It isn't fair, and besides, I know you won't answer. But if there are any more straws in anybody's possession, I want you to bring them to me to-night. That's all. Now go to confession. Say you've told, and that it's all right." I was dismissed. With a light heart I sped to the chapel. To see one's way clear through the intricacies of life; to be sure of one's next step, and of a few steps to follow,--at eleven, or at threescore and ten, this is beatitude. It was Saturday morning when we emerged from retreat, a clear, warm Saturday in June. Mass was over, and we filed down in measureless content to the refectory. Because of our four days' silence, we were permitted to speak our blessed mother tongue at breakfast time. Therefore, instead of the dejected murmur which was the liveliest expression of our Gallic eloquence, there rose upon the startled air a clamorous uproar, a high, shrill, joyous torrent of sound. A hundred girls were talking fast and furiously to make up for lost time. We had hot rolls for breakfast, too, a luxury reserved for such special occasions; and we were all going to the woods in the afternoon, both First and Second Cours,--going for two long, lovely hours, which would give us time to reach the farthest limits of our territory. Elizabeth came and squeezed herself on the bench beside me, to propose a private search for the white violets that grew in the marshy ground beyond the lake, and that bloomed long after the wood violets had gone. Tony shouted across two intervening benches that she didn't see why we could not secure the boat, and have a row,--as if the Second Cours girls were at all likely to get possession of the boat when the First Cours girls were around. "We can, if we try," persisted Tony, in whom four days of peaceful meditation had bred the liveliest inclination for a brawl. As for me, I ate my roll, and looked out of the window at the charming vista stretching down to the woods; and my spirits mounted higher and higher with the rising tide of joy, with the glad return to the life of every day. Heaven, an assured hereafter, had receded comfortably into the dim future. Hell was banished from our apprehensions. But, oh, how beautiful was the world! Un Congé sans Cloche We had only two or three of them in the year, and their slow approach stirred us to frenzy. In the dark ages, when I went to school, no one had yet discovered that play is more instructive than work, no one was piling up statistics to prove the educational value of idleness. In the absence of nature studies and athletics, we were not encouraged to spend our lives out of doors. In the absence of nerve specialists, we were not tenderly restrained from studying our lessons too hard. It is wonderful how little apprehension on this score was felt by either mothers or teachers. We had two months' summer holiday,--July and August,--and a week at Christmas time. The rest of the year we spent at school. I have known parents so inhuman as to regret those unenlightened days. But can the glorified little children whose lives seem now to be one vast and happy playtime, can the privileged schoolgirls who are permitted to come to town for a matinée,--which sounds to me as fairy-like as Cinderella's ball,--ever know the real value of a holiday? As well expect an infant millionaire to know the real value of a quarter. We to whom the routine of life was as inevitable as the progress of the seasons, we to whom Saturdays were as Mondays, and who grappled with Church history and Christian doctrine on pleasant Sunday mornings, _we_ knew the mad tumultuous joy that thrilled through hours of freedom. The very name which from time immemorial had been given to our convent holidays illustrated the fulness of their beatitude. When one lives under the dominion of bells, every hour rung in and out with relentless precision, _sans cloche_ means glorious saturnalia. Once a nervous young nun, anxious at the wild scattering of her flock, ventured, on a _congé_, to ring them back to bounds; whereupon her bell was promptly, though not unkindly, taken away from her by two of the older girls. And when the case was brought to court, the Mistress General upheld their action. A law was a law, as binding upon its officers as upon the smallest subject in the realm. The occasions for a _congé sans cloche_ were as august as they were rare. "Mother's Feast," by which we meant the saint's day of the Superioress, could always be reckoned upon. The feast of St. Joseph was also kept in this auspicious fashion,--which gave us a great "devotion" to so kind a mediator. Once or twice in the year the Archbishop came to the convent, and in return for our addresses, our curtsies, our baskets of flowers, and songs of welcome, always bravely insisted that we should have a holiday. "Be sure and tell me, if you don't get it," he used to say, which sounded charmingly confidential, though we well knew that we should never have an opportunity to tell him anything of the kind, and that we should never dare to do it, if we had. In the year of grace which I now chronicle, the Archbishop was going to Rome, and had promised to say good-by to us before he sailed. Those were troubled times for Rome. Even we knew that something was wrong, though our information did not reach far beyond this point. Like the little girl who couldn't tell where Glasgow was, because she had not finished studying Asia Minor, we were still wandering belated in the third Crusade,--a far cry from united Italy. When Elizabeth, who had read the address, said she wondered why the Pope was called "God's great martyr saint," we could offer her very little enlightenment. I understand that children now interest themselves in current events, and ask intelligent questions about things they read in the newspapers. For us, the Wars of the Roses were as yesterday, and the Crusades were still matters for deep concern. Berengaria of Navarre had been the "leading lady" of our day's lesson, and I had written in my "Compendium of History"--majestic phrase--this interesting and comprehensive statement: "Berengaria led a blameless life, and, after her husband's death, retired to a monastery, where she passed the remainder of her days." It was the middle of May when the Archbishop came, and, as the weather was warm, we wore our white frocks for the occasion. Very immaculate we looked, ranged in a deep, shining semicircle, a blue ribbon around every neck, and gloves on every folded hand. It would have been considered the height of impropriety to receive, ungloved, a distinguished visitor. As the prelate entered, accompanied by the Superioress and the Mistress General, we swept him a deep curtsy,--oh, the hours of bitter practice it took to limber my stiff little knees for those curtsies!--and then broke at once into our chorus of welcome:-- "With happy hearts we now repair All in this joyous scene to share." There were five verses. When we had finished, we curtsied again and sat down, while Mary Rawdon and Eleanor Hale played a nervous duet upon the piano. The Archbishop looked at us benignantly. It was said of him that he dearly loved children, but that he was apt to be bored by adults. He had not what are called "social gifts," and seldom went beyond the common civilities of intercourse. But he would play jackstraws all evening with half a dozen children, and apparently find himself much refreshed by the entertainment. His eyes wandered during the duet to the ends of the semicircle, where sat the very little girls, as rigidly still as cataleptics. Wriggling was not then deemed the prescriptive right of childhood. An acute observer might perhaps have thought that the Archbishop, seated majestically on his dais, and flanked by Reverend Mother and Madame Bouron, glanced wistfully at these motionless little figures. We were, in truth, as remote from him as if we had been on another continent. Easy familiarity with our superiors was a thing undreamed of in our philosophy. The standards of good behaviour raised an impassable barrier between us. Frances Fenton made the address. It was an honour once accorded to Elizabeth, but usually reserved as a reward for superhuman virtue. Not on _that_ score had Elizabeth ever enjoyed it. Frances was first blue ribbon, first medallion, and head of the Children of Mary. There was nothing left for her but beatification. She stepped slowly, and with what was called a "modest grace," into the middle of the room, curtsied, and began:-- "Your children's simple hearts would speak, But cannot find the words they seek. These tones no music's spell can lend; And eloquence would vainly come To greet our Father, Guide, and Friend. Let hearts now speak, and lips be dumb!" "Then why isn't she dumb?" whispered Tony aggressively, but without changing a muscle of her attentive face. I pretended not to hear her. I had little enough discretion, Heaven knows, but even I felt the ripe unwisdom of whispering at such a time. It was Mary Rawdon's absence, at the piano, I may observe, that placed me in this perilous proximity. "Our reverence fond and hopeful prayer Will deck with light one empty place, And fill with love one vacant chair." "What chair?" asked Tony, and again I pretended not to hear. "For e'en regret can wear a softened grace, And smiling hope in whispers low Will oft this cherished thought bestow: Within the Eternal City's sacred wall, He who has blest us in our Convent hall Can now to us earth's holiest blessing bring From God's great martyr saint, Rome's pontiff king." At this point, Tony, maddened by my unresponsiveness, shot out a dexterous little leg (I don't see how she dared to do it, when our skirts were so short), and, with lightning speed, kicked me viciously on the shins. The anguish was acute, but my sense of self-preservation saved me from so much as a grimace. Madame Bouron's lynx-like gaze was travelling down our ranks, and, as it rested on me for an instant, I felt that she must see the smart. Tony's expression was one of rapt and reverent interest. By the time I had mastered my emotions, and collected my thoughts, the address was over, and the Archbishop was saying a few words about his coming voyage, and about the Holy Father, for whom he bade us pray. Then, with commendable promptness, he broached the important subject of the _congé_. There was the usual smiling demur on Reverend Mother's part. The children had so many holidays ("I like that!" snorted Tony), so many interruptions to their work. It was so hard to bring them back again to quiet and orderly ways. If she granted this indulgence, we must promise to study with double diligence for the approaching examinations. Finally she yielded, as became a dutiful daughter of the Church; the first of June, ten days off, was fixed as the date; and we gave a hearty round of applause, in token of our gratitude and relief. After this, we rather expected our august visitor to go away; but his eyes had strayed again to the motionless little girls at the horns of the semicircle; and, as if they afforded him an inspiration, he said something in low, rather urgent tones to Reverend Mother,--something to which she listened graciously. "They will be only too proud and happy," we heard her murmur; and then she raised her voice. "Children," she said impressively, "his Grace is good enough to ask that you should escort him to the woods this afternoon. Put on your hats and go." This _was_ an innovation! Put on our hats at four o'clock--the hour for French class--and walk to the woods with the Archbishop. It was delightful, of course, but a trifle awesome. If, in his ignorance, he fancied we should gambol around him like silly lambs, he was soon to discover his mistake. Our line of march more closely resembled that of a well-drilled army. Madame Bouron walked on his right hand, and Madame Duncan on his left. The ribbons, the graduates, and a few sedate girls from the first class closed into a decorous group, half of them walking backwards,--a convent custom in which we were wonderfully expert. The flanks of the army were composed of younger and less distinguished girls, while the small fry hovered on its borders, out of sight and hearing. We moved slowly, without scattering, and without obvious exhilaration. I was occupied in freeing my mind in many bitter words to Tony, who defended her conduct on the score of my "setting up for sainthood,"--an accusation the novelty of which ought to have made it agreeable. When we reached the lake, a tiny sheet of water with a Lilliputian island, we came to a halt. The Archbishop had evidently expressed some desire, or at least some readiness, to trust himself upon the waves. The boat was unmoored, and Frances Fenton and Ella Holrook rowed him carefully around the island, while the rest of us were drawn up on shore to witness the performance. We made, no doubt, a very nice picture in our white frocks and blue neck ribbons; but we were spectators merely, still far remote from any sense of companionship. When the boat was close to shore, the Archbishop refused to land. He sat in the stern, looking at us with a curious smile. He was strikingly handsome,--a long, lean, noble-looking old man,--and he had a voice of wonderful sweetness and power. It was said that, even at sixty-five, he sang the Mass more beautifully than any priest in his diocese. Therefore it was a little alarming when he suddenly asked:-- "My children, do you know any pretty songs?" "Oh, yes, your Grace," answered Madame Bouron. "Then sing me something now," said the Archbishop, still with that inscrutable smile. There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's embarrassment, and then, acting under instruction, we sang (or, at least, some of us did; there was no music in my soul) the "Canadian Boat-Song," and "Star of the Sea,"--appropriate, both of them, to the watery expanse before us. "_Ave Maria_, we lift our eyes to thee; _Ora pro nobis_; 'tis night far o'er the sea." The Archbishop listened attentively, and with an evident pleasure that must have been wholly disassociated from any musical sense. Then his smile deepened. "Would you like me to sing for you?" he said. "Oh, yes, if you please," we shrilled; and Madame Bouron gave us a warning glance. "Be very still, children," she admonished. "His Grace is going to sing." His Grace settled himself comfortably in the boat. His amused glance travelled over our expectant faces, and sought as usual the little girls, now close to the water's edge. Then he cleared his throat, and, as I am a Christian gentlewoman, and a veracious chronicler, _this_ is the song he sang:-- "In King Arthur's reign, a merry reign, Three children were sent from their homes, Were sent from their homes, were sent from their homes, And they never went back again. "The first, he was a miller, The second, he was a weaver, The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." "Can't you join in the chorus, children?" interrupted the Archbishop. "Come! the last two lines of every verse." "The third, he was a little tailor boy, Three big rogues together." Our voices rose in a quavering accompaniment to his mellifluous notes. We were petrified; but, even in a state of petrification, we did as we were bidden. "The miller, he stole corn, The weaver, he stole yarn, And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth, To keep these three rogues warm." "Chorus!" commanded the Archbishop; and this time our voices were louder and more assured. "And the little tailor boy, he stole broadcloth, To keep these three rogues warm." "The miller was drowned in his dam, The weaver was hung by his yarn, But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy, With the broadcloth under his arm." There was a joyous shout from our ranks. We understood it all now. The Archbishop was misbehaving himself, was flaunting his misbehaviour in Madame Bouron's face. We knew very well what would be said to us, if we sang a song like that, without the Archiepiscopal sanction, and there was a delicious sense of impunity in our hearts, as we vociferated the unhallowed lines:-- "But the Devil ran away with the little tailor boy, With the broadcloth under his arm." Then the Archbishop stepped out of the boat, and there was a timid scramble to his side. The barriers were down. He had knocked at our hearts in the Devil's name, and we had flung them wide. The return to the convent was like a rout;--little girls wedging their way in among big girls, the Second Cours contesting every step of the path with the First Cours, the most insignificant children lifted suddenly to prominence and distinction. I was too shy to do more than move restlessly on the outskirts of the crowd; but I saw Tony conversing affably with the Archbishop (and looking as gentle as she was intelligent), and Viola Milton kissing his ring with the assurance of an infant Aloysius. When he bade us good-by, we shouted and waved our handkerchiefs until he was out of sight. He turned at the end of the avenue, and waved his in a last friendly salutation. That was very long ago. I trust that in Paradise the Holy Innocents are now bearing him company, for I truly believe his soul would weary of the society of grown-up saints. And our _congé_ was only ten days off. This thought was left to gild our waking hours. We--Elizabeth, Marie, Tony, Lilly, Emily, and I--resolved ourselves immediately into a committee of ways and means, and voted all the money in the treasury for supplies. It was not much, but, if well laid out, it would purchase sweets enough to insure a midnight pang. The privilege of buying so much as a stick of candy was one rigidly reserved for holidays. "Mary" did our shopping for us. Mary was a hybrid, a sort of uncloistered nun. Her out-of-date bonnet, worn instead of a lay sister's close white cap, proclaimed her as one free to come and go; and her mission in life was to transact outside business, to buy whatever was necessary or permitted. The lay sisters did the work of the convent; Mary ministered to its needs. We wrote down for her a list of delicacies. One dozen oranges. One box of figs. One pound of caramels,--which were dear. Two pounds of walnut taffy. Three pounds of cinnamon bun. A fair allowance, I surmise, for six well-fed little girls. "I tell you what I'll do," said Marie, in an excess of generosity. "I'll save up my wine, if you'll lend me bottles to put it in." We felt this to be noble. For some mysterious reason (she was never known to be ill), Marie was sent every morning at eleven o'clock to the infirmary; and at that unconvivial hour drank a solitary glass of wine. It was port, I believe, or Burgundy,--I am not sure which, and I pray Heaven I may never taste its like again. Now, provided with half a dozen empty bottles, which had erstwhile held tooth-wash and cologne, she undertook to elude the infirmarian's eye, and to decant her wine into these receptacles, instead of putting it where it was due. How she managed this we never knew (it would have seemed difficult to a prestidigitator), but Marie was a child of resources, second only to Tony in every baleful art. Clever though we deemed her, however, clever though we sometimes deemed ourselves, there was one in the school, younger, yet far more acute than any of us. Thursday was visitors' day, and Lilly's brother came to see her. After he had gone, Lilly joined us in the avenue, looking perturbed and mysterious. "I want to tell you something," she said lamely. "Viola has got some cigarettes. Jack gave them to her." Cigarettes! Dynamite could not have sounded more overwhelming. Cigarettes, and in Viola Milton's keeping! Never had a whiff of tobacco defiled the convent air. Never had the thought of such unbridled license entered into any heart. And Viola was ten years old. "I know what that means," said Tony sharply. "She wants to come with us on the _congé_." Lilly nodded. It was plain that Viola, having possessed herself of a heavy bribe, had persuaded her older sister to open negotiations. "Well, we won't have her," cried Tony vehemently. "Not if she has all the cigarettes in Christendom. Why on earth, Lilly, didn't you ask your brother for them yourself?" "I never thought of such a thing," pleaded Lilly. "I never even heard her do it." "Well, we won't have Viola, and you may go and tell her so," repeated Tony with mounting wrath. "Go and tell her so right off. We won't have a child of ten tagging round with us all day." "Agnes is only eleven," said Lilly. "How many cigarettes has she got?" It was Elizabeth who asked this pertinent question. "I don't know. Jack gave her all he had." "It doesn't make any difference how many she has. I won't have her," flamed Tony. At this assertive "I," Elizabeth lifted her head. Her light blue eyes met Tony's sparkling brown ones. It was not the first time the two children had measured their forces. "We'll see, anyhow, what Viola's got," said Elizabeth calmly. Lilly, being despatched to make inquiries, returned in two minutes with her little sister by her side. Viola was a bony child, all eyes and teeth, as ugly as Lilly was beautiful. Her sombre glance was riveted wistfully upon Elizabeth's face. She was too wise to weaken her cause with words, but held out eleven little white objects, at which we looked enviously. "Seven from eleven leaves four," murmured Emily. "I don't want any," said Viola, who was bidding high. She would have bartered her immortal soul to gain her point. "And I don't want more than one," said Lilly. "That will leave two apiece for the rest of you." "Well?" asked Elizabeth, looking round the circle. "Oh, do let's have them!" I urged, dazzled by a sudden vision of debauchery. "They'll be just the thing to go with the wine." They were _just_ the thing. We found this out later on. "Oh, yes, let's have them," said Marie, who felt the responsibilities of a hostess. "Let's," said Emily, our silent member. "I won't!" asseverated Tony, battling heroically for a lost cause. "I won't have anything to do with the treat, if you let Viola in." "Then don't!" retorted Elizabeth, now sure of victory, and scornful of further dispute. Tony turned her back upon her venal friends, and marched off to another group of girls. There was no great novelty about this proceeding, but the imminence of the _congé_ lent it an unwonted seriousness. "Don't you suppose she'll play _cache cache_ with us?" asked Marie somewhat ruefully, and well aware of what we should lose if she did not. "Of course she will," said Elizabeth, "because she can't play without us." And Elizabeth was right. Before the first of June, Tony had "come round;" being persuaded to this condescension by Lilly the peacemaker. Every cluster of friends should look to it that there is one absolutely sweet-tempered person in the group. But one is enough. The first glorious thing about a _congé_ was that we got up at seven instead of at quarter-past six, and the next was that we began to talk before we were out of our beds. Breakfast was so hilarious that only the fear of wasting our precious hours ever dragged us from the refectory, and up into the schoolroom, to prepare for the special feature of the day, _cache cache_. We never played _cache cache_ except upon a holiday, which was why it seemed such a thrilling and wonderful game. No indulgence was likely to lose its value for us through unwarranted repetition. Two captains were chosen by acclamation, and they in turn elected their girls, picking them out alternately, one by one, until the whole Second Cours was divided into two bands of about twenty each. One band remained shut up in a music room (which was goal) for half an hour, while the other betook itself to the most secret and inaccessible spot that could be thought of as a hiding place. The captain might stay with her band, and direct its action, or she might be hidden separately; but no one except the captain was permitted to stray from the ranks for purposes of reconnoitring. The same rule held good for the searching party. The captain alone might play the scout. The rest were obliged to hold together. The capture of the hidden captain counted as half the game. The capture of the hidden band, before it could reach its goal, counted as the other half of the game. Thus the hiders were forced either to dispense with the invaluable services of their leader, or to risk the loss of the whole game, if she were surprised in their company. So much, indeed, depended upon the leader's tactics, and so keen was our thirst for victory, that the girl who saved the day for herself and for her comrades was held in higher esteem than the girl who came out ahead in the periodical blistering of examinations. College valuations are, perhaps, not so absolutely modern as they seem. Given an area of over a hundred acres, with woods and orchards, with a deep ravine choked with tangled underbrush for concealment, and with wide lawns for an open run,--and _cache cache_ becomes, or at least it became for us, a glorious and satisfying sport. To crouch breathless in the "poisonous valley" (there was a touch of poetry in all our nomenclature), to skirt cautiously the marshy ground of La Salette (named after the miraculous spring of Dauphiné), to crawl on one's stomach behind half a mile of inadequate hedge, to make a wild dash for goal within full view of the pursuing party,--these things supplied all the trepidation and fatigue, all the opportunities for generalship, and all the openings for dispute, that reasonable children could demand. We hardly needed the additional excitement provided by Eloise Didier's slipping into the marsh, and being fished out, a compact cake of mud; or by Tony's impiously hiding in the organ loft of the chapel, and being caught red-handed by Madame Duncan,--a nun whom, thank Heaven! it was possible, though difficult, to cajole. We played all morning and all afternoon, played until our strength and our spirits were alike exhausted; and then, when the shadows began to lengthen, and our vivacity to wane, we made ready for the mad carousal which was to close our day. A basement music room, as remote as possible from any chance of inspection, was chosen as the scene of revelry. It was not a cheerful spot; but it appeared reasonably safe. Hither we transported our feast, which, spread out upon a piano, presented a formidable appearance, and restored us to gayety and good humour. The advantage of childhood over riper years is its blessed slowness to recognize a failure. If a thing starts out to be a treat, why, it _is_ a treat, and that's the end of it. The cinnamon bun was certainly stale (Mary had, it was plain, consulted her own convenience as to the day of its purchase), but Heaven forbid that we should balk at staleness. Oranges and caramels, figs and walnut taffy present, to the thinking mind, an inharmonious combination; but that was a point on which we were to be subsequently enlightened. As for Marie's wine, it can be readily imagined what _it_ was like, after lying around for a warm May week in imperfectly corked tooth-wash bottles. I can only say that no medicine it had been my lot to taste was ever half so nasty; yet those were days when all drugs were of uncompromising bitterness. An effete civilization had not then devised gelatine capsules to defraud the palate of its pain. We ate everything, cake, fruit, and candy; we drank the wine (heroic young souls!), and, trembling with excitement, we lit the cigarettes,--a more difficult matter than we had imagined. I had not waited until this point to dree my weird. Excessive fatigue is but an indifferent preparation for unwonted indulgence; and I was a sickly child, to whom only the simplicity and regularity of school life lent a semblance of health. Ominous sensations were warning me of my deadly peril; but I held straight on. Suddenly Marie, who had been smoking with silent fortitude, said sweetly: "It's a shame Viola shouldn't have one of her own cigarettes. I'll give her my second." "She can have one of mine, too," said Emily. "Thank you," returned Viola hastily. "I don't want any. I gave them to you." "Oh, do try one!" urged Marie. "Yes, do!" said Tony sardonically. "Do try one, Viola. They are anxious enough to get rid of them." She flung this taunt at the crowd, but her eye met mine with a challenge I would not evade. "I want my second one," I said. Valour met valour. "So do I," smiled Tony. From this point, my recollections are vague. We talked about Madame Davide, and whether she really did not understand English, or only pretended not to,--a point which had never been satisfactorily settled. We talked about Madame Bouron, and her methods (which we deemed unworthy) of finding out all she knew. I added little to the sprightliness of the conversation, and after a while I slipped away. On the stairs a kindly fate threw me into the arms of Sister O'Neil, who had charge of the vestry, and who was carrying piles of clean linen to the dormitories. She was a friendly soul (nearly all the lay sisters were good to us), and she took possession of me then and there. When I was safe in bed,--collapsed but comforted,--she sprinkled me with holy water, and tucked the light covers carefully around me. "Lie quiet now," she said. "I'll go tell Madame Rayburn where you are, and that there was no time to ask leave of anybody." I did lie very quiet, and, after a while, fell into a doze, from which the sound of footsteps woke me. Some one was standing at the foot of my bed. It was Tony. She looked a trifle more sallow than usual, but was grinning cheerfully. "I'm better now," she said. The delicate emphasis on the _now_ was like a condensed epic. "So am I," I murmured confidentially. Tony disappeared, and in a few minutes was back again, comfortably attired in a dressing gown and slippers. She perched herself on the foot of my bed. "Hasn't it been a perfect _congé_?" she sighed happily. (Oh, blessed memory of youth!) "If you'd seen Madame Duncan, though, when I came stealing out of the chapel,--without a veil, too. 'What does this mean, Tony?' she said. 'It isn't possible that'"-- There was an abrupt pause. "Well?" I asked expectantly, though I had heard it all several times already; but Tony's eyes were fixed on the little pile of clean linen lying on my chair. "Oh! I say," she cried, and there was a joyous ring in her voice. "Here's our chance. Let's change all the girls' washes." I gazed at her with heartfelt admiration. To have passed recently through so severe a crisis,--a crisis which had reduced me to nothingness; and yet to be able instantly to think of such a charming thing to do. Not for the first time, I felt proud of Tony's friendship. Her resourcefulness compelled my homage. Had we been living in one of Mr. James's novels, I should have called her "great" and "wonderful." "Get up and help," said Tony. I stumbled out of bed, and into my slippers. My head felt curiously light when I lifted it from my pillow, and I had to catch hold of my curtain rod for support. The dormitory floor heaved up and down. Tony was already at work, carrying the linen from one side of the room to the other, and I staggered weakly after her. There were thirty beds, so it took us some time to accomplish our mission; but "The labour we delight in physicks pain;" and it was with a happy heart, and a sense of exalted satisfaction, that I saw the last pile safe in the wrong alcove, and crawled back between my sheets.--"Something attempted, something done, to earn a night's repose." Tony sat on my bed, and we talked confidentially until we heard the girls coming upstairs. Then she fled, and I awaited developments. They entered more noisily than was their wont. The law ruled that a _congé_ came to an end with night prayers, after which no word might be spoken; but it was hard to control children who had been demoralized by a long day of liberty. Moreover, the "Seven Dolours" dormitory was ever the most turbulent of the three; its inmates lacking the docility of the very little girls, and the equanimity of the big ones. They were all at what is called the troublesome age. There was a note of anxiety in Madame Chapelle's voice, as she hushed down some incipient commotion. "I must have perfect silence in the dormitory," she said. "You have talked all day; now you must go quietly to bed. Do you hear me, children? Silence!" There was a lull, and then--I knew it must soon come--a voice from the far end of the room. "I have thirty-seven's clothes" (everything was marked with our school numbers), "instead of mine." "Mary Aylmer, be quiet!" commanded Madame Chapelle. "But, Madame, I tell you truly, I have thirty-seven's clothes. Who is thirty-seven?" "I am," cried another voice,--Eloise Didier's. "But I haven't got your clothes, Mary Aylmer. I've got Alice Campbell's. Here, Alice,--twenty-two,--come take your things." "Who is thirty-three? Ruffled night-gown with two buttons off. Oh, shame!" sang out Marie jubilantly. "Children, will you be silent!" said Madame Chapelle, angry and bewildered. "What do you mean by such behaviour?" "Forty-two's stockings want darning," said a reproachful voice. It was very probable, for I was forty-two. "So do thirty-eight's." "Adelaide H. McC. Harrison," Elizabeth read slowly, and with painstaking precision. "Haven't you any more initials, Adelaide, you could have put on your underclothes?" "Look again, Elizabeth. Surely there's a coronet somewhere?" interposed Eloise Didier sardonically. Adelaide was not popular in our community. "Three coronets, a sceptre, and a globe," said Elizabeth. "Children," began Madame Chapelle; but her voice was lost in the scurrying of feet, as girl after girl darted across the polished floor to claim her possessions, or to rid herself of some one else's. They were, I well knew, devoutly grateful for this benign confusion, and were making the most of it. Fate did not often throw such chances in their way. For a moment I felt that noble joy which in this world is granted only to successful effort, to the accomplishment of some well-planned, well-executed design. Then silence fell suddenly upon the room, and I knew, though I could not see, that every girl was back in her own alcove. "May I ask the meaning of this disorder!" said Madame Rayburn coldly. She was _surveillante_, and was making the round of the dormitories, to see that everything was quiet after the day's excitement. Madame Chapelle began a nervous explanation. There was some mistake about the laundry. None of the children had their own clothes. They were trying--rather noisily, she admitted--to exchange them. Was it possible that Sister O'Neil-- "Sister O'Neil!" interrupted Madame Rayburn impatiently. "Sister O'Neil had nothing to do with it. Answer me quietly, children. Did you all find you had some one else's clothes?" There was a murmur of assent,--a polite, subdued, apologetic sort of murmur; but, none the less, of universal assent. At that instant I remembered Sister O'Neil's parting words to me, and, with the instinctive impulse of the ostrich, slid deeper in my little bed. A quick step crossed the dormitory. A firm hand drew my curtain. "Agnes!" said Madame Rayburn, in a terrible voice. Ah, well! Anyway, the _congé_ was over. Marriage Vows We had decided upon the married estate, titles, and foreign travel. I do not mean that we cherished such ambitions for the future,--what was the future to us?--but that in the world of illusions, which was our world, we were about to assume these new and dazzling conditions. Childish even for our years, though our years were very few, and preserved mercifully from that familiar and deadening intercourse with adults, which might have resulted in our being sensible and well informed, we cultivated our imaginations instead of our minds. The very bareness of our surroundings, the absence of all appliances for play, flung us back unreservedly upon the illimitable resources of invention. It was in the long winter months, when nature was unkind, when the last chestnut had been gathered, and the last red leaf pressed carefully in an atlas, that we awoke to the recognition of our needs, and slipped across the border-land of fancy. It was then that certain wise and experienced nuns watched us closely, knowing that our pent-up energies might at any moment break down the barriers of discipline; but knowing also that it was not possible for a grown-up person, however well disposed, to enter our guarded realm. We were always under observation, but the secret city wherein we dwelt was trodden by no other foot than ours. It had rained for a week. We had exhausted the resources of literature and the drama. A new book in the convent library, a book with a most promising title, "The Witch of Melton Hill," had turned out to be a dismal failure. Elizabeth observed sardonically that if it had been named, as it should have been, "The Guardian Angel of Hallam House," we should at least have let it alone. An unreasoning relative had sent me as a belated Christmas gift, "Agnes Hilton; or Pride Corrected,"--making the feeble excuse that I bore the heroine's name. To a logical mind this would have seemed no ground either for giving me the story, or for blaming me because it proved unreadable. But Tony, to whom I lent it, reproached me with exceeding bitterness for having the kind of a name--a goody-goody name she called it--which was always borne by pious and virtuous heroines. She said she thanked Heaven none of them were ever christened Antoinette; and she seemed to hold me responsible for the ennobling qualities she despised. As for the drama, we had acted for the second time Elizabeth's masterpiece, "The Youth of Michael Angelo," and there appeared to be no further opening for our talents. We little girls, with the imitative instincts of our age, were always endeavouring to reproduce on a modest scale the artistic triumphs with which the big girls entertained the school. It was hard work, because we had no plays, no costumes, and no manager. We had only Elizabeth, who rose to the urgent needs of the situation, overcoming for our sake the aversion she felt for any form of composition, and substituting for her French exercises the more inspiring labours of the dramatist. Her first attempt was slight, a mere curtain raiser, and dealt with the fortunes of a robber chief, who, after passionate pursuit of a beautiful and beloved maiden, finds out that she is his sister, and hails the news with calm fraternal joy. By a fortunate coincidence, he also discovers that an aged traveller whom he had purposed robbing is his father; so the curtain falls upon a united family, the gentle desperado quoting an admirable sentiment of Cowper's (it was in our reader, accompanied by a picture of a gentleman, a lady, a baby, and a bird-cage):-- "Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has survived the fall." The success of this touching and realistic little play encouraged Elizabeth to more ambitious efforts. She set about dramatizing, with my assistance, a story from "The Boyhood of Great Painters," which told how the youthful Michael Angelo modelled a snow Faun in the gardens of Lorenzo de Medici, and how that magnificent duke, seeing this work of art before it had time to melt, showered praises and promises upon the happy sculptor. It was not a powerful theme, but there was an ancient retainer of the Buonarroti family (Elizabeth wisely reserved this part for herself), who made sarcastic remarks about his employers, and never appeared without a large feather duster, thus fulfilling all the legitimate requirements of modern comedy. What puzzled us most sorely was the Faun, which we supposed to be an innocent young quadruped, and had no possible way of presenting. Therefore, after a great deal of consideration, it was determined that a flower girl should be substituted; this happy idea (so suggestive of Michael Angelo's genius) being inspired by the plaster figures then sadly familiar to lawns and garden walks. In the story, the young artist emphasized the age of the Faun by deftly knocking out two of its front teeth,--a touch of realism beyond our range, as Viola Milton in a night-gown played the statue's part. In our drama, the Duke complained that the flower girl was too grave, whereupon Michael Angelo, with a few happy touches, gave her a smile so broad--Viola's teeth being her most prominent feature--that some foolish little girls in the audience thought a joke was intended, and laughed uproariously. Marie played Michael Angelo. I was his proud father, who appeared only in the last scene, and said, "Come to my arms, my beloved son!" which he did so impetuously--Marie was nothing if not ardent--that I was greatly embarrassed, and did not know how to hold him. Lorenzo the Magnificent was affably, though somewhat feebly, portrayed by Annie Churchill, who wore a waterproof cloak, flung, like Hamlet's mantle, over her left shoulder, and a beaver hat with a red bow and an ostrich plume, the property of Eloise Didier. It was a significant circumstance that when Marie, rushing to my embrace, knocked over a little table, the sole furniture of the Medicean palace, and indicating by its presence that we were no longer in the snow, Lorenzo hastily picked it up, and straightened the cover; while Elizabeth--who had no business to be in that scene--stood calmly by, twirling her feather duster, and apparently accustomed to being waited on by the flower of the Florentine nobility. The production of "Michael Angelo" cost us four weeks of hard and happy labour. His name became so familiar to our lips that Tony, whose turn it was to read night and morning prayers, substituted it profanely for that of the blessed Archangel. We always said the Credo and Confiteor in Latin, so that _beato Michaeli Archangelo_ became _beato Michael Angelo_, without attracting the attention of any ears save ours. It was one of those daring jests (as close to wickedness as we ever got) which served as passwords in our secret city. The second time we gave the play, we extended a general invitation to the First Cours to come and see it; and a score or so of the less supercilious girls actually availed themselves of the privilege. It is hard for me to make clear what condescension this implied. Feudal lord and feudal vassal were not more widely separated than were the First and Second Cours. Feudal lord and feudal vassal were not more firmly convinced of the justness of their respective positions. No uneasy agitator had ever pricked us into discontent. The existing order of things seemed to us as natural as the planetary system. Now, casting about for some new form of diversion, Elizabeth proposed one stormy afternoon that we should assume titles, and marry one another; secretly, of course, but with all the pomp and circumstance that imagination could devise. She herself, having first choice, elected England for her dwelling-place, and Emily for her spouse. She took Emily, I am sure, because that silent and impassive child was the only one of the five who didn't particularly covet the honour. Elizabeth, protecting herself instinctively from our affection and admiration, found her natural refuge in this unresponsive bosom. Because Emily would just as soon have married Lilly or me, Elizabeth wisely offered her her hand. She also insisted that Emily, being older, should be husband. Mere surface ambition was alien to her character. The position of _maîtresse femme_ satisfied all reasonable requirements. Names and titles were more difficult of selection. Emily was well disposed toward a dukedom; but Elizabeth preferred that her husband should be an earl, because an earl was "belted," and a duke, we surmised, wasn't. "A duke is higher than an earl," said the well-informed Emily. "But he isn't belted," insisted Elizabeth. "It's a 'belted knight' and a 'belted earl' always; never a belted duke. You can wear a belt if you're an earl, Emily." "I do wear a belt," said the prosaic Emily. "Then, of course, you've got to be an earl," retorted Elizabeth; reasoning by some process, not perfectly plain to us, but conclusive enough for Emily, who tepidly yielded the point. "Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel"-- "I won't be named Philip," interrupted Emily rebelliously. "Well, then, Henry Howard, Earl of Arundel and Surrey, and we'll live in Arundel Castle." "You got that out of 'Constance Sherwood,'" said Marie. Elizabeth nodded. Lady Fullerton's pretty story had been read aloud in the refectory, and we were rather "up" in English titles as a consequence. "I'm going to be Prince of Castile," said Tony suddenly. I leaped from my chair. "You shan't!" I flashed, and then stopped short, bitterly conscious of my impotence. Tony had "spoken first." There was no wresting her honours from her. She knew, she must have known that Castile was the home of my soul, though no one had ever sounded the depth of my devotion. My whole life was lit by Spain's sombre glow. It was the land where my fancy strayed whenever it escaped from thraldom, and to which I paid a secret and passionate homage. The destruction of the Invincible Armada was the permanent sorrow of my childhood. And now Tony had located herself in this paradise of romance. "Castile's proud dames" would be her peers and countrywomen. The Alhambra would be her pleasure-house (geographically I was a trifle indistinct), and Moorish slaves would wait upon her will. I could not even share these blessed privileges, because it was plain to all of us that Tony's one chance of connubial felicity lay in having Lilly for a partner. The divorce courts would have presented a speedy termination to any other alliance. "Never mind, Agnes," said Marie consolingly. "We don't want Castile. It's a soapy old place. We'll be Duke and Duchess of Tuscany." I yielded a sorrowful assent. Tuscany awoke no echoes in my bosom. I neither knew nor cared whence Marie had borrowed the suggestion. But the priceless discipline of communal life had taught us all to respect one another's rights, and to obey the inflexible rules of play. Tony had staked her claim to Castile; and I became Beatrice della Rovere, Duchess of Tuscany, without protest, but without elation. Lilly looked genuinely distressed. Her sweet heart was hurt to feel that she was depriving a friend of any happiness, and it is safe to say that she was equally indifferent to the grandeurs of Italy and of Spain. Perhaps Griselda the patient felt no lively concern as to the whereabouts of her husband's estates. She had other and more serious things to ponder. The marriage ceremony presented difficulties. We must have a priest to officiate; that is, we must have a girl discreet enough to be trusted with our secret, yet stupid enough, or amiable enough, to be put out of the play afterwards. We had no idea of being burdened with clerical society. Annie Churchill was finally chosen for the rôle. Her functions were carefully explained to her, and her scruples--she was dreadfully afraid of doing something wrong--were, by candid argument, overcome. Marie wanted to be married in the "Lily of Judah" chapel, a tiny edifice girt by the winding drive; but Elizabeth firmly upheld the superior claims of St. Joseph. St. Joseph was, as we well knew, the patron of marriage, its advocate and friend. We depended upon him to find us our future husbands,--in which regard he has shown undue partiality,--and it was in good faith that we now placed ourselves under his protection. Our play inevitably reflected the religious influences by which we were so closely environed. I hear it said that the little sons of ministers preach to imaginary audiences in the nursery,--an idea which conveys a peculiar horror to my mind. We did not preach (which of us would have listened?), but we followed in fancy, like the child, Eugénie de Guérin, those deeply coloured traditions which lent atmosphere to our simple and monotonous lives. One of our favourite games was the temptation of St. Anthony. Mariana Grognon, a little French girl of unsurpassed agility, had "created" the part of the devil. Its special feature was the flying leap she took over the kneeling hermit's head, a performance more startling than seductive. This vivacious pantomime had been frowned upon by the mistress of recreation, who had no idea what it meant, but who considered, and with reason, that Mariana was behaving like a tomboy. Then one day an over-zealous St. Anthony--Marie probably--crossed himself with such suspicious fervour when the devil made his jump that the histrionic nature of the sport became evident, and it was sternly suppressed. The primitive humour of the miracle play was not in favour at the convent. We were married in front of St. Joseph's statue, outside the chapel door, on Sunday afternoon. Sunday was selected for the ceremony, partly because we had possession of our white veils on that day,--and what bride would wear a black veil!--and partly because the greater liberty allowed us made possible an unobserved half-hour. It was Elizabeth's custom and mine to go to the chapel every Sunday before supper, and offer an earnest supplication to the Blessed Virgin that we might not be given medals that night at Primes. I loved Primes. It was the most exciting event of the week. There was an impressive solemnity about the big, hushed room, the long rows of expectant girls, Reverend Mother, begirt by the whole community, gazing at us austerely, and the seven days' record read out in Madame Bouron's clear, incisive tones. We knew how every girl in the school, even the exalted graduates and semi-sacred medallions, had behaved. We knew how they stood in class. We saw the successful students go up to receive their medals. Occasional comments from Madame Bouron added a bitter pungency to the situation. It was delightful from beginning to end, unless--and this happened very often to Elizabeth, and sometimes even to me--we had distinguished ourselves sufficiently to win our class medals for the week. _Then_, over an endless expanse of polished floor, slippery as glass, we moved like stricken creatures; conscious that our friends were watching us in mocking security from their chairs; conscious that we were swinging our arms and turning in our toes; and painfully aware that our curtsies would never come up to the required standard of elegance and grace. Elizabeth was furthermore afflicted by a dark foreboding that something--something in the nature of a stocking or a petticoat--would "come down" when she was in mid-stream, and this apprehension deepened her impenetrable gloom. It was in the hopes of averting such misery that we said our "Hail Marys" every Sunday afternoon, manifesting thereby much faith but little intelligence, as all these matters had been settled at "Conference" on Saturday. I have always believed, however, that it was in answer to our prayers that a law was passed in mid-term, ordaining that no girl should be eligible for a class medal unless she had _all_ her conduct notes, unless her week's record was without a stain. As this was sheerly impossible, we were thenceforth safe. We heard our names read out, and sat still, in disgraceful but blessed security. Even Madame Bouron's icy censure, and Reverend Mother's vaguely reproachful glance (she was hopelessly near-sighted, and hadn't the remotest idea where we sat) were easier to bear than that distressful journey up and down the classroom, with every eye upon us. The marriage ceremony would have been more tranquil and more imposing if we had not had such a poltroon of a priest. Annie was so nervous, so afraid she was committing a sin, and so afraid she would be caught in the commission, that she read the service shamefully, and slurred all the interesting details over which we wanted to linger. Elizabeth had to prompt her repeatedly, and Tony's comments were indefensible at such a solemn hour. When the three rings had been placed upon the brides' fingers, and the three veils bashfully raised to permit the salutations of the noble grooms, we promised to meet again in the boot and shoe closet, after the dormitory lights had been lowered, and hurried back to the schoolroom. To have played our parts openly in recreation hours would have been to destroy all the pleasures of illusion. Secrecy was indispensable, secrecy and mystery; a hurried clasp of Marie's hand, as she brushed by me to her desk; a languishing glance over our dictation books in class; a tender note slipped between the pages of my grammar. I have reason to believe I was the most cherished of the three brides. Tony was not likely to expend much energy in prolonged love-making, and Emily was wholly incapable of demonstration, even if Elizabeth would have tolerated it. But Marie was dramatic to her finger-tips; she played her part with infinite grace and zeal; and I, being by nature both ardent and imitative, entered freely into her conception of our rôles. We corresponded at length, with that freedom of phrase and singleness of idea which make love letters such profitable reading. It was in our stolen meetings, however, in those happy reunions in the boot and shoe closet, or in another stuffy hole where our hats and coats were hung, that the expansive nature of our play was made delightfully manifest. It was then that we travelled far and wide, meeting dangers with an unflinching front, and receiving everywhere the respectful welcome due to our rank and fortunes. We went to Rome, and the Holy Father greeted us with unfeigned joy. We went to Venice, and the Doge--of whose passing we were blissfully ignorant--took us a-pleasuring in the Bucentaur. Our Stuart proclivities would not permit us to visit Victoria's court,--that is, not as friends. Tony thirsted to go there and raise a row; but the young Pretender being dead (we ascertained this fact definitely from Madame Duncan, who read us a lecture on our ignorance), there seemed nobody to put in the place of the usurping queen. We crossed the desert on camels, and followed Père Huc into Tartary and Thibet. Our husbands gave us magnificent jewels, and Lilly dropped her pearl earrings into a well, like "Albuharez' Daughter" in the "Spanish Ballads." This charming mishap might have happened to me, if only I had been Princess of Castile. Then one day Elizabeth made a discovery which filled me with confusion. Before I came to school, I had parted with my few toys, feeling that paper dolls and grace-hoops were unworthy of my new estate, and that I should never again condescend to the devices of my lonely childhood. The single exception was a small bisque doll with painted yellow curls. I had brought it to the convent in a moment of weakness, but no one was aware of its existence. It was a neglected doll, nameless and wardrobeless, and its sole function was to sleep with me at night. Its days were spent in solitary confinement in my washstand drawer. This does not mean that evening brought any sense of exile to my heart. On the contrary, the night fears which at home made going to bed an ever repeated misery (I slept alone on a big, echoing third floor, and everybody said what a brave little girl I was) had been banished by the security of the dormitory, by the blessed sense of companionship and protection. Nevertheless, I liked to feel my doll in bed with me, and I might have enjoyed its secret and innocent society all winter, had I not foolishly carried it downstairs one day in my pocket, and stowed it in a corner of my desk. The immediate consequence was detection. "How did you come to have it?" asked Elizabeth, wondering. "Oh, it got put in somehow with my things," I answered evasively, and feeling very much ashamed. Elizabeth took the poor little toy, and looked at it curiously. She must have possessed such things once, but it was as hard to picture her with a doll as with a rattle. She seemed equally remote from both. As she turned it over, an inspiration came to her. "I tell you what we'll do," she said; "we'll take it for your baby,--it's time one of us had a child,--and we'll get up a grand christening. Do you want a son or a daughter?" "I hope we won't have Annie Churchill for a priest," was my irrelevant answer. "No, we won't," said Elizabeth. "I'll be the priest, and Tony and Lilly can be godparents. And then, after its christening, the baby can die,--in its baptismal innocence, you know,--and we'll bury it." I was silent. Elizabeth raised her candid eyes to mine. "You don't want it, do you?" she asked. "I don't want it," I answered slowly. Marie decided that, as our first-born was to die, it had better be a girl. A son and heir should live to inherit the estates. She contributed a handkerchief for a christening robe; and Emily, who was generous to a fault, insisted on giving a little new work-basket, beautifully lined with blue satin, for a coffin. Lilly found a piece of white ribbon for a sash. Tony gave advice, and Elizabeth her priestly benediction. Beata Benedicta della Rovere ("That name shows she's booked for Heaven," said Tony) was christened in the _bénitier_ at the chapel door; Elizabeth performing the ceremony, and Tony and Lilly unctuously renouncing in her behalf the works and pomps of Satan. It was a more seemly service than our wedding had been, but it was only a prelude, after all, to the imposing rites of burial. These were to take place at the recreation hour the following afternoon; but owing to the noble infant's noble kinsmen not having any recreation hour when the afternoon came, the obsequies were unavoidably postponed. It happened in this wise. Every day, in addition to our French classes, we had half an hour of French conversation, at which none of us ever willingly conversed. All efforts to make us sprightly and loquacious failed signally. When questions were put to us, we answered them; but we never embarked of our own volition upon treacherous currents of speech. Therefore Madame Davide levied upon us a conversational tax, which, like some of the most oppressive taxes the world has ever known, made a specious pretence of being a voluntary contribution. Every girl in the class was called upon to recount some anecdote, some incident or story which she had heard, or read, or imagined, and which she was supposed to be politely eager to communicate to her comrades. We always began "Madame et mesdemoiselles, figurez-vous," or "il y avait une fois," and then launched ourselves feebly upon tales, the hopeless inanity of which harmonized with the spiritless fashion of the telling. We all felt this to be a degrading performance. Our tender pride was hurt by such a betrayal, before our friends, of our potential imbecility. Moreover, the strain upon invention and memory was growing daily more severe. We really had nothing left to tell. Therefore five of us (Marie belonged to a higher class) resolved to indicate that our resources were at an end by telling the same story over and over again. We selected for this purpose an Ollendorfian anecdote about a soldier in the army of Frederick the Great, who, having a watch chain but no watch, attached a bullet--I can't conceive how--to the chain; and, when Frederick asked him the hour of the day, replied fatuously: "My watch tells me that any hour is the time to die for your majesty." The combined improbability and stupidity of this tale commended it for translation, and the uncertainty as to the order of the telling lent an element of piquancy to the plot. Happily for Lilly, she was called upon first to "réciter un conte," and, blushing and hesitating, she obeyed. Madame Davide listened with a pretence of interest that did her credit, and said that the soldier had "beaucoup d'esprit;" at which Tony, who had pronounced him a fool, whistled a soft note of incredulity. After several other girls had enlivened the class with mournful pleasantries, my turn came, and I told the story as fast as I could,--so fast that its character was not distinctly recognized until the last word was said. Madame Davide looked puzzled, but let it pass. Perhaps she thought the resemblance accidental. But when Emily with imperturbable gravity began: "Il y avait une fois un soldat, honnête et brave, dans l'armée de Frédéric le Grand," and proceeded with the familiar details, she was sharply checked. "Faut pas répéter les mêmes contes," said Madame Davide; at which Emily, virtuous and pained, explained that it was _her_ conte. How could she help it if other girls chose it too? By this time the whole class had awakened to the situation, and was manifesting the liveliest interest and pleasure. It was almost pitiful to see children so grateful for a little mild diversion. Like the gratitude of Italian beggars for a few sous, it indicated painfully the desperate nature of their needs. There was a breathless gasp of expectancy when Elizabeth's name was called. We knew we could trust Elizabeth. She was constitutionally incapable of a blunder. Every trace of expression was banished from her face, and in clear, earnest tones she said: "Madame et mesdemoiselles,--il y avait une fois un soldat, honnête et brave, dans l'armée de Frédéric le Grand,"--whereupon there arose a shout of such uncontrollable delight that the class was dismissed, and we were all sent to our desks. Tony alone was deeply chagrined. Through no fault of hers, she was for once out of a scrape, and she bitterly resented the exclusion. It was in consequence of this episode that Beata Benedicta's funeral rites were postponed for twenty-four hours. The delay brought no consolation to my heart. It only prolonged my unhappiness. I did not love my doll after the honest fashion of a younger child. I did not really fear that I should miss her. But, what was infinitely worse, I could not bring myself to believe that Beata Benedicta was dead,--although I was going to allow her to be buried. The line of demarcation between things that can feel and things that cannot had always been a wavering line for me. Perhaps Hans Andersen's stories, in which rush-lights and darning needles have as much life as boys and girls, were responsible for my mental confusion. Perhaps I merely held on longer than most children to a universal instinct which they share with savages. Any familiar object, anything that I habitually handled, possessed some portion of my own vitality. It was never wholly inanimate. Beata's little bisque body, with its outstretched arms, seemed to protest mutely but piteously against abandonment. She had lain by my side for months, and now I was going to let her be buried alive, because I was ashamed to rescue her. There was no help for it. Rather than confess I was such a baby, I would have been buried myself. A light fall of snow covered the frozen earth when we dug Beata's grave with our penknives, and laid her mournfully away. The site selected was back of the "Seven Dolours" chapel (chapels are to convent grounds what arbours and summer-houses are to the profane), and we chose it because the friendly walls hid us from observation. We had brought out our black veils, and we put them on over our hats, in token of our heavy grief. Elizabeth read the burial service,--or as much of it as she deemed prudent, for we dared not linger too long,--and afterwards reassured us on the subject of Beata's baptismal innocence. That was the great point. She had died in her sinless infancy. We crime-laden souls should envy her happier fate. We put a little cross of twigs at the head of the grave, and promised to plant something there when the spring came. Then we took off our veils, and stuffed them in our pockets,--those deep, capacious pockets of many years ago. "Let's race to the avenue gate," said Tony. "I'm frozen stiff. Burying is cold work." "Or we might get one of the swings," said Lilly. But Marie--whose real name, I forgot to say, was Francesco--put her arm tenderly around me. "Don't grieve, Beatrice," she said. "Our little Beata has died in her baptismal"-- "Oh, come away!" I cried, unable to bear the repetition of this phrase. And I ran as fast as I could down the avenue. But I could not run fast enough to escape from the voice of Beata Benedicta, calling--calling to me from her grave. Reverend Mother's Feast "Mother's feast"--in other words the saint's day of the Superioress--was dawning upon our horizon, and its lights and shadows flecked our checkered paths. Theoretically, it was an occasion of pure joy, assuring us, as it did, a _congé_, and not a _congé_ only, but the additional delights of a candy fair in the morning, and an operetta, "The Miracle of the Roses," at night. Such a round of pleasures filled us with the happiest anticipations; but--on the same principle that the Church always prefaces her feast days with vigils and with fasts--the convent prefaced our _congé_ with a competition in geography, and with the collection of a "spiritual bouquet," which was to be our offering to Reverend Mother on her fête. A competition in anything was an unqualified calamity. It meant hours of additional study, a frantic memorizing of facts, fit only to be forgotten, and the bewildering ordeal of being interrogated before the whole school. It meant for _me_ two little legs that shook like reeds, a heart that thumped like a hammer in my side, a sensation of sickening terror when the examiner--Madame Bouron--bore down upon me, and a mind reduced to sudden blankness, washed clean of any knowledge upon any subject, when the simplest question was asked. Tried by this process, I was only one degree removed from idiocy. Even Elizabeth, whose legs were as adamant, whose heart-beats had the regularity of a pendulum, and who, if she knew a thing, could say it, hated to bound states and locate capitals for all the school to hear. "There are to be prizes, too," she said mournfully. "Madame Duncan said so. I don't like going up for a prize. It's worse than a medal at Primes." "Oh, well, maybe you won't get one," observed Tony consolingly. "You didn't, you know, last time." "I did the time before last," said Elizabeth calmly. "It was 'La Corbeille de Fleurs.'" There was an echo of resentment in her voice, and we all--even Tony--admitted that she had just cause for complaint. To reward successful scholarship with a French book was one of those black-hearted deeds for which we invariably held Madame Bouron responsible. She may have been blameless as the babe unborn; but it was our habit to attribute all our wrongs to her malign influence. We knew "La Corbeille de Fleurs." At least, we knew its shiny black cover, and its frontispiece, representing a sylphlike young lady in a floating veil bearing a hamper of provisions to a smiling and destitute old gentleman. There was nothing in this picture, nor in the accompanying lines, "Que vois-je? Mon Dieu! Un ange de Ciel, qui vient à mon secours," which tempted us to a perusal of the story, even had we been in the habit of voluntarily reading French. As for the "spiritual bouquet," we felt that our failure to contribute to it on a generous scale was blackening our reputations forever. Every evening the roll was called, and girl after girl gave in her list of benefactions. Rosaries, so many. Litanies, so many. Aspirations, so many. Deeds of kindness, so many. Temptations resisted, so many. Trials offered up, so many. Acts, so many. A stranger, listening to the replies, might have imagined that the whole school was ripe for Heaven. These blossoms of virtue and piety were added every night to the bouquet; and the sum total, neatly written out in Madame Duncan's flowing hand, was to be presented, with an appropriate address, to Reverend Mother on her feast, as a proof of our respectful devotion. It was a heavy tax. From what resources some girls drew their supplies remained ever a mystery to us. How could Ellie Plunkett have found the opportunity to perform four deeds of kindness, and resist seven temptations, in a day? We never had any temptations to resist. Perhaps when one came along, we yielded to it so quickly that it had ceased to tempt before its true character had been ascertained. And to whom was Ellie Plunkett so overweeningly kind? "Who wants Ellie Plunkett to be kind to her?" was Tony's scornful query. There was Adelaide Harrison, too, actually turning in twenty acts as one day's crop, and smiling modestly when Madame Duncan praised her self-denial. Yet, to our unwarped judgment, she seemed much the same as ever. We, at least, refused to accept her estimate of her own well-spent life. "Making an act" was the convent phraseology for doing without something one wanted, for stopping short on the verge of an innocent gratification. If I gave up my place in the swing to Viola Milton, that was an act. If I walked to the woods with Annie Churchill, when I wanted to walk with Elizabeth, that was an act. If I ate my bread unbuttered, or drank my tea unsweetened, that was an act. It will be easily understood that the constant practice of acts deprived life of everything that made it worth the living. We were so trained in this system of renunciation that it was impossible to enjoy even the very simple pleasures that our convent table afforded. If there were anything we particularly liked, our nagging little consciences piped up with their intolerable "Make an act, make an act;" and it was only when the last mouthful was resolutely swallowed that we could feel sure we had triumphed over asceticism. There was something maddening in the example set us by our neighbours, by those virtuous and pious girls who hemmed us in at study time and at our meals. When Mary Rawdon gently waved aside the chocolate custard--which was the very best chocolate custard it has ever been my good fortune to eat--and whispered to me as she did so, "An act for the bouquet;" I whispered back, "Take it, and give it to me," and held out my plate with defiant greed. Annie Churchill told us she hadn't eaten any butter for a week; whereat Tony called her an idiot, and Annie--usually the mildest of girls--said that "envy at another's spiritual good" was a very great sin, and that Tony had committed it. There is nothing so souring to the temper as abstinence. What made it singularly hard to sacrifice our young lives for the swelling of a spiritual bouquet was that Reverend Mother, who was to profit by our piety, had so little significance in our eyes. She was as remote from the daily routine of the school as the Grand Lama is remote from the humble Thibetans whom he rules; and if we regarded her with a lively awe, it was only because of her aloofness, of the reserves that hedged her majestically round. She was an Englishwoman of good family, and of vast bulk. There was a tradition that she had been married and widowed before she became a nun; but this was a subject upon which we were not encouraged to talk. It was considered both disrespectful and indecorous. Reverend Mother's voice was slow and deep, a ponderous voice to suit her ponderous size; and she spoke with what seemed to us a strange and barbarous accent, pronouncing certain words in a manner which I have since learned was common in the days of Queen Elizabeth, and which a few ripe scholars are now endeavouring to reintroduce. She was near-sighted to the verge of blindness, and always at Mass used a large magnifying glass, like the one held by Leo the Tenth in Raphael's portrait. She was not without literary tastes of an insipid and obsolete order, the tastes of an English gentlewoman, reared in the days when young ladies read the "Female Spectator," and warbled "Oh, no, we never mention her." Had she not "entered religion," she might have taken Moore and Byron to her heart,--as did one little girl whose "Childe Harold" lay deeply hidden in a schoolroom desk,--but the rejection of these profane poets had left her stranded upon such feeble substitutes as Letitia Elizabeth Landon, whose mysterious death she was occasionally heard to deplore. Twice on Sundays Reverend Mother crossed our orbit; in the morning, when she instructed the whole school in Christian doctrine, and at night, when she presided over Primes. During the week we saw her only at Mass. We should never even have known about Letitia Elizabeth Landon, had she not granted an occasional audience to the graduates, and discoursed to them sleepily upon the books she had read in her youth. Whatever may have been her qualifications for her post (she had surpassing dignity of carriage, and was probably a woman of intelligence and force), to us she was a mere embodiment of authority, as destitute of personal malice as of personal charm. I detested Madame Bouron, and loved Madame Rayburn. Elizabeth detested Madame Bouron, and loved Madame Dane. Emily detested Madame Bouron, and loved Madame Duncan. These were emotions, amply nourished, and easily understood. We were capable of going to great lengths to prove either our aversion or our love. But to give up chocolate custard for Reverend Mother was like suffering martyrdom for a creed we did not hold. "It's because Reverend Mother is so fond of geography that we're going to have the competition," said Lilly. "Madame Duncan told me so." "Why can't Reverend Mother, if she likes it so much, learn it for herself?" asked Tony sharply. "I'll lend her my atlas." "Oh, she knows it all," said Lilly, rather scandalized. "Madame Duncan told me it was her favourite study, and that she knew the geography of the whole world." "Then I don't see why she wants to hear us say it," observed Elizabeth, apparently under the impression that competitions, like gladiatorial shows, were gotten up solely for the amusement of an audience. It never occurred to her, nor indeed to any of us, to attach any educational value to the performance. We conceived that we were butchered to make a convent holiday. "And it's because Reverend Mother is so fond of music that we are going to have an operetta instead of a play," went on Lilly, pleased to have information to impart. I sighed heavily. How could anybody prefer anything to a play? I recognized an operetta as a form of diversion, and was grateful for it, as I should have been grateful for any entertainment, short of an organ recital. We were none of us surfeited with pleasures. But to me song was at best only an imperfect mode of speech; and the meaningless repetition of a phrase, which needed to be said but once, vexed my impatient spirit. We were already tolerably familiar with "The Miracle of the Roses." For two weeks past the strains had floated from every music room. We could hear, through the closed doors, Frances Fenton, who was to be St. Elizabeth of Hungary, quavering sweetly,-- "Unpretending and lowly, Like spirits pure and holy, I love the wild rose best, I love the wild rose best, I love the wi-i-ild rose best." We could hear Ella Holrook announcing in her deep contralto,-- "'Tis the privilege of a Landgrave To go where glory waits him, Glory waits him;" and the chorus trilling jubilantly,-- "Heaven has changed the bread to roses, Heaven has changed the bread to roses." Why, I wondered, did they have to say everything two and three times over? Even when the Landgrave detects St. Elizabeth in the act of carrying the loaves to the poor, his anger finds a vent in iteration. "Once again you've dared to brave my anger, Yes, once again you've dared to brave my anger; My power you scorn, My power you scorn." To which the Saint replies gently, but tediously,-- "My lord they are, My lord they are But simple roses, But simple ro-o-oses, That I gathered in the garden even now." "Suppose that bread hadn't been changed to roses," said Elizabeth speculatively, "I wonder what St. Elizabeth would have done." "Oh, she knew it had been, because she prayed it would be," said Marie, who was something of a theologian. "But suppose it hadn't." "But it _had_, and she knew it had, because of her piety and faith," insisted Marie. "I shouldn't have liked to risk it," murmured Elizabeth. "_I_ think her husband was a pig," said Tony. "Going off to the Crusade, and making all that fuss about a few loaves of bread. If I'd been St. Elizabeth"-- She paused, determining her course of action, and Marie ruthlessly interposed. "If you're not a saint, you can't tell what you would do if you were a saint. You would be different." There was no doubt that Tony as a saint would have to be so very different from the Tony whom we knew, that Marie's dogmatism prevailed. Even Elizabeth was silenced; and, in the pause that followed, Lilly had a chance to impart her third piece of information. "It's because Reverend Mother's name is Elizabeth," she said, "that we're going to have an operetta about St. Elizabeth; and Bessie Treves is to make the address." "Thank Heaven, there is another Elizabeth in the school, or I might have to do it," cried our Elizabeth, who coveted no barren honours; and--even as she spoke--the blow fell. Madame Rayburn appeared at the schoolroom door, a folded paper in her hand. "Elizabeth," she said, and, with a hurried glance of apprehension, the saint's unhappy namesake withdrew. We looked at one another meaningly. "It's like giving thanks before you're sure of dinner," chuckled Tony. I had no chance to hear any particulars until night, when Elizabeth watched her opportunity, and sallied forth to brush her teeth while I was dawdling over mine. The strictest silence prevailed in the dormitories, and no child left her alcove except for the ceremony of tooth-brushing, which was performed at one of two large tubs, stationed in the middle of the floor. These tubs--blessed be their memory!--served as centres of gossip. Friend met friend, and smothered confidences were exchanged. Our gayest witticisms,--hastily choked by a toothbrush,--our oldest and dearest jests were whispered brokenly to the accompaniment of little splashes of water. It was the last social event of our long social day, and we welcomed it as freshly as if we had not been in close companionship since seven o'clock in the morning. Elizabeth, scrubbing her teeth with ostentatious vigour, found a chance to tell me, between scrubs, that Bessie Treves had been summoned home for a week, and that she, as the only other bearer of Reverend Mother's honoured name, had been chosen to make the address. "It's the feast of St. Elizabeth," she whispered, "and the operetta is about St. Elizabeth, and they want an Elizabeth to speak. I wish I had been christened Melpomene." "You couldn't have been christened Melpomene," I whispered back, keeping a watchful eye upon Madame Chapelle, who was walking up and down the dormitory, saying her beads. "It isn't a Christian name. There never was a St. Melpomene." "It's nearly three pages long," said Elizabeth, alluding to the address, and not to the tragic Muse. "All about the duties of women, and how they ought to stay at home and be kind to the poor, like St. Elizabeth, and let their husbands go to the Crusades." "But there are no Crusades any more for their husbands to go to," I objected. Elizabeth looked at me restively. She did not like this fractious humour. "I mean let their husbands go to war," she said. "But if there are no wars," I began, when Madame Chapelle, who had not been so inattentive as I supposed, intervened. "Elizabeth and Agnes, go back to your alcoves," she said. "You have been quite long enough brushing your teeth." I flirted my last drops of water over Elizabeth, and she returned the favour with interest, having more left in her tumbler than I had. It was our customary good-night. Sometimes, when we were wittily disposed, we said "_Asperges me_." That was one of the traditional jests of the convent. Generations of girls had probably said it before us. Our language was enriched with scraps of Latin and apt quotations, borrowed from Church services, the Penitential Psalms, and the catechism. For two days Elizabeth studied the address, and for two days more she rehearsed it continuously under Madame Rayburn's tutelage. At intervals she recited portions of it to us, and we favoured her with our candid criticisms. Tony objected vehemently to the very first line:-- "A woman's path is ours to humbly tread." She said she didn't intend to tread it humbly at all; that Elizabeth might be as humble as she pleased (Elizabeth promptly disclaimed any personal sympathy with the sentiment), and that Marie and Agnes were welcome to all the humility they could practise (Marie and Agnes rejected their share of the virtue), but that she--Tony--was tired of behaving like an affable worm. To this, Emily, with more courage than courtesy, replied that a worm Tony might be, but an affable worm, never; and Elizabeth headed off any further retort by hurrying on with the address. "A woman's path is ours to humbly tread, And yet to lofty heights our hopes are led. We may not share the Senate's stern debate, Nor guide with faltering hand the helm of state; Ours is the holier right to soften party hate, And teach the lesson, lofty and divine, Ambition's fairest flowers are laid at Virtue's shrine." "Have you any idea what all that means?" asked Marie discontentedly. "Oh, I don't have to say what it means," returned Elizabeth, far too sensible to try to understand anything she would not be called upon to explain. "Reverend Mother makes that out for herself." "Not ours the right to guide the battle's storm, Where strength and valour deathless deeds perform. Not ours to bind the blood-stained laurel wreath In mocking triumph round the brow of death. No! 'tis our lot to save the failing breath, 'Tis ours to heal each wound, and hush each moan, To take from other hearts the pain into our own." "It seems to me," said Tony, "that we are expected to do all the work, and have none of the fun." "It seems to _me_," said Marie, "that by the time we have filled ourselves up with other people's pains, we won't care much about fun. Did Reverend Mother, I wonder, heal wounds and hush up moans?" "St. Elizabeth did," explained Elizabeth. "Her husband went to the Holy Land, and was killed, and then she became a nun. There are some lines at the end, that I don't know yet, about Reverend Mother,-- 'Seeking the shelter of the cloister gate, Like the dear Saint whose name we venerate.' Madame Rayburn wants me to make an act, and learn the rest of it at recreation this afternoon. That horrid old geography takes up all my study time." "I've made three acts to-day," observed Lilly complacently, "and said a whole pair of beads this morning at Mass for the spiritual bouquet." "I haven't made one act," I cried aghast. "I haven't done anything at all, and I don't know what to do." "You might make one now," said Elizabeth thoughtfully, "and go talk to Adelaide Harrison." I glanced at Adelaide, who was sitting on the edge of her desk, absorbed in a book. "Oh, I don't want to," I wailed. "If you wanted to, it wouldn't be an act," said Elizabeth. "But she doesn't want me to," I urged. "She is reading 'Fabiola.'" "Then you'll give her the chance to make an act, too," said the relentless Elizabeth. Argued into a corner, I turned at bay. "I won't," I said resolutely; to which Elizabeth replied: "Well, I wouldn't either, in your place," and the painful subject was dropped. Four days before the feast the excitement had reached fever point, though the routine of school life went on with the same smooth precision. Every penny had been hoarded up for the candy fair. It was with the utmost reluctance that we bought even the stamps for our home letters, those weekly letters we were compelled to write, and which were such pale reflections of our eager and vehement selves. Perhaps this was because we knew that every line was read by Madame Bouron before it left the convent; perhaps the discipline of those days discouraged familiarity with our parents; perhaps the barrier which nature builds between the adult and the normal child was alone responsible for our lack of spontaneity. Certain it is that the stiffly written pages despatched to father or to mother every Sunday night gave no hint of our abundant and restless vitality, our zest for the little feast of life, our exaltations, our resentments, our thrice-blessed absurdities. Entrenched in the citadel of childhood, with laws of our own making, and passwords of our own devising, our souls bade defiance to the world. If all our hopes centred in the _congé_, the candy fair, and the operetta,--which was to be produced on a scale of unwonted magnificence,--our time was sternly devoted to the unpitying exactions of geography. Every night we took our atlases to bed with us, under the impression that sleeping on a book would help us to remember its contents. As the atlases were big, and our pillows very small, this device was pregnant with discomfort. On the fourth night before the feast, something wonderful happened. It was the evening study hour, and I was wrestling sleepily with the mountains of Asia,--hideous excrescences with unpronounceable and unrememberable names,--when Madame Rayburn entered the room. As we rose to our feet, we saw that she looked very grave, and our minds took a backward leap over the day. Had we done anything unusually bad, anything that could call down upon us a public indictment, and was Madame Rayburn for once filling Madame Bouron's office? We could think of nothing; but life was full of pitfalls, and there was no sense of security in our souls. We waited anxiously. "Children," said Madame Rayburn, "I have sorrowful news for you. Reverend Mother has been summoned to France. She sails on her feast day, and leaves for New York to-morrow." We stared open-mouthed and aghast. The ground seemed sinking from under our feet, the walls crumbling about us. Reverend Mother sailing for France! And on her feast day, too,--the feast for which so many ardent preparations had been made. The _congé_, the competition, the address, the operetta, the spiritual bouquet, the candy fair,--were they, too, sailing away into the land of lost things? To have asked one of the questions that trembled on our lips would have been an unheard-of liberty. We listened in respectful silence, our eyes riveted on Madame Rayburn's face. "You will all go to the chapel now," she said. "To-night we begin a novena to _Mater Admirabilis_ for Reverend Mother's safe voyage. She dreads it very much, and she is sad at leaving you. Pray for her devoutly. Madame Dane will bring you down to the chapel." She turned to go. Our hearts beat violently. She knew, she could not fail to know, the thought that was uppermost in every mind. She was too experienced and too sympathetic to miss the significance of our strained and wistful gaze. A shadowy smile crossed her face. "Madame Bouron would have told you to-morrow," she said, "what I think I shall tell you to-night. It is Reverend Mother's express desire that you should have your _congé_ on her feast, though she will not be here to enjoy it with you." A sigh of relief, a sigh which we could not help permitting to be audible, shivered softly around the room. The day was saved; yet, as we marched to the chapel, there was a turmoil of agitation in our hearts. We knew that from far-away France--from a mysterious and all-powerful person who dwelt there, and who was called Mother General--came the mandates which governed our community. This was not the first sudden departure we had witnessed; but Reverend Mother seemed so august, so permanent, so immobile. Her very size protested mutely against upheaval. Should we never again see that familiar figure sitting in her stall, peering through her glass into a massive prayer-book, a leviathan of prayer-books, as imposing in its way as she was, or blinking sleepily at us as we filed by? Why, if somebody were needed in France, had it not pleased Mother General to send for Madame Bouron? Many a dry eye would have seen _her_ go. But then, as Lilly whispered to me, suppose it had been Madame Rayburn. There was a tightening of my heart-strings at the thought, a sudden suffocating pang, dimly foreboding the grief of another year. The consensus of opinion, as gathered that evening in the dormitory, was not unlike the old Jacobite epitaph on Frederick, Prince of Wales. Every one of us was sincerely sorry that Madame Bouron had not been summoned,-- "Had it been his father, We had much rather;" but glad that Madame Dane, or Madame Rayburn, or Madame Duncan, or some other favourite nun had escaped. "Since it's only Fred Who was alive, and is dead, There is no more to be said." The loss of our Superioress was bewildering, but not, for us, a thing of deep concern. We should sleep as sweetly as usual that night. The next morning we were all gathered into the big First Cours classroom, where Reverend Mother came to bid us good-by. It was a solemn leave-taking. The address was no longer in order; but the spiritual bouquet had been made up the night before, and was presented in our name by Madame Bouron, who read out the generous sum-total of prayers, and acts, and offered-up trials, and resisted temptations, which constituted our feast-day gift. As Reverend Mother listened, I saw a large tear roll slowly down her cheek, and my heart smote me--my heart was always smiting me when it was too late--that I had contributed so meagrely to the donation. I remembered the chocolate custard, and thought--for one mistaken moment--that I should never want to taste of that beloved dish again. Perhaps if I had offered it up, Reverend Mother would cross the sea in safety. Perhaps, because I ate it, she would have storms, and be drowned. The doubtful justice of this arrangement was no more apparent to me than its unlikelihood. We were accustomed to think that the wide universe was planned and run for our reward and punishment. A rainy Sunday following the misdeeds of Saturday was to us a logical sequence of events. When the bouquet had been presented, Reverend Mother said a few words of farewell. She said them as if she were sad at heart, not only at crossing the ocean, not only at parting from her community, but at leaving us, as well. I suppose she loved us collectively. She couldn't have loved us individually, knowing us only as two long rows of uniformed, curtsying schoolgirls, whose features she was too near-sighted to distinguish. On the other hand, if our charms and our virtues were lost to her, so were our less engaging qualities. Perhaps, taken collectively, we were rather lovable. Our uniforms were spotless, our hair superlatively smooth,--no blowsy, tossing locks, as in these days of libertinism, and our curtsies as graceful as hours of practice could make them. We sank and rose like the crest of a wave. On the whole, Reverend Mother had the best of us. Madame Bouron might have been pardoned for taking a less sentimental view of the situation. That afternoon, while we were at French class, Reverend Mother departed. We heard the carriage roll away, but were not permitted to rush to the windows and look at it, which would have been a welcome distraction from our verbs. An hour later, at recreation, Madame Rayburn sent for Elizabeth. She was gone fifteen minutes, and came back, tense with suppressed excitement. "Oh, what is it?" we cried. "The _congé_ is all right?" "All right," said Elizabeth. "And the candy fair?" asked Lilly, whose father had given her a dollar to squander upon sweets. "Oh, it's all right, too. The candy is here now; and Ella Holrook and Mary Denniston and Isabel Summers are to have charge of the tables. Madame Dane told me that yesterday." Our faces lightened, and then fell. "Is it the competition?" I asked apprehensively. Elizabeth looked disconcerted. It was plain she knew nothing about the competition, and hated to avow her ignorance. We always felt so important when we had news to tell. "Of course, after studying all that geography, we'll have to say it sooner or later," she said. "But"--a triumphant pause--"a new Reverend Mother is coming to-morrow." "_Ciel!_" murmured Marie, relapsing into agitated French; while Tony whistled softly, and Emily and I stared at each other in silence. The speed with which things were happening took our breath away. "Coming to-morrow," repeated Elizabeth; "and I'm going to say the address as a welcome to her, on the night of the _congé_, before the operetta." "Is her name Elizabeth, too?" I asked, bewildered. "No, her name is Catherine. Madame Rayburn is going to leave out the lines about St. Elizabeth, and put in something about St. Catherine of Siena instead. That's why she wanted the address. And she is going to change the part about not sharing the Senate's stern debate, nor guiding with faltering hand the helm of state, because St. Catherine did guide the helm of state. At least, she went to Avignon, and argued with the Pope." "Argued with the Pope!" echoed Marie, scandalized. "She was a saint, Marie," said Elizabeth impatiently, and driving home an argument with which Marie herself had familiarized us. "She persuaded the Pope to go back to Rome. Madame Rayburn would like Kate Shaw to make the address; but she says there isn't time for another girl to study it." "When is the feast of St. Catherine of Siena?" cried Tony, fired suddenly by a happy thought. "Maybe we'll have another _congé_ then." She rushed off to consult her prayer-book. Lilly followed her, and in a moment their two heads were pressed close together, as they scanned the Roman calendar hopefully. But before my eyes rose the image of Reverend Mother, our lost Reverend Mother, with the slow teardrop rolling down her cheek. Her operetta was to be sung to another. Her address was to be made to another. Her very saint was pushed aside in honour of another holy patroness. "The King is dead. Long live the King." The Game of Love It was an ancient and honourable convent custom for the little girls in the Second Cours to cultivate an ardent passion for certain carefully selected big girls in the First Cours, to hold a court of love, and vie with one another in extravagant demonstrations of affection. We were called "satellites," and our homage was understood to be of that noble and exalted nature which is content with self-immolation. No response of any kind was ever vouchsafed us. No favours of any kind were ever granted us. The objects of our devotion--ripe scholars sixteen and seventeen years old--regarded us either with good-humoured indifference or unqualified contempt. Any other line of action on their part would have been unprecedented and disconcerting. We did not want petting. We were not the lap-dog variety of children. We wanted to play the game of love according to set rules,--rules which we found in force when we came to school, and which we had no mind to alter. Yet one of these unwritten laws--which set a limit to inconstancy--I had already broken; and Elizabeth, who was an authority on the code, offered a grave remonstrance. "We really don't change that quickly," she said with concern. I made no answer. I had "changed" very quickly, and, though incapable of self-analysis, I was not without a dim foreboding that I would change again. "You were wild about Isabel Summers," went on Elizabeth accusingly. "No, I wasn't," I confessed. "But you said you were." Again I was silent. The one thing a child cannot do is explain a complicated situation, even to another child. How could I hope to make Elizabeth understand that, eager to worship at some shrine, I had chosen Isabel Summers with a deliberation that boded ill for my fidelity. She was a thin, blue-eyed girl, with a delicate purity of outline, and heavy braids of beautiful fair hair. Her loveliness, her sensitive temperament, her early and tragic death (she was drowned the following summer), enshrined her sweetly in our memories. She became one of the traditions of the school, and we told her tale--as of another Virginia--to all new-comers. But in the early days when I laid my heart at her feet, I knew only that she had hair like pale sunshine, and that, for a First Cours girl, she was strangely tolerant of my attentions. If I ventured to offer her the dozen chestnuts that had rewarded an hour's diligent search, she thanked me for them with a smile. If I darned her stockings with painstaking neatness,--a privilege solicited from Sister O'Neil, who had the care of our clothes,--she sometimes went so far as to commend my work. I felt that I was blessed beyond my comrades (Ella Holrook snubbed Tony, and Antoinette Mayo ignored Lilly's existence), yet there were moments when I detected a certain insipidity in the situation. It lacked the incentive of impediment. Then in November, Julia Reynolds, who had been absent, I know not why, returned to school; and I realized the difference between cherishing a tender passion and being consumed by one, between fanning a flame and being burned. To make all this clear to Elizabeth, who was passion proof, lay far beyond my power. When she said,-- "Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here," --or words to that effect,--I had not even Romeo's feeble excuses to offer, though I was as obstinate as Romeo in clinging to my new love. Tony supported me, having a roving fancy of her own, and being constant to Ella Holrook, only because that imperious graduate regarded her as an intolerable nuisance. Julia's views on the subject of satellites were even more pronounced. She enjoyed a painful popularity in the Second Cours, and there were always half a dozen children abjectly and irritatingly in love with her. She was held to be the cleverest girl in the school, a reputation skilfully maintained by an unbroken superciliousness of demeanour. Her handsome mouth was set in scornful lines; her words, except to chosen friends, were few and cold. She carried on an internecine warfare with Madame Bouron, fighting that redoubtable nun with her own weapons,--icy composure, a mock humility, and polite phrases that carried a hidden sting. It was for this, for her arrogance,--she was as contemptuous as a cat,--and for a certain elusiveness, suggestive even to my untrained mind of new and strange developments, that I surrendered to her for a season all of my heart,--all of it, at least, that was not the permanent possession of Madame Rayburn and Elizabeth. Elizabeth was not playing the game. She was nobody's satellite just then, being occupied with a new cult for a new nun, whom it pleased her to have us all adore. The new nun, Madame Dane, was a formidable person, whom, left to myself, I should have timorously avoided; but for whom, following Elizabeth's example, I acquired in time a very creditable enthusiasm. She was tall and high-shouldered, and she had what Colly Cibber felicitously describes as a "poking head." We, who had yet to hear of Colly Cibber, admired this peculiar carriage,--Elizabeth said it was aristocratic,--and we imitated it as far as we dared, which was not very far, our shoulders being as rigorously supervised as our souls. Any indication of a stoop on _my_ part was checked by an hour's painful promenade up and down the corridor, with a walking-stick held between my elbows and my back, and a heavy book balanced on my head. The treatment was efficacious. Rather than be so wearisomely ridiculous, I held myself straight as a dart. Madame Dane, for all her lack of deportment, was the stiffest and sternest of martinets. She had a passion for order, for precision, for symmetry. It was, I am sure, a lasting grievance to her that we were of different heights, and that we could never acquire the sameness and immobility of chessmen. She did her best by arranging and rearranging us in the line of procession when we marched down to the chapel, unable to decide whether Elizabeth was a hair's breadth taller than Tony, whether Mary Aylmer and Eloise Didier matched exactly, whether Viola had better walk before Maggie McCullah, or behind her. She never permitted us to open our desks during study hours, or when we were writing our exercises. This was a general rule, but Madame Dane alone enforced it absolutely. If I forgot to take my grammar or my natural philosophy out of my desk when I sat down to work (and I was an addlepated child who forgot everything), I had to go to class with my grammar or my natural philosophy unstudied, and bear the consequences. To have borrowed my neighbour's book would have been as great a breach of discipline as to have hunted for my own. At night and morning prayers we were obliged to lay our folded hands in exactly the same position on the second rung of our chair backs. If we lifted them unconsciously to the top rung, Madame Dane swooped down upon us like a falcon upon errant doves,--which was dreadfully distracting to our devotions. "I don't see how she stands our hair being of different lengths," said Tony. "It must worry her dreadfully. I caught her the other night eyeing Eloise Didier's long plats and my little pigtails in a most uneasy manner. Some day she'll insist on our all having it cut short, like Elizabeth and Agnes." "That would be sensible," said Elizabeth stoutly, while Lilly put up her hands with a quick, instinctive gesture, as if to save her curly locks from destruction. "_You_ needn't talk," went on Tony with impolite emphasis, "after what you made her go through last Sunday. You and Agnes in your old black veils. I don't believe she was able to read her Mass prayers for looking at you." Elizabeth grinned. She was not without a humorous enjoyment of the situation. Our black veils, which throughout the week were considered decorous and devotional, indicated on Sundays--when white veils were in order--a depth of unpardoned and unpardonable depravity. When Elizabeth and I were condemned to wear ours to Sunday Mass and Vespers,--two little black sheep in that vast snowy flock,--we were understood to be, for the time, moral lepers, to be cut off from spiritual communion with the elect. We were like those eminent sinners who, in the good old days when people had an eye to effect, did penance in sheets and with lighted tapers at cathedral doors,--thus adding immeasurably to the interest of church-going, and to the general picturesqueness of life. The ordeal was not for us the harrowing thing it seemed. Elizabeth's practical mind had but a feeble grasp of symbols. Burne-Jones and Maeterlinck would have conveyed no message to her, and a black veil amid the Sunday whiteness failed to disturb her equanimity. As for me, I was content to wear what Elizabeth wore. Where MacGregor sat was always the head of the table. The one real sufferer was the innocent Madame Dane, whose Sabbath was embittered by the sight of two sable spots staining the argent field, and by the knowledge that the culprits were her own Second Cours children, for whom she held herself responsible. "She told me," said Elizabeth, "that if ever I let such a thing happen to me again, I shouldn't walk by her side all winter." Lilly lifted her eyebrows, and Tony gave a grunt of deep significance. It meant that this would be an endurable misfortune. A cult was all very well, and Tony, like the rest of us, was prepared to play an honourable part. But Elizabeth's persistent fancy for walking by our idol's side at recreation had become a good deal of a nuisance. We considered that Madame Dane was, for a grown-up person, singularly vivacious and agreeable. She told us some of Poe's stories--notably "The Pit and the Pendulum"--in a manner which nearly stopped the beating of our hearts. We were well disposed even to her rigours. There was a straightforwardness about her methods which commended itself to our sense of justice no less than to our sense of humour. She dealt with us after fashions of her own; and, if she were constitutionally incapable of distinguishing between wilful murder and crossing one's legs in class, she would have scorned to carry any of our misdemeanours to Madame Bouron's tribunal. We felt that she had companionable qualities, rendered in some measure worthless by her advanced years; for, after all, adults have but a narrow field in which to exercise their gifts. There was a pleasant distinction in walking by Madame Dane's side up and down Mulberry Avenue, even in the unfamiliar society of Adelaide Harrison, and Mary Rawdon, who was a green ribbon, and Ellie Plunkett, who was head of the roll of honour; but it would have been much better fun to have held aloof, and have played that we were English gypsies, and that Madame Dane was Ulrica of the Banded Brow,--just then our favourite character in fiction. Ulrica sounds, I am aware, as if she belonged in the Castle of Udolpho; but she was really a virtuous and nobly spoken outlaw in a story called "Wild Times," which was the most exciting book--the only madly exciting book--the convent library contained. It dealt with the religious persecutions of Elizabeth's glorious but stringent reign, and was a good, thorough-going piece of partisan fiction, like Fox's "Book of Martyrs," or Wodrow's "Sufferings of the Church of Scotland." I cannot now remember why Ulrica's brow was banded,--I believe she had some dreadful mark upon it,--but she was always alluding to its screened condition in words of thrilling intensity. "Seek not to know the secret of my shame. Never again shall the morning breeze nor the cool breath of evening fan Ulrica's brow."--"Tear from my heart all hope, all pity, all compunction; but venture not to lift the veil which hides forever from the eye of man the blighting token of Ulrica's shame." We loved to picture this mysterious lady--whose life, I hasten to say, was most exemplary--as tall, high-shouldered, and stern, like Madame Dane; and we merged the two characters together in a very agreeable and convincing way. It enraptured us to speak of the mistress of the Second Cours as "Ulrica," to tell one another that some day we should surely forget, and call her by that name (than which nothing was less likely), and to wonder what she would say and do if she found out the liberty we had taken. A little private diversion of this kind was all the more necessary because the whole business of loving was essentially a public affair. Not that we were capable of voicing our affections,--Marie alone had the gift of expression,--but we ranged ourselves in solid ranks for and against the favourites of the hour. The system had its disadvantages. It deprived us of individual distinction. I was confirmed that winter, and, having found out that Madame Dane's Christian name was Theresa, I resolved to take it for my confirmation name, feeling that this was a significant proof of tenderness. Unfortunately, three other children came to the same conclusion,--Ellie Plunkett was one of them,--and the four Theresas made such an impression upon the Archbishop that he congratulated us in a really beautiful manner upon our devotion to the great saint whose name we had chosen, and whose example, he trusted, would be our beacon light. As for my deeper and more absorbing passion for Julia Reynolds, I could not hope to separate it, or at least to make her separate it, from the passions of her other satellites. She regarded us all with a cold and impartial aversion, which was not without excuse, in view of our reprehensible behaviour. Three times a day the Second Cours filed through the First Cours classroom, on its way to the refectory. The hall was always empty, as the older girls preceded us to our meals; but at noon their hats and coats and shawls were laid neatly out upon their chairs, ready to be put on as soon as dinner was eaten. Julia Reynolds had a black and white plaid shawl, the sight of which goaded us to frenzy. If Madame Dane's eyes were turned for one instant from our ranks, some daring child shot madly across the room, wrenched a bit of fringe from this beloved shawl, and, returning in triumph with her spoil, wore it for days (I always lost mine) pinned as a love-knot to the bib of her alpaca apron. Viola Milton performed this feat so often that she became purveyor of fringe to less audacious girls, and gained honour and advantages thereby. Not content with such vandalism, she conceived the daring project of stealing a lock of hair. She hid herself in a music room, and, when Julia went by to her music lesson, stole silently behind her, and snipped off the end of one of her long brown braids. This, with the generosity of a highwayman, she distributed, in single hairs, to all who clamoured for them. To me she gave half a dozen, which I gummed up for safe-keeping in an envelope, and never saw again. It was a little trying that Viola--certainly, as I have made plain, the least deserving of us all--should have been the only child who ever obtained a word of kindness from our divinity. But this was the irony of fate. Three days after the rape of the lock, she was sent to do penance for one of her many misdemeanours by sitting under the clock in the corridor, a post which, for some mysterious reason, was consecrated to the atonement of sin. In an hour she returned, radiant, beatified. Julia Reynolds had gone by on her way to the chapel; and seeing the little solitary figure--which looked pathetic, though it wasn't--had given her a fleeting smile, and had said "Poor Olie," as she passed. This was hard to bear. It all came, as I pointed out acrimoniously to Tony, of Viola's being at least a head shorter than she had any business to be at ten years old, and of her having such absurdly thin legs, and great, melancholy eyes. Of course people felt sorry for her, whereas they might have known--they ought to have known--that she was incapable of being abashed. She would just as soon have sat astride the clock as under it. One advantage, however, I possessed over all competitors. I took drawing lessons, and so did Julia Reynolds. Twice a week I sat at a table near her, and spent an hour and a half very pleasantly and profitably in watching all she did. I could not draw. My mother seemed to think that because I had no musical talent, and never in my life was able to tell one note--nor indeed one tune--from another, I must, by way of adjustment, have artistic qualities. Mr. James Payn was wont to say that his gift for mathematics consisted mainly of distaste for the classics. On precisely the same principle, I was put to draw because I could not play or sing. An all-round incapacity was, in those primitive days, a thing not wholly understood. The only branch of my art I acquired to perfection was the sharpening of pencils and crayons; and, having thoroughly mastered this accomplishment, I ventured in a moment of temerity to ask Julia if I might sharpen hers. At first she decisively refused; but a week or two later, seeing the deftness of my work, and having a regard for her own hands, she relented, and allowed me this privilege. Henceforward I felt that my drawing lessons were not given in vain. Even Dr. Eckhart's unsparing condemnation of my sketches--which were the feeblest of failures--could not destroy my content. Love was with me a stronger emotion than vanity. I used to look forward all week to those two happy afternoons when I was graciously permitted to waste my time and blacken my fingers in humble and unrequited service. Julia drew beautifully. She excelled in every accomplishment, as in every branch of study. She sang, she played, she painted, she danced, with bewildering ease and proficiency. French and Latin presented no stumbling-blocks to her. The heights and abysses of composition were for her a level and conquered country. Logic and geometry were, so to speak, her playthings. We were bewildered by such universality of genius,--something like Michael Angelo's,--and when I remember that, in addition to these legitimate attainments, she was the most gifted actress on our convent stage, I am at a loss now to understand why the world is not ringing with her name. Certain it is that she was the pride of Dr. Eckhart's heart, the one solace of his harassed and tormented life. He was an elderly German, irascible in disposition, and profane in speech. His oaths were Teutonic oaths, but were not, on that account, the less thunderous. He taught music and drawing,--those were not the days of specialists,--so all the time that his ears were not vexed with weak and tremulous discords, his eyes were maddened by crippled lines, and sheets of smutty incompetence. The result of such dual strain was that his spirit, which could hardly have been gentle at the outset, had grown savage as a Tartar's. When Christopher North ventured to say that the wasp is the only one of God's creatures perpetually out of temper, it was because he never knew Carlyle or Dr. Eckhart. This irate old gentleman was an admirable teacher,--or at least he would have been an admirable teacher if we could have enjoyed eternal youth in which to profit by his lessons, to master step by step the deep-laid foundations of an art. As it was, few of us ever got beyond the first feeble paces, beyond those prolonged beginnings which had no significance in our eyes. Yet we knew that other children, children not more richly endowed by nature than we were, made real pictures that, with careful retouching, were deemed worthy of frames, and of places upon parental walls. Adelaide Harrison had a friend who went to a fashionable city school, and who had sent her--in proof of wide attainments--a work of art which filled us with envy and admiration. It was a winter landscape; a thatched cottage with wobbly walls, a bit of fence, and two quite natural-looking trees, all drawn on a prepared surface of blue and brown,--blue on top for the sky, brown underneath for the earth. Then--triumph of realism--this surface was scraped away in spots with a penknife, and the white cardboard thus brought to light presented a startling resemblance to snow,--snow on the cottage roof, snow on the branches of the trees, patches of snow on the ground. It seemed easy to do, and was beautiful when done,--a high order of art, and particularly adapted, by reason of its wintriness, for Christmas gifts. I urged Adelaide to show it to Dr. Eckhart, and to ask him if we might not do something like it, instead of wasting our young lives, and possibly some hidden genius, in futile attempts to draw an uninspiring group of cones and cylinders. Adelaide, who was not without courage, and whose family had a high opinion of her talents, undertook this dangerous commission, and at our next lesson actually proffered her request. Dr. Eckhart glared like an angry bull. He held the landscape out at arm's length, turning it round and round, as if uncertain which was earth and which was heaven. "And that," he said, indicating with a derisive thumb a spot of white, "what, may I ask, is that?" "Snow," said Adelaide. "Snow!" with a harsh cackle. "And do we then scratch in the ground like hens for snow? Eh! tell me that! Like hens?" And he laughed, softened in some measure by an appreciation of his own wit. Adelaide stood her ground. But she thought it as well to have some one stand by her side. "Agnes wants to do a picture, too," she said. Dr. Eckhart gasped. If I had intimated a desire to build a cathedral, or write an epic, or be Empress of India, he could not have been more astounded. "L'audace, l'audace, et toujours l'audace." Words failed him, but, reaching over, he picked up my drawing-board, and held it aloft as one might hold a standard; held it rigidly, and contemplated for at least three minutes the wavering outlines of my work. Most of the class naturally looked at it too. The situation was embarrassing, and was made no easier when, after this prolonged exposure, my board was replaced with a thump upon the table, and Dr. Eckhart said in a falsetto imitation of Adelaide's mincing tones: "Agnes wants to do a picture, too." Then without another word of criticism--no more was needed--he moved away, and sat down by Julia Reynolds's side. She alone had never lifted her eyes during this brief episode, had never deemed it worthy of attention. I felt grateful for her unconcern, and yet was humbled by it. It illustrated my sterling insignificance. Nothing that I did, or failed to do, could possibly interest her, even to the raising of an eyelid. At least, so I thought then. I was destined to find out my mistake. It was through Elizabeth that the new discovery was made. All our inspirations, all the novel features of our life, owed their origin to her. The fertility of her mind was inexhaustible. A few days after this memorable drawing lesson she drew me into a corner at recreation, and, rolling up her sleeve, showed me her arm. There, scratched on the smooth white skin, bloody, unpleasant, and distinct, were the figures 150. I gazed entranced. A hundred and fifty was Madame Dane's number (the nuns as well as the girls all had numbers), and for months past it had been the emblem of the cult. We never saw it without emotion. When it stood at the head of a page, we always encircled it in a heart. When we found it in our arithmetics, we encircled it in a heart. We marked all our books with these three figures set in a heart, and we cut them upon any wooden substance that came to hand,--not our polished and immaculate desks, but rulers, slate borders, and the swings. And now, happiest of happy devices, Elizabeth had offered her own flesh as a background for these beloved numerals. The spirit of instant emulation fired my soul. I thought of Julia's number, twenty-one, and burned with desire to carve it monumentally upon myself. "What did you do it with?" I asked. "A pin, a penknife, and a sharpened match," answered Elizabeth proudly. I shuddered. These surgical instruments did not invite confidence; but not for worlds would I have acknowledged my distaste. Besides, it is sweet to suffer for those we love. I resolved to out-herod Herod, and use my hand instead of my arm as a commemorative tablet. There was a flamboyant publicity about this device which appealed to my Latin blood. It did not appeal to Elizabeth, and she offered the practical suggestion that publicity, when one is not a free agent, sometimes entails unpleasant consequences. My arm was, so to speak, my own, and I might do with it what I pleased; but my hand was open to scrutiny, and there was every reason to fear that Madame Dane would disapprove of the inscription. Her arguments were unanswerable, but their very soundness repelled me. I was in no humour for sobriety. I did the work very neatly that night in my alcove, grateful, before it was over, that there were only two figures in twenty-one. The next day Viola followed my example. I knew she would. There was no escaping from Viola. Tony cut seventy-seven, Ella Holrook's number, upon her arm. Annie Churchill and Lilly heroically cut a hundred and fifty on theirs. The fashion had been set. In three days half the Second Cours bore upon their suffering little bodies these gory evidences of their love. And for four days no one in authority knew. Yet we spent our time delightfully in examining one another's numerals, and freshening up our own. Like young savages, we incited one another to painful rites, and to bloody excesses. That Viola's hand and mine should for so long have escaped detection seems miraculous; but Madame Dane, though keenly observant, was a trifle near-sighted. She may have thought the scratches accidental. On the fifth morning, as I came out from Mass, Madame Rayburn's eye lighted by chance upon the marks. She was not near-sighted, and she never mistook one thing for another. A single glance told her the story. A single instant decided her course of action. "Agnes," she said, and I stepped from the ranks, and stood by her side. I knew what she had seen; but I did not know what she proposed doing, and my heart beat uneasily. We waited until the First Cours filed out of the chapel. Last, because tallest, came Ella Holrook and Julia Reynolds. "Julia," said Madame Rayburn, and she, too, left the ranks and joined us. No word was spoken until the long line of girls--burning with futile curiosity, but too well trained even to turn their heads--had passed through the corridor. Then Madame Rayburn took my hand in her firm grasp and held it up to view. "Look at this, Julia," she said. I had supposed it impossible to move Julia Reynolds to wrath, to arouse in her any other sentiment than the cold contempt, "la fierté honorable et digne," which she cultivated with so much care. But I had not calculated on this last straw of provocation following upon all she had previously endured. When she saw her number on my hand, she crimsoned, and her eyes grew dark. She was simply and unaffectedly angry,--what we in unguarded conversation called "mad." "I won't have it," she said passionately. "I won't! It's too much to be borne. I won't put up with it another hour. Why should I be tormented all my life by these idiotic children? Look at my shawl,--how they have torn off half the fringe. It isn't fit to be worn. Look at my desk! I never open it without finding it littered with their trash. Do I want their old flannel penwipers? Do I want their stupid pincushions and needle-cases? Can I possibly want book-markers of perforated cardboard, with 'Julia' worked on them in blue sewing silk? I've had three this week. Do they think I don't know my own name, and that I have to be reminded of it by them? They have no business to go near my desk. They have no business to put anything in it. And I don't want their candy. And I don't want them to darn my stockings in hard lumps. I've never encouraged one of them in my life." (Alas! Julia, this was your undoing.) "I've never spoken to one of them. I did let her" (a scornful nod at me) "sharpen my crayons in drawing class, and I suppose this impertinence is the result. I suppose she thinks she is a favourite. Well, she isn't. And this is going a good deal too far. My number belongs to me personally, just as much as my name does. I won't have it paraded around the Second Cours. It stands for me in the school, it's mine, and she has no right to cut it on her horrid little hand." There was a moment's silence. Julia's breath was spent, and Madame Rayburn said nothing. She only looked at me. Now I possessed one peculiarity which had always to be reckoned with. Timid, easily abashed, and reduced to nothingness by a word that hurt, I was sure, if pushed too far, to stand at bay. Nor had nature left me altogether defenceless in a hard world. Julia's first glance had opened my eyes to the extravagance of my behaviour (Oh, that I had followed Elizabeth's counsel!), her first reproaches had overwhelmed me with shame. But the concentrated scorn with which she flung her taunts in my face, and that final word about my horrid hand, stiffened me into resistance. My anger matched her own. "All right," I said shortly; "I'll scratch it out." Madame Rayburn laughed softly. She had brought upon me this dire humiliation because she thought my folly merited the punishment; but she was not ill-pleased to find me undismayed. As for Julia, she bent her keen eyes on my face (the first time she had ever really looked at me), and something that was almost a smile softened the corners of her mouth. It was evident that the idea of scratching out what was already so deeply scratched in pleased her wayward fancy. When she spoke again, it was in a different voice, and though her words were unflattering, her manner was almost kind. "If you are not altogether a fool," she said, "and that sounds as if you were not, why do you behave like one?" To this query I naturally made no reply. It was not easy to answer, and besides, at the first softening of her mood, my wrath had melted away, carrying my courage with it. I was perilously near tears. Madame Rayburn dropped my hand, and gave me a little nod. It meant that I was free, and I scudded like a hare through the corridor, through the First Cours classroom, and down into the refectory. There the familiar aspect of breakfast, the familiar murmur of "Pain, s'il vous plait," restored my equanimity. I met the curious glances cast at me with that studied unconcern, that blankness of expression which we had learned from Elizabeth, and which was to us what the turtle shell is to the turtle,--a refuge from inquisitors. I had no mind that any one should know the exact nature of my experience. That night I made good my word, and erased the twenty-one after a thorough-going fashion I hardly like to recall. But when the operation was over, and I curled up in my bed, I said to myself that although I should never again wear this beloved number upon hand or arm, it would be engraved forever on my heart. As long as I lived, I should feel for Julia Reynolds the same passionate and unalterable devotion. Perhaps, some time in the future, I should have the happiness of dying for her. I was arranging the details of this charming possibility, and balancing in my mind the respective delights of being bitten--while defending her--by a mad dog, or being drowned in mid-ocean, having given her my place in the life-boat, and was waving her a last farewell from the decks of the sinking ship, when I finally fell asleep. The next morning was Sunday, the never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, when Marianus for the first time served Mass. And as I watched him, breathless with delight, Julia's image grew pale, as pale as that of Isabel Summers, and faded quietly away. I looked at Elizabeth and Tony. They, too, were parting with illusions. Their sore little arms might now be permitted to heal, for their faithless hearts no longer bore a scar. The reign of our lost loves was over. The sovereignty of Marianus had begun. The Riverside Press _Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._ TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been standardized. 
10342	----	the Online Distributed Proofresding Team THE VELVET GLOVE By Henry Seton Merriman (HUGH STOWELL SCOTT) Contents: I. IN THE CITY OF THE WINDS II. EVASIO MON III. WITHIN THE HIGH WALLS IV. THE JADE--CHANCE V. A PILGRIMAGE VI. PILGRIMS VII. THE ALTERNATIVE VIII. THE TRAIL IX. THE QUARRY X. THISBE XI. THE ROYAL ADVENTURE XII. IN A STRONG CITY XIII. THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVE XIV. IN THE CLOISTER XV. OUR LADY OF THE SHADOWS XVI. THE MATTRESS BEATER XVII. AT THE INN OF THE TWO TREES XVIII. THE MAKERS OF HISTORY XIX. COUSIN PELIGROS XX. AT TORRE GARDA XXI. JUANITA GROWS UP XXII. AN ACCIDENT XXIII. KIND INQUIRIES XXIV. THE STORMY PETREL XXV. WAR'S ALARM XXVI. AT THE FORD XXVII. IN THE CLOUDS XXVIII. LE GANT DE VELOURS XXIX. LA MAIN DE FER XXX. THE CASTING VOTE List of Illustrations: "'ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE NOT HEARD FROM PAPA?'" "A MOMENT LATER THE TRAVELER WAS LYING THERE ALONE." "ALL TURNED AND LOOKED AT HIM IN WONDER." "'DO YOU INTEND TO PUNISH YOUR FATHER'S ASSASSINS?'" "MARCOS WAS ESSENTIALLY A MAN OF HIS WORD." "THE DOOR WAS OPENED BY A STOUT MONK." "'HE IS NOT KILLED,' SAID MARCOS, BREATHLESSLY." "HE LEFT JUANITA ALONE WITH MARCOS." CHAPTER I IN THE CITY OF THE WINDS The Ebro, as all the world knows--or will pretend to know, being an ignorant and vain world--runs through the city of Saragossa. It is a river, moreover, which should be accorded the sympathy of this generation, for it is at once rapid and shallow. On one side it is bordered by the wall of the city. The left bank is low and sandy, liable to flood; a haunt of lizards in the summer, of frogs in winter-time. The lower bank is bordered by poplar trees, and here and there plots of land have been recovered from the riverbed for tillage and the growth of that harsh red wine which seems to harden and thicken the men of Aragon. One night, when a half moon hung over the domes of the Cathedral of the Pillar, a man made his way through the undergrowth by the riverside and stumbled across the shingle towards the open shed which marks the landing-place of the only ferry across the Ebro that Saragossa possesses. The ferry-boat was moored to the landing-stage. It is a high-prowed, high-sterned vessel, built on Viking lines, from a picture the observant must conclude, by a landsman carpenter. It swings across the river on a wire rope, with a running tackle, by the force of the stream and the aid of a large rudder. The man looked cautiously into the vine-clad shed. It was empty. He crept towards the boat and found no one there. Then he examined the chain that moored it. There was no padlock. In Spain to this day they bar the window heavily and leave the door open. To the cunning mind is given in this custom the whole history of a great nation. He stood upright and looked across the river. He was a tall man with a clean cut face and a hard mouth. He gave a sharp sigh as he looked at Saragossa outlined against the sky. His attitude and his sigh seemed to denote along journey accomplished at last, an object attained perhaps or within reach, which is almost the same thing, but not quite. For most men are happier in striving than in possession. And no one has yet decided whether it is better to be among the lean or the fat. Don Francisco de Mogente sat down on the bench provided for those that await the ferry, and, tilting back his hat, looked up at the sky. The northwest wind was blowing--the Solano--as it only blows in Aragon. The bridge below the ferry has, by the way, a high wall on the upper side of it to break this wind, without which no cart could cross the river at certain times of the year. It came roaring down the Ebro, bending the tall poplars on the lower bank, driving before it a cloud of dust on the Saragossa side. It lashed the waters of the river to a gleaming white beneath the moon. And all the while the clouds stood hard and sharp of outline in the sky. They hardly seemed to move towards the moon. They scarcely changed their shape from hour to hour. This was not a wind of heaven, but a current rushing down from the Pyrenees to replace the hot air rising from the plains of Aragon. Nevertheless, the clouds were moving towards the moon, and must soon hide it. Don Francisco de Mogente observed this, and sat patiently beneath the trailing vines, noting their slow approach. He was a white-haired man, and his face was burnt a deep brown. It was an odd face, and the expression of the eyes was not the usual expression of an old man's eyes. They had the agricultural calm, which is rarely seen in drawing-rooms. For those who deal with nature rarely feel calm in a drawing-room. They want to get out of it, and their eyes assume a hunted look. This seemed to be a man who had known both drawing-room and nature; who must have turned quietly and deliberately to nature as the better part. The wrinkles on his face were not those of the social smile, which so disfigure the faces of women when the smile is no longer wanted. They were the wrinkles of sunshine. "I will wait," he said placidly to himself in English, with, however, a strong American accent. "I have waited fifteen years--and she doesn't know I am coming." He sat looking across the river with quiet eyes. The city lay before him, with the spire of its unmatched cathedral, the domes of its second cathedral, and its many towers outlined against the sky just as he had seen them fifteen years before--just as others had seen them a hundred years earlier. The great rounded cloud was nearer to the moon now. Now it touched it. And quite suddenly the domes disappeared. Don Francisco de Mogente rose and went towards the boat. He did not trouble to walk gently or to loosen the chains noiselessly. The wind was roaring so loudly that a listener twenty yards away could have heard nothing. He cast off and then hastened to the stern of the boat. The way in which he handled the helm showed that he knew the tricks of the old ferryman by wind and calm, by high and low river. He had probably learnt them with the photographic accuracy only to be attained when the mind is young. The boat swung out into the river with an odd jerking movement, which the steersman soon corrected. And a man who had been watching on the bridge half a mile farther down the river hurried into the town. A second watcher at an open window in the tall house next to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo del Ebro closed his field-glasses with a thoughtful smile. It seemed that Don Francisco de Mogente had purposely avoided crossing the bridge, where to this day the night watchman, with lantern and spear, peeps cautiously to and fro--a startlingly mediaeval figure. It seemed also that the traveler was expected, though he had performed the last stage of his journey on foot after nightfall. It is characteristic of this country that Saragossa should be guarded during the day by the toll-takers at every gate, by sentries, and by the new police, while at night the streets are given over to the care of a handful of night watchmen, who call monotonously to each other all through the hours, and may be avoided by the simplest-minded of malefactors. Don Francisco de Mogente brought the ferry-boat gently alongside the landing-stage beneath the high wall of the Quay, and made his way through the underground passage and up the dirty steps that lead into one of the narrow streets of the old town. The moon had broken through the clouds again and shone down upon the barred windows. The traveler stood still and looked about him. Nothing had changed since he had last stood there. Nothing had changed just here for five hundred years or so; for he could not see the domes of the Cathedral of the Pillar, comparatively modern, only a century old. Don Francisco de Mogente had come from the West; had known the newness of the new generation. And he stood for a moment as if in a dream, breathing in the tainted air of narrow, undrained streets; listening to the cry of the watchman slowly dying as the man walked away from him on sandaled, noiseless feet; gazing up at the barred windows, heavily shadowed. There was an old world stillness in the air, and suddenly the bells of fifty churches tolled the hour. It was one o'clock in the morning. The traveler had traveled backwards, it would seem, into the middle ages. As he heard the church bells he gave an angry upward jerk of the head, as if the sound confirmed a thought that was already in his mind. The bells seemed to be all around him; the towers of the churches seemed to dominate the sleeping city on every side. There was a distinct smell of incense in the air of these narrow streets, where the winds of the outer world rarely found access. The traveler knew his way, and hurried down a narrow turning to the left, with the Cathedral of the Pillar between him and the river. He had made a dé tour in order to avoid the bridge and the Paseo del Ebro, a broad road on the river bank. In these narrow streets he met no one. On the Paseo there are several old inns, notably the Posada de los Reyes, used by muleteers and other gentlemen of the road, who arise and start at any hour of the twenty-four and in summer travel as much by night as by day. At the corner, where the bridge abuts on the Paseo, there is always a watchman at night, while by day there is a guard. It is the busiest and dustiest corner in the city. Francisco de Mogente crossed a wide street, and again sought a dark alley. He passed by the corner of the Cathedral of the Pillar, and went towards the other and infinitely grander Cathedral of the Seo. Beyond this, by the riverside, is the palace of the archbishop. Farther on is another palace, standing likewise on the Paseo del Ebro, backing likewise on to a labyrinth of narrow streets. It is called the Palacio Sarrion, and belongs to the father and son of that name. It seemed that Francisco de Mogente was going to the Palacio Sarrion; for he passed the great door of the archbishop's dwelling, and was already looking towards the house of the Sarrions, when a slight sound made him turn on his heels with the rapidity of one whose life had been passed amid dangers--and more especially those that come from behind. There were three men coming from behind now, running after him on sandaled feet, and before he could do so much as raise his arm the moon broke out from behind a cloud and showed a gleam of steel. Don Francisco de Mogente was down on the ground in an instant, and the three men fell upon him like dogs on a rat. One knife went right through him, and grated with a harsh squeak on the cobble-stones beneath. A moment later the traveler was lying there alone, half in the shadow, his dusty feet showing whitely in the moonlight. The three shadows had vanished as softly as they came. Almost instantly from, strangely enough, the direction in which they had gone the burly form of a preaching friar came out into the light. He was walking hurriedly, and would seem to be returning from some mission of mercy, or some pious bedside to one of the many houses of religion located within a stone's throw of the Cathedral of the Seo in one of the narrow streets of this quarter of the city. The holy man almost fell over the prostrate form of Don Francisco de Mogente. "Ah! ah!" he exclaimed in an even and quiet voice. "A calamity." "No," answered the wounded man with a cynicism which even the near sight of death seemed powerless to effect. "A crime." "You are badly hurt, my son." "Yes; you had better not try to lift me, though you are a strong man." "I will go for help," said the monk. "Lay help," suggested the wounded man curtly. But the friar was already out of earshot. In an astonishingly short space of time the friar returned, accompanied by two men, who had the air of indoor servants and the quiet movements of street-bred, roof-ridden humanity. Mindful of his cloth, the friar stood aside, unostentatiously and firmly refusing to take the lead even in a mission of mercy. He stood with humbly-folded hands and a meek face while the two men lifted Don Francisco de Mogente on to a long narrow blanket, the cloak of Navarre and Aragon, which one of them had brought with him. They bore him slowly away, and the friar lingered behind. The moon shone down brightly into the narrow street and showed a great patch of blood amid the cobblestones. In Saragossa, as in many Spanish cities, certain old men are employed by the municipal authorities to sweep the dust of the streets into little heaps. These heaps remain at the side of the streets until the dogs and the children and the four winds disperse the dust again. It is a survival of the middle ages, interesting enough in its bearing upon the evolution of the modern municipal authority and the transmission of intellectual gifts. The friar looked round him, and had not far to look. There was a dust heap close by. He plunged his large brown hands into it, and with a few quick movements covered all traces of the calamity of which he had so nearly been a witness. Then, with a quick, meek look either way, he followed the two men, who had just disappeared round a corner. The street, which, by the way, is called the Calle San Gregorio, was, of course, deserted; the tall houses on either side were closely shuttered. Many of the balconies bore a branch of palm across the iron railings, the outward sign of priesthood. For the cathedral clergy live here. And, doubtless, the holy men within had been asleep many hours. Across the end of the Calle San Gregorio, and commanding that narrow street, stood the Palacio Sarrion--an empty house the greater part of the year--a vast building, of which the windows increased in size as they mounted skywards. There were wrought-iron balconies, of which the window embrasures were so deep that the shutters folded sideways into the wall instead of swinging back as in houses of which the walls were of normal thickness. The friar was probably accustomed to seeing the Palacio Sarrion rigidly shut up. He never, in his quick, humble scrutiny of his surroundings glanced up at it. And, therefore, he never saw a man sitting quietly behind the curiously wrought railings, smoking a cigarette--a man who had witnessed the whole incident from beginning to end. Who had, indeed, seen more than the friar or the two quiet men-servants. For he had seen a stick--probably a sword-stick, such as nearly every Spanish gentleman carries in his own country--fly from the hand of Don Francisco de Mogente at the moment when he was attacked, and fall into the gutter on the darker side of the street, where it lay unheeded. Where, indeed, it still remained when the friar with his swinging gait had turned the corner of the Calle San Gregorio. CHAPTER II EVASIO MON There are some people whose presence in a room seems to establish a mental centre of gravity round which other minds hover uneasily, conscious of the dead weight of that attraction. "I have known Evasio all my life," the Count de Sarrion once said to his son. "I have stood at the edge of that pit and looked in. I do not know to this day whether there is gold at the bottom or mud. I have never quarreled with him, and, therefore, we have never made it up." Which, perhaps, was as good a description of Evasio Mon as any man had given. He had never quarreled with any one. He was, in consequence, a lonely man. For the majority of human beings are gregarious. They meet together in order to quarrel. The majority of women prefer to sit and squabble round one table to seeking another room. They call it the domestic circle, and spend their time in straining at the family tie in order to prove its strength. It was Evasio Mon who, standing at the open window of his apartment in the tall house next door to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo del Ebro, had observed with the help of a field-glass, that a traveler was crossing the river by the ferry-boat after midnight. He noted the unusual proceeding with a tolerant shrug. It will be remembered that he closed his glasses with a smile--not a smile of amusement or of contempt--not even a deep smile such as people wear in books. It was merely a smile, and could not be construed into anything else by any physiognomist. The wrinkles that made it were deeply marked, which suggested that Evasio Mon had learnt to smile when he was quite young. He had, perhaps, been taught. And, after all, a man may as well show a smile to the world as a worried look, or a mean look, or one of the countless casts of countenance that are moulded by conceit and vanity. A smile is frequently misconstrued by the simple-hearted into the outward sign of inward kindness. Many think that it conciliates children and little dogs. But that which the many think is usually wrong. If Evasio Mon's face said anything at all, it warned the world that it had to deal with a man of perfect self-control. And the man who controls himself is usually able to control just so much of his surrounding world as may suit his purpose. There was something in the set of this man's eyes which suggested no easy victory over self. For his eyes were close together. His hair was almost red. His face was rather narrow and long. It was not the face of an easy-going man as God had made it. But years had made it the face of a man that nothing could rouse. He was of medium height, with rather narrow shoulders, but upright and lithe. He was clean shaven and of a pleasant ruddiness. His eyes were a bluish gray, and looked out upon the world with a reflective attention through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, with which he had a habit of amusing himself while talking, examining their mechanism and the knot of the fine black cord with a bat-like air of blindness. In body and mind he seemed to be almost a young man. But Ramon de Sarrion said that he had known him all his life. And the Count de Sarrion had spoken with Christina when that woman was Queen of Spain. Mon was still astir, although the bells of the Cathedral of the Virgin of the Pillar, immediately behind his house, had struck the half hour. It was more than thirty minutes since the ferry-boat had sidled across the river, and Mon glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece. He expected, it would seem, a sequel to the arrival which had been so carefully noted. And at last the sequel came. A soft knock, as of fat fingers, made Mon glance towards the door, and bid the knocker enter. The door opened, and in its darkened entry stood the large form of the friar who had rendered such useful aid to a stricken traveler. The light of Mon's lamp showed this holy man to be large and heavy of face, with the narrow forehead of the fanatic. With such a face and head, this could not be a clever man. But he is a wise worker who has tools of different temper in his bag. Too fine a steel may snap. Too delicately fashioned an instrument may turn in the hand when suddenly pressed against the grain. Mon held out his hand, knowing that there would be no verbal message. From the mysterious folds of the friar's sleeves a letter instantly emerged. "They have blundered. The man is still living. You had better come," it said; and that was all. "And what do you know of this affair, my brother?" asked Mon, holding the letter to the candle, and, when it was ignited, throwing it on to the cold ashes in the open fireplace, where it burnt. "Little enough, Excellency. One of the Fathers, praying at his window, heard the sound of a struggle in the street, and I was sent out to see what it signified. I found a man lying on the ground, and, according to instructions, did not touch him, but went back for help." Mon nodded his compact head thoughtfully. "And the man said nothing?" "Nothing, Excellency." "You are a wise man, my brother. Go, and I will follow you." The friar's meek face was oily with that smile of complete self-satisfaction which is only found when foolishness and fervour meet in one brain. Mon rose slowly from his chair and stretched himself. It was evident that had he followed his own inclination he would have gone to bed. He perhaps had a sense of duty. He had not far to go, and knew the shortest ways through the narrow streets. He could hear a muleteer shouting at his beasts on the bridge as he crossed the Calle Don Jaime I. The streets were quiet enough otherwise, and the watchman of this quarter could be heard far away at the corner of the Plaza de la Constitucion calling to the gods that the weather was serene. Evasio Mon, cloaked to the eyes against the autumn night, hurried down the Calle San Gregorio and turned into an open doorway that led into the patio of a great four-sided house. He climbed the stone stair and knocked at a door, which was instantly opened. "Come!" said the man who opened it--a white-haired priest of benevolent face. "He is conscious. He asks for a notary. He is dying! I thought you--" "No," replied Mon quickly. "He would recognise me, though he has not seen me for twenty years. You must do it. Change your clothes." He spoke as with authority, and the priest fingered the silken cord around his waist. "I know nothing of the law," he said hesitatingly. "That I have thought of. Here are two forms of will. They are written so small as to be almost illegible. This one we must get signed if we can; but, failing that, the other will do. You see the difference. In this one the pin is from left to right; in that, from right to left. I will wait here while you change your clothes. As emergencies arise we will meet them." He spoke the last sentence coldly, and followed with his narrow gaze the movements of the old priest, who was laying aside his cassock. "Let us have no panics," Evasio Mon's manner seemed to say. And his air was that of a quiet pilot knowing his way through the narrow waters that lay ahead. In a small room near at hand, Francisco de Mogente was facing death. He lay half dressed upon a narrow bed. On a table near at hand stood a basin, a bottle, and a few evidences of surgical aid. But the doctor had gone. Two friars were in the room. One was praying; the other was the big, strong man who had first succoured the wounded traveler. "I asked for a notary," said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him. He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeply and quickly. At times his expression was one of wonder, as if a conviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his will and despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste in wondering. "The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming," replied the friar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries." "Mind your own business," replied Mogente quietly. As he spoke the door opened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand. "You sent for me--a notary," he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway a yard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that in looking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also the face of Evasio Mon. "You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary. "A statement--no. It is useless since they have killed me. I will make a statement ... Elsewhere." And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear. "A will--yes," he continued--and hearing the notary dip his pen-- "My name," he said, "is Francisco de Mogente." "Of?" inquired the notary, writing. "Of this city. You cannot be a notary of Saragossa or you would know that." "I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on." "Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave." One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love of money perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The man who spoke was dying; already his breath came short. "Give me," he said, "some cordial, or I shall not last." After a pause he went on. "There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was a younger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughter Juanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will in favour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran over the paper--"on one condition." "On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but sat upright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in the doorway. He had forgotten his tonsure. "That he does not go into religion--that he devotes no part of it to the benefit or advantage of the church." The notary sat very straight while he wrote this down. "My son is in Saragossa," said Mogente suddenly, with a change of manner. "I will see him. Send for him." The notary glanced up at Evasio Mon, who shook his head. "I cannot send for him at two in the morning." "Then I will sign no will." "Sign the will now," suggested the lawyer, with a look of doubt towards the dark doorway behind the sick man's head. "Sign now, and see your son to-morrow." "There is no to-morrow, my friend. Send for my son at once." Mon grudgingly nodded his head. "It is well, I will do as you wish," said the notary, only too glad, it would seem, to rise and go into the next room to receive further minute instructions from his chief. The dying man laid with closed eyes, and did not move until his son spoke to him. Leon de Mogente was a sparely-built man, with a white and oddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely any emotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight. "Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?" "Not yet," answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort of suppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiled faintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say. "But you wish to become one?" "It is my dearest desire." The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother," he said. "She was a fool. You may go back to bed, my friend." "But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside," pleaded the son. He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room. "Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without even troubling himself to show contempt. The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by an upward glance. "You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to--to some good work." But Evasio Mon was shaking his head. "To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzled silence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He lay quite still, looking straight in front of him. "The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?" "No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door. "No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. You wish to leave your money to your son?" "No, no." "Then to--your daughter?" And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behind it. "To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is it not? To your daughter?" Mogente nodded his head. "Write it out shortly," he said in a low and distinct voice. "For I will sign nothing that I have not read, word for word, and I have but little time." The notary took a new sheet of paper and wrote out in bold and, it is to be presumed, unlegal terms that Francisco de Mogente left his earthly possessions to Juanita de Mogente, his only daughter. Being no notary, this elderly priest wrote out a plain-spoken document, about which there could be no doubt whatever in any court of law in the world, which is probably more than a lawyer could have done. Francisco de Mogente read the paper, and then, propped in the arms of the big friar, he signed his name to it. After this he lay quite still, so still that at last the notary, who stood watching him, slowly knelt down and fell to praying for the soul that was gone. CHAPTER III WITHIN THE HIGH WALLS In these degenerate days Saragossa has taken to itself a suburb--the first and deadliest sign of a city's progress. Thirty years ago, however, Torrero did not exist, and those terrible erections of white stone and plaster which now disfigure the high land to the south of the city had not yet burst upon the calm of ancient architectural Spain. Here, on Monte Torrero, stood an old convent, now turned into a barrack. Here also, amid the trees of the ancient gardens, rises the rounded dome of the church of San Fernando. Close by, and at a slightly higher level, curves the Canal Imperial, 400 years old, and not yet finished; assuredly conceived by a Moorish love of clear water in high places, but left to Spanish enterprise and in completeness when the Moors had departed. Beyond the convent walls, the canal winds round the slope of the brown hill, marking a distinctive line between the outer desert and the green oasis of Saragossa. Just within the border line of the oasis, just below the canal, on the sunny slope, lies the long low house of the Convent School of the Sisters of the True Faith. Here, amid the quiet of orchards--white in spring with blossom, the haunt of countless nightingales, heavy with fruit in autumn, at all times the home of a luxuriant vegetation--history has surged to and fro, like the tides drawn hither and thither, rising and falling according to the dictates of a far-off planet. And the moon of this tide is Rome. For the Sisters of the True Faith are a Jesuit corporation, and their Convent School is, now a convent, now a school, as the tide may rise or fall. The ebb first came in 1555, when Spain threw out the Jesuits. The flow was at its height so late as 1814, when Ferdinand VII--a Bourbon, of course--restored Jesuitism and the Inquisition at one stroke. And before and after, and through all these times, the tide of prosperity has risen and fallen, has sapped and sagged and undermined with a noiseless energy which the outer world only half suspects. In 1835 this same long, low, quiet house amid the fruit-trees was sacked by the furious populace, and more than one Sister of the True Faith, it is whispered, was beaten to the ground as she fled shrieking down the hill. In 1836 all monastic orders were rigidly suppressed by Mendizabal, minister to Queen Christina. In 1851 they were all allowed to live again by the same Queen's daughter, Isabel II. So wags this world into which there came nineteen hundred years ago not peace, but a sword; a world all stirred about by a reformed rake of Spain who, in his own words, came "to send fire throughout the earth;" whose motto was, "Ignem veni metteri in terram, et quid volo nisi ut accendatur." The road that runs by the bank of the canal was deserted when the Count de Sarrion turned his horse's head that way from the dusty high road leading southwards out of Saragossa. Sarrion had only been in Saragossa twenty-four hours. His great house on the Paseo del Ebro had not been thrown open for this brief visit, and he had been content to inhabit two rooms at the back of the house. From the balcony of one he had seen the incident related in the last chapter; and as he rode towards the convent school he carried in his hand--not a whip--but the delicately-wrought sword-stick which had fallen from the hand of Francisco de Mogente into the gutter the night before. In the grassy sedge that bordered the canal the frogs were calling to each other with that conversational note of interrogation in their throats which makes their music one of Nature's most sociable and companionable sounds. In the fruit-trees on the lower land the nightingales were singing as they only sing in Spain. It was nearly dark, a warm evening of late spring, and there was no wind. Amid the thousand scents of blossom, of opening buds, and a hundred flowering shrubs there arose the subtle, soft odour of sluggish water, stirred by frogs, telling of cool places beneath the trees where the weary and the dusty might lie in oblivion till the morning. The Count of Sarrion rode with a long stirrup, his spare form, six feet in height, a straight line from heel to shoulder. His seat in the saddle and something in his manner, at once gentle and cold, something mystic that attracted and yet held inexorably at arm's length, lent at once a deeper meaning to his name, which assuredly had a Moorish ring in it. The little town of Sarrion lies far to the south, on the borders of Valencia, in the heart of the Moorish country. And to look at the face of Ramon de Sarrion and of his son, the still, brown-faced Marcos de Sarrion, was to conjure up some old romance of that sun-scorched height of the Javalambre, where history dates back to centuries before Christ--where assuredly some Moslem maiden in the later time must have forsaken all for love of a wild yet courteous Spanish knight of Sarrion, bequeathing to her sons through all the ages the deep, reflective eyes, the impenetrable dignity, of her race. Sarrion's hair was gray. He wore a moustache and imperial in the French fashion, and looked at the world with the fierce eyes and somewhat of the air of an eagle, which resemblance was further accentuated by a finely-cut nose. As an old man he was picturesque. He must have been very handsome in his youth. It seemed that he was bound for the School of the Sisters of the True Faith, for as he approached its gate, built solidly within the thickness of the high wall, without so much as a crack or crevice through which the curious might peep, he drew rein, and sat motionless on his well-trained horse, listening. The clock at San Fernando immediately vouchsafed the information that it was nine o'clock. There was no one astir, no one on the road before or behind him. Across the narrow canal was a bare field. The convent wall bounded the view on the left hand. Sarrion rode up to the gate and rang a bell, which clanged with a sort of surreptitiousness just within. He only rang once, and then waited, posting himself immediately opposite a little grating let into the solid wood of the door. The window behind the grating seemed to open and shut without sound, for he heard nothing until a woman's voice asked who was there. "It is the Count Ramon de Sarrion who must without fail speak to the Sister Superior to-night," he answered, and composed himself again in the saddle with a southern patience. He waited a long time before the heavy doors were at length opened. The horse passed timorously within, with jerking ears and a distended nostril, looking from side to side. He glanced curiously at the shadowy forms of two women who held the door, and leant their whole weight against it to close it again as soon as possible. Sarrion dismounted, and drew the bridle through a ring and hook attached to the wall just inside the gates. No one spoke. The two nuns noiselessly replaced the heavy bolts. There was a muffled clank of large keys, and they led the way towards the house. Just over the threshold was the small room where visitors were asked to wait--a square, bare apartment with one window set high in the wall, with one lamp burning dimly on the table now. There were three or four chairs, and that was all. The bare walls were whitewashed. The Convent School of the Sisters of the True Faith did not err, at all events, in the heathen indiscretion of a too free hospitality. The visitors to this room were barely beneath the roof. The door had in one of its panels the usual grating and shutter. Sarrion sat down without looking round him, in the manner of a man who knew his surroundings, and took no interest in them. In a few minutes the door opened noiselessly--there was a too obtrusive noiselessness within these walls--and a nun came in. She was tall, and within the shadow of her cap her eyes loomed darkly. She closed the door, and, throwing back her veil, came forward. She leant towards Sarrion, and kissed him, and her face, coming within the radius of the lamp, was the face of a Sarrion. There was in her action, in the movement of her high-held head, a sudden and startling self-abandonment of affection. For Spanish women understand above all others the calling of love and motherhood. And it seemed that Sor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--had, like many women, bestowed a thwarted love--faute de mieux--upon her brother. "You are well?" asked Sarrion, looking at her closely. Her face, framed by a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy. She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his face and person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words. A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she is really interested. She knows without asking. She stood before him with her hands crossed within the folds of her ample sleeves. Her face was lost again in the encircling shadow of her cap and veil. She was erect and motionless in her stiff and heavy clothing. The momentary betrayal of womanhood and affection was passed, and this was the dreaded Sister Superior of the Convent School again. "I suppose," she said, "you are alone as usual. Is it safe, after nightfall--you, who have so many enemies?" "Marcos is at Torre Garda, where I left him three days ago. The snows are melting and the fishing is good. It is unusual to come at this hour, I know, but I came for a special purpose." He glanced towards the door. The quiet of this house seemed to arouse a sense of suspicion and antagonism in his mind. "I wished, of course, to see you also, though I am aware that the affections are out of place in this--holy atmosphere." She winced almost imperceptibly and said nothing. "I want to see Juanita de Mogente," said the Count. "It is unusual, I know, but in this place you are all-powerful. It is important, or I should not ask it." "She is in bed. They go to bed at eight o'clock." "I know. Is not that all the better? She has a room to herself, I recollect. You can arouse her and bring her to me and no one need know that she has had a visitor--except, I suppose, the peeping eyes that haunt a nunnery corridor." He gave a shrug of the shoulder. "Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "The air of secrecy infects one. I am not a secretive man. All the world knows my opinions. And here am I plotting like a friar. Can I see Juanita?" And he laughed quietly as he looked at his sister. "Yes, I suppose so." He nodded his thanks. "And, Dolores, listen!" he said. "Let me see her alone. It may save complications in the future. You understand?" Sor Teresa turned in the doorway and looked at him. He could not see the expression of her eyes, which were in deep shadow, and she left him wondering whether she had understood or not. It would seem that Sor Teresa, despite her slow dignity of manner, was a quick person. For in a few moments the door of the waiting-room was again opened and a young girl hastened breathlessly in. She was not more than sixteen or seventeen, and as she came in she threw back her dark hair with one hand. "I was asleep, Uncle Ramon," she exclaimed with a light laugh, "and the good Sister had to drag me out of bed before I would wake up. And then, of course, I thought it was a fire. We have always hoped for a fire, you know." She was continuing to attend to her hasty dress as she spoke, tying the ribbon at the throat of her gay dressing-gown with careless fingers. "I had not even time to pull up my stockings," she concluded, making good the omission with a friendly nonchalance. Then she turned to look at Sor Teresa, but her eyes found instead the closed door. "Oh!" she cried, "the good Sister has forgotten to come back with me. And it is against the rules. What a joke! We are not allowed to see visitors alone--except father or mother, you know. I don't care. It was not my fault." And she looked doubtfully from the door to Sarrion and back again to the door. She was very young and gay and careless. Her cheeks still flushed by the deep sleep of childhood were of the colour of a peach that has ripened quickly in the glow of a southern sun. Her eyes were dark and very bright; the bird-like shallow vivacity of childhood still sparkled in them. It seemed that they were made for laughing, not for tears or thought. She was the incarnation of youth and springtime. To find such ignorance of the world, such innocence of heart, one must go to a nunnery or to Nature. "I came to see you to-night," said Sarrion, "as I may be leaving Saragossa again to-morrow morning." "And the good Sister allowed me to see you. I wonder why! She has been cross with me lately. I am always breaking things, you know." She spread out her hands with a gesture of despair. "Yesterday it was an altar-vase. I tripped over the foot of that stupid St. Andrew. Have you heard from papa?" Sarrion hesitated for a moment at the sudden question. "No," he answered at length. "Oh! I wish he would come home from Cuba," said the girl, with a passing gravity. "I wonder what he will be like. Will his hair be gray? Not that I dislike gray hair you know," she added hurriedly. "I hope he will be nice. One of the girls told me the other day that she disliked her father, which seems odd, doesn't it? Milagros de Villanueva--do you know her? She was my friend once. We told each other everything. She has red hair. I thought it was golden when she was my friend. But one can see with half an eye that it is red." Sarrion laughed rather shortly. "Have you heard from your father?" he asked. "I had a letter on Saint Mark's Day," she answered. "I have not heard from him since. He said he hoped to give me a surprise, he trusted a pleasant one, during the summer. What did he mean? Do you know?" "No," answered Sarrion, thoughtfully. "I know nothing." "And Marcos is not with you?" the girl went on gaily. "He would not dare to come within the walls. He is afraid of all nuns. I know he is, though he denies it. Some day, in the holidays, I shall dress as a nun, and you will see. It will frighten him out of his wits." "Yes," said Sarrion looking at her, "I expect it would. Tell me," he went on after a pause, "Do you know this stick?" And he held out, under the rays of the lamp, the sword-stick he had picked up in the Calle San Gregorio. She looked at it and then at him with startled eyes. "Of course," she said. "It is the sword-stick I sent papa for the New Year. You ordered it yourself from Toledo. See, here is the crest. Where did you get it? Do not mystify me. Tell me quickly--is he here? Has he come home?" In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and looked up into his face. "No, my child, no," answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with a tenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. The stick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossa in the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is a coincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him of it." Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face into darkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid that she should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba. "I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and to hear that you were well. And now I must go." She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroidery of her sleeves, for all that she wore was of the best that Saragossa could provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never known other, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always had it. "I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, with the ever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery." "No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed." She paused with her hand on the door, looking back, her face all shaded by her tumbled hair hanging to her waist. "Are you sure you have not heard from papa?" "Quite sure--! I wish I had," he added when the door was closed behind her. CHAPTER IV THE JADE--CHANCE The same evening, by the light of his solitary lamp, in the small room--which had been a lady's boudoir in olden days--the Count de Sarrion sat down to write a letter to his son. He despatched it at once by a rider to Torre Garda, far beyond Pampeluna, on the southern slope of the Pyrenees. "I am growing too old for this work," he said to himself as he sealed the letter. "It wants a younger man. Marcos will do it, though he hates the pavement. There is something of the chase in it, and Marcos is a hunter." At his call a man came into the room, all dusty and sunburnt, a typical man of Aragon, dry and wrinkled, burnt like a son of Sahara. His clothing, like his face, was dust-coloured. He wore knee-breeches of homespun, brown stockings, a handkerchief that had once been coloured bound round his head, with the knot over his left ear. He was startlingly rough and wild in appearance, but his features, on examination, were refined, and his eyes intelligent. "I want you to go straight to Torre Garda with this letter, and give it into the hand of my son with your own hand. It is important. You may be watched and followed; you understand?" The man nodded. They are a taciturn people in Aragon and Navarre--so taciturn that in politely greeting the passer on the road they cut down the curt good-day. "Buenas," they say, and that is all. "Go with God," said the Count, and the messenger left the room noiselessly, for they wear no shoe-leather in this dry land. There was a train in those days to Pampeluna and a daily post, but then, as now, a letter of any importance is better sent by hand, while the railway is still looked upon with suspicion by the authorities as a means of circulating malcontents and spreading crime. Every train is still inspected at each stopping place by two of the civil guards. The Count was early astir the next morning. He knew that a man such as Marcos, possessing the instinct of the chase and that deep insight into the thoughts and actions of others, even into the thoughts and actions of animals, which makes a great hunter or a great captain, would never have let slip the feeble clue that he had of the incident in the Calle San Gregorio. The Count had been a politician in his youth, and his position entailed a passive continuance of the policy he had actively advocated in earlier days. But as an old sailor, weary with the battle of many storms, learns at last to treat the thunder and the tempest with a certain tolerant contempt, so he, having passed through evil monarchies and corrupt regencies, through the storm of anarchy and the humiliation of a brief and ridiculous republic, now stood aside and watched the waves go past him with a semi-contemptuous indifference. He was too well known in the streets of Saragossa to wander hither and thither in them, making inquiry as to whether any had seen his lifelong friend Francisco de Mogente back in the city of his birth from which he had been exiled in the uncertain days of Isabella. Francisco de Mogente had been placed in one of those vague positions of Spanish political life where exile had never been commuted, though friend and enemy would alike have welcomed the return of a scapegoat on their own terms. But Mogente had never been the man to make terms--any more than this grim Spanish nobleman who now sat wondering what his next move must be. After his early coffee Sarrion went out into the Calle San Gregorio. The sound of deep voices chanting the matins came to him through the open doors of the Cathedral of the Seo. A priest hurried past, late, and yet in time to save his record of services attended. The beggars were leisurely making their way to the cathedral doors, too lazy to make an earlier start, philosophically reflecting that the charitable are as likely to give after matins as before. The Count went over the ground of the scene that he had witnessed in the fitful moonlight. Here the man who might have been Francisco de Mogente had turned on his heel. Here, at the never opened door of a deserted palace, he had stood for a moment fighting with his back to the wall. Here he had fallen. From that corner had come aid in the person--Sarrion was sure--of a friar. It was an odd coincidence, for the Church had never been the friend of the exiled man, and it was in the days of a priest-ridden Queen that his foes had triumphed. They had carried the stricken man back to the corner of the Calle San Gregorio and the Plazuela San Bruno, and from the movements of the bearers Sarrion had received the conviction that they had entered the house immediately beyond the angle of the high building opposite to the Episcopal Palace. Sarrion followed his memory step by step. He determined to go into the house--a huge building--divided into many small apartments. The door had never particularly attracted his attention. Like many of the doorways of these great houses, it was wide and high, giving access to a dark stairway of stone. The doors stood open night and day. For this stairway was a common one, as its dirtiness would testify. There was some one coming down the stairs now. Sarrion, remembering that his face was well known, and that he had no particular business in any of the apartments into which the house was divided, paused for a moment, and waited on the threshold. He looked up the dark stairs, and slowly distinguished the form and face of the newcomer. It was his old friend Evasio Mon--smart, well-brushed, smiling a good-morning to all the world this sunny day. They had not met for many years. Their friendship had been one of those begun by parents, and carried on in after years by the children more from habit than from any particular tie of sympathy. For we all find at length that the nursery carpet is not the world. Their ways had parted soon after the nursery, and, though they had met frequently, they had never trodden the same path again. For Evasio Mon had been educated as a priest. "I have often wondered why I have never clashed--with Evasio Mon," Sarrion once said to his son in the reflective quiet of their life at Torre Garda. "It takes two to clash," replied Marcos at length in his contemplative way, having given the matter his consideration. And perhaps that was the only explanation of it. Sarrion looked up now and met the smile with a grave bow. They took off their hats to each other with rather more ceremony than when they had last met. A long, slow friendship is the best; a long, slow enmity the deadliest. "One does not expect to see you in Saragossa," said Mon gently. A man bears his school mark all through life. This layman had learnt something in the seminary which he had never forgotten. "No," replied the other. "What is this house? I was just going into it." Mon turned and looked up at the building with a little wave of the hand, indicating lightly the stones and mortar. "It is just a house, my friend, as you see--a house, like another." "And who lives in it?" "Poor people, and foolish people. As in any other. People one must pity and cannot help despising." He laughed, and as he spoke he led the way, as it were, unconsciously away from this house which was like another. "Because they are poor?" inquired Sarrion, who did not move a step in response to Evasio Mon's lead. "Partly," admitted Mon, holding up one finger. "Because, my friend, none but the foolish are poor in this world." "Then why has the good God sent so many fools into the world?" "Because He wants a few saints, I suppose." Mon was still trying to lead him away from that threshold and Sarrion still stood his ground. Their half-bantering talk suddenly collapsed, and they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment. Both were what may be called "ready" men, quick to catch a thought and answer. "I will tell you," said Sarrion quietly, "why I am going into this house. I have long ceased to take an interest in the politics of this poor country, as you know." Mon's gesture seemed to indicate that Sarrion had only done what was wise and sensible in a matter of which it was no longer any use to talk. "But to my friends I still give a thought," went on the Count. "Two nights ago a man was attacked in this street--by the usual street cutthroats, it is to be supposed. I saw it all from my balcony there. See, from this corner you can perceive the balcony." He drew Mon to the corner of the street, and pointed out the Sarrion Palace, gloomy and deserted at the further end of the street. "But it was dark, and I could not see much," he added, seeming unconsciously to answer a question passing in his companion's mind; for Mon's pleasant eyes were measuring the distance. "I thought they brought him in here; for before I could descend help came, and the cutthroats ran away." "It is like your good, kind heart, my friend, to interest yourself in the fate of some rake, who was probably tipsy, or else he would not have been abroad at that hour." "I had not mentioned the hour." "One presumes," said Mon, with a short laugh, "that such incidents do not happen in the early evening. However, let us by all means make inquiries after your dissipated protege." He moved with alacrity to the house, leading the way now. "By an odd chance," said Sarrion, following him more slowly, "I have conceived the idea that this man is an old friend of mine." "Then, my good Ramon, he must be an old friend of mine, too." "Francisco de Mogente." Mon stopped with a movement of genuine surprise, followed instantly by a quick sidelong glance beneath his lashes. "Our poor, wrong-headed Francisco," he said, "what made you think of him after all these years? Have you heard from him?" He turned on the stairs as he asked this question in an indifferent voice and waited for the answer; but Sarrion was looking at the steps with a deep attention. "See," he said, "there are drops of blood on the stairs. There was blood in the street, but it had been covered with dust. This also has been covered with dust--but the dust may be swept aside--see!" And with the gloves which a Spanish gentleman still carries in his hand whenever he is out of doors, he brushed the dust aside. "Yes," said Mon, examining the steps, "yes; you may be right. Come, let us make inquiries. I know most of the people in this house. They are poor people. In my small way I help some of them, when an evil time comes in the winter." He was all eagerness now, and full of desire to help. It was he who told the Count's story, and told it a little wrong as a story is usually related by one who repeats it, while Sarrion stood at the door and looked around him. It was Mon who persisted that every stone should be turned, and every denizen of the great house interrogated. But nothing resulted from these inquiries. "I did not, of course, mention Francisco's name," he said, confidentially, as they emerged into the street again. "Nothing was to be gained by that. And I confess I think you are the victim of your own imagination in this. Francisco is in Santiago de Cuba, and will probably never return. If he were here in Saragossa surely his own son would know it. I saw Leon de Mogente the day before yesterday, by the way, and he said nothing of his father. And it is not long since I spoke with Juanita. We could make inquiry of Leon--but not to-day, by the way. It is a great Retreat, organised by some pilgrims to the Shrine of our Lady of the Pillar, and Leon is sure to be of it. The man is half a monk, you know." They were walking down the Calle San Gregorio, and, as if in illustration of the fact that chance will betray those who wait most assiduously upon her, the curtain of the great door of the cathedral was drawn aside, and Leon de Mogente came out blinking into the sunlight. The meeting was inevitable. "There is Leon--by a lucky chance," said Mon almost immediately. Leon de Mogente had seen them and was hurrying to meet them. Seen thus in the street, under the sun, he was a pale and bloodless man--food for the cloister. He bowed with an odd humility to Mon, but spoke directly to the Count de Sarrion. He knew, and showed that he knew, that Mon was not glad to see him. "I did not know that you were in Saragossa," he said. "A terrible thing has happened. My father is dead. He died without the benefits of the Church. He returned secretly to Saragossa two days ago and was attacked and robbed in the streets." "And died in that house," added Sarrion, indicating with his stick the building they had just quitted. "Ye--es," answered Leon hesitatingly, with a quick and frightened glance at Mon. "It may have been. I do not know. He died without the consolation of the Church. It is that that I think of." "Yes," said Sarrion rather coldly, "you naturally would." CHAPTER V A PILGRIMAGE Evasio Mon was a great traveler. In Eastern countries a man who makes the pilgrimage to Mecca adds thereafter to his name a title which carries with it not only the distinction conferred upon the dullest by the sight of other men and countries, but the bearer stands high among the elect. If many pilgrimages could confer a title, this gentle-mannered Spaniard would assuredly have been thus decorated. He had made almost every pilgrimage that the Church may dictate--that wise old Church, which fills so well its vocation in the minds of the restless and the unsatisfied. He had been many times to Rome. He could tell you the specific properties of every shrine in the Roman Catholic world. He made a sort of speciality in latter-day miracles. Did this woman want a son to put a graceful finish to her family of daughters, he could tell her of some little-known pilgrimage in the mountains which rarely failed. "Go," he would say. "Go there, and say your prayer. It is the right thing to do. The air of the mountains is delightful. The journey diverts the mind." In all of which he was quite right. And it was not for him, any more than it is for the profane reader, to inquire why latter-day miracles are nearly always performed at or near popular health resorts. Was another in grief, Evasio Mon would send him on a long journey to a gay city, where the devout are not without worldly diversion in the evenings. Neither was it upon hearsay only that he prescribed. He had been to all these places, and tested them perhaps, which would account for his serene demeanour and that even health which he seemed to enjoy. He had traveled without perturbment, it would seem, for his journeys had left no wrinkles on his bland forehead, neither was the light of restlessness in his quiet eyes. He must have seen many cities, but cities are nearly all alike, and they grow more alike every day. Many men also must he have met, but they seemed to have rubbed against him and left him unmarked--as sandstone may rub against a diamond. It is upon the sandstone that the scratch remains. He was not part of all that he had seen, which may have meant that he looked not at men or cities, but right through them, to something beyond, upon which his gaze was always fixed. Living as he did, in a city possessing so great a shrine as that of the "Virgen del Pilar," the scene of a vision accorded to St. James when traveling through Spain, Mon naturally interested himself in the pilgrims, who came from all parts of the world to worship in the cathedral, who may be seen at any hour kneeling in the dim light of flickering candles before the altar rails. Mon's apartment, indeed, in the tall house next door to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo del Ebro was a known resort of the more cultured of the pilgrims, of these who came from afar; from Rome and from the farthest limits of the Roman Church--from Warsaw to Minnesota. Evasio Mon had friends also among the humble and such as sheltered in the Posada de los Reyes, which itself was a typical Spanish hostelry, and one of those houses of the road in which the traveler is lucky if he finds the bedrooms all occupied; for then he may, without giving offense, sleep more comfortably in the hayloft. Here, night and day, the clink of bells and the gruff admonition of refractory mules told of travel, and the constant come and go of strange, wild-looking men from the remoter corners of Aragon, far up by the foothills of the Pyrenees. The huge two-wheeled carts drawn by six, eight or ten mules, came lumbering through the dust at all hours of the twenty-four, bringing the produce of the greener lands to this oasis of the Aragonese desert. Some came from other oases in the salt and stony plains where once an inland sea covered all, while the others hailed from the north where the Sierras de Guara rise merging into the giant Pyrenees. Many of these drivers made their way up the stairs of the house where Evasio Mon lived his quiet life, and gave a letter or merely a verbal message, remembered faithfully through the long and dusty journey, to the man who, though no priest himself, seemed known to every priest in Spain. These letters and messages were nearly always from the curate of some distant village, and told as often as not of a cheerful hopefulness in the work. Sometimes the good men themselves would come, sitting humbly beneath the hood of the great cart, or riding a mule, far enough in front to avoid the dust, and yet near enough for company. This was more especially in the month of February, at the anniversary of the miraculous appearance, at which time the graven image set up in the cathedral is understood to be more amenable to supplication than at any other. And, having accomplished their pilgrimage, the simple churchmen turned quite naturally to the house that stood adjoining the cathedral. There, they were always sure of a welcome and of an invitation to lunch or dinner, when they were treated to the very best the city could afford, and, while keeping strictly within the letter of the canonical law, could feast their hearty country appetites even in Lent. Mon so arranged his journeys that he should be away from Saragossa in the great heats of the summer and autumn, which wise precaution was rendered the easier by the dates of the other great festivals which he usually attended. For it will be found that the miracles and other events attractive to the devout nearly always happen at that season of the year which is most suitable to the environments. Thus the traditions of the Middle Ages fixed the month of February for Saragossa when it is pleasant to be in a city, and September for Montserrat--to quote only one instance--at which time the cool air of the mountains is most to be appreciated. Evasio Mon, however, was among those who deemed it wise to avoid the great festival at Montserrat by making his pilgrimage earlier in the summer, when the number of the devout was more restricted and their quality more select. Scores of thousands of the very poorest in the land flock to the monastery in September, turning the mountain into a picnic ground and the festival into a fair. Mon never knew when the spirit would move him to make this pleasant journey, but his preparations for it must have been made in advance, and his departure by an early train the day after meeting his old friend the Count de Sarrion was probably sudden to every one except himself. He left the train at Lerida, going on foot from the station to the town, but he did not seek an hotel. He had a friend, it appeared, whose house was open to him, in the Spanish way, who lived near the church in the long, narrow street which forms nearly the whole town of Lerida. In Navarre and Aragon the train service is not quite up to modern requirements. There is usually one passenger train in either direction during the day, though between the larger cities this service has of late years been doubled. It was afternoon, and the hour of the siesta, when Evasio Mon walked through the narrow streets of this ancient city. Although the sun was hot, and all nature lay gasping beneath it, the streets were unusually busy, and in the shades of the arcades at the corner of the market-place, at the corner of the bridge, and by the bank of the river, where the low wall is rubbed smooth by the trousers of the indolent, men stood in groups and talked in a low voice. It is not too much to state that the only serene face in the streets was that of Evasio Mon, who went on his way with the absorbed smile which is usually taken in England to indicate the Christian virtues, and is associated as often as not with Dissent. The men of Lérida--a simpler, more agricultural race than the Navarrese--were disturbed; and, indeed, these were stirring times in Spain. These men knew what might come at any moment, for they had been born in stirring times and their fathers before them. Stirring times had reigned in this country for a hundred years. Ferdinand VII--the beloved, the dupe of Napoleon the Great, the god of all Spain from Irun to San Roque, and one of the thorough-paced scoundrels whom God has permitted to sit on a throne--had bequeathed to his country a legacy of strife, which was now bearing fruit. For not only Aragon, but all Spain was at this time in the most unfortunate position in which a nation or a man--and, above all, a woman--can find herself--she did not know what she wanted. On one side was Catalonia, republican, fiery, democratic, and independent; on the other, Navarre, more priest-ridden than Rome herself, with every man a Carlist and every woman that which her confessor told her to be. In the south, Andalusia only asked to be left alone to go her own sunny, indifferent way to the limbo of the great nations. Which way should Aragon turn? In truth, the men of Aragon knew not themselves. Stirring times indeed; for the news had just penetrated to far remote Lérida that the two greatest nations of Europe were at each other's throats. It was a long cry from Ems to Lérida, and the talkers on the shady side of the market-place knew little of what was passing on the banks of the Rhine. Stirring times, too, were nearer at hand across the Mediterranean. For things were approaching a deadlock on the Tiber, and that river, too, must, it seemed, flow with blood before the year ran out. For the greatest catastrophe that the Church has had to face was preparing in the new and temporary capital of Italy; and all men knew that the word must soon go forth from Florence telling the monarch of the Vatican that he must relinquish Rome or fight for it. Spain, in her awkward search for a king hither and thither over Europe, had thrown France and Germany into war. And Evasio Mon probably knew of the historic scene at Ems as soon as any man in the Peninsula; for history will undoubtedly show, when a generation or so has passed away, that the latter stages of Napoleon's declaration of war were hurried on by priestly intrigue. It will be remembered that Bismarck was the deadliest and cleverest foe that Jesuitism has had. Mon knew what the talkers in the market-place were saying to each other. He probably knew what they were afraid to say to each other. For Spain was still seeking a king--might yet set other nations by the ears. The Republic had been tried and had miserably failed. There was yet a Don Carlos, a direct descendant of the brother whom Ferdinand the beloved cheated out of his throne. There was a Don Carlos. Why not Don Carlos, since we seek a king? the men in the Phrygian caps were saying to each other. And that was what Mon wanted them to say. After dark he came out into the streets again, cloaked to the lips against the evening air. He went to the large cafe by the river, and there seemed to meet many acquaintances. The next morning he continued his journey, by road now, and on horseback. He sat a horse well, but not with that comfort which is begotten of a love of the animal. For him the horse was essentially a means of transport, and all other animals were looked at in a like utilitarian spirit. In every village he found a friend. As often as not he was the first to bring the news of war to a people who have scarcely known peace these hundred years. The teller of news cannot help telling with his tidings his own view of them; and Evasio Mon made it known that in his opinion all who had a grievance could want no better opportunity of airing it. Thus he traveled slowly through the country towards Montserrat; and wherever his slight, black-clad form and serene face had passed, the spirit of unrest was left behind. In remote Aragonese villages, as in busy Catalan towns where the artisan (that disturber of ancient peace) was already beginning to add his voice to things of Spain, Evasio Mon always found a hearing. Needless to say he found in every village Venta, in every Posada of the towns, that which is easy to find in this babbling world--a talker. And Evasio Mon was a notable listener. CHAPTER VI PILGRIMS It is not often that nature takes the trouble to stir the heart of man into any emotion stronger than a quiet admiration or a peaceful wonder. Here and there on the face of the earth, however, the astonishing work of God gives pause to the most casual observer, the most thoughtless traveler. "Why did He do this?" one wonders. And no geologist--not even a French geologist with his quick imagination and lively sense of the picturesque--can answer the question. On first perceiving the sudden, uncouth height of Montserrat the traveler must assuredly ask in his own mind, "Why?" The mountain is of granite, where no other granite is. It belongs to no neighbouring formation. It stands alone, throwing up its rugged peaks into a cloudless sky. It is a piece from nothing near it---from nothing nearer, one must conclude, than the moon. No wonder it stirred the imagination of mediæval men dimly groping for their God. Ignatius de Loyola solved the question with that unbounded assurance which almost always accompanies the greatest of human blunders. It is the self-confident man who compasses the finest wreck, Loyola, wounded in the defense of that strongest little city in Europe, Pampeluna--wounded, alas! and not killed--jumped to the conclusion that God had reared up Montserrat as a sign. For it was here that the Spanish soldier, who was to mould the history of half the world, dedicated himself to Heaven. Within sight of the Mediterranean and of the Pyrenees, towering above the brown plains of Catalonia, this shrine is the greatest in Christendom that bases its greatness on nothing but tradition. Thousands of pilgrims flock here every year. Should they ask for history, they are given a legend. Do they demand a fact, they are told a miracle. On payment of a sufficient fee they are shown a small, ill-carved figure in wood. The monastery is not without its story; for the French occupied it and burnt it to the ground. For the rest, its story is that of Spain, torn hither and thither in the hopeless struggle of a Church no longer able to meet the demands of an enlightened religious comprehension, and endeavouring to hold back the inevitable advance of the human understanding. To-day a few monks are permitted to live in the great houses teaching music and providing for the wants of the devout pilgrims. Without the monastery gate, there is a good and exceedingly prosperous restaurant where the traveler may feed. In the vast houses, is accommodation for rich and poor; a cell and clean linen, a bed and a monastic basin. The monks keep a small store, where candles may be bought and matches, and even soap, which is in small demand. Evasio Mon arrived at Montserrat in the evening, having driven in open carriage from the small town of Monistrol in the valley below. It was the hour of the table d'hôte, and the still evening air was ambient with culinary odours. Mon went at once to the office of the monastery, and there received his sheets and pillow-case, his towel, his candle, and the key of his cell in the long corridor of the house of Santa Maria de Jesu. He knew his way about these holy houses, and exchanged a nod of recognition with the lay brother on duty in the office. Then this traveler hurried across the courtyard and out of the great gate to join the pilgrims of the richer sort at table in the dining-room of the restaurant. There were four who looked up from their plates and bowed in the grave Spanish way when he entered the room. Then all fell to their fish again in silence; for Spain is a silent country, and only babbles in that home of fervid eloquence and fatal verbosity, the Cortes. It is always dangerous to enter into conversation with a stranger in Spain, for there is practically no subject upon which the various nationalities are unable to quarrel. A Frenchman is a Frenchman all the world over, and politics may be avoided by a graceful reference to the Patrie, for which Republican and Legitimist are alike prepared to die. But the Spaniard may be an Aragonese or a Valencian, an Andalusian or a Guipuzcoan, and patriotism is a flower of purely local growth and colour. Thus men, meeting in public places have learnt to do so in silence; and a table d'hôte is a wordless function unless the inevitable Andalusian--he who takes the place of the Gascon in France--is present with his babble and his laugh, his fine opinion of himself, and his faculty for making a sacrifice of his own dignity at that over-rated altar--the shrine of sociability. There was no Andalusian at this small table to serve at once as a link of sympathy between the quiet men, who would fain silence him, and a means of making unsociable persons acquainted with each other. The five men were thus permitted to dine in a silence befitting their surroundings and their station in life. For they were obviously gentlemen, and obviously of a thoughtful and perhaps devout habit of mind. A keen observer who has had the cosmopolitan education, say, of an attaché, is usually able to assign a nationality to each member of a mixed assembly; but there was a subtle resemblance to each other in these diners, which would have made the task a hard one. These were citizens of the world, and their likeness lay deeper than a mere accident of dress. In fact, the most remarkable thing about them was that they were all alike studiously unremarkable. After the formal bow, Evasio Mon gave his attention to the fare set before him. Once he raised his narrow gaze, and, with a smile of recognition, acknowledged the grave and very curt nod of a man seated opposite. A second time he met the glance of another diner, a stout, puffy man, who breathed heavily while he ate. Both men alike averted their eyes at once, and both looked towards a little wizened man, doubled up in his chair, who ate sparingly, and bore on his wrinkled face and bent form, the evidence of such a weight of care as few but kings and ministers ever know. So absorbed was he that after one glance at Evasio Mon he lapsed again into his own thoughts. The very manner in which he crumbled his bread and handled his knife and fork showed that his mind was as busy as a mill. He was oblivious to his surroundings; had forgotten his companions. His mind had more to occupy it than one brief lifetime could hope to compass. Yet he was so clearly a man in authority that a casual observer could scarcely have failed to perceive that these devout pilgrims, from Italy, from France, from far-off Poland, and Saragossa close at hand in Catalonia, had come to meet him and were subordinate to him. It was probably no small task to command such men as Evasio Mon--and the other four seemed no less pliable behind their gentle smile. When the dessert had been placed on the table and one or two had reflectively eaten a baked almond, more from habit than desire, the little wizened man looked round the table with the manner of a rather absent-minded host. "It is eight o'clock," he said in French. "The monastery gate closes at half-past. We have no time to discuss our business at this table. Shall we go within the monastery gates? There is a seat by the wall, near the fountain, in the courtyard--" He rose as he spoke, and it became at once apparent that this was a great man. For all stood aside as he passed out, and one opened the door as to a prince; of which amenities he took no heed. The monastery is built against the sheer side of the mountain, perched on a cornice, like a huge eagle's nest. The buildings have no pretense to architectural beauty, and consist of barrack-like houses built around a quadrangle. The chapel is at the farther end, and is, of course, the centre of interest. Here is kept the sacred image, which has survived so many chances and changes; which, hidden for a hundred and fifty years in a cavern on the mountainside, made itself known at last by a miraculous illumination at night, and for the further guidance of the faithful gave forth a sweet scent. It, moreover, selected this spot for its shrine by jibbing under the immediate eye of a bishop, and refusing to be carried further up the mountain. The house of Santa Maria de Jesu has the advantage of being at the outer end of the quadrangle, and thus having no house opposite to it, faces a sheer fall of three thousand feet. A fountain splashes in the courtyard below, and a low wall forms a long seat where the devout pass the evening hours in that curt and epigrammatic conversation, which is more peaceful than the quick talk of Frenchmen, and deeper than the babble of Italy. It was to this wall that the little wizened man led the way, and here seated himself with a gesture, inviting his companions to do the same. Had any idle observer been interested in their movements he would have concluded that these were four travelers, probably pilgrims of the better class, who had made acquaintance at the table d'hôte. "I have come a long way," said the little man at once, speaking in the rather rounded French of the Italian born, "and have left Rome at a time when the Church requires the help of even the humblest of her servants--I hope our good Mon has something important and really effective this time to communicate." Mon smiled at the implied reproach. "And I, too, have come from far--from Warsaw," said the stout man, breathing hard, as if to illustrate the length of his journey. "Let us hope that there is something tangible this time." He spoke with the gaiety and lightness of a Frenchman; for this was that Frenchman of the North, a Pole. Mon lighted a cigarette, with a gay jerk of the match towards the last speaker, indicative of his recognition of a jest. "Something," continued the Pole, "more than great promises--something more stable than a castle--in Spain. Ha, ha! You have not taken Pampeluna yet, my friend. One does not hear that Bilboa has fallen into the hands of the Carlists. Every time we meet you ask for money. You must arrange to give us something--for our money, my friend." "I will arrange," answered Mon in his quiet, neat enunciation, "to give you a kingdom." And he inclined his head forward to look at the Pole through the upper half of his gold-rimmed glasses. "And not a vague republic in the region of the North Pole," said the stout man with a laugh. "Well, who lives shall see." "You want more money--is that it?" inquired the little wizened man, who seemed to be the leader though he spoke the least--a not unusual characteristic. "Yes," replied the Spaniard. "Your country has cost us much this year," said the little man, blinking his colourless eyes and staring at the ground as if making a mental calculation. "You have forced Germany and France into war. You have made France withdraw her troops from Rome, and you gave Victor Emmanuel the chance he awaited. You have given all Europe--the nerves." "And now is the moment to play on those nerves," said Mon. "With your clumsy Don Carlos?" "It is not the man--it is the Cause. Remember that we are an ignorant nation. It is the ignorant and the half educated who sacrifice all for a cause." "It is a pity you cannot buy a new Don Carlos with our money," put in the Pole. "This one will serve," was the reply. "One must look to the future. Many have been ruined by success, because it took them by surprise. In case we succeed, this one will serve. The Church does not want its kings to be capable--remember that." "But what does Spain want?" inquired the leader. "Spain doesn't know." "And this Prince of ours, whom you have asked to be your king. Is not that a spoke in your wheel?" asked the man of few words. "A loose spoke which will drop out. No one--not even Prim--thinks that he will last ten years. He may not last ten months." "But you have to reckon with the man. This son of Victor Emmanuel is clever and capable. One can never tell what may arise in a brain that works beneath a crown." "We have reckoned with him. He is honest. That tells his tale. No honest king can hope to reign over this country in their new Constitution. It needs a Bourbon or a woman." The quick, colourless eyes rested on Mon's face for a moment, and--who knows?--perhaps they picked up Mon's secret in passing. "Something dishonest, in a word," put in the Pole. But nobody heeded him; for the word was with the leader. "When last we met," he said at length, "and you received a large sum of money, you made a distinct promise; unless my memory deceives me." He paused, and no one suggested that his memory had ever made slip or lapse in all his long career. "You said you would not ask for money again unless you could show something tangible--a fortress taken and held, a great General bought, a Province won. Is that so?" "Yes," answered Mon. "Or else," continued the speaker, "in order to meet the very just complaint from other countries, such as Poland for instance, that Spain has had more than her share of the common funds--you would lay before us some proposal of self-help, some proof that Spain in asking for help is prepared to help herself by a sacrifice of some sort." "I said that I would not ask for any sum that I could not double," said Mon. The little man sat blinking for some minutes silent in that absolute stillness which is peculiar to great heights--and is so marked at Montserrat that many cannot sleep there. "I will give you any sum that you can double," he said, at length. "Then I will ask you for three million pesetas." All turned and looked at him in wonder. The fat man gave a gasp. With three million pesetas he could have made a Polish republic. Mon only smiled. "For every million pesetas that you show me," said the little man, "I will hand you another million--cash for cash. When shall we begin?" "You must give me time," answered Mon, reflectively. "Say six months hence." The little man rose in response to the chapel bell, which was slowly tolling for the last service of the day. "Come," he said, "let us say a prayer before we go to bed." CHAPTER VII THE ALTERNATIVE The letter written by the Count de Sarrion to his son was delivered to Marcos, literally from hand to hand, by the messenger to whose care it was entrusted. So fully did the mountaineer carry out his instructions, that after standing on the river bank for some minutes, he deliberately walked knee-deep into the water and touched Marcos on the elbow. For the river is a loud one, and Marcos, intent on his sport, never turned his head to look about him. This, the last of the Sarrions, was a patient looking man, with the quiet eyes of one who deals with Nature, and the slow movements of the far-sighted. For Nature is always consistent, and never hurries those who watch her closely to obey the laws she writes so large in the instincts of man and beast. The messenger gave his master the letter and then stood with the water rustling past his woollen stockings. There was an odd suggestion of brotherhood between these men of very different birth. For as men are equal in the sight of God, so are those dimly like each other who live in the open air and cast their lives upon the broad bosom of Nature. Marcos handed his rod to the messenger, whose face, wrinkled like a walnut by the sun of Aragon, lighted up suddenly with pleasure. "There," he said, pointing to a swirling pool beneath some alders. "There is a big one there, I have risen him once." He waded slowly back to the bank where a second crop of hay was already showing its new green, and sat down. It seemed that Marcos de Sarrion was behind the times--these new and wordy times into which Spain has floundered so disastrously since Charles III was king--for he gave a deeper attention to the matter in hand than most have time for. He turned from the hard task of catching a trout in clear water beneath a sunny sky, and gave his attention to his father's letter. "After all," it read, "I want you, and await you in Saragossa." And that was all. "Marcos will come," the Count had reflected, "without persuasion. And explanations are dangerous." In which he was right. For this river, known as the Wolf, in which Marcos was peacefully fishing, was one of those Northern tributaries of the Ebro which have run with blood any time this hundred years. The country, moreover, that it drained was marked in the Government maps as a blank country, or one that paid no taxes, and knew not the uniform of the Government troops. Torre Garda, the long two-storied house crowning a hill-top farther up the valley of the Wolf, was one of the few country houses that have not stood empty since the forties. And all the valley of the Wolf, from the grim Pyrenees standing sentinel at its head to the sunny plain almost in sight of Pampeluna, where the Wolf merges into other streams, was held quiescent in the grip of the Sarrions. "We will fight," said the men of this valley, "for the king, when we have a king worth fighting for. And we will always fight for ourselves." And it was said that they only repeated what the Sarrions had told them. At all events, no Carlists came that way. "Torre Garda is not worth holding," they said. "And you cannot hold Pampeluna unless you take Torre Garda first," thought those who knew the art of guerilla warfare. So the valley of the Wolf awaited a king worth fighting for, and in the meantime they paid no taxes, enjoyed no postal service, and were perhaps none the worse without it. There were Carlists over the mountains on either side of the valley. Eternal snow closed the northern end of it and fed the Wolf in the summer heats. Down at the mouth of the valley where the road was wide enough for two carts to pass each other, and a carriage could be driven at the trot, there often passed a patrol from the Royalist stronghold of Pampeluna. But the Government troops never ventured up the valley which was like a mouse-hole with a Carlist cat waiting round the corner to cut them off. Neither did the Carlists hazard themselves through the narrow defile where the Wolf rushed down its straightened gate; for there were forty thousand men in Pampeluna, only ten miles away. Which reasons were sound enough to dictate caution in any written word that might pass from the Count in Saragossa to his son at Torre Garda. A white dog with one yellow and black ear--a dog that might have been a nightmare, a bad, distorted dream of a pointer--stood in front of Marcos de Sarrion as he read the letter and seemed to await the hearing of its contents. There are many persons of doubtful social standing, who seek to make up--to bridge that narrow and unfathomable gulf--by affability. This dog it seemed, knowing that he was not quite a pointer, sought to conciliate humanity by an eagerness, by a pathetic and blundering haste to try and understand what was expected of him and to perform the same without delay, which was quite foreign to the nature of the real breed. In Spain one addresses a man by the plain term: Man. And after all, it is something--deja quelque chose--to be worthy of that name. This dog was called Perro, which being translated is Dog. He had been a waif in his early days, some stray from the mountains near the frontier, where dogs are trained to smuggle. Full of zeal, he had probably smuggled too eagerly. Marcos had found him, half starved, far up the valley of the Wolf. He had not been deemed worthy of a baptismal name and had been called the Dog--and admitted as such to the outbuildings of Torre Garda. From thence he had worked his humble way upwards. By patience and comfort his mind slowly expanded until men almost forgot that this was a disgraceful mongrel. Perro had risen from a slumberous contemplation of the tumbling water and now stood awaiting orders, his near hind leg shaking with eagerness to please, by running anywhere at any pace. Marcos never spoke to his dog. He had seen Spain humbled to the dust by babble, and the sight had, perhaps, dried up the spring of his speech. For he rarely spoke idly. If he had anything to say, he said it. But if he had nothing, he was silent. Which is, of course, fatal to social advancement, and set him at one stroke outside the pale of political life. Spain at this time, and, indeed, during the last thirty years, had been the happy hunting ground of the beau sabreur, of those (of all men, most miserable) who owe their success in life to a woman's favour. This silent Spaniard might, perhaps, have made for himself a name in the world's arena in other days; for he had a spark of that genius which creates a leader. But fate had ruled that he should have no wider sphere than an obscure Pyrenean gorge, no greater a following than the men of the Valley of the Wolf. These he held in an iron grip. Within his deep and narrow head lay the secret which neither Madrid nor Bayonne could ever understand; why the Valley of the Wolf was neither Royalist nor Carlist. The quiet, slow eyes had alone seen into the hearts of the wild Navarrese mountaineers and knew the way to rule them. It may be thought that their small number made the task an easy one. But it must also be remembered that these mountain slopes have given to the world the finest guerilla soldiers that history has known, and are peopled by one of the untamed races of mankind. Moreover, Marcos de Sarrion was a restful man. And those few who see below the surface, know that the restful man is he whose life's task is well within the compass of his ability. Perro, it seemed, with an intelligence developed at the best and hardest of all schools, where hunger is the usher, awaited, not word, but action from his master; and had not long to wait. For Marcos rose and slowly climbed the hill towards Torre Garda, half hidden amid the pine trees on the mountain crest above him. There was a midnight train, he knew, from Pampeluna to Saragossa. The railway station was only twenty miles away, which is to this day considered quite a convenient distance in Navarre. There would be a moon soon after nightfall. There was plenty of time. That far-off ancestress of the middle-ages had, it would appear, handed down to her sons forever, with the clear cut profile, the philosophy which allows itself time to get through life unruffled. The Count de Sarrion was taking his early coffee the next morning at the open window in Saragossa when Marcos, with the dust of travel across the Alkali desert still upon him, came into the room. "I expected you," said the father. "You will like a bath. All is ready in your room. I have seen to it myself. When you are ready come back here and take your coffee." His attitude was almost that of a host. For Marcos rarely came to Saragossa. Although there was a striking resemblance of feature between the Sarrions, the father was taller, slighter and quicker in his glance, while Marcos' face seemed to bespeak a greater strength. In any common purpose it would assuredly fall to Marcos' lot to execute that which his father had conceived. The older man's presence suggested the Court, while Marcos was clearly intended for the Camp. The Count de Sarrion had passed through both and had emerged half cynical, half indifferent from the slough of an evil woman's downfall. "You would have made a good soldier," he said to Marcos, when his son at last came home to Torre Garda with an education completed in England and France. "But there is no opening for an honest man in the Spanish Army. Honesty is in the gutter in Spain to-day." And Marcos always followed his father's advice. Later he found that Spain indeed offered no career to honest men at this time. Gradually he supplanted his father in an unrecognised, indefinable monarchy in the Valley of the Wolf; and there, in the valley, they waited; as good Spaniards have waited these hundred years until such time as God's wrath shall be overpast. "I have a long story to tell you," said the Count, when his son returned and sat down at once with a keen appetite to his first breakfast of coffee and bread. "And I will tell it without comment, without prejudice, if I can." Marcos nodded. The Count had lighted a cigarette and now leant against the window which opened on to the heavily barred balcony overlooking the Calle San Gregorio. "Four nights ago," he said, "at about midnight, Francisco de Mogente returned secretly to Saragossa. I think he was coming to this house; but we shall never know that. No one knew he was coming--not even Juanita." The Count glanced at his son only long enough to note the passage of a sort of shadow across his dark eyes at the mention of the schoolgirl's name. "Francisco was attacked in the street down there, at the corner of the Calle San Gregorio, and was killed," he concluded. Marcos rose and crossed the room towards the window. He was, it appeared, an eminently practical man, and desired to see the exact spot where Mogente had fallen before the story went any farther. Perro went so far as to push his plebeian head through the bars and look down into the street. It was his misfortune to fall into the fault of excess as it is the misfortune of most parvenus. "Does Juanita know?" asked Marcos. "Yes. My sister Dolores has told her. Poor child! It is more in the nature of a disappointment than a sorrow. Her heart is young; and disappointment is the sorrow of the young." Marcos sat down again in silence. "We must remember," said the Count, "that she never knew him. It will pass. I saw the incident from this window. There is no door at this side of the house. I should, as you know, have had to go round by the Paseo del Ebro. To render help was out of the question. I went down afterwards, however, when help had come and the dying man had been carried away--by a friar, Marcos! I had seen something fall from the hand of the murdered man. I went down into the street and picked it up. It was the sword-stick which Juanita sent to her father for the New Year." "Why did he not let us know that he was coming to Europe?" asked Marcos. "Ah! That he will tell us hereafter. The mere fact of his being attacked in the streets of Saragossa and killed for the money that was in his pockets is, of course, quite simple, and common enough. But why should he be cared for by a friar, and taken to one of those numerous religious houses which have sprung into unseen existence all over Spain since the Jesuits were expelled?" "Has he left a will?" asked Marcos. Sarrion turned and looked at him with a short laugh. He threw his cigarette away, and coming into the room, sat down in front of the small table where Marcos was still satisfying his honest and simple appetite. "I have told my story badly," he said, with a curt laugh, "and spoilt it. You have soon seen through it. Mogente made a will on his death-bed--which was, by the way, witnessed by Leon de Mogente as a supernumerary, not a legal witness--just to show that all was square and above board." "Then he left his money--?" "To Juanita. One can only conclude that he was wandering in mind when he did it. For he was fond of her, I think. He had no reason to wish her harm. I have picked up what unconsidered trifles of information I can, but they do not amount to much. I cabled to Cuba for news as to Mogente's fortune; for we know that he has made one. There is the reply." He handed Marcos a telegram which bore the words: "Three million pesetas in the English Funds." "That is the millstone that he has tied round Juanita's neck," said Sarrion, folding the paper and returning it to his pocket. "To saddle with three million pesetas a girl who is at a convent school, in the hands of the Sisters of the True Faith, when the Carlist cause is dying for want of funds, and the Jesuits know that it is Don Carlos or a Republic, and all the world knows that all republics have been fatal to the Society--bah!" the Count threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. "It is to throw her into a convent, bound hand and foot. We cannot leave that poor girl without help, Marcos." "No," said Marcos, gently. "There is only one way--I have thought of it night and day. There is only one way, my friend." Marcos looked at his father thoughtfully, and waited to hear what that way might be. "You must marry her," said the Count. CHAPTER VIII THE TRAIL The Count rose again and went to the window without looking at Marcos. They had lived together like brothers, and like brothers, they had fallen into the habit of closing the door of silence upon certain subjects. Juanita, it would appear, was one of these. For neither was at ease while speaking of her. Spaniards and Germans and Englishmen are not notable for a pretty and fanciful treatment of the subject of love. But they approach it with a certain shy delicacy of which the lighter Latin heart has no conception. The Count glanced over his shoulder, and Marcos, without looking up, must have seen the action, for he took the opportunity of shaking his head. "You shake your head," said Sarrion, with a sort of effort to be gay and careless, "What do you want? She is the prettiest girl in Aragon." "It is not that," said Marcos, curtly, with a flush on his brown face. "Then what is it?" Marcos made no answer. The Count lighted another cigarette, to gain time, perhaps. "Listen to me," he said at length. "We have always understood each other, except about Juanita. We have nearly always been of the same mind--you and I." Marcos was leaning his arms on the table and looked across the room towards his father with a slow smile. "Let us try and understand each other about Juanita before we go any farther. You think that there may be thoughts in your mind which are beyond my comprehension. It may not be as bad as that. I allow you, that as the heart grows older it loses a certain sensitiveness and delicacy of feeling. Still the comprehension of such feelings in younger persons may survive. You think that Juanita should be allowed to make her own choice --is it not so--learnt in England, eh?" "Yes," was the answer. "And I reply to that; a convent education--the only education open to Spanish girls--does not fit her to make her own choice." "It is not a question of education. "No, it is a question of opportunity," said Sarrion sharply. "And a convent schoolgirl has no opportunity. My friend, a father or a mother, if they are wise, will choose better than a girl thrown suddenly into the world from the convent gates. But that is not the question. Juanita will never get outside the convent gates unless we drag her from them--half against her own will." "We can give her the choice. We have certain rights." "No rights," replied Sarrion, "that the Church will recognise, and the Church holds her now within its grip." "She is only a child. She does not know what life means." "Exactly so," Sarrion exclaimed, "and that makes their plan all the easier of execution. They can bring pressure to bear upon her assiduously and quite kindly so that she will be brought to see that her only chance of happiness is the veil. Few men, and no women at all, can be happy in a life of their own choosing if they are assured by persons in daily intercourse with them--persons whom they respect and love--that in living that life they will assuredly be laying up for themselves an eternity of damnation. We must try and look at it from Juanita's point of view." Marcos turned and glanced at his father with a smile. "That is not so easy," he said. "That is what I have been trying to do." "But you must not overdo it," replied Sarrion, significantly. "Remember that her point of view may be an ignorant one and must be biassed by the strongest and most dangerous influence. Look at the question also from the point of view of a man of the world--and tell me... tell me after thinking it over carefully--whether you think that you would feel happy in the future, knowing that you had allowed Juanita to choose a convent life with her eyes blinded." "I was not thinking of my happiness," said Marcos, quite simply and curtly. "Of Juanita's happiness?" ... suggested the Count. "Yes." "Then think again and tell me whether you, as a man of the world, can for a moment imagine that Juanita's chance of happiness would be greater in the convent--whether the Church could make her happier than you could if you give her the opportunity of leading the life that God created her for." Marcos made no answer. And oddly enough Sarrion seemed to expect none. "That is ...," he explained in the same careless voice, "if we may go on the presumption that you are content to place Juanita's happiness before your own." "I am content to do that." "Always?" asked Sarrion, gravely. "Always." There was a short silence. Then the Count came into the room, and as he passed Marcos he laid his hand for a moment on his son's broad back. "Then, my friend," he said, crossing the room and taking up his gloves, "let us get to action. That will please you better than words, I know. Let us go and see Leon--the weakest link in their fine chain. Juanita has no one in the world but us--but I think we shall be enough." Leon de Mogente lived in an apartment in the Plaza del Pilar. His father, for whom he had but little affection, had made him a liberal allowance which had been spent, so to speak, on his Soul. It elevated the Spirit of this excellent young man to decorate his rooms in imitation of a sanctuary. He lived in an atmosphere of aesthetic emotion which he quite mistook for holiness. He was a dandy in the care of his Soul, and tricked himself out to catch the eye of High Heaven. The Marquis de Mogente was out. He had crossed the Plaza, the servant thought to say a prayer in the Cathedral. On the suggestion of the servant, the Sarrions decided to wait until Leon's return. The man, who had the air of a murderer (or a Spanish Cathedral chorister), volunteered to go and seek his master. "I can say a prayer myself," he said humbly. "And here is something to put in the poor-box," answered Sarrion with his twisted smile. "By my soul," he exclaimed, when they were left alone, "this place reeks of hypocrisy." He looked round the walls with a raised eyebrow. "I have been trying to discover," he went on, "what was in the mind of Francisco as he lay dying in that house in the Calle San Gregorio--what he was trying to carry out--why he made that will. He sent for Leon, you see, and must have seen at a glance that he had for a son--a mule, of the worst sort. He probably saw that to leave money to Leon was to give it to the Church, which meant that it would be spent for the further undoing of Spain and the propagation of ignorance and superstition." For Ramon de Sarrion was one of those good Spaniards and good Catholics who lay the entire blame for the downfall of their country from its great estate to a Church, which can only hope to live in its present form as long as superstition and crass ignorance prevail. "I cannot help thinking," he went on, "that Francisco dimly perceived that he was the victim of a careful plot--one sees something like that in all these ramifications. Three million pesetas are worth scheming for. They would make a difference in any cause. They might make all the difference at this moment in Spain. Kingdoms have been won and lost for less than three million pesetas. I believe he was watched in Cuba, and his return was known. Or perhaps he was brought back by some clever forgery. Who knows? At all events, it was known that he had left his money nearly all to Leon." "We will ask Leon," suggested Marcos, "what reason his father gave for making a new will." "And he will lie to you," said Sarrion. "But he will lie badly," murmured Marcos, with his leisurely reflective smile. "I think," said Sarrion, after a pause, "nay, I feel sure that Francisco left his fortune to Juanita at the last moment, as a forlorn hope--leaving it to you and me to get her out of the hobble in which he placed her. You know it was always his hope that you and Juanita should marry." But Marcos' face hardened, and he had nothing to say to this reiteration of the dead man's hope. The silence was not again broken before Leon de Mogente came in. He looked from one to the other with an apprehensive glance. His pale eyes had that dulness which betokens, if not an absorption in the things to come, that which often passes for the same, an incompetence to face the present moment. "I was about to write to you," he said, addressing himself to Sarrion. "I am having a mass celebrated tomorrow in the Cathedral. My father, I know... " "I shall be there," said Sarrion, rather shortly. "And Marcos?" "I, also," replied Marcos. "One must do what one can," said Leon, with a resigned sigh. Marcos, the man of action and not of words, looked at him and said nothing. He was perhaps noticing that the dishonest boy had grown into a dishonest man. Monastic religion is like a varnish, it only serves to bring out the true colour, and is powerless to alter it by more than a shade. Those who have lived in religious communities know that human nature is the same there as in the world--that a man who is not straightforward may grow in monastic zeal day by day, but he will never grow straightforward. On the other hand, if a man be a good man, religion will make him better, but it must not be a religion that runs to words. Leon sat with folded hands and lowered eyes. He was a sort of amateur monk, and, like all amateurs, he was apt to exaggerate outward signs. It was Marcos who spoke at length. "Do you intend," he asked in his matter-of-fact way, "to make any effort to discover and punish your father's assassins?" "I have been advised not to." "By whom?" Leon looked distressed. He was pained, it would seem, that the friend of his childhood should step so bluntly on to delicate ground. "It is a secret of the confession." Marcos exchanged a grave glance with his father, who sat back in his chair as one may see a leader sit back while his junior counsel conducts an able cross-examination. "Have you advised Juanita of the terms of her father's will?" "I understand," answered Leon, "that it will make but little difference to Juanita. She has her allowance as I have mine. My father, I understand, had but little to bequeath to her." Marcos glanced at his father again, and then at the clock. He had, it appeared, finished his cross-examination, and was now characteristically anxious to get to action. Sarrion now took the lead in conversation, and proffered the usual condolences and desire to help, in the formal Spanish way. He could hardly conceal his contempt for Leon, who, for his part, was not free from embarrassment. They had nothing in common but the subject which had brought the Sarrions hither, and upon this point they could not progress satisfactorily, seeing that Sarrion himself had evidently sustained a greater loss than the dead man's own son. They rose and took leave, promising to attend the mass next day. Leon became interested again at once in this side of the question, which was not without a thrill of novelty for him. He had organised and taken part in many interesting and gorgeous ceremonies. But a requiem mass for one's own father must necessarily be unique in the most varied career of religious emotion. He was a little flurried, as a girl is flurried at her first ball, and felt that the eye of the black-letter saints was upon him. He shook hands absent-mindedly with his friends, and was already making mental note of their addition to the number secured for to-morrow's ceremony. He was very earnest about it, and Marcos left him with a sudden softening of the heart towards him, such as the strong must always feel for the weak. "You see," said Sarrion, when they were in the street, "what Evasio Mon has made him. I do not know whether you are disposed to hand over Juanita and her three million pesetas to Evasio Mon as well." Marcos made no reply, but walked on, wrapt in thought. "I must see Juanita," he said, at length, after a long silence, and Sarrion's wise eyes were softened by a smile which flitted across them like a flash of sunlight across a darkened field. "Remember," he said, "that Juanita is a child. She cannot be expected to know her own mind for at least three years." Marcos nodded his head, as if he knew what was coming. "And remember that the danger is imminent--that Evasio Mon is not the man to let the grass grow beneath his feet--that we cannot let Juanita wait... three weeks." "I know," answered Marcos. CHAPTER IX THE QUARRY Sarrion called at the convent school of the Sisters of the True Faith the next morning, and was informed through the grating that the school was in Retreat. "Even I, whose duty it is to speak to you, shall have to perform penance for doing so," said the doorkeeper, in her soft voice through the bars. "Then do an extra penance, my sister," returned Sarrion, "and answer another question. Tell me if the Sor Teresa is within?" "The Sor Teresa is at Pampeluna, and the Mother Superior is here in the school herself. The Sor Teresa is only Sister Superior, you must know, and is therefore subordinate to the Mother Superior." Sarrion was a pleasant-spoken man, and a man of the world. He knew that if a woman has something to tell of another she is not to be frightened into silence by the whole Court of Cardinals and eke, the Pope of Rome himself. So he drew his horse nearer to the forbidding wooden gate, and did not ride away from it until he had gained some scraps of information and saddled the lay sister with a burden of penances to last all through the Retreat. He learnt that his sister had been sent to Pampeluna, where the Sisters of the True Faith conducted another school, much patronised by the poor nobility of that priest-ridden city. He was made to understand, moreover, that Juanita de Mogente had been given special opportunities for prayer and meditation owing to an unchristian spirit of resentment and revenge, which she had displayed on learning the Will of Heaven in regard to her abandoned, and it was to be feared, heretic father. "Which means, my sister?" "That neither you nor any other in the world may see or speak to her--but I must close the grille." And the little shutter was sharply shut in Sarrion's face. This was the beginning of a quest which, for a fortnight, continued entirely fruitless. Evasio Mon it appeared was on a pilgrimage. Sor Teresa had gone to Pampeluna. The inexorable gate of the convent school remained shut to all comers. Sarrion went to Pampeluna to see his sister, but came back without having attained his object. Marcos took up the trail with a patient thoroughness learnt at the best school--the school of Nature. He was without haste, and expressed neither hope nor discouragement. But he realised more and more clearly that Juanita was in genuine danger. By one or two moves in this subtle warfare, Sarrion had forced his adversary to unmask his defenses. Some of the obstructions behind which Juanita was now concealed could scarcely have originated in chance. Marcos had, in the course of his long antagonism against wolf or bear or boar in the Central Pyrenees, more than once experienced that sharp shock of astonishment and fear to which the big-game hunter can scarcely remain indifferent when he finds himself opposed by an unmistakable sign of an intelligence equal to his own or an instinct superior to it, subtly meeting his subtle attack. This he experienced now, and knew that he himself was being watched and his every action forestalled. The effect was to make him the more dogged, the more cunning in his quest. Because he knew that Juanita's cause was in competent hands, or for some other reason, Sarrion withdrew from taking such an active part as heretofore. His keen and careful eyes noted a change in Marcos. Juanita's helplessness seemed to have aroused a steady determination to help her at any cost. Weakness is an appeal that strength rarely resists. It was Marcos who finally discovered an opportunity, and with characteristic patience he sifted it, and organised a plan of action before making anything known to his father. "There is a service in the Cathedral of La Seo tomorrow evening," he announced suddenly at midnight one night on his return from a long and tiring day. "All the girls of the convent schools will be there." "Ah!" said Sarrion, looking his son up and down with a speculative eye. "Well?" "My aunt... Sor Teresa... is likely to be there. She has returned to Saragossa to-day. The Mother Superior--by the grace of God--has indigestion. I have got a letter safely through to Sor Teresa. The service is at seven o'clock. The Archbishop will go in procession round the Cathedral to bless the people. The Cathedral is very dark. There will be considerable confusion when the doors are opened and the people crowd out. I have a few men--of the road, from the Posada de los Reyes--who will add to the confusion under my instructions. I think if you help me we can get Juanita separated from the rest. I will take her home and see to it that she arrives at the school at the same time as the others. We can arrange it, I think." "Yes," answered Sarrion. "I have no doubt that we can arrange it." And they sat far into the night, after the manner of conspirators, discussing Marcos' plans, which were, like himself, quite simple and direct. The Cathedral of the Seo in Saragossa is one of the most ancient in Spain, and bears in its architecture some resemblance to the Moorish mosque that once stood on the same spot. It is a huge square building, dimly lighted by windows set high up in the stupendous roof. The choir is a square set down in the middle--a church within a Cathedral. There are two principal entrances, one on the Plaza de la Seo, where the fountain is, and where, in the sunshine, the philosophers of Saragossa sit and do nothing from morn till eve. The other entrance is that which is known as the grand portal, and with a wrong-headedness characteristic of the Peninsular, it is situated in a little street where no man passes. Marcos knew that the grand portal was used by the religious communities and devout persons who came to church for the good motive, while those who praised God that man might see them entered, and quitted the Cathedral by the more public doorway on the Plaza. He knew also that the convent schools took their station just within the great porch, which, during the day, is the parade ground for those authorised beggars who wear their number and licence suspended round their necks as a guarantee of good faith. The Cathedral was crammed to suffocation when Marcos and his father entered by this door. At the foot of the shallow steps descending from the porch to the floor of the Cathedral, Sor Teresa's white cap rose above the heads of the people. Here and there a nun's cap or the blue veil of a nursing sister showed itself amidst the black mantillas. Here and there the white head of some old man made its mark among the sunburnt faces. For there were as many men as women present. The majority of them looked about them as at a show, but all were silent and respectful. All made room readily enough for any who wished to kneel. There was no pushing, no impatience. All were polite and forbearing. The Archbishop's procession had already left the door of the choir, and was moving slowly round the building. It was preceded by a chorister and a boy, who sang in unison with a strange, uncomfortable echo in the roof. Immediately on their heels followed a man in his usual outdoor clothes, who accompanied them on a haut-boy with queer, snorting notes, and nodded to his friends as he perceived their faces dimly looming in the light of the flickering candles carried by acolytes behind him. They stopped at intervals and sang a verse. Then the organ, far above their heads, rolled in its solemn notes, and the whole choir broke into song as they moved on. The Archbishop, preceded by the Host borne aloft beneath a silken canopy, wore a long red silk robe, of which the train was carried by two careless acolytes, a red silk biretta and red gloves. As the Host passed the people knelt and rose, and knelt again as the Archbishop came--a sort of human tide, rising and kneeling and rising again, to dust their knees and stare about them, which was not without a symbolical meaning for those who know the history of the Church in Latin countries. The face of the Archbishop struck a sudden and startling note of sincerity as he passed on with upheld hand and eyes turning from side to side with a luminous look of love and tenderness as he silently invoked God's blessing on these his people. He passed on, leaving in some doubting hearts, perhaps, the knowledge that amid much that was mistaken, and tawdry and superstitious and evil, here at all events was one good man. Immediately behind him, came the beadle in vestments and a long flaxen wig ill-combed, put on all awry, making room with his staff and hitting the people if they would not leave off praying and get out of the way. Then followed the choir--a living study in evil countenances-- perfunctory, careless, snuff-blown and ill-shaven, with cold hard faces like Inquisitors. All the while the great bell was booming overhead, and the whole atmosphere seemed to vibrate with sound and emotion. It was moving and impressive, especially for those who think that the Almighty is better pleased with abject abasement than a plain common-sense endeavour to do better, and will accept a long tale of public penance before the record of simple daily duties honestly performed. Near the great porch on either side of the bishop's path were ranged the seminarists, in cassocks of black with a dark blue or red hood--depressing looking youths with flaccid faces and an unhealthy eye. Behind them stood a group of friars in rough woolen garments of brown, with heads clean shaven all but an inch of closely cut hair like a halo on a saint. They seemed cheerful and were laughing and joking among themselves while the procession passed. Behind these, on their knees, were the girls of the convent school--and all around them closed in the crowd. Juanita was at one end of the row and Sor Teresa at the other. Juanita was looking about her. Her special opportunities for prayer and reflection had perhaps had the effect that such opportunities may be expected to have, and she was a little weary of all this to-do about the world to come; for she was young and this present world seemed worthy of consideration. She glanced backwards over her shoulder as the Archbishop passed with his following of candles, and gave a little start. Marcos was kneeling on the pavement behind her. Sor Teresa was looking straight in front of her between the wings of her great cap. It was hard to say whether she saw Juanita, or was aware that a man was kneeling immediately behind herself, almost on the hem of her flowing black robes--her own brother, Sarrion. The procession moved away down the length of the great building and left darkness behind it. Already there was a stir among the people, for it was late and many had come from a distance. The great doors, rarely used, were slowly cast open and in the darkness the crowd surged forward. Juanita was nearest to the door. She looked round and Sor Teresa made a motion with her head telling her to lead the way. Marcos was at her side. A few men in cloaks, and some in shirt-sleeves, seemed to be grouped by chance around him. He looked back and made a little movement of the head towards his father. Juanita felt herself pushed from behind. Before her, singularly enough, was a clear pathway between the crowds. Behind her a thousand people pressed forward towards the exit. She hurried out and glancing back on the steps saw that she had become separated from the school and from the nuns by a number of men. But Marcos' hand was already on her arm. "Come," he said, "I want to speak to you. It is all right. My father is beside Sor Teresa." "What fun!" she answered in a whisper. "Let us be quick." And a moment later they were running side by side down a narrow street, where a single lamp swung from a gibbet at the corner and flickered in the wind of Saragossa. It was Juanita who stopped suddenly. "Oh, Marcos," she cried, "I forgot; we are not to walk home. There is an omnibus to meet us as usual at these late services." "It will not come," replied Marcos. "The driver is waiting to tell Sor Teresa that his horses are lame and he cannot come." "And why have you done this?" asked Juanita, looking at him with bright eyes beneath her mantilla flying in the wind. "Because I want to speak to you. We can walk home to the school together. It is all arranged. My father is with Sor Teresa." "What, all the way?" she asked in a delighted voice. "Yes." "And can we go through the streets and see the shops?" "Yes, if you like; if you keep your mantilla close." "Marcos, you are a dear! But I have no money; you must lend me some." "Yes, if you like. What do you want to buy?" "Oh, chocolates," she answered. "Those brown ones, all soft inside. How much money have you?" And she held out her hand in the dim light of the street lamps. "I will give you the chocolates," he answered. "As many as you like." "How kind of you. You are a dear. I am so glad to see your solemn old face again. I am very hard up. I don't really know where all my pocket-money has gone to this term." She laughed gaily, and turned to look up at him. And in a moment her manner changed. "Oh, Marcos," she said, "I am so miserable. And I have no one to talk to. You know--papa is dead." "Yes," he answered, "know." "For three days," she went on, "I thought I should die. And then, but I am afraid it wasn't prayer, Marcos, I began to feel--better, you know. Was it very wicked? Of course I had never seen him. It would have been quite different if it had been my dear, darling old Uncle Ramon--or even you, Marcos." "Thank you," said Marcos. "But I had only his letters, you know, and they were so political! Then I felt most extremely angry with Leon for being such a muff. He did nothing to try and find out who had killed papa, and go and kill him in return. I felt so disgusted that I was not a man. I feel so still, Marcos. This is the shop, and those are the chocolates stuck on that sheet of white paper. Let us buy the whole sheet. I will pay you back next term." They entered the shop and there Marcos bought her as many chocolates as she could hope to conceal beneath the long ends of her mantilla. "I will bring you more," he said, "if you will tell me how to get them to you." She assured him that there was nothing simpler; and made him a participant in a dead secret only known to a few, of the hole in the convent wall, large enough to pass the hand through, down by the frog-pond at the bottom of the garden and near the old door which was never opened. "If you wait there on Thursday evening between seven and eight I will come, if I can, and will poke my hand through the hole in the wall. But how shall I know that it is you?" "I will kiss your hand when it comes through," answered Marcos. "Yes," she said, rather slowly. "What a joke." But now they were at the gate of the convent school, having come a short way, and they stood beneath the thick trees until the school came, with its usual accompaniment of eager talk like the running of water beneath a low bridge and its babble round the stones. Juanita slipped in among her schoolmates, and Sor Teresa, looking straight in front of her, saw nothing. CHAPTER X THISBE It was the custom in the convent school on the Torrero-hill to receive visitors on Thursdays. This festivity farther extended to the evening, when the girls were allowed to walk for an hour in the garden and talk. Talking, it must be remembered, as an indulgence of the flesh, is considered in religious communities to be a treat only permitted at certain periods. It is, indeed, only by tying the tongue that tyranny can hope to live. "These promenades are not without use," the Mother Superior once said to Evasio Mon, one of the lay directors of this school. "One discovers what friendships have been formed." But the Mother Superior, like many cunning persons, was wrong. For a schoolgirl's friendship is like the seed of grass, blown hither and thither; while only one or two of a sowing take root in some hidden corner and grow. Juanita's bosom friend of the red hair had recovered her lost position. Her hair was, in fact, golden again. They were walking in the garden at sunset, and waiting for the clock of San Fernando to strike seven. Juanita had told her friend of the chocolates--all soft inside--which were to come through the hole in the wall; and the golden haired girl had confided in Juanita that she had never loved her as she did at that moment. Which was, perhaps, not unnatural. The garden of the convent school is large, and spreads far down the slope of the hill. There are many fruit-trees and a few cypress. Where the stream runs there are bunches of waving bamboos, and at the lower end, where the wall is broken, there is a little grove of nut trees, where the nightingales sing. "It must be seven; come, let us go slowly towards the trees," said Juanita. They both looked round eagerly. There were two nuns in the gardens, gravely walking side by side, casting demure and not unkindly glances from time to time towards their gay charges. Juanita and her friend had, as elder girls, certain privileges, and were allowed to walk apart from the rest. They were heiresses, moreover, which makes a difference even in a convent school that shuts the world out with forbidding gates. Juanita bade her friend keep watch, and ran quickly among the trees. The wall was old and overgrown with wild roses and honeysuckle. She found the hole, and, hastily turning back her sleeve, thrust her arm through. Her hand came out through the flowers with an inconsequent, childish flourish of the fingers close by the grave face of Marcos. He was essentially a man of his word; and she jerked her hand away from his lips with a gay laugh. "Marcos," she said, "the packets must be small or they will not come through." "I have had them made small on purpose," he said. But she seemed to have forgotten the chocolates already, for her hand did not come back. "I'm trying to see through," she explained, after a moment. "I can see nothing, only something black. I see. It is your horse; you are on horseback. Is it the Moor? Have you ridden the dear old Moor up here to see me? Please bring his nose near so that I can stroke it." And her fingers came through the flowers again, feeling the empty air. "I wonder if he knows my hand," she said. "Oh, Marcos! is there no one to take me away from here? I hate the place; and yet I am afraid. I am afraid of something, Marcos, and I do not know what it is. It was all right when papa was alive. For I felt that he would certainly come some day and take me away, and all this would be over." "All--what?" inquired Marcos, the matter-of-fact, at the other side of the wall. "Oh, I don't know. There is a sort of strain and mystery which I cannot define. I am not a coward, you know, but sometimes I am afraid and feel alone in the world. There is Leon, of course; but Leon is no good, is he?" "No, he is no good," replied Marcos. "And, Marcos, do you think it is possible to be in the world and yet be saved; to be quite safe, I mean, for the next world, like Sor Teresa?" "Yes, I do." "Does Uncle Ramon think so?" "Yes," replied Marcos. "What a bother one's soul is," she said, with a sigh. "I'm sure mine is. I am never allowed to think of anything else." "Why?" asked Marcos, who was a patient searcher after remedies, and never discussed matters which could not be ameliorated by immediate action. "Oh! because it seems that I am more than usually wicked. No one seems to think it possible that I can save my soul unless I go into religion." "And you do not want to do that?" "No, I never want to do it. Not even when I have been a long time in Retreat and we have been happy and quiet, here, inside the walls. And the life they lead here seems so little trouble; and one can lay aside that nightmare of the world to come. I do not even want it then. But when I go into the world, like last Sunday, Marcos, and see the shops, and Uncle Ramon and you, then I hate the thought of it. And when I touched the dear old Moor's soft nose just now, I felt I couldn't do it at any cost; but that I must go into the world and have dogs and horses, and see the mountains and enjoy myself, and leave the rest to chance and the kindness of the Virgin, Marcos." He did not answer at once, and she thrust her hand through the woodbine again. "Where are you?" she asked. "Why do you not answer?" He took her hand and held it for a moment. "You are thinking," she said, with a little laugh. "I know. I have seen you think like that by the side of the river, when one of the trout would not come out of the Wolf and you were wondering what more you could do to try and make him. What are you thinking about?" "About you." "Oh!" she laughed. "You must not take it so seriously as that. Everybody is very kind, you know. And I am quite happy here. At least, I think I am. Where are the chocolates? I believe you have eaten them on the way--you and the Moor. I always said you were the same sort of people, you two, didn't I?" By way of reply he handed the little neat packets, tied with ribbon. "Thank you," she said. "You are kind, Marcos. Somehow you never say things, but you do them--which is better, is it not?" "I will get you out of here," he answered, "if you want it." "How?" she asked, with a startled ring in her voice. "Can you really do it? Tell me how." "No," answered Marcos. "I will not tell you how. Not now. But I can do it if you are in real danger of going into religion against your will; if there is real necessity." "How?" she asked again, with a deeper note in her voice. "I will not tell you," he answered, "until the necessity arises. It is a secret, and you might have to tell it... in confession." "Yes," she admitted. "Perhaps you are right. But you will come again next Thursday, Marcos?" "Yes," he answered, "next Thursday." "By the way, I forgot. I wrote you a note, in case there should have been no time to speak to you. Where is it, in my pocket? No, here, I have it. Do you want it?" "Yes." And Marcos tried to get his hand through the hole in the wall, but he failed. "Aha?" laughed Juanita. "You see I have the advantage of you." "Yes," he answered gravely. "You have the advantage of me." And on the other side of the wall, he smiled slowly to himself. "Go! Go at once," she whispered hurriedly, "Milagros is calling me. There is some one coming. I can see through the leaves. It is Sor Teresa. And she has some one with her. Oh! it is Senor Mon. He is terrible. He sees everything. Go, Marcos!" And Marcos did not wait. He had the note in his hand--a small screw of paper, all wet with the dew on the woodbine. He galloped up the hill, close under the wall, and put his willing horse straight at the canal. The horse leapt in and struggled, half swimming, across. To have gone any other way would have been to make himself visible from one part or another of the convent grounds, and Evasio Mon was in that garden. Both Sor Teresa and Evasio Mon saw Juanita emerge from the nut trees and join her friend, but neither appeared to have noticed anything unusual. "By the way," said Mon, pleasantly, "I am on foot and can save myself a considerable distance by using the door at the foot of the garden." "That way is unfrequented," answered Sor Teresa. "It is scarcely considered desirable at night." "Oh! no one will touch me--a poor man," said Mon, with his pleasant smile. "Have you the key with you?" Sor Teresa looked on the bunch hanging at her girdle. "No," she admitted rather reluctantly, "I will send for it." And she called by gesture one of the nuns who seemed to be looking the other way and yet perceived the movement of Sor Teresa's hand. While the key was being brought, Mon stood looking with his gentle smile over the lower wall of the garden, where the pathway cuts across the bare fields down towards the river. "Would it not be wiser to carry that key with you always in case it should be wanted, as in the present instance?" he said, smoothly. "I shall do so in future," replied Sor Teresa, humbly; for the first duty of a nun is obedience, and there is no nunnery that is not under the immediate and unquestioned control of some man, be he a priest or in some privileged cases, the Pontiff himself. At last a second bunch of keys was placed in Sor Teresa's hands, and she examined them carefully. "I am not quite sure," she said, "which is the right one. It is so seldom used." And she fingered them, one by one. Mon glanced at her sharply, though his lips still smiled. "Allow me," he said. "Those keys among which you are looking are the keys of cupboards and not of doors. There are only two door keys among them all." He took the keys and led the way towards the door hidden behind the grove of nut-trees. The nightingales were singing as he passed beneath the boughs, followed by Sor Teresa. Juanita hurrying up towards the house by another path, turned and glanced anxiously over her shoulder. "This, I think, will be the key," said Mon, affably, as he stooped to examine the lock. And he was right. He opened the door, passed out and turned to salute Sor Teresa before he closed it gently, in her face. "Go with God, my sister," he said, bowing with a raised hat and ceremonious smile. He waited until he heard Sor Teresa lock the door from within. Then he turned to examine the ground in the little lane that skirts the convent wall. But on the sun-baked ground, the neat, light feet of the Moor had made no mark. He looked at the wall, but failed to perceive the hole in it, for the woodbine and the wild rose tree covered it like a curtain. Marcos had made a round by the summit of the hill and turning to the right rejoined the high road from the Casa Blanca, crossing the canal again by that bridge and returning to Saragossa by the broad avenue known as the Monte Torrero. He reined in his horse beneath the lamp that hangs from the trees opposite to the gate of the town called the Puerta de Santa Engracia, and unfolded the note that Juanita had written to him. It was scribbled in pencil on a half sheet torn from an exercise book. "Dear Marcos," it said. "Thank you most preposterously for the chocolates. The next time please put in some almonds. Milagros so loves almonds; and I am very fond of Milagros--Your grateful Juanita." There was a mistake in the spelling. CHAPTER XI THE ROYAL ADVENTURE There are halting-places in the lives of most men when for a period the individual desire must give place to some great national need. We each live our little story through, but at times we find ourselves dragged from the narrow way into the great high road, where the history of the world blunders to an end which cannot even yet be dimly discerned. When Marcos rode into Saragossa after nightfall he found the streets filled by groups of anxious men. The nerves of civilisation were at a great tension at this time. Sedan was past. Paris was already besieged. All the French-speaking people thought that the end of the world must needs be at hand. The Pope had been deprived of his temporal power. The great foundations of the world seemed to tremble beneath the onward tread of inexorable history. In Spain itself, no man knew what might happen next. There seemed no depth to which the land of ancient glory might not be doomed to descend. Cuba was in wild revolt. Thousands of lives had been uselessly thrown away. Already the pride of the proudest nation since Rome, had been humbled by the just interference of the United States. A kingdom without a king, Spain had hawked her crown round Europe. For a throne, as for humbler posts, it is easy enough to find second-rate men who have no special groove, nor any capacity to delve one, but the first-rate men are, one discovers, nearly always occupied elsewhere. They are never waiting for something to turn up. Spain, with her three crowns in her hand, had called at every Court in Europe. She had thrown two nations into the greatest war of civilised ages. She was still looking for a king, still calling hopelessly to the second-rate royalties. Leopold of Hohenzollern would have accepted had not France arisen to object, only to receive a sound thrashing for her pains. Thus, for the second time in the world's history, Spain was the means of bringing a French empire to the dust. Ferdinand of Portugal, a cousin to the Queen of England, himself a Coburg, finally declined the honour. And Spain could not wait. There was a certain picturesqueness in Prim, the usual ornamental General through whose hands Spain has passed and repassed during the last century. He was a hard man, and the men of Spain, unlike the French, understand a martinet. But Spain could not wait. She must have a king; for the regency was wearisome. It was weary of itself, like an old man ready to die. There was no money in the public coffers. The Cortes was a house of words. Here eloquence reigned supreme; and eloquence never yet made an empire. Half a dozen different parties made speeches at each other, but Spain, owing to a blessed immunity from the cheap newspaper, was spared these speeches. She was told that Castelar was the eloquent orator of the age. She looked at Castelar, who was a fat little man with a big moustache and a small forehead, and she said: "Let us have a king!" Prim was better. He was a man at all events, and not a word-spinner. He was from Cataluña, where they make hard men with clear heads. And he knew his own mind. And he also said: "Let us have a king." One cried for Don Carlos, and another for Espartero. Cataluña said there was no living with Andalusia. Aragon wanted her own king and wished Valencia would go hang. Navarre was all for Don Carlos. And when Marcos de Sarrion rode into Saragossa they were calling in the streets that only a republic was possible now. He went home to that grim palace between the Cathedral and the Ebro and found his father gone. A brief note told him that Sarrion had gone to Madrid where a meeting of notables had been hastily summoned--and that he, Marcos, must hurry back to Torre Garda--that the Carlists were up for their king. Marcos returned the same night to Pampeluna, and the next day rode to Torre Garda by the high road that winds up the valley of the Wolf. In his own small kingdom be soon made his iron hand felt. And these people who would pay no taxes to king or regent remained quiet amid the anarchy that reigned all over Spain. Thus a week passed and rumours of strange doings at Madrid reached the quiet valley. All over the country, bands of malcontents calling themselves Carlists had risen in obedience to the voice of Don Carlos' grandson, the son of that Don Juan who had renounced a hopeless cause. To meet a soldier with his cap worn right side foremost was for the time unusual in the cities of the north. For the army no longer knew a master; and the Spanish soldier has a naïve and simple way of notifying this condition by wearing the peak of his cap behind. Marcos heard nothing of his father at Madrid, but surmised that there the talkers still held sway. The postal service of Spain is still almost mediæval. In the principal cities the post-offices are to-day only opened for business during two hours of the twenty-four. In the year of the Franco-Prussian war there was no postal service at all to the disaffected parts of the northern provinces. At the end of a week, Marcos rose at three o'clock and rode sixty miles before sunset to keep his word with Juanita. He did not trust the railway, which indeed was in constant danger of being cut by Carlist or Royalist, but performed the distance by road where he met many friends from Navarre and one or two from the valley of the Wolf. A thousand reports, a hundred rumours and lies innumerable, were on the roads also, traveling hither and thither over Spain. And Marshall Prim seemed to be the favoured god of the moment. Marcos was at his post outside the convent school wall at seven o'clock. He heard the clock of San Fernando strike eight. In these Southern latitudes the evenings are not much longer in summer than in winter. It was quite dark by eight o'clock when Marcos rode away. He was not given to a display of emotion. He was an eminently practical man. Juanita would have come if she could, he reflected. Why could she not keep her appointment? He rode to the main gate and asked if he could see Sor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--for the monastic life was forbidden by law at this time in Spain, and this was no nunnery; though, as in all such places, certain mediaeval follies were carefully fostered. "Sor Teresa is not here," was the reply through the grating. "Then where is she?" But there was no reply to this plain question. "Has she gone to Pampeluna?" The little shutter behind the grating was softly closed. And Marcos turned his horse's head with a quiet smile. His face, beneath the shadow of his wide hat, was still and hard. He had ridden sixty miles since morning, but he sat upright in his saddle. This was a man, as Juanita had observed, not to say things, but to do them. It was not difficult for him to find out during the next few weeks that Juanita had been sent to Pampeluna, whither also Sor Teresa had been commanded to go. Saragossa has a playful way of sacking religious houses, which the older-world city of Navarre would never permit. In Pampeluna the religious habit is still respected, and a friar may carry his shaven head high in the windy streets. Pampeluna, it was known, might at any moment be in danger of attack, but not of bombardment by the Carlists, who had many friends within the walls. Juanita was as safe perhaps in Pampeluna as anywhere in Northern Spain. So Marcos went back to Torre Garda and held his valley in a quiet grip. The harvests were gathered in, and starvation during the coming winter was, at all events, avoided. The first snow came and still Marcos had no news of Juanita. He knew, however, that both she and Sor Teresa were still at Pampeluna in the great yellow house in the Calle de la Dormitaleria, nearly opposite the Cathedral gate, from whence there is constant noiseless traffic of sisters and novices hurrying across, with lowered eyes, to the sanctuary, or back to their duties, with the hush of prayer still upon them. In November Marcos received a letter from his father, sent by hand all the way from the capital. Prim had re-established order, he wrote. There was hope of a settlement of political differences. A king had been found, and if he accepted the crown all might yet go well with Spain. A week later came the news that Amedeo of Savoy, the younger son of that brave old Victor Emmanuel, who faced the curse of a pope, had been declared King of Spain. Amedeo of Savoy, Duke of Aosta, was not a second-rate man. He was brave, honest, and a gentleman--qualities to which the throne of Spain had been stranger while the Bourbons sat there. Sarrion summoned Marcos to Madrid to meet the new king. The wise men of all parties knew that this was the best solution of the hopeless difficulties into which Spain had been thrust by the Bourbons and the tonguesters. A few honest politicians here and there set aside their own interests in the interest of the country, which action is worth recording--for its rarity. But the country in general was gloomy and indifferent. Spain is slow to learn, while France is too quick; and her knowledge is always superficial. "Give us at all events a Spaniard," muttered those who had cried "Down with liberty," when that arch-scoundrel, Fernando the Desired, returned to his own. "Give us money and we will give you Don Carlos," returned the cassocked canvassers of that monarch in a whisper. It was evening when Marcos arrived at Madrid, and the station, like all the trains, was crowded. All who could were traveling to Madrid to meet the king--for one reason or another. Marcos was surprised to see his father on the platform among those waiting for the train from the capitals of the North. "Come," said Sarrion, "let us go out by the side door; I have the carriage there, the streets are impassable. No one knows where to turn. There is no head in Spain now; they assassinated him last night." "Whom?" asked Marcos. "Prim. They shot him in his carriage, like a dog in a kennel--five of them--with guns. One has no pride in being a Spaniard now." Marcos followed his father through the crowd without replying. There seemed nothing, indeed, to be said; nothing to be added to the simple observation that it was a humiliation for a man to have to admit in these days that he was a Spaniard. "He was a Catalonian to the last," said Sarrion, when they were seated in their carnage. "He walked dying up his own stairs, so that his wife might be spared the sight of seeing him carried in. Stubborn and brave! One of the best men we have seen." "And the king?" "The king lands at Carthagena to-day--lands with his life in his hand. He carries it in his hand wherever he goes, day and night, in Spain, he and his wife. Without Prim he cannot hope to stand. But he will try. We must do what we can." The carriage was making its careful way across the Puerta del Sol, which had been cleared by grape-shot more than once in Sarrion's recollection. It looked now as if only artillery could set order there. "Viva el Rey! viva Don Carlos!" a loafer shouted, and waved his hat in Sarrion's grim and smiling face. "I do not understand," he said to Marcos, as they passed on, "why the good God gives the Bourbons so many chances." "I cannot understand why the Bourbons never take them," answered Marcos. For he was not a pushing man, but one of those patient waiters on opportunity who appear at length quietly at the top, and look down with thoughtful eyes at those who struggle below. The sweat and strife of some careers must tarnish the brightest lustre. Father and son drove together to the apartment in a street high above the town, near the church of San José where the Sarrions lived when in Madrid, and there Sarrion gave Marcos further details of that strange adventure which Amedeo of Spain was about to begin. In return Marcos vouchsafed a brief account of affairs in the valley of the Wolf. He never had much to say and even in these stirring times told of a fine harvest; of that brilliant weather which marked the year of the Napoleonic downfall. "And Juanita?" inquired Sarrion at length. "Is at Pampeluna. They cannot get her away from there without my knowing it. She is well ... and happy." "You have not written to her?" "No," answered Marcos. "We must remember," said Sarrion, with a nod of approval, "that we are dealing with the cleverest men in the world, and the greediest----" "And the hardest pressed," added Marcos. "But you have not written to her?" "No." "Nor heard from her?" "I had a note from her at Saragossa, before they moved her to Pampeluna," answered Marcos with a smile. "It was rather badly spelt." "And...?" asked Sarrion. Marcos did not reply to this comprehensive interrogation. "You have come to some decision?" Sarrion suggested. "I have come to the usual decision that you are quite right in your suspicions. They want that money, and they intend to get it by forcing her into religion and inducing her to sign the usual testament made by nuns, conferring all their earthly goods upon the order into which they are admitted." Then Sarrion went back to his original question. "And...?" "As soon as we see signs of their being likely to succeed I propose to see Juanita again." "You can do it despite them?" "Yes, I can do it." "And...?" "I shall explain the position to her--that her bad fortune has given her choice of two evils." "That is one way of putting it." "It is the only honest way." Sarrion shrugged his shoulders. "My friend," he said, "I do not think that love and honesty are much in sympathy." CHAPTER XII IN A STRONG CITY Amedeo, as the world knows, landed at Carthagena to be met by the news that Prim was dead. The man who had summoned him hither to assume the crown, he who alone in all Spain had the power and the will to maintain order in the riven kingdom, had himself been summoned to appear before a higher throne. "There will be no republic in Spain while I live," Prim had often said. And Prim was dead. "Every dog has his day," a deputy sneeringly observed to the Marshall himself a few hours before he was shot, in response to Prim's plain-spoken intention of striking with a heavy hand all those who should manifest opposition to the Duke of Aosta. So Amedeo of Spain rode into his capital one snowy day in January, 1871, carrying high his head and looking down with courageous, intelligent eyes upon the faces of the people who refused to cheer him, as upon a sea of hidden rocks through which he must needs steer his hazardous way without a pilot. Before receiving the living he visited the dead man who may be assumed to have been honest in his intention, as he undoubtedly proved himself to be brave in action; the best man that Spain produced in her time of trouble. Among the first to bow before the King were the two Sarrions, and as they returned into an anteroom they came face to face with Evasio Mon, waiting his turn there. "Ah!" said Sarrion, who did not seem to see the hand that Mon had half extended, "I did not know that you were a courtier." "I am not," replied Mon; "but I am here to see whether I am too old to learn." He turned towards Marcos with his pleasant smile, but did not attempt the extended hand here. "I shall take a lesson from Marcos," he said. Marcos made no reply, but passed on. And Mon, turning on his heel, looked after him with a sudden misgiving, like one who hears the sound of a distant drum. "Judging from the persons in his immediate vicinity, our friend has money in his pocket," said Sarrion, as they descended those palace stairs which had streamed with blood a few years earlier. "Or promises in his mouth. Was that General Pacheco who turned away as we came?" "Yes," answered Sarrion. "Why do you ask?" "I have heard that he is to receive a command in the army of the North." Sarrion made a grimace, uncomplimentary to that very smart soldier General Pacheco, and at the foot of the stairs he stopped to speak to a friend. He spoke in French and named the man by his baptismal name; for this was a Frenchman, named Deulin, a person of mystery, supposed to be in the diplomatic service in some indefinite position. With him was an Englishman, who greeted Marcos as a friend. "What do you make of all this?" asked Sarrion, addressing himself to the Englishman, who, however, rather cleverly passed the question on to the older man with a slow, British gesture. "I make of it--that they only want a little money to make Don Carlos king," said Deulin. "What is Evasio Mon doing in Madrid?" asked Sarrion. "Raising the money, or spending it," replied the Frenchman, with a shrug of the shoulders, as if it were no business of his. They passed up-stairs together, but had not gone far when Marcos said the Englishman's name without raising his voice. "Cartoner." He turned, and Marcos ran up three steps to meet him. "Who is the prelate with the face of a fox-terrier?" he asked. "He represents the Vatican. Is he with Mon?" Marcos nodded an affirmative, and, turning, descended the stairs. "I had better get back to Pampeluna," he said to his father. The train for the Northern frontier leaves Madrid in the evening, and at this time no man knew who might be the next to take a ticket for France. The Sarrions made their preparations to depart the same evening, and, arriving early, secured a compartment to themselves. Marcos, however, did not take his seat, but stood on the platform looking towards the gate through which the passengers must come. "Are you looking for some one?" asked Sarrion. "General Pacheco," was the reply; and then, after a pause, "Here he comes. He is attended by three aides-de-camp and a squadron of orderlies. He carries his head very high." "But his feet are on the ground," commented Sarrion, who was rolling himself a cigarette. "Shall we invite him to come with us?" "Yes." General Pacheco was one of those soldiers of the fifties who owed their success to a handsome face. He wore a huge moustache, curling to his eyes, and had the air of an invincible conqueror--of hearts. He had dined. He was going to take up his new command in the North. He walked, as the French say, on air, and he certainly swaggered in his gait on that thin base. He was hardly surprised to see the Count Sarrion, one of the exclusives who had never accepted Queen Isabella's new military aristocracy, with his hat in one hand and the other extended towards him, on the platform awaiting his arrival. "You will travel with us," said Sarrion. And the General accepted, looking round to see that his attendants were duly impressed. "I find," he said, seating himself and accepting a cigarette from Sarrion, "that each new success in life brings me new friends." "Making it necessary to abandon the old ones," suggested Sarrion. "No, no," laughed the General, with a cackle, and a patronising hand upheld against the mere thought. "One only adds to the number as one goes on; just as one adds to a little purse against the change of fortune, eh?" And he looked from one to the other still, brown face with a cunning twinkle. Sarrion was a man of the world. He knew that this expansiveness would not last. It would probably give way to melancholy or somnolence in the course of half an hour. These things are a matter of the digestion. And many vows of friendship are made by perfectly sober persons who have dined, with a sincerity which passes off next morning. The milk of human kindness should be allowed to stand overnight in order to prove its quality. "Ah," said Sarrion, "you speak from a happy experience." "No, no," protested the other, gravely. "It is a small thing--a mere bagatelle in the French Rentes--but one sees one's opportunities, one sees one's opportunities." He made a gesture with the two fingers that held his cigarette, which seemed to be a warning to the Sarrions not to make any mistake as to the shrewdness of him who spoke to them. "Speak for yourself," said Sarrion, with a laugh. "I do," insisted the other, leaning forward. "I speak essentially for myself. One does not mind admitting it to a man like yourself. All the world knows that you are a Carlist at heart." "Does it?" "Yes--and you must take comfort. I think you are on the right road now." "I hope we are." "I am sure of it. Money. That is the only way. To go to the right people with money in both hands." He sat back and looked at the Sarrions with his little, cunning eyes twinkling beneath his gold laced cap. The expansiveness would not last much longer. Sarrion's dark glance was diagnosing the man with a deadly skill. "The thing," he said slowly, "is to strike while the iron is hot." He spoke in the symbolic way of a people much given to proverbial wisdom and the dark uses of allegory. He might have meant much or nothing. As it happened, the Count de Sarrion meant nothing; for he knew nothing. "That is what I say. Give me a couple of months, I want no more." "No?" said Sarrion, looking at him with much admiration. "Is that so?" "Two months--and the sum of money I named." "Ah! In two months," reflected Sarrion. "Rome, you know, was not built in a day." The General gave his cackling laugh. "Aha! " he cried, "I see that you know all about it. You gave me my cue--the word Rome, eh? To see how much I know!" And the great soldier-statesman leant back in his seat again, well pleased with himself. "I understand," he said, "that it amounts to this; the sanction of the Vatican is required to the remittance of the usual novitiate in the case of a young person who is in a great hurry to take the veil; once that is obtained the money is set at liberty and all goes merrily. There is enough to--well, let us say--to convince my whole army corps, and my humble self. And the Vatican will, of course, consent. I fancy that is how it stands." He tapped his pocket as if the golden "piecès de conviction" were already there, and closed his eye like any common person; like, for instance, his own father, who was an Andalusian innkeeper. "I fancy that is how it is," said Sarrion, turning gravely to Marcos. "Is it not so?" "That is how it is," replied Marcos. The effect of the good dinner was already wearing off. The train had started, and General Pacheco found himself disinclined for further conversation. He begged leave to ease some of the tighter straps and hooks of his smart tunic, opening the collar of solid gold lace that encircled his thick neck. In a few minutes he was asleep beneath the speculative eye of Marcos, who sat in the far corner of the carriage. The General was going to Saragossa, so they parted from him in the cold, early morning at Castèjon, where an icy wind swept over the plain, and the snow lay thick on the ground. "It will be cold at Pampeluna!" muttered the General from within the hood of his military cloak. "I pity you! yes, good-bye; close the door." The station was full of soldiers, and their high peaked caps were at every window of the trains. It was barely yet daylight when the Sarrions alighted at the fortified station in the plain below Pampeluna. The city stands upon a hill which falls steeply on the northeast side to the bed of the river Arga, a green-coloured stream deep enough to give additional strength to the walls which tower above like a cliff. Pampeluna is rightly reckoned to be the strongest city in Europe. It is approached from the southwest by a table-land, across which run the high roads from Madrid and the French frontier. The station lies in the plain across which the railway meanders like a stream. Both bridges across the Arga are commanded, as is the railway station, by the guns of the city. Every approach is covered by artillery. The sun was rising as the Sarrions' carriage slowly climbed the incline and clanked across the double drawbridges into the city. In the Plaza de la Constitucion, the centre of the town, troops of hopeful dogs followed each other from dust heap to dust heap, but seemed to find little of succulence, whilst what they did find appeared to bring on a sudden and violent indisposition. Perro gazed at them sadly from the carriage window remembering perhaps his own dust heap days. The Sarrions had no house in Pampeluna. Unlike the majority of the Navarrese nobles they lived in their country house which was only twenty miles away. They made use of the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de la Constitucion when business or war happened to call them to Pampeluna. They went there now and took their morning coffee. "Two months," said Sarrion, warming himself at the stove in their simply furnished sitting-room. "Two months, they have given that scoundrel Pacheco to make his preparations." "Yes--" "So that Juanita must make her choice at once." "They go to vespers in the Cathedral," said Marcos. "It is dusk by that time. They cross the Calle de la Dormitaleria and go through the two patios into the cloisters and enter the Cathedral by the cloister door. If Juanita could forget something and go back for it, I could see her for a few minutes in the cloisters which are always deserted in winter." "Yes," said Sarrion, "but how?" "Sor Teresa must do it," said Marcos. "You must see her. They cannot prevent you from seeing your own sister." "But will she do it?" "Yes," answered Marcos without any hesitation at all. "I shall try to see Juanita also," said Sarrion, throwing his cloak round his shoulders twice so that its bright lining was seen at the back, hanging from the left shoulder. "You stay here." He went out into the cold air. Pampeluna lies fourteen hundred feet above the sea-level, and is subject to great falls of snow in its brief winter season. Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street running parallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. There he learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he could not see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules. Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not in her province. But she knew the rules. She did not return and in her place came Father Muro, the spiritual adviser of the school; Juanita's own confessor. He was a stout man whose face would have been pleasant had it followed the lines that Nature had laid down. But there was something amiss with Father Muro--the usual lack of naturalness in those who lead a life that is against Nature. Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see Juanita. It was not within his province, but he knew that it was against the rules. Then he remembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the Count de Sarrion. It was lying on the table at the refectory door, where letters intended for the post were usually placed. It was doubtless from Juanita. He would fetch it. Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face, while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to want something they could not have. "Yes," said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente." He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. "Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked. "No, my son. Why should I?" "Why, indeed?" And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the door open rather obsequiously. CHAPTER XIII THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVE On returning to the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de la Constitution, Sarrion threw down on the table before Marcos the note that Father Muro had given him. He made no comment. "My dear uncle," the letter ran, "I am writing to advise you of my decision to go into religion. I am prompted to communicate this to you without delay by the remembrance of your many kindnesses to me. You will, I know, agree with me that this step can only be for my happiness in this world and the next. Your grateful niece.--JUANITA DE MOGENTE." Marcos read the letter carefully, and then seeking in his pocket, produced the note that Juanita had passed to him through the hole in the wall of the convent school at Saragossa. It seemed that he carried with him always the scrap of paper that she had hidden within her dress until the moment that she gave it to him. He laid the two letters side by side and compared them. "The writing is the writing of Juanita," he said; "but the words are not. They are spelt correctly!" He folded the letters again, with his determined smile, and placed them in his pocket. Sarrion, smoking a cigarette by the stove, glanced at his son and knew that Juanita's fate was fixed. For good or ill, for happiness or misery, she was destined to marry Marcos de Sarrion if the whole church of Rome should rise up and curse his soul and hers for the deed. Sarrion appeared to have no suggestions to make. He continued to smoke reflectively while he warmed himself at the stove. He was wise enough to perceive that his must now be the secondary part. To possess power and to resist the temptation to use it, is the task of kings. To quietly relinquish the tiller of a younger life is a lesson that gray hairs have to learn. "I think," said Marcos at length, "that we must see Leon. He is her guardian. We will give him a last chance." "Will you warn him?" inquired Sarrion. "Yes," replied Marcos, rising. "He may be here in Pampeluna. I think it likely that he is. They are hard pressed. If they get the dispensation from Rome they will hurry events. They will try to rush Juanita into religion at once. And Leon's presence is indispensable. They are probably ready and only awaiting the permission of the Vatican. They are all here in Pampeluna, which is better than Saragossa for such work--better than any city in Spain. They probably have Leon waiting here to give his formal consent when required." "Then let us go and find out," said Sarrion. The Plaza de la Constitucion is the centre of the town, and beneath its colonnade are the offices of the countless diligences that connect the smaller towns of Navarre with the capital, which continued to run even in time of war to such places as Irun, Jaca, and even Estella, where the Carlist cause is openly espoused. Marcos made the round of the diligence offices. He had, it seemed, a hundred friends among the thick-set muleteers in breeches, stockings, and spotless shirt, who looked at him with keen, dust-laden eyes from beneath the shade of their great berets. The drivers of the diligences, which were now arriving from the mountain villages, paused in their work of unloading their vehicles to give him the latest news. They were soft spoken persons with a repressed manner, which characterises both men and women of their ancient race, and they spoke to him in Basque. Some freed their hands from the folds of the long blanket, which each wore according to his fancy, to shake hands with him; others nodded curtly. Men from the valley of Ebro muttered "Buenas"--the curt salutation of Aragon the taciturn. Marcos seemed to know them by their baptismal names. He even knew their horses by name also, and asked after each, while Perro, affable alike with rich and poor, exchanged the time of day with traveled dogs, all lean and dusty from the road, who limped on sore feet and probably told him of the snow while they lay in the sun and licked their paws. Like his master, he was not proud, but took a wide view of life, so that all varieties of it came within his field of vision. Then master and dog took a walk down the Calle del Pozo Blanco, where the saddle and harness-makers congregate; where muleteers must come to buy those gay saddle-bags which so soon lose their bright colour in the glaring sun; where the guardias civiles step in to buy their paste and pipe-clay; where the great man's groom may chat with the teamster from the mountain while both are waiting on the saddler's needle. Finally Marcos passed through the wide Calle de San Ignacio to the drawbridges across the double fosse, where the rope-makers are always at work, walking backwards with an ever decreasing bundle of hemp at their waists and one eye cocked upwards towards the roadway so that they know all who come and go better even than the sentry at the gate. For the sentries are changed three or four times a day, while the rope-maker goes on forever. Just beyond the second line of fortifications is a halting-place by a low wall where the country women (whom one may meet riding in the plain--dignified, cloaked and hooded figures, startlingly suggestive of a sacred picture) on mule or donkey, stop to descend from their perch between the saddle-bags or panniers. It is a sort of al fresco cloakroom where these ladies repair the ravages of wind or storm, where they assemble in the evening to pack their purchases on their beasts of burden, and finally climb to the top of all themselves. For it is not etiquette to ride in or out of the gates upon one's wares; and a breach of this unwritten law would immediately arouse the suspicion of the courteous toll-officer, who fingers delicately with a tobacco-stained hand the bundles and baskets submitted to his inspection. Here also Marcos had friends, and was able to tell the latest news from Cuba, where some had husband, son or lover; a so-called volunteer to put down the hopeless rebellion, attracted to a miserable death, by the forty-pound bounty paid by Government. There were old women who chaffed him, and young ones with fine-cut classic features and crinkled hair, who lay in wait for a glance from his grave eyes. "It is a pity there are not more like you, Señor Conde," said one old peasant; "for it is you that keeps the men from fighting among themselves and makes them tend the sheep or take in the crops. Carlist or Royalist, the land comes before either, say I." "For it is the land that feeds the children," added another, who carried a pair of small espradrillas in her apron pocket. Marcos went back to his father with such information as he had been able to gather. "Leon is here," he said. "He is in Retreat at the monastery of the Redemptionists, which stands half-empty on the road to Villaba. Sor Teresa and Juanita are both well and in the school in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. Mon has been here for some weeks, but went to Madrid four days ago. It is an open secret that Pacheco will go over to the Carlists with his whole army corps for cash down--but he will not take a promise. The Carlists think that their opportunity has come." "And so do I," said Sarrion. "The Duke of Aosta is the son of Victor Emmanuel, we must remember that. And no son of the man who overthrew the Pope can hope to be tolerated by the clerical party here. The new king will be assassinated, Marcos. I give him six months." "Will you come this afternoon to the old monastery on the Villaba road and see Leon?" asked Marcos. "Oh, yes," laughed his father. "I shall enjoy it." It was the hour of the siesta when they quitted the town on horseback by the Puerta de Rochapea which gives exit to the city on the northern side. It had been sunny since morning, and the snow had melted from the roads, but the hills across the plain were still white and great drifts were piled against the ramparts, forming a natural buttress from the summit of the steep river bank almost to the deep embrasures of the wall. Marcos turned in his saddle and looked up at these as they rode down the slope. Sarrion saw the action and glanced at Marcos and then at the towering walls. But he made no comment and asked no questions. There are two old monasteries on the Villaba road; huge buildings within a high wall, each owning a chapel which stands apart from the dwelling-house. It is a known fact that the Carlists have never threatened these buildings which stand far outside the town. It is also a fact that the range of them has been carefully measured by the artillery officers, and the great guns on the city walls were at this time trained on the isolated buildings to batter them to the ground at the first sign of treachery. Marcos pulled the bell-rope swinging in the wind outside the great door of the monastery, while Sarrion tied the horses to a post. The door was opened by a stout monk whose face fell when he perceived two laymen in riding costume. Humbler persons, as a rule, rang this bell. "The Marquis de Mogente is here?" said Marcos, and the monk spread out his hands in a gesture of denial. "Whoever is here," he said, "is in Retreat. One does not disturb the devout." He made a movement to close the door, but Marcos put his thickly booted foot in the interstice. Then he placed his shoulder against the weather-worn door and pushed it open, sending the monk staggering back. Sarrion followed and was in time to place himself between the monk and the bell towards which the devotee was running. "No, my friend," he said, "we will not ring the bell." "You have no business here," said the holy man, looking from one to the other with sullen eyes. "So far as that goes, no more have you," said Marcos. "There are no monasteries in Spain now. Sit down on that bench and keep quiet." He turned and glanced at his father. "Yes," said Sarrion, with his grim smile, "I will watch him." "Where shall I find Leon de Mogente?" said Marcos to the monk. "I do not wish to disturb other persons." The monk reflected for a moment. "It is the third door on the right," he said at length, nodding his shaven head towards a long passage seen through the open door. Marcos went in, his spurred heels clanking loudly in the half-empty house. He knocked at the door of the third cell on the right; for in his way he was a devout person and wished to disturb no man at his prayers. The door was opened by Leon himself, who started back when he saw who had knocked. Marcos went into the room which was small and bare and whitewashed, and closed the door behind him. A few religious emblems were on the wall above the narrow bed. A couple of books lay on the table. One was open. It was a very old edition of à Kempis. Leon de Mogente's religion was of the sort that felt itself able to learn more from an old edition than a new one. There are many in these days of cheap imitation of the mediaeval who feel the same. Leon sat down on the plain wooden bench and laid his hand on the open book. He looked with weak eyes at Marcos and waited for him to speak. Marcos obliged him at once. "I have come to see you about Juanita," he said. "Have you given your consent to her taking the veil?" Leon reflected. He had the air of a man who having been carefully taught a part, loses his place at the first cue. "What business is it of yours?" he asked, rather hesitatingly at length. "None." Leon made a hopeless gesture of the hand and looked at his book with a face of distress and embarrassment. Marcos was sorry for him. He was strong, and it is the strong who are quickest to detect pathos. "Will you answer me?" he asked. And Leon shook his head. "I have come here to warn you," said Marcos, not unkindly. "I know that Juanita has inherited a fortune from her father. I know that the Carlist cause is falling for want of money. I know that the Jesuits will get the money if they can. Because Don Carlos is their last chance in their last stronghold in Europe. They will get Juanita's money if they can--and they can only do it by forcing Juanita into religion. And I have come to warn you that I shall prevent them." Leon looked at Marcos and gulped something down in his throat. He was not afraid of Marcos, but he was in terror of some one or of something else. Marcos studied the white face, the shrinking, hunted eyes, with the quiet persistence learnt from watching Nature. "Are you a Jesuit?" he asked bluntly. But Leon only drew in a gasping breath and made no answer. Then Marcos went out and closed the door behind him. CHAPTER XIV IN THE CLOISTER Marcos and Sarrion went back to Pampeluna in the dusk of the winter evening, each meditating over that which they had seen and heard. Leon had become a Jesuit. And Juanita was worse--infinitely worse than alone in the world. Marcos needed no telling of all that lay behind Leon's scared silence; for his father had brought him up in an atmosphere of plain language and wide views of mankind. Sarnon himself had seen Navarre ruined, its men sacrificed, its women made miserable by a war which had lasted intermittently for thirty years. He had seen the simple Basques, who had no means of verifying that which their priests told them, fighting desperately and continuously for a lie. The Carlist war has always been the war of ignorance and deceit against enlightenment and the advance of thought. It is needless to say upon which side the cassock has ranged itself. The Basques were promised their liberty; they should be allowed to live as they had always lived, practically a republic, if they only succeeded in forcing an absolute monarchy on the rest of Spain. The Jesuits made this promise. The society found itself in the position that no promise must be allowed to stick in the throat. Sarrion, like all who knew their strange story, was ready enough to recognise the fact that the Jesuit body must be divided into two parts of head and heart. The heart has done the best work that missionaries have yet accomplished. The head has ruined half Europe. It was the political Jesuit who had earned Sarrion's deadly hatred. The political Jesuit has, moreover, a record in history which has only in part been made manifest. William the Silent was assassinated by an emissary of the Jesuits. Maurice of Orange, his son, almost met the same fate, and the would-be murderer confessed. Three Jesuits were hanged for attempting the life of Elizabeth, Queen of England; and later, another, Parry, was drawn and quartered. Two years later another was executed for participating in an attempt on the Queen's life; and at later periods four more met a similar just fate. Ravaillac, the assassin of Henry IV of France was a Jesuit. The Jesuits were concerned in the Gunpowder Plot of England and two of the fathers were among the executed. In Paraguay the Jesuits instigated the natives to rebel against Spain and Portugal; and the holy fathers, taking the field in person, proved themselves excellent leaders. Pope Clement XIV was poisoned by the Jesuits. He had signed a Bull to suppress the order, which Bull was to "be forever and to all eternity valid." The result of it was "acqua tofana of Perugia," a slow and torturing poison. Down to our own times we have had the hand of the Society of Jesus gently urging the Fenians. O'Farrell, who in 1868 attempted the life of the Duke of Edinburgh in Australia, was a Jesuit sent out to the care of the society in Australia. The great days of Jesuitism are gone but the society still lives. In England and in other Protestant countries they continue to exist under different names. The "Adorers of Jesus," the Redemptionists, the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, the Brothers of the Congregation of the Holy Virgin, the Fathers of the Faith, the Order of St. Vincent de Paul--are Jesuits. How far they belong to the heart and not to the head, is a detail only known to themselves. Those who have followed the contemporary history of France may draw their own conclusions from the trials of the case of the Assumptionist Fathers. "Los mismos perros, con nuevos cuellos"--said Sarrion to any who sought to convince him that Spain owed her downfall to other causes, and that the Jesuits were no longer what they had been. "The same dogs with new collars." And he held that they were not a progressive but a retrogressive society; that their statutes still held good. "It is allowable to take an oath without intending to keep it when one has good grounds for so acting." "In the case of one unjustifiably making an attack on your honour, when you cannot otherwise defend yourself than by impeaching the integrity of the person insulting you, it is quite allowable to do so." "In order to cut short calumny most quickly, one may cause the death of the calumniator, but as secretly as possible to avoid observation." "It is absolutely allowable to kill a man whenever the general welfare or proper security demands it." If any man has committed a crime, St. Liguori and other Jesuit writers hold that he may swear to a civil authority that he is innocent of it provided that he has already confessed it to his spiritual father and received absolution. It is, they say, no longer on his conscience. "Pray," said the founder of the society, "as if everything depended on prayer, and act as if everything depended on action." "Of what are you thinking?" Sarrion asked suddenly, when they had ridden almost to the city gates in silence. "I was wondering what Juanita will say, some day, when she knows and understands everything." "I was not wondering what Juanita will say," confessed Sarrion with a laugh, "but what Evasio Mon will do." For Sarrion persisted in taking an optimistic view of Juanita and that which must supervene when she had grown into understanding and knowledge. Marcos went back to the hotel. He had many arrangements to make. Sarrion rode to the large house in the Calle de la Dormitaleria where the school of the Sisters of the True Faith is located to this day. In an hour he joined Marcos in the little sitting-room looking on to the Plaza de la Constitucion. "All is going well," he said, "I have seen Dolores. They go across to the Cathedral for vespers at five o'clock. It will be almost dark. You have only to wait in the inner patio, adjoining the cloisters. They pass through that way. Juanita will be sent back for something that is forgotten. And then is your time. You can have ten minutes. It is not long." "It will do," said Marcos rather gloomily. He was not afraid of the whole Society of Jesuits, of the king, nor yet of Don Carlos. But he feared Juanita. "We need not inquire who will send her back. But she will come. She will not expect to see you. Remember that and do not frighten her." So Marcos set out at dusk to await Juanita. The entrance to the two patios that give entrance to the Cathedral cloister is immediately opposite to the door of the school of the Sisters of the True Faith. A lamp swings over the doorway in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. There is no lamp in the first patio but another hangs in the vaulted arch leading from one patio to the other. In the cloister itself, which is the most beautiful in Spain, there are two dim lamps. Marcos sat down on the wooden bench which runs right round the quadrangle of the inner patio. He had not long to wait. The girls passed through whispering and laughing among themselves. Two nuns led the way. Sor Teresa followed the last two girls, looking straight in front of her between the wings of her great cap. One of the last pair was Juanita. She walked listlessly, Marcos thought. He rose and went towards the archway leading from the inner patio to the cloisters. The moon was rising and cast a white light down upon the delicate stone-work of the cloister windows. Almost immediately Juanita came hurrying back and instinctively drew her mantilla closer at the sight of his shadowy form. Then she recognised him. "Oh, Marcos," she whispered. "At last. I thought you had forgotten all about me." "Quick," he answered. "This way. We have only ten minutes." He took her hand and hurried her back into the cloisters. He led her to the right, to the corner of the quadrangle farthest removed from the Cathedral where by daylight few pass, and at night none. "What do you mean?" she asked, "Only ten minutes." "It has all been arranged," he answered. "I met you here on purpose. You have only ten minutes in which to settle." "To settle what?" she asked with a laugh. "Your whole life." "But one cannot settle one's life in an Ave Maria," she said, which means in the twinkling of an eye. And she looked at him by the dim light and laughed again. For she was young and they had always made holiday together, and laughed. "Did you mean that letter which you wrote to my father about going into religion?" "Oh, I don't know. I suppose so. I meant it at the time, Marcos. It seems to be the only thing to do. Everything seems to point to it. Every sermon I hear. Everything I read. Everything any one ever says to me. But now--" she turned and looked at him, "--now that I see you again I cannot think how I did it." "Am I so very worldly?" "Of course you are. And yet I suppose you have some chance of salvation. It seems to me that you have--a little chance, I give you. But it seems hard on other people. Oh, Marcos, I hate the idea of it. And yet they are so kind to me--all except Sor Teresa. If anybody could make me hate it, she would. She is so unkind and gives me all the punishments she can." Marcos smiled slowly and with great pity, of which men have a better understanding than any woman. He thought he knew why Sor Teresa was cruel. "They are all so kind. And I know they are good. And they take it for granted that the religious life is the only possible one. One cannot help becoming convinced even against one's will." She turned to him suddenly and laid her two hands on his arm. "Oh, Marcos," she whispered, with a sort of sob of apprehension. "Can you not do something for me?" "Yes," he answered. "That is why I am here. But it must be done at once." "Why?" she asked. And she was grave enough now. "Because they have sent to Rome for a dispensation of your novitiate. They wish to hurry you into religion at once." "Yes," she said. "I know. But why?" "Because they want your money." "But I have none, or very little. They have told me so." "That is a lie," said Marcos, bluntly. "Oh, but you must not say that," she whispered, with a sort of horror. "Father Muro told me so. He represents Heaven on earth. We are told he does." "He does it badly," said Marcos, quietly. Juanita reflected for a moment. Then suddenly she stamped her foot on the pavement worn by the feet of generations of holy men. "I will not go into religion," she said. "I will not. I always feel that there is something wrong in all they say. And with you and Uncle Ramon it is different. I know at once that what you say is quite simple and plain and honest; that you have no other meaning in what you say but that which the words convey. Marcos--you and Uncle Ramon must take me away from here. I cannot get away. I am hemmed in on every side." "We can take you away," answered Marcos slowly, "if you like." She turned and looked at him, her attention caught by some tense note in his voice. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Your face is so odd and white. What do you mean, Marcos?" "We can take you away, but you must marry me." She gave a short laugh and stopped suddenly. "Oh--you must not joke," she said. "You must not laugh. It is my whole life, remember." "I am not laughing. It is no joke," said Marcos steadily. "What...?" For a moment they sat in silence. The low chanting of vespers came to their ears through the curtained doors of the Cathedral. "Listen to them," said Juanita suddenly. "They are half asleep. They are not thinking of what they are singing. They are taking snuff surreptitiously behind their hands to keep themselves awake. And it is we, poor wretched schoolgirls and nuns who have to keep the saints in a good humour by attending to every word and being most preposterously devout whether we feel inclined to be or not. No, I will not go into religion. That is certain. Marcos, I would rather marry you than that--if it is necessary." "It is necessary." "But they can have all the money; every real,'" suggested Juanita hopefully. "No; they have tried that way. They cannot do it in these times. The only way they can get the money is for you to go of your own free will into religion and to bequeath of your own free will all your worldly possessions to the Order you join." "Yes, I know," said Juanita. Her spirits had risen every minute. She was gay again now. His presence seemed to restore to her the happy gift of touching life lightly which is of the heart. And the heart knows no age, neither is it subject to the tyranny of years. "Well, I will marry you if there is no help for it. But..." "But..." echoed Marcos. "But of course it is only a sort of game, is it not?" "Yes," he answered. "A sort of game." "Promise?" "I promise." They were sitting on the steps of one of the chapels. Juanita swung round and peered through the railings as if to see what Saint had his habitation there. "It is only St. Bartholomew," she said, airily. "But he will do. You have promised, remember that. And St. Bartholomew has heard you. It is only to save me from being a nun that we are being married. And I am to be just the same as I am now. We can go fishing, I mean, as we used to, and climb the mountains and have jokes just as we always do in the holidays." "Yes," said Marcos. She held out her hand as she had seen the peasants in Torre Garda when they had struck a bargain and would seal it irrevocably. "Touch it," she said with a gay laugh, as she had heard them say. And they shook hands in the dark cloisters. "There is a window at the end of the passage in which is your room," said Marcos. "It looks out on to a small courtyard and is quite near the ground. Come to that window to-morrow night at ten o'clock and I shall be there." "What for?" she asked. "To be married," he answered. "My father and I will arrange it. We shall both be there. If you do not come to-morrow night I shall come again the next night. You will be back in your room by half-past eleven." "Married?" asked Juanita. "Yes." He had risen and was standing in front of her. "And now you must go back to the Cathedral." "But Sor Teresa's breviary?" "She has it in her pocket," said Marcos. CHAPTER XV OUR LADY OF THE SHADOWS There were great clouds in the sky when the moon rose the next night and one of them threw Pampeluna into dark shadows when Marcos took his place in the little passage between the School in the Calle de la Dormitaleria and the next building. The window at the end of the passage where Juanita and Sor Teresa and some of the more favoured of the girls had their rooms, was about six feet above the ground. Marcos took his post immediately underneath and stretching his arm up took hold of one of the two bars, and waited. Juanita looking from the door of her room could thus see his clenched hand and must know that he was waiting. The clocks of the city struck ten. Immediately afterwards the watchmen began their cry. The city was already asleep. It was very cold. Marcos changed his hand from time to time and breathed on his fingers. He carried a cloak for Juanita. The striking of the quarter found him still waiting beneath the window. But, soon after, Marcos' heart gave a leap to his throat at the touch of cold fingers on his wrist. It was Juanita. He threw the cloak down and placing his heel on the sill of a lower window near the ground he raised himself to the level of the bars. "Oh, Marcos!" whispered Juanita in his ear, through the open window. He edged his shoulder in between the two bars which were fixed perpendicularly, and being strongly built he only found room to introduce his two thumbs within that which pressed against his chest. He slowly straightened his arms and the iron gave an audible creak. It was a hundred years old, all rust-worn and attenuated. "There," he said, "you can get through that." "Yes," she answered. She was shivering and yet half laughing. "Listen," she whispered, drawing him towards her. "Sor Teresa's door is open. You can hear her snoring. Listen!" She gave a half hysterical laugh. "Quick," said Marcos--dropping to the ground. Juanita turned sideways and pushed her head and shoulders through the bars. She leant down towards him holding out her arms and her thick plait of hair struck him across the eyes. A moment later he had lifted her to the ground. "Quick," he said again, breathlessly. He threw the cloak round her and drew the hood forward over her head. Then he took her hand and they ran together down the narrow passage into the Calle de la Domitaleria. She ran as quickly as he did with her long, schoolgirl legs, unhampered by a woman's length of skirt. At the corner Perro, who had been keeping watch there, joined them and trotted by their side. "What cloak is this?" she asked. "It smells of tobacco." "It is my old military cloak." "And this is my wedding dress!" she said, with a breathless laugh. "And Perro is my bridesmaid." They turned sharply to the left and in a moment stood on the deserted ramparts close under the shadow of the Episcopal Palace. Below them was darkness. To the right, beneath them, the white falls of the river gleamed dimly above the bridge, and the roar of it came to their ears like the roar of the sea. Far across the plain, the Pyrenees rose, range behind range, a white wall in the moonlight. At their feet the walls of the ramparts, bastion below bastion, broken and crenelated, a triumph of mediaeval fortification, faded into the shadow where the river ran. "There is a snow-drift in this corner," whispered Marcos. "It is piled up against the rampart by the north wind. I will drop you over the wall on to it and then follow you. You remember how to hold to my hand?" "Yes," she answered, very quick and alert. There was good blood in her veins, which was astir now, in the presence of danger. "Yes--as we used to do it in the mountains--my hand round your wrist and your fingers round mine." They were standing on the wall now. She knelt down and looked over; then she turned, still on her knees, and clasped her right hand round his wrist while he held hers in his strong grip. She leant forward and without hesitation swung out, suspended by one arm, into the darkness. He stooped, then knelt, and finally lay face downwards on the wall, lowering her all the while. "Go!" he whispered. And she dropped lightly on to the snow-slope beaten by the wind into an icy buttress against the wall. A moment later he dropped beside her. "My father is at the bridge," he said, as they scrambled down to the narrow path that runs along the river bank beneath the walls. "He is waiting for us there with a carriage and a priest." Juanita stopped short. "Oh, I wish I had not come!" she exclaimed. "You can go back," said Marcos slowly; "it is not too late. You can still go back if you want to." But Juanita only laughed at him. "And know for the rest of my life that I am a miserable coward. And it is of cowards that nuns are made; no, thank you. I will carry it through now. Come along. Come and get married." She gave a laugh as she led the way. When they reached the road they were in the full moonlight, and for the first time could see each other. "What is the matter?" said Juanita suddenly. "Your face looks white; there is something I do not understand in it." "Nothing," answered Marcos. "Nothing. We must be quick." "You are sure you are keeping nothing back from me?" she asked, glancing shrewdly at him as she walked by his side. "Nothing," he answered, for the first time, and very conscientiously telling her an untruth. For he was keeping back the crux of the whole affair which he thought she was too young to be told or to understand. The carriage was waiting on the high road just across the old Roman bridge. Sarrion came forward in the moonlight to meet them. Juanita ran towards him, kissed him and clung to his arm with a little movement of affection. "I am so glad to see you," she said. "It feels safer. They almost made me a nun, you know. And that horrid old Sor Teresa--oh, I beg your pardon! I forgot she was your sister." "She is hardly my sister," answered Sarrion with a cynical laugh. "It is against the rules you know to permit oneself any family affection when one is in religion." "You mustn't blame her for that," said Juanita. "One never knows. You cannot tell why she went into religion. Perhaps she never meant to. You do not understand." "Oh, yes I do," answered Sarrion bitterly. They were hurrying towards the carriage and a man waiting at the open door took a step forward and raised his hat, showing in the moonlight a high bald forehead and a clean shaven face. He was slight and neat. "This is an old school friend of mine," said Sarrion by way of introduction. "He is a bishop," he added. And Juanita knelt on the road while he laid his hand on her hair with a smile half amused and half pathetic. He looked twenty years younger than Sarrion, and laying aside his sacerdotal manner as suddenly as he had assumed it on Juanita's instinctive initiation, he helped her into the carriage with a grave and ceremonious courtesy. "This is your own carriage," she said when they were all seated. "Yes--from Torre Garda," answered Sarrion. "And it is Pietro who is driving. So you are among friends." "And dear old Perro running at the side," exclaimed Juanita, jumping up and putting her head out of the window to encourage Perro with a greeting. Her mantilla flying in the wind blew across the bishop's face which that youthful-looking dignitary endured with patience. "And there is a hot-water tin for our feet. I feel it through my slippers; for my feet are wet with the snow. How delightful!" And Juanita stooped down to warm her hands. "You have thought of everything--you and Marcos," she said. "You are so kind to me. I am sure I am very grateful ... to every one." She turned towards the bishop, kindly including him in this expression of thanks; which she could not do more definitely because she did not know his name. It was obvious that she was not a bit afraid of him seeing that he had no vestments with him. "At one time, on the ramparts, I was sorry I had come," she explained in a friendly way to him, "but now I am not. Of course it is all very well for me. It is great fun. But for you it is different; on such a cold night. I do not know why everybody takes so much trouble about me." "Half of Spain is taking trouble about you, my child," was the answer. "Ah! that is about my money. That is quite different. But Marcos, you know, and Uncle Ramon are the only people who take any trouble about me, for myself you understand." "Yes, I understand," answered the great man humbly, as if he were trying to, but was not quite sure of success. Marcos sat silently in his corner of the carriage. Indeed Juanita exercised the prerogative of her sex and led the conversation, gaily and easily. But when the carriage stopped beneath some trees by the roadside she suddenly lapsed into silence too. She stood on the road in the bright moonlight and looked about her. She had thrown back the hood of Marcos' military cloak and now set her mantilla in order. Which was all the preparation this light-hearted bride made for the supreme moment. And perhaps she never knew all that she had missed. "I see no church and no houses," said Juanita to Marcos. "Where are we?" "The chapel is above us in the darkness," replied Marcos. And he led the way up a winding path. The little chapel stood on a sort of table-land looking out over the plain that lay to the south of it. In front of it were twelve pines planted in a row at irregular intervals. The shadow of each tree in succession fell upon a low stone cross set on the ground before the door at each successive hour of the twelve; a fantasy of some holy man long dead. The chapel door stood open and just within it a priest in his short white surplice awaited their arrival. Juanita recognised the sunburnt old cura of Torre Garda. But he only had time to bow rather formally to her; for a bishop was behind. "I have only lighted one candle," he said to Marcos. "If we make an illumination they can see it from Pampeluna." The bishop followed the old priest into the sacristy where the one candle gave a flickering light. There they could be heard whispering together. Sarrion, Marcos and Juanita stood near the door. The moonlight gleamed through the windows and a certain amount of reflected light found its way through the open doorway. Suddenly Juanita gave a start and clutched at Marcos' arm. "Look," she said, pointing to the right. A kneeling figure was there with something that gleamed dully at the shoulders. "Yes," explained Marcos. "It is a friend of mine, an officer of the garrison who has ridden over. We require two witnesses, you know." "He is saying his own prayers," said Juanita, looking at him. "He has not much opportunity," explained Marcos. "He is in command of an outpost at the outlet of the valley of the Wolf." As they looked at him he rose and came towards them, his spurs clanking and his great sword swinging against the prie-dieu chairs of the devout. He bowed formally to Juanita, and stood, upright and stiff, looking at Marcos. The old cura came from the sacristy and lighted two candles on the altar. Then he turned with the taper in his hand and beckoned to Marcos and Juanita to come forward to the rails where two stools had been placed in readiness. The cura went back to the sacristy and returned, followed by the bishop in his vestments. So Juanita de Mogente was married in a little mountain chapel by the light of two candles and a waning moon, while Sarrion and the officer in his dusty uniform stood like sentinels behind them, and the bishop recited the office by heart because he could not see to read. He was a political bishop and no great divine, but he knew his business, and got through it quickly. He splashed down his historic name with a great flourish of the quill pen in the register and on the certificate which he handed with a bow to Juanita. "What shall I do with it?" she asked. "Give it to Marcos," was the answer. And Marcos put the paper in his pocket. They passed out of the chapel and stood on the little terrace in the moonlight amid the shadows of the twelve pine trees while the bishop disrobed in the sacristy. "What are those lights?" asked Juanita, breaking the silence before it grew irksome. "That is Pampeluna," replied Marcos. "And the light in the mountains?" she asked, pointing to the north. "That is a Carlist watch-fire, Senorita," answered the officer briskly, and no one seemed to notice his slip of the tongue except Sarrion, who glanced at him and then decided not to remind him that the title no longer applied to Juanita. In a few moments the bishop joined them, and they all made their way down the winding path. The bishop and Sarrion were to go by the midnight train to Saragossa, while the carnage and horses were housed for the night at the inn near the station, a mile from the gates; for this was a time of war, and Pampeluna was a fenced city from nightfall till morning. Marcos and Juanita reached the Calle de la Dormitaleria in safety, however, and Juanita gave a little sigh of fatigue as they hurried down the narrow alley. "To-morrow," she said, "I shall think this has all been a dream." "So shall I," said Marcos gravely. He lifted her into the window, and she stood listening for a moment while she took from her finger the wedding ring she had worn for half an hour and gave it back to him. "It is of no use to me," she said; "I cannot wear it at school." She laughed, and held up one finger to command his attention. "Listen!" she whispered. "Sor Teresa is still snoring." She watched him bend the bars back again to their proper place. "By the way," she asked him. "What was the name of the chapel where we were married--I should like to know?" Marcos hesitated a moment before replying. "It is called Our Lady of the Shadows." CHAPTER XVI THE MATTRESS BEATER Englishmen are justly proud of their birthright. The less they travel, moreover, the prouder they are, and the stronger is their conviction that England leads the world in thought and art and action. They are quite unaware, for instance, that no country in the world is behind England (unless it be Scotland) in a small matter that affects very materially one-third of a human span of life, namely beds. In any town of France, Germany or Holland, the curious need not seek long for the mattress-maker. He is usually to be found in some open space at the corner of a market-place or beneath an arcade near the Maine exercising his health-giving trade in the open air. He lives, and lives bountifully, by unmaking, picking over and re-making the mattresses of the people. Good housewives, moreover, stand near him with their knitting to see that he does it well and puts back within the cover all the wool that he took out. In these backward countries the domestic mattress is remade once a year if not oftener. In our great land there is a considerable vagueness as to the period allowed to a mattress to form itself into lumps and to accumulate dust or germs. Moreover, there are thousands of exemplary housekeepers who throw up the eye of horror to their whitewashed ceiling at the thought of a foreign person's personal habits, who do not know what is inside their mattress and never think of looking to see from year's end to year's end. In Spain, a country rarely visited by those persons who pride themselves upon being particular, the mattress-maker is a much more necessary factor in domestic life than is the sweep or the plumber in northern lands. No palace is too royal for him, no cottage is too humble to employ him. He is, moreover, the only man allowed inside a nunnery. Which is the reason why he finds himself brought into prominence now. He is usually a thin, lithe man, somewhat of the figure of those northerners who supply the bull-ring with Banderilléros. He arrives in the early morning with a sheathe knife at his waist, a packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket and two light sticks under his arm. All he asks is a courtyard and the sunshine that Heaven gives him. In a moment he deftly cuts the stitches of the mattress and lays bare the wool which he never touches with his fingers. The longer stick in his right hand describes great circles in the air and descends with the whistle of a sword upon the wool of which it picks up a small handful. Then the shorter stick comes into play, picks the wool from the longer, throws it into the air, beats it this way and that, tosses it and catches it until every fibre is clear, when the fluffy mass is deftly cast aside. All the while, through the beating of the wool, the two sticks beaten against each other play a distinct air, and each mattress-maker has his own, handed down from his forefathers, ending with a whole chromatic scale as the shorter stick swoops up the length of the longer to sweep away the lingering wool. Thus the whole mattress is transferred from a sodden heap to a high and fluffy mountain of carded wool, all baked by the heat of the sun. The man has a hundred attitudes, full of grace. He works with a skill which is a conscious pleasure; a pleasure unknown to those who have never had opportunity of acquiring a manual craft or appreciating the wondrous power that God has put into human limbs. He has complete control over his two thin sticks, can pick up with them a single strand of wool, or half a mattress. He can throw aside a pin that lurks in a ball of wool, or kill a fly that settles on his work, without staining the snowy mass. And all the while, from the moment that the mattress is open till the heap is complete, the two sticks never cease playing their thin and woody air so that any within hearing may know that the "colchonero" is at work. When the mattress case is empty he pauses to wipe his brow (for he must needs work in the sun) and smoke a cigarette in the shade. It is then that he gossips. In a Southern land such a worker as this must always have an audience, and the children hail with delight the coming of the mattress-maker. At the Convent School of the Sisters of the True Faith his services were required once a fortnight; for there were many beds; but his coming was none the less exciting for its frequency. He was the only man allowed inside the door. Father Muro was, it seemed, not counted as a man. And in truth a priest is often found to possess many qualities which are essentially small and feminine. The mattress-maker of Pampeluna was a thin man with a ropy neck, and keen black eyes that flashed hither and thither through the mist of wool and dust in which he worked. He was considered so essentially a domestic and harmless person that he was permitted to go where he listed in the house and high-walled garden. For nuns have a profound distrust of man as a mass and a confiding faith in the few individuals with whom they have to deal. The girls were allowed to watch the colchonero at his work, more especially the elder girls such as Juanita de Mogente and her friend Milagros of the red-gold hair. Juanita watched him so closely one spring afternoon that the keen black eyes kept returning to her face at each round of the long whistling stick. The other girls grew tired of the sight and moved away to another part of the garden where the sun was warmer and the violets already in bloom; but Juanita lingered. She did not know that this was one of Marcos' friends--that in the summer this colchonero took the road with his packet of cigarettes and two sticks and wandered from village to village in the mountains beating the mattresses of the people and seeing the wondrous works of God as these are only seen by such as live all day and sleep all night beneath the open sky. Quite suddenly the polished sticks ceased playing loudly and dropped their tone to pianissimo, so that if Juanita were to speak she could be heard. "Hombre," she said, "do you know Marcos de Sarrion?" "I know the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows," he answered, glancing at her through a mist of wool. "Will you give him a letter?" "Fold it small and throw it in the wool," he said, and immediately the sticks beat loudly again. Juanita's hand was already in her pocket seeking her purse. "No, no," he said; "I am too much caballero to take money from a lady." She walked away, dropping as she passed the uncarded heap, a folded paper which was lost amid the fluff. The sticks flew this way and that, and the twisted note shot up into the air with a bunch of wool which fell across the two sticks and was presently cast aside upon the carded heap. And peeping eyes from the barred windows of the convent school saw nothing. Marcos and his father had returned to Saragossa. They were people of influence in that city, and Saragossa, strange to say, had a desire to maintain law and order within its walls. It was unlike Barcelona, which is at all times republican and frankly turbulent. Its other neighbour, Pampeluna, remains to this day clerical and mysterious. It is the city of the lost causes; Carlism and the Church. The Sarrions were not looked upon with a kindly eye within the walls of the Northern fortress and it is much too small a town for any to pass unobserved in its streets. There was work to do in Saragossa. In Pampeluna there were only suspicions to arouse. Juanita was in Sor Teresa's care and could scarcely come to harm, holding in her hand as she did a strong card to be played on emergency. All Spain seemed to be pausing breathlessly. The murder of Prim had shaken the land like an earthquake. The king had already made enemies. He had no enthusiasm. His new subjects would have preferred a few mistakes to this cautious pause. They were a people vaguely craving for liberty before they had cast off the habit of servitude. No Latin race will ever evolve a great republic; for it must be ruled. But Spain was already talking of democracy and the new king had scarcely seated himself on the throne. "We can do nothing," said Sarrion, "but try to keep order in our own small corner of this bear-garden." So he remained at Saragossa and threw open his great house there, while Marcos passed to and fro into Navarre up the Valley of the Wolf to Torre Garda. Where Evasio Mon might be, no man knew. Paris had fallen. The Commune was rife. France was wallowing in the deepest degradation. And in Bayonne the Carlist plotters schemed without let or hindrance. "So long as he is away we need not be uneasy about Juanita," said Marcos. "He cannot return to Saragossa without my hearing of it." And one evening a casual teamster from the North, whose great two-wheeled cart, as high as a house and as long as a locomotive, stood in the dusty road outside the Posada de los Reyes, dropped in, cigarette in mouth, to the Palacio Sarrion. In Spain, a messenger delivers neither message nor letter to a servant. A survival of mediaeval habits permits the humblest to seek the presence of the great at any time of day. The Sarrions had just finished dinner and still sat in the vast dining-room, the walls of which glittered with arms and loomed darkly with great portraits of the Spanish school of painting. The teamster was not abashed. It was a time of war, and war is a great leveler of social scales. He had brought his load through a disturbed country. He was a Guipuzcoan--as good as any man. "It was about the Señor Mon," he said. "You wished to hear of him. He returned to Pampeluna two days ago." The teamster thanked their Excellencies, but he could not accept their hospitality because he had ordered his supper at his hotel. It was only at the Posada de los Reyes in all Saragossa that one procured the real cuisine of Guipuzcoa. Yes, he would take a glass of wine. And he took it with a fine wave of the arm, signifying that he drank to the health of his host. "Evasio Mon will not leave us long idle," said Sarrion, when the man had gone, and he had hardly spoken when the servant ushered in a second visitor, a man also of the road, who handed to Marcos a crumpled and dirty envelope. He had nothing to say about it, so bowed and withdrew. He was a man of the newer stamp, for he was a railway worker, having that which is considered a better manner. He knew his place, and that knowledge had affected his manhood. The letter he gave to Marcos bore no address. It was sealed, however, in red wax, which had the impress of Nature's seal, a man's thumb--unique and not to be counterfeited. From the envelope Marcos took a twisted paper, not innocent of carded wool. "We are going back to Saragossa," Juanita wrote. "I have refused to go into religion, but they say it is too late; that I cannot draw back now. Is this true?" Marcos passed the note across to his father. "I wish this was Barcelona," he said, with a sudden gleam in his grave eyes. "Why?" "Because then we could pull the school down about their ears and take Juanita away." Sarrion smiled. "Or get shot mysteriously from a window while attempting it," he said. "No, we fight with finer weapons than that. Mon has got his dispensation from Rome ... a few hours too late." He handed back the note, and they sat in silence for a long time in the huge, dimly-lighted room. Success in life rests upon one small gift--the secret of the entry into another man's mind to discover what is passing there. The greatest general the world has known owed his success, by his own admission, to his power of guessing correctly what the enemy would do next. Many can guess, but few guess right. "She has not dated her letter," said Sarrion, at length. "No, but it was written on Thursday. That is the day that the colchonero goes to the Calle de la Dormitaleria." He drew a strand of wool from the envelope and showed it to Sarrion. "And the day that Mon returned to Pampeluna. He will be prompt to act. He always has been. That is what makes him different from other men. Prompt and restless." Sarrion glanced across the table, as he spoke, at the face of his son, who was also a prompt man, but withal restful, as if possessing a reserve upon which to draw in emergency. For the restless and the uneasy are those who have all their forces in the field. "Do not sit up for me," said Marcos, rising. He stood and thoughtfully emptied his glass. "I shall change my clothes," he said, "and go out. There will be plenty of Navarrese at the Posada de los Reyes. The night diligencias will be in before daylight. If there is any news of importance I will wake you when I come in." It was a dark night, and the wind roared down the bed of the Ebro. For the spring was at hand with its wild march "solano" and hard, blue skies. There was no moon. But Marcos had good eyes, and those whom he sought were men who, after a long siesta, traveled or worked during half the night. The dust was astir on the Paseo del Ebro, where it lies four inches deep on the broad space in front of the Posada de los Reyes where the carts stand. There were carts here now with dim, old-fashioned lanterns, and long teams of mules waiting patiently to be relieved of their massive collars. The first man he met told him that Evasio Mon must have arrived in Saragossa at sunset, for he had passed him on the road, going at a good pace on horseback. From another he heard the rumour that the Carlists had torn up the line between Pampeluna and Castéjon. "Go to the station," this informant added. "They will tell you there, because you are a rich man. To me they will tell nothing." At the station he learnt that this rumour was true; and one who was in the telegraph service gave him to understand that the Carlists had driven the outpost back from the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, which was now cut off. "He thinks I am at Torre Garda," reflected Marcos, as he returned to the city, fighting the wind on the bridge. Chance favoured him, for a man with tired horses stopped his carriage to inquire if that were the Count Marcos de Sarrion. He had brought Juanita to Saragossa in his carriage, not with Sor Teresa, but with the Mother Superior of the school and two other pupils. He had been dismissed at the Plaza de la Constitucion, and the ladies had taken another carriage. He had not heard the address given to the driver. By daylight Marcos returned to the Palacio Sarrion without having discovered the driver of the second carriage or the whereabouts of Juanita in Saragossa. But he had learnt that a carriage had been ordered by telegraph from a station on the Pampeluna line to be at Alagon at four o'clock in the morning. He learnt also that telegraphic communication between Pampeluna and Saragossa was interrupted. The Carlists again. CHAPTER XVII AT THE INN OF THE TWO TREES At dawn the next morning, Marcos and Sarrion rode out of the city towards Alagón by the great high road many inches deep in dust which has always been the main artery of the capital of Aragon. The pace was leisurely; for the carriage they were going to meet had been timed to leave Alagón fifteen miles away at four o'clock. There was but one road. They could scarcely miss it. It was seven o'clock when they halted at a roadside inn. Sarrion quitted the saddle and went indoors to order coffee while Marcos sat on his tall black horse scanning the road in front of him. The valley of the Ebro is flat here, with bare, brown hills rising on either side like a gigantic mud-fence. Strings of carts were making their way towards Saragossa. Far away, Marcos could perceive a recurrent break in the dusty line. A cart or carriage traveling at a greater than the ordinary market pace was making its laborious way past the heavier traffic. It came at length within clearer sight; a carriage all white with dust and a pair of skinny, Aragonese horses such as may be hired on the road. The driver seemed to recognise Marcos, for he smiled and raised his hand to his hat as he drew up at the inn, a recognised halting-place before the last stage of the journey. Marcos caught sight of a white cap inside the carriage. He leant down on his horse's neck and perceived Sor Teresa, who had not seen him looking out of the carriage window towards the inn. He rode round to the other door and dropped out of the saddle. Then he turned the handle and opened the door. But Sor Teresa had no intention of descending. She leant forward to say as much and recognised her nephew. "You!" she exclaimed. And her pale face flushed suddenly. She had been a nun for many years and was no doubt a conscientious one, but she had never yet learnt to remove all her love from earth to fix it on heaven. "Yes." "How did you know that I should be here?" "I guessed it," answered Marcos, who was always practical. "You will like some coffee. It is ordered. Come in and warm yourself while the horses rest." He led the way towards the inn. "What did you say?" he asked, turning on the threshold; for he had heard her mutter something. "I said, 'Thank God'!" "What for?" "For your brains, my dear," she answered. "And your strong heart." Sarrion was making up the fire when they entered the room--lithe and young in his riding costume--and he turned, smiling, to meet her. She kissed him gravely. There was always something unexplained between these two, something to be said which made them both silent. "There is the coffee," said Marcos, "on the table. We have no time to spare." "Marcos means," explained Sarrion significantly, "that we have no time to waste." "I think he is right," said Sor Teresa. "Then if that is the case, let us at least speak plainly," said Sarrion, "with a due regard," he allowed, with a shrug of the shoulder, "to your vows and your position, and all that. We must not embroil you with your confessor; nor Juanita with hers." "You need not think of that so far as Juanita is concerned," said Sor Teresa. "It is I who have chosen her confessor." "Where is she?" asked Marcos. "She is here, in Saragossa!" "Why?" asked the man of few words. "I don't know." "Where is she in Saragossa?" "I don't know. I have not seen her for a fortnight. I only learnt by accident yesterday afternoon that she had been brought to Saragossa with some other girls who have been postulants for six months and are about to become novices." "But Juanita is not a postulant," said Sarrion, with a laugh. "She may have been told to consider herself one." "But no one has a right to do that," said Sarrion pleasantly. "No." "And even if she were a novice she could draw back." "There are some Orders," replied Sor Teresa, slowly stirring her coffee, "which make it a matter of pride never to lose a novice." "Excuse my pertinacity," said Sarrion. "I know that you prefer generalities to anything of a personal nature, but does Juanita wish to go into religion?" "As much ..." She paused. "Or as little," suggested Marcos, who was looking out of the window. "As many who have entered that life." Sor Teresa completed the sentence without noticing Marcos' interruption. "And these periods of probation," said Sarrion, reverting to those generalities which form the language of the cloister. "May they be dispensed with?" "Anything can be dispensed with--by a dispensation," was the reply. Sarrion laughed, and with an easy tact changed the subject which could scarcely be a pleasant one between a professed nun and two men known all over Spain as leaders in that party which was erroneously called Anti-Clerical, because it held that the Church should not have the dominant voice in politics. "Have you seen our friend, Evasio Mon, lately?" he asked. "Yes--he is on the road behind me." "Behind you? I understood that he left Pampeluna yesterday for Saragossa," said Sarrion. "Yes--but I heard at Alagón that he was delayed on the road at the Castejon side of Alagón--an accident to his carriage--a broken wheel." "Ah!" said Sarrion sympathetically. He glanced at Marcos who was looking out of the window with a thoughtful smile. "You yourself have had a hurried journey from Pampeluna," said Sarrion to his sister. "I hear the railway line is broken by the Carlists." "The damage is being repaired," replied Sor Teresa. "My journey was not a pleasant one, but that is of no importance since I have arrived." "Why did you come?" asked Marcos, bluntly. He was a plain-dealer in thought and word. If Sor Teresa should embroil herself with her confessor, as Sarrion had gracefully put it, by answering his questions, that was her affair. "I came to prevent, if I could, a great mistake." "You mean that Juanita is quite unfitted for the life into which, for the sake of his money, she is being forced or tricked." "Force has failed," replied Sor Teresa. "Juanita has spirit. She laughed in the face of force and refused absolutely." "And?" muttered Sarrion. "One may presume that subtler means were used," answered the nun. "You mean trickery," suggested Marcos. "You mean that her own words were twisted into another meaning; that she was committed or convicted out of her own lips; that she was brought to Saragossa by trickery, and that by trickery she will be dragged unwittingly into religion--you need not shake your head. I am saying nothing against the Church. I am a good Catholic. It is a question of politics. And in politics you must fight with the weapon that the adversary selects. We are only politicians ... my dear aunt." "Is that all?" said Sor Teresa, looking at him with her deep eyes which had seen the world before they saw heaven. Things seen leave their trace behind the eyes. Marcos made no answer, but turned away and looked out of the window again. "It is a question of mutual accommodation," put in Sarrion in his lighter voice. "Sometimes the Church makes use of politics. And at another time it is politics making use of the Church. And each sullies the other on each occasion. We shall not let Juanita go into religion. The Church may want her and may think that it is for her happiness, but we also have our opinion on that point; we also ..." He broke off with a laugh and threw out his hands in a gesture of deprecation; for Sor Teresa had placed her two hands over that part of her cap which concealed her ears. "I can hear nothing," she said. "I can hear nothing." She removed her hands and sat sipping her coffee in silence. Marcos was standing near the window. He could see the white road stretched out across the plain for miles. "What did you intend to do on your arrival in Saragossa if you had not met us?" he asked. "I should have gone to the Casa Sarrion to warn your father or yourself that Juanita had been taken from my control and that I did not know where she was." "And then?" inquired Marcos. "And then I should have gone to Torrero," she answered with a smile at his persistence; "where I intend to go now. Then I shall learn at what hour and in which chapel the ceremony is to take place to-day." "The ceremony in which Juanita has been ordered to take part as a spectator only?" Sor Toresa nodded her head. "It cannot well take place without you?" "No," she answered. "Neither can it take place without Evasio Mon. One of the novices is his niece, and, where possible, the near relations are necessarily present." "Yes--I know," said Marcos. He had apparently studied the subject somewhat carefully. "And Evasio Mon is delayed on the road, which gives us a little more time to mature our plans." Sor Teresa said nothing, but glanced towards Marcos who was watching the road. "You need not be anxious, Dolores," said Sarrion, cheerfully. "Between politicians these matters settle themselves quietly enough in Spain." "I ceased to be anxious," replied Sor Teresa, "from the moment that I saw Marcos in the inn yard." It was Marcos who spoke next, after a short silence. "Your horses are ready, if you are rested," he said. "We shall return to Saragossa by a shorter route." "And I again assure you," added Sor Teresa's brother, "that there is no need for anxiety. We shall arrange this matter quite quietly with Evasio Mon. We shall take Juanita away from your school to-day. Our cousin Peligros is already at the Casa Sarrion waiting her arrival. Marcos has arranged these matters." He made a gesture of the hand, presumably symbolic of Marcos' plans, for it was short and sharp. "There will be nothing for you to do," said Marcos from the window. "Waste no time. I see a carriage some miles away." So Sor Teresa went on her journey. Her dealings with men had been confined to members of that sex who went about their purpose in an indirect and roundabout way, speaking in generalities, attentive to insignificant detail, possessing that smaller sense of proportion which is a feminine failing and which must always make a tangled jumble of those public affairs in which women and priests may play a part. She had come into actual touch in this little room of an obscure inn with a force which seemed to walk calmly on its way over the petty tyranny that ruled her daily life, which seemed to fear no man, neither God as represented by man, but shaped for itself a Deity, large-minded and manly; Who considered the broad inner purpose rather than petty detail of outward observance. The Sarrions returned to their gloomy house on the Paseo del Ebro and there awaited the information which Sor Teresa alone could give them. They had not waited long before the driver of her carriage, who had seemed to recognise Marcos on the road from Alagón, brought a note: "It is at number five, Calle de la Merced, but they will await, E. M." "And the other carriage that is on the road?" Marcos asked the man. "The carriage which brings the caballero--has it arrived in Saragossa?" "Not yet," answered the driver. "I have heard from one who passed them on the road that they had a second mishap just after leaving the inn of The Two Trees, where their Excellencies took coffee--a little mishap this one, which will only delay them an hour or less. He has no luck, that caballero." The man looked quite gravely at Marcos, who returned the glance as solemnly. For they were as brothers, these two, sons of that same mother, Nature, with whom they loved to deal, fighting her strong winds, her heat, her cold, her dust and rivers, reading her thousand and one secrets of the clouds, of night and dawn, which townsmen never know and never even suspect. They had a silent contempt for the small subtleties of a man's mind, and were half ashamed of the business on which they were now engaged. As the man withdrew in obedience to Marcos' salutation, "Go with God," the clock struck twelve. "Come," said Marcos to his father, "we must go to number five, Calle de la Merced. Do you know the house?" "Yes; it is one of the many in Saragossa that stand empty, or are supposed to stand empty. It is an old religious house which was sacked in the disturbances of Christina's reign." He walked to the window as he spoke and looked out. The house had been thrown open for the first time for many years, and they now occupied one of the larger rooms looking across the garden to the Ebro. "Ah! you have ordered the carriage," he said, seeing the brougham standing at the door, and the rusty gates thrown open, giving egress to the Paseo del Ebro. "Yes," answered Marcos in an odd and restrained voice. "To bring Juanita back." CHAPTER XVIII THE MAKERS OF HISTORY Number Five Calle de la Merced is to this day an empty house, like many in Saragossa, presenting to the passer-by a dusty stone face and huge barred windows over which the spiders have drawn their filmy curtain. For one reason or another there are many empty houses in the larger cities of Spain and many historical names have passed away. With them have faded into oblivion some religious orders and not a few kindred brotherhoods. Number Five Calle de la Merced has its history like the rest of the monasteries, and the rounded cobblestones of the large courtyard bear to-day a black stain where, the curious inquirer will be told, the caretakers of the empty house have been in the habit of cooking their bread on a brazier of charcoal fanned into glow with a palm leaf scattering the ashes. But the true story of the black stain is in reality quite otherwise. For it was here that the infuriated people burnt the chapel furniture when the monasteries of Saragossa were sacked. The Sarrions left their carriage at the corner of the Calle de la Merced, in the shadow of a tall house, for the sun was already strong at midday though the snow lay on the hills round Torre Garda. They found the house closely barred. The dust and the cobwebs were undisturbed on the huge windows. The house was as empty as it had been these forty years. Marcos tried the door, which resisted his strength like a wall. It was a true monastic door with no crack through which even a fly could pass. "That house stands empty," said an old woman who passed by. "It has stood empty since I was a girl. It is accursed. They killed the good fathers there." Sarrion thanked her and walked on. Marcos was examining the dust on the road out of the corners of his eyes. "Two carriages have stopped here," he said, "at this small door which looks as if it belonged to the next house." "Ah!" answered Sarrion, "that is an old trick. I have seen doors like that before. There are several in the Calle San Gregorio. Sitting on my balcony in the Casa Sarrion I have seen a man go into one house and look out of the window of the next a minute later." "Mon has not arrived," said Marcos, with his eye on the road. "He has the carriage of One-eyed Pedro whose near horse has a circular shoe." "But we must not wait for him. The risk would be too great. They may dispense with his presence." "No," answered Marcos thoughtfully, looking at the smaller door which seemed to belong to the next house. "We must not wait." As he spoke a carriage appeared at the farther end of the Calle de la Merced, which is a straight and narrow street. "Here they come," he added, and drew his father into a doorway across the street. It was indeed the carriage of the man known as One-eyed Pedro, a victim to the dust of Aragon, and the near horse left a circular mark with its hind foot on the road. Evasio Mon descended from the carriage and paid the man, giving, it would seem, a liberal "propina," for the One-eyed Pedro expectorated on the coin before putting it into his pocket. Mon tapped on the door with the stick he always carried. It was instantly opened to give him admittance, and closed as quickly behind him. "Ah!" whispered Sarrion, with a smile on his keen face. "I have heard them knock like that on the doors in the Calle San Gregorio. It is simple and yet distinctive." He turned and illustrated the knock on the balustrade of the stairs up which they had hastened. "We will try it," he added grimly, "on that door when Evasio has had time to go away from it." They waited a few minutes, and then went out again into the Calle de la Merced. It was the luncheon hour, and they had the street to themselves. They stood for a moment in the doorway through which Mon had passed. "Listen," said Marcos in a whisper. It was the sound of an organ coming almost muffled from the back of the empty house, and it seemed to travel through long corridors before reaching them. "They had," said Sarrion, "so far as I recollect, a large and beautiful chapel in the patio opposite to that great door, which has probably been built up on the inside." Then he gave the peculiar knock on the door. At a gesture from Marcos he stood back so that he who opened the door would need to open it wide and almost come out into the street to see who had summoned him. They heard the door opening, and the head that came round the door was that of the tall and powerful friar who had come to the assistance of Francisco de Mogente in the Calle San Gregorio. He drew back at once and tried to close the door, but both father and son threw their weight against it and slowly pressed him back, enabling Marcos at length to get his shoulder in. Both men were somewhat smaller than the friar, but both were quicker to see an advantage and take it. In a moment the friar abandoned the attempt and ran down the long corridor, into which the light filtered dimly through cobwebs. Marcos gave chase while Sarrion stayed behind to close the door. At the corner of the corridor the friar slipped, and, finding himself out-matched, raised his voice to shout. But the cry was smothered by Marcos, who leapt at him like a cat, and they rolled on the floor together. The friar was heavier and stronger. He had led a simple and healthy life, his muscles were toughened by his wanderings and the hardships of his calling. At first Marcos was underneath, but as Sarrion hurried up he saw his son come out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. It was the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestling which usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloak happened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone saved him; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether he killed the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold him back and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the blood trickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could; for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primeval instinct of fight never dies out of the human heart. "He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly. "For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come, let us find the chapel." They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the sound of the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between them and it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears. They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and the iron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes of last year's clematis. "The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing to a doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as all men must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which was brought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed. Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister that surrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come. They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiwork of some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killing it. "It is the way to the organ loft," whispered Marcos. "It is probably the only entrance to the chapel." They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded with faded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almost deafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the west end. They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organ braying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working at the bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel which was dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hung heavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notes of the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit. The chapel was long and narrow. Marcos and his father were alone at the west end, concealed by the font of which the wooden cover rose like a miniature spire almost to the ceiling. A group of people were kneeling on the bare floor by the screen which had never been repaired but showed clearly where the carving had been knocked and torn to make the bonfire in the patio. Two priests were on the altar steps while the choristers were dimly visible through the broken railing of the screen. There seemed to be some nuns within the screen while others knelt without; four knelt apart, as if awaiting admission to the inner sanctum. "That is Juanita," whispered Marcos, pointing with a steady finger. The girl kneeling next to her was weeping. But Juanita knelt upright, her face half turned so that they could see her clear-cut profile against the candle-light beyond. To those who study human nature, every attitude or gesture is of value; there were energy and courage in the turn of Juanita's head. She was listening. Near to her the motionless black form of Sor Teresa towered among the worshippers. She was looking straight in front of her. Not far away a bowed figure all curved and cringing with weak emotion--a sight to make men pause and think--was Leon de Mogente. Behind him, upright with a sleek bowed head, was Evasio Mon. From his position and in the attitude in which he knelt, he could without moving see Juanita, and was probably watching her. The chapel was carpeted with an old and faded matting of grass such as is made on all the coasts of the Mediterranean. Marcos and Sarrion went forward noiselessly. Instinctively they crossed themselves as they neared the chancel. Evasio Mon was nearest to them kneeling apart, a few paces behind Leon. He could see every one from this position, but he did not hear the Sarrions a few yards behind him. At this moment Juanita turned round and perceiving them gave a little start which Mon saw. He turned his head to the left; Sarrion was standing in the semi-darkness at his shoulder. Then he turned to the right and there was Marcos, motionless, with a handkerchief held to his lips. Evasio Mon reflected for a moment; then he turned to Sarrion with his ready smile. "Do you come here to see me?" he whispered. "I want you to get Juanita de Mogente away from this as quickly as possible," returned Sarrion in a whisper. "We need not disturb the service." "But, my friend," protested Mon, still smiling, "by what right?" "That you must ask of Marcos." Mon turned to Marcos in silent inquiry and he received a wordless answer; for Marcos held under his eyes in the half light the certificate of marriage signed by that political bishop who was no Carlist, and was ever a thorn in the side of the Churchmen striving for an absolute monarchy. Mon shook his head still smiling, more in sorrow than in anger, at the misfortune which his duty compelled him to point out. "It is not legal, my dear Marcos; it is not legal." He glanced round into Marcos' still face and perceived perhaps that he might as well try the effect of words upon the stone pillar behind him. He reflected again for a moment, while the service proceeded and the voices of the choir rose and fell like the waves of the sea in a deep cave. It was a simple enough ceremonial denuded of many of the mediaeval mummeries which have been revived by a newer emotional Church for the edification of the weak-minded. Juanita glanced back again and saw Mon kneeling between the two motionless upright men, who were grave while he smiled ... and smiled. Then at length he rose to his feet and stood for a moment. If he ever hesitated in his life it was at that instant. And Marcos' hand came forward beneath his eyes pointing inexorably at Juanita. There was a pause in the service, a momentary silence only broken by the smothered sobs of the novice who knelt next to Juanita. The organ rolled out its deep voice again, and under cover of the sound Mon stepped forward and touched Juanita on the shoulder. She turned instantly, and he beckoned to her to follow him. If the priests at the altar perceived anything they made no sign. Sor Teresa, absorbed in prayer, never turned her head. The service went on uninterruptedly. Sarrion led the way and Mon followed. Juanita glanced at Marcos, indicated with a nod Evasio Mon's back, and made a gay little grimace, suggestive of that schemer's discomfiture. Then she followed Mon, and Marcos came noiselessly behind her. They passed out through the dark passage behind the organ into the old cloister. There Mon turned to look at Juanita and from her to Marcos. He was distressed for them. "It is illegal," he repeated, gently. "Without a dispensation." And by way of reply Marcos handed him a second paper, bearing at its foot the oval seal of the Vatican. It was the usual dispensation, easy enough to procure, for the marriage of an orphan under age. "I am glad," said Mon, and he tried to look it. Sarrion went on into the narrow corridor. The friar was sitting on a worm-eaten bench there, leaning back against the wall, his hand over his eyes. "He is hurt," explained Marcos, simply. "He tried to stop us." Mon made no comment but accompanied them to the door, which he closed behind them, and then returned to the chapel, reflecting perhaps upon how small an incident the history of nations may turn. For if the friar had been able to withstand the Sarrions--if there had been a grating to the small door in the Calle de la Merced--Don Carlos de Borbone might have worn the three crowns of Spain. CHAPTER XIX COUSIN PELIGROS The novitiate dress had been dispensed with, and Juanita wore her usual school-dress of black, with a black mantilla. They therefore walked the length of the Calle de la Merced without attracting undue attention. Juanita's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. She slipped her hand within Sarrion's arm and gave it a little squeeze of affection. "How kind of you to come," she said. "I knew I could trust you. I was never afraid." Sarrion smiled a little dryly and glanced towards Marcos, who had met and overcome all the difficulties, and who now walked quietly by his side, concealing the bloodstains on the handkerchief covering his lips. Then Juanita let go Sarrion's left arm and ran round behind him to take the other, while with her right hand she took Marcos' left arm. "There," she cried, with a laugh. "Now I am safe from all the world--from all the world! Is it not so?" "Yes," answered Marcos, turning to look at her as she moved, her feet hardly touching the ground, between them. "Why do you look at me like that?" she asked. "I think you have grown." "I know I have," she answered gravely. And she stopped in the street to stand her full height and to draw her slim bodice in at the waist. "I am an inch taller than Milagros, but Milagros is getting most preposterously fat. The girls tell her that she will soon be like Sor Dorothea who is so huge that she has to be hauled up from her knees like a sack that has been saying its prayers. That stupid Milagros cries when they say it." "Is Milagros going to be a nun?" asked Sarrion, absent-mindedly. He was thinking of something else and looked at Juanita with a speculative glance. She was so gay and inconsequent. "Heaven forbid!" was the reply. "She says she is going to marry a soldier. I can't think why. She says she likes the drums. But I told her she could buy a drum and hire a man to hit it. She is very rich, you know. It is not worth marrying for that, is it?" "No," answered Marcos, to whom the question had been addressed. "She may get tired of drums, you know. Just as we get tired saying our prayers at school. I am sure she ought to reflect before she marries a soldier. I wouldn't if I were she. Oh! but I forgot...." She paused and turning to Marcos she gripped his arm with a confidential emphasis. "Do you know, Marcos, I keep on forgetting that we are married. You don't mind, do you? I am not a bit sorry, you know. I am so glad, because it gets me away from school. And I hate school. And there was always the dread that they would make me a nun despite us all. You don't know what it is to feel helpless and to have a dread; to wake up with it at night and wish you were dead and all the bother was over." "It is all over now, without being dead," Marcos assured her, with his slow smile. "Quite sure?" "Quite sure," answered Marcos. "And I shall never go back to school again. And they have no power over me; neither Sor Teresa, nor Sor Dorothea, nor the dear mother. We always call her the 'dear mother,' you know, because we have to; but we hate her. But that is all over now, is it not?" "Yes," answered Marcos. "Then I am glad I married you," said Juanita, with conviction. "And I need not be afraid of Señor Mon, with his gentle smile?" asked Juanita, turning on Marcos with a sudden shrewd gravity. "No." She gave a great sigh of relief and shook back her mantilla. Then she laughed and turned to Sarrion. "He always says 'yes' or 'no'--and only that," she remarked confidentially to him. "But somehow it seems enough." They had reached the corner of the street now, and the carriage was approaching them. It was one of the heavy carriages used only on state occasions which had stood idle for many years in the stables of the Palacio Sarrion. The horses were from Torre Garda and the men in their quiet liveries greeted her with country frankness. "It is one of the grand carriages," said Juanita. "Yes." "Why?" she asked. "To take you home," replied Sarrion. Juanita got into the carriage and sat down in silence. The man who closed the door touched his hat, not to the Sarrions but to her; and she returned the salutation with a friendly smile. "Where are we going?" she asked after a pause. "To the Casa Sarrion," was the reply. "Is it open, after all these years?" "Yes," answered Sarrion. "But why?" "For you," answered Sarrion. Juanita turned and looked out of the window, with bright and thoughtful eyes. She asked no more questions and they drove to the Palacio Sarrion in silence. There they found Cousin Peligros awaiting them. Cousin Peligros was a Sarrion and seemed in some indefinite way to consider that in so being and so existing she placed the world under an obligation. That she considered the world bound, in return for the honour she conferred upon it, to support her in comfort and deference was a patent fact hardly worth putting into words. "The old families," she was in the habit of saying with a sigh, "are dying out." At the same time she made a little gesture with outspread palms, and folded her white hands complacently on her lap as if to indicate that society was not left comfortless--that she was still there. From her inferiors she looked for the utmost deference. Her white hands had never done an hour's work. She was ignorant and idle; but she was a lady and a Sarrion. Cousin Peligros lived in a little apartment in Madrid, which she fondly imagined to be the hub of the social universe. "They all come," she said, "to consult the Senorita de Sarrion upon points of etiquette." And she patted the air condescendingly with her left hand. There are some people who seem to be created by a far-seeing Providence as a solemn warning. "Cousin Peligros," said Juanita one day, after listening respectfully to a lecture on the care of the hands, "lives in a little field of her own." "Like a scarecrow," added Marcos, the taciturn. And this was the lady who awaited them at the Palacio Sarrion. She had been summoned from Madrid by Sarrion, who paid the expenses of the journey; no small item, by the way. For Cousin Peligros, like many people who live at the expense of others, sought to mitigate the bitterness of the bread of charity by spreading it very thickly with other people's butter. She did not come down to the door to meet them when the carriage clattered over the cobble-stones of the echoing patio. Such a proceeding might have lowered her dignity in the eyes of the servants, who, to do them justice, saw right through Cousin Peligros into the vacuum that lay behind her. She sat in state in the great drawing-room with her hands folded on her lap and placidly arranged her proposed mode of greeting the newcomers. She had been informed that Sarrion had found it necessary to take Juanita de Mogente away from the convent school and to assume the cares of that guardianship which had always been an understood obligation mutually binding between himself and Francisco de Mogente. Cousin Peligros was therefore keenly alive to the fact, that Juanita required at this critical moment of her life a good and abiding example. Hers also was the blessed knowledge that no one in all Spain was better fitted to offer such an example than the Señorita Peligros de Sarrion. She therefore sat in her best black silk dress in an attitude subtly combining, with a kind tolerance for all who were so unfortunate as not to be Sarrions, a complacent determination to do her duty. It is to be regretted that she was for a time left sitting thus, for Perro was in the hall, and his greeting of Juanita had to be acknowledged with several violent hugs, which resulted in Juanita's mantilla getting mixed up with Perro's collar. Then there were the pictures and the armour to be inspected on the stairs. For Juanita had never seen the palace with its shutters open. "Are they all Sarrions?" she exclaimed. "Oh mi alma! What a fierce company. That old gentleman with a spike on top of his hat is a crusader I suppose. And there is a helmet hanging on the wall beneath the portrait, with a great dent in it. But I expect he hit him back again. Don't you think so, Uncle Ramon, if he was a Sarrion?" "I dare say he did," answered the Count. "I wish I was a Sarrion," said Juanita, looking up at the armour with a light in her eyes. "You are one," replied Sarrion, gravely. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at him. Marcos was some way behind, and took no part in the conversation. "So I am," she said. "I forgot." And with a little sigh, as of a realised responsibility, she continued her way up the wide stairs. The sight of Cousin Peligros, upright on a chair, dispelled Juanita's momentary gravity, however. "Oh, Cousin Peligros," she cried, running to her and taking both her hands. "Just think! I have left school. No more punishments--no more grammar--no more arithmetic!" Cousin Peligros had risen and endeavoured to maintain that dignity which she felt to be so beneficial an example to the world. But Juanita emphasised each item of her late education with a jerk which gradually deranged Cousin Peligros' prim mantilla. Then she danced her round an impalpable mulberry bush until the poor lady was breathless. "No more Primes at six o'clock in the morning," concluded Juanita, suddenly allowing Cousin Peligros to sit again. "Do you ever go to Primes at six o'clock in the morning, Cousin Peligros?" "No," was the grave answer. "Such things are not expected of ladies." "How thoughtful of Heaven!" exclaimed Juanita, with a light laugh. "Then I do not mind being grownup--and putting up my hair--if you will lend me two hairpins." She fell on Cousin Peligros' mantilla and extracted two hairpins from it despite the resistance of the soft white hands. Then she twisted up the heavy plait that hung to her waist, threw back her mantilla and stood laughing before the old lady. "There--I am grown-up! I am more grown-up than you, you know; for I am..." She broke off, and turning to Sarrion, asked, "Does she know ... does she know the joke?" "No," said Sarrion. "We are married," she said, standing squarely in front of Cousin Peligros. "Married ..." echoed the disciple of etiquette, faintly. "Married--to whom?" "Marcos and I." But Cousin Peligros only gasped and covered her face with her hands. Marcos came into the room at this moment and scarcely looked at Cousin Peligros. Those white hands played so large a part in her small daily life that they were always in evidence, and it did not seem out of place that they should cover her foolish face. "I found all your clothes ready packed at the school," he said, addressing Juanita. "Sor Teresa brought them with her from Pampeluna. You will find them in your room." "Oh ..." groaned Cousin Peligros. "What is it?" inquired Marcos practically. "What is the matter with her?" "She has just been told that we are married," explained Juanita, airily. "And I think you shocked her by mentioning my clothes. You shouldn't do it, Marcos." And she went and stood by Cousin Peligros with her hand upon her shoulder as if to protect her. She shook her head gravely at Marcos. Cousin Peligros rose rigidly and walked towards the door. "I will go," she said. "I will see that your room is in order. I have never before been made an object of ridicule in a gentleman's house." "But we may surely laugh and be happy in a gentleman's house, may we not?" cried Juanita, running after her, and throwing one arm round her rather unbending and capacious waist. "You are an old dear, and you must not be so solemn about it. Marcos and I are only married for fun, you know." And the door closed behind them, shutting off Juanita's voluble explanations. "You see," said Sarrion, after a pause. "She is happy enough." "Now," answered Marcos. "But she may find out some day that she is not." Juanita came back before long and found Sarrion alone. "Where is Marcos?" she asked. "He is taking a siesta," answered Sarrion. "Like a poor man." "Yes, like a poor man. He was not in bed all last night. You had a narrower escape of being made a nun than you suspect." Juanita's face fell. She went to the window and stood there looking out. "When are we going to Torre Garda?" she asked, after a long silence. "I hate towns ... and people. I want to smell the pines ... and the bracken." CHAPTER XX AT TORRE GARDA The river known as the Wolf finds its source in the eternal snows of the Pyrenees. Amid the solitary grandeur of the least known mountains in Europe it rolls and tumbles--tossed hither and thither in its rocky bed, fed by this and that streamlet from stony gorges--down to the green valley of Torre Garda. Here there is a village crouched on either side of the river-bed, and above it on a plateau surrounded by chestnut trees and pines, stands the house of the Sarrions. In winter the wholesome smell of wood smoke rising from the chimneys pervades the air. In summer the warm breath of the pines creeps down the mountains to mingle with the cooler air that stirs the bracken. Below all, summer and winter, at evening and at dawn, night and day, growls the Wolf--so named from the continuous low-pitched murmur of its waters through the defile a mile below the village. The men of the valley of the Wolf have a hundred tales of their river in its different moods, and firmly believe that the voice which is ever in their ears speaks to such as have understanding, of every change in the weather. The old women have no doubt that it speaks also of those things that must affect the prince and the peasant alike; of good and ill fortune; of life and of death; of hope and its slow, slow dying in the heart. Certain it is that the river had its humours not to be accounted for by outward things--seeming to be gay without reason, like any human heart, in dull weather, and murmuring dismally when the sun shone and the birds were singing in the trees. In clearest summer weather, the water would sometimes run thick and yellow for days, the result of some landslip where the snow and ice were melting. Sometimes the Wolf would hurl down a mass of debris--a forest torn from the mountainside by avalanche, the dead bodies of a few stray sheep, or a fox or a wolf or the dun corpse of a mountain bear. Many in the valley had seen tables and chairs and the roof, perhaps, of a house caught in the timbers of the old bridge below the village. And the river, of course, had exacted its toll from more than one family. It was jocularly said at the Venta that the Wolf was Royalist; for in the first Carlist war it had fought for Queen Christina, doing to death a whole company of insurgents at that which is known as the False Ford, where it would seem that a child could pass while in reality no horseman might hope to get through. The house of Torre Garda was not itself ancient though it undoubtedly stood on the site of some mediaeval watch-tower. It had been built in the days of Ferdinand VII at the period when French architecture was running rife over the world, and had the appearance of a Gascon chateau. It was a long low house of two stories. Every room on the ground floor opened with long French windows to a terrace built to the edge of the plateau, where a fountain splashed its clear spring water into a stone basin, where gray stone urns stood on lichen-covered pillars amid flower-beds. Every room on the first floor had windows opening on a wide balcony which ran the length of the house and was protected from the rain and midday sun by the far-stretching eaves of the roof. The house was of gray stone, roofed with slabs of the same, such as peel off the slopes of the Pyrenees and slide one over the other to the valleys below. The pointed turrets at each corner were roofed with the small green tiles that the Moors loved. The winds and the snow and the rain had toned all Torre Garda down to a cool gray-green against which the four cypress trees on the terrace stood rigid like sentinels keeping eternal guard over the valley. Above the house rose a pine-slope where the snow lingered late into the summer. Above this again were rocks and broken declivities of sliding stones; and, crowning all, the everlasting snow. From the terrace of Torre Garda a strong voice could make itself heard in the valley where tobacco grew and ripened, or on the height where no vegetation lived at all. The house seemed to hang between sky and earth, and the air that moved the cypress trees was cool and thin--a very breath of heaven to make thinkers wonder why any who can help it should choose to live in towns. The green shutters had been closed across the windows for nearly three months, when on one spring morning the villagers looked up to see the house astir and the windows opened wide. There had been much to detain the Sarrions at Saragossa and Juanita had to wait for the gratification of her desire to smell the pines and the bracken again. It seemed that it was no one's business to question the validity of the strange marriage in the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows. Evasio Mon who was supposed to know more about it than any other, only smiled and said nothing. Leon de Mogente was absorbed in his own peculiar selfishness which was not of this world but the next. He fell into the mistake common to ecstatic minds that thoughts of Heaven justify a deliberate neglect of obvious duties on earth. "Leon," said Juanita gaily to Cousin Peligros, "will assuredly be a saint some day: he has so little sense of humour." For Leon it seemed could not be brought to understand Juanita's sunny view of life. "You may look solemn and talk of great mistakes as much as you like," she said to her brother. "But I know I was never meant for a nun. It will all come right in the end. Uncle Ramon says so. I don't know what he means. But he says it will all come right in the end." And she shook her head with that wisdom of the world which is given to women only; which may live in the same heart as ignorance and innocence and yet be superior to all the knowledge that all the sages have ever put in books. There were lawyers to be consulted and moreover paid, and Juanita gaily splashed down her name in a bold schoolgirl hand on countless documents. There is a Spanish proverb warning the unwary never to drink water in the dark or sign a paper unread. And Marcos made Juanita read everything she signed. She was quick enough, and only laughed when he protested that she had not taken in the full meaning of the document. "I understand it quite enough," she answered. "It is not worth troubling about. It is only money. You men think of nothing else. I do not want to understand it any better." "Not now; but some day you will." Juanita looked at him, pen in hand, momentarily grave. "You are always thinking of what I shall do ... some day," she said. And Marcos did not deny it. "You seem to hedge me around with precautions against that time," she continued, thoughtfully, and looked at him with bright and searching eyes. At length all the formalities were over, and they were free to go to Torre Garda. Events were moving rapidly in Spain at this time, and the small wonder of Juanita's marriage was already a thing half forgotten. Had it not been for her great wealth the whole matter would have passed unnoticed; for wealth is still a burden upon its owners, and there are many who must perforce go away sorrowful on account of their great possessions. Half the world guessed, however, at the truth, and every man judged the Sarrions from his own political standpoint, praising or blaming according to preconceived convictions. But there were some in high places who knew that a great danger had been averted. Cousin Peligros had consented to Sarrion's proposal that she should for a time make her home with him, either at Torre Garda or at Saragossa. She had lived in troublous times, but was convinced that the Carlists, like Heaven, made special provision for ladies. "No one," said she, "will molest me," and she folded her hands in complacent serenity on her lap. She had a profound distrust of railways, in which common mode of conveyance she suspected a democratic spirit, though to this day the Spanish ticket collector presents himself, hat in hand, at the door of a first-class carriage, and the time-table finds itself subservient to the convenience of any Excellency who may not have finished his coffee in the refreshment-room. Cousin Peligros was therefore glad enough to quit the train at Pampeluna, where the carriage from Torre Garda awaited them. There were saddle horses for Sarrion and Marcos, and a handful of troops were waiting in the shadow of the trees outside of the station yard. An officer rode forward and paid his respects to Juanita. "You do not recognise me, Senorita," he said. "You remember the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows?" "Yes. I remember," she answered, shaking hands. "We caught you saying your prayers when we arrived." He blushed as he laughed; for he was a simple man leading a hard and lonely life. "Yes, Senorita; why not?" "I have no doubt," said Juanita, looking at him shrewdly, "that the saints heard you." "Marcos," he explained, "wrote to ask me for a few men to take your carriage through the danger zone. So I took the liberty of riding with them myself. I am the watch-dog, Señorita, at the gate of your valley. You are safe enough once you are within the valley of the Wolf." They talked together until Sarrion rode forward to announce that all were ready to depart, while Cousin Peligros sat with pinched lips and disapproving face. She took an early opportunity of mentioning that ladies should not talk to gentlemen with such familiarity and freedom; that, above all, a smile was sufficient acknowledgment for any jest except those made by the very aged, when to laugh was a sign of respect. For Cousin Peligros had been brought up in a school of manners now fortunately extinct. "He is Marcos' friend," explained Juanita. "Besides, he is a nice person. I know a nice person when I see one," she concluded, with a friendly nod towards the watch-dog of the valley of the Wolf, who was talking in the shade of the trees with Marcos. The men rode together in advance of the carriages and the luggage carts. The journey was uneventful, and the sun was setting in a cloudless west when the mouth of the valley was reached. It was Cousin Peligros' happy lot to consider herself the centre of any party and the pivot upon which social events must turn. She bowed graciously to Captain Zeneta when he came forward to take his leave. "It was most considerate of Marcos," she said to Juanita in his hearing, "to provide this escort. He no doubt divined that, accustomed as I am to living in Madrid, I might have been nervous in these remote places." Juanita was tired. They were near their journey's end. She did not take the trouble to explain the situation to Cousin Peligros. There are some fools whom the world allows to continue in their folly because it is less trouble. Marcos and Sarrion were riding together now in silence. From time to time a peasant waiting at the roadside came forward to exchange a few words with one or the other. The road ascended sharply now, and the pace was slow. The regular tramp of the horses, the quiet evening hour, the fatigue of the journey were conducive to contemplation and silence. When Marcos helped Cousin Peligros and Juanita to descend from the high-swung traveling carriage, Juanita was too tired to notice one or two innovations. When, as a schoolgirl, she had spent her holidays at Torre Garde no change had been made in the simple household. But now Marcos had sent from Saragossa such modern furniture as women need to-day. There were new chairs on the terrace. Her own bedroom at the western corner of the house, next door to the huge room occupied by Sarrion, had been entirely refurnished and newly decorated. "Oh, how pretty!" she exclaimed, and Marcos lingering in the long passage perhaps heard the remark. Later, when they were all in the drawing-room awaiting dinner, Juanita clasped Sarrion's arm with her wonted little gesture of affection. "You are an old dear," she said to him, "to have my room done up so beautifully, so clean, and white, and simple--just as you know I should like it. Oh, you need not smile so grimly. You know it was just what I should like--did he not, Marcos?" "Yes," answered Marcos. "And it is the only room in the house that has been done. I looked into the others to see--into your great barrack, and into Marcos' room at the end of the balcony. I have guessed why Marcos has that room ..." "Why?" he asked. "So that you can see down the valley--so that Perro who sleeps on the balcony outside the open window has merely to lift his head to look right down to where the other watch-dogs are, ten miles away." After dinner, Juanita discovered that there was a new piano in the drawing-room, in addition to a number of those easier chairs which our grandmothers never knew. Cousin Peligros protested that they were unnecessary and even conducive to sloth and indolence. Still protesting, she took the most comfortable and sat with folded hands listening to Juanita finding out the latest waltz, with variations of her own, on the new piano. Sarrion and Marcos were on the terrace smoking. The small new moon was nearing the west. The night would be dark after its setting. They were silent, listening to the voice of their ancestral river as it growled, heavy with snow, through the defile. Presently a servant brought coffee and told Marcos that a messenger was waiting to deliver a note. After the manner of Spain the messenger was invited to come and deliver his letter in person. He was a traveling knife-grinder, he explained, and had received the letter from a man on the road whose horse had gone lame. One must be mutually helpful on the road. The letter was from Zeneta at the end of the valley; written hastily in pencil. The Carlists were in force between him and Pampeluna; would Marcos ride down to the camp and hear details? Marcos rose at once and threw his cigarette away. He looked towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room. "No good saying anything about it," he said. "I shall be back by breakfast time. They will probably not notice my absence." He was gone--the sound of his horse's feet was drowned in the voice of the river--before Juanita came out to the terrace, a slim shadowy form in her white evening dress. She stood for a minute or two in silence, until, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she perceived Sarrion and an empty chair. Perro usually walked gravely to her and stood in front of her awaiting a jest whenever she came. She looked round. Perro was not there. "Where is Marcos?" she asked, taking the empty chair. "He has been sent for to the valley. He has gone." "Gone!" echoed Juanita, standing up again. She went to the stone balustrade of the terrace and looked over into the darkness. "I heard him cross the bridge a few minutes ago," Sarrion said quietly. "He might have said good-bye." Sarrion turned slowly in his chair and looked at her. "He probably did not wish his comings and goings to be talked of by Cousin Peligros," he suggested. "Still, he might have said good-bye ... to me." She turned again and leaning her arms on the gray stone she stood in silence looking down into the valley. CHAPTER XXI JUANITA GROWS UP Marcos' horse, the Moor, had performed the journey to Pampeluna once in the last twelve hours. He was a strong horse accustomed to long journeys. But Marcos chose another, an older and staider animal of less value, better fitted for night work. He wished to do the journey quickly and return by breakfast-time; he was not in a mood to spare his beast. Men who live in stirring times and meet death face to face quite familiarly from day to day, as Englishmen meet the rain, soon acquire the philosophy which consists in taking the good things the gods send them, unhesitatingly and thankfully. Juanita was at Torre Garda at last--after months of patient waiting and watching, after dangers foreseen and faced--that was enough for Marcos de Sarrion. He therefore pressed his horse. Although he was alert and watchful because it was his habit to be so, he was less careful perhaps than usual; he rode at a greater pace than was prudent on such a road, by so dark a night. The spring comes early on the Southern slope of the Pyrenees. It was a warm night and there had been no rain for some days. The dust lay thickly on the road, muffling the beat of the horse's feet. The Wolf roared in its narrow bed. The road, only recently made practicable for carriages at Sarrion's expense, was not a safe one. It hung like a cornice on the left-hand bank of the river and at certain corners the stones fell from the mountain heights almost continuously. In other places the heavy stone buttresses had been undermined by the action of the river. It was a road that needed continuous watching and repair. But Marcos had ridden over it a few hours earlier and there had been no change of weather since. He knew the weak places and passed them carefully. Three miles below the village, the river passes through a gorge and the road mounts to the lip of the overhanging cliffs. There is no danger here; for there are no falling stones from above. It is to this passage that the Wolf owes its name and in a narrow place invisible from the road the water seems to growl after the manner of a wild beast at meat. Marcos' horse knew the road well enough, which, moreover, was easy here. For it is cut from the rock on the left-hand side, while its outer boundary is marked at intervals by white stones. The horse was perhaps too cautious. By night a rider must leave to his mount the decision as to what hills may be descended at a trot. Marcos knew that the old horse beneath him invariably decided to walk down the easiest declivity. At the summit of the road the horse was trotting at a long, regular stride. On the turn of the hill he proposed to stop, although he must have known that the descent was easy. Marcos touched him with the spur and he started forward. The next instant he fell so suddenly and badly that his forehead scraped the road. Marcos was thrown so hard and so far that he fell on his head and shoulder three feet in front of the horse. It was the narrowest place in the whole road, and the knowledge of this flashed through Marcos' mind as he fell. He struck one of the white stones that mark the boundary of the road, and heard his collar-bone snap like a dry stick. Then he rolled over the edge of the precipice into the blackness filled by the roar of the river. He still had one hand whole and ready, though the skin was scraped from it, and the fingers of this hand were firmly twisted into the bridle. He hung for a moment jerked hither and thither by the efforts of the horse to pick himself up on the road above. A stronger jerk lifted him to the edge of the road, and Marcos, hanging there for an instant, found an insecure foothold for one foot in the root of an overhanging bush. But the horse was nearer to the edge now; he was half over and might fall at any moment. It flashed through Marcos' mind that he must live at all costs. There was no one to care for Juanita in the troubled times that were coming. Juanita was his only thought. And he fought for his life with skill and that quickness of perception which is the real secret of success in human affairs. He jerked on the bridle with all the strength of his iron muscle; jerked himself up on the road and the horse over into the gorge. As the horse fell it lashed out wildly; its hind foot touched the back of Marcos' head and seemed almost to break his spine. He rolled over on his side, choking. He did not lose consciousness at once, but knew that oblivion was coming. Perro, the dog, had been excitedly skirmishing round, keeping clear of the horse's heels and doing little else. He now looked over after the horse and Marcos saw his lean body outlined against the sky. He had let the reins go and found that he was grasping a stone in his bleeding fingers instead. He threw the stone at Perro and hit him. The surprised yelp was the last sound he heard as the night of unconsciousness closed over him. Juanita had gone to bed very tired. She slept the profound sleep of youth and physical fatigue for an hour. In the ordinary way she would have slept thus all night. But at midnight she found herself wide-awake again. The first fatigue of the body was past, and the busy mind asserted its rights again. She was not conscious of having anything to think about. But the moment she was half awake the thoughts leapt into her mind and awoke her completely. She remembered again the startling silence of Torre Garda, which was in some degree intensified by the low voice of the river. She lifted her head to listen and caught her breath at the instant realisation of the sound quite near at hand. It was the patter of feet on the terrace below her window. Perro had returned. Marcos must therefore be back again. She dropped her head sleepily on the pillow, expecting to hear some sound in the house indicative of Marcos' return, but not intending to lie awake to listen for it. She did not fall asleep again, however, and Perro continued to patter about on the terrace below as if he were going from window to window seeking an entrance. Juanita began to listen to his movements, expecting him to whimper, and in a few moments he fulfilled her anticipation by giving a little uneasy sound between his teeth. In a moment Juanita was out of bed and at the open window. Perro would awake Sarrion and Marcos, who must be very tired. It was a woman's instinct. Juanita was growing up. Perro heard her, and in obedience to her whispered injunction stood still, looking up at her and wagging his uncouth tail slowly. But he gave forth the uneasy sound again between his teeth. Juanita went back into her room; found her slippers and dressing-gown. But she did not light a candle. She had acquired a certain familiarity with the night from Marcos, and it seemed natural at Torre Garda to fall into the habits of those who lived there. She went the whole length of the balcony to Marcos' room, which was at the other end of the house, while Perro conscientiously kept pace with her on the terrace below. Marcos' window was shut, which meant that he was not there. When he was at home his window stood open by night or day, winter or summer. Juanita returned to Sarrion's room, which was next to her own. The window was ajar. The Spaniards have the habit of the open air more than any other nation of Europe. She pushed the window open. "Uncle Ramon," she whispered. But Sarrion was asleep. She went into the room, which was large and sparsely furnished, and, finding the bed, shook him by the shoulder. "Uncle Ramon," she said, "Perro has come back ... alone." "That is nothing," he replied, reassuringly, at once. "Marcos, no doubt, sent him home. Go back to bed." She obeyed him, going slowly back to the open window. But she paused there. "Listen," she said, with an uneasy laugh. "He has something on his mind. He is whimpering. That is why I woke you." "He often whimpers when Marcos is away. Tell him to be quiet, and then go back to bed," said Sarrion. She obeyed him, setting the window and the jalousie ajar after her as she had found them. But Sarrion did not go to sleep again. He listened for some time. Perro was still pattering to and fro on the terrace, giving from time to time his little plaint of uneasiness between his closed teeth. At length Sarrion rose and struck a light. It was one o'clock. He dressed quickly and noiselessly and went down-stairs, candle in hand. The stable at Torre Garda stands at the side of the house, a few feet behind it against the hillside. In this remote spot, with but one egress to the outer world, bolts and locks are not considered a necessity of life. Sarrion opened the door of the house where the grooms and their families lived, and went in. In a few moments he returned to the stable-yard, accompanied by the man who had driven Juanita and Cousin Peligros from Pampeluna a few hours earlier. Together they got out the same carriage and a pair of horses. By the light of a stable lantern they adjusted the harness. Then Sarrion returned to the house for his cloak and hat. He brought with him Marcos' rifle which stood in a rack in the hall and laid it on the seat of the carriage. The man was already on the box, yawning audibly and without restraint. As Sarrion seated himself in the carriage he glanced upwards. Juanita was standing on the balcony, at the corner by Marcos' window, looking down at him, watching him silently. Perro was already out of the gate in the darkness, leading the way. They were not long absent. Perro was no genius, but what he did know, he knew thoroughly, which for practical purposes is almost as good. He led them to the spot little more than three miles down the valley, where Marcos lay at the side of the road, which is white and dusty. It was quite easy to perceive the dark form lying there, and Perro's lean limbs shaking over it. When the carriage returned Juanita was standing at the open door. She had lighted the lamp in the hall and carried in her hand a lantern which she must have found in the kitchen. But she had awakened none of the servants, and was alone, still in her dressing-gown, with her dark hair flying in the breeze. She came forward to the carriage and held up the lantern. "Is he dead?" she asked quietly. Sarrion did not answer at once. He was sitting in one corner of the carriage, with Marcos' head and shoulders resting on his knees. "I do not know how badly he is hurt," he answered at length. "We called at the chemist's as we came through the village and awoke him. He has been an army servant and is as good as a doctor--" "If the Señorita will hold the horses," interrupted the coachman, pushing Juanita gently aside, "we will carry him up-stairs." And something in the man's manner made her think that Marcos was dead. She was compelled to wait there at least ten minutes, holding the horses. When at length he returned she did not wait to ask questions, but left him and ran up-stairs. In Marcos' room she found Sarrion lighting a lamp. Marcos had been laid on the bed. She glanced at him, holding her lower lip between her teeth. His face was covered with dust and blood. One blood-stained hand lay across his chest, the other was stretched by his side, unnaturally straight. Sarrion looked up at her and was about to speak when she forestalled him. "It is no good telling me to go away," she said, "because I won't." Then she turned to get a sponge and water. Sarrion was already busy at Marcos' collar, which he had unbuttoned. Suddenly he changed his mind and turned away. "Undo his collar," he said. "I will go down-stairs and get some warm water." He took the candle and left Juanita alone with Marcos. She did as she was told and bent over him. Her fingers had caught in a string fastened round Marcos' neck. She brought the lamp nearer. It was her own wedding ring, which she had returned to him after so brief a use of it through the bars of the little window looking on to the Calle de la Dormitaleria at Pampeluna. She tried to undo the knot, but failed to do so. She turned quickly, and took the scissors from the dressing-table and cut the cord, which was a piece of old fishing-line, frayed and worn by friction against the rocks of the river. Juanita hastily thrust the cord into her pocket and drew the ring less quickly on to that finger for which it had been destined. When Sarrion returned to the room a minute later she was carefully and slowly cutting the sleeve of the injured arm. "Do you know, Uncle Ramon," she said cheerfully, "I am sure--I am positively certain he will recover, poor old Marcos." Sarrion glanced at her sharply, as if he had detected a new note in her voice. And his eye fell on her left hand. He made no answer. CHAPTER XXII AN ACCIDENT Marcos recovered consciousness at daybreak. It was a sign of his great strength and perfect health that he regained all his faculties at once. He moved, opened his eyes, and was fully conscious, like a child awakening from sleep. As soon as his eyes were open they showed surprise; for Juanita was sitting beside him, watching him. "Ah!" she said, and rose at once to give him some medicine that stood ready in a glass. She glanced at the clock as she did so. The room had been rearranged. It was orderly and simple like a hospital ward. "Do not try to lift your head," she said. "I will do that for you." She did it with skill and laid him back again with a gay laugh. "There," she said. "There is one thing, and one only, that they teach in covents." As she spoke she turned to write on a sheet of paper the exact hour and minute at which he recovered consciousness. For her knowledge was fresh enough in her mind to be half mechanical in its result. "Will that drug make me sleep?" asked Marcos, alertly. "Yes." "How soon?" "That depends upon how stale the little apothecary's stock-in-trade may be," answered Juanita. "Probably a quarter of an hour. He is a queer little man and unwashed. But he set your collar-bone like an angel. You have to do nothing but keep quiet. I fancy you will have to be content with a quiet seat in the background for some weeks, amigo mio." She busied herself as she spoke, with some duties of a sick-nurse which had been postponed during his unconsciousness. "It is nearly six o'clock," she said, without appearing to look in his direction. "So you need not try to peep round the corner at the clock. Please do not manage things, Marcos. It is I who am manager of this affair. You and Uncle Ramon think that I am a child. I am not. I have grown up--in a night, like a mushroom, and Uncle Ramon has been sent to bed." She came and sat down at the bedside again. "And Cousin Peligros has not been disturbed. She has not left her room. She will tell us to-morrow morning that she scarcely slept at all. A real lady never sleeps well, you know. She must have heard us but she did not come out of her room. For which we may thank the Saints. There are some people one would rather not have in an emergency. In fact, when you come to think of it--how many are there in the world whose presence would be of the slightest use in a crisis--one or two at the most." She held up her finger to emphasise the smallness of this number, and withdrew it again, hastily. But she was not quick enough, for Marcos had seen the ring and his eyes suddenly brightened. She turned away towards the window, holding her lip between her teeth, as if she had committed an indiscretion. She had been talking against time slowly and continuously to prevent his talking or thinking, to give the apothecary's soothing drug time to take effect. For the little man of medicine had spoken very clearly of concussion and its after-effects. He had posted off to Pampeluna to fetch a doctor from there, leaving instructions that should Marcos recover his reason he should not be permitted to make use of it. And here in a moment, was Marcos fully in possession of his senses and making a use of them, which Juanita resented without knowing why. "I must see my father," he said, stirring the bedclothes, "before I go to sleep again." Juanita turned on her heel, but did not approach him or seek to rearrange the sheets. "Lie still," she said. "Why do you want to see him? Is it about the war?" "Yes." Juanita reflected for a moment. "Then you had better see him," she said conclusively. "I will go and fetch him." She went to the window and passed out on to the balcony. Sarrion had, in obedience to her wishes, gone to his room. He was now sitting on a long chair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn. "Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in the mountains?" she asked gaily. He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed a tolerant cynicism. "Of you," he answered. "I heard the murmur of your voices. You need not tell me that he has recovered consciousness." "He wants to see you," she said. "I think he was surprised not to see you--to see only me--when he regained his senses." There was the faintest suspicion of resentment in her voice. "But I thought that the apothecary said that he was to be kept absolutely quiet," said Sarrion, rising. "So he did. But he is only a man, you know, just like you and Marcos--and he doesn't understand." "Oh!" said Sarrion meekly, as he followed her. She led the way into Marcos' room. She was as fresh and rosy as the morning itself, with the delicate pink and white of the convent still in her cheeks. It was on Sarrion's face that the night's work had left its mark. "Here he is," she said. "He was not asleep. Is it a secret? I suppose it is--you have so many, you two." She laughed, and looked from one to the other. But neither answered her. "Shall I go away, Marcos?" she asked abruptly, turning towards the bed, as if she knew at all events that from him she would get a plain answer. And it came, uncompromisingly. "Yes," he said. She went to the door with a curt laugh and closed it behind her, with decision. Sarrion looked after her with a sudden frown. He looked for an instant as if he were about to suggest that Marcos might have made a different reply, and then decided to hold his peace. He was perhaps wise in his generation. Politeness never yet won a woman's love. Marcos had noted Juanita's lightness of heart. On recovering his senses the first use he had made of them was to observe her every glance and silence. There was no sign of present anxiety or of great emotion. The incident of the ring had no other meaning therefore, than a girlish love of novelty or a taste not hitherto made manifest, for personal ornament. It might have deceived any one less observant than Marcos; less in the habit of watching Nature and dumb animals. He was patient, however, and industrious in the collection of evidence against himself. And she had startled him by saying that she was grown-up; though he perceived soon after, that it was only a manner of speaking; for she was still careless and happy, without a thought of the future, as children are. These things, however, he kept to himself. He had not sent for his father to talk to him of Juanita. Men never discuss a woman in whom they are really interested, though fools do. "That horse didn't fall," said Marcos to his father. "He was thrown. There was a wire across the road." "There was none when I got there," replied Sarrion. "Then it had been removed. I saw it as we fell. My foot caught in it or I could have thrown myself clear in the usual way." Sarrion reflected a moment. "Let me look at the note that Zeneta wrote you," he said. "You will find it in my pocket, hanging behind the door. I was a fool. I was in too great a hurry. Now that I think of it, Zeneta would not have written a note like that." "Then he never wrote it at all," said Sarrion, who had found the paper and was reading it near the window. The clear morning light brought out the wrinkles and the crow's-feet with inexorable distinctness on his keen narrow face. "What does it mean?" he asked at length, folding the letter and replacing it in the pocket from which he had taken it. Marcos roused himself with an effort. He was sleepy. "I think it means that Evasio Mon is about," he answered. "No man in the valley would have done it," suggested Sarrion. "If any man in the valley had done it he would have put his knife into me when I lay on the road, which would have been murder." He gave a short laugh and was silent. "And the hand inside the velvet glove does not risk murder," reflected Sarrion, "They have not given up the game yet. We must be careful of ourselves." "And of Juanita." "I count her as one of ourselves," replied Sarrion quickly, for he heard her voice in the passage. With a brief tap on the door she came in. She was struggling with Perro. "You have had long enough for your secrets," she said. "And now Marcos must go to sleep. I have brought Perro to see him. He is so uneasy in his canine mind." Perro, low-born and eager, needed restraint to keep him from the bed where his master lay, and Juanita continued to hold him while she spoke. "You must remember," she said, "that it is owing to Perro that you are here at all. If he had not come back and awakened us all you would have been on the road still." Sarrion glanced sharply at her, his attention caught by her version of that which had really happened. She did not want Marcos to know that it was she who had heard Perro; she, who had insisted that something had happened to Marcos. "And some Jesuit coming along the road might have found you there," she said, "and pushed you over. It would have been so easy." Marcos and Sarrion glanced at each other, and possibly Juanita saw the glance as she held Perro back from his master. "You do not know, Marcos, how they hate you. They could not hate you more if you were a heretic. I have always known it, because Father Muro was always trying to find things out about you in confession. He asked questions about you--who your confessor was; if you did a pilgrimage. I said--be quiet, Perro!--I said you never did a pilgrimage, and you were always changing your confessor because no holy father could stand the strain for long." She forcibly ejected Perro from the room, and came back breathless and laughing. "She has not a care in the world," thought Marcos, who knew well enough the danger that he had passed through. "But Father Muro is such an innocent old love," she went on, "that he did it badly. He had been told to do it by the Jesuits and he made a bungle of it. He thought that he could make a schoolgirl answer a question if she did not want to. And no one was afraid of him. He is a dear, good, old saint, and will assuredly go to Heaven. He is not a Jesuit, you know, but he is afraid of them, as everybody else is, I think--" She paused and closed the shutters to soften the growing day. "Except Marcos," she threw back over her shoulder towards the bed, with some far-off suggestion of anger still in her voice. "And now he must be allowed to sleep until the doctor comes from Pampeluna," she concluded. She left the room as she spoke to warn the servants, who were already astir, to do their work as noiselessly as possible. When she returned Marcos was asleep. "The doctor cannot be here for another hour, at least," whispered Sarrion, who was standing by the window watching Marcos. "It is too far for a man of his age to ride, and he has no carriage. There may be some delay in finding one to do so great a distance at this time in the morning. You must take the opportunity to get some sleep." But Juanita only shook her head and laughed. Sarrion did not persuade her, but turned to quit the room. His hand was on the door when some one tapped on the other side of it. It was Marcos' servant. "The doctor, Excellency," he announced briefly. In the passage stood a man of middle height, hard and wiry, with those lines in his face that time neither obliterates nor deepens; the parallels of hunger. He had been through the first Carlist war nearly thirty years earlier. He had starved in Pampeluna, the hungry, the impregnable. Sarrion shook hands with him and passed into the room. "Ah!" he said, in the quiet voice of one who is accustomed to speak in the presence of sleep, when he saw Juanita, "Ah--you!" "Yes," said Juanita. "So you are nursing your husband," he murmured abstractedly, as he bent over the bed. And Juanita made no answer. "How long has he been asleep?" he asked, after a few moments, and in reply received the written paper which he read quickly, with a practised eye, and laid it aside. "We must wait," he said, turning to Sarrion, "until he awakes. But it is all right. I can see that while he sleeps. He is a strong man; none stronger in all Navarre." As he spoke, he was examining the bottles left by the village apothecary, tasting one, smelling another. He nodded approval. In medicine, as in war, one expert may know unerringly what another will do. Then he looked round the room, which was orderly as a hospital ward. "One sees," he said, "that he has a nun to care for him." He smiled faintly, so that his features fell into the lines that hunger draws. But Juanita looked at him with grave eyes and did not answer to his pleasantry. Then he turned to Sarrion. "It was only by the kindness of a mere acquaintance," he said, "that I was enabled to get here so soon. My own horses were tired out with a hard day yesterday, and I was going out to seek others in Pampeluna--no easy task on market-day--when I met a travelling carriage on the Plaza de la Constitution Its owner must have divined my haste, for he offered assistance, and on hearing my story, and whither I was bound, he gave up his intended journey, decided to remain a few days longer in Pampeluna and placed his carriage at my disposal. I hardly know the man at all--though he tells me that he is an old friend of yours. He lives in Saragossa." "Ah!" said Sarrion, who was listening with rather marked attention. Juanita had moved away, but she was standing now, listening also, looking back over her shoulder with waiting eyes. "It was the Senior Evasio Mon," said the doctor. And in the silence that followed, Marcos stirred in his sleep, as if he, too, had heard the name. CHAPTER XXIII KIND INQUIRIES For the next fortnight Juanita remained in supreme command at Torre Garda, exercising that rule which she said she had acquired at the convent school. It had, in reality, come to her straight from Heaven, as it comes to all women. Is it not part of the gentler soul to care for the helpless and the sick? Just as it is in a man's heart to fight the world for a woman's sake. Marcos made a quick recovery. His broken bones knit together like the snapped branch of a young tree. His cuts and bruises healed themselves unaided. "He has no nerves," said Juanita. "You should see a nun when she is ill! St. Luke and all the saints have their hands full, I can tell you." With returning health came energy. Indeed, the patient had never lost his grip of the world. Many from the valley came to make inquiry. Some left a message of condolence. Some departed with a grunt, indicative of satisfaction. A few of the more cultivated gave their names to the servant as they drank a glass of red wine in the kitchen. "Say it was Pedro from the mill." "Tell him that Three Fingered Thomas passed by," muttered another, grudgingly. "It is I, so-called Short Knife, who came to ask," explained a third, tapping the sheath of his baptismal weapon. "How far have you come?" asked Juanita, who found these gentlemen entertaining. "Seventeen miles from the mountain," was the reply. "All your friends are calling to inquire after your health," said Juanita to Marcos. "They are famous brigands, and make one think fondly of the Guardia Civile. There are not many razors in the valley, and I am sure there is no soap." "They are honest enough, though their appearance may be disquieting." "Oh! I am not afraid of them," answered Juanita, with a shrewd and mystic smile. "It is Cousin Peligros who fears them. She scolded me for speaking to one of them on the verandah. It undermines the pedestal upon which a lady should always stand. Am I on a pedestal, Marcos?" She looked back at him over her shoulder, through the fold of her mantilla. It was an opportunity, perhaps, which a skillful lover would have seized. Marcos was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a repressed voice. "If they come again," he said, "I should like to see them." But Juanita had already put into the apothecary's lips a command that no visitors should be admitted. She kept this up for some days, but was at length forced to give way. Marcos was so obviously on the high road to recovery. There was no suggestion of an after-effect of the slight concussion of the brain which had rendered him insensible. It was Short Knife who first gained admittance to the sick-room. He was quite a simple person, smelling of sheep, and endowed with a tact which is as common among the peasantry as amid the great. There was no sign of embarrassment in his manner, and he omitted to remove his beret from his close-cropped head until he saw Juanita whom he saluted curtly, replacing his cap with a calm unconsciousness before he nodded to Marcos. "It was you I heard singing the Basque songs as I climbed the hill," he said, addressing Juanita first with the instinct of a gentleman. "You speak Basque?" "I understand it, at all events, though I cannot speak it as well as Marcos." "Oh, he!" said the man, glancing towards the bed. "He is one of us--one of us. Do you know the song that the women of the valley sing to their babies? I cannot sing to you for I have no voice except for the goats. They are not particular, the goats--they like music. They stand round me and listen. But if you are passing in the mountain my wife will sing it to you--she knows it well. We have many round the table--God be thanked. It makes them sleep when they are contrary. It tells how easy it is to kill a Frenchman." Then, having observed the conventionalities, he turned eagerly to Marcos. Juanita listened to them for a short time while they spoke together in the Basque tongue. Then she went to the balcony and stood there, leaning her arms on the iron rail, looking out over the valley with thoughtful eyes. She had seen clearly a hundred devices to relieve her of her watch at the bedside. Marcos made excuses for her to absent herself. He found occupations for her elsewhere. With his returning strength came anxiety that she should lead her own life--apart from him. "You need not try to get rid of me," she said to him one day. "And I do not want to go for a walk with Cousin Peligros. She thinks only of her shoes and her clothes while she walks. I would go for a walk with Perro if I went with any one. He has a better understanding of what God made the world for than Cousin Peligros. But I am not going to walk with any one, thank you." Nevertheless she absented herself. And Marcos' attempts to find diversions for her, ceased with a suspicious suddenness. She fell into the habit of using the drawing-room which was immediately beneath the sick-room, and spent much of her time at the piano there. "It keeps Marcos quiet," she explained airily to Sarrion, and vouchsafed nothing further on the subject. Chiefly because the music of Handel and Beethoven alone had been encouraged by her professors, Juanita had learnt with some enthusiasm the folk songs of the Basques, considered worthy only of the attention of the people. She had a pretty voice, round and young with strange low notes in it that seemed to belong not to her but to some woman who had yet to live and suffer, or, perhaps, be happy as some few are in this uneven world. She had caught, moreover, the trick of slurring from one note to the other, which must assuredly have been left in Spain by the Moors. It comes from the Far East. It was probably characteristic of those songs that they could not sing by the waters of Babylon, when they hanged their harps upon a tree in the strange land. For it gives to songs, sad or gay, the minor, low clear note of exile. It rings out unexpectedly in strange places. The boatmen of the Malabar Coast face the surf singing no other than the refrain that the Basque women murmur over the cradle. "It keeps Marcos quiet," said Juanita. "I suppose," she suggested to Marcos one day when she returned to his room and found him quiet, "that when you are well enough to ride you will begin your journeys up and down the valley." "Yes." "And your endless watch over the Carlists?" "They are making good use of their time, I hear," replied Marcos, with the grave appreciation of a good fighter for a worthy foe. Juanita remembered this now as she stood on the balcony. For he of the Short Knife and Marcos were talking politics--those rough and ready politics of the valley of the Wolf, which dealt but little in words and very considerably in deeds of a bloody nature. She could hear Marcos talking of the near future when he should be in the saddle again. And her eyes grew gloomy and dark with those velvet depths that lie in hazel eyes when they are grave. Her kingdom was slipping away from her. She was standing thus when the sound of a horse's feet caught her attention. A horseman was coming up the slope from the village to the castle of Torre Garda. She looked at him with eyes that had been trained by Marcos in the holiday times to see great distances in the mountains. Then she turned and reentered the sick man's room. "There is another visitor coming to make inquiry into your welfare--it is Senor Mon." And she looked for the gleam that immediately lighted Marcos' dark eyes. Sarrion was out. He had ridden to a distant hamlet earlier in the day. The tidings of this journey might well have reached Evasio Mon's ears. Cousin Peligros was taking the siesta by which she sought to forestall a possible fatigue later in the day. There are some people who seem to have the misfortune to be absent on the rare occasions when they are wanted. "He is not coming into this room," said Juanita, coolly. "I will go down and see him." Evasio Mon greeted her with a gay smile. "I am so glad," he said, "to hear that all goes well with Marcos. We heard of his accident at Pampeluna. I had a day of leisure so I rode out to pay my respects." He glanced at her, but did not specify whether he had come to pay his respects to her as a bride or to Marcos as an invalid. "It is a long way to come for a mere politeness," replied Juanita, who could meet smile with smile if need be. But the eyes before which Evasio Mon turned aside were grave enough. "It is not a mere politeness," he answered. "I have known Marcos since he was a child; and have watched his progress in the world--not always with a light heart." "That is kind of you," replied Juanita. "But why watch him if it gives you pain?" Mon laughed. He was quick to see a joke and Juanita, he knew, was a gay soul. "One cannot help taking an interest in one's friends and is naturally sorry to see them drifting..." "Into what...?" asked Juanita turning to the table where a servant had placed coffee for the visitor. "Politics." "Are politics a crime?" "They lead to many--but do not let us talk of them--" he broke off with a light gesture dismissing as it were an unpleasant topic. "Since you are happy," he concluded, looking at her with benevolent eyes. He was a man of quick gesture and slow precise speech. He always seemed to mean much more than was conveyed by the mere words he enunciated. Juanita looked quickly at him. What did he know of her happiness? Was she happy--when she came to think of it? She remembered her gloomy thoughts of a few minutes earlier on the balcony. When we are young we confound thoughts with facts. When the heart is young it makes for itself a new heaven and a new earth from a word, a glance, a silence. It is a different earth from this one, but who can tell that it is not the same heaven as that for which men look? Marcos was talking politics in the room overhead, forgetting her perhaps by now. Evasio Mon's suggestion had come at an opportune moment. "Leon is much exercised on your account," said Mon, quietly, as if he had divined her thoughts. It was unlike Leon, perhaps, to be exercised about anything but his own soul; for he was a very devout man. But Juanita was not likely to pause and reflect on that point. "Why?" she asked. "He naturally dislikes the idea of your being dragged into politics," answered Mon, gently. "I? Why should I be dragged into politics?" Mon made a deprecatory gesture. It seemed that he found himself drawn again to speak of a subject that was distasteful to him. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, half to himself, "we live in a practical age. Let us be practical. But he would have preferred that you should marry for love. Come, let us change the subject, my child. How is Sarrion? In good health, I hope." "It is very kind of Leon to exercise his mind on my account," said Juanita steadily. "But I can manage my own affairs." "Those are my own words," answered Mon soothingly. "I said to him: 'Juanita is no longer a child; Marcos is honest, he will not have deceived her; he must have told her that such a marriage is a mere question of politics; that there is no thought of love.'" He glanced sharply at her. It was almost prophetic; for Marcos had used the very words. It is not difficult to be prophetic if one can sink self sufficiently to cloak one's thoughts with the mind of another and thus divine the workings of his brain. Juanita remembered that Marcos had told her that this was a matter of politics. Mon was only guessing; but he guessed right. The greatest men the world has produced only guessed after all; but they did not guess wrong. "Such a fortune as yours," he said, with an easy laugh, "would make or mar any cause you see. Your fortune is perhaps your misfortune--who knows?" Juanita laughed also, as at a pleasant conceit. The wit that had baffled Father Muro was ready for Evasio Mon. A woman will take her stand before her own heart and defy the world. Juanita's eyes flashed across the man's gentle face. "But," she said, "if the fortune is my own; if I prefer that Marcos should have it--to the church?" Evasio Mon smiled gently. "Of course," he murmured. "That is what I said to Leon, and to Sor Teresa also, who naturally is troubled about you. Though there are other alternatives. Neither Marcos nor the Church need have it. You could have it yourself as your father, my old and dear friend, intended it." "How could I have it myself?" asked Juanita, whose curiosity was aroused. Mon shrugged his shoulders. "The Pope could annul such a marriage as yours by a stroke of the pen if he wished." He paused, looking at her beneath his light lashes. "And I am told he does wish it. What the Pope wishes--well, one must try to be a good Catholic if one can." Juanita smiled. She did not perhaps consider herself called upon to admit the infallibility of his Holiness in matters of the heart. She knew better than the Pope. Mon saw that he had struck a false note. "I am a sentimentalist myself," he said, with a frank laugh. "I should like every girl to marry for love. I should like love to be treated as something sacred--not as a joke. But I am getting to be an old man, Juanita. I am behind the times. Do I hear Sarrion in the passage?" He rose as he spoke and went towards the door. Sarrion came in at that moment. The Spanish sense of hospitality is strongly Arabic. Mon had ridden many miles. Sarrion greeted him almost eagerly. CHAPTER XXIV THE STORMY PETREL As Juanita quitted the room she heard Sarrion ask Evasio Mon if he had lunched. And Mon admitted that he had as yet omitted that meal. Juanita shrugged her shoulders. It is only in later life that we come to realise the importance of meals. If Mon was hungry he should have said so. She gave no further thought to him. She hated him. She was glad to think that he should have suffered, even if his pain was only hunger. What was hunger, she asked herself, compared with a broken heart? One was a passing pang that could be alleviated, could be confessed to the first comer, while a broken heart must be hidden at any cost from all the world. She met Cousin Peligros coming towards the drawing-room in her best black silk dress, and in what might have been called a fluster of excitement at the thought of a visitor, if such a word had been applicable to her placid life of self-deception. Juanita made some small jest and laughed rather eagerly at it as she passed the pattern lady on the stairs. She was very calm and collected; being a determined person, as many seemingly gay and light-hearted people are. She was going to leave Torre Garda and Marcos, who had married her for her money. It is characteristic of determined people that they are restricted in their foresight. They look in front with eyes so steady and concentrated that they perceive no side issues, but only the one path that they intend to tread. Juanita was going back to Pampeluna, to Sor Teresa at the convent school in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. She recked nothing of the Carlists, of the disturbed country through which she had to pass. She had never lacked money, and had sufficient now for her needs. The village of Torre Garda could assuredly provide a carriage for the journey; or, at the worst, a cart. Anything would be better than remaining in this house--even the hated school in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. She had always known that Sor Teresa was her friend, though the Sister Superior's manner of indicating friendship had not been invariably comprehensible. Juanita took a cloak and what money she could find. She was not a very tidy person, and the money had to be collected from odd trinket-boxes and discarded purses. Marcos was still talking politics with his friend from the mountains when she passed beneath his window. Sarrion and Evasio Mon had gone to the dining-room, where, it was to be presumed, Cousin Peligros had followed them. She professed a great admiration for Evasio Mon, who was on familiar terms with people of the highest distinction. An hour's start would be sufficient. In that time she could be half-way to Pampeluna. Secrecy was of course out of the question. The drawing-room window was open. Juanita paused on the threshold for a moment. Then she went into the room and scribbled a hurried note--not innocent of blots--which she addressed to Marcos. She left it on the writing-table and carrying her cloak over her arm she hurried down a zigzag path concealed in a thicket of scrub-oak to the village of Torre Garda. Before reaching the village she overtook a traveling-carriage going at a walking pace down the hill. The carriage, which was old-fashioned in build, and set high upon its narrow wheels, was empty. "Where are you going?" asked Juanita, of the man who took off his hat to her, almost as if he had expected her. "I am returning to Pampeluna, empty, Excellency," he answered. "I have brought the baggage of Señor Mon, who is traveling over the mountains on horseback. I am hoping to get a fare from Torre Garda back to Pampeluna, if I have the good fortune." The coincidence was rather startling. Juanita had always been considered a lucky girl, however; one for whom the smaller chances of daily existence were invariably kind. She accepted this as another instance of the indulgence of fate in small things. She was not particularly glad or surprised. A dull indifference had come over her. The small things of daily life had never engrossed her mind. She was quite indifferent to them now. It was her intention to get to Pampeluna, through all difficulties, and the incidents of the road occupied no place in her thoughts. She was vaguely confident that no one could absolutely stand in her way. Had not Evasio Mon said that the Pope would willingly annul her marriage? She was thinking these thoughts as she drove through the little mountain village. "What is that--it sounds like thunder or guns?" inquired Evasio Mon, pausing in his late and simple luncheon in the dining-room. "A clerical ear like yours should not know the sound of guns," replied Sarrion with a curt laugh. "It is not that, however. It is a cart or a carriage crossing the bridge below the village." Mon nodded his head and continued to give his attention to his plate. "Juanita looks well--and happy," he said, after a pause. Sarrion looked at him and made no reply. He was borrowing from the absent Marcos a trick of silence which he knew to be effective in a subtle war of words. "Do you not think so?" "I am sure of it, Evasio." Sarrion was wondering why he had come to Torre Garda--this stormy petrel of clerical politics--whose coming never boded good. Mon was much too wise to be audacious for audacity's sake. He was not a theatrical man, but one who had worked consistently and steadily for a cause all through his life. He was too much in earnest to consider effect or heed danger. "I am not on the winning side, but I am sure that I am on the right one," he had once said in public. And the speech went the round of Spain. After he had finished luncheon he spoke of taking his leave, and asked if he might be allowed to congratulate Marcos on his escape. "It should be a warning to him," he went on, "not to ride at night. To do so is to court mishap in these narrow mountain roads." "Yes," said Sarrion, slowly. "Will his nurse allow me to see him?" asked the visitor. "His nurse is Juanita. I will go and ask her," replied Sarrion, looking round him quite openly to make sure that there were no letters lying about on the tables of the terrace that Mon might be tempted to read in his absence. He hurried to Marcos' room. Marcos was out of bed. He was dressing, with the help of his servant and the visitor from the mountains. With a quick gesture, Marcos indicated the open window, through which the sound of any exclamation might easily reach the ear of Evasio Mon. "Juanita has gone," he said, in French. "Read that note. It is his doing, of course." "I know now," wrote Juanita, "why you were afraid of my growing up. But I am grown up--and I have found out why you married me." "I knew it would come sooner or later," said Marcos, who winced as he drew his sleeve over his injured arm. He was very quiet and collected, as people usually are in face of a long anticipated danger which when it comes at last brings with it a dull sense of relief. Sarrion made no reply. Perhaps he, too, had anticipated this moment. A girl is a closed book. Neither knew what might be written in the hidden pages of Juanita's heart. A crisis usually serves to accentuate the weakness or strength of a man's character. Marcos was intensely practical at this moment--more practical than ever. He had only one thought--the thought that filled his life--which was Juanita's welfare. If he could not make her happy he could, at all events, shield her from harm. He could stand between her and the world. "She can only have gone down the valley," he said, continuing to speak in French, which was a second mother tongue to him. "She must have gone to Sor Teresa. He has induced her to go by some trick. He would not dare to send her anywhere else." "I heard a carriage cross the bridge," replied Sarrion. "He heard it also, and asked what it was. The next moment he spoke of Juanita. The sound must have put the thought of Juanita into his mind." "Which means that he provided the carriage. He must have had it waiting in the village. Whatever he may undertake is always perfectly organised; we know that. How long ago was that?" "An hour ago and more." Marcos nodded and glanced at the clock. "He will no doubt have made arrangements for her to get safely through to Pampeluna." "Then where are you going?" asked Sarrion, perceiving that Marcos was slipping into his pocket the arm without which he never traveled in the mountains. "After her," was the reply. "To bring her back?" "No." Marcos paused for a moment, looking from the window across the valley to the pine-clad heights with thoughtful eyes. He held odd views--now deemed chivalrous and old-fashioned--on the question of a woman's liberty to seek her own happiness in her own way. Such views are unnecessary to-day when woman is, so to speak, up and fighting. They belong to the days of our grandmothers, who had less knowledge and much more wisdom; for they knew that it is always more profitable to receive a gift than demand a right. The measure will be fuller. "No. Not unless it is her own wish," he said. Sarrion made no answer. In human difficulties there is usually nothing to be said. There is nearly always one clear course to steer and the deviations are only found by too much talk and too much licence given to crooked minds. If happiness is not to be found in the straight way nothing is gained by turning into by-paths to seek it. A few find it and a great number are not unhappy who have seen it down a side-path and have yet held their course in the straight way. "Will you keep him in the library--make the excuse that the sun is too hot on the verandah--until I am gone?" said Marcos. "I will follow and, at all events, see that she arrives safely at Pampeluna." Sarrion gave a curt laugh. "We may be able," he said, "to turn to good account Evasio's conviction that you are ill in bed, when in reality you are in the saddle." "He will soon find out." "Of course--but in the meantime..." "Yes," said Marcos with a slow smile ... "in the meantime." He left the room as he spoke, but turned on the threshold to look back over his shoulder. His eyes were alight with anger and the smile had lapsed into a grin. Sarrion went down to the verandah to entertain the unsought guest. "They have given us coffee," he said, "in the library. It is too hot in the sun, although we are still in March! Will you come?" "And what has Juanita decreed?" asked Mon, when they were seated and Sarrion had lighted his cigarette. "The verdict has gone against you," replied Sarrion. "Juanita has decreed most emphatically that you are not to be allowed to see Marcos." Mon laughed and spread out his hands with a characteristic gesture of bland acceptance of the inevitable. The man, it seemed, was a philosopher; a person, that is to say, who will play to the end a game which he knows he cannot win. "Aha!" he laughed. "So we arrive at the point where a woman holds the casting vote. It is the point to which all men travel. They have always held the casting vote--ces dames--and we can only bow to the inevitable. And Juanita is grown up. One sees it. She is beginning to record her vote." "Yes," answered Sarrion with a narrow smile. "She is beginning to record her vote." With a Spanish formality of manner, Sarrion placed his horse at the disposition of Evasio Mon, should the traveller feel disposed to pass the night at Torre Garda. But Mon declined. "I am a bird of passage," he explained. "I am due in Pampeluna again to-night. I shall enjoy the ride down the valley now that your hospitality has so well equipped me for the journey----" He broke off and looked towards the open window, listening. Sarrion had also been listening. He had heard the thud of Marcos' horse as it passed across the wooden bridge below the village. "Guns again?" he suggested, with a short laugh. "I certainly heard something," Mon answered. And rising briskly from his chair, he went to the window. Sarrion followed him, and they stood side by side looking out over the valley. At that moment that which was more of a vibration than a sound came to their ears across the mountains--deep and foreboding. "I thought I was right," said Mon, in little more than a whisper. "The Carlists are abroad, my friend, and I, who am a man of peace must get within the city walls." With an easy laugh he said good-bye. In a few minutes he was in the saddle riding leisurely down the valley of the Wolf after Juanita--with Marcos de Sarrion in between them on the road. CHAPTER XXV WAR'S ALARM Juanita's carriage emerged from the valley of the Wolf into the plain at sunset. She could see that the driver paid but little heed to his horses. His attention wandered constantly to the mountains. For, instead of looking to the road in front, his head was ever to the right, and his eyes searched the plain and the bare brown hills. At last he pulled up and, turning on his box, held up one finger. "Listen, Señorita," he said, and his dark eyes were alight with excitement. Juanita stood up and listened, looking westward as he did. The sound was like the sound of thunder, but shorter and sharper. "What is it?" "The Carlists--the sons of dogs!" he answered, with a laugh, and he shook his whip towards the mountains. "See," he said, gathering up the reins again, "that dust on the road to the west--that is the troops marching out from Pampeluna. We are in it again--in it again!" At the gate of the city there was a crowd of people. The carriage had to stand aside against the trees to let pass the guns which clattered down the slope. The men were laughing and shouting to each other. The officers, erect on their horses, seemed to think only of the safety of the guns as a woman entering a ballroom reviews her jewelery with a quick comprehensive glance. At the guard-house, beneath the second gateway, there occurred another delay. The driver was a Pampeluna man and well-known to the sentries. But they did not recognise his passenger and sent for the officer on duty. "The Señorita Juanita de Mogente," he muttered, as he came into the road--a stout and grizzled warrior smoking a cigarette. "Ah, yes!" he said, with a grave bow at the carriage door. "I remember you as a schoolgirl. I remember now. Forgive the delay and pass in--Señora de Sarrion." Juanita was ushered into the little bare waiting-room in the convent school of the Sisters of the True Faith in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. It is a small, square apartment at the end of a long and dark passage. The day filters dimly into it through a barred window no larger than a pocket-handkerchief. Juanita stood on tiptoe and looked into a narrow alley. On the sill of this window Marcos had stood to wrench apart the bars of the window immediately overhead, through which he had lifted her one cold night--years and years ago, it seemed. Nothing had changed in this gloomy house. "The dear Sister Superior is at prayer in the chapel," the doorkeeper had whispered. The usual formula; for a nun must always be given the benefit of the doubt. If she is alone in her cell or in the chapel it is always piously assumed that she is at prayer. Juanita smiled at the familiar words. "Then I will wait," she said, "but not very long." She gave the nun a familiar little nod of warning as if to intimate that no tricks of the trade need be tried upon her. She stood alone in the little gray, dim room now, and waited with brooding eyes. Within, all was quiet with that air of awesome mystery peculiar to the cloister, which so soon gives place with increasing familiarity, to a sense of deadly monotony. It is only from outside that the mystery of the cloister continues to interest. Juanita knew every stone in this silent house. Its daily round of artificial duties appeared small to her eyes. "They have nothing to do all day in a nunnery," she once said to Marcos in jest. "So they rise up very early in the morning to do it." She had laughed on first seeing the mark of Marcos' heel on the window-sill. She turned and looked at it again now--without laughing. And she thought of Torre Garda with its keen air, cool to the cheek like spring water; with the scent of the bracken that she loved; with the tall, still pines, upright against the sky, motionless, whispering with the wind. She had always thought that the cloister represented safety and peace in a world of strife. And now that she was back within the walls she felt that it was better to be in the world, to take part in the strife, if necessary; for Heaven had given her a proud and a fierce heart. She would rather be miserable here all her life than go back to Marcos, who had dared to marry her without loving her. The door of the waiting-room opened and Sor Teresa stood on the threshold. "I have come back," said Juanita. "I think I shall go into religion. I have left Torre Garda." She gave a short laugh and looked curiously at Sor Teresa--impassive in her straight-hanging robes. "So you have got me back," she said. "Back to the convent." "Not to this convent," replied Sor Teresa, quietly. "But I have come back. I shall come back--the Mother Superior..." "The Mother Superior is in Saragossa. I am mistress here," replied Sor Teresa, standing still and dark, like one of the pines at Torre Garda. The Sarrion blood was rising to her pale cheek. Her eyes glowed darkly beneath her overshadowing head-dress. Command--that indefinable spirit which is vouchsafed to gentle people, while rough and strong men miss it--was written in every line of her face, every fold of her dress, in the quiet of her small, white hands, resting motionless against her skirt. Juanita stood looking at her with flashing eyes, with her head thrown back, with clenched hands, "Then I will go somewhere else. But I do not understand you. You always wanted me to go into religion." Sor Teresa held up one hand and cut short her speech. For the habit of obedience is so strong that clear-headed men will deliberately go to their death rather than relinquish it. The gesture was known to Juanita. It was dreaded in the school. "Think--" said Sor Teresa. "Think before you say that." "Well," argued Juanita, "if you did not urge me in words, you used every means in your power to induce me to take the veil--to make it impossible for me to do anything else." "Think!" urged Sor Teresa. "Think again. Do not include me in such generalities without thinking." Juanita paused. She ran back in her mind over a hundred incidents of school life, remembered, as such are, with photographic accuracy. "Well," she admitted at length. "You did your best to make me hate it--at all events." "Ah!" said Sor Teresa, with a slow smile. "Then you did not want me to go into religion--" Juanita came a step nearer and peered into Sor Teresa's face. She might as well have sought an answer in a face of stone. "Answer me," she said impatiently. "All are not suited for the religious life," answered the Sister Superior after the manner of her teaching. "I have known many such, and I have seen much sorrow arising from a mistaken sense of duty. I have heard of lives wrecked by it--I have known of two." Juanita who had moved away impatiently, now turned and looked at Sor Teresa. The gloom of evening was gathering in the little bare room. The stillness of the convent was oppressive. "Were you suited to the religious life?" asked the girl suddenly. But Sor Teresa made no answer. Juanita sat suddenly down. Her movements were quick and impulsive still, as they had been when she was a schoolgirl. When she had arrived at the convent she had felt hungry and tired. The feelings came back to her with renewed intensity now. She was sick at heart. The gray twilight within these walls was like the gloom of a hopeless life. "I wonder who the other was," she said, half to herself. For the world was opening out before her like a great book hitherto closed. The lives of men and women had gained depth and meaning in a flash of thought. She rose and impulsively kissed Sor Teresa. "I used to be afraid of you," she said, with a laugh which seemed to surprise her, as if the voice that had spoken was not her own. Then she sat down again. It was almost dark in the room now, and the window glimmered a forlorn gray. "I am so hungry and tired," said Juanita in rather a faint voice, "but I am glad I came. I could not stay in Torre Garda another hour. Marcos married me for my money. The money was wanted for political purposes. They could not get it without me--so I was thrown in." She dropped her two hands heavily on the table and looked up as if expecting some exclamation of surprise or horror. But her hearer made no sign. "Did you know this?" she asked, in an altered voice after a pause. "Are you in the plot, too, as well as Marcos and Uncle Ramon? Have you been scheming all this time as well, that I should marry Marcos?" "Since you ask me," said Sor Teresa, slowly and coldly, "I think you would be happier married to Marcos than in religion. It is only my opinion, of course, and you must decide for yourself. It is probably the opinion of others, however, as well. There are plenty of girls who ..." "Oh! are there?" cried Juanita, passionately. "Who--I should like to know?" "I am only speaking in generalities, my child." Juanita looked at her suspiciously, her April eyes glittering with a new light. "I thought you meant Milagros. He once said that he thought her pretty, and liked her hair. It is red, everybody knows that. Besides, we are married." She dropped her tired head upon her folded arms--a schoolgirl attitude which returned naturally to her amid the old surroundings. "I don't care what becomes of me," she said wearily. "I don't know what to do. It is very hard that papa should be dead and Leon ... Leon such a preposterous stupid. You know he is." Sor Teresa did not deny this sisterly truth; but stood motionless, waiting for Juanita's decision. "I am so hungry and tired," she said at length. "I suppose I can have something to eat ... if I pay for it." "Yes; you can have something to eat." "And I may be allowed to stay here to-night, at all events." "No, you cannot do that," answered the Sister Superior. Juanita looked up in surprise. "Then what am I to do? Where am I to go?" "Back to your husband," was the reply in the same gentle, inexorable voice. "I will take you back to Marcos--that is all I will do for you. I will take you myself." Juanita laughed scornfully and shook her head. She had plenty of that spirit which will fight to the end and overcome fatigue and hunger. "You may be mistress here," she said. "But I do not think you can deny me a lodging. You cannot turn me out into the street." "Under exceptional circumstances I can do both." "Ah!" muttered Juanita, incredulously. "And those circumstances have arisen. There, you can satisfy yourself." She laid before Juanita, on the bare table, a paper which it was not possible to read in the semi-darkness. She turned to the mantelpiece, where two tall candles added to the sacerdotal simplicity of the room. While the sulphur match burnt blue, Juanita looked indifferently at the printed paper. "It is a siege notice," said Sor Teresa, seeing that her hearer refused to read. "It is signed by General Pacheco, who arrived here with a large army to-day. It is expected that Pampeluna may be besieged by to-morrow evening. The investment may be a long one, which will mean starvation. Every householder must make a return of those dwelling under his roof. He must refuse domicile to any strangers; and I refuse to take you into this house." Juanita read the paper now by the light of the candles which Sor Teresa set on the table. It was a curt, military document without explanation or unnecessary mitigation of the truth. For Pampeluna had seen the like before and understood this business thoroughly. "You can think about it," said Sor Teresa, folding the paper and placing it in her pocket. "I will send you something to eat and drink in this room." She closed the door, leaving Juanita to realise the grim fact that--shape our lives how we will, with all foresight--every care--the history of the world or of a nation will suddenly break into the story of the single life and march over it with a giant stride. Presently a lay-sister brought refreshments and set the tray on the table without speaking. Juanita knew her well--and she, doubtless, knew Juanita's story; for her pious face was drawn into lines indicative of the deepest disapproval. Juanita ate heartily enough, not noticing the cold simplicity of the fare. She had finished before Sor Teresa returned and without thinking of what she was doing, had rearranged the tray after the manner of the refectory. She was standing by the window which she had opened. The sounds of war came into the room with startling distinctness. The boom of the distant guns disputing the advance of the Carlists; while nearer, the bugles called the men to arms and the heavy tramp of feet came and went in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. "Well," asked Sor Teresa. "What have you decided to do?" Juanita listened to the alarm of war for a moment before turning from the window. "It is not a false alarm?" she inquired. "The Carlists are really out?" For she had fallen into the habit of the Northern Provinces, of speaking of the insurrection as if it were a recurrent flood. "They have been preparing all the winter," answered Sor Teresa. "And Pampeluna is to be invested?" "Yes." "And Torre Garda?..." "Torre Garda," answered the nun, "is to be taken this time. The Carlists have decided to besiege it. It is at the mouth of the valley that the fighting is taking place." "Then I will go back to Torre Garda," said Juanita. CHAPTER XXVI AT THE FORD "They will allow two nuns to pass anywhere," said Sor Teresa with her chilling smile as she led the way to her own cell in the corridor overhead. She provided Juanita with that dress which is a passport through any quarter of a town, across any frontier; to any battlefield. So Juanita took the veil at last--in order to return to Marcos. Sor Teresa's words proved true enough at the city gates where the sentinels recognised her and allowed her carriage to pass across the drawbridge by a careless nod of acquiescence to the driver. It was a clear dark night without a moon. The prevailing wind which hurries down from the Pyrenees to the warmer plains of Spain stirred the budding leaves of the trees that border the road below the town walls. "I suppose," said Sor Teresa suddenly, "that Evasio Mon was at Torre Garda to-day." "Yes." "And you left him there when you came away." "Yes." "We shall meet him on the road," said Sor Teresa with a note of anxiety in her voice. Presently she stood up in the carriage which was an open one on high wheels and spoke to the driver in a low voice into his ear. He was a stout and respectable man with a good ecclesiastical clientèle in the pious capital of Navarre. He had a confidential manner. The distant firing had ceased now and a great stillness reigned over the bare land. There are no trees here to harbour birds or to rustle in the wind. The man, nursing his horses for the long journey, drove at an easy pace. Juanita, usually voluble enough, seemed to have nothing to say to Sor Teresa. The driver could possibly overhear the conversation of his passengers. For this, or for another reason, Sor Teresa was silent. As they approached the hills, they found themselves in a more broken country. They climbed and descended with a rather irritating regularity. The spurs of the Pyrenees keep their form right down to the plains and the road to Torre Garda passes over them. Juanita leant sideways out of the carnage and stared upwards into the pine trees. "Do you see anything?" asked Sor Teresa. "No--I can see nothing." "There is a chapel up there, on the slope." "Our Lady of the Shadows," answered Juanita and lapsed into silence again. She knew now why the name had struck her with such foreboding, when she had learnt it from the lips of the laughing young captain of infantry. It told of calamity--the greatest that can happen to a woman--to be married without love. The driver turned in his seat and tried to overhear. He seemed uneasy and looked about him with quick turns of the head. At last, when his horses were mounting a hill, he turned round. "Did these sainted ladies hear anything?" he asked. "No," answered Sor Teresa. "Why do you ask?" "There has been a man on horseback on the road behind us," he answered with assumed carelessness, "all the way from Pampeluna. He has now taken a short cut and is in front on the road above us; I can hear him; that is all." And he gave a little cry to his horses; the signal for them to trot. They were approaching the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, and could hear the sound of its wild waters in the darkness below them. The valley opens out like a fan with either slope rising at an easy angle to the pine woods. The road is a cornice cut on the western bank upon which side it runs for ten miles until the bridge below the village of Torre Garda leads it across the river to the sunny slope where the village crouches below the ancient castle from which the name is taken. The horses were going at a walking pace now, and the driver to show, perhaps, his nonchalance and fearlessness was humming a song beneath his breath, when suddenly the hillside burst into flame and a deafening roar of musketry stunned both horses and driver. Juanita happened to be looking up at the hillside and she saw the fire run along like a snake of flame in the grass. In a moment the carriage had swung round and the horses were going at a gallop down the hill again. The driver stood up. He had a rein in either hand and he hauled the horses round each successive corner with consummate skill. All the while he used language which would have huddled Cousin Peligros shrieking in the bottom of the carriage. Juanita and Sor Teresa stood up and looked back. By the light of the firing they saw a man lying low on his horse's neck galloping headlong through the zone of death after them. "Did you hear the bullets?" said Juanita breathlessly. "They were like the wind through the telegraph-wires. Oh, I should like to be a man; I should like to be a soldier!" And she gave a low laugh of thrilling excitement. The driver was now pulling up his horses. He too laughed aloud. "It is the troops," he cried. "They thought we were the Carlists. But, who is this, Señoras? It is that man again." He leant back and hastily twisted one of the carriage-lamps round in its socket so as to show a light behind him towards the newcomer. As the rider pulled up he came within the rays of the lamp which was a powerful one; and at the sight of him Juanita gave a sharp cry which neither she nor any that heard it forgot to the end of their lives. "It is Marcos," she cried, clutching Sor Teresa's arm. "And he came through that--he came through that!" "No one hurt?" asked Marcos' deep voice. "No one hurt, Señor," answered the driver who had recognised him. "And the horses?" "The horses are safe. A malediction upon them; they nearly had us over the cliff. Those are the troops. They took us for Carlists." "No," said Marcos. "They are the Carlists. The troops have been driven farther up the valley where they are entrenched. They have sent to Pampeluna for help. This is a Carlist trap to catch the reinforcements as they approach. They thought your carriage was a gun." The driver scratched his head and made known his views as to the ancestory of the Carlists. "There is no getting into the valley to-night," said Marcos to Sor Teresa and Juanita. "You must return to Pampeluna." "And what will you do?" asked Juanita in a hard voice. "I will go on to Torre Garda on foot," answered Marcos speaking in French so that the driver should not hear and understand. "There is a way over the mountains which is known to two or three only." "Uncle Ramon is at Torre Garda?" asked Juanita in the same curt, quick way. "Yes." "Then I will go with you," she said with her hand already on the door. "It is sixteen miles," said Marcos, "over the high mountains. The last part can only be done by daylight. I shall be in the mountains all night." Juanita had opened the door. She stood on the step looking up at him as he sat on the tall black horse, "If you will take me," she said in French, "I will come with you." Sor Teresa was silent still. She had not spoken since Marcos had pulled up his sweating horse in the lamplight. What a simple world this would be if more of its women knew when to hold their tongues! Marcos, fresh from a bed of sickness was not fit to undertake this journey. He must already be tired out; for she knew that it was Marcos who had followed their carriage from Pampeluna. She guessed that finding no troops where he expected to find them he had ridden ahead to discover the cause of it and had passed unheard through the Carlist ambush and back again through the zone of fire. That Juanita could accomplish the journey on foot to Torre Garda seemed doubtful. The country was unsafe; the snows had hardly melted. It was madness for a wounded man and a girl to attempt to reach Torre Garda through a pass held by the enemy. But Sor Teresa said nothing. Marcos sat motionless in the saddle. His face was above the radius of the reversed carriage-lamp, while Juanita standing on the dusty road in her nun's dress looking up at him, was close to the glaring light. It is to be presumed that he was watching her descend from the carriage and then turn to shut the door on Sor Teresa. By his silence, Marcos seemed to consent to this arrangement. He came forward into the light now. In his hand he held a paper which he was unfolding. Juanita recognised the letter she had written to him in the drawing-room at Torre Garda. He tore the blank sheet off and folding the letter closely, replaced it in his pocket. Then he laid the blank sheet on the dusty splash-board of the carriage and wrote a few words in pencil. "You must get back to Pampeluna," he said to the driver in that tone of command which is the only survival of feudal days now left in Europe--and even the modern Spaniards are losing it--"at any cost--you understand. If you meet the reinforcements on the road give this note to the commanding officer. Take no denial; give it into his own hand. If you meet no troops go straight to the house of the commandant at Pampeluna and give the letter to him. You will see that it is done," he said in a lower voice, turning to Sor Teresa. The man protested that nothing short of death would prevent his carrying out the instructions. "It will be worth your while," said Marcos. "It will be remembered afterwards." He paused deep in thought. There were a hundred things to be considered at that moment; quickly and carefully. For he was going into the Valley of the Wolf, cut off from all the world by two armies watching each other with a deadly hatred. The quiet voice of Sor Teresa broke the silence, softly taking its place in his thoughts. It seemed that the Sarrion brain had the power--the secret of so much success in this world--of thrusting forth a sure and steady hand to grasp the heart of a question and tear it from the tangle of side-issues among which the majority of men and women are condemned to flounder. "Where is Evasio Mon?" she asked. Marcos answered with a low, contented laugh. "He is trapped in the valley," he said in French. "I have seen to that." The firing had ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and a silence only broken by the voice of the river, now hung over the valley. "Are you ready?" Sor Teresa asked her driver. "Yes, Excellency." "Then go." She may have nodded a farewell to Marcos and Juanita. But that they could not see in the blackness of the night. She certainly gave them no spoken salutation. The carriage moved away at a sharp trot, leaving Marcos and Juanita alone. "We can ride some distance and must ford the river higher up," said Marcos at once. He did not seem to want any explanation. The excitement of the moment seemed to have wiped out the events of the last few months like writing off a slate. Juanita was young again, ready to throw herself headlong into an adventure in the mountains with Marcos such as they had had together many times during the holidays. But this was better than the dangers of mere snow and ice. For Juanita had tasted that highest of emotions, the excitement of battle. She had heard that which some men having once heard cannot live without, the siren song of a bullet. "Are we going nearer to the Carlists?" she asked hurriedly. There was fighting blood in her veins, and the tones of her voice told clearly enough that it was astir at this moment. "Yes," answered Marcos. "We must pass underneath them; for the ford is there. We must be quite noiseless. We must not even whisper." He edged his horse towards one of the rough stones laid on the outer edge of the road to mark its limit at night. "I can only give you one hand," he said. "Can you get up from this stone?" "Behind you?" asked Juanita; "as we used to ride when I was--little?" For Marcos had, like most Spaniards, grown from boyhood to manhood in the saddle, and Juanita had no fear of horses. She clambered to the broad back of the Moor and settled herself there, sitting pillion fashion and holding herself in position with both hands round Marcos. "If he trots, I fall off," she said, with an eager laugh. They soon quitted the road and began to descend the steep slope towards the river by a narrow path only made visible by the open space in the high brushwood. It was the way down to a ford leading to a cottage by courtesy called a farm, though the cultivated land was scarcely an acre in extent, reclaimed from the river-bed. The ground was soft and mossy and the roar of the river covered the tread of the careful horse. In a few minutes they reached the water's edge, and after a moment's hesitation the Moor stepped boldly in. On the other bank Marcos whispered to Juanita to drop to the ground. "The cottage is here," he said. "I shall leave the horse in their shed." He descended from the saddle and they stood for a moment side by side. "Let us wait a few moments, the moon is rising," said Marcos. "Perhaps the Carlists have been here." As he spoke the sky grew lighter. In a minute or two a waning moon looked out over the sharp outline of hill and flooded the valley with a reddish light. "It is all right," he said; nothing is disturbed here. They are asleep in the cottage; the noise of the river must have drowned the firing. They are friends of mine; they will give us some food for to-morrow morning and another dress for you. You cannot go in that." "Oh!" laughed Juanita, "I have taken the veil. It is done now and cannot be undone." She raised her hands to the wings of her spreading cap as if to defend it against all comers. And Marcos, turning, suddenly threw his uninjured arm round her, imprisoning her struggling arms. He held her thus a prisoner while with his injured hand he found the strings of the cap. In a moment the starched linen fluttered out, fell into the river, and was carried swirling away. Juanita was still laughing, but Marcos did not answer to her gaiety. She recollected at that instant having once threatened to dress as a nun in order to alarm Marcos, and Sarrion's grave remark that it would of a certainty frighten him. They were silent for a moment. Then Juanita spoke with a sort of forced lightness. "You may have only one arm," she said, "but it is an astonishingly strong one!" And she looked at him surreptitiously beneath her lashes as she stood with her hands on her hair. CHAPTER XXVII IN THE CLOUDS Marcos tied his horse to a tree and led the way towards the cottage. It seemed to be innocent of bars and bolts. The ford, known to so few, and the evil name of the Wolf, served instead. The door opened at a push, and Marcos went in. A wood-fire smouldered on an open hearth, while the acrid smoke half-filled the room, blackened by the fumes of peat and charcoal. Marcos stood on the threshold and called the owner by name. There was a shuffling sound in an inner room and the scraping of a match. A minute later a door was opened and an old woman stood in the aperture, fully dressed and carrying a lamp above her head. "Ah!" she said. "It is you. I thought it was the voice of a friend. And you have your pretty wife there. What are you doing abroad at this hour ... the Carlists?" "Yes," answered Marcos, rather quickly, "the Carlists. We cannot pass by the road, so have sent the carriage back and are going across the mountains." The woman held up her hands and shook them from side to side in a gesture of horror. "Ah! but there!" she cried, "I know what you are. There is no turning your back on your road. If you say you will go--you will go though it rain rocks. But this child--ah, dear, dear! You do not know what you have married--with your bright eyes. Sit down, my child. I will get you what I can. Some coffee. I am alone in the house. All my men have gone to the high valley, now that the snow is gone, to collect wood and to see what the winter has done for our hut up in the mountain." Marcos thanked her, and explained that they wanted nothing but a roof under which to leave his horse. "We are going up to the higher valley to-night," he said, "where we shall find your husband and sons. And at daylight we must hurry on to Torre Garda. But I want to borrow a dress and handkerchief belonging to one of your daughters. See, the Señora cannot walk in that one, which is too fine and too long." "Oh, but my daughters ..." exclaimed the old woman, with deprecating hands. "They are very pretty girls," answered Marcos, with a laugh. "All the valley knows that." "They are not bad," admitted the mother, "but it is a flower compared to a cabbage. Still, we can hide the flower in the cabbage leaves if you like." And she laughed heartily at her own conceit. "Then see to it while I put my horse away," said Marcos. He quitted the hut and overheard the woman pointing out to Juanita that she had lost her mantilla coming through the trees in the dark. While he attended to his horse he could hear their laughter and gay conversation over the change of clothes; for Juanita understood these people as well as he did, and had grown through childhood to the age of thought in their midst. The peasant was still pressing a simple hospitality upon Juanita when Marcos returned to the cottage and found her ready for the journey. "I was telling the Señora," explained the woman volubly, "that she must not so much as look inside the cottage in the mountains. I have not been there for six months and the men--you know what they are. They are no better than dogs I tell them. There is plenty of clean hay and dry bracken in the sheds up there and you can well make a soft bed for her to get some sleep for a few hours. And here I have unfolded a new blanket for the lady. See, it is white as I bought it. She can use it. It has never been worn--by us others," she added with perfect simplicity. Marcos took the blanket while Juanita explained that having slept soundly every night of her life without exception, she could well now accommodate herself with a rest of two hours in the hay. The woman pressed upon them some of her small store of coffee and some new bread. "He can well prepare your breakfast for you," she said, confidentially to Juanita. "He is like one of us. All the valley will tell you that. A great gentleman who can yet cook his own breakfast--as the good God meant them to be." They set forth at once in the yellow light of the waning moon, Marcos leading the way up a pathway hardly discernible amid the rocks and undergrowth. Once or twice he turned to help Juanita over a hard or a dangerous place. But they did not talk, as conversation was not only difficult but inexpedient. They had climbed for two hours, slowly and steadily, when the barking of a dog on the mountainside above them notified them that they were nearing their destination. "Who is it?" asked a voice presently. "Marcos de Sarrion," replied Marcos. "Strike no lights." "We have no candles up here," answered the man with a laugh. He only spoke Basque and it was in this language that Marcos gave a brief explanation. Juanita sat on a rock. She was tired out. There were three men--short, thick-set and silent, a father and two sons. They stood in front of Marcos and spoke in monosyllables after the manner of old friends. Under his directions they brought a heap of dried bracken and hay. In a shed, little more than a roof and four uprights, they made a rough couch for Juanita which they hedged round with heaps of bracken to protect her from the wind. "You will see the stars," said the old man shaking out the blanket which Marcos had carried up from the cottage at the ford. "It is good to see the stars when you awake in the night. One remembers that the saints are watching." In a few minutes Juanita was sleeping, like a child, curled up beneath her blanket, and heard through her dreams the low voices of Marcos and the peasants talking hurriedly in the half-ruined cottage. For Marcos and these three were the only men who knew the way over the mountains to Torre Garda. The dawn was just breaking when Marcos awoke Juanita. "Oh," she said plaintively. "I have only been asleep ten minutes." "You have slept three hours," replied Marcos in that hushed voice in which it seems natural to speak before the dawn. "I am making coffee--come when you are ready." Juanita found a pail of water and a piece of last year's yellow soap which had been carefully scraped clean with a knife. A clean towel had also been provided. Juanita noted the manly simplicity of these attentions with a little tender and wise smile. "I know what it is that makes men gipsies," she said, when she joined Marcos who was attending to a fire of sticks on the ground at the cottage door. "I shall always have a kindly feeling for them now. They get something straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleep in stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water." She gave a little shiver at the recollection of her ablutions, and laughed a clear, low laugh, as fresh as the morning itself. "Where are the men?" she asked. "One has gone to Pampeluna, one has taken a note to the officer commanding the reinforcements sent for by Zeneta. The third has gone down to fetch his mother up here to bake bread all day. There will be a little army here to-night." Juanita stood watching Marcos who seemed entirely absorbed in blowing up the fire with a pair of dilapidated bellows. "I suppose," she said lightly, "that it was of these things that you were thinking when you were so silent as we climbed up here last night." "I suppose so," answered Marcos. Juanita looked at him with a little frown as if she did not quite believe him. The day had now come and a pink light suffused the topmost peaks. A faint warmth spread itself like a caress across the valley and turned the cold air into a pearly mist. "Of what are you thinking?" asked Marcos suddenly; for Juanita had stood motionless, watching him. "I was thinking what a comfort it is that you are not an indoor man," she replied with a careless laugh. The peasants had brought their cows to the high pastures. So there was plenty of milk in the cottage which was little more than a dairy; for it had no furniture beyond a few straw mattresses thrown on the floor in one corner. Marcos served breakfast. "Pedro particularly told me to see that you had the cup which has a handle," he said, pouring the coffee from a battered coffee-pot. During their simple breakfast they were silent. There was a subtle constraint. Juanita who had a quick and direct mind, decided that the moment had come for that explanation for which Marcos did not ask. An explanation does not improve by keeping. They were alone here--alone in the world it seemed--for the cows had strayed away. The dogs had gone to the valley with their masters. She and Marcos had always known each other. She knew his every thought; she was not afraid of him; she never had been. Why should she be now? "Marcos," she said. "Yes." "I want you to give me the letter I wrote to you at Torre Garda." He felt in his pocket and handed her the first paper he found without particularly looking at it. Juanita unfolded it. It was the note, all crumpled, which she had thrust through the wall of the convent school at Saragossa. She had forgotten it, but Marcos had kept it all this time. "That is the wrong one," she said gravely, and handed it back to Marcos, who took it with a little jerk of the head as of annoyance at his own stupidity. He was usually very accurate in details. He gave her in exchange the right paper, which had been torn in two. The other half is in the military despatch office in Madrid to-day. Juanita had arranged in her own mind what to say. She was quite mistress of the situation, and was ready to move serenely and surely in her own sphere, taking the lead in such subtle matters with the capability and mastery which characterised Marcos' lead in affairs of action. But Marcos' mistake seemed to have put out her prearranged scheme. She slowly tore the letter into pieces and threw it on the fire. "Do you know why I came back?" she asked, which question can hardly have formed part of the plan of action. "No." "Because you never pretended that you cared. If you had pretended that you cared for me, I should never have forgiven you." Marcos did not answer. He looked up slowly, expecting perhaps to find her looking elsewhere. But her eyes met his and she shrank back with an involuntary movement that seemed to be of fear. Her face flushed all over and then the colour faded from it, leaving her white and motionless as she sat staring into the flickering wood-fire. Presently she rose and walked to the edge of the plateau upon which the hut was built. She stood there looking across to the mountains. Marcos busied himself with the simple possessions of his host, setting them in order where he had found them and treading out the smouldering embers of the fire. Juanita turned and watched him over her shoulder with a mystic persistency. Beneath her lashes lurked a smile--triumphant and tender. CHAPTER XXVIII LE GANT DE VELOURS They accomplished the rest of the journey without accident. The old spirit of adventure which had led them to these mountains while they were yet children seemed to awaken again, and they were as comrades. But Juanita was absent-minded. She was not climbing skilfully. At one place far above trees or other vegetation she made a false step and sent a great rock rolling down the slope. "You must be careful," said Marcos, almost sharply. "You are not thinking what you are doing." And Juanita suffered the reproof with an unwonted meekness. She was more careful while they passed over a dangerous slope where the snow had softened in the morning sun, and came to the topmost valley--an oval basin of rocks and snow with no visible outlet. Immediately below them, at the foot of a slope, which looked quite feasible, lay huddled the body of a man. "It is a Carlist," explained Marcos. "We heard some time ago that they had been trying to find another way over to Torre Garda. That valley is a trap. That is not the way to Torre Garda at all; and that slope is solid ice. See, his knife lies beside him. He tried to cut steps before he died. This is our way." And he led Juanita rather hastily away. At nine o'clock they passed the last shoulder and stood above Torre Garda, and the valley of the Wolf lying in the sunlight below them. The road down the valley lay like a yellow ribbon stretched across the broad breast of Nature. Half an hour later they reached the pine woods, and heard Perro barking on the terrace. The dog soon came panting to meet them, and not far behind him Sarrion, whose face betrayed no surprise at perceiving Juanita. "You would have been safer at Pampeluna," he said with a keen glance into her face. "I am quite safe enough here, thank you," she answered, meeting his eyes with a steady smile. He asked Marcos whether he had felt his wounded shoulder or suffered from so much exertion. And Juanita answered more fully than Marcos, giving details which she had certainly not learnt from himself. A man having once been nursed in sickness by a woman parts with some portion of his personal liberty which she never relinquishes. "It is the result of good nursing," said Sarrion, slipping his hand inside Juanita's arm and walking by her side. "It is the result of his great strength," she answered, with a glance towards Marcos, which he did not perceive, for he was looking straight in front of him. "Uncle Ramon," said Juanita, an hour later when they were sitting on the terrace together. She turned towards him suddenly with her shrewd little smile. "Uncle Ramon--do you ever play Pelota?" "Every Basque plays Pelota," he replied. Juanita nodded and lapsed into reflective silence. She seemed to be arranging something in her mind. Towards Sarrion, as towards Marcos, she assumed at times an attitude of protection, and almost of patronage, as if she knew much that was hidden from them and had access to some chamber of life of which the door was closed to all men. "Does it ever strike you," she said at length, "that in a game of Pelota--supposing the ball to be endowed with a ... well a certain lower form of intelligence, the intelligence of a mere woman, for instance--it would be rather natural for it to wonder what on earth the game was about? It might even think that it had a certain right to know what was happening to it." "Yes," admitted Sarrion, who having a quick and eager mind, understood that Juanita was preparing to speak plainly. And at such times women always speak more plainly than men. He lighted a cigarette, threw away the match with a little gesture which seemed to indicate that he was ready for her--would meet her on her own ground. "Why did Evasio Mon want me to go into religion?" she asked bluntly. "My child--you have three million pesetas." "And if I had gone into religion--and I nearly did--the Church would have had them?" "Pardon me," said Sarrion. "The Jesuits--not the Church. It is not the same thing--though the world does not yet understand that. The Jesuits would have had the money and they would have spent it in throwing Spain into another civil war which would have been a worse war than we have seen. The Church--our Church--has enemies. It has Bismarck, and the English; but it has no worse enemy than the Jesuits. For they play their own game." "At Pelota! and you and Marcos?" "We were on the other side," said Sarrion, with a shrug of the shoulders. "And I have been the ball." Sarrion glanced at her sideways. This was the moment that Marcos had always anticipated. Sarrion wondered why he should have to meet it and not Marcos. Juanita sat motionless with steady eyes fixed on the distant mountains. He looked at her lips and saw there a faint smile not devoid of pity--as if she knew something of which he was ignorant. He pulled himself together; for he was a bold man who faced his fences with a smile. "Well," he said, "... since we have won." "Have you won?" Sarrion glanced at her again. Why did she not speak plainly, he was wondering. In the subtler matters of life, women have a clearer comprehension and a plainer speech than men. When they are tongue-tied--the reason is a strong one. "At all events Señor Mon does not know when he is beaten," said Juanita, and the silence that followed was broken by the distant sound of firing. They were fighting at the mouth of the valley. "That is true," admitted Sarrion. "They say he is trapped in the valley--as we are." "So I believe." "Will he come to Torre Garda?" "As likely as not," answered Sarrion. "He has never lacked audacity." "If he comes I should like to speak to him," said Juanita. Sarrion wondered whether she intended to make Evasio Mon understand that he was beaten. It was Mon himself who had said that the woman always holds the casting vote. "At all events," said Juanita, who seemed to have returned in her thoughts to the question of winning or losing. "At all events, you played a bold game." "That is why we won," said Sarrion, stoutly. "And you did not heed the risks." "What risks?" Juanita turned and looked at him with a little laugh of scorn. "Oh, you do not understand. Neither does Marcos. I suppose men don't. You might have ruined several lives." "So might Evasio Mon," returned Sarrion sharply. And Juanita rather drew back as a fencer may flinch who has been touched. Sarrion leant back in his chair and threw away the cigarette which he had not smoked. Juanita had chosen her own ground and he had met her on it. He had answered the question which she was too proud to ask. And as he had anticipated, Evasio Mon came to Torre Garda. It was almost dusk when he arrived. Whether he knew that Marcos was not in his room, remained an open question. He did not ask after him. He was brought by the servant to the terrace where he found Cousin Peligros and Juanita. Sarrion was in his study and came out when Mon passed the open window. "So we are all besieged," said the visitor, with his tolerant smile as he took a chair offered to him in the grand manner by Cousin Peligros, who belonged to the school of etiquette that holds it wrong for any lady to be natural in the presence of men other than of her own family. Cousin Peligros smiled in rather a pinched way, and with a gesture of her outspread hands morally wiped the besiegers out. No female Sarrion, she seemed to imply, need ever fear inconvenience from a person in uniform. "You and I, Señorita," said Mon, with his bland and easy sympathy of manner, "have no business here. We are persons of peace." Cousin Peligros made a condescending and yet decisive gesture, patting the empty air. "I have my charge. I shall fulfil it," she said--determined, and not without a suggestion of coyness withal. Juanita was lying in wait for a glance from Sarrion and when she received it she made a little movement of the eyelids, telling him to take Cousin Peligros away. "You will stay the night," said Sarrion to Evasio Mon. "No, my friend. Thank you very much. I cherish a hope of getting through the lines to-night to Pampeluna. I came indeed to offer my poor services as escort to these ladies who will surely be safer at Pampeluna." "Then you think that they will besiege Torre Garda," asked Sarrion, innocently. "One never knows, my friend--one never knows. It seems to me that the firing is nearer this afternoon." Sarrion laughed. "You are always hearing guns." Mon turned and looked at him and there was a suggestion of melancholy in his smile. "Ah! Ramon," he said. "You and I have heard them all our lives." And there was perhaps a second meaning in his words, known only to Sarrion, whose face softened for an instant. "Let us have some coffee," he said, turning to Cousin Peligros. "Will you see to it, Peligros--in the library?" So Peligros walked across the broad terrace with the mincing steps taught in the thirties, leaving Mon hatless with a bowed head according to the etiquette of those leisurely days. He was all things, to all men. "By the way ..." said Sarrion, and followed her without completing his sentence. So Juanita and Evasio Mon were left alone on the terrace. Juanita was sitting rather upright in a garden chair. The only seat near to her was the easy chair just vacated by Cousin Peligros. Mon looked at it. He glanced at Juanita and then drew it forward. She turned, and with a smile and gesture invited him to be seated. A watchful look came into Evasio Mon's quick eyes behind the glasses that reflected the last rays of the setting sun. For the young and the guilty, silence has a special terror. Mon had dealt with the young and the guilty all his life. He sat down without speaking. He was waiting for Juanita. Juanita moved her toe within her neat black slipper, looking at it critically. She was waiting for Evasio Mon. He paused as a duellist may pause with his best weapons laid out on the table before him, wondering which one to select. Perhaps he suspected that Juanita held the keenest; that deadly plain-speaking. His subtle training had taught him to sink self so completely that it was easy to him to insinuate his mind into the thoughts of another; to understand them, almost to sympathise with them. But Juanita puzzled him. There is no face so baffling as that which a woman shows the world when she is hiding her heart. "I spoke as a friend," said Mon, "when I recommended you to allow me to escort you to Pampeluna." "I know that you always speak as a friend," answered Juanita quietly, "... of mine. Not of Marcos, perhaps." "Ah, but your friends are Marcos'," said Mon, with a suggestion of raillery in his voice. "And his enemies are mine," she retorted, looking straight in front of her. "Of course--is it not written in the marriage service?" Mon laughingly turned in his chair and cast a glance up at the windows as he spoke. They were beyond earshot of the house. "But why should I be an enemy of Marcos de Sarrion?" Then Juanita unmasked her guns. "Because he outwitted you and married me," she answered. "For your money--" "Yes, for my money. He was quite honest about it, I assure you. He told me that it was a matter of business--of politics. That was the word he used." "He told you that?" asked Mon in real surprise. Juanita nodded her head. She was looking at her own slipper again and the moving foot within it. There was a mystic little smile at the corner of her lips which tilted upwards there, as humorous and tender lips nearly always do. It suggested that she knew something which even Evasio Mon, the all-wise, did not know. "And you believed him?" inquired Mon, dimly groping at the meaning of the smile. "He told me that it was the only way of escaping you ... and the rest of them ... and Religion," answered Juanita--without answering the question. "And you believed him?" repeated Mon, which was a mistake; for she turned on him at once and answered, "Yes." Mon shrugged his shoulders with the tolerant air of one who has met defeat time after time; who expected naught else perhaps. "Then there is nothing more to be said," he observed carelessly. "You elect to remain at Torre Garda. I bow to your decision, my child. I have warned you." "Against Marcos?" Mon shrugged his shoulders a second time. "And in reply to your warning," said Juanita slowly. "I will tell you that Marcos has never done or said anything unworthy of a Spanish gentleman--and there is no better gentleman in the world." Which statement all men will assuredly be ready to admit. Mon turned and looked at her with an odd smile. "Ah!" he said. "You have fallen in love with Marcos." Juanita changed colour and her eyes suddenly lighted with anger. "I am not afraid of anything you may say or do," she said. "I have Marcos. Marcos has always outwitted you when you have come in contact with him. Marcos is cleverer than you. He is stronger." She paused. Mon was slowly drawing his gloves through his hands which were white and smooth. "That is the difference between you," she continued. "You wear gloves. Marcos takes hold of life with his bare hand. You may be more cunning, but Marcos outwits you. The mind seeks but the heart finds. Your mind may be subtle--but Marcos has a better heart." Mon had risen. He stood with his face half turned away from her so that she could only see his profile. And for a moment she was sorry for him; that one moment which always mars an earthly victory. He turned away from her and walked slowly towards the library window which stood open and gave passage to the sound of moving cups and saucers. We all carry with us through life the remembrance of certain words probably forgotten by the speaker. A few bear the keener, sharper memory of words unspoken. Juanita never forgot the silence of Evasio Mon as he walked away from her. A moment later she heard him laughing and talking in the library. He had come on horseback and Sarrion accompanied him to the stables on his departure. They were both young for their years. The Spaniards of the north are thin and lithe and long-lived. Sarrion offered his hand for Mon's knee, who with this aid sprang into the saddle. He turned and looked towards the terrace. "Juanita," he said, and paused. "She is no longer a child. One hopes that she may have a happy life ... seeing that so many do not." Sarrion made no answer. "We are not weaklings," continued Mon lightly. "You, and Marcos and I. We may sweat and toil as we will--but believe me, there is more power in Juanita's little finger. It is the casting vote--amigo--the casting vote." He waved a salutation as he rode away. CHAPTER XXIX LA MAIN DE FER Juanita was very early astir the next morning. The house was peculiarly quiet, but she knew that Marcos, if he had been abroad, had now returned; for Perro was lying on the terrace in the sunlight watching the library window. Juanita went to that room and there found Marcos writing letters. A map of the Valley of the Wolf lay open on the table beside him. "You are always writing letters," she said. "You began writing them on the splash-board of the carriage at the mouth of the valley and you have been doing it ever since." "They are making use of my knowledge of the valley," he replied. He continued his task after a very quick glance up at her. Juanita had found out that he rarely looked at her. "I am not at all tired after our adventure," she said. "I made up last night for the want of sleep. Do I look tired?" "Not at all," answered Marcos, glancing no higher than her waist. "But I had a dream," she said. "It was so vivid that I am not sure now that it was a dream. I am not sure that I did not in reality get out of bed quite early in the morning, before daylight, when the moon was just touching the mountains, and look out of my window. And the terrace, Marcos, was covered with soldiers; rows and rows of them, like shadows. And at the end, beneath my window, stood a group of men. Some were officers; one looked like General Pacheco, fat with a chuckling laugh; another seemed to be Captain Zeneta--the friend who stood by us in the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows--who was saying his prayers, you remember. Most young men are too conceited to say their prayers nowadays. And there were two civilians, in riding-boots all dusty, who looked singularly like you and Uncle Ramon. It was an odd dream, Marcos--was it not?" "Yes," answered he with a laugh. "Do not tell it to the wrong people as Joseph did." "No, your reverence," she said. She stood looking at him with grave eyes. "Is there going to be a battle?" she asked, curtly. "Yes." "Where?" He pointed down into the valley with his pen. "Just above the bridge if it all comes off as they have planned." She went out on to the terrace and looked down into the valley, which was peaceful enough in the morning light. The thin smoke of the pine wood-fires rose from the chimneys in columns of brilliant blue. The sheep on the slopes across the valley were calling to their lambs. Then Juanita returned to the library window and stood on the threshold, with brooding eyes and a bright patch of colour in her cheeks. "Will you do me a favour?" she asked. "Of course." He lifted his pen from the paper, but did not look up. "If there is a battle--if there is any fighting, will you take great care of yourself? It would be so terrible if anything happened to you ... for Uncle Ramon I mean." "Yes," answered Marcos, gravely. "I understand. I promise to take care." Juanita still lingered at the window. "And you always keep your promises, don't you? To the letter?" "Why shouldn't I?" "No, of course not. It is characteristic of you, that is all. Your promise is a sort of rock that nothing can move. Women, you know, make a promise and then ask to be let off; you would not do that?" "No," answered Marcos, quite simply. In Navarre the hours of meals are much the same as those that rule in England to-day. At one o'clock luncheon both Marcos and Sarrion were at home. The valley seemed quiet enough. The soldiers of Juanita's dream seemed to have vanished like the shadows to which she compared them. "I am sure," said Cousin Peligros, while they were still at the table, "that the sound of firing approaches. I have a very delicate hearing. All my senses are very highly developed. The sound of the firing is nearer, Marcos." "Zeneta is retreating slowly before the enemy, with his small force," explained Marcos. "But why is he doing that? He must surely know that there are ladies at Torre Garda." "Ladies are not articles of war," said Juanita with a frivolous disregard of Cousin Peligros' reproving face. "And this is war." As she spoke Marcos rose and quitted the room after glancing at his watch. Juanita followed him. "Marcos," she said, in the hall, having closed the dining-room door behind her. "Will you tell me what time it will begin?" "Zeneta is timed to retreat across the bridge at three o'clock. The enemy will, it is hoped, follow him." "And where will you be?" "I shall be with Pacheco and his staff on the hill behind Pedro's mill. You will see a little flag wherever Pacheco is." Cousin Peligros' delicate hearing had not been deceived. The firing was now close at hand. The valley takes a turn to the left below the ridge and upon the hillside above this corner the white irregular line of smoke now became visible. In a few minutes the dark mass of Zeneta's men appeared on the road at the corner. He was before his time. The men were running. They raised the dust like a troop of sheep and moved in a halo of it. Every hundred yards they stopped and fired a volley. They were acting with perfect regularity and from a distance looked like toy soldiers. They were retreating in good order and the sound of their volleys came at regular intervals. On the bridge they halted. They were going to make a stand here, as would seem natural. Had they had artillery they could have effectually held this strong and narrow place. It now became apparent that they were a woefully small detachment. They could not spare men to take up positions on the rocky hillside behind them. There was a pause. The Carlists were waiting for their skirmishers to come in from heights above the road. Sarrion and Juanita stood at the edge of the terrace. Sarrion was watching with a quick and comprehensive glance. "Is General Pacheco a good general?" asked Juanita. "Excellent." Sarrion did not comment further on this successful soldier. "They played me false," the General had told him indignantly a few hours earlier. "They promised me a good sum--yes a sufficient sum. But when the time came the money was not forthcoming. An awkward position; but I found a way out of it." "By being loyal," suggested Sarrion with a short laugh and there the conversation ceased. Juanita looked across the valley towards Pedro's mill. There was no flag there. All the valley was peaceful enough, giving in the brilliant sunshine no glint of sword or bayonet. On the bridge, the little knot of men awaited the advent of the Carlists forming up round the corner. In a moment these came, swarming over the road and the hillside. The roadway was packed with them, the rocks and the bushes above the river seemed alive with them. They fired independently, and the hillside was white in a moment. The royalist troops on the bridge fired one volley and then turned. They ran straight along the road. Some threw down their knapsacks. One or two stopped, seemed to hesitate and then laid them down on the road like a tired child. Others limped to the side and sat there. All the while the Carlists came on. The rear ranks were still coming round the corner. The skirmishers were already across the bridge. There was only one place for Zeneta's men to run to now--the castle of Torre Garda. They were already at the foot of the slope. Juanita and Sarrion could distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the road behind his men, sword in hand. Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for the most part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men. They began to climb the slope, and Zeneta took up his position on a rock jutting out of the hillside. He stood on tiptoe and watched the bridge. The last of the Carlists were on it now. Juanita could see his eager face, with intrepid eyes alert, and lips apart, drawn back over his teeth. She glanced at Sarrion, whose lips were the same. His eyes glittered. He was biting his lower lip. As the last man ran across the bridge on the heels of his comrades, Zeneta looked across the valley towards the water mill. He waved his handkerchief high above his head. A little flag fluttered above the trees growing round the mill-wheel. Cousin Peligros being only human now came to the terrace to see what was happening. She had taken the precaution of putting on her mittens and opening her parasol. "What is the meaning of this noise?" she asked; but neither Sarrion nor Juanita seemed to hear her. They were watching the little flag, which seemed to be descending the hill. So close beneath the house were Zeneta's men now, that those on the terrace could hear his voice. "The bridge," said Sarrion, under his breath. "Look at the bridge!" It was half hidden in the smoke that still hovered in the air, but something was taking place there. Men were running hither and thither. The sunlight glittered on uniform and bayonet. "Guns!" said Sarrion curtly, and as he spoke the whole valley shook beneath their feet. A roar seemed to arise from the river and spread all up the hills, and simultaneously a cloak of white smoke was laid over the green slopes. Juanita saw Zeneta stand for a moment, with sword upheld, while his men gathered round him. Then with a wild shout of exultation he led them down the hill again. Before he had run ten paces he fell--his feet seemed to slip from under him, and he lay at full length for a moment--then he was up again and at the head of his men. A bullet came singing up over the low brushwood and a distant tinkle of falling glass told that it had found its billet in a window. The bushes in the garden seemed suddenly alive with rustling life and Sarrion dragged Juanita back from the balustrade. "No--no!" she said angrily. "Yes--I promised Marcos," answered Sarrion with his arm round her waist. In a moment they were in the library where they found Cousin Peligros in an easy chair with folded hands and the face of a very early Christian martyr. "I have never been treated like this before," she said severely. Sarrion stood at the window, keeping Juanita in. "It will be all over in a few minutes," he said. "Holy Virgin! What a lesson for them." The din was terrible. The lady of delicate hearing placed her hands over her ears not forgetting to curl her little finger in the manner deemed irresistible by her generation. Quite suddenly the firing ceased as if by the turning of a tap. "There," said Sarrion, "it is over. Marcos said they were to be taught a lesson. They have learnt it." He quitted the room taking his hat which he had thrown aside. Juanita went to the terrace. She could see nothing. The whole valley was hidden in smoke which rolled upward in yellow clouds. The air choked her. She came back to the library, coughing, and went towards the door. "Juanita," said Cousin Peligros, "I forbid you to leave the room. I absolutely refuse to be left alone." "Then call your maid," said Juanita, patiently. "Where are you going?" "I am going to follow Uncle Ramon down to the valley. There must be hundreds of wounded. I can do something----" "Then I forbid you to go. It is permissible for Marcos to identify himself with such proceedings--in protection of those whom Providence has placed under his care. Indeed I should expect it of him. It is his duty to defend Torre Garda." Juanita looked at the supine form in the easy chair. "Yes," she answered. "And I am mistress of Torre Garda." Which, perhaps, had a double meaning, for when she closed the door--not without emphasis--Cousin Peligros sat upright with a start. Juanita hurried out of the house and ran down the road winding on the slope to the village. The smoke choked her; the air was impregnated with sulphur. It seemed impossible that anybody could have lived through these hellish minutes that were passed. In front of her she saw Sarrion hurrying in the same direction. A moment later she gave a little cry of joy. Marcos was riding up the slope at a gallop. He pulled up when he saw his father and by the time he had quitted the saddle, Juanita was with him. Marcos' face was gray beneath the sunburn. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were pressed upward in a line of deadly resolution. It was the face of a man who had seen something that he would never forget. He looked at his father. "Evasio Mon," he said. "Killed?" Marcos nodded his head. "You did not do it?" said Sarrion sharply. "No. They found him among the Carlists, There were five or six priests. It was Zeneta--wounded himself--who recognised him and told me. He was not dead when Zeneta found him--and he spoke. 'Always the losing game,' he said. Then he smiled--and died." Sarrion turned and led the way slowly back again towards the house. Juanita seemed to have forgotten her intention of going to the valley to offer help to the nursing-sisters who lived in the village. Marcos' horse, the Moor, was shaking and dragged on the bridle which he had slipped over his arm. He jerked angrily at the reins, looking back with a little exclamation of impatience. Juanita took the bridle from his arm and led the horse which followed her quietly enough. She said nothing and asked no questions. But she was watching Marcos' face--wondering, perhaps, if it would ever soften again. Sarrion was the first to speak. "Poor Mon," he said, half addressing Juanita. "He was never a fortunate man. He took the wrong turning years ago. He abandoned the Church in order to ask a woman to marry him. But she had scruples. She thought, or she was made to think, that her duty lay in another direction. And Mon's life ... well ...!" He shrugged his shoulders. "I know," said Juanita quietly ... "all about it." CHAPTER XXX THE CASTING VOTE There is in one corner of the little churchyard of Torre Garda a square mound which marks the burial-place, in one grave, of four hundred Carlists. The Wolf, it is said, carried as many more to the sea. General Pacheco completed his teaching at the mouth of the valley where the Carlists had left in a position (impregnable from the front) a strong detachment to withstand the advance of any reinforcements that might be sent from Pampeluna to the relief of Captain Zeneta and his handful of men. These were taken in the rear by the force under General Pacheco himself and annihilated. This is, however, a matter of history as is also the reputation of Pacheco. "A great general--a brute," they say of him in Spain to this day. By sunset all was quiet again at Torre Garda. The troops quitted the village as unobtrusively as they had come. They had lost but few men and half a dozen wounded were left behind in the village. The remainder were moved to Pampeluna. The Carlist list of wounded was astonishingly small. General Pacheco had the reputation of moving quickly. He was rarely hampered by his ambulance and never by the enemy's wounded. He was a great general. Cousin Peligros did not appear at dinner. She had an attack of nerves instead. "I understand nerves," said Juanita lightly when she announced that Cousin Peligros' chair would remain vacant. "Was I not educated in a convent? You need not be anxious. Yes--she will take a little soup--a little more than that. And all the other courses." After dinner Cousin Peligros notified through her maid that she felt well enough to see Marcos. When he returned from this interview he joined Sarrion and Juanita in the drawing-room, and he looked grave. "You have seen for yourself that there is not much the matter with her," said Juanita, watching his face. "Yes," he answered rather absent-mindedly. "There is not much the matter with her." He did not sit down but stood with a preoccupied air and looked at the wood-fire which was still grateful in the evening at such an altitude as that of Torre Garda. "She will not stay," he said at last. "She says she is going to-morrow." Sarrion gave a short laugh and turned over the newspaper that he was reading. Juanita was reading an English book, with a dictionary which she never consulted when Marcos was near. She looked over its pages into the fire. "Then let her go," she said slowly and distinctly. And in a silence which followed, the colour slowly mounted to her face. Marcos glanced at her and spoke at once. "There is no question of doing anything else," he said, with a laugh that sounded uneasy. "She will have nerves until she sees a lamp-post again. She is going to Madrid." "Ah!" "And she wants you to go with her and stay," said Marcos, bluntly. "It is very kind of her," answered Juanita in a cool and even voice. "You know, I am afraid Cousin Peligros and I should not get on very well--not if we sat indoors for long together, and kept our hands white." "Then you do not care to go to Madrid with her?" inquired Marcos. Juanita seemed to weigh the pros and cons of the matter with her head at a measuring angle while she looked into the fire. "No ... No," she answered. "I think not, thank you." "You know," Marcos explained with an odd ring of excitement in his voice. "I am afraid we shall have a bad name all over Spain after this. They always did think that we were only brigands. It will be difficult to get anybody to come here." Juanita made no answer to this. Sarrion was reading the paper very attentively. But it was he who spoke first. "I must go to Saragossa," he said, without looking up from his paper. "Perhaps Juanita will take compassion on my solitude there." "I always feel that it is a pity to go away from Torre Garda just as the spring is coming," said she, conversationally. "Don't you think so?" She glanced at Marcos as she spoke, but the remark must have been addressed to Sarrion, whose reply was inaudible. For some reason the two men seemed ill at ease and tongue-tied. There was a dull glow in Marcos' eyes. Juanita was quite cool and collected and mistress of the situation. "You know," said Marcos at length in his direct way, "that it is only of your happiness that I am thinking--you must do what you like best." "And you know that I subscribe to Marcos' polite desire," said Sarrion with a light laugh. "I know you are an old dear," answered Juanita, jumping up and throwing aside her book. "And now I am going to bed." She kissed Sarrion and smoothed back his gray hair with a quick and light touch. "Good-night, Marcos," she said as she passed the door which he held open. She gave him the friendly little nod of a comrade--but she did not look at him. The next morning Cousin Peligros took her departure from Torre Garda. "I wash my hands," she said, with the usual gesture, "of the whole affair." As her maid was seated in the carriage beside her she said no more. It remained uncertain whether she washed her hands of the Carlist war or of Juanita. She gave a sharp sigh and made no answer to Sarrion's hope that she would have a pleasant journey. "I have arranged," said Marcos, "that two troopers accompany you as far as Pampeluna, though the country will be quiet enough to-day. Pacheco has pacified it." "I thank you," replied Cousin Peligros, who included domestic servants in her category of persons in whose presence it is unladylike to be natural. She bowed to them and the carriage moved away. She was one of those fortunate persons who never see themselves as others see them, but move through existence surrounded by a halo, or a haze, of self-complacency, through which their perception cannot penetrate. The charitable were ready to testify that there was no harm in her. Hers was merely one of a million lives in which man can find no fault and God no fruit. Soon after her departure Sarrion and Marcos set out on horseback towards the village. There was another traveler there awaiting their Godspeed on a longer journey, towards a peace which he had never known. It was in the house of the old cura of Torre Garda that Sarrion looked his last on the man with whom he had played in childhood's days--with whom he had never quarrelled, though he had tried to do so often enough. The memory he retained of Evasio Mon was not unpleasant; for he was smiling as he lay in the darkened room of the priest's humble house. He was bland even in death. "I shall go and place some flowers on his grave," said Juanita, as they sat on the terrace after luncheon and Sarrion smoked his cigarettes. "Now that I have forgiven him." Marcos was sitting sideways on the broad balustrade, swinging one foot in its dusty riding-boot. He could see Juanita from where he sat. He usually could see her from where he elected to sit. But when she turned he was never looking at her. She had only found this out lately. "Have you forgiven him already?" asked he, with his dark eyes fixed on her half averted face. "I knew that it was easy to forget the dead, but to forgive ..." "Oh--it was not when he was killed that I forgave him." "Then when was it?" Juanita laughed lightly and shook her head. "I am not going to tell you that," she answered. "It is a secret between Evasio Mon and myself. He will understand when I place the flowers on his grave ... as much as men ever do understand." She vouchsafed no explanation of this ambiguous speech, but sat in silence looking with contemplative eyes across the valley. Sarrion was seated a few yards away. At times he glanced through the cigarette smoke at Juanita and Marcos. Suddenly he drew in his feet and sat upright. "Dinner at seven to-night," he said, briskly. "If you have no objection." "Why?" asked Juanita. "I am going to Saragossa." "To-night?" she asked hastily and stopped short. Marcos sat motionless. Sarrion lighted another cigarette and forgot to answer her question. Juanita flushed and held her lips between her teeth. Then she turned her head and looked at Sarrion from the corner of her eyes. She searched him from his keen, brown face--said by some to be the handsomest face in Spain--to his neat and firmly planted feet. But there was nothing written for her to read. He had forced her hand and she did not know whether he had done it on purpose or not. She knew her own mind, however. She was called upon to decide her whole life then and there. And she knew her own mind. "Seven o'clock," said the mistress of Torre Garda, rising and going towards the house. "I will go at once and see to it." She, presumably, carried out her intention of visiting Evasio Mon's grave, and perhaps said a prayer in the little chapel near to it for the repose of the soul of the man whom she had forgiven so suddenly and completely. She did not return to the terrace at all events, and the Sarrions went about their own affairs during the afternoon without seeing her again. At dinner Sarrion was unusually light-hearted and Juanita accommodated herself to his humour with that ease which men so rarely understand in women and seldom acquire for themselves. Sarrion spoke of Saragossa as if it were across the road and intimated that he would be coming and going between the two houses during the spring, and until the great heats made the plains of Aragon uninhabitable. "But," he said, "you see how it is with Marcos. The Valley of the Wolf is his care and he dare not leave it for many days together." When the parting came Juanita made light of it, herself turning Sarrion's fur collar up about his ears and buttoning his coat. For despite his sixty years he was a hardy man, and never made use of a closed carriage. It was a dark night with no moon. "It is all the better," said Marcos. "If the horses can see nothing, they cannot shy." Marcos accompanied his father down the slope to the great gate where the drawbridge had once been, sitting on the front seat beside him in the four-wheeled dogcart. They left Juanita standing in the open doorway, waving her hand gaily, her slim form outlined against the warm lamplight within the house. At the drawbridge Marcos bade his father farewell. They had parted at the same spot a hundred times before. There was but the one train from Pampeluna to Saragossa and both had made the journey many times. There was no question of a long absence from each other; but this parting was not quite like the others. Neither said anything except those conventional words of farewell which from constant use have lost any meaning they ever had. Sarrion gathered the reins in his gloved hands, glanced back over the collar which Juanita had vigorously pulled up about his ears, and with a nod, drove away into the night. When Marcos, who walked slowly up the slope, returned to the house he found it in darkness. The servants had gone to bed. It was past ten o'clock. The window of his own study had been left open and the lamp burnt there. He went in, extinguished the lamp, and taking a candle went up-stairs to his own room. He did not stay in the room, however, but went out to the balcony which ran the whole length of the house. In a few minutes his father's carriage must cross the bridge with that hollow sound of wheels which Evasio Mon had mistaken for guns. A breeze was springing up and the candle which Marcos had set on a table near the open window guttered. He blew it out and went out in the darkness. He knew where to find the chair that stood on the balcony just outside his window and sat down to listen for the rumble of the carriage across the bridge. He turned his head at the sound of a window being opened and Perro who lay at his feet lifted his nose and sniffed gently. A shaft of light lay across the balcony at the far end of the house. Juanita had opened her shutters. She knew that Sarrion must pass the bridge in a few minutes and was going to listen for him. Marcos leant forward and touched Perro who understood and was still. For a moment Juanita appeared on the balcony, stepping to the railing and back again. The shaft of light then remained half obscured by her shadow as she stood in the window. She was not going to bed until she had heard Sarrion cross the bridge. Thus they waited and in a few minutes the low growling voice of the river was dominated by the hollow echo of the bridge. Sarrion had gone. Juanita went within her room and extinguished the lamp. It was a warm night and the pine trees gave out a strong and subtle scent such as they only emit in spring. The bracken added its discreet breath hardly amounting to a tangible odour. There were violets, also, not far away. Perro at Marcos' feet, stirred uneasily and looked up into his master's face. Instinctively Marcos turned to look over his shoulder. Juanita was standing close behind him. "Marcos," she said, quietly, "you remember--long, long ago--in the cloisters at Pampeluna, when I was only a child--you made a promise. You promised that you would never interfere in my life." "Yes." "I have come ..." she paused and passing in front of him, stood there with her back to the balustrade and her hands behind her in an attitude which was habitual to her. "I have come," she began again deliberately, "to let you off that promise--Not that you have kept it very well, you know--" She broke off and gave a short laugh, such as a man may hear perhaps once in his whole life, and hearing it, must know that he has not lived in vain. "But I don't mind," she said. She moved uneasily. For her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, could discern his face. She returned to the spot where Marcos had first discovered her, behind his chair. "And, Marcos--you made another promise. You said that we were only going to play at being married--a sort of game." "Yes," he answered steadily. He did not turn. He never saw her hands stretched out towards him. Then suddenly he gave a start and sat still as stone. Her hands were on his hair, soft as the touch of a bird. Her fingers crept down his forehead and closed over his eyes firmly and tenderly--a precaution which was unnecessary in the darkness--for she was leaning over his chair and her hair, dusky as the night itself, fell over his face like a curtain. "Then I think it is a stupid game--and I do not want to play it any longer ... Marcos." 
37705	----	P O P E R Y! AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS ALSO, AURICULAR CONFESSION; and POPISH NUNNERIES. BY WILLIAM HOGAN, ESQ., FORMERLY A ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIEST. WITH SEVERAL ILLUSTRATIONS 1854. THE FOLLOWING PAGES RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO AMERICAN REPUBLICANS, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. In submitting the following pages to the public, I can say, with truth, that I am actuated by no other motive than a sincere desire to promote the interest, and contribute all in my power to perpetuate the free institutions, of this, my adopted country. It is many years since I have had any intercourse or connection with the church or priests of Rome; and I vainly imagined that, after the first outbreak of their animosity, for repudiating their doctrines, it would succeed into a calm indifference. I was aware of the custom, in that church, to defame and calumniate all who "went out from her;" but especially those who have held any distinguished position. Against such, appeals are immediately made to the people by their priests, until, finally, maddened by sophistry, fanaticism, and falsehoods, they look upon the seceder as one whom it is their duty to destroy; and in whose word, honor, and virtue, no confidence is to be reposed. The object of the Romish church, in this, cannot be mistaken. it is too plain to escape even the least observant eye. A lawyer who can render legally valueless the testimony of opposing witnesses, seldom fails in establishing his case; and hence it is that the Romish church never fails to destroy, if she can, the credibility of all who break loose from her, knowing them to be the best witnesses of her iniquities. But for some years back, and until recently, the violence of Popish priests against myself seemed to slumber. This was natural. In the body ecclesiastic, as well as in the natural body, a morbid excitement often succeeds a stupor; and recently these _gentlemen_ have assailed me again. To apparent indifference succeeded a frantic zeal; and from one end of this continent to the other, they have tried to injure me, by appeals to the public through their presses, and especially through the _confessional_. All this I would have disregarded, as usual, but I find that these priests have become politicians, and that every blow aimed at me, for the free exercise of my judgment as to the best mode of worshipping God, is aimed at the constitution of my adopted country, which grants this blessing, without let or hindrance, to all the children of men. Well aware that Americans are not acquainted with the designs of Popery against their country and its institutions, I feel it my duty to lay before them the following pages. The perusal of them will satisfy every American that our country is in danger, not so much from enemies abroad as from foes within. They will find that Papists have reduced political, as well as religious corruption, to a system, and are, at this moment, practising it amongst us, upon a great and gigantic scale. SYNOPSIS OF POPERY, AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS. When this country renounced its allegiance to the British crown, and proclaimed itself independent Popery was on the wane in Europe; it was there getting more sickly, more languid and feeble, until it had little more than a mere nominal existence; but while its blossoms were fading, its thorns retained their vitality, inflicting pains and wounds on all who came in contact with them. The Jesuits, one of the most influential orders of friars belonging to the Roman church, continued still active as ever in their fiendish avocations; they roamed about, like so many gnomes, from country to country, and from people to people, carrying with them, and strewing on their paths, the seeds of moral death on all that was precious and valuable in the social system. Whatever they touched was blighted; whatever they said or preached breathed treachery; wherever they went, vice, crime, and duplicity marked their track. But dark as the times were then, enshrouded as they had been in ignorance, and idolatrous as the people were, they began to manifest some dissatisfaction at the machinations of Jesuits in their efforts to acquire temporal power. They began to feel it in the loss of their property, out of which they too late saw themselves gradually swindled; they felt it in the loss of their liberty and civil rights, out of which they had been persuaded, all for the good of the church. Endurance became intolerable, and those unhallowed agents had to be partially suppressed. The Popish church, at this time, seeing the influence of her most active agents gradually diminishing, her ancient glories fading, and her power vanishing from her grasp; and scarcely able to breathe any longer in the putrid atmosphere which her own corruption and impurities had created, very naturally turned her eyes towards this brilliant new world. It was then young and beautiful; it abounded in all the luxuries of nature; it promised all that was desirable to man. The holy church, seeing these irresistible temptations, thirsting with avarice, and yearning for the reestablishment of her falling greatness, soon commenced pouring in among its unsuspecting people hordes of Jesuits and other friars, with a view of forming among them institutions which were already found to be destructive to the peace and morals of all social and religious principles in Europe. We now see Popish colleges, and nunneries, and monastic institutions, springing up in our hitherto happy republic; and, if similar causes continue, as they have ever done, to produce similar effects, it needs no prophet's eye to see, nor inspired tongue to tell, what the consequences must be to posterity. Many suppose that Popery has been modified; that it is different now from what it was in ancient times; that the spirit which actuated Papists in those dark days ceases to influence them now that the faggot, the rack, and various other modes of torture, are not still in use in the Roman church, and that it has long ceased to lay claim, by divine right, to temporal sovereignty, or to any other of those prerogatives which they formerly insisted upon. There are some so fastidiously liberal as to grant them all immunities which may be with safety granted to other sects; others there are, so patriotic as to hold at defiance all their power; and others so self-conceited as to fancy themselves an over-match even for Jesuits, in religious chicanery and political intrigue. All this arises, not from want of true zeal in American Protestants, but because they are unacquainted with the canons of the Romish church. These canons are inaccessible to the majority of the American people, even of theologians, and with the purport and meaning of them none but those who have been educated Roman Catholic priests have much or any acquaintance. I hesitate not to say--although I do so with the utmost respect and deference--that there are but few American theologians who have much acquaintance with the doctrines or canons of the Romish church. They form no part of their studies; a knowledge of them is not necessary in the legitimate discharge of their pastoral duties; and hence it is, that in many of their controversies with Romish priests, they are not unfrequently browbeaten, bullied, and often almost ignominiously driven from the arena of controversy by men who, in point of general information, virtue, piety, zeal, and scriptural knowledge, are greatly their inferiors. He who argues with Catholic priests must have had his education with them; he must be of them and from among them. He must know, from experience, that they will stop at no falsehood where the good of the church is concerned; he must know that they will scruple at no forgery when they desire to establish any point of doctrine, fundamental or not fundamental, which is taught by their church; he must be aware that it is a standing rule with Popish priests, in all their controversies with Protestants, to admit nothing and deny every thing, and that, if still driven into difficulty, they will still have recourse to the archives of the church, where they keep piles of decretals, canons, rescripts, bulls, excommunications, interdicts, &c, ready for all such emergencies; some of them dated from three hundred to a thousand years before they were written or even thought of; showing more clearly, perhaps, than anything else, the extreme ignorance of mankind between the third and ninth centuries, when most of these forgeries were palmed upon the world. With the aid of these miserable forgeries, they attempt to prove, among other things, that the _divine right of the Pope_ to the sovereignty of this world was acknowledged by the fathers of the church, in the earliest days of Christianity. There are to be found now, in the Vatican at Rome, canons and decretals which go to show that the Pope was considered "equal to God," as early as the third century. More of these impious forgeries attempt to show that some of the most pious fathers of the church, in the days of her unquestioned sanctity and piety, acknowledged "Mary, the mother of Jesus, to be equal to God the Son, and deserved supreme adoration." With these forged instruments, they attempt to show that the primitive Christians believed in the real and actual presence of the whole body and blood of Christ, in the wafer which they call the _Eucharist_. Monstrous, horrible, and impious, as these absurdities are, I once believed them myself. So much for the prejudices of education. The object of the following pages is to show, first, the origin of Papal power; secondly, to call the attention of Americans to its rapid growth in many of the nations of the earth; and, thirdly, to put my fellow citizens on their guard against giving it any countenance or support within the limits of the United States. ORIGIN OF THE TEMPORAL POWER OF THE POPE. We have no authentic evidence that the bishops or presbyters of the primitive Christian church laid claims to temporal power, much less to universal sovereignty, such as Popes have arrogated to themselves, in subsequent times, even down to the present day. Constantine, as we are informed by the best authorities, was the first to unite civil and ecclesiastical power. He introduced Christianity among the Romans by civil authority. This occurred between the years 272 and 337; but never during his reign, nor before it, was there an instance of a bishop or presbyter of the church aspiring to temporal jurisdiction. They were poor and persecuted; they were meek and humble; they were well content with the privilege of worshipping God in peace. The instructions of their divine Master were fresh in their minds--they almost still rung in their ears. They felt that they were sent into the world with special instructions to "preach the gospel to every creature." Their heavenly Master told them that his "kingdom was not of this world." They felt the full force of that high and holy admonition, "Render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's, and to God the things that are God's." They cheerfully submitted to the civil authorities. They claimed not the right of giving away kingdoms, crowning emperors, deposing princes, and absolving their subjects from their oaths of allegiance. These pure Christians and devout men asked for no distinctions, but those of virtue and zeal in the cause of Christ; they sought for no wealth but that of Heaven; they desired no crown but that of glory; they sought no tiara save that of martyrdom; they were surrounded by no court but that of the poor; no college of cardinals waited on their pleasure; there were no nuncios sent from their court; no foreign ambassadors passed between them and the powers of this earth. The only court with which they had business to transact, and in which their treasures were laid up, was the court of Heaven; and their only ambassadors at that court were the angels of heaven, sent forth to minister unto them. But this state of things did not last long. As a modern writer beautifully expresses it, "the trail of the serpent is over us all." The Emperor Constantine, seeing the poverty of the primitive church,--her vast and progressive increase in numbers and the consequent demand upon her charities,--granted to her bishops permission to hold property, real and personal. This concession on the part of Constantine, simple and trifling as it seemed to be; this commingling of the things of heaven and earth, was unnatural. It contained within itself the principles of dissolution, or rather of entire destruction; and became, in time, the source from which have sprung most of the wars, massacres, and bloody strifes, that have desolated and divided into fragmentary sections, the richest, the fairest, and the finest portions of the globe, during the last fifteen hundred years; and will continue to do so, unto the end of time, unless the advance of civilization, and the great progress which the human mind has made in ethics, morals, and metaphysics, on this continent, puts an immediate check to Popish interference with the policy of our country. Could we suppose an individual, who knew nothing of ancient times; who was an entire stranger to the darkness which pervaded Europe during the middle ages; who had no acquaintance with the pretensions, arrogance and insolence of Roman pontiffs; who knew no other constitution and no other laws but those of our own country; he could not but feel surprised at being first told, that there now lived in Rome, an upstart ecclesiastic, called _a Pope_, who has the hardihood to assert that he is Sovereign Lord, and that too by divine right, of these United States, as well as of all other kingdoms of this world. He goes even further, and contends that his predecessors had similar divine rights, and that all the citizens and inhabitants of this country owed allegiance to him personally, and to no one else, unless delegated by him to receive it. But strange as this may appear, it is no less true, as I will show from authorities, which cannot be questioned, by those who claim such extravagant immunities. The Pope of Rome predicates his claim to universal sovereignty upon the power of _loosing and binding on earth and in heaven_; which, in the exuberance of their fancy, Roman Catholic writers contend was given to St. Peter. Their next step is to prove, that this supremacy was acknowledged by the primitive fathers of the church, and consequently their rights and claims are beyond dispute. But before I proceed to give any of the authorities, upon which Roman Catholic writers rest the antiquity of the recognition of their Pope's temporal power, it may not be amiss to inform the reader that the very first on which they rely is one of the most unblushing forgeries on record; and is dated about six hundred years previous to the time at which it purports to have been written. It is taken from the words of a conveyance of certain temporal concessions, said to be made by the Emperor Constantine to Pope Sylvester, some time between the second and third centuries. It is in the following words: "We attribute to the chair of St. Peter all imperial dignity, glory, and power. We give to Pope Sylvester, and to his successors, our palace of Lateran, one of the finest palaces on earth; we give him our crown, our mitre, our diadem, and all our imperial vestments; we resign to him all our imperial dignity. We give the Holy Pontiff, as a free gift, the city of Rome, and all the western cities of Italy, as well as the western cities of other countries. To make room for him, we abdicate our sovereignty over all these provinces, and we withdraw from Rome, transferring the seat of our empire to Byzantium; since it is not just that a terrestrial emperor shall retain any power where God has placed the head of the church." It would be a waste of time to show that no such donation as the above ever existed. No mention is made of it in any history of the Popes that has ever been written, or in any other document which had reference to them during the reign of Constantine. It is a forgery so shallow, unreal, and unsubstantial, that there is no well-educated historian, and never has been one, who gave it any credence. The historian Flewry pronounces it a falsehood; and he, being a Roman Catholic, must be considered good authority upon all matters relating to the _holy church_. The quotation, however, from this supposed deed of concession, by Constantine to Pope Sylvester, is not without instruction to the citizens of this country. It should arouse them to a sense of the dangers which are hovering over them. It should remind them that every thing is perishable. The fairest flower must fade; the loveliest lily must wither; the laughing rose must droop; even our fair republic may lose its bloom, and pass away. A state of things may arise in this country, when its executive may be a Papist, its judiciary Papists, and a majority of its population may be Papists. These things are not beyond the range of possibility; and are you sure that your own descendants, and those of the pilgrim fathers, may not, one day or other, give this republic as a free gift to the head of the Papal church? You are now strong--so was Rome. Your power is now irresistible--so was that of Rome and other countries. Your arms are invincible--so were those of Rome. You are now distinguished all over the world, for your progress in the arts and sciences; the world looks to you as models of patriotism and pure republicanism--so did the world once look to Rome. But what is Rome now, and what drove her from the high position she once occupied? I will tell you;--the intrigues of the Popish church. And a similar fate awaits you, unless you cut off all connection, of whatever name, between the citizens of the United States and the church of Rome. While this sink of iniquity breathes, it will carry with it destruction and death wherever it goeth. We have had several histories of the Popes, and the first mention made of donations to them, at least of any comparative value, is by Anastasius, who wrote about the beginning of the tenth century, or a little before the close of the ninth. He informs us that Charlemagne conferred upon the Holy See (as that hotbed of iniquity is impiously, even at the present day, called) _whole provinces_, and acknowledged that they belonged to the Pope _by divine right_; though it is well understood, and denied by no competent historian, that Charlemagne never even owned these provinces. It is well known to the readers of history, that there existed no empire of any extent, but that of the East, until the beginning of the eighth century. Charlemagne assumed the title of King of Italy, in the year eight hundred. He received homage from the Pope, and so far from being subject to him, he acknowledged no divine right in him; but on the contrary, he held the Pope in strict subjection to himself. He even went so far as to prohibit the _Holy See_ from receiving donations of any kind, when given without the consent or to the prejudice of those who had just and equitable claims to them. This, if there were no other proof, is sufficient to show that neither the Popes nor the Holy See had any pretensions to universal supremacy, or to supremacy of any kind, as far down as the eighth century. It will not be denied that the civil authorities of Rome were liberally disposed towards the Popes or fathers of the church in the early days of Christianity. The Emperor Theodosius the Great, who died in the year three hundred and ninety five, recommended to all his subjects to pay "a due respect to the See of Rome." Valentian III. commanded his subjects "_not to depart from the faith and customs of the Holy See_." It will however be borne in mind, that this Valentian was acknowledged emperor at the age of six, and his affairs were managed principally by his mother. So dissipated were his habits, that he finally fell a victim to them. But up to this period there is no evidence whatever that the Popes either claimed or exercised temporal authority. About this time several councils met for the purpose of adjusting disputes that arose between the sons of the successor of Charlemagne, who unwisely, as historians suppose, divided his empire into three equal parts among them. It was at one of these councils, that the doctrine of the _divine right of Popes to temporal authority_ was first broached by the production of some of those forged documents to which I have heretofore alluded. Pope Gregory the Fourth took an active part in fomenting the dissensions which necessarily arose from the division which the successor of Charlemagne had made of his empire among his sons. The Pope, with that craft peculiar to all ecclesiastics of the Roman Catholic denominations, was active in widening the breach between father and sons, and having effected this to his content, his next move was to sow further dissensions between the sons themselves, and finally to create such a general confusion and dissatisfaction among all parties, as to render a mediator necessary. Having attained his object, he offered his services to the Imperial Father, and it was accepted. He presented himself at his camp, obtained an entrance, and what were the consequences? History tells the tale--it was a tale of treachery. Americans will bear in mind that Roman Catholics believe their church to be infallible; that she never changes; that what was deemed right by her in the days of Gregory and those of his immediate successors, is right now, and, _vice versa_, what she deems right now was right then. In a word, the church of Rome is _infallible_. This is believed by every one of her members at the present day. It is taught by every Popish bishop and priest in the United States. The following curse is contained in the Roman Catholic Breviary, in which, every Romish priest reads his prayers three times every day. "_Qui dicit ecclesiam catholicam Romanam non esse infallilrilem, anathema sit_--Whoever says that the Roman Catholic church is not infallible, let him be accursed." Such is the belief of every Roman Catholic. Will not Protestant Americans pause and reflect for a moment? The population of the United States is about twenty millions, and about two millions are Papists. Consequently, seventeen millions and a half of our people are _accursed_ and _damned_, according to the doctrine of the Romish ritual; and yet we Protestants are called upon to extend the hand of friendship to these Papists, and our legislators are asked to grant them charters to build colleges, churches, nunneries, and monk-houses, not for the purpose of teaching the growing generation the revealed will of God, as read in the Scriptures, but to persuade them that all other religions, except that of Rome, are erroneous; that their parents, brothers, and sisters, are heretics, accursed forever, and by implication entitled to no allegiance from them. The Pope is now setting on foot a movement which is intended to embrace the whole world, and of which he desires Rome to be the sole representative, centre, and circumference. The powers of the Pope have met with several severe shocks since the Reformation. His forces have been broken, his armies of Jesuits, his friars of all orders, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Capuchins, have been scattered and enfeebled. He determined to arm himself afresh, and this new world appeared to him as the safest ground on which he could unite his scattered forces in Europe. This he well knows cannot be done, without throwing some fire-brand of dissension among our people, which at this moment he is trying to effect; and which nothing but the resistance offered to him by American Republicans can check or prevent. On the continuance, strength, and union of this party, depends the stability of our government. This the Romish priests and bishops well know, and are beginning to feel; and hence they are denouncing them from their pulpits, and in all their presses. But no Protestant opposes this party Why call it a party? It is no party. It is but the spontaneous move of the good and the virtuous of all parties who love their God, their Bibles, and their country, and upon whose strong arm and bold hearts rests the question whether Americans shall be free or the slaves of his royal holiness the Pope of Rome. Often have I lifted my voice, a feeble one, indeed, in favor of _American Republicans_. I believe their cause is the cause of God and freedom, and upon them every American and every Protestant foreigner must rely for protection against the merciless spirit of Popery. It requires no stretch of imagination to fancy a difference of opinion, or even of interest, between the citizens of this country. Suppose, for instance, that the North and South were at variance; suppose them actually at war with each other; what would be the course of the Pope's emissaries, hundreds of whom are now roaming through this land? The safest course and the surest mode of ascertaining what they would do in such an event, is to look back and ascertain what they have invariably done under similar circumstances. It is seldom wrong, and as a general principle it is safe, to judge of the future from the past; and if so, there can be no doubt of the course which Jesuits and Roman Catholics would pursue in the event of any difficulties or collisions between the people of the different sections of this country. Would they try to reconcile them? Did they ever do so in a like case? What was the conduct of the Jesuits and Popes as early as the eleventh century, when the Roman people differed in opinion as to their form of government, and some points of religious faith? The Pope laid an interdict upon the whole people; the weaker party was overpowered by the Papal authorities; and their leader, as Flewry informs us, was burned alive by order of the Pope Adrian. Frederick, called Barbarossa, who was the tool of the Pope on this occasion, became the next victim to his barbarity. And why? what had he done? what crime did he commit against the state? His only crime was,--he refused to hold the Pope's stirrup. For this he incurred the displeasure of Adrian, nor did he ever enjoy a day's peace until the Pope seduced him into an expedition against Saladin; where, together with thousands of others, who were persuaded to undertake that religious crusade, he died after several hard fought victories. The history of the Popes, in all ages, shows that they never abandon any temporal or spiritual authority to which they lay claim; and had they the power of enforcing it now, they would exact from this country the same obedience which they did in the most benighted days of the middle ages. Should a separation of these States take place; should the chain that has bound us together for the last half century, in links of love and social happiness, be unfortunately broken, by any untoward circumstances; think you, fellow citizens, that foreign Papists in this country would try to re weld it? Far from it. They would unite in breaking it, link by link, Until not a particle of it remained. This they have done in every country where they obtained a footing; this they are doing now, under various pretences, all over Europe; and should this country escape the fate of others, where Jesuits and Popes dare to exercise their supposed authorities, it will stand prominent and proudly, though solitary and alone, amid the records of ages, and ruins of time. I have no such hope. The efforts which are now making to check the progress of Popery, may, perhaps, retard the day of our downfall; but come it must, unless the allegiance, which is now demanded by the Pope of Rome from his subjects in the United States, is unqualifiedly forbidden. The Pope is a temporal prince. Like other kings and princes, he should never be permitted to meddle, directly or indirectly, temporally or spiritually, with this country. He should not be permitted to appoint bishop or priest to any church, diocese, living, or office in the United States. The Pope's _bulls_, rescripts, letters, &c., &c., should not be published or read from any pulpit this side of the Atlantic; and, though Roman Catholics should not be prevented from the free exercise of their religion, they should be compelled to do so without reference to foreign dictation. If they must have a Pope, let him be an American, and sworn to support our constitution. Let him, and all Roman Catholics, be denied the right of voting, or of holding any office of honor, profit, or trust, under the government of the United States, until they forswear all allegiance, in spiritual as well as temporal affairs, to all foreign potentates and Popes. Until this is done, an oath of allegiance to this government, by a Roman Catholic, is entitled to no credit, and should not be received. This will appear evident to Americans, if they will turn their attention for a moment to the following oath, which is taken by every Romish bishop, before he is permitted to officiate, as such, in any of these United States:-- "I do solemnly swear, on the holy evangelist, and before Almighty God, to defend the domains of St. Peter against every aggressor; to preserve, augment, and extend, the rights, honors, privileges, and powers of the Lord Pope, and his successors; to observe, and with all my might to enforce, his decrees, ordinances, reservations, provisions, and all dispositions whatever, emanating from the court of Rome; to _persecute and combat, to the last extremity, heretics, schismatics, and all who will not pay to the sovereign pontiff all the obedience which the sovereign shall require_." While this oath is obligatory upon Romish bishops, they are not to be trusted. They should not be permitted to interfere, directly nor indirectly, with the institutions, laws, or ordinances of any Protestant country. Their oaths should not be taken in courts of justice; their followers, every one of whom is bound by a similar oath of allegiance, should be excluded from our grand juries, from our petit juries, but more especially, from our halls of legislation; for wherever and whenever the supposed interest of the Pope clashes with that of the civil authority, or even with the administration of reciprocal justice, a Papist, under the control of his bishop, will not hesitate to sacrifice the good of the country, the interest, life, and prosperity of his fellow-being, for the good of the church. Of the truth of this, history abounds with examples, and Popish writers are replete with authorities. Thomas Aquinas, whose authority no Roman Catholic questions, says in his work _de Regem_., "The Pope, as supreme king of all the world, may impose taxes and destroy towns and castles for the preservation of Christianity." The American reader will bear in mind, that by Christianity, St. Thomas means Popery. Pope Gregory the Seventh, about the year one thousand and fifty, has made use of the following language, and proclaimed it as the doctrine of the Romish Church. "The Pope ought to be called Universal Bishop. He alone ought to wear the tokens of imperial dignity; all princes ought to kiss his feet; he has power to depose emperors and kings, and is to be judged by none." Pope John the Twelfth, in the year nine hundred and fifty-six, announced the following to be the universal belief, that "Whosoever shall venture to maintain that our lord the Pope cannot decree what he pleases, let him be accursed." Pope Bonifice the Eighth, in 1294, declares, _ex cathedra_, "that God has set Popes over kings and kingdoms, and whoever thinks otherwise declares him accursed." The same Pope, in another place, says, "We therefore declare, say, define, and pronounce it to be necessary to salvation, that every human creature should be obedient to the Roman pontiff." The Pope of the present day, as every Roman Catholic writer maintains and teaches the laity to believe, has the same power _now_ that the Popes had at any period of church history. The council of Trent, the last held in the Popish church, declares that Pius the Fifth, who was then Pope of Rome, "was prince over all nations and kingdoms, having power to pluck up, destroy, scatter, ruin, plant, and build." Cardinal Zeba, a sound theologian according to Popish belief, maintains, with much ingenuity, "that the Pope can do all things which he wishes, and is empowered by God to do many things which he himself cannot do." All writers upon canon law compliment the Pope by calling him _our Lord the Pope_, and this title was confirmed to him by the council of Lateran. In the fourth session of that council, it is maintained "that all mortals are to be judged by the Pope, and the Pope by nobody at all." Massonius, who wrote the life of Pope John the Ninth, tells us that a bishop of Rome, namely, a Pope, cannot commit even sin without praise. Were there no other reproach upon the Romish church but the bare utterance of such blasphemy as this, it would be enough to disgust mankind; it should raise every voice in her condemnation, and every hand to pull down this masterpiece of satanic ingenuity. But strange as it may appear, the present Pope maintains similar claims, and enforces obedience; nay, more;--in this year of our Lord, 1845, insists upon the right of deposing all in power, and of absolving their subjects from further allegiance. But, extravagant as Papal pretensions were between the ninth and tenth centuries, it was only about the middle of the eleventh that they began to show themselves in the full blaze of their hideous deformity. Hildebrand, whom we have had occasion to mention as Gregory the Seventh, shook off all civil restraint, and proclaimed the universal and unbounded empire of the Popes over the rest of the world. As Shoberl expresses it, "he caused to be drawn up a declaration of independence in all things, temporal and spiritual, expressly specifying the Pope's divine right of deposing all princes, giving away all kingdoms, abrogating existing laws, and substituting in their place such as the holy Pope for the time being may approve of." This declaration, or bill of rights, is correctly translated by Shoberl, and published in his work, entitled, "The Rise and Progress of the Papal Power." Many, probably, may read this volume, who have had no opportunity of seeing Shoberl's work; and others there are, who may refuse giving his statement that credence which circumstances compel them to give the writer. Having been educated a Roman Catholic priest, and the fact being well known that admission cannot be had into her priesthood without being well versed, at least in her own doctrines, it is fairly to be presumed that my statements are entitled to full credit, when those of Protestants may be denied by Romish priests, who, while united with that church, are compelled, under pain of being cursed, to subscribe to any falsehood, however gross, provided it subserves the interest of the Pope; and deny any truth, however plain, rather than contradict or weaken the authorities by which the impious follies and wicked pretensions of the church of Rome are supported. I will give this bill of rights to my readers. It should be in the hands of every American. It should find a place in every primary school in the United States. It should be among the first lessons of infancy, so that every child, when he grows up and sees a Roman Catholic bishop or priest, should pause and ask himself, Does that man believe those things? Are we called on to pass laws for the support and protection of churches, where such doctrines, as this _bill_ contains, are promulgated? Can we trust the man who promulgates them, or those who subscribe to them? Is it safe to live in the same community with them? Do they not endanger our civil institutions? Do they not jeopardize the morals of our children? Will it not, at some future day, be a blot upon the page of our history, and a foul stain upon our character for intelligence, that we have ever sanctioned such doctrines, or that we had ever allowed men who professed them, any participation in our civil rights? But let Pope Gregory's declaration of Papal divine rights speak for itself. "The Romish church is the only one that God has founded. "The title of universal belongs to the Roman pontiff alone. "He alone can depose and absolve bishops. "His legate presides over all the bishops in every council, and may pronounce sentence of deposition against them. "The Pope can depose absent persons. "It is not lawful to live with such as have been excommunicated. "He has the power, according to circumstances, to make new laws, to create new churches, to transform a chapter into an abbey, and to divide a rich bishopric into two, or to unite two poor bishoprics. "He alone has a right to assume the attributes of empire. "All princes must kiss his feet. "His name is the only one to be uttered in the churches. "It is the only name in the world. "He has a right to depose emperors. "He has a right to remove bishops from one see to another. "He has a right to appoint a clerk [priest] in every church. "He, whom he has appointed, may govern another church, and cannot receive a higher benefice from any private bishop. "No council can call itself general without the order of the Pope. "No chapter, no book, can be reputed canonical without his authority. "No one can invalidate his sentences; he can abrogate those of all other persons. "He cannot be judged by any one. "All persons whatsoever are forbidden to presume to condemn him who is called to the apostolical chair. "To this chair must be brought the more important causes of all the churches. "The Roman church is never wrong, and will never fall into error. "Every Roman pontiff, canonically ordained, becomes holy. "It is lawful to accuse when he permits, or when he commands. "He may, without synod, depose and absolve bishops. "He is no Catholic who is not united to the Romish church. "The Pope can release the subjects of bad princes from all oaths of allegiance." Those who have not been educated Roman Catholics, or who have not lived in Catholic countries, will find it difficult to suppose that such pretensions as the above should ever have been entertained or submitted to: extravagant, absurd, wild, and wicked as they are, they have been acquiesced in by the court of Rome; and are, at this day, contended for, and would be enforced, in this country, had that church the power to do so. She has never resigned the rights claimed in the above declaration; and there is not a Roman Catholic who dares assert the contrary, without a dispensation from his bishop or his priest to tell a deliberate falsehood, with a view of deceiving Americans for the good of _the church_, This, however, they can always obtain and grant to each other, as circumstances may require. While a Roman Catholic priest, I have often received and given such indulgences myself; and there is not a period in the Christian world, since the days of Pope Gregory, when all the powers and prerogatives, enumerated in the above Papal bill of rights, were not claimed and acted upon by Popes of Rome, down to the hour at which I write. Let us test the truth of this assertion by the unerring rule of history, although it may seem unnecessary, as no Roman Catholic will deny it; at any rate, it will not be questioned by those who have any acquaintance with the history of their own church. I am well aware that the majority of Roman Catholics in this country know nothing of the religion which they profess, and for which they are willing to fight, contend, and shed the blood of their fellow beings. I am not even hazarding an assertion, when I say there is not one of them who has read the gospels through, or who knows any more about the religion he professes, than he does about the Koran of Mohammed. He is told by the priest, "that Christ established a church on earth; that it is infallible; and that they must submit implicitly to what its popes, priests, and bishops teach, under pain of eternal damnation." This is all the great mass of Roman Catholics know of religion; this is all they are required to learn; and hence it is that these people are unacquainted with the pretensions of the Pope, the intrigues of Jesuits, or the impositions practised upon them by their bishops and priests. But to the history of Papal pretensions. As early as the year 1066, Gregory, who was then Pope, summoned William the Conqueror, king of England, to repair to Rome, prostrate himself upon his knees, and do homage to his holiness. This William refused; but his holiness deemed it expedient to compromise the matter, though he did not yield a jot of his very modest pretensions. This humble follower of the Redeemer looked upon Sardinia and Russia as a portion of his dominions. The following extract of a letter of his, to the sovereign of Russia, is a fair sample of the insolence of this man Pope, or rather this God Pope, as his subjects considered him. "We have given you a crown to your son, who is to come and to receive it at our hands on taking an oath of allegiance to us." He also commanded the emperor of Greece "to abdicate his crown," and he also deposed the king of Poland. This modest Pope wrote to the different princes of Spain, "that it would be much better to give up their country to the Saracens, than not pay homage to the See of Rome." He excommunicated Philip the First of France, because he refused to "pay homage to him." Writing to the French bishops, he says, "Separate yourselves from the communion of Philip; let the celebration of the holy mass be interdicted throughout all France; and know that, with the assistance of God, we will deliver that kingdom from such an oppressor." This same Pope excommunicated Henry the Fourth, "because he refused to acknowledge him as his superior," and absolved his subjects from their oath of allegiance to him: and what was the result? Henry was obliged to submit. Having repaired to the Pope's court, he was stopped at the entrance, and before he was permitted to appear in the presence of this ruffian Pope, who was then shut up with Matilda, countess of Tuscany, one of the numerous women with whom he lived on terms of _intimacy_, he was compelled to undress and put on a hair shirt. The Pope then condescended to say, "that Henry should fast three days, before he could be permitted to kiss his holiness's toe; and he would then absolve him upon promise of good behavior." Alexander the Third, about the year 1160, deposed Frederic First, king of Denmark; and placing his foot upon his neck, he impiously exclaimed, "Thou shalt tread upon the lion and the adder." This practice and these pretensions to sovereign power, continued down to the days of Elizabeth; and from thence down to the present moment. Pope Pius V. excommunicated Elizabeth, and absolved her subjects from their oath of allegiance; and while doing so, addressed to himself the following words from the Psalmist: "See, I have this day set thee over the nations, and over the kingdoms, to root out and to pull down, to destroy, to build up, and to throw down." More of this hereafter. Such were the doctrines of the Romish church in 1558. Such were the practices of that church for centuries previous; nor is there one single instance on record of her having modified or abridged the extent or magnitude of her claims, unless when compelled to do so by coercion; and even then she did not abandon her claim, but only ceased to exercise it in obedience to the law of force. The Romish church, in this country, as I shall show, claims the same temporal powers now which she has always claimed and exercised for so many centuries. She would now depose the executive of this country, as she did Philip of France, if she dared do so. The Pope would absolve our citizens from their oath of allegiance, had he the power of carrying his dispensation info effect; and what is the duty of Americans under such circumstances? Are you to submit passively? Is it your duty to wait and witness the growth of Popery among you, to nourish and feed it with the life blood of your existence as a nation, until the monster outgrows your own strength and strangles you, to satiate its inordinate appetite? I lay it down as a sound principle in political as well as moral ethics, that if a government finds, within the limits of its jurisdiction, any sect or party, of whatever doctrine, creed, or denomination, professing principles incompatible with its permanency, or subversive of the unalienable right of self government, and worshipping God, according to the dictates of each and every man's conscience, that sect or party should be removed beyond its limits, or at least excluded from any participation in the formation or administration of its laws. Would it, for instance, be wise in our government to encourage the Mormons to introduce among us, as the law of the land, the ravings and prophesies of Joe Smith? Suppose that sect maintained that Joe Smith was their _Lord God_; that the kingdoms of this world were his; that he claimed and did actually exercise the right of dethroning kings, and was endeavoring, by every means in his power, to place himself in a position to exercise, at no-distant period, the right of deposing our presidents, state governors, and absolving our people from their oaths of allegiance. Should not that sect, as such, be instantly crushed? Should it not, at least, be forbidden to interfere, directly or indirectly, with our civil institutions? Let us suppose the prophet Joe Smith to hold the seat of his government in Europe, and that Europe was full to overflowing with Mormons; we may further suppose this great high priest to have thousands and millions of subordinate officers, sworn and bound together by oaths cemented in blood, to sustain him as their sovereign ruler, by every means which human ingenuity could devise, and at every sacrifice of truth and honor. Suppose, further, that this high priest was annually sending thousands of his subjects to this country, with no other view but to possess your fertile lands and overthrow your government, and substituting in its place that of this _foreign priest_ and tyrant; would you permit them to land upon your shores? Would you allow them to pollute the purity of your soil? Would you allow their unclean hands to touch the altars of your liberty? Would you not first insist that they should purge themselves from the sins and slime of Mormonism, and free themselves from all further connection with this monster man, and would-be God, who impiously demanded blind obedience and unqualified homage? I could answer for you, but I will not; the history of your republic answers for you; the movements, which are now going forth from one end of your country to the other, are answering for you, in tones too solemn and too loud to be drowned by the roaring of Popish bulls. But it is much to be feared that Americans do not yet fully understand the dangers to be apprehended from the existence of Popery in the United States. It is difficult to persuade a single-hearted and single-minded republican, whose lungs were first inflated by the breath of freedom, whose first thoughts were, that all men had a natural right to worship God as they pleased--that any man could be found, so lost to reason, interest, and principle, as to desire to barter those high, privileges, which he may enjoy in this country, for oppression and blind submission to the dictates of a Pope, or even any body of men, civil or ecclesiastic; still less can an American believe, without difficulty, that he who sees the excellence and practical operation of our form of government, will try to overthrow it, by submitting to any creed, to any king or Pope, who requires from him allegiance, incompatible with that which he has already sworn to maintain. Nor, generally speaking, will men do those things. While man believes in the moral obligations of an oath, he will not easily violate it. While he believes that there is an all-seeing Providence, to whom alone he is accountable for his actions, he will be cautious in committing offences; but once satisfy a man, that there is, within his reach, a power which can pardon his sins, even those of perjury; which can change abstract evil into good, and he will stop at nothing. While the pardon of offences is a marketable article, it never will want for a purchaser, so prone are we to the commission of crime. Let man have an adviser, in whom he is taught to place unlimited confidence, on whom he looks as the representative of his God on earth, and he soon becomes his ready tool for good or for evil. Such precisely is the position in which ninety-nine out of a hundred Roman Catholics are placed. They are told by their priests, that, as members of society, the first allegiance they owe is to the head of their church, the Pope of Rome, and the next to the government, _de facto_, under which they live; but these well-practised ecclesiastical impostors never forget to add, that the first allegiance, being of a spiritual character, absorbs and supersedes the latter; thus annulling, and rendering the oath of allegiance, which they take to our government, something worse than even mere mockery; and hence it is, that very few Catholics, particularly the Irish, ever read the constitution of the United States, nor do they require it to be read for them. They know not, they care not what it is. It is enough for them to believe that the oath, which they take to support it, is not obligatory. Of this they are assured by their priests. Yet strange, these very priests tell them they commit mortal sin by becoming Freemasons, or uniting themselves with that excellent and benevolent association, the Odd Fellows. And why, reader, do they do this? Why prevent them from uniting with Odd Fellows or Freemasons? Why has the Pope recently cursed all Odd Fellows? Why has he sent a bull to this country, cautioning Catholics against having any thing to do with them? Why have the Romish priests, from one end of this country to the other, echoed these curses? Did the Pope discover any bad thing in the constitution or rules of action of Freemasons or Odd Fellows? Are these institutions aiming at the overthrow of any fixed principles in morals, _in_ religion, or in virtue? No such allegation is made. Why then do Popes and priests forbid Roman Catholics from uniting with them? It is expressly because the Pope knows nothing about those excellent institutions. It is because he is aware he can make no use of them; but let those societies beware, if they wish to keep their secrets. They should not allow any man to join them until he first swears that he is not a Roman Catholic; otherwise some Jesuits will get among them, and the next packet will convey their doings to his royal holiness the Pope. I cannot illustrate more clearly the value which foreign Roman priests and their followers put upon an oath of allegiance to this government, than by stating a conversation which occurred between myself and a Jesuit, the Rev. Dr. De Barth, then vicar-general of the diocese of Pennsylvania, and residing in Philadelphia. It took place some years ago, and his opinion of the validity of an oath of allegiance to this government, is the same now that is held by all Papists. I will give it by way of question and answer, just as it occurred. Question by Mr. De Barth. Do you intend becoming a citizen of the United States? Answer. I believe not, sir. I don't think I could conscientiously take an oath of allegiance to this government, without violating that which I have taken at my ordination. Mr. De B. You are entirely mistaken. Any part of your oath of allegiance to this country, which may be incompatible with your _first_ and _greater_ allegiance to the head of your church, cannot be binding on you. Ans. I have doubts upon that subject. Mr. De B. What! doubt your superior, sir? This looks badly. It threatens heresy. Have you been conversing with any heretics of this country? Declare your intentions, sir, to become a citizen. Take the oath; it is necessary you should be empowered to hold real estate for the good of _the church_. The church must have her property out of the hands of trustees; in this country they are all heretics; we must get rid of them in St. Mary's church. This led me into an examination of the allegiance which I swore to the Pope at my ordination. I found that I owed him none; that I was the dupe of an early education; that I owed allegiance only to my God and the country which protected my life, my liberty, and my freedom of conscience; and without further conversation with this intriguing and debauched Jesuit--as I subsequently found him--I became a citizen of the United States as soon as possible; renouncing all allegiance, temporal and spiritual, to his _holiness the Pope_; and firmly resolved to induce all others, who, like myself, had been the dupes of Popish intrigue, to cut loose from them. I determined to support no civil constitution but that of the United States, and to have no one for my guidance in spiritual matters but my own conscience and the word of God. POPISH BISHOPS AND PRIESTS ABSOLVE ALLEGIANCE TO PROTESTANT GOVERNMENTS. I am aware of the difficulty there is in persuading Protestant Americans, that Roman Catholic bishops and priests teach their people to believe, that they, the priests, possess the power of absolving them, either from their oath of allegiance or any other crime. It is, however, time to speak plainly to Americans. It is time to let them know that there exists in the midst of them a body of people, amounting in number to about two millions, who believe in this doctrine, so corrupt in itself, and so well calculated to disturb the peace and harmony of society. There is not a priest or bishop in the United States who dares deny this; they act upon it every day. It is customary with the priests to confess weekly, and to forgive each other's sins; and I am sorry to say, from my knowledge of them, since my infancy to the present moment, that there is not a more corrupt, licentious body of men in the world. But I will not be judge, accuser, and witness, in this case. I know well that Americans will take the _ipse dixit_ of no man. They are not in the habit of lightly judging any individual or body of men, in any case. I will, therefore, lay before them the Roman Catholic doctrine on the subject of penance and confession, as taught by the council of Trent, and now believed and practised by Roman Catholics in the United States. I will only add, that I have taught these doctrines myself, when a Roman Catholic priest, and while groping my way through the darkness of Popery. There are many now living who heard and received them from me, and to whom I have no apology to make for the errors into which I led them, except that, like themselves, I was the dupe of early education. The following are some of the canons of the council of Trent concerning penance or confession. "Whoever shall say, that those words of the Lord and Saviour: Receive the Holy Ghost; _whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them, and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained_; are not to be understood of the power of remitting and retaining sins in the sacrament of penance, as the Catholic church has always understood, from the beginning; but shall falsely apply them against the institution of this sacrament, to the authority of preaching the gospel; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall deny that sacramental confession has either been instituted by divine command, or is necessary to salvation; or shall say that the mode of secretly confessing to a priest alone, which the Catholic church always has observed from the beginning, and still observes, is foreign from the institution and command of Christ, and is a human invention; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall affirm, that in the sacrament of penance, it is not necessary by divine command, for the remission of sins, to confess all and every mortal sin, of which recollection may be had, with due and diligent premeditation, including secret offences, and those which are against the two last precepts of the decalogue, and the circumstances which change the species of sin: but that this confession is useful only for the instruction and consolation of the penitent, and was anciently observed, only as a canonical satisfaction imposed upon him; or shall say, that they who endeavor to confess all their sins, wish to leave nothing for the divine mercy to pardon; or finally, that it is not proper to confess venial sins; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that the confession of all sins, such as the church observes, is impossible, and that it is a human tradition, to be abolished by the pious; or that all and every one of Christ's faithful, of both sexes, are not bound to observe it once in the year, according to the constitution of the great Lateran council, and that for this reason, Christ's faithful should be advised not to confess in the time of Lent; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that the sacramental absolution of the priest is not a judicial act, but a mere ministry to pronounce and declare, that sins are remitted to the person making confession, provided that he only believes that he is absolved, even though the priest should not absolve seriously, but in joke; or shall say, that the confession of a penitent is not requisite in order that the priest may absolve him; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that priests who are living in mortal sin do not possess the power of binding and loosing; or that the priests are not the only ministers of absolution, but that it was said to all and every one of Christ's faithful: Whatsoever you shall bind upon earth, shall be bound also in heaven; and whatsoever you shall loose upon earth, shall be loosed also in heaven; and whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven, and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained: by virtue of which words, any one may forgive sin; public sins, by reproof only, if the offender shall acquiesce; and private sins, by voluntary confession; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that bishops have not the right of reserving cases to themselves, except such as relate to the external polity of the church, and therefore that the reservation of cases does not hinder the priest from truly absolving from reserved cases; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that the whole penalty, together with the guilt, is always remitted by God, and that the satisfaction of penitents is nothing else than the faith by which they apprehend that Christ has satisfied for them; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that satisfaction is by no means made to God, through Christ's merits, for sins as to their temporal penalty, by punishments inflicted by him, and patiently borne, or enjoined by the priests, though not undergone voluntarily, as fastings, prayers, alms, or also other works of piety, and therefore that the best penance is nothing more than a new life; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that the satisfactions by which penitents redeem themselves from sin through Jesus Christ, are no part of the service of God, but traditions of men, obscuring the doctrine concerning grace, and the true worship of God, and the actual benefit of Christ's death; let him be accursed! "Whoever shall say, that the keys of the church were given only for loosing, not also for binding, and that therefore the priests, when they impose punishments upon those who confess, act against the design of the keys, and contrary to the institution of Christ; and that it is a fiction, that when by virtue of the keys the eternal penalty has been removed, the temporal punishment may still often remain to be suffered; let him tie accursed!" I must be permitted here to remind Americans, that all Roman Catholics are taught to believe, and distinctly to understand, that whatever they confess to their priests, is not to be revealed; nor is the individual, who confesses, permitted to reveal whatever the priest says or does to him or her, except to another priest. For instance, should a priest insult or attempt to seduce a woman, and succeed in doing so, she dare not reveal it under pain of damnation, except to another priest in confession, who is bound also to secrecy; and thus, priests, bishops, popes, and all females of that denomination, may be guilty of licentiousness,--the bare mention of which would pollute the pages of this or any other work,--with impunity. The priests can first pardon the woman, and then themselves, according to the doctrines of the _infallible church_ of Rome. This is not all. It is not enough that the sanction of the church should be given to these enormities; but priests also claim the right of concealing, from the civil authorities, any knowledge which they may have of crimes against the state as well as the power of forgiving them. The following is the language of the church upon that subject. Attend to it, fellow citizens, and tremble at the dangers that threaten the destruction of your republic, from the introduction of Popery among you. "Although the life or salvation of a man, or the ruin of the state, should depend upon it, what is discovered in confession cannot be revealed. The secret of _the seal_--confession--is more binding than the obligation of an oath." If a confessor is asked, what he knows of a fact communicated to him, he must answer that he does not know it; and, if necessary, confirm it by an oath; and "this is no perjury," says the Popish church, "_because he knows it not as man, but as GOD_." There is Popery for you, in its naked beauty! If a man wishes to murder, or to rob you, he may go to his priest, apprize him of his intention, confess to him that he will assuredly murder and rob you, or that he has done so already, and yet this priest may be your next door neighbor, and he will not make it known; and why, reader? Because he knows it _as God,_ and as _God_ he tells the murderer to come to him and he will forgive him. It is not at all impossible but the day may come when this country may be at war with Europe. We can easily fancy the despots of Europe forming another holy _alliance_, for the laudable purpose of suppressing democracy. France, Austria, Spain, Italy, and a large portion of Germany and Switzerland, together with the holy see, would necessarily constitute that holy junto; and if so, and war were declared by them against this country, what would be the consequence? Inevitable ruin; certain defeat; not caused by foes abroad, but by foes within, leagued by the most solemn ties, and bound by the most fearful oaths to sacrifice our country, and all we value, for the advancement of the Roman church. That there is a foe in the midst of us, capable of doing so, no man acquainted with the doctrines and statistics of the Roman Catholic church in this country can deny. It has now:--Dioceses, 21; apostolic vicarate, 1; number of bishops, 17; bishops elect, 8; priests, 634; churches, 611; other stations, 461; ecclesiastical seminaries, 19; clerical students, 261; literary institutions for young men, 16; female academies, 48; elementary schools, passim, throughout most of the dioceses; periodicals, 15; population, 1,300,-000. Late accounts carry the population up to 2,000,000. The increase of the Romish church, in this country, since 1836, amounts to 12 bishops, 293 priests, 772 churches and other stations, 1,400,000 individuals, and other things in proportion. Should the said church go on increasing for the next thirty years as she has done for the last eight years, the Papists would be a majority of the population of the United States, and the Pope our supreme temporal ruler. I have stated to you before what the doctrines of these two millions are in relation to the power of the Pope; and I repeat it now, and most solemnly assure you, that there is not a Roman Catholic in Europe or the United States who does not believe that the Pope has as good a right to govern this country as he has to govern Italy; and that he is, and of right ought to be, our king. Pope Gregory VII. has declared, "that the Pope alone ought to wear the tokens of imperial dignity, and that all princes ought to kiss his feet." There is not a Roman Catholic clergyman, whether bishop or priest, who does not believe that it is the duty of our president, our governors, and magistrates, to do the same. Bellarmine, one of the best authorities among Catholic writers, says, "The supremacy of the Pope over all persons and things is the main substance of Christianity." Mark that, fellow-citizens! That is the belief of Bishop Hughes, of New York; that is the belief of Bishop Fenwick, of Boston, and of every other Roman Catholic bishop in the United States, as I will soon show. Pope Boniface VIII. says, "It is necessary to salvation that all Christians be subject to the Pope." Bzovius, an orthodox Roman Catholic writer, whose authority no bishop or priest will venture to question, says of the Pope--"He is judge in heaven, and in all earthly jurisdiction supreme; he is the arbiter of the world." Moscovius, another eminent Popish writer, informs us that "God's tribunal and the Pope's tribunal are the same." Pope Paul IV., in one of his bulls, published in the year 1557, declares, that "all Protestants, be they kings or subjects, are cursed;" and this doctrine is an integral portion of the law of the Roman Catholic church, as may be seen in the fifth book of the decretals of the council of Trent. This is not all. We find in the forty-third canon of the council of Lateran, that "all bishops and priests are forbidden from taking any oath of allegiance," except to the Pope. We find in another part of the decrees of the council of Lateran, held under Pope Innocent III., the following denunciation:--"All magistrates who interpose against priests in any criminal case, whether it be for murder or high treason, let him be excommunicated." Bear that in mind, American Protestants! If a priest murder one of you, if he commit high treason against your government, your magistrates dare not interfere, under pain of being _damned_. So says the infallible Roman church; and so will she act, should she ever acquire the power of doing so, in this country. It is said by Lessius, an eminent Jesuit writer, and professor of divinity in the Roman Catholic college of Louvaine, who wrote about the year 1620, and whose authority no Roman Catholic dare doubt, under pain of eternal damnation, that "the Pope can annul and cancel every possible obligation arising from an oath." This he taught to his students in the college of Louvaine. This same doctrine has been taught in the college of Maynooth, Ireland, where I was educated myself. It is taught there at the present day. See the works of De La Hogue. Judge you, Americans, what safety there is for your republic, while you support and sustain among you a sect numbering two millions, who are sworn to uphold such doctrines as the foregoing. The very domestics in your houses are spies for the priests. Nothing transpires under your own roofs which is not immediately known to the bishop or priest to whom your servants confess. But you may say, "The confessor will not reveal it." Here you are partly right, and partly, mistaken; and it is proper to explain the course adopted by priests in such matters as confession. If it be the _interest_ of the church, that what is confessed should be made public, the priest tells the party to make it known to him, "_out of the confessional_," and then he uses it to suit his own views; perhaps for the destruction of the reputation, or fortune, of the very man, or family, employing domestic. But it may be replied that Roman Catholics are good-natured people; that they are generous and industrious. Admitted: I will even go further; there is not a people in the world moreso. Nature has done much for them, especially those of them who are natives of Ireland; but the lack of a correct education has corrupted their hearts and imbittered their feelings; they are not to be trusted with the care or management of the animals of Protestant families. It is not generally known, nor perhaps suspected by Protestant parents, who employ Roman Catholic domestics, in nursing and taking care of their children, that these nurses are in the habit of taking their children privately to the houses of the priests, and bishops, and there getting them baptized according to the Roman Catholic ritual: I know this as a fact, within my own knowledge. When I officiated as a Roman Catholic priest, in Philadelphia, I baptized hundreds, I may say thousands of Protestant children, without the knowledge or consent of their parents, brought to me secretly by their Roman Catholic nurses; and I should have continued to do so till this day, had not the Lord in his mercy, been pleased to visit me, and show me the wiles, treachery, infamy, corruption, and intrigue of the church, of which the circumstance of birth and education caused me to be a member. It was usual with me in Philadelphia, in St. Margaret church, of which I was pastor, to have services every morning at seven o'clock; and often when I returned home, between eight and eleven, have I found three, four, and sometimes six and eight children, whose parents were Protestants, waiting for me, in the arms of their Roman Catholic nurses to be baptized. This is a common practice in every Protestant country, where there are Roman Catholic priests; but as far as my experience goes, it prevails to a greater extent in the United States than elsewhere; and 1 should not be in the least surprised, if at this time, in the city of Boston, nearly all the infants, nursed by Roman Catholic women, are baptized by their priests and bishops. Roman Catholic women are unwilling to come in contact, even with _heretic_ infants. They believe them _damned_, unless baptized by a Romish priest. There is another fact, indirectly connected with this subject, which is not generally known. It is believed by Roman Catholics, that all mothers, after their confinement, are to be _churched_ by some Romish priest or bishop. This _churching_ is performed by the repetition of a few prayers, in Latin, a sprinkling of holy water, and the woman who does not submit to this mummery, is believed by any Roman Catholic nurse whom she may employ, to be eternally _damned_, together with her child. They go so far as to say, that the very ground upon which the unchurched mother walks is _accursed_; that the very house in which she lives is _accursed_; and that all she says and does is _accursed_. So firmly have the Romish priests and bishops fastened this belief upon the minds of their _dupes_, that at this moment in Ireland, and I may venture to say in this city of Boston, no Catholic woman will leave her bed after confinement, without being _churched, lest the ground_ on which she walks may be accursed. Until this ceremony is performed, none of her Catholic neighbors will hold any intercourse with her. How then can Protestant mothers expect otherwise, than that Catholic nurses will have _their_ children baptized by priests! or what security can they have that they will not, under the direction of priests, try to turn the minds of their children from the contemplation of truth, and pure gospel light, to the foul sources of Popery and superstition! Look to this, American mothers. It may not be amiss in this connection, to lay before American Protestants, the doctrine of the Romish church upon baptism; and, lest I may be accused of setting down aught in malice, I shall do so in the words of the council of Trent. _Canons of the Council of Trent concerning Baptism._ "1. Whoever shall say that the baptism of John, had the same virtue as the baptism of Christ; let him be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that true and natural water is not absolutely necessary for baptism, and therefore wrests those words of our Lord Jesus Christ, as though they had been a kind of metaphor: 'Except a man be born of water, and the Holy Spirit;' let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall say that in the Roman church, which is the mother and mistress of all churches, the doctrine concerning the sacrament of baptism is not true; let him be accursed! "4. Whoever shall say that the baptism which is also given by heretics, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, with the intention of doing what the church does, is not true baptism; let him be accursed! [Here is another of those rules, by which the holy Romish church leaves herself room to impose upon the public. Can any man believe, can any one even suppose a case, where a heretic acts, or intends to act, according to the intention of the church of Rome; The very act of heresy was against that church and her doctrines; and the truth is, if the church would speak honestly, or her priests and bishops do so for her, all who are not baptized in the Romish church, and who are baptized, are eternally damned. So thinks, and so teaches, the Popish church.] "5. Whoever shall say that baptism is optional, that is, not necessary to salvation; let him be accursed! "6. Whoever shall say that a baptized person cannot, even if he would, lose grace, how much soever he may sin, unless he is unwilling to believe; let him be accursed! "7. Whoever shall say that baptized persons, by baptism itself, become debtors to preserve faith alone, and not the whole law of Christ; let him be accursed! "8. Whoever shall say that baptized persons are free from all precepts of holy church, which are either written or traditional, so that they are not bound to observe them, unless they choose to submit themselves to them of their own accord; let him be accursed! "9. Whoever shall say that men are so to be recalled to the memory of the baptism which they have received, that they may regard all the vows which are made after baptism as null and void, by virtue of the promise already made in baptism itself, as if by it they detract from the faith which they have professed, and from the baptism itself; let him be accursed! "10. Whoever shall say that all the sins which we committed after baptism, by the mere remembrance and faith of the baptism received, are either dismissed or become venial; let him be accursed! "11. Whoever shall say that a baptism, truly and with due ceremony conferred, is to be repeated on him who has denied the faith of Christ among infidels, when he is converted to repentance; let him be accursed! "12. Whoever shall say that no one is to be baptized, except at that age at which Christ was baptized, or in the article of death; let him be accursed! "13. Whoever shall say that infants, because they have not the act of faith, are not to be reckoned among believers after having received baptism, and on this account are to be re-baptized when they arrive at years of discretion; or that it is better that their baptism be omitted, than that they should be baptized in the faith only of the church, when they do not believe by their own act; let him be accursed! "14. Whoever shall say that baptized children of this kind, when they have grown up, are to be asked whether they wish to have that ratified which their sponsors promised in their name when they were baptized; and that when they reply that they are unwilling, they are to be left to their own choice; and that they are not in the meantime to be compelled by any other punishment, to a Christian life, except that they be prohibited the enjoyment of the Eucharist, and the other sacraments, until they repent; let him be accursed!" This last canon, as the reader perceives, explains fully why Roman Catholics are so anxious for the baptism of Protestant children by their priests. It gives them the power of compelling those children, should they deem it expedient to do so, to profess the Catholic faith, and thereby strengthening her power. They try to alienate the children from the parents; or calculating upon that natural affection with which a parent clings to a child, they hope to bring over the parent also to the _Catholic faith_; or, failing in this, they hope to break up those alliances of blood which nature has established, and that community of interest and feeling, which society has sanctioned, and religion and nature have blessed, between parent and child. A true Papist will stop at nothing to advance the power of the Pope, or the interest of the holy church. Heretics, by which the reader will understand all who do not belong to the Roman Catholic church, are to be destroyed, cost what it will. Death, and the destruction of heretics, is the watchword of Popery. Down with Protestant governments, kings, presidents, governors, judges, and all other civil and religious authorities, is the war-cry in Popish countries. They desire neither to live nor die with us. They refuse to be laid down in the same common earth with us. Need this be proved to Americans? One would suppose not. Our intercourse with Roman Catholic countries is such, at present, that there can be no longer any doubt of this fact. Our commercial transactions with Spain, Portugal, South America, Mexico, and the neighboring Island of Cuba, enables many of our people to judge for themselves, and say what is now the condition of Protestants in those countries where Popery predominates. Can a Protestant worship God in those countries, according to the dictates of his own conscience? He cannot. They are all told by their priests, that a Protestant is a thing too unclean to worship God until he is first baptised and then shrived or confessed by their priests. A Protestant cannot even carry his Bible with him, into these countries. Many of my fellow-citizens, who may see this statement, will bear testimony to its truth. When a Protestant arrives at any port in a _purely_ Catholic country, his trunks and his person are examined; and if a bible is found in them, or about him, it is taken from him. The ministers of his religion dare not accompany him, or if he does, his lips are sealed, under pain of a lingering death. Should sickness lay its heavy hand upon him, there is no minister to attend him, no Bible allowed him, from which he may quench his thirst for the waters of life. Should death visit him, there is _no one to close_ the eyes of the lonely Protestant stranger. A good Roman Catholic would not touch the _accursed heretic_, and when dead he is not allowed the rights of Christian interment; he must be cast by the wayside, as suitable food for the hog, the dog, and the buzzard. How many a worthy American have I seen myself, in Cuba, cast away when dead, as you would a carrion, not even a coffin to cover him; and why all this? Because he was a heretic; because he did not believe in the supremacy of the Pope, and the infallibility of the Romish church; and yet those inhuman wretches, those libels upon religion and humanity, come among us, ask you for lands on which to build churches and pulpits, from which they curse you and your children; become citizens of your republic, inmates in your families, with smiles on their faces and curses in their hearts for you. Let not this language be deemed exaggeration. I have heard it, I have witnessed it, I have seen it. And yet Americans, heedlessly fancying themselves and their institutions secure, refuse these, their sworn enemies, and foes of their religion, nothing they ask for. Such is the listlessness and apathy of our people upon this subject, that, as far as I am acquainted, no appeal has ever been made to our government, to ask even for a modification of those barbarities, with which our Protestant citizens are treated, in Roman Catholic countries; nor has there been any effort made to alter our free constitution, so as to enable us to retaliate upon those Popish monsters, and obtain from the bloodthirsty cowards, at the point of the bayonet, those common privileges, which are almost among the necessary appurtenances of humanity, and which even a Pagan would scarcely deny to a fellow-being. I hold it as undeniable, that even as Protestants, we are, at least by implication, entitled by our treaties of alliance with Popish countries, to far different treatment from that which we receive; and had the question been considered by _our people_, either in their primary meetings, or through their representatives, they would have long since, insisted upon due protection and respect for the natural rights of their citizens abroad. These natural rights can neither be sold nor exchanged; their free exercise is guaranteed by implication in every treaty we make with foreign nations, and cannot be violated by them without giving just cause of war. Let political casuists say what they please, there is no principle better established in political ethics, than that all international treaties of amity and commerce, should be formed, and if formed, should be kept, upon principles of justice and reciprocity. The same national amity and courtesy, which our Protestant country extends to Popish nations and their people, should be extended by them to us By national friendship and comity, is not, I apprehend, and should not, be meant or understood, the privilege of selling a bale of cotton here or a bag of coffee there. It includes the free exercise of the rights of the parties thereto, so far, at least, as they are not incompatible with each other, or with the general principles of natural or national law. The Spaniard, the Portuguese, the Italian, the Mexican, or Cuban, may worship his God, the Virgin Mary, or any saint he pleases, and no American will disturb him; no American will forbid him. If he dies, his priests may have him buried where he will. This is as it should be. Man has a natural right to worship God; it is a right implanted in his very nature. As well may we say to a man, thou shalt not breathe the air of our country, as say, thou shalt not worship the God that gave thee birth; and as well also may we say, thou shalt not worship that God except according to the mode which we prescribe, as forbid him doing so at all. The natural right of worshipping God, or a first cause, implies the right of doing so according to the dictates of each man's conscience, provided, in doing it, we interfere with none of those laws, which civilized nations should reverence. This is the principle on which we act with Popish countries and people, and upon the principle of reciprocal justice, we ought to demand similar treatment from them. We have friendly treaties with these people. Friendly, forsooth! Can that man or that nation be friendly, who forbids us to read our Bibles within their territories, or to bury our dead among their dead, or to worship God according to the usages of our forefathers, or the dictates of our own conscience? Such treaties should rather be termed _treaties for the abrogation of natural rights of Americans within Popish dominions_. We enjoy no rights there; and if we have any by implication, under our treaties, they are impiously wrested from us by a wicked rabble of priests and bishops, distinguished only for their ignorance, rapacity, and licentiousness. I solemnly call upon every American citizen, who reveres his God, respects his fellow-citizens, or values the happiness of his country, to submit no longer to Popish insolence abroad, and to allow them no rights in this country, which they are not willing to reciprocate. If our existing treaties of _amity_ with Popish powers are not sufficient to protest us in the free exercise of our religion, when among them, let us break them, let us tear them asunder, and scatter them as chaff before the wind. They were never binding upon us. They were made in violation of natural rights, which God alone could give, and man cannot take away. Call upon your government to protect you; choose no man as your representative who will allow Popery to flourish in this free soil, and witness the religion of your forefathers trampled upon, with impunity, by Papists in a neighboring country; and if you cannot obtain your rights by law, you will show the world that you have, at least, moral and physical courage enough to redress your wrongs. Let not Papists, who, at the distance of a few days' sail from your ports, would deny your brother the rights of Christian interment, or the consolation of dying with his Bible in his hand, dare call upon your aid, to propagate a religion, which inculcates principles worse and more dangerous than were ever practised in Pagan lands. Much sympathy is felt and expressed, particularly in this state of Massachusetts, where I write for some of her colored population, because it is deemed necessary, in slave states, to prevent them from commingling with their slaves, lest they may excite them to dissatisfaction with their condition, and ultimately to insurrection. It is deemed a matter of such magnitude that Massachusetts, in the plenitude of its sympathy, felt herself called upon to send an ambassador to South Carolina, to protect her citizens, and demand redress for this supposed outrage upon her rights. It is not my intention to enter into the merits or demerits of the question at issue between the states of Massachusetts and South Carolina. I will merely state, that the former consists in this, viz: by a law of the state of South Carolina, every free person of color, entering that state, is liable to be imprisoned till he leaves the state. This is done by South Carolina and some other slave states, as a necessary measure of precaution; but the prisoner is kindly treated; at least, we hear nothing to the contrary; no such complaint is made by Massachusetts. The prisoner is allowed the free exercise of his religion; his friends may visit him almost at any hour; his spiritual instructor is never denied access to him; he may have his Bible with him, or any other books he may think proper. But this will not satisfy the sympathizing people of Massachusetts. They call public meetings of their citizens; threaten to dissolve the union; and declare they will raise a sufficient military force to invade South Carolina, and redress this outrage upon a citizen's rights, at the point of the bayonet. Man is truly a strange being, and various indeed are the currents of his sympathies, but still more various and unaccountable are the causes which often set them in motion. It is comparatively but seldom, that a colored citizen of the North goes to slave states; but if there should be the least infraction of his civil rights, the whole North flies into a passion; and yet this very people of the North can see the citizens of their own country, kindred, and blood, in a neighboring Popish port of Havana, for instance, deprived of all their rights, both conventional and natural, without a murmur. Not a complaint is heard in New England, from the son, whose father is confined in the dungeons of Cuba, not because he is suspected of any intention to create insurrection, but simply because he refused to kneel to some wooden image, which a parcel of debauched priests are lugging about the streets; or because he expresses his belief that such processions and mummeries are worse than Pagan idolatry. The American Protestant, who will dare worship his God publicly, or even in private, within the walls of his own house, unless with closed doors, and without the knowledge of the Popish spies of the Inquisition, is liable to imprisonment, from which, in all probability, he is never to be released. If a Bible be found in his house, it is burned, and he and his family are cast into jail. This is the case in every country where the Popish church has power enough to make its religion that of the state; and yet we have treaties of _amity_, with these countries. What a burlesque upon _amity!_ what a mockery of friendly relations, with a people who deny us the exercise of the natural right which every man has, to worship God as he pleases! who compel our fathers, brothers, and our sons, to bow the knee, in idolatrous worship, to wooden images, and particles of bread, which are paraded as _Gods_, through the streets, in Roman Catholic countries. Friendly relations, forsooth, with a people who consider us damned, and already consigned to perdition! And yet we hear no complaint in Massachusetts, of cruelties to our citizens; nothing is said of the violation of those friendly relations, secured to us by treaty, and annually declared by our presidents, in their messages, to exist and to be maintained between our people and those Popish countries. When we hear of an American citizen in Cuba, when we hear of his natural rights being trampled under foot, by Catholic governors, bishops, and priests, no complaint is made of a violation of friendly alliance; no meeting is called to express sympathy for the individual sufferer, or indignation against the treacherous government of Popery; no act of our legislature has been passed, making appropriations to send ambassadors to these neighboring nations, for injuries done to our citizens; and yet it is a well-known fact, that where one colored citizen of New England is imprisoned, for a few days, in South Carolina, there are a thousand of our enterprising seamen and merchants, confined in the dungeons of Spain, Italy, Portugal, Mexico, and Cuba, at our very door. How long will these outrages be tolerated? A Popish captain comes here; the hands before the mast are Papists; the ship may have her chaplain, or may have as many _little gods_, and saints, indulgences, scapulas, beads, and rosaries, as they please; they may land, captain, crew, saints, and all, and no one molests them; but if an American ship arrives at the very port from which the other sailed, her captain and crew are forbidden even to carry their Bible on shore; but should the ship have a Protestant chaplain, and that chaplain venture on shore, with his congregation of sailors--all American freemen--he dare not take his Bible with him, or hold religious worship on this Popish soil; and should this captain, chaplain, or any of the crew die, he is not allowed Christian burial, unless he can buy the privilege from, profligate priests, at an enormous sacrifice of money, and after certain purifications effected by holy water, and smoking, which they call _incense_. This is what our government calls _friendly relations_. How long shall we be amused by the executive messages, annually informing us of receiving "assurances of friendship from Popish countries?" Let the people take this subject into their own hands; let them have no alliance, no treaty, no commerce with a people, who will deny them the right of worshipping God peaceably and respectfully, or who will refuse them the right of burying their dead decently and with due solemnity. The treaties which are made with Papists begin, on their part, with the most solemn avowal of good faith, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. They assure us of their friendly sentiments towards us under this solemn and awful sanction; but no sooner is this promise made--no sooner have they pledged their honor, their faith, and all that is holy, to support it--than they disregard all those obligations, feeling and believing that they are already dispensed with by their church, which teaches them to hold no faith with heretics. The priests, however, and bishops, more crafty than the mass of their people, plead _state necessity_ for withholding from us privileges which we give them. This is a shallow pretext, and worthy only of the source from which it comes. Can any case be supposed, or any necessity arise, to violate the eternal principles of right and wrong, of justice and truth? Are moral and national obligations anything more than mere dead letters and leaden rules, which can be bent by hands strong enough to do so, and to suit their own purposes and designs? Suppose a man in private life--suppose further that man to be a Papist--he enters into a treaty of alliance and friendship with a Protestant; he calls God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost to witness that he will fulfil his engagement; we can easily fancy the Protestant, within the jurisdiction of that Papist, reading his Bible, without interfering or any way molesting the individual within whose jurisdiction he is. Let us imagine this Protestant seized by the Papist, thrown into prison by him, while alive, and if dead, thrown away as food for the birds of prey. Would you call this fulfilling the obligations of friendship or friendly alliance? Would the Protestant ever enter into such a treaty of alliance again? Would not every Protestant who witnessed this transaction look upon the Papist who committed it, even though he be but a private individual, as a bad man, with whom no further intercourse ought to be had? Assuredly, he would. But let it be borne in mind, that actions do not change their nature; immutable principles are always the same; they do not change with the paucity or number of actors; what is bad in an individual will be wrong in a nation, and in every individual of that nation. The only difference is, that an act of perfidy and bad faith in a nation is, if possible, worse in itself, and infinitely more mischievous, than if committed by an individual. Our political sophists may deny this, and gloss over the conduct of Popish governments towards our citizens while among them; but they cannot long hide from our people that the eternal laws of truth cannot be violated; nor can their meaning be frittered away by the technicalities of treaties. Truth, whether moral or political, is like the suu of heaven; it is but one--it is the same every where. It is sometimes clouded, it is true, but these clouds are momentary; they pass away, and it shines again in its native brilliancy. The day is fast coming, and I trust it has even arrived, when Americans will see, that by a treaty of amity is not meant the right of shipping our commodities to Popish countries, and receiving theirs in exchange; reserving to one party the privilege of denying to the other a right dearer to him than all earthly considerations; and which is guarantied to him by the eternal laws of God, while the other party is under no restraint as to the full and free enjoyment of those natural rights. And here, I beg leave to say to our legislators, that Protestant Americans, upon due reflection, will not long give their assent to any treaty, nor form an alliance with any country, which shall deny them the free exercise of their religion. The American, who will enter into an alliance with the Pope, or a Popish country, explicitly agrees to deny his God, and forswear the religion of his forefathers. He virtually consents that the party with which he makes the agreement shall be privileged to curse and damn him, his country, his religion, and his rights. This needs no proof. Look around you, and see your citizens in Mexico denying their God by submitting to Popish laws, which forbid their worship according to the dictates of their conscience. Were your puritan forefathers to witness this, would they not exclaim, "Shame upon our degenerate sons, who will barter their religion and their birthright for the petty advantages of commerce!" No wonder that Popish priests and Popish presses should call Americans _cowards and the sons of cowards_. Who but a coward, and what but a nation of cowards, would surrender that liberty of conscience which their forefathers purchased at the price of blood? This Americans do by assenting to a treaty with any country which does not guarantee to them the right of worshipping God without hindrance. Americans will not forget, though they cannot too often be reminded of the fact, that those countries where their feelings are thus outraged are, _de facto,_ governed by the Pope and his vicegerents, whose actions for centuries back have proved them to have been no other than conspirators against the improvement and happiness of the human race. What were the means by which they conducted their governments? The very same that they are now in every Roman Catholic country, all over the globe; craft, dissimulation, oppression, extortion, and above all, fire, faggot, and the sword. There is not an article of their faith, nor a sacrament of their church, which is not enforced by curses, as I shall show in the sequel. These vicegerents of the humble Redeemer have the insolence to ape the very thunders of heaven. History informs us, that their robes have been crimsoned in blood. Their images of saints, some of which I have seen in Mexico, made of solid gold, and many of them six feet high and well-proportioned, were wrung from the poor. Many of those countries, which they now possess, and where God and nature have scattered plenty, have been made barren by Popish avarice and the licentiousness of its priests. The fields, which laughed with plenty, they have watered with hunger and distress. They found the world gay with flowers, and with roses: they dyed it with blood. They and their doctrines acted upon it like the blast of an east wind. Popery, since the eighth century in particular, has been what a pestilence or conflagration is to a city. Come with me, in imagination, to Italy, and judge for yourselves. Pass on with me, to Spain, Portugal, South America, and you will sec that I am not exaggerating. You will find that I have only told truth, but not the whole truth. No tongue can tell it. We have no language to express it. I will give you a few instances of the fruits of Popery in the neighboring island of Cuba. What I am about stating has come under my own observation; and is, besides, a matter of record, and accessible to many. The natives of Cuba pay fifteen millions per annum to her _most Christian_ Majesty, the queen of Spain. They support an army of sixteen thousand men, every one of whom is a native of old Spain, kept there for the sole purpose of extorting this enormous annual tribute. The number of priests there is immense. They, too, must be supported at the point of the bayonet. These priests are known to be the most profligate vagabonds in creation. And why, it will naturally be asked, should such men be tolerated? Why supply them with money to gamble at the faro table, at cock-fights and bull-fights? The reason is plain; they act as spies for the Pope, who, in reality, manages the government of old Spain, and contrives to draw, from that already impoverished and distracted country, the last dollar of a people whom God has endowed with every virtue, and a capacity of cultivating them, had not the curse of Popery fallen upon them. Such is the avarice of the Popish church and Popish tyrants, that, if a farmer in Cuba kills even a beef for his own use, he must pay the government ten per cent, upon its value. When I was in Cuba, the farmer must pay ten and a half dollars duty upon every barrel of flour imported into the island; when he might raise, in the field, before his own door, the finest wheat in the world, if the government would let him. Such are but a few of the blessings of Popish governments. Do Americans desire this republic reduced to such a state of vassalage as this? or will you profit by these lessons, which experience is daily teaching you? Wherever you turn your eyes, and see Popery in the ascendant, you will find it the Pandora's box, out of which every curse has issued, without even leaving hope behind. It should, therefore, be suppressed on its appearance in any country. It should be the duty of every good man to extirpate it, and sweep it, if possible, from the face of the globe. It is nothing better than a political machine, cunningly devised, for the propagation of despotism. It is the masterpiece of satanic wickedness. Execrated and exploded be this infernal machine! and thanks forever be to that God, who has shown me its intricacies, in time to save me from becoming what, I know of my own knowledge, Roman Catholic priests are--hypocrites, infidels, and licentious debauchees, under the mask of sanctity and holiness. Their religion is supported by _curses_, as I have before stated, and will now prove from the doctrines of their own church. The reader has already been told, that the Popish church maintains the doctrines that a belief in seven sacraments is necessary to salvation. These sacraments are designated as follows: _Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance, Extreme Unction, Holy Orders, and Matrimony_. And she enforces this by _curses_. I have already enumerated the curses with which she enforces her belief in baptism. The next sacrament is Confirmation, enforced by the following eloquent curses, pronounced by the infallible council of Trent:!!!!! "1. Whoever shall say that the confirmation of baptized persons is a needless ceremony, and not rather a true and proper sacrament: or that anciently it was nothing else than a kind of catechizing, by-which the youth expressed the reason of their faith before the church; let him be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that they do despite to the Holy Spirit who attributes any virtue to the holy chrism of confirmation; let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall say, the ordinary minister of holy confirmation is not the bishop alone, but any mere priest whatsoever; let him be accursed!" The next sacrament is the Eucharist. The following is the doctrine of the Romish church in relation to this:!!!!! Decree of the Council of Florence for the Instruction of the Armenians, "The third is the sacrament of the Eucharist, the matter of which is wheaten bread, and wine from the vine; with which, before the consecration, a very small quantity of water should be mixed. But water is thus mixed, since it is believed that the Lord himself instituted this sacrament in wine, mixed with water: besides, because this agrees with the representation of our Lords passion: because it is recorded that blood and water flowed forth from the side of Christ: and also because this is proper to signify the effect of this sacrament, which is the union of Christian people with Christ: for water signifies the people, according to Rev. xvii. 15. _And he said to me, the waters, which thou sawest, where the harlot sitteth, are peoples, and nations, and tongues_. "The form of this sacrament are the words of the Saviour, by which this sacrament is performed: for the priest, speaking in the person of Christ, performs this sacrament: for, by virtue of the words themselves, the substance of the bread is converted into the body, and the substance of the wine into the blood, of Christ; yet so that Christ is contained entire under the form of bread, and entire under the form of wine: Christ is entire also under every part of the consecrated host, and of the consecrated wine, after a separation has been made. The effect of this sacrament, which it produces in the soul of a worthy partaker, is the union of the person to Christ," &c. _Canons of the Council of Trent, concerning the Most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist._ "1. Whoever shall deny that, in the sacrament of the most holy Eucharist are contained truly, really, and substantially, the body and blood, together with the soul and divinity, of our Lord Jesus Christ, and therefore the entire Christ, but shall say that he is in it only as in a sign, or figure, or virtue, let him be accursed! "2 Whoever shall say that in the most holy sacrament of the Eucharist, the substance of bread and wine remains together with the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, and shall deny that wonderful and singular conversion of the whole substance of the bread into the body, and of the whole substance of the wine into the blood, only the forms of bread and wine remaining, which conversion indeed the Catholic church most aptly calls tran-substantiation; let him be accursed! "3 Whoever shall deny that in the adorable sacrament of the Eucharist, the entire Christ is contained under each kind, and under the single parts of each kind, when a separation is made; let him be accursed! "4. Whoever shall say that the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ are not present in the admirable Eucharist so soon as the consecration is performed, but only in the use when it is received, and neither before nor after, and that the true body of our Lord does not remain in the hosts, or consecrated morsels, which are reserved or left after the communion; let him be accursed! "5. Whoever shall say either that remission of sins is the principal fruit of the most holy Eucharist, or that no other effects proceed from it; let him be accursed! "6. Whoever shall affirm that in the holy sacrament of the Eucharist, Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, is not to be adored, even with the external worship of latria, and therefore that the Eucharist is to be honored neither with peculiar festive celebration, nor to be solemnly carried about in processions according to the laudable and universal rite and custom of the church, or that it is not to be held up publicly before the people that it may be adored, and that its worshippers are idolaters; let him be accursed! "7. Whoever shall say that it is not lawful that the holy Eucharist be reserved in the sacristy, but that it must necessarily be distributed to those who are present immediately after the consecration; that it is not proper that it be carried in procession to the sick; let him be accursed! "8. Whoever shall say that Christ, as exhibited in the Eucharist, is eaten only spiritually, and not also sacramentally and really; let him be accursed. "9. Whoever shall deny that each and every one of Christ's faithful, of both sexes, when they have attained to years of discretion, are obliged, least once every year, at Easter, to commune according to the precept of holy mother church; let him be accursed! "10. Whoever shall say that it is not lawful in the officiating priest to administer the communion to himself; let him be accursed! "11. Whoever shall affirm that faith alone is sufficient preparation for taking the sacrament of the most holy Eucharist; let him be accursed And lest so great a sacrament be taken unworthily and therefore to death and condemnation, the sacred holy synod doth decree and declare, that sacrimental confession must necessarily precede in the case of those whom conscience accuses of mortal sin, if a confessor is at hand, however contrite they may suppose themselves to be. But if any one shall presume to teach, preach, or pertinacious assert, or in publicly disputing, to defend the contrary, let him by this very act be excommunicated." Canons of the same Council concerning the Communion of Children, and in both Kinds. "1. Whoever shall say that each and every of of Christ's faithful ought to take both kinds of the most holy sacrament of the Eucharist, by the command of God, or because necessary to salvation let him be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that the holy Catholic church has not been induced, by just causes and reasons, to administer the communion to the laity, and also to the clergy not officiating, only under the form of bread; or that she has erred in this; Let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall deny that the whole and entire Christ, the fountain and author of all graces, is received under the one form of bread, because, as some falsely assert, he is not received under both kinds, according to the institution of Christ; let him be accursed! "4 Whoever shall say that the communion of the Eucharist is necessary for little children before they have attained to years of discretion; let him be accursed!" &c. The next in order is Extreme Unction, Canons of the Council of Trent concerning Extreme Unction. "1. Whoever shall say that extreme unction is not truly and properly a sacrament instituted by Christ our Lord, and promulgated by the blessed apostle James, but only a rite received from, the fathers, or human invention; let turn be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that the sacred anointing of the sick does not confer grace, nor remit sins, nor raise up the sick, but that it has now ceased, as if the gift of healing existed only in past ages; let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall say that the ceremony of extreme unction in the practice which the holy Roman church observes, are repugnant to the meaning of the blessed apostle James, and that, therefore, they are to be changed; let him be accursed!" The sixth sacrament is that of Orders. Canons of the Council of Trent concerning Orders "1. Whoever shall say that in the New Testament, there is not a visible and external priesthood: or that there is not any power of consecrating and offering the true body and blood of the Lord, and of remitting and retaining sins: but only the office and naked ministry of preaching the gospel; or that they who do not preach are surely not priests; Let him be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that besides the priesthood there are not other orders in the Catholic church, both greater and inferior, by which as by certain steps, the priesthood may be attained; let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall say that orders, or sacred ordination, is not truly and properly a sacrament instituted by Christ the Lord; or that it is a certain human invention, devised by men ignorant of ecclesiastical things, or that it is only a certain ceremony of choosing the ministers of the word of God and of the sacraments; let him be accursed! "4. Whoever shall say that by sacred ordination the Holy Spirit is not given, and that therefore the bishops say in vain, Receive the Holy Ghost: or that by it character is not impressed: or that he who has once been a priest may again become a layman; let him be accursed! "5. Whoever shall say that the sacred unction which the church uses in holy ordination is not only not required, but is contemptible and pernicious; likewise also the other ceremonies of orders; let him be accursed! "6. Whoever shall say that in the Catholic church there is not a hierarchy instituted by divine appointment, which consists of bishops, priests, and ministers; let him be accursed! "7. Whoever shall say that bishops are not superior to priests, or that they have not the power of confirming and ordaining; or that which they have is common to them with the priests; or that orders conferred by them without the consent or call of the people or the secular power, are null and void; or that they who have been neither duly ordained nor sent by ecclesiastical and canonical power, but come from some other source, are lawful ministers of the word and sacraments; let him be accursed! "8. Whoever shall say that the bishops, who are appointed by the authority of the Roman pontiff, are not lawful and true bishops, but a human invention; let him be accursed!" Canons of the Council of Trent concerning Marriage. 1. Whoever shall say that marriage is not truly and properly one of the seven sacraments of the evangelical laws instituted by Christ the Lord, but that it is invented by men in the church and does not confer grace; let him be accursed! "2. Whoever shall say that it is lawful for Christians to Have several wives at once, and that this is forbidden by no divine law; let him be accursed! "3. Whoever shall say that only those degrees of relationship and affinity, which are expressed in Leviticus, can hinder marriage from being contracted, and annul the contract; and that the church cannot dispense in any of them, or appoint that more may hinder and annul; let him be accursed! "4. Whoever shall say that the Church could not constitute impediments annulling marriage, or that in constituting them, she has erred; let him be accursed! "5. Whoever shall say that the bond of marriage may be dissolved on account of heresy, or mutual dislike, or voluntary absence from the husband or wife; let him be accursed! "6. Whoever shall say that a marriage solemnized, but not consummated, is not annulled by the solemn profession of a religious order by one of the parties; let him be accursed! "7. Whoever shall say that the church errs, when she has taught and teaches that according to the evangelical and apostolical doctrine, the bond of marriage cannot be dissolved on account of the adultery of one or the other of the parties, and that neither of them, not even the innocent party who has given no cause for the adultery, may contract another marriage, whilst the party is living, and that he commits adultery, who marries another after putting away his adulterous wife, or she, who marries another, after putting away her adulterous husband; let him be accursed! "8. Whoever shall say that the church is in error when, for many reasons, she decrees that a separation may be made between married persons, as to the bed, or as to intercourse, either for a certain, or an uncertain time; let him be accursed. "9. Whoever shall say that the clergy, constituted in sacred order, or regulars, who have solemnly professed chastity, may contract marriage, and that the contract is valid, notwithstanding ecclesiastical law, or vow, and that to maintain the opposite, is nothing else than to condemn marriage; and that all may contract marriage, who do not think that they have the gift of chastity, even though they have vowed it; let him be accursed: as God does not deny this to those who seek it aright, nor does he suffer us to be tempted above what we are able to bear. "10. Whoever shall say that the married state is to be preferred to a state of virginity, or celibacy, and that it is not better and more blessed to remain in virginity, or celibacy, than to be joined in marriage; let him be accursed! "11. Whoever shall affirm that the prohibition of the solemnization of marriage, at certain times of the year, is a tyrannical superstition, borrowed from the superstitions of the Pagans, or shall condemn the benedictions, and other ceremonies, which the church uses at those times; let him be accursed! u 12. Whoever shall affirm that matrimonial causes do not belong to the ecclesiastical judges; let him be accursed!" The atrocity of the above doctrines, is evident to every reflecting mind. Protestants can now see for themselves, whether they can safely hold any communion with them, or have any confidence in Roman Catholics. There is not a Protestant Christian in the United States, nor in the world, who is not publicly and solemnly denounced, as an accursed being, by the Roman Catholic church, and by each and every one of its members; but in addition to those curses, which I have enumerated, there is another more solemn; one which is annually pronounced against them, by the Pope of Rome, and by every bishop and priest in this country. It is known by the title of _Bulla in cena Domini_. The curse contained in this bull, is pronounced annually at Rome, by the Pope, on Thursday before Good Friday. It includes every living being who is not a Roman Catholic. All our president, congress, governors, magistrates, municipal authorities, officers of our navy and army, all our Protestant clergymen, whether Unitarians, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Baptists, or Methodists; and upon all these, without distinction, the Pope of Rome, dressed in his royal robes, invokes the curse of Heaven, once at least every year. Every priest in the Roman church is bound to do the same. It was a part of my own duty, and one which I never failed to discharge, until I protested against the doctrines of the Romish church. The Popish priests never deemed it prudent to pronounce this curse publicly?-in the United States, but while I was among them, we never omitted to do so privately, on the morning of Thursday before Good Friday. It commences with the following words on the part of the Pope:!!!!! "We, therefore, following the ancient custom of our predecessors, of holy memory, do firstly--excommunicate and curse, in the name of Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and by the authority of St. Peter and St. Paul, and by our own authority, all Heretics, Hussites, Wiekliffites, Lutherans. Calvinists, Huguenots, Anabaptists, Trinitarians, and all apostates from the faith, and all who read their books," &c, &c. This curse includes every soul in the United States, who is not a Roman Catholic. Will you, Americans give these men and their doctrines footing among you? Will they longer dare to curse you and your children with impunity? In the 6th section of the above bull, the Pope and his priests curse all civil powers, who impose taxes without the consent of the Roman court. In the 12th section, they curse all who maltreat cardinals, bishops, or priests. You are, therefore, to take heed and not quarrel with priests, though they insult your wives, or debauch your families. In the 15th section, all are cursed, who take away jurisdiction from the court of Rome, and prefer leaving pauses of difference between them and priests, to our civil tribunals. In the 17th section, all are cursed, who in any case appeal to civil tribunals, when the difficulty is between Romish priests and citizens. In the 18th section, the Pope curses all who take away church property. In the 19th section, the Pope curses all who, without express license from him, impose taxes on priests, monasteries, nunneries, or churches. Our legislature is sitting while I write. Take heed, gentlemen, lest you tax the Roman Catholic bishop Fenwick, or any of his priests. Be sure you do not tax his real estate, his nunneries, or other property. If you do, you are doubly damned. In the 20th section, the church curses all judges, and magistrates, who shall sit in judgment on a bishop or priest, without license from the holy see. In the 22d section, this _bull_ is declared to be binding forever, and it is brought to a conclusion by a solemn assurance that if any priest shall violate it, he shall incur the wrath of Almighty God, and of St. Peter and Paul. I would again ask Americans whether Roman Catholic priests, or bishop, or the two millions of followers which they have in this country, are any longer to be trusted. I tell Americans, and I proclaim it to the world, that they are spies upon our republic; they are the sworn foes of our laws, of our principles, and of our government; and they are united by the most fearful oath never to rest while our religious liberty lasts, and to use every means which ingenuity can devise, and treachery and perjury accomplish, to effect its overthrow, and substitute in its place, the religion of the Pope; a religion, if such a name can be given to a most infamous system of policy, which for sixteen hundred years has deluged Europe in blood. I make these assertions, not at random, not upon hearsay, not upon the authority of Protestant writers, but upon that of Roman Catholic theologians, and upon my own personal knowledge. I solemnly declare it to be my deliberate opinion, that it is the duty of all civil governments on the face of the earth, to unite in excluding, from their territories, all Roman Catholic priests and bishops, as their deadly enemies, and the sworn transgressors of all national law; and for us in this country to countenance them, while they have any connection with the Pope of Rome, or profess to owe him any allegiance, is nothing short of a species of insanity. The _bull_ of which I have spoken, is taught in every Roman Catholic college in the United States. The students in those institutions are educated in the belief that their church, which is infallible, requires of them to be unfaithful to this heretical government, and not only that, but to betray it, whenever the interest of the church demands it. Every Irish Roman Catholic priest, who comes to this country, is instructed by his bishop, to pull down, if possible, the standard of heresy, which he is told he will find waving over the United States, and erect in its place that of the Pope, which he swears to defend. These are the principles of priests and their followers, who are coming amongst you in thousands; whom you have encouraged for the last fifty years, until at last, you have emboldened them, by your mistaken sensibility and mock philanthropy, to say and proclaim to the universe, _Americans shan't rule us_. This was their motto, during the last presidential election; a motto devised and blessed by those turbulent demagogues and pensioned agents of the Pope, in New York. But they are not the only Papists who have proclaimed that Americans shall not rule them. The same has been done in Philadelphia and Boston! These men are at the bottom of all the riots, tumults, and popular commotions, which have occurred in this country for several years back. Witness the disturbances in Philadelphia, in 1821 and 1822, by an Irish bishop, in trying to get possession, in the name of the Pope, of church property, estimated to be worth over a million of dollars. (I shall refer to this hereafter.) Witness the riots in the same city last May, where several Americans have been sacrificed to the fury of a Popish mob. Witness the proceeding in this city of Boston, on the occasion of a nun having made her escape from the convent in Charlestown, to avoid, I have no doubt, what delicacy forbade her to mention. Other causes were assigned for her escape, and some were weak enough to deem them sufficient; but from my own knowledge of convents, there can be no doubt of the real cause of the escape, of the virtuous young lady, of whom mention is made. Here is another instance of the morbid and mistaken sensibility of many of our people. A certain number of Popish agents have applied to our legislature to build a _jail_, which they call a convent, in our very midst. To this jail, they attach a school, for the education of young ladies, and for this ostensible purpose, numbers of older ones are kept in the _jail_ or convent, by the Pope's agents. The young ladies, who are sent to this school, are treated with kindness and attention; every thing is done to please, to flatter them, and even to cultivate their minds. The interior of the jail or nunnery is depicted in the most delightful colors. The happiness of the inmates is said to be equal to the saints in paradise. No opportunity is lost to impress on the minds of their pupils, the temporal as well as eternal beatitudes of this convent, until, finally, the young minds of the scholars become perfectly enchanted, and, in the full glow of their youthful imagination, they determine to become nuns. This step, too, they are taught to take with apparent caution; they must serve a noviciate, go through all the ceremony of wearing a white veil; the old nuns representing to them the happiness they are about to enjoy, when they are about to assume the black veil. But when this is done, the poor innocent victims soon feel the horrors of their condition. They are confined to solitary cells, to which no one has access _but the priests_, and thus, in our very midst, a free born American citizen is seduced from her parents, from her guardians, and fellow-citizens, and no one is permitted to go and ask her freely how she likes her condition. She is confined there with more severity, and watched more closely, than any female in a Turkish Seraglio; and as we all recollect, a few years ago, a Popish bishop, with his priests, and some thousands of their _subjects_, viz., Irish Papists, threatened to sack the city of Boston, because the people deemed it necessary to pull down that synagogue of satan, the Charlestown nunnery. I am not an advocate of mobs or riots: I would observe the law of the land, and see it enforced at every risk; but there is a point at which no man would support even the civil law. There are laws founded upon necessity, and the eternal laws of morality, which have a paramount claim upon one. Allegiance. Suppose some hoary-headed profligate should obtain a charter to build a house on Mount Benedict; suppose further, he attaches a school to it, to be governed by the faded victims of his former dissipation, with a view of making money for himself; suppose he and they had the address to gather around them some of the most innocent, lovely, and respectable females in the country; let us even suppose that ninety-nine in a hundred of those young ladies left that school with unblemished reputation and high accomplishments; and we had that evidence that _only one_ in a hundred fell victims to the designs of the founders of this corrupt institution: who would hesitate to determine what should be done with this institution, or this nunnery, as Roman Catholic priests would call it? An answer is not necessary. But suppose the hoary-headed gentleman should apply to the legislature to rebuild it, would they do so? There was a time when their acquaintance with Popery might have induced them to say aye, if such a resolution were introduced; but now that they have seen Popery in its native colors, withered should be the tongue of him who would advance such a proposition; and paralyzed should be the arm of the American who would support it. But it may be replied, that the Roman Catholic church is different now from what it was in ancient times; that it has essentially changed in its doctrine and in its discipline. Others may say that Protestants, too, have been intolerant, and guilty of many cruelties, in the propagation of their religion. This is freely admitted: but there is this wide difference between the two religions. The Popish creed inculcates persecution and utter extermination of all who do not believe in its doctrines; while on the contrary, the creed of the latter has never, and does not now, inculcate any other doctrine, than Jesus Christ, and him crucified. In plain English, the Romish church curses all who differ from her; while the Protestant church blesses all, though they may be in error, and sincerely prays for their conversion. The spirit of the latter breathes nothing but love, joy, peace, and good will to mankind; that of the former, malice, hatred, ill will, and persecution. This has been her uniform theory from the middle of the third century; and as I will now show you, from the lips of her own divines, and cannonized saints, her members have never ceased to reduce it to practice. Cyril, who is to this day invoked, and prayed to as a saint, taught and practised the above Romish doctrine. He was bishop of Alexandria, in the year four hundred and twelve. There is not a Roman Catholic, who is not taught to pray to him; and, of course, they can have no objection to my giving him as authority. Whatever St. Cyril believed, is believed by Papists now. Whatever he did was right, and according to sound doctrine consequently as Holy Mother, the church, never errs, and never can err, it must be right now. Let us see what this saint has done and believed, in his time. Socrates, a native of Constantinople, gives the following account of a portion of the life of St. Cyril, and other bishops of Alexandria. I take it from his ecclesiastical history. The bishops of Alexandria had begun, says Socrates, to exceed the limits of ecclesiastical power, and to intermeddle with civil affairs, imitating, thereby, the bishop of Rome, whose sacred authority had, long since, been changed into dominion and empire. The governors of Alexandria, looking upon the increase of the Romish episcopal power as a diminution of the civil, watched the bishops, in order to restrain them within the limits of the spiritual, and prevent their encroaching on the temporal jurisdiction. But Cyril, from the very beginning of his episcopacy, bade defiance to civil power, acting in such manner as showed but too plainly that he would be kept within no bounds. Soon after his installation, he caused, by his own authority, the churches, which the Novitians were allowed to have in Alexandria, to be shut up, seized on the sacred utensils, and plundering the house of their bishop, Theapemptus, drove him out of the city, stripped of every thing he possessed. Not long after this, Cyril put himself at the head of a _Christian_ mob, and, without the knowledge of the governor, took possession of the Jewish synagogue, drove the Jews out of Alexandria, pillaged their houses, and allowed the _Christians_--all Papists--who were concerned with him in the riot, to appropriate to themselves all their effects. This the governor highly resented, and not only rebuked Cyril very severely, for thus encroaching on his jurisdiction, and usurping a power that did not belong to him, but wrote to the emperor, complaining of him for snatching the sword of justice from him, to put it into the hands of the undeserving multitude. This occasioned a misunderstanding, or rather an avowed enmity between St. Cyril and the governor. With the _saint_ sided the clergy, the greater part of the mob, and the monks; with the governor, the soldiery and the better class of citizens As the two parties were strangely animated against each other, there happened daily skirmishes in the streets of Alexandria. The friends of the governor, generally speaking, made their party good, having the soldiery on their side. But one day, as the governor was going out in his chariot, attended by his guards, he found himself, very unexpectedly, surrounded by no fewer than five hundred monks. The monks were, in those days, the standing army of the bishops, but are now of the Pope's alone. The monks in the service of St. Cyril, having surrounded the governor's chariot, dispersed the small guard that attended it, fell upon him, dangerously wounded him, and determined to put an end to the quarrel between him and St. Cyril, by taking his life. The citizens, alarmed at his danger, flew to his rescue, put the cowardly monks to flight, and having seized on the monk by whom the governor was wounded, delivered him into his hands. The governor, to deter others, caused the monk to be put to death. But St. Cyril, partly to reward the zeal which the monk had exerted in attempting to assassinate his antagonist, caused him to be honored as a holy martyr. The partizans of St. Cyril, enraged at the death of the monk, and under the advice of this Romish _saint_, determined to revenge it; and the person they singled out among the friends of the governor to wreak their rage and revenge on, was one who, of all the inhabitants of Alexandria, deserved it the least. This was the famous and celebrated Hypatia, the wonder of her age for beauty, for virtue, and knowledge. She kept a public school of philosophy in Alexandria; where she was born, and her reputation was so great, that not only disciples flocked from all parts to hear her, but the greatest philosophers used to consult her as an oracle, with respect to the most abstruse points of astronomy, geometry, and the Platonic philosophy, which she was particularly well versed in. Though she was very beautiful, and freely conversed with men of all ranks, yet they were so awed by her known virtue and modesty, that none ever presumed to show, in her presence, the least symptom of passion. The governor entertained the highest opinion of her abilities, often consulted her, and in all perplexed cases governed himself by her advice. As she was the person in Alexandria whom he most valued, St. Cyril and his friends, to wound him the more effectually, entered into a conspiracy to destroy this beautiful and innocent lady. This barbarous resolution being taken, as she was one day returning home in her chariot, a band of the dregs of the people, encouraged and headed by one of St. Cyril's priests, attacked her in her chariot, pulled her out of it, and throwing her on the ground, dragged her to the great church called Cæsareum; there they stripped, her naked, and with sharp tiles, either brought with them or found there, continued cutting, tearing, and mangling her flesh, till nature, yielding to pain, she expired under their hands. Her death did not satisfy their rage and fury. They tore her body in pieces, dragged her mangled limbs through all the streets of Alexandria, and then gathering them together, burned them. Such was the end of the famous Hypatia, the most learned person of the age she lived in; but she was not a Roman Catholic. Can you, Americans, believe that this very Cyril is now a saint in the Roman Catholic church; that he is daily prayed to, honored, and worshipped by Papists? Can you believe that the Catholics whom you employ in your houses, the nuns to whom you intrust the education of your children, daily invoke the intercession of this murderous Cyril? And think you, fellow-citizens, that the spirit of the Popish bishop, Cyril, has died with him, or that the church, which approved of his conduct, would refuse to sanction a similar act at this day? If you do, you are mistaken. Was the conduct of Cyril ever censured by the church? Were the murders and atrocities which he committed, and caused to be committed, even disapproved by the holy mother? If they were, I would ask at what council was it done? Where and when was such a council held? Who was the presiding Pope? The fact is, so far from incurring the displeasure of the Romish church, this notorious Popish murderer of Jews and heretics was _canonized and sainted_; and similar distinctions would be now awarded to him who would commit similar crimes, if his holiness the Pope deemed it prudent to have such crimes committed. We saw an instance of the spirit which actuated Cyril, some years ago, in this city, when, in the case of the Ursuline Convent, to which I have already referred, every Papist within fifty miles of Boston, who was able to bear arms, volunteered his aid to his bishop, in taking vengeance upon our citizens, merely because they would not sanction among them the existence of a house, called a nunnery, and used as a jail, for the confinement of some of our most virtuous females, against their will. Had Miss Reed, who escaped from that den of profligacy, been caught by her Popish pursuers, and without the knowledge of our citizens, what would have been her fate? She might not have been torn to pieces, as Hypatia was, but her torments would not have been less cruel. She would have been kept upon her bare knees, perhaps ten hours in the twenty-four, for months. She would be obliged to pray to the same St. Cyril, and a string of such vagabonds, for the _remission of her sins_. She would be compelled to kiss the ground and lick it with her tongue, at stated intervals, and bread and water her diet, until the zeal of her holy confessors was perfectly satisfied. And if those who aided her escape were detected, what would have been their fate? Thanks to our republican government, they could not be punished in this country; but had they committed the deed under a purely Catholic government, the _infallible_ church would consign them to the inquisition, and have broken them upon the rack. This is the church, and her members are the men, whom you are countenancing amongst you. The Romish church never surrendered the right which she once claimed of destroying heretics. She only suspends it for the moment, until her strength and numbers shall enable her to enforce it. But there are some who will not believe this, especially when Catholic priests and bishops deny it. Many Protestants, who are natives of this country, and unacquainted with Roman Catholic doctrines, will not believe it. Many, even, of our Protestant clergymen will scarcely believe it; such is the craft and consummate falsehood of priests and bishops, that I have never met with one Protestant who entertained the most remote idea that keeping no faith with heretics, and persecuting them to death, formed any portion of the doctrine of the church of Rome. This is owing to the fact of their being born in a free country, at a distance from the seat of Romish power, and their having little access and no acquaintance with the standard works of Popery. Many, even, of the native born Americans, who have become Roman Catholics, know little or nothing of the doctrines of the church into which they have permitted themselves to be seduced. I will hazard the assertion, that there are not ten lay members amongst them, in the United States, who have read the works of Belarmine, the canons, or decrees of the various councils that have been held in the Popish church, or even the _corpus juris canonici_, containing the decrees of the council of Trent. If the writings of De La Hogue, used in the college of Maynooth, Ireland, or the works of Antoine or Den, taught in that college when I was a student there, were thoroughly read, and the doctrines contained in those standard works of Popery understood, there is not a moral man living who would not shun the church of Rome, as a thing too unclean, too impure, too licentious, too wicked, too corrupt, and of too persecuting a character to be allowed to exist at all. This their priests well know; and, having recently discovered that a few copies of Den's "Theology" had found their way into this country, they have the unblushing effrontery to deny that his work was ever approved of by the church, or was ever received as such in any college in Ireland. I studied in the college of Maynooth, and have read speculative theology under Dr. De La Hogue, and moral theology under Dr. Antoine, in the same class with several priests now in this country, and among other works which we read in that class was the "Moral Theology" of the Rev Peter Den; especially his treatise _de Peccatis_. I have the pleasure of an acquaintance with some native Americans who are become Roman Catholics. They are men of honor, moral worth, and possess highly cultivated minds. They were religious men; and deeming a connection with some church to be necessary, and seeing nothing of the Romish church but its seductive and imposing ceremonies, they united themselves with it, or, if they happened to hesitate in joining it, and deemed it necessary to consult with Catholic priests and bishops, these crafty Jesuits soon furnished them with Catholic works manufactured for such occasions, and unobjectionable to the most pious Christian; taking good care, at the same time, to keep out of their way such works as I have alluded to, from which they may learn that there is no religion in the Popish church, and that it is no more than a political machine, devised for the suppression of republicanism, knowledge, and the liberties of man. Let us pass over the time which intervened between the fourth and twelfth centuries. The history of the Popes and the Romish church, during that period, is replete with crimes committed by Popes, and atrocities sanctioned by the church, the bare mention of which humanity shudders The very earth is almost saturated with the blood which Popish despots caused to be shed under the mask of religion, but, in reality, for the advancement of their own temporal power. I will now show that the spirit of Cyril had not died with him. During the reign of Pope Innocent III., that holy pontiff discovered that there was, in the province of Narbonne and in several other provinces of the south of France, a religious sect, called the Albigenses, who presumed to differ from the Romish church, and had the audacity to believe that the Bible was the only rule of faith. They rejected the external rites of the Romish church, except baptism and the Lord's supper. They had no faith in images, indulgences, and other such semi-pagan mummeries. Auricular confession and the forgiveness of sins by man they rejected as impious. They looked upon nunneries as places of sin, instituted by priests, as a sort of substitute for the marriage of the clergy. They demolished such of them as were in existence among them, and declared the marriage of the clergy as lawful and honorable. They scouted at the idea of the temporal jurisdiction of the Pope over the nations of the earth, and looked upon him as emphatically _the Man of Sin_. These crimes, of course, were not long overlooked by the _infallible church!_ They were heresies. These people were heretics, and the holy mother, _in the plenitude of her affection_ for her strayed children, determined that they should be exterminated. But how was this to be done? The holy father, Pope Innocent III., was not long in determining. He sent two spies amongst them, of the names of Guy and Regnier. These were Monks, whose hands were already stained with blood. They were empowered by the Pope, to use their own discretion in checking the heresy of the Albigenses by fire, sword, faggot, or the inquisition, which employed all those means upon such occasions. The Albigenses however, were so numerous their lives so pure, so chaste and correct, that this was not easily accomplished; and his holiness had to preach a crusade against them, and published a bull addressed to all the authorities of southern France, declaring them _accursed_ and _excommunicated_, and giving absolution to all who should murder them and take possession of their property. Here are the words of the bull, "According to the canonical sanctions of the holy fathers, no faith ought to be kept with those who do not keep faith with God, or are separated from the communion of the faithful"--Papists. "We release, by our apostolical authority, all those who deem themselves bound to them by any oath, either of alliance or fealty; we permit every Catholic man to seize their persons, to take their lands, and keep them for the purpose of extirpating heresy." Here, Americans, is a specimen of true, genuine Popery, as Innocent Expresses it, "_sanctioned by the canons and holy fathers of the Romish church_." People of New England, what think you of it? Bear in mind that this is not the act of a few fanatics; it is not the belief of a few zealots. If it were, it would be wrong to charge it to the Romish church. All denominations have had among them fanatics; but the extravagances of a few individuals are not chargeable to the body to which they might have belonged. Even our New England Presbyterian forefathers had among them persecutors; but who, in his sound mind, could charge this to the Presbyterian church? There is nothing in their creed or doctrines which sanctions the persecution of those who differ from them and there the Romish church differs from all others. The persecution and destruction of heretics, and the confiscation of their property, is an _integral part_ of the Roman Catholic faith, and the watchword of Papists. The crusade against these unfortunate Albigen-ses commenced its march about the year 1209. Indulgences were offered to all who would unite in the war, and history informs as that the Pope and his vassals in the church raised an army of between three and five thousand men, who were to serve for forty days; at the termination of which, the Pope, in one of his heavenly transports, saw that "every one of the sect of the Albigerises should be massacred." To this army his _holiness_ caused to be added, by an offer of indulgences, multitudes of peasants, with scythes and clubs, who were to be under the command of monks, and whose peculiar duty it was, to slaughter the wives and children of these _heretics_, while their husbands and fathers were engaged in the field with their adversaries. Horrible! Yet this is a true picture of what _has been_, and what _will be_ in this country, at some future day, should Popery gain the ascendancy. It is much to be lamented that the Christian League, as it is termed, had not looked to this, in place of going abroad in search of objects worthy of their philanthropy. They seem to me to have acted like a man who, while his own house is in a blaze, runs out to see if there be any of his neighbors' houses on fire, and leaves his own to smoulder into ruins. Assuredly, such a man would not be deemed prudent, nor should he even be considered sane. Far be it from me to think or speak disrespectfully of the pious and reverend gentlemen who compose that league; but their solicitude for the welfare of a foreign country and a foreign people appears to me strange, when all their charities are much more needed at home. They desire the suppression of Popery, especially in Italy, where it is kept alive by Austrian bayonets and Popish bulls, and where it will live until those bayonets are broken and those bulls are burned. They can no more suppress Popery in Italy, than they could confine a fire with a flaxen band. The continuance of Popery depends upon this country alone. Extinguish it in the United States, and it dies every where. The old world is sick of it; it has cursed it long enough. It is for us alone to say whether it shall live or die. Americans alone can sound the death knell of Popery; and, if this Christian League will unite their energies and bring them all to bear, in excluding Popery from the United States, they will be conferring a blessing, not only upon this, but upon the old world. But to return to our subject. Cruel, beyond measure, were the sufferings of the Albigenses, a few instances of which I beg to lay before my readers, as specimens of Popish charity and their mode of fulfilling that holy commandment, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." When the Pope's army arrived at a place called Beziers, the citizens were, of course, alarmed. The Pope's legate sent many messengers among them, advising them to give up such heretics, with their wives and children, as continued obstinate among them. They replied in the following words--"_Rather than be base enough to do what is required of us, and abandon our religious principles, we will eat our children first, and our wives will die with us_." On receiving this answer, the Pope's army, or rather incarnate devils, rushed upon them so suddenly, and in such numbers, that they had to surrender, after little or no resistance. There were many among them who were not heretics, but, seeing the injustice done to their fellow-citizens, and knowing the purity of their lives, united with them in resisting oppression. Some of the most merciful of the Pope's army, entertaining scruples as to what should be done to those who were not heretics and happened to fall into their hands, deemed it a duty which they owed to _holy mother_, to consult the Pope's legate upon this occasion; and what, Christian reader, think you was the reply of this representative of the _Roman Catholic church?_ What was the answer of this imbodiment of Popery? It was what it would be this day, under similar circumstances.--"Kill them all; the Lord will know his own!" At this answer, the bells rung, by order of this legate. and never ceased to toll, until fifteen thousand were butchered upon the spot, according to the account given by the legate himself; although a contemporary historian, named Bernard Itier, and much better authority than this blood-thirsty legate, informs us that thirty-eight thousand were slaughtered in cold blood. During this time, Pope Innocent and the infallible church were not idle in other parts of France. Wherever heresy existed, or heretical blood was to be shed, there were to be found the representatives of the holy church, until not a vestige of the Protestant doctrines of the Albigenses was to be seen. Nearly all its ministers and its followers suffered the most cruel deaths, and their church was drowned in the blood of its defenders. But the man of sin being still apprehensive that some vestige of Protestantism might remain, or that the life of some unfortunate member of the Albigenses might have escaped, the Popish murderers established, in those countries, that accursed tribunal, the Inquisition; some of whose members appeared in the guise and occupation of farmers, to act as spies among that class of people; others as merchants, others as mechanics, &c. To these were added female Jesuits, some of whom were shop-keepers, milliners, servant-maids, &c.; and, suitably educated, whenever necessary, were ready to act their parts well. Thus no man was safe. No family, no lady, was safe. They dreaded the very air they breathed. They knew not when the officers of the inquisition would call them from their homes, their children, their husbands, and their wives, to be cast into the dungeon of the inquisition, without knowing their offence, or who accused them. This was Popery in the twelfth century; this was Popery in the fourth century; and this is Popery in the nineteenth century. Americans, are-you aware that there are Jesuit nuns now in this country? Are you aware of the reasons why they are so anxious to get Protestant rather than Catholic scholars into their schools? The reason is this; they are in this country spies upon your actions. Your thoughts, your designs, your influence, the probable amount of your wealth, and your political opinions, are known to your children. These Jesuit nuns worm themselves into your confidence; the young hearts of their pupils are soon laid bare to these artful hypocrites; and before you scarcely notice the absence of your children, your domestic secrets are known to some Popish agent, who makes such use of them as the holy church may direct. This is done daily. I make this statement of my own knowledge, and I warn you, if you value your domestic happiness, or the peace and harmony of your children, never permit one of them, male or female, to enter a school kept by nuns or Jesuits. From these observations, the reader must have seen that Popery, in its teachings and actions, is, and has been, the same always. What, then, becomes of the assertions, so frequently made by Roman Catholic priests and bishops, that the doctrines of the church, in relation to heretics, have been relaxed? Certain it is, at all events, that there has been no mitigation in the treatment of heretics down to the thirteenth century. Let us come down a little farther, and see if any had taken place during the thirteenth century. We discover none whatever. It was during this century, that the "Greater Excommunication," as it is called, was pronounced by the Pope, and the whole church, against all who should interfere with the clergy in the exercise of their _temporal or spiritual rights_. The curse was pronounced, by every parish priest, throughout the Papal world, four times a year,---_Christmas, Easter, Pentecost_, and _All-Hallows day_. The curse is in the following words, and is now repeated on the same days, by the Pope and all the priests and bishops of the Romish church, not publicly,--that they dare not do,--but in private. "Let them be accursed, eating and drinking, walking and sitting, speaking, and holding their peace, waking and sleeping, rowing and riding, laughing and weeping, in house and in field, in water and on land, in all places; cursed be their heads and their thoughts, their eyes and their ears, their tongues and their lips, their teeth and their throats, their shoulders and their breasts, their feet and their legs their thighs and their inward parts; let them remain accursed, from the sole of their foot to the crown of their heads; and just as this candle (the curser has a lighted candle in his hand, which he extinguishes) is deprived of us present light, so let them be deprived of their souls in hell." Such is the curse which the Pope pronounced against all heretics in the thirteenth century! and however surprised you may be, a similar one is pronounced once a year against all Protestants. There are many Americans who cannot believe that such a curse as the above, has ever been pronounced against a fellow-being. I have conversed with some intelligent Protestants in this city, who doubted whether such an anathema was ever uttered, and seemed struck with horror, as well as surprise, when I informed them that it was pronounced against myself in Philadelphia in presence of, at least, three thousand people. The reader must know, by this, that I am a heretic, and look upon the introduction of Popery into the United States, as the greatest evil which Providence has permitted to fall upon us. Arise, fellow-citizens, in the fulness of your power,--every Protestant in this country is a heretic, as well as myself. We are all annually cursed and damned by a set of Popish agents, bishops, and priests; men who, from my own personal acquaintance with them, I know to be unworthy of your friendship or your support; who walk your streets with apparent sanctimoniousness, but whose lives in private are such as delicacy forbids me to mention. These men, under pretence of being democrats are attacking your liberties with the club of Hercules. They are acquiring gigantic force. You have recently witnessed the truth of this assertion; they fancied they had strength enough to cut you down as the legate of Pope Innocent did the Albigenses in the twelfth century. They bid defiance to reason, argument, and the lew of your land; and it grieves me to see every thing yielding to their power, as chaff before the wind. But Providence interposed, and these miserable dupes of Romish priests received a check, which, if followed up, will have a salutary effect in future. But, I pray you, be on your guard; watch the movements of Papists among you: have no confidence in them; have as little as possible to do with them. Trust them in nothing which may either directly or indirectly involve their religion. I most solemnly appeal to our national and state legislatures, to exclude them from every office of honor, profit, or trust, while they have any connection whatever, _spiritual or temporal_, with the Pope of Rome. Believe them not, when they tell you that their allegiance to the Pope is only _spiritual_. I understand what they mean by spiritual allegiance. From what has been stated, it is clear that no modification had taken place in Popish pretensions during the thirteenth century, neither had the church relaxed one iota in her persecutions of heretics. On the contrary, her cruelties increased-the declarations of Popish priests to the contrary notwithstanding. Let us now see what has been the conduct of the Popish church towards heretics, from the latter end of the thirteenth century to the conclusion of the fourteenth. How was the illustrious John Wickliffe, professor of divinity in Oxford, treated by the church of Rome, during the reign of Boniface IX. But let us first see what the crimes of Wickliffe were, for which he had been so severely punished by the _holy Roman church_. The illustrious and good Wickliffe, the founder of the Reformation, whose very name every Christian venerates, maintained, 1st, That the Scriptures contain all truths necessary to salvation; 2d, That in the Scriptures only, is to be found, a perfect rule of Christian practice; 3d, He denied the authority of the Pope in temporal matters; 4th, He maintained that the Pope was the Man of Sin, the _son of perdition_, to which St. Paul alluded, "sitting as God in the temple of God." As soon as the opinions of Wickliffe were ascertained, Gregory XL, the ruling Pope, addressed a Bull to the primate of England, ordering him to have Wickliffe arrested and imprisoned, until he received further instructions. The popularity of Wickliffe was such, that this step was considered dangerous; and we find that nothing further was done to this eminently pious man, than banishing him from the university of Oxford into private life, where he died in peace, and went to his grave with the blessings of the good and the virtuous. But this did not satisfy the Pope, nor the _infallible church_. O, no. The _holy mother_ never forgives a heretic, dead or alive. As soon as Wickliffe departed this life, in the sixty-first year of his age, the church and Papists exhibited the wildest symptoms of joy. One of their writers, in giving an account of his death, uses the following language: "On the day of St. Thomas, the martyr, that limb of the devil, enemy of the church, deceiver of the people, idol of heretics, mirror of hypocrites, author of schism, sower of hatred, and inventor of lies, John Wickliffe, was, by the immediate judgment of God, suddenly struck with a palsy, which seized all the members of his body, when he was ready to vomit forth his blasphemies against the blessed St. Thomas, in a sermon which he had prepared to preach that day!" But holy mother was not yet satisfied. She had not the felicity of hanging Wickliffe; her ears were not delighted with his groans upon the rack; she did not hear his flesh hissing amid the flames of the faggot, nor his bones breaking upon the wheel; she must, however, have all the revenge left to satiate her malice. Thirty years after the death of Wickliffe, the _infallible_ council of Constance, at which the Pope presided, passed an order that the body and bones of John Wickliffe, if they might be known and discerned from the bodies of faithful people--Papists--should be taken from the ground and thrown _far away from the_ burial of any church, according to the canon laws and decrees. This decree was not put in execution for thirteen years afterwards. His grave was then opened and his body disinterred with great solemnity, and in the presence of the Catholic bishop of Lincoln, it was publicly burned, and the ashes thrown into a neighboring rivulet. But the indignities offered to Wickliffe, while living, and after his death, were not sufficient to appease the malice of Papists. Blood, and blood alone, could satiate their thirst for revenge. His followers were hunted up and mercilessly put to death. Among the first of his followers, who suffered, was Lord Cobham, a nobleman, distinguished for his valor, devotion to his country, and true piety. His character was without blemish, and his morals and patriotism undoubted; but he was a heretic; he was among the followers of Wickliffe; he believed in the Holy Scriptures. This was crime enough, and for this he was _excommunicated_. Cobham appealed to the Pope, but the appeal was refused: he was cited again; he was offered absolution, if he would sue for it, and submit to the Popish church. This he refused; the consequence was, he was thrown into prison, from which he escaped and was not retaken for nearly four years, he was, however, finally captured after a most heroic resistance. He might have escaped again, being an overmatch for his captor, had not a _pious Roman Catholic woman_, while he was nobly defending himself, taken up a stool, and with a desperate blow, broken both his legs. In this condition he was recommitted to prison until he was sentenced to death _for his heresy_. The sentence was, "that he should be drawn from his place of confinement through the city of London, to Temple Bar, there to be hanged, and burned hanging." The historian Bale gives a most affecting account of his execution. "On the day appointed," says Bale, "he was brought out of the Tower with his arms bound behind him, having a very cheerful countenance. Then he was laid upon a hurdle as though he had been a most heinous traitor to the crown, and so drawn forth into St. Giles's field, where they had set up a new gallows. When he arrived at the place of execution, and taken from the hurdle, he fell down devoutly on his knees, and prayed God to forgive his enemies. Then he stood up and beheld the multitude, exhorting them, in the most godly manner, to follow the laws of God, written in the Scriptures, and to beware of such teachers as they see contrary to Christ, in their conversation and living, with many other special councils. Then was he hanged up there, by the middle, in chains of iron, and so consumed alive in the fire, praising the name of the Lord, so long as life lasted. In the end he commended his soul into the hands of God, and so, most Christianly, departed home, his body being resolved to ashes." Thus was a nobleman, and a noble Christian, most barbarously put to death for believing that the Bible contained God's truth; and therein differing from the Roman church, which teaches that the traditions of the fathers, and dreams of monks, are of equal authority. Followers of Wickliffe,--and there are many of you in this country, who are an honor to his name,--have you ever reflected that there are nearly two millions of Papists in these United States, who entertain the same belief that the murderers of Cobham did; who believe that you are all _excommunicated_, as he was, and who, if they had the power, would consign yourselves, your wives, and children, to the same fate? and who are taught by their church, that, in so doing, they would be serving God? Romish priests may deny this. They do well. Otherwise, an indignant populace would tear them to pieces, or at least banish them from this land of freedom. But I tell the priest or bishop, who dares deny it, that they are liars,--wilful and deliberate liars. I too have been a priest, and I solemnly declare to the world, and to my fellow-citizens of the United States in particular, _that to keep no faith with heretics, but to destroy them, is one of the most solemn duties of a Catholic_; and I go further, and state to you, that _if a bishop or priest denies this, upon oath, you are not to believe him_; his church requires from him to keep no faith with heretics, but to destroy and extirpate them. It allows him also to deny, under oath, the existence of such an obligation. Do you, followers of Wickliffe, require any proof of this? It is a serious charge, and should not be lightly made. I therefore refer you to the letters of Martin II., who was Pope in the-year 1417, and considered one of the best Popes the Romish church ever had. This Pope, in one of his letters to the Duke of Lithuania, makes use of the following strong and emphatic language. "_Be assured, thou sinnest mortally, if thou keep thy faith with heretics_." St. Thomas Aquinas teaches the same doctrine. Innocent VIII., who was Pope in 1484, declares "that _all persons who are bound by any con-tract whatever to heretics are at liberty to break it, even though they had sworn an oath to fulfil_ it." You here see, that I have done no injustice to Roman Catholics, in putting you on your guard against them, and charging them with a willingness to destroy yourselves, your wives and children, _as heretics_, had they power and opportunity of doing so. I am supported by the authority of Pope Martin V., and Pope Innocent VIII.; and though in your estimation, those blood-thirsty vagabonds may give no weight to my testimony, still it cannot fail to be highly satisfactory to Papists. Some of the Catholics may tell you, that the followers of Wickliffe were a seditious people; that they threatened to overthrow the civil institutions of the country; that all law and order were set at defiance by them; and that this was the cause of their persecution. This is false in fact--it is historically false. If the followers of Wickliffe, or Lollards, as they were called, were disturbers of the peace; if their lives were seditious, disorderly, and rebellious, why were they not indicted, under some statute of the realm, made and provided to take cognizance of such crimes? Why were they not even accused of such crimes? Was the meek, mild, and learned John Wickliffe, accused or indicted for disturbing the peace? Was it for disturbing the peace, that his venerable bones were disinterred thirty years after being deposited in the cold grave? Was it for disturbing the peace, and for riotous proceedings, his bones were subsequently burned, and their ashes thrown into the next river? Was it for disturbing the peace, the learned and brave Cobham was hung in iron chains, by the middle. No such accusation has ever been brought against these great and good men, or against thousands who suffered with them. They were accused only of _heresy_. Papists were their accusers; Papists were their judges; and Papists were their executioners. But the malice of those blood-thirsty Catholics was not even then satiated. It is as fresh _now_, as it was then. Papists are not content, that hundreds of years ago, Wickliffe and his followers should be persecuted, and the greater portion of them massacred and burned. Their memories, also, are objects of Popish hatred, even to this day on which I write. They represent them as enemies of the human race. As despisers of chastity and morality. You will probably see these charges advanced against them in the Popish presses throughout the United States. But recollect, Americans, that age does not improve the piety of Papists. The older _holy mother_ gets, the harder becomes her heart, and the more bitter her virulence. I might satisfy you, if necessary, on the testimony of the most respectable Protestant writers, that there lived not in the world, a people more simple, more pious, or virtuous than the Waldenses, or Wickliffites. It may be said of them, with truth, "_qualis pater tales filii_." But I will not refer to Protestant authority; knavish, lying, Popish priests may question it! I refer you, for the character of this persecuted people, to an early Popish historian, Florimond--. History of Heresy, book vii. ch. 7. "They"--the Waldenses--says this writer, "have nothing in their mouths but Christ the Saviour--they know nothing else than Jesus Christ. These people read the Bible continually, in such a manner that they know all the books of it by heart." Horrid people these Wickliffites must be, to read the Bible until they know it by heart! And as these Bible-reading and Bible-loving people now constitute a vast majority of our citizens, I call upon them to rise in the full force of their moral power, and ward off from themselves and their children, the curse of Popery, or the fate of Wickliffe and his followers will assuredly be theirs. Many of you, Americans, are followers of Wickliffe. You believe as he believed! You live as he lived! You love peace as he loved it. Do you wish to continue as you are now? Or will you permit a flood of vile priests, monks, and nuns, to overrun your country, and seduce your children from the paths of virtue, in which your own example and the perusal of their Bibles have taught them to walk? I now call your attention to the belief and practice of the Romish church in the fifteenth century, and you will find that heresy and heretics were still persecuted by her. Witness the conduct of Pope Innocent VIII. toward the Vaudois. He sent one of his Jesuit legates amongst them, with instructions to prevail on Louis XII. to extirpate them from his dominions, without even hearing any deputies which they might send him. The answer of Louis did him much credit--"Though I were at war with a Turk or the devil, I would hear what he had to say for himself." They accordingly made their defence; and, upon this, the good King Louis sent commissioners to examine the state of things among them. The following was their report, as history informs us: "Having made a strict inquiry into their mode of living, we cannot discover the least shadow of the crimes imputed to them. On the contrary, it appears that they piously observe the Sabbath, baptize their children after the manner of the primitive church, and are thoroughly instructed in the doctrine of the apostles' creed, and in the law of God." On hearing this report, the king exclaimed, in a passion, addressing himself to the Pope's legate--"By the holy mother of God, these heretics, whom you and the Pope urge me to destroy, are better men than you or myself." He, however, soon departed this life, and every man acquainted with history knows what their sufferings were from the time of his death down to the days of Cromwell, who, whatever his faults may have been, fired with indignation at the barbarities committed by the Romish church, interposed in behalf of those persecuted people, and called upon Protestant princes and sovereigns to aid him in protecting them. I will not burden the reader with a history of the sufferings of these people. It is familiar even to our schoolboys. I must, however, repeat the fact, that they were persecuted for no other reason than because they believed the Bible contained all the truths necessary to salvation, and because they did not believe in all the mummeries of Popery. Will Catholic bishops and priests still continue to assert that their church does not teach them to persecute heretics, and to hold no faith with them? Will they continue to assert, that the Pope of Rome does not claim temporal as well as spiritual jurisdiction over the kingdoms of the earth? or if they do, are we compelled to listen to them? There is scarcely any one who does not recollect the conduct of the holy see, as it is nicknamed, towards Queen Elizabeth, on her ascension to the throne of England. The queen sent a messenger to the court of Rome, to inform the Pope of the event. This was an act of state courtesy; but his holiness had the insolence to reply to the messenger who represented his sovereign: "Tell your mistress that England was held in fief of the apostolic see; that she could not succeed, being illegitimate; nor could she contradict the declarations made in that matter by his predecessors, Clement VII. and Paul III. Tell your mistress," said this insolent ecclesiastic, "that it was great boldness in her to assume the crown without my consent, for which, in reason, she deserves no favor at my hands; yet if she will _renounce_ her pretensions and refer herself wholly to me, I would show a fatherly affection to her, and do every thing for her that could consist with the dignity of the _Roman see_." Fellow-citizens, do you want any other proof to satisfy you that the Pope of Rome claims universal jurisdiction over kings, queens, nations, kingdoms, and all mankind? It is only about three hundred years since this occurred; and is there evidence on record that the Pope has resigned the prerogative of universal dominion which he then claimed? You may laugh at the idea of his claiming it over this country; but, mark what I tell you, some successor of the present Pope will not only claim, but exercise it in less than half the time that has elapsed since the days of Elizabeth. Other objects may divert your attention from this subject; you may sleep on in fancied security, but your sleep may be fatal. "America," as a talented writer (Giustiniani) expresses it, "is the promised land, the land of the Jesuits' operations. To obtain the ascendency, they have no need of a _mercenary Swiss guard_, or the assistance of the _holy alliance_, but a majority of votes, which can easily be obtained by an importation of Roman Catholics from Ireland, Bavaria, and Austria. Rome, viewed at a distance, is a colossus; near at hand, its grandeur diminishes, its charm is lost. But the Jesuits are every where the same--cunning, immoral, and sneaking intriguers, until they have obtained the ascendency. Rome feels her weakness at home; she knows herself to be a mere _political_ institution, dressed in the garment of Christianity. She takes good care to uphold that holy _militia_, the Jesuits, in order to appear what she is not. It is a strife for existence. I am not a politician," says this writer, "but knowing the active spirit of Jesuitism, and the indifference of the generality of Protestants, I have no doubt whatever, that in _ten_ years the Jesuits will have a mighty influence over the ballot-box, and in _twenty_ they will direct it according to their own pleasure. Now they fawn, in ten years they will menace, and in twenty command." In this city they not only "fawn," but they have proceeded to "menace." Some of the knowing ones among the Catholics now boast that they have the power to govern this city, and they intend to exercise it. This is no idle threat. Even now, though they are actually less in numerical strength in the aggregate, than the Protestants, and pay far less for the support of our free schools, they, nevertheless, have succeeded in depriving Protestant children of the privilege of using the Bible for a school-book, as they have been wont to do. Protestants may sleep on if they will, but they may be assured that they are sleeping on the sides of a burning volcano, and that ere long they will be awakened, but too late, we fear, by the angry thunders of the upheaving fires within, which shall scathe and desolate the fair heritage they now enjoy. I entreat you, fellow-citizens, never to forget the solemn declaration of the father of your country: "Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence, (I conjure you to believe me, fellow-citizens,) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake; since history and experience prove, that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of a republican government." This is the warning of the immortal Washington, and should not pass unheeded. To the same effect spoke other revolutionary patriots. Jefferson says, "I hope we may find some means in future of shielding ourselves from foreign influence, political, commercial, or in whatever form it may be attempted. I can scarcely withhold myself from joining in the wish of Silas Deane--that there were an ocean of fire between this and the old world." And Madison said, "Foreign influence is truly a _Grecian horse_ to the republic. We cannot be too careful to exclude its entrance." The cruelty of Papists, the intrigue and craft of Popes, the hypocrisy of Jesuits, the dynasties which they have overthrown, the devastations and carnage which they had occasioned, for centuries back, were matters of historical notoriety, and were well known to our pure-minded and clear-headed forefathers. They dreaded similar occurrences in this happy republic, which they have bequeathed to us as their trustees, to be handed down to posterity; and hence arose their warnings to be on our guard against all foreign interference with our institutions or our country. Ponder upon those warnings, and let each and every Protestant in the Union pledge himself to guard our liberties, as the apple of his eye. I speak from experience. I am myself a foreigner by birth, though a resident of this country for thirty years. My life has been a checkered one. Born a Roman Catholic in the south of Ireland, educated a Roman Catholic priest, officiating in that capacity for some years, here, as well as in my native country, and for many years a member of the bar in South Carolina and Georgia, I could not fail to acquire a correct knowledge of the doctrines and practices of the Romish church. The result of my experience is, that the doctrines of the Roman Catholic church are fatal to the morals of any people; at variance with sound national policy and pure religion. It is a rank and poisonous weed, which will flourish even in the soil of liberty. Would that I could eradicate it! Would that you would enable me to tear up this Upas, which is spreading its poison, from one end of our land to the other! Would that you could aid me in muzzling those Popish bloodhounds, who are freely coursing over our eastern mountains and western valleys! Already have they scented blood, and I warn you to be on your guard or they will scent more. I am no sectarian; I am not the tool of any party, either in church or state. I have never asked the countenance or support of any religious denomination, nor has any ever been tendered to me. I have stood alone in my opposition to that hydra-headed monster, Popery. There is no abuse which I have not received; no calumny which has not been heaped upon me; no crime which they have not accused me of; no scurrilous epithet which they have not applied to me. All this I have met single-handed; but I would bear it again, rather than submit to the iniquitous doctrines of Popery. I would bear it again, rather than submit, as _native Americans_ have done, and are doing, to be publicly denounced, as _cowards and sons of cowards and pirates_. But, fellow-citizens, they do not consider you cowards and pirates alone; they will, by-and-by, apply to you a term, which you will better deserve. It is sweet, it is a euphonious name, and I trust you will bear it with as much Christian philanthropy, as you have that of cowards, and pirates--_Fools_. It is the only ignominious term, in the English language, which they have not applied to myself, and I assure my fellow-citizens, natives of this country, that if you are willing to be governed by the Pope of Rome, and his priests, and bishops, I shall never question your paramount claim to this preeminent distinction. Can you bear the following opprobrious language applied to you by the Jesuit, now the Boston Pilot, the organ of the bishop of that city. "How in the name of conscience," says this Popish organ, "can a man have the impudence to find fault with honest emigrants, whose own fathers were _emigrant pirates?_" You are also complimented by the Literary and Catholic Sentinel, another Popish press, in Philadelphia. That blessed organ of Popery, the Sentinel, in its comments upon a sermon delivered by that eloquent Presbyterian divine, McCalla, thus eulogizes New England. He, Mr. McCalla, knew the character of his New England audience, that their minds were warped by fanaticism, darkened by bigotry, and vitiated by the abhorred, and atrocious principles inculcated by the _vile and sanguinary wretches, called the Pilgrim Fathers_. He well knew that the mental capacity of the generality of his hearers were chained down by ignorance. Very flattering this, especially to Bostonians, and their puritan fathers. Their fathers were sanguinary wretches, if we believe Papists, and the people of Boston are an ignorant set of boobies. You, Americans, may bear all this; you know not the designs of Popery, but I do; and while I have liberty to write, I will write for liberty, and in opposition to Popery. Truth may be unpalatable to Papists, but it is my duty to record it. Among the instructions which I received from my bishop in Ireland, when he sent me out to this country as a Catholic priest, was one to which I beg to call your attention. The same is given to every priest in the United States. "Let it be your first duty to extirpate heretics, but be cautious as to the manner of doing it. Do nothing without consulting the bishop of the diocese, in which you may be located; and if there be no bishop there, advise with the metropolitan bishop. He has his instructions from Rome, and he understands the character of the people. Be sure not to permit the members of our holy church, who may be under your charge, to read the Bible. It is the source of all heresies. Whenever you see an opportunity of building a church, make it known to your bishop. Let the land be purchased for the Pope, and his successors in office. Never yield or give up the _divine right_, which the head of the church has, by virtue of the _Keys_, to the government of North America, as well as every other country. The confessional will enable you to know the people by degrees; with the aid of that _holy tribunal_, and our bishops, who are guided by the spirit of God, we may expect, at no distant day, to bring over North America to the bosom of our holy church." This needs some explanation. By extirpating heresy, he meant the conversion of heretics to the Romish church, without violence, if possible, if not, by such means as the Romish church has adopted in all ages. You have already seen what these means were--I need not now repeat them; but you shall see them more plainly, when I lay before you, as I intend to do hereafter; the ways and means which the church has adopted, to bring over the Huguenots from the darkness of Protestant error, to the glorious light of Popish truth. The Bible, as you are aware, is a forbidden book in the Romish church. I remember when acting as Popish priest, in Philadelphia, having ventured to suggest to the very Rev. Mr. De Barth, then acting as vicar-general of that diocese, the advantages of educating the poor, and circulating the Bible among them. He scouted at the idea, as heretical, and lodged a written complaint against me, before the archbishop of Baltimore, then Romish metropolitan. I was reprimanded verbally, through the aforesaid De Barth. He was too crafty to send it in writing; the Papists were not then strong enough to forbid, openly, the reading of the Bible. It was then too soon to seal up the fountain of eternal life in this free country. The most sympathizing Protestants could scarcely believe then, that in less than thirty years, Papists would not only dare forbid it to be read, by their own people, and in their own schools, but cast it out of Protestant schools, as they did the other day in New York. What are we coming to, Americans? Your ancestors have come to this country, with no recommendations but holy lives; with no fortune but their pious hearts and strong arms; with no treasure but the word of God. Will you now permit Papists to cast those Bibles out of your schools, to burn them on the public streets, as they have done in the state of New York, under the inspection of Popish priests, as proved on the oath of several respectable witnesses? That priest, however, did no more than every priest and bishop would do, did he deem it _expedient_; and here, fellow-citizens, let me assure you, that same power which authorizes that priest, or any other priest, to burn your Bibles, also authorizes him to burn every heretic or Protestant in the country. The same power which authorizes them to officiate as priests, empowers them to _destroy heretics_, whenever it is _expedient_; and is ready to absolve them from the commission of this foul deed. _Saint_ Thomas Aquinas, in his second book, chapter the 3d, page 58, says: "Heretics, may justly be killed." But you will answer, there is no danger of this. They can never acquire the power to enact any laws in this country which would sanction such a doctrine. How sadly mistaken you are! How lamentably unacquainted with the secret springs or machinery of Popery! I regret that circumstances oblige me so often to introduce my own name, but it cannot be well avoided, for the purpose of explaining certain Popish transactions in the United States. While I was a Romish priest in Philadelphia, and soon after my difference with the archbishop of Baltimore, in relation to the introduction of the Bible, a consultation was held between the Popish priests in the diocese of Philadelphia, and it was secretly resolved by them, that the best mode of checking _Hogan's heresy_, as they were pleased to term my advocating the reading of the Bible, was to take possession of the church in which I officiated, in the name of the Pope. They accordingly wrote to his holiness, humbly praying this man-god to send them out a bishop, and to give him, and his successors in office, a lease of St. Mary's church, in Philadelphia, and all the appurtenances thereunto belonging. Accordingly his royal holiness the Pope sent them a bishop with the aforesaid lease. I was immediately ordered out of the church; and having refused to depart, unless the trustees thought proper to remove me, this emissary of the Pope, only a few days or weeks in this country, had me indited and imprisoned for disturbing public worship, or in other words, officiating in St. Mary's church, even with the full and undivided consent of the trustees. But the bishop's legal right was questioned; the case was brought before the supreme court of Pennsylvania, Chief Justice Tighlman presiding. I was discharged from bail and custody, and the rights of the trustees, under their charter from the state, sustained. But the priests and bishops were not content with this decision. They put their heads once more together, and fancied that they discovered another mode by which they could rob the people of their rights, and defeat the intentions of the donors of the property of St. Mary's church; and what was their plan, think you, fellow-citizens? The bishop called a meeting of all the priests and leading Catholics in the diocese. Every lay member was ordered to bring with him a hickory stick. The meeting was held in the church of St. Joseph; and at the hour of twelve at night, the _Romish bishop of the diocese of Pennsylvania_, an Irishman, not more than a few months in the country, attended in his pontificals, told the multitude who were there assembled to lay down their sticks in one pile, in order that he might _bless_ them for their use. This was done as a matter of course. [Illustration: Bishop of Pennsylvania blessing the sticks. p125] The bishop said mass, sprinkled holy water upon the sticks, blessed them, and this done, the whole party bound themselves by a solemn vow never to cease until they elected a legislature in Pennsylvania that would annul the charter of St. Mary's church; and, as an American citizen, I blush to state the fact, they succeeded. The charter was annulled by an act of the legislature, and property, worth over a million of dollars, would have passed into the hands of the Pope and his agents, were there not a provision in the constitution of that state empowering the supreme court to decide upon the constitutionality of the acts of the legislature. We brought the question of the constitutionality of the act, which annulled the charter, before the court, Justice Tighlman still presiding. The court decided in the negative, otherwise the trustees and myself would have been defeated; I should have been fined and imprisoned, and they ousted out of their trust. This, I believe, was the first attempt the Pope has made to establish his _temporal power_ in this country; and it is a source of consolation to me, dearer almost than existence itself, to be the first to meet this holy bull. If I have not strangled him, and trampled him to death, I have, at least, the comfort of seeing his horn so blunted, that his bellowings have been, ever since, comparatively harmless. But there seems a recuperative power in the beast. He is again attempting to plant his foot upon our soil, and establish his temporal power amongst us; and how is he trying to accomplish this, fellow-citizens? The Papists have united themselves together as a body, headed by their priests, and resolved to carry, through the ballot box, what they cannot otherwise accomplish, at least for the present. Popish priests have all become politicians; they publicly preach peace, good order, and obedience to the "powers that be," but they tell the people in the _confessional_, to disregard those instructions, and stop at nothing which may promote the interests of _the church_. They have now, what they call "religious newspapers," under the supervision of their bishops, but in which, not a word of pure religion, or Christian charity, is to be found. They are political presses, whose object is to overthrow our laws, our government, and introduce, in their stead, anarchy and confusion. These people--and here I allude to Irish Catholics and their priests in particular--have no regard for the obligations of an oath. Let the priest only tell them that it is for the _good of the church_, and they will stop at no crime; no, not even at murder; and they are daily becoming more audacious in consequence of the support which they receive from unprincipled politicians, and the morbid indifference of Protestants. I have shown you, in a former page, that the increase of Catholics, in this country, will soon give them a majority of voters: and who, think you, will they vote for? A Protestant is it? Any man distinguished for virtue, and for love of republican principles? Assuredly not. Will they select such a man as the virtuous and pious Frelinghuysen, of New Jersey? Will they choose such a man as the upright and honorable Archer, of Virginia? Will they cast their votes for such a man as the honest John C. Calhoun, of South Carolina; than whom, whatever may be his politics, there is not a greater or a better man of the age. I might name hundreds, equally good and great men, who are disqualified, by their virtues, from receiving the votes of Popish vassals. None but mercenary demagogues, such as the Pope's tool, Daniel O'Connell, who _generously_ sacrifices five thousand pounds a year to obtain fifty-six thousand, the sum which he received last year in order to _ameliorate the condition of the poor Irish_. Give the power, and they will elect such a political desperado as this restless O'Connell, a Jesuit by education, an intriguer by nature, and as great a coward as ever drew breath. This is the champion, and his followers--the Irish--are the people, who call Americans _cowards_, and _their_ "pilgrim fathers," _pirates_ and _sanguinary wretches_. These are the men, with Daniel O'Connell at their head, numbering nine millions of the "_bravest men in the world_," who have been for centuries, and are now, on their knees, begging favors from the British government. Americans, too, once asked for favors, or rather their just rights, from that government, but not having obtained them, they drew their swords, threw away their scabbards, and, though the whole population of the United States did not, at that time, amount to two and a half millions, they fought for their rights, and they won them. Yet these Popish braggarts, but wretched slaves, call you cowards, and your fathers pirates. How long will you suffer this? We know, from history, that Popery and liberty cannot coexist in the same country. A Popish government has never advanced human happiness. It never promotes any object truly great or philanthropic. How deplorable would it be, did this country fall a prey to those who are trying to establish it amongst us. The truth is, Popish glory, the trappings of its court, have been always the silly objects of the Roman church, while the mass of her people has ever been left in the recesses of want, obscurity, and ignorance. Americans, at present, seem sunk in a sort of political lethargy; and this is taken advantage of, by foreign priests and Jesuits; but I would tell those disturbers of our peace, not to trust too much to this apparent sluggishness; a calm often precedes a storm: the continued insolence, abuses, and threats of Papists, may arouse our young lion, and, if I mistake not--although, appearances are at present against it--his holiness and his minions, who are trying to set up a power in this country unknown to our constitution, and not enumerated in our bill of rights, may have occasion to tremble. To effect this, however, without the shedding of blood, it is necessary--indispensably necessary--that no Papist should hold office, or even vote, until he ceases to have any connection, or hold any alliance with the Pope, who is a _foreign potentate_, as well as head of the church. Let them come amongst us, if they will, but let it be with healing on their wings, and not to disturb our peace and tranquillity. Let them prove themselves the friends of liberty, religion, and mankind, and Americans will receive them with open arms, admit them to a full participation in all their own privileges, and extend to them the hand of friendship; but never let this be done, until they forswear _expressly_ and _without mental reservation_, all allegiance, of whatever kind, and under whatever name, to the Pope of Rome, who is a _foreign potentate_, and acknowledged as such by the powers of Europe. When a Papist refuses to do this, trust him not. I repeat it, trust him not, Americans. He is a spy amongst you, a traitor to your country, and the sworn enemy of your religion and your liberties. This, however, they do not. They come amongst you with different motives and far different characters. Though I know them well, it would be impossible for me to express to you the designs which mark their entrance into this country. They cross the Atlantic, under instructions from their priests, and bring nothing with them but their bigotry, intolerance, and ignorance. Their tastes, their passions, and their native hatred of Protestants are wafted over to us, and are already corrupting the morals of our people. In their native country they feel, or pretend to feel, oppressed by British laws and British government. They are taught by their priests to despise their government, at home; that its laws are all penal, and that there is no crime in evading them. There is not an Irish Catholic, who leaves that country, but feels it his duty to resist the laws of Protestant England, and evade, by perjury or otherwise, their execution. "In no country in the world," says a modern writer, "are the rights of property so recklessly violated: amongst no people on the face of the earth are the obligations of an oath, or the discharge of the moral duties, so utterly disregarded. Any man, the greatest culprit, can find persons to prove an _alibi_; the most atrocious assassin has but to seek protection, to obtain it. And why is this so? Because the religious instruction of the people has been totally neglected; because their priests have become politicians; because their bishops, pitchforked from the potatoe-basket to the palace, have become drunk with the incense offered to their vanity; and the patronage granted in return for their unprincipled support, instead of checking the misconduct of the subordinates, stimulate them to still further violence, and stop at nothing which can forward their objects. Because the opinions of the people are formed on the statements and advice of mendicant agitators, who have but one object in view--their own aggrandizement. Because a rabid and revolutionary press, concealing its ultimate designs under the motive of affording protection to the weak, seeks to overthrow all law and order, pandering to the worst passions of an ignorant and ferocious populace." Irish priests and Irish bishops complain of poverty and grievances at home. They complain that men of property leave their homes and spend their incomes abroad; but as this writer, to whom I have alluded expresses it, "What encouragement do they give to such as return from their residences abroad?" Allow me, fellow-citizens, to give you an instance of the treatment which Protestants of fortune receive from Irish Roman priests, when they do return to reside upon their estates in Ireland. I quote from the same author:!!!!! "The Marquis of Waterford, a sportsman boundless in his charities, frank and cordial in his manners, not obnoxious on account of his politics, and admitted on all hands to be one of the best landlords in Ireland, comes to reside, and spend his eighty thousand sterling per annum, in the country. He gets up a splendid establishment in the county of Tipperary; and how is he treated? His hounds and horses were twice poisoned. There are scarcely any Protestants in the county of Tipperary. His offices were fired, and his servants, with difficulty, saved their lives. Compelled to abandon Tipperary--that sink of Popish iniquity, every nook and corner of which I am acquainted with--this generous and fine-hearted young nobleman retires to his family mansion, in Waterford; and how is he received there? I will not tell you; let his parish priest tell the story. 'Men of Portlan,' says this _holy Romish priest_, addressing the tenants and neighbors of the Marquis of Waterford, 'you were the leading men who put down Beresford, in '26 (the marquis's father); I call on you now, having put down one set of tyrants, to put down another set of tyrants, the marquis himself.'" Many of the Romish priests, which we have in this country, are from that very county of Tipperary, and thousands of the poor Irish amongst us have had their education, such as it is, from such worthy _apostolic successors_ as the parish priest of the Marquis of Waterford. Such are the people to whom you are yielding the destinies of this happy republic, by allowing them to vote at your elections, or to hold any office of honor or trust, while they have any connection with the head of their church, the Pope of Rome. Let the reader pass on from Popish Tipperary to Protestant Ulster, and he will see that the crimes of the Irish, and the miseries which many of them suffer, are to be attributed almost solely to their religion and their priests. Mr. Kohl, a fair and very impartial writer, at least, upon Ireland, and who is often quoted by the great agitator, O'Connell, says,--in passing from that part of the country, where the majority of the inhabitants profess the Roman Catholic religion to that in which the great bulk of the population are Protestants or Presbyterians,--"On the other side of these miserable hills, whose inhabitants are years before they can afford to get the holes mended in their potatoe kettles, (the most important article of furniture in an Irish cabin,) the territory of Leinster and that of Munster begins. The coach rattled over the boundary line, and all at once we seemed to have entered a new world. I am not in the slightest degree exaggerating when I say, that everything was as suddenly changed as if by an enchanter's wand. The dirty cabins by the road side were succeeded by neat, pretty cottages; well cultivated fields and shady trees met the eye on every side. At first I could scarcely believe my own eyes, and thought the change must be merely local, caused by particular management of that particular state, but the improvement lasted, and continued to show me that I was among a totally different people, the Scottish settlers, and the industrious Presbyterians." We see, in this country, the same difference of character and habits, between the Irish Protestants and the Irish Catholics. The Irish Protestant, wherever you find him, laboring on his loom in the north of Ireland, working in a factory in New England, keeping a shop in New York, or cultivating a plantation in Carolina, values his home and integrity, as pearls of great price. He is generally temperate, frugal, and industrious. We seldom, or never, hear him accused of disturbing the peace, or fraudulently voting at elections; on the whole, he arrives amongst us a worthy man, and, in time, becomes a useful citizen; and to what is this owing? It is owing to his education. He has been taught the Bible in his youth; from this he learned to love his God, above all things, and his neighbor as himself. But how is it with the Roman Catholic, who comes amongst you? Scarce does he land on your shores, when he becomes more turbulent, more noisy, and more presumptuous, than when he left his native bogs. As soon as he confesses to his priest, he _hurrahs_ for democracy, by which he means anarchy, confusion, and the downfall of _heretics_. He must vote; if he cannot do so fairly, his priest tells him how to evade the obligations of an oath. He will swear to support a constitution, which he never read, and never was read to him; he goes again to the confessional, and leaves that _sacred tribunal_ with an oath upon his lips, that "Americans shall not rule him." He soon hears the words, "Pilgrim Fathers;" he goes to his priest, and asks what these words mean; he is told that they were _vile wretches, pirates_, who came to this country many years ago, and whose sons were _all cowards_, and thus we see that, as far as it is in their power, they are trying to reduce this country, and its native inhabitants, to a level with that in which their vile religion--Popery---has placed themselves. If we could cast our eyes over the history of the world, we should be struck with horror at the fatal consequences of Popery. Wherever its followers have had an ascendency, or wherever they have it now, they appear to be conspirators against the happiness of the human race. What were the means by which Popish kings, emperors, and princes, conducted their governments--_with the advice and consent, of the Pope of Rome, the vicegerent of heaven?_ Craft, extortion, fire, and sword. What are the means by which those governments, which at this day are under the Pope and his priests, are conducted? The Pope apes the very thunders of heaven, and such are the "imitative powers" of his priests and bishops, that they are equally as destructive as the original. I have alluded to the contrast between the Catholic and Protestant people of Ireland. The one prosperous and happy; the other poor, miserable, and degraded. Heaven's vicegerent, as the bishops call the Pope, and the Papists call the bishops, seldom bestow a thought upon their subjects, except to gull and inveigle them for the aggrandizement of their church; and we now see Ireland, one of the fairest countries upon earth, a country over which God has scattered plenty, and to which nature is peculiarly bountiful, reduced to want by insolent, haughty bishops, and vile, profligate priests. That beautiful land which nature taught to smile with abundance, they have watered with tears, and with blood, all the result of Popery; and this has been its effect everywhere. It operates like the east wind, causing blasting, barrenness, and desolation, wherever it goes, and nothing but the herculean arm of this young and vigorous republic can check its progress among ourselves. But I may be told that nothing is to be dreaded in this country from Papists; that they have neither numbers, nor means, to accomplish their designs upon our institutions. Let us see whether this is so. I have stated, in a former page, the number of bishops, priests, seminaries, and Papists, in this country. I have also shown you, to a demonstration, that if the number of emigrant Papists should continue to increase for the next thirty years, as they have for the last eight, they will be a majority of the population of the United States, and the Pope our supreme temporal ruler. Permit me, now, to give you some idea of what their means are, at least such portion of them as they derive from Europe, and you can judge for yourselves what they are in the United States. I will give you the amount sent from Europe, during the years 1841, 1842, and 1843. I quote from their own books and receipts. [Illustration: Table of Irish Immigrants p136] With such an amount of funds annually, from abroad, in the hands of a body of men, who understand how to manage and appropriate them, perhaps better than any other association in the world, with the majority of the population of these United States, and having but one single object in view, namely, the supremacy of their Pope and their church; what have Americans not to fear? They will avail themselves of a corrupt state of representation; they will procure a majority in your national legislature, and then, I say, woe be to your liberties. Your school-houses, which now ring, at stated hours, with the praises and glories of God on high, wherein children are given to drink of the waters of life, will be converted into monk-houses, and lying-in-hospitals; prayers to God will no longer be heard in them; vagabond saints and wooden images will be the only objects of adoration; ignorance and vice will take the place of intelligence and virtue; idleness will take the place of industry; and the free American who, heretofore, was taught to walk erect before God and man, will shrivel and dwindle into a thing fit only to crouch before a tyrant Pope, and become a hewer of wood and drawer of water, for lazy and gluttonous priests, who, for centuries, have been trying to extinguish the light of reason and science, and who, even at the present moment, aye, at our very doors, are trying to abolish some of the finest productions of genius. Witness the prohibition, recently, in France, of the publication of the Wandering Jew. Witness the prohibition of its circulation in Cuba; and why is it prohibited? Because it exposes some of the trickery of Jesuitism--because it lays bare some of the intrigues of that hellish association--and because holy mother church knows full well, that no honest or honorable man could see her in her native deformity, without a shudder of disgust--because she knows that herself and her priests are but whited sepulchres, filled not with dead men's bones, but with the living fires of despotism, avarice, lust, and treachery--because she knows that Eugene Sue, who has written the Wandering Jew, is a Roman Catholic, well acquainted with the practices of Jesuits, sanctioned by the church. A continuation of the Wandering Jew, and its circulation, might show the world, even if there were no better authority, that monasteries and nunneries, under the control of Jesuits, were but vast Sodoms and prisons, full of crime and pollution. Eugene Sue could, and I believe would, show the world, if his health had not failed him, that Roman Catholic priests and bishops, though forbidden, under pain of _excommunication_, to marry, were allowed to keep concubines. I refer the reader to the memoirs of the Romish bishop, Scipio de Ricci, for the truth of this assertion. I also refer you to another valuable work, _Binnii Concillia_, first volume, page 737. You will find the same in a work called _Corpus Juris Canonici_, page 47, to be had in the Philadelphia Library. You will find the same permission sanctioned by the council of Toledo, at which Pope Leo presided. The only restriction put upon the licentiousness of priests, by the council of Toledo, was to forbid them from "keeping more than one concubine at a time, _at least in public_." Cardinal Campeggio expressly says, "that a priest who marries commits a more grievous sin than if he kept many concubines." St. Bernard, who died about the beginning of the twelfth century, and who must have been a very charitable man, as all Catholics now pray to him, tells the world that "bishops and priests commit acts in secret, which it would be scandalous to express." Pope John XII., was convicted by a general council, of _fornication, murder, adultery, and incest_, but these were not sufficient to depose him. He still believed in holy mother, the church, and his own infallibility. There is not an individual who reads these statements, and is at all acquainted with history, who does not know that Pope Paul III., who convened the council of Trent, had made large sums of money from licenses given to houses of ill fame in that city. The holy church to this day, in the city of Mexico, to my own knowledge, receives large sums from the same sources, and these are supported principally by monks, friars and priests. No wonder, then, that the publication of the Wandering Jew should be prevented in Catholic countries. The writer, Mr. Sue, is a man of the world, he has read the book of nature with as much attention as he has those in his library. He is a well-read historian, and possesses an admirable faculty of communicating his ideas. He clothes them with a simplicity and beauty, almost peculiar to himself. The man that could depict _Rodin_, the sanctimonious Jesuit, in his true character, as Mr. Sue has done, must necessarily be silenced in a Catholic country. It must not be known that Jesuits may come among us in the garb of merchants, or in any other disguise which they may please to assume; no intimation must be given, that the poisoned cup, the assassin's dagger, the desperate sea-captain, or the valiant soldier, could be concealed under a Jesuit's cowl, or that he may throw off that cowl, at his pleasure, and exchange it for a pea-jacket, a dancing pump, the violin, the fencing foil, or even the costume of a barber, or tamer of wild beasts. It will not answer the purposes of the holy church, that a man should live and write, who is capable of raising the curtain which hides its do-signs, and conceals the instruments, which she has ever used, and is now using, for the destruction of liberty. Such a man is the author of the Wandering Jew. No man can look at the picture which he has drawn of Ignatius Morok, without recognizing, in its every feature, those of a Jesuit and a villain. He travelled about, in the assumed character of a "tamer of wild beasts," but in reality, he was a Jesuit missionary, and sent by that order, with full power to accomplish, by _any_ means within his power, one of the most infamous acts of fraud that over was committed by man. He was accompanied, (as the reader of Eugene Sue will find,) by a _lay_ Jesuit, named Karl, and I cannot give my readers a better idea of Jesuitism, as it ever has been, and is now, than by requesting of them to observe the course adopted by those two villains in accomplishing the object of their errand. Look at their treatment of the honest and faithful Dagobert. Look at the cruelties which they inflicted on the two innocent orphans, committed to his charge. See the schemes, by which they have made even the wife of Dagobert subservient to their designs. See the arts by which Jesuit priests crept into families, under various disguises, sowing amongst them discord, hatred, and domestic strife. They have put the father against the son, and the son against the father; husband against wife, and wife against husband; brother against sister, and sister against brother. See how they have contrived to filch from the poor and almost starving, the last sou they possessed, to have masses said for the repose of the souls of those who were actually living, to the knowledge of the priest, though represented by him at the confessional, to have been long since dead! See how one of those vagabond Jesuits, in the assumed character of a physician, aided by one of the sisters of that order, Madam de St. Dizier, imposed upon the heiress, Mademoiselle de Cardoville. He offered his services to accompany her to visit a friend of hers, but had a private understanding with a _lay Jesuit_ in the 'disguise of a hack-driver, to take them to a lunatic asylum, where he deposited the heiress. I will not quote from the "Wandering Jew," it would be depriving my readers of much pleasure; but I would recommend the perusal of it, in order to become acquainted with some of the prominent features of Jesuitism. The work appears as a romance, but it contains many sad and serious facts. It is a compendium of Jesuitism, and should be looked upon as a warning to the citizens of this new world. Americans will scarcely believe that we have any such Jesuits in this country, as are described in the Wandering Jew. I tell them they are mistaken; we have them in every state in the Union, but especially in New York, Maryland, District of Columbia, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. I speak from my own knowledge. "Bred in the harem, all its ways I know." A word to those who have daughters, and fortunes to give them; and also to those young ladies, who have fortunes in their own right. Jesuits will leave nothing undone, to form acquaintance with the children of such as are supposed to be wealthy. The Catholic bishops of the United States, in their annual and semiannual _despatches_ to Rome, boast that they are peculiarly _fortunate_ in gaining _converts_ from such families, and I trust a word of caution from me will not prove useless. The mode which Jesuits have adopted, in approaching such families, are various: but the most general, and hitherto the most successful is, to induce their children to go to their colleges and schools. In these, every male and female teacher is to bend the minds of their scholars towards Popery, and to report progress twice a week to their _superiors_. But when parents do not send their children to Jesuit schools, the next expedient is to get Roman Catholic servants into the family, who are instructed in the _confessional_ by the priests how to proceed, especially with their young daughters, in prepossessing their minds in favor of the Romish church, and the great beatitudes of a single life. I have known cases myself, where it was not deemed prudent to go so far as to say one word in favor of the Catholic church, or of a single life. The young ladies may be _engaged_, and their young hearts _pledged_. A different course must now be pursued, and the Popish domestic has her instructions accordingly. She must find out to whom the lady is, or is likely to be, engaged; and it must be broken off, not abruptly--that is not the way Jesuits do things--it is to be done gradually. Their young minds must be poisoned, but the poison must be given in small quantities, until finally it produces the desired effect; and then the happiness and the glories of a _nun's_ life are to be the theme of conversation, more or less, according to the instructions received in the confessional. It is not long since I met with a Protestant friend of mine, and in the course of conversation, some allusion was made to the subject of nunneries. He observed that their schools were excellent; that his daughter had just finished her education there, and had returned home in perfect ecstacy with her school, with the lady abbess who presided over it, and with all the nuns by whom she had been educated. "It is said," observed this gentleman to me, "that nuns try to tamper with the religious opinions of their pupils, and endeavor to make 'nuns of them,' but there is no truth in this; they never interfered with my daughter's religious opinions, nor did they insinuate to her the most remote idea of _taking the veil,_ or _becoming a nun._" I made no reply--courtesy forbade it. I might easily have answered my friend, but I feared the answer, which truth compelled me to give, would hurt his feelings. I might have said to him, Sir, your daughter had not a dollar in her own right, neither had you one to give her, and you must know that Jesuits seldom covet penniless applicants for the black or white veil You should have also known that, although your daughter may have seemed very beautiful in your eyes, she was probably devoid of those external charms which would attract the libidinous eye of a Jesuit. When ladies are taken into a convent by Jesuits, they must be possessed of something more than ordinary attractions. These reverend Jesuits, having the liberty of choosing, are rather fastidious. _Verbum sat_. Truly, and from my heart, I pity the female, who risks herself in the school of Jesuit nuns. She hazards all that is dear to her. Though she may leave it, single-minded and innocent as she entered,--as I believe they all do who do not become nuns,--still the peril of going there at all is eminently hazardous and dangerous. But woe be to those who become _nuns_. I have been chaplain to one of those nunneries; and I assure my readers, on the honor of a man, who is entirely disinterested, and whose circumstances place him in an independent position, who wants neither favors nor patronage from any individual, that the very air we breathe, or the very ground upon which we walk, is not made more obedient or more subservient to our use, than a nun, who takes the _black veil_, is to the use of Popish priests and Jesuits. The internal economy and abominations of a convent are horrible in the extreme. I dare not mention them, otherwise my book would, and ought to be, thrown out of every respectable house in the city. I will only call my reader's attention to the fact, that, in all Catholic countries, nunneries have _foundling hospitals_ attached to them. This any man can see who goes to France, Spain, Portugal, or Mexico. It will be seen, even in this country, that they have their private burying places and _secret vaults_. It is not more than five or six years, since a number of Jesuits, in Baltimore, petitioned the legislature of Maryland for leave to run a _subterraneous passage_ from one of their chapels to a nunnery, distant only about five hundred yards. The object of the petitioners was too plain. It was the most daring outrage ever offered any deliberative body of men; but, much to the credit of the legislature of Maryland, they rejected the petition with undisguised marks of indignant scorn. These statements will be rather unpalatable to Jesuits, but my only regret is, that decency forbids a full development of the crimes committed, with perfect impunity, in Popish convents. In New York, every effort seems to be making, by the present legislature of that state, to suppress immorality. A bill is now before that body, making adultery a penitentiary offence; yet Popish priests are building _nunneries_ there, and if Roman Catholic ladies think it proper to hold a fair to collect money for the building of those nunneries, these very New Yorkers will contribute their money freely; and thus, this ill-placed liberality, which Americans bestow, not only there but elsewhere, becomes the cause of evils which they seem desirous to crush. How is it with us in Massachusetts? Look at our statute book, and if we are to judge from that, of the utter detestation with which our people look upon immorality of every kind, we deserve to be considered paragons of propriety. Should there be amongst us a house, even of _equivocal fame_, our guardians of the night and civil officers are allowed to demand entrance into it at any hour, and if refused, they may use force. Yet we have _convents_ amongst us, _nunneries_ and nuns too. Poor helpless females are confined in them, but not an officer in the state will presume to enter. If admission is asked, it may or may not be given by the mother abbess or one of the reverend bullies of the institution; but no force must be used. The poor imprisoned victims, whether content or not with her station, must bear it without a groan or a murmur. This should not be in any civilized country; and I will venture the assertion, that it could not continue one hour, at least among the moral and charitable people of Boston, were they not utterly unacquainted with the iniquities of the Romish church. This fully explains the opposition to the circulation of the Wandering Jew by the _infallible church_. I have given the reader but a faint view of the persecutions of Popery, down to the close of the fifteenth century, and revolting as they are, there is no record to be found from which we can even infer, that the church has ever altered her doctrine or practice, on the subject of exterminating heretics, namely, all who are not Roman Catholics. If there were any such record, it could not have escaped my notice. Some Pope or some council would, long since, have given it to the world. I was, as has been stated, born a Roman Catholic, and educated a priest in that church. I solemnly declare to you, fellow-citizens of my adopted country, that nothing has been more forcibly impressed upon my mind, by my teachers, when a boy--by the priest to whom I confessed when young--by the professors under whom I read Popish theology--or by the bishop who ordained me, and with whom I lived subsequently as chaplain--than the obligation I was under of extirpating heresy, by argument, if possible; and, if not, by any other means, even to the shedding of blood. And there is not now, in this country, an Irish priest nor an Irish Roman Catholic, and _true_ son of the church, who does not believe that, if he could collect all the heretics in the United States, and form them into one pile, he would be serving God in applying a torch to it. And, incredible as it may appear to you, their church teaches them that, in doing so, they would be serving you. The doctrine is taught now, as it was in past by their priests, that _the body must be destroyed, for the good of the soul_. "It is a benefit." say the pious Popish priests, "to heretics _to be killed; the fewer will be his sins, and the shorter will be his hell!_" You naturally shudder at this doctrine, but it is not many years since Leo XII. in one of his _bulls of jubilee_, or indulgence to the faithful, announces publicly, and without shame, or sorrow, proclaims to Catholics, his _beloved subjects_, that in order to obtain the indulgence granted by that bull of jubilee, there are two conditions, without which, they can derive no benefit from it, namely, _the exaltation of the holy mother church, and the extirpation of heresy_. This "_blessed bull_" was published in 1825, and directed to the archbishop of Baltimore, and all other Popish bishops in the United States, to be made such use of as their _lordships_ may think proper! Will you believe it, Americans, that this doctrine is taught, this very day, in the college of Maynooth, Ireland. You will find it in De LaHogue's Tract. Theolog. ch. viii. p. 404, of the Dublin edition. No priest or bishop will question the authority of Dr. De La Hogue. He has been professor in that college for nearly half a century. I must, however, add here, for the information of all who are unac-quainted with the doctrine of the pious frauds practised by Romish, priests, that their respective bishops, or in his absence, the vicar-general, can give any of them a dispensation to deny any truth or to tell any falsehood for the "exaltation of holy mother church." I have received such dispensations myself, but, not having the fear of the Pope before my eyes, I took the liberty of disregarding them. Many will ask me, Why have you not made these things known before now? There were many reasons why I suppressed them. I knew my motives, however disinterested, might then be questioned; secondly, the public mind was not prepared for the developments which I have made. Thirdly, my love of peace and quietness induced me to withdraw to a part of the country, distant from the scene of my controversy, hoping that the miscreant priests and bishops of the Romish church would permit me to pursue my new profession of the law, without interruption. But in this, as I ought to have known, I was disappointed. Although I have not, since I left Philadelphia, until very recently, even replied to the calumnies which vagabond Irish priests who infest this country, and the still greater vagabond bishops who govern them, together with the tools which they keep in their employment, have heaped upon me; still they have, in the true spirit of their _vocation_, never ceased to pursue me with their vengeance. No sooner had I abjured the Pope, disregarded his-_bulls_, and thereby become a heretic, than they had me burnt in effigy! But much more gratified would they be, had they my person in the place of the effigy. I still remained unmoved. Soon after this, Bishop England, of Charleston, South Carolina, established a press, called the "Catholic Miscellany," whose columns teemed, for months,--almost for years,--with the grossest and vilest abuse against me; yet while this restless demagogue, who is now in his grave, was spewing forth his filthy abuse, I was prospering in my profession, and partially recovering my health, which I thought was radically destroyed by the persecutions I suffered in Philadelphia; and thus, while the Pope in Rome, and the Romish bishops and priests of this country, were cursing me, Heaven was blessing my efforts and gaining me the confidence of the virtuous and good, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in my intercourse with the world. Strange indeed are the practices of Papists! Previous to my _heresy_ in Philadelphia, there was not in that city a more popular man--not another more respected; I may almost say, that there was no man, of any pursuit or calling, whose friendship was more courted. Yet the moment I committed the _unpardonable sin_ of differing with the Pope of Rome, every one of his faithful children, not only there but throughout the world, was bound by his oath of allegiance to persecute me in every possible way. Never forget, Americans, that the same oath of allegiance, which binds them to persecute me, is also binding on them to persecute and destroy you. Some of you will say, this cannot be. A church, numbering among her priests such men as Massillon, Fenelon, Chevereux, and Taylor of Boston, cannot entertain, much less command, a spirit of persecution. True, as far as we can judge, these were godly men. They would be an honor to any religion. But in the Popish church, they were like stars that strayed from their homes, and losing their way, fell, by accident, upon the dark firmament of sin and Popery; but even there, their native light could not be obscured; on the contrary, the darker the clouds around them, the more beautiful and brilliant did their light appear. Poor Taylor,--"Peace be to thy memory,--we have been friends together." Methinks I can, even now, feel the warm pressure of thy hand, see the charities of thy soul beaming in thy speaking eye and gentle countenance, yet thou too had been considered almost a heretic in the city of New York, and would have been denounced as such by the rude and vulgar bishop of that diocese, had not the amiable Chevereux interfered. Often have I regretted that this Mr. Taylor, who was my classmate, and companion of my youth, had not, in addition to his private virtues, more fortitude and decision of character. He was the Erasmus of his day, in the United States. He was born and educated a gentleman; so was the amiable but timid Erasmus. He was educated a Roman Catholic; so was Erasmus. He was a chaste and elegant classical scholar; so was Erasmus. Taylor, knowing full well the corruptions of the Romish church, went from New York to Rome, about the year 1822, in order to induce the Pope to modify such of its doctrines as were objectionable in this country. But he wanted courage, and hastily retreated back, lest he should be consigned to the inquisition. Erasmus, too, wanted courage, a quality as necessary for a reformer as it is to a general in storming a city and hence it is; that those two amiable men, similar in character and disposition, though living in ages widely apart, have lived ostensibly members of a church, whose doctrines they loathed from the very bottom of their souls. This might have been the temper, the character, and the cause, why such men as Massillon and Fenelon have lived and died Roman Catholics. They felt, probably, as Erasmus did, when he said, "It is dangerous to speak, and dangerous to be silent." "I fear," said he, in another place, "that if a tumult arose, I should be like Peter in his fall." It is not at all strange, that such men as we have spoken of, should have contented themselves with having inculcated virtue, and denounced vice. There were such men in all ages, and, as a modern writer expresses it, "in all great religious movements there are undecided characters." But let it be borne in mind, that even great and good as they seemed to be, and eloquent and pious as they appeared, still they are only exceptions in the great body of the advocates of Popery. No wonder Americans look back to those lights in the dark and bloody wilderness of Popery. It is refreshing to see them. They are green spots in the deserts made barren and desolate, by Popish iniquities; and long may their memories shine in unclouded lustre. It is pleasant to the historian, who is wearied and disgusted with contemplating the past and present horrors of Popery, to turn for a moment from the frightful spectacle, and rest in devout contemplation on the lives of those comparatively excellent men. How mistaken are those would-be philanthropists, who, at the present time, teach Americans to infer, that, because those were good and holy men, possessing a pious and forgiving spirit, it follows that the Papist church, her bishops and priests, entertain a similar spirit. This is equivalent to telling them that all history, past and present, is false, a mere romance, the dream of madmen. It is equivalent to telling them that the very history and records of the lives of Fenelon, and Massillon, &c., were entitled to no credit. Who can read, and not see that Rome has spilt oceans of blood to enforce her cruel creed! Who can read, and not see that she has squandered treasures enough to relieve the poor of civilized Europe, in establishing and keeping up a despotism inimical to man and hateful to God! The Papists, even in this country, do not deny that they intend to eradicate heresy, and to use every means which their church considers _legitimate_ to effect that purpose. This the priests preach from their pulpits; this they tell you to your beards. They admit their determination to bring these United States, if possible, under the _spiritual_ control of the court of Rome. They use the word _spiritual_, in utter contempt of your understanding, to deceive you, and while using it, they laugh at your credulity. Popish spiritual control, spiritual allegiance! It is almost incredible that any body of men should have the impudence to come forward, in the nineteenth century, and talk of _spiritual allegiance_ to his royal holiness the King of Rome. They admit their determination to possess this country, and have the modesty to ask you to give them lands and churches, and means to accomplish their object, and effectuate your destruction. Their next step will be to quarter upon you an army of friars, Jesuits, or monks, who will carry at the point of the bayonet what is left undone by duplicity, treachery, and intrigue. This has been the fate of every country where Popery has found a resting place, and America is the only nation which, for the last three centuries, has given them such a footing. They tried what they could do in China. They succeeded in establishing several bishoprics, Jesuit convents, nunneries, monk-houses and churches, among the peaceable and quiet Chinese; but happening to differ among themselves on the subject of their respective temporal rights, they, as in duty bound, referred their differences to the Pope. This movement came to the ears of the emperor of China, whom they had so long and so successfully deceived by the cant words, _spiritual allegiance to the Pope_. The parties were summoned before his commissioner to ascertain what was meant by _spiritual allegiance_. They tried to explain it, but all their ingenuity, all their subtilty, could not satisfy the commissioner that spiritual allegiance meant anything else than what it fairly expressed, and as soon as he found that it meant, in the eyes of the Pope and the Romish church, things real and tangible, such as real estate, the conveying it from the rightful owner under the laws of the land, to another under the laws of the Pope, who lived in Rome, he satisfied himself, that the _spiritual supremacy_ of the Pope meant, among other things, the power to govern the kingdoms of the earth; to give away, and take them away, to whom and from whom, his royal holiness pleased. The emperor instantly issued an order, directing that every Roman Catholic bishop, priest, friar, Jesuit, monk, and nun, within his empire, should quit, within a given time, on pain of losing their heads. Many of them disobeyed the order and were executed, and their churches levelled to the ground. The Chinese had no objection to Papists worshipping God, according to the dictates of their own conscience; but as soon as it was discovered that they owed _spiritual allegiance_ to a foreign power, they deemed it _prudent_ to remove them from the country. But the Chinese are _barbarians_, and it seems reserved for this new world of ours, to interpret properly the meaning of spiritual allegiance, and in all differences, between our citizens and the agents of the Pope, as to the temporalities of the Romish church, to lay the subject before his _royal holiness_, and be governed by his decision. Witness the difference between Bishop Hughes of New York, and the trustees of a Roman Catholic church in Buffalo, only a few weeks ago. Witness that in New Orleans, between the bishop and the trustees of the Roman Catholic church. All these were referred to the Pope, who decided the matter, without any respect or regard to the laws of this government. Call you this _spiritual allegiance?_ Call you this an exercise of spiritual power, on the part of his royal holiness the Pope? Yes, you do; and it would not much surprise me, if the Papists of this very city of Boston should recommend to its legislature, to lay the difficulties between themselves and the state of South Carolina, before the Pope of Rome for adjudication. Should the day ever arrive, when the Papists have a majority in your legislature, and a difference should occur between these states, the Pope will be called in to decide it. I am at a loss to know how, even in these days of transcendentalism, _any other meaning_ can be given to _spiritual allegiance_, than that which the Roman Catholic gives it in practice. They consider the Pope, as the _spiritual_ head of the church, has, _a fortiori, a divine right_ to be the head and sovereign of the world. This is the sense in which Catholics understand and act upon it, and swear to support the Pope, as the supreme arbiter of the destinies of the world. The Chinese understood this. The emperor of Russia understands it at the present day; and though a Catholic himself, no priest or bishop, within his vast dominions, dare avow any allegiance, _spiritual_ or temporal, to the king or Pope of Rome. The holy synod of St. Petersburg, Russia, have notified the Catholic missionaries, who have incited rebellion, and interfered with the civil authorities in Georgia, to renounce their intercourse with the see of Rome, or quit the country. But Americans, in the alembic of their fertile brains, have manufactured a definition for _spiritual allegiance_, peculiarly their own, for which the Papists are so much obliged to them, that whenever an opportunity of knocking out the aforesaid brains occurs, they will do so. Witness in the Philadelphia riots, &c, &c, strong proofs of the _spirituality_ of that allegiance which Catholics owe to the Pope. Permit me to give you another evidence of the nature of that allegiance to the Pope of Rome, to which I have heretofore alluded. It is to be found in the massacre of the Huguenots, by Roman Catholics. There is no event in the history of France, with which the world is more familiar, than this. Several historians have related it with great minuteness and much elegance. To these I can add nothing of my own, and the reader is more indebted to them, for the following statement, than to myself. MASSACRE OF THE HUGUENOTS. This bloody massacre took place immediately after the conclusion of the treaty of St. Germain, at which the hostilities which had so long existed between the Catholics and Protestants in France, were suspended, or, as the Protestants believed, were entirely terminated. The sufferings of the Protestants, up to the conclusion of that treaty, were truly great. Their property was wasted; their beautiful chateaus were burned and levelled to the ground; their flourishing vineyards were destroyed, and they themselves were left, reduced in property and numbers; but great as were their calamities, the spirit which lived within them was not quenched. Their hearts, though oppressed, 7 were not broken. The love of God bore them up against all their trials and privations. Among those who suffered most in the Protestant cause, was the brave and pious Admiral Coligny, who, after the treaty of St. Germain, and the destruction of his beautiful estates by order of the Popish and bloody Catharine, retired to Rochelle. Even here there was no safety for him. The licentious queen, and her paramours, consisting of priests, determined on his destruction. It is said of this woman, that she occupied twelve years of her life in instructing her son Charles to swear, to blaspheme, to break his word, and to disguise his thoughts as well as face. We are told by contemporary historians, that this _blessed daughter_ of the holy church supplied him with small animals, when a child, and a sharp sword to cut off their heads, and shed their blood by stabbing them; all this to familiarize him with the shedding of blood, and that at some future day he might indulge in the same amusement upon a larger scale, in cutting off the heads and stabbing heretics and Protestants. The persecutions of the Huguenots are known almost to all readers; few there are, who are not familiar with them. The illustrious characters, who headed the Protestant cause in those days, are known to all Protestant Americans, but none of them, perhaps, more intimately than the great Coligny, who was one of the first martyrs to that wretched Popish thing, in the shape of a woman, Catharine de Medicis, regent of France. I trust, therefore, the reader will pardon me for giving a few incidents in the life of this nobleman and martyr, during one of the regencies of this Popish queen Catharine. After the marriage of Henry of Navarre, Coligny, as we are told, suddenly retired from the banquet given upon the occasion at the Louvre. It was remarked that he seemed sad and dejected. He retired to his hotel, which he would have gladly left and returned home, but dreading that he might alarm his wife, he preferred writing to her, explaining matters as far as he could, under existing circumstances. The letter is so interesting, so affectionate, and altogether so worthy of the good man, that I cannot refrain from laying it before my readers. It was as follows:!!!!! "My very dear and much beloved wife: "This day, was performed the ceremony of marriage between the king's sister and the king of Navarre. The ensuing three or four days will be spent in amusements, banquets, masks, and sham-fights. The king has assured me that, immediately afterwards, he will give me some days to hear the complaints, made in divers parts of the kingdom, touching the edict of pacification, which is violated there. It is with good reason that I attend to this matter as much as possible; for, though I have a strong wish to see you, still you would be angry with me (as I think) if I were remiss in such an affair, and harm came of it from my neglect to do my duty. At any rate, this delay will not retard my departure from this place so long but that I shall have leave to quit it next week. If I had regard to myself alone, I had much rather be with you than stay longer here, for reasons which I will tell you. But we ought to consider the public welfare as far more important than our private benefit. I have some other things to tell you, as soon as I shall have the means to see you--which I desire, day and night. As for the news that I have to tell you, they are these: This day, at four in the afternoon, the bells were rung, when the mass of the bride was chanted. The king of Navarre walked about the while in an open place near the church, with some gentlemen of our religion who had accompanied him. There are other little particulars which I omit, intending to tell you them when I see you. Whereupon I pray God, my most dear and beloved wife, to have you in his holy keeping. From Paris, this 18th of August, 1572. "Three days back I was tormented with colic and pain in the loins. But this complaint lasted only eight or ten hours, thanks be to God, through whose goodness I am now delivered from those pains. Be assured on my part, that amidst these festivities and pastimes, I will not give offence to any one. Adieu, once more, "Your loving husband, "Chastillon." After having despatched the above letter, Coligny deemed it his duty to see the king before he left Paris. His sole object in so doing was to obtain, if possible, some concessions, or at least some guarantee for the future protection of the persecuted Protestants, of whom he was a member. The king received him well, promised him all he asked; but the king consulted the Pope's nuncio, who was then in the city, and that _holy_ man advised him to keep no faith with that Protestant Coligny, but on the contrary, to make all the use he could of him, in order the more effectually to accomplish the destruction of the heretical band to which he belonged. After receiving this Christian advice, the king became apparently more friendly to Coligny, and went so far as to promise him a safe escort on his way home. "If you approve of it," said the king to Coligny, "I will send for the guard of my Arquebusiers for the greater safety of all, for fear they might unawares do you a mischief; and they shall come under officers who are known to you." The generous and unsuspecting Christian, Coligny, accepted the offer of the guards, and twelve hundred of them were ordered into the city. There were many of the Protestants in the city, who on seeing this array of troops, felt alarmed for the safety of their friend Coligny; they whispered their fears to the brave warrior, who until then did not even dream of treachery. But now, fearing that something might be wrong, he resolved to see the queen mother. She expected this, and granted him an interview with great apparent pleasure. As soon as he commenced to suggest any fears or apprehensions of treachery, this _holy daughter_ of the church, suddenly interrupting him, exclaiming, "Good God, sir admiral," said she, "let us enjoy ourselves while these festivities continue. I promise you on the faith of a queen, that in four days I will make you contented, and those of your religion." Coligny had now the word of a king, and the honor of a queen, as a guarantee for his own safety, and that of the Protestants in France. Who could any longer doubt that they were safe? Who could believe that a king would violate a solemn promise freely given? Who could question the honor of a lady and the promise of a queen? Who would venture to assert that a mother would not use her best effort to redeem the honor and plighted faith of a son, and that son a king? No one but a Roman Catholic could doubt it. Charles was a Roman Catholic king. His church taught him, that no faith was to be kept with heretics. Coligny was a heretic. Catharine, the queen mother, was a Roman Catholic; her church taught her to keep no faith with heretics, but to "destroy them, root and branch, under pain of eternal damnation." _Heritici destruendi_ is the doctrine of the Roman Catholic church; and accordingly, on the evening of that very day on which Coligny had an audience with the queen, these distinguished and pious children of the holy Roman Catholic church appointed an interview with the Pope's nuncio, and after that _holy man_ sung the _Veni Creator Spiritus_, (a hymn which they invariably sing, when laying any plan for the destruction of heretics,) these three worthy children of the infallible church resolved to send for the "king's assassin," a man named Maureval, and ordered him to assassinate Coligny. It must be observed here, that the Pope's legate allowed Charles and his mother to keep an assassin, to cut down _such thistles or tares as the devil may plant in the vineyard of the holy see_. Soon after this, Coligny had occasion to go out on some business. The Popish assassin pursued him at a distance, secreted himself in a house where he knew he could deliberately shoot at him; he did so, but the wound, though severe in the extreme, did not prove mortal. Among the first who visited him were the king and his mother; and such was the apparent grief of Catharine, that she shed tears for the sufferings of the warrior. The good son of this good mother mingled his tears with hers, promising that the assassin, whoever he was, should be brought to condign punishment; but need I now tell you, Americans, that the tears of this Popish queen, for the sufferings of this Protestant, were like those of the hyena, that moans in the most piteous strains, while sucking the life-blood of its victim? Need I tell you they were like those of the crocodile, which sheds them in abundance while devouring its prey? Need I inform you that by her promises of future protection, she resembled the filthy buzzard, which spreads its wings over the body or carcass of its prey, while plunging its beak into its very entrails? And such I tell you now, as I have told you before, Americans, and shall tell you while I live, is the sympathy, and such the protection which every good mother and son of the holy Roman Catholic church would extend to you, your Protestant religion and its followers, in these United States. We will now pass over the various meetings held by the king, his mother, queen Catharine, and the Pope's nuncio, for the purpose of devising ways and means, not for the death of Coligny, but for the destruction of all the Protestants in France. To detail these would be a tedious undertaking; and not more tedious than revolting to the best feelings of humanity. Depravity was reduced to a science in the court of Catharine, and her son Charles. She employed even her _ladies_ of honor for the seduction of her young nobility. They were ladies--I should say human things--selected for their beauty, and trained up by this royal mother in the Romish church, in habits of utter abandonment to seduction and lasciviousness. Young men of honor, virtue, and patriotism, were introduced to them, by Catharine, especially those who were at all suspected of being favorable to Protestantism. These _maids_ were required to ascertain from these young noblemen who, and how many of their young friends were friendly to the cause of Protestantism, with a view of marking them for extermination, as soon as herself and the Pope's legate should deem it expedient to do so The hour at last arrived, when the holy trio deemed it expedient to order a general massacre of the Protestants. The order was issued. The bells of the Roman Catholic churches were rung, and the royal order "Kill! kill! kill!" all, was issued by the king, and repeated by his Roman Catholic mother. I could not if I would, nor would I if I could, describe the scene that followed. Suffice it to say, that particular orders were given not to spare Admiral Coligny. Blameless as was his life, and devoted as he was to his king and government, yet he was a Protestant, and must die, and that by the hand of a Popish assassin. The holy church reserved to herself the glory of murdering this heretic. As soon as the order to murder was given, a rush was made towards the residence of Coligny. They entered his chamber, and to use the language of another, they found him sitting in an armchair, his arms folded, his eyes half upturned with angelic serenity towards heaven, looking the image of a righteous man falling asleep in the Lord. One of the murderers, a pious Catholic, called Besma, fixing his fiendish eye upon the admiral, asked him, 'Art thou the admiral?' pointing his sword at him at the same time. 'I am the admiral,' replied Coligny. 'Young man, thou shouldst have regard for my age and infirmities;'" but the murderer plunged his sword into the Christian hero's breast, pulled it out, and thrust it in again. Thus died this noble Protestant! Thus died the veteran Coligny, by the hands of a Popish boy! And for what? He believed in the Bible--he was a Protestant. And thus, fellow Protestants of the United States, will your posterity be sacrificed, for similar crimes, unless God in his mercy drive from your land, and mine by adoption, every vestige of the Popish religion. No sooner was Coligny put to death, than his head was cut off and presented to Queen Catharine, who sent for her perfumer, and ordered it to be embalmed and forwarded to the Pope, as a mark of her devotion to the holy see. But even this did not satisfy the queen. Her Popish bloodhounds, on hearing of Coligny's murder, rushed through the streets to his apartments, searching every where for his mangled body, and having found it, a general cry was raised, "The admiral! the admiral!" They tied his legs and his arms together, and dragged them through the streets shouting, "Here he comes, the admiral!" One cut off his ears, another his legs, another his nose, hands, &c. They abandoned the body, to let the boys amuse themselves by inspecting it, and then tumbled it into the river. But the zealous Catharine was not satisfied yet. This good daughter of the Pope ordered the river to be dragged, until what remained of Coligny was found, and then ordered it to be hung in chains on a gibbet at a place called Mountfaçon. A contemporary writer, a Roman Catholic, speaking of this, says: "the road to Mountfaçon was a scene of incessant bustle, created by the gentlemen of Catharine's court, who, in splendid dresses and perfumed with essences, went to insult the relics of Coligny. Catharine also went with her numerous retinue. Charles accompanied his mother. On arriving before the gallows, the courtiers turned away their heads, and held their noses on account of the stench arising from the half putrefied remains. 'Poh!' said Charles and his mother, to their courtiers, '_the dead body of a heretic_ always smells well.' On returning home she consulted with her confessor, who advised her, now that the devil had the heretic's body, it would be well to have a solemn high mass for the occasion, to be said at the church of St. Germain, at which Charles and his mother attended, and a Te Deum was sung in honor of the glorious victory gained by the church, by the destruction of so many heretics. As soon as the Pope heard this news, his holiness despatched a special messenger to France, to congratulate the king on having "caught so many heretics in one net." So joyous and elated did his royal holiness appear, that he offered a high reward for the best engraving of the massacre; having, on one side, as a motto, "the triumph of the church;" and on the other, "the pontiff approves of the murder of coligny." This engraving is now to be seen in the Vatican of Rome. The number of those who were massacred on St. Bartholomew's day is variously stated. Mazary makes it thirty thousand; others over sixty: but the Pope's nuncio, who was on the spot during the massacre, in a letter to the Pope, tells him, "the number was _so great it was impossible to estimate it._" Recollect, American Protestants, that this massacre, and others to which I have alluded, was not the work of a few fanatics. It was the work of a nation, by their representative, the king, empowered to do so by the head of the Roman Catholic church. In vain is it for Papists to tell us that all this blood-shedding and destruction of human life was the work of a few, with which the church was neither chargeable nor accountable. Americans may believe them if they will. Let them believe. "There are none so blind as those who will not see." If neither the testimony of history, nor a statement of facts, bearing all the necessary evidence of truth, will convince them, vain indeed are my efforts to do so. But there is no impropriety in my earnestly and solemnly appealing to Americans, and suggesting one or two questions, which they should put to any Roman Catholic who may deny that the church ever sanctioned those evil deeds of which I have spoken. Have you any record of the fact, that the church ever discountenanced the destruction of heretics? Did the Popish authorities ever deliver up those whom they knew to have murdered heretics to the civil tribunals? Were there ever any heretics murdered, as such, except by the advice, counsel, and connivance of the Popish church and her priests? If there were, in what country, in what age, and in what reign? Until these questions can be truly answered, you are not to be satisfied. But why will Americans, for a moment, entertain a doubt upon the subject? Popish historians never deny it. The actions of Papists all over the world proclaim it. The church of Rome has ever thirsted for the blood of' heretics. She now yearns for an opportunity of shedding it again; all for the purpose of "purifying the earth of heresy." Do you not see that her conduct, in all ages and all places where she had opportunities, confirms this? Do you not even see, that in this country, the members of that church can scarcely keep their hands off you; and so bloody are the sentiments which they inherit, that, for want of other subjects, they will sometimes shed that of each other? What would they not have done, a few weeks ago, in Philadelphia, had they the power? What in New York? What in Boston, or any where else in the United States? Do you not see, in all your intercourse with them, the ill-concealed hatred which they, bear you? If you have any charitable institutions for the support of Protestants, will they aid you? If you hold a fair for the purpose of building a church, or for any other Protestant purpose, will they attend it and purchase from you? They will not. If they do, they commit a sin against the church, and the power of absolving from that sin is _reserved_ for the bishop of the diocese. It is a _reserved case_, as the church terms it. It is only by virtue of a _dispensation_, granted by the Pope to this country, that a Roman Catholic is even allowed to attend the funeral of a Protestant; and should he go into one of your churches, even though there was no service at the time, if he is a true son of the church, he will hasten to his priest and obtain absolution for that special crime. Yet, if they want churches built, you will furnish them with money. If they want land to build them upon, you will give it to them. Is this wise in you? You are denounced in those churches as heretics; your religion ridiculed, and yourselves laughed at. Your motives are undoubtedly good. You believe, because you do not know to the contrary, that, by your contributions, you are advancing the cause of morality. You do not reflect--and perhaps the idea never occurred to you--that there is a wide difference between the religion of a Protestant and that of a Papist. That of the Protestant teaches him to be a moral and virtuous man; whereas, that of the Papist has not the remotest connection with virtue. A Catholic need not dream of virtue, and yet be a member of that church. The most atrocious villain, as an eminent writer expresses it, may be rigidly devout, and without any shock to public sentiment in Catholic countries, or even among Roman Catholics in the United States, Religion, as the same writer says, and as we all know, at least as many of us as have been in those countries, and who are acquainted with Catholics in this, is a _passion, an excuse, a refuge_, but never a _check_. It is called by Papists themselves _refugium peccatorum_. Hence it is, that priests may be drunkards, and their flocks never think the worse of them. I have known some of them, whose private rooms where they heard confessions, were sinks of debaucheries, which a regard for public decency prevents me from mentioning. I have known females, who have been seduced by them, and who afterwards regularly went to confession, under the impression which every Catholic is taught to feel, that no matter what a priest does, provided he speaks the language of the church. _Don't mind what he does, but mind what he speaks_, is a proverb among the poor Irish Papists. None of them dare look me in the face and deny this, and yet these wretches talk of morals. But what think you, Protestants, of this kind of morality or of the church which does not even forbid it, and only requires to have it "concealed from _heretics?_" Do you desire it propagated amongst you? Do you wish your children to learn it? No virtuous daughter or decent woman should ever venture under the same roof with those men. Paganism, in its worst stages, was a stronger check to the passions than Popery. I will give you one instance of the abominations of Popery. Papists believe in the doctrine of the _real presence_ of Christ, in the sacrament of the Eucharist. It is the duty of every priest in that church to administer this _sacrament_ to the dying, and for this purpose, they consecrate a number, of small wafers, made of flour and water, each of which, they pretend to believe, contains _the body and blood, soul and divinity_ of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, or in other words, the Lord God himself. The priests carry with them, in & small box called _pixis_, a number of them to be given to the sick and dying. There are but few of them in the United States, in whose breeches' pockets may not be found, at any hour of the day, at least a dozen of _those gods_. Can there be religion here? Can there be morality among those men or their followers? I would go further, and ask, Is there any thing in Paganism equally impious or more revolting to God or man? They know full well that such a creed cannot be sustained either by reason or Scripture, and hence it is, they want all power concentrated in the Pope of Rome, in order to extirpate their opponents, Protestant heretics. Papists understand the character of Americans, and are well aware, that if sufficiently satisfied of the existence among them, of a sect who believed in a doctrine so absurd, and so impiously profane, as that of the real _bodily presence of Christ in the Eucharist_, they could not countenance them. My own impression is, that if the people of Boston, where I write, knew that Catholic priests taught their followers to believe, that they (the priests) could make god's by the dozen, carry them in their pockets, take them out when and where they pleased, and there kneel to them, in _adoration_, they would have them indicted under the statute against blasphemy. The Rev. Abner Kneeland was indicted because he denied the procession of the Holy Ghost, and found guilty of blasphemy. But what was his crime, when compared with that of Romish bishops and priests! It was bad enough, to be sure, in the eyes of all Christian men, and few questioned the righteousness of the verdict of his guilt. If a Pagan priest should arrive amongst us, bringing with him his gods, and worshipping them in our midst, should we _sanction_ him? I know not that our constitution forbids such a thing, but the reverence which we have for the _one true God_, our love of morality and good order, would forbid it. We would accuse and indict them for blasphemy. But is their blasphemy more horrid than that of the Romish church? The Pagan priest hews his god out of wood; the Popish priest makes his out of flour and water. The Pagan priests convey their gods in some vehicle, from place to place, and stop to worship them, wherever their inclination or devotion prompts them. The Romish priests carry theirs in their pockets, or otherwise, as occasion or love of pomp may suggest. Where, Americans, is the difference? Which is the greater blasphemer? Which is the bolder and more reckless violator of that great commandment, "_I am the Lord thy God." "Thou shalt have none other gods before me"?_ You will not hesitate to decide. The Pagan may be honest in his belief; he may worship according to the light that is in him, or the knowledge that has reached him. He may never have seen the Gospel. _The Day Star from on high_ may never have arisen over him, or illumined his path! "The morning upon the mountains" may perhaps never have gladdened his vision; he may, to us at least, be excusable, and as far as we can see, without offence before God. But is the Romish priest, who makes his god out of flour and water, and worships it, sinless? Is he not an idolater? What can be more blasphemous than to believe that a wafer, made of flour and water, can be changed, by the incantations of a Romish priest, into the God of heaven and earth! The Popish church teaches that the flour, of which the wafer is made, loses its substance, and all its natural properties, and is changed by the words of consecration into the Almighty God; that is, it is no longer flour and water; it is changed,--not _spiritually_, as Protestants believe,--but actually and really becomes the _body and blood, soul and divinity_ of Jesus Christ, such as it was when nailed to the cross, and as such they worship the wafer. If this is not idolatry, I cannot understand what idolatry is. If this is not blasphemy, I wish some New England gentleman of the ministry, or the bar, would explain it, and tell me what they mean by their statute against blasphemy. Does blasphemy, in their estimation, mean nothing? or is it something introduced into our laws, only for the purpose of exercising the ingenuity of legal and ecclesiastical casuists? Surely, if the word has any meaning whatever, in law or morals, in church or state; if it can be enforced at all, and there is such a crime as blasphemy, it should be enforced against the Romish priest or bishop, who bows and teaches his followers to bow, in adoration, to a piece of bread and water, and thus blasphemously insult, as far as poor mortals can, the great and living God. Surely, the state authority, which would institute a criminal prosecution for blasphemy against Kneeland, because he did not believe the Holy Ghost to proceed "from the Father and the Son," and does not prosecute for blasphemy Popish priests, who believe, and teach their followers to believe, that they can create, or rather manufacture as _many gods_ as they please, out of flour and water, either neglects his duty, or his knowledge of it is very equivocal. Either this is the case, or the treatment of Kneeland originated in some cruel persecution. The latter I am far from believing. As a citizen of this state, I would ask respectfully, why proceedings, under the statute against blasphemy, are not immediately commenced against Popish priests? Is it because Kneeland was friendless and alone, that he was selected as a proper victim? and is it because Popish priests are supported by a large party, equally criminal with themselves, that they are spared? Not at all, say the _sympathizers_ with Papery. Kneeland made a noise in his meetings; they were troublesome in the neighborhood where they were held. Be it so. I will not deny this, nor do I wish to be considered as the apologist of Kneeland, his blasphemies, or his meetings; but I would ask the prosecuting officer of the state, whether Kneeland's meetings were more noisy than _Popish repealers?_ Were they even half so turbulent or uproarious? Let those whose duty it is answer the question, and tell us why priests are not prosecuted for blasphemy. I contend that if there is one blasphemy under the sun more revolting than another, it is that of believing and teaching that a wafer can be changed from what God made it, into that same Almighty God, by mumbling over it a few Latin words. It makes me shudder at the weakness of man, and the unaccountable influence of early education, to think that I myself once believed in this horribly blasphemous doctrine. The doctrine of Popish priests in adoring a wafer made of bread and water, and their mode of manufacturing the wafer into God, is not only blasphemous, but extremely ludicrous. Has the reader ever seen a Popish priest in the act of making, or metamorphosing bread and water into _flesh and blood?_ If he has not, it would be well, if not profane, to witness it; for never before has he seen such mountebank tricks. The priest, this great _creator_ of flesh and blood out of flour and water, appears decked out in as many gewgaws as would adorn a Pagan priestess, and about twice as many as would be necessary for a Jewish rabbi. Amid the ringing of small bells, dazzling lights, genuflections, crossings, incense, and a variety of other such "tricks before high Heaven," this clerical mountebank metamorphoses this wafer into _God_, and exhibits it to his followers, whom he calls upon to go on their knees and adore it. This horrible practice should induce our philanthropists, who are sending vast sums abroad for the conversion of the Pagan, to pause and ask themselves, whether there is, in the whole moral wilderness of Paganism, any thing worse, or half so bad, as that idolatry which we have at our own doors! If a being from some unknown world, and to whom this world of ours was as little known as the one from which he came was to us, should, by accident or otherwise, arrive among us, and we were to take him into a Roman Catholic church during the celebration of mass, and there tell him, that the _great actor_ in the service was making flesh and blood out of bread and water, and could actually accomplish that feat, he would unhesitatingly award to these United States the credit of having among them some of the most accomplished jugglers in the world. What are your Eastern fire-eaters, sword-swallowers, and dervishes, to a Popish priest? Why, it would be easier to swallow a rapier, ten feet long, or a ball of fire as large as the mountain Orizaba, than to metamorphose flour and water into the "_great and holy God_, who created the heavens and the earth, and all that is therein." Let me not be accused of levity, or want of reverence to that Almighty Being, to whom I am indebted for my creation and preservation, and on whom alone, through the merits of the Saviour, my hopes of salvation are placed. My only object is, to call the attention of my fellow-citizens to the absurd and profane doctrines of Popery; and that having seen them, in their true colors, it is to be hoped they will find little favor from a thinking and reflect-ing people. It is extremely unpleasant to my feelings, thus to expose the profanity of a religion which I once professed, and inculcated upon the minds of others; but the best atonement I can make for my unconscious offence to my God and my fellow-beings is, to acknowledge my error, and caution others against falling into the snares which an early education, received from priests and Jesuits, had precipitated me. The reader will therefore pardon me if I lay before him a few more Popish extravagances. It is generally known, that Papists believe in the doctrines of miracles. So do I, and so do all Christians. But it is not so well known that the miracles, in which Protestants believe, differ widely from those which the Romish church teaches her followers. We believe the miracles recorded in the Holy Scriptures; to these, however, the _infallible church_ pays little or no attention, but hands us down a catalogue of miracles, for the truth of which she herself vouches, and calls upon all to receive them as the "genuine article." It may be edifying, and if not, it can not fail to be amusing to American Protestants, to see a specimen or two of Popish miracles. I assure the reader, they are very fair ones, to my own personal knowledge, and considered as such by every true Roman Catholic in this city of Boston as well as elsewhere. St. Hieronymus, better known by the name Jerome, who died early in the fifth century, relates the following miracle:--"After St. Hilary was banished from France to Phrygia, he met in the wilderness a huge Bactrian camel, and having seen, in a vision, that his camelship was possessed of the devil, he exorcised him, and the devil sprang out from him, running wild through the wilderness, leaving behind him a strong smell of brimstone." He tells us another miracle, with much gravity. "Paul the Hermit," says this saint, "happening to die in the wilderness, his body remained unburied, until discovered by St. Anthony. The saint being alone, and not having the means of digging a grave, nor strength enough to place in it the body of the hermit, prayed to the Virgin Mary to aid him in his difficulties. The result was, two lions, of the largest species, walked up to him, licked his hands, and told him that they would dig the grave themselves with their feet, and place the body of Paul in it. They did so; and having finished their business, went on their knees, asked the saint's blessing, and vanished in the woods." Palladus, who lived in the fifth century, and was greatly distinguished in the Romish church, tells us of a hyena, which, in a certain wood in Greece, killed a sheep. The next day, a pious hermit, who happened to live in the neighborhood, was surprised at seeing this hyena at the-door of his cave; and on asking it what was the matter, the hyena addressed him in the following language: "Holy father, the odor of thy sanctity reached me; I killed a sheep last night, and I came to ask your absolution." The saint granted it, and the hyena departed in peace. We find in Butler's Lives of the Saints, which is for sale in almost all Roman Catholic bookstores, an account of some most extraordinary miracles, for the truth of which, the _infallible_ church pledges her veracity. For instance; when heretics cut off the head of St. Dennis, the saint took it up, put it under his arm, and marched off some miles with it. Butler relates another extraordinary miracle, and if American Protestants presume to doubt it, they may expect a bull from the Pope of Rome. A certain lady in Wales, named Winnefride, was addressed by a young prince, named Caradoc. But she, being a _nun_, could not listen to his addresses. The young prince got impatient, and finally, in a fit of rage and disappointment, he pursued her in one of her walks, and cut off her head. A saint, by the name of Beuno, hearing of this outrage, went in pursuit of Caradoc, and having come up with him, he caused the earth to open and swallow him. Upon his returning where the _nun's_ head fell, he found that a well had opened, emitting a stream of the purest water, the drinking of which, to this day, is believed to cast out devils. When the holy St. Beuno looked at the head of the _nun_, he took it up and kissed it, placed it on a stump, and said mass. No sooner was the mass finished, than the beheaded nun jumped up, with her head on, as if nothing had happened. Come forward, Americans, if you dare, and deny this miracle. The _holy church_ vouches for its truth. St. Patrick, the great patron of Daniel O'Connell, whom his holiness the Pope calls the _greatest layman living_, performed some very extraordinary miracles, as we are told; among them was the following: A poor boy strayed from home, and died of starvation, or something else, and the body was nearly devoured by hogs, when St. Patrick, chancing to pass that way, discovered it in this mutilated condition. The holy saint touched it, and it instantly sprang into life, resuming its former shape and proportions. On another occasion, as we read in the Lives of the Saints, St. Patrick fed fourteen hundred people with the flesh of one cow, two wild boars, and two stags; and what is more strange than all, the same old cow was seen, on the following morning, brisk and merrily grazing on the very same field where she was killed, cooked, and eaten by the multitude. We read of another very great miracle, which no Roman Catholic can doubt, without running the risk of being considered a _heretic_. St. Xavier, who is considered one of the most distinguished saints in the Romish church, had a valuable crucifix. On one of his journeys at sea, it fell overboard, much to his regret. When he arrived at his place of destination, he took a walk along shore, meditating on the power, grandeur, and infallibility of the _mother of saints_, and what was the first object that caught his eye? Lo, and behold, he saw a crab moving towards him, bearing in its mouth the saint's crucifix, and continued to advance until he reverently laid it at his feet. No Roman Catholic writer, since the days of St. Xavier, questions the truth of this miracle. The Popish biographers of St. Xavier tell us of another great miracle performed by him, the truth of which is attested by the _infallible church_. The devil tempted Xavier, and the "_old boy_" assumed the shape of a lovely female; the saint ordered her off, but she refused, and attacked him again on the same day; but the saint, unwilling to be annoyed any longer, spit in the devil's face, and he instantly fled. I cannot dismiss, this subject without relating a few more of those miracles which Roman Catholics believe. They may be seen in Belarmine's Treatise on the _Holy Eucharist_, book iii. ch. 8. St. Anthony, of Padua, got into an argument with a heretic, concerning the doctrine of _transubstantiation_ or the changing of bread and water, by Romish priests, into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. After arguing the question for a long time, the heretic proposed to St. Anthony to settle their controversy in the following manner: "I have a horse," said the _heretic_, "which I will keep fasting for three days; at the expiration of that time, come with your _host_ (an image) and I will meet you with my horse. I will pour out some grain to my horse, and you will hold the host before him; if he leave the grain, and adores the host, I shall believe." They met, and St. Anthony addressed the horse in the following words. I translate, literally, from that illustrious writer in the Roman church, Belarmine. "_In virtue, and in the name of thy creator, whom I truly hold in my hand, I command and enjoin thee, O horse, to come, and with humility, adore him." The horse, instanter, left his corn, advanced towards the host in the priest's hand, and, devoutly kneeling, adored it as his God._ St. Andrew, as we read in Romish history, was a man of great eminence and _sanctity_. Papists pray for his intercession daily. The _infallible church_ informs us, that he performed some very great miracles I beg to give my readers one, as a sample of the many which he performed. The devil, armed with an axe, and accompanied by several minor devils, with clubs in their hands, made an attack upon the saint, whereupon he called upon St. John, the apostle, to rescue him. St. John lost no time in making his appearance, and summoning some holy angels to aid him, with chains in their hands, he rescued St. Andrew from these devils, and chained every one of them to the spot; whereupon, as we are informed in the _Acts of the Saints_, St. Andrew burst into laughter, and the devils fell to screaming and crying mercy. In the year 1796, a work, entitled _Official Memoirs_, was published in Ireland, under the authority of Dr. Bray, archbishop of Cushel, and Dr. Troy, archbishop of Dublin. In this work it is stated--and to doubt the fact in Ireland, would be-_heresy_--that in the month of May, 1796, at Toricedi, tears were seen to flow from the eyes of a _wooden image_ of the Virgin Mary. Impious as such doctrines are, they are now believed by Roman Catholics. I was myself personally acquainted with archbishop Troy, and I remember, when young, that he and the priests by whom I was instructed, took much more pains in impressing upon my mind the truth of such miracles, as that of the wooden Virgin Mary, than they did the truths of the Gospel; and, in fact, every Catholic is taught to rest his _salvation_, almost entirely, upon the intercession of the _virgin_. Ninety-nine in a hundred of Irish Catholics rest all their hopes of salvation on the Virgin Mary. They adore her, they worship her, and what is worse, Popish bishops and priests teach them to do so. They even compel them to adore the virgin, though the miserable beings have the hardihood to deny it before Americans. But will they dare do it before me? When a poor, ignorant Catholic goes to confession, the usual penance imposed by the priest, for minor offences, is the repetition of the following address to the Virgin Mary, two or three times a day, for a week or more, according to the heinousness of the sin committed:!!!!! "Holy Mary, Holy mother of God, Holy virgin of virgins, Mother of Christ, Mother of divine grace, Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother undefiled, Mother untouched, Mother most amiable, Mother most admirable, Mother of our Creator, Mother of our Redeemer, Virgin most prudent, Virgin most venerable, Virgin most renowned, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful, Virgin most faithful, Mirror of justice, Seat of wisdom, Cause of our joy, Spiritual vessel, Vessel of honor, Vessel of singular devo-Mystical rose, Tower of David, Tower of ivory, House of gold, Ark of the covenant, Gate of heaven, Morning star, Health of the weak, Refuge of sinners, Comfort of the afflicted, Help of Christians, Queen of angels, Queen of patriarchs, Queen of prophets, Queen of apostles, Queen of martyrs, Queen of confessors, Queen of virgins, Queen of all saints." The above tissue of blasphemy is daily, nay, several times in a day, repeated by Catholic priests and their _penitents;_ and I am much mistaken, if there is upon the face of the globe, whether in Pagan, Mahometan,1 or Heathen countries or creeds, to be found any thing equally blasphemous, or more disgusting to the mind of any individual who believes in the _pardon of sin through the atonement of Christ_; and I hesitate not to say, that the Christian, who countenances such a doctrine, or contributes, in any way, to its propagation, denies his Saviour, and shows himself unworthy of the name he bears. To the professed infidel I have nothing to say. To him, who mocks and scoffs at the Triune God, I will attach no blame; with him I have nothing in common, further than brotherhood of the same species; but I must appeal to the Christian, and seriously ask him, Why do you encourage such blasphemy as this address to the Virgin Mary? Why do you encourage its propagation amongst your brethren? Why do you hold communion with those who utter it? Would the primitive Christians, if they now lived, hold any communion with idolaters? Would they contribute their money to build temples for _Isis and Dagon?_ Would they basely bend the knee to the golden calf of old? No. Sooner--much sooner--would they lay their heads upon the block. They would look upon it as a denial of their God, and a recantation of their faith in him. Would your Puritan forefathers give the right hand of fellowship to the worshippers of a wooden image? Would they give their money to a priest, to build churches, and teach his followers that they could hew out for them images of wood, possessing power to work miracles, or in other words, to change the laws of nature, which the _Eternal Law-Maker_ alone can change or suspend? Custom, the point of the bayonet, or even that cruel tyrant, early education, may enforce such idolatry on the Old World; but the free-born American, unbiassed by education--unawed by tyrants--has no apology. His submission to such doctrines is an unqualified surrender of his reason, his religion, and the liberties of his country. When the star of our independence first arose, it was hailed by the Christian philosophers of the old world, as a foreshadowing of the downfall of tyranny, superstition, and idolatry. They looked upon it as fatal to the bastard Paganism, taught in the Popish church; but what must be their astonishment, if permitted at the present day to look down upon our country, and see our people practising that same Paganism, nicknamed Christianity, and asking from our government protection--a privilege which the framers of our constitution never intended should be extended to tyrants or idolaters! Here I would stop, and never more put pen to paper, for or against Popery, did I not see many of my fellow-citizens, possessing the finest minds and precious souls, falling victims to the sophistry, ingenuity, and quibbling casuistry of Popish priests and bishops. It is not long since I saw a letter from the Roman Catholic bishop Fenwick, of the diocese of Massachusetts, in which he informs the _authorities of Rome_ that he is making converts from some of the _first families_ in his diocese. This, I presume, is correct, and these are the very individuals most easily imposed upon. They know nothing of Popery. They are not aware that Papists have two sides to the picture, which they exhibit of their church. One is fair, brilliant, dazzling, and seductive. Nothing is seen in their external forms of worship but showy vestments, dazzling tights, and the appearance of great devotion. Nothing is heard but the softest and most melting strains of music. No wonder these should captivate minds which are strangers to guilt; nor is it strange that they should bring into their church those who are most guilty, in the full assurance that their guilt shall be forgiven, and their crimes effaced from the records of heaven, by only confessing them to one of their priests. Will the heads of those respectable families, to whom Bishop Fenwick alludes, and from whom he is making so many converts, permit me to ask them, whether they have ever reflected upon what they were doing, in permitting Romish priests to come among them? I have myself been a Catholic priest, as I have more than once stated; I am without any prejudice whatever. If I know myself, I would do an injustice to no man; but I hesitate not to tell those heads of families, whether they are the parents or guardians of those _converts_ to the Romish church, of whom mention is made, that if they have not used all their authority with which the laws of nature and of the land invests them, to prevent these _conversions_, they are highly culpable. If they are parents, they have become the moral assassins of their own children, and perhaps their own wives. Do any of those fathers know the _questions_ which a Romish priest puts to those children, at confession? Do husbands know the _questions_ which priests put to their wives, at confession? Though a married man, I would blush to mention the least of them. Though not so fastidious as others, I cannot even think of them, much less name them, without a downcast eye and crimsoned cheek, and particularly those which are put to young and unmarried ladies. Fathers, mothers, guardians, and husbands of these _converts_, fancy to yourselves the most indelicate, immodest, and libidinous questions which the most immoral and profligate mind can conceive!!!!! fancy those ideas put into plain English, and that by way of question and answer--and you will then have a faint conception of the conversation which takes place between a pampered Romish priest and your hitherto pure-minded daughters. If, after two or three of these _examinations_, in that _sacred tribunal_, they still continue virtuous, they are rare exceptions. After an experience of some years in that church, sooner--far sooner--would I see my daughters consigned to the grave, than see them go to confession to a Romish priest or bishop. One is not a whit better than the other. They mutually confess to each other. It was not my intention, when I commenced this work, to enter into any thing like a discussion of the doctrines maintained by the Romish church. My sole object was to call the attention of _American Republicans_ to the dangers which were to be apprehended, and would inevitably follow, from the encouragement which they are giving to Popery amongst them. I have, however, deviated a little from my first intention, in more than one instance; but I trust, not without some advantage to many of my readers. I am aware that I have exposed myself to the charge of carelessness and indifference to public opinion, in not paying more attention to the construction and order of my sentences. Did I write for fame, or the applause of this world, I would have been more careful; but, as my object is only to state facts, in language so plain that none can misunderstand it, I have no doubt the reader will pardon any defects which he may find in the language, or want of consecutiveness in the statements, which these pages contain. I will now ask the attention of the reader, for a few moments, to the Popish doctrine of _Indulgences_; and I do so because priests and bishops deny that such things as _indulgences_ are now either taught or granted to Catholics. They say from their pulpits and altars that indulgences are neither * bought nor sold by Catholics, and never were. It is an axiom in our courts of law--and should be one in every well-regulated court of conscience--that _falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus_. The meaning of this axiom is, that he who tells a falsehood in one case will do so in every other. If this be true--and it is as true as that two and two make four--I pronounce all Roman Catholic priests, bishops, Popes, monks, friars, and nuns, to be the most deliberate and wilful set of liars that ever infested this or any other country, or disgraced the name of religion. I assert, and defy contradiction, that there is not a Roman Catholic church, chapel, or house of worship in any Catholic country, where _indulgences_ are not sold. I will even go further, and say, that there is not a Roman Catholic priest in the United States, who has denied the fact, that does not sell indulgences himself; and yet these priests, and these bishops--these men of sin, falsehood, impiety, impurity, and immorality--talk of _morals_, and preach _morals_, while in their sleeves, and in their practices, they laugh at such ideas as moral obligations. Here I would appeal even to Irish Catholics who are in this country. I would ask all, or any of them, if ever they have heard mass in any Catholic chapel in Dublin, or any other city in Ireland, without hearing published from the altar, a notice in the following words, or words of similar import. "_Take notice, that there will be an indulgence on----day, in--------church. Confessions will be heard on------day, to prepare those who wish to partake of the indulgence_." I have published hundreds of such notices myself; and any American, who may visit Ireland, or any Catholic country, and has the curiosity to enter any of the Romish chapels, can hear these notices read; but when he returns to the United States, he will hear the Roman priests say that "there are no indulgences sold by the Romish Church." Beware, Americans! How long will you be the dupes of Popish priests? Will the reader permit me to take him back a few years, and show him in what light _indulgences_ were viewed in the 16th century, under the immediate eye of the Pope and full sanction of the _infallible church!_ The name Tetzel, is familiar to-every reader. He was an authorized agent for the sale of indulgences. I will give you one of his speeches, as recorded on the authority of Roman Catholic writers, and recently published in this country in D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation. _Indulgences_--says this reverend delegate of the Pope--are the most precious and sublime of God's gifts. Draw near, and I will give you letters duly sealed, by which even the sins you shall hereafter desire to commit shall be all forgiven you. I would not exchange my privileges for those of St. Peter in heaven; for I have saved more souls by my indulgences, than he by his sermons. There is no sin so great, that the indulgence cannot remit it, and even if any one should--which is impossible--ravish the holy Mother of God, let him pay, let him only pay largely, and it shall be forgiven him. The very moment the money goes into the Pope's box, that moment even the condemned soul of the sinner flies to heaven. Examine the history of Paganism, and you will not find in its darkest pages any thing more infamously blasphemous than the above extract, taken from a speech delivered by one of the Pope's auctioneers for the sale of indulgences. But even this would be almost pardonable, if priests did not try to persuade Americans that those sales have long since ceased. It is not more than twelve months since I was in the city of Principe Cuba; and I beg permission to relate to my readers what I have there personally witnessed; or, as we would express it in our most homely language, seen with my own eyes. At an early hour in the morning, I was aroused from my slumbers by a simultaneous ringing of all the bells in the city. On looking out, I witnessed the marching of troops, firing of cannons, field-officers in their full uniforms, all the city authorities wearing their official robes, with innumerable priests and friars bustling about from one end of the city to the other. My first impression was, that a destructive fire must have broken out somewhere, or that some frightful insurrection had taken place: but, on inquiry, what think you, reader, caused this simultaneous movement of the whole population of Principe, amounting in all to about sixty thousand? "Tell it not in Gath; publish it not in the streets of Askelon:" A huge bull of indulgences had arrived from the Pope of Rome, and they turned out--troops and all--to pay it _due homage_, and hear it read in the cathedral of Principe. A day was appointed for the sale of the indulgences contained in the aforesaid bull! Accompanied by a Scotch gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of forming an acquaintance, we went, with others, to the house of the _spiritual auctioneer_, and I there purchased of the priest, for two dollars and fifty cents, an _indulgence_ for any sin I might commit, except four, which I will not mention. These, I was told, could only be forgiven by the Pope, and would cost me a considerable sum of money. Many of our citizens are in the habit of visiting Havana, and can purchase those indulgences at any sum from twelve and a half cents to five hundred dollars. Will you still listen to Popish priests, who tell you that indulgences are neither sold nor bought now in the Romish church? From Cuba I immediately proceeded in the United States' ship Vandalia, to Vera Cruz, and from thence to the city of Mexico. I felt desirous of ascertaining the state of Popery in that exclusively Popish country, and availed myself of every opportunity to do so. Accordingly, soon after my arrival in Mexico, I strolled into the _cathedral_, and saw in the centre aisle a large table, about forty feet long and four wide, covered with papers, resembling, at a distance, some of our bank checks. Curiosity induced me to examine them, and, instead of bank checks, I found checks on Heaven; or, in other words, _indulgences_ for sins of all descriptions. I resolved upon purchasing; but, knowing full well that Americans, though _the most intelligent people in the world_, but long the dupes of Roman Catholics, would scarcely believe me if I told them that I bought an indulgence in Mexico. I went back and requested of our consul there, Mr. Black, to come with me to the cathedral and witness the purchase of, and payment by me for an _indulgence_. Will Catholic priests tell you there is no truth in this? If they do, be not hasty in making up your minds on the question. There are two or 8* three lines of packets running from New York to Vera Cruz, and you can easily ascertain, from Mr. Black, whether I am telling truth, or whether _Papists_ are humbugging you, as they have been for the last half century. But why go abroad for evidence to fix upon Romish priests the indelible stigma of falsehood on the subject of indulgences? I have sold them myself, in Philadelphia and in Europe! The first year I officiated in Philadelphia as a Roman Catholic priest, I sold nearly three thousand of these indulgences, as the agent of _holy_ mother, _the infallible church_; and though several years have elapsed since, many of those who bought them are still living in that city. Some explanation is necessary here, as I cannot presume that Americans are yet acquainted with a doctrine called Pious Frauds, held and acted upon by the _infallible_ church. The Pope of Rome and the Propaganda, taking into consideration the _savage ignorance_ of Americans, deemed it _prudent_ to substitute some other _name_ for the usual name _indulgences_, and something else for the usual document specifying the nature of the indulgence which was given to _pious sinners_ in "the New World:" they thought it _possible_ that Yankees might have the curiosity to read the _written_ indulgences. This, said they in their wisdom, must be prevented; and here is a case where our doctrine of _pious frauds_ comes beautifully into play. After singing the "_Veni Creator spiritus_"--as usual in such cases--they resolved that indulgences should be in future called _Scapulas_, and thus _piously_ enable all Roman Catholic priests and bishops to _swear on the Holy Evangelists that no indulgences were ever sold in the United States._ This is what _holy mother_ calls _pious fraud_. All the indulgences which I sold in Philadelphia were called _scapulas_. They are made of small pieces of cloth, with the letters I. H. S. written on the outside, and are worn on the breast. I will give you an idea of the revenue arising from the sale of those scapulas in the United States, by stating to you the price at which I sold them. The scapula costs the purchaser one dollar. The priest who sells it tells him that to make it thoroughly efficacious, it is necessary that he should cause some _masses_ to be said, and the poor dupe gives one, five, ten, or twenty dollars, according to his or her means, for those masses. I may safely say, that, on an average, every scapula or indulgence sold in the United States costs at least five dollars. What think you now of the word, the honor, or the oath of a Popish priest? Are you not ashamed to be so long their dupes? Do you not blush at the reflection, that you have given so much of your money, your sympathy, and hospitality, to such arrant knaves? Sad is the reflection to me, and dark are the thoughts, that I should have ever belonged to a church, which imbodies in its doctrines all that is degrading to humanity, and reduces man, from being "little lower than the angels," to a thing, such as a Papist priest, in full communion with the Pope, having nothing in common with his fellow-beings but the form of humanity. You, Americans, who have thoughtlessly united yourselves with these priests in their church, come out, I beseech you, from among them. Entail not upon your children the curse of Popery. Flee from them as Lot did from Sodom. To err is the lot of man. To fall and to trip in his passage through life, is the lot of even the best of men. You have erred in joining the Romish church, but you will doubly err by continuing in membership with her. The country which gave you birth is a glorious one; it has all the advantages of nature; it is fertilized by salubrious seas, and its own beautiful lakes. There is nothing you want which the God of nature has not given, and blessed for your use. There is but one dark speck upon the horizon of your national prosperity and greatness, but that is a deep one. It is a sad one, and may be a bloody one. Popery hovers over it, like some ill-omened bird, waiting only a favorable opportunity to pounce upon its prey; or some foul exhalation, which, being checked in its soaring, turns to a fog, causing darkness and scattering disease, wherever it falls. Alas, fellow-citizens, it has already fallen amongst us, and is growing with fearful rapidity; like the more noxious weed, it loves a rich soil; it cannot fail to flourish in ours. Take heed, Americans, lest you allow this weed to come to maturity. Eradicate it in time; let it not ripen amongst you; allow not its capsule to fill, blossom, and ripen; if you do, mark what I tell you: it will burst, scattering its noxious, sickening, and poisonous odors amid the pure breezes of that religious and political freedom, which have so long, so gracefully and sweetly played over this beloved "land of the free and home of the brave." If you will look around you, and visit our courts of law; if you extend your visits to your prisons, your houses of industry and reformation; if you go farther, and examine your penitentiaries, what will you find? Permit me to show you what you will behold in one single city, the city of New York. This, of itself, were there no other cause of alarm, should be sufficient to arouse your patriotism, for you must not forget that nearly all the foreigners, enumerated in the document which I here subjoin, are Roman Catholics, or reduced to their present condition while living in Catholic countries. But let the document speak for itself. It is official, and may be relied on.. It came from a committee of the Board of Aldermen of the city of New York upon the subject of alien passengers. Taking this as your data, you may be able to form some idea of what you suffer in money, in virtue, and in your morals, from the introduction of foreign Papists among you. "The Foreign Poor in our Alms-Houses, and the Foreign Criminals in our Penitentiaries.--We hasten to lay before our readers a highly interesting document, from a committee in the Board of Aldermen, upon the subject of bonding alien passengers in New York. From the document, it appears that the bonds of nine firms in this city exhibit the enormous liabilities of $16,000,000: that of the 602 children supported by the city, at the Farm Schools, 457 are the children, (many, if not the most of them, illegitimate) of foreign parents; that of the latest-born infants at nurse, at the city's expense, 32 are foreign, and only two American, and that of the whole number of children, 626 have foreign parentage, and 195 Amer-can; exhibiting the average of more than three foreigners to one native, and an alarming increase of the ratio of foreigners in the more recent births.' "The whole number of inmates in our penitentiary is 1419, showing an increase of 400 since July last; of these 333 are Americans, and 1198 foreigners. The number of prisoners and paupers, to support whom we all pay taxes, is 4344, showing an increase, since July last, of nearly 1000. "In view of these alarming facts, and remember* ing that over 60,000 immigrants were commuted and bonded here the last year, the committee make some forcible appeals to the country, which cannot be without their effect. The enormous taxation to which we are subject, in order to support foreign paupers and criminals, is a great and growing evil, which presses heavily upon industry, as well as upon the character, morals, and politics of the country." This is a frightful picture of things, especially in a country abounding and almost overflowing with the means of sustaining and abundantly supplying fifty times the population it contains. Examine well the results of Popery, in a religious, moral, and political point of view, especially during the last thirty years, and you will find that there is no vice, no crime, no folly or absurdity, which time has brought into the old world, as Milton expresses it, "in its huge drag-net," that Papists are not introducing among you; and there is no consequence which followed it there which we shall not see here, unless you are to a man "up and doing," until this noxious weed is rooted from amongst you. I wish these unfortunate Papists no evil; far be such a sentiment from my mind. I would be their best friend; but who can befriend them, while they permit themselves to be controlled and deluded by their priests. A Roman Catholic priest is, _pro tanto_, the worst enemy of man. He degrades his mind by rendering him the slave of his church. He debauches his morals, and those of his wife and children, by withholding from them the word of God. He weakens his understanding, by filling his mind with absurd traditions. He evokes, and indirectly invites, the indulgence of his worst passions, by promising him the pardon of his sins. He checks the noblest aspirations and finest charities of his soul, by instilling into it the rankest hatred and animosity towards his fellow-being, whom God has commanded him to love as he loves himself, but whom the priest tells him to curse, hate, and exterminate. In a word, he almost degrades him to a level with the beast, by teaching him to lower that holy flag, on which should be written, _Glory be to God on high_,--and raising above it the bloodstained flag of Popery. This American Protestants know full well. They feel it. It is known and felt in every Protestant land; but it seems as "if some strange spirit was passing over people's dreams." Though found to be unsound, and even bad policy; though destructive to agricultural, commercial, and every other interest, yet we see no efforts made to arrest its advance amongst us. Neither are there any means taken, as far as the writer knows, in other Protestant countries, to suppress this religious, political, and commercial nuisance; on the contrary, we find that even in Great Britain further stimulants are being applied to Popish insolence. Sir Robert Peel, the premier of England, has, or is about introducing a bill into parliament, with a view of making further appropriations for the Romish college of Maynooth, in Ireland; and, much to my surprise, as well I believe as to that of every man who correctly understands the spirit of Popery, he has some supporters. Even some of the British reviewers give him high praise. "The credit to which Sir Robert Peel is entitled," says one of the British Quarterlies, "is greatly increased by reason of the prejudices of some of his supporters; but (continues the same Quarterly) his resolution is taken and his declaration made. This should read, in my humble apprehension his resolution is taken, and his infatuation complete." I have been a student in that college; I know what is taught and done in that institution. I am well acquainted with all the minutiae of its business and theological transactions; and I could tell Sir Robert Peel that he either knows not what he is doing, or is a traitor to his government! Does Sir Robert know that in that college are concocted all the plans and all the measures which O'Connell is proposing, and has been pursuing during the last thirty years, for emancipation, and now for the repeal of the Union? Does he know that Maynooth is the focus from which radiate all the treasons, assassinations, and murders of Protestants, in Ireland? Is he aware that this very Maynooth is the great Popish eccaleobion, in which most of those priests who infest Ireland, and are now infesting the United States, are hatched? Does he know that Daniel O'Connell and that college are the mutual tools of each other? O'Connell, riding on the backs of the priests into power and into wealth, and they alternately mounted upon Dan, advancing the _glory_ of the _infallible church!_ It is not probably known to Mr. Peel that thirty years or more have elapsed since it was _secretly_ resolved in Maynooth that _none but a Catholic should wear the British crown, and that he should receive it as a fief from the Pope_ of Rome. Every move and advance which O'Connell makes in remans a step gained towards this object, and upon this his ambitious eye rests with intense avarice. For this, Maynooth and its priests thirst with insatiable desire. It is not many years since O'Connell and Maynooth asked for _emancipation_, and they obtained it. Protestants of England were duped into the belief that Papists would now be satisfied, and unite in supporting the government; but, scarcely was this granted, when the great agitator, _with the advice and consent of Maynooth_, asked for--what, think you, reader? Nothing less than a dismemberment of the British government--nothing less than a repeal of the Union; or, in other words, to permit one of the most turbulent demagogues that ever lived, Daniel O'Connell, to become king of Ireland, and to receive his crown from the Pope of Rome. This is now the _avowed object of repeal_; but there is another object, not yet seen nor dreamed of by those who are not Roman Catholics; and I beg the reader to keep it in his recollection. It is this. O'Connell, by agitating Ireland, and scattering firebrands throughout England, believes that he and the Catholics will ultimately succeed in dethroning the sovereign of England, and placing the crown on some Popish head. Were the college of Maynooth further endowed through the efforts or folly of Sir Robert Peel, does he believe, or can any man, acquainted with the genius of Popery believe, that this would satisfy O'Connell or the Pope's agents in Ireland? The very reverse would be the case. It would only imbolden them still further. It would only increase their insolence; it would only add a new impetus to their treasonable demands, and give an increased momentum to their disorganizing meetings. Should the British Government grant all O'Con-nell asks, or should parliament pass a bill for the repeal of the Union, is it to be supposed that O'Connell and the Irish bishops--the sworn allies of the king of Rome--would be satisfied? Not they. The truth is--and I wish I could impress it upon the minds of every Protestant in England as well as in this country--nothing short of the _total overthrow of the government of Great Britain and the Protestant religion_ will content the Popish church, whose cats-paw Daniel O'Connell is. Should Providence, in his inscrutable designs, grant them this, our experiment in the science of self-government is at an end. We shall become an easy prey to any _alliance_ which should be formed against our republican institutions. The jackals of Popery are amongst us: they have discovered us; and Popish priests, the natural enemies of free institutions and of the Protestant religion, will soon destroy our republic and our religion. It is useless to deny the fact. It cannot be denied. It were folly to conceal it. The _extirpation of heresy_, or, in other words, of the Protestant religion, is the grand object which O'Connell and the Pope have now in view; and, to effect this, they have judiciously divided and advantageously posted all their forces. These forces are well officered by Jesuits and priests, men without honor, principle, or religion; whose time is spent in advancing. Popery and the grossest indulgence of their own passions. The Pope and O'Connell have, in this country, an army of nearly two millions of reckless desperadoes, who have given already strong evidences of their thirst for American Protestant blood. It is necessary to watch them well. Americans must recollect that these men receive their orders from Rome, through O'Connell, who, I sincerely believe, is this moment the worst man living, though the Pope calls him _the greatest layman living_. He is upon earth what the pirate is upon the seas, _inimicus humani generis_--the enemy of mankind. During the last thirty years he has kept the poor of Ireland in a state of poverty and excitement bordering upon madness. He has filched from them the last farthing they possessed. He has withdrawn them by thousands from their ordinary pursuits of industry: he has sown amongst them mutual hatred and a general discontent with their situations in life. But that is not all. He has pursued the poor people even to this country. He robs them here of their little earnings. They make remittances to him of hundreds and thousands of dollars; and this, while many of them, to my own knowledge, and not a hundred yards from where I write, are shivering in the cold blasts of winter,--all _for their good_, while O'Connell himself is feasting in Ireland, and enjoying the sports of the chase, on about three hundred thousand dollars a year. This is not all. The great agitator, this national beggar, Daniel O'Connell, has recently discovered that there were some little glimmerings of Protestantism in France; that Louis Phillippe was neither a Don Miguel, a Ferdinand, nor a very strong advocate of Popery, opens upon him a battery of abuse. This foul-mouthed brawler was not content with sowing discord among the poor Irish, and scattering treason among the people of Great Britain, he tries what he can do with the inflammable people of France, who are now in the enjoyment of more domestic happiness and national glory than they have had for the last century. But even this is not enough; the genius of the great national beggar, fertile in schemes, treasons, rebellions, scurrility, and Popery, must cross the Atlantic and denounce Americans, who, since the declaration of their independence, have been the best and warmest friends of his poor countrymen; they have received them, employed them, giving them bread and clothing in abundance. They permitted them to bring with them their priests and their religion; they shielded and protected them in their lives and liberties. This country was to the Irish, a land flowing with milk and honey, and they might have enjoyed it, and been happy, had it not been for their accursed religion and its priests. The great Dan saw and felt this. A stop must be put to it. The _holy church_ saw that this state of things, would not answer her purposes. The harmony, which existed for so long a time between the hospitable and generous Americans and the forlorn Irish, must be broken, lest Papists should become Protestants and forget their allegiance to the Pope; and accordingly, the great agitator, this enemy to order, to God, and to peace, commenced denouncing Americans, as _usurers and infidels,_ who had not even a national law of their own. He calls upon the Irish to come out from among them, and have nothing to do with them. Soon after this, the Pope sends over some bulls making similar demands upon the Irish and all other Catholics, under pain of excommunication; and what is the result? The name of an Irishman is now a by-word, in the United States, especially if he is a Roman Catholic. It is associated with every thing that is low, vulgar, and bigoted. No longer do the Americans receive the Irish with open arms: no longer do they welcome them to their shores; nor in fact is it safe for them longer to do so. And what occasioned this? That demagogue, O'Connell, and the Pope of Rome. Does Mr. Peel reflect, when he is moving in parliament for an additional appropriation for the college of Maynooth, in Ireland, that he is only adding fuel to the political fire, which these men are trying to enkindle, and have actually enkindled in a great part of Europe, and in the United States? Has the fact escaped his notice, that the Pope and the greatest layman living, as his royal holiness calls O'Connell, have no misunderstanding with Spain, Portugal, or any other government, strictly Popish? They have no feeling of compassion for the degraded Italian, the ignorant and half-starved Spaniard or Portuguese, or the wretched Mexican slave. O, no! It is only for a Papist under a Protestant government, that their compassion is moved. Their condition must be _ameliorated_, or in plain English, these governments must be overthrown and Popery must reign supreme. Let Mr. Peel reflect upon this single fact, and he and his supporters cannot fail to see, that, in giving further aid to the Popish college of Maynooth, he is but "sowing dragons' teeth, from which armed men will spring up." He is only throwing an additional force into that Trojan horse, which his predecessors had introduced into unfortunate Ireland, and which Popes and priests have secretly stolen into these United States. I know O'Connell well. I have had, in my younger days, some personal acquaintance with him; and I can tell Mr. Peel, that with the college of Maynooth to back him, he,--Mr. Peel and his party--are no match for him in craft and intrigue. All O'Connell's plans for the extirpation of Protestanism are devised in Rome. They are submitted to the _Propaganda_, and from thence sent to Maynooth to be there revised and corrected. As soon as this is done, a copy is forwarded to each of the metropolitan bishops of Ireland, who return it with such observations as they deem necessary, and all things being prepared, _secundum ordinem,_ the usual _Veni, Creator_ is sung; the project, whatever it may be, is sanctioned; every priest in Ireland is prepared to carry it into effect; and all that now remains to be done is, to give the _great beggar_ his secret orders. What can Peel, or his few supporters, do against such a party as this? Nothing, unless the government changes its mode of proceeding against O'Connell, Maynooth, and the Irish bishops. But it is to be feared, that this will not be done while Peel is at the head of affairs. England, once indomitable, and always brave; England, proud of her religion and of her laws, seems recently to forget her ancient glories. She is showing the white feather; she is dallying with Popery, and singing lullabies to quiet and put asleep Daniel O'Connell and his Irish bishops, whose treason and political treachery can only be stopped, and should have been stopped long since, by consigning the _greatest layman that ever lived_, and a few of his right reverend advisers, to transportation for life. Americans may think this wrong, but though I have not the least pretension to the faculty of prophesying, I think I can safely tell them, that, in less than twenty years, they will have to enact much severer laws against Roman Catholics than any which are now recorded against them on the statute book of Great Britain. It must be borne in mind, that Popery never bends, and therefore it should and must be broken. It was in this college of Maynooth, and from those bishops and priests, with whom Sir Robert Peel is dallying, I first learned that the king of England was an _usurper_. It was they, who first taught me that the Pope of Rome--_virtute clavorum, by virtue of the keys_--was the rightful sovereign of England, as well as of all the kingdoms of the earth. It was in the college of Maynooth, I was taught to keep no faith _with heretics_, and that it was my solemn duty to exterminate them; it was there I first learned, that any oath of allegiance, which I may take to a _Protestant_ government, was null and void, and need not be kept. It was at this same college of Maynooth, that nine tenths of the priests in this country received their education; and is it not deplorable to reflect, that such men as Sir Robert Peel, in England, and several equally distinguished in this country, should be so entirely blindfolded and unmindful of the interest of their respective countries, as to give any countenance, aid, or support to Popery, or Popish institutions among them? I trust, however, and fondly hope, that this imprudent, impolitic, and ill-advised scheme of Sir Robert Peel's, will be resisted and thrown out of parliament, with such marks of disapprobation as becomes every honest Protestant and true Briton. Will those who sympathize with Popery in the United States, look back to the page of history? and if they will not take instruction from me, let them take it from the past. Let them listen to the voice of the dead, and learn a lesson from them. Let them read the history of France. Who urged on all the oppositions that have been made, from time to time, to the government and constituted authorities of that country? What were the causes, remote or immediate, of all the blood that has been shed in France for centuries back? The Pope of Rome and his agents. It is truly to be lamented, that Napoleon had not lived longer; he might, it is true, have caused some disturbance, and hastened the fall of some of the tottering thrones of Europe. Spain, Italy, Portugal, and even Austria and Prussia, might have ceased to have kings, by _divine right;_ but a far better order of things could not fail soon to have arisen. The Pope would have been hurled from his throne; Napoleon would have stripped from him the trappings of royalty; he would have taught him to feel, and reduce to practice the heavenly declaration of his Divine Master, which his holiness now repeats in solemn mockery, _regnum meum nan est de hoc mundo_. He would have confined him to his legitimate duty, in place of spending his time in dictating political despatches to foreign powers, and sending bulls of excommunication which are now become laughing-stocks to all intelligent men; he might be devoted to the advancement of true Christianity, and the world saved from those contentions and disturbances, occasioned by this man of sin and his agents. Why will not our statesmen reflect upon these things, lest in some future contest with the powers of Europe the scales of victory may be turned against them by this man of sin, whose agents in this country, as 1 have heretofore remarked, amount to nearly two millions. The defeat or subversion of the government of Great Britain, by Popish power, is equivalent to a victory gained by it over the United States. I tell the Protestants of England and of the United States, that their respective governments are doomed to fall, if Popery gains the ascendency over either; and all those who try to foment or urge any difficulties between them, are not the friends of either, but the enemies of both. It is only by the combined efforts of Protestants, all over the world, that Popery can be crushed, and peace, and religion, and fraternal love, restored to mankind. I have produced some facts that admit of no _denial_, and I put the question, confidently, to every honest and sensible Protestant in England or America, who is unwarped by prejudice or interest, whether the cause of liberty is not in danger, and likely to decline, if we any longer submit to or acquiesce in the doctrines of Popery! And I ask every reflecting American in particular, whether the influence which Popery has now in this country, is not likely to create anarchy, or even despotism amongst us, though we may preserve the forms of a free constitution! I have alluded to the struggles in England with Popery; I have mentioned the name of that demagogue, O'Connell, because he is the agent of the Pope for both countries, and because I believe it is the mutual interest of the two to unite, and stand shoulder to shoulder in opposition to Popish intrigues, evolved in the proceedings of this selfish and dangerous man, O'Connell. The designs of O'Connell and the Irish bishops, and those of the Pope and his Jesuit agents in the United States, are proved upon testimony which admits of no denial, viz: their own admissions. O'Connell, the mouthpiece of Popery in Ireland, avows publicly that Protestant England shall not govern Irish Papists, and the Pope's agents in the United States declare and swear, that _Americans shall not rule them_. How are the English and Americans to treat this common enemy? Let them go into the enemy's armory, divest themselves of their mawkish sympathy, buckle on the very armor which their enemy wears, and adopt the mode of warfare used by them. Give the common enemy no quarters, assail them from every point, and the _subjects_ of his holiness the Pope, either in Great Britain or the United States, will not long remain insensible to the miseries, into which the great _national rent beggar_ has plunged them. This, however, I find cannot be easily done in the United States. The difficulty with our people is this, they would find it much easier to assume the armor used by the common enemy, than to lay down that of sympathy and hospitality, which they have heretofore worn, and thus, although a moral and religious people, their zeal is but dim and sluggish, while that of their adversaries, the Pope and his agents, burns higher and clearer every day. This must not be. God and freedom forbid it. The political contest, which has just ended, has tended greatly, at least for the moment, to im-bolden and encourage Popery. Each party courted the Papists, and they supported him from whom they expected most favors. They laid their meshes, nets, and traps for President Polk; but I believe they have been "_caught in their own traps_." That gentleman is said to be a moral and religious man, and one of the last in the world to countenance idolatry, blasphemy, or treason amongst us. But now that the contest is over, and no further avowal of distinct party principles is necessary or profitable, it is to be hoped that the good and virtuous of both parties will unite in passing such laws, as will shield our country and our people from any further Popish interference with our government or our institutions. He, who shall bring about this desirable result, and those who aid him, will merit the gratitude of their country. In the present position of parties, much is expected from the great "American Republican" association, which has recently been formed throughout the United States. Every eye is fixed upon its movements, and the hopes of all Protestants hang upon its success. Do not disappoint us, American Republicans. You alone can save the Protestant foreigner from the persecutions of Popery, and we call upon you, by the memory of your sires, to shield us from it. You have a great part to act; you are young; but the purity of your principles, and the justice of your cause, abundantly supply what is wanting in age. You are the mediators between two great political parties, whose extremes cannot meet, of if they did, would only tend to render their respective centres still more corrupt, by their internal powers of contamination. Neither of those parties will ever consent to be governed by the other; nor has either of them the moral courage to come forth boldly and say to Popery, Stand off, thou unclean thing. Thou hast polluted all Europe for ages past; stand aloof from us; wash thy polluted hands and bloodstained garments; until then, thou art unfit to enter the temple of our liberties. Thou art, in thy very nature, impure, and hast already diffused amongst us too much of thy deadly poison before we took the alarm. Like an infected atmosphere, thou hast silently entered the abodes of moral health; thou hast penetrated the strong holds of our freedom, without giving us any warning! Avaunt, thou scarlet LADY of Babylon! recede to the Pontine marshes, whence thou earnest, and no longer infect the pure air of freedom! The foul stains of thy corruption shall no longer be permitted to spot the pure and unsullied insignia of _independence!_ I am aware that the sympathizers with Popery will say that such language as the above is rather harsh. They will tell us it is cruel. They will assert, in their usual mawkish style, that it was never the intention of the framers of our constitution to treat those who come amongst us with unkindness. They themselves invited the oppressed of every land, creed, and people, to our shores. They extended the hand of friendship to all, without distinction of party, sect, or religion. So they did, and so do their descendants. Any and every man is welcome to this country. Whether he comes from the banks of the Euphrates, shores of the Ganges, or bogs of Ireland, he is sure to receive from Americans a warm and hospitable reception. His person, his liberty, and his property, are protected; but there is a condition under which this reception is given, and without which it never should be granted. The recipient of all these favors is required to yield obedience to the mild and equitable laws of the United States; forswearing at the same time, all allegiance to any other king, potentate, or power whatever. This condition, so just, so reasonable, and so politic, is generally complied with by all foreigners, who land in these United States, with the exception of Roman Catholics. All others come amongst us, and either refuse at once to become citizens, or honestly incorporate themselves with us. The Papist alone refuses incorporation with Americans. He alone comes amongst us the avowed enemy of our institutions, and the sworn subject of a foreign king, the Pope of Rome. Among all the foreigners who land upon the shores of this country, none but Papists avow any hostility to its institutions. They alone would dare say, "_Americans sha'n't rule us_." On them alone have Americans just cause to look as traitors to their government, and foes to their religion; and they alone should be singled out as just objects of fear and jealousy. I have, in the preceding pages, traced the origin of the Papal temporal power to its proper source; and endeavored to follow the course of its turbid and muddy stream, through many of its sinuosities and canonical--if I may use such a term--gyrations, down to the middle of the 16th century. I freely admit that I have made many "short cuts" and have been obliged to pass unnoticed several of its acute angles. Were I to proceed "_pari passu_" with its course, taking all its bearings and accompanying them with the necessary observations, it would require a volume at least ten times as large as that which I now respectfully present to the public. I shall, however, if Providence leaves me health, continue the subject of Popery as it was and as it is. I will dissect the Body Papal, so that every American, who honors me with the perusal of my observations, will see its inmost structure. I have studied its anatomy; I understand all its minutiæ; and if any can view the skeleton without horror and shame for having so long contributed to feast and fatten the monster, it shall not be my fault. The performance of this operation will be, in every point of view, extremely unpleasant. Whichever way I look, the prospect must be disagreeable. Behind, I can only see an object in which I once felt an interest, and with which I was unfortunately connected: and before, nothing is to be seen but further persecutions and calumnies. But, most what it may, it shall not be said of me by friend or foe, that I have shrunk from the performance of a duty which I owe to the cause of morality, and to my adopted country. I have merely touched upon the persecuting and treacherous spirit of the Popish church. The profligacy of its priests are scarcely noticed by me as yet. Its idolatries and blasphemies are barely alluded to. Indulgences, miracles, and the iniquities committed in nunneries, are scarcely glanced at. The twilight view, which I have given of these subjects, is only intended for a better observation of them, under the full light of some mid-day sun. Before I conclude this volume, permit me to give you a brief view of Popery as it is at this very day on which I write. I have a double object in doing this. First, what I am about stating has perhaps escaped the notice of many of my fellow-citizens; and secondly, it will confirm one of the most serious charges which I have made against Papists; and thirdly it will prove to a demonstration, that Roman Catholic priests and bishops, who surround us and live amongst us, are a set of barefaced liars, whose entire disregard for truth fits them for no other society than that of brigands and felons. The reader will bear in mind that Roman Catholics are the loudest advocates of _religious freedom_. He will also not forget that I have charged them with being its most inveterate enemies. The Papists and myself are now fairly at issue. Either they are right and I am wrong, or _vice versa_. I have sustained my accusation against them by proofs derived from their own general councils, and from their uniform practice for centuries back. Still, these Catholics will say and assert publicly, in their pulpits, and at their meetings religious and political, that they were always and are now the advocates of religious toleration. Let the past for a moment be forgotten. I presume no one will question what the practices of the Romish church have been in relation to religious toleration in former times. Let us rather see what it is now among our neighbors in Madeira; and as all Roman Catholics are a unit in faith and practice, we may judge from what we see in Madeira, of what may be seen, and if not seen, is felt, in the United States. I submit the following letter to my readers. It is from one of the most respectable men in Madeira. "Religious Persecution in Madeira. We have just had a sort of miniature civil war. Dr. Rally, who has been converting the natives, is the original cause of it. He converted the woman they sentenced to death here not long since. Having been imprisoned for some time, the doctor was at last liberated, and resumed his habit of preaching to the people in his house; and it was not generally known, until within a short time, that he had made several hundred converts. On ascertaining this fact, the Governor, Don Oliva de Correa, at the request of the priests of the established church, who feared that the people might throw off their allegiance to the Roman Catholic church, appointed a country police to prevent the Protestants from assembling together. On Sunday week, the converts of St. Antonia de Sierra, while engaged in prayer, were assailed by the police, who broke in the door, knocked down the person who was officiating in the service, broke the benches, and dispersed the people, except four or five whom they took prisoners, and then proceeded to town. After going two miles, the police were overtaken by the populace, armed with pitchforks, rusty muskets, hoes, &c. "The police were overpowered, and after being ducked in the river by the mob, they were tied together by the hands and feet and left on the road; the Protestants returning to the mountains with their rescued comrades. One of the police officers, who escaped from the mob, made his way to town and alarmed the government. Three hundred and fifty soldiers were immediately ordered out; the police were released from their confinement on the road-side, and the army marched to the villages of the 'Rallyites.' The dwellings were fired indiscriminately; several aged women, who could not fly to the mountains, were put to the torture, to make them reveal the places of concealment of the 'heretics.' The Catholic army then proceeded up the mountain to massacre the Protestants; but in passing the foot of the hill they were assailed by the Protestants above, who threw down stones and rocks upon them, killing eight soldiers and wounded forty others severely. As soon as the troops could be gathered after their fright and alarm, they opened a deadly fire upon the Protestants, chasing them five miles over the country, taking eighty or ninety prisoners, and killing and wounding several of the unfortunate wretches. "The army marched their prisoners down to the sea-coast, to Machico, where they were put on board the Diana fifty gun frigate, and taken thence to Punchal. The vessel of war, Don Pedro, was left at anchor on Machico to awe the country, but another, the Vouga, which had been despatched to Lisbon with official accounts of the battle, ran aground and had to return for repairs. The Don Pedro will therefore go to Lisbon. The captives will be sent to Lisbon, I suppose for trial, some time next week. Dr. Rally, the cause of the disturbance, remains at his house unmolested, which is singular. I don't think they will let him be quiet long. The Yorktown, American sloop-of-war, was here the other day. We have had a beautiful winter so far. About four hundred people have come here this year for the benefit of their health." The above letter was received in New York a few weeks ago, and needs no comment. If any Papist doubts it, he can easily write to Madeira and ascertain its truth or falsehood. Until then he has no reason to be surprised if American Protestants shall refuse to hold any connection or communion with them. There is one feature in the letter to which I would call the attention of the reader. It shows not only the persecuting spirit of Popery, but the uniformity and consistency of their mode of operation. Go back to the former persecutions of the Popish church against the followers of Wickliffe and the Huguenots. The Wickliffites had to fly to the mountains for shelter; but they were hotly pursued and cut down by the swords of their fiendish persecutors. They were massacred and butchered, even in the fissures and caves of their native rocks and mountains. The Protestants in Madeira, only a few weeks ago, had to fly to the mountains from a bloodthirsty, Popish soldiery, headed by their priests and monks. There, at our very doors, and in a country with which we have _treaties of friendship and alliance,_ American Protestants are butchered and slaughtered by Popish savages, under the mask of religion; and when the news of this transaction reached our own shores, what action has been taken upon the subject? Was there any indignation meeting called? Were there any resolutions passed? Were there any ambassadors appointed in New England or elsewhere to ascertain the cause of this bloody tragedy? Did our government demand any explanation from the authorities at Madeira? The writer is not aware of any. Our government is too much occupied with affairs of more importance, viz., _Who shall be Secretary of State, who shall be Secretary of War, &c_. The interest of morality seems a matter of minor importance with the "powers that be." The blood of our Protestant fellow-citizens, the cries of their widows and orphans cannot reach the eye or ear of our grave law-makers. The question with them seems, not what our country may become, by the treachery and persecutions of Popery, which are witnessed along the whole line and circumference of our own coast--a question of far more importance to them seems to be, Who shall hold the fattest office, or whether Massachusetts or South Carolina is in the right on the subject of the imprisonment of a few citizens, belonging to the former, by the latter: while they witness all around, and in the very midst of them, Popish priests and bishops persecuting their fellow-citizens abroad, and gnawing at their very vitals at home. Fatal delusion this on the part of our government and people! I have accused the Romish church and her priests of treachery, prevarication, and fraud, in all their dealings with Protestants. Their guilt has been established by proofs and evidences such as they cannot deny, viz., the canons of their church and their own admission. There is not a people in the world more anxious for correct information on all subjects than Americans; and it is, therefore, the more singular that they should be so indifferent to the all-important subject of Popery. This, however, may be accounted for, in some measure. The moral monstrosities--if I may use such language--of Popery, are such, that it requires something more than ordinary faith to believe them, and a greater power of vision than generally falls to the lot of man, even to look at them. There are objects on which the human eye cannot rest without blinking, and upon which nothing but force or fear can induce it to fix its gaze for any length of time. It will always gladly turn from them, and rest upon something else. This may account for the fact that my adopted countrymen and fellow Protestants pay so little attention to the subject of Popery, or the hideous crimes and revolting deeds which it has ever taught, and its priests have ever practised. I cannot otherwise account for the apparent indifference and unconcern of our government and people on the subject of our relations with Catholic countries, and the encouragement given to Popish emissaries in the United States. I have myself seen so much of Popery, that my mind shrinks from the further contemplation of its iniquities. I can assure my Protestant friends, that nothing but an inherent love of liberty, and a desire, as far as in my power, to ward off that blow which I see Popery treacherously aiming at Protestants and the Protestant religion in the United States, could ever have induced me to publish these pages; and, although I feel that I have already drawn too heavily on the indulgence of my readers, I cannot dismiss the subject without laying before them another evidence of Popish treachery, which occurred only a few weeks ago, on the island of Tahiti. It seems that in 1822, or thereabouts, an individual, named M. Moerenhout, representing himself a native of Belgium, arrived in Valparaiso, and obtained a situation as clerk from Mr. Duester, the Dutch consul in that city. After some time, he gains the confidence of his employer, on whom, together with two more merchants, he prevailed to charter a vessel and send a cargo by her to the Society Islands, with himself as supercargo. They did so accordingly in 1829, and the worthy supercargo appropriated to his own use the whole profits of the voyage, and continued for some time longer upon the island, selling whisky, brandy, and other liquors. In 1834, (says the Quarterly Review, from which, together with other sources, I derived my information,) this gentleman departed for Europe, with a view of communicating with the French government; or rather, as I am informed upon good authority, to confer with the order of Jesuits in that country. On his way to Europe, this Moerenhout came to the United States, obtained some letters of introduction in New York and Boston, with which he proceeded to Washington; and on the strength of them, was appointed United States' consul for Tahiti. With the title of consul-general of the United States, this diplomatist proceeds to France, and immediately--no doubt according to previous arrangement--entered into all the plans of the Jesuits for the extirpation of Protestantism in the Society Islands. He became the agent of the _Propaganda_ in France, an institution placed under the patronage of St. Xavier. The duty of converting all the islands of the Pacific, from the South to the North Pole, is committed to this Propaganda, and a decretal to that effect was confirmed by the Pope on the 22d June, 1823. A bishop was appointed for Eastern Oceania, and several priests preceded him to the islands. Among these priests was an _Irish catechist_, by the name of Murphy. The bishop, it seems, established himself at Valparaiso, while the priests proceeded to Tahiti. I here give an instance of the manner in which those Popish missionaries discharge their duties. You will find it the October number of the Foreign Quarterly Review. You may rely upon the statement. The Popish missionaries have acted in the case just as I should have done myself when a Romish priest, in obedience to the instructions given by the _infallible church_. "I always bear about me," says the _reverend_ Jesuit, Patailon, "a flask of holy water and another of perfume. I pour a little of the latter upon the child, and then, whilst its mother holds it out without suspicion, I change the flasks and sprinkle the water that regenerates, unknown to any one but myself." This is what the holy church calls a pious fraud; and this is what the priests of Boston are doing, in a little different manner, to the children of Protestant mothers. In Tahiti, Popish priests make Christians by jugglery, under the very eye of the mother. In the United States they make Christians of Protestant children by ordering their Catholic nurses to bring them secretly to the priest's house to be baptized. But let us resume the subject of the Jesuit missionaries from the Propaganda in France to Tahiti. The Jesuits, always wary and cautious, deemed it necessary, before they landed upon the island in a body, to send one of their number in advance, in order to ascertain "how the land lay," and what their prospects of success were; and accordingly, in 1836, the _Irish Jesuit, Murphy_, proceeded alone disguised as a carpenter, and landed safely at a place called Papeete. The unsuspecting inhabitants received the scoundrel among them just as Americans receive Jesuits in this country; and while he was acting the traitor, and clandestinely writing to Jesuits, they shared with him the hospitality of their tables--precisely as Americans have done, for the last fifty years, to other Murphies, in this country. During this whole time that Murphy was on the island, working as a carpenter, he had secret interviews with the American consul, Moerenhout, until he succeeded in bringing into the island his brother missionaries. They could not, however, remain on the island without permission from the queen, and the payment of a certain sum of money. The queen refused them permission to remain, under any circumstances, fearing, as she well might, that some treason was contemplated against her government. The Jesuits called a meeting, and, under the patronage of the American consul, they urged their demand to remain, comparing themselves to St. Peter, and the Protestants to St. Simon, the magician. I use the language of the Quarterly. I must here observe, in justice to our government, that the conduct of Moerenhout, United States' consul at Tahiti, was promptly disavowed, and he was immediately removed from office. But, notwithstanding the improper interference of the American consul, they were ordered to leave the island. It is due to the Protestant missionaries to state, that they took no part whatever in the expulsion of these Jesuits; nor could they, in justice to themselves or to the cause of morality, interfere in preventing it. A French writer, speaking of the occupation of Tahiti, says: "The Catholic priests, instead of going to civilize barbarous nations and checking debauchery, seem, on the contrary, only desirous of becoming rivals to the Protestant ministers, and decoying away their proselytes." As soon as the expelled Jesuits arrived in France, one of them proceeded to Rome, to consult with his holiness the Pope; the result of which was, an immediate order to a French captain, named Dupetit Thouars, who was then stationed at Valparaiso, to proceed to Tahiti, and demand reparation for a supposed indignity to France. Here we see the influence of the Pope, and an evidence of Jesuit intrigue. In what consisted the alleged indignity to France? Had not the queen of Tahiti the right to receive or refuse those Jesuit missionaries, if she had evidence that they were spies among her people? If it appeared clear to her that the object of those reverend intriguers' visit was only to overthrow her government, and to decoy away from the path of virtue and religion both herself and her subjects, what right had Louis Phillippe or the French government to look upon this as an indignity to the French nation? The fact is, if the whole truth were known, Louis Phillippe knew but little of this affair, and his minister for foreign affairs, or some other member of his cabinet, was either imposed upon or bribed by Jesuits. A statement of the difficulties, into which the hitherto peaceful island of Tahiti has been thrown by Jesuits, could not fail to be interesting to my readers; but, as the whole affair is to be found in the Foreign Quarterly, I refer the public to that work. I cannot, however, dismiss the subject, without asking the reader's particular attention to the _Irish Jesuit, Murphy_, who figures so conspicuously in the transaction. A brief view of the conduct of this reverend spy cannot fail to have a good effect, and must tend greatly to remove that delusion under which the Protestants of the United States have so long labored. I have been recently conversing with a very intelligent member of the Massachusetts legislature, on the subject of Jesuitical intrigue. I stated to him that it was a common practice among them, ever since the formation of that society, to keep spies in all Protestant countries, under various disguises and in different occupations. But though I had given him such proofs as could scarcely fail to satisfy any man, yet he replied, as American Protestants generally do, on all such occasions, "_Those times are gone by. The Romish church is not at all now, what it was in the days you speak of_." But, when the fact was made plain to him--when he learned from authority, admitting of no doubt, that only a few weeks ago, a Jesuit, and _an Irishman_ too, crept into Tahiti in the disguise of a carpenter, and continued to work there, in that character, until he laid a proper foundation for the overthrow of the Protestant religion on that island, his incredulity seemed to vanish; the cloud, which so long darkened his vision, evaporated into thin air; and my impression is, that he no longer thinks our country safe, unless something is done to exclude forever all Papists, without distinction, from any participation in the making and administration of our laws. This Murphy, to whom allusion is made, appeared in great distress when he arrived among the natives of Tahiti. He seemed entirely indifferent upon the subject of religion; all he wanted, apparently, was employment. This was procured for him among the simple natives by the American consul, both of whom soon united themselves together, according to some previous arrangement; and, while they were "breaking bread" with the natives, they were laying plans for their destruction. A blow was aimed at their national and moral existence, and the death of both has nearly been the result. Thus we see a harmless and inoffensive people, only just rescued from a savage state by the laudable efforts of Protestant missionaries, partly thrown back again into their original condition by infidel Popish priests, whose "god is their belly," whose religion is allegiance to their king, the Pope, and whose sports and pastimes consist in debauching the good and virtuous of every country. The flourishing condition of Tahiti, before the Jesuits found access to it, is well known in this country. Peace, plenty, and religion flourished among its people--all produced by the efforts of our Protestant missionaries. But what sad changes have Jesuits effected among them! By their intrigues they have caused a difficulty between Tahiti and France. The French government fancied itself insulted; false representations were made by the Jesuits; and, with the aid of their brethren in France, the government was deceived and the island blockaded, until reparation was made by the inoffensive queen, Pomare. I will quote an instance of the conduct of the French--all Roman Catholics, and under the advice of Jesuits--after they entered Tahiti. It is taken from the Foreign Quarterly Review of October, and not denied by the French themselves. "After persuading four chiefs, who were authorized to act in the absence of the queen, to affix their names to a document, asking 'French protection,' a boat was sent by the French captain, Dupetit Thouars, to a place called Eimeo, with a _peremptory_ order for queen Pomare to sign it within twenty-four hours. "It was evening before the boat reached the place whither Pomare had retired with her family. Her situation was one in which it is the custom for women to receive the most anxious and respectful attention from all of the opposite sex, especially if they call themselves gentlemen. She was every moment expected to give birth to a child; and, according to custom, had come to lie-in at Eimeo, leaving Paraita, who basely betrayed his trust, re gent in her absence. On learning the demand made by Thouars, the queen, surprised and alarmed, sent for Mr. Simpson, the missionary of the island, and a long and painful consultation ensued. Armed resistance was obviously impossible. The only alternative was between dethronement and protection. Pomare at first determined to choose the former, but her friends pressing round her, represented that Great Britain, the court of appeal whither all the grievances of the world are carried for redress, would certainly interfere; that subjection would be but temporary, and that she would ultimately triumph. Stretched on her couch, in the first pangs of labor, the unfortunate queen withstood all supplications until near morning. Mr. Simpson observes, that this was indeed 'a night of tears.' Many hours were passed in silence, interrupted only by the sobs of the suffering Pomare. "Let us leave her for a while, and turn to consider in what manner the French buccaneer and his crew passed the same night. We refer to no inimical statement. Our authority is a letter which went the round of all the Paris papers, written by an officer on board the Reine Blanche, who did not seem to perceive any thing at all immoral in what he related. His intention was merely to excite the envy of his fellow-countrymen by detailing the delights that, were to be found in the new Cythera of Bougainville. We dare not follow him into his details. It will be enough to state that more than a hundred women were enticed on board the ship, and there compelled to remain all night, under pretence that it would be dangerous to row them back in the dark, Some were taken to the officers' cabin, others were sent to the youthful midshipmen, the rest to the crew. When this account made its appearance, the government, alarmed at the effect it might produce, published an official declaration in the 'Moniteur,' (30 Mars,) addressed to 'French mothers,' denying the truth of the statement. But M. Guizot, or whoever directed this disavowal, merely argued from the silence of his own despatches--if they were silent--and not long before, in the voyage of Dumont d'Urville, published by royal 'ordon-nance,' a description of conduct, still more atrocious, had been given to the world. "Towards morning, the sufferings of Pomare increasing, her resolution began to fail her, and at length she signed the fatal document. Then bursting into a flood of tears, she took her eldest son, aged six years, in her arms, and exclaimed, 'My child, my child, I have signed away your birthright!' In another hour, with almost indescribable pangs, she was delivered of her fourth child. Meanwhile the boat which carried the news of her yielding, sped for the port of Papeete. The sea was rough, and the wind threatened every moment to shift. The white sail was beheld afar off by the look-out on the mast of the Reine Blanche, and it was thought impossible she could reach by the appointed time. Thouars, however, troubled himself but little about all these things. He was fixed in his resolve, that if the answer did not arrive before twelve he would bombard Papeete. The guns were loaded, gun-boats stationed along the shore; and whilst the frightened inhabitants crowded down to the beach, beseeching, with uplifted hands, that their dwellings might be spared, the ruthless pirate, bearing the commission of the king of France, was giving his orders, and burning to emulate the exploits of Stopford and Napier at St. Jean d'Acre, by destroying a few white-washed cottages on the shore of a little island in the Pacific. Hero! worthy the grand cross of the legion of honor which was bestowed on him for this achievement! Worthy the sword raised by farthing subscriptions among 'haters of the English,' which was presented to him for so distinguished an exploit! What exultation must have filled his breast as he beheld the white sail of the boat scud for a moment past the entrance of the port; and what sorrow, when, by a skilful tack, it bore manfully along the very skirts of the breakers, and rushed through the hissing and boiling waters into the placid bay of Papeete, exactly one half hour before mid-day! "We must pass rapidly over the arrangements which followed. The treaty of protection professed to secure the external sovereignty to the French, but to leave the internal to the queen. The former, however, were empowered 'to take whatever measures they might judge necessary for the preservation of harmony and peace.' When we learn that the ever recurring M. Moerenhout was appointed royal commissioner to carry out this treaty, we at once perceive that Pomare had in reality ceased to reign. How this base person employed his power may be discovered from the fact, that it became his constant habit, when he desired to obtain the signature of the queen to any distasteful document, to vituperate her in the lowest language, and shake his fist in her face. "It has been asserted, in this country and elsewhere, that the passive resistance of the queen and people to the proper establishment of the protectorate, did not begin until the arrival of Mr. Pritchard on the 25th of February, 1843. The object of this has been to attribute all the subsequent difficulties experienced by the French to him. But the fact is well known, that before he made his appearance the queen had written to the principal European powers, stating that she had been compelled against her will to accept the protectorate of France. On the 9th of February also, a great public meeting, presided at by the queen, was held, in which speeches of the most violent description were made. It was resolved, however, that by no overt act the French should be furnished with an excuse for further arbitrary proceedings. The determination come to, was to write for the opinion of Great Britain. The morning after this meeting Moerenhout went to the queen and acted in a manner so gross and insulting, that she determined to complain to Sir Thomas Thompson, of the Talbot frigate, who promised her protection. All this happened, as we have seen, before the arrival of Mr. Pritchard, who, in truth, instead of proving a firebrand, introduced moderation and caution into the councils of Pomare. Sir Toup Nicolas, it is true, commanding the Tiudictive, which brought our consul to Tahiti, did go so far, despising some of the forms which were perhaps necessary, as threaten that unless the French ceased to molest British subjects, he would use force to compel them. He is said even to have cleared for action. When we consider what was daily passing under his eyes, there was some excuse for this gallant captain's warmth. Setting aside the insults offered to our own countrymen, he was the spectator of constant tyrannical conduct towards the queen. Messrs. Reine and Vrignaud, under whose name all this was done, were but instruments in the hands of the sagacious Moerenhout. The following letter of queen Pomare, hitherto, we believe, unpublished, will throw some light on his conduct. It is addressed to Toup Nicolas, who took measures to fulfil the wishes it contains. Pagfae, March 5, 1844. 'O Commodore, 'I make known unto you that I have oftentimes been troubled by the French consul, and on account of his threatening language I have left my house. His angry words to me have been very strong. I have hitherto only verbally told you of his ill-actions towards me; but now I clearly make these known to you, O Commodore, that the French consul may not trouble me again. I look to you to protect me now at the present time, and you will seek the way how to do it. 'This is my wish, that if M. Moerenhout, and all other foreigners, want to come to me, they must first make known to me their desire, that they may be informed whether it is, or is not, agreeable to me to see them. 'Health and peace to you, 'O servant of the Queen of Britain, (Signed) 'Pomare, 'Queen of Tahiti, Mourea, &c. &c.' "During the time that elapsed between the establishment of the protectorate and the third visit of Dupetit Thouars to Tahiti, the only overt act which the French could complain of was the hoisting of a fancy flag by the queen over her house. Whatever difficulties existed at the outset, had been in reality overcome in spite of the 'intriguing Mr. Pritchard.' Even M. Guizot has declared in his place in the chamber of deputies: 'There existed on the admiral's arrival none of those difficulties which are not to be surmounted by good conduct, by prudence, by perseverance, by time, or which require the immediate application of force.' Nevertheless, on the first of November, 1843, our buccaneering admiral entered the harbor of Papeete, and wrote immediately to inform the queen that unless she pulled down the flag she had hoisted, he would do so for her, and at the same time depose her. In spite of his threats, however, she refused compliance; and Lieutenant D'Aubigny landed at the head of five hundred men, to occupy the island. The speech in which this person inaugurated French dominion in Tahiti was one of the richest specimens of bombast and braggadocia ever uttered. "Much merriment might be excited by its repetition, but it has already caused the sides of Europe to ache, more than once. Suffice it to say, that the deposed queen fled on board the British ship of war, the Dublin, commanded by Capt. Tucker, and Papeete was, for many days, like a town taken by storm. Drunkenness, debauchery, rioting, filled its streets, and every means were taken to undo what the missionaries had, by half a century's labor, accomplished." The above is another melancholy evidence of the spirit of Popery; and if any thing can open the eyes of our people to a sense of danger from it, this evidence cannot fail to do so. I lay it down as a truth--though I may be censured for the boldness of such an assertion--that there is not a man of common sense, or ordinary penetration, who does not see, at a glance, that our danger as a nation, and our morals as a people, are eminently perilled by the continuance of Popery amongst us. There are certain truths which need not be proved; they prove themselves. Like the sun, which is seen by its own light, they carry with them their own evidence; and, among those self-evident truths, I see none more clear or more lucid, than that Popery, which has taken root in this country, will--if not torn up and totally uprooted before long--dash to pieces the whole frame of our republic. Sympathizers, Puseyites, and all other such bastard Protestants, may think differently. Be it so. Valueless as my opinion may be, let it be herein recorded, that I entirely disagree with them. It seems that another speck of Popery is just making its appearance on the north-west horizon of our national firmament. It appears, by accounts very recently received from Oregon, that the _Propaganda_ in Rome has sent out a company of Jesuits and nuns to that territory. Popish priests and Jesuits seldom travel without being accompanied by nuns: they add greatly to their comforts while on their pilgrimage for the advancement of morality and chastity. Hitherto the occupants of Oregon have advanced quietly. They have adopted a temporary form of government, established courts of law, and such municipal regulations as they deemed best calculated to forward their common interest. But the modern serpent, Jesuitism, has already entered their garden: the tree of Popery has been planted: it is now in blossom, and will soon be seen in full bearing. It is truly a melancholy reflection to think that this pest; Popery, should find access to all places and to all people. One year will not pass over us, before the aspect of things in Oregon will be entirely changed. These Jesuits who arrived there haye been preceded by some Popish spy--some reverend Irish Murphy, in the capacity of carpenter, or perhaps horse-jockey, has gone before them, and has been laying plans for their reception. I venture to say, it will be discovered, at no distant day, that all the good which our Protestant missionaries have done there will soon be undone by Popish agents. They will commence, as they have done in Tahiti, by causing some panic among the resident settlers. They will find in Oregon, as well as in our United States, some functionary who may want their aid; and he, like many of the unprincipled functionaries among ourselves, will give them his patronage in exchange. Liberty has, in reality, but few votaries among officeholders, in comparison with Popery; and this is one of the chief causes of the great advances which the latter is making, and has been making, especially for the last six or eight years. Look around you, fellow-citizens, and you will scarcely find an individual in office, from the President to the lowest office-holder, possessed of sufficient moral courage to raise his voice against Popery. But justice to Americans requires me to say, that in this the great mass of the people are without blame--for I cannot call certain leading, unprincipled politicians, the people. The first steps which foreign priests and Jesuits have taken, in disturbing the harmony of our republican system of government, might have been easily checked; but those who have represented the people, and who held offices of honor and emolument, were not, and will not be, disturbed by a moment's reflection on a proper sense of their duty. The whole responsibility of the gross outrages offered to our Protestant country, by _Popish priests_ and Papal allies, rests upon our representatives in Congress. They could, if they would, have long since checked Popery; and it is now high time that the people should take this matter into their own hands, and so alter the constitutions of their respective states, as to exclude Papists from any positive or negative participation in the creation or execution of their laws. Jesuits calculate with great accuracy upon the selfishness of man: they know that, generally speaking, it is paramount to all other considerations. Artful, intriguing, avaricious, and more licentious themselves than any other body of men in the world, they soon discover all that is vulnerable in the American character, and take advantage of it. They discover that popular applause is greatly coveted by Americans; and this is the reason why we see established among us so many _repeal associations_. The writer understands that several of those associations are now formed in Oregon; and it was at their request that the Pope had sent out Jesuits and nuns amongst them. Repeal is looked upon as the great lever by which the whole political world can be turned upside down. Its members meet in large numbers, in order to show the gullible Americans the consequent extent of their power, and the great advantage which some office-hunter may gain by bringing them over to his views. The bait has taken well hitherto; but as we have--solemnly attested by the sign manual of the Pope himself--seen his object in causing to be established repeal societies, the American, who continues hereafter to encourage them, deserves the execration of every lover of freedom. The Pope tells Americans, through his agent, O'Connell, what the design and objects of all the movements of Papists in the United States are; and I trust, when Americans see them in their true colors, they will sink deeply into their hearts. Hear, then, I entreat you, Americans, the language of O'Connell, as the Pope's agent, as uttered by him in the _Loyal National Repeal Association_ in Dublin, Ireland. It is addressed to Irish Catholics in the United States. _Where you have the electoral franchise, give your votes to none but those who will assist you in so holy a struggle. You should do all in your power to carry out the pious intentions of his holiness the Pope_. This is plain language; there is no misunderstanding it. It is ad-dressed to Papists, whether in Oregon or the United States, and what are the pious intentions of the Pope? I will tell you. I understand those matters probably better than you do. The object is, in the first place, to _extirpate Protestantism_; and, secondly, _to overthrow this republican government, and place in our executive chair a Popish king_. This is the sole design of all the ramifications of the various repeal clubs throughout the length and breadth of the United States and its territories. O'Connell--the greatest layman living--is the nuncio of the Pope for carrying this vast and holy design into execution. Will Americans submit to this? Will they again attend repeal associations? Does not every meeting of the repeal party impliedly make an assault upon our constitution? Is not this foreign demagogue endeavoring to pollute our ballot-box? and will you any longer trust an Irish Papist, who is the fettered slave of the Pope? Aye! a greater slave than the African, the Mussulman, or the Chinese. Never before was there such a combination formed for the destruction of American liberty, as that of _Irish repealers_, and never before was such an insidious attempt made to pollute the morals of the wives and daughters of Americans, as that which Jesuits have for years made, and are now making, by the introduction of priests and nunneries among them. Repeal unchains the loud blasts of conspiracy, and opens the bloody gates of sedition; yet this Repeal lives in the very midst of us. I can almost hear, while I am writing these lines, the wild shouts of its lawless members; and to the shame and everlasting disgrace of Americans, the sons of free and noble sires, there are many of them, at the very repeal meetings to which I allude, aiding and abetting them in aiming their mad and wild blows at liberty, while she sleeps sweetly, perhaps dreaming that she was safe, with the spirits of Washington, Warren, and others, watching over her slumbers. Sleep on, fair goddess! Popish traitors cannot, shall not disturb thee. American Republicans will not let them; and to you, Protestant foreigners, I would most earnestly appeal. Let us stand by those noble patriots. We know what tyranny is! We felt many of its pains and penalties. We know what Popery is! It has desolated our native land 1 It has made barren our fairest fields! It has sealed up from our parents, our brothers, sisters, and relatives, the eternal fountain of life! It is drunk with the blood of the saints! It has closed against us the gates of liberty! It has rendered us strangers to its blessings, and it was not until we landed upon these shores, that we were first permitted to inhale its fragrance or taste its fruits. But now that we enjoy all these blessings, let us thank God for them. Let us be grateful to Americans for receiving us among them, and prove by our deeds that we are not unworthy of the kind and hospitable reception which they gave us, by being foremost amongst them in resisting and warding off the blows which that enemy of mankind, the Pope, and his foul-mouthed nuncio, Daniel O'Connell, with his Irish repealers, are striking at American freedom! They shall not succeed. The slaves of a Pope cannot succeed. "The sensual and the dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles, and wear the name Of freedom, graven on a heavier chain O Liberty! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee many a weary hour;-- But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee-- Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee-- Alike from priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of horseless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliffs verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge;-- Yea, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot ray being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there!" 
5734	----	and Distributed Proofers LIFE IN THE GREY NUNNERY AT MONTREAL An authentic narrative of the horrors, mysteries, and cruelties of convent life by Sarah J. Richardson, an escaped nun. By Sarah J Richardson Edited by Edward P. Hood [A long unsigned note of opinion on the veracity of this work has been deleted per the policy of Project Gutenberg concerning such ammendations.} TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I PARENTAGE--FATHER'S MARRIAGE CHAPTER II THE WHITE NUNNERY CHAPTER III THE NURSERY CHAPTER IV A SLAVE FOR LIFE CHAPTER V CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION CHAPTER VI THE GREY NUNNERY CHAPTER VII ORPHAN'S HOME CHAPTER VIII CONFESSION AND SORROW OF NO AVAIL CHAPTER IX ALONE WITH THE DEAD CHAPTER X THE SICK NUN CHAPTER XI THE JOY OF FREEDOM CHAPTER XII STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND CHAPTER XIII LANDLADY'S STORY CONTINUED CHAPTER XIV THE TWO SISTERS CHAPTER XV CHOICE OF PUNISHMENTS CHAPTER XVI HORRORS OF STARVATION CHAPTER XVII THE TORTURE ROOM CHAPTER XVIII RETURN TO THE NUNNERY CHAPTER XIX SICKNESS AND DEATH OF A SUPERIOR CHAPTER XX STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY CHAPTER XXI SECOND ESCAPE FROM THE NUNNERY CHAPTER XXII LONELY MIDNIGHT WALK CHAPTER XXIII FLIGHT AND RECAPTURE CHAPTER XXIV RESOLVES TO ESCAPE CHAPTER XXV EVENTFUL JOURNEY CHAPTER XXVI CONCLUSION APPENDIX I ABSURDITIES OF ROMANISTS APPENDIX II CRUELTY OF ROMANISTS APPENDIX III INQUISITION OF GOA--IMPRISONMENT OF M. DELLON, 1673 APPENDIX IV INQUISITION OF GOA, CONCLUDED APPENDIX V INQUISITION AT MACERATA, ITALY APPENDIX VI ROMANISM OF THE PRESENT DAY APPENDIX VII NARRATIVE OP SIGNORINA FLORIENCIA D' ROMANI TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I PARENTAGE--FATHER'S MARRIAGE CHAPTER II THE WHITE NUNNERY CHAPTER III THE NURSERY CHAPTER IV A SLAVE FOR LIFE CHAPTER V CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION CHAPTER VI THE GREY NUNNERY CHAPTER VII ORPHAN'S HOME CHAPTER VIII CONFESSION AND SORROW OF NO AVAIL CHAPTER IX ALONE WITH THE DEAD CHAPTER X THE SICK NUN CHAPTER XI THE JOY OF FREEDOM CHAPTER XII STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND CHAPTER XIII LANDLADY'S STORY CONTINUED CHAPTER XIV THE TWO SISTERS CHAPTER XV CHOICE OF PUNISHMENTS CHAPTER XVI HORRORS OF STARVATION CHAPTER XVII THE TORTURE ROOM CHAPTER XVIII RETURN TO THE NUNNERY CHAPTER XIX SICKNESS AND DEATH OF A SUPERIOR CHAPTER XX STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY CHAPTER XXI SECOND ESCAPE FROM THE NUNNERY CHAPTER XXII LONELY MIDNIGHT WALK CHAPTER XXIII FLIGHT AND RECAPTURE CHAPTER XXIV RESOLVES TO ESCAPE CHAPTER XXV EVENTFUL JOURNEY CHAPTER XXVI CONCLUSION APPENDIX I ABSURDITIES OF ROMANISTS APPENDIX II CRUELTY OF ROMANISTS APPENDIX III INQUISITION OF GOA--IMPRISONMENT OF M. DE APPENDIX IV INQUISITION OF GOA, CONCLUDED APPENDIX V INQUISITION AT MACERATA, ITALY APPENDIX VI ROMANISM OF THE PRESENT DAY APPENDIX VII NARRATIVE OP SIGNORINA FLORIENCIA D' ROMANI LIFE IN THE GREY NUNNERY. CHAPTER I. PARENTAGE.--FATHER'S MARRIAGE. I was born at St. John's, New Brunswick, in the year 1835. My father was from the city of Dublin, Ireland, where he spent his youth, and received an education in accordance with the strictest rules of Roman Catholic faith and practice. Early manhood, however, found him dissatisfied with his native country, longing for other scenes and distant climes. He therefore left Ireland, and came to Quebec. Here he soon became acquainted with Capt. Willard, a wealthy English gentleman, who, finding him a stranger in a strange land, kindly opened his door, and gave him employment and a home. Little did he think that in so doing he was warming in his bosom a viper whose poisonous fangs would, ere long, fasten on his very heart-strings, and bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. His only child was a lovely daughter of fourteen. From what I have heard of her, I think she must have been very beautiful in person, quiet, gentle and unassuming in her deportment, and her disposition amiable and affectionate. She was exceedingly romantic, and her mental powers were almost, if not entirely uncultivated; still, she possessed sufficient strength of character to enable her to form a deep, ardent, and permanent attachment. The young stranger gazed upon her with admiring eyes, and soon began to whisper in her ear the flattering tale of love. This, of course, her parents could not approve. What! give their darling to a stranger? Never, no, never. What could they do without her? Grieved that their kindness should have been thus returned, they bade him go his way, and leave their child in peace. He did go, but like a thief he returned. In the darkness of midnight he stole to her chamber, and bore away from the home of her childhood, "a father's joy, a mother's pride." Who can tell the anguish of their souls when they entered that deserted chamber? How desolate their lonely hearthstone! How dark the home where her presence had scattered rainbow hues! A terrible blow it was to Capt. Willard; a very bitter thing thus to have his cherished plans frustrated, his brightest hopes destroyed; to see the very sun of his existence go down at midday in clouds and darkness. Yes, to the stern father this sad event brought bitter, bitter grief. But to the mother--that tender, affectionate mother, it was death. Yea, more than death, for reason, at the first shock, reeled and tottered on its throne; then, as days and weeks passed by, and still the loved one did not return, when every effort to find her had been made in vain, then, the dread certainty settled down upon her soul that her child was lost to her forever. Hope, gave place to despair, and she became, from that time, a raving maniac. At length death came to her relief, and her husband was left alone. Six weary years passed over the lonely man, and then he rejoiced in the intelligence that his child was still living with her husband at St. John's. He immediately wrote to her imploring her to return to her old home, and with the light of her presence dispel the gloom of his dwelling. Accordingly she left St. John's, and in company with her husband returned to her father. I was then about a year and a half old, but I have so often heard these facts related by my father and grandfather, they are indelibly impressed on my mind, and will never be erased from my memory. My mother now thought her trouble at an end, that in future she should enjoy the happiness she once anticipated. But, alas for all human prospects! Ere one short month had passed, difficulties arose in consequence of the difference in their religious opinions. Capt. Willard was a firm Protestant, while my father was quite as firm in his belief of the principles of the Roman Catholics. "Can two walk together except they be agreed?" They parted in anger, and my father again became a wanderer, leaving his wife and child with his father-in-law. But my mother was a faithful, devoted wife. Her husband was her heart's chosen idol whom she loved too well to think of being separated from. She therefore left her father's house, with all its luxuries and enjoyments, to follow the fortunes of one, who was certainly unworthy of the pure affection thus lavished upon him. As her health had been delicate for the last two years, she concluded to leave me with her father for a short time, intending to send for me, as soon as she was in a situation to take care of me. But this was not to be. Death called her away, and I saw my mother no more till her corpse was brought back, and buried in her father's garden. Two years I remained with my grandfather, and from him, I received the most affectionate and devoted attention. My father at length opened a saloon, for the sale of porter, and hired a black woman to do his work. He then came for me. My grandfather entreated that I might be allowed to remain. Well he knew that my father was not the man to be entrusted with the care of a child--that a Porter House was no place for me, for he was quite sure that stronger liquors than porter were there drank and sold. In fact, it was said, that my father was himself a living evidence of this. But it is of a parent I am speaking, and, whatever failings the world may have seen in him, to me he was a kind and tender father. The years I spent with him were the happiest of my life. On memory's page they stand out in bold relief, strikingly contrasting with the wretchedness of my after life. And though I cannot forget that his own rash act brought this wretchedness upon me, still, I believe his motives were good. I know that he loved me, and every remembrance of his kindness, and those few bright days of childhood, I have carefully cherished as a sacred thing. He did not, however, succeed in the business he had undertaken, but lost his property and was at length compelled to give up his saloon. I was then placed in a Roman Catholic family, where he often visited, and ever appeared to feel for me the most devoted attachment. One day he came to see me in a state of partial intoxication. I did not then know why his face was so red, and his breath so offensive, but I now know that he was under the influence of ardent spirits. The woman with whom I boarded seeing his condition, and being a good Catholic, resolved to make the most of the occasion for the benefit of the nunnery. She therefore said to him, "You are not capable of bringing up that child; why don't you give her to Priest Dow?"--"Will he take her?" asked my father. "Yes," she replied, "he will put her into the nunnery, and the nuns will take better care of her than you can." "On what condition will they take her?" he asked. "Give the priest one hundred dollars," replied the artful woman, "and he will take good care of her as long as she lives." This seemed a very plausible story; but I am sure my father did not realize what he was doing. Had he waited for a little reflection, he would never have consented to such an arrangement, and my fate would have been quite different. But as it was, he immediately sent for the priest, and gave me to him, to be provided for, as his own child, until I was of age. I was then to be allowed to go out into the world if I chose. To this, Priest Dow consented, in consideration of one hundred dollars, which he received, together with a good bed and bedding. My mother's gold ear-rings were also entrusted to his care, until I should be old enough to wear them. But I never saw them again. Though I was at that time but six years old, I remember perfectly, all that passed upon that memorable occasion. I did not then comprehend the full meaning of what was said, but I understood enough to fill my heart with sorrow and apprehension. When their bargain was completed, Priest Dow called me to him, saying, with a smile, "You are a stubborn little girl, I guess, a little naughty, sometimes, are you not?" Surprised and alarmed, I replied, "No, sir." He then took hold of my hair, which was rather short, drew it back from my forehead with a force that brought the tears to my eyes, and pressing his hand heavily on my head, he again asked if I was not sometimes a little wilful and disobedient. I was so much frightened at this, I turned to my father, and with tears and sobs entreated him not to send me away with that man, but allow me to stay at home with him. He drew me to his bosom, wiped away my tears, and sought to quiet my fears by assuring me that I would have a good and pleasant home; that the nuns would take better care of me than he could; and that he would often come to see me. Thus, by the aid of flattery on one side, and sugarplums on the other, they persuaded me at last to accompany the priest to the White Nunnery, St. Paul's street, Quebec. I was too young to realize the sad change in my situation, or to anticipate the trials and privations that awaited me. But I was deeply grieved thus to leave my father, my only real friend, my mother being dead, and my grandfather a heretic, whom I had been taught to regard with the utmost abhorrence. Little, however, did I think that this was a last farewell. But such it was. Though he had promised to come often to see me, I never saw my father again; never even heard from him; and now, I do not know whether he is dead or alive. CHAPTER II. THE WHITE NUNNERY. On my arrival at the nunnery, I was placed under the care of a lady whom they called a Superior. She took me into a room alone, and told me that the priest would come to me in the morning to hear confession, and I must confess to him all my sins. "What are sins?" I asked, and, "How shall I confess? I don't know what it means." "Don't know what sins are!" she exclaimed in great astonishment "Why, child, I am surprised that you should be so ignorant! Where have you lived all your days?" With all the simplicity of childhood, I replied, "With my father; and once I lived with my grandfather; but they didn't tell me how to confess." "Well," said she, "you must tell the priest all your wicked thoughts, words, and actions." "What is wicked?" I innocently asked. "If you have ever told an untruth;" she replied, "or taken what did not belong to you, or been in any way naughty, disobedient, or unkind; if you have been angry, or quarrelled with your playmates, that was wicked, and you must tell the priest all about it If you try to conceal, or keep back anything, the priest will know it and punish you. You cannot deceive him if you try, for he knows all you do, or say, or even think; and if you attempt it, you'll only get yourself into trouble. But if you are resolved to be a good girl, kind, gentle, frank, sincere, and obedient, the priest will love you, and be kind to you." When I was conducted to my room, at bedtime, I rejoiced to find in it several little cot beds, occupied by little girls about my own age, who had been, like myself, consigned to the tender mercies of priests and nuns. I thought if we must live in that great gloomy house, which even to my childish imagination seemed so much like a prison, we could in some degree dispel our loneliness and mitigate our sorrows, by companionship and sympathy. But I was soon made to know that even this small comfort would not be allowed us, for the Superior, as she assisted me to bed, told me that I must not speak, or groan, or turn upon my side, or move in any way; for if I made the least noise or disturbance, I would be severely punished. She assured me that if we disobeyed in the least particular, she would know it, even if she was not present, and deal with us accordingly. She said that when the clock struck twelve, the bell would ring for prayers; that we must then rise, and kneel with our heads bowed upon the bed, and repeat the prayer she taught us. When, at length, she left us, locking the door after her, I was so frightened, I did not dare to sleep, lest I should move, or fail to awake at the proper time. Slowly passed the hours of that long and weary night, while I lay, waiting the ringing of the bell, or thinking upon the past with deep regret. The most fearful visions haunted my brain, and fears of future punishment filled my mind. How could I hope to escape it, when they were so very strict, and able to read my most secret thoughts? What would I not have given could I have been again restored to my father? True he was intemperate, but at that time I thought not of this; I only knew that he was always kind to me, that he never refused what I asked of him. I sometimes think, even now, that if he had not so cruelly thrust me from him, I might have been able to win him from his cups and evil course of life. But this was not to be. Having given himself up to the demon of intemperance, it is not surprising that he should have given away his only child; that he should have placed her in the hands of those who proved utterly unworthy of the trust. But however indignant I may at times have felt towards him, for the one great wrong he committed against me, still I do not believe he would ever have done it but for the influence of ardent spirits. Moreover, I do not suppose that he had the least idea what kind of a place it was. He wished, doubtless, that his child might be well educated; that she might be shielded from the many trials and temptations that cluster around the footsteps of the young and inexperienced, in the midst of a cold and heartless world. From these evils the nunnery, he thought, would be a secure retreat, for there science, religion, and philanthropy, PROFESSEDLY, go hand in hand. Like many other deluded parents, he thought that "Holiness to the Lord" was inscribed upon those walls, and that nothing which could pervert or defile the youthful mind, was permitted to enter there. With these views and feelings, he was undoubtedly sincere when he told me, "I would have a good home, and the nuns would take better care of me than he could." Rash his decision certainly was, cruel it proved to be; but I shall ever give him credit for good intentions. At length the bell rang, and all the girls immediately left their beds, and placed themselves upon their knees. I followed their example, but I had scarcely time to kneel by my bed, when the Superior came into the room with a light in her hand, and attended by a priest. He came to me, opened a book, and told me to cross myself. This ceremony he instructed me to perform in the following manner: the right hand is placed upon the forehead, and drawn down to the breast; then across the breast from left to right. The Superior then told me to say the prayer called "Hail Mary!" I attempted to do so, but failed, for, though I had often repeated it after my father, I could not say it correctly alone. She then bade me join my hands, and repeat it after her. "Hail Mary! Full of grace! The Lord be with thee! Blessed art thou among women! Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus! Mother of God! Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death, Amen." "Now," said the Superior, as I rose from my knees, "you must learn every word of that prayer before to-morrow night, or go without your supper." I tried my best to remember it, but with so little instruction, for she repeated it to me but once, I found it quite impossible the next night to say it correctly. Of course, I was compelled to go without my supper. This may seem a light punishment to those who have enough to eat--who sit down to a full table, and satisfy their appetite three times per day, but to a nun, who is allowed only enough to sustain life, it is quite a different thing. And especially to a child, this mode of punishment is more severe, and harder to bear than almost any other. I thought I would take good care not to be punished in that way again; but I little knew what was before me. Before the Superior left us she assisted me into bed, and bade me be very still until the second bell in the morning. Then, I must rise and dress as quickly as possible, and go to her room. Quietness, she enjoined upon me as a virtue, while the least noise, or disturbance of any kind, would be punished as a crime. She said I must walk very softly indeed along the halls, and close the doors so carefully that not a sound could be heard. After giving me these first instructions in convent life, she left me, and I was allowed to sleep the rest of the night. The next morning, I awoke at the ringing of the first bell, but I did not dare to stir until the second bell, when the other little girls arose in great haste. I then dressed as quickly as possible, but not a word was spoken--not a thought, and scarcely a look exchanged. I was truly "alone amid a crowd," and I felt the utter loneliness of my situation most keenly. Yet I saw very clearly that there was but one course for me to pursue, and that was, to obey in all things; to have no will of my own, and thus, if possible, escape punishment. But it was hard, very hard for me to bring my mind to this. I had been the idolized child of affection too long to submit readily and patiently to the privations I was now forced to endure. Hitherto my will had been law. I had naturally an imperious, violent temper, which I had never been taught to govern. Instead of this, my appetites were pampered, my passions indulged, and every desire gratified as far as possible. Until that last sad parting, I hardly knew what it was to have a request refused; and now, to experience such a change--such a sudden transition from the most liberal indulgence to the most cruel and rigorous self-denial--Oh, it was a severe trial to my independent spirit to submit to it. Yet, submit I must, for I had learned, even then, that my newly appointed guardians were not to be trifled with. Henceforth, OBEDIENCE must be my motto. To every command, however cruel and unjust, I must yield a blind, passive, and unquestioning obedience. I dressed as quickly as possible, and hastened down to the Superior. As I passed through the hall, I thought I would be very careful to step softly, but in my haste I forgot what she said about closing the door, and it came together with a loud crash. On entering the room, I found the Superior waiting for me; in her hand she held a stick about a foot long, to the end of which was attached nine leather strings, some twelve or fifteen inches long, and about the size of a man's little finger. She bade me come to her, in a voice so cold and stern it sent a thrill of terror through my frame, and I trembled with the apprehension of some impending evil. I had no idea that she was about to punish me, for I was not aware that I had done anything to deserve it; but her looks frightened me, and I feared,--I know not what. She took hold of my arm, and without saying a word, gave me ten or twelve strokes over the head and shoulders with this miniature cat-o'-nine-tails. Truly, with her, it was "a word and a blow, and the blow came first." Wherever the strings chanced to fall upon the bare flesh, they raised the skin, as though a hot iron had been applied to it. In some places they took off the skin entirely, and left the flesh raw, and quivering with the stinging pain. I could not think at first what I had done to deserve this severe punishment, nor did she condescend to enlighten me. But when I began to cry, and beg to go to my father, she sternly bade me stop crying at once, for I could not go to my father. I must stay there, she said, and learn to remember all her commands and obey then. She then taught me the following verse: I am a little nun, The sisters I will mind; When I am pretty and learn, Then they will use me kind. I must not be so noisy When I go about the house, I'll close the doors so softly They'll think I am a mouse. This verse I repeated until I could say it correctly. I was then taken to the breakfast-room, where I was directed to kneel before the crucifix, and say my prayers, which I repeated after the Superior. I was then seated at the table, and directed to hold my head down, and fix my eyes upon my plate. I must not look at any one, or gaze about the room; but sit still, and quietly eat what was given me. I had upon my plate, one thin slice of wheat bread, a bit of potato, and a very small cup of milk. This was my stated allowance, and I could have no more, however hungry I might be. The same quantity was given me every meal, when in usual health, until I was ten years of age. On fast days, no food whatever was allowed; and we always fasted for three meals before receiving the sacrament. This ceremony was observed every third day, therefore we were obliged to fast about one-third of the time. Yet, however long the fast might be, my allowance of food was never increased. After breakfast the Superior took me to Priest Dow for confession. He kept me with him all day, allowing me neither food nor drink; nor did he permit me to break my fast until four o'clock the next day. I then received what they call the sacrament, for the first time. To prepare for this, I was clad in a white dress and cape, and a white cap on my head. I was then led to the chapel, and passing up the aisle, knelt before the altar. Priest Dow then came and stood before me, and taking from a wine-glass a small thin wafer, he placed it upon my tongue, at the same time repeating some Latin words, which, the Superior afterwards told me, mean in English, "The body and blood of Christ." I was taught to believe that I held in my mouth the real body and blood of Christ. I was also told that if I swallowed the wafer before it had melted on my tongue, IT WOULD CHOKE ME TO DEATH; and if I indulged an evil thought while I held it in my mouth I SHOULD FALL INTO A POOL OF BLOOD. CHAPTER III. THE NURSERY. While in the White Nunnery, I spent the most of my time in the nursery. But the name gives one no idea of the place. The freedom and careless gayety, so characteristic of other nurseries, had no place in this. No cheerful conversation, no juvenile merriment, or pleasureable excitement of any kind, were ever allowed. A merry laugh, on the contrary, a witty jest, or a sly practical joke, would have been punished as the most heinous offence. Here as elsewhere in the establishment, the strictest rules of silence and obedience were rigidly enforced. There were twenty little girls in the room with me, but we were never permitted to speak to each other, nor to any one except a priest or a Superior. When directly addressed by either of them we were allowed to answer; but we might never ask a question, or make a remark, or in any way, either by looks, words, or signs, hold communication with each other. Whenever we did so, it was at the risk of being discovered and severely punished. Yet this did not repress the desire for conversation; it only made us more cautious, artful, and deceptive. The only recreation allowed us was fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard every morning and evening. We might then amuse ourselves as we chose, but were required to spend the whole time in some kind of active exercise; if one of our number ventured to sit still, we were all punished the next day by being kept in the house. It was my business, while in the nursery, to dust all the furniture and the floor, with a flannel mop, made and kept for this purpose. The floors were all painted and varnished, and very easily kept clean. Two hours and a half each day we spent with a priest, whom we were taught to call Father Darity (I do not know as I spell this and other names correctly, but I give it to the reader as it sounded to my ear). He appeared to take great pleasure in learning us to repeat the prayers and catechism required by Priest Dow. He also gave us a variety of instructions in other things, enjoining in particular the most absolute obedience and perfect silence. He assured us that if we dared to disobey him in the least particular, he should know it, even if he was not present with us at the time. He said he knew all our thoughts, words, and actions; and if we did not obey, he should "EAT US WITH A GRAIN OF SALT." I presume my reader will smile at this, and exclaim, "How absurd!" Yes, to you it is absurd; but to the mind of a child who placed the utmost confidence in his veracity, it was an evidence that he was invested with supernatural powers. For myself I believed every word he said, and nothing would have tempted me to disobey him. Perfect obedience he considered the highest attainment, and, to secure this, the greatest of all virtues, no means were thought too severe. We were frightened and punished in every possible way. But, though Father Darity acted on the one great principle with the Romanists, that the "end sanctifies the means," he was in general a much kinder man than Priest Dow. He urged us on with our catechism as fast as possible, telling us, as a motive to greater diligence, that the bishop was soon to visit us, and that we could not be admitted to his presence until we had our prayers and catechism perfectly. One day, when we were in the yard at play, I told one of the little girls that I did not like to live there; that I did not like one of the people in the house; that I wished to return to my father, and I should tell him so the first time he came to see me. "Then you like to live with your father?" said she. I told her I did, for then I could do as I pleased, without the fear of punishment. She said that she did not like to live there any better than I did. I asked her why she did not go away, if she disliked to stay. She replied, "I should like to go away well enough, if I had any friends to go to; but my father and mother are both dead, and I have no home but this; so you see I must stay here if they wish me to; but there is one consolation; if we are good girls, and try to do right, they will be kind to us." I made no further remark; but the moment we returned to the house she told the Superior what I said, taking good care not to repeat her own expressions, and leaving the Superior to infer that she had made no reply. I saw at once by the stern look that came over the lady's face that she was very angry; and I would gladly have recalled those few hasty words had it been in my power to have done so. She immediately left the room, but soon returned with Priest Dow. His countenance also indicated anger, as he took hold of my arm and led me to a darkened room, in which several candles were burning. Here I saw three scenes, which I think must have been composed of images, pictures, and curtains. I do not pretend to describe them correctly, I can only tell how they appeared to me. The first was an image of Christ on the cross, with his arms extended as we usually see them in pictures. On his right hand was a representation of heaven, and on the left, of hell. Heaven was made to appear like a bright, beautiful, and glorious place. A wall of pink color surrounded it, and in the center was a spring of clear water. In the midst of this spring stood a tree, bearing on every limb a lighted candle, and on the top, the image of Christ and a dove. Hell was surrounded by a black wall, within which, there was also a spring; but the water was very black, and beside it stood a large black image, with horns on its head, a long tail, and a large cloven foot. The place where it stood was in deep shadow, made to resemble, as neatly as possible, clouds and darkness. The priest led me up to this fearful object, and placed me on one side of it, while he stood on the other; but it would turn away from him towards me, roll up its great eyes, open its mouth and show its long white tusks. The priest said it turned from him, because he was a good man, and I was very wicked. He said that it was the devil, come up from the bottomless pit to devour me; and if I said such wicked words again, it would carry me off. I was very much frightened, for I then thought that all he said was true; that those images, which I now know were strung on wires were really what they were made to represent. In fact, until I was fifteen years old, I really believed that the image I then saw was an evil spirit. But since that time, I have been made to know that the priests themselves are the only evil spirits about the place. Priest Dow then led me back to the nursery, and left me with the Superior. But he soon came, back, saying he "knew what I was thinking about; that I had wicked thoughts about him; thought he was a bad man, and that I wished to leave him and go to my father;" Now this was all true, and the fact that he knew it, frightened me accordingly. It was a sure proof that what Father Darity said was true. But how could I ever be safe, if they could thus read the inmost secrets of my soul? I did dislike them all very much indeed and I could not help it. How then could I avert the consequences of this deep aversion to convent life, since it could not be concealed? Was it possible for me so far to conquer myself, as to love the persons with whom I lived? How many nights did I lie awake pondering this question, and resolving to make the effort. I was, of course, too young to know that it was only by shrewd guessing, and a general knowledge of human nature, that he was enabled to tell my thoughts so correctly. "Now," said he, "for indulging these dreadful thoughts, I shall take you back to the devil, and give you up to him." I was frightened before; but I have no words to describe my feelings when he again led me back, and left me beside the image, saying, as he closed the door, "If the devil groans three times, and the Lord does not speak, you must stay here until to-morrow at this time." I trembled so that I could hardly stand, and when, after a few moments, a sound like a groan fell upon my ears, I shrieked in the extremity of terror. [Footnote: Cioui, formerly a Benedictine Monk, giving an account of his imprisonment at Rome, after his conversion says:-- "One evening, after listening to a discourse filled with dark images of death, I returned to my room, and found the light set upon the ground. I took it up and approached the table to place it there, but what was my horror and consternation at beholding spread out upon it, a whitened skeleton! Before the reader can comprehend my dismay, it is necessary he should reflect for a moment on the peculiarities of childhood, especially in a Romish country, where children are seldom spoken to except in superstitious language, whether by their parents or teachers: and domestics adopt the same style to answer their own purposes, menacing their disobedient charges with hobgoblins, phantoms and witches. Such images as these make a profound impression on tender minds, leaving a panic terror which the reasoning of after years is often unable entirely to efface. There can be no doubt but that this pernicious habit, is the fruit of the noxious plant fostered in the Vatican. Rising generations must be brought up in superstitious terror, in order to render them susceptible to every kind of absurdity; for this terror is the powerful spring, employed by the priests and friars, to move at their pleasure families, cities, provinces, nations. Although in families of the higher order, this method of alarming infancy is much discountenanced, nevertheless, it is impossible but that it should in some degree prevail in the nursery. Nor was it probable that I should escape this infections malady, having passed my whole days in an atmosphere, charged more than any other with that impure miasma priest-craft."] Then immediately I heard the question, and it seemed to come from the figure of Christ, "Will you obey? Will you leave off sin?" I answered in the affirmative as well as I could, for the convulsive sobs that shook my frame almost stopped my utterance. I now know that when the priest left me, he placed himself, or an assistant, behind a curtain close to the images, and it was his voice that I heard. But I was then too young to detect their treacherous practices and deceitful ways. On being taken back to the Superior, I was immediately attacked with severe illness, and had fits all night. It seemed to me that I could see that image of the devil everywhere. If I closed my eyes, I thought I could feel him on my bed, pressing on my breast, and he was so heavy I could scarcely breathe. I was very sick, and suffered much bodily pain, but the tortures of an excited imagination were greater by far, and harder to bear than any physical suffering. For long years after, that image haunted my dreams, and even now I often, in sleep, live over again the terrors of that fearful scene. I was sick a long time; how long I do not know; but I became so weak I could not raise myself in bed, and they had an apparatus affixed to the wall to raise me with. For several days I took no nourishment, except a teaspoonful of brandy and water which was given me as often as I could take it I continued to have fits every day for more than two years, nor did I ever entirely recover from the effects of that fright. Even now, though years have passed away, a little excitement or a sudden shock, will sometimes throw me into one of those fits. CHAPTER IV. A SLAVE FOR LIFE. During this illness I was placed under the care of an Abbess whom they called St. Bridget. There were many other Abbesses in the convent, but she was the principal one, and had the care of all the clothing. If the others wished for clean clothes, they were obliged to go to her for them. In that way I saw them all, but did not learn their names. They approached me and looked at me, but seldom spoke. This I thought very strange, but I now know they dared not speak. One day an Abbess came to my bed, and after standing a few moments with the tears silently flowing down her cheeks, asked me if I had a mother. I told her I had not, and I began to weep most bitterly. I was very weak, and the question recalled to my mind the time when I shared a father's love, and enjoyed my liberty. Then, I could go and come as I chose, but now, a slave for life, I could have no will of my own, I must go at bidding, and come at command. This, I am well aware, may seem to some extravagant language; but I use the right word. I was, literally, a slave; and of all kinds of slavery, that which exists in a convent is the worst. I say, THE WORST, because the story of wrong and outrage which occasionally finds its way to the public ear, is not generally believed. You pity the poor black man who bends beneath the scourge of southern bondage, for the tale comes to you from those who have seen his tears and heard his groans. But you have no tears, no prayers, no efforts for the poor helpless nun who toils and dies beneath the heartless cruelty of an equally oppressive task-master. No; for her you have no sympathy, for you do not believe her word. Within those precincts of cruelty, no visitor is ever admitted. No curious eye may witness the secrets of their prison-house. Consequently, there is no one to bear direct testimony to the truth of her statements. Even now, methinks, I see your haughty brow contract, and your lip curl with scorn, as with supreme contempt you throw down these pages and exclaim, "'Tis all a fiction. Just got up to make money. No proof that it is true." No proof do you say? O, that the strong arm of the law would interpose in our behalf!--that some American Napoleon would come forth, and break open those prison doors, and drag forth to the light of day those hidden instruments of torture! There would then be proof enough to satisfy the most incredulous, that, so far from being exaggerated, the half has not been told. Sons of America! Will you not arise in your might, and demand that these convent doors be opened, and "the oppressed" allowed to "go free"? Or if this be denied, sweep from the fair earth, the black-hearted wretches who dare, in the very face of heaven, to commit such fearful outrages upon helpless, suffering humanity? How long--O how long will you suffer these dens of iniquity to remain unopened? How long permit this system of priestly cruelty to continue? But I am wandering from my story. Would that I might forever wander from it--that I might at once blot from memory's page, the fearful recollection that must follow me to my grave! Yet, painful as it is to rehearse the past, if I can but awaken your sympathy for other sufferers, if I can but excite you to efforts for their deliverance, it is all I ask. I shall have my reward. But to return to my story. The Abbess saw how deeply I was grieved, and immediately left the room. St. Bridget told me not to cry, for she would be a mother to me as long as I remained with her, and she was true to her promise. Another sister, who sometimes came to my room, I believe was crazy. She would run up to my bed, put her hand on me, and burst into a loud and hearty laugh. This she repeated as often as she came, and I told the Abbess one day, I did wish that sister would not come to see me, for she acted so strange, I was afraid of her. She replied, "do not care for her; she always does just so, but we do not mind her; you must be careful what you say," she continued, "for if you speak of her before any of the sisters, they may get you into trouble." When I began to get better, I had a sharp appetite for food, and was hungry a great part of the time. One of the sisters used to bring me a piece of bread concealed under her cape and hide it under my pillow. How she obtained it, I do not know, unless she saved it from her own allowance. It was very easy for her to hide it in this way, for the nuns always walk with one hand under their cape and the other by the side. Truly, in this instance, "bread eaten in secret" was "pleasant." Of all the luxuries I ever tasted, those stolen bits of bread were the sweetest. During my illness I thought a great deal about my father, and wondered why he did not come to see me, as he had promised. I used to cry for him in my sleep, and very often awoke in tears. St. Bridget sought in every possible way to make me forget him, and the priest would tell me that I need not think so much about him, for he no longer cared for me. He said the devil had got him, and I would never see him again. These cruel words, so far from making me forget, served to awaken a still greater desire to see him, and increased my grief because I was denied the privilege. In the room with me, were six other little girls, who were all sick at the same time, and St. Bridget took care of us all For two of the little girls, I felt the greatest sympathy. They were quite young, I think not more than three years of age, and they grieved continually. They made no complaint, did not even shed a tear, but they sobbed all the time, whether asleep or awake. Of their history, I could learn nothing at that time, except the fact, that they were taken from their parents for the good of their souls. I afterwards overheard a conversation that led me to think that they were heirs to a large property, which, if they were out of the way, would go to the church. But it is of what I know, and not what I think, that I have undertaken to write, and I do know that the fate of those little girls was hard in the extreme, whatever might have been the cause of their being there. Poor little creatures! No wonder their hearts were broken. Torn from parents and friends while yet in early childhood--doomed while life is spared, to be subject to the will of those who know no mercy--who feel no pity, but consider it a religious duty to crush, and destroy all the pure affections--all the exquisite sensibilities of the human soul. Yet to them these hapless babes must look for all the earthly happiness they could hope to enjoy. They were taught to obey them in all things, and consider them their only friends and protectors. I never saw them after I left that room, but they did not live long. I was glad they did not, for in the cold grave their sufferings would be over and they would rest in peace. O, how little do Protestants know the sufferings of a nun! and truly no one can know them except by personal experience. One may imagine the most aggravated form of cruelty, the most heart-rending agonies, yet I do believe the conception of the most active imagination would fall far short of the horrible reality. I do not believe there was one happy individual in that convent, or that any one there, if I except the lady Superior, knew anything of enjoyment. Life with them was a continual round of ceaseless toil and bitter self-denial; while each one had some secret grief slowly but surely gnawing away the heart-strings. I have sometimes seen the Abbess sitting by the bedside of the sick, with her eyes closed, while the big tears fell unchecked over her pale cheeks. When I asked her why she wept, she would shake her head, but never speak. I now know that she dare not speak for fear of punishment. The abbesses in the various parts of this convent are punished as much as the nuns, if they dare to disobey the rules of the priests; and if the least of these are broken in the presence of any one in the house, they will surely tell of it at confession. In fact, they are required to do this; and if it is known that one has seen a rule broken, or a command disobeyed, without reporting it, a severe punishment is sure to follow. Thus every individual is a spy upon the rest; and while every failure is visited with condign punishment, the one who makes the most reports is so warmly approved, that poor human nature can hardly resist the temptation to play the traitor. Friendship cannot exist within the walls of a convent, for no one can be trusted, even with the most trifling secret. Whoever ventures to try it is sure to be betrayed. While I was sick Father Darity came often to see me, and by his kindness succeeded in gaining my affections. I was a great favorite with him; he always called me his little girl, and tried in every way to make me contented. He wished to make me say that I was happy there, that I liked to live with them as well as with my father. But I could never be persuaded to say this, for it was not the truth, and I would not tell a falsehood unless forced to do so. He said I must be a good girl, and he hoped I would sometime see better times, but I could never see my father again, and I must not desire it. He advised me, however hard it might be, to try and love all who came into the nunnery, even those who were unkind, who wished to injure me or wound my feelings. He told me how Jesus Christ loved his enemies; how he died for them a cruel death on the cross; how, amid his bitter agonies, he prayed for them, and with his expiring breath he cried, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." "And now," said he, "can you do as Jesus Christ did? He has set you an example, can you not follow it?" "No, sir," I replied, "I cannot love those who punish me so cruelly, so unjustly. I cannot love the little girl who reported what I said in the yard, when she said as bad things as I did." "But you forget," said he, "that in doing this she only obeyed the rules of the house. She only did her duty; if you had done yours, you would have reported her." "I'll never do that," I exclaimed, emboldened by his kindness. "It is a bad rule, and--" "Hush, hush, child!" he cried, interrupting me. "Do you know to whom you are speaking? and do you forget that you are a little girl? Are you wiser than your teachers? I must give you a penance for those naughty words, and you will pray for a better spirit." He said much more to me, and gave me good advice that I remember much better than I followed. He enjoined if upon me to keep up good courage, as I would gain my health faster. He then bade me farewell, telling me not to forget, to repeat certain prayers as a penance for my sin in speaking so boldly. O, did he think when he talked to me so kindly, so faithfully, that it was his last opportunity to give me good advice? Did he know that he left me to return no more? I saw nothing unusual in his appearance, and I did not suspect that it was the last time I should see his pleasant face and listen to his kindly voice. I loved that man, and bitter were the tears I shed when I learned that I should never see him again. The Abbess informed me that he was sent away for something he had done, she did not know what. O that something! I knew well enough what it was. He had a kind heart; he could feel for the unfortunate, and that, with the Roman Catholics, is an "unpardonable sin." CHAPTER V. CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION. I continued to regain my health slowly, and the Abbess said they would soon send me back to the nursery. I could not endure the thought of this, for I had the greatest fear of the Abbess who had the charge of that department. She was very cruel, while St. Bridget was as kind as she dare to be. She knew full well that if she allowed herself to exhibit the least feeling of affection for those children, she would be instantly removed, and some one placed over them who would not give way to such weakness. We all saw how it was, and loved her all the more for the severity of her reproofs when any one was near. With tears, therefore, I begged to be allowed to stay with her; and when the priest came for me, she told him that she thought I had better remain with her till I gained a little more strength. To this he consented, and I was very grateful indeed for the kindness. Wishing in some way to express my gratitude, as soon as I was able I assisted in taking care of the other little girls as much as possible. St. Bridget, in turn, taught me to read a little, so that I could learn my prayers when away from her. She also gave me a few easy lessons in arithmetic, and instructed me to speak the Celt language. She always spoke in that, or the French, which I could speak before, having learned it from the family where I lived after my father gave up his saloon. They were French Catholics and spoke no other language. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered to leave my room, I was taken to the chapel to be confirmed. Before they came for me, the abbess told me what questions would be asked, and the answers I should be required to give. She said they would ask me if I wished to see my father; if I should like to go back to the world, etc. To these and similar questions she said I must give a negative answer. "But," said I, "that will be a falsehood, and I will not say so for any of them." "Hush, hush, child!" she exclaimed, with a frightened look. "You must not talk so. From my heart I pity you; but it will be better for you to answer as I tell you, for if you refuse they will punish you till you do. Remember," she added, emphatically, "remember what I say: it will be better for you to do as I tell you." And she made me promise that I would. "But why do they wish me to tell a lie?" I asked. "They do not wish you to tell a lie," she replied; "they wish you to do right, and feel right; to be contented and willing to forget the world." "But I do not wish to forget the world," I said. "I am not contented, and saying that I am will not make me feel so. Is it right to tell a lie?" "It is right for you to obey," she replied, with more severity in her tone than I ever heard before. "Do you know," she continued, "that it is a great sin for you to talk so?" "A sin!" I exclaimed, in astonishment; "why is it a sin?" "Because," she replied, "you have no right to inquire why a command is given. Whatever the church commands, we must obey, and that, too, without question or complaint. If we are not willing to do this, it is the duty of the Bishop and the priests to punish us until we are willing. All who enter a convent renounce forever their own will." "But I didn't come here myself," said I; "my father put me here to stay a few years. When I am eighteen I shall go out again." "That does not make any difference," she replied. "You are here, and your duty is obedience. But my dear," she continued, "I advise you never again to speak of going out, for it can never be. By indulging such hopes you are preparing yourself for a great disappointment. By speaking of it, you will, I assure you, get yourself into trouble. You may not find others so indulgent as I am; therefore, for your own sake, I hope you will relinquish all idea of ever leaving the convent, and try to be contented." Such was the kind of instruction I received at the White Nunnery. I did not feel as much disappointed at the information that I was never to go into the world again as she had expected. I had felt for a long time, almost, indeed, from my first entrance, that such would be my fate, and though deeply grieved, I was able to control my feelings. The great day at length came for which the Abbess had been so long preparing me. I say great, for in our monotonous life, the smallest circumstance seemed important. Moreover, I was assured that my future happiness depended very much upon the answers, I that day gave to the various questions put to me. When about to be taken to the chapel, St. Bridget begged the priest to be careful and not frighten me, lest it should bring on my fits again. I was led into the chapel and made to kneel before the altar. The bishop and five priests were present, and also, a man whom I had never seen before, but I was told he was the Pope's Nuncio, and that he came a long way to visit them. I think this was true, for they all seemed to regard him as a superior. I shall never forget my feelings when he asked me the following questions, which I answered as I had been directed. "Who do you believe in?" "God." "How many persons are there in God?" "Three; the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." "What world have you lately left?" "The world of sin and Satan." "Do you wish to go back and live with your father?" "No Sir." "Do you think you can live all your life with us." "I think I can, sir." He then said, "You will not fare any better than you have hitherto, and perhaps not as well." It was with the greatest difficulty that I could control my feelings sufficiently to answer this last question. But remembering what the Abbess had told me, I suppressed my tears, and choked down the rising sob. Surely those men must have known that I was telling a falsehood--that the profession I made was not in accordance with my real sentiments. For myself, I then felt, and still feel that the guilt was not mine. The sin did not rest with me. The Bishop was then told to hear my confession, after which, a priest took some ointment from a small box, and rubbed it on my forehead, and another priest came with a towel and wiped it off. I was then taken back to St. Bridget, with whom I remained, as long as I was in the White Nunnery. On my tenth birthday, the Bishop came to the Abbess very early in the morning, and informed her that I was to take the White Veil that day, and immediately after the ceremony, I would leave for the Grey Nunnery in Montreal. He desired her to make all the necessary preparation, and take her leave of me, as she would not see me again. This was sad news for us both, for I felt that she was my only friend, and I knew that she felt for me, the most sincere affection. She gave me much good advice in reference to my future conduct, and with tears exhorted me to be kind, cheerful, and obedient. I was going to a new place, she said, and if I was a good girl, and sought to please my superiors, I would find some one to be kind to me. She advised me to try and appear contented in whatever situation I might be placed, and above all other considerations, never disobey the least command. "Obedience," she again repeated, "is the rule in all convents, and it will be better for you to obey at once, and cheerfully, and willingly comply with every request, than to incur displeasure and perhaps punishment, by any appearance of reluctance or hesitation. If there is any one thing that you dislike to do, be sure that you do not betray your feelings, for if you do, that will be the very thing they will require of you; and I assure you, if you once become the object of suspicion or dislike, your condition will be anything but agreeable. You will be marked and watched, and required to do many unpleasant things, to say the least. Therefore I hope you will perform all your duties with a cheerful and willing spirit." Bitterly did I grieve at the thought of being separated from the only being on earth who seemed to care for me. In the anguish of the moment, I wished I might die. St. Bridget reproved me, saying encouragingly that death was the coward's refuge, sought only by those who had not the resolution to meet, endure, or overcome the trials of life. She exhorted me to courage, perseverance and self denial, saying that if I fought life's battle bravely, I would have my reward. She changed all my clothes, and assisted me to put on a white dress and cape, and a white cap and veil. She then gave me a card of good behavior, embraced me for the last time, and led me out to the Bishop, who was waiting to conduct me to the chapel where the ceremony was to be performed. I there met ten other little girls, who, like myself, were compelled to take upon themselves vows they did not understand, and thus, by an apparently voluntary act, consign themselves to slavery for life. They were all strangers to me, sent here, as I afterwards learned, from some nunnery in Ireland, where they had friends who were too solicitous for their welfare. The priests do not wish the nuns to see friends from the world, and they will frame almost any plausible excuse to prevent it. But when the friends become too urgent, as they sometimes do, and their inventive powers are taxed too severely, or if the task of furnishing so many excuses become too irksome, the poor hapless victims are sent off to some other nunnery, and the friends are told that they were not contented, and wished to go to some other place, and that they, generous creatures that they are, have at length, after much solicitation, kindly consented to their removal. And this too, when they know that these very girls are grieving their lives away, for a sight of those dear friends, who, they are confidently assured, are either dead, or have entirely forgotten them! Can the world of woe itself furnish deceit of a darker dye? The Bishop led me up to the altar, and put a lighted candle into my hand. He then went under the altar, on which a lighted candle was placed, and soon returned followed by two little boys whom they called apostles. They held, each, a lighted torch with which they proceeded to light two more candles. On a table near the altar, stood a coffin, and soon two priests entered, bearing another coffin, which they placed beside the other. A white cloth was spread over them, and burning candles placed at the head and foot. These movements frightened me exceedingly, for I thought they were going to kill me. Forgetting in my terror that I was not allowed to speak, I asked the Bishop if he was going to kill me. "Kill you!" he exclaimed, "O no; don't be frightened; I shall not hurt you in the least. But it is our custom, when a nun takes the veil, to lay her in a coffin to show that she is dead to the world. Did not St. Bridget tell you this?" I told him she did not, but I did not dare to tell him that I supposed she felt so bad when she found I must leave her, that she entirely forgot it. He then asked very pleasantly, which of the two coffins I liked the best, saying I could have my choice. I replied, "I have no choice." This was true, for although he assured me to the contrary, I still believed he was about to kill me, and I cared very little about my coffin. They were both large enough for a grown person, and beautifully finished, with a large silver plate on the lid. The Bishop took me up in his arms, and laid me in one of them, and bade me close my eyes. I lay in that coffin a long time, as it seemed to me, without the least motion. I was so much alarmed, I felt as though I could not even lift a finger. Meantime the Bishop and priests read alternately from a book, but in a language I could not understand. Occasionally they would come and feel my hands and feet, and say to each other, "She is very cold." I believe they were afraid I should die in their hands, of fear. When at last they took me up, they told me that I would carry that coffin to Montreal with me--that I would be laid in it when robed for the grave--and that my bones would moulder to dust in it. I shall never forget the impression these words made on my mind. There was something so horrible in the thought of carrying a coffin about with me all my life, constantly reminding me of the shortness of time, and the sure approach of death, I could not endure it. Gladly would I have left it, costly and elegant as it was, choosing rather to run the risk of being buried without one, but this was not allowed. I could have no choice in the matter. These ceremonies concluded. I was taken to a small room, and a woman assisted me to change my clothes again, and put on the Grey Nunnery suit. This consisted of a grey dress and shoes, and a black cap. Each nunnery has a peculiar dress which every nun is required to wear. Thus, on meeting one of them, it is very easy to tell what establishment she belongs to, and a run-away is easily detected. On leaving the chapel, I was taken to the steamboat, with the other ten girls, accompanied by a priest. Our coffins were packed in cotton, and placed on the boat with us. On our arrival at Montreal, we found a priest and two nuns waiting for us to conduct us to the nunnery. CHAPTER VI. THE GREY NUNNERY. The Grey Nunnery is situated on St. Paul Street, Montreal. It is four stories high, besides the basement. It occupies a large space of ground, I do not know how much, but it is a very extensive building. The roof is covered with tin, with a railing around it, finished at the top with sharp points that look like silver, about a foot in length, and three feet apart. Over the front door there is a porch covered with a profusion of climbing plants, which give it a beautiful appearance. The building stands in a large yard, surrounded on all sides by a high fence, so high indeed, that people who pass along the street can see no part of the nunnery except the silver points on the roof. The top of this fence is also finished with long iron spikes. Every thing around the building seems expressly arranged to keep the inmates in, and intruders out. In fact it would be nearly impossible for any one to gain a forcible or clandestine admittance to any part of the establishment. There are several gates in the fence, how many I do not know, but the front gate opens on St. Ann Street. Over each of the gates hangs a bell, connected with the bells in the rooms of the Superior and Abbesses, which ring whenever the gate is opened. There is always a guard of two men at each gate, who walk up and down with guns upon their shoulders. While attempting to give a brief description of this building, I may as well say that it is constructed with non-conductors between the walls, so that the ringing of a bell, or the loudest shriek, could not be heard from one room to the other. The reader will please bear this in mind, as the reason for the precaution will appear in the course of my narrative. The priest, who met us as we left the boat, conducted us to the front door and rang the bell. Soon a lady appeared, who drew a slide in the middle of the door, exposing one pane of glass. Through this she looked, to see who was there, and when satisfied on this point, opened the door. Here let me remark, that since I left the nunnery, I have heard of another class of people who find it convenient to have a slide in their door; and if I am not very much mistaken, the character of the two houses, or rather the people who live in them, are very much alike, whether they are nunneries of private families, Catholics or Protestants. Honest people have no need of a slide in the door, and where there is so much precaution, may we not suppose that something behind the curtain imperatively calls for it? It is an old adage, but true notwithstanding, that "where there is concealment, there must be something wrong." In the hall opposite the front door were two other doors, with a considerable space between them. The right hand door was opened by the door-tender, and we entered a room furnished in the plainest manner, but every thing was neat, and in perfect order. Instead of chairs, on two sides of the room a long bench was fastened to the sides of the house. They were neither painted, nor cushioned, but were very white, as was also the floor, on which there was no carpet. Beside the door stood a basin of holy water, and directly opposite, an image of the Saviour extended on the cross which they call a crucifix. Here we were left a few moments, then the door-keeper came back, and asked us if we would like to see the Black Cloisters; and if so, to follow her. She led us back into the hall, and in the space between the two doors that I mentioned, she unlocked a bar, and pulling it down, touched a spring, and immediately a little square door slid back into the ceiling. Across this door, or window or whatever they called it, were strong bars of iron about one inch apart. Through this aperture we were allowed to look, and a sad sight met my eyes. As many as fifty disconsolate looking ladies were sitting there, who were called Black Nuns, because they were preparing to take the Black Veil. They were all dressed in black, a black cap on the head, and a white bandage drawn across the forehead, to which another was attached, that passed under the chin. These bandages they always wore, and were not allowed to lay aside. They sat, each one with a book in her hand, motionless as so many statues. Not a finger did they move, not an eye was raised, but they sat gazing upon the page before them as intently as though life itself depended upon it. Our guide informed us that they were studying the [footnote] Black Book preparatory to taking the Black Veil and entering the Cloister. This book was quite a curiosity. It was very large, with a white cover, and around the edge a black border about an inch wide. [Footnote: "The Black Book, or Praxis Sacra Romance Inquisitionis, is always the model for that which is to succeed it. This book is a large manuscript volume, in folio, and is carefully preserved by the head of the Inquisition. It is called Libro Nero, the Black Book, because it has a cover of that color; or, as an inquisitor explained to me, Libro Necro, which, in the Greek language, signifies 'The book of the dead.' "In this book is the criminal code, with all the punishments for every supposed crime; also the mode of conducting the trial, so as to elicit the guilt of the accused; and the manner of receiving accusations. I had this book in my hand on one occasion, and read therein the proceedings relative to my own case; and I moreover saw in this same volume some very astounding particulars; for example, in the list of punishments I read concerning the bit, or as it is called by us THE MORDACCHIA, which is a very simple contrivance to confine the tongue, and compress it between two cylinders composed of iron and wood and furnished with spikes. This horrible instrument not only wounds the tongue and occasions excessive pain, but also, from the swelling it produces; frequently places the sufferer in danger of suffocation. This torture is generally had recourse to in cases considered as blasphemy against God, the Virgin, the Saints, or the Pope. So that according to the Inquisition, it is as great a crime to speak disparagingly of a pope, who may be a very detestable character, as to blaspheme the holy name of God. Be that as it may, this torture has been in use till the present period; and, to say nothing of the exhibitions of this nature which were displayed in Romanga, in the time of Gregory 16th., by the Inquisitor Ancarani--in Umbria by Stefanelli, Salva, and others, we may admire the inquisitorial seal of Cardinal Feretti, the cousin of his present holiness, who condescended more than once to employ these means when he was bishop of Rieti and Fermo." Dealings with the Inquisition, by the Rev. Giacinto Achilli D. D., late Prior and Visitor of the Dominican Order, Head Professor of Theology and Vicar of the master of the Sacred Apostolic Palace, etc., etc., page 81.] Our curiosity being satisfied as far as possible, we returned to the side room, where we waited long for the lady Superior. When at length she came, she turned to me first, as I sat next the door, and asked me if I had anything to show in proof of my former good character. I gave her my card; she looked at it, and led me to the other side of the room. The same question was asked of every girl in turn, when it was found that only four beside myself had cards of good behavior. The other six presented cards which she said were for bad behavior. They were all placed together on the other side of the room; and as the Superior was about to lead them away, one of them came towards us saying that she did not wish to stay with those girls, she would rather go with us. The Superior drew her back, and replied, "No, child; you cannot go with those good girls; you would soon learn them some of your naughty ways. If you will do wrong, you must take the consequences." Then, seeing that the child really felt very bad, she said, in a kinder tone, "When you learn to do right, you shall be allowed to go with good girls, but not before." I pitied the poor child, and for a long time I hoped to see her come to our room; but she never came. They were all led off together, and that was the last I ever saw of any of them. I was taken, with the other four girls, to a room on the second floor. Here we found five cribs, one for each of us, in which we slept. Our food was brought to us regularly, consisting of one thin slice of fine wheat bread for each of us, and a small cup of milk. It was only in the morning, however, that the milk was allowed us, and for dinner and supper we had a slice of bread and a cup of water. This was not half enough to satisfy our hunger; but we could have no more. For myself I can say that I was hungry all the time, and I know the others were also; but we could not say so to each other. We were in that room together five weeks, yet not one word passed between us. We did sometimes smile, or shake our heads, or make some little sign, though even this was prohibited, but we never ventured to speak. We were forbidden to do so, on pain of severe punishment; and I believe we were watched all the time, and kept there, for a trial of our obedience. We were employed in peeling a soft kind of wood for beds, and filling the ticks with it. We were directed to make our own beds, keep our room in the most perfect order, and all our work in the middle of the floor. The Superior came up every morning to see that we were thoroughly washed, and every Saturday she was very particular to have our clothes and bed linen all changed. As every convenience was provided in our rooms or the closets adjoining, we were not obliged to go out for anything, and for five weeks I did not go out of that room. My bed was then brought from Quebec, and we were moved to a large square room, with four beds in it, only two of which were occupied. We were then sent to the kitchen, where in future, we were to be employed in cleaning sauce, scouring knives and forks, and such work as we were able to do. As we grew older, our tasks were increased with our strength. I had no regular employment, but was called upon to do any of the drudgery that was to be done about the house. The Superior came to the kitchen every morning after prayers and told us what to do through the day. Then, in her presence we were allowed five minutes conversation, a priest also being present. For the rest of the day we kept a profound silence, not a word being spoken by any of us unless in answer to a question from some of our superiors. In one part of the building there was a school for young ladies, who were instructed in the various branches of education usually taught in Catholic schools. Many of the scholars boarded at the nunnery, and all the cooking and washing was done in the kitchen. We also did the cooking for the saloons in Montreal. If this did not keep us employed, there were corn brooms and brushes to make, and thus every moment was fully occupied. Not a moment of leisure, no rest, no recreation, but hard labor, and the still more laborious religious exercises, filled up the time. It was sometimes very annoying to me to devote so many hours to mere external forms; for I felt, even when very young, that they were of little worth. But it was a severe trial to our temper to make so many pies, cakes, puddings, and all kinds of rich food, which we were never allowed to taste. The priests, superiors, and the scholars had every luxury they desired; but the nuns, who prepared all their choice dainties, were never permitted to taste anything but bread and water. I am well aware that this statement will seem incredible, and that many will doubt the truth of it; but I repeat it: the nuns in the Grey Nunnery, or at least those in the kitchen with me, were allowed no food except bread and water, or, in case of illness, water gruel. CHAPTER VII. ORPHAN'S HOME. The Grey Nunnery is said to be an orphan's home, and no effort is spared to make visitors believe that this is the real character of the house. I suppose it is true that one part of it is devoted to this purpose; at least my Superior informed me that many children were kept there; and to those apartments visitors are freely admitted, but never to that part occupied by the nuns. We were never allowed to communicate with people from the world, nor with the children. In fact, during all the time I was there, I never saw one of them, nor did I ever enter the rooms where they were. In the ladies' school there were three hundred scholars, and in our part of the house two hundred and fifty nuns, besides the children who belonged to the nunnery. Add to these the abbesses, superiors, priests, and bishop, and one will readily imagine that the work for such a family was no trifling affair. In this nunnery the Bishop was the highest authority, and everything was under his direction, unless the Pope's Nuncio, or some other high church functionary was present. I sometimes saw one whom they called the Archbishop, who was treated with great deference by the priests, and even by the Bishop himself. The Holy Mother, or Lady Superior, has power over all who have taken or are preparing to take the veil. Under her other superiors or abbesses are appointed over the various departments, whose duty it is to look after the nuns and novices, and the children in training for nuns. The most rigid espionage is kept up throughout the whole establishment; and if any of these superiors or abbesses fail to do the duty assigned them, they are more severely punished than the nuns. Whenever the Lady Superior is absent the punishments are assigned by one of the priests. Of these there were a large number in the nunnery; and whenever we chanced to meet one of them, as we sometimes did when going about the house, or whenever one of them entered the kitchen, we must immediately fall upon our knees. No matter what we were doing, however busily employed, or however inconvenient it might be, every thing must be left or set aside, that this senseless ceremony might be performed. The priest must be honored, and woe to the poor nun who failed to move with sufficient alacrity; no punishment short of death itself was thought too severe for such criminal neglect. Sometimes it would happen that I would be engaged in some employment with my back to the door, and not observe the entrance of a priest until the general movement around me would arrest my attention; then I would hasten to "make my manners," as the ceremony was called; but all too late. I had been remiss in duty, and no excuse would avail, no apology be accepted, no forgiveness granted; the dreaded punishment must come. While the nuns are thus severely treated, the priests, and the Holy Mother live a very easy life, and have all the privileges they wish. So far as the things of this world are concerned, they seem to enjoy themselves very well. But I have sometimes wondered if conscience did not give them occasionally, an unpleasant twinge; and from some things I have seen, I believe, that with many of them, this is the fact. They may try to put far from them all thoughts of a judgment to come, yet I do believe that their slumbers are sometimes disturbed by fearful forebodings of a just retribution which may, after all, be in store for them. But whatever trouble of mind they may have, they do not allow it to interfere with their worldly pleasures, and expensive luxuries. They have money enough, go when, and where they please, eat the richest food and drink the choicest wines. In short, if sensual enjoyment was the chief end of their existence, I do not know how they could act otherwise. The Abbesses are sometimes allowed to go out, but not unless they have a pass from one of the priests, and if, at any time, they have reason to suspect that some one is discontented, they will not allow any one to go out of the building without a careful attendant. My Superior here, as in the White Nunnery, was very kind to me. I sometimes feared she would share the fate of Father Darity, for she had a kind heart, and was guilty of many benevolent acts, which, if known, would have subjected her to very serious consequences. I became so much attached to her, that my fears for her were always alarmed when she called me her good little girl, or used any such endearing expression. The sequel of my story will show that my fears were not unfounded; but let me not anticipate. Sorrows will thicken fast enough, if we do not hasten them. I lived with this Superior one year before I was consecrated, and it was, comparatively, a happy season. I was never punished unless it was to save me from less merciful hands; and then I would be shut up in a closet, or some such simple thing. The other four girls who occupied the room with me, were consecrated at the same time. The Bishop came to our room early one morning, and took us to the chapel. At the door we were made to kneel, and then crawl on our hands and knees to the altar, where sat a man, who we were told, was the Archbishop. Two little boys came up from under the altar, with the vesper lamp to burn incense. I suppose they were young Apostles, for they looked very much like those we had seen at the White Nunnery, and were dressed in the same manner. The Bishop turned his back, and they threw incense on his head and shoulders, until he was surrounded by a cloud of smoke. He bowed his head, smote upon his breast, and repeated something in latin, or some other language, that we did not understand. We were told to follow his example, and did so, as nearly as possible. This ceremony over, the Bishop told us to go up on to the altar on our knees, and when this feat was performed to his satisfaction, he placed a crown of thorns upon each of our heads. These crowns were made of bands of some firm material, which passed over the head and around the forehead. On the inside thorns were fastened, with the points downward, so that a very slight pressure would cause them to pierce the skin. This I suppose is intended to imitate the crown of thorns which our Saviour wore upon the cross. But what will it avail them to imitate the crucifixion and the crown of thorns, while justice and mercy are so entirely neglected? What will it avail to place a crown of thorns upon a child's head, or to bid her kneel before the image of the Saviour, or travel up stairs on her knees, while the way of salvation by Christ is never explained to her; while of real religion, holiness of heart, and purity of life she is as ignorant as the most benighted, degraded heathen? Is it rational to suppose that the mere act of repeating a prayer can heal the wounded spirit, or give peace to a troubled conscience? Can the most cruel penance remove the sense of guilt, or whisper hope to the desponding soul? Ah, no! I have tried it long enough to speak with absolute certainty. For years I practiced these senseless mummeries, and if there were any virtue, in them, I should, most certainly have discovered it. But I know full well, and my reader knows that they cannot satisfy the restless yearnings of the immortal mind. They may delude the vulgar, but they cannot dispel the darkness of the tomb, they cannot lead a soul to Christ. On leaving the chapel after the ceremony, I found a new Superior, waiting for us at the door to conduct us to our rooms. We were all very much surprised at this, but she informed us that our old Superior died that morning, that she was already buried, and she had come to take her place. I could not believe this story, for she came to us as usual that morning, appeared in usual health, though always very pale, and made no complaint, or exhibited any signs of illness. She told us in her kind and pleasant way that we were to be consecrated, gave us a few words of advice, but said nothing about leaving us, and I do not believe she even thought of such a thing. Little did I think, when she left us, that I was never to see her again. But so it was. In just two hours and a half from that time, we were told that she was dead and buried, and another filled her place! A probable story, truly! I wonder if they thought we believed it! But whether we did or not, that was all we could ever know about it. No allusion was ever made to the subject, and nuns are not allowed to ask questions. However excited we might feel, no information could we seek as to the manner of her death. Whether she died by disease, or by the hand of violence; whether her gentle spirit peacefully winged its way to the bosom of its God, or was hastily driven forth upon the dagger's point, whether some kind friend closed her eyes in death, and decently robed her cold limbs for the grave, or whether torn upon the agonizing rack, whether she is left to moulder away in some dungeon's gloom, or thrown into the quickly consuming fire, we could never know. These, and many other questions that might have been asked, will never be answered until the last great day, when the grave shall give up its dead, and, the prison disclose its secrets. After the consecration we were separated, and only one of the girls remained with me. The others I never saw again. We were put into a large room, where were three beds, one large and two small ones. In the large bed the Superior slept, while I occupied one of the small beds and the other little nun the other. Our new Superior was very strict, and we were severely punished for the least trifle--such, for instance, as making a noise, either in our own room or in the kitchen. We might not even smile, or make motions to each other, or look in each other's face. We must keep our eyes on our work or on the floor, in token of humility. To look a person full in the face was considered an unpardonable act of boldness. On retiring for the night we were required to lie perfectly motionless. We might not move a hand or foot, or even a finger. At twelve the bell rang for prayers, when we must rise, kneel by our beds, and repeat prayers until the second bell, when we again retired to rest. On cold winter nights these midnight prayers were a most cruel penance. It did seem as though I should freeze to death. But live or die, the prayers must be said, and the Superior was always there to see that we were not remiss in duty. If she slept at all I am sure it must have been with one eye open, for she saw everything. But if I obeyed in this thing, I found it impossible to lie as still as they required; I would move when I was asleep without knowing it. This of course could not be allowed, and for many weeks I was strapped down to my bed every night, until I could sleep without the movement of a muscle. I was very anxious to do as nearly right as possible, for I thought if they saw that I strove with all my might to obey, they would perhaps excuse me if I did fail to conquer impossibilities. In this, however, I was disappointed; and I at length became weary of trying to do right, for they would inflict severe punishments for the most trifling accident. In fact, if I give anything like a correct account of my convent life, it will be little else than a history of punishments. Pains, trials, prayers, and mortifications filled up the time. Penance was the rule, to escape it the exception. I neglected at the proper time to state what name was given me when I took the veil; I may therefore as well say in this place that my convent name was Sister Agnes. CHAPTER VIII. CONFESSION AND SORROW OF NO AVAIL. It was a part of my business to wait upon the priests in their rooms, carry them water, clean towels, wine-glasses, or anything they needed. When entering a priest's room it was customary for a child to knock twice, an adult four times, and a priest three times. This rule I was very careful to observe. Whenever a priest opened the door I was required to courtesy, and fall upon my knees; but if it was opened by one of the waiters this ceremony was omitted. These waiters were the boys I have before mentioned, called apostles. It was also a part of my business to wait upon them, carry them clean frocks, etc. One day I was carrying a pitcher of water to one of the priests, and it being very heavy, it required both my hands and nearly all my strength to keep it upright. On reaching the door, however, I attempted to hold it with one hand (as I dare not set it down), while I rapped with the other. In so doing I chanced to spill a little water on the floor. Just at that moment the door was opened by the priest himself, and when he saw the water he was very angry. He caught me by the arm and asked what punishment he should inflict upon me for being so careless. I attempted to explain how it happened, told him it was an accident, that I was very sorry, and would try to be more careful in future. But I might as well have said that I was glad, and would do so again, for my confession, sorrow, and promises of future obedience were entirely thrown away, and might as well have been kept for some one who could appreciate the feeling that prompted them. He immediately led me out of his room, it being on the second floor, and down into the back yard. Here, in the centre of the gravel walk, was a grate where they put down coal. This grate he raised and bade me go down. I obeyed, and descending a few steps found myself in a coal cellar, the floor being covered with it for some feet in depth. On this we walked some two rods, perhaps, when the priest stopped, and with a shovel that stood near cleared away the coal and lifted a trap door. Through this we descended four or five steps, and proceeded along a dark, narrow passage, so low we could not stand erect, and the atmosphere so cold and damp it produced the most uncomfortable sensations. By the light of a small lantern which the priest carried in his hand, I was enabled to observe on each side the passage small doors, a few feet apart, as far as I could see. Some of them were open, others shut, and the key upon the outside. In each of these doors there was a small opening, with iron bars across it, through which the prisoner received food, if allowed to have any. One of these doors I was directed to enter, which I did with some difficulty, the place being so low, and I was trembling with cold and fear. The priest crawled in after me and tied me to the back part of the cell, leaving me there in midnight darkness, and locking the door after him. I could hear on all sides, as it seemed to me, the sobs, groans, and shrieks of other prisoners, some of whom prayed earnestly for death to release them from their sufferings. For twenty-four hours I was left to bear as I best could the pains and terrors of cold, hunger, darkness, and fatigue. I could neither sit or lie down, and every one knows how very painful it is to stand upon the feet a long time, even when the position can be slightly changed; how much more so when no change can be effected, but the same set of muscles kept continually on the stretch for the space of twenty-four hours! Moreover, I knew not how long I should be kept there. The other prisoners, whose agonizing cries fell upon my ears, were evidently suffering all the horrors of starvation. Was I to meet a fate like this? Were those terrible sufferings in reserve for me? How could I endure them? And then came the thought so often present with me while in the convent, "If there is a God in heaven, why does He permit such things? What have I done that I should become the victim of such cruelty? God of mercy!" I involuntarily exclaimed, "save me from this terrible death." My prayer was heard, my petition granted. At the close of twenty-four hours, the Lady Superior came and released me from my prison, told me to go to the priest and ask his forgiveness, and then go to my work in the kitchen. I was very faint and weak from my long fast, and I resolved never to offend again. I verily thought I could be careful enough to escape another such punishment. But I had not been in the kitchen one hour, when I chanced to let a plate fall upon the floor. It was in no way injured, but I had broken the rules by making a noise, and the Superior immediately reported me to the priest. He soon appeared with his bunch of keys and a dark lantern in his hand. He took me by the ear which he pinched till he brought tears to my eyes, saying, "You don't try to do well, and I'll make you suffer the consequences." I did not reply, for I had learned that to answer a priest, or seek to vindicate myself, or even to explain how things came to be so, was in itself a crime, to be severely punished. However unjust their treatment, or whatever my feelings might be, I knew it was better to suffer in silence. Unlocking a door that opened out of the kitchen, and still keeping hold of my ear, he led me into a dark, gloomy hall, with black walls, and opening a door on the right, he bade me enter. This room was lighted by a candle, and around the sides, large iron hooks with heavy chains attached to them, were driven into the wall. At the back part of the room, he opened the door, and bade me enter a small closet. He then put a large iron ring over my head, and pressed it down upon my shoulders. Heavy weights were placed in my hands, and I was told to stand up straight, and hold them fifteen minutes. This I could not do. Had my life depended upon the effort, I could not have stood erect, with those weights in my hands. The priest, however, did not reprove me. Perhaps he saw that I exerted all my strength to obey, for he took out his watch, and slowly counted the minutes as they passed. Ere a third part of the time expired, he was obliged to release me, for the blood gushed from my nose and mouth, and I began to feel faint and dizzy. The irons were removed, and the blood ceased to flow. I was then taken to another room, lighted like the other, but it was damp and cold, and pervaded by a strong, fetid, and very offensive odor. The floor was of wood, and badly stained with blood. At least, I thought it was blood, but there was not light enough to enable me to say positively what it was. In the middle of the room, stood two long tables, on each of which, lay a corpse, covered with a white cloth. The priest led me to these tables, removed the cloth and bade me look upon the face of the dead. They were very much emaciated, and the features, even in death, bore the impress of terrible suffering. We stood there a few moments, when he again led me back to his own room. He then asked me what I thought of what I had seen. Having taken no food for more than twenty-four hours, I replied, "I am so hungry, I can think of nothing else." "How would you like to eat those dead bodies?" he asked. "I would starve, Sir, before I would do it," I replied. "Would you?" said he, with a slight sneer. "Yes indeed," I exclaimed, striving to suppress my indignant feelings. "What! eat the flesh of a corpse? You do not mean it. I would starve to death first!" Frightened at my own temerity in speaking so boldly, I involuntarily raised my eye. The peculiar smile upon his face actually chilled my blood with terror. He did not, however, seem to notice me, but said, "Do not be too sure; I have seen others quite as sure as you are, yet they were glad to do it to save their lives; and remember," he added significantly, "you will do it too if you are not careful." He then ordered me to return to the kitchen. At ten o'clock in the morning, the nuns had a slice of bread and cup of water; but, as I had been fasting, they gave me a bowl of gruel, composed of indian meal and water, with a little salt. A poor dinner this, for a hungry person, but I could have no more. At eleven, we went to mass in the chapel as usual. It was our custom to have mass every day, and I have been told that this is true of all Romish establishments. Returning to my work in the kitchen, I again resolved that I would be so careful, that, in future they should have no cause for complaint For two days I succeeded. Yes, for two whole days, I escaped punishment. This I notice as somewhat remarkable, because I was generally punished every day, and sometimes two or three times in a day. On the third morning, I was dusting the furniture in the room occupied by the priest above mentioned, who treated me so cruelly. The floor being uncarpeted, in moving the chairs I chanced to make a slight noise, although I did my best to avoid it. He immediately sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "You careless dog! What did you do that for?" Then taking me by the arms, he gave me a hard shake, saying, "Have I not told you that you would be punished, if you made a noise? But I see how it is with you; your mind is on the world, and you think more of that, than you do of the convent. But I shall punish you until you do your duty better." He concluded this choice speech by telling me to "march down stairs." Of course, I obeyed, and he followed me, striking me on the head at every step, with a book he held in his hand. I thought to escape some of the blows, and hastened along, but all in vain; he kept near me and drove me before him into the priests sitting-room. He then sent for three more priests, to decide upon my punishment. A long consultation they held upon "this serious business," as I sneeringly thought it, but the result was serious in good earnest, I assure you. For the heinous offence of making a slight noise I was to have dry peas bound upon my knees, and then be made to crawl to St. Patrick's church, through an underground passage, and back again. This church was situated on a hill, a little more than a quarter of a mile from the convent. Between the two buildings, an under-ground passage had been constructed, just large enough to allow a person to crawl through it on the hands and knees. It was so low, and narrow, that it was impossible either to rise, or turn around; once within that passage there was no escape, but to go on to the end. They allowed me five hours to go and return; and to prove that I had really been there, I was to make a cross, and two straight lines, with a bit of chalk, upon a black-board that I should find at the end. O, the intolerable agonies I endured on that terrible pathway! Any description that I can give, will fail to convey the least idea of the misery of those long five hours. It may, perchance, seem a very simple mode of punishment, but let any one just try it, and they will be convinced that it was no trifling thing. At the end, I found myself in a cellar under the church, where there was light enough to enable me to find the board and the chalk. I made the mark according to orders, and then looked around for some means of escape. Alas! There was none to be found. Strong iron bars firmly secured the only door, and a very slight examination convinced me that my case was utterly hopeless. I then tried to remove the peas from my swollen, bleeding limbs, but this, too, I found impossible. They were evidently fastened by a practised hand; and I was, at length, compelled to believe that I must return as I came. I did return; but O, how, many times I gave up in despair, and thought I could go no further! How many times did I stretch myself on the cold stones, in such bitter agony, that I could have welcomed death as a friend and deliverer! What would I not have given for one glass of cold water, or even for a breath of fresh air! My limbs seemed on fire, and while great drops of perspiration fell from my face, my throat and tongue were literally parched with thirst. But the end came at last, and I found the priest waiting for me at the entrance. He seemed very angry, and said, "You have been gone over your time. There was no need of it; you could have returned sooner if you had chosen to do so, and now, I shall punish you again, for being gone so long." At first, his reproaches grieved me, for I had done my best to please him, and I did so long for one word of sympathy, it seemed for a moment, as though my heart would break. Had he then spoken one kind word to me, or manifested the least compassion for my sufferings, I could have forgiven the past, and obeyed him with feelings of love and gratitude for the future. Yes, I would have done anything for that man, if I could have felt that he had the least pity for me; but when he said he should punish me again, my heart turned to stone. Every tender emotion vanished, and a fierce hatred, a burning indignation, and thirst for revenge, took possession of my soul. CHAPTER IX. ALONE WITH THE DEAD. The priest removed the peas from my limbs, and led me to a tomb under the chapel, where he left me, with the consoling assurance that "THE DEAD WOULD RISE AND EAT ME!" This tomb was a large rectangular room, with shelves on three sides of it, on which were the coffins of priests and Superiors who had died in the nunnery. On the floor under the shelves, were large piles of human bones, dry and white, and some of them crumbling into dust. In the center of the room was a large tank of water, several feet in diameter, called St. Joseph's well. It occupied the whole center of the room leaving a very narrow pathway between that, and the shelves; so narrow, indeed, that I found it impossible to sit down, and exceedingly difficult to walk or even stand still. I was obliged to hold firmly by the shelves, to avoid slipping into the water which looked dark and deep. The priest said, when he left me, that if I fell in, I would drown, for no one could take me out. O, how my heart thrilled with superstitious terror when I heard the key turn in the lock, and realized that I was alone with the dead! And that was not the worst of it. They would rise and eat me! For a few hours I stood as though paralyzed with fear. A cold perspiration covered my trembling limbs, as I watched those coffins with the most painful and serious apprehension. Every moment I expected the fearful catastrophe, and even wondered which part they would devour first--whether one would come alone and thus kill me by inches, or whether they would all rise at once, and quickly make an end of me. I even imagined I could see the coffins move--that I heard the dead groan and sigh and even the sound of my own chattering teeth, I fancied to be a movement among the dry bones that lay at my feet. In the extremity of terror I shrieked aloud. But this I knew was utterly useless. Who would hear me? Or who would care if they did hear? I was surrounded by walls that no sound could penetrate, and if it could, it would fall upon ears deaf to the agonizing cry for mercy,--upon hearts that feel no sympathy for human woe. Some persons may be disposed to smile at this record of absurd and superstitions fear. But to me it was no laughing affair. Had not the priest said that the dead would rise and eat me? And did I not firmly believe that what he said was true? What! A priest tell a falsehood? Impossible. I thought it could not be; yet as hour after hour passed away, and no harm came to me, I began to exercise my reason a little, and very soon came to the conclusion that the priests are not the immaculate, infallible beings I had been taught to believe. Cruel and hard hearted, I knew them to be, but I did not suspect them of falsehood. Hitherto I had supposed it was impossible for them to do wrong, or to err in judgement; all their cruel acts being done for the benefit of the soul, which in some inexplicable way was to be benefited by the sufferings of the body. Now, however, I began to question the truth of many things I had seen and heard, and ere long I lost all faith in them, or in the terrible system of bigotry, cruelty and fraud, which they call religion. As the hours passed by and my fears vanished before the calm light of reason, I gradually gained sufficient courage to enable me to examine the tomb, thinking that I might perchance discover the body of my old Superior. For this purpose I accordingly commenced the circuit of the room, holding on by the shelves, and making my way slowly onward. One coffin I succeeded in opening, but the sight of the corpse so frightened me, I did not dare to open another. The room being brilliantly lighted with two large spermaceti candles at one end, and a gas burner at the other, I was enabled to see every feature distinctly. One of the nuns informed me that none but priests and Superiors are laid in that tomb. When these die in full communion with the church, the body is embalmed, and placed here, but it sometimes happens that a priest or Superior is found in the convent who does not believe all that is taught by the church of Rome. They desire to investigate the subject--to seek for more light--more knowledge of the way of salvation by Christ. This, with the Romanists is a great sin, and the poor hapless victim is at once placed under punishment. If they die in this condition, their bodies are cast out as heretics, but if they confess and receive absolution, they are placed in the tomb, but not embalmed. The flesh, of course, decays, and then the bones are thrown under the shelves. Never shall I forget how frightful those bones appeared to me, or the cold shudder that thrilled my frame at the sight of the numerous human skulls that lay scattered around. Twenty-four hours I spent in this abode of the dead, without rest or sleep. The attempt to obtain either would have been sheer madness, for the least mis-step, the least unguarded motion, or a slight relaxation of the firm grasp by which I held on to the shelves, would have plunged me headlong into the dark water, from which escape would have been impossible. For thirty hours I had not tasted food, and my limbs, mangled and badly swollen, were so stiff with long standing, that, when allowed to leave the tomb, I could hardly step. When the priest came to let me out, he seemed to think it necessary to say something to cover his attempt to deceive and frighten me, but he only made a bad matter worse. He said that after he left me, he thought he would try me once more, and see if I would not do my duty better; he had, therefore, WILLED THE DEAD NOT TO EAT ME! AND THEY, OBEDIENT TO HIS WILL, WERE COMPELLED TO LET ME ALONE! I did not reply to this absurd declaration, lest I should say something I ought not, and again incur his displeasure. Indeed, I was not expected to say anything, unless I returned thanks for his unparalleled kindness, and I was not hypocrite enough for that. I suppose he thought I believed all he said, but he was greatly mistaken. If I began to doubt his word while in the tomb, this ridiculous pretence only served to add contempt to unbelief, and from that time I regarded him as a deceiver, and a vile, unscrupulous, hypocritical pretender. It was with the greatest difficulty that I again made my way to the kitchen. I was never very strong, even when allowed my regular meals, for the quantity, was altogether insufficient, to satisfy the demands of nature; and now I had been so long without anything to eat, I was so weak, and my limbs so stiff and swollen, I could hardly stand. I managed, however, to reach the kitchen, when I was immediately seated at the table and presented with a bowl of gruel. O, what a luxury it seemed to me, and how eagerly did I partake of it! It was soon gone, and I looked around for a further supply. Another nun, who sat at the table with me, with a bowl of gruel before her, noticed my disappointment when I saw that I was to have no more. She was a stranger to me, and so pale and emaciated she looked more like a corpse than a living person. She had tasted a little of her gruel, but her stomach was too weak to retain it, and as soon as the Superior left us she took it up and poured the whole into my bowl, making at the same time a gesture that gave me to understand that it was of no use to her, and she wished me to eat it I did not wait for a second invitation, and she seemed pleased to see me accept it so readily. We dared not speak, but we had no difficulty in understanding each other. I had but just finished my gruel when the Superior came back and desired me to go up stairs and help tie a mad nun. I think she did this simply for the purpose of giving me a quiet lesson in convent life, and showing me the consequences of resistance or disobedience. She must have known that I was altogether incapable of giving the assistance she pretended to ask. But I followed her as fast as possible, and when she saw how difficult it was for me to get up stairs, she walked slowly and gave me all the time I wished for. She led me into a small room and closed the door. There I beheld a scene that called forth my warmest sympathy, and at the same time excited feelings of indignation that will never be subdued while reason retains her throne. In the center of the room sat a young girl, who could not have been more than sixteen years old; and a face and form of such perfect symmetry, such surpassing beauty, I never saw. She was divested of all her clothing except one under-garment, and her hands and feet securely tied to the chair on which she sat. A priest stood beside her, and as we entered he bade us assist him in removing the beds from the bedstead. They then took the nun from her chair and laid her on the bedcord. They desired me to assist them, but my heart failed me. I could not do it, for I was sure they were about to kill her; and as I gazed upon those calm, expressive features, so pale and sad, yet so perfectly beautiful, I felt that it would be sacrilege for me to raise my hand against nature's holiest and most exquisite work. I therefore assured them that I was too weak to render the assistance they required. At first they attempted to compel me to do it; but, finding that I was really very weak, and unwilling to use what strength I had, they at length permitted me to stand aside. When they extended the poor girl on the cord, she said, very quietly, "I am not mad, and you know that I am not." To this no answer was given, but they calmly proceeded with their fiendish work. One of them tied her feet, while the other fastened a rope across her neck in such a way that if she attempted to raise her head it would strangle her. The rope was then fastened under the bedcord, and two or three times over her person. Her arms were extended, and fastened in the same way. As she lay thus, like a lamb bound for the sacrifice, she looked up at her tormentors and said, "Will the Lord permit me to die in this cruel way?" The priest immediately exclaimed, in an angry tone, "Stop your talk, you mad woman!" and turning to me, he bade me go back to the kitchen. It is probable he saw the impression on my mind was not just what they desired, therefore he hurried me away. All this time the poor doomed nun submitted quietly to her fate. I suppose she thought it useless, yea, worse than useless, to resist; for any effort she might make to escape would only provoke them, and they would torment her the more. I presume she thought her last hour had come, and the sooner she was out of her misery the better. As for me, my heart was so filled with terror, anguish, and pity for her, I could hardly obey the command to leave the room. I attempted to descend the stairs, but was obliged to go very slowly on account of the stiffness of my limbs, and before I reached the bottom of the first flight the priest and the Superior came out into the hall. I heard them whispering together, and I paused to listen. This, I know, was wrong; but I could not help it, and I was so excited I did not realize what I was doing. My anxiety for that girl overpowered every other feeling. At first I could only hear the sound of their voices; but soon they spoke more distinctly, and I heard the words. "What shall we do with her? she will never confess." In an audible tone of voice, the other replied, "We had better finish her." How those words thrilled my soul! I knew well enough that they designed "to finish her," but to hear the purpose announced so coolly, it was horrible. Was there no way that I could save her? Must I stand there, and know that a fellow-creature was being murdered, that a young girl like myself, in all the freshness of youth and the fullness of health, was to be cut off in the very prime of life and numbered with the dead; hurried out of existence and plunged, unwept, unlamented, into darkness and silence? She had friends, undoubtedly, but they would never be allowed to know her sad fate, never shed a tear upon her grave! I could not endure the thought. I felt that if I lingered there another moment I should be in danger of madness myself; for I could not help her. I could not prevent the consummation of their cruel purpose; I therefore hastened away, and this was the last I ever heard of that poor nun. I had never seen her before, and as I did not see her clothes, I could not even tell whether she belonged to our nunnery or not. CHAPTER X. THE SICK NUN. On my return to the kitchen I found the sick nun sitting as we left her. She asked me, by signs, if we were alone. I told her she need not fear to speak, for the Superior was two flights of stairs above, and no one else was near. "Are they all away?" she whispered. I assured her that we were quite alone, that she had nothing to fear. She then informed me that she had been nine days under punishment, that when taken from the cell she could not stand or speak, and she was still too weak to walk without assistance. "O!" said she, and the big tears rolled over her cheeks as she said it, "I have not a friend in the world. You do not know how my heart longs for love, for sympathy and kindness." I asked if she had not parents, or friends, in the world. She replied, "I was born in this convent, and know no world but this. You see," she continued, with a sad smile, "what kind of friends I have here. O, if I HAD A FRIEND, if I could feel that one human being cares for me, I should get better. But it is so long since I heard a kind word--" a sob choked her utterance. I told her I would be a friend to her as far as I could. She thanked me; said she was well aware of the difficulties that lay in my way, for every expression of sympathy or kind feeling between the nuns was strictly forbidden, and if caught in anything of the kind a severe correction would follow. "But," said she "if you will give me a kind look sometimes, whenever you can do so with safety, it will be worth a great deal to me. You do not know the value of a kind look to a breaking heart." She wept so bitterly, I feared it would injure her health, and to divert her mind, I told her where I was born; spoke of my childhood, and of my life at the White Nunnery. She wiped away her tears, and replied, "I know all about it. I have heard the priests talk about you, and they say that your father is yet living, that your mother was a firm protestant, and that it will be hard for them to beat Catholicism into you. But I do not know how you came in that nunnery. Who put you there?" I told her that I was placed there by my father, when only six years old. "Is it possible?" she exclaimed, and then added passionately, "Curse your father for it." After a moments silence, she continued, "Yes, child; you have indeed cause to curse your father, and the day when you first entered the convent; but you do not suffer as much as you would if you had been born here, and were entirely dependent on them. They fear that your friends may sometime look after you; and, in case they are compelled to grant them an interview, they would wish them to find you in good health and contented; but if you had no influential friends outside the convent, you would find yourself much worse off than you are now." She then said she wished she could get some of the brandy from the cellar. Her stomach was so weak from long fasting, it would retain neither food or drink, and she thought the brandy would give it strength. She asked if I could get it for her. The idea frightened me at first, for I knew that if caught in doing it, I should be most cruelly punished, yet my sympathy for her at length overcame my fears, and I resolved to try, whatever might be the result. I accordingly went up stairs, ostensibly, to see if the Superior wanted me, but really, to find out where she was, and whether she would be likely to come down, before I could have time to carry out my plan. I trembled a little, for I knew that I was guilty of a great misdemeanor in thus boldly presenting myself to ask if I was wanted; but I thought it no very great sin to pretend that I thought she called me, for I was sure my motives were good, whatever they might think of them. I had been taught that "the end sanctifies the means," and I thought I should not be too hardly judged by the great searcher of hearts, if, for once, I applied it in my own way. I knocked gently at the door I had left but a few moments before. It was opened by the Superior, but she immediately stepped out, and closed it again, so that I had no opportunity to see what was passing within. She sternly bade me return to the kitchen, and stay there till she came down; a command I was quite ready to obey. In the kitchen there was a small cupboard, called the key cupboard, in which they kept keys of all sizes belonging to the establishment. They were hung on hooks, each one being marked with the name of the place to which it belonged. It was easy for me to find the key to the cellar, and having obtained it, I opened another cupboard filled with bottles and vials, where I selected one that held half a pint, placed it in a large pitcher, and hastened down stairs. I soon found a cask marked "brandy," turned the faucet, and filled the bottle. But my heart beat violently, and my hand trembled so that I could not hold it steady, and some of it ran over into the pitcher. It was well for me that I took this precaution, for if I had spilt it on the stone floor of the cellar, I should have been detected at once. I ran up stairs as quickly as possible, and made her drink what I had in the pitcher, though there was more of it than I should have given her under other circumstances; but I did not know what to do with it. If I put it in the fire, or in the sink, I thought they would certainly smell it, and, there was no other place, for I was not allowed to go out of doors. I then replaced the key, washed up my pitcher, and secreted the bottle of brandy in the waist of the nun's dress. This I could easily do, their dresses being made with a loose waist, and a large cape worn over them. I then began to devise some way to destroy the scent in the room. I could smell it very distinctly, and I knew that the Superior would notice it at once. After trying various expedients to no purpose, I at length remembered that I had once seen a dry rag set on fire for a similar purpose. I therefore took one of the cloths from the sink, and set it on fire, let it burn a moment, and threw it under the caldron. I was just beginning to congratulate myself on my success, when I saw that the nun appeared insensible, and about to fall from her chair. I caught her in my arms, and leaned her back in the chair, but I did not dare to lay her on the bed, without permission, even if I had strength to do it. I could only draw her chair to the side of the room, put a stick of wood under it, and let her head rest against the wall. I was very much frightened, and for a moment, thought she was dead. She was pale as a corpse, her eyes closed, and her mouth wide open. Had I really killed her? What if the Superior should find her thus? I soon found that she was not dead, for her heart beat regularly, and I began to hope she would get over it before any one came in. But just as the thought passed my mind, the door opened and the Superior appeared. Her first words were, "What have you been burning? What smells so?" I told her there was a cloth about the sink that I thought unfit for use, and I put it under the caldron. She then turned towards the nun and asked if she had fainted. I told her that I did not know, but I thought she was asleep, and if she wished me to awaken, and assist her to bed, I would do so. To this she consented, and immediately went up stairs again. Glad as I was of this permission, I still doubted my ability to do it alone, for I had little, very little strength; yet I resolved to do my best. It was long, however, before I could arouse her, or make her comprehend what I said, so entirely were her senses stupified with the brandy. When at length I succeeded in getting her upon her feet, she said she was sure she could not walk; but I encouraged her to help herself as much as possible, told her that I wished to get her away before any one came in, or we would be certainly found out and punished. This suggestion awakened her fears, and I at length succeeded in assisting her to bed. She was soon in a sound sleep, and I thought my troubles for that time were over. But I was mistaken. In my fright, I had quite forgotten the brandy in her dress. Somehow the bottle was cracked, and while she slept, the brandy ran over her clothes. The Superior saw it, and asked how she obtained it. Too noble minded to expose me, she said she drew it herself. I heard the Superior talking to a priest about it, and I thought they were preparing to punish her. I did not know what she had told them, but I did not think she would expose me, and I feared, if they punished her again, she would die in their hands. I therefore went to the Superior and told her the truth about it, for I thought a candid confession on my part might, perchance, procure forgiveness for the nun, if not for myself. But no; they punished us both; the nun for telling the lie, and me for getting the brandy. For two hours they made me stand with a crown of thorns on my head, while they alternately employed themselves in burning me with hot irons, pinching, and piercing me with needles, pulling my hair, and striking me with sticks. All this I bore very well, for I was hurt just enough to make me angry. When I returned to the kitchen again, the nun was sitting there alone. She shook her head at me, and by her gestures gave me to understand that some one was listening. She afterwards informed me that the Superior was watching us, to see if we would speak to each other when we met. I do not know how they punished her, but I heard a priest say that she would die if she suffered much more. Perhaps they thought the loss of that precious bottle of brandy was punishment enough. But I was glad I got it for her, for she had one good dose of it, and it did her good; her stomach was stronger, her appetite better, and in a few weeks she regained her usual health. One day, while at work as usual, I was called up stairs with the other nuns to see one die. She lay upon the bed, and looked pale and thin, but I could see no signs of immediate dissolution. Her voice was strong, and respiration perfectly natural, the nuns were all assembled in her room to see her die. Beside her stood a priest, earnestly exhorting her to confess her sins to him, and threatening her with eternal punishment if she refused. But she replied, "No, I will not confess to you. If, as you say, I am really dying, it is with my God I have to do; to him alone will I confess, for he alone can save." "If you do not confess to me," exclaimed the priest, "I will give you up to the devil." "Well," said she, "I stand in no fear of a worse devil than you are, and I am quite willing to leave you at any time, and try any other place; even hell itself cannot be worse. I cannot suffer more there than I have here." "Daughter," exclaimed the priest, with affected sympathy, "must I give you up? How can I see you go down to perdition? It is not yet too late. Confess your sins and repent." "I have already confessed my sins to God, and I shall confess to no one else. He alone can save me." Her manner of saying this was solemn but very decided. The priest saw that she would not yield to his wishes, and raising his voice, he exclaimed, "Then let the devil take you." Immediately the door opened, and a figure representing the Roman Catholic idea of his Satanic Majesty entered the room. He was very black, and covered with long hair, probably the skin of some wild animal. He had two long white tusks, two horns on his head, a large cloven foot, and a long tail that he drew after him on the floor. He looked so frightful, and recalled to my mind so vividly the figure that I saw at the White Nunnery, that I was very much frightened; still I did not believe it was really a supernatural being. I suspected that it was one of the priests dressed up in that way to frighten us, and I now know that such was the fact. But what of that? We all feared the priests quite as much as we should the Evil One himself, even if he should come to us in bodily shape, as they pretended he had done. Most of the nuns were very much frightened when they saw that figure walk up to the bedside, taking good care, however, to avoid the priest, he being so very holy it was impossible for an evil spirit to go near or even look at him. The priest then ordered us to return to the kitchen, for said he, "The devil has come for this nun's soul, and will take it with him," As we left the room I looked around on my companions and wondered if they believed this absurd story. I longed to ask them what they thought of it, but this was not allowed. All interchange of thought or feeling being strictly forbidden, we never ventured to speak without permission when so many of us were present, for some one was sure to tell of it if the least rule was broken. I was somewhat surprised at first that we were all sent to the kitchen, as but few of us were employed there; but we were soon called back again to look at the corpse. I was inexpressibly shocked at this summons, for I had not supposed it possible for her to die so soon. But she was dead; and that was all we could ever know about it. As we stood around the bed, the priest said she was an example of those in the world called heretics; that her soul was in misery, and would remain so forever; no masses or prayers could avail her then, for she could never be prayed out of hell. Sins like hers could never be forgiven. I continued to work in the kitchen as usual for many months after this occurrence, and for a few weeks the sick nun was there a great part of the time. Whenever we were alone, and sure that no one was near, we used to converse together, and a great comfort it was to us both. I felt that I had found in her one real friend, to sympathize with me in my grievous trials, and with whom I could sometimes hold communication without fear of betrayal. I had proved her, and found her faithful, therefore I did not fear to trust her. No one can imagine, unless they know by experience, how much pleasure we enjoyed in the few stolen moments that we spent together. I shall never forget the last conversation I had with her. She came and sat down where I was assisting another nun to finish a mat. She asked us if we knew what was going on in the house. "As I came from my room," said she, "I saw the priests and Superiors running along the halls, and they appeared so much excited, I thought something must be wrong. As they passed me, they told me to go to the kitchen, and stay there. What does it all mean?" Of course we did not know, for we had neither seen or heard anything unusual. "Well," said she, "they are all so much engaged up stairs, we can talk a little and not be overheard. I want to know something about the people in the world. Are they really cruel and cold-hearted, as the priests say they are? When you was in the world were they unkind to you?" "On the contrary," I replied, "I would gladly return to them again if I could get away from the convent. I should not be treated any worse, at all events, and I shall embrace the-first opportunity to go back to the world." "That is what I have always thought since I was old enough to think at all," said she, "and I have resolved a great many times to get away if possible. I suppose they tell us about the cruelty in the world just to frighten us, and prevent us from trying to escape. I am so weak now I do not suppose I could walk out of Montreal even if I should leave the convent. But if I ever get strong enough, I shall certainly try to escape from this horrible place. O, I could tell you things about this convent that would curdle the blood in your veins." The other nun said that she had been once in the world, and every one was kind to her. "I shall try to get out again, some day," said she, "but we must keep our resolutions to ourselves, for there is no one here, that we can trust. Those whom we think our best friends will betray us, if we give them a chance. I do believe that some of them delight in getting us punished." The sick nun said, "I have never exposed any one and I never will. I have the secrets of a great many hid in my breast, that nothing shall ever extort from me." Here she was interrupted, and soon left the room. I never saw her again. Whether she was under punishment, or was so fortunate as to make her escape, I do not know. As no questions could be asked, it was very little we could know of each other. If one of our number escaped, the fact was carefully concealed from the rest, and if she was caught and brought back, no one ever knew it, except those who had charge of her. The other nun who worked in the room with me, watched me very closely. Having heard me declare my intention to leave the first opportunity, she determined to go with me if possible. CHAPTER XI. THE JOY OF FREEDOM. At length the long sought opportunity arrived, and with the most extatic joy we fled from the nunnery. The girl I have before mentioned, who wished to go with me, and another nun, with whom I had no acquaintance, were left in the kitchen to assist me, in taking charge of the cooking, while the rest of the people were at mass in the chapel. A chance presented for us to get away, and we all fled together, leaving the cooking to take care of itself. We were assisted to get out of the yard, but how, or by whom, I can never reveal. Death, in its most terrible form would be the punishment for such an act of kindness, and knowing this, it would be the basest ingratitude for me to name the individual who so kindly assisted us in our perilous undertaking. How well do I remember the emotions that thrilled my soul when I found myself safely outside the walls of that fearful prison! The joy of freedom--the hope of ultimate success--the fear of being overtaken, and dragged back to misery or death, were considerations sufficiently exciting to agitate our spirits, and lend fleetness to our steps. With trembling limbs, and throbbing hearts we fled towards the St. Lawrence river. Following the tow-path, we hastened on for a few miles, when one of the nuns became exhausted, and said she could go no further. She was very weak when we started, and the excitement and fatigue produced serious illness. What should we do with her? We could not take her along with us, and if we stopped with her, we might all be taken and carried back. Must we leave her by the way-side? It was a fearful alternative, but what else could we do? With sad hearts we took her to a shed near by, and there we left her to her fate, whatever it might be; perchance to die there alone, or what was still worse, be carried back to the convent. It was indeed, a sorrowful parting, and we wept bitter tears together, as we bade her a last farewell. I never saw or heard from her again. We pursued our way along the tow-path for a short distance, when the canal boat came along. We asked permission to go upon the boat, and the captain kindly granted it, but desired us to be very still. He carried us twelve miles, and then proposed to leave us, as he exposed himself to a heavy fine by carrying us without a pass, and unattended by a priest or Superior. We begged him to take us as far as he went with the boat, and frankly told him our situation. Having no money to offer, we could only cast ourselves on his mercy, and implore his pity and assistance. He consented to take us as far as the village of Beauharnois, and there he left us. He did not dare take us further, lest some one might be watching for us, and find us on his boat. It was five o'clock in the morning when we left the boat, but it was a Roman Catholic village, and we did not dare to stop. All that day we pursued our way without food or drink, and at night we were tired and hungry. Arriving at a small village, we ventured to stop at the most respectable looking house, and asked the woman if she could keep us over night. She looked at us very attentively and said she could not. We did not dare to call again, for we knew that we were surrounded by those who would think they were doing a good work to deliver us up to the priests. Darkness came over the earth, but still weary and sleepy as we were, we pursued our lonely way. I will not repeat our bitter reflections upon a cold hearted world, but the reader will readily imagine what they were. Late in the evening, we came to an old barn. I think it must have been four or five miles from the village. There was no house, or other building near it, and as no person was in sight, we ventured to enter. Here, to our great joy, we found a quantity of clean straw, with which we soon prepared a comfortable bed, where we could enjoy the luxury of repose. We slept quietly through the night, and at the early dawn awoke, refreshed and encouraged, but O, so hungry! Gladly would we have eaten anything in the shape of food, but nothing could we find. The morning star was yet shining brightly above us, as we again started on our journey. At length our hearts were cheered by the sight of a village. The first house we came to stood at some distance from the other buildings, and we saw two women in a yard milking cows. We called at the door, and asked the lady for some milk. "O yes," said she, with a sweet smile, "come in, and rest awhile, and you shall have all you want." She thought we were Sisters of Charity, for they often go about visiting the sick, and praying with the people. It is considered a very meritorious act to render them assistance, and speed them on their way; but to help a runaway nun is to commit a crime of sufficient magnitude to draw down the anathema of the church. Therefore, while we carefully concealed our real character, we gratefully accepted the aid we so much needed, but which, we were sure, would have been withheld had she known to whom it was offered. After waiting till the cows were milked, and she had finished her own breakfast, she filled a large earthen pan with bread and milk, gave each of us a spoon, and we ate as much as we wished. As we arose to depart, she gave each of us a large piece of bread to carry with us, and asked us to pray with her. We accordingly knelt in prayer; implored heaven's blessing on her household, and then took our leave of this kind lady, never more to meet her on earth; but she will never be forgotten. That day we traveled a long distance, at least, so it seemed to us. When nearly overcome with fatigue, we saw from the tow-path an island in the river, and upon it a small house. Near the shore a man stood beside a canoe. We made signs to him to come to us, and he immediately sprang into his canoe and came over. We asked him to take us to the island, and he cheerfully granted our request, but said we must sit very still, or we would find ourselves in the water. I did not wonder he thought so, for the canoe was very small, and the weight of three persons sank it almost even with the surface of the river, while the least motion would cause it to roll from side to side, so that we really felt that we were in danger of a very uncomfortable bath if nothing worse. We landed safely, however, and were kindly welcomed by the Indian family in the house. Six squaws were sitting on the floor, some of them smoking, others making shoes and baskets. They were very gayly dressed, their skirts handsomely embroidered with beads and silk of various colors. One of the girls seemed very intelligent, and conversed fluently in the English language which she spoke correctly. But she did not look at all like an Indian, having red hair and a lighter skin than the others. She was the only one in the family that I could converse with, as the rest of them spoke only their native dialect; but the nun who was with me could speak both French and Indian. They treated us with great kindness, gave us food, and invited in to stay and live with them; said we could be very happy there, and to induce us to remain, they informed us that the village we saw on the other side of the river, called St. Regis, was inhabited by Indians, but they were all Roman Catholics. They had a priest, and a church where we could go to Mass every Sabbath. Little did they imagine that we were fleeing for life from the Romish priests; that so far from being an inducement to remain with them, this information was the very thing to send us on our way with all possible speed. We did not dare to stay, for I knew full well that if any one who had seen us went to confession, they would be obliged to give information of our movements; and if one priest heard of us, he would immediately telegraph to all the priests in the United States and Canada, and we should be watched on every side. Escape would then be nearly impossible, therefore we gently, but firmly refused to accept the hospitality of these good people, and hastened to bid them farewell. I asked the girl how far it was to the United States. She said it was two miles to Hogansburg, and that was in the States. We then asked the man to take us in his canoe to the village of St. Regis on the other side of the river. He consented, but, I thought, with some reluctance, and before he allowed us to land, he conversed some minutes with the Indians who met him on the shore. We could not hear what they said, but my fears were at once awakened. I thought they suspected us, and if so, we were lost. But the man came back at length, and, assisted us from the boat. If he had any suspicions he kept them to himself. Soon after we reached the shore I met a man, of whom I enquired when a boat would start for Hogansburg. He gazed at us a moment, and then pointed to five boats out in the river, and said those were the last to go that day. They were then ready to start, and waited only for the tow-boat to take them along. But they were so far away we could not get to them, even if we dared risk ourselves among so many passengers. What could we do? To stay there over night, was not to be thought of for a moment. We were sure to be taken, and carried back, if we ventured to try it. Yet there was but one alternative; either remain there till the next day, or try to get a passage on the tow-boat. It did not take me a long time to decide for myself, and I told the nun that I should go on, if the captain would take me! "What! go on the tow-boat!" she exclaimed, "There are no ladies on that boat, and I do not like to go with so many men." "I am not afraid of the men," I replied, "if they are not Romanists, and I am resolved to go." "Do not leave me," she cried, with streaming tears. "I am sure we can get along better if we keep together, but I dare not go on the boat." "And I dare not stay here," said I, and so we parted. I to pursue my solitary way, she to go, I know not whither. I gave her the parting hand, and have never heard from her since, but I hope she succeeded better than I did, in her efforts to escape. I went directly to the captain of the boat and asked him if he could carry me to the States. He said he should go as far as Ogdensburg, and would carry me there, if I wished; or he could set me off at some place where he stopped for wood and water. When I told him I had no money to pay him, he smiled, and asked if I was a run-a-way. I frankly confessed that I was, for I thought it was better for me to tell the truth than to try to deceive. "Well," said the captain, "I will not betray you; but you had better go to my state-room and stay there." I thanked him, but said I would rather stay where I was. He then gave me the key to his room, and advised me to go in and lock the door, "for," said he, "we are not accustomed to have ladies in this boat, and the men may annoy you. You will find it more pleasant and comfortable to stay there alone." Truly grateful for his kindness, and happy to escape from the gaze of the men, I followed his direction; nor did I leave the room again until I left the boat. The captain brought me my meals, but did not attempt to enter the room. There was a small window with a spring on the inside; he would come and tap on the window, and ask me to raise it, when he would hand me a waiter on which he had placed a variety of refreshments, and immediately retire. CHAPTER XII. STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. That night and the next day I suffered all the horrors of sea-sickness; and those who have known by experience how completely it prostrates the energies of mind and body, can imagine how I felt on leaving the boat at night. The kind-hearted captain set me on shore at a place where he left coal and lumber, a short distance from the village of Ogdensburg. He gave me twelve and half cents, and expressed regret that he could do no more for me. He said he could not direct me to a lodging for the night, being a stranger in the place, and this the first time he had been on that route. Should this narrative chance to meet his eye, let him know that his kind and delicate attentions to a stranger in distress, are and ever will be remembered with the gratitude they so richly merit. It was with evident reluctance that he left me to make my way onward as I could. And now, reader, imagine, if you can, my situation. A stranger in a strange land, and comparatively a stranger to the whole world--alone in the darkness of night, not knowing where to seek a shelter or a place to lay my head; exhausted with sea-sickness until I felt more dead than alive, it did seem as though it would be a luxury to lie down and die. My stockings and shoes were all worn out with so much walking, my feet sore, swollen, and bleeding, and my limbs so stiff and lame that it was only by the greatest effort that I could step at all. So extreme were my sufferings, that I stopped more than once before I reached the village, cast myself upon the cold ground, and thought I could go no further. Not even the idea of being run over in the darkness by some passing traveller, had power to keep me on my feet. Then I would rest awhile, and resolve to try again; and so I hobbled onward. It seemed an age of misery before I came to any house; but at length my spirits revived at the sight of brilliant lights through the windows, and the sound of cheerful voices that fell upon my ear. And now I thought my troubles over for that night at least. But no, when I asked permission to stay over night, it was coldly refused. Again and again I called at houses where the people seemed to enjoy all the comforts and even the luxuries of life; but their comforts were for themselves and not for a toil-worn traveller like me. This I was made to understand in no gentle manner; and some of those I called upon were not very particular in the choice of language. By this time my feet were dreadfully swollen, and O! so sore and stiff, that every step produced the most intense agony. Is it strange that I felt as though life was hardly worth preserving? I resolved to call at one house more, and if again refused, to lie down by the wayside and die. I accordingly entered the village hotel and asked for the landlady. The bar-tender gave me a suspicious glance that made me tremble, and asked my business. I told him my business was with the landlady and no other person. He left the room a moment, and then conducted me to her chamber. As I entered a lady came forward to meet me, and the pleasant expression of her countenance at once won my confidence. She gave me a cordial welcome, saying, with a smile, as she led me to a seat, "I guess, my dear, you are a run-a-way, are you not?" I confessed that it was even so; that I had fled from priestly cruelty, had travelled as far as I could, and now, weary, sick, and faint from long fasting, I had ventured to cast myself upon her mercy. "Will you protect me?" I asked, "and are you a Roman Catholic?" "No," she replied, "I am not a Roman Catholic, and I will protect you. You seem to have suffered much, and are quite exhausted. But you will find a friend in me. I will not betray you, for I dislike the priests and the convents as much as you do." She then called her little girl, and ordered a fire kindled in another chamber, saying she did not wish her servants to see me. The child soon returned, when the lady herself conducted me to a large, pleasant bed-room, handsomely furnished with every convenience, and a fire in the grate. She gave me a seat in a large easy-chair before the fire, and went out, locking the door after her. In a short time she returned with warm water for a bath, and with her own hands gave me all the assistance needed. As I related the incidents of the day, she expressed much sympathy for my sufferings, and said she was glad I had come to her. She gave, me a cordial, and then brought me a cup of tea and other refreshments, of which I made a hearty supper. She would not allow me to eat all I wished; but when I had taken as much as was good for me, she bathed my feet with a healing wash, and assisted me to bed. O, the luxury of that soft and comfortable bed! No one can realize with what a keen sense of enjoyment I laid my head upon those downy pillows, unless they have suffered as I did, and known by experience the sweetness of repose after excessive toil. All that night this good lady sat beside my bed, and kept my feet wet in order to reduce the swelling. I was little inclined to sleep, and at her request related some of the events of my convent life. While doing this, I hardly knew what to make of this curious woman. Sometimes she would weep, and then she would swear like any pirate. I was surprised and somewhat afraid of her, she seemed so strange and used such peculiar language. She understood my feelings at once, and immediately said, "You need not be afraid of me, for I have a kind heart, if I do use wicked words. I cannot help swearing when I think about the priests, monsters of iniquity that they are; what fearful crimes they do commit under the cloak of religion! O, if the people of this land could but see their real character, they would rise en masse and drive them from the country, whose liberties they will, if possible, destroy. For myself I have good cause to hate them. Shall I tell you my story, dear?" I begged her to do so, which she did, as follows: "I once had a sister, young, talented, beautiful, amiable and affectionate. She was the pride of all our family, the idol of our souls. She wished for an education, and we gladly granted her request. In our zeal to serve her, we resolved to give her the very best advantages, and so we sent her to a Romish school. It was a seminary for young ladies taught by nuns, and was the most popular one in that part of the country. My father, like many other parents who knew such establishments only by report, had not the least idea of its true character. But deluded by the supposed sanctity of the place, he was happy in the thought that he had left his darling where it was said that 'science and religion go hand in hand.' For a season, all went on well. She wrote to us that she was pleased with the school, and wished to remain. We thought her hand writing wonderfully improved, and eagerly looked forward to the time when she would return to us a finished scholar, as well as an accomplished lady. But those pleasant prospects were soon overcast. Too soon, our happy, bounding hearts were hushed by unspeakable grief, and our brilliant anticipations were dissipated in the chamber of death. In their place came those solemn realities, the shroud, the coffin, the hearse and the tomb." "Did she die?" I asked. "Yes," replied the lady, as she wiped away the fast flowing tears; "Yes, she died. I believe she was poisoned, but we could do nothing; we had no proof." She had been long at school before we suspected the deception that was practised upon us. But at length I went with my other sister to see her, and the Superior informed us that she was ill, and could not see us. We proposed going to her room, but to our great surprise were assured that such a thing could not be allowed. We left with sad hearts, and soon called again. I cannot describe my feelings when we were coldly informed that she did not wish to see us. What could it mean? Surely something must be wrong; and we left with terrible presentiments of coming evil. It came. Yes, too soon were our worst fears realized. I called one day resolved to see her before I left the house. Conceive, if you can, my surprise and horror, when they told me that my beautiful, idolized sister had resolved to become a nun. That she had already renounced the world, and would hold no further communication with her relatives. "Why did I not know this before? I exclaimed." "You know it now," was the cold reply. I did not believe a word of it, and when I told my father what they said, he went to them, and resolutely demanded his child. At first they refused to give her up, but when they saw that his high spirit was aroused--that he would not be flattered or deceived, they reluctantly yielded to his demand." CHAPTER XIII. LANDLADY'S STORY CONTINUED. The poor girl was overjoyed to meet her friends again, but how great was our astonishment and indignation when she informed us that she had never received a single line from home after she entered the school, nor did she ever know that we had called to see her until we informed her of the fact. Whenever she expressed surprise that she did not hear from us, they told her that we had probably forgotten her, and strove to awaken in her mind feelings of indignation, suspicion and animosity. Not succeeding in this, however, they informed her that her father had called, and expressed a wish that she should become a nun; that he did not think it best for her to return home again, nor did he even ask for a parting interview. Confounded and utterly heart-broken, she would have given herself up to uncontrollable grief had she been allowed to indulge her feelings. But even the luxury of tears was forbidden, and she was compelled to assume an appearance of cheerfulness, and to smile when her heart-strings were breaking. We brought forward the letters we had received from time to time which we believed she had written. She had never seen them, before, "and this," said she, "is not my hand-writing." Of this fact she soon convinced us, but she said she had written letter after letter hoping for an answer, but no answer came. She said she knew that the Superior examined all the letters written by the young ladies, but supposed they were always sent, after being read. But it was now plain to be seen that those letters were destroyed, and others substituted in their place. [Footnote: Raffaele Ciocci, formerly a Benedictine Monk, in his "Narrative," published by the American and Foreign Christian Union, relates a similar experience of his own, when in the Papal College of San Bernardo. Being urged to sign "a deed of humility," in which he was to renounce all his property and give it to the college, he says, "I knew not what to think of this "deed of humility." A thousand misgivings filled my mind, and hoping to receive from the notary an explanation that would assist me in fully comprehending its intention, I anxiously said, "I must request, sir, that you will inform me what is expected from me. Tell me what is this deed--whether it be really a mere form, as has been represented to me, or if"--Here the master arose, and in an imperious tone interrupted me, saying,--"Do not be obstinate and rebellions, but obey. I have already told you that when you assume the habit of the Order, the chapter 'de humititate' shall be explained to you. In this paper you have only to make a renunciation of all you possess on earth." "Of all I possess! And if I renounce all, who, when I leave the college, will provide for me?" The notary now interposed. "That," said he, "is the point to which I wish to call your attention, in advising you to make some reservation. If you neglect to do so, you may find yourself in difficulties, losing, as you irrevocably will, every right of your own." At these words, so palpable, so glaring, the bandage fell from my eyes, and I saw the abyss these monsters were opening under my feet. "This is a deception, a horrible deception," I exclaimed. "I now understand the 'deed of humility,' but I protest I will not sign it, I will have nothing more to do with it." * * * After spending two or three hours in bitterness and woe, I resolved to have recourse to my family. For this purpose I wrote a long letter to my mother, in which I exposed all the miseries of my heart, related what had taken place with regard to the "deed of humility," and begged of her consolation and advice. I gave the letter into the hands of a servant, and on the following morning received a reply, in which I was told, in gentle, terms, to be tranquil,--not to resist the wishes of my directors,--sign unhesitatingly any paper that might be required, for, when my studies were completed, and I quitted the college, the validity of these forms would cease. This letter set all my doubts at rest, and restored peace to my mind. It was written by my mother, and she, I felt assured, would never deceive me. How could I for one moment imagine that this epistle was an invention of my enemies, who imitated the hand-writing and affectionate style of my mother? Some persons will say, you might have suspected it. * * * I reply, that in the uprightness of my heart, I could not conceive such atrocious wickedness; it appeared utterly irreconcilable with the sanctity of the place, and with the venerable hoariness of persons dedicated to God. After perusing the letter, I hastened to the master, declaring my readiness to sign the "deed of humility." He smiled approvingly on finding how well his plan had succeeded. The notary and witnesses were again summoned, and my condemnation written. The good notary, however, pitying my situation, inserted an exceptional clause to the total relinquishment of my rights. * * * No sooner was this business concluded, than the master commanded me to write to my parents, to inform them that I had signed the deed of renunciation, and was willing, for the benefit of my soul, to assume the monkish habit. He was present when I wrote this letter; I was, therefore, obliged to adopt the phrases suggested by him,--phrases, breathing zeal and devotion; full of indifference to the world, and tranquil satisfaction at the choice I had made. My parents, thought I, will be astonished when they read this epistle, but they must perceive that the language is not mine, so little is it in accordance with my former style of writing. Reader, in the course of thirteen months, only one, of from fifty to sixty letters which I addressed to my mother, was ever received by her, and that one was this very letter. The monks, instead of forwarding mine, had forged letters imitating the hand-writing, and adopting a style suited to their purpose; and instead of consigning to me the genuine replies, they artfully substituted answers of their own fabrication. My family, therefore, were not surprised at the tenor of this epistle, but rejoiced over it, and reputed me already a Saint. They probably pictured me to themselves, on some future day, with a mitre on my head--with the red cap--nay, perhaps, even wearing the triple crown. Oh, what a delusion! Poor deceived parents! You knew not that your son, in anguish and despair, was clashing his chains, and devouring his tears in secret; that a triple bandage was placed before his eyes, and that he was being dragged, an unwilling victim, to the sacrifice." Returning home soon after, Ciocci rushed to his mother, and asked if she had his letters. They, were produced; when he found that only one had been written by him. The rest were forgeries of the masters.] "It follows then," said my father, "that these letters are forgeries, and the excuses they have so often made are base falsehoods. A teacher of the religion of Jesus Christ guilty of lying and forgery! 'O, my soul come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly mine honor be thou not united.'" "But we have our darling home again," said I, "and now we shall keep her with us." Never shall I forget the sweet, sad smile that came over her pale face as I uttered these words. Perchance, even then she realized that she was soon to leave us, never more to return. However this may be, she gradually declined. Slowly, but surely she went down to the grave. Every remedy was tried--every measure resorted to, that seemed to promise relief, but all in vain. We had the best physicians, but they frankly confessed that they did not understand her disease. In a very few months after her return, we laid our lovely and beloved sister beneath the clods of the valley. Our good old physician wept as he gazed upon her cold remains. I believe he thought she was poisoned, but as he could not prove it, he would only have injured himself by saying so. As for myself, I always thought that she knew too many of their secrets to be allowed to live after leaving them. "And now, dear," she continued, "do you think it strange that I hate the Romanists? Do you wonder if I feel like swearing when I think of priests and convents?" Truly, I did not wonder that she hated them, though I could not understand what benefit it could be to swear about it; but I did not doubt the truth of her story. How often, in the convent from which I fled, had I heard them exult over the success of some deep laid scheme to entrap the ignorant, the innocent and the unwary! If a girl was rich or handsome, as sure as she entered their school, so sure was she to become a nun, unless she had influential friends to look after her and resolutely prevent it. To effect this, no means were left untried. The grossest hypocricy, and the meanest deception were practised to prevent a girl from holding communication with any one out of the convent No matter how lonely, or how homesick she might feel, she was not allowed to see her friends, or even to be informed of their kind attentions. So far from this, she was made to believe, if possible, that her relatives had quite forsaken her, while these very relatives were boldly informed that she did not wish to see them. If they wrote to their friends, as they sometimes did, their letters were always destroyed, while those received at home were invariably written by the priest or Superior. These remarks, however, refer only to those who are rich, or beautiful in person. Many a girl can say with truth that she has attended the convent school, and no effort was ever made--no inducement ever presented to persuade her to become a nun. Consequently, she says that stories like the above are mere falsehoods, reported to injure the school. This may be true so far as she is concerned, but you may be sure she has neither riches nor beauty, or if possessed of these, there was some other strong reason why she should be an exception to the general rule. Could she know the private history of some of her school-mates, she would tell a different story. I remember that while in the convent, I was one day sent up stairs to assist a Superior in a chamber remote from the kitchen, and in a part of the house where I had never been before. Returning alone to the kitchen, I passed a door that was partly open, and hearing a slight groan within, I pushed open the door and looked in, before I thought what I was doing. A young girl lay upon a bed, who looked more like a corpse than a living person. She saw me, and motioned to have me come to her. As I drew near the bed, she burst into tears, and whispered, "Can't you get me a drink of cold water?" I told her I did not know, but I would try. I hastened to the kitchen, and as no one was present but a nun whom I did not fear, I procured a pitcher of water, and went back with it without meeting any one on the way. I was well aware that if seen, I should be punished, but I did not care. I was doing as I would wish others to do to me, and truly, I had my reward. Never shall I forget how grateful that poor sufferer was for a draught of cold water. She could not tell how many days she had been fasting, for some of the time she had been insensible; but it must have been several days, and she did not know how long she was to remain in that condition. "How came you here?" I asked, in a whisper; "and what have you done to induce them to punish you so?" "O," said she, with a burst of tears, and grasping my hand with her pale, cold fingers, "I was in the school, and I thought it would be so nice to be a nun! Then my father died and left me all his property, and they persuaded me to stay here, and give it all to the church. I was so sad then I did not care for money, and I had no idea what a place it is. I really thought that the nuns were pure and holy--that their lives were devoted to heaven, their efforts consecrated to the cause of truth and righteousness. I thought that this was indeed the 'house of God,' the very 'gate of heaven.' But as soon as they were sure of me, they let me know--but you understand me; you know what I mean?" I nodded assent, and once more asked, "What did you do?" "O, I was in the school," said she, "and I knew that a friend of mine was coming here just as I did; and I could not bear to see her, in all her loveliness and unsuspecting innocence, become a victim to these vile priests. I found an opportunity to let her know what a hell she was coming to. 'Twas an unpardonable sin, you see. I had robbed the church--committed sacrilege, they said--and they have almost killed me for it. I wish they would QUITE, for I am sure death has no terrors for me now. God will never punish me for what I have done. But go; don't stay any longer; they'll kill you if they catch you here." I knew that she had spoken truly--they WOULD kill me, almost, if not quite, if they found me there; but I must know a little more. "Did you save your friend?" I asked, "or did you both have to suffer, to pay for your generous act?" "Did I save her? Yes, thank God, I did. She did not come, and she promised not to tell of me. I don't think she did; but they managed to find it out, I don't know how; and now--O God, let me die!" I was obliged to go, and I left her, with a promise to carry her some bread if I could. But I could not, and I never saw her again. Yet what a history her few words unfolded! It was so much like the landlady's story, I could not forbear relating it to her. She seemed much interested in all my convent adventures; and in this way we spent the night. CHAPTER XIV. THE TWO SISTERS. Next morning the lady informed me that I could not remain with her in safety, but she had a sister, who lived about half a mile distant, with whom I could stop until my feet were sufficiently healed to enable me to resume my journey. She then sent for her sister, who very kindly, as I then thought, acceded to her request, and said I was welcome to stay with her as long as I wished. Arrangements were therefore made at once for my removal. My kind hostess brought two large buffalo robes into my chamber, which she wrapped around my person in such a way as to shield me from the observation of the servants. She then called one whom she could trust, and bade him take up the bundle and carry it down to a large covered wagon that stood at the door. I have often wondered whether the man knew what was in that bundle or not. I do not think he did, for he threw me across his shoulder as he would any bale of merchandise, and laid me on the bottom of the carriage. The two ladies then entered, laughing heartily at the success of their ruse, and joking me about my novel mode of conveyance. In this manner we were driven to the sister's residence, and I was carried into the house by the servants, in the same way. The landlady stopped for a few moments, and when she left she gave me cloth for a new dress, a few other articles of clothing, and three dollars in money. She bade me stay there and make my dress, and on no account venture out again in my nun dress. She wished me success in my efforts to escape, commended me to the care of our heavenly Father, and bade me farewell. She returned in the wagon alone, and left me to make the acquaintance of my new hostess. This lady was a very different woman from her sister, and I soon had reason to regret that I was in her power. It has been suggested to me that the two ladies acted in concert; that I was removed for the sole purpose of being betrayed into the hands of my enemies. But I am not willing to believe this. Dark as human nature appears to me--accustomed as I am to regard almost every one with suspicion--still I cannot for one moment cherish a thought so injurious to one who was so kind to me. Is it possible that she could be such a hypocrite? Treat me with so much tenderness, and I might say affection, and then give me up to what was worse than death? No; whatever the reader may think about it, I can never believe her guilty of such perfidy. I regret exceedingly my inability to give the name of this lady in connection with the history of her good deeds, but I did not learn the name of either sister. The one to whom I was now indebted for a shelter seemed altogether careless of my interests. I had been with her but a few hours when she asked me to do some washing for her. Of course I was glad to do it; but when she requested me to go into the yard and hang the clothes upon the line, I became somewhat alarmed. I did not like to do it, and told her so; but she laughed at my fears, overruled all my objections, said no one in that place would seek to harm or to betray me, and assured me there was not the least danger. I at last consented to go, though my reason, judgment, and inclination, had I followed their dictates, would have kept me in the house. But I did not like to appear ungrateful, or unwilling to repay the kindness I received, as far as I was able; still I could not help feeling that it was an ungenerous demand. She might at least have offered me a bonnet or a shawl, as a partial disguise; but she did nothing of the kind. When I saw that I could not avoid the exposure I resolved to make the best of it and get through as quickly, as possible; but my dress attracted a good deal of attention, and I saw more than one suspicious glance directed towards me before my task was finished. When it was over I thought no more about it, but gave myself up to the bright anticipations of future happiness, which now began to take possession of my mind. That night I retired to a comfortable bed, and was soon lost to all earthly cares in the glorious land of dreams. What unalloyed happiness I enjoyed that night! what impossible feats I performed! Truly, the vision was bright, but a sad awaking followed. Some time in the night I was aroused by the flashing of a bright light from a dark lantern suddenly opened. I attempted to rise, but before I could realize where I was, a strong hand seized me and a gag was thrust into my mouth. The man attempted to take me in his arms, but with my hands and feet I defended myself to the best of my ability. Another man now came to his assistance, and with strong cords confined my hands and feet, so that I was entirely at their mercy. Perfectly helpless, I could neither resist nor call for help. They then took me up and carried me down stairs, with no clothing but my night-dress, not even a shawl to shield me from the cold night air. At the gate stood a long covered wagon, in form like a butchers cart, drawn by two horses, and beside it a long box with several men standing around it. I had only time to observe this, when they thrust me into the box, closed the lid, placed it in the wagon, and drove rapidly away. I could not doubt for a moment into whose hands I had fallen, and when they put me into the box, I wished I might suffocate, and thus end my misery at once. But they had taken good care to prevent this by boring holes in the box, which admitted air enough to keep up respiration. And this was the result of all my efforts for freedom! After all I had suffered in making my escape, it was a terrible disappointment to be thus cruelly betrayed, gagged, bound, and boxed up like an article of merchandise, carried back to certain torture, and perchance to death. O, blame me not, gentle reader, if in my haste, and the bitter disappointment and anguish of my spirit, I questioned the justice of the power that rules the world. Nor let your virtuous indignation wax hot against me if I confess to you, that I even doubted the existence of that power. How often had I cried to God for help! Why were my prayers and tears disregarded? What had I done to deserve such a fife of misery? These, and similar thoughts occupied my mind during that lonely midnight ride. We arrived at St. Regis before the first Mass in the morning. The box was then taken into the chapel, where they took me out and carried me into the church. I was seated at the foot of the altar, with my hands and feet fast bound, the gag still in my mouth, and no clothing on, but my night-dress. Two men stood beside me, and I remained here until the priest had said mass and the people retired from the church. He then came down from the altar, and said to the men beside me, "Well, you have got her." "Yes Sir," they replied, "what shall we do with her?" "Put her on the five o'clock boat," said he, "and let the other men go with her to Montreal. I want you to stay here, and be ready to go the other way tonight" This priest was an Indian, but he spoke the English language correctly and fluently. He seemed to feel some pity for my forlorn condition, and as they were about to carry me away he brought a large shawl, and wrapped it around me, for which I was truly grateful. At the appointed time, I was taken on board the boat, watched very closely by the two men who had me in charge. There was need enough of this, for I would very gladly have thrown myself into the water, had I not been prevented. Once and again I attempted it, but the men held me back. For this, I am now thankful, but at that time my life appeared of so little importance, and the punishments I knew were in reserve for me seemed so fearful, I voluntarily chose "strangling and death rather than life." The captain and sailors were all Romanists, and seemed to vie with each other in making me as unhappy as possible They made sport of my "new fashioned clothing," and asked if I "did not wish to run away again?" When they found I did not notice them they used the most abusive and scurrilous language, mingled with vulgar and profane expressions, which may not be repeated. The men who had charge of me, and who should have protected me from such abuse, so far from doing it, joined in the laugh, and appeared to think it a pleasant amusement to ridicule and vex a poor helpless fugitive. May God forgive them for their cruelty, and in the hour of their greatest need, may they meet with the kindness they refused to me. At Lachine we changed boats and took another to Montreal. When we arrived there, three priests were waiting for us. Their names I perfectly remember, but I am not sure that I can spell them correctly. Having never learned while in the nunnery, to read, or spell anything except a simple prayer, it is not strange if I do make mistakes, when attempting to give names from memory. I can only give them as they were pronounced. They were called Father Kelly, Dow, and Conroy. All the priests were called father, of whatever age they might be. As we proceeded from the boat to the Nunnery, one of the priests went before us while the others walked beside me, leading me between them. People gazed at us as we passed, but they did not dare to insult, or laugh at me, while in such respectable company. Yet, methinks it must have been a ludicrous sight to witness so much parade for a poor run-a-way nun. CHAPTER XV. CHOICE OF PUNISHMENTS. On our arrival at the Nunnery, I was left alone for half an hour. Then the Bishop came in with the Lady Superior, and the Abbess who had charge of the kitchen when I left. The Bishop read to me three punishments of which he said, I could take my choice. First.--To fast five days in the fasting room. Second.--To suffer punishment in the lime room. Third.--To fast four days, in the cell. As I knew nothing of these places except the cell, a priest was directed to take me to them, that I might see for myself, and then take my choice. At first, I thought I did not care, and I said I had no choice about it; but when I came to see the rooms, I was thankful that I was not allowed to abide by that decision. Certainly, I had no idea what was before me. I was blindfolded, and taken to the lime room first. I think it must have been situated at a great distance from the room we left, for he led me down several flights of stairs, and through long, low passages, where it was impossible to stand erect. At length we entered a room where the atmosphere seemed laden with hot vapor. My blinder was removed, and I found myself in a pleasant room some fifteen feet square. There was no furniture of any kind, but a wide bench, fastened to the wall, extended round three sides of the room. The floor looked like one solid block of dark colored marble; not a crack or seam to be seen in it, but it was clouded, highly polished, and very beautiful. Around the sides of the room, a great number of hooks and chains were fastened to the wall, and a large hook hung in the center overhead. Near the door stood two men, with long iron bars, some two inches square, on their shoulders. The priest directed me to stand upon the bench, and turning to the men, he bade them raise the door. They put down their bars, and I suppose touched a concealed spring, for the whole floor at once flew up, and fastened to the large hook over head. Surprised and terrified, I stood wondering what was to come next. At my feet yawned a deep pit, from which, arose a suffocating vapor, so hot, it almost scorched my face and nearly stopped my breath. The priest pointed to the heaving, tumbling billows of smoke that were rolling below, and; asked, "How would you like to be thrown into the lime?" "Not at all," I gasped, in a voice scarcely audible, "it would burn me to death." I suppose he thought I was sufficiently frightened, for he bade his men close the door. This they did by slowly letting down the floor, and I could see that it was in some way supported by the chains attached to the walls but in what manner I do not know. I was nearly suffocated by the lime smoke that filled the room, and though I knew not what was in reserve for me, I was glad when my blinder was put on, and I was led away. I think we returned the same way we came, and entered another room where the scent was so very offensive, that I begged to be taken out immediately. Even before my eyes were uncovered, and I knew nothing of the loathsome objects by which we were surrounded, I felt that I could not endure to breathe an atmosphere so deadly. But the sight that met my eyes when my blinder was removed, I cannot describe, nor the sensations with which I gazed upon it. I can only give the reader some faint idea of the place, which, they said, was called the fasting room, and here incorrigible offenders fasted until they starved to death. Nor was this all. Their dead bodies were not even allowed a decent burial, but were suffered to remain in the place where they died, until the work of death was complete and dust returned to dust. Thus the atmosphere became a deadly poison to the next poor victim who was left to breathe the noxious effluvia of corruption and decay. I am well aware that my reader will hardly credit my statements, but I do solemnly affirm that I relate nothing but the truth. In this room were placed several large iron kettles, so deep that a person could sit in them, and many of them contained the remains of human beings. In one the corpse looked as though it had been dead but a short time. Others still sat erect in the kettle, but the flesh was dropping from the bones. Every stage of decay was here represented, from the commencement, till nothing but a pile of bones was left of the poor sufferer. Conceive, if you can, with what feelings I gazed upon these disgusting relics of the dead. Even now, my blood chills in my veins, as memory recalls the fearful sight, or as, in sleep, I live over again the dread realities of that hour. Was I to meet a fate like this? I might, perchance, escape it for that time, but what assurance had I that I was not ultimately destined to such an end? These thoughts filled my mind, as I followed the priest from the room; and for a long time I continued to speculate upon what I had seen. They called it the fasting room; but if fasting were the only object, why were they placed in those kettles, instead of being allowed to sit on chairs or benches, or even on the floor? And why placed in IRON kettles? Why were they not made of wood? It would have answered the purpose quite as well, if fasting or starvation were the only objects in view. Then came the fearful suggestion, were these kettles ever heated? And was that floor made of stone or iron? The thought was too shocking to be cherished for a moment; but I could not drive it from my mind. I was again blindfolded, and taken to a place they called a cell. But it was quite different from the one I was in before. We descended several steps as we entered it, and instead of the darkness I anticipated, I found myself in a large room with sufficient light to enable me to see every object distinctly. One end of a long chain was fastened around my waist, and the other firmly secured to an iron ring in the floor; but the chain, though large and heavy, was long enough to allow me to go all over the room. I could not see how it was lighted, but it must have been in some artificial manner, for it was quite as light at night, as in the day. Here were instruments of various kinds, the use of which, I did not understand; some of them lying on the floor, others attached to the sides of the room. One of them was made in the form of a large fish, but of what material I do not know. It was of a bright flesh color, and fastened to a board on the floor. If I pressed my foot upon the board, it would put in motion some machinery within, which caused it to spring forward with a harsh, jarring sound like the rumbling of the cars. At the same time its eyes would roll round, and its mouth open, displaying a set of teeth so large and long that I was glad to keep at a safe distance. I wished to know whether it would really bite me or not, but it looked so frightful I did not dare to hazard the experiment. Another so nearly resembled a large serpent, I almost thought it was one; but I found it moved only when touched in a certain manner. Then it would roll over, open its mouth, and run out its tongue. There was another that I cannot describe, for I never saw anything that looked like it. It was some kind of a machine, and the turning of a crank made it draw together in such a way, that if a person were once within its embrace, the pressure would soon arrest the vital current, and stop the breath of life. Around the walls of the room were chains, rings and hooks, almost innumerable; but I did not know their use, and feared to touch them. I believed them all to be instruments of torture, and I thought they gave me a long chain in the hope and expectation that my curiosity would lead me into some of the numerous traps the room contained. Every morning the figure I had seen beside the dying nun, which they called the devil, came to my cell, and unlocking the door himself, entered, and walked around me, laughing heartily, and seeming much pleased to find me there. He would blow white froth from his mouth, but he never spoke to me, and when he went out, he locked the door after him and took away the key. He was, in fact, very thoughtful and prudent, but it will be long before I believe that he came as they pretended, from the spirit world. So far from being frightened, the incident was rather a source of amusement. Such questions as the following would force themselves upon my mind. If that image is really the devil, where did he get that key? And what will he do with it? Does the devil hold the keys of this nunnery, so that he can come and go as he pleases? Or, are the priests on such friendly terms with his satanic majesty that they lend him their keys? Or, do they hold them as partners? Gentlemen of the Grey Nunnery, please tell us how it is about those keys. CHAPTER XVI. HORRORS OF STARVATION. One day a woman came into my cell, dressed in white, a white cap on her head, and so very pale she looked more like a corpse than a living person. She came up to me with her mouth wide open, and stood gazing at me for a moment in perfect silence. She then asked, "Where have you been?" "Into the world," I replied. "How did you like the world?" "Very well," said I. She paused a moment, and then asked, "Did you find your friends?" "No, ma'am," said I, "I did not." Another pause, and then she said, "Perhaps you will if you go again." "No," I replied, "I shall not try again." "You had better try it once more," she added, and I thought there was a slight sneer in her tone; "Perhaps you may succeed better another time." "No," I replied, "I shall not try to run away from the nunnery again. I should most assuredly be caught and brought back, and then they would make me suffer so much, I assure you I shall never do it again." She looked at me a moment as though she would read my very soul, and said, "And so you did not find your friends, after all, did you?" I again told her that I did not, and she seemed satisfied with the result of her questioning. When she came in, I was pleased to see her, and thought I would ask her for something to eat, or at least for a little cold water. But she seemed so cold-hearted, so entirely destitute of sympathy or kind feeling, I had no courage to speak to her, for I felt that it would do no good. Perhaps I misjudged her. I knew from her looks that she must have been a great sufferer; but I have heard it said that extreme suffering sometimes hardens instead of softening the heart, and I believe it. It seemed to me that this woman had suffered so much herself, that every kind feeling was crushed out of her soul. I was glad when she left me, locking the door after her. Four days they kept me in this cell, and for five days and nights I had not tasted food or drink. I endured the most intolerable agonies from hunger and thirst. The suffering produced by hunger, when it becomes actual starvation, is far beyond anything that I can imagine. There is no other sensation that can be compared to it, and no language can describe it. One must feel it in order to realize what it is. The first two days I amused myself by walking round my room and trying to conjecture the use to which the various instruments were applied. Then I became so weak I could only think of eating and drinking. I sometimes fell asleep, but only to dream of loaded tables and luxurious feasts. Yet I could never taste the luxuries thus presented. Whenever I attempted to do so, they would be snatched away, or I would wake to find it all a dream. Driven to a perfect frenzy by the intensity of my sufferings, I would gladly have eaten my own flesh. Well was it for me that no sharp instrument was at hand, for as a last resort I more than once attempted to tear open my veins with my teeth. This severe paroxysm passed away, and I sank into a state of partial unconsciousness, in which I remained until I was taken out of the cell. I do not believe I should have lived many hours longer, nor should I ever have been conscious of much more suffering. With me the "bitterness of death had passed," and I felt disappointed and almost angry to be recalled to a life of misery. I begged them to allow me to die. It was the only boon I craved. But this would have been too merciful; moreover, they did not care to lose my services in the kitchen. I was a good drudge for them, and they wished to restore me on the same principle that a farmer would preserve the life of a valuable horse. I do not remember leaving the cell. The first thing I realized they were placing me in a chair in the kitchen, and allowed me to lean my head upon the table. They gave me some gruel, and I soon revived so that I could sit up in my chair and speak in a whisper. But it was some hours before I could stand on my feet or speak loud. An Abbess was in the kitchen preparing bread and wine for the priests (they partake of these refreshments every day at ten in the morning and three in the afternoon). She brought a pailful of wine and placed it on the table near me, and left a glass standing beside it. When she turned away, I took the glass, dipped up a little of the wine, and drank it. She saw me do it, but said not a word, and I think she left it there for that purpose. The wine was very strong, and my stomach so weak, I soon began to feel sick, and asked permission to go to bed. They took me up in their arms and carried me to my old room and laid me on the bed. Here they left me, but the Abbess soon returned with some gruel made very palatable with milk and sugar. I was weak, and my hand trembled so that I could not feed myself; but the Abbess kindly sat beside me and fed me until I was satisfied. I had nothing more to eat until the next day at eleven o'clock, when the Abbess again brought me some bread and gruel, and a cup of strong tea. She requested me to drink the tea as quick as possible, and then she concealed the mug in which she brought it. I was now able to feed myself, and you may be sure I had an excellent appetite, and was not half so particular about my food as some persons I have since known. I lay in bed till near night, when I rose, dressed myself without assistance, and went down to the kitchen. I was so weak and trembled so that I could hardly manage to get down stairs; but I succeeded at last, for a strong will is a wonderful incentive to efficient action. In the kitchen I met the Lady Superior. She saw how weak I was, and as she assisted me to a chair, she said, "I should not have supposed that you could get down here alone. Have you had anything to eat to-day?" I was about to say yes, but one of the nuns shook her head at me, and I replied "No." She then brought some bread and wine, requesting me to eat it quick, for fear some of the priests might come in and detect us. Thus I saw that she feared the priests as well as the rest of us. Truly, it was a terrible crime she had committed! No wonder she was afraid of being caught! Giving a poor starved nun a piece of bread, and then obliged to conceal it as she would have done a larceny or a murder! Think of it, reader, and conceive, if you can, the state of that community where humanity is a crime--where mercy is considered a weakness of which one should be ashamed! If a pirate or a highwayman had been guilty of treating a captive as cruelly as I was treated by those priests, he would have been looked upon as an inhuman monster, and at once given up to the strong grasp of the law. But when it is done by a priest, under the cloak of Religion, and within the sacred precincts of a nunnery, people cry out, when the tale is told, "Impossible!" "What motive could they have had?" "It cannot be true," etc. But whether the statement is believed or otherwise, it is a fact that in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal the least exhibition of a humane spirit was punished as a crime. The nun who was found guilty of showing mercy to a fellow-sufferer was sure to find none herself. From this time I gained very fast, for the Abbess saw how hungry I was, and she would either put food in my way, or give me privately what I wished to eat. In two weeks I was able to go to work in the kitchen again. But those I had formerly seen there were gone. I never knew what became of the sick nun, nor could I learn anything about the one who ran away with me. I thought that the men who brought me to St. Regis, were kept there to go after her, but I do not know whether they found her or not. For myself, I promised so solemnly, and with such apparent sincerity, that I would never leave the nunnery again, I was believed and trusted. Had I been kindly treated, had my life been even tolerable, my conscience would have reproached me for deceiving them, but as it was, I felt that I was more "sinned against, than sinning." I could not think it wrong to get away, if the opportunity presented, and for this I was constantly on the watch. Every night I lay awake long after all the rest were buried in slumber, trying to devise some plan, by which I could once more regain my liberty. And who can blame me? Having just tasted the sweets of freedom, how could I be content to remain in servitude all my life? Many a time have I left my bed at night, resolved to try to escape once more, but the fear of detection would deter me from the attempt. In the discharge of my daily duties, I strove to the utmost of my ability to please my employers. I so far succeeded, that for five weeks after my return I escaped punishment. Then, I made a slight mistake about my work, though I verily thought I was doing it according to the direction. For this, I was told that I must go without two meals, and spend three days in the torture room. I supposed it was the same room I was in before, but I was mistaken. I was taken into the kitchen cellar, and down a flight of stairs to another room directly under it. From thence, a door opened into another subterranean apartment which they called the torture room. These doors were so constructed, that a casual observer would not be likely to notice them. I had been in that cellar many times, but never saw that door until I was taken through it. A person might live in the nunnery a life-time, and never see or hear anything of such a place. I presume those visitors who call at the school-rooms, go over a part of the house, and leave with the impression that the convent is a nice place, will never believe my statements about this room. Nor can we wonder at their skepticism. It is exceedingly difficult for pure minds to conceive how any human being can be so fearfully depraved. Knowing the purity of their own intentions, and judging others by themselves, it is not strange that they regard such tales of guilt and terror as mere fabrications, put forth to gratify the curiosity of the wonder-loving crowd. CHAPTER XVII. THE TORTURE ROOM. I remember hearing a gentleman at the depot remark that the very enormity of the crimes committed by the Romanists, is their best protection. "For," said he, "some of their practices are so shockingly infamous they may not even be alluded to in the presence of the refined and the virtuous. And if the story of their guilt were told, who would believe the tale? Far easier would it be to call the whole a slanderous fabrication, than to believe that man can be so vile." This consideration led me to doubt the propriety of attempting a description of what I saw in that room. But I have engaged to give a faithful narrative of what transpired in the nunnery; and shall I leave out a part because it is so strange and monstrous, that people will not believe it? No. I will tell, without the least exaggeration what I saw, heard, and experienced. People may not credit the story now, but a day will surely come when they will know that I speak the truth. As I entered the room I was exceedingly shocked at the horrid spectacle that met my eye. I knew that fearful scenes were enacted in the subterranean cells, but I never imagined anything half so terrible as this. In various parts of the room I saw machines, and instruments of torture, and on some of them persons were confined who seemed to be suffering the most excruciating agony. I paused, utterly overcome with terror, and for a moment imagined that I was a witness to the torments, which, the priests say, are endured by the lost, in the world of woe. Was I to undergo such tortures, and which of those infernal engines would be applied to me? I was not long in doubt. The priest took hold of me and put me into a machine that held me fast, while my feet rested on a piece of iron which was gradually heated until both feet were blistered. I think I must have been there fifteen minutes, but perhaps the time seemed longer than it was. He then took me out, put some ointment on my feet and left me. I was now at liberty to examine more minutely the strange objects around me. There were some persons in the place whose punishment, like my own, was light compared with others. But near me lay one old lady extended on a rack. Her joints were all dislocated, and she was emaciated to the last degree. I do not suppose I can describe this rack, for I never saw anything like it. It looked like a gridiron but was long enough for the tallest man to lie upon. There were large rollers at each end, to which belts were attached, with a large lever to drive them back and forth. Upon this rack the poor woman was fastened in such a way, that when the levers were turned and the rollers made to revolve, every bone in her body was displaced. Then the violent strain would be relaxed, a little, and she was so very poor, her skin would sink into the joints and remain there till it mortified and corrupted. It was enough to melt the hardest heart to witness her agony; but she bore it with a degree of fortitude and patience, I could not have supposed possible, had I not been compelled to behold it. When I entered the room she looked up and said, "Have you come to release me, or only to suffer with me?" I did not dare to reply, for the priest was there, but when he left us she exclaimed, "My child, let nothing induce you to believe this cursed religion. It will be the death of you, and that death, will be the death of a dog." I suppose she meant that they would kill me as they would a dog. She then asked, "Who put you here?" "My Father," said I. "He must have been a brute," said she, "or he never could have done it." At one time I happened to mention the name of God, when she fiercely exclaimed with gestures of contempt, "A God! You believe there is one, do you? Don't you suffer yourself to believe any such thing. Think you that a wise, merciful, and all powerful being would allow such a hell as this to exist? Would he suffer me to be torn from friends and home, from my poor children and all that my soul holds dear, to be confined in this den of iniquity, and tortured to death in this cruel manner? No, O, no. He would at once destroy these monsters in human form; he would not suffer them, for one moment, to breathe the pure air of heaven." At another time she exclaimed, "O, my children! my poor motherless children! What will become of them? God of mercy, protect my children!" Thus, at one moment, she would say there was no God, and the next, pray to him for help. This did not surprise me, for she was in such intolerable misery she did not realize what she did say. Every few hours the priest came in, and gave the rollers a turn, when her joints would crack and--but I cannot describe it. The sight made me sick and faint at the time, as the recollection of it, does now. It seemed as though that man must have had a heart of adamant, or he could not have done it. She would shriek, and groan, and weep, but it did not affect him in the least. He was as calm, and deliberate as though he had a block of wood in his hands, instead of a human being. When I saw him coming, I once shook my head at her, to have her stop speaking; but when he was gone, she said, "Don't shake your head at me; I do not fear him. He can but kill me, and the quicker he does it the better. I would be glad if he would put an end to my misery at once, but that would be too merciful. He is determined to kill me by inches, and it makes no difference what I say to him." She had no food, or drink, during the three days I was there, and the priest never spoke to her. He brought me my bread and water regularly, and I would gladly have given it to that poor woman if she would have taken it. But she would not accept the offer. It would only prolong her sufferings, and she wished to die. I do not suppose she could have lived, had she been taken out when I first saw her. In another part of the room, a monk was under punishment. He was standing in some kind of a machine, with heavy weights attached to his feet, and a belt passed across his breast under his arms. He appeared to be in great distress, and no refreshment was furnished him while I was there. On one side of the room, I observed a closet with a "slide door," as the nuns called them. There were several doors of this description in the building, so constructed as to slide back into the ceiling out of sight. Through this opening I could see an image resembling a monk; and whenever any one was put in there, they would shriek, and groan, and beg to be taken out, but I could not ascertain the cause of their suffering. One day a nun was brought in to be punished. The priest led her up to the side of the room, and bade her put her fingers into some holes in the wall just large enough to admit them. She obeyed but immediately drew them back with a loud shriek. I looked to see what was the matter with her, and lo! every nail was torn from her fingers, which were bleeding profusely. How it was done, I do not know. Certainly, there was no visible cause for such a surprising effect. In all probability the fingers came in contact with the spring of some machine on the other side, or within the wall to which some sharp instrument was attached. I would give much to know just how it was constructed, and what the girl had done to subject herself to such a terrible and unheard-of punishment. But this, like many other things in that establishment, was wrapped in impenetrable mystery. God only knows when the veil will be removed, or whether it ever will be until the day when all secret things will be brought to light. When the three days expired, I was taken out of this room, but did not go to work again till my feet were healed. I was then obliged to assist in milking the cows, and taking care of the milk. They had a large number of cows, I believe thirty-five, and dairy rooms, with every thing convenient for making butter and cheese. When first directed to go out and milk, I was pleased with the idea, for I hoped to find and opportunity to escape; but I was again disappointed. In the cow yard, as elsewhere, every precaution was taken to prevent it. Passing out of the main yard of the convent through a small door, I found myself in a small, neat yard, surrounded by a high fence, so that nothing could be seen but the sky overhead. The cows were driven in, and the door immediately locked, so that escape from that place seemed impossible. At harvest time, in company with twenty other nuns, I was taken out into the country to the residence of the monks. The ride out there was a great treat, and very much enjoyed by us all. I believe it was about five miles, through a part of the city of Montreal; the north part I think, but I am not sure. We stopped before a large white stone building, situated in the midst of a large yard like the one at the nunnery. A beautiful walk paved with stone, led from the gate to the front door, and from thence, around the house. Within the yard, there was also a delightful garden, with neat, well kept walks laid out in various directions. Before the front door there stood a large cross. I think I never saw a more charming place; it appeared to me a perfect paradise. I heard one of the priests say that the farm consisted of four hundred acres, and belonged to the nunnery. The house was kept by two widow ladies who were married before they embraced the Romish faith. They were the only women on the place previous to our arrival, and I think they must have found it very laborious work to wait upon so many monks. I do not know their number, but there was a great many of them, besides a large family of boys, who, I suppose, were being educated for priests or monks. Immediately on our arrival a part of our number were set to work in the fields, while the rest were kept in the house to assist the women. I hoped that I might be one of these last, but disappointment was again my lot. I was sent to the field with the others, and set to reaping; a priest being stationed near, to guard us and oversee our work. We were watched very closely, one priest having charge of two nuns, for whose safe keeping he was responsible. Here we labored until the harvest was all gathered in. I dug potatoes, cut up corn and husked it, gathered apples, and did all kinds of work that is usually done by men in the fall of the year. Yet I was never allowed to wear a bonnet on my head, or anything to shield me from the piercing rays of the sun. Some days the heat was almost intolerable, and my cap was not the least protection, but they allowed me no other covering. In consequence of this exposure, my head soon became the seat of severe neuralgic pain, which caused me at times to linger over my work. But this was not permitted. My movements were immediately quickened, for the work must be done notwithstanding the severe pain. Every command must be obeyed whatever the result. At night a part of our number were taken to the nunnery, and the rest of us locked up in our rooms in the house. We were not permitted to take our meals with the two housekeepers, but a table was set for us in another room. One would think that when gathering the fruit we would be allowed to partake of it, or at least to taste it. But this was not allowed; and as a priest's eye was ever upon us, we dare not disobey, however much we might wish to do so. I used to wonder if the two women who kept the house were as severely dealt with as we were, but had no means whereby to satisfy my curiosity. They were not allowed to converse with us, and we might not speak to them, or even look them in the face. Here, as at the nunnery, we were obliged to walk with the head bent forward a little, the eyes fixed on the floor, one hand, if disengaged, under the cape, the other down by the side, and on no occasion might we look a person in the face. The two women seemed to be governed by the same rules that we were, and subject to the same masters. I used to think a great deal about them, and longed to know their history. They wore blue dresses, with white caps, and white handkerchiefs on their necks. Their life, I think, was a hard one. CHAPTER XVIII. RETURN TO THE NUNNERY. While we remained at this place I was not punished in any of the usual methods. Perhaps they thought the exposure to a burning sun, and a severe headache, sufficient to keep me in subjection without any other infliction. But immediately on my return to the nunnery I was again subjected to the same cruel, capricious, and unreasonable punishment. On the first day after my return one of the priests came into the kitchen where I was at work, and I hastened to give him the usual respectful salutation, which I have before described. But he took hold of my arm and said, "What do you look so cross for?" And without giving me time to reply, even if I had dared to do so, he added, "I'll teach you not to look cross at me." He left the room, with an expression of countenance that frightened me. I was not aware of looking cross at him, though I must confess I had suffered so much at his hands already, I did not feel very happy in his presence; yet I always endeavored to treat him with all due respect. Certainly his accusation against me in this instance was as false as it was cruel. But what of that? I was only a nun, and who would care if I was punished unjustly? The priest soon returned with a band of leather, or something of the kind, into which thorns were fastened in such numbers that the inside was completely covered with them. This he fastened around my head with the points of the thorns pressing into the skin, and drew it so tight that the blood ran in streams over my neck and shoulders. I wore this band, or "crown of thorns;" as they called it, for six hours, and all the time continued my work as usual. Then I thought of the "crown of thorns" our Saviour wore when he gave his life a ransom for the sins of the world. I thought I could realize something of his personal agony, and the prayer of my soul went up to heaven for grace to follow his example and forgive my tormentors. From this time I was punished every day while I remained there, and for the most simple things. It was evident they wished to break down my spirit, but it only confirmed me in my resolution to get away from them as soon as possible. One day I chanced to close the door a little too hard. It was mere accident, but for doing it they burned me with red hot tongs. They kept them in the fire till they were red hot, then plunged them into cold water, drew them out as quickly as possible, and immediately applied them to my arms or feet. The skin would, of course adhere to the iron, and it would sometime burn down to the bone before they condescended to remove it. At another time I was cruelly burned on my arms and shoulders for not standing erect. The flesh was deep in some places, and the agony I suffered was intolerable. I thought of the stories the Abbess used to tell me years before about the martyrs who were burned at the stake. But I had not a martyr's faith, and I could not imitate their patience and resignation. The sores made on these occasions were long in healing, and to this day I bear upon my person the scars caused by these frequent burnings. I was often punished because I forgot to walk on my toes. For this trivial offence I have often been made to fast two days. We all wore cloth shoes, and it was the rule of the house that we should all walk on tip-toe. Sometimes we would forget, and take a step or two in the usual way; and then it did seem as though they rejoiced in the opportunity to inflict punishment. It was the only amusement they had, and there was so little variety in their daily life, I believe they were glad of anything to break in upon the monotony of convent life, and give them a little excitement. It was very hard for me to learn to walk on my toes, and as I often failed to do it, I was of course punished for the atrocious crime. But I did learn at last, for what can we not accomplish by resolute perseverance? Several years of practice so confirmed the habit that I found it as difficult to leave off as it was to begin. Even now I often find myself tripping along on tip-toe before I am aware of it. We had a very cruel abbess in the kitchen, and this was one reason of our being punished so often. She was young and inexperienced, and had just been promoted to office, with which she seemed much pleased and elated. She embraced every opportunity to exercise her authority, and often have I fasted two whole days for accidentally spilling a little water on the kitchen floor. Whenever she wished to call my attention to her, she did not content herself with simply speaking, but would box my ears, pull my hair, pinch my arms, and in many ways so annoy and provoke me that I often wished her dead. One day when I was cleaning knives and forks she came up to me and gave me such a severe pinch on my arm that I carried the marks for many days. I did not wait to think what I was doing, but turned and struck her with all my might. It could not have been a light blow, for I was very angry. She turned away, saying she should report me to the Lady Superior. I did not answer her, but as she passed through the door I threw a knife which I hoped would hit her, but it struck the door as she closed it. I expected something dreadful would be done to me after this wilful violation of a well known law. But I could bear it, I thought, and I was glad I hit her so hard. She soon returned with a young priest, who had been there but a short time, and his heart had not yet become so hard as is necessary to be a good Romish priest. He came to me and asked, "What is the matter?" I told him the Abbess punished me every day, that in fact I was under punishment most of the time; that I did not deserve it, and I was resolved to bear it no longer. I struck her because she pinched me for no good reason; and I should in future try to defend myself from her cruelty. "Do you know," said he, "what will be done to you for this?" "No, sir," said I, "I do not know," and I was about to add, "I do not care," but I restrained myself. He went out, and for a long time I expected to be called to account, but I heard no more of it. The Abbess, however, went on in the old way, tormenting me on every occasion. One day the priests had a quarrel among themselves, and if I had said a DRUNKEN QUARREL, I do not think it would have been a very great mistake. In the fray they stabbed one of their number in the side, drew him out of his room, and left him on the floor in the hall of the main building, but one flight of stairs above the kitchen. Two nuns, who did the chamber work, came down stairs, and, seeing him lie there helpless and forsaken, they took him by the hair of the head and drew him down to the kitchen. Here they began to torment him in the most cruel manner. They burned sticks in the fire until the end was a live coal, put them into his hands and closed them, pressing the burning wood into the flesh, and thus producing the most exquisite pain. At least this would have been the result if he had realized their cruelty. But I think he was insensible before they touched him, or if not, must have died very soon after, for I am sure he was dead when I first saw him. I went to them and remonstrated against such inhuman conduct. But one of the nuns replied, "That man has tormented me more than I can him, if I do my best, and I wish him to know how good it is." "But," said I, "some one will come in, and you will be caught in the act." "I'll risk that," said she, "they are quarreling all over the house, and will have enough to do to look after each other for a while, I assure you." "But the man is dead," said I. "How can you treat a senseless corpse in that way?" "I'm afraid he is dead," she replied, he don't move at all, and I can't feel his heart beat; but I did hope to make him realize how good the fire feels." Meanwhile, the blood was flowing from the wound in his side, and ran over the floor. The sight of this alarmed them, and they drew him into another dark hall, and left him beside the door of a room used for punishment. They then came back, locked the hall door, and washed up the blood. They expected to be punished for moving the dead body, but the floor was dry before any of the priests came in, and I do not think it was ever known. Perhaps they did not remember events as distinctly as they might under other circumstances, and it is very possible, that, when they found the corpse they might not have been able to say whether it was where they left it, or not. We all rejoiced over the death of that priest. He was a very cruel man; had punished me times without number, but, though I was glad he was dead, I could not have touched him when he lay helpless and insensible. A few weeks after the events just related, another trifling occurrence brought me into collision with the Abbess. And here let me remark that I have no way, by which to ascertain at what particular time certain events transpired. The reader will understand that I write this narrative from memory, and our life at the nunnery was so monotonous, the days and weeks passed by with such dull, and irksome uniformity, that sometimes our frequent punishments were the only memorable events to break in upon the tiresome sameness of our unvarying life. Of course the most simple thing was regarded by us as a great event, something worthy of special notice, because, for the time, it diverted our minds from the peculiar restraints of our disagreeable situation. To illustrate this remark let me relate an incident that transpired about this time. I was one day sent to a part of the house where I was not in the habit of going. I was passing along a dark hall, when a ray of light from an open door fell upon my path. I looked up, and as the door at that moment swung wide open, I saw, before a glass, in a richly furnished room, the most beautiful woman I ever beheld. From the purity of her complexion, and the bright color of her cheeks and lips, I could have taken her for a piece of wax work, but for the fact that she was carelessly arranging her hair. She was tall, and elegant in person, with a countenance of such rare and surpassing beauty, I involuntarily exclaimed, "What a beautiful woman!" She turned towards me with a smile of angelic sweetness, while an expression of sympathetic emotion overspread her exquisitely moulded features, which seemed to say as plainly as though she had spoken in words, "Poor child, I pity you." I now became conscious that I was breaking the rules of the house, and hastened away. But O, how many days my soul fed on that smile! I never saw the lady again, her name I could never know, but that look of tenderness will never be forgotten. It was something to think of through many dreary hours, something to look back to, and be grateful for, all the days of my life. But to return to my narrative. The priests had a large quantity of sap gathered from the maple trees, and brought to the nunnery to be boiled into sugar. Another nun and myself were left to watch it, keep the kettle filled up, and prevent it from burning. It was boiled in the large caldron of which I have before spoken, and covered with a large, thin, wooden cover. The sap had boiled some time, and become very thick. I was employed in filling up the kettle when the Abbess came into the room, and after a few inquiries, directed me to stand upon the cover of the caldron, and fix a large hook directly over it. I objected, for I know full well that it would not bear a fourth part of my weight. She then took hold of me, and tried to force me to step upon it, but I knew I should be burned to death, for the cover, on account of its enormous size was made as thin as possible, that we might be able to lift it. When I saw that she was determined to make me yield, in self defence, I threw her upon the floor. Would that I had been content to stop here. But no. When I saw her in my power, and remembered how much I had suffered from her, my angry passions rose, and I thought only of revenge. I commenced beating her with all my might, and when I stopped from mere exhaustion, the other nun caught her by the hair and began to draw her round the room. She struggled and shrieked, but she could not help herself. Her screams, however, alarmed the house, and hearing one of the priests coming, the nun gave her a kick and left her. The priest asked what we were doing, and the Abbess related with all possible exaggeration, the story of our cruelty. "But what did you do to them?" asked the priest "You gave them some provocation, or they never would treat you so." She was then obliged to tell what had passed between us, and he said she deserved to suffer for giving such an order. "Why," said he, "that cover would not have held her a moment, and she would most assuredly have burned to death." He punished us all; the Abbess for giving the order, and us for abusing her. I should not have done this thing, had I not come off so well, when I once before attempted to defend myself; but my success at that time gave me courage to try it again. My punishment was just, and I bore it very well, consoled by the thought that justice was awarded to the Abbess, as well as myself. CHAPTER XIX. SICKNESS AND DEATH OF A SUPERIOR. The next excitement in our little community was caused by the sickness and death of our Superior. I do not know what her disease was, but she was sick two weeks, and one of the nuns from the kitchen was sent to take care of her. One night she was so much worse, the nun thought she would die, and she began to torment her in the most inhuman manner. She had been severely punished a short time before at the instigation of this woman, and she then swore revenge if she ever found an opportunity. Now it was presented. She was in her power, too weak to resist or call for assistance, and she resolved to let her know by experience how bitterly she had made others suffer in days gone by. It was a fiendish spirit, undoubtedly, that prompted her to seek revenge upon the dying, but what else could we expect? She only followed the example of her elders, and if she went somewhat beyond their teachings, she had, as we shall see, her reasons for so doing. With hot irons she burned her on various parts of her person, cut great gashes in the flesh upon her face, sides, and arms, and then rubbed salt and pepper into the wounds. But I will not try to describe it. The wretched woman died before morning, and the nun went to the priest and told him that the Superior was dead, and that she had killed her. The priests were immediately all called together, and the Bishop called upon for counsel. He sentenced her to be hung that morning in the chapel before the assembled household. The Abbess came and informed us what had taken place, and directed us to get ready and go to the chapel. When we entered, the doomed girl sat upon a chair on the altar. She was clad in a white robe, with a white cap on her head, and appeared calm, self-possessed, and even joyful. The Bishop asked her if she had anything to say for herself. She immediately rose and said, "I have killed the Superior, for which I am to be hung. I know that I deserve to die, but I have suffered more than death many times over, from punishments inflicted by her order. For many years my life has been one of continual suffering; and for what? For just nothing at all, or for the most simple things. Is it right, is it just to starve a person two whole days for shutting the door a little too hard? or to burn one with hot irons because a little water was accidentally spilt on the floor? Yet for these and similar things I have again and again been tortured within an inch of my life. Now that I am to be hung, I am glad of it, for I shall die quick, and be out of my misery, instead of being tortured to death by inches. I did this thing for this very purpose, for I do not fear death nor anything that comes after it. Talk about the existence of a God! I don't believe a word of it. And the story of heaven and hell, purgatory, and the Virgin Mary; why, it's all a humbug, like the rest of the vile stuff you call religion. Religion indeed! You wont catch us nuns believing it, and more than all that, you don't believe it yourselves, not one of you." She sat down, and they put a cap over her head and face, drew it tight around her neck, adjusted the rope, and she was launched into eternity. To me it seemed a horrid thing, and I could not look upon her dying struggles. I did not justify the girl in what she had done, yet I knew that the woman would have died if she had let her alone; and I also knew that worse things than that were done in the nunnery almost every day, and that too by the very men who had taken her life. I left the chapel with a firm resolve to make one more effort to escape from a thraldom that everyday became more irksome. At the door the Abbess met me, and led me to a room I had never seen before, where, to my great surprise, I found my bed. She said it was removed by her order, and in future I was to sleep in that room. "What! sleep here alone?" I exclaimed, quite forgetting, in the agitation of the moment, the rule of silent obedience. But she did not condescend to notice either my question or the unpleasant feelings which must have been visible in my features. I did feel very much troubled. I had never slept in a room alone a night in my life. Another nun always occupied the room with me, and when she was absent, as she often was when under punishment, the Abbess slept there, so that I was never alone. I did not often meet the girl with whom I slept, as she did not work in the kitchen, but whenever I did, I felt as pleased as though she had been my sister. Yet I never spoke to her, nor did she ever attempt to converse with me. Yes, strange as it may seem, incredible as my reader may think it, it is a fact, that during all the years we slept together, not one word ever passed between us. We did not even dare to communicate our thoughts by signs, lest the Abbess should detect us. That night I spent in my new room; but I could not sleep. I had heard strange hints about some room where no one could sleep, and where no one liked to go, though for what reason I could never learn. When I first entered, I discovered that the floor was badly stained, and, while speculating on the cause of those stains, I came to the conclusion that this was the room to which so much mystery was attached. It was very dark, with no window in it, situated in the midst of the house, surrounded by other rooms, and no means of ventilation except the door. I did not close my eyes during the whole night. I imagined that the door opened and shut, that persons were walking in the room, and I am certain that I heard noises near my bed for which I could not account. Altogether, it was the most uncomfortable night I ever spent, and I believe that few persons would have felt entirely at ease in my situation. To such a degree did these superstitious fears assail me, I felt as though I would endure any amount of physical suffering rather than stay there another night. Resolved to brave everything, I went to a priest and asked permission to speak to him. It was an unusual thing, and I think his curiosity was excited, for it was only in extreme cases that a nun ventures to appeal to a priest When I told him my story, he seemed much surprised, and asked by whose order my bed was moved to that room. I informed him of all the particulars, when he ordered me to move my bed back again. "No one," said he, "has slept in that room for years, and we do not wish any one to sleep there." I accordingly moved the bed back, and as I had permission from the priest, the Abbess dared not find fault with me. CHAPTER XX. STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY. Through the winter I continued to work as usual, leading the same dull, dreary, and monotonous life, varied only by pains, and privations. In the spring a slight change was made in the household arrangements, and for a short time I assisted some of the other nuns to do the chamber work for the students at the academy. There was an under-ground passage from the convent to the cellar of the academy through which we passed. Before we entered, the doors and windows were securely fastened, and the students ordered to leave their rooms, and not return again till we had left. They were also forbidden to speak to us, but whenever the teachers were away, they were sure to come back to their rooms, and ask us all manner of questions. They wished to know, they said, how long we were going to stay in the convent, if we really enjoyed the life we had chosen, and were happy in our retirement; if we had not rather return to the world, go into company, get married, etc. I suppose they really thought that we could leave at any time if we chose. But we did not dare to answer their questions, or let them know the truth. One day, when we went to do the work, we found in one of the rooms, some men who were engaged in painting. They asked us if we were contented. We did not dare to reply, lest they should betray us. They then began to make remarks about us, some of which I well remember. One of them said, "I don't believe they are used very well; they look as though they were half starved." Another replied, "I know they do; there is certainly something wrong about these convents, or the nuns would not all look so pale and thin." I suspect the man little thought how much truth there was in his remarks. Soon after the painters left we were all taken suddenly ill. Some were worse than others, but all were unwell except one nun. As all exhibited the same symptoms, we were supposed to have taken poison, and suspicion fastened on that nun. She was put upon the rack, and when she saw that her guilt could not be concealed, she confessed that she poisoned the water in the well, but she would not tell what she put into it, nor where she got it. She said she did not do it to injure the nuns, for she thought they were allowed so little drink with their food, they would not be affected by it, while those who drank more, she hoped to kill. She disliked all the priests, and the Superior, and would gladly have murdered them all. But for one priest in particular, she felt all the hatred that a naturally malignant spirit, excited by repeated acts of cruelty, is capable of. He had punished her repeatedly, and as she thought, unjustly, and she resolved to avenge herself and destroy her enemy, even though the innocent should suffer with the guilty. This was all wrong, fearfully wrong we must admit. But while we look with horror at the enormity of her crime let us remember that she had great provocation. I hope there are few who could have sought revenge in the way she did; yet I cannot believe that any one would endure from another what she was compelled to suffer from that man, without some feelings of resentment. Let us not judge too harshly this erring sister, for if her crime was great, her wrongs were neither small nor few, and her punishment was terrible. They tortured her a long time to make her tell what kind of poison she put in the well, and where she obtained it. They supposed she must have got it from the painters, but she would never tell where she procured it. This fact proves that she had some generous feelings left. Under any other circumstances such magnanimity would have been highly applauded, and in my secret soul I could not but admire the firmness with which she bore her sufferings. She was kept upon the rack until all her joints were dislocated, and the flesh around them mortified. They then carried her to her room, removed the bed, and laid her upon the bedcord. The nuns were all assembled to look at her, and take warning by her sad fate. Such a picture of misery I never saw before. She seemed to have suffered even more than the old lady I saw in the cellar. It was but a moment, however, that we were allowed to gaze upon her shrunken ghastly features, and then she was hid from our sight forever. The nuns, except two or three, were sent from the room, and thus the murder was consummated. What else can we call it? There was one young student at the academy whose name was Smalley. He was from New England, and his father lived at St. Albans, Vt., where he had wealth and influence. This young man had a little sister who used to visit at the convent, whom they called Sissy Smalley. She was young, but handsome, witty and intelligent. For one of her age, she was very much refined in her manners. They allowed her to go anywhere in the building except the private apartments where those deeds of darkness were performed which would not bear the pure light of heaven. I presume that no argument could convince little Sissy Smalley that such rooms were actually in the nunnery. She had been all over it, she would tell you, and she never saw any torture rooms, never heard of any one being punished, or anything of the kind. Such reports would appear to her as mere slanders, yet God knows they are true. I well remember how I used to shudder to hear that child praise the nunnery, tell what a nice, quiet place it was, and how she would like it for a permanent home. I hope her brother will find out the truth about it in season to prevent his beautiful sister from ever becoming a nun. CHAPTER XXI. SECOND ESCAPE FROM THE NUNNERY. It was early in the spring, when I again succeeded in making my escape. It was on a Saturday evening, when the priests and nearly all the nuns were In the chapel. I was assisted out of the yard in the same way I was before, and by the same person. There was still snow upon the ground and that they might not be able to track me, I entered the market and walked the whole length of it without attracting observation. From thence I crossed the street, when I saw a police officer coming directly towards me. I turned down a dark alley and ran for my life, I knew not whither. It is the duty of every police officer in Montreal to accompany any of the sisters whom they chance to meet in the street, and I knew if he saw me he would offer to attend me wherever I wished to go. Such an offer might not be refused, and, certainly, his company, just at that time, was neither desirable nor agreeable. At the end of the alley, I found myself near a large church, and two priests were coming directly towards me. It is said "the drowning catch at straws." Whether this be true or not, the plan which I adopted in this emergency seemed as hopeless for my preservation, as a straw for the support of the drowning. Yet it was the only course I could pursue, for to escape unseen was impossible. I therefore resolved to go boldly past them, and try to make them think I was a Superior going to church. Trying to appear as indifferent as possible, I approached, and saluted them in the usual way. This is done by throwing forward the open hand, and passing it down by the side with a slight inclination of the head. The priest returns the salutation by standing with uncovered head till you have passed. In the present instance, the priest said, as he removed his hat, "Church is in, Sister." I bowed again, and hastened on. With trembling limbs I ascended the Church steps, and stood there till the priests were out of sight. It was but a moment, yet it seemed a long time. I knew the house was filled with priests and students, some of whom would be sure to recognize me at once. What if they should come out! The thought of it nearly took away my breath. The cold perspiration started from my brow, and I felt as though I should faint. But my fears were not realized, and as soon as the priests were out of sight, I went on again. Soon I came to a cross street, leading to the river, where a large hotel stood on the corner. I followed the river, and travelled all night. The next day, fearing to be seen by people going to church, I hid in a cellar hole, covered over with old boards and timbers. At night I went on again, and on Sunday evening about ten o'clock I came to a small village where I resolved to seek food and lodging. Tired, hungry and cold, feeling as though I could not take another step, I called at one of the houses, and asked permission to stay over night. It was cheerfully granted. The lady gave me some milk, and I retired to rest. Next morning, I rose early and left before any of the family were up. I knew they were all Romanists, and I feared to trust them. At noon that day I arrived at St. Oars, a town, named, as I have been informed, for the man who owns a great part of it. I stopped at a public house, which, they called, "Lady St. Oars," where they were eating dinner. The landlady invited me to dine with them, and asked if I belonged to the convent in that place. I told her that I did, for I knew if I told the truth they would suspect me at once. "Do you eat meat?" she asked. I told her I did not. "Do you eat butter on your bread?" I replied in the affirmative, and she gave me a slice of bread and butter, a piece of cheese and a silver cup full of milk. I ate it all, and would gladly have eaten more, for I was very hungry. As I was about to leave, the lady remarked, "There was grease in that cheese, was it a sin for me to give it to you?" I assured her it was not, for I was allowed to eat milk, and the cheese being made of milk, there could be no sin in my eating it I told her that, so far from committing a sin, the blessed Virgin was pleased with her benevolent spirit, and would, in some way, reward her for her kindness. Leaving Lady St. Oars, I went on to the next town where I arrived at seven in the evening. I called at the house of a Frenchman, and asked if I could stay over night, or at least, be allowed to rest awhile. The man said I was welcome to come in, but he had no place where I could sleep. They were just sitting down to supper, which consisted of pea soup; but the lady said there was meat in it, and she would not invite me to partake of it; but she gave me a good supper of bread and milk. She thought I was a Sister of Charity, and I did not tell her that I was not. After supper, she saw that my skirt was stiff with mud, and kindly offered to wash it out for me, saying, I could rest till it was dry. I joyfully accepted her offer, and reclining in a corner, enjoyed a refreshing slumber. It was near twelve o'clock before I was ready to go on again, and when I asked how far it was to the next town, they manifested a great anxiety for my welfare. The man said it was seven miles to Mt. Bly, but he hoped I did not intend to walk. I told him I did not know whether I should or not, perhaps I might ride. "But are you not afraid to go on alone?" he asked. "St. Dennis is a bad place for a lady to be out alone at night, and you must pass a grave-yard in the south part of the town; dare you go by it, in the dark?" I assured him that I had no fear whatever, that would prevent me from going past the grave-yard. I had never committed a crime, never injured any one, and I did not think the departed would come back to harm me. The lady said she would think of me with some anxiety, for she should not dare to go past that grave-yard alone in the dark. I again assured her that I had no cause to fear, had no crime on my conscience, had been guilty of no neglect of duty, and if the living would let me alone, I did not fear the dead. They thought I referred to the low characters about town, and the lady replied, "I shall tell my beads for you and the holy Virgin will protect you from all harm. But remember," she continued, "whenever you pass this way, you will always find a cordial welcome with us." I thanked her, and with a warm grasp of the hand we parted. CHAPTER XXII. LONELY MIDNIGHT WALK. It was near morning when I entered Mt. Bly, but I did not stop. I traveled all night, and late in the morning came to a respectable looking farmhouse which I thought might be occupied by Protestants. I always noticed that their houses were neater, and more comfortable than those of the Romanists in the same condition in life. In the present instance I was not disappointed in my expectations. The lady received me kindly, gave me some breakfast, and directed me to the next village. I walked all day, and near night arrived at St. Mary's, where I called at a house, and asked permission to sit and rest awhile. They gave me an invitation to enter, but did not offer refreshments. I did not like to ask for charity if I could avoid it, and I thought it possible they might ask me to stay over night. But they did not, and after a half hour's rest I rose to depart, and thanking them for their kindness inquired how far it was to the next house. They said it was seven miles to the first house, and nine to the next village. With a sad heart, I once more pursued my lonely way. Soon it began to rain, and the night came on, dark and dismal, cold and stormy, with a high wind that drove the rain against my face with pitiless fury. I entered a thick wood where no ray of light could penetrate, and at almost every step, I sank over shoes in the mud. Thus I wandered on, reflecting bitterly on my wretched fate. All the superstitious fears, which a convent life is so well calculated to produce, again assailed me, and I was frightened at my own wild imaginings. I thought of the nuns who had been murdered so cruelly, and I listened to the voice of the storm, as to the despairing wail of a lost soul. The wind swept fiercely through the leafless branches, now roaring like a tornado, again rising to a shrill shriek, or a prolonged whistle, then sinking to a hollow murmer, and dying away in a low sob which sounded to my excited fancy like the last convulsive sigh of a breaking heart. Once and again I paused, faint and dizzy with hunger and fatigue, feeling as though I could go no further. But there was no alternative. I must go on or perish. And go on I did, though, as I now look back upon that night's experience, I wonder how I managed to do so. But a kind providence, undoubtedly, watched over me, and good angels guided me on my way. Some time in the night, I think it must have been past twelve o'clock, I became so very weary I felt that I must rest awhile at all events. It was so dark I could not see a step before me, but I groped my way to a fence, seated myself on a stone with my head resting against the rails, and in that position I fell asleep. How long I slept, I do not know. I think it must have been some hours. When I awoke, my clothes were drenched with rain, and I was so stiff and lame, I could hardly move. But go I must, so I resolved to make the best of it, and hobble along as well as I could. At last I reached the village, but it was not yet morning, and I dared not stop. I kept on till daylight, and as soon as I thought people were up, I went up to a house and rapped. A woman came to the door, and I asked if she would allow me to go in, and dry my clothes, and I would have added, get some breakfast, but her looks restrained me. They were getting breakfast, but did not invite me to partake of it, and I dared not ask for anything to eat. When my clothes were dry, I thanked them for the use of their fire, and inquired how far it was to the next village. They said the next town was Highgate, but they did not know the distance. My tears flowed freely when I again found myself in the street, cold, hungry, almost sick, and entirely friendless. What should I do? What would become of me? One thought alone gave courage to my desponding heart, buoyed up my sinking spirits, and restored strength to my weary limbs. I was striving for liberty, that priceless boon, so dear to every human heart. I might, perhaps, obtain it. At least, I would try. Nerved to renewed effort by thoughts like these, I toiled onward. All that day I walked without a particle of nourishment. When I reached Highgate, it was eleven o'clock at night, but in one house I saw a light, and I ventured to rap at the door. It was opened by a pale, but pleasant looking woman. "Kind lady," said I, "will you please tell me how far it is to the States?" "To the States!" she exclaimed, and in a moment she seemed to understand both my character and situation. "You are now in Vermont State," said she, "but come in child, you look sad and weary." I at once accepted her offer, and when she asked how far I was traveling, and how I came to be out so late, I did not hesitate to reveal to her my secret, for I was sure she could be trusted. She invited me to spend the remainder of the night, and gave me some refreshment. She was nursing a sick woman, which accounted for her being up so late, but did not prevent her from attending to all my wants, and making me as comfortable as possible. When she saw that my feet were wounded, badly swollen, and covered with blood and dirt, she procured warm water, and with her own hands bathed, and made them clean, with the best toilet soap. She expressed great sympathy for the sad condition my feet were in, and asked if I had no shoes? I told her that my shoes were made of cloth, and soon wore out; that what was left of them, I lost in the mud, when traveling through the woods in the dark. She then procured a pair of nice woollen stockings, and a pair of new shoes, some under clothes, and a good flannel skirt, which she begged me to wear for her sake. I accepted them gratefully, but the shoes I could not wear, my feet were so sore. She said I could take them with me, and she gave me a pair of Indian moccasins to wear till my feet were healed. Angel of mercy that she was; may God's blessing rest upon her for her kindness to the friendless wanderer. The next morning the good lady urged me to stay with her, at least, for a time, and said I should be welcome to a home there for the rest of my life. Grateful as I was for her offer, I was forced to decline it, for I knew that I could not remain so near Montreal in safety. She said the "select men" of the town would protect me, if they were made acquainted with my peculiar situation. Dear lady! she little knew the character of a Romish priest! Her guileless heart did not suspect the cunning artifice by which they accomplish whatever they undertake. And those worthy "select men," I imagine, were not much better informed than herself. Sure I am, that any protection they could offer me, would not, in the least degree, shield me from the secret intrigue, the affectionate, maternal embrace of holy Mother Church. When she found that, notwithstanding all her offers, I was resolved to go, she put into a basket, a change of clothing, the shoes she had given me, and a good supply of food which she gave me for future use. But the most acceptable part of her present was a sun-bonnet; for thus far I had nothing on my head but the cap I wore in the convent. She gave me some money, and bade me go to Swanton, and there, she said, I could take the cars. I accordingly bade her farewell, and, basket in hand, directed my steps toward the depot some seven miles distant, as I was informed; but I thought it a long seven miles, as I passed over it with my sore feet, the blood starting at every step. On my arrival at the depot, a man came to me, and asked where I wished to go. I told him I wished to go as far into the State as my money would carry me. He procured me a ticket, and said it would take me to St. Albans. He asked me where I came from, but I begged to be excused from answering questions. He then conducted me to the ladies room, and left me, saying the cars would be along in about an hour. In this room, several ladies were waiting to take the cars. As I walked across the room, one of them said, in a tone that grated harshly on my feelings, "Your skirt is below your dress." I did not feel very good natured, and instead of saying "thank you," as I should have done, I replied in the most impudent manner, "Well, it is clean, if it is in sight." The lady said no more, and I sat down upon a sofa and fell asleep. As I awoke, one of the ladies said, "I wonder who that poor girl is!" I was bewildered, and, for the moment, could not think where I was, but I thought I must make some reply, and rousing myself I turned to her, and said, "I am a nun, if you wish to know, and I have just escaped from a convent." She gave me a searching look, and said, "Well, I must confess you do look like one. I often visit in Montreal where I see a great many of them, and they always look poor and pale. Will you allow me to ask you a few questions?" By this time, I was wide awake, and realized perfectly where I was, and the folly of making such an imprudent disclosure. I would have given much to recall those few words, for I had a kind of presentiment that they would bring me trouble. I begged to be excused from answering any questions, as I was almost crazy with thinking of the past and did not wish to speak of it. The lady said no more for some time, but she kept her eye upon me, in a way that I did not like; and I began to consider whether I had better wait for the cars, or start on foot. I was sorry for my imprudence, but it could not be helped now, and I must do the best I could to avoid the unpleasant consequences which might result from it. I had just made up my mind to go on, when I heard in the far distance, the shrill whistle of the approaching train; that train which I fondly hoped would bear me far away from danger, and onward to the goal of my desires. At this moment, the lady crossed the room, and seating herself by my side, asked, "Would you not like to go and live with me? I have one waiting maid now, but I wish for another, and if you will go, I will take you and give you good wages. Your work will not be hard; will you go?" "Where do you go?" I asked. "To Montreal," she replied. "Then I shall not go with you," said I. "No money could induce me to return there again." "Ah!" said she, with a peculiar smile, "I see how it is, but you need not fear to trust me. I will protect you, and never suffer you to be taken back to the convent." I saw that I had made unconsciously another imprudent revelation, and resolved to say no more. I was about to leave her, but she drew me back saying, "I will give you some of my clothes, and I can make them fit you so well that no one will ever recognize you. I shall have plenty of time to alter them if they require it, for the train that I go in, will not be along for about three hours; you can help me, and in that time we will get you nicely fixed." I could hardly repress a smile when I saw how earnest she was, and I thought it a great pity that a plan so nicely laid out should be so suddenly deranged, but I could not listen to her flatteries. I suspected that she was herself in the employ of the priests, and merely wished to get me back that she might betray me. She had the appearance of being very wealthy, was richly clad, wore a gold watch, chain, bracelets, breastpin, ear rings, and many finger rings, all of the finest gold. But with all her wealth and kind offers, I dare not trust her. I thought she looked annoyed when I refused to go with her, but when I rose to go to the cars, a look of angry impatience stole over, her fine features, which convinced me that I had escaped a snare. The cars came at length, and I was soon on my way to St. Albans. I was very sick, and asked a gentleman near me to raise the windows. He did so, and inquired how far I was going. I informed him, when he remarked that he was somewhat acquainted in St. Albans, and asked with whom I designed to stop. I told him I had no friends or acquaintance in the place, but I hoped to get employment in some protestant family. He said he could direct me to some gentlemen who would, he thought, assist me. One in particular, he mentioned as being a very wealthy man, and kept a number of servants; perhaps he would employ me. This gentleman's name was Branard, and my informant spoke so highly of the family, I immediately sought them out on leaving the cars, and was at once employed by Mrs. Branard, as a seamstress. Here I found a quiet, happy home. Mrs. Branard was a kind sympathizing woman, and to her, I confided the history of my convent life. She would not allow me to work hard, for she saw that my nerves were easily excited. She made me sit with her in her own room a great part of the time, and did not wish me to go out alone. They had several boarders in the family, and one of them was a brother-in-law [Footnote: This gentleman was Mr. Z. K. Pangborn, late editor of the Worcester Daily Transcript. Both Mr. and Mrs. Pangborn give their testimony of the truth of this statement.] to Mrs. Branard. His name I have forgotten; it was not a common name, but he married Mrs. Branard's sister, and with his wife resided there all the time that I was with them. Mr. Branard was away from home most of the time, so that I saw but little of him. They had an Irish girl in the kitchen, named Betsy. She was a kind, pleasant girl, and she thought me a strict Romanist because I said my prayers so often, and wore the Holy Scapulary round my neck. This Scapulary is a band with a cross on one side, and on the other, the letters "J. H. S." which signify, "Jesus The Savior of Man." At this place I professed great regard for the Church of Rome, and no one but Mrs. Branard was acquainted with my real character and history. When they asked my name, I told them they could call me Margaret, but it was an assumed name. My own, for reasons known only by myself, I did not choose to reveal. I supposed, of course, they would regard me with suspicion for a while, but I saw nothing of the kind. They treated me with great respect, and no questions were ever asked. Perhaps I did wrong in changing my name, but I felt that I was justified in using any means to preserve my liberty. CHAPTER XXIII. FLIGHT AND RECAPTURE. Four happy weeks I enjoyed unalloyed satisfaction in the bosom of this charming family. It was a new thing for me to feel at home, contented, and undisturbed; to have every one around me treat me with kindness and even affection. I sometimes feared it was too good to last. Mrs. Branard in particular, I shall ever remember with grateful and affectionate regard. She was more like a mother to me, than a mistress, and I shall ever look back to the time I spent with her, as a bright spot in the otherwise barren desert of my life. Better, far better would it have been for me had I never left her. But I became alarmed, and thought the convent people were after me. It was no idle whim, no imaginary terror. I had good cause to fear, for I had several times seen a priest go past, and gaze attentively at the house. I knew him at the first glance, having often seen him in Montreal. Then my heart told me that they had traced me to this place, and were now watching a chance to get hold of me. Imagine, if you can, my feelings. Had I suffered so much in vain? Would they be allowed to take me back to those fearful cells, where no ray of mercy could ever reach me? I could not endure the thought. Frightened, and almost beside myself, I resolved to make an effort to find a more secure place. I therefore left those kind friends in the darkness of night, without one word of farewell, and without their knowledge. I knew they would not allow me to go, if they were apprised of my design. In all probability, they would have ridiculed my fears, and bade me rest in peace. How could I expect them to comprehend my danger, when they knew so little of the machination of my foes? I intended to go further into the state, but did not wish to have any one know which way I had gone. It was a sad mistake, but how often in this world do we plunge into danger when we seek to avoid it! How often fancy ourselves in security when we stand upon the very brink of ruin! I left Mr. Branard's in the evening, and called upon a family in the neighborhood whose acquaintance I had made, and whom I wished to see once more, though I dared not say farewell. I left them between the hours of nine and ten, and set forward on my perilous journey. I had gone but a short distance when I heard the sound of wheels and the heavy tread of horses' feet behind me. My heart beat with such violence it almost stopped my breath, for I felt that they were after me. But there was no escape--no forest or shelter near where I could seek protection. On came the furious beasts, driven by no gentle hand. They came up with me, and I almost began to hope that my fears were groundless, when the horses suddenly stopped, a strong hand grasped me, a gag was thrust into my mouth, and again the well-known box was taken from the wagon. Another moment and I was securely caged, and on my way back to Montreal. Two men were in the wagon and two rode on horseback beside it. Four men to guard one poor nun! They drove to Mt. Bly, where they stopped to change horses, and the two men on horseback remained there, while the other two mounted the wagon and drove to Sorel. Here the box was taken out and carried on board a boat, where two priests were waiting for me. When the boat started, they took me out for the first time after I was put into it at St. Albans. Three days we had been on the way, and I had tasted neither food nor drink. How little did I think when I took my tea at Mr. Branard's the night I left that it was the last refreshment I would have for SEVEN DAYS; yet such was the fact. And how little did they think, as they lay in their quiet beds that night, that the poor fugitive they had taken to their home was fleeing for life, or for that which, to her, was better than life. Yet so it was. Bitterly did I reproach myself for leaving those kind friends as I did, for I thought perhaps if I had remained there, they would not have dared to touch me. Such were my feelings then; but as I now look back, I can see that it would have made little difference whether I left or remained. They were bound to get me, at all events, and if I had stopped there until they despaired of catching me secretly, they would undoubtedly have come with an officer, and accused me of some crime, as a pretext for taking me away. Then, had any one been so far interested for me as to insist on my having a fair trial, how easy for them to produce witnesses enough to condemn me! Those priests have many ways to accomplish their designs. The American people don't know them yet; God grant they never may. On my arrival at the nunnery I was taken down the coal grate, and fastened to an iron ring in the back part of a cell. The Archbishop then came down and read my punishment. Notwithstanding the bitter grief that oppressed my spirit, I could not repress a smile of contempt as the great man entered my cell. I remembered that before I ran away, my punishments were assigned by a priest, but the first time I fled from them a Bishop condescended to read my sentence, and now his honor the Archbishop graciously deigned to illume my dismal cell with the light of his countenance, and his own august lips pronounced the words of doom. Was I rising in their esteem, or did they think to frighten me into obedience by the grandeur of his majestic mien? Such were my thoughts as this illustrious personage proceeded slowly, and with suitable dignity, to unroll the document that would decide my fate. What would it be? Death? It might be for aught I knew, or cared to know. I had by this time become perfectly reckless, and the whole proceeding seemed so ridiculous, I found it exceedingly difficult to maintain a demeanor sufficiently solemn for the occasion. But when the fixed decree came forth, when the sentence fell upon my ear that condemned me to SEVEN DAYS' STARVATION, it sobered me at once. Yet even then the feeling of indignation was so strong within me, I could not hold my peace. I would speak to that man, if he killed me for it. Looking him full in the face (which, by the way, I knew was considered by him a great crime), I asked, "Do you ever expect to die?" I did not, of course, expect an answer, but he replied, with a smile, "Yes; but you will die first." He then asked how long I had fasted, and I replied, "Three days." He said, "You will fast four days more, and you will be punished every day until next December, when you will take the black veil." As he was leaving the room, he remarked, "We do not usually have the nuns take the black veil until they are twenty-one; but you have such good luck in getting away, we mean to put you where you can't do it." And with this consoling thought he left me--left me in darkness and despair, to combat, as best I could, the horrors of starvation. This was in the early part of winter, and only about a year would transpire before I entered that retreat from which none ever returned. And then to be punished every day for a year! What a prospect! The priest came every morning, with his dark lantern, to look at me; but he never spoke. On the second day after my return, I told him if he would bring me a little piece of bread, I would never attempt to run away again, but would serve him faithfully the rest of my life. Had he given it to me, I would have faithfully kept my word; but he did not notice me, and closing the door, he left me once more to pass through all the agonies of starvation. I remember nothing after that day. Whether I remained in the cell the other two days, or was taken out before the time expired, I do not know. This much, however, I do know, as a general rule a nun's punishment is never remitted. If she lives, it is well; if she dies, no matter; there are enough more, and no one will ever call them to an account for the murder. But methinks I hear the reader ask, "Did they not fear the judgment of God and a future retribution?" In reply I can only state what I believe to be the fact. It is my firm belief that not more than one priest in ten thousand really believes in the truth of Christianity, or even in the existence of a God. They are all Infidels or Atheists; and how can they be otherwise? It is the legitimate fruit of that system of deceit which they call religion. Of course I only give this as my opinion, founded on what I have seen and heard. You can take it, reader, for what it is worth; believe it or not, just us you please; but I assure you I have often heard the nuns say that they did not believe in any religion. The professions of holiness of heart and parity of life so often made by the priests they KNOW to be nothing but a hypocritical pretence, and their ceremonies they regard as a ridiculous farce. For some time after I was taken from the cell I lay in a state of partial unconsciousness, but how long, I do not know. I have no recollection of being taken up stairs, but I found myself on my bed, in my old room, and on the stand beside me were several cups, vials, etc. The Abbess who sat beside me, occasionally gave me a tea-spoonful of wine or brandy, and tried to make me eat. Ere long, my appetite returned, but it was several weeks before my stomach was strong enough to enable me to satisfy in any degree, the cravings of hunger. When I could eat, I gained very fast, and the Abbess left me in the care of a nun, who came in occasionally to see if I wanted anything. This nun often stopped to talk with me, when she thought no one was near, and expressed great curiosity to know what I saw in the world; if people were kind to me, and if I did not mean to get away again, if possible, I told her I should not; but she replied, "I don't believe that. You will try again, and you will succeed yet, if you keep up good courage. You are so good to work, they do not wish to part with you, and that is one reason why they try so hard to get you back again. But never mind, they won't get you next time." I assured her I should not try to escape again, for they were sure to catch me, and as they had almost killed me this time, they would quite the next. I did not dare to trust her, for I supposed the Superior had given her orders to question me. I was still weak, so weak that I could hardly walk when they obliged me to go into the kitchen to clean vegetables and do other light work, and as soon as I had sufficient strength, to milk the cows, and take the care of the milk. They punished me every day, in accordance with the Bishop's order, and sometimes, I thought, more than he intended. I wore thorns on my head, and peas in my shoes, was whipped and pinched, burnt with hot irons, and made to crawl through the underground passage I have before described. In short, I was tortured and punished in every possible way, until I was weary of my life. Still they were careful not to go so far as to disable me from work. They did not care how much I suffered, if I only performed my daily task. There was an underground passage leading from the nunnery to a place which they called, "Providence," in the south part of the city. I do not know whether it is a school, or a convent, or what it is, but I think it must be some distance, from what I heard said about it. The priest often spoke of sending me there, but for some reason, he did not make me go. Still the frequent reference to what I so much dreaded, kept me in constant apprehension and alarm. I have heard the priest say that underground passages extended from the convent in every direction, for a distance of five miles; and I have reason to believe the statement is true. But these reasons I may not attempt to give. There are things that may not even be alluded to, and if it were possible to speak of them, who would believe the story? CHAPTER XXIV. RESOLVES TO ESCAPE. As summer approached, I expected to be sent to the farm again, but for some reason I was still employed in the kitchen. Yet I could not keep my mind upon my work. The one great object of my life; the subject that continually pressed upon my mind was the momentous question, how shall I escape? The dreaded December was rapidly approaching. To some it would bring a joyous festival, but to me, the black veil and a life long imprisonment. Once within those dreary walls, and I might as well hope to escape from the grave. Such are the arrangements, there is no chance for a nun to escape unless she is promoted to the office of Abbess or Superior. Of course, but few of them can hope for this, especially, if they are not contented; and certainly, in my case there was not the least reason to expect anything of the kind. Knowing these facts, with the horrors of the Secret Cloister ever before me, I felt some days as though on the verge of madness. Before the nuns take the black veil, and enter this tomb for the living, they are put into a room by themselves, called the forbidden closet, where they spend six months in studying the Black Book. Perchance, the reader will remember that when I first came to this nunnery, I was taken by the door-tender to this forbidden closet, and permitted to look in upon the wretched inmates. From that time I always had the greatest horror of that room. I was never allowed to enter it, and in fact never wished to do so, but I have heard the most agonizing groans from those within, and sometimes I have heard them laugh. Not a natural, hearty laugh, however, such as we hear from the gay and happy, but a strange, terrible, sound which I cannot describe, and which sent a thrill of terror through my frame, and seemed to chill the very blood in my veins. I have heard the priests say, when conversing with each other, while I was tidying their room, that many of these nuns lose their reason while studying the Black Book. I can well believe this, for never in my life did I ever witness an expression of such unspeakable, unmitigated anguish, such helpless and utter despair as I saw upon the faces of those nuns. And well they may despair. Kept under lock and key, their windows barred, and no air admitted to the room except what comes through the iron grate of their windows from other apartments; compelled to study, I know not what; with no hope of the least mitigation of their sufferings, or relaxation of the stringent rules that bind them; no prospect before them but a life-long imprisonment; what have they to hope for? Surely, death and the grave are the only things to which they can look forward with the least degree of satisfaction. Those nuns selected for this Secret Cloister are generally the fairest, the most beautiful of the whole number. I used to see them in the chapel, and some of them were very handsome. They dressed like the other nuns, and always looked sad and broken hearted, but were not pale and thin like the rest of us. I am sure they were not kept upon short allowance as the others were, and starvation was not one of their punishments, whatever else they might endure. The plain looking girls were always selected to work in the kitchen, and do the drudgery about the house. How often have I thanked God for my plain face! But for that, I might not have been kept in the kitchen so long, and thus found means to escape which I certainly could not have found elsewhere. With all my watching, and planning I did not find an opportunity to get away till June. I then, succeeded in getting outside the convent yard one evening between eight and nine o'clock. How I got there, is a secret I shall never reveal. A few yards from the gate I was stopped by one of the guard at the Barrack, who asked where I was going. "To visit a sick woman," I promptly replied, and he let me pass. Soon after this, before my heart ceased to flutter, I thought I heard some one running after me. My resolution was at once taken. I would never be caught and carried back alive. My fate was at last, I thought, in my own hands. Better die at once than to be chained like a guilty criminal, and suffer as I had done before. Blame me not gentle reader, when I tell you that I stood upon the bank of the river with exultant joy; and, as I pursued my way along the tow-path, ready to spring into the water on the first indication of danger, I rejoiced over the disappointment of my pursuers in losing a servant who had done them so good service. At a little distance I saw a ferry boat, but when I asked the captain to carry me over the river, he refused. He was, probably, afraid of the police and a fine, for no one can assist a run-away nun with impunity, if caught in the act. He directed me, however, to the owner of the boat, who said I could go if the captain was willing to carry me. I knew very well that he would not, and I took my place in the boat as though I had a perfect right to it. We were almost across the river, when the captain saw me, and gave orders to turn back the boat, and leave me on the shore from whence we started. From his appearance I thought we were pursued, and I was not mistaken. Five priests were following us in another boat, and they too, turned back, and reached the shore almost as soon as we did. I left the boat and ran for my life. I was now sure that I was pursued; there could be no doubt of that, for the sound of footsteps behind me came distinct to my ear. At a little distance stood a small, white house. Could I not reach it? Would not the people protect me? The thought gave me courage, and I renewed my efforts. Nearer came the footsteps, but I reached the house, and without knocking, or asking permission, I sprang through the door. The people were in bed, in another room, but a man looked out, and asked what I wanted. "I'm a nun," said I. "I've run away from the Grey Nunnery, and they're after me. Hide me, O hide me, and God will bless you!" As I spoke he put out his hand and opened the cellar door. "Here," said he, "run down cellar, I'll be with you in a moment." I obeyed, and he struck a light and followed. Pointing to a place where he kept ashes, he said hastily, "Crawl in there." There was not a moment to lose, for before he had covered up my hiding place, a loud knock was heard upon the front door. Having extinguished his light, he ran up stairs, and opened the door with the appearance of having just left his bed. "Who is here?" he asked, "and what do you want this time of night?" One of them replied, "We are in search of a nun, and are very sure she came in here?" "Well gentlemen," said he, "walk in, and see for yourselves. If she is here, you are at liberty to find her." Lighting a candle, he proceeded to guide them over the house, which they searched until they were satisfied. They then came down cellar, and I gave up all hope of escape. Still, I resolved never to be taken alive. I could strangle myself, and I would do it, rather than suffer as I did before. At that moment I could truly say with the inspired penman, with whose language I have since become familiar, "my soul chooseth strangling and death rather than life." They looked all around me, and even into the place where I lay concealed, but they did not find me. At length I heard them depart, and so great was my joy, I could hardly restrain my feelings within the bounds of decorum. I felt as though I must dance and sing, shout aloud or leap for joy at my great deliverance. I am sure I should have committed some extravagant act had not the gentleman at that moment called me up, and told me that my danger was by no means past. This information so dashed my cup of bliss that I was able to drink it quietly. He gave me some refreshment, and as soon as safety would permit, saddled his horse, and taking me on behind him, carried me six miles to another boat, put me on board, and paid the captain three dollars to carry me to Laprairie. On leaving me, he gave me twenty-five cents, and said, "you'll be caught if you go with the other passengers." The captain said he could hide me and no one know that I was on board, but himself. He led me to the end of the boat, and put me upon a board over the horses. He fixed a strong cord for me to hold on by, and said, "you must be careful and not fall down, for the horses would certainly kill you before you could be taken out." The captain was very kind to me and when I left him, gave me twenty-five cents, and some good advice. He said I must hurry along as fast as possible, for it was Jubilee, and the priests would all be in church at four o'clock. He also advised me not to stop in any place where a Romish priest resided, "for," said he, "the convent people have, undoubtedly, telegraphed all over the country giving a minute description of your person, and the priests will all be looking for you." Two days I travelled as fast as my strength would allow, when I came to Sorel, which was on the other side of the river. Here I saw several priests on the road coming directly towards me. That they were after me, I had not a doubt. Whither should I flee? To escape by running, was out of the question, but just at that moment my eye fell upon a boat near the shore. I ran to the captain, and asked him to take me across the river. He consented, and, as I expected, the priests took another boat and followed us. Once more I gave myself up for lost, and prepared to spring into the water, if they were likely to overtake me. The man understood my feelings, and exerted all his strength to urge forward the boat. At last it reached the shore, and as he helped me out he whispered, "Now run." I did run, but though my own liberty was at stake I could not help thinking about the consequences to that man if I escaped, for I knew they would make him pay a heavy fine for his benevolent act. A large house stood in my way, and throwing open the door I exclaimed, "Are there any protestants here?" "O, yes," replied a man who sat there, "come with me." He led me to the kitchen, where a large company of Irish men were rolling little balls on a table. I saw the men were Irish and my first thought was, "I am betrayed." But my fears were soon relieved, for the man exclaimed, "Here is a nun, inquiring for protestants." "Well," replied one who seemed to be a leader, "this is the right place to find them. We are all true Orange men." And then they all began to shout, "Down with the Catholics! Down with the Pope! Death to the Jesuits! etc." I was frightened at their violence, but their leader came to me, and with the kindness of a brother, said, "Do not fear us. If you are a run-away, we will protect you." He bade the men be still and asked if any one was after me. I told him about the priests, and he replied, "you have come to the right place for protection, for they dare not show themselves here. I am the leader of a band of Anti-Catholics, and this is their lodge. You have heard of us, I presume; we are called Orange men. Our object is, to overthrow the Roman Catholic religion, and we are bound by the most fearful oaths to stand by each other, and protect all who seek our aid. The priests dread our influence, for we have many members, and I hope ere long, the power of the Pope in this country will be at an end. I am sure people must see what a cruel, hypocritical set they are." Before he had done speaking, a man came to the door and said, "The carriage is ready." Another of the men, on hearing this, said, "Come with me, and I'll take you out of the reach of the priests." He conducted me to a carriage, which was covered and the curtains all fastened down. He helped me into it, directing me to sit upon the back seat, where I could not be seen by any one unless they took particular pains. He drove to St. Oars that night, and, if I remember right, he said the distance was twelve miles. When, he left me he gave me twenty-five cents. I travelled all night, and about midnight passed through St. Dennis, But I did not stop until the next morning, when I called at a house and asked for something to eat. The lady gave me some bread and milk, and I again pursued my way. CHAPTER XXV. EVENTFUL JOURNEY. Once more I had the good fortune to obtain a passage across the river in a ferry-boat, and was soon pressing onward upon the other side. Passing through two places called St. Mary's and St. John's, I followed the railroad to a village which I was informed was called Stotsville, [Footnote: I beg leave once more to remind the reader that it is by no means certain that I give these names correctly. Hearing them pronounced, with no idea of ever referring to them again, it is not strange that mistakes of this kind should occur.] a great part of the property being owned by a Mr. Stots, to whom I was at once directed. Here I stopped, and was kindly received by the gentleman and his wife. They offered me refreshments, gave me some articles of clothing, and then he carried me twelve miles, and left me at Rouse's Point, to take the cars for Albany. He gave me six dollars to pay my expenses, and a letter of introduction to a gentleman by the name of Williams, in which he stated all the facts he knew concerning me, and commended me to his care for protection. I think he said Mr. Williams lived on North Pearl street, but I may be mistaken in this and also in some other particulars. As I had no thought of relating these facts at the time of their occurrence, I did not fix them in my mind as I otherwise should have done. Mr. Stots said that if I could not find the gentleman to whom the letter was directed, I was to take it to the city authorities, and they would protect me. As he assisted me from the carriage he said, "You will stop here until the cars come along, and you must get your own ticket. I shall not notice you again, and I do not wish you to speak to me." I entered the depot intending to follow his directions; but when I found the cars would not come along for three hours, I did not dare to stay. There was quite a large collection of people there, and I feared that some one would suspect and stop me. I therefore resolved to follow the railroad, and walk on to the next station. On my way I passed over a railroad bridge, which I should think was two miles long. The wind blew very hard at the time, and I found it exceedingly difficult to walk upon the narrow timbers. More than once I came near losing my precarious footing, and I was in constant fear that the train would overtake me before I got over. In that case I had resolved to step outside the track where I thought I could stand upon the edge of the bridge and hold on by the telegraph poles, and thus let them pass without doing me injury. Happily, however, I was not compelled to resort to this perilous expedient, but passed the bridge in safety. At the end I found another nearly as long, connected with it by a drawbridge. When I drew near it was up for a boat to pass; but a man called to me, and asked if I wish to go over. I told him I did, and he let down the bridge. As I approached him he asked, "Are you mad? or how came you here?" I told him I had walked from the depot at Rouse's Point. He appeared greatly surprised, and said, "You are the first person who ever walked over that bridge. Will you come to my house and rest awhile? You must be very weary, and my wife will be glad to see you. She is rather lonely here, and is pleased to see any one. Will you come? 'Tis only a short distance, just down under the bridge." Those last words decided me. I thanked him, but firmly refused to go one step out of my way. I thought that he wished to deceive me, perhaps take me to some out-of-the-way place, and give me up to my pursuers. At all events, it was wise not to trust him, for I was sure there was no house near the bridge, certainly not under it. I have since learned that such is the fact. As I turned to leave him, he again urged me to stop, and said, "The cars will soon be along, and they will run over you. How do you expect to get out of their way?" I told him I would risk it, and left him. I passed on in safety, and soon came to the depot, where I took the evening train for Albany. At eight the same evening I left the cars, and walked on towards Troy, which I think was four miles distant. Here I met a lad, of whom I inquired the way to Albany. "You cannot get there to-night," said he, "and I advise you not to try." When he saw that I was determined to go on, he said I would pass a tavern called the half-way house, and if I was tired I could stop there. It was about eleven o'clock when I passed this house, There were several persons on the piazza, laughing, talking, and singing, who called me as I passed, shouted after me, and bade me stop. Exceedingly frightened, I ran with all possible speed, but they continued to call after me till I was out of hearing. Seeing a light at a house near by, I ventured to rap on the door. It was opened by a woman, who asked me to walk in. I inquired the distance to Albany. She informed me, but said, "You can't go there to-night." I told her I must, "Well," said she, "if you will go, the watch will take care of you when you get there." She then asked, "Were those men calling after you?" I told her I supposed they were, when she replied, with a peculiar smile, "I guess you can't be a very nice kind of girl, or you wouldn't be on the street this time of night." My feelings were so deeply wounded I could hardly restrain my tears at this cruel insinuation; but pride came to my aid, and, choking down the rising emotion, I replied as carelessly as possible, "I must do as I can, and not as I would." It was about one o'clock at night when I entered the principal street in Albany, and, as the lady predicted, a watchman came to me and asked why I was out that time of night. I gave him Mr. Stot's letter. He stood beside a lamp-post and read it, when he seemed satisfied, and said, "I know the man; come with me and I'll take you to his house." I followed him a long way, till at last he stopped before a large house, and rang the bell. Mr. Williams came to the door, and asked what was wanted. The watchman gave him the letter. He read it, and invited me to stop. His wife got up, received me very kindly, and gave me some supper, for which I was truly grateful. Nor was I less thankful for the delicate consideration with which they avoided any allusion to my convent life, or my subsequent flight and suffering. Mrs. Williams saw that I was sad and weary, and as she conducted me to a comfortable bed, she remarked, "You are safe at last, and I am glad of it. You can now retire without the apprehension of danger, and sleep in perfect security. You are with friends who will protect you as long as you choose to remain with us." Notwithstanding the good lady's assurance of safety, I found it impossible to close my eyes. I was among strangers, in a strange place, and, having been so often deceived, might I not be again? Perhaps, after all their pretended kindness, they were plotting to betray me. A few days, however, convinced me that I had at last found real friends, who would protect me in the hour of danger to the utmost of their ability. I remained here some four weeks, and should have remained longer, but an incident transpired that awakened all my fears, and again sent me forth into the wide world, a fugitive, and a wanderer. I went to my chamber one night, when I heard a sound like the full, heavy respiration of a man in deep sleep. The sound appeared to come from under the bed, but stopped as I entered the room. I was very much alarmed, but I controlled my feelings, and instead of running shrieking from the room, I deliberately closed the blinds, shut the windows, adjusted the curtain, all the time carelessly humming a tune, and taking up my lamp I slowly left the room. Once outside the door, I ran in all haste to Mr. Williams, and told him what I had heard. He laughed at me, said it was all imagination, but, to quiet my fears, he went to my room resolved to convince me that no one was there. I followed, and stood at the door while he lifted the bed valance, when a large, tall man sprang forth, and caught him with one hand while with the other he drew a pistol from beneath his coat saying, "Let me go, and I'll depart in peace; but attempt to detain me, and I'll blow your brains out." I shrieked, and Mrs. Williams came in great terror and consternation, to see what was the matter. But she could render no assistance, and Mr. Williams, being unarmed, was obliged to let him go. The watch were immediately called, and they sought for the intruder in every direction. No effort was spared to find him, that we might, at least, learn the object of this untimely visit. But the search was all in vain. No trace of his whereabouts could be discovered. Mr. Williams said he did not believe it was me he sought. He thought the object was robbery, and perhaps arson and murder, but he would not think that I was in the least danger. "The man," he said, "in hastily concealing himself had taken the first hiding place he could find." Yet I thought otherwise. Indeed, so sure was I that he was an agent of the priests, sent forth for the express purpose of arresting me, no earthly consideration would have induced me to remain there another day. The rest of that night I spent in a state of anxiety I cannot describe. Sleep fled from my eyes. I dared not even undress and go to bed, but I sat in my chair, or walked the room every moment expecting the return of the mysterious visitor. I shuddered at every sound, whether real or imaginary. Once in particular, I remember, the distant roll of carriage wheels fell upon my ear. I listened; it came near, and still nearer, till at last it stopped, as I thought, at the gate. For a moment I stood literally stupified with terror, and then I hastily prepared to use the means for self destruction I had already provided in anticipation of such an emergency. I was still resolved never to be taken alive. "Give me liberty or give me death," was now the language of my soul. If I could not enjoy the one, I would cordially embrace the other. But it was a sad alternative after all I had suffered that I might be free, after all my buoyant hopes, all my ardent aspirations for a better life. O, it was a bitter thing, thus to stand in the darkness of night, and with my own hand carefully adjust the cord that was to cut me off from the land of the living, and in a moment launch my trembling soul into the vast, unknown, untried, and fearful future, that men call eternity! Was this to be the only use I was to make of liberty? Was it for this I had so long struggled, toiled, wept and prayed? "God of mercy," I cried, "save, O save me from this last great sin! From the sad and dire necessity which thus urges me to cut short a life which thou alone canst give!" My prayer was heard; but how slowly passed the hours of that weary night while I waited for the day that I might "hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest." Truly, at that time I could say with one of old, "Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. My heart is sore pained within me, and the terrors of death are fallen upon me. Oh that I had the wings of a dove, for then would I flee away, and be at rest." But alas! I had not the wings of a dove, and whither should I flee from the furious grasp of my relentless persecutors? Again I must go forth into the "busy haunts of men," I must mingle with the multitude, and what chance had I for ultimate escape? If I left these kind friends, and leave them I must, who would take me in? In whom could I confide? Who would have the power to rescue me in my hour of need? In God alone could I trust, yet why is he so far from helping me? Why are my prayers so long unanswered? And why does he thus allow the wicked to triumph; to lay snares for the feet of the innocent, and wrongfully persecute those whom their wanton cruelty hath caused to sit in darkness and in the shadow of death? Why does he not at once "break the bands of iron, and let the oppressed go free?" The tedious night at length passed away. When I met Mr. Williams in the morning, I told him I could no longer remain with him, for I was sure if I did, I should be suddenly arrested in some unguarded moment, and carried back to Montreal. He urged me to stay, assured me he would never allow them to take me, said that he thought some of going south, and I could go with him, and thus be removed far from all whom I feared. Mrs. Williams, also, strove to persuade me to stay. But, though sorry to appear ungrateful, I dared not remain another night where I felt that my danger was so great. When they found that I was determined to go, Mr. Williams said I had better go to Worcester, Mass., and try to get employment in some farmer's family, a little out of the city. He gave me money to bear my expenses, until I found a place where I could earn my living. It was with a sad heart that I left this hospitable roof, and as I turned away I said in my heart, "Shall I always be hunted through the world in this manner, obliged to flee like a guilty thing, and shall I never find a home of happiness and peace? Must sorrow and despair forever be the portion of my cup?" But no words of mine can describe what I felt at that moment. I longed for the power to sound a warning through the length and breadth of the land, to cry in the ears of all the people, "Beware of Romanism!" Like the patient man of Uz, with whose history I have since become familiar, I was ready to exclaim, "O that my words were now written! O that they were printed in a book! Graven with an iron pen," that the whole world might know what a fearful and bitter thing it is to be a nun! To be subject to the control of those ruthless tyrants, the Romish Priests. Once more I entered the depot, and mingled with the crowd around the ticket office. But no pen can describe my terror when I found myself the object of particular attention. I heard people remark about my strange and unnatural appearance, and I feared I might be taken up for a crazy person, if not for a nun. Thinking that I saw an enemy in every face, and a pursuer in every one who came near me, I hastened to take refuge in the cars. There I waited with the greatest impatience for the starting of the train. Slowly the cars were filled; very leisurely the passengers sought their seats, while I sat trembling in every limb, and the cold perspiration starting from every pore. How carefully I scanned every face! how eagerly I watched for some indication of the priest or the spy! So intense was my anxiety, those few moments seemed to me an age of agony. At length the shrill whistle announced that all was ready, and like sweetest music the sound fell upon my ears. The train dashed off at lightning speed, but to me it seemed like the movement of a snail. Once under way, I ventured to breathe freely, and hope again revived. Perchance I might yet escape. But even as the thought passed my mind, a man entered the cars and seated himself directly, before me. I thought he regarded me with too much interest, and thinking to shun him, I quietly left my seat and retired to the other end of the car. He soon followed, and again my fears revived. He at first tried to converse with me, but finding I would not reply, he began to question me in the most direct and impertinent manner. Again I changed my seat, and again he followed. I then sought the conductor, and revealed to him enough of my history to enlist his sympathy and ensure his protection. To his honor be it spoken, I did not appeal to him in vain. He severely reproved the man for his impertinence; and for the rest of the journey I was shielded from insult or injury. Nothing further of interest transpired until I reached Worcester, when the first face that met my eye as I was about to leave the cars was that of a Romish priest. I could not be mistaken, for I had often seen him at Montreal. He might not have been looking for me, but he watched every passenger as they left the cars in a way that convinced me he had some special reason for doing it. As I, too, had special reasons for avoiding him just at that time, I stepped back out of sight until the passengers were all out of the cars and the priest had turned away. I then sprang out upon the opposite side, and, turning my back upon the depot, hastened away amid the wilderness of houses, not knowing whither I went. For a long time I wandered around, until at length, being faint and weary, I began to look for some place where I could obtain refreshment. But when I found a restaurant I did not dare to enter. A number of Irishmen were standing around who were in all probability Catholics. I would not venture among them; but as I turned aside I remembered that Mr. Williams had directed me to seek employment a little out of the city. I then inquired the way to Main street, and having found it, I turned to the north and walked on till I found myself out of the thickly settled part of the city. Then I began to seek for employment, and after several fruitless applications I chanced to call upon a man whose name was Handy. He received me in the kindest manner, and when I asked for work, he said his wife did not need to hire me, but I was welcome to stop with them and work for my board until I found employment elsewhere. This offer I joyfully accepted; and, as I became acquainted in the place, many kind hands were extended to aid me in my efforts to obtain an honest living. In this neighborhood I still reside, truly thankful for past deliverance, grateful for present mercies, and confidently trusting God for the future. CHAPTER XXVI. CONCLUSION. Here closes the history of Sarah J. Richardson, as related by herself. The remaining particulars have been obtained from her employers in Worcester. She arrived in this city August, 1854, and, as she has already stated, at once commenced seeking for employment. She called at many houses before she found any one who wished for help; and her first question at each place was, "Are you a Catholic?" If the answer was in the affirmative, she passed on, but if the family were Protestants, she inquired for some kind of employment. She did not care what it was; she would cook, wash, sew, or do chamber-work--anything to earn her bread. A Mr. Handy was the first person who took her in, and gave her a home. In his family she worked for her board a few weeks, going out to wash occasionally as she had opportunity. She then went to Holden Mass., but for some reason remained only one week, and again returned to Worcester. Mr. Ezra Goddard then took her into his own family, and found her capable, industrious, and trustworthy. Had anything been wanting to prove her truthfulness and sincerity, the deep gratitude of her fervent "I thank you," when told that she had found a permanent home, would have done it effectually. But though her whole appearance indicated contentment and earnestness of purpose, though her various duties were faithfully and zealously performed, yet the deep sadness of her countenance, and the evident anxiety of her mind at first awakened a suspicion of mental derangement. She seemed restless, suspicious, and morbidly apprehensive of approaching danger. The appearance of a stranger, or a sudden ringing of the bell, would cause her to start, tremble, and exhibit the greatest perturbation of spirit. In fact, she seemed so constantly on the qui vive, the lady of the house one day said to her, "Sarah, what is the matter with you? what do you fear?" "The Roman Catholic priests," she replied. "I have been a nun. I ran away from the Grey Nunnery at Montreal, and twice I have been caught, carried back, and punished in the most cruel manner. O, if you knew what I have suffered, you would not wonder that I live in constant fear lest they again seek out my retreat; and I will die before I go back again." Further questioning drew from her the foregoing narrative, which she repeated once and again to various persons, and at different times, without the least alteration or contradiction. She resided in the family of Mr. Goddard some weeks, when she was taken into the employ of Mr. Amos L. Black. This gentleman informs us that he found her a faithful, industrious, honest servant, and he has not the least doubt of the truthfulness of her statements respecting her former life in the Convent. A few weeks after this, she was married to Frederick S. Richardson with whom she became acquainted soon after her arrival in the city of Worcester. The marriage ceremony was performed by Charles Chaffin, Esq., of Holden, Mass. After their marriage, her husband hired a room in the house occupied by Mr. Handy with whom she had formerly resided. After a few weeks, however, they removed to a place called the Drury farm. It is owned by the heirs, but left in the care of Mr. Ezra Goddard. Previous to her marriage, Mrs. Richardson had often been advised to allow her history to be placed before the public. But she always replied, "For my life I would not do it. Not because I do not wish the world to know it, for I would gladly proclaim it wherever a Romanist is known, but it would be impossible for me to escape their hands should I make myself so public. They would most assuredly take my life." After her marriage, however, her principal objection was removed. She thought they would not wish to take her back into the nunnery, and her husband would protect her from violence. She therefore related the story of her life while in the convent, which, in accordance with her own request, was written down from her lips as she related it. This was done by Mrs. Lucy Ann Hood, wife of Edward P. Hood, and daughter of Ezra Goddard. It is now given to the public without addition or alteration, and with but a slight abridgment. A strange and startling story it certainly is. Perhaps the reader will cast it aside at once as a worthless fiction,--the idle vagary of an excited brain. The compiler, of course, cannot vouch for its truth, but would respectfully invite the attention of the reader to the following testimonials presented by those who have known the narrator. The first is from Edward P. Hood, with whom Mrs. Richardson resided when her narrative was written. (TESTIMONY OF EDWARD P. HOOD.) To all whom it may concern. I hereby certify that I was personally acquainted with Sarah J. Richards, now Sarah J. Richardson, at the time she resided in Worcester, Mass. I first saw her at the house of Mr. Ezra Goddard, where she came seeking employment. She appeared anxious to get some kind of work, was willing to do anything to earn an honest living. She had the appearance of a person who had seen much suffering and hardship. She worked for Mr. Goddard a short time, when she obtained another place. She then left, but called very often; and during her stay in Worcester, she worked there several times. So far as I was able to judge of her character, I do not hesitate to say that she was a woman of truth and honesty. I heard her relate the account of her life and sufferings in the Grey Nunnery, and her final escape. I knew when the story was written, and can testify to its being done according to her own dictation. I have examined the manuscript, and can say that it a written out truly and faithfully as related by the nun herself. EDWARD P. HOOD. Worcester, May 5, 1856. (TESTIMONY OF EZRA GODDARD.) I first became acquainted with Sarah J. Richardson in August 1854. She came to my house to work for my wife. She was at my house a great many times after that until March 1855, when she left Worcester. At one time she was there four or five weeks in succession. She was industrious, willing to do anything to get an honest living. She was kind in her disposition, and honest in her dealings. I have no hesitation in saying that I think her statements can be relied upon. EZRA GODDARD. Worcester, Jan. 21, 1856. (TESTIMONY OF LUCY GODDARD.) I am acquainted with the above named Sarah J. Richardson, and can fully testify to the truth of the above statements as to her kindness and industrious habits, honesty and truthfulness. LUCY GODDARD. Worcester, Jan. 21, 1856. (TESTIMONY OF JOSIAH GODDARD.) To whom it may concern: This is to testify that I am acquainted with Sarah J. Richardson, formerly Sarah J. Richards. I became acquainted with her in the fall of 1854. She worked at my father's at the time. I heard her tell her story, and from what I saw of her while she was in Worcester, I have no hesitation in saying that she was a woman of truth and honesty. JOSIAH GODDARD. Worcester, March 1, 1856. (TESTIMONY OF EBEN JEWETT.) I became acquainted with Sarah J. Richardson last winter, at the house of Mr. Ezra Goddard; saw her a number of times after that, at the place where I boarded. She did some work for my wife, and I heard her speak of being at the Grey Nunnery. I also heard her story, from Mr. Goddard's family. I have no doubt of her being honest and truthful, and I believe she is so considered by all who became acquainted with her. EBEN JEWETT. Worcester, Feb., 1856. (TESTIMONY OF CHARLES CHAFFIN.) Worcester, ss.--Holden, Nov. 11, 1854. This certifies that I this day united in marriage, Frederick S. Richardson and Sarah J. Richards, both of Worcester. CHARLES CHAFFIN, Justice of the Peace. (AFFIDAVIT.) I, Sarah J. Richardson, wife of Frederick S. Richardson, of the city of Worcester, County of Worcester, and Commonwealth of Massachusetts, formerly Sarah J. Richards before marriage, do solemnly swear, declare and say, that the foregoing pages contain a true and faithful history of my life before my marriage to the said Frederick S. Richardson, and that every statement made herein by me is true. In witness whereof, I do hereunto set my hand and seal, this 13th day of March, A.D. 1855. SARAH J. RICHARDSON (X her mark.) In presence of WM. GREENLEAF. Sworn to before me, the 13th day of March, AD. 1855. WM. GREENLEAF, Justice of the Peace. (TESTIMONY OF Z. K. PANGBORN.) When it was known that the Narrative of Sarah J. Richardson was about to be published, Mr. Z. K. Pangborn, at that time editor of the Worcester Daily Transcript, voluntarily offered the following testimony which we copy from one of his editorials. "We have no doubt that the nun here spoken of as one who escaped from the Grey Nunnery at Montreal, is the same person who spent some weeks in our family in the fall of 1853, after her first escape from the Nunnery. She came in search of employment to our house in St. Albans, Vt., stating that she had traveled on foot from Montreal, and her appearance indicated that she was poor, and had seen hardship. She obtained work at sewing, her health not being sufficient for more arduous task. She appeared to be suffering under some severe mental trial, and though industrious and lady-like in her deportment, still appeared absent minded, and occasionally singular in her manner. After awhile she revealed the fact to the lady of the house, that she had escaped from the Grey Nunnery at Montreal, but begged her not to inform any one of the fact, as she feared, if it should be known, that she would be retaken, and carried back. A few days after making this disclosure, she suddenly disappeared. Having gone out one evening, and failing to return, much inquiry was made, but no trace of her was obtained for some months. Last spring a gentleman from Worcester, Mass. called on us to make inquiries in regard to this same person and gave us the following account of her as given by herself. She states that on the evening when she so mysteriously disappeared from our house, she called upon an Irish family whose acquaintance she had formed, and when she was coming away, was suddenly seized, gagged, and thrust into a close carriage, or box, as she thought, and on the evening of the next day found herself once more consigned to the tender mercies of the Grey Nunnery in Montreal. Her capture was effected by a priest who tracked her to St. Albans, and watched his opportunity to seize her. She was subjected to the most rigorous and cruel treatment, to punish her for running away, and kept in close confinement till she feigned penitence and submission, when she was treated less cruelly, and allowed more liberty. "But the difficulties in the way of an escape, only stimulated her the more to make the attempt, and she finally succeeded a second time in getting out of that place which she described as a den of cruelty and misery. She was successful also in eluding her pursuers, and in reaching this city, (Worcester,) where she remained some time, seeking to avoid notoriety, as she feared she might be again betrayed and captured. She is now, however, in a position where she does not fear the priests, and proposes to give to the world a history of her life in the Nunnery. The disclosures she makes are of the most startling character, but of her veracity and good character we have the most satisfactory evidence." This statement was confirmed by Mrs. Pangborn, a sister of the late Mrs Branard, the lady with whom Sarah J. Richardson stopped in St. Albans, and by whom she was employed as a seamstress. Being an inmate of the family at the time, Mrs Pangborn states that she had every opportunity to become acquainted with the girl and learn her true character. The family, she says, were all interested in her, although they knew nothing of her secret, until a few days before she left. She speaks of her as being "quiet and thoughtful, diligent, faithful and anxious to please, but manifesting an eager desire for learning, that she might be able to acquaint herself more perfectly with the Holy Scriptures. She could, at that time, read a little, and her mind was well stored with select passages from the sacred volume, which she seemed to take great delight in repeating. She was able to converse intelligently upon almost any subject, and never seemed at a loss for language to express her thoughts. No one could doubt that nature had given her a mind capable of a high degree of religious and intellectual culture, and that, with the opportunity for improvement, she would become a useful member of society. Of book knowledge she was certainly quite ignorant, but she had evidently studied human nature to some good purpose." Mrs Pangborn also corroborates many of the statements in her narrative. She often visited the Grey Nunnery, and says that the description given of the building, the Academy, the Orphan's Home, and young ladies school, are all correct. The young Smalley mentioned in the narrative was well known to her, and also his sister "little Sissy Smalley," as they used to call her. Inquiries have been made of those acquainted with the route along which the fugitive passed in her hasty flight, and we are told that the description is in general correct; that even the mistakes serve to prove the truthfulness of the narrator, being such as a person would be likely to make when describing from memory scenes and places they had seen but once; whereas, if they were getting up a fiction which they designed to represent as truth, such mistakes would be carefully avoided. APPENDIX I. ABSURDITIES OF ROMANISTS. It may perchance be thought by some persons that the foregoing narrative contains many things too absurd and childish for belief. "What rational man," it may be said, "would ever think of dressing up a figure to represent the devil, for the purpose of frightening young girls into obedience? And those absurd threats! Surely no sane man, and certainly no Christian teacher, would ever stoop to such senseless mummery!" Incredible it may seem--foolish, false, inconsistent with reason, or the plain dictates of common sense, it certainly is--but we have before us well-authenticated accounts of transactions in which the Romish priests claimed powers quite as extraordinary, and palmed off upon a credulous, superstitious people stories quite as silly and ridiculous as anything recorded in these pages. Indeed, so barefaced and shameless were their pretensions in some instances, that even their better-informed brethren were ashamed of their folly, and their own archbishop publicly rebuked their dishonesty, cupidity and chicanery. In proof of this we place before our readers the following facts which we find in a letter from Professor Similien, of the college of Angers, addressed to the Union de l'Ouest: "Some years ago a pretended miracle was reported as having occurred upon a mountain called La Salette, in the southeastern part of France, where the Virgin Mary appeared in a very miraculous manner to two young shepherds. The story, however, was soon proved to be a despicable trick of the priest, and as such was publicly exposed. But the Bishop of Lucon, within whose diocese the sacred mountain stands, appears to have been unwilling to relinquish the advantage which he expected to result from a wide-spread belief in this infamous fable. Accordingly, in July, 1852, it was again reported that no less than three miracles were wrought there by the Holy Virgin. The details were as follows: "A young pupil at the religious establishment of the visitation of Valence, who had been for three months completely blind from an attack of gutta-serena, arrived at La Salette on the first of July, in company with some sisters of the community. The extreme fatigue which she had undergone in order to reach the summit of the mountain, at the place of the apparition, caused some anxiety to be felt that she could not remain fasting until the conclusion of the mass, which had not yet commenced, and the Abbe Sibilla, one of the missionaries of La Salette, was requested to administer the sacrament to her before the service began. She had scarcely received the sacred wafer, when, impelled by a sudden inspiration, she raised her head and exclaimed, 'ma bonne mere, je vous vois.' She had, in fact, her eyes fixed on the statue of the Virgin, which she saw as clearly as any one present For more than an hour she remained plunged in an ecstasy of gratitude and love, and afterward retired from the place without requiring the assistance of those who accompanied her. At the same moment a woman from Gap, nearly sixty years of age, who for the last nineteen years had not had the use of her right arm, in consequence of a dislocation, suddenly felt it restored to its original state, and swinging round the once paralyzed limb, she exclaimed, in a transport of joy and gratitude, 'And I also am cured!' A third cure, although not instantaneous, is not the less striking. Another woman, known in the country for years as being paralytic, could not ascend the mountain but with the greatest difficulty, and with the aid of crutches. On the first day of the neuvane, that of her arrival, she felt a sensation as if life was coming into her legs, which had been for so long time dead. This feeling went on increasing, and the last day of the neuvane, after having received the communion, she went, without any assistance, to the cross of the assumption, where she hung up her crutches. She also was cured. "Bishop Lucon must have known that this was mere imposition; yet, so far from exposing a fraud so base, he not only permits his people to believe it, but he lends his whole influence to support and circulate the falsehood. And why? Ah! a church was to be erected; and it was necessary to get up a little enthusiasm among the people in order to induce them to fill his exhausted coffers, and build the church. In proof of this, we have only to quote a few extracts from the 'Pastoral' which he issued on this occasion. "'And now," he says, "Mary has deigned to appear on the summit of a lofty mountain to two young shepherds, revealing to them the secrets of heaven. But who attests the truth of the narrative of these Alpine pastors? No other than the men themselves, and they are believed. They declare what they have seen, they repeat what they have heard, they retain what they have received commandment to keep secret. "A few words of the incomparable Mother of God have transformed them into new men. Incapable of concerting aught between themselves, or of imagining anything similar to what they relate, each is the witness to a vision which has not found him unbelieving; each is its historian. These two shepherds, dull as they were, have at once understood and received the lesson which was vouchsafed to them, and it is ineffaceably engraven on their hearts. They add nothing to it, they take nothing from it, they modify it in nowise, they deliver the oracle of Heaven just as they have received it. "An admirable constancy enabled them to guard the secret, a singular sagacity made them discern all the snares laid for them, a rare prudence suggested to them a thousand responses, not one of which betrayed their secret; and when at length the time came when it was their duty to make it known to the common Father of the Faithful, they wrote correctly, as if reading a book placed under their eyes. Their recital drew to this blessed mountain thousands of pilgrims. "They proclaimed that 'on Saturday, the 19th of September, 1846, Mary manifested herself to them; and the anniversary of this glorious day is henceforth and forever dear to Christian piety. Will not every pilgrim who repairs to this holy mountain add his testimony to the truthfulness of these young shepherds? Mary halted near a fountain; she communicated to it a celestial virtue, a divine efficacy. From being intermittent, this spring, today so celebrated, became perennial. "'Every where is recounted the prodigies which she works. When the afflicted are in despair, the infirm without remedy, they resort to the waters of La Salette, and cures are wrought by this remedy, whose power makes itself felt against every evil. Our diocess, so devoted to Mary, has been no stranger to the bounty of this tender Mother. We are about to celebrate shortly the sixth anniversary of this miraculous apparition. NOW THAT A SANCTUARY IS TO BE RAISED on this holy mountain to the glory of God, we have thought it right to inform you thereof. "'We cannot doubt that many of you have been heard by our Lady of La Salette; you desire to witness your gratitude to this mother of compassion; you would gladly BRING YOUR STONE to the beautiful edifice that is to be constructed. WE DESIRE TO FURTHER YOUR FILIAL TENDERNESS WITH THE MEANS OF TRANSMITTING THE ALMS OF FAITH AND PIETY. For these reasons, invoking the holy name of God, we have ordained and do ordain as follows, viz.: "'First, we permit the appearance of our Lady of La Salette to be preached throughout our diocess; secondly, on Sunday, the 19th of September next ensuing, the litanies of the Holy Virgin shall be chanted in all the chapels and churches of the diocess, and be followed by the benediction of the Holy Sacrament. Thirdly, THE FAITHFUL WHO MAY DESIRE TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE ERECTION OF THE NEW SANCTUARY, MAY DEPOSIT THEIR OFFERINGS IN THE HANDS OF THE CURE, WHO WILL TRANSMIT THEM TO US FOR THE BISHOP OF GRENOBLE. "'Our present pastoral letter shall be read and published after mass in every parish on the Sunday after its reception. "'Given at Lucon, in our Episcopal palace, under our sign-manual and the seal of our arms, and the official counter-signature of our secretary, the 30th of June, of the year of Grace, 1852. "'X Jac-Mar Jos, "'Bishop of Lucon.'" "It is not a little remarkable," says the editor of the American Christian Union, "that whilst the Bishop of Lucon was engaged in extolling the miracles of La Salette, the Cardinal Archbishop of Lyons, Dr. Bonald, 'Primate of all the Gauls,' addressed a circular to all the priests in his diocese, in which he cautions them against apocryphal miracles! There is indubitable evidence that his grace refers to the scandalous delusions of La Salette. His language is severe, very severe. He attributes the miracles in question to pecuniary speculation, which now-a-days, he says, mingles with everything, seizes upon imaginary facts, and profits by it at the expense of the credulous! He charges the authors of these things with being GREEDY MEN, who aim at procuring for themselves DISHONEST GAINS by this traffic in superstitious objects! And he forbids the publishing from the pulpit, without leave, of any account of a miracle, even though its authenticity should be attested by another Bishop! This is good. His grace deserves credit for setting his face against this miserable business, of palming off false miracles upon the people." [Footnote: Since the above was written, we have met with the following explanation of this modern miracle: "A few years ago there was a great stir among 'the simple faithful' in France, occasioned by a well-credited apparition of the Holy Virgin at La Salette. She required the erection of a chapel in her honor at that place, and made such promises of special indulgences to all who paid their devotions there, that it became 'all the rage' as a place of pilgrimage. The consequence was, that other shops for the same sort of wares in that region lost most of their customers, and the good priests who tended the tills were sorely impoverished. In self-defence, they, WELL KNOWING HOW SUCH THINGS WERE GOT UP, exposed the trick. A prelate publicly denounced the imposture, and an Abbe Deleon, priest in the diocess of Grenoble, printed a work called 'La Salette a Valley of Lies.' In this publication it was maintained, with proofs, that the hoax was gotten up by a Mademoiselle de Lamerliere, a sort of half-crazy nun, who impersonated the character of the Virgin. For the injury done to her character by this book she sued the priest for damages to the tone of twenty thousand francs, demanding also the infliction of the utmost penalty of the law. The court, after a long and careful investigation, for two days, as we learn by the Catholic Herald, disposed of the case by declaring the miracle-working damsel non-suited, and condemning her to pay the expenses of the prosecution."--American and Foreign Christian Union.] Another of Rome's marvellous stories we copy from the New York Daily Times of July 3d, 1854. It is from the pen of a correspondent at Rome, who, after giving an account of the ceremony performed in the church of St. Peters at the canonization of a NEW SAINT, under the name of Germana, relates the following particulars of her history. He says, "I take the facts as they are related in a pamphlet account of her 'life, virtues, and miracles,' published by authority at Rome: "Germana Consin was born near the village of Pibrac, in the diocess of Toulouse, in France. Maimed in one hand, and of a scrofulous constitution, she excited the hatred of her step-mother, in whose power her father's second marriage placed her while yet a child. This cruel woman gave the little Germana no other bed than some vine twigs, lying under a flight of stairs, which galled her limbs, wearied with the day's labor. She also persuaded her husband to send the little girl to tend sheep in the plains, exposed to all extremes of weather. Injuries and abuse were her only welcome when she returned from her day's task to her home. To these injuries she submitted with Christian meekness and patience, and she derived her happiness and consolation from religious faith. She went every day to church to hear mass, disregarding the distance, the difficulty of the journey, and the danger in which she left her flock. The neighboring forest was full of wolves, who devoured great numbers from other flocks, but never touched a sheep in that of Germana. To go to the church she was obliged to cross a little river, which was often flooded, but she passed with dry feet; the waters flowing away from her on either side: howbeit no one else dared to attempt the passage. Whenever the signal sounded for the Ave Marie, wherever she might be in conducting her sheep, even if in a ditch, or in mud or mire, she kneeled down and offered her devotions to the Queen of Heaven, nor were her garments wet or soiled. The little children whom she met in the fields she instructed in the truths of religion. For the poor she felt the tenderest charity, and robbed herself of her scanty pittance of bread to feed them. One day her step-mother, suspecting that she was carrying away from the house morsels of bread to be thus distributed, incited her husband to look in her apron; he did so, BUT FOUND IT FULL OF FLOWERS, BEAUTIFUL BUT OUT OF SEASON, INSTEAD OF BREAD. This miraculous conversion of bread into flowers formed the subject of one of the paintings exhibited in St. Peter's at the Beatification. Industrious, charitable, patient and forgiving, Germana lived a memorable example of piety till she passed from earth in the twenty second year of her age. The night of her death two holy monks were passing, on a journey, in the neighborhood of her house. Late at night they saw two celestial virgins robed in white on the road that led to her habitation; a few minutes afterwards they returned leading between them another virgin clad in pure white, and with a crown of flowers on her head. "Wonders did not cease with her death. Forty years after this event her body was uncovered, in digging a grave for another person, and found entirely uncorrupted--nay, the blood flowed from a wound accidentally made in her face. Great crowds assembled to see the body so miraculously preserved, and it was carefully re-interred within the church. There it lay in place until the French Revolution, when it was pulled up and cast into a ditch and covered with quick lime and water. But even this failed to injure the body of the blessed saint. It was found two years afterward entirely unhurt, and even the grave clothes which surrounded it were entire, as on the day of sepulture, two hundred years before. "And now in the middle of the nineteenth century, these facts are published for the edification of believers, and his Holiness has set his seal to their authenticity. Four miracles performed by this saint after her death are attested by the bull of beatification, and also by Latin inscriptions in great letters displayed at St. Peter's on the day of this great celebration. The monks of the monastery at Bourges, in France, prayed her to intercede on one occasion, that their store of bread might be multiplied; on another their store of meal; on both occasions THEIR PRAYER WAS GRANTED. The other two miracles were cures of desperate maladies, the diseased persons having been brought to pray over her tomb. "On the splendid scarlet hangings, bearing the arms of Pius IX. and suspended at the corners of the nave and transept, were two Latin inscriptions, of similar purport, of one of which I give a translation: 'O Germana, raised to-day to celestial honors by Pius IX. Pontifex Maximus, since thou knowest that Pius has wept over thy nation wandering from God, and has exultingly rejoiced at its reconciling itself with God little by little, he prays thee intimately united with God, do thou, for thou canst do it, make known his wishes to God, and strengthen them, for thou art able, with the virtue of thy prayers.' "I have been thus minute in my account of this Beatification, deeming the facts I state of no little importance and interest, as casting light upon the character of the Catholicism of the present day, and showing with what matters the Spiritual and Temporal ruler of Rome is busying himself in this year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-four." Many other examples similar to the above might be given from the history of Catholicism as it exists at the present time in the old world. But let us turn to our own country. We need not look to France or Rome for examples of priestly intrigue of the basest kind; and absurdities that almost surpass belief. The following account which we copy from The American and Foreign Christian Union of August, 1852, will serve to show that the priests in these United States are quite as willing to impose upon the ignorant and credulous as, their brethren in other countries. The article is from the pen of an Irish Missionary in the employ of The American and Foreign Christian Union and is entitled, "A LYING WONDER." "It would seem almost incredible," says the editor of this valuable Magazine, "that any men could be found in this country who are capable of practising such wretched deceptions. But the account given in the subjoined statement is too well authenticated to permit us to reject the story as untrue, however improbable it may, at first sight, seem to be. Here it is:--? "Mr. Editor,--I give you, herein, some information respecting a lying wonder wrought in Troy, New York, last winter, and respecting the female who was the 'MEDIUM' of it. I have come to the conclusion that this female is a Jesuit, after as good an examination as I have been able to give the matter. I have been fed with these lying wonders in early life, and in Ireland as well as in this country there are many who, for want of knowing any better, will feed upon them in their hearts by faith and thanksgiving. About the time this lying wonder of which I am about to write happened, I had been talking of it in the office of Mr. Luther, of Albany, (coal merchant), where were a number of Irish waiting for a job. One of these men declared, with many curses on his soul if what he told was not true, that he had seen a devil cast out of a woman in his own parish, in Ireland, by the priest. I told him it would be better for his character's sake for him to say he heard of it, than to say he SAW it. Mr. J. W. Lockwood, a respectable merchant in Troy, New York, and son of the late mayor, kept two or three young women as 'helps' for his lady, last winter. The name of one is Eliza Mead, and the name of another is Catharine Dillon, a native of the county of Limerick, Ireland. Eliza was an upper servant, who took care of her mistress and her children. Catharine was and is now the cook. Eliza appeared to her mistress to be a very well educated, and a very intellectual woman of 35, though she would try to make believe she could not write, and that she was subject to fits of insanity. There was then presumptive evidence that she wrote a good deal, and there is now positive evidence that she could write. She used often, in the presence of Mrs. L., to take the Bible and other books and read them, and would often say she thought the Protestants had a better religion than the Catholics, and were a better people. Afterwards she told Mrs. L. that she had doubts about the Catholic religion, and was inclined toward the Protestant: but now she is sure, quite sure, that the Catholic alone is the right one, FOR IT WAS REVEALED TO HER. On the evening of the 23d of December, 1851, Eliza and Catharine were missing;--but I will give you Catharine's affidavit about their business from home. "City of Troy, S. W. "I, Catharine Dillon, say, that on Tuesday, 23d December inst, about five o'clock in the afternoon, I went with Eliza Mead to see the priest, Mr. McDonnel, who was at home. Eliza remained there till about six o'clock P. M. At that time I returned home, leaving her at the priest's. At half past eight o'clock the same evening I returned to the priest's house for Eliza, and waited there for her till about ten o'clock of the same evening, expecting that Eliza's conference with the priest would be ended, and that she would come home with me. "During the evening there had been another besides Mr. McDonnel there. About ten o'clock this other priest retired, as I understood. Soon after this Mr. McDonnel called me, with others, into the room where Eliza was, when he said that she (Eliza) was POSSESSED OF THE DEVIL Mr. McDonnel then commenced interrogating the devil, asking the devil if he possessed her. The answer was, "Yes." The priest then asked, "How long?" and the answer was, "Six months and nine days." The priest then asked, "Who sent you into her?" The answer was, "Mr. Lockwood." The next question was, "When?" "When she was asleep," was the answer. He then asked the devil if Mr. Lockwood had ever tempted Catharine, meaning me, and the reply was, "Yes." Then the question was, "How many times?" And the answer was, "Three times, by offering her drink when she was asleep?" "I came home about five o'clock in the morning, greatly shocked at what I had seen and heard, and impressed with the belief that Eliza was possessed with the devil. I went again to the priest's on Wednesday to find Eliza, when the priest told me that he, Mr. McDonnel, exorcised the devil at high mass that morning in the church, and drove the devil out of Eliza. That he, the devil, came out of Eliza, and spat at the Holy Cross of Jesus Christ, and departed. He then told me that, as Eliza got the devil from Mr. Lockwood, in the house where I lived, I must leave the house immediately, and made me promise him that I would. During the appalling scenes of Tuesday night, Mr. McDonnel went to the other priest and called him up, but the other priest did not come to his assistance. These answers to the priest when he was asking questions of the devil, were given in a very loud voice and sometimes with a loud scream." "CATHARINE DILLON." "Subscribed and sworn to, this 31st day of December, 1851, before me, JOB S. OLIN, Recorder of Troy, New York." [A copy.] At the interview between Mr. J. W. Lockwood and the Rev. Mr. McDonnel, officiating priest at St. Peter's church, there were present Hon. James M. Warren, T. W. Blatchford, M. D., and C. N. Lockwood, on the part of Mr. Lockwood, and Father Kenny and Mr. Davis on the part of the Rev. Mr. McDonnel, on the evening of the 31st December, 1851. Mr. McDonnel at first declined answering any questions, questioning Mr. Lockwood's right to ask them: He would only say that Eliza Mead came to his house possessed, as she thought, with an evil spirit; that at first he declined having anything to do with her, first, because he believed her to be crazy; second, because he was at that moment otherwise engaged; and thirdly, because she was not in his parish; but, by her urgent appeals in the name of God to pray over her, he was at last induced to admit her. He became satisfied that she was possessed of the devil, or an evil spirit, by saying the appointed prayers of the church over her; for the spirit manifested uneasiness when this was done; and furthermore, as she was entering the church the following morning, she was thrown into convulsions by Father Kenny's making the sign of the cross behind her back. At high mass in the morning he exorcised the devil, and he left her, spitting at the cross of Christ before taking his final departure. As to Mr. McDonnel's repeatedly telling Catharine that she must leave Mr. L's house immediately, for if she remained there Mr. L. would put the devil in her, Mr. McDonnel denied saying or doing anything whatever that was detrimental to the character of Mr. L. or any of his family. Mr. McDonnel repeatedly refused to answer the questions put to him by Mr. L. He considered it insulting that Mr. L. should visit his house on such business, as no power on earth but that of the POPE had authority to question him on such matters. But being reminded that slanderous reports had emanated from that very house against Mr. L. he, Mr. McDonnel, said it was all to see what kind of a man he was that brought Mr. L. there, and if reports were exaggerated, it was nothing to him. Mr. McDonnel said that he cleared the church before casting out the devil, and there was but one person besides himself there. That, every word spoken in the church was in Latin, and nobody in the church understood a word of it. That he had heard threats made by Mr. L., also that Mr. L. had said the pretended answers of the devil ware made through the medium of ventriloquism. Father Kenny, in the progress of the interview, made two or three attempts to speak, but was prevented by Mr. McDonnel. Thus ends the report written down by Mr. L.'s brother, who was present, immediately after the interview. It was all Latin in the church, we see; but the low Irish will not believe that the devil could understand Latin. However, it was not all Latin at the priest's house, where Catharine Dillon heard what she declared on oath. How slow the priest was to admit her (Eliza Mead) in the beginning, and to believe that she had his sable majesty in her, until it manifested uneasiness under the cannonade of church prayers! "But you will ask, how could an educated priest, or an intelligent woman, condescend to such diabolical impositions? I think it is something after the way that a man gets to be a drunkard; he may not like the taste thereof at first, but afterwards he will smack his lips and say, 'there is nothing like whiskey,' and as their food becomes part of their bodily substance, so are these 'lying wonders' converted into their spiritual substance. So I think; I am, however, but a very humble philosopher, and therefore I will use the diction of the Holy Spirit on the matter: 'For this cause God shall send them strong delusions, that they should believe a lie,' EVEN OF THEIR OWN MAKING, OR WHAT MAY EASILY BE SEEN TO BE LIES OF OTHER'S GETTING, "that they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.'" "JOHN MURPHEY. "ALBANY, June 2nd, 1852." It was said by one "that the first temptation on reading such monstrosities as the above, is to utter a laugh of derision." But it is with no such feeling that we place them before our readers. Rather would we exclaim with the inspired penman, "O that my head were waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night" for the deluded followers of these willfully blind leaders! Surely, no pleasure can be found in reading or recording scenes which a pure mind can regard only with pity and disgust. Yet we desire to prove to our readers that the absurd threats and foolish attempts to impose upon the weak and ignorant recorded by Sarah J. Richardson are perfectly consistent with the general character and conduct of the Romish priests. Read for instance, the following ridiculous story translated from Le Semeur Canadien for October 12th, 1855. A NEW MEANS OF CONVERSION. In the district of Montreal lived a Canadian widow of French extraction who had become a Protestant. Madam V--, such was the name of this lady, lived with her daughter, the sole fruit of a union too soon dissolved by unsparing death. Their life, full of good works, dispelled prejudices that the inhabitants of the vicinity--all intolerant Catholics--had always entertained against evangelical Christians; they gained their respect, moreover, by presenting them the example of every virtue. Two of the neighbors of the Protestant widow--who had often heard at her house the word of God read and commented upon by one of those ministers who visit the scattered members of their communion--talked lately of embracing the reformed religion. In the mean while, Miss V-- died. The young Christian rested her hope upon the promises of the Saviour who has said, "Believe in Christ and thou shall be saved." Her spirit flew to its Creator with the confidence of an infant who throws himself into the arms of his father. Her last moments were not tormented by the fear of purgatory, where every Catholic believes he will suffer for a longer or shorter time. This death strengthened the neighbors in the resolution they had taken to leave the Catholic church. The widow buried the remains of her daughter upon her own land, a short distance from her house: the nearest Protestant cemetery was so far off that she was forced to give up burying it there. Some Catholic fanatics of the vicinity assembled secretly the day after the funeral of Miss V-- to discuss the best means for arresting the progress that the reformed religion was making in the parish. After long deliberation they resolved to hire a poor man to go every evening for a whole week and groan near the grave of Miss V---. Their object was to make the widow and neighbors believe that the young girl was damned; and that God permitted her to show her great unhappiness by lamentations, so that they might avoid her fate by remaining faithful to the belief of their fathers. In any other country than Lower Canada, those who might have employed such means would not perhaps have had an opportunity of seeing their enterprise crowned with success; but in our country districts, where the people believe in ghosts and bugbears, it would almost certainly produce the desired effect. This expedient, instead of being ridiculous, was atrocious. The employment of it could not fail to cause Mrs V-- to suffer the most painful agonies, and her neighbors the torments of doubt. The credulity of the French-Canadian is the work of the clergy; they invent and relate, in order to excite their piety, the most marvellous things. For example: the priests say that souls in purgatory desiring alleviation come and ask masses of their relatives, either by appearing in the same form they had in life, or by displacing the furniture and making a noise, as long as they have not terminated the expiation of their sins. The Catholic clergy, by supporting these fabulous doctrines and pious lies, lead their flock into the baleful habit of believing things the most absurd and destitute of proof. The day after Miss V--'s funeral, everybody in the parish was talking of the woeful cries which had been heard the night before near her grave. The inhabitants of the place, imbued with fantastic ideas that their rector had kept alive, were dupes of the artifice employed by some of their own number. They became convinced that there is no safety outside of the church, of which they formed a part. Seized with horror they determined never to pass a night near the grave of the cursed one, as they already called the young Protestant. Mrs. V-- by the instinctive effect of prejudices inculcated when she was a Catholic, was at first a prey to deadly anxiety; but recalling the holy life of her daughter, she no longer doubted of her being among the number of the elect. She guessed at the cause of the noise which was heard near the grave of her child. In order to assure herself of the justness of her suspicions, she besought the two neighbors of whom I have already spoken, to conceal themselves there the following night. These persons were glad of an occasion to test the accuracy of what a curate of their acquaintance had told them; who had asserted that a spirit free from the body could yet manifest itself substantially to the living, as speaking without tongue, touching without hands. They discovered the man who was paid to play the ghost; they seized him, and in order to punish him, tied him to a tree, at the foot of which Miss V-- was buried. The poor creature the next morning no longer acted the soul in torment, but shouted like a person who very much wanted his breakfast. At noon one of his friends passed by who, hearing him implore assistance, approached and set him free. Overwhelmed with questions and derision, the false ghost confessed he had acted thus only to obtain the reward which had been promised him. You may easily guess that the ridicule and reprobation turned upon those who had made him their instrument. I will not finish this narrative without telling the reader that the curate of the place appeared much incensed at what his parishioners had done. I am glad to be able to suppose that he condemns rather than encourages such conduct. A Protestant friend of mine who does not entertain the same respect for the Roman clergy that I do, advances the opinion that the displeasure of the curate was not on account of the culpable attempt of some of his flock but on account of its failure. However, I must add, on my reputation as a faithful narrator, that nothing has yet happened to confirm his assertion. ERASTE D'ORSONNENS. MONTREAL, September 1855. APPENDIX II. CRUELTY OF ROMANISTS. To show that the Romish priests have in all ages, and do still, inflict upon their victims cruelties quite as severe as anything described in the foregoing pages, and that such cruelties are sanctioned by their code of laws, we have only to turn to the authentic history of the past and present transactions of the high functionaries of Rome. About the year 1356, Nicholas Eymeric, inquisitor-general of Arragon, collected from the civil and canon laws all that related to the punishment of heretics, and formed the "Directory of Inquisitors," the first and indeed the fundamental code, which has been followed ever since, without any essential variation. "It exhibits the practice and theory of the Inquisition at the time of its sanction by the approbation of Gregory 13th, in 1587, which theory, under some necessary variations of practice, still remains unchanged." From this "Directory," transcribed by the Rev. Wm. Rule of London, in 1852, we extract a few sentences in relation to torture. "Torture is inflicted on one who confesses the principal fact, but varies as to circumstances. Also on one who is reputed to be a heretic, but against whom there is only one witness of the fact. In this case common rumor is one indication of guilt, and the direct evidence is another, making altogether but semi-plenar proof. The torture may bring out fall proof. Also, when there is no witness, but vehement suspicion. Also when there is no common report of heresy, but only one witness who has heard or seen something in him contrary to the faith. Any two indications of heresy will justify the use of torture. If you sentence to torture, give him a written notice in the form prescribed; but other means be tried first. Nor is this an infallible means for bringing out the truth. Weak-hearted men, impatient at the first pain, will confess crimes they never committed, and criminate others at the same time. Bold and strong ones will bear the most severe torments. Those who have been on the rack before bear it with more courage, for they know how to adapt their limbs to it, and they resist powerfully. Others, by enchantments, seem to be insensible, and would rather die than confess. These wretches user for incantations, certain passages from the Psalms of David, or other parts of Scripture, which they write on virgin parchment in an extravagant way, mixing them with names of unknown angels, with circles and strange letters, which they wear upon their person. 'I know not,' says Pena, 'how this witchcraft can be remedied, but it will be well to strip the criminals naked, and search them narrowly, before laying them upon the rack.' While the tormentor is getting ready, let the inquisitor and other grave men make fresh attempts to obtain a confession of the truth. Let the tormentors TERRIFY HIM BY ALL MEANS, TO FRIGHTEN HIM INTO CONFESSION. And after he is stripped, let the inquisitor take him aside, and make a last effort. When this has failed, let him be put to the question by torture, beginning with interrogation on lesser points, and advancing to greater. If he stands out, let them show him other instruments of torture, and threaten that he shall suffer them also. If he will not confess; the torture may be continued on the second or third day; but as it is not to be repeated, those successive applications must be called CONTINUATION. And if, after all, he does not confess, he may be set at liberty." Rules are laid down for the punishment of those who do confess. Innocent IV. commanded the secular judges to put heretics to torture; but that gave occasion to scandalous publicity, and now inquisitors are empowered to do it, and, in case of irregularity (THAT IS, IF THE PERSON DIES IN THEIR HANDS), TO ABSOLVE EACH OTHER. And although nobles were exempt from torture, and in some kingdoms, as Arragon, it was not used in civil tribunals, the inquisitors were nevertheless authorized to torture, without restriction, persons of all classes. And here we digress from Eymeric and Pena, in order to describe, from additional authority, of what this torture consisted, and probably, still consists, in Italy. Limborch collects this information from Juan de Rojas, inquisitor at Valencia. "There were five degrees of torment as some counted (Eymeric included), or according to others, three. First, there was terror, including the threatenings of the inquisitor, leading to the place of torture, stripping, and binding; the stripping of their clothing, both men and women, with the substitution of a single tight garment, to cover part of the person--being an outrage of every feeling of decency--and the binding, often as distressing as the torture itself. Secondly came the stretching on the rack, and questions attendant. Thirdly a more severe shock, by the tension and sodden relaxation of the cord, which is sometimes given once, but often twice, thrice, or yet more frequently." "Isaac Orobio, a Jewish physician, related to Limborch the manner in which he had himself been tortured, when thrown into the inquisition at Seville, on the delation of a Moorish servant, whom he had punished for theft, and of another person similarly offended. "After having been in the prison of the inquisition for full three years, examined a few times, but constantly refusing to confess the things laid to his charge, he was at length brought out of the cell, and led through tortuous passages to the place of torment. It was near evening. He found himself in a subterranean chamber, rather spacious, arched over, and hung with black cloth. The whole conclave was lighted by candles in sconces on the walls. At one end there was a separate chamber, wherein were an inquisitor and his notary seated at a table. The place, gloomy, intent, and everywhere terrible, seemed to be the very home of death. Hither he was brought, and the inquisitor again exhorted him to tell the truth before the torture should begin. On his answering that he had already told the truth, the inquisitor gravely protested that he was bringing himself to the torture by his own obstinacy; and that if he should suffer loss of blood, or even expire, during the question, the holy office would be blameless. Having thus spoken, the inquisitor left him in the hands of the tormentors, who stripped him, and compressed his body so tightly in a pair of linen drawers, that he could no longer draw breath, and must have died, had they not suddenly relaxed the pressure; but with recovered breathing came pain unutterably exquisite. The anguish being past, they repeated a monition to confess the truth, before the torture, as they said, should begin; and the same was afterwards repeated at each interval. "As Orobio persisted in denial, they bound his thumbs so tightly with small cords that the blood burst from under the nails, and they were swelled excessively. Then they made him stand against the wall on a small stool, passed cords around various parts of his body, but principally around the arms and legs, and carried them over iron pulleys in the ceiling. The tormentor then pulled the cords with all his strength, applying his feet to the wall, and giving the weight of his body to increase the purchase. With these ligatures his arms and legs, fingers and toes, were so wrung and swollen that he felt as if fire were devouring them. In the midst of this torment the man kicked down the stool which had supported his feet, so that he hung upon the cords with his whole weight, which suddenly increased their tension, and gave indescribable aggravation to his pain. Next followed a new kind of torment. An instrument resembling a small ladder, consisting of two parallel pieces of wood, and five transverse pieces, with the anterior edges sharpened, was placed before him, so that when the tormentor struck it heavily, he received the stroke five times multiplied on each shin bone, producing pain that was absolutely intolerable, and under which he fainted. But no sooner was he revived than they inflicted a new torture. The tormentor tied other cords around his wrists, and having his own shoulders covered with leather, that they might not be chafed, passed round them the rope which was to draw the cords, set his feet against the wall, threw himself back with all his force, and the cords cut through to the bones. This he did thrice, each time changing the position of the cords, leaving a small distance between the successive wounds; but it happened that in pulling the second time they slipped into the first wounds, and caused such a gush of blood that Orobio seemed to be bleeding to death. "A physician and surgeon, who were in waiting as usual, to give their opinion as to the safety or danger of continuing those operations, that the inquisitors might not commit an irregularity by murdering the patient, were called in. Being friends of the sufferer, they gave their opinion that he had strength enough remaining to bear more. By this means they saved him from a SUSPENSION of the torture, which would have been followed by a repetition, on his recovery, under the pretext of CONTINUATION. The cords were therefore pulled a third time, and this ended the torture. He was dressed in his own clothes, carried back to prison, and, after about seventy days, when the wounds were healed, condemned as one SUSPECTED of Judaism. They could not say CONVICTED, because he had not confessed; but they sentenced him to wear the sambenito [Footnote: This sambenito (Suco bendito or blessed sack,) is a garment (or kind of scapulary according to some writers,) worn by penitents of the least criminal class in the procession of an Auto de Fe, (a solemn ceremony held by the Inquisition for the punishment of heretics,) but sometimes worn as a punishment at other times, that the condemned one might be marked by his neighbors, and ever bear a signal that would affright and scare by the greatness of the punishment and disgrace; a plan, salutary it may be, but very grievous to the offender. It was made of yellow cloth, with a St. Andrew's cross upon it, of red. A rope was sometimes put around the neck as an additional mark of infamy. "Those who were condemned to be burnt were distinguished by a habit of the same form, called Zamarra, but instead of the red cross were painted flames and devils, and sometimes an ugly portrait of the heretic himself,--a head, with flames under it. Those who had been sentenced to the stake, but indulged with commutation of the penalty, had inverted flames painted on the livery, and this was called fuego revuelto, "inverted fire." "Upon the head of the condemned was also placed a conical paper cap, about three feet high, slightly resembling a mitre, called corona or crown. This was painted with flames and devils in like manner with the dress.] or penitential habit for two years, and then be banished for life from Seville." APPENDIX III. INQUISITION OF GOA--IMPRISONMENT OF M. DELLON, 1673. "M. Dellon a French traveller, spending some time at Damaun, on the north-western coast of Hindostan, incurred the jealousy of the governor and a black priest, in regard to a lady, as he is pleased to call her, whom they both admired. He had expressed himself rather freely concerning some of the grosser superstitions of Romanism, and thus afforded the priest, who was also secretary of the Inquisition, an occasion of proceeding against him as a heretic. The priest and the governor united in a representation to the chief inquisitor at Goa, which procured an order for his arrest. Like all other persons whom it pleased the inquisitors or their servants to arrest, in any part of the Portuguese dominions beyond the Cape of Good Hope, he was thrown into prison with a promiscuous crowd of delinquents, the place and treatment being of the worst kind, even according to the colonial barbarism of the seventeenth century. To describe his sufferings there, is not to our purpose, inasmuch as all prisoners fared alike, many of them perishing from starvation and disease. Many offenders against the Inquisition were there at the same time,--some accused of Judaism, others, of Paganism--in which sorcery and witchcraft were included--and others of immorality. In a field so wide and so fruitful, the "scrutators" of the faith could not fail to gather abundantly. After an incarceration of at least four months, he and his fellow-sufferers were shipped off for the ecclesiastical metropolis of India, all of them being in irons. The vessel put into Bacaim, and the prisoners were transferred, for some days, to the prison of that town, where a large number of persons were kept in custody, under charge of the commissary of the holy office, until a vessel should arrive to carry them to Goa. "In due time they were again at sea, and a fair wind wafted their fleet into that port after a voyage of seven days. Until they could be deposited in the cells of the Inquisition with the accustomed formalities, the Archbishop of Goa threw open HIS prison for their reception, which prison, being ecclesiastical, may be deemed worthy of description. "The most filthy," says Dellon, "the most dark, and the most horrible that I ever saw; and I doubt whether a more shocking and horrible prison can be found anywhere. It is a kind of cave wherein there is no day seen but by a very little hole; the most subtle rays of the sun cannot enter into it, and there is never any true light in it. The stench is extreme. * * * "On the 16th of January 1674, at eight o'clock in the morning, an officer came with orders to take the prisoners to "the holy house." With considerable difficulty M. Dellon dragged his iron-loaded limbs thither. They helped him to ascend the stairs at the great entrance, and in the hall, smiths were waiting to take off the irons from all the prisoners. One by one, they were summoned to audience. Dellon, who was called the first, crossed the hall, passed through an ante-chamber, and entered a room, called by the Portuguese "board of the holy office," where the grand inquisitor of the Indies sat at one end of a very large table, on an elevated floor in the middle of the chamber. He was a secular priest about forty years of age, in full vigor--a man who could do his work with energy. At one end of the room was a large crucifix, reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling, and near it, sat a notary on a folding stool. At the opposite end, and near the inquisitor, Dellon was placed, and, hoping to soften his judge, fell on his knees before him. But the inquisitor commanded him to rise, asked whether he knew the reason of his arrest, and advised him to declare it at large, as that was the only way to obtain a speedy release. Dellon caught at the hope of release, began to tell his tale, mixed with tears and protestations, again fell at the feet of Don Francisco Delgado Ematos, the inquisitor, and implored his favorable attention. Don Francisco told him, very coolly, that he had other business on hand, and, nothing moved, rang a silver bell. The alcayde entered, led the prisoner out into a gallery, opened, and searched his trunk, stripped him of every valuable, wrote an inventory, assured him that all should be safely kept, and then led him to a cell about ten feet square, and left him there, shut up in utter solitude. In the evening they brought him his first meal, which he ate heartily, and slept a little during the night following. Next morning he learnt that he could have no part of his property, not even a breviary was, in that place, allowed to a priest, for they had no form of religion there, and for that reason he could not have a book. His hair was cropped close; and therefore "he did not need a comb." "Thus began his acquaintance with the holy house, which he describes as "great and magnificent," on one side of the great space before the church of St Catharine. There were three gates in front; and, it was by the central, or largest, that the prisoners entered, and mounted a stately flight of steps, leading into the great hall. The side gates provided entrance to spacious ranges of apartments, belonging to the inquisitors. Behind the principal building, was another, very spacious, two stories high, and consisting of double rows of cells, opening into galleries that ran from end to end. The cells on the ground-floor were very small, without any aperture from without for light or air. Those of the upper story were vaulted, white-washed, had a small strongly grated window, without glass, and higher than the tallest man could reach. Towards the gallery every cell was shut with two doors, one on the inside, the other one outside of the wall. The inner door folded, was grated at the bottom, opened towards the top for the admission of food and was made fast with very strong bolts. The outer door was not so thick, had no window, but was left open from six o'clock every morning until eleven--a necessary arrangement in that climate, unless it were intended to destroy life by suffocation. "To each prisoner was given as earthen pot with water wherewith to wash, another full of water to drink, with a cup; a broom, a mat whereon to lie, and a large basin with a cover, changed every fourth day. The prisoners had three meals a day; and their health so far as food could contribute to it in such a place, was cared for in the provision of a wholesome, but spare diet. Physicians were at hand to render all necessary assistance to the sick, as were confessors, ready to wait upon the dying; but they gave no viaticum, performed no unction, said no mass. The place was under an impenetrable interdict. If any died, and that many did die is beyond question, his death was unknown to all without; he was buried within the walls without any sacred ceremony; and if, after death, he was found to have died in heresy, his bones were taken up at the next Auto, to be burned. Unless there happened to be an unusual number of prisoners, each one was alone in his own cell. He might not speak, nor groan, nor sob aloud, nor sigh. [Footnote: Limborch relates that on one occasion, a poor prisoner was heard to cough; the jailer of the Inquisition instantly repaired to him, and warned him to forbear, as the slightest noise was not tolerated in that house. The poor man replied that it was not in his power to forbear; a second time they admonished him to desist; and when again, unable to do otherwise, he repeated the offence, they stripped him naked, and cruelly beat him. This increased his cough, for which they beat him so often, that at last he died through pain and anguish of the stripes he had received.] His breathing might be audible when the guard listened at the grating, but nothing more. Four guards were stationed in each long gallery, open, indeed, at each end, but awfully silent, as if it were the passage of a catacomb. If, however, he wanted anything, he might tap at the inner door, when a jailer would come to hear the request, and would report to the alcayde, but was not permitted to answer. If one of the victims, in despair, or pain, or delirium, attempted to pronounce a prayer, even to God, or dared to utter a cry, the jailers would run to the cell, rush in, and beat him cruelly, for terror to the rest. Once in two months the inquisitor, with a secretary and an interpreter, visited the prisons, and asked each prisoner if he wanted anything, if his meat was regularly brought, and if he had any complaint against the jailers. His want after all lay at the mercy of the merciless. His complaint, if uttered, would bring down vengeance, rather than gain redress. But in this visitation the holy office professed mercy with much formality, and the inquisitorial secretary collected notes which aided in the crimination, or in the murder of their victims. "The officers of Goa were;--the inquisidor mor or grand inquisitor, who was always a secular priest; the second inquisitor, Dominican friar; several deputies, who came, when called for, to assist the inquisitors at trials, but never entered without such a summons; qualifiers, as usual, to examine books and writings, but never to witness an examination of the living, or be present at any act of the kind; a fiscal; a procurator; advocates, so called, for the accused; notaries and familiars. The authority of this tribunal was absolute in Goa. There does not appear to have been anything peculiar in the manner of examining and torturing at Goa where the practice coincided with that of Portugal and Spain. "The personal narrative of Dellon affords a distinct exemplification of the sufferings of the prisoners. He had been told that, when he desired an audience, he had only to call a jailer, and ask it, when it would be allowed him. But, notwithstanding many tears and entreaties, he could not obtain one until fifteen days had passed away. Then came the alcayde and one of his guards. This alcayde walked first out of the cell; Dellon uncovered and shorn, and with legs and feet bare, followed him; the guard walked behind. The alcayde just entered the place of audience, made a profound reverence, stepped back and allowed his charge to enter. The door closed, and Dellon remained alone with the inquisitor and secretary. He knelt; but Don Fernando sternly bade him to sit on a bench, placed there for the use of the culprits. Near him, on a table, lay a missal, on which they made him lay his hand, and swear to keep secrecy, and tell them the truth. They asked if he knew the cause of his imprisonment, and whether he was resolved to confess it. He told them all he could recollect of unguarded sayings at Damaun, either in argument or conversation, without ever, that he knew, contradicting, directly or indirectly, any article of faith. He had, at some time dropped an offensive word concerning the Inquisition, but so light a word, that it did not occur to his remembrance. Don Fernando told him he had done well in ACCUSING HIMSELF so willingly, and exhorted him in the name of Jesus Christ, to complete his self accusation fully, to the end that he might experience the goodness and mercy which were used in that tribunal towards those who showed true repentance by a sincere and UNFORCED confession. The secretary read aloud the confession and exhortation, Dellon signed it, Don Fernando rang a silver bell, the alcayde walked in, and, in a few moments, the disappointed victim was again in his dungeon. "At the end of another fortnight, and without having asked for it, he was again taken to audience. After a repetition of the former questions, he was asked his name, surname, baptism, confirmation, place of abode, in what parish? in what diocess? under what bishop? They made him kneel, and make the sign of the cross, repeat the Pater Noster, Hail Mary, creed, commandments of God, commandments of the church, and Salve Begins. He did it all very cleverly, and even to their satisfaction; but the grand inquisitor exhorted him, by the tender mercies of our Lord Jesus Christ, to confess without delay, and sent him to the cell again. His heart sickened. They required him to do what was impossible--to confess more, after he had acknowledged ALL. In despair, he tried to starve himself to death; 'but they compelled him to take food.' Day and night he wept, and at length betook himself to prayer, imploring pity of the 'blessed Virgin,' whom he imagined to be, of all beings, the most merciful, and the most ready to give him help. "At the end of a month, he succeeded in obtaining another audience, and added to his former confessions what he had remembered, for the first time, touching the Inquisition. But they told him that that was not what they wanted, and sent him back again. This was intolerable. In a frenzy of despair he determined to commit suicide, if possible. Feigning sickness, be obtained a physician who treated him for a fever, and ordered him to be bled. Never calmed by any treatment of the physician, blood-letting was repeated often, and each time he untied the bandage, when left alone, hoping to die from loss of blood, but death fled from him. A humane Franciscan came to confess him, and, hearing his tale of misery, gave him kind words, asked permission to divulge his attempt at self-destruction to the inquisitor, procured him a mitigation of solitude by the presence of a fellow-prisoner, a negro, accused of magic; but, after five months, the negro was removed, and his mind, broken with suffering, could no longer bear up under the aggravated load. By an effort of desperate ingenuity he almost succeeded in committing suicide, and a jailer found him weltering in his blood and insensible. Having restored him by cordials, and bound up his wounds, they carried him into the presence of the inquisitor once more; where he lay on the floor, being unable to sit, heard bitter reproaches, had his limbs confined in irons, and was thus carried back to a punishment that seemed more terrible than death. In fetters he became so furious, that they found it necessary to take them off, and, from that time, his examinations assumed another character, as he defended his positions with citations from the Council of Trent, and with some passages of scripture, which he explained in the most Romish sense, discovering a depth of ignorance in Don Fernando that was truly surprising. That 'grand Inquisitor,' had never heard the passage which Dellon quoted to prove the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, 'Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.' Neither did he know anything of that famous passage in the twenty-fifth session of the Council of Trent, which declares that images are only to be reverenced on account of the persons whom they represent. He called for a Bible, and for the acts of the council, and was evidently surprised when he found them where Dellon told him they might be seen. "The time for a general auto drew near. During the months of November and December, 1675, he heard every morning the cries of persons under torture, and afterwards saw many of them, both men and women, lame and distorted by the rack. On Sunday January 11th, 1676, he was surprised by the jailer refusing to receive his linen to be washed--Sunday being washing-day in the 'holy house.' While perplexing himself to think what that could mean, the cathedral bells rang for vespers, and then, contrary to custom, rang again for matins. He could only account for that second novelty by supposing that an auto would be celebrated the next day. They brought him supper, which he refused, and, contrary to their wont at all other times, they did not insist on his taking it, but carried it away. Assured that those were all portents of the horrible catastrophe, and reflecting on often-repeated threats in the audience chamber that he should be burnt, he gave himself up to death, and overwhelmed with sorrow, fell asleep a little before midnight. "Scarcely had he fallen asleep when the alcayde and guards entered the cell, with great noise, bringing a lamp, for the first time since his imprisonment that they had allowed a lamp to shine there. The alcayde, laying down a suit of clothes, bade him put them on, and be ready to go out when he came again. At two o'clock in the morning they returned, and he issued from the cell, clad in a black vest and trowsers, striped with white, and his feet bare. About two hundred prisoners, of whom he was one, were made to sit on the floor, along the sides of a spacious gallery, all in the same black livery, and just visible by the gleaming of a few lamps. A large company of women were also ranged in a neighboring gallery in like manner. But they were all motionless, and no one knew his doom. Every eye was fixed, and each one seemed benumbed with misery. "A third company Dellon perceived in a room not far distant, but they were walking about, and some appeared to have long habits. Those were persons condemned to be delivered to the secular arm, and the long habits distinguished confessors busily collecting confessions in order to commute that penalty for some other scarcely less dreadful. At four o'clock, servants of the house came, with guards, and gave bread and figs to those who would accept the refreshment. One of the guards gave Dellon some hope of life by advising him to take what was offered, which he had refused to do. 'Take your bread,' said the man, 'and if you cannot eat it now, put it in your pocket; you will be certainly hungry before you return.' This gave hope, that he should not end the day at the stake, but come back to undergo penance. "A little before sunrise, the great bell of the cathedral tolled, and its sound soon aroused the city of Goa. The people ran into the streets, lining the chief thoroughfares, and crowding every place whence a view could be had of the procession. Day broke, and Dellon saw the faces of his fellow-prisoners, most of whom were Indians. He could only distinguish, by their complexion, about twelve Europeans. Every countenance exhibited shame, fear, grief, or an appalling blackness of apathy, AS IF DIRE SUFFERING IN THE LIGHTLESS DUNGEONS UNDERNEATH HAD BEREFT THEM OF INTELLECT. The company soon began to move, but slowly, as one by one the alcayde led them towards the door of the great hall, where the grand inquisitor sat, and his secretary called the name of each as he came, and the name of a sponsor, who also presented himself from among a crowd of the bettermost inhabitants of Goa, assembled there for that service. 'The general of the Portuguese ships in the Indies' had the honor of placing himself beside our Frenchman. As soon as the procession was formed, it marched off in the usual order. "First, the Dominicans, honored with everlasting precedence on all such occasions, led the way. Singing-boys also preceded, chanting a litany. The banner of the Inquisition was intrusted to their hands. After the banner walked the penitents--a penitent and a sponsor, two and two. A cross bearer brought up the train, carrying a crucifix aloft, turned towards them, in token of pity; and, on looking along the line, you might have seen another priest going before the penitents with a crucifix turned backwards, inviting their devotions. They to whom the Inquisition no longer afforded mercy, walked behind the penitents, and could only see an averted crucifix. These were condemned to be burnt alive at the stake! On this occasion there were but two of this class, but sometimes a large number were sentenced to this horrible death, and presented to the spectator a most pitiable spectacle. Many of them bore upon their persons the marks of starvation, torture, terror, and heart-rending grief. Some faces were bathed in tears, while others came forth with a smile of conquest on the countenance and words of triumphant faith bursting from the lips. These, however, were known as dogmatizers, and were generally gagged, the month being filled with a piece of wood kept in by a strong leather band fastened behind the head, and the arms tied together behind the back. Two armed familiars walked or rode beside each of these, and two ecclesiastics, or some other clerks or regulars, also attended. After these, the images of heretics who had escaped were carried aloft, to be thrown into the flames; and porters came last, tagging under the weight of boxes containing the disinterred bodies on which the execution of the church had fallen, and which were also to be burnt. "Poor Dellon went barefoot, like the rest, through the streets of Goa, rough with little flint stones scattered about, and sorely were his feet wounded during an hour's march up and down the principal streets. Weary, covered with shame and confusion, the long train of culprits entered the church of St. Francis, where preparation was made for the auto, the climate of India not permitting a celebration of that solemnity under the burning sky. They sat with their sponsors, in the galleries prepared, sambenitos, grey zamarras with painted flames and devils, corozas, tapers, and all the other paraphernalia of an auto, made up a woeful spectacle. The inquisitor and other personages having taken their seats of state, the provincial of the Augustinians mounted the pulpit and delivered the sermon. Dellon preserved but one note of it. The preacher compared the Inquisition to Noah's ark, which received all sorts of beasts WILD, but sent them out TAME. The appearance of hundreds who had been inmates of that ark certainly justified the figure. "After the sermon, two readers went up, one after the other, into the same pulpit, and, between them, they read the processes and pronounced the sentences, the person standing before them, with the alcayde, and holding a lighted taper in his hand. Dellon, in turn, heard the cause of his long-suffering. He had maintained the invalidity of baptismus flaminis, or desire to be baptised, when there is no one to administer the rite of baptism by water. He had said that images ought not to be adored, and that an ivory crucifix was a piece of ivory. He had spoken contemptuously of the Inquisition. And, above all, he had an ill intention. His punishment was to be confiscation of his property, banishment from India, and five years' service in the galleys in Portugal, with penance, as the inquisitors might enjoin. As all the prisoners were excommunicate, the inquisitor, after the sentence had been pronounced, put on his alb and stole, walked into the middle of the church, and absolved them all at once. Dellon's sponsor, who would not even answer him before, when he spoke, now embraced him, called him brother, and gave him a pinch of snuff, in token of reconciliation. "But there were two persons, a man and a woman, for whom the church had no more that they could do; and these, with four dead bodies, and the effigies of the dead, were taken to be burnt on the Campo Santo Lazaro, on the river side, the place appointed for that purpose, that the viceroy might see justice done on the heretics, as he surveyed the execution from his palace-windows." The remainder of Dellon's history adds nothing to what we have already heard of the Inquisition. He was taken to Lisbon, and, after working in a gang of convicts for some time, was released on the intercession of some friends in France with the Portuguese government. With regard to his despair, and attempts to commit suicide, when in the holy house, we may observe that, as he states, suicide was very frequent there. The contrast of his disconsolate impatience with the resignation and constancy of Christian confessors in similar circumstances, is obvious. As a striking illustration of the difference between those who suffer without a consciousness of divine favor, and those who rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory, we would refer the reader to that noble band of martyrs who suffered death at the stake, at the Auto held in Seville, on Sunday, September 24, 1559. At that time twenty-one were burnt, followed by one effigy, and eighteen penitents, who were released. "One of the former was Don Juan Gonzales, Presbyter of Seville, an eminent preacher. With admirable constancy he refused to make any declaration, in spite of the severe torture, saying that he had not followed any erroneous opinions, but that he had drawn his faith from the holy Scriptures; and for this faith he pleaded to his tormentors in the words of inspiration. He maintained that he was not a heretic, but a Christian, and absolutely refused to divulge anything that would bring his brethren into trouble. Two sisters of his were also brought out to this Auto, and displayed equal faith. They would confess Christ, they said, and suffer with their brother, whom they revered as a wise and holy man. They were all tied to stakes on the quemadero, a piece of pavement, without the walls of the city, devoted to the single use of burning human victims. Sometimes this quemadero [Footnote: Llorente, the historian of the Spanish Inquisition, says, "So many persons were to be put to death by fire, the governor of Seville caused a permanent raised platform of masonry to be constructed outside the city, which has lasted to our time (until the French revolution) retaining its name of Quemadero, or burning-place, and at the four corners four large hollow stalutes of limestone, within which they used to place the impenitent alive, that they might die by slow fires."] was a raised platform of stone, adorned with pillows or surrounded with statues, to distinguish and beautify the spot. Just as the fire was lit, the gag, which had hitherto silenced Don Juan, was removed, and as the flames burst from the fagots, he said to his sisters, 'Let us sing, Deus laudem meam ne tacueris.' And they sang together, while burning, 'Hold not thy peace, O God of my praise; for the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me: they have spoken against me with a lying tongue.' Thus they died in the faith of Christ, and of his holy gospel." APPENDIX IV. INQUISITION OF GOA, CONCLUDED. The Inquisition of Goa continued its Autos for a century after the affair of Dellon. In the summer of 1808, Dr. Claudius Buchanan visited that city, and had been unexpectedly invited by Joseph a Doloribus, second and most active inquisitor, to lodge with him during his visit. Not without some surprise, Dr. Buchanan found himself, heretic, schismatic, and rebel as he was, politely entertained by so dread a personage. Regarding his English visitor merely as a literary man, or professing to do so, Friar Joseph, himself well educated, seemed to enjoy his company, and was unreservedly communicative on every subject not pertaining to his own vocation. When that subject was first introduced by an apparently incidental question, he did not hesitate to return the desired information, telling Dr. Buchanan that the establishment was nearly as extensive as in former times. In the library of the chief inquisitor he saw a register containing the names of all the officers, who still were numerous. On the second evening after his arrival, the doctor was surprised to see his host come from his apartment, clothed in black robes from head to foot, instead of white, the usual color of his order (Augustinian). He said that he was going to sit on the tribunal of the holy office, and it transpired that, so far from his "august office" not occupying much of his time, he had to sit there three or four days every week. After his return, in the evening, the doctor put Dellon's book into his hand, asking him if he had ever seen it. He had never seen it before, and, after reading aloud and slowly, "Relation de l'Inquisition de Goa," began to peruse it with eagerness. While Dr. Buchanan employed himself in writing, Friar Joseph devoured page after page; but as the narrative proceeded, betrayed evident symptoms of uneasiness. He then turned to the middle, looked at the end, skimmed over the table of contents, fixed on its principal passages, and at one place exclaimed, in his broad Italian accent, "Mendacium! mendacium.'" The doctor requested him to mark the passages that were untrue, proposed to discuss them afterwards, and said he had other books on the subject. The mention of other books startled him; he looked up anxiously at some books on the table, and then gave himself up to the perusal of Dellon's "Relation," until bedtime. Even then, he asked permission to take it to his chamber. The doctor had fallen asleep under the roof of the inquisitor's convent, confident, under God, in the protection at that time guaranteed to a British subject, his servants sleeping in the gallery outside the chamber-door. About midnight, he was waked by loud shrieks and expressions of terror from some one in the gallery. In the first moment of surprise, he concluded it must be the alguazils of the holy office seizing his servants to carry them to the Inquisition. But, on going out, he saw the servants standing at the door, and the person who had caused the alarm, a boy of about fourteen, at a little distance, surrounded by some of the priests, who had come out of their cells on hearing the noise. The boy said he had seen a spectre; and it was a considerable time before the agitations of his body and voice subsided. Next morning at breakfast, the inquisitor apologized for the disturbance, and said the boy's alarm proceeded from a phantasma animi,--phantom of the imagination. It might have been so. Phantoms might well haunt such a place. As to Dellon's book, the inquisitor acknowledged that the descriptions were just; but complained that he had misjudged the motives of the inquisitors, and written uncharitably of Holy Church. Their conversation grew earnest, and the inquisitor was anxious to impress his visitor with the idea that the Inquisition had undergone a change in some respects, and that its terrors were mitigated. At length Dr. Buchanan plainly requested to see the Inquisition, that he might judge for himself as to the humanity shown to the inmates,--according to the inquisitor,--and gave, as a reason why he should be satisfied, his interest in the affairs of India, on which he had written, and his purpose to write on them again, in which case he could scarcely be silent concerning the Inquisition. The countenance of his host fell; but, after some further observations, he reluctantly promised to comply. Next morning, after breakfast, Joseph a Doloribus went to dress for the holy office, and soon returned in his black robes. He said he would go half an hour before the usual time, for the purpose of showing him the Inquisition. The doctor fancied he looked more severe than usual, and that his attendants were not as civil as before. But the truth was, that the midnight scene still haunted him. They had proceeded in their palanquins to the holy house, distant about a quarter of a mile from the convent, and the inquisitor said as they were ascending the steps of the great entrance, that he hoped the doctor would be satisfied with a transient view of the Inquisition, and would retire when he should desire him to do so. The doctor followed with tolerable confidence, towards the great hall aforementioned, where they were met by several well-dressed persons, familiars, as it afterwards appeared, who bowed very low to the inquisitor, and looked with surprise at the stranger. Dr. Buchanan paced the hall slowly, and in thoughtful silence; the inquisitor thoughtful too, silent and embarrassed. A multitude of victims seemed to haunt the place, and the doctor could not refrain from breaking silence. "Would not the Holy Church wish, in her mercy, to have those souls back again, that she might allow them a little further probation?" The inquisitor answered nothing, but beckoned him to go with him to a door at one end of the hall. By that door he conducted him to some small rooms, and thence, to the spacious apartments of the chief inquisitor. Having surveyed those, he brought him back again to the great hall, and seemed anxious that the troublesome visitor should depart; but only the very words of Dr. B. can adequately describe the close of this extraordinary interview." "Now, father," said I, "lead me to the dungeons below: I want to see the captives." "No," said he, "that cannot be." I now began to suspect that it had been in the mind of the inquisitor, from the beginning, to show me only a certain part of the Inquisition, in the hope of satisfying my inquiries in a general way. I urged him with earnestness; but he steadily resisted, and seemed offended, or, rather, agitated, by my importunity. I intimated to him plainly, that the only way to do justice to his own assertion and arguments regarding the present state of the Inquisition, was to show me the prisons and the captives. I should then describe only what I saw; but now the subject was left in awful obscurity. "Lead me down," said I, "to the inner building, and let me pass through the two hundred dungeons, ten feet square, described by your former captives. Let me count the number of your present captives, and converse with them. I WANT, TO SEE IF THERE BE ANY SUBJECTS OF THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT, TO WHOM WE OWE PROTECTION. I want to ask how long they have been there, how long it is since they have seen the light of the sun, and whether they ever expect to see it again. Show me the chamber of torture, and declare what modes of execution or punishment are now practiced inside the walls of the Inquisition, in lieu of the public Auto de Fe. If, after all that has passed, father, you resist this reasonable request, I should be justified in believing that you are afraid of exposing the real state of the Inquisition in India." To these observations the inquisitor made no reply; but seemed impatient that I should withdraw. "My good father," said I; "I am about to take my leave of you, and to thank you for your hospitable attentions; and I wish to preserve on my mind a favorable sentiment of your kindness and candor. You cannot, you say, show me the captives and the dungeons; be pleased, then, merely to answer this question, for I shall believe your word: how many prisoners are there now below in the cells of the Inquisition?" He replied, "That is a question which I cannot answer." On his pronouncing these words, I retired hastily towards the door, and wished him farewell. We shook hands with as much cordiality as we could, at the moment, assume; and both of us, I believe, were sorry that our parting took place with a clouded countenance. After leaving the inquisitor, Dr. Buchanan, feeling as if he could not refrain from endeavoring to get another and perhaps a nearer view, returned to avail himself of the pretext afforded by a promise from the chief inquisitor, of a letter to one of the British residents at Travancore, in answer to one which he had brought him from that officer. The inquisitors he expected to find within, in the "board of the holy office." The door-keepers surveyed him doubtfully, but allowed him to pass. He entered the great hall, went up directly to the lofty crucifix described by Dellon, sat down on a form, wrote some notes, and then desired an attendant to carry in his name to the inquisitor. As he was walking across the hall, he saw a poor woman sitting by the wall. She clasped her hands, and looked at him imploringly. The sight chilled his spirits; and as he was asking the attendants the cause of her apprehension,--for she was awaiting trial,--Joseph a Doloribus came, in answer to his message, and was about to complain of the intrusion, when he parried the complaint by asking for the letter from the chief inquisitor. He promised to send it after him, and conducted him to the door. As they passed the poor woman, the doctor pointed to her, and said with emphasis, "Behold, father, another victim of the Holy Inquisition." The other answered nothing; they bowed, and separated without a word. When Dr. Buchanan published his "Christian Researches in Asia," in the year 1812, the Inquisition still existed at Goa; but the establishment of constitutional government in Portugal, put an end to it throughout the whole Portuguese dominions. APPENDIX V. INQUISITION AT MACERATA, ITALY. NARRATIVE OF MR. BOWER. METH. MAG. THIRD VOL. I never pretended that it was for the sake of religion alone, that I left Italy, On the contrary, I have often declared, that, had I never belonged to the Inquisition, I should have gone on, as most Roman Catholics do, without ever questioning the truth of the religion I was brought up in, or thinking of any other. But the unheard of cruelties of that hellish tribunal shocked me beyond all expression, and rendered me,--as I was obliged, by my office of Counsellor, to be accessary to them,--one of the most unhappy men upon earth. I therefore began to think of resigning my office; but as I had on several occasions, betrayed some weakness as they termed it, that is, some compassion and humanity, and had upon that account been reprimanded by the Inquisitor, I was well apprized that my resignation would be ascribed by him to my disapproving the proceedings of the holy tribunal. And indeed, to nothing else could it be ascribed, as a place at that board was a sure way to preferment, and attended with great privileges, and a considerable salary. Being, therefore, sensible how dangerous a thing it would be to give the least ground for any suspicions of that nature, and no longer able to bear the sight of the many barbarities practised almost daily within those walls, nor the reproaches of my conscience for being accessary to them, I determined, after many restless nights, and much deliberation, to withdraw at the same time from the Inquisition, and from Italy. In this mind, and in the most unhappy and tormenting situation that can possibly be imagined, I continued near a twelve-month, not able to prevail on myself to execute the resolution I had taken on account of the many dangers which I foresaw would inevitably attend it, and the dreadful consequences of my failing in the attempt. But, being in the mean time ordered by the Inquisitor, to apprehend a person with whom I had lived in the greatest intimacy and friendship, the part I was obliged to act on that occasion, left so deep an impression on my mind as soon prevailed over all my fears, and made me determine to put into execution, at all events, and without delay, the design I had formed. Of that transaction I shall give a particular account, as it will show in a very strong light the nature and proceedings of that horrid court. The person whom the Inquisitor appointed me to apprehend was Count Vicenzo della Torre, descended from an illustrious family in Germany, and possessed of a very considerable estate in the territory of Macerata. He was one of my very particular friends, and had lately married the daughter of Signior Constantini, of Fermo, a lady no less famous for her good sense than her beauty. With her family too, I had contracted an intimate acquaintance, while Professor of Rhetoric in Fermo, and had often attended the Count during his courtship, from Macerata to Fermo, but fifteen miles distant. I therefore lived with both in the greatest friendship and intimacy; and the Count was the only person that lived with me, after I was made Counsellor of the Inquisition, upon the same free footing as he had done till that time. My other friends had grown shy of me, and gave me plainly to understand that they no longer cared for my company. As this unhappy young gentleman was one day walking with another, he met two Capuchin friars, and turning to his companion, when they had passed, "what fools," said he, "are these, to think they shall gain heaven by wearing sackcloth and going barefoot! Fools indeed, if they think so, or that there is any merit in tormenting one's self; they might as well live as we do, and they would get to heaven quite as soon." Who informed against him, whether the friars, his companion, or somebody else, I know not; for the inquisitors never tell the names of informers to the Counsellors, nor the names of the witnesses, lest they should except against them. It is to be observed, that all who hear any proposition that appears to them repugnant to, or inconsistent with the doctrines of holy mother church, are bound to reveal it to the Inquisitor, and also to discover the person by whom it was uttered; and, in this affair no regard is to be had to any ties, however sacred. The brother being bound to accuse the brother, the father the son, the son the father, the wife her husband, and the husband his wife; and all bound on pain of eternal damnation, and of being treated as accomplices if they do not denounce in a certain time; and no confessor can absolve a person who has heard anything said in jest or in earnest, against the belief or practice of the church, till that person has informed the Inquisitor of it, and given him all the intelligence he can concerning the person by whom it was spoken. Whoever it was that informed against my unhappy friend, whether the friars, his companion, or somebody else who might have overheard him, the Inquisitor acquainted the board one night, (for to be less observed, they commonly meet, out of Rome, in the night) that the above mentioned propositions had been advanced, and advanced gravely, at the sight of two poor Capuchins; that the evidence was unexceptionable; and that they were therefore met to determine the quality of the proposition, and proceed against the delinquent. There are in each Inquisition twelve Counsellors, viz: four Divines, four Canonists, and four Civilians. It is chiefly the province of the divines to determine the quality of the proposition, whether it is heretical, or only savors of heresy; whether it is blasphemous and injurious to God and His saints or only erroneous, rash, schismatical, or offensive to pious ears. The part of the proposition, "Fools! if they think there is any merit in tormenting one's self," was judged and declared heretical, as openly contradicting the doctrine and practice of holy mother church recommending austerities as highly meritorious. The Inquisitor observed, on this occasion, that by the proposition, "Fools indeed" &c., were taxing with folly, not only the holy fathers, who had all to a man practised great austerities, but St. Paul himself as the Inquisitor understood it, adding that the practice of whipping one's self, so much recommended by all the founders of religious orders, was borrowed of the great apostle of the gentiles. The proposition being declared heretical, it was unanimously agreed by the board that the person who had uttered it should be apprehended, and proceeded against agreeably to the laws of the Inquisition. And now the person was named; for, till it is determined whether the accused person should or should not be apprehended, his name is kept concealed from the counsellors, lest they should be biased, says the directory, in his favor, or against him. For, in many instances, they keep up an appearance of justice and equity, at the same time that, in truth, they act in direct opposition to all the known laws of justice and equity. No words can express the concern and astonishment it gave me to hear, on such an occasion, the name of a friend for whom I had the greatest esteem and regard. The Inquisitor was apprised of it; and to give me an opportunity of practising what he had so often recommended to me, viz. conquering nature with the assistance of grace, he appointed me to apprehend the criminal, as he styled him, and to lodge him safe, before daylight, in the prison of the holy inquisition. I offered to excuse myself, but with the greatest submission, from being in any way concerned in the execution of that order; an order, I said, which I entirely approved of, but only wished it might be put in execution by some other person; for your lordship knows, I said, the connection. But the Inquisitor shocked at the word, said with a stern look and angry tone of voice, "What! talk of connections where the faith is concerned? There is your guard," (pointing to the Sbirri or bailiffs in waiting) "let the criminal be secured in St. Luke's cell," (one of the worst,) "before three in the morning." He then withdrew, and as he passed me said, "Thus, nature is conquered." I had betrayed some weakness or sense of humanity, not long before, in fainting away while I attended the torture of one who was racked with the utmost barbarity, and I had on that occasion been reprimanded by the Inquisitor for suffering nature to get the better of grace; it being an inexcusable weakness, as he observed, to be in any degree affected with the suffering of the body, however great, when afflicted, as they ever are in the Holy Inquisition, for the good of the soul. And it was, I presume, to make trial of the effect of that reprimand, that the execution of this cruel order was committed to me. As I could by no possible means decline it, I summoned all my resolution, after passing an hour by myself, I may say in the agonies of death, and set out a little after two in the morning for my unhappy friend's house, attended by a notary of the Inquisition, and six armed Sbirri. We arrived at the house by different ways and knocking at the door, a maid-servant looked out of the window, and asked who knocked. "The Holy Inquisition," was the answer, and at the same time she was ordered to awake nobody, but to come down directly and open the door, on pain of excommunication. At these words, the servant hastened down, half naked as she was, and having with much ado, in her great fright, opened the door, she conducted us as she was ordered to her master's chamber. She often looked very earnestly at me, as she knew me, and showed a great desire to speak with me; but of her I durst take no kind of notice. I entered the bed-chamber with the notary, followed by the Sbirri, when the lady awakening at the noise, and seeing the bed surrounded by armed men, screamed out aloud and continued screaming as out of her senses, till one of the Sbirri, provoked at the noise gave her a blow on the forehead that made the blood flow, and she swooned away. I rebuked the fellow severely, and ordered him to be whipped as soon as I returned to the Inquisition. In the mean time, the husband awakening, and seeing me with my attendants, cried out, in the utmost surprise, "MR. BOWER!" He said no more, nor could I for some time utter a single word; and it was with much ado that, in the end I so far mastered my grief as to be able to let my unfortunate friend know that he was a prisoner of the Holy Inquisition. "Of the Holy Inquisition!" he replied. "Alas I what have I done? My dear friend, be my friend now." He said many affecting things; but as I knew it was not in my power to befriend him, I had not the courage to look him in the face, but turning my back to him, withdrew, while he dressed, to a corner of the room, to give vent to my grief. The notary stood by, quite unaffected. Indeed, to be void of all humanity, to be able to behold one's fellow-creatures groaning under the most exquisite torments cruelty can invent, without being in the least affected with their sufferings, is one of the chief qualifications of an inquisitor, and what all who belong to the Inquisition must strive to attain to. It often happens, at that infernal tribunal, that while the unhappy, and probably innocent, person is crying out in their presence on the rack, and begging by all that is sacred for one moment's relief, in a manner one would think no human heart could withstand, it often happens, I say, that the inquisitor and the rest of his infamous crew, quite unaffected with his complaints, and deaf to his groans, to his tears and entreaties, are entertaining one another with the news of the town; nay, sometimes they even insult, with unheard of barbarity, the unhappy wretches in the height of their torment. To return to my unhappy prisoner. He was no sooner dressed than I ordered the Bargello, or head of the Sbirri, to tie his hands with a cord behind his back, as is practised on such occasions without distinction of persons; no more regard being paid to men of the first rank, when charged with heresy, than to the meanest offender. Heresy dissolves all friendship; so that I durst no longer look upon the man with whom I had lived in the greatest friendship and intimacy as my friend, or show him, on that account, the least regard or indulgence. As we left the chamber, the countess, who had been conveyed out of the room, met us, and screaming out in the most pitiful manner upon seeing her husband with his hands tied behind his back like a thief or robber, flew to embrace him, and hanging on his neck, begged, with a flood of tears, we would be so merciful as to put an end to her life, that she might have the satisfaction--the only satisfaction she wished for in this world, of dying in the bosom of the man from whom she had vowed never to part. The count, overwhelmed with grief, did not utter a single word. I could not find it in my heart, nor was I in a condition to interpose; and indeed a scene of greater distress was never beheld by human eyes. However, I gave a signal to the notary to part them, which he did accordingly, quite unconcerned; but the countess fell into a swoon, and the count was meantime carried down stairs, and out of the house, amid the loud lamentations and sighs of his servants, on all sides, for he was a man remarkable for the sweetness of his temper, and his kindness to all around him. Being arrived at the Inquisition, I consigned my prisoner into the hands of a gaoler, a lay brother of St. Dominic, who shut him up in the dungeon above-mentioned, and delivered the key to me. I lay that night at the palace of the Inquisition, where every counsellor has a room, and returned next morning the key to the inquisitor, telling him that his order had been punctually complied with. The inquisitor had been already informed of my conduct by the notary, and therefore, upon my delivering the key to him, he said, "You have acted like one who is at least desirous to overcome, with the assistance of grace, the inclinations of nature;" that is, like one who is desirous, by the assistance of grace, to metamorphose himself from a human creature into a brute or a devil. In the Inquisition, every prisoner is kept the first week of his imprisonment in a dark narrow dungeon, so low that he cannot stand upright in it, without seeing anybody but the gaoler, who brings him, EVERY OTHER DAY, his portion of bread and water, the only food allowed him. This is done, they say, to tame him, and render him, thus weakened, more sensible of the torture, and less able to endure it. At the end of the week, he is brought in the night before the board to be examined; and on that occasion my poor friend appeared so altered, in a week's time, that, had it not been for his dress, I should not have known him. And indeed no wonder; a change of condition so sudden and unexpected; the unworthy and barbarous treatment he had already met with; the apprehension of what he might and probably should suffer; and perhaps, more than anything else, the distressed and forlorn condition of his once happy wife, whom he tenderly loved, whose company he had enjoyed only six months, could be attended with no other effect. Being asked, according to custom, whether he had any enemies, and desired to name them, he answered, that he bore enmity to no man, and he hoped no man bore enmity to him. For, as in the Inquisition the person accused is not told of the charge brought against him, nor of the person by whom it is brought, the inquisitor asks him if he has any enemies, and desires him to name them. If he names the informer, all further proceedings are stopped until the informer is examined anew; and if the information is found to proceed from ill-will and no collateral proof can be produced, the prisoner is discharged. Of this piece of justice they frequently boast, at the same time that they admit, both as informers and witnesses, persons of the most infamous characters, and such as are excluded by all other courts. In the next place, the prisoner is ordered to swear that he will declare the truth, and conceal nothing from the holy tribunal, concerning himself or others, that he knows and the holy tribunal desires to know. He is then interrogated for what crime he has been apprehended and imprisoned by the Holy Court of the Inquisition, of all courts the most equitable, the most cautious, the most merciful. To that interrogatory the count answered, with a faint and trembling voice, that he was not conscious to himself of any crime, cognizable by the Holy Court, nor indeed by any other; that he believed and ever had believed whatever holy mother church believed or required him to believe. He had, it seems quite forgotten what he had unthinkingly said at the sight of the two friars. The inquisitor, therefore, finding that he did not remember or would not own his crime, after many deceitful interrogatories, and promises which he never intended to fulfil, ordered him back to his dungeon, and allowing him another week, as is customary in such cases, to recollect himself, told him that if he could not in that time prevail upon himself to declare the truth, agreeably to his oath, means would be found of forcing it from him; and he must expect no mercy. At the end of the week he was brought again before the infernal tribunal; and being asked the same questions, returned the same answers, adding, that if he had done or said anything amiss, unwittingly or ignorantly, he was ready to own it, provided the least hint of it were given him by any there present, which he entreated them most earnestly to do. He often looked at me, and seemed to expect--which gave me such concern as no words can express--that I should say something in his favor. But I was not allowed to speak on this occasion, nor were any of the counsellors; and had I been allowed to speak, I durst not have said anything in his favor; the advocate appointed by the Inquisition, and commonly styled, "The Devil's Advocate," being the only person that is suffered to speak for the prisoner. The advocate belongs to the Inquisition, receives a salary from the Inquisition, and is bound by an oath to abandon the defence of the prisoner, if he undertakes it, or not to undertake it, if he finds it cannot be defended agreeably to the laws of the Holy Inquisition; go that the whole is mere sham and imposition. I have heard this advocate, on other occasions, allege something in favor of the person accused; but on this occasion he declared that he had nothing to offer in defence of the criminal. In the Inquisition, the person accused is always supposed guilty, unless he has named the accuser among his enemies. And he is put to the torture if he does not plead guilty, and own the crime that is laid to his charge, without being so much as told what it is; whereas, in all other courts, where tortures are used, the charge is declared to the party accused before he is tortured; nor are they ever inflicted without a credible evidence of his guilt. But in the Inquisition, a man is frequently tortured upon the deposition of a person whose evidence would be admitted in no other court, and in all cases without hearing the charge. As my unfortunate friend continued to maintain his innocence, not recollecting what he had said, he was, agreeably to the laws of the Inquisition, put to the torture. He had scarcely borne it twenty minutes, crying out the whole time, "Jesus Maria!" when his voice failed him at once, and he fainted away. He was then supported, as he hung by his arms, by two of the Sbirri, whose province it is to manage the torture, till he returned to himself. He still continued to declare that he could not recollect his having said or done anything contrary to the Catholic faith, and earnestly begged they would let him know with what he was charged, being ready to own it if it was true. The Inquisitor was then so gracious as to put him in mind of what he had said on seeing the two Capuchins. The reason why they so long conceal from the party accused the crime he is charged with, is, that if he should be conscious to himself of his having ever said or done anything contrary to the faith, which he is not charged with, he may discover that too, imagining it to be the very crime he is accused of. After a short pause, the poor gentleman owned that he had said something to that purpose; but, as he had said it with no evil intention, he had never more thought of it, from that time to the present. He added, but with a voice so faint, as scarce could be heard, that for his rashness he was willing to undergo what punishment soever the holy tribunal should, think fit to impose on him; and he again fainted away. Being eased for a while of his torment, and returned to himself, he was interrogated by the promoter fiscal (whose business it is to accuse and to prosecute, as neither the informer nor the witnesses, are ever to appear,) concerning his intention. For in the Inquisition, it is not enough for the party accused to confess the fact, he must declare whether his intention was heretical or not; and many, to redeem themselves from the torments they, can no longer endure, own their intention was heretical, though it really was not. My poor friend often told us, he was ready to say whatever he pleased, but as he never directly acknowledged his intention to have been heretical, as is required by the rules of the court, he was kept on the torture still, quite overcome with the violence of the anguish, he was ready to expire. Being taken down, he was carried quite senseless, back to his dungeon, and there, on the third day, death put an end to his sufferings. The Inquisitor wrote a note to his widow, to desire her to pray for the soul of her late husband, and warn her not to complain of the holy Inquisition, as capable of any injustice or cruelty. The estate was confiscated to the Inquisition, and a small jointure allowed out of it to the widow. As they had only been married six months, and some part of the fortune was not yet paid, the inquisitor sent an order to the Constantini family, at Ferno, to pay the holy office, and without delay, what they owed to the late Count Della Torre. The effects of heretics are all ipso facto confiscated to the Inquisition from the very day, not of their conviction, but of their crime, so that all donations made after that time are void; and whatever they may have given, is claimed by the Inquisition, into whatsoever hands it may have passed; even the fortunes they have given to their daughters in marriage, have been declared to belong to, and are claimed by the Inquisition; nor can it be doubted, that the desire of those confiscations is one great cause of the injustice and cruelty of that court. The death of the unhappy Count Della Torre was soon publicly known; but no man cared to speak of it, not even his nearest relations, nor so much as to mention his name, lest anything should inadvertently escape them that might be construed into a disapprobation of the proceedings of the most holy tribunal; so great is the awe all men live in of that jealous and merciless court. The deep impression that the death of my unhappy friend, the barbarous and inhuman treatment he had met with, and the part I had been obliged to act in so affecting a tragedy, made on my mind, got at once the better of my fears, so that, forgetting in a manner the dangers I had till then so much apprehended, I resolved, without further delay to put in execution the design I had formed, of quitting the Inquisition, and bidding forever adieu to Italy. To execute that design with some safety, I proposed to beg leave to visit the Virgin of Loretto, but thirteen miles distant, and to pass a week there; but in the mean time, to make the best of my way out of the reach of the Inquisition. Having, therefore, after many conflicts with myself, asked leave to visit the neighboring sanctuary, and obtained it, I set out on horseback the very next morning, leaving, as I proposed to keep the horse, his full value with the owner. I took the road to Loretto, but turned out of it a short distance from Recanati, after a most violent struggle with myself, the attempt appearing to me at that juncture, quite desperate and impracticable; and the dreadful doom reserved for me should I miscarry, presented itself to my mind in the strongest light. But the reflection that I had it in my power to avoid being taken alive, and a persuasion that a man in my situation might lawfully avoid it, when every other means failed him, at the expense of his life, revived my staggered resolution; and all my fears ceasing at once, I steered my course, leaving Loretto behind me, to Rocca Contrada, to Fossonbrone, to Calvi in the dukedom of Urbino, and from thence through the Romagna into Bolognese, keeping the by-roads, and at a good distance from the cities through which the high road passed. Thus I advanced very slowly, travelling in very bad roads, and often in places where there was no road at all, to avoid, not only the cities, and towns, but also the villages. In the mean time I seldom had any other support but some coarse provisions, and a very small quantity even, of them, that the poor shepherds, the countrymen or wood cleavers I met in those unfrequented by-places, could spare me. My horse fared not much better than myself; but, in choosing my sleeping-place I consulted his convenience as much as my own, passing the night where I found most shelter for myself, and most grass for him. In Italy there are very few solitary farm-houses or cottages, the country people all living together in villages; and I thought it far safer to lie where I could be in any way sheltered, than to venture into any of them. Thus I spent seventeen days before I got out of the ecclesiastical state; and I very narrowly escaped being taken or murdered, on the very borders of that state; it happened thus. I had passed two whole days without any kind of subsistence whatever, meeting with no one in the by-roads that could supply me with any, and fearing to come near any house, as I was not far from the borders of the dominions of the Pope. I thought I should be able to hold out till I got into the Modanese, where I believed I should be in less danger than while I remained in the papal dominions. But finding myself, about noon of the third day, extremely weak and ready to faint away, I came into the high road that leads from Bologna to Florence, a few miles distant from the former city, and alighted at a post house, that stood quite by itself. Having asked the woman of the house whether she had any victuals, and being told that she had, I went to open the door of the only room in the house, (that being a place where gentlemen only stop to change horses,) and saw to my great surprise, a placard pasted on it, with a minute description of my whole person, sad a promise of a reward of 900 crowns (about 200 pounds English money) for delivering me up alive to the Inquisition, being a fugitive from that holy tribunal, and of 600 crowns for my head. By the same placard, all persons were forbidden, on pain of the greater excommunication, to receive or harbor, entertain, conceal, or screen me, or to be in any way aiding, or assisting me to make my escape. This greatly alarmed me, as the reader may well imagine; but I was still more frightened, when entering the room, I saw two fellows drinking there, who, fixing their eyes on me as soon as I went in, continued looking at me very steadfastly. I strove, by wiping my face and blowing my nose, and by looking out of the window, to prevent their having a full view of my features. But, one of them saying, "The gentleman seems afraid to be seen," I put up my handkerchief, and turning to the fellow, said boldly, "What do you mean you rascal? Look at me; am I afraid to be seen?" He said nothing, but looking again steadfastly at me, and nodding his head, went out, and his companion immediately followed him. I watched them, and seeing them, with two or three more, in close conference, and no doubt consulting whether they should apprehend me or not, I walked that moment into the stable, mounted my horse unobserved by them, and while they were deliberating in an orchard behind the house, rode off at full speed, and in a few hours got into the Modanese, where I refreshed both with food and rest, as I was there in no immediate danger, my horse and myself. I was indeed surprised to find that those fellows did not pursue me, nor can I in any other way account for it, but by supposing, what is not improbable, that, as they were strangers as well as myself, and had all the appearance of banditti or ruffians flying out of the dominions of the Pope, the woman of the house did not care to trust them with her horses. From the Modanese I continued my journey, more leisurely through the Parmesan, the Milanese, and part of the Venetian territory, to Chiavenna, subject to the Grisons, who abhor the very name of the Inquisition, and are ever ready to receive and protect all who, flying from it, take refuge, as many Italians do, in their dominions. Still I carefully concealed who I was, and whence I came, for, though no Inquisition prevails among the Swiss, yet the Pope's nuncio who resides at Lucerne, (a popish canton through which I was to pass,) might have persuaded the magistrate to stop me as an apostate and deserter from the order. Having rested a few days at Chiavenna, I resumed my journey quite refreshed, continuing it through the country of the Grisons, and the two small cantons of Ury and Underwald, to the canton of Lucerne. There I missed my way, as I was quite unacquainted with the country, and discovering a city at a distance, was advancing to it, but slowly, as I knew not where I was, when a countryman whom I met, informed me that the city before me was Lucerne. Upon that intelligence, I turned out of the road as soon as the countryman was out of sight, and that night I passed with a good natured shepherd in his cottage, who supplied me with sheep's milk, and my horse with plenty of grass. I set out early next morning, making my way westward, as I knew that Berne lay west of Lucerne. But, after a few miles, the country proved very mountainous, and having travelled the whole day over mountains I was overtaken among them by night. As I was looking out for a place where I might shelter myself during the night, against the snow and rain, (for it both snowed and rained,) I perceived a light at a distance, and making towards it, I got into a kind of foot-path, but so narrow and rugged that I was obliged to lead my horse, and feel my way with one foot, (having no light to direct me,) before I durst move the other. Thus, with much difficulty I reached the place where the light was, a poor little cottage, and knocking at the door, was asked by a man within who I was, and what I wanted? I answered that I was a stranger and had lost my way. "Lost your way!" exclaimed the man, "There is no way here to lose." I then asked him what canton I was in? and upon his answering that I was in the canton of Berne, I cried out transported with joy, "I thank God that I am." The good man answered, "And so do I." I then told him who I was, and that I was going to Berne but had quite lost myself by keeping out of all the high roads, to avoid falling into the hands of those who sought my destruction. He thereupon opened the door, received and entertained me with all the hospitality his poverty would admit of; regaled me with sour crout and some new laid eggs, the only provision he had, and clean straw with a kind of rug for a bed, he having no other for himself and wife. The good woman expressed as much good nature as her husband, and said many kind things in the Swiss language, which her husband interpreted to me in the Italian; for that language he well understood, having learned it in his youth, while servant in a public home on the borders of Italy, where both languages are spoken. I never passed a more comfortable night; and no sooner did I begin to stir in the morning, than the good man and his wife both came to know how I rested; and, wishing they had been able to accommodate me better, obliged me to breakfast on two eggs, which providence, they said, had sent them for that purpose. I took leave of the wife, who seemed most sincerely to wish me a good journey. As for the husband, he would by all means attend me to the high road leading to Berne; which road he said was but two miles distant from that place. But he insisted on my first going back with him, to see the way I had come the night before; the only way, he said, I could have possibly come from the neighboring canton of Lucerne. I saw it, and shuddered at the danger I had escaped; for I found I had walked and led my horse a good way along a very narrow path on the brink of a very dangerous precipice. The man made so many pertinent and pious remarks on the occasion, as both charmed and surprised me. I no less admired his disinterestedness than his piety; for, upon our parting, after he had attended me till I was out of all danger of losing my way, I could by no means prevail upon him to accept of any reward for his trouble. He had the satisfaction, he said, of having relieved me in the greatest distress, which was in itself a sufficient reward, and he wished for no other. Having at length got safe into French Flanders, I there repaired to the college of the Scotch Jesuits at Douay, and discovering myself to the rector, I acquainted him with the cause of my sudden departure from Italy, and begged him to give notice of my arrival, as well as the motives of my flight to Michael Angelo Tambuvini, general of the order, and my very particular friend. The rector wrote as I desired him, to the general, and he, taking no notice of my flight, in his answer, (for he could not disapprove, and did not think it safe to approve of it,) ordered me to continue where I was till further notice. I arrived at Douay early in May, and continued there till the beginning of July, when the rector received a second letter from the general, acquainting him that he had been commanded by the congregation of the Inquisition, to order me, wherever I was, back into Italy; to promise me, in their name, full pardon and forgiveness if I obeyed, but if I did not obey, to treat me as an apostate. He added, that the same order had been transmitted, soon after my flight, to the nuncios at the different Roman Catholic courts; and he, therefore, advised me to consult my own safety without further delay. Upon the receipt of the general's kind letter, the rector was of opinion that I should repair by all means, and without loss of time, to England, not only as the safest asylum I could fly to, in my present situation, but as a place where I should soon recover my native language, and be usefully employed, either there or in Scotland. The place being thus agreed on, and it being at the same time settled between the rector and me, that I should set out the very next morning, I solemnly promised, at his request and desire, to take no kind of notice, after my arrival in England, of his having been in any way privy to my flight, or the general's letter to him. This promise I have faithfully and honorably observed; and should have thought myself guilty of the blackest ingratitude if I had not observed it, being sensible that, had it been known at Rome, that, either the rector or general had been accessary to my flight, THE INQUISITION WOULD HAVE RESENTED IT SEVERELY IN BOTH. For although a Jesuit in France, in Flanders, or in Germany, is out of the reach of the Inquisition, the general is not; and the high tribunal not only have it in their power to punish the general himself, who resides constantly at Rome, but may oblige him to inflict what punishment they please on any of the order obnoxious to them. The rector went that very night out of town, and in his absence, but not without his privity, I took one of the horses of the college, early next morning, as if I were going for a change of air, being somewhat indisposed, to pass a few days at Lisle; but steering a different course, I reached Aire that night and Calais the next day. I was there in no danger of being stopped and seized at the prosecution of the Inquisition, a tribunal no less abhorred in France than in England. But being informed that the nuncios at the different courts had been ordered, soon after my flight, to cause me to be apprehended in Roman Catholic countries through which I must pass, as an apostate and deserter from the order, I was under no small apprehension of being discovered and apprehended as such even at Calais. No sooner, therefore, did I alight at the Inn, than I went down to the quay, and there as I was very little acquainted with the sea, and thought the passage much shorter than it is, I endeavored to engage some fishermen to carry me that very night, in one of their small vessels, over to England. This alarmed the guards of the harbor, and I should have been certainly apprehended as a person guilty, or suspected of some great crime, fleeing from justice, had not Lord Baltimore, whom I had the good luck to meet in the Inn, informed me of my danger, and pitying my condition, attended me that moment, with all his company, to the port, and conveyed me immediately on board his yacht. There I lay that night, leaving every thing I had but the clothes on my back, in the Inn; and the next day his Lordship set me ashore at Dover, from whence I came in the common stage to London. In the year 1706, the Inquisition at Arragon was broken up by the French troops, under the command of the Duke of Orleans. The Holy Inquisitors were driven from their beautiful house, and in answer to their indignant remonstrance were told that the king wanted the house to quarter his troops in, and they were therefore compelled to leave it immediately. The doors of the prisons were then thrown open, and among the four hundred prisoners who were set at liberty were sixty young women, very beautiful in person, and clad in the richest attire. Anthony Gavin, formerly one of the Roman Catholic priests of Saragossa, Spain, relates (in a book published by him after his conversion) that when travelling in France he met one of those women in the inn at Rotchfort; the son of the inn-keeper, formerly an officer in the French army, having married her for her great beauty and superior intelligence. In accordance with his request, she freely related to him the incidents of her prison life, from which we take the following extract: "Early the next morning, Mary got up, and told me that nobody was up yet in the house; and that she would show me the DRY PAN and the GRADUAL FIRE, on condition that I should keep it a secret for her sake as well as my own. This I promised, and she took me along with her, and showed me a dark room with a thick iron door, and within it an oven and a large brass pan upon it, with a cover of the same and a lock to it. The oven was burning at the time, and I asked Mary for what purpose the pan was there. Without giving me any answer, she took me by the hand and led me to a large room, where she showed me a thick wheel, covered on both sides with thick boards, and opening a little window in the center of it, desired me to look with a candle on the inside of it, and I saw all the circumference of the wheel set with SHARP RAZORS. After that she showed me a PIT FULL OF SERPENTS AND TOADS. Then she said to me, 'Now, my good mistress, I'll tell you the use of these things. The dry pan and gradual fire are for those who oppose the holy father's will, and for heretics. They are put naked and alive into the pan, and the cover of it being locked up, the executioner begins to put in the oven a small fire, and by degrees he augmenteth it, till the body is burned to ashes. The second is designed for those who speak against the Pope and the holy fathers. They are put within the wheel, and the door being locked, the executioner turns the wheel till the person is dead. The third is for those who contemn the images, and refuse to give the due respect and veneration to ecclesiastical persons; for they are thrown alive into the pit, and there they become the food of serpents and toads.' Then Mary said to me that another day she would show me the torments for public sinners and transgressors of the commandments of holy mother church; but I, in deep amazement, desired her to show me no more places; for the very thought of those three which I had seen, was enough to terrify me to the heart. So we went to my room, and she charged me again to be very obedient to all commands, for if I was not, I was sure to undergo the torment of the dry pan." Llorente, the Spanish historian and secretary-general of the Inquisition, relates the following incident: "A physician, Juan de Salas, was accused of having used a profane expression, twelve months before, in the heat of debate. He denied the accusation, and produced several witnesses to prove his innocence. But Moriz, the inquisitor at Valladolid, where the charge was laid, caused de Salas to be brought into his presence in the torture-chamber, stripped to his shirt, and laid on a LADDER or DONKEY, an instrument resembling a wooden trough, just large enough to receive the body, with no bottom, but having a bar or bars to placed that the body bent, by its own weight, into an exquisitely painful position. His head was lower than his heels, and the breathing, in consequence, became exceedingly difficult. The poor man, so laid, was bound around the arms and legs with hempen cords, each of them encircling the limb eleven times. "During this part of the operation they admonished him to confess the blasphemy; but he only answered that he had never spoken a sentence of such a kind, and then, resigning himself to suffer, repeated the Athanasian creed, and prayed to God and our Lady many times. Being still bound, they raised his head, covered his face with a piece of fine linen, and, forcing open the mouth, caused water to drip into it from an earthen jar, slightly perforated at the bottom, producing in addition to his sufferings from distension, a horrid sensation of choking. But again, when they removed the jar for a moment, he declared that he had never uttered such a sentence; and this he often repeated. They then pulled the cords on his right leg, cutting into the flesh, replaced the linen on his face, dropped the water as before, and tightened the cords on his right leg the second time; but still he maintained that he had never spoken such a thing; and in answer to the questions of his tormentors, constantly reiterated that he HAD NEVER SPOKEN THOSE WORDS. Moriz then pronounced that the said torture should be regarded as begun, but not finished; and De Salas was released, to live, if he could survive, in the incessant apprehension that if he gave the slightest umbrage to a familiar, he would be carried again into the same chamber, and be RACKED IN EVERY LIMB." Llorente also relates, from the original records, another case quite as cruel and unjust as the above. "On the 8th day of December, 1528, one Catalina, a woman of BAD CHARACTER, informed the inquisitors that, EIGHTEEN YEARS BEFORE she had lived in the house with a Morisco named Juan, by trade a coppersmith, and a native of Segovia; that she had observed that neither he nor his children ate pork or drank wine, and that, on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings they used to wash their feet, which custom, as well as abstinence from pork and wine, was peculiar to the Moors. The old man was at that time an inhabitant of Benevente, and seventy-one years of age. But the inquisitors at once summoned him into their presence, and questioned him at three several interviews. All that he could tell was, that he received baptism when he was forty-five years of age; that having never eaten pork or drunk wine, he had no taste for them; and that, being coppersmiths, they found it necessary to wash themselves thoroughly once a week. After some other examinations, they sent him back to Benevente, with prohibition to go beyond three leagues' distance from the town. Two years afterwards the inquisitor determined that he should be threatened with torture, IN ORDER TO OBTAIN INFORMATION THAT MIGHT HELP THEM TO CRIMINATE OTHERS. He was accordingly taken to Valladolid, and in a subterranean chamber, called the 'chamber, or dungeon, of torment,' stripped naked, and bound to the 'ladder.' This might well have extorted something like confession from an old man of seventy-one; but he told them that whatever he might say when under torture would be merely extorted by the extreme anguish, and therefore unworthy of belief; that he would not, through fear of pain, confess what had never taken place. They kept him in close prison until the next Auto de Fe, when he walked among the penitents, with a lighted candle in his hand, and, after seeing others burnt to death, paid the holy office a fee of four ducats, and went home, not acquitted, but released. He was not summoned again, as he died soon afterwards." It sometimes happened that an individual was arrested by mistake, and a person who was entirely innocent was tortured instead of the real or supposed criminal. A case of this kind Mr. Bower found related at length in the "Annals of the Inquisition at Macerata." "An order was sent from the high tribunal at Rome to all the inquisitors throughout Italy, enjoining them to apprehend a clergyman minutely described in that order. One Answering the description in many particulars being discovered in the diocese of Osimo, at a small distance from Macerata, and subject to that Inquisition, he was there decoyed into the holy office, and by an order from Rome SO RACKED AS TO LOSE HIS SENSES. In the mean time, the true person being apprehended, the unhappy wretch was dismissed, by a second order from Rome, but he never recovered the use of his senses, NOR WAS ANY CARE TAKEN OF HIM BY THE INQUISITION." It would be easy to fill a volume with such narratives as the above, but we forbear. We are not writing a history of the Inquisition. We simply wish to exhibit the true spirit by which the Romanists are actuated in their dealings with those over whom they have power. We therefore, in closing this chapter of horrors, beg leave to place before our readers one of the FATHERLY BENEDICTIONS with which, His Holiness, the Pope, dismisses his refractory subjects. Does it not show most convincingly what he would do here in America, if he had, among us, the power he formerly possessed in the old world, when the least inadvertent word might perchance seal the doom of the culprit? A POPISH BULL OK CURSE. "Pronounced on all who leave the Church of Rome. By the authority of God Almighty, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and the undefiled Virgin Mary, mother and patroness of our Saviour, and of all celestial virtues, Angels, Archangels, Thrones, Dominions, Powers, Cherubim and Seraphim, and of all the holy Patriarchs, Prophets, and of all the Apostles and Evangelists, of the holy innocents, who in the sight of the holy Lamb are found worthy to sing the new song of the Holy Martyrs and Holy Confessors, and of all the Holy Virgins, and of all the Saints, together with the Holy Elect of God,--MAY HE BE DAMNED. We excommunicate and anathematize him, from the threshold of the holy church of God Almighty. We sequester him, that he may be tormented, disposed, and be delivered over with Datham and Abiram, and with those who say unto the Lord, 'Depart from us, we desire none of thy ways;' as a fire is quenched with water, so let the light of him be put out forevermore, unless it shall repent him, and make satisfaction. Amen. "May the Father who creates man, curse him. May the Son, who suffered for us, curse him! May the Holy Ghost who is poured out in baptism, curse him! May the Holy Cross, which Christ for our salvation, triumphing over his enemies, ascended, curse him! "May the Holy Mary, ever Virgin and Mother of God, curse him! May all the Angels, Principalities, and Powers, and all heavenly Armies curse him! May the glorious band of the Patriarchs and Prophets curse him! "May St. John the Precursor, and St John the Baptist, and St. Peter and St Paul, and St. Andrew and all other of Christ's Apostles together curse him and may the rest of the Disciples and Evangelists who by their preaching converted the universe, and the Holy and wonderful company of Martyrs and Confessors, who by their works are found pleasing to God Almighty; may the holy choir of the Holy Virgins, who for the honor of God have despised the things of the world, damn him. May all the Saints from the beginning of the world to everlasting ages, who are found to be beloved of God, damn him! "May he be damned wherever he be, whether in the house or in the alley, in the woods or in the water, or in the church! May he be cursed in living or dying! "May he be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting and sleeping, in slumbering, and in sitting, in living, in working, in resting, and in blood letting! May he be cursed in all the faculties of his body! "May he be cursed inwardly and outwardly. May he be cursed in his hair; cursed be he in his brains, and his vertex, in his temples, in his eyebrows, in his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his teeth, and grinders, in his lips, in his shoulders, in his arms, and in his fingers. "May he be damned in his mouth, in his breast, in his heart, and purtenances, down to the very stomach! "May he be cursed in his reins and groins, in his thighs and his hips, and in his knees, his legs and his feet, and his toe-nails! "May he be cursed in all his joints, and articulation of the members; from the crown of the head to the soles of his feet, may there be no soundness! "May the Son of the living God, with all the glory of his majesty, CURSE HIM! And may Heaven, with all the powers that move therein, rise up against him, and curse and damn him; unless he repent and make satisfaction! Amen! So be it. Be it so. Amen." Such was the CURSE pronounced on the Rev. Wm. Hogan, (a converted Roman Catholic priest) a few years since, in Philadelphia. As a further proof of the cruel, persecuting spirit of Catholicism, let us glance at a few extracts from their own publications. "Children," they say, "are obliged to denounce their parents or relations who are guilty of heresy; ALTHOUGH THEY KNOW THAT THEY WILL BE BURNT. They may refuse them all nourishment, and permit them to die with hunger; or they may KILL THEM as enemies, who violate the rights of humanity.--Escobar, Theolg. Moral, vol. 4, lib. 31, sec. 2, precept 4, prop. 5, p. 239." "A man condemned by the Pope, may be killed wherever he is found."--La Croix, vol. 1, p. 294. "Children may kill their parents, if they would turn their children from the Popish faith." "If a judge decide contrary to law, the injured person may defend himself by killing the judge."--Fangundez Precept Decal, vol. 1, lib. 4, chap. 2, p. 501, 655, and vol. 2, lib. 8, chap. 32; p. 390. "To secretly kill your calumniator, to avoid scandal, is justifiable."--Ayrault, Cens. p. 319. "You may kill before hand, any person who may put you to death, not EXCEPTING THE JUDGE, AND WITNESSES, because it is self-defence."--Emanuel Sa. Aphor, p. 178. "A priest may kill those who hinder him from taking possession of any Ecclesiastical office."--Arnicus, Num, 131. "You may charge your opponent with false crime to take away his credit, as well as kill him."--Guimenius, prop, 8, p. 86. "Priests may kill the laity to preserve their goods."--Nolina, vol. 3, disput. 16, p. 1786. "You may kill any man to save a crown."--Taberna, Synop. Theol. Tract, pars. 2, chap. 27, p. 256. "BY THE COMMAND OF GOD IT IS LAWFUL TO MURDER THE INNOCENT, TO ROB, AND TO COMMIT ALL KIND OF WICKEDNESS, BECAUSE HE IS THE LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH, AND ALL THINGS; AND THUS TO FULFILL HIS MANDATE IS OUR DUTY."--Alagona, Thorn. Aquin, Sum. Theol. Compend, Quest. 94, p. 230. Again, in the Romish Creed found in the pocket of Priest Murphy, who was killed in the battle of Arklow, 1798, we find the following articles. "We acknowledge that the priests can make vice virtue, and virtue vice, according to their pleasure. "We are bound to believe that the holy massacre was lawful, and lawfully put into execution, against Protestants, and likewise WE ARE TO CONTINUE THE SAME, PROVIDED WITH SAFETY TO OUR LIVES! "We are bound not to keep our oaths with heretics, though bound by the most sacred ties. We are bound not to believe their oaths; for their principles are damnation. We are bound to drive heretics with fire, sword, faggot, and confusion, out of the land; as our holy fathers say, if their heresies prevail we will become their slaves. We are bound to absolve without money or price, those who imbrue their hands in the blood of a heretic!" Do not these extracts show very clearly that Romanism can do things as bad as anything in the foregoing narrative? APPENDIX VI. ROMANISM OF THE PRESENT DAY. Whenever we refer to the relentless cruelties of the Romanists, we are told, and that, too, by the influential, the intelligent, those who are well-informed on other subjects, that "these horrid scenes transpired only in the 'dark ages;'" that "the civilization and refinement of the present age has so modified human society, so increased the milk of human kindness, that even Rome would not dare, if indeed she had the heart, to repeat the cruelties of by-gone days." For the honor of humanity we could hope that this opinion was correct; but facts of recent date compel us to believe that it is as false as it is ruinous to the best interests of our country and the souls of men. A few of these facts, gathered from unquestionable sources, and some of them related by the actors and sufferers themselves, we place before the reader. In November, 1854, Ubaldus Borzinski, a monk of the Brothers of Mercy, addressed an earnest petition to the Pope, setting forth the shocking immoralities practised in the convents of his order in Bohemia. He specifies nearly forty crimes, mostly perpetrated by priors and subpriors, giving time, place, and other particulars, entreating the Pope to interpose his power, and correct those horrible abuses. For sending this petition, he was thrown into a madhouse of the Brothers of Mercy, at Prague, where he still languishes in dreary confinement, though the only mark of insanity he ever showed was in imagining that the Pope would interfere with the pleasures of the monks. This Ubaldus has a brother, like minded with himself, also a member of the same misnamed order of monks, who has recently effected his escape from durance vile. John Evangelist Borzinski was a physician in the convent of the Brothers of Mercy at Prague. He is a scientific and cultivated man. By the study of the Psalms and Lessons from the New Testament, which make up a considerable part of the Breviary used in cloisters, he was first led into Protestant views. He had been for seventeen years resident in different cloisters of his order, as sick-nurse, alms gatherer, student, and physician, and knew the conventual life out and out. As he testifies: "There was little of the fear of God, so far as I could see, little of true piety; but abundance of hypocrisy, eye-service, deception, abuse of the poor sick people in the hospitals, such love and hatred as are common among the children of this world, and the most shocking vices of every kind." He now felt disgust for the cloister life, and for the Romish religion, and he sought, by the aid of divine grace, to attain to the new birth through the Word of God. Speaking of his change of views to a Prussian clergyman, he thus describes his conversion: "Look you, it was thus I became a Protestant. I found a treasure in that dustheap, and went away with it." This treasure he prized more and more. He then thought within himself, if these detached passages can give such light, what an illumination he must receive if he could read and understand the whole Bible. He did not, however, betray his dissatisfaction, but devoted himself to his professional duties with greater diligence. He might still have remained in the Order, his life hid with Christ in God, had not the hierarchy, under pretence of making reforms and restoring the neglected statutes of the Order, brought in such changes for the worse as led him to resolve to leave the order, and the Romish church as well. Following his convictions, and the advice of a faithful but very cautious clergyman, he betook himself to the territories of Prussia, where, on the 17th of January, 1855, he was received into the national church at Petershain, by Dr. Nowotny, himself formerly a Bohemian priest. This was not done till great efforts had been made to induce him to change his purpose, and also to get his person into the power of his adversaries. As he had now left the church of Rome, become an openly acknowledged member of another communion, he thought he might venture to return to his own country. Taking leave of his Prussian friends, to whom he had greatly endeared himself by his modesty and his lively faith, he went back to Bohemia, with a heart full of peace and joy. He lived for some time amidst many perplexities, secluded in the house of his parents at Prosnitz, till betrayed by some who dwelt in the same habitation. On the 6th of March he was taken out of bed, at eight, by the police, and conveyed first to the cloister in Prosnitz, where he suffered much abuse, and from thence to the cloister in Prague. Here the canon Dittrich, "Apostolical Convisitator of the Order of the Brothers of Mercy," justified all the inhuman treatment he had suffered, and threatened him with worse in case he refused to recant and repent. Dittrich not only deprived him of his medical books, but told him that his going over to Protestantism was a greater crime than if he had plundered the convent of two thousand florins. He was continually dinned with the cry, "Retract, retract!" He was not allowed to see his brother, confined in the same convent, nor other friends, and was so sequestered in his cell as to make him feel that he was forgotten by all the world. He managed, through some monks who secretly sympathized with him, to get a letter conveyed occasionally to Dr. Nowotny. These letters were filled with painful details of the severities practised upon him. In one of them he says, "My only converse is with God, and the gloomy walls around me." He was transferred to a cell in the most unwholesome spot, and infested with noisome smells not to be described. Close by him were confined some poor maniacs, sunk below the irrational brutes. Under date of April 23d he writes: "Every hour, in this frightful dungeon seems endless to me. For many weeks have I sat idle in this durance, with no occupation but prayer and communion with God." His appeals to civil authority and to the Primate of Hungary procured him no redress, but only subjected him to additional annoyances and hardships. His aged father, a man of four-score years, wept to see him, though of sound understanding, locked up among madmen; and when urged to make his son recant, would have nothing to do with it, and returned the same day to his sorrowful home. As he had been notified that he was to be imprisoned for life, he prayed most earnestly to the Father of mercies for deliverance; and he was heard, for his prayers and endeavors wrought together. The sinking of his health increased his efforts to escape; for, though he feared not to die, he could not bear the thought of dying imprisoned in a mad-house, where he knew that his enemies would take advantage of his mortal weakness to administer their sacraments to him, and give out that he had returned to the bosom of the church, or at least to shave his head, that he might be considered as an insane person, and his renunciation of Romanism as the effect of derangement of mind. Several plans of escape were projected, all beset with much difficulty and danger. The one he decided upon proved to be successful. On Saturday, the 13th of October, at half-past nine in the evening, he fastened a cord made of strips of linen to the grate of a window, which grate did not extend to the top. Having climbed over this, he lowered himself into a small court-yard. He had now left that part of the establishment reserved for the insane, and was now in the cloistered part where the brethren dwelt. But here his fortune failed him. He saw at a distance a servant of the insane approaching with a light; and with aching heart and trembling limbs, by a desperate effort, climbed up again. He returned to his cell, concealing his cord, and laid himself down to rest. On the following Monday, he renewed his efforts to escape. He lowered himself, as before, into the little court-yard; but being weak in health and much shaken in his nervous system by all he had suffered in body and mind, he was seized with palpitation of the heart and trembled all over, so that he could not walk a step. He laid down to rest and recover his breath. He felt as if he could get no further. "But," he says in his affecting narrative, "My dear Saviour to whom I turned in this time of need, helped me wonderfully. I felt now, more than ever in my life, His gracious and comforting presence, and believed, in that dismal moment, with my whole soul, His holy word;" "My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect in weakness." Borzinski now arose, pulled off his boots, and though every step was made with difficulty, he ascended the stairs leading to the first story. He went along the passage way until he came to a door leading into corridors where the cloister brethren lodged. But the trembling fit came over him again, with indescribable anguish, as he sought to open the door with a key with which he had been furnished. He soon rallied again, and, like a spectre, gliding by the doors of the brethren, who occupied the second and third corridors, many of whom had lights still burning, he came with his boots in one hand, and his bundle in the other, to a fourth passage way, in which was an outside window he was trying to reach. The cord was soon fastened to the window frame, yet still in bitter apprehension; for this window was seldom opened, and opened hard, and with some noise. It was also only two steps distant from the apartment of the cloister physician, where there was a light, and it was most likely that, on the first grating of the window, he would rush out and apprehend the fugitive. However the window was opened without raising any alarm, and now it was necessary to see that no one was passing below; for though the spot is not very much frequented, yet the streets cross there, and people approach it from four different directions. During these critical moments, one person and another kept passing, and poor Borzinski tarried shivering in the window for near a quarter of an hour before he ventured to let himself down. While he was waiting his opportunity he heard the clock strike the third quarter after nine and knew that he had but fifteen minutes to reach the house where he was to conceal himself, which would be closed at ten. When all was still, he called most fervently on the Saviour, and grasping the cord, slid down into the street. He could scarce believe his feet were on the ground. Trembling now with joy and gratitude rather than fear, he ran bareheaded to his place of refuge, where he received a glad welcome. Having changed his garb, and tarried till three o'clock in the morning, he took leave of his friends and passing through the gloomy old capital of Bohemia, he reached the Portzitscher Gate, in order to pass out as early as possible. Just then a police corporal let in a wagon, and Borzinski, passed out unchallenged. It is needless to follow him further in his flight. We have given enough, of his history to prove that conventual establishments are at this moment what they ever have been--dangerous alike to liberty and life. AMERICAN AND FOREIGN CHRISTIAN UNION. In place of labored arguments we give the following history of personal suffering as strikingly illustrative of the spirit of Romanism at the present day. APPENDIX VII NARRATIVE OP SIGNORINA FLORIENCIA D' ROMANI, A NATIVE OF THE CITY OF NAPLES. I was born in the year 1826, of noble and wealthy parents. Our mansion contained a small chapel, with many images, sacred paintings, and a neatly furnished mass altar. My father was a man of the world. He loved the society of fashionable men. As he lived on the rents and income of his estates, he had little to do, except to amuse himself with his friends. My mother, who was of as mild and sweet disposition, loved my father very dearly, but was very unhappy the most of the time because my father spent so much of his time in drinking with his dissolute companions, card playing, and in balls, parties, theatres, operas, billiards, &c. Father did not intend to be unkind to my mother, for he gave her many servants, and abundance of gold, horses, carriages and grooms, and said frequently in my hearing, that his wife should be as happy as a princess. Such was the state of society in Italy that men thought their wives had no just reason to complain, so long as they were furnished with plenty of food, raiment and shelter. One of my father's most intimate friends was the very Rev. Father Salvator, a Priest of the order of St. Francis; he wore the habit of the order, his head was about half shaved. The sleeves of his habit were very large at the elbow; in these sleeves he had small pockets, in which he usually carried his snuff box, handkerchief, and purse of gold. This priest was merry, full of fun and frolic; he could dance, sing, play cards, and tell admirably funny stories, such as would make even the devils laugh in their chains. Such was the influence and power this Franciscan had over my father and mother, that in our house, his word was law. He was our confessor, knew the secrets and sins, and all the weak points of every mind in the whole household. My own dear mother taught me to read before I was seven years of age. As I was the only child, I was much petted and caressed, indeed, such was my mother's affection for me that I was seldom a moment out of her sight. There was a handsome mahogany confessional in our own chapel. When the priest wanted any member of the household to come to him to confession, he wrote the name on a slate that hung outside the chapel door, saying that he would hear confessions at such a time to-morrow. Thus, we would always have time for the full examination of our consciences. Only one at a time was ever admitted into the chapel, for confessional duty, and the priest always took care to lock the door inside and place the key in his sleeve pocket. My mother and myself were obliged to confess once a week; the household servants, generally once a month. My father only once a year, during Lent, when all the inhabitants of seven years, and upwards, are obliged to kneel down to the priests, in the confessional, and receive the wafer God under the severest penalties. Woe to the individual who resists the ecclesiastical mandate. When I was about fourteen years of age, I was sent to the Ursuline Convent, to receive my education. My dear mother would have preferred a governess or a competent teacher to teach me at home but her will was but a mere straw in the hands of our confessor and priestly tyrant. It was solely at the recommendation of the confessor, that I was imprisoned four years in the Ursuline Convent. As my confessor was also the confessor of the convent, he called himself my guardian and protector, and recommended me to the special care of the Mother Abbess, and her holy nuns, the teachers, who spent much of their time in the school department. As my father paid a high price, quarterly, for my tuition and board, I had a good room to myself, my living was of the best kind, and I always had wine at dinner. The nuns, my teachers, took much more pains to teach me the fear of the Pope, bishops and confessors, than the fear of God, or the love of virtue. In fact, with the exception of a little Latin and embroidery, which I learned in those four years, I came out as ignorant as I was before, unless a little hypocrisy may be called a useful accomplishment. For, of all human beings on earth, none can teach hypocrisy so well as the Romish priests and nuns. In the school department young ladies seldom have much to complain of, unless they are charity scholars; in that case the poor girls have to put up with very poor fare, and much hard work, hard usage and even heavy blows; how my heart has ached for some of those unfortunate girls, who are treated more like brutes, than human beings, because they are orphans, and poor. Yet they in justice are entitled to good treatment, for thousands of scudi (dollars) are sent as donations to the convents for the support of these orphans, every year, by benevolent individuals. So that as poor and unfortunate as these girls are, they are a source of revenue to the convents. For the first three years of my convent life, I passed the time in the school department, without much anxiety of mind. I was gay and thoughtless, my great trouble was to find something to amuse myself, and kill time in some way. Though I treated all the school-mates with kindness, and true Italian politeness, I became intimate with only one. She was a beautiful girl, from the dukedom of Tuscany. She made me her confidant, and told me all her heart. Her parents were wealthy, and both very strict members of the Romish Church. But she had an aunt in the city of Geneva, who was a follower of John Calvin, or a member of the Christian church of Switzerland. This aunt had been yearly a visitor at her father's house. She being her father's only sister, an affectionate intimacy was formed between the aunt and niece. The aunt, being a very pious, amiable woman, felt it her duty to impress the mind of the niece, with the superiority of the religion of the holy bible over popish traditions; and the truth of the Scriptures soon found its way to the heart of my young friend. But her confessor soon found out that some change was going on in her mind, and told her father. There were only two ways to save her soul from utter ruin; one was to give her absolution and kill her before she got entirely out of the holy mother church; the other, was to send her to the Ursuline convent at Naples, where by the zeal and piety of those celebrated nuns, she might be secured from further heresy. From this, the best friend of my school days, I learned more about God's word, and virtue, and truth, and the value of the soul, than from all other sources. There was a garden surrounded by a high wall, in which we frequently walked, and whispered to each other, though we trembled all the while for fear our confessor would by some means, find out that we looked upon the Romish church as the Babylon destined to destruction, plainly spoken of by St. John the revelator. My young friend stood in great fear of the priests; she trembled at the very sight of one. Her aunt had read to her the history and sufferings of the persecuted Protestants of Europe. She was a frail, and timid girl, yet such was the depth of her piety and the fervor of her religious faith, that she often declared to me that she would prefer death to the abandonment of those heavenly principles she had embraced, which were the source of her joy and hope. Her aunt gave her a pocket New Testament, in the Italian language, which she prized above all the treasures of earth, and carried with her carefully, wherever she went. I borrowed it and read it every opportunity I had. Several chapters I learned by heart. I took much pains to commit to memory all I could of the blessed book, for in case of our separation, I knew not where I could obtain another. My god-father who was a bishop, called to see me on my fifteenth birth day, and presented me with a splendid gold watch and chain richly studded with jewels, made in England, and valued at 200 scudi, saying that he had it imported expressly for my use. I had also several diamond articles of jewelry, presents I had received from my father from time to time. I had also, in my purse, 100 scudi in gold, which I had saved from my pin money. All the above property, I should have cheerfully given for a copy of the Holy Bible, in my own beautiful Italian language. A few months after I received the rich present from the Bishop, he called with my father and my confessor to see me. My heart almost came into my mouth when I saw them alight from my father's carriage, and enter the chapel door of the convent. Very soon the lady porter came to me and said, "Signorina, you are wanted in the parlor." As my Tuscan friend had taught me to pray, and ask the Lord Jesus for grace and strength, I walked into my room, locked the door, and on my knees, called upon the Lord to save me from becoming a nun--for I knew then it was a determination on the part of the Abbess, bishop and confessor, that I should take the veil. I was the only child, and heiress of an immense fortune, of course, too good a prize to be lost. After a short and fervent prayer to my Lord and Saviour, I walked down to see what was to be my doom. I kissed my father's cheek, and kissed the hands of the Bishop and confessor--yet my very soul revolted from the touch of these whited sepulchres. All received me with great cordiality, yea, even more than usual affection. Soon after our meeting, my father asked permission of the Bishop to speak to me privately and taking me into a small room, said to me, "My dear daughter, you are not aware of the great misfortune that has recently come upon your father. While I was excited with wine at the card-table last evening, betting high and winning vast sums of money, I so far forgot myself and my duty to the laws of the country, that I called for a toast, and induced a number of my inebriated companions to drink the health of Italian liberty, and we all drank and gave three cheers for liberty and a liberal constitution. A Benedictine Friar being present, took all our names to the Commissary General, and offered to be a witness against us in the King's Court. As this is my first and only offence, the holy Bishop your god-father offers on certain conditions, to visit Rome immediately on my behalf, and secure the mediation of the holy Father Pius IX. Your venerable god-father has great influence at Rome, being a special favorite with his holiness, and his holiness can obtain any favor he asks of King Ferdinand. So if you will only consent to take the Black Veil, your father will be saved from the State prison." This was terrible news to my young and palpitating heart. It was the first heavy blow that I had experienced in this vale of tears. I did not speak for some minutes; I could not. My trembling bosom heaved like the waves of the ocean before the blast. My veins were almost bursting; my hands and feet became as cold as marble, and when I attempted to speak my words seemed ready to choke me to death. I thought my last hour had come. I fell upon my knees and called upon God for mercy and help. My father, thinking I had gone mad, was greatly alarmed. The Bishop and confessor, who were anxiously waiting the result of my father's proposition, hearing my father weep and sob aloud, came in to see what the matter was. In the midst of my prayer, I fainted away, and became entirely unconscious. When I came to myself, I found myself on the bed. As I opened my eyes, it all seemed like a dream. The abbess spoke to me very kindly, and sprinkled my bed with holy water, and at the same time laid a large bronze crucifix on my breast, saying that Satan must be driven from my soul, for had it not been for the devil, I would have leaped for joy, and not fainted when father mentioned the black veil. "No," said the holy mother, "had it not been for the devil you would rejoice to take the holy black veil blessed by the Holy Madonna and the blessed saints Clara and Theresa. It is a holy privilege that very few can enjoy on earth. Yea, my daughter, there can not be a greater sin in the sight of the Madonna and the blessed saints, than to reject a secluded life. Yea," said the crafty old nun, (who was thinking much more about my gold, than my soul,) "I never knew a young lady who had the offer of becoming a nun and rejected it, who ever came to a good end. If they refuse, and marry, they generally die in child-bed with the first child, or they will marry cruel husbands, who beat them and kill them by inches. Therefore, dear daughter, let me most affectionately warn you as you have had the honor of being selected by the holy Bishop and our holy confessor to the high dignity and privilege of a professed nun, of the order of St. Ursula, reject it not at your peril. Be assured, heaven knows how to punish such rebellion." My head ached so violently at the time, and I was so feverish that I begged the old woman to send for my mother, and to talk to me no more on the subject of the black veil, but to drop it until some future time. In my agony on account of the foul plot against my liberty, my virtue, and my gold, I felt such a passion of rage come upon me, that had I absolute power for the moment I would have cast every Abbess, Pope, Bishop and Priest into the bottomless pit. May the Lord forgive me, but I would have done it at that time with a good will. The greatest comfort I now had was reading my Tuscan friend's New Testament, or hearing it read by her when we had a chance to be by ourselves, which was not very often. In the evening of the same day of my illness, father and mother came to see me, and Satan came also in the shape of the confessor; so that I had not a moment alone with my dear parents. The confessor feared my determined opposition to a convent's life, for he had previous to this, several times in the confessional, dropped hints to me on the great happiness, purity, serenity and joy of all holy nuns. But I always told him I would not be a nun for the world. I should be so good, it would kill me in a short time. "No, no, father," said I, "I WILL NOT BE A NUN." Father spoke to me again of his great misfortune--told me that his trial would come on in a few days and that he was now at liberty on a very heavy bail; that the Bishop was only waiting my answer to start immediately for the holy city, and throw himself at the feet of the holy Pope to procure father's unconditional pardon from the King. I said "my dear father, how long will you be imprisoned if you do not get a pardon?" "From two to five years," he replied. "My daughter, it is my first offence, and I have witnesses to prove that the priest who appeared against me, urged me to drink wine several times after I had drank a large quantity, and was the direct cause of my saying what I did." Now it all came to me, that the whole of it was a plot, a Jesuitical trick, to get my father in the clutches of the law, and then make a slave of me for life through my sympathy for my dear father. The vile priests knew that I loved my father most ardently; in fact, my father and mother were the only two beings on earth that I did love. My mother I loved most tenderly, but my affection for my father was of a different kind. I loved him most violently, with all the ardor of my soul. Mother seemed all the home to me; but father was to me all the world beside. My father was all the brother I had. He would frequently come home, and get me to go out into the garden and play with him, just as though he was my brother. There we would swing, run, jump and exercise in several healthy games, common in our climate. He never gave me an unkind word or an unkind reproof. If I did say anything wrong, he would take me to my mother and say, "Clara, here I bring you a prisoner, let her be kept on bread and water till dinner time." Even when mother had displeased him about some trifle, so that he had not a smile for her, he always had a smile for his Flora. Even now, while I write, a chill comes over my frame, while I think of that vile Popish plot. I said to my father, "You shall not be imprisoned if I can prevent it; at the same time I do not see any great gain, comfort or profit in having your only daughter put in prison for life, without the hope of liberty ever more, to save you from two years imprisonment." At these words, the eyes of the confessor flashed like lurid lightnings; his very frame shook, as though he had the fever and ague. Truth seemed so strange to the priest, that he found it hard of digestion. Father and mother both wept, but made no reply. The idea of putting their only child in a dungeon for life, though it might be done in the sacred name of religion, did not seem to give them much comfort "Father," said I, "I wish to see you at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, without fail--I wish to see you alone; don't bring mother or any one else with you. You shall not go to prison, all will yet be well." On account of this reasonable request, to see my father alone, the confessor arose in a terrible rage and left the apartment As quick as the mad priest left us to ourselves, I told my father my plan, or what I would like to do with his permission. My plan was, for my mother and myself to get into our carriage and drive to the palace of King Ferdinand and make him acquainted with all the truth; for I was aware from what I had heard, that the King had heard only the priest's side of the story. My father stood in such fear of the priests that he only consented to my plan with great reluctance, saying that we ought first to make our plan known to the confessor, lest he should be offended. To this my mother responded, saying, "My daughter, it would be very wrong for us to go to the King, or take any step without the advice of our spiritual guide." Here, I felt it to be my duty to reveal to my deceived parents some of the secrets of the confessional, though I might, in their estimation, be guilty of an unpardonable sin by breaking the seal of iniquity. I revealed to my parents the frequent efforts of the priest to obtain my consent to take the veil, and that I had opposed from first to last, every argument made use of to rob me of the society of my parents, of my liberty, and of everything I held dear on earth. As to the happiness of the nuns so much talked of by the priests, from what I had seen in their daily walk and general deportment, I was fully convinced that there was no reality in it; they were mere slaves to their superiors, and not half so happy as the free slaves on a plantation who have a kind master. My parents saw my determination to resist to the death every plan for my imprisonment in the hateful nunnery. Therefore they promised that I should have the opportunity to see the King on the morrow in company with my mother. On the following day, at twelve o'clock, we left the convent in our carriage for the palace. We were very politely received by the gentleman usher, who conducted us to seats in the reception-room. After sending our cards to the king, we waited nearly one hour before he made his appearance. His majesty received us with much kindness, raised us immediately from our knees, and demanded our business. I was greatly embarrassed at first, but the frank and cordial manner of the sovereign soon restored me to my equilibrium, and I spoke freely in behalf of my dear father. The king heard me through very patiently, with apparent interest, and said, "Signorina, I am inclined to believe you have spoken the truth; and as your father has always been a good loyal subject, I shall, for your sake, forgive him this offence; but let him beware that henceforth, wine or no wine, he does not trespass against the laws of the kingdom, for a second offence I will not pardon. Go in peace, signoras, you have my royal word." We thanked his majesty, and returned to our home with the joyful tidings. O, how brief was our joy! My father, who had been waiting the result of our visit to the palace with great impatience, received us with open arms, and pressed us to his heart again and again. I was so excited that, long before we got to him, I cried out, "All is well, all is well, father. A pardon from the king! Joy, joy!" We drove home, and father went immediately to spread the happy news amongst his friends. All our faithful domestics, including my old affectionate nurse, were so overjoyed at the news that they danced about like maniacs. My father was always a very indulgent and liberal master, furnished his servants with the best of Italian fare, plenty of fresh beef, wine, and macaroni. We had scarcely got rested, when our tormenter, the confessor, came into our room and said, "Signoras, what is the meaning of all this fandango and folly amongst the servants? ARE THE HERETICS ALL KILLED, that there should be such joy, or has the queen been delivered of a son, an heir to the throne?" My dear mother was now as pale as death, and silent, for she saw that the priest was awfully enraged; for, although he feigned to smile, his smile was similar to that of the hyena when digging his prey out of the grave. The priest's dark and villainous visage had the effect of confirming in my mother's mind all the truth regarding the plot to enslave me for life, and secure all my father's estate to the pockets of the priests. The confessor was now terribly mad, for two obvious reasons: one was because he was not received by us with our usual cordiality and blind affection; the other, because, by the king's pardon, I was not under the necessity to sacrifice my liberty and happiness for life to save my father from prison; and what tormented him the most was, that he believed that I, though young, could understand and thwart his hellish plans. As my mother trembled and was silent, fearing the priest was cursing her and her only daughter in his heart,--for the priests tell such awful stories about the effects of a priest's curse that the great mass of the Italian people fear it more than the plague or any earthly misfortune. The popish priests declare that St. Peter is the doorkeeper of the great city of God, the heavenly Jerusalem, that he has the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and has received strict orders not to admit any soul, under any circumstances, who has been cursed by a holy priest, unless that curse has been removed by the same priest in the tribunal of penance. I was obliged to speak to his reverence, and I felt so free, so happy in Christ as my only hope, that I opened my mind to the priest very freely, and told him what I thought of him and his plot. "Sir priest," said I, "I shall never return to the convent to stay long. As soon as the time for my education ends, I shall return to liberty and domestic life. I am not made of the proper material to make a nun of. I love the social domestic circle; I love my father and mother, and all our domestics, even the dogs and the cats, pigeons, and canaries, the fish-ponds, play-grounds, gardens, rivers, and landscapes, mountain and ocean,--all the works of God I love. I shall live out of the convent to enjoy these things; therefore, reverend sir, if you value my peace and good-will, never speak to me or my parents on the subject of my becoming a nun in any convent. I shall prefer death to the loss of my personal liberty." I was so decided, and had received such strength and grace from heaven, that the priest was dumbfounded,--my smooth stone out of the sling had hit him in the right place. After much effort to appear bland and good-natured, he drew near my chair, seized my hand, and said, "My dear daughter, you mistake me. I love you as a daughter, I wish only your happiness. Your god-father, the holy Bishop, does not intend that you shall remain a common nun more than a year. After the first year you shall be raised to the highest dignity in the convent. You shall be the Lady Superior, and all the nuns shall bow at your feet, and implicitly obey your commands. "The Lady Superior of St. Clara is now very old, and his lordship wishes soon to fill her place. For that purpose he has selected his adopted daughter. Your talents, education, wealth, and high position in society, eminently fit you for one of the highest dignities on earth." "A thousand thanks for the kindness of my lord Bishop," said I; "but your reverence has not altered my mind in the least. I can never bow down to the feet of any Lady Superior, neither will I ever consent to see a single human being degraded at my feet. The holy Bible says, 'Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.'" "Bible, my daughter!" exclaimed the priest, "Where did you see that dangerous book? Know you not that his holiness the Pope has placed it in the Index Expurgatorius, because it has been the means of the damnation of millions of souls? Not because it is in itself a bad book, but because it is a theological work, prepared only for the priests and ministers of our holy religion. Therefore, it is always a very dangerous book in the hands of women or laymen, who wrest the Scriptures to their own destruction." "Well, reverend sir," I replied, "you seem determined to differ from the Lord Jesus and his apostles. I read in the New Testament that we should search the Scriptures because they testify of Christ. And one of the apostles, I don't remember which, said, 'all scripture is given by the inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine and for instruction in righteousness.' Now, reverend sir, if the people have souls, as well as the priests, why should they not read the word of God which speaks of Christ and is profitable for instruction?" "You are almost a heretic!" exclaimed the priest, "and you talk very much like one." His countenance changed to a pale sickly hue, as he said, "My daughter, where did you get that dangerous book? If you have, it in your possession, give it to me, and I will bless you, and pray for you to the blessed Madonna that she may save you from the infernal pit of heresy." "I do not own the blessed book," said I, "but I wish I did. I would give one hundred scudi in gold for a copy of the New Testament. I borrowed a copy from a friend, and returned it to the owner again. But I understand that there are copies to be had in London, and when I have a good opportunity I shall send for a copy, if I can do it unbeknown to any one." "Enough, enough!" exclaimed the priest. "I shall be in the tribunal of penance at six o'clock P.M.; there I shall expect to meet you. You need pardon immediately, and spiritual advice. Should you die as you now are without absolution, you would be lost and damned forever. I tremble for you, my dear daughter, seeing that the devil has got such a powerful hold of you. It may even be absolutely necessary to kill the body to save your soul; for should you relapse again into heresy after due penance for this crime has been performed, it would be impossible to renew you again to repentance, seeing you crucify the Lord and the Madonna afresh, and put them to an open shame." Here my mother fainted and shook like an aspen leaf. But God gave me strength, and I said in a moment that as his reverence thought my sins so great, I would not go to any man, no, not even to the Pope; I would go to God alone, and leave my cause in his hands, life or death. "Therefore, reverend sir, I shall save you from all further trouble in attending the confessional any more on my account. From henceforth no earthly power shall drag me alive and with my consent to the tribunal of penance." "Woman!" exclaimed the priest furiously, "are you mad? There are ten thousand devils in you, and we must drive them out by some means." After this discharge of priestly venom, the priest left in a rage giving the door a terrible slam, which awoke my mother from her sorrowful trance. During the whole conversation, such was the electrical power of the priest over my mother's weak and nervous system, that if she attempted to say a word in my behalf, the keen, snakish black eye of the priest would at once make her tremble and quail before him, and the half uttered word would remain silent on her lips. The priest went at once in search of my father. He came home boiling over with rage, saying he wished I had never been born. He cursed the day of my birth. The cause of all this paternal fury upon my poor devoted head was the foul misrepresentations of my father confessor, who was now in league with the Bishop, both determined to shut me up in a prison convent, or end my mortal career. My poor mother remained mute and heart-broken. My sweet mother; never did she utter one word of unkindness to me; her very look to the last was one of gentleness and love. But my father loved honor and reputation amongst men above all other things. The idea of being the father of an accursed heretic, tormented his pride, and he being suspected of heresy himself caused him to be forsaken by many of his proud friends and acquaintances. He was even insulted in the streets by the numerous Lazaroni, with the epithet of Maldito Corrobonari, so that I lost my father's love. And when the confessor told him there was no other way to save me from hell than an entire life of penance in a convent, he heartily and freely gave his consent. Mother, my own sweet mother, my only remaining friend, turned as pale as death, but was enabled to say a word in my behalf. I saw that my earthly doom was sealed; there was not a single voice in all Naples to save me from imprisonment for life. Not a tongue in four hundred thousand that would dare speak one word in my behalf. Father commanded me to get ready to leave his house forever that very night, saying the carriage and confessor would be on hand to take me away at eight o'clock P.M., by moonlight. I got on my knees and begged my father as a last request that he would allow me to remain three days with my mother, but he refused. Said he, "That is now beyond my power. Not an hour can you remain after eight o'clock." As I knew not when I should see my Tuscan friend again, I begged the privilege of seeing her for a few moments. I was anxious to ask her prayers and sympathy, and to put her on her guard, for should the priests discover her New Testament, they would punish her as they did me, or as they intended to do to me. But this favor was denied me, and I could not write to her, for all letters of the scholars in the convents, are opened under the pretence to prevent them from receiving love-letters. The Romish church keeps all her dark plans a secret, but never allows any secret to be kept from the priests. I went into my room to bid farewell to my home forever. I fell on my knees and prayed to God for his dear Son's sake to help me, to give me patience, and to keep me from the sin of suicide. The more I thought of my utterly unprotected situation and of the savage disposition of my foes, the priests, the more I thought of the propriety of taking my own life, rather than live in a dungeon all my days. Such was the power of superstition over our domestics that they looked upon me as one accursed of the church, a Protestant heretic, and not one of them would take my hand or bid me good bye. At tea-time I was not allowed to sit at table with father, mother, and the confessor, as formerly. But I had my supper sent up to my room. A short time after the bell rang for vespers, the carriage being ready, my father and the confessor with myself and one small trunk got into the best seats inside, and rode off at a rapid rate. I kept my veil over my face, and said not a word neither did I shed a single tear; my sorrow, and indignation was too deep for utterance or even for tears. The priest and my father uttered not a word. Perhaps my father's conscience made him ashamed of such vile work--that of laying violent hands on a defenceless girl of eighteen years of age, for no crime whatever, only the love of liberty and pure Bible religion. But if the priest was silent, his vile countenance indicated a degree of hellish pleasure and satisfaction. Never did piratical captain glory more in seeing a rich prize along side with all hands killed and out of the way, than my reverend confessor; yet a short time before he said he loved me as a daughter. Yes, he did love me, as the wolf loves the lamb, as the cat loves the mouse and as the boa constrictor the beautiful gazelle. To my momentary satisfaction we entered the big gate of St. Ursula, for although I knew I should suffer there perhaps even death, there was some satisfaction in seeing a few faces that I had seen in my gay and happy days, now alas! forever gone by! I was somewhat grieved by the cold reception I received. All seemed to look upon me with horror. But none of these things moved me; I looked to God for strength, for I felt that He alone could nerve me for the conflict. The hardest blow of all was, my dear father left me at the mercy of the priest without one kind look or word. He did not even shake hands with me, nor did he say farewell. Oh Popery, what a mysterious power is thine! Thou canst in a few hours destroy powerful love which it took long years to cement in loving hearts. When my father had left and I heard the porter lock the heavy iron gate I felt an exquisite wretchedness come over me. I would have given worlds for death at that moment. In a few moments the priest rung a bell, and the old Jezebel the mother Abbess made her appearance. "Take this heretic, Holy Mother, and place her in confinement in the lower regions; GIVE HER BREAD AND WATER ONCE IN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, THE WATER THAT YOU HAVE WASHED YOUR SACRED FEET IN, NO OTHER; give her straw to sleep on, but no pillow. Take all her clothing away and give her a coarse tunic; one single coarse garment to cover her nakedness, but no shoes. She has grievously sinned against the holy mother church, and now she mercifully imposes upon her years of severe penance, that her body of sin may be destroyed and her soul saved after suffering one million of years in holy purgatory. Our chief duty now, holy mother, in order to save this lost soul from mortal sin will be to examine her carefully every, day to ascertain if possible what she most dislikes, or what is most revolting to her flesh, that whatever it may be, she, must be compelled to perform it whatever it may cost. Let a holy wax candle burn in her cell at night, until further orders. And let the Tuscan heretic be treated in the same way. They are both guilty of the same crimes." At the word "Tuscan heretic," possessing the spirit of Christ that I knew on earth. Yet how true it is that misery loves company; there was even satisfaction in being near my unfortunate friend though our sufferings might be unutterable. Still I was unhappy in the thought that she was suffering on my account. Had I never said a word about borrowing a New Testament, she would never have been suspected as being the direct cause of my conversion to the truth, and of my renunciation of the vile confessional. I was somewhat puzzled to know what kind of a place was meant by the lower regions; I had never heard of these regions before. But soon two women in black habits with their faces entirely covered excepting two small holes for the eyes to peep through, came to me and without speaking, made signs for me to follow them. I did so without resistance, and soon found myself in an under-ground story of the infernal building. "There is your cell," said the cowled inquisitors, "look all around, see every thing, but speak not; no not for your life. The softest whisper will immediately reach the ears of the Mother Abbess, and then you are loaded with heavy chains until you die, for there must be no talking or whispering in this holy retreat of penance. And," said my jailor further, "take off your clothes, shoes and stockings, and put on this holy coarse garment which will chafe thy flesh but will bless thy soul. Holy St. Francis saved many souls by this holy garment." As resistance was worse than useless, I complied, and soon found my poor feet aching with the cold on the bare stone floor. I was soon made to feel the blessing of St. Francis with a vengeance. My sufferings were indescribable. It seemed as though ten thousand bees had stung me in every part. I never closed my eyes for several nights. I laid on my coarse straw and groaned and sighed for death to come and relieve me of my anguish. As soon as the holy wax candle was left with me I took it in my hand and went forth to survey my dungeon; but I did not enjoy my ramble. In one of the cells, I found my Tuscan friend--that dear Christian sister--in great agony, having had on the accursed garment for several days. Her body was one entire blister, and very much inflamed. Her bones were racked with pain, as with the most excruciating inflammatory rheumatism. We recognized each other; she pointed to heaven as if to say 'trust in the Lord, my sister, our sufferings will soon be over.' I kissed my hand to her and returned again to my cell. I saw other victims half dead and emaciated that made my heart sick. I refrained from speaking to any one for I feared my condition, wretched as it was, might be rendered even worse, if possible by the fiends who had entire power over me. "O my God!" said I to myself, "why was I born? O give my soul patience to suffer every pain." On the fourth day of my imprisonment the jailor brought me some water and soap, a towel, brush and comb, and the same clothes I wore when I entered the foul den. They told me to make haste and prepare myself to appear before the holy Bishop. Hope revived in my soul, for I always thought that my god-father had some regard for me, and had now come to release me from the foul den I was in. Cold water seemed to afford much relief to my tortured body. I made my toilet as quick as I could in such a place. My feet were so numb and swollen that it was difficult for me to get my shoes on. At last the Bishop arrived as I supposed, and I was conducted--not into his presence as I expected, but into that of my bitterest enemy, the confessor. At the very sight of the monster, I trembled like a reed shaken by the wind. The priest walked to each of the doors, locked them, put the keys into a small writing desk, locked it, took out the key and placed it carefully in his sleeve pocket. This he did to assure me that we were alone, that not one of the inmates could by any means disturb for the present the holy meditations of the priest. He bade me take a seat on the sofa by him. In kind soft words he said to me, that if I was only docile and obedient, he would cause me to be treated like a princess, and that in a short time I should have my liberty if I preferred to return to the world. At the same time he attempted to put his arm around my waist. In a moment I was on my feet. While he was talking love to me, I was looking at two large alabaster vases full of beautiful wax flowers; one of them was as much as I could lift. Without one thought about consequences, I seized the nearest vase and threw it with all the strength I had at the priest's head. He fell like a log and uttered one or two groans. The vase was broken. It struck the priest on the right temple, close to the ear. For a moment I listened to see if any one were coming. I then looked at the priest, and saw the blood running out of his wound. I quaked with fear lest I had killed the destroyer of my peace. I did not intend to kill him, I only wished to stun him, that I might take the keys, open the door and run, for the back door of the priest's room led right into a back path where the gates were frequently opened daring the day time. This was about twelve o'clock, and a most favorable moment for me to escape. In a moment I had searched the sleeve pocket of the priest, found the key and a heavy purse of gold which I secured in my dress pocket. I opened the little writing desk and took out the key to the back door. I saw that the priest was not dead, and I had not the least doubt from appearances, but that he would soon come to. I trembled for fear he might wake before I could get away. I thought of my dear Tuscan sister in her wretched cell, but I could not get to her without being discovered. There was no time to be lost. I opened the door with the greatest facility and gained the opening into the back path. I locked the door after me, and brought the key with me for a short distance, then placed all the keys tinder a rock. I had no hat but only a black veil. I threw that over my head after the fashion of Italy and gained the outer gate. There were masons at work near the gate which was open and I passed through into the street without being questioned by any one. As I had not a nun's dress on, no one supposed I belonged to the Institution. I walked down directly to the sea coast. I could speak a few English words which I had learned from some English friends of my father. Before I got to where the boats lay I saw a gentleman whom I took to be an English or American gentleman. He had a pleasant face, looked at me very kindly, saw my pale dejected face and at once felt a deep sympathy for me. As I appeared to be in trouble and needed help, he extended his hand to me and said in tolerable good Italian, "Como va' le' signorina?" that is "How do you do young lady?" I asked him what was his country. "Me," said he, "Americano, Americano, capitano de Bastimento." (American captain of a ship.) "Signor Capitano," said I, "I wish to go on board your ship and see an American ship." "Well," said he, "with a great deal of pleasure; my ship lies at anchor, my men are waiting; you shall dine with me, Signorina." I praised God in my soul for this merciful providence of meeting a friend, though a stranger, whose face seemed to me so honest and so true. Any condition, even honest slavery, would have been preferred by me at that time to a convent. The American ship was the most beautiful thing I ever saw afloat; splendid and neat in all her cabin arrangements. The mates were polite, and the sailors appeared neat and happy. Even the black cook showed his beautiful white teeth, as though he was glad to see one of the ladies of Italy. Poor fellows! Little did they know at that time what peril I was in should I be found out and taken back to my dungeon again. I informed the captain of my situation, of having just escaped from a convent into which I had been forced against my will. I told him I would pay him my passage to America, if he would hide me somewhere until the ship was well out to sea. He said I had come just in time, for he was only waiting for a fair wind, and hoped to be off that evening. "I have," said he, "a large number of bread-casks on board, and two are empty. I shall have you put into one of these, in which I shall make augur-holes, so that you can have plenty of fresh air. Down in the hold amongst the provisions you will be safe." I thanked my kind friend and requested him to buy me some needles, silk, and cotton thread, and some stuff for a couple of dresses, and one-piece of fine cotton, so that I might make myself comfortable during the voyage. After I ate my dinner, the men called the captain and said there were several boats full of soldiers coming to the ship, accompanied by the priests. "Lady," exclaimed the captain, "they are after you. There is not a moment to be lost. Follow me," he continued. "And, Mr. Smith, tell the men to be careful and not make known that there is a lady on board." An awful cold chill ran over me. I followed my friend quickly, and soon found myself coiled in a large cask. The captain coopered the head, which was missing, and made holes for me to get the air; but the perspiration ran off my face in a stream. Lots of things were piled on the cask, so that I had hard work to breathe; but such was my fear of the priests that I would rather have perished in the cask than be returned to die by inches. The captain had been gone but a short time when I heard steps on deck, and much noise and confusion. As the hatches were open, I could hear very distinctly. After the whole company were on deck, the captain invited the priests and friars, about twenty in number, to walk down to the cabin, and explain the cause of their visit. They talked through an interpreter, and said that "a woman of bad character had robbed one of the churches of a large amount of gold, had attempted to murder one of the holy priests, but they were happy to say that the holy father, though badly wounded, was in a fair way of recovery. This woman is young, but very desperate, has awful raving fits, and has recently escaped from a lunatic institution. When her fits of madness come on they are obliged to put her into a straight jacket, for she is the most dangerous person in Italy. A great reward is offered for her by her father and the government--five thousand scudi. Is not this enough to tempt one to help find her? She was seen coming towards the shipping, and we want the privilege of searching your ship." "Gentlemen," said the captain, "I do not know that the Italian authorities have any right to search an American ship, under the stars and stripes of the United States, for we do not allow even the greatest naval power on earth to do that thing. But if such a mad and dangerous woman as you have described should by any means have smuggled herself on board my ship, you are quite welcome to take her away as soon as possible, for I should be afraid of my life if I was within one hundred yards of such an unfortunate creature. If you can get her into your lunatic asylum, the quicker the better; and the five thousand scudi will come in good time, for I am thinking of building me a larger ship on my return home. Now, gentlemen, come; I will assist you, for I should like to see the gold in my pocket." The captain opened all his closets and secret places, in the cabin and forecastle and in the hold; everything was searched, all but the identical bread-cask in which I was snugly coiled. After something like half an hour's search, the soldiers of King Ferdinand and the priests of King Pope left the ship, satisfied that the crazy nun was not on board; for, judging the captain by themselves, they thought he certainly would have given up a mad woman for the sake of five thousand scudi in gold, and for the safety of his own peace and comfort. A few moments after the Pope's friends had left, the excellent benevolent captain came down, and speedily and gently knocking off a few hoops with a hammer, took the head out, and I was free once more to breathe God's free air. I lifted my trembling heart in thanksgiving, while tears of gratitude rolled down my cheeks. Yet, as we were still within the reach of the guns of the papal forts, my heart was by no means at rest. But the good captain assured me repeatedly that all danger was past, for he had twenty-five men on board, all true Protestants, and he declared that all the priests of Naples would walk over their dead bodies before they should reach his vessel a second time. "And besides," said the captain, "there are two American men-of-war in port, who will stand up for the rights of Americans. They have not yet forgotten Captain Ingraham, of the United States ship St. Louis, and his rescue from the Austrian papists of the Hungarian patriot, Martin Kozsta." The captain wisely refused to purchase any needles or thread for me on shore, or any articles of ladies' dress, for fear of the Jesuitical spies, who might surmise something and cause further trouble. But he kindly furnished me with some goods he had purchased for his own wife, and there were needles and silk enough on board, so that I soon cut and made a few articles that made me very comfortable during our voyage of thirty-two days to London. Early the next morning we sailed out of the beautiful harbor of Naples, with a fair wind. The beautiful ship seemed to fly over the blue sea. I staid on deck gazing at my native city as long as I could. I thought then of my once happy home, of my poor, broken-hearted mother, of my unhappy father. Although he had cast me off through the foul play of Jesuitical intrigue, my love for my dear father remained the same. "Farewell, my dear Italy," I said to myself. "When, my poor native land, wilt thou be happy? Never, never, so long as the Pope lives, and his wicked, murderous priests, to curse thee by their power." After we got out into the open sea, the motion of the ship made me feel very sick, and I was so starved out before I came on board, that what good provisions I ate on board did not seem to agree with me. My stomach was in a very bad state, for while I was in the lower regions of the convent I ate only a small quantity of very stale hard bread once in twenty-four hours, at the ringing of the vesper bells every evening, and the water given me was that in which the holy Mother Abbess had washed her sacred feet. But I must give the holy mother credit for one good omission--she did not use any soap. The captain gave me a good state-room which I occupied with an English lady passenger. This good lady was accustomed to the sea, therefore, she did not suffer any inconvenience from sea-sickness; but I was very sick, so that I kept my berth for five days. This good Protestant lady was very kind and attentive during the whole passage, and kindly assisted me in getting my garments made up on board. On our arrival in London, the captain said that he would sail for America in two weeks time, and very kindly offered me a free passage to his happy, native land; and I could not persuade him to take any money for my passage from Naples, nor for the clothing he had given me. My fellow passenger being wealthy, and well acquainted with people in England, took me to her splendid home, a few miles from London. At her residence I was introduced to a young French gentleman, a member of the Evangelical protestant church in France, and a descendant of the pious persecuted Huguenots. This gentleman speaks good English and Italian, having enjoyed the privilege of a superior education. His fervent prayers at the family altar morning and evening made a very deep impression on my mind. He became deeply interested in my history, and offered to take me to France, after I should become his lawful wife. Though I did not like the idea of choosing another popish country for my residence, yet as my friend assured me that I should enjoy my protestant religion unmolested, I gave him my hand and my heart. My lady fellow passenger was my bridesmaid. We were married by a good protestant minister. My husband is a wealthy merchant--gives me means and opportunities for doing good. Home is precious in a foreign land. Our home is one of piety and peace and happiness. The blessed Bible is read by us every day. Morning and evening we sing God's praise, and call upon the name of the Lord. Our prayer is that God may deliver beloved France and Italy from the curse of popery. Another proof of the persecuting spirit of Rome is furnished by the "Narrative of Raffaele Ciocci, formerly a Benedictine Monk, but who now 'comes forth from Inquisitorial search and torture, and tells us what he has seen, heard and felt.'" We can make but a few extracts from this interesting little volume, published by the American and Foreign Christian Union, who,--to use their own language--"send it forth as a voice of instruction and warning to the American people. Let the facts be heard and read. They are not to be set aside by an apology for the dark ages, nor an appeal to the refinement of the nineteenth century. Here is Rome, not as she WAS in the midnight of the world, but as she IS at the present moment. There is the same opposition to private judgment--the same coercive measures--the same cruel persecution--the same efforts to crush the civil and religious liberties of her own subjects, for which she has ever been characterized." Ciocci, compelled at an early age to enter the Catholic College--forced, notwithstanding his deep disgust and earnest remonstrance, to become a monk--imprisoned--deceived--the victim of priestly artifice and fraud, at length becomes a Christian. He is of course thrown into a deeper dungeon; and more exquisite anguish inflicted upon him that he may be constrained to return to the Romish faith. Of his imprisonment he says, "We traversed long corridors till we arrived at the door of an apartment which they requested me to enter, and they themselves retired. On opening the door I found myself in a close dark room, barely large enough for the little furniture it contained, which consisted of a small hard bed, hard as the conscience of an inquisitor, a little table cut all over, and a dirty ill-used chair. The window which was shut and barred with iron resisted all my efforts to open it My heart sunk within me, and I began to cogitate on the destiny in store for me." The Jesuit Giuliani entering his room, he asked that the window might be opened for the admission of light and air. Before the words were finished he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, "How! wretched youth, thou complainest of the dark, whilst thou art living in the clouds of error? Dost thou desire the light of heaven, while thou rejectest the light of the Catholic faith?" Ciocci saw that remonstrance was useless, but he reminded his jailer that he had been sent there for three days, to receive instruction, not to be treated as a criminal. "For three days," he resumed, counterfeiting my tone of voice, "for three days! That would be nothing. The dainty youth will not forsooth, be roughly treated; it remains to be seen whether he desires to be courteously entertained. Be converted, be converted, condemned soul! Fortunate is it for thee that thou art come to this place. THOU WILT NEVER quit it excepting with the real fruits of repentance! Among these silent shades canst thou meditate at thy leisure upon the deplorable state into which thou hast fallen. Woe unto thee, if thou refusest to listen to the voice of God, who conducts souls into solitude that he may speak with them." "So saying," he continues, "he abruptly left me. I remained alone drooping under the weight of a misfortune, which was the more severe, because totally unexpected. I stood, I know not how long, in the same position, but on recovering from this lethargy, my first idea was of flight. But this thought was at once abandoned. There was no possibility of flight. Without giving a minute account of the manner in which I passed my wearisome days and nights in this prison, let it suffice to say that they were spent in listening to sermons preached to me four times a day by the fathers Giuliani and Rossini, and in the most gloomy reflections. "In the mean time the miseries I endured were aggravated by the heat of the season, the wretchedness of the chamber, scantiness of food, and the rough severity of those by whom I was occasionally visited. Uncertainty as to when this imprisonment would be at an end, almost drove me wild, and the first words I addressed to those who approached me were, 'Have the kindness to tell me when I shall be permitted to leave this place?' One replied, 'My son, think of hell.' I interrogated another; the answer was, 'Think my son, how terrible is the death of the sinner!' I spoke to a third, to a fourth, and one said to me, 'My son, what will be your feeling, if, on the day of judgment you find yourself on the left hand of God?' the other, 'Paradise, my son, Paradise!' No one gave me a direct answer; their object appeared to be to mistify and confound me. After the first few days, I began to feel most severely the want of a change of clothing. Accustomed to cleanliness, I found myself constrained to wear soiled apparel. * * * For the want of a comb, my hair became rough and entangled. After the fourth day my portion of food was diminished; a sign, that they were pressing the siege, that it was their intention to adopt both assault and blockade--to conquer me by arms, or induce me to capitulate through hunger. I had been shut up in this wretched place for thirteen days, when, one day, about noon, the Father Mislei, the author of all my misery, entered my cell. "At the sight of this man, resentment overcame every other consideration, and I advanced towards him fully prepared to indulge my feelings, when he, with his usual smile, expressed in bland words his deep regret at having been the cause of my long detention in this retreat. 'Never could I have supposed,' said he, 'that my anxiety for the salvation of your soul would have brought you into so much tribulation. But rest assured the fault is not entirely mine. You have yourself, in a great degree, by your useless obstinacy, been the cause of your sufferings. Ah, well, we will yet remedy all.' Not feeling any confidence in his assurance, I burst out into bitter invectives and fierce words. He then renewed his protestations, and clothed them with such a semblance of honesty and truth, that when he ended with this tender conclusion, 'Be assured, my son, that I love you,' my anger vanished. * * * I lost sight of the Jesuit, and thought I was addressing a man, a being capable of sympathising in the distresses of others. 'Ah, well, father,' said I, 'I need some one on whom I can rely, some one towards whom I can feel kindly; I will therefore place confidence in your words.'" After some further conversation, Ciocci was asked if he wished to leave that place. "If I desire it!" he replied, "what a strange question! You might as well ask a condemned soul whether he desires to escape from hell!" At these words the Jesuit started like a goaded animal, and, forgetting his mission of deceiver, with, knit brows and compressed lips, he allowed his ferocious soul for one moment to appear; but, having grown old in deceit, he immediately had the circumspection to give this movement of rage the appearance of religious zeal, and exclaimed, "What comparisons are these? Are you not ashamed to assume the language of the Atheist? By speaking in this way you clearly manifest how little you deserve to leave this place. But since I have told you that I love you, I will give you a proof of it by thinking no more of those irreligious expressions; they shall be forgotten as though they had never been spoken. Well, the Cardinal proposes to you an easy way of returning to your monastery." "What does he propose?" "Here is the way," said he, presenting me with a paper: "copy this with your own hand; nothing more will be required of you." "I took the paper with convulsive eagerness. It was a recantation of my faith, there condemned as erroneous. * * * Upon reading this, I shuddered, and, starting to my feet, in a solemn attitude and with a firm voice, exclaimed, 'Kill me, if you please; my life is in your power; but never will I subscribe to that iniquitous formulary.' The Jesuit, after laboring in vain to persuade me to his wishes, went away in anger. I now momentarily expected to be conducted to the torture. Whenever I was taken from my room to the chapel, I feared lest some trap-door should open beneath my feet, and therefore took great care to tread in the footsteps of the Jesuit who preceded me. No one acquainted with the Inquisition will say that my precaution was needless. My imagination was so filled with the horrors of this place, that even in my short, interrupted, and feverish dreams I beheld daggers and axes glittering around me; I heard the noise of wheels, saw burning piles and heated irons, and woke in convulsive terror, only to give myself up to gloomy reflections, inspired by the reality of my situation, and the impressions left by these nocturnal visions. What tears did I shed in those dreary moments! How innumerable were the bitter wounds that lacerated my heart! My prayers seemed to me unworthy to be received by a God of charity, because, notwithstanding all my efforts to banish from my soul every feeling of resentment towards my persecutors, hatred returned with redoubled power. I often repeated the words of Christ, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do;' but immediately a voice would answer, 'This prayer is not intended for the Jesuits; they resemble not the crucifiers, who were blind instruments of the rage of the Jews; while these men are fully conscious of what they are doing; they are the modern Pharisees.' The reading of the Bible would have afforded me great consolation, but this was denied me." * * * The fourteenth day of his imprisonment he was taken to the council to hear his sentence, when he was again urged to sign the form of recantation. But he refused. The Father Rossini then spoke: "You are decided; let it be, then, as you deserve. Rebellious son of the church, in the fullness of the power which she has received from Christ, you shall feel the holy rigor of her laws. She cannot permit tares to grow with the good seed. She cannot suffer you to remain among her sons and become the stumbling-block for the ruin of many. Abandon, therefore, all hope of leaving this place, and of returning to dwell among the faithful. KNOW, ALL IS FINISHED FOR YOU!" For the conclusion of this narrative we refer the reader to the volume itself. If any more evidence were needed to show that the spirit of Romanism is the same to-day that it has ever been, we find it in the account of a legal prosecution against ten Christians at Beldac, in France, for holding and attending a public worship not licensed by the civil authority. They had made repeated, respectful, and earnest applications to the prefect of the department of Hante-Vienne for the authorization required by law, and which, in their case, ought to have been given. It was flatly refused. They persisted in rendering to God that worship which his own command and their consciences required. For this they were arraigned as above stated, on the 10th of August, 1855. On the 26th of January, 1856, the case was decided by the "tribunal," and the three pastors and one lady, a schoolmistress, were condemned to pay a fine of one thousand francs each, and some of the others five-hundred francs each, the whole amount, together with legal expenditures, exceeding the sum of nine thousand francs. Meantime, the converts continue to hold their worship-meetings in the woods, barns, and secret places, in order not to be surprised by the police commissioner, and to avoid new official reports. "Thus, you see," says V. De Pressense, in a letter to the 'American and foreign Christian Union,' "that we are brought back to the religious meetings of the desert, when the Protestants of the Cevennes evinced such persevering fidelity. The only difference is, that these Christians belonged only a short time ago to that church which is now instigating persecutions against them." DESTRUCTION OF THE INQUISITION IN SPAIN. In 1809, Col. Lehmanowsky was attached to the part of Napoleon's army which was stationed in Madrid. "While in that city," said Col. L., "I used to speak freely among the people what I thought of the Priests and Jesuits, and of the Inquisition. It had been decreed by the Emperor Napoleon that the Inquisition and the Monasteries should be suppressed, but the decree, he said, like some of the laws enacted in this country, was not executed." Months had passed away, and the prisons of the Inquisition had not been opened. One night, about ten or eleven o'clock, as he was walking one of the streets of Madrid, two armed men sprang upon him from an alley, and made a furious attack. He instantly drew his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, and while struggling with them, he saw at a distance the lights of the patrols,--French soldiers mounted, who carried lanterns, and who rode through the streets of the city at all hours of the night, to preserve order. He called to them in French, and as they hastened to his assistance, the assailants took to their heels and escaped; not, however, before he saw by their dress that they belonged to the guards of the Inquisition. He went immediately to Marshal Soult, then Governor of Madrid, told him what had taken place, and reminded him of the decree to suppress this institution. Marshal Soult told him that he might go and suppress it The Colonel said that his regiment (the 9th. of the Polish Lancers,) was not sufficient for such a service, but if he would give him two additional regiments, the 117th, and another which he named, he would undertake the work. The 117th regiment was under the command of Col. De Lile, who is now, like Col. L., a minister of the gospel, and pastor of an evangelical church in Marseilles, France. "The troops required were granted, and I proceeded," said Col. L., "to the Inquisition which was situated about five miles from the city. It was surrounded by a wall of great strength, and defended by a company of soldiers. When we arrived at the walls, I addressed one of the sentinels, and summoned the holy fathers to surrender to the Imperial army, and open the gates of the Inquisition. The sentinel who was standing on the wall, appeared to enter into conversation with some one within, at the close of which he presented his musket, and shot one of my men. This was the signal of attack, and I ordered my troops to fire upon those who appeared on the walls." It was soon obvious that it was an unequal warfare. The soldiers of the holy office were partially protected by a breast-work upon the walls which were covered with soldiers, while our troops were in the open plain, and exposed to a destructive fire. We had no cannon, nor could we scale the walls, and the gates successfully resisted all attempts at forcing them. I could not retire and send for cannon to break through the walls without giving them time to lay a train for blowing us up. I saw that it was necessary to change the mode of attack, and directed some trees to be cut down and trimmed, to be used as battering rams. Two of these were taken up by detachments of men, as numerous as could work to advantage, and brought to bear upon the walls with all the power they could exert, while the troops kept up a fire to protect them from the fire poured upon them from the walls. Presently the walls began to tremble, a breach was made, and the Imperial troops rushed into the Inquisition. Here we met with an incident, which nothing but Jesuitical effrontery is equal to. The Inquisitor General, followed by the father confessors in their priestly robes, all came out of their rooms, as we were making our way into the interior of the Inquisition, and with long faces, and arms crossed over their breasts, their fingers resting on their shoulders, as though they had been deaf to all the noise of the attack and defence, and had just learned what was going on, they addressed themselves in the language of rebuke to their own soldiers, saying, "WHY DO YOU FIGHT OUR FRIENDS, THE FRENCH?" Their intention, no doubt, was to make us think that this defence was wholly unauthorized by them, hoping, if they could make us believe that they were friendly, they should have a better opportunity, in the confusion of the moment, to escape. Their artifice was too shallow, and did not succeed. I caused them to be placed under guard, and all the soldiers of the Inquisition to be secured as prisoners. We then proceeded to examine all the rooms of the stately edifice. We passed through room after room; found all perfectly in order, richly furnished, with altars and crucifixes, and wax candles in abundance, but we could discover no evidences of iniquity being practiced there, nothing of those peculiar features which we expected to find in an Inquisition. We found splendid paintings, and a rich and extensive library. Here was beauty and splendor, and the most perfect order on which my eyes had ever rested. The architecture, the proportions were perfect. The ceilings and floors of wood were scoured and highly polished. The marble floors were arranged with a strict regard to order. There was everything to please the eye and gratify a cultivated taste; but where were those horrid instruments of torture, of which we had been told, and where those dungeons in which human beings were said to be buried alive? We searched in vain. The holy father assured us that they had been belied; that we had seen all; and I was prepared to give up the search, convinced that this Inquisition was different from others of which I had heard. But Col. De Idle was not so ready as myself to give up the search, and said to me, "Colonel, you are commander to-day, and as you say, so it must be; but if you will be advised by me, let this marble floor be examined. Let water be brought and poured upon it, and we will watch and see if there is any place through which it passes more freely than others." I replied to him, "Do as you please, Colonel," and ordered water to be brought accordingly. The slabs of marble were large and beautifully polished. When the water had been poured over the floor, much to the dissatisfaction of the inquisitors, a careful examination was made of every seam in the floor, to see if the water passed through. Presently Col. De Lile exclaimed that he had found it. By the side of one of these marble slabs the water passed through fast, as though there was an opening beneath. All hands were now at work for further discovery; the officers with their swords and the soldiers with their bayonets, seeking to clear out the seam, and pry up the slab; others with the butts of their muskets striking the slab with all their might to break it, while the priests remonstrated against our desecrating their holy and beautiful house. While thus engaged, a soldier, who was striking with the butt of his musket, struck a spring, and the marble slab flew up. Then the faces of the inquisitors grew pale as Belshazzar when the hand writing appeared on the wall; they trembled all over; beneath the marble slab, now partly up, there was a stair-case. I stepped to the altar, and took from the candlestick one of the candles four feet in length, which was burning that I might explore the room below. As I was doing this, I was arrested by one of the inquisitors, who laid his hand gently on my arm, and with a very demure and holy look said "My son, you must not take those lights with your bloody hands they are holy." "Well," said I, "I will take a holy thing to shed light on iniquity; I will bear the responsibility." I took the candle, and proceeded down the stair-case. As we reached the foot of the stairs we entered a large room which was called the hall of judgment. In the centre of it was a large block, and a chain fastened to it. On this they were accustomed to place the accused, chained to his seat. On one side of the room was an elevated seat called the Throne of Judgment. This, the Inquisitor General occupied, and on either side were seats less elevated, for the holy fathers when engaged in the solemn business of the Holy Inquisition. From this room we proceeded to the right, and obtained access to small cells extending the entire length of the edifice; and here such sights were presented as we hoped never to see again. Three cells were places of solitary confinement, where the wretched objects of inquisitorial hate were confined year after year, till death released them from their sufferings, and their bodies were suffered to remain until they were entirely decayed, and the rooms had become fit for others to occupy. To prevent this being offensive to those who occupied the Inquisition, there were flues or tubes extending to the open air, sufficiently capacious to carry off the odor. In these cells we found the remains of some who had paid the debt of nature: some of them had been dead apparently but a short time, while of others nothing remained but their bones, still chained to the floor of their dungeon. In others we found living sufferers of both sexes and of every age, from three score years and ten down to fourteen or fifteen years--all naked as they were born into the world! And all in chains! Here were old men and aged women, who had been shut up for many years. Here, too, were the middle aged, and the young man and the maiden of fourteen years old. The soldiers immediately went to work to release the captives from their chains, and took from their knapsacks their overcoats and other clothing, which they gave to cover their nakedness. They were exceedingly anxious to bring them out to the light of day; but Col. L., aware of the danger, had food given them, and then brought them gradually to the light, as they were able to bear it. We then proceeded, said Col. L., to explore another room on the left. Here we found the instruments of torture, of every kind which the ingenuity of men or devils could invent. Col. L., here described four of these horrid instruments. The first was a machine by which the victim was confined, and then, beginning with the fingers, every joint in the hands, arms and body, were broken or drawn one after another, until the victim died. The second was a box, in which the head and neck of the victim were so closely confined by a screw that he could not move in any way. Over the box was a vessel, from which one drop of water a second, fell upon the head of the victim;--every successive drop falling upon precisely the same place on the head, suspended the circulation in a few moments, and put the sufferer in the most excruciating agony. The third was an infernal machine, laid horizontally, to which the victim was bound; the machine then being placed between two beams, in which were scores of knives so fixed that, by turning the machine with a crank, the flesh of the sufferer was torn from his limbs, all in small pieces. The fourth surpassed the others in fiendish ingenuity. Its exterior was a beautiful woman, or large doll, richly dressed, with arms extended, ready, to embrace its victim. Around her feet a semi-circle was drawn. The victim who passed over this fatal mark, touched a spring which caused the diabolical engine to open; its arms clasped him, and a thousand knives cut him into as many pieces in the deadly embrace. Col. L., said that the sight of these engines of infernal cruelty kindled the rage of the soldiers to fury. They declared that every inquisitor and soldier of the inquisition should be put to the torture. Their rage was ungovernable. Col. L., did not oppose them. They might have turned their arms against him if he had attempted to arrest their work. They began with the holy fathers. The first they put to death in the machine for breaking joints. The torture of the inquisitor put to death by the dropping of water on his head was most excruciating. The poor man cried out in agony to be taken from the fatal machine. The inquisitor general was brought before the infernal engine called "The Virgin." He begged to be excused. "No" said they, "you have caused others to kiss her, and now you must do it." They interlocked their bayonets so as to form large forks, and with these pushed him over the deadly circle. The beautiful image instantly prepared for the embrace, clasped him in its arms, and he was cut into innumerable pieces. Col. L. said, he witnessed the torture of four of them--his heart sickened at the awful scene--and he left the soldiers to wreak their vengeance on the last guilty inmate of that prison-house of hell. In the mean time it was reported through Madrid that the prisons of the Inquisition were broken open, and multitudes hastened to the fatal spot. And, Oh, what a meeting was there! It was like a resurrection! About a hundred who had been buried for many years were now restored to life. There were fathers who had found their long lost daughters; wives were restored to their husbands, sisters to their brothers, parents to their children; and there were some who could recognize no friend among the multitude. The scene was such as no tongue can describe. When the multitude had retired, Col. L. caused the library, paintings, furniture, etc., to be removed, and having sent to the city for a wagon load of powder, he deposited a large quantity in the vaults beneath the building, and placed a slow match in connection with it. All had withdrawn to a distance, and in a few moments there was a most joyful sight to thousands. The walls and turrets of the massive structure rose majestically towards the heavens, impelled by the tremendous explosion, and fell back to the earth an immense heap of ruins. The Inquisition was no more! Such is the account given by Col. Lehmanowsky of the destruction of the inquisition in Spain. Was it then finally destroyed, never again to be revived? Listen to the testimony of the Rev. Giacinto Achilli, D. D. Surely, his statements in this respect can be relied upon, for he is himself a convert from Romanism, and was formerly the "Head Professor of Theology, and Vicar of the Master of the Sacred Apostolic Palace." He certainly had every opportunity to obtain correct information on the subject, and in a book published by him in 1851, entitled "Dealings with the Inquisition," we find, (page 71) the following startling announcement. "We are now in the middle of the nineteenth century, and still the Inquisition is actually and potentially in existence. This disgrace to humanity, whose entire history is a mass of atrocious crimes, committed by the priests of the Church of Rome, in the name of God and of His Christ, whose vicar and representative, the pope, the head of the Inquisition, declares himself to be,--this abominable institution is still in existence in Rome and in the Roman States." Again, (page 89) he says, "And this most infamous Inquisition, a hundred times destroyed and as often renewed, still exists in Rome as in the barbarous ages; the only difference being that the same iniquities are at present practiced there with a little more secrecy and caution than formerly, and this for the sake of prudence, that the Holy See may not be subjected to the animadversions of the world at large." On page 82 of the same work we find the following language. "I do not propose to myself to speak of the Inquisition of times past, but of what exists in Rome at the present moment; I shall therefore assert that the laws of this institution being in no respect changed, neither can the institution itself be said to have undergone any alteration. The present race of priests who are now in power are too much afraid of the popular indignation to let loose all their inquisitorial fury, which might even occasion a revolt if they were not to restrain it; the whole world, moreover, would cry out against them, a crusade would be raised against the Inquisition, and, for a little temporary gratification, much power would be endangered. This is the true reason why the severity of its penalties is in some degree relaxed at the present time, but they still remain unaltered in its code." Again on page 102, he says, "Are the torments which are employed at the present day at the Inquisition all a fiction? It requires the impudence of an inquisitor, or of the Archbishop of Westminister to deny their existence. I have myself heard these evil-minded persons lament and complain that their victims were treated with too much lenity. "What is it you desire?" I inquired of the inquisitor of Spoleto. "That which St. Thomas Aquinas says," answered he; "DEATH TO ALL THE HERETICS." "Hand over, then, to one of these people, a person, however respectable; give him up to one of the inquisitors, (he who quoted St. Thomas Aquinas to me was made an Archbishop)--give up, I say, the present Archbishop of Canterbury, an amiable and pious man, to one of these rabid inquisitors; he must either deny his faith or be burned alive. Is my statement false? Am I doting? Is not this the spirit that invariably actuates the inquisitors? and not the inquisitors only, but all those who in any way defile themselves with the inquisition, such as bishops and their vicars, and all those who defend it, as the papists do. There is the renowned Dr. Wiseman, the Archbishop of Westminster according to the pope's creation, the same who has had the assurance to censure me from his pulpit, and to publish an infamous article in the Dublin Review, in which he has raked together, as on a dunghill, every species of filth from the sons of Ignatius Loyola; and there is no lie or calumny that he has not made use of against me. Well, then, suppose I were to be handed over to the tender mercy of Dr. Wiseman, and he had the full power to dispose of me as he chose, without fear of losing his character in the eyes of the nation to which, by parentage more than by merit, he belongs, what do you imagine he would do with me? Should I not have to undergo some death more terrible than ordinary? Would not a council be held with the reverend fathers of the company of Loyola, the same who have suggested the abominable calumnies above alluded to, in order to invent some refined method of putting me out of the world? I feel persuaded that if I were condemned by the Inquisition to be burned alive, my calumniator would have great pleasure in building my funeral pile, and setting fire to it with his own hands; or should strangulation be preferred, that he would, with equal readiness, arrange the cord around my neck; and all for the honor and glory of the Inquisition, of which, according to his oath, he is a true and faithful servant." This, then, according to Dr. Achilli is the spirit of Romanism! Can we doubt that it would lead to results as frightful as anything described in the foregoing story? But let us listen to his further remarks on the present state of the Inquisition. On page 75 he says, "What, then, is the Inquisition of the nineteenth century? The same system of intolerance which prevailed in the barbarous ages. That which raised the Crusade and roused all Europe to arms at the voice of a monk [Footnote: Bernard of Chiaravalle.] and of a hermit, [Footnote: Peter the Hermit.] That which--in the name of a God of peace, manifested on earth by Christ, who, through love for sinners, gave himself to be crucified--brought slaughter on the Albigenses and the Waldenses; filled France with desolation, under Domenico di Guzman; raised in Spain the funeral pile and the scaffold, devastating the fair kingdoms of Granada and Castile, through the assistance of those detestable monks, Raimond de Pennefort, Peter Arbues, and Cardinal Forquemorda. That, which, to its eternal infamy, registers in the annals of France the fatal 24th of August, and the 5th of November in those of England." That same system which at this moment flourishes at Rome, which has never yet been either worn out or modified, and which at this present time, in the jargon of the priests, is called a "the holy, Roman, universal, apostolic Inquisition. Holy, as the place where Christ was crucified is holy; apostolic, because Judas Iscariot was the first inquisitor; Roman and universal, because FROM ROME IT EXTENDS OVER ALL THE WORLD. It is denied by some that the Inquisition which exists in Rome as its centre, is extended throughout the world by means of the missionaries. The Roman Inquisition and the Roman Propaganda are in close connection with each other. Every bishop who is sent in partibus infidelium, is an inquisitor charged to discover, through the means of his missionaries, whatever is said or done by others in reference to Rome, with the obligation to make his report secretly. The Apostolic nuncios are all inquisitors, as are also the Apostolic vicars. Here, then, we see the Roman Inquisition extending to the most remote countries." Again this same writer informs us, (page 112,) that "the principal object of the Inquisition is to possess themselves, by every means in their power, of the secrets of every class of society. Consequently its agents (Jesuits and Missionaries,) enter the domestic circle, observe every motion, listen to every conversation, and would, if possible, become acquainted with the most hidden thoughts. It is in fact, the police, not only of Rome, but of all Italy; INDEED, IT MAY BE SAID OF THE WHOLE WORLD." The above statements of Dr. Achilli are fully corroborated by the Rev. Wm. H. Rule, of London. In a book published by him in 1852, entitled "The Brand of Dominic," we find the following remarks in relation to the Inquisition of the present time. The Roman Inquisition is, therefore, acknowledged to have an infinite multitude of affairs constantly on hand, which necessitates its assemblage thrice every week. Still there are criminals, and criminal processes. The body of officials are still maintained on established revenues of the holy office. So far from any mitigation of severity or judicial improvement in the spirit of its administration, the criminal has now no choice of an advocate; but one person, and he a servant of the Inquisition, performs an idle ceremony, under the name of advocacy, for the conviction of all. And let the reader mark, that as there are bishops in partibus, so, in like manner, there are inquisitors of the same class appointed in every country, and chiefly, in Great Britain and the colonies, who are sworn to secrecy, and of course communicate intelligence to this sacred congregation of all that can be conceived capable of comprehension within the infinitude of its affairs. We must, therefore, either believe that the court of Rome is not in earnest, and that this apparatus of universal jurisdiction is but a shadow,--an assumption which is contrary to all experience,--or we must understand that the spies and familiars of the Inquisition are listening at our doors, and intruding themselves on our hearths. How they proceed, and what their brethren at Rome are doing, events may tell; BUT WE MAY BE SURE THEY ARE NOT IDLE. They were not idle in Rome in 1825, when they rebuilt the prisons of the Inquisition. They were not idle in 1842, when they imprisoned Dr. Achilli for heresy, as he assures us; nor was the captain, or some other of the subalterns, who, acting in their name, took his watch from him as he came out. They were not idle in 1843, when they renewed the old edicts against the Jews. And all the world knows that the inquisitors on their stations throughout the pontifical states, and the inquisitorial agents in Italy, Germany, and Eastern Europe, were never more active than during the last four years, and even at this moment, when every political misdemeanor that is deemed offensive to the Pope, is, constructively, a sin against the Inquisition, and visited with punishment accordingly. A deliberative body, holding formal session thrice every week, cannot be idle, and although it may please them to deny that Dr. Achilli saw and examined a black book, containing the praxis now in use, the criminal code of inquisitors in force at this day,--as Archibald Bower had an abstract of such a book given him for his use about one hundred and thirty years ago,--they cannot convince me that I have not seen and handled, and used in the preparation of this volume, the compendium of an unpublished Roman code of inquisitorial regulations, given to the vicars of the inquisitor-general of Modena. They may be pleased to say that the mordacchia, or gag, of which Dr. Achilli speaks, as mentioned in that BLACK BOOK, is no longer used; but that it is mentioned there, and might be used again is more than credible to myself, after having seen that the "sacred congregation" has fixed a rate of fees for the ordering, witnessing, and administration of TORTURE. There was indeed, a talk of abolishing torture at Rome; but we have reason to believe that the congregation will not drop the mordacchia, inasmuch, as, instead of notifying any such reformation to the courts of Europe, this congregation has kept silence. For although a continuation of the bullary has just been published at Rome, containing several decrees of this congregation, there is not one that announces a fulfilment of this illusory promise,--a promise imagined by a correspondent to French newspapers, but never given by the inquisitors themselves. And as there is no proof that they have yet abstained from torture, there is a large amount of circumstantial evidence that they have delighted themselves in death. And why not? When public burnings became inexpedient--as at Goa--did they not make provision for private executions? For a third time at least the Roman prisons--I am not speaking of those of the provinces--were broken open, in 1849, after the desertion of Pius IX., and two prisoners were found there, an aged bishop and a nun. Many persons in Rome reported the event; but instead of copying what is already before the public, I translate a letter addressed to me by P. Alessandro Gavazzi, late chaplain-general of the Roman army, in reply to a few questions which I had put to him. All who have heard his statements may judge whether his account of facts be not marked with every note of accuracy. They will believe that his power of oratory DOES NOT betray him into random declamation. Under date of March 20th, 1852, he writes thus: "MY DEAR SIR,--In answering your questions concerning the palace of Inquisition at Rome, I should say that I can give only a few superficial and imperfect notes. So short was the time that it remained open to the public, So great the crowd of persons that pressed to catch a sight of it, and so intense the horror inspired by that accursed place, that I could not obtain a more exact and particular impression. "I found no instruments of torture, [Footnote: "The gag, the thumb-screw, and many other instruments of severe torture could be easily destroyed and others as easily procured. The non-appearance of instruments is not enough to sustain the current belief that the use of them is discontinued. So long as there is a secret prison, and while all the existing standards of inquisitorial practice make torture an ordinary expedient for extorting information, not even a bull, prohibiting torture, would be sufficient to convince the world that it has been discontinued. The practice of falsehood is enjoined on inquisitors. How, then, could we believe a bull, or decree, if it were put forth to-morrow, to release them from suspicion, or to screen them from obloquy? It would not be entitled to belief."--Rev. Wm. H. Rule.] for they were destroyed at the time of the first French invasion, and because such instruments were not used afterwards by the modern Inquisition. I did, however, find, in one of the prisons of the second court, a furnace, and the remains of a woman's dress. I shall never be able to believe that that furnace was placed there for the use of the living, it not being in such a place, or of such a kind, as to be of service to them. Everything, on the contrary, combines to persuade me that it was made use of for horrible deaths, and to consume the remains of the victims of inquisitorial executions. Another object of horror I found between the great hall of judgment and the luxurious apartment of the chief jailer (primo custode), the Dominican friar who presides over this diabolical establishment. This was a deep trap or shaft opening into the vaults under the Inquisition. As soon as the so-called criminal had confessed his offence; the second keeper, who is always a Dominican friar, sent him to the father commissary to receive a relaxation [Footnote: "In Spain, RELAXATION is delivery to death. In the established style of the Inquisition it has the same meaning. But in the common language of Rome it means RELEASE. In the lips of the inquisitor, therefore, if he used the word, it has one meaning, and another to the ear of the prisoner."--Rev. Wm. H. Rule.] of his punishment. With the hope of pardon, the confessed culprit would go towards the apartment of the holy inquisitor; but in the act of setting foot at its entrance, the trap opened, and the world of the living heard no more of him. I examined some of the earth found in the pit below this trap; it was a compost of common earth, rottenness, ashes, and human hair, fetid to the smell, and horrible to the sight and to the thought of the beholder. "But where popular fury reached its highest pitch was in the vaults of St. Pius V. I am anxious that you should note well that this pope was canonized by the Roman church especially for his zeal against heretics. I will now describe to you the manner how, and the place where, those vicars of Jesus Christ handled the living members of Jesus Christ, and show you how they proceeded for their healing. You descend into the vaults by very narrow stairs. A narrow corridor leads you to the several cells, which, for smallness and stench, are a hundred times more horrible than the dens of lions and tigers in the Colosseum. Wandering in this labyrinth of most fearful prisons, that may be called 'graves for the living,' I came to a cell full of skeletons without skulls, buried in lime, and the skulls, detached from the bodies, had been collected in a hamper by the first visitors. Whose were those skeletons? and why were they buried in that place and in that manner? I have heard some popish priests trying to defend the Inquisition from the charge of having condemned its victims to a secret death, say that the palace of the Inquisition was built on a burial-ground, belonging anciently to a hospital for pilgrims, and that the skeletons found were none other than those of pilgrims who had died in that hospital. But everything contradicts this papistical defence. Suppose that there had been a cemetery there, it could not have had subterranean galleries and cells, laid out with so great regularity; and even if there had been such--against all probability--the remains of bodies would have been removed on laying the foundation of the palace, to leave the space free for the subterranean part of the Inquisition. Besides, it is contrary to the use of common tombs to bury the dead by carrying them through a door at the side; for the mouth of the sepulchre is always at the top. And again, it has never been the custom in Italy to bury the dead singly in quick lime; but, in time of plague, the dead bodies have been usually laid in a grave until it was sufficiently full, and then quick lime has been laid over them, to prevent pestilential exhalations, by hastening the decomposition of the infected corpses. This custom was continued, some years ago, in the cemeteries of Naples, and especially in the daily burial of the poor. Therefore, the skeletons found in the Inquisition of Rome could not belong to persons who had died a natural death in a hospital; nor could any one, under such a supposition, explain the mystery of all the bodies being buried in lime except the head. It remains, then, beyond a doubt, that that subterranean vault contained the victims of one of the many secret martyrdoms of the butcherly tribunal. The following is the most probable opinion, if it be not rather the history of a fact: "The condemned were immersed in a bath of slaked lime, gradually filled up to their necks. The lime by little and little enclosed the sufferers, or walled them up alive. The torment was extreme but slow. As the lime rose higher and higher, the respiration became more and more painful, because more difficult. So that what with the suffocation of the smoke, and the anguish of the compressed breathing, they died in a manner most horrible and desperate. Some time after their death the heads would naturally separate from the bodies, and roll away into the hollows made by the shrinking of the lime. Any other explanation of the feet that may be attempted will be found improbable and unnatural. You may make what use you please of these notes of mine, since I can warrant their truth. I wish that writers, speaking of this infamous tribunal of the Inquisition, would derive their information from pure history, unmingled with romance; for so great and so many the historical atrocities of the Inquisition, that they would more than suffice to arouse the detestation of a thousand worlds. I know that the popish impostor-priests go about saying that the Inquisition was never an ecclesiastical tribunal, but a laic. But you will have shown the contrary in your work, and may also add, in order quite to unmask these lying preachers, that the palace of the Inquisition at Rome is under the shadow of the palace of the Vatican; that the keepers are to this day, Dominican friars; and that the prefect of the Inquisition at Rome is the Pope in person. "I have the honor to be your affectionate Servant, "ALESSANDRA GAVAZZI." "The Roman parliament decreed the erection of a pillar opposite the palace of the Inquisition, to perpetuate the memory of the destruction of that nest of abominations; but before that or any other monument could be raised, the French army besieged and took the city, restored the Pope, and with him the tribunal of the faith. Not only was Dr. Achilli thrown into one of its old prisons, on the 29th of July 1849, but the violence of the people having made the building less adequate to the purpose of safe keeping, he was transferred to the castle of St. Angelo, which had often been employed for the custody of similar delinquents, and there he lay in close confinement until the 9th of January, 1850, when the French authorities, yielding to influential representations from this country assisted him to escape in disguise as a soldier, thus removing an occasion of scandal, but carefully leaving the authority of the congregation of cardinals undisputed. Indeed they first obtained the verbal sanction of the commissary, who saw it expedient to let his victim go, and hush an outcry. "Yet some have the hardihood to affirm that there is no longer any Inquisition; and as the Inquisitors were instructed to suppress the truth, to deny their knowledge of cases actually passing through their hands, and to fabricate falsehoods for the sake of preserving the SECRET, because the secret was absolutely necessary to the preservation of their office, so do the Inquisitors in partibus falsify and illude without the least scruple of conscience, in order to put the people of this country off their guard. "That the Inquisition really exists, is placed beyond a doubt by its daily action as a visible institution at Rome. But if any one should fancy that it was abolished after the release of Dr. Achilli, let him hear a sentence contradictory, from a bull of the Pope himself, Pius IX, a document that was dated at Rome, August 22, 1851, where the pontiff, condemning the works of Professor Nuytz, of Turin, says, "after having taken the advice of the doctors in theology and canon law, AFTER HAVING COLLECTED THE SUFFRAGES OF OUR VENERABLE BROTHERS THE CARDINALS OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE SUPREME AND UNIVERSAL INQUISITION." And so recently as March, 1852, by letters of the Secretariate of State, he appointed four cardinals to be "members of the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Roman and Universal Inquisition;" giving incontrovertible evidence that provision is made for attending to communications of Inquisitors in partibus from all parts of the world. As the old cardinals die off, their vacant seats are filled by others. The 'immortal legion' is punctually recruited. "After all, have we in Great Britain, Ireland and the colonies, and our brethren of the foreign mission stations, any reason to apprehend harm to, ourselves from the Inquisition as it is? In reply to this question, let it be observed; "1. That there are Inquisitors in partibus is not to be denied. That letters of these Inquisitors are laid before the Roman Inquisition is equally certain. Even in the time of Leo XII, when the church of Rome was far less active in the British empire than it is now, some particular case was always decided on Thursday, when the Pope, in his character of universal Inquisitor, presided in the congregation. It cannot be thought that now, in the height of its exultation, daring and aggression, this congregation has fewer emissaries, or that they are less active, or less communicative than they were at that time. We also see that the number is constantly replenished. The cardinals Della Genga-Sermattei; De Azevedo; Fornari; and Lucciardi have just been added to it. "2. Besides a cardinal in England, and a delegate in Ireland, there is both in England and Ireland, a body of bishops, 'natural Inquisitors,' as they are always acknowledged, and have often claimed to be; and these natural Inquisitors are all sworn to keep the secret--the soul of the Inquisition. Since, then, there are Inquisitors in partibus, appointed to supply the lack of an avowed and stationary Inquisition, and since the bishops are the very persons whom the court of Rome can best command, as pledged for such a service, it is reasonable to suppose they act in that capacity. "3. Some of the proceedings of these bishops confirm the assurance that there is now an Inquisition in activity in England. * * * The vigilance exercised over families, also the intermeddling of priests with education, both in families and schools, and with the innumerable relations of civil society, can only be traced back to the Inquisitors in partibus, whose peculiar duty, whether by help of confessors or familiars, is to worm out every secret of affairs, private or public, and to organize and conduct measures of repression or of punishment. Where the secular arm cannot be borrowed, and where offenders lie beyond the reach of excommunication, irregular methods must be resorted to, not rejecting any as too crafty or too violent. Discontented mobs, or individual zealots are to be found or bought. What part the Inquisitors in partibus play in Irish assassinations, or in the general mass of murderous assaults that is perpetrated in the lower haunts of crime, it is impossible to say. Under cover of confessional and Inquisitorial secrets, spreads a broad field of action--a region of mystery--only visible to the eye of God, and to those 'most reverend and most eminent' guardians of the papacy, who sit thrice every week, in the Minerva and Vatican, and there manage the hidden springs of Inquisition on the heretics, schismatics, and rebels, no less than on 'the faithful' of realms. Who can calculate the extent of their power over those 'religious houses,' where so many of the inmates are but neophytes, unfitted by British education for the intellectual and moral abnegation, the surrender of mind and conscience, which monastic discipline exacts? Yet they must be coerced into submission, and kept under penal discipline. Who can tell how many of their own clergy are withdrawn to Rome, and there delated, imprisoned, and left to perish, if not 'relaxed' to death, in punishment of heretical opinions or liberal practices? We have heard of laymen, too, taken to Rome by force, or decoyed thither under false pretences there to be punished by the universal Inquisition; and whatever of incredibility may appear in some tales of Inquisitorial abduction, the general fact that such abductions have taken place, seems to be incontrovertible. And now that the Inquisitors in partibus are distributed over Christendom, and that they provide the Roman Inquisition with daily work from year's end to year's end, is among the things most certain,--even the most careless of Englishmen must acknowledge that we have all reason to apprehend much evil from the Inquisition as it is. And no Christian can be aware of this fact, without feeling himself more than ever bound to uphold the cause of christianity, both at home and abroad, as the only counteractive of so dire a curse, and the only remedy of so vast an evil." Rev. Wm. Rule, London. The Rev. E. A. Lawrence, writing of "Romanism at Rome," gives us the following vivid description of the present state of the Roman Church. "Next is seen at Rome the PROPAGANDA, the great missionary heart of the whole masterly system. Noiselessly, by the multiform orders of monks and nuns, as through so many veins and arteries, it sends out and receives back its vital fluid. In its halls, the whole world is distinctly mapped out, and the chief points of influence minutely marked. A kind of telegraphic communication is established with the remotest stations in South Africa and Siberia, and with almost every nook in our own land, to which the myrmidons of Papal power look with the most of fear. It is through means of this moral galvanic battery, set up in the Vatican, that the Church of Rome has gained its power of UBIQUITY--has so well nigh made itself OMNIPOTENT, as well as omnipresent. "It is no mean or puny antagonist that strides across the path of a free, spiritual and advancing Protestantism. And yet, with a simple shepherd's sling, and the smooth stones gathered from Siloa's brook, God will give it the victory. "Once more let us look, and we shall find at Rome, still working in its dark, malignant efficiency, the INQUISITION. Men are still made to pass through fires of this Moloch. This is the grand defensive expedient of the Papacy, and is the chief tribunal of the States. Its processes are all as secret as the grave. Its cells are full of dead men's bones. They call it the Asylum for the poor--a retreat for doubting and distressed pilgrims, where they may have experience of the parental kindness of their father the Pope, and their mother the church. "Dr. Achilli had a trial of this beneficient discipline, when thrown into the deep dungeon of St. Angelo. And how many other poor victims of this diabolical institution are at this moment pining in agony, heaven knows. "In America, we talk about Rome as having ceased to persecute. IT IS A MISTAKE. She holds to the principle as tenaciously as ever. She cannot dispense with it. Of the evil spirit of Protestantism she says, "This kind goeth not out, but by fire." Her reign, is a reign of terror. Hence she must hold both the principle and the power of persecution, of compelling men to believe, or, if they doubt, of putting them to death for their own good. Take from her this power and she bites the dust." ROMANISM IN AMERICA. It may perchance be said that the remarks of the Rev. William Rule, quoted above, refer exclusively to the existing state of things is England, Ireland, and the colonies. But who will dare to say, after a careful investigation of the subject, that they do not apply with equal force to these United States? Has America nothing to fear from the inquisitors--from the Jesuits? Is it true that the "Inquisition still exists in Rome--that its code is unchanged--that its emissaries are sent over all the world--that every nuncio and bishop is an Inquisitor," and is it improbable that, even now, torture rooms like those described in the foregoing story, may be found in Roman Catholic establishments in this country? Yes, even here, in Protestant, enlightened America! Have WE then nothing to fear from Romanism? But a few days since a gentleman of learning and intelligence when speaking of this subject, exclaimed, "What have we to do with the Jesuits? and what is the Inquisition to us? The idea that we have aught to fear from Romanism, is simply ridiculous!" In reply to this, allow me to quote the language of the Rev. Manuel J. Gonsalves, leader of the Madeira Exiles. "The time will come when the American people will arise as one man, and not only abolish the confessional, but will follow the example of many of the European nations, who had no peace, or rest, till they banished the Jesuits. These are the men, who bask in the sunbeams of popery, to whom the pope has entrusted the vast interests of the king of Rome, in this great Republic. Nine tenths of the Romish priests, now working hard for their Master the pope, in this country, are full blooded Jesuits. The man of sin who is the head of the mystery of iniquity--through the advice of the popish bishops now in this country, has selected the Jesuitical order of priests, to carry on his great and gigantic operations in the United States of America. Those Jesuits who distinguish themselves the most in the destruction of Protestant Bible religion, and who gain the largest number of protestant scholars for popish schools and seminaries; who win most American converts to their sect are offered great rewards in the shape of high offices in the church. John Hughes, the Jesuit Bishop of the New York Romanists, was rewarded by Pope Pius 9th, with an Archbishop's mitre, for his great, zeal and success, in removing God's Holy Bible from thirty-eight public schools in New York, and for procuring a papal school committee, to examine every book in the hands of American children in the public schools, that every passage of truth, in those books of history unpalatable to the pope might be blotted out." Has America then nothing to do with Romanism? But another gentleman exclaims, "What if Romanism be on the increase in the United States! Is not their religion as dear to them, as ours is to us?" To this the Rev. M. J. Gonsalves would reply as follows. "The American people have been deceived, in believing THAT POPERY WAS A RELIGION, not a very good one to be sure, but some kind of one. This has been their great mistake. We might as well call the Archbishop of the fallen angels, and his crew, a religious body of intelligent beings, because they believe in an Almighty God, and tremble, as to call the man of sin and his Jesuits, a body of religious saints. The tree is known by its fruit, such as 'love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, meekness, faith, temperance, brotherly kindness;' and where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty, Christian liberty, giving to God and man their due unasked. Now we ask, what kind of fruit does the tree of Popery bear, in any country, that it should claim homage, and respect, as a good religion?" Such is the language of one who knew so well what popery was, that he fled from it as from a hell upon earth. In his further remarks upon the horrors of convent life in the United States, he fully confirms the statements in the foregoing narrative. He says, "It is time that American gentlemen, who are so much occupied in business, should think of the dangers of the confessional, and the miseries endured by innocent, duped, American, imprisoned females in this free country; and remember that these American ladies who have been duped and enticed by Jesuitical intrigue and craft, into their female convents, have no means of deliverance; they cannot write a letter to a friend without the consent and inspection of the Mother Abbess, who is always and invariably a female tyrant, a creature in the pay of the Bishop, and dependent upon the Bishop for her despotic office of power. The poor, unfortunate, imprisoned American female has no means of redress in her power. She cannot communicate her story of wrong and suffering to any living being beyond the walls of her prison. She may have a father, a mother, a dear brother, or a sister, who, if they knew one-sixteenth part of her wrongs and sufferings, would fly at once to see her and sympathize with her in her anguish. But the Jesuit confessor attached to the prison is ever on the alert. Those ladies who appear the most unhappy, and unreconciled to their prison, are compelled to attend the confessional every day; and thus the artful Jesuit, by a thousand cross questions, is made to understand perfectly the state of their minds. The Lady Porter, or door-keeper and jailor, is always a creature of the priest's, and a great favorite with the Mother Abbess. Should any friends call to see an unhappy nun who is utterly unreconciled to her fate, the Lady Porter is instructed to inform those relatives that the dear nun they want to see so much, is so perfectly happy, and given up to heavenly meditations, that she cannot be persuaded to see an earthly relative. At the same time the Mother Abbess dismisses the relatives with a very sorrowful countenance, and regrets very much, in appearance, their disappointment. But the unhappy nun is never informed that her friends or relatives have called to inquire after her welfare. How amazing, that government should allow such prisons in the name of religion!" CONVENT OF THE CAPUCHINS IN SANTIAGO In a late number of "The American and Foreign Christian Union," we find the following account of conventual life from a report of a Missionary in Chile, South America. "Now, my brother, let me give you an account related to me by a most worthy English family, most of the members of which have grown up in the country, confirmed also by common report, of the Convent of Capuchins, in Santiago. "The number of inmates is limited to thirty-two young ladies. The admittance fee is $2000. When the nun enters she is dressed like a bride, in the most costly material that wealth can command. There, beside the altar of consecration, she devotes herself in the most solemn, manner to a life of celibacy and mortification of the flesh and spirit, with the deluded hope that her works will merit a brighter mansion in the realms above. "The forms of consecration being completed, she begins to cast off her rich veil, costly vestments, all her splendid diamonds and brilliants--which, in many instances, have cost, perhaps, from ten to fifteen, or even twenty thousand dollars. Then her beautiful locks are submitted to the tonsure; and to signify her deadness forever to the world, she is clothed in a dress of coarse grey cloth, called serge, in which she is to pass the miserable remnant of her days. The dark sombre walls of her prison she can sever pass, and its iron-bound doors are shut forever upon their new, youthful, and sensitive occupant. Rarely, if ever, is she permitted to speak, and NEVER, NEVER, to see her friends or The loved ones of home--to enjoy the embraces of a fond mother, or devoted father, or the smiles of fraternal or sisterly affection. If ever allowed to speak at all, it is through iron bars where she cannot be seen, and in the presence of the abbess, to see that no complaint escapes her lips. However much her bosom may swell with anxiety at the sound of voices which were once music to her soul, and she may long to pour out her cries and tears to those who once soothed every sorrow of her heart; yet not a murmur must be uttered. The soul must suffer its own sorrows solitary and alone, with none to sympathize, or grant relief, and none to listen to its moans but the cold gloomy walls of her tomb. No, no, not even the Gospel of Jesus Christ, that great alleviator of all the sorrows of the heart, is allowed an entrance there. "Nor is this all. Besides being condemned to a meagre, insufficient and unwholesome diet which they themselves must cook, the nuns are not allowed to speak much with each other, except to say, 'Que morir tenemos, 'we are to die,' or 'we must die,' and to reply, 'Ya los sabemos,' 'we know it,' or 'already we know it' "They pass most of their time in small lonely cells, where they sleep in a narrow place dug out in the ground, in the shape of a coffin, without bed of any kind, except a piece of coarse serge spread down; and their daily dress is their only covering. SLEEP! Did I say? Alas! 'Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, no more with his downy pinions lights on his unsullied with a tear:' FOR EVERY HOUR OF THE TWENTY-FOUR they are aroused by the bell to perform their 'Ave Maria's,' count their rosaries, and such other blind devotions as may be imposed. Thus they drag out a miserable existence, and when death calls the spirit to its last account, the other nuns dig the grave with their own hands, within the walls of the convent, and so perform the obsequies of their departed sister. "Thus, I have briefly given you not fiction! but a faithful narrative of facts in regard to conventual life, and an establishment marked by almost every form of sin, and yet making pretence of 'perfecting the saints,' by the free and gentle influences of the gospel of Christ. "Query 1st. What is done with all the money? "2d. What is done with the rich vestments and jewels? "3d. Where do the priests get all their brilliants to perform high mass and adorn their processions? "4th. Where does all the hair of the saints come from, which is sold in lockets for high prices as sure preventives of evil? "5th. Whose grave has been plundered to obtain RELICS to sell to the ignorant. "6th. Where does the Romish Church obtain her SURPLUS RIGHTEOUSNESS TO SELL TO THE needy, and not give it like our blessed Lord, 'without money and without price?' "7th. Who is responsible for the FANATICISM that induces a young female to incarcerate herself? "8th. Where is the authority in reason, in revelation, for such a life? "9th. What is the average length of life? "10th. How many die insane? "A young lady lately cast herself from the tower, and was dashed in pieces, being led to do it, doubtless, in desperation. The convents of this city, of the same order, require the same entrance fee, $2000. Of course, none but the comparatively rich can avail themselves of this perfection of godliness. "Who will say that this mode of life has not been invented in order to cut short life as rapidly as possible, that the $2000, with all the rich diamonds upon initiation, may be repeated as frequently as possible? "O! how true it is, that Romanism is the same merciless, cruel, diabolical organisation, wherever it can fully develop itself, in all lands. How truly is it denominated by the pen of inspiration the 'MYSTERY OF INIQUITY,' especially that part of it relating to these secret institutions, and the whole order of the Jesuits." The editor of the "Christian Union", in his remarks on the above, says, "Already the fair face of our country is disfigured by the existence here and there of conventual establishments. At present they do not show the hideous features which they, at least in some cases, assume in countries where papal influence and authority are supreme. The genius of our government and institutions necessarily exerts a restraining power, which holds them from excesses to which, otherwise, they might run. But they constitute a part of a system which is strongly at variance with the interests of humanity, and merely wait the occurrence of favorable circumstances to visit upon our land all the horrors which they have inflicted elsewhere. "How many conventual establishments there are now in the nation, few Protestants, it is believed, know. And how many young females, guilty of no crime against society, and condemned by no law of the land, are shut up in their walls and doomed to a life which they did not anticipate when entering them, a life which is more dreadful to them than death, very few of the millions of our citizens conceive. The majority of our people have slept over the whole subject, and the indifference thus manifested has emboldened the priests to posh forward the extension of the system, and the workmen are now busy in various places in the construction of additional establishments. But such facts as are revealed in this article, from the pen of our missionary, in connection with things that are occurring around us, show that no time should be lost in examining this whole subject of convents and monasteries, and in legislating rightly about them." Again, when speaking of papal convents in the United States, the same talented writer observes, "The time has fully come when Protestants should lay aside their apathy and too long-cherished indifference in respect to the movements of Rome in this land. It is time for them to call to mind the testimony of their fathers, their bitter experiences from the papal See, and to take effective measures to protect the inheritance bequeathed to them, that they may hand it down to their children free from corruption, as pure and as valuable as when they received it. They should remember that Rome claims never to change, that what she was in Europe when in the zenith of her power, she will be here when fairly installed, and has ability to enforce her commands. "Her numbers now on our soil, her nearly two thousand priests moving about everywhere, her colleges and printing-presses, her schools and convents, and enormous amounts of property held by her bishops, have served as an occasion to draw out something of her spirit, and to show that she is ARROGANT AND ABUSIVE TO THE EXTENT OF HER POWER. "Scarcely a newspaper issues from her press, but is loaded with abuse of Protestants and of their religion, and at every available point assaults are made upon their institutions and laws; and Rome and her institutions and interests are crowded into notice, and special privileges are loudly clamored for. "All Protestants, therefore, of every name, and of every religious and political creed, we repeat it, who do not desire to ignore the past, and to renounce all care or concern for the future, as to their children and children's children, should lose no time in informing themselves of the state of things around them in regard to the papacy and its institutions. They should without delay devote their efforts and influence to the protection of the country against those Popish establishments and their usages which have been set up among us without the authority of law, and under whose crushing weight some of the nations of Europe have staggered and reeled for centuries, and have now but little of their former power and glory remaining, and under which Mexico, just upon our borders, has sunk manifestly beyond the power of recovery. "Let each individual seek to awaken an interest in this matter in the mind of his neighbor. And if there be papal establishments in the neighborhood under the names of 'schools,' 'retreats', 'religions communities,' or any other designation, which are at variance with, or are not conformed to, the laws of the commonwealth in which they are situated, let memorials be prepared and signed by the citizens, and forwarded immediately to the legislature, praying that they may be subjected to examination, and required to conform to the laws by which all Protestant institutions of a public nature are governed. "Let us exclude from our national territory all irresponsible institutions. Let us seek to maintain a government of law, and insist upon the equality of all classes before it." In closing these extracts, we beg leave to express ourselves in the words of the Rev. Dr. Sunderland, of Washington city, in a sermon delivered before the American and Foreign Christian Union, at its anniversary in May, 1856. "But new it is asked, 'Why all this tirade against Roman Catholics?' We repel the implication. It is not against the unhappy millions that are ground down under the iron heel of that enormous despotism. They are of the common humanity, our brethren and kinsmen, according to the flesh. They need the same light instruction and salvation that we need. Like ourselves they need the one God, the one mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus; and from the heart we love and pity them. We would grant them all the privileges which we claim to ourselves. We can have no animosity towards them as men and candidates with ourselves for the coming judgment. But it is the system under which they are born, and live, and die, I repeat, which we denounce, and when we shall cease to oppose it, then let our right hand forget her cunning, and our tongue cleave to the roof of our mouth. What is it but a dark and terrible power on earth before which so many horrible memories start up? Why, sir, look at it! We drag the bones of the grim behemoth out to view, for we would not have the world forget his ugliness nor the terror he has inspired. 'A tirade against Romanism,' is it? O sir, we remember the persecutions of Justinian; we remember the days of the Spanish Inquisition; we remember the reign of 'the Bloody Mary;' we remember the revocation of the Edict of Nantes; we remember St. Bartholomew; we remember the murdered Covenanters, Huguenots, and Piedmontese; we remember the noble martyrs dying for the testimony of the faith along the ancient Rhine; we remember the later wrath which pursued the islanders of Madeira, till some of them sought refuge upon these shores; we remember the Madiai, and we know how the beast ever seeks to propagate his power, by force where he can, by deception where he must. And when we remember these things, we must protest against the further vigor and prosperity of this grand Babylon of all. Take it, then, tirade and all, for so ye must, ye ministers of Rome, sodden with the fumes of that great deep of abominations! The voice of the Protestant shall never be hushed; the spirit of Reformation shall never sleep. O, lands of Farel and of Calvin, of Zwingle and of Luther! O countries where the trumpet first sounded, marshalling the people to this fearful contest! We have heard the blast rolling still louder down the path of three hundred years, and in our solid muster-march we come, the children of the tenth generation. We come a growing phalanx, not with carnal weapons, but with the armor of the gospel, and wielding the sword of truth on the right hand and on the left, we say that ANTICHRIST MUST FALL. Hear it, ye witnesses, and mark the word; by the majesty of the coming kingdom of Jesus, and by the eternal purpose of Jehovah, THIS ANTICHRIST MUST FALL." END 
37695	----	AURICULAR CONFESSION and POPISH NUNNERIES By William Hogan A Roman Catholic Priest Volume I. (of II.) 1854. AURICULAR CONFESSION and POPISH NUNNERIES, Volume I. TO THE PUBLIC. The readers of the following work, who have not any acquaintance with the author, may wish to know who he is, in order to enable them to ascertain what degree of credit is due to his statements. We are permitted to publish the following documents, which show that the author is a member of the Georgia bar, and that his standing among his brethren is that of a moral, upright, and honorable gentleman. This is a high character--as high as any man can produce, or any American citizen require--and entitles Mr. Hogan's statements to full credit, in the estimation of every honest man and impartial reader of this work. [Certificate from Judge Wayne.] State of Georgia. At a Superior Court holden in and for the County of Effingham, in November Term, 1827. Know all men by these presents, that, at the present sitting of this Court. William Hogan made his application for leave to plead and practise in the several Courts of Law and Equity in this State: Whereupon, the said William Hogan having given satisfactory evidence of good moral character, and having been examined in open Court, and being found well acquainted and skilled in the laws, he was admitted by the court to all the privileges of an Attorney Solicitor and Counsellor, in the several Courts of law and Equity in this State. In Testimony whereof the presiding Judge has hereunto set [L. S.] his hand, with his seal annexed, (there being no Seal of Court,) this first day of November, 1827. Jno. Chas. Ston, Clerk. James M. Wayne. [Certificate from Judge Law.] I hereby certify that the within named William Hogan, has been at the bar of the Eastern Circuit of Georgia, since November Term, 1827, the date of his admission, and that he has conducted himself, during my acquaintance with him at this bar, as an Attorney and Counsellor at Law, with uprightness and integrity of character. William Law, Judge Sup. Courts, East District, Georgia, Savannah, 25th June, 1832. Savannah, 25th June, 1832. Dear Sir,--Understanding from you that it is your intention to leave the State, with a view to the practice of the law elsewhere; it will, I apprehend, be necessary that the certificate of admission to our bar, furnished you by the Clerk, should be accompanied by a certificate from myself as the presiding Judge of the Court in which you were admitted. This is necessary to give it authenticity in another State. It will afford me pleasure to append that verification to it, if you will be pleased to send me the certificate. Permit me, as you are about to leave us, to offer you my humble testimony to your correct and upright deportment as an advocate at the bar of the Superior Courts of the Eastern District of Georgia, since your admission to the practice of the law in the same. Wishing you success and prosperity wherever you may settle, I am, dear sir, very respectfully, Your obedient servant, William Law. [Recommendation from the Georgia Bar.] Savannah, June, 1832. We, the undersigned members of the bar of Savannah, having been informed that Wm. Hogan, Esq., in consequence of ill health, is about removing to a northern climate, take leave to state that he has been admitted to practise as Attorney, Solicitor and Counsellor in all the Courts of Law and Equity in this State. Mr. Hogan has been a resident of this city for some years, during which time, we further feel a pleasure in stating that his professional standing among us, has been that of a moral and honorable gentleman, and as such, recommend him to the professional attentions of the Honorable the Judges and members of the bar generally, wherever his health may induce him to locate himself. Thos. U. P. Charlton, Jno. C Nicoll, W. W. Gordon, Rich. W. Habersham, K. R. Cutler, Levi S. D'Lyon. INTRODUCTION. "Three score years and ten," and those often full of care and anxiety, seem to constitute the space of human life. So it is said in that venerable volume, which never has been, and never can be equalled, in beauty of truth, wisdom, and instruction. This, it would seem, ought to check all the vain and inordinate aspirations of poor, weak man; yet it has not, and probably never will do so. To a reflecting mind, nothing can Appear stranger than this. Notwithstanding this solemn truth, such is the presumption of man, that lie has often dared,--and does so at this moment,--to set himself up as the viceroyal or vicegerent of the King of Heaven; and fancies himself sent upon this earth for the purpose of rectifying or correcting any mi? takes or defects which might have escaped the vigilance of the great I Am, in the organization and fitness of things This is truly a serious and melancholy reflection. The population of this world of ours is supposed to amount to 812,553,712. Of this vast number, 137,000,000 are Roman Catholics, who now, on the 19th of July, 1845., bend the knee and bow down in homage to a weak, helpless, and worthless being, the Pope of Rome; and thus, if history does not deceive us, proving themselves conspirators against the happiness of the human race. To meliorate the condition of this almost countless multitude of our fellow-creatures, is among the first duties of every good man. No one is exempted from it; not the king nor the peasant; not the sage nor the philosopher; not the priest nor the layman; for there are as many modes of discharging this duty, as there are grades in the social system. As a member of the human family, and being once an instructor myself, I feel that I have too long neglected this common duty. Many suns, and many shades, too, have passed over me, without doing much in the great work of promoting the happiness of my fellow-beings; and if I can make any atonement for this omission, by devoting the necessarily short period of the remnant of my life for the benefit of others, I shall retire to my eternal home with feelings of happiness which I have not enjoyed for years. With a clear and full view of my duty, I have recently written a work entitled, "_A Synopsis of Popery as it was, and as it is._" It has been well received; it awakened Americans to a proper sense of their duty. Until then they saw not, they felt not, they dreamed not of the dangers which threatened their religion and their civil rights from the stealthy movements of the Church of Rome, and her priests and bishops, in this country. Americans have now a steady and watchful eye upon them. This was necessary, and so far, I have done my duty. The Popish presses, which, until then, had lulled Americans into fatal repose by their misrepresentations, have been, in a measure, silenced. No one, before me, dared to encounter their scurrilous abuse. I resolved to silence them; and I have done so. The very mention of my name is a terror to them now; though, until the appearance of my book, there was not a Popish press in the United States, which did not weekly, almost daily, abuse me in the most scurrilous manner; and in my apprehension, a stronger evidence cannot be given of the iniquity of Popish priests and bishops who edit those presses, than this very fact. Protestant writers in the United States have long been kept in check by the bullying and vaporing of Popish priests, when some resolution and a little tact, might at all times have silenced them. I found no difficulty in muzzling the whole body; and the mode of doing it was suggested to me by a little incident in my own life. Will the reader allow me to relate it? As soon as I was admitted to the practice of law, I went into partnership with a Mr. Gray, a young gentleman of promising talents and gentlemanly manners. Our office was in one of the upper districts of South Carolina, separated only by a narrow river, from the State of Georgia, where I have resided ever since. There was at the back of our office, a swamp, containing,--if we may judge from the noise they made,--myriads of frogs, ugly and filthy as the slime from which they sprung. As soon as the sun of heaven retired to its home in the west, and darkness covered the face of the earth and the waters, these frogs set up a most hideous chorus,--just as Papists have done for more than twenty years, against myself. The noise became a perfect nuisance to me. I felt at a loss how to silence these filthy frogs. I purchased and borrowed every work I could get upon frogs, to see if any remedy had been discovered to abate this nuisance; but all to no purpose. On they went, night after night; nothing could be heard but croak, croak, croak. Finally, I became impatient, when necessity, which is properly called, "the mother of invention," suggested to me the following remedy, which, I believe, might have been tried before. I procured a well-lighted lantern, concealed it under a thick overcoat, went down to the pond, sat patiently on its bank until the frogs commenced their evening chorus; but just as they were upon their highest notes, I uncovered my lantern, and threw its full blaze of light over the whole surface of the pond. Instantly, as if by magic, "Every frog was at rest, And I heard not a sound." It occurred to me, that a similar experiment might, with equal advantage, be made upon Popish priests and confessors. I knew no other living animal or creeping thing, so closely resembling these frogs in repulsiveness, as a Romish priest or bishop who hears confessions. I resolved to throw light upon them, and show them to each, other and to the world, in their native deformity. I published my book on Popery; I threw the light-of my experience as a Popish priest, upon the whole body. The result has been entirely satisfactory. Never, since then, has a Popish priest, Popish bishop, or Popish press, published a single sentence against me. How truly is it said in holy writ, "Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." I have resisted Popish priests; they have fled from me; and if the reader will do me the honor of perusing the following pages, he will see that 1 am still pursuing them in full chase; nor do I feel disposed to abandon my pursuit, until they renounce allegiance to the Pope of Rome, and become true, peaceable, moral, and well-behaved citizens of the United States. WILLIAM HOGAN. AURICULAR CONFESSION AND POPISH NUNNERIES. When a writer acknowledges, in advance, that he cannot relate the whole truth, his position is far from being enviable. It augurs badly for what he writes, and so far plages him in a disadvantageous light before the public. This is, however, precisely the condition in which I now find myself. Such is the nature of the subject on which I feel it my duty to write, that I shrink with native abhorrence from relating, at least, the whole truth. It is repugnant to my feelings, to my taste, and at variance with the general tone of my conversation, ever since the God of purity enabled me to disentangle myself from the society of Romish priests and bishops,--men whose private lives and conversation with each other and with their _penitents_ in the confessional, breathe nothing but the grossest licentiousness and foetid impurities. I do not wantonly and without provocation make any expose of the iniquities of Popery. My entire life, since I left them, is evidence of this; but they have pursued me with such persevering malignity and demoniac malice, that further silence would be criminal and disrespectful to my Protestant fellow-citizens, from whom, notwithstanding the malice of papists towards me, I have always experienced kind attentions and hospitality. Nor should I, even now, allow the subject of Popery to occupy my mind, or taint the current of my thoughts, if I did not see it striding with fearful rapidity over the fair face of this my adopted country, infusing itself into every political nerve and artery of our government, while its members are asleep and dreaming of its future glories. It is not pleasant to me to contend with papists, who look upon it as a matter of duty, and as a fundamental article of their faith, to persecute myself and all other heretics. That they should dislike me, is not a matter of surprise; that men whose confessions I have heard, and who have heard mine, should even dread me, is not to be wondered at. Many of these men deserve (I speak of bishops and priests exclusively) not only public censure, but the gibbet, the dungeon and the gallows. I cannot blame men, under these circumstances, for detesting my very name. They are in my power--they tremble in my presence--and were I to blame them for some degree of opposition and dislike to me, I should be quarrelling with that instinct which teaches the profligate and debauchee to shun the society of a virtuous and upright man. While I live among papists they are naturally afraid that I should lift the veil, which conceals from the eyes of Americans the deformities of Popery. They are in momentary fear that I shall show to their _American converts_, which Bishop Fenwick of Boston says he "is daily making from the first families," the _Old Lady_ of Rome in her _dishabille_. They have long hidden from them her shrivelled, diseased, distorted, and disgusting proportions, and they are unwilling that this painted harlot should be now seen by Americans. This is good policy, and hence much of their opposition to me. A curse seems to have rested upon Rome since its very foundation. Pagan, as well as modern Rome, seemed always to delight in deeds of darkness. We are told in history of a singular practice illustrative of this in ancient Rome. I mention it merely to show the apparent natural fondness of Romanists, ancient as well as modern, for deeds of darkness. It is trifling in itself, and may be deemed, perhaps, irrelevant; but it may be interesting to the historian, whose curiosity extends further than that of theologians or moralists. The ancient Romans were epicures. Some say they were greater gluttons than those of the present day. Poultry, of all kinds, was a favorite dish with them, and how to fatten fowl most expeditiously, became a question of vital importance with the philosophers of the Eternal City. After several experiments, it was found that the best plan was to close up the eyes of geese, turkeys, ducks, and all other kinds of poultry, and, in that condition, cram and stuff them with food. This succeeded admirably. The fowls fattened in less than half the time. It seems that man was always, as well as now, a progressive animal, and accordingly, as soon as Popery fixed its head-quarters at Rome or at Antioch, no matter which for the present, popish bishops commenced a similar experiment upon man. Anxious for his conversion to the infallible church, they determined to close his eyes and compel him to receive from themselves, as so many turkeys and geese would from their feeders, such food as they pleased to give them. They were not to question its quality, but, like so many blinded geese, swallow-all that was given them. The practice continues to the present day in the Romish church; even American converts to Romanism are not to question the quality of the food, or spiritual instructions, which popish priests please to give them. _Blind obedience_ is a necessary article of spiritual diet for a convert to Popery; and whether his priest tells him that he must worship God, the Virgin Mary, St. Peter and St. Paul, or the wafer which he carries in his pocket and calls the body and blood of Christ, he must obey without murmur or inquiry. This unreasonable, unscriptural, and impious doctrine, is inculcated especially in the confessional. No man, not even a papist, dare preach in public such a dogma as blind obedience in anything, or to any man. I have always been instructed, while a Catholic priest, never to intimate in public that the Romish church ever required unconditional submission to her will, unless I was morally certain that all my hearers were by birth and education Roman Catholics; but my orders were positive, and under pain of losing my sacerdotal faculties, never to lose an opportunity of inculcating this in the confessional. There and there alone do Romish priests teach and fasten upon the minds of their penitents all the iniquities which the church of Rome sanctions. If I can satisfy Americans that _Auricular Confession_ is dangerous to their liberties; if I can show them that it is the source and fountain of many, if not all, those treasons, debaucheries, and other evils, which are now flooding this country, I shall feel that I have done an acceptable work, and _some service to the State_. I fear, however, that I shall fail in this; not because what I state is not true, and even admitted to be so, but because Americans seem determined,--I would almost say fated,--to political and moral destruction. For twenty years I have warned them of approaching danger, but their politicians were deaf, and their Protestant theologians remained religiously coiled up in fancied security, overrating their own powers and undervaluing that of Papists. Even though they see and feel, and often blush at the logical triumph, which popish controversialists have gained, and are gaining over them in every intellectual combat in which they engage; yet such is their love of ease or love of money, or something else, that they cannot be roused until the enemy falls upon them with an annihilating force. It is painful to me to see this indifference upon their part. They are better able than I am to contend with Papists. They possess more talents, and have more friends than I have to sustain them. This is the land of their birth. It is not mine, but not the less dear to me. The religion of this country is the religion of their forefathers, and of the Bible; it is peculiarly their duty to defend both. Nothing could induce me to undertake the present work but the universal approbation which my recent book on Popery has received from the journals of the country. I should leave it to be done by Protestant theologians. The notices which my book on Popery received were flattering. They gave me credit for talents, candor, and frankness. But I am in reality entitled to no credit for that book. The utterance of the truths contained in it was a spontaneous emotion. It was, if I may use such language, but the breaking up of some moral iceberg, which for years lay heavily on my soul. It was a sort of inspiration fanned into a blaze by an irresistible consciousness that I had too long neglected a duty which I owed to my adopted country. But I now feel relieved and willing to enlist in the cause of moral and civil rights. The following pages, I apprehend, will appear to some of a rather random and fugitive character. It will be said that much of the matter is irrelevant--that I fly too rapidly from one subject to another. To such men I will say, that they know very little of Romish intellectual tactics. A well trained reverend Romish soldier cares little about the polish of his armor, or whether he aims his blows according to the system of this or that commander. He steps into the battle arena in his lightest armor, and with his sharpest weapon. A Protestant theologian meets him, with a face as solemn as if he was accompanying to the grave all that was dear to him, wearing his heaviest coat of mail, and armed with claymores and battle-axes. While the latter is wasting his strength upon "the desert air," and aiming his harmless blows at every spot but the right one, the Papist goads him to death, and seldom fails to obtain the crown of victory from the spectators. Many Protestants who are in the habit of contending with Papists in this manner will disapprove of this book; but I trust that in differing from them in my mode of warfare with Papists, they will on reflection see that, although they may be right, I am not wrong. I shall, therefore, beg leave to pursue my own course. I will give my ideas to the public just as they strike me, fresh from my own mind, with no regard whatever to style, ornament, or criticism; and I am vain enough to wish that all controversialists, and even all Protestant and Popish writers should pursue a similar course. We should then have more truth in controversy; more soul and more sterling morality in religion. All that is pedantic would be exploded, and truth, fresh and warm from the heart, would be substituted in their place. As I have stated, every crime which the Romish church sanctions, and almost all the immoralities of its members, either originate in Auricular Confession, or have some connection with it In order to explain this to my readers, it will be necessary for me to go back and state the causes which first induced me to doubt the infallibility of the Romish Church. I have been often asked the following questions: Why did you leave the Roman Catholic Church? Before I answer this question, I may well exclaim, in the language of the ancient poet, omitting only one word, "_Oh! nefandum, jubes, renovare dolorem_" But however painful the relation may be--however offensive to the ears of the virtuous and chaste--however disgusting to the pious and moral portion of our community--however at variance with the elegancies and formalities of private life--however heavily such a narrative may fall upon Romish priests and bishops, and however disreputable it may be to Nuns and Nunneries, I will answer the above question so often made. Several causes have contributed to induce me to doubt the infallibility of the Popish church, and to renounce its ministry altogether. Among the first was the following: When quite young and but just emerging from childhood, I became acquainted with a Protestant family living in the neighborhood of my birthplace. It consisted of a mother (a widow lady) and three interesting children, two sons and one daughter. The mother was a widow, a lady of great beauty and rare accomplishments. The husband, who had but recently died, one of the many victims of what is falsely called honor, left her, as he found her, in the possession of a large fortune, and, as far as worldly goods could make her so, in the enjoyment of perfect happiness. But his premature death threw a gloom over her future life, which neither riches nor wealth, nor all worldly comforts combined together, could effectually dissipate. Her only pleasure seemed to be placed in that of her children. They appeared--and I believe they really were--the centre and circumference of her earthly happiness. In the course of time the sons grew up, and their guardian purchased for both, in compliance with their wishes, and to gratify their youthful ambition, commissions in the army. The parting of these children, the breaking up of this fond trio of brothers and sister, was to the widowed mother another source of grief, and tended to concentrate, if possible, more closely all the fond affections of the mother upon her daughter. She became the joy of her heart. Her education while a child was an object of great solicitude, and having a fortune at her command, no expense was spared to render it suitable for that station in life, in which her high connections entitled her to move when she should become of age. The whole family were members of the Protestant church, as the Episcopal church is called in that country. As soon as the sons left home to join their respective regiments, which were then on the continent, the mother and daughter were much alone, so much so, that the fond mother soon discovered that her too great affection for her child and the indulgence given to her were rather impeding than otherwise her education. She accordingly determined to remove her governess, who up to this period was her sole instructress, under the watchful eye of the fond and accomplished mother herself, and send her to a _fashionable school for young ladies_. There was then in the neighborhood, only about twenty miles from this family, a _Nunnery_ of the order of Jesuits. To this nunnery was attached a school superintended by nuns of that order. The school was one of the most fashionable in the country. The nuns who presided over it, were said to be the most accomplished teachers in Europe. The expenses of an education in it were extravagantly high, but not beyond the reach of wealth and fashion. The mother, though a Protestant, and strict and conscientious in the discharge of all the duties of her church, and not without a struggle in parting with her child and consigning her to the charge of Jesuits, yielded in this case to the malign influence of _fashion_, as many a fond mother does even in this our own land of equal rights and far-famed, though mock equality--sent her beautiful daughter, her earthly idol, to the school of these nuns. Let the result speak for itself. Up to the departure of the sons for the army, and this daughter for the nunnery, I had been ever from my infancy acquainted with this family, and had for them the highest respect and warmest attachment. The elder brother was about my own age, and only a few years between the eldest and the youngest child. Soon after the daughter was sent to school, I entered the College of Maynooth as a theological student, and in due time was ordained a Roman Catholic priest by particular _dispensation_, being two years under the canonical age. An interval of some years passed before I had an opportunity of meeting my young friend again; our interview was under peculiar circumstances. I was ordained a Romish priest, and located where she happened to be on a visit. There was a large party given, at which, among many others, I happened to be present; and there meeting with my friend and interchanging the usual courtesies upon such occasions, she--sportively, as I then imagined--asked me whether I would preach her _reception sermon_, as she intended becoming a nun and taking the _white veil_. Not even dreaming of such an event, I replied in the affirmative. I heard no more of the affair for about two months, when I received a note from her designating the chapel, the day and the hour she expected me to preach. I was then but a short time in the ministry, but sufficiently long to know that up to the hour of my commencing to read Popish theology, especially that of _Dens_ and _Antoine de Peccatis_, I knew nothing of the iniquities taught and practised by Romish priests and bishops. On the receipt of my friend's note, a cold chill crept over me; I anticipated, I feared, I trembled, I felt there must be foul play somewhere. However, I went according to promise, preached her reception sermon at the request of the young lady, and with the special approbation of the _Bishop_, whom I had to consult on such occasions. The concourse of people that assembled on this occasion was very great. The interest created by the apparent voluntary retirement from the world of one so young, so wealthy and so beautiful, was intense, and accordingly the chapel in which 1 preached was filled to overflowing with the nobility and fashionables of that section of the country. Many and large were the tears which were shed, when this beautiful young lady cut off her rich and flowing tresses of hair. Reader, have you ever seen the description which Eugene Sue, in his Wandering Jew, gives of the lustrous, luxurious and rich head of hair worn by Charlotte De Cardoville, and shorn from her head by Jesuits, under the pretence that she was insane? If you have not, take the Wandering Jew, turn over its pages till you find it, and you will see a more accurate description of that shorn from the head of the young lady to whom I allude, than I can possibly give. Turn back to the picture given by this same Eugene Sue, of the personal beauty, piety, charity, and many virtues of Mademoiselle De Cardoville, and you will have a correct portrait of this young lady of whom I speak. You may therefore easily judge, from her immolation upon the altar of fanaticism, or, more properly speaking, her personal sacrifice to the idol of Popish and Jesuit lust, the nature of that feeling which such an event must have produced in the mind of every Christian believer. Having no clerical connection with the convent in which she was immured, I had not seen her for three months following. At the expiration of that time, one of the _lay sisters_ of the convent delivered to me a note. I knew it contained something startling. These lay sisters among Jesuits, are spies belonging to that order, but are sometimes bribed by the nuns for certain purposes. As soon as I reached my apartments, I found that my young friend expressed a wish to see me _on something important_. I, of course, lost no time in calling on her, and being a priest, I was immediately admitted; but never have I forgot, nor can I forget, the melancholy picture of lost beauty and fallen humanity, which met my astonished gaze in the person of my once beautiful and virtuous friend. I had been then about eighteen months a Romish priest, and was not without some knowledge of their profligate lives; and therefore I was the better prepared for and could more easily anticipate what was to come. After such preliminary conversation as may be expected upon occasions of this kind, the young lady spoke to me to the following effect, if not literally so. I say _literally_, because so deep, and strong, and lasting was the impression made upon my mind, that I believe I have not forgotten one letter of her words. "I sent for you, my friend, to see you once more before my death. I have insulted my God, and disgraced my family; I am in the _family way_, and I must die." After a good deal of conversation, which it is needless to repeat, I discovered from her confession the parent of this pregnancy, and that the _mother abbess_ of the convent advised her to take medicine which would effect abortion; but that she knew from the lay sister who delivered me the note, and who was a confidential servant in the convent, that the medicine which the mother abbess would give her should contain poison, and that the procuring abortion was a mere pretext. I gave her such advice as I could in the capacity of a Romish priest. I advised her to send for the bishop and consult him. "I cannot do it," said she. "My destroyer is my confessor." I was silent I had no more to say. I was bound by oath to be true to him. In vain did the noble sentiment even of the Pagan occur to me; a sentiment sanctioned almost by inspiration itself. It fled from my mind as smoke before the wind. I was one of the priests of the _infallible church_, and what was honor, what was honesty to me, where the honor of that infallible church was concerned? They were of no account; not worthy the consideration of a Romish priest for a second. The almost heavenly sentiment of the noble Pagan, "_Fiat justitia, mat coelum_," let justice be done even if the heavens were to fall, fled from my mind. I retired, leaving my friend to her fate, but promising, at her request, to return in a fortnight. According to promise, I did return in a fortnight, but the foul deed was done. She was no more. The cold clay contained in its dread embrace all that now remained of that being, which, but a few months before, lived, and moved in all the beauty and symmetry of proportion; and that soul, once pure and spotless as the dew-drop of heaven, ere its contact with the impurities of earth, which a fond mother confided to the care of Jesuit nims, had been driven in its guilt and pollution into the presence of a just but merciful God. All, all, the work of Jesuits and Nuns! This was the first check my Popish enthusiasm met with; and now for the first time did a doubt of the infallibility of the church of Rome enter my mind. After witnessing these events I could not help asking myself, can a church which sanctions and countenances such flagitious iniquities as I have just witnessed, be a Christian church? Can a body of men, who individually practise such deeds of blood, treachery and crime as those which I have seen, be, collectively, _infallible?_ Are these the men whom the Saviour commissioned, in a particular manner, to preach the gospel to every creature? Are these the men, as a body, with whom he promised to be always, even to the consummation of the world? Are these the men who collectively constitute an infallible church? If so, unprofitable indeed has been my life. It is high time to come out from among them; and if I cannot live the life of luxury and ease, of sin and crime which a Romish priest can live, let me, at least, live that of an honorable man, and a useful member of society. These were some of my reflections; and accordingly, that evening, I called on the Right Reverend Protestant bishop of--------, with a view of making a public recantation of my belief in the doctrine of the Roman Catholic church. But as chance would have it, he was out of town that week, and when next I made an effort to see him I found that effort in vain. I had not properly weighed the chains that bound me to Popery. I knew not their length, nor their strength. They were stronger than adamant, than steel. They were chains woven for me, in some measure, by beings that I loved. They were thrown around me and fastened to me by hands that I reverenced. They were the chains of early education. I could not break them; they were too strong for me. The force which alone could do this was the grace of God. This I had not. Until then I went about without faith in the world. I soon fell back, in a measure, into my former belief, but not without a resolution to examine more fully the nature of Popery itself, and the practices of its priests. It is well said, a drowning man will catch at straws. It occurred to me that, perhaps, all the crimes and iniquities committed by popes, priests and bishops, and sanctioned by the church of Rome, might be confined only to the old countries, where "use makes law," and that by leaving the old and coming to the new world, where the people made their own laws, and the human mind had its full swing, and thought is only bounded by its own interminable extent, I might find a different state of things. I fancied, at any rate, that man might worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience, without the interference, let or hindrance, save the inherent power and sovereignty of the people. I little supposed that a pure and enlightened people, such as Americans boast themselves, would sanction such institutions as those in which the young friend of whom I have spoken, lost her virtue, her honor and her life. But alas! how sadly have I been disappointed. Europe is not the only portion of the world that contains legalized Sodoms. Its people are not the only people that support them. Its lawgivers are not the only men, nor its lawmakers the only ones, that make laws for them and give them charters. Its people are not the only people who contribute their time, their lands, their moneys, and who take almost from the necessaries of life, to support monk houses and nunneries, Jesuits and Dominicans. No, no. The new world, the new people, if I may say so, who boast of being the most enlightened people on the face of the earth,--these are the people who, in proportion to their number, contribute most to the support of Popish brothels, modestly called nunneries. But it will be said that the young lady to whom 1 have alluded, has given no evidence of her being virtuous. As far as you tell us, she has made no resistance, and it is scarcely possible that one whom you have placed upon so high a prominence of virtue, could have so suddenly fallen into the depths of vice. This is all very plausible, and naturally to be expected from those who know nothing of _auricular confession_,--a Popish institution, one of the most ingenious devices ever invented by the great enemy of man, for the destruction of the human soul. I am personally acquainted with several respectable Protestant Americans, both male and female, whose ideas of confession in the Romish church have often amused me, though not unaccompanied with feelings of grief and sorrow, at their unacquaintance with this, what may be called mantrap, or rather woman-trap in the Romish church. American Protestants suppose that Popish confession means little more than that public confession of sin, which is made in all Protestant churches, or that which we individually make to Almighty God in our private chambers. Such may well inquire how this apparent sudden fall could have taken place. These inquiries will cease when I state that the young lady became a convert to Popery, and give my readers some idea of what _auricular confession_ is, and how it is made. Every Roman Catholic believes that priests have power to forgive sins, by virtue of which power any crime, however heinous, may be remitted. But in order to effect this, the sinner must confess to a priest each and every sin, whether of thought, word or deed, with all the circumstances leading to it, or following from it; and every priest who hears confessions, is allowed to put such questions as he pleases to his _penitent_, whether male or female, and he or she is bound to answer under pain of _eternal damnation_. It is very difficult, I admit, to suppose that the daughter of a virtuous mother, and that mother a protestant too, brought up in the elegances of life, from her birth, breathing in no other atmosphere than that of the purest domestic morality, should be precipitated, in the short space of a year or two, from a state of unsullied virtue and innocence, to the veriest depth of crime; and it is a melancholy reflection to suppose a state of society, in which, by any combination of human events, the fond mother of a virtuous child could be made the instrument of that child's ruin. Such an event is scarcely possible in the eyes of Protestant Americans, and I feel a pride in believing, from my acquaintance with many of them, that if American mothers were aware of the existence of a society among them, whose object was to demoralize their children, shut out from them the noonday light of the gospel, and ultimately decoy them into the lecherous embraces of Romish priests and Jesuits; they would, to a woman, rise in their appropriate strength, and deliver our land from those legalized Sodoms called nunneries. I will here take the liberty of showing them how the young friend to whom I have alluded, was debauched. The nunnery to which she was sent, as I have heretofore stated, had attached to it a _fashionable school_; all nunneries have such. The nuns who instruct in those schools in Europe, are generally advanced in years, descendants from the first families, and highly accomplished. Most, if not all of them, at an early period of life met with some disappointment or other. One perhaps was the daughter of some decayed noble family, reduced by political revolutions to comparative poverty, and now having nothing but the pride of birth, retired to a convent. She could not work, and she would not beg. Another, perhaps, was disappointed in love; the companion of her own choice was refused to her by some unfeeling, aristocratic parent. No alternative was left but to unite her young person with the remains of some broken-down debauchee of the nobility. She prefers going into a convent with such means as she had in her own right. Another, perhaps, like my young friend,--and this is the case with most of them,--was seduced, by some profligate priest while at school, degraded in her own eyes, unfitted even in her own mind to become the companion of an honorable man; seeing no alternative but death or dishonor, she goes into a convent. These ladies, when properly disciplined by Jesuits and priests, become the best teachers. But before they are allowed to teach, there is no art, no craft, no species of cunning, no refinement in private personal indulgences, or no modes or means of seduction, in which they are not thoroughly initiated; and I may say with safety, and from my own personal knowledge through the confessional, that there is scarcely one of them who has not _been herself debauched by her confessor_. The reader will understand that every nun has a confessor; and here I may as well add, for the truth must be told at once, that every confessor has a concubine, and there are very few of them who have not several. Let any American mother imagine her young daughter among these semi-reverend crones, called nuns, and she will have no difficulty in seeing the possibility of her immediate ruin. When your daughter comes among those women, they pretend to be the happiest set of beings upon earth. They would not exchange their situation for any other this side of heaven. They will pray. So do the devils. They will sing. So will the devils, for aught I know. Their language, their acts, their gestures, their whole conduct while in presence of thee scholars, or their visitors, is irreproachable. The mother abbess, or superior of the convent, who invariably is the deepest in sin of the whole, and who, from her age and long practice, is almost constitutionally a hypocrite, appears in public the most _meek_, the most bland, the most courteous, and the most _humble_ Christian. She is peculiarly attentive to those who have any money in their own right: she tells them they are beautiful, fascinating, that they look like angels, that this world is not a fit residence for them, that they are too good for it, that they ought to become nuns, in order to fit them for a higher and better station in heaven. Nothing more is necessary than to become a Roman Catholic and go to confession. Such is the apparent happiness, cheerfulness, and unalloyed beatitudes of the nuns, that strangers are pleased with them. They invariably make a favorable impression on the minds of their visitors. The inference is that they must be truly pious and really virtuous. I had recently the honor of a conversation with a lady, who is herself one of the most accomplished and elegant women in the country, and who a few weeks previously had paid a visit to the Roman Catholic nunnery at--------, D. C. She spoke of the institution in the highest terms of commendation and was struck with the seeming content and cheerfulness of the lady managers, and could scarcely see why it was not a good place for the education of young ladies; but I will venture the assertion, that had this interesting lady known, as I do, the heartlessness with which crime was committed within its walls, she would fly from it, as from a den of thieves, or a city of plague. A peculiar coldness, a heartlessness not to be found elsewhere, nor under other circumstances, exists in Jesuit convents, to which order that of---------belongs. Nothing like it can be traced out in the records of the world's doings. And had I the talent to point it out,--could I fix it in a position, so as to stand out solitary and alone in its naked deformity, before heaven and before men,--instead of meriting the commendation of the accomplished mothers and daughters of our land, they would soon be left without support, and crumble to dust amid the brutalities which their silent walls alone have witnessed, and would proclaim to the world, had not the inanimate materials of which they are composed forbidden it. When crimes are committed in open day, there is some palliation for them; but when committed in the dark, and in recesses ostensibly dedicated to virtue, they are marked with an atrocity, which God, or man, or woman cannot witness without shudders of horror. Such are those committed in Jesuit nunneries, and by those very Jesuit nuns who appear so happy, and so chaste, not only in the nunnery in--------, but in every nunnery throughout the world. This it will be said, and has often been said, even by Christian mothers and Christian daughters, cannot be. They suppose that a sinner can never be happy, or even appear so. How little these people know of human nature! How perfectly unacquainted they are with the power of discipline, or force of education! Yet it would seem as if they should know better than to conclude hastily, that because nuns are cheerful and happy in appearance, they must be also chaste and virtuous. Many ol our American ladies have been in the East; some of them have been in Constantinople. I believe that one or two have visited the harem of the Emperor of Constantinople, and might have seen there numbers of ladies, accomplished in their own way, covered with crime and sin, yet cheerful and apparently happy. But show me the Christian lady, who ever witnessed this, that will not weep at the bare mention of the fact, that will not sigh for the conversion of the Turk and Mahomedan, who will not mourn the fate of her sisters--for sisters they are of the same family--thus degraded and still content:--all the result of circumstances, education and want of pure religion. But these sympathizers with Turks, Mahomedans and Pagans have not a tear to spare for their sisters of the United States. Not a sigh escapes them for their relief. Not a dollar can they give to remove from our land that accursed thing, Popery--the primary and sole cause of all those evils. On the contrary, if Jesuits want to build a _nunnery_, the husband has no peace from his wife, the father from the daughter, the brother from the sister, the lover from his betrothed, until they make up money to build a nunnery for the _poor nuns_. Well, indeed, may I apply to such individuals the language of the Jesuit Rodin, in the Wandering Jew:--"_Fools, dolts, double dolts_." But Rodin was wrong. He was entirely premature in the use of these expressions; and I am not at all pleased with his depriving me of the opportunity of being first to apply those sweet-sounding terms to American Protestants,--a people who have done, and are still doing, more to merit them, than any other of the past or present age. I find, though I have not the merit of intending it, that I am strictly performing my promise to my readers, viz., that I will go entirely upon my own hook, pay no attention to order, style, or to what critics may say, but give them my ideas at random of things and facts, just as I saw them, and precisely as they struck me at the time. This, I must confess, is rather a Tristramshandish mode of writing, particularly to Americans, who are a most precise, systematic and business people; but it is a free country, and, as the poet said, "_Cur ego invidior si pauca querere possim_" &c. But to return to the causes which induced me to leave the Romish church. The young lady of whom I have spoken in a previous page, was sent to school, as I have stated, to a Popish nunnery. She was a Protestant when she entered; so are many young ladies in this country when they enter similar schools. The nuns immediately set about her _conversion_. The process by which such things are done is sometimes slow, but always sure. It is often tedious, but never fails; though the knowledge European Protestants have of such institutions, renders the process of conversion more tedious than in this land of freedom and Popish humbuggery. The work of her conversion proceeded with the usual success, until she finally joined the Romish church. The next step, in such cases, is to choose a _confessor_. This is done for the young convert by the mother abbess of the nuns; and now commences the ruin of the soul and the body of the hitherto guileless, guiltless scholar, and convert from Protestant _heresy_. She goes to confession; and recollect, American reader, that what I here state is "_Mutata fabula de te ipso narratur_." Every word of what I am about to state is applicable to you. This confession is, literally speaking, nothing but a systematic preparation for her ruin. It is said that there is, among the creeping things of this earth, a certain noxious and destructive animal, called Anaconda. It is recorded of this animal, foul, filthy and ugly as he is, that when he is hungry, and seizes upon an object which he desires to destroy and subsequently devour, he takes it with him carefully to his den, or place of retreat. There, at his ease, unseen and alone with his prey, he is said to cover it over with slime, and then and there swallow it. I now declare, most solemnly and sincerely, that after living twenty-five years in full communion with the Roman Catholic church, and officiating as a Romish priest, hearing confessions, and confessing myself, I know not another reptile in all animal nature so filthy, so much to be shunned, and loathed, and dreaded by females, both married and single, as a Roman Catholic priest, or bishop, who practises the degrading and demoralizing office of _auricular confession_. Let me give American Protestant mothers just a twilight glance at the questions which a Romish priest puts to those females, who go to confession to him, and they will bear in mind that there is no poetry in what I say. It contains no undulations of a roving fancy; there is nothing dreaming, nothing imaginative about it; it is only a part of a drama in which I have acted myself. I may truly say of all that occurs in Popish confession, "_Quorum magna pars fui_." [Illustration: A young lady confessing to a priest p265] The following is as fair a sketch as I can, with due regard to _decency_, give of the questions which a Romish priest puts to a young female, who goes to confession to him. It is, however, but a very brief synopsis. But first let the reader figure to himself, or herself, a young lady, between the age of from twelve to twenty, on her knees, with her lips nearly close pressed to the cheeks of the priest, who, in all probability, is not over twenty-five or thirty years old--for here it is worthy of remark, that these young priests are extremely zealous in the discharge of their sacerdotal duties, especially in hearing confessions, which all Roman Catholics are bound to make under pain of eternal damnation. When priest and penitent are placed in the above attitude, let us suppose the following conversation taking place between them, and unless my readers are more dull of apprehension than I am willing to believe, they will have some idea of the _beauties of Popery_. Confessor. What sins have you committed? Penitent. I don't know any, sir. Con. Are you sure you did nothing wrong? Examine yourself well Pen. Yes; I do recollect that I did wrong I made faces at school at Lucy A. Con. Nothing else? Pen. Yes; I told mother that I hated Lucy A. and that she was an ugly thing. Con. (Scarcely able to suppress a smile in finding the girl perfectly innocent) Have you had any immodest thoughts? Pen. What is that, sir? Con. Have you not been thinking about men? Pen. Why, yes, sir. Con. Are you fond of any of them? Pen. Why, yes; I like cousin A. or R. greatly. Con. Did you ever like to sleep with him? Pen. Oh, no. Con. How long did these thoughts about men continue? Pen. Not very long. Con. Had you these thoughts by day, or by night? Pen. By----!!!!! In this strain does this reptile confessor proceed till his now half-gained prey is filled with ideas and thoughts, to which she has been hitherto a stranger. He tells her that she must come to-morrow again. She accordingly comes, and he gives another twist to the screw, which he has now firmly fixed upon the soul and body of his penitent. Day after day, week after week, and month after month does this hapless girl come to confession, until this wretch has worked up her passions to a tension almost snapping, and then becomes his easy prey. I cannot as I before stated, detail the whole process by which a Romish confessor debauches his victims in the confessional, but if curiosity, or any other motive creates in the public mind a desire to know all the particulars about it, I refer them to Antoine's Moral Theology, which I have read in the college of Maynooth, or to Den's treatise, "De _Peccatis_" which I have read in the same college, and in the same class with _some of the Romish priests now in this country_, hearing confessions perhaps at the moment I write, and debauching their penitents, aye even in New England, the land of the pilgrims! In those books I have mentioned, they will find the obscene questions which are put by priests and bishops of the Romish church, to all women, young and old, married or single; and if any married man, or father, or brother, will, after the perusal of these questions, allow his wife, his daughter, or his sister, ever again to go to confession, I will only say that his ideas of morality are more vague and loose than those of the heathen or the Turk. Christian he should not be called, who permits these deeds in our midst. I beg here to lay before my readers an extract from a work, recently published in Paris, entitled, "Auricular Confession and Direction." The work is written by M. Michelet, one of the most distinguished writers in France. It has been noticed in the last number of the Foreign Quarterly Review, and in that admirably conducted press, the Boston Courier. The following is given as the mysterious opening of the book:!!!!! "The family is in question; 'That home where we would all fain repose, alter so many useless efforts, so many illusions destroyed. 'We return home very wearied--do we find repose there? 'We must not dissimulate--we must frankly confess to ourselves the real state of things. There exists in the bosom of society--in the family circle--a serious dissension, nay, the most serious of all dissensions. 'We may talk with our mothers, our wives or our daughters, on all those matters about which we talk with our acquaintances: on business, on the news of the day, but not at all on matters nearest the heart, on religion, on God, on the soul. 'Take the instant when you would fain find yourself united with your family in one common feeling, in the repose of the evening, round the family table; there, in your home, at your own hearth, venture to utter a word on these matters; your mother sadly shakes her head, your wife contradicts you, your daughter, although silent, disapproves. They are on one side of the table, you on the other, alone. 'It would seem as if in the midst of them, opposite to you, sat an invisible man to contradict what you say.' "The invisible enemy here spoken of, is the priest. The reviewer proceeds!!!!! 'The priest, as confessor, possesses the secret of a woman's soul; he knows every half-formed hope, every dim desire, every thwarted feeling. The priest, as spiritual director, animates that woman with his own ideas, moves her with his own will, fashions her according to his own fancy. And this priest is doomed to celibacy. He is a man, but is bound to pluck from his heart the feelings of a man. If he is without faith, he makes desperate use of his power over those confiding in him. If he is sincerely devout, he has to struggle with his passions, and there is a perilous chance of his being defeated in that struggle. And even should he come off victorious, still the mischief done is incalculable and irreparable. The woman's virtue has been preserved by an accident, by a power extraneous to herself. She was wax in her spiritual director's hands; she has ceased to be a _person_, and is become a _thing_.' "There is something diabolical in the institution of celibacy accompanying confession. Paul Louis Courrier has painted a fearful picture of the priest's position as an unmarried confessor; and as Courrier's works are far less read than they deserve to be, we make no scruple of transferring his powerful sentences to our pages. 'What a life, what a condition is that of our priests'? Love is forbidden them, marriage especially; women are given up to them. They may not have one of their own, and yet live familiarly with all, nay, in the confidential, intimate privity of their hidden actions, of all their thoughts. An innocent girl first hears the priest under her mother's wing; he then calls her to him, speaks alone with her, and is the first to talk of sin to her, before she can have known it. When instructed, she marries; when married, he still confesses and governs her. He has preceded the husband in her affections, and will always maintain himself in them. What she would not venture to confide to her mother, or confess to her husband, he, a priest, must know it, asks it, hears it, and yet shall not be her lover. How could he, indeed? is he not _tonsured?_ He hears whispered in his ear, by a young woman, her faults, passions, desires, weaknesses, receives her sighs without feeling agitated, and he is five-and-twenty! 'To confess a woman! imagine what that is. At the end of the church a species of closet or sentry-box is erected against the wall, where the priest awaits in the evening, after vespers, his young penitent whom he loves, and who knows it; love cannot be concealed from the beloved person. You will stop me there: his character of priest, his education, his vow.... I reply that there is no vow which holds good, that every village _cure_ just come from the seminary, healthy, robust, and vigorous, doubtless loves one of his parishioners. It cannot be otherwise; and if you contest this, I will say more still, and that is, that he loves them _all_, those at least of his own age; out he prefers one, who appears to him, if not more beautiful than the others, more modest and wiser, and whom he would marry; he would make her a virtuous, pious wife, if it were not for the Pope. He sees her daily, and meets her at church or elsewhere, and sitting opposite her in the winter evenings, he imbibes, imprudent man! the poison of her eyes! 'Now, I ask you, when he hears that one coming the next day, and approaching the confessional, and when he recognizes her footsteps, and can say, 'It is she;' what is passing in the mind of the poor confessor? Honesty, duty, wise resolutions, are here of little use, without peculiarly heavenly grace. I will suppose him a saint: unable to fly, he apparently groans, sighs, recommends himself to God; but if he is only a man, he shudders, desires, and already unwillingly, without knowing it, perhaps, he hopes. She arrives, kneels down at his knees, before him whose heart leaps and palpitates. You are young, sir, or you have been so; between ourselves, what do you think of such a situation? Alone most of the time, and having these walls, these vaulted roofs, as sole witnesses, they talk; of what? alas! of all that is not innocent They talk, or rather murmur, in low voice, and their lips approach each other, and their breaths mingle. This lasts for an hour or more, and is often renewed. 'Do not think I invent. This scene takes place such as I describe it; is renewed daily by forty thousand young priests, with as many young girls whom they love, because they are men, whom they confess in this manner, entirely _tete-a-tete_, and visit, because they are priests, and whom they do not marry, because the Pope is opposed to it.' ***** "The priest has the spiritual care of her he loves; her soul is in his hands. He is connected with her by the most sacred ties; his interest in her he disguises to himself under the cloak of spiritual anxiety. He can always quiet the voice of conscience by an equivoque. The mystic language of love is also the mystic language of religion, and what guilt is shrouded under this equivoque, the history of priestcraft may show. _Parler l'amour c'est faire l'amour_, is a profound truth. From the love of God, it is easy to descend to the love of man; especially when this man is a priest, that is to say, a mediator between the woman and God, one who says, 'God hears you through me; through me he will reply.' This man whom she has seen at the altar, and there invested with all the sacred robes and sacred associations of his office; whom she has visited in the confessional, and there laid bare her soul to him; whose visits she has received in her _boudoir_, and there submitted to his direction; this man, whom she worships, is supposed to be an idea, a priest; no one supposing him to be a man, with a man's passions! "M. Michelet's book contains the proofs of what I have just said; but they are too numerous to quote. I shall only borrow from his work the passages he gives from an unexceptionable authority, Llorente." 'Llorente, a contemporary, relates (t. hi., ch. 28. article 2, ed. 1817) that when he was secretary to the Inquisition, a capuchin was brought before that tribunal, who directed a community of _beguines_, and had seduced nearly all of them, by persuading them that they were not leaving the road to perfection. He told each of them in the confessional that he had received from God a singular favor: "Our Lord," he said, "has deigned to show himself to me in the Sacrament, and has said to me, Almost all the souls that thou dost direct here are pleasing to me, but especially such a one, (_the capuchin named her to whom he spoke_.) She is already so perfect, that she has conquered every passion, except carnal desire, which torments her very much. Therefore, wishing virtue to have its reward, and that she should serve me tranquilly, I charge thee to give her a dispensation, but only to be made use of with thee; she need speak of it to no confessor; that would be useless, as with such a dispensation she cannot sin." Out of seventeen _beguines_, of which the community was composed, the intrepid capuchin gave the dispensation to thirteen, who were discreet for some length of time; one of them, however, fell ill, expected to die, and discovered everything, declaring that she had never been able to believe in the dispensation, but that she had profited by it. 'I remember,' said Llorente, 'having said to him: "But, father, is it not astonishing that this singular virtue should have belonged exactly to the thirteen young and handsome ones, and not at all to the other four, who were ugly or old?" He coolly replied, "The Holy Spirit inspires where it listeth." 'The same author, in the same chapter, while reproaching the Protestants with having exaggerated the corruption of confessors, avows that, "In the sixteenth century, the Inquisition had imposed on women the obligation of denouncing guilty confessors, but the denunciations were so numerous, that the penitents were declared dispensed from denouncing."' I should not have laid the above extract before the public, were I not well aware that such is the extraordinary infatuation of Americans on the subject of Popery and confession, that they may suspect my statements of exaggeration. This alone could induce me to give more than my own assertion for the truth of my statements, as no writer upon Popery knows more, or can relate more of _Auricular Confession and Direction_, than I can myself, of my own knowledge, and from my own personal experience. I shall not, however, ask American Protestants to take my naked word for anything which I may say on Popery. I shall substantiate all I assert by proofs from history. The title of Christian land should not be given to this country, nor to any country, which legalizes institutions where deeds of darkness are sanctioned, and the foul debauchers of our youth, of our wives and our sisters, find a shelter. Shall the cowl shelter the adulterous monk in this land of freedom? Are the sons of freemen required to countenance, nay, asked to build impassable walls around a licentious, lecherous, profligate horde of foreign monks and priests, who choose to come among us, and erect little _fortifications_, which they call nunneries, for their protection? Shall they own by law and by charter places where to bury, hidden from the public eye, the victims of their lust, and the murdered offspring of their concupiscence? Beware, Americans! There are bounds, beyond which sinners cannot go. Bear in mind the fact that the same God who can limit the sphere of an individual's crimes, can also limit those of a nation. You have flourished. Take heed lest you begin to decay before you come to full maturity; and I regret to say, that symptoms of this are now apparent. Already can I see the hectic flush of moral consumption upon the fair face of America. Already can I see a demon bird of ill omen plunging its poisoned beak into the very vitals of your national existence, stopping here, and stopping there only to dip his wings in the life streams of your national existence, with the sole view of giving its spread more momentum, until it encompasses the whole length and breadth, centre and circumference of your country. Infidelity is now fast careering and sporting over the whole face of our land, and if history has not deceived us, and our own personal experience has not been vain, it never moves, it never travels, it never exists, unaccompanied by political as well as moral death. Look at ancient Rome, how it fell in its pride! Look at France--how often it has tottered and stumbled in its beauty! Look at England at the present moment,--see how she trembles even in her strength. Think you that all these things were brought about by the causes to which the world would attribute them? What signifies the Texas question in the sight of God? What the Oregon difficulties? what the trade with China? what the repeal brawlings? Such things would have happened if our "mother's cat had but kittened, and we ourselves had ne'er been born." The decay of nations, the fall of thrones, are brought about by infidelity, by national insults to the God of nations, by the sins of the people against the King of glory; and how can this country, deeply steeped as it is, and darkly stained as it is, with the crime of aiding Popery, idolatry, and auricular confession; how can it expect, I repeat the words, that the moral breezes of heaven should breathe upon her, and restore to her again that strong and healthy constitution, which her ancestors have left to her sons? No, no. It cannot be. You must, as the lawyers would say, stand "rectus in _curia_," before your God. Withdraw your countenance and your support from Popery. Touch not the unclean thing. Then, and not until then, can you raise clean hands and pure hearts to the throne of God, and ask for a blessing upon the United States and its territories. But it may be replied, all you say of Popery in the _old_ countries may be true, but it is a different thing altogether in the United States. This is a great error on the part of Americans, and I feel it my duty to correct it if possible. I am not surprised that, Americans should entertain ideas of this kind. I was once partly of that opinion myself, and, as I stated in a former page, I determined to visit this new and free country, in the hope--alas! it was a vain one--of finding true religion, and purity of life, even in the Roman Catholic church. I remember well, having consulted a friend on the propriety of such a course, he strongly dissuaded me from it, assuring me that I would find Popery here essentially the same that it was in Europe, with this difference only, that the crimes and private lives of priests and bishops were more grossly immoral, and, though indirectly, more effectually sanctioned by the laws of the land. This, however, did not satisfy me, and accordingly, having received from my then ecclesiastical superior, what in church parlance is called _an Exeat_, (the document is in my possession, if any one wishes to see it,) or, as American theologians would term it, "a regular dismission" from the church where I officiated, I arrived in New York, in Nov., 18----. But the reader may well judge of my disappointment, when I found, on my arrival there, not altogether such Romish priests and bishops as I had left behind me,--for many of them were gentlemen by birth, and paid some regard to public decency, even in their profligacies; but a set of coarse, vulgar, half educated, I may say, half civilized, Irish and French brutes, most of whom might be seen daily lolling in grog-shops, and electioneering among the lowest dregs of society. I have met but one exception to this, and that was the Reverend Wm. Taylor, who was then in New York. Having stated to Taylor my object in coming over, I shall never forget the sad and sorrowful smile which but dimly lit up his naturally kind and cheerful countenance. "My friend," said he, "all your hopes in coming to this country will be disappointed. You must not stay in this city. Go into the country. Go to Albany; you may there see less of those scenes from which you have fled; and as I perceive your introductions from Europe to De Witt Clinton, are numerous and of the best kind, you will find much pleasure in the society of that excellent gentleman, and make up your mind either to leave this country, or to retire from the Romish church altogether. The latter I will do myself, but not without an effort to correct the abuses of Popery." This effort he has made, as I have stated in my _Synopsis of Popery, as it was and as it is_; but he lacked moral as well as physical courage to carry it through. I lost no time in retiring to Albany. The legislature of the State of New York was then commencing its annual session, and though an entire stranger, so high were my testimonials, both from the Romish bishops, as a priest, and from private individuals, as a man of honor and correct deportment, that I was unanimously elected chaplain to the legislature, without any application on my part for such an appointment. I will not allude to the flattering attentions which were paid to me by the people of Albany, during my residence among them, which was only about six months. The public presses in that city, while I was there, bear witness to the fact. Even the Roman Catholics, some of whom were native Americans, left nothing undone to render me happy. My salary was more than I desired, and more than I wanted of them. As a body, I have no complaint to make against them, so far as money was concerned. Why then, it will be said, did you leave them? This too is a sad tale. But, as some of them are now living, justice even to them demands that I should state the cause which forced me to leave them. The Roman Catholics of Albany had, during about two years previous to my arrival among them, three Irish priests alternately with them, occasionally preaching, but always hearing confessions. I know the names of these men; one of them is dead, the other two living, and now in full communion in the Roman church, still saying mass and hearing confessions. As soon as I got settled in Albany, I had of course to attend to the duty of _auricular confession_, and in less than two months found that those three priests, during the time they were there, were the fathers of between sixty and one hundred children, besides having debauched many who had left the place previous to their confinement. Many of these children were by married women, who were among the most zealous supporters of those vagabond priests, and whose brothers and relatives were ready to wade, if necessary, knee deep in blood for the holy, _immaculate infallible church of Rome_. There is a circumstance connected with this, that renders the conduct of these priests almost frightfully atrocious. There are in many of the Roman Catholic churches, things, as Michelet properly calls them, like sentry-boxes, called confessionals. These are generally situated in the body of the church, and priests hear confessions in them, though the priest and lady penitent are only separated by a sliding board, which can be moved in any direction the confessor pleases, leaving him and the penitent ear to ear, breath to breath, eye to eye, and lip to lip, if he pleases. There were none of these in the Romish church of Albany, and those priests had to hear confessions in the _sacristy_ of the church. This is a small room back of the altar, in which the Eucharist, containing, according to the Romish belief, the real body and blood of Jesus Christ, is kept, while mass is not celebrating in the chapel. This room is always fastened by a lock and key of the best workmanship, and the key kept by the priest day and night. This sacristy, containing the wafer, which the priests blasphemously adore, was used by them as a place to hear confessions, and here they committed habitually those acts of immorality and crime of which I have spoken. These details must be unpleasant to the reader; but not more so than they are to me. I see not, however, any other mode in which I can give Americans anything like a correct idea of that state of society which must be expected in this country, should the period ever arrive when Popery and Popish priests shall be in the ascendant. There are portions of Europe, and of South America, where parents well know that the children, who take their name, whom they are obliged to support, are only their legalized, but not their legitimate offspring; but so entirely brutalized are their feelings and notions of morality by the predominance of Popery among them, that these things are considered matters of little moment. I saw an instance of this very recently at a place called Hailappa, in Mexico. I met there a gentleman, a man of wealth, some distinction, and one who had travelled a good deal. Knowing that I intended leaving the place next day, he said he would introduce me to two Dominican friars, who were going to Vera Cruz, and were to travel in the same stage with me. In the course of conversation I observed to him, that the reputation of Dominican friars and Jesuits for morality, was not good in some parts of Europe which I had visited, and I wished very much to know how it stood in Mexico. He frankly replied, in very good Latin,--a language more familiar to me than the Spanish, or perhaps any other,--"they are not considered as a body very moral men in Mexico, but these reverend gentlemen to whom I will introduce you, bear a high character for morality. They do not trouble their neighbors' wives and daughters; they have for years kept their _female friends_, and provided for their children." "Are they married, sir?" said I; though I of course knew the reverse from the fact of their being priests. "Oh no, sir," replied my Mexican acquaintance; "our _holy church_ does not allow that, but they are _chaste_ men." "What do you mean by chastity?" said I. "Living an _unmarried_ life," answered he promptly. In the course of that evening, I met with a respectable American citizen, a native of New Jersey; I asked him whether he knew these priests, naming them. He told me he did; that one of them kept _three sisters_, the eldest not over twenty-five years old, and that _he had children by each of them_, but was still reputed a good priest, and was, as far as he could discover, one of the best of them. The next day I obtained an introduction to these worthies, and travelled with them to Vera Cruz. They were dressed in their appropriate garb of sanctity, the crown of their heads being shaved close, and bearing marks of sanctimoniousness. It is well known that in the city of Mexico, and throughout that sham republic, Romish priests live habitually and publicly with the mother and daughter at the same time. These are the men, and their code of moral law is that which Americans are fostering and encouraging, by contributing their money to the building of convents and Romish chapels throughout the United States. Previous to my leaving Albany, many overtures were made to me by Roman Catholics to continue among them; but I peremptorily declined. The reader may well imagine the awkwardness of my position, and state of my feelings on this occasion. I could give the people no reason for my leaving them; my lips were sealed, my hands were bound, my voice was silent. I saw many worthy families on the brink of ruin, and I could not put forth a hand to save them. I saw their children almost in the jaws of the lion, but I dared not warn them of their danger. I saw their foes, in the garb of friends and moral guides, leading them into the recesses of guilt and crime, and I dared not utter a warning cry. I knew all in the _confessional_, and of course I was silent. The only resource left me was to leave these scenes, where the occurrences which I have stated had taken place; and I accordingly decided to make another trial of Popery, by proceeding on to Philadelphia, a city which, at that time, was preeminently distinguished for the virtues and morality of its people. I expected that in a community so remarkably distinguished for the observance of all law, human and divine, as the city of Penn was, that even Papist priests and Jesuits might, at least, observe the externals of correct deportment; and, full of better hopes and brighter prospects, I hastened among them, and was received with a cordiality and hospitality truly flattering. Fortunately for this people, they had no bishop for some time previous to my arrival. The diocese was under the superintendence of a Vicar-general, a Jesuit, I think from Switzerland, named De Barth. This reverend gentleman had been settled in the interior of the State; and having there a _housekeeper and some nieces_, to whom he was _attached_, he visited the city of Philadelphia but seldom; owing to this circumstance, and to the fact that three or four friars and one Irish curate, who was in the city, had their own way in everything, the Popish congregation was comparatively quiet. American Protestants knew nothing of their private lives, knew nothing of the plans and schemes which they were laying to entrap their children, by suppressing the reading of the Bible, to perpetuate amongst them the seeds of moral death. Here, at least, I expected to find Popery as I fancied it before I was ordained a priest. Notwithstanding what I had witnessed immediately after my ordination in Europe; and though the death-knell, which announced the departure to the grave of a young and virtuous friend, had scarcely ceased to reverberate in my ears; though the knowledge that a human soul was launched into eternity by Jesuit lust and poison, and that within the walls of a nunnery, was yet fresh in my mind; though all that occurred in Albany, under my own eye, and witnessed by the testimony of my own senses, the one twentieth of which I have not even alluded to; I still expected that I might find Popery what my early education represented to me, or, at least, that I might contribute to render it so, in this free country, by casting to the winds the legends and silly traditions of the Romish holy fathers, and substituting in their place the Word of God. I little thought that there lived a Romish priest or bishop, who, in a land of free thought and noble deeds, such as this was then, would dare prohibit the circulation of the Word of God. I little dreamed that the first opposition I should meet in my efforts to circulate the Bible should be in Philadelphia. Who could even fancy that Papists were so devoid of prudence, or so utterly reckless of consequences, as to proclaim, in the city of Penn, we will have no Bible? Though I knew well that Popery boasts of being always the same, that it never changes, I also knew that the _infallible church_ always yielded to _expediency_; and I thought, as a matter of course, ===that Americans were too courageous, and too virtuous a people, to permit Papists to proceed so far, at that early period of American history, as to close up the fountain and the source even of their political existence as a nation, and consequently that I should meet with no opposition from Papists in any effort which might bear upon the face of it any evidence of my intention to advance the cause of morals. But I was mistaken. Americans were not then free. They are, not free now. They had, it is true, shaken off the yoke of foreign dominion, but even then they were tamely harnessing themselves in stronger chains to a heavier yoke; even then they were passively submitting to the dictation of Rome, and to the insolent bravado of Irish priests and bishops. I repeat it; they were not free then. They made their country free, as we are told by history, but it was not for themselves they made it free. It was done for foreigners; it was done for Papists, for Jesuits, for Dominicans, and their courtesans, Popish nuns. The day is not far distant,--I may not live to see it, nor do I desire to witness it,--when some historian may well apply to Americans that sentence in Virgil, which that beautiful pastoral poet applied to the yoked oxen: "_Sic vos non vobis jujum feratis boves_" Well indeed may this be applied to Americans; they have borne the yoke, they have toiled with it upon their necks in cultivating their fair fields of freedom, but, like the poet's oxen, the crop is not theirs. It belongs to foreign Papists and their _lord_, the Pope, King of Rome. Nor should I be in the least surprised, if, in less than thirty years, that thing called the Host, made of flour and water, and converted, by the mumbling of a few Latin words by a priest, into the God of glory, should be conveyed through that city, under a canopy of satin, supported by Popish priests, and guarded by a file of Popish dragoons, preceded by a trumpeter, announcing its approach, in order that the populace may uncover their heads, and fall upon their knees to adore this god of Popish manufacture. Base idolatry! And history will say of Protestant Americans,--Base people, to tolerate such profanations among you! But, on reflection, why blame Americans? They knew little or nothing of Popery, except from history, and, in some histories, the picture given had two sides to it. One was fair and seductive; the other was stern and true. The former was exhibited with industry and care. It was sought for and gazed at with pleasure. The latter had comparatively but few worldly attractions, had no admirers but the votaries of truth, and, alas! they were but few. Under these circumstances, how were Americans to be blamed? Knowing them well, I cannot become their accuser, but I can, without any disrespect towards them, pity them, and mourn over the delusion under which they labor, even though that delusion should be in part well earned. How, for instance, could it be expected that American Protestants should believe what is related of the capuchin friar by Michelet, whom I have quoted in one of the preceding pages? Can an American Protestant suppose it possible that a Romish priest could _persuade all the nuns_ in a convent that he had a revelation from God, commissioning him, especially, to tell those nuns individually, that it was their duty to have a criminal connexion with himself, under pain of eternal damnation? Such a thing would only excite the risible faculties of an American Protestant; even the male portion of Roman Catholics will not believe such a thing possible. There was a period when I would not believe it myself, and when the idea of a Popish priest seducing a nun, or administering poison to get possession of a man's wife, or his daughter, or his property, was impossible, though history informed me of such things being done in the Romish church; and, had I not become a Roman Catholic priest, and been myself a confessor, I should, until this day, turn a deaf ear to the relation of such facts. I should look upon Popish priests and bishops, who were charged with them, as persecuted men, and probably extend to them that sympathy and support, which Protestant Americans are now doing throughout this country. Were any one to come to me before I was a Romish priest and confessor, and tell me that the Protestant young lady to whom I have so often alluded, should go to a school kept by Popish nuns,--that they would convert her from the religion of her birth, make her a Papist, cause her to go to confession,--that the confessor would seduce her, and that the superior mother abbess would cause her death in trying to procure abortion,--I would not have believed him. I should have looked upon him as some fanatic, or some evil-disposed person, actuated by malice against Romish priests and nunneries; but after becoming a priest myself, and a confessor, I not only believed such a thing possible, but witnessed it. And though I could weep, I could not prevent it, such was the nature of my sacerdotal oath of secresy; such were my obligations to support the Pope and the honor of his _infallible church_. Poisoning is a practice of ancient date in the Romish church: and I tell you, Americans, it is still in full force, and you will taste of its fruits before you are aware of it. Let me give you a well authenticated instance of this. It is related in the fifth volume of Sanuto, an eminent Popish writer. Pope Alexander the Sixth, _graciously_ condescended to inform one of his cardinals, Adrian de Corneto, that he intended to visit him at his vineyard, and that he, the Pope, would bring his supper with him. The cardinal, being himself a priest and a confessor, suspected that the _holy Pope_ intended to poison him, with a view of possessing his fortunes and a lovely _sister_ of his. The cardinal's fortune was great, and the lady in question was beautiful. He well knew his fate, unless something could be done to avert it, and he knew of but one way of doing that. He sent for the Pope's carver, and prevailed upon him to accept and keep, "for his sake," ten thousand ducats, with large sums beside, which he had not then in cash, but which he would have in a short time. "You know," said the cardinal to the carver, "that the Pope has _compassed_ my death by poison at your hand, wherefore, I beseech you, have pity on me, and spare my life." The carver, yielding to compassion, promised to save him, and explained the mode in which the _holy Pope_, the vicegerent of the Lord of Heaven, and, as some Catholics will have it, not only the infallible, but even the impeccable head of the church, intended to put him to death. The carver was instructed by the Pope, to have two boxes of lozenge confectionary prepared, and to present one to himself and the other to the cardinal. That to the cardinal was to contain poison. His _holiness_, the Pope, according to engagement, came to sup with the cardinal at his vineyard, but matters being arranged between the carver and the latter, the poison which the Pope intended for the cardinal was given to himself; he was taken sick and died. This occurrence, which took place centuries ago, though it may appear incredible to many readers of this book, is as well authenticated by history, and is as demonstrable therefrom, as it will be in some future generation, that such a city as Boston, where this book is written, had ever an existence. But it will be said, that such things might have existed in ancient times; that popes might have poisoned cardinals; that cardinals might have poisoned popes, and that popes might have poisonfed each other; that priests might have seduced their _penitents_, and then caused them to be poisoned, to save the honor of the _holy church_; but that no such thing has ever occurred in these United States. Fatal delusion, this; and thrice fatal will its consequences be to you, American Protestants, as well as American Catholics, if you do not give ear to my statements, and full credit to my word and warning, when I tell you that such an event has taken place in the city of Philadelphia, to my own personal knowledge; and that the reverend wretch, who seduced, and subsequently caused to be poisoned, an innocent and virtuous orphan daughter of a worthy American citizen, was a few months ago, and is now, for aught I know, officiating as a Romish priest and confessor in the city of Dublin, Ireland. No wonder, I repeat it, that American Protestants should not believe these things. No wonder that Americans who have joined the Popish church, should not believe them. No wonder that some honorable and high-minded young men in the United States, who have been decoyed by the sophistry, apparent sanctity and _liberality_ of Romish priests, from the faith of their Protestant forefathers, should disbelieve those things, and feel indignant against all who advance such accusations. But let them pause. Let them not be too precipitate in judging of the motives of others. Some of these young men, like myself, in the days of my youth, may take it into their heads to become Romish priests, and, I understand that, even now, there are several of them in Rome preparing to do so. Let them proceed. They will soon find, as I did, that such facts as I here relate, horrible and revolting as they seem, are matters of daily occurrence in the Church of Rome. During every vicissitude in the history of the Popish church; during every fluctuation, and every rise and fall of successive popes; during all the metamorphoses and changes that took place in their lives, and successive pretensions to power, their iniquitous practices were never abandoned. Let us raise the veil which hides the past from our eye; we shall find, if we do not permit ourselves to be misled by faithless historians, that the only thing in which they never differed, was the sanctioning of the crimes of plunder and rapacity for the aggrandizement of the power of Rome, and that murder, rape, and even incest, lost their atrocity when committed by priests and bishops of the _infallible church_, who are her sworn and devoted supporters. The power of the popes has often been shaken, yet they have stood every shock. Their system of policy is such, that they have kept and are keeping the nations of the earth engaged in some civil or ecclesiastical broils among each other, and thus divert their attention from the stealthy march of Papal power amongst them; and while nations are thus engaged, they are enveloping the people in ignorance and darkness, so as to blind them to their own atrocities and crimes. This country is now a fair field for Popish manoeuvring. Rome has seen this for the last twenty years, and has made her preparations accordingly. While this new country was busy in forming her alliances abroad, regulating her commerce, and making her treaties with foreign powers; while she was dividing her states, settling her domestic territorial disputes, regulating their laws, and defining their boundaries; Rome was awake,--her spies were amongst you. They walked carefully round the citadel of your freedom; they saw that it was not sufficiently manned, that it was accessible from many points, and accordingly, they poured into it platoon after platoon, regiment after regiment, of the Pope's troops, until they had sufficient force to take possession whenever they deemed it necessary and they now tell Americans that the Pope is their legitimate sovereign, and that Americans are but the "cowardly sons of cowardly pirates." They even go further; they perpetrate the grossest outrages upon every law, moral and civil, in utter defiance of American jurisprudence. They keep their _nunneries_, or rather seraglios, in the very midst of them, surround them with ramparts, and not only deny to their civil magistrates the right of entrance, but defy them to do so. This every American citizen knows to be a fact; at least, it is known in the city of Boston, where I now write. No one was admitted within the walls of the Ursuline convent, which an indignant populace reduced to ashes, without special permission from the mother abbess,--allowing the nuns within to assume the appearance of decency and propriety before they showed themselves, however flagrant their conduct might have been. Time was given to them and to the priests to assume their usual sanctimoni-appearance; but then all the cells were never seen at the same time. Many were reserved for hidden and criminal purposes, and when some of those nuns were apparently cheerful and happy, leaving on the visitor's mind an impression that nothing but happiness reigned throughout the whole nunnery, there were probably some of them, unseen and unheard by strangers, writhing in the agonies of childbirth. This is no fancy sketch. Read Llorenti's History of the Inquisition, and you will find that the picture I give is far short of the reality. Such was the profligacy of friars and nuns, as Llorenti informs us, in the fifteenth century, that the Pope, from very shame, had to take notice of it. He had to invest the inquisition with special power to take cognizance of the matter. The inquisitors, in obedience to orders from their sovereign Pope, entered immediately upon the discharge of their duties. They issued, through their immediate superior, a general order, commanding all women, nuns and lay sisters, married women and single women, without regard to age, station in life, or any other circumstance, to appear before them and give information, if any they had, against all priests, Jesuits, monks, friars and confessors. The Pope was not fully aware of what he did, when he granted the aforesaid power to the inquisition. He supposed that the licentiousness of his priests did not extend beyond women of ill fame; but in this his _holiness_ was mistaken, as he subsequently discovered. All were obliged to obey the summons of the inquisition. Disobedience was heresy--it was death. The number who made their appearance, to lodge information against the priests and confessors, in the single city of Seville, in Spain, was so great that the taking of depositions occupied twenty notaries for thirty days. The inquisitors, worn out with fatigue, determined on taking a recess, and having done so, they reassembled and devoted thirty days more to the same purpose; but the depositions continued to increase so fast, that they saw no use in continuing them, and they finally resolved to adjourn and quash the inquiry. The city of Seville was found to be one vast area of pollution. But Americans will still say, this occurred in the fifteenth century; no such thing can take place now. The whole social system is different now from what it was then. I tell you again, Americans, that you are mistaken in your inference. Priests, nuns and confessors are the same now that they were then, all over the world. Many of you have visited Paris, and do you not there see, at the present day, a _lying-in hospital_ attached to every nunnery in the city? The same is to be seen in Madrid, and the principal cities of Spain. I have seen them myself in Mexico, and in the city of Dublin, Ireland. And what is the object of those hospitals? It is chiefly to provide for the illicit offspring of priests and nuns, and such other unmarried females as the priests can seduce through the confessional. But it will be said, there are no lying-in hospitals attached to nunneries in this country. True, there are not; but I say, of my own knowledge and from my own experience through the confessional, that it would be well if there were; there would be fewer abortions, there would be fewer infants strangled and murdered. It is not generally known to Americans, that the crime of procuring abortion,--a crime which our laws pronounce to be felony,--is a common every-day crime in Popish nunneries. It is not known to Americans,--but let it henceforward be known to them,--that strangling and putting to death infants, is common in nunneries throughout this country. It is not known that this is done systematically and methodically, according to Popish instructions. The _modus operandi_ is this. The _infallible church_ teaches that without baptism even infants cannot go to heaven. The holy church, not caring much now the aforesaid infants may come into this world, but anxious that they should go from it according to the ritual of the church, insists that the infant shall be baptized. This being done, and its soul being thus fitted for heaven, the mother abbess gently takes between her holy fingers the nostrils of the infant, and in the name of the infallible church consigns it to the care of the Almighty; and I beg here to state, from my own knowledge through the confessional, that the father is, in nearly all cases, the individual who baptizes it; thus literally verifying what Erasmus has said in sheer irony,--"_Patres vacantur et Sepe sunt_." I desire to assert nothing, of a character so frightful and disgusting as this, on my own unsupported authority. I could give numberless instances of the truth of my assertions, but let one suffice. [Illustration: The Mother Abess Strangling the Infant p295] Llorenti, in his History of the Inquisition,--and the reader will bear in mind, that Llorenti is good authority with all Roman Catholics,--relates the following fact. There was among the Carmelite nuns of Lerma, a mother abbess, called mother Agueda. (All the nunneries in the United States have a mother abbess, like the nuns of Lerma.) Agueda was accounted a saint. People came to her, from all the neighboring country, to be cured of their respective diseases. Her mode of curing all diseases was this. She had in her possession a number of small stones, of which she said she was delivered, in all the pains of childbirth. She was delivered of them periodically, for the space of twenty years, according to her own statement and that of her biographer, and by the application of those stones to any diseased person, he was forthwith cured. Rumor, however, got abroad that the _mother abbess_ "was no better than she ought to be," and that, in place of bringing forth stones, she and the other nuns of the convent were bringing forth children for the friars of the Carmelite order, who arranged all her miracles for her, and enabled her for twenty-years to impose upon the public, as the lady prioress of a nunnery and fashionable boarding-school. Whenever she was _confined_ and delivered of a child, the _holy nuns_ strangled it and buried it. All the other nuns did likewise, and probably would have continued to do so to this day, through their successors in office, had not a niece of the mother abbess and _saint_, in a moment of anger, arising from maltreatment, let fall some observations which excited the suspicions of the public authorities. The burying-ground of the nuns was examined, the spot where the strangled infants were buried was pointed out by the niece of the mother abbess, and the bodies found. This fact is as well authenticated, as that such a place as Lerma has had existence, or that such a wretch as Mother Agueda has ever been born; and I will hazard the assertion, that if the burying-grounds of the nunneries in the United States were dug open, hundreds of the bodies of strangled infants, the offspring of nuns and Popish priests, may be found in them, though it is said they have discovered some chemical process, by which the bones, as well as the flesh of infants, are reduced, in a little time, almost to perfect annihilation. Virtuous ladies, into whose hands this book by chance may fall, will exclaim, on reading the above, This cannot be true. I will not believe it. Such a thing is impossible. If even nuns had witnessed such things, however depraved they may be, they would fly from such scenes; or at all events, no _nun_, who has ever been once guilty of such crimes, would commit them a second time.--Here, again, we see how little Americans know of Popery, and of the practices of its priests and nuns. The fact is, Roman Catholic laymen know almost as little of Popery as Protestants. They are not aware, that, when a female goes to confession, she virtually binds herself to answer every question which her confessor proposes, and that the concealment of any thought or deed, which she committed, was a _mortal sin_, sufficient of itself to consign her soul to hell. She believes that the priest sits in the confessional, not as man, but as God. Attend, fellow-citizens, to what I here state to you, and you will easily conceive the possibility, nay, even the probability, nay, even further, the truth of every word I relate to you in relation to the crimes of nuns and priests, within the walls of nunneries. The woman who goes to confession to a priest, whether a nun or a lay-sister, whether married or single, believes, that while in the _sacred tribunal_ of the confessional, he is divested of his humanity, and acts, not as man, but as God. Nothing, then, is easier, if he has the least fancy for the penitent, than to persuade her that he is _divinely_ commissioned to--------. She does not doubt this, and yields to his wishes. There have been instances,--and there are now thousands of them in Europe, and even in this country,--where a priest tells every good-looking woman who goes to confession to him, that it is her duty to have children by him! Be not startled, American husbands. I make not these statements to hurt or outrage your feelings. I make it in compassion for you, and to prevent you, if possible from permitting your wives or your daughters to go in future to these dens of vice, called _confessionals_. I can easily fancy one of you saying to your neighbor, who is also a Roman Catholic, and whose wife, as well as yours, goes to confession,--"Well, Mr. A., I care not what may be said against _our_ priest, or against _auricular confession_. My wife goes regularly to confession, and if she heard or saw anything bad on the part of the priests, I should soon know it. I have no doubt of it, says Mr. B. My wife goes also, and so does my daughter, and I suppose nobody will pretend to say that a priest could do anything wrong to _them_. _They_ know better than to be imposed upon. There is no better woman in the world than _my_ wife; come over and dine with me. My wife just told me that she asked the priest to dine with us, and you must come." I can not only fancy this, but I have seen such meetings. I have seen husbands unsuspiciously and hospitably entertaining the very priest who seduced their wives in the confessional, and was the parent of some of the children who sat at the same table with them, each of the wives unconscious of the other's guilt, and the husbands of both, not even suspecting them. The husband of her who goes to confession has no hold upon her affections. If he claims a right to her confidence, he claims what he can never receive; he claims what she has not to give. She has long since given it to her confessor, and he can never recover it. She looks to her confessor for advice in everything. She may appear to be fond of her husband; it is even possible that she may be so in reality. She may be gentle, meek, and obedient to her husband,--her confessor will advise her to be so; but she will not give him her confidence; she cannot,--that is already in the hands of her confessor. He stands an incarnate fiend between man and wife, mother and daughter. All the ties of domestic happiness and reciprocal duties are thus violated with impunity through the instrumentality of _auricular confession_. Would to God I had never entered that _tribunal_ myself! Would to God it was never in my power to relate as facts what I have now put to paper! But no such happiness was intended for me! It was the will of Providence that I was reserved to witness and relate those deeds of darkness and crime committed under the mask of Popish religion, from which my feelings and disposition shrink with horror. Voltaire, Rousseau, Raynal, Price, Priestley, Paine, Diderot, and others, have done evil by their infidel writings. Evils, great and heavy evils, have been the consequence of their introduction into the United States; but ten-fold greater have been the evils which the introduction of Popery and auricular confession amongst us have brought in their train. The writings of these infidels have in them, it is true, many of the most exceptionable passages, but, as far as we know, their private lives were generally good. Even in their writings, there was much that was good. They advocated the cause of civil liberty; they pleaded, and pleaded strongly and eloquently, the cause of human rights, and the liberties of man. These were redeeming qualities. These were noble doctrines, and nobly pleaded. But what has Popery brought amongst us? What have Popish priests introduced into this country? Idolatry, debauchery in every shape, and of every hue. Yet Americans will cast into the fire the works of those infidels,--they will not allow their children to read them, lest they may corrupt their morals, though the authors are cold in their graves. But they will send them to Popish schools,--they will allow them to drink lessons of depravity from the eyes of licentious nuns, and hear them from the lips of Popish priests. Strange inconsistency, this! Infidels in theory are shunned as plagues, while practical infidels are cherished amongst us. It is well known to Protestants even in the United States, that it is a common practice of Romish priests to seduce females in the _confessional_, and it is, or should be equally well known that these very priests hear the confessions of the very females whom they seduce. It is an article of faith in the Roman Catholic church, that the crimes of a priest do not disqualify him from _forgiving the sins of his penitent_, and hence it is that their opportunities of demoralizing every community, where they are in the ascendant, almost exceed conception. Persuade a woman that if she sins, you can forgive her as thoroughly and effectually as Almighty God could forgive her, and you take away every check from vice. All restraint is removed. The voice of true religion is silenced, and sin prevails. The iniquity of Romish priests in the confessional can scarcely be imagined. There is nothing else like it; it is a thing by itself; there is a chasm between itself and other crimes, which human depravity cannot pass. Could I state them all, as I have known them, my readers would feel themselves almost insulated; an ocean and a sea of wonders, and waters of grief and sadness for fallen humanity would ebb and flow around them. Just fancy an innocent female on her knees before an artful, unbelieving priest! But why is she there? Why does not instinct warn her off? Why does not conscious innocence tell her to fly from him? How often do we thank God that we are endowed with reason? How often do we sing his praises, and glorify his name, because he has "made us a little lower than the angels," giving us reason for our guide, and thus raising us above all things that are created? Would it not appear as if things were not so; as if the God of heaven were more bountiful to the beasts of the field, and the birds of the air, than to man? Would it not appear that the poet was mistaken, when he said, in the fulness of his heart, and depth of his belief in revelation,!!!!! "And to be innocent is nature's wisdom; The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air, Feared soon as seen, and flatters back to shelter; And the young steed recoils upon his haunches The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard. O surer than suspicion's hundred eyes Is that fine sense, which, to the pure in heart, By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness. Reveals the approach of evil." Would it not seem from this that the gift of reason was no bounty in reality to man? as if instinct was something superior to it? Why does not innocence,--native, conscious innocence,--if, in reality, there is such a thing,--teach woman to flee from those incarnate demons, Romish confessors? Why will they entrust themselves, alone and unprotected by father or mother, brother or honorable lover, with these scheming, artful seducers? Why will mothers, married women, go to confession to these men, or why will husbands be such inconceivable dupes as to permit it? Have husbands any idea of the questions which a confessor puts to their wives? They have not even the remotest. Let me give them a few of these questions, and I assure them, as I have more than once done before, that I state nothing but what I know of my own knowledge. The following are a few of them. 1st. Have you been guilty of adultery or fornication, and how often? 2d. Have you desired to commit either, and how often? 3d. Have you ever intended to commit fornication or adultery? 4th. Have you ever taken pleasure in thinking upon these subjects? 5th. Have you dwelt upon them for any length of time? 6th. Have you ever endeavored to excite your own passions? 7th. Have you ever taken indecent liberties with yourself, or with your husband? Does any husband really know that when his wife goes to confession,--and probably she leans on his arm while she is going there,--that the above questions are put to her? Assuredly, he does not. Otherwise, we must suppose him a man of base principles in permitting such a thing. But even should he suspect it, and ask his wife whether they were put to her; should he call upon the priest, and bring him and the wife face to face; should he ask them severally whether such interrogatories were put by the priest to the wife, they will jointly and severally deny it under oath, if required, and in doing this, they both feel justified; or, to speak more correctly and plainly, the priest is laughing in his sleeve, and the wife is his dupe. The reason, however, for the course they pursue, is this. The _infallible_ church teaches, that when a priest is in the confessional, he sits there as God, and not as man; and when he denies under oath that he put such questions, he means that he did not put the questions as man, but as God; and when the penitent is asked whether such questions were put to her, she will say on _oath_ they were not, because it was God, and not man, that asked them. I am well aware that this will appear strange to Americans, but it is not the less true. I have asked such questions, and given such reasons over and over again, while acting as a Romish priest. I have asked them, till my soul sickened with disgust. Every priest in Boston asks those questions daily; there is not a priest in the United States who does not ask them. No, not one,--from Aroostook to Oregon, nor from Maine to Louisiana. Judge, then, of the moral waste and wilderness which Romish priests are effecting by hewing and clearing down everything that blooms or bears the fruit of virtue and holiness. But can such things exist in a civilized country? It is all the result of education,--of bad, vicious, and corrupt education. Let us suppose that a married man has a neighbor whom he believes to be honorable upright, and correct in all his dealings, so much so, that he never had occasion to doubt his word, and would trust him with thousands, nay, millions if he had it. Suppose his wife had the reputation of a good and virtuous woman. Suppose she was considered so by the pious members of her own and every other church in this city. Suppose this individual, to whom I have alluded, should discover that his wife was in the habit of meeting his neighbor very frequently in some retired nook or corner, and holding long and confidential conversation with him,--think you he would not suspect something wrong? Suppose he were to ask his wife what they were talking about, and she should say that he was giving her spiritual counsel,--think you that this would be satisfactory to him? Would he permit those interviews to continue? Surely not. But why distrust the well-known prudence of his wife, and the honor of a man he has known for years? Is it wise in him to suspect a worthy man? It is not only wise, but it is proper. It would even be criminal not to do so. The man who would not forbid these interviews, would be considered a low-spirited wretch, unworthy the society of all honorable men. He would sink even in his own estimation; and how comes it, then, that this very man, so sensitive, so distrustful of the virtue of an honorable neighbor, will permit the same wife to hold _private_ meetings, and _private_ conversations in confessionals and in private rooms, with Romish priests,--strangers, some of them, and foreigners,--notorious for the profligacies of the orders of monks and Jesuits to which they belong, and the countries from which they came. This, I will frankly confess, is a paradox, which my limited powers of ratiocination do not enable me to solve. I will not say that some of those married ladies, who go to confession, are not virtuous women, but I will unhesitatingly say, that many of them have been ruined in the confessional, that they run a fearful risk in going there at all, and as it is truly said, "he that loves the danger, shall perish therein." Let not married men, or married women, who belong to the Roman Catholic church, suppose that I mean to be disrespectful to them in what I have said or what I may say hereafter. The reverse is the fact To them I have no personal enmity, but I have for them the most sincere compassion. I would rescue them, if I could, from those wolves in sheep's clothing, Romish priests. It is my duty to do so as their fellow-citizen, and it is peculiarly incumbent on me to do so, as I feel that I am the only man in the United States, whose personal knowledge of facts fits him for such a task, and whose peculiar circumstances enable him to do so without bias or prejudice. I am aware they will raise a fresh hue and cry against me; Popish priests and bishops will give tongue, and the whole Romish pack, young and old, married and single, widows and maids, will follow in full chorus. They can do no more than they have done. There is scarcely a law of this land which they have not accused me of violating, ever since I presumed to say that the Bible should be circulated among the poor Roman Catholics, and that the holy mother church was not infallible. The accusations against Luther, Zuingle and Calvin, were not greater or much more numerous, than those which Papists have brought against me, month after month, and year after year, ever since I left them. They have indicted me for assault and battery, for disturbing public worship, by which they meant the crime of worshiping God otherwise than the Pope directed. They have indicted me for rape--keep your countenance, reader--those chaste, moral priests of the Romish church have indicted me for rape. Is not that a high idea, Americans?--scarcely anything equal to it to be found in antiquity, except, perhaps it may be in the conduct of Claudius, the Roman emperor, who, like the priests of the Romish church, had a very _great abhorrence_ of everything that was in the least degree unchaste. Claudius, as the reader must know, succeeded the emperor Caligula, and that notorious wag, though elegant poet and satirist, Juvenal, tells us that he was much in the habit of accusing his subjects of the crime of adultery. "Claudius accusat macchos," says Juvenal; whether he spoke ironically or not, those who know the life of Claudius as well as I do the lives of Romish priests, can tell best. But this is not all. They have accused me of robberies, sending and receiving challenges to fight duels, having two wives--I know not but more--at the same time. In all cases, true bills of indictment have been found; Papists appeared before the grand juries in all cases, and swore like true sons of the _infallible church_, and as long as they had no one to contradict them, the holy church triumphed. In this country, however, there happens, as yet, to be no inquisition, and there are several who doubt not only the infallibility of the Romish church, but even the impeccability of some of her beloved children; and hence it happened that all their indictments evaporated into thin air. These Protestant Americans, "cowards," as Papists call them, "and _sons of cowards and pirates_" have no faith in the infallible church, and doubted the veracity of her pious children, even upon oath The consequence was that I am left to write the history of my venerable but guilty mother, the infallible church, and am not without hope that I shall lead her back to the paths of virtue, from which, in very wantonness of crime, idolatry, brutality and wickedness she has long since departed. It would be really amusing to see a correct list of the various accusations which Papists have made against me, with the various names and legal titles which they bore. The infallible church alone could properly classify them. There is euphony in the very sound of them; there is a variety, nothing short of oriental, in them. But to be serious; I never did, nor do I now, fear the persecution of Papists, while in the discharge of a duty which I owe to my Maker and Preserver. I could always say with sincerity and with humble gratitude, and I can say so now:!!!!! "Let then, earth, sea and sky Make war against me! On my heart I show Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try To end my life, that can but end its woe. Is that a death-bed where a Christian dies? Yes! but not his--'t is death itself there dies." But to return to the subject from which I have digressed, without even the formality of taking leave of my reader; married ladies, who are members of the Roman Catholic church, will bear with me a little longer, I cannot consent to leave them without farther warning; and should their husbands and myself ever meet--which probably cannot be, till we meet in heaven--they will thank, in place of blaming me, for cautioning them against the seductive wiles and wicked intrigues of Romish confessors. It is probable the wearisome repetitions in my statements may give the reader a distaste to following them out, and accompanying me through them. It will, I fear, enfeeble the interest, which he might otherwise take in the result. Besides, a higher tone of thought, of literary taste, and intellectual feeling, would undoubtedly be much more pleasant to him. The nature of the subject will not admit of it, and I cannot help, in speaking upon a gross and indelicate subject, doing so in a language as unpalatable to my own taste, as to that of the reader. Besides, I am not master of any other words in the English vocabulary, better calculated to convey to those for whom this book is intended, the full meaning and purport of the statements which I make. There is taught in the Romish church, and it prevails to an extent broad and long as the land we live in, a doctrine which I feel it my duty to explain to Americans, whether they are Protestants or converts to the church of Rome. When I say that it prevails over the extent of this country, I believe I should qualify the assertion, as I know not fully and exclusively of my own knowledge, that American converts to the Romish church are aware that such a doctrine exists; but I know that European Catholic women, especially the Irish, are taught it by their priests, and believe it as firmly as they do that their church is infallible. It is a doctrine frightful even to think upon. I know nothing, in ancient or modern times, in heathen, pagan, or Mahomedan creeds, of equal turpitude. It is calculated to overturn all laws, human and divine. It aims a fatal and deadly blow at the root of the whole social system. It snaps, it shatters, it tears into shreds, every cord that binds community to community, man to man, wife to husband, and child to parent. It is this. Married women, who have no children and never had any, are taught by Romish priests that, in case they have no children, the church has the power of giving them fecundity, and thus enabling them to "comply with the great object of their creation," viz., "to increase and multiply." The holy church, in her wisdom, or rather in her craft and deep knowledge of human nature, knows full well that married ladies, especially those who have property, are often unhappy because they have no children; and the priests, looking upon this as a fine opportunity not only to indulge their own passions but to make money, tell such women, in the confessional, that they have the power, specially delegated to them from Almighty God, of giving them those children for which they are so anxious. I well recollect an instance of this Romish infatuation--this worse than hellish belief. It proved a source of much trouble to myself in after life, and I believe I may partly trace to it the very origin of my difficulties with the Popish priests in this country. While officiating as a Roman Catholic priest in---------, I became acquainted with a Roman Catholic lady and gentleman, of good character and considerable wealth. The husband stood well in society, and so did the wife, and I believe both deserved it. There was but one barrier, to all appearance, in the way of their happiness. They had no children; and having no blood or family alliances in the country, this seemed a source of distress to the wife, though I could not help remarking that they were an extremely fond couple. Not very long after my acquaintance with them, the wife called on me, told me her grievance in not having children, and asked me how much it would cost her to purchase from the church, her interference in the matter and the blessing of having children. I forgot my usual caution. Indignation took the place of policy; I forgot, for a moment, that I was bound to keep the secrets of the Pope and the infallible church, and to defend them both, right or wrong. I replied indignantly, "Madam, you are the dupe of priestcraft. There is no power in the church to countervail the will of God." The lady retired; and I cannot give the reader a better idea of the infatuation of Papist women, or the consummate villany of Romish priests in the confessional, than by relating what followed. She called upon me the day following, stated to me that since she saw me, she called on the reverend Mr.--------, a Franciscan friar, who lived only a few doors from me, and having told him what I said to her, he raised his hands in pious astonishment, and told her that he expected nothing better from me; that he suspected me of _heresy_ for some time past, and had now a proof of it, and that I should be cast out of the pale of the church, as fit society only for the devils; and accordingly in a few months after, this holy friar and the holy Romish bishop of the diocese, solemnly cursed me from the head to the toe-nails, casting me into _hell_ for such damnable heresies. I understand that the lady of whom I have spoken is now blessed with an interesting family of children, and the husband one of the happiest _fathers_ in the world. The friar is an exemplary and reverend servant of the _infallible_ church, still hearing confessions, while I am a wicked heretic, with no human chance of salvation. "_Sic transit gloria mundi_" Thus are the streams of domestic happiness and social life polluted in our very midst by Romish priests; and yet they are encouraged, they are fed, they are sustained, they are received into society by the very men whose wives and daughters they have ruined, and with whose happiness they have sported and gambled. I say sported, because I know of my own knowledge, that nothing affords the reverend young Yahoos of the Romish church, especially those who come from Europe, more pleasure in-their private conversation, than speaking of the _gullible Yankee heretics_, who fancy themselves a match for priests in the infallible church. Could Americans witness the carousals of these infidel and idolatrous priests at their expense, it would have a better effect upon them than all I can say or write; but as time atone can effect this, I must content myself with entreating my fellow-citizens to be upon their guard with Romish bishops and priests, or they will one day rue the consequences. Once more do I find myself far from the path in which I commenced these pages. I intimated to the reader, somewhere in the beginning of this book, that I intended to give my reasons for leaving the Romish church; but it would seem as if I had forgotten it; at any rate, I have as yet but little more than half fulfilled it. I have, however, the satisfaction to believe, that the few I have given, up to the time of my arrival in Philadelphia, are amply sufficient. Fresh proofs have there been given to me, that the Popish church was not infallible, and that I could not, consistently with a correct sense of duty, support her doctrines or countenance the practices of her priests; but, even there, notwithstanding all I had seen and witnessed, such were the prejudices of education, that I still tried to persuade myself that Popery was religion; though I tried to circulate the Scriptures, and believed in the necessity of so doing: during four years that I spent in the college of Maynooth, they formed no portion of the education of the students. It is my firm conviction, that out of the large number of students who received their education there for the ministry, there was not one who read the four gospels through, nor any portion of them, except such as were found in detached passages, in works of controversy between Catholics and Protestants. Until I went to college, I scarcely ever heard of a Bible. I know not of one in any parish in Munster, except it may be a Latin, one, which each priest may or may not have, as he pleased. But I studied closely the holy fathers of the church; so did most of the students. We were taught to rely upon them as our sole guide in morals, and the only correct interpreters of the Bible. A right of private judgment was entirely denied to us, and represented as the source of multifarious errors. The Bible, in fact, we had no veneration for. It was, in truth, but a dead letter in our college; it was a sealed book to us; though there was not an equal number of students who were obliged to study more closely the sayings, the sophistry, the metaphysics and mystic doctrines of those raving dreamers, called holy fathers, many of whom, if now living, would be deemed mad men and dealt with accordingly. I looked back again to those fathers for proofs of the infallibility of the Romish church, and for some evidence to satisfy me that I had no right to the exercise of my private judgment, either in reading or interpreting the Scriptures,--but I looked in vain. The fathers themselves were extremely obscure. I found them often inconsistent and at variance with each other upon many of the _fundamental_ articles, as they are termed, of the Popish creed. On a re-perusal of those fathers, I have found them often contradict each other. Nay, more; such frequently were the theological vagaries of these semi-deranged though well meaning men, that a careful reader will often find the same father contradicting himself. Chrysostom, whom the Papists worship as a saint, and Tertullian, another saint of theirs, flatly contradict themselves. Chrysostom says, in speaking of the _real presence_ in the eucharist that Christ gives himself bodily to be eaten, and that those who receive him, that is, the consecrated wafer, made of flour and water by a priest, may see him, touch him, and if they wish, fix _their teeth in his flesh_. In another place he says, that "the nature of the bread is not changed at all, though it is worthy to be called the Lord's body." Tertullian in one place maintains the same doctrine in relation to the _real presence_, but in another place, he tells us, "that the meaning of the Scripture phrase, _this is my body_, is, _this is the representation_ of my body." If these men were to live now,--if Jerome and Chrysostom and Tertullian were to utter such rhapsodical nonsense, what should we think of them or their followers? Yet the Romish church requires that the present generation shall forfeit all its advantages of education, science, and all the progressive advancement and expansion of intellect, and take the writings of those men as the only correct interpretation of the Word of God. It occurred to me, therefore, on a second perusal of these works, that I should reject them unconditionally. I knew full well, from my intimacy with the Romish church, that it was a maxim with the fathers, and expressly defended by them, as it is now by modern Papists, that "fraud was sometimes justifiable for a holy end, and that falsehoods were valuable auxiliaries to truth!" This doctrine is now avowed, or at least taught in the _confessional_, and in Catholic countries out of the confessional, as well as in every Popish college in the universe. From these I turned to my neglected Bible, and in it I discovered no such maxims as were taught by the holy fathers, and are now inculcated by the priests. I have not found that any of the evangelists ever even intimated "that fraud was justifiable, or that it was ever lawful to do evil that good may come." Apart from all this, it appeared to me not at all unlikely that the inspired men who wrote the Scriptures, knew as well how to convey their own ideas to the world, as the holy fathers or the _infallible_ church did; nor could I see anything heterodox, in supposing that if there was anything unintelligible or obscure in their language, they would leave us some record or note of the fact. They wrote by command, and under the direct inspiration of God; they wrote to instruct and enlighten the world; and with all due deference to the infallible church, and her holy fathers, I think it is fairly to be presumed, that their writings are less obscure, and more entitled to universal credence, than the rhapsodies of fathers and monks, one half of whom were as crazy as so many Millerites. It occurred to me, naturally, as 1 think it would to any man who was not clean daft, that I might, without presumption, invoke the aid of the Holy Spirit, take up the Bible, read it prayerfully, and interpret it honestly, according to the best of my judgment, the opinion of the holy fathers and the infallible church to the contrary notwithstanding. Up to this very moment I was negotiating with the holy church, and the holy church negotiating with me, through Bishop England, of Charleston, and a very reverend divine now in New York, for an arrangement of our _misunderstanding_. But we could not agree. There was now a barrier between us, which I could not pass. It was now with me, not a question of church or salaries, of location or domestic associations. The controversy now between me and the Romish church assumed a grave character: it was now a question with me of light or darkness, of life or death. I might have gone to Rome, fallen upon my knees, kissed the Pope's toe, and obtained the blessing of that poor old man. I might have acknowledged the _holy fathers_ were better authority and were safer guides in matters of faith, and in all things that concerned eternal life, than the holy Scriptures. It was an easy matter for me, so far as human effort was necessary, to cast aside the Bible altogether, and substitute in its place the sayings and opinions of the holy fathers, whose vanity often led them to suppose themselves inspired. Nothing was easier for me than to reject the Bible as a rule of faith, and permit myself to be governed by the babblings of popes and churchmen. This language, perhaps, may be deemed disrespectful, but it is not so. I cannot apprehend how anything I say can be deemed disrespectful, while I confine myself within the limits which the example of South, Jeremy Taylor and others have prescribed. No theologian, no one acquainted with history, sacred or profane, or with the eminent Dr. Robert South, one of the most learned divines of the seventeenth century, would accuse him of any intention to disparage the memory of the early Christians, who deserve to be honored, nor any of the doctrines which they maintained, unless they were universally admitted to be so absurd, that no man of common sense could sustain them. Yet this eminent man, speaking of the doctrine of _transubstantiation_, as taught by Chrysostom and Tertullian, calls it "_the most stupendous piece of nonsense, that ever was owned before a rational world_." Dr. Jeremy Taylor, a distinguished Irish theologian, speaking of transubstantiation, as taught by the holy fathers, says, "_By this doctrine, the same thing stays in a place and goes away from it; it removes from itself and yet abides close by itself and in itself and out of itself; it is brought from heaven to earth, and yet is nowhere in the way, nor ever stirs out of heaven. It makes a thing contained bigger than that which contains it, and all Christ's body to go into a part of the body; his whole head into his own mouth, if he did eat the eucharist, as it is probable that he did., and certain that he might have done._" But the real presence of the body and blood of Jesus Christ was not the only nonsense which these holy fathers taught. They believed largely in the doctrine of miracles. Ambrose, who was Bishop of Milan about the year 350, has been always, and is now, considered by the Popish church one of her best authorities. Papists tell us, that while he lay an infant in his cradle, a swarm of bees settled upon his lips as a presage of his future eloquence; and I believe it is generally admit ted, that if any of the fathers quoted by Papists is good authority in matters of faith, he is among the best. During my doubts whether I should take the fathers of the Romish church, or the holy Bible for my guide, I was led especially to the examination of the doctrines maintained by St. Ambrose and those taught in the Bible, and never before did I see that common, though vulgar saying, "comparisons are odious," more strictly fulfilled. I will take one, for example. Among the many rhapsodies taught by St. Ambrose, a belief in Popish miracles was the most prominent He taught, as I have stated above, that the wafer which a Romish priest gives to a communicant, was the solid _flesh_ of Christ, and so solid, that he who received it might _stick his teeth into the flesh_. The following is another specimen of the miracles in which he believed. The Empress Justina asked St. Ambrose for one of the Romish churches for the use of the Arian sect. He refused her, and was then about to consecrate that sumptuous basilic, afterwards called St. Ambrose's church. The people, as we are told, were anxious to deposit in the edifice the relics of some martyr,--relics were used by the holy father Ambrose then, as they are now by Popish priests,--to cure all diseases. The people insisted upon having them, and accordingly the holy father promised that they should be procured. Paulinus and Augustine tell us that "he was favored with a vision of two martyrs, who were never before heard of, named Gervusius and Protusius, who, hearing in heaven of the holy father's design to build a Popish church, instantly fled from their place of repose, and told him that they were murdered by infidel heretics in such a place, and on such a day; that if he would send men with spades and shovels to the place designated, they would find their bones, and to have them removed and deposited in the new church." The holy saint, in compliance with this glorious information, which he received in a vision, sent a number of men with spades, shovels, pickaxes, &c., and they soon found the "bodies of two men of wonderful stature." The heads were separate from the bodies, and the ground all round was soaked with blood. I use the language of the holy fathers themselves, translated into English, which, considering that all the flesh had already disappeared, may be considered a complication of miracles, unless it can be supposed, as the relator wickedly observes, "that it may be new created." As the workmen proceeded down towards the martyrs' resting-place, "their skeletons began to bestir themselves in such powerful sort, that an urn was thrown with violence from its pedestal, and rolled to the sacred spot; and some of the _possessed_, who had been brought upon such a promising occasion to be exorcised, began to howl and scream in the most lamentable ways, thus giving attestation to the power of glorious martyrs." "The relics, blood and bones were carefully removed to the new basilica, and on the road many miracles were wrought on diseased persons, who were so happy as to touch them; such was their virtue, that even to touch the pall which covered them was sufficient." Among others, a butcher, who had been a long time blind, was restored to sight. The blood of these martyrs was worked up into paste, and distributed all over Christendom, as an antidote against all diseases. The writings of the _holy_ fathers abound with legends of this kind. We are told by them, that one of the Romish saints in Egypt, named Apia Till, suffered martyrdom, after being cut to pieces ten times each day, for ten successive days, by the tyrant, Maximin, and was every night put together by the angel Gabriel. Another tells us, that he has a bottle in which are corked up carefully some of the "rays of the star of Bethlehem, handed down to posterity by one of the wise men who went in search of the new-born Saviour." Another of those _infallible_ lunatics tells us, "that he has sealed up in perfect preservation some of the sounds of the bells used at Solomon's Temple." Among the innumerable miracles in which the holy fathers of the Romish church believed, or pretended to believe, there are some so ridiculously incredible, that humanity itself, in the lowest depths of degradation, into which it has fallen, blushes at their repetition. It is gravely related by a Roman Catholic divine,--and no Roman Catholic in the United States disbelieves it,--that the sacrament of the _Eucharist_, or, to make it more intelligible to my readers, the wafer which the priest gives to the sick, and elevates to the people while saying mass, was conveyed into a bee-hive. In all probability, it dropped out of the pocket of some priest. The bees were found dead, and in the midst of them the wafer became an infant Christ, looking like other infants, but more beautiful. (See Peter Cluniac, first book, first chapter.) It is related by another Romish writer, that a hive of bees was once heard singing most harmoniously. A devout priest, passing by, happened to look in, and saw among them the holy sacrament of the Eucharist, to which they were singing glory and praise. There is scarcely an American traveller, of any note, who has not visited Naples. There are now in that city of worse than Pagan idolatry, some of those _converts_, which Bishop Penwick says he has made from the "_most_ respectable Protestant families in Boston." The bishop was right in one thing. The families to which he alluded, are highly and deservedly respectable; their children are respectable, and these parents can have no objection that I should appeal to them for the truth of any assertion I make. I appeal to those _American converts_ now in Italy, whether it is not believed there, that Saint Januarius, on a certain day, is invoked to be "propitious to the people." During this invocation, in which the whole city, and thousands upon thousands from the neighboring country, unite, certain ceremonies are performed, bells are rung, every one goes to _confession_, masses are said, incense offered, _holy water_ is sprinkled profusely, beads are counted relics are kissed, and when all this is over, a priest comes forth from the sacristy of the church, preceded and followed by an immense train of boys, bearing lights, &c., &c. The priest holds in his hand some of the _blood_ of St. Januarius, formed into a hard _crust_. He calls upon the saint to be _propitious_, and to grant his prayer. If the saint is willing to be _propitious_, the crust of the saint's blood, which the priest holds in his hand, bubbles into a red liquid. For a true account of this, I refer the general reader to Dr. Moore's Tour. The doctor was the father of Sir John Moore, and was an eye-witness of this mummery; but I will refer those _respectable Protest-ant families_, from whom the Jesuit Bishop Fenwick says he has made so many converts, to their own children, now in Naples, and who have been seduced by these arrant and designing knaves,--Popish priests and bishops,--to abandon their homes, their country, and their civil rights, and give them in exchange for such degrading mummeries as they are now witnessing in Italy. Their children will tell them that what I state is correct. Let these parents reflect, that probably they themselves are the cause of the errors into which their children have been decoyed. It was recently observed by an eminent divine of Boston, that the great prosperity of this country may be the cause of the many evils which threaten our people. The sentiment appears strange to many, but the eloquent gentleman was right. The downfall of nations might always be traced to their superabundant wealth and prosperity. The same may be applied to individuals. Reader, did you ever see infidelity in a cottage? Never, where the Bible has found its way. Misery you will find there, but that you will find in palaces. The poor love the name and the religion of Christ. The puritan fathers of the nabobs of this land loved them, and they had reason to do so. To religion and to the Bible they are indebted for all their worldly comfort, their liberty, and their civil rights; and the parents who permit their children to be seduced from their tender care by Jesuits, notorious for centuries for nothing but fraud, deception, seduction and avarice, have a long account to settle with their Eternal Master. Let them take heed, lest their wealth be the cause of the temporal and spiritual poverty of their beloved children. Be not startled, reader, if I inform you that a miracle, more incredible than that of the blood of Januarius, has been wrought in these United States only a few years ago, if we are to believe a Roman Catholic bishop, who was reputed to be one of the most talented men in the Romish church. Who is it, that does not recollect the notorious Prince Hohenloe, who, a few years ago, played so many "fantastic tricks before high Heaven," and who, if we are correctly informed by his Popish biographers, wrought more miracles in one month, than the Saviour of mankind did during the whole course of his ministerial life? It appears that the Popish priests and nuns of the United States have been for several years expecting, or, at least, pretending to expect, some miraculous evidence of divine favor in their behalf. The nuns and _sisters of charity_ in the convents of Emmetsburg and Georgetown felt jealous that their _brothers_ and _sisters_ in Europe should be empowered to work and witness miracles almost daily, and thereby enrich their convents, while they themselves had not a single miracle among them,--at least, of their own manufacture. Up to that time, as far as I know, no miracle was performed or witnessed by Popish nuns and lay sisters in the United States. This was deemed a serious calamity. It was even a loss of revenue, and this the priests and nuns knew full well. Something must be done; revenue must be had from some source; and the unprincipled priests and bishops of this country, understanding well the weaknesses and imperfections of humanity, knowing that human nature is the same in all nations and among all people, and seeing the vast benefits, which, in a pecuniary point of view, their church derived from the belief of their people in miracles, resolved to try an experiment, upon a small scale, upon _brother Jonathan_. Accordingly, about the year 1828, when _St. Hohenloe_ was in all his glory, his _divine_ power shining in full blaze, the bishops and priests of the Roman Catholic church resolved upon having a miracle of their own, instanter. The following was their modus operandi: A _lay sister_ in the nunnery of Emmetsburg or Georgetown, I forget which, was taken ill. She bore her indisposition, which was attended with _excruciating pains?--"risum tenia tis"--with angelic resignation_. The best medical aid was always at hand, but she grew worse and worse every day, until her case became hopeless. Her recovery was pronounced impossible. Medical aid could do no more; her whole time was devoted to prayer; but,--_miribile dictu_,--one night, as she lay in momentary expectation of death, the spirit of Prince Hohenloe paid her a visit, bid her be of good cheer, and directed her to have _mass_ said for her in her room on a certain day, and at a certain hour,--naming both,--and that, when the priest raised up the wafer at mass, she should look at it, and would see the infant Saviour in his hands, body and blood, soul and divinity, and in shape and form like other infants. She communicated this visit from the saint to her _confessor_. He, as is usual in these cases, did not believe it at first; but the saint visited him, too, and reprimanded him for his incredulity. Bishop England, of Charleston, was immediately sent for. The circumstance of the saint's visit was related to him; he pretended to disbelieve it also for a while, but was finally convinced of its truth, and consented to say mass on the appointed day and hour in the lay sister's sick room, and, almost incredible to relate, this Bishop England, a man of talent, and a man of sense, though the slave of the Pope of Rome, touches in a letter to the public, through the _Catholic Miscellany,_ which he himself then edited, that the whole of this lay sister's falderal was true,--that the saint visited her,--that he said mass according to his instructions, and that she saw in his hands, not a little wafer, made of flour and water, but a full grown infant, in all the natural proportions of humanity. I regret extremely that I have not the Catholic Miscellany, containing an account of this transaction by Bishop England himself, as it is hardly to be expected that Americans can otherwise believe it; but undoubtedly Bishop Hughs, of New York, and Bishop Fenwick, of Boston, must have files of the Miscellany, containing an account of this miraculous event. Is this not enough of itself to deter any man, endowed with the faculty of reason, from holding any communion whatever with Roman Catholic bishops and priests? A degradation of the understanding like this, and among a people like ours, cannot exist, unaccompanied with depravity of heart. The intellect cannot be darkened, when the heart is pure and bright, and such a heart cannot be possessed by a Papist who remains so after a thorough knowledge of Popish iniquities, which all priests and bishops are supposed to have. I declare it as my solemn conviction, and from my perfect knowledge of Popery, that a thoroughly educated Popish priest, I mean thoroughly educated in Popery, can no longer retain the image of the Deity, which the God of nature has stamped upon every created mind, undefiled or undebased, while he has any connection with the church of Rome. That church is and ever has been the curse of the earth, the scourge of all good governments, and the greatest obstacle to the Divine Will. Under this conviction, I have addressed myself to the public in this book. Under this conviction I have taken the liberty of appealing to Protestant families, and cautioning them against the intrigues of priests. It was this conviction that induced me to disregard that ancient aphorism which says, "If the people will be deceived, let them be deceived." I felt that the people had no chance * to escape deception, unless the truth were known and fairly explained to them. When dust is thrown into the eyes of the people, or even into those of private families, it is the duty of every man, and mine as well as that of others, to remove and clear it away; otherwise, I should be undeserving of the blessings and privileges secured to me by the laws of this country. Could I rest supinely and see a body of men prevail by artifice, who hate the very name of liberty, without resisting them as far as in me lay, I should be acting criminally. It is bad enough to tolerate amongst us miracle-mongers and convicted idolaters; but to allow them to continue in the practice and propagation of such deeds, without warning our people and cautioning them against being drawn into the whirlpool of Popish corruption, which now foams and boils and bubbles over our land, would show in me an ingratitude towards this country, to which I owe everything I am, and which gives me as good a right as others to expect much more. It is strange that we should have amongst us a society called Puseyites, who believe as firmly as Papists do in the long-exploded doctrine of miracles,--a doctrine upon which age after age has pronounced an unqualified verdict of censure and reprobation. Yet so it is. Allow me to give you an example of the long list of miracles in which they believe. "Sixty confessors were made prisoners by Humeric, the tyrant king of the African Vandals, in the 4th century. He ordered their tongues to be cut out, even to the roots, inclusively; but notwithstanding this loss of their tongues, roots and all, they lived many years after, and spoke more plainly than ever." The reverend Mr. Ward, a distinguished friend of Puseyism, now living in England, and looked upon by the Puseyites in the United States as one of the most able advocates of their wild doctrine, assures us with great gravity, and on the authority of the holy fathers of the middle ages, that the above fact is true, and as much entitled to credit as anything related in the holy Scriptures. He even tells us that "to attribute anything like idolatry, or anything approaching it, to such men as related the above and similar facts, was a _fearful approximation to blasphemy against the Holy Ghost_." The Mr. Ward to whom I allude is well known to many literary men in this country, as the author of a work recently published, and called _Wards Ideal of a Christian Church_, The name of the work is assuredly an appropriate one. His church must be ideal indeed. It is something invisible, intangible, hitherto unknown and never heard of before. either in scriptural or church history; and where he found the materials, out of which he formed this ideal of a Christian church, must be known only to himself. But Mr. Ward is a philosopher,--so say the Puseyites,--and philosophers now-a-days have some strange dreams. They had such in all times and in all ages of the Christian, as well as the heathen world. "Oh! there is a husk and shell, Yorick, which grows up with learning, which their un-skilfulness knows not how to fling away. Sciences may be learned by rote, said my father to Yorick. Yorick thought my father inspired." Whether Puseyites think Mr. Ward inspired or not, I am at a loss to know; nor am I a judge; but that he is a philosopher, is beyond doubt. Nor do I feel the least hesitancy in saying that he will have, one day or another, his name inscribed in the same niche, and his ashes rest in the same urn, with such distinguished men as Joe Smith, Hiram Smith and O. Brownson, all conspicuously eminent philosophers. The fact of my not understanding one word these eminent philosophers have uttered, is no argument against their ideal churches, or their ideal theories. "I will enter into obligations this moment, said my father, to lay out all my Aunt Dinah's legacy in charitable uses, if the corporal has any one determinate idea, annexed to any one word he has repeated." Thus spoke the learned author of the Tristrapedia to Trim; but it by no means followed, that Trim was not a philosopher, no more than it does that Mr. Ward and other Puseyite doctors are not philosophers, though not one of them has any one determinate idea annexed to any one word they have said or written. Thrice honored, then, be Monks, Mormonites, Millerites and Brownsonites. All will have their day, and so will common sense. I am apprehensive that some will accuse me of levity in my manner of alluding to Puseyism. Others will say that I should have mentioned no names, or, if I did, I should have treated them with respect and kindness. Far be it from me to treat a grave subject lightly; but when I see the whole Christian world represented as profligate and the Popish world alone represented as sinless and pure, by the authors of Puseyism, I can scarcely treat such a false representation and perversion of truth otherwise than with contempt and irony; and when I bring before the public the names of some of the individuals who have merited this, by exhibiting themselves as the authors and abettors of these gross outrages upon all that is sacred among men and among nations, I only do them justice. Are acts alone, and not their consequences, to be noticed? Are we to take cognizance of effects, and pass by in silence their causes? Are we to wage a seven years' war against Ward's _Ideal of a Christian Church_, and against other ideals of moonstricken dreamers, and say not a word of the dreamers themselves, or the consequences that follow from them? Suppose we had here in Boston, or New York, the hydrophobia; suppose a citizen were in pursuit of the mad dog which introduced it; would any of my readers say to the citizen, never mind the dog, let him go but take care of the hydrophobia? Assuredly not the name, the color, the appearance of the dog, and the symptoms of his madness, should be proclaimed to the public, lest he might scatter the hydrophobia still further amongst them. Suppose an incendiary was seen on the streets of one of our large and populous cities, say, for instance, Boston or New York, and that our police officers were in pursuit of him; let us fancy a crowd of sympathizers interfering and saying to the officers, let that man alone; pursue him no farther; do not even mention that he is an incendiary; it may be the cause of sending him to gaol, or, perhaps, to the state prison for life; say nothing to any one against him,--but take care of fires. See well to it that the city is not burned. What, under these circumstances would be thought of the sympathizers? Who would feel for them if the city was reduced to ashes? Who would feel for them if their homes were rendered desolate, and their wives and children made houseless. I would not check the generous or natural flow of human sympathy, but I do not know that I should do wrong in saying, that such men deserved no commiseration. Under these circumstances, why should I be accused of treating a grave subject lightly or ironically? Never did the witty Lord Shaftsbury utter a plainer truth than when he said, that ridicule is one of those principal lights or natural mediums by which things are to be viewed, in order to a thorough recognition. I am aware that there are many objections to the use of ridicule and irony, in speaking on grave subjects; but, as Fielding very properly observes, there can be no objection to making use of its assistance in expelling and banishing all falsehood and imposture when once fairly detected; and as this method is for my present purpose unexceptionable, I think it will also prove efficacious. Having perused the dreams, or, if the reader prefers it, opinions of the holy fathers, and taken a glance at those of a new sect amongst us called Puseyites,--which is but another name for Popery,--I could see no reason why I should believe them of higher authority than the Scriptures, or why I should not prefer the latter for my rule of faith. The holy fathers of the church of Rome, and her unbaptized children, Puseyites, seem to me of equal authority. I say unbaptized, because I know not that their reputed parents, the Pope and his spouse, the church of Rome, ever thought of such a thing as Puseyite. I am rather inclined to think that the venerable couple are, up to this moment, unconscious of having any paternity whatever in Puseyism. At any rate, their holy fathers, such as Mr. Ward, Newman and others, appear to me as _demented and clean daft_ as any that ever existed in the middle ages. The "Knight of Cervantes," as a late number of the London Quarterly expresses it, "never abandoned himself to delirious musings, on the faded glories of chivalry, more madly than these sentimentalists to visions of Popish powers, and the glories of the saints." The Bible was with them a matter of minor consideration. I knew by experience that it was so; and I know that it is so at the present day, with every priest and bishop of the Romish church. I was aware then, as I am now, that it was perfectly useless to attempt reasoning with them, and I had, of course, no alternative left but to cast from me their writings and doctrines, as the veriest trash that ever was written, and seek from the Bible, the fountain of truth, instructions for my future life. I looked upon the majority of the holy fathers either as notorious blockheads or dishonest knaves. There is no alternative. There is not even a medium. But to return to the subject, from which I have so widely, though unconsciously deviated. Soon after my arrival in Philadelphia, I became acquainted with a Protestant family. I had the pleasure of dining occasionally with them, and could not help noticing a seemingly delicate young man who waited at the table. There was something in the countenance and whole appearance of this individual which struck me as singular. I could see no indication of positive wickedness or signal depravity in the external configuration of the young man's head. The expression of the eye indicated meekness, humility, and habitual obedience, rather than anything else; but I could see, nevertheless, in the closely-compressed lips and furtive glance, which I could only occasionally catch,--and even then by a sort of stealth,--something that puzzled me. I know not why, but I could not like him. There was no cause, as far as I could see, why I should dislike the young man. Constitutionally, I was myself rather fearless than otherwise. I cannot recollect that, with equal means of defence, I ever before feared any one, I do not desire to be considered a braggadocio, nor do I make this assertion with any such view. I have not in my composition,--if I know myself,--a single particle of bravery, neither do I covet its possession. I have often seen men of bravery tremble at the roaring of a lion, caged up and strongly chained in a menagerie. I have often seen and heard a brave man whistle as he passed through a church-yard; a brave man will shudder and quail at the very sight of his own shadow. A bully, a cut throat, a highway robber, a Jesuit, or a traitor, may be brave; conspirators against the peace and prosperity of their country may be, and have been, brave men. I desire not to belong to this class; but I desire sincerely to merit the high distinction of being considered a man of courage. To this class all sincere Christians belong. To this class all who were distinguished for virtue and morality, even among the heathens, belonged. Witness the conduct of Cicero. He sought to shelter himself against the violent assaults and personal attacks of the conspirator Catiline; he wished no unnecessary, uncalled-for collision with this blood-thirsty villain, when no good could follow, and his duty did not require it. But when the good of his country demanded it, and the voice of conscience called upon him, Cicero came forth, alone, and met the conspirator, Catiline, in the presence of the whole senate of Rome, and charged him, face to face, with his crimes, his treason, and his conspiracy. Cicero was not a brave man, according to the acceptation of the word bravery among the assassins and stiletto-bearers of his day, nor would he be considered so in the acceptation of the word among the brawling _repealers_ O'Connellites, traitors and conspirators of the present day; but he was a man of courage. There is a wide difference between a brave man, and a man of courage. A brave man may stand at the mouth of the cannon, while under the influence of some animal emotion, and quail even at an imaginary danger; but a courageous man smiles at all such things, and calmly prepares, and is always ready to meet those that are real. A man may be brave, and fear the whistling of the wind; but a courageous man fears nothing, not even the whistling of the cannon's ball. Luther was not a brave man, in the modern acceptation of that term. He rushed not among his foes; they hunted him like a wild beast, but they turned him not from his path. He met them face to face. He unfurled the standard of Christianity; he took his stand, and met them, and fought them under that glorious banner. He was not brave, but he was a man of courage. These are the men I should like to imitate, and their courage,--"_Sic magna com parvis componere solebam_"--is that which Popish priests and Jesuits, traitors to their God and this country of my adoption, will find I possess, as far as my limited powers of mind or body will permit. Cicero looked Catiline in the face, and told him he was a conspirator and a traitor. Luther looked the miracle and indulgence mongers of Germany in the face, and told them they were base idolaters; and I tell the minions of the Pope in the United States, that they are worthless idolaters, traitors and conspirators against the peace of this country, and that their sovereign lord, the Pope of Rome, should be made to feel that his bulls and insolent interference in the affairs of the United States, shall soon meet that chastisement which is due to treason and its abettors. But to return. I could never find the eye of this man fixed upon me without an involuntary feeling of dread. I met him often in the streets; he always seemed neat and tidy in his person; he was civil and respectful in his deportment; never seemed to forget that society had its grades, and that circumstances had clearly designated his own. With that he seemed well contented; never, as far as I could see, seeming to feel the least desire of intruding upon that of others. This being rather a rare case in the United States, twenty years ago, at any rate, when it was difficult to get servants who knew their places, struck me as another singular feature in his manner and character, and did not at all tend to remove the unpleasant impressions which his appearance made upon my mind. Not long after this, a messenger called at my rooms to say that "Theodore------" was taken ill, and wished to see me. I was then officiating as a Romish priest, and calling to see him, was shown up stairs to the door of a garret room, into which, after a loud rap and announcing my name, I was admitted to the sick young man. He had returned to his bed before I entered, and was wrapped in a large overcloak. I asked him whether he wanted to see me, and for what purpose. He deliberately turned out of his bed, locked the door again, very respectfully handed me a chair, and asked me to sit down, as he had something very important to tell me. He wrapped himself again in his cloak, lay on the outside of the bed, and spoke to me in a firm, decided tone to the following effect: "Sir, you have taken me for a young man, but you are mistaken. I am a girl, but not so young as 1 appeared to you in my boy's dress. I sent for you, because I want to get a _character_, and confess to you before I leave the city." I answered, "You must explain yourself more fully before you do either." I moved my chair further from the bed, and tightened my grasp upon a sword-cane which I carried in my hand. "Feel no alarm," said this now young woman; "I am as well armed as you are,"--taking from under her jacket an elegant poignard,--"I will not hurt you. I am a _lay sister_ belonging to the order of Jesuits in Stonyhurst, England, and I wear this dagger to protect myself." There was no longer any mystery in the matter. I knew now where I was, and the character of the being that stood before me. I discovered from her that she arrived in New. Orleans, some time previous, with all necessary recommendations to the priests and nuns of that city. She had the necessary "Shibboleth" from the Jesuits of Stonyhurst, to their brothers and sisters, who were then, and are now, numerous in that city. They received her with all due caution, as far as could be seen by the public; but privately in the warmest manner. Jesuits are active and diligent in the discharge of their duties to their superiors, and of course, this _sister_, who was chosen from among many for her zeal and craft, lost no time in entering on her mission. The _Sisters of Charity_ in New Orleans took immediate charge of her, recommended her as chambermaid to one of the most respectable Protestant families in the city; and having clothed her in an appropriate dress, she entered upon her employment. She was active, diligent and very competent. The young ladies of the family were delighted with her; she appeared extremely pious, but not ostentatiously so. She seemed desirous to please in all things; talked but seldom of religion, but took good care that her devotional exercises should be noticed, though she seemed to avoid such a thing. Her conduct was in every way unexceptionable. So great a favorite did she become in the family, that in a short time she became acquainted with all the circumstances and secrets, from those of the father down to those of the youngest child. According to a custom universally in vogue among the Jesuit spies, she kept notes of every occurrence which may tend to elucidate the character of the family, never carrying them about her, but depositing them for safe keeping with the mother abbess, especially deputed to take charge of them. She soon left this family under some pretext or other, obtained from them an unqualified recommendation for honesty and competency, which, with the previous and secret arrangements of the _Sisters of Charity_, obtained for her without delay a place in another Protestant family. Here, too, she was without fault, active, honest and industrious, to all appearance. Little did these families, know that while they and their children were quietly reposing in the arms of sleep, this apparently innocent waitingmaid or chambermaid was, perhaps, in the dead hour of night, reducing to paper their conversation of the day previous, and preparing it, at least as much of it as could answer any Jesuitical purpose, to be recorded among the secret archives of the Jesuit college of Stonyhurst, from which they were to be transcopied to those of the parent college in Rome. Thus did this lay sister continue to go from place to place, from family to family, until she became better acquainted with the politics, the pecuniary means, religious opinions, and whether favorable or not to the propagation of Popery in this country, than even the very individuals with whom she resided. No one suspected her; all believed her innocent and industrious; the only fault they could find with her, was that she seemed too fond of going from one place to another. For this, however, the _Sisters of Charity_ had some salvo or other. This was not the best of the joke, if joke it may be called. This excellent chambermaid, or another lay Jesuit sister, wished to leave New Organs and come north to a better climate; and how-do you think, reader, the means were raised to defray the expenses of travelling? There was no difficulty in the matter. Americans can be gulled at all times. The _Sisters of Charity_ have always some friend in readiness to supply them with the means of performing _corporal works of mercy_. This friend went round to these American families where this chambermaid lived from time to time; told them that she wanted to come on as far as Baltimore; that it was a pity to have her travel as a steerage passenger; a person of her virtue and correct deportment should not be placed in a situation where she might be liable to insult or rude treatment. A cabin passage should be procured for her: she should be introduced to some respectable family who were going north, and would take charge of her. The necessary funds were immediately collected for her; the generous Protestants with whom she lived, pitying the poor girl, told her she might want the little she had earned to support herself in the north, until she could get a place. A handsome purse was soon made up, a cabin passage was engaged, and the young ladies on whom she waited made her presents of every article of dress necessary for her comfort or convenience. She was the depository of all their love-stories,--she knew the names of their lovers, she heard their love-sighs, and probably witnessed many of their tears; at all events, if there were secrets among them, they were known to her; and having made herself acquainted with the state of things in New Orleans, she started for Baltimore, laughing in her sleeves at the success of her mission so far, and at the credulity of American _dolts_, as Jesuits very properly term them. On arriving in Baltimore, she, of course, called upon the nuns of that city, who were prepared for her reception, and had already a situation engaged for a "chambermaid whom they expected from New Orleans, and who was coming highly recommended by some of the first families in that city." She took possession of a place as soon as convenient, spent several months in that city, discharging all her duties faithfully, no one finding any fault with her, except her restlessness in not staying long with any family. Having now become acquainted with the secrets and circumstances of almost every Protestant family of note in Baltimore, and made her report to the mother abbess of the nunnery of her order in that city, she retired to the District of Columbia, and after advising with the mother abbess of the convent, she determined to change her apparent character and appearance. By advice of _that venerable lady, the holy prioress_, on whom many of the wives of our national representatives, and even grave senators, look as an example of piety and chastity, she cut short her hair, dressed herself in a smart-looking waiter's jacket' and trowsers, and, with the best recommendations for intelligence and capacity, she, in her new dress, applied for a situation as waiter at Gadsby's Hotel in Washington city. This smart and tidy-looking young man got instant employment; and now we have the lay sister in quite a different character. His intelligent countenance,--we must not say her in future,--soon attracted the notice of some of our most eloquent statesmen. He appeared so humble, so obedient and so unattentive to anything but his own business, that those senators on whom he waited, not suspecting that he had the ordinary curiosity of servants in general, were entirely thrown off their guard, and in their conversations with one another seemed to forget their usual caution. Such in a short time was their confidence in him, that their most important papers and letters were left loose upon their tables, satisfied with saying, as they were going out, "Theodore, take care of my room and papers." Now the Jesuit was in her glory. Now the lay sister had an opportunity of knowing many of our national secrets, as well as the private characters of some of our eminent statesmen. Now it was known whether Henry Clay was a gambler; whether Daniel Webster was a libertine; whether John C. Calhoun was an honorable but credulous man. Now it was known what value was put upon Popish influence in this country, and what were the hopes of Papist foreigners in the United States. In fact, this lay sister in male uniform, and but a waiter in Gadsby's Hotel, was thus enabled to give more correct information of the actual state of things in this country, through the General of the Jesuit Order in Rome, than the whole corps diplomatic from foreign countries then resident at our seat of government. After relating to me in her sick room,--as the family in which she lived fancied it was,--all these circumstances, she deliberately said to me, "I want a written character from you. You must state in it that I have complied with my duty; and as it is necessary that I should wear a cap for a while, having cut off my hair, you must say that you visited me in my sick room, that I confessed to you, received the _viaticum_ and had just recovered from a violent fever in which I lost my hair. My business is not done yet," said she. "I must go to New York, where the Sisters of Charity will find a place for me as waiting-maid." It is needless to say with what reluctance any man could comply with such a request as this; and my having done so, is a stronger evidence than I have heretofore given of the indomitable strength of early education. The conduct of this emissary of Satan, was the embodyment of all that was iniquitous and dishonorable; it was a violation of every tie that holds society together; it was a part of a system of social, political, moral, public and private treachery, which no other being than a devil or a Jesuit could devise. Yet I was a Popish priest. My education, my profession, my oath, compelled me to sanction it; and I did sanction it. The lay sister retired to New York, put on her female dress, and during some months following, acted as a chambermaid in several of the wealthiest Protestant families in that city. A few weeks after she obtained from me this character, the Rev. Mr.---------, (I will give his name in full if necessary,) President of the Jesuit college in Stonyhurst, to which I have alluded, and where this demon, now in petticoats, was a lay sister, called on me in Philadelphia. We were old acquaintances, he being Vice President of the college of Maynooth for about twelve months. The misunderstanding between myself and the acting superior of the diocese of Pennsylvania, had just commenced, and my friend, the Jesuit, thought it his duty to call upon me. He hoped that I would abandon my schismatic course,--I was not then a heretic,--and cease to circulate the Bible among the people. He never alluded to the lay sister during our whole conversation, though he was the very man who caused her to be sent out to this country, and the one who first procured her the situation of lay sister at Stonyhurst Both were relatives, and both natives of Dublin, in Ireland. Whether the relation of this circumstance will have the effect of putting Americans on their guard against Jesuits and nuns, I know not; and in truth, such is their apathy on the general subject of Popery, that I am tempted to say, I care not. My impression is, that until some attack is made upon an American's purse, and Popery becomes a question of dollars and cents, Jonathan will never be roused from his apathy. So far as I know Americans, as the antagonists of Popery, they will listen to no argument upon the subject, either in their national councils or in their pulpits, except to the one great argument, the "_Argumentum ad crumonam._" I will only say, "_Qui vult descipatur_." It is unnecessary, I presume, to remark here, that the conduct of the modern fathers of the Popish church, in sending to this country the lay sister of whom I have been speaking, and encouraging her as a spy amongst our citizens, did not tend much to diminish my doubts about the veracity of the ancient fathers. Providentially, however, another circumstance occurred, which finally decided me. It is of so atrocious a character, that if there were not several now living, who witnessed the whole transaction, I would scarcely mention it; or if I did, it could be with little or no hope of being believed by Americans, although some money is mixed up with the affair. There lived in Philadelphia, about the year 1822 or 1823, a gentleman of high character as a sea captain and otherwise. He commanded an East-Indiaman, belonging to one of the wealthiest houses in that city. One of the firm now lives there, though at an advanced period of life. This captain of whom I speak, was in the habit of visiting Baltimore, whenever he returned from the East Indies. He was a remarkably fine-looking man, and believed to be worth from one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand dollars. He shipped largely upon his own account, and was successful. While in Baltimore, he formed an attachment for a Roman Catholic lady of beauty, but no fortune. The Reverend Mr. K------, the Stonyhurst Jesuit, whom I mentioned, happened to be there during one of the captain's visits to that city, to see this lady. The Jesuit having discovered who the captain was, what he was, and how much money he was worth, obtained an introduction to him from this Roman Catholic lady. He soon found that, like most men whose lives have been spent upon the sea, he was a frank, open-hearted man. A little further intimacy satisfied him, that he was deeply in love with this Popish lady. His course was now clear. The Jesuit serpent saw plainly that his prey was within striking distance; that he need only coil himself into a proper attitude and spring upon it at his leisure. He represented to the captain, that the lady to whom he was paying his attentions was one of the most amiable and excellent of her sex; highly approved of the captain's taste and judgment; with many other such observations. The captain was more and more pleased with the object of his affections, and urged his suit with increased assiduity. The Jesuit in the mean time was not idle; his eye rested with a serpent-like fascinating gaze upon the movements and money of the captain. He had private interviews with the lady. He contrived to have her become his _penitent_, and go to confession to him. 15 His control over her in future was boundless. She lost her identity as a member of society. She almost ceased to be a human being; a rational one she could not be. She became a thing, a mere thing to be shaped and moulded as her holy father the Jesuit directed. He spoke to her of the captain, of his great attachment to her, and recommended to her to marry him, but on condition that he should become a Roman Catholic. He talked eloquently of the awful consequences of having a member of the _infallible_ church unite herself to a heretic, whom she knew to be excommunicated and damned by the Pope and the holy church, as all heretics are, and finally obtained from the young lady a solemn promise that she should never marry her suitor, until he became a member of the church of Rome. When the captain next called to see her, the lady told him that she had one objection, and only one, to marrying him; unless that was removed, she could never consent to do so; and stated to him what that objection was. The unsuspecting and frank sailor, not being a professor of any religion, and caring very little to what church he might go, replied, that he would as soon be a Roman Catholic as anything else. All things were now arranged, except the formality of uniting with the Popish church. The Jesuit was sent for, and it was agreed that the marriage should take place in a few weeks, during which time the captain, under the direction of the Jesuit, was to prepare himself for confession; a necessary preliminary for joining the Popish church. It is a custom with Jesuits, and almost with all priests of the Romish church, to require of those who are about uniting with them, to go into what they call a retreat; viz. to enter into some retired or secluded place, where they will have an opportunity of communing with themselves, without interruption from the world or its busy citizens. The Jesuit recommended to his unfortunate dupe, the captain, to retire to--------convent, where he might be alone as much as he pleased, and where he would hear nothing but songs of praise to the Most High God, from _blessed monks and nuns_. The captain, according to orders, entered upon his retreat. Before I proceed further, I will observe that this captain, of whom I am speaking, had a remarkably beautiful set of teeth, of which it was said he was extremely vain. He was not many days upon his retreat, when symptoms of derangement became evident; and one day, while under the influence of some natural or artificial cause--the reader may guess which--the unfortunate gentleman went down to Alexandria, called upon a dentist in that city or neighborhood, and insisted that he should pull out seven teeth from each jaw. In vain did the dentist remonstrate; out they must come, and out they did come. The Jesuit hastened to Baltimore, called upon the lady who was engaged to be married, told her the captain was insane, beyond recovery, and that she should be thankful to the Virgin Mary, who caused this visitation in time to prevent her from being married to a madman. Judge you, Americans, of the feelings of this lady on that occasion, and say what ought to be the punishment of the incarnate fiend who occasioned them. The poor captain, though considerably recovered, continued to be partially deranged; but it assumed a character of religious gloom and melancholy. The Jesuit returned to--------, seeming to do all in his power to lighten the spiritual load which lay upon the captain's soul. He became his confessor, and soon persuaded him that the only way of saving his soul, was to convey to the order of Jesuits what property he possessed, and to become a Popish priest; that he had a visit from the Virgin Mary, who ordered him to tell him--the captain--that he must take holy orders; that there was a grand field opened for him to promote the cause of religion and the saints; that he must go forthwith to Philadelphia, where an infamous heretic called Hogan was spreading most damnable heresies. Will you believe it, Americans? It is drawing almost too heavily upon you to do so. He did come to Philadelphia, and preached against the heretic Hogan and Hoganism, a fact which fifty thousand people now living there can attest. But _quantum mutatus!_ When he left it some time before, he was a happy, honorable and fine-looking man. He was wealthy, and he obtained his wealth by honest industry. But how was he now, the distorted shadow of what he was; penniless, toothless, and a senseless fanatic, drugged into madness, and by whom?--by nuns, who act in the treble capacity of cooks, teachers, and prostitutes for Jesuits. This is harsh language indeed. Call it gross, if you please, reader; but if you will figure to yourself for a moment an honorable man, a native of these United States, a fine specimen of manly proportions and manly beauty, and then conceive this individual reduced to the condition to which I and thousands now living have seen this noble-hearted sailor of whom I have spoken, reduced, my language will appear neither harsh nor coarse. What! must we call Jesuit assassins reverend gentlemen? Must we call robbers honest men? Must we call their accessories--nuns--ladies of virtue? Sympathizers may do so; but I do not write for them alone. I write for men of sense; I write for lovers of their God and their country; I write not for advocates of Puseyism, or such exploded fooleries as they believe in. Whatever I say, is intended for those alone who have the capacity of distinguishing between common sense and mental vagaries, and who have the honesty to call things by their proper names. The first sermon which this unfortunate man preached against me in Philadelphia, was attended by crowds. Many had known him before he went to Baltimore. He was then universally popular, and on his return among them he was well received. His friends saw the change--the fatal change--which had taken place in his whole external configuration; but they knew not by what means it was effected. Some attributed it to self-denial, others to fanaticism, but none to the right cause. This was known only in the confessional; and under all these circumstances, it may be easily supposed that his discourses against me, however unconnected they may be, however fugitive and irrelevant as a whole, had a powerful effect upon the public mind. Public sentiment, which up to this period sustained me in my opposition to Popery, and in my efforts to circulate the Bible, now began to flag. Popish priests and bishops went about industriously representing that this reverend convert to Popery was inspired; reported that he had visits from saints and angels, attesting the fact of his inspiration. There was no difficulty in persuading a man of his shattered constitution and now weak mind, that such was the fact; and he redoubled his efforts in trying to persuade those who attended my church, and who were becoming readers of the Bible, never to do so again. His disordered mind often "saw me in hell, side by side with Luther, and the blessed Virgin spitting in our face." "He often saw me with Ignatius Loyola, who was breaking me on the rack as a punishment for my heresies." The utterance of those wild rhapsodies were not without their effect; almost all the poor Irish Papists believed them; and it required from me more bodily and mental labor than I was able to endure, to counteract the effects of this madman's rhapsodizing. I am now so well acquainted with the character of American Protestants, and even with American converts to the Romish church, that I know it is difficult to persuade them that the Romish priests of Philadelphia, or other parts of the United States, were so utterly abandoned to degeneracy, as to give credence to these Visions or visits from saints, which I have just spoken of. But let them recollect that practices upon popular credulity are now carried on, and were then carried on, upon as large a scale, as at any period in the existence of the Romish church. Such impositions are encouraged all over the world, even at the present day. The wildest extravagances of intellect have circulated freely for the last thirty years in the world. Read Eugene Sue. He tells us of numerous instances of the kind. Read the last edition of Genin, page 82, and you will find an account of the Medal of the _Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary_, struck only the other day, 1838. Over _two hundred thousand copies_ of this medal have been already sold. The story is this, as now vouched for by the most eminent holy fathers of the infallible church:--That the Virgin Mary showed herself to one of the _Sisters of Charity_ in France, a branch of which holy sisterhood we have in this city of Boston, the capital of New England, and revealed to her the pattern of a medal to be struck for her; the dress she was to appear in, and the kind of rings she was to wear. This medal has cured, and is now curing, according to the accounts we receive from the holy fathers, all manner of diseases, such as paralysis, epilepsy, cancer, and, according to the belief of some Puseyite moral philosophers, it causes the blind to see, the dumb to speak, and the lame to walk. A capital story is related of the potency of this medal. It is too good to be omitted, especially as many of my Puseyite friends believe it, and no doubt will be glad to hear it repeated. A Sister of Charity got acquainted with a married couple. The wife was a Papist of the most exemplary character, obedient to holy Mother the church, and her confessor, in all things. The husband had no faith, especially in his wife's confessor. He drank, cursed and swore, "like all possessed." The holy Sister of Charity, seeing him at the point of death, and wishing to rescue his soul from hell, called to see him, and slipped one of these medals between the sheets of this wicked man's bed, and the next morning he gets up as well as ever and goes to confession. Another miracle which was performed by this medal in 1838, deserves notice, and may prove invaluable, if it finds its way into this country. One Marie Laboissiere, aided by her lover, murdered her husband, and forced her son to take part in the murder, to prevent him from being witness against her. The lady and her lover were, however, arrested, tried, and found guilty of the murder. They appealed to a higher tribunal. During the interval between the sitting of the higher and lower courts, one of the Sisters of Charity threw a medal round Marie's neck, and though the court and all saw that she was guilty, and ought to be judicially declared so, they could not do it. The medal would not let them, but obliged them to acquit her. If the reader will take into consideration that such visions as the Rev. Captain fancied he had, were matters of every-day occurrence with pious Papists, and that a belief in them is encouraged and enforced by Popish priests and bishops everywhere, they will cease to be surprised that a man tortured into madness, as my reverend antagonist was, should have visions such as those ascribed to him; nor will they wonder at the effect of his preaching, upon a congregation principally composed of Irish and French Papists. I was alone, without a clerical friend; not a Protestant preacher, with the exception of one, raised his hand or his voice in my support. They seemed to like the fun, as some of them expressed it, amongst the Papists,--I suppose they considered me one then,--but they came not to my aid. They appeared to me pretty much like the wife when she saw her husband fighting with a bear, and was expected to interfere, but very coolly replied, "I don't care which of them gets licked." Under these circumstances, I felt discouraged; became utterly disgusted with Popery and its infamous practices, with the holy fathers and their fooleries, and resolved in future to have no more to do with Popery. I collected such volumes as I had of the holy fathers, piled them up into one heap, added to them the lives of the saints, and placing on the top of the pile the Pope's bull of excommunication, which the poor old man thought would frighten me out of my wits, I consigned them, book by book, volume by volume, together with the aforesaid bull, to the warm embraces of a good hickory fire. I knew the day was not far distant, when Americans would see something besides fun in Popish quarrels; and in the mean time, I determined to employ myself in the study of Blackstone, Chitty, &c.; a much more profitable employment, in a pecuniary point of view, than fighting in the cause of American Protestants with European Papists. It was said of Erasmus, that he laid the egg of the reformation, and that Luther hatched it. I trust it will not be deemed vanity in me to say that I have done as much for American Protestants, as Erasmus did in his day. At least, I have done all I could; but whether they or any of them will do as Luther has done, time alone can decide. In this connection, it is not improper for me to state the ultimate fate of this reverend convert to the Romish church. After I retired from Philadelphia, and Hoganism was put down, the Jesuits measurably neglected their convert; a thing very unusual with them, to do them justice. He felt the loneliness of his situation. With a mind enfeebled by drugs, a correct view of his situation could only strike him by glances; but they were terrible and fearful. He saw himself robbed of the one beloved object of all his earthly affections; plundered of a fortune, the fruit of honorable toil and industry. He saw in himself but the mutilated skeleton of what he once was, and the dupe of crafty Jesuits and licentious nuns. He shrunk from the view, and as if God, in his mercy, wished to hide it from him' by means which may appear to us incomprehensible, he fell into fits of real madness, from which he recovered but occasionally. The last I have heard of him was that he was arrested somewhere near Newcastle, Delaware, for attempting to commit a rape on a child nine years old; but the poor maniac was acquitted on the ground of insanity. Several priests were called as witnesses in his behalf; and well they may be witnesses. It was they that caused him to be what he was; it was they that maddened him. Those who are not familiar with crime, whose hands are unstained by blood, and whose consciences have not been seared and discolored by the blackness of guilt, may hesitate to give credence to these disgusting details. Comparatively short as our national existence is, and though brief the period since we cut loose as a nation from what we deemed the polluted governments of Europe, still there was a time, even in these United States, when such deeds as I have related would not and could not be believed amongst us. There was a time when the ancient Romans did not think that there existed such a crime as patricide; and hence it is. that there was no law against it. There was actually no punishment known to their laws for the commission of such a crime; and why, reader? Did the ancient Romans encourage their children to kill their parents, or to commit patricide? No. Far from it. No people in the world venerated their parents more than the Roman children of the day to which I allude. They had no law against the crime, because they did not believe it possible that such a crime could be committed. Nor is it to be wondered now, that many Americans should consider it almost impossible that such deeds as I have laid to the charge of Jesuits and nuns, should be perpetrated amongst us. But time, that exponent of all things, will soon satisfy our people--as it did the Romans before us--that there is nothing impossible, or even beyond the range of Jesuitical iniquity. The archives of Jesuitical intrigue are now in a measure being thrown open to the world. The diffusion of literature is so general, and human curiosity, at the present period, so great, that nothing can escape its searching inquiries. It is therefore to be hoped that our people will not be much longer in ignorance of the iniquities of Jesuits. Americans can now learn from historical evidence, which admits of no doubt, that Jesuits have been expelled, successively, from thirty-nine different governments; they can also learn, that by intrigue, deception, perjury and poison, they have survived each and every one of those expulsions. They may see,--if they can see anything but money,--that the Jesuits are now making a final struggle for a settlement in this country; and if they are not so stupid as not to see that similar causes must produce similar events, they will infer that Jesuits, who have successively and effectually introduced disunion, discord, and disorganization into thirty-nine governments, cannot fail to do the same in ours. If by poison and assassination they have dethroned the rulers of other countries; if by debauchery and superstition in the confessional, they have seduced their wives and daughters, can it be supposed that our rulers shall escape, our government be secure, or our wives and daughters safe from the daggers or subtle poisons of these notorious fiends? Let any American take the "Wandering Jew,"--let him read it attentively, and reflect that the writer, Eugene Sue, is a Roman Catholic now living in France,--and say whether there is any crime too daring for a Romish priest or Jesuit. If he doubts what I relate of a young lady in the beginning of this book, who was debauched by a Romish priest, and poisoned by a nun, the mother abbess of a Jesuit seminary of learning, to get rid of her illicit offspring; let him see the history of Charlotte De Cordoville, in the Wandering Jew. He will see in the history of that young lady, distinguished though she was for fortune, beauty and charity, how she was reduced to misery and unhappiness, by the intrigues of Jesuits. You will see how her own aunt was made the instrument of all her misfortunes; but the aunt was first made a Jesuit, and in that capacity she disregarded honor, truth, the relationship of blood, and all the alliances of natural friendship. She caused her to be imprisoned and maltreated. She and her associate Jesuits caused herself and her lover to be poisoned or drugged into an insane stupor;--all for the glory of the infallible church, and with a view of adding to its ill-gotten treasures. For a full account of this transaction, see Eugene Sue. But Romish priests will not permit their people to read Eugene Sue; it is a forbidden book; his royal holiness, the Pope, has cursed the book and all who read it. He has cursed all who presume to discuss fairly the merits of Popery; but even this will scarcely be believed by Americans. Strange infatuation! Will Americans read a report made to the French Chambers in Paris, by the Duke de Broglie, on the subject of public instruction and Jesuitism? Will they further read a small work written by Messrs. Michelet and Quinet, professors in the French national college? If they do, it may open their eyes to consequences which may be apprehended from even tolerating Jesuits amongst us. They will see that Jesuits are the avowed enemies of liberal education, and that they are sustained in their opposition to it by the curses of the Pope. Professors Michelet and Quinet, in 1843, were discussing, in public, the influence of the different religious orders. They had, as we are told, commented upon that of the Templars, and were speaking of the society of Jesuits, its origin and its interference in political affairs; and though the professors themselves were Roman Catholics, though they lectured in a Roman Catholic country and to Roman Catholic people, under the sanction of a law of the land, yet Jesuits attempted to disturb those lectures, by creating an uproar among the audience; just what they are doing in this country. But what renders their conduct on this occasion more strange, is the fact, that the very existence of Jesuits, as a society is illegal in France. There is a law in France against secret associations, and under this law they cannot exist. How pregnant with instructions to Americans is this single historical fact! A few years ago, Charles X. and his family had to fly from France, because, under the influence of Jesuitism he violated his faith, he broke his royal word and oath to the people. The people of France hunted him and the Jesuits out of that country, as they would so many wild beasts. Such then was the indignation of Popish France against that infernal society, the Jesuits, that not one of them dared ta show his face in the streets of Paris, without trembling for his life. Like dastardly cowards, as all dishonorable and bad men are,--I never knew an exception,--these wretches moved about like beasts of chase, "stealing from one cover to another;" the representatives of all that was base and dishonorable; the embodiment of all that was vile, false and treacherous; the incarnation, the sentiment and the sediment of all that was odious in fallen humanity. But see them now, in 1843 and '44, and see the conduct of these very French people towards them. Though the law forbids their existence, they have the hardihood to interrupt the legitimate professors of the college of France, in their inquiries into the spirit and influence of Jesuitism; and they are supported by a portion of the very people, who, but a few years ago, pelted them with rotten eggs and dead cats, through the streets of Paris. And what effected this extraordinary change in popular sentiment? It is accounted for in various ways; but I contend that the only fair solution of the problem is to be found in the fact, that republican, democratic North America hats opened her hospitable doors, and without suspicion, or without dreaming that she was entertaining her deadliest foe, has spread her tables to feed, and opened her purse to build asylums for these scapegoats of the human family. In 1830, Jesuits were crushed in France; they fled to the United States, collected together their broken phalanxes, told brother Jonathan they were a persecuted people, prevailed on him to build colleges for them, and they have risen again, not only in this land of the brave, but even in France, under the present king, Louis Philippe. But notwithstanding these truths, the inquiry is sometimes made,--the question has often been put even to myself,--"Are there really any Jesuits in the United States?" "Do you believe that females are seduced into nunneries?" "Do you believe they attempt to tamper with our children or our wives?" I allude to the subject of privately tampering with the wives and daughters of Americans thus frequently, because I think it is all-important that they should thoroughly understand the dangers to be apprehended from having any intercourse whatever with Jesuits and nuns. Many a man asks this question, who accompanies it with saying, the nunnery to which my daughter goes to school is not a Jesuit nunnery. The priest to whom my wife confesses is not a Jesuit. The priest to whom my daughter and servants go to confession is not, and never was, a Jesuit; and consequently there is no danger from this source. Many a man asks this question, and states these circumstances in good faith, and feels secure that all is right, as nothing in his opinion is to be feared but from Jesuits. This is a delusion. This man's wife is already-governed by Jesuits through her confessor. It even happens sometimes that the confessor himself is unconscious of the part he is acting. The confessor acts under the immediate advice of his bishop, to whom alone, in most cases, the Jesuits will entrust their plans, unless the confessor is personally known to them; and unless the confessor professes and solemnly swears to observe,--I use the words of the oath,--"obedience, courage, secrecy, patience, craft, audacity, perfect union among ourselves, having for our country, the world; for our family, our order; for our queen, Rome." Few of the confessors in this country, except the bishops, are entrusted with the plans of the Jesuits; perhaps not ten, except they are of the Jesuit order. It is through those confessors, that many of our American youth, both male and female, are seduced into Popish schools, where they become, with few exceptions, spiritless, false, slaves of abject superstition, and the victims of a superficial education. No time is given, no room left, as a modern writer expresses it, for the energies of the mind to develop themselves. No sustenance is provided to nourish the finer feelings of the heart. The intellect is checked, the flow of imagination is stemmed, and all the warm and generous affections of the soul are poisoned in their very bud. For an instance of the fatal consequence of such an education as this, I would call the attention of Americans, once more, to the Wandering Jew. See the effects of a Jesuitical education upon the noble and generous mind of Gabriel, the adopted son of the honest Dagoberth. What could be more lovely than the disposition of this young man. His sentiments were as upright and as chaste as fallen humanity would permit. But the Jesuit society laid its impure hands upon him at an early period of life; they persuaded his guileless adopted mother to go to confession,--not to a Jesuit,--but to a _Cure_ of another order of priests; and the bishop of this Cure gave him his instructions how to manage the mother of Gabriel. The bishop knew that this adopted son of the virtuous and craftless wife of Dagoberth, was one among other heirs of an immense estate, and he directed the Cure to prevail upon this simple woman, while at confession with him, to send Gabriel to a Jesuit school, and have him become a Jesuit priest. Americans, read the sequel, and in that you will find a warning, stronger and louder than I can give you, never to send a child of yours to a Jesuit seminary. Let mothers read the history of Dagoberth's wife, and if, after careful and honest perusal of it, they will again commit their daughters to the care of a nurse who goes to confession, I must only conclude that they are either infidels or mad, or both. "_Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat_." Gabriel,--the virtuous and good Gabriel,--was nursed by Dagoberth's wife. From his infancy, it seems he had no inclination to become a Jesuit; he appeared to have an innate aversion to the order of Jesuits; he struggled against uniting himself with them, as far as a sense of gratitude and a feeling of affection for his adopted mother, the nurse of his childhood, would permit. But all to no purpose; the mother was the dupe of her confessor. He was instructed to win over the youth by any and every means; and, with the advice and cooperation of Jesuits, the confessor of this really honest, but deluded woman, succeeded, by perseverance and increased fondness for her adopted child, in neutralizing his aversion towards Jesuit priests. In an evil hour he joined them; their traps were too well laid, and without being seen in the business themselves, they accomplished their iniquitous purposes through the instrumentality of this affectionate and charitable woman. All was done through the confessional. How many similar cases have I witnessed myself, in the course of my life, but particularly while acting as a Romish priest in the confessional! How often have I known some of the best of women, belonging to the Roman Catholic church, unconsciously made the dupes of priests! How often have I seen women, who, had they been properly educated, and under different circumstances, would be an honor to any religious denomination, made the instruments of all that was vile and flagitious, by Popish confessors! How often have I seen Roman Catholic servant-maids in Protestant families, inveigled by their _ghostly fathers_, in the confessional, into treachery, deception and ingratitude, towards their employers and benefactors! How often, as I have stated in my book on Popery, have these Roman Catholic servants stolen the infants from their Protestant mothers, and brought them to myself to be baptized! There is now, in the state of Massachusetts, a young Protestant clergyman, distinguished for his talents and piety, an honor to his profession as a minister of the gospel, and to the state of Massachusetts as a republican citizen, who was baptized by myself in Philadelphia, when acting as a Roman Catholic priest. The name of the gentleman and the date of his baptism were duly registered by me; but the clerical Goths and Vandals, who succeeded me in St. Mary's church in that city, _expunged_ the register which I kept, not deeming it safe to leave in existence, if possible, any records of the iniquities taught or practised in the Romish church. There are in all bodies and in all denominations of clergymen, certain individuals by whom it becomes fashionable to get married and baptized; and during my residence in Philadelphia, I held rather a conspicuous place among them. The congregation of St. Mary's church was a large one. Notwithstanding my _schismatic_ doctrines,--I was not then deemed a heretic,--crowds attended the church, and I believe,--though I cannot tell the exact number,--that I baptized more children than any clergyman in the city. Among these there were hundreds of Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Methodists and Baptists, brought to me for that purpose, by their Roman Catholic nurses, without the knowledge or consent of their Protestant mothers. This has ever been the treacherous practice of the Romish church, from the days of Hildebrand down to the present moment. Dagoberth's wife is not a solitary instance of the undue influence which Romish priests have over those women who go to confession to them. Show me the house of a Protestant family in the United States where there is a Roman Catholic, male or female, who goes to confession and communion in the Romish church, and I will show you a watch, a spy upon every act and deed and movement of that family. There is not a letter that comes into such a family, that is not watched by Popish servants. They soon know from whom it comes, or whether anything is to be gained by intercepting it. The confessor is immediately consulted, and it is ascertained, from some servant in the house where it was written or where it was received, what was its purport, or what it contained. This practice of domestic _espionage_, we all know, is common in every country where auricular confession is taught and practised; but it is carried on more generally here, in proportion to the number of Roman Catholics, than in any other country in the world; and the reason is obvious. It is said that Jews never cheat each other; this is not because they will not cheat as well as others. The reason is, they will not trust each other. They are always on the watch, or, as Yankees would express it, on the "look-out" for each other. Neither is it because other countries or other people are less disposed to indulge in this species of espionage than we are, that they have less of it: it is because Catholic countries and Catholics will not trust each other. They are on the _qui vive_ in all matters of intrigue, whether in domestic or national affairs, whether in morals or politics. But poor Jonathan, with all his smartness and all his cleverness, is probably the most gullible biped that crawls upon this earth. I have known some poor servant-maids and servant-men, who did not seem to have an idea beyond a Hottentot, who, after one month's proper training in the confessional by a Romish priest, could wheedle them out of all they possessed, except their money; and never have I known a Romish confessor, not even the simplest Reverend Yahoo from the bogs of Ireland or flats of Holland, who could not filch from them whatever money he wanted for any given purpose. The cunning of Americans, their knowledge of human nature and of things in general, cannot be mentioned in the same category with the craft and knowledge of man which Jesuit priests and confessors possess. This is exemplified even in the case of American missionaries. Send an American missionary to France, to Spain, or to any Catholic country, and without aid from home he will starve. He has no Roman Catholic to come to confession to him, to give him money to build a church for him; he has no servant-maid or servant-man, through whom he can persuade, to give him ten or twelve dollars for saying mass; no dying man or woman will send for him, and pay him well for taking out of his pockets a set of _oil stocks_, for the purpose of greasing them over, commencing on the forehead, the tip of the nose, eyelids, the lips, the breast, the loins and the soles of the feet. He has no one to send for him and pay highly, for putting his hand in his breeches pocket and pulling out a box full of _gods_, viz., wafers made of flower and water, and giving him one of them. No. He has none, of these resources; he starves amongst them until bread is sent to him from home. Talk of Yankee cunning! He is a simpleton compared with a Jesuit. A Jesuit comes amongst us, or he goes to any Protestant country, without a dollar, but he never travels without his jackals, male and female. He brings with him his lay sisters and his lay brothers; they soon scent out prey for him; they hire themselves, as servant men and women, to Protestant Yankees, and the first intimation we have of a Jesuit missionary amongst us, is the alarm of some rich-toned bell, which we hear from the steeple of a church built for him by Protestant Yankees. In place of sending home for money to support him, as the American missionary has to do, a Jesuit is sending home money to pay the passage of others to come out and help him. He is purchasing some of the most valuable real estate that Protestant Yankees own, with Yankee money, and writes home to his royal holiness, the Pope, that Americans are a simple, gullible people. "Persevere," says the Jesuit in America to his Pope; "already have you three millions of faithful troops from your own faithful allies of France and Spain and other Roman Catholic friendly governments, among them. Besides this, holy father, your holiness will bear in mind that many of those American heretics, are deserting their own churches and joining us; and above all, most holy father, you will remember,--and I pray you will graciously condescend to take note of it,--that these Americans are all politicians, all fond of offices and would kiss your----!!!!! as well as your toe, if your subjects will only aid them in keeping their offices, which, I am happy to inform your holiness, we are very willing to do, until we have numerical strength enough to turn all the heretical wretches out, and fill up their places with your faithful subjects. This, with the aid of the blessed Virgin Mary, we shall be able to accomplish in a very few years. Press on, most holy father; your subjects are coming in thousands per day. Send dispatches to your royal brothers of Austria, Prussia and Spain; urge upon them to send us help, and the glorious cause of your holy spouse, the infallible church, the Queen of heaven, will triumph. "Write to the greatest layman living, Daniel O'Connell, whom your holiness intends shall receive from your hands a crown as king of Ireland; urge upon him the necessity of sending over to the United States all the repealers he can spare. Let him persuade the Irish, that the union was the cause of all their grievances,--that they would have nothing to complain of, if the union were repealed. Let not your faithful son, D. O'Connell, ever allude to the fact,--the poor Irish would never dream of it,--that the union is not quite fifty years old, and that, for seven hundred years before its existence, the Irish were much more quarrelsome, clamorous, litigious than they are now. It won't do to let them know this; repeal would lose all its charms, and the greatest layman living, would become,--between you and myself and the holy Virgin Mary,--what he really is, the greatest scoundrel and the biggest poltroon living. These heretical Americans are trying to cause a division between your son Daniel O'Connell and your subjects. Poor dolts! How little they know about us. We know what we are about Your son need only go regularly to confession, and attend mass in some public place, such as at a mass meeting of repealers, and nothing can separate your subjects from him. I trust the move which we made the other day in New York, through your faithful subject Lord Bishop Hughs, was highly satisfactory to your holiness. Your royal holiness will be graciously pleased to remember, that the first murmurings of repeal thunder, proceeded from the city of New York, through that humble, pious and zealous servant of the infallible church, the Lord Bishop Hughs. He was among the first to call the people together, and, under pretence of desiring repeal in Ireland, he told them to organize, to weigh well their own power and influence in the political balance. He advised them to give their support to no man but a repealer, and very judiciously instructed his confessors in private, that it should be given only to those who were most favorable to your holiness' spouse, the infallible church. He succeeded well. The American heretics swallowed the bait; the President of the United States for the time being, was the first political gudgeon he caught. Next followed two young spawns of his. They shouted repeal throughout the country. Your subjects promised to elect the three of them presidents in succession; but when the hour of election came, as in duty and by oath of allegiance to your holiness bound, we acted as we thought would best serve the interest of our holy church." This may all seem like romance; but is it so? Do not facts within the knowledge and almost view of my readers, prove that it is the very reverse? Who is there that does not know, that does not recollect, or that can forget the events and circumstances of the last election for President of the United States? Who is there that does not recollect the part, which repealers played in that election? Can any man who has paid the least attention to passing events, forget the conduct of Bishop Hughs of New York or of Bishop Fenwick of Boston, or of any other bishop (Romish bishops) of the United States, during the last political eventful year? Who ordered the Irish Catholics to turn out with a banner bearing upon it the treasonable inscription, "Americans shan't rule us"? Bishop Hughs of New York. Did not a band of traitorous repealers, calling themselves democrats, parade the streets of New York, Buffalo and other cities, under the jurisdiction of the Lord Bishop Hughs, shaking this banner in the very faces of American citizens, hurraing for Daniel O'Connell and repeal? Did not this bishop Hughs order several hundred stands of fire-arms to be placed in the Roman Catholic churches of New York, with a view of firing upon the citizens should they even dare to show any dissatisfaction, at these traitorous proceedings? Has not this Bishop Hughs been in close correspondence with the traitor O'Connell, ever since he sounded the first note of repeal? And is not this demagogue Hughs at this very moment corresponding with the confessors of Daniel O'Connell, and the other leaders of repeal in Ireland? Yes, I assert it,--he is. There is a continuous line of correspondence, as I have stated in my recent book on Popery, between the Propaganda in Rome, the Romish bishops of Ireland, Daniel O'Connell, and the Romish bishops of the United States. The Propaganda of Rome is the muddy and polluted source from which the various streams of treason, which are inundating our country, have proceeded. Their course is a sinuous one; their gyrations are intricate in the extreme. It takes in France, Austria, Russia, Switzerland, the Netherlands; in fact all civilized Europe, besides South America and Mexico; its fountain in Rome, and emptying itself in the United States. Yet we now hear this Lord Bishop Hughs telling his subjects in New York and elsewhere,--telling what, my readers?--will you believe it, should I inform you? Or will you not think me trifling with you, and sporting with a grave subject? He tells his subjects now, after doing all the mischief he could, after exciting family against family, after creating disunion, dissension and discord, after exciting peaceable fellow-citizens to imbrue their hands in each other's blood, that he entirely disapproves of Daniel O'Connell; that he believes him a _monarchist_, and that it is the duty of Papists to stand by the government that protected them. This is unquestionably the boldest piece of impudence, and the most clumsy attempt at imposition upon the credulity of Americans, that has ever been attempted in this country. It has no parallel in the history of Popery in the United States; and if ever there was a time or an occasion which calls upon Americans to vindicate their honor, and fling from them with indignation the imputation of being credulous dupes, now is the day and now is the hour. What is this insolent upstart Hughs,--who but the other day as another expresses it, "was pitchforked from the potato-field into a palace,"--that he dares thus insult the common sense of the free-born citizens of America? He, a foreigner, a foundling for aught we know, nursed and fed by Jesuits into manhood, their slave and their tool, how dare he insult the very country that gives him an asylum? how dare he outrage the feelings of the very people that give him bread to eat, and clothes to his back? I will give you, Americans, some idea of who he is, and who his brethren of the Popish mitre are. They are individuals--and the Lord Bishop Hughs is preeminently conspicuous among them,--who, stript of the false splendor which circumstances and place throw around them; who, if deprived of the drapery and mimic glories of Popery, in which holy mother, the church, has enveloped them, would appear among the meanest and most despicable members of society. Such men may be borne with, while they abstain from insulting the common sense of the people; but when their arrogance, insolence and vanity presume to trample upon the rights of the people, and ridicule the understanding of the community, they deserve something more than commiseration. When, in the plenitude of their vanity, they cease to be content with the profits of office and the free exercise of their religion, and dare insinuate aught disrespectful to the understanding of their benefactors, they cease to be objects even of toleration. In ages of ignorance, the trappings of Popery may strike with awe. Those ages are gone by; and if Americans are true to themselves, they will never revive in this country, notwithstanding the insolent efforts of this Lord Bishop Hughs. This reverend bully has long bid defiance to the unarmed arguments of Americans. He will not condescend to listen to the American theologian, who brings into the arena of religious controversy, truth without a sword, and fair argument unbacked by bowie-knives and clubs; he will not stoop to such a mode of warfare. No. This clerical rake would, if he could, Gothicize this nation of freemen. He would extinguish, if he could, among Americans, the light of learning and philosophy. Nay, he would, and he has been trying to, raise from the putrid pools of ignorance and superstition, fogs and evaporations, and clouds and mists, sufficiently thick to hide from the eyes of Americans the pure, the brilliant, and the glorious light even of the Bible itself. It is not enough for him that his subjects should consider him their official superior; it is not enough that some poor foreigners,--and I blush to own it,--even Americans, should look upon him and his brethren as their superiors in the church, but they are required also to consider them their superiors in wisdom and virtue, though they know them to be Jesuits. Papists, whether foreigners or Americans, are, even in the United States, little better than living automatons and self-acting tools, for the corrupt agents of his royal holiness, the Pope. Can this be? the reader will say. Can it be, that man, created a free agent, living in a free country, and governed by equal laws,---can he be made to obey the word of command given by ja Popish bishop, as a wild beast would the lash or the whip of the keeper of a menagerie? It is so, reader; and particularly with every human being, male or female, who goes to confession. I care not how intelligent he may appear to be, or what his acquirements or accomplishments may be; if he is weak enough, fool enough, or hypocrite enough and mean enough to go to confession to a Romish priest, he deserves not the name of a freeman. He who bends the knee to a Romish priest, and asks him to forgive his sins, submitting to such restrictions or discipline as the priests may be pleased to impose upon him, becomes a degenerate being. Take, for instance, a bird, one of the feathered citizens of the open air; take a lion, a proud denizen of the boundless forest; compare him with one of those tamed, broken-down and whipped into obedience, by the keeper of a menagerie, and how strongly, how painfully marked is the contrast. Their very looks bespeak their degradation. How great is the contrast between those who have broken loose from obedience to nature's laws, to the degrading servitude of obedience to man. But the contrast is not greater nor their fall more humiliating, than that of the man or woman, who exchanges that obedience which he or she owes to reason, to pure religion, and the divine law of the gospel, for the degraded servitude required from them by Popish priests and confessors. Let us suppose a whole people thus tamed, thus broken, thus snaffled, bitted and bridled by skilful Popish riders and Jesuit jockeys, will they not soon lose all ideas of liberty, morals and individual man liness? Will they not soon be ready to exclaim, in the language of inspiration, "Why died I not from the womb?" But let us return to the Lord Bishop Hughs, of New York, and his sudden conversion from repeal and O'Connellism. As I have stated before, it is the boldest stroke that ever has been made to deceive a whole nation. Nothing equal to it, that I know of, in modern history, except perhaps, it may be that of the Jesuit Rodin, which we find related in the Wandering Jew. The only difference between the Jesuit Hughs and the Jesuit Rodin, is this,--that Rodin's audacity, hypocrisy and treachery, were practised on a small scale, when compared with that of this modern Jesuit, Lord Bishop of New York. There is, however, a strong similitude between these two illustrious individuals. I need not inform my readers,--as I believe they have all read the Wandering Jew,--that Rodin was a Jesuit, commissioned by the society of Jesuits in Rome, to act as its agent, ES with full powers to secure for the society of Jesus, it is nicknamed by them, an immense estate, belonging, in law and in justice, to a French family of the name of Rennepont. He was empowered to secure this property to the society, but he must use no violence. It must be done solely by the play of action, hypocrisy and deception. The reader will remember, as we are informed in the Wandering Jew, that the Rennepont family had to fly from France, after the king of that country, at the instigation of the Pope, and by a violation of the most solemn compact, had broken the edict of Nantz, which secured to the Protestants the quiet possession of their property. After fighting their way through blood and Popish butcheries, this noble family, with thousands of others, had to fly from their homes, friendless and pennyless. Only a few escaped the bloodhounds of Popery. Their wives and daughters were dishonored, and, as we were told upon good authority, their helpless infants were dashed against the corners of houses, and their brains scattered upon the pavements. Nothing was left them. They had to seek refuge in distant lands; they went east and west, north and south. Many of their descendants are now living in some of the Southern States of this confederacy. The general of the Jesuit order in Rome discovered that some of the descendants of the Rennepont family had survived the disasters of the times, and held in their possession proofs sufficient to establish claims to their patrimonial rights. The Jesuits determined to defeat them, and if the reader's curiosity induces him to learn by what means they endeavored to do so, and what agents they employed to effect it, let him read the account given of the whole transaction in the Wandering Jew, by that inimitable writer, Eugene Sue. They will find in that work proofs of the wickedness of Jesuits. They will find that auricular confession is something even worse than I have described it. I have not talent to give a sufficiently accurate picture of this diabolical Popish invention. Lord Bishop Hughs has been for several years lecturing through the State of New York, as every man who has read the leading newspapers of the country must know; he has represented O'Connell as one of the greatest and best men of the day, and one of the most persecuted of men by the British government. O'Connell and genuine Popery are almost synonymous terms with this lord bishop. As I have stated above, he tried to enlist,--and has actually succeeded,--all foreign Papists, and a vast number even of Americans, in the cause of O'Connell and Irish repeal. Wherever this lord bishop went, dissension and anarchy followed in his train; but mark him now. Mark the course of this Bishop Hughs for the last few years, and you will be struck with the exact similitude which in every feature exists between itself and that of Rodin. The readers of the Wandering Jew will recollect that Rodin established a press in Paris, for the ostensible purpose of inculcating truth, and advancing the public good. The title of this press was, "Love your neighbor." The editor was one Nini-Moulin, a notorious drunkard, ignorant and profligate in the extreme, and, personally, irresponsible, either in a pecuniary or moral point of view. If sued for any libellous matter contained in this press, nothing could be recovered from him, because he had nothing. If thrown into jail for the immorality of the act, he could not suffer in his reputation, because he had none to lose; he may continue editor still, and all that was necessary, was that Rodin should supply him with something to eat and drink. For the amusement of my readers, I beg to give a brief description of the editor of Rodin's paper. 1 take it from that given by one who knew him, who was the mistress kept by this editor of Rodin's paper, one Rose-Pompon. She thus describes the editor--"A face as red as a glass of red wine, and a nose all covered with pimples, like a strawberry." Rodin, describing him, gives a different character altogether. He says that "Nini-Moulin is a very worthy man, though, perhaps, a little fond of pleasure" Here is a precious specimen of Jesuitism and Popish morality; a man living notoriously with a woman of the town, bearing upon his face the marks of drunkenness and profligacy, is pronounced by a Romish priest to be a very worthy man, though perhaps a little fond of pleasure. Suppose Rodin and Nini-Moulin were amongst us here, in the city of Boston, or in the city of New York,--who is there that would not shrink from a contact with either? The Jesuit Bishop Hughs, of New York, and his brother Fenwick, of Boston, have presses in each of those cities, and the wretches who ostensibly conduct them, are, in point of fact, of no higher or more worthy character than Rodin's editor, Nini-Moulin. No man, who opposed Jesuitism in Paris, or who was even suspected of being inimical to it, escaped the abuse of Rodin's journal. The fairest characters were blasted by it; it defamed and bespattered with its scurrility, some of the most honorable and high-minded citizens, while the artful and cowardly hypocrite himself was hidden from observation. Is it not so with Hughs, of New York, Fenwick, of Boston, and the whole tribe of Popish bishops throughout the United States'? No man is safe, no character is spared from the virulence of the presses which they own. Witness the Truth Teller, of New York, owned by Bishop Hughs,--though, like Rodin, he denies the ownership of it,--what can be more vile than the language of that press? It declares that "Americans shan't rule us--Papists" It has for years been spewing forth its malicious tirades against Protestant Americans, while the real author of this scurrility, Bishop Hughs, is skulking behind the bush. But I will tear off that masquerade dress which nides the moral deformities of this man; and I trust that all Protestants will sustain and pardon me, in holding him, and not the Nini-Moulins who conduct his press, responsible for its contents. Let no Protestant notice the miserable beings who are the reputed editors of the Truth Teller, Bishop Hughs' organ; let the bishop himself be held responsible. The Jesuit bishop of Boston, Fenwick, another Rodin, has also a press called the _Pilot_, apparently edited by a silly-looking, Irish jackanape. Let not Bostonians notice the abuse which this paper has heaped upon them for years; or if they do, let them hold Bishop Fenwick responsible for it; he is the real author of its contents, and not the little brainless gander, its reputed editor. I might quote a thousand instances of the similarity of thought and deeds which governed, and which now govern, the whole body of Romish priests. But enough. It is time that Americans should vindicate their honor. Having done all the mischief he could, having inflicted upon the peace of our country a wound, which, in all probability, can never be healed, he adroitly turns round,--just as the hypocritical villain Rodin, the Jesuit, did,--and tells Americans that he was wrong in supporting O'Connell; that he can support him no longer, because the said O'Connell is a monarchist Let us try and reconcile this with the solemn oath of this vaporing Jesuit and canting patriot, Hughs. The following is an extract from the oath which, as a Popish bishop and a Jesuit, he took at his ordination and consecration: "Therefore, to the utmost of my power, I shall and will defend this doctrine, and his holiness' rights and customs, against all usurpers of heretical or Protestant authority whatsoever; especially against the now pretended authority and Church of England, and all adherents, in regard that they and she be usurpal and heretical, opposing the sacred mother church of Rome. I do renounce and disown any allegiance as due to any heretical king, prince, or state named Protestant, or obedience to any of their inferior magistrates or officers, I do further declare the doctrine of the Church of England, and of the Calvinists, Huguenots, and of other of the name Protestants, to be damnable, and they themselves are damned, and to be damned, that will not forsake the same. I do further declare, that I will help, assist, and advise all, or any of his holiness' agents in any place, wherever I shall be, in England, Scotland and Ireland, or in any other territory or kingdom, I shall come to; and do my utmost to extirpate the heretical _Protestants' doctrine, and to destroy all their pretending powers, regal or otherwise_. I do further promise and declare, that notwithstanding; I am dispensed with to assume any religion heretical for the propagation of the mother church's interest, to keep secret and private all her agents' counsels from time to time, as they intrust me, and not to divulge, directly or indirectly, by word, writing, or circumstance whatsoever, but to execute all that shall be proposed, given in charge, or discovered unto me, by you my ghostly father, or by any of his sacred convent. All which, I, A. B., do swear by the blessed Trinity, and blessed Sacrament, which I am now to receive, to perform, and on my part to keep inviolably; and do call all the heavenly and glorious host of heaven to witness these my real intentions to keep this my oath." Now, Mr. Bishop, suppose you and I reason together for a moment. Either this oath is binding upon your lordship or it is not. If the former, assuredly you can have no reasonable objection to supporting O'Connell, either as a monarchist, or as, your ally in defending the rights and prerogatives of his royal holiness the Pope. If the latter, that is, if it is not binding on you,--if you will not defend the Pope's power, his throne and his prerogatives,--say so like an honest man. Until you do this, we must look upon your denunciations against O'Connell, as the veriest farce that ever was enacted by the veriest mountebank scoundrel that ever filched a dollar from the pockets of Americans. Will you dare stand before me, and tell me that the Pope of Rome it not himself a monarch? Will you dare look me in the face, and say that you would not support him? Will you dare look me in the eye, and say that you would not support his government? Recollect that I understand the mysteries of Popery as well as you do; remember that I have studied its doctrines more deeply than ever you had an opportunity of doing; and I experience not the least emotion of vanity, when 1 assure your Jesuit lordship that I am a much better general scholar than you are. You will therefore be cautious in future; I will watch you in your ecclesiastical and political gyrations, and whenever you assert what is false in morals, or dangerous to the institutions of my adopted country, I will check you, and that with no gentle hand; though I shall do unto you and your brethren, but that which you and your brethren have done unto me. The truth is, Mr. Bishop, you are an overrated man, an inflated humbug, and probably you would have passed for a learned one, had you not, without provocation, interfered with me. You, a Popish bishop, tell Americans, that you cannot support a monarchist! Have you ever read the works of Salmeron, a Jesuit like yourself, but a theologian of learning, which you are not? Either he was a liar, or you are one. Listen to what he says of his monarch, the Pope. "The Pope has supreme power over all the earth; over all kings and governments, and if they resist he must punish them." Salmeron was a native of Toledo, and was so thoroughly orthodox in Popish belief, that he wrote several commentaries on the Scriptures, which were approved of by the infallible church. He died only about two hundred years ago. Can you blush, my Lord Bishop? Either you think Americans an extremely ignorant people, and unable to discern between flippancy, repeal gab, and solid historical information, or you must blush at your attempt to impose upon them. The veriest child in knowledge of ecclesiastical history, knows that the Pope is king and monarch of Rome, and that you are sworn, by the most fearful oath, to support him and his government in opposition to all others; and yet, forsooth, you cannot support O'Connell because he is a monarchist. Have you, my Lord Bishop Hughs, ever read the life of Pope Adrian? Was he not a monarch? Was he not, to use his holiness' own words, the monarch "of all the islands upon which the sun hath shone?" Are you ignorant of this fact, Mr. Bishop? I beg leave to instruct you upon the subject, by submitting to your lordship and to the poor, unfortunate Irish Catholics, whom you are leading blindly by the nose in every species of mischief and error, the following bull sent by the aforesaid Pope Adrian, to Henry the II., in the year eleven hundred and fifty-four. You will see from this bull, that Pope Adrian was a monarch, and I believe it is not usual with you or your brother bishops, to admit that there was ever any change in the power or prerogatives of the Popes, from the days of St. Peter down to the present moment. "Adrian, bishop, servant of the servants of God, to his dearest son in Christ, the illustrious king of England, health and apostolical benediction. Full laudably and profitably hath your magnificence conceived the desire of propagating your glorious renown on earth and completing your reward of eternal happiness in heaven, while, as a Catholic prince, you are intent on enlarging the borders of the church, instructing the rude and ignorant in the truth of the Christian faith, exterminating vice from the vineyard of the Lord; and for the more convenient execution of this purpose, requiring the counsel and favor of the apostolic See. "There is indeed no doubt, as your highness also doth acknowledge, that Ireland and all the islands upon which Christ, the sun of righteousness, hath shone, do belong to the patrimony of St. Peter and the holy Roman church. Therefore are we the more solicitous to propagate in that land the godly scion of faith. "You, then, most dear son in Christ, have signified to us your desire to enter that land of Ireland, in order to reduce the people to obedience unto laws and extirpate the seeds of vice. You have also declared that you are willing to pay for each house a yearly pension of one penny to St. Peter. "We, therefore, with that grace and acceptance suited to your pious and praiseworthy design, and favorable assenting to your petition, do hold it right and good, that, for the extension of the borders of the church, the restraining of vice, the correction of manners, the planting of virtue and increase of religion, you enter the said island and execute therein whatever shall pertain to the honor of God and the welfare of the land; and that the people of said land receive you honorably and reverence you as their lord. "If, then, you be resolved to carry this design into effectual execution, study to form the nation to virtuous manners; and labor, by yourself and by others whom you may judge meet for the work, in faith, word and action, that the church may be there exalted, the Christian faith planted, and all things so ordered for the honor of God and the salvation of souls, that you may be entitled to a fulness of reward in heaven, and on earth to a glorious renown throughout all ages." Does it not appear, Mr. Bishop, from the above bull, that Pope Adrian was a monarch? And do you dare condemn your predecessors in office for supporting him as such, or for being themselves monarchists? I opine you would not. Pope Adrian was an Englishman, and the only one who ever filled the office of Pope. The successor of Adrian in the popedom was a native of Sienna, and a temporal monarch as well as Adrian. He gave away kingdoms and crowns, as did all preceding and successive popes; and yet your lordship will not pretend to say that they did wrong. You dare not do it. It would cost you your mitre, and the other paraphernalia with which the holy church has befooled and bedizened your sacred person. Let me give you an instance of the manner in which some of the holy popes have disposed of whole kingdoms. I might give many, but I shall content myself with one for your special edification, and that of your deluded followers, the Irish in particular. The following is the bull of Pope Alexander, the successor of Adrian, confirming his transfer of the kingdom and people of Ireland to Henry the 'second, king of England, in the year 1555. "Alexander, bishop, servant of the servants of God, to his dearly beloved son, the noble king of England, health, grace and apostolical benediction. Forasmuch as things given and granted upon good reason by our predecessors are to be well allowed of, ratified and confirmed, we, well pondering and considering the grant and privilege for and concerning the dominion of the land of Ireland to us appertaining and lately given by our predecessor, Adrian, do in like manner confirm, ratify and allow the same; provided there be reserved and paid to St. Peter, and to the church of Rome, the yearly pension of one penny out of every house both in England and in Ireland; provided, also, that _the barbarous people of Ireland_ be by your means reformed from their filthy life and abominable manners, that, as in name so in conduct and conversation, they may become Chris-' tians; provided, further, that that rude and disordered church being by you reformed, the whole nation may, together with the profession of the laith, be in act and deed followers of the same." The above bulls are recorded in the archives of the Roman Church,1 in Ireland. They were publicly read at a Roman Catholic Synod held in the Cathedral of Cashal, in Ireland, Anno Domini 1171, and are now to be found in almost every history of Ireland, that has ever been written since. But notwithstanding these historical facts, the poor Irish are told that they are indebted to the church of Rome, even for their nationality. We have in this very city of Boston, a poor moonstricken changeling, and would-be philosopher, who has recently been hired by the Jesuit Bishop Fenwick, to make such an assertion, and the Irish Catholics to a man believe him. Unfortunate people! How long will you remain the dupes of popes, bishops, priests and their agents? Come out from among them; fly from the darkness of Popery; "come out of that deadly shade, and seat yourselves with us in God's own sunlight." The Lord Bishop Hughs of New York, finding that it would not answer his purpose to support O'Con-nell any longer, and feeling that he made his spring too violently and too soon; knowing that he fell far short of his leap, he turns round, like the Jesuit Rodin, and tells Americans that he was altogether mistaken in the course he pursued, and that he was truly their friend; that they should rule, and by right ought to rule, and that he and his subjects would be the first to aid them against England, or O'Connell. Well done, Mr. Bishop. Impudent and barefaced as your assertion is, more treacherous and false than even the Jesuit Rodin as you are, I have not the least doubt but you will succeed. It is curious to observe the similarity of sentiment and action which govern Jesuits, however far apart they may be. We know from the Wandering Jew, that the Jesuit Rodin, for several years, never ceased to pursue and persecute the orphan descendants of the Rennepont family. He commenced his persecution of them in Siberia; he scented their track with the keenness of a bloodhound, from that to Dresden. In Dresden, as we are told, he had a fresh pack of bloodhounds, who fell upon the innocent twin orphans of an exiled father, and protected only by a faithful French trooper. It is impossible to read the account given by Sue, of the ill-treatment which these children and their protector received from a ferocious brute, named Morok, a lay Jesuit brother during the time they remained at the "White Falcon Inn," without strong emotions of pity and commiseration. From this they were pursued by the Jesuit Rodin, by different agents and by different means, which the reader will find beautifully delineated in the Wandering Jew, until their arrival in Paris. Here, it will be seen, that new plots were formed, and new schemes devised, to defeat their just claims to their paternal inheritance, by keeping them in total ignorance that any such claims were ever in existence. Unfeeling, indeed, and cold as the marble slab which covers the house of the dead, must be the heart of that man or woman, who could unmoved witness the sufferings of these helpless orphans and the faithful servant, Dagoberth, while in the city of Paris; all brought upon them by Jesuit priests and Jesuit nuns,--fiends, vipers, vampires in human shape, All their movements were watched and betrayed, through the confessional. But the eye of the Lord seemed to rest upon them in a most extraordinary manner. It would be wrong to diminish, by anticipation, the pleasure which my readers may find in reading for themselves this part of the Wandering Jew. Let us, therefore, pass on to Rodin, the Jesuit, and prototype of the Lord Bishop Hughs of New York. Rodin, finding that all his plans and schemes, in trying to possess the vast estates of the Rennepont family, were likely to fail, and would inevitably be frustrated, unless some new scheme were devised, retired within his own room, deliberated on what was best to be done, and suddenly springing from his chair, thus soliloquized with himself: "Never have I had better hopes of success, than at this moment; the stronger reason for neglecting nothing. A new thought struck me yesterday. We will act here in concert. I have it,--an ultra Catholic journal, called 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' It will be deemed the organ of Rome. 'I will originate the question of the liberty of teaching. The common liberals will support us,--the idiots. They admit us to common rights, when our privileges, our immunities, our influence through the confessional, our obedience to Rome,--all put us beyond the pale of common rights, of the very advantage which we enjoy. Double idiots! They fancy us disarmed, because they know themselves to be disarmed towards us. That is as I would have it?'" This is precisely the course which the Jesuit Hughs, of New York, has pursued towards Americans. Rodin immediately acted upon the new idea which occurred to him; he wrote to the general of the Jesuit order in Rome, who immediately advised him to cease apparently from further persecuting the heirs of the Rennepont inheritance; to avow himself their warmest friend, and to denounce all those who attempted to injure them in any way, as plotters against their rights and their happiness. Having a previous understanding with his co-laborers in iniquity, he denounced every one of them, and by this act of apparent friendship and justice, he wormed himself into the undivided confidence of all who heretofore looked upon him with fearful suspicion. Just so is Bishop Hughs trying to worm himself into the confidence of Americans, by assuring them that he disapproves of the treachery of O'Connell, and by recommending to his subjects and his dupes, in New York and elsewhere, to assemble in public, and declare that they are opposed to O'Connell's movements in Ireland, and that they are the friends, of the United States; and accordingly we find that on Monday, the 16th of the present month, June, 1845, a meeting was called by the tools of the aforesaid Bishop Hughs, for the ostensible purpose of expressing their disapprobation of O'Connell, the Pope's tool, in Ireland. The bishop, knowing that the bitterest feelings have been aroused in the bosoms of Americans, at seeing Papists forming associations throughout the length and breadth of this land, and collecting vast sums of money, to be transmitted to Ireland, not for the purpose of feeding the half-starved population of that unfortunate country; not to clothe the almost naked peasantry of that unhappy land; not to relieve from bondage and worse than Siberian slavery, a people naturally brave and generous, but to pamper and to forward the plans of a roaring, brawling demagogue and coward, Daniel O'Connell. The least observant among us, is aware that the scenes of bloodshed, which have been witnessed in this country, may be traced to those associations, which that Irish Jesuit, Bishop Hughs, has fanned into existence, by his inflammatory appeals to the worst passions in the hearts of his people, and now, alas! too late,--even if he were serious,--he attempts to extinguish the flame which he has kindled. But I tell you, Americans, he is not serious. If you depend upon His professions, you will be deceived. He is sworn, on the most fearful oath, to support the power, the kingdom and the jurisdiction of the Pope of Rome, over all kings, potentates, states and magistrates. Neither are his subjects in this country sincere; and that very Bishop Hughs,--I accuse him of it in the face of the world,--I accuse him of it on the authority of the Roman Catholic church, of which I have been a priest myself,--teaches those very people, that any oath of allegiance which they have sworn to this government, is null, void and of no effect. When I was a Roman Catholic priest, it was my duty to absolve from their oath of allegiance, all those who came to confession to me. While a priest, I instructed the Irish to swear allegiance to the heretical government of the United States; but with a mental reservation, that the first allegiance was due to the Pope of Rome. Every Roman Catholic, who goes to confession to a Romish priest, is a mere political automaton, not to be trusted by a Protestant, or Protestant government, further than either would trust the priest to whom he con-fosses; and how far a Romish priest merits the confidence of an American Protestant, time will tell. The tools of Bishop Hughs, of New York, at Tammany Hall, June 16th, 1845, passed the following resolution: "Resolved, That there are thousands in this country, (meaning Papists,) who would bare their breasts to any power, (meaning English,) that may invade this country." It was also resolved, at the same meeting, "that they would defend the American claims to Oregon and to Texas." It was further resolved by these self-same repealers, the sworn subjects of Bishop Hughs and the Pope, "that the American eagle shall not be impeded by natives of Ireland in this country." If there was not something diabolically treacherous beneath the surface of those resolutions; if a viper were not hidden and concealed under the fair and verdant foliage of these words, they would be to me, as well as others, a source of pleasure. But let us remove the leaves and brambles, the blossoms and roses, which conceal the subtle and fatal poison, and they are calculated to chill and to freeze those sympathies which, under other circumstances, Americans would feel for those people. Irish Papists bare their breasts in defence of the rights of Protestant Americans,--and that by the advice and with the consent of a Popish Jesuit bishop! Monstrous insolence, to impose thus upon hospitable and generous Americans. The resolution, in truth, amounts to this: Resolved, That as our Bishop Hughs is permitted by the infallible church, to act the hypocrite, we, as professors of the same creed, are entitled to do the same. Resolved, That, as our bishops and priests are permitted to keep no faith with Protestant Americans, we shall pursue the same course, until we gain entire possession of this Protestant land. The idea of foreign Papists "baring their breasts to English bayonets, in defence of the rights of Protestant Americans," to Oregon or Texas, is laughable; it is farcical. Ireland contains nearly ten millions of souls,--I should have said slaves,--and they will not bare their breasts to the trifling number of sixteen thousand troops, which England deems fully sufficient to keep them in perfect subjection. But I will tell you, Americans, what those Popish heroes will do, and have been doing, ever since the year sixteen hundred and forty-nine, when the ruling Pope sent Monsignor Gio. Batista Rinuccini, Archbishop of Fermo, as his nuncio and minister plenipotentiary to Ireland, almost two hundred years ago. They will bare their------to be kicked, whenever John Bull may take a fancy to exercise his clumsy feet in that favorite amusement of his. Such slaves as these talk of "baring their breasts" in defence of American rights; who, numbering ten millions, still permit themselves to be kicked, cuffed, buffeted and spit upon by sixteen thousand British soldiers! Pshaw! Where is the American, who will not indignantly say, in the language of a Roman writer, "_Non tali auxilio nec defensoribtis istis_." Bishop Hughs and his myrmidons, talk of defending the rights of Texas! Poor priest-ridden, pope-ridden dupes! The Texans would spurn your aid; they do not want you; they would not have your aid. The Texans had not a thousand effective men when they declared their independence of Mexico, which was then able to raise an army of two hundred thousand men. But that army was an army of priest-ridden slaves, like yourselves, and the gallant little band of Protestant Texas, composed chiefly of Americans, defied their power; declared themselves independent, banished from among them the treacherous Spanish priests, who were in Texas; they fought for their freedom and they won it. Irish repealers, the slaves of O'Connell and the scheming Jesuit Hughs of New York, resolve to defend the rights of Texas! The thing is too ludicrous. I shall not dwell upon it. Let it not be inferred, from what I have stated above, that I believe the Irish Papists to be naturally cowards. I will not do them this or any other injustice. They are naturally a brave people. Unsubdued and untampered with by their profligate priests and Popish superstition, there is not a braver or more generous people in the world, and the chains which now bind them to British slavery, would be snapped in six months,--ay, I repeat it, Ireland would be free in six months, were it not for the ulterior designs of the Pope and his agents, in urging upon them abject submission to a power which, by a single effort of their native strength, they could crush never to rise again. Well does the Pope know, well do Jesuits and priests understand that if the Irish nation freed itself from English rule, by its native arm, as the United States did, they would also free themselves from the dominion of his royal holiness the Pope, and the trammels of Jesuitism and priestcraft; and hence arise the scruples of O'Connell, about violating the British constitution. Hence the exhortation of Irish priests to their downtrodden Irish slaves, to do everything constitutionally\ which means nothing more or less than this:--let us priests, bishops and pope, act for you; we are afraid to risk our own precious necks; we will negotiate matters for you. You must feel indebted to us for everything you possess; in the mean time come to confession to us regularly, bring us every dollar you earn, and we will take care of your political as well as your spiritual interest. Your bodies and souls shall be taken care of by us.--I can assure the Irish Papists in this country and elsewhere, that Daniel O'Connell and the Jesuit Bishops Hughs, Fenwick, and their brethren in this country, have no more idea of emancipating them, than they have of renouncing the Pope, unless with the view of making them still greater slaves to the Pope and the infallible church; and it is with this view they are now forbidding the use of the Bible, knowing full well that the free perusal of its sacred pages would enlighten them not only on the subject of their everlasting, but also on that of their civil rights. Well indeed may we apply to the Pope, and to the Lord Bishop Hughs, and each of his brethern the words of the poet, "Loyal his heart, and church and Pope his past; He for religion might not warmly feel; But for the church he had abounding zeal." We might well fancy these right reverend gentlemen addressing us in the following words of the same poet. They do so, in fact, every day. "Why send you Bibles all the world about; That men may read amiss and learn to doubt? Why teach the children of the poor to read; That a new race of doubters may succeed? Now can you scarcely lull the stubborn crew; And what if they should know as much as you?" There is not in history one solitary instance to be found, where the court of Rome, or Romish priests as a body, afforded aid to any people struggling for freedom, unless with the ulterior view of subjecting them to their own dominion,--a dominion far more despotic in its principles and tyrannic in its exactions, than any that has before been devised by human ingenuity; because that, and that alone, enslaves the soul as well as the body. Many instances might be quoted of the truth of this, but I shall only refer to one of a recent date. While Poland was struggling for her liberty, as we are told by a modern and beautiful French writer, Lamennais, (Affaires de Rome, p. 110. Paguerre, 1844,) and the success of the Russians remained a doubt, the official Journal of Rome, did not contain a word which could offend the victorious in so many combats; but scarcely had they, the Poles, fallen,--scarcely had the atrocious vengeance of the Czar begun the long punishment of a nation devoted to the sword, to exile and to slavery,--when the same journal could find no terms sufficiently injurious, wherewith to stigmatize those, the noble Poles, who had fallen victims to fortune. Cowardly Rome trembled before the Czar. He said to Rome, would you live yet, place yourself beside the scaffold to which I have consigned those rebellious Poles, who had the audacity to attempt to free themselves from my government, and while they pass on their way to the gallows, curse you the victims;--and Rome did curse the Poles. Atrocious, revolting as the conduct of the Czar has been towards the suffering Poles, yet there is something noble, something majestic in his treatment of Rome. He pays no regard to the insolent ecclesiastic of Rome, who would be lord of the universe. The Czar does not comprehend the meaning of those cabalistic words, spiritual supremacy. Let us contrast the conduct of this sovereign of Russia, with that of the sovereigns or executives of the United States, and the contrast cannot fail to make a forcible impression upon our minds. That of the Autocrat of all the Russians is so far truly independent; while that of one of our executives, in relation to the Pope, is truly spiritless and sycophantic. Witness the following letter of Mr. Van Buren, to the American consul at Rome, dated, Department of State, Washington, July the 20th, 1830. "Your letters of the 11th of April and 5th of May, the first anticipating the favorable sentiments of his holiness the Pope, towards the government and people of the United States, and the last confirming your anticipations, have been received at this department, and submitted to the president; by whom I am directed to tender his holiness, through the same channel, an assurance of the satisfaction which he derives from this communication of the frank and liberal opinions entertained by the apostolic see towards the government and the people, and of the policy which you likewise state his holiness has adopted, and which is so worthy of the head of a great and Christian church, assiduously to cultivate, in his intercourse with foreign nations, the relations of amity and good will, and sedulously to abstain from all interference in their occasional difficulties with each other, except with the benign view of effecting reconciliations between them. "You will accordingly seek an early opportunity to make known to the Pope, in terms and manner best suited to the occasion, the light in which the president views the communication referred to, and likewise you will assure him that the president reciprocates, in their full extent and spirit, the friendly and liberal sentiments entertained by his holiness towards the government of the apostolic see, and the people of the states of the church; and it is the president's wish that you should, upon the same occasion, offer his congratulations to the holy father, upon his recent succession to the Tiara, not from any hereditary claim on his part, but from a preponderating influence, which a just estimation of his talents and private virtues naturally had upon the enlightened councils by which that high distinction was conferred; and which affords the pledge that his pontificate will be a wise and beneficent one. "You will take care, likewise, to assure his holiness, in reference to the paternal solicitude which he expresses in behalf of the Roman Catholics of the United States, that all our citizens professing that religion, stand upon the same elevated ground which citizens of all other religious denominations occupy, in regard to the rights of conscience, that of perfect liberty, contradistinguished from toleration; that they enjoy an entire exemption from coercion in every possible shape, upon the score of religious faith, and that they are free, in common with their fellow-citizens of all other sects, to adhere to, or adopt the creeds and practise the worship best adapted to their reason, or prejudices; and that there exists a perfect unity of faith in the United States amongst religionists of all professions, as to the wisdom and policy of that cardinal feature of all our constitutions and forms of government, those of the United States and separate states of the union, by which this inestimable right is formally recognized, and the enjoyment of it inviolably secured. "M. Van Buren." I would especially invite the attention of my readers to the above letter. A proper understanding of this correspondence between the executive of this country and the Pope, through their representatives, will set at rest a question long mooted in every section of the United States, viz., whether the Pope is a temporal or spiritual potentate. If the former, Mr. Van Buren and the President of the United States did but their duty in giving the assurances contained in the above letter. This was due to him as an independent sovereign. As king of Rome, he was as well entitled to it as any of the sovereigns of Europe; and so far from blaming Mr. Van Buren, for the respectful and courteous manner in which lie addressed his royal holiness, I should be among the first to award him just praise. The numerical weakness of a foreign potentate's subjects, the paucity of their numbers, or their intellectual degradation, is, now-a-days, no argument against the legitimacy of their independent sovereignty. But if the latter,--if the Pope of Rome, is not an independent and sovereign potentate,--if his sovereignty is only spiritual, as the Jesuit Hughs and all Romish priests and bishops in the United States would persuade us, then I contend, that Mr. Van Buren, the President of the United States, or any other man who with his sanction, writes such a letter as the above is a conspirator against this government, and should be prosecuted as such. Among the foreign powers known to this government, no such power as a spiritual one is enumerated. The constitution of the United States recognizes no spiritual power, either at home or abroad; and if Mr. Van Buren, as the representative of this government, has corresponded with a foreign spiritual potentate, he did that which he was not authorized to do by our national charter, and which the executive of the United States, had no more right to order him to do, than I had. If the cabinet of his holiness, the king of Rome, have half the intelligence, tact and management for which they get credit, they must have felt highly amused at the simplicity and sycophancy of Mr. Van Buren's letter. If the power of the Pope, in these United States, be only spiritual, what has he to do with this government, or this government with him? The constitution of the United States, and the various constitutions of the respective States, recognize no spiritual power whatever. No court of law nor equity, from one end of this country to the other, understands what a spiritual power is; nor have they made any provision to maintain or enforce it What, then, is it? Where is it to be found? Is it visible? Is there any record of it? Is it tangible? In whom is it centred? No trace of it can be found among us, and yet we are told it exists; and three millions of Papists in the United States, are bound to obey this invisible and intangible thing, or whatever it is. We are told by Bishop Hughs, that the Pope claims only spiritual jurisdiction over this country. I explained, in my recent work on Popery, what Papists mean by spiritual jurisdiction and spiritual power. It would be a loss of time to refer to it again. The legerdemain and humbuggery of the whole affair are too transparent to deceive any eye but that of a credulous American. Without this doctrine of spiritual allegiance to the Pope of Rome, Popish priests could raise no money for his holiness, in the United States, and they dare not openly claim for him any civil allegiance. Without it, repealers could raise no money for that champion of Popery, Daniel O'Connell. Had the Romanists of the present day the spirit of the ancient Romans, they would spurn this shameful exaction upon their credulity, but especially upon their purse. It is base to submit to it; even a Pagan Romanist would spurn at it. He did so once before, and if his Pagan spirit was not broken by worse than Paganism,--Popery,--he would do so again. "For I," said Brutus "Can raise no money by vile means: By heavens, I had rather coin my heart And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection!" Yes, even a Pagan would spurn and scorn the deception, cupidity and hypocrisy of Popish Jesuits and priests. Was there ever upon the Papal throne, since the days of Hildebrand, a Pope who did not claim sovereign and temporal jurisdiction over the kingdoms of the earth? Do the annals of mankind record so dispassionate and so solemn an act of treachery, or so glaring an evidence of temporal power and despotism, as that of Hildebrand, known as Gregory, over the Emperor of Germany? The universal monarchy and sovereign power, which he and Rome wrung from a bleeding world, was never more absolute than that which the Popes of Rome wrung from the superstitions of mankind, in almost every age of the world; and now, in the nineteenth century, in 1845, the present Pope has the unparalleled insolence, through his agents in New York, Boston, and elsewhere, to fasten upon our necks a yoke more galling than that which heathenism imposed upon the Romans. This they cannot do by argument, because, to use argument with effect, man must be in the right; but to make the best possible use of bad arguments, may be, nevertheless, the privilege of genius, craft, and intrigue. Hence the introduction of auricular confession. Hence it is, that Romish bishops and priests persuade their people to go to confession, where they have the complete mastery over then feelings, passions, and judgment. They know if they can debauch and seduce one female in a family, the whole of the household is at their mercy. It is in that accursed tribunal that they persuade the people, first, "that it is abominable to maintain that men can work out their salvation, under any form of creed whatever, provided their morals are pure." Second, "that it is odious and absurd, to grant to the people liberty of conscience." Third, "that it is impossible to hold the liberty of the press in too great detestation." Every Papist is compelled in the confessional, to subscribe to these degrading concessions. He must swear solemnly, that these propositions are orthodox, and that every government should be compelled to acknowledge them as such. No man can die in the faith of the Romish church, until he acknowledges that these propositions are true. No individual can be confirmed as a member of the Romish church, at least in Catholic countries, until he assents to them. No one can be ordained a Roman Catholic priest, until he solemnly swears to maintain them. They familiarize the human mind to these infamous axioms of theirs, from their very infancy; and thus when they arrive at the age at which they are permitted to go to confession, which is generally from eight to twelve, there is no difficulty in confirming their people in the belief of these horrid principles. The following passage may be found in the _encyclic letter_, addressed by the actual Pope, to all the bishops of France, in 1832, in order that they might conform, they and their flocks, to these instructions, although they are in direct opposition to the laws of the country, and the rights of its citizens. Is it necessary to say that M. Lamennais protested, with all the powers of his great soul, against such odious maxims as these, stated in all their ultramontane candor? "We now come," says the holy father, "to another cause by which we lament to see the church afflicted at this moment. To wit: to that indifference or perverse opinion, which has spread itself abroad on all sides, by the artifices of evil men, and in accordance to which, men may attain everlasting SALVATION BY THE PROFESSION OF ANY CREED, PROVIDED THAT THEIR MORALS ARE PURE. It will not be difficult for you, in a matter so clear and evident, to repel an error, so fatal as this for the people." Is this clear enough? A word to those of our number, who are intrusted to the care of these pastors. So here is an Italian monk, the ultramontane head of our bishops, who annuls, at a single dash of his pen, one of our most sacred rights, a right, the maintenance of which has cost the country torrents of bloodshed in the religious wars, like water. "From this corrupt course of indifference," proceeds the holy father, "originates that absurd and erroneous opinion, or madness rather, which asserts that the liberty of conscience must be secured and guarantied to every one, whomsoever. The way is being cleared for this pernicious error by the liberty of opinions, full and unbounded, which spreads itself fai and wide, to the ruin of civil and religious society." It is evident, that the holy father commands our bishops to inspire their flocks with a horror of one of the fundamental laws of our society. Let us conclude with an attack by the same holy father, by no means less violent, or less conclusive, against the dragon of the press. "With this is connected that fatal liberty, of which we cannot but stand in awe, the liberty of libraries to publish any writing whatsoever; a liberty which some persons still dare to solicit and extend with as much noise as ardor." "Pope Gregory the XVIth, had scarcely ascended the pontifical throne, when he heard of the revolt of Bologna. His first movement was to summon the Austrians, and excite the _Sanfedistes_. The Cardinal Albani beat the liberals at Cesena; his soldiers pillaged the churches, sacked the town, ravished the women. At Forli, the bands committed assassinations in cold blood. In 1832, the Sanfedisles showed themselves in broad day, wearing medals, with effigies of the Duke of Modena, and of the holy father, letters patent, in the name of the apostolical congregation, privileges and indulgences: The Sanfedistes took the following oath liberally: '_I swear to elevate the altar and the throne upon the bones of the infamous liberals, and to exterminate them without pity for the cries of their children, the tears of their old men and women._' The disorders committed by these brigands, passed all bounds; the court of Rome made anarchy regular, organized the Sanfedistes into bands of volunteers, and granted to these bands extraordinary privileges."--The Revolution and Revolutionists of Italy. Review of the Two Worlds, November 15, 1844. This is a specimen of the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, as taught in this country; and thus, Americans, would they erect altars upon your bones, "heedless of the cries of your old men and your old women," should the Pope's spiritual power ever gain the ascendancy over your strong arms,--or should his priests, by intrigue and by a play of passions, (as Rodin expresses it,) and excitement, obtain the control of your hitherto clear intellects. Pause, Americans. Hesitate for a moment, you young men and young ladies, who, under the influence of some momentary excitement, may be tempted to unite yourselves with the Romish church, or to go into their nunneries. The first advance you make, the very first step you take to effect this, is in itself utterly degrading to you. It is the abandonment of your whole selves, bodies and souls, judgment, intellect, understanding, mind, liberty and all, to the guidance of a body of men whose political intrigues, and public and private immoralities, have blackened the pages of history for the last sixteen hundred years. The Roman Catholic Bishop of Strasburg, in a letter to the Paris Constitutionnel, has denied that such doctrines as those contained in the three propositions which I have quoted above, are taught in Popish colleges. He pledges his honor in support of this assertion. I have quoted from the _Casuists_, a work written by the fathers of the Jesuit Society. The bishop does not deny the doctrines positively, but says that the work from which the quotations are made, was written, not by Jesuits, but by a Rev. Dr. Moulet, a secular priest. If any other proof were necessary, to show the iniquity of Jesuit doctrines, and the truth of every word I have said, and others before me have said, against Jesuit intrigue and tergiversation, this admission of the Bishop of Strasburg, would be sufficient. What is the difference between a Jesuit father, and a secular priest? It is simply this. Jesuits are limited in the sphere of their duties, by the general of their order; and whenever a Jesuit makes his appearance in the diocese of any Popish bishop, he is subject, while there, to the said bishop. The Strasburg professor may succeed in imposing upon those who know not the difference between a secular priest and a Jesuit. The matter is not mended, or the difficulty removed, by having the book written by a secular priest; it is so much the worse. An evil deed, for instance treason, when committed by a servant, is bad enough; but it is much worse when committed by his master. An act of perfidy or immorality committed by a priest, under the jurisdiction of a bishop, merits execration, and should receive it; but if committed by the bishop himself, would become still more execrable. I presume that when the Bishop of Strasburg pledged his honor that the crimes imputed by others, as well as myself, to him and his tools, were not sanctioned in his college, or by the writings of Jesuits, he had Brother Jonathan in view. His letter to the Paris Constitutionnel was intended exclusively for Americans, whom Jesuits know by the name of "_dolts, double dolts_." Let us now see how far the word and honor of this Jesuit Strasburg bishop are entitled to credit. It is proper to do so, as his letter has found its way into several of our presses in the western country. I pronounce the Bishop of Strasburg's assertion an unqualified, deliberate, and unmitigated falsehood. An issue is now made between myself and the bishop. The question is one of veracity, between us; and I am willing to leave the decision to a jury of the public. The bishop is a Jesuit, and bound, by his oath of allegiance to the Pope, to support him and the doctrines of his church, at the expense of all Protestant governments. He is bound by his oath to "hold no faith with heretics." He is bound by his oath "to destroy them." He is no citizen of this country. He has nothing in common with Americans, but the external configurations of humanity. He is not personally known to any American, as far as I am acquainted; and under these circumstances, he comes before the American public with the naked, unsupported assertion, that what history has handed down, and I, a fellow-citizen of their own, have confirmed and declared to be true, is false. Is he to be believed in preference to me, even if history was silent? I have lived in this country more than twenty-five years, and though a foreigner by birth, I will venture the assertion, that no Roman Catholic priest ever came to America with higher recommendations than I did. Some of them are from Roman Catholic bishops, and are now in my possession; but I will not ask Americans to give them any credit, because a Romish bishop or Jesuit would recommend the devil himself, who takes the necessary oath of allegiance to Rome, and swears to overthrow, by all possible means, the heretical government of the United States, which sanctions,--I use the very words of the Pope,--"that _fatal liberty of the press of which we cannot but stand in awe, the liberty of libraries to publish any writing whatsoever; a liberty which some--Americans--dare_ to solicit with noise and ardor." I will not insult Americans by asking them to give me credit for veracity on the strength of recommendations from Popish bishops in Europe, men who are the sworn enemies of everything dear to freemen. I brought with me, from other sources, testimonials of the highest respectability, not as a Popish priest, but as a man. Among them were introductions to that eminent patriot, De Witt Clinton of New York, who immediately, on my arrival at his hospitable residence in Albany, and during the session of the Legis-ture, had me appointed chaplain to the senate. But I will not ask Americans to give me credit for veracity on account of any connections or acquaintances which I formed while I was a Popish priest The very fact of my being a priest was in itself contamination. It should disqualify a man from being considered anything that was candid, frank or virtuous. But I will ask Americans to credit me, in preference to the Bishop of Strasburg, or any other Jesuit priest, upon the testimony of American citizens, men known to themselves, men of honor, probity and patriotism. I have been a member of the bar of the States of South Carolina and Georgia, for nearly twenty years, until ill health obliged me to change my residence temporarily; and I value the following letter which has been sent to me by William Law, Esq., then judge of the superior court of Georgia, more highly than all the documents, testimonials and recommendations, which the Pope of Rome, or the whole college of his cardinals and Jesuits, could furnish. "Savannah, 25th June, 1832. "Dear Sir,--Understanding from you that it is your intention to leave the State, with a view to the practice of law elsewhere, it will I apprehend be necessary that the certificate of admission to our bar furnished you by the clerk, should be accompanied with a certificate from myself, as the presiding judge of the court in which you were admitted. This is necessary to give it authenticity in another State. It will afford me pleasure to append that verification to it, if you will be pleased to send me the certificate. "Permit me, as you are about to leave us, to offer you my humble testimony to your correct, upright deportment as an advocate at the bar of the superior courts of the eastern district of Georgia, since your admission to the practice of law in the same. "Wishing you success and prosperity wherever you may settle, I am, dear sir, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "William Law." Judge Law resides now in Savannah. He has retired from the bench, and practises law in copartnership with senator Berrien, of Georgia. I need not say who Judge Law is. He is well known, as one of the most eloquent and learned advocates of the American bar; nor is he more distinguished for his legal knowledge, than for his Christian virtues and exemplary life. He is at present, and has been for many years, an elder of the Presbyterian church, in that city. I believe that I have the honor and the friendship of this worthy man, up to the moment I write. Every earthly interest I have is in this country. Its prosperity will advance mine. The overthrow of its government would bury in its ruins all I have to support me. Who then is to be believed by Americans,--the Jesuit bishop of Strasburg, whose country is the world, whose queen is the Popish church, and whose kindred are monks and Romish priests? Am I unreasonable, under these circumstances, in asking a jury of Americans for a verdict in favor of my veracity, my word and my honor, in preference to the honor of a foreign Jesuit bishop of Strasburg, or any other Popish priest or bishop in the United States? You, Americans, are the best judges. In addition to these facts and circumstances, I will take the liberty of stating that nearly the whole delegation to Congress from the State of Georgia, where I have so long resided, have borne testimony to my correct conduct, by recommending me to high and lucrative offices under this government. Among these were the names of the Hon. J. M'Pherson Berrien, then a next door neighbor of mine, the Hon. Thomas Butler King, William C. Dawson, and the lamented Richard W. Habersham, of Savannah. This last named gentleman is no more, but he has not left behind him one whose confidence and friendship I valued more. He was, indeed, the noblest work of God, an honest man. His name is now revered in Georgia, and will be there venerated as long as she has records to preserve it. I have in my possession the most friendly and affectionate letters from this Christian patriot up to within a few weeks of his death, which occurred about two years since. I may further add to these distinguished names, that of the Hon. Wm. C. Preston, of South Carolina, the Hon. Isaac Holmes, of the same State, and the Hon. Judge Wayne, of Savannah, one of the judges of the Supreme Court of the United States. I have evidence in my possession, up to a few weeks ago, of the personal friendship of that elegant and accomplished gentleman Judge Wayne. I have studied law more than twenty years ago with the Hon. Mr. Holmes, and never since has his friendship towards me been interrupted. As a literary man and finished classical scholar Mr. Holmes has scarcely a superior in the country. With such testimonials as these of my Americanism, honor and veracity, I dread not the verdict of an American jury in the case now pending between me and the Jesuit bishop of Strasburg. But before you make up your verdict, I beg to submit to you the following sketch of a debate, which took place the 5th of last March, in the Swiss Diet in Switzerland, on the subject of Jesuits in that country. It is taken from a speech of the Hon. Mr. Neuhaus, a representative from Berne. The debate commenced by the chancellor laying before the assembly petitions from the people of Switzerland, signed by 120,000 persons, praying that the Jesuits might be expelled from that country. Neuhaus said that the question of the Jesuits, which was raised last year, had made great progress since that time, and its importance might be estimated by the impression which it had produced on the population, the anxiety with which the result of the deliberations of the diet was looked forward to, and the care taken by all the great councils of the cantons to have their opinions duly represented. * * According to the eighth article of the federal compact, the diet took all the measures necessary for the internal and external safety of Switzerland. That right on the part of the diet was incontestable, and had been put in force on former occasions within memory. The question, therefore, was not whether the diet had a right to take steps against the Jesuits, but whether the Jesuits had compromised and were compromising the safety of Switzerland. It was therefore the question of fact only that he would approach. Were the Jesuits dangerous or not? Were they particularly dangerous as respected Switzerland? Yes, the Jesuits were dangerous. 1. Because of their morality. They taught the people to commit, without remorse of conscience, the most culpable actions. Their morality necessarily exercised on those exposed to their influence a deleterious effect; and a writer of the eighteenth century had said, with great truth, that he detested the Jesuits because they were an order _aboutissant_. But in republics morality was wanted above all things. 2. The Jesuits were dangerous because they made use of the ecclesiastical character to carry disorder into families, and to divide the members of them, in order the more easily to govern them. Examples abounded, and, if necessary, he could cite many. 3. They were dangerous because the order required of all its members a blind obedience, an absolute submission. He who was a member of the society, whether he were a Jesuit properly so called, or merely belonged to the order under another denomination, could no longer have either opinions or will. As soon as the leaders gave orders, those who were enrolled in that militia were obliged to obey, without examination; and if the chief ordered the members and their associates to work in secret to subvert republican governments, they were obliged to obey, without examination, whether they thought it right or wrong. But what was necessary to the people of Switzerland, if they wished to maintain their independence, was the sentiment of liberty and moral force, and that sentiment the Jesuits annihilated. 4. The Jesuits were dangerous because they had neither family nor country. As soon as a Swiss citizen entered the order of the Jesuits, he only belonged to that body. On this account the governments of the cantons would do well to make a law that any one entering the order of the Jesuits should lose his natural rights. When a man was obliged to lay aside his feelings of family, to disown his cantonal as well as federal country, he was no longer a Swiss; he as nothing but a Jesuit and a stranger to every country. 5. The Jesuits were dangerous because they endeavored everywhere to seize upon power. In despotic and monarchical governments, where the head was invested with extended authority, they might be tempted to make use of the Jesuits as auxiliaries. As long as the Jesuits did not dominate, they would consent to serve a master; but when they had attained their end, they took advantage of services which they had rendered to establish then domination over those who had recourse to them. This was what made all the governments of Europe banish them from their states. They were dangerous to monarchies, and still more to republics, where the authorities did not possess the elements necessary to counterbalance their pernicious influence. 6. They were especially dangerous to Switzerland, because one of the principal ends of the order was to extirpate Protestantism. Without doubt, the Swiss Catholics had a right that their Protestant brethren should respect their religious convictions; but the Protestants had also rights which should be respected by the Catholics; and the deputies of the canton of Berne would demand, if those Catholic cantons which tolerated, and even invited into their bosoms an order, the object of which is the extirpation of Protestantism, conducted themselves like good confederates towards the reformed cantons; if they fulfilled the federal duties, and if those states had not the right to say to the states which received the Jesuits, 'We have no congregation which labors for the extirpation of Catholicism, and we ask of you not to tolerate a corporation so hostile to us as the Society of Jesus.' These were the principal reasons which made the canton of Berne consider the Jesuits as dangerous; but there were many others which he could state, and among others, the recent events in the country were a strong proof of the danger of the Jesuits. The only legal way to settle the question was, by taking the opinions of the cantons in the diet, and if twelve of the cantons voted that the Jesuits were dangerous, the others must submit. M. Neuhaus concluded by reading his instructions from his canton, which were to demand a decree for the expulsion of the Jesuits from every part of Switzerland. "The action of the diet is already known." The reader may see from the above, proofs almost positive of the truth of every crime with which I have charged Popish Jesuits. The Hon. M. Neuhaus, a representative from a people proverbially generous, distinguished as a nation for honesty and simply integrity. Switzerland and chivalry are almost synonymous since the days of William Tell. Switzerland, honesty, virtue and piety are understood to be almost one and the same thing. Even among ourselves, in the United States, a Swiss Protestant emigrant needs no recommendation but a certificate of his nativity. We trust him; we confide in him, because he is honest; we believe him because he is truth himself. All the finer qualities of uncorrupted humanity seem to be his by birthright. One hundred and twenty thousand of these honorable men petitioned their Legislature to pass a law for the expulsion of Jesuits from their country, and their representative, M. Neuhaus, the embodiment of their virtue and integrity, supports the prayer of their petition, charging those Jesuits to their teeth, proving from the history of their past and present lives, that they are collectively and individually immoral and treacherous men, the sworn enemies of freedom and disturbers of the peace. He accuses them of being leagued together, and bound by the most awful oaths, to overthrow the government and exterminate the Protestants of Germany. He accuses them of maintaining spies in Protestant families, of tampering with their children, and introducing disobedience and disorder amongst them. I regret extremely that I have not his whole speech, but if there is a file of the Swiss papers in the city, it will be found in those of last March. I am ready now, fellow-citizens, for your verdict. I submit the case between the Jesuit Bishop of Strasburg and myself, to you without further argument. If I am correct in my charges against Jesuits; if the various crimes, with which Eugene Sue charges them, be well founded,--and I declare, on the honor of an American citizen and a member of the American bar, that they are,--I ask my fellow-citizens of the United States for a verdict in my favor. But it will be said, for the hundreth time, that the constitution of this country protects our people against dangers from Jesuits, or any other foreign source; and that our representatives will never betray the trust which the people repose in them; or even if they did betray it, the constitution provides for such a contingency. True, it does. But let me observe, that our constitution never supposed nor made any provision for such a contingency as that the people would betray themselves; and still this case is as plain to me as the noon-day. It is not only possible that the people of this country could betray themselves, but they are actually doing it at the present moment. I will admit that a courageous people, such as our citizens are, can be neither cozened nor bullied out of their liberty; but it must be also admitted, that an intelligent and generous people may cease to be such; they may abet and admit amongst them the sworn enemies of their constitution, under false ideas of toleration and liberty; they may want the wisdom and judgment necessary to discern their danger in time; and in the necessarily downward progress of degeneracy, it is not even impossible,--such things have been before now,--that they may want courage to ward off the evil when it stares them in the face. Look back, Americans, to the history of by-gone days. The Tarquins were expelled, and Rome resumed her liberty. Caesar was murdered, and his whole race exterminated; but Rome remained in bondage. In the days of Tarquin, the Roman people were not entirely corrupt; in the days of Caesar, they were thoroughly so. You, Americans, may be betrayed, though perhaps you may never betray yourselves voluntarily. But take heed, I entreat you, of Jesuits. Our constitution makes it difficult, if not impossible, to destroy our liberty by any sudden outbreak of popular fury, or even by the treachery of a few. But if you, as a people, or the majority of you, will concur with the few; if you will deliberately suffer them to acquire a majority, your constitution is nothing better than "a piece of parchment, with a bit of red sealing-wax dangling from it." It ceases to be yours; it becomes the constitution of foreigners; it is the property of Jesuits and Popish priests, the moment they get the majority of voters; you, Americans, have nothing to do with it It secures no rights for you, nor should it be longer called the American constitution. Recollect that ten or fifteen years will give Papists a majority of voters in the United States, nor should I be surprised if, within half a century, the Pope of Rome was seen in New York or the city of Boston, as he is now in Rome, on Palm Sunday, mounted upon an ass, in blasphemous imitation of the Saviour entering Jerusalem, with thousands and tens of thousands of Papists spreading palms upon the streets, and shouting Hosanna to "our Lord God, the Pope." This subject, Americans, is worthy of your serious consideration, to say the least of it. You are jealous of your charters and your privileges; perhaps sufficiently so. But you seem indifferent to the peril with which your liberty is threatened by Romish priests, inculcating treason in their confessionals, up to your very beards. What avail your laws against treason, implied treason and constructive treason? What avail your bills of rights, either national or state, when a priest, at your very door, aye, under your very roofs, is insidiously instilling into the ears of his penitents at the confessional, treachery to your government, to your laws, to your religion, and even to each other? What avails your trial by jury, when oaths lose their sanctity, and a Jesuit teaches his penitent that no faith is to be held with Protestants; while there are amongst you nearly three millions of people, who are taught to disregard your laws, whose rulers,--the priests,--connive at its infringement, and refuse themselves to be amenable to your civil or criminal courts? Do not be startled at my telling you that they refuse to be amenable to your courts. This is probably new to many of you; but as I make no statement which I cannot prove, I refer you to the case of the Romish priest, Carbury, in New York. It occurred some years ago, and is duly reported. This priest, Carbury, peremptorily refused answering, while on the stand as a witness, any questions put to him by the court, in a case of great importance affecting the government of the State of New York. He defied the judge on the bench, the sheriff, and all other officers of the court He contended that the constitution of the United States guarantied to him the free exercise of his religion, and, by implication, the right of hearing confession, and giving and receiving in the confessional such counsel and advice as his church required of him to give. And such was the sway which foreign Papists had in New York at that time, that the court did not and dare not commit him to prison for contempt; though, under similar circumstances, the officers of the court would drag an American citizen to jail, as they would a common felon. But the priest Carbury did no more than he was ordered to do by his church. The Popish council of Lateran declares "it unlawful for a civil magistrate to require any oath from a Roman Catholic priest." A work, called the _Corpus Juris Canonici_, containing all the revised statutes of the Council of Trent, the last held in the Popish church, has issued the following proclamation to all monks, priests, bishops, and Jesuits: "We declare it unlawful for civil magistrates to require any oath of the clergy, and we forbid all priests from taking any such oath." The Council of Lat-eran declares and announces to the Popish priesthood, as well as to the whole world, "that all magistrates, who interpose against priests in any criminal cause, whether it be for murder or high treason, shall be excommunicated; and if he condemn any priest for murder, or any other crime, he shall be excommunicated." Thus we see that in our very midst, a Romish priest has but to go into his confessional, and there he may become accessory before or after the fact, to treason, arson, murder, or other crimes, and hold our laws and our magistrates in utter contempt and utter defiance. This they have done before, in the neighboring city of New York, and this they will do again, whenever it suits their plans and purposes. Pour in amongst us a few more millions of a people who believe and sanction this doctrine; flood our country with a population subject to a priesthood maintaining such doctrine as this, and what must be the consequence? Vice, ignorance and laziness; just what it is in every country where Romish priests are permitted to exist and exercise their pernicious principles. There is a defect of moral principle and moral honesty wherever the Popish confessional is to be found. I know the reverse of this is believed by Americans, and not without some apparent reason. Here I do not blame them. They are deceived, and often have I wished, often and often have I resolved to undeceive them in this particular. Many and many a time have I resolved to be no longer a party to this shameful imposition upon Americans. Many and many a time, have I determined shake off from my soul any participation, directly or indirectly, in fastening upon the minds of American Protestants that the Romish confessional was the means of making Roman Catholic laborers and servants more honest than they otherwise would be. It is not so. Protestants know not the plans or schemes of Popish priests, in anything. Fraud and imposition are reduced to a science in the Romish church. Let me explain how the impression has got among Protestants, that confessing sins to the priests is a very good thing "for the ignorant Irish." "It keeps them honest." I can scarcely refrain from laughing, when I hear this observation. It has been made to me by some of the most amiable, benevolent, and charitable ladies and gentlemen in this city of Boston, and elsewhere; and though I understood the deception played upon them, I felt almost unwilling to remove so charitable but delusive a dream. There is an old proverb, "it is better late than never." Let me do so now. Justice to Protestants, and even to the Roman Catholic laborers and domestics themselves, requires this at my hands. The _modus operandi_ of Romish priests is as follows: When a Popish or Jesuit priest settles in a city or town, he looks about him and ascertains what the character, circumstances, politics and religion of the different families are. If he discovers that any particular Protestant family is wealthy, entirely unacquainted with Popery, and liberally disposed, he takes a note of the fact, and determines, by some means, to form an acquaintance with the head of that family. This is sometimes not easily done. It is not often that men of wealth are desirous of the personal acquaintance of clergymen of any denomination. They know that, pretty generally speaking, there is little to be gained, so far as worldly goods are concerned, from a personal intimacy with them. Of this Romish priests are well aware, and act accordingly. When one of them desires an acquaintance with the head of a family, he unceremoniously calls upon him, hands him some money,--more or less according to circumstances,--and without any explanation tells him it is his, and seems no way desirous of further conversation. The gentleman or lady, who receives the money, of course, detains the priest or Jesuit, and asks what he wishes him or her to do with this money; whether he deposited it for safe-keeping, or whether he wished it paid over to some one. The answer of the Jesuit is, sir, or madam, "the money is yours. I received it in the discharge of my duty as a priest," and he departs. The result of this piece of Jesuit acting is obvious. The gentleman mentions the circumstance to his family, the merchant to his neighboring merchants, the mother mentions it to her children, and to every mother on her list of visitors, and all finally come to the conclusion that the money has been received in the _confessional_; that some poor Roman Catholic in their employment had stolen it, and that the priest in the confessional caused restitution to be made; that, after all, this "going to confessional was a good thing,--it kept the Catholic servants honest; and if it were not for it, there would be no safety in giving them employment." The husband tells his wife to throw no obstacles in the way of her domestics going to confession, as he believed it was a check upon their dishonesty, and makes up his mind that it is at least good policy to sustain Popery and Popish priests. He calls upon the Jesuit bishop or priest, touches his hat for him should he meet him upon the streets, tells him he would be happy to see him at his house; and thus, by this tedious, though sure process, does a reverend Jesuit priest gain his end. The family is now at his mercy; and the best recommendation a domestic can bring to this family, or any of their acquaintances, is that of a scheming deceitful Popish priest or bishop, with whom, if properly known, no respectable man would be seen walking the streets. Often have I done this while a Romish priest. This process, by which Popish priests and Jesuits often insinuate themselves into the confidence of some of our most respectable Protestant families, has in it something ineffably mean, contemptible and wicked. There is something worm-like and vampire-like in the whole process. The bold robber is an honorable man, compared with a skulking Jesuit priest. The robber runs some risk in gaining possession of his booty; he has, at least, the redeeming quality of personal bravery. The eagle, which takes his prey to the very pinnacle of the loftiest rock, though that prey should be the infant of the fondest mother, and there devours it before the eyes of its agonized parent, must claim more or less admiration for its boldness. There is a majesty in its flight which diminishes the atrocity of the act: by one bound the noble bird gains his point But the Jesuit, like the worm, like the loathsome reptile, gains his by beginning at the root, at the base of domestic happiness and virtue, and creeps and gnaws his way until he reaches its summit, and then laughs as he sees it mouldering under his feet. But this is not all. The Protestant family with whom he forms an acquaintance by these dishonorable means, are not the only sufferers. Injustice is done to the Catholic domestics in Protestant families. A palpable imputation of dishonesty is thrown upon the whole body of them. An implied impression is left upon the minds of Protestants that they are all dishonest,--that they would all rob, pilfer and steal, if they were not forbidden and compelled to make restitution in the confessional. But what signifies it to a Jesuit priest, what Protestants think of poor Roman Catholics? If they only believe that priests and Jesuits are saints, that is all they care for. If priests can only manage to cause Protestants to attribute the honesty of Papists to themselves, and can cause the Catholics to hate and despise Protestants for suspecting them of dishonesty, their point is gained, though at the expense of injustice both to Protestant and Catholic. It is peculiarly unjust towards Catholic domestics, who are really as honest as other people, if their priests will let them be, and who might be as good citizens as others, were it not for priests and Jesuits. Do away with the supremacy of the Pope and auricular confession, and the foreigners who come among us from Ireland and other Catholic countries, would be as peaceable, as industrious and as worthy citizens as any we have, but never can these poor people enjoy the blessings of freedom here or elsewhere, while they have any connection with priests, confessionals, or popes. Americans are not inimical to foreigners who conduct themselves with propriety, and pay a due respect to the laws of their country; but they are inimical,--and it is their duty to be so,--to all who traitorously interfere with their civil rights; and it is not a little jugular, that among the millions of foreigners which have fled to this land of freedom, none but Papists have interfered with their laws, their institutions, or their customs. I have resided in the United States for thirty years or thereabouts, and never have 1 heard a Protestant say that he has been ill-treated or unkindly dealt with by Americans, on account of his foreign birth; and I can declare, with equal sincerity, that I have never known a Roman Catholic satisfied with our republican form of government, and who did not avow,--when he could do so without being heard by Protestants,--that he wished a Raman Catholic government established in its place. It is a strange circumstance, but nevertheless true, that Americans have no difficulties with any foreigners amongst them except the Roman Catholics There are various denominations of foreigners in the United States, but all others enjoy the blessings of liberty, quietly and thankfully. Papists alone are dissatisfied; they alone refuse to hear to reason, and seem inclined to govern by force. No Protestant priest in the United States has ever been known to be controlled in the discharge of his duty by a foreign potentate. None of them were ever known to harangue their flocks and march them through American cities, with banners bearing the treasonable motto, written in conspicuous letters, "Americans shan't rule us" Popish bishops and Papists alone, have dared to do this. I have always been, and I trust I am now, the advocate of peace; but I will confess, that I am at a loss to know whether there is to be found in any code of political, or even moral ethics, a single passage which can justify Americans in permitting this outrage upon their laws and upon their national character. It may be a salutary inconsistency, a laudable apostasy, on the part of Americans, to permit this insult to their country and to the memory of their noble and patriotic ancestors; but if these ancestors, who now sleep in their graves, were living, and saw this Popish flag with this Popish motto, paraded by foreign Papists over their graves, I will only say, the insult should never be repeated; there would be no one left to bear the standard. I do not believe, that, from the days of Cain to the days of Bishop Hughs, of New York, there has ever been witnessed so insolent, or so inflated a condensation of treason, as was contained in that solitary Popish motto, "Americans shan't rule us;" and it Americans were not a people of singular forbearance, they would have levelled to the ground every Popish church, and put to the sword every Popish priest and bishop in the country. The poor Irish Papists who marched through our cities, waving in the very face of Americans, the flag which bore this treasonable motto to which I have alluded, are not so much to be blamed; a majority of them are but the children of impulse, whose passions are played upon by designing priests. I repeat it,--and again and again I have repeated it,--the Irish are naturally a well-disposed people. They would be true to this country, and faithful to its laws and constitution, if their priests and church would let them. This is evident in the contrast which is visible between the Papists and Protestants of Ireland. There are not in this country better men or more faithful citizens than the Protestants of Ireland. Where can we find a man who values character more highly than an Irish Protestant? Where is there to be found a man, who contributes more, by his own example and that of his family, to the preservation of virtue and morality, than a Protestant Irishman, in the United States? I can say from my own knowledge of Protestant Irishmen in particular, that they are temperate, frugal, industrious, and eminently sincere in their professions and attachments. I mean not any invidious comparison when I say there is no finer character than a Protestant Irishman. He is in earnest in everything, in his words and in his actions. Americans, give him the hand of friendship; give him your confidence; he will not betray you. In the hour of danger, he will stand by yourselves, your laws, and your constitution. He will defend them with his strong arm and brave heart; his religion teaches him to do so. But not so the Irish Papist. Trust him not at least until he renounces his religion, which tells him that you are heretics, and should be extirpated, and that your constitution shall not rule him. I am little inclined to moralize, but it is to me a sad reflection, to see this contrast between the Protestant and Roman Catholic Irish; all occasioned by that accursed thing called Popery. Even the Christian League, so grossly abused by Papists, seem to entertain no other feelings than those of hospitality towards them; but in truth nothing is to be feared by Papists from that association. As far as I know them by reputation, they are men of zeal, piety, and fine talents; but they are no match for the trained bands of the Popish army. They want discipline. It is true I know-nothing of them but through their speeches, some of which have been published in our leading religious journals. These I have read, and the League itself could not give me credit for taste or judgment, did 1 not pronounce them pointless, pithless, powerless, almost useless. They evidently overrate themselves or undervalue the force of their opponents. The latter I have reason to know is the fact. It is true his holiness has condescended to curse them. He sent recently a bull formally excommunicating them as a set of damned heretics. I am glad of this. It may arouse them to a greater concert of action. But what if this League should succeed in that which seems to be after all their leading object, the circulation of the Bible in Italy? Suppose they even succeeded in suppressing Jesuitism altogether in that country, what then? Would Popery cease to exist? Or has the _Christian League_ counted the cost at which this may be done? Have they reflected that while they are mowing down the withered weeds of Popery in the morally barren fields of Italy, that Jesuits are carefully collecting its seeds and roots, and planting them in the new and rich fields of their own country, where, in the homely but expressive language of our farmers, one acre will produce more than ten in Italy? The whole course of this League, as far as I am able to judge, is injudicious, and for the one moral good that will be the consequence, fifty evil ones must follow. Not a single member of this learned association would apply their rule of action, in relation to Italy, to the management of any other transaction in life. What farmer, for instance, would waste his time in cultivating a sandy barren field on his farm, and leave uncultivated a rich, loamy and productive one? Or would he try to cultivate both without sufficient hands to do either well? Assuredly, no judicious man would do so; or if he did, a failure and poverty would be the necessary consequence. If the League desire success, they must strike at the root of the evil of which they complain. Who, for instance, that had a tree in his garden, whose fruit and blossoms were poisonous, would spend his time, every spring and autumn, in plucking off those blossoms and gathering up this fruit, with a view of getting rid of this troublesome and destructive tree? Would you, gentlemen of the Christian League, not smile at the individual whom you saw thus employed? Would you not, in charity, say to him,--sir, you should root out that tree altogether from your garden; but especially should you take care that if any of its seeds has found its way into a richer garden or more valuable soil of yours, to extirpate the latter first, as the poison which that will emit will be much more rank, subtle and to greater quantity. If Jesuitism were now confined to Italy alone, the members of the _Christian alliance_ may, perhaps, be right. If there was but one tree in the farmer's garden, and its seeds had not taken root in any of his more valuable domains, he might take his own time in removing the tree, either by cutting it down, or by gathering up its fruits and blossoms to suit his taste, fancy or eccentricity. But when the seed of this tree has taken root and begins to flourish luxuriantly, in the only spot of land from which he expected support for himself and family, he is a thriftless farmer that would not extirpate this tree root and branch, fruit and blossom, from this valuable spot on which his own support and that of a numerous family depended. Let this rule be applied to the individual members of the Christian alliance, or rather let each member apply it to himself. He cannot but see that the poisonous seed of Popery has found its way to this country, and taken deep root in some of its most verdant fields. I am aware that these gentlemen will pay but little attention to my remonstrances or warnings. Men entrenched behind the pride of opinion will seldom yield to the summons of reason. For more than twenty years I have warned Protestants, but to no effect, of an approaching foundation of Popish priests and Jesuit principles. Suppose a fire should rage through one of our most populous cities; suppose it should have extended to the very middle of its lengthiest streets; would it be wise to go and try to check its progress by seeking for the spot where it began? The whole force of the fire companies and citizens should be concentrate it the extreme point at which it extended; every effort should be made to prevent its progressing together. Palaces, houses, hovels, goods, all should be pulled down at every risk of individual property to stop the conflagration. Suppose a prairie were on fire; suppose that prairie belonged to the _Christian alliance_; suppose the loss of it involved their own ruin and the ruin of their posterity,--would they, or any one of them, go to look for the spot where the fire originated? Not they. It would be madness to do so. Each and every one of them would turn up their sleeves and never cease to labor until they cut a ditch deep and wide enough to prevent the progress of the flames. Why do they not pursue the same course in relation to Popery? They see Popery burning, blazing, whizzing, and devastating this whole land, and in place of cutting a ditch, or throwing up such a barrier as will check its further advance, they go by a sort of retro-progressive movement, back to Italy, to begin this work. Pardon me, fellow-citizens. Though I disapprove of the course of your proceedings in trying to prevent the further spread of Popery, I am willing to acknowledge that in talents, zeal, piety, and general learning, you infinitely excel me; but I believe I am not vain in saying that in the knowledge of Popery and Jesuit intrigue, I am not inferior to you. You are evidently in the dark in practical acquaintance with Popery, and I hesitate not to tell you now, that until you unite with me heart and hand in my efforts to extirpate it from this country, you will be laughed at by every Romish priest and Bishop in the United States; well knowing, as they do, that while you are converting one Italian to Protestantism, they are converting five hundred Americans to Popery; and that while you are distributing one little tract, which one Italian in a thousand,--even if he could, would not read,--they are building one hundred colleges, nunneries, and monk houses, in your very midst, and at your very doors. You will find, by-and-by, that this very country of yours, this very land of freedom, will supply even Italy with Jesuits and priests enough to drive you, your Bibles and tracts, beyond their boundaries. Stand upon your own soil; let Americans never engage in any foreign religious or political war. You have not now the moral power to wage an offensive religious war; that day is gone by. I warned you of it twenty-five years ago, but you heeded me not; you were deaf. You have quite enough to do now to defend your own soil, and much more, I fear, than you will be able to accomplish, with all your zeal and talents. One of the members of the Christian League, at its late convention in Boston, has stated, if I am not mistaken, that the Pope read one of its tracts, and looked very sad. For the word sad, should be substituted glad. If he read the tract at all, which I doubt, it must have been extremely gratifying to him. It showed him clearly that he had succeeded in humbugging Americans even farther than he expected; and with due deference to each and every member of the League, I must say, that this is the only inference which any man, versed in a knowledge of Popery, or even of human nature, would or could draw from that circumstance. The Romish church has a vast interest in this country; an interest so deep that no line can sound it; an interest of such magnitude, that the power of numbers can scarcely calculate it, and of such altitude, that it scarcely admits of a measurement; and the Pope's object is to divert the attention of the Christian League, and all other American Protestants, from this country to Italy, which, if given to us with all its relics, Jesuits, monks and nuns, would not enrich us much in a pecuniary point of view, and would be only the means of flooding us with infidelity and immorality. It is sound policy in the Pope, to attract the attention of American Protestants to Italy. He knows well, that the citadel of our liberties can never be taken, without this or some other similar plot. Let him but succeed in turning the eyes of Americans from the altar of our own liberty, on which the God of freedom sits enthroned, to Italy, and pour in upon us his vassals at the rate of two thousand in forty-eight hours,--we are told was done in New York, last week,--and freedom's God will soon be dishonored, and the image of some Popish vagabond, called saint, will be seated in its place. The whole country must form itself into one Protestant alliance, and swear upon the altar of freedom, that no man shall be admitted to the rights of an American citizen, until he forswears all allegiance, spiritual and temporal, civil and religious, without mental reservation or equivocation, to the Pope of Rome Every appeal to the Pope of Rome, from the citizens of this country, or from any man living within its limits, for the purpose of settling any difficulties between them about church rights, civil rights, or any other rights whatever, should be considered treason; and the individual or individuals who shall make such appeals, whether a Popish archbishop, bishop, priests, Jesuits, or laymen, should be prosecuted as felons, and subjected to the most ignominious punishment known to our laws. This, and this alone, can effectually arrest the progress of Popery in these United States. No Papists can complain of this, and no honest man will object to it. Such a law is not at variance with our constitution; it prevents no man from worshipping God according to the dictates of his own conscience. On the contrary, it only guaranties even to the Papist, in still stronger terms than our constitution now does, the right of worshipping God as he pleases, and relieves him from the degrading obligation of being obliged to worship him according to the dictates of the conscience of a foreign tyrant, the Pope of Rome, and his insolent minions in this country. I believe there is not even an Irish Catholic in this country who will not support such a law. A little reflection will satisfy them that nearly all the evils they suffer, and have borne patiently for centuries back, have been brought upon them by the Church of Rome. They will soon perceive, if they only take the trouble of examining the question, that there is not, and never was, such a system of general, permanent, and unlimited slavery, as that to which the Romish church has reduced them. It is irreconcilable with happiness, good order, public and private tranquillity; and there cannot possibly exist a more singular anomaly, than to see a whole people willing to Submit to such a system, and preferring it to the rational freedom which they enjoy in this country. Far be it from me, and foreign indeed is it from ray thoughts, to say, or do, or write anything that may injure the true welfare of the poor Irish Catholics. I would serve them, and, in the full flow of my affection for them, I would beg of them to pause and look seriously into their condition. The year before last, 1843, the Irish people paid to O'Connell twenty-eight thousand pounds. This was called the O'Connell tribute. In the same year, they paid _repeal rent_, amounting to the enormous sum of seventy-eight thousand five hundred pounds sterling; amounting in all, to one hundred and six thousand five hundred pounds British money. The above, I take from the accounts and estimates of the repeal journals. Let us add to the above sum the amount which the Irish in the United States have sent over to Ireland, and some idea may be formed of the grinding tyranny which the Romish church and her agents exercise over their deluded victims here and elsewhere. Under these circumstances, is it not my duty, is it not the duty of every friend of humanity, to appeal to the good sense of the Irish, to their "sober second thought," and ask them, why submit to such imposition as this? Why not resist these tyrannical exactions of the Church of Rome? For they know well, that it is not _Irish repeal_ or American repeal, that the Pope and his priests have in view; but church repeal. What have the Irish received in exchange for the vast sums which they have given, and the blood which they have shed, to effect this Irish, or rather church repeal, and the loss of that confidence and esteem, which they might otherwise have from Americans? Nothing. Emphatically nothing. Suppose they succeeded in overthrowing the constitution; suppose they reduced to sad reality the words of their daring and treasonable motto, "Americans shan't rule us" and the American constitution were trampled under their feet; suppose the "Protestant heretics of the United States" were extirpated and exterminated, _qui bono_, whose advantage would it be? Would it be yours, poor, warm-hearted, but deluded Irish Catholics? Would your new Popish rulers give you a better constitution? Would your new Popish signers to your constitution be men of more piety, liberality, or patriotism, than the signers of the Declaration of the Independence of these United States? Let the civilized world answer the question. I shall not record it. It should be registered only in heaven. Poor Papists! You are not only slaves, but you are denied the privilege of choosing your own master. Your task-master, the Pope, and his overseers the bishops, will not even allow you to choose your own teachers, or have priests of your choice. They will not even give you a voice in the choice of your pastors. Do you call this freedom of conscience? A bishop, some insolent tool of the pope, tells you to build a church; puts his hand in your pockets, takes out the last dollar some of you have, builds a magnificent chapel, and when you want a priest, whom you believe most competent to instruct yourselves and your children, you cannot have him; and if you insist upon your just right to choose him, you are told by your tyrant overseer, the bishop, to be silent, or he will lock up the church, and curse you, and every one belonging to you. Call you this freedom of conscience? Call you this the right of worshipping God according to the dictates of your own conscience? Yes. Such is your infatuation. I ask you, Irish Papists, whether I am exaggerating or even discoloring the truth, in what I here state? About the year 1818, the Roman Catholics of Norfolk, Virginia, had for their priest a man supposed by them to be among the best of the order. They wished him continued among them; but their bishop would not allow it; and when they murmured, he threatened to curse them; they sent a remonstrance to the Pope of Rome, but he did not deign to notice it; they had to submit. Here was liberty of conscience with a vengeance! The Roman Catholics of Philadelphia, New Orleans, Charleston, and New York, sent similar remonstrances to his royal holiness, the Pope; but in place of redress, he reprimanded them for their insolence, and threatened to curse them, if they exhibited any further symptoms of contumacy; and they crouched like so many whipped spaniels, perfectly content with the privilege of paying out their money and building magnificent churches for the Pope's agents. A similar case occurred in this city of Boston, if I am correctly informed, only a short time ago. A large majority of one of the most respectable Roman Catholic congregations in this city, wished to have x for their pastor, a priest whom they believed to be a man of talents; but their Bishop, Fenwick,--a practical Jesuit, with talents below mediocrity, but possessing all the craft, cunning and intrigue of his order,--had the unparalleled assurance to tell them that _they should not have the pastor of their choice; that they had no voice in the matter_; that he was the church within the limits of his diocese; that they who did not hear the church "were worse than heathens and publicans;" and that if they did not shut up their mouths, he would shut up their church at once, and curse them if they became contumacious. Is this freedom of conscience? And yet we hear this very majority,--this insulted, downtrodden majority,--talk of the right of worshipping God according to the dictates of their own conscience. Shameful proceedings these, in a free country! Base tyranny over a generous people! Why not say to this would-be despot, Fenwick, we acknowledge you our bishop; we will hear to any objections which you have to make against the pastor of our choice; but if you have none to make, we shall have him; the church is our property; and you and your interdicts, curses and all such "raw-heads and bloody-bones," may go to Rome; we want you not in a free-country. No longer shall we submit in blind obedience to you, or to a foreign Pope. The great mass, of Irish Catholics, on whom the arts of delusion and chicanery are chiefly practised, do not understand the meaning of the word freedom. They are taught by priest and Jesuits in the confessional, to misapply that term altogether. Freedom or liberty means in its true sense, a faithful and conscientious adherence to law and the constitution of the country in which we live, and of which we are members. It is the obedience of duty, and anticipates compulsion. It is not a blind obedience, such as that taught by Popish priests, and which favors the extension of their power. Priests and bishops would, if they could, limit the comprehensive term, liberty, to the privilege of bowing to his holiness the Pope, and building churches for him. But even Papists are beginning to doubt the legitimacy of this application of the term, and I am much mistaken if there are not, even now, thousands of them in the city of Boston, New York, and elsewhere, who will unite with Americans in petitioning Congress to pass a law, making it treason, in any man in the United States, whether native or foreigner, to hold any correspondence, or to avow any allegiance of any kind or under any name or title, spiritual or temporal, with the Pope of Rome, knowing as they do that he is a temporal potentate. Let the whole people, Christian League, Natives, Odd-fellows, Freemasons, Whigs, Democrats, Conservatives, and all unite in one great, national petition to the Congress of the United States, and in one fervent and loud prayer to the God of mercy, that he may give the said Congress a correct view of their duty, and cause them to hear and grant our prayer. This, with such improvements as wiser heads may suggest, is the course I would advise to be pursued in the present posture of our national and moral condition. The time seems propitious; our executive is said to be a Christian. God send he may prove so, and that the blandishments of office may not blind him to a sense of his duty to God and his country! DESTRUCTION OF THE INQUISITION IN SPAIN. In 1809, Col. Lehmanowsky was attached to the part of Napoleon's army which was stationed in Madrid. And while in that city, said Col. L., I used to speak freely among the people what I thought of the Priests and Jesuits, and of the Inquisition. It had been decreed by the Emperor Napoleon that the Inquisition and Monasteries should be suppressed, but the decree, he said, like some of the laws enacted in this country, was not executed. Months had passed away, and the prisons of the Inquisition had not been opened. One night, about 10 or 11 o'clock, as he was walking one of the streets of Madrid, two armed men sprang upon him from an alley, and made a furious attack. He instantly drew his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, and while struggling with them, he saw at a distance, the lights of the patroles,--French soldiers mounted, who carried lanterns, and who rode through the streets of the city at all hours of the night, to preserve order. He called to them in French, and, as they hastened to his assistance, the assailants took to their heels and escaped, not however before he saw by their dress that they belonged to the guards of the Inquisition. He went immediately to Marshal Soult, then Governor of Madrid, told him what had taken place, and reminded him of the decree to suppress this institution. Marshal Soult replied that he might go and destroy it. Col. L. told him that his regiment (the 9th of the Polish Lancers) was not sufficient for such a service, but if he would give him two additional regiments,--the 117th, and another, which he named, he would undertake the work. The 117th regiment was under the command of Col. De Lile, who is now, like Col. L., a minister of the gospel, and pastor of an evangelical church in Marseilles, France. The troops required were granted, and I proceeded (said Col. L.) to the Inquisition, which was situated about five miles from the city. It was surrounded with a wall of great strength, and defended by a company of soldiers. When we arrived at the walls, I addressed one of the sentinels, and summoned the holy fathers to surrender to the imperial army, and open the gates of the Inquisition. The sentinel, who was standing on the wall, appeared to enter into conversation for a moment with some one within, at the close of which he presented his musket, and shot one of my men. This was the signal of attack, and I ordered my troops to fire upon those who appeared on the walls. It was soon obvious that it was an unequal warfare. The walls of the Inquisition were covered with the soldiers of the holy office; there was also a breast work upon the wall, behind which they partially exposed themselves as they discharged their muskets. Our troops were in the open plain, and exposed to a destructive fire. We had no cannon, nor could we scale the walls, and the gates successfully resisted all attempts at forcing them. I could not retire and send for cannon to break through the walls without giving them time to lay a train for blowing us up. I saw that it was necessary to change the mode of attack, and directed some trees to be cut down and trimmed, to be used as battering rams. Two of these were taken up by detachments of men, as numerous as could work to advantage, and brought to bear upon the walls with all the power which they could exert, while the troops kept up a fire to protect them from the fire poured upon them from the walls. Presently the walls began to tremble, a breach was made, and the imperial troops rushed into the Inquisition. Here we met with an incident, which nothing but Jesuitical effrontery is equal to. The inquisitor general, followed by the father confessors in their priestly robes, all came out of their rooms, as we were making our way into the interior of the Inquisition, and with long faces, and their arms crossed over their breasts, their fingers resting on their shoulders, as though they had been deaf to all the noise of the attack and defence, and had just learned what was going on, they addressed themselves in the language of rebuke to their own soldiers, saying, "_Why do you fight our friends, the French?_" Their intention, no doubt, was to make us think that this defence was wholly unauthorized by them, hoping, if they could make us believe that they were friendly, they should have a better opportunity, in the confusion of the moment, to escape. Their artifice was too shallow, and did not succeed. I caused them to be placed under guard, and all the soldiers of the Inquisition to be secured as prisoners. We then proceeded to examine all the rooms of the stately edifice. We passed through room after room; found all perfectly in order, richly furnished, with altars and crucifixes, and wax candles in abundance, but could discover no evidences of iniquity being practised there, nothing of those peculiar features which we expected to find in an Inquisition. We found splendid paintings, and a rich and extensive library. Here was beauty and splendor, and the most perfect order on which my eyes had ever rested. The architecture, the proportions were perfect. The ceiling and floors of wood were scoured and highly polished. The marble floors were arranged with a strict regard to order. There was everything to please the eye and gratify a cultivated taste; but where were those horrid instruments of torture of which we had been told, and where those dungeons in which human beings were said to be buried alive? We searched in vain. The holy father assured us that they had been belied; that we had seen all; and I was prepared to give up the search, convinced that this Inquisition was different from others of which I had heard. But Col. De Lile was not so ready as myself to give up the search, and said to me, "Colonel, you are commander to-day, and as you say, so it must be; but if you will be advised by me, let this marble floor be examined. Let water be brought and poured upon it, and we will watch and see if there is any place through which it passes more freely than others." I replied to him, "Do as you please, colonel," and ordered water to be brought accordingly. The slabs of marble were large and beautifully polished. When the water had been poured over the floor, much to the dissatisfaction of the inquisitors, a careful examination was made of every seam in the floor, to see if the water passed through. Presently Col. De Lile exclaimed that he had found it. By the side of one of these marble slabs the water passed through fast, as though there was an opening beneath. All hands were now at work for further discovery; the officers with their swords, and the soldiers with their bayonets, seeking to clear out the seam and pry up the slab; others with the butts of their muskets striking the slab with all their might to break it, while the priests remonstrated against our desecrating their holy and beautiful house. While thus engaged, a soldier, who was striking with the butt of his musket, struck a spring, and the marble slab flew up. Then the faces of the inquisitors grew pale as Belshazzar, when the handwriting appeared on the wall; they trembled all over. Beneath the marble slab, now partly up, there was a stair-case. I stepped to the altar, and took from the candlestick one of the candles four feet in length, which was burning, that I might explore the room below. As I was doing this, I was arrested by one of the inquisitors, who laid his hand gently on my arm, and with a very demure and holy look said, "My son, you must not take those lights with your bloody hands, they are holy."--"Well," I said, "I will take a holy thing to shed light on iniquity; I will bear the responsibility!" I took the candle, and proceeded down the staircase. As we reached the foot of the stairs we entered a large square room, which was called the Hall of Judgment. In the centre of it was a large block, and a chain fastened to it. On this they had been accustomed to place the accused, chained to his seat. On one side of the room was one elevated seat called the Throne of Judgment. This the Inquisitor General occupied, and on either side were seats less elevated, for the holy fathers when engaged in the solemn business of the Holy Inquisition. From this room we proceeded to the right, and obtained access to small cells, extending the entire length of the edifice; and here such sights were presented as we hoped never to see again. These cells were places of solitary confinement, where the wretched objects of inquisitorial hate were confined year after year, till death released them from their sufferings, and there their bodies were suffered to remain until they were entirely decayed, and the rooms had become fit for others to occupy. To prevent this being offensive to those who occupied the inquisition, there were flues or tubes extending to the open air, sufficiently capacious to carry off the odor. In these cells we found the remains of some who had paid the debt of nature; some of them had been dead apparently but a short time, while of others nothing remained but their bones, still chained to the floor of their dungeon. In other cells we found living sufferers of both sexes and of every age, from three score years and ten down to fourteen or fifteen years--all naked as when born into the world! and all in chains! Here were old men and aged women, who had been shut up for many years. Here, too, were the middle aged, and the young man and the maiden of fourteen years old. The soldiers immediately went to work to release these captives from their chains, and took from their knapsacks their overcoats and other clothing, which they gave to cover their nakedness. They were exceedingly anxious to bring them out to the light of day; but Col. L., aware of the danger, had food given them, and then brought them gradually to the light, as they were able to bear it. We then proceeded, said Col. L., to explore another room on the left. Here we found the instruments of torture, of every kind which the ingenuity of men or devils could invent. Col. L. here described four of these horrid instruments. The first was a machine by which the victim was confined, and then, beginning with the fingers, every joint in the hands, arms, and body, were broken or drawn one after another, until the victim died. The second was a box, in which the head and neck of the victim were so closely confined by a screw that he could not move in any way. Over the box was a vessel, from which one drop of water a second fell upon the head of the victim--every successive drop falling upon precisely the same place on the head, suspended the circulation in a few moments, and put the sufferer in the most excruciating agony. The third was an infernal machine, laid horizontally, to which the victim was bound; the machine then being placed between two beams, in which were scores of knives so fixed that, by turning the machine with a crank, the flesh of the sufferer was torn from his limbs all in small pieces. The fourth surpassed the others in fiendish ingenuity. Its exterior was a beautiful woman, or large doll, richly dressed, with arms extended, ready to embrace its victim. Around her feet a semi-circle was drawn. The victim who passed over this fatal mark, touched a spring, which caused the diabolical engine to open; its arms clasped him, and a thousand knives cut him into as many pieces in the deadly embrace. Col. L. said that the sight of these engines of infernal cruelty kindled the rage of the soldiers to fury. They declared that every inquisitor and soldier of the inquisition should be put to the torture. Their rage was ungovernable. Col. L. did not oppose them; they might have turned their arms against him, if he had attempted to arrest their work. They began with the holy fathers. The first they put to death in the machine for breaking joints. The torture of the inquisitor put to death by the dropping of water on his head was most excruciating. The poor man cried out in agony to be taken from the fatal machine. The inquisitor general was brought before the infernal engine called "The Virgin." He begs to be excused. "No," said they "you have caused others to kiss her, and now you must do it." They interlocked their bayonets so as to form large forks, and with these pushed him over the deadly circle. The beautiful image instantly prepared for the embrace, clasped him in its arms, and he was cut into innumerable pieces. Col. L. said, that he witnessed the torture of four of them--his heart sickened at the awful scene--and he left the soldiers to wreak their vengeance on the last guilty inmate of that prison-house of hell. In the mean time it was reported through Madrid that the prisons of the Inquisition were broken open, and multitudes hastened to the fatal spot. And oh, what a meeting was there! It was like a resurrection! About a hundred who had been buried for many years were now restored to life. There were fathers who found their long lost daughters; wives were restored to their husbands, sisters to their brothers, and parents to their children; and there were some who could recognize no friend among the multitude. The scene was such as no tongue can describe. When the multitude had retired, Col. L. caused the library, paintings, furniture, &c., to be removed, and having sent to the city for a wagon load of powder, he deposited a large quantity in the vaults beneath the building, and placed a slow match in connection with it. All had withdrawn at a distance, and in a few moments there was a most joyful sight to thousands. The walls and turrets of the massive structure rose majestically towards the heavens, impelled by the tremendous explosion, and fell back to the earth an immense heap of ruins. The Inquisition was no more!--_Phil Christ. Obs_. AURICULAR CONFESSION and POPISH NUNNERIES, Volume II. By William Hogan 1854. PREFACE TO THE SECOND VOLUME. A close observer of the past and present religious and political condition of this country, cannot fail to see an evident and manifest change in both, especially during the last ten or twenty years. It may not appear as plain to those who have always resided upon the soil, as it does to others, who have only been naturalized or incorporated amongst them. This is not to be wondered at It is almost natural that it should be so. A parent, who is accustomed to see his child every day, and perhaps every hour in the day, cannot always perceive how fast he grows in height and size. A stranger, who only sees him at distant intervals, will perceive the change much sooner. The child will grow, and acquire almost the attitudes and proportions of manhood, before the parents can realize the fact that he is no longer a child, but a full grown man. It is undoubtedly upon some similar principle, we can account for the fact that Americans do not see, as soon as others among them, the fatal change which is progressively, but steadily and surely, taking place in the political and religious condition of this country. If I am correct in my own observations upon events as they whirl past me with almost dazzling rapidity, there is something wrong amongst us,--something is "rotten in Denmark,"--some cogs are out of place, or out of proportion, in the machinery of our moral and political systems. Some foreign elements must have been surreptitiously thrown in and mixed up with them, which have deranged all their operations. It is, in my apprehension, the duty of every man who values freedom of thought, freedom of speech, and the free exercise of religion, to examine and see what is the cause of this derangement, which retards and disturbs our happiness, as Christians and as citizens. What has swelled and rendered turgent and muddy those sweet and gently-flowing streams of peace and brotherly love, on the banks of which, the early settlers of this country used to sit for days undisturbed, singing praises and hallelujahs to Jehovah, who delivered them, in his great mercy, from lands of bondage, tyranny, and idolatry. I have looked into the subject; I have examined, with all the care and diligence in my power, the reasons and causes why free-born Americans were not advancing more rapidly both in political science and practical piety; and the result of my most anxious, diligent, and impartial inquiry is, that it is attributable solely to the introduction of Popery among them, and the consequent direct and indirect interference of the Court of Rome with our government The royal Pope of Rome, (as I have heretofore demonstrated to the satisfaction of every man whose eyes and ears were not closed against truth,) claims jurisdiction, spiritual and temporal, over the kingdoms of this world; and his untiring and obstinate efforts to obtain an universal acknowledgment of this mad and presumptuous claim, has occasioned, and is now producing, (even in this country,) more strife, and contributes more to the decay of religious and even political ethics, than any other circumstance recorded in the history of the human race. There have been but few, if any, on the long list of Popes and Anti-Popes, who were not themselves dabblers and traffickers in politics; and there is scarcely one among them whose private history does not show him to be an abettor and an accomplice in the vilest crimes and immoralities; so much and so deeply so, that we are astounded at the single inquiry how such characters could ever have obtained influence over any portion of their fellow-beings. This, however, is not a matter of surprise to me, nor does such an inquiry form any considerable portion of the following pages; but what more than astounds me, is, how Romish Popes and priests could, by any species of jugglery or legerdemain, deceive and impose upon the cool, reflecting, and calculating citizens of the United States: but reflection might have taught me better. So expert and versed in moral and political jugglery are Popes, bishops, and priests, that they must be closely watched, otherwise their artful practices will deceive the most intelligent spectators; unless there may be amongst them, perchance, some individual who has been trained himself to a knowledge of their arts. A Popish juggler cannot deceive me. I understand the whole of his operations, as well as he does himself. He may astonish the natives by his "wonderful feats," but with all his legerdemain he cannot deceive me in any of his movements. Under these circumstances, I felt it my duty to raise the curtain behind which I knew were concealed those secret springs by which the machinery of Popery is moved in these United States. The most complicated part of the whole machine,--and the part most difficult to be understood,--is that which is called _Auricular Confession_. His Royal Holiness of Rome has obtained a patent, or something like it, for this particular wheel within a wheel of the machine. In almost all Catholic countries, no one dare examine or take a model from it. If he does, he incurs the penalty of being cursed by the Pope. An awful excommunication is immediately issued against him. Every thing the Pope does is awful If he gives his blessing, it is awful; his curse is awful; his person is awful; he cannot be approached unless with profound reverence. His big toe is awful; no one can kiss it, unless on bended knees, and after the performance of sundry puerilities, as Bishop Eastburn, of Boston, very properly calls all such fooleries. It does not appear as yet, that his Holiness has taken out any patent for _Auricular Confession_ in this country; and as I know not how soon he may gull American heretics to grant him one, I have taken the liberty of exhibiting a model of it, for public inspection. There are parts of this model which may appear revolting to the delicate sensibilities of my readers; but let them reflect that the original is formed and put together by the sacred hands of His Holiness the Pope and his pious priests. I act only in the capacity of an artist, or a sculptor, who is permitted, event by the rules of good taste and delicacy, to give likenesses, in painting and statuary, of the most deformed and unsightly objects. They are only required to be true and faithful to nature and the originals from which the likenesses are taken. I have done no more than this, in the model or picture which I have drawn of Auricular Confession; and those who do not choose to examine it, are, of course, at perfect liberty to pass it by unnoticed. The day is not far distant when it will be found in every family in the United States. I have the honor to remain the public's humble servant, WILLIAM HOGAN. AURICULAR CONFESSION AND POPISH NUNNERIES. It has been observed by an eminent writer, that "book-making is something like pouring water from one vessel into another, and then pouring it back again." There is much truth in the observation; this is obvious to every general reader. There is scarcely a work issued from the press, which is not substantially a copy of something that has been written before upon the same subject The old water-casks, which have been as it were fixtures for centuries, are now being dug out of their places, and the waters contained in them are changed into new casks, having a more sightly appearance, and a more polished exterior. This, however, is more apt to be the case in the writings of theologians, than in those of any other body of men. Limited as my own reading has been, I do not recollect ever having perused a volume upon theology, especially from the pen of an American theologian, which I had not seen or read (at least in part) before. How to account for this I know not. Assuredly this land of freedom has among its theologians and controversialists men of the finest minds--minds like their own rivers, overflowing with the deepest, the clearest, most limpid and purest streams of thought--minds in which the ever-rolling ocean of time has had, as yet, scarcely an opportunity of depositing much of its accumulated impurities--minds which, if their great powers were evolved and brought to bear on the moral and civil condition of our fellow citizens, would give us a new era or a new world of thought and morals--strong, permanent, diffusive, progressive--and as different from those of olden times, as our new and beautiful republic is from some of the aged, faded, sickly and consumptive governments of former days. It is difficult; I own, to form a new system of any kind, especially a new system of thought or morals; but still such a thing is not impossible. There never was, and never will be, a system constructed without having to encounter great and almost insuperable obstacles; first, in its formation, and secondly, in its application and various bearings. It was difficult, for instance, to form our own system of civil government. Its very conception was for some time looked upon as a wild theory. Such a thing was not dreamed of in any work upon political ethics taught in our seminaries or schools, in the days of its founders, yet the system was established, and has hitherto fully answered all the expectations of its friends; but even if our comparatively new form or system of government did not entirely succeed--if it even failed and tumbled to atoms, that would not be a sufficient argument against making the experiment, for even in its ruins, fragments may be found which may be useful to posterity. Yes, as the poet beautifully expresses it, "You may break--you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." The failure of any system, as I have observed, is not a sufficient argument against its practicability, or its ultimate usefulness; and hence it appears to me strange that American minds, so fertile in all expedients to advance the temporal interests of man, should be so barren and unproductive of any system of thought or morals exclusively their own, and entirely independent of the corrupt and vitiated systems which have bewildered Europe and its moral philosophers for so many centuries. It is passing strange that the theologians and professors of moral theology in this New World of ours--if they can do no better--do not unite upon some plan to exclude from among them institutions which all admit to be calculated to demoralize the rising generation. I am happy to find that there is now a system of thought and morals, or something like it, to be found amongst us, which is peculiarly American; it is denominated or called the _Christian League_. Let me be understood, when I use the term system. By system I mean an arrangement of objects or purposes so as to make them agree and unite. The Christian League I believe may be called a system; its members are united in the accomplishment of given objects. But if not strictly speaking a system itself, it has within it materials out of which a noble one of thought and morals can be formed. It is yet in its chrysalis, but the sun of righteousness, which I trust the dark clouds of superstition that now portentously hang over us shall never be permitted to hide from our view, will soon warm it into maturity, and give it wings to fly and carry with it wherever it goeth, glad tidings of salvation. I do not agree with the leading members of the Christian League, in their modus operandi. I have taken the liberty of suggesting to them a different course of action from that which they have been pleased to adopt; but I am with them, heart and soul. I shall support their measures, as far as I find them calculated to check the progress of Popery in the United States. If I cannot agree with them in their plan to effect this, I shall only say--and I say it with the utmost respect to each and every member of the Christian League!!!!! "If a better system thine, Impart it frankly, or make use of mine." I have suggested to the members of the Christian League, to throw away from amongst them all appearance of sectarianism; but I know not that they have done so; the name or the society would indicate that they had; but do facts warrant such an inference? The very reverse is the case. Their prominent speakers all belong to one denomination; there may be a few exceptions, but there are not many; the public presses which advocate the proceedings of the League, are generally supported by those of a particular creed. What is the inference? It is this: either other presses and other denominations of Christians are indifferent about the success of the League, or the members of the League are unwilling to hold any communion with them. The former cannot be the case; the latter must be, of course. This is not right, and if persevered in, must ultimately neutralize all the measures of an association which, if properly conducted, might evolve and mature one of the finest systems of thought and moral government that has ever been discovered. I have suggested to the members of the Christian League, that they should have but one base, or one great moral trunk. I have advised them to partition this trunk; and divide it into branches, to be spread equally among all the followers of the law of God, and all the friends of civil rights. Then let every man do his duty; let no man fancy that because of his elevation in the Church, or higher salary, his nature has been metamorphosed, or refined by any chemical process; let him not suppose himself sublimated by the sunshine of personal popularity, which is fleeting as the wind; let each individual suppose--and history, as well as my own personal experience, enables me to assure him that he may do so without injustice--that the cause of morals and civil rights has one common enemy in the United States, which must be not only defeated, but annihilated--yes, annihilated. While that enemy lives, the cause of morality cannot flourish, and the civil rights of man are in danger. Need I tell the reader who or what that enemy is? It is Popery. A healthy state of morals, and Popery cannot exist in any country, any kingdom, or any clime; the air which gives vitality to Popery, and sustains its existence, is death to morality--aye, that very morality which, as Americans, we boast of, and consider to be the very incarnation even of our civil rights. It is true, that under the guidance of reason, several forms of government have been established, but all have been imperfect and unsatisfactory to man in the various stages and mutations of the social system. If we look back and examine the history, the nature and character of those improvements which have been made in society ever since its genesis, we shall find that the finger of religion, ever true to its purpose, invariably pointed and invited the attention of man to them; we shall find also that whenever or wherever this has not been the case, the people have not prospered; we find in every thing truly valuable to man, whether in his social or individual capacity, the hand of religion, and the almost omnipotency of moral principle. This is eminently conspicuous at the present day, and perhaps as much so in this as any country in the world, and hence it is that we should be peculiarly grateful and vigilant in removing from among us any and every cause which may directly or indirectly have a tendency to injure the morals of our people; for amid the ruin of our morals shall surely be found the elements of our national downfall. I have alluded to this subject heretofore, in my books on Popery. I did not expect that all would approve of those books. I was aware that many, even among Protestants, would find fault with several of the expressions used in the small volume which I have recently written, entitled _Auricular Confession_ to which these pages are a sequel. That Papists should find fault with all that I have written, does not at all surprise me; but that Protestants should find any--though I am happy to find that very few have found any--is a matter of some surprise to me. It must be owing to the fact that they know not and understand not what auricular confession is, or how it is made. That Americans in general should know nothing upon this subject, and be horrified at the bare relation of its iniquitous details, is a fact which can be easily understood and explained. They have never made auricular confession the subject of their study, and hence the horror they feel at its iniquitous and private abominations. I must frankly confess, however, that it is a matter of surprise that American theologians should be so entirely unacquainted with the writings of popish doctors and popish priests, as not to find all the apparently objectionable expressions in my books in common use among them. There is not to be found a single volume among the writers of the Popish Church, on the subject of auricular confession, in which my statements are not corroborated, and that in language far more objectionable than mine--language so gross and indelicate that I could not in justice to public taste and delicacy introduce it into my books. Those who have read my book on auricular confession, may recollect the questions which I have accused Popish bishops and priests of putting to their young female penitents, and which some liberal Protestants say could not have been the case. I now assert, without any qualification whatever, and without any mental reservation or equivocation, that there is not in the United States a priest nor bishop, who has heard the confessions of married or single women, without asking them such questions as I have given in my book. I ask Bishop Fenwick of this city, or any other Roman Catholic priest or bishop living, to contradict me if he can. I challenge those females, young or old, who have ever been in the habit of confessing their sins to priests, to come forward and say, We have been at confession, and such questions as those contained in Hogan's book have never been put to us. The charges I have made against Romish priests are of a serious character. If false they can be refuted. I am alone; there are nearly three millions of Roman Catholics in the United States, and if there is among this vast multitude, an individual who can say and give such evidence of the truth of his statement, as will satisfy any Court of Equity, that I have done injustice to popes, priests or bishops, in charging them with tampering with their female penitents in the confessional, in order the more easily to debauch them, I will publicly acknowledge that I am guilty of slander, and have wronged them. I trust that after this, Protestant theologians will take more pains in reading the works of Popish moralists, with which, as far as I have the honor of their acquaintance, they are lamentably unacquainted. I saw a strong instance of this the other evening. I chanced to meet at the house of a mutual friend, with one of the most learned and pious theologians of the Presbyterian Church in this or any other country in the world. He very courteously observed that he did not question my veracity, but that it appeared incredible to him that Popish priests or bishops, would put such questions to married or single women while confessing to them as I have accused them of. I listened in silent wonder to this great and good man; for the moment I knew not what to say. Here was a venerable American theologian--himself a living, moving theological library--the embodiment of American Protestant theology, doubting, or at least hesitating to credit the fact, that Romish bishops and priests put to their female penitents the gross, licentious, libidinous questions contained in my book on confession. The past, the present and the future, seemed to rise and rush before me in imagination, and I could not help exclaiming in my own mind, woe be to this land of my adoption, woe be to its generous and hospitable people, if even its patriarchs and wise men, such as he who now stands before me, and whose life has been a beautiful comment upon the purity and simplicity of the Christian religion, cannot fully understand, even at this late period, the corruptions which the drag nets of Popery are bringing amongst us and strewing on the paths of our hitherto virtuous mothers and chaste daughters. It is impossible to find a work on confession written by a Popish priest in full communion with his church, which does not contain almost the very language I have used. I finally satisfied my learned friend that I was correct in all my statements; I explained to him the position of a Romish priest in the confessional, and that of a young lady confessing to him, and never shall I forget the remarks of the venerable gentleman on that occasion. "If," said he, "my wife or daughter were dressed in the finest silk, and then put into a hogshead of mud and rolled down a hill, I should as soon expect to find their dresses without a stain, as find their minds and morals pure and chaste, after going any length of time to confession to a Romish priest." And he was right; the principles of popery, as taught in Romish confessional, and those of purity, are antagonist principles. We are supposed to have about thirty-six millions of papists--as I have heretofore stated--in the world. Look, American Protestants, at the condition of these your brethren, and tremble lest their present condition be yours at some future period; look over the world, boundless almost as it is, and great, and glorious, and moral as its inhabitants might be; what is it now, when it seems to be undergoing, as it were, a process of self regeneration,--when its hitherto hidden treasures, almost impatient of restraint, seem to leap and bound into existence, to offer themselves to the uses and purposes of man, at the mere bid and beck of science? What is the condition of man in this glorious world or ours, under the influence of popery? The largest, the widest, and most fertile portion of the globe is under Popish influence; the soil of these countries which Papists inhabit is rich, their fields are fair, and their valleys beautiful; all the products of nature thrive in them; the sun of heaven shines over them in all its luminous magnificence; every thing seems to be sent from heaven, for man's use; every thing seems to aspire to heaven and to be happy. Man alone decays in these Popish countries; man alone is unhappy; the longings and heavenward aspirations of his immortal soul are checked, and he withers and degenerates into a being less happy than the beast of the field, and far more degraded, because acquired and superinduced inferiority, is much more degrading than that which is native and original The moral degeneracy which we see in those countries where Popery, with its confessions, extreme unctions, and other debasing fooleries, prevail, is not to be attributed to any decay in the natural vigor of the human mind. We have no reason to suppose that the mind was created in a less vigorous state in countries where Popery prevails, than in others where it does not I have frequently conversed with anatomists of distinguished eminence, who have visited all the countries inhabited by Catholics, as well as those inhabited by Protestants, and I have learned from all that there is no difference in the anatomical construction of their hearts and brains; still, it is evident to all, at least to every man of science and observation, that there is a difference in the mental faculties of those who are born and live under Popish domination, and those who are born and live under a free government of civil rights. Let us, for instance, take a Papist fresh from Italy, Spain, Mexico, or even Ireland; place him in the same condition with a free-born American Protestant, and see the difference between them; the latter is active, quick, intelligent, full of thought, full of life and enterprise; the former in nine cases out of ten, is inactive, of sluggish mind, and rarely aspires to excellence in any thing really useful. See, for instance, a Papist when he lands upon our shores; so tame and so accustomed to Popish tyranny has he been, that he crouches beneath the nod or frown of a priest the moment he sees him. Fear, of course, must become the predominant passion of all people and countries where Popery prevails, and yet, unaccountable as it may appear, this new world of ours is not only admitting but inviting Popery and its adherents into it, and offers them the rights of freemen, with a full knowledge of the fact that they are the subjects of a foreign king,--the Pope of Rome. Popery--that sink of the universe, as an elegant writer, who is himself a Roman Catholic, expresses it,--is invited into the United States, and its votaries cherished by a free, generous, but unsuspecting people. I have often conversed with American Protestants of distinction upon this subject, and regret finding that many of them--especially those of the Unitarian creed--are strong advocates of Popery, and in favor of its introduction among our people. Their arguments are plausible, and no doubt appear to the superficial reader worthy of all consideration. Whatever, say Unitarians, or liberal Christians, have been the vices, profligacies, or ambition, of Popes and Papists in former ages, they should be overlooked, in consideration of the great and grand objects which they had in view, and the vast and mighty interests which were then at stake. Religion--the Christian religion--say the liberals of the present day, was then in its infancy, without any other protection save that which its own god-like purity threw around it; it was committed to the care of early fathers or papas--from which the word Pope takes its origin--of the church; the struggle between them and the priests of Paganism was fierce; it was terrible; and well did the former do their duty--nobly and faithfully did they struggle for the ascendancy of Christianity, and its establishment among the nations of the north. To do this effectually, and to establish a hierarchy exclusively their own, independent of any other, was indispensable. To effect this, was one of the most momentous and grandest projects that ever entered the mind of man at that early period of society. We all know from history, the difficulties which the early Papas or Popes--not of the Romish church, but of the Christian church--had to encounter, in their contest with Paganism. We also know--and no man who believes in the Christian religion doubts it--that great credit is due to them, for what they have done against the Turks. They have left on record many evidences of their ardent zeal, sincere piety, and deep humility. But does it follow, that because the fathers of the Christian church have done so much for Christianity, by being the depositories of its principles, and active defenders of its faith---does it follow, I say, that Romish Popes or Romish Papas, are equally entitled to our respect, support, and confidence? Do these liberal Christians know that there is as wide a difference between the Papas of the early Christian church, and those of the modern Romish church, as there is between the notorious Himes, of the Millerite church, and the learned Dr. Gannett, of the Unitarian society? Is it sound logic to infer that because the fathers of the Christian church were good men, and should be welcomed wherever they went, that the present fathers of the Romish Church are also good men and must be received into this country, with their interminable retinue of monks, nuns, friars, and other mock reverend and semi-reverend male and female vagabonds, who precede and follow them? Liberal Christians will pardon me when I say, that nothing but a total unacquaintance with history, with man's nature, with man's rights, and unacquaintance with all that tends to promote human happiness, and to elevate man in the scale of creation, could force them to such a conclusion. The inference is not to be found in the premises; It is bad logic; it is not warranted by facts, or by history, sacred or profane; indeed, I much fear, that he who knows any thing of the history of Popery in ancient or modern times, and yet encourages its growth in this country, might without uncharitable-ness, or any sectarian prejudice, be classed with infidels and traitors. The man who, with the pages of history open before him, can encourage a system nicknamed religion, and embodying within its fundamental articles of faith, the duty of auricular confession as essential to salvation, has no claim to the name of Christian; nor can he who would cheer on the mad followers of Popery to rend this union to pieces, and substitute in its stead a Popish monarchy, be a true patriot. He is a traitor, in the broadest, fullest, and most unqualified sense of the word. I have shown, in the first volume of this book, that Popery does those things to which I have just alluded; the accusations which I have brought against Popery, have been of such serious magnitude and traitorous character, that Americans could scarcely credit them, and some have looked upon them as only ebullitions of anger, which reflection would mitigate; and that reason, the legitimate monarch of all the intellectual faculties, would in due time restrain them within proper bounds; but I again reiterate the charges, and assure my readers that all I have said against Popery, as a corrupt system of policy and morals, is not only true, as we see in history, but falls short of what I know of my own knowledge, and which I believe with the certainty of faith. I have patiently, laboriously, and diligently, examined the doctrines and practices of the Popish Church, especially since the days of Hildebrand, and the result of my serious inquiries has been, that the church and its bishops have been, up to this day, abusing the credulity of mankind, and trying how they could best play upon the passions and degrade the human intellect. History hands down to us the names of about three hundred popes and anti-popes, and I would challenge even that morbid liberalism, which seems to be gaining ground, and is now ycleped philosophy, whether Paganism in its darkest days, or its history in its vilest pages, ever exhibited to its followers any system of religion or morals so revolting as that which each of those Popes has in succession endeavored to enforce and impose upon mankind. It will be said by some of those philosophers to whom I allude, that I have gone too far in my writings against the Popish church and Popish priests---that I proved too much, and, according to that well received action---"quod nimis probat nihil probat?"--proved nothing; that I have colored my landscape too highly, &c. The reverse is the case; I have not seen Popery at a distance, as these liberalists have, nor as a traveller might see a landscape. The latter may be deceived, he may see or fancy that he sees a brilliant hue upon the summit of a distant mountain, just as the liberalists see Popery at a distance; but upon a nearer approach and closer examination, he will find that no such thing exists, but that it is produced perhaps by the reflection of the sun, which gives it some unreal appearance. That mountain top, which at a distance may seem to the traveller so sublimely beautiful, often on examination is found to be but a vast crater, frightful to look at, emitting nothing but some disgusting substance which carries with it death, destruction, and sorrow, wherever it goes. Will the liberalists, philosophers,--or whatever else they must be called--please to recollect, in their comments upon my books, that I have not viewed Popery at a distance; I have seen It in its roseate as well as in its darkest colors; the former I found unreal and transient as that with which a beautiful setting sun invests the mountain's cold snow-top; the latter I found to be true in every color, even to the minute touch. Will these philosophers examine Popery as I have done: let them stand upon its summit as I have done, and then look into that unfathomable crater, the court of Rome, from which it vomits and spews forth its corruptions, its confessions, its indulgences, its penances, its masses, its purgatories, its pilgrimages, its transubstantiations, its beads, its Jesuits, its treasons, its poisons, its recipes for compounding the best and most subtle poisons, its modes of procuring abortion and checking female fecundity--let him keep a close watch on the movements of Popish bishops in this country, especially Hughes of New York, and Fen-wick of Boston, and others, as I have done for years, and they shall find that, frightful as is the picture which I have given of Popery, it falls short--far short of the reality. I have scarcely touched upon those features of Romanism, which are most abhorrent to the morals, and dangerous to the civil rights of our citizens; but it is not too late; it can be done yet; I owe them much, and if God spares me I will pay them by instalments; I have enlisted without bounty or service money into the ranks of the Christian opponents of Popery--not for any given time, but during the war, or for life. While I live, Popery has in me an opponent, who can neither be bribed nor intimidated; but I regret to see that there are many who call themselves Protestant Christians, exhibiting a wavering and craven spirit, in this general war against Popery which has at length commenced--afraid to come out openly against Popish doctrines, and yet feeling it their duty to do so. I pity such men--from my soul I pity them; church honors and church distinctions seem to be more sought for now, than those of heaven. Hundreds of Protestant clergymen are daily bedizening themselves with D. D.'s and other such fooleries, while the great enemy of religion and civil rights is surrounding them, and ready, when the Pope of Rome gives the word of command, to fall upon them with destructive slaughter. Already I find myself (sicut meus est mos) imperceptibly drifting from the point I set sail for, nor have I the least doubt that I shall find myself out of my reckoning frequently, before I arrive at the end of my voyage. This, however, will only have the effect of rendering it more tedious, but I trust it will add some value to my observations and discoveries during my voyage. I commenced this second volume with the single view of defining more clearly, the iniquities practised in the Romish church, under cover of auricular confession, and within the walls of Popish nunneries. I would now resume the subject, and show my fellow citizens, that the crimes and profligacies which 1 have imputed to the Romish church, have not been peculiar to any epoch or age of its existence--that it has been always corrupt--is now while I write corrupt, that its very elements are founded on corruption, and that any contact with it, or between itself and our citizens, cannot fail to be ruinous to the morals and interests of our people. I have a double object in pursuing this course. The first is this: Papists admit that there have been corruptions in the Romish church, but say that they were only local, and never sanctioned by the church authoritatively; secondly, they assert that my books on Popery are all old lies, culled from ancient heretical writers, and that such deeds as I have imputed to their holy and infallible church, and immaculate bishops and priests in this country, have never taken place. I will here show, in a few words, that the evil deeds and corruptions, with which I have charged the Popish church, were not local, but general; and secondly, I propose to show that they were not peculiar to any age in the church, but have always existed and do exist at the present moment, not only in Europe and elsewhere, but in these United States. That Papists and myself may understand each other clearly, and that the public may understand both of us, I propose to the Papist to name any age of the Church he pleases, or any Pope he pleases, and I will show him that in that very age, and under that very Pope, nearly all the iniquities of which I have accused his Church, were justly charged, and sanctioned _authoritatively_ by her then ruling _executive_, or infallible head, just as she pleased to call it, whether that infallible head was a Pope or a General Council I say Pope, or General Council, because the question is not yet settled between Popish theologians, whether their boasted infallibility be invested in the Pope, speaking _ex cathedra_, or in a General Council legitimately--according to their understanding of the term--convened. Come on, Mr. Popish Bishop or Priest; advance, Mr. Bishop Hughes, of Jesuit and intrigue notoriety; hold up your head, thou demure, plotting dunce, Bishop Fenwick, of Boston. Let us select the latter end of the eleventh, and beginning of the twelfth centuries. This is as favorable an epoch in the Infallible Church as you can possibly choose, to show the purity, loveliness, morality, and chastity, of her Popes and bishops. You recollect, right reverend and immaculate gentlemen, that Lothair Conti, afterwards called Innocent III., was then Pope; now, gentlemen, I ask you, and I pray you may answer me fairly and honestly, whether your infallible church was, even in that age, exempt from the abominations of which I have accused her? Be honest, for once in your life; let me be able to record, in my future writings, one instance of truth being found among Jesuits and Popish priests, when speaking upon church affairs. Are you prepared to deny the fact that your church was then filled with the grossest abominations, and that every one of those abominations were sanctioned by Pope Innocent III.? If you are prepared to deny this fact, I am prepared to brand upon the forehead of each of you, in letters which can never be erased, the words wilful and deliberate liar. You both, right reverend gentlemen, already know that I do nothing by halves; and if I convict you of falsehood, you may rely upon it, that the iron with which I will brand you with the above letters, shall be heated to the very point of fusion, so that you shall be known as the sworn enemies of truth, religion, and the rights of man. Innocent III. is looked upon in the Roman Church, and by you, of course, as a perfect model of what a Popish bishop or priest ought to be; any deviation from the faith which he professed, or example which he gave, in morals or politics, would be, and is now considered, by every true son of the Infallible Church, as heresy and treason against Popery. Let us now see what the faith of this inimitable model was; we can best judge of it by his works; "the tree is known by its fruits." A very beautiful modern writer gives us the true character of Innocent III. It is fair to judge of all the Popes as this man has been judged; he is a correct model of the whole, and I doubt not but, taking him all and all, he is the best model that has been given of a Romish Pope. His greatest admirers admit its correctness; the picture is true to the life, and if that ancient axiom, "_ex ano disce omnes"_ be true, that is, if we can judge of all by one, a precious model of morals and policy is this Pope Innocent III. I call the attention of my readers to the character of this man, or if Papists will have it so, of this god Pope, as given by an elegant writer of the present age: "In his actions, principles, and the effects produced by both, we scarcely recognize a human being. He takes a stand wholly above that class of figures which form the ordinary pattern of history. The circumstances of his time, and the faculties of his nature, make us seek rather for his resemblance in one of those wanderers from some higher star, or spirit dropped by accident among us, and in the garb of a man allowed to follow his original propensities, and to do evil which throws human malignity into the shade, by some power which in all cases exceeds the dimensions of human nature. _Without charging the Pope with being altogether a devil_, it must be acknowledged, that in many of his actions he nearly resembles that character." The pontificate of Innocent III., which we can find, upon examination,, closely resembles that of all other Popes, is worthy the serious attention of statesmen of this country. Here our presidents, cabinets, senators, representatives, and governors, may learn how temporal power and Popish functions may be united together; they will see the nature, and understand better what is meant by that spiritual allegiance which Papists, even in this country, swear to the Pope of Rome, and which for twenty odd years I have been appealing to Americans to crush; or deprive of the rights of citizenship, or punish as traitors every man who avowed such allegiance to a foreign king, which the Pope of Rome is acknowledged to be. Will Americans hear to the definition which Pope Innocent III. gives of a Romish Pope? It is admitted to be a correct definition, by every Roman Catholic, whether bishop, priest, or layman, in the United States. Hear you, then, Americans! listen, you republicans--whigs, democrats, and all--and know ye henceforth, that a Pope is defined to be the _vicegerent of Christ_. If less than God, he is greater than man; the luminary of day; the civil authority being only the pale orb of night How would you, Americans, like to have such a man at your head? Take heed--there are three millions now of his subjects amongst you, and about thirty-three millions besides all over the world. Ask yourselves whether it is not at least possible that they may gain an ascendency in these United States, and wrest from you and your posterity the inheritance which your forefathers left you? Do not forget--I entreat of you never to forget--the alarming fact that during the last sixteen years, 731,380 foreigners have arrived at the port of New York alone. Three-fourths of these may be presumed to be Papists, and sworn to maintain the supremacy of their king, the Pope. Let it not be forgotten by American statesmen, that Papists have been at the bottom of every crusade that has ever been formed against the civil rights of men. Was it not a Pope, and that Pope no less a personage than Innocent III., that tried to dethrone King John of England? Was it not a Pope that fomented a crusade against the Hungarians, and endeavored to overthrow the King of Norway? And finally, was it not a Pope, and that Pope the infallible Innocent III.--whom Bishops Hughes, Fenwick, and myself, have agreed upon as a fair sample from about three hundred Popes, who preceded and succeeded him--that waged a war of extermination against the unoffending and blameless Waldenses? Was it not a Pope, and that Pope Innocent III., who in one year, by virtue of his divine authority, gave away three royal crowns? This Innocent III. employed the infernal inquisition against the Albigenses. Will Americans take all these historical truths into consideration. Let them read my books again, and then say whether I have done the Pope, bishops, and priests of the Romish Church any injustice. I declare, in the language of another, that there is not to be found in the whole range of history, any body of men, who have inflicted upon humanity a greater amount of evil, than the Popes of Rome and their allies: and the grand instrument which enabled them to accomplish all this with impunity, and without detection, was the infamous and diabolical practice of auricular confession. "To rivet the chains of slavery," as another expresses it, "on souls as well as the bodied of men, too firmly to be thrown off, private, or as it is called, auricular confession of sins to a priest, was made an imperative duty of all Papists, at certain seasons of the year." "Of all the practices of the Romish Church," says the same writer, "this is the one which has proved most injurious; and if it be regarded in connection with the celibacy of the clergy, will explain why the cause of morals is always worse in Popish than in Protestant countries. The uses of conscience were at an end, when given for safe keeping to a Romish confessor; actions were no longer measured by the standard of right and wrong, but by a casuistry and a pernicious process of reasoning, by which it was intended to make man satisfied with himself. The result of this has been, and is at the present moment, even in these United States, that law is the only restraint upon a Papist; he is taught to believe that by confessing his crimes to a Romish priest, he can obtain pardon. The blackest murderer, if he can escape the hangman or the penitentiary, is no farther concerned about the deed; he believes his priest can forgive him, and all is at rest." This was a doctrine which Pope Innocent tried with all his might to enforce upon his people. The reader has now a fair specimen of a Romish Pope. "Voila Rome." Look, Americans, and examine this faultless picture of a Pope, and perfect model of a Romish priest! Do you desire that an engraving should be made of it, and scattered through the land? Do you desire to establish in your midst, colleges and schools for the purpose of bringing up your children in the faith and practices of Pope Innocent? I tell you, if you do, the rising generation will be without religion or morals, and this glorious republic will die in the arms of despotism. I am aware that Americans will say--at least it will be said by a portion of them, who are not Christians indeed--that such a man as Innocent III. could not live in this country; that he would be plunged into the next river, if he dared to interfere in the administration of our laws. Facts do not warrant Americans in jumping at this conclusion. Who, at least in Boston, forgets the destruction of the Ursuline Convent? Did not Bishop Fenwick and his nuns publicly boast that they had "twenty thousand stout Papists ready at their beck, to reek their vengeance on the peaceable citizens of Boston?" Might not the Pope's agent--had he not crouched before a superior force--have said to this twenty thousand madmen, as Innocent III. said to his French followers, when they landed in England, "Sword, sword, leap from thy scabbard! sword, whet thyself for vengeance!" and would not those men have obeyed him, had he not had the prudence to see their comparative weakness, and advise them to keep the peace, under pain of being cursed by him? Had there been force enough upon the spot to have put to the torture and to death every Protestant in Boston, it would have been done. And why, or for what? Merely because the people thought proper to pull down a legalized house of prostitution, surreptitiously erected in their midst! Will it be said that I am also incorrect in my charges against the Ursuline nuns of Charlestown, Massachusetts? Bishop Fenwick represents them as models of purity and chastity, and recently assures his Holiness the Pope, that he is making converts from the first families of Boston to the religion and pure faith of these nuns. I have something to say of two, at least, of those nuns, who were in that convent when an indignant people leveled it to the ground. I knew two of those nuns personally, and I knew them both far advanced in the family way, in their own country, when I left it. They were both seduced, and their _seducer was their confessor_,--a Roman Catholic priest of the order of St. Augustine. That priest is now living, and those ladies whom he seduced, and who fled from their native country to the Ursuline Convent in Charlestown, are now living, I believe, in Quebec Do those sympathizing ladies in Boston, some of whom have been educated by these two sisters--not of charity, but of crime--wilful, constant, persevering crimes--wish to hear their names? I am tempted to give them, and I would do so, if I thought it might have the effect of opening the eyes of Protestant mothers, and prove a warning to them not to send their daughters, in future, to be educated in a Popish nunnery, or to confession to a Popish priest But to return: Protestants have no mercy to expect from Papists. A true Catholic is not allowed to hold any communion with a Protestant, nor will his bishop or priest permit him to be buried in the same ground with a Protestant He is not allowed to go to the funeral of a Protestant: and if he does go, he commits a sin which the priest is not allowed to forgive him, without a special license from the Church. In the technical language of the Romish Church, the case of a man who attends a Protestant funeral is a reserved case; that is, a case or a crime which no ordinary priest can forgive, without a particular license to do so. Going into a Protestant church, and hearing a Protestant minister preach, is another reserved case. Saluting or speaking to a Protestant, or heretic, is also among the reserved cases. Speaking, for instance, to Eugene Sue, the author of the Wandering Jew, whom--"_horribile dictu_"--the Roman Catholic Bishop of Lyons, in France, has excommunicated, is another reserved case, which no one except the aforesaid Bishop of Lyons, or some person delegated by him, can pardon or forgive. Speaking to any member of the Christian League--that arch heretic, Rev. Mr. Kirk, for instance--is a reserved case, which no priest in Boston, except Bishop Fenwick, or some one delegated by him, can pardon or forgive; for be it known to all the inhabitants of the world, that he, and his brother colleagues of the Christian League, have been excommunicated by the present Pope. It is a reserved case to speak to me. Speaking to me is a crime of peculiar atrocity, and can be forgiven by no power, save the Pope of the Infallible Church. I have accused the Pope of sin, of folly, and depravity. This is altogether inadmissible, and deserves eternal damnation; the idea that a Pope of Rome can commit sin, or can do wrong, is inconsistent and incompatible with true religion, as Papists understand that term. The Pope of Rome, according to Papists, cannot sin; he is not only _infallible_, as the most eminent Popish writers assert, but _impeccable_; see Belarmine, a standard writer in the Popish Church. But I will no longer detain the reader on this particular subject of reserved cases, and Popish follies of ancient times. Bishop Fenwick, and the rest of the right reverend brethren: of the Popish Church, will say that my statements are all "old lies;" that the holy Roman Catholic Church never did, nor does it now, prevent her subjects from speaking to heretics, or those who differ from her in their belief. I will venture the assertion, that if any Protestant theologian call upon any Roman Catholic bishop in the United States, he will deny this fact, or give an equivocal answer, though there is not to be found a solitary work on Popery in any library in the United States, or elsewhere, which does not sustain me in the assertions I have made. But we will not go to ancient times for authority. I will state to the reader a case to the point, which occurred about the year 1822, and to the truth of which thousands of our fellow citizens in Philadelphia can bear testimony. When I first opposed Popery in that city, by recommending that the Bible should be circulated among the people, and that the children of the poor Catholic Irish should be sent to school to be educated in its pure and unsullied doctrines, the Roman Catholic Bishop of that city, a poor, little, irritable Irishman, by the name of Conwell, prohibited his people, or his subjects, as he called them, from speaking to me, the heretic Hogan, or his followers, Hoganites; and the most amusing part of it was, that by way of giving his subjects good example, whenever we passed each other, even on opposite sides of the street, his lordship took off his hat and crossed himself, repeating the AVE MARIA! This he never failed to do, wherever we passed, much to the amusement of the Protestant inhabitants of that city, and to the great edification of the Papists. It may appear exceedingly strange or amusing to Bostonians, should I tell them that a similar belief in the criminality of speaking to heretics is taught in Boston, the capital of New England; but this is a fact, and if Papists term it a new "lie," it cannot be helped, for what I am about to state occurred only the other day. I chanced to meet, in a book store in Washington street, a convert to Popery, just fresh from the hand of Bishop Fenwick. I had never seen the gentleman but once before, and he was then, as well as during most of his previous life, one of those men in whose faith I had not the least confidence. I did not know that he was present when I entered the store, and was in the act of inquiring for a vile thing, called Brownson's Quarterly Review, which he published in the month of July, 1840. During my inquiries for this Review, the author, Brownson, addressed me, as nearly as I can recollect, in the following words: "I know you, sir; you once owned a whig press in Savannah; you criticized my Review. I marked you--but I am not allowed by my Church to speak to a heretic." I looked around me in some astonishment I did not expect to hear such language on the land of the Puritans; but sure enough, there stood Brownson, a Roman Catholic, fresh from the anvil of Popery! There he stood, _totus teres adque rotundus_, full-blooded and fully developed; the very Brownson himself, who has been consistent in nothing but infidelity and unbelief, now a good Roman Catholic; the very Brownson who has never been true to either his Maker or to his church, now a good Roman Catholic, whose church and whose conscience would not allow him to speak to a heretic! I never noticed the man much before, but now I fixed my eye upon him, and I shall not easily forget his countenance. On first intuition, I could scarcely imagine it was the Rev. Mr. Brownson who stood before me. My imagination presented to me a different character. I could not suppose that one who was once a clergyman would entertain the sentiments which I had the misfortune of subsequently hearing him utter. I was, however, mistaken. It was the Rev. gentleman. He strongly reminded me of characters between whom and himself there existed a strange similitude; but comparisons might offend the delicate sensibilities of some of my readers. I looked at him a second time, and I could not restrain the involuntary exclamation--Popery, thou child of sin, treachery, and intrigue, bad as thou art, is it come to this--that thou must take by the hand as thine advocate and supporter this wretched being, who for thirty years has been sporting with the attributes of the great God, alternately extolling and ridiculing them, as best suited the ungovernable bent of his unstable mind, which thou mightest read in the demoniac-looking face of this man? But this is one of the secrets by which Popery spreads itself all over the United States. The Popish Church will admit any men or women, be they saints or devils, into full communion with them, if they swear allegiance to the Pope of Rome. This is one of the grand causes of the success of Jesuitism in this country. How different is it in some of the Protestant Churches! It requires some tact and church generalship in any man who has not been brought up a Protestant, to obtain admission into them upon any terms. Far be it from me to insinuate that Protestants should follow the example of the Papists, in admitting such things as Brownson into communion with their Churches: Nor should I mention the fact of the admission of Brownson at all, into the Romish Church, if I did not look upon this circumstance as a prominent instance of the corrupt evils of its infamous practices, and an irrefragable argument against its alleged good. But Brownson has been purified from all his sins by some Popish chemical process; he has gone to confession, is no longer a sinner, and therefore he is too pure, too immaculate, and too strong in the faith of the Popish Church, to render it otherwise than sinful in him to speak to a heretic! It is said that the Pope has recently given his subjects in the United States a dispensation, by which they are allowed to transact business with heretics, and speak to them in case of necessity. Wonderful condescension this! Such statements as I here make, must appear incredible to American Protestants. Many will suppose that I am dealing in fables--that such rigmarole and such silly pretences as I have charged the Papists with, have never been countenanced in any age or among any people, much less American freemen; but let us see what are the facts in the case. I would not ask the reader to take my word for it. In 1555, Pope Paul IV, in his famous bull against heretics, supports me in every assertion I make; charging Papists with deeming it unlawful and criminal, to hold any intercourse with Protestants. Will the reader be pleased to attend to what this infallible Pope says, and that, only between three and four hundred years ago? I call upon our civil authorities to ponder and weigh well the import of his words, and never to forget, that there is no Catholic in this country or elsewhere, who will dare to say that the decretals and commands of Paul IV., are of less force or less binding upon them than those of the present Pope. "All heretics, viz. Protestants, be they kings or subjects, are accursed." Mind that, Mr. Polk, President of the United States! attend to it, you Governors and Magistrates! you are each and every one of you accursed, and none of our citizens are allowed to speak to you 21 without a dispensation from the present Pope. That identical Pope, Innocent III.,--of whom I have just been speaking, and who has, without any objection from either party, been selected, by Bishops Hughes, and Fenwick, and myself, out of about three hundred Popes, as a fair sample of a good Pope,--has declared it to be unlawful for any Protestant Executive, | whether King or President, to require any allegiance from a Roman Catholic. Take heed, Mr. President Polk! it is said you are a Presbyterian; ask no allegiance from a Roman Catholic; he is not allowed by the present Pope,--who of course follows in the footsteps of his illustrious predecessors, Paul IV. and Innocent III.,--even to speak to you without a dispensation. It is utterly useless to multiply cases of this kind. No article of the Romish faith is better established, than that which teaches them to hold no communion with heretics, and try by every means in their power to overthrow all Protestant governments. Will this statement too be called an old lie? If it is a lie, it is assuredly a very old one, and a very new one too. Will the reader go back with me, to the history of ancient times? It will afford me pleasure if he does. The source of truth is as open and accessible to him as to me, and if he thirsts for it sincerely and honestly, he can slake it to his heart's content at its very fountain. The general reader knows that at a very early period of Christianity, a considerable number of native Christians was found in the Peninsula of India; I believe they were first discovered by the Portuguese. They have been represented as harmless, guileless, and gentle in the extreme. They professed the pure doctrines of the bible. Even the Portuguese who discovered them, admitted that their lives were blameless, and that they were true Christians in every respect, except that they did not believe in the infallibility of the Pope and the supremacy of the Romish church. Here was an opportunity for the Romish church, of showing her charity, if she or her pioneers had any. These native Indians never did them any harm; they never before heard of a Pope or a Romish church; they believed in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the all-sufficiency of his atonement for the sins of man, but never heard of a Pope; such a word was not found in their simple, native vocabulary; this was a crime not to be forgiven by their ignorant Popish discoverers; and how were these simple people treated by them? I refer the reader to that admirable work, written by Lacroze, for a full account of the manner in which they were treated by these jackals who discovered them. Suffice it to say that they were at once reduced to obedience to the Pope of Rome, to acknowledge the Pope's church as infallible, and compelled to worship the images of a set of vagabonds called saints and virgins, who if living now-a-days amongst us, should be considered fit subjects for our penitentiaries and work houses. The reader will also see an account of the condition and character of this people in Buchanan's Researches. I refer to the case of those primitive Christians as corroborative of my charges against Popery, and to show that her corrupt and persecuting spirit has always been the same, and that nothing better could be expected from the great changelings Brownson, or any other convert to her dogmas, than a compliance with all her injunctions. Unfortunate Brownson! while you tried to support yourself and family, by alternately lecturing and publishing your sceptical and unintelligible theories, the community in which you lived, and who knew your circumstances, felt a kind and deep sympathy for you. They knew--and every man knows--that theoretical scepticism, and some sentiments of honor, are not always incompatible. A man may be a sceptic and not entirely destitute of honor. A man may be a sceptic and yet an honest man. Your fellow citizens imagined that you might have been among that class of people; but now they know you. They know that for twenty or thirty years, you have not only been a sceptic in theory, but a practical doubter, saying yes to one thing, and again yes to the contrary. You must not, of course, be surprised at seeing yourself sink in morals and principles, until you lose all claims to the sympathies of society. If any individual should think it an object worth his notice or time, to satirize or lampoon you, the best and bitterest way would be, to bind up into one volume, all the twattle you have written upon religion, morals and metaphysics, and send it to you. I could with sincerity reproach myself for having thus deviated from the subject of these pages, to notice this unhappy individual, Brownson, for I believe there is not a well-informed gentleman in the United States, who does not know that there never was a period in the history of Popery, when the Pope and Papists were not the implacable enemies of Protestants. Even Papists themselves offer no defence against this charge, but that Stale and hackneyed falsehood, Popery is not now what it was in old times; this seems plausible to Americans, but let us see what are the facts in the case. Let us inquire whether Popery is, at all different now, from what it was in the days of Paul IV. and Innocent III. Is its persecuting spirit the same? Are its tenets more liberal, its doctrines more mild, and its Popes, from the last century up to the present moment, less ambitious and more tolerant? Papists say they are; Bishop Hughes of New York, and Bishop Fen-wick of Boston, say they are; and their Corporal Trim, Brownson of Boston, touches his hat and nods his head. I say they are not We are now at issue. The question between us is one of veracity. The Bishops and Trim are liars, or I am one, in this matter. How are the public to know which? There is but one mode of ascertaining this. Let us appeal to history, and to facts. One of the best and I believe the most recent authorities to which we both can appeal, is a work recently written by Wm. S. Gilli, D. D., and published in London. I call it one of the best authorities, because many of the truths which he gives us, confirm my assertion, and are matters of profane history, and connected, indirectly, with national treaties, with which we are all more or less acquainted. This connexion throws an additional light on, and gives more force to the statements of Dr. Gilli; besides, it gives a strength and momentum to my charges against Popery, which no Popish casuistry can check. The work which I allude to, is entitled "The _Waldensian Researches._" This excellent work commands great and deserved popularity among all parties, religious and political, in Europe. It is a matter of historical truth, that as early as 1690, and on the 20th of October of that year, a treaty was made between Holland and England,--then the two-great Protestant powers of Europe,--securing to the Vaudois, or Waldenses, the free exercise of their religion and safe enjoyment of their property, This treaty was assented to by all the powers of Europe. The Vaudois were a small community of Christians, living in the valleys at the foot of the Alps, whose origin is involved in some obscurity. They give us, themselves, no record of their antiquity, prior to the ninth century, but are supposed by antiquarians to have been the descendants of a band of Apostolic Christians, who fled from Italy to escape the fury of barbarians, which had overrun that country during the decline of the Roman empire, and who sought for shelter in the secluded valleys of the Alps, in the western part of Piedmont; though, as far as we know, they have in a measure escaped the mad and bloody fury of the northern barbarian, in their lonely valleys, they had not been able to escape that of a still more bloody barbarian, the Pope of Rome. All Europe, who had any knowledge of this people in their lonely valleys, felt great sympathy for them. They were comparatively few in number, their wants few and easily supplied by their own industry; their valleys were to them a second paradise, but they were not long so, when the great serpent of Rome entered it, and brought upon them such an amount of misery, hardships and persecutions, as probably never were heard of before in the annals of history. I will refer to this hereafter. Let us first see what becomes of the treaty to which I have alluded. It was solemnly made and formally sanctioned; they were promised full protection, by his royal holiness the Pope, only about one hundred and forty years ago. How did the Pope act? How did he keep his faith with this poor harmless people? History tells the tale. He summoned the Inquisition, and threatened Victor Amadeus, a good Roman Catholic, with excommunication, if he did not violate his treaty in favor of the Vaudois, and renounce all treaties which he had ever made with the heretics; and he called upon his subjects, that is, upon all Catholics, Bishops and Inquisitors, to proceed against heretics, and look upon all compacts and treaties made with heretics as null and void. Passing over, for the present, the sufferings of the Waldenses in former times, let us see what their condition is now. This will satisfy the reader that the church still persecutes heretics, and refuses to hold any communion with them. It proves also that Popish bishops, who assert that Popery is different now from what it was formerly, and that Hughes and Fenwick, of New York and Boston, together with their Corporal Trim, Brownson, have deliberately misstated facts. Hear to what Mr. Gilli says of the spirit of Popery as it existed the other day. "The son of a Waldenesean soldier, who served under the conscription of Napoleon, being born in a garrison where there was no Protestant minister, was baptized by a Roman Catholic Priest. He was shortly afterwards brought home to the valleys, was educated as a Protestant, in the communion of his forefathers, attended Protestant worship and received the sacrament in a Waldensean Church. He was married to a Waldensean woman, by a Waldensean pastor, but this marriage is now called a mixed marriage, under the allegation that he is an apostate Roman Catholic, and a process with all its penalties hangs over the family." (Grievances, p. 13.) Now Messrs. Bishops Hughes and Fenwick, do you approve of the manner in which your Popish church has treated this Waldensean soldier? Do you see any difference manifested here towards heretics, and that which the Popes have always shown towards them? Would you not, if you could, persecute every heretic in the United States? Do you not believe that every marriage between Catholics and Protestants in the United States and elsewhere, is invalid and not binding in the sight of God? Does not your Pope, your church, and do you not, yourselves, teach that the parties in such marriages are living in a state of adultery? Do you not teach that if a Catholic lady marries a Protestant, without a dispensation from your church, she is an adulteress and ought to be treated accordingly by your church, which, in the plenitude of her mildness, consigns her body to the holy inquisition, to be broken on the rack, and her soul to hell to perish everlastingly. Do I state the truth, reverend gentlemen? Will either of you contradict me? If you do, I will lay before you Antoine's Moral Theology, _De Matrimonio_, which some of your priests and myself studied in the same class, in the college of Maynooth, Ireland. Is this persecuting heretics or not? Did Paul IV., or Innocent III., ever show an instance of greater intolerance than you do, under your present Pope, even in these United States? But what would you do had you the power? The past history of your predecessors can best answer this question. Look at yourselves, you impostors of the present day; view yourselves in the mirror of truth, and if you are not too far gone in falsehood and hypocrisy, you must blush at the deceptions and impositions which you are trying to practise upon the citizens and government in this country. You will perhaps say that in 1794, all the edicts in force against the Vaudois, or Waldenses, were repealed by the king of Sardinia. It is more than probable that the soft-headed and brainless minister now at that court from the United States, may inform you, if you have not the fact from any other source, that the Vaudois have full liberty of conscience in the full exercise of their religion and the education of their children. Our present minister, Wm. H. Stiles, Georgia, at that court, who is nothing better than a living libel upon diplomacy, was elected to Congress by the votes of Irish Papists. He had just tact enough--no fool is without more or less of it--to ingratiate himself with President Polk, and obtain the appointment of Charge to Sardinia, In him you have a pliant tool, who will tell you the king of Sardinia has issued orders to prevent the taking away children, with a view of obliging them to embrace the Catholic religion, and requiring also, that those children which have been taken away, shall be restored. This proves two important facts which cannot be doubted, as the King of Sardinia cannot even be suspected of any want of allegiance or respect for his royal brother, the Pope of Rome. It proves, in the first place, that the Roman church has authorized its members to go into the Alpine valleys, and steal from their Protestant brethren their beloved children, with a view of proselytizing them to the infamous-doctrines of Popery. It shows, in the second place, that the cries of their bereaved parents for their restoration, have been disregarded by those Popish robbers, otherwise the royal order for their restoration need not have been issued. In spite of these edicts, children are now taken away, as Gilli informs us, under pretence of their being illegitimate. Two lamentable and heart-rending cases occurred in the year, 1828. Mind, take notice, Messrs. Bishops, of the date. This is not an old lie, as you have been pleased to call many of the statements in my books. If it be a lie at all, it is a new one. The case I refer to is this. A Popish priest demanded from a poor Protestant woman, her infant child, in order that it might be brought up in the faith of the infallible church. She refused, of course, to do so, but clung to it the more closely, pressing it to her bosom with a fondness such as a mother only can feel or describe, and fled to the mountains, preferring to perish with it there, rather than to have it brought up in the idolatries of Popery. And what was the consequence? I blush to relate it, for the honor of humanity. This Popish priest, in obedience to the commands of his holy church, did precisely what any Popish priest in the United States would do under similar circumstances. He ordered a small guard of carabineers to pursue her, and bring her, that she might be dealt with according to Popish laws. For many weeks she lived a miserable life, flying from place to place, until the sufferings of the mother and child excited the pity of the Popish monsters who issued the order for her apprehension. The order was withdrawn, but not revoked, and the woman's fears and anxieties continue, while she remains exposed to the same severity. Will you, Messrs. Bishops, after this, presume to say that the Popish church does not sanction the persecution of heretics? will you dare assert that she does not sanction their total extirpation? You cannot do so, and I risk nothing in saying, that you, Messrs. Fenwick and Hughes, would be the first to strike the blow, should a favorable opportunity offer. In 1840, as Gilli tells us, a fraternity of eight missionaries, of the order of St. Morris and St Lazare, was instituted at Latorre, one of the largest towns of the Vaudois. The object of this institution is to go about making proselytes. To this, as the London Review very properly remarks, there can be no objection. We admit missionaries into the United States. The Popish jackals are among our own valleys, as well as on the tops of our mountains. No American citizen can go many miles from his home, without finding himself in the vicinity of one of those Popish dens called monk-houses, or nunneries. This we cannot, nor are we disposed to prevent; our Constitution allows it; we recognize the right of Papists to send missionaries among us; but it might be questioned still, whether we ourselves are right, or whether the framers of our Constitution have not committed a great error, In the mode of wording that part of our Constitution, granting any right or privilege to any nation, or people, or government, or religion, which was not founded on strict reciprocity. Did it ever occur to Jefferson, Washington, Madison, or the other eminent men who framed our Constitution, that in giving to a Roman Catholic sovereign, king, or potentate, the right of sending missionaries into the United States, they forgot the securing to the United States a reciprocal right? The Papist is allowed to invade our country; but are we allowed to invade Papal States, and build churches there for divine worship, as the Papists are in the United States? The Catholic priest can come here from Rome and build a church, teach a school, and preach whatever and whenever he pleases; but if an American citizen and Protestant freeman go to the city of Rome, or any strictly Catholic country, he is under a legal disability to build his church, or teach or preach. Is this fair? Is there any thing reciprocal in this? Is it not rather a disgrace, and a lasting lampoon upon American freedom, to tolerate this violation of the first principles of reciprocal rights? Let our people take this matter into their own hands; let them call upon their representatives, and demand from them an immediate redress for this national humiliation, which has been entailed upon us by some unaccountable want of foresight on the part of the framers of our Constitution. But, say the Popish bishops in this country, our church never persecutes, she never disturbs heretics, she loves Protestants as brethren, and is willing to pay the most implicit obedience to their laws and institutions. This is the language of that notorious demagogue and disturber of the peace, Bishop Hughes of New York; this is the language of Bishop Fenwick, of Boston, to which Brownson, his Corporal Trim, invariably says yes. These are the men whom I have accused of falsehood--wilful and deliberate falsehood. Have I satisfied my readers that I have stated the truth, and, though not the whole truth,--nothing but the truth? Have I satisfied them that the Popish Church and Papists have ever been the sworn enemies of Protestants? They admit themselves, that great cruelties have, in ancient times, been inflicted by Roman Catholics upon Protestants; but in order to deceive Americans, they very blandly assert that those times have gone by, and that such cruelties do not now exist. Is the reader satisfied yet that this is not correct, and that the only object of these men is further deceit and deeper treachery? Let me again call the reader's attention to another passage from Gilli; it will show more clearly, if possible, than it has hitherto been done, that the malignant hatred of Popery towards Protestants burns now as brightly as it did at any period of Christian history. "They are," says Gilli, speaking of the Protestant Waldenses, "absolutely forbidden by Roman Catholics to exert their parental authority over their own children, if these children, (girls above ten, and boys above twelve years,) are tempted to forsake their faith. In 1836, a child was taken from a family at Lucerne, and in 1842, another from a family at St. Germain, upon the pretext of an inclination expressed by those children to turn Roman Catholics, there being no difficulty in tempting a poor, half-starved boy of twelve, or a girl of ten, to receive instruction offered with a crucifix in one hand, and a loaf or a fish in the other. Thus the parent's heart is to be doubly pierced; first, by encouraging a pretended exercise of judgment on the part of his child, before the understanding is matured; and secondly, by a legalized abduction of the child so tampered with. On the 2d of May, 1839, the child of Jaques Dalmais de David, and Margarite his wife, having been torn from them on the pretence of being illegitimate, was sent to the foundling hospital at Pignerol, although the parents were both natives of Vaudois, born in the commune and parish of Villar Bobi, and lawfully married in that parish, by the pastor thereof. Upon the first abduction, the father took away the infant from the nurse to whose charge it had been committed previously to its being carried to the hospital; and for his refusal to attend the summons of the commandant of the province, he and his wife were thrown into prison, and there remained several days. The child, however, was restored to its parents, after an investigation which lasted many months; the legitimacy of its birth having been fully proved. In the month of August, 1842, the Prefect of Pignerol ordered a Bible lecture and prayer meeting which was held in a school room at Latour, on Sunday afternoon, to be discontinued. On the 18th of January, of the following year, a similar order had been issued by the Intendent of the province. The order appeared in the following words: 'The Royal Secretary of State for the Interior, having been informed that every Sunday some Waldenses, Protestants, held congregations in a school house, and that many persons of every age and sex met together to sing psalms aloud, the said Royal Secretary of State has communicated to me that the places being appointed wherein the Waldenses shall worship, no innovation, or increase of the number of the same, can be admitted, and they must be enjoined to discontinue those meetings, or in case of contumacy, the government will adopt measures to prevent them.' Accordingly the Sunday services were discontinued. This is a cruel state of things; and it may well be asked, whether Protestant communities were, or ought to be, considered the friends of civil rights? Ought they not to interfere in correcting such a state of things? And is it not the duty of this country in particular, to be the very first to do so? Shall it be said by any future historian, that republican America shall be outdone in philanthropy and sympathy for the oppressed, by the despots of Europe? Shall it be said that England, in almost every reign, has done more for the advancement of free principles and religious toleration, than republican America? Even Cromwell, despot as he is represented to have been, interfered in behalf of the persecuted Protestants of Vaudois. George I. of England also interfered in their behalf. Cromwell told the Pope, through his ambassador at Rome, that if he did not silence his canons in the valleys of Piedmont, against the Protestant inhabitants thereof, he would silence them himself by his own brass cannons at the gates of the Vatican. And shall it be said that the freemen of America shall witness the oppressions of their Protestant brethren without a word or a threat in their behalf? The following petition or memorial, in behalf of the Protestants, the Vaudois, was sent, in 1842, by a committee appointed in London, for their relief. The Archbishop of Canterbury has immortalized his name by being at the head of this committee. It reads in the following words: To the Earl of Aberdeen, Her Majesty's principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Winchester House, St. James Square, April 9th, 1842. My Lord, We the undersigned, members of the London Committee, instituted in 1825, for the relief of the Vaudois of Piedmont, earnestly entreat your Lordship to submit to Her Majesty the Queen our humble entreaty that Her Majesty will be graciously pleased to intercede in behalf of that ancient community, with their sovereign, the King of Sardinia. The sufferings of Vaudois have often excited the sympathy of this nation, and our sovereigns have, from time to time, been pleased to exercise their beneficent offices in the privileges and rights of the Vaudois Church, which have been threatened; and this they have done out of compassion for the afflicted. Among other aggrievances, it has been represented to us that the Vaudois have now to complain that children are taken from their parents by the priests and local authorities, when one of the parents is said to be a Roman Catholic, under pretence of their being illegitimate; that their religious services are interrupted; that their intercourse and traffic with their fellow countrymen, beyond certain limits, are placed under grievous restrictions; that some of them are deprived of the means of their subsistence, being forbidden to purchase, to farm, or to cultivate lands, except within boundaries too narrow for their population; and that others, to their great disadvantage and detriment, have been ordered to sell property which they have legally acquired beyond the territories to which they are confined. If these alleged severities were inflicted on the Vaudois for acts of turbulence or dangerous fanaticism, we should not presume to entreat Her Majesty's gracious interposition. But it does not appear that any thing can be laid to their charge, _except the profession of religion differing from that of the Roman Catholic Church_, and similar, in many particulars of faith and discipline, to the reformed churches in Europe, &c. This petition has been signed by the following gentlemen: W. Cantuar, W. R. Hamilton, C. T. London, Wm. Cotton, C. R. Winton, T. D. Acland, Geo. H. Rose, W. S. Gilly. R. H. Inglis. England, as a Christian nation and a Christian people, has done well on this occasion. She has given the world evidence that whatever may have been the crimes or errors of her former rulers, she still retains within the breasts of her people some sense of that great commandment, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." What have we, American citizens, done for our Protestant brethren in the Alpine valleys? We see and know them to be oppressed and ground to the dust--for what? Because they are Protestants. Is there any things else laid to their charge! Nothing. Was there _ever_ any thing else laid to their charge, in justification of the cruelties which, century after century, the Pope of Rome and the blood-hounds of his church have inflicted upon them! I have diligently examined the history of this people. I was induced to do so at an early age, believing it almost impossible that humanity was capable of enduring such sufferings as history informs us were inflicted upon them by the Romish Church; and I am compelled to say, in truth and honesty, that I cannot discover any reason or any cause for their persecution by Roman Catholics, except that they did not believe in the supremacy of the Pope, and the abominations of the Romish Church. And why, under these circumstances, are not Protestant Americans doing something for these their brethren? It is in the power of this country to do much in any just cause. Such an advocate as this government might prove itself to be against the spirit of Popery, even in the Piedmont valleys, would carry gladness to the hearts of many an oppressed brother among them. We have money, which we are throwing away in charity to those who have but few claims upon us; we have genius, which we are scattering all over the country in ranting and ravings and metaphysical discussions, unproductive of any thing useful to man. Why not employ this in espousing the cause of liberty and of our oppressed brethren the Vaudois,--a poor people, who have no standing armies, no treasury,--nothing but their Protestant religion and a good cause to support them. Why is not the genius of our people--why have not their fine minds and fine talents been employed in holding up before the broad light of heaven the villainies, iniquities, abominations and corruptions of the Romish Church? Why are not such imposors and deceivers of the public as the Roman Catholic Bishops of New York and Boston, together with their man Trim Brownson--singled out from among our people? Why does not public opinion write in italics on the countenance-of each of these men, the words deceiver and traitor, that our children may avoid them when they see them in the streets? Why do we not teach even our little ones to pray that the Lord may rescue our brethren the Vaudois from the cruelties of Popery? Why does not every Christian teach his child to exclaim, in the beautiful language of the immortal poet of England, who was himself a true friend of the Vaudois, "Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;-- Even them who kept thy truth so pure, of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not." Why do Americans allow their children to go to the schools, kept professedly for the propagation of such doctrines as those taught and practised by the Romish church? I myself tremble lest there may be something wrong in the construction of the social system in our republican government. Assuredly, nothing else could induce us to violate the first law of nature, which is self-preservation. Our natural affections, and sympathy with each other, are the sweetest ingredients---and perhaps the only sweet ones which Providence has thrown into the cup of life, undoubtedly for the holy purpose of rendering it at all palate-able. Take them away and life would be bitter indeed. A state of society, such as the Popish church, through her agents in this country, desires to introduce amongst us, tends to no better purpose, than to divest man of humanity itself. It would harden his heart and swell him with the morbid humors of vanity, ambition, bigotry, and persecution. It would increase i our natural misery, and leave us no anodyne, but that | filthy and abominable one, auricular confession and I Popish pardons. Does not this deserve the execration of the virtuous and pious of all denominations? And are you prepared, fellow citizens, for such a state of things? I am aware that there are some amongst us, ready to tear from their bosoms, for base and selfish purposes, every thing good, which the God of glory through the merits of his Son, has planted there. There is nothing so absurd that pride and selfishness will not adopt and maintain it. It is said that Alexander did really believe himself to be a god. The vilest and most profligate of the Cæsars demanded Divine honors. Some of the Popes of the Romish church, even when rotting and dropping to pieces, from the effects of disease, brought upon them by licentiousness and dissipation, would have the world believe that they were infallible, and even impeccable; so says Balarmine, an authority not to be disregarded by Papists. Bishop Hughes tells us that in this country, we cannot prosper as a people, unless we adopt the religion of the Pope, and encourage the Pope's subjects to overthrow this government, and not to be ruled by its laws or its people. _Americans shant rule us_, is a Popish motto now borne aloft by Papists through the streets of New York, and other cities in the Union. Such language as the above resembles rather the ravings of some poor lunatic, than that of a sober, honest republican, and appears to be more like that of a maniac, sitting in some desolate cell, with a crown of straw, swaying a sceptre of the same material, and fancying himself an Emperor, than any thing else; but to me there is nothing inconsistent and strange in such language or such conduct; I know the pride of a Popish Bishop. I have been too long among them, not to understand well their vanity and arrogant pretensions; and though their conduct may not be such as to fit them for a lunatic asylum, still it never fails to unfit them for all the uses and purposes of civil life, and renders them dangerous citizens. There is nothing extraordinary in this; it seems to be the natural consequence even of the physical organization of man. Inordinate ambition and false pride, are said by anatomists to have a powerful effect in turning the brains of man; but it is truly strange that, shocking as madness is in itself, and terrible as are its consequences, it sometimes affects people in such a manner as to turn our pity into laughter. We have an instance of this,--and a very prominent one,--in the case of the unfortunate changeling, Brownson, who, but the other day, was admitted by Bishop Fenwick into full communion with the Popish church. But nothing else could be expected by those who understand Popery, and see the broad difference between its system of morality, and that of pure Christianity. Modern Popery is made up from the philosophy of the ancient Pagans, and some German writers. It has man attractions in the eyes of superficial Christians; has many aspects, and some of them of an attractive character. Unsophisticated people, such as many American theologians are, see, in the morality of Popery, apparently, much philanthropy and practical Christianity, and these so judiciously blended together by Popish cunning and Jesuitical craft, that its true character--nay even the deeds themselves--are entirely forgotten, in their admiration of the brilliant though false light, in which they appear. For instance, to take that miserable man, Brownson, by the hand, and raise him from a state of utter destitution, to which his own follies and imprudence reduced him, had in it much apparent philanthropy and practical Christianity; the Popish Fenwick found him in great want, every religious society shunned him, as if the brand of Cain were upon him. There was not even to be found a political party that would have any thing to do with him; he betrayed and left them all in rapid succession, and they in turn left him alone and unaided All the powers of his mind (it is said that he once possessed some) were broken and crushed; there was no peace, no resting place for him. Both theologians and politicians raised their hands and pointed at him the finger of scorn--the former, as a rebel against the King of Glory--the latter, as a traitor to the puny king of their respective parties. Such was the condition in which the Jesuit Bishop, Fenwick, found him here in Boston; and what, to all appearance, could be more philanthropic, what more practically Christian--what more benevolent deed could the Pope's agent do, _for effect_--than take this man by the hand and supply him with the necessaries of life. And what, under these circumstances, could be expected from the changeling, Brownson, than that he would devote all his mind to the justification of any falsehood or any errors, which his benefactors might desire to propagate. I find no fault with Bishop Fen-wick for relieving the temporal wants of Brownson; on the contrary, I freely admit, that the act is, in itself, and abstractedly considered, an act of benevolence and charity. We are bound to recognize in every human creature and every human face, the features of a brother and a neighbor. I would not, willingly, even question the motives of the Bishop; they are known only to his God. It would not be fair nor judicious in a physician, to take a body apparently sound and in health, and dissect it, for the purpose of ascertaining whether there were any hidden disease in it He should take it for granted--as a general rule--that when all appearances were good and healthy, there existed no physical defect; and I think and believe it the duty of Christians to take it for granted, that, generally speaking, the motives of a brother are good, when his actions bear upon their face no indication of being otherwise. But when any man or any church, holds up to the view of a whole people or nation, one who has been for years and years an advocate of moral evil, as an object not only of pity and pardon, but of admiration--as Bishop Fenwick does the infidel, Brownson--every true Christian must tremble, and every true lover of civil rights must shudder, lest each sound that he hears should prove to be the death-knell of our religion and the civil rights of man. Unfortunate Brownson! why prostitute thyself to the base purposes of Popery? Thou mightest have been in want; Protestants might have neglected thee; but what of that? What of the sufferings of this transitory and fleeting world? Let me tell you, and let the sound of my words ring forever in your ears, that, "Life can but little more supply Than just to look about us and to die." The above beautiful sentiment of the poet, has, I fear, but seldom occurred to you; assuredly it has made no lasting impression on your mind. It is probable that the following stanza, part of a famous monkish ditty, has in it beauties and substantial sentiments, far more congenial to your tastes and thoughts: "Hang up sorrow, banish care; The Pope is bound to find me." But a truce with poor Brownson, for a moment; his days will soon be over. Like the great Mr. Shandy, he has been so long "dancing his white bear forward, that he must soon commence dancing him back again." He has already professed all the religious creeds in this country, and it is fairly to be presumed that he will profess all of them back again; and thus afford himself fresh and full room, for displaying, in connection with them, any additional political or religious vagaries which may spring up in his moonstricken imagination. He may address himself to his patron, parson Fenwick, as Mr. Shandy did Parson Yorrick. "Yorrick, said Mr. Shandy, you see that by this means--that is by going backwards and forwards--every thesis and hypothesis have an offspring of propositions--and each proposition has its consequences and conclusions; every one of which leads the mind back again, into fresh tracks of inquiries and doubtings. The force of this engine--observed Mr. Shandy, in great triumph--is incredible, in opening heads. Brother Shandy, said my Uncle Toby, it is enough to burst them into splinters." Had Brownson, in the Jesuit parson, Fenwick, a guide, simple, sinless, and guileless, as Parson Yorrick or my uncle Toby, there might be some hopes that he could yet be brought to see and feel the full force of truth. But Brownson will stick to the Jesuit as long as he gives him bread, and the Jesuit appreciates his value too highly not to supply him plentifully. The Jesuit knows well, that the little smattering of theology, which Brownson possesses, can be made useful to him. It is of the German School. The Germans are wild in their theories upon morals and theology, and yet they carry with them the appearance of much honest and persevering research, and never fail--unless in very unskilful hands--to make a strong and terrible impression wherever they are preached or inculcated. Brownson, though, in truth and reality, no scholar, knows enough of this theology, and of Popish Quietism, such as was taught by raving monks and nuns in the sixteenth century, to see that by working them up together, and declaiming this undigested and 22 acrid mass, before an audience unprepared to analyze it, that he can produce just such an effect upon the public mind as Popish priests desire. It helps to create infidelity, and, of course, adds to the number of Papists in our country. There is a great similitude between the modern German, and the Popish moral philosophy. A popular writer very truly and very beautifully says, "in each we find the same senseless, useless, and aimless encouragement of the mixed produce of the natural mind--the same indiscriminate worship of the good and bad it may please to throw up--every lawless thought, every idle dream, every dangerous imagination suffered to run their unhealthy course, to end in folly and in impurity--piety professed without religion, and virtue without principle--the dictates of their respective creeds, their theory; and the dictates of their hearts, their practice; and wild work between them." Brownson has some vague notion of this compound philosophy; he has, beside, taken great pains to make himself acquainted with those _sesquipidalia_, or long-legged words--if I may use such a term--which most mixed audiences mistake for learning. The Jesuit, Hughes, soon measured Brownson; he looked into his past life and soon found him treacherous to every party and to every principle. This is the man for me, says the Jesuit--the Holy Church must have him, though we should be obliged to feed and clothe him for life. The infidel soon closed with the Jesuit,--a bargain was instantly made; but my observations upon human nature have been very unprofitable to me, if the Jesuit does not soon find that he has made a bad trade, as a Yankee would express it; that Brownson is not the man he took him for, nor the scholar he took him for; that he is but an unprincipled infidel, and a kind of monomaniac rhapsodist on subjects which he does not understand himself; in a word, he will find out in time that he can make nothing of him. Can the Jesuit, Hughes, "make any thing else than what it is?" can he "make the lily a rose, or the rose a lily?" can he "make the oak a vine, or the vine an oak?" When he can do those things, and not a second before, can he make a hardened infidel an humble Christian, or a treacherous politician a safe citizen. I find myself, once more, not only drifting from my destined port, but, it would seem, that I had turned from it altogether. I intended to devote these pages, almost exclusively, to giving an expose of the abominations of auricular confessions and Popish nunneries, but having by some accident or another, come athwart the great changeling, Brownson, who now acts as trumpeter to Bishop Fenwick of Boston, and is recognized by him and the Popish Church of the United States, as an authorized expounder of their sentiments and doctrines, I felt it my duty to notice him briefly. This man, Brownson, is now sent as a Popish missionary or lecturer throughout the United States; and speaks upon all subjects connected with Popery, _ex authoritate_. I find in the January number of Brownson's Review, of the present year, the following effusion, which, for effrontery and shameless falsehood, equals any thing I have ever seen. "We dare affirm," says Brownson, in his Review, January, 1845, page 12, "that no period in the history of our race, of equal length, can be pointed out, so remarkable for its intellectual and literary activity, as the thousand years, dating from the beginning of the sixth century, and extending to the commencement of the sixteenth. Now," continues Brownson, "in order to judge fairly, what the church has done for the human race; whether in reference to religion, morals, literature, or science, we must ascertain what it actually effected. She (that is the church) at the beginning of the sixth century, sets to work to establish schools, the great monasterial schools, cathedral or episcopal schools. In the beginning of the sixth century, arose the cathedral schools, in Spain. All the great, renowned universities, were founded prior to the Reformation. Nearly all the monasteries were graced and enriched by valuable libraries. In each monastery was a _scriptorium_, and a number of monks employed in copying and binding manuscripts." There is much plausibility in the language of Brownson, now the jackal of Popery in the United States. I am willing to admit that a vast number of colleges and renowned universities, were established before the Reformation, in Rome, Italy and even England. I would also admit that there were scriptoriums and that monks were employed in copying manuscripts and binding books; but has the illustrious changeling, Brownson, told us for what purposes these great universities were established, prior to the Reformation? Far be it from me to deny their existence, that would indeed show that I was but a poor historian, and that I knew but very little of the corruptions of the Romish Church. Sixtus IV., one of the infallible Popes of Rome, established whole colleges at once, and much as I have said against Popery and its corruptions, I have not, as yet, exhibited so flagrant an instance of Popish turpitude, baseness and avarice, as Pope Sixtus IV. leaves on record, by the single act of building these universities. He established offices and titles in each college, which were put up for sale by him, and were sold for sums, varying from one hundred, to one thousand and twenty thousand ducats. It was this illustrious and infallible Pope, Sixtus IV.,--and I pray you will bear it in mind, thou great changeling,--that established a college of a hundred janizaries, and nominated these janizaries for the trifling sum of one hundred thousand ducats. And how, think you, reader, did he pay them their salaries? Was it out of the bonus of a hundred thousand ducats, which he received for chartering or sanctioning the college? Far from it. He paid them some trifling compensation, derived from the proceeds of the sales of bulls. These janizaries were subsequently suppressed. Innocent III.,--and you will recollect, Mr. Brownson, that he was Pope of Rome between the sixth and sixteenth centuries,--founded a university for a bonus of sixty thousand scudi; (a scudi, I believe, is a fraction less than a dollar.) The reader may form some idea of the magnitude and splendor of this university, when I inform him, that this college had twenty-six secretaries, and a proportionable number of other officers; every one of whom paid in proportion to his means, for the office he held. Pope Alexander VI., who, as you know, was born between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, and whom the changeling's friend Daniel O'Connell, would call a _broth of a boy_, established a university, and to showed his zeal for the great cause of learning and advancement of morals, he nominated eighty writers of Popish briefs, each of whom had to pay eight hundred and fifty scudi for his appointment. This very Pope, Alexander VI., was one of the greatest debauchees of his age, and died by poison administered by the hand of his own son. Pope Julius II., who also lived between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, added to these offices one hundred writers or copyists of archives, each of whom had also to pay seven hundred and fifty scudi. I have taken Brownson at his word. He affirms that no period in the history of our race, of equal length, can be pointed out, so remarkable for intellectual activity, as that which occurred between the sixth and sixteenth centuries. I have and do hereby affirm, that there has been no period, in the history of Christianity, so remarkable for intellectual depravity and Popish ignorance, as that very self-same period. I have appealed to history and proved my assertion by facts, not taken from prejudiced writers, but facts recorded and gloried in by Popes themselves and Popish writers. It is said by Papists and authoritatively asserted by their mouth-piece in the United States, that the colleges and universities built by Papists, in the interval between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, were pulled down by the Protestants, Goths and Vandals, who have lived since that period. Admitting that they have been, what then, Mr. Brownson? What man or what people, in their sober senses, would tolerate the colleges established by Pope Sixtus in 1482, where offices were put up at auction, and that under the sacred name of religion; where nothing was taught but the grossest idolatry, and nothing practised but simony and immorality, almost as bad as that of the heathens. Would any man at the present day, with the fear of God before his eyes, or who duly appreciated the blessings of civil liberty, tolerate amongst ourselves, a university such as one of those over which Popes Paul and Sixtus presided, even in the palmiest days of Christianity? According to Brownson, himself, assuredly not. We should pull it down were it amongst us; we should scatter to the winds these Popish brief s, decretals and bulk, which thousands of monks were employed in copying and binding. We should vest in some factory, those thousands and hundreds of thousands of scudi, which were given to Popes for chartering universities of learning--don't laugh, reader--yes, reader, they were called universities of learning--and we would send the lazy, crazy monks, who were by thousands employed in them, to work on our fields or in our factories. It was between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, that Alexander III., presiding in his official capacity over a synod held at Tours, in 1167, pronounced the Protestant religion of the Vaudois "_a damnable heresy of long standing_." Do you call this any evidence of the _great mental activity_ which the Popish Church displayed, and for which she and her members were so remarkable, prior to the sixteenth century? There was another synod at Lavoux, in the same year, where the Pope gives another instance of the remarkable intellectual and literary activity of the thousand years between the sixth and sixteenth centuries. The Popish Senate at Lavoux sent a memorial to the reigning Pope, to exterminate the Vaudois, "_an heretical pest, generated in olden times, of enormous growth and great antiquity_." I believe it was in 1536--recollect, Mr. Brownson, it is within your period of that thousand years, when, according to yourself, Popery flourished in the full blaze of her glory and love of literature--that the poor Protestants, the Vaudois, sent a number of petitions to Francis I., praying that he would tolerate them, and allow them to worship God as they pleased. Francis I. consulted the Pope's legate, who was then at his court, and immediately returned for answer to these poor Protestants, "I am not burning heretics in France, to foster them among the Alps." Remarkable instance of the literary activity of the Popish Church! We have another strong instance of that intellectual and literary activity of which Brownson speaks, in Philip II. of Spain, who, to show his zeal for the holy Catholic faith, determined--with a view, I presume, of leaving some evidence of his Popish literary activity of mind--to despatch an army, under the command of one D'Oppede, with instructions to put to the sword every Protestant man, woman and child whom he might find in the Vaudois valley; and faithfully did he discharge his duty. He has left us, as the changeling Brownson would term it a remarkable instance of Popish intellectual activity* Not a man, woman, or child, was spared by this Popish army. Anquetil, a Roman Catholic himself and in full communion with the Popish Church, gives us a vivid picture of the remarkable intellectual activity of this D'Oppede, and his Popish army. The reader will pardon me for quoting the passage in the writings of Anquetil, containing this picture; it certainly shows a remarkable intellectual and literary activity of Popish minds, during Brownson's thousand years of their unsullied fame as scholars. "After the King of France granted permission to his Roman Catholic General D'Oppede, and his soldiers, to take arms against the Vaudois," says Anquetil, "twenty-two towns and villages were burned or pillaged, with an inhumanity of which the history of the most barbarous nations scarcely affords an example. The wretched inhabitants, surprised in the night, and hunted from rock to rock by the light of the flames which were consuming their habitations, frequently escaped one snare only to fall into another. The pitiful cries of the aged, the women and the children, instead of softening the hearts of the soldiers,--maddened with rage, like their leaders,--only served to guide them in the pursuit of the fugitives, and to indicate the points against which to direct their fury. Voluntary surrender did not exempt the men from slaughter, nor the women from brutal outrages at which nature revolts." It was forbidden under pain of death to afford them harbor or succor. In one town alone, more than seven hundred men were butchered in cold blood; and the women who had remained in their houses, were shut up in a barn containing a great quantity of straw, which was set on fire, and those who endeavored to escape from the windows, were driven back by swords and pikes. According to orders, these specimens of Popish intellectual literary activity demolished all the houses, cut down the wood, uprooted the fruit-trees, and left nothing behind them but an uninhabited waste. The war-cry of the Papists, as this Roman Catholic writer, whose authority no Papist will question, asserts, was, "Kill! kill!" Dr. Gilli relates an instance of great heroism in one of those poor Protestants, who was among the persecuted. One Aymond De La Voye went through the villages, exhorting his brethren to stand firm in the faith of their forefathers. He was soon discovered by the members of the Inquisition. The first question put to him was, "Who are your associates?" "My associates," he answered, "are those who know and do the will of my Heavenly Father, whether they be nobles, merchants, peasants, or in any other condition." Let it not be forgotten, that this occurred before the sixteenth century, and before the Goths and Vandals of the Reformation, as Brownson calls them, had any existence. One of the Councillors of the Holy Inquisition asked this intrepid man and pious Christian Protestant, "Who is the head of the Church?" He answered, "Jesus Christ" "Is not the Pope the head of the church?" inquired the inquisitor. "No," was the answer. "Is not the Pope the successor of St. Peter?" "Yes," answered La Voye, "if he is like St. Peter, but not else." But such was the remarkable intellectual activity of the infallible Church, that no other questions were deemed necessary, and he was immediately consigned to a tormenting death. But the persecutions of these Protestant Christians did not stop here. So remarkable was the intellectual and literary activity of Papists, between the sixth and sixteenth centuries,--that golden age of Popery,--in dispensing its blessing all over the world, that while enormities like those I have related were being perpetrated on the western side of the Alps, a fresh storm was brewing over their brethren of Piedmont. Will the reader think me tedious, if I give him a more explicit account, taken from Moreland's history of those people, than I myself can give? I take it from Gilli's appendix. "There is a certain valley in the county of Piedmont, within five or six miles of Mount Vesulo, which, from the town of Lucerna, is called the valley of Lucerna; and in it there is a little valley, which, from Angrogna, a small river running through it, is called the valley Angrogna. Next adjoining to this are two other valleys; that is to say, the valley of Perosa, so called from the town of that name, and the valley of S. Martino. In these there lie divers little towns and villages, whose inhabitants, assisted by the ministers of God's word, do make open profession of the gospel. "Moreover, I suppose that there are near eight thousand faithful souls inhabiting in this place. But among the men, who are bred up to endure labor, seeing they have from their childhood been inured to husbandry, you will find very few who know how to engage in combat. From hence it comes to pass that very few of them are ready upon any urgent occasion to defend themselves against public injuries. Yea, and the valleys themselves lie so remote from each other, that they cannot help one another till it be too late. And although these towns and villages have their counts or lords, yet the Duke of Savoy is lord over them all. "This duke, before he came from Nice into Piedmont, diligently took order with those counts and lords of places, that they should admonish the inhabitants to submit to him and the Pope; that is, that, casting off their ministers, they should admit Popish preachers and the abominable mass. Whereupon our people sent petitions unto the prince, beseeching him that he would take it in good part if they were resolved rather to die than to lose the true religion of Jesus Christ.... but they shall be ready to amend their errors, if any there were, in case it should be manifested to them out of the word of God, to which alone they are to submit in this business; and as to what concerneth them in matters of behavior and tributes, and other things due both to him and their other lords, that he would send and make diligent inquiry whether they have at any time committed any offence, that so due punishment may be inflicted on them, because he should assuredly know they are willing to approve themselves with due reverence most obedient to him in all things. "These petitions came to the hand of the prince, but availed nothing with him, who was become a sworn enemy with Antichrist against Christ. Thereupon he sent forth edicts, declaring that those who should be present at the sermons of the ministers of the valley?, if but once, should be fined at one hundred crowns, and if a second time, then they should be condemned to the galleys forever. Orders also were given to a certain judge to ride circuit up and down to put the penalties in execution, and to bind Christians and imprison them. The lords also and magistrates of places had the same power given them, and at length the godly were by this most impotent prince utterly given up to be plundered by all sorts of villains, and afflicted with most grievous calamities. "He sent also a certain collateral judge of his own, first to Carignan, there to act inhuman butchery upon the faithful ones of Christ; whereupon he caused one Marcellinus, and Joan his wife, he being a Frenchman, but she a woman of Carignan, to be burnt alive with fire, four days after they had been apprehended. But in this woman God was pleased to manifest an admirable example of constancy; for, as she was led to execution, she exhorted her husband, saying, 'Well done, my brother, be of good courage; this day doubtless we shall enter together into the joys of heaven.' Some few days after this, there was apprehended also one John Carthignan, an honest, plain man, and truly religious, who, after three days of imprisonment, endured the torments of fire with very great constancy. Who is able to reckon up the several incursions, slaughters, plunders and innumerable miseries, wherewith this most savage generation of men did daily afflict all pious men, because, being exhorted by their ministers to patience, they took no course to defend themselves against injuries! Not long after also they apprehended one John, a Frenchman, and a minister, at a town called St. Germano, and, carrying him to a certain abbey near Pinerolo, there burnt him alive, who left a noble example of Christian constancy. The like was done also to the minister of the town of Maine, who was put to death at Susa by a slow fire, while he in the mean time stood as it were immovable, and not being touched with any sense of so incredible a cruelty, having his eyes fixed upon heaven, breathed out his happy soul. "Therefore, when things were come to this pass, and these miseries were increased every day more and more, and seeing that the patience and extreme misery of our people could not in any measure allay the fury and rage of these most merciless brutes, they at length resolved by force, as well as they could, to free themselves and their wives and children from that barbarous usage. And although some of our ministers declared it was not well done, yet no admonitions could keep the people from resolving to defend themselves by arms. Hereupon it came to pass that, several encounters falling out, there fell within a few days about sixty of the plunderers. When news hereof was brought to the tyrant, he commanded his men to forbear, and sent two of his noblemen that so they might bring matters to an accommodation with our people; but when it was perceived that all their drift was that our ministers might be cast out and the Pope received, the people would by no means yield to it Wherefore, when the prince came into Piedmont, and resided at Versello, about the kalends of November, 1660, with intent to destroy all in the valleys by fire and sword, he sent an army of about four thousand foot and two hundred horse, under the command of the duke [count] de la Trinite." The writer then relates the submissions made by certain deputies whom the Vaudois sent to the duke. "These false brethren, in design to serve their own private ends, persuaded the people, though almost all the ministers cried out against it, that too easily giving credit to the most false promises of their enemies, laying down their arms, and sending deputies to the prince to promise obedience, they might, for sixteen thousand crowns, redeem both themselves and their religion. As soon as all these things were yielded to and promised by the too credulous people, through a vain hope of obtaining peace and religion, and when our deputies arrived at Versello, they were thence carried by the Lord de la Trinite to a certain cloister, there to abide for two months' space, (to the end there might be time for collecting the moneys,) and at length, casting themselves down at the feet of the prince and of the Pope's legate, (who were both there, attended by a great number of the nobility, and men of inferior rank,) they were constrained to supplicate the prince first, then the Pope's legate, that they would take pity on the people from whom they were sent, and to promise them, by an oath, that they would be ready to do all things that should be commanded by them. "The prince therefore growing confident upon this most solemn promise, immediately sent persons to command our people to receive and embrace that horrid idol of the mass; whereupon, considering the inconstancy of their deputies, and the deceit or rather extreme perfidiousness of the tyrants being discovered, they plainly refused to yield that those things should be ratified which their deputies had unadvisedly transacted, through their own levity, not with the consent of people.... Then the tyrant, as soon as he came to understand this, was much more inflamed than ever before with anger, or rather outrageous fury, against our people; and, collecting a rabble of an army, he gave command to the Lord de la Trinite to waste and destroy all by fire and sword, without any regard of sex or age. Hereupon houses were every where set on fire, nor is there any kind of mischief which was not acted by those most wretched villains; by which means they forced our people, with their wives and children, to have recourse to the more craggy places of the mountains; a thing very lamentable to be seen. For, at the very first assault, they were in a manner astonished, because, being spoiled both of their arms and goods, living in extreme want of all things, they did not see by what means they might be able to undergo so great and troublesome a war. "But at length, taking heart and trusting in the mercy and help of God, of the goodness of their cause, and being confident, because of the impiety and treachery of their adversaries, they resolved once again to defend themselves. To this end they appointed their guards and garrisons, fortified several places, blocked up passages, and were wholly resolute upon this point, to die rather than they would in any measure obey a perfidious and wicked prince in so abominable a matter. But what need many words? Things were come to such a pass, that in several fights above nine hundred of the enemy were slain, whereas, on our side, hardly fifteen were wanting." Such was the spirit of Popery during Brownson's thousand years of remarkable intellectual and literary activity! Do you, Americans, wish that the next thousand years of your existence as a nation should be distinguished by a similar intellectual preeminence in mental activity and Christian literature? But, continues Brownson, in his Review of January, 1845, all these things were altered. What things does Brownson mean? The universities? or the remarkable activity of Popish minds between the sixth and sixteenth centuries? Who denies the former? No one who is acquainted with history, or who knows that the world, a large portion of which was then under Popish dominion, needed to be purified from the idolatrous and disastrous doctrines of Popery. The insolence of Brownson is assuredly unequalled. Either that, or his ignorance of history, is unpardonable. "At the period of the English Revolution," says this consummate hypocrite, Brownson, "_the mass of the English people were buried in the grossest ignorance. Even long after, when the Wesleys first started, they talked of the ignorance even of the people of London, as they would of the South Sea Islanders_." This, as we say up here in New Hampshire, beats all. Was it not about this very period that the world gave birth to the illustrious Milton? Was it not at this period that Dryden was born? Was it not at this period that the brightest lights of literature that ever illumined the world were shining in all their glory? I might here give as many names of illustrious men and illustrious minds as ever adorned humanity; men whose lives were an honor, not only to science, but to religion, to Christianity, and true piety. Did not Erasmus live before the English Reformation? Was he grossly ignorant? Did not Luther live before the Reformation? Neither of those were Papists, but they knew Papist doctrines so well as to break loose from them and appeal to the Christian world to rise as one man and pull down and raze to the ground Popish universities and colleges, as calculated only to cover the world with darkness, by substituting the legends of monks for true science, and the decretals of Popes for the Word of God. "From the eleventh century," says Brownson, "down to the sixteenth, literature and science received no check." Review of 1845, Jan. No. p. 17. Hear, reader, to this modern Esau, According to him, literature received no check from the years 1100 to 1600. This assertion is made without any qualification or exception. Does this Brownson believe that his readers are all a parcel of ignoramuses? It cannot be so; he must be aware that he states an untruth, and no man who has ever read history can think otherwise. It would be difficult, I apprehend, to meet a school boy in the United States--I may venture the assertion, that it would be impossible to find a child in America, over the age of ten or twelve years,--who does not know that the illustrious Galileo was born during that very period, and who could not tell, that his glorious discovery of the motion of the earth, not only met with opposition from the Church of Rome, but, that the ruling Pope countenaced his incarceration in the dungeons of the inquisition. Did not the Romish Church claim and enjoy the exclusive honor of striking the first blow at a man and a mind such as the world never saw before? Did not Pope Urban VIII., in 1623, declare and pronounce the motion of the earth to be perverse in the highest degree? It was about this time, as a living writer observes, that the whole Catholic Church looked upon all the earth as a condemned world. This absurdity was rejected by Galileo. He established an equality between heaven and earth. He showed that the latter is subject to the same laws and floats in the same splendor as the former; he put serenity and life in the place of mystical theory. For this he was opposed by Popish priests, the sworn enemies of science and literature. See, as the same writer observes, this venerable man, Galileo,--this good man, seventy years old, on his knees, barefooted and stripped to his shirt, before the officers of the holy inquisition; and for what? He tells you himself, in a letter to one of his friends. "They--the inquisitors--look upon my book as more abominable and pernicious to the Church than the writings of Luther." Look at him! you Brownson, thou contemptible cat's-paw of Popery, and say--if your heart has not been seared against the truth with something hotter than the hottest iron--whether literature and science did not receive a check, in the persecutions which your infallible church inflicted upon this great man? "The four hundred years which preceded the Reformation," says Brown-son, "were ages of prodigious activity. In them we meet with the great name of Abelard, under whom Heloisa studied philosophy." Mr. Brownson forgot, I presume, to inform us that he also taught Heloisa moral philosophy. In this latter science she was eminently skilful, and left the world some evidence, at least, of her not being an inapt scholar in the doctrines of genuine Popery. The great changeling, Brownson, could not give more illustrative examples of the beauties of Popery and of the advantages to be derived from a course of education at their schools, than that of Abelard and Heloisa; but he need not have gone so far from home for examples of this kind. There are hundreds of them to be found in the United States. We have schools, such as that which Abelard kept, and to which, Brownson tells us, "great flocks fled for education." One of these schools, my readers may recollect, recently flourished on Mount Benedict, Charlestown, Mass. Abelard, as every reader must recollect, lived in the twelfth century--at the very period, when, according to the great changeling--the Popish Church displayed her remarkable activity of mind in science and literature. Abelard was a learned doctor in the Church of Rome. He was, of course, a confessor; he boarded in the house of a Popish canon in Paris, whose name was Fulbert. This canon had a niece called Heloisa, whom he was anxious to send to a fashionable school and bring up in the doctrines of the infallible Church of Rome. Accordingly he sent Heloisa to attend the lectures of the pious and God-like Abelard, just as many of our American mothers, with the advice and consent of their lords and masters, send their children in this country to be educated, to Popish seminaries, kept by pious priests and saint-like nuns. Heloisa had not gone long to confession, when Abelard, her confessor, seduced her and prevailed upon the poor unthinking girl to become his mistress. In order to conceal this atrocious conduct and finding his dupe likely to become a mother, he sent her to a sister of his who lived at a considerable distance, where she was delivered of a son. It is said, that to appease Fulbert, the uncle of this victim of seduction and priestcraft, Abelard consented to marry his victim privately; but no sooner was he married and the anger of the uncle partially appeased, than he sent her to a monastery or nunnery and compelled her to take a religious habit; thus adding treachery to crime and requiting a pure and simple-minded girl's love, by additional ingratitude and villany. But the poor girl had many friends besides the uncle, who, seeing the cruel manner in which Abelard treated her, determined upon revenge, and they had it They surrounded his chamber at night, and took from his bed this man whom Brownson would hold up to Americans as a model teacher of morality, and had him emasculated. All this was done in the twelfth century. This was one of the great men whom the church produced in Brownson's golden age of Popery. But what else could be expected of this Brownson? What else could be expected from any man who would hold and profess such sentiments as the following, which we find in his Review of 1840. "For our part," says the great changeling, Brownson, "we yield to none, in our reverence for science and religion; but we confess that we look not for the regeneration of the race from priests and pedagogues." Very respectful language, especially from one who has been a priest and pedagogue himself! "They,--the priests," continues Brownson--"have had a fair trial. They,--the priests--cannot construct the temple of God. They--the priests--cannot conceive its plan. They--the priests--know not how to build it They--the priests--daub with untempered mortar, and the walls they erect tumble down if so much as a fox attempt to go up thereon. We have no faith in priests and pedagogues," says Brownson; "they merely cry peace, when there is no peace and there can be none." Again the same traitor to God and religion, thus spews forth his Popish hatred to pure Christianity. "One might as well undertake to dip the ocean dry with a clam shell, as to undertake to cure the evils of the social state by converting men to Christianity." "For our part," continues Brownson, in another page of his Review, "we are disposed to seek the cause of the inequality of the conditions of which we speak, in religion, and to charge it to the priesthood. Rarely do we find, in any age or country, a man feeling himself commissioned to labor for a social reform, who does not feel that he must begin it by making war upon the priesthood. Indeed it is felt at once, that no reform can be effected without resisting the priests and emancipating the people from their power. Historical research, we apprehend, will be found to justify this instinct, and to authorize eternal hostility to the priesthood. Again, when once the class--that is, the class of priests--has become somewhat numerous, it labors to secure to itself distinction, and increases them. Hence the establishment of priesthoods or sacerdotal corporations, such as the Egyptian, the Braminical, the Ethiopian, the Jewish, the Scandinavian, the Druidical, the Mexican and Peruvian." Fie! fie! Mr. Brownson, the Mexicans belong to the Infallible Church, and like yourself, are strict members thereof. "These sacerdotal corporations," continues Brownson, "are variously organized, but everywhere organized for the purpose of monopolizing power and profit. The real idea at the bottom of these institutions, is only to enslave the mass of the people to the priests, who, by pretending, honestly or not, to possess the secret of rendering the gods propitious, are able to reduce the people to the most wretched subjection, and keep them there, at least for a time." At page 384, of Brownson's Review, of July, 1840, we find the following sweeping anathema against the Christian priesthood--not in the United States alone, but all over the world--and I would defy the most learned historian or impatient infidel upon earth, to produce any thing more blasphemous or more calculated to disturb the peace of man or the good order of society. "But, having traced the inequality we complain of, to its origin, we proceed to ask again, what is the remedy? The remedy is first to be sought in the destruction of the priest. The bad must be removed before the good can be introduced--conviction and repentance precede regeneration; Christianity is the sublimest protest against the priesthood ever uttered, either by God or man. In the person of Jesus, both God and man protest against the priesthood. What was the mission of Jesus but a solemn summons to judgment, and of the human race to freedom. He--Jesus--instituted himself no priesthood, no form of religions worship. He recognized no priest but a holy life, and commanded the construction of no temple but that of a pure heart." Take care, Brownson! don't let the Pope hear you. "He---Jesus--preached no form of religion." Take heed again! Did he not preach the religion of the Romish Church, think you? Have a care! you will commit yourself, unless I occasionally caution you. "He--Jesus--enjoined no creed." What, sir! not even that of the Pope of Rome? "He--Jesus--set apart no day for religious worship." Not a single one of those numerous holy days which the Infallible Church sanctions? "The priest is universally a tyrant, universally the enslaver of his brethren, and therefore it is that Christianity condemns them. Christianity could not prevent the establishment of a hierarchy, but it prepared for its ultimate destruction by insisting on the celibacy of the clergy." Really, friend Brownson, I am beginning to tremble for your safety in the Popish Church. "Again," says Brownson, in his Review of the same year, page 336, "we insist upon it"--remember, reader, that Brownson is the mouth-piece to Popery in the United States,--"that the complete and final destruction of the priestly order in every practical sense of the word priest, is the first step to be taken towards elevating 'the laboring' classes" Pray, Mr. Brownson, what shall we do with the ten thousand Romish priests which are to be found at the present time in the city of Mexico alone? Has the infallible Church concluded to ship them to our western States? "Priests," says Brownson, "are necessary enemies to freedom; all reason demonstrates this, and all history proves it." Look out, sir! you 're committing yourself again. Where are all those colleges you speak of as having been established between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, and in which you say was displayed a remarkable activity in science and literature? Nothing better than asylums or schools, for the education of men in such sciences as were calculated to overthrow the freedom of man. I told you so a while ago, and proved it too. All reason demonstrates this and all history proves it. Again, Brownson says, in the same page of his Review, "There must be no class of men set apart and authorized, either by law or fashion, to speak to us in the name of God, or to be the interpreters of the word of God." Is it so, indeed, Mr. Brownson? I thought the Pope was authorized to do so, and that he and his church were especially empowered, to the exclusion of all, without distinction, to interpret the word of God. The word of God, you say again, "never drops from the priest's lips." What! do you mean to say that the word of God never drops from the Pope's lips? Rest assured, my worthy friend, that if you repeat that again to Bishop Fenwick, he will put you on short allowance. "The priests were always a let and hindrance to the spread of truth." Assuredly you cannot mean the Romish priests. You tell us, in your Review of this year, that the four hundred years which preceded the Reformation were ages of prodigious activity, and that during that time Abelard, St Bernard, Albert the Great, and Thomas Aquinas, were remarkable men. All these were priests; yet you say that priests have always been the enemies of freedom, and a let and hindrance to the spread of truth. You thought, the other day, that these were good men and learned men, especially Abelard. What do you think of them, now that you have become a Roman Catholic? You believe all of them to be saints, and you know many of them have been canonized. We have not your opinion of them since July, 1840. Let us hear what you thought of them then. We quote from page 387 of your Quarterly of that year. You ask the following question yourself, and you also answer it. Here are your words, viz: "What are the priests of Christendom, as they now are? Miserable panders to the prejudices of the age; loud in condemning sins nobody is guilty of, but miserable cowards when it is necessary to speak out for God. They are dumb dogs; as a body, they never preach a truth till there is no one whom it will indict; the imbecility of an organized priesthood, and its power to demoralize the people, is beginning to be seen; we have had enough of Christianity" Have you, indeed, Mr. Brown-son? Well, we have not; therein you and I differ. "Christianity," says Brownson, in the next line, "is powerless for good, but by no means powerless for evil; it now unmans us, and hinders the growth of God's kingdom." It is high time, brother Fenwick, that I should wish you joy. You have an acquisition to your church, in the great changeling Brownson, and you show a depth of wisdom rarely to-be found now-a-days, except among Jesuits, in sending your convert Brownson all over this country, to preach the pure and unsullied doctrines of your Infallible Church; your apostle Brownson is assuredly a fit man for your purposes. History does not inform us that there is a solitary instance since the establishment of your church, of any government having escaped its machinations; and worse than purblind indeed must that mail be, who cannot see at a glance that the primary object which Popish bishops have in commissioning this heartless, unprincipled infidel Brownson to go abroad lecturing among the happy people of this country, is to disturb the present order of society, and finally to overthrow this government, and erect upon its ruins the Papal throne. This Brownson is unquestionably an object of great pity, or well-merited contempt I could turn from the bare mention of his name with nausea and disgust It is but a few months since that he represented the whole system of Christianity as a gross imposition upon mankind, and our holy religion one of the blackest impositions that ever was practised upon our race. But now he has become a Roman Catholic. Now that he is in the pay of the Pope and his Jesuits, like another Esau he turns round, betraying everything that he ever professed, and pretends to discover that in the Church of Rome are to be found all the elements of pure Christianity; that her priests are an exception to the great body of those priests against whom he pronounced his anathema a while ago. How many months is it, Mr. Brownson, since you became a Papist, and found out that you had been all your life a victim of delusion and Protestant priestcraft? Ten, twelve, or eighteen, is it? Well, suppose it is. Is that enough to give you a thorough knowledge of Popery, and to satisfy you that the Popish Church is composed of purer materials than any of those numerous churches in which you have believed successively and alternately for the last thirty years, and from each of which you have been successively expelled and excommunicated? For, as you tell us yourself, in your Quarterly Review, so infamous and infidel were your principles, that even the Universalists could not tolerate you amongst them, and excommunicated you from their communion without one dissenting voice. So notoriously profligate and abandoned did they consider you, in mind, sentiment, thought, and language, that although their doctrine teaches them that Christ died for all, and that all are to be saved through him, they excepted you, and you alone, as far as I am aware. Wide as the range of that belief is, all-comprehensive as their charity is, and all-sufficient for the salvation of man as they believe the death of Christ to be, yet they could not believe that you were entitled to any benefit from it, and accordingly they formally excommunicated you. I can tell you, Mr. Brownson, that you have taken a false step, in your last move; you have plunged thoughtlessly into the labyrinth of Popery, without knowing any thing of its intricacies, certainly not enough to say much for or against. As yet you have scarcely been admitted behind the curtain of this vast theatre in which you have engaged to play a character. And believe me when I assure you that if you have undertaken any other part than that of a buffoon, you will be hissed off the boards before long. You may, perhaps, soon be let into the green room of the vast Popish theatre where you have made a short engagement, and there some of the machinery of Popery may be opened to your view. But mind what I tell you; when you see the hidden and concealed springs, the wheel within wheel, and the dirty workmen who set them in motion, you will behold sights and experience a stench which will strike you with an offensiveness as loathing and disgusting as if you had put your head into a common sewer. Nothing will you see there but covetous-ness, the weakest vanity, and the most unrestrained indulgence of the vilest passions--one general system of artifice and intrigue for power and opportunities for debauching females. Never before could I realize the belief that man was so entirely and totally corrupt as he is, until I was admitted as a Popish priest into the theatre and great machine-shop of Popery. I have already given to the public some of those scenes which were witnessed by me in the Romish Church. They were new to some, and--as I expected--incredible to many Americans: but Americans--at least the well-informed amongst them--ought to know that I have related nothing new, or at least very little. My revelations have had, in point of fact and substantially, full publicity many years before my birth. The very facts I have stated had long been registered in the archives of literature, and might have been found on the shelves of the libraries of our own country. Some of them have been published by me with the sole view of scattering them amid our people in such form and at such a price as may be acceptable and accessible to all. Many of my statements might have seemed dark and cloudy, but truth and justice compel me to say that they were nothing in comparison with those which are to come. They bear no more likeness to what I shall give hereafter, than the fleeting clouds which we see floating here and there, denoting the approach of a storm, bear to the storm itself. But alas! I fear that it is perfectly useless for me to attempt to awaken the American mind to a due sense of the dangers to be apprehended from the introduction of Popery among us. The general answer which I receive to all my warnings is, "We care not for what Papists can do; we are a free people." It would be useless to reply to such childish argument as this, nor shall I attempt it; but I feel really humiliated at seeing such a people as the free citizens of the United States permitting themselves to be deluded, and the minds of their children poisoned by such doctrines as are preached by the infidel Brownson, now employed by the Pope of Rome, as the apostle of Popery in this country. It is also a source of deep regret to me to see Roman Catholics, especially the poor Irish, who owe this country more than any other people in the world, become its deadliest foes, and ready at the beck of their tyrant priests and bishops to trample under foot its glorious constitution, which guarantees to them what they never had before, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and equal rights. "_Americans shant rule us_," say this poor, misguided people, the Irish. This drives me, _nolens volens_, to a farther exposure of some of the deceptions practised upon them and upon mankind in general, by faithless Romish priests, trusting, in the mercy of Providence, that if I can show them that they are deceived in one way by their priests, it may put them on their guard in future against further deception. I will now return to, or rather resume the consideration of, the doctrine of _auricular confession_, which formed in part the subject of the first volume of this work. Before I enter on the disgusting subject of auricular confession, let me give the reader an idea of how it is made. And lest it may be questioned whether the form I herein give is correct, I shall give it first in Latin, and then in English, and appeal to any Roman Catholic priest or bishop in the world, whether so far I misstate or misrepresent facts. The following is the form: "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti beatas Marias semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Johanni Baptistæ, Sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis et (tibi Pater) quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et opere (pectus) mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelum Archangelum, beatum Johannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes sanctos et (Pater) orane pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum." Translation of the Above: "I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the saints, and to you, father, that I have sinned exceedingly, both in thought, in word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore I beseech the blessed Mary ever virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, and you father, to pray to our Lord God for me." Such is the form of confession made by every Roman Catholic who goes into a confessional box, or who in any other place confesses to a priest. It is not my intention here, to show that no such form of confession as the above was ever used in the Christian Church for more than half a century after its establishment. The whole prayer of this confession is an innovation unknown to the early Christians. It is an impure deposit in the sacred fountains of Christianity, thrown into them and mixed up with them, by the unclean hands of the Romish Popes and priests. Who or which of the primitive Christians, was ever known to pray to saints? Name him, Papists, and I will give you credit for the discovery. You contradict yourselves and some of your most fundamental doctrines in praying to saints. Even the Council of Trent, which you consider infallible, goes no farther than to say,--"It is good and profitable to invoke the prayers of the saints." And how do you, Popish priests, justify yourselves in imposing on your deluded people, the idolatrous practice of praying to saints? Answer the question yourselves. As I stated before, it is not my intention here, to enter into the merits or demerits of your form of confession. I shall confine myself, almost exclusively, to pointing out some of the fatal consequences to society, of introducing such a practice as that of auricular confession, amongst any people. The reader will pardon me, if I quote largely from Michellet, an admirable writer of the present day, and which cannot fail to be very satisfactory to the reader, from the fact, that he is a Roman Catholic and, of course, entitled to credit, as it is not to be presumed that any man will bear witness against himself or against the doctrines which he avowedly professes. The language of Michellet is beautiful, as the Protestant Quarterly Review expresses it He gives a graphic portraiture of a French wife. The reader will keep in mind that Michellet is a Frenchman, that he looks upon France as the world and that therefore his portraiture of a French wife, is a portraiture of any woman in the same position. The fact that Michellet's work is approved of by the Quarterly Review, of the American Protestant Association, is the highest encomium that can be passed upon it. The Review is edited by the Rev. Rufus Griswold, one of the most elegant, chaste and beautiful writers of the day, and whose commendation Michellet's work could not have, were it not eminently entitled to it We have few such writers among our American controversialists as the Rev. Mr. Griswold, and I know not that I am hazarding truth, when I say, that we have not a more patriotic citizen, a more accomplished scholar, nor a more humble and devoted Christian. I shall here quote from Mr. Griswold's translation of Michellet, page 287 of the Quarterly Review of the American Protestant Association. "When I think of all that is contained in the words _confession, direction_,--those little words, that great power, the most complete in the world,--when I essay to analyze all that is in it,--I am alarmed. It appears to me that I am descending by an infinite spiral line, a deep and dark mine. I have had pity heretofore for the priest; now, I dread him. We must not be alarmed, we must look it in the face. Let us frame with simplicity the language of the confessor." The reader must suppose here, a priest sitting in the confessional with a young lady kneeling by his side, 2 whose lips almost press his. I know by experience, having often myself heard confessions, that this is the exact position of the parties. The lady is supposed, by Michelet--and he supposes so correctly--to be addressed by the priest in the following words. 'God hears thee; hears thee through me; by me God will reply to thee; but thou tremblest, thou darest not tell to this terrible God thy weak and childish acts.' (The reader will not forget here, that the young lady penitent and the priest are both young.) 'Well, then, tell them to thy father, a father has a right to know the secrets of his child,--an indulgent father who wishes to know them in order to absolve them. He is a sinner, like thyself; has he the right then to be severe? Come then, child, come and speak. That which thou hast never dared to whisper in thy mother's ear, tell me; who will ever know it?' Then, among sighs from the swelling, throbbing breast, the fatal word mounts the lips; it escapes and is concealed. He who has heard it has acquired a great advantage, which he will preserve. God grant that he does not abuse it He who has heard it--be careful--is not wood, the black oak of the old confessional; he is a man of flesh and blood. And this man now knows of this woman what the husband has never known in the long outpouring of the heart by night and day. That which a mother does not know--who believes that she knows her entirely, having held her so often naked on her knees--this man knows; he will know. Do not fear that he forgets; if the avowal is in good hands so much the better, for it is forever. She also knows well that she has a master over her inmost thoughts. She will never pass before that man without lowering her eyes. The day on which this mystery was made common, he was very near her; she felt his presence. Seated above her, he weighed her down by an invisible ascendancy. A magnetic force conquered her, for she did not wish to speak, and yet she spoke in spite of herself. She was fascinated, like the bird before the serpent. Up to this point there was, perhaps, no art on the side of the priest. The force of things did all; that of the religious institution and that of nature. As a priest he received her at his knees, at the listening box. Then, master of her secret, of her thought,--of the thought of a woman,--he was discovered himself to be a man; and without wishing it--without perhaps knowing it--he has placed on her, feeble and disarmed, the heavy hand of a man. And the family now! the husband! who will dare to say that his situation is the same as before? Every one who reflects, knows very well, that thought is, in a person, that which most controls him. The master of the thoughts is he to whom the person belongs. The priest holds the soul as soon as he has the dangerous gauge of the first secrets, and he will hold it faster and firmer. An entire division is made between the husband and wife, for now there are two; the one has the soul, the other the body. Note, that in this division, one of the two has everything; the other, if he keeps anything, keeps it by grace. Thought, from its very nature, is dominant, absorbing. The master of the thought, in the natural progress of his sway, will go on constantly subjecting the part which remains to the other. It will be already much, if the husband, widowed of the soul, reserves the involuntary, inert, and dead possession. Humiliating thing, only to obtain your own but by permission and indulgence! to be seen, followed into the most intimate intimacy, by an invisible witness, who regulates you, and assigns to you your part--to meet in the street a man who knows better than yourself your most secret acts and weakness,--who humbly salutes you, turns aside and laughs. Who can read the above extract from Michelet on auricular confession, without fancying that it is nothing more than one of those effusions with which rich fancies like his frequently abound? Men unacquainted with anything but the ordinary business of life, cannot fancy, much less realize, truth in the above. Is there even a Roman Catholic to be found, who can realize or believe the fact, that while he supposes himself the only possessor of his wife,--that she is his own--heart and soul--whole and undivided, yet is not so? It is well perhaps for those who have the misfortune to be Roman Catholics themselves, or equally unfortunate in having Roman Catholic wives, that they have no idea of the influence which a Roman Catholic Confessor has over woman. Could any man live in happiness or enjoy the pure blessings of matrimony, if he knew that all the intimacies and secrets, which existed between him and his wife, were far better known to the priest to whom the wife confesses, than to himself? It is well then perhaps, after all, that while such reptiles as Popish confessors are allowed a place in society, that the secrets of the confessional should be confined to themselves alone. But there is no untruth in the beautiful extract which I have taken from Michelet The picture which he gives is neither over-drawn or over-colored. The wife who goes to confession, is, in reality, more the wife of the priest than the wife of her married husband. Her soul is the priest's, her thoughts are the priest's, and the priest controls all her actions. How beautifully has Michelet expressed the priest's control over her "He has placed on her, feeble and disarmed, the heavy hand of a man." Many instances of the influence which the priest exercises over married women in the confessional have come to my own knowledge, while I was a Popish confessor. The reader will bear with me while I relate one or two, from hundreds, which I have witnessed in the course of my life. In the year 1822, and in the city of Philadelphia, an elegant carriage, with servants in livery, drove up to my door, in Fourth street, between Walnut and Spruce, where I then lived; and a lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion, unceremoniously stepped up to my door and opened it without rapping, announcing herself a stranger who wished to see me on particular business. I knew, almost by intuition, what this particular business was. I asked no questions and of course received no answers. The lady, however, said she wanted to confess and get absolution. My duty was plain, I was a Popish priest But you have not the worst of it yet, reader; so far, there was nothing evil in the matter save the infatuation of the lady in believing that a man could forgive her sins, and my worse than infatuation and weakness in believing that I had such power. The substance of this confession was the following, which fully verifies the truth of Michelet's statement This lady had been in the habit of going to confession to a Popish bishop, who lived in a neighboring state, and frequently had criminal intercourse with him, going to his room whenever he directed her, under pretence of going to confession, though at the time she was a married woman. It will be asked why she came to me. The reason was this: her paramour being a bishop, was unwilling to have his crimes known to any priest in his own diocese, and directed her to come to another; and believing, as all Catholics do, that one priest can forgive sins as well as another, she selected me, as I was then comparatively a stranger in the country. But the worst of the tale is not told yet. That part of it which corroborates the statement of Michelet remains still to be heard. Soon after the departure of this lady from my house, an English gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of an acquaintance some years previously in London, and with whom I occasionally dined at a well-known and fashionable boarding-house, not far from my own house, called on me and insisted that I should dine with him that day, holding out as a particular inducement the pleasure of introducing me to a lady and gentleman of the highest respectability, whom I should meet at dinner. I accordingly went to dine; and the reader may imagine my surprise at finding the very identical lady who had been at confession with me a few hours before, and her husband--the respectable lady and gentleman to whom my friend promised an introduction. Respectable they truly Were, as far as this world is capable of appreciating respectability; and happy they were also, to all appearance; but was not Michelet right in saying of a woman who goes to confession to a priest, "_She will never pass before that man without lowering' her eyes?_" Could that lady pass before me without lowering her eyes? or could I, if hardened in the iniquitous practice of hearing confession much longer than I was then, pass that lady without lowering mine? Did I not, as Michelet expresses it, "hold the soul" of that lady? Did I not, were I iniquitously disposed, as her bishop was, hold her body also? But when I looked at the husband of this lady--the elegant, accomplished, and gentlemanly husband--when I reflected on his humiliating position--when I reflected that this elegant man was widowed, not only of the soul, but partly of the body, of his beautiful, and as I can easily fancy, once innocent and virtuous wife, by a Popish bishop in the confessional, I could almost have cursed the hour that gave me birth in a land of Popery. My very soul froze within me, and I almost regretted that God in his mercy had not made me something else than a being who could have broken the cords of that pure and unmingled love between that elegant man who sat before me, and his once elegant and virtuous wife. Humiliating indeed, as Michelet said, must be the condition of that man whose wife goes to the confessional. When he walks the streets, he is met by the confessor of his wife, who, as Michelet properly says again, "salutes him humbly, turns aside, and laughs." O, how true this is! and would to God I could brand it upon the heart of every man whose wife goes to confession. Is it true that God lives? is it true that the earth moves? is it true that man has a soul? is it true that mind is not matter? is it true that the sun rises and sets? O! it is still more true, if possible, that there are such things as Popish priests--saints in appearance, but demons in practice,--who laugh at the ruin and division they have made between man and wife. I do not know that I was ever so lost to every feeling of honor, when a Romish priest, as, when I passed through the streets, to laugh at the husband whose wife was persuaded and fascinated away from him in the confessional; but I have often walked the streets with Romish priests, in Europe especially, where Popery predominates, and there is no sort of amusement upon those occasions which they enjoy more than calling each other's attention to some of their neighbors, as they pass along, and whispering into each other's ears, "Look at that gentleman; how fond he seems, of his wife. It was yesterday she was at the confessional with me; poor fool!" This chit-chat terminates in a hearty laugh, all at the expense of the husband. The reader, I trust, will not think me tedious, if I give him another instance of the evils of Popish confession. It will be borne in mind that the fact which I am about to state is not taken from history, though history abounds with similar cases. It is one within my own knowledge. A short time previous to my coming to this country, and soon after my being installed as confessor in the Romish Church, I became intimately acquainted with a Popish family of great respectability. This family consisted of a widowed father and two daughters and never in my life have I met two more interesting young ladies than the daughters were. These ladies lived not far from the church where I officiated, and were frequently in the habit of going to mass to my church, and calling upon me when service was over, to take breakfast with them at their father's house. This custom of having young ladies call upon Roman Catholic clergymen to accompany them home to breakfast after mass is over, is very prevalent in Europe, among the most fashionable members of the Popish Church; it is particularly so in the city of------, where I then officiated, and where the melancholy circumstance which I am about to relate took place. The father of the two young ladies to whom I have alluded, was a gentleman of about the age of fifty-five, distinguished for his charity and benevolence. He was wealthy; and whenever any object which might advance the good of his fellow beings was suggested or proposed, he was among the first to advocate and support it. His influence and his money were never wanting, when either could promote the happiness of his fellow beings. It may easily be imagined that the daughters of such a gentleman were well educated and accomplished. It may also be supposed that their home, being a home of plenty and abundance, was one of peace, happiness, charity, and domestic love. It was truly so, when I had the honor of first knowing the family. But the serpent found its way into this little garden of happiness. In less than two months after my first visit to this family, at their peaceful and hospitable breakfast table, I observed the chair which had been usually occupied by the elder of the two sisters, occupied by the younger, and that of the latter vacant I inquired the cause, and was informed by the father that he had just accompanied her to the coach which left that morning for Dublin, and that she went on a visit to the sister of the Rev. B. K. I, of course, made no further observations, but I suspected that something was wrong; I also knew full well, that whatever the cause was, I should learn the particulars of it in my capacity as confessor. As time advanced, I made the usual inquiries for this young lady, who was then only about eighteen years old. The answers were such as any one acquainted with the world might expect, and entirely satisfactory to all who knew nothing of the iniquitous practices encouraged and fostered in the Romish confessional. I will here pass over an interval of about three months. A detail of the private occurrences in any particular family can have no general interest. At or about the expiration of that period, the younger sister complained of indisposition, and it was found necessary to send her also on a visit to Dublin. Now the whole truth broke upon me at once. I knew there was foul play somewhere, and soon enough did the fact in all its particulars come to my ear. It seems that both the daughters of whom I have spoken, went to a school attached to the Ursuline Nunnery in the city of--------. The confessor, whose duty it was to hear the confessions of the pupils of this institution, was one Rev. Mr. B. K., a friar of the Franciscan order, who, as soon as his plans were properly laid, and circumstances rendered matters ripe for execution, seduced the elder lady; and finding that the fact could no longer be concealed, arranged matters with a friend in Dublin, so that the victim of his iniquity might be concealed and privately supplied with all the usual attendants which her situation required. She was confined at the house of his friend, and her illicit offspring given to the managers of the Foundling Hospital in Dublin. But the most horrible part of the story remains yet to be told. No sooner was this elder lady provided for, than this incarnate demon, B. K., commenced the seduction of the younger lady. He succeeded, and ruined her, too. But there was no difficulty in providing for them; both became nuns. And here, you people of Massachusetts in particular, be it known to you, fathers and mothers, who have sent your daughters to be educated in the Ursuline Convent, Charlestown, Massachusetts--I mean that which you felt it your duty to pull down, a few years ago, and which was situated upon Mount Benedict--that both these nuns held high stations in the convent which you pulled down, and that at the very period of its destruction. Pools, "dolts, double dolts," as the Jesuit Rodin calls all who contribute to the support of Popish nunneries, are you not ashamed of yourselves? Are females who have been the prostitutes of priests in foreign countries, and who in nine cases out of ten continue to be so here, the only teachers competent to instruct your daughters? Are there no American ladies--no Protestant ladies--capable of teaching your children? Must American parents go to Europe, and take from the 546 purlieus of Popish convents, instructors for their children? A poor compliment to American Protestant ladies, and a sad commentary it is upon the total ignorance of American theologians respecting Popish morals in Europe. Here we have a case in point This is not an old lie, as Popish priests and their supporters call all accusations against them; it is a new one, if a lie at all; it is one which I know myself, and can prove. I knew these nuns personally, before they came to this country. I was acquainted with them before they became nuns. I saw them in the convent at Mount Benedict. They were great favorites of Bishop Fenwick. They were spoken of by some of the first families in the city of Boston, as models of piety; and to my own knowledge, two or three young ladies--and these the daughters of New England Protestants--were counselled by their mothers to take particular notice of the manners of those two nuns in particular, and imitate them, as nearly as possible. Nor can any one be surprised or scandalized, if I acknowledge my weakness in stating that I could not resist an involuntary impulse to laugh at them "in my sleeve." Does Bishop Fenwick desire the names of these two nuns? It is true, they might be Magdalens, but "_credat Judeas Apella, sed non ego_." When these things are permitted in the very centre of New England--when they are permitted to exist in the enlightened city of Boston--the capitol of a State whose people, as a body, I may venture to say, are not equalled in the world, for intelligence and general information--what can save the people of the United States from corruption, and from gradually declining into its very depth? When the impure waters of Popery are permitted to flow into our lakes and fresh streams, must not all be contaminated, in time? Must not the atmosphere of our freedom be impregnated with immorality, disease, and final death? What, under these circumstances, can save us? God alone may do it He alone can do it, and he will do it; but we must ask him for his interposition; we must humbly pray that he would save us, for he has promised us nothing without asking for it And so sure as we ask him in a proper spirit, we shall receive. He has himself made us this promise--the word of the Great I AM is pledged--He will redeem it. It is with great reluctance that I dwell any longer on these impure subjects, but a sense of duty compels me to do so. It is useless to do otherwise; "the impurities of Popery must be known;" they have been comparatively hidden in this country--they have been long buried in the _cells, pits, and caves_, of the Romish Church--they must be dug up, even if the whole superstructure of the nation should be undermined thereby; for what is a nation without morals? Who, if he had a house partly built, and only then discovered that the foundation was not a secure one,--who, I say, under these circumstances, would not arrest the progress of the workmen thereon, and order them to undo what they had already done? No prudent man would hesitate in such a case, even at the expense of levelling to the ground what he had already accomplished. And why should a nation act differently from an individual, in many circumstances, at least? An eminent philosopher of olden times exclaimed, and not without much indignation, "_Quid leges sine moribus?_" and might we not say with equal propriety, _Quid republica sine moribus?_ If our Republic, or any part of it, is based upon a hollow or unsafe foundation, or if there be any part of that foundation defective, or likely to give way, to the imminent danger of the superstructure, should not that defect be entirely removed? Undoubtedly; prudence and economy would require it; and when worldly prudence and all temporal concerns require such a course, should not the great moral interests of the country require it at the hands of the people as a duty, to lay their foundation on nothing but what is sound, and to allow no substance to be introduced into any portion of the superstructure, which may be in any way defective, or in any way endanger its permanency? Popery now seems to form an ingredient, if not a part of our national structure of morals, and until that rotten and defective part is removed, the superstructure can never be raised with safety to its proper and legitimate height. This is the only consideration which induces me to dwell longer, or even so long as I have done, upon the obscene subject of auricular confession. All I have said on the subject might have been comprised within a more narrow space than I have allotted to it, and thus many disgusting sights might have been hidden from the eye of the reader. There are some, I am aware, who wish to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; but even among those, I find many who, though they admit the truth of my statements, still contend that the cases I have stated are isolated, and endeavor to show that I draw general conclusions from particular premises. Even Popish priests admit--because they cannot do otherwise--that many of my statements cannot be questioned, but contend that though these may be true, it does not follow that Popish priests or nuns can, as a body, be accused of immorality. "_A particalari ad generate non valit conclusion_" say these profound logicians. But suppose I admit that thus far they are right, and that there are exceptions to the sweeping accusations which I have made against them as a body; does this prove any thing for them? Is the general rule or general principle to be denied because there are exceptions to either? Surely not; were there a thousand exceptions to a general rule; were there a million of exceptions, to one single and general principle, it would not falsify the rule itself, or invalidate the principle. Papists are doing much to justify their doctrines. That unfortunate Brownson, to whom I have alluded heretofore, is recognized by them as their apostle and the expounder of their faith in the United States; but the crowd of words which he uses in his discourses and lectures, in justification of Popery and on the morality of its priests and nuns, is too thick and too dense for a single idea, much less a single fact, to be dragged from it, and it so happens that he does more harm than good. Nor can it be otherwise; a net woven too thick is useless to the fishermen; a tree with too many leaves and blossoms seldom has any fruit, and is unproductive to the husbandman; so it is with the lectures and teachings of Papists and their apostle. They are made up of words meaning nothing, proving nothing, and in reality aiming at nothing but deception, which ultimately must fail, for we are told upon high authority, and every man's experience adds force to the saying, "truth must prevail." It is therefore my duty to state facts generally true, no matter how numerous the exceptions may be. I therefore hesitate not to reiterate the general charge, that Popish priests and nuns are corrupt and immoral almost beyond conception. I must ask the reader's indulgence once more. He will, I trust, not feel fatigued or impatient, while I relate to him another instance of immorality perpetrated by a Popish priest, and sanctioned, at least, by three of the most respectable Popish bishops in the United States, and by the whole body of an order of nuns in the United States, called _sisters of charity_. The case which I am about to relate is one which I give not upon hearsay, nor even upon the positive testimony of others; it is one within my own knowledge; I know the parties to this whole transaction; I have known them for years back; they are now living, and if Bishop Hughes or Fenwick has the least curiosity upon the subject, I will furnish him with the names of the principal actors in this tragedy. Would that I could write so that what I write should become visible to the eye, and musical to the ear! O! that I could only leave behind me a correct picture of what I have known of Popery! Could I scatter it before me, dash it around me, and fling it behind me--would Protestants aid me, so as to place it where no one could miss seeing it--Americans would shrink from it as they would from a frozen corpse. But as I cannot do all that I should wish to do, and as Americans seem so wrapped up in their present wants as to care but little for their posterity, I must only do what I can under existing circumstances, and leave the event in the hands of Providence. Soon after my arrival in Philadelphia, and just about the time that Papists disapproved of my endeavors to circulate the Bible among the poor, a Roman Catholic priest of the name of O. S. called on me, and showed me letters of recommendation which he had from Bishop T. of--------, Ireland, and countersigned by the Roman. Catholic Bishop of New York, to Bishop England, of South Carolina, He stated to me that he was in want of money and clothing, and asked me to lend him fifty dollars and pay his passage to Charleston, South Carolina, assuring me that he would immediately remit me any amount that I might expend on his account, by the first opportunity. I took him with me to my tailor's and gave him an order for such clothes as he might want, amounting, cloak and all, to one hundred and ten dollars. From that I took him down to one of the packets which then ran betwixt Philadelphia and Charleston, and commanded, I think, by Captain Crofts; paid fifty dollars for his passage, and bespoke the kind attentions of the worthy Captain, who, I understood afterwards, left nothing undone to render the voyage as comfortable as possible. He arrived in Charleston in due time, and was well received by Bishop England, who, to do him justice, possessed many of the kindest feelings of the human heart, and exhibited through life one of the strangest mixtures of religion and infidelity, of charity and bigotry, of republicanism and toryism, of Christianity and idolatry, and of humility and intolerance, that perhaps ever existed in the Popish Church in this country. But, "_nihil de mortuis nisi bonum_" he and I have had some severe sparring at each other; we were friends in private, but enemies in public; he knew I was right, but was afraid to acknowledge it; he wished me well, but dared not avow it; he loved his mitre, but I despised it, and though I would cherish the head that wore it, I would kick in the dust the Popish gewgaw itself. But, "_adrem_" Bishop England, soon after the arrival of the priest O. S., advised him to enter on a _retreat_, in order to prepare himself for the mission on which he was about to send him. He did so; and after a due course of instruction upon the arduous and delicate duties of a confessor, he appointed him parish priest of--------, in one of the Stales over which he, as he modestly termed it, had spiritual jurisdiction. There lived in the parish to which this now Rev. confessor was appointed, a gentleman of respectability and wealth. Bishop England supplied this new missionary with strong letters of introduction to this gentleman, advising him to place his children under his charge, and assuring him that they should be brought up in the fear of God and love of religion. The family was large,--there were several daughters, some partly grown up, and others quite young. Those alone who know the joyous and happy life of a planter's family, in good circumstances, can form any adequate idea of the bliss and happiness that reigned among these children. ------ MISSING PAGES ---- 553-554 ------ His conscience would not permit him to call upon me. I had just renounced the Pope of Rome as the beast spoken of in the scriptures. I was a heretic, and no good Popish Christian was permitted even to pay me my just debts. He passed on, and what, think you, Americans, were the fruits of his mission? He prevailed upon the eldest daughter of the respectable gentleman to whom he was introduced, to go to confession to him, and the next I heard of him was, that he had been seen passing at full speed, in a light sulky, through the village where I kept my office; and what, think you, was the cause of this speed? what drove him in such haste from his parochial residence? Do you not know reader? can you not anticipate? Has not the insight which I have given you into the immorality of Popish priests, already suggested to you that this individual was a fugitive from some crime, and that its avenger was in pursuit of him? It was so, reader. [ILLUSTRATION: The Father in pursuit of the Priest p566] This Reverend Popish wretch seduced the eldest daughter of his benefactor, and the father, becoming aware of the fact, armed himself with a case of pistols and determined to shoot the seducer. But there was in the house a good Catholic servant, who advised the seducer to fly. He did so, in the manner I have stated, with the insulted father in full pursuit of him; but the fugitive was in time to take steam and thus eluded his pursuer. He soon arrived in Charleston, the Right Reverend Bishop understood his case, advised him to go to _confession, absolved him from his sin_, and having washed him white and immaculate as a snow-drop, sent him on to New York to preach _morality_ to the Gothamites, who enjoy the superlative beatitude of being under the _spiritual jurisdiction_ of Bishop Hughes. But this is only the beginning of the tale, and distasteful as it must be to you, Right Reverend guardians of the morality of the Popish Church, you must sit still awhile. I am well aware of your impatience: you dislike control of any kind; so do all people of rude manners, narrow intellects, and sour tempers, such as all Popish bishops, with whom I have been acquainted, possess. One single happy recollection of the past, a single grateful feeling, has never elevated nor sweetened the life of a Popish bishop, as far as I have ever known; and it is perhaps requiring too much of you, my beloved brethren,--brethren you know we are, in spite of what heretics can do,--to ask you to sit down patiently and hear me out You will have to do it though, and I trust it may be for your benefit hereafter. As soon as your erring brother disgraced and debauched the daughter of an American citizen, and obtained remission for so doing from his ghostly father, in the confessional, his victim, after a little time, having given birth to a fine boy, goes to confession herself and sends her child of sin to the Sisters of Charity residing in --------, to be taken care of as '_nullius filius!_.' As soon as this child was able to walk, a Roman Catholic lady, who knew the whole transaction, adopted the child as her own; and states now, as she has done all along, to her acquaintances, that it was a poor unknown orphan whom she found in the streets, without father or mother to claim it. But the very gist of the story is to come yet. The real mother of the child soon after removed to the city of--------, told the whole transaction in _confession_, to the Roman Catholic Bishop of--------, who, knowing that she had a handsome property, introduced her to a highly respectable Protestant gentleman, who soon after married her. Nor is this all the kind Bishop has done. He soon after introduced to this gentleman the sister of charity who had provided for the illicit offspring of this priest, concealing its parentage and representing it as having no father nor mother living. The gentleman was pleased with the boy,' and the holy Bishop finally prevailed upon him and his wife to adopt the child as their own. Here is a pretty specimen of Jesuitism! The boy is the child of a priest, the wife is the mother of the child, and the husband is the dupe of the Bishop, adopting as his own child that of a priest by his _own_ wife. Here is a pretty specimen of a Jesuit web. Would that I had the talent of a Eugene Sue to unravel it and stretch it from one end of this country to the other. Look at the affair yourselves, Americans; examine it in all its atrocious bearings, from beginning to end, and say if you have ever heard or read of a more brutal outrage upon morality and domestic happiness. A Popish bishop sends one of his priests on a mission, with the ostensible view of converting American citizens from the evil of their ways, and the errors of their Protestant doctrines. Americans receive him hospitably; he selects from among them one of their most fascinating daughters; seduces her in the _confessional_, the _Infallible Church_ makes provision for the illicit offspring of the seduction; the crime and the consequence are both concealed by the bishop. He induces a respectable man to marry this prostitute, and contrives, by the secret machinery of Popery, to dupe him still farther, by prevailing on him to adopt the offspring of his prostituted wife as his own son; and the whole of this is effected, at least so far as the adoption of the child is concerned, through the instrumentality of a _sister of charity_ now living and residing in the city of--------. The mother knew at the time, that the child whom her deceived husband adopted as a destitute orphan was her own. The husband is now living, a worthy and respectable man, and the scoundrel priest, who brought sorrow into the house of his father-in-law and sent him prematurely to his grave, has been frequently a guest at his table. Do Bishops Hughes and Fenwick desire the names of the parties to this tragic and villanous outrage upon American credulity? They are known to me personally. The seduction took place about eighteen years ago, and the Reverend Popish seducer has been, not long since, and perhaps is now, located somewhere in the vicinity of Worcester, Mass. _Dolts, double dolts_, as the Jesuit Rodin, of Eugene Sue notoriety, observed of all who are the dupes of Papists,--how long will you permit yourselves to be the dupes of Popish priests and Jesuits? You are now building a college--aye, a _Jesuit college_--in the very centre of New England,--Worcester, Mass. You do not wish, I presume, that the race of Jesuits should be extinct amongst you; and if you cannot obtain them otherwise than by importation, you are naturally fearful that such may be the case; hence it is, perhaps, that you are liberally contributing your money to build colleges for the education of priests, and schools for _sisters of Charity_. Your great anxiety for encouraging domestic manufactures might have influenced you in this respect, and you may rest assured--or even take my word for it--that as long as you have Popish colleges and Popish nunneries side by side, your semi-annual dividends of Jesuits and nuns, amongst the States of the Union, will be entirely satisfactory to you. But, to be serious, if Popery be studied as it should be by Americans, it will prove a useful lesson to the rising generation. For twenty years this country has been more imposed upon than any other, for the same length of time, by Popish priestcraft; so much so that the people are now become accustomed to the repetition of their enormous frauds, and are no longer surprised at them. I confess that it is the gross impostures which I saw practised upon Americans, that first prompted me to expose them. I have tried, and am now trying, to give some rational account of the extraordinary phemomenon that Popery should predominate among a people almost proverbial for their intelligence and inquiring disposition. I thought, and do now think, that nothing can be more acceptable and valuable to Americans, than a well-authenticated statement of some of the practices adopted by Papists to impose upon the Protestants of this country; nor did I see any other manner of removing the almost national insanity of our citizens, in relation to the Romish Church, than by laying before them facts and acts, to many of which I have been myself an eye-witness. How American Protestants could continue for any length of time--even for a month or week--ignorant of the schemes of the Church of Rome, or her de* signs for the overthrow of this republic, has often been to me a matter of no little surprise; it can only be accounted for by a supposition almost as extravagant, viz., that Popery has never been properly studied by Americans. I have proposed all along, and I now repeat the proposal to Americans, to accompany me in the study of Popery. If the Romish Church be studied as it ought to be, by the young and the old of our citizens, it will prove a useful lesson to the present and coming generations,--but that lesson must be studied well. It must not be run over carelessly; its elements must be examined in order to understand the whole machinery of Popery; the whole plan of it must be remodelled; and in order to effect this, it must be taken to pieces, and every piece carefully and separately examined. It has been long hidden from the public eye; it has been along time considered a treasure exclusively belonging to the Popish priests. They have buried it for safe keeping in the dark and dreary vaults of corrupt Rome. These vaults must be opened, the gilded columns with which they are surrounded must be torn down, and all must be laid bare to the naked eye. The divine laws or systems of morality, intended for the government of man, should be always open to his inspection, and nothing short of the steady effort of our people can effect this or rescue ourselves or our country from the evils with which we are now threatened by the machinations of the Popish Church. The crimes and immoralities of Romish priests have long been crying to heaven for vengeance; they now cry for it from every quarter of the globe. I have said that they have been crying for vengeance, for centuries back. I have proved the fact to the satisfaction of any man who is not wilfully blind to truth. But I shall not rest here; I will give you other proofs. Cardinal Campaggio, who was sent to England to arrange the divorce of Queen Catharine, informs us--every English historian knows this fact--"that a priest, who marries, commits a greater sin than if he kept many concubines." Here is a specimen of pure Popish morality, promulgated by a Cardinal, a man next in office to the Pope himself with the full sanction of the said Pope, and the whole conclave of Cardinals of which he was a member; and yet the religion of this man, and that of Bishop Hughes, and Bishop Fenwick, is the very religion which Americans are now endeavoring to introduce into this country, and fasten upon the souls and consciences of our people. Let us now see what St Bernard says,--and here I entreat the reader, to keep in mind the fact, that St Bernard lived between the sixth and sixteenth centuries; that very time, at which the Popish Church in the United States tells us, through its apostle Brownson, that it displayed a remarkable degree of activity. St Bernard lived in the twelfth century, and as Bishop Hughes, Bishop Fenwick, and their mouthpiece, the infidel Brownson, inform us, was one of the greatest and best men of the age. There was no appeal, in his day, from the opinion of St. Bernard; he was looked up to by the whole Romish Church, as a model for the imitation of the Romish clergy, and it is not at all likely that he would calumniate, traduce, or do any injustice to a body of men of which he was himself a member. What does St Bernard say of the priests of his day? Hear it, Americans! hear it, you sympathisers! you who can scarcely read my accusations against the priests of the United States. Listen! all you who bow the knee, and kiss the hands, the rings, the robes and the other gewgaws worn by these angels, Hughes and Fen wick; listen! all of you, to what St. Bernard says. "Priests commit such acts of turpitude in secret as it would be scandalous to express." Chamancis, a Romish priest and an orthodox writer, well known to Bishops Hughes and Fenwick--if they know any thing besides political intriguing--declares, and calls the attention of his readers to the fact, that the _adultery, impiety, and obscenity of priests_ [Romish] is beyond description, "They crowd," says he, "into houses of ill fame; in gambling and in dancing, they are seen to pass from the company of infamous women, from the altar to the mass. To veil a woman in these convents," continues Chamancis, "is synonymous with prostituting her,_" This distinguished writer, and virtuous reprover of the Popish priesthood, died about the middle of the fourteenth century, just at the period when, according to Popish writers in the United States, Popery flourished in all its glory. Mezerey, a French historian, and as good authority as Papists can desire, he being a Papist himself, assures us, that before the English Reformation, the whole body of the Romish priesthood were fornicators_. What say the sympathisers of Popery to this? Has Mezerey told an old lie? Has Chamancis told an old lie in telling us that it was a common practice in Popish countries, for Catholic bishops and priests to pass from houses of ill fame, and from the company of infamous women, to the altar and to the mass. This will not be believed in the United States. "There is not a word of truth in it," says the professed infidel. "I will not believe a word of it," says the busy Puseyite, Prude; "it cannot be that the dear priests would be guilty of such things." I will frankly confess that it is difficult to believe statements so entirely abhorrent to human nature as those given by Popish priests against their own brethren, and I will not deny, that it took me a long time, before I could yield more than a reluctant assent to many of them; nor did I ever fully give them sanction until I had made a personal examination into their truth. But, now that I have made that examination, I declare most solemnly, upon the honor of a man, that, as Chamancis expresses it, it is a common practice for priests, in all the Roman Catholic countries in which I have been, to go direct from houses of ill fame to the altar and to the mass. This I have seen and witnessed myself. But it will be asked, "how do you know? you must have been in those places yourself." I plead guilty to the charge, if charge the enemy of morality will make of it. While in the cities of Mexico and Havana, about two years ago, at considerable personal expense, I visited many of the dens frequented by Popish priests, especially in, the city of Mexico. 1 went there for the benefit and better information of my fellow beings. I did not then, neither do I now, accuse myself of any violation of the first principles of morality; I believe, on the contrary, that I am entitled to some degree of commendation from my Protestant fellow citizens, for the efforts which I have made, in Mexico and Havana, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of those complaints which we daily hear against the immoralities of Popish bishops, priests, and nuns. How many have we seen plunging themselves into the midst of disease, contagion, and death, for the good of their fellow beings, and for the sole purpose of advancing the science of medicine! and is nothing to be done, or shall nothing be done for the science of morals? Must we stand and fold our arms while the malaria of Popery is stalking all over our land, carrying death and disease with it wherever it goes? Paralyzed be that arm which would fold itself in such a case! I have often seen men who were ornaments to society, who were the pride, the comfort, and perhaps the sole support of their wives and children, whom they loved and almost adored, plunging themselves into the midst of yellow fever, or perhaps Asiatic Cholera, for the benefit of mankind and almost at the certain peril of their own lives; and shall a man who loves religion and the cause of morals, do nothing to exalt, to glorify the great cause of salvation? shall he not risk something, to confirm the statements which are crowding upon us day after day, in relation to the immorality of Popish priests? During my residence in Mexico, the following circumstance occurred, to my own knowledge: an English gentleman, then, and I believe now residing in Mexico, met me by appointment, at my hotel, soon after dusk in the evening. The object of his calling upon me was to comply with a request, which I had previously made, that he would accompany me to one of the most fashionable houses of ill fame and gambling, where he knew the higher orders and dignitaries of the Roman Catholic Church were in the habit of visiting, and making assignations, with the wives and daughters of the members of their respective congregations. He stated that an entrance to the house where he was going to carry me would cost me a doubloon, and that if I wished to become thoroughly acquainted with the mysteries of the place and obtain access to it in future, I should spend two or three more doubloons at the game of Monte, a favorite game of priests and women of loose habits in Mexico. Chamancis immediately occurred to me; I recollected the account which he had given of the priests of the Romish Church. Here was an opportunity of testing the accuracy of his statements; here was a chance of knowing, from the testimony of my own senses, whether Popish priests were or were not the incarnate demons which he and others represented them to be; and I determined to avail myself of an opportunity which might never again occur. Accordingly I accompanied my friend, and, by his advice, took notes of the transactions of that evening of my life. It will not be expected, I presume, that I should give here, a transcript of those notes; it would be improper to do so; delicacy forbids it; it probably might do more harm than good. There is such a thing as driving a screw too far; it may be forced so as to split the timber it was designed to secure. I shall avoid this, if possible, but there is a circumstance which it is my duty to mention, and which shows in a clearer light than any other I could adduce, the utter degradation, and worse than idolatry, of those unfortunate beings who are strictly educated in the practices of Popery, but particularly in Popish confession. Let the reader fancy to himself one of the most splendid residences in the city of Mexico; let him further place himself in imagination in a gorgeously furnished suit of rooms, occupied by a number of the most lascivious-looking females, most of them wearing veils. Let him further fancy a Romish priest entering those rooms, and one of those women advancing to meet him, and then prostrating herself on her knees to ask his blessing and kiss the hem of his garment Let him further fancy this debased wretch of a priest imparting his blessing to this daughter of sin and error, and he will form a better idea of the immorality of Popish priests, and the incalculable evils which, under the mask of sanctity, they are capable of doing, than it is in my power to give him. Let the reader, if he will, fill up the space between the entrance of this solemn-looking villain into the synagogue of Satan, and his departure from it, and then say whether Chamancis exaggerated the enormities of those sins and hidden crimes committed and sanctioned by Popish priests. I kept my eye upon one of those priests, from the moment he entered this house of ill fame until twelve o'clock at night. At the moment the clock struck twelve, he and I were drinking champagne, and I sat with him from that until four o'clock in the morning, when I accompanied him to mass. He had no idea of my being a Protestant; and believing me to be a Roman Catholic, all restraint was laid aside, and thus I enjoyed the sorrowful pleasure, if I may so say, of witnessing Popery in "_puris naturalibus_." Revolting and repugnant as the scene which I witnessed appeared to me, there was still something in it which struck at my heart a heavier blow than that which met my eye. Ignorance--Popish ignorance--was at the bottom of all this. What but ignorance--ignorance of her rights--of nature's rights--ignorance of all that tends to elevate nature, could induce those women to go and prostrate themselves before a common partner in their guilt, and ask his blessing? Oh! the sceptre which Popish ignorance sways over mankind is an iron sceptre. Popery sways it over some of the finest regions inhabited by man. Witness-Mexico. Under its icy influence there can arise no generous, no daring spirit of adventure in the cause of God; subjection and fear soon become the predominant passions of humanity; all the noble faculties of man are chilled and frozen. Robe ignorance in purple, as it is in the Romish Church, and everything must wither before its march; there can be no contemplative delights or pleasures where Popery rules. There can be nothing pure, nothing intellectual, to raise man from the mire of sensuality to any degree of excellence, dignity, or honor; all must be reduced to that state in which we now find the people and priests in Mexico. Without knowledge or the means of obtaining it, the mind of man necessarily falls into a state of weakness and imbecility. Education, and that the education of the Bible, is to the mind of man what food is to the body. Have you ever observed, reader, that a mind destitute of a Bible education invariably acquires a sort of low cunning? It is intent upon no higher purpose than something mean and selfish. Is it not so in the whole population of Mexico? and I ask the candid historian if it is not so in every country where Popery prevails? A degradation of the understanding, and an ignorance like that which we now see in Mexico, among the poor Irish, and among the poor of all Catholic countries, is in all cases accompanied by what is worse than ignorance, if possible,--great wickedness and depravity of heart. They are not able in Mexico, or in those other countries under Popish sway, to occupy themselves in the energies of thought, in honorable action, in refined manners and conversation, in trade, in learning, in national improvements, in navigation, manufactures, canals, and railroads. No; the very reverse is the fact I appeal to history to sustain the assertion. The dupes of Popery in Mexico, Spain, Ireland, Italy, and elsewhere, are engaged in mischievous trifles, wanton habits, and wickedness, which render them the most useless and troublesome citizens in the whole circle of society. Fallen indeed they are, from what they ought to be. Who can recognize--notwithstanding their external configuration--in the Papists of the present day, their lineal descent from the Egyptians, Grecians, Romans, and Maletians,--the glory of their times, the instructors of the world, and the benefactors of humanity. God stamped his image upon these men. He stamped it upon every created being at the hour of his birth. He created man in little less than the angels; but the glorious image seems obliterated; the divine stamp seems to have been broken, and man can scarcely now be known by his resemblance to his Maker. Popery, that curse of the earth, that scourge of mankind, that source of moral evil and fountain of death and sin, has been allowed to flow in upon us, and thus the great land-marks of humanity have been removed,--the divine stamp almost ceases to be visible. Popery has in its spirit something malignant, something hateful and hostile to all who profess a different creed. All acquainted with the history of Popery, can bear testimony to the fact that there is an undying hope and wish in the mind of all Catholics, that the Protestant religion should be entirely extirpated. There may be, and there undoubtedly are, exceptions to this rule; so there are to every other rule; but there is no denying the general truth, that the extirpation of the Protestant religion, and of the whole Protestant race, together with the confiscation of Protestant property, and the overthrow of all Protestant governments, are among the fondest hopes of the Popish Church. This cannot be disguised, at least from those who have been educated in the doctrines of the Popish church. Many Catholics there are, I admit, who would be glad, and who even endeavor to disguise this from themselves; but they cannot do it; it is a truth as well established as any other; it is as plain as the sun in the heavens, however they may try to conceal it This, like other truths, will be denied in the United States; but it is perfectly useless to conceal the fact from our people. Watch the progress of Popery in a neighboring country; see the efforts which O'Connell is making in Ireland, under the immediate sanction of the Pope of Rome, to overthrow the Protestant government of England, and to reduce that country to obedience to the court of Rome; look at the proceedings of the bishops of the Romish Church in this country, and ask yourselves what they are aiming at. "Ireland for the Irish," says O'Connell, the Pope's agent at the other side of the Channel. "Americans shant rule us," say the Pope's agents in the United States. Can language be plainer than this? Can treason be expressed in stronger or more emphatic language? O'Connell means Ireland for the Pope. Bishop Hughes of New York, and the other Popish agents in this country, clearly mean, and wish to be understood so--the United States for the Pope. I ask any man whether the language of O'Connell and the Pope's agents in this country, is even susceptible of any other interpretation? What meaning can we attach to the words of Bishop Hughes, who is the Pope's organ in the Empire State of New York, except that which is plain and obvious--Americans shant rule us. Who, then, does this Popish agent want to rule them? Obviously the Pope of Rome. I can scarcely suppose him or his brother bishops subject to such lunacy as to fancy for a moment that he could bring this great nation into subjection to the Pope of Rome; but must we not admit, at the same time, that his language, and the entire political course of his Popish brethren, during the last year or two, have looked very much like it. Have not Papists all over the world, during the last few years, assumed a more daring and menacing attitude? Have not their language and measures, even in this country, become more turbulent and insurrectional? Let Americans ponder well upon this. It is not long since O'Connell, the Pope's mouth-piece for this country, as well as Ireland, addressed the deluded Irish in the following language; and remember, Americans, that I tell you Bishop Hughes of New York, and every other Popish bishop in the United States, will soon make use of similar words to their respective flocks in this country: "Force and violence are not to be used. If the time for using them were to come, there is one here will tell you that the time has come." You will also recollect, Americans, that I tell you that they will receive for answer that which the Pope's agent received in Ireland--"we will follow" Popish bishops and priests will preach peace to their people, but let not Americans forget that they have confessionals, where they can infuse into their minds the poison of rebellion and treason. When a Popish bishop preaches peace, he means it not; he means war to the knife with heretics and heresy. Robespierre, shortly before the French Revolution, delivered a series of lectures against capital punishment; and sooner should I trust him for sincerity, than I would a Popish priest when he cries peace with heretics. That blood-thirsty and sanguinary villain, Robespierre, exhorted his followers not to confiscate the property of those who might be found guilty of opposition to the people; but much safer should I consider the property or estate of him who incurred the displeasure of Robespierre, than I should that of an American Protestant citizen who fell into the hands of the Pope's agent and executioner in the United States. Murat, a character well known to the readers of the history of the French Revolution, lectured loudly against capital punishment; but what was his conduct? He consigned more to the guillotine than any other man in France. His hands were stained with blood; but bloody as his hands were, and thirsty for more blood as his heart was, much sooner would I have trusted myself to him, and much safer should a Protestant feel himself in such hands, than in those of a Popish bishop or priest. But it is not my present purpose to expatiate upon the cruelties of Popery; I will only state incidentally that the Protestant citizens of this country have much to fear from the influx of Papists amongst them, not only in a moral, but a political point of view. Nearly the whole body of Irish Roman Catholics have resolved to migrate to this country. They will do so, if that treacherous disturber of their peace and happiness, Daniel O'Connell, does not succeed in overthrowing the Protestant government in England. Extensive preparations are already being made in this country for their reception, together with their leader, if they can effect his escape from the gallows. The Catholic population of Ireland is at present 6,620,000. This immense body are united, to a man, in that abominable belief. _Heretici destraindi sunt_. This is a fundamental article of Popish faith. No faith is to be kept with heretics. It is firmly believed by the six millions and upward of Irish Roman Catholics, that the Pope is the lawful head of their church. Disguise this as they may, entangle it as they can, in Popish sophistry, the fact is not the less true. Assuming it to be so, Americans can easily fancy the inevitable danger of admitting Catholics among them without strong and safe restrictions. Many there are, and those, too, men of great moral worth, who do not deem it necessary or proper to impose any restrictions whatever on the admission of Papists amongst us; they seem to think, and maintain their opinion with some show of reason, that Popery may now, as in former times, prove advantageous to society. These philanthropists evidently mistake Popery for Christianity. I have had occasionally many interesting conversations with some of my fellow citizens, on the subject, and have found that not a few of them have taken up the strange idea, that because Popery, or rather Christianity, was greatly instrumental in checking the first inroads of martial power and barbarity upon civil society and Christian peace, its progress in this country, comparatively new, must be accompanied by similar blessings. Papists frequently and tauntingly ask Protestants "Where would be your Bible, were it not for our Church?" and let it be understood, that they invariably mean, by our Church, the Church of Christ. Many of the poor followers of the Pope are sincere in asking this question; and so totally ignorant are they of the very elements of Christianity, that they really believe the Bible could not exist, if their church were overthrown. It is questioned by statesmen, and by many political philosophers, whether it is good policy to disturb thia delusion. European statesmen contend that it is not, and it is much to be regretted that many of our American statesmen seem to incline to the same opinion. The French philosophers--at least their political philosophers--seem all of one mind upon the subject, and contend, with great plausibility, that opinions which have stood the test of time for a given number of years, had better be left undisturbed. Many have gone even so far as to say that "ignorance is bliss;" but this sentiment, and such philosophy, is too stale for the present generation. It has had its day; Popery lent to it its powerful aid in the middle ages, and bitter indeed were its fruits. The Popish church, too, has had its day; so had the Jewish church, and much is due to both for the good which they have done. Many in both those churches, and during their respective influence, could see no farther than that "ignorance was bliss" to the savage hordes who first formed the nucleus of social and civil society. Did they know in their savage state the extent of their animal power, without mind to direct its force and capability of evil, the consequences would be, not social order or distributive justice, but universal chaos and general confusion. Ignorance may be said to have been bliss to these unlettered hordes and savages; science and literature, had they blazed upon them in their full noon brilliancy, would not have been appreciated by them, they would only have dazzled and confounded them still more. It would be dangerous to place within the reach of a thirsty savage a bowl of Prussic acid; he might drain to the dregs the fatal poison, and thus that which, in the hands of science, might have been useful and legitimate, would become the instrument of death. It would be unsafe to place a lighted torch in the hand of a sportive child, and send him to play with it in a powder magazine; the consequence might be death to him and to all around him. It was probably so at one time with science and learning. It was perhaps, in a great measure, bliss to be without them, until the human mind was prepared to make a proper use of both; it is so even in the animal and vegetable world, and why should it not be so in the world of mind and thought? Who, for instance, would place on a horse a harness which youth and want of exercise did not enable it to carry? Who would sow wheat in a soil unprepared to receive it? No prudent man would do either; and certainly much credit is due to those early Christians, and even to Jews and Papists, for what they have done, and for anything they have effected in preparing the minds, especially those of northern barbarians, for the reception of the sciences, but particularly the glorious science of the Christian religion, with all its saving truths and holy principles. Infinite indeed are the obligations under which our ancestors have placed us, in opening our minds and preparing them for the reception of so many moral and scientific truths; and if the Popish church has contributed in any measure to this, I am as willing to thank her and give her full credit for all she has done, as the most hypocritical Jesuit that ever lived, or the most liberal Christian that practically denies human 25 depravity. But are there no more truths to be evolved, ether in moral or civil science, than those which have seen open to our view in the infancy of the Romish church, and for which I, for one, am willing to give her credit in all that she has done? Were there not many sources opened, even in the days of the glories of the Jewish Church, and Romish Church, too, which lave been closed up, and must remain closed forever? Was not the Jewish religion, when it first dawned upon that devoted people, like the early beams of some fresh morning, fragrant and cheering to the captive in his cell? But that religion has passed away. It was glorious in its time; but does it follow, did it follow, or can it follow, that we should now embrace it? Must we hug the shadow, when the substance ceases to exist? The outward form of the Romish church was once attractive and beautiful in the extreme; its gorgeous ceremonies, its high masses, the vestments of its priests, its music, its processions, its indulgences, its semi-pagan, or rather worse than pagan, idolatries, had in them much that was imposing, and well suited to their times; they were calculated to overawe northern barbarians,--then the enemies of Christianity and of civil rights. The Church of Rome did much to prevent the few among these barbarians from trampling to the dust the rights of their serfs, who constituted a vast majority of the people, and for this I am as willing as any other to give her credit; but the Church of Rome has done her work long since; her days of glory are numbered--her sun has long since set-not in triumph, but in blood--not in victory, but in death. But Popery seems now to be gathering up her energies--at least she is endeavoring to do so--and looks upon this new country as a proper field to make the experiment; and there are serious doubts upon the minds of some, whether she will not succeed, at least in a measure, in partially re-establishing her ancient power in this new country. She is disposed to struggle hard for it Already has the tocsin of war been sounded along her lines--her recruiting officers are abroad--she has her depots here and there and everywhere--her paymasters and spiritual recruiting sergeants are to be met with at all points. Go to the woods of Oregon,--travel along its meandering and fertilizing streams,--and you will find them there, preaching freedom, liberty of conscience, and equal rights. Go into the swamps of Texas, and you find them there, too, advocating civil rights, liberty of conscience, and perpetual slavery. In Oregon and New England we find Papists shouting O'Connell, the Pope, and the abolition of slavery. In the Southern States of the Union and in Texas, they hurrah for slavery--slavery not for a day, for a year, or a term of years--but forever! In the Northern States they brand the slaveholders with the epithets--robbers, slave-breeders, and stealers of men. In the South and in Texas, they denounce the Northerners as fanatics, pirates, and sons of pirates. How long Americans will tolerate these wolves in sheep's clothing among them, it is difficult to say; but one thing I fear is certain, that as long as they have oats, and Americans countenance among them Barn-burners, But-Enderst Repealers, and Empire Clubs, under the popular name of Democrats, the evil to which I allude will continue. It is said that Popery is on the increase in the United States, and there are not wanting some arguments to prove it. But though 1 have taken some pains, and perhaps as much as any other man in the country, to ascertain the truth of this assertion, I am still unconvinced on the subject It is also asserted that Popery is on the increase all over the world, and must continue to increase. Upon this, too, I have doubts; I even believe that the contrary is the fact. If by the increase of Popery is meant the number of square miles, or the extent of country which they own or occupy, it may be said, with some propriety, that if Popery is not advancing, it is not retrograding; but if by the increase of Popery is meant that its creed and idolatrous doctrines are gaining ground, I flatly deny the assertion. As another expresses it, a system that degrades can never advance. And that the doctrines of the Church of Rome do degrade, I think I have already proved. The Romish Church and its doctrines have crushed the spirit, and deadened the life of every country, and every people, that ever believed or maintained it; and shall our free spirits and bold intellects, in the nineteenth century, be broken and bowed down like those in Popish countries? It can never be. But this is not the question, exactly. The question is, or ought to be, Is the Popish religion on the increase? Does it gain upon the Protestant religion, or is it going ahead of it, as some even in these United States will have it? This question can be easily answered; and for that answer, which I am about to give, I acknowledge myself much indebted to an anonymous but elegant writer in the Protestant Quarterly Review for the month of January, 1846. "Ask yourselves which religion,--Protestant or Popish,--will spread widest in an age of science and knowledge--which is best fitted to the growth of the human mind? In all Protestant countries, wealth, intelligence, and a high civilization! are everywhere seen; in all Catholic countries, dead-ness and decay rest upon everything which nature made beautiful. Under Protestantism, every department of science has made rapid progress. The very spirit of freedom breathes through the Newtonian and Baconian philosophy. Everywhere, from the harsh, barren soil of northern nations, sprang up life and light England, Scotland, Prussia, in men of strong intellect, are superior to any of the older nations, in any preceding age. Mathematics, natural philosophy, metaphysics, ethics, commerce, agriculture, legislation--the whole extent of modern civilization--date from the Reformation, and exist only in Protestant countries. And those nations of Europe which caught but a glimmer of liberal opinions, but which in the Catholic or Popish reaction were again subjected to Rome, are far in advance of those countries, beautiful as they are, in the South of Europe, which never saw Protestantism. A single glance into the history of modern science, literature, and politics, will fully convince any candid mind of this. The entire spirit of northern institutions, their great progress, their growing intelligence, are all owing to Protestantism. They date their birth from it, they are thoroughly imbued with its spirit, they must live still in its spirit Firm governments and wise laws; just and liberal rulers; free and intelligent people; nobler views of man; nobler views of God; more knowledge; more liberty; more faith;--these have the genius of Protestantism imparted, and in their ever-growing life it will live. How different from this is the condition of the old Catholic States! The noble palaces of Italy are deserted; banditti infest the beautiful shores of Campania. The Dantes, the Petrarchs, the Tassos, are gone forever. The poetry, the chivalry, the bright southern romance, the fiery southern valor, have passed away; miserable want and beggary, vagabond recklessness, and sullen, obstinate, threadbare pride, are the remains of fair Italy. Ireland with her poetry and merriment is silent and desponding; her laughter has mournfully died away; her sweet melodies, equally beautiful, whether sung sadly or gaily, are chanted by lips quivering with emotion and parched by hunger and thirst Popery has degraded and saddened her very soul. "Austria, tyrannous and bigoted,--an enemy to all freedom, whether of thought or action,--with her degrading institutions, and decaying principles, is rather worse than poor Ireland. It is better to die than to kill Spain, the birth-place of Loyola; the valiant opponent of the crescent and turban, for near eight hundred years; the land of brave knights and fair ladies; of song and dance; of literature, refinement, and elegant culture,--is wretched indeed. Squalid, seditious, fiercely proud and cruel, it now excites little compassion, still less of hate or fear. "How are we to account for this immeasurable difference between the realms of Protestantism and those of Catholicism? Are the Italians inferior by nature to the Scotsmen, or the Spanish to the Danes? We cannot admit this; all history and philosophy disprove it. Yet now, in their degradation, they can scarcely appreciate their ancient grandeur; while the heavy nations of the north, have suddenly leaped far beyond their utmost limit The only cause which can be assigned for this, is the vast difference in the genius of the two religious influences: Catholicism has blighted, Protestantism has advanced and strengthened. Can this ever be undone? Has all modern science been preaching a lie? Have the last three centuries been pushing forward in the face of truth, and acting out the lie? Can the onward sweep of civilization be retarded? and must the work pause, and wait till the huge car of Rome can rumble slowly up and bear it onward into the caves of night again? Forbid it Heaven, I cannot believe it." But the Papist will say, "it is evident, from the recent course of events in France, Spain, Italy, Ireland, nay, to some extent, in the United States, that Popery is gaining ground and making extraordinary efforts to insure ultimate success." Be it so. Even admitting that they are attempting and strenuously trying to advance, that does not insure victory or final success, There are two broad and undeniable facts, which forbid this result. One is, that from the beginning of the world to the present hour, man has steadily advanced in progressive intelligence; and the other is, that the roman mind has never been known to run backwards. Papists will say, and it is now said from their pulpits, in these United States, "that Popery can accommodate, and will suit itself to the advancing acquirements of man, and finally conform to our free institutions." Let us look at this question, and fairly examine its truth or falsehood. Upon a correct understanding of this subject, and upon it alone, can be founded a correct estimate or view of the ultimate fate of Popery in the United States. I flatter myself that I have proved, to the satisfaction of all Americans who have done me the honor of reading my books, that Popery has not changed in its doctrine or discipline; or, that if any change has been effected in either, it is decidedly for the worse. A recent French writer, well known to the readers of history--La Mennais--has tested the doctrines of Popery by the principles of intellectual advancement. He proved that Popery and civil rights were incompatible with each other, and could not co-exist under any government nor under any form or state of society. No argument could be more beautiful, more eloquent, or more convincing, than that by which he demonstrated to the world that human liberty and Christian liberty are antagonistic to Popery. He required no more from the Church of Rome than to conform to the simple principles of Christian freedom. His works are now extant, and I believe are to be had in all well furnished libraries in the United States. They can be seen and read by our fellow citizens, and they will find in perusing them that what I state is correct The writings of La Mennais soon came to the ears of the Pope and his Inquisitors, and they were not long in discovering that if the principles contended for by La Mennais were admitted, the Popish Church must fall. There was no medium; either that, or every other doctrine must be denied, and all arguments in favor of the civil rights of man had no foundation in fact. How did his Holiness, the Pope, act on this occasion? I do not allude here, to any Pope of ancient times, I allude to the Pope who now lives, and presides over the Infallible Church. He cursed La Mennais; he damned him and his writings. He insisted that La Mennais should write no more on the subject, and I blush for the honor of humanity, of mind, of talents, of genius, and liberty of thought, to state that La Mennais submitted to this tyrant Pope, and that only the other day, in 1833, though he declared to his friends, that, while he bowed to the Pope's, supremacy, he felt that he was putting his name to the blasphemous admission that the Pope was God. The Popish bishops of this country have the hardihood to say, that Popery is the friend and advocate of pure democracy, and that miserable tool of theirs, Brownson, says amen. They depute him to lecture upon this subject in almost all the large cities throughout the Union. He may do some injury to the morals of our people, but his reign cannot be of long duration; such is the character of the man, that whatever he says cannot fructify. He is, among our fellow citizens, what the ant is among a heap of corn; it takes it to its winter store house to feed itself alone, but whoever will carefully examine the grain or corn which it takes from others, will find that it has no bud; it destroys that, and thus selfishly and mischievously prevents 25* the grain from fructifying and enlarging. Brownson takes with him, and appropriates to himself, many plausible arguments from the works of eminent men, but the slightest contact, on his part, with the purest characters, is sufficient to destroy their vitality. If he were even to carry with him into the pulpit, the soundest principles of morality, his very presence, and past infidel life, would destroy their force; and a correct examination of them would show the Christian who might examine them, that they had no bud or vital principle within them and could produce no fruit It is said that some men come into this world with two left hands, two crooked eyes, a good deal of brains, and little or no organization of its faculties. Brown-son is one of those characters. He has two left hands, and was never known to do anything right; whatever he touches he is sure to despoil and disfigure. Both his eyes are crooked; he has never yet been known to see anything straight; so crooked are they, that he sees things only through the eyes of others. Hence it is, perhaps, that he never writes anything which is his own, but upon all subjects gives us the views of others, and as no two think alike, in general, Brown-son's writings invariably contradict themselves. Add to this that great defect of order in his brain, and we cannot apprehend that his lectures will do much permanent injury. This Brownson has appeared to me, during the short time I have been noticing his movements and opinions, to be, in reality, a shallow-pated bombastic pretender to science and literature. He seems to know books just as some people know great men, they only learn their names, and then boast of an intimate acquaintance with them. He talks very fluently about his intimacy with Tasso, Dante, Petrarch, Boccacio, and others. He and Boccacio seem to be as intimate as pickpockets (to use a common though vulgar phrase.) I wonder if Mr. Brownson recollects any of those anecdotes related by Boccacio about certain nuns, who lived in the vicinity of his lather's residence? Will the illustrious changeling permit me to bring one or two to his recollection? One probably will be enough, as my readers may already have had sufficient information concerning the amusements practised by nuns and sisters of Charity in their convents. It seems there was a large establishment of nuns in the neighborhood were Boccacio resided. The mother Abbess was of noble descent, a fine fair-haired girl, young and beautiful. There happened to be, adjoining the nunnery, a friary; among these friars, as Boccacio tells us, in a work of his, which has since been suppressed by the Popes, was a young man of fine personal appearance, and who possessed, in a remarkable degree, the power of assuming any character he pleased. He was, besides, a ventriloquist, and could thus personate and imitate any character or any voice he chose. The mother Abbess took an extraordinary fancy to this young friar, and tried by every means in her power to have him appointed confessor and spiritual guide to the nuns. But the Superior of the friary was not easily deceived. He peremptorily refused to listen to the most pious entreaties of the mother Abbess, and positively declined giving the friar faculties to hear her confession. What was to be done in this case? The holy nun soon hit upon an expedient. She sent for the friar, who always had admission to an iron grating in the wall, which separated these holy nuns from this sinful world! She told the friar that her establishment was much in want of a gardener, and advised him to change his whole appearance, assume the character of a very old and feeble man, imitate his voice, and come the next day, with his spade on his shoulder, to apply for the situation of gardener to the nunnery. He accordingly came the next morning, thoroughly-metamorphosed, and in the most doleful and piteous tones of distress and want, begged of the holy mother Abbess, for the love she bore the blessed virgin Mary, to give him employment, whereby he might support himself and his poor half-starved and bed-ridden wife. The holy nun moved by charity, and nothing else, of course, employed him as gardener; and moved by compassion for the weak and feeble old man, she occasionally sent for him to her cell to nourish him with some wine and water. _Verbum sat_. The Protestant reader will not forget that Boccacio was a Roman Catholic and is quoted by Brownson, in his Review, as one of those luminaries which adorned the Popish Church between the sixth and sixteenth centuries. There was another, among the luminaries who flourished "betwixt the sixth and sixteenth centuries," named Rabalais. I am rather surprised that Brownson has not quoted him, as a model of a Christian bishop. He was a Roman Catholic bishop, and died in full communion with the Romish Church. He was laid in his coffin dressed in his episcopal robes. The works of Rabalais are very little read now-a-days, nor could I conscientiously recommend them to the attention of any Christian reader; I allude to him with the sole view of giving Popish advocates the full advantage of the testimony and example of a Roman Catholic bishop in their favor. There was not, perhaps, in all France, a more obscene writer than Rabalais. He was remarkable however for the depth and keenness of his satire. He felt the degradation of his position as a Popish bishop, but he wanted moral courage enough to renounce so advantageous a position in society as that which the Romish Church assigned him. The only alternative left him, under these circumstances, was to try to effect some reform in his Church and the morals of its priests. He turned against them the arrows of his ridicule, and though the wounds and scars, which they left behind them, were broad and painful, yet there was so much justice in all his statements, that the Infallible Church dared not raise a finger against him. I refer Bishops Hughes, Fenwick, and their corporal, Brownson, to his writings. They may, in all probability, find some similitude between themselves, their Popes, and other bishops, to those illustrious characters, Carragantua, Pantagruel, Trippet, and others so conspicuously alluded to in the works of Rabalais. I expect nothing else than censure for the bare mention of some of those writers to whom I have referred-It seems to have become quite fashionable now-a days with pulpit orators, to censure anything like gen-real reading; at any rate, no fault must be found with the sins of the times. I have seldom heard a discourse or lecture, from infidels of the present day, where they have not found fault with all those writings in which sin and immorality are denounced in plain scriptural language. There are, among our modern Liberal Christians, many who seem shocked at the idea that Eugene Sue, for instance, should have dared to satirize Popery, or that Guinet, or Michelet, should presume to denounce Jesuitism or warn mankind against giving it any encouragement amongst them. The argument used by these Liberal Christians or philosophers--for they are all philosophers, every one of them--is this; if evangelical Christians should succeed in suppressing Popery, we philosophic, and Liberal Christians, shall be their next victims; _ergo_, Eugene Sue, Michelet, Gui-net, and all who write against Popery, deserve no encouragement from us. Admirable logicians, these Liberal Christians! Profound and deep historians, these modern philosophers! Evangelical Christians have never persecuted Liberal Christians. I would challenge them to produce an instance where they have ever acted upon the offensive. Let them analyze the creed of evangelical Christians; let them dissect it; let them break it up, word by word, and cut each word into the most minute fractions; and if they can show me, among those words or fractions, a solitary particle, or an isolated idea, which teaches them to persecute any man on account of his religious opinions, I will acknowledge that Liberal Christians are right in preferring the ascendancy of Popery to that of evangelical Christianity. But how is it in the Popish creed? Let these Liberal Christians turn back to the pages of history, and they will find that the creed and canons of Popery, as well as the decretals of its Church, all teach that Liberal Christians are to be dealt with by civil law, and that by civil law is to be understood the Inquisitorial law, which consigns every one of them to the sword, fire, and faggot. Do these gentlemen recollect the fate of Arius and his followers? Do they forget thar the disciples of Arius were all Liberal Christians, and numbered, at one time, a vast and large portion of those who professed any belief in the doctrines of Christ, either as God or man? Pause, gentlemen, I entreat of you,--recollect that the reason why Papists are silent in relation to your doctrines, is simply this: they look upon you as damned, beyond a possibility of salvation. They place you and the Jews on the same level, and consider both as blasphemers of the name of Christ, and as altogether beneath the notice of all men who profess the Christian religion in any form whatever; and rely upon it, when I assure you, that I myself, who have been a Popish priest, have studied the doctrines of that Church to little purpose, if you are not the very first whom Papists will destroy, and whose property they will confiscate to the use of their Infallible Church, should they ever have the power to do so. It is a question with me, whether many of the lecturers of the present day, in their unqualified _anathemas_ against modern literature and general reading, are not doing more harm than good. Assuredly they are injuring, more or less, the cause of liberty, and giving all the advantages they possess, to arbitrary power; especially to the factious, despotic, and violent power of the tyrant court of Rome. Those lecturers who denounce the writings of Eugene Sue, Guinet, and others, against the Popish Church, are bringing upon this country--unconsciously, I believe--all the evils of foreign tyranny, without any consolation. They are helping to destroy themselves, and must be destroyed in time by a superior power. Charity obliges me to suppose these lecturers sincere, and if they were equally discreet, might be useful auxiliaries in promoting the moral and political interests of our country. They are the instruments of cool-headed, dispassionate politicians, who see nothing, and care to see nothing, but their own private interests. Besides all this, these declaimers against modern literature and general reading are injuring the cause of science. He who from his pulpit, or in a lyceum hall, disapproves of the writings of Eugene Sue against Popish domination, merely because he relates many facts and circumstances which are not proper to be seen or read by some of his hearers,--aims his blows at many of the noblest sciences which God has permitted man to study, and for reasons which could scarcely be satisfactory to a child, viz: because "some passages in his writings are rather indelicate." This is certainly as strong a reason as Dr. Sangrado, of Quixotic notoriety, gave to his patient, when asked why he did not prescribe cold water; "I have," said the Doctor, "already prescribed hot water." The reason given for not reading Eugene Sue may apply with equal force against the study of surgery; and I should not be in the least surprised, if before long some of those gentlemen denounced and forbade the study of the noble and almost heavenly science of anatomy. Assuredly, beautiful, symmetrical, and lovely as the human frame is externally, it presents to the human eye, when dissected and exposed, in its native and naked proportions, no very pleasing object to contemplate. But does it follow that the science of anatomy should not be studied? Does it follow that works upon that science should not be read? Certainly not; and he who would contend for the contrary would be well suited by assigning to him an abode in some lunatic asylum. I admit that there are some passages in the writings of Eugene Sue, Guinet, and others, against Popery, that seem rather indelicate. But is that a reason why the moral anatomy and structure of the body Papal should not be dissected? The external body of Popery, like the human body, may be fair to the eye, lovely to the senses, and beautiful to the imagination; but like the human body, it has its deformities, and I see no reason why its defects should not be anatomized, studied, and exposed, if necessary to the moral welfare of the human family. How can the evils of Popery be known, unless they are exposed to public view, and seen by those who are competent to judge of their evil tendencies? And who are more competent to form a correct estimate of their nature and character, than such men as Eugene Sue, Guinet, and others, who have studied Popery? Guinet and Michelet are now living. They are both Roman Catholics by birth and education. They understand the doctrines of Popery thoroughly. It is idle--it is worse than idle--for American Protestant writers to attempt to prevent the circulation of Michelet's works, or those of Eugene Sue, in the United States. But it will be said, and it is said, that there is much romance about them, and that many passages are to be found, in Guinet especially, savoring strongly of infidelity. Admitting even this to be the case, it does not follow, by any means, that the enemies of Popery, which some Protestant journals and lecturers pretend to be, should reject and censure the many and undeniable truths which they contain on the subject of Popery. The fact is--and I regret that it is so--many of the journals which come out with flaming notices of their determination to stand by the Protestant religion, and oppose the introduction of Popery into this country, are not always sincere in their professions. Many of them are theorists. I may add here, _en passant_, that few of those "heroes of discussion meetings," and editors of newspapers, are at all qualified for the task which they undertake. It is, however, a source of consolation to me, that there axe some public lecturers and editors of Protestant newspapers, who are sincere and disinterested in their opposition to Popery; who see its destructive fruits now springing up in the fairest fields of our Republic; who know that Popery is corrupt in itself, that corruption of mind and morals is the natural result to be expected from its prevalence amongst our people These worthy men and well-informed editors of many of our presses, are determined, cost what it will, that Popery shall be fully understood in this country: that it shall no longer be hid in a corner, and that those Jesuit wolves who profess it shall no longer be permitted to appear in sheep's clothing. Among the presses which now boldly stand forth in defence of the Protestant religion and the civil rights of man, I am happy to enumerate the Boston Recorder, the Olive Branch, and others, among the various presses in the city of Boston. There are also many among the political presses in our country, which are doing good service to the cause of Protestantism and the civil rights of man. J. T. Buckingham, of the Boston Courier, has generously and disinterestedly thrown himself and his fine talents between the intrigues of Papists and their designs upon our institutions, and the civil rights of his countrymen. These presses have not blushed to quote largely from Eugene Sue; they have not tried to hide from their readers, nor prevented them from reading, the faithful _expose_ which Eugene Sue, Guinet, La Manais, Michelet, and others, have given of the iniquities and treasonable designs of Popish priests and Jesuits against Protestant governments and the civil rights of man. These presses have not put their hands to the plow and looked back. They love their God and their country too well to crouch before the _puerilities_--as the learned Bishop Eastburn of Boston expresses it--or the treasonable designs of Jesuits. The reader will here indulge me, and I trust the editors of the Boston Recorder will pardon me, for quoting largely from their paper of January 15th, 1846. "M. Pascal, a devoted member of the Romish Church, has set forth in his provincial letters the opinions of several distinguished Jesuits, as to the duty of loving God, and especially in answer to the question, 'When and at what time is a man obliged to have an actual love or affection for God?' One Jesuit, Saurez, says, 'It is enough if we love him a little before we die, without fixing any time.' Another, Vasquez, says that 'it is enough to love him at the point of death.' We marvel at such answers. But this is Jesuitism seeking to relieve itself of the painful obligation of loving God. No order of men,--no society that ever existed, has been so universally execrated as that of the Jesuits. Everywhere intriguing, plotting, and dangerous, they have been everywhere dreaded, hated, and opposed. And not by Protestants alone. The society of Jesuits has been at different periods expelled from all the States of Europe; and last of all, France has denounced and rejected it The order, as every one knows, began with Loyola, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, and was intended as a spiritual crusade against heresy; the particular heresy aimed at being the Reformation, under Luther, who was contemporary with Loyola. In 1773, the institution of the Jesuits was suppressed by a bull of Clement XIV. They were accused of 'too great avidity of terrestrial goods,' of 'criminal plots,' of having in their favor only the exterior of regularity, disgraced in their maxims, and to render themselves more powerful, given up to commerce, stock-jobbing, and politics.' "But the time came when Rome needed the arms of the Jesuits, and their society was re-established in 1814. The Romish Church still defends the Jesuits, and stands before the world as their accomplice." The Recorder continues, and indirectly severely censures those presses and those timid and irresolute editors who seem to think that they cannot conscientiously read, or permit their readers to receive into their houses, the writings of Eugene Sue or Michelet, against the degrading and traitorous doctrines of Popery. "The attempt of the Jesuits," continues the pious and talented editor of the Recorder, "to get the control of education in France, aroused some powerful spirits, among whom the most distinguished were Michelet and Guinet, Professors in the College of France. These men are Catholics, but too excellent and conscientious to receive the appellation in its bad sense. They are high authority, and we quote a few of their opinions, publicly uttered in college lectures within the last year or two." What think you of the above language, you editors of the would-be evangelical Protestant presses?--you who have pledged your sacred honor and fortunes to stand by the Church and the Gospel of Christ, and still censure Michelet, Guinet, and even my own humble efforts to oppose the spread of Popery among mankind. "Michelet," continues the Recorder, "calls the spirit of Jesuits the spirit of intrigue--of holy detraction. God give us, he says, political tyranny, military tyranny, and all other tyrannies, ten times over, rather than that such a police--that of the Jesuits--should sully our France." Will the reader permit me to add my petition to this, and will he join me in beseeching the Throne of Grace to receive it graciously? God give us, American citizens, political tyranny, military tyranny, and all other tyrannies, ten times over, rather than that Jesuitism should disfigure the fair face of our beautiful Republic The Recorder continues his observations on the writings of Michelet. "He (Michelet) challenges men to study, and tells them that at the end of ten years they will find in the history of Jesuits but one meaning--_the death of liberty_." "This bold lecturer," (Michelet) continues the Recorder still, "bounds in passages like the following: 'What is the nature of the Jesuit? He has none; he is fit for everything. The Jesuits are a formidable machine for war, invented for the most vile combat in the sixteenth century. The simple and natural means which have generally succeeded with the Jesuits is to _catch wild birds by means of tame ones?_" "I speak," says Michelet, "of Jesuitesses, polished and gentle, adroit and charming, who always, going before the Jesuits, put everywhere oil and honey, smoothing the way." How true this is; and is it not strange, beyond account, that Americans cannot see it? When Jesuits first came into Boston, they sent before them Jesuitesses, young, polished, gentle, and charming. These tame Popish birds were not long amongst us, when they caught whole flocks of our wild Yankee birds, and are now catching them in almost every State in the Union. But the Yankee, with all his cuteness, cleverness, and supposed cunning, will be caught He is no match for the Jesuit. "The Jesuits," says Michelet, again, "have employed the instrument of which Jerome speaks--poor little women, all covered with sins." He alludes to the Sisters of Charity, the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, the Mother Abbesses, &c., all which are directed and governed by the Jesuits. Was there ever a truer picture of the operations of Jesuits than this? And the Americans who cannot see its truth and fidelity, must be blinder than the bats which flutter in the caves and caverns of their mountains. Had we not, the other day, on Mount Benedict, in the vicinity of Boston, the capital of New England, some of those _poor little women, covered with sins_--meek, and gentle, and angelic-looking little beings? Sweet little innocents! They had a nunnery there, too. They had a fashionable school attached to it. And our Protestant Jonathans--poor dolts--sent their daughters to these poor little women--these Sisters of Charity--to be educated in the principles of Christianity! True it is that none are so blind as those who will not see. The reader will bear with me in quoting a few more passages, which the Boston Recorder selects from the writings of Guinet, on the subject of Jesuitism. "The nations which are sickest in Europe, those which have least credit and authority, are those in which the society of Jesuits has its hearth. The mission of Jesuitism, in the sixteenth century, was to destroy the Reformation; the mission of Jesuitism, in the nineteenth century, is to destroy the Revolution, which supposes, includes, and envelopes, the Reformation. What cannot fail to strike you, is the rapidity with which this society has degenerated. Where shall we find any thing like it in any other order? The public voice has been raised against it from its very cradle. Already the society was driven out from a part of Spain in 1565, from the Low Countries and Portugal in 1578, from all France in 1594, from Venice in 1606, from the Kingdom of Naples in 1622. I speak only of Catholic countries. We may add, that France condemned the Jesuits in 1762, and actually drove them from the kingdom, and that she has since repeated her sentence of reprobation in 1845." "Now let it be considered," says the Recorder--and I look upon that venerable journal, and its editors, as high authority--"that these very Jesuits, dreaded and loathed, in the old countries, looked upon as the offscouring of all things, the dregs even of Catholic states, are coming to this country by hundreds, [The Recorder might have said by hundreds of thousands] seeking here a field for their horrid operations, determined to regain all and more than they have? lost at home. It is well understood that the Catholic officials who profane our soil, are of the Jesuit order,--desperate men, 'fit for everything,' whose very breath is the 'death of liberty.' Their mission is to deceive and victimize the American people. The people, therefore, ought to be aware of their character and operations. "Some will say," continues the Recorder, farther, "it is not so,--there is no danger--these priests are a very harmless people. In this provoking stupidity lies our danger. Before they get their eyes open, the language of Michelet will be applicable. *Are these Jesuits? A man asks this question, whose wife they already govern by a confessor of their own--the wife the house, table, hearth, bed. To-morrow they will have her child.' There is little reason to suppose that Jesuits will be forcibly expelled from this country. So much the greater is the necessity that they should be watched, exposed, and resisted. Their movements here, are of special moment to Americans. We are called upon to watch around the 'altar of our liberty.' The Jesuits and the Pope, would rejoice to see us directing our attention to Italy,--to draw our attention there, even while they are choosing and fortifying their position here. Mr. Hogan may be right in suggesting that this is their 'plot.' If so, while they are plotting, let the Americans be adopting vigorous means of self-protection--such means especially, as religion and education can best furnish." Thus speaks that truly evangelical and independent press, the Boston Recorder, of Jesuitism, and the writings of Sue, Michelet, and Gurnet. And it is to me a source of consolation and cheering encouragement, to find that it does not disapprove of my own humble efforts upon the same subject, nor of any of those authorities which I have called to my aid. I fully agree with the Recorder, that education--biblical education--is the best means and defence we can make against the intrigues of Jesuitism in this country. Our sole and only hope of success against them, is the general diffusion of education, and that education must be of a scriptural character. Until the people can read, they cannot think; and until they can think, they cannot reason, nor consequently distinguish between error and truth. A vast number of the citizens of this country are foreigners, from Popish countries, who have no education but such as they received from their priests; and the history of the world informs us of the wretched character of that instruction which they have received from that source. We all can see the condition of the poor Irish, who for centuries back, have been walking by the light of some 'magic lantern, held by their priests.' We can see how prevalent the influence of Popish priests has been, in the education--or rather want of education of the Irish,--by referring to a _Report of Commissioners appointed to take the census of Great Britain and Ireland in 1841_. I here quote from the London Quarterly Review for June, 1845. "On the present state of Irish education, and its previous progress, the Commissioners have taken great pains to collect and communicate information, of which the result is, that the diminution of ignorants, that is, of persons unable to read and write, is, during the last fifty years, from forty-eight to thirty-five per cent, of males, and from sixty to forty-five per cent, of females." What must have been the condition of this poor people previous to the last fifty years, when they were educated exclusively by bishops, priests, monks, and nuns? And how grateful should they feel to the Protestants of Great Britain and elsewhere for the great diminution which has since taken place in the number of males and females who could then neither read nor write. It is creditable to government--the Protestant government of Great Britain--that out of the number of Irish, which are now in the military service of Great Britain, sixty per cent, of those between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five can both read and write. How is this to be accounted for? Popish priests have nothing to do with the education of the children of those who are in the service of Great Britain. They are indebted to Protestant teachers, and Protestant officers, for the blessings of education which they enjoy. How are the people educated in Popish France? We can learn from the lectures of Michelet, Professor of Literature in the College of France; it is wretched in the extreme. But some of our sympathizers and mawkish journalists may question the authority of the gentleman. I would refer them to other authority M. Boulay tells us that more than half the population of France can neither read nor write. He assures us this is a fixed fact--and he is no contemptible authority. What does Bishop Fenwick's Corporal Trim think of this? He assured us, the other day, on his honor and consistency, that the inhabitants of Catholic countries were the best educated people in the world Ah! Corporal, thou shalt never die while imposture and Popery live in the United States. Let us compare the condition of the Irish, who are educated by Popish priests and Jesuits, with that of Americans, who have received their education from Protestant teachers, and we shall see--as the London Quarterly Review expresses it--in strong contrast, the effect of an almost total, and a very partial Papal eclipse. Taking the whites--in America--as the analogous population, we find that persons above the age of twenty years, who can neither read nor write, are not quite four per cent (3.87.) To make this, however, a fair subject of comparison, we must consider that the numbers under twenty are not half the whites, (1.38,) so that we must reckon the ignorants to be eight pet cent, of the whole. How different this from the forty per cent of the Irish Papists, and the fifty or sixty per cent of the French Papists, all of whom are educated by Jesuits and Papists! What becomes here, of Corporal Brownson's assertion, that "the people are better educated, in general, in Popish than Protestant countries"? The fact is, my friend Brownson, you had better shut up shop; you are a man of no bottom; you possess no solid and useful information; and easily humbugged, as you and your brethren the Jesuits think the American people to be, no man can retain long among them, the character of a learned and honest man, if he have not some solid bottom of his own to stand upon. It is a bold attempt on the part of Jesuits, to try to persuade the American people, by means of their agent Brownson, that the mass of Papists are better educated than Protestants. But, as the learned Dr. South expresses it, "there is, in the effort to do what is glaringly false, such a mixture of the fool, as quite spoils the project of the knave." And I am much mistaken if the knavish Jesuits who infest this country, do not soon find that the observation of Dr. South is correct. Jesuits and their agents in the United States, have taken and are now taking, great pains to persuade our Protestant citizens, that Papists are not only better educated than Protestants, but better provided for in every other respect They have always charged Protestants with neglecting the poor, and over-working them in every department of labor. Some of the _Puseyite philosophers_ of the present day, unite with Jesuits in urging this charge against Protestants. This is peculiarly worthy of the attention of the Americans, and shows as clearly as any other circumstance can, the extent and depth of Jesuit intrigue amongst us. The great mass of the people, in every country, is composed of the laboring classes, or, as we term them, operatives. And Jesuits know full well that if they can persuade the great body of Americans, that Popery gives more encouragement to labor, and requires less of it for a given price, than those who profess Protestantism, it is an important point gained; in truth, if this be admitted,--if the Popish Church gives more encouragement and better pay to laborers, than the Protestant Church, I, for one, would not and could not withhold from her my full and hearty commendation thus far. If it be true,--as that great Idealist and Puseyite, Mr. Ward, of England, contends,--that the poor and neglected and oppressed, in those countries where Protestant government prevails, are much better provided for under Popish governments, the fact ought to be well understood, and in place of wishing to overthrow these governments and prevent the farther growth of Popery, we should pause, and look seriously into the question. But is it true that labor is more encouraged and better paid, under Catholic than Protestant governments? Is it true that operatives--say for instance those who work in factories--are more humanely dealt with, better paid, and not required to work as many hours, under Popish as under Protestant governments? I call the attention of American Protestants to this question. It is one of vital importance. Both Puseyites and Jesuits allege this as positive, We have them here on the platform of unequivocal allegation of fact. "We have them on the hip." I am now willing to grapple with Jesuits and Puseyites upon this question. It cannot be evaded by them. It must be yes or no. Jesuit sophistry can avail them nothing, and if I can show our operatives, and laborers in our factories, that those Jesuits and Puseyites who are now overspreading our Republic, are trying to deceive them and reduce them to farther hardships, I trust they will rise as a body, men, women, children, and all, and hoot them from our shores. It is wrong to deceive any one; and no honest man or true Christian will do so; but it is cruel to deceive the poor laborer or operative, who lives by the sweat of his brow. If the reader will accompany me across the Atlantic, I will show him the condition of the operatives in some of those countries where the government is Popish, and where the religion of the people is that of Jesuits and priests. Let us visit France, a Catholic country. Let us examine a Report made by M. Delambre, the head of the department of Manufactures, in the office of the Minister of Commerce, in 1838. From that Report it appears, that the actual work of children, in factories, is never less than twelve hours, and extends from that minimum amount, to fourteen hours, in the twenty-four. It is also stated by him, that in the chief manufactories, it is not unusual with them to work all Saturday night and Sunday morning. So much for Popish clemency and Jesuit lenity to the poor operative. Let us cross over the Channel to England, a Protestant government and a Protestant country. How is it with operatives and children in factories there? I refer the reader, for an answer, to Horner on the Employment of Children in Factories, page 28. "In England, under a Protestant government, no child under thirteen can be employed for more than eight hours a day; nor can any young person, just emerged from childhood, be employed more than twelve hours a day." On Saturday the hours of work were only nine, when Mr. Horner wrote, and I am informed by the London Quarterly Review, of January, 1845, to which I am indebted for much of the information which I here give on the subject of factory laborers,--that a new Act of Parliament, fixing the maximum of labor, for children, at six and a half hours per day, has recently been passed. What becomes, now, of the assertions of Puseyites and Jesuits on the subject of Popish charity and humanity to the poor? The truth is, that I may challenge them to show me mankind, in any condition or any situation, or any clime or country, under Catholic or Protestant government, where they are not more oppressed, more degraded, more abused, and more ignorant under Catholic than Protestant governments. How then can it be, with this fact before their eyes, that Americans--Protestant Americans--give any countenance to Popery and Jesuits in the United States? or how can we account for the still more extraordinary fact, that one of the most learned Christian Associations that ever have been established in this country--_The Christian League_---does not devote its whole and undivided energies to the removal of Jesuits and Jesuitism from amongst us. I cannot account for the fact I have conversed with a learned member of this Association, a gentleman of distinguished talents and deserved popularity. I asked him why the Association did not spread its forces, extend its lines, and devote its funds of intellect, as well as of money, exclusively to the removal of Jesuitism from our happy country. His answer was, "we do not deem it prudent to do so; we cannot fail to kill Jesuitism in Italy, and there will be an end of it." Gendemen of the Christian League! I once before entreated you to withdraw your troops from Italy. You can do no good in that country. But suppose you did kill Popery in Italy--suppose that Jesuitism was dead and buried in that ill-fated country--I tell you that it will rise in this, and that in the shape of a tremendous, unformed spectre, in a far more terrific guise than ever before overpowered the imagination of man. I may not live to see it; many of you may not live to witness it; but that does not alter the truth of my prediction. I have deviated far and wide from the point for which I set out at the commencement of this book. As usual, I have paid no attention to order, literary style, or argumentative consecutiveness. Let this, however, not be attributed to any want, on my part, of due respect for the good opinion of my readers. My sole object in writing this book was to state facts, a knowledge of which I deemed necessary and useful to my fellow citizens; and as I knew full well that it was perfectly immaterial to the majority of them, how or in what manner these facts were stated, provided they were true, I have given them at random, just as they occurred to me--_currente calamo_. Besides this, I am pretty much of the opinion of Swift, and value not the rules of art as high as others do: "Nature, I thought, performed too mean a part, Forming her movements to the rules of art." I will now return to the subject of auricular confession, and the gross immorality practised by priests in the Popish confessionals. But I must say, as I have often done before, that it is impossible to prove to the Protestant inhabitants of the United States all, or even many of the particulars of those various accusations which I have advanced against Popish bishops and priests. The system of confession itself, and the manner in which it is made, render the thing impossible. No one can understand the doctrine of Popish confession, except those who have been Popish priests, and have acted themselves in the capacity of confessors. The man who has not been a Free Mason, for instance, may accuse that ancient society of Free and Accepted Masons of sanctioning, or even perpetrating crimes, but all his accusations will go for nothing, if he has not been a Mason himself, for the very obvious reason that he knows nothing, and could know nothing of Masonry, from his own knowledge; and hence it is that we find Jesuit priests and Popish presses turning into ridicule, and not without some cause, many Protestant writers and Protestant newspapers for accusing them of things they know nothing at all about. Here I have had the advantage of Popish priests and Popish presses, and hence it probably is that my books against Popery have had such extensive circulation, and have silenced, as it were by magic, almost every Roman Catholic Press in the United States. And let it not be deemed vanity in me, should I recommend to those editors who have established presses with the avowed intention of exposing Popery, to be cautious in their charges against the Papists, for one unfounded charge is apt to destroy the weight of a thousand which may be true; and I am sorry to see that many such charges are made by pious men, and even by learned men on other subjects, but who seem far in advance of their prudence. No man can detect a flaw in an argument sooner than a Jesuit, and no press can turn it into more bitter ridicule than a Jesuit press. No matter who the reputed editor of the press may be, every article in it is revised and corrected by a Jesuit bishop or his deputy, before it meets the public eye; and hence, perhaps, arises much of the popularity of my books. I have never advanced a charge against Jesuits or Popish priests, which I did not know to be true; I have never accused them, as a body, of being guilty of a crime in the confessional, which I did not know, of my own knowledge, to be undeniably true; and to do them justice, they have never denied it. That the Romish confessionals are sinks of unparalleled corruption, seduction, and the most revolting impurities, is but too well understood in Papal countries. Michelet understands it in France, so does Eugene Sue; but still far better does John Ronge understand it in Switzerland, because he has been, but the other day, a Roman Catholic priest himself. The Catholic priests in almost all Germany understand this, and seem now determined, through their fearless champion Ronge, to lay before the view of mankind the wicked impurities practised in the Romish confessional; and indeed it is a matter of astonishment that any people should sanction amongst them the practice of sending young females to confession to priests who are taught and commanded by their church to question them on subjects so indelicate and gross that of necessity impure thoughts must arise in their young minds. I can of my own knowledge say, that if it had been the intention of any body of men to corrupt the morals of the human race, to habituate the children of both sexes to impurity, filth and profligacy, it would be impossible to devise a scheme more completely adapted to produce that effect than the practice of confessing to priests, and the establishment of Popish nunneries amongst them. The common sense of mankind, the ordinary feelings of morality, would have made it impossible to carry into effect such a project, unless it had assumed the mask of a religious duty to God. It is said in the United States that if priests were so immoral as I have represented them to be, and in the habit of taking such liberty with females at the confessional as I have accused them of, that virtuous females--and there must be some such among Roman Catholics--would not continue long to go to confession to those priests who take indelicate liberties with them. One would suppose that such females would leave the church altogether. How little--I repeat it for the hundredth time--do Americans know of the wheels within wheels in the great machine of Popery! guilty priests who have made attempts to seduce virtuous females at the confessional, and found that they could not succeed, understand how to manage their case well. The church, in her infallible wisdom, has made provision for such events. It is well known in Europe, and let it be henceforward known in the United States, that there are two distinct and separate orders of priests--seculars and regulars. The secular order is composed chiefly of parish priests and their curates, whose duty it is to hear the confessions of their parishioners. The order of regulars is composed of friars, who are sub-divided into several minor orders, and who have no parochial duties to discharge, unless especially deputed to do so by the Bishop or his deputy of the diocese in which they may be located. It is so arranged by the secular priests, that whenever they fail in seducing their penitents, and are detected by them, that one of these friars shall immediately be at hand to hear the confessions of all such females, and forgive them their sins _on condition that they shall never reveal to mortal being the thoughtless peccadillo of their parish priest, who for the moment forgot himself and whose tears of repentance now moisten the ground on which he walks!_ Let me make this more plain by supposing a case or two, by way of illustration. Suppose the Popish bishop of New York were a young, athletic, amorous man; suppose he fixed his eye upon a young married woman, or some fascinating lady of his flock--the supposition is a very wild one, I admit--suppose he try to seduce one or either at the confessional, and she reject his criminal overtures,--how would his Popish _lordship_ act on this occasion? He always has at his elbow some friar, and that friar a foreigner, whom he directs to go, instanter, and hear the confession of those ladies. The friar knows his duty too well to disobey the orders of the Pope's viceroy in New York, and the whole affair is hushed up, perfectly to the satisfaction of the ladies, who are absolved from their sins, and entirely to that of his lordship, who Knows full well that the affair will never be heard of again. This friar is a sort of spiritual rover, and as soon as he has done his business in New York, is despatched to Boston, or elsewhere, until he visits perhaps every diocese in the Union. He then returns home to Rome, never to visit this country again. Another is sent in his place, and thus the work of seduction and immorality goes on, from year to year, in Popish confessionals, and almost under our very eyes, without our knowledge, while the guilty monsters, priests and bishops, are rioting at our hospitable tables, feasting upon our richest viands, and sipping our oldest wines. Things are so arranged in the Popish church, that the crimes of the priests in or out of the confessional, are seldom known to the great mass of the people. Such are the means adopted by the church of Rome to cloak and conceal from the public eye the profligacies of her priests and bishops, that it is almost impossible to detect these culprits and bring them to legal punishment. If, for instance, a priest commit a crime in Boston, which the representative of the Popish church in that city thinks may, by possibility, come to light, and throw any discredit upon the church, or diminish his own personal influence in that city, funds are placed in his hands by the church, to meet the expenses of removing him to any part of the world he chooses, and the guilty priest needs only what is technically called an _exeat_, to insure him a warm reception from any Popish bishop in the universe. It is a general practice of the bishops in the Romish church, to exchange guilty priests with each other; they are very punctual in reciprocating such favors. When nuns or Roman Catholic females commit crimes in convents, which can no longer be concealed, the holy and infallible church provides means for their instant removal to a different diocese. But should they still persevere in their iniquities, and should it be found impossible to prevent further illicit intercourse between them and their confessors, means are provided to send them to some foreign country. We have now several foreign nuns in the United States. By foreign nuns I do not mean foreigners who became nuns in this country. I mean those who became nuns in foreign countries, and who have been sent amongst us as such, for the purpose of educating our children, and educating them in the doctrines of _their pure religion_. And I positively assert, to the best of my own belief, and partly of my own personal knowledge, that there is not to be found among them an individual, much of whose previous life has not been spent in criminal intercourse and illicit connexion with their confessors and priests. This is no random assertion of mine. I make the allegation with shame and sorrow, but the cause of truth demands it; and justice to my fellow citizens who are in the habit of sending their children to school to these consummate hypocrites, renders it imperative upon me that I should declare the truth, however unpalatable it may be. Will the reader indulge me, while I quote a passage or two from the London Quarterly Review, for June, 1844? The editors of that periodical are gentlemen of great respectability, and men of well-established veracity, whose statements confirm some of my assertions. "The heads of the Church themselves, admit the liability of abuse through the confessional, and frequent exhortations are published, desiring all women, who have improper _solicitations_ made to them there, to denounce the confessor; but a moment's consideration will show the inutility of this exhortation; and one instance, which we shall give, must suffice for all. An Italian gentleman of our acquaintance, removed with his family, from the place of his nativity, to a town in another State; soon after their arrival the wife went to the confessional, in the parish church, where improper proposals were made to her; she ran home and acquainted her husband; he made a formal complaint to the proper authorities, in her name; a day was appointed for the examination of the charge; and when the time arrived, the lady naturally declined to appear. It is obvious that just in proportion as the person offended, is delicate, and the offence gross, there will be the greater difficulty in inducing the complainant to come forward." The truth of this is obvious to all, and here lies one great security against detecting a licentious and criminal priest. Were it not for this, our citizens would hoot at them as they walked our streets. Were it not for this, Popish priests and confessors would never be admitted into their houses, or occupy a seat at the table of any decent or virtuous family. I know so well, of my own knowledge, the nature of those questions and solicitations, that are offered by Popish priests to women in the confessional, that I can scarcely believe any woman could be found, who would appear in the presence of men, or before any tribunal, civil or ecclesiastical, and repeat the language by which her ears have been insulted. Popish priests understand human nature well; they know the timid and shrinking disposition of a virtuous woman. They feel that they are safe from public prosecution, so long as their solicitations and criminal overtures are known only to women of reputation. If it were not for this, our criminal courts could not contain the number of those reverend wretches, among Popish priests, who should appear before our criminal tribunals. Even Roman Catholic laymen, of rank and intelligence, have no idea of the enormities committed by their priests. Effectual means are taken, by the Church of Rome, to conceal their enormities from the public eye. The extent of immorality is so great in Catholic countries, in Germany, France, and, _sub rosa_, in Ireland, that it is considered an evidence of prudence, in a priest, to keep a mistress, rather than be a public scandal. It is thought by the Irish that their priests are peculiarly chaste and virtuous; they boast of this. I know the Irish priests as well as any other man living; I have lived among them; I was one of them; I acted as a confessor among them, and held in that capacity a higher position than any of my age in the country; and I solemnly declare, that I never knew a chaste man among them. Every parish priest that ever I knew in Ireland, kept a mistress whom he called a _housekeeper_, or some female whose duty or whose apparent business it seemed to be, to superintend his wardrobe or some such thing; but such is the credulity of the poor Irish, and such their idolatrous veneration for their priests, that I really believe, if they detected one of them in _flagranti crimine_, they would not credit the testimony of their own senses. It occurs, sometimes,--though very seldom,--that one of those Irish priests is detected; the punishment, in that case, is simply his removal to another parish. I have known immoralities committed in the houses of Irish parish priests, so heinous that they cannot be put to paper; and yet the poor Irish Catholics, who seem fated to be the victims of every species of delusion and imposture, look upon their priests as perfect models of piety-; and consider their agent, Daniel O'Connell,--that enemy of peace and happiness,--as one of the most perfect specimens of patriotism that ever basked in the pure air of freedom. The poor Irish believe, most implicitly, in the necessity of Auricular Confession; and such is their delusion, that many of them, even in this country, will not be persuaded, at this day, that their priests take any pay for absolving them from their sins and forgiving their crimes. It is not many days ago since a respectable physician in Boston told me that an Irish Roman Catholic, in that city, offered to bet him five hundred dollars that Roman Catholic priests demanded no pay for pardoning sins. Can this be delusion, or infatuation, or is it a species of witchery that thus deceives, enchains, and blinds a people, in all other respects of quick imagination and natural talents? I am free to confess, that I know not how to account for it myself. I am perfectly at a loss what to call it; but there it is, strange as it may appear. I would ask that gentleman who offered to make the above bet, or any other Roman Catholic who ever lived in Ireland, whether he has heard of such a thing as _stations of confession_, which are held two or three times a year by every parish priest in Ireland; or whether he has ever heard of such a thing as the _Viaticum_, which is given to the sick, after confession, and in _arliculo mortis_. I cannot suppose that there is, in this country, an Irish Roman Catholic who has not seen and heard of both, and who does not know that these are modes and practices adopted by Irish priests for the purpose of collecting payment for the pardon of sins. There are regulations published in each diocese in Ireland, and put forth among the priests, by episcopal authority, regulating _clerical dues_. Specific sums are laid down for mass, and for auricular confession,--which the Church of Rome calls a sacrament, by the name of _penance_,--for marriage, for baptism, extreme unction, &c. The parish priest selects two or more houses in each parish,--invariably those the most wealthy among the farmers,--and gives notice from the altar, the Sunday previous, that on a certain day, of the coming week, he will hold a _station of confession_ at the house of A--------; this notice is equivalent to saying,--and is understood in no other sense, _all of you who have not come to confession for a certain time, or who wish to go to confession now, come forward and pay me my dues_. The wily priest never says, come and pay me for pardoning your sins; that would never do. Protestants may hear it, and it would surely go abroad that Irish priests were not entirely disinterested, and that they could no more live by prayer alone than other people. I have, by order of the parish priest, for whom I acted as curate during a short time, held many of those _stations of confession_, and never did a Yankee pedler drive a harder bargain with his customers, than I was compelled to make with those who came to confession to me, for payment for pardoning their sins; 'crediti amici,' however strange the declaration may appear to you; I have been ordered by the same Popish priest, in Ireland, to administer what is called, in Popish parlance, the _Sacrament of Extreme Unction_, and to give to the dying patient the _Viaticum_; I have done so hundreds of times, but never until, by order of the same priest, payment was made to me in advance, whenever there was the least doubt of the ability of the patient or his friends to pay. Before the _Viaticum_ is given, or permitted to be given by the Irish bishops, it is required that the dying sinner should confess; for be it known, the poor Irish Catholic is persuaded, that this _Viaticum_ or wafer, made of flour and water, is the great God himself. The _Viaticum_ is contained in a small box, called a _pixis_, and large enough to contain from ten to fifty of these wafers or Gods, and is carried in the breeches pocket of the priest. Do not laugh, American Protestants, or imagine that I am dealing in fables; I have gone, hundreds of times, to hear the confessions of dying Irish Papists, and given them one of these Viaticums or Gods, fifty or sixty of which, I have often carried at a time in my pocket My orders were, upon all occasions, never to give absolution or the Viaticum, to any one, until payment was first insured to me; otherwise I had to pay the parish priest out of my own funds. Scenes which take place on such occasions, are truly heart-rending. The poor sick and simple Irish Catholic, believes that he shall be damned to all eternity, if he is not anointed and forgiven his sins by the priest. He would cheerfully pay him if he had the means; he would cheerfully sell the blanket that shelters him from the cold blasts of winter, to pay the hard-hearted priest; but the blanket is often worth nothing, is often but a filthy, lousy rag, such as no American can form the least conception of, though the well-fed priest lives in luxury. I have known some curates in Ireland, who had no means of their own, to take the chickens, the ducks, or turkeys of poor men whom they _anointed_, and who had no money to pay the priest for pardoning their sins, and tie the legs of those fowls together, throwing them across their saddles, and carrying them home to pay the parish priest The poor curate perhaps was not worth a dollar, and dare not return to the priest without bringing with him his dues. It is extremely unpleasant to dwell upon the disgusting scenes which are daily witnessed in the sick rooms of the Irish peasantry. The idea of dying without obtaining _absolution_ and extreme unction from a Roman Catholic priest, is agonizing and intolerable to a poor Irish Papist, and it is considered as an everlasting stigma even upon his posterity. Every effort is therefore made to procure a _shilling_, which is the minimum charge made by a priest for administering extreme unction. Any man may judge of the feelings and mental distress of a dying man who believes that he has not an hour longer to live, and that his eternal salvation depends upon the absolution of his sins and the application of extreme unction, or _blessed oil_, by his priest. But the dying individual is not the only one who suffers; the wife, the children, and grandchildren, participate in his mental sufferings; and those warm-hearted creatures would give, and do give, the last potato from their table, or the last basket of turf in their possession, to a priest, rather than witness any longer the sufferings of the dying parent. It must seem strange that this people should not make some effort to shake off the chains with which their priests have bound them to the car of Popery; but they will not. Such is the influence of superstition over their minds, that they will suffer on forever, unless Protestant Christians do something to relieve them. The Protestant government of Great Britain would willingly break those chains which bind this generous and warm-hearted people to Popery, but they will not have them broken. The Popish bishops of Ireland have recently refused to accept the provision which the Protestant government of Great Britain seems willing to make for the support of the Roman Catholic church and priests in Ireland. That demon in human shape--that traitor in the guise of a patriot and Christian--Daniel O'Connell, advises the Roman Catholic bishops of Ireland not to accept the state provision which Great Britain is willing to make for the priests of the Irish Catholic church. This man's drafts upon the credulity of mankind are very large--so large that I believe they cannot be honored much longer. Why do Irish priests refuse the state provision which Great Britain is willing to make for them? Why do they not accept it from that source, rather than drag it from the poor, in shillings, in chickens, ducks, turkies, barrels of potatoes, pounds of butter, cishes of turf, &c. &c.? Why does Daniel O'Connell advise them, in his traitorous harangues, not to receive the liberal provision which the British government seems willing to make for them? The reason is plain to the most careless and superficial thinker. The traitor knows very well that the ultimate success of all his ambitious designs depends upon the cooperation of the Popish church and its priests in Ireland. He knows full well that if the priests were paid by the State, they would lose their influence with the people, and that he would lose the cooperation of both in his treacherous designs to overthrow Protestant governments and Protestant religion in England and elsewhere. Disguise it as he may, cover it over with Jesuitical varnish of what thickness or depth be pleases, it is evident that the overthrow of Protestantism in Church and State is the grand object which O'Connell and the Popish church have in view, in their present movements, both in Ireland and in the United States. The Popish bishops and O'Connell are aware that the moment the parish priests and curates of Ireland were paid their dues, they (the bishops and O'Connell) must lose their influence with the great mass of the people. This is evident to myself. But what sort of influence would they lose? Must they lose that influence which a Christian minister of the gospel would like to possess over his flock, and which every good man likes to see in all evangelical religions? I answer in the negative, and I challenge fair contradiction. They could lose nothing which a pious Christian or a good citizen would desire to retain. They could only lose their influence as rebels to God and traitors to the rights of man. Will Americans reflect for a moment that we have about three millions of the disciples of O'Connell and Popish bishops in this country? Let every lover of our constitution ponder seriously upon this fact. How do Popish bishops persuade their people to blind submission to their will, and to the will of the traitor O'Connell? It is done through the confessional. That is the channel through which the poison of treason and idolatry is infused into the minds of Papists. But let that O'Connell take heed, lest the fate of Dante, once as good a Roman Catholic as himself, should overtake him. Apropos, Corporal Brownson, Bishop Fenwick's mouth-piece in Boston, makes a boast of the fact that Dante was a Roman Catholic, and assures us that he was an honor to the Popish Church. I wonder whether the Corporal has ever read Dante's poem on Hell? If he has, I would advise him to have written on the door of every Popish confessional, that caution which Dante recommended to be posted on its portals. I have not a copy of Dante in my possession, but it was something to this effect, "_Pause before you enter this gate_" This caution should be written in large letters upon the door of every Romish confessional in the civilized world. I can assure those who enter that accursed tribunal, that they may as well enter the hell described by Dante. I owe an apology to the public for the frequent mention of the name of Brownson, in these pages; but he has proved to me so great and prolific a source of mixed sadness and merriment, that I could not avoid frequent allusion to his name. I verily believe that were it not for him, I could scarcely write the present volume. "Without thee [Corporal Browson ] nothing lofty could I sing; Come, then, and with thyself thy genius bring." The Corporal, I understand, is now lecturing in Philadelphia, on the _infallibility_ of the Romish church,--and the simple purity of its _democratic form of government_. According to Brownson, who never utters a word until it is first approved by the Roman Catholic bishops in the United States, no form of government should be allowed, but such as that now established and sanctioned by the Pope of Rome. The Pope's subjects, and they alone, as Brownson assures us, are fit to bear aloft the standard of liberty. No hands should be permitted to touch or embroider the flag of freedom, but those of chaste nuns and sisters of charity in the Popish church; and no arms should be allowed the honor of defending that flag, but the valorous ones of those who have been pardoned their sins at the holy tribunal of confession. Is this really the state of things? If so, thrice welcome the sisters of charity amongst us, and ten thousand welcomes to those Popish patriots who have confessed their sins and been pardoned by their priests. But what if the government of the Court of Rome should be found not to be, in reality, all that our Popish bishops recommend, and all that Brownson represents it? What if it should be found that the Pope is not an angel, and that his government is far from being perfect? How would it be if his Royal Holiness the Pope, were proved to be a weak and licentious old profligate, unable to rule, and unwilling to obey? What if his government were proved to be one of the most corrupt, avaricious, tyrannical, that ever existed upon earth? This would entirely change the position of affairs, and could not fail to tinge with a blush the cheeks of our citizens who are weak enough to listen to the ranting declamations of the hired infidel Brownson. I have before me the last number of the Westminster Review, a work of great talent and popularity, widely differing in tone and style, and respectability, from a thing called Brownson's Democratic Review. The reader will easily pardon me for quoting a few extracts from it, which will tend to throw some light on the beauties of that Popish republicanism which the bishops of the Catholic church are desirous of introducing into the United States. I beg the particular attention of my readers to it. There is more of good sense, sound judgment, truth, and good taste, in it, than in all the _clishmaclaver_ which has been issued from the Popish presses and Jesuit quarterly reviews in the United States, during the last half century. "We are not here to treat of the Pope, that nominal head of the State--all-powerful for evil--absolutely impotent for 27 good. As a general rule, he may be set down as an old imbecile, thrust into power by a faction of the Cardinals, who share among them the spoils; or as a veteran trafficer in ambition, who settles with his electors the price of his elevation to the Papacy, and who is compelled, at the risk of his life, to observe the conditions of the compact. The real chief is the Secretary of State--_Sacretario di Stado_--this is he who is the leader of the faction in the conclave. He stands above all authority. He is supposed to receive the responses of the Papal oracle, and to utter them in the name of laws. A few strokes of the pen, forwarded to a tribunal, enable him to annihilate, without publicity, statutory enactments." How would our Western citizens, Wolverines, Suckers, Hoosiers, and Squatters, like such a Secretary of State? How would the citizens of Tennessee, and Illinois, like such gentlemen, as Secretaries for their respective States? How many votes, reader, do you suppose such a man would receive, were he a candidate for re-election as Secretary of State, in Vermont or New Hampshire? Very few, I apprehend; and yet the infidel Brownson, who is a native of Vermont--if I am correctly informed--is trying to establish amongst us a religion which would force upon us the duty of supporting such characters for the highest offices in our government. "Next to the Secretary of State," continues the Westminster Review, "comes a Cardinal. His titles confer upon him the Presidency of the Apostolic Chamber, and the management of the customs and the mint.... His titles would lead one to infer that the general direction of the postal department was intrusted to him, though he has nothing to do with it The posts are under a separate and independent jurisdiction.... More definite in duty, but equally unaccountable as to performance, is the Treasurer General, who completes a supreme triumvirate of the Papal States. He is the real minister of finance, though with the usual rule of misrule, several branches of that head are entirely independent He attends to the collection of the revenue, and appoints the provincial receivers; he contracts loans, and orders the sale of public property. _He never gives account to any one of his administration, nor of the distribution of the funds that enter the treasury; neither has any one a right to demand an account_. He can only be dismissed from his office by being promoted to the office of Cardinal; he then leaves on his desk a key, supposed to be that of the treasury, being the only formality that is indispensable." This is taking the responsibility, with a vengeance! The reason why the Popish Church gives this unlimited power to the secretary of her treasury, deserves peculiar notice. Americans should view it closely. All Protestant governments and Protestant countries should examine it attentively. The Pope and his government are aware that if their Secretary of the Treasury were compelled to give a correct account of the monies he received, and the uses for which they were appropriated, their plans, their bribes, their subornation of witnesses, their intrigues, and various modes of overthrowing Protestant governments and Protestant churches, could not fail to be discovered, and then the Unanimous voice of mankind would cry aloud, Down v with Popery! down with the Beast! down with the old harlot of Rome! If the Pope's treasurer were compelled to account for the millions upon millions which Jesuits and Popish priests wring from the hard earnings of mankind, the Romish church could not exist an hour longer, and there is not a Protestant government upon earth, that would allow within its jurisdiction a Popish college, bishop, seminary, nunnery, or monk-house. Were the treasurer of the Romish church obliged to give a fair account of the uses to which he appropriated the funds received and expended by him, Americans could soon know where Bishop Hughes of New York receives the vast sums of money which he has been expending for several years back, in erecting colleges and nunneries, into which he may decoy the children of Protestant Americans. It would then be known where Bishop Purcel of Ohio, obtained the funds with which he clandestinely, and without giving them any notice, purchased the buildings occupied by the Misses Beecher and others, in the city of Cincinnati, as a seminary for the education of young ladies. The Popish Bishop Hughes of New York never owned a dollar of his own; it is but a few years since he was employed as a gardener in the college of Georgetown or Emmetsburg, I forget which. Bishop Purcel of Ohio was equally poor and destitute; but now these right reverend Jesuits have at their command any amount of money which they in their judgment may deem necessary to proselytize American heretics, and overthrow their republican form of government. Could we but know how the treasurer of the Pope disposed of the funds of his church, the Jesuit Bishop Fenwick of Boston, could no longer conceal from the citizens of Massachusetts, where he found means to build a Popish college at Worcester; to which, I understand, he soon intends adding an extensive nunnery and a Foundling' Hospital, in which fatherless orphans, or rather the bastard children of Jesuits, are to be provided for. It is sound policy, in the Popish Church, not to require from the Pope's treasurer, any account of the mode or manner in which he disposes of the funds entrusted to his charge. And I cannot withhold from them due credit for this admirable stroke of policy, wicked and demoralizing as it is in reality. "Yet lower, beneath the class of principals and subalterns, swarms, as reptiles in filth, a hideous race, not to be hinted at in good society, but whose abnormal existence must be proclaimed in our effort to make intelligible the nature of papal government--a race of varlets, parasites, prostitutes, trafficers in vice, legions of familiar demons, who crawl from the basement to the very summit of the edifice. The celibacy of the clergy,--the occupiers of every avenue to power,--is the source of their influence....... For ages past, the interior corruption, and the power exercised at Rome by domestics and women of gallantry, has been notorious; but before the time of Pius VI. (Pius died only about fifty years ago) the profligacy of the priests, though more brazen, had not, in general at least, stained the family hearth. The natural children of Popes Cardinals, and Bishops, impudently recognized, by their elevation to the highest dignities, were not the offspring of their neighbors' wives.... At a later period, the depravity general in Europe, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the examples set by Cardinals Richlieu, Mazarin, and Alberoni, and the morale of theology disseminated by Jesuits,--masters in the art of inciting the human passions, to turn them in the end to their own account, and of fostering covert infamy, to lord it over their penitents by the possession of their secrets (in the confessional,)--taught, by Roman Cardinals and Bishops, that it was more convenient, and less scandalous, to insinuate their seduction, where it was the interest of all parties to conceal it," The Westminster Review is good authority upon any subject; but I have adopted a general rule, in my controversy with Papists, never to quote from Protestant authorities, except when I know, of my own knowledge, that the facts stated by them are true, and susceptible of proof. This is not--as the reader may easily imagine--because I doubt the veracity of Protestant writers, but because Jesuits will persuade their followers, that my statements are only a repetition of _old lies_, fabricated by heretics. I have unqualifiedly accused the Roman Catholic priests and bishops of this country, and elsewhere, of using the confessional for the infamous purpose of seducing, females. I have charged upon nunneries, that they were nothing better than legalized houses of prostitution, and established among us, by the Pope of Rome and his bishops, for the sole purpose of affording them better opportunities and greater security in their immoralities and high-handed profligacies; and I appeal to Americans, of all denominations, whether I have or have not established my charges against them. I ask any well-read American, who is acquainted with the private history of Cardinal Richlieu, whether he was not one of the greatest profligates of his day? Is it not well known, that Cardinal Mazarin was so notorious a profligate, that no man's wife was safe in his society, or proof against his political influence and extravagant expenditures. He was Prime Minister to Louis XIV. of France; he had, in his gift, nearly all the offices under the government; and it was well understood, throughout all France, that it was perfectly useless for any man whose wife was not young and beautiful, to apply to him for office. There is not to be found, a well informed man, who has not read the life of Cardinal De Retz, and who does not know that his house, and his soirees, were places of rendezvous for gay women, and especially for that portion of them whose character for chastity was not the best Let it be observed here, that the parish priests and cures were all in the pay of these Cardinals, and employed to procure and select for them, through the confessional, the most beautiful and desirable women in Paris; and faithfully did these Popish _pimps_ discharge their commissions. But still, the Jesuits of this country, and that miserable outcast mouth-piece of theirs, Brownson, talk of the _infallibility_ of the Romish Church, and the superior beauties of its democratic form of government. Can it be possible that the enlightened Republicans of the United States, have patience to listen to the diatribes of this man against Protestant governments and Protestant Churches? Yet so it is; and I have not the least doubt, that many of the indignant expressions, which I make use of in speaking of him and Jesuits, will be found fault with, as they have been before, by many of the mawkish sympathizers with Popery, in the United States. There are to be found, among the good and virtuous of our Protestant people, many who think that I should use milder language than much of that contained in my books,--that some of it is too harsh,--that it shows a bad spirit, a bad temper, and is--_pro tanto_--an indirect evidence, that I possess not a Christian feeling towards Popery or its advocates. That I am not what a Christian ought to be, in thought, word, and deed, 1 will freely admit. But those sympathizers, whether Infidels or Christians, who think that I should use milder language in my controversy with Papists, know but very little--as I have often told them before--of the spirit and elements of Popery, or the mode of warfare adopted by its Jesuits; and hence it is, that whenever they themselves enter the lists of controversy with Popish priests, and Jesuit presses, they are invariably and ingloriously defeated. I would ask these gentlemen, who find fault with the apparent asperity of my language, whether they could, collectively or individually, silence the howlings of a northeast storm by softly whistling Yankee Doodle, or humming Hail Columbia? When they can do this--but I doubt much if it can be done sooner--then they can silence scurrilous Jesuits in their abuse of Protestant religion, and check the efforts of the Popish presses in the United States, by using mild, charitable, and gentlemanly language, in all controversies with them. The fact is, Protestants and Protestant theologians too, must alter their mode of warfare with Papists. The Popish press in the United States, has always endeavored, and never failed in the attempt--as far as I know--to place our Protestant presses in a position of defence. A single thrust from their journals, inflicts a wound which requires months to heal; the prescription alone, which is necessary for a cure, occupies whole columns of our presses and periodicals, and thus they have a great advantage over their Protestant opponents. I have never given them this advantage, and until my Protestant fellow laborers in the glorious cause of religion and civil rights, follow my example, in their controversies with Papists, they may as well 'pile arms' at once, and retire from the arena. I have carried the war with Papists, into Africa, but not until all overtures for peace proved ineffectual. I have inflicted upon them wounds, which it will require some time to heal. The result has shown the policy of my course towards them. It is scarcely twelve months, since _repeal meetings_,--which in reality were meetings held for the ill-disguised purpose of overthrowing the Protestant Church and government in this country,--were held in every hall and place of public meeting in our cities. I have exposed the covert intentions of those meetings, in pure Saxon language. I have called the priests and Jesuits who encouraged them, as well as the presses which advocated them,--traitors, and enemies to religion and the civil rights of our people. What has been the consequence? We scarcely hear now, of a _repeal 27* meeting_. Its advocates have been silenced, and they are obliged to abandon the cause, or support it under some other name or title, which I understand they are doing now, in Boston, under the infamous disguise of taking up contributions for the starving Irish. The Popish bishops, finding me rather a troublesome customer, and well versed in Jesuitical fencing,--parrying and thrusting with as much skill and precision as they themselves, having been taught in the same school with them, and by the same masters,--have come to the wise conclusion, that they had better let me alone, and tacitly admit the truth of every accusation which I have brought against them. They seem, however, resolved to die hard, and recently commissioned the notorious infidel Brownson to defend them, and, if possible, to exculpate them from the enormous and vile crimes of seduction and treason, which I have brought against them. I fondly hoped that when this Brownson took the field in defence of Popery, some of those meek, bashful theologians, and editors of religious journals, who think my language too harsh, would come against him and his Jesuit masters. There is not a scurrilous epithet in the English vocabulary, which Brownson and his Jesuit masters, have not applied to Protestants and Protestant presses. He has encouraged, by advice of Jesuits, treason to this government, by recommending the government of the Pope, as a better and more republican system; and still, I find--much to my regret--that there-is not a single Protestant divine in the country, or a single Protestant periodical--as far as I can discover--willing to raise his voice or publish an article against him. They all seem alive to the paramount necessity of finding fault and condemning what they term cheap literature, as calculated to demoralize the community. Eugene Sue, and Michelet, are special objects of their censure. It was only the other day, that an orthodox clergyman, who holds a high station and receives a high salary from his church, delivered, in New York, a philippic of nearly two hours' length, against Eugene Sue's "Wandering Jew," and concluded with a Jeremiad, bemoaning that so many copies of it should have been distributed in the book stores in New York. "The work,"--observed this learned but mistaken lecturer,--"is flooding the country." Very true, it is flooding the country; but is not Popery flooding the country? Are not Jesuits flooding the country? Are not Popish concubines, denominated nuns and sisters ters of charity, flooding the country? Is not Brownson, the Pope's Agent, flooding the country with infidel principles and treason against our government? Which of these floods does the reverend gentleman to whom I allude, prefer? He is now fairly between Scylla and Charybdis; he must fall upon one; and which does he choose? The Popish flood, which Eugene Sue is trying to dam, or the flood occasioned by the sale of the Wandering Jew in New York and elsewhere? The former is a torrent which flows forever; the latter--even if it were destructive for the moment, is but a land flood, that may cover the meadows to-day, but disappear on the morrow. _Utrum horam mavis accipe_. Let the reverend lecturer, and those who maintain similar opinions of modern and anti-Popish writers, take their choice. There is no proportion, I apprehend, to be found between the zeal of those lecturers and their knowledge of human nature. The fact is, that very few of them have travelled far into the regions of general science; each seems to be confined within the circle of his own creed, and many of them vainly endeavor to lay the foundations of morality much higher than the existence of moral agency itself. They resemble, in a great measure, some of those ancient philosophers who supposed that the essences of things existed before the things themselves made their appearance, or could assume any shape or form. For instance, they imagined the essence of black and white, red, blue, pink, &c., had existence before there was any such thing as color. There were many philosophers who supposed that the essence of square and circle existed before there was any such thing as form. Many of our modern moralists and lecturers upon morality are little less extravagant in their ideas; and if they do not check their imaginations and unmeaning deviations from common sense, in some of their public lectures, they must soon share the fate of those ancient dreamers to whom I have alluded. Lecturers now-a-days must recollect that men are permitted to exercise--and that freely--their own judgment. We find it very difficult to accompany many of our speakers in their extraordinary flights to the regions of morality, in which the common sense and sound doctrine of moral agency, are entirely lost sight of. The lecturer who would condemn the efforts of Eugene Sue to arrest the progress of Jesuitism, shows but a very limited knowledge of this world, and impliedly denies the efficacy of human agency. He will soon find that his own efforts to impede the progress of Popery will prove ineffectual; they will be lost in those regions of fanciful perfection which his own imagination has created. Theologians of all denominations are peculiarly apt to run into extremes; many of them take certain standards of morality, which cannot be defended, and which need not be sustained, and they are very apt to pronounce all who differ from them to be in error, when in fact charity and good sense demand from them a frank acknowledgment, that though they themselves may be right, it does not follow that others are wrong. Eugene Sue condemns not only the religious doctrines of Jesuits, but severely censures their political creed. He holds the latter up to the world as dangerous and destructive to the happiness of the human kind. He knows man, in every state of society, and he writes to convince him in each. He is well versed in the elements of political government, and knows that it is upon the preservation and maintenance of it in a healthy form, that the happiness of man, in this world, depends. It is therefore perfectly idle, and worse than idle, for those lecturers who perhaps have no other ideas of the moral and political duties of man than those which they have learned from Baxter's Saint's Rest, Four Fold State, or his Crook in the Lot, to declaim against Eugene Sue, or any other man, whose better experience in the world teaches him to pursue a different course in trying to accomplish the same object. Let it not be supposed that I mean to speak disrespectfully of Baxter, or that a thorough knowledge of his works and writ* ings would prove useless to any one; but no man of sense or prudence could suppose for a moment, that he was a match for Jesuits, or that a knowledge of his and similar works would enable any lecturer to encounter Jesuits on the field of controversy. The policy which Jesuits would introduce into this country, and force upon us, by the authority of their church, could not long fail to divide this Union into fragmentary sections, and embroil our citizens in scenes of blood and slaughter, such as never have been witnessed before. We should soon have State armed against State; and in place of one united army and one commander-in-chief, we should have twenty? eight armies, and as many generals-in-chief. This is precisely what the Jesuits and the Popish church are aiming at This would give them, united, a superior power, and to them we should have to appeal for the settlement of our difficulties. The policy of the Popish church has always been a curious combination of ecclesiastical and democratic pretensions. In theory, it is democratic enough for our most rabid Locofocos; but in practice, it requires from man the most thorough subjection. Let us look back to history, and the truth of this will appear evident Any opposition to the Pope of Rome, from any sovereign, or any other authority whatever, is considered by the Popish church as treason against God and man. Every historian will recollect the murder of the Guises in France. The disturbances of the times, and the causes which led to them, are well known to the readers of history; and let it not be forgotten, that the Popish doctrines and Popish republicanism which then existed in France, are now covertly and treacherously taught in these United States. In 1589, some of the French people entertained scruples whether it was lawful or not to depose a legitimate sovereign, or put him to death, after swearing allegiance to him. The question was one of great anxiety among the people, and something was to be done to quiet it Meetings were called in different places, and it was finally determined by them to lay the subject before the Popish theological faculty of the University of Paris: This faculty had full power from his Holiness the Pope, to give judgment in the case, and the Catholics of France were bound to obey it. Accordingly, on the 7th of January, 1589, the great, and holy, and infallible doctors of Popish divinity in the College of Sorbonne met, by authority, and pronounced the following decision: "Having heard the nature and free counsels of the Magistri, and after many and divers arguments heard, drawn, for the most part, verbatim from holy writ, the canon law, and the Papal ordinances, it has been concluded, by the Dean of the faculty, without any dissenting voice, first, that the people are absolved from the oath of fidelity and allegiance sworn by them to the King. Furthermore, that the said people may, without any scruple of conscience, combine together, arm themselves, and collect money, for the maintenance of the Roman Catholic Apostolic religion, against a king." This is republicanism, as taught by Jesuits and Papists. This is the republicanism which they teach through the confessional in the United States, and this is the democracy which they have commissioned the infidel Brownson to spread over our country. This is the republicanism which Eugene Sue is cautioning mankind against introducing amongst them, and Eugene Sue is the man whose writings many of our philanthropic, but mistaken lecturers, are trying to suppress. Eugene Sue has done more to stem the torrent of Popish democracy in this country, than any man who has written against Papists. He has attacked it in its very bud. He knew where it germinated. Our Protestant lecturers know not the source from which it springs, and therefore they had perhaps better let it alone altogether, until they become thoroughly acquainted with the principle that gave it birth, and the influences that sustain it. Eugene Sue knew full well that the Popish confessional was the source and substance of all Jesuit treasons, immoralities, plots, and murders. He is a man of the world, and knows that licentiousness and despotism are more closely allied than is imagined by our simple-minded and pious lecturers; he knows that both are inconsistent with liberty,--which should be the true end of all governments,--and he has therefore deemed it prudent to bring all his energies to bear against the Popish confessional, knowing full well that if that were destroyed, together with the supremacy of the Pope of Rome, mankind could not fail to be benefited. He has attacked that confessional, not by whining over the immoralities of the times, or the romance of modern literature,--this any old woman can do,--but he has fallen upon it with the club of Hercules, whose well-aimed blows I pray heaven no lecturer may weaken. It is far from my intention to be disrespectful to any well-meaning lecturer against Popery, and it is still much further from my mind to be uncourteous towards any of those Protestant divines who disagree with me in regard to the anti-Popish writings of Eugene Sue; but I must do my duty, as I understand it myself. I am not unmindful that there was a time when general knowledge was a scarce article among the people, and when the clergy engrossed the largest portion of it; and I doubt whether it is not a great misfortune that many of our lecturer derive most of their knowledge of mankind from the study of works written in those times. Hence much of their unfitness to criticise the writings of men of the world. It is, however, an easy matter to condemn the writings of any man; but when a Protestant theologian publicly finds fault with Eugene Sue, or any other writer against Popery, it is reasonable to expect him to supply something better of his own. A good anecdote is told of Margaret, Governess of the Netherlands. When Luther first commenced writing against Popery, he handled the Pope and his Jesuit priests rather roughly; he knew them of his own knowledge, just as I do myself. Margaret upon one occasion had around her some of her courtiers, who were chatting most politely and courteously, and commenting on the inelegance and uncourtliness of many of the expressions used by Luther in his writings. Margaret, suddenly turning round, asked one of the most garrulous and verbose amongst them, "Who is this Martin Luther?" "He is," replied the courtier, "a rough and uncouth man," and from the "coarseness of his language, I should suppose he was an ignorant man." "Yes, he is," exclaimed the whole circle of exquisite theologians and fashionables. "I am glad of it," replied Margaret. "You are learned men, possessing refined minds, and no doubt you will give us something better than he has written. I wish you would do so as soon as possible, and furnish me a copy of your production." Can the sapient critics to whom I have been alluding take a hint? Eugene Sue understands much better the strength and power he has to contend with, than our American theologians do. If I estimate them correctly, or if it be proper to judge of all by any one of them, I would say they know nothing whatever of the strength of Popery. I recollect having recently seen and read a speech delivered by a distinguished member of the Christian Alliance, at a meeting held in Boston, and the following passage in that speech made so vivid an impression on my mind, that I have not forgotten it since; nor could I help inferring that if the speaker were a fair sample of the whole, they formed a very incorrect estimate of the power of that wily enemy to civil rights, the Pope of Rome. The following are literally the words of the speaker to which I allude: "I thought the Pope was a man of learning, but he aint; he's a granny." This sentiment, and the mode of expressing it, may be satisfactory to the learned gentleman who uttered it, but to one who may be entirely indifferent, it is a much stronger evidence of the grannyism of the speaker, than of the Pope. I refer to this with no other view than to show how unacquainted some American theologians are with Popery, in every shape and form. This gentleman should know that if the Pope were a granny, it would be no argument against Popery, or any preventive of the evils with which it threatens us. Suppose a meeting of citizens were held, on the subject of our difficulties with Great Britain, we can easily fancy some spouter to rise in his place and say, "We have nothing to dread from that nation; the Queen is but a silly woman; she is but a mere granny." Would not any sensible man at the meeting advise this spouter to sit down, and no longer intrude upon their time by such nonsense? It might be known to the meeting, that the government of England was not managed by the Queen, but by her Cabinet, composed of men well versed in the science of diplomacy and government intrigues. It is immaterial whether the sovereign of England is in her cradle, flirting at a ball, or in her dotage--the power of England is not the less to be dreaded. Had our American theologians as much worldly tact, and knowledge, as they have of single mindedness and true piety, they might easily know, that it is a matter of perfect indifference,--so far as the power of Rome is concerned,--whether the Pope be a granny or a sage. The affairs of his court are managed by unprincipled, crafty, and licentious men, who thirst for power and patronage. They are not without friends in this country. Many fear them, politicians sympathize with them, and they are gaining ground, in spite of the friends of liberty in the United States. But let not the friends of freedom or of religion despair. Popish influence cannot long prevail over the good sense and cool reflection of our Protestant people. No man has ever measured the strength and dangers of Popery more accurately that Eugene Sue. He knows that Popery has in view, not exclusively the propagation of its religion, but also the increase of its wealth and temporal dominion. It is accomplishing both, in the United States, while it is losing the latter, in every other country in the world; and it is my deliberate opinion, that if Eugene Sue and Michelet, were put into the hands of every American who can read, they would do more towards shutting up the floodgates of Popery, which are now open upon this country, than any other means we could adopt towards effecting so desirable an object. Americans may suppose--and it will be extremely difficult to persuade them to the contrary--that however the Popish Church may succeed in propagating her religion amongst them, she can never get possession--at least to any extent--of their property or temporal power. In this they are mistaken--egregiously mistaken. I beg leave to lay before my readers one instance--and let this one suffice for all--of the secret and fraudulent manner, in which the Church of Rome, through her agents, is gaining power and acquiring property in the United States. I had the honor, a few weeks ago, of receiving a letter from the Hon.--------, an eminent and distinguished member of the Philadelphia Bar, of which the following is a copy: Philadelphia, Nov. 14th, 1845. To Wm. Hogan, Esq. I make no apology for troubling you with this communication, having read your books and thereby perceived that you are willing to serve the cause of truth and justice. A suit has been instituted against the county of Philadelphia, by a Society calling themselves "the Brothers of the Order of Hermits of St. Augustine," to recover damages--laid in the declaration, at one hundred thousand dollars--for the destruction of the church of St. Augustine of this city. The Act of Assembly, upon which the suit is founded, gives the remedy to the owners of the property, and it is a part of my duty, in defending this suit, to see that the suit is brought by the rightful persons, as a recovery by the wrong ones, would not bar those justly entitled, in a second action. You perceive, therefore, that it becomes important to know who these Brothers are. I have searched the records of their enrolment in vain for their charter and deeds. None are to be found, and indeed everything in relation to them is involved in such mystery that it is difficult to get along. As you resided a long time in the city and were, doubtless, intimate with some of the parties, would you do me the favor to enlighten me on the following points? 1. Who are the Brothers of the Order of Hermits of St. Augustine? by whom instituted? are they enabled to hold property? 2. What property and estate do they hold? I perceive that, in 1820, they were composed of the following persons; Michael Hurley; Prince Galligzen, Catholic pastor at Bedford, Pennsylvania; Lewis Debarth, pastor of St. Mary's Philadelphia; Patrick Kenney, pastor at Coffee Run, Chester county, Pennsylvania; and J. B. Holland, pastor at Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Did any of these churches belong to this Order? and if so, which of them? 3. It has been often said that the Pope was the real owner of the Catholic churches in the United States. Is that true? and if so, how shall I be able to prove this upon the trial of the cause? 4. It has been confidently asserted, that this Order of Hermits, is confined to ecclesiastical duties, and is prohibited from holding real estate. Is this true, and if so, how shall I be able to prove it? An early answer, if it suits your convenience, will much oblige yours,------!!!!! We see, from the above letter, the _modus operandi_ of the Romish Church in acquiring temporal power in this country. It is an axiom, and one as well understood by Americans as any other people in the world, that "money is power," and Papists understand it equally well. These artful encroachers upon liberty, are not deceived in the effects which must result from the possession of property. Give them money, give them real estate, give them space and room for their followers, and they will ask no more from Americans,--the rest they will have in spite of them. I would call the attention of any intelligent American, to the above letter. I wish he would sit down with me and calculate, for a moment, the probable amount of property which the Popish Church now owns in the United States. In Philadelphia, one church possessed by an individual member of a comparatively obscure order of friars, is estimated to be worth one hundred thousand dollars. Let us suppose that this order of friars owns or claims ownership to fifty such churches in the single State of Pennsylvania. That would give the Order of Hermits of St. Augustine five million dollars' worth of property in Pennsylvania alone, without even taking into consideration the appurtenances and real estate belonging to these churches; and if we admit that the "Brothers of the Order of Hermits," own far themselves, or as the Pope's agents, property worth five millions of dollars in Pennsylvania, what must be the amount owned by other different orders of friars, priests, and Jesuits, in that State? The amount, if correctly estimated, would baffle my limited powers of calculation. But Pennsylvania is not the only state in the Union where Popish friars and priests are getting possession of real estate. They own millions upon millions' worth of property in almost every slate in the Union, but especially in Maryland, Louisiana, South Carolina, Ohio, New York, and Massachusetts. But it will be said, and I have heard it said in Boston, that the Popish Church cannot possibly own much property without the knowledge of our citizens, and can consequently acquire no influence of any amount from that source. There again Americans are deceived, and literally, as we term it, gulled by the Church of Rome. This is exemplified in the case alluded to in the above letter. There were but few in Philadelphia,--if any besides Popish priests,--who knew even of the existence of such an Order as that of the "Brothers of St. Augustine." I have searched in vain, says my correspondent, "for an enrolment of their charter." There was no record of it to be found; yet the Order exists, and lays claim to damages amounting to one hundred thousand dollars, for the burning of a church, which forms but a fraction of that property which they allege to be their own. In vain do we examine our tax books, to ascertain the amount of property claimed as belonging to the Popish Church. We may look them over till the day of judgment and not be the wiser. Millions are now owned in the single city of Boston by the Popish Church, of which the Bostonians, with all their shrewdness, have not the remotest idea. It is owned under cover, under fictitious names, and otherwise. It may be regularly appraised; its taxes may be regularly paid, but who it belongs to, or who has the beneficial interest of it, is what cannot be known until the arrival of the time when the law requires, and imperatively demands, that a legal ownership should be established, as happens to be the case in Philadelphia. It will be asked what reply I have made to my correspondent in Philadelphia. I answer none at all; at least I have made none to the questions propounded to me. It may farther be asked, why not? It is for the very reason which my correspondent assigns for propounding his questions to me. I wish to serve the cause of truth and justice, but I have no desire to interfere in party questions, except in the way of my profession, on the emolument of which I am chiefly dependent for the means of subsistence. Were I to pause, in the course of my opposition to Popery, and turn aside to interfere in particular cases of controversy, I should soon lose the influence which I may now have in advancing the moral interest of the community at large. I should soon be considered, not the friend of abstract "truth and justice," but a party barrator, unworthy the confidence and respect of my fellow citizens. There is, besides, another reason for not yielding to the wishes of my respected correspondent I have resided, as he himself states, "for some years in Philadelphia," and never have I ceased, during that time, to warn its inhabitants against the encroachments of Popery amongst them. But they heeded not my warning, and permitted the Papists of that city to heap upon me the grossest abuse that man ever endured. I have, over and over again, appealed to the Protestant inhabitants of Philadelphia, to come to my aid in my efforts to guard their religion and civil rights against the rapacious and impious efforts of the Court of Rome to destroy and rob them of both. I have offered them my personal services gratis for five years, if they would supply me with a church or pulpit, where I could preach and protest against the following doctrines; viz., Auricular Confessions, the Supremacy of the Pope of Rome, the Popish Latin Mass, and the idolatrous doctrine of Transubstantiation. I made this offer through one or two of the public presses in Philadelphia, but the offer was entirely rejected by some, and coldly received by others. Here I must state--though with great regret--that not a single Protestant clergyman, of any denomination whatever, either in Philadelphia or elsewhere in the United States, offered me his pulpit, his aid, or his counsel. The doctrines, which I was willing to maintain then, were precisely those which John Ronge is disseminating in Germany; and there is not a Protestant clergyman in that country, who would withhold from him the use of his pulpit, or his influence, in so holy a cause as that in which he is engaged. But I can see a shade of difference, and not a very slight one, between German and American Protestants. The heart of a German Protestant can be approached, through the medium of his understanding and conceptions of his moral obligations; that of an American Protestant, in many instances, can be touched only through his pocket. There is a sort of magnetic communication, or something else, between gold and the souls of some American Protestants. Solomon says that money can do all things; and had he alluded to this country alone, the saying of the wise man would have been doubly true. But happily a change seems to have come over the spirits of our Protestant Christians. They are coming up to the work of gospel labor with a noble zeal. There is but one voice among them on the subject of Popery, and may that voice be heard throughout the four corners of the globe. Down with the Pope Down with Popery! and may the God of mercy save and convert the poor deluded Papists. I believe I am safe in saying that there is not at present an evangelical clergyman in the United States, who would refuse the use of his pulpit or church to any individual, properly qualified to expose the errors and idolatries of the Popish church. I have had, myself, applications from some of the most eminent men in the Orthodox church in this country, to preach and lecture from their pulpits, and should most cordially have accepted the friendly offer, if my feeble state for the last few months, had not entirely forbidden it. The same cause also at present forbids it. I have here digressed from the purpose of this volume. But the Subject towards which the digression is made, is of too much importance to be fairly discussed within the limits of any digression, however wide or extensive it may be. It is one which must soon occupy the serious attention of our most talented and best informed Christian writers. It demands the consideration of all who understand the blasting influence of Popery upon the morals of the rising genera-. tion. Protestant theologians must come up to the work; they must open their churches, and pulpits, and lend their influence and their talents to put down Popery, or Popery will put them down. Nor let them suppose that when I charge them with apathy in this good cause, I am indulging any feelings of personal disappointment, or moved by any fitful, fretful, or angry thoughts towards them. On the contrary, it is because I entertain no such sentiments, that I speak with freedom of things as they once struck me. I should be as silent as the grave on the subject, were it in the power of any man living to attribute to me pecuniary or interested motives. But to return to the point from which we have, in a measure, digressed. Such is the deception practised upon Roman Catholics, through the confessional, by their church, priests and their agents, that they (the Catholics) will not believe the plainest truths, unless sanctioned by them. I have often known them to discredit the testimony of their own senses, and I have now before me a case in point, confirming this almost incredible assertion. It appears that some time ago, when much anxiety was manifested in England and elsewhere, in regard to the alleged destitute condition of the Irish tenantry, the London Times accused O'Connell, the Pope's agent in Ireland, of being himself one of the most oppressive landlords, and reducing his tenants to the most wretched condition. This was a serious charge against the Pope's vicegerent It could not, it must not be admitted. It will be recollected by the reader, that O'Connell and the Popish priests of Ireland have been for years, without any intermission whatever, accusing Protestant landlords and Protestant clergymen of oppressing their tenants, and reducing them to the very extreme of want and penury. The proprietors of the London Times, aided by several philanthropic Protestant gentlemen, resolved to send over to Ireland a few gentlemen of known veracity, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of this serious accusation. They accordingly entered upon the discharge of their duty, proceeded forthwith to Ireland, and reported the condition of affairs just as they found them. According to their report, the charge against Protestant landlords had no foundation in fact, and was pronounced in the Times to be utterly groundless. No sooner had the Times reached the Island of Saints, than the whole body of saints, angeles, and archangels--by whom we are to understand Popish priests, bishops, and archbishops--rose in a body, together with their presses, pamphleteers, periodicals, &c, and pronounced the statement of the commissioners a base falsehood, and the Times itself a vile and scurrilous press. The proprietors of the Times and their friends were not, however, to be put down by this bullying; they were not to be put down by this shameless beggar, inflated gascon and traitor, O'Connell. They proposed to O'Connell to send over six gentlemen, to meet any six whom he and his Popish friends might appoint, to examine the condition of the tenants upon O'Connell's own estate, taking that as a fair and most impartial specimen of the condition of the Irish tenantry. Nothing fairer than this could be offered. Surely, if all the misery of the Irish tenantry were fairly to be attributed to the Protestant church and Protestant landlords, no portion of it could be found on those estates owned and held by Roman Catholics. But what was the course of O'Connell upon this occasion? He called a meeting of the saints, angels, and archangels, and laid before them the proposal of the Times; but lo! and behold! he and they shrank from the proposition. On the receipt of their refusal, a competent individual was sent from the Times' office, to accompany the commissioners back to Ireland, and to take note of what they saw in presence of Mr. O'Connell, or any of his friends whom he might appoint. The commissioners proceeded to the estate of Mr. O'Connell, in the county of Kerry, Ireland. They spent three days walking over it, going into every cottage and making personal inquiries. The result was published in the Times of December 25th, 1845. It speaks for itself, and cannot fail to be satisfactory to any man of truth and honor. The first day, the commissioners were accompanied by an agent of Mr. Hartop, under whom Mr. O'Connell holds some lands as a middleman. The second day they were accompanied from Valentia by Mr. O'Conner's own steward, throughout the whole of their inspection. The third day they were accompanied by one of O'Connell's sons, Morris O'Connell. They inspected his father's estates from Waterville to Derrynane Beg. At Ardcara,--a town land which Mr. O'Connell holds on a lease of his own life, and sublets to a middleman,--the condition of the huts was perfectly horrible. The commissioners thus conclude their report upon the condition of the poor tenantry on the lands of Daniel O'Connell, the great liberator of Ireland--he who is sacrificing his time, his fortune, for the amelioration of the condition of mankind at large, but especially the Irish. It is with difficulty I can restrain a tear of sorrow, while I read the report which is given of the poor creatures who are the tenants of this cold-blooded hypocrite, O'Connell. I can already fancy the impatience of my readers to hear the conclusion of it Here it is. Listen to it, I pray you, American Protestants. Hear it, you simple-hearted Irishmen in the United States, who have contributed thousands and tens of thousands to support in luxury this heartless impostor, O'Connell. "We have?" say the commissioners, "been all over England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, and we declare solemnly, that in no part of the United Kingdom is such neglected wretchedness, such filth, such squalor, such misery of every kind, to be seen, as we saw on Mr. O' Connell's estate, in the presence of his son, Morris O'Connell." There was a law among the Athenians, which provided that he who accused another of crime, and failed to substantiate or make good the accusation, should forfeit his head. Some doubted the wisdom of this law; but there was one good in it which no man can question. It showed that he who accused another justly, was a man of principle, bold and intrepid in the cause of truth and justice. It showed, besides, that the crime of false swearing, or falsely accusing another, was looked upon as a crime hateful in its character, and of the utmost magnitude. If this old Athenian law were in force in Ireland, where now would be the head of O'Connell? Just where it ought to be, on the point of a spear at the top of some steeple, where the passer-by might point at it and say, there is the head of Daniel O'Connell, the false accuser of his Protestant countrymen. Where would be the heads of the Roman Catholic Bishops and Archbishops of Ireland? Where would be the heads of Bishops Hughes of New York, Fenwick of Boston, Purcel of Cincinnati, and the other Popish bishops of this country, who accuse American Protestants, and their clergymen, of persecuting Roman Catholics? They might be found rolling in the dust. We should thank Heaven that no such law is to be found under the sanction of our free Constitution. But, though these men do not legally forfeit their heads, they lose all claim to the respect and confidence of every man of veracity and honor in any country. What now must be thought of the veracity of O'Connell, the would-be Liberator of Ireland? What must an American Christian think of those Popish bishops, who vouch for the truth of O'Connell's statements? I know not, but my mind has long since been formed and long since frankly expressed. They may not, perhaps, be worse than others similarly situated, but the position of these men, in this country at least, renders them, morally and politically, iniquitous, and Americans should keep a watchful eye on them. Americans are not a very suspicious people; freemen are seldom so. But let not even freemen ever forget, that the world is governed by men, and that men are governed by their passions and interests. It is peculiarly the duty of the citizens of the United States, to observe closely, the movements of O'Connell and Irish priests among them. There are many of the latter mixed up with Americans, and exercising a mighty influence over their political destinies; and it is the business of our laws to restrain them. Inquiries are now being made, to ascertain how far the governments of Europe are interfering with our Republican Institutions. Some movements to that effect have recently been made in Congress, and I beg to assure him who has originated this inquiry, that if he perseveres and carries it through, he will find that there is not in Europe, a monarchical power, or a Popish power, under whatever name it may appear, that is not engaged in endeavoring to overthrow this Republic They have been planning this for years, and finding that all other means were likely to prove inefficacious, they have concluded to introduce a Trojan horse into the citadel of our liberties, taking good care to fill it with Popish traitors fully armed and equipped. The limits of this volume do not permit me to dwell farther on this subject, but _graviora manent_. 
39537	----	CAMBRIDGE STUDIES IN MEDIEVAL LIFE AND THOUGHT Edited by G. G. COULTON, M.A. Fellow of St John's College, Cambridge and University Lecturer in English MEDIEVAL ENGLISH NUNNERIES CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS C. F. CLAY, MANAGER LONDON: FETTER LANE, E.C. 4 NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO. BOMBAY } CALCUTTA } MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. MADRAS } TORONTO: THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TOKYO: MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA ALL RIGHTS RESERVED [Illustration: PLATE I PAGE FROM _LA SAINTE ABBAYE_ (At the top of the picture a priest with two acolytes prepares the sacrament; behind them stand the abbess, holding her staff, her chaplain and the sacristan, who rings the bell; behind them a group of four nuns, including the cellaress with her keys. At the bottom is a procession of priest, acolytes and nuns in the quire.)] MEDIEVAL ENGLISH NUNNERIES c. 1275 to 1535 BY EILEEN POWER SOMETIME FELLOW AND LECTURER OF GIRTON COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE [Illustration: MADAME EGLENTYNE (From the Ellesmere MS.)] CAMBRIDGE AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS 1922 TO M. G. J. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN GENERAL PREFACE There is only too much truth in the frequent complaint that history, as compared with the physical sciences, is neglected by the modern public. But historians have the remedy in their own hands; choosing problems of equal importance to those of the scientist, and treating them with equal accuracy, they will command equal attention. Those who insist that the proportion of accurately ascertainable facts is smaller in history, and therefore the room for speculation wider, do not thereby establish any essential distinction between truth-seeking in history and truth-seeking in chemistry. The historian, whatever be his subject, is as definitely bound as the chemist "to proclaim certainties as certain, falsehoods as false, and uncertainties as dubious." Those are the words, not of a modern scientist, but of the seventeenth century monk, Jean Mabillon; they sum up his literary profession of faith. Men will follow us in history as implicitly as they follow the chemist, if only we will form the chemist's habit of marking clearly where our facts end and our inferences begin. Then the public, so far from discouraging our speculations, will most heartily encourage them; for the most positive man of science is always grateful to anyone who, by putting forward a working theory, stimulates further discussion. The present series, therefore, appeals directly to that craving for clearer facts which has been bred in these times of storm and stress. No care can save us altogether from error; but, for our own sake and the public's, we have elected to adopt a safeguard dictated by ordinary business commonsense. Whatever errors of fact are pointed out by reviewers or correspondents shall be publicly corrected with the least possible delay. After a year of publication, all copies shall be provided with such an erratum-slip without waiting for the chance of a second edition; and each fresh volume in this series shall contain a full list of the errata noted in its immediate predecessor. After the lapse of a year from the first publication of any volume, and at any time during the ensuing twelve months, any possessor of that volume who will send a stamped and addressed envelope to the Cambridge University Press, Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, London, E.C. 4, shall receive, in due course, a free copy of the _errata_ in that volume. Thus, with the help of our critics, we may reasonably hope to put forward these monographs as roughly representing the most accurate information obtainable under present conditions. Our facts being thus secured, the reader will judge our inferences on their own merits; and something will have been done to dissipate that cloud of suspicion which hangs over too many important chapters in the social and religious history of the Middle Ages. G. G. C. _October, 1922._ AUTHOR'S PREFACE The monastic ideal and the development of the monastic rule and orders have been studied in many admirable books. The purpose of the present work is not to describe and analyse once again that ideal, but to give a general picture of English nunnery life during a definite period, the three centuries before the Dissolution. It is derived entirely from pre-Reformation sources, and the tainted evidence of Henry VIII's commissioners has not been used; nor has the story of the suppression of the English nunneries been told. The nunneries dealt with are drawn from all the monastic orders, except the Gilbertine order, which has been omitted, both because it differed from others in containing double houses of men and women and because it has already been the subject of an excellent monograph by Miss Rose Graham. It remains for me to record my deep gratitude to two scholars, in whose debt students of medieval monastic history must always lie, Mr G. G. Coulton and Mr A. Hamilton Thompson. I owe more than I can say to their unfailing interest and readiness to discuss, to help and to criticise. To Mr Hamilton Thompson I am specially indebted for the loan of his transcripts and translations of Alnwick's Register, now in course of publication, for reading and criticising my manuscript and finally for undertaking the arduous work of reading my proofs. I gratefully acknowledge suggestions received at different times from Mr Hubert Hall, Miss Rose Graham and Canon Foster, and faithful criticism from my friend Miss M. G. Jones. I have also to thank Mr H. S. Bennett for kindly preparing the index, and Mr Sydney Cockerell, Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, for assistance in the choice of illustrations. EILEEN POWER. GIRTON COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. _September 1922_ CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I. THE NOVICE Situation, income and size of the English nunneries 1 Nuns drawn from (1) the nobles and gentry 4 (2) the middle class 9 Nunneries in medieval wills 14 The dowry system 16 Motives for taking the veil: (1) a career and a vocation for girls 25 (2) a 'dumping ground' for political prisoners 29 (3) for illegitimate, deformed or half-witted girls 30 (4) nuns forced unwillingly to profess by their relations 33 (5) a refuge for widows and occasionally for wives 38 CHAPTER II. THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE Superiors usually women of social standing 42 Elections and election disputes 43 Resignations 56 Special temptations of a superior: (1) excessive independence and comfort 59 (2) autocratic government 64 (3) favouritism 66 The superior a great lady in the country side 68 Journeys 69 Luxurious clothes and entertainments 73 Picture of heads of houses in Bishop Alnwick's Lincoln visitations (1436-49) 80 Wicked prioresses 82 Good prioresses 89 General conclusion: Chaucer's picture borne out by the records 94 CHAPTER III. WORLDLY GOODS Evidence as to monastic property in (1) the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ 96 (2) monastic account rolls 97 Variation of size and income among houses 98 Methods of administration of estates 99 Sources of income: (1) rents from land and houses 100 (2) manorial perquisites and grants 103 (3) issues of the manor 109 (4) miscellaneous payments 112 (5) spiritualities 113 Expenses 117 (1) internal expenses of the convent 119 (2) divers expenses 123 (3) repairs 123 (4) the home farm 125 (5) the wages sheet 129 CHAPTER IV. MONASTIC HOUSEWIVES The obedientiaries 131 Allocation of income and obedientiaries' accounts 134 Chambresses' accounts (clothes) 137 Cellaresses' accounts (food) 137 Servants 143 (1) chaplain 144 (2) administrative officials 146 (3) household staff 150 (4) farm labourers 150 Nunnery households 151 Relations between nuns and servants 154 Occasional hired labour 157 Villages occasionally dependent upon nunneries for work 158 CHAPTER V. FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES Poverty of nunneries 161 (1) prevalence of debt 162 (2) insufficient food and clothing 164 (3) ruinous buildings 168 (4) nuns begging alms 172 Reasons for poverty: (1) natural disasters 176 (2) ecclesiastical exactions and royal taxes 183 (3) feudal and other services 185 (4) right of patrons to take temporalities during voidance 186 (5) right of bishop and king to nominate nuns on certain occasions 188 (6) pensions, corrodies, grants and liveries 194 (7) hospitality 200 (8) litigation 201 (9) bad management 203 (10) extravagance 211 (11) overcrowding with nuns 212 Methods adopted by bishops to remedy financial distress: (1) devices to safeguard expenditure by the head of the house 217 (2) episcopal licence required for business transactions 225 (3) appointment of a _custos_ 228 CHAPTER VI. EDUCATION The education of the nuns: Learning of Anglo-Saxon nuns, and of German nuns at a later date 237 Little learning in English nunneries during the later middle ages 238 Nunnery libraries and nuns' books 240 Education of nuns 244 Latin in nunneries 246 Translations for the use of nuns 251 Needlework 255 Simple forms of medicine 258 Nunneries as schools for children: The education of novices 260 The education of secular children 261 Boys 263 Limitations: (1) not all nunneries took children 264 (2) only gentlefolk taken 265 (3) disapproval and restriction of nunnery schools by the ecclesiastical authorities 270 What did the nuns teach? 274 Life of school children in nunneries 279 'Piety and breeding' 281 CHAPTER VII. ROUTINE AND REACTION Division of the day by the Benedictine Rule 285 The Benedictine combination of prayer, study and labour breaks down 288 Dead routine 289 The reaction from routine 290 (1) carelessness in singing the services 291 (2) _accidia_ 293 (3) quarrels 297 (4) gay clothes 303 (5) pet animals 305 (6) dancing, minstrels and merry-making 309 CHAPTER VIII. PRIVATE LIFE AND PRIVATE PROPERTY The monastic obligation to (1) communal life, (2) personal poverty 315 The breakdown of communal life: division into _familiae_ with private rooms 316 The breakdown of personal poverty 322 (1) the annual _peculium_ 323 (2) money pittances 323 (3) gifts in money and kind 324 (4) legacies 325 (5) proceeds of a nun's own labour 330 Private life and private property in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries 331 Attitude of ecclesiastical authorities 336 CHAPTER IX. FISH OUT OF WATER Enclosure in the Benedictine Rule 341 The movement for the enclosure of nuns 343 The Bull _Periculoso_ 344 Attempts to enforce enclosure in England 346 Attempts to regulate and restrict the emergence of nuns from their houses 353 The usual pretexts for breaking enclosure: (1) illness 361 (2) to enter a stricter rule 363 (3) convent business 367 (4) ceremonies, processions, funerals 368 (5) pilgrimages 371 (6) visits to friends 376 (7) short walks, field work 381 The nuns wander freely about in the world 385 Conclusion 391 CHAPTER X. THE WORLD IN THE CLOISTER Visitors in the cloister are another side of the enclosure problem 394 The scholars of Oxford and Cambridge and the neighbouring nunneries 395 Regulations to govern the entrance of seculars into nunneries: (1) certain persons not to be admitted 401 (2) certain parts of the house and certain hours forbidden 402 (3) unsuccessful attempts to regulate the reception of boarders 409 The nuns and political movements 419 Robbery and violence 422 Border raids in Durham and Yorkshire 425 The strange tale of Sir John Arundel's outrage on a nunnery 429 The sack of Origny in _Raoul de Cambrai_ 432 CHAPTER XI. THE OLDE DAUNCE Nuns and the celibate ideal 436 Sources of evidence for the moral state of the English nunneries 439 Apostate nuns 440 Nuns' lovers 446 Nuns' children 450 Disorder in two small houses, Cannington (1351) and Easebourne (1478) 452 Disorder in the great abbeys of Amesbury and Godstow 454 Moral state of the nunneries in the diocese of Lincoln at two periods 456 Attempted statistical estimate of cases of immorality in Lincoln (1430-50), Norwich (1514) and Chichester (1478, 1524) dioceses 460 Punishment of offenders 462 General conclusions 471 CHAPTER XII. THE MACHINERY OF REFORM The chapter meeting 475 Reform by external authorities: (1) a parent house 478 (2) the chapter general of the order 481 (3) the bishop of the diocese 482 The episcopal visitation and injunctions 483 How far was this control adequate? (1) concealment of faults 488 (2) visitation too infrequent 490 (3) difficulty of enforcing injunctions 492 Value of visitation documents to the historian 493 CHAPTER XIII. THE NUN IN MEDIEVAL LITERATURE Value of literary evidence 499 Autobiographies and biographies of nuns 500 Popular poetry (_chansons de nonnes_) 502 Popular stories (_fabliaux_, _exempla_) 515 Didactic works addressed to nuns 523 Satires and moral treatises 533 Secular literature in general 555 APPENDICES I. ADDITIONAL NOTES TO THE TEXT: A. The daily fare of Barking Abbey 563 B. School children in nunneries 568 C. Nunnery disputes 581 D. Gay clothes 585 E. Convent pets in literature 588 F. The moral state of Littlemore Priory in the sixteenth century 595 G. The moral state of the Yorkshire nunneries in the first half of the fourteenth century 597 H. The disappearance or suppression of eight nunneries prior to 1535 602 I. _Chansons de Nonnes_ 604 J. The theme of the nun in love in medieval popular literature 622 K. Nuns in the _Dialogus Miraculorum_ of Caesarius of Heisterbach 627 II. VISITATIONS OF NUNNERIES IN THE DIOCESE OF ROUEN BY ARCHBISHOP EUDES RIGAUD (1248-1269) 634 III. FIFTEENTH CENTURY SAXON VISITATIONS BY JOHANN BUSCH 670 IV. LIST OF ENGLISH NUNNERIES, C. 1275-1535 685 BIBLIOGRAPHY 693 INDEX 704 LIST OF PLATES PLATE I Page from _La Sainte Abbaye_ FRONTISPIECE (Brit. Mus. MS. Add. 39843. Folio 6vº.) TO FACE PAGE II Abbess receiving the pastoral staff from a bishop 44 (From _The Metz Pontifical_, 82(b)vº and 90vº, in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.) III Page from _La Sainte Abbaye_ 144 (Folio 29.) IV Brass of Ela Buttry, the stingy Prioress of Campsey ([dagger] 1546), in St Stephen's Church, Norwich 168 (From _Norfolk Archaeology_, Vol. VI; Norf. and Norwich Archaeol. Soc. 1864.) V Page from _La Sainte Abbaye_ 260 (Folio 1vº.) VI Dominican nuns in quire 286 (From Brit. Mus. Cott. MSS. Dom. A XII f.) VII The nun who loved the world 388 (From _Queen Mary's Psalter_, Brit. Mus. Royal MS. 2 B. VII.) VIII Plan of Lacock Abbey 403 (From _Archaeologia_, LVII, by permission of the Society of Antiquaries and Mr Harold Brakspear.) MAP Map showing the English Nunneries in the later middle ages AT END MEDIEVAL ENGLISH NUNNERIES CHAPTER I THE NOVICE Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell. First a-mornings take your book, The glass wherein yourself must look; Your young thoughts so proud and jolly Must be turn'd to motions holy; For your busk, attires and toys, Have your thoughts on heavenly joys: And for all your follies past, You must do penance, pray and fast. You shall ring your sacring bell, Keep your hours and tell your knell, Rise at midnight to your matins, Read your psalter, sing your Latins; And when your blood shall kindle pleasure, Scourge yourself in plenteous measure. You must read the morning mass, You must creep unto the cross, Put cold ashes on your head, Have a hair cloth for your bed, Bind your beads, and tell your needs, Your holy Aves and your Creeds; Holy maid, this must be done, If you mean to live a nun. _The Merry Devil of Edmonton._ There were in England during the later middle ages (c. 1270-1536) some 138 nunneries, excluding double houses of the Gilbertine order, which contained brothers as well as nuns. Of these over one half belonged to the Benedictine order and about a quarter (localised almost entirely in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire) to the Cistercian order. The rest were distributed as follows: 17 to the order of St Augustine and one (Minchin Buckland), which belonged to the order of St John of Jerusalem and followed the Austin rule, four to the Franciscan order, two to the Cluniac order, two to the Premonstratensian order and one to the Dominican order. There was also founded in the fifteenth century a very famous double house of the Brigittine order, Syon Abbey. Twenty-one of these houses had the status of abbeys; the rest were priories. They were distributed all over the country, Surrey, Lancashire, Westmorland and Cornwall being the only counties without one, but they were more thickly spread over the eastern than over the western half of the island. They were most numerous in the North, East and East Midlands, to wit, in the dioceses of York, Lincoln (which was then very large and included Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire, Rutland, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, Leicestershire, Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire and part of Hertfordshire) and Norwich; there were 27 houses in the diocese of York, 31 in the diocese of Lincoln, ten in the diocese of Norwich and in London and its suburbs there were seven. On the other hand if nunneries were most plentiful in the North and East Midlands it was there that they were smallest and poorest. The wealthiest and most famous nunneries in England were all south of the Thames. Apart from the new foundation at Syon, which very soon became the largest and richest of all, the greatest houses were the old established abbeys of Wessex, Shaftesbury, Wilton, St Mary's Winchester, Romsey and Wherwell, which, together with Barking in Essex were all of Anglo-Saxon foundation; and Dartford in Kent, founded by Edward III. The only houses north of the Thames which approached these in importance were Godstow and Elstow Abbeys, in Oxfordshire and Bedfordshire respectively; the majority were small priories with small incomes. An analysis of the incomes and numerical size of English nunneries at the dissolution gives interesting and somewhat startling results. Out of 106 houses for which information is available only seven had in 1535 a gross annual income of over £450 a year. The richest were Syon and Shaftesbury with £1943 and £1324 respectively; then came Barking with £862, Wilton with £674, Amesbury with £595, Romsey with £528 and Dartford with £488. Five others (St Helen's Bishopsgate, Haliwell and the Minories all in London, Elstow and Godstow) had from £300 to £400; nine others (Nuneaton, Clerkenwell, Malling, St Mary's Winchester, Tarrant Keynes, Canonsleigh, Campsey, Minchin Buckland and Lacock) had from £200 to £300. Twelve had between £100 and £200 and no less than 73 houses had under £100, of which 39 actually had under £50; and it must be remembered that the net annual income, after the deduction of certain annual charges, was less still[1]. An analysis of the numerical size of nunneries presents more difficulties, for the number of nuns given sometimes differs in the reports referring to the same house and it is doubtful whether commissioners or receivers always set down the total number of nuns present at the visitation or dissolution of a house; while lists of pensions paid by the crown to ex-inmates after dissolution are still more incomplete as evidence. A rough analysis, however, leaves very much the same impression as an analysis of incomes[2]. Out of 111 houses, for which some sort of numerical estimate is possible, only four have over thirty inmates, viz. Syon (51), Amesbury (33), Wilton (32) and Barking (30). Eight (Elstow, the Minories, Nuneaton, Denny, Romsey, Wherwell, Dartford and St Mary's Winchester) have from 20 to 30; thirty-six have from 10 to 20 and sixty-three have under 10. These statistics permit of certain large generalisations. First, that the majority of English nunneries were small and poor. Secondly, that, as has already been pointed out, the largest and richest houses were all in London and south of the Thames; only four houses north of that river had gross incomes of over £200 and only three could boast of more than 20 inmates. Thirdly, the nunneries during this period owned land and rents to the annual value of over £15,500 and contained perhaps between 1500 and 2000 nuns. To understand the history of the English nunneries during the later middle ages it is necessary not only to understand the smallness and poverty of many of the houses and the high repute of others; it is necessary also to understand what manner of women took the veil in them. From what social classes were the nuns drawn, and for what reason did they enter religion? What function did monasticism, so far as it concerned women, fulfil in the life of medieval society? It has been shown that the proportion of women who became nuns was very small in comparison with the total female population. It has indeed been insufficiently recognised that the medieval nunneries were recruited almost entirely from among the upper classes. They were essentially aristocratic institutions, the refuge of the gently born. At Romsey Abbey a list of 91 sisters at the election of an abbess in 1333 is full of well-known county names[3]. The names of Bassett, Sackville, Covert, Hussey, Tawke and Farnfold occur at Easebourne[4]; Lewknor, St John, Okehurst, Michelgrove and Sidney at Rusper[5], the two small and poor nunneries in Sussex. The return of the subsidy in 1377 enumerates the sisters of Minchin Barrow and, as their historian points out, "among the family names of these ladies are some of the best that the western counties could produce"[6]. The other Somerset houses were equally aristocratic, and an examination of the roll of prioresses for almost any medieval convent in any part of England will give the same result, even in the smallest and poorest nunneries, the inmates of which were reduced to begging alms[7]. These ladies appear sometimes to have had the spirit of their race, as they often had its manners and its tastes. For 21 years Isabel Stanley, Prioress of King's Mead, Derby, refused to pay a rent due from her house to the Abbot of Burton; at last the Abbot sent his bailiff to distrain for it and she spoke her mind in good set terms. "Wenes these churles to overlede me," cried this worthy daughter of a knightly family, "or sue the lawe agayne me? They shall not be so hardy but they shall avye upon their bodies and be nailed with arrows; for I am a gentlewoman, comen of the greatest of Lancashire and Cheshire, and that they shall know right well"[8]. A tacit recognition of the aristocratic character of the convents is to be found in the fact that bishops were often at pains to mention the good birth of the girls whom, in accordance with a general right, they nominated to certain houses on certain occasions. Thus Wykeham wrote to the Abbess of St Mary's Winchester, bidding her admit Joan Bleden, "quest de bone et honeste condition, come nous sumes enformes"[9]. More frequently still the candidates were described as "domicella" or "damoysele"[10]. At least one instance is extant of a bishop ordering that all the nuns of a house were to be of noble condition[11]. The fact that the greater portion of the female population was unaffected by the existence of the outlet provided by conventual life for women's energies is a significant one. The reason for it--paradoxical as this may sound--lies in the very narrowness of the sphere to which women of gentle birth were confined. The disadvantage of rank is that so many honest occupations are not, in its eyes, honourable occupations. In the lowest ranks of society the poor labourer upon the land had no need to get rid of his daughter, if he could not find her a husband, nor would it have been to his interest to do so; for, working in the fields among his sons, or spinning and brewing with his wife at home, she could earn a supplementary if not a living wage. The tradesman or artisan in the town was in a similar position. He recognised that the ideal course was to find a husband for his growing girl, but the alternative was in no sense that she should eat out her heart and his income during long years at home; and if he were too poor to provide her with a sufficient dower, he could and often did apprentice her to a trade. The number of industries which were carried on by women in the middle ages shows that for the burgess and lower classes there were other outlets besides marriage; and then, as now, domestic service provided for many. But the case of the well-born lady was different. The knight or the county gentleman could not apprentice his superfluous daughters to a pursemaker or a weaver in the town; not from them were drawn the regrateresses in the market place and the harvest gatherers in the field; nor was it theirs to make the parti-coloured bed and shake the coverlet, worked with grapes and unicorns, in some rich vintner's house. There remained for him, if he did not wish or could not afford to keep them at home and for them, if they desired some scope for their young energies, only marriage or else a convent, where they might go with a smaller dower than a husband of their own rank would demand. To say that the convents were the refuge of the gently born is not to say that there was no admixture of classes within them. The term gentleman was becoming more comprehensive in the later middle ages. It included the upper class proper, the families of noble birth; and it included also the country gentry. The convents were probably at first recruited almost entirely from these two ranks of society, and a study of any collection of medieval wills shows how large a proportion of such families took advantage of this opening for women. A phrase will sometimes occur which shows that it was regarded as the natural and obvious alternative to marriage. Sir John Daubriggecourt in 1415 left his daughter Margery 40 marks, "if she be wedded to a worldly husband, and if she be caused to receive the sacred veil of the order of holy nuns" ten pounds and twenty shillings rent[12], and Sir John le Blund in 1312 bequeathed an annuity to his daughter Ann, "till she marry or enter a religious house"[13]. The anxiety of the upper classes to secure a place for their children in nunneries sometimes even led to overcrowding. At Carrow the Prioress was forced to complain that "certain lords of England whom she was unable to resist because of their power" forced their daughters upon the priory as nuns, and in 1273 a papal bull forbade the reception of more inmates than the revenues would support[14]. Archbishop William Wickwane addressed a similar mandate to two Yorkshire houses, Wilberfoss and Nunkeeling, which public rumour had informed him to be overburdened with nuns and with secular boarders "at the instance of nobles"[15]; and in 1327 Bishop Stratford wrote to Romsey Abbey that the house was notoriously burdened with ladies beyond the established number, and that he had heard that the nuns were being forced to receive more "damoyseles" as novices, which he forbade without special licence[16]. A very strong personal connection must in time have been established between a nunnery and certain families from which, in each generation, it received a daughter or a niece and her dower. Such was the connection between Shouldham and the Beauchamps[17] and between Nunmonkton and the Fairfaxes[18]. A close link bound each nunnery to the family of its patron. Thus we find a Clinton at Wroxall and a Darcy at Heynings; nor is it unlikely that these noble ladies sometimes expected privileges and homage more than the strict equality of convent life would allow, if it be permissible to generalise from the behaviour of Isabel Clinton[19] and from the fact that Margaret Darcy received a rather severe penance from Bishop Gynewell in 1351 and a special warning against going beyond the claustral precincts or speaking to strangers[20], while in 1393 there occurs the significant injunction by Bishop Bokyngham that no sister was to have a room to herself except Dame Margaret Darcy (doubtless the same woman now grown elderly and ailing) "on account of the nobility of her race"; an old lady of firm will and (despite his careful mention of extra pittances and of tolerating for a while) a somewhat sycophantic prelate[21]. It is worthy of notice that Chaucer has drawn an unmistakable "lady" in his typical prioress. There is her delicate behaviour at meals: At mete wel ytaught was she with-alle; She leet no morsel from her lippes falle, Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, That no drope ne fille upon hir brest. In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest. Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan she drunken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte[22]. This was the _ne plus ultra_ of feudal table manners; Chaucer might have been writing one of those books of deportment for the guidance of aristocratic young women, which were so numerous in France. So the _Clef d'Amors_ counsels ladies who would win them lovers[23], and even so Robert de Blois depicts the perfect diner. Robert de Blois' ideal, the chivalrous, frivolous, sensuous ideal of "courtesy," which underlay the whole aristocratic conception of life and the attainment of which was the criterion of polite society, is the ideal of the Prioress also: "Gardez vous, Dames, bien acertes," "Qu'au mengier soiez bien apertes; C'est une chose c'on moult prise Que là soit dame bien aprise. Tel chose torne à vilonie Que toutes genz ne sevent mie; Se puet cil tost avoir mespris Qui n'est cortoisement apris[24]." Later he warns against the greedy selection of the finest and largest titbit for oneself, on the ground that "n'est pas _cortoisie_." The same consideration preoccupies Madame Eglentyne at her supper: "in _curteisye_ was set ful muche hir lest." Good manners, elegant deportment, the polish of the court, all that we mean by nurture, these are her aim: And sikerly she was of greet disport, And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port, And peyned her to countrefete chere Of court, and been estatlich of manere, And to be holden digne of reverence. Her pets are the pets of ladies in metrical romances and in illuminated borders; "smale houndes," delicately fed with "rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-bread." Her very beauty (Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas, Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to soft and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe) conforms to the courtly standard. Only the mention of her chanting of divine service (through the tretys nose) differentiates her from any other well-born lady of the day; and if Chaucer had not told us whom he was describing, we might never have known that she was a nun. It was in these ideals and traditions that most of the inmates of English convents were born and bred. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, however, another class rose into prominence and, perhaps because it was originally drawn to a great extent from the younger sons of the country gentry, found amalgamation with the gentry easy. The development of trade and the new openings for the employment of capital had brought about the rise of the English merchant class. Hitherto foreigners had financed the English crown, but during the first four years of the Hundred Years' War it became clear that English merchants were now rich and powerful enough to take their place; and the triumph of the native was complete when, in 1345, Edward III repudiated his debts to the Italian merchants and the Bardi and Peruzzi failed. Henceforth the English merchants were supreme; on the one hand their trading ventures enriched them; on the other they made vast sums out of farming the customs and the war subsidies in return for loans of ready money, and out of all sorts of government contracts. The successful campaigns of Crécy and Poitiers were entirely financed by these English capitalists. Not only trade but industry swelled the ranks of the _nouveaux riches_ and the clothiers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries grew rich and prospered. Evidences of the wealth and importance of this middle class are to be found on all sides. The taxation of movables, which from 1334 became an important and in time the main source of national revenue, indicates the discovery on the part of the government that the wealth of the nation no longer lay in land, but in trade. The frequent sumptuary acts, the luxury of daily life, bear witness to the wealth of the _nouveaux riches_; and so also do their philanthropic enterprises, the beautiful churches which they built, the bridges which they repaired, the gifts which they gave to religious and to civic corporations. And it was in the fourteenth century that there began that steady fusion between the country gentry and the rich burgesses, which was accomplished before the end of the middle ages and which resulted in the formation of a solid and powerful middle class. The political amalgamation of the two classes in the lower house of Parliament corresponded to a social amalgamation in the world outside. The country knights and squires saw in business a career for their younger sons; they saw in marriage with the daughters of the mercantile class a way to mend their fortunes; the city merchants, on the other hand, saw in such alliances a road to the attainment of that social prestige which went with land and blood, and were not loath to pay the price. "Merchants or new gentlemen I deem will proffer large," wrote Edmund Paston, concerning the marriage of one of his family. "Well I wot if ye depart to London ye shall have proffers large"[25]. This social amalgamation between the country gentry and the "new gentlemen," who had made their money in trade, was naturally reflected in the nunneries. The wills of London burgesses, which were enrolled in the Court of Husting, show that the daughters of these well-to-do citizens were in the habit of taking the veil. There is even more than one trace of the aristocratic view of religion as the sole alternative to marriage. Langland, enumerating the good deeds which will win pardon for the merchant, bids him "marie maydens or maken hem nonnes"[26]. At Ludlow the gild of Palmers provided that: If any good girl of the gild of marriageable age, cannot have the means found by her father, either to go into a religious house or to marry, whichever she wishes to do, friendly and right help shall be given her out of our common chest, towards enabling her to do whichever of the two she wishes[27]. Similarly at Berwick-on-Tweed the gild "ordained by the pleasure of the burgesses" had a provision entitled, "Of the bringing up of daughters of the gild," which ran: "If any brother die leaving a daughter true and worthy and of good repute, but undowered, the gild shall find her a dower, either on marriage or on going into a religious house"[28]. So also John Syward, "stockfisshmongere" of London, whose will was proved at the Court of Husting in 1349, left, "To Dionisia his daughter forty pounds for her advancement, so that she either marry therewith or become a religious at her election, within one year after his decease"[29]; and William Wyght, of the same trade, bequeathed "to each of his daughters Agnes, Margaret, Beatrix and Alice fifty pounds sterling for their marriage or for entering a religious house" (1393)[30]; while William Marowe in 1504 bequeathed to "Elizabeth and Katherine his daughters forty pounds each, to be paid at their marriage or profession"[31]. Sometimes, however, the sound burgess sense prevailed, as when Walter Constantyn endowed his wife with "the residue of his goods, so that she assist Amicia, his niece, ... towards her marriage or to some trade befitting her position"[32]. The mixture of classes must have been more frequent in convents which were situate in or near a large town, while the country gentry had those lying in rural districts more or less to themselves. The nunnery of Carrow, for instance, was a favourite resort for girls of noble and of gentle birth, but it was also recruited from the daughters of prosperous Norwich citizens; among nuns with well-known county names there were also ladies such as Isabel Barbour, daughter of Thomas Welan, barber, and Joan his wife, Margery Folcard, daughter of John Folcard, alderman of Norwich, and Catherine Segryme, daughter of Ralph Segryme, another alderman; the latter attained the position of prioress at the end of the fifteenth century[33]. These citizens, wealthy and powerful men in days when Norwich was one of the most important towns in England, probably met on equal terms with the country gentlemen of Norfolk, and both sent their daughters with handsome dowries to Carrow. The nunneries of London and of the surrounding district contained a similar mixture of classes, ranging from some of the noblest ladies in the land to the daughters of city magnates, men enriched by honourable trade or by the less honourable capitalistic ventures of the king's merchants. The famous house of Minoresses without Aldgate illustrates the situation very clearly. It was always a special favourite of royalty; and the storm bird, Isabella, mother of Edward III, is by some supposed to have died in the order. She was certainly its constant benefactress[34] as were Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester and his wife, whose daughter Isabel was placed in the nunnery while only a child and eventually became its abbess[35]. Katherine, widow of John de Ingham, and Eleanor Lady Scrope were other aristocratic women who took the veil at the Minories[36]. But this noble connection did not prevent the house from containing Alice, sister of Richard Hale, fishmonger[37], Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas Padyngton, fishmonger[38], Marion, daughter of John Charteseye, baker[39], and Frideswida, daughter of John Reynewell, alderman of the City of London[40], girls drawn from the _élite_ of the burgess class. An investigation of the wills enrolled in the Court of Husting shows the relative popularity of different convents among the citizens of London. Between the years 1258 and the Dissolution, 52 wills contain references to one or more nuns related to the testators[41]. From these it appears that the most popular house was Clerkenwell in Middlesex, which is mentioned in nine wills[42]. Barking in Essex comes next with eight references[43], and St Helen's Bishopsgate with seven[44]; the house of Minoresses without Aldgate is five times mentioned[45], Haliwell[46] in London and Stratford-atte-Bowe[47] outside, having five and four references respectively, Kilburn in Middlesex three[48], Sopwell in Hertfordshire two[49], Malling[50] and Sheppey[51] in Kent two each. Other convents are mentioned once only and in some cases a testator leaves legacies to nuns by name, without mentioning where they are professed. All these houses were in the diocese of London and either in or near the capital itself; they lay in the counties of Middlesex, Kent, Essex, Hertford and Bedford[52]. It was but rarely that city girls went as far afield as Denny in Cambridgeshire, where the famous fishmonger and mayor of London, John Philpott, had a daughter Thomasina. Thus the nobles, the gentry and the superior rank of burgess--the upper and the upper-middle classes--sent their daughters to nunneries. But nuns were drawn from no lower class; poor girls of the lowest rank--whether the daughters of artisans or of country labourers--seem never to have taken the veil. A certain degree of education was demanded in a nun before her admission and the poor man's daughter would have neither the money, the opportunity, nor the leisure to acquire it. The manorial fine paid by a villein when he wished to put his son to school and make a religious of him, had no counterpart in the case of girls[53]; the taking of the veil by a villein's daughter was apparently not contemplated. The chief barrier which shut out the poor from the nunneries was doubtless the dower which, in spite of the strict prohibition of the rule, was certainly required from a novice in almost every convent. The lay sisters of those nunneries which had lay sisters attached were probably drawn mainly from the lower class[54], but it must have been in the highest degree exceptional for a poor or low-born girl to become a nun. Medieval wills (our most trusty source of information for the _personnel_ of the nunneries) make it possible to gauge the extent to which the upper and middle classes used the nunneries as receptacles for superfluous daughters. In these wills, in which the medieval paterfamilias laboriously catalogues his offspring and divides his wealth between them, it is easy to guess at the embarrassments of a father too well-blessed with female progeny. What was poor Simon the Chamberlain of the diocese of Worcester to do, with six strapping girls upon his hands and sons Robert and Henry to provide for too? Fortunately he had a generous patron in Sir Nicholas de Mitton and it was perhaps Sir Nicholas who provided the dowers, when two of them were packed off to Nuneaton; let us hope that Christiana, Cecilia, Matilda and Joan married themselves out of the legacies which he left them in his will, when he died in 1290[55]. William de Percehay, lord of Ryton, who made his will in 1344, had to provide for five sons and one is therefore not surprised to find that two of his three daughters were nuns[56]. It is the same with the rich citizens of London and elsewhere; Sir Richard de la Pole, of a great Hull merchant house (soon to be ennobled), mentions in his will two sons and two daughters, one of whom was a nun at Barking while the other received a legacy towards her marriage[57]; Hugh de Waltham, town clerk, mentions three daughters, one at St Helen's[58]; John de Croydon, fishmonger, leaves bequests to one son and four daughters, one at Clerkenwell[59]; William de Chayham kept Lucy, Agnes and Johanna with him, but made Juliana a nun[60]. The will of Joan Lady Clinton illustrates the proportion in which a large family of girls might be divided between the convent and the world; in 1457 she left certain sums of money to Margaret, Isabel and Cecily Francyes, on condition that they should pay four pounds annually to their sisters Joan and Elizabeth, nuns[61]. It was not infrequent for several members of a family to enter the same convent, as the lists of inmates given in visitation records, or in the reports of Henry VIII's commissioners, as well as the evidence of the wills, bear witness[62]. The case of Shouldham, already quoted, shows that different generations of a family might be represented at the same time in a convent[63], but it was perhaps not usual for so many sisters to become nuns as in the Fairfax family; in 1393 their brother's will introduces us to Mary and Alice, nuns of Sempringham, and Margaret and Eleanor, respectively prioress and nun of Nunmonkton[64]. Margaret (of whom more anon) took convent life easily; it is to be feared that she had all too little vocation for it. Sometimes these family parties in a nunnery led to quarrels; the sisters foregathered in cliques, or else they continued in the cloister the domestic arguments of the hearth; there was an amusing case of the kind at Swine in 1268[65], and some years later (in 1318) an Archbishop of York had to forbid the admission of more than two or three nuns of one family to Nunappleton, without special licence, for fear of discord[66]. Probably the real factor in determining the social class from which the convents were recruited, was not one of rank, but one of money. The practice of demanding dowries from those who wished to become nuns was strictly forbidden by the monastic rule and by canon law[67]. To spiritual minds any taint of commerce was repugnant; Christ asked no dowry with his bride. The didactic and mystical writers of the period often draw a contrast between the earthly and the heavenly groom in this matter. The author of _Hali Meidenhad_ in the thirteenth century, urging the convent life upon his spiritual daughter, sets against his picture of Christ's virgin-brides that of the well-born girl, married with disparagement through lack of dower: What thinkest thou of the poor, that are indifferently dowered and ill-provided for, as almost all gentlewomen now are in the world, that have not wherewith to buy themselves a bridegroom of their own rank and give themselves into servitude to a man of low esteem, with all that they have? Wellaway! Jesu! what unworthy chaffer[68]. Thomas of Hales' mystical poem _A Luue Ron_, in the same century, also lays stress upon this point, half in ecstatic praise of the celibate ideal, half as a material inducement[69], and the same idea is repeated at the end of the next century in _Clene Maydenhod_: He asketh with the nouther lond ne leode, Gold ne selver ne precious stone. To such thinges hath he no neode, Al that is good is with hym one, Gif thou with him thi lyf wolt lede And graunte to ben his owne lemman[70]. In ecclesiastical language the same sentiment is expressed by the injunction of Archbishop Greenfield of York, who forbade the nuns of Arden to receive any one as a nun by compact, since that involved guilt of simony, but only to receive her "from promptings of love"[71]. This sentiment was, however, set aside in practice from early times; and a glance at any conventual register, such as the famous Register of Godstow Abbey, shows something like a regular system of dowries, dating certainly from the twelfth century. The Godstow Register contains 19 deeds, ranging between 1139 and 1278, by which grants are made to the nunnery on the entrance of a relative of the grantor, the usual phrase being that such and such a man gave such and such rent-charges, pasture-rights, lands or messuages, "with" his mother or sister or daughter "to be a nun"[72]. One very curious deed dated 1259, shows that the reception of a girl at Godstow was definitely a pecuniary matter. Ralph and Agnes Chondut sold to the nunnery a piece of land called Anfric, for thys quite claime and reles, the seyd abbas and holy mynchons of Godstowe gafe to the seyde raph and Agnes hys wyfe liiiº marke, and made Katherine the sustur of the seyd Agnes (wyfe of the seyd raph) Mynchon in the monasteri of Godstowe, with the costys of the hows, ... and the seyd holy mynchons of Godstowe shold pay to the seyd raph and Agnes hys wyfe xxv marke of the forseyd liii marke in that day in whyche the foreseyd Katerine should be delyuerd to hem to be norysshed and to be mad mynchon in the same place and in the whyche the seyd penyes shold be payd, and a second instalment at a place to be agreed upon when confirmation of the grant is obtained[73]. That is to say the price of the land was £35. 6_s._ 8_d._ together with the cost of receiving Katherine, which was equivalent to a further sum of money, unfortunately not specified. Any collection of wills provides ample evidence of this dowry system. Not only do they frequently contain legacies for the support of some particular nun during the term of her life, but bequests also occur for the specific purpose of paying for the admission of a girl to a nunnery, in exactly the same way as other girls are provided with dowries for their marriage. The Countess of Warwick, in 1439, left a will directing "that Iane Newmarch have cc mark in gold, And I to bere all Costes as for her bryngynge yn-to seynt Katrens, or where-ever she woll be elles"[74]. Even the clergy, who should have been the last to recognise a system so flagrantly contrary to canon law, followed the general custom; William Peke, rector of Scrivelsby, left one Isabella ten marks to make her a nun in the Gilbertine house of Catley[75] and Robert de Playce, rector of the church of Brompton, made the following bequest: Item I bequeath to the daughter of John de Playce my brother 100_s._ in silver, for an aid towards making her a nun in one of the houses of Wickham, Yedingham or Muncton, if her friends are willing to give her sufficient aid to accomplish this, but if, through lack of assistance from friends, she be not made a nun, she was to have none of this bequest (1345)[76]. Sometimes, as has already been noted, the money is left alternatively to marry the girl or to make her a nun, which brings out very clearly the dower-like nature of such bequests[77]. The accounts of great folk often tell the same tale. When Elizabeth Chaucy--probably a relative of the poet Chaucer--became a nun at Barking Abbey in 1381, John of Gaunt paid £51. 8_s._ 2_d._ in expenses and gifts on the occasion of her admission[78], and the privy purse expenses of Elizabeth of York contain the item, "Delivered to thabbesse of Elnestowe by thands of John Duffyn for the costes and charges of litle Anne Loveday at the making of her nonne there £6. 13_s._ 4_d._"[79]. It is possible to determine the exact nature of these costs and charges from an account of the expenses of the executors of Elizabeth Sewardby, who died in 1468. This lady, the widow of William Sewardby of Sewardby, had left a legacy of £6. 13_s._ 4_d._ to her namesake, little Elizabeth Sewardby, to be given her if she should become a nun. The executors record certain payments made to the Prioress of Nunmonkton during the period when Elizabeth was a boarder there, before taking the vows, and then follows a list of "expenses made for and concerning Elizabeth Sewardby when she was made a nun at Monkton": They say that they paid and gave to the Prioress and Convent of Monkton, for a certain fee which the said Prioress and Convent _claim by custom to have and are wont to have from each nun at her entrance_ £3. And in money paid for the habit of the said Elizabeth Sewardby and for other attire of her body and for a fitting bed, £3. 13_s._ 6-1/2_d._ And in expenditure made in connection with the aforesaid Prioress and Convent and with the friends of the aforesaid Elizabeth coming together on the Sunday next after the feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary A.D. 1460, £3. 11_s._ 4_d._ In a gratuity given to brother John Hamilton, preaching a sermon at the aforesaid Monkton on the aforesaid Sunday, 2_s._ And in a certain remuneration given to Thomas Clerk of York for his wise counsel concerning the recovery of the debts due to the said dame Elizabeth Sewardby, deceased, 12_d._ Total £10. 7_s._ 10-1/2_d._[80] It will be noticed that Elizabeth took with her not only a lump sum of money, but also clothes and a bed, the cost of which more than doubled the dowry. Canon law specifically allowed the provision of a habit by friends, when the poverty of a house rendered this necessary; and it is clear from other sources that it was not unusual for a novice to be provided also with furniture. The inventory of the goods belonging to the priory of Minster in Sheppey, at the Dissolution, contains, under the heading of "the greate Chamber in the Dorter," a note of stuff in the same chamber belonging to Dame Agnes Davye, _which she browghte with her_; a square sparver of payntyd clothe and iiij peces hangyng of the same, iij payre of shets, a cownterpoynt of corse verder and i square cofer of ashe, a cabord of waynscott carved, ij awndyrons, a payre of tonges and a fyer panne. And under "Dame Agnes Browne's Chamber" is the entry: _Stuff given her by her frends_:--A fetherbed, a bolster, ij pyllowys, a payre of blankatts, ij corse coverleds, iiij pare of shets good and badde, an olde tester and selar of paynted clothes and ij peces of hangyng to the same; a square cofer carvyd, with ij bad clothes upon the cofer, and in the wyndow a lytill cobard of waynscott carvyd and ij lytill chestes; a small goblet with a cover of sylver parcel gylt, a lytill maser with a bryme of sylver and gylt, a lytyll pece of sylver and a spone of sylver, ij lytyll latyn candellstyks, a fire panne and a pare of tonges, ij small aundyrons, iiij pewter dysshes, a porrenger, a pewter bason, ij skyllots, a lytill brasse pot, a cawdyron and a drynkyng pot of pewter. She had apparently been sent into the house with a complete equipment in furniture and implements[81]. Throughout the middle ages a struggle went on between the Church, which forbade the exaction of dowries, and the convents which persisted in demanding them, sometimes in so flagrant a manner as to incur the charge of simony. The earliest prohibition of dowries in English canon law occurred at the Council of Westminster in 1175[82] and was repeated at the Council of London in 1200[83] and at the Council of Oxford in 1222[84]; this last had been anticipated by a decree of the fourth Lateran Council. The history of the struggle to apply it is to be gathered from visitational records. Archbishop Walter Giffard, visiting Swine in 1268, finds that Alicia Brun and Alicia de Adeburn were simoniacally veiled[85]; Bishop Norbury has to rebuke the Prioress of Chester for the simoniacal receipt of bribes to admit nuns[86]; Bishop Ralph of Shrewsbury has heard that the Prioress of Cannington received four women as sisters of that house for £20 each, falling into the pravity of simony[87]; William of Wykeham writes to the nuns of Romsey in 1387 that in our said visitations it was discovered and declared that, on account of the reception of certain persons as nuns of your said monastery, several sums of money were received by the Abbess and Convent by way of covenant, reward and compact, not without stain of the pravity of simony and, if it were so, to the peril of your souls, and he proceeds to forbid the exaction of a dowry "on pretext of any custom (_consuetudinis_) whatsoever, which is rather to be esteemed a corruption (_corruptela_)," a significant phrase, which shows that the practice was well established[88]. Bishop Buckingham of Lincoln warns the nuns of Heynings against "the reception or extortion of money or of anything else by compact for the reception of anyone into religion" (1392)[89]; and Bishop Flemyng enjoins at Elstow in 1422 that hereafter fit persons be received as nuns; for whose reception or entrance let no money or aught else be demanded; but without any simoniacal bargain and covenant of any sum of money or other thing whatsoever, which were accustomed to be made by the crime of simony, let them henceforth be admitted to your religion purely, simply and for nothing[90]. But the most detailed information as to the prevalence of the dowry-system is contained in the records of Bishop Alnwick's visitations of religious houses in the diocese of Lincoln in 1440[91]. When the Bishop came to Heynings (which had already been in trouble under Bokyngham) one of the nuns, Dame Agnes Sutton, gave evidence to the effect that her friends came to the Prioress and covenanted that she should be received as a nun for twelve marks and the said money was paid down before she was admitted, and she says that no one is admitted before the sum agreed upon for her reception is paid. She added that nothing was exacted save what was a free offering, but from her previous words it is obvious that no nuns were received at Heynings without a dowry. Similarly at Langley Dame Cecily Folgeham said that her friends gave ten marks to the house "when she was tonsured, but not by covenant." The most interesting case of all was that of Nuncoton. The Subprioress, Dame Ellen Frost, said "that it was the custom in time past to take twenty pounds or less for the admission of nuns, otherwise they would not be received." The Bishop proceeded to examine other members of the house; Dame Maud Saltmershe confirmed what the Subprioress had said about the price for the reception of nuns; two other ladies, who had been in religion for fifteen and eight years respectively, deposed to having paid twenty pounds on their entrance and Dame Alice Skotte said that she did not know how much she had paid, but that she thought it was twenty pounds. Clearly there was a fixed entrance fee to this nunnery and it was impossible to become a nun without it; all pretence of free-will offerings had been dropped. When it is considered that this entrance fee was twenty pounds (i.e. about £200 of modern money) it is easy to see why poor girls belonging to the lower orders never found their way into convents; such a luxury was far beyond their means. In each of these cases and at two other houses (St Michael's Stamford, and Legbourne) Alnwick entered a stern prohibition, on pain of excommunication, against the reception of anything except free gifts from the friends of a novice. His injunction to Heynings may be quoted as typical of those made by medieval bishops on such occasions: For as mykelle as we founde that many has been receyvede here afore into nunne and sustre in your sayde pryory by covenaunt and paccyons made be fore thair receyvyng of certeyn moneys to be payed to the howse, the whiche is dampnede by alle lawe, we charge yowe under the payn of the sentence of cursyng obove wrytene that fro hense forthe ye receyve none persons in to nunne ne sustre in your sayde pryore by no suche couenant, ne pactes or bargaines made before. Whan thai are receyvede and professede, if thaire frendes of thaire almesse wylle any gyfe to the place, we suffre wele, commende and conferme hit to be receyvede[92]. But the efforts at reform made by Alnwick and other visitors were never very successful; Nuncoton evidently continued to demand its entrance fee, for in 1531 the practice was once more forbidden by Bishop Longland[93]. Moreover it is easy to see that the distinction between the reception of what was willingly offered by friends (which was specifically permitted by the rule of St Benedict and by synods and visitors throughout the middle ages), and what was given by agreement as payment for the entry of a novice (which was always forbidden) might become a distinction without a difference, as it clearly was in the case of Heynings quoted above. The Prioress of Gokewell, who declared to Alnwick that "they take nothing for the admission of nuns, save that which the friends of her who is to be created offer of their free-will and not by agreement"[94], may have acted in reality not very differently from her erring sisters of Heynings, Nuncoton and Langley. The temptation was in fact too great. The clause of the Oxford decree, which permitted poor houses if necessary to receive a sum sufficient for the vesture of a new member and no more, broadened the way already opened by the permission of free-will offerings. The concluding words of Bishop Flemyng's prohibition of dowries at Elstow in 1422 show that this permission had been abused; "if they must be clothed at their own or their friends' expense, let nothing at all be in any sort exacted or required, beyond their garments or the just price of their garments"[95]. Throughout the later middle ages an increase in the cost of living went side by side with a decrease in the monastic ideal of poverty, showing itself on the one hand in the constant breach of the rule against private property, on the other in the exaction of money with novices, until the dowry system (although never during the middle ages recognised by law) became in practice a matter of course. Lest it should seem that everyone who had enough money could become a nun, it must, however, be added that the bishops took some pains that the persons who were received as novices should be suitable and pleasing to their sisters. They seldom exercised their right of nomination without some assurance that their nominee was of honest life and station, "Mulierem honestam, ut credimus"[96], "bonae indolis, ut credimus, juvenculam"[97], "jeovene damoisele et de bone condicion, come nous sumez enformez"[98], "competeter ad hujusmodi officii debitum litterate"[99]. They were always ready to hear complaints if unsuitable persons had been admitted by the prioress; and they sometimes made special injunctions upon the matter. Bokyngham at Heynings in 1392 ordered "that they receive no one to the habit, nor even to profession, unless she be first found by diligent inquisition and approbation to be useful, teachable, capable, of legitimate age, discreet and honest"[100]. At Elstow Bishop Gray made a very comprehensive injunction: Furthermore we enjoin and charge you the Abbess ... that henceforward you admit no one to be a nun of the said monastery, unless with the express consent of the greater and sounder part of the same convent; and no one in that case, unless she be taught in song and reading and the other things requisite herein, or probably may be easily instructed within short time, and be such that she shall be able to bear the burdens of the quire (with) the rest that pertain to religion[101]. Nevertheless, for all their precautions, some strange inmates found their way into the medieval nunneries. The novice who entered a nunnery, to live there as a nun for the rest of her natural life, might do so for very various reasons. For those who entered young and of their own will, religion was either a profession or a vocation. They might take the veil because it offered an honourable career for superfluous girls, who were unwilling or unable to marry; or they might take it in a real spirit of devotion, with a real call to the religious life. For other girls the nunnery might be a prison, into which they were thrust, unwilling but often afraid to resist, by elders who wished to be rid of them; and many nunneries contained also another class of inmates, older women, often widows, who had retired thither to end their days in peace. A career, a vocation, a prison, a refuge; to its different inmates the medieval nunnery was all these things. The nunnery as a career and as a vocation does not need separate treatment. It has already been shown that in large families it was a very usual custom to make one or more of the daughters nuns. Indeed the youth of many of the girls who took the veil is in itself proof that anything like a vocation, or even a free choice, was seldom possible and was hardly anticipated, even in theory. The age of profession was sixteen, but much younger children were received as novices and prepared for the veil; they could withdraw if they found the life distasteful, but as a rule, being brought up from early childhood for this career, they entered upon it as a matter of course; moreover the Church was rather apt to regard the withdrawal of novices as apostasy. Sir Guy de Beauchamp in his will (dated 1359) describes his daughter Katherine as a nun of Shouldham and Dugdale notes that Katherine, aged seven years, and Elizabeth, aged about one year, were found to be daughters and heirs of the said Guy, who died in the following year[102]. It might be supposed that this child of seven was being brought up as a lay boarder in the convent, but legacies left to Katherine "a nun at Shouldham" by her grandfather and by her uncle, in 1369 and in 1400 respectively, show that she had been thus vowed in infancy to a religious life[103]. One of the daughters of Thomas of Woodstock Duke of Gloucester, was "in infancy placed in the monastery (of the Minoresses without Aldgate) and clad in the monastic habit" and in 1401 the Pope gave her permission to leave it if she wished, but she remained and became its abbess[104]. Bishops' registers constantly give evidence of the presence of mere children in nunneries. When Alnwick visited Ankerwyke in 1441, three of the younger nuns complained that they lacked a teacher (_informatrix_) to teach them "reading, song, or religious observance"; and at the end of the visitation the Bishop noted that he had examined all the nuns save three, whom he had omitted "on account of the heedlessness of their age and the simplicity of their discretion, since the eldest of them is not older than thirteen years"[105]. At Studley in 1445 he found a girl who had been in religion for two years and was then thirteen; she complained that one of the maid-servants had slapped a fellow nun (doubtless also a child) in church![106] At Littlemore there was a certain Agnes Marcham, who had entered at the age of thirteen, and had remained there unprofessed for thirteen years; she now refused to take the full vows[107]. Some of the nuns at Romsey in 1534 were very young, two being fourteen and one fifteen[108]. Indeed the reception of girls at a tender age was rather encouraged than otherwise by the Church. Archbishop Greenfield gave a licence to the Prioress of Hampole to receive Elena, daughter of the late Reyner Sperri, citizen of York, who was eight years old, and (he added solemnly) "of good conversation and life"[109], and Archbishop John le Romeyn described Margaret de la Batayle, whom he sent to Sinningthwaite, as "_juvencula_"[110]. The great Peckham went out of his way to make a specific defence of the practice in 1282, when the Prioress and Convent of Stratford sought to excuse themselves from veiling a little girl called Isabel Bret, by reason of her youth, "since on account of this minority she is the more able and capable to learn and receive those things which concern the discipline of your order"[111]. It is impossible to make the generalisation that even children professed at such an early age could have had no consciousness of a vocation for the religious life; the history of some of the women saints of the middle ages would be enough to disprove this[112]. The German monk Caesarius of Heisterbach, who is to be equalled as a gossip only by the less pious Salimbene, has some delightful stories of youthful enthusiasts in the _Dialogus Miraculorum_, which he wrote between 1220 and 1235 for the instruction of the novices in his own Cistercian house. One child, destined for a worldly match, protests daily that she will wed Christ only; and, when forced to wear rich garments, asserts "even if you turn me to gold you cannot make me change my mind," until her parents, worn out by her prayers, allow her to enter a nunnery where, although very young, she is soon made governess of the novices. Her sister, given to an earthly husband while yet a child, is widowed and, "_ipsa adhuc adolescentula_" enters the same house. Another girl, fired by their example, escapes to a nunnery in man's clothes; her sister, trying to follow, is caught by her parents and married, "but I hope," says the appreciative Caesarius, "that God may not leave unrewarded so fervent a desire to enter religion"[113]. But the most charming tale of all is that of the conversion of Helswindis, Abbess of Burtscheid[114]. She, although the daughter of a powerful and wealthy man ... burned so from her earliest childhood with zeal to be converted (i.e. to become a nun), that she used often to say to her mother: "Mother, make me a nun." Now she was accustomed with her mother to ascend Mount St. Saviour, whereon stood at that time the convent of the sisters of Burtscheid. One day she climbed secretly in through the kitchen window, went up to the dorter and putting on the habit of one of the maidens, entered the choir with the others. When the Abbess told this to her mother, who wanted to go, she, thinking that it was a joke, replied "Call the child; we must go." Then the child came from within to the window, saying: "I am a nun; I will not go with thee." But the mother, fearing her husband, replied: "Only come with me now, and I will beg thy father to make thee a nun." And so she went forth. It happened that the mother (who had held her peace) once more went up the mountain, leaving her daughter asleep. And when the latter rose and sought her mother in vain in the church, she suspected her to be at the convent, followed her alone, and, getting in by the same window, once more put on the habit. When her mother besought her to come away she replied: "Thou shalt not deceive me again," repeating the promise that had been made to her. Then indeed her mother went home in great fear, and her father came up full of rage, together with her brothers, broke open the doors and carried off his screaming daughter, whom he committed to the care of relatives, that they might dissuade her. But she, being (as I believe) not yet nine years of age, answered them so wisely that they marvelled. What more? The Bishop of Liège having excommunicated her father and those by whom she had been taken away, she was restored to the place and after a few years was elected Abbess there[115]. After these examples of infant zeal it is impossible to assert that even the extreme youth of many novices made a real vocation for religious life impossible. But there is no doubt that such a vocation was less probable, than in cases when a girl of more mature years entered a convent. And it is also certain that the tendency to regard monasticism as the natural career for superfluous girls and as the natural alternative to marriage, was capable of grave abuse. When medieval convents are compared unfavourably with those of the present day, and when the increasing laxity with which the rule was kept in the later middle ages is condemned, it has always to be remembered that the majority of girls in those days (unlike those of today) entered the nunneries as a career, without any particular spiritual qualification, because there was nothing else for them to do. Even in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries monasticism produced saintly women and great mystics (especially in Germany); but it is remarkable that in England, although there must have been many good abbesses like Euphemia of Wherwell, there are no outstanding names. Monasticism was pre-eminently a respectable career. It has been said that this tendency to regard monasticism as a career was capable of abuse; and there were not wanting men to abuse it and to use the nunnery as a "dumping ground" for unwanted and often unwilling girls, whom it was desirable to put out of the world, by a means as sure as death itself and without the risk attaching to murder. Kings themselves were wont thus to immure the wives and daughters of defeated rebels. Wencilian (Gwenllian) daughter of Llewelyn was sent to Sempringham as a child, after her father's death in 1283, and died a nun there in 1337, and the two daughters of Hugh Despenser the elder were forced to take the veil at the same convent after their father's fall[116]. The nunnery must often have served the purpose of lesser men, desirous of shaking off an encumbrance. The guilty wife of Sir Thomas Tuddenham, unhappily married for eight years and ruined by an intrigue with her father's servant, was sent to Crabhouse, where she lived for some forty years; and none thought kindly of her save--strangely enough--her husband's sister[117]. Sir Peter de Montfort, dying in 1367, left ten shillings to the lady Lora Astley, a nun at Pinley, called by Dugdale "his old concubine"[118]. Illegitimate children too were sometimes sent to convents. One remembers Langland's nunnery, where Dame Iohanne was a bastard, And dame Clarice a knightes doughter · ac a kokewolde was hire syre. Nor were the clergy loath to embrace this opportunity of removing the fruit of a lapse from grace. Hugh de Tunstede, rector of Catton, left ten shillings and a bed to his daughter Joan, a nun of Wilberfoss[119], and at the time of the Dissolution there was a child of Wolsey himself at Shaftesbury[120]. It is significant that it was sometimes necessary to procure the papal dispensation of an abbess- or prioress-elect for illegitimacy, before she could hold office. The dispensation in 1472 of Joan Ward, a nun of Esholt, who afterwards became prioress, is interesting, for the Wards were patrons of the house and her presence illustrates one of the uses to which such patronage could be put[121]. The diocese of York affords other instances (they were common enough in the case of priests) of dispensation "_super defectu natalium_"; in 1474 one was granted to Cecily Conyers, a nun at Ellerton, "born of a married man and a single woman"[122] and in 1432 Alice Etton received one four days before her confirmation as Prioress of Sinningthwaite[123]. At St Mary's Neasham in 1437, the Bishop of Durham appointed Agnes Tudowe prioress and issued a mandate for her dispensation for illegitimacy and her installation on the same day[124]. Less defensible from the point of view of the house was the practice, which certainly existed, of placing in nunneries girls in some way deformed, or suffering from an incurable defect. Now earth to earth in convent walls, To earth in churchyard sod. I was not good enough for man, And so am given to God. It will be remembered that the practice roused the disapprobation of Gargantua, whose abbey of Thélème contained only beautiful and amiable persons. Item, parcequ'en icelluy temps on ne mettoit en religion des femmes, sinon celles qu'estoyent borgnes, boiteuses, bossues, laides, deffaictes, folles, insensees, maleficiees et tarees, ... ("a propos, dist li moyne, une femme qui n'est ny belle, ny bonne, a quoi vault elle?--A mettre en religion, dist Gargantua.--Voyre, dist le moine, et a faire des chemises.") ... feut ordonne que la (i.e. à Thélème) ne seroyent receues, sinon les belles, bien formees et bien naturees, et les beaux, bien formez et bien naturez[125]. Occasionally the nuns seem to have resented or resisted these attempts to foist the deformed and the half-witted upon them. One of the reasons urged by the obstinate inmates of Stratford against receiving little Isabel Bret was that she was deformed in her person[126]. It was complained against the Prioress of Ankerwyke at Alnwick's visitation in 1441 that she made _ideotas_ and other unfit persons nuns[127]; and in 1514 the Prioress of Thetford was similarly charged with intending shortly to receive illiterate and deformed persons as nuns and especially one Dorothy Sturges, a deaf and deformed gentlewoman. Her designs were frustrated, but the nuns of Blackborough were less particular and in 1532 Dorothy answered among her sisters that nothing was in need of reform in that little house[128]. At the time of the Dissolution the Commissioners found that one of the nuns of Langley was "in regard a fool"[129]; and a certain Jane Gowring (the name of whose convent has not been preserved) sent a petition to Cromwell, demanding whether two girls of twelve and thirteen, the one deaf and dumb and the other an idiot, should depart or not[130]. At Nuncoton in 1440 a nun informed Bishop Alnwick that two old nuns lay in the fermery and took their meals in the convent's cellar "and likewise the infirm, _the weak minded_ (_imbecilles_) and they that are in their seynies do eat in the same cellar"[131]. Complaints of the presence of idiots were fairly frequent. It is easy to understand the exasperation of Thetford over the case of Dorothy Sturges, when one finds Dame Katherine Mitford complaining at the same visitation that Elizabeth Haukeforth is "_aliquando lunatica_"[132]; but a few years later Agnes Hosey, described as "_ideota_," gave testimony with her sisters at Easebourne and excited no adverse comment[133]. In an age when faith and superstition went hand in hand a mad nun might even bring glory to her house; the tale of Catherine, nun of Bungay, illustrates this. In 1319 an inquiry was held into the miracles said to have been performed at the tomb of the saintly Robert of Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, whose canonisation was ardently desired by the English; among these miracles was the following: Sir Walter Botere, chaplain, having been sworn, says that the miracle happened thus, to wit that he saw a certain Catherine, who had been (so they say) a nun of Bungay, in the diocese of Norwich, mad (_furiosam_) and led to the tomb of the said father; and there she was cured of the said madness and so departed sane; and he says that there is public talk and report of this. Three other witnesses also swore to the tale[134]. Even cases of violent and dangerous madness seem at times to have occurred, judging from a note at Alnwick's visitation of Stainfield in 1440, in which it is said that all the nuns appeared separately before the Bishop, "with the exception of Alicia Benyntone, who is out of her mind and confined in chains"[135]. Lay and ecclesiastical opinion alike condemned another practice, which seems to have been fairly widespread in medieval England, that of forcing into convents children too young to realise their fate, or even girls old enough to resist, of whom unscrupulous relatives desired to be rid, generally in order to gain possession of their inheritance; for a nun, dead in the eyes of the law which governed the world, could claim no share in her father's estate[136]. It is true that influential people, who could succeed in proving that a nun was unwillingly professed, might obtain her release[137]; but many little heiresses and unwanted children must have remained for ever, without hope of escape, in the convents to which they had been hurried, for it is evident that the religious houses themselves did all they could to discourage the presentation of such petitions, or the escape of unwilling members. The _chanson de nonne_, the song of the nun unwillingly professed, is a favourite theme in medieval popular poetry[138]; and dry documents show that it had its foundation in fact. It is possible to collect from various sources a remarkable series of legal documents which illustrate the practice of putting girls into nunneries, so as to secure their inheritance. As early as 1197 there is a case at Ankerwyke, where a nun who had been fifteen years professed returned to the world and claimed a share of her father's property, on the ground that she had been forced into the monastery by a guardian, who wished to secure the whole inheritance. Her relatives energetically resisted a claim by which they would have been the losers and appealed to the Pope. The runaway nun was excommunicated and her case came into the Curia Regis, but the result has not survived and it is impossible to say whether her story was true[139]. The case of Agnes, nun of Haverholme, illustrates at once the reason for which an unwilling girl might be immured in a nunnery and the obstacles which her order would place in the way of escape. She enters history in a papal mandate of 1304, by which three ecclesiastics are ordered to take proceedings in the case of Agnes, whose father and stepmother (how familiar and like a fairy tale it sounds) in order to deprive her of her heritage, shut her up in the monastery of Haverholme. "The canons and nuns of Sempringham (to which order Haverholme belonged) declare," continues the mandate, "that she took the habit out of devotion, but refuse to confirm their assertion by oath"[140]. The inference is irresistible. Another case, the memory of which is preserved in a petition to Chancery, concerns Katherine and Joan, the two daughters of Thomas Norfolk, whose widow Agnes married a certain Richard Haldenby. Agnes was seised of certain lands and tenements in Yorkshire to the value of £40 a year, as the nearest friend of the two girls, whose share of their father's estate the lands were. But her remarriage roused the wrath of the Norfolk family and an uncle, John Norfolk, dispossessed her of the land and took the children out of her guardianship, "with great force of armed men against the peace of our lord the king," breaking open their doors and carrying away the deeds of their possessions. Then, according to the petition of Agnes and her second husband, "did he make the said Katherine a nun, when she was under the age of nine years, at a place called Wallingwells, against her will, and the other daughter of the aforesaid Thomas Norfolk he hath killed, as it is said." The mother begs for an inquiry to be held[141]. But the most vivid of all these little tragedies of the cloister are those concerned with Margaret de Prestewych and Clarice Stil. The case of Margaret de Prestewych has been preserved in the register of Robert de Stretton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield; and it is satisfactory to know that one energetic girl at least succeeded in making good her protests and in escaping from her prison. In her eighth year or thereabouts, according to her own petition to the Pope, her friends compelled her against her will to enter the priory of the nuns of Seton, of the order of St Augustine, and take on her the habit of a novice. She remained there, as in a prison, for several years, always protesting that she had never made nor ever would willingly make any profession. And then, seeing that she must by profession be excluded from her inheritance, she feigned herself sick and took to her bed. But this did not prevent her being carried to the church at the instance of her rivals and blessed by a monk, in spite of her cries and protests that she would not remain in that priory or in any other order. On the first opportunity she went forth from the priory without leave and returned to the world, which in heart she had never left, and married Robert de Holand, publicly after banns, and had issue. The bishop, to whom the case had been referred by the Pope, found upon inquiry that these things were true, and in 1383 released her from the observance of her order[142]. Within a few years of this high spirited lady's escape the case of little Clarice Stil engaged the attention of the King's court. The dry-as-dust pages of the medieval law-books hide many jewels for whoever has patience to seek them, but none brighter than this story. It all arose out of a writ of wardship sued by one David Carmayngton or Servyngton against Walter Reynold, whom he declared to have unjustly deforced him of the wardship of the land and heir of Robert Stil, the heir being Clarice. Walter, however, said that no action lay against him, because Clarice had entered into the order of St John of Jerusalem, of which the Prioress of Buckland was prioress, and had been professed in that order on the very day of the purchase of the writ. In answer David unfolded a strange story. He alleged that William Stil, the father of Robert, had married twice; by his first wife Constance he had one daughter Margaret, who was now the wife of Walter Reynold; by his second wife Joan he had two children, Robert and Clarice. William died seised of certain tenements which were inherited by Robert, who died without an heir of his body; whereupon (David alleged) Walter, by connivance with the Prioress of Buckland and in order to disinherit Clarice (in which case his own wife Margaret would be the next of kin), took Clarice after her brother's death and conveyed her to Buckland Priory, she being then eight years of age, and kept her there under guard. David's counsel gave a dramatic account of the proceeding: Sir, we say that the same Walter by covinage to compel the said Clarice to be professed, took the said Clarice when she was between the ages of seven and eight years, to the house of nuns at Buckland, and in that place were two ladies, nuns, who were of his assent to cause the infant to be professed, and they told the child that if she passed the door the devil would carry her away. It was furthermore pleaded that on the day of purchase of the writ, Clarice was within the age of twelve years and that she was still within that age, and that therefore she could not be considered professed by the law of the land. By this time one's sympathies are all on the side of David, and of terrified little Clarice, with whom the devil was to run away. Unfortunately the judges referred the matter to an ecclesiastical court and ordered a writ to be sent to the Bishop of Bath and Wells. The Bishop made his return that the said Clarice on August 1st, 1383, of her own free will, was taken to the said Prioress of Buckland by Stephen Joseph, rector of the church of Northeleye, without any connivance on the part of the said Walter and the said Prioress, and she remained at the said priory for two years to see if the life would please her. Afterwards, on October 18th, 1385, she assumed the religious habit and made profession according to the manners and customs of the said house. And on the day when Clarice entered the house she was more than eight years old and on the day of purchase of the writ more than twelve years old, and at the present time is more than fourteen years old, and is well contented with the religious life. The Bishop also found that no guards had been placed over Clarice by Walter, or by the Prioress. So David lost his suit and was in mercy for a false claim; and he also lost, upon a technical point, another suit which he had brought against the Prioress of Buckland. Nevertheless one's sympathies remain obstinately on his side. That touch about the devil assuredly never sprang even from the fertile brain of a lawyer[143]. The illegitimate, the deformed, the feeble-minded and the unwilling represent a not very pleasant side of the conventual system. The nunneries contained other and less tragic inmates, who may be distinguished from the majority; for to them went in voluntary retirement a large number of widows[144]. If the nun unwillingly professed has always been a favourite theme in popular literature, so also has the broken-hearted wife or lover, Guinevere hiding her sorrows in the silent cloister. Many of the widows who took the veil were, however, less romantic figures. Although their presence as secular boarders was discouraged, because it brought too much of the world within cloister walls, those who desired to make regular profession were willingly received, the more so as they often brought a substantial dower with them. Thus when Margaret, Countess of Ulster, assumed the habit at Campsey in 1347, she took with her, by licence of the Crown, the issues of all her lands and rents in England for a year after her admission, and after that date 200 marks yearly were to be paid for her sustenance[145]. Such widows often enjoyed a respect consonant with their former position in society and not infrequently became heads of their houses. Katherine de Ingham and Eleanor Lady Scrope both entered the Minories in their widowhood and eventually became abbesses[146]. But it does not need much imagination, nor an unduly cynical temperament, to guess that this element of convent life must occasionally have been a disturbing one. The conventual atmosphere did not always succeed in killing the profaner passions of the soul; and the advent of an opinionated widow, ripe in the experience of all those things which her sisters had never known, with the aplomb of one who had long enjoyed an honoured position as wife and mother and lady of the manor, must at times have caused a flutter among the doves; such a situation, for instance, as Bishop Cobham found at Wroxall when he visited it in 1323[147]. Isabel Lady Clinton of Maxstoke, widow of the patron of the house, had retired thither and had evidently taken with her a not too modest opinion of her own importance. She found it impossible to forget that she was a Clinton and to realise that she, who had in time gone by given her easy patronage to the nuns and lodged with them when she would, was now a simple sister among them. Was she to submit to the rule of Prioress Agnes of Alesbury, she without whose goodwill Prioress Agnes had never been appointed? Was she to listen meekly to chiding in the dorter, and in the frater to bear with sulks? Impossible. How she comported herself we know not, but the bishop "found grave discord existing between the Prioress and dame Isabel Clinton, some of the sisters adhering to one and some to the other." Evidently a battle royal. The bishop, poor man, did his best. He enjoined peace and concord among the inmates; the sisters were to treat the prioress with reverence and obedience; those who had rebelled against her were to desist and the prioress was to behave amicably to all in frater, dorter, and elsewhere. And so my lord went his way. He may have known the pertinacity of the late patroness; and it was perhaps with resignation and without surprise that he confirmed her election as prioress on the death of the harassed Agnes. The occasional cases in which wives left their husbands to enter a convent were less likely to provoke discord. Such women as left husband and children to take the veil must have been moved by a very strong vocation for religion, or else by excessive weariness. Some may perhaps have found married life even such an odious tale, "a licking of honey off thorns," as the misguided realist who wrote _Hali Meidenhad_ sought to depict it. In any case, whether the mystical faith of a St Bridget drew her thither, or whether matrimony had not seemed easy to her that had tried it, the presence of a wedded wife was unlikely to provoke discord in the convent; the devout and the depressed are quiet bedeswomen. It was necessary for a wife to obtain her husband's permission before she could take the veil, since her action entailed celibacy on his part also, during her lifetime. Sometimes a husband would endow his wife liberally on her entry into the house which she had selected. There are two such dowers in the Register of Godstow Nunnery. About 1165 William de Seckworth gave the tithes of two mills and a grant of five acres of meadow to the convent, "for the helth of hys sowle and of hys chyldryn and of hys aunceters, with hys wyfe also, the whyche he toke to kepe to the forseyd holy mynchons to serve god"[148]; and a quarter of a century later Geoffrey Durant and Molde his wife, "whan þe same Moole yelded herself to be a mynchon to the same chirch," granted one mark of rent to be paid annually by their son Peter, out of certain lands held by him, "which were of the mariage of the said Moolde"[149]. Nor did Walter Hauteyn, citizen of London, in his solicitude for his son and three daughters, forget the mother who had left her husband and children for the service of God; to Alice his wife, a nun of St Sepulchre's Canterbury, he bequeathed in 1292 his dwelling place and rents upon Cornhill for life, with remainder to his heirs[150]. CHAPTER II THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE "My lady Prioresse, by your leve So that I wiste I sholde you not greve, I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere?" "Gladly" quod she, and seyde as ye shal here. CHAUCER. It usually happened that the head of a nunnery was a woman of some social standing in her own right. All nuns were Christ's brides, but an earthly father in the neighbourhood, with broad acres and loose purse strings, was not to be despised. If a great lady retired to a nunnery she was very like to end as its head; Barking Abbey in Essex had a long line of well-born abbesses, including three queens and two princesses; and when Katherine de la Pole (the youngest daughter of that earl of Suffolk who was slain at Agincourt) is found holding the position of abbess at the tender age of twenty-two, it is an irresistible inference that her birth was a factor in the choice[151]. The advantage in having a woman of local influence and rich connections as prioress is illustrated in the history of Crabhouse nunnery under Joan Wiggenhall[152]; how she worked and built "be the grace of oure Lord God an be the helpe of Edmund Perys, Person of Watlington," her cousin; and how whanne this good man beforeseyde was passid to God, oure Lord that is ful graciouse to alle his servauntis that have nede and that troste on hym, sente hem anothir goode frende hem to helpe and comforte in her nede, clepid Mayster Jon Wygenale, Doctoure of Canon and person of Oxborow, and Cosyn to the same Prioresse; and how in the xix yere of the same Prioresse, ffel a grete derth of corne, wherefore sche muste nedis have lefte werke with oute relevynge and helpe of sum goode creature, so, be the steringe of oure Lord, Mayster Jon Wygenale befor sayde sente us of his charite an 100 cowmbe malte and an 100 coumbe Barly and besyde this procurid us xx mark. And for the soule of my lord of Exetyr, of whos soule God of hys pyte he wil have mercy, we had of him xl pounte and v mark to the same werke, whiche drewe ccc mark, without mete and drinke. And within these vij yere that the dortoure was in makynge the place at Lynne clepped Corner Bothe was at the gate downe and no profite came to the place many yeris beforne. So that maystir Jon before seyde of hys gret charite lente the same prioresse good to make it up ageyne and procured hir xx mark of the sekatouris of Roger Chapeleyn[153]. The election of a superior was a complicated business, as may be gathered from the list of seventeen documents relating to the election of Alice de la Flagge as Prioress of Whiston in 1308, and enrolled in the _Sede Vacante_ Register of Worcester diocese[154]. Indeed there were so many formalities to be fulfilled that the nuns seem often to have found great difficulty in making a canonical election, and there are frequent notices in the episcopal registers that their election has been quashed by the Bishop on account of some technical fault; in such cases, however, the Bishop's action was merely formal and he almost always reappointed the candidate of their choice[155]. An election was, moreover, not only complicated but expensive; it began with a journey to the patron to ask for his _congé d'élire_ and it ended with more journeys, to the patron and to the Bishop, to ask for confirmation, so that the cost of travel and the cost of paying a clerk to draw up the necessary documents were sometimes considerable; moreover a fee was payable to the Bishop's official for the installation of the new head. The account of Margaret Ratclyff, Prioress of Swaffham Bulbeck in 1482, contains notice of payments "to the official of the lord bishop, at the installation of the said prioress for his fee i. li." and to one Bridone "for the transcript of the decree of election of the prioress v. s."[156]. An account roll of St Michael's Stamford for the year 1375-6 illustrates the process in greater detail; under the heading of "expenses de nostre Elit" are the following items: Paid for the hire of horses with expenses going to the abbot of Peterborough [the patron] to get licence to elect our choice 9-1/2_d._ Paid for the hire of horses going to the bishop of Lincoln and to the abbot of Peterborough and for their expenses at our election 4_s._ 8-1/2_d._ Paid for bread, ale and meat for our election on the election day 2_s._ 11-1/2_d._ Paid for a letter to the abbot of Peterborough for a licence to elect 3_d._ Paid for the installation of our elect, 10_s._[157] Total 18_s._ 8-1/2_d._[158] The only necessary qualifications for the head of a house were that she should be above the age of twenty-one[159], born in wedlock and of good reputation; a special dispensation had to be obtained for the election of a woman who was under age or illegitimate. [Illustration: PLATE II ABBESS RECEIVING THE PASTORAL STAFF FROM A BISHOP BENEDICTION OF AN ABBESS BY A BISHOP] As a rule the nuns possessed the right of free election, subject to the _congé d'élire_ of their patron and to the confirmation of the bishop, and they secured without very much difficulty the leader of their choice. Often enough it must have been clear, especially in small communities, that one of the nuns was better fitted to rule than her sisters, and, as at Whiston, they unanimously, as if inspired by the Holy Spirit[160], chose dame Alice de la Flagge, a woman of discreet life and morals, of lawful age, professed in the nunnery, born in lawful matrimony, prudent in spiritual and temporal matters, of whose election all approved, and afterwards, solemnly singing Te Deum Laudamus, carried the said elect, weeping, resisting as much as she could, and expostulating in a high voice, to the church as is the custom, and immediately afterwards, brother William de Grimeley, monk of Worcester, proclaimed the election. The said elect, after being very often asked, at length, after due deliberation, being unwilling to resist the divine will, consented[161]. But Jocelin of Brakelond has taught us that a monastic election was not always a foregone conclusion, that discussion waxed hot and barbed words flew in the season of blood-letting "when the cloistered monks were wont to reveal the secrets of their hearts in turn and to discuss matters one with another," and that "many men said many things and every man was fully persuaded in his own mind." Nuns were not very different from monks when it came to an election, and the chance survival of a bishop's register and of another formal document among the muniments of Lincoln, has preserved the record of an election comedy at Elstow Abbey, almost worthy to rank with Jocelin's inimitable account of the choice of Samson the subsacrist. After the death of Abbess Agnes Gascoigne in July 1529, the nineteen nuns of Elstow, having received Henry VIII's _congé d'élire_, assembled in their chapter house on August 9th, to elect her successor. They chose Master John Rayn "_utriusque juris doctorem_," as director, Edward Watson, notary public as clerk, and the Prior of Caldwell and the rectors of Great Billing and Turvey as witnesses. Three novices and other lay persons having departed, the director and the other men explained the forms of election to the nuns in the vulgar tongue and they agreed to proceed by way of scrutiny. Matilda Sheldon, subprioress, Alice Boifeld, _precentrix_, and Anne Preston, _ostiaria_ (doorkeeper) were chosen as scrutineers and withdrew into a corner of the chapter house, with the notary and witnesses. There Matilda Sheldon and Anne Preston nominated Cecilia Starkey, _refectoraria_, while Alice Boifeld nominated Elizabeth Boifeld, sacrist, evidently a relative. The three scrutineers then called upon the other nuns to give their votes; Anne Wake, the prioress, named Cecilia Starkey; Elizabeth Boifeld and Cecilia Starkey (each unable to vote for herself, but determined not to assist the other) voted for a third person, the subsacrist Helen Snawe; and Helen Snawe and all the other nuns, except two, gave their votes in favour of Elizabeth Boifeld. Consternation reigned among the older nuns, prioress, subprioress, _refectoraria_ and doorkeeper, when this result was announced. "Well," said the Prioress, "some of thies yong Nunnes be to blame," and on the director asking why, she replied: "For they wolde not shewe me so muche; for I asked diverse of them before this day to whome they wolde gyve their voices, but they wolde not shewe me." "What said they to you?" asked the director. "They said to me," replied the flustered and indignant prioress, "they wolde not tell to whome they wolde gyve their voices tyll the tyme of thellection, and then they wolde gyve their voices as God shulde put into their mynds, but this is by counsaill. And yet yt wolde have beseemed them to have shewn as much to me as to the others." And then she and Dame Cecilia said, "What, shulde the yong nunnes gyve voices? Tushe, they shulde not gyve voices!" Clearly the situation was the same which Jocelin of Brakelond had described over three centuries before: "The novices said of their elders that they were invalid old men and little capable of ruling an abbey." However the Prioress was obliged to admit that the younger nuns had voted in the last election and the subprioress thereupon, in the name of the scrutineers, announced the election of Dame Elizabeth Boifeld by the "more and sounder part of the convent" (poor Anne Wake!). But the Prioress and disappointed Dame Cecilia still showed fight; the votes must be referred to the Bishop of Lincoln. Further discussion; then Dame Cecilia gracefully gave way; she consented to the election of Dame Elizabeth Boifeld and would not proceed further in the matter. Master John Rayn published the election at the steps of the altar. Helen Snawe (whom after events showed to be a leading spirit in the affair) and Katherine Wingate were chosen as proctors, to seek confirmation from the Bishop, and Dame Elizabeth was taken to the altar (amid loud chanting of _Te Deum Laudamus_ by the triumphant younger nuns) and her election announced. She, however, preserved that decorous semblance of unwillingness, or at least of indifference, which custom demanded from a successful candidate, even when she had been pulling strings for days, for when the proctors came to her at two o'clock "in a certain upper chamber called Marteyns, in our monastery" and asked her consent to her election, "she neither gave it nor refused." Away went the proctors, without so much as a wink to each other; let us leave our elect to meditate upon the will of God. At four p.m. they came to her "in a certain large garden, called the Pond Yard, within our monastery"; and at their repeated instances she gave her consent. "Wherefore we, the above-named nuns, pray the Lord Bishop to ratify and confirm our election of the said Elizabeth Boyfeld as our Abbess." Which the Lord Bishop did[162]. But this was by no means the end of the matter. A year later the whole nunnery was in an uproar[163]. The bishop, for reasons best known to himself, had removed the prioress Dame Anne Wake and had appointed Dame Helen Snawe in her place; perhaps Dame Anne had said "Tush" once too often under the new _régime_; perhaps she was getting too old for her work; or perhaps Abbess Elizabeth Boifeld had only commanded Dame Snawe's intrigues at a price; evidently the subsacrist was no less adroit than that other subsacrist of Bury St Edmund's. At any rate Dame Anne Wake was put out of her office and Dame Helen Snawe ruled in her stead. It might have been expected that this change would be welcomed by the nuns, considering how strong the Boifeld faction had been at the election of the Abbess. But no; during the year of triumph Helen Snawe had aroused the hearty dislike of her sisters; led by Dames Barbara Gray (who had voted against the Abbess at the last election) and Alice Bowlis they had strenuously opposed her substitution for the old Prioress; they had been impertinent to the Abbess of their own choice (indeed she was only a figure-head); they had written letters to their friends and refused to show them to her; and finally when the election of Dame Snawe was announced, they had risen in a body and left the chapter-house as a protest. This was intolerable, and the Bishop's vicar-general came down to examine the delinquents. Matilda Sheldon, the subprioress, admitted to having left the chapter, but denied that she had done so for the reason attributed and said that she did not know of the departure of the other nuns, until she saw them in the dorter. Margaret Nicolson showed more spirit; she said that she went out "because she wold not consent that my lady Snawe shulde be priores," and that "ther was none that ded councell hir to goo" and that "my lady abbes did commaunde them to tary, that not withestandyng they went forthe"; and she gave the names of eight nuns who had followed the subprioress out. Dame Barbara Gray was next asked "yf she ded aske licence of my Lady Abbas to wryte letters to hir frends," and replied "that she ded aske licens to wryte to hir frends and my Lady Abbas sade, 'Yf ye showe me what ye wryte I am content,' and she saide agene, 'I have done my devoir to aske licence, and yf ye wyll nede see it I will wryte noo letters.'" Asked whether she had left the chapter house, this defiant young woman declared that "yf it were to do agene she wolde soo doo," and moreover "that she cannot fynde in hir hert to obbey my lady Snawe as priores, and that she wyll rather goo out of the house by my lord's licence, or she wyll obbey hir ... and that she wyll never obbey hir as priores, for hir hert cannot serve hir." Asked for her objection to Dame Snawe, she said that "she wyll shewe noo cause at thys tyme wherfor she cannot love hir"; but after a little pressure she declared with heat that "the priores maks every faute a dedly syne"[164], treats all of them ill except her own self and if she "doo take an oppynyon she wyll kepe itt," whether it be right or wrong. Dame Margery Preston was next examined and was evidently rather frightened at the result of her actions; she said that she had left the chapter-house as a protest against the deposition of the old prioress and not for any ill will that she bore Dame Snawe, "and she sais," the record continues, "that she ys well content to obbey my lady Snawe as priores. And she desiers my lord to be a good lord to the olde priores, because of her age." Ill-used Dame Cecilia Starkey, so unkindly circumvented by Dame Snawe a year ago, next appeared before the vicar-general and said "that she went forthe of the chapter howse, but she sais she gave noo occasion to eny of hir susters to goo forthe. And says she knewe not howe many of hir susters went forthe whyle she come intoo the dorter; saynge that she cannot fynde in hir hert nor wyll not accepte and take my lady Snawe as priores" (an amusing comment on her vote in 1529). Next came Dame Alice Foster, who admitted to having left the chapter-house and sais that they war commanded by the Abbes to tare styll. But she and other went forth because the olde priores was put done [i.e. down] wrongfully and my lady Snawe put in agenst ther wylle, saynge that she wyll never agre to hir as long as she lyvys; she says the sub-prioress went forthe of the chapiter howse fyrst and then she and other folowyde; and evidence in almost the same words was given by Dame Anne Preston and by Dame Elizabeth Sinclere, the latter adding that "she wyll take tholde priores as priores as longe as she levys and no other, and she says yf my lord commaunde vs to take my lady Snawe to be priores, she had lever goo forthe of the howse to sum other place and wyll not tare ther." Dame Alice Bowlis, another young rebel, asked yf she ded aske lycence of the Abbes to wryte, she sais she ded aske licens to wryte and my lady Abbes seyde "My lord hathe gevyn vs soo strate commaundement that none shuld wryte no (letter) but ye shewe it to me, what ye doo wryte"; and she sais she mayde aunswer agene to thabbes, "It hathe not bene soo in tymis paste and I have done my dewty. I wyll not wryte nowe at this tyme"; she admitted that she left the chapter house, "but she says that nobody ded move hyr to goo forthe; she says that she must neds nowe obbey the priores at my lords commaundement, saynge that my lady Snawe ys not mete for that offes, butt she wolde shewe noo cause wherfor." Two other nuns declared with great boldness "That my lord ded not commaunde vs to tak my lady Snawe as priores, but he saide, 'Yf ye wyll not take hir as priores I wyll make hir priores'" and that "they was wont to have the priores chosyn by the Abbes and the convent, and not by my lord, after seynte Bennet's rule," one of them remarking cryptically "that she wyll take my lady Snawe as priores as other wyll doo" and not otherwise. Meek little Dame Katherine Cornwallis was then interrogated and said, "that she was going forthe of the chapiter house wt. other of hir susters and then when she herde my lady abbes commaund them to tary, she ded tary behynde, but she sais that she thynks that none of the oder susters that went forthe ded here hyr, but only she" (kind little Dame Katherine), "and she is sory that tholde priores ys put out of hir offes. She says that my lady abbes ded tare styll and domina Alicia Boyfelde, domina Snawe, domina Katherina Wyngate, domina Dorothia Commaforthe, domina Elizabethe Repton, and domina Elizabeth Stanysmore." Finally the ill-used abbess made her complaint; she had bidden saucy Dame Alice Bowlis and others to stand up at matins, according to the custom of the house, "and went out of hir stall to byde them soo doo, and lady Bowlis ded make hir awnswer agene that, 'ye have mayde hir priores that mayde ye abbes!', brekyng her silence ther." Evidently poor Elizabeth Boifeld had not succeeded in living down the intrigues which had preceded her election, and the convent suspected her of rewarding a supporter at the expense of an old opponent. Here was a pretty state of affairs in the home of buxomness and peace. But the vicar-general acted firmly. Barbara Gray and Alice Bowlis were given a penance for their disobedience; they were to keep silence; neither of them was to come within "the howse calde the misericorde" (where meat was allowed to be eaten), but they were always to have their meals in the frater; neither of them was to write any letters; and they were to take the lowest places of all among the sisters in "processions and in other placys." Finally all the nuns were enjoined to be obedient to the abbess and to the hated prioress. Their protests that they would never obey Dame Alice Snawe, while the old prioress lived, were all in vain; and when some ten years later the Reformation put an end to their dissensions by casting them all upon the world, Dame Elizabeth Boyvill (_sic_), "abbesse," received an annual pension of £50, Dame Helen Snawe, "prioresse," one of £4 and Dame Anne Wake, "prioresse quondam," one of 66_s._ 8_d._[165] The turbulent diocese of York provides us with an even more striking picture of an election-quarrel. In 1308, after a vacancy, the election of the Prioress of Keldholme lapsed to the Archbishop, who appointed Emma of York. But the nuns would have none of Emma. Six of them refused obedience to the new prioress and, six being probably at least half of the whole convent, Emma of York resigned. Not to be daunted the Archbishop returned to the charge; on August 5th he wrote to the Archdeacon of Cleveland stating that as he found no one in the house capable of ruling it he had appointed Joan de Pykering, a nun of Rosedale, to be Prioress. As a number of persons (named) had openly and publicly obstructed the appointment of the new prioress the Archdeacon was to proceed immediately to Keldholme and give her corporal possession and at the same time he was to admonish other dissentient nuns (named) that they and all others must accept Joan de Pykering as prioress and reverently obey her. It is clear in this case that the feuds of the convent had spread beyond its walls, for the Archbishop at the same time warned all lay folk to cease their opposition on pain of excommunication and shortly afterwards imposed a penance upon one of those who had interfered. But pandemonium still reigned at Keldholme and he went down in person to interview the refractory nuns; the result of his visitation appears in a mandate issued to the official of Cleveland on September 3rd, stating that he had found four nuns, Isabella de Langetoft, Mary de Holm, Joan de Roseles and Anabilla de Lokton (all had been among the original objectors to Emma of York) incorrigible rebels. They were therefore to be packed off one after another, Isabella to Handale, Mary to Swine, Joan to Nunappleton and Anabilla to Wallingwells, there to perform their penances. In spite of this ruthless elimination of the discordant elements, the convent of Keldholme refused to submit. On February 1st following the Archbishop wrote severely to the subprioress and convent bidding them at once to direct a letter under their common seal to their patroness, declaring that they had unanimously elected Joan de Pykering as prioress; on February 5th he issued a commission to correct the crimes and excesses revealed at his visitation; and on February 17th he directed the commissioners "to enquire whether Joan de Pickering" (luckless exile in the tents of Kedar) "desired for a good reason, of her own free will, to resign and if they found that she did to enjoin the subprioress and convent to proceed to the canonical election of a new prioress"; and on March 7th the triumphant convent elected Emma of Stapelton. At the same time the Archbishop ordered the transference of two other nuns to do penance at Esholt and at Nunkeeling, perhaps for their share in these disorders but more probably for immorality. But this was not the end. Emma of York could not forget that she had once been prioress; Mary de Holm (who had either returned from or never gone to Swine) was a thoroughly bad character; and in 1315 the Archbishop directed Richard del Clay, _custos_ of the monastery, to proceed at once to Keldholme and to summon before him in the chapter Emma of York and Mary de Holm, who like daughters of perdition were disobedient and rebels against the Prioress. Having read the Archbishop's letter in the mother tongue in the chapter, he was to admonish the two nuns for the first, second and third times that they must humbly obey the Prioress in all lawful and canonical injunctions. They were not to meddle with any internal or external business of the house in any way, or to go outside of the enclosure of the monastery, or to say anything against the Prioress, on pain of expulsion and of the greater excommunication. At the end of the year, however, harassed Archbishop Greenfield went where the wicked cease from troubling; and the two malcontents at Keldholme seized the opportunity to triumph. Scarcely a couple of months after his death Emma of Stapelton resigned; she said she was "oppressed by age," but since Emma of York was at once elected and confirmed in her place, it is probable that the rage, like Joan de Pickering's free will, was something of a euphemism; her reason doubtless took a concrete and menacing shape and wore a veil upon its undiminished head. The last we hear of these very unsaintly ladies is in 1318, when the new Archbishop enjoined a penance on Mary de Holm for incontinence with a chaplain[166]. It is noticeable that this was the second case of the kind which had occurred in the diocese of York within fifteen years. At Swine in 1290 the appointment by Archbishop Romeyn of Josiana de Anlaby as Prioress had been followed by similar disorders and he ordered an inquiry to be held and the rebellious nuns to be sent to Rosedale[167]. Much trouble might arise within a convent over the election of its head, as these stories show. But sometimes external persons interfered; great ladies used their influence and their wealth to secure the coveted post for a protégée of their own; and the protégée herself was not averse to oiling the palms of those in authority with good marks of silver; "blood-abbesses," Ensfrid of Cologne would have called them ("that is, foisted in by their kinsfolk") or "jester-abbesses" ("that is, such as had been thrust in by the power of great folks") or "simoniacs, who had crept in through money or through worldly services"[168]. In these cases there was likely to be more trouble still, for great ladies were not always careful of the character of a friend or relative whom they wished to settle comfortably as head of a convent. In 1528 the Abbess of Wilton died and Mr John Carey thought he would like the appointment for his sister Eleanor, one of the nuns. He was brother-in-law to lovely Anne Boleyn, and a word in her ear secured her warm support; the infatuated King wished to please Anne; and Wolsey, steering his bark in troubled waters, wished to please the King; so he promised that the lady should have the post, the election to which had been placed in his hands by the nuns. It seemed that all would go well with Dame Eleanor Carey, when Anne Boleyn pulled the strings; but trouble arose, and the action taken by the Cardinal and by the future oppressor of the monasteries is greatly to the credit of them both, for both had much to lose from Anne. "As touching the matter of Wilton" Henry wrote to her My lord cardinal hath had the Nuns before him, and examined them, Mr. Bell being present; which hath certified me, that for a truth that she hath confessed herself, (which we would have had abbesse) to have had two children by two sundry priests; and furder, since, hath been kept by a servant of the Lord Broke, that was, and that not long ago; wherefore I would not for all the gold in the world clog your conscience nor mine to make her a ruler of a house, which is of so ungudly demeanor, nor I trust you would not that neither for brother nor sister I should so destain mine honor or conscience. And as touching the prioress [Isabel Jordan] or Dame Eleanor's eldest sister, though there is not any evident case proved against them, and that the prioress is so old that of many years she could not be as she was named [ill-famed]: yet notwithstanding to do you pleasure I have done that neither of them shall have it, but that some other good and well disposed woman shall have it, whereby the house shall be the better reformed (whereof I ensure you it had much need) and God much the better served[169]. Wolsey, however, gave the appointment to Isabel Jordan, who in spite of her having been the subject of some scandal in her youth, was favoured by the greater part of the convent as being "ancient, wise and discreet"; whereupon he brought down upon himself a severe rebuke from Henry, who had "both reported and promised to divers friends of Dame Elinor Carey that the Prioress should not have it"[170]. Without doubt pretty Mistress Anne was sulking down at Hever. Not only did outside persons thus concern themselves in a conventual election; the nuns themselves were not always unwilling to bribe, where they desired advancement. A series of letters written by Margaret Vernon to Cromwell, concerning the office of Prioress of St Helen's, Bishopsgate, throws a lurid light upon the methods which were sometimes employed: "Sir," she wrote to her powerful friend in 1529, "Pleaseth it you to understand that there is a goldsmith in this town, named Lewys, and he sheweth me that Mr. More hath made sure promise to parson Larke that the subprioress of St. Helen's shall be prioress there afore Christmas-day. Sir, I most humbly beseech you to be so good master unto me, as to know my lord's grace's [the king's] pleasure in this case and that I may have a determined answer whereto I shall trust, that I may settle myself in quietness; the which I am far from at this hour. And farthermore if it might like you to make the offer to my said lord's grace of such a sum of money as we were at a point for, my friends thinketh that I should surely be at an end." Soon afterwards she wrote again: Sir, it is so that there is divers and many of my friends that hath written to me that I should make labour for the said house unto your mastership, showing you that the King's grace hath given it to master Harper, who saith that he is proffered for his favour two hundred marks of the King's saddler, for his sister; which proffer I will never make unto him, nor no friend for me shall, for the coming in after that fashion is neither godly nor worshipful. And beside all this must come by my lady Orell's favour, which is a woman I would least meddle with. And thus I shall not only be burdened in conscience for payment of this great sum, but also entangled and in great cumbrance to satisfy the avidity of this gentlewoman. And though I did, in my lord cardinal's days, proffer a hundred pounds for the said house, I beseech you consider for what purpose it was made. Your mastership knoweth right well that there was by my enemies so many high and slanderous words, and your mastership had made so great instant labour for me, that I shamed so much the fall thereof that I foresaw little what proffer was made; but now, I thank our Lord, that blast is ceased, and I have no such singular love unto it; for now I have two eyes to see in this matter clearly, the one is the eye of my soul, that I may come without burthen of conscience and by the right door, and, laying away all pomp and vanity of the world, looking warily upon the maintenance and supportation of the house, which I should take in charge, and cannot be performed, master Harper's pleasure and my lady Orell's accomplished. In consideration whereof I intend not willingly, nor no friend of mine shall not, trouble your mastership in this case. In another letter she mentions a saying of Master Harper, that from the good report he has heard of her, he would rather admit her without a groat than others who offer money; but her conscientious scruples were not rewarded with St Helen's, though she almost immediately obtained an appointment as prioress at Little Marlow, and on the dissolution of that house among the lesser monasteries, received and held for a brief space the great Abbey of Malling[171]. It is true that these instances of simony and of the use of influence belong to the last degenerate years of the monasteries in England. But cases hardly less serious undoubtedly occurred at an early date. The gross venality of the papal _curia_[172], even in the early thirteenth century, is not a very happy omen for the behaviour of private patrons; smaller folk than the Pope could summon a wretched abbot "Amice, ut offeras"; nor was it only abbots who thus bought themselves into favour. The thirteenth century jurist Pierre Du Bois, whose enlightened plans for the better education of women included the suppression of the nunneries and the utilisation of their wealth to form schools or colleges for girls, mentioned the reception of nuns for money and rents, by means of compacts (i.e. the dowry system) and the election of abbesses and prioresses by the same illicit bargains, as among the abuses practised in nunneries[173]. Once having been installed, the head of a house held office until she died, resigned or was deprived for incompetence or for ill behaviour. Sometimes prioresses continued to hold office until a very great age, as did Matilda de Flamstead, Prioress of Sopwell, who died in 1430 aged eighty-one, having lived in the rules of religion for over sixty years[174]. But the cases (quoted below) of the prioresses of St Michael's Stamford and of Gracedieu prove that an aged and impotent head was bad for the discipline of the house, and it appears that a prioress who was too old or in too weak health to fulfil her arduous duties, was often allowed to resign or was relieved of her office[175]. Sometimes an ex-superior continued to live a communal life as an ordinary nun, under her successor, but sometimes she was granted a special room and a special allowance of food and attendance. In some houses certain apartments were reserved for the occupation of a retired superior. Sir Thomas Willoughby, writing to Cromwell on behalf of his sister-in-law, who had resigned her office as Abbess of Malling, begs that she may have your letter to my lady abbess of Malling (her successor), that she at your contemplation will be so good to her as to appoint her that room and lodging within the said monastery that she and other of her predecessors that hath likewise resigned hath used to have, and as she had herself a little space, or else some other meet and convenient lodging in the same house[176]. When Katherine Pilly, Prioress of Flixton, "who had laudably ruled the house for eighteen years," resigned in 1432 because of old age and blindness, the Bishop of Norwich made special arrangements for her sustenance: she was to have suitable rooms for herself and her maid; each week she and the maid were to be provided with two white loaves, eight loaves of "hool" bread and eight gallons of convent beer, with a daily dish for both from the kitchen, the same as for two nuns in the refectory, and with two hundred faggots and a hundred logs and eight pounds of candles a year. Cecilia Crayke, one of the nuns, was to read divine service to her daily and to sit with her at meals, having her portion from the refectory[177]. These aged ladies probably ended their days peacefully, withdrawn from the common life of the house. But sometimes a prioress resigned while still young enough to miss her erstwhile autocracy and to torment her unlucky successor. Then indeed the new head could do nothing right and feuds and factions tore the sisterhood. Such a case occurred at Nunkeeling early in the fourteenth century. Avice de la More resigned in 1316, and the Archbishop wrote to the nuns making the usual provision for her; she had "for a long period laudably and usefully superintended the house"; she was to have a chamber to herself and one of the nuns assigned to her by the Prioress as a companion; and daily she was to receive the portion of two nuns in bread, ale and victuals and her associate that of one nun; an end, one might suppose, of Avice de la More. But the Yorkshire nuns were quarrelsome ladies; and two years later the Archbishop addressed a severe letter to Avice, threatening to remove the provision made for her if she persisted in her "conspiracies, rebellions and disobedience to the prioress" and imposing a severe penance upon her. But seven penitential psalms with the litany upon Fridays, a discipline in chapter and fasting diet could not calm the temper of Avice de la More; she stirred up the nuns to rebellion and spread the tale of her grievances "to seculars and adversaries outside." There was some family feud perhaps between her relatives and the St Quintins to whose house the unhappy Prioress belonged; at any rate "clamorous information" reached the Archbishop concerning the intrigues of certain of the nuns. Once more he wrote to Avice "with a bitter heart." She had broken her vow of obedience in arrogancy and elation of heart towards her prioress, "who was placed in charge of her soul and body and without whom she had no free will"; let her desist at once and study to live according to the rule; and a commission was sent to inquire into the misdeeds of the rebellious nuns of Keeling. But alas, the finding of that commission has long since powdered into dust and we hear no further news of Avice de la More[178]. The head of a house was an important person and enjoyed a considerable amount of freedom, in relation both to her convent and to the outside world. In relation to her convent her position laid her open to various temptations: she was, for instance, beset by three which must be faced by all who rule over communities. The first was the temptation to live with too great luxury and independence, escaping from the daily routine of communal life, to which her vows bound her. The second was the temptation to rule like an autocrat, instead of consulting her sisters. The third was the temptation to let human predilections have their way and to show favouritism. To begin with the first of these temptations, it is obvious that the fact that the superior nearly always had a separate room, or suite of rooms[179], and servants, and had the duty of entertaining important guests, gave her much freedom within her house, especially if she were the head of one of the great abbeys. The Abbess of St Mary's Winchester, at the Dissolution, had her own house and a staff consisting of a cook, an undercook, a woman servant and a laundress, and she had also a gentlewoman to wait upon her, like any great lady in the world[180]. The Abbess of Barking had her gentlewoman, too, and her private kitchen; she dined in state with her nuns five times a year, and "the under celeresse must remember," says the _Charthe longynge to the Office of Celeresse_, at eche principall fest, that my lady sytteth in the fraytour; that is to wyt five times in the yere, at eche tyme schall aske the clerke of the kychyn soper eggs for the covent, and that is Estir, Wytsontyd, the Assumption of our Lady, seynt Alburgh and Cristynmasse, at eche tyme to every lady two eggs, and eche double two egges, that is the priorisse, the celeresse and the kychener[181]. The stern reformer Peckham was forced to take in hand the conduct of the Abbesses of Barking, Wherwell and Romsey, who were abusing their independence of ordinary routine. The Abbess of Barking was forbidden to remain in her private room after sunset, at which hour all doors were to be locked and all strangers excluded; she might do so only very rarely, in order to entertain distinguished guests or to transact important business; and he ordered her to eat with the convent as often as possible, "especially on solemn days" (i.e. great feasts)[182]. The Abbess of Wherwell had apparently stinted her nuns in food and drink, but caused magnificent feasts to be prepared for her in her own room, and Peckham ordered that whenever there was a shortage of food in the convent, she was to dine with the nuns, and no meal was to be laid in her chamber for servants or strangers, but all visitors were to be entertained in the exterior guest-hall; if at such times she were in ill health, and unable to use the common diet, she might remain in her room, in the company of one or two of the nuns. At times when there was no lack of food in the convent and when she was entertaining guests in her own room, all potations were to cease and all servants and visitors to depart at the hour of compline[183]. About the same time (1284) Peckham wrote two letters to the Abbess of Romsey, who had evidently been guilty of the same behaviour. She was not to keep "a number of" dogs or monkeys, or more than two maid servants, and she was not to fare splendidly in her own rooms while the nuns went short; his injunctions to her are couched in almost precisely the same language as those which he addressed to the Abbess of Wherwell[184]. According to the Benedictine rule the superior, when not entertaining guests, was permitted to invite the nuns in turn to dine with her in her own room, for their recreation, and notices of this custom sometimes occur in visitation reports; at Thicket (1309) the Prioress was enjoined to have them one by one when she dined in her room[185]; at Elstow (1421-2) the Abbess was to invite those nuns whom she knew to be specially in need of refreshment[186]; at Gracedieu (1440-1) the Prioress was ordered that ye do the fraytour be keppede daylye ... item that no mo of your susters entende up on yowe, save onely your chapeleyn, and otherwhile, as your rule wylle, ye calle to your refeccyone oon or two of your susters to thair recreacyone[187]; at Greenfield (1519) there was a complaint that the Prioress did not invite the nuns to her table in due order, and at Stainfield it was said that she frequently invited three young nuns to her table and showed partiality to them and she was ordered to invite all the senior sisters in order[188]. In Cistercian and Cluniac houses the superior was supposed to dine in the frater and to sleep in the dorter with the other nuns, and even in Benedictine houses it was considered desirable that she should do so. But the temptation to live a more private life was irresistible, and visitation records contain many complaints that the head of the house is lax in her attendance at dorter and frater and even in following the divine services in the choir[189]. Bishops frequently made injunctions like that given by Alnwick to the Prioress of Ankerwyke in 1441: that nyghtly ye lygge in the dormytorye to ouersee your susters how thai are there gouernede after your rewle, and that often tyme ye come to matynes, messe and other houres ... also that oftentymes ye come to the chapitere for to correcte the defautes of your susters ... also that aftere your rewle ye kepe the fraytour but if resonable cause excuse yowe there fro[190]. Sometimes a minimum number of attendances was demanded. At St Michael's Stamford Alnwick ordered the old Prioress that nyghtly ye lyg in the dormytorye emong your susters and that euery principale double fest and festes of xij or ix lessouns ye be at matynes, but if grete sekenes lette yowe; and that often tymes ye be at other howres and messes in the qwere, and also that ye be present in chapitres helpyng the supprioresse in correctyng and punisshyng of defautes[191]. It was further attempted to restrict the dangerous freedom of a superior's life, by ordering her always to have with her one of the nuns as a companion and as witness to her behaviour. So Peckham ordered the Abbess of Romsey to "elect a suitable companion for herself and to change her companions yearly, to the end that her honesty should be attested by many witnesses"[192]. Usually the nun whose duty it was to accompany the superior acted as her chaplain. It will be remembered that Chaucer says of his Prioress "another Nonne with hir hadde she, That was hir chapeleyne"[193], and episcopal registers contain frequent allusions to the office. William of Wykeham gave a comprehensive account of its purpose when he wrote to the Abbess of Romsey in 1387, since, according to the constitutions of the holy fathers, younger members must take a pattern from their rulers (_prelati_) and those prelates ought to have a number of witnesses to their own behaviour, we strictly order you (lady abbess) in virtue of obedience, that you annually commit the office of chaplain to one of your nuns ... and thus the nuns themselves, who shall have been with you in the aforesaid office, shall (by means of laudable instruction) be the better enabled to excel in religion, while you will be able immediately to invoke their testimony to your innocence, if (which God forbid) any crime or scandal should be imputed to you by the malice of any person[194]. So at Easebourne in 1478 the Prioress was ordered that every week, beginning with the eldest ... she should select for herself in due course and in turns, one of her nuns as chaplain for divine services and to wait upon herself[195]. The Norwich visitations of Bishop Nykke afford further information; at Flixton discontented Dame Margaret Punder complained that the Prioress had no sister as chaplain, but slept alone as she pleased, in a chamber (_cubiculo_) outside the dorter, "without the continual testimony of her sisters," and the visitors enjoined that henceforth she should have with her one sister in the office of chaplain for a witness, and especially when she slept outside the dorter[196]. At Blackborough one of the nuns complained that the Prioress had kept the same chaplain for three years[197] and at Redlingfield it was said that she never changed her chaplain[198]; the Abbess of Elstow in 1421-2[199] and the Prioress of Markyate in 1442[200] were ordered to change their chaplains every year, and this seems to have been the customary arrangement. The title of "chaplain" is sometimes found after the name of a nun in lists of the inmates of nunneries[201]. Besides the temptation to live too independent an existence the head of a house had also the temptation to abuse the considerable power given to her by the monastic rule. She was apt to govern autocratically, keeping the business of the house entirely in her own hands, instead of consulting her sisters (assembled in chapter) before making any important decision. There were constant complaints by the nuns that the Prioress kept the common seal in her own custody and performed all business without consulting them. Peckham's letter to the Abbess of Romsey illustrates the variety of matters which might thus be settled without any reference to the nuns; she had evidently been misusing her power, for he wrote sternly: Know that thou art not mistress of the common goods, but rather the dispenser and mother of thy community, according to the meaning of the word abbess.... We strictly command thee that thou study to transact all the more important business of the house with the convent. And by the more important business we intend those things which may entail notable expenditure in temporalities or in spiritualities, with which we wish to be included the provision of a steward; we order for the peace of the community, that H. de Chalfhunte, whom thou hast for long kept in the office of steward contrary to the will of the convent, no longer intermeddle in any way with this or with any other bailiff's office (_bajulatu_) of the monastery. Moreover we make the same order concerning John le Frikiere. Let each of them, having accounted for his office before Master Philip our official ... look out for an abode elsewhere. Besides this thou shalt transact all minor business of the church according to the rule with at least twelve of the senior ladies. And because thou hast been wont to do much according to the prompting of thine own will, we adjoin to thee three coadjutresses of laudable testimony, to wit dames Margery de Verdun, Philippa de Stokes and Johanna de Revedoune, without whose counsel and attempt thou shalt not dare attempt anything pertaining to the rule of the convent in temporalities or in spiritualities. And whensoever thou shalt wittingly do the contrary in any important matter, thou shalt know thyself to be on that account suspended from the office of administration. And we mean by an important matter the provision of bailiffs of the manors and internal obedientiaries, the punishment of delinquents, all alienation of goods in gifts or presents, or in any other ways, the sending forth of nuns and the assignment of companions to those going forth, the beginning of lawsuits and all manner of church business. And if it befall that any of the aforesaid three be ill or absent, do thou receive in her stead Dame Leticia de Montegomery or Dame Agnes de Lidyerd, having called into consultation the others according to the number fixed above. And whenever thou shalt happen to fare forth upon the business of the church, thou shalt always take with thee the aforesaid three ladies, whom we have joined with thee as coadjutresses in the rule of the monastery both within and without; and if ever thou goest forth for recreation thou shalt always have with thee two; in such wise that thou shalt in no manner concern thyself to pursue any business without the three[202]. The danger of autocratic government to the convent is obvious; and it is significant that a really bad prioress is nearly always charged with having failed to communicate with her sisters in matters of business, turning all the revenues to any use that she pleased. Moreover the head of a house not only sometimes failed to consult her convent; she constantly also omitted to render an annual account of her expenditure, and by far the most common complaint at visitations was the complaint that the Prioress _non reddidit compotum_. At Bishop Nykke's Norwich visitations the charge was made against the heads of Flixton, Crabhouse, Blackborough and Redlingfield[203]. At Bishop Alnwick's Lincoln visitations it was made against the heads of Ankerwyke, Catesby, Gracedieu, Harrold, Heynings, St Michael's Stamford, Stixwould, Studley; at Ankerwyke Dame Clemence Medforde had not accounted since her arrival at the house; at St Michael's Stamford the Prioress had held office for twelve years and had never done so; at Studley it was said that the last Prioress who ruled for 58 years never once rendered an account during the whole of that period, nor had the present Prioress yet done so, though she had been in office for a year[204]. Sometimes the delinquent gave some excuse to the Bishop; the Prioress of Catesby said she had no clerk to write the account[205]; at Blackborough one of the nuns said that her object had been to avoid the expense of an auditor and another that she gave the convent a verbal report of the state of the house[206]. Sometimes she flatly refused, and the bishop's repeated injunctions on the subject seem to have been of little avail; the Prioress of Flixton had not rendered account since her installation _et dicit quod non vult reddere_; she was superseded, but six years later the same complaint was made against her successor and the visitors ordered the latter to amend her ways, _sub poena privationis, quia dixit se nolle talem reddere compotum_[207]. The bishops always inquired very carefully into the administration of the conventual income and possessions by the head of each house, and invented a variety of devices for controlling her actions[208]. There remains to be considered the third pitfall into which the head of a house was liable to fall. The wise Benedictine rule contained a special warning against favouritism, for indeed human nature cannot avoid preferences and it is the hardest task of a ruler to subdue personal predilections to perfect fairness. The charge of favouritism is a fairly common one in medieval visitations. Alnwick met with an amusing case when he visited Gracedieu in 1440-1. The elder nuns complained that the old prioress did not treat all equally; some of them she favoured and others she treated very rigorously; Dame Philippa Jecke even said that corrections were made so harshly and so fussily that all charity and all happiness had gone from the house. Moreover there were two young nuns whom she called her disciples and who were always with her; these nuns had many unsuitable conversations, so their sisters thought, with the Prioress' secular visitors; worse than this, they acted as spies upon the other nuns and told the Prioress about everything that was said and done in the convent, and then the Prioress scolded more severely than ever[209]; but her disciples could do no wrong. These nuns, indeed, were among the most voluble that Alnwick visited, and he must have remarked with a smile that the two disciples were the only ones who answered "Omnia bene"; but he did not intend to let them off without a rebuke. "Agnes Poutrelle and Isabel Jurdane" runs the note in his Register, "who style themselves the Prioress's disciples, are thereby the cause of quarrel between her and her sisters, forasmuch as what they hear and see among the nuns they straightway retail to the prioress. They both appeared, and, the article having been laid to their charge, expressly deny it and all things that are contained therein; wherefore they cleared themselves without compurgators; howbeit, that they may not be held suspect hereafter touching these matters or offend herein, they both sware upon the holy gospels of God that henceforth they will discover to the prioress concerning their sisters nothing whereby cause of quarrel or incentive to hatred may be furnished among them, unless they be such matters as may tend to the damage of the prioress' body or honour"[210]. At two other houses there were complaints against the head; at Legbourne Dame Sibil Papelwyk said that the Prioress was not indifferent in making corrections, but treated some too hardly and others too favourably; and at Heynings Dame Alice Porter said that the Prioress was an accepter of persons in making corrections, for those whom she loves she passes over lightly, and those whom she holds not in favour she harshly punishes ... and she encourages her secular serving-women, whom she believes more than her sisters, in their words, to scold the same her sisters, and for this cause quarrels do spring up between her and her sisters[211]. In neither of these cases, however, was the charge corroborated by the evidence of the other nuns. Probably the two malcontents considered themselves to have a grievance against their ruler; at Legbourne Dame Sibil's complaint that the Prioress would not let her visit a dying parent gives a clue to her annoyance. Another charge sometimes made was that the Prioress gave more credence to the young nuns than to those who were older and wiser[212]. Injunctions that the head of a house was to show no favouritism were often made by visitors. One of Alnwick's injunctions may stand as representative: Also we charge yow, prioress, vnder payn of contempte and vndere the peynes writen here benethe, that in your correccions ye be sad, sowbre and indifferent, not cruelle to some and to some fauoryng agayn your rule, but that ye procede and treet your susters moderly, the qualytee and the quantitee of the persons and defautes wythe owten accepcyone of any persone euenly considerede and weyed (Legbourne)[213]. So far the position of a superior has been considered solely from the point of view of internal government, of her power over the convent and of the peculiar temptations by which she was assailed. But the head of a house was an important person, not only in her own community, but also in the circumscribed little world without her gates; though here the degree of importance which she enjoyed naturally varied with the size and wealth of her house. In the middle ages fame and power were largely local matters; roads were bad and news moved slowly and a man might live no further away than the neighbouring town and be a foreigner. The country gentry were not great travellers; occasionally they jaunted up to London, to court, or to parliament or to the law-courts; sometimes they followed the King and his lords to battles over sea or on the Scottish border; but for the most part they stayed at home and died in the bed wherein their mother bore them. The comfortable burgesses of the town travelled still less; perhaps they betook themselves upon a pilgrimage, "clothed in a liveree of a solempne and greet fraternitee," and bearing a cook with them, lest they should lack the "chiknes with the marybones," the "poudre-marchant tart," the "galingale," the "mortreux," the "blankmanger" of their luxurious daily life; but they seldom had the Wife of Bath's acquaintance with strange streams. And the lesser folk--peasants and artisans--looked across the chequered expanse of the common fields at a horizon, which was in truth a barrier, an impassable line drawn round the edge of the world. The fact that life was lived by the majority of men within such narrow limits gave a preeminent importance to the local magnate; and among the most local of local magnates (since a corporation never moved and never expired and never relaxed the grip of its dead fingers) must be reckoned the heads of the monastic houses. Socially in all cases, and politically when their houses were large and rich, abbots and abbesses, priors and prioresses, ranked among the great folk of the country side. They enjoyed the same prestige as the lords of the neighbouring manors and some extra deference on account of their religion. It was natural that the Prioress of a nunnery should be "holden digne of reverence." The gentlemen whose estates adjoined her own sent their daughters to her as novices, or (if her house were poor and the Bishop not too strict) as school girls to receive their "nortelrye"; and they did not themselves scorn the discreet entertainment of her guest-chamber and a dinner of capons and wine and gossip at her hospitable board. The artisans and labourers on her land lived by her patronage. All along the muddy highroads the beggars coming to town passed word to each other that there stood a nunnery in the meadows, where they might have scraps left over from the convent meals and perhaps beer and a pair of shoes. The head of a house, indeed, was an important person from many points of view, as a neighbour, as a landlord and as a philanthropist. The journeys which a prioress was sometimes obliged to take upon the business of the convent offered many occasions of social intercourse with her neighbours. It is, indeed, striking how great a freedom of movement was enjoyed by these cloistered women. There are constant references to journeys in account rolls. When Dame Christian Bassett, Prioress of St Mary de Pré, rode to London for the suit against her predecessor in the Common Pleas, she was accompanied on one occasion by her priest, a woman and two men; on two other occasions she took four men; and during the whole time that the suit dragged on, she was continually riding about to take counsel with great men or with lawyers and journeying to and fro between St Albans and London. On another occasion the account notes a payment in expenses for the prioresse and the steward with their servants and for hors hyre and for the wages of them that wente to kepe the courte wyth the prioresse atte Wynge atte two tymes xvj_s_ v_d_, whereof the stewards fee was that of vj_s_ viij_d_; item paid to the fermour of Wynge for his expenss ix_d_[214]. The accounts of St Michael's Stamford are full of items such as "in the expenses of the Prioress on divers occasions going to the Bishop, with hire of horses 3_s._" "in the expenses of the Prioress going to Rockingham about our woods 1_s._ 2-1/2_d._," "paid for the hire of two horses for the prioress and her expenses going to Liddington to the Bishop for a certificate 2_s._ 8_d._," "paid for the expenses of the Prioress at Burgh (i.e. Peterborough) for two days 5_s._ 8_d._"; twice the Prioress went very far afield, as usual (it would appear) on legal business, for in 1377-8 there is an entry, "Item for the expenses of the Prioress and her companions at London for a month and more, in all expenses £5. 13_s._ 4_d._" (a large sum, a long distance and a lengthy stay), and in 1409-10 there is another payment "to the Prioress for expenses in London 15_s._"[215] In spite of repeated efforts to enforce stricter enclosure upon nuns, it is evident that the head of the house rode about on the business of the convent and overlooked its husbandry in person, even where (as at St Michael's Stamford) there was a male prior or _custos_ charged with the ordering of its temporal affairs. The general injunction that an abbess was never to leave her house save "for the obvious utility of the monastery or for urgent necessity"[216] was capable of a very wide interpretation, and it is clear from the evidence of visitations and accounts that it was interpreted to include a great deal of temporal business outside the walls. If a house possessed a male _custos_ the Prioress would have less occasion and less excuse for journeys, though for important affairs her presence was probably always necessary; Bishop Drokensford, appointing a _custos_ to Minchin Barrow, warns the Prioress no longer "to intermeddle with rural business (_negociis campestribus_) and other secular affairs" but to leave these to the _custos_ and to devote herself to the service of God and to the stricter enforcement of the rule[217]. But in houses where no such official existed the prioress doubtless undertook a certain amount of general estate management. One of Alnwick's orders to the Prioress of Legbourne in 1440 was "that ye bysylly ouersee your baylly, that your husbandry be sufficyently gouernede to the avayle of your house"[218]; and in the intervals of their long struggle to keep nuns within their cloisters, the Bishops seem to have recognised the necessity for some travel on the part of the heads of houses, and to have facilitated such travel by granting them dispensations to have divine service celebrated wherever they might be. Thus in 1400 the Prioress of Haliwell obtained a licence to hear divine service in her oratory within her mansion of Camberwell, or elsewhere in the diocese, during the next two years[219], and in 1406 the Abbess of Tarrant Keynes was similarly allowed to have the service celebrated for herself and her household anywhere within the city and diocese of Salisbury[220]. It is significant that among the arguments used to oppose Henry VIII's injunction that monks and nuns should be strictly enclosed (which was, for the nuns, only a repetition of Pope Boniface's decree of three centuries earlier) was that of the difficulty of supervising the husbandry of a house, if its head were confined to cloistral precincts. "Please it you to be advertised," wrote Cecily Bodenham, the last Abbess of Wilton, to Cromwell in 1535, "that master doctor Leigh, the King's grace's special visitor and your deputy in this behalf, visiting of late my house, hath given injunction that not only all my sisters, but I also, should continually keep and abide within the precincts of my house: which commandment I am right well content with in regard of my own person, if your mastership shall think it so expedient; but in consideration of the administration of mine office and specially of this poor house which is in great debt and requireth much reparation and also which without good husbandry is not like, in long season, to come forward, and in consideration that the said husbandry cannot be, by my poor judgment, so well by an other overseen as by mine own person, it may please your mastership of your goodness to license me, being associate with one or two of the sad and discreet sisters of my house, to supervise abroad such things as shall be for the profit and commodity of my house. Which thing though, peradventure, might be done by other, yet I ensure you that none will do it so faithfully for my house's profit as mine own self. Assuring your mastership that it is not, nor shall be at any time hereafter, my mind to lie forth of my monastery any night, except by inevitable necessity I cannot then return home"[221]. It is, however, very plain that the journeys taken by abbesses and prioresses were not always strictly concerned with the business of their convents, or at least they combined business most adroitly with pleasure. These ladies were of good kin and they took their place naturally in local society, when they left their houses to oversee their husbandry, to interview a bishop or a lawyer about their tithes, or quite openly to visit friends and relatives. They emerged to attend the funerals of great folk; the Prioress of Carrow attended the funeral of John Paston in 1466[222], and Sir Thomas Cumberworth in his will (1451) left the injunction: I will that Ilke prior and priores that comes to my beryall at y{t} day hafe iii_s_ iiij_d_ and ilke chanon and Nune xij_d_ ... and Ilke prior and priores that comes to the xxx day (the month's-mind) hafe vj_s_ viij_d_ and Ilke chanon or none that comes to the said xxx day haf xx_d_[223]. Sometimes they attended the deathbeds of relatives; among witnesses to the codicil to the will of Walter Skirlaw, Bishop of Durham, in 1404 was "religiosa femina Domina Johanna Priorissa de Swyna, soror dicti domini episcopi"[224]; and it was not unusual for an abbess or prioress to be made supervisor or executrix of a will[225]. Nor was the sad business of deathbeds the only share taken by these prioresses in public life. Clemence Medforde, Prioress of Ankerwyke, went to a wedding at Bromhale; and unfortunately a sheepfold, a dairy and a good timber granary chose that moment to catch fire and burn down, setting fire also to the smouldering indignation of her nuns; whence many recriminations when the Bishop came on his rounds[226]. Stranger still at times were the matters for which their friends sought their good offices. The aristocratic Isabel de Montfort, Prioress of Easebourne, was one of the ladies by whose oath Margaret de Camoys purged herself on a charge of adultery in 1295[227]. The fact that these ladies were drawn from the wealthy classes and constantly associated on terms of equality with their friends and relatives, sometimes led them to impart a most unmonastic luxury into their own lives. They came from the homes of lords like Sir John Arundel, who lost not only his life but "two and fiftie new sutes of apparell of cloth of gold or tissue," when he was drowned off the Irish coast; or Lord Berkeley who travelled with a retinue of twelve knights, twenty-four esquires "of noble family and descent" and a hundred and fifty men-at-arms, in coats of white frieze lined with crimson and embroidered with his badge; or else of country squires and franklins, like the white-bearded gentleman of whom Chaucer says that To liven in delyt was ever his wone, For he was Epicurus owne sone, * * * * * Withoute bake mete was never his hous, Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke; or else their fathers were wealthy merchants, living in great mansions hung with arras and lighted with glass windows, rich enough to provoke sumptuary laws and to entertain kings. It is perhaps not surprising that abbesses and prioresses should have found it hard to change the way of life, which they had led before they took the veil and which they saw all around them, when they rode about in the world. Carousings, gay garments, pet animals, frivolous amusements, many guests, superfluous servants and frequent escapes to the freedom of the road, are found not only at the greater houses but even at those which were small and poor. The diverting history of the flea and the gout shows that the luxurious abbess was already a byword early in the thirteenth century. The tale runs as follows: The lopp (flea) and the gout on a time spake together, and among other talking either of them asked [the] other of their lodging and how they were harboured and where, the night next before. And the flea made a great plaint and said, "I was harboured in the bed of an abbess, betwixt the white sheets upon a soft mattress and there I trowed to have had good harbourage, for her flesh was fat and tender, and thereof I trowed to have had my fill. And first, when I began for to bite her, she began to cry and call on her maidens and when they came, anon they lighted candles and sought me, but I hid me till they were gone. And then I bit her again and she came again and sought me with a light, so that I was fain to leap out of the bed; and all this night I had no rest, but was chased and chevied ['charrid'] and scarce gat away with my life." Then answered the gout and said, "I was harboured in a poor woman's house and anon as I pricked her in her great toe she rose and wetted a great bowl full of clothes and went with them unto the water and stood therein with me up to her knees; so that, what for cold and for holding in the water, I was nearhand slain." And then the flea said, "This night will we change our harbourage"; and so they did. And on the morn they met again and then the flea said unto the gout, "This night have I had good harbourage, for the woman that was thine host yesternight was so weary and so irked, that I was sickerly harboured with her and ate of her blood as mickle as I would." And then answered the gout and said unto the flea: "Thou gavest me good counsel yestereven, for the abbess underneath a gay coverlet, and a soft sheet and a delicate, covered me and nourished me all night. And as soon as I pricked her in her great toe, she wrapped me in furs, and if I hurt her never so ill she let me alone and laid me in the softest part of the bed and troubled me nothing. And therefore as long as she lives I will be harboured with her, for she makes mickle of me." And then said the flea, "I will be harboured with poor folk as long as I live, for there may I be in good rest and eat my full and nobody let [hinder] me"[228]. The Durham man, William of Stanton, who went down St Patrick's hole on September 20th, 1409, and was shown the souls in torment there, has much the same tale to tell. He witnessed the trial of a prioress, whose soul had come there for judgment, and the fendis accusid hir and said that she come to religion for pompe and pride and for to have habundaunce of the worldes riches, and for ese of hir bodi and not for deuocion, mekenesse and lowenesse, as religious men and women owte to do; and the fendes said, "It is wel knowen to god and to al his angels of heven and to men dwellyng in that contree where she dwellid ynne, and all the fendes of hell, that she was more cosluer (_sic_) in puler [fur] weryng, as of girdelles of siluer and overgilt and ringes on hir fingers, and siluer bokeles and ouergilt on hir shone, esy lieng in nyghtes as it were [a quene] or an emprise in the world, not daynyng hir for to arise to goddis servis[229]; and with all delicate metes and drinkes she was fedde ... and then the bisshop [her judge] enioyned hir to payne enduryng evermore til the day of dome"[230]. Our visitation documents show us many abbesses and prioresses like the gout's hostess or the tormented lady in St Patrick's Purgatory. In the matter of dress the accusations brought against Clemence Medforde, Prioress of Ankerwyke, in 1441, will suffice for an example: The Prioress wears golden rings exceeding costly with divers precious stones and also girdles silvered and gilded over and silken veils, and she carries her veil too high above her forehead, so that her forehead, being entirely uncovered, can be seen of all, and she wears furs of vair.... Also she wears shifts of cloth of Reynes which costs sixteen pence the ell.... Also she wears kirtles laced with silk and tiring pins of silver and silver gilt and has made all the nuns wear the like.... Also she wears above her veil a cap of estate furred with budge. Item she has round her neck a long cord of silk, hanging below her breast and on it a gold ring with one diamond. She confessed all except the cloth of Rennes, which she totally denied, but pleaded that she wore fur caps "because of divers infirmities in the head." Alnwick made an injunction carefully particularising all these sins: And also that none of yow, the prioresse ne none of the couente, were no vayles of sylke ne no syluere pynnes ne no gyrdles herneysed with syluere or golde, ne no mo rynges on your fyngres then oon, ye that be professed by a bysshope, ne that none of yow vse no lased kyrtels, but butoned or hole be fore, ne that ye vse no lases a bowte your nekkes wythe crucyfixes or rynges hangyng by thame, ne cappes of astate abowe your vayles ... and that ye so atyre your hedes that your vayles come down nyghe to your yene[231]. If anyone doubts the truth of Chaucer's portrait of a prioress, or its satirical intent, he has only to read that incomparable observer's words side by side with this injunction of Alnwick: But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was her cloke, as I was war. Of smale coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene; And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene, On which ther was first write a crowned A And after, _Amor vincit omnia_. Margaret Fairfax of Nunmonkton (1397) and the lady (her name is unknown) who ruled Easebourne in 1441 are other examples of worldly prioresses; they clearly regarded themselves as the great ladies they were by birth, and behaved like all the other great ladies of the neighbourhood. Margaret Fairfax used divers furs, including even the costly grey fur (gris)--the same with which the sleeves of Chaucer's monk were "purfiled at the hond"; she wore silken veils and "she frequently kept company with John Munkton and invited him to feasts in her room ... and John Munkton (by whom the convent had for long been scandalised) frequently played at tables" (the fashionable game for ladies, a kind of backgammon) "with the Prioress in her room and served her with drink." No wonder she had to sell timber in order to procure money[232]. The Prioress of Easebourne was even more frivolous; the nuns complained that the house was in debt to the amount of £40 and this principally owing to her costly expenses: because she frequently rides abroad and pretends that she does so on the common business of the house, although it is not so, with a train of attendants much too large, and tarries long abroad, and she feasts sumptuously both when abroad and at home, and she is very choice in her dress, so that the fur trimmings of her mantle are worth a hundred shillings, as great a scandal as Clemence Medforde's cloth of Rennes at sixteen pence the ell. The Bishop took strong measures to deal with this worldly lady; she was deposed from all administration of the temporal goods of the priory, which administration was committed to "Master Thomas Boleyn and John Lylis, Esquire, until and so long as when the aforesaid house or priory shall be freed from debt." It was also ordered that the Prioress with all possible speed shall diminish her excessive household and shall only retain, by the advice and with the assent of the said John and Thomas, a household such as is merely necessary and not more. Also that the Prioress shall convert the fur trimmings, superfluous to her condition and very costly, to the discharge of the debts of the house. Also that if eventually it shall seem expedient to the said Masters Thomas and John at any time, that the Prioress should ride in person for the common business of the house, on such occasions she shall not make a lengthened stay abroad, nor shall she in the interval incur expenses in any way costly beyond what is needful, and thus when despatched to go abroad she must and ought rightly to content herself with four horses only; and those perhaps "bothe foul and lene," like the jade ridden by the Nonnes Preeste when Chaucer met him on the Canterbury road[233]. The charge of gadding about the country side, sometimes (as in the Prioress of Easebourne's case) with a retinue which better beseemed the worldly rank they had abjured, was one not infrequently made against the heads of nunneries[234]. The Prioress of Stixwould was accused, in 1519, of spending the night too often outside the cloister with her secular friends and the Bishop ordered that in future she should sleep within the monastery, but might keep a private house in the precincts, for her greater refreshment and for receiving visitors[235]. The Prioress of Wroxall was ordered to stay more at home in 1323[236], and in 1303 Bishop Dalderby even found that the Prioress of Greenfield had been absent from her house for two years[237]. Even more frequent was the charge that abbesses and prioresses repaid too lavishly the hospitality which they doubtless received at neighbouring manors. Many abbesses gave that "dyscrete enterteynement," which Henry VIII's commissioners so much admired at Catesby[238]; but others entertained too often and too well, in the opinion of their nuns; moreover family affection sometimes led them to make provision for their kinsfolk at the cost of the house. In 1441 one of the nuns of Legbourne deposed that many kinsmen of the prioress had frequent access to the house, though she did not know whether it was financially burdened by their visits; Alnwick ordered that ye susteyn none of your kynne or allyaunce wythe the commune godes of the house, wythe owten the hole assent of the more hole parte of the couent, ne that ye suffre your saide kynne or allyaunce hafe suche accesse to your place, where thurghe the howse shall be chargeede[239]. A similar injunction had been made at Chatteris in 1345, where the abbess was warned not to bestow the convent rents and goods unlawfully upon any of her relatives[240]. The charge was, however, most common in later times, when discipline was in all ways relaxed. At Easebourne in 1478 one of the nuns complained "that kinsmen of the prioress very often and for weeks at a time frequent the priory and have many banquets of the best food, while the sisters have them of the worst"[241]. The neighbouring nunnery of Rusper was said in 1521 to be ruinous and "greatly burdened by reason of friends and kinsmen of the lady prioress who continually received hospitality there"[242]; at Studley in 1520 there were complaints that the brother of the prioress and his wife stayed within the monastery, and ten years later it was ordered that no corrody should be given to the prioress' mother, until more was known of her way of life[243]. At Flixton in the same year one of the nuns asserted that the mother of the prioress had her food at the expense of the house, but whether she paid anything or not was unknown; it appears, however, that she was in charge of the dairy, so that she may have been boarded in return for her services. A characteristic instance is preserved in Bishop Longland's letter to the Prioress of Nuncoton in 1531, charging her that frome hensforth ye do nomore burden ne chardge your house with suche a nombre of your kinnesfolks as ye haue in tymes past used. Your good mother it is meate ye haue aboute yow for your comforte and hirs bothe. And oon or ij moo of suche your saddest kynnes folke, whome ye shall thynk mooste conuenyent but passe not.... And that ye give nomore soo lyberally the goods of your monastery as ye haue doon to your brother george thomson and your brodres children, with grasing of catell, occupying your lands, making of Irneworke to pleugh, and carte, and other like of your stuff and in your forge[244]. Much information about the conduct of abbesses and prioresses may be obtained from a study of episcopal registers, and in particular of visitation documents. An analysis of Bishop Alnwick's visitations of the diocese of Lincoln (1436-49) gives interesting results. In all but four houses there were few or no complaints against the head. Sometimes it was said that she failed to dine in the frater or to sleep in the dorter, sometimes that she was a poor financier, and in two cases the charge of favouritism was made; but the complaints at these sixteen houses were, on the whole, insignificant. The four remaining heads were unsatisfactory. The Prioress of St Michael's Stamford was so incompetent (owing to bodily weakness) that she took little part in the common life of the house and regularly stayed away from the choir, dined and slept by herself, though the Bishop refused to give her a dispensation to do so. The administration of the temporalities of the house was committed by Alnwick to two of the nuns, but when he came back two years later one of these had had a child and the other was unpopular on account of her autocratic behaviour. The moral condition of the house (one nun was in apostasy with a man in 1440, and in 1442 and 1445 two nuns were found to have borne children) must in part be set down to the lack of a competent head[245]. The Prioress of Gracedieu was also old and incompetent; her subprioress deposed that by reason of old age and incapacity the prioress has renounced for herself all governance of matters temporal, nor does she take part in divine service, so that she is of no use; but if she makes any corrections, she makes them with words of chiding and abuse.... She makes the secrets of their religious life common among the secular folk that sit at table with her ... and under her religious discipline almost altogether is at an end. Other nuns gave similar evidence and all complained of her favouritism for two young nuns, whom she called her disciples. Here, as at St Michael's Stamford, the autocratic behaviour of the nun who was in charge of the temporalities had aroused the resentment of her sisters and the whole convent was evidently seething with quarrels[246]. The Prioress of Ankerwyke, Clemence Medforde, was equally unpopular with her nuns. The ringleader against her was a certain Dame Margery Kirkby, who poured out a flood of complaints when Alnwick came to the house. The chief charge against her was that of financial mismanagement. She was obliged to admit that she received, paid and administered everything without consulting the convent, keeping the common seal in her own custody all the year round and never rendering account. She was also said to have allowed the sheepfold, dairy and granary to be burned down owing to her carelessness, one result of which was that all the grain had to stand in the church. She had alienated the plate and psalters of the house, having lent three of the latter and pawned a chalice; another chalice and a thurible had been broken up to make a drinking cup, but, as she had been unable to pay the sum demanded, the pieces remained in the hands of a monk, who had undertaken to get the work done. She was charged with having alienated timber in large quantities and with having cut down trees at the wrong time of year, so that no new wood grew again; but she denied this accusation. Another charge made against her by Margery Kirkby, that of wearing jewels and rich clothes, has already been described; she admitted it and the fault was the more grave in that she omitted to provide suitable clothes for the nuns, who went about in rags. It was also complained that she behaved with undue severity to her sisters; she made difficulties about giving them licence to see their friends; and she had a most trying habit of coming late to the services, and then making the nuns begin all over again. It is obvious that she was greatly disliked by the convent, perhaps because she was a stranger in their midst, having been imported from Bromhale to be Prioress; she evidently sought relief from the black looks of her sisters by visiting her old home, for she was away at a wedding in Bromhale when the farm buildings caught fire, and one of the missing psalters had been lent to the prioress of that place. Her _régime_ at Ankerwyke had been fraught with ill results to the convent, for no less than six nuns had (without her knowledge, so she said) gone into apostasy; perhaps to escape from her too rigorous sway. Nevertheless one cannot help feeling that Margery Kirkby may have been a difficult person to live with; the Prioress complained that the nuns were often very easily moved against her and that Dame Margery had called her a thief to her face; and though it may have been conducive to economy that the triumphant accuser (elected by the convent) should share with the Prioress the custody of the common seal, it can hardly have been conducive to harmony[247]. At any rate poor luxury-loving Clemence died in the following year and Margery Kirkby ruled in her stead[248]. But the most serious misdemeanours of all were brought to light when Alnwick visited Catesby in 1442[249]. Here the bad example of the Prioress, Margaret Wavere, seems to have contaminated the nuns, for all of them were in constant communication with seculars and one of them had given birth to a child. The Prioress' complaint that she dared not punish this offender is easily intelligible in the light of her own evil life. The most serious charge against her was that she was unduly intimate with a priest named William Taylour, who constantly visited the nunnery and with whom she had been accustomed to go into the gardens in the village of Catesby; and one of the younger nuns had surprised the two _in flagrante delicto_. She was a woman of violent temper; two nuns deposed that when she was moved to anger against any of them she would tear off their veils and drag them about by the hair, calling them beggars and harlots[250], and this in the very choir of the church; if they committed any fault she scolded and upbraided them and would not cease before seculars or during divine service; "she is very cruel and severe to the nuns and loves them not," said one; "she is so harsh and impetuous that there is no pleasing her," sighed another; "she sows discord among the sisters," complained a third, "saying so-and-so said such-and-such a thing about thee, if the one to whom she speaks has transgressed." More serious still, from the visitor's point of view, were the threats by which she sought to prevent the nuns from revealing anything at the visitation; two of them declared that she had beaten and imprisoned those who gave evidence when Bishop Gray came to the house, and sister Isabel Benet whispered that the Prioress had boasted of having bribed the bishop's clerk with a purse of money, to reveal everything that the nuns had said on that occasion. Her practice of compelling the nuns to perform manual labour was greatly resented--why should they Swinken with hir handes and laboure As Austin bit? How shal the world be served? Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved. It appeared, however, that they were anxious to studie and make hemselven wood Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure, or so they informed Alnwick. One Agnes Halewey complained that, though she was young and wished to be instructed in her religion and such matters, the Prioress set her to make beds and to sew and spin; another sister declared that when guests came the Prioress sent the young nuns to make up their beds, which was "full of danger and a scandal to the house"[251]; another deposed that the choir was not properly observed, because the Prioress was wont to employ the younger nuns upon her own business. There were also the usual charges of financial mismanagement and of wasting the goods of the convent; she had let buildings fall to ruin for want of repair and two sheepfolds had stood roofless for two whole years, so that the wood rotted and the lambs died of the damp. Whereas thirteen years ago, when she became prioress, the house was worth £60 a year, now it was worth a bare £50 and was in debt, owing to the bad rule of the Prioress and of William Taylour, and this in spite of the fact that she had on her entry received from Joan Catesby a sack and a half of wool and twelve marks, with which to pay debts and make repairs. She had cut down woods. She had pawned a sacramental cup and other silver pieces; the tablecloths "fit for a king" (_mappalia conueniencia pro seruiendo regi_), and the set of a dozen silver spoons which she had found at the priory, all had vanished away. She had not provided the nuns with clothes and money for their food for three quarters of the year, and she never rendered an account to them. Moreover all things in the house were ordered by her mother and by a certain Joan Coleworthe, who kept the keys of all the offices; and both the Prioress and her mother revealed the secrets of the chapter to people in the village. Examined upon these separate counts, the Prioress denied the majority of them; she said that she had not been cruel to the nuns or laid violent hands upon them, or called them liars and harlots or sowed discord among them; that she had not set them to make beds or to do other work; that she had never punished the nuns for giving evidence at the last visitation or bribed the Bishop's clerk; that she had never allowed her mother and Joan to rule everything; and that she had never revealed the secrets of the chapter; on the contrary those secrets were spread abroad by the secular visitors of the nuns. She admitted her failure to render account, and gave as a reason that she had no clerk to write it for her; she said that she had pawned the cup with the consent of the convent, in order to pay tithes, and that she had cut down trees for the use of the house, partly with and partly without the consent of the house; as to the ruinous buildings, she said that some had been repaired and some not, and as to the outside debts she professed herself ready to render an account. The most serious charge of all, concerning William Taylour, she entirely denied. The Bishop thereupon gave her the next day to purge herself with four of her sisters for the things which she denied; but she was unable to produce any compurgatresses[252] and Alnwick accordingly found her guilty and obliged her to abjure all intercourse with Taylour in the future. It might be imagined that such a case as that of Margaret Wavere was in the highest degree exceptional, likely to occur but once in a century. Unfortunately it appears to have occurred far more often. In the fifty years, between 1395 and 1445, Margaret Wavere can be matched, in different parts of the country, by no less than six other prioresses guilty of immorality and bad government; and it must be realised that this is probably an understatement, because so much evidence has been destroyed, or is as yet unexplored in episcopal registries. Of these cases two belong to the diocese of York, one (besides the case of Margaret Wavere) to the diocese of Lincoln, one to the diocese of Salisbury, one to the diocese of Winchester and one to the diocese of Norwich. Fully as bad a woman as Margaret Wavere was Eleanor, prioress of Arden, a little Yorkshire house which contained seven nuns, when it was visited by Master John de Suthwell in 1396 (during the vacancy of the see of York)[253]. The nuns were unanimous and bitter in their complaints. The Prioress kept the convent seal in her possession, sometimes for a year at a time, and did everything according to her own will without consulting her sisters. She sold woods and trees and disposed of the money as she would, and all rents were similarly received and expended by her. When she assumed office the house was in good condition, owing some five marks only, but now it owed great sums to divers people, amounting to over £16 in the detailed list given by the nuns[254], and this in spite of the fact that she had received many alms and gifts during her year of office--£18. 13_s._ 4_d._ in all; indeed the two marks which had been given her by Henry Arden's executors that the convent might pray for his soul, had been concealed by her from the nuns, "to the deception of the said Henry's soul, as it appeared to them." She had pawned the goods of the house, at one time a piece of silver with a cover and a maser worth 40_s._, at another time a second maser and the Prioress' seal of office itself, for which she got 5_s._; even the sacred vestments were not safe in her rapacious hands and a new suit was pawned, with the result that it was soiled and worn and not yet consecrated. The walls and roof of the church and dorter and the rest of the house were in ruins; there were no waxen candles round the altar, no lights for matins or for the other canonical hours, no Paschal candles; when she first took office she found ten pairs of sheets of good linen cloth (cloth of "lake" and "inglyschclath," to wit) and now they were worn out and in all her time not one new pair had been made; the nuns had only two sacred albs and one of them had been turned to secular uses, viz. to "bultyng mele," and on several occasions had been found on the beds of laymen in the stable. The allowances of bread and beer due to the nuns were inadequately and unpunctually paid; sometimes she would withdraw them altogether and the sisters would be reduced to drinking water[255]. She was not even a good bargainer, for by her negligence a bushel of corn was bought by an agreement for 11_d._, when it could have been had in the public market for 9_d._, 8_d._ or 7_d._ Domineering she was, too, and sent three young nuns out haymaking, so that they did not get back before nightfall and divine service could not be said until then; and she provoked secular boys and laymen to chatter in the cloister and church in contempt of the nuns. There were graver charges against her in connection with a certain married man, John Bever, with whom she was wont to go abroad, resting in the same house by night; and once they lay alone within the priory, in the Prioress' chamber by night; and during the whole summer she slept alone in her principal room outside the dorter and was much suspected on account of John Bever. It will be noticed that this case presents many points of similarity with that of Margaret Wavere, the chief difference being that at Arden the Prioress alone seems to have been in grave fault; she made no accusation against her nuns, save that they talked in the choir and in the offices and that the sacrist was negligent about ringing the bell for divine service. Nor had they anything to say against each other. The other Yorkshire case came to light in 1444, when Archbishop Kemp stated that at his visitation of the Priory of Wykeham very grave defaults and crimes had been detected against the Prioress, Isabella Westirdale, "who after she had been raised to that office had been guilty of incontinence with many men, both within and outside the monastery"; she was deprived and sent to do penance at Nunappleton. After the case of Eleanor of Arden the next scandal concerning a prioress was discovered in 1404 at Bromhale in Berkshire. The nuns complained in that year to the Archbishop of Canterbury that the Prioress Juliana had for twenty years led an exceedingly dissolute life and of her own temerity and without their consent had usurped the rule of Prioress, in which position she had wasted, alienated, consumed and turned to her own nefarious uses the chalices, books, jewels, rents and other property of the house[256]. The next year an even more serious case occurred at Wintney in Hampshire, if the charges contained in a papal commission of 1405 were true[257]. The Archdeacon of Taunton and a canon of Wells were empowered to visit the house: the Pope having heard that Alice, who has been Prioress for about twenty years, has so dilapidated its goods, from which the Prioress for the time being is wont to administer to the nuns their food and clothing, that it is 200 marks in debt; that she specially cherishes two immodest nuns one of whom, her own (_suam_) sister, had apostatized and left the monastery and, remaining in the world, had had children, the other like the first in evil life and lewdness but not an apostate, and feeds and clothes them splendidly, whilst she feeds the other honest nuns meanly and for several years past has not provided them with clothing; that she has long kept and keeps Thomas Ferring, a secular priest, as companion at board and in bed (_in commensalem et sibi contubernalem_), who has long slept and still sleeps, contrary to the institutes of the order, within the monastery, beneath the dorter, in a certain chamber (_domo_), in which formerly no secular had ever been wont to sleep and in which the said priest and Alice meet together at will by day and night, to satisfy their lust (_pro explenda libidine_), on account of which and other enormous and scandalous crimes, which Alice has committed and still commits, there is grave and public scandal against her in those parts, to the great detriment of the monastery. If these things were found to be true the commissioners were ordered to deprive the Prioress. In 1427 there occurred another very serious case of misconduct in a Prioress, which (as at Catesby) seems to have tainted the whole flock and is a still further illustration of the fact that a bad prioress often meant an ill-conducted house. By her own admission Isabel Hermyte, Prioress of Redlingfield in Suffolk, had never been to confession nor observed Sundays and principal double feasts since the last visitation, two years before. She and Joan Tates, a novice, had not slept in the dorter with the other nuns, but in a private chamber. She had laid violent hands on Agnes Brakle on St Luke's day; and she had been alone with Thomas Langeland, bailiff, in private and suspicious places, to wit in a small hall with closed windows "and sub heggerowes." Nor was the material condition of the house safer in her hands. There were only nine nuns instead of the statutory number of thirteen and only one chaplain instead of three; no annual account had been rendered, obits had been neglected, goods alienated and trees cut down without the knowledge and consent of the convent. Altogether she confessed that she was neither religious nor honest in conversation and the effect of her conduct upon her charges was only too apparent, for the novice Joan Tates confessed to incontinence and asserted that it had been provoked by the bad example of the Prioress. The result of this exposure was the voluntary resignation of the guilty woman, in order to save a scandal, and her banishment to the priory of Wix; the whole convent was ordered to fast on bread and beer on Fridays, and Joan Tates was to go in front of the solemn procession of the convent on the following Sunday, wearing no veil and clad in white flannel[258]. It is the darker side of convent life that these ancient scandals call up before our eyes. The system produced its saints as well as its sinners; we have only to remember the German nunnery of Helfta to be sure of that. The English nunneries of the later middle ages produced no great mystics, but there have come down to us word-pictures of at least two heads of houses worthy to rank with the best abbesses of any age; not women of genius, but good, competent housewives, careful in all things of the welfare of their nuns, practical as well as pious. The famous description of the Abbess Euphemia of Wherwell (1226-57) is too well-known to be quoted here in full[259]: "It is most fitting," says her convent chartulary, "that we should always perpetuate the memory, in our special prayers and suffrages, of one who ever worked for the glory of God, and for the weal of both our souls and bodies. For she increased the number of the Lord's handmaids in this monastery from forty to eighty, to the exaltation of the worship of God. To her sisters, both in health and sickness, she administered the necessaries of life with piety, prudence, care and honesty. She also increased the sum allowed for garments by 12_d._ each. The example of her holy conversation and charity, in conjunction with her pious exhortations and regular discipline, caused each one to know how, in the words of the Apostle, to possess her vessel in sanctification and honour. She also, with maternal piety and careful forethought, built, for the use of both sick and sound, a new and large farmery away from the main buildings and in conjunction with it a dorter and other necessary offices. Beneath the farmery she constructed a watercourse, through which a stream flowed with sufficient force to carry off all refuse that might corrupt the air. Moreover she built there a place set apart for the refreshment of the soul, namely a chapel of the Blessed Virgin, which was erected outside the cloister behind the farmery. With the chapel she enclosed a large place, which was adorned on the north side with pleasant vines and trees. On the other side, by the river bank, she built offices for various uses, a space being left in the centre, where the nuns are able from time to time to enjoy the pure air. In these and in other numberless ways, the blessed mother Euphemia provided for the worship of God and the welfare of her sisters." Nor was she less prudent in ruling secular business: "she also so conducted herself with regard to exterior affairs," says the admiring chronicler, "that she seemed to have the spirit of a man rather than of a woman." She levelled the court of the abbey manor and built a new hall, and round the walled court "she made gardens and vineyards and shrubberies in places that were formerly useless and barren and which now became both serviceable and pleasant"; she repaired the manor-houses at Tufton and at Middleton; when the bell tower of the dorter fell down, she built a new one "of commanding height and of exquisite workmanship"; and one of the last acts of her life was to take down the unsteady old presbytery and to lay with her own hands, "having invoked the grace of the Holy Spirit, with prayers and tears," the foundation stone of a new building, which she lived to see completed: These and other innumerable works our good superior Euphemia performed for the advantage of the house, but she was none the less zealous in works of charity, gladly and freely exercising hospitality, so that she and her daughters might find favour with One Whom Lot and Abraham and others have pleased by the grace of hospitality. Moreover, because she greatly loved to honour duly the House of God and the place where His glory dwells, she adorned the church with crosses, reliquaries, precious stones, vestments and books. Finally, she "who had devoted herself when amongst us to the service of His house and the habitation of His glory, found the due reward for her merits with our Lord Jesus Christ," and died amid the blessings of her sisters. Less famous is the name of another mighty builder, who ruled, some two centuries later, the little Augustinian nunnery of Crabhouse in Norfolk[260]. Joan Wiggenhall was (as has already been pointed out) a lady of good family and had influential friends; she was installed as Prioress in 1420, and began to build at once. In her first year she demolished a tumble-down old barn and caused it to be remade; this cost £45. 9_s._ 6_d._, irrespective of the timber cut upon the estate and of the tiles from the old barn, but the friends of the house helped and Sir John Ingoldesthorpe gave £20 "to his dyinge," and the Archdeacon of Lincoln 10 marks. Cheered by this, the Prioress continued her operations; in her second year she persuaded the Prior of Shouldham to co-operate with her in roofing the chancel of Wiggenhall St Peter's, towards which she paid 20 marks, and she also made the north end of her own chamber for 10 marks, and in her third year she walled the chancel of St Peter's and completed the south end of her chamber. Then she began the great work of her life, the church of the nunnery itself, and for three years this was the chief topic of conversation in all the villages round, and the favourite charity of all her neighbours: "Also in the iiij yere of the same Jone Prioresse," runs the account in Crabhouse Register, "Ffor myschefe that was on the chyrche whiche myght not be reparid but if it were newe maid, with the counseyle of here frendys dide it take downe, trostynge to the helpe of oure Lorde and to the grete charite of goode cristen men and so with helpe of the persone before seyde (her cousin, Edmund Perys, the parson of Watlington) and other goode frendes as schal be shewyd aftyrward, be the steringe of oure Lorde and procuringe of the person forseyde sche wrowght there upon iij yere and more contynuali and made it, blessyd be God, whiche chirche cost cccc mark, whereof William Harald that lithe in the chapel of Our Lady payde for the ledynge of the chirch vij skore mark. And xl li. payede we for the roofe, the whiche xl li. we hadde of Richard Steynour, Cytesen of Norwiche, and more hadde we nought of the good whiche he bequeathe us on his ded-bedde in the same Cyte, a worthly place clepyd Tomlonde whiche was with holde fro us be untrewe man his seketoures. God for his mekyl mercy of the wronge make the ryghte." The indignant complaint of the nuns, balked of their "worthly place clepyd Tomlonde," is very typical; there was always an executor in hell as the middle ages pictured it, and a popular proverb affirmed that "too secuturs and an overseere make thre theves"[261]. In this case, however, other friends were ready to make up for the deficiencies of those untrue men: And the stallis with the reredose, the person beforeseyde payde fore xx pounde of his owne goode. And xxvi mark for ij antiphoneres whiche liggen in the queer. And xx li. Jon Lawson gaf to the chirche. And xx mark we hadde for the soule of Jon Watson. And xx mark for the soule of Stevyn York to the werkys of the chirche and to other werkys doon before. And xxi mark of the gylde of the Trinite which Neybores helde in this same chirche. The glasynge of the chirche, the scripture maketh mencyon; onli God be worshipped and rewarde to all cristen soules. After the death of the good parson of Watlington, another cousin of the Prioress, Dr John Wiggenhall, came to her aid, and in her ninth year, she set to work once more upon the church, and she arayed up the chirche and the quere, that is for to seye, set up the ymagis and pathed the chirche and the quere, and stolid it and made doris, which cost x pownde, the veyl of the chirche with the auterclothis in sute cost xl_s._[262] During the building of the church the Prioress had not neglected other smaller works and a long chamber on the east side of the hall was built; but it was not until her tenth year, when the building and "arraying" of the church was finished, that she had time and money to do much; then she made some necessary repairs to the barn at St Peter's and built a new malt-house, which cost ten marks. In her twelfth year "for mischeef that was on the halle she toke it downe and made it agen"; but alas, on the Tuesday next after Hallowmas 1432, a fire broke out and burned down the new malt-house, and another malt-house with a solar above, full of malt. This misfortune (so common in the middle ages) only put new heart into Joan Wiggenhall: thanne the same prioresse in here xiij yere with the grace of owre Lord God and with the helpe of mayster Johnne Wygenale beforseyd, and with helpe of good cristen men which us relevid made a malthouse with a Doffcote, that now ovyr the Kylne, whiche house is more than eyther of thoo that brent. And was in the werkynge fulli ij yere tyl her xiiij yere were passyd out, which cost l pounde. Also the same prioresse in her xv yere, sche repared the bakhous an inheyned [heightened] it and new lyngthde it, which cost x marc. And in the same yere she heyned the stepul and new rofyd it and leyde therupon a fodyr of led whiche led, freston, tymbur and werkmanshipe cost x pounde. Also in the same yere sche made the cloystir on the Northe syde and slattyd it, and the wal be the stepul, which cost viij li. Then she began her greatest work, after the building of the church: Also in the xvj yere of the occupacion of the same prioresse (1435) the dortoure that than was, as fer forthe as we knowe, the furste that was set up on the place, was at so grete mischeef and at the gate-downe [falling down], the Prioresse dredyinge perisschyng of her sistres whiche lay thereinne took it downe for drede of more harmys and no more was doon thereto that yere, but a mason he wande[263] with hise prentise, and in that same yere the same prioresse made the litil soler on the sowthe ende of here chaumber stondyng in to the paradise, and the wal stondinge on the weste syde of the halle, with the lityl chaumber stondynge on the southe syde, and the Myllehouse with alle the small houses dependynge there upon, the Carthouse, and the Torfehouse, and ij of stabulys and a Beerne stondynge at a tenauntry of oure on the Southe syde of Nycolas Martyn. Alle these werkys of this yere with the repare drewe iiij skore mark. In the xvij yere of the same Prioresse, be the help of God and of goode cristen men sche began the grounde of the same dortoure that now stondith, and wrought thereupon fulli vij yere betymes as God wolde sende hir good. In the twenty-fourth year of her reign Joan Wiggenhall saw the last stone laid in its place and the last plank nailed. The future was hid from her happy eyes; she could not foresee the day, scarcely a century later, when the walls she had reared so carefully should stand empty and forlorn, and the molten lead of the roof should be sold by impious men. She must have said with Solomon, as she looked upon her great church, "I have surely built thee an house to dwell in, a settled place for thee to abide in for ever"; and no flash of tragic prescience showed her the sheep feeding peacefully over the spot where its "heyned stepul" pointed to the sky. In 1451 she departed to the heaven she knew best, a house of many mansions; and her nuns, who for four and twenty years had lived a proud but uncomfortable life in clouds of sawdust and unending noise, buried her (one hopes) under a seemly brass in her church. The mind preserves a pleasant picture of Euphemia of Wherwell and of Joan Wiggenhall, when Margaret Wavere, Eleanor of Arden, Isabel Hermyte and the rest are only dark memories, not willingly recalled. Which is as it should be. The typical prioress of the middle ages, however, was neither Euphemia nor Margaret. As one sees her, after wading through some hundred and fifty visitation reports or injunctions, she was a well-meaning lady, doing her best to make two ends of an inadequate income meet, but not always provident; ready for a round sum in hand to make leases, sell corrodies, cut down woods and to burden her successor as her predecessor had burdened her. She found it difficult to carry out the democratic ideal of convent life in consulting her sisters upon matters of business; she knew, like all rulers, the temptation to be an autocrat; it was so much quicker and easier to do things herself: "What, shulde the yong nunnes gyfe voices? Tushe, they shulde not gyfe voices!" So she kept the common seal and hardly ever rendered an account. She found that her position gave her the opportunity to escape sometimes from that common life, which is so trying to the temper; and she did not always keep the dorter and the frater as she should. She was rarely vicious, but nearly always worldly; she could not resist silks and furs, little dogs such as the ladies who came to stay in her guest-room cherished, and frequent visits to her friends. When she was a strong character the condition of her house bore witness, for good or evil, to her strength; when she was weak disorder was sure to follow. Very often she won a contented "omnia bene" from her nuns, when the Bishop came; at other times, she said that they were disobedient and they said that she was harsh, or impotent, or addicted to favourites. In the end it is to Chaucer that we turn for her picture; as the Bishops found her, so he saw her, aristocratic, tender-hearted, worldly, taking pains to "countrefete chere of court," smiling "ful simple and coy" above her well-pinched wimple; a lady of importance, attended by a nun and three priests, spoken to with respect and reverence by the not too mealy-mouthed host (no "by Corpus Dominus," or "cokkes bones," or "tel on a devel wey!" for her, but "cometh neer my lady prioresse," and "my lady prioresse, by your leve"); clearly enjoying a night at the Tabard and some unseemly stories on the road (though her own tale was exquisite and fitting to her state). Religious? perhaps; but save for her singing the divine service "entuned in her nose ful semely" and for her lovely address to the Virgin, Chaucer can find but little to say on the point: But for to speken of hir conscience She was so charitable and so pitous-- that she would weep over a mouse in a trap or a beaten puppy! For charity and pity we must go to the poor Parson, not to friar or monk or nun. A good ruler of her house? doubtless; but when Chaucer met her the house was ruling itself somewhere at the "shires ende." The world was full of fish out of water in the fourteenth century, and, by sëynt Loy, Madame Eglentyne (like Dan Piers) held a certain famous text "nat worth an oistre." So we take our leave of her--characteristically, on the road to Canterbury. CHAPTER III WORLDLY GOODS Tomorrows shall be as yesterdays; And so for ever! saints enough Has Holy Church for priests to praise; But the chief of saints for workday stuff Afield or at board is good Saint Use, Withal his service is rank and rough; Nor hath he altar nor altar-dues, Nor boy with bell, nor psalmodies, Nor folk on benches, nor family pews. MAURICE HEWLETT, _The Song of the Plow_. In many ways the most valuable general account of monastic property at the close of the middle ages is to be found in the great _Valor Ecclesiasticus_, a survey of all the property of the church, compiled in 1535 for the assessment of the tenth lately appropriated by the King[264]. It is true that only 100 out of the 126 nunneries then in existence are described with any detail and that the amount of detail given varies very much for different localities. Nevertheless the record is of the highest importance, for in order to assess the tax the gross income of each house is given (often with the sources from which it is drawn, classified as temporalities and spiritualities) and the net income, on which the tenth was assessed, is obtained by subtracting from the gross income all the necessary charges upon the house, payments of synodals and procurations, rents due to superior lords, alms and obits which had to be maintained under the will of benefactors, and the fees of the regular receivers, bailiffs, auditors and stewards. Such a survey as the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_, though valuable, could not by its nature give more than the most general indication of the main classes of receipts and expenditure of the nunneries. The accounts kept by the nuns themselves, on the other hand, are a mine of detailed information on these subjects. Every convent was supposed to draw up an annual balance sheet, to be read before the nuns assembled in chapter, and though it was a constant source of complaint against the head of a house that she failed to do so, nevertheless enough rolls have survived to make it clear that the practice was common. Indeed it would have been impossible to run a community for long without keeping accounts. The finest set of these rolls which has survived from a medieval nunnery is that of St Michael's Stamford, in Northamptonshire[265]. There are twenty-four rolls, beginning with one for the year 32-3 Edward I, and ranging over the greater part of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. A study of them enables the material life of the convent for two centuries to be reconstructed and gives a vivid picture of its difficulties, for though the nuns only once ended the year without a deficit and a list of debts, yet the debts owed by various creditors to them were often larger than those which they owed. A very good series also exists for St Mary de Pré, near St Albans, kept by the wardens 1341-57 and by the Prioress 1461-93[266]; and there is in the Record Office a valuable little book of accounts kept by the treasuresses of Gracedieu (Belton) during the years 1414-18, which has been made familiar to many readers by the use made of it by Cardinal Gasquet in _English Monastic Life_[267]. Very full and interesting accounts have also survived from St Radegund's Cambridge (1449-51, 1481-2)[268], Catesby (1414-45)[269] and Swaffham Bulbeck (1483-4)[270]. These are all prioresses' or treasuresses' accounts of the total expenditure of the different houses; but there are in existence also a few obedientiaries' accounts, chambresses' accounts from St Michael's Stamford and Syon and cellaresses' accounts from Syon[271]. An analysis of these accounts shows, better than any other means of information, the various sources from which a medieval nunnery drew its income, and the chief classes of expenditure which it had to meet. It will therefore be illuminating to consider in turn the credit and debit side of a monastic balance sheet. It is perhaps unnecessary to postulate that since monastic houses differed greatly in size and wealth, the sources of their income would differ accordingly. A very poor house might be dependent upon the rents and produce of one small manor; a large house sometimes had estates all over England. The entire income of Rothwell in Northamptonshire was derived from one appropriated rectory, valued in the _Valor_ at £10. 10_s._ 4_d._ gross and at £5. 19_s._ 8_d._ net per annum[272]. The Black Ladies of Brewood (Staffs.) had an income of £11. 1_s._ 6_d._ derived from demesne in hand, rents and alms[273]. On the other hand Dartford in Kent held lands in Kent, Surrey, Norfolk, Suffolk, Wiltshire, Wales and London[274], the Minoresses without Aldgate held property in London, Hertfordshire, Kent, Berkshire, Staffordshire, Derbyshire, Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Norfolk and the Isle of Wight[275]. The splendid Abbey of Syon held land as far afield as Lancashire and Cornwall, scattered over twelve counties[276]. Similarly the proportionate income derived from house-rents and land-rents would differ with the geographical situation of the nunnery. London convents, for instance, would draw a large income from streets of houses, whereas a house in the distant dales of Yorkshire would be dependent upon agriculture. At the time of the _Valor_ twenty-two nunneries were holding urban tenements in fifteen towns, amounting in total value to £1076. 0_s._ 7_d._, but of this sum £969. 11_s._ 10_d._ was held by the seven houses in London[277]. With this proviso the conclusion may be laid down that the money derived from the possession of agricultural land, and in particular the rents paid by tenants in freehold, copyhold, customary and leasehold land, was the mainstay of the income paid into the hands of the treasuress. A word may perhaps be said as to the method by which the nuns administered their estates. Miss Jacka distinguishes two main types of administration, discernible in the _Valor_: The London houses, except Syon and a number, chiefly, of the smaller nunneries scattered throughout the country, had a single staff of officials, steward, bailiff, auditor, receiver; their revenues were drawn from scattered rents and other profits rather than from entire manors. There seem to have been about forty houses of this type in addition to the London houses. The second group comprises the great country nunneries in the south of England, including Syon and a number of smaller houses whose revenues were reckoned under the headings of various manors each managed by its own bailiff.... The staff of Syon may be taken as an unusually complete and elaborate example of the usual system, whose principle appears worked out on a smaller scale, in the case of smaller nunneries. The nuns had in the first place what may be called a central staff, a steward at £3. 6_s._ 8_d._, a steward of the hospice at £23. 15_s._ 4_d._, a general receiver at £19. 13_s._ 4_d._ and an auditor at £8. 3_s._ 4_d._ Their lands in Middlesex were managed by their steward of Isleworth, Lord Wyndesore, whose fee was £3, a steward of courts at £1 and a bailiff at £2. 13_s._ 4_d._, who had a separate fee of 13_s._ 4_d._ as bailiff of the chapel of the Angels at Brentford. Their extensive possessions in Sussex were managed by a receiver and a steward of courts for the whole county, whose fees were £3 and £2 respectively, by four stewards for various districts with fees from £1. 6_s._ 8_d._ down to 13_s._ 4_d._ and by 13 bailiffs arranged under the stewards, of whom one received £2. 3_s._ 4_d._ and the rest from £1 to 6_s._ 8_d._ Their one manor in Cambridgeshire was managed by a steward at 13_s._ 4_d._ and a bailiff at £1. With the central staff was reckoned a receiver for Somerset, Dorset and Devon, whose fee was £6. 13_s._ 4_d._; the ladies held no temporalities in Somerset; in Dorset they had a chief steward, £1. 6_s._ 8_d._, a steward of courts, 6_s._ 8_d._, and a bailiff, 11_s._, and their large possessions in Devon were managed by two stewards (£2. 13_s._ 4_d._), two stewards of courts (13_s._ 4_d._, 6_s._ 8_d._), six bailiffs, with fees ranging from 4_s._ to £2 and an auditor, 3_s._ 4_d._ They received £100 a year from unspecified holdings in Lancashire and had there a steward of courts at £1. Their possessions in Lincolnshire were mainly spiritual, but they employed a receiver, whose fee was 13_s._ 4_d._ In Gloucestershire they had large possessions. The two chief stewards of Cheltenham received each £3. 6_s._ 8_d._ and the chief steward of Minchinhampton £2. Two stewards of courts each received £1. 6_s._ 8_d._ and the two stewards at Slaughter £1. Three bailiffs received £2. 13_s._ 4_d._, £2 and 13_s._ 4_d._, with livery. A bailiff and receiver of profits arising from the sale of woods was paid £4 and the steward of the abbot of Cirencester was paid 6_s._ 8_d._ for holding the abbess' view of frankpledge. In Wiltshire the nuns held a manor and a rectory and paid £1 to a steward for both: they seem to have been leased. In counties where all their possessions were spiritual they had no local officials; in Somerset both the rectories they held were leased and in Kent, although that is not stated, it is suggested by the round sums which were received (£26. 13_s._ 4_d._, £10, £20). The leasing of property for a fixed sum of course made the administration of it very much simpler. All the temporalities of the Minoresses without Aldgate were leased and their staff consisted of a chief steward, Lord Wyndesore, whose fee was £2. 13_s._ 4_d._, a receiver at £4. 5_s._ 10_d._ and an auditor at 13_s._ 4_d._[278] A closer analysis of the chief sources of income of a medieval nunnery, as they may be distinguished in the _Valor_ and in various account rolls, is now possible. They may be classified as follows: _Temporalities_, comprising: (1) rents from lands and houses, (2) perquisites of courts, fairs, mills, woods and other manorial perquisites, (3) issues of the manor, i.e. sale of farm produce, (4) miscellaneous payments from boarders, gifts, etc.; and _Spiritualities_, comprising (5) tithes from appropriated benefices, alms, mortuaries, etc. The distinction between temporalities and spiritualities is a technical one and there was sometimes little difference between the sources of the two kinds of income, but the temporal revenues were usually larger[279]. (1) _Rents from lands and houses._ A house which possessed several manors besides its home farm would either lease them to tenants ("farm out the manor" as it was called), or put in bailiffs, who were responsible for working the estates and handing over to the convent the profits of their agriculture, and who may also have collected rents where no separate rent collector was employed. For besides the profits arising from the demesne land (of which some account will be given below), the convent derived a much more considerable income from the rents of all tenants (whatever the legal tenure by which they held) who held their land at a money rent. The number of such tenants was likely to increase by the commutation of customary services for money payments; since, except in the particular manor or manors wherein the produce of the demesne was reserved for the actual consumption of the community, it was to the interest of a convent to lease a great part of the demesne land to tenants at a money rent and so save itself the trouble of farming the land under a bailiff[280]. In addition to these rents from agricultural land an income was sometimes derived, as has already been pointed out, from the rent of tenements in towns. In most account rolls a careful distinction was drawn between "rents of assize" and "farms." The former were the payments due from the tenants (whether freehold or customary) who held their holdings at a money rent; these rents were collected by the different collectors of the nunnery or brought to the treasurers by the tenants themselves. "Farms" were leases, i.e. payments for land or houses which were held directly in demesne by the nunnery, but instead of being worked by a bailiff, or occupied by the household, were "farmed out" at an annual rent. A "farmer" might thus hold in farm an entire manor, and, for the payment of an annual sum to the nuns, he would have the right to the produce of the demesne and to the rents of rent-paying tenants. He might be quite a small person and hold in farm only a few acres of the demesne (in addition perhaps to an ordinary tenant's holding on the manor). He might hold the farm of a mill, or a stable, or a single house[281]. In any case he paid a rent to the nuns and made what he could out of his "farm"; while they much preferred these regular payments to the trouble of superintending the cultivation of distant lands, in an age when communication was difficult and slow. Nevertheless the rents were not always easy to collect, for all the diligence of the bailiff and of the various rent-collectors[282]. There are some illuminating entries in the accounts of St Radegund's Cambridge. In 1449-50 the indignant treasuress debits herself with "one tenement in Walleslane lately held by John Walsheman for 6_s._ 8_d._ a year, the which John fled out of this town within the first half of this year, leaving nought behind him whereby he could be distrained save 7_d._, collected therefrom"; and in the following year she again debits herself "for part of a tenement lately held by John Webster for 12_s._ a year, whence was collected only 7_s._ for that the aforesaid John Webster did flit [literally, _devolavit_] by night, leaving naught behind him whereby he could be distrained." Yet these nuns seem to have been indulgent landlords; in this year the treasuress debits herself "for a tenement lately held by Richard Pyghtesley, because it was too heavily charged before, 2_s._ 3_d._, ... and for a portion of the rent owed by Stephen Brasyer on account of the poverty and need of the said Stephen, by grace of the lady Prioress this time only, 15_d._" and there are other instances of lowered rents in these accounts[283]. Other account rolls sometimes make mention of meals and small presents of money given to tenants bringing in their rents. (2) _Various manorial perquisites and grants._ Besides the rents from land and houses the position of a religious community as lord of a manor gave it the right to various other financial payments. Of these the most important were the perquisites of the manorial courts. These varied very much according to the extent and number of the liberties which had been granted to any particular house. To Syon, beloved of kings, vast liberties had been granted (notably in 1447), so that the tenants upon its estates were almost entirely exempt from royal justice. The abbess and convent had view of frankpledge, leets, lawe-days and wapentakes for all people, tenants resiant and other resiants aforesaid, in whatsoever places, by the same abbess or her successors to be limited, where to them it shall seem most expedient within the lordships, lands, rents, fees and possessions aforesaid, to be holden by the steward or other officers. They had the assizes of bread and ale and wine and victuals and weights and measures. They had all the old traditional emoluments of justice, which lords had striven to obtain since the days before the conquest, soc, sac, infangentheof, outfangentheof, waif, estray, treasure-trove, wreck of the sea, deodands, chattels of felons and fugitives, of outlaws, of waive, of persons condemned, of felons of themselves [suicides], escapes of felons, year day waste and estrepement and all other commodities, forfeitures and profits whatsoever. They had the right to erect gallows, pillory and tumbrel for the punishment of malefactors. They even had all issues and amercements, redemptions and forfeitures as well before our [the king's] heirs and successors, as before the chancellor, treasurer and barons of our exchequer, the justices and commissioners of us, our heirs or successors whomsoever, made, forfeited or adjudged ... of all the people ... in the lordships, lands, tenements, fees and possessions aforesaid[284]. In the eyes of the middle ages justice had one outstanding characteristic: it filled the pocket of whoever administered it. "Justitia magnum emolumentum est," as the phrase went. All the manifold perquisites of justice, whether administered in her own or in the royal courts, went to the abbess of Syon if any of her own tenants were concerned. It is no wonder that out of a total income of £1944. 11_s._ 5-1/4_d._ the substantial sum of £133. 0_s._ 6_d._ was derived from perquisites of courts[285]. Few houses possessed such wholesale exemption from royal justice, but all possessed their manorial courts, at which tenants paid their heriots in money or in kind as a death-duty to the lord, or their fines on entering upon land, and at which justice was done and offenders amerced (or fined as we should now call it). Most houses possessed the right to hold the assize of bread and ale and to fine alewives who overcharged or gave short measure. Some possessed the right to seize the chattels of fugitives, and the abbess of Wherwell was once involved in a law suit over this liberty, which she held in the hundred of Mestowe and which was disputed by the crown officials. One Henry Harold of Wherwell had killed his wife Isabel and fled to the church of Wherwell and the Abbess had seized his chattels to the value of £35. 4_s._ 8_d._ by the hands of her reeve[286]. A less usual privilege was that of the Abbess of Marham, who possessed the right of proving the wills of those who died within the precincts or jurisdiction of the house[287]. The courts at which these liberties were exercised were held by the steward of the nunnery, who went from manor to manor to preside at their sittings; but sometimes the head of the house herself would accompany him. Christian Bassett, the energetic Prioress of Delapré (St Albans), not content with journeying up to London for a lawsuit, went twice to preside at her court at Wing[288]. In rather a different class from grants of jurisdictional liberties were special grants of free warren, felling of wood and fairs. Monasteries which possessed lands within the bounds of a royal forest were not allowed to take game or to cut down wood there without a special licence from the crown; but such grants to exercise "free warren" (i.e. take game) and to fell wood were often granted in perpetuity, as an act of piety by the king, or for special purposes. The Abbess of Syon had free warren in all her possessions, and in 1489 it was recorded that the Abbess of Barking had free chase within the bailiwick of Hainault to hunt all beasts of the forest in season, except deer, and free chase within the forest and without to hunt hares and rabbits and fox, badger, cat and other vermin[289]. Grants of wood were more often made on special occasions; thus in 1277 the keeper of the forest of Essex was ordered to permit the Abbess of Barking and her men to fell oak-trees and oak-trunks in her demesne woods within the forest to the value of £40[290], while in 1299 the Abbess of Wilton was given leave to fell sixty oaks in her own wood within the bounds of the forest of Savernake, in order to rebuild some of her houses, which had been burnt down[291]. The grant of fairs and markets was even more common and more lucrative, for the convent profited not only from the rents of booths and from the entrance-tolls, but not infrequently from setting up a stall of its own, for the sale of spices and other produce[292]. Henry III granted the nuns of Catesby a weekly market every Monday within their manor of Catesby and a yearly fair for three days in the same place; and almost any monastic chartulary will provide other instances of such rights[293]. The majority of the special perquisites which have been described would originate in special grants from the Crown; but it must be remembered that every manorial lord could count on certain perquisites _ex officio_, for which no specific grant was required. For his manor provided him with more than agricultural produce on the one hand and rents and farms on the other. Through the manor court he also received certain payments due to him from all free and unfree tenants, in particular those connected with the transfer of land, the heriot and the fines already mentioned. From unfree tenants he could also claim various other dues, the mark of their status; merchet, when their daughters married off the estate, leyrwite, when they enjoyed themselves without the intermediary of that important ceremony, a fine when they wished to send their sons to school and a number of other customary payments, exacted at the manor court and varying slightly from manor to manor. Moreover the tolls from the water- or wind-mill at which villeins had to grind their corn all went to swell the purse of the lord[294]. This is not the place for a detailed description of manorial rights, which can be studied in any text-book of economic history[295]; a word must, however, be said about the mortuary system, which did not a little to enrich the medieval church. When a peasant died the lord of the manor had often the right to claim his best animal or garment as a mortuary or heriot, and by degrees there grew up a similar claim to his second best possession on the part of the parish priest. "It was presumed," says Mr Coulton, "that the dead man must have failed to some extent in due payment of tithes during his lifetime and that a gift of his second best possession to the Church would therefore be most salutary to his soul"[296]. From these claims, partly manorial and partly ecclesiastical, religious houses benefited very greatly, and their accounts sometimes mention mortuary payments. The Prioress of Catesby in the year 1414-15 records how her live stock was enriched by one horse, one mare and two cows coming as heriots, while she received a payment of 20_s._ for two oxen coming as heriot of Richard Sheperd[297]. In the chartulary of Marham is recorded a mortuary list of sixteen people, who died within the jurisdiction of the house, and the mortuaries vary from a sorrel horse and a book to numerous gowns and mantles[298]. The system was obviously capable of great abuse, and Mr Coulton considers that it did much to precipitate the Reformation, for the unhappy peasant resented more and more bitterly the greed of the church, which chose his hour of sorrow to wrest from him the best of his poor possessions; it must have seemed hard to him that his horse or his ox should be driven away, if he could not buy it back, to the well-stocked farm of a community which was vowed to poverty, far harder than if his lord were a layman, as free as he was himself to accumulate possessions without soiling the soul. When the parish priest followed the convent with a claim upon what was best, his despair must have grown deeper and his resentment more bitter. It was often difficult to collect these payments, just as it was often difficult to collect tithes, even when a priest was less loth to curse for them than Chaucer's poor parson. Vicars were obliged to sue their wretched parishioners in the ecclesiastical courts, and monasteries were sometimes fain to commute such payments for an annual rent, collected by the tenants[299]. But the best ecclesiastics recognised that the system was somewhat out of keeping with Christian charity. Caesarius of Heisterbach has a story of Ulrich, the good head of the monastery of Steinfeld, who one day came to one of his granges, wherein, seeing a comely foal, he enquired of the [lay] brother whose it was or whence it came. To whom the brother answered, "such and such a man, our good and faithful friend, left it to us at his death." "By pure devotion," asked the provost, "or by legal compulsion?" "It came through his death," answered the other, "for his wife, since he was one of our serfs, offered it as a heriot." Then the provost shook his head and piously answered: "Because he was a good man and our faithful friend, therefore hast thou despoiled his wife. Render therefore her horse to this forlorn woman; for it is robbery to seize or detain other men's goods, since the horse was not thine before [the man's death]"[300]. (3) _Issues of the manor._ Before passing on to sources of income of a more specifically ecclesiastical character, some account must be given of the third great class of receipts which came to a convent in its capacity of landowner, to wit the "issues of the manor." Attached to almost every nunnery was its home farm, which provided the nuns with the greater part of their food[301]. A large nunnery would thus reserve for its own use several manors and granges, but usually other manors in its possession would be farmed by bailiffs, who sold the produce at market and paid in the profits to the treasuress or to one of the obedientiaries; or else a manor would be leased to a tenant. The surplus produce of the home farm, which could not be used by the nuns, was also sold. The treasuress usually entered the receipts and expenditure of the home farm in her household account and she had to keep two sets of records, the one a careful account of all the animals and agricultural produce on the farm, with details as to the use made of them; and the other (under the heading of "issues of the manor") a money record of the sums obtained from sales of live stock, wool or grain. An analysis of the produce of the home farm of Catesby (1414-5)[302] shows that the chief crops grown were wheat and barley. Of these a certain proportion was kept for seed to sow the new crops; almost all the rest of the wheat was paid in food allowances to the servants and 1 qr. 3 bushels in alms "to friars of the four orders and other poor"; most of the barley was malted, except 6 qrs. delivered to the swineherd to feed hogs; and what remained was stored in the granaries of the convent. Oats and peas were also grown and part of the crop used for seed, part for food-allowances to the servants and oatmeal for the nuns. The Prioress also kept a most meticulous account of the livestock on her farm. All were numbered and classified, cart-horses, brood-mares, colts, foals, oxen, bulls, cows, stirks (three-year old), two-year old, yearlings, calves, sheep, wethers, hogerells, lambs, hogs, boars, sows, hilts, hogsters and pigs. In each class it was carefully set down how many animals remained in stock at the end of the year and what had been done with the others. We know something of the consumption of meat by the nuns of Catesby and their servants in this year of grace 1414-5, when the old rule against the eating of meat was relaxed; and we see something of the cares of a medieval housewife in those days before root-crops were known, when the number of animals which could be kept alive during the winter was strictly limited by the amount of hay produced on the valuable meadow land. Only in summer could the convent have fresh meat; and on St Martin's day (Nov. 11) the business of killing and salting the rest of the stock for winter food began[303]. From good Dame Elizabeth Swynford's account it appears that five oxen, one stirk, thirty hogs and one boar were delivered to the larderer to be salted; in summer time, when the convent could enjoy fresh meat, five calves, fourteen sheep, ten hogs and twelve pigs were sent in to the kitchen; and twenty cows were divided between the larder and the kitchen, to provide salt and fresh beef. There is unfortunately no record of the produce of the dairy, which supplied the convent with milk, cheese, eggs and occasional chickens. But the home-farm served the purpose of providing money as well as food. The hides of the oxen and the "wool pells" of the sheep, which had been killed for food or had fallen victim to that curse of medieval farming, the murrain, were by no means wasted. Five hides belonging to animals which had died of murrain were tanned and used for collars and other cart gear on the farm; but all the rest were sold, thirty-six of them in all. Most lucrative of all, however, was the sale of wool pells and wool, and Dame Elizabeth Swynford is very exact; eighteen wool pells, from sheep which the convent had eaten as mutton, sold before shearing for 35_s._ 10_d._, thirty-eight sold after shearing for 9_s._ 6_d._, thirty-six lamb skins for 1_s._; and 6_d._ was received "for wynter lokes sold." Moreover the convent also sold one sack and eight weight of wool at £5. 4_s._ the sack, for a total of £6. 16_s._ Altogether the "issues of the manor" amounted to the substantial sum of £24. 8_s._ 8_d._, chiefly derived from these sales of wool and wool pells and from the sale of some timber for £6. 13_s._ 4_d._[304] These details about wool are interesting, for it is well known that the monastic houses of England, especially in the northern counties, were great sheep farmers. Most accounts mention this important source of revenue and in the series of rolls kept by the treasuresses of St Michael's Stamford, it is regularly entered under the heading "Fermes, dismes, leynes et pensions," a somewhat miscellaneous classification[305]. In the thirteenth-century _Pratica della Mercatura_ of Francesco Pergolotti there is incorporated a list of monasteries which sell wool, compiled for the use of Italian wool merchants and giving the prices per sack of the different qualities of wool at each house. The list contains a section specially devoted to nunneries, in which twenty houses are mentioned, all but two of them in Lincolnshire or Yorkshire[306]. Armed with this information the Italians would journey from nunnery to nunnery and bargain with the nuns for their wool: the whole crop would sometimes be commissioned by them in advance, sold on the backs of the sheep. The English distrusted these dark smooth-spoken foreigners; many years later the author of the _Libel of English Policie_ charged them with dishonest practices and complained of the freedom with which they were allowed to buy in England: In Cotteswold also they ride about, And all England, and buy withouten doubte What them list with freedome and franchise, More than we English may gitten many wise[307]. But it must have been a great day for the impoverished nuns of Yorkshire when slim Italian or stout Fleming came riding down the dales under a spring sun to bargain for their wool crop. What a bustling hither and thither there would be, and what a confabulation in the parlour between my lady Prioress and her steward and her chaplain and the stranger sitting opposite to them and speaking his reasons "ful solempnely." What a careful distinguishing of the best and the medium and the worst kind of wool, which the Italian calls _buona lana_ and _mojano lana_ and _locchi_. What a haggling over the price, which varies from nunnery to nunnery, but always allows the merchant to sell at a good profit in the markets of Flanders and Italy. What sighs of relief when the stranger trots off again, sitting high on his horse and taking with him a silken purse, or a blood-band or a pair of gloves in "courtesy" from the nuns. What blessings on the black-faced sheep, when the sorely-needed silver is locked up in the treasury chest and debts begin to look less terrible, leaking roofs less incurable, pittances less few and far between. (4) _Miscellaneous payments._ A last source of temporal revenue consisted in the sums paid for board and lodging by visitors, regular boarders and schoolchildren. Though such visitors were frowned at by bishops as subversive of discipline, the nuns welcomed their contributions to the lean income of the convent, and in most nunnery accounts payments by boarders will be found among other miscellaneous receipts. (5) _Spiritualities._ In the revenues which have hitherto been considered, the monastic rent-rolls differed in no way from those of any lay owner of land. The source of revenue now to be distinguished was more specifically ecclesiastical. All monasteries derived a more or less large income from certain grants made to them in their capacity as religious houses. Most important of these was the appropriation of benefices to their use. When a church was appropriated to a monastery, the monastery was usually supposed to put in a vicar at a fixed stipend to serve the parish, and the great tithes (which would otherwise have supported a rector) were taken by the corporation. Sometimes half a church was so appropriated and half the tithes were taken. The practice of appropriating churches was widespread; not only the king and other lay patrons, but also the bishops used this means of enriching religious bodies and the favourite petition of an impecunious convent was for permission to appropriate a church[308]. Over and over again the gift of the advowson of a church to a monastery is followed by appropriation[309]. The permission of the bishop of the diocese and of the pope was necessary for the transaction, but it seems rarely to have been refused; and it has been calculated that at least a third part of the tithes of the richest benefices in England were appropriated either in part or wholly to religious and secular bodies, such as colleges, military orders, lay hospitals, guilds, convents; even deans, cantors, treasurers and chancellors of cathedral bodies were also largely endowed with rectorial tithes[310]. The practice of appropriation became a very serious abuse, for not all monasteries were conscientious in performing their duties to the parishes from which they derived such a large income, and ignorant and underpaid vicars often enough left their sheep encumbered in the mire, or swelled with their misery and discontent the democratic revolution known by the too narrow name of the Peasants' Revolt[311]. Moreover there is no doubt that sometimes the monks and nuns neglected even the obvious duty of putting in a vicar, and the hungry sheep looked up and were not fed. The _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ throws an interesting light on this subject. The nuns of Elstow Abbey held no less than eleven rectories, from which they derived £157. 6_s._ 8_d._, but they paid stipends to four vicars only, and the total of the four was £6. 6_s._ 8_d._[312] The nuns of Westwood received £12. 12_s._ 10_d._ from two rectories and paid to a deacon in one of them 11_s._ 4_d._[313] The Minoresses without Aldgate held four rectories; from that of Potton (Beds.) they received £16. 6_s._ 8_d._ and paid the vicar £2; from that of Kessingland, Suffolk, £9 and paid the vicar £2. 4_s._ 4_d._[314] Another very common practice which cannot have conduced to the welfare of the parishioners was that of farming out the proceeds of appropriated churches, just as manors were farmed out. The farmer paid the nuns a lump sum annually and took the proceeds of the tithes. The purpose of such an arrangement was convenience, since it saved the convent the trouble of collecting the revenues and tithes. It was open to objection from all points of view; for on the one hand the nuns might, and often did, make bad bargains, and on the other they were still less likely to care for the spiritual welfare of the unfortunate parishioners, whose souls were to all intents and purposes farmed out with their tithes; though the payment of a vicar was sometimes made by the nuns or stipulated for in the agreement with the farmer. The _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ gives the total spiritual revenue of the 84 nunneries holding spiritualities as £2705. 17_s._ 5_d._ and of this sum spiritualities to the value of £1075. 0_s._ 6_d._, belonging to 33 houses were entered as being at farm[315]. Account rolls often throw a flood of light upon the income derived from appropriated churches. To the nuns of St Michael's Stamford had been assigned by various abbots of Peterborough the churches of St Martin, St Clement, All Souls, St Andrew and Thurlby, and in the reign of Henry II two pious ladies gave them the moieties of the church of Corby and chapel of Upton[316]. Moreover in 1354, after the little nunnery of Wothorpe had been ruined by the Black Death, all its possessions were handed over to St Michael's and included the appropriation of the church of Wothorpe; the bishop stipulated that the proceeds of the priory with the rectory should be applied to the support of the infirmary and kitchen of St Michael's and that the nuns should keep a chaplain to serve the parish church of Wothorpe[317]. Corby and Thurlby were afterwards farmed out by the nuns[318] and in 1377-8 they brought in £19 and £20 respectively, while the nuns got £26. 0_s._ 8_d._ from "the church of All Saints beyond the water," £1. 13_s._ 4_d._ from the parson of Cottesmore and a pension of 6_s._ 8_d._ from the church of St Martin. They paid the vicar of Wothorpe a stipend of £2 a year[319]. Over half their income was usually derived from "farms, tithes and pensions," i.e. from ecclesiastical sources of revenue. It was also very common to make grants of tithes out of piety to a monastery, even when a grant of the advowson of the church was not made. A lord would make over to it the tithes of wheat, or a portion of the tithes, in certain parishes, or perhaps the tithes of his own demesne land. Sometimes the rector of a parish would pay the monks or nuns an annual rent in commutation of their tithes; sometimes he would dispute their claim and the tedious altercation would drag on for years, ending perhaps in the expense of a law-suit[320]. Besides advowsons and tithes various other pensions and payments were bestowed upon religious houses by benefactors, who would leave an annual pension to a monastery as a charge upon a particular piece of land, or church, or upon another monastery[321]. Another "spiritual" source of revenue consisted in alms and gifts given to the nuns as a work of piety. Sometimes a nunnery possessed a famous relic, and the faithful who visited it showed their devotion by leaving a gift at the shrine. The _Valor_ sometimes gives very interesting information about these cherished possessions, described under the unkind heading _Superstitio_. The Yorkshire nuns possessed among them a great variety of relics, some of them having the most incongruous virtues. At Sinningthwaite was to be found the arm of St Margaret and the tunic of St Bernard "believed to be good for women lying in"[322], at Arden was an image of St Bride, to which women made offerings for cows that had strayed or were ill. The nuns of Arthington had a girdle of the Virgin and the nuns of St Clement's York and Basedale both had some of her milk; at St Clement's pilgrimages were made to the obscure but popular St Syth[323]. In other parts of the country it was the same. St Edmund's altar in the conventual church of Catesby was a place of pilgrimage, for he had bequeathed his pall and a silver tablet to his sister Margaret Rich, prioress there[324]; and in 1400 Boniface IX granted an indult to the Abbess of Barking to have mass and the other divine offices celebrated in an oratory called "Rodlofte" (rood-loft), in which was preserved a cross to which many people resorted[325]. The nuns of St Michael's Stamford not infrequently record sums received from a pardon held at one of their churches, and almost every year they received sums of money in exchange for their prayers for the souls of the dead. "Almes et aventures," souls and chance payments, was a regular heading in their account roll, and the name of the person for whose soul they were to pray was entered opposite the money received. Miscellaneous alms from the faithful were always a source of revenue, though necessarily a fluctuating source[326]. Such were the chief sources from which a medieval nunnery derived its income. We must now consider the chief expenses which the nuns had to meet out of that income. It has already been shown that the total income of a nunnery was paid into the hands of the treasuress or treasuresses, save when the office of treasuress was filled by the head of the house, or when a male _custos_ was appointed by the bishop to undertake the business. It has also been shown that the treasuress paid out certain sums to the chief obedientiaries (notably to the cellaress), to whose use certain sources of income were indeed sometimes earmarked, and that these obedientiaries kept their separate accounts. The majority of nunnery accounts which have survived are, however, treasuresses' accounts; that is to say they represent the general balance sheet at the end of the year, including all the chief items of income and expenditure. The different houses adopt, as is natural, different methods of classifying their expenses[327]. The great abbey of Romsey classifies thus: (1) _The Convent_, including sums for clothing, for the kitchen expenses and for pittances, amounting in all to £105. 17_s._ 10_d._ (2) _The Abbess_, who kept her separate household in state; this includes provisions for herself and for her household and divers of their expenses, a sum of £8. 12_s._ in gifts, a sum in liveries for the household and spices for the guest-house and a sum in servants' wages, amounting to £108. 17_s._ in all. (3) _Divers outside expenses_, including repairs of houses belonging to the Romsey mills, a sum for legal pleas, another for annuities to the convent and to the king's clerks, who had stalls in the abbey, over £40 in royal taxes and £1. 14_s._ 8_d._ in procurations, amounting to £108 in all. (4) _Miscellaneous expenses_ include £8. 19_s._ 4_d._ in alms to the poor, £6. 13_s._ 4_d._ in wine for nobles visiting the abbess, a sum for mending broken crockery, a sum for shoeing the horses of the Abbess' household, and in horse-hire and expenses of men riding on her business, 14_s._ in oblations of the Abbess and her household and £10 in gift to Henry Bishop of Winchester on his return from the Holy Land. (5) _Repairs_ and other expenses at six manors belonging to this wealthy house, amounting to £77. 2_s._ 6-1/2_d._ The total expenses of the abbey this year (1412) came to £431. 18_s._ 8_d._, against a revenue of £404. 6_s._ 1_d._, drawn from six manors and including rents, the commutation fees for villein services, the sale of wool, corn and other stores and the perquisites of the courts. The deficit is characteristic of nunneries[328]. An interesting picture of many sides of monastic life is given by a general analysis of the chief classes of expenditure usually mentioned in account rolls. They may be classified as follows: (1) internal expenses of the convent, (2) divers miscellaneous expenses connected with external business, (3) repairs, (4) the expenses of the home farm and (5) the wage-sheet. (1) _The internal expenses of the convent._ The details of this expenditure are sometimes not given very fully, because they were set forth at length in the accounts of the cellaress and chambress; but a certain amount of food and of household goods and clothes was bought directly by the treasuress and occasionally the office of cellaress and treasuress was doubled by the same nun, whose account gives more detail. Expenditure on clothing appears in one of two forms, either as dress-allowances paid annually to the nuns[329], or as payments for the purchase of linen and cloth and for the hiring of work-people to spin and weave and make up the clothes[330]. Expenditure on food is usually concerned with the purchase of fish and of spices, the only important foods which could not be produced by the home farm. Among other internal expenses are the costs of the guest-house and the alms, in money and in kind, which were given to the poor. Account rolls sometimes throw a side light on the fare provided for visitors: for instance the treasuress of St Radegund's, Cambridge, enters upon her roll in 1449-50 the following items under the heading _Providencia Hospicii_: And paid to William Rogger, for beef, pork, mutton and veal bought for the guest house, by the hand of John Grauntyer, 24_s._ 8_d._ And for bread, beer, beef, pork, mutton, veal, sucking pigs, capons, chickens, eggs, butter and fresh and salt fish, bought from day to day for the guest house during the period of the account, as appears more fully set out in detail, in a paper book examined for this account, £11. 7_s._ 4-1/2_d._ And for one cow bought of Thomas Carrawey for the guest house vj s viij d. Total: £13. 8_s._ 8-1/2_d._[331] In this year the total receipts were £77. 8_s._ 6-1/2_d._ and the expenditure £72. 6_s._ 4-3/4_d._, so that quite a large proportion of the nuns' income was spent on hospitality. On the other hand the food was no doubt partly consumed by these "divers noble persons," who paid the convent £8. 14_s._ 4_d._ this year for their board and lodging. It is a great pity that the separate guest-house account book referred to has not survived. At St Michael's Stamford the roll for 15-16 Richard II contains a payment of 26_s._ 10_d._ "for the expenses of guests for the whole year," and 6_s._ 8_d._ "for wine for the guests throughout the year"[332]; this is a very small amount out of a total expenditure of £116. 15_s._ 4-1/2_d._ and it seems likely that the greater part of the food used for guests was not accounted for apart from the convent food. The expenditure of nuns on alms is interesting, since almsgiving to the poor was one of the functions enjoined upon them by their rule; and many houses held a part of their property on condition that they should distribute certain alms. Some information as to these compulsory alms, though not of course as to the voluntary almsgiving of the nuns, is given in the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_. A few entries may be taken at random. St Sepulchre's, Canterbury, paid 6_s._ 8_d._ for one quarter of wheat to be given for the soul of William Calwell, their founder, the Thursday next before Easter[333]. Dartford was allowed £5. 12_s._ 8_d._ for alms given twice a week to thirteen poor people[334]; Haliwell distributed 12_s._ 8_d._ in alms to poor folk every Christmas day in memory of a Bishop of Lincoln[335]. Nuneaton was allowed "for certain quarters of corn given weekly to the poor and sick at the gate of the monastery at 12_d._ a week, by order of the foundress, £2. 12_s._ 0_d._; for certain alms on Maundy Thursday in money, bread, wine, beer and eels by the foundation, to poor and sick within the monastery, £2. 5_s._ 4_d._"[336] Polesworth gave "on Maundy Thursday at the washing of the feet of poor persons, in drink and victuals, by the foundation £1. 6_s._ 0_d._"[337] A chartulary of the great Abbey of Lacock, drawn up at the close of the thirteenth century, contains an interesting list of alms payable to the poor and pittances to the nuns themselves on certain feasts and anniversaries. It runs: We ought to feed on All Souls' day as many poor as there are ladies, to each poor person a dry loaf and as a relish two herrings or a slice of cheese, and the convent the same day shall have two courses. On the anniversary of the foundress (24 Aug. 1261) 100 poor each shall have a wheaten loaf and two herrings, be it a flesh-day or not, and the convent shall have to eat simnels and wine and three courses and two at supper. On the anniversary of her father (17 April 1196) each year thirteen poor shall be fed. On the anniversary of her husband thirteen poor shall be fed, and the convent shall have half a mark for a pittance. On the anniversary of Sir Nicholas Hedinton they should distribute to the poor 8_s._ and 4_d._, or corn amounting to as much money, i.e. wheat, barley and beans, and the convent half a mark for a pittance. The day of the burial of a lady of the convent 100 poor, to each a mite or a dry loaf.... The day of the Last Supper, after the Maundy, they shall give to each poor person a loaf of the weight of the convent loaf, and of the dough of full bread, and half a gallon of beer and two herrings, and half a bushel of beans for soup[338]. Account rolls sometimes contain references to food or money distributed to the poor on the great almsgiving day of Maundy Thursday, or on special feast days. The nuns of St Michael's Stamford regularly bought herrings to be given to the poor on Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, St Laurence's day, St Michael's day and St Andrew's day. The nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, in 1450-1 distributed 2_s._ 1_d._ among the poor on Maundy Thursday and gave 10_d._ "to certain poor persons lately labouring in the wars of the lord king"[339]. The Prioress of St Mary de Pré, St Albans, has an item "paid in expenses for straungers, pore men lasours, tennents and fermours for brede and ale and other vitaills xxxvj_s_ viij_d_"[340]. It is interesting to note that nunneries are not infrequently found giving alms in money or kind to the mendicant friars. The Prioress of Catesby gave away 1 qr. 3 bushels of wheat "to brethren of the four orders and other poor" in 1414-5[341]. The Oxford friary received from Godstow in memory of the soul of one Roger Whittell fourteen loaves every fortnight and 3_s._ 4_d._ in money and one peck of oatmeal and one of peas in Lent. The Friars Minor of Cambridge were sometimes sent a pig by the Abbess of Denny[342]. It will be seen in a later chapter that the poor Yorkshire nunneries of St Clement's York and Moxby were considerably burdened by the obligation to pay 14 loaves weekly to the friars of York[343]. In general, however, it is difficult to form any just estimate as to how much almsgiving was really done by the nuns. There is no evidence as to whether they daily gave away to the poor, as their rule demanded, the fragments left over from their own meals; for such almsgiving would be entered neither in account rolls nor in chartularies and surveys dealing with endowments earmarked for charity. Another class of gifts which deserves some notice consists of gratuities to friends, well-wishers or dependents of the house, for benefits solicited or received. No one in the middle ages was too dignified to receive a tip. The nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, regularly give what they euphemistically term "gifts" or "courtesies" to a large number of persons, ranging from their own servants at Christmas to men of law, engaged in the various suits in which they were involved. To the high and mighty they present wine, or a capon, or money discreetly jingling in the depths of a silken purse. To the lowly they present a plain unvarnished tip. The nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, pay 12_d._ "for a crane bought and given to the chancellor of the university of Cambridge, for his good friendship in divers of my lady's affairs in the interest of the convent"; and "the four waits of the Mayor of Cambridge" receive a Christmas box of 2_s._ 3_d._ "for their services to the lady Prioress and convent." _Dono Data_ is a regular heading in their accounts, and in 1450-1 there is a long list of small gifts to dependents, ranging from 1_d._ to 10_d._, and a sum of 2_s._ for linen garments bought for gifts at Christmas[344]. Similarly the cellaress of Syon in 1536-7 gave her servants at Christmas a reward of 20_s._ "with their aprons"[345]. Whether to ensure that a lawsuit should go in favour of the convent, or merely to reward faithful service or to celebrate a feast, such payments were well laid out and no careful housekeeper could afford to neglect them. (2) _Divers expenses_ include payments for various fines, amercements and legal expenses and also for the numerous journeys undertaken by the prioress or by their servants on convent business. The legal expenses which fell upon the nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, ranged from a big suit in London and various cases over disputed tithes at the court of the bishop of Lincoln, to divers small amercements, when the convent pigs "trespassed in Castle meadow"[346]. The payments for journeys often give a vivid picture of nuns inspecting their manors and visiting their bishop[347]. Under this heading is also included a payment for ink and parchment and for the fee of the clerk who wrote out the account. (3) _Repairs_ were a very serious item in the balance sheet of every monastic house, and in spite of the amount of money, which account rolls show to have been spent upon them, visitation reports have much to say about crumbling walls and leaking roofs. It was seldom that a year passed without several visits from the plumbers, the slaters and the thatchers, to the precincts of a nunnery; and once arrived they were not easy to dislodge. If perchance the nunnery buildings themselves stood firm, then the houses of the tenants would be falling about their ears; and once more the distracted treasuress must summon workmen. Usually the nuns purchased the materials used for repairs and hired the labour separately, and the workers were sometimes fed in the nunnery kitchen; for it was customary at this time to include board with the wages of many hired workmen. The accounts of St Radegund's, Cambridge, in 1449-50 will serve as an example of the expenditure under this heading[348]. It was a heavy year, for the nuns were having two tenements built in "Nunneslane" adjoining their house, and the accounts give an interesting picture of the building of a little medieval house of clay and wattle, with stone foundations, whitewashed walls and thatched roof. First of all Henry Denesson, carpenter, a most important person, was hired to set up all the woodwork at a wage of 23_s._ 4_d._ for the whole piece of work; he had an assistant John Cokke, who was paid 14_d._ for ten days' work; Simon Maydewell was kept hard at work sawing timber for his use for ten days at 14_d._ and over a cart load and a half of "splentes" (small pieces of wood laid horizontally in a stud wall) were purchased at a cost of 6_s._ 2_d._ Henry and John spent ten days setting up the framework of the two cottages, but they were not the only workers. The "gruncill" (or beam laid along the ground for the rest to stand on) had to be laid firmly on a stone foundation; the walls had to be filled between the beams with clay, strengthened with a mixture of reeds and sedge and bound with hemp nailed firmly to the beams. The account tells us all about these operations: and in hemp with nails bought for binding the walls 16_d._, and in stone bought from Thomas Janes of Hynton to support the gruncill 6_s._ 8_d._, and in one measure of quicklime bought for the same work 3_s._, and in six cartloads of clay bought of Richard Poket of Barnwell 18_d._, and in the hire of Geoffrey Sconyng and William Brann, to lay the gruncill of the aforesaid tenements and to daub the walls thereof (i.e. to make them of clay), for the whole work 17_s._ 3_d._ And in reeds bought of John Bere, "reder," for the aforesaid tenements 2_s._ 4_d._, and in "1000 de les segh" (sedge) for the same work 5_s._ And in 22 bunches of wattles 22_d._, and in boards bought at the fair of St John the Baptist to make the door and windows 2_s._ 10_d._, and in 1000 nails for the said work, together with 1000 more nails bought afterwards 2_s._ 8-1/2_d._ Finally the houses had to be roofed with a thatch of straw and a fresh set of workmen were called in: and for the hire of John Scot, thatcher, hired to roof with straw the two aforesaid tenements, for 12 days, taking 4_d._ a day, at the board of the Lady (Prioress) 4_s._ And for the hire of Thomas Clerk for 8-1/2 days and of Nicholaus Burnefygge for 10 days, carrying straw and serving the said thatcher 3_s._ 1_d._; and in the hire of Katherine Rolf for the same work (women often acted as thatchers' assistants) for 12 days at 1-1/2_d._ a day, 18_d._ And behold two very nice little cottages. But let not the ignorant suppose that this completed the expenditure of the nuns on building and repairs. Henry Denesson, the indispensable, soon had to be hired again to set up some woodwork in a tenement in Precherch Street, and to build a gable there. A kitchen had to be built next to these tenements, and the business of hiring carpenters, daubers and thatchers was repeated; John Scot and John Cokke once more scaled the roofs. Then a house in Nun's Lane was burnt and sedge had to be bought to thatch it. Then three labourers had to be hired for four days to mend the roofs of the hall, kitchen and other parts of the nunnery itself, taking 5_d._ a day and their board. Then the roofs of the frater and the granary began to leak and the same labourers had to be hired for four more days. Then, just as the treasuress thought that she had got rid of the ubiquitous Henry Denesson for good, back he had to be called with a servant to help him, to set up the falling granary again. Then a lock had to be made for the guests' kitchen and for three other rooms in the nunnery; and when John Egate, tiler, and John Tommesson, tenants of the nuns, got wind that locks were being made, they must needs have some for their tenements. Then a defect in the church had to be repaired by John Corry and a cover made for the font. There was more purchase of reeds and sedge, boards and "300 nails (12_d._) and 100 nails (2_d._) bought at Stourbridge Fair" for 14_d._ Last came the inevitable plumber: And for a certain plumber hired to mend a gutter between the tenement wherein Walter Ferror dwells and a tenement of the Prior of Barnwell, with lead found by the said Prior, together with the mending of a defect in the church of St Radegund 14_d._ And in the hire of the aforesaid plumber to mend a lead pipe extending from the font to the copper in the brewhouse, together with the solder of the said plumber 8_d._ In all the cost of repairs and buildings came to £8. 3_s._ 7_d._ out of a total expenditure of £72. 6_s._ 4-3/4_d._ (4) _Expenses of the home farm._ The home farm was an essential feature of manorial economy and particularly so when the lord of the manor was a community. The nuns expected to draw the greater part of their food from the farm; livestock, grain and dairy all had to be superintended. A student of these account rolls may see unrolled before him all the different operations of the year, the autumn ploughing and sowing, the spring ploughing and sowing, the hay crop mown in June and the strenuous labours of the harvest. He may, if he will, know how many sheep the shepherd led to pasture and how many oxen the oxherd drove home in the evening, for the inventory on the back of an account roll enumerates minutely all the stock. There is something homely and familiar in lists such as the tale of cattle owned by the nuns of Sheppey at the Dissolution: v contre oxen and iij western oxen fatt, ... xviij leane contre oxen workers, xij leane contre sterys of ij or iij yere age, xxviij yeryngs, xxxviii kene and heifors ... xxvi cattle of thys yere, an horse, j olde baye, a dunne, a whyte and an amblelyng grey, vj geldings and horse for the plow and harowe, with v mares, xliij hogges of dyvers sorts, in wethers and lammys cccc{xxx}, ... and in beryng ewes vij{c}, ... in twelvemonthyngs, ewes and wethers vi{c}xxxv ... in lambys at this present daye v{c}lx[349]. How these lean country oxen, the "one old bay, a dun, a white and an ambling grey," bring the quiet English landscape before the reader's eyes. Time is as nothing; and the ploughman trudging over the brown furrows, the slow, warm beasts, breathing heavily in the darkness of their byre, are little changed from what they were five hundred years ago--save that our beasts to-day are larger and fatter, thanks to turnips and Mr Bakewell. Kingdoms rise and fall, but the seasons never alter, and the farm servant, conning these old accounts, would find nothing in them but the life he knew: This is the year's round he must go To make and then to win the seed: In winter to sow and in March to hoe Michaelmas plowing, Epiphany sheep; Come June there is the grass to mow, At Lammas all the vill must reap. From dawn till dusk, from Easter till Lent Here are the laws that he must keep: Out and home goes he, back-bent, Heavy, patient, slow as of old Father, granfer, ancestor went O'er Sussex weald and Yorkshire wold. O what see you from your gray hill? The sun is low, the air all gold, Warm lies the slumbrous land and still. I see the river with deep and shallow, I see the ford, I hear the mill; I see the cattle upon the fallow; And there the manor half in trees, And there the church and the acre hallow Where lie your dead in their feretories.... I see the yews and the thatch between The smoke that tells of cottage and hearth, And all as it has ever been From the beginning of this old earth[350]. The farm labourer to-day would well understand all these items of expenditure, which the monastic treasuress laboriously enters in her account. He would understand that heavy section headed "Repair of Carts and Ploughs." He would understand the purchases of grain for seed, or for the food of livestock, of a cow here, a couple of oxen there, of whip-cord and horse-collars, traces and sack-cloth and bran for a sick horse. Farm expenses are always the same. The items which throw light on sheep-farming are very interesting, in view of the good income which monastic houses in pastoral districts made by the sale of their wool. The Prioress of Catesby's account for 1414-5 notes: In expences about washing and shearing of sheep v s vj d. In ale bought for caudles ij s. In pitchers viij d. In ale about the carriage of peas to the sheepcote iv d ob. In a tressel bought for new milk viij d. In nails for a door there iv d ob. In thatching the sheepcote viij d. In amending walls about the sheepcote ix d; and in her inventory of stock she accounts for 118 sheep received of stock, whereof there was delivered to the kitchen after shearing by tally 14, in murrain before shearing 12, and there remains 101; and for 5 wethers of stock and 2 purchased, whereof in murrain before shearing 3, and there remains 4; and for 144 lambs of issues of all ewes, whereof in murrain 23; and there remains 121[351]. The nuns of Gracedieu in the same spring had a flock of 103 ewes and 52 lambs; and there is mention in their accounts of the sale of 30 stone of wool to a neighbour[351]; and the nuns of Sheppey, as the inventory quoted above bears witness, had a very large flock indeed. Some of the most interesting entries in the accounts are the payments for extra labour at busy seasons, to weed corn, make hay, shear sheep, thresh and winnow. The busiest season of all, the climax of the farmer's year, was harvest time; and most monastic accounts give it a separate heading. The nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, year after year record the date "when we began to reap" and the payments to reapers and cockers for the first four or five weeks and to carters for the fortnight afterwards. Extra workers, both men and women, came in from among the cottagers of the manor and of neighbouring manors; in some parts of the country migrant harvesters came, as they do to-day, from distant uplands to help on the farms of the rich cornland. To oversee them a special reap-reeve was hired at a higher rate (the nuns of St Michael's paid him 13_s._ 8_d._ in 1378); gloves were given to the reapers to protect them from thistles[352]; special tithers were hired to set aside the sheaves due to the convent as tithes (the convent paid "to one tither of Wothorpe," an appropriated church, "10_s._, and to two of our tithers 13_s._ 4_d._"). The honest Tusser sets out the usage in jingling rhyme: Grant haruest lord more by a penie or twoo to call on his fellowes the better to doo: Giue gloues to thy reapers, a larges to crie, and dailie to loiterers haue a good eie. Reape wel, scatter not, gather cleane that is shorne, binde faste, shock apace, haue an eie to thy corne. Lode safe, carrie home, follow time being faire, goue iust in the barne, it is out of despaire. Tithe dulie and trulie, with hartie good will that God and his blessing may dwell with thee still: Though Parson neglecteth his dutie for this, thank thou thy Lord God, and giue erie man his[353]. Usually the workers got their board during harvest and very well they fared. The careful treasuresses of St Michael's get in beef and mutton and fish for them, to say nothing of eggs and bread and oatmeal and foaming jugs of beer. Porringers and platters have to be laid in for them to feed from; and since they work until the sun goes down, candles must be bought to light the board in the summer dusk. At the end of all, when the last sheaf was carried to the barn and the last gleaner had left the fields, the nuns entertained their harvesters to a mighty feast. It was a time for hard work and for good fellowship. Says Tusser: In haruest time, haruest folke, seruants and all, should make all togither good cheere in the hall: And fill out the black boule of bleith to their song, and let them be merie all haruest time long. Once ended thy haruest let none be begilde, please such as did helpe thee, man, woman and childe. Thus dooing, with alway such helpe as they can, those winnest the praise of the labouring man[354]. The final feast was associated with the custom of giving a goose to all who had not overturned a load in carrying during harvest, and the nuns of St Michael's always enter it in their accounts as "the expenses of the sickle goose" or harvest goose. For all this good feasting, yet art thou not loose till ploughman thou giuest his haruest home goose. Though goose go in stubble, I passe not for that, let goose haue a goose, be she leane, be she fat[355]. An echo of old English gaiety sounds very pleasantly through these harvest expenses. (5) _The wages sheet._ The last set of expenses which the monastic housewife entered upon her roll was the wages sheet of the household, the payments for the year, or for a shorter period, of all her male and female dependents, together with the cost of their livery and of their allowance of "mixture," when the convent gave them these. We saw in the last chapter that the nuns were the centre of a small community of farm and household servants, ranging from the reverend chaplains and dignified bailiff through all grades of standing and usefulness, down to the smallest kitchen-maid and the gardener's boy. Such is the tale of the account rolls. It may be objected by some that this talk of tenement-building, and livestock, ploughshares and harvest-home has little to do with monastic life, since it is but the common routine of every manor. But this is the very reason for describing it. The nunneries of England were firmly founded on the soil and the nuns were housewives and ladies of the manor, as were their sisters in the world. This homely business was half their lives; they knew the kine in the byre and the corn in the granary, as well as the service-books upon their stalls. The sound of their singing went up to heaven mingled with the shout of the ploughmen in the field and the clatter of churns in the dairy. When a prioress' negligence lets the sheepfold fall into disrepair, so that the young lambs die of the damp, it is made a charge against her to the bishop, together with more spiritual crimes. The routine of the farm goes on side by side with the routine of the chapel. These account rolls give us the material basis for the complicated structure of monastic life. This is how nuns won their livelihood; this is how they spent it. CHAPTER IV MONASTIC HOUSEWIVES Some respit to husbands the weather may send, But huswiues affaires haue neuer an end. TUSSER, _Fiue Hundred Pointes of Good Husbandrie_ (1573). Every monastic house may be considered from two points of view, as a religious and as a social unit. From the religious point of view it is a house of prayer, its centre is the church, its _raison d'être_ the daily round of offices. From the social point of view it is a community of human beings, who require to be fed and clothed; it is often a landowner on a large scale; it maintains a more or less elaborate household of servants and dependents; it runs a home farm; it buys and sells and keeps accounts. The nun must perforce combine the functions of Martha and of Mary; she is no less a housewife than is the lady of the manor, her neighbour. The monastic routine of bed and board did not work without much careful organisation; and it is worth while to study the method by which this organisation was carried out. The daily business of a monastery was in the hands of a number of officials, chosen from among the older and more experienced of the inmates and known as _obedientiaries_. These obedientiaries, as Mr C. T. Flower has pointed out in a useful article[356], fall into two classes: (1) executive officials, charged with the general government of a house, such as the abbess, prioress, subprioress and treasuress, and (2) nuns charged with particular functions, such as the chantress, sacrist, fratress, infirmaress, mistress of the novices, chambress and cellaress. The number of obedientiaries differed with the size of the house. In large houses the work had naturally to be divided among a large number of officials and those whose offices were heaviest had assistants to help them. A list of the twenty-six nuns of Romsey in 1502, for instance, distinguishes besides the abbess, a prioress, subprioress, four chantresses, an almoness, cellaress, sacrist and four subsacrists, kitcheness, fratress, infirmaress and mistress of the school of novices[357]. But in a small house there was less need of differentiation, and though complaint is sometimes made of the doubling of offices (perhaps from jealousy or a desire to participate in the doubtful sweets of office), one nun must often have performed many functions. It is common, for instance, to find the head of the house acting as treasuress, a practice which undoubtedly had its dangers. The following were the most important obedientiaries, whose duties are distinguished in the larger convents. (1) The _Treasuress_, or more often two treasuresses. Her duty was to receive all the money paid, from whatever source, to the house and to superintend disbursements; she had the general management of business and held the same position as a college bursar to-day. (2) The _Chantress_ or _Precentrix_ had the management of the church services, trained the novices in singing and usually looked after the library. (3) The _Sacrist_ had the care of the church fabric, with the plate, vestments and altar cloths and of the lighting of the whole house, for which she had to buy the wax and tallow and wicks and hire the candle-makers. (4) The _Fratress_ had charge of the frater or refectory, kept the chairs and tables in repair, purchased the cloths and dishes, superintended the laying of meals and kept the lavatory clean. (5) The _Almoness_ had charge of the almsgiving. (6) The _Chambress_ ordained everything to do with the wardrobe of the nuns; the _Additions to the Rules of Syon_ thus describe her work: The Chaumbress schal haue al the clothes in her warde, that perteyne to the bodyly araymente of sustres and brethern, nyghte and day, in ther celles and fermery, as wel of lynnen as of wollen; schapynge, sewynge, makyng, repayryng and kepyng them from wormes, schakyng them by the help of certayne sustres depute to her, that they be not deuoured and consumed of moughtes. So that sche schal puruey for canuas for bedyng, fryses, blankettes, schetes, bolsters, pelowes, couerlites, cuschens, basens, stamens, rewle cotes, cowles, mantelles, wymples, veyles, crounes, pynnes, cappes, nyght kerchyfes, pylches, mantel furres, cuffes, gloues, hoses, schoes, botes, soles, sokkes, mugdors, gyrdelles, purses, knyues, laces, poyntes, nedelles, threde, wasching bolles and sope and for al suche other necessaryes after the disposicion of the abbes, whiche in no wyse schal be ouer curyous, but playne and homly, witheoute weuynge of any straunge colours of sylke, golde, or syluer, hauynge al thynge of honeste and profyte, and nothyng of vanyte, after the rewle; ther knyues unpoynted and purses beyng double of lynnen clothe and not of sylke[358]. (7) The _Cellaress_ looked after the food of the house and the domestic servants, and usually superintended the management of the home farm. It was her business to lay in all stores, obtaining some from the home farm and some by purchase in the village market, or at periodical fairs. She had to order the meals, to engage and dismiss servants and to see to all repairs. As one writer very well says, her "manifold duties appear to have been a combination of those belonging to the offices of steward, butler and farmer's wife"[359]. The _Rules_ of Syon again deserves quotation: The Celeres schal puruey for mete and drynke for seke and hole, and for mete and drynke, clothe and wages, for seruantes of householde outwarde, and sche shall haue all the vessel and stuffe of housholde under her kepynge and rewle, kepynge it klene, hole and honeste. So that whan sche receyueth newe, sche moste restore the olde to the abbes. Ordenyng for alle necessaryes longynge to al houses of offices concernyng the bodyly fode of man, in the bakhows, brewhows, kychen, buttry, pantry, celer, freytour, fermery, parlour and suche other, bothe outewarde and inwarde, for straungers and dwellers, attendyng diligently that the napery and al other thynge in her office be honest, profitable and plesaunte to al, after her power, as sche is commaunded by her souereyne[360]. A very detailed set of instructions how to cater for a large abbey is to be found in a Barking document called the _Charthe longynge to the office of the Celeresse of the Monasterye of Barkinge_[361]. (8) The _Kitcheness_ superintended the kitchen, under the direction of the cellaress. (9) The _Infirmaress_ had charge of the sick in the infirmary; the author of the _Additions to the Rules_ of Syon, a person of all too vivid imagination, charges her often to chaunge ther beddes and clothes, geue them medycynes, ley to ther plastres and mynyster to them mete and drynke, fyre and water and al other necessaryes, nyghte and day, as nede requyrethe, after counsel of the phisicians, ... not squames to wasche them, and wype them, nor auoyde them, not angry nor hasty, or unpacient thof one haue the vomet, another the fluxe, another the frensy, which nowe syngethe, now wel apayde, ffor ther be some sekenesses vexynge the seke so gretly and prouokynge them to ire, that the mater drawen up to the brayne alyenthe the mendes[362]. (10) The _Mistress of the Novices_ acted as schoolmistress to the novices, teaching them all that they had to learn and superintending their general behaviour. Certain of these obedientiaries, more especially the cellaress, chambress and sacrist, had the control and expenditure of part of the convent's income, because their departments involved a certain number of purchases; indeed while the treasuress acted as bursar, the housekeeping of the convent was in the hands of the cellaress and chambress. Every well organised nunnery therefore divided up its revenues, allocating so much to the church, so much to clothing, so much to food, etc. Rules for the disposition of the income of a house were sometimes drawn up by a more than usually thrifty treasuress for the guidance of her successors, and kept in the register or chartulary of the nunnery. The Register of Crabhouse Priory contains one such document written (in the oddest French of Stratford-atte-Bowe) during the second half of the fourteenth century: "The wise men of religion who have possessions," says this careful dame, "consider according to the amount of their goods how much they can spend each year and according to the sum of their income they ordain to divers necessities their portions in due measure. And in order that when the time comes the convent should not fail to have what is necessary according to the sum of our goods, we have ordained their portions to divers necessary things. To wit, for bread and beer, all the produce of our lands and tenements in Tilney and all the produce of our half church of St Peter in Wiggenhall, and, if it be necessary, all the produce of our land in Gyldenegore. For meat and fish and for herrings and for _feri_ and _asser_[363] and for cloves is set aside all the produce of our houses and rents in Lynn and in North Lynn and in Gaywood. For clothing and shoes all the produce of our meadow in Setchy, ... and the remnant of the land in Setchy and in West Winch is ordained for the purchase of salt. For the prioress' chamber, for tablecloths and towels and _tabites_[364] in linen and saye, and for other things which are needed for guests and for the household, is set aside all the produce of our land and tenements in Thorpland and in Wallington. For the repair of our houses and of our church in Crabhouse and for sea dykes and marsh dykes and for the wages of our household and for other petty expenses is ordained all the produce of our lands, tenements and rents in Wiggenhall, with the exception of the pasture for our beasts and of our fuel. Similarly the breeding of stock, and all the profits which may be drawn from our beasts in Tilney, in Wiggenhall and in Thorpland, and in all other places (saving the stock for our larder, and draught-beasts for carts and ploughs and saving four-and-twenty cows and a bull) are assigned and ordained for the repair of new houses and new dykes, to the common profit of the house[365]." This practice of earmarking certain sources of income may be illustrated from almost any monastic chartulary, for it was common for benefactors to earmark donations of land and rent to certain special purposes, more especially for the clothing of the nuns, for the support of the infirmary, or for a special pittance from the kitchen[366]. Similarly bishops appropriating churches to monastic houses sometimes set aside the proceeds for special purposes[367]. The result of the practice was that the obedientiaries of certain departments, more especially the cellaress, chambress and sacrist, had to keep careful accounts of their receipts and expenditure, which were submitted annually to the treasuress, when she was making up her big account. Very few separate obedientiaries' accounts survive for nunneries, partly because the majority were small and the treasuress not infrequently acted as cellaress and did the general catering herself. Cellaresses' accounts, however, survive for Syon and Barking, chambresses' accounts for Syon and St Michael's Stamford (the latter merely recording the payment to the nuns of their allowances) and sacrists' accounts for Syon and Elstow[368]. In one column these accounts set out the sources from which the office derives its income. This might come to the obedientiary in one of two ways, either directly from the churches, manors or rents appropriated to her, or by the hands of the treasuress, who received and paid her the rents due to her office, or if no revenues were appropriated to it, allocated her a lump sum out of the general revenues of the house. Thus at Syon the cellaress drew her income from the sale of hides, oxhides and fleeces (from slaughtered animals and sheep at the farm), the sale of wood, and the profits of a dairy farm at Isleworth, while the chambress simply answered for a sum of £10 paid to her by the treasuresses. In another column the obedientiary would enter her expenditure. This might take two forms. According to the Benedictine rule and to the rule of the newly founded and strict Brigittine house of Syon, all clothes and food were provided for the nuns by the chambress and cellaress; and accordingly their accounts contain a complete picture of the communal housekeeping. In the later middle ages, however, it became the almost universal custom to pay the nuns a money allowance instead of clothing, a practice which deprived the office of chambress of nearly all its duties and possibly accounts for the rarity of chambresses' account rolls. The Syon chambress' account is an example of the first or regular method; the St Michael's, Stamford, account of the second. More rarely the nuns received money allowances for a portion of their food. The growth of this custom of paying money allowances will be described in a later chapter[369]; here it will suffice to consider the housekeeping of a nunnery in which that business was entirely in the hands of the chambress and cellaress. The accounts throw an interesting light on the provision of clothes for a convent and its servants. An account of Dame Bridget Belgrave, chambress of Syon (who had to look after the brothers as well as the sisters of the house) has survived for the year 1536-7. It shows her buying "russettes," "white clothe," "kerseys," "gryce," "Holand cloth and other lynen cloth," paying for the spinning of hemp and flax, for the weaving of cloth, for the dressing of calves' skins and currying of leather, and for 3000 "pynnes of dyuerse sortes." She pays wages to "the yoman of the warderobe," "the grome," the skinner and the shoemakers and she tips the "sealer" of leather in the market place[370]. Treasuresses' accounts also often give interesting information about the purchase and making up of various kinds of material. At St Radegund's, Cambridge, the nuns were in receipt of an annual dress allowance, but the house made many purchases of stuff for the livery of its household and in 1449-50 the account records payments to a certain woman hired to spin 21 lbs. of wool, 22_d._; and to Alice Pavyer hired for the same work, containing in the gross 36 lbs. of woollen thread 6_s._; and paid to Roger Rede of Hinton for warping certain woollen thread 1-1/2_d._; and to the same hired to weave 77 ells of woollen cloth for the livery of the servants 3_s._ 5_d._; and paid to the wife of John Howdelowe for fulling the said cloth 3_s._ 6_d._; and paid to a certain shearman for shearing (i.e. finishing the surface of) the said cloth 14-1/2_d._ The next year the nuns make similar payments for cleaning, spinning, weaving, warping, fulling and shearing wool (an interesting illustration of the subdivision of the cloth industry) and disburse 9_s._ 9_d._ to William Judde of St Ives for dyeing and making up this cloth into green and blue liveries for the servants of the house[371]. The cellaresses' accounts, which show us how the nun-housekeeper catered for the community, are even more interesting than the chambresses' accounts. The convent food was derived from two main sources, from the home farm and from purchase. The home farm was usually under the management of the cellaress and provided the house with the greater part of its meat, bread, beer and vegetables, and with a certain amount of dairy produce (butter, cheese, eggs, chickens). Anything which the farm could not produce had to be bought, and in particular three important articles of consumption, to wit the salt and dried fish eaten during the winter and in Lent, the salt for the great annual meat-salting on St Martin's day, and the spices and similar condiments used so freely in medieval cooking and eaten by convents more especially in Lent, to relieve the monotony of their fasting fare. The nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, used to get most of their salt fish at Lynn, whence it was brought up by river to Cambridge. From the accounts of 1449-51 it appears that the senior ladies made the occasion one for a pleasant excursion. There is a jovial entry in 1450-1 concerning the carriage by water from Lynn to Cambridge of one barrel[372] and a half of white herrings, two cades[373] of red herrings, two cades of smelts, one quarter of stockfish and one piece of timber called "a Maste" out of which a ladder was to be made (2_s._ 4_d._), together with the fares and food of Dame Joan Lancaster, Dame Margaret Metham, Thomas Key (the bailiff) and Elene Herward of Lynn to Cambridge (2_s._ 8_d._). Another entry displays to us Dame Joan Lancaster bargaining for the smelts and the stockfish at Lynn. Fish was usually bought from one John Ball of Lynn, who seems to have been a general merchant of considerable custom, for the nuns also purchased from him all the linen which they needed for towels and tablecloths, and some trenchers. Occasionally, also, however, they purchased some of their fish at one or other of the fairs held in the district; in 1449-50 they thus bought 8 warp[374] of ling and 6 warp of cod from one John Antyll at Ely fair and 14 warp of ling from the same man at Stourbridge fair, an interesting illustration of how tradesmen travelled from fair to fair. At St John Baptist's fair in the same year they bought a horse for 9_s._ 6_d._, 2 qrs. 5 bushels of salt, some timber boards and three "pitcheforke staves." In the following year they bought timber, pewter pots, a churn, 10 lbs. of soap and 3 lbs. of pepper at the famous fair of Stourbridge, and salt and timber at the fair of St John Baptist. In 1481-2 they bought salt fish, salt, iron nails, paper, parchment and "other necessities" at the fairs of Stourbridge and of St Etheldreda the Virgin[375]. The fish-stores illustrate a side of medieval housekeeping, which is unfamiliar to-day. Fresh fish was eaten on fish-days whenever it could be got. Most monastic houses had fishing rights attached to their demesnes, or kept their own fish-pond or stew. The nuns of St Radegund's had fishing rights in a certain part of the Cam known as late as 1505 as "Nunneslake"[376]. But a great deal of dried and salted fish was also eaten. In their storehouse the nuns always kept a supply of the dried cod known as stockfish for their guest-house and for the frater during the winter. It was kept in layers on canvas and was so dry that it had to be beaten before it could be used; it is supposed to have derived its name from the _stock_ on which it was beaten, or, as Erasmus preferred to say, "because it nourisheth no more than a dried stock"[377]. For Lent the chief articles of food were herrings and salt salmon, but the list of _salt store_ purchased by the cellaress of Syon in 1536-7 shows a great variety of fish, to wit 200 dry lings, 700 dry haberden (salted cod), 100 "Iceland fish," 1 barrel of salt salmon, 1 barrel of [white] herring, 1 cade of red herring and 420 lbs. of "stub" eels[378]. The chief food during Lent, besides bread and salt fish, was dried peas, which could be boiled or made into pottage. Thus Skelton complains of the monks of his day: Saltfysshe, stocfysshe, nor heryng, It is not for your werynge; Nor in holy Lenton season Ye wyll nethyr benes ne peason[379]. In Lent also were eaten dried fruits, in particular almonds and raisins and figs, the latter being sometimes made into little pies called _risschewes_[380]. The nuns of Syon purchased olive oil and honey with their other Lenten stores. The list of condiments which they bought during the year, for ordinary cooking purposes, or for consumption as a relief to their palates in Lent, or as a pittance on high days and holidays, includes, in 1536-7, sugar (749-3/4 lb.), nutmegs (18 lb.), almonds (500 lb.), currants (4 lb.), ginger (6 lb.), isinglass (100 lb.), pepper (6 lb.), cinnamon (1 lb.), cloves (1 lb.), mace (1 lb.), saffron (2 lb.), rice (3 qrs.), together with figs, raisins and prunes[381]. Surely the poor clown, whom Autolycus relieved so easily of his purse, was sent to stock a convent storehouse, not to furnish forth a sheep-shearing feast and the sister who sent him was a sister in Christ: Let me see, what am I to buy...? Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants; rice,--what will this sister of mine do with rice?... I must have saffron, to colour the warden pies; mace, dates,--none; that's out of my note; nutmegs seven; a race or two of ginger,--but that I may beg;--four pound of prunes and as many of raisins of the sun[382]. Lent fare was naturally not very pleasant, for all the mitigations of almonds and figs. At other times of the year the convent ate on fish-days fresh fish, when they could get it, otherwise dried or salt fish, and on meat-days either beef or some form of pig's flesh, eaten fresh as pork, cured and salted as bacon, or pickled as _sowce_[383]. Mutton was also eaten, though much more seldom, for the sheep in the middle ages was valued for its wool, rather than for its meat, and was indeed a scraggy little animal, until the discovery of winter crops and the experiments of Bakewell revolutionised stock-breeding and the English food-supply in the eighteenth century. The nuns also had fowls on festive occasions, eggs, cheese and butter from the dairy and vegetables from the garden. The staple allowance of bread and beer made on the premises was always provided by the convent, even when the nuns had a money allowance to cater for themselves in other articles of food[384]. Some idea of the menu of an average house is given in the Syon rule: For the sustres and brethren sche [the cellaress] shal euery day for the more parte ordeyne for two maner of potages, or els at leste for one gode and that is best of alle. If ther be two, that one be sewe [broth] of flesche and fische, after [according to what] the day is; and that other of wortes or herbes, or of any other thing that groweth in the yerthe, holsom to the body, as whete, ryse, otemele, peson and suche other. Also sche schal ordeyne for two sundry metes, of flesche and of fysche, one fresche, another powdred [salted], boyled, or rosted, or other wyse dyghte, after her discrecion, and after the day, tyme and nede requyreth, as the market and purse wylle stretche. And thys schal stonde for the prebende, which is a pounde of brede, welle weyed, with a potel of ale and a messe of mete.... On fysche dayes sche schal ordeyn for whyte metes, yf any may be hadde after the rewle, be syde fysche metes, as it is before seyd. Also, ones a wyke at the leste, sche schal ordeyn that the sustres and brethren be serued withe newe brede, namely on water dayes, but neuer withe newe ale, nor palled or ouer sowre, as moche as sche may. For supper sche schal ordeyn for some lytel sowpyng, and for fysche and whyte mete, or for any other thynge suffred by the rewle, lyghte of dygestyon equyualente, and as gode to the bodyly helthe.... On water dayes sche schal ordeyne for bonnes or newe brede, water grewel, albreys and for two maner of froytes at leste yf it may be, that is to say, apples, peres or nuttes, plummes, chiryes, benes, peson, or any suche other, and thys in competent mesure, rosten or sothen, or other wyse dyghte to the bodyly helthe, and sche must se that the water be sothen with browne brede in maner of a tysan, or withe barley brede, for coldenes and feblenes of nature, more thys dayes, than in dayes passed regnynge[385]. On certain special days the nuns received a pittance, or extra allowance of food, sometimes taking the shape of some special delicacy consecrated to the day. On Shrove Tuesday they often had the traditional pancakes, or fritters, called _crisps_ at Barking[386] and _flawnes_ at St Michael's, Stamford[387]. Maundy Thursday, otherwise called Shere Thursday (the Thursday before Easter) was the great almsgiving day of the year. On this day the kings and queens of England, as well as the greatest dignitaries of the church and of the nobility, were accustomed to give gowns, food and money to the poor, who clustered round their gates in expectance of the event, and ceremonially to wash the feet of a certain number of poor men and women, to commemorate Christ's washing of His disciples' feet. Benefactors who left land to monastic houses for purposes of almsgiving often specified Maundy Thursday as the day on which the alms were to be distributed. It was customary also for monks and nuns to receive a pittance on this day; and welcome it must have been after the long Lenten fast. The nuns of Barking had baked eels, with rice and almonds and wine. The nuns of St Mary de Pré (St Albans) had "Maundy ale" and "Maundy money" given to them. The nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, had beer and wafers and spices[388]. There was always a feast on Christmas day and on most of the great feasts of the church and the various feasts connected with the Virgin. There was a pittance on the dedication day of the convent and sometimes on other saints' days. There were also pittances on the anniversaries of benefactors who had left money for this purpose to the convent, and sometimes also on profession-days, which were "the official birthdays of the nuns"[389]. In the monotonous round of convent life these little festivities formed a pleasant change and were looked forward to with ardour; in some of the larger houses a special obedientiary known as the _Pittancer_ had charge over them. Food is one of the housekeeper's cares; servants are another; and between them they must have wrinkled many a cellaress' brow, though the servant problem at least was a less complicated one in the middle ages than it is to-day. The persons to whom regular yearly wages were paid by a convent fall into four classes: (1) the chaplains, (2) the administrative officials, steward, rent-collectors, bailiff, (3) the household staff and (4) the hinds and farm-servants. (1) _The chaplains._ The account rolls of a nunnery of average size usually contain payments to more than one priest. The nuns had to pay the stipend of their own chaplain or mass-priest, of any chaplains or vicars whom they were bound to provide for appropriated churches, and sometimes of a confessor. The number of chaplains naturally varied with the size of the house and with the number of appropriated churches. Great houses such as Barking, Shaftesbury and Wilton had a body of resident chaplains attached to the nunnery church and paid the stipends of priests ministering to appropriated parishes. Poor and small nunneries, such as Rusper, paid the fee of one resident chaplain. It is worthy of note that certain important and old established abbeys in Wessex had canons' prebends attached to their churches. At each of the abbey churches of Shaftesbury, St Mary's Winchester, Wherwell and Wilton there were four prebendary canons, at Romsey there were two (one of whom was known as sacrist). Moreover at Malling in Kent there were two secular prebends, known as the prebends of _magna missa maioris altaris_ and _alta missa_. These prebends were doubtless originally intended for the maintenance of resident chaplains, but as early as the thirteenth century the prebends were almost invariably held by non-residents and pluralists as sinecures, the reason being, as Mr Hamilton Thompson points out, "the rise in value of individual endowments and the consequent readiness of the Crown, as patron of the monasteries, to discover in them sources of income for clerks in high office." Thus these great abbeys also followed the usual custom of hiring chaplains to celebrate in their churches, though some of the wealthier prebends were taxed with stipendiary payments towards the cost of these[390]. [Illustration: PLATE III PAGE FROM _LA SAINTE ABBAYE_ (In the top left hand corner is a nun at confession; in the other corners are visions appearing to a nun at prayer.)] The chaplain of a house usually resided on the premises, sometimes receiving his board from the nuns; occasionally inventories mention his lodgings, which were outside the nuns' cloister. Thus the Kilburn Dissolution inventory, after describing all the household offices, goes on to describe the three chambers for the chaplain and the hinds, the "confessor's chamber" and the church[391]. At Sheppey the chamber over the gatehouse was called "the confessor's chamber" and was furnished forth with a hangyng of rede clothe, a paynted square sparver of lynen, with iij corteyns of lynyn clothe, a good fetherbed, a good bolster, a pece of blanketts and a good counterpeynt of small verder, in the lowe bed a fetherbed, a bolster, a pece of blanketts olde, and an image coverled, a greate joynyd chayer of waynscot, an olde forme, and a cressar of iron for the chymneye[392]. The relations between the nuns and their priest were doubtless very friendly; he would be their guide, philosopher and friend, sometimes acting as _custos_ of their temporal affairs and always ready with advice. Madame Eglentyne, it will be remembered, took three priests with her upon her eventful pilgrimage to Canterbury, and one was the never-to-be-forgotten Sir John, whom she mounted worse than his inimitable skill as a _raconteur_ deserved: Than spak our host, with rude speche and bold And seyde un-to the Nonnes Preest anon, "Com neer, thou preest, com hider thou sir John, Tel us swich thing as may our hertes glade, Be blythe, though thou ryde up-on a jade. What though thyn hors be bothe foule and lene, If he wol serve thee, rekke not a bene; Look that thyn herte be mery evermo." "Yis, sir" quod he, "yis, host, so mote I go, But I be mery, y-wis I wol be blamed":-- And right anon his tale he hath attamed, And thus he seyde unto us everichon, This swete preest, this goodly man, sir John[393]. Certainly the convent never went to sleep in a sermon which had the tale of Chauntecleer and Pertelote for its _exemplum_. Yet the nuns were not always happy in their priests. There is the case (not, it must be admitted, without its humour) of Sir Henry, the chaplain of Gracedieu in 1440-41. Sir Henry was an uncouth fellow, it seems, who was more at home in the stable than at the altar. He went out haymaking alone with the cellaress, and in the evening brought her back behind him, riding on the same lean jade. Furthermore "Sir Henry the chaplain busies himself with unseemly tasks, cleansing the stables, and goes to the altar without washing, staining his vestments. He is without devotion and irreverent at the altar and is of ill reputation at Loughborough and elsewhere where he has dwelt." Poor Sir Henry,-- See, whiche braunes hath this gentil Preest, So greet a nekke, and swich a large breest! He loketh as a sperhauk with his yën; Him nedeth nat his colour for to dyen With brasil, ne with greyn of Portingale. The bishop swore him to "behave himself devoutly and reverently henceforward at the altar in making his bow after and before his masses"[394]. (2) _The administrative officials._ These varied in number with the size of the house and the extent of its possessions. The chief administrative official was the _steward_, who is not, however, found at all houses. Sometimes the office of steward was complimentary and the fee attached was nominal. The _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ shows that great men did not disdain the post; Andrew Lord Windsor was steward of the Minoresses without Aldgate, of Burnham and of Ankerwyke[395]. Henry Lord Daubeney was steward of Shaftesbury[396], George Earl of Shrewsbury of Wilton[397], Henry Marquess of Dorset of Nuneaton[398], Sir Thomas Wyatt of Malling[399], Sir W. Percy of Hampole, Handale and Thicket[400], Lord Darcy of Swine[401], the Earl of Derby of St Mary's Chester[402], and Mr Thomas Cromwell himself of Syon and Catesby[403]. Some houses, such as Wilton, had more than one steward, and Syon maintained stewards as well as bailiffs in most of the counties in which it had land. Some of these great men were obviously not working officials; but many of the houses maintained stewards at a good salary, who superintended their business affairs, kept the courts of their manors, and were sometimes lodged on the premises[404]. The larger houses also paid one or more receivers and rent-collectors and sometimes an auditor, but in the average house the most important administrative official was the bailiff. While large landowners kept bailiffs at each of the different manors which they held, most nunneries employed a single bailiff, an invaluable factotum who performed a great variety of business for them, besides collecting rents from their tenants and superintending the home farm. Thomas Key, the bailiff of St Radegund's Cambridge, 1449-51, is an active person; he receives a stipend of 13_s._ 4_d._ per annum and an occasional gift from the nuns; he rides about collecting their rents in Cambridgeshire; he accompanies them to Lynn on the annual journey to buy the winter stock of salt fish, or sometimes goes alone; he can turn his hand to mending rakes and ladders (for which he gets 8_d._ for four days' work), or to making the barley mows at harvest time, taking 3_d._ a day for his pains; and indeed he is regularly hired to work during harvest, at a fee of 6_s._ 8_d._ and two bushels of malt[405]. Often the bailiff's wife was also employed by the nuns; the nuns of Sheppey paid their bailiff, his wife and his servant all substantial salaries[406]. Some nunneries had a lodging set apart for him in the convent buildings, outside the nuns' cloister[407]. Evidence often crops up from a variety of sources concerning the relations between the nuns and this important official. That these might be very pleasant can well be imagined. Sometimes a bailiff of substance and standing will place his daughter in the nunnery which he serves[408]; sometimes when he dies he will remember it in his will[409]. But all bailiffs were not good and faithful servants. Mr Hamilton Thompson considers that male stewards and bailiffs were often "responsible for the financial straits to which the nunneries of the fifteenth century were reduced, and ... certainly did much to waste the goods of the monasteries, generally in their own interests"[410]. Such a man was Chaucer's Reeve, though he did not waste land, for the reason that one does not kill the goose that lays the golden eggs: His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye, His swyn, his hors, his stoor and his pultrye, Was hoolly in this reves governing, And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening.... His woning was ful fair upon an heeth, With grene treës shadwed was his place. He coude bettre than his lord purchace. Ful riche he was astored prively, His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, To yeve and lene him of his owne good, And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood[411]. Several records of law-suits are extant, in which prioresses are obliged to sue their bailiffs in the court of King's Bench for an account of their periods of service[412], and visitation documents sometimes give a sorry picture of the convent bailiff. The bailiff of Godstow (1432) went about saying that there was no good woman in the nunnery[413]; the bailiff of Legbourne (1440) persuaded the prioress to sell him a corrody in the house and yet he "is not reckoned profitable to the house in that office, for several of his kinsfolk are serving folk in the house, who look out for themselves more than for the house"[414]; the bailiff of Redlingfield (1427) was the prioress's lover[415]. Romsey Abbey seems at various times to have been peculiarly unfortunate in its administrative officials. In 1284 Archbishop Peckham had to write to the abbess Agnes Walerand and bid her remove two stewards, whom she had appointed in defiance of the wishes of the convent and who were to give an account of their offices to his official[416]. At the close of the fifteenth century, when the abbey was in a very disorderly state under Elizabeth Broke, there was serious trouble again. In 1492 this Abbess was found to have fallen under the influence of one Terbock, whom she had made steward. She herself confessed that she owed him the huge sum of 80_l._ and the nuns declared that in part payment of it she had persuaded them to make over to him for three years a manor valued at 40_l._ and had given him a cross and many other things. His friends haunted her house, especially one John Write, who begged money from her for Terbock. The nuns suspected him of dishonesty, asked that the rolls of account for the years of his stewardship might be seen and declared that the house was brought to ill-fame by him[417]. In 1501 Elizabeth Broke had fallen under the influence of another man, this time a priest called Master Bryce, but she died the next year. Her successor Joyce Rowse was equally unsatisfactory and equally unable to control her servants. Bishop Foxe's vicar-general in 1507 enjoined that a nun should be sought out and corrected for having frequent access, suspiciously and beyond the proper time, to the house of the bailiff of the monastery, and others who went with her were to be warned and corrected too; moreover he summoned before him Thomas Langton, Christopher George and Thomas Leycrofte, bailiffs, and Nicholas Newman, _villicum agricultorem_, and admonished them to behave better in their offices on pain of removal[418]. (3) The _household staff_ naturally varied in size with the size of the nunnery. The Rule of St Benedict contemplated the performance of a great deal if not all of the necessary domestic and agricultural work of a community by the monks themselves. But this tradition had been largely discarded by the thirteenth century, and if the nuns of a small convent are found doing their own cooking and housework, it is by reason of their poverty and they not infrequently complain at the necessity. They were of gentle birth and ill accustomed to menial tasks. The weekly service in the kitchen would seem to have disappeared completely. The larger houses employed a male cook, sometimes assisted by a page, or by his wife, and supervised by the cellaress, or by the kitcheness, where this obedientiary was appointed. There were also a maltster, to make malt, and a brewer and baker, to prepare the weekly ration of bread and ale; sometimes these offices were performed by men, sometimes by women. There was a _deye_ or dairy-woman, who milked the cows, looked after the poultry, and made the cheeses. There was sometimes a _lavender_ or laundress, and there were one or more women servants, to help with the housework and the brewing. The gate was kept by a male porter; and there was sometimes also a gardener. In large houses there would be more than one servant for each of these offices; in small houses the few servants were men or maids of all work and extra assistance was hired when necessary for making malt or washing clothes. In large houses it was not uncommon for each of the chief obedientiaries to have her own servant attached to her _checker_ (office) and household, who prepared the meals for her mistress and for those nuns who formed her _familia_ and messed with her. The head of the house nearly always had her private servant when its resources permitted her to do so, and sometimes when they did not. (4) _The farm labourers._ Finally every house which had attached to it a home farm had to pay a staff of farm labourers. These hinds, whose work was superintended by the bailiff and cellaress, always included one or two ploughmen, a cowherd and oxherd, a shepherd, probably a carter or two and some general labourers. Again the number varied very considerably according to the size of the house and was commonly augmented by hiring extra labour at busy seasons. The farm was cultivated partly by the work of these hired servants, partly by the services owed by the villeins. The nuns, with their domestic and farm servants, were the centre of a busy and sometimes large community, and a very good idea of their social function as employers may be gained from the lists of wage-earning servants to be found in account rolls or in Dissolution inventories. We may take in illustration the large and famous abbey of St Mary's, Winchester, and the little house of St Radegund's, Cambridge. St Mary's, Winchester, had let out the whole of its demesne in 1537, and the inventory drawn up by Henry VIII's commissioners therefore contains no list of farm labourers. The household consisted of the Abbess and twenty-six nuns, thirteen "poor sisters," twenty-six "chyldren of lordys knyghttes and gentylmen browght vp yn the sayd monastery," three corrodians and five chaplains, one of whom was confessor to the house, and twenty-nine officers and servants. The Abbess had her own household, consisting of a gentlewoman, a woman servant and a laundress, and the prioress, subprioress, sacrist and another of the senior nuns each had her private woman servant "yn her howse." There were also two laundresses for the convent. The male officers and servants were Thomas Legh, _generall Receyver_ (who also held a corrody and had two little relatives at school in the convent), Thomas Tycheborne _clerke_ (who likewise had two little girl relatives at school and a boy who will be mentioned), Lawrens Bakon, _Curtyar_ (officer in charge of the secular buildings of the nunnery), George Sponder, _Cater_ (caterer or manciple, who purchased the victuals for the community), William Lime, _Botyler_, Rychard Bulbery, _Coke_, John Clarke, _Vndercoke_, Richard Gefferey, _Baker_, May Wednall, _convent Coke_, John Wener, _vndercovent Coke_, John Hatmaker, _Bruer_, Wylliam Harrys, _Myller_, Wylliam Selwod, _porter_, Robert Clerke, _vnderporter_, William Plattyng, _porter of Estgate_, John Corte and Hery Beale, _Churchemen_, Peter Tycheborne, _Chyld of the hygh aulter_, Rychard Harrold, _seruaunt to the receyver_ and John Serle, _seruaunt to the Clerke_[419]. St Radegund's, Cambridge, in 1450 was a much smaller community, numbering about a dozen nuns. In the treasurers' accounts the wage-earning household is given as follows, together with the annual wages paid by the nuns. The confessor of the house came from outside and was a certain friar named Robert Palmer, who received 6_s._ 8_d._ a year for his pains; they also paid a salary of 5_l._ a year to their mass-priest, John Herryson, 2_s._ 4_d._ to John Peresson, the chaplain celebrating (but only _per vices_, from time to time) at the appropriated church of St Andrew's, and 13_s._ 4_d._ to the "clerk" of that church, a permanent official. Thomas Key, the invaluable bailiff and rent-collector mentioned above, got the rather small salary of 13_s._ 4_d._, but added to it by exactly half as much again during harvest. Richard Wester, baker and brewer to the house, received 26_s._ 8_d._, John Cokke, maltster (and probably also cook, as his name suggests) received 13_s._ 4_d._ The women servants included one of those domestic treasures, who effectively run the happy household which possesses them, or which they possess: her name was Joan Grangyer and she is described as dairy-woman and purveyor or housekeeper to the Prioress; the nuns paid her 20_s._ in all, including 6_s._ 8_d._ for her livery and 2_s._ 4_d._ as a special fee for catering for the Prioress. Then there was Elianore Richemond, who seems to have been an assistant dairy-maid, for in the following year the nuns had replaced her by another woman, hired "for all manner of work in milking cows, making cheese and butter," etc.; her wages were 8_s._ 4_d._, including a "reward" or gift of 20_d._ The other women servants were Elizabeth Charterys, who received 3_s._ 1_d._ for her linen and woollen clothes and her shoes, but no further wages, and Dionisia _yerdwomman_, who received 9_s._ and doubtless did the rough work. This completed the domestic household of the nuns. Their hinds included three ploughmen, John Everesdon (26_s._ 8_d._), Robert Page (16_s._) and John Slibre (13_s._ 4_d._ and 2_s._ 6_d._ for livery); the shepherd, John Wyllyamesson, who received 22_s._ 8_d._ and 8_d._ for a pair of hose; the oxherd Robert Pykkell, who took 6_s._ 8_d._; and Richard Porter, husbandman, who was hired to work from Trinity Sunday to Michaelmas for 13_s._ 4_d._[420] It will thus be seen that the size of a convent household might vary considerably. The twenty-six nuns of St Mary's Winchester had gathered round themselves a large household of nine women servants, five male chaplains and twenty male officers and servants; but they boarded and educated twenty-six children, gave three corrodies and supported thirteen poor sisters (who may however have done some of the work of the house). The twelve nuns of St Radegund's lived more economically, with three male and four female servants and six hinds, besides the chaplains; but even their household seems a sufficiently large one. The ten nuns of Whitney Priory employed two priests, a waiting maid for the prioress, nine other women servants and thirteen hinds[421]. It is notable that the maintenance of a larger household than the revenues of the house could support is not infrequently censured in injunctions as responsible for its financial straits. At Nuncoton in 1440 the Prioress said that the house employed more women servants than was necessary[422] and a century later Bishop Longland spoke very sternly against the same fault: that ye streight upon sight herof dymynishe the nombre of your seruants, as well men as women, which excessyve nombre that ye kepe of them bothe is oon of the grette causes of your miserable pouertye and that ye are nott hable to mayntene your houshold nouther reparacons of the same, by reason whereof all falleth to ruyne and extreme decaye. And therefore to kepe noo moo thenne shalbe urged necessarye for your said house[423]. On the other hand many nunneries could by no means be charged with keeping up an excessive household. Rusper, which had leased all its demesnes, had only two women servants in its employ at the Dissolution[424], and nuns sometimes complained to their visitors that they were too poor to keep servants and had to do the work of the house themselves, to the detriment of their religious duties in the choir. At Ankerwyke one of the nuns deposed that they had not serving folk in the brewhouse, bakehouse or kitchen from the last festival of the Nativity of St John the Baptist last year to the Michaelmas next following, in so much that this deponent, with the aid of other her sisters, prepared the beer and victuals and served the nuns with them in her own person. At Gracedieu there was no servant for the infirmary and the subcellaress had to sleep there and look after the sick, so that she could not come to matins. At Markyate and Harrold the nuns had no washerwoman; at the former house it was said "that the nuns have no woman to wash their clothes and to prepare their food, wherefore they are either obliged to be absent from divine service or else to think the whole time about getting these things ready"; at the latter a nun said "that they have no common washerwoman to wash the clothes of the nuns, save four times a year, and at other times the nuns are obliged to go to the bank of the public stream to wash their clothes"[425]. It was probably on account of the poverty of Sinningthwaite that Archbishop Lee ordered "the susters and the nonys there [that] they kepe no seculer women to serve them or doe any busynes for them, but yf sekenes or oder necessitie doe require"[426]. As to the relations between the servants and their mistresses both visitation reports and account rolls sometimes give meagre scraps of information, which only whet the appetite for more. The payment of the servants was partly in money, partly in board or in allowances of food, partly in livery; stock-inventories constantly make mention of allowances of wheat, peas, oats or oatmeal and maslin (a mixture of wheat and rye) paid to this or that servant, and account rolls as constantly mention a livery, a pair of hose, a pair of shoes, or the money equivalent of these things, as forming part of the wage. The more important agricultural servants had also sometimes the right to graze a cow, or a certain number of sheep on the convent's pastures. Some servants, however, received wages without board, others wages without livery. Account rolls seem to bear witness to pleasant relations; there is constant mention of small tips or presents to the servants and of dinners made to them on great occasions. This was Merry England, when the ploughman's feasts enlivened his hard work and comfortless existence; he must have his Shrovetide pancakes, his sheep-shearing feast, his "sickle goose" or harvest-home, and his Christmas dinner; and the household servants must as often as may be have a share in the convent pittance. The very general custom of allowing the female servants to sleep in the dorter (against which bishops were continually having to make injunctions) must have made for free and easy and close relations between the nuns and the secular women who served them; and sometimes one of these would save up and buy herself a corrody in the house to end her days[427]. Occasionally these close relations led to difficulties; a trusted maid would gain undue influence over the prioress and the nuns would be jealous of her. Thus at Heynings in 1440 it was complained that the prioress "encourages her secular serving women, whom she believes more than her sisters in their words, to scold the same her sisters"[428]. Sometimes also a servant would act as a go-between between the nuns and the outside world, smuggling in and out tokens and messages and sundry _billets doux_[429]. On the other hand there were sometimes difficulties of a different nature. The servants got out of hand; they brought discredit on the nuns by the indiscretions of their lives; they gossiped about their mistresses in the neighbourhood, or were quarrelsome and pert to their faces. At Gracedieu in 1440-41 a nun complained "that a Frenchwoman of very unseemly conversation is their maltstress, also that the secular serving folk hold the nuns in despite; she prays that they may be restrained; and chiefly are they rebellious in their words against the kitchener"[430]; evidently the author of the _Ancren Riwle_ spake not utterly from his imagination when he bade his ladies "be glad in your heart if ye suffer insolence from Slurry, the cook's boy, who washeth dishes in the kitchen"[431]. At Markyate also the servants had to be warned "that honestly and not sturdyly ne rebukyngly thai hafe thaym in thaire langage to the sustres"[432] and at Studley a maidservant had boxed the ears of a novice of tender age[433]. At Sheppey in 1511 it was said that "the men servants of the prioress do not behave properly to the prioress, but speak of the convent contemptuously and dishonestly, thus ruining the convent"[434]. The peculiar difficulties suffered in this respect by an important house, which maintained a large body of servants, are best illustrated, however, in the case of Romsey Abbey. At this house in 1302 Bishop John of Pontoise ordained that a useless, superfluous, quarrelsome and incontinent servant and one using insolent language to the ladies shall be removed within a month, ... and especially John Chark, who has often spoken ill and contumaciously in speaking to and answering the ladies, unless he correct himself so that no more complaints be made to the bishop[435]. John Chark possibly learned to bridle his tongue, but the tone among the Romsey servants was not good, for in 1311 Bishop Henry Woodlock ordered that "no women servants shall remain unless of good conversation and honest; pregnant, incontinent, quarrelsome women and those answering the nuns contumaciously, all superfluous and useless servants, [are] to be removed within a month"[436]. In 1387 the difficulties were of another order; writes William of Wykeham: the secular women servants of the nuns are wont too often to come into the frater, at times when the nuns are eating there, and into the cloister while the nuns are engaged there in chapter meetings, contemplation, reading or praying, and there do make a noise and behave otherwise ill, in a way which beseems not the honesty of religion. And these secular women often keep up their chattering, carolling (_cantalenas_) and other light behaviour, until the middle of the night, and disturb the aforesaid nuns, so that they cannot properly perform the regular services. Wherefore we ... command you that you henceforth permit not the aforesaid things, nor any other things which befit not the observances of your rule, to be done by the said servants or by others, and that you permit not these servants to serve you henceforth in the frater, and a servant or any other secular person who does the contrary shall be expelled from the monastery. Moreover we forbid on pain of the greater excommunication that any servants defamed for any offence be henceforth admitted to dwell among you, or having been admitted, be retained in your service, for from such grave scandals may arise concerning you and your house[437]. We have spoken hitherto about the regular hired servants of the house; but it must not be forgotten that nuns normally had a larger community dependent in part upon them. From time to time they were wont to hire such additional labour as they required, whether servants in husbandry taken on for the haymaking and harvest season, artificers hired to put up or repair buildings, workers in various branches of the cloth industry to make the liveries of the servants, itinerant candle-makers to prepare the winter dips, or a variety of casual workers hired at one time or another for specific purposes. The nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, entered in their accounts a large number of payments besides those to their regular servants. In moments of stress they were wont to fall back upon a paragon named Katherine Rolf. We first meet her in 1449-50 weeding the garden for four days, for the modest sum of 4-1/2_d._; but soon afterwards behold her on the roof, aiding the thatchers to thatch two tenements, at 1-1/2_d._ a day for twelve days. In the next year she is more active still; first of all she is found helping the candle-makers to make up 14 lbs. of tallow candles for the guest-house. Then she combs and cleans a pound of wool for spinning. Then she appears in the granary helping the maltster to thresh and winnow grain. In the midst of these activities she turns an honest penny by selling fat chickens to the convent. The nuns also disburse small sums of money to the man who cleanses the convent privies, to the _slawterman_ for killing beasts for the kitchen, to Richard Gardyner for beating stockfish, to Thomas Osborne for making malt, to Thomas the Smith for providing a variety of iron implements and _cart-clowtes_, for shoeing the horses and for mending the ploughshares, and for "blooding the horses on St Stephen's day" (Dec. 26), to Thomas Boltesham, _cowper_, for mending wooden utensils, to Thomas Speed for helping in the kitchen on fair-day and to John Speed for working in the garden. Besides these they hire various day-labourers to work in the fields during the sowing season, hay-making and harvest, or to lop trees round the convent and hew up firewood, or to prune and tie up the vines (for there were English vineyards in those days). Then there is a long list of carpenters, builders, thatchers, and plumbers engaged in making and repairing the buildings of the convent and its tenants. Finally there are the various cloth workers, spinners, weaver, fuller, shearman, dyer and tailor hired to make the servants' clothes, concerning whom something has already been said[438]. Thus many persons came to depend upon a nunnery for part of their livelihood, who were not the permanent servants of the house, and this goes further than any imagined reverence for the lives and calling of their inmates to explain the anxiety shown in some places for the preservation of nunneries when the day of dissolution came. The convents were not only inns and boarding-houses for ladies of the upper class and occasionally schools for their daughters; they were the great employers and consumers of their districts, and though their places must sooner or later be taken by other employers and consumers, yet at the moment many a husbandman and artificer must have seen his livelihood about to slip away from him. The nuns of Sheppey, in their distant and lonely flats, clearly employed a whole village[439]. They could not count on hiring carpenter and thatcher for piece-work when they wanted them in that thinly populated spot, so they must hire them all the year round. Twenty-six hinds and seven women they had in all, working in their domestic offices or on the wide demesne, most of which they farmed themselves, for food was far to buy if they did not grow it. Three shepherds kept their large flock, a cowherd drove their kine and hogs, a horse-keeper looked to their 17 horses. All the other men and women were busy with the beasts and the crops in the field, or with work in the brew house, the "bultyng howse," the bakehouse and the dairy. So also at the abbey of Polesworth, where fifteen nuns employed in all thirty-eight persons, women servants, yeomen about the household and hinds. "In the towne of Pollesworth," said the commissioners, who were gentlemen of the district and not minded to lose the house: ar 44 tenementes and never a plough but one, the resydue be artifycers, laborers and vitellers, and lyve in effect by the said house.... And the towne and nonnery standith in a harde soile and barren ground, and to our estymacions, yf the nonnery be suppressed the towne will shortely after falle to ruyne and dekaye, and the people therin, to the nombre of six or seven score persones, are nott unlike to wander and to seke their lyvyng as our Lorde Gode best knowith[440]. So also at St Mary's, Winchester, whose household we have described: the seid Monastery ... standith nigh the Middell of the Citye, of a great and large Compasse, envyroned with many poore housholdes which haue theyr oonly lyuynge of the seid Monastery, And have no demaynes whereby they may make any prouysion, butt lyue oonly by theyr landes, making theyr prouysion in the markettes[441]. The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and a livelihood fulfils itself in many ways; yet many labouring folk as well as gentlemen must have felt like the commissioners at Polesworth and St Mary's, Winchester, when the busy monastic housewives were dispersed and the grain and cattle sold out of barn and byre. There is no-one so conservative as your bread-winner, and for the best of reasons. CHAPTER V FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six; result, happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds, ought and six; result, misery. _Mr Micawber._ In the history of the medieval nunneries of England there is nothing more striking than the constant financial straits to which they were reduced. Professor Savine's analysis of the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ has shown that in 1535 the nunneries were on an average only half as rich as the men's houses, while the average number of religious persons in them was larger[442]; and yet it is clear from the evidence of visitation documents that even the men's houses were continually in debt. It is therefore not to be wondered at that there was hardly a nunnery in England, which did not at one time or another complain of poverty. These financial difficulties had already begun before the end of the thirteenth century and they grew steadily worse until the moment of the Dissolution. The worst sufferers of all were the nunneries of Yorkshire and the North, a prey to the inroads of the Scots, who time after time pillaged their lands and sometimes dispersed their inmates; Yorkshire was full of nunneries and almost all of them were miserably poor. But in other parts of the country, without any such special cause, the position was little better. When Bishop Alnwick visited the diocese of Lincoln in the first half of the fifteenth century, fourteen out of the twenty-five houses which he examined were in financial difficulties. Moreover not only is this true of small houses, inadequately endowed from their foundation and less likely to weather bad times, but the largest and richest houses frequently complained of insufficient means. It is easy to understand the distress of the poor nuns of Rothwell; their founder Richard, Earl of Gloucester, had died before properly endowing the house, and the prioress and convent could expend for their food and clothing only four marks and the produce of four fields of land, in one of which the house was situated[443]. But it is less easy to account for the constant straits of the great Abbey of Shaftesbury, which had such vast endowments that a popular saying had arisen: "If the Abbot of Glastonbury could marry the Abbess of Shaftesbury, their heir would hold more land than the King of England"[444]. It is comprehensible that the small houses of Lincolnshire and the dangerously situated houses of Yorkshire should be in difficulties; but their complaints are not more piteous than those of Romsey, Godstow and Barking, richly endowed nunneries, to which the greatest ladies of the land did not disdain to retire. The poverty of the nunneries was manifested in many ways. One of these was the extreme prevalence of debt. On the occasion of Bishop Alnwick's visitations, to which reference has been made above, no less than eleven houses were found to be in debt[445]. At Ankerwyke the debts amounted to £40, at Langley to £50, at Stixwould to 80 marks, at Harrold to 20 marks, at Rothwell to 6 marks. Markyate was "indebted to divers creditors for a great sum." Heynings was in debt owing to costly repairs and to several bad harvests, and about the same time a petition from the nuns stated that they had "mortgaged for no short time their possessions and rents and thus remain irrecoverably pledged, have incurred various very heavy debts and are much depressed and brought to great and manifest poverty"[446]. In some cases the prioresses claimed to have reduced an initial debt; the Prioress of St Michael's, Stamford, said that on her installation twelve years previously the debts stood at £20 and that they were now only 20 marks; the Prioress of Gracedieu said that she had reduced debts from £48 to £38; the Prioress of Legbourne said that the debts were now only £14 instead of £63[447]. But from the miserable poverty of some of these houses (for instance Gokewell, where the income in rents was said to be £10 yearly and Langley, where it was £20, less than half the amount of the debts) it may be inferred that the struggle to repay creditors out of an already insufficient income was a hopeless one; and the effort to do so out of capital was often more disastrous still. Nothing is more striking than the lists of debts which figure in the account rolls of medieval nunneries. In thirteen out of seventeen account rolls belonging to St Michael's Stamford[448] and ranging between 1304 and 1410, the nuns end the year with a deficit; and in fourteen cases there is a schedule of debts added to the account. Sometimes the amount owed is small, but occasionally it is very large. In the first roll which has survived (1304-5) the deficit on the account is some £5 odd; the debts are entered as £23. 1_s._ 11_d._ on the present year (which were apparently afterwards paid, because the items were marked "vacat pour ceo ke le deners sount paye") and fifteen items amounting to £52. 3_s._ 8_d._ and described as "nos auncienes dettes estre cest aan"; in fact the debts amount to considerably more than the income entered in the roll[449]. Similarly in 1346-47 the debts amount to £51 odd and in 1376-77 to £53 odd, and in other years to smaller sums. In some cases a list of debts due to the convent is also entered in the account, but in only four of these does the money owed to the house exceed the amount owing by it; and "argent aprompté" or "money borrowed" is a regular item in the credit account. Similarly the treasuresses' accounts of Gracedieu end with long schedules of debts due by the house[450]. Nor was it only the small houses which got into debt. Tarrant Keynes was quite well off, but as early as 1292 the nuns asked the royal leave to sell forty oaks to pay their debts[451]. Godstow was rich, but in 1316 the King had to take it under his protection and appoint keepers to discharge its debts, "on account of its poverty and miserable state," and in 1335 the profits during vacancy were remitted to the convent by the King "because of its poverty and misfortunes"[452]. St Mary's, Winchester, was a famous house, but it also was in debt early in the fourteenth century[453]. It should be noticed that the last cases (and that of St Michael's Stamford, 1304-5) are anterior to the Black Death, to whose account it has been customary to lay all the financial misfortunes of the religious houses. It is undeniable that the Black Death completed the ruin of many of the smaller houses, and that matters grew steadily worse during the last half of the fourteenth and throughout the fifteenth century; but there is ample evidence that the finances of many religious houses, both of men and of women, had been in an unsatisfactory condition at an earlier date; and even the golden thirteenth century can show cases of heavy debt[454]. In the smaller houses the constant struggle with poverty must have entailed no little degree of discomfort and discouragement. Sometimes the nuns seem actually to have lacked food and clothes, and it seems clear that in many cases the revenues of these convents were insufficient for their support and that they were dependent upon the charity of friends. A typical case is that of Legbourne, where one of the nuns informed Bishop Alnwick (1440) that since the revenues of the house did not exceed £40 and since there were thirteen nuns and one novice, it was impossible for so many of them to have sufficient food and clothing from such inadequate rents, unless they received assistance from secular friends[455]. Fosse in 1341 was said to be so slenderly endowed that the nuns had not enough to live on without external aid[456]; and in 1440 Alnwick noted "all the nuns complain ever of the poverty of the house and they receive nothing from it save only food and drink"[457]. Of Buckland it was stated that "its possessions cannot suffice for the sustenance of the said sisters with their household, for the emendation of their building, for their clothes and for their other necessities without the help of friends and the offering of alms"[458]. Cokehill in 1336 was excused a tax because it was so inadequately endowed that the nuns had not enough to live upon without outside aid[459]. Davington in 1344 was in the same position; although the nuns were reduced to half their former number, they could not live upon their revenues without the charity of friends[460]. Alnwick's visitations, indeed, show quite clearly that in poor houses the nuns were often expected to provide either clothes or (on certain days) food for themselves, out of the gift of their friends[461]. At Sinningthwaite, in the diocese of York, the position appears even more clearly; in 1319 it was declared that the nuns who had no elders, relatives or friends, lacked the necessary clothes and were therefore afflicted with cold, whereupon the Archbishop ordered them to have clothes provided out of the means of the house[462]. The clause of the Council of Oxford which permitted poor houses to receive a sum sufficient for the vesture of a new member was evidently stretched to include the perpetual provision of clothing by external friends, and this is sometimes indicated in the wording of legacies. Thus Roger de Noreton, citizen and mercer of York, left the following bequest in 1390: I bequeath to Isabel, my daughter, a nun of St Clement's, York, to buy her black flannels (_pro flannelis suis nigris emendis_), according to the arrangement of my wife Agnes and of my other executors, at fitting times, according to her needs, four marks of silver[463]. Sir Thomas Cumberworth, dying in 1451, specifically directed that "ye blak Curteyne of lawne be cut in vailes and gyfyn to pore nones"[464]. The nuns were not always able to obtain adequate help from external friends in the matter of food and clothes; and evidence given at episcopal visitations shows that they sometimes went cold and hungry. Complaints are common that the allowance paid to the nuns (in defiance of canon law) for the provision of food and of garments had been reduced or withdrawn; and so also are complaints that the quality of beer provided by the convent was poor, though here the propensity of all communities to grumble at their food has to be taken into account[465]. But more specific information is often given; and though it is clear that financial mismanagement was often as much to blame as poverty, the sufferings of the nuns were not for that reason any less real. The Yorkshire nunnery of Swine is a case in point. It was never rich, but at Archbishop Giffard's visitation in 1268 the nuns complained that the maladministration of their fellow canons[466] had made their position intolerable. Although the means of the house, if discreetly managed, sufficed to maintain them, they nevertheless had nothing but bread and cheese and ale for meals and were even served with water instead of ale twice a week, while the canons and their friends were provided for "abundantly and sumptuously enough"; the nuns were moreover insufficiently provided with shoes and clothes; they had only one pair of shoes each year[467] and barely a tunic in every three and a cloak in every six years, unless they managed to beg more from relatives and secular friends[468]. Fifty years later there was still scarcity at Swine, for the Prioress was ordered to see that the house was reasonably served with bread, ale and other necessities[469]. At Ankerwyke (1441) the frivolous and incompetent Prioress, Clemence Medforde, reduced her nuns to similar discomfort. Margery Kirkby, whose tongue nothing could stop, announced that "she furnishes not nor for three years' space has furnished fitting habits to the nuns, insomuch that the nuns go about in patched clothes. The threadbareness of the nuns" added the bishop's clerk "was apparent to my lord. (_Patebat domino nuditas monialium._)" Three of the younger nuns also made complaints; Thomasine Talbot had no bedclothes "insomuch that she lies in the straw," Agnes Dychere "asks that sufficient provision be made to her in clothing for her bed and body, that she may be covered from the cold, and also in eatables, that she may have strength to undergo the burden of religious observance and divine service, for these hitherto had not been supplied to her"; and Margaret Smith also complained of insufficient bedclothes. Poor little sister Thomasine also remarked sadly that she had no kirtle provided for her use[470]. The history of Romsey shows that even the rich houses suffered from similar inconveniences. In 1284 Peckham speaks of a scarcity of food in the house and forbids the Abbess to fare sumptuously in her chamber, while the convent went short[471]; in 1311 it was ordered that the bread should be brought back to the weight, quantity and quality hitherto used[472]; and in 1387 William of Wykeham rather severely commanded the Abbess and officiaries to provide for the nuns bread, beer and other fit and proper victuals, according to ancient custom and to the means of the house[473]. Campsey was another flourishing house, but in 1532 a chorus of complaint greeted the ears of the visitor, and (as in so many cases) the ills were all put down to the mismanagement of the Prioress, Ela Buttry. She was not too luxurious, but too stingy; Katherine Symon said that noble guests, coming to the priory, complained of the very great parsimony of the Prioress; Margaret Harmer said that the sisters were sometimes served with very unwholesome food; Isabel Norwich said that the friends of the nuns, coming to the house, were not properly provided for; Margaret Bacton said that dinner was late through the fault of the cook and that the meat was burnt to a cinder; Katherine Grome said that the beef and mutton with which the nuns were served were sometimes bad and unwholesome and that within the past month a sick ox, which would otherwise have died, had been killed for food, and that the Prioress was very sparing both in her own meals and in those with which she provided the nuns; and four other sisters gave evidence to the same effect[474]. One has the impression that the nuns were elderly and fussy, but there was evidently a basis for their unanimous complaint, and it is easy to imagine that food may sometimes have been very bad in convents which (unlike Campsey) were burdened with real poverty[475]. Another sign of the financial distress of the nunneries was the ruinous condition of their buildings. The remark written by a shivering monk in a set of nonsense verses may well stand as the plaint of half the nunneries of England: Haec abbathia ruit, hoc notum sit tibi, Christe, Intus et extra pluit, terribilis est locus iste. ("This abbey falleth in ruins, Christ mark this well! It raineth within and without; how fearful is this place!")[476]. Time after time visitations revealed houses badly in need of repair and roofs letting in rain or even tumbling about the ears of the nuns; time after time indulgences were granted to Christians who would help the poor nuns to rebuild church or frater or infirmary. The thatched roofs especially were continually needing repairs. It will be remembered how the Abbess Euphemia of Wherwell rebuilt the bell tower above the dorter, which fell down through decay one night, about the hour of mattins, when by an obvious miracle from heaven, though the nuns were in the dorter, some in bed and some in prayer before their beds, all escaped not only death but any bodily injury[477]. [Illustration: PLATE IV Brass of Ela Buttry, the stingy Prioress of Campsey ([dagger] 1546), in St Stephen's Church, Norwich. Stingy even in death, she has appropriated to her own use the brass of a 14th century laywoman.] At Crabhouse in the time of Joan Wiggenhall the dortour that than was, as fer forthe as we knowe, the furste that was set up on the place, was at so grete mischeef and, at the gate-downe, the Prioresse dredyinge perisschyng of her sistres whiche lay thereinne took it doune for drede of more hermys, and next year "sche began the grounde of the same dortoure that now stondith and wrought thereupon fulli vij yere betymes as God wolde sende hir good[478]." The Prioress of Swine was ordered in 1318 to have the dorter covered without delay, so that the nuns might quietly and in silence enter it, without annoyance from storms, and to have the roofs of the other buildings repaired as soon as might be[479]. At St Radegund's Cambridge, in 1373, the Prioress was charged with suffering the frater to remain unroofed, so that in rainy weather the sisters were unable to take their meals there, to which she replied that the nunnery was so burdened with debts, subsidies and contributions, that she had so far been unable to carry out repairs, but would do so as quickly as possible[480]. At Littlemore in 1445 the nuns did not sleep in the dorter for fear it should fall[481]. At Romsey in 1502 the wicked Abbess Elizabeth Broke had allowed the roofs of the chancel and dorter to become defective, "so that if it happened to rain the nuns were unable to remain either in the quire in time of divine service or in their beds and the funds that the abbess ought to have expended on these matters were being squandered on Master Bryce"; the fabric of the monastery in stone walls was also going to decay through her neglect, and so were various tenements belonging to the house in the town of Romsey[482]. Over a hundred and twenty years before, William of Wykeham had found Romsey hardly less dilapidated, with its church, infirmary and nuns' rooms "full of many enormous and notable defects," and the buildings of the monastery itself and of its different manors in need of repair[483]. Of the unfortunate houses within the area of Scottish inroads, Arden, Thicket, Keldholme, Rosedale, Swine, Wykeham, Arthington and Moxby were all ruinous at the beginning of the fourteenth century; the monotonous list includes the church, frater and chapter house of Arden, the cloister of Rosedale, the bakehouse and brewhouse of Moxby, the dorter and frater of Arthington[484]. In the sixteenth century the distress was, as usual, at its worst. At the visitation of the Chichester diocese by Bishop Sherburn in 1521 the cloister of Easebourne needed roofing and Rusper was "in magno decasu"; six years later Rusper was still "aliqualiter ruinosa"[485]. At the Norwich visitations of Bishop Nykke the church of Blackborough was in ruins, and the roofs of cloister and frater at Flixton were defective; while at Crabhouse buildings were in need of repair and the roof of the Lady chapel was ruinous[486]; Joan Wiggenhall must have turned in her grave. Bishop Longland's visitations of the diocese of Lincoln show a similar state of affairs. In 1531 he commanded the Abbess of Elstow "that suche reparacons as be necessarye in and upon the buildinges within the said monasterye, and other houses, tenements and fearmes thereto belonging, be suffycyently doon and made within the space of oon yere," and the Prioress of Nuncoton, "that ye cause your firmary, your chirche and all other your houses that be in ruyne and dekaye within your monastery to be suffycyently repayred within this yere if itt possible may"; and reminded the nuns of Studley that they "muste bestowe lardge money upon suche reparacons as are to be doon upon your churche, quere, dortor and other places whiche ar in grete decaye"[487]. At Goring, also, the nuns all complained that the buildings were utterly out of repair, especially the choir, cloister and dorter[488]. The frequency of fires in the middle ages was probably often to blame for the ruin of buildings. There were then no contrivances for extinguishing flames, and the thatched and wooden houses must have burned like stubble. Thus it was that "thorow the negligens of woman[489] with fyre brent up a good malt-house with a soler and alle her malt there" at Crabhouse, and Joan Wiggenhall had to repair it at a cost of five pounds[490]. There is a piteous appeal to Edward I from the nuns of Cheshunt, who had been impoverished by a fire and sought "help from the King of his special grace and for God's sake"; but "_Nihil fiat hac vice_," replied red tape[491]; an undated petition in the Record Office says that the house, church and goods of the nuns had twice been burned and their charters destroyed[492]. In 1299 the Abbess of Wilton received permission to fell fifty oaks in the forest of Savernake "in order to rebuild therewith certain houses in the abbey lately burnt by mischance"[493]. At Wykeham, in Edward III's reign, the priory church, cloisters and twenty-four other buildings were accidentally burned down and all the books, vestments and chalices of the nuns were destroyed[494]. Similarly the nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, lost their house and all their substance by fire at the beginning of the fourteenth century, and in 1376 their buildings were again said to have been burned; either they had never recovered from their first disaster or a second fire had broken out[495]. The nuns of St Leonard's, Grimsby, apparently lost their granaries in 1311, for they sought licence to beg on the ground that their houses and corn had been consumed by fire, and in 1459 they asked for a similar licence, because their buildings had been burnt, and their land inundated[496]. The convent of St Bartholomew's, Newcastle, gave misfortune by fire as one reason for wishing to appropriate the hospital or chapel of St Edmund the King in Gateshead[497]. Sometimes poverty, misfortune and mismanagement reduced the nuns to begging alms. About 1253 the convent of St Mary of Chester wrote to Queen Eleanor, begging her to confirm the election of a prioress "to our miserable convent amidst its multiplied desolations; for so greatly are we reduced that we are compelled every day to beg abroad our food, slight as it is"[498]. Similarly the starving nuns of Whitehall, Ilchester, were reduced to "begging miserably," after the _régime_ of a wicked prioress at the beginning of the fourteenth century[499]. In 1308 the subprioress and convent of Whiston mentioned, in asking for permission to elect Alice de la Flagge, that the smallness of their possessions had compelled the nuns formerly to beg, "to the scandal of womanhood and the discredit of religion"[500]. In 1351 Bishop Edyndon of Winchester "counted it a merciful thing," to come to the assistance of the great Abbeys of Romsey and St Mary's Winchester, "when overwhelmed with poverty, and when in these days of increasing illdoing and social deterioration they were brought to the necessity of secret begging"[501]. At Cheshunt in 1367 the nuns declared that they often had to beg in the highways[502]. At Rothwell in 1392 the extreme poverty of the nuns compelled some of them "to incur the opprobrium of mendicity and beg alms after the fashion of the mendicant friars"[503]. In all these cases it is evident that objection was taken to personal begging by the nuns, and it is clear that such a practice, which took the nuns out into the streets and into private houses, was likely to be subversive of discipline. The custom of begging through a proctor was open to no such objection; and it was common for bishops to give to the poorer houses licences, allowing them to collect alms in this manner. Early in the fifteenth century the nuns of Rowney in Hertfordshire petitioned the Chancellor for letters patent for a proctor to go about the country and collect alms for them, and their request was granted[504]. Many such licences to beg occur in episcopal registers; Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln granted them to Little Marlow (1300 and 1311)[505], St Leonard's Grimsby (1311)[506], and Rothwell (1318)[507]; and St Michael's Stamford (1359) and Sewardsley (1366) received similar licences from his successors[508]. The distinction between begging by the nuns and begging by a proctor is clearly drawn in the licence granted by Bishop Dalderby to Rothwell. Addressing the clergy in the Archidiaconates of Northampton and Buckingham he writes: Pitying, with paternal affection, the want of the poor nuns of Rothwell in our diocese, who are oppressed by such scarcity that they are obliged to beg the necessities of life, we command and straitly enjoin you, that when there shall come to you suitable and honest secular proctors or messengers of the same nuns (not the nuns themselves, that they may have no occasion for wandering thereby), to seek and receive the alms of the faithful for their necessities, ye shall receive them kindly and expound the cause of the said nuns to the people in your churches, on Sundays, and feast days during the solemnisation of mass, and promote the same by precept and by example once every year for the next three years, delivering the whole of whatever shall be collected to these proctors and messengers[509]. The Bishops sought to relieve necessitous convents by offering particular inducements to the faithful to give alms, when they were thus requested. Along with mending roads and bridges, ransoming captives, dowering poor maidens, building churches and endowing hospitals, the assistance of impecunious nunneries was generally recognised as a work of Christian charity, and indulgences were often offered to those who would aid a particular house[510]. The same Bishop Dalderby, for instance, granted indulgences for the assistance of Cheshunt, Flamstead[511], Sewardsley, Catesby, Delapré[512], Ivinghoe[513], Fosse[514], St James' outside Huntingdon and St Radegund's, Cambridge[515]. Archbishop Kemp of York granted an indulgence of a hundred days valid for two years to all who should assist towards the repair of Arden (1440) and of Esholt (1445), and Archbishop William Booth (1456) granted an indulgence of forty days to penitents contributing to the repair of Yedingham[516]; indeed it is probable that the money for the much needed work of roofing a building could be collected only by means of such special appeals. The Popes also sometimes granted indulgences; Boniface IX did so to penitents who on the feasts of dedication visited and gave alms towards the conservation of the churches and priories of Wilberfoss, St Clement's, York, and Handale[517]. The history of St Radegund's, Cambridge, will serve to illustrate the method by which the Church thus organised the work of poor-relief in the middle ages; and it will be noticed that this nunnery was an object of care to Bishops of other dioceses beside that of Ely[518]. In 1254 Walter de Suffield, Bishop of Norwich, granted a relaxation of penance for twenty-five days to persons contributing to the aid of the nuns; in 1268 Richard de Gravesend, Bishop of Lincoln, ordered collections to be made in the churches of the Archidiaconates of Northampton and Huntingdon on their behalf; in 1277 Roger de Skerning, Bishop of Norwich, ordered collections to be made in his diocese for the repair of the church; in 1313 the Official of the Archdeacon of Ely wrote to the parochial clergy of the diocese recommending the nuns to them as objects of charity, having lost their house and goods by fire, and in the same year Bishop Dalderby granted an indulgence on their behalf for this reason[519]; while in 1314 John de Ketene, Bishop of Ely, confirmed the grants of indulgence made by his brother bishops to persons contributing to their relief and to the rebuilding of the house. The next indulgence mentioned is one of forty days granted by Thomas Arundel, Bishop of Ely, in 1376, also on the occasion of a fire; in 1389 Bishop Fordham of Ely granted another forty days indulgence for the repair of the church and cloister and for the relief of the nuns[520], and in 1390 William Courtenay, Archbishop of Canterbury, made a similar grant, mentioning that the buildings had been ruined by violent storms; finally in 1457 Bishop Grey of Ely granted a forty days indulgence for the repair of the bell-tower and for the maintenance of books, vestments and other church ornaments[521]. There is no need to suppose that St Radegund's was in any way a particularly favoured house; and such a list of grants shows that the Church fulfilled conscientiously the duty of organising poor-relief and that the objects for which indulgences were granted were not always as unworthy as has sometimes been supposed[522]. The financial straits to which the smaller convents were continually and the greater convents sometimes reduced grew out of a number of causes; and it is interesting to inquire what brought the nuns to debt or to begging and why they were so often in difficulties. A study of monastic documents makes it clear that a great deal of this poverty was in no sense the fault of the nuns. Apart from obvious cases of insufficient endowment, the medieval monasteries suffered from natural disasters, which were the lot of all men, and from certain exactions at the hands of men, which fell exclusively upon themselves. Of natural disasters the frequency of fires has already been mentioned. Another danger, from which houses situated in low lying land near a river or the sea were never free, was that of floods. The inundation of their lands was declared one of the reasons for appropriating the church of Bradford-on-Avon to Shaftesbury in 1343; and in 1380 the nuns were allowed to appropriate another church, in consideration of damage done to their lands by encroachments of the sea and losses of sheep and cattle[523]. In 1377 Barking suffered the devastation by flood of a large part of its possessions along the Thames and never recovered its former prosperity[524]; and in 1394 Bishop Fordham of Ely granted an indulgence for the nuns of Ankerwyke, whose goods had been destroyed by floods[525]. In the north the lands of St Leonard's, Grimsby, were flooded in 1459[526]; in 1445 the nuns of Esholt suffered heavy losses from the flooding of their lands near the river Aire, which had been cultivated at great cost and from which they derived their maintenance[527]; and in 1434 Archbishop Rotherham appealed for help for the nuns of Thicket, whose fields and pasturages had been inundated and who had suffered much loss by the death of their cattle[528]. Heavy storms are mentioned as contributing to the distress of Shaftesbury in 1365[529] and of St Radegund's, Cambridge, in 1390[530]. Moreover some houses suffered by their situation in barren and unproductive lands. Easebourne in 1411 complained of "the sterility of the lands, meadows and other property of the priory, which is situated in a solitary, waste and thorny place"[531]; Heynings put forward the same plea in 1401[532]; and Flamstead in 1380[533]. But far more terrible than fire and flood were those two other scourges, with which nature afflicted the men of the middle ages, famine and pestilence. The Black Death of 1348-9 was only one among the pestilences of the fourteenth century; it had the result of "domesticating the bubonic plague upon the soil of England"; for more than three centuries afterwards it continued to break out at short intervals, first in one part of the country and then in another[534]. The epidemics of the fourteenth century were so violent that in forty years the chroniclers count up five great plagues, beginning with the Black Death, and Langland, in a metaphor of terrible vividness, describes the pestilence as "the rain that raineth where we rest should." The Black Death was preceded by a famine pestilence in 1317-8, when there was "a grievous mortalitie of people so that the sicke might vnneath burie the dead." It was followed in 1361 by the Second Plague, which was especially fatal among the upper classes and among the young. The Third Plague in 1368-9 was probably primarily a famine sickness, mixed with plague. The Fourth plague broke out in 1375; and the Fifth, in 1390-1 was so prolonged and so severe as to be considered comparable with the Black Death itself. Moreover these are only the great landmarks, and scattered between them were smaller outbreaks of sickness, due to scarcity or to spoiled grain and fruit. The pestilences continued in the fifteenth century (more than twenty-one are recorded in the chronicles), but, except perhaps for the great plague of 1439, they were seldom universal and came by degrees to be confined to the towns, so that all who could used to flee to the country when the summer heat brought out the disease in crowded and insanitary streets. But if country convents escaped the worst disease, those situated in borough towns ran a heavy risk. Often enough these plagues were preceded and accompanied by famines, sometimes local and sometimes general. The English famines had long been notorious and were enshrined in a popular proverb: "Tres plagae tribus regionibus appropriari solent, Anglorum fames, Gallorum ignis, Normannorum lepra"[535]. The three greatest outbreaks took place in 1194-6, in 1257-9 and in 1315-6 (before the plague of 1318-9). The dearth which culminated in the last of these famines had begun as early as 1289; and the misery in 1315 was acute: "The beastes and cattell also," says Stow, translating from Trokelowe, "by the corrupt grane whereof they fed, dyed, whereby it came to passe that the eating of flesh was suspected of all men, for flesh of beasts not corrupted was hard to finde. Horse-flesh was counted great delicates the poore stole fatte dogges to eate; some (as it was sayde) compelled through famine, in hidden places did eate the flesh of their owne children, and some stole others, which they devoured. Theeves that were in prisons did plucke in peeces those that were newly brought among them and greedily devoured them halfe alive." There was another severe famine in 1322, and in 1325 a great drought, so that the cattle died for lack of water. Famine accompanied the pestilences of 1361, 1369, 1391 and 1439; and these are only the more outstanding instances. Here again, however, the fourteenth century was on the whole worse off than the fifteenth; almost every year was a year of scarcity and the average price of wheat during the period 1261 to 1400 was nearly six shillings (i.e. nearly six pounds of modern money)[536]. Moreover the ravages of murrain among cattle and sheep were hardly intermittent from the end of the thirteenth to the middle of the fifteenth century[537]. The fatal years 1315-9 included not only a famine and a plague but also (1318-9) a murrain among the cattle, which was so bad that dogs and ravens, eating the dead bodies, were poisoned and died, and no man dared eat any beef. In the year of the Black Death also there was "a great plague of sheep in the realm, so that in one place there died in pasturage more than five thousand sheep and so rotted that neither beast nor bird would touch them"; and murrains accompanied the four other great plagues of the century. Indeed dearth, murrain and pestilence went hand in hand, in that unhappy time we call the "good old days." These natural disasters could not but have an adverse effect upon the fortunes of the monastic houses; and many charters and petitions contain clauses which specifically attribute the distress of this or that nunnery to one of the three causes described above. During the famine years of 1314-5 Walter Reynolds, Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote to the Bishop of Winchester, urging him to take some steps for the relief of the nuns of Wintney, who were dispersing themselves in the world, because no proper provision was made for their food[538], and about the same time the convent of Clerkenwell addressed a petition to Queen Isabel, stating that they were "moet enpouerees par les durs annez" and begging her to procure for them the King's leave to accept certain lands and rents to the value of twenty pounds[539]. In 1326 (after the great drought) the nuns of King's Mead, Derby, begged the King to take them under his special protection, granting the custody of the house to two _custodes_, on the ground that, owing to the badness of past years and the unusually heavy mortality among cattle their revenues were reduced and they were unable to meet the claims made by guests upon their hospitality[540]. The ravages of the Black Death were most severe of all and many houses never recovered from it[541]. In the diocese of Lincoln the nunnery of Wothorpe lost all its members save one, whom the Bishop made Prioress; and in 1354 it was annexed to St Michael's Stamford[542]. Greenfield Priory, when he visited it in 1350, "per tres menses stetit et stat priorisse solacio destituta"[543]; and other houses in this large diocese which lost their heads were Fosse, Markyate, Hinchinbrooke, Gracedieu, Rothwell, Delapré, Catesby, Sewardsley, Littlemore and Godstow[544]. In the diocese of York the prioresses of Arthington, Kirklees, Wallingwells and St Stephen's Foukeholm died; the latter house, like Wothorpe, failed to recover and is never heard of again[545]. Other parts of the country suffered in the same way. At Malling Abbey in Kent the Bishop made two abbesses in succession, but both died and only four professed nuns and four novices remained, to one of whom the Bishop committed the custody of the temporalities and to another that of the spiritualities, because there was no fit person to be made Abbess[546]. At Henwood, in August 1349, there was no Prioress, "and of the fifteen nuns who were lately there, three only remain"[547]. The death of the nuns themselves was, moreover, the least disastrous effect of the pestilence; it left a legacy of neglected lands, poverty and labour troubles which lasted for long after a new generation of sisters had forgotten the fate of their predecessors. The value of Flixton dwindled after the Black Death to half its former income, and the house was never prosperous again[548]. In 1351 the nuns of Romsey petitioned for leave to annex certain lands and advowsons and gave as one of the reasons for their impoverishment "the diminution or loss of due and appointed rents, because of the death of tenants, carried off by the unheard of and unwonted pestilence"[549], and in 1352 the house of St Mary's Winchester made special mention, in petitioning for the appropriation of a church, of the reduction of its rents and of the cattle plague[550]. The other great plagues of the century aggravated the distress. St Mary's Winchester and Shaftesbury mentioned the pestilence (of 1361) in petitions to the King three years later[551]. Four of the sixteen nuns of Carrow died in the year of the third pestilence (1369)[552], and in 1378, three years after the fourth pestilence, the licence allowing Sewardsley to appropriate the church of Easton Neston, recites that the value of its lands had been so diminished by the pestilence that they no longer sufficed to maintain the statutory numbers[553]. In 1381 (mentioned as a plague and famine year in some of the chronicles) a bull of Urban IV, appropriating a church to Flamstead, after recapitulating the slender endowments of the house, repeats the complaint that the servants of the said priory are for the most part dead, and its houses and tenants and beasts are so destroyed that its lands and possessions remain as it were sterile, waste and uncultivated, wherefore, unless the said Prioress and Convent be by some remedy succoured, they will be obliged to beg for the necessities of life from door to door[554]. In 1395, four years after the "Fifth" pestilence and itself a year of bad plague and famine, the nuns of Legbourne complained that their lands and tenements were uncultivated, "on account of the dearth of cultivators and rarity of men, arising out of unwonted pestilences and epidemics"[555]. The outbreak of 1405-7 was followed by a petition from Easebourne for licence to appropriate two churches, on the ground of "epidemics, death of men and of servants," and because the lands and tenements of the Prioress and Convent notoriously suffer so great ruin that few tenants can be found willing to occupy the lands in these days, and the said lands, ever falling into a worse state, are so poor that they cannot supply the religious women with sufficient support for themselves or for the repair of their ruinous buildings.[556] The worst of these natural disasters was not the actual damage done by each outbreak, but the fact that famine, murrain and pestilence followed upon pestilence, murrain and famine with such rapidity, that the poorer houses had no chance of recovery from the initial blow dealt them by the Black Death. The nuns of Thetford, for instance, were excused from the taxation of religious houses under Henry VI, on the ground that their revenues in Norfolk and in Suffolk were much decreased by the recent mortality and had so continued since 1349[557]. Even the well-endowed houses found recovery difficult, and the history of the great abbey of Shaftesbury illustrates the situation very clearly. In 1365, shortly after the _pestis secunda_, the nuns received a grant of the custody of their temporalities on the next voidance, and losses by pestilence were mentioned as one reason for the decline in their fortunes. In 1380 their lands were flooded and they suffered heavy losses in sheep and cattle. In 1382 (the year of the fifth plague) they were obliged to petition once again for help, representing that although their house was well-endowed, toutes voies voz dites oratrices sont einsi arreriz a jour de huy, quoy par les pestilences en queles lours tenantz sont trez toutz a poy mortz, et par murryne de lour bestaille a grant nombre et value, _nemye tant seulement a une place et a une foitz, einz a diverses foitz en toutes leurs places_, quoy par autres grandes charges quelles lour convient a fine force de jour en autre porter et sustenir, q'eles ne purront, sinoun qe a moelt grant peine, sanz lour endangerer al diverses bones gentz lours Creditours, mesner l'an a bon fyn[558]. Again towards the middle of the fifteenth century Bishop Ayscough sanctioned the appropriation of a church to the abbey, which had pleaded its great impoverishment through pestilence, failure of crops, want of labourers, and through the excessive demands of such labourers as could be obtained[559]. If Shaftesbury found recovery so difficult, it may easily be imagined what was the effect of the natural disasters of the fourteenth century upon smaller and less wealthy houses. The revenues of the nunneries, often scant to begin with and liable to constant diminution from the ravages of nature, were still more heavily burdened by a variety of exactions on the part of the authorities of Church and State. The procurations payable to the Bishop on his visitation fell heavily upon the smaller houses; hence such a notice as that which occurs in Bishop Nykke's Register under the year 1520: "Item the reverend father with his colleagues came down to the house of nuns that afternoon, and having seen the priory he dissolved his visitation there, on account of the poverty of the house"[560]. St Mary Magdalen's, Bristol, was on account of its poverty exempt from the payment of such procurations[561] and the Bishops doubtless often exercised their charity upon such occasions[562]. Papal exactions were even more oppressive; John of Pontoise, Bishop of Winchester, pleaded with the papal nuncio in 1285 that he would forbear to exact procurations from the poor nuns of Wintney, whom the Bishop himself excused from all charges in view of their deep poverty[563]; and in 1300 Bishop Swinfield of Hereford made a similar appeal to the commissary of the nuncio, and secured the remission of procurations due from the nuns of Lingbrook and the relaxation of the sentence of excommunication, which they had incurred through non-payment[564]. The obligation to pay tithes also fell heavily upon the poorer houses; it was for this reason that Archbishop John le Romeyn appealed to the Prior of Newburgh in 1286 not to exact tithes from the food of animals in Nether Sutton, belonging to the poor nuns of Arden[565]; and in 1301 the Prior of Worcester desired his commissary to spare the poverty of the nuns of Westwood and not to exact tithes or any other things due to him from them or from their churches[566]. Added to ecclesiastical exactions were the taxes due to the Crown. In 1344 the nuns of Davington addressed a petition to Edward III, representing that, owing to their great poverty, they were unable to satisfy the King's public aids without depriving themselves of their necessary subsistence, a plea which was found to be true[567]. The frequency with which such petitions for exemption from the payment of taxes were made and granted, is in itself a proof that the burden of taxation was a real one, for the Crown would not have excused its dues, unless the need for such an act of charity had been great[568]; and it is obvious that the sheer impossibility of collecting the money from a poverty-stricken house must often have left little alternative. The houses that did contribute were not slow to complain. "The unwonted exactions and tallages with which their house and the whole of the English Church has been burdened" were pleaded by the nuns of Heynings as in part responsible for their poverty in 1401[569]; similarly "the necessary and very costly exactions of tenths and other taxes and unsupportable burdens" occurs in a complaint by Romsey in 1351; and the Abbess and Convent of St Mary's, Winchester, stated in 1468, that they were so burdened with the repair of their buildings and with the payment of imposts, that they could not fulfil the obligations of their order as to hospitality[570]. Nor was taxation for public purposes the only demand made upon the religious houses. Abbeys holding of the King in chief had to perform many services appertaining to tenants in chief, which seem oddly incongruous in the case of nunneries. The Abbesses of Shaftesbury, St Mary's Winchester, Wilton and Barking, were baronesses in their own right; the privilege of being summoned to parliament was omitted on account of their sex; but the duty of sending a quota of knights and soldiers to serve the King in his wars was regularly exacted[571]. In 1257 Agnes Ferrar, Abbess of Shaftesbury, was summoned to Chester to attend the expedition against Llewelyn ap Griffith, and her successor, Juliana Bauceyn, was also summoned in 1277 to attack that intrepid prince[572]. The Abbess of Romsey had to find a certain number of men-at-arms with their armour for the custody of the maritime land in the county of Southampton; she resisted when an attempt was made to exact an archer as well and successfully showed the King "that she has only two marks' rent in Pudele Bardolveston in that county"[573]. Less lawful exactions were even more burdensome, and the nunneries suffered with the rest of the nation under the demand for loans and the burden of purveyance[574]. In December 1307 the Abbess of Barking, in common with the heads of ten other religious houses, was requested to lend the King two carts and horses to be at Westminster early on the day of St Stephen to carry vessels and equipments of the King's household to Dover, the King having sent a great part of his carts and sumpter horses to sea, so that he may find them ready when he arrives[575]; it is true that he engaged to pay out of his wardrobe the costs of the men leading the carts and of the horses going and returning, but meanwhile the Abbey lost their services, and carts and horses were very necessary on a manor; moreover it was common complaint that the tallies given by the King's servants for what they took were sometimes of no more value than the wood whereof they were made: I had catell, now have I none; They take my beasts and done them slon, And payen but a stick of tree. Similarly in June 1310 the King sent out a number of letters to the heads of religious houses, requesting the "loan" of various amounts of victuals for his Scottish expedition, and among the houses upon whom this call was made were the nunneries of Catesby, Elstow, St Mary's Winchester, Romsey, Wherwell, Barking, Nuneaton, Shaftesbury and Wilton[576]. The nunneries also suffered considerable pecuniary loss by the right possessed in certain cases by the patron of a house, to take the profits of its temporalities during voidance through the death or resignation of its superior, sometimes enjoying them himself and sometimes granting the custody of the house to someone else[577]. It is obvious that serious loss might be entailed upon the community, if the patron refrained for some time from granting his _congé d'élire_. It was for this reason that the Convent of Whiston wrote in 1308 to the Bishop-elect of Worcester, their patron, praying that "considering the smallness of the possessions of the nuns of Whiston, in his patronage, which compelled the nuns formerly to beg, and for the honour of religion and the frailness of the female sex" he would grant them licence to elect a new prioress and would confirm the same election; and the Prior of Worcester also addressed a letter to the commissary-general on their behalf[578]. The King exercised with great regularity his rights of patronage, and the direct pecuniary loss, sustained by a house in being deprived of the profits of its temporalities, seems to have been the least of the evils which resulted, if the state of affairs described in the petition addressed to the crown by the Abbess and Convent of Shaftesbury in 1382 was at all common. After a moving description of the straits to which they were reduced[579], they begged that the King would, on future occasions of voidance, allow the community to retain the administration of the Abbey and of its temporalities, rendering the value thereof to the King while the voidance lasted, so that no escheator, sheriff or other officer should have power to meddle with them: understanding, most redoubtable lord, that by means of your grace in this matter great relief and amendment, please God, shall come to your same house, and no damage can ensue to you or to your heirs, nor to any other, save only to your officers, who in such times of voidance are wont to make great destructions and wastes and to take therefrom great and divers profits to their own use, whence nothing cometh to your use, as long as the said voidance endures, if only for a short time[580]. St Mary's, Winchester, also pleaded the royal administration of its temporalities as one reason for its impoverishment, when petitioning the Pope for leave to appropriate the church of Froyle in 1343 and 1346[581]. Sometimes the abbeys found it cheaper to compound with the King for a certain sum of money and thus to purchase the right of administering their own temporalities, saving to the King, as a rule, knights' fees, advowsons, escheats and sometimes wards and marriages. Romsey Abbey secured this privilege, after the escheator had already entered, in 1315, for a fine of forty marks; but in 1333, when there was another voidance, the convent had to agree to pay £40 for the first two months and _pro rata_ for such time as the voidance continued, saving to the King knights' fees, advowsons and escheats[582]. In 1340 the royal escheator was ordered to let the Prioress and Convent of Wherwell have the custody of their temporalities, in accordance with a grant made some years previously, by which the house was to render £230 for a year and _pro rata_[583]. In 1344 a similar order was made in the case of Wilton, whose late Abbess (prudent woman) had seized the opportunity to purchase the right for £60 from the King, when he lay at Orwell before crossing the sea[584]. Similarly, the next year, Shaftesbury received the custody of its temporalities in consideration of a fine of £100, made with the King by its Abbess, in the second year of his reign[585]. With four great abbeys falling vacant in little over ten years, the royal exchequer reaped a good harvest; and though the payment of a lump sum was better than falling into the hands of the escheator, and though the nuns would make haste to elect a new abbess as soon as possible, a voidance was always a costly matter. But perhaps the most serious tax upon the resources of the nunneries was the right, possessed by some dignitaries (notably the King and the Bishop of the diocese), to nominate to houses in their patronage persons whom the nuns were obliged to receive as members of their community or to support as corrodians, pensioners or boarders. The right of nominating a nun might be exercised upon a variety of occasions. The Archbishop might do so to certain houses in his province on the occasion of his consecration, and this right was energetically enforced by Peckham, who nominated girls to Wherwell, Castle Hedingham, Burnham, Stratford, Easebourne and Catesby[586]. A Bishop possessed, in some cases, a similar right on the occasion of his consecration. Rigaud d'Assier, Bishop of Winchester, sent nuns to Romsey, St Mary's Winchester and Wherwell[587]; Ralph of Shrewsbury, Bishop of Bath and Wells, nominated to Minchin Barrow and to Cannington[588]; Stephen Gravesend, Bishop of London, sent a girl to Barking[589]; and the successive bishops of Salisbury exercised the prerogative of placing an inmate in Shaftesbury Abbey and of appointing one of the nuns to act as her instructor[590]. The existence of this right seems to have varied with different dioceses and its exaction with different bishops, if it is possible to judge from the absence of commendatory letters in some registers and their presence in others. The Bishop of a diocese also sometimes had the right of presenting a nun to a house when a new superior was created there. This was the case at Romsey, where nuns were thus nominated in 1307, 1333 and 1397[591], and at Romsey also there occurs one instance (the only one of the kind which search has yet yielded) of the nomination of a nun by the bishop, because of "a profession of ladies of that house which he had lately made." Bishop Stratford thus appointed Jonette de Stretford (perhaps a poor relative) "en regard de charite" in 1333, a month after having appointed Alice de Hampton by reason of the Abbess' creation[592]. The King possessed in houses under his patronage rights of nomination corresponding to those of the Bishop. That of presenting a nun on the occasion of his coronation was frequently exercised. Edward II sent ladies to Barking, Wherwell and St Mary's Winchester[593]; Barking received nuns from Richard II, Henry IV and Henry VI[594] and Shaftesbury from Richard II, Henry V and Henry VI[595]. He also possessed the right in certain abbeys of presenting a nun on the occasion of a voidance and there are many such letters of presentation enrolled upon the Close rolls; for instance Joan de la Roche was sent to Wilton in 1322[596], Katherine de Arderne to Romsey in 1333[597] and Agnes Turberville to Shaftesbury in 1345[598]. Sometimes similar rights to these were exercised by private persons, who held the patronage of a house or with whom it was connected by special ties; the family of le Rous of Imber, for example, had the right (resigned in 1313) of presenting two nuns, with a valet, to Romsey Abbey[599]. But the royal rights were always the most burdensome and, though such privileges as those described above, and the even more burdensome right to demand corrodies and pensions, normally affected only great abbeys such as Barking, Romsey, St Mary's Winchester, and Shaftesbury, the smaller houses (not under royal patronage) were not always exempt from sudden demands--witness the case of Polsloe below--and a wide range of nunneries was affected by archiepiscopal and episcopal rights. Moreover even the great houses, in spite of their large endowments, were crippled by the system, as may be gathered from their constant complaints of poverty and of overcrowding. The obligation to receive fresh inmates by nomination was especially burdensome when it was incurred on more than one occasion by the same house and coincided with other exactions. The case of Shaftesbury is noticeable in this connection; the King claimed the right to administer its temporalities during voidance, to nominate a nun on his own coronation and on the election of an Abbess, to demand a pension for one of the royal clerks on the latter occasion, and to send boarders or corrodians for maintenance; and the Bishop of Salisbury could nominate a nun on his own promotion to the see and could demand a benefice for one of his clerks on the election of an Abbess. It is, of course, possible that all these prerogatives were not invariably exercised and that a new inmate was not sent to Shaftesbury every time a King was crowned, a Bishop consecrated or an Abbess elected; but it was exercised sufficiently often to be a strain upon the house. Even when the right of nomination was confined to one occasion, it seems to have been generally resented and frequently resisted. The reason for resistance lay in the fact that the house was forced to support another inmate without the hope of receiving the donation of land or rents, which medieval fathers gave to the convents in which their daughters took the veil; and as the dowry system became more and more common, the hardship of having to receive a nun for nothing would soon appear intolerable. In some cases a sturdy resistance against this "dumping" of nuns finds an echo in the bishops' Registers. Four houses out of the six to which Peckham nominated new inmates attempted a refusal, and the excuses which they offered are interesting. Two years after his consecration the nuns of Burnham were still refusing to receive his protégée, Matilda de Weston; they had begun by trying to question his right to nominate and he seems to have taken legal action against them, after which they pleaded poverty (resulting from an unsuccessful lawsuit) and also an obligation to receive no novice without the consent of Edmund Earl of Cornwall, son of their founder. The Archbishop directed a stern letter to them, rejecting both their excuses and announcing his intention of pursuing his right, but the end of the matter is not known[600]. An equally determined resistance was offered by the Prioress of Stratford, who had been ordered to receive Isabel Bret. In 1282 Peckham wrote to her for the third time, declaring that her excuses were frivolous; she had apparently objected that the girl was too young and that her house was too heavily burdened with nuns, lay sisters and debts for another inmate to be received, but the Archbishop declared the youth of the candidate to be rather a merit than a defect and pointed out that, so far from being a burden to their house, she would bring it honour, for by receiving her they would multiply distinguished friends and benefactors and would be able to rely on his own special protection in their affairs[601]. A further letter to the Bishop of London is interesting, because it mentions a third objection made by the recalcitrant nunnery. "We have received your letter," writes Peckham, "in favour of the Prioress and Convent of Stratford, urgently begging us to moderate our purpose concerning a certain burden which is alleged to be threatening them from us, on account of the insupportable weight and the poverty of the house and the deformity of the person, whom we have presented to them for admission. Concerning which we would have you know that already in the lifetime of your predecessor of good memory, we had ordered them to receive that same person and for two years we continued to believe that they would yield to our wishes in the matter, yet without burden to themselves, by the provision of the parents of the said little maid; especially seeing that never yet have we been burdensome to any monastery making a truthful plea of indigence. We believe that what they allege about deformity would be an argument in favour of our proposal; would that not only these women of Stratford, concerning whom so many scandals abound, but also all who so immodestly expose themselves to human conversation and company, were or at least appeared notable for such deformity that they should tempt no one to crime! We have moreover heard that the greater part of the convent would willingly consent to the reception of the girl, were they not hindered by the malice of the prioress; nevertheless, lest we should seem deaf to your entreaties, we suspend the whole business until we come to London, to ascertain how our purpose may be carried out without notable damage to them[602]." The Archbishop had his way however; for eleven years later the will of Robert le Bret was enrolled in the Court of Husting and contained a legacy of rents on Cornhill "to Isabella his daughter, a nun of Stratford"[603]. Peckham also wrote in a tone of strained patience to the nuns of Castle Hedingham, who had refused to receive Agnes de Beauchamp, warning them that besides incurring severe punishment at his own hands, further obstinacy would offend the Queen of England, at whose instance he had undertaken the promotion of the said Agnes[604]. The Prioress of Catesby was equally troublesome and as late as 1284 the Archbishop wrote reprimanding her for her inconstancy and feigned excuses, because, after promising to receive the daughter of Sir Robert de Caynes and after repeated requests on his part that they should admit the girl, she and her nuns had written asking to be allowed to admit another person in her stead[605]. Real poverty often nerved the nuns to such bold resistance. In the Register of Bishop Grandisson of Exeter there is a letter from Polsloe Priory, written in 1329 and addressed to Queen Philippa, on the subject of a certain Johanete de Tourbevyle[606], whom she had requested the nuns to receive as a lay sister. Written in the French of their daily speech, with no attempt at formal phraseology, their naive plea still rings with the agitation of the "poor and humble maids," torn between anxiety not to burden their impecunious house, and fear of offending the new-made Queen of England: To their very honourable and very powerful and redoubtable lady, my lady Dame Philippa, by the grace of God queen of England, etc., her poor and humble maids, the nuns of Polsloe, in all that they may of reverence and honour; beseeching your sweet pity to have mercy on our great poverty. Our very noble dame, we have received your letters, by the which we understand that it is your will that we receive Johanete de Tourbevyle among us as sister of the house, to take the dress of a nun in secular habit. Concerning the which matter, most debonair lady, take pity upon us, if it please you, for the love of God and of His mother. For certainly never did any queen demand such a thing before from our little house; though mayhap they be accustomed to do so from other houses, founded by the kings and holding of them in chief; but this do not we, wherefore it falls heavily upon us. And if it please your debonair highness to know our simple estate, we are so poor (God knows it and all the country) that what we have suffices not to our small sustenance, who must by day and night do the service of God, were it not for the aid of friends; nor can we be charged with seculars without reducing the number of us religious women, to the diminution of God's service and the perpetual prejudice of our poor house. And we have firm hope in God and in your great bounty that you will not take it ill that this thing be not done to the peril of our souls; for to entertain and to begin such a new charge in such a small place, a charge which would endure and would be demanded for ever afterwards, would be too great a danger to your soul, my Lady, in the sight of God, wherefrom God by His grace defend you! Our most blessed Lady, may God give you a long and happy life, to His pleasure and to the aid and solace of ourselves and of other poor servants of God on earth; and we should have great joy to do your behests, if God had given us the power[607]. The nuns evidently asked the support of the Bishop (which accounts for the presence of their letter in his Register) for about the same time Grandisson also wrote an informal letter in French to the King, begging him to give up his design to place his cousin Johanete de Tourbevyle at Polsloe, on the ground that the nuns held all that they possessed in frank almoign and were so poor that it would be unpardonable to entail upon them a charge, which would become a precedent for ever: "Wherefore, dear Sire," he continued, "If it please you, hold us excused of this thing and put this thought from you. And for love of you, to whom we are much beholden aforetime, and to show you that we make no feigned pretence, ordain, if it please you, elsewhere for her estate, and we will very willingly give somewhat reasonable out of our own goods towards it; for this we may safely do[608]." It is not impossible that the disinclination of the nunneries to receive royal and episcopal nominees was in part due to dislike of taking an entirely unknown person into the close life of the community, in which so much depended upon the character and disposition of the individual. The right seems nearly always to have been exercised in favour of well-born girls, but though the bishops endeavoured to send only suitable novices, their knowledge of the character of their protégées would sometimes appear to have rested upon hearsay rather than upon personal acquaintance--"_ut credimus_," "_come nous sumez enformez_." On at least one occasion the nuns who resisted a bishop's nominee were to our knowledge justified by later events. In 1329 Ralph of Shrewsbury, the new Bishop of Bath and Wells, wrote to the Prioress and Convent of Cannington, desiring them to receive Alice, daughter of John de Northlode, to whom he had granted the right, "par resoun de nostre premiere creacion," on the request of Sir John Mautravers; four years later he was obliged to repeat the order, because the convent "had not yet been willing to receive the said Alice." The end of the story is to be found in the visitation report of 1351[609]. It is impossible to say whether the convent corrupted Alice or Alice the convent; but it is unfortunate that the Bishop's nominee should have been implicated. The obligation to receive a nun on the nomination of the king or the bishop was not the only burden upon the finances of the nunneries. Abbeys in the patronage of the Crown were upon occasion obliged also to find maintenance for other persons, men as well as women, who never became members of their community. The right to demand a pension for one of the royal clerks was sometimes exercised on the occasion of a voidance, and the money had in most cases to be paid until such time as the young man was provided with a suitable benefice by the Abbey. The Abbess of Romsey was ordered to give a pension to William de Dereham in 1315 by reason of her new election[610]; John de St Paul was sent to the same house in 1333[611], William de Tydeswell in 1349[612]. The right is also found in exercise at Wherwell[613], St Mary's, Winchester[614], Shaftesbury[615], Wilton[616], Delapré (Northampton)[617], Barking[618] and Elstow[619]. In certain cases the Bishop possessed a similar right on the occasion of his own consecration; for instance John of Pontoise, Bishop of Winchester, wrote to the Abbess of St Mary's, Winchester, in 1283, complaining that whereas his predecessors had by a laudable custom presented their own clerks to the first benefice in the patronage of a religious house vacant after their establishment in the bishopric, they (the nuns) had recently presented a nominee of their own to a benefice then vacant. Two years later the Abbess and Convent of Wherwell wrote to him, voluntarily offering him the next vacant benefice in their patronage for one of his clerks; and in 1293 he reminded the nuns of Romsey that they were bound by agreement to do likewise[620]. Similarly Simon of Ghent, Bishop of Salisbury, directed the Abbess of Shaftesbury to provide for Humphrey Wace in 1297[621]. The demand to pension a clerk, like the demand to receive a nun, was sometimes resisted by the convents. In the early part of his reign Edward II ordered the Sheriff of Bedford to distrain the Abbess of Elstow by all her lands and chattels in his bailiwick and to answer to the King for the issues and to have her body before the King at the octaves of Hilary next, to answer why, whereas she and her convent, by reason of the new creation of an Abbess, were bound to give a pension to a clerk, to be named by the King and he had transferred the option to his sister Elizabeth Countess of Hereford and had asked the Abbess to give it to her nominee they had neglected to do so[622]. The end of the story is contained in a petition printed in the _Rolls of Parliament_, wherein the Abbess and Convent of "Dunestowe" (Elstow) informed the King in 1320 que, come il les demaunde par son Brief devant Sire H. le Scrop et ses compaignons une enpensione pur un de ses clerks par reson de la novele Creacion la dite Abbesse et tiel enpensione unqs devant ces temps ne fust demaunde ne donee de la dite meson, fors tant soulement que la dereyn predecessere dona a la requeste nostre Seigneur le Roy a la Dameysele la Countesse de Hereford, un enpension de c s. Par qi eles prient que nostre Seigneur le Roy voet, si lui plest, comander de soursere de execucion faire de la dite demaunde, que la dite Abbay est foundee de Judit, jadis Countess de Huntingdon, et la dite enpension unques autrement done[623]. The reference to the Countess of Hereford's "dameysele" shows that the pension was not invariably given to a clerk, and it appears that the King tried to substitute corrodies, pensions and reception as a nun for each other according to the exigencies of the moment. In 1318 he sent Simon de Tyrelton to the Abbess and Convent of Barking, they being bound to grant a pension to one of the King's clerks, by reason of the new creation of an abbess, and the King having requested them to grant in lieu of such pension the allowance of one of their nuns to Ellen, daughter of Alice de Leygrave, to be received by her for life, to which they replied that they could not do so, for certain reasons[624]. In 1313, in pursuance of his right to nominate a nun on the new creation of an abbess, he had sent Juliana de Leygrave "niece of the King's foster-mother, who suckled him in his youth," to St Mary's, Winchester, in order that she might be given a nun's corrody for life (the value of which was to be given her wherever she might be) and a suitable chamber within the nunnery for her residence, whenever she might wish to stay there[625]. The obligation to provide corrodies for royal nominees pressed more heavily than the duty of pensioning royal clerks. A corrody was originally a livery of food and drink given to monks and nuns, but the term was extended to denote a daily livery of food given to some person not of the community and frequently accompanied by suitable clothing and a room in which to live. Hence corrodians were often completely kept in board and lodging, having the right to everything that a nun of the house would have (a "nun's corrody") and sometimes allowed to keep a private servant, who had the right to the same provision as the regular domestics of the house (a "servant's corrody"). The King, indeed, looked upon the monastic houses of his realm as a sort of vast Chelsea Hospital, in which his broken-down servants, yeomen and officials and men-at-arms, might end their days. Thus he obtained their grateful prayers without putting his hand into his purse. There must have been hundreds of such old pensioners scattered up and down the country, and judging from the number of cases in which one man is sent to receive the maintenance lately given to another, deceased, some houses had at least one of them permanently on the premises. Many a hoary veteran found his way into the quiet precincts of a nunnery: His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms. In the intervals between feeding on prayers he must have been vastly disturbing and enthralling to the minds of round-eyed novices, with his tales of court and camp, of life in London town or long campaigns in France, or of how John Copeland had the King of Scots prisoner and what profit he got thereby. In the last three months of 1316 Edward II sent seventeen old servants to various religious houses, and among them Henry de Oldyngton of the avenary was sent to Barking, to receive such maintenance as William de Chygwell, deceased, had in that house[626]. In 1328 Roger atte Bedde, the King's yeoman, who served the King and his father, was sent to St Mary's, Winchester, instead of James le Porter, deceased[627]; and in 1329 the Abbess and Convent of Shaftesbury were requested to admit to their house Richard Knight, spigurnel of the King's chancery, who had long served the King and his father in that office, and to administer to him for his life such maintenance in all things as Robert le Poleter, deceased, had in their house[628]. The unlucky convent of Wilton apparently had to support two pensioners, for in 1328 Roger Liseway was sent there in place of Roger Danne and the next year John de Odiham, yeoman of the chamber of Queen Philippa, took the place of John de Asshe[629]. It was doubtless even more common for the widows of the King's dependents to be sent to nunneries, and he must often have received such a petition as was addressed by Agnes de Vylers to Edward III: A nostre Seigneur le Roi et a son Conseil, prie vostre poure veve Agneys, qi fut la femme Fraunceys de Vylers, jaditz Bachiler vostre piere, qe vous pleise de vostre grace avoir regard du graunt service qe le dit Fraunceys ad fait a vostre dit piere et ed vostre ayel, en la Terre Seinte, Gascoigne, Gales, Escoce, Flaundres et en Engleterre, et graunter au dit Agneys une garisoun en l'Abbeye de Berkyng, c'est assaver une mesoun & la droite de une Noneyme pour la sustinaunce de lui et de sa file a terme de lour vie, en allegaunce de l'alme vostre dit piere, qi promist al dit Fraunceys eide pour lui, sa femme et ses enfaunz. "Il semble a conseil q'il est almoigne de lui mander ou aillours, s'il plest a Roi," was the reply; so Agnes and her daughter might end their days in peace, and Barking be the poorer for their appetites[630]. At Barking the King had the right to claim a corrody at each new election of an abbess, as Agnes de Vylers doubtless knew; as early as 1253 its Abbess was exempted from being charged with _conversi_ and others, because she had granted food and vesture for life to Philippa de Rading and her daughter[631]. Other nunneries in the royal patronage were under a similar obligation. In 1310 Juliana la Despenser was sent to Romsey, to be provided with fitting maintenance for herself and for her maid during her lifetime[632] and in 1319 Mary Ridel was sent to Stainfield to be maintained for life[633]. There were the usual attempts to escape from a costly and burdensome obligation; Romsey seems to have been successful in repelling Juliana la Despenser, for in the following month the King sent her to Shaftesbury, requesting the nuns to "find her for life the necessities of life according to the requirements of her estate, for herself and for the damsel serving her, and to assign her a chamber to dwell in, making letters patent of the grant"[634]. Stainfield was less successful in the matter of Mary Ridel; the usual plea of poverty was considered insufficient and the convent was ordered to receive her, to supply her with food, clothing and other necessities and to make letters patent, specifying what was due to her[635]. Certain convents were in addition handicapped by the obligation to make certain grants or liveries, in kind or in money, to other monastic houses. The nunneries of St Clement's, York, and Moxby seem to have involved themselves--as a condition, perhaps, of some past benefaction--in a curious obligation to the friars of their districts. At a visitation of the former house in 1317, Archbishop Melton found that the Friars Minor of York, every alternate week of the year, and the Friars Preachers of York in the same manner, had for a long time been receiving fourteen conventual loaves; the nuns were ordered to show the friars the Archbishop's order and to cease from supplying the loaves as long as their own house was burdened with debt; and in no case was the grant to be made without special leave from the Archbishop[636]. The next year, on visiting Moxby, Melton was obliged to make an injunction as to the bread and ale called "levedemete," which the Friars Minor were accustomed to receive from the house; if it were owed to them it was to be given as due, if not it was not to be given without the will of the head[637]. At Alnwick's first visitation in 1440 the Prioress of St Michael's, Stamford, declared that the house was burdened with the payment of an annual pension of 60_s._ to the monastery of St Mary's, York, "and that for tithes not worth more than forty pence annually; also it is in arrears for twenty years and more"[638]. The nuns also had to pay various small sums to Peterborough Abbey, by which they had been founded and to which they always remained subordinated[639]. The support of resident corrodians and the payment of pensions and liveries were, however, less onerous than the duty of providing hospitality for visitors, which the nunneries performed as one of their religious obligations. _Date_ and _Dabitur_ did not always accompany each other. The great folk who held the Pope's indult to enter the houses of Minoresses were probably generous donors; but the unenclosed orders had to lodge and feed less wealthy guests and often enough they found the obligation a strain upon their finances. When the nuns of King's Mead, Derby, in 1326, petitioned the King to take the house into his special protection, they explained that great numbers of people came there to be entertained, but that owing to the reduction in their revenue they were unable to exercise their wonted hospitality[640]; and the number of guests was mentioned by the nuns of Heynings in 1401 as one reason for their impoverishment[641]. At Nunappleton in 1315 the Archbishop of York had to forbid two sets of guests to be received at the same time, until the house should be relieved of debt; and at Moxby (which was also in debt) he ordained that relatives of the nuns were not to visit the house for a longer period than two days; Nunappleton was evidently a favourite resort, for in 1346 another archbishop speaks of guests flocking--_hospites confluentes_--to the priory and orders them to be admitted to a hostelry constructed for the purpose. At Marrick in 1252 it was ordered that guests were not to stay for more than one night, because the means of the house barely sufficed for the maintenance of the nuns, sisters and brethren[642]. Another charge which fell heavily upon the nunneries, sometimes not entirely by their own fault, was that of litigation. This was only an occasional expense, but when it occurred it was heavy, and a suit once begun might drag on for years. Moreover the incidental expenses in journeys and bribes, which all had to be paid out of the current income of a house already (perhaps) charged with the payment of tithes and taxes and badly in need of repair, were often almost as heavy as the costs of the litigation. For instance an account of Christian Bassett, Prioress of St Mary de Pré (near St Albans), contains the following list of expenses incurred by her in the prosecution of a law suit in 1487, during the rule of her predecessor Alice Wafer: Item when I ryde to London for the suyt that was taken ayenst dame Alice Wafer in the commen place, for myself and my preest and a woman and ij men, their hyre and hors hyre and mete and drynke, in the terme of Ester ye secunde yere of the regne of kyng Henry the vij{th} xx. s. Item paid aboute the same suyt at Mydsomer tyme, for iiij men, a woman and iiij horses xvi s. Item paid for the costs of a man to London at Mighelmas terme to Master Lathell, to have knowledge whethir I shuld have nede to come to London or not xij d[643]. Item for the same suyt of Dame Alice Wafer for herself and a suster wt. her, ij men, ij horses, in costs at the same time xiiij s. Item for the same suyt when I cam from London to have councell of Master More and men of lawe for the same ple x s. Item whan I went to Master Fforster to the Welde to speke wt. him, to have councell for the wele of the place, for a kercher geven to hym, ij s. Item on other tyme for a couple of capons geven to Master Fforster ij s. Item for a man rydyng to London at Candilmas to speke wt. Master Lathell and Master More and for iiij hennys geven to them and for the costs of the same man and his hors iij s. iiij d. Item whan I went to London to speke wt. Master Lathell for to renewe our charter of the place and other maters of our place xj s. Item in expenses made upon Master Ffortescue atte dyvers tymes, whan I wente to hym to have his councell for the same suyt in the common place xiij s. iiij d. Item paid to a man to ryde to Hertford to speke wt. Norys, that he shuld speke to Master Ffortescue for the same ple viij d. Item in costs for a man to go to Barkhamsted to Thomas Cace viij d. Item whan I went to Master Ffortescue to his place, for mens hire and hors hire for the same mater ij s. Item whan I went to London at an other tyme for the same plee, for iiij men and iiij hors hire xvj s.[644] After this one does not wonder that in 1517 the convent of Goring pleaded that owing to lawsuits it was too poor to repair its buildings[645]. The account rolls of the Priory of St Michael's, Stamford, are full of references to expenses incurred in legal business. On one occasion the nuns bought a "bill" in the Marshalsea "to have a day of accord" and the roll for 1375-6 contains items such as, Paid for a purse to the wife of the Seneschal of the Marshalsea xx d. Paid for beer bought for the Marshalsea by the Prioress ij s. ij d. Paid for capons and chickens for the seneschal of the Marshalsea xxiij d. ob.[646] Poor Dames Margaret Redynges and Joan Ffychmere "del office del tresorie," ending the year £16. 8_s._ 8-1/2_d._ in debt, must often have sighed with Langland Lawe is so lordeliche. and loth to make ende, Withoute presentz or pens. she pleseth wel fewe. Nor was it only the expenses of great lawsuits which bore heavily upon the nunneries; a great deal of lesser legal business had to be transacted from year to year. The treasuresses' accounts of St Michael's, Stamford, contain many notices of such business; the expenses of Raulyn at the sessions, expenses of the clerks at the Bishop's court or at the last session at Stamford, a suit against a neighbouring parson over tithes, four shillings to Henry Oundyl for suing out writs; and innumerable entries concerning the inevitable "presentz or pens," a douceur to the Bishop's clerk, a courtesy to the king's escheator, a present to the clerks at the sessions, a gift "to divers men of law for their help on divers occasions." All nunneries had constantly to meet such petty expenses as these; and if we add an occasional suit on a larger scale the total amount of money devoured by the Law is considerable. So far mention has been made only of such reasons for their poverty as cannot be considered the fault of the nuns. The inclemency of nature, the rapacity of lay and ecclesiastical authorities and the law's delays could not be escaped, however wisely a Prioress husbanded her resources. Nevertheless it cannot be doubted that the nuns themselves, by bad management, contributed largely to their own misfortunes. Bad administration, sometimes wilful, but far more often due to sheer incompetence, was constantly given as a reason for undue poverty. It was "negligence and bad administration" which nearly caused the dispersion of the nuns of Wintney during the famine year of 1316[647]; and those of Hampole in 1353[648]. At Davington in 1511 one of the nuns deposed that "the rents and revenues of the house decrease owing to the guilt of the officers"[649]. The fault was often with the head of the house, who loved to keep in her own hands the disposal of the convent's income, omitted to consult the chapter in her negotiations, retained the common seal and did not render accounts. An illustration of the straits to which a house might be reduced by the bad management of its superior is provided by the history of Malling Abbey in the early part of the fourteenth century, as told by William de Dene in his _Historia Roffensis_. In 1321 an abbess had been deposed, ostensibly on the complaint of her nuns and because the place had been ruined by her; but too much importance must not be assigned to the charge, for she was a sister of Bartholomew de Badlesmere, at that time a leader of the baronial party against Edward II, and it was by the King's command that Hamo of Hythe, Bishop of Rochester, visited Malling and deprived her[650]; her deposition was probably a political move. The same cannot however be said of Lora de Retlyng, who became abbess in 1324. "The Bishop," says William de Dene, "although unwilling, knowing her to be insufficient and ignorant, set Lora de Retlyng in command as abbess, a woman who lacked all the capacity and wisdom of a leader and ruler, the nuns enthusiastically applauding; and the next day he blessed her, which benediction was rather a malediction for the convent. Then the Bishop forbade the Abbess to give a corrody to her maid-servant, as it had been the ill custom to do, and he sequestrated the common seal, forbidding it to be used, save when his licence had been asked and obtained"[651]. Twenty-five years passed and in 1349 the chronicler writes: The Bishop of Rochester visited the abbeys of Lesnes and Malling, and he found them so ruined by longstanding mismanagement, that it is thought they never can recover so long as this world lasts, even to the day of judgment[652]. Malling had suffered severely from the Black Death in the previous year, but our knowledge of the character of Lora de Retlyng and the plain statement of William de Dene ("destructa per malam diutinam custodiam"), make it clear that bad management and not the pestilence was to blame for its poverty[653]. Financial mismanagement was, indeed, the most frequent of all charges brought against superiors at the episcopal visitations. When Alnwick visited his diocese of Lincoln several cases of such incompetence came to light. At St Michael's, Stamford (1440), it was found that the Prioress had never rendered an account during the whole of her term of office, and one of the nuns declared that she did not rule and supervise temporal affairs to the benefit of the house; two years later the Bishop visited the convent again and the Prioress herself pleaded bodily weakness, adding that since she was impotent to rule the temporalities, nor had they any industrious man to supervise these and to raise and receive the produce of the house, and since the rents of the house remained unpaid in the hands of the tenants, she begged that two nuns might be deputed to rule the temporalities, and to be responsible for receipts and payments. In 1445, however, one of the appointed treasuresses, Alice de Wyteryng, admitted that she neither wrote down nor accounted for anything concerning her administration, and another nun complained that, if Wyteryng were to die, it would be impossible for any of them to say in what state their finances stood[654]. At the poor and heavily indebted house of Legbourne (1440) the Prioress, unknown to the Bishop, but with the consent of the Convent, had sold a corrody to the bailiff of the house, Robert Warde, who was nevertheless not considered useful to the house in this post; the tenements and leasehold houses belonging to the house were ruinous and like to fall through the carelessness of the Prioress and bailiff, and one aggrieved nun stated that "the prioress is not circumspect in ruling the temporalities and cares not whether they prosper, but applies all the common goods of the house to her own uses, as though they were her own[655]." At Godstow also it was complained that the steward had an annual fee of ten marks from the house and was useless[656]. At Heynings (1440) the Prioress was charged with never rendering accounts and with cutting down timber unnecessarily, but she denied the last charge and said she had done so only for necessary reasons and with the express consent of the convent[657]. At Nuncoton corrodies had been sold and bondmen alienated without the knowledge of the nuns[658]. At Harrold it was found that no accounts were rendered, that a corrody had been sold for twenty marks, and that when the Prioress bought anything for the convent, no tallies or indentures were made between the contracting parties, so that after a time the sellers came and demanded double the price agreed upon; one nun also asked that the Bishop should prevent the selling or alienation of woods[659]. At Langley (which was miserably poor) there was a similar complaint of the sale of timber[660]. These are the less serious cases of financial mismanagement; the cases of Gracedieu, Ankerwyke and Catesby have already been considered. Sometimes the extravagance or incompetence of a Prioress became so notorious as to necessitate her suspension or removal; as at Basedale in 1307[661], Rosedale in 1310[662], Hampole in 1353[663], Easebourne in 1441[664] and St Mary de Pré at the end of the fifteenth century[665]. But more frequently the bishops endeavoured to hem in expenditure by elaborate safeguards, which will be described below. Besides cases of incompetence and cases of misappropriation of revenues by an unscrupulous prioress, the mismanagement of the nuns may usually be traced to a desperate desire to obtain ready money. One means by which they sought to augment their income was by the sale of corrodies in return for a lump sum[666]. A man (or woman) would pay down a certain sum of money, and in return the convent would engage to keep him in board and lodging for the rest of his natural life; at Arden for instance, in 1524, Alice widow of William Berre paid twelve pounds and was granted "mett and drynke as their convent hath" at their common table, or when sick in her own room, and "on honest chamber with sufficient fyer att all tyme, with sufficient apperell as shalbe nedful"[667]. Obviously, however, such an arrangement could only be profitable to the nuns, if the grantee died before the original sum had been expended in boarding her. The convent, in fact, acted as a kind of insurance agency and the whole arrangement was simply a gamble in the life of the corrodian. The temptation to extricate themselves from present difficulties by means of such gambles, was one which the nuns could never resist. They would lightly make their grant of board and lodging for life and take the badly needed money; but it would be swallowed up only too soon by their creditors and often vanish like fairy gold in a year. Not so the corrodian. Long-lived as Methusaleh and lusty of appetite, she appeared year after year at their common table, year after year consumed their food, wore their apparel, warmed herself with their firewood. Alice Berre was still hale and hearty after twelve years, when the commissioners came to Arden and would doubtless have lasted for several more to come, if his Majesty's quarrel with Rome had not swept her and her harassed hostesses alike out of their ancient home; but she must long before have eaten through her original twelve pounds[668]. There is an amusing complaint in the Register of Crabhouse; early in the fourteenth century Aleyn Brid and his wife persuaded the nuns to buy their lands for a sum down and a corrody for their joint and separate lands. But the lands turned out barren and the corrodians went on living and doubtless chuckling over their bargain, and "si cher terre de cy petit value unkes ne fut achate," wrote the exasperated chronicler of the house[669]. Bishop Alnwick found two striking instances of a bad gamble during his visitations in 1440-1; at Langley the late Prioress had sold a corrody to a certain John Fraunceys and his wife for the paltry sum of twenty marks, and they had already held it for six years[670]; worse still, at Nuncoton there were two corrodians, each of whom had originally paid twenty marks, and they had been there for twelve and for twenty years respectively[671]. In the face of cases like these it is difficult not to suspect that unscrupulous persons took advantage of the temporary difficulties of the nuns and of their lack of business acumen. There is comedy, though not for the unhappy Convent, in the history of a corrody which, in 1526, was said to have been granted by Thetford to "a certain Foster." Six years later there was a great to-do at the visitation. The nuns declared that John Bixley of Thetford, "bocher," had sold his corrody in the house to Thomas Foster, gentleman, who was nourishing a large household on that pretext, to wit six persons, himself, his wife, three children and a maid; but Bixley said that he had never sold his corrody and there in public displayed his indenture. What happened we do not know; Thomas Foster, gentleman, must be the same man who had a corrody in 1526, and how John Bixley came into it is not clear. It looks as though the Convent (which was so poor that the Bishop had dissolved his visitation there some years previously) was trying by fair means or foul to get rid of Thomas Foster and his family; doubtless they had not bargained for a wife, three children and a maid when they rashly granted him one poor corrody[672]. It is easy to understand why medieval bishops, at nearly every visitation, forbade the granting of fees, corrodies or pensions for life or without episcopal consent; "forasmoche as the graunting of corrodyes and lyveryes hath bene chargious, bardynouse and greuouse unto your monastery" wrote Longland to Studley in 1531: As itt apperithe by the graunte made to Agnes Mosse, Janet bynbrok, Elizabeth todde and other whiche has right soore hyndrede your place, In consideracon therof I charge you lady priores upon payne of contempte and of the lawe, that ye give noo moo like graunts, and that ye joutt away Elizabeth Todde her seruant ... and that Elizabeth Todde haue noo kowe going nor other bestes within eny of your grounds[673]; and Dean Kentwood, visiting St Helen's Bishopsgate in 1432 found that "diverce fees perpetuelle, corrodies and lyuers have been grauntyd befor this tyme to diverce officers of your house and other persones, which have hurt the house and be cause of delapidacyone of the godys of youre seyde house"[674]. Even the nuns themselves sometimes realised that the sale of corrodies had brought them no good; they often complained at visitations that the Prioress had made such grants without consulting them; and the convent of Heynings gave "the multiplication of divers men who have acquired corrodies in their house," as one reason for their extreme poverty, when they petitioned for the appropriation of the church of Womersley[675]. The nuns were wont to have recourse to other equally improvident expedients for obtaining money without regard to future embarrassment. They farmed their churches and alienated their lands and granges or let them out on long leases. These practices were constantly forbidden in episcopal injunctions[676]; at the visitation of Easebourne in 1524 the Prioress, Dame Margaret Sackfelde, being questioned as to what grants they had made under their convent seal, said that they had made four, to wit, one to William Salter to farm the rectory there, another of the proceeds of the chapel of Farnhurst, another of the proceeds of the chapel of Midhurst and another to William Toty for his corrody; this was corroborated by the subprioress, who also mentioned a grant of the proceeds of the church of Easebourne to a rather disreputable person called Ralph Pratt; and this is only a typical case[677]. The nunnery of Wix was reduced to such penury in 1283 on account of various alienations that Pope Martin IV granted the nuns a bull declaring all such grants void: It has come to our ears that our beloved daughters in Christ, the Prioress and convent of the monastery of Wix (who are under the rule of a prioress), of the order of St Benedict, in the diocese of London, as well as their predecessors, have conceded tithes, rents, lands, houses, vineyards, meadows, pastures, woods, mills, rights, jurisdictions and certain other goods belonging to the said monastery to several clerks and laymen, to some of them for life, to some for no short time, to others in perpetuity at farm or under an annual payment, and have to this effect given letters, taken oaths, made renunciations, and drawn up public instruments, to the grave harm of the said monastery; and some of the grantees are said to have sought confirmatory letters in common form, concerning these grants, from the apostolic see[678]. This comprehensive catalogue gives some indication of the losses which a house would suffer from reckless grants. The sale of timber and the alienation or pawning of plate were other expedients to which the nuns constantly resorted and which were as constantly prohibited by the bishops[679]. The Prioress of Nunmonkton in 1397, "alienated timber in large quantities to the value of a hundred marks"[680]; the cutting down of woods was charged against the Prioresses of Heynings, Harrold, Langley, Gracedieu, Catesby and Ankerwyke at Alnwick's visitations; at Langley it was moreover found that the woods were not properly fenced in after the trees were felled and so the tree-stumps were damaged[681]; the necessity for raising the money was sometimes specifically pleaded, as at Markyate, where a small wood had been sold "to satisfy the creditors of the house"[682]. These sales of timber were a favourite means of obtaining ready money; but too often the loss to the house by the destruction of its woods far outweighed the temporary gain and the Abbeys of St Mary's Winchester and Romsey made special mention of this cause of impoverishment in the middle of the fourteenth century[683]. The alienation or pawning of plate and _jocalia_ was often resorted to in an extremity. At Gracedieu in 1441 the jewels of the house had been pawned without the knowledge of the convent, so that the nuns (as one of them complained) had not one bowl from which to drink[684]; the next year it was asserted that the Prioress of Catesby "pawned the jewels of the house for ten years, to wit one cup for the sacrament, which still remained in pawn, and also other pieces of silver"[685]. When Bishop Longland visited Nuncoton in 1531 he found that the Prioress had in times past sold various goods belonging to her house, "viz. a bolle ungilte playn with a couer, oon nutt gilte with a couer, ij bolles white without couers, oon Agnus of gold, oon bocle of gold, oon chalice, oon maser and many other things"[686]; and in 1436 it was ordered that the chalices, jewels and ornaments of St Mary's Neasham, which were then in the hands of sundry creditors, were to be redeemed[687]. In the case of Sinningthwaite in 1534 the convent was in such a reduced state that Archbishop Lee was actually obliged to give the nuns licence to pledge jewels to the value of £15[688]. The charge of pawning or selling jewels for their own purposes was often made against prioresses whose conduct in other ways was bad; for instance against Eleanor of Arden in 1396[689], Juliana of Bromhale in 1404[690], Agnes Tawke of Easebourne in 1478[691] and Katherine Wells of Littlemore in 1517[692]. To financial incompetence and to the employment of improvident methods of raising money, the nuns occasionally added extravagance. The bishops forbade them to wear gay clothes for reasons unconnected with finance; nevertheless their silks and furs must have cost money which could ill be spared, and it is amusing to notice that even at Studley, Rothwell and Langley, which were among the smallest and poorest houses in the diocese of Lincoln and in debt, the nuns had to confess to silken veils. The maintenance of a greater number of servants than the revenues of the house could support was another not uncommon form of extravagance[693]. Instances of luxurious living on the part of the heads of various houses have been given elsewhere[694]; it need only be remarked that a self-indulgent prioress might cripple the resources of a house for many years to come, whether by spending its revenues too lavishly, or by raising money by the alienation of its goods. One other cause of the poverty of nunneries must be noticed, before turning to the attempts of bishops and other visitors to find a remedy. Overcrowding was, throughout the earlier period under consideration, a common cause of financial distress; and the admission of a greater number of nuns than the revenues of the convent were able to support was constantly forbidden in episcopal injunctions. Certainly this was not invariably the fault of the nuns. They suffered (as we have seen) from the formal right of bishop or of patron to place a nun in their house on special occasions, and they suffered still more from the constant pressure to which they were subjected by private persons, anxious to obtain comfortable provision for daughters and nieces. It was sometimes impossible and always difficult to resist the importunity of influential gentlemen in the neighbourhood, whose ill-will might be a serious thing, whether it showed itself in open violence or in closed purses. The authorities of the church had sometimes to step in and rescue houses which had thus been persuaded to burden themselves beyond their means. In 1273 Gregory X issued a bull to the Priory of Carrow, with the intention of putting a stop to the practice. Your petition having been expounded to us, containing a complaint that you have, at the instant requests of certain lords of England, whom you are unable to resist on account of their power, received so many nuns already into your monastery, that you may scarce be fitly sustained by its rents, we therefore, by the authority of these present letters, forbid you henceforth to receive any nun or sister to the burden of your house[695]. Some nine years later Archbishop Wickwane wrote in the same strain to the nuns of Nunkeeling and Wilberfoss: Because we have learned from public rumour that your monastery is sometimes burdened by the reception of nuns and by the visits of secular women and girls, at the instance of great persons, to whom you foolishly and unlawfully grant easy permission, we order you ... henceforward, to receive no one as nun or sister of your house, or to lodge for a time in your monastery, without our special licence[696]. Bishop Stratford, in his visitation of Romsey in 1311, forbade additions to the nuns, the proper number having been exceeded, and again in 1327 he wrote: It is notorious that your house is burdened with ladies beyond the established number which used to be kept; and I have heard that you are being pressed to receive more young ladies (_damoyseles_) as nuns, wherefore I order you strictly that no young lady received by you be veiled, nor any other received, until the Bishop's visitation, or until they have special orders from him[697]. The situation at the great Abbey of Shaftesbury was the same. As early as 1218 the Pope had forbidden the community to admit nuns beyond the number of a hundred because they were unable to support more or to give alms to the poor; in 1322 Bishop Mortival wrote remonstrating with them for their neglect of the Pope's order and repeating the prohibition to admit more nuns until the state of the Abbey was relieved, on the ground that the inmates of the house were far too many for its goods to support; and in 1326 (in response to a petition from the Abbess asking him to fix the statutory number) the Bishop issued an order stating that the house was capable of maintaining a hundred and twenty nuns and no more and that no novices were to be received until the community was reduced to that number[698]. Episcopal prohibitions to receive new inmates without special licence were very common, especially in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Bishops realised that overcrowding only increased the growing poverty of the nunneries. In the poor diocese of York, between 1250 and 1320, the nuns were over and over again forbidden to receive nuns, lay sisters or lay brothers without the licence of the Archbishop. Injunctions to this effect were issued to Marrick (1252), Swine (1268), Wilberfoss (1282), Nunappleton (1282, 1290, 1346), Hampole (1267, 1308, 1312), Arden (1306), Thicket (1309, 1314), Nunkeeling (1282, 1314), Nunburnholme (1318), Esholt (1318), Arthington (1318) and Sinningthwaite (1319)[699]. At Swine, after the visitation by Archbishop Walter Giffard in 1267-8, it was noted among the _comperta_ that the house of Swine cannot sustain more nuns or sisters than now are there, inasmuch as those at present there are ill provided with food, as is said above, and that the house nevertheless remains at least a hundred and forty marks in debt; wherefore the lord Archbishop decreed that no nun or sister should thenceforward be received there, save with his consent[700]. A very severe punishment was decreed at Marrick, where the Archbishop announced that any man or woman admitted without his licence would be expelled without hope of mercy, the Prioress would be deposed and any other nuns who agreed condemned to fast on bread and water for two months (except on Sundays and festivals)[701]. In other dioceses the bishops pursued a similar policy. But it was not easy to enforce these prohibitions. Four years after Archbishop Greenfield's injunction to Hampole (1308) he was obliged to address another letter to the convent, having heard that the prioress had received a little girl (_puellulam_), by name Maud de Dreffield, niece of the Abbot of Roche, and another named Jonetta, her own niece, at the instance of Sir Hugh de Cressy, her brother, that after a time they might be admitted to the habit and profession of nuns[702]. The predicament of the Prioress is easily understood; how was she to refuse her noble brother and the Abbot of Roche? They could bring to bear far more pressure than a distant archbishop, who came upon his visitations at long intervals. Moreover the ever present need of ready money made the resistance of nuns less determined than it might otherwise have been; for a dowry in hand they were, as usual, willing to encumber themselves with a new mouth to feed throughout long years to come. Prohibitions from increasing the number of nuns become more rare in the second half of the fourteenth and during the fifteenth century. Even when the population recovered from the havoc wrought by the Black Death, the numbers in the nunneries continued steadily to decline. Perhaps fashion had veered, conscious that the golden days of monasticism were over; more likely the growing poverty of the houses rendered them a less tempting retreat. A need for restricting the number of nuns still continued, because the decline in the revenues of the nunneries was swifter than the decline in the number of the nuns. Thus in 1440-1 Alnwick included in his injunctions to seven houses a prohibition to receive more nuns than could competently be sustained by their revenues[703], and the evidence given at his visitations shows the necessity for such a restriction. The injunction to Heynings is particularly interesting: For as mykelle as we fonde that agayn the entente and the forbedyng of the commune lawe there are in your saide pryorye meo nunnes and susters professed then may be competently susteyned of the revenews of your sayde pryorye, the exilitee of the saide revenews and charitees duly considered, we commaunde, ordeyn, charge and enioyne yowe vnder payne etc. etc. that fro this day forthe ye receyve no mo in to nunnes ne sustres in your saide pryory wyth owte the advyse and assent of hus (and) of our successours bysshope of Lincolne, so that we or thai, wele informed of the yerely valwe of your saide revenews may ordeyn for the nombre competente of nunnes and susters[704]. Nevertheless even at Nuncoton, one of the houses to which a similar injunction was sent, a nun gave evidence "that in her oun time there were in the habit eighteen or twenty nuns and now there are only fourteen," and the Bishop himself remarked that "ther be but fewe in couent in regarde of tymes here to fore"[705]. Everywhere this decline in the number of nuns went steadily on during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries[706]. And from the beginning of the fifteenth century there appear, here and there among visitatorial injunctions, commands of a very different nature; here and there a Bishop is found trying, not to keep down, but to keep up the number of nuns. Instead of the repeated prohibitions addressed to Romsey at the beginning of the fourteenth century, there is an injunction from William of Wykeham in 1387, ordering the Abbess to augment the number of nuns, which had fallen far below the statutory number[707]. Similarly in 1432 Bishop Gray wrote to Elstow, since the accustomed number of nuns of the said monastery has so lessened, that those who are now received scarcely suffice for the chanting of divine service by night and day according to the requirement of the rule, we will and enjoin upon you the abbess, in virtue of obedience and under the penalties written above and beneath, that, with what speed you can, you cause the number of nuns in the said monastery to be increased in proportion to its resources[708]. At Studley in 1531, although the house was badly in debt, the nuns were ordered to live less luxuriously and "to augment your nombre of ladyes within the yere"[709]. In this connection Archbishop Warham's visitation of Sheppey in 1511 is significant. The Prioress, when questioned as to the number of nuns in the house, said that "she had heard there were seventeen; she knew of fourteen; she herself wished to increase the number to fourteen if she could find any who wished to enter into religion"[710]. It is an interesting reflection that Henry VIII may simply have accelerated, by his violent measure, a gradual dissolution of the nunneries through poverty and through change of fashion. This account of the attempts of medieval bishops to prevent the nunneries from burdening themselves with inmates, beyond the number which could be supported by their revenues, leads to a consideration of the other methods employed by them to remedy the financial distress in which the nuns so often found themselves. These methods may be divided into three classes; (1) arrangements to safeguard expenditure by the head of the house and to impose a check upon autocracy, (2) arrangements to prevent rash expenditure or improvident means of raising money, by requiring episcopal consent before certain steps could be taken, and (3) if the incompetence of the nuns were such that even these restrictions were insufficient, the appointment of a male _custos_, master or guardian, to manage the finances of the house. Arrangements for safeguarding expenditure by the head of the house were of four kinds: (1) provision for the consultation of the whole convent in important negotiations, (2) provision for the safe custody of the common seal, (3) provision for the regular presentation of accounts, and (4) the appointment of coadjutresses to the Prioress, or of two or three treasuresses, to be jointly responsible for receipts and expenditure. It was a common injunction that the whole convent, or at least "the more and sounder part of it," should be consulted in all important negotiations, such as the alienation of property, the leasing of land and farms, the cutting down of woods, the incurring of debts and the reception of novices[711]. It has already been shown that Prioresses acted autocratically in performing such business on their own initiative, and the injunction sent by Peckham to the Abbess of Romsey shows the lengths to which this independence might lead them[712]. Flemyng's injunction to Elstow in 1421-2 is typical: That the Abbess deliver not nor demise to farm appropriated churches, pensions, portions, manors or granges belonging to the monastery, nor do any other such weighty business, without the express consent of the greater and sounder part of the convent[713]. At Arthington in 1318 the Prioress was specially ordered to consult the convent in sales of wool and other business matters[714]; the Prioress of Sinningthwaite the next year was told to take counsel with the older nuns and in all writings under the common seal to employ a faithful clerk and to have the deed read, discussed and sealed in the presence of the whole convent, those who spoke against it on reasonable grounds being heard and the deed if necessary corrected[715]. Provision for the safe custody of the common seal, and for the assent of the whole convent to all writings which received its imprint, was a necessary corollary to the demand that the Prioress should consult her nuns in matters of business. Medieval superiors were constantly charged with keeping the common seal in their own custody[716] and nuns and bishops alike objected to a custom which rendered the convent responsible for any rash agreement into which the Prioress might enter. Elaborate arrangements for the custody of the seal are therefore common in visitatorial injunctions. In 1302 Bishop John of Pontoise wrote to Romsey that whereas from the bad keeping of the common seal many evils to the house have hitherto happened (as the Bishop has now learned from the experience of fact), and also may happen unless wholesome remedy be applied, three at least of the discreeter ladies shall be appointed by the Abbess and by the larger and wiser part of the convent to keep the seal; and when any letter shall be sealed with the common seal in the chapter before the whole convent, it shall be read and explained in an intelligible tongue to all the ladies, publicly, distinctly and openly and afterwards sealed in the same chapter, (not in corners or secretly, as has hitherto been the custom,) and signed as it is read, so that what concerns all may be approved by all. Which done the seal shall be replaced in the same place under the said custody[717]. These injunctions were repeated by Bishop Woodlock nine years later, but in 1387 William of Wykeham laid down much more stringent rules. The seal was to be kept securely under seven, or at least five locks and keys, of which one key was to be in the custody of the abbess and the others to remain with some of the more prudent and mature nuns, nominated by the convent; no letter was to be sealed without first being read before the whole convent in the vulgar tongue and approved by all or by the greater and wiser part of the nuns[718]. Seven locks was an unusually large number; usually three, or even two, were ordered. At Malling, where, as we have seen, Bishop Hamo of Hythe unwillingly confirmed an "insufficient and ignorant" woman as Abbess, he took the extreme step of sequestrating the common seal and forbidding it to be used without his permission[719]. Another method of keeping some control over the expenditure not only of the head or treasurers of the house, but also of the other obedientiaries, was by ordering the regular presentation of accounts before the whole convent; and in spite of the injunctions of councils and of bishops no regulation was more often broken. Bishop Stapeldon's rules, drawn up for the guidance of Polsloe and Canonsleigh, afford a good example of these injunctions, and deal with the presentation of accounts by the bailiffs and officers of the house, as well as by the Prioress: Item, let the accounts of all your bailiffs, reeves and receivers, both foreign and denizen, be overlooked every year, between Easter and Whitsuntide, and between the Feast of St Michael and Christmas, after final account rendered in the Priory before the Prioress, or before those whom she is pleased to put in her place, and before two or three of the most ancient and wise ladies of the said religion and house, assigned by the Convent for this purpose; and let the rolls of the accounts thus rendered remain in the common treasury, so that they may be consulted, if need shall arise by reason of the death of a Prioress, or of the death or removal of bailiffs, receivers or reeves. Item, let the Prioress each year, between Christmas and Easter, before the whole convent, or six ladies assigned by the convent for this purpose, show forth the state of the house, and its receipts and expenses, not in detail but in gross (_ne mie par menue parceles mes par grosses sommes_), and the debts and the names of the debtors and creditors for any sum above forty shillings. And all these things are to be put into writing and placed in the common treasury, to the intent that it may be seen each year how your goods increase or decrease[720]. Bishop Pontoise ordered that at Romsey an account should be rendered twice a year and at the end thereof the state of the house should be declared by the auditors of the convent, or at least by the seniors of the convent, but finding the practice in abeyance in 1302 he ordered the account to be rendered once a year[721]; his ordinance was repeated by Bishop Woodlock in 1311[722] and by William of Wykeham in 1387[723], both of whom specially refer to the rendering of accounts by officials and obedientiaries as well as by the Abbess[724]. More frequently, especially in the smaller houses, the Bishops confined their efforts to extracting the main account from the Prioress, with the double object, so ungraciously expressed by Archbishop Lee, "that it may appere in whate state the housse standith in, and also that it may be knowen, whethur she be profitable to the house or not"[725]. How far it was a common practice that the accounts should be audited by some external person, it is impossible to say. Our only evidence lies in occasional injunctions such as those sent by Bishops Pontoise and Woodlock to Romsey, or by Bishop Buckingham to Heynings; or an occasional remark, such as the Prioress of Blackborough's excuse that she did not render account in order "to save the expenses of an auditor"[726]; or an occasional order addressed by a Bishop to some person bidding him go and examine the accounts of a house. In 1314 William, rector of Londesborough, was made _custos_ of Nunburnholme on peculiar terms, being ordered to go there three times a year and hear the accounts of the ministers and _prepositi_ of the house; his duties were thus, in effect, those of an unpaid auditor and no more[727]. It is probable that the accounts of bailiffs and other servants were audited by the _custos_, in those houses to which such an official was attached[728]; whether his own accounts were scrutinised is another matter. In 1309 Archbishop Greenfield wrote to his own receiver, William de Jafford, to audit the accounts of Nunappleton[729], and after the revelations of Margaret Wavere's maladministration at Catesby in 1445, a commission for the inspection of the accounts was granted to the Abbot of St James, Northampton[730]. In some cases the annual statement of accounts was ordered to be made before the Bishop of the diocese, as well as the nuns of the house, and in such cases he would act as auditor himself[731]. It was also a common practice for the Visitor to demand that the current balance sheet and inventory (the _status domus_) of a monastic house should be produced, together with its foundation charter and various other documents, before he took the evidence of the inmates at a visitation. The register of Bishop Alnwick's visitations shows the procedure very clearly; usually there is simply a note to the effect that the Prioress handed in the _status domus_, but at some houses the Bishop encountered difficulties. At St Michael's Stamford, in 1440, the old Prioress (who, it will be remembered, had rendered no account at all during her twelve years of office) was unable to produce a balance sheet, or one of the required certificates, and Alnwick was obliged to proceed with her examination "hiis exhibendis non exhibitis." He made shift however to extract some verbal information from her; she said that the house was in debt £20 at her installation and now only 20 marks, that it could expend £40, besides 10 marks appropriated to the office of pittancer and besides "the perquisites of the stewardship"; she said also "that they plough with two teams and they have eight oxen, seven horses, a bailiff, four serving-folk, a carter for the teams, and a man who is their baker and brewer, whose wife makes the malt"[732]. At Legbourne also the Prioress showed the state of the house, as it now stands, as they say, but not annual charges, etc.... She says that the house owed £43 at the time of her confirmation and installation and now only £14; nevertheless because the state of the house is not fully shown, she has the next day at Louth to show it more fully[733]. At Ankerwyke also Clemence Medforde gave in an incomplete balance sheet: she shewed a roll containing the rents of the house, which, after deducting rent-charges, reach the total of £22. 6. 7. Touching the stewardship of the temporalities and touching the other receipts, as from alms and other like sources, she shews nothing, and says that at the time of her preferment the house was 300 marks in debt, and now is in debt only £40, and she declares some of the names of the creditors of this sum[734]. A special demand for a complete statement of accounts was sometimes made in cases where gross maladministration was charged against a prioress. Thus in 1310 Archbishop Greenfield ordered an investigation of certain charges (unspecified, but clearly of this nature) made against the Prioress of Rosedale; her accounts, as well as those of all bailiffs and other officials and servants who were bound to render accounts, were to be examined and the prioress was ordered to render to the commissioners full and complete accounts from the time of her promotion, as well as a statement of the then position of the house, and a further letter from the Archbishop to the Subprioress and nuns ordered them to display the _status domus_ to the commissioners, as it was when the Prioress took office and as it was at the time he wrote. She resigned shortly afterwards, _sentiens se impotentem_; but in 1315 her successor was enjoined to draw up a certified statement showing the credit and debit accounts of the house and to send it to the Archbishop before a certain date[735]. Usually the Bishop demanded not only the account roll of a house, but also an inventory, doubtless in order that he might see whether anything had been alienated, and these inventories sometimes remain attached to the account of the visitation preserved in the episcopal register[736]. If a Prioress were found to be hopelessly incompetent or unscrupulous, but not bad enough to be deprived of her position, Bishops sometimes took the extreme measure of appointing one or more coadjutresses, to govern the house in conjunction with her; and often (even when there was no complaint against the Prioress) the nuns were ordered to elect treasuresses, to receive and disburse the income of the house from all sources. One of the _comperta_ at the visitation of Swine in 1268 was to the effect that the sums of money which are bestowed in charity upon the convent, for pittances and garments and other necessary uses, are received by the Prioress; which ought the rather to be in the custody of two honest nuns and distributed to those in need of them, and in no wise converted to other uses[737]. At Nunkeeling in 1314 it was ordained that all money due to the house should be received by two bursars, elected by the convent[738], and in 1323 Bishop Cobham of Worcester made a similar injunction at Wroxall, that two sisters were to be chosen by the chapter, to do the business of the convent in receiving rents, etc.[739] Elaborate arrangements for the appointment of treasuresses were made by Bishop Bokyngham at Elstow and at Heynings, in 1388 and 1392 respectively, and by Bishop Flemyng at Elstow in 1421-2[740]. It will suffice here to quote the much earlier arrangement made by Archbishop Peckham at Usk in 1284: "Since," he wrote, "lately visiting you by our metropolitan right, we found you in a most desolate state (_multipliciter desolatas_), desiring to avoid such desolation in future, we order, by the counsel of discreet men, that henceforth two provident and discreet nuns be elected by the consent of the prioress and community; into whose hands all the money of the house shall be brought, whether from granges, or from appropriated churches, or coming from any other offerings, to be carefully looked after by their consent. And as well the Prioress as the other nuns shall receive (money for) all necessary expenses from their hands and in no manner otherwise. And we will that these nuns be called Treasuresses, which Treasuresses thrice in the year, to wit in Lent, Whitsuntide and on the Feast of St Michael, shall render account before the Prioress for the time being and before five or six elders of the chapter." In addition they were to have a priest as _custos_ or administrator of their temporal and spiritual possessions[741]. The appointment of a coadjutress to the head of a house in the administration of its affairs is of the same nature. The appointment of coadjutresses was a favourite device with Archbishop Peckham, to check an extravagant or incapable head. At the great abbey of Romsey three coadjutresses were appointed, without whose testimony and advice the Abbess was to undertake no important business[742]. At Wherwell one coadjutress only, a certain J. de Ver, was appointed in 1284, and the same year the Archbishop wrote to his commissary on the subject of the Priory of the Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury: Since by the carelessness and neglect of the Prioress the goods of the house are said to be much wasted, we wish you to assign to her two coadjutresses, to wit Dame Sara and another of the more honest and wise ladies; but let neither be Benedicta, who is said to have greatly offended the whole community by her discords. Here, as at Usk, Peckham appointed in addition a master to look after their affairs[743]. At the disorderly house of Arthington Isabella Couvel was in 1312 associated with the Prioress Isabella de Berghby, but the Prioress seems to have resented the appointment and promptly ran away[744]. In the Exeter diocese Bishop Stapeldon made Joan de Radyngton coadjutress to Petronilla, Abbess of Canonsleigh in 1320[745]; and in the diocese of Bath and Wells Bishop Ralph of Shrewsbury in 1335 appointed two coadjutresses to Cecilia de Draycote, Prioress of White Hall, Ilchester, and in 1351, when his visitation had revealed many scandals at Cannington, including the simoniacal admission of nuns and unauthorised sale of corrodies by the Prioress, the Bishop, instead of depriving her "tempered the rigour of the law with clemency" and appointed two coadjutresses without whose consent she was to do nothing[746]. Bishop Alnwick made use of this method of controlling a superior in several cases where serious mismanagement had come to light at his visitation[747], and other instances of this method of controlling the administration of a superior might be multiplied from the episcopal registers. The appointment of treasuresses and of coadjutresses and the provision for due consultation of the chapter, custody of the common seal and presentment of accounts had the purpose of safeguarding the nuns against reckless expenditure or maladministration by the head of the house, and, where the injunctions of the Visitor were carried out, such precautions doubtless proved of use. Some further check was, however, necessary, to safeguard the nuns against themselves, and to prevent the whole convent from rash sales of land, alienation of goods and from all those other improvident devices for obtaining ready money, to which they were so much addicted. The Bishop often attempted to impose such a check by forbidding certain steps to be taken without his own consent. The business for which an episcopal licence was necessary usually comprised the alienation of land or its lease for life or for a long term of years, the sale of any corrodies or payment of any fees or pensions, and (as has already been pointed out) the reception of new inmates, who might overcrowd the house and thus impose a strain upon its revenues[748]. Other business, such as the sale of woods, was sometimes included[749]. The prohibition of corrodies, fees and pensions was doubtless intended to protect the nuns against the exactions of patrons and other persons, who claimed the right to pension off relatives or old servants by this means, as well as against their own improvidence in selling such doles for inadequate sums of ready money. As typical of such prohibitions may be quoted Alnwick's injunction (given in two parts) to Harrold in 1442-3: Also we enioyne yow, prioresse, and your sucessours vndere payne of pry[v]acyone and perpetuelle amocyone fro your and thaire astate and dygnyte that fro hense forthe ye ne thai selle, graunte ne gyfe to ony persone what euer thai be any corrody, lyverye, pensyone or anuyte to terme of lyve, certeyn tyme or perpetuelly, but if ye or thai fyrste declare the cause to vs or our successours bysshoppes of Lincolne, and in that case have our specyalle licence or of our saide successours and also the fulle assent of the more hole parte of your couent. Also we enioyne yow prioresse and your successours vndere the payne of priuacyone afore saide that ye ne thai selle, gyfe, aleyne, ne felle no grete wode or tymbere, saue to necessary reparacyone of your place and your tenaundryes, but if ye and thai hafe specyalle licence ther to, of vs or our successours bysshoppes of Lincolne and the cause declared to vs or our successours[750]. An exceptionally conscientious Bishop would sometimes send even more full and elaborate instructions to a nunnery on the management of its property, and examples of such minute regulations are to be found in the injunctions sent to Elstow Abbey at different times by Bishop Bokyngham (1387)[751], Archbishop Courtenay (1389)[752] and Bishop Flemyng (1421-2)[753]. Bishop Bokyngham also sent very full injunctions to Heynings in 1392 and these may be quoted to illustrate the care which the Visitors sometimes took to set a house upon a firm financial footing, so far as it was possible to do so by the mere giving of good advice: The Prioress, indeed, shall attempt to do nothing without the counsel of two nuns, elected by the convent to assist her in the government of the aforesaid priory, both within and without; and when any important business has to be done concerning the state of the priory, the same Prioress shall expound it to the convent in common, and shall settle and accomplish it according to their counsel, to the advantage of the aforesaid house. And each year the receiver shall display fully in chapter to the convent in common the state of the house and an account of the administration of its goods, clearly and openly written.... Item we command and ordain that the common seal and muniments of the house be faithfully kept under three locks, of which one key shall be in the custody of the prioress, another of the subprioress and the third of a nun elected for this purpose by the convent.... Item we enjoin and command that two receivers be each year elected by the chapter, who shall receive all money whatsoever, forthcoming from the churches, manors or rents of the said priory, the which two elected (receivers), together with the Prioress and with an auditor deputed in the name of the convent, shall hear and receive in writing the computation, account and reckoning of all bailiffs without the precincts of the house, who receive any moneys, or any other goods whatsoever in the name of the said convent, from churches, manors or rents. And afterwards the same two elected receivers, before the Prioress and two other of the greater, elder and more prudent nuns, elected to this end by the convent, shall faithfully render at least twice every year the account and computation of all the receipts and expenses of the same (receivers) within the precincts of the aforesaid house, to the said Prioress and two sisters elected and deputed in the name of the convent. And when this has been done, we will and enjoin that twice in every year the Prioress of the aforesaid house show the whole state of the aforesaid house in chapter, the whole convent being assembled on a certain day for this purpose. And we will that the roll of the aforesaid balance sheet, or paper of account or reckoning, remain altogether in the archives of the aforesaid house, that the prioress and the elder and more prudent (nuns) of the aforesaid house may be able easily to learn the state of the same in future years and whenever any difficulty may arise. And let bailiffs be constituted of sufficient faculties and of commendable discretion and fidelity, the best that can be found, and let them similarly render due account every year before the same prioress and convent.... Furthermore we will that the Prioress and convent of the aforesaid house do not sell or concede in perpetuity or grant for a term corrodies, stipends, liveries or pensions to clerics or to laymen, save with our licence first sought and obtained[754]. At Elstow Bokyngham gave a more detailed injunction about the appointment of bailiffs and other officers. Let the Abbess for the government of the aforesaid monastery have faithful servants, in especial for the government and supervision without waste of the husbandry and the manors and stock and woods of the aforesaid house; the which the Abbess herself is bound, if she can, to supervise each year in person, or else let her cause them to be industriously supervised by others; and to look after the external and internal business of the house and to prosecute it outside let her appoint also some man of proven experience and of mature age[755]. The purpose of those regulations and restrictions which have hitherto been described, was to assist the nuns in managing their own finances. But the nuns were never very good business women, and they were moreover in theory confined to the precincts of the cloister, so that it was difficult for them to manage their own business, unless they imperilled their souls by excursions into the world. During the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, therefore, a common method of extricating them from their difficulties was by appointing a male guardian, known in different places as Custos, Prior, Warden or Master, to supervise the temporal affairs of a house and to look after its finances. In the early history of Cistercian nunneries each house was governed jointly by a Prior and Prioress and in some cases a few canons are found holding the temporalities jointly with the nuns. Of these Cistercian houses Mr Hamilton Thompson says: As in the case of the Gilbertine priories, such nunneries are rarely found outside Lincolnshire and Yorkshire: they were under the bishop's supervision and their connexion with the order of Cîteaux was nominal. Their geographical distribution, as well as the fact that St Gilbert attempted to affiliate his nunneries to the Cistercian order and modelled them upon its rule, provokes the suspicion that such houses were a result of the growth of the Gilbertine order, and, if not intended to become double houses, were at any rate imitations of the corporations of nuns at Sempringham and elsewhere[756]. References to canons occur in connection with the houses of Stixwould, Heynings and Legbourne in Lincolnshire[757], Catesby in Northamptonshire[758] and Swine in Yorkshire[759]. The _comperta_ of Archbishop Giffard's visitation of Swine in 1267-8 show that the house at that time closely resembled the double houses belonging to the Gilbertine order. _Item compertum est_, that the two windows, by which the food and drink of the canons and lay brothers are conveyed (to them), are not at all well guarded by the two nuns who are called janitresses, inasmuch as suspicious conversations are frequently held there between the canons and lay brothers on the one hand and the nuns and sisters on the other. _Item compertum est_ that the door which leads to the church is not at all carefully kept by a certain secular boy, who permits the canons and lay brothers to enter indiscriminately in the twilight, that they may talk with the nuns and sisters, the which door was wont to be guarded diligently by a trusty and energetic lay brother. It has already been described how the ill-management of the canons and lay brothers ("who dissipate and consume, under colour of guardianship, the goods outside, which were wont to be committed to the guardianship of one of the nuns") caused the nuns to go short in clothes and food and even to be reduced to drinking water instead of beer twice a week, though the canons and their friends "did themselves very well" (_satis habundanter et laute procurantur_)[760]. In most cases this double constitution of nuns and canons was in abeyance in Cistercian houses before the fourteenth century, though a prior and canons are mentioned at Stixwould in 1308[761] and Richard de Staunton, "canon of Catesby," was made master of that house as late as 1316[762]. In other houses where no trace of canons has survived there are often references to the resident Prior, especially in the dioceses of York and Lincoln, and this official is sometimes found in Benedictine houses (e.g. Godstow[763], St Michael's Stamford[764], and King's Mead, Derby[765]). He seems to have acted as senior chaplain and confessor to the nuns as well as supervising their financial business. In cases where a nunnery was in some sort of dependence upon an abbey or priory of monks, it is usual to find a religious of that house acting as _custos_ of the nuns. At St Michael's Stamford, for instance, the abbots of Peterborough had the right of nominating a resident prior, subject to the approval of the Bishop of Lincoln, and the office was often held by a monk of Peterborough[766]. Similarly a monk of St Albans acted as _custos_ of Sopwell[767] and a canon of Newhouse dwelt at Brodholme "to say daily mass for the sisters and to overlook their temporalities"[768]. The joint rule of Cistercian houses by a Prior and Prioress seems to have died out in most cases by the end of the thirteenth century, but it was customary for some secular or regular cleric to be appointed in most of the small and poor houses of York and Lincoln to look after their business[769]. Usually the _custos_ appointed was the vicar or rector of some neighbouring parish. Archbishop Romeyn, for instance, placed Sinningthwaite, Wilberfoss and Arthington under the guardianship of the rectors of Kirk Deighton, Sutton-on-Derwent and Kippax respectively, and he made the vicars of Thirkleby and Bossall successively masters of Moxby[770]. Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln appointed neighbouring rectors and vicars to be masters of Legbourne, Godstow, Rowney, Sewardsley, Fosse, Delapré, St Leonard's Grimsby, and Nuncoton[771]. Sometimes, on the other hand, canons or monks of religious houses in the vicinity were charged with looking after the affairs of nunneries. Swine was managed by Robert de Spalding, a canon of the Premonstratensian house of Croxton, and in 1289-90 Archbishop Romeyn wrote remonstrating with the Abbot of Croxton for recalling him, and begging that he might be allowed to continue at Swine, "cum idem vester canonicus proficuos labores ibidem impenderit ad relevacionem probabilem depressionis notorie dicte domus"; but the capable Robert was not allowed to return and in 1290 John Bustard, canon of St Robert's Knaresborough, was appointed in his place. John was not a success and the next year the Abbot removed him; in 1295 Robert of Spalding became master again and in 1298 the rector of Londesborough was appointed[772]. At Catesby in 1293 the office of master was held by a certain Robert de Wardon, a canon of Canons Ashby, who had apparently left the nuns and gone back to his own house, to the great detriment of the nunnery, for Bishop Sutton wrote in 1293 to the Prior of Canons Ashby, bidding him send back the truant[773]. Similarly a canon of Wellow is found as warden of St Leonard's Grimsby in 1232 and in 1303[774], a monk of Whitby as guardian of Handale and Basedale in 1268[775], a canon of Newburgh at Arden in 1302[776] and a canon of Lincoln at Heynings in 1291: concerning the latter Bishop Sutton wrote to the nuns that since, "because of private business and various other impediments he is prevented from looking after your business as much as it requires, the vicar of Upton your neighbour is to look after your affairs in his absence," and in 1294 he was definitely replaced by the rector of Blankney[777]. It is clear from this letter that the masters of nunneries could be non-resident and this was no doubt usually the case when the office was held by the rector of a neighbouring parish. Indeed sometimes the same man would be master of more than one nunnery; as in the case of the monk of Whitby mentioned above. It was probably rare after the beginning of the fourteenth century for a _custos_ to reside at a nunnery, as the early Cistercian priors had done[778]. The appointment of _custodes_ to manage the finances of nunneries was a favourite policy with Archbishop Peckham, doubtless because it facilitated the enforcement of strict enclosure upon the nuns. At Godstow there was already at the time a master, but Peckham also gave the custody of Davington to the vicar of Faversham in 1279, and that of Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, to the vicar of Wickham in 1284, while at Usk in 1284 he ordered the nuns to have "some senior priest circumspect in temporal and in spiritual affairs to be, with the consent of the diocesan, master of all your goods, internal and external, temporal and spiritual"[779]. At other times a _custos_ would be appointed to meet a particular difficulty when the financial state of a house had become specially weak. About 1303, for instance, a monk of Peterborough was made for a season special warden of St Michael's, Stamford, "with full powers over the temporalities and of adjudicating and ordering all temporal matters both within and without the convent as he should think profitable"; the appointment is specially interesting because there was at the time a resident prior at St Michael's and the "spiritual disposition of all things concerning the house" is reserved to this prior and to the prioress[780]. A more serious crisis occurred at the Priory of White Hall, Ilchester, which was evidently in a disorderly condition at the beginning of the fourteenth century. In 1323 Bishop John of Drokensford wrote to Henry of Birlaunde, rector of Stoke and to John de Herminal, announcing that the Prioress, Alice de Chilterne, was defamed of incontinence with a chaplain and had so mismanaged and turned to her own nefarious uses the revenues of the house that her sisters were compelled to beg their bread; she had however submitted herself to the Bishop, but as public affairs called him to London and as he did not wish to leave the nunnery unprovided for, he committed the custody to these two men, ordering them to administer the necessities of life to the Prioress and sisters, according to the means of the house, until his return[781]. Some ten years later Bishop Ralph of Shrewsbury similarly gave the custody of White Hall, Ilchester, to the rectors of Limington and St John's Ilchester[782]. The nunnery of Barrow, near Bristol, was also in a disorderly condition; in 1315 John of Drokensford wrote to the Prioress ordering her to leave the management of secular matters to a _custos_ appointed by him, and the same day appointed William de Sutton; and in 1324-5, when he had been obliged to remove the Prioress Joanna Gurney, he committed the custody of the house to William, rector of Backwell, ordering him to do the best he could with the advice of the subprioress and one of the nuns[783]. More often sheer financial distress, rather than moral disorder, was the reason for which a _custos_ was appointed to a house. At St Sepulchre's Canterbury, the rector of Whitstable was made _custos_, "by reason of the miserable want and extreme poverty of the said house" (1359) and for the same reason another secular cleric received the "supervision, custody or administration" of the same house in 1365[784]. In 1366 Thomas Hatfield, Bishop of Durham, pitying the miserable state of St Bartholomew's at Newcastle-on-Tyne, both as to spirituals and temporals, and dreading the immediate ruin thereof, unless some speedy remedy should be applied, committed it to the care of Hugh de Arnecliffe, priest in the church of St Nicholas in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, strictly enjoining the prioress and nuns to be obedient to him in every particular and trusting to his prudence to find relief for the poor servants of Christ here, in their poverty and distress.[785] Sometimes the nuns themselves begged for a _custos_ to assist them, in terms which show that they found the management of their own finances too much for them. At Godstow in 1316 the King was obliged, at the request of the Abbess and nuns, to take the Abbey into his special protection "on account of its miserable state," and he appointed the Abbot of Eynsham and the Prior of Bicester as keepers, ordering them to pay the nuns a certain allowance and to apply the residue to the discharging of their debts[786]. Similarly in 1327 the Prioress and nuns of King's Mead, Derby, represented themselves as much reduced, and begged the King to take the house into his special protection, granting the custody of it to Robert of Alsop and Simon of Little Chester, until it should be relieved. Three months later Edward III granted it protection for three years and appointed Robert of Alsop and Simon of Little Chester custodians, who, after due provision for the sustenance of the prioress and nuns, were to apply the issues and rents to the discharge of the liabilities of the house and to the improvement of its condition[787]. Some interesting evidence in this connection was given during Alnwick's visitations of the diocese of Lincoln. When Clemence Medforde, the Prioress of Ankerwyke, was asked whether she had observed the Bishop's injunctions, she answered that such injunctions were, and are, well observed as regards both her and her sisters in effect and according to their power, except the injunction whereby she is bound to supply to her sisters sufficient raiment for their habits, and as touching the non-observance of that injunction she answers that she cannot observe it, because of the poverty and insufficiency of the resources of the house, which have been much lessened by reason of the want of a surveyor or steward (_yconomus_). Wherefore she besought my lord's good-will and assistance that he would deign with charitable consideration to make provision of such steward or director.... And when these nuns, all and several, had been so examined and were gathered together again in the chapter house, the said Depyng (the Visitor) gave consideration to two grievances, wherein the priory and nuns alike suffer no small damage, the which, as he affirmed, were worthy of reform above the rest of those that stood most in need of reform, to wit the lack of raiment for the habit, of bedclothes and of a steward or seneschal, but in these matters, as he averred, he could not apply a remedy for the nonce without riper deliberation and consultation with my lord[788]. Similarly the old Prioress of St Michael's Stamford, when asking for the appointment of two nuns as treasuresses, complained "that she herself is impotent to rule temporalities, nor have they an industrious man to supervise these and to raise and receive (external payments)"; another nun said that "they have not a discreet layman to rule their temporalities," and a third also complained of the lack of a "receiver"[789]. At Gokewell, on the other hand, the Prioress said "that the rector of Flixborough is their steward (_yconomus_) and he looks after the temporalities and not she"; he was evidently a true friend to the nuns, for she said "that the house does not exceed £10 in rents and is greatly in debt to the rector of Flixborough"[790]. The terms of appointment of _custodes_ often specify the inexpertness of the nuns, or their need for someone to supervise the management of their estates[791]. Perhaps the fullest set of instructions to a _custos_ which have survived are those given by Archbishop Melton to Roger de Saxton, rector of Aberford, in making him _custos_ of Kirklees in 1317: Trusting in your industry, we by tenour of the present (letters) give you power during our pleasure to look after, guard and administer the temporal possessions of our beloved religious ladies, the Prioress and convent of Kirklees in our diocese, throughout their manors and buildings (_loca_) wherever these be, and to receive and hear the account of all servants and ministers serving in the same, and to make those payments (_allocandum_) which by reason ought to be made, as well as to remove all useless ministers and servants and to appoint in their place others of greater utility, and to do all other things which shall seem to you to be to the advantage of the place, firmly enjoining the said prioress and convent, as well as the sisters and lay brothers of the house, in virtue of holy obedience, that they permit you freely to administer in all and each of the aforesaid matters[792]. It must have been of great assistance to the worried and incompetent nuns to have a reliable guardian thus to look after their temporal affairs, and it is difficult to understand why the practice of having a resident prior died out at the Cistercian houses and at Benedictine houses (e.g. St Michael's, Stamford) which had such an official in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Even the appointment of neighbouring rectors as _custodes_ of nunneries in the York and Lincoln dioceses ceased, apparently, to be common by the middle of the fourteenth century[793]. It is a curious anomaly that this remedy should have been applied less and less often during the very centuries when the nunneries were becoming increasingly poor, and stood daily in greater need of external assistance in the management of their temporal affairs. CHAPTER VI EDUCATION Abstinence the abbesse myn a. b. c. me taughte. _Piers Plowman._ The Benedictine ideal set study together with prayer and labour as the three bases of monastic life and in the short golden age of English monasticism women as well as men loved books and learning. The tale of the Anglo-Saxon nuns who corresponded with St Boniface has often been told. Eadburg, Abbess of Thanet, wrote the Epistles of St Peter for him in letters of gold and sent books to him in the wilds of Germany. Bugga, Abbess of a Kentish house, exchanged books with him. The charming Lioba, educated by the nuns of Wimborne, sent him verses which she had composed in Latin, which "divine art" the nun Eadburg had taught her, and begged him to correct the rusticity of her style. Afterwards she came into Germany to help him and became Abbess of Bischofsheim and her biographer tells how she was so bent on reading that she never laid aside her book except to pray or to strengthen her slight frame with food and sleep. From childhood upwards she had studied grammar and the other liberal arts, and hoped by perseverance to attain a perfect knowledge of religion, for she was well aware that the gifts of nature are doubled by study. She zealously read the books of the Old and New Testaments and committed their divine precepts to memory; but she further added to the rich store of her knowledge by reading the writings of the holy Fathers, the canonical decrees and the laws of the Church. So also an anonymous Anglo-Saxon nun of Heidenheim wrote the lives of Willibald and Wunebald[794]. The Anglo-Saxon period seems, however, to have been the only one during which English nuns were at all conspicuous for learning. There is indeed very scant material for writing their history between the Norman Conquest and the last years of the thirteenth century, when Bishops' Registers begin. It is never safe to argue from silence and some nuns may still have busied themselves over books; but two facts are significant: we have no trace of women occupying themselves with the copying and illumination of manuscripts and no nunnery produced a chronicle. The chronicles are the most notable contribution of the monastic houses to learning from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries; and some of the larger nunneries, such as Romsey, Lacock, and Shaftesbury, received many visitors and must have heard much that was worth recording, besides the humbler annals of their own houses. But they recorded nothing. The whole trend of medieval thought was against learned women and even in Benedictine nunneries, for which a period of study was enjoined by the rule, it was evidently considered altogether outside the scope of women to concern themselves with writing. While the monks composed chronicles, the nuns embroidered copes; and those who sought the gift of a manuscript from the monasteries, sought only the gift of needlework from the nunneries. It is not, perhaps, surprising that the nuns should have written no chronicles and copied few, if any, books. But it is surprising that England should after the eighth century be able to show so little record of gifted individuals. Even if the rule of a professedly learned order were unlikely to prevail against the general trend of civilisation and to produce learned women, still it might have been expected that here and there a genius, or a woman of some talent for authorship, might have flourished in that favourable soil; or even that a whole house might have enjoyed for a brief halcyon period the zest for learning, when "alle was buxomnesse there and bokes to rede and to lerne." In Germany, at various periods of the middle ages, this did happen. The Abbey of Gandersheim in Saxony was renowned for learning in the tenth century and here lived and flourished the nun Roswitha, who not only wrote religious legends in Latin verse, but even composed seven dramas in the style of Terence, a poem on the Emperor Otto the Great and a history of her own nunnery. From the internal evidence of her works it has been thought that this nun was directly familiar with the works of Virgil, Lucan, Horace, Ovid, Terence and perhaps Plautus, Prudentius, Sedulius, Fortunatus, Martianus Capella and Boethius; but apart from this evidence of learning, her plays show her to have been a woman of originality and some genius; they are strange productions to have emanated from a tenth century convent[795]. It was in Germany again, at Hohenburg in Alsace, that the Abbess Herrad in the twelfth century compiled and decorated with exquisite illuminations the great encyclopedia known as the _Hortus Deliciarum_. This book, one of the finest manuscripts which had survived from the middle ages and a most invaluable source of information for the manners and appearance of the people of Herrad's day, was destroyed in the German bombardment of Strasburg in 1870[796]. The same century saw the lives of the two great nun-mystics, St Hildegard of Bingen and St Elisabeth of Schönau, who saw visions, dreamed dreams and wrote them down[797]. In the next century the convent of Helfta in Saxony was the home of several literary nuns and mystics and was distinguished for culture; its nuns collected books, copied them, illuminated them, learned and wrote Latin, and three of them, the béguine Mechthild, the nun Saint Mechthild von Hackeborn and the nun Gertrud the Great, have won considerable fame by their mystic writings[798]. Even in the decadent fifteenth century examples are not wanting of German nuns who were keenly interested in learning; and in the early sixteenth century Charitas Pirckheimer, nun of St Clare at Nuremberg and sister of the humanist Wilibald Pirckheimer, was in close relations with her brother and with many of his friends and full of enthusiasm for the new learning[799]. It is strange that in England there is no record of any house which can compare with Gandersheim, Hohenburg or Helfta; no record of any nun to compare with the learned women and great mystics who have been mentioned. The air of the English nunneries would seem to have been unfavourable to learning. The sole works ascribed to monastic authoresses are a _Life of St Catherine_, written in Norman-French by Clemence, a nun of Barking, in the late twelfth century[800], and _The Boke of St Albans_, a treatise on hawking, hunting and coat armour, printed in 1486, by one Dame Juliana Berners, whom a vague and unsubstantiated tradition declares to have been Prioress of Sopwell. Nor do nuns seem to have been more active in copying manuscripts. Several beautiful books, which have come down to our own day, can be traced to nunneries, but there is no evidence that they were written there and all other evidence makes it highly improbable that they were. It is true that in 1335 we find this entry among the issues of the Exchequer: To Isabella de Lancaster, a nun of Amesbury, in money paid to her by the hands of John de Gynewell for payment of 100 marks, which the lord the King commanded to be paid her for a book of romance purchased from her for the King's use, which remains in the chamber of the lord the King, 66 l. 13 s. 4 d[801], but it is unlikely that the book thus purchased by the King from his noble kinswoman was her own work. This period of the later ages was, indeed, unfavourable to learning among monks as well as among nuns. As the universities grew, so the monasteries declined in lustre; learning had no longer need to seek refuge behind cloister walls, and the most promising monks now went to the universities, instead of studying at home in their own houses. The standard of the chronicles rapidly declined and the best chronicler of the fourteenth century was not a monk like Matthew Paris, but a secular, a wanderer, a hanger-on of princes, Froissart. As the fifteenth century passed learning declined still further; and it is evident from the visitations of the time that the monks, whatever else they might be, were not scholars. We should expect the decline in learning to be more marked still among the nuns, considering how little they had possessed in preceding centuries; and the matter is worth some study, because it concerns not only the education of the nuns themselves, but the education which they were qualified to give to the children who were sent to school with them. A word may first be said on the subject of nunnery libraries. Concerning these we have very little information; and, such as it is, it does not leave the impression that nunneries were rich in books. No catalogue of a nunnery library[802] has come down to us and such references to libraries as occur in inventories show great poverty in this respect, the books being few and chiefly service-books. An inventory of the small and poor convent of Easebourne, taken in 1450, shows what was doubtless quite a large library for a house of its size. It contained two missals, two _portiforia_ (breviaries), four antiphoners, one large _Legenda_, eight psalters, one book of collects, one tropary, one French Bible, two _ordinalia_ in French, one book of the Gospels and one martyrology[803]. The inventories of Henry VIII's commissioners give very little information as to books and seem to have found few that were of any value. The books found at Sheppey are thus described: "ij bokes with ij sylver clapses the pece, and vj bokes with one sylver clasp a pec, l bokes good and bad" (in the church), "vij bokes, whereof one goodly mase boke of parchement and dyvers other good bokes" (in the vestry), and "an olde presse full of old boks of no valew" (in a chapel in the churchyard) and "a boke of Saynts lyfes" (in the parlour)[804]. At Kilburn were found "two books of _Legenda Aurea_, one in print, the other written, both English, 4_d._"; the one in print must have been Caxton's edition, thus valued, together with a manuscript, at something like 6_s._ 8_d._ in present money for the pair! Also "two mass books, one old written, the other in print, 20_d._, four processions in parchment (3_s._) and paper (10_d._), two Legends in parchment and paper, 8_d._, and two chests, with divers books pertaining to the church, of no value"[805]. It will be noted that the books are almost always connected with the church services. It is perhaps significant that in only one list of the inmates of a house is a nun specifically described as librarian[806]. Something may be gleaned also from the legacies of books left to nuns in medieval wills. These again are nearly always psalters or service books of one kind or another; and indeed the average layman was more likely to possess these than other books, for all alike attended the services of the church. Thus Sir Robert de Roos in 1392 leaves his daughter, a nun, "a little psalter, that was her mother's"[807]; Sir William de Thorp in 1391 leaves his sister-in-law, a nun of Greenfield, a psalter[808]; William Stow of Ripon in 1430 leaves the Prioress of Nunmonkton a small psalter[809], William Overton of Helmsley in 1481 leaves his niece Elena, a nun of Arden, "one great Primer with a cover of red damask"[810], and so on. There may be some significance in the fact that John Burn, chaplain at York Cathedral, leaves the Prioress and Convent of Nunmonkton "an English book of Pater Noster"[811]. It strikes a strange and pleasant note when Thomas Reymound in 1418 leaves the Prioress and Convent of Polsloe 20_s._ and the _Liber Gestorum Karoli, Regis Francie_[812], and when Eleanor Roos of York in 1438 leaves Dame Joan Courtenay "unum librum vocatum Mauldebuke," whatever that mysterious tome may have contained[813]. Some light is also thrown backward upon their possessors by isolated books which have come down to our own day and are known to have belonged to nuns. These come mostly, as might be expected, from the great abbeys of the south, where the nuns were rich and of good birth, from Syon and Barking, Amesbury, Wilton and Shaftesbury, St Mary's Winchester, and Wherwell[814]. Sometimes the MS. records the name of the nun owner. Wright and Halliwell quote from a Latin breviary, in which is an inscription to the effect that it belonged to Alice Champnys, nun of Shaftesbury, who bought it for the sum of 10_s._ from Sir Richard Marshall, rector of the parish church of St Rumbold of Shaftesbury. There follows this prayer for the use of the nun: Trium puerorum cantemus himnum quem cantabant in camino ignis benedicentes dominum. O swete Jhesu, the sonne of God, the endles swetnesse of hevyn and of erthe and of all the worlde, be in my herte, in my mynde, in my wytt, in my wylle, now and ever more, Amen. Jhesu mercy, Jhesu gramercy, Jhesu for thy mercy, Jhesu as I trust to thy mercy, Jhesu as thow art fulle of mercy, Jhesu have mercy on me and alle mankynde redemyd with thy precyouse blode. Jhesu, Amen[815]. A manuscript of Capgrave's _Life of St Katharine of Alexandria_, which belonged to Katherine Babyngton, subprioress of Campsey in Suffolk, has a very different inscription: Iste liber est ex dono Kateryne Babyngton quondam subpriorisse de Campseye et si quis illum alienauerit sine licencia vna cum consensu dictarum [sanctimonialium] conuentus, malediccionem dei omnipotentis incurrat et anathema sit[816]. Sometimes the owner of a manuscript is known to us from other sources. There is a splendid psalter, now in St John's College, Cambridge, which belonged to the saintly Euphemia, Abbess of Wherwell from 1226 to 1257, whose good deeds were celebrated in the chartulary of the house[817]. In the Hunterian Library at Glasgow there is a copy of the first English translation of Thomas à Kempis's _Imitatio Christi_, which belonged to Elizabeth Gibbs, Abbess of Syon from 1497 to 1518; it is inscribed O vos omnes sorores et ffratres presentes et futuri, orate queso pro venerabili matre nostra Elizabeth Gibbis, huius almi Monasterii Abbessa [_sic_], necnon pro deuoto ac religioso viro Dompno Willielmo Darker, in artibus Magistro de domo Bethleem prope sheen ordinis Cartuciensis, qui pro eadem domina Abbessa hunc librum conscripsit; the date 1502 is given[818]. The books known to have been in the possession of nuns throw, as will be seen, but a dim light upon the educational attainments of their owners. More specific evidence must be sought in bishops' registers, and in such references to the state of learning in nunneries as occur in the works of contemporary writers. It is clear that nuns were expected to be "literate"; bishops sending new inmates to convents occasionally assure their prospective heads that the girls are able to undertake the duties of their new state[819]. What to be sufficiently lettered meant, from the convent point of view, appears in injunctions sent to the Premonstratensian house of Irford, forbidding the reception of any nun "save after such fashion as they are received at Irford and Brodholme, to wit that they be able to read and to sing, as is contained in the statute of the order"[820]; and again in injunctions sent by Bishop Gray to Elstow about 1432: We enjoin and charge you the abbess and who so shall succeed you ... that henceforward you admit no one to be a nun of the said monastery ... unless she be taught in song and reading and the other things requisite herein, or probably may be easily instructed within a short time[821]. Further light is thrown on the question by an episode in the life of Thomas de la Mare, Abbot of St Albans from 1349 to 1396. At that time the subordinate nunnery of St Mary de Pré consisted of two grades of inmates, nuns and sisters, who were never on good terms. The Abbot accordingly transformed the sisters into nuns and ordained that no more sisters should be received, but only "literate nuns." But hitherto the nuns also had been illiterate; "they said no service, but in the place of the Hours they said certain Lord's Prayers and Angelic Salutations." The Abbot therefore ordered that they should be taught the service and that in future they should observe the canonical hours, saying them without chanting, but singing the offices for the dead at certain times. Since they had apparently no books, from which to read the services, he gave them six or seven ordinals, belonging to the Abbey of St Albans, which caused not a little annoyance among the monks. In order that nuns should not be rashly and easily admitted, he ordered that henceforth all who entered the house were to profess the rule of St Benedict in writing[822]. The requirements seem to be that the nun should be able to take part in the daily offices in the quire, for which reading and singing were essential. It was not, it should be noted, essential to write, though Abbot Thomas de la Mare required the nuns of St Mary de Pré to profess the rule in writing and about 1330 the nuns of Sopwell (another dependency of St Albans) were enjoined by the commissary of a previous Abbot to give their votes for a new Prioress in writing[823]. Nevertheless, strange as this may appear to many who are wont to credit the nuns with teaching reading, writing, arithmetic and a number of other accomplishments to their pupils, it is probable that some of the nuns of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were unable to write. The form of profession of three novices at Rusper in 1484 has survived and ends with the note "Et quelibet earum fecit tale signum crucis manu sua propria [Maltese cross]"[824] which might possibly imply that these nuns could not write their names. It is significant that the official business of convents, their annual accounts and any certificates which they might have to draw up, were done by professional clerks, or sometimes by their chaplains. Payment to the clerk who made the account occurs regularly in their account rolls; and the Visitations of Bishop Alnwick, to which reference will be made below, show that they were often completely at a loss, when writing had to be done and there was no clerk to do it. Again it would seem clear that the nun who was fully qualified to "bear the burden of the choir" ought to be able to understand what she read, as well as to read it, and this raises at once the study of Latin in nunneries. Here again the nuns do not emerge very well from inquiry. Some there were no doubt who knew a little Latin, even in the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but the more the inquirer studies contemporary records, the more he is driven to conclude that the majority of nuns during this period knew no Latin; they must have sung the offices by rote and though they may have understood, it is to be feared that the majority of them could not construe even a _Pater Noster_, an _Ave_ or a _Credo_. Let us take the evidence for the different centuries in turn. The language of visitation injunctions affords some clue to the knowledge of the nuns. It must be remembered that throughout the whole period Latin was always the learned and ecclesiastical language; and the communications addressed by a bishop to the monastic houses of his district, notices of visitation, mandates and injunctions would normally be in Latin; and when he was addressing monks they were in fact almost always in this tongue. After Latin the language next in estimation was French. This had been the universal language of the upper class and up till the middle of the fourteenth century it was still _par excellence_ the courtly tongue. But it was rapidly ceasing to be a language in general use and the turning-point is marked by a statute of 1362, which ordains that henceforth all pleas in the law courts shall be conducted in English, since the French language "is too unknown in the said realm." At the close of the century even the upper classes were ceasing to speak French and the English ambassadors to France in 1404 had to beseech the Grand Council of France to answer them in Latin, French being "like Hebrew" to them[825]. In the fifteenth century French was a mere educational adornment, which could be acquired by those who could get teachers. The linguistic learning of English nuns at different periods was similar to that of the gentry outside the convent. It was not possible after the beginning of the fourteenth century (perhaps even during the last half of the thirteenth century) to assume in them that acquaintance with Latin, the learned and ecclesiastical tongue, which was generally assumed in their brothers the monks. Their learning was similar to that of contemporary laymen of their class, rather than of contemporary monks; and it went through exactly the same phases as did the coronation oath. About 1311 the King's oath occurs in Latin among the State documents, with the note appended that "if the King were illiterate" he was to swear in French, as Edward II did in 1307; but in 1399 when Henry IV claimed the throne, he claimed it in English, "In the name of the Fadir, Son and Holy Gost, I Henry of Lancastre, chalenge þis Rewme of Yngland"[826]. Similarly towards the close of the thirteenth century the English bishops begin to write to their nuns in French, because they are no longer "literate," in the sense of understanding Latin. Throughout this century the nuns are able to speak the courtly tongue; they use it for their petitions; and Chaucer's Prioress boasts it among her accomplishments at the close of the century, And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For French of Paris was to her unknowe. But French, like Latin, is beginning to die away. It hardly ever occurs in petitions after the end of the century; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the Bishops almost invariably send their injunctions to the nuns in English. The majority of nuns during these two centuries would seem to have understood neither French nor Latin[827]. The evidence of the bishops' registers is worth considering in more detail. The bishops were genuinely anxious that the reforms set forth in their injunctions should be carried out by the nuns, and they were therefore at considerable pains to send the injunctions in language which the nuns could understand. There are few surviving injunctions belonging to the thirteenth century; and their evidence is missed. Archbishop Walter Giffard in 1268[828] and Archbishop Newark in 1298[829] write to the nuns of Swine in Latin, a language which they seem to have employed habitually when writing to nunneries. Archbishop Peckham sometimes writes to the Godstow nuns in Latin (1279) and sometimes in French (1284)[830]; it is to be noted that his French letter is of a more familiar type. Bishop Cantilupe of Hereford writes about 1277 to the nuns of Lymbrook in Latin, but his closing words raise considerable doubt as to whether an understanding of Latin can be generally assumed in nunneries at this period, for he says "you are to cause this our letter to be expounded to you several times in the year by your penancers, in the French or English tongue, whichever you know best"[831]. The evidence for the next century is even less ambiguous, for nearly all injunctions are in French and sometimes it is specifically mentioned that the nuns do not understand Latin. Bishop Norbury in 1331 translates his injunctions to Fairwell into French[832], because the nuns do not understand the original in Latin, and Bishop Robert de Stretton, writing to the same house in 1367, orders his decree to be "read and explained in the vulgar tongue by some literate ecclesiastical person on the day after its receipt"[833]. Bishop Stapeldon's interesting injunctions to Polsloe and Canonsleigh in 1319 are in French, but he seems to assume some knowledge of Latin in the nuns, for he orders that if it be necessary to break silence in places where silence is ordained, speech should be held in Latin, though not in grammatically constructed sentences, but in isolated words[834]. In 1311 Bishop Woodlock sending a set of Latin injunctions to the great Abbey of Romsey, announces that he has caused them to be translated into French, that the nuns may more easily understand them[835]; but Wykeham writes to them in Latin in 1387[836]. In the Lincoln diocese during this century the custom of the bishops varies. Gynewell writes to Heynings and to Godstow in French, but to Elstow in Latin[837]; Bokyngham writes to both Heynings and Elstow in Latin, but in ordering the nuns of Elstow in 1387 to keep silence at due times, he adds "Et vulgare gallicum addiscentes inter se eo utantur colloquentes"[838], a significant contrast to Stapeldon's recommendation of Latin in similar circumstances some seventy years earlier. When we pass from the fourteenth to the fifteenth century it is clear that even French was becoming an unknown tongue to the nuns; nearly all injunctions are from this time forward written in English. At Redlingfield in 1427, the seven nuns and two novices were assembled in the chapter house, where the deputy visitor read his commission, first in Latin and then in the vulgar tongue, in order that the nuns might better understand it[839]. It is true that Bishops Flemyng and Gray send Latin injunctions to Elstow and Delapré Abbeys in 1422 and 1433 respectively; but Flemyng orders "that the premises, all and sundry, be published and read openly and in the vulgar mother tongue eight times a year"[840], and Gray writes that his injunctions are to be translated into the mother tongue and fastened in some conspicuous place[841]. The best evidence of all for the state of learning in nunneries during the first half of the fifteenth century is to be found in the invaluable records of Alnwick's visitations of the Lincoln diocese. Now it should be noted that when Alnwick visited houses of monks or canons, the sermon, which was generally preached on such occasions by one of the learned clerics who accompanied him, was invariably preached in Latin. Moreover, all injunctions sent to male houses after visitation were sent in Latin also. The assumption still was that these monasteries were homes of learning and acquainted with the language of learning. With the nunneries it was otherwise. The sermons were always preached "in the vulgar tongue" and the injunctions were always sent in English. It was not even pretended that the nuns would understand Latin. Moreover it is quite plain that when the preliminary notices of visitation had been sent in Latin, they had been very imperfectly understood; and that when it was necessary for a Prioress herself to draw up a certificate in writing, she was often quite unable to do so. A few extracts from Alnwick's records will illustrate the complete ignorance of Latin and general illiteracy in these houses. At Ankerwyke (1441) it is noted: And then when request had been made of the prioress by the reverend father for the certificate of his mandate conveyed to the said prioress for such visitation, the same prioress, instead of the certificate delivered the original mandate itself to the said reverend father, affirming that she did not understand the mandate itself, nor had she any man of skill or other lettered person to instruct what she should do in this behalf[842]. At Markyate (1442), when the same certificate was asked for, the Prioress said that she had not a clerk who was equipped for writing such a certificate, on the which head she submitted herself to my lord's favour and then showed my lord in lieu of a certificate the original mandate itself and the names of the nuns who had been summoned[843]. Similarly the Prioress of Fosse showed the original mandate in place of the certificate, and the Prioresses of St Michael's Stamford and Rothwell had failed to draw up the certificate[844]. The Prioress of Gokewell (1440) was said to be "exceedingly simple," all the temporalities of the house being ruled by a steward; she also declared that "she knows not how to compose a formal certificate, in that she has no lettered persons of her counsel who are skilled in this case," and she had been unable to find the document reciting the confirmation of her election[845]. The poor convent of Langley seems to have been reduced to complete confusion by the episcopal mandate. The Prioress says that she received my lord's mandate on the feast of St Denis last. Interrogated whether she has a certificate touching execution thereof, she says no, because she did not understand it, nor did her chaplain also, to whom she showed it; concerning the which she surrendered herself to my lord's favour. Wherefore, when the original mandate had been delivered to my lord and read through in the vulgar tongue, my lord asked her if she had executed it. She says yes, as regards the summons of herself and her sisters.... Interrogated if she has the foundation charter of the house and who is the founder, she says that Sir William Pantolfe founded the house, but because they are unversed in letters they cannot understand the writings[846]. It is unnecessary to multiply the evidence of visitation records for the rest of the fifteenth and for the early sixteenth century: the general effect is to show us nuns who know only the English language[847]. Let us turn to the interesting corroborative evidence provided by those who were at pains to make translations for their use. It must be admitted that this evidence only confirms the suggestion made above that the nuns often did not understand the very services which they sang, let alone the Latin version of their rule, or the Latin charters by which they held their lands. That they often sang the services uncomprehendingly like parrots is actually stated by Sir David Lyndesay, the Scottish poet, in his _Dialog concerning the Monarché_ (1553). He apologises for writing in his native tongue, unlike those clerks, who wish to prohibit the people from reading even the scriptures for themselves, and adds Tharefore I thynk one gret dirisioun To heir thir Nunnis & Systeris nycht and day Syngand and sayand psalmes and orisoun, Nocht vnderstandyng quhat thay syng nor say, Bot lyke one stirlyng or ane Papingay Quhilk leirnit ar to speik be lang usage Thame I compair to byrdis in ane cage[848]. Several translations of the rule of St Benet were made for the special use of nuns, who knew no Latin. A northern metrical version of the early fifteenth century explains Monkes and als all leryd men In Latin may it lyghtly ken, And wytt tharby how they sall wyrk To sarue god and haly kyrk. Bott tyll women to mak it couth, That leris no latyn in thar youth, In inglis is it ordand here, So that thay may it lyghtly lere[849]. About a century later, in 1517, Richard Fox, the Bishop of Winchester, published for the benefit of the nuns of his diocese another English translation of the Rule of St Benedict. In the preface he rehearses how nuns are professed under the Rule and are bound to read, learn and understand it: and also after their profession they should not onely in them selfe kepe observe execute and practise the said rule but also teche other and heir sisters the same, and so moche that for the same intent they daily rede and cause to be rede some parte of the sayd rule by one of the sayd sisters amonges them selfe as well in their Chapiter House after the redinge of the Martyrologe as some tyme in their Fraitur in tyme of refections and collacions, at the which reding is always don in the latin tonge, whereof they have no knowledge nor understandinge but be utterly ignorant of the same, whereby they do not only lose their tyme but also renne into the evident danger and perill of the perdicion of their soules. He adds that in order to save the souls of his nuns, and in particular to ensure that novices understand the Rule before profession, so that none of them shall nowe afterward probably say that she wyste not what she professed, as we knowe by experience that some of them have sayd in tyme passed, for these causes at thinstant requeste of our ryght dere and well-beloved daughters in oure Lorde Jhesu, the Abbasses of the Monasteries of Rumsay, Wharwel, Seynt Maries within the Citie of Winchester and the Prioresses of Wintnay, our right religious diocesans, we have translated the sayd rule unto our moders tonge; comune, playne rounde Englishe, easy and redy to be understande by the sayde devoute religiouse women[850]. The inconvenience of not being able to read the foundation charter and other legal documents of the house, as confessed by the Prioress of Langley at Alnwick's visitation, was very great; and about 1460 Alice Henley, the Abbess of Godstow, caused a translation to be made of the Latin register, in which were copied all the charters of her abbey. The translator's preface to the work is interesting: The wyseman tawht hys chyld gladly to rede bokys and hem well vndurstonde for, in defaute of vndyrstondyng, is ofttymes caused neclygence, hurte, harme and hynderaunce, as experyence prevyth in many a place. And for as muche as women of relygyone in redynge bokys of latyn, byn excusyd of grete vndurstandyng, where it is not her modyr tonge; Therfore, how be hyt that they wolde rede her bokys of remembraunce of her munymentys wryte in latyn, for defaute of undurstondyng they toke ofte tymes grete hurt and hyndraunce; and, what for defaute of trewe lernyd men that all tymes be not redy hem to teche and counsayl, and feere also and drede to shewe her euydence opynly (that oftyntyme hath causyd repentaunce). Hyt wer ryht necessary, as hyt semyth to the undyrstondyng of suche relygyous women, that they myght haue, out of her latyn bokys, sum wrytynge in her modyr tonge, wher-by they might haue bettyr knowlyge of her munymentys and more clerely yeue informacyon to her serauntys, rent gedurarys, and receyuowrs, in the absent of her lernyd councell. Wher-fore, a poore brodur and welwyller ... to the goode Abbas of Godstowe, Dame Alice henley, and to all her couent, the whych byn for the more party in Englyssh bokys well y-lernyd, hertyly desyryng the worship, profyt and welfare of that deuoute place, that, for lak of vndurstondyng her munymentys sholde in no damage of her lyflod huraftur fallyn, In the worship of our lady and seynt John Baptist patron of thys seyd monastery, the sentence for the more partyre of her munymentys conteynd in the boke of her regystr in latyn, aftyr the same forme and ordyr of the seyd boke, hath purposyd with goddys grace to make, aftur hys conceyt, fro latyn into Englyssh, sentencyosly, as foloweth thys symple translacion[851]. It will be noticed that the benevolent translator of this Godstow register says that the nuns are for the most part well learned in English books. The same impression is given by the translations which were made for the nuns of Syon. The most famous of these is the _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, written for the nuns by Thomas Gascoigne (1403-58) and first printed in 1530. This book contains a devotional treatise on divine service, with a translation and explanation of the "Hours" and "Masses" of our Lady, as they were used at Syon. The author explains his purpose thus: Forasmoche as many of you, though ye can synge and rede, yet ye can not se what the meanynge therof ys; therefore to the onely worshyp and praysyng of oure lorde Jesu chryste and of hys moste mercyfull mother oure lady and to the gostly comforte and profyte of youre soules, I haue drawen youre legende and all youre seruyce in to Englyshe, that ye shulde se by the vnderstondyng therof, how worthy and holy praysynge of oure gloryous Lady is contente therin & the more deuoutely and knowyngly synge yt & rede yt and say yt to her worshyp. He adds that he has explained the various parts of the divine service for "symple soulles to vnderstonde," but that he has translated few psalms, "for ye may haue them of Rycharde hampoules drawynge, and out of Englysshe bibles, if ye haue lysence therto"[852]. From a passage in the _Myroure_ it appears that the sisters were accustomed to spend some of their time in reading and advice is given to them as to the sort of books to read and the way in which to profit by them; from this it is quite clear that secular learning had no place among them, their reading being confined to works of ghostly edification[853]. It was their ignorance of Latin which caused the insertion of English rubrics in the Latin _Processionale_ of the house and which inspired Richard Whytford, one of the brothers, to translate the splendid _Martilogium_, which is now in the British Museum, "for the edificacyon of certayn religyous persones unlerned that dayly dyd rede the same martiloge in Latyn, not understandynge what they redde"; his translation was printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1526[854]. Gascoigne's mention of English bibles is interesting. Miss Deanesly, in her study of _The Lollard Bible_, has shown that "it is likely that English nuns were the most numerous orthodox users of English bibles between 1408 and 1526," but that the evidence for this use is slight and drawn almost entirely from Syon and Barking, two large and important houses[855]. Her conclusion is that it was not the case that the best instructed nuns used Latin Bibles and the most ignorant English ones: but that the best instructed nuns were allowed to use English translations, perhaps by themselves, perhaps to help in the understanding of the Vulgate, while the smaller nunneries and least instructed nuns almost certainly did not have them at all. This goes to confirm the conclusion that even in the greatest houses, where the nuns were drawn from the highest social classes and might be supposed to be best educated, the knowledge of Latin was dying out. Other occupations besides reading filled the working hours of the nuns and of these spinning and needlework were the most important. Most women in the middle ages possessed the art of spinning and Aubrey's Old Jacques may have remembered aright how "he saw from his house the nuns of the priory (Kington St Michael) come forth into the nymph-hay with their rocks and wheels to spin," though his memory misled him sorely as to the number of these ladies. Sometimes a visitation report gives us a glimpse of the nuns at work: at Easebourne in 1441 the nuns say that the Prioress "compels her sisters to work continually like hired workwomen and they receive nothing whatever for their own use from their work, but the prioress takes the whole profit"[856] and at Catesby in the following year a young nun complains that the Prioress "setts her to make beds, to sewing and spinning and other tasks"[857]. Nevertheless it does not seem that the nuns were in the habit of spinning the wool and flax for their own and their servants' clothes and account rolls often contain payments made to hired spinsters, as well as to fullers and weavers. It is more probable that they busied themselves with needlework and embroidery, which were the usual occupations of ladies of gentle birth[858]. Very few traces have unfortunately survived of the work of English nuns. In earlier centuries English needlework had been famous and the nuns had been pre-eminent in the making of richly embroidered vestments. In the thirteenth century, too, English embroidery far surpassed that made in other countries and it has been conjectured that "the most famous embroidered vestments now preserved in various places in Italy are the handiwork of English embroiderers between 1250 and 1300 though their authorship is not as a rule recognised by their present possessors"[859]. Some of these may have been made by nuns; it is thought that the famous Syon cope, for long in the possession of the nuns of Syon, may have been made in a thirteenth century convent in the neighbourhood of Coventry; but such examples of medieval embroidery as have survived usually bear no trace of their origin; since a vestment cannot be signed like a book and it must be remembered that there was a large class of professional "embroideresses" in the country. Some, however, of the splendid vestments and altar cloths possessed by the richer nunneries were probably the work of the nuns. At Langley in 1485 there were, among other rich pieces of embroidery iiij fronteys (altar frontals) of grene damaske powdered with swanys and egyls, ... iiij fronteys of blake powdered with swanys and rosys, ... a vestment of blew silke brodyt complete with all yt longyth to hyt, a vestment of grene velwett complete with a crucifixe of silver and gylte apon ye amys, a complete vestiment of red velwet, a vestiment of swede (sewed) work complete, a vestiment of blake damaske brodyrt with rosys and sterys, a complete vestiment of white brodyrte with rede trewlyps (_true-love knots_), ... j gret cloth (banner) of rede powderyd with herts heds and boturfleys ... a large coverlet of red and blew with rosys and crossys, a tapett of ye same; j large coverlett of rede and yowlowe with flowrs de luce, a tapett of ye same; a large coverlett of blew and better blew with swanys and coks, a tapett of ye same; a coverlett of grene and yowlowe with borys and draguyns, a tapett of ye same; ... a coverlett of ostrych fydyrs and crounyd Emmys (_monogram of the Blessed Virgin Mary_); a coverlet of grene and yowlowe with vynys and rosys; a coverlet of grene and yowlowe with lylys and swannys; a coverlet of blew and white whyl knotts (_wheel knots_) and rosys; a coverlet of red and white with traylest (_trellis_) and Bryds; a coverlet of red and blew with sterrys and white rosys in mydste; a coverlet of yowlowe and grene with egyles and emmys; v coveryngs of bedds, yat hys to sey A coveryng of red saye, a coveryng of panes (_stripes_) of red and grene and white saye, a coveryng of red and blake saye, a coveryng of red and blew poudyrd with white esses and sterys, a blew saye with a red dragne[860]. Many of these embroideries and tapestries were doubtless legacies or gifts; but it is impossible not to picture the white fingers of the nuns at work on swans and roses, harts' heads and butterflies, stars and true-love knots. One may deduce that the nuns of Yorkshire, at least, busied themselves in these pursuits from an injunction sent to Nunkeeling, Yedingham and Wykeham in 1314 that no nun should absent herself from divine service "on account of being occupied with silk work" (_propter occupacionem operis de serico_)[861]. Reference to the sale of embroidery by nuns is surprisingly rare in account rolls. The household roll of the Countess of Leicester in 1265 contains an item, "Paid to the nuns of Wintney, for one cope to be made for the use of Brother J. Angelus by the gift of the Countess at Panham 10_d._"[862], which small sum must have been a part payment in advance, perhaps towards the purchase of materials; the nuns of Gracedieu, too, sold a cope to a neighbouring rector for £10, early in the fifteenth century[863], and on one occasion the cellaress of Barking derived a part of her income for the year from the sale of a cope[864], but search has revealed no further instances. The nuns also probably made little presents for their friends, such as purses (though the Gracedieu nuns always bought the purses which they gave to their bailiff, to Lady Beaumont, or to other visitors) and the so-called "blood-bands." In an age when bleeding was the most common treatment for almost every illness and when monks, in particular, were regularly bled several times a year, these little bandages were common presents, being sometimes made of silk. The author of the _Ancren Riwle_ thus bade his anchoresses "make no purses to gain friends therewith, not blodbendes of silk, but shape and sew and mend church vestments and poor people's clothes"[865]. The nuns of the diocese of Rouen in the mid-thirteenth century were accustomed to knit or embroider silken purses, tassels, cushions or needlecases for sale or as gifts, and Archbishop Eudes Rigaud was continually forbidding them to do any silk work except for church ornament[866]. There is some reason to think that the nuns, then as now, sometimes eked out their income by doing fine needlework for ladies of the world, though there is no mention of it in nunnery accounts, or indeed in any English records. Among the correspondence of Lady Lisle in the first half of the sixteenth century, however, are several letters to and from a certain Antoinette de Favences at Dunkirk, who would appear to have been a nun, for she signs herself _sister_ Antoinette de Favences and is addressed by Lady Lisle as _Madame_ and _Dame_. This woman was employed to make caps and coifs for Lady Lisle's family and friends and there is much correspondence between them as to night-caps which are too wide, lozenge-work and such matters; in one letter Lady Lisle speaks of sending "16 rozimbos and 2 half angels of Flanders, a Carolus of gold," in payment for the caps[867]. What other accomplishments the nuns may have possessed we do not know. They were possibly skilled in herbs and in the more simple forms of home medicine and surgery, for it was the function of the lady of the manor to know something of these things, though doctors were available (for nuns as well as for lay folk) in more serious illnesses[868]. They doubtless bled each other as did the monks, else how was the wicked Prioress of Kirklees, who slew Robin Hood, so skilled?: Doun then came Dame Priorèss Doun she came in that ilk, With a pair of blood-irons in her hand, Were wrappèd all in silk.... She laid the blood-irons to Robin's vein Alack the more pitye! And pierc'd the vein and let out the blood That full red was to see. There is an occasional brief reference to the recreation of nuns in their "seynys" in visitations[869], but the precaution was less necessary and less frequent than it was in houses of monks[870]. No doubt, also, the nuns sometimes nursed their boarders, some of whom must have been old and ailing; wills are occasionally dated from nunneries[871]. The nuns of Romsey had a hospital attached to the house, in which were received as sisters any parents and relatives of the nuns, who were poor and ill[872], but this does not prove that the nuns nursed them, and references in visitation reports show that even sick nuns were often looked after by lay servants in the infirmary, or if permanently disabled, occupied a separate room, with a separate maid to attend them. It is not likely that the nuns left their convents, save very occasionally, to undertake sick-nursing; this would have been against the spirit of their rule, for their main business was not (as was that of the sisters who looked after spitals) to care for the sick, but to live enclosed in their houses, following the prescribed round of church services. It is however of interest that the will of Sir Roger Salwayn, knight of York (1420) contains this legacy: "Also I will that the Nunne that kepid me in my seknes haue ij nobles, and that ther be gif into the hous that she wonnes in xxs, for to syng and pray for me"[873]. Nuns may have emerged sometimes to nurse friends and relatives, whose sick-beds they were always allowed to attend; but there is no documentary evidence for the belief of modern writers, who would fain turn the nun into a district visitor, smoothing the pillows of all who ailed in her native village. These then were the educational attainments of the English nuns in the later middle ages: reading and singing the services of the church, sometimes but not always writing, Latin very rarely after the thirteenth century, French very rarely after the fourteenth century; needlework and embroidery; and perhaps that elementary knowledge of physic, which was the possession of most ladies of their class. It was, in fact, very little more than the education possessed by laywomen of the same social rank outside and there is little trace of anything approaching scholarship. The study of the education of the nuns during this period leads naturally to one of the most vexed questions in the field of monastic history, the extent to which the nunneries acted as girls' schools. There is no doubt that every nunnery was prepared to educate young girls who entered in order to take the veil; if the nunnery were fairly large these _scolae internae_ probably included several novices at a time. At Ankerwyke in 1441 three young nuns complained that they had no governess to instruct them in "reading, song and religious observance," and mention is made of three other sisters "of tender age and slender discretion, seeing that the eldest of them is not more than thirteen years of age"; the Bishop appointed a nun to be their teacher, "enjoining her to perform the charge laid upon her and to instruct them in good manners"[874]. Similarly at Thetford, where there were three novices in 1526, the Bishop found "non habent eruditricem"[875]. At the larger houses, such as Romsey, the _magistra noviciarum_ was a regular obedientiary[876]. [Illustration: PLATE V PAGE FROM _LA SAINTE ABBAYE_ (In the bottom left hand corner the mistress of the novices, with birch in hand, is instructing two young novices; in the bottom right hand corner the abbess and a nun are at prayer.)] The vexed question, however, does not concern these schools for novices. It has been the custom, not only of writers on monasticism but also of the man in the street, to assume that the nunneries were almost solely responsible for the education of girls in the middle ages. There was little evidence for the assumption, but it was always made, and until the combined attack made upon it in 1910 by Mr Coulton and Mr Leach it was unchallenged[877]. With the publication of bishops' registers, however, we have something more definite to go upon and it is now possible to come to some sort of conclusion, based on the evidence of visitation injunctions, account rolls and other miscellaneous sources. This conclusion may be summarised as follows. It was a fairly general custom among the English nuns, in the two and a half centuries before the Dissolution, to receive children for education. But there are four limitations, within which and only within which, this conclusion is true. _First_, that by no means all nunneries took children and those which did take them seldom had large schools; _secondly_, that the children who thus received a convent education were drawn exclusively from the upper and the wealthy middle classes, from people, that is to say, of birth and wealth; _thirdly_, that the practice was a purely financial expedient on the part of the nuns, at first forbidden, afterwards restricted and always frowned upon by the bishops, who regarded it as subversive of discipline; and _fourthly_, that the education which the children received from the nuns, so far as book-learning as distinct from nurture is concerned, was extremely exiguous. In fine, though nunneries did act as girls' schools, they certainly did not educate more than a small proportion even of the children of the upper classes, and the education which they gave them was limited by their own limitations[878]. That the custom of receiving schoolgirls was fairly general appears from the wide area over which notices of such children are spread. The references range in date from 1282 to 1537; they give us, if a doubtful reference to King's Mead, Derby, be accepted, the names of forty-nine convents, which at one time or other had children in residence. These convents are situated in twenty-one counties. The greater number of references naturally occur in those dioceses for which the episcopal registers are most complete; Yorkshire affords fifteen names and two which are doubtful; Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire, Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire, Oxfordshire, Hertfordshire and Leicestershire, counties in the large Lincoln diocese, afford seventeen between them, five from Lincolnshire and two from each of the others. These references do not prove that the houses in question had continuously throughout their career a school for girls; sometimes only one or two children are mentioned and usually the evidence concerns but a single year out of two and a half centuries. Sometimes, however, a happy chance has preserved several references to the same house, spread over a longer period, from which it is perhaps not too rash to conclude that it was the regular practice of that house to receive children. For Elstow, for instance, there is an early reference to a boy of five sent there for education by St Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, towards the close of the twelfth century. In 1359 Bishop Gynewell prohibited all boarders there, except girls under ten and boys under six. In 1421 Bishop Flemyng prohibited all except children under twelve and in 1432 Bishop Gray altered this to girls under fourteen and boys under ten, and children are mentioned at Alnwick's visitation in 1442. Similarly at Godstow there are references to children in 1358, 1445 and 1538, at Esholt in Yorkshire in 1315, 1318 and 1537, at Sopwell in 1446 and 1537, at Heynings in 1347, 1387 and 1393, at Burnham in 1434 and 1519. The mention of boys in these references needs perhaps some further emphasis, for it is not usually recognised that the nunneries occasionally acted as dame-schools for very young boys. "Abstinence the abbesse myn a.b.c. me taughte," says Piers Plowman, "And conscience com aftur and kennide me betere." It is true that a Cistercian statute of 1256-7 forbade the education of boys in nunneries of that order[879], but the ordinance soon became a dead letter, and five of the convents at which Alnwick found schoolboys (c. 1445) were Cistercian houses. Boys were specifically forbidden at Wherwell in 1284, at Heynings in 1359 and at Nuncoton in 1531, which argues that they were then present, and they are mentioned at Romsey (1311), at five Yorkshire convents (1314-17), at Burnham (1434), at Lymbrook (1437), at Swaffham Bulbeck (1483) and at Redlingfield (1514), a chronologically and geographically wide range of houses. Occasionally some details as to a particular boy may be gleaned; the five year old Robert de Noyon, sent by Bishop Hugh to Elstow "to be taught his letters," the two Tudor boys commended to Katharine de la Pole, the noble Abbess of Barking; the little son and heir of Sir John Stanley, who made his will in 1527 and then became a monk, leaving the boy to be brought up until twelve years of age by another Abbess of Barking, after which he was to pass to the care of the Abbot of Westminster; and Cromwell's son Gregory and his little companion, sent to be supervised, though not taught by Margaret Vernon, Prioress of Little Marlow[880]. But as a rule the boys in nunneries were very young; it was not considered decorous for them to stay with the nuns later than their ninth or tenth year; the bishop forbade it and besides, the education which the good sisters could give them would not have been considered sufficient. The rule which gives a man child to a man for education is of very old standing. Such is the evidence for concluding that the custom of receiving children for education in nunneries was widespread. It remains to consider carefully the limitations within which this conclusion is true. In the first place, not all nunneries received children. It is obviously impossible, considering the gaps in our evidence, to attempt an exact estimate of the proportion which did so. Some sort of clue may be obtained by an analysis of the Yorkshire visitations of Archbishops Greenfield and Melton at the beginning of the fourteenth century (1306-20) and of Alnwick's Lincoln visitations (1440-5). The Yorkshire evidence is rather scanty, being based on the summaries of injunctions, which are given in the _Victoria County Histories_, and any statistics must needs be approximate only. The two archbishops between them visited nineteen nunneries and mention of children is made at twelve, i.e. about two-thirds. The information given by the invaluable Alnwick is more exact. From the _detecta_ of some of the nuns and from the number of prohibitions of this practice, it is obvious that Alnwick was accustomed to ask at his visitations whether children were sleeping in the nuns' dorter; he also made careful inquiry as to the boarders. The probability, therefore, is that we have in his register an exact record of those houses in which children were received. Analysis shows that of the twenty houses which he visited he found children, often boys as well as girls, at twelve, i.e. a little over two-thirds, which is substantially the same result as was given by the Yorkshire analysis a century earlier. The estimate is interesting, but it cannot be considered conclusive without the corroborative evidence from other dioceses, which is unfortunately lacking. It is a hint, a straw, which shows which way the wind of research is blowing, for if it is unsafe to argue from silence that the nuns of other convents did take pupils, it is equally unsafe to argue that they did not. The fact is, however, clearly established that all nunneries did not take children; possibly about two-thirds of them did. The further fact has then to be recognised that even those nunneries had not necessarily what we should regard as a school for girls. Not only does it sometimes seem as though children were taken occasionally and intermittently, rather than regularly, but the numbers taken were rarely great. Sometimes we do hear of a house with a large number of pupils. At St Mary's Winchester in 1536 there were as many as twenty-six children, to twenty-six nuns; and at Polesworth in 1537 Henry VIII's commissioners state vaguely that "repayre and resort ys made to the gentlemens childern and studiounts that ther doo lif, to the nombre sometyme of xxx{ti} and sometyme xj{ti} and moo." There were fifteen nuns in the house at the time and it is likely that the number of children given is a pardonable exaggeration by local gentlemen who were interested in preserving the nunnery; but it seems undoubted that there was a comparatively large school there. At Stixwould, again, in 1440 there were about eighteen children to an equal number of nuns. These, however, are the largest schools of which we have record. At St Michael's Stamford in 1440 there were seven or eight children to twelve nuns, at Catesby in 1442 six or seven children to seven nuns. At Swaffham Bulbeck, where there were probably eight or nine nuns, there were nine children in 1483. These also are schools, though small schools. But at other houses there were only one or two children at a time. The accounts of the Prioress of St Helen's Bishopsgate in 1298 mention only two children, there were only two at Littlemore in 1445 and two at Sopwell at the time of the Dissolution. It must be remembered that many nunneries were themselves very small and their inmates could not have looked after a large number of children. The examples quoted above suggest that the number of children hardly ever exceeded the number of nuns. To what conclusion are we driven when we find that a possible two-thirds of the convents of England received children and that the largest school of which we have record numbered only twenty-six children (or thirty if we take the higher and less probable figure for Polesworth), while most had far fewer? Surely to represent a majority of girls, or even a majority of girls of gentle birth, as having received their nurture in convents, would be on the evidence absurd. The second limitation of convent education in medieval England is contained in the words "girls of gentle birth." Tanner's statement that "the lower rank of people, who could not pay for their learning"[881], as well as noblemen's and gentlemen's daughters, were educated in nunneries has not a shred of evidence to support it, though it has been repeated _ad nauseam_ ever since he wrote it. Every scrap of evidence which has come down to us goes to prove that the girls educated in nunneries were of gentle birth, daughters of great lords, or more often daughters of country gentlemen, or of those comfortable and substantial merchants and burgesses, who were usually themselves sprung from younger sons of the gentry. The implication is plain in Chaucer's description, in _The Reves Tale_, of the Miller's wife, who was "y-comen of noble kin" and daughter of the parson of the toun, and who "was y-fostred in a nonnerye": Ther dorste no wight clepen hir but "dame" ... And eek, for she was somdel smoterlich She was as digne as water in a dich; And ful of hoker and of bisemare. Her thoughte that a lady sholde hir spare, What for hir kinrede and hir nortelrye That she had lerned in the nonnerye. An analysis of some of the schoolgirls whose names have come down to us confirms this impression. The commissioners who visited St Mary's, Winchester, in 1536 drew up a list of the twenty-six "chyldren of lordys, knyghttes and gentylmen brought up yn the saym monastery." They were Bryget Plantagenet, dowghter unto the lord vycounte Lysley (i.e. Lisle); Mary Pole, dowghter unto Sir Geffrey Pole knyght; Brygget Coppeley, dowghter unto Sir Roger Coppeley knyght; Elizabeth Phyllpot, dowghter unto Sir Peter Phyllpot, knyght; Margery Tyrell; Adrian Tyrell; Johanne Barnabe; Amy Dyngley; Elizabeth Dyngley; Jane Dyngley; Frances Dyngley; Susan Tycheborne; Elizabeth Tycheborne; Mary Justyce; Agnes Aylmer; Emma Bartue; Myldred Clerke; Anne Lacy; Isold Apulgate; Elizabeth Legh; Mary Legh; Alienor North; Johanne Sturgys; Johanne Ffyldes; Johanne Ffrances; Jane Raynysford. The house was evidently at this time a fashionable seminary for young ladies. It must be remembered that it was a general custom among the English nobility and gentry to send their children away to the household of a lord, or person of good social standing, in order to learn breeding and it was not uncommon to send boys to the household of an abbot. In 1450 Thomas Bromele, Abbot of Hyde, thus entertained in his house eight "gentiles pueri," there were many "pueri generosi" at Westacre in 1494, and Richard Whiting, the last Abbot of Glastonbury, is stated by Parsons to have had, among his 300 servants, "multos nobilium filios"[882]. It was doubtless much in the same way that the children of lords, knights and gentlemen were put in the charge of the Abbess of St Mary's Winchester, a great lady, who had her own "gentlewoman" to attend upon her and her own private household. It is probable that the nuns taught these children, but the boys who went as wards to abbeys seem often to have taken their tutors with them, or at least to have been taught by special tutors. At Lilleshall, for instance, the commissioners found four "gentylmens sons and their scolemaster"[883] and it is significant that when little Gregory Cromwell was sent to be brought up by Margaret Vernon, Prioress of Little Marlow, he was taught by a private tutor and not by the nun. Other references to the children received in nunneries confirms the impression that they were of gentle birth. At Polesworth, as at St Mary's, Winchester, the commissioners specified "gentylmens childern and studiounts." At Thetford a daughter of John Jerves, _generosus_, is mentioned in 1532 and two daughters of Laurens Knight, _gentleman_, were at Cornworthy, c. 1470. The accounts of Sopwell in 1446 mention the daughter of Lady Anne Norbery; at Littlemore in 1445 the daughter of John FitzAleyn, steward of the house, and the daughter of Ingelram Warland are boarders. Among the Carrow boarders, who may be set down as children, are the son and two daughters of Sir Roger Wellisham, the daughter of Sir Robert de Wachesam, a niece of William Bateman, Bishop of Norwich, and girls with such well-known names as Fastolf, Clere, Baret, Blickling, Shelton and Ferrers, though the last two may be adult boarders. The Gracedieu boarders nearly all bear the names of neighbouring gentry and one was the daughter of Lord Beaumont. In the course of time, as the urban middle class grew and flourished, the daughters of the well-to-do _bourgeoisie_ were sometimes sent to convents for their education. Thus among the Carrow boarders we find a daughter of John de Erlham, a merchant and citizen of Norwich, and Isabel Barber, daughter of Thomas Welan, barber, who afterwards, however, became a nun. It is plain from the wills which have been preserved that the wealthy Norwich burgesses were in the habit of sending their daughters as nuns to Carrow, and it is a natural supposition that they should have sent them sometimes as schoolgirls; but by birth and by wealth these city magnates were not far removed from the neighbouring gentry. The school at Swaffham Bulbeck in 1483 was less fashionable than that at Carrow and did not cater for the nobly born; it was a small house and the names of the children suggest a sound middle class establishment, perhaps the very one in which Chaucer's Miller's wife of Trumpington was educated, full of the sons and daughters of the burgesses of Cambridge, Richard Potecary of Cambridge, William Water, Thomas Roch, unnamed fathers "of Cambridge," "of Chesterton," Parker "of Walden," and "the merchant." None of these examples can possibly be twisted into a case for the free, or even the cheap, education of the poor. Just as we never find low-born girls as nuns, so we never find them as schoolgirls and for the same reason; "dowerless maidens," as Mr Leach says, "were not sought as nuns." As will be seen hereafter, the reception of school children was essentially a financial expedient; one of the many methods by which the nuns sought to raise the wind[884]. The fees paid by these children are recorded here and there, in nunnery accounts; education was apparently thrown in with board, and the usual rate for board for children during the century and a half before the Dissolution seems to have been about 6_d._ a week, though the charge at Cornworthy c. 1470 was 10_d._ a week and at Littlemore in 1445 only 4_d._ a week[885]. Occasionally the good nuns suffered, like so many schoolmistresses since their day, from the difficulty of extracting fees. Among the debts owing to the nuns of Esholt at the Dissolution was one of 33_s._ from Walter Wood of Timble in the parish of Otley for his child's board for a year and a half; and at Thetford in 1532 the poor nuns complained that "John Jerves, gentleman, has a daughter being nurtured in the priory and pays nothing." The most melancholy case of all has been preserved to us owing to the fact that the nuns, goaded to desperation, sought help from the Chancellor. About 1470 Thomasyn Dynham, Prioress of Cornworthy, made petition to the effect that Laurens Knyghte, gentleman, had agreed with Margaret Wortham the late Prioress, that she should take his two daughters "to teche them to scole," viz. Elizabeth, aged seven years, and "Jahne," aged ten years, at the costs and charges of Laurens, who was to pay 20_d._ a week for them. So at Cornworthy they remained during the life of Margaret, to the great costs and charges and impoverishing of the said poor place, by the space of five years and more, until the money due amounted to £21. 13_s._ 4_d._, "the which sum is not contented ne paid, nor noo peny thereof." Laurense meanwhile departed this life, leaving his wife "Jahne" executrix, and Jahne, unnatural mother that she was, married again a certain John Barnehous and utterly refused to pay for her unhappy daughters. One is uncertain which to pity most, Thomasyn Dynham, a new Prioress left with this incubus on her hands, or Elizabeth and Jane Knyghte, trying hard to restrain their appetites and not to grow out of their clothes under her justly incensed regard. Jane was by now grown up and marriageable according to the standards of the time and it is tantalising not to know the end of the dilemma. A proneness to forget fees seems to have been shared by greater folk than Mistress Knyghte, as the petition of Katherine de la Pole, Abbess of Barking, concerning Edmond and Jasper Tudor, whose "charges, costs and expenses" she had taken upon herself, will show. Both this matter of fees and the names of schoolgirls which have survived are against any suggestion that the nuns gave schooling to poor girls. There is not the slightest evidence for anything like a day school, and the only hint for any care for village girls on the part of the nuns is contained in a letter from Cranmer, when fellow of Jesus College, to the Abbess of Godstow: Stephen Whyte hath told me that you lately gathered round you a number of wild peasant maids and did make them a most goodly discourse on the health of their souls; and you showeth them how goodly a thing it be for them to go oftentimes to confession. I am mighty glad of your discourse[886]. But this is obviously an isolated discourse and in any case it has nothing to do with education. So far as it is possible to be certain of anything for which evidence is scanty, we may be certain that poor or lower-class girls were no more received in nunneries for education, than they were received there as nuns. No single instance has ever been brought of a lowborn nun or a lowborn schoolgirl, in any English nunnery, for the three centuries before the nunneries were dissolved. The third limitation to which convent education was subjected is an important one; the reception of children by the nuns was never approved and always restricted by their ecclesiastical superiors. The greater number of references to schoolchildren which have come down to us are these restrictive references. The attitude of monastic visitors towards children was in essence the same as their attitude towards boarders. The nuns received both, because they were nearly always in low water financially and wished to add to their scanty finances by the familiar expedient of taking paying guests. But the bishops saw in all boarders, whether adults or schoolchildren, a hindrance to discipline; they objected to them for the same reason that they objected to pet dogs and silver girdles and with just as little success. The ecclesiastical case against schoolchildren may be found delightfully set forth in the words addressed, it is true, to anchoresses, but expressing the same spirit as was afterwards shown by Eudes Rigaud, Johann Busch and other great medieval visitors towards nuns. Aelred, the great twelfth century Abbot of Rievaulx, writes thus: Allow no boys or girls to have access to you. There are certain anchoresses, who are busied in teaching pupils and turn their chambers into a school. The mistress sits at the window, the child in the cloister. She looks at each of them; and, during their puerile actions, now is angry, now laughs, now threatens, now soothes, now spares, now kisses, now calls the weeping child to be beaten, then strokes her face, bids her hold up her head, and eagerly embracing her, calls her her child, her love[887]. Similarly the author of the _Ancren Riwle_ warns his three anchoresses: An anchoress must not become a schoolmistress, nor turn her anchoress-house into a school for children. Her maiden may, however, teach any little girl, concerning whom it might be doubtful whether she should learn among boys, but an anchoress ought to give her thoughts to God only[888]. The gist of the matter was that the children constituted a hindrance to claustral discipline and devotion. It is plain, however, that in this, as in so many other matters, the reformers were only "beating the air" in vain with their restrictions. Sympathy must be with the needy nuns, for even if discipline were weakened thereby, the reception of children was in itself a very harmless, not to say laudable expedient; and so the neighbouring gentry as well as the nuns considered it. An analysis of the attitude of medieval visitors to schoolchildren shows us the usual attempt to limit what it was beyond their power to prohibit. Eudes Rigaud, the great Archbishop of Rouen, habitually removed all the girls and boys whom he found in the houses of his diocese, when he visited them during the years 1249 to 1269. But in England, at least, the nuns very soon became too strong for the bishops, who gradually adopted the policy of fixing an age limit beyond which no children might remain in a nunnery and sometimes of requiring their own licence to be given before the boys and girls were admitted. Since the danger of secularisation could not be removed, it was at least reduced to a minimum, by ensuring that only very young boys and only girls, who had not yet attained a marriageable age, should be received. The age limit varied a little with different visitors and different houses. In the Yorkshire diocese early in the fourteenth century the age limit was twelve for girls; boys are rarely mentioned, but at Hampole in 1314 the nuns were forbidden to permit male children over five to be in the house, as the bishop finds has been the practice. Bishop Gynewell in 1359 allowed girls up to ten and boys up to six at Elstow, but forbade boys altogether at Heynings. Bishop Gray allowed girls under fourteen and boys under eight at Burnham in 1434 and Bishop Stretton in 1367 allowed boys up to seven at Fairwell. The age limit tended, it will be seen, to become higher in the course of time; Alnwick writing to Gracedieu in 1440, forbade all boarders "save childerne, males the ix and females the xiiij yere of age, whom we licencede you to hafe for your relefe"[889]; he allowed boys often at Heynings and Catesby and boys of eleven (an exceptionally high age) at Harrold. There was a special reason, besides the general interference with discipline, for which the bishops objected to children in nunneries. It seems very often to have been the custom for the nuns to take, as it were, private pupils, each child having its own particular mistress. This custom grew as the practice of keeping separate households grew. Thus at Catesby the Prioress complained to Alnwick that sister Agnes Allesley had "six or seven young folk of both sexes, that do lie in the dorter"; at St Michael's Stamford, he found that the Prioress had seven or eight children, at Gracedieu the cellaress had a little boy and at Elstow, where there were five households of nuns, it was said that "certain nuns" brought children into the quire. In fact, the nuns would appear to have kept for their own personal use the money paid to them for the board of their private pupils. This was a sin against the monastic rule of personal poverty and the bishops took special measures against such manifestations of _proprietas_. William of Wykeham in 1387 forbids the nuns of Romsey to make wills and to have private rooms or private pupils, giving this specific reason, and at St Helen's Bishopsgate in 1439 Dean Kentwode enjoined "that no nonne have ne receyve noo schuldrin wyth hem ... but yf that the profite of the comonys turne to the vayle of the same howse." Similarly the number of children who might be taken by a single nun was sometimes limited; Gynewell wrote to Godstow in 1358 "that no lady of the said house is to have children, save only two or three females sojourning with them" and at Fairwell in 1367 no nun might keep with her for education more than one child. Another habit against which bishops constantly legislated was that of having the children to sleep in the dorter with the nuns. This practice was exceedingly common, for many of the nunneries which took children were small and poor; they had possibly no other room to set aside for them, and no person who could suitably be placed in charge of them. Moreover in some cases adult boarders and servants also slept in the dorter. Alnwick was constantly having to bid his nuns "that ye suffre ne seculere persones, wymmen ne children lyg by nyghte in the dormytory," but Atwater and Longland in the sixteenth century still have to make the same injunction. Bokyngham in 1387 ordered that a seemly place outside the cloister should be set apart for the children at Heynings; the reason was that (as Gynewell had expressly stated on visiting this house forty years before) "the convent might not be disturbed." Indeed little attempt was made by the nuns to keep the children out of their way. They seem to have dined in the refectory, when not in the separate rooms of their mistresses, for Greenfield forbids the Prioress and Subprioress of Sinningthwaite (1315) to permit boys or girls to eat flesh meat in Advent or Sexagesima, or during Lent eggs or cheese, in the refectory, "contrary to the honesty of religion," but at those seasons when they ought to eat such things, they were to be assigned other places in which to eat them. There are references, too, to disturbances and diversions created by the children in the quire. At Elstow in 1442 Dame Rose Waldegrave said that "certain nuns do sometimes have with them in time of mass the boys whom they teach and these do make a noise in quire during divine service"[890]. To us the picture of these merry children breaking the monotony of convent routine is an attractive one; more attractive even than the pet dogs and the Vert-Verts. But to stern ecclesiastical disciplinarians it was not so attractive, and their constant restriction, though it never succeeded in turning out the children, must have kept down the number who were admitted. The evidence which has so far been considered shows that, though the reception of children to be boarded and taught in nunneries was fairly common, it was subjected to well marked limitations. There remains to be considered one more question the answer to which is in some sort a limitation likewise. What exactly did the nuns teach these children? We are hampered in answering this question by the difficulty of obtaining exact contemporary evidence. Most modern English writers content themselves with a glib list of accomplishments, copied without verification from book to book, and all apparently traceable in the last resort to Fuller and John Aubrey, the one writing a century, the other almost a century and a half after the nunneries had been dissolved. Fuller (whom Tanner copies) says: Nunneries also were good Shee-schools, wherein the girles and maids of the neighbourhood were taught to read and work; and sometimes a little Latine was taught them therein. Yea, give me leave to say, if such Feminine Foundations had still continued ... haply the weaker sex (besides the avoiding modern inconveniences) might be heightened to a higher perfection than hitherto hath been obtained[891]. Aubrey, speaking of Wiltshire convents says: There the young maids were brought up ... at the nunneries, where they had examples of piety, and humility, and modesty, and obedience to imitate, and to practise. Here they learned needle-work, the art of confectionary, surgery (for anciently there were no apothecaries or surgeons--the gentlewomen did cure their poor neighbours: their hands are now too fine), physic, writing, drawing etc.[892] One would have thought the familiar note of the _laudator temporis acti_ to be plainly audible in both these extracts. But a host of modern writers have gravely transcribed their words and even, taking advantage no doubt of Aubrey's "etc." (much virtue in etc.), improved upon them. In the work of one more recent writer the list has become "reading, writing, some knowledge of arithmetic, the art of embroidery, music and French 'after the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,' were the recognised course of study, while the preparation of perfumes, balsams, simples and confectionary was among the more ordinary departments of the education afforded"[893]. Another adds a few more deft touches: "the treatment of various disorders, the compounding of simples, the binding up of wounds, ... fancy cookery, such as the making of sweetmeats, writing, drawing, needlework of all kinds and music, both vocal and instrumental"[894]. The most recent writer of all gives the list as "English and French ... writing, drawing, confectionary, singing by notes, dancing, and playing upon instruments of music, the study also of medicine and surgery"[895]. Though the historian must groan, the student of human nature cannot but smile to see music insinuate itself into the list and then become "both instrumental and vocal"; confectionery extend itself to include perfumes, balsams, simples, and the making of sweetmeats; arithmetic appear out of nowhere; and (most magnificent feat of the imagination) dancing trip in on light fantastic toe. From this compound of Aubrey, memories of continental convents in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and familiarity with the convent schools of our own day, let us turn to the considered opinion of a more sober scholar, who bases it only upon contemporary evidence: "No evidence whatever," says Mr Leach, "has been produced of what was taught in nunneries. That ... something must have been taught, if only to keep the children employed, is highly probable. That the teaching included learning the Lord's Prayer, etc. by heart may be conceded. Probably Fuller is right in guessing that it included reading; but it is only a guess. One would guess that it included sewing and spinning. As for its including Latin, no evidence is forthcoming and it is difficult to see how those who did not know Latin could teach it[896]." Direct evidence is therefore absolutely lacking; all we can do is to deduce probabilities from what we know of the education of the nuns themselves, and it must be conceded that this was not always of a very high order. It is quite certain, from the wording of some of the visitation injunctions, that the quality and extent of the teaching must have varied considerably from house to house. It was probably good (as the education of women then went) at the larger and more fashionable houses, mediocre at those which were small and struggling. Latin could not have been taught, because, as has already been pointed out, the nuns at this period did not know it themselves; but the children were probably taught the _Credo_, the _Ave_ and the _Pater Noster_ in Latin by rote. They may have been taught French of the school of Stratford atte Bowe, as long as that language was fashionable in the outside world and known to the nuns, but it died out of the convents after the end of the fourteenth century. It seems pretty certain that the children must have been taught to read. "Abstinence the abbesse myn a.b.c. me taughte," says Piers Plowman; the Abbess of St Mary's Winchester buys the matins books for little Bridget Plantagenet; and it will be remembered that the nuns of Godstow were said about 1460 (fifteen years after Alnwick visited the house and gave permission for children to be boarded there) to be "for the more party in Englyssh bokys well y-lernyd." Caesarius of Heisterbach has a delightful story, repeated thus in a fifteenth century _Alphabet of Tales_: Caesarius tellis how that in Freseland in a nonrie ther was ii little maydens that lernyd on the buke, and euer thai strafe whethur of thaim shulde lern mor than the toder. So the tane of thaim happened to fall seke and sho garte call the Priores vnto hur & sayd: "Gude ladie! suffre nott my felow to lern vnto I cover of my sekenes, and I sall pray my moder to gif me vj d & that I sall giff you & ye do so, ffor I drede that whils I am seke, that sho sall pas me in lernyng, & that I wolde not at sho did." And at this wurde the priores smylid & hadd grete mervayle of the damysell conseyte[897]. Whether girls were taught to write, as well as to read, is far more doubtful. It is probable that the nuns did not always possess this accomplishment themselves, nor did sober medieval opinion consider it wholly desirable that girls should know how to write, on account both of the general inferiority of their sex, and of a regrettable proclivity towards clandestine love letters[898]. Still, writing may sometimes have formed part of the curriculum; there is no evidence either way. For drawing (by which presumably the art of illumination must be meant) there is no warrant; a medieval nunnery was not a modern "finishing" school. So much for what may be called book learning. Let us now examine for a moment the other accomplishments with which nunnery-bred young ladies have been credited. We may, as Mr Leach suggests, make a guess at spinning and needlework, though here also there is no evidence for their being taught to schoolgirls. Jane Scroupe, into whose mouth Skelton puts his "Phyllyp Sparowe," was apparently being brought up at Carrow, and describes how she sewed the dead bird's likeness on her sampler, I toke my sampler ones, Of purpose, for the nones, To sowe with stytchis of sylke My sparow whyte as mylke. Confectionery does not seem very probable, for at this period the cooking for the convent was nearly always done by a hired male cook and not (as laid down in the Benedictine rule) by the nuns themselves, who were apt to complain if they had to prepare the meals. For "home medicine" there is absolutely no evidence, though all ladies of the day possessed some knowledge of simples and herb-medicines and the girls may equally well have learned it at home as among the nuns. It is probable that the children learned to sing, if the nuns took them into the quire; but for this there is no definite evidence, nor has any document been quoted to prove that they learned to play upon instruments of music. It is true that the flighty Dame Isabel Benet "did dance and play the lute" with the friars of Northampton[899] and that "a pair of organs" occurs twice in Dissolution inventories of nunneries[900], but an organ is hardly an instrument of secular music to be played by the daughter of the house in a manorial solar; and Dame Benet's escapade with the lute was a lapse from the strict path of virtue. Finally to suggest that the nuns taught dances verges upon absurdity. That they did sometimes dance is true, and grieved their visitors were to hear it[901]; but what Alnwick would have said to the suggestion that they solemnly engaged themselves to teach dancing to their young pupils is an amusing subject for contemplation. Evidence for everything except the prayers of the church and the art of reading is non-existent; we can but base our opinion upon conjecture and probability; and the probability for instrumental music is so slight as to be non-existent. If it be argued that gentlewomen were expected to possess these arts, it may be replied that the children whom we find at nunneries probably had opportunity to learn them at home, for they seem sometimes to have spent only a part of the year with the nuns. It is true that board is sometimes paid for the whole year, and that little Bridget Plantagenet stayed at St Mary's Winchester for two or three years, while her parents were absent in France; moreover we have already heard of poor Elizabeth and Jane Knyghte, left for over five years at Cornworthy. But an analysis of the Swaffham Bulbeck accounts shows that the children (if indeed they are children) stayed for the following periods during the year 1483, viz., two for forty weeks, one for thirty weeks, one for twenty-six weeks, two for twenty-two weeks, one for sixteen weeks, one for twelve weeks and one for six weeks. It is much more likely that girls were sent to the nuns for elementary schooling than for the acquirement of worldly accomplishments. As has already been pointed out, it is difficult to get any specific information as to the life led by the schoolchildren in nunneries. But by good fortune some letters written by an abbess shortly before the Dissolution have been preserved and give a pleasant picture of a little girl boarding in a nunnery. The correspondence in question took place between Elizabeth Shelley, Abbess of St Mary's Winchester, and Honor, Viscountess Lisle, concerning the latter's stepdaughter, the lady Bridget Plantagenet, who was one of the twenty-six aristocratic young ladies then at school in the nunnery[902]. Lord Lisle was an illegitimate son of Edward IV, and had been appointed Lord Deputy of Calais in 1533; and when he and his wife departed to take up the new office, they were at pains to find suitable homes for their younger children in England. A stepson of Lord Lisle's was boarded with the Abbot of Reading and his two younger daughters, the ladies Elizabeth and Bridget Plantagenet, were left, the one in charge of her half-brother, Sir John Dudley, and the other in that of the energetic Abbess of St Mary's Winchester. It must be admitted that the correspondence between the abbess and Lady Lisle shows a greater preoccupation with dress than with learning. The Lady Bridget grew like the grass in springtime; there was no keeping her in clothes. "After due recommendation," writes the abbess, "Pleaseth it your good ladyship to know that I have received your letter, dated the 4th day of February last past, by the which I do perceive your pleasure is to know how mistress Bridget your daughter doth, and what things she lacketh. Madam, thanks be to God, she is in good health, but I assure your ladyship she lacketh convenient apparel, for she hath neither whole gown nor kirtle, but the gown and kirtle that you sent her last. And also she hath not one good partlet to put upon her neck, nor but one good coif to put upon her head. Wherefore, I beseech your ladyship to send to her such apparel as she lacketh, as shortly as you may conveniently. Also the bringer of your letter shewed to me that your pleasure is to know how much money I received for mistress Bridget's board, and how long she hath been with me. Madam, she hath been with me a whole year ended the 8th day of July last past, and as many weeks as is between that day and the day of making this bill, which is thirty three weeks; and so she hath been with me a whole year and thirty three weeks, which is in all four score and five weeks. And I have received of mistress Katherine Mutton, 10_s._, and of Stephen Bedham, 20_s._; and I received the day of making this bill, of John Harrison, your servant, 40_s._; and so I have received in all, since she came to me, toward the payment for her board, 70_s._ Also, madam, I have laid out for her, for mending of her gowns and for two matins books, four pair of hosen, and four pairs of shoes, and other small things, 3_s._ 5_d._ And, good madam, any pleasure that I may do your ladyship and also my prayer, you shall be assured of, with the grace of Jesus, who preserve you and all yours in honour and health. Amen." But for the matins books, sandwiched uncomfortably between gowns and hosen, there is no clue here as to what the Lady Bridget was learning. The tenor of the next letter, written about seven months later, is the same, for still the noble little lady grew: "Mine singular and special good lady," writes the Abbess, "I heartily recommend me to your good ladyship; ascertaining you that I have received from your servant this summer a side of venison and two dozen and a half of pee-wits." (What flesh-days there must have been in the refectory!) "And whereas your ladyship do write that you sent me an ermine cape for your daughter, surely I see none; but the tawny velvet gown that you write of, I have received it. I have sent unto you, by the bringer of your letter, your daughter's black velvet gown; also I have caused kirtles to be made of her old gowns, according unto your writing; and the 10_s._ you sent is bestowed for her, and more, as it shall appear by a bill of reckoning which I have made of the same. And I trust she shall lack nothing that is necessary for her." Another letter shows that the wardrobe difficulty was no whit abated, but the Abbess dealt with it by the rather hard-hearted expedient of sending poor Bridget away on a visit to her father's steward at Soberton in Hampshire, in her outgrown clothes, in order that he might be moved to amend her state. Clearly it was not always easy to get what was requisite for a schoolgirl from a gay and busy mother, disporting herself across the sea: "This is to advertise your ladyship," says the Abbess, "Upon a fourteen or fifteen days before Michaelmas, mistress Waynam and mistress Fawkenor came to Winchester to see mistress Bridget Lisle, with whom came two of my lord's servants, and desired to have mistress Bridget to sir Anthony Windsor's to sport her for a week. And because she was out of apparel, that master Windsor might see her, I was the better content to let her go; and since that time she came no more at Winchester: Wherein I beseech your ladyship think no unkindness in me for my light sending of her: for if I had not esteemed her to have come again, she should not have come there at that time." The reason why lucky little Bridget was enjoying a holiday appears in a letter from the steward, Sir Anthony Windsor, to Lord Lisle, in which he not only takes a firm line over the dress problem (as the Abbess foresaw), but seems also to cast some aspersion upon the nunnery; the nuns, he evidently thought, had no idea how to feed a growing girl, or how to spoil her, as she ought to be spoiled: Also mistress Bridget recommendeth her to your good lordship, and also to my lady, beseeching you of your blessing. She is now at home with me, because I will provide for her apparel such things as shall be necessary, for she hath overgrown all that she ever hath, except such as she hath had of late: and I will keep her here still if it be your lordship's and my lady's pleasure that I shall so do, and she shall fare no worse that I do, for she is very spare and hath need of cherishing, and she shall lack nothing in learning, nor otherwise that my wife can do for her. Apparently she never went back to the nunnery, and a few years later it was dissolved: And when (s)he came to Saynte Marie's aisle Where nonnes were wont to praie, The vespers were songe, the shryne was gone, And the nonnes had passyd awaie. A word should perhaps be added as to the "piety and breeding," which Lady Bridget and other little schoolgirls learned from the nuns, for good sentimentalists of later days often looked back and regretted the loss of a training, presumably instinct with religion and morality. It is well nigh impossible to generalise in this matter, so greatly did convents differ from each other. St Mary's Winchester was of very good repute, and for this we have not only the testimony of the local gentlemen, who were commissioned to visit it by Henry VIII in 1536, but also of the visitation which was held by Dr Hede in 1501. Undoubtedly the aristocratic young ladies who went there did not lack the precept and example of pious and well bred mistresses. The statement of the commissioners at Polesworth that the children there were "right virtuously brought up" has often been quoted. So also has the plea of Robert Aske, who led the ill-fated Pilgrimage of Grace, by which the people of Yorkshire sought to bring back the old religion, and in particular the monastic houses; in the abbeys, he said, "all gentlemen (were) much succoured in their needs, with many their young sons there assisted and in nunneries their daughters brought up in virtue"[903]. Less well-known is the tribute of the reformer Thomas Becon (1512-67), the more striking in that he was a staunch Protestant, who had suffered for his faith. Although he refers in disparagement to the nunneries of his own day, his description of the relations between nuns and their pupils cannot be founded solely upon an imaginary golden age: "The young maids," he writes, "were not enforced to wear this or that apparel; to abstain from this or that kind of meats; to sing this or that service; to say so many prayers; to shave their heads; to vow chastity; and for ever to abide in their cloister unto their dying day. But contrariwise, they might wear what apparel they would, so that it were honest and seemly and such as becometh maidens that profess godliness. They might freely eat all kinds of meats according to the rule of the gospel, avoiding all excess and superfluity, yea, and that at all times. Their prayers were free and without compulsion, everyone praying when the Holy Ghost moved their hearts to pray; yea, and that such prayers as present necessity required, and that also not in a strange tongue, but in such language as they did right well understand. To shave their heads and to keep such-like superstitious observances as our nuns did in times past and yet do in the kingdom of the pope, they were not compelled. For all that they were commanded to do of their schoolmistresses and governesses was nothing else than the doctrine of the gospel and matters appertaining unto honest and civil manners; whom they most willingly obeyed. Moreover, it was lawful for them to go out of the cloister when they would, or when they were required of their friends; and also to marry when and with whom they would, so that it were in the Lord. And would God there were some consideration of this matter had among the rulers of the christian commonwealth, that young maids might be godly brought up, and learn from their cradles 'to be sober-minded, to love their husbands, to love their children, to be discreet, chaste, housewifely, good, obedient to their husbands'"[904]. These eulogies are all necessarily tinged by the knowledge that the nunneries either were about to disappear, or had disappeared, from England. They had filled a useful function and men were willing to be to their faults a little blind. It cannot be doubted that the gentry and the substantial middle class appreciated them; up to the very eve of the Dissolution legacies to monastic houses are a common feature in wills. Only an inadequate conclusion, however, is to be reached from a study of tributes such as those of the commissioners at St Mary's Winchester and Polesworth and of Robert Aske. If we turn to pre-Reformation visitation reports, which are free from the desire to state a case, the evidence is more mixed. It is only reasonable to conclude that many nunneries did indeed bring children up, with the example of virtue before their eyes, and the _omnia bene_ of many reports reinforces such a conclusion. But it is impossible also to avoid the conviction that other houses were not always desirable homes for the young, nor nuns their best example. When Alnwick visited his diocese in the first half of the fifteenth century there were children at Godstow, where at least one nun was frankly immoral and where all received visits freely from the scholars of Oxford; nor was the general reputation of the house good at other periods. There were children also at Catesby and at St Michael's Stamford, which were in a thoroughly bad state, under bad prioresses. At Catesby the poor innocents lay in the dorter, where lay also sister Isabel Benet, far gone with child; and they must have heard the Prioress screaming "Beggars!" and "Whores!" at the nuns and dragging them round the cloister by their hair[905]. At St Michael's Stamford, all was in disorder and no less than three of the nuns were unchaste, one having twice run away, each time with a different partner. The visitation of Gracedieu on the same occasion shows too much quarrelling and misrule to make possible a very high opinion of its piety or of its breeding. If we turn to another set of injunctions, the great series for the diocese of York, it must be conceded that though the gentry of the county doubtless found the convents useful as schools and lodging houses, it is difficult to see how Aske's plea that "their daughters (were) brought up in virtue" could possibly have been true of the fourteenth century, when the morals and manners of the nuns were extremely bad. There is not much evidence for the period of which Aske could speak from his own knowledge; but at Esholt, where two children were at school in 1537, one of the nuns was found to have "lyved incontinentlie and vnchast and ... broght forth a child of her bodie begotten" and an alehouse had been set up within the convent gates, in 1535[906]. The only safe generalisation to make about this, as about so many other problems of medieval social history, is that there can be no generalisation. The standard of piety and breeding likely to be acquired by children in medieval nunneries must have differed considerably from time to time and from house to house. CHAPTER VII ROUTINE AND REACTION Where is the pain that does not become deadened after a thousand years? or what is the nature of that pleasure or happiness which never wearies by monotony? Earthly pleasures and pains are short in proportion as they are keen; of any others, which are both intense and lasting, we can form no idea.... To beings constituted as we are, the monotony of singing Psalms would be as great an affliction as the pains of hell and might even be pleasantly interrupted by them. JOWETT, Introduction to Plato's _Phaedo_. St Benedict's common sense is nowhere more strikingly shown than in his division of the routine of monastic life between the three occupations of divine service, manual labour and reading. Not only has this arrangement the merit of developing the different sides of men's natures, spirit, body and brain, but it fulfils a deep psychological necessity. The essence of communal life is regularity, but no human being can subsist without a further ingredient of variety. St Benedict knew well enough that unless he provided the stimulus of change within the Rule, outraged nature would seek for it outside. Hence the careful adjustment of occupations to combine variety with regularity. The services were the supreme joy and duty of the monk and nun and the life of the convent was centred in its church. But these services were not excessively long and were divided from each other by periods of sleep by night and of work, or study, or meditation by day, after the manner which Crashaw inimitably set forth in his _Description of a Religious House and Condition of Life_: A hasty portion of prescribèd sleep; Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep, And sing, and sigh, and work, and sleep again; Still rolling a round sphere of still-returning pain. Hands full of hearty labours; pains that pay And prize themselves; do much, that more they may, And work for work, not wages; let tomorrow's New drops wash off the sweat of this day's sorrows. A long and daily-dying life, which breathes A respiration of reviving deaths. The monastic day was divided into seven offices and the time at which these were said varied slightly according to the season of the year. The night office began about 2 a.m., when the nuns rose from their beds and entered their choir, where Matins were said, followed immediately by Lauds. The next service was Prime, said at 6 or 7 a.m., and then throughout the day came Tierce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, with an interval of about three hours between them. The time of these monastic Hours (as they were called) changed gradually after the time of St Benedict, and later None, which should have been at 3 p.m., was said at noon, leaving the nuns from about 12 midday to 5 p.m. in the winter and 1 p.m. to 8 p.m. in the summer for work. Compline, the last service of all, was said at 7 p.m. in winter and at 8 p.m. in summer, after which the nuns were supposed to retire immediately to bed in their dorter, where (in the words of the Syon _Rule_) "none shal jutte up on other wylfully, nor spyt up on the stayres, goyng up or down, nor in none other place repreuably, but yf they trede it out forthwyth"![907] They had in all about eight hours sleep, broken in the middle by the night service; and they had three meals, a light repast of bread and beer after Prime in the morning, a solid dinner to the accompaniment of reading aloud, and a short supper immediately after vespers at 5 or 6 p.m.[908] Except for certain specified periods of relaxation, strict silence was supposed to be observed for a large part of the day, and if it were necessary for the nuns to communicate with each other, they were urged to do so in an abbreviated form, or by signs. Thus in 1319 Bishop Stapeldon of Exeter wrote to the nuns of Polsloe that silence be kept in due places, according to the Rule and observances of St Benedict; and, if it be desirable that any word be spoken in the aforesaid places, for any reasonable occasion, then let it be gently and so low that it be scarce heard of the other nuns, and in as few words as may be needed for the comprehension of those who hear; and better in Latin than in any other tongue; yet the Latin need not be well-ordered by way of grammar, but thus, _candela_, _liber_, _missale_, _gradale_, _panis_, _vinum_, _cervisia_, _est_, _non_, _sic_ and so forth[909]. The nuns of Syon had a table of signs drawn up for them by Thomas Betsone, one of the brethren of the house, a person of extraordinary ingenuity and no sense of humour[910]. The sort of dumb pandemonium which went on at the Syon dinner table must have been more mirth provoking than speech. The sister who desired fish would "wagge her hande displaied sidelynges in manere of a fissh taill," she who wanted milk would "draw her left little fynger in maner of mylkyng"; for mustard one would "hold her nose in the uppere part of her righte fiste and rubbe it," and another for salt would "philippe with her right thombe and his forefynger ouere the left thombe"; another, desirous of wine, would "meue her fore fynger vp and downe vpon the ende of her thombe afore her eghe"; and the guilty sacristan, struck by the thought that she had not provided incense for the mass, would "put her two fyngers vnto her nose thirles (nostrils)." There are no less than 106 signs in the table and on the whole it is not surprising that the Rule enjoins that "it is never leful to use them witheoute some reson and profitable nede, ffor ofte tyme more hurt ethe an euel sygne than an euel worde, and more offence it may be to God"[911]. [Illustration: PLATE VI DOMINICAN NUNS IN QUIRE] The time set apart in the monastic day for work was divided between brain work and manual labour. In the golden days of monasticism the time devoted to reading enabled the monasteries to become homes of learning; splendid libraries were collected for the use of the monks and in the scriptorium men skilled in writing and in illumination copied books and maintained the great series of chronicles, in which the middle ages live again. The nuns of certain Anglo-Saxon houses, and of certain continental houses at a later date, had some reputation for learning. In early days, too, the hours devoted to labour were spent in the fields, or more often in the workshops of the house; and those who had been skilled in crafts in the world continued to exercise them. The nuns of Anglo-Saxon England were famed for the needlework executed during the hours of work. Besides this labour the Rule ordained that the monks and nuns should take it in turns to serve their brethren in the kitchen every week and an eleventh century chronicler records "in the monasteries I saw counts cooking in the kitchens and margraves leading the pigs out to feed"[912]. It was by reason of this intellectual and manual labour that the early monks rendered, as it were incidentally, an immense service to civilisation. Their aim and purpose was the salvation of their souls, but because the Rule under which they lived declared that labour was one of the means to that salvation, they added many of the merits of the active to those of the contemplative life. The early Benedictines were great missionaries, ardent scholars, enlightened landowners and even energetic statesmen. The early Cistercians made the woods and wildernesses, in which they settled, blossom like a rose. But apart from the social services thus rendered to civilisation, the threefold division of monastic life into prayer, study and labour was vital to monasticism itself, since it afforded the essential element of variety in routine. The benefits of routine are obvious: any life which exists for the regular performance of specific duties, above all any life which is carried on in a community, must depend very largely upon fixed hours and carefully organised occupations. The Rule of St Benedict made a serious attempt to render monastic life possible and beneficial to the average human being, by the combination of regularity and variety which has been described above. There was constant change of occupation, but there was no waste and no muddle. It is extremely significant that monasticism broke down directly St Benedict's careful adjustment of occupations became upset. With the growing wealth of the monasteries manual labour became undignified; some orders relied on lay brethren, the majority on servants. Gone was the day when counts cooked in the kitchens; in the fourteenth century monks and nuns paid large wages to their cooks and even in a small nunnery it was regarded as legitimate cause for complaint not to have a convent servant. Learning also fell away after the growth of the universities in the twelfth century; the poverty of the monastic chronicles of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is one witness to the fact; the necessity to send injunctions to nunneries first in French and then in English, as the knowledge of Latin and then of French died out in them, is another. Of the three occupations, learning, manual labour and divine service, only the last was left. Is it surprising that that also began to be looked upon as a weary and monotonous routine, when the monks and nuns came to it, not fresh from the stimulus of study or of labour, but from indolence, or from the worldly pleasures of the tavern, the hunt, the gambling board, the flirtation, the gossip, wherewith they often filled the spare time, which the wise Benedictine Rule would have filled with a change of occupation? All safeguards against a petrifying routine were now broken down. We are wont to-day to look with disquiet upon the life of a clerk in an office, endlessly adding up rows of figures, with an interval for luncheon; but the clerk has his evenings, his Sundays, his annual holiday, his life as son, or husband, or father. For the medieval monk there was no such relaxation. When the salutary labour of hand and brain ordained by St Benedict no longer found a place in his life, he was delivered over bound to an endless routine of dorter, church, frater and cloister, which stretched from day to night and from night to day again. For nuns the monotony was even greater, for they had lost more completely than monks their early tradition of learning and they could not pass happy years in study at a university (as a few monks from great abbeys were able to do), nor find some solace in exercising the functions of a priest; moreover women were more apt even than men to enter the religious life without any real vocation for it, since there was hardly any other career for unmarried ladies of gentle birth. It would be an exaggeration to say that this uneventful life was necessarily distasteful. To the majority it was doubtless a happy existence; monotony appears peace to those who love it. No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep: But reverent discipline and religious fear, And soft obedience, find sweet biding here; Silence and sacred rest; peace and pure joys; Kind loves keep house, lie close and make no noise. Here behind the walls of the convent "a common grayness silvered everything" and all care was remote, save that, never to be escaped by womankind, of making two ends meet. Nevertheless the danger was there. Only a minority, one may be sure, revolted actively against the duties which are sometimes, most significantly, called "the burthen of religion"[913]. That minority is known to us, for the sinner and the apostate, whether inspired by lust or by levity, mere victims to their own weakness, or active rebels against an intolerable dulness, have left their mark in official documents. But the number can only be guessed at of those others, who carried in their hearts for all their staid lives the complaint of the Latin song: Sono tintinnabulum Repeto psalterium, Gratum linquo somnium Cum dormire cuperem, Heu misella! Nichil est deterius tali vita Cum enim sim petulans et lasciva[914]. The bell I am ringing, The psalter am singing, And from my bed creeping Who fain would be sleeping, Misery me! O what can be worse than this life that I dree, When naughty and lovelorn and wanton I be? "Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room" is a charming justification of the sonnet, but it is neither good psychology nor good history. It can never be too often repeated that many monks and nuns entered religion as a career while still children, with no particular vocation for the religious life. To such, even though they might experience no longing for the forbidden pleasures of the world, the monotony of the cloister would often be hard to bear. Their young limbs would kick against its restrictions and the changing moods of adolescence would turn and twist in vain within the iron bars of its unadaptable routine. Even to those no longer young happiness would depend at the best upon the fostering of a quick spiritual life, at the worst upon lack of imagination and of vitality. The undaunted daughter of desires, the man in whom religion burned as a strong fire, could find happiness in the life. But lesser brethren could not. Ennui, more deadly even than sensual temptation, was the devil who tormented them. So in the convents of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, a sympathetic eye and an understanding mind will diagnose the fundamental disease as reaction against routine by men and women in whom Nature, expelled by a pitchfork, had returned a thousand times more strong. This reaction from routine took several forms. It is somewhere at the bottom of all the more serious sins, which the pitchfork method of attaining salvation brought upon human creatures with bodies as well as souls. In this chapter, however, we are concerned not with these graver faults of immorality, but with things less gross, and yet in their cumulative effect no less fatal to monastic life. Such was the neglect of that praise of God, which was the primary _raison d'être_ of the monk and nun, so that services sometimes became empty forms, to be hurried through with scant devotion, occasionally with scandalous irreverence. Such was the deadly sin of _accidie_, the name of which is forgotten today, though the thing itself is with us still. Such were the nerves on edge, the small quarrels, the wear and tear of communal life; such also the gay clothes, the pet animals and the worldly amusements, with which nuns sought to enliven their existence. For all these things were in some sense a reaction from routine. Carelessness in the performance of the monastic hours was an exceedingly common fault during the later middle ages and often finds a place in episcopal injunctions. Sometimes monks and nuns "cut" the services, as at Peterborough in 1437, when only ten or twelve of the 44 monks came on ordinary days to church[915], or at Nuncoton in 1440, where many of the nuns failed to come to compline, but busied themselves instead in various domestic offices, or wandered idly in the garden[916]. Often they came late to matins, a fault which was common in nunneries, for the nuns were prone to sit up drinking and gossiping after compline, instead of going straight to bed[917]; and these nocturnal carousals, however harmless in themselves, did not conduce to wakefulness at one a.m. Consequently they were somewhat sleepy, _quodammodo sompnolentes_, at matins and found an almost Johnsonian difficulty in getting up early. At Stainfield in 1519 Atwater found that half an hour sometimes elapsed between the last stroke of the bell and the beginning of the office and that some of the nuns did not sing but dozed, partly because they had not enough candles, partly because they went to bed late; they also performed the offices very negligently[918]. But most often of all the fault of monks and nuns lay in gabbling through the services as quickly as possible in order to get them over. They left out syllables at the beginning and end of words, they omitted the _dipsalma_ or _pausacio_ between two verses, so that one side of the choir was beginning the second half, before the other side had finished the first; they skipped sentences; they mumbled and slurred over what should have been "entuned in their nose ful semely." Episcopal injunctions not infrequently animadvert against this irreverent treatment of the offices. At Catesby in 1442 Isabel Benet asserted that "divine service is chanted at so great speed that no pauses are made," and at Carrow in 1526 several of the older nuns complained that the sisters sang and said the service more quickly than they ought, without due pauses. A strong injunction sent to Nuncoton in 1531 declares that the hours have been "doon with grete festinacon, haste and without deuocon, contrarye to the good manner and ordre of religion"[919]. Indeed so common was the fault that the Father of Evil was obliged to employ a special devil called Tittivillus, whose sole business it was to collect the dropped syllables and gabbled verses and carry them back to his master in a sack. One rhyme distinguishes carefully between the contents of his sack: Hii sunt qui psalmos corrumpunt nequiter almos, Dangler, cum jasper, lepar, galper quoque draggar, Momeler, forskypper, forereynner, sic et overleper, Fragmina verborum Tutivillus colligit horum[920]. A holy Cistercian abbot once interviewed Tittivillus; this is the tale as the nuns of Syon read it in their _Myroure of Oure Ladye_: We rede of an holy Abbot of the order of Cystreus that whyle he stode in the quyer at mattyns, he sawe a fende that had a longe and a greate poke hangynge about hys necke, and wente aboute the quyer from one to an other, and wayted bysely after all letters, and syllables, and wordes, and faylynges, that eny made; and them he gathered dylygently and putte them in hys poke. And when he came before the Abbot, waytynge yf oughte had escaped hym, that he myghte have gotten and put in hys bagge; the Abbot was astoned and aferde of the foulenes and mysshape of hym, and sayde vnto hym. What art thow; And he answered and sayd. I am a poure dyuel, and my name ys Tytyuyllus, and I do myne offyce that is commytted vnto me. And what is thyne offyce sayd the Abbot, he answeryd I muste eche day he sayde brynge my master a thousande pokes full of faylynges, and of neglygences in syllables and wordes, that ar done in youre order in redynge and in syngynge. And else I must be sore beten[921]. Carelessness in the singing of the services was not, however, the most serious result of reaction against routine. If the men and women of sensibility failed to keep intelligence active in the pursuit of spiritual or temporal duties, if they cared no longer to use brain and spirit as they performed the daily round, _accidia_[922], that dread disease, half ennui and half melancholia, which, though common to all men, was recognised as the peculiar menace of the cloister, lay ever in wait for them. Against this sin of intellectual and spiritual sloth all the great churchmen of the middle ages inveigh, recognising in it the greatest menace of religious life, from which all other sins may follow[923]. If _accidia_ once laid hold upon a monk he was lost; ceasing to perform with active mind his religious duties, he would find them a meaningless, endless routine, filling him with irritation, with boredom and with a melancholy against which he might struggle in vain. The fourth century cenobite Cassian has left a detailed description of the effects of _accidia_ in the cloister, declaring that it was specially disturbing to a monk about the sixth hour "like some fever which seizes him at stated times," so that many declared that this was "the sickness that destroyeth in the noon day," spoken of in the ninetieth psalm[924]. Many centuries later Dante crystallised it in four unsurpassable lines. As he passed through the fifth circle of hell he saw a black and filthy marsh, in which struggled the souls of those who had been overcome by anger; but deeper than the angry were submerged other souls, whose sobs rose in bubbles through the muddy water and who could only gurgle their confession in their throats. These were the souls of men who had fallen victims to the sin of _accidia_ in their lives Fitti nel limo dicon: Tristi fummo Nel' aer dolce che dal sol s' allegra, Portando dentro accidioso fummo: Or ci attristiam nella belletta negra. Fixed in the slime, they say, "Sullen were we in the sweet air, that is gladdened by the sun, carrying lazy smoke in our hearts; now lie we sullen here in the black mire"[925]. But the working of the poison is most brilliantly described by Chaucer, in his _Persones Tale_: "After the sinnes of Envie and of Ire, now wol I speken of the sinne of Accidie. For Envye blindeth the herte of a man, and Ire troubleth a man; and Accidie maketh him hevy, thoghtful and wrawe. Envye and Ire maken bitternesse in herte; which bitternesse is moder of Accidie and binimeth him the love of alle goodnesse. Thanne is Accidie the anguissh of a trouble herte.... He dooth alle thing with anoy and with wrawnesse, slaknesse and excusacioun, and with ydelnesse and unlust.... Now comth Slouthe, that wol nat sufre noon hardnesse ne no penaunce.... Thanne comth drede to biginne to werke any gode werkes; for certes he that is enclyned to sinne, him thinketh it is so greet an empryse for to undertake to doon werkes of goodnesse.... Now comth wanhope, that is despeir of the mercy of God, that comth somtyme of to muche outrageous sorwe, and somtyme of to muche drede; imagininge that he hath doon so much sinne, that it wol nat availlen him, though he wolde repenten him and forsake sinne: thurgh which despeir or drede he abaundoneth al his herte to every maner sinne, as seith seint Augustin. Which dampnable sinne, if that it continue unto his ende, it is cleped sinning in the holy gost.... Soothly he that despeireth him is lyk the coward champioun recreant, that seith creant withoute nede. Allas! allas! nedeles is he recreant and nedeles despeired. Certes the mercy of God is euere redy to every penitent and is aboven alle hise werkes.... Thanne cometh sompnolence, that is sluggy slombringe, which maketh a man be hevy and dul in body and in soule; and this sinne comth of Slouthe." He proceeds to describe further symptoms, "Necligence or recchelnesse ... ydelnesse ... the sinne that man clepen _Tarditas_" and "Lachesse," and concludes thus, "Thanne comth a manere coldnesse, that freseth al the herte of man. Thanne comth undevocioun, thurgh which a man is so blent, as seith seint Bernard, and hath swiche langour in soule, that he may neither rede ne singe in holy chirche, ne here ne thinke of no devocioun, ne travaille with his handes in no good werk, that it nis him unsavory and al apalled. Thanne wexeth he slow and slombry, and sone wol be wrooth, and sone is enclyned to hate and to envye. Thanne comth the sinne of worldly sorwe, swich as is cleped _tristicia_, that sleeth man, as seint Paul seith. For certes swich sorwe werketh to the deeth of the soule and of the body also; for therof comth, that a man is anoyed of his owene lyf. Wherfore swich sorwe shorteth ful ofte the lyf of a man, er that his tyme be come by wey of kinde"[926]. This masterly diagnosis of the sin of spiritual sloth and its branches is illustrated by several stories which bear unmistakably the impress of a dreadful truth. Johann Busch's account of his early temptations and doubts has often been quoted. A strong character, he overcame the temptation and emerged stronger[927]. But Caesarius of Heisterbach has two anecdotes of weaker brethren which show how exactly Chaucer described the anguish of a troubled heart. The first is of particular interest to us because it concerns a woman: "A certain nun, a woman of advanced age, and, as was supposed, of great holiness, was so overcome by the vice of melancholy (_tristitiae_) and so vexed with a spirit of blasphemy, doubt and distrust, that she fell into despair. And she began altogether to doubt those things which she had believed from infancy and which it behoved her to believe, nor could she be induced by anyone to take the holy sacraments; and when her sisters and also her nieces in the flesh besought her why she was thus hardened, she answered "I am of the lost, of those who shall be damned." One day the Prior, growing angry, said to her, "Sister, unless you recover from your unbelief, when you die I will have you buried in a field." And she, hearing him, was silent but kept his words in her heart. One day, when certain of the sisters were to go on a journey I know not whither, she secretly followed them to the banks of the river Moselle, whereon the monastery is situated, and when the ship, which was carrying the sisters, put off, she threw herself from the shore into the river. Those who were in the ship heard the sound of a splash, and looking out thought her body to be a dog, but one of them, desiring (by God's will) to know more certainly what it was, ran quickly to the place and seeing a human being, entered the river and drew her out. Then when they perceived that it was the aforesaid nun, already wellnigh drowned, they were all frightened, and when they had cared for her and she had coughed up the water and could speak, they asked her, "Why, sister, didst thou act thus cruelly?" and she replied, pointing to the Prior, "My lord there threatened that I should be buried when dead in a field, wherefore I preferred to be drowned in the flood rather than to be buried like a beast in the field." Then they led her back to the monastery and guarded her more carefully. Behold what great evil is born of melancholy (_tristitia_). That woman was brought up from infancy in the monastery. She was a chaste, devout, stern and religious virgin, and, as the mistress [of the novices] of a neighbouring monastery told me, all the maidens educated by her were of better discipline and more devout than others"[928]. The other anecdote tells of an old lay brother, who at the end of a long life fell into despair: "I know not," says Caesarius, "by what judgment of God he was made thus sad and fearful, that he was so greatly afraid for his sins and despaired altogether of the life eternal. He did not indeed doubt in his faith, but rather despaired of salvation. He could be cheered by no scriptural authorities and brought back to the hope of forgiveness by no examples. Yet he is believed to have sinned but little. When the brothers asked him, 'What makes you fear, why do you despair?' he answered, 'I cannot pray as I was used to do, and so I fear hell.' Because he laboured with the vice of _tristitia_, therefore he was filled with _accidia_, and from each of these was despair born in his heart. He was placed in the infirmary and on a certain morning he prepared him for death, and came to his master, saying, 'I can no longer fight against God.' And when his master paid but little attention to his words, he went forth to the fish pond of the monastery near by and threw himself into it and was drowned"[929]. Only a small minority, it is needless to say, was driven to this anguish of despair. For the majority the strain of conventual life found outlet, not in these black moods, but in a tendency to bicker one with another, to get excitement by exaggerating the small events of daily existence into matter for jealousies and disputes. For the strain was a double one; to monotony was added the complete lack of privacy, the wear and tear of communal life; not only always doing the same thing at the same time, but always doing it in company with a number of other people. The beauty of human fellowship, the happy friendliness of life in a close society are too obvious to need description. For if heuene be on this erthe · and ese to any soule, It is in cloistere or in scole · by many skilles I fynde; For in cloistre cometh no man · to chide ne to fighte, But alle is buxomnesse there and bokes · to rede and to lerne, In scole there is scorne · but if a clerke wil lerne, And grete loue and lykynge · for eche of hem loueth other[930]. But it is necessary also to remember the other side of the picture. Personal idiosyncrasies were no less apt to jar in the middle ages than they are today; there are unfortunates who are born to be unpopular; there are tempers which will lose themselves; and in conventual life there is no balm of solitude for frayed nerves. These nuns were very human people; a mere accident of birth had probably sent them to a convent rather than to the care of husband and children in a manor-hall; just as in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries a mere accident of birth made one son the squire, another the soldier and a third the parson. No special saintliness of disposition was theirs and no miracle intervened to render them immune from tantrums when they crossed the convent threshold. Nothing is at once more striking and more natural than the prevalence of little quarrels, sometimes growing into serious disputes, among the inmates of monasteries. Browning's Spanish Cloister was no mere figment of his inventive brain; indeed it is, if anything, less startling than the medieval Langland's description of the convent, where Wrath was cook and where all was far from "buxomnesse." Certainly Langland's indictment is a violent one; the satirist must darken his colours to catch the eye; and, had Chaucer been the painter, we might have had a dispute couched in more courteous terms and more "estatlich of manere." But the satirist's account is significant, because his very office demands that he shall exaggerate only what exists; his words are a smoke which cannot rise without fire. So Langland may speak through the lips of Wrath, with two white eyes: I have an aunte to nonne · and an abbesse bothe, Hir were leuere swowe or swelte · þan suffre any peyne. I haue be cook in hir kichyne · and þe couent serued Many monthes with hem · and with monkes bothe. I was þe priouresses potagere · and other poure ladyes And made hem ioutes of iangelynge · þat dame Iohanne was a bastard, And dame Clarice a knightes doughter · ac a kokewolde was hire syre, And dame Peronelle a prestes file · Priouresse worth she neuere For she had childe in chirityme · all owre chapitere it wiste · Of wycked wordes I, Wrath · here wortes imade, Til "thow lixte" and "thow lixte" lopen oute at ones, And eyther hitte other · vnder the cheke; Hadde thei had knyves, by Cryst · her eyther had killed other[931]. From "thow lixte" to "Gr-r-r you swine" how little change! Sober records bear out Langland's contention that Wrath was at home in nunneries. Some of the worst cases have already been described; election disputes, disputes arising from a prioress's favouritism, Margaret Wavere dragging her nuns about the choir by their hair, and screaming insults at them, Katherine Wells hitting them on the head with fists and feet[932]. Doubtless quarrels seldom got as far as blows; but bad temper and wordy warfare were common. Insubordination was sometimes at the root of the discord; nuns refused to submit meekly to correction after the proclamation of their faults in chapter, or to obey their superiors. The words of another satirist show that the monastic vow of obedience sometimes sat lightly upon their shoulders: Also another lady there was That hyght dame dysobedyent And sche set nowght by her priores. Ans than me thowght alle was schent, For sugettys schulde euyr be dylygent Bothe in worde, in wylle and dede, To plese her souerynes wyth gode entent, And hem obey, ellys god forbede. And of alle the defawtes that I cowde se Thorowgh schewyng of experience, Hyt was one of the most that grevyd me, The wantyng of obedyence For hyt schulde be chese in consciens Alle relygius rule wytnesseth the same And when I saw her in no reverence, I myght no lenger abyde for schame, For they setten not by obedyence. And than for wo myne hert gan blede Ne they hadden her in no reuerence, But few or none to her toke hede[933]. Again the colours are darkened, but the eyes of the satirist had seen. At St Mary's, Winchester, insubordination was evidently the chief fault. William of Wykeham writes to the Abbess: By public rumour it has come to our ears that some of the nuns of the aforesaid house ... care not to submit to or even to obey you and the deans and other obedientiaries lawfully constituted by you in those things which concern regular observances nor to show them due reverence, and that they will not bear or undergo the reproofs and corrections inflicted upon them by their superiors for their faults, but break out into vituperation and altercation with each other and in no way submit to these corrections; meanwhile other nuns of your house by detractions, conspiracies, confederacies, leagues, obloquies, contradictions and other breaches of discipline (_insolenciis_) and laxities (concerning which we speak not at present) neglect the rule of St Benedict and other due observances. The Abbess is warned to punish the nuns and to enforce the rule more firmly than heretofore and to furnish the Bishop with the names of rebels. At the same time he addresses a letter to the nuns bidding them show obedience to their superiors and receive correction humbly "henceforth blaming no one therefore nor altercating one with another, saying that these or those were badly or excessively punished"[934]. It would seem that discipline had become lax in the convent and that the Bishop's attempt to introduce reform by the agency of the abbess was meeting with opposition from unruly nuns. Visitors were forced constantly to make the double injunction that nuns should show obedience to their superiors and that those superiors should be equable and not harsh in correction: Also we enioyne you, pryoresse, ... that oftentymes ye come to the chapitere for to correcte the defautes of your susters, and that as wele then as att other tymes and places ye treyte your said susters moderlie wyth all resonable fauour; and that ye rebuke ne repreue thaym cruelly ne feruently at no tyme, specyally in audience of seculeres, and that ye kepe pryvye fro seculeres your correccyons and actes of your chapitere.... Also we enioyne yowe of the couent and eueryche oon of yowe vndere peyn of imprisonyng, that mekely and buxumly ye obeye the prioresse procedyng discretely in hire correccyone, and also that in euery place ye do hire dewe reuerence, absteynyng yowe fro all elacyone of pryde and wordes of disobeysaunce or debate[935]. Sometimes it was one unruly member who set the convent by the ears. There is an amusing case at Romsey, which is reminiscent of David Copperfield: On 16 January 1527 in the chapter house of the monastery of Romsey, before the vicar general, sitting judicially, Lady Alice Gorsyn appeared and confessed that she had used bad language with her sisters [her greatest oath evidently transcended "by sëynt Loy"] and spread abroad reproachful and defamatory words of them. He absolved her from the sentence of excommunication and enjoined on her in penance that if she used bad language in future and spread about defamatory words of them, a red tongue made of cloth should be used on the barbe under the chin (_in sua barba alba_) and remain there for a month[936]. a kinder punishment than the scold's bridle or the ducking stool of common folk. Occasionally an inveterate scold would be removed altogether by the Bishop and sent to some convent where she was not known; two nuns were transferred from Burnham to Goring in 1339 "for the peace and quiet of the house" and in 1298 a quarrelsome nun of Nuncoton was sent to Greenfield to be kept in solitary confinement as long as she remained incorrigible, "until according to the discipline of her order she shall know how to live in a community"[937]. It was more difficult to restore peace when a whole nunnery was seething with dispute and heart-burnings. General injunctions to cease quarrelling would seem to show that this was sometimes the case, and, without having recourse to such an extreme instance as that of Littlemore in the sixteenth century, it is possible to quote from bishops' registers documents which go far to bear out even Langland's picture. One such document may be quoted in illustration, the _comperta_ of Archbishop Giffard's visitation of Swine in 1268: It is discovered that Amice de Rue is a slanderer and a liar and impatient and odious to the convent and a rebel; and so are almost all the convent when the misdeeds of delinquents are proclaimed in chapter; wherefore the prioress or whoever is acting for her is not sufficient, without the help of the lord archbishop, to make corrections according to the requirements of the rule.... Item, it is discovered that three sisters in the flesh and spirit, to wit, Sibyl, Bella and Amy, frequently rebel against the corrections of the Prioress, and having leagued together with them several other sisters, they conspire against their sisters, to the great harm of the regular discipline; and Alice de Scrutevil, Beatrice de St Quintin and Maud Constable cleave to them.... Item, it is discovered that the Prioress is a suspicious woman and too credulous and breaks out at a mere word into correction, and frequently punishes unequally for the same fault and pursues with long rancour those whom she dislikes, until the time of their vindication cometh; whence it befals that the nuns, when they suspect that they are going to be burdened with too heavy a correction, procure the mitigation of her severity by means of the threats of their relatives. Item, it is discovered that the nuns and the sisters are at discord in many things, because the sisters contend that they are equal to the nuns and use black veils even as the nuns[938], which is said not to be the custom in other houses of the same order[939]. Apostasy, _accidia_, quarrels, all rose in part from monotony. The majority of nuns were probably content with their life, but they strove to bring some excitement and variety into it, not only unconsciously by cliques and contentions, but also by a conscious aping of the worldly amusements which enlivened their mothers and sisters outside the convent walls. The châtelaine or mistress of a manor, when not busied with the care of an estate, amused herself in the pursuit of fashion; even the business-like Margaret Paston hankered after a scarlet robe. She amused herself with keeping pets, those little dogs which scamper so gaily round the borders of manuscripts, or play so gallant a part in romances like the Châtelaine of Vergi. She hawked and she hunted, she danced and she played at tables[940]. All these occupations served to break the monotony of daily life. The nuns, always in touch with the world owing to the influx of visitors and to the neglect of enclosure, remembered these forbidden pleasures. And they sought to spice their monotonous life, as they spiced their monotonous dishes. Gay clothes, pet animals, a dance, a game, a gossip, were to them "a ferthyngworth of fenel-seed for fastyngdayes." So we find all these worldly amusements in the convent. Dear to the soul of men and women alike, dear to monks and nuns as well as to the children of the world, were the gay colours and extravagant modes of contemporary dress. Popular preachers inveighed against the devils' trappings of their flocks, but when those trappings flaunted themselves in the cloister there was matter for more than words. As early as the end of the seventh century St Aldhelm penned a severe indictment of the fashionable nuns of his day: A vest of fine linen of a violet colour is worn, above it a scarlet tunic with a hood, sleeves striped with silk and trimmed with red fur; the locks on the forehead and the temples are curled with a crisping iron, the dark head-veil is given up for white and coloured head-dresses, which, with bows of ribbon sewn on, reach down to the ground; the nails, like those of a falcon or sparrow-hawk, are pared to resemble talons[941]. Synods sat solemnly over silken veils and pleated robes with long trains; they shook their heads over golden pins and silver belts, jewelled rings, laced shoes, cloth of burnet and of Rennes, dresses open at the sides, gay colours (especially red) and fur of _gris_[942]. High brows were fashionable in the world and the nuns could not resist lifting and spreading out their veils to expose those fair foreheads ("almost a spanne brood, I trowe"); when Alnwick visited Goring in 1445 he saw with the evidence of his own eyes that the nuns do wear their veils spread out on either side and above their foreheads, (and) he enjoined upon the prioress ... that she should wear and cause her sisters to wear their veils spread down to their eyes[943]. The words of Beatrix's maid in _Much Ado About Nothing_ spring to the mind: "But methinks you look with your eyes as other women do." For three weary centuries the bishops waged a holy war against fashion in the cloister and waged it in vain, for as long as the nuns mingled freely with secular women it was impossible to prevent them from adopting secular modes. Occasionally a conscientious visitor found himself floundering unhandily through something very like a complete catalogue of contemporary fashions. So Bishop Longland at Elstow in 1531: We ordeyne and by way of Iniuncon commande undre payne of disobedyence from hensforth that no ladye ne any religious suster within the said monasterye presume to were ther apparells upon ther hedes undre suche lay fashion as they have now of late doon with cornered crests, nether undre suche manour of hight shewing ther forhedes moore like lay people than religious, butt that they use them without suche crestes or secular fashions and off a lower sort and that ther vayle come as lowe as ther yye ledes and soo contynually to use the same, unles itt be at suche tymes as they shalbe occupied in eny handycrafte labour, att whiche tymes itt shalbe lefull for them to turne upp the said vayle for the tyme of suche occupacon. And undre like payne inoyne that noon of the said religious susters doo use or were hereafter eny such voyded shoys, nether crested as they have of late ther used, butt that they be of suche honeste fashion as other religious places both use and that ther gownes and kyrtells be closse afore and nott so depe voyded at the breste and noo more to use rede stomachers but other sadder colers in the same[944]. It is interesting to conjecture how the nuns obtained these gay garments and ornaments. The growing custom of giving them a money allowance out of which to dress themselves instead of providing them with clothes in kind out of the common purse, certainly must have given opportunity for buying the gilt pins, barred belts and slashed shoes which so horrified their visitors. We know from Gilles li Muisis that Flemish nuns at least went shopping[945]. But an even more likely source of supply lies, as we shall see, in the legacies of clothes and ornaments, which were often left to nuns by their relatives[946]. Not only in their clothes did medieval nuns seek to enliven existence after the manner of their lay sisters. The bishops struggled long and unsuccessfully against another custom of worldly women, the keeping of pet animals[947]. Dogs were certainly the favourite pets. Cats are seldom mentioned, though the three anchoresses of the _Ancren Riwle_ were specially permitted to keep one[948], and Gyb, that "cat of carlyshe kynde," which slew Philip Sparrow, apparently belonged to Carrow; perhaps there was spread among the nunneries of England the grisly tradition of the Prioress of Newington, who was smothered in bed by her cat[949]. Birds, from the larks of the Abbaye-aux-Dames at Caen, to the parrot Vert-Vert at Nevers, are often mentioned[950]. Monkeys, squirrels and rabbits were also kept. But dogs and puppies abounded. Partly because the usages of society inevitably found their way into the aristocratic convents, partly because human affections will find an outlet under the most severe of rules: (Objet permis à leur oisif amour, Vert-Vert était l'âme de ce séjour), the nuns clung to their "smale houndes." Archbishop Peckham had to forbid the Abbess of Romsey to keep monkeys or "a number of dogs" in her own chamber and she was charged at the same time with stinting her nuns in food; one can guess what became of the "rosted flesh or milk and wastel-breed"[951]. At Chatteris and at Ickleton in 1345 the nuns were forbidden to keep fowls, dogs or small birds within the precincts of the convent or to bring them into church during divine service[952]. This bringing of animals into church was a common custom in the middle ages, when ladies often attended service with dog in lap and men with hawk on wrist[953]; Lady Audley's twelve dogs, which so disturbed the nuns of Langley, will be remembered[954]. Injunctions against the bringing of dogs or puppies into choir by the nuns are also found at Keldholme and Rosedale early in the fourteenth century[955]. But the most flagrant case of all is Romsey, to which in 1387 William of Wykeham wrote as follows: Item, because we have convinced ourselves by clear proofs that some of the nuns of your house bring with them to church birds, rabbits, hounds and such like frivolous things, whereunto they give more heed than to the offices of the church, with frequent hindrance to their own psalmody and that of their fellow nuns and to the grievous peril of their souls; therefore we strictly forbid you, all and several, in virtue of the obedience due unto us, that you presume henceforward to bring to church no birds, hounds, rabbits or other frivolous things that promote indiscipline; and any nun who does to the contrary, after three warnings shall fast on bread and water on one Saturday for each offence, notwithstanding one discipline to be received publicly in chapter on the same day.... Item, whereas through the hunting-dogs and other hounds abiding within your monastic precincts, the alms that should be given to the poor are devoured and the church and cloister and other places set apart for divine and secular services are foully defiled, contrary to all honesty, and whereas, through their inordinate noise, divine service is frequently troubled, therefore we strictly command and enjoin you, Lady Abbess, in virtue of obedience, that you remove these dogs altogether and that you suffer them never henceforth, nor any other such hounds, to abide within the precincts of your nunnery[956]. But the crusade against pets was not more successful than the crusade against fashions. The feminine fondness for something small and alive to pet was not easily eradicated and it seems that visitors were sometimes obliged to indulge it. The wording of Peckham's decree leaves an opening for the retention of one humble and very self-effacing little dog, not prone to unseemly yelps and capers before the stony eye of my lord the Archbishop on his rounds; Dean Kentwode in the fifteenth century ordered the Prioress of St Helen's Bishopsgate, to remove dogs "and content herself with one or two"[957], and in 1520 the Prioress of Flixton was bidden to send all dogs away from the convent "except one which she prefers"[958]. Perhaps the welcome of a thumping tail and damp, insinuating nose occasionally overcame the scruples even of a Bishop, who probably kept dogs himself and mourned if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte. Dogs kept for hunting purposes come into rather a different category. It is well known that medieval monks were mighty hunters before the Lord[959], and the mention of sporting dogs at Romsey and at Brewood (where Bishop Norbury found _canes venatici_[960]) encourages speculation as to whether the nuns also were not "pricasours aright" and yaf not of that text a pulled hen That seith that hunters been nat holy men. It is significant that Dame Juliana Berners is supposed by tradition (unsupported, however, by any other evidence) to have been a prioress of Sopwell. The gift of hunting rights to a nunnery is a common one; for instance, Henry II granted to Wix the right of having two greyhounds and four braches to take hares through the whole forest of Essex[961]. Doubtless these rights were usually exercised by proxy[962]; but considering the popularity of hunting and hawking as sports for women, a popularity so great that no lady's education was complete if she knew not how to manage a hawk and bear herself courteously in the field, it is surprising that there is not actual mention of these pastimes among nuns as well as among monks. Besides gay clothes and pets other frivolous amusements broke at times the monotony of convent life. Dancing and mumming and minstrelsy were not unknown and the nuns shared in the merrymaking on feasts sacred and profane, as is witnessed by the account rolls of St Mary de Pré (1461-90), with their list of payments for wassail at New Year and Twelfth Night, for May games, for bread and ale on bonfire nights and for harpers and players at Christmas[963]. In 1435 the nuns of Lymbrook were forbidden "all maner of mynstrelseys, enterludes, daunsyng or reuelyng with in your sayde holy place"[964], and about the same time Dean Kentwode wrote to St Helen's Bishopsgate: "Also we enioyne you that all daunsyng and reuelyng be utterly forborne among yow, except Christmasse and other honest tymys of recreacyone among yowre self usyd in absence of seculars in all wyse"[965]. The condemnation of dancing in nunneries is not surprising, for the attitude of medieval moralists generally to this pastime is summed up in Etienne de Bourbon's aphorism, "The Devil is the inventor and governor and disposer of dances and dancers"[966]. Minstrels were similarly under the ban of the church, and clerks were forbidden by canon law and by numerous papal, conciliar and episcopal injunctions to listen to their "ignominious art"[967], a regulation which, needless to say, went unobeyed in an age when many a bishop had his private _histrio_[968], and when the same stern reformer Grosseteste, who warned his clergy "ne mimis, ioculatoribus aut histrionibus intendant," loved so much to hear the harp that he kept his harper's chamber "next hys chaumbre besyde hys stody"[969]. Langland asserts that churchmen and laymen alike spent on minstrels money with which they well might have succoured the poor: Clerkus and knyghtes · welcometh kynges mynstrales, And for loue of here lordes · lithen hem at festes; Muche more, me thenketh · riche men auhte Haue beggars by-fore hem · which beth godes mynstrales[970]. Even in monasteries they found a ready welcome[971] and the reforming council of Oxford passed an ineffectual decree forbidding their performances to be seen or heard or allowed before the abbot or monks, if they came to a house for alms[972]. Indeed there was sometimes need for care. Where but at one of those minstrelsies or interludes forbidden at Lymbrook did sister Agnes of St Michael's Priory, Stamford, meet a jongleur, who sang softly in her ear that Lenten was come with love to town? The Devil (alas) had all the good tunes, even in the fifteenth century. "One Agnes, a nun of that place," reported the Prioress, "has gone away into apostasy cleaving to a harp-player, and they dwell together, as it is said, in Newcastle-on-Tyne"[973]. For her no longer the strait discipline of her rule, the black-robed nuns and heaven at the end. For her the life of the roads, the sore foot and the light heart; for her the company of ribalds with their wenches, and all the thriftless, shiftless player-folk; for her, at the last, hell, with "the gold and the silver and the vair and the gray, ... harpers and minstrels and kings of the world"[974], or a desperate hope that the Virgin's notorious kindness for minstrels might snatch her soul from perdition[975]. But the merrymakers in nunneries were not necessarily strange jongleurs or secular folk. The dancing and revelry, which were forbidden at Lymbrook and allowed in Christmastime at St Helen's, were probably connected with the children's feast of St Nicholas. As early as the twelfth century the days immediately before and after Christmas had become, in ecclesiastical circles, the occasion for uproarious festivities[976]. The three days after Christmas were appropriated by the three orders of the Church. On St Stephen's Day (Dec. 26) the deacons performed the service, elected their Abbot of Fools and paraded the streets, levying contributions from the householders and passers-by; on St John the Evangelist's Day (Dec. 27) the deacons gave way to the priests, who "gave a mock blessing and proclaimed a ribald form of indulgence"; and on Innocents' Day it was the turn of the choir or schoolboys to hold their feast. In cathedral and monastic churches the Boy Bishop (who had been elected on December 5th, the Eve of St Nicholas, patron saint of schoolboys) attended service on the eve of Innocents' Day, and at the words of the Magnificat "He hath put down the mighty from their seat" changed places with the Bishop or Dean or Abbot, and similarly the canons and other dignitaries of the church changed places with the boys. On Innocents' Day all services, except the essential portions of the mass, were performed by the Boy Bishop; he and his staff processed through the streets, levying large contributions of food and money and for about a fortnight his rule continued, accompanied by feasting and merrymaking, plays, disguisings and dances. These Childermas festivities took place in monastic as well as in secular churches, but they seem to have been more common in nunneries than in male communities. Our chief information about the revelries comes from Archbishop Eudes Rigaud's province of Rouen[977]; but English records also contain scattered references to the custom. Evidently a Girl Abbess or Abbess of Fools was elected from among the novices, and at the _Deposuit_ she and her fellow novices, or the little schoolgirls, took the place of the Abbess and nuns, just as the Boy Bishop held sway in cathedral churches, and feasting, dancing and disguising brought a welcome diversion into the lives of both nuns and children. Even the strict Peckham was obliged to extend a grudging consent to the _puerilia solemnia_ held on Innocents' Day at Barking and at Godstow (1279), insisting only that they should not be continued during the whole octave of Childermas-tide and should be conducted with decency and in private: The celebration of the Feast of Innocents by children, which we do not approve, but rather suffer with disapproval, is on no account to be undertaken by those children, nor are they to take any part in it, until after the end of the vespers of St John the Evangelist's Day; and the nuns are not to retire from the office, but having excluded from the choir all men and women ... they are themselves to supply the absence of the little ones lest (which God forbid) the divine praise should become a mockery[978]. A more specific reference still is found at Carrow in 1526; Dame Joan Botulphe deposed at a visitation that it was customary at Christmas for the youngest nun to hold sway for the day as abbess and on that day (added the soured ancient) was consumed and dissipated everything that the house had acquired by alms or by the gift of friends[979]. The connection between these revels and the Feast of Fools appears clearly in the injunction sent by Bishop Longland to Nuncoton about the same time: We chardge you, lady priores, that ye suffre nomore hereafter eny lorde of mysrule to be within your house, nouther to suffre hereafter eny suche disgysinge as in tymes past haue bene used in your monastery in nunnes apparell ne otherwise[980]. The admission of seculars dressed up as nuns, and of boys dressed up as women, the performance of interludes and the wild dancing were reason enough for the distaste with which ecclesiastical authorities regarded these festivities. For the nuns clearly did not exclude strangers as Peckham had bidden. Indeed it seems probable that where they did not elect a Girl Abbess, they admitted a Boy Bishop, either from some neighbouring church, or just possibly one of their own little schoolboys. Among the accounts of St Swithun's monastery at Winchester for 1441 there is a payment for the boys of the Almonry together with the boys of the chapel of St Elizabeth, dressed up after the manner of girls, dancing, singing and performing plays before the Abbess and nuns of St Mary's Abbey in their hall on the Feast of Innocents[981]; and the account of Christian Bassett, Prioress of St Mary de Pré, contains an item "paid for makyng of the dyner to the susters upon Childermasday iij s iiij d, item paid for brede and ale for seint Nicholas clerks iij d"[982]. The inventories of Cheshunt and Sheppey at the time of the Dissolution contain further references to the custom and seem to show that nunneries occasionally "ran" a St Nicholas Bishop of their own: at Cheshunt there was found in the dorter "a chisell (chasuble) of white ffustyan and a myter for a child bysshoppe at xx d"[983], and at Sheppey, in a chapel, "ij olde myters for S. Nicholas of fustyan brodered"[984]. These childish festivities sound harmless and attractive enough, and modern writers are sometimes apt to sentimentalise over their abolition by Henry VIII[985]. But in this, as in his injunction of enclosure, Henry was fully in accordance with the best ecclesiastical precedent. For the Boy Bishop was originally a part of the Feast of Fools and the Feast of Fools had an ancient and disreputable ancestry in the Roman Saturnalia. At a very early date a regulation made to curtail such performances at St Paul's declared that "what had been invented for the praise of sucklings had been converted into a disgrace"[986]. In 1445, at Paris, it was stated by the Faculty of Theology at the University that the performers appeared in masks with the faces of monsters or in the dresses of women, sang improper songs in the choir, ate fat pork on the horns of the altar, close by the priest celebrating mass, played dice on the altar, used stinking incense made of old shoes, and ran about the choir leaping and shouting[987]; and about the same time the Synod of Basle had specifically denounced the children's festival in hardly less violent terms as that disgraceful, bad custom practised in some churches, by which on certain high days during the year some with mitre, staff and pontifical vestments like Bishops and others dressed as kings and princes bless the people; the which festival in some places is called the Feast of Fools or Innocents or Boys, and some making games with masks and mummeries, others dances and breakdowns of males and females, move people to look on with guffaws, while others make drinkings and feasts there[988]. It is only necessary to compare these denunciations with such accounts of the festivities in nunneries as have survived, to understand that the revelling and disguising were less harmless than modern writers are apt to represent them. Mr Leach attributes the schoolboys' feast to the fact that regular holidays were unknown in the medieval curriculum and that the boys found in the ribaldries of Childermastide some outlet for their long suppressed spirits. Similarly the cramped and solemn existence led by the nuns for the rest of the year probably made their one outbreak the more violent. Nevertheless one cannot avoid feeling somewhat out of sympathy with the bishops. "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Nuns were ever fond of ginger "hot i' the mouth." CHAPTER VIII PRIVATE LIFE AND PRIVATE PROPERTY All things are to be common to all. _Rule of St Benedict_, ch. XXXIII. The Rule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, Because that it was old and somdel streit This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace And held after the newe world the space. CHAUCER, Prologue, ll. 173-6. The reaction from a strict routine of life led monks and nuns to a more serious modification of the Rule under which they lived than that represented by pet dogs and pretty clothes, which were after all only superficial frivolities. They sought also to modify two rules which were fundamental to the Benedictine ideal. One was the rigidly communal life, the obligation to do everything in company with everyone else. The other was the obligation of strict personal poverty. A monastery was in its essence a place where a number of persons lived a communal life, owning no private property, but holding everything in the name of the community. The normal routine of conventual life, as laid down in the Benedictine Rule, secured this end. The inmates of a house spent almost the whole of their time together. They prayed together in the choir, worked together in the cloister, ate together in the frater, and slept together in the dorter. Moreover the strictest regulations were made to prevent the vice of private property, one of the most serious sins in the monastic calendar, from making its appearance. All food was to be cooked in a common kitchen and served in the common frater, in which no meat was allowed. All clothes were to be provided out of the common goods of the house, and it was the business of the chamberer or chambress to see to the buying of material, the making of the clothes and their distribution to the religious; so carefully was _proprietas_ guarded against, that all old clothes had to be given back to the chambress, when the new ones were distributed. Above all it was forbidden to monks and nuns to possess and spend money, save what was delivered to them by the superior for their necessary expenses upon a journey[989]. But this combination of rigid communism with rigid personal poverty was early discovered to be irksome. It seems as though the craving for a certain privacy of life, a certain minimum of private property, is a deeply rooted instinct in human nature. Certainly the attempt of monasticism to expel it with a pitchfork failed. Step by step the rule was broken down, more especially by a series of modifications in the prescribed method of feeding and clothing the community. Here, as in the enclosure question, the monks and nuns came into conflict with their bishops, though the conflict was never so severe. Here also, the result of the struggle was the same. A steady attempt by the bishops to enforce the rule was countered by a steady resistance on the part of the religious and the end was usually compromise. The most marked breakdown of the communal way of life in the monasteries of the later middle ages is to be seen in the gradual neglect of the frater, in favour of a system of private messes, and in the increasing allocation of private rooms to individuals. The strict obligation upon all to keep frater daily was at first only modified in favour of the head of the house, who usually had her own lodgings, including a dining hall, in which the rule permitted her to entertain the guests who claimed her hospitality and such nuns as she chose to invite for their recreation. From quite early times, however, there existed in many houses a room known as the _misericord_ (or indulgence), where the strict diet of the frater was relaxed. Here the occupants of the infirmary, those in their seynies and all who needed flesh meat and more delicate dishes to support them, were served. From the fourteenth century onwards, however, the rules of diet became considerably relaxed and flesh was allowed to everyone on three days a week[990]. This meant that the _misericord_ was in constant use and in many monasteries the frater was divided into two stories, the upper of which was used as the frater proper, where no meat might be eaten, and the lower as a _misericord_[991]. According to this arrangement a nun might sometimes be dining in the upper frater, sometimes in the _misericord_ and sometimes in the abbess' or prioress' lodgings; and, of these places, there was a distinct tendency for the upper frater to fall into disuse, since it could in any case only be used on fish (or, according to later custom, white meat) days. But a habit even more subversive of strictly communal life and more liable to lead to disuse of the frater was rapidly spreading at this period. This was the division of a nunnery into _familiae_, or households, which messed together, each _familia_ taking its meals separately from the rest. The common frater was sometimes kept only thrice a week on fish days, sometimes only in Advent and Lent, sometimes (it would seem) never. This meant the separate preparation of meals for each household, a practice which, though uneconomical, was possible, because each nun's food allowance was fixed and could be drawn separately. Moreover, as we shall see hereafter, the growing practice of granting an annual money allowance to each individual, though used for clothes more often than for food, enabled the nuns to buy meat and other delicacies (if not provided by the convent) for themselves. The aristocratic ladies of Polsloe even had their private maids to prepare their meals[992]. This system was evidently well established at a comparatively early date. It is mentioned in Peckham's injunctions in 1279 and in Exeter and York injunctions belonging to the early years of the fourteenth century. To illustrate how it worked, we may analyse the references to _familiae_ in Alnwick's visitations of the diocese of Lincoln (1440-5)[993]. The number of households in a nunnery necessarily differed with the size of the house and it is not always easy to determine the proportion of households to nuns, because internal evidence sometimes shows that all the inmates were not present and enumerated at the visitation. Thus at Elstow the abbess "says that there are five households of nuns kept in the monastery, whereof the first is that of the abbess, who has five nuns with her; the second of the prioress, who has two; the third of the subprioress, who has two; the fourth of the sacrist, who has three; and the fifth of Dame Margaret Aylesbury, who has two"; but only thirteen nuns gave evidence[994]. In this house the frater was kept on certain days of the week, one nun deposing "that on the days whereon they eat together in frater, they eat larded food in the morning and sup on flesh, and they eat capons and other two-footed creatures in frater." At Catesby the prioress deposed that she had four nuns in her _familia_ and that there were three other households in the cloister. At Stixwould there were "five separate and distinct households"; at Nuncoton there were three; at St Michael's Stamford, the prioress and subprioress each had one, but all ate together in the frater on fish-days; at Stainfield the prioress, the cellaress and the nun-sisters each kept a household. At Gokewell and Langley the nuns were said to keep divers households "by two and two" and at Langley the prioress added, "but they do eat in the frater every day"; also she says that she herself has three women who board with her and the subprioress one; also she says that the nuns receive naught from the house but their meat and drink and she herself keeps one household on her own account. At Gracedieu the prioress deposed that frater is not kept nor has it been kept for seven years and that the nuns sit in company with secular folk at table in her hall every day and that they have reading during meals; also she says there are two households only in the house, to wit in her hall and the infirmary, where there are three at table together; here the prioress' hall simply took the place of the frater. There were four households at Godstow and apparently several at Legbourne. This division into households which messed separately went hand in hand with another practice, which also softened the rigours of a strictly communal life, to wit the allocation of separate rooms to certain nuns. The obedientiaries of a house often had private offices, or _checkers_, in which to transact their business, and the custom grew by which the head of each _familia_ had her own room, in which her household dined. The visitation reports continually refer to these private cells and to their use as dining rooms and places of reception for visitors. Sometimes the nuns even slept in them, though the dorter was always much more strictly kept than the frater; at Godstow in 1432 for instance, Bishop Gray enjoins "that the beds in the nuns' lodgings (_domicilia_) be altogether removed from their chambers, save those for small children" (apparently their pupils) "and that no nun receive any secular person for any recreation in the nuns' chambers under pain of excommunication"[995]. Some light is thrown upon these _camerae_ by the inventories of medieval nunneries. Thus the inventory of the Benedictine Priory of Sheppey made at the Dissolution describes the contents of "the greate chamber in the Dorter," which was used as a treasury in which to keep the linen, vestments and plate of the house, and in which one of the nuns Dame Agnes Davye seems to have slept; there follows a description of the chambers of eight nuns, with the furniture in each, from which it is clear that they had brought their own furniture with them to the monastery. These "chambers" may have been separate rooms or may have been partitions of the dorter, but if the latter they were evidently so large as to be to all intents and purposes separate rooms, for the furniture commonly includes painted cloth or paper hangings for the room, a chest and a cupboard, besides the bed; in three there is mention of windows and in two of fire irons. The most likely conjecture is that the dorter was used as a treasury and bedroom for one nun and the other chambers are separate rooms[996]. At some other houses the dorter is mentioned but was clearly divided into separate cells by wainscot partitions, and the wainscotting was sometimes sold at the Dissolution[997]. The attitude of ecclesiastical authorities to the modification of the communal rule involved in _familiae_ and _camerae_ was, for various reasons, one of strict disapproval. The custom of providing separate messes was extremely uneconomical; the passing of much time in private rooms was open to suspicion, especially when male visitors were received there; communal life was an essential part of the monastic idea; finally the amenities of private life were apt (as we shall see) to bring in their train the amenities of private property. The policy of the bishops was, for all these reasons, to restore communal life. They made general injunctions that frater and dorter should duly be kept by all the nuns, they made special injunctions for the abolition of separate households, and above all they condemned private rooms: "Also we enioyne yow, pryoresse," writes Alnwick to Catesby in 1442, "that ye dispose so for your susters that the morne next aftere Myghelmasse day next commyng wythe owten any lengare delaye, ye and thai aftere yowre rewle lyfe in commune, etyng and drynkyng in oon house, slepyng in oon house, prayng and sarufyng [serving] God in oon oratorye, levyng vtterly all pryuate hydles [hiding-places], chaumbres and syngulere housholdes, by the whiche hafe comen and growen grete hurte and peryle of sowles and noyesfulle sklaundere of your pryorye"[998]. But such injunctions were not easily enforced, and the politic bishops sometimes tried to reduce rather than to abolish the households and private rooms. It was often necessary--and indeed reasonable--to recognise the three _familiae_ of the abbess' or prioress' lodgings, the _misericord_ or infirmary and the frater[999]. Sometimes the bishops tried to enforce the rule, laid down by the legate Ottobon (1268), to limit the number who dined at the superior's table, viz. that at least two-thirds of the convent were to eat each day in the frater[1000]. At Godstow Bishop Gray, in 1432, allowed three households besides that of the frater[1001]. The condemnation of private rooms, and more especially of the reception of visitors therein, was more severe; but here too, it was necessary in large convents for the obedientiaries to have their offices, and other individuals were sometimes given special permission to use separate _camerae_. Some bishops allowed them to sick nuns, but others enforced the use of the common infirmary[1002]. It has already been said that this approximation to private life was bound to bring with it an approximation to private property and it remains now to analyse the process by which these new methods of providing food, and even more effectively, new methods of providing clothes, resulted in a spread of _proprietas_, which was considered perfectly legitimate by the nuns and within limits condoned by the bishops. The impression left upon the mind by a study of monastic records during the last two centuries of the middle ages is that in many houses the rule of strict personal poverty was in practice almost completely abrogated, for it is quite obvious that the nuns had the private and individual disposal of money and goods. Indeed some convents seem almost like the inmates of a boarding house, each of whom receives lodging and a certain minimum of food from the house, but otherwise caters for herself out of her private income. This is a considerable departure from the rule of St Benedict, and it is worth while to analyse the sources from which the nuns drew the money and goods of which they disposed. These sources may be classified under five headings: (1) the annual allowance of pocket money (called _peculium_) which was allowed to each nun from the funds of the house and out of which she had to provide herself with clothes and other necessities; (2) pittances in money; (3) gifts in money and kind from friends; (4) legacies; (5) the proceeds of their own labour. (1) The practice of giving a _peculium_ in money out of the common funds of the house to monks and nuns began at quite an early date (it is mentioned at the Council of Oxford in 1222) and was so much an established custom in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries that to withhold it was considered by bishops a legitimate cause of complaint against superiors. The amount of the _peculium_ varied at different houses. In the majority of cases it was intended to be used for clothes and its payment is sometimes entered in account rolls. At Gracedieu the nuns had "salaries" of 6_s._ 8_d._ a year each for their vesture and the careful treasuress enters all their names[1003]. At St Michael's, Stamford, a chambress' account, which has been preserved among the treasuress' accounts, shows that in 1408-9 the prioress was paid 5_s._ for her "camise" and all the other eleven nuns 4_s._ each, while the two lay sisters had 3_s._ each[1004]. Similarly at St Radegund's, Cambridge, a certain pension from St Clement's Church was ear-marked for the clothing of the nuns and was paid over directly to them[1005]; and the Prioress of Catesby in 1414-5 includes under "customary payments" money paid "to the lady Prioress and her six nuns and to one sister and her three brethren by the year for clothing"[1006]. The fact that the _peculium_ was a payment made from the common funds and not the privately owned income of an individual allowed it to escape the charge of _proprietas_, but it was nevertheless an obvious departure from the Benedictine rule, which forbade the individual disposal of property and made quite different arrangements for the provision of clothing. (2) Another class of payments made to individuals from the convent funds was that of pittances. A pittance was originally an extra allowance of food and it was quite common for a benefactor to leave money to a convent for a pittance on the anniversary of his death. These pittances were, however, sometimes paid in money and most account rolls will provide examples of both. The nuns of Barking receive "Ruscheaw silver" as well as the little pies called "risshowes" in Lent; the nuns of St Mary de Pré (St Albans) had "Maundy silver" as well as ale and wine on Maundy Thursday; the nuns of St Michael's Stamford receive their pittances sometimes in money, sometimes in spices or pancakes, wine or beer. The nuns of Romsey had a pittance of 6_d._ each on the feast of St Martin and another of 6_d._ each "when blood is let"[1007]. (3) The third source from which nuns obtained private possessions lay in the gifts, both in money and in kind bestowed upon them by their friends. It has already been shown, in Chapter I, that there was a growing tendency in the later middle ages for a nun to be supported by means of an annuity, paid by her relatives and often ending with her life. The fact that these annuities were ear-marked for the support of individuals must have increased the temptation to regard them as the property of those individuals, a temptation which was not present in the old days when an aristocratic nun brought with her a grant of land to the house. One is tempted to conjecture that individuals occasionally retained in their own hands the expenditure of part at least of their annuities. Specific information from English sources is unfortunately rare; but in the diocese of Rouen in the middle of the thirteenth century Archbishop Eudes Rigaud sometimes found it necessary to enjoin that certain nuns who possessed rents which were reserved for their own use, should either transfer them to the common funds, or else dispose of them only with the consent of the prioress, a significant modification, which suggests that he was unable to eradicate a deeply rooted custom, although it was strictly against the rule[1008]. It was some twenty years later (c. 1277) that Bishop Thomas of Cantilupe, writing to the nuns of Lymbrook, enjoined: Let none of you keep in her own hand any possession or rent for clothing and shoeing herself, even with the consent of the prioress, albeit such possession or rent may be given to her by parents or friends, because the goods of your community suffice not thereto; but let it be given up wholly to your prioress, that out of it she may minister to those to whom the gift was made, according to their needs; otherwise they may easily fall into the sin of property and a secular craving for gifts, thus rashly violating their vow[1009]. There are also occasional references to "poor" nuns, without such annuities or dress-allowances, which suggest that the annuitants had personal disposal of their own money. Thus John Heyden, esq., in 1480, bequeaths "to every nun in Norfolk not having an annuity 40d"[1010], and Bishop Gray in 1432 refers to "a certain chest within the monastery [of Godstow] for the relief of needy nuns," to which the sum of a hundred shillings was to be restored[1011]. But whether or not nuns were in the habit of retaining in their own possession regular annuities, it is plain that they did so retain the various gifts in kind and in money, brought to them from time to time by their friends; and, judging from the constant references in the visitation reports, these presents must have been fairly numerous. They varied from the gifts, rewards, letters, tokens and skins of wine, which the gatekeeper of Godstow smuggled in to the nuns from the scholars of Oxford, to the more sober presents of money, clothes and food given to them by fond relatives for their relief "as in hire habyte and sustenaunce." (4) One kind of gift deserves, however, a more careful consideration, for the preservation of many thousands of medieval wills allows us to speak in detail of legacies to individual nuns, which occur sometimes in company with legacies to the whole community, sometimes alone. These bequests took many different forms. Sometimes a father leaves an annuity for the support of his daughter in her convent[1012]. More frequently a nun becomes the recipient of a lump sum of money and from the wording of the legacies it is perfectly clear that these sums are to be delivered into her own hands for her own use. Let us, for instance, analyse the legacies left by Sir John Depeden, a northern knight who was a good friend to poor nuns. He first of all leaves twenty shillings each to the following twelve nunneries, that they may pray for his soul and his wife's: Esholt, Arthington, Wilberfoss, Thicket, Moxby, Kirklees, Yedingham, Clementhorpe, Hampole, Keldholme, Marrick (all in Yorkshire) and Burnham (in Buckinghamshire). He then continues: And I give and bequeath to dame Joan Waleys, nun of Watton, to her own use (_ad usum suum proprium_), 40_s._ And I give and bequeath to dame Margaret Depeden, nun of Barking, to her own use, 5 marks and one salt cellar of silver. And I give and bequeath to Elizabeth, daughter of John FitzRichard, nun of Appleton, to her own use, 40_s._; moreover he leaves to the Prioress of the last mentioned house 6_s._ 8_d._ and to each nun there 2_s._[1013] There is an obvious distinction here between the lump sums left to the common funds of the twelve nunneries grouped together and the gifts to individuals which follow. It is moreover quite common for a testator, who wishes to give money in charity to a whole house (as distinct from one who makes a bequest to a relative or friend therein), to distinguish the amounts to be paid to the prioress and to each of the nuns. Thus John Brompton, merchant of Beverley (n.d., c. 1441-4) while leaving a lump sum of 20_s._ to the nuns of Watton "for a pittance," 10_s._ to the nuns of Nunkeeling and 5_s._ to the nuns of Burnham, thus provides for all the inmates of Swine: Item I bequeath to the Prioress of Swine, 3_s._ 4_d._, and to each nun of the said house 2_s._, and to the vicar there 3_s._ 4_d._ and to each chaplain there celebrating divine service in the churches of the said town 12_d._, item to Hamond, servant there 12_d._, and to each woman serving the aforesaid nuns within the aforesaid abbey, 6_d._[1014] Thus also James Myssenden of Great Limber (1529) distinguishes between the convent and the individual nuns of Nuncoton: "To the monastery of Cotton, 3l. 6s 8d, to Dame Johan Thomson, prioress of the same 40s, to Dame Margaret Johnson 6s 8d, to Dame Elynor Hylyarde 6s 8d, to every other nun of the convent 12d"; and Dame Jane Armstrong, vowess, of Corby, in the same year leaves the nuns of Sempringham 6_s._ 8_d._, "of which Dame Agnes Rudd is to have 40d"[1015]. Similar instances may be multiplied from any collection of wills[1016]. Moreover it seems plain that the money thus willed was actually paid over to individuals by their convent. The account roll of the treasuress of St Radegund's Cambridge, in 1449-50, contains an item: And to Dame Alice Patryk lately dead in full payment of all debts 3_s._ 4_d._ from the legacy of Peter Erle, chaplain, lately deceased. And to Dame Joan Lancaster in part payment of 6_s._ 8_d._ bequeathed to her by the aforesaid Peter 3_s._ 4_d._, and to Dame Agnes Swaffham, subprioress, in part payment of 6_s._ 8_d._, 20_d._[1017] But it was not only money which was bequeathed to nuns. They often received quite considerable legacies of jewels and plate, robes and furniture. What would we not give today to look for a moment at the beautiful things which Walter Skirlaw, Bishop of Durham, left to his sister Joan, the Prioress of Swine, in 1404? Item, one large gilded cup, with a cover and a round foot, and in the bottom a chaplet of white and red roses and a hind carven in the midst and all round the outside carven with eagles, lions, crowns and other ingenious devices (_babonibus_), and in the pommel a nest and three men standing and taking the chicks from the nest, of the weight of 18 marks.... Item a robe of murrey cloth of Ypres (? _yp'n_) containing a mantle and hood furred with budge (? _purg'_), another hood furred with ermine, a cloak furred with half vair, a long robe (_garnach'_) furred with vair.... Item one bed of tapestry work of a white field, with a stag standing under a great tree and on either side lilies and a red border, with the complete tester and three curtains of white boulter[1018]. In the same year Anne St Quintin left the same noble lady "one silken quilt and one pair of sheets of cloth of Rennes"[1019]. Eleven years earlier Sir John Fairfax, rector of Prescot, had left his sister Margaret Fairfax, Prioress of Nunmonkton (of whom we have already heard much that was not to her good): one silver gilt cup with a cover, and one silver cup with a cover, one mazer with a cover of silver gilt, one pix of silver for spices, six silver spoons, one cloak of black cloth furred with gray, one round silver basin and ten marks of silver[1020]. Master John de Wodhouse in 1345 leaves Dame Alice Conyers, nun of Nunappleton, "fifteen marks [and] a long chest standing against my bed at York, one maser cup with an image of St Michael in the bottom and one cup of silver, which I had of her gift, with a hand in the bottom holding a falcon"[1021], and Isabella, widow of Thomas Corp, a London pepperer, in 1356, leaves to Margaret, sister of William Heyroun, vintner, nun at Barking, a silver plated cup with covercle, twelve silver spoons, two cups of mazer and a silver enamelled pix, together with three gold rings, with emerald, sapphire and diamond respectively and divers household goods[1022]. Possibly some of these splendid pieces of plate found their way to the altar, and the cups and spoons to the frater of the house, but the nuns undoubtedly sometimes kept them for private use in their own _camerae_. Here also were kept the beds, such as that splendid one left by Bishop Skirlaw to his sister, the "bed of Norfolk" which Sir Robert de Roos left to his daughter Joan (1392)[1023], the "bed of worstede with sheets, which she kindly gave me," left by William Felawe, clerk, to Katherine Slo, Prioress of Shaftesbury (1411)[1024]. Doubtless Juliana de Crofton, nun of Hampole, knew what use to make of "six shillings and eightpence and a cloak lined with blue and two tablets and one saddle with a bridle and two leather bowls"[1025]; here at one gift was the wherewithal for writing a letter to announce a visit and for paying that visit on horseback, in gay and unconventual attire. Indeed the constant legacies of clothes to nuns go far to explain where it was that they obtained those cheerful secular garments, against which their bishops waged war in vain. In days when clothes were made of heavy and valuable stuffs and richly adorned, it was a very common custom for a woman to divide up her wardrobe between different legatees, and men also handed on their best garments. When in 1397 Margaret Fairfax is found using "divers furs and even gray fur (_gris_)"[1026], one remembers, with a sudden flash of comprehension, the "cloak of black cloth furred with gray" which her brother left her four years earlier. What did Elizabeth de Newemarche, nun, do with the mantle of brounemelly left her by Lady Isabel Fitzwilliam?[1027] What did Sir William Bonevyll's sister at Wherwell do with "his best hoppelond with the fur"?[1028] What above all did the Prioress of Swine do with all those costly fur trimmings left her by the Bishop of Durham? Yorkshire nunneries were apt to be undisciplined and worldly; great ladies there, if Archbishop Melton is to be believed, sometimes considered that they might dress according to their rank[1029]. We may safely guess that the Prioress of Swine, like her contemporary at Nunmonkton, wore the furs; and visitation records do not lead us to suppose that other nuns sold their blue-lined cloaks and houppelonds for the sake of their convents, or bestowed them on the poor. It is a common injunction that nuns are to wear no other ring than that which, at their consecration, made them brides of Christ[1030]; but the rule was often disobeyed and Dame Clemence Medforde's "golden rings exceeding costly with divers precious stones"[1031] are explained when we remember the "three gold rings, one having a sapphire, another an emerald and the third a diamond" which the rich pepperer's widow left to Dame Margaret Heyroun[1032]. Madame Eglentyne herself may have owed to one of the many friends, who held her digne of reverence, her "peire of bedes, gauded al with grene," of small coral. When Sir Thomas Cumberworth died in 1451 he ordered that "the prioris of Coton, of Irford, of Legburn and of Grenefeld have Ilkon of yam a pare bedys of corall, as far as that I have may laste, and after yiff yam gette [give them jet] bedes"[1033], and so also Matilda Latymer left her daughter at Buckland a set of "Bedys de corall"[1034] and Margerie de Crioll left a nun of Shaftesbury "my paternoster of coral and white pearls, which the Countess of Pembroke gave me"[1035]. (5) The fifth and last source from which nuns could derive a private income was by the work of their own hands and brains. It has been stated above that very little is known about the sale of fine needlework by nuns, but a very interesting case at Easebourne seems to show that they sometimes considered themselves entitled to retain for their own private use the sums which they earned. In 1441 one of the complaints against the gay prioress was that she "compels her sisters to work continually like hired workwomen, and they receive nothing whatever for their own use from their work, but the prioress takes the whole profit." The bishop's injunction is extremely significant: the prioress shall by no means compel her sisters to continual work of their hands and if they should wish of their own accord to work, they shall be free to do so, but yet so that they may reserve for themselves the half part of what they gain by their hands; the other part shall be converted to the advantage of the house and unburdening it from debt[1036]. In fine, the Bishop is obliged to acquiesce in a serious breach of the Benedictine rule: the plea of the nuns to commit the sin of _proprietas_ is considered as a reasonable demand; and the compromise that half their earnings should go to the common fund is intended rather to check the prioress than the nuns. From the injunctions of other bishops it would appear that the private boarders and private pupils taken by individual nuns sometimes paid their fees to those individuals and not to the house[1037]; the "household" system made the reception of such boarders easy. From whatever source nuns obtained control of money and goods, whether from the _peculium_, from gifts, from legacies, or from the proceeds of their own labour, one thing is clear: in a fourteenth or fifteenth century house, where the system of the _peculium_ and the _familia_ obtained, there was a considerable approximation to private life and to private property. The control of money and goods and the division into households, catering separately for themselves, worked in together. The responsibility of the convent towards its members was sometimes limited to a bare minimum of food, such as the staple bread and beer, and perhaps a small dress allowance. All the rest was provided by the nuns themselves. In strict theory annuities, gifts and legacies, were put into common stock and administered by the convent. In practice they were obviously retained in individual possession and administered as private property by the nuns. Even legacies of lump sums to a whole convent were probably divided up between the nuns, an equal sum being paid to each and perhaps double to the prioress. An analysis of the conditions revealed at Alnwick's visitation of the Lincoln diocese in 1440-5 throws an exceedingly interesting side-light, not only on the vow of monastic poverty, as understood in the fifteenth century, but also on the domestic economy of the houses, the majority of which were small and poor. It may also conveniently be compared with the evidence given by the same visitations as to the system of _familiae_ in these houses. At some the house supplied all food and clothes or a _peculium_ for clothes, at some it provided only a bare minimum of food, at some neither dress nor dress allowance was provided. At Legbourne every nun has one loaf, one half gallon of beer a day, one pig a year, 18_d._ for beef, every day in Advent and Lent two herrings, and a little butter in summer and sometimes two stone of cheese a year and 8_d._ a year for raiment and no more; the sum of 2_s._ 2_d._ a year for beef and clothes was certainly not excessive[1038]. At Stixwould every nun receives in the year one pig, one sheep, a quarter of beef, two stones of butter, three stones of cheese, every day in Advent and Lent three herrings, six salt fish and twelve doughcakes a year; and they were wont to have 6_s._ 8_d._ for their raiment, but for several years back (one nun said for twenty years) as regards raiment they have received nothing. At St Michael's Stamford, the house provided only "bread and beer and a mark for fish and flesh and other things and as to their raiment they receive naught of the house"; out of the mark the nuns catered for themselves. Other houses provided still less out of the common funds; at Gokewell the nuns received nothing from the house but bread and beer and at Markyate (a poor house, of not unblemished reputation and badly in debt) "they receive of the house only bread, beer and two marks for their raiment and what else is necessary for their living, which are less than enough for their sundry needful wants"; Alnwick ordered all victuals to be given them "of the commune stores of the house owte of one selare and one kytchyne" and fixed the dress allowance at a noble yearly, but he did not say how the house was to raise funds. At Nuncoton the allowance was 8_s._ a year, but when Alnwick came the nuns had received only 1_s._ each. At Fosse, Langley and Ankerwyke the houses provided meat and drink, but no dress or dress allowance; and at Catesby it was complained that "the prioress does not give the nuns satisfaction in the matter of their raiment and money for victuals and touching the premises the prioress is in the nuns' debt for three-quarters of the year"[1039]. From these references it is plain that the nuns usually bought their own clothes and often catered for themselves in flesh food; also that the poverty of many houses was so great that the nuns could not have lived decently without the help of friends, whether because their dress allowances were always in arrears, or because the house recognised no responsibility to clothe them from its exiguous funds. Yet as regards food at least, the habit of catering separately for separate messes was undoubtedly less economical than the regular maintenance of a common table would have been. A highly interesting light on the control of money allowances for the purchase of food by the individual nuns of a convent is thrown by convent account rolls. These accounts show two different methods of catering in force. In one all the housekeeping was done by the cellaress, who bought such stores as were needed to supplement the produce of the home farm and provided the nuns with the whole of their food. This is the normal method, which accords with the Rule; it is to be found in the Syon cellaresses' rolls and in the roll of Elizabeth Swynford, Prioress of Catesby (1414-15). The latter sets forth: (1) the produce of the home farm, how many animals were delivered to the larder, how many to the kitchen, how much grain was malted, etc.; (2) the payments for food bought to supplement this home produce: in flesh and eggs bought from the feast of St Michael until Lent 33/0-1/2, and in expenses of the house from Easter unto the feast of St Michael in beef and eggs bought, £7. 1. 9., ... in 2 barrels 4 kemps of oil and salt fish bought in time of Lent £3. 0. 6, besides sundry odd purchases of red herrings, pepper, saffron, salt, garlic and fat[1040]. But some account rolls show an entirely different method of housekeeping. By this the convent provided the nuns with their daily ration of bread and beer and perhaps with a certain amount of green food and dairy produce, but paid them an allowance of money with which to buy their meat and fish food for themselves. On this system the convent still had to provide the nuns with their pittances, though often enough these too were paid in money, and usually also with the bulk of their Lenten fare of salt fish and spices, which was bought in large quantities at a time and stored. An extreme example of this system is found in the account of Christian Bassett, Prioress of St Mary de Pré (St Albans) in 1486-8. Under the heading _Comyns, Pytances and Partycions_ she pays to herself as prioress: for her comyns for xxj monethes ... vj l. viij s iiij d. ... Item paid to dame Alice Wafyr for her comyns for xxj monethes ... vj l. viij s iiij d. ... Item paid to vij susters of the same place for their comons for xxj monethis ... xxj li. vj s viij d. Item paid to dame Johan Knollys for her comyns for v monethis xvj s viij d. ... Item paid for brede and ale and fewell departyd amongs the susters by a yere and a half lij s. Item paid for ij bushell of pesyn departyd amongs the susters in Lente xvj d. The rest of the section contains notices of special pittances, paid sometimes in money and sometimes in kind; for instance 10_s._ 6_d._ is paid for "Maundy Ale" and 10_d._ for wine on two Maundy Thursdays, but the sisters also get "Maundy money" amounting to 21_d._ One interesting item runs: "delyvered of the rente in Cambrigge amongs the susters for the tyme of this accompte xlviij s"; these rents, which are entered among the receipts, were no doubt ear-marked for the nuns, possibly as _peculia_ for the purchase of clothes, possibly as a pittance[1041]. The same system of housekeeping was obviously also in vogue at St Michael's, Stamford, at the time of Alnwick's visitation; but the account rolls of this house are not easy to interpret, because although they contain no reference to catering, other than certain pittances and feasts on Maundy Thursday and other festal occasions, neither do they contain any reference to commons money. No separate cellaress' accounts have survived to throw any further light upon the subject. At Elstow Abbey some years later the practice of paying "commons" money was well established[1042]. It is tempting to conjecture what considerations may have prevailed to make some houses substitute money grants for the provision of food in kind. The tendency certainly grew with the custom of forming _familiae_ which messed separately and it certainly increased with time. Even at Catesby, which we saw to be a typical example of communal housekeeping in 1414-5, it seems to have become customary to give money for some at least of the victuals in 1442. The tendency also grew with poverty, as appears from Alnwick's visitations, though it is not clear whence the nuns obtained the wherewithal to feed themselves adequately, unless they had the use of extra funds of their own. It may also be conjectured that the system would be easier to work in a town than in the depths of the country. In a town the nuns could buy in the open market, and it was as easy for individuals to buy in small quantities as for the cellaress to buy wholesale. In the country, however, the convent would not only be more dependent on the home farm, but such purchases as had to be made at occasional fairs and weekly markets could more easily be made in bulk, a consideration which also accounts for the fact that the barrels and cades of salt fish for Lent were usually laid in wholesale by the cellaress. Moreover it would often be convenient for a town house to lease out the greater number of its demesnes and to depend upon what it could purchase for its daily fare. St Mary de Pré is particularly interesting in this respect; the 1486-8 account shows no sign of any home farm; the income of the house is derived almost entirely from "rents of assise and rents farm" within the town of St Albans and in other places and from tithes, and the proportion of farms or leases is noticeably large. Even the bread and beer distributed among the sisters did not come from a home farm; it was bought with 52_s._ received from the Abbot of St Albans for that purpose; the kitchener of the parent abbey similarly provided the nuns with 12_s._, "for potage money departyd amongs the susters for a yere," and at the forester's office they received 8_s._ for their fuel. Occasional references show what a variety of household charges the nuns sometimes had to bear out of their _peculia_, and the other sources of their private income. At Campsey in 1532, for instance, the subprioress says that the prioress will not allow her servants to go out upon the necessary errands of the nuns, but they hire outsiders at their own cost and Dame Isabella Norwiche says that sick nuns in the time of their sickness bear the cost of what is needful to them and it is not provided at the charge of the house[1043]. At Sheppey also, in 1511, there was no infirmary and when ill the nuns had to hire women for themselves and pay for them out of their own money[1044]. At Langley in 1440 Alnwick ordered that each nun should have yearly a cartload of fuel, cut at the cost of the house, but carried at the cost of the nuns[1045]. At Wherwell there was a custom by which, on the first occasion that a nun took her turn in reading from the pulpit, a certain sum of money or a pittance was exacted from her for the benefit of the convent, a custom forbidden by Bishop John of Pontoise in 1302[1046]; and there is mention of another pittance in 1311, when Bishop Woodlock ordered that for digging the grave and preparing the coffin of a nun who had died and for pittances to the sisters on the day of her burial, the goods of the deceased nun should not be expended, because she ought not to have private property, but the common goods of the church were to be spent; which seems like locking the stable door after the horse has gone[1047]. It is interesting to trace the attitude of ecclesiastic authorities to these various manifestations of _proprietas_. The bishops found some difficulty in persuading nuns, accustomed to expend money for themselves and to dine in _familiae_ in separate rooms, accustomed also to receive gifts and legacies in money and kind, that they must hold all things in common. At Arthington, in 1307, two nuns, Agnes de Screvyn (who had resigned the post of Prioress in 1303) and Isabella Couvel, asserted that certain animals and goods belonging to the priory were their private property and Archbishop Greenfield bids the Prioress admonish them to resign these within three days "to lawful and honest uses," according to her judgment[1048]. Similarly Bishop Bokyngham writes to Heynings in 1392: We order that cows, sows, capons, hens and all animals of any kind soever, together with wild or tame birds, which are held by certain of the nuns (whether with or without licence) ... shall be delivered up to the common use of the convent within three days, without the alienation or subtraction of any of them[1049]. In the light of these passages it is interesting to find that cows and pigs are among the legacies sometimes left to nuns[1050]. At Nuncoton, in 1440, where certain nuns were in the habit of wandering in their gardens and gathering herbs instead of attending Compline, Dame Alice Aunselle prays that they may all live in common and that no nun may have anything, such as cups and the like, as her own; but that if any such there be, they be kept in common by their common servant and that they may not have houses or separate gardens appointed, as it were, to them[1051], which illustrates how easily the household system slid into _proprietas_. It was sometimes even necessary to forbid nuns to make wills and bequeath their property. This was forbidden by the Council of Oxford in 1222[1052] and in 1387 William of Wykeham sent a stern injunction to the nuns of Romsey, pointing out that by making wills they were falling into the sin of property[1053]. In 1394, on the death of Joan Furmage, Abbess of Shaftesbury, the bishop ordered the Abbey to be sequestrated and annulled the will by which she had alienated the goods of the house in bequests to friends, declaring such a disposition to be injurious to the community and contrary to the usage of religious women[1054]. The history of the attitude of ecclesiastical authorities to two sources of private income, the _peculium_ and the gifts from friends to individuals, is of even greater significance than these attempts to cope with private goods, for it shows how powerless the bishops were against the steady weakening of discipline in monastic houses. Here, as in the enclosure struggle and the struggle against _familiae_, they were forced into compromise at best and at worst into acquiescence. At its first appearance the custom of giving a _peculium_ to individuals was severely condemned as a manifest breach of the rule: "Moneys shall not be assigned to each separately for clothes," says the Council of Oxford in 1222, "But such shall be diligently attended to by certain persons deputed to this purpose, chamberers or chambresses, who according to the need of each and the resources of the house, shall minister garments to them.... Also it shall not be lawful for the chamberer or chambress to give to any monk, canon or nun, monies or anything else for clothes, nor shall it be lawful for monk, canon or nun to receive anything; otherwise let the chamberer be deposed from office and the monk, canon or nun go without new clothes for that year"[1055]. Similarly, in the Constitutions of the legate Ottobon in 1268, the _peculium_ is grouped with other forms of property; ch. XL enacts that no religious is to possess property and that the head of the house is to make diligent search for such property twice a year[1056], and ch. XLI enacts that no money is to be given to a religious for clothes, shoes and other necessities, but he is to be given the article itself[1057]. In 1438 a severe injunction from Bishop Spofford of Hereford to the nuns of Aconbury shows the close connection between the _peculium_ and the private _camera_ of the nuns[1058]. Yet in 1380 we find a bishop of Salisbury assigning a weekly allowance of 2_d._ to each nun of Shaftesbury from the issues of the house[1059]; and in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries nuns regularly complain to their visitors when their allowances are in arrears and the bishops regularly ordain that the money is to be paid[1060]. In the thirteenth century it is a fault in the Prioress to give the nuns a _peculium_; in the fifteenth century it is a fault to withhold it. The custom as to presents from friends was that the nuns might receive gifts, only by the permission of their superior, to whom everything must be shown[1061]. Thus Archbishop Wickwane writes to Nunappleton in 1281: "that no nun shall appropriate to herself any gift, garment or shoes of the gift of anyone, without the consent and assignment of the prioress"[1062]; Archbishop Greenfield in 1315 forbids the nuns of Rosedale to accept or give any presents without the consent of the Prioress[1063]; and Archbishop Bowet in 1411 enacts that any nun of Hampole receiving gifts or _legacies_ from friends is at once on returning to reveal them to the Prioress[1064]. Occasionally a Prioress, whether out of zeal for the Rule or for some other reason, showed herself unwilling to allow the nuns to receive presents. The nuns of Flixton in 1514 complained: "that they receive no annual pensions and that the prioress is angry when anything is given to them by their friends"[1065] and Alnwick in 1441 wrote to the Prioress of Ankerwyke, whose nuns complained both of insufficient clothes and of her bad temper when their friends came to see them, And what euer thise saide frendes wyll gyfe your sustres in relefe of thaym as in hire habyte and sustenaunce, ye suffre your sustres to take hit, so that no abuse of euel come therbye noyther to the place ne to the persones therof[1066]. It was indeed almost a necessity to encourage the reception of presents, when (as so often happened towards the close of the middle ages) nuns were dependent for clothes upon their friends. But with Bishop Praty ordering that the nuns of Easebourne shall receive half the sums paid them for their work, and with Bishop Alnwick encouraging presents and enforcing the payment of _peculia_, it is plain that the Lady Poverty had fallen upon evil days. CHAPTER IX FISH OUT OF WATER De sorte qu'une Religieuse hors de sa clôture est comme une pierre hors de son centre; comme un arbre hors de terre; comme Adam et Eve hors du Paradis terrestre; comme le corbeau hors de l'arche qui ne s'arreste qu'à des charognes; comme un poisson hors de l'eau, selon le grand Saint Antoine et Saint Bernard; comme une brebis hors de sa bergerie et en danger d'estre devorée des loups, selon Saint Theodore Studite; comme un oiseau hors de son nid et une grenouille hors de son marais, selon le même Saint Bernard; comme un mort hors de son tombeau, qui infecte les personnes qui s'en approchent, selon Pierre le Vénérable et la Règle attribuée à Saint Jérôme; et par consequent dans un état tout à fait opposé à la vie Régulière qu'elle a embrassée. J. B. THIERS (1681). The famous chapter LXVI of the Benedictine Rule enunciated the principle that the professed monk should remain within the precincts of his cloister and eschew all wandering in the world[1067]. It is clear, however, that the Rule allowed a certain latitude and that monks and nuns were to be allowed to leave their houses under certain conditions and for necessary causes. Brethren working at a distance or going on a journey may be excused attendance at the divine office, if they cannot reach the church in time[1068]. Brethren sent upon an errand are forbidden to accept invitations to eat outside the house without the consent of their superior[1069]. Moreover longer journeys are plainly contemplated, in which they might have to spend a night or more outside their monastery[1070]. But no one might ever leave the cloister bounds without the permission of the superior; and it was the obvious intention of St Benedict to reduce to a minimum all wandering in the world. Strictly speaking this system of enclosure applied equally to monks and to nuns; but from the earliest times it was considered to be a more vital necessity for the well being of the latter; and the history of the enclosure movement is in effect the history of an effort to add a fourth vow of claustration to the three cardinal vows of the nun[1071]. The reasons for this severity are sufficiently obvious, and show that curious contradiction of ideas which is so common in all general theories about women. On the one hand the immense importance attached by the medieval Church to the state of virginity, exemplified in St John Chrysostom's remarks that Christian virgins are as far above the rest of mankind as are the angels, made it all important that this priceless jewel should not be exposed to danger in a wicked world[1072]. On the other hand the medieval contempt for the fragility of women led to a cynical conviction that only when they were shut up behind the high walls of the cloister was it possible to guarantee their virtue; _aut virum aut murum oportet mulierem habere_[1073]. Both views received support from the deep-rooted idea as old as the Greeks and an unconscionable time in dying, that "a free woman should be bounded by the street door"[1074]. Medieval moralists were generally agreed that intercourse with the world was at the root of all those evils which dimmed the fair fame of the conventual system, by affording a constant temptation to frivolity and to grosser misconduct. Moreover the tongue of scandal was always busy and the nun's reputation was safe only if she could be placed beyond reproach. Hence those regulations which Mr Coulton compares to "the minutely ingenious and degrading precautions of an oriental harem"[1075]. Based upon such considerations as these, the movement for the enclosure of nuns began very early in their history and continued with unabated vigour long after the Reformation[1076]. Some years before the compilation of the Benedictine Rule St Caesarius of Arles, in his Rule for nuns, had forbidden them ever to leave their monastery; and from the sixth to the eleventh century decrees were passed from time to time by various provincial councils, advocating a stricter enclosure of monks and nuns, but especially of the latter. Already by the twelfth century monasticism had declined from its first fervour, and it is significant that the reformed orders which sprang up during the great renaissance of that century all made a special effort to enforce enclosure upon their nuns. The nuns of Prémontré and Fontevrault were strictly enclosed and in the middle of the following century the statutes promulgated by the Chapter-General of the Cistercian Order (1256-7) contain a clause ordering nuns to remain in their convents, except under certain specified conditions, while the rule given by Urban IV to the Franciscan nuns (1263) went further than any previous enactments in binding them by a vow of perpetual enclosure, against which no plea of necessity might avail. Various synods and councils continued to repeat the order that nuns were not to leave their houses, except for a reasonable cause, but it is plain from the evidence of ecclesiastics, moralists and episcopal visitations that the nuns all over Europe paid small heed to their words. Finally, at the beginning of the new century, came the first general regulation on the subject which was binding as a law upon the whole church, the famous Bull _Periculoso_, promulgated by Boniface VIII about the year 1299. This decree, often afterwards confirmed by Popes and Councils, remained the standard regulation upon the subject and in view of its cardinal importance its terms are worthy of notice: Desiring to provide for the perilous and detestable state of certain nuns, who, having slackened the reins of decency and having shamelessly cast aside the modesty of their order and of their sex, sometimes gad about outside their monasteries in the dwellings of secular persons, and frequently admit suspected persons within the same monasteries, to the grave offence of Him to Whom they have, of their own will, vowed their innocence, to the opprobrium of religion and to the scandal of very many persons; we by the present constitution, which shall be irrefragably valid, decree with healthful intent that all and sundry nuns, present and future, to whatever order they belong and in whatever part of the world, shall henceforth remain perpetually enclosed within their monasteries; so that no nun tacitly or expressly professed in religion shall henceforth have or be able to have the power of going out of those monasteries for whatsoever reason or cause, unless perchance any be found manifestly suffering from a disease so great and of such a nature that she cannot, without grave danger or scandal, live together with others; and to no dishonest or even honest person shall entry or access be given by them, unless for a reasonable and manifest cause and by a special licence from the person to whom [the granting of such a licence] pertains; that so, altogether withdrawn from public and mundane sights, they may serve God more freely and, all opportunity for wantonness being removed, they may more diligently preserve for Him in all holiness their souls and their bodies. The Bull further, in order to avoid any excuse for wandering abroad in search of alms, forbids the reception into any non-mendicant order of more sisters than can be supported without penury by the goods of the house; and, in order to prevent nuns being forced to attend lawcourts in person, requires all secular and ecclesiastical authorities to allow them to plead by proctors in their courts; but if an Abbess or Prioress has to do personal homage to a secular lord for any fief and it cannot be done by a proctor, she may leave her house with honest and fit companions and do the homage, returning home immediately. Finally Ordinaries are enjoined to take order as soon as may be for proper enclosure where there is none to provide that it is strictly kept according to the terms of the decree, and to see that all is completed by Ash Wednesday, notifying any reasonable impediment within eight days of Candlemas[1077]. For the next three centuries Councils and Bishops struggled manfully to put into force the Bull _Periculoso_, but without success; the constant repetition of the order that nuns should not leave their convents is the measure of its failure. In the various reformed orders, which were founded in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the insistence upon enclosure bears witness to the importance which was attached to it as a vital condition of reform: Boniface IX's ordinances for the Dominicans (1402), St Francis of Paula's rule for his order in Calabria (1435), the rule of the Order of the Annunciation, founded by Jeanne, daughter of Louis XI, at the close of the fifteenth century, Johann Busch's reforms in Saxony, the reformed rules given by �tienne Poncher, Bishop of Paris, to the nuns of Chelles, Montmartre and Malnouë (1506) and by Geoffrey de Saint Belin, Bishop of Poitiers, to the nuns of the Holy Cross, Poitiers (1511), all insist upon strict enclosure[1078]. Similarly a long list might be drawn up of general and provincial councils and synods which repeated the ordinance, culminating in the great general Council of Trent, which renewed the decree _Periculoso_ and was itself followed by another long series of provincial councils, which endeavoured to put its decree into force. But these efforts were still attended by very imperfect success, for the worldly nuns of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries chafed at the irksome restriction no less than did their predecessors of the middle ages. When, in 1681, Jean-Baptiste Thiers published his treatise on the enclosure of nuns he announced his reason to be that no point of ecclesiastical discipline was in his day more completely neglected and ignored[1079]. This brief sketch of the enclosure movement in the Western Church is necessary to a right understanding of the special attempts which were made in England to keep the nuns in their cloisters by means of an absolute enforcement of the Benedictine Rule. Visitatorial injunctions on this subject during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and up to the Reformation were based upon three enactments: the constitutions of the legate Ottobon in 1268, the vigorous reforms of Archbishop Peckham (1279-92) and the Bull _Periculoso_. The Cardinal Legate Ottobon had come to England in 1265, on the restoration of Henry III after Evesham, with the purpose of punishing bishops and clergy who had supported the party of Simon de Montfort and the barons. When peace was finally signed in 1267, largely by his intervention, he was able to turn his attention to general abuses prevalent in the English church and one of the reforms which he attempted to enforce was the stricter enclosure of nuns. Chapter LII of his _Constitutions_ [_Quod moniales a certis locis non exeant_] is an amplification of the Benedictine rule of enclosure, made far more rigid and severe. "Lest by repeated intercourse with secular folk the quiet and contemplation of the nuns should be troubled," minute regulations were laid down as to their movements. They were allowed to enter their chapel, chapter, dorter and frater at due and fixed times; otherwise they were to remain in the cloister; and none of these places were to be entered by seculars, save very seldom and for some sufficient reason. No nun was to converse with any man, except seriously and in a public place, and at least one other nun was always to be present at such conversations. No nun was to have a meal outside the house except with the permission of the superior and then only with a relative, or some person from whose company no suspicion could arise. All other places, beyond those specified, were entirely forbidden to the nuns, with the exception, in certain circumstances, of the infirmary. No nun was to go to the different offices, except the obedientiaries, whose duties rendered it necessary and they were never to go without a companion. The Abbess or head of the house was never to leave it, except for its evident advantage or for urgent necessity, and she was always to have an honest companion, while the lesser nuns were never to be given licence to go out, except for some fit cause and in company with another nun. Finally nuns were not to leave their convents for public processions, but were to hold their processions within the precincts of their own houses. The legate strictly enjoined that "the prelates to whose jurisdiction belonged the visitation of each nunnery should cause these statutes to be observed"[1080]. It will be realised that these injunctions were exceedingly severe and that the visitors were not likely to find their task a sinecure. There is little evidence for determining how far any serious attempt was made to enforce the legate's Constitutions[1081], but if we may judge from the language of Peckham, some ten years later, any attempts which may have been made had not been strikingly successful. One of the first actions of this energetic archbishop on his elevation to the see of Canterbury was to carry out a visitation of the nunneries of Barking and Godstow and to send to both houses injunctions laying great stress on strict enclosure (1279). In 1281 he followed up these injunctions by two general decrees for the enclosure of nuns; and in 1284 he visited the three nunneries of Romsey, Holy Sepulchre (Canterbury) and Usk and sent injunctions enforcing the Constitutions of 1281[1082]. In these injunctions he laid down with great exactness the conditions to be observed in granting nuns permission to leave their convents. The Godstow injunction runs thus: For the purpose of obtaining a surer witness to chastity, we ordain that nuns shall not leave the precincts of the monastery, save for necessary business which cannot be performed by any other persons. Hence we condemn for ever, by these present [letters] those sojourns which were wont to be made in the houses of friends, for the sake of pleasure and of escaping from discipline [_ad solatium et ad subterfugium disciplinae_]. And when it shall befall any [nuns] to go out for any necessity, we strictly order these four [conditions] to be observed. First, that they be permitted to go out only in safe and mature company, as well of nuns as of secular persons helping them. Secondly that having at once performed their business, so far as it can be by them performed, they return to their house; and if the performance of the business demand a delay of several days, after the first or second day it shall be left to proctors to finish it. Thirdly that they never lodge in the precincts of men of religion or in the houses of clergy, or in other suspected habitations. Fourthly that no one absent herself from the sight of her companion or companions, in any place where human conversation might be held, nor listen to any secret whispering, except in the presence of the nuns her companions, unless perchance father or mother, brother or sister have something private to say to her[1083]. The Barking injunctions are slightly different and the first condition imposed therein is interesting: "That they be sent forth only for a necessary and inevitable cause, that is in particular the imminent death of a parent, beyond which cause we can hardly imagine any other which would be sufficient"[1084]. These injunctions are very severe, since they limit the occasions upon which a nun might leave her convent to the performance of some negotiation connected with the business of the house and to attendance at the deathbeds of relatives and entirely forbid all visits for pleasure to the houses of friends. In 1281 Peckham published a mandate directed against the seducers of nuns; after excommunicating all who committed or attempted to commit this crime and declaring that absolution for the sentence could be given only by a Bishop or by the Pope (except on the point of death), he proceeded to deal with the question of the enclosure of nuns, on the ground that their wandering in the world gave opportunity for such crimes, and sternly forbade them to pay visits for the sake of recreation, even to the closest relatives, or to remain out of their houses for more than two days on business[1085]. The same year he also dealt with the subject in the course of a set of constitutions, concerning various abuses, which he considered to be in need of reform. The language of the chapter in which he treats of the claustration of nuns is in parts the same as that of the ordinance against seducers, but it is less severe, for it enacts only that nuns shall not stay "more than three natural days for the sake of recreation, or more than six days for any necessary reason, save in case of illness." Moreover the Archbishop adds: "we do not extend this ordinance to those who are obliged to beg necessities of life, while they are begging"[1086]. It was this modified version of his ordinance which he tried to impose in his visitation of 1284, for at Romsey he recognised that the nuns might be leaving the house for recreation and not merely upon the business of the convent; the Abbess, for instance, is to take her three coadjutresses with her when she goes out on business, and two of them if she go _causa solatii_. At this house he forbade nuns to go out without a companion, or to stay for more than three days with seculars and condemned their practice of eating and drinking in the town: no nun, either on leaving or returning to the convent, was to enter any house in the town of Romsey, or to eat or drink there, and no cleric or secular man or woman was to give them any food outside the precincts[1087]. At St Sepulchre (Canterbury) Peckham regulated the visits of nuns to confessors outside the house, and at Usk he ordered that no nun was to go out without suitable companions, or to stay more than three or four days in the houses of secular persons[1088]. The next effort made in England to enforce enclosure upon nuns was the result of Boniface VIII's Bull _Periculoso_. Bishops' registers about the year 1300 sometimes contain copies of this severe enactment. One of the earliest efforts to carry it out was made by Simon of Ghent, Bishop of Salisbury, who on November 28th, 1299, issued a long letter to the Abbess of Wilton (obviously inserted in the register as a specimen of a circular sent to each nunnery in the diocese), embodying the text of the bull and ordering her to put it into force, and in 1303 he issued a mandate for the enclosure of the nuns of Shaftesbury, Wilton, Amesbury, Lacock, Tarrant Keynes and Kington[1089]. The Register of Godfrey Giffard, Bishop of Worcester, contains a note in the year 1300: As to the shutting up of nuns. It is expedient that a letter of warning be sent according to the form of the constitution and directed to every house of nuns, that they do what is necessary for their inclusion and cause themselves to be enclosed this side the Gule of August. The Bishop seems however from the beginning to have doubted his capacity to carry out the decree, for further on the register contains another note, "As to whether it is expedient to enclose the nuns of the diocese of Worcester"[1090]. An undated note of _Inhibiciones facte monialibus de Werewell_ in the Register of John of Pontoise, Bishop of Winchester, among other documents belonging to 1299-1300, is probably in part a result of _Periculoso_: We forbid on pain of excommunication any nun or sister to go outside the bounds of the monastery until we have made some ordinance concerning enclosure. Item let no one be received as nun or sister until we have enquired more fully into the resources of the house. Item we order the abbess to remove all secular women and to receive none henceforth as boarders in their house. Item let her permit no secular clerk or layman to enter the cloister to speak with the nuns[1091]. But the most detailed information as to the efforts of a conscientious bishop to enforce Boniface VIII's decree in England is contained in the Register of Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln. Dalderby was a new broom in the diocese and he determined to sweep clean. On June 17th, 1300, he directed a mandate to the archdeacons of his diocese ordering each to associate with himself some other mature and honest man and to visit the religious houses in his own archdeaconry, explaining the terms of the new bull intelligibly to the nuns and ordering them to remain within their nunneries and to permit no one to enter the precincts contrary to the tenour of the decree, until the Bishop should be able to visit them in person; the heads of the houses were to be specially warned to carry out the decree and for better security a sealed copy of it was to be deposited in each house by the commissioners[1092]. In the course of the next two months Dalderby visited, either in person or by commissioners, Marlow, Burnham, Flamstead, Markyate, Elstow, Goring, Studley, Godstow, Delapré (Northampton) and Sewardsley[1093]. At each house the bull was carefully explained to the nuns in the vulgar tongue, they were ordered to obey it and a copy was left with them. But this campaign was not unattended with difficulties. The nuns were bitterly opposed to the restriction of a freedom to which they were accustomed and which they heartily enjoyed, and an entry in Dalderby's Register, describing his visitation of Markyate, shows that even in the middle ages a bishop's lot was not a happy one: On July 3rd, in the first year [of his consecration], the Bishop visited the house of nuns of Markyate and on the following day he caused to be recited before the nuns of the same [house] in chapter the statute put forth by the lord Pope Boniface VIII concerning the enclosure of nuns, explained it in the vulgar tongue and giving them a copy of the same statute under his seal, ordered them in virtue of obedience henceforth to observe it in the matter of enclosure and of all things contained in it, and especially to close all doors by which entrance is had into the inner places of their house and to permit no person, whether dishonest or honest, to enter in to them, without reasonable and manifest cause and licence from the person to whom [the granting of such a licence] pertains. Furthermore he specially enjoined the Prioress to observe the said statute in all its articles and to cause it to be observed by the others. But when the Bishop was going away, certain of the nuns, disobedient to these injunctions, hurled the said statute at his back and over his head, and as well the Prioress as the convent appeared to consent to those who threw it, following the bishop to the outer gate of the house and declaring unanimously that they were not content in any way to observe such a statute. On account of which, the Bishop, who was then directing his steps to Dunstable, returned the next day and having made inquisition as to the matters concerned in the said statute, imposed a penance on four nuns, whom he found guilty and on the whole convent for their consent, as is more fully contained in his letters of correction sent to the aforesaid house. Afterwards he sent letters to the recalcitrant convent warning them for the third time (they had already been warned once by the Official of the Archdeacon of Bedford and a second time at the visitation which has just been described) to keep the new decree, on pain of the major excommunication, from which only the Pope could absolve them[1094]. There was opposition at other convents, too, though we hear of no more attacks on the episcopal shoulders. On August 19th Dalderby wrote as follows to Master Benedict de Feriby, rector of Broughton, Northants (a church in the presentation of the Abbess and Convent of Delapré): It has come to our ears, by clamorous rumour, that some of the nuns of our diocese, spurning good obedience, slackening the reins of honesty and shamelessly casting aside the modesty of their sex, despise the papal statute concerning enclosure directed to them, as well as our injunctions made to them upon the subject, and frequent cities and other public places outside their monasteries, and mingle in the haunts of men; he proceeded to order Feriby to visit nunneries wherever he considered it expedient to do so, and to punish those who were guilty of breaking the statute, signifying to the Bishop, by a certain date, the names of all who had been accused of doing so, whether they had been found guilty or not[1095]. This mandate is no doubt in part explained by two other letters which he dispatched on the same day; one of them was directed to the Archdeacon of Northampton and set forth (in language which often repeats _verbatim_ the phrases of the papal bull) that at the Bishop's recent visitation of Delapré (Northampton) he had found three nuns in apostasy, having cast off their habits after being a long time professed, and left their house to live a secular life in the world[1096]. The other letter contains a sentence of the greater excommunication against a nun of Sewardsley, for similar conduct[1097]. These cases of apostasy were less rare than might be imagined; Dalderby had to deal with two others during his episcopate, one at St Michael's, Stamford[1098], and the other at Goring[1099]; and during the rule of his predecessor Sutton three nuns had escaped from Godstow and one from Wothorpe[1100]. They illustrate the undoubted truth that it was only the existence (already in the thirteenth century) of very grave disorders, which led reformers like Ottobon, Peckham and Boniface VIII to "beat the air" with such severe restrictions. These three documents, the Constitutions of Ottobon and of Peckham and the Bull _Periculoso_, were the standard decrees on the subject of the claustration of nuns in England and were used as a model by visitors in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. William of Wykeham, for example, in the exceptionally full and formal injunctions which he sent to Romsey and to Wherwell in 1387 continually refers by name to Ottobon and to Peckham, and the wording of the Bull _Periculoso_ is followed _verbatim_ in the mandate directed by Bishop Grandisson of Exeter to Canonsleigh in 1329 and in the commission sent by his successor Bishop Brantyngham to two canons of Exeter in 1376, concerning the wanderings of the nuns of Polsloe. But a study of the visitation documents of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries makes it clear that the nuns never really made any attempt to obey the regulations which imposed a strict enclosure upon them; and that the bishops upon whom fell the brunt of administering _Periculoso_ themselves allowed a considerable latitude, directing their efforts towards regulating the conditions under which nuns left their convents, rather than to keeping them within the precincts. _Le mieux est l'ennemi du bien_ and the steady opposition of the nuns forced a compromise upon their visitors. The canonist John of Ayton, reciting the decrees of Ottobon and of Boniface, with their injunction that bishops shall "cause them to be observed," exclaims Cause to be observed! But surely there is scarce any mortal man who could do this: we must therefore here understand "so far as lieth in the prelate's power." For the nuns answer roundly to these statutes or to any others promulgated against their wantonness, saying "In truth the men who made these laws sat well at their ease, while they laid such burdens upon us by these hard and intolerable restrictions!" Wherefore we see in fact that these statutes are a dead letter or are ill-kept at the best. Why, then, did the holy fathers thus labour to beat the air? Yet indeed their toil is none the less to their own merit; for we look not to that which is but to that which of justice should be[1101]. Dalderby's experience at Markyate shows that John of Ayton's picture was not too highly coloured, and since it was impossible to enforce "hard and intolerable restrictions" without at least a measure of co-operation from the nuns themselves, the bishops took the only course open to them in trying to minimise the evil. Their expedients deserve some study, and as a typical set of episcopal injunctions dealing with journeys by nuns outside their cloisters it will suffice to quote those sent by Walter Stapeldon, Bishop of Exeter, to the nunneries of Polsloe and Canonsleigh. These rules were drawn up in 1319, only twenty years after the publication of the Bull _Periculoso_, but they are already far removed from the strict ideal of Boniface VIII. Stapeldon was a practical statesman and he evidently realised that the enforcement of strict enclosure was impossible in a diocese where the nuns had been used to considerable freedom and where all the counties of the West saw them upon their holidays. The clauses dealing with the subject run as follows: _De visitacione amicorum._ No lady of religion is to go and visit her friends outside the priory, but if it be once a year at the most and then for reasonable cause and by permission; and then let her have a companion professed in the same religion, not of her own choice, but whomsoever the Prioress will assign to her and she who is once assigned to her for companion shall not be assigned the next time, so that each time a lady goes to visit her friends her companion is changed; and if she have permission to go to certain places to visit her friends, let her not go to other places without new permission. _De absencia Dominarum et regressu earum._ Item, when any lady of religion eats at Exeter, or in another place near by, for reasonable cause and by permission, whenever she can she ought to return the same or the following day and each time let her have a companion and a chaplain, clerk or serving-man of good repute assigned by the prioress, who shall go, remain and return with them and otherwise they shall not go; and then let them return speedily to the house, as they be commanded, and let them not go again to Exeter, wandering from house to house, as they have oftentimes done, to the dishonour of their state and of religion. _De Dominabus "Wakerauntes"_ [i.e. _vagantibus_]. Item, a lady who goes a long distance to visit her friends, in the aforesaid form, should return to the house within a month at the latest, or within a shorter space if it be assigned her by the Prioress, having regard to the distance or proximity of the place, where dwell the friends whom she is going to visit, but a longer term ought the Prioress never to give her, save in the case of death, or of the known illness of herself or of her near friends. _Pena Dominarum Vagancium._ And if a lady remain without for a long time or in any other manner than in the form aforesaid, let her never set foot outside the outer gate of the Priory for the next two years; and nevertheless let her be punished otherwise for disobedience, in such manner as is laid down by the rule and observances of the order of St Benet for the fault; and leave procured by the prayer of her friends ought not to excuse her from this penance[1102]. No lady of your religion, professed or unprofessed, shall come to the external offices outside the door of the cloister to be bled or for any other feigned excuse, save it be by leave of the Prioress or of the Subprioress, and then for a fit reason and let her have with her another professed lady of your religion, to the end that each of them may see and hear that which the other shall say and do[1103]. The main lines along which the bishops attempted to regulate the movements of the nuns outside their houses appear clearly in these injunctions. It was their invariable practice to forbid unlicensed visits, in accordance with the Benedictine rule; no nun might leave her house without a licence from her superior and such licences were not to be granted too easily[1104] or with any show of favouritism[1105]; sometimes the licence of the Bishop was required as well[1106]. Such licences were not to be granted often (once a year is usually the specified rule)[1107] and the bishops sometimes tried to confine the visits of nuns to parents or to near relatives[1108]. An attempt was also made to regulate the length of the visits. A maximum number of days was fixed and the nun was to be punished if she outstayed her leave[1109], except when she was detained by illness. This maximum differed from time to time and from place to place. Bishop Stapeldon, it will be recalled, allowed the nuns in his diocese to remain away for a month and longer; how he reconciled such laxity with his conscience and the Bull _Periculoso_ is not plain. Archbishop Greenfield, at the same date, permitted his Yorkshire nuns a maximum visit of fifteen days[1110], and in 1358 Bishop Gynewell of Lincoln forbade the nuns of Godstow to remain away for longer than three weeks[1111]. When Alnwick visited the diocese of Lincoln in 1440-5, he made careful inquiry into the length of the visits paid by the nuns and at Goring, Gracedieu, Markyate, Nuncoton and St Michael's, Stamford, he found that the superior usually gave the nuns licence to remain away a week, though the Prioress of Studley gave exeats for three or four days only[1112]. A week does not seem a very lengthy absence, but Alnwick would have lifted horrified eyebrows at the action of his predecessor Gynewell, for he ordered the superiors "that ye gyfe no sustere of yowres leue to byde wythe thaire frendes whan thai visite thaym, overe thre dayes in helthe, and if thai falle seke, that he do fecche thaym home wythe yn sex dayes"[1113]. He shared the views of an even stricter reformer, Peckham[1114]. It was often stipulated that the nuns, whether they went on long or on short journeys, were to go only to the place which they had received permission to visit[1115]; and sometimes they were specially told that if they were obliged to spend the night away from their friends they were to do so, whenever possible, in another nunnery[1116]. But they were strictly forbidden to harbour in the houses of monks, friars, or canons[1117]. On short journeys, or on errands which could be speedily accomplished, they were forbidden to eat or drink out of their monasteries or to make unnecessary delay, but were to return at once and in no case to be out after nightfall[1118]. Moreover it was invariably ordered that a nun was on no account to leave her house, without another nun of mature age and good reputation who would be a constant witness to her behaviour[1119]; and both were to wear monastic dress[1120]. The chief aim of the ecclesiastical authorities was, however, to secure that leave of absence should be granted only for a reasonable cause. All conciliar and other injunctions for enclosure added a saving clause of "manifest necessity" and this gave an opening for an infinite variety of interpretation. The nuns, indeed, could fall back upon a threefold line of defence against the intolerable restrictions. They could appeal to the undoubted fact that strict and perpetual enclosure went beyond the requirements of their rule. They could adduce the custom by which, as long as their memory ran, nuns had been allowed to leave their convents under conditions. Finally they could with a little skill, stretch the "manifest necessity" clause to cover almost all their wanderings. Thus it happened that in enforcing the Bull _Periculoso_ the visitors of the later middle ages found themselves obliged to define, more or less widely according to local conditions, what was and what was not a reasonable cause, and to combat one after another certain specific excuses put forward by the nuns. The sternest reformers were agreed that enclosure might be broken, when the lives of the nuns were endangered. Fire, flood, famine, war and the ruin of their buildings were universally accepted as reasonable excuses[1121]. A nun could leave her house to be superior of another nunnery (a not infrequent practice), or to found new houses or to establish reform elsewhere.[1122] Moreover when a culprit stood in need of condign punishment, she might be and often was sent to another house to do penance among strangers, who would neither sympathise with her nor run the risk of being contaminated by her[1123]. At this point, however, agreement ceased. The question of illness was beset with difficulties. It was agreed that a nun might leave her house, if she suffered from some contagious disease which threatened the health of her sisters[1124], but opinions differed as to whether any relaxation was to be allowed in less severe cases, when only her own health was in question. The visitors sometimes issued licences for nuns to leave their houses in order to recruit their health; thus in 1303 Josiana de Anelaby, Prioress of Swine, had licence to absent herself from her house on account of ill-health[1125], in 1314 Archbishop Greenfield licenced a nun of Yedingham, who was suffering from dropsy, to visit friends and relatives with honest company, for the sake of improving her health[1126] and in 1368 Joan Furmage, Abbess of Shaftesbury, actually received a dispensation to leave the abbey for a year, and reside in her manors, for the sake of air and recreation[1127]. It is significant that the _Novellae Definitiones_ of the Cistercian Order in 1350 strictly forbade nuns to go to the public baths outside their houses, which shows that they had been in the habit of doing so[1128]. But strict reformers were always opposed to such licences, and the specific prohibition of exeats for purposes of cures and convalescences was common in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the practice had become almost universal in France[1129]. Again there was some difference of opinion as to whether a nun might leave her house, in order to enter one professing a stricter rule. Such a desire was in theory laudable and by Innocent III's decretal _Licet_ the principle was laid down that a bishop was bound _de jure_ to grant leave for migration "sub praetextu majoris religionis et ut vitam ducant arctiorem," as long as the motive of the petitioner was love of God and not merely _temeritas_[1130]. But _temeritas_ was often to be suspected; women, as St Francis de Sales complained, were full of whimsies[1131]; ennui, fancy, a craving for change, a friend in another house, might masquerade as a desire to lead a stricter life elsewhere. Moreover a nun who desired to remove herself was not unlikely to encounter opposition from her own convent. An interesting case of such opposition occurred at Gracedieu in 1447-8. Margaret Crosse, a nun of that house, desired to be transferred to the Benedictine Priory of Ivinghoe "of a straiter order of religion and observance, not for a frivolous or empty reason, but that she may lead a life altogether and entirely harder." She obtained letters of admission from the Prioress of Ivinghoe, but when she came to ask for leave to migrate, the Prioress and Convent of Gracedieu refused to release her from her obedience and confiscated the letters. Bishop Alnwick then wrote to Gracedieu, requiring the Prioress either to let her go, or to furnish him with a reason for their refusal. The Prioress and Convent replied with some acerbity. Margaret, they said, desired to lead a life of less and not of more restraint and her real object was to join her sister, who was at that time Prioress of Ivinghoe, if indeed her request were not a mere pretext for apostasy; for the said Margaret Crosse has caused and commanded certain goods, property and jewels belonging to our priory to be stealthily conveyed by certain of the said Margaret's friends in the flesh from our priory to foreign and privy places, and to such conveyance done in her name has lent her authority, with the purpose, as is strongly suspected, of taking advantage of the darkness one night ... and transferring herself utterly and entirely of her own motion to places wholly strange, without having or asking and against our will[1132]. Moreover had the holy father considered the merits of their house and the loss to it, if Margaret seceded? Inasmuch as in our priory according to the observances of the rule God is served and quire is ruled both in reading and singing and chanting the psalms and toiling in the vineyard of the Lord of Sabaoth at the canonical hours by day and night, while we also patiently endure grievous cares, fastings and watchings and further are instant together in contemplation, even as the holy Spirit designs to give us His inspiration. And the said Margaret Crosse, who is sufficiently trained in such regular observances and is very needful for the service of God in our priory aforesaid, wherein such regular observances and contemplations are not so fully kept as in our aforesaid priory ... would give herself to secular business in all matters, rather than to such contemplation or observance of the rule; and thereout shall arise to us and our priory not only grievous ill repute, but also no small loss, especially in that such chantings and regular observances would in likelihood suffer damage by reason of the said Margaret's absence[1133]. There is an air of verisimilitude about the injured convent's argument, though the visitation report of 1440-1 does not show them as the strict and pious community which they claim to be; but what came of the affair we do not know. One plea to lead a stricter life was, however, less open to suspicion; that was the request to be enclosed as an anchoress. Sometimes an anchoress had a companion, sometimes a servant[1134], but in any case her life was stricter than that of a nun, for she devoted herself to constant prayer and was bound to remain always in her little cell, which was usually attached to a church. There are several instances of nuns who left their communities to lead a solitary life in some anchorage. On one occasion when the nuns of Coldingham had been dispersed by the Scots, Beatrice de Hodesak left her convent and with the permission of the Archbishop and of her Prioress retired to an anchorage at St Edmund's Chapel, near the bridge of Doncaster; another anchoress Sibil de Lisle was already living there (c. 1300)[1135]. Twenty years later Archbishop Melton gave Margaret de Punchardon, nun of Arden, permission to be enclosed, as an anchoress, in the cell attached to St Nicholas' Hospital at Beverley, in company with Agnes Migregose [? Mucegrose, i.e. Musgrave] already a recluse there[1136]. The register of Bishop Gray of Lincoln contains an interesting commission (1435-6) addressed to the Abbot of Thornton, bidding him enclose Beatrice Franke, a nun of Stainfield, in the parish church of Winterton, together with the Abbot's certificate that he has examined her and found her steadfast in her purpose and therefore shutting up the aforesaid sister Beatrice in a building and enclosure constructed on the north side of the church and making fast the door thereof with bolts, bars and keys, we left her in peace and calm of spirit, as it is believed by the more part, in the joy of her Saviour[1137]. Some nunneries themselves had anchorages attached, for instance Davington[1138], Polesworth[1139] and Carrow; and Julian of Norwich, anchoress at the parish church of Carrow in the fourteenth century, was one of the most famous mystical writers of the middle ages[1140]. Anchoresses do not seem always to have been content with their life and the strict preliminary examination of Beatrice Franke "concerning her withdrawal from the life of a community to the solitary life, concerning the length of time wherein she had continued in this purpose, concerning the perils of them that choose such a life and afterwards repent thereof" was probably a necessary precaution. The register of Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln contains a mandate to the nuns of Marlow, to readmit one such faint-heart, Agnes de Littlemore, a lay sister of the house, who had left it to become an anchoress and had repented of her decision[1141]. Illness and the desire to embrace a stricter rule were exceptional causes for a temporary breach of enclosure. The great difficulty in administering _Periculoso_ arose over more usual pretexts. The least objectionable occasion for leaving cloistral precincts was when convent business demanded it and this happened frequently to the superior and the treasuress or cellaress. The journeys which were frequently taken by the head of a house have already been considered[1142]; but the obedientiaries also found much scope for wandering in the duties of their offices. The treasuress and cellaress might be obliged day by day to visit, in the course of their duties, offices and buildings which lay outside the walls, and if they were not sober minded women there were ample opportunities for lingering and gossiping with secular persons and with servants. The Constitutions of the Legate Ottobon in 1268 attempted to minimise this danger by enacting that no nun was to go into the different _officinae_, except those whose offices rendered it necessary to do so, and they were never to go unaccompanied[1143]. The complaints brought by the nuns of Gracedieu in 1440-1 against their self-confident cellaress Margaret Belers show that some such regulation was necessary; it was said that she was accustomed to visit all the offices by herself, even the granges and other places where menfolk were working, and that she went there (good zealous housewife!) "over early in the morning before daybreak"; whereupon Bishop Alnwick ordered the Prioress to "suffre none of thaym, officiere ne other, to go to any house of office wythe owte the cloystere, but if ther be an other nunne approveded in religyone assigned to go wythe hire, eyther to be wytnesse of others conversatyon"[1144]. Convent business, however, frequently took the officials further afield than outlying granges and they undertook journeys hardly less often than did the head of the house. The Cistercian statutes of 1256-7, in forbidding nuns to leave their convents, make exception "for the Abbess with two or at most three nuns and for the cellaress with one, who are permitted to go forth to look after the business of the house or for other inevitable causes"[1145]. The evidence of account rolls is invaluable in this connection and shows us the nuns going marketing or seeking tithes from recalcitrant farmers, or interviewing tenants about rent. The Chambress of Syon went to London three times in 1536, doubtless to buy the russets, white cloth, kerseys, friezes and hollands which figure so largely in her account and to take the spectacles to be mended; she was a thrifty lady and her expenses were only 6_d._, 2_d._ and 20_d._ respectively. Her sister the cellaress also went to London that year and spent 6_d._ on the jaunt[1146]. The nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, sometimes took long journeys on convent business; in 1372-3 Dame Katherine Fitzaleyn went "to London and other places about our tithes," at the heavy cost of 15_s._ 8_d._[1147] From Stamford to London was a considerable journey, but the convent could not afford to lose its tithes. The same business took Dame Katherine to the capital another year; she hired three horses for six days and a serving man to go with them and she took with her Dame Ida, in accordance with the regulations; the whole cost of the expedition was £2. 11_s._, a very large sum, and we will hope that the tithes brought in more than enough to cover it[1148]. Sometimes, again, nuns left their houses to take part in ecclesiastical ceremonies, such as processions. There does not seem much harm in the whole convent sallying forth on these solemn occasions and indeed bishops sometimes gave orders that they were to do so. In 1321 Rigaud de Asserio, Bishop of Winchester, sent a letter to the Prior of St Swithun's monastery "to pray for peace, with solemn processions"; he was to cause the Abbot and Convent of Hyde, the Abbess and Convent of St Mary's, Winchester, and all the other religious houses and parish priests of Winchester to come together in the Cathedral and then to proceed in solemn procession through the town[1149]. The strictest disciplinarians, however, looked with suspicion even upon religious processions and sought to keep nuns within the precincts of their cloister. Ottobon's Constitutions contain a proviso that nuns are not to go out for public processions, but are to hold their processions within the bounds of their own house[1150] and the prohibition was repeated by Thomas of Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford, writing to Lymbrook in 1277[1151], and by William of Wykeham (who specifically based his words upon Ottobon), writing to Romsey in 1387[1152]. A century later the custom was forbidden in France at the provincial Council of Sens, in 1460 and again in 1485, where it was referred to as "a dangerous and evil abuse"[1153]. Some explanation of this severity, which seems excessive, may perhaps be gleaned from an injunction sent by Bishop Longland to Elstow in 1531: Moreover forasmoche as the ladye abbesse and covent of that house be all oon religious bodye unite by the profession and rules of holy sainct benedicte, and is nott conuenyent ne religious to be disseuerd or separate, we will and Inioyne that frome hensforth noon of the said abbesse seruauntes nor no ther secular person or persones, whatsoeuer he or they be, goo in eny procession before the said abbesse betwene hir and hir said covent, undre payne of exccommunycacon, and that the ladye abbesse ne noon of hir successours hereafter be ladde by the arme or otherwise in eny procession ther as in tymes paste hath been used, undre the same payne[1154]. Other religious ceremonies of a less formal nature occasionally called nuns, in a body or individually, out of their cloister. For instance some of the greater abbeys were accustomed to receive into their fraternity benefactors and persons of distinction, both men and women, whom they wished to honour, nor were kings too proud to call themselves the _confratres_ of Bury St Edmunds or St Albans and to receive from the monks the kiss of peace[1155]. The ceremony took place with great solemnity in the chapter-house and it is recorded that on one occasion (in 1428), when the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Gloucester and their households were received into the Fraternity of St Albans, Cecilia Paynel and Margaret Ewer, nuns of Sopwell, were also admitted. At another time the Prioress of Sopwell, together with a certain John Crofton and his wife, were received and gave the abbey a pittance and wine and a sum of money; while on another occasion still the Prioress and another nun of St Mary de Pré were similarly made _consorores_ of the abbey, and marked their appreciation by the gift of a frontal for the high altar in the lady chapel[1156]. Sopwell and St Mary de Pré were dependents of St Albans and it is not improbable that their superiors and seniors often visited it on great occasions such as this; certainly the great magnates of the realm often called at Sopwell on their way from St Albans, and nuns of the house figure in its book of benefactors as donors of embroidery to the church[1157], while in matters of government the Abbot always kept a tight hand upon both houses. Again nuns sometimes attended the funerals of great folk; not only priors and prioresses, but also canons and nuns were expected to be present at Sir Thomas Cumberworth's funeral and "month's-mind"[1158] and in an account roll of St Michael's, Stamford, there is an entry "paye a nos compaygnounes alaunt a Leycestre al enterment la Duchesse ij s"[1159]. Attendance at religious processions and ceremonies might be, and attendance at funerals undoubtedly was, regarded by the more moderate and reasonable visitors as a legitimate reason for going outside the precincts of the cloister. One other excuse of the same nature, however, sometimes took a nun away from her convent for a considerable length of time and was never looked upon with any favour by the authorities of the church. Yet it is an excuse which we have the best of reasons for recognising, which is, indeed, bound up with all that most people know of the medieval nun--for Chaucer has taught us that nuns were wont to go upon pilgrimages. All pilgrimages did not, indeed, involve as long a journey as that taken by Madame Eglentyne. The ladies of Nuncoton could make a pilgrimage to St Hugh of Lincoln, without being away for more than a night and the ladies of Blackborough would not have to follow for a long distance the milky way to Walsingham[1160]. Nevertheless it is unnecessary to go further than Chaucer to understand why it was that medieval bishops offered a strenuous opposition to the practice; one has only to remember some of the folk in whose company the Prioress travelled and some of the tales they told. If one could be certain that she rode with her nun and her priests, or at least between the Knight and the poor Parson! But there were also the Miller and the Summoner and, worst of all, that cheerful and engaging sinner the Wife of Bath. If one could be certain that she listened only to the tale of Griselda, or of Palamon and Arcite, or yawned over Melibeus, and that she fell discreetly to the rear when the company laughed over the "nyce cas of Absalon and hende Nicholas"! If one could be certain that it was to the Wife of Bath alone that the Merchant made his apology Ladies, I prey yow that ye be nat wrooth; I can nat glose, I am a rude man. Certainly the Wife of Bath was a host in herself, but the plural is ominous and the two nuns were the only other ladies in the company. The sterner moralists of the middle ages bear out Chaucer's picture of a typical pilgrimage with most unchaucerian denunciation[1161]. Pilgrims got drunk at times, as drunk as the Miller, "so that vnnethe up-on his hors he sat," on the very first day of the journey, as drunk as the "sory palled gost" of a cook, when the cavalcade reached that litel toun Which that y-cleped is Bob-up-&-doun Under the Blee in Canterbury weye. Again, there are pilgrims, says Etienne de Bourbon, "who when they visit holy places sing lecherous lays, whereby they inflame the hearts of such as hear them and kindle the fire of lechery"; and like an echo rise the well-known words: Ful loude he song "Come hider, love, to me," This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun Was never trompe of half so greet a soun, and shrill and clear sound the miller's bagpipes, bringing the pilgrims out of town[1162]. No place for a cloistered nun was the inn though one feels that mine host's wife, "big in arme," would have kept the Tabard respectable, whatever might be said of the Chequer-on-the-Hoop. No place for her the road to Canterbury, nor yet Canterbury itself, where the monk with the holy-water sprinkler was so anxious for a peep at her face and where she hobnobbed over wine in the parlour, with the hostess and the Wife of Bath[1163]. Madame Eglentyne, for all her simplicity, must have circumvented her Bishop before she got there. For the Bishops were quite clear in their minds that pilgrimages for nuns were to be discouraged. They were of Langland's way of thinking: Right so, if thow be religious, renne thow neuere ferther, To Rome ne to Rochemadore, but as thi reule techeth, And holde the vnder obedyence, that heigh wey is to heuene[1164]. As early as 791 the Council of Fréjus had forbidden the practice[1165] and in 1195 the Council of York decreed "In order that the opportunity of wandering about may be taken from them [the nuns], we forbid them to take the road of pilgrimage"[1166]. In 1318 Archbishop Melton strictly forbade the nuns of Nunappleton to leave their house "by reason of any vow of pilgrimage, which they might have taken; if any had taken such vows she was to say as many psalters as it would have taken days to perform the pilgrimage so rashly vowed"[1167]. One has a melancholy vision of Madame Eglentyne saying psalters interminably through her "tretys" nose, instead of jogging along so gaily with her motley companions and telling so prettily her tale of little St Hugh. But the nuns of Nunappleton retained their taste for pilgrimages and nearly two centuries later (in 1489) we find Archbishop Rotherham admonishing their successors: yat ye prioresse lycence none of your susters to goe pilgremage or visit yer frendes w{t}oute a grete cause, and yen such a sister lycencyate by you to have w{t} her oon of ye most sadd and well disposid sistirs to she come home agayne[1168]. At Wix, twenty years later, the nuns were forbidden to undertake pilgrimages without the consent of the diocesan[1169], and in 1531 Bishop Longland wrote to the Prioress of Nuncoton: Forasmoche as by your negligent sufferaunce dyuers of your susters hath wandred a brode in the world, some under the pretence of pylgrymage, some to see ther frends, and otherwise whereby hath growen many Inconuenyences insolent behauiours and moche slaunder, as well to your house as to those susters, as by the texts of my said visitation doth euydently appere, I chardge you lady priores that from hensforthe ye neyther licence ne suffre eny your susters to goo out of your monastery, without good cause and company of a "wise sobre and discrete suster," and an injunction not to "tary out of the monastery in the nighte tyme"[1170]. But most significant of all is a case which occurred at the little Cistercian priory of Wykeham in Yorkshire in the fifteenth century. In 1450 Archbishop Kemp wrote to the Prioress, bidding her readmit an apostate nun Katherine Thornyf: who, seduced by the Angel of Darkness, under the colour of a pilgrimage in the time of the Jubilee, without leave of the archbishop, or officials or even of the prioress, set out on a journey to the court of Rome, in the company of another nun of the house, who, as it was reported, had gone the way of all flesh and on whose soul the Archbishop prayed for mercy. After the death of this nun, Katherine Thornyf had lived in sin with a married man in London. Then she had been moved to penitence, after who knows what agony of soul, and had gone to the Archbishop seeking absolution; and so the prodigal, weary of her husks, came back to the nunnery she had left[1171]. The melancholy tale is borne out by all we know about medieval pilgrimages. Centuries before--in 774--an Archbishop of Milan had written to an Archbishop of Canterbury, advising that the Synod should prohibit women and nuns from travelling to Rome, on account of the dangers and temptations of the journey, "for very few are the cities in Lombardy ... France ... Gaul, wherein there is not to be found a prostitute of English race"[1172]; and the trouvère Rutebeuf, in the thirteenth century, spoke with less pity and a more biting satire of the pilgrimages of French nuns to Paris and Montmartre[1173]. Excursions on convent business or for attendance at ecclesiastical ceremonies (other than pilgrimages) were regarded as legitimate, though strict disciplinarians sought to restrict them to occasions of real urgency. But for the most part we hear about journeys undertaken for pleasure and not for business, or at any rate the elastic term business is stretched to cover some very pleasant wandering in the world and much hobnobbing with friends. In spite of the Bull _Periculoso_[1174] bishops were never able to prevent nuns from going to stay with their friends, and sometimes the ladies made very long journeys for this purpose. Bishop Stapeldon, for instance, ordained that when the nuns of Canonsleigh in Devon went to visit their friends "in Somerset, Dorset, Devonshire or in Cornwall" they might not stay for longer than a month; but if they went outside these four counties the Abbess might allow them to stay longer still, having regard to the distance of their destination and to the time which would be spent in travelling[1175]. The bishops indeed were forced to regard such visits as "reasonable occasions" for a breach of enclosure, and their efforts, as has already been shown, were confined to regulating rather than to stopping the practice; for the relatives of the nuns, as well as the ladies themselves, would have been the first to resent any interference with their visits. Whatever might be the theory of the Church on the subject, blood was thicker than holy water; family affections and family interests persisted in the cloister and the nun was welcomed at many a hospitable board for her family's sake as well as for her own. All this seems natural and obvious today and few would think the worse of the nuns for their opposition to the stricter form of enclosure. Nevertheless the authorities of the Church had reason for their distrust of these absences from the convent. Once away from the cloister and staying in a private house there was nothing to keep a nun from joining in the secular revelries of friends, and though her behaviour might be exemplary the convent rule aimed at keeping her unspotted even by temptation. An anecdote related by Erasmus in his dialogue "Ichthyophagia" shows that the danger of allowing nuns to visit their friends might be a real one. Two nuns had gone to stay with their kinsfolk, and at supper they began to grow merry with wine; they laughed and joked and kissed and not over-modestly neither, till you could hardly hear what was said for the noise they made.... After supper there was dancing and singing of lascivious songs and such doings I am ashamed to speak of, inasmuch as I am much afraid the night hardly passed very honestly[1176]. Moreover even if nuns visited their friends for a very short time, staying only one night, or even returning before nightfall to the convent, there was danger that they might join in the various revelries practised among secular folk, and reprobated by the Church as occasions for unseemly and licentious behaviour. Bishop Spofford of Hereford, indeed, found it necessary in 1437 to send a special warning against doing so to the nuns of Lymbrook; the Prioress was to "yife no lycence too noon of hur sustres her after to go to no port townes, no to noon othir townes to comyn wakes or festes, spectacles and othir worldly vanytees, and specially on holy-dayes, nor to be absent lyggying oute by nyght out of thair monastery, but with fader and moder, except causes of necessytee"[1177]. The words which the Good Wife spoke to her daughter come to mind: Go not to þe wrastelings ne schotynge at cok As it were a strumpet or a giggelot, Wone at hom, doughter, and love þi work myche[1178]. Clemence Medforde, Prioress of Ankerwyke, went to a wedding at Bromhale[1179]; yet weddings were of all those "comyn wakes and festes" most condemned by the Church for the unseemly revelries which followed them. _The Christen State of Matrimony_, written in 1543, throws a flood of light upon the subject: When they come home from the Church, then beginneth excesse of eatyng and dryncking--and as much is waisted in one daye, as were sufficient for the two newe maried Folkes halfe a yere to lyve upon.... After the Bancket and Feast, there begynnethe a vayne, madde and unmanerlye fashion, for the Bryde must be brought into an open dauncynge place. Then is there such a rennynge, leapynge, and flyngynge among them, then is there suche a lyftynge up and discoverynge of the Damselles clothes and other Womennes apparell, that a Man might thynke they were sworne to the Devels Daunce. Then muste the poore Bryde kepe foote with al Dauncers and refuse none, how scabbed, foule, droncken, rude and shameles soever he be. Then must she oft tymes heare and se much wyckednesse and many an uncomely word; and that noyse and romblyng endureth even tyll supper[1180]. It may be urged that the Brides of Heaven need not necessarily have attended these merry-makings after the ceremony; but the example of Isabel Benet, nun of Catesby, and the tenour of certain episcopal injunctions, show that nuns by no means despised dancing[1181]. The strict disciplinarian's view of weddings is shown in the fact that members of the Tertiary Order of St Francis were forbidden to attend them; and even the civic authorities of London found it necessary to regulate the disorders which were prevalent on such occasions[1182]. Again not only weddings, but also christenings, often involved unseemly revels and this could not fail to affect nuns who, despite canonical prohibition, were somewhat in demand as godmothers. Christening parties were gay affairs; the gossips would return to the house of the child's parents to eat, drink and make merry: "adtunc et ibidem immediate venerunt in domam suam ad comedendum et bibendum et adtunc sibi revelaverunt de baptismo"[1183]. If Antoine de la Sale's witty account of the "third joy of marriage" has any truth[1184], and it is upheld by more sober documents, bishops did well to mislike the christening parties for nuns; Mrs Gamp was quite at home in the middle ages; she was probably a crony of the Wife of Bath. It was in fact forbidden for monks and nuns to become godparents, not only, as Mr Coulton has pointed out, "because this involved them in a fresh spiritual relationship incompatible with their ideal, but because it entangled them with worldly folk and worldly affairs"[1185]. Thus in 1387 William of Wykeham wrote to the nuns of Romsey: "We forbid you all and singly to presume to become godmothers to any child, without obtaining our licence to do so, since from such relationships expense is often entailed upon religious houses"[1186]. At Nuncoton in 1440 two nuns asked that their sisters might be forbidden the practice and Alnwick enjoined "that none of yowe have no children at the fount ne confirmyng"[1187] and nearly a century later a similar injunction was sent by Bishop Longland to Studley[1188]. There does indeed seem a certain incongruity in the presence of one who had renounced the world at a wedding or a christening, even had such ceremonies not been accompanied by very worldly revels. But they were less incongruous than was the attendance of Mary, daughter of Edward I, the nun-princess of Amesbury, upon her step-mother Queen Margaret and later upon her niece Elizabeth de Burgh, during their confinements. A king's daughter, however, could not be subjected to ordinary restraints; Mary led a particularly free life, constantly visiting court and going on pilgrimages, and there is no reason to suppose that ordinary nuns shared her privileges[1189]. Naturally occasions when a nun was away from her convent for the night, whether on business or on pleasure, were comparatively rare. For the most part the bishops had to deal with casual absences during the day and it was found extraordinarily difficult to confine such excursions to the "convent business" and "necessary reasons" laid down by the various enactments on enclosure. There seems to have been a great deal of wandering about without any specific purpose. Short errands perhaps took the nuns out for a few hours, or they went simply for air and exercise. Their rule and their bishops would have had them hear the "smale fowles maken melodye" and tread "the smalle, softe, sweete grass" within the narrow cloister court, or at least in the privacy of their own gardens[1190]. But the nuns liked highways and hedges, and often in springtime it was farewell their books and their devotion. Certainly the convent often did come out to take the air in its own meadows; John Aubrey (in a much-quoted passage) tells of the nuns of Kington in Wiltshire, and how "Old Jacques" could see them from his house come forth into the nymph-hay with their rocks and wheels to spin: and with their sewing work. He would say that he had told threescore and ten, but of nuns there were not so many, but in all, with lay sisters and widows, old maids and young girls, there might be such a number[1191]. Sometimes, indeed, at the busy harvest-time, when every pair of hands was needed on the manor farm, the nuns even went hay-making in the meadows. The visitations of Bishop Alnwick provide two instances of this and show also the abuses to which it might give rise, since the fields were full of secular workers. At Nuncoton in 1440 the subprioress deposed that in the autumn season the nuns go out to their autumn tasks, whereby the quire is not kept regularly[1192], and ... in seed time the nuns clear the crops of weeds in the barns, and there secular folks do come in and unbecoming words are uttered between them and the nuns, wherefrom, as is feared, there are evil consequences[1193]. At Gracedieu the subprioress mentioned that "sometimes the nuns do help secular folk in garnering their grain during the autumn season," but the most amusing revelations concern the conduct of the haughty cellaress Margaret Belers, who, whether on account of her autocratic government or because she was of better birth than they, was regarded by her sisters with the utmost jealousy. Belers, ran one of the _detecta_ to the Bishop, goes out to work in autumn alone with Sir Henry [the chaplain], he reaping the harvest and she binding the sheaves, and at evening she comes riding behind him on the same horse. She is over friendly with him and has been since the doings aforesaid. Here was a pretty scandal; the Bishop (hiding, we will hope, a smile) made inquiries; Sir Henry was charged with the heinous crime of going hay-making with Dame Belers. But Sir Henry specifically denied his solitary roaming in the fields with the cellaress; he said however "that he has been in the fields with the others and Belers, carting hay and helping to pile the sheaves in stacks in the barns"; and Alnwick contented himself with enjoining the Prioress "that ye suffre none of your susters to go to any felde werkes but alle onely in your presence"[1194]. Such field work, when it was undertaken, must have afforded not only wholesome exercise, but a very pleasant relaxation from the cramping life of the cloister; and the necessities of harvest overrode all rules. Whether the nuns took part in farm work at other seasons of the year is more difficult to discover; one is tempted to think that they must sometimes have given a helping hand with their own cattle and poultry, especially at very poor houses. The private cocks and hens which occasioned such rivalry at Saint-Aubin[1195], the never-to-be-forgotten donkey of Alfrâd[1196], bear witness not only to the sin of _proprietas_, but also to the personal care of the nuns for such livestock. But authority discouraged the practice at a later date, partly because it encouraged private property, partly because it brought the nuns into too close contact with the world[1197]. Nowhere has the attitude been better stated than in the amusing description given in the _Ancren Riwle_ of the anchoress' cow: An anchoress that hath cattle appears as Martha was, a better housewife than anchoress: nor can she in any wise be Mary, with peacefulness of heart. For then she must think of the cow's fodder and of the herdsman's hire, flatter the heyward, defend herself when her cattle is shut up in the pinfold and moreover pay the damage. Christ knoweth it is an odious thing when people in the town complain of the anchoresses' cattle. If, however, any one must needs have a cow, let her take care that she neither annoy, nor harm any one, and that her own thoughts be not fixed thereon[1198]. The more human bishops made allowance for a natural instinct by giving the convent permission to go for walks, though as a rule the grounds of the nunnery were specified: "Let the door be closed at the right time," wrote Archbishop Courtenay to Elstow in 1390, "And let no nun go out without licence of the abbess or other president, yet so that leave of walking for recreation in the orchard or in any other seemly and close place at suitable times be not out of malice denied to the nuns provided that the younger do not go without the society of the elder"[1199]. Bishop Spofford of Hereford went even further; after forbidding any revelries to be held in the nunnery of Lymbrook, he added: "and what dysport of walkyng forward in dewe tyme and place, so that yee kepe the dewe houres and tymes of dyuyne seruyce with inforth, and with honest company, and with lycence specyally asked and obteyned [from] the pryoresse or suppryoresse in her absence, and at yee be two to geder at the leest, we holde us content" (1437)[1200]. So in 1367 Robert de Stretton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, forbade any nun of Fairwell to go into Lichfield without the Prioress' leave, ordering that she should be accompanied by two sisters and should "make no vain and wanton delays," but added that "this is not intended to interfere with the laudable custom of the whole or greater part of the convent walking out together on certain days to take the air"[1201]. This forerunner of the schoolgirls' "crocodile" was not, however, what the nuns desired. It was wandering about the roads in twos and threes (sometimes, alas, in ones also) that they really enjoyed, and against this freedom the bishops continually fulminated. It must be remembered that walking in the public streets in the middle ages was very different from what it is today; it is impossible otherwise, as Mr Coulton has pointed out, to explain the extraordinary severity of all rules for the deportment of girls[1202]. The streets were full of rough pastimes, hocking and hoodsnatching, football and the games of noisy prentices in the town; and in the country villages they resounded with the still more boorish sports of country folk and with the shrill quarrels of alewives and regrateresses and all the good-natured but short-tempered people, whom court rolls show us raising the hue and cry upon each other and drawing blood from each other's noses. There is perhaps solicitude for the nuns in the injunction which Bishop Fitzjames sent in 1509 to the convent of Wix in Essex, forbidding them to permit "any public spectacles of seculars, javelin-play, dances or trading in streets or open places"[1203]. Manners were free in that age and the nuns would see and hear much that were best hidden from their cloistered innocence. Moreover if once they began to stop and pass the time of day with their neighbours, religious and secular, or to go into houses for some more private gossip, there was no knowing where such perilous familiarity would end; and the outspokenness with which bishops condemned such conduct by references to Dinah, the daughter of Jacob, leaves no doubt as to what they feared[1204]. But nothing availed to keep the nuns within their cloisters; and hardly a set of episcopal injunctions but bears witness to the freedom with which they wandered about the streets and fields. The nuns of Moxby are not to go out of the precincts of their monastery often, nor at any time to wander about the woods[1205]. Alas, poor ladies: In somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and long, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song. The nuns of Cookhill are more urban; they are not to wander about in the town (1285)[1206] and the nuns of Wroxall are not to go on foot to Coventry or to Warwick "cum eles ount fet desordement en ces houres" (1338)[1207]. The nuns of White Hall, Ilchester, "walk through the strets and places of the vill of Ilchester and elsewhere, the modesty of their sex being altogether cast off and they do not fear to enter the houses of secular men and suspected persons" (1335)[1208]. The nuns of Polsloe are not to go without permission into Exeter and are to return at once when their errand is accomplished, instead of "wascrauntes de hostel en hostel, si come eles unt maynte foiz fait, en deshonestete de lur estat et de la Religioun" (1319)[1209]--an echo here of the Good Wife's advice, "and run thou not from house to house, like a St Anthony's pig"[1210], or of the reminiscences of that other Wife of Bath: For ever yet I lovede to be gay, And for to walke, in March, Averille and May, Fro hous to hous, to here sondry talis[1211]. The nuns of Romsey "enter houses of laymen and even of clerics in the town, eating and drinking with them" (1284)[1212]. The nuns of Godstow "have often access to Oxford under colour of visiting their friends" (1445)[1213]. The nuns of Elstow are a great trial to their diocesan; Bishop Gynewell finds that "there is excessive and frequent wandering of nuns to places outside the same monastery, whereby gossip and laxity are brought about" (1359)[1214]; Bishop Bokyngham boldly particularises: We order the nuns on pain of excommunication, to abstain from any dishonest and suspicious conversation with secular or religious men and especially the access and frequent confabulations and colloquies of the canons of the Priory of Caldwell or of mendicant friars, in the monastery or about the public highways and fields adjoining (1387)[1215]. But the sisters of Elstow remain on good terms with their neighbours; Bishop Flemyng forbids the nuns "to have access to the town of Bedford or to the town of Elstow or to other towns or neighbouring places" and straitly enjoins the canons "that no canon of the said priory, under what colour of excuse soever, have access to the monastery of the nuns of Elstow; nor shall the same nuns for any reason whatever be allowed to enter the said priory, save for a manifest cause, from which reproach or suspicion of evil could in no way arise; nor even shall the same canons and nuns meet in any wise one with another, in any separate or private places; nor shall they talk together anywhere one with another, save in the presence and hearing of more than one trustworthy, who shall bear faithful witness of what they say or do" (1421-2)[1216]. The nuns of Nuncoton in the sixteenth century are even more addicted to the society of canons and Bishop Longland writes to them in stern language: And that ye, lady prioresse, cause and compell all your susters (those oonly excepte that be seke) to kepe the quere and nomore to be absent as in tymes past they haue been wont to use, being content yf vj haue been present, the residue to goo att lybertie where they wold, some att thornton [Augustinian house at Thornton-upon-Humber], some at Newsom [or Newhouse, a Premonstratensian house close to Nuncoton, in the same parish of Brocklesby], some at hull, some att other places att their pleasures, which is in the sight of good men abhomynable, high displeasur to God, rebuke shame and reproache to religion and due correction to be doon according unto your religion frome tyme to tyme[1217]. Indeed these colloquies with monks and canons in their own monastery were nothing unusual. Bishops and Councils constantly forbade nuns to frequent houses of monks, or to be received there as guests, but the practice continued. Sometimes they had an excuse; the nuns of St Mary's, Winchester, were in the habit of going to St Swithun's monastery to confess to one of the brothers, who was their confessor and in ill-health, and Bishop Pontoise appointed another monk in his place, who should come to the nuns when summoned, thus avoiding the risk of scandal[1218]. Similarly Peckham forbade the nuns of Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, to enter "any place of religious men or elsewhere, under colour of confessing," unless they had no other confessor, in which case they were to return directly their business was accomplished and not to stay eating and drinking there[1219]. But sometimes the nuns had less good reason. At Elstow, as we know, they gossiped in the fields and highways; and if nuns were sometimes frivolous, so were monks. What are we to think of that nun of Catesby (gone to rack and ruin under the evil rule of Margaret Wavere), who on Monday last did pass the night with the Austin friars at Northampton and did dance and play the lute with them in the same place until midnight (saltauit et citherauit usque ad mediam noctem) and on the night following she passed the night with the Friars preachers at Northampton, luting and dancing in like manner[1220]. There rises to the memory an irresistibly comic sonnet of Wordsworth: Yet more--round many a convent's blazing fire Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun; There Venus sits disguised like a nun,-- While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a friar Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won An instant kiss of masterful desire-- To stay the precious waste. Through every brain The domination of the sprightly juice Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy dear, Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, Whose votive burthen is "Our kingdom's here." Alack, had the nun of Catesby forgotten that "even as the cow which goeth before the herd hath a bell at her neck, so likewise the woman who leadeth the song and dance hath, as it were, the devil's bell bound to hers, and when the devil heareth the tinkle thereof he feeleth safe, and saith he: 'I have not lost my cow yet'"?[1221] Had she forgotten the awful vision of that holy man, to whom the devil appeared in the form of a tiny blackamoor, standing above a woman who was leading a dance, guiding her about as he wished and dancing on her head?[1222] But indeed Isabel (or Venus) Benet was not the woman to care for so slight a matter as the rule of her order or the dreams of holy men[1223]. Her case provides an admirable illustration of the motives which prompted the extreme severity of episcopal attempts to enforce enclosure and to cut nuns off from the society of neighbouring monasteries[1224]. [Illustration: PLATE VII "Isabel Benet did pass the night with the Austin friars at Northampton and did dance and play the lute with them." (See page 388.) The Legend of Beatrice the Sacristan. (See page 511.) THE NUN WHO LOVED THE WORLD] Even if they did not often go to such extremes as to spend a night dancing with friars, the nuns foregathered sometimes in the most strange places. The complaint that priests and monks and canons were tavern-haunters occurs with wearisome iteration in medieval visitation documents, but surely a tavern was the last place where one would expect to find a nun; "Deus sit propitius isti potatori," were a strange invocation on lips that prayed to "Our blisful lady, Cristes moder dere." Yet nuns sometimes abused their liberty to frequent such places. Archbishop Rotherham wrote to the Prioress of Nunappleton in 1489 "yat noon of your sistirs use ye alehouse nor ye watirside, wher concurse of straungers dayly resortes"[1225]; and at Romsey in 1492 Abbess Elizabeth Broke deposed that she suspected the nuns of slipping into town by the church door and prayed that they might not frequent taverns and other suspected places, while her Prioress also said that they frequented taverns and continually went to town without leave[1226]. Bald statements, but it is easy to call up a picture of what lies behind them, for of medieval taverns we have many a description touched by master hands. So we shall see nuns at the tunning of Elynour Rummynge, edging in by the back way "over the hedge and pale," to drink her noppy ale[1227]. Or again we shall see Beton the Brewster standing in her doorway beneath the ivy bush, hailing Dame Isabel and Dame Matilda, as they patter along upon their "fete ful tendre"; and we shall hear her seductive cry "I have good ale, gossip" (no nun ever despised good ale--only when it was _valde tenuis_ did she object) "I have peper and piones and a pounde of garlike, A ferthyngworth of fenel-seed for fasting days." We shall never--thanks to Langland--have any difficulty in seeing that interior, when the nuns have scuttled through the door, the heat, the smell of ale and perspiring humanity, the babel of voices as all the riff-raff of the village greets the nuns and gives them "with glad chere good ale to hansel"; and the scene that follows, "the laughyng and lowrying and 'let go the cuppe,'" the singing, the gambling, the drinking, the invincible good humour and the complete lack of all decency. We can only hope that Dame Isabel and Dame Matilda left before Glutton got drunk[1228]. But it is consoling to reflect that the alehouses frequented by the nuns of Nunappleton and of Romsey were probably less low places, for it is not easy to picture Chaucer's Prioress on a bench between Clarice of Cokkeslane and Peronelle of Flanders. Probably their taverns at the waterside were more like the Chequer-on-the-Hoop, where Madame Eglentyne and the Wife of Bath pledged each other in the hostess' parlour[1229]; or like the tavern where the good gossips Elynore, Jone and Margery Margaret, Alis and Cecely met and feasted, all unknown to their husbands and cherished the heart with muscadel[1230]; or liker still, perhaps, to that lordly tavern kept by Trick, where the city dames come tripping in the morning, as readily as to minster or to market and where he draws them ten sorts of wine, all out of a single cask, crying: "dear ladies, Mesdames, make good cheer, drink freely your good pleasure, for we have leisure enough"[1231]. But however select the house, whether they met there buxom city dames drinking away their husbands' credit, or merely Tim the tinker and twain of his prentices, whether they were quizzed by "those idle gallants who haunt taverns, gay and handsome," or hobnobbed with "travellers and tinkers, sweaters and swinkers," the alehouse was assuredly no place for nuns[1232]. Enough has been said to show why the authorities of the Church tried so hard to force enclosure upon nuns, and why they strove at least to limit excursions to "necessary occasions" and "convent business," to prevent unlicensed wandering and to provide that no nun went out without a companion. And enough has perhaps also been said to show how completely they failed. The modern student of monasticism, bred in an age which regards freedom as its _summum bonum_ and holds discipline at a discount, cannot but feel sympathy with the nuns. The enclosure movement did go beyond the restriction imposed upon them by their rule; they were themselves so often unsuited to the life into which circumstances, rather than a vocation, had forced them; and they would have been something less than human if they had not answered--as John of Ayton made them answer--"In truth the men who made these laws sat well at their ease while they laid such burdens upon us." It was the bishops, not the popes and the councils, who knew where the shoe pinched. Dalderby, rubbing his insulted shoulders, Alnwick, laboriously framing his minute injunctions, Rigaud, going away from Saint-Saëns "quasi impaciens et tristis," these had little time to sit well at their ease; and the compromises which were forced upon them are the best proof that the ideal of _Periculoso_ was too high. Nevertheless sympathy with the nuns must not blind us to the fact that hardly a moralist of the middle ages but inveighs against the wandering of nuns in the world and adds his testimony to the fact (already clear from the visitation _comperta_) that all the graver abuses which discredited monasticism rose in the first instance from the too great ease with which monks and nuns could leave their convents. "De la clôture," as St François de Sales wrote long afterwards, "dépend le bon ordre de tout le reste." It is significant that on the very eve of the Reformation in England a last attempt was made to enforce a strict and literal enclosure. That ardent reformer of nunneries, Bishop Fox, frankly pursued the policy in his diocese of Winchester and was apparently accused of undue severity, for in 1528 he wrote to Wolsey in defence of his action: Truth it is, my lord, that the religious women of my diocese be restrained of their going out of their monasteries. And yet so much liberty appeareth some time too much; and if I had the authority and power that your grace hath, I would endeavour me to mure and enclose their monasteries according to the observance of good religion. And in all other matters, concerning their living or observance of their religion, I assure your grace they be as liberally and favourably dealt with as be any religious women within this realm[1233]. Wolsey himself was driven to the same conclusion as to the necessity of enclosure, and tried to enforce it at Wilton, after the scandals which came to light there before the election of Isabel Jordan as Abbess. His chaplain, Dr Benet, who had been sent to reform the nunnery, wrote to him on July 18th and described his difficulty in "causing to be observed" the unpopular decree: Please it your grace to be advertised, that immediately after my return from your grace I repaired to the monastery of Wilton, where I have continually made mine abode hitherto and with all diligence endeavoured myself to the uttermost of my power to persuade and train the nuns there to the accomplishment of your grace's pleasure for enclosing of the same; whom I find so untoward and refusal (_sic_) as I never saw persons, insomuch that in nowise any of them, neither by gentle means nor by rigorous,--and I have put three or four of the captains of them in ward,--will agree and consent to the same, but only the new elect and her sisters that were with your grace; which notwithstanding, I have closed up certain doors and ways and taken such an order there that none access, course or recourse of any person shall be made there.[1234] About the same time the Abbess-Elect herself wrote to Wolsey, telling him that: since my coming home I have ordered me in all things to the best of my power, according to your gracious advertisement by the advice of your chancellors and have ofttime motioned my sisters to be reclused within our monastery; wherein they do find many difficulties and show divers considerations to the contrary; she besought him to have patience and promised to "order my sisters in such religious wise and our monastery according to the rule of religion, without any such resort as hath been of late accustomed"[1235]. Evidently nuns had not changed since the day when the sisters of Markyate threw the Bull _Periculoso_ at Bishop Dalderby's retreating back. But their struggles were in vain and a worse fate awaited them. The Dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII was preceded by an order to his commissioners, that they should enforce enclosure upon the nuns. The injunction met with the usual resistance at the time and later apologists of the monastic houses have blamed the King for undue and unreasonable harshness. But if Henry VIII was too strict, so also was Ottobon, so Peckham, so Boniface VIII, so almost every bishop and council of the past three hundred years. In this at least, low as his motives may have been, the man who was to claim the headship of the English Church was the lineal descendant of the most masterful of medieval popes. The instructions given to the commissioners were the last of a long series of injunctions, in which it was attempted to reform the nunneries by shutting them off from the world. It is plain that even in the thirteenth century some such reform was necessary, and the history of the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth centuries only shows the necessity becoming more urgent. Whatever may have been Henry VIII's motives, however greedy, however licentious, however unspiritual, it would be impossible to contend that his decree of enclosure was not in accordance with the best ecclesiastical tradition and amply justified by the condition of the monastic houses. CHAPTER X THE WORLD IN THE CLOISTER �s maisons de nonnains aucun sont bien venut, Et as gens festyer n'a nul règne tenut; On y va volentiers et souvent et menut Mais mieuls sont festyet jovène que li kenut. GILLES LI MUISIS ([dagger] 1352). In the last chapter the question of enclosure was considered only from one point of view, that of keeping the nuns within the precincts of their cloister. But there was another side to the problem. In order to preserve them unspotted from the world it was necessary not only that the nuns should keep within their cloisters, but that secular persons should keep outside. It was useless to pass regulations forbidding nuns to leave their houses, if visitors from the world had easy access to them and could move freely about within the precincts. Ottobon, Peckham, Boniface VIII, Henry VIII, and all who legislated on the subject from the earliest years to the Council of Trent, combined a prohibition against the entrance of seculars, with their prohibition against the exit of nuns[1236]. Some intercourse with seculars was bound to occur, even in the best regulated nunnery. The nuns were often served by layfolk and it was a recognised obligation that they should show hospitality to guests. In both cases they were of necessity brought in contact with worldly folk, and as usual they made the most of their opportunity. Even more disturbing to monastic discipline were the casual visits of friends in the neighbourhood, coming to see and talk with the nuns for a few hours. Visitation documents show that there was a steady intercourse between the convent and the world. Letters and messages passed between the nuns and their friends outside, and a great many of the private affairs of the convent found their way to the ears of seculars. "From miln and from market, from smithy and from nunnery, men bring tidings" ran the proverb[1237], and complaints were common that the secrets of the chapter were spread abroad in the country side. At the ill-conducted house of Catesby in 1442 the Prioress (herself the blackest sheep in all the flock) complained that secular folk have often recourse to the nuns' chambers within the cloister, and talkings and junketings take place there without the knowledge of the Prioress; ... also the nuns do send out letters and receive letters sent to them without the advice of the prioress. Also ... that the secrets of the house are disclosed in the neighbourhood by such seculars when they come there. Also the nuns do send out the serving-folk of the priory on their businesses and do also receive the persons for whom they send and with whom they hold parleyings and conversations, whereof the Prioress is ignorant[1238]. At Goring in 1530 the Prioress complained that one of the nuns persisted in sending messages to her friends[1239], and at Romsey in 1509 Alice, wife of William Coke, the cook of the nunnery, was enjoined "that she shall not be a messenger or bearer of messages or troths or tokens between any nun and any lay person on pain of excommunication and as much as in her lies shall hinder communications of lay persons with nuns at the kitchen window"[1240]. At St Helen's, Bishopsgate, it was even necessary to order the nuns to refrain from kissing secular persons[1241]. Sometimes the visitation _detecta_ or _comperta_ or injunctions give specific details as to the visitors who were most assiduous in haunting a nunnery. It is amusing to follow the reference to scholars of Oxford in the records of those houses which were in the neighbourhood of the University. Godstow was the nearest and the students seem to have regarded it as a happy hunting ground constituted specially for their recreation. Peckham, in his set of Latin injunctions to the Abbey, wrote after giving minute regulations as to the terms upon which nuns might converse with visitors: When the scholars of Oxford come to talk with you, we wish no nun to join in such conversations, save with the licence of the Abbess and unless they be notoriously of kin to her, in the third grade of consanguinity at least; we order the nuns to refuse to converse with all scholars so coming; nor shall you desire to be united in any special tie of familiarity with them, for such affection often excites unclean thoughts[1242]. The most detailed information, however, is to be found in the injunctions sent by Bishop Gray to Godstow in 1432: That no nun receive any secular person for any recreation in the nuns' chambers under pain of excommunication. For the scholars of Oxford say they can have all manner of recreation with the nuns, even as they will desire.... Also that the recourse of scholars of Oxford to the monastery be altogether checked and restrained.... Also that (neither) the gatekeeper of the monastery, nor any other secular person convey any gifts, rewards, letters or tokens from the nuns to any scholars of Oxford or other secular person whomsoever, or bring back any such scholars or persons to the same nuns, nay, not even skins containing wine, without the view and knowledge of the abbess and with her special licence asked and had, under pain of expulsion from his office (and) from the said monastery for ever; and if any nun shall do the contrary she shall undergo imprisonment for a year[1243]. In a commission addressed two years later to the Abbot of Oseney and to Master Robert Thornton the Bishop spoke in very severe terms of the bad behaviour of the nuns, and ordered the commissioners to proceed to Godstow and to inquire whether a nun, who had been with child at the time of his visitation, had been preferred to any office or had gone outside the precincts and whether his other injunctions had been obeyed, especially "if any scholars of the university of Oxford, graduate or non-graduate, have had access to the same monastery or lodging in the same, contrary to the form of our injunctions aforesaid"[1244]. But the situation was unchanged when, thirteen years later, Alnwick came to Godstow. Elizabeth Felmersham, the Abbess, deposed that secular folk have often access to the nuns during the divine office in quire, and to the frater at meal-time.... She cannot restrain students from Oxford from having common access in her despite to the monastery and the claustral precincts. The nuns hold converse with the secular folk that come to visit the monastery, without asking any leave of the abbess. Other nuns deposed that sister Alice Longspey[1245] often conversed in the convent church with Hugh Sadler, a priest from Oxford, who obtained access to her on the plea that she was his kinswoman and that Dame Katherine Okeley: holds too much talk with the strangers that come to the monastery in the church, in the chapter-house, at the church-door, the hall door and divers other places; nor is she obedient to the orders and commands of the abbess according to the rule[1246]. Other houses also found the clerks of Oxford too attractive. At Alnwick's visitation of Littlemore Dame Agnes Marcham (a lady with a tongue) spoke of "the ill-fame which is current thereabouts concerning the place," and said that a certain monk of Rievaulx, who is a student at Oxford and is of the Cistercian order, has common and often access to the priory, eating and drinking with the prioress and spending the night therein, sometimes for three, sometimes for four days on end. Also she says that master John Herars, master in arts, a scholar of Oxford and a kinsman of the prioress, has access in like manner to the priory, breakfasting, supping and spending the night in the same[1247]. The state of the house in the sixteenth century was infinitely worse and it well merited its early suppression in 1526[1248]. At another house, Studley, visited by Alnwick in 1445, the significant request was made: that the vicar of Bicester, who is reckoned to be of ripe judgment and age and sufficient knowledge, may be appointed as confessor to the convent and in no wise an Oxford scholar, since it is not healthy that scholars of Oxford should have a reason for coming to the priory[1249]. Nor does the proximity of Cambridge appear to have had a less disturbing effect upon morals and discipline. In 1373 it was found that the Prioress of St Radegund's did not correct Dame Elizabeth de Cambridge for withdrawing herself from divine service and allowing friars of different orders, as well as scholars, to visit her at inopportune times and to converse with her, to the scandal of religion[1250], and in 1496, when John Alcock, Bishop of Ely, converted the nunnery into the college afterwards known as Jesus College, its dilapidation was ascribed to "the negligence and improvidence and dissolute disposition and incontinence of the religious women of the same house, by reason of the vicinity of Cambridge University"[1251]. Plainly the scholars who hung about the portals and tethered their horses in the paddocks of Godstow, and who gossiped with the sisters of Studley and Littlemore and St Radegund's, were not of the type of that clerk of Oxenford, who loved his twenty red and black-clad books better than "robes riche or fithele or gay sautrye"; and it is to be feared that their speech was not "souninge in moral vertu." Rather they belonged to the tribe of Absolon, who could trip and dance in twenty manners: After the scole of Oxenforde tho, And with his legges casten to and fro, And pleyen songes on a small rubible, or of hende Nicholas ("of derne love he coude and of solas"), or of those two clerks of Cambridge, Aleyn and John, who harboured with the Miller of Trumpington, or of "joly Jankin," the Wife of Bath's first husband. The nuns certainly got no good from these young men of light heart and slippery tongue. Sometimes, as it appears from the cases of Alice Longspey, Katherine Okeley and Elizabeth de Cambridge, certain nuns rendered themselves particularly conspicuous for intercourse with seculars, or certain men were assiduous nunnery-haunters and forbidden by name to frequent the precincts. At a visitation of St Sepulchre's, Canterbury, in 1367-8, it was found that Dame Johanna Chivynton, prioress there, does not govern well the rule nor the religion of the house, because she permits the rector of Dover Castle and other suspect persons to have too much access to sisters Margery Chyld and Juliana Aldelesse, who have a room contrary to the injunction made there on another occasion by the Lord [Archbishop], and these suspect persons often spend the night there[1252]. At Nuncoton in 1531 Longland writes: We chardge you, lady prioresse, undere payne of excommunicacon that ye from hensforth nomore suffre Sir John Warde, Sir Richard Caluerley, Sir William Johnson, nor parson ..., ne the parson of Skotton, ne Sir William Sele to come within the precincts of your monasterye, that if they by chance do unwares to you that ye streight banish them and suffre not theme ther to tary, nor noone of your sustres to commune with them or eny of them. And that ye voyde out of your house Robert lawrence and he nomore resorte to the same[1253]. Incidents such as these can be multiplied from the records of episcopal visitations[1254] and general complaints are even more common. It appears that secular persons set at naught the rule which confined them to the prioress' hall, the parlour and the guest-house, and penetrated at will into the private parts of the monastery, haunting now the cloister, now the infirmary, now the frater, now the choir[1255]. Bishop Gynewell's injunction to Heynings in 1351 called attention to a state of affairs which was common enough in the century which opened with _Periculoso_: "Because," he wrote, "we have heard that great disturbance of your religion hath been made by seculars, who enter into your cloister and choir, we charge you that henceforth ye suffer no secular man, save your patron or other great lord[1256] to enter your cloister, nor to hold therein parley or other dalliance with any sister of your house, whereby your silence or religion may suffer blame"[1257]. Moreover it is clear that the nuns sometimes escaped to the guest-house to enjoy a gossip with their visitors; at Alnwick's visitation of Heynings in 1440 a lay sister deposed "that the nuns do hold drinkings of evenings in the guest-chamber even after compline, especially when their friends come to visit them" and the Bishop enjoined for as muche as we founde that there are vsede late drynkynges and talkyng by nunnes as wele wythe yn as wythe owte the cloystere wythe seculeres, where thurgh some late ryse to matynes and some come not at thayme, expressly agayns the rule of your ordere, we charge yow and yche oon singulere that fro this day forthe ye neyther vse spekyng ne drynkyng in no place aftere complyne, but that after collacyone and complyne sayde ych oon of yow go wythe owte lengere tarying to the dormytorye to your reste[1258]. In the course of time a series of regulations was devised to govern the entrance of seculars into the nunneries, hardly less detailed than those which governed the visits of nuns to the world. An attempt was made to prevent certain classes of persons from being allowed to sleep in a house; also to keep all visitors out of certain places and during certain hours; and elaborate rules were made fixing the conditions under which nuns might hold conversations or exchange letters with seculars. The rule which forbade nuns to harbour in houses of religious men was often supplemented by a regulation forbidding friars, or other men belonging to religious orders, from being received as guests by nuns. At Godstow in 1284 Peckham forbade the reception of religious men for the night[1259] and in 1358 Bishop Gynewell enjoined the same convent "for certain reasons, that no friars of any order whatever be harboured by night within the doors of your house, nor by day save it be for great necessity and reasonable cause, and not habitually"[1260]. William of Wykeham directed a special mandate on the subject to Wherwell in 1368: "Lately," he says, "it has come to our ears by popular report of trusty men, that contrary to the honesty of religion you admit various religious men, especially of the mendicant orders, lightly and promiscuously to pass the night in your habitations, from which grows much matter for laxity and scandal, since the cohabitation of religious clerks and nuns is altogether forbidden by the constitutions of the holy fathers." He proceeds to forbid the reception of friars or other religious men to lodge in the abbey, though food might be given them in alms[1261]. As in the rules regulating visits paid by nuns, attempts were sometimes made though not insisted upon with any severity, to restrict the visitors who might spend the night to near relatives. At Godstow, for instance, Bishop Gray ordered in 1432 that strangers "in no wise pass the night there, unless they be father and mother, brother and sister of that nun for whose sake they have so come to the monastery"[1262]; and Archbishop Lee wrote to Sinningthwaite in 1534 forbidding any visitor to have recourse to the Prioress or nuns "onles it be their fathers or moders or other ther nere kynesfolkes, in whom no suspicion of any yll can be thought"[1263]. The chief efforts of the authorities were, however, directed not towards keeping certain persons altogether out of the nunneries, but towards keeping all visitors out of certain parts of the house and during certain hours. The general rule was that no secular was to enter after sunset or curfew, and elaborate arrangements were made for locking and unlocking the doors at certain times. At Esholt and Sinningthwaite Archbishop Lee enjoined that the prioress provide sufficient lockes and keys to be sett upon the cloyster doores, incontinent after recept of thies injunctions and that the same doores surely be lockid every nyght incontinent as complane is doone, and not to be unlocked in wynter season to vij of the clock in the mornyng and in sommer vnto vj of the clock in the mornyng; and that the prioresse kepe the keyes of the same doores, or committ the custodie of them to such a discrete and religious suster, that no fault nor negligence may be imputed to the prioresse, as she will avoyde punyshment due for the same[1264]. [Illustration: PLATE VIII PLAN OF LACOCK ABBEY] At the same time, for better security, he ordered the nuns to be locked into their dorter every night until service time. Sometimes the nuns objected to being shut in the house so early in the summer time, when the days were long and the trees in the convent garden green. The nuns of Sheppey were plaintive on the subject in 1511. Amicia Tanfeld said that the gate of the cloister is closed immediately after the bell rings for vespers and remains shut until it rings for prime[1265]; this, in the opinion of the convent is too strict, especially in summer time, because it might remain open until after supper, as she says. Elizabeth Chatok, _cantarista_[1266], said the same "clauditur nimis tempestive tempore presertim estiuali"; perhaps she was thinking of better singers than herself, who piped their vespers outside that closed door, And songen, everich in his wyse The most solempne servyse By note, that ever man, I trowe, Had herd; for som of hem song lowe Some hye and al of oon accord[1267]. Her sisters agreed with her, but the stern archbishop took no notice of their plaints[1268]. Strict regulations were also made for keeping secular visitors out of certain parts of the convent. The dorter, frater, fermery, chapter and cloister and the internal offices of the house were supposed to be entered only by the nuns[1269]: "And in order that the quiet of your cloister be in future observed better than has been customary," wrote Peckham to the nuns of Wherwell in 1284, "we order ... that no secular or religious person be permitted to enter the cloister, nor the interior offices, save for a manifest and inevitable reason, that is bodily infirmity, for which a confessor or doctor or near relative may be allowed to enter, but always in safe and praiseworthy company. So that no one shall hear the confession of a healthy nun or woman in cloister or chapter or in the interior offices.... And we consider healthy anyone who is able, conveniently and without danger to life, to enter the church or the parlour"[1270]. At Romsey he further ordered four nuns to be made scrutineers: "Who shall expel from the cloister as suspect all persons of whatsoever condition wishing to stare at the nuns or to chatter with them"[1271]. But the rule was constantly broken and it has been shown that seculars penetrated to all parts of the convents. Injunctions order them to be excluded now from dorter, now from frater, now from fermery, according as visitation showed them to be in the habit of entering one part of a house or another. Sometimes special orders were given for the making and locking of doors separating the cloister from the outside court, or the nuns' choir from the rest of the church, a necessary precaution when the nave of a conventual church was used as a parish church. Bishop Longland wrote to Elstow (1531): Forasmoche as the more secrete religious persones be kepte from the sight and visage of the world and straungers, the more close and entyer ther mynd and devoc[i]on shalbe unto god, we ordeyn and Inioyne to the lady abbesse that before the natiuyte of our lorde next ensewing she cause a doore with two leves to be made and sett upp att the lower ende of the quere and that doore to be fyve foote in hight att the leaste and contynually to stand shitt the tymes of dyvyne seruice excepte it be att comming in or out of eny off the ladyes and mynystres off the said churche. And under like payne as is afore we chardge the said ladye abbess that she cause the doore betwene the convent and the parishe churche contynually to be shitt, unless itt be oonly the tymes of dyvyne service, and likewise she cause the cloistre door towardes the outward court to be continually shitt, unles itt be att suche tymes as eny necessaryes for the convent shall be brought in or borne out att the same, and thatt she suffre noo other back doures to be opened butt upon necessarye, grett and urgent causes by her approved[1272]. Special attempts were made to prevent secret communications between nuns and secular persons in corners and passages or through windows, and to block up unnecessary doors by which persons might enter: "We ordeyn and injoyne yow, prioresse and convent," writes Dean Kentwode to St Helens, "That ye, ne noone of yowre sustres use nor haunte any place withinne the priory, thoroghe the wiche evel suspeccyone or sclaundere mythe aryse; weche places for certeyne causes that move us, we wryte here inne owre present iniunccyone, but wole notyfie to yow, prioresse: nor have no lokyng nor spectacles owtewarde, thorght the wiche ye mythe fall into worldly dilectacyone[1273]." Archbishop Lee showed no such desire to spare the feelings of the nuns of Esholt by not openly specifying the places where they were wont to whisper with their friends: Item where there is on the backside of certen chambres, on the south side of the church where the sustres worke, an open way goyng to the watirside, and to the brige goyng over the water, without wall or doore, so that many ylles may be committed by reason hereof; wherfore in avoyding such inconveniences that myght folow yf it shuld so remayne, by thies presentes we inioyne the prioresse, that she, incontinent withoutzt delay aftre the recept herof cause a strong and heigh wall to be made in the said voyde place[1274]. Above all it was reiterated at visitation after visitation that no nun was to receive a man in her private chamber or to hold conversations with any stranger there and that certain conditions were to be observed in all conversations between the nuns and their visitors. Archbishop Rotherham's injunction to Nunappleton in 1489 is typical: Item yat none of your sustirs bring in, receyve or take any laie man, religiose or secular into yer chambre or any secret place, daye or knyght, not w{t} yaim in such private places to commyne ete or drynke w{t}out lycence of you, Prioresse[1275]. At Sopwell in 1338 an interesting addition was made to the ordinary rule: And because it is seemly that ladies of religion in the presence of seculars should bear themselves according to rule in dress and in deportment, we will and ordain that none of you henceforward come to the parlour to talk with seculars if she have not her cowl and her headdress of kerchiefs and veil, according to the rule (_son cool et son covert de cuverchiefs et de veil ordine_), as beseemeth your religion. And none save honest persons shall be suffered to enter, and if such person wish to remain for a meal, let him eat in the parlour, by permission of the confessor, and on no account in the chambers without our express permission, or that of our own prior, if we be absent. Concerning the workmen, whom you need for your necessities, to wit tailors and furriers, we will for that such workmen a place be ordained near the cloister, where such workmen may do their works, and that they be by no means called into the chambers, nor into any private place. And let the workmen be such that no suspicion of evil may be roused by them[1276]. At Barking Peckham ordered in 1279 that no secular man or woman was to enter the nuns' chambers, unless a nun were so ill that it was necessary to speak to her there, in which case a confessor, doctor, father or brother might have access to her[1277]. The rules laid down for the holding of conversations between nuns and visitors required that the permission of the head of the house should first be obtained, and that the meeting should take place in the _locutorium_ or parlour, or occasionally in the abbess's hall[1278], and in the hearing of "at least one other nun of sound character," or more frequently two other nuns. Sometimes it was added that conversations were not to be too lengthy: "Let it not be permitted to any nun," wrote Peckham to Romsey, "to hold converse with any man save either in the parlour or in the side of the church next the cloister. And in order that all suspicion may henceforth be removed, we order that any nun about to speak with any man, save in the matter of confession, have with her two companions to hear her conversation, in order that they may either be edified by useful words, if these are forthcoming, or hinder evil words, lest evil communications corrupt good manners"[1279]. Alnwick's injunction to Godstow in 1445 was couched in very similar terms: That ye suffre none of your susters to speke wythe any seculere persone ne religiouse, but all onely in your halle in your presence and audience, or, by your specyalle licence asked and had, in the presence of two auncyent nunnes approuved in the religyon so that ye or the said two nunnes here and see what that say and do, and so that thaire spekyng to gedre be not longe but in shorte and few wordes[1280]. It was also attempted to exercise control over communication between the nuns and the world by means of messages and letters. Alnwick sent injunctions on this point to Langley, Markyate and St Michael's, Stamford ("ne that ye suffre none of youre sustres to receyve ne sende owte noyre gyfte ne lettre, but ye see the gyftes and wyte what is contyened in the lettres")[1281], and in 1432 Dean Kentwode wrote to St Helen's, Bishopsgate: Also we ordeyne and injoyne yow, that noone of yow speke, ne comone with no seculere persone; ne sende ne receyve letteres myssyves or gyftes of any seculere persone, withowte lycence of the prioresse: ... and such letters or gyftes sent or receyved, may turne into honeste and wurchepe and none into velanye or disclaundered of yowre honeste and religione[1282]. It is common to find among episcopal injunctions to nunneries one to the effect that no secular woman is to sleep in the dorter with the nuns. The fact that this injunction had constantly to be repeated shows that it was as constantly broken. Servants, boarders and school children seem in many houses to have shared the dorter with the nuns, an arrangement which must have been exceedingly disturbing to all parties. Alnwick found the practice at eleven out of the twenty houses which he visited in 1440-5. At Catesby, Langley, Stixwould and St Michael's, Stamford, little girls, between the ages of five and ten, used to sleep with the nuns; there were six or seven of them at that ill-conducted house, Catesby, in the charge of Agnes Allesley, who was so disobedient to the bishop[1283]. At Gracedieu the cellaress had a boy of seven with her in the dorter[1284]. At Legbourne a nun complained that "the Prioress suffers secular women, both boarders and servants, to lie by night in the dorter among the nuns, against the rule"[1285] and at Heynings (which was much haunted by visitors) a lay sister deposed that "the infirmary is occupied by secular folk, to the great disturbance of the sisters; ... also that secular serving women do lie among the sisters in the dorter, and especially one who did buy a corrody there"[1286]. At the other houses (Godstow, Nuncoton and Stainfield) it was simply mentioned that secular persons lay in the dorter, without details as to whether they were servants, boarders or children[1287]. In all cases Alnwick strictly forbade the practice, and a prohibition to this effect is common in episcopal injunctions[1288]. These injunctions against the use of the dorter by seculars illustrate another aspect of the movement for enclosure. The majority of the other injunctions which have been quoted were attempts to regulate the intercourse of nuns with casual visitors, strangers who came for a day, or perhaps for two or three days. But a far more dangerous menace to the quiet of the cloister lay in the constant presence of secular boarders and corrodians, who made their home in a nunnery. Ladies who wished to end their days in peace sometimes went there as boarders or as corrodians; it is, no doubt, decent sober women such as these, who are sometimes exempted by name in episcopal injunctions ordering the exclusion of boarders from a house. But more often women would seek the temporary hospitality of a nunnery when, for some reason, they wished to leave their homes. A monastic house was, on the whole, a safe refuge, and many a knight going to the wars went with a lighter heart when he knew that his wife or daughter was sleeping within convent walls. In 1314 John of Drokensford, Bishop of Bath and Wells, licensed the Prioress of Cannington to lodge and board the wife and two daughters of John Fychet during his absence abroad[1289], and in 1372 William of Wykeham sent letters to the Abbesses of Romsey and Wherwell on behalf of another wife left alone in England: "The noble Earl of Pembroke," wrote the Bishop, "has begged us by his letters to direct our special letters to you on behalf of the noble and gently-born lady, Lady Elizabeth de Berkele, a kinswoman of the aforesaid Earl, that she may lodge within your house ... while Sir Maurice Wytht [_sic_ ? knyght] the same lady's husband, remains in the company of the aforesaid Earl in parts beyond the sea"; and so, in spite of a recent prohibition to these houses to receive boarders, they are to take in Lady Berkeley[1290]. Sometimes the wording of these licences shows that the ladies required only a temporary shelter and had by no means retired from the world. Bishop Ralph of Shrewsbury gave leave to Joan Wason and Maude Poer to stay at Cannington from December 1336 till the following Easter, and Isabel Fychet received a similar licence; in 1354 Isolda wife of John Bycombe was licensed to stay there from March till August[1291]. Sometimes these ladies brought their servants or gentlewomen with them; Joan Wason and Maude Poer had permission to take two "dammoiselles" and Isabel Fychet one maid to Cannington; when Lady Margery Treverbyn, a widow, went with every profession of piety to Canonsleigh in 1328, she was accompanied by "a certain priest, a squire (_domicellus_) and a damsel (_domicella_)"[1292]; the widow of Sir John Pateshull was licensed to dwell in Elstow with her daughter and maids in 1350[1293]; the _familia_ of Elizabeth Berkeley is mentioned in William of Wykeham's licence and in 1291 John le Romeyn, Archbishop of York, gave the convent of Nunappleton permission to receive Lady Margaret Percy as a boarder for a year, "provided that her household during that time shall not be other than respectable (_honesta_)"[1294]. In the list (compiled by Mr Rye) of boarders in Carrow Priory during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, several ladies are mentioned as being accompanied by servants; Lady Maloysel and servant, Isabell Argentoin and servant, the Lady Margaret Kerdeston and woman, Margaret Wryght and servant, Lady Margaret Wetherby, her servant Matilda and her chaplain William. The same list shows that not only women but men were received as boarders, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by their wives, and though some of the names given are doubtless those of little boys, who were receiving their education in the nunnery, others can be clearly identified as adults[1295]. The Paston Letters afford a famous case in which both a girl and her betrothed, who had quarrelled with her parents, were lodged for a time in a nunnery. Margery Paston had fallen in love with her brother's bailiff, Richard Calle, to the fury of her family, who swore that "he should never have their good will for to make her to sell candle and mustard in Framlingham." The two lovers plighted their troth, a ceremony as binding in the eyes of the Church as marriage itself, and Richard Calle appealed to the Bishop of Norwich to set the matter beyond doubt by an inquiry. The spirited Margery "rehearsed what she had said, and said, if those words made it not sure, she said boldly that she would make that surer or than she went thence, for she said she thought in her conscience she was bound, whatsoever the words were," whereupon her mother refused to receive her back into her house, and the Bishop himself was obliged to find a lodging for her. This he did at first with some friends and afterwards at a nunnery, where Richard Calle also was lodged, for John Paston mentions him shortly afterwards in a letter to his brother, "As to his abiding it is in Blakborow nunnery a little fro Lynn and our unhappy sister's also"[1296]. It is plain from visitation records that the boarders who flocked to the nunneries were exceedingly disturbing to conventual life and sometimes even brought disrepute upon their hostesses by behaviour more suited to the world than to the cloister. Alnwick's register contains some amusing and instructive evidence on this point. At Langley, a very worldly and aristocratic person, Lady Audley, was occupying a house or set of rooms (_domum_) within the Priory, paying 40_s._ yearly and keeping the house in repair; but she had no intention of giving up the ways of the world; pet dogs were her hobby, and the helpless Prioress complained to Alnwick (a Bishop must sometimes have had much ado to keep a straight face at these revelations): Lady Audley, who boards in the house, has a great abundance of dogs, insomuch that whenever she comes to church there follow her twelve dogs, who make a great uproar in church, hindering them in their psalmody and the nuns hereby are made terrified![1297] "Let a warning be directed to Lady Audley to remove her dogs from the church and the choir," says a note in the Register; and Lady Audley, followed by her twelve dogs, recedes for ever from our view, unless reincarnated four centuries later in the person of Hawker of Morwenstow. A boarder at Legbourne had a different taste in pets. Dame Joan Pavy informed the Bishop: "That Margaret Ingoldesby, a secular woman, lies of a night in the dorter among the nuns, bringing with her birds, by whose jargoning silence is broken and the rest of the nuns is disturbed"[1298]. Exasperated Dame Joan, trying to steal some sleep before groping her way down to matins! She had never heard of Vert-Vert, nor even of Philip Sparrow and she would not have been of the young and pretty novices, whose toilet the immortal parrot superintended with a connoisseur's eye. The Bishop cut the Gordian knot for her by ordering all seculars to be turned out of the dorter. At Stixwould there were two widows, Elizabeth Dymmok and Margaret Tylney, with their maidservants, staying with the Prioress, and two other adult women staying with the cellaress; and there is in the same place a certain woman suspect [she was probably a servant] who dwells within the cloister precincts, Joan Bartone by name, to whom one William Traherne had had suspicious access, bringing her therafter before the ecclesiastical judge in a matrimonial suit, and she is very troublesome to the nuns[1299]. At Gracedieu it was found that the Prioress divulged the secrets of the house to her secular boarders[1300]. At other houses also it was complained that the boarders not only disturbed convent life, but attracted many visitors. At Nuncoton the Subprioress "prays that the lodgers be removed from the house, so that they mingle not among the nuns, for if there were none the Prioress might be able to come constantly to frater; and because there is great recourse of strangers to the lodgers, to the sore burthen of the house"; another nun also deposed "that there is great recourse of guests on account of the lodgers" and a third asked that boarders of marriageable age should be altogether removed from the house, frater and dorter, "by reason of the divers disadvantages which arise to the house out of their stay"[1301]. At Godstow in 1432 Bishop Gray enjoined: that Felmersham's wife with her whole household, and other women of mature age be utterly removed from the monastery within one year next to come, seeing that they are a cause of disturbance to the nuns and an occasion of bad example by reason of their attire and those who come to visit them[1302]. It is indeed easy to understand why bishops objected so much to the reception of these worldly women as boarders. If instead of Felmersham's wife we read "the wife of Bath" all is explained. That lady was not a person whom a Prioress would lightly refuse; the list of her pilgrimages alone would give her the _entrée_ into any nunnery. Smiling her gat-toothed smile and riding easily upon her ambler, she would enter the gates and alight in the court, and what a month of excitement would pass before she rode away again. It is hard not to suspect that it was she who introduced "caps of estate" (were they "as broad as is a buckler or a targe"?) to the Prioress of Ankerwyke and crested shoes to the nuns of Elstow; and it may have been she (alas) who taught some of them to step "the olde daunce"[1303]. Bad enough for their peace of mind to meet her at a pilgrimage, but much worse to have her settled in their midst, gossiping as endlessly as she gossiped in her prologue, and amplifying her reminiscences for a less sophisticated audience. This was one reason why the bishops made a special injunction against the reception of married women. The presence of men was open to even more serious objections. At Hampole in 1411 the Archbishop of York made the significant injunction that the Prioress was not to allow any _corrodiarii_ or others to retain suspected women with them in the house[1304]. At St Michael's, Stamford, in 1442 Alnwick discovered that Richard Gray lately boarding in the priory together with his legitimate wife, _procreavit prolem de domina Elizabetha Wylugby moniali ibidem_, and boarded there until last Easter against the injunction of the lord (bishop)[1305]. So also at Easebourne in 1478 it was deposed that "a certain Sir John Senoke[1306] much frequented the priory or house, so that during some weeks he passed the night and lay within the priory or monastery every night, and was the cause ... of the ruin" of two nuns who had gone into apostasy at the instigation of various men[1307]. The reception of secular women as boarders without the consent of the diocesan was forbidden as early as 1222 by the Council of Oxford[1308] and the bishops henceforth pursued a steady policy of ejection: "Since," wrote Bishop Flemyng to Elstow, "from the manifest conjectures and assurances of our eyes we have learned that by reason of the stay of lodgers, especially of married persons, in the said monastery, the purity of religion (and) pleasantness of honest conversation and character, (which) in their fragrance in our judgment far surpass temporal goods, and the destruction of which far exceeds the waste of temporal wealth, have suffered grave shipwreck, and may suffer, as is likely, more heavily in future, we ordain, enjoin and charge you who are now abbess and the other several persons who shall be abbesses in the said monastery, under pain of deprivation, beside the other penalties written beneath, which likewise, if you do contrary to that which we command, it is our will that you incur thereupon, that henceforward you admit or allow to be admitted or received to lodge or stay within the limits of the cloister, no persons male or female, how honest soever they be, who are beyond the twelfth year of their age, nor any other persons soever, and married persons in special, without the site of the same monastery, unless you have procured express and special licence in the cases premised from ourselves or from our successors, who for the time being shall be bishops of Lincoln"[1309]. Always the reason given is that these boarders are a disturbance to conventual discipline: "Item because religion has been much disturbed among you by reason of secular women lodging in your house," wrote Bishop Gynewell to Heynings in 1351, "we forbid on pain of excommunication that after the feast of St Michael next to come any secular woman be allowed to remain in your Priory, save your servants who be necessary for your service"[1310]. "Also for as myche as we fynde detecte," Alnwick wrote nearly a century later to the same house, "that for the multitude of sujournauntes wythe [yow] as wele wedded as other ofte tymes the qwyere and the rest of yowe in your obseruances is troubled, we charge [yow] pryoresse vnder payne of the sentence of cursyng that fro this day forthe ye receyve no sodeiyourauntes that pas[se a man] x yere, a woman xiii yere of age, wytheowten specyalle leve of hus or our successours bushops of Lincolne asked [and had]"[1311]. But the attempt to clear the convents of secular boarders was entirely unsuccessful. The bishops had two powerful forces against them, the desire of the impoverished nuns to make money and the desire of seculars for a quiet and inexpensive hostel; and the nuns continued to take boarders, in spite of a series of prohibitions. At Romsey, for instance, Peckham forbids boarders, c. 1284; in 1311 Bishop Woodlock has to repeat the prohibition "because of the continual sojourn of seculars we find the tranquillity of the nuns to be much disturbed and scandals to arise in your monastery"; in 1346 Edynton orders the removal of all secular persons within a month; in 1363 he has to write again, complaining that he has heard by public report that they have not obeyed his former letter and ordering them to remove all _perhendinatrices_ within fifteen days[1312]. At Godstow injunctions to this effect are made in succession by Gynewell (1358), Gray (1432-4) and Alnwick (1445)[1313]; at Elstow by Gynewell (1359), Bokyngham (1387), Flemyng (1421-2) and Gray (c. 1432)[1314]. Moreover the bishops themselves were sometimes obliged to leave the nuns a loophole of escape, by excepting certain women from the general prohibition; thus Alnwick excepted the two widows Elizabeth Dymmok and Margaret Tylney at Stixwould[1315]; Brantyngham excepted "the noble woman Lady Elizabeth Courtenay, wife of the noble man Sir Hugh de Courtenay, Knight" at Canonsleigh (1391)[1316]; and Archbishop Rotherham at Nunappleton (1489) excepted children "or ellis old persones, by which availe biliklyhood may growe to your place"[1317]. Often too they were persuaded to grant licences to boarders, at the prayer of influential persons who must not be offended[1318]. The largest loophole which they were obliged by the pressure of circumstances to leave open was, however, the permission to receive small children for education[1319]. It is clear from the evidence of visitation documents that nuns often took boarders of their own free will, for the sake of the money which thus accrued to their impecunious houses; certainly no episcopal injunction was more consistently disobeyed. On the other hand great ladies often thrust themselves upon a convent, which dared not say them nay, and it is not at all unusual to find the nuns complaining of the disturbance caused to their daily life by visitors. The matter was complicated by the fact that the exercise of hospitality was one of the chief functions of monastic houses in the middle ages, and was so far regarded as a right by their neighbours that remonstrances were actually made if the quality of the entertainment offered was not considered sufficiently good. At Campsey in 1532 one of the nuns declared that "well-born guests (_hospites generosae_) coming to the priory complained of the excessive parsimony of the Prioress"[1320]. Complaints by the nuns of the spiritual disturbance caused by this influx of visitors, show that the right was vigorously exercised. In 1364 the Pope granted permission to Margaret de Lancaster, an Augustinian Canoness of the same nunnery of Campsey, to transfer herself to the Order of St Clare, she having already caused herself to be enclosed at Campsey in order to avoid the number of nobles coming to the house[1321]; and in 1375 he commanded the Bishop of St Andrews to make order concerning the Prioress and nuns of the Benedictine convent of North Berwick, "who have petitioned for perpetual enclosure, they being much molested by the neighbourhood and visits of nobles and other secular persons"[1322]. Even enclosure was not always a protection against visitors; for the Popes constantly granted indults to great persons, allowing them to enter, with a retinue, the houses of monks and nuns belonging to enclosed orders. A few instances may be taken at random. John of Gaunt in 1371 received an indult to enter any monasteries of religious men and women once a year, with thirty persons of good repute[1323]; Joan Princess of Wales in 1372 was given permission to enter monasteries of enclosed nuns with six honest and aged men and fourteen women and to eat and drink, but not to pass the night therein[1324]; Thomas of Gloucester and his wife, the notorious Eleanor de Cobham, had an indult to enter monasteries of enclosed monks and nuns six times a year, with twenty persons of either sex[1325]. Sometimes, it is true, the visitors were forbidden to eat, drink or spend the night in the house[1326], but often they received special permission to do so; thus in 1408 Philippa, Duchess of York, was given an indult allowing her to take five or six matrons and to stay in monasteries of enclosed nuns for three days and nights at a time[1327] and in 1422 Joan Countess of Westmoreland received one to enter any nunnery with eight honest women, and to stay there with the nuns, eating, drinking and talking with them and spending the night[1328]. An indult granted in 1398 to Margery and Grace de Tylney "noblewomen," to enter "as often as they please with six honest matrons, the monastery of enclosed nuns of the Order of St Clare, Denney"[1329], and a faculty granted in 1371 to "John, Cardinal of Sancti Quatuor Coronati"[1330], empowering him to give leave to a hundred women of high birth of France and England, to enter nunneries once a year, accompanied each by four matrons[1331], give some idea of the extent to which it was usual for guests to visit even houses belonging to enclosed orders. Nuns do not seem to have concerned themselves with political movements, unlike the monks, who in great abbeys were sometimes keen politicians. But it sometimes happened that the strife and intrigue and tragedy of the outside world entered into quiet convents, through this custom of using them as boarding houses. Not otherwise can we account for a curious case in which the nuns of Sewardsley were involved in 1470, when a certain Thomas Wake accused Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, of making an image of lead to be used in witchcraft against the King and Queen, which image he said had been shown to various persons and exhibited in the nunnery of Sewardsley[1332]. Moreover echoes of great doings came to nuns when the hapless wives and daughters of the King's enemies were placed in their custody, a kindlier fate than imprisonment in a fortress or in charge of some loyal noble's sharp-tongued wife. The course of Edward II's troubled reign may be traced in the story of the women who were successively sent as prisoners, or (worse still) as nuns, to various priories. The first to suffer was the King's niece Margaret; she had been married by him to Piers Gaveston and had seen her husband miserably slain at Thomas of Lancaster's behest; she was married again to Sir Hugh Audley and ten years later, poor pawn in the game of politics, she suffered for her second husband's share in Lancaster's rebellion, when the crime of Blacklow Hill was expiated on the hill of Pontefract. "Margarete countesse de Cornewaille," says the chronicle of Sempringham, "La femme Sire Hugh Daudelee, e la niece le roi, fu ordinee a demorer en guarde a Sempringham entre les nonaignes, a quel lieu ele vint le xvi jour de Mai (1322) e la demorra"[1333]. In the same year the Abbess of Barking was ordered "to cause the body of Elizabeth de Burgo, late wife of Roger Damory, within her abbey, to be kept safely and not to permit her to go outside the abbey gates in any wise until further orders"[1334]. In 1324 another rebel, Roger Mortimer, broke his prison in the Tower and escaped across the sea to France. But three poor children, his daughters, could not escape, and on April 7th of the same year the sheriff of Southampton received an order to cause Margaret, daughter of Roger Mortimer of Wygmore, to be conducted to the Priory of Shouldham, Joan, his second daughter, to the Priory of Sempringham, and Isabella, his third daughter, to the Priory of Chicksand, "to be delivered to the priors of those places (all were Gilbertine houses) to stay amongst the nuns in the same priories." The Prior of Shouldham had 15_d._ weekly for Margaret's expenses and a mark yearly for her robe, and each of the other two little girls received 12_d._ weekly for expenses and a mark for her robe[1335]. The she-wolf of France bided her time, and when the game was hers she was no less swift to avenge her wrongs; to Sempringham (where her lover's daughter had gone two years before) now went the two daughters of the elder Hugh Despenser, to pray for the souls of a father and brother done most dreadfully to death[1336]. The perennial wars with Scotland also found their echo in the nunneries. In 1306 the Abbess of Barking was ordered "to deliver Elizabeth, sister of William Olifard [? Olifaunt] Knight, who is in their custody by the King's permission to Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, the King having granted her to the said Henry"[1337]; she was doubtless a relative of that "Hugh Olyfard, a Scot, the King's enemy and rebel," who together with one "William Sauvage the King's approver" had broken his prison at Colchester some three years before, and fled into sanctuary in the convent church[1338]. Barking was a favourite prison, doubtless on account of its situation, and in 1314 the sheriffs of London were ordered "to receive Elizabeth, wife of Robert de Brus, from the Abbess of Berkyngg, with whom she had been staying by the King's order and to take her under safe custody to Rochester and there deliver her to Henry de Cobham, constable of the castle"[1339]. The mention of the Scot Hugh Olyfard, who took sanctuary in the church of Barking, recalls another reason for which the world might break into the cloister. The terrified fugitive from justice would take sanctuary in a convent church if it lay nearest to him, and the peace of chanting nuns would be rudely broken, when that unkempt and desperate figure sprang up the choir between them and flung itself upon their altar steps. The hand of a master has drawn for us what the trembling novices saw, peeping from their stalls: ... the breathless fellow at the altar foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years), Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head Which the intense eyes looked through, came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of ear-rings and a bunch of flowers The brute took growling, prayed and then was gone[1340]. But sometimes more than a momentary disturbance was occasioned to the nunnery; in 1416, for instance, Edith Wilton, Prioress of Carrow, was attached, together with one of her nuns, on the charge of harbouring in sanctuary the murderers of William Koc of Trowse, at the appeal of his widow Margaret. She was arrested, imprisoned and called to answer at Westminster, but after the court had adjourned many times she was acquitted[1341]. An abbess of Wherwell was involved in a lawsuit over a case of sanctuary for somewhat different reasons; she claimed the right of seizing chattels of fugitives in the hundred of Mestowe[1342], a right which was disputed by the crown officials. One Henry Harold of Wherwell had killed his wife Isabel and fled to the church of Wherwell and the Abbess had promptly seized his chattels to the value of over £35, by the hands of her reeve[1343]. These cases of violence will lead us to the consideration of breaches of enclosure which were in no sense the fault of the unhappy nuns. Visits from their peaceful friends they welcomed; the sojourn of great folk they bore; but they would fain have passed their days undisturbed by war's alarms and by the assault and battery of private feuds. But it was not to be. Alarums and excursions sometimes shattered their peace and, especially in the Northern counties, violent attacks at the hands of robbers, lawless neighbours, or enemies of the realm were only too common. Disorder was general and grew worse in the course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The nunnery of Markyate was once assaulted in the night by fifty robbers and the nuns pillaged and robbed of everything valuable[1344], and in 1408 the Bishop of Ely gave an indulgence for the relief of the nuns of Rowney, "whose chalices, books, ornaments and other goods have been stolen by evil men, so that they have not the wherewithal to perform the divine office"[1345]. Neighbourly disagreements sometimes developed into petty warfare, as the Paston Letters show, and an almost exact parallel to the dispute between John Paston and Lord Molynes over the manor of Gresham is to be found in a complaint made in 1383 by the Prioress of Brodholme, who asserted that a gang of men (whom she named) "had broken her close at Brodholme, felled her trees and underwood, dug in her soil, carried off earth, trees, underwood and other goods, depastured her corn and grass, assaulted her servants and besieged her and her nuns in the Priory and threatened them with death"[1346]. Such instances might be multiplied[1347]. Sometimes the presence of secular boarders led to unpleasant experiences for the nuns. The Lincoln registers record two such cases, which incidentally furnish an additional reason why the reception of boarders was frowned upon by the Church. In 1304 certain "satellites of Satan whose names we know not" (Bishop Dalderby informs his official), "lately came in great numbers to the monastery of the nuns of Goring, where they boldly laid violent hands upon Henry, chaplain of the parish church and brother John le Walleys, lay brother of the same place (from whom they drew blood) and upon certain nuns of the house who struggled to guard their monastery, and then they entered and rode their horses up to the high altar of the church, polluting that holy place shamefully with the footprints and dung of their horses." Their object was apparently to seize a certain Isabella de Kent, a married woman then dwelling in the nunnery, and they pursued her to the belfry, where she had taken refuge and dragged her away with them[1348]. An even worse disturbance took place at Rothwell in 1421-2. A gang of ruffians broke open the cloister and doors, seized one Joan (a boarder) and carried her away to a lonely house, where their leader forcibly violated her, with every circumstance of brutality. She escaped back to the priory, whereupon the leader entering the same priory a second time, like a tyrant and pirate with a far greater multitude of like henchmen and people untamed and savage in his company, with naked swords and other sorts of divers weapons of offence, fell ... upon the same woman, who was then in the presence of the prioress and the nuns in the hall of the said priory and ... daringly laid wicked, sacrilegious and violent hands, notwithstanding the worship both of their persons and of the place, upon the prioress and nuns of the said place, honourable members of the church and persons hallowed to God accordingly--who endeavoured gently to appease their baseness and savagery, so far as their sex as women allowed--and cudgelled them with cruel strokes, threw them down on the ground and, trampling on them with their feet, mercilessly kicked them and violently dragged off their garments of their habits over their heads, and even as robbers, having caught their prey, carried off the said woman, dragging her with them out of the priory[1349]. Even more significant is the licence granted to the Abbess and Convent of Tarrant Keynes in 1343 to cut down two hundred acres of under-wood in their demesne land, "on their petition setting forth that their house and possessions in the county of Dorset had been burned and destroyed by an invasion of the king's enemies in those parts"[1350]; or the permission given to the Abbess of Shaftesbury in 1367 to crenellate her Abbey, presumably for purposes of defence[1351]. The south coast was a constant prey to pirates, and it was still within the memory of man that, at the beginning of the French war the Normayns Pycardes and Spanyerdes entred into the toune (of Southampton) and robbed and pilled the toune, and slewe dyvers and defowled maydens, and enforced wyves, and charged their vessels with the pyllage and so entred agayne into their shyppes[1352]. The sanctity which attached to the person of a nun was apt to be forgotten in the brutal warfare of the day and the Abbess might well fear for her flock. The English nunneries did not, indeed, experience anything to compare with the unimaginable sufferings endured by French convents during the hundred years' war[1353]. But they were by no means immune from the effects of civil war; Wilton, Wherwell and St Mary's, Winchester, were all burned during the struggle between Stephen and Matilda[1354], and during the Wars of the Roses the nuns of Delapré were unwilling witnesses of the Battle of Northampton (1460), which was held "in the medowys beside the Nonry"; after the fight was over the King, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London rested at the nunnery and many of the slain were buried in its churchyard[1355]. The most striking example of the effect of warfare upon monastic houses in England is, however, provided by the history of the northern monasteries, which were throughout their history (but especially during the first part of the fourteenth century) in danger from the inroads of the Scots. So great was the destruction wrought in 1318 that it was necessary to make a new assessment of church property for purposes of taxation, in part of the province of York[1356]. Nor was the trouble purely material, though the poverty of the nunneries (in particular) was sometimes abject and the harrying of their lands must have made prosperity at all times a vain hope. The moral results of such disorder were even more serious. It was almost impossible to maintain an ordinary communal life, when at any moment it might be necessary to disperse the nuns and quarter them in other houses out of the line of the marauders' march. Even in houses which were never actually attacked, the prevalent unrest, the lawlessness which is naturally engendered by border warfare, must have been disorganising and demoralising. It is easy to understand why cases of immorality and grave disorder are more prevalent in the convents of the north of England than in those of any other district. In 1296 the chronicler of Lanercost describes thus the first great raid of the Scots: In this raid they surpassed in cruelty all the fury of the heathen; when they could not catch the strong and young people, who took flight, they imbrued their arms, hitherto unfleshed, with the blood of infirm people, old women, women in childbed and even children two or three years old, proving themselves apt scholars in atrocity, insomuch that they raised little span-long children pierced on pikes, to expire thus and fly away to the heavens. They burnt consecrated churches; both in the sanctuary and elsewhere they violated women dedicated to God [i.e. nuns] as well as married women and girls, either murdering them or robbing them, after gratifying their lust. Also they herded together a crowd of little scholars in the schools of Hexham and having blocked the doors set fire to that pile [so] fair [in the sight of God]. Three monasteries of holy collegiates were destroyed by them, Lanercost, of the Canons Regular; and Hexham of the same order and [that] of the nuns of Lambley; of all of these the devastation can by no means be attributed to the valour of warriors, but to the dastardly conduct of thieves, who attacked a weaker community, where they would not be likely to meet with any resistance[1357]. Some allowance must be made for the indignation of a canon of Lanercost, whose own house had been burnt; but even so it is plain that the religious houses must have endured terrible things at the hands of the Scots; and the peril of the nuns was to honour as well as to life and home. In several cases record of the actual dispersal of the nuns has been preserved, though such dispersal lasted only for a short time. The priory of Holystone, which lay right upon the border, was in a particularly exposed position and in 1313, when Bruce was devastating the northern counties, a letter from the Bishop of Durham bears vivid testimony to its miserable plight: "The house of the said nuns," he says, "situated in the March of England and Scotland, by reason of the hostile incursions which daily and continually increase in the March, is frequently despoiled of its goods and the nuns themselves are often attacked by the marauders, harmed and pursued and, put to flight and driven from their home, are constrained miserably to experience bitter suffering. Wherefore we make these things known to you, that you may compassionate their poverty, which is increased by the memory of happier things, and that your pity and benevolence may be shown them, lest (to the disgrace of their estate) they be forced publicly to beg"[1358]. The expiration of the truce with Scotland in 1322 was followed by another raid and by Edward II's unsuccessful campaign, in the course of which the Scots overran Yorkshire and very nearly captured the King at Byland Abbey. The canons of Bridlington (whither he fled) departed with all their valuables to Lincolnshire, sending an envoy to purchase immunity from Bruce at Melton. The poor nuns of Moxby and Rosedale did not escape so easily. In November Archbishop Melton wrote to the Prioress of Nunmonkton, ordering her to receive two nuns of the house of Moxby, which had been "destroyed and devastated by the Scots"; the Prioress tried to excuse herself, on the plea that it was unseemly for Austin nuns to be received in a Benedictine convent and that her house barely sufficed to support herself and her sisters; but the Archbishop sternly replied that he was sending the nuns for a time only and that it behoved the convent of Nunmonkton to receive them, in order to avoid their being dispersed in the world. He added that he had placed a like burden upon other nunneries in his diocese which had escaped the horrors of the invasion, and a note in his Register shows that two nuns were sent to Nunappleton, two to Nunkeeling and two to Hampole, while the Prioress went to Swine. Three days later he boarded out the nuns of Rosedale, who had received similar injuries at the hands of the Scots, sending one to each of the houses of Nunburnholme, Sinningthwaite, Thicket, Wykeham and Hampole[1359]. The dispersal of the nuns of Rosedale did not extend beyond six months and the nuns of Moxby probably returned about the same time, for they were back in their own house in 1325, when their Prioress resigned "super lapsu carnis"[1360]. The moral record of both houses--and indeed of the majority of Yorkshire nunneries--is bad at this period, and at least part of the responsibility must be laid at the door of the Scottish invasions. Yorkshire also suffered in the invasion which ended with the Battle of Neville's Cross (1346), when the Scots went forth brenning and destroying the county of Northumberland; and their currours ran to York and brent as much as was without the walls and returned again to their host within a days journey, of Newcastle-upon-Tyne[1361]. One of these marauding bands ("the most outrageoust people in all the country," Froissart calls them) came galloping into that lonely and beautiful dale, where the nunnery of Ellerton stands beside the brown torrent of Swale. They entered the house and carried away seven charters and writings, so the nuns complained later[1362]; what else they did in that quiet spot and whether the nunnery of Marrick on the hill above escaped them history will not tell us. Such disasters were common enough in the north. The records of Armathwaite in Cumberland show that an unlucky proximity to the border might hamper a convent throughout the whole of its career. In 1318 pasture for cattle in Inglewood Forest was granted to "the poor nuns of Armathwaite, who had been totally ruined by the Scots"; in 1331 they were excused a payment of ten pounds for the same reason; and in 1474 they were obliged to apply for a ratification of their possessions, because their house had been almost destroyed by the Scots, who had not only spoiled them of their church ornaments, books, relics and jewels, but also of all their charters and evidences[1363]. The obscure little nunnery of Lambley on Tyne suffered in the same way, for in the Receiver's Account made at its dissolution in 1536 there occurs, under the heading _Decasus Redditus_, the entry of a tenement in Haltwhistle called Redepath, "eo quod comburatum (_sic_) per Scottos"[1364]. But the most horrible story of outrage suffered by a nunnery in time of war is that strange tale reported by the anonymous monk of St Albans, who wrote a _Chronicon Angliae_ between the years 1376 and 1379[1365]. The suffering of French nunneries at the hand of Free Companies and English was not more terrible than the fate of these English nuns at the hand of their own countrymen. In 1379 an army was mustered in England to replace Duke John of Brittany upon his throne, which had been annexed by Charles V of France. The main army, under John FitzAlan of Arundel, Marshal of England (the same who had "two and fiftie new sutes of apparell of cloth of gold or tissue") was delayed in England for some months, first by a difficulty in raising the money to equip it, and then by contrary winds, and it was December before Sir John was ready to sail. Complaints came from all hands of the depredations committed along the coast by the lawless soldiers, but their other misdeeds were insignificant compared with the crime recorded in the St Albans Chronicle: "When," says the chronicler, "Sir John Arundel and his companions were come to the sea and no breeze favoured them, he ordered that a more favourable wind should be awaited. Meanwhile he proceeded to a certain monastery of virgin nuns, which stood not far away, and entering with his men, he asked the mother of the monastery to permit his fellow soldiers, engaged on the king's service, to lodge there. But the nun, considering in her mind that danger might arise from such guests and that his request was absolutely contrary to religion, pointed out to him with due reverence and humility that many of his followers were young and might easily be moved to commit an inexpiable crime, which would not only bring ill fame upon the place but would also be a danger and an evil to himself and his men, who should shun not only an offence against chastity but all manner of crimes, if they acted as befitted men about to go to the wars. But he began to insist with great fervour, declaring that her suspicions were false and her imaginings without truth, whereupon she prostrated herself on the ground before him, and answered, 'My lord, I know that your men are unbridled and fear not even God. It is expedient neither for us nor for you that they should enter our cloister. Wherefore I beseech and counsel you with clasped hands, that you give up this intention and seek other hosts (who abound in the neighbourhood) for yourself and for your men.' But he persisted and, contemptuously bidding her arise, swore that he would in no wise give up his determination to have hospitality for his people there. Wherefore he straightway ordered his men to enter the building and to occupy the public and private rooms until the time came for setting sail. And they, inspired (it is thought) by a devil, burst into the cloister of the monastery, and as is the wont of such an undisciplined mob, broke the one into this, the other into that room, wherein the maidens, daughters of the neighbouring gentry, were lodged to be taught; and many of these were already prepared to take upon them the habit of holy religion and had set their mind on the purpose of virginity. These, scorning reverence for the place and casting aside the fear of God, the men oppressed and violated by force. Nor did their lust rage against these alone, for they feared not to pollute the widow's continence and the conjugal tie. For many widows had gathered there to receive hospitality, as is customary in such abbeys, either for lack of property or in order the more perfectly and safely to preserve their chastity. They forced into public adultery the married women who had gathered there for the same reasons, and not content (it is said) with these misdeeds they subjected the nuns themselves to their lust. Whereupon at first those who suffered the injury, and soon all who dwelt in the neighbourhood and who heard the news of so great a crime, heaped very horrible curses upon their heads and called down upon them whatever misfortune and whatever adversity God might be able to raise against them." The chronicler goes on to relate how, undeterred and indeed encouraged by Sir John Arundel, the men spread over the country-side and pillaged it, carrying off a bride and stealing plate from the altar of a church, for which sacrilege they were solemnly excommunicated. At last, however, Sir John (in spite of the protests of the shipman who was to carry him) decided to set sail. His men carried off with them the stolen bride and a number of wives, widows and virgins from the abbey, forced the wretched women on board and put to sea. But a storm came on and the ships were driven out into the Atlantic. In the midst of the roaring tempest the guilty soldiers seemed to see a spectre, more awful than death itself, which stalked among them on the deck and foretold the loss of all who sailed upon Sir John Arundel's ship. Even more pitiable was the condition of the women: "Hard it is to relate," says the chronicler, "what clamour, what lamentation, what groans, what tears, arose among the women, who by force or of their own will had boarded the ship, when buffeted by the winds and waves they rose to the skies and descended to the depths; for now they saw not the spectre of death, but death itself among them, and could not doubt that they must die. What mental anguish, what bodily fear, what remorse and anxiety assailed the conscience of the men, who to satisfy their lust had dragged these women into the peril of the seas, they were best able to describe who, although sharers in so great a crime, were nevertheless permitted by God's mercy to reach a port of safety. Wherefore the men were doubtful what to do in the midst of the clamour, for on the one hand the wind and storm, on the other the tears and cries of the women, urged them to action. First, therefore, they tried to lighten the vessel, throwing overboard first the worthless baggage, then precious things, that perchance a hope of safety might arise. But when they perceived their desperate plight to be rather increased than diminished, they cast the blame of their misfortune upon the women, and in a spirit of madness they seized hold of them (with the same hands wherewith before they had sweetly caressed them, the same arms wherewith they had lustfully embraced them) and threw them into the sea, to be devoured by fishes and sea beasts, to the number (it is said) of sixty women. But not even thus was the tempest stayed, but rather it grew greater so that it deprived them of all hope of escaping the danger of death." The story is soon ended. The ships were driven onto the coast of Ireland, Sir John Arundel's vessel ran upon a rock, and he was drowned, with all his suits of apparel, his goods and his horses; and twenty-five other vessels of the ill-fated expedition, laden with soldiers and horses and baggage, also went down in the storm. Public opinion did not fail to attribute these disasters to the crimes of which Sir John and his troops had been guilty; and so, with dramatic fitness, ends this tale of the golden days of chivalry[1366]. Side by side with it must be set another episode, drawn from an earlier age and from an epic instead of a chronicle. It was part of the chivalrous convention to show a special respect to nunneries, in their double character of religious and aristocratic institutions. Yet the most striking account of a nunnery in the twelfth century, when this convention was at its height, has for subject a brutal sacrilege committed by a great baron upon a church of nuns. This is the famous episode of the burning of Origny in the _chanson de geste_ "Raoul de Cambrai." The writer of the poem makes Raoul's knights recoil in shame from a crime in which their allegiance has made them unwilling partners, and manifests the utmost horror and pity at this action so opposed to all the ideals of chivalry; but it is only one of the many proofs that the golden idol had feet of clay. Whether or not the account was founded upon an actual incident is unknown; but it deserves quotation because it illustrates all too clearly the fate of nuns when their quiet houses stood in the way of warring knights. It represents one side of chivalry as truly as "Queen Guenever in Almesbury, a nun in white clothes and black" represents another. In the same century that produced "Raoul de Cambrai" a chronicler, writing of the wars of Stephen and Matilda in England, records, "Burnt also was the abbey of nuns of Wherwell by a certain William of Ypres, an evil man, who respected neither God nor man, because certain supporters of the Empress had taken refuge therein"; and another: The famous town [of Winchester] was given to the flames, wherein a convent of nuns with its offices, and more than twenty churches, with the greater part of the town and the monastery of St Grimbald's and the dwellings attached to it, were reduced to ashes[1367]. What these bald statements mean the _chanson de geste_ can tell us better. Raoul de Cambrai, the greatest villain who ever led knights to war, had in his train a young knight Bernier. One day he set out to pillage Origny, in which town was a famous convent, where Bernier's fair mother Marcens had retired to end her days in peace. But as he hurled himself, with four thousand men, upon the town, the gates of the convent opened and the nuns came forth from the church, gentle ladies, each with her psalter, for there they did the service of God. Marcens was there, who was Bernier's mother. "Mercy, Raoul, in the just God's name! You do great sin if you allow harm to come to us, for easily can we be driven forth." In her hand she held a book of the time of Solomon and she was saying an orison to God. After a tender inquiry for her son, Marcens proceeded to plead with Raoul to raise the siege; clearly the burgesses regarded the abbess of the great convent as their leader and a fit person to negotiate with their enemy. "Sir Raoul," she said, "shall I beseech you in vain to withdraw you? We be nuns, by all the saints of Bavaria; we shall never hold lance nor banner, nor by our hand shall any man be brought to his grave." But Raoul answered her with a stream of coarse abuse, showing even less respect for her sex and calling than Sir John Arundel showed to the abbess who refused him lodging[1368]. Marcens put aside his charges with a word of dignified denial and proffered him terms of truce: "Sir Raoul, we know not how to wield arms; easily can you destroy us and put us to flight. We have neither shield nor lance for our defence. All our livelihood we have from this altar and within this town; noble men hold this place dear and send us silver and pure gold. Therefore do you grant us a truce for hearth and church and go you and take your ease in our meadows; of our own substance we will feed you and your knights and your squires shall have corn and oats and plenty to eat for your steeds." "By the body of St Richier," answered Raoul, "For love of you and since you ask it, I will grant you the truce, whoever may dislike it." But Raoul de Cambrai had no regard for his knightly word; he quarrelled with the townsfolk and swore to burn Origny about their ears. "The rooms burn," the _chanson_ continues, "The ceilings crumble: the barrels catch fire and their hoops burst. Woe and sin it is, for the children burn too. Evil has Count Raoul done, for the day before he gave his faith to Marcens that they should not lose so much as a fold of silk; and on the morrow he burned them in his wrath. In Origny, that great and rich town, the sons of Herbert, who love the place had put Marcens, Bernier's mother, and a hundred nuns to pray to God. Count Raoul, the hot-heart, sets fire to the streets; the houses burn, the ceilings melt, the wine spills and the cellars flow with it; the bacon burns, the larders fall, the fat makes the great fire burn more fiercely. It strikes up to the tower and to the high belfry and the roofs fall in, so great is the blaze between the two walls. The nuns are burnt, all hundred of them are burnt (woe it is to tell); burnt is Marcens that was Bernier's mother, and Clamados the daughter of Duke Renier. The smell of burning flesh rises from the flames and the brave knights weep for pity. When Bernier sees the fire grow worse, he is near mad with grief. Could ye but have seen him sling on his shield! With drawn sword he comes to the church and sees the flames pouring from the doors; no man can come within a shaft's throw of the fire. Bernier sees a rich marble pavement, and upon it lies his mother, with her tender face laid on the ground and her psalter burning upon her breast. Then says the boy, 'I am on a foolish errand. Never will any succour avail her now. Ha! sweet mother, yesterday you kissed me; you have but a poor heir in me, for I can neither aid nor help you. God, who will judge the world, keep your soul!'"[1369] So ends this terrible episode; but that chivalry in this matter at least suffered no change from the twelfth to the fourteenth century Froissart's account of the burning of this same Origny-Saint-Benoît by the peerless John of Hainault and his troops in 1339 will show[1370]. If the code of knighthood and the fear of God could not save the nuns from mischances such as these, it is plain that no injunctions against the breach of their enclosure could have done so. These were the risks of war, which nuns shared in common with all unhappy women. But the siege of Origny and even the outrage at Goring were still exceptional events; and the Church found its chief problem not in these unwelcome incursions, but in the number of welcome visitors who hung about the nunneries. "The Lord deliver them from their friends" was in effect the bishop's prayer. The expulsion of these friends was a necessary corollary to the enclosure movement; and, like the injunctions to nuns to keep within their cloister, the injunctions to lay folk to keep outside remained a dead letter. John of Ayton's conclusion is true here also: Why, then, did the holy fathers thus labour to beat the air? Yet indeed their toil is none the less to their own merit; for we look not to that which is, but to that which of justice should be. CHAPTER XI THE OLDE DAUNCE A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. _Love's Labour's Lost_, I, i, 266-8. It is difficult to form any exact impression of the moral state of the English nunneries during the later middle ages. Certainly there is widespread evidence of frailty on the part of individuals, and there are one or two serious cases in which a whole house was obviously in a bad condition. It is certain also that we retain the record of only a portion of the cases of immorality which existed; some never came to light at all, some were hushed up and the records of others are buried in Bishops' Registers, which are either unpublished or lost. On the other hand it is necessary to guard against exaggeration. The majority of nuns certainly kept their lifelong vow of chastity. Moreover when the conditions of medieval life are taken into account, the lapses of the nuns must, to anyone who considers them with sympathy and common sense, appear comprehensible. The routine of the convent was not always satisfying to the heart, and the temptations to which nuns were submitted were certainly grosser and more frequent than they are in similar institutions today. Several considerations may fairly be urged in mitigation of the nuns. The initial difficulty of the celibate ideal need not be laboured. For many saints it was the first and necessary condition of their salvation; but for the average man it has always been an unnatural state and the monastic orders and the priesthood were full of average men. It is not surprising, therefore, that the history of ecclesiastical celibacy is one of the tragedies of religious life. The vow was constantly being broken. The _focaria_ or priest's mistress is a well-known figure in medieval history and fiction; and the priest who lived thus with an unofficial wife was probably less dangerous to his female parishioners than was he who lived ostensibly alone. A crowd of clerks and chaplains, sometimes attached to some church, chantry or great man's chapel, sometimes unattached, filled the country with an "ecclesiastical proletariat," all vowed to chastity; and any student of the criminal records of the middle ages knows how often these men were concerned in cases of rape and other crime. A survey of the monastic visitations of a careful visitor such as Alnwick shows that consorting with women was a common charge against the monks and there is some evidence which points to a suspicion of grosser forms of vice. It would be strange indeed if the nuns were an exception to the rule. Even if they kept their vow, they kept it sometimes at a cost which psychologists have only recently begun to understand. The visions which were at once the torture and the joy of so many mystic women, were sexual as well as religious in their origin, as in their imagery[1371]. The terrible lassitude and despair of _accidia_ grew in part at least from the repression of the most powerful of natural instincts, accentuated by the absence of sufficient counter interests and employments. The whole monastic ideal is, however, bound up with the vow of chastity and, had only women with a vocation entered nunneries, the danger of the situation would have been small. Unfortunately a large number of the girls who became nuns had no vocation at all. They were given over to the life by their families, sometimes from childhood, because it was a reputable career for daughters who could not be dowered for marriage in a manner befitting their estate[1372]. They were often totally unsuited for it, by the weakness of their religions as well as by the strength of their sexual impulses. The lighthearted _Chansons de Nonnes_[1373], whose theme is the nun unwillingly professed, had a real basis in fact. If cases of immorality in convents seem all too frequent, it should be remembered how young and often how unwilling were those who took the vows: Je sent les douls mals leis ma senturete Malois soit de deu ki me fist nonnete. The blame is justly placed and the wonder is not how many but how few nuns went astray. Again the nunneries of the middle ages were subjected to temptations which rarely occur in our own time. The chief of these was the ease with which the nuns moved about outside their houses in a world where sex was displayed good-humouredly, openly, grossly, by the populace, and with all the subtle charm of chivalry by the upper classes. The struggle to enforce enclosure had its root in the recognition of this danger, as episcopal references to the story of Dinah show; and it has already been seen how unsuccessful that struggle was. Nuns left their precincts, visited their friends, attended feasts, listened to wandering minstrels, with hardly any restraint upon their movements. It is true that in church and cloister the praise of virginity was forever dinned into their ears; but outside in the world it was not virginity that was praised. Were it a miller's tale or a wife of Bath's prologue, overheard on a pilgrimage, were it only the lilt of a passing clerk at a street corner, Western wind, when wilt thou blow, The small rain down can rain? Christ, if my love were in my arms And I in my bed again, the nun's mind must often have been troubled, as she turned her steps back to her cloister. Moreover their guest rooms were full of visitors, men as well as women; if they copied so eagerly the fine dresses and the pet dogs of worldly ladies, is it strange that they sometimes copied their lovers too? Other conditions besides the imperfect enforcement of enclosure increased the danger. The disorders of the times, ranging from the armed forays of the Scots in the north to the lawlessness of everyday life in all parts of the country, were not conducive to a fugitive and cloistered virtue[1374]. Nor was the constant struggle against financial need, leading as it did to many undesirable expedients for raising money, really compatible with either dignity or unworldliness. There is a poverty which breeds plain living and high thinking, a fair Lady Poverty whom St Francis wedded. But there is also an unworthy, grinding poverty, which occupies the mind with a struggle to make two ends meet and dulls it to finer issues. Too often the poverty of the nunneries was of the last type. Let it be conceded, therefore, that the celibate ideal was a hard one, that the nuns were often recruited without any regard for their fitness to follow it, and that some of the conditions of convent life, insufficiently withdrawn from the temptations and disorders of the outside world, served to promote rather than to restrain a breach of it. With these preliminary warnings, an attempt may be made to estimate the moral state of the English nunneries. The evidence for such a study falls into three classes, the purely literary evidence of moralist and story-teller, the general statements of ecclesiastical councils and the exact and specific evidence of the Bishops' Registers. The literary evidence will be treated more fully in a further chapter and need not detain us here. Langland's nun, who had a child in cherry time, Gower's voice crying against the frailty of woman kind, the "Dame Lust, Dame Wanton and Dame Nice," who haunted the imaginary convent of the poem _Why I can't be a Nun_, are all well known, as are the serious _exempla_, the pretty Mary-miracles, and the ribald tales, which have for their subject an erring nun. They are useful as corroborative evidence, but without more exact information they would tell us little that is of specific value. Similarly the enactments of church councils and general chapters are quite general. By far the most valuable evidence as to monastic morals is contained in the Bishops' Registers, whether in the accounts of visitations and the injunctions which followed them, or in the special mandates ordering inquiry into a scandal, search after an apostate, or penance upon a sinner. The visitation documents are particularly useful. Where full _detecta_ are preserved, the moral state of a house is vividly pictured; there you may see the unworthy Prioress, whose bad example or weak rule has led her flock astray; there the nuns conniving at a love affair and assisting an elopement, or complaining bitterly of the dishonour wrought upon their house. If the register of visitations be a full one, it is possible to form an approximately exact estimate of the moral condition of all the nunneries in a particular diocese at a particular time, in so far as it was known to the Bishop. If a diocese possess a long and fairly unbroken series of registers, as at York and Lincoln, the moral history of the house may be traced over a long period of years. Supplementary evidence is sometimes also to be found in the Papal Registers, when the Pope had been petitioned in favour of some nun, or had heard rumours of the evil state of some nunnery; but Papal letters on the subject are comparatively rare. The mass of the information which follows is therefore derived from the invaluable records of the bishops. It seems quite clear that the nuns who broke their vows were always willing parties to the breach. Few men would have been bold enough to ravish a _Sponsa Dei_. Sometimes a bishop was led to suppose that a nun had been carried away against her will, but he always found out in the end that she had been in the plot; all abductions were in reality elopements. In the Register of Bishop Sutton of Lincoln there is notice of an excommunication pronounced in 1290 against the persons who abducted Agnes of Sheen, a nun of Godstow. The Bishop announces that she and another nun were journeying peacefully towards Godstow in a carriage belonging to their house, when suddenly, in the very middle of the King's highway at Wycombe, certain sons of perdition laid violent hands upon them and dragged the unwilling Agnes out of her carriage and carried her off. But he seems to have received a different account of the affair later, for in the following year he announces that Agnes of Sheen, Joan of Carru and "a certain kinswoman of the Lady Ela, Countess of Warwick," professed nuns of Godstow, have fled from their house and, casting off their habit, are living a worldly and dissolute life, to the scandal of the neighbourhood; and he pronounces excommunication against the nuns and all their helpers[1375]. Some nuns contrived to meet their lovers secretly, within the precincts of their own convents, or outside during the visits which they paid so freely despite the Bull _Periculoso_; they made no effort to leave their order, and were only discovered if their behaviour were such as to create a public scandal among the other nuns, or in the neighbouring villages. Others, smitten deeply by "amor che a nullo amato amar perdona," hailed insistently by the call of life outside, cast off their habits and left their convents. They risked their immortal souls by doing so, for the Church condemned the crime of apostasy far more severely than that of unchastity, since it involved the breach of all the monastic vows, instead of only one, and brought religion into dishonour in the eyes of laymen. The nun who sinned was given a penance; the nun who apostatised was excommunicated; and there were few who could withstand for long the sense of utter isolation, even from a God whose love they had scorned. The bride of Christ who could live happily under the shadow of the ban, who could marry knowing her union to be unrecognised and even cursed by the Church[1376], must have been of a most unmedieval scepticism, a most unfeminine indifference to the scorn of her fellows; or drowned so deep in love that she counted Heaven well lost. There were not many such; and the majority of apostates returned to their order, worn out by remorse or by persecution, or convinced at last that mortal love was but what the author of _Hali Meidenhad_ named it, "a licking of honey off thorns." It is no wonder that the majority of these apostates returned. What were they but individuals? Against them was arrayed the might of two great institutions, the Church and the State. Sometimes the might of the Church alone availed to retrieve them; terror brought them of their own free will, or they found themselves caught in a net of threats and excommunications, involving not only themselves, but all who helped them. When Isabel Clouvill, Maud Titchmarsh and Ermentrude Newark, for some time nuns professed in the house of St Mary in the Meadows (Delapré), Northampton, left their convent and went to live in sin in the world, they were excommunicated. Moreover their Bishop ordered the Archdeacon of Northampton to summon them to return within a week, and all who received them in their houses or gave them any help and counsel, were to be warned to desist within three days and to be given a penance. The names of the villages where they were received were to be notified to the Bishop and their aiders and abettors were to appear before him[1377]. How many people would suffer for long the displeasure of the Church for the sake of three runaway nuns? Lovers might be faithful, but even lovers must eat and drink and sleep beneath a roof: a nun was no nut-brown maid to live content in greenwood, "when the shawes be shene." If the pair could escape to a town where their story was not known, there was some chance for them; but sooner or later the Church found them out. Suppose they scorned the Church; suppose powerful friends protected them, or careless folk who snapped their fingers at the priest and knew too much about begging friars to hold one amorous nun a monstrous, unexampled scandal. Then the Church could call in the majesty of the State to help, and what was a girl to do? Can one defy the King as well as the Bishop? To a soul in hell must there be added a body in prison? Elizabeth Arundell runs away from Haliwell in 1382, nor will she return. The Prioress thereupon petitions the King; let His Highness stretch forth the secular arm and bring back this lamb which wanders from the fold. His Highness complies; and his commission goes forth to Thomas Sayvill, sergeant-at-arms, John Olyver, John York, chaplain, Richard Clerk and John Clerk to arrest and deliver to the Prioress of Haliwell in the diocese of London, Elizabeth Arundell, apostate nun of that house[1378]. The sheriffs of London and Middlesex and Essex and Hertford, as well as a sergeant-at-arms and three other men, are all set hunting for Joan Adeleshey, nun of Rowney, who is wandering about in secular dress to the great scandal of her order[1379]. The net is wide; in the end the nun nearly always comes back. She comes to the Bishop for absolution. He sends a letter on her behalf to her convent, bidding them receive her in sisterly wise, but abate no jot of the penance imposed on her. The prodigal returns kneeling at the convent gate and begging admission, for it is an age of ceremony and in these dramatic moments onlookers learn their lesson[1380]. The gates swing open and close again: Sister Joan is back. The most interesting of all the stories of apostasy which have been preserved is the romantic affair of Agnes de Flixthorpe (alias de Wissenden), nun of St Michael's, Stamford, which for ten years continually occupied the attention of Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln[1381]. The story of this poor woman is a tragic witness to the desperation into which convent life could throw one who was not suited for it, as well as to the implacable pursuit of her by the Church; for indeed the Hound of Heaven appears in it in the aspect of a bloodhound. In 1309 Dalderby excommunicated Agnes for apostasy and warned all persons against receiving her into their houses or giving her any help. The next year he was obliged to call in the secular arm against her. She was then living at Nottingham and the Archdeacon of Nottingham was instructed to warn her to return. Shortly afterwards the Bishop wrote to the Abbot of Peterborough, asking him to see to her being taken back to her house and there imprisoned and guarded. The combined efforts of the Sheriff, the Archdeacon of Nottingham and the Abbot of Peterborough would appear to have succeeded. The hapless woman was taken back to her house by force and still obdurate; and the Bishop ordered her to be confined in a chamber with stone walls, each of her legs shackled with fetters until she consented to resume her habit. Her perseverance seems, however, to have worn out the nuns, and in 1311 the Bishop wrote to one Ada, sister of William de Helewell, instructing her to take custody of Agnes. The reason for thus placing her in secular charge was that her case was now _sub judice_, for two months later the Bishop sent two commissioners to inquire into the whole question of the apostasy. Agnes had declared that she was never professed at all, because she had been married to one whose name she refused to give, before she entered religion; and she still, said the bishop, continued in obstinacy. But the Church did not easily relax its clutch. After three months the Bishop wrote to his colleague the Bishop of Exeter, stating that Agnes de Flixthorpe, after having been professed for twenty years, left her house and was found wearing a man's gilt embroidered gown, that she was brought back to her house, excommunicated and kept in solitude, and that she remained obstinate and would not put on the religious habit. The Bishop, thinking it desirable that she should be removed from the diocese for a time, prayed his brother of Exeter that she might be received into the house of Cornworthy, there to undergo penance and to be kept in safe custody away from all the sisters. A clerk, Peter de Helewell (the Helewells seem to have had some special interest in her), duly conveyed Agnes far away from the level fields of the Midlands and the friends who had hidden her from her persecutors, to the little Devonshire priory. Solitude and despair for the moment broke her spirit and the next year, in 1312, she declared her penitence and the Bishop of Exeter was commissioned to absolve her; but she was kept in solitary confinement at Cornworthy until 1314, when Peter de Helewell once more journeyed across to Devonshire and brought her back to Stamford. Her native air blew hope and rebellion once more into that wild heart. Four years later Dalderby addressed a letter to the Prioress stating that Agnes de Flixthorpe had three times left her order and resumed a secular habit and was now in the world again and had been for two years past; reiterating once more the futile injunction that the Prioress "under pain of excommunication and without any dissimulation" was to bring her back and to keep her in safe custody and solitude; the unfortunate Prioress had doubtless had more than enough of Agnes de Flixthorpe and wished for nothing better than to leave her in the world. The story ends abruptly here and it will never be known whether Agnes de Flixthorpe was caught again. It was perhaps merciful to receive again apostates whose hearts failed them and who besought with tears to be reconciled to the Church. But the forcible return of a hardened sinner cannot have raised the moral tone of a house. Sometimes these nuns had lived for two or three years in the world before they were brought back. Sometimes they broke out again, yielded their easy virtue to a new lover, or fled once more into the world. At Basedale (1308) Agnes de Thormondby had three times fallen thus and left her order[1382]; and cases of more than one lover are not rare. Sometimes the prioress of a house struggled to preserve her flock from contagion by refusing to admit the returned sinner; thus the Prioress of Rothwell in 1414 declined to comply with the Bishop's mandate to receive back a certain Joan, saying that by her own confession the girl had lived for three years with one William Suffewyk; whereupon the Bishop cited her for disobedience and repeated his order[1383]. The only recorded case of a woman being refused admission concerns a sister and not a professed nun; in 1346 the Archbishop of York warned the Prioress of Nunappleton on no account to receive back Margaret, a sister of the house, who had left it pregnant, as he found that in the past she had on successive occasions relapsed and been in a similar condition[1384]. It is significant that the same Archbishop wrote to the Convent of Sinningthwaite (where they opportunely preserved "the arm of St Margaret and the tunic of St Bernard, believed to be good for women lying in") concerning one of their nuns Margaret de Fonten, who had left the house pregnant, that "as she had only done so once" her penance was to be mitigated[1385]. There can be no plainer commentary on the literary theme of the nun unwillingly professed than these cases of recurring frailty and apostasy. In the world these girls might have been happy wives, each with a lover or two beside their lords, like the ladies admired by Aucassin; for convents they were totally unsuited and obeyed their natures only with woe and disgrace to themselves and to their orders. The pages of the Registers throw some light upon the partners of their misdemeanours. In the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the convents of France and Italy were the haunts of young gallants, _monachini_, who specialised in intrigues with nuns[1386]. But the seduction of a _Sponsa Dei_ was not a fashionable pursuit in medieval England, and it was not as a rule lords and gentlemen who hung about the precincts. Now we hear of a married man boarding in the house[1387], now of the steward of the convent[1388], now of the bailiff of a manor[1389], now of a wandering harp-player[1390], now of a smith's son[1391], now of this or that layman, married or unmarried. But far more often the theme is _Clericus et Nonna_. Nuns' lovers were drawn from that great host of vicars, chaplains and chantry priests, themselves the children of the Church and under the vow of chastity, whose needs were greatest and whose very familiarity with the bonds of religion possibly bred contempt. As visitors in their convents, or as acquaintances outside, the nuns were constantly meeting members of this band of celibates, who roamed about "as thick as motes in the sunbeam." They knew well how to sing, with Chaucer's Pardoner, "Come hider, love, to me," and little enough like priests they looked with their short tunics, peaked shoes and silvered girdles, Bucklers brode and swerdes long, Baudrike with baselardes kene, Sech toles about her necke they hong, With Antichrist seche prestes been. Love would light on Alison, even were the lover a clerk and she a nun, and sometimes where the priest had tempted he could absolve. What the young man of fashion was to the Italian convent of the sixteenth century, the chaplain was to the English convent of the fourteenth and fifteenth. Sometimes the seducer was attached to the convent as chaplain and even dwelt within the precincts. Bishop Sutton had to write to the Prioress of Studley bidding her send away from the house John de Sevekwurth, clerk, who had borne himself in such unseemly wise while he dwelt there, that he had seduced two of the nuns[1392]. The chaplain of the house was involved in cases at White Hall, Ilchester (1323)[1393], Moxby (1325)[1394] and Catesby (1442)[1395], which may lend some support to the complaints of Gower[1396] and other medieval moralists and an additional sting to the good humoured chaff addressed by Chaucer's host to the nun's priest, Sir John. That the spiritual father of the nuns could thus abuse his position would seem almost incredible to anyone unfamiliar with medieval sources; yet Gower goes further still, suggesting that even the visitors of the convents were not always beyond suspicion[1397]. More often the lover had no connection with the nunnery, but had some post as chaplain or vicar in the neighbourhood[1398]. Opportunities for a meeting were not hard to obtain in the houses and gardens of the town[1399], even in the church and precincts of the priory itself[1400], as visitation _comperta_ show. Nor were cloistered monks proof against temptation. They knew only too well what passionate hearts could beat beneath a monastic habit and they knew the merry rhyme of Cockaygne land, where every monk had his nun. It has already been shown that nuns and monks met freely and that Bishops were constantly sending injunctions against the admission of monks and friars to convents and the visits paid by nuns to monasteries[1401]. Yet we hear of a nun of St Sepulchre's, Canterbury, whose name scandal connected with the cellarer of the Cathedral (1284)[1402]; of a nun of Lymbrook, who was the mistress of William de Winton, Subprior of Leominster Priory, and not his only mistress (1282)[1403]; of a nun of Swine, who had had two monks of the Abbey of Meaux for her lovers (1310)[1404]. Bishop Alnwick's visitation of the Lincoln diocese brought to light two such cases and in both the monk was not the nun's sole lover. Agnes Butler (_alias_ Pery _alias_ Northampton) ran away from St Michael's, Stamford, for a day and a night with Brother John Harreyes, an Austin friar; her secret was kept, but when Alnwick visited her house in 1440 she had run away again, this time with a harp-player, and had been living with him a year and a half at Newcastle-on-Tyne, a far enough cry from Stamford[1405]. In 1445, when the Bishop went to Godstow, he found Dame Alice Longspey grievously suspected, by reason of her confabulations alone in the convent church with an Oxford chaplain, who gave himself out to be her kinsman. A week later, while visiting Eynsham Abbey, he received a further sidelight on her character from the evidence of the abbot that one brother John Bengeworthe, a monk, who had been imprisoned for his ill desert, brake prison and went into apostasy, taking with him a nun of Godstow, but he has now been brought back to the monastery and is still doing penance. The nun was Alice Longspey and it is significant that this particular escapade had been concealed from the Bishop at his recent visitation of Godstow[1406]. The most spirited enterprise of all, however, was the combined effort of William Fox, parson of Lea (near Gainsborough) and John Fox and Thomas de Lingiston, Friars Minor of Lincoln, who were indicted before the Kings Justices at Caistor, because they came to Brodholme Nunnery (one of the only two Premonstratensian houses in the kingdom) on January 15th, 1350, and then and there "violently took and carried away, against the peace of their lord the King, a certain nun, by name Margaret Everingham, a sister of the said house, stripping her of her religious habit and clothing her in a green gown of secular habit, taking also divers goods to the value of 40 shillings"[1407]. Much as the church hated sin, it hated scandal even more and a nun might often hope to have her frailty concealed by her fellows. Sometimes they may have condoned it, for they are occasionally found assisting an elopement[1408]; sometimes they feared episcopal interference and an evil reputation for their house. But it was not always possible to conceal these unhallowed unions and when a child was born the wretched nun could not hope to escape disgrace and punishment[1409]. And dame Peronelle a prestes file--Priouresse worth she neuere For she had childe in chirityme--all owre chapitere it wiste. Usually Dame Pernell fled in despair to any friendly asylum which she could find and only returned to her house after the birth and disposal of her child. Sometimes she remained there in what privacy she might; and the affair was managed with as little scandal as possible. The nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, knew that their sister Margaret Mortimer had had a child on this side of Easter; but even the Subprioress did not know (or said she did not know) "of whom she conceived or whether she bare male or female; howbeit she was absent from quire for a fortnight"[1410]. Once we hear of an apostate, deserted and pregnant, coming back to St Mary's, Winchester, and the wise and humane William of Wykeham writes to the Abbess bidding her receive the girl gently and kindly, and keep her in safety until the birth of her child, after which he will himself make ordinance concerning her[1411]. It is hard to discover what became of these most unwelcome children. It is not surprising that they sometimes died[1412]. But if they lived their origin probably weighed but lightly on them in those days, when it was regarded as no dishonour to have bastards, who were often acknowledged by their fathers and provided for in their wills side by side with true born sons and daughters. It is true that, like other illegitimates, they could not be ordained or hold ecclesiastical preferment, without a special dispensation. But even the son of a nun could obtain such dispensation[1413] and even the daughter of a nun did not always go undowered. There were not many monastic parents like that seventeenth century abbess of Maubuisson who was rumoured to have twelve children, who were brought up diversely, each according to the rank of the father[1414], or like the Prior of Maiden Bradley, as described by Henry VIII's commissioner, "an holy father prior and hath but vj children and but one dowghter mariede, yet of the goods of the monasteries trysting shortly to mary the rest, [and] his sones be tale men waytting upon him"[1415]. Yet we hear of at least one Prioress who sold the goods of her house to make a dowry for her daughter[1416]. If it be sought to know whether any houses were particularly liable to scandals and enjoyed a bad name, it must be answered that it is almost impossible to say. But isolated cases of immorality and apostasy come from nunneries so widely distributed in different dioceses, that one must conclude that most of them had at one time or another a sinner in their midst. Often enough the case was isolated; occasionally there was scandal about the general condition of a house in its neighbourhood. The discipline and morals of convents were apt to vary with that of their heads. It is significant that when a house is in a bad moral state the fault may nearly always be traced to a weak or immoral prioress. So it was at Wintney in 1405, at Redlingfield in 1427, at Markyate in 1433, at Catesby in 1442, at St Michael's, Stamford, in 1445, at Littlemore in 1517, and at several Yorkshire nunneries. It is plain also that when a convent was very small and poor, it was apt to become lax and disorderly. The small Yorkshire houses bear witness to this and if further proof be required the state of Cannington in 1351 and Easebourne in 1478 may be quoted from among several other instances. Cannington in Somerset was a small and poor house, but its nuns were drawn from some of the best county families. In 1351 it was visited by commissioners of Ralph of Shrewsbury, Bishop of Bath and Wells, and they found something more like a brothel than a priory. Maud Pelham and Alice Northlode (a young lady whom the Bishop had forced on the unwilling convent, on his elevation to the See some twenty years before) were in the habit of frequently admitting and holding discourse with suspected persons. The inevitable chaplain was again the occasion for a fall. On dark nights they held long and suspicious confabulations with Richard Sompnour and Hugh Willynge, chaplains, in the nave of the convent church. Hugh was apparently only too willing and Richard was even as Chaucer's summoner, "as hot he was and lecherous as a sparrow," for (say the commissioners) "it is suspected by many that as a result of these conversations they fall into yet worse sin." Moreover "the said sisters, and in particular the said Maud, not content with this evil behaviour, are wont _per insolencias, minas et tactus indecentes_ to provoke many of the serving men of the place to sin," and, "to make use of her own words she says that she will never once say _Mea culpa_ for these great misdeeds, but turning like a virago upon the prioress and the other sisters who abhor the aforesaid things, when they reproach her, she threatens to do manly execution upon them with knives and other weapons." Nor was this all: In the said visitation the charge was made, dreadful to say, horrible to hear, and was proven by much evidence as to notoriety and by confession, that a certain nun of the said house, Joan Trimelet, having cast away the reins of modesty ... was found with child, but not indeed by the Holy Ghost, and afterwards gave birth to offspring, to the grave disgrace and confusion of her religion and to the scandal of many. These were the most serious charges; but the same visitation revealed that the Prioress was weak and had been guilty of the simoniacal reception of four nuns, for the sake of scraping together some money, while the subprioress was incurably lazy, refused to attend matins and other canonical hours, and neglected to correct her delinquent sisters[1417]. It is plain that the whole house was utterly demoralised and the demoralisation was possibly of long standing, for there had been one of the usual election quarrels in the early part of the century, and in 1328 the then Bishop had issued a commission to inquire into the illicit wanderings of certain nuns[1418]. Yet the priory was a favourite resort of boarders. Easebourne, again, was a poor but very aristocratic house, containing towards the close of the fifteenth century from six to ten nuns. In 1478 Bishop Story of Chichester visited it and found grave need for his interference. One of the nuns, Matilda Astom, deposed that John Smyth, chaplain, and N. Style, a married man in the service of Lord Arundel, had and were accustomed to have great familiarity within the said priory, as well as elsewhere, with Dame Joan Portsmouth and Dame Philippa King, nuns of the said priory, but whether the said Sir John Smyth and N. Style abducted, or caused to be abducted, the said Joan Portsmouth and Philippa King she knows not, as she says. (Another nun deposed that they did.) And moreover she says that a certain William Gosden and John Capron of Easebourne aforesaid, guarded and kept in their own houses the said Joan and Philippa for some time before their withdrawal from the said priory and took their departure with them and so were great encouragers to them in that particular. Another nun, Joan Stevyn, deposed that the two nuns had each had, long before their withdrawal, "children or a child." Another said that Sir John Senoke (i.e. Sevenoaks, clearly the same as John Smyth) much frequented the priory, so that during some weeks he passed the night and lay within the priory every night, and was cause, as she believes, of the ruin of the said Sir John Smyth (_sic_, MS. ? Joan Portsmouth). Also she says Sir John Smyth gave many gifts to Philippa King. All the nuns agreed in blaming the Prioress for not having properly punished the two sinners and one raked up a vague story that "she had had one or two children several years ago"; but as she admitted that this was hearsay and as the Prioress was then at least fifty years old, too much credit must not be given to it. On the same day a certain "Brother William Cotnall," evidently attached in some capacity, perhaps as _custos_, to the house, appeared before the Bishop and confessed that he had sealed a licence to Joan Portsmouth to go out of the Priory and had himself sinned with Philippa King. The two priests, Smyth and Cotnall, had not only debauched the convent, but had done their best to ruin it financially; for they had persuaded the Prioress to pawn the jewels of the house for fifteen pounds, in order to purchase a Bull of Capacity for Cotnall, who had then sealed with the common seal of the convent, against the wish of the Prioress, a quittance for John Smyth concerning all and every sort of actions and suits which the convent might have against him, and especially the matter of the jewels[1419]. But if small houses fell easily into disorder, great abbeys were not exempt from contagion. Cases of immorality are found at Wilton, Shaftesbury, Romsey, St Mary's Winchester, Wherwell and Elstow, all of them abbeys and among them the oldest and richest in the land. It is the same with two other houses, famous in legend, Amesbury, where Guinevere "let make herself a nun and wore white clothes and black," and Godstow, where Fair Rosamond lay buried in the chapter house. Here, where deathless romance had its dwelling place, it is not strange that the winged god ever and again took his toll of the nuns. But what sorry substitutes for Guinevere and Rosamond were the trembling apostates, who fled into hiding to bear their miserable infants and were haled back by bishops to do penance in the cloister. Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath. The ancient house of Amesbury fell into evil ways in the twelfth century. In 1177 its abbess was said to have borne three children and its nuns were notorious for their evil lives, whereupon the convent was dissolved, most of the nuns being placed in other houses, and Amesbury was then reconstituted as a cell of Fontevrault and peopled with a prioress and twenty-four nuns, brought over from that house[1420]. Queen Eleanor, widow of Henry III, took the veil there and by her influence Edward I allowed his daughter Mary to become a nun there, together with twelve noble maidens[1421]. But the sin of Guinevere haunted it. About Mary herself there is an ancient unexplained scandal, for in a papal mandate she is declared to have been seduced by John de Warenne, the rather disreputable Earl of Surrey[1422]; and she seems to have been as much out of her house as in it, for she constantly visited court and went on pilgrimages. Later still the papal benevolence was exerted on behalf of Margaret Greenfield, nun of Amesbury, who had borne a child after her profession (1398)[1423], and Cecily Marmyll, who "after having lived laudably for some time in the said monastery, allowed herself to be carnally known by two secular priests and had offspring by each of them" (1424)[1424]. These ladies were doubtless well born, with wealthy friends, who could afford to petition the Pope and buy restoration to the monastic dignities and offices, which they had lost by their fault. The story of Godstow is very similar. There seems to have been some scandal about the morals of the subprioress in 1284, but Peckham announced that he did not believe a word of it[1425]. In 1290, however, a nun of noble birth was (as we saw) carried off from her carriage; and she and two others were apostate in the following year. Another apostate repented and was absolved in 1339. In 1432 a nun was found by the bishop with child and in 1445 Dame Alice Longspey indulged in the escapades already described with an Oxford priest and a monk of Eynsham. All through the career of the convent, it was continually being warned against the recourse of scholars from Oxford. Both Amesbury and Godstow enjoyed fame and good repute and at the latter children were received for education. Their history shows that even the most aristocratic and popular houses fell sometimes on evil days and sometimes sheltered unworthy inmates. It is of considerable interest to study the condition of all the nunneries in a particular part of the country at a particular date. An analysis of the references to the Yorkshire houses has been made elsewhere[1426]; here we may study a diocese in which the conditions of daily life were less abnormal than they were on the Scottish border. A rather imperfect view of the state of the diocese of Lincoln between the years 1290 and 1360 may be gleaned from the registers of Bishops Sutton, Dalderby, Burghersh and Gynewell; it is imperfect because there are not many visitation records, and information has chiefly to be derived from episcopal mandates for the return of apostates[1427], which leave us with little knowledge of the internal discipline of houses from which nuns did not happen to run away. The names of eleven out of the four and thirty[1428] nunneries of the diocese occur in connection with apostates during these years, six Benedictine, four Augustinian and one Cluniac. The apostasy of three Godstow nuns in 1290 has already been described[1429]. There was an apostate at Wothorpe in 1296[1430] and two years later a nun of Harrold was found guilty of unchastity[1431]. Apostates are also mentioned from Sewardsley in 1300[1432], from Goring in 1309 and again in 1358[1433], from Markyate in 1336[1434] and from St Leonard's, Grimsby, in 1337[1435]. At Burnham there is the case of Margery Hedsor, who was excommunicated at intervals for apostasy between 1311 and 1317[1436]. St Mary in the Meadows (Delapré), Northampton, seems to have been in a bad state, for in 1300 three nuns, said to have been professed for some years, were excommunicated for leaving their convent and living in carnal sin in the world, and in 1311 there was another apostate from the house[1437]. St Michael's, Stamford, provides the curious story of Agnes de Flixthorpe, and the almost equally tragic case of Agnes Bowes, ex-Prioress of Wothorpe, all of whose fellows had died in the Black Death and whose house had therefore been annexed to St Michael's, Stamford, in 1354. She was evidently unable to settle down in her new home and she ran away from it five years later[1438]. In the plague year 1349, Ella de Mounceaux, a nun of Nuncoton, who had obtained leave of absence and instead of returning had become the mistress of John Haunsard, appeared with tears before the Bishop and begged to be sent back to her house[1439]. This list of apostates is, as has been said, necessarily incomplete and gives no details as to the state of the nunneries absolved. A much more exact impression can be gained of the diocese a century later, during the twenty years between 1430 and 1450, when Bishops Gray and Alnwick were visiting the religious houses under their control; Alnwick's Register is particularly valuable, since the verbal evidence of the nuns is preserved. If we take Gray's Register first, we find serious charges of general misconduct made against three houses, Markyate and Flamstead in 1431 and Sewardsley in 1432. The Bishop wrote to a canon of Lincoln that abundant rumour and loud whisperings have brought to our hearing that in the priories of the Holy Trinity of the Wood by Markyate and of St Giles by Flamstead ... certain things forbidden, hateful, guilty and contrary to holy religion and regular discipline are daily done and brought to pass in damnable wise by the said prioresses, nuns and other, servingmen and agents of the said places; by reason whereof the good report of the same places is set in jeopardy, the brightness and comeliness of religion in the same persons are grievously spotted, inasmuch as the whole neighbourhood is in commotion herefrom. The canon is accordingly told to inquire into the scandals and punish delinquents[1440]. Unfortunately the result of the inquiry has not been preserved; three years later the Bishop deputed another commissioner to inquire into the condition of Markyate and from his letters of commission it is plain that he had himself visited the house, but that the Prioress and sisters had managed to conceal their misdeeds from him. Since then he had learnt that one of the nuns, Katherine Tyttesbury, had been guilty of immorality and apostasy and that the Prioress herself had failed to obey his injunctions. The commissioner was therefore ordered to go to Markyate, absolve the apostate if she made submission and, if necessary, depose the Prioress. The result of the inquiry was that the Prioress, Denise Loweliche, was charged with having consorted with Richard, the steward of the Priory, for five years and more, up to the time of his death, so that "public talk and rumour during the said time were busy touching the premises in the town of Markyate and other places, neighbouring and distant, in the diocese of Lincoln and elsewhere." The Prioress denied the charge and begged to be allowed to clear herself, so the commissioner ordered her, in addition to her own oath, to find five out of her ten nuns as compurgatresses, i.e. to swear to her innocence. She sought in vain for help among her sisters; at the appointed hour she begged for an extension of time and the commissioner granted her this boon, "so that she might be able meanwhile to communicate and take counsel with her sisters," and also "of a more liberal grace," declared himself ready to take the word of four nuns on her behalf. The picture of the wretched Prioress going from nun to nun, imploring each to forswear herself, with heaven knows what threats and entreaties, is a melancholy one. Not even four nuns could be found to swear to her innocence, so clear and notorious was her guilt, and she laid her formal resignation in the hands of the bishop[1441]. The other nunnery against which a general charge of immorality was made by the Bishop in 1434 was the Cistercian house of Sewardsley, of which he said that the Prioress and nuns, following the enticements of the flesh and abandoning the path of religion and casting aside the restraint of all modesty and chastity, are giving their minds to debauchery, committing in damnable wise in public and as it were, in the sight of all the people, acts of adultery, incest, sacrilege and fornication[1442]. The report of the inquiry held has not been preserved, but there was obviously something seriously amiss. Gray had also to deal with individual cases of immorality at three other houses. Already at Elstow in 1390 Archbishop Courtenay on his metropolitan visitation had made a general injunction that no nun convicted or publicly defamed of the crime of incontinency, be deputed to any office within the monastery and especially to that of gatekeeper, until it be sufficiently established that she has made purgation of her innocence[1443], an injunction repeated _verbatim_ by Bishop Flemyng of Lincoln in 1421[1444]. Now in 1432 Gray found that a nun named Pernell had been "several times guilty of fleshly lapse" and was leading an apostate life in secular dress outside the house; which speaks but ill for the moral state of an important abbey[1445]. In the same year he found one of the nuns of Godstow _enceinte_[1446], and in 1433 inquiry showed that Ellen Cotton, nun of Heynings, had recently had a child[1447]. The worst cases found by Alnwick when he visited the religious houses of the diocese ten years later have already been described and the evidence of his register can be summarised briefly. All was well at Elstow, Heynings and Markyate; Dame Pernell [Gauthorpe], Dame Ellen Cotton and Dame Katherine Tyttesbury were all dwelling peaceably among their sisters; even the disreputable Denise Loweliche was still, in spite of her resignation, ruling as Prioress of Markyate. An echo of old difficulties remained, however, at this last house and one nun begged the Bishop to speak to the Prioress, "to the end that she take better heed to the nuns who have previously erred, so that they be kept more strictly from erring again than is wont"[1448]; evidently discipline was not strict. At Godstow disorders had not yet ceased. The nuns received visitors and paid visits freely and scholars of Oxford still haunted the house; moreover one of the nuns, Dame Alice Longspey (of whom we have heard before), was of very easy virtue[1449]. In two other houses Alnwick found great disorder prevailing: the _régime_ of Margaret Wavere, Prioress of Catesby, has already been described, her bad language, her temper, her dishonesty and her priestly lover; and her chief accuser Isabel Benet had borne a child to the chaplain of the house[1450]. Similarly we have seen into what a disreputable state St Michael's, Stamford, fell under an aged and impotent Prioress; how one nun ran away with an Austin friar and then with a wandering harp-player, and how two others had borne children or were notoriously held to be unchaste; this is one of the worst houses which the records of medieval nunneries have brought to light[1451]. Finally there is the doubtful case of Ankerwyke, where the Prioress is said through negligence to have allowed no less than six nuns to go into apostasy, a fact which she freely admitted; but whether they had merely removed themselves through discontent with an unpopular prioress, or whether they had eloped it is impossible to say. At any rate they had not returned[1452]. It is interesting to attempt a statistical estimate of the moral condition of the Lincoln nunneries during the twenty years from 1430 to 1450. It is possible to do so with some accuracy because the nuns giving evidence in each convent are enumerated in Alnwick's reports. If we omit the general charges against Sewardsley and Flamstead and the ambiguous apostasy of the six nuns of Ankerwyke, we have twelve out of 220 nuns guilty of immoral behaviour, or a little over five per cent.; but this is certainly an understatement, having regard to the loss of the Sewardsley and Flamstead inquiries and of other visitations by the two bishops, to say nothing of possible concealment by the nuns. Between them Gray and Alnwick have left on record visitations or inquiries relating to twenty-four houses and cases of immorality came to light at eight, that is to say at one-third of the number visited. All except two of these, Elstow and Heynings, were very seriously affected, more than one nun having succumbed to sin; and the Prioress was found guilty in two and probably suspected in two others. The situation seems a serious one and Alnwick's visitations of the houses of monks and canons which were in his diocese show that the men were more lax in their behaviour than the women. A similar statistical estimate can be made of the condition of convents in the diocese of Norwich during the visitation by Bishop Nykke or his commissary in 1514[1453]. Eight convents, containing between them seventy-two nuns, were visited and only one case of immorality was found, at Crabhouse[1454]. This is a far more favourable picture than that presented by the diocese of Lincoln in the previous century. Again in 1501 Dr Hede visited the nunneries of the diocese of Winchester as commissary of the Prior of Canterbury, during the vacancy of the sees of Canterbury and Winchester[1455]. The diocese contained only four houses, but three of them were important abbeys, St Mary's, Winchester, with fourteen nuns, Wherwell with twenty-two and Romsey with forty; the fourth was Wintney Priory, with ten nuns. All seem to have been in perfect order except Romsey, which had fallen into decay under the _régime_ of an abbess who had herself been guilty of adultery, and where one of the nuns was charged with incontinence with the vicar of the parish church. Unfortunately the record of the visitation is left incomplete and there are no injunctions; hence it is impossible to say whether the last charge was true, but the abbey had been in a disordered state for some years past[1456]. Another diocese for which an estimate can be made is Chichester, but it contained only two nunneries, Rusper and Easebourne. At Bishop Story's visitation in 1478 all was well at Rusper, a poor and ruinous little house containing seven nuns; but all was very far from well at Easebourne, where six nuns remained and two had gone into apostasy after conducting themselves in the thoroughly dissolute manner described above[1457]. At Bishop Sherborne's visitation in 1524 the number of nuns at Rusper had fallen to four, but there was no complaint except that a certain William Tychenor had frequent access to the priory and sowed discord between the Prioress and her three sisters. At Easebourne there were eight nuns, but the house seems not to have recovered its tone after the scandals of 1524. The subprioress deposed that some twelve years before a certain Ralph Pratt had seduced a sister; yet the convent had granted him the proceeds of the church of Easebourne and he still had much access to the priory[1458]. It is a pity that more of these statistical estimates, imperfect as they are, cannot be made. It remains to consider what steps were taken to punish offenders and to reform evils. The crime of seducing a nun was always considered an extremely serious one; she was _Sponsa Dei_, inviolable, sacrosanct. Anglo-Saxon law fined the ravisher heavily, and a law of Edward I declared him liable to three years imprisonment, besides satisfaction made to the convent. There is, however, no evidence that the State imprisoned or otherwise punished persons guilty of this crime, though it was always ready to issue the writ _De apostata capiendo_, for the recovery of a monk or nun who had fled. Whenever the lover of a nun is found undergoing punishment, it is always a punishment inflicted by the Church. If a man had abducted a nun, or were accused of seducing her, he was summoned before the Bishop or Archdeacon and required to purge himself of the charge. If he pleaded "Not guilty" a day was appointed, on which he had to clear himself by the oath of a number of compurgators. Thus the Prioress of Catesby's lover, the priest William Taylour, was summoned before Bishop Alnwick in the church of Brampton; there he denied the crime and was told to bring five chaplains, of good report, who had knowledge of his behaviour, in a few days' time to the parish church of Rothwell[1459]. The result of his attempt to find compurgators is not known, but the Prioress had already failed to get four of her nuns to support her and had been pronounced guilty. One wonders what happened when the man produced compurgators and the lady failed to do so: for these misdemeanours _à deux_ the compurgatorial system would seem a little uncertain. If a man's guilt were proven by his failure to provide compurgators or to come before the Bishop, it remained to decree his punishment. The obdurate were excommunicated until such time as they submitted. The penitent were adjudged a penance. There is abundant evidence that the penance given by the Church was always a severe one. The classical instance is that of Sir Osbert Giffard in 1286. The Giffards were a large and influential West country family and in the last quarter of the thirteenth century several of the children of Hugh Giffard of Boyton rose to high positions in the Church. His eldest son, Walter, became in turn Bishop of Bath and Wells and Archbishop of York, dying in 1279, and his second son Godfrey became Bishop of Worcester. Of his daughters one, Juliana, is found as Abbess of Wilton in 1275, another, Mabel, as Abbess of Shaftesbury in 1291, and a third, Agatha, would seem to have held a position of some importance at Elstow, though she was never Abbess there[1460]. These great ladies do not seem to have had a very good influence in their nunneries, in spite of the exalted position of their brothers. In 1270 the Bishop of Lincoln writes apologetically to Walter Giffard, Archbishop of York, concerning scandals which have arisen in Elstow, "whence more frequently than in any other house beneath our rule scandals of wicked deeds arise," and it is clear from his letter that the Abbess and the Bishop's sister were implicated[1461]. In 1298 also the Abbess and nuns of Shaftesbury had incurred excommunication "for their offences against God and by the creation of scandal"[1462]. But the most serious mishap occurred at Wilton in 1286. Here Juliana Giffard[1463] had under her rule a young relative named Alice Giffard, and in this year Sir Osbert Giffard, knight (whose exact relationship to the Abbess and the Bishop and to Alice is not clear), "with sacrilegious hand ravished and abducted in the silence of the night sisters Alice Russel and Alice Gyffard, professed according to the rule of St Benedict in the monastery of Wylton." Archbishop Peckham and the Bishop of Salisbury forthwith excommunicated Sir Osbert, who eventually made his submission. It was indeed an unfortunate scandal to occur in a Bishop's family and created a great stir in the country round. Godfrey's concern is shown by the appearance in his Worcester Register of the Bishop of Salisbury's letter to the Sub-dean of Salisbury and others announcing the penance to be imposed upon the abductor[1464]. This penance was as follows: The bishop enjoined upon him that he should restore the aforesaid sisters and all goods of the monastery withdrawn and should make all the satisfaction that he possibly could to the abbess and convent. And that on Ash Wednesday in the church of Salisbury, the said crime being solemnly published before the clergy and people, he should humbly permit himself to be taken to the door of the church, with bare feet, in mourning raiment and uncovered head, with other penitents and should be beaten with sticks about the church on three holy days and on three Tuesdays through the market of Salisbury and so often and in like manner about the church of Wylton and through the market there and he should be likewise beaten about the church of Amesbury and the market there and about the church of Shaftesbury and the market there. In his clothing from henceforth there shall not appear any cloaks of lamb's wool, gilt spurs or horse trappings, or girdle of a knight, unless in the meantime he should obtain special grace of the king, but he shall take journey to the Holy Land and there serve for three years[1465]. The penance was thus severe; but it is another matter to say that it was always duly performed. A man who had already risked his immortal soul once, by the seduction of a nun, might well choose to undergo excommunication and risk it a second time, by refusing to do penance. The lover of a nun of Harrold in 1298 was thus excommunicated for refusing to be beaten through the market-place[1466]. Moreover there were endless ways of delaying the humiliating ceremony. Take the case of Richard Gray, the married boarder to whom Elizabeth Willoughby bore a child at St Michael's, Stamford. On July 3rd, 1442, in the parish church of Wellingborough, the Bishop caused him to swear upon the Holy Book that he would abjure the priory and all communication with Elizabeth. He then sentenced him to four floggings round one of the churches of Stamford on four Sundays or feast days, carrying in his hand before the procession of the same church a taper of one pound's worth of wax, being clothed in his doublet and linen garments only, and on the last of the said four days, after the procession is finished, he has to offer the said taper to the high altar of the said Church. Moreover he was to perform a like penance on four Fridays, going round the market-place of Stamford, and within a month he was also to make pilgrimage on horseback to Lincoln Cathedral and when he came within five miles of Lincoln, to dismount and go barefoot to the cathedral and there offer to the high altar a taper of one pound's weight. The very evening, however, that this severe penance was imposed, Richard Gray came before the Bishop again and made lowly supplication that he would deign to temper the penance; whereupon Alnwick, "moved with compassion on him," commuted the penance round the market-place to a payment of twenty shillings to the nuns of St Michael's, to be paid within a month, and another twenty shillings to the fabric of the cathedral church, to be paid within six weeks. Gray was to bring the Bishop letters testimonial as to the payment of the forty shillings and the performance of the penance at Lincoln, also within six weeks. But Richard had no intention of buying expensive wax candles, paying forty shilling fines, catching cold in his shirt at Stamford or humiliating himself at Lincoln. When summoned to do his penance he appealed to the court of Canterbury. The Bishop then got licence from the commissary of the official in that court to proceed against the delinquent and summoned him to show cause why he had not done penance. On November 15th, 1442, the slippery Richard appeared by proxy before the Bishop's commissioner and said that he was "withheld by so many and so sore infirmities of fevers and other kinds, lying in his bed every other day, that he could not without grievous bodily harm appear in person in or on the same day and place." The commissioner postponed his appearance until December 11th and eventually he appeared on that day, but showing no cause why he had not performed his penance, and was excommunicated again by the Bishop, at which point he drops out of history, with his penance still unperformed[1467]. It was no doubt an easier matter to exact penance from a nun. The apostate was excommunicated until she made submission and returned to her convent. Sometimes a very obdurate sinner was transferred to do penance at another nunnery; the punishment was a common one in the diocese of York[1468] and a wicked Prioress of Redlingfield was sent to Wix in 1427[1469]; but nunneries not unnaturally sometimes objected to having to support at their cost an evilly disposed woman from another house[1470]. More commonly the sinner did penance in her own house. If particularly obdurate, she was imprisoned for a time and even, if need be, shackled, in some secure place in the convent[1471]. A severe penance was imposed in 1321 by Archbishop Melton upon Maud of Terrington, an apostate nun of Keldholme, who had for long lived in sin in the world. She was to be last in choir at all the canonical hours, and when not in choir to be confined in solitude. She was never to go out of the precincts of the cloister and was to be forever debarred from speaking with lay folk and from sending or receiving letters. She was not to be allowed to wear the black Benedictine veil, which marked her as a nun, until such time as the Archbishop should mitigate her penance, and should fast with bread and vegetables on Wednesdays and bread and water on Fridays. For the rest of her life she was never to wear a shift next her skin. On Wednesdays and Fridays she was to go barefoot in the presence of the convent round the cloister, all secular persons having been excluded, and there receive two beatings by the hand of the Prioress and on each other day of the week she was to receive one such discipline. Every week she was to say two psalters, besides _Placebo_ and _Dirige_ and the commendation for the dead, which she was to say each day for the remission of her sins. She was never to be present at the daily consultations of the chapter, or at any other convent business, but "let her lie prone before the convent at the entrance of the choir, to be spurned by their feet, if they will"[1472]. This was a particularly severe, not to say inhuman, penance and it is unlikely that such was the rule even in the case of obdurate offenders. A guilty nun at Crabhouse in 1514 is told to sit last among her sisters for a month and to say seven psalters during that period[1473] and a novice at Redlingfield in 1427 is to go in front of the solemn procession of the convent on Sunday, wearing no veil and clad in white flannel[1474]. The former was not an apostate, though she had had a child, and the latter was not yet professed and had been led away by the bad example of her Prioress; nevertheless these penances seem sufficiently mild, in comparison with the orthodox view of their offence. Fasting and penitential psalms and some outward mark of degradation, such as the loss of the veil and of the place in choir and chapter, to which the nun's standing in the convent entitled her, were common penances. A guilty nun was also debarred from holding any conventual office; but it must be admitted that this salutary precaution was not always strictly carried out. Occasionally a visitor is obliged to make a general injunction against the holding of office by nuns convicted or suspected of incontinence; Archbishop Courtenay mentions specifically the office of portress[1475], a necessary precaution when one remembers how often the French and Italian _tourière_ of a later date was little better than a procuress. Frequently notorious evil-doers retained their position, and it is surprising to notice how often persons who were obviously unsuitable and immoral were elected to the headship of a house, or continued to hold that position after conviction. Sabina de Apelgarth, who had been in apostasy when a simple nun of Moxby in 1310, is found holding office in 1318, for Archbishop Melton orders her to be removed from all offices and not to go outside the convent and couples his injunction with a general prohibition against any office being held by a nun convicted _de lapsu carnis_. Yet she apparently became Prioress of the house, for her removal on account of further misconduct is noted in 1328[1476]. Isabel de Berghby, Prioress of Arthington, apostatised in 1312, but returned eighteen months later and was re-elected Prioress in 1349[1477]. In 1310 Isabella de St Quintin was ordered to be removed from the office of cellaress in the presence of the whole convent of Nunkeeling, and the nuns were ordered not to appoint her to any other office nor allow her to leave the house; but in 1316 Isabella de St Quintin was elected Prioress[1478]. Denise Loweliche, the Prioress of Markyate, who had been so ready to add perjury to incontinence in 1433 and had resigned only because she could not find four nuns to swear to her innocence, was still, despite her resignation, Prioress when Alnwick visited the house in 1442. Abbess Elizabeth Broke of Romsey was similarly re-elected, after having been found guilty of perjury and adultery[1479]. Even the wicked Prioress of Littlemore (1517) was deprived but "allowed to perform the functions of her office for the present, provided she did nothing without the advice of the Bishop's commissary" and she was still acting-Prioress and behaving as badly as ever when the house was visited again some nine months later[1480]. Moreover it was possible for an influential sinner to obtain a dispensation reinstating her to her position and allowing her to hold office. Some curious papal mandates to this effect are extant. Joan Goldesburgh, a nun of Nunmonkton, is so dispensed in 1450 "to receive and hold any dignities, even of Abbess and Prioress, even conventual, of her order, even if they be elective and have cure of souls"[1481], and two nuns of Amesbury were restored to their voice and place in stall and chapter, and rendered eligible for all offices even that of Abbess in 1398 and 1424[1482]. On the other hand such a dispensation shows that the penance had been rigorously enforced; one of the nuns (a serious offender who had had children by two priests) is said to have lived laudably in the nunnery for six years since her condemnation. Occasionally, moreover, the office of head of the house is specifically excepted in the dispensation[1483]. Besides punishing offenders, the Bishops took steps to effect a general reform of convents which they found in an unsatisfactory moral state, by removing as far as possible the conditions which facilitated immorality. Such steps usually consisted in forbidding the nuns to wander about freely outside their houses and in prohibiting the visits of men, except under safeguards. Sometimes a careful Bishop issues a special injunction against a particular visitor, sometimes he enumerates painfully a list of chaplains and others whose access to the precincts of a nunnery is forbidden. These attempts to enforce enclosure have been dealt with elsewhere[1484], and a study of convent morals shows how necessary a principle of monastic life it was and how closely the breach of it was connected with moral decay. The attempt at reform by stricter enclosure was, as we know, not a success. The Bishops "beat the air" in vain with their restrictions. In the nature of the case the control exercised by any Bishop over the monastic houses of his diocese varied according to his own energy or leisure. If visitation were made only at rare intervals, abuses persisted and became public scandals before they were reformed, and even after visitation it by no means followed that abuses would be corrected[1485]. The fact is that the medieval bishops were too badly overworked to be able to keep any systematic control over the monastic houses in their dioceses, in spite of the energy which some of them gave to the task and in spite of a liberal use of commissioners. To pass a final judgment on the moral state of English nunneries, as revealed by the bishops' registers during the later middle ages, is, as has already been suggested, a difficult task. From the monastic standard it cannot be said to have been high, but from the human standard it is not difficult to excuse these women, professed so young and with so little regard for vocation, _suos calores macerantes juveniles_. The nun was not a saint; she was "a child of our grandmother Eve, a female, or for thy more sweet understanding, a woman"; and only a habit of making allowances for human nature can give a right understanding of her. The explanation of the matter seems to be that monasticism as a career is not for _l'homme moyen sensuel_, or even for _la femme moyenne sensuelle_; and in the later middle ages many folk of average, or more than average, passions entered it. Indeed its whole career is from the beginning a magnificent series of recoveries from a melancholy series of relapses. Even in the Anglo-Saxon period, the golden age of the English nunneries, the scandal of Coldingham has to be set against the glory of Whitby[1486]. In the height of the twelfth century the misdeeds of Amesbury provoke episcopal, royal, and papal interference and nuns from the new order of Fontevrault are brought in to reform the house[1487]. In the middle of the splendid thirteenth century that hammer of the monks, Bishop Grosseteste, who _in religiosos terribiliter et in religiosas terribilius consuevit fulgurare_, conceived himself justified in employing measures of incredible brutality for assuring himself of the virtue of his nuns[1488]; and the evidence of bishops' registers for the second half of the century does not give an impression of much greater strictness of life than is found in the nunneries of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when monasticism had, by the admission of its apologists, passed its prime[1489]. Nevertheless there was a steady movement downhill in the history of the monasteries during the last two centuries and a half before the dissolution[1490]. They shared in the growing degradation of the Church in its head and members. The "mighty lord who broke the bonds of Rome" may have been actuated merely by a desire to break the bonds of matrimony, but there was some need for reform among the monastic houses. It is true that the so-called scandalous _comperta_ of Henry VIII's visitors cannot be taken at their face value; these men had been sent to make a black case and they made it, nor was their own character such as to encourage the slightest belief in their words. Yet in those _comperta_ themselves there is nothing which is unfamiliar to the student of episcopal registers for two centuries before, and charges which a Layton made with levity, an Alnwick was forced sometimes to make with despair[1491]. Yet this may be said for the nunneries of the age, over and above the allowance for human frailty: not all, nor even the majority, were tainted with serious sin, though all were worldly. We think a house particularly disordered, only because we have record of its failings; of its virtues we have no record in inquisitions which were directed towards the discovery of abuses. It is true that this cuts both ways, and that in dioceses where few or no registers and reports remain the fair fame of the nuns remains unblemished, whatever their lives may have been. Happy the nunnery that has no history. Nevertheless in this as in so many other tales of human endeavour The evil that men do lives after them-- The good is oft interred with their bones, and it will never be known what lives of self-sacrifice and devotion may be hidden behind the _Omnia bene_ of an obscure visitation record. The words of the sixteenth century poem are the wisest judgment on medieval nuns: For sum bene devowte, holy and towarde, And holden the right way to blysse; And sum bene feble, lewde and frowarde, Now god amend that ys amys. The dissolution of the monasteries amputated in England a limb of the Church, which though diseased was yet far from putrid. We have no means of guessing what the later history of the nunneries might have been. The English nunneries compare on the whole favourably with contemporary French and German houses, as revealed by the visitations of Rigaud and Busch, and they certainly never reached such a laxity of morals and such a complete absence of any spirituality as was reached by the convents of the Latin countries at a later date. It was never, in the middle ages, the mode to be a _monachino_ as it was later in France and Italy[1492]. The life of a nun had not yet lost all of its original purpose and meaning and the careers of a Virginia Maria de Leyva, of a Lucrezia Buonvisi, of an Angélique d'Estrées, even of such a virtuous flirt as Felice Rasponi, would not have been possible then[1493]. No Casanova could have found in medieval England opportunity for those astounding intrigues with the M.M. of Venice and the M.M. of Chambéry, which fill so large a place in his _Memoirs_ and are so significant a commentary upon monastic life in the eighteenth century[1494]. The reason lies perhaps in the less inflammable temperament of the North, but still more in the different standards of the time. The middle ages expressed and satisfied their passions freely, but debauchery was then less all-pervading and less elegant. Passion was not yet degraded to fashion and the lover had not yet become the gallant. The sins of these fifteenth century nuns are a matter of rude nature and not of "all the adulteries of art." That which was expelled with a pitchfork had not yet returned with a fan. The distinction is a relevant one. A vow broken for love may yet have force and reality; a vow broken for amusement has none. The medieval nunneries never sank to the moral degradation of a more refined and artificial age. CHAPTER XII THE MACHINERY OF REFORM And whan they had resceyuede [t]her charge They spared nether mud ne myer, But roden over Inglonde brode and large, To seke owte nunryes in every schyre. _Why I can't be a Nun_ (15th century). A community, living together under a somewhat rigid rule and obliged to concern itself with a large measure of temporal business, has to face many difficulties and abuses. The strictness of its discipline and the prosperity of its affairs will necessarily depend very largely upon the character and intelligence of the individuals who compose it. A diseased limb may corrupt the whole body politic; or on the other hand a low state of vitality in the body politic may render the limb liable to corruption. Again rule and routine inevitably tend in the course of time to become slackened, as human nature wins its way against the austerity of a primitive ideal. Every community, therefore, needs some sort of machinery on the one hand for keeping itself up to the mark and on the other for the external inspection and regulation of its affairs. The monastic houses of the middle ages were provided with internal machinery for self-reform in the daily meeting of the whole convent in the chapter house, to transact business and to denounce and punish faults. The external machinery was provided by an elaborate system of visitation by ecclesiastical authorities, sometimes by a parent house, sometimes by the chapter-general of the order, sometimes by the bishop of the diocese; by means of such visitation breaches of discipline and morality could be rectified and the temporal business of the house could be scrutinised for evidence of mismanagement. The daily routine of the chapter house is too well known to need a detailed description here. The whole monastic community was bound by the rule to meet every day, usually after Prime, in the chapter house on the east side of the cloister, with the head of the house (to use modern terminology) in the chair. At this meeting a chapter of the Rule was solemnly read, after which the corporate business of the house was discussed. Leases, sales, and corrodies were approved or disapproved, and the common seal of the convent was affixed to letters and grants, in the presence of all the monks or nuns. The neglect to transact common business by common advice in chapter was not infrequently a legitimate source of complaint by a convent against its superior. Besides temporal business of this kind, the moral and spiritual welfare of the convent was considered. Wrongdoers publicly accused themselves of fault, or were publicly accused by their fellows, and correction was administered by a "discipline," or by some other penance. By means of the chapter, a convent of reasonable seriousness and goodwill could keep up its own standard of life and control its own backsliders. Undoubtedly the chapter was a useful instrument of self-reform, but its efficacy obviously depended entirely on whether the convent as a whole were desirous of keeping the Rule and punishing black sheep. If the number of sheep who were black, or even grey, preponderated and if laxity were general in the community, the chapter would not concern itself to raise its own standard. From the frequent injunctions of medieval bishops that the daily meeting in the chapter should not be omitted, it would appear that not only the public transaction of business, but also the public confession and punishment of faults was sometimes neglected. Moreover, unless entered into with modesty and a sense of responsibility, the right of every member to charge another with fault was a sure source of discord, for it certainly provided ample opportunity for frail human nature to exhibit malice. The younger nuns were apt to indulge in what their elders regarded as impudent criticism; private grudges found an opportunity to vent themselves; and rival cliques sometimes turned the meeting into an unseemly hubbub. It was perhaps for this reason that the Abbot of St Albans, visiting Sopwell in 1338, decreed that for the avoidance of evils and for the promotion and maintenance of peace and charity, but three voices shall henceforth be heard in chapter, to wit those of the president, of the subprioress or of another official of the order, and of her who shall be challenged or accused of a fault[1495]. Another common abuse was the gossip to which such revelations in chapter sometimes gave rise, gossip which was not confined to the ears of the nuns. Bishop Flemyng's injunction to Elstow in 1421-2 "that the Abbess shall narrowly espy what secrets of chapter be in any way disclosed, punishing severely also those who trangress in this matter"[1496] is only one of many similar injunctions; and visitation reports sometimes show considerable interference by lay folk in cloister disputes. During the election quarrel which raged at Nunkeeling from 1316 to 1319 Archbishop Melton accused certain nuns of revealing the secrets of the chapter to seculars and adversaries outside, and during a similar quarrel at Keldholme a number of laymen were cited, together with certain nuns, for obstructing the appointment of a new prioress in 1308[1497]. One is left with the impression that the nuns called in the support of their friends and kinsfolk in the world, if they found themselves at odds with their Prioress. In the feud between the wicked Prioress of Littlemore and her nuns (1518) both parties had adherents in Oxford: the Prioress brought in her friends to subdue the nuns and the nuns fled to theirs, when they could no longer bear the Prioress[1498]. At Hampole, where Archbishop Bowet found the Prioress and nuns out of all charity with each other in 1411, he even had to ordain that no nun, having any complaint against the Prioress, was to ignore the Archbishop's authority and call in the aid of any secular or regular person. If any sister wished to complain and could find another to join with her, she was to have access to the Archbishop, the necessary expenses being given her by the Prioress. If the Prioress refused leave or delayed it beyond three days, the two nuns were to have access to the Archbishop, without incurring the charge of apostasy[1499]. Sometimes the revelation of convent _secreta_ was made in a spirit of pure gossip, rather than with the object of obtaining external aid; the complaint of the nuns of Catesby in 1442 that the Prioress' mother "knows well the secrets of the chapter and publishes them in the town; so also does the Prioress publish them," and that of the nuns of Gracedieu in 1440-1 that "the Prioress makes the secrets of their religious life common among the secular folk that sit at table with her" are typical of many others[1500]. The meeting of the chapter, therefore, though a useful instrument of self-reform, when the necessary goodwill was present, was liable to abuses. It was apt to be neglected; it gave rise to ill-feeling; and it sometimes led to undesirable gossip, both inside and outside the house. It is obvious, moreover, that a measure of external control was necessary to keep up the standard of life in the many monastic houses of Europe and to reform common breaches of discipline. This external control was exercised in the middle ages by three distinct authorities: (1) a parent house, (2) the chapter general of the Order and (3) the diocesan of the see. Certain houses, which had founded other houses as offshoots or colonies, retained the right to visit and reform their daughter-houses. Some monasteries had small outlying priories, known as "cells," founded originally to look after distant estates of the house; sometimes such cells contained only one or two monks, living in an ordinary dwelling house, and had no real existence apart from the parent house. Sometimes, however, the cells grew and achieved an independent existence, though still maintaining their connection with their founders. This frequently happened to the English cells of foreign houses, and certain cells of English houses also grew into independent priories. Among nunneries, originally founded as cells of foreign houses, may be mentioned Lyminster in Sussex. Few English nunneries had cells; but Seton in Coupland was a cell of Nunburnholme. The connection between mother house and cell is illustrated by a licence granted by Archbishop Greenfield to the Prioress of Nunburnholme in 1313 to visit, "your cell of Seton in Coupland, which is subject to your monastery," taking with her two honest nuns of the house, in order to visit the nuns of Seton, and returning without delay[1501]. The visitation of the cell was usually included in that of the mother house and the larger independent cells were often subject to episcopal visitation. Rather different in origin from a cell was a house founded by a monastery, less as a colony than as a distinct but dependent institution. The most interesting example of this is provided by the great Abbey of St Albans, which founded two nunneries, St Mary de Pré and Sopwell. Both the nunneries were always very dependent on St Albans and are often mentioned in the chronicles of that house. St Mary de Pré, having been founded in the twelfth century as a hospital for leprous women living under a rule, became later an ordinary nunnery, containing nuns, and both lay sisters and lay brothers; in the time of Abbot Thomas de la Mare (1349-96) the rank of sister was abolished and a higher standard of education was insisted upon for the nuns, who were to profess the rule of St Benedict[1502]. Sopwell was also founded in the twelfth century as a Benedictine nunnery[1503]. In both houses nuns were admitted only by consent of the Abbot of St Albans, who also claimed the right to appoint their prioress. In both the temporal affairs of the convent were administered by wardens, appointed by the Abbot from among the monks of the abbey[1504]. The close connection was not always maintained without friction. At Sopwell the nuns more than once tried to elect their own prioress and seem to have found the Abbot somewhat high-handed[1505]. In 1481 Abbot Wallingford sent the archdeacon and subprior of the house to remove the prioress from office on account of her age and infirmities and to put Elizabeth Webbe in her place, but some years later the archdeacon deposed Elizabeth, whereupon she brought an action against him in the Court of Arches and was reinstated. Thereupon "two monks of St Albans, sent by the archdeacon, came to the nunnery, broke down Elizabeth's door with an iron bar, beat her and put her in prison," after which she appealed to Archbishop Morton as Chancellor[1506]. She may have been at the bottom of the famous letter written by Morton to the Abbot of St Albans in 1490, accusing him of changing prioresses at Pré and at Sopwell as he pleased and deposing good and religious persons for the benefit of the evil and vicious, and stating that the Prioress of St Mary de Pré, Helen Germyn, was a married woman who had left her husband for a lover and that she and some of her nuns were leading immoral lives with monks of St Albans[1507]. The same letter accused the monks put in as wardens of using their opportunities to dissipate the goods of the house, and the turbulent Prioress of Sopwell, Elizabeth, is found complaining to the Chancellor that a deed of lease by the convent had been secretly altered to their disadvantage by their "keeper" and his clerk, who had been bribed by a tenant[1508]. It is difficult to say how much truth there was in these charges and they certainly do not seem to show overmuch care for the reform of the daughter houses by their august parent. But it would not be fair to judge St Albans by this quarrel at the end of its career, and there is evidence to show that past abbots tried conscientiously to maintain good order in the dependent nunneries. Among other rights the abbot possessed that of visitation, and chance has fortunately preserved an interesting set of injunctions sent by Abbot Michael to Sopwell, after a visitation held in 1338[1509]. The orders given to the Warden of Sopwell by Abbot Thomas (1349-96) have also been preserved in the _Gesta Abbatum_[1510]. Another nunnery founded by a famous abbey of monks was St Michael's, Stamford, founded by William of Waterville, Abbot of Peterborough in 1155; and this house remained for long dependent upon its parent abbey[1511]. In its early years it was customary for the prioress in the name of the chapter to pay an annual pension of a mark of silver to the Abbot and to make formal recognition of subjection, once every year, on the morrow of the Feast of St Michael. The Abbot had the right of receiving the profession of the sisters and his consent was necessary to the election of the prioress. He also had the appointment of the warden or prior, who looked after the temporalities of the house. In 1270 Bishop Gravesend sanctioned the personal visitation of the house once a year by the abbot and two or three monks, with power to correct and reform, and the Register of the Abbey records such visitations in 1297, 1300, 1303 and 1323. The tendency was, however, for the diocesan to oust the abbey from the control of the house; from time to time he claimed and exercised the right of instituting the warden, and from the end of the thirteenth century he regularly instituted the prioress. From this time the bishops' registers show that the regulation and reform of the house were in the hands of the bishop and it was duly visited by Alnwick in the fifteenth century. The accounts of St Michael's, Stamford, show that the nuns still had dealings with the Abbey; but Peterborough did not retain over this nunnery the exclusive rights of appointment and visitation, which St Albans, owing to its exemption from diocesan control, exercised to the end over Sopwell and St Mary de Pré. There is no mention of either of these houses in the episcopal registers. Nunneries subject to visitation by a parent abbey were highly exceptional. Another exceptional method of external control was visitation by the chapter-general of the order, to which the nunnery belonged. Nuns as well as monks were constantly legislated for by these chapters-general, but they were very rarely visited, because (as we shall see) they were almost all subject to visitation by the bishop of their diocese. A trace of visitation by order of the chapter-general seems to survive in a letter from the Abbot of Stratford (4 December, 1491), preserved among the Cistercian documents in the archives at Dijon[1512]. The Abbot relates that he had visited Cokehill, found it in a very unsatisfactory condition and tried in vain to depose the prioress; at other times, however, Cokehill was visited by the Bishops of Worcester. The Cistercian order claimed exemption from episcopal visitation for male houses and we shall see that it made occasional attempts to exert its right over nunneries too. By far the most common method of reforming nunneries from outside was by means of the control of the bishop of the diocese[1513]. It is an interesting fact that not even the greatest and most important Benedictine abbeys of women, such as Shaftesbury, Amesbury and Romsey, succeeded in obtaining an exemption from episcopal jurisdiction such as was enjoyed by St Albans and some other houses; and nunneries belonging to "exempt" orders were invariably under episcopal control. Bishops, who would never have dreamed of interfering with houses of Cistercian or Cluniac monks, visited the nuns of those orders as a matter of course and no objection was as a rule raised by the houses or by the orders. There is, it is true, one extremely interesting case in which this right of visitation was contested. In 1276 the nuns of Sinningthwaite contested the right of Archbishop Giffard of York to visit them and appealed against him to the Pope. Unfortunately the papal decision is not recorded, but as they were regularly visited until their dissolution, it was evidently against them. They possibly acted in collusion with the Cistercian abbots of their diocese, for in the same year Archbishop Giffard ordered them to have Friars Minor as their confessors, in spite of the inhibition of Cistercian abbots, who had no jurisdiction over them[1514]. The Cokehill case quoted above may represent a similar attempt of the Cistercian chapter-general to control a nunnery belonging to the order. For the historian of the English nunneries it is an exceedingly fortunate thing that the diocesans enjoyed this unchallenged right of visitation over almost all the nunneries in the kingdom; for the episcopal registers are the best source of monastic history and an exempt house (save when it was a famous abbey with a chronicle) is not infrequently a house without history, because without visitation records. Since the periodical visitation by the diocesan was not only the main method of external control and reformation, but also incidentally gave rise to the records on which so much of this history of nunneries is based, it is worth while to study what exactly happened when a bishop, or his commissioners, came to inspect a nunnery. A regular routine was followed, which can easily be reconstructed from such full records as those kept by Bishop Alnwick of Lincoln[1515]. A formal summons was sent by the bishop to the house to be visited, warning the convent to hold itself in readiness for visitation by himself, or by one or more commissioners (named). On the appointed day he rode up to the house, accompanied by his clerks, and was met at the door of the church by the convent and conducted to the high altar. Here high mass was celebrated and the bishop, his clerks and the convent then adjourned to the chapter house for the business of visitation. The proceedings began with the preaching of a sermon by one of the bishop's clerks; in houses of monks this was given in Latin until the end of our period, but knowledge of Latin had died out in nunneries before the fifteenth century and at Alnwick's visitation the sermon was always preached in the vulgar tongue, on some such text as "_Go forth, O ye daughters of Zion and behold king Solomon_" (Cant. iii. 11), "_Present your bodies a living sacrifice ... unto God_" (Rom. xii. 1), or others less specifically appropriate to nuns. When this had been finished, the head of the house was required to present a certificate of receipt of the summons to visitation, which had to be drawn up according to a common form; and this not infrequently caused some delay in nunneries, where the inmates were often too ignorant of Latin to draw up the document correctly, unless they could call in the help of a clerk[1516]. The head of the house then produced the certificate of her election, confirmation by the diocesan and installation. Here again there was sometimes a delay, for prioresses were occasionally all at sea over documents and the necessary certificates were apt to be lacking at the last minute. Thus Dame Alice Dunwyche, the incompetent old Prioress of Gracedieu, was unable to produce any evidence of her confirmation in 1440 and the bishop had to appoint a special commissary to inquire into the matter; three months later the commissary examined two laymen brought by her as witnesses to her confirmation and installation[1517]. Meanwhile the visitation would continue; and the last formality to be observed was the production by the prioress of the foundation charter of the house, and the financial balance sheet (or _status domus_) for the year, this last an important item, since it enabled the bishop to see at a glance whether the financial affairs of the convent were in a satisfactory condition[1518]. This completed the preliminary business. There now followed the main business of the visitation, the verbal examination of the nuns, in order to detect what abuses might stand in need of reform. Some abuses were patent to the eyes of the bishop; he could see garments in holes, and veils spread wide to show fair foreheads; he might have caught the scuttle of little dogs round corners as he rode in at the gates, or the whisk of a boarder's murrey-coloured skirts behind a pillar. But the bulk of his information had to be obtained by careful cross-examination. The chapter house was cleared and he proceeded to question the nuns separately and in private, beginning with the prioress. Experience would teach him what were the most common breaches of discipline about which to make specific inquiry, but the nuns were encouraged to complain freely and the bishop's clerks were kept busy scribbling notes of what each shrill tale-bearer told, to be written out afterwards under her name as _detecta_, or things discovered to the bishop. These _detecta_ are an amusing commentary on life in a community and grist (it must be admitted) to the cynic's mill. Serious charges of immorality are mingled with trivialities, much as the chroniclers of the period mingle battles, monastic gossip and sea monsters cast upon the shore. The beer is too light; swine do come into the churchyard and root up the earth and befoul the churchyard; all corrections are made with so great harshness and so much ado that charity and loving-kindness are banished from the house; the nuns do hold drinkings of evenings in the guestchamber, even after Compline; the prioress has pawned the jewels of the house; sister so-and-so is defamed with sir so-and-so, sometime chaplain in that place and did conceive of him and bear a child; the buildings and tenements of the priory are dilapidated and many have fallen to the ground because of default in repairs; secular persons do lie in the dorter near the nuns; the nuns wear silken veils and robes; in the prioress' default six nuns have now left the house in apostasy; the nuns frequent taverns and continually go into town without leave; silence is not observed in due places; the nuns do help secular folk in garnering their grain during the autumn season; the nuns are somewhat sleepy and come late to matins; the prioress does not render an account. Besides this infinite variety of complaint, the _detecta_ exhibit also an infinite variety of motive, ranging from the disciplinarian's zeal for reform to the private grudge of one individual against another. Sometimes the prioress and the nuns engage in mutual recriminations: she is harsh, or autocratic, or incompetent, they are lax or disobedient. Sometimes, on the other hand, a whole convent declares _omnia bene_. About some houses there still hangs a gentle atmosphere of peace and goodwill, others are rent with feud and petty bickering, others are in a condition of very lax morality. Human nature is truly unchanging, for all the types to be met with in a modern community, be it school or college, ship or government office, have their prototypes among these medieval monks and nuns. The amateur in human nature and the social historian alike may find in these little studied monastic _detecta_ material of more absorbing interest and entertainment than is to be found in any other class of medieval documents. After the bishop had heard the evidence of the nuns, given thus chaotically, the next business was to summarise, in some sort of order, the result of the inquiry. Such complaints of the nuns as the bishop considered worthy of notice were therefore classified as _comperta_, or things discovered by the bishop. If any member of the convent had been accused of serious breaches of the rule, she was summoned and the articles of accusation were read to her, and one by one she was invited to admit or to deny them. If she pleaded guilty, a penance was enjoined upon her. If she denied the charge, she was ordered to find a certain number of compurgators, who would swear to her innocence, and to produce them by a certain hour. The number of cases in which misconduct was sufficiently serious to make this necessary was not great. During Alnwick's visitation it happened at Catesby, where the prioress and Isabel Benet were charged with immorality; the prioress denied the charge, but was unable to find four sisters to vouch for her and was adjudged guilty; Isabel Benet admitted misconduct, but not with the man whose name was coupled with hers, and she seems to have cleared herself of intercourse with him by the oath of four of the nuns[1519]. Usually the bishop showed himself lenient and allowed the agitated sinner an extension of time, if she could not find her compurgators within the period allotted to her[1520]. Whether this leniency is to be attributed to Christian charity, or to a desire to avoid scandal, is not clear; but if a prioress could not in two hours find four nuns to swear that she was not guilty, the value of their oaths, when they appeared after four hours' canvassing, would not appear to be very great. Yet it is impossible not to understand the bishop's desire to give a sinner the benefit of the doubt; fright and admonition alone might reform her, and it was exceedingly difficult to deal with a really bad prioress, when she could not be ejected from her order. The bishop having dealt with individual offenders, the whole convent was summoned once more to the chapter house. The _detecta_ and _comperta_ were read aloud to the nuns and the bishop made verbal injunctions upon points which stood in special need of reform. He then dissolved the visitation; or, if any further business remained to be dealt with, prorogued it until a later date. Then he rode away again, and the fluttered convent settled down again to gossip and to await further injunctions. For the admonitions of the bishop at the visitation were only _interim_ injunctions; his business was not finished until he had sent to the nunnery a set of written injunctions, embodying the reforms shown to be necessary by the _comperta_. These written injunctions were sent to the convent shortly after the visitation. Sometimes the clerk who brought them was ordered to expound them, or some reverend commissioner was sent to complete at the same time any special business arising out of the visitation. For instance, when Peckham sent a set of injunctions on April 20th, 1284, to the Priory of the Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, which had been visited by commissioners on his behalf, he also addressed a letter to his commissary Martin, bidding him go in person to the house and expound the injunctions to the nuns. At the same time he was ordered (1) to appoint two coadjutresses to the prioress, who had been wasting the goods of the house; one of these was named and Martin was particularly warned against appointing another nun, who was said to be contumelious; (2) to beseech the Vicar of Wickham on behalf of the Archbishop to undertake the office of master of the house, so as to order its temporal affairs; (3) to receive the compurgation of Isabella de Scorue, who was defamed with the cellarer of the cathedral church and to forbid all the nuns access to the cathedral and the cellarer access to the priory[1521]. These pieces of specific and administrative business were not mentioned in Peckham's more general injunctions. The injunctions were left in the hands of the convent and from that moment became as canonically binding upon the nuns, as was their original rule; any breach of them was liable to punishment by excommunication. The prioress was usually ordered to display them in a place where they could be easily read by the sisters, or to have them solemnly read aloud in chapter a certain number of times each year. It was by this machinery of visitation and injunction that the diocesans endeavoured to control and reform the nunneries. But how far was the control adequate and the reform successful? It is obvious that the efficacy of the visitation system depended on three things: (1) the success of the cross-examination in drawing the real state of the convent from the nuns, (2) the regularity with which visitation was repeated, (3) the ability of the bishop to enforce his injunctions. As to the first of these conditions, the extent to which breaches of discipline came to light depended on the skill of the bishop in cross-examination on the one hand, and on the other the honesty of the nun's desire to assist him. If a convent were seriously discontented the chances were that charges would be freely made: thus Alnwick experienced no difficulty in extracting an almost unanimous testimony against the Prioress of Catesby. But this did not always happen; as is shown by Gray's letter bidding his commissary visit Markyate in 1433: When we some time ago made actual visitation ... of the priory of the Holy Trinity of the Wood by Markyate ..., we, making anxious inquiry touching the state of the same priory and the concerns of religion in the same, found that in such our visitation certain crimes, transgressions and offences worthy of reformation were discovered to us, by occasion whereof ... we enjoined upon the prioress and convent of the same place certain injunctions.... But ... it has lately come to our hearing, as loud whispering abounds and the notoriousness of the fact has made public, that more grievous offences than were discovered to us in the same our visitation were before the beginning of the same unhappily brought to pass and done in the same priory, the which the said prioress and her sisters of their design aforethought concealed from us undiscovered at the time of such our visitation[1522]. One of the matters thus concealed was the immorality of the prioress with the steward of the house, a fact which seems to have been notorious throughout the neighbourhood. When such a grave defect could be successfully hidden from the bishop at his visitation, it is obvious that he could do little against a unanimous determination on the part of a convent to keep him in the dark. He was really dependent upon disagreement within the house; a conscientious nun or a nun with a grudge served him equally well. But it seems likely that concealment was not seldom practised, for, as Mr Coulton points out, "among the earliest and most frequently-repeated general chapter statutes are those providing against (_a_) conspiracy of the Religious against reformation, or (_b_) vengeance wreaked afterwards upon brethren who have dared to reveal the truth"[1523]. Some of the _detecta_ at Alnwick's visitation throw light on the efforts made (usually by the prioress) by conspiracy and by vengeance to prevent the nuns from testifying. At Catesby the evil prioress, Margaret Wavere, had excellent reasons for fearing a disclosure of her way of life. Sister Juliane Wolfe deposed "that the prioress did threaten that, if the nuns disclosed aught in the visitation, they should pay for it in prison." Dame Isabel Benet (by no means a paragon of virtue herself) deposed that "in the last visitation which was made by the Lord William Graye, the prioress said that for a purse and certain moneys a clerk of the said bishop made known what every nun disclosed in that visitation." Sister Alice Kempe said that "because the nuns at the last visitation disclosed what should be disclosed, the prioress whipped some of them." All of these articles the prioress denied, but she was undoubtedly guilty and was unable to find compurgators[1524]. At Legbourne the prioress took a course with which one cannot avoid a certain sympathy. Dame Joan Gyney deposed that the prioress, after she received my lord's mandate for the visitation, called together the chapter and said, if there were aught in need of correction among them, they should tell it her; because she said it was more suitable that they should correct themselves than that others should correct them[1525]. At Ankerwyke Prioress Clemence Medforde, conscious of many misdeeds and of the cordial dislike of her nuns, "did invite several outside folk from the neighbourhood to this visitation at great cost to the house, saying to them, 'Stand on my side in this time of visitation, for I do not want to resign.'" She admitted the entertainment of her friends, "but it was not to this end"[1526]. Recriminations after the visitation are even commoner than preliminary attempts to circumvent it. At Gracedieu the ill-tempered old prioress confessed, on being confronted with the _detectum_ of one of her nuns to that effect, that she since and after the visitation last held therein by his [Alnwick's] predecessor, did reproach her sisters, because of the disclosures at the same visitation and did blame them therefore and has held and holds them in hatred, by reason whereof charity and loving-kindness were utterly banished and strivings, hatreds, back-bitings and quarrellings have ever flourished[1527]. The second condition for the efficacy of episcopal visitation as a method of reform is the regularity of such visitation. Obviously if visitations are very rare the hold of the diocesan on a house will be weak; for much water may flow under the bridge between one visitation and the next. The general rule in vogue in the middle ages was that each house should be visited once in every three years, which was in theory a very adequate arrangement. It seems clear, however, that it was not always carried out. The work was done by one overworked bishop in person or by commissioners specially appointed by him for the visitation of each house. In a big diocese, such as Lincoln or York, which abounded in monastic houses, the work of visitation was a really considerable labour, for it was only one part of the bishop's multifarious duties; and it is impossible not to conclude that the regularity of visitation differed very much from diocese to diocese and from time to time. The bishops themselves varied very much in energy and conscientiousness, but on the whole it is evident that they took their duties seriously and honestly endeavoured to keep up the standard of life in their dioceses. No one can put down the record of Rigaud's visitations of the diocese of Rouen, Greenfield's visitations of the diocese of York, and Alnwick's visitations of the diocese of Lincoln, without a profound respect for those prelates. But though they did much, they could not do enough. There is a good deal of incidental evidence in the visitation reports, which shows that visitations were held too seldom to be really effectual. Gracedieu, for instance, had not been visited between 1433, when Gray came, and 1440-1; and by this last date it had fallen into such laxity that reform must have been difficult. Markyate was unvisited between 1433 and 1442, in spite of the deprivation of the prioress for immorality and the apostasy of one of the nuns in 1433. There are few houses in the annals of English nunneries in so bad a state as Littlemore was in 1517; yet the Prioress, forced at last to confess her misdeeds, which comprised not only habitual incontinence but the persecution of her nuns, stated that though these things had been going on for eight years, yet no inquiry had been made and, as it seems, no visitation of the house had been held; only on one occasion certain injunctions of a general kind had been sent her[1528]. On the other hand the registers show that a real attempt was often made to grapple with a really serious case. St Michael's, Stamford, for instance, was visited by Alnwick in 1440 and found to be in a disorderly state; he gave careful _interim_ injunctions on the spot and sent written injunctions afterwards. The house, however, was ruled by a thoroughly incompetent prioress, and the bishop seems to have made inquiries and found that his reforms had not been carried out, for in 1442 he came again, and then after the cause of such his visitation had been set forth and explained to the said prioress and nuns by the same reverend father, to wit because his injunctions at his first visitation ... were not duly kept, he proceeded to his preparatory inquiry. This inquiry showed that matters were if anything worse than before; and in 1445 the bishop visited the house again[1529]. Similarly, when once Bishop Atwater had awakened to the moral condition of Littlemore in the next century, he took pains to reform it. The scandals were brought to light at the visitation by his commissary Dr Horde in 1517; a few months later the bishop summoned the prioress before him to answer the charges made against her and after a lapse of nine months the house was visited again in 1518[1530]. But if visitations were sometimes not held regularly enough to be really effective, a still greater cause of weakness was the great difficulty experienced by the bishops in controlling the religious houses in the period between one visitation and the next and in enforcing their injunctions. A bishop might send a set of the most salutary injunctions to an undisciplined house; but how was he to secure that the nuns followed them, save by the most solemn threats of excommunication, which they seem often enough to have disregarded. Markyate, St Michael's, Stamford, and Littlemore went steadily from bad to worse between each of the visitations made by Gray, Alnwick and Atwater respectively. In 1442 Dame Elizabeth the prioress [of St Michael's], being asked whether she has observed and caused to be observed by the others my lord's injunctions made to them at another time, says that, so far as she has been able she has kept them and caused them to be kept by the others: howbeit she says that she does not lie in the dorter, or keep frater, or even keep cloister or church according to my lord's injunction and this because of her bodily incapacity. And she avers that my lord granted her a dispensation touching these things, the which my lord utterly disavows[1531]. These were comparatively trivial faults; since the last visitation one of the nuns had had a child; and at the next visitation, three years later, the same fate was found to have overtaken another, which is a significant commentary on the effectuality of episcopal control. The fundamental difficulty was that the bishop was obliged in the nature of things to trust largely to the prioress and to the nuns themselves to enforce his decrees. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ Sometimes the very women whom he singled out for special trust were subsequently found to be worse than their sisters. Indeed it is sometimes difficult to account for the principle on which coadjutresses were appointed. It surely seems somewhat like tempting providence that Alnwick should have selected Isabel Benet, the only other nun in the house who was defamed of incontinence, to be administrator in place of the suspended Prioress of Catesby, and it is not surprising to read of the later escapade of that lady at a dance with the friars of Northampton and of their refusal to obey his ordinance against private rooms[1532]. The only intelligible principle of the bishop would appear to have been that applied by Henry VII to the Earl of Kildare, "All Ireland cannot rule this man; then he shall rule all Ireland." It is moreover significant (as has already been pointed out)[1533] that in the majority of cases a prioress, however wicked, was suspended rather than deprived; even Denise Loweliche and Katherine Wells remained in office after their resignation. It was indeed too embarrassing to know what to do with a sinner. She could not be expelled from her order; if she were kept in the same house in a subordinate position she would probably make her successor's life a burden; if she were transferred to another house she would probably corrupt a hitherto unblemished flock. The bishops did their best in the face of great difficulties, but it is plain that the prioresses sometimes thought little enough of their authority. The rather disreputable old Abbess of Romsey, Joyce Rowse, said openly to her nuns that when the inquiry (held in 1492) was finished she would do as she had done before; and she kept her word[1534]. At Ankerwyke in 1441 one little nun of tender age explained to the bishop "that the prioress doth not provide this deponent with bed-clothes, insomuch that she lies in the straw; and when my lord had commanded this deponent to lie in the dorter, and this deponent asked bed-clothes of the prioress, she said chidingly to her, 'Let him who gave you leave to lie in the dorter supply you with raiment'"[1535]. Though the bishops for the most part did their work conscientiously it is difficult, in the light of the considerations which have been urged above to conclude that their visitations had a lasting effect. But if the visitations and the injunctions based on them were sometimes of small value for their purpose, they have an incidental value to historians which cannot be overestimated. There have come down to us in the bishops' registers a comparatively small number of complete visitation reports, comprising _detecta_ and _comperta_ (or sometimes _comperta_ only) and injunctions[1536], and a much larger number of injunctions, without the _comperta_ on which they were based. The similarity in wording of episcopal injunctions, combined with the fact that the most important collection of complete reports (Alnwick's visitations) was until recently unknown, has led many writers to argue that injunctions were mere general "common form," without any relation to specific abuses found at the house to which they were sent, "left," as Mr Hamilton Thompson says, "like portentous visiting cards upon a convent, to show that the diocesan had duly called"[1537]. The point is of great importance, for it involves the reliability of injunctions as evidence of the state of a particular convent at a particular time. The answer to this view of "common form" is easily found if we study the process by which injunctions were composed, as revealed in the great series of visitations by Bishop Alnwick. They were drawn up with great care by the bishop's registrar and he based them upon two sources, the _detecta_ and _comperta_ of each visitation, which had been noted down on the spot by clerks, and the sets of injunctions sent to other religious houses, which were regularly copied into the episcopal register as models for future use. It is inherent in the nature of the case that monasteries subject to the same original rule and statutory regulations and living under almost identical conditions, should be subject to similar breaches of discipline. It is only necessary to study those _detecta_ which have been preserved to perceive how universal, in all dioceses and among both sexes, were (for instance) the customs of drinking after Compline, forming separate "households," taking unlicensed boarders, making unwise grants of corrodies and long leases, wandering abroad in the world, and wearing worldly garments. The registrar did not wish to invent new wording every time these offences occurred; he used a common form for them. But "common form" has here a different sense from that in which it is used by those who question the value of injunctions as evidence. The registrar never made an injunction which was not based upon a _detectum_ made at the house to which the injunction was directed. Injunctions are common form only because they deal with common errors. If an almost similar set be sent to two houses, it is because the houses have displayed (as is indeed only natural) almost similar faults; and where the two sets differ, they differ not accidentally, but of careful purpose. It was the business of the registrar to express the injunctions in general terms, even though a fault may have been that of a single individual, because they were intended to be canonically binding upon the whole convent. The reason why injunctions have survived in much greater numbers than the _detecta_ upon which they were based, is that the clerks copied into the bishop's register only common forms, which would be likely to be useful. The record of individual evidence would not help them; but a carefully worded injunction might be used over and over again, whenever the fault with which it dealt recurred at the same or another house. No one who has studied the relation of _detecta_ and injunctions in Alnwick's book of visitations can doubt the value of the latter as evidence, when they appear alone; the very process by which "Dame Alice Decun says that only two little girls, of six or seven years, do lie in the dorter" is transmuted into the common injunction "that ye suffre ne seculere persones wymmen ne childern lyg by nyghte in the dormytory" is patent in the register. If the reliability of the injunctions be thus accepted, it is almost unnecessary to point out what an invaluable source of evidence is to be found in the bishops' registers. Controversialists have fought _ad nauseam_ over the truth or falsehood of the "scandalous _comperta_" of Henry VIII's commissioners, without understanding that for nearly three hundred years before the Dissolution the _comperta_ and injunctions in the registers give a picture of English monasticism coloured by no ulterior motive. Even after a large number of the registers have been published, historians are still content to paint monastic life in the later middle ages from the monastic rule, ignoring the evidence of practice which is always necessary to supplement the evidence of theory. Not even the chronicles of an earlier age are more interesting; the record of Alnwick is as valuable as that of Jocelin of Brakelonde. In dioceses where registers were regularly kept and have survived uninjured and where injunctions were punctiliously copied, the history of a house may be traced throughout the whole period covered by this book. The dioceses of Winchester, Lincoln and York are most fortunate in this respect. To select a few examples at random, there are extant records of the visitation of Romsey Abbey by Archbishop Peckham in 1284, by Bishop John of Pontoise in 1302, by Bishop Henry Woodlock in 1311, by Bishop William of Wykeham in 1387, by Archbishop Morton (through his vicar-general, Robert Shirbourne) in 1492, by Dr Hede, commissary of the Prior of Canterbury, during the vacancies of the sees of Canterbury and Winchester in 1502, by Bishop Fox (through his vicar-general, John Dowman) in 1507, again (through Master John Incent) in 1523 and again (through the vicar-general) in 1527[1538]. It is thus possible to describe with approximate accuracy the life of this great convent during the whole period from 1284 to the Dissolution. Similarly records have survived of visitations of Elstow Abbey by Bishop Gynewell in 1359, Bishop Buckingham in 1387, Archbishop Courtenay in 1389, Bishop Flemyng in 1421-2, Bishop Gray in 1434, Bishop Alnwick in 1442-3, and Bishop Longland in 1530 and 1531. Of Nunappleton Priory there are recorded visitations by Archbishop Wickwane in 1281, Archbishop Melton in 1318, Archbishop Zouche in 1346, Archbishop Rotherham in 1489 and Archbishop Lee in 1534. Moreover mandates concerning isolated pieces of business, elections, permits to receive boarders, orders to reform specific abuses, are scattered through the registers and provide useful supplementary information. All houses are not as well represented. In some dioceses injunctions are rarely recorded: the fine series of registers for Hereford yield surprisingly few. Some houses emerge only rarely into the light with a single set of injunctions; others (and among them important houses such as Lacock and Amesbury) lack even a single visitation report to rescue their inmates from oblivion. But the geographical range of the surviving reports is sufficiently great to enable the formation of an accurate general account of English nunneries during the later middle ages. One warning only must be borne in mind by the reader. If it is unhistorical to write an account of monastic houses based solely upon the rule, it is also unhistorical to write one based solely on visitation documents. The _detecta_ made to a bishop were, and were intended to be, revelations of faults; it was not the function of the bishop's clerk to catalogue virtues, though sometimes a string of "_omnia bene_," or a curt note to the effect that my lord, finding little in need of reformation, passed on, bears positive witness to a convent's good life. It must always be remembered, in estimating the state of a house from a set of _detecta_ and injunctions, that though they are indubitably the truth, they are not the whole truth. Goodness is after all largely a matter of proportion; and though convents are to be found which were positively bad, in others there were probably virtues of kindness, piety and a brave struggle against poverty, which would counterbalance (if we knew them), the unfavourable impression left by a string of accusations. Moreover by far the larger number of the _detecta_ witnesses to a growing worldliness and to minor breaches of the rule, rather than to serious moral defects. If the community concerned were other than a nunnery ostensibly following a strict rule, we should hardly consider the faults to be faults at all. The immorality, bad temper and financial mismanagement revealed at some houses would be reprehensible in all communities at all ages; but in themselves boarders, pretty clothes, pet dogs and attendance at christenings are not heinous crimes. It is necessary, in dealing with medieval nuns as with all other subjects, to preserve a sense of proportion and a firm hold upon human nature. CHAPTER XIII THE NUN IN MEDIEVAL LITERATURE "Or dient et content et fablent." _Aucassin et Nicolette._ "La science," said a wise Frenchman, "atteint l'exactitude; il appartient à l'art seul de saisir la vérité." And another, "L'histoire vit de documents, mais les documents sont pareils aux lettres écrites avec les encres chimiques; ils veulent, pour livrer leur secret, qu'on les réchauffe, et les éclaire par transparence, à la flamme de la vie." The quotations are complementary, for what, after all, is literature but a form of life; the quintessence of many moods and experiences, the diffused flame concentrated and burning clearly in a polished lamp. The historian who wishes to reach beyond accuracy to truth must warm those invisible writings of his at the flame of literature, as well as at his own life. He must vitalise the visitation reports for himself (it is not difficult, they move and live almost without him); but he must make use also of the life of writers long since dead. There is hardly a branch of literature which has not its contribution for him. The story-teller has his tale, which holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney corner. The ballad-man has his own pithy judgment in the guise of an artless rhyme. The teacher has his admonitions, whence may be learnt what men conceived to be the nun's ideal and purpose in this cloistered life. The moralist has his satire, to show wherein she fell short of such lofty heights. And the poet himself will hold his mirror up to nature, that we may see after five hundred years what he saw with his searching eyes, when Madame Eglentyne rode to Canterbury, or when the nuns of Poissy feasted a cavalcade from court. The world was subject matter for all these, whether they wrote with a purpose or without one; there is life even in the crabbed elegiacs of Gower, grumbling his way through the _Vox Clamantis_; there is much life in the kindly counsels of the _Ancren Riwle_; there is God's plenty indeed in the stories and songs which the people told. It is the historian's business to call in these literary witnesses to supplement his documents. To the account-roll and the bishop's register must be added the song, the satire and the sermon. Alnwick's visitations, with the story of "Beatrix the Sacristan" behind them, have twice as much significance; Madame Eglentyne and Margaret Fairfax lend to each other a mutual illumination; little captured Clarice Stil needs Deschamps' Novice of Avernay by her side before her case can be well understood. It is of these composite portraits that truth is put together and history made. An analysis of the classes of medieval literature in which there is mention of nuns shows from how wide a field the historian can draw. The most obvious of these classes is that which contains biographies and autobiographies of saints and famous women who were nuns. Such are the writings of the great trio who made famous the nunnery of Helfta in the thirteenth century, the béguine Mechthild of Magdeburg and the nuns Mechthild of Hackeborn and Gertrud the Great[1539]; the lives and writings of Luitgard of Tongres[1540], of St Clare[1541] and of St Agnes of Bohemia[1542]; the memoir and letters of Charitas Pirckheimer, Abbess of a Franciscan convent at Nuremberg, who was a sister of the humanist Wilibald Pirckheimer and herself a scholar of repute[1543]. The autobiographies of one or two nuns in the later sixteenth century (for instance St Theresa[1544] and Felice Rasponi[1545]) have a certain retrospective value; and the lives of the three béguine mystics, St Douceline[1546], St Lydwine of Schiedam[1547] and St Christina of Stommeln[1548] afford supplementary evidence, which is interesting as showing the similarities and dissimilarities between regular and secular orders. For present purposes, however, these works may be neglected. Their interest is always rather particular than general, since they deal with great individuals, and the information which they give as to the life of the average nun is conditioned always by the fact that a woman of genius will mould her surroundings to her own form, even in a convent. This is true of the medieval saints; while the careers of women such as Charitas Pirckheimer, Felice Rasponi and St Theresa owe much of their significance to the special circumstances of the time. An additional reason for neglecting biographies and autobiographies lies in the fact that the class is unrepresented in English literature belonging to this period. The short panegyric of Euphemia of Wherwell is the sole approach to a biography of an English nun which has survived, unless we are to count the description of Joan Wiggenhall's building activities. For some reason which it is impossible to explain, monasticism did not produce in England during the later middle ages any women of sanctity or genius who can compare with the great Anglo-Saxon abbesses[1549]. Outside the personal records of great individuals, our informants fall (as has already been suggested) into four classes: the people, with their songs and stories, the teachers, with their didactic works, the moralists, with their satires and complaints, and finally the men of letters, poets and "makers," for whom the nun is sometimes subject-matter. First, and perhaps most interesting of all, must come the people and the people's songs, for in the literature of the continent there exists a class of lyrics ("Klosterlieder," "Nonnenklagen," "Chansons de Nonnes") which is specially concerned with nuns[1550]. There is much to be learned about all manner of things from such popular poetry. So the people feel about life, and so (reacting upon them) it makes them feel. Songs crooned over the housework or shouted at the plough steal back into the singer's brain and subtly direct his conscious outlook; this was the wise man's meaning, who said that he cared not who made the laws of a nation if he might make its ballads. Now it is extremely significant that almost all the popular songs about nuns, the songs which The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant, are upon one theme. They deal always with the nun unwillingly professed. It was the complaint of the cloistered love-birds which these knitters sang. How can a bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? What, one may ask, is the reason for this unanimity of outlook? Why do the people see a nun only as a love-bird shut within a cage and beating its wings against the bars? Partly, no doubt, because such songs always "dally with the innocence of love"; the folk are capable of a deep melancholy, as of a gaiety which is light as thistledown; but Love is and was their lord and king, and so even the nun must be in love when they sing her. It may be, however, that there is a deeper meaning in the _chansons de nonnes_. The nunneries were aristocratic; the ideal of the religious life was out of the reach of women who lived among fields and beasts of the field. These spinsters and these knitters in the sun, who seem so gay and peaceful, we know what their lives were like: Poure folke in cotes, Charged with children, and chef lordes rente, That thei with spynnynge may spare spenen hit in hous-hyre, Bothe in mylk and in mele to make with papelotes[1551]; carding and combing, clouting and washing, suffering much hunger and woe in winter time; no time to think, and hardly time to pray; but always time to sing. "The wo of those women that wonyeth in cotes" solaced itself in song; but when the echo of the convent bell came to the singer at her clouting, or to her husband, as he drove his plough over the convent acres, they recognised a peace which was founded upon their labours and which, though it could not exist without them, they could never share[1552]. If the songs which the slaves of Athens sang among themselves in the slave quarter at night had come down to us, they would surely have thrown a new light upon those grave philosophers, artists and statesmen, to whom the world owes almost all that it cherishes of wisdom and of beauty. Nor would the Athenians be less great because we knew the slaves. Even so it is no derogation to the monastic ideal to say that the common people, shut out of it, looked at it differently from the great churchmen, who praised it; and, unlike those of the Athenian slaves, their songs still live. The popular mind (these songs would seem to say) had little sympathy for that career in which the daughters of the people had no share. It is immaterial whether they looked upon it with the eye of the fox in the fable, declaring that the grapes were sour, or whether the lusty common sense of those living close to nature gave them a contempt for the bloodless ecstasies they could not understand. At all events the cloister mirrored in their songs is a prison and a grave: Mariez-vous, les filles, Avec ces bons drilles, Et n'allez jà, les filles, Pourrir derrièr' les grilles[1553]. That was how the people and the nightingale envisaged it; and no mystic will be the less wise for pondering that brutal last line, the eternal revolt of common sense against asceticism. All over western and southern Europe this theme was set to music, now with gaiety and insouciance, now with bitterness. The wandering clerk goes singing on his way: Plangit nonna fletibus The nun is complaining, Inenarrabilibus, Her tears are down raining, Condolens gemitibus She sobbeth and sigheth, Dicens consocialibus: To her sisters she crieth: Heu misella! Misery me! Nichil est deterius O what can be worse than this Tali vita, life that I dree, Cum enim sim petulans When naughty and lovelorn, Et lasciva. and wanton I be. And he can tell the nun's desire Pernoctando vigilo All the night long I unwillingly wake, Cum non vellem How gladly a lad in mine arms would I take. Iuvenem amplecterer Quam libenter![1554] For those who know no Latin it is the same. "In this year," [1359] says a Limburg chronicle, "Men sang and piped this song": Gott geb im ein verdorben jar God send to him a lean twelve months der mich macht zu einer nunnen Who in mine own despite, und mir den schwarzen mantel gab A sooty mantle put on me, der weissen rock darunten! All and a cassock white! Soll ich ein nunn gewerden And if I must become a nun, dann wider meinen willen Let me but find a page, so will ich auch einem knaben jung And if he is fain to cure my pain seinen kummer stillen, His pain I will assuage. Und stillt he mir den meinen nit His be the loss, then, if he fail daran mag he verliesen[1555]. To still my amorous rage. In Italy at Carnival time in the fifteenth century the favourite songs tell of nuns who leave their convents for a lover[1556]. But above all the theme is found over and over again in French folk songs: "the note, I trowe, y maked was in Fraunce." Two little thirteenth century poems have survived to show how piquant an expression the French singers gave to it. In one of these the singer wanders out in the merry month of May, that time in which the "chanson populaire" is always set, in deep and unconscious memory of the old spring festivals, celebrated by women in the dawn of European civilisation. He goes plucking flowers, and out of a garden he hears a nun singing to herself: ki nonne me fist Jesus lou maldie. je di trop envie vespres ne complies: j'amaisce trop muels moneir bone vie ke fust deduissans et amerousete. Je sant les douls mals leis ma senturete. malois soit de deu ki me fist nonnete. Elle s'escriait comceux esbaihie! e deus, ki m'ait mis en cest abaie! maix ieu en istrai per sainte Marie; ke ne vestirai cotte ne gonnette. Je sant les douls mals leis ma senturete. malois soit de deu ki me fist nonnete. Celui manderai a cui seux amie. k'il me vaigne querre en ceste abaie; s'irons a Parix moneir bone vie, car it est jolis et je seux jonete. Je sant les douls mals leis ma senturete. malois soit de deu ki me fist nonnete. quant ces amis ot la parolle oie, de joie tressaut, li cuers li fremie, et vint a la porte do celle abaie: si en gatait fors sa douce amiete. Je sant les douls mals leis ma senturete. malois soit de deu ki me fist nonnete[1557]. "The curse of Jesus on him who made me a nun! All unwillingly say I vespers and compline; more fain were I to lead a happy life of gaiety and love. _I feel the delicious pangs beneath my bosom. The curse of God on him who made me be a nun!_ She cried, God's curse on him who put me in this abbey. But by our Lady I will flee away from it and never will I wear this gown and habit. _I feel, etc._ I will send for him whose love I am and bid him come seek me in this abbey. We will go to Paris and lead a gay life, for he is fair and I am young. _I feel, etc._ When her lover heard her words, he leapt for joy and his heart beat fast. He came to the gate of that abbey, and stole away his darling love. _I feel, etc._" In the other song the setting is the same; L'autrier un lundi matin m'an aloie ambaniant; s'antrai an un biau jardin, trovai nonette seant. ceste chansonette dixoit la nonette "longue demoree faites, frans moinnes loialz Se plus suis nonette, ains ke soit li vespres, je morai des jolis malz"[1558]. "Lately on a Monday morn as I went wandering, I entered into a fair garden and there I found a nun sitting. This was the song that the nun sang: 'Long dost thou tarry, frank, faithful monk. If I have to be a nun longer I shall die of the pains of love before vespers.'" The end hardly ever varies. The nun is either taken away by a lover (as in the first of these songs), or finds occasion to meet one without leaving her house (as in the second); or else she runs away in the hope of finding one like the novice of Avernay in Deschamps' poem, who had learned nothing during her sojourn "fors un mot d'amourette," and who wanted to have a husband "si comme a Sebilette." Adieu le moniage: Jamaiz n'y entreray. Adieu tout le mainage Et adieu Avernay! Bien voy l'aumosne est faitte: Trop tart me suy retraitte, Certes, ce poise my, Plus ne seray nonnette (Oez de la nonnette Comme a le cuer joly: S'ordre ne ly puet plere)[1559]. "Farewell nunhood, never shall I enter thy state. Farewell all the household and farewell Avernay! The alms are given, too late have I left the world. Of a truth this wearies me; I will be a nun no more. (Hear this tale of the nun, whose heart was gay and whose order could not please her)." It is but rarely that the singer's sympathy is against the prisoned nun; and although one or two charming songs may be found which convey a warning, the moral sits all awry. A Gascon air (intended, like so many, to accompany a dance and having the favourite refrain "Va léger, légère, va légèrement") threatens an altogether inadequate punishment for a nun who enjoys the sweets of this world. "Down in the meadow, there is a convent. In it a nun lies ill." "Tell me, little nun, for what do you hunger?" "For white apples and for a young lad." "Do not eat, little nun, they will bury you not in the church, nor even in the convent, but out in the graveyard with the poor people"[1560]. A Provençal song with a haunting air tells how the Devil carried off a nun who rebelled against her imprisonment: Dedins Aix l'y a'no moungeto, Tant pourideto, Di que s'avie soun bel amic Sera la reino dou pays.... "In Aix there is a little nun, a wicked little nun; she says that with her handsome lover she will be queen of all the land. She weeps and weeps, that wicked little nun, and every day she grows thinner and thinner, because she may not put off her habit. But her father has sent her a message, a solemn message, that she cannot do as she would, that in the convent she must stay. The little nun has cursed her father, who made her leave her handsome lover and take the veil and habit. The little nun has cursed the trowel that made the church and the mason who built it and the men who worked for him. The little nun has cursed the priest who said mass and the acolytes who served him and the congregation who listened to him. The little nun has cursed the cloth which made the veil and the cord of St Francis and the vow of poverty. One day when she was all alone in her room, the devil appeared to her. 'Welcome, my love!' 'I am not your love whom you desire, my pretty. I am the devil, don't you see? I am come to rescue you from the convent.' 'You must first ask my father and also my mother and my friends and my kinsmen, to see if they will consent.' 'No, I will not ask your father, nor yet your mother, nor your friends nor your kinsmen. Now and at once we will go.' 'Farewell, my sister nuns, so little and young, do not do as I did, but praise God well in the convent.' The devil has taken the little nun, the wicked little nun; he has carried her high up into the sky and then he has hurled her down into hell, down, down into hell"[1561]. There is a moral here to be sure, but it is the moral of a fairy tale, not of a sermon. As to the many variants of the "Clericus et Nonna" theme in which sometimes the nun makes love to a clerk and is repulsed and sometimes the clerk makes love to a nun and is repulsed[1562] it is possible that the Church had a hand in them all. Wandering clerks and cloistered monks were capable of the most unabashed love-poetry; but sometimes they chose to set themselves right with heaven. In England the theme of the nun unwillingly professed is not found in popular songs, such as abound in France, Italy and Germany. It received, however, a literary expression towards the close of the fourteenth century. In the pseudo-Chaucerian _Court of Love_ the lover sees among those who do sacrifice to the King and Queen of Love a wailing group of priests and hermits, friars and nuns: This is the courte of lusty folke and gladde, And wel becometh hire abite and arraye; O why be som so sory and so sadde, Complaynyng thus in blak and white and graye? Freres they ben, and monkes, in gode faye: Alas for rewth! grete dole it is to sene, To se hem thus bewaile and sory bene. Se howe thei crye and wryng here handes white, For thei so sone wente to religion! And eke the nonnes with vaile and wymple plight, Here thought is, thei ben in confusion. "Alas," thay sayn, "we fayne perfeccion, In clothes wide and lake oure libertie But all the synne mote on oure frendes be. For, Venus wote, we wold as fayne do ye, That ben attired here and wel besene, Desiren man and love in oure degree Ferme and feithfull right as wolde the quene: Oure frendes wikke in tender youth and grene, Ayenst oure wille made us religious; That is the cause we morne and waylen thus." * * * * * And yet agaynewarde shryked every nonne, The pange of love so strayneth hem to cry: "Now woo the tyme" quod thay "that we be boune! This hatefull order nyse will done us dye! We sigh and sobbe and bleden inwardly Fretyng oure self with thought and hard complaynt, That ney for love we waxen wode and faynt"[1563]. A kindred poem, _The Temple of Glas_, by Lydgate (who seems himself to have become a monk of Bury at the age of fifteen) contains the same idea. Among the lovers in the Temple are some who make bitter complaint, youth wedded to age, or wedded without free choice, or shut in a convent: And right anon I herd oþer crie With sobbing teris and with ful pitous soune, To fore þe goddes, bi lamentacioun, That were constrayned in hir tender youþe And in childhode, as it is ofte couþe, Y-entred were into religioun, Or þei hade yeris of discresioun, That al her life cannot but complein, In wide copis perfeccion to feine, Ful couertli to curen al hir smert, And shew þe contrarie outward of her hert. Thus saugh I wepen many a faire maide, That on hir freendis al þi wite þei liede[1564]. The same idea is also repeated in King James I of Scotland's poem, _The King's Quair_[1565], and later (with more resemblance to the continental songs) in the complaint of the wicked Prioress in Sir David Lyndesay's morality play, _Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_ [c. 1535]: I gif my freinds my malisoun That me compellit to be ane Nun, And wald nocht let me marie. It was my freinds greadines That gart me be ane Priores: Now hartlie them I warie. Howbeit that Nunnis sing nichts and dayis Thair hart waitis nocht quhat thair mouth sayis; The suith I ghow declair. Makand ghow intimatioun, To Christis Congregatioun Nunnis ar nocht necessair. Bot I sall do the best I can, And marie sum gude honest man, And brew gude aill and tun. Mariage, be my opinioun, It is better Religioun As to be freir or Nun[1566]. The concentrated bitterness of _The Court of Love_ and the social satire of Lindesay are only a literary expression of the theme treated more lightheartedly in the popular _chansons de nonnes_. The songs are one side of the popular view of asceticism, the gay side. The serious side may be found in the famous story of _The Nun who Loved the World_: Some time there was a nun that hight Beatrice, a passing fair woman, and she was sacristan of the kirk, and she had great devotion unto our Lady; and ofttimes men desired her to sin. So at last she consented unto a clerk to go away with him when compline was done, and ere she departed she went unto an altar of our Lady and said unto her; "Lady, as I have been devout unto thee, now I resign unto thee these keys, for I may no longer sustain the temptation of my flesh." And she laid the keys on the altar and went her ways unto the clerk. And when he had defouled her, within a few days he left her and went away; and she had nothing to live on and thought shame to gang home again unto her cloister and she fell to be a common woman. And when she had lived in that vice fifteen years, on a day she came unto the nunnery gate, and asked the porter if he knew ever a nun in that place that hight Beatrice, that was sacristan and keeper of the kirk. And he said he knew her on the best wise and said she was a worthy woman and a holy from when she was a little bairn, "and ever has kept her clean and in good name." And she understood not the words of this man and went her ways. And our Lady appeared unto her and said: "Behold, I have fulfilled thine office these fifteen years and therefore turn again now into thy place and be again in thine office as thou wast, and shrive thee and do thy penance, for there is no creature here that knows thy trespass, for I have ever been for thee in thy clothing and in thine habit." And anon she was in her habit and went in and shrove her and did her penance and told all that was happened unto her[1567]. This tale is interesting, because it is much more than a piece of naïve piety. The story of Beatrice is intimately connected with the _chansons de nonnes_; it is the serious, as they are the gay, expression of a whole philosophy of life. The songs are, indeed, purely materialistic and do not attempt (how should the spinsters and the knitters in the sun attempt it?) to give a philosophical justification for their attitude. The miracle is simple and seems on the surface to draw no moral, save that devotion to the Virgin will be rewarded. Nevertheless the philosophy and the moral are there; they are those of the most famous of all medieval songs, _Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus_. The theme of the miracle and of the songs alike is the revolt against asceticism, the revolt of the body, which knows how short its beauty and its life, against the spirit which lives forever, and yet will not allow its poor yokefellow one little hour. The fact that the story of Beatrice takes the form of a Mary-miracle is itself significant. For the "Nos habebit humus" argument can be interpreted in two ways. On the one hand stands the human multitude, gathering rosebuds while it may, crying up and down the roads of the world to all who pass to rejoice today, for "ubi sunt qui ante nos in mundo fuere?" On the other hand stands the moralist, singing the same song: Were beth they biforen us weren, Houndes ladden and hauekes beren, And hadden feld and wode, That riche _levedies_ in _hoere_ bour, [ladies, their That wereden gold in hoere tressour, With hoere _brightle_ rode?-- [complexion --but drawing how different a moral, _Dreghy_ here man, thenne, if thou wilt [endure A luitel _pine_, that me the _bit_ [pain, bid Withdrau thine _eyses_ ofte[1568]. [ease Often for long stretches at a time the wandering clerks and the singers were willing to leave to the moralist this heaven which was to be won by despising earthly beauty; they were content to go to hell singing with Aucassin and Nicolete and all the kings of the world. But at other times they ached for heaven too and would not believe that they might win there only by the narrow path of righteousness. So they invented a philosophical justification for their way of life. The Church had forgotten the love which sat with publicans and sinners; the people rediscovered it, and attributed it not to the Son but to the Mother. At one blow they outwitted the moralist by inventing the cult of the Virgin Mary[1569]. In their hands this Mary worship became more than the worship of Christ's mother; it became almost a separate religion, a religion under which jongleurs and thieves, fighters and tournament-haunters and the great host of those who loved unwisely found a mercy often denied to them by the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The people created a Virgin to whom justice was nothing and law less than nothing, but to whom love of herself was all. "Imperatrix supernorum, supernatrix infernorum," hell was emptied under her rule and heaven became a new place, filled with her disreputable, faulty, human lovers. She was not only the familiar friend of the poor and humble, she was also the confidante of the lover, of all the Aucassins and Nicoletes of the world. It is not without significance that so great a stress was always laid upon her personal loveliness. Her cult became the expression of mankind's deep unconscious revolt against asceticism, their love of life, their passionate sense of "beauty that must die." The story of Beatrice has kept its undiminished attraction for the modern world largely because in it, more than in all the other Mary-miracles, life has triumphed and has been justified of heaven[1570]. Even the cold garb given to it by ecclesiastics such as Caesarius of Heisterbach cannot conceal its underlying idea that all love is akin, the most earthy to the most divine; the idea which Malory expressed many years later, when he wrote of Queen Guinevere "that while she lived she was a true lover and therefore she had a good end." The theme most familiar to us in the didactic literature of the middle ages is the theme of the soul "here in the body pent"; for the moralist has his deliberate purpose and sets down his idea more directly and with more point than do the story-teller and the singer, who have no aim but to say and speak and tell the tale. But when we have been moved by the theme of the soul, let us not fail also to recognise when we meet it--whether in the wandering scholar's _Gaudeamus_ or in the miracle of the nun who loved the world--the theme of the body, despised and maimed and always beautiful, crying out for its birthright. Even in the middle ages the Greeks had not lived in vain. The miracle of Sister Beatrice leads to the consideration of another type of popular literature, which throws much light on convent life. Sometimes the people grow tired of singing to themselves; they want to be told stories, which they can repeat in the long evenings, when the sun goes down and the rushlight sends its wan uneven flicker over the floor. Even in the households of rich men story-telling round the fire is the favourite after-dinner occupation[1571]. These stories come from every conceivable source, from the East, from the Classics, from the Lives of the Fathers, from the Legends of the Saints, from the Miracles of the Virgin, from the accumulated experience of generations of story-tellers. At first their purpose is simply to amuse, and the jongleur can always get a hearing for his _fabliau_; from village green to town market, from the ale house to the manor and the castle hall he passes with his repertoire of grave, gay, edifying, ribald, coarse or delightful tales and when he has gone his enchanted audience repeats and passes on all that he has said[1572]. Then another professional story-teller begins to compete with the jongleur, a story-teller whose object is to point a moral rather than to adorn a tale. The Church, observing that attentive audience, adopts the practice. Preachers vie with jongleurs in illustrating their sermons by stories, "examples" they call them. Often they use the same tales; anything so that the congregation keep awake; and though the examples are sometimes very edifying, they are sometimes but ill-disguised buffoonery, and moralists cry out against the preacher, who instead of the Gospel passes off his own inventions, jests and gibes, so that the poor sheep return from pasture wind-fed[1573]. But the greatest preachers win many souls by a judicious use of stories[1574], and diligent clerks make huge collections of such _exempla_, wherein the least skilled sermon-maker may find an illustration apt to any text[1575]. Didactic writers and theologians also adopt the practice; they trust to example rather than to precept; their ponderous tomes are alive with anecdotes, but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack[1576]. Then the literary men begin to seize upon the _fabliaux_ and _exempla_ for the purpose of their art; they borrow plots from this bottomless treasure-house; and so come the days of Boccaccio and _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ and the short story is made at last[1577]. They all, jongleurs, preachers, theologians and men of letters repeat each other, for a tale once told is everyone's property; the people repeat them; and so the stories circulate from lip to lip through the wide lands of Europe and down the echoing centuries. And since these tales deal with every subject under the sun (and with many marvels which the sun never looked upon), it is not surprising that several of them deal with nuns. Across six centuries we can, with the aid of a sympathetic imagination, slip into the skins of these inquisitive and child-like folk, and hear some of the stories to which they lent such an absorbed attention. Let us Forget six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, Forget the spreading of the hideous town; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, And dream of London, small and white and clean, The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green. Or rather, let us imagine not London but some other little English town, on just such an April morning as moved Chaucer and his fellow-voyagers to seek the holy blissful martyr by way of the Tabard Inn. Having sloughed the film of those six hundred years from off our eyes, we can see more clearly the shadowy forms of our fathers that begat us. We can see a motley crowd gathered in the market place, chiefly made up of women. There are girls, demure or wistful or laughing, fresh from their spinning wheels or from church; there are also bustling wives, in fine well-woven wimples and moist new shoes, arm in arm with their gossips. By craning a neck we may see that flighty minx Alison, the carpenter's wife, "long as a mast and upright as a bolt," casting about her with her bold black eyes and looking jealously at the miller's wife from across the brook, who is as pert as a pye and considers herself a lady. There is a good wife of beside Bath, with a red face and ten pounds' weight of kerchiefs on her head; a great traveller and a great talker she is--we can hear her chattering right across the square; it is a pity she is so deaf. There, under her own sign-board, is the inn-keeper's ill-tempered dame, who bullies her husband and ramps in his face if her neighbours do not bow low to her in church; and there is the new-made bride of yonder merchant with the forked beard--they say she is a shrew too. There is Rose the Regrater, who also weaves woollen cloth and cheats her spinsters. There is Dame Emma, who keeps the tavern by the river--our neighbour Glutton's wife would like to scratch out her eyes, for Glutton always has to be carried home from that inn. There also are Elinor, Joan and Margery, Margaret, Alice and Cecily, merry gossips, their hearts well cherished with muscadel. Mingled with these good wives of the town we see, as we look about us, other folk; portly burgesses, returning from a meeting of the borough court, full of wine and merchant law; a couple of friars, their tippets stuffed with knives and pins, and a fat monk, with a greyhound slinking at his heel; an ale-taster, reeling home from duties performed too well; a Fleming or two, ever on the lookout for snarls and sharp elbows from the true-born native craftsmen; several pretty supercilious ladies "with browen blissful under hood," squired by a gay young gentleman, embroidered all over with flowers; two giggling curly-haired clerks (Absolon and Nicholas must be their names) ogling the carpenter's wife and sniggering at their solemn faced companion--that youth there, with the threadbare courtepy and a book of Aristotle under his arm; a bailiff buying tar and salt for the home farm and selling his butter and eggs to the townsmen; numbers of beggars and idlers and children; and on the outskirts of the crowd little sister Joan from St Mary's Convent, who ought not to be out alone, but who cannot resist stopping to hear the sermon. For we have all come running together in this year of our Lord 1380 to hear a sermon[1578]. We look upon sermons as an excellent opportunity "for to see and eek for to be seen"; in the same spirit, compact one-third of sociability, one-third of curiosity and one-third of piety, we always crowd To vigilies and to processiouns, To preaching eek and to thise pilgrimages, To pleyes of miracles and mariages[1579]. There is the preacher under the stone market cross. He is bidding us shun the snares of the world; if we cannot shut ourselves up in a cloister (which is best), he says, we must make our hearts a cloister, where no wickedness will come. He will have to tell us a story soon, for we are restless folk and do not love to sit still on the cobbles at his feet, but with a story he can always hold us. Sure enough he has left his theme now and is giving us an example: Jacobus de Vetriaco tells how some time there was a mighty prince that was founder of a nunnery that stood near hand him; and he coveted greatly a fair nun of the place to have her unto his leman. And not withstanding neither by prayer nor by gift he could overcome her; and at the last he took her away by strong force. And when men came to take her away, she was passing feared and asked them why they took her out of her abbey, more than her other sisters. And they answered her again and said, because she had so fair een. And anon as she heard this she was fain and she gart put out her een anon and laid them in a dish and brought them unto them and said: "Lo, here is the een that your master desires and bid him let me alone and lose neither his soul nor mine." And they went unto him therewith and told him and he let her alone; and by this mean she kept her chastity. And within three years after she had her een again, as well as ever had she, through grace of God[1580]. A shudder of horror and admiration runs through us, but the preacher continues with a second example: "How different," he says, "Was this most chaste and wise virgin from that wretched nun who was sought by a noble knight, that he might seduce her, and her abbess hid her in a certain very secret place in the monastery. And when that knight had sought her in all the offices and corners of the monastery and could in no wise find her he grew at length weary and tired of the quest and turned to depart. But she, seeing that he had stopped looking for her, because he had been unable to find her, began to call 'Cuckoo!', as children are wont to cry when they are hidden and do not wish to be found. Whereupon the knight, hearing her, ran to the place, and having accomplished his will departed therefrom, deriding the miserable girl"[1581]. "See how evil are the ways of the world," says our preacher; "how much better to be simple and unworldly, like that nun of whom you may read in the book of the wise Caesarius which he wrote to instruct novices. I will tell you of her," In the diocese of Trèves is a certain convent of nuns named Lutzerath, wherein by ancient custom no girl is received, but at the age of seven years or less; which constitution hath grown up for the preservation of that simplicity of mind, which maketh the whole body to shine. There was lately in that monastery a maiden full-grown in body, but such a child in worldly matters that she scarce knew the difference twixt a secular person and a brute beast, since she had had no knowledge of secular folk before her conversion. One day a goat climbed upon the orchard wall, which when she saw, knowing not what it might be, she said to a sister that stood by her: "What is that?" The other, knowing her simplicity, answered in jest to her wondering question, "That is a woman of the world," adding, "when secular women grow old they sprout to horns and beards." She, believing it to be the truth, was glad to have learned something new[1582]. All this time the preacher has been illustrating his sermon with any story that came into his head. But he has been doing more; he has been describing for the information of posterity the raw material (so utterly different in different individuals), out of which the unchanging pattern of the nun had to be moulded. However we are not (for the moment) posterity; and we grow weary of this praise of austerity and simplicity. But, brother John, we say (interrupting) here are we, living in the world; you would not have us tear out our eyes when our husbands would be fondling us? You would not have us take our good Dame Alison for a goat, which is (heaven save us) but a brute beast and no Christian? and what if we cry cuckoo sometimes, we girls, for a lover? there are some we know that have married five husbands at the church door, and still think themselves right holy women, and make pilgrimages to St James beyond the sea, and will ever go first to the offering on Sunday. What have your nuns to do with us? Tell us rather what we young fresh folk may do to be saved; or how we good housewives should bear ourselves day by day. And that I will (says the preacher with some acerbity). Shame upon you, with your chattering tongues. You cannot even keep quiet at mass; and at home it is well known to me how ye pester your husbands, with your screeching and scolding, and how ye chatter all day to your gossips, not minding what lewd words ye speak. Remember therefore holy St Gregory's example of the nun who spake naughty words, which brother Robert of Brunne of the order of Sempringham found in the French book and set into fair English rhymes: Seynt Gregori of a nunne tellys �at ghede to helle for no þyng ellys But for she spake ever vyleyny Among her felaws al ahy. �ys nunnë was of dedys chaste, But þat she spake wurdys waste She madë many of here felawys �enke on synnë for here sawys. And then she died, and she was buried at the steps of the altar; and in the night the sacristan of the place was awakened by a great crying and weeping, and beheld fiends around that wretched nun, who burnt half her body and left the other half unscathed: Seynt Gregorye seyþ þat hyt was synge �at half here lyfë was nat dygne; for þoghe here dedys werë chaste, Here wurdys were al vyle and waste. * * * * * See how her tungge madë here slayn and foulë wurdys broghte here to payn[1583]. Mind therefore your tongues, and do not whisper so lightly among yourselves when you sit in the tavern (unknown to your husbands, fie upon you!), and stuff yourselves with capons and Spanish wine. Nay more, have a care that greed does not destroy you. _Gula_, he is one of the seven sins that be most deadly. Look to it lest you one day receive the devil into your bodies, with a mouthful of hot spices: For the same blessed Gregory "telleth of a certain nun who omitted to make the sign of the cross when she was eating a lettuce, and the devil entered into her; and when he was ordered by a holy man to come forth he replied: 'What fault is it of mine and why do you rebuke me? I was sitting upon the lettuce and she did not cross herself and so ate me with it'"[1584]. How different, now, was the reward of that saintly nun of whom Caesarius telleth. For when "a pittance, to wit fried eggs, was being distributed by the cellaress to the whole convent, she was by some chance neglected. But indeed I deem not that it befel by chance, but rather by divine ordering, that the glory of God might be manifest in her. For she bore the deprivation most patiently, rejoicing in the neglect, and therefore, when she was returning thanks to God, that great Father-Abbot set before her an invisible pittance; whereof the unspeakable sweetness so filled her mouth, her throat and all her body, that never in her life had she felt aught like to it. This was bodily sweetness, but next God visited her mind and soul so copiously with spiritual sweetness ... that she desired to go without pittances for all the days of her life"[1585]. Thus our preacher might be supposed to speak, but all nun tales are not so edifying; the ribald jongleur was fond of them too. A good example of the nun theme used as a _conte gras_ is Boccaccio's famous tale of the abbess, who went in the dark to surprise one of her nuns with a lover; but having, when aroused, had with her in her own cell a priest (brought thither in a chest) she inadvertently put upon her head instead of her veil the priest's breeches. She called all her nuns, seized the guilty girl and came to the chapter house to reprimand her; and "the girl happened to raise her eyes, when she saw what the abbess bore upon her head, and the laces of the breeches hanging down on each side of her neck, and being a little comforted with that, as she conjectured the fact, she said: "Please, madam, to button your coif, and then tell me what you would have." "What coif is it that you mean," replied she, "you wicked woman, you? Have you the assurance to laugh at me? Do you think jests will serve your turn in such an affair as this?" The lady said once more, "I beg, madam, that you would first button your coif and then speak as you please." Whereupon most of the sisterhood raised up their eyes to look at the abbess, and she herself put up her hand. The truth being thus made evident, the accused nun said, "The abbess is in fault likewise," which obliged the mother to change her manner of speech from that which she had begun, saying that it was impossible to resist the temptations that assail the flesh. Therefore she bade them, as heretofore, secretly to make the best possible use of their time"[1586]. Another famous tale of Boccaccio's concerns the young man who pretended to be dumb and was made gardener at a nunnery[1587]. In a different category from these stories sacred and profane are the didactic works, wherein churchmen set down the reasons for which a conventual life was to be preferred to all others, or the spirit in which such a life was to be lived. In this class fall poems and treatises in praise of virginity and books of devotion or admonition addressed to nuns. The former are fairly common in the middle ages[1588] and, since they throw little light on the actual life of a professed nun, need not be considered at great length. Among the most graceful are a series of little German songs, probably composed by clerks and generally classed with folk-songs, though they are as different as possible from the popular _Nonnenklagen_. The longest of these poems tells of a fair and noble lady who walked in a garden and cried out at the beauty of the flowers, vowing that could she but see the artist who created so much loveliness, she would thank him as he deserved. At that moment a youth entered the garden and greeted her courteously, answering her cry of surprise by saying that neither stone walls nor doors could withstand him, and that all the lovely flowers in the garden were his and he made them, for "I am called Jesus the flower-maker." Then the lady was stirred to the heart and cried: "O my dearest lord, with all my faith I love thee and I will ever be true to thee till my life ends." But "the youth withdrew himself and went his way to a convent which lay close by, and by reason of his great power he entered speedily into it." The lady did not linger, but fled after him to the convent and in great woe knocked upon the gates, crying, "Ye have shut him in who is mine only joy." Then the nuns in the convent bespake her wrathfully saying: "Why dost thou lament so loudly? thou speakest foolishness. Our convent is locked and no man entered therein. If thou hast lost him, the loss is thine and thou must bear it." "Ye have let in the man to whom I am vowed. With mine own eyes I saw him pass through the gate. Ye have let in mine own dear lord. Were the whole world mine I would give it up ere I gave up him. Ye have let in the man to whom I am vowed and truly I say to you that I will have him again. I will keep the vow which I sware to him and never shall my deathless loyalty fail." Then the maidens in the convent became wroth and they said: "Thou spakest foolish things and against our honour. Our convent is shut and no man is allowed therein and the dear Lord Jesus knoweth well that this is true." "How little ye know him," said the lovely lady, "Ye have spoken the name of mine own dear lord. Ye have named him and well is he known to me; he is also called Jesus the flower-maker." The maidens in the convent deemed then that her words were of God and marvelled thereat: "Let Jesus our beloved lord stay with us for ever, for all who are in this convent have vowed themselves to him." "If all ye who are in the convent have vowed yourselves to him, then will I stay with you all my days and I will keep the troth I plighted with him and never will I waver in my firm faith in him"[1589]. Another song contrasts the love of the lord of many lands with that of the lord of life, to the disparagement of the former[1590]. A similar contrast between earthly and heavenly love is the _motif_ of the beautiful English poem called _A Luue Ron_, made by the Franciscan Thomas of Hales at the request of a nun[1591]; of a somewhat similar (though poetically inferior) poem entitled _Clene Maydenhod_[1592]; and of a coarse and brutal treatise in praise of virginity known as _Hali Meidenhad_[1593]. This alliterative homily of the thirteenth century is startlingly different from the two other contemporary works in middle English, with which its subject would cause it to be compared. It has none of the delicate purity of the _Luue Ron_, nor even of the mystical, ascetic visions of Mary of Oignies, Luitgard of Tongres, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and the many saints and song writers who realised the marriage of the soul with Christ in the concrete terms of human passion[1594]. Neither, on the other hand, has it the moderation and urbanity of the _Ancren Riwle_, though the same hand was once supposed to have written both treatises. The author of _Hali Meidenhad_ persuades his spiritual daughter to vow her virginity to God by no better means than a savage and entirely materialistic attack upon the estate of matrimony. He admits that wedlock is lawful for the weak, for this the wedded sing, that through God's goodness and mercy of his grace, though they have driven downwards, they halt in wedlock and softly alight in the bed of its law, for whosoever falleth out of the grace of maidenhood, so that the curtained bed of wedlock hold them not, drive down to the earth so terribly that they are dashed limb from limb, both joint and muscle[1595]. And again: of the three sorts, maidenhood and widowhood and thirdly wedlockhood, thou mayst know by the degrees of their bliss, which and by how much it [maidenhood] surpasses the others. For wedlock has its fruit thirtyfold in heaven, widowhood sixtyfold; maidenhood with a hundredfold overpasses both. Consider then, hereby, whosoever from her maidenhood descended into wedlock, by how many degrees she falleth downward[1596]. This comparative moderation of tone does not, however, last long and the author proceeds to draw a picture of the discomforts of wifehood and of motherhood so gross and so entirely one-sided that it is difficult to imagine any sensible girl being converted by it: Ask these queens, these rich countesses, these saucy ladies, about their mode of life. Truly, truly, if they rightly bethink themselves and acknowledge the truth, I shall have them for witnesses that they are licking honey off thorns. They buy all the sweetness with two proportions of bitter.... And what if it happen, as the wont is, that thou have neither thy will with him [thy husband] nor weal either and must groan without goods within waste walls and in want of bread must breed thy row of bairns?... or suppose now that power and plenty were rife with thee and thy wide walls were proud and well supplied and suppose that thou hadst many under thee, herdsmen in hall, and thy husband were wroth with thee, and should become hateful, so that each of you two shall be exasperated against the other, what worldly good can be acceptable to thee? When he is out thou shalt have against his return sorrow, care and dread. While he is at home, thy wide walls seem too narrow for thee; his looking on thee makes thee aghast; his loathsome voice and his rude grumbling fill thee with horror. He chideth and revileth thee and he insults thee shamefully; he beateth thee and mawleth thee as his bought thrall and patrimonial slave. Thy bones ache and thy flesh smarteth, thy heart within thee swelleth of sore rage, and thy face outwardly burneth with vexation[1597]. Then, after an unquotable passage, the author considers the supposed joys of maternity and gives a brutal and painfully vivid account of the troubles of gestation and childbirth and of the anxieties of the mother, who has a young child to rear. He seems to feel that some apology is needed for his brutality, for he adds: Let it not seem amiss to thee that we so speak for we reproach not women with their sufferings, which the mothers of us all endured at our own births; but we exhibit them to warn maidens, that they be the less inclined to such things and guard themselves by a better consideration of what is to be done[1598]. The point of view is a strange one. No girl of moderate strength of character, good sense and idealism would shirk marriage solely for the purely material reasons set down by the author. One cannot but wonder at the lack of spiritual imagination which can display convent life as the easy, comfortable, leisured existence, the primrose path which a harassed wife and mother cannot hope to follow[1599], thus inevitably securing for the brides of Christ all who are too lazy and too cowardly to undertake an earthly marriage. Self-sacrifice and high endeavour alike are outside the range of the narrow materialist who wrote _Hali Meidenhad_. His treatment represents the ugly, just as _A Luue Ron_ represents the beautiful side of medieval praise of virginity and of monastic life. Of all treatises for the use of nuns the most personal and the most interesting is the thirteenth century _Ancren Riwle_ (Anchoresses' Rule). The book was originally written for the use of three anchoresses, but the language of the original version (the English version is by most scholars considered to be a translation from a French original), the author and the anchoresses for whom it was written are alike uncertain[1600]. The conjecture that it was written by Richard Poore, Bishop of Salisbury from 1217 to 1229, is discredited by recent research. It is usually said that the book was compiled for the anchoresses of Tarrant Keynes in Dorsetshire; but this view rests upon the evidence of a rubric attached to a Latin version of the rule, which states that it was written by Simon of Ghent Bishop of Salisbury (who died in 1313) for his sisters, anchoresses at Tarrant; but though the Latin translation was doubtless due to Simon of Ghent, there is no evidence that the original anchoresses lived at Tarrant; and the most recent research seeks to identify them with Emma, Gunilda and Cristina, who were anchoresses at Kilburn about 1130 and whose settlement developed into Kilburn Priory. The book is certainly of English origin, though the original seems to have been written in French. It must be noticed that the women for whom the _Ancren Riwle_ was intended were anchoresses and not professed nuns; the essence of their life was solitude, whereas nuns were essentially members of a community. But the moment an anchoress ceased to live alone and took to herself companions the distinction between anchorage and convent tended to disappear; several English nunneries originated in voluntary settlements of two or three women, who desired to lead a solitary life withdrawn from the world. Nine-tenths of the _Ancren Riwle_ is equally applicable to a community of recluses and to a community of nuns and may therefore with advantage be used to illustrate convent life. The treatise has a dual character. It is partly a theological work, telling the three sisters how to think and feel and believe. It is partly a practical guide to the ordering of their external lives. The author cares for the stalling and feeding of Brother Ass the Body, as well as of his rider the Soul. His book is divided into eight parts, of which the first seven are concerned with the religious and spiritual welfare of the anchoress and the eighth part is (in his own words) "entirely of the external rule; first of meat and drink and of other things relating thereto; thereafter of the things that ye may receive and what things ye may keep and possess; then of your clothes and of such things as relate thereto; next of your tonsure and of your works and of your bloodlettings; lastly the rule concerning your maids, and how you ought kindly to instruct them"[1601]. This mixture of soul and body, of spiritual and practical, is amusingly illustrated in the chapter on confession, when he gives the following summary of all mentioned and known sins, as of pride, of ambition or of presumption, of envy, of wrath, of sloth, of carelessness, of idle words, of immoral thoughts, of any idle hearing, of any false joy, or of heavy mourning, of hypocrisy, of meat and of drink, too much or too little, of grumbling, of morose countenance, of silence broken, of sitting too long at the parlour window, of hours ill said, or without attention of heart, or at a wrong time; of any false word, or oath; of play, of scornful laughter, of dropping crumbs, or spilling ale, or letting a thing grow mouldy, or rusty, or rotten; clothes not sewed, wet with rain, or unwashen; a cup or a dish broken, or anything carelessly looked after which we are using, or which we ought to take care of; or of cutting or of damaging, through heedlessness[1602]. The author of the _Ancren Riwle_ shows throughout true religious feeling, compact of imagination and passion, but (as the above passage shows) he never loses hold on reality. He is sober and full of common sense, almost one had said a man of the world. He brings to his assistance (what writers on holy maidenhood so often lack) a sound knowledge of human nature, a sense of humour and a most observant eye. His psychological power appears in his account of some of the sins to which the nun is exposed, in his picture of the backbiter, for instance, or in the passage in which he explains that the worst temptations of the nun come not (as she expects) during the first two years of her profession, when "it is nothing but ball-play," but after she has followed the life for several years; for Jesus Christ is like the mortal lover, gentle when he is wooing his bride, who begins to correct her faults as soon as he is sure of her love, till in the end she is as he would have her be and there is peace and great joy.[1603] Not only is the _Ancren Riwle_ full of flashes of wisdom such as these. It is illustrated throughout by a profusion of metaphors and homely illustrations drawn from the author's own observation of the busy world outside the anchorage. Moreover it contains passages of a high and sustained eloquence almost unmatched in contemporary literature, such as the famous allegory of the wooing of the soul by Christ, under the guise of a king relieving a lady who loved and scorned him from the castle where she was besieged[1604]. Even more interesting than the spiritual counsels of the _Ancren Riwle_ are its practical counsels. The moderation and humanity of this most unfanatical author are never more striking than when he is dealing with the domestic life of the anchoresses. When laying down the general rule that no flesh nor lard should be eaten, except in great sickness, and that they should accustom themselves to little drink, he adds: "nevertheless, dear sisters, your meat and drink have seemed to me less than I would have it. Fast no day upon bread and water, except ye have leave"[1605], and again: Wear no iron, nor haircloth nor hedgehog skins and do not beat yourselves therewith, nor with a scourge of leather thongs nor leaded; and do not with holly nor with briars cause yourselves to bleed without leave of your confessor and do not, at one time, use too many flagellations[1606]. When he describes the sin of idle gossip, he breaks off with "Would to God, dear sisters, that all the others were as free as ye are of such folly"[1607]. Nothing could be more sensible than his regulations for their behaviour after the quarterly blood-letting: When ye are let blood ye ought to do nothing that may be irksome to you for three days; but talk with your maidens and divert yourselves together with instructive tales. Ye may often do so when ye feel dispirited, or are grieved about some worldly matter, or sick. Thus wisely take care of yourselves when you are let blood and keep yourselves in such rest that long thereafter ye may labour the more vigorously in God's service and also when ye feel any sickness, for it is great folly, for the sake of one day, to lose ten or twelve. He clearly has no belief in the theory of the medieval ascetic that filthiness is next to godliness, for he bids his dear sisters "wash yourselves wheresoever it is necessary, as often as ye please"[1608]. Some of the precepts in this section of the _Riwle_ are obviously more closely applicable to anchoresses than to nuns; for instance the instructions against hospitality and almsgiving. Others are equally suitable for both: Of a man whom ye distrust, receive ye neither less nor more--not so much as a race of ginger.... Carry ye on no traffic. An anchoress that is a buyer and a seller selleth her soul to the chapman of hell. Do not take charge of other men's property in your house, nor of their cattle, nor their clothes, neither receive under your care the church vestments, nor the chalice, unless force compel you, or great fear, for oftentimes much harm has come from such caretaking. Let no man sleep within your walls.... Because no man seeth you, nor do ye see any man, ye may be well content with your clothes, be they white, be they black; only see they be plain and warm and well made--skins well tawed; and have as many do you need, for bed and also for back.... Have neither ring nor brooch, nor ornamented girdle, nor gloves, nor any such thing that is not proper for you to have. I am always the more gratified, the coarser the works are that ye do. Make no purses to gain friends therewith, nor blodbendes of silk; but shape and sew and mend church vestments and poor people's clothes.... Ye shall not send, nor receive, nor write letters without leave. Ye shall have your hair cut four times a year to disburden your head; and be let blood as oft and oftener if it is necessary; but if anyone can dispense with this, I may well suffer it.[1609] There follows a short account of the kind of servants who should attend upon the anchoresses and the way in which these must behave and be ruled; and then the author ends characteristically: In this book read every day, when ye are at leisure--every day, less or more; for I hope that, if ye read it often, it will be very beneficial to you, through the grace of God, or else I shall have ill employed much of my time. God knows, it would be more agreeable to me to set out on a journey to Rome, than to begin to do it again.... As often as ye read anything in this book, greet the Lady with an Ave Mary for him who made this rule, and for him who wrote it and took pains about it. Moderate enough I am, who ask so little[1610]. And six centuries later, as we lay down this delightful little book, we cannot but agree that the claim is "moderate enough." Other didactic works addressed to nuns may be considered more briefly, for the majority are purely devotional and throw little light upon the daily life of the nun. The largest and most important book in English is the _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, written for the Brigittine sisters of Syon Monastery at Isleworth by the famous theologian and chancellor of Oxford, Thomas Gascoigne (1403-58)[1611]. It consists of a devotional treatise on the divine service, followed by a translation and explanation of the _Hours and Masses of Our Lady_ as used by the sisters. The first treatise is profusely illustrated throughout by _exempla_ taken from Caesarius of Heisterbach and similar sources and makes lively reading. Speaking of attendance at divine service Gascoigne remarks: They that have helthe and strengthe and ar nor lettyd by obedience, they ought to be full hasty and redy to come to this holy seruyce and lothe to be thense. They ought not to spare for eny slowth or dulnes of the body, ne yet though they fele some tyme a maner of payne in the stomacke or in the hed, for lacke of sleape or indygestyon.... For lyke as they that styrre up themselfe with a quycke and a feruent wyll thyderwarde ar holpe fourth and comforted by oure lordes good aungels; right so fendes take power ouer them that of slowthe kepe them thense, as ye may se by the example of a monke that was suffycyently stronge in body but he was slepy, and dul to ryse to mattyns. Often he was spoken to for to amende, and on a nyght he was callyd sharpely to aryse and come to the quyer. Then he was wrothe and rose up hastly and wente towarde the pryue dortour. And whan he came to the dore, there was redy a company of fendes comynge to hym warde, that cryed agenst hym wyth ferefull noyse and hasty, often saynge and cryyng: Take hym, take hym, gette hym, holde hym; And with thys the man was sodenly afrayde and turned agayne and ran to chyrche as fast as he myght, lyke a man halfe mad and out of hys wytte for dreade. And when he was come in to hys stalle, he stode a whyle trembelyng and pantyng, and sone after he fel doune to the grounde, and lay styll as dede a longe tyme without felyng or sturyng. Then he was borne to the farmery and after he was come agayne to hym self he tolde his bretherne what him eyled and from thense fourth he wolde be in the quyer wyth the fyrste. And so I trowe wolde other that ar now slowthefull, yf they were hastyd on the same wyse. The prevalence of such stories shows how common was the misdemeanour against which they are directed. It may be noted that as preface to the second part of the _Myroure_ there stands an excellent little dissertation on the value and method of reading[1612]. It is unnecessary to deal further with the other didactic works in English intended for the use of nuns, since their interest is purely religious[1613]. Before leaving the subject of didactic treatises it is however necessary to mention one little English prose work, for though not addressed to nuns, it throws some light upon the organisation of a convent and in particular provides a very complete list of obedientiaries. This is the _Abbey of the Holy Ghost_, which was printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1500 and has been erroneously attributed to various authors, including Richard Rolle of Hampole and John Alcock, Bishop of Ely ([dagger] 1480)[1614]. The allegory of a ghostly abbey seems to have been popular in the middle ages. It had already been used by the béguine Mechthild in the thirteenth century and it would be interesting to determine whether there is any direct connection between her treatise _Von einem geistlichen closter_ and the _Abbey of the Holy Ghost_. In her convent Charity is abbess, Meekness her chaplain, Peace prioress, Kindliness subprioress, Hope chantress, Wisdom schoolmistress, Bounty cellaress, Mercy chambress, Pity infirmaress, Dread portress and Obedience provost or priest[1615]. The English book is addressed to men and women who are unable to take regular vows in some monastic order, and the allegory is carried out in great detail. The study of didactic literature addressed to nuns, in order to assist them in a godly way of life, leads to the consideration of another type of didactic literature, didactic however with an _arrière-pensée_, being concerned to point out and to condemn evils which had crept into monasteries. This is the work of the satirists and moralists, who castigated by scorn or by condemnation the irregularities of the different orders. Like didactic writers they describe an ideal, but an ideal which emerges only from their attack on the dark reality, like sparks of light which the blacksmith's hammer beats from iron. Occasionally they use the gay satire of the writer of fabliaux; their condemnation is an undercurrent beneath a lightly flowing stream, their moral is implicit, they poke fun at the erring monk or nun, rather than chastise them. It is so in that delicious poem, _The Land of Cokaygne_[1616], which French wit begat in the thirteenth century upon English seriousness[1617]. _The Land of Cokaygne_ is partly an attack on the luxury of monastic houses, and partly an ebullition of irresponsible gaiety and humour, which might just as well (one feels) have taken another form. The author has perhaps in his mind the idea of the imaginary abbey of the Virtues, which was so popular among serious writers, but he puts it to a very different use. Far in the sea by West Spain, he says, there is a land which is called Cokaygne [_coquina_, kitchen]. No land under heaven is like it for goodness. Paradise may be merry and bright, but Cokaygne is fairer; for what is there in Paradise but grass and flower and green branches? though there be joy and great delight there, there is no meat but fruit, no hall or bower or bench, nothing but water to drink. But in Cokaygne there is plenty of meat and drink of the best, with no need to labour for it; in Cokaygne there is muckle joy and bliss and many a sweet sight, for it is always day there and always life; there is no anger, no animals, no insects (N'is there fly, flea no louse, In cloth in town, bed, no house), no vile worm or snail, no thunder, sleet, hail, rain or wind, no blindness. All is game and joy and glee there. There are great rivers of oil and milk and honey and wine--but as for water, it is used only for washing. Then the satire becomes slightly more pointed: There is a well-fair abbey, Of white monkes and of grey, There beth bowers, and halls: All of pasties beth the walls, Of flesh, of fish, and a rich meat, The likefullest that man may eat. Flouren cakes beth the _shingles_ all [tiles Of church, cloister, bowers and hall. The pinnes beth fat _puddings_ [sausages Rich meat to princes and kings. All may have as much as they will of the food. There is also in the abbey a fair cloister, with crystal pillars, adorned with green jasper and red coral. In the meadow near by is a tree, most "likeful for to see." The root is ginger and galingale, The scions beth all _sedwale_. [zedoary _Trie_ maces beth the flower, [choice The rind, _canel_ of sweet odour; [cinnamon The fruit _gilofre_ of good smack [cloves Of _cucubes_ there is no lack. [cubebs (a spice) There are also red roses and lilies that never fade. There are in the abbey four springs of _treacle_ (i.e. any rich electuary), _halwei_ (healing water), balsam and spiced wine, ever running in full stream, and the bed of the stream is all made of precious stones, sapphire, pearl, carbuncle, emerald, beryl, onyx, topaz, amethyst, chrysolite, chalcedony and others. There also are many birds, throstle, thrush and nightingale, goldfinch and woodlark, which sing merrily day and night. Better still ... I do you mo to wit, The geese y-roasted on the spit, Flee to that abbey, God it wot, And _gredith_ "Geese all hot! all hot!" [cry Hi bringeth garlek, great plentee, The best y-dight that man may see. The _leverokes_ that beth _couth_ [larks, well-known Lieth adown to manis mouth; Y-dight in stew full _swithe_ well, [quickly Powder'd with gingelofre and canell. The writer, having set his monks in the midst of this abundance of good things, proceeds to describe their daily life. When they go to mass, he says, the glass windows turn into bright crystal to give them more light, and when the mass is ended and the books are laid away again, the crystal turns back again into glass: The young monkes each day After meat goeth to play; N'is there hawk, no fowl so swift, Better fleeing by the lift, Than the monkes, high of mood, With their sleeves and their hood. When the abbot seeth them flee, That he holds for much glee, Ac natheless, all there among, He biddeth them light to evesong. And if the monks pursue for too long their airy gambols, he recalls them by means of an improvised drum, the nature of which is best not indicated to a more squeamish generation. Then the monks alight in a flock and so "wend meekly home to drink," in a fair procession. So far the Paradise has been without an Eve. But the author will provide these jolly monks with companions worthy of their humour: Another abbey is thereby, Forsooth a great fair nunnery: Up a river of sweet milk, Where is plenty great of silk. When the summer's day is hot, The young nunnes taketh a boat, And doth them forth in that river, Both with oarés and with steer. When they beth far from the abbey They maketh them naked for to play, And lieth down into the brim, And doth them slily for to swim. The young monks that _hi_ seeeth, [them They doth them up and forth they fleeeth, And cometh to the nuns anon. And each monke him taketh one, And _snellich_ beareth forth their prey [quickly To the mochil grey abbey, And teacheth the nuns an orison With _jambleue_ up and down. [gambols The monk that acquits him best among the ladies may have twelve wives in a year, if he will, and if he can outdo all his companions Of him is hope, God is wot, To be soon father abbot! But whoever will come to this delectable country must first serve a hard penance; seven years must he wade in swines' muck up to the chin ere he win there. Fair and courteous lordings, good luck to you in the test! More of a fairy tale than a satire, this jovial and good humoured poem was immensely popular in the middle ages. Another thirteenth century lampoon on the monastic orders, written in French in the reign of Edward I, is less well known, possibly because its satire, while still essentially gay, is more obvious than that of _The Land of Cokaygne_. The poem is known as _L'Ordre de Bel-Eyse_[1618]. The author has had the happy idea (not however a new one)[1619] of combining all the characteristic vices of the different orders into one glorious Order of Fair Ease, to which belong many a gentleman and many a fair lady, but no ribald nor peasant. From the Order of Sempringham it borrows one custom, that of having brothers and sisters together, but while at Sempringham there must be between them ("a thing which displeases many") ditches and high walls, in the Order of Fair Ease there must be no wall and no watchword to prevent the brethren from visiting the sisters at their pleasure; their intimacy must be separated by nothing, says this precursor of Rabelais, not by linen nor wool, nor even by their skins! And all who enter the order must feast well and in company, thrice a day and oftener. From the canons of Beverley they have taken the custom of drinking well at their meat and long afterwards (the pun is on _bever_, to drink), from the Hospitallers that of going clad in long robes and elegant shoes, riding upon great palfreys that amble well. From the Canons they borrow the habit of eating meat, but whereas the canons eat it thrice a week these brethren are bound to eat it daily. From the Black Monks (as from the canons of Beverley) they take their heavy drinking, and if a brother be visited by a friend who shall know how to carouse in the evening, he shall sleep late in the morning (for the sake of his eyesight), till the evil fumes have issued from his head. From the secular Canons ("who willingly serve the ladies") they have taken a rule which is more needful than any other to solace the brethren--that each brother must make love to a sister before and after matins; a point which is elaborated with cheerful indecency, under the guise of borrowing from the Grey Monks their manner of saying prayers. From the Carthusians they take the custom of shutting each monk up in his cell to repose himself, with fair plants on his window-ledge for his solace, and his sister between his arms. The Friars Minor are founded in poverty, which they seek by lodging ever with the chief baron, or knight, or churchman of the countryside, where they can have their full; and so must the brethren of Fair Ease do likewise. The Preachers go preaching in shoes and if they are footsore they ride at ease on horseback; but the brethren of Fair Ease are vowed always to ride, and always they must preach within doors and after they have dined. This is our Order of Fair Ease; he who breaks it shall be chastised and he who makes good use of it shall be raised to the dignity of abbot or prior to hold it in honour, for thus do the Augustine canons, who know so many devices. Now ends our Order, which agrees with all good orders, and may it please many all too well![1620] The inventors of these two imaginary orders were not serious or embittered moralists. Cokaygne lies upon the bonny road to Elfland; and Bel Eyse is a coarser, stupider Abbey of Theleme[1621], whose inmates lack that instinct for honour and noble liberty which makes Gargantua's "Fais ce que vouldras" an ideal as well as a satire. As a rule the medieval satirists of monasticism deal in grave admonitions, or in violent reproaches. But one contemporary poem, hailing this time from France, may be added to the two English works in which the frailties of nuns are treated in a jesting spirit. This is a piece by the famous trouvère Jean de Condé entitled _La messe des oisiaus et li plais des chanonesses et des grises nonains_[1622]. The poem begins with an account of a mass sung in due form by all the birds and followed by a feast presided over by the goddess Venus. After this unwieldy introduction comes the main theme, which consists of a lawsuit brought by the nobly born canonesses against the grey Cistercian nuns, for the judgment of Venus. A canoness speaks first on behalf of her order, attended by several gentlemen and knights, who are proud to claim her acquaintance: "Queen," she says, "Deign to hear us and to receive us favourably, for we have ever been thy faithful subjects and we shall continue ever to serve thee with ardour. For long noblemen held it glorious to have our love; the honour cost them nothing and was celebrated by round-tables, feasts and tourneys. But now the grey nuns are stealing our lovers from us. They are easy mistresses, exacting neither many attentions nor long service and sometimes men are base enough to prefer them to us. We demand justice. Punish their insolence, that henceforward they may not raise their eyes to those who were created for us and for whom we alone are made." Venus then bids a grey nun speak and the grey nun's words are dry and to the point: Has not nature made us too for love? are not there among us many who are as fair, as young, as attractive and as loving as they. Do not doubt it. True their dress is finer than ours, but in affairs of the heart we serve as well as they. They say we steal their lovers. In truth it is they who by their pride and haughtiness drive those lovers away; we do but reconquer them by courtesy and gentleness. We do not seek them in love; but we have pleased them and they return to us. And, if they are to be believed, that studied elegance, which must be costly, has sometimes offered them a love less pure and disinterested than that which they find with us. This last charge pricks the canonesses and their faces grow scarlet with rage: What? do these serving girls add insult to injury? Do they dare to claim to be as good lovers as we, who have ever had the usage and maintenance of love? Their bodies, clad in wool, are not of such lordship as to be compared to ours and grave shame were it if a man knew not how to choose the highest. Bold and foolish grey-robes, great ill have you done. Without your importunities and officious advances no great lord or knight or man of honour would think of you. This is your secret and to the shame of love it is spoken, for you degrade thus the joys which he would have true lovers long desire in vain. You have your monks and lay brothers; love them, give them heavy alms and share your pittances with them: you are welcome to them for our part. But as to gentlemen, leave them to us, who are gentlewomen. The grey nun replies quietly that her cause is too good to be weakened by insults, which can only offend the assembly and the respect due to the goddess, and that love considers neither birth nor wealth: Our grey robes of Cîteaux are not as fine as your vair-lined mantles and rich adornments; but in such things we do not wish to compare ourselves with you. It is in the heart and in love that we claim to be as good as you. There follows a hum of discussion in the assembly, some taking one side and some the other, but most favouring the grey nuns. Then Venus rises to give judgment and makes a long speech on the theme that all are equal in her eyes: "White-robed canonesses," she concludes, "I have always held your services dear. Your grace, your elegance, your fine manners will always bring you lovers; keep them, but do not drive from my court these modest nuns, who serve me with so much constancy and whose hearts burn for me the more ardently, owing to the constraint under which they live. You are finer and know better, perhaps, how to entertain; but sometimes the labourer's humble hackney goes further than the palfrey of the knight. It lies with yourselves alone to keep your lovers. Imitate your rivals and be gentle and gracious as they are and you will not have to fear for the fidelity of a single lord." Obviously hitherto the poem has had none of the characteristics of a moral piece. The _débat_ was a common literary device, the law court presided over by Venus a favourite literary theme. Jean de Condé is merely concerned to amuse the court of Hainault with a polished poem cast in this familiar mould, just as at other times he might regale it with the _fabliau_ of _Les Braies au Prestre_ or the _dit_ of _La Nonnette_. Any satirical value which the poem has is due simply to the implication in his choice of parties to the suit; that is to say it is no more a satire than are the numerous _fabliaux_, which have for their subject the peccadillos of the Church. But the trouvère, even an aristocrat of the confraternity, such as Jean, who would have held in utter scorn the mere buffoon at the street corner, was never able to forget that he plied a dangerous trade, a "trop perilous mester." He was continually aware of the necessity to put himself right with Heaven, lest haply Aucassin spoke truth and to hell went the harpers and singers; for the Church's condemnation of his tribe was unequivocal. Therefore at the end of Venus' speech Jean de Condé abruptly tacks on a most untimely moral, which gives a sudden seriousness to his poem. He will sit in the seat of the moralists. So he interprets the whole debate according to a theological and moral allegory, even going so far as to compare the strife between the canonesses and the grey nuns with the resentment of the first workers against those who came last, in the parable of the Vineyard! He concludes with a bitter reproach against moral disorders among the nuns, accusing them of paying service to Venus to their damnation, and bidding "canonesses, canons, priests, monks, nuns and all folk of their sort" to give up the evil love of the world, which passes away like a dream, and to cling to the love of God which endureth for ever. A strange point of view; but one which would strike no sense of incongruity in an audience accustomed to the moralisation of the _Gesta Romanorum_ and of many another profane story, forced to do pious service as an _exemplum_. It is the spirit which built cathedrals and filled them with grotesques. Jean de Condé was not really a moralist, even in the sense in which the authors of _The Land of Cokaygne_ and _The Order of Fair Ease_ deserve the name. But there were a number of genuine moralists in the last three centuries of the middle ages, who shook sober heads over the misdeeds of nuns[1623]. In two thirteenth century French "Bibles," by Guiot de Provins and the Seigneur de Berzé respectively[1624], their chastity is impugned and the author of _Les Lamentations de Matheolus_ (c. 1290) goes to the root of the matter and attributes their immorality to the ease with which they are able to wander about outside their convents. They are continually inventing stories, he says, in order to escape for a moment from the cloister; their father, mother, cousin, sister, brother is ill; so they receive _congé_ to wander about where they will--"par le pais s'en vont esbattre." Moreover he has hard words for the rapacity of nuns in love; distrust them, he warns, for they pluck and shear their lovers worse than thieves or than Breton pirates; you must be always giving, giving, giving with those ladies--it is the usage of their convent; you have to reward the messenger and the mistress, the chambermaid, the matron and the companion[1625]. The mention of the companion shows that the precaution of sending the nuns out in twos was not always successful, and Gui de Mori (writing about the same time) has the same tale to tell; the nun's lover has to give to two at least, to her and to her companion; and since nuns have plenty of spare time, they are fond of feeding love by the exchange of messages, which mean more _douceurs_ from the purse of the luckless gallant[1626]. The most interesting of all French moralists who deal with nuns is, however, Gilles li Muisis, Abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St Martin of Tournai, who began about 1350 to write a "Register" of his thoughts upon contemporary life and morality, one section of which concerns "Les maintiens des nonnains"[1627]. Like Matheolus, Gilles li Muisis considers that the root of all evils is the ease with which nuns are able to leave their convents: "Of old," he says, "the nun was approved by God and man, when she kept her cloister and wandered little in the world; but now I see them go out often, whereat I am greatly displeased, for if this thing were stopped many scandals would cease and it were greatly to the profit of their souls." He represents the "très doulces nonnains" as behaving "like ladies"; they keep open house for visitors; and the young men go in more easily than the old and guilty love is born. They exchange messages and letters with their lovers; moreover they very often take _congé_ without any other reason than the desire to meet these young men, and the sight of nuns upon every road sets men's tongues chattering. They ought to sit at home, spinning and sewing and mending their wimples: instead they hurry from stall to stall, spending their money on fine cloths and collars. The Pope would do well if he enclosed them. The young nuns are the worst of all; they are forever pestering their abbesses for leave to go out; they will have all their elders at their will, cellaress, treasuress, subprioress. Everything is topsy-turvy now and all are in the same rank, those who are lettered and those who are not; the young desire to have a finger in every pie. Even their vow of poverty these nuns will not keep. They will have incomes of their own and if they have none they grumble until they obtain one somehow: "It is for this reason," they say, "that we desire the money--our houses are growing poor and everywhere we grow weak." But it is not so, for they want it in order to be able to go out more often. "I recognise," says Gilles, "and it is true, that nuns have many duties to fulfil, for there is great resort of guests to their houses, and if it were possible without harm to diminish these expenses, one might do something to help them." But it is necessary to remember that the ownership of private property is a sin; canon law condemns it, and if there is a rule permitting these private incomes I have never met it. Moreover one sees every day the evil results of such possessions. What is the result of this laxity of morals, of this continual wandering of nuns in the world? Secular folk everywhere talk about them and miscall them: "Religious ladies," says Gilles, "if you often heard what people say about many of you, the hearts of good nuns would be dismayed, for the world has but a poor opinion of you. And why? because men see the nuns wandering so often; see them packing up all these goods in their carts and going up and down the hills and dales. It is not you alone who are slandered; everywhere it is the same; the folk of holy church are held in little respect and men complain because they have so many possessions and such fat endowments. But be assured, all of you, when you go along the highways, that people look and see how well you are shod and how daintily you are clad; and they hurl evil words against you. 'Look at those nuns, who are more like fairies. They are attired even better than other women. They go about the roads, so that men may gaze upon them; what they covet is to be well stared at. God! well they know how to entertain men. They have left their cloisters and are going to enjoy themselves. Better were it for them if they prayed for people, instead of going to chatter with their friends.'" Even those who keep company with these nuns are at the same time disturbed and a little dismayed by their behaviour. "Such men go about with them and have their will of them; but pay them behind their backs with fierce slanders...." So the worthy abbot continues, and every word that he says is borne out by the unimpeachable evidence of the visitation reports. His long lament is the most interesting of all moral works which have the behaviour of nuns as their subject and it would be possible to annotate almost every verse with a visitation _compertum_ or injunction. Serious writers in condemnation of nuns were not lacking in England as well as in France in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when, as Gilles li Muisis complained, "les gens de Saint-Eglise petits sont deportées." Langland's pungent satire on the convent where Wrath was Potager has already been quoted[1628]. Gower, for whom the world was still more out of joint, has a long passage concerning nuns in that portentous monument of dulness, the _Vox Clamantis_, and draws a pessimistic picture of their weakness and the readiness with which they yield to temptation[1629]. Like monks, he says, the nuns are bound to chastity, but since they are by nature more frail than man, they must not be punished as severely as men if they break their vows; for the foot of woman cannot stand or step firmly like the foot of man and she has none of those virtues of learning, understanding, constancy and moral excellence, with which the more admirable sex is endowed: Nec scola, nec sensus, constancia nullaque virtus Sicut habent homines, in muliere vigent! He proceeds to illustrate the moral superiority of the male by the statement that nuns are often led astray by priests, who enter their convents as confessors or visitors, and under guise of a reforming visitation make the frail women worse than they were before. "I should hold this a most damnable crime," says Gower, "were it not that--really, woman falls so easily!" Hoc genus incesti dampnabile grande putarem Sit nisi quod mulier de leuitate cadit[1630]. After further reflections in this strain, he bursts into a long panegyric of virginity and then passes on to attack the manners of the friars. Far more interesting than Gower's conventional moralising is a poem entitled _Why I can't be a Nun_, and written early in the fifteenth century[1631]. The favourite device of a ghostly abbey, peopled by personified qualities, is here employed, but the inmates of the convent are chiefly vices and such virtues as have a place among the nuns are treated with scant respect by their companions. The poem is unfortunately incomplete and begins abruptly in the middle of a sentence, but the gist of the missing introduction is clear enough. The author represents herself as a young girl named Katherine, whose desire to become a professed nun has been opposed by her father. The father charges a number of messengers to visit all the nunneries of England and the poem opens with the departure of these messengers, full of zeal to accomplish their task, and their return with the news that the nuns were ready to do his will. Whereupon her father told Katherine that she could not be a nun, and merely laughing at her protests, went his way. Then she mourned and was sad and thought that fortune was against her; and one May morning, when her sorrow was more than she could bear, she walked in a fair garden, where she was wont to go daily to watch the flowers and the birds with their bright feathers, singing and making merry on the green bough; and going into an arbour, she set herself upon her knees and prayed to God to help her in her distress. At last she fell asleep in the garden and in her sleep a fair lady came to her and called her by her name and bade her awake and be comforted. This lady was called Experience and told Katherine that she had come to take pity on her and teach her, saying: Kateryne, thys day schalt thow see An howse of wommen reguler, And diligent loke that thow be, And note ryght welle what þou seest there. Then they went through a green meadow till they came to a beautiful building and entered boldly by the gates; and it was a house of nuns, "of dyuers orderys bothe old and yong," but not well governed, after the rule of sober living, for self-will reigned there and caused discord and debate: And what in that place I saw That to religion schulde not long, Peradventure ghe wolde desyre to know, And who was dwellyng hem among. Sum what counseyle kepe I schalle, And so I was tawght whan I was yong, To here and se, and sey not all. Then follows an enumeration of the inmates of the convent: But there was a lady, that hyght dame pride; In grete reputacion they her toke And pore dame mekenes sate be syde To her vnnethys ony wolde loke, But alle as who sethe I her forsoke, And set not by her nether most ne lest; Dame ypocryte loke vpon a boke And bete her selfe vpon the brest. On every syde than lokede vp I And fast I cast myne ye abowte; Yf I cowde se, beholde or aspy, I wolde have sene dame deuowte. And sche was but wyth few of that rowght; For dame slowthe and dame veyne glory By vyolens had put her owte; And than in my hert I was fulle sory. But dame envy was there dwellyng The whyche can sethe stryfe in every state. And a nother lady was there wonnyng That hyght dame love vnordynate, In that place bothe erly and late Dame lust, dame wantowne, and dame nyce, They ware so there enhabyted, I wate, That few token hede to goddys servyse. Dame chastyte, I dare welle say, In that couent had lytylle chere, But oft in poynt to go her way, Sche was so lytelle beloved there; But sum her loved in hert fulle dere, And there weren that dyd not so, And sum set no thyng by her, But ghafe her gode leue for to go.... And in that place fulle besyly I walked whyle I myght enduer, And saw how dame enevy In every corner had grete cure; Sche bare the keyes of many a dore. And than experience to me came, And seyde, kateryne, I the ensuer, Thys lady ys but seldom fro home. Than dame pacience and dame charyte In that nunry fulle sore I sowght; I wolde fayne have wyst where they had be, For in that couent were they nowght; But an owte chamber for hem was wrowght, And there they dweldyn wyth-owtyn stryfe, And many gode women to them sowght And were fulle wylfulle of her lyfe. There was also another lady, Dame Disobedience, and says Katherine: Of all the faults that Experience showed me, this lack of obedience grieved me most, so that I might no longer abide for shame, for I saw that they had obedience in no reverence and that few or none took heed of her; and I sped at great speed out of the gates, to escape from that convent so full of sin. Then Katherine and the Lady Experience sat down upon the grass, where they could behold the place, and they began to talk: And than I prayed experience for to have wyst Why sche schewed me thys nunery, Sche seyde "now we bene here in rest, I thenk for to tellen the why, Thy furst desyre and thyne entent Was to bene a nune professede, And for thy fader wolde not consent, Thyne hert wyth mornyng was sore oppressede, And thow wyst not what to do was best; And I seyde, I wolde cese thy grevaunce, And now for the most part in every cost I have schewed the nunnes gouernawnce. For as thou seest wythin yonder walle Suche bene the nunnes in euery warde, As for the most part, I say not alle, God forbede, for than hyt were harde, For sum bene devowte, holy and towarde, And holden the ryght way to blysse; And sum bene feble, lewde and frowarde, Now god amend what ys amys! And now keteryne, I have alle do For thy comfort that longeth to me, And now let vs aryse and go Vn-to the herber there I come to the. There Experience departed and Katherine awakened from her dream, determined never to be a nun, unless the faults that she had seen were amended. Then follows a long exhortation to the nuns. They are adjured (by the well-worn example of Dinah) not to wander from their convents, and are reminded that the habit does not make the nun: Yowre barbe, your wympplle and your vayle, Yowre mantelle and yowre devowte clothyng, Maketh men wythowten fayle To wene ghe be holy in levyng. And so hyt ys an holy thyng To bene in habyte reguler; Than, as by owtewarde array in semyng, Beth so wythin, my ladyes dere. A fayre garland of yve grene Whyche hangeth at a tavern dore, Hyt ys a false token as I wene, But yf there by wyne gode and sewer; Ryght so but ghe your vyes forbere, And alle lewde custom be broken, So god me spede, I yow ensewer Ellys yowre habyte ys no trew token. The poem ends as abruptly as it began with a catalogue of holy women, whose lives are worthy of imitation, St Clare, St Edith, St Scolastica and St Bridget, "that weren professed in nunnes habyte," and a bevy of English saints, St Audrey, St Frideswide, St Withburg, St Mildred, St Sexburg and St Ermenild. Whether or not the author really was a woman, the poem seems to show some knowledge of monastic life; and a certain sincerity and rugged directness render it more impressive than Gower's long-winded accusations. There remain to be considered two satires which were written on the very eve of the Reformation and perhaps have a particular significance by reason of the cataclysm, which was so soon to effect what all the denunciations of the moralists had failed to do. These are the dialogues on "The Virgin averse to Matrimony" and "The Penitent Virgin" in Erasmus' _Colloquies_ (c. 1526) and a morality (which has already been mentioned) by the Scottish poet Sir David Lyndesay, entitled _Ane Pleasant Satyre of the Thrie Estaits, in commendatioun of vertew and vituperatioun of vyce_ (c. 1535). Erasmus' dialogues are (as might be expected) strongly anti-monastic and the two which concern nuns are intended to attack those "kidnappers" as he calls them: that by their allurements draw young men and maids into monasteries, contrary to the minds of their parents, making a handle either of their simplicity or superstition, persuading them there is no hope of salvation out of a monastery. The dialogue entitled "The Virgin averse to Matrimony"[1632] takes place between Eubulus and a seventeen-year old girl, Katherine, who like that other Katherine, the heroine of _Why I can't be a Nun_, has set her heart upon entering a convent, but has encountered the opposition of her parents: "What was it," asks Eubulus, "that gave the first rise to this fatal resolution?" "Formerly," replies Katherine, "when I was a little girl, they carried me into one of these cloisters of virgins, carried me all about it and shewed me the whole college. I was mightily taken with the virgins, they looked so charmingly pretty, just like angels; the chapels were so neat and smelt so sweet, the gardens looked so delicately well-ordered, that, in short, which way soever I turned my eye everything seemed delightful. And then I had the prettiest discourse with the nuns; and I found two or three that had been my play-fellows when I was a child and I have a strange passion for that sort of life ever since." Eubulus argues with the girl. She can live as purely in her father's house as in a nunnery; more purely indeed--and he makes a grave indictment against the morality of nuns[1633]. Moreover she has no right to run contrary to the wishes of her parents and to exchange their authority for that of a fictitious father and a strange mother: "The matter in question here," he says, "is only the changing of a habit or of such a course of life, which in itself is neither good nor evil. And now consider but this one thing, how many valuable privileges you lose together with your liberty. Now, if you have a mind to read, pray or sing, you may go into your own chamber as much and as often as you please. When you have enough of retirement you may go to church, hear anthems, prayers and sermons and if you see any matron or virgin remarkable for piety, in whose company you may get good, if you see any man that is endowed with singular probity from whom you may learn what will make for your bettering, you may have their conversation; and you may choose that preacher that preaches Christ most purely. When once you come into a cloister all these things, which are the greatest assistance in the promotion of true piety, you lose at once." "But," says Katherine, "in the meantime I shall not be a nun." "What signifies the name?" replies Eubulus. "Consider the thing itself. They make their boast of obedience and will you not be praiseworthy in being obedient to your parents, your bishop and your pastor, whom God has commanded you to obey? Do you profess poverty? And may not you too, when all is in your parents' hands? Although the virgins of former times were in an especial manner commended by holy men for their liberality towards the poor; but they could never have given anything if they had possessed nothing. Nor will your charity be ever the less for living with your parents. And what is there more in a convent than these? A veil, a linen shift turned into a stole, and certain ceremonies, which of themselves signify nothing to the advancement of piety and make nobody more acceptable in the eyes of Christ, who only regards the purity of the mind." "Are you then against the main institution of a monastic life?" asks Katherine. "By no means," answers Eubulus. "But as I will not persuade anybody against it that is already engaged in this sort of life to endeavour to get out of it, so I would most undoubtedly caution all young women, especially those of generous tempers, not to precipitate themselves unadvisedly into that state from whence there is no getting out afterwards. And the rather because their charity is more in danger in a cloister than out of it; and beside that, you may do whatever is done there as well at home." But Katherine remains unpersuaded. In the next dialogue, called "The Penitent Virgin"[1634] Eubulus and Katherine meet again, and Katherine informs her friend how she has entered the nunnery, but has repented and gone home to her parents before being fully professed: "How did you get your parents' consent at last?" asks Eubulus. "First by the restless solicitations of the monks and nuns and then by my own importunities and tears, my mother was at length brought over; but my father stood out stiffly still. But at last being plyed by several engines, he was prevailed upon to yield; but yet, rather like one that was forced than that consented. The matter was concluded in their cups, and they preached damnation to him, if he refused to let Christ have his spouse.... I was kept close at home for three days; but in the mean time there were always with me some women of the college that they call _convertites_, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy resolution and watching me narrowly, lest any of my friends or kindred should come at me and make me alter my mind. In the meanwhile my habit was making ready, and the provision for the feast." "Did not your mind misgive you yet?" asks Eubolus. "No, not at all; and yet I was so horridly frightened that I had rather die ten times over than suffer the same again.... I had a most dreadful apparition." "Perhaps," remarks Eubulus slyly, "it was your evil genius that pushed you on to this." "I am fully persuaded it was an evil spirit," replies Katherine. "Tell me what shape it was in? Was it such as we use to paint with a crooked beak, long horns, harpies claws and swinging tail?" "You can make game of it," says poor Katherine, "but I had rather sink into the earth than see such another." "And were your women solicitresses with you then?" "No, nor I would not so much as open my lips of it to them, though they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost dead with the surprise." "Shall I tell you what it was?" says Eubulus. "These women had certainly bewitched you, or conjured your brain out of your head rather[1635]. But did you persist in your resolution for all this?" "Yes, for they told me that many were thus troubled upon their first consecrating themselves to Christ; but if they got the better of the Devil that bout, he'd let them alone for ever after." "Well, what pomp were you carried out with?" "They put on all my finery, let down my hair and dressed me just as if it had been for my wedding.... I was carried from my father's house to the college by broad daylight and a world of people staring at me." "O these Scaramouches," interrupts Eubulus, "how they know how to wheedle the poor people!" Katherine then tells him that she remained only twelve days in the nunnery, and after six changed her mind and besought her father and mother to take her away, which they eventually did. But what she saw that made her recant she refuses to tell Eubulus, though he announces himself well able to guess what it was. The dialogue ends on a significant note, "In the meanwhile you have been at a great charge." "Above four hundred crowns." "O these guttling nuptials!"[1636] The racy dialogues of Erasmus illustrate the characteristic hostility of the new learning towards contemporary monastic orders, and embody the main charges which were customarily made against them, viz. the undue pressure brought to bear upon young people to take vows for which they were not necessarily suited, the avarice of the convents and the immorality of their inmates. Sir David Lyndesay's _Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_ dwells more specifically upon the latter accusation. In this lively castigation of the vices of the day, which was acted for nine hours before the court of King James V of Scotland at Cupar in 1535, Chastity comes upon the stage, lamenting that she has long been banished, unheeded and unfriended and that neither the temporal estate, nor the spiritual estate nor the Princes will befriend her. Diligence bids her seek refuge among the nuns, who are sworn to observe chastity, pointing to a Prioress of renown, sitting among the other spiritual lords. "I grant," says Chastity, ghon Ladie hes vowit Chastitie For hir professioun; thairto sould accord. Scho maid that vow for ane Abesie, Bot nocht for Christ Jesus our Lord. Fra tyme that thay get thair vows, I stand for'd, Thay banische hir out of thair cumpanie: With Chastitie thay can mak na concord, Bot leids thair lyfis in Sensualitie. I sall obserue our counsall, gif I may. Cum on, and heir quhat ghon Ladie will say, My prudent, lustie, Ladie Priores, Remember how ghe did vow Chastitie. Madame, I pray ghow, of your gentilnes, That ghe wald pleis to haif of me pitie, And this ane nicht to gif me harberie: For this I mak ghow supplicacioun. Do ghe nocht sa, Madame, I dreid, perdie! It will be caus of depravatioun. But the Prioress has given her allegiance to the notorious Lady Sensuality, who, serving Queen Venus, has corrupted the court of King Humanity and especially his clergy. "Pass hynd, Madame," she says, Be Christ I ghe cum nocht heir: ghe are contrair to my cumplexioun ... Dame Sensuall hes geuin directioun ghow till exclude out of my cumpany. Chastity then applies in vain to the Lords of Spirituality for shelter; an abbot jeers at her and a parson bids her Pas hame amang the Nunnis and dwell, Quhilks ar of Chastitie the well. I traist thay will, with Buik and bell Ressaue ghow in thair Closter; to which Chastity replies: Sir, quhen I was the Nunnis amang, Out of thair dortour thay mee dang, And wold nocht let me bide se lang To say my Pater noster[1637]. At the end of the play the evil counsellors of King Humanity and corruptors of his Estates are punished by Sir Commonweal, with the assistance of Good Counsel and Correction. Correction, with his Scribe, examines the spiritual lords as to how they keep their vows, and thus interrogates the Prioress: Quhat say ghe now, my Ladie Priores? How have ghe vsit ghour office, can ghe ges? Quhat was the caus ghe refusit harbrie To this young lustie Ladie Chastitie? and the Prioress replies: I wald have harborit hir, with gude intent; Bot my complexioun therto wald not assent. I do my office efter auld vse and wount: To ghour Parliament I will mak na mair count[1638]. The punishment of Flattery the Friar, the Prioress and the other prelates follows; and the Sergeants proceed to divest her of her habit, gaily adjuring her: Cum on, my Ladie Priores. We sall leir ghow to dance-- And that within ane lytill space-- Ane new pavin of France (_Heir sall thay spuilghe the Priores; and scho sall haue ane kirtill of silk under hir habite._) Now, brother, be the Masse! Be my iudgement, I think This halie Priores Is turnit in ane _cowclink_[1639]. [courtesan The Prioress then makes a lament, which has already been quoted, blaming her friends for making her a nun, and declaring that nuns are not necessary to Christ's congregation and would be better advised to marry. Finally the Acts of Parliament of King Correction and King Humanity, for the better regulation of the realm, are proclaimed; and these include a condemnation of nunneries: Because men seis, plainlie, This wantoun Nunnis ar na way necessair Till Common-weill, not ghit to the glorie Of Christ's kirk, thocht thay be fat and fair. And als, that fragill ordour feminine Will nocht be missit in Christ's Religioun; Thair rents vsit till ane better fyne For Common-weill of all this Regioun[1640]. The date when these words were first proclaimed from a stage is significant; it was 1535, the year of the visitation of the monasteries in England. The confiscation of those rents was soon to be an accomplished fact; but it was a king rather than a commonweal that reaped the benefit. There remains for consideration only one other class of literature which speaks of the nun. It is interesting to see the part which she plays in literature proper, outside popular songs and stories, or popular and didactic works written for purposes of edification. Considering the important part played by monastic institutions in the life of the upper classes it is perhaps surprising that the part played by the nun in secular literature is so small. But the explanation lies in the definitely romantic basis of the greater part of such literature, combined with the fact that it was aristocratic in origin and therefore inherited a respect for the nunneries, which prevented a romantic treatment of the nun, such as is found in the _chansons de nonnes_. Even so it is to be remarked that the treatment is romantic with a difference; the nun is willingly professed, pious, aloof, but it is because death or misfortune has put an end to lovers' joys; the type of nun who appears in this literature has retreated to a convent at the close of a life spent in the world. If the nun unwillingly professed has always been a favourite theme, so also has the broken-hearted wife or lover, hiding her sorrows in the silent cloister; from the twelfth to the nineteenth century she remains unchanging, from Belle Doette and Guinevere to the Lady Kirkpatrick: To sweet Lincluden's holy cells Fu' dowie I'll repair: There peace wi' gentle patience dwells-- Nae deadly feuds are there. In tears I'll wither ilka charm, Like draps o' balefu' dew, And wail a beauty that could harm A knight sae brave and true[1641]. The anonymous twelfth century romance of Belle Doette contains some charming verses, describing her grief at her husband's death and her determination to enter a cloister: Bèle Doette a pris son duel a faire: "Tant mari fustes, cuens Do, frans de bon aire! Por vostre amor vestirai je la haire, Ne sor mon cors n'avra pelice vaire. E or en ai dol. Por vos devenrai nonne en l'eglyse Saint Pol. Por vos ferai une abbaie téle Quant iért li jors que la feste iért nomée Se nus i vient qui ait s'amor fausee Ja del mostier ne savera l'entree. E or en ai dol. Por vos devenrai nonne en l'eglyse Saint Pol. Bèle Doette prist s'abaise a faire, Qui mout est grande et ades sera maire: Toz cels et celes vodra dedans atraire Qui por amor sévent peine et mal traire. E or en ai dol. Por vos devenrai nonne en l'eglyse Saint Pol"[1642]. Lovely Doette, she weeps a husband fair. "O count, my lord, frank wast thou, debonair! For thy dear love I'll wear a shirt of hair, Never again be clad in robe of vair. Great grief have I. Now in St Paul's a nun I'll live and die. For thy dear love an abbey I will raise. And when therein first sounds the song of praise If one shall come who falsely love betrays Ne'er shall she find an entrance all her days. Great grief have I. Now in St Paul's a nun I'll live and die. Lovely Doette, she makes her abbey so. Great now it is and greater still shall grow. And lovers all into that church shall go Who for love's sake know pain and bitter woe. Great grief have I. Now in St Paul's a nun I'll live and die." To English readers the supreme representative of this type must always be Malory's Guinevere: And when queen Guenever understood that king Arthur was slain, and all the noble knights, Sir Mordred and all the remnant, then the queen stole away and five ladies with her, and so she went to Almesbury, and there she let make herself a nun, and wore white clothes and black, and great penance she took, as ever did sinful lady in this land, and never creature could make her merry, but lived in fasting, prayers and alms-deeds, that all manner of people marvelled how virtuously she was changed. Now leave we queen Guenever in Almesbury a nun in white clothes and black, and there she was abbess and ruler as reason would. There follows that incomparable chapter of parting, when Launcelot seeks his queen in her nunnery: and then was queen Guenever ware of Sir Launcelot as he walked in the cloister, and when she saw him there she swooned thrice, that all the ladies and gentlewomen had work enough to hold the queen up. So when she might speak, she called ladies and gentlewomen to her, and said, Ye marvel, fair ladies, why I make this fare. Truly, she said, it is for the sight of yonder knight that yonder standeth: wherefore, I pray you all, call him to me. When Sir Launcelot was brought to her, then she said to all the ladies, Through this man and me hath all this war been wrought, and the death of the most noblest knights of the world; for through our love that we have loved together is my noble lord slain. Therefore, Sir Launcelot, wit thou well I am set in such a plight to get my soul's health; and yet I trust, through God's grace, that after my death to have a sight of the blessed face of Christ and at doomsday to sit at his right side, for as sinful as ever I was are saints in heaven. Therefore, Sir Launcelot, I require thee and beseech thee heartily, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou never see me more in the visage; and I command thee on God's behalf that thou forsake my company and to thy kingdom thou turn again and keep well thy realm from war and wrack. For as well as I have loved thee, mine heart will not serve me to see thee; for through thee and me is the flower of kings and knights destroyed. And so on, through the last parting, and the last kiss refused, and the lamentation "as they had been stung with spears," through the six long years of fasting and penance, till the day when Guinevere died and a vision bade Launcelot seek her corpse. And when Sir Launcelot was come to Almesbury, within the nunnery, queen Guenever died but half an hour before. And the ladies told Sir Launcelot that queen Guenever told them all, or she passed, that Sir Launcelot had been priest near a twelvemonth--And hither he cometh as fast as he may to fetch my corpse; and beside my lord king Arthur he shall bury me. Wherefore the queen said in hearing of them all, I beseech Almighty God that I may never have power to see Sir Launcelot with my worldly eyes. And thus, said all the ladies, was ever her prayer these two days, till she was dead[1643]. This is a different romance from that of the gay _chansons de nonnes_, but it is romance all the same. There is little in common between Queen Guinevere and the lady who was loved and rescued by a king in the _Ancren Riwle_[1644]. One of the last--as it is one of the most graceful--pieces of courtly literature concerned with a convent is the delightful _Livre du dit de Poissy_, in which the French poetess Christine de Pisan tells of a journey, which she took in 1400, to visit her daughter, a nun at the famous convent of Poissy. This Dominican abbey, founded in 1304, was exceedingly rich and the special favourite of the kings of France, for it had been put under the protection of St Louis. The number of nuns, originally fixed at a hundred and twenty, soon rose to two hundred, and the aristocratic character of the house was very marked, for its inmates had to be of noble birth and to receive a special authorisation from the king before they could be admitted. At the time of Christine de Pisan's visit Marie de Bourbon, aunt of Charles VI, was prioress, and the convent also contained the nine year old Marie de France, his daughter (who took the veil at the age of five) and her cousin Catherine d'Harcourt. There were no nunneries so large and so rich in England at this late date; but Christine's description may serve to suggest what great houses like Shaftesbury and Romsey must have been like in the earlier days of their prime. Her account of the convent, with its fine buildings and gardens, its church, its rich lands and its gracious and dignified way of life forms a useful counterpoise to the bald and unidealised picture presented by the _comperta_ of visitations; for assuredly truth lies somewhere between the _comperta_, which deal solely with faults, and the poem, which deals solely with virtues. Christine describes the brilliant cavalcade of lords and ladies riding in the spring morning through beautiful scenery, enlivening their journey with laughter and song and talk of love, until they came to the great abbey of Poissy. She describes their reception by the Prioress Marie de Bourbon and by the king's little daughter "joenne et tendre": Par les degrez de pierre, que moult pris, En hault montames Ou bel hostel royal, que nous trouvames Moult bien pare, et en sa chambre entrames De grant beaulty. The Prioress' lodging was evidently such as befitted a royal princess, even though she were a humble nun. Christine describes the manner of life of the nuns, how no man might enter the precincts to serve or see them, save a relative, and how they never left the convent and seldom saw strangers from the world: Et de belles plusiers y a comme angelz. Si ne vestent chemises, et sus langes Gisent de nuis; n'ont pas coultes a franges Mais materas Qui sont couvers de biaulx tapis d'Arras Bien ordenées, mais ce n'est que baras, Car ils sont durs et emplis de bourras, Et la vestues Gisent de nuis celles dames rendues, Qui se lievent ou elles sont batues A matines; la leurs chambres tendues En dortouer Ont près a près, et en refectouer Disnent tout temps, ou a beau lavourer. Et en la court y a le parlouer Ou a trellices De fer doubles a fenestres coulices, Et la en droit les dames des offices A ceulz de hors parlent pour les complices Et necessaires Qu'il leur convient et fault en leurs affaires. Si ont prevosts, seigneuries et maires, Villes, Chastiaulx, rentes de plusieurs paires Moult bien assises; Et riches sont, ne nulles n'y sont mises Fors par congié de roy qui leurs franchises Leur doit garder et maintes autres guises A la en droit. Christine then tells how the Prioress invited the party to "desjuner" and how in a fair room they were served with rich wines and meats, in vessels of gold, and were waited upon by the nuns. Then the nuns led them through the buildings and grounds of the convent, showing them all the beauties of this "paradise terestre." She gives an extremely minute and interesting picture of Poissy as it was in 1400, the vaulted cloister with its carven pillars, surrounding a square lawn with a tall pine in the middle; the spacious frater, with glass windows; the fine chapter house; the stream of fresh water carried in pipes through all the different buildings; the great storehouses, cellars, ovens and other offices; the large, airy dorter; and finally the magnificent church, with its tall pillars and vaulted roof, its hangings, images, paintings and ornaments of glittering gold. She tells of the services held there, when the nuns knelt within a screen in the nave and the townsfolk and visitors and priests outside it. She gives a detailed account of the clothes worn by the nuns; a woman she, and not to be content with Malory's simple "white clothes and black." Finally she describes the wide gardens and woods of the convent, surrounded by a high wall and full of fruit-trees and birds and deer and coneys, with two fishponds, well-stocked with fish. In the exploration of these delights the day passed quickly. The gay party retired at nightfall to a neighbouring inn and early the next day paid a farewell visit to the hospitable nuns, who gave them gifts of belts and purses embroidered by themselves: Et reprendre De leurs joyaulx Il nous covint, non fermillez n'aniaulx Mais boursetes ouvrees a oysiaulx D'or et soies, ceintures et laz biaulx, Moult bien ouvrez, Qui autre part ne sont telz recouvrez. Then lords and ladies took horse again and, debating of love, rode back to Paris[1645]. Against this courtly idyll of monastic life one more picture of a nun must be set as complement and as contrast. It is deservedly well known; but no study of the nun in medieval literature would be complete without quoting in full Chaucer's description of Madame Eglentyne, a masterpiece of humorous observation, sympathetic without being idealised, gently sarcastic without being bitter. It is a fitting note on which to close this book: Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of her smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir grettest ooth was but by seynt loy; And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel and wel kepe, That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest. Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, And sikerly she was of greet disport, And ful plesaunt and amiable of port, And peyned hir to countrefete chere Of court, and been estatlich of manere, And to be holden digne of reverence. But, for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous, She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trap, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was; Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene; And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene, On which ther was first write a crouned A, And after, _Amor vincit omnia_[1646]. APPENDIX I ADDITIONAL NOTES TO THE TEXT NOTE A. THE DAILY FARE OF BARKING ABBEY. The _Charthe_ [charter] _longynge to the office of the Celeresse of the Monasterye of Barkinge_[1647] is one of the most interesting domestic documents which has survived from the middle ages. The _Ménagier de Paris_ gives a first rate account of the work of a housewife who has to provide for a private household. The _Charthe_ sets forth the duties of a housewife who has to feed a large institution. No bursar of a college or housekeeper of a school can fail to read it with a sympathetic smile. Like a good business woman the nameless cellaress, who drew it up for the guidance of her successors, sets out first of all the sources of revenue by which the charges of her office were supported. These are of three sorts: (1) the rents from thirteen rural manors, together with certain annual rents from the canons of St Paul's, the priory of St Bartholomew's and the lessees of various tenements in London, which were supposed to yield her a little over £95 per annum; (2) "the issues of the Larder," to wit all the ox skins, "inwards" of oxen, tallow coming from oxen and messes of beef, which she sells; and (3) "the foreyn receyte," to wit the money received for the sale of hay at any farm belonging to her office. These represent only her money revenues; but she also received the greater part of meat and dairy produce consumed by the convent from the home farm and from the demesnes of the manors appropriated to her. The _Charthe_ warns her to be certain of hiring pasture for her oxen at such times as it is needful, to see that her hay is duly mown and made and to keep all the buildings belonging to her office in repair, both those within the monastery and those at the outlying manors and farms. The _Charthe_ throws some light upon the domestic staff employed in working the department. An important gentleman called the steward of the household had the general supervision of its business affairs; he kept an eye on the bailiffs and rent collectors of the cellaress's manors and presided at their courts. The cellaress solemnly presented him with a "reward" of 20_d._ every time that he returned with the pecuniary proceeds of justice, and on Christmas day. The management of the department was done by the head cellaress herself, with an under-cellaress to assist her and a clerk to keep her accounts and write her business letters, at a wage of 13_s._ 4_d._ The kitchen was in the special charge of a nun kitchener and the actual cooking was done by a "yeoman cook," a "groom cook" and a "pudding wife"[1648]; she paid her yeoman cook a wage of 26_s._ 8_d._, her pudding wife, 2_s._ a year and bought her groom cook a gown at Christmas. She wisely gave a Christmas box to each of the underlings, great and small, with whom she had to do, 20_d._ to the Abbess' gentlewoman, 16_d._ to every gentleman, "and to every yoman as it pleaseth her for to doo, and gromes in like case"; moreover it was her pleasant duty to hand to herself as cellaress and to her under-cellaress 20_d._ apiece. The _Charthe_ gives exceedingly minute directions as to the conventual housekeeping. Barking Abbey was a large house, consisting at the time this document was drawn up of thirty-seven ladies. The Abbess dwelt in state in her own apartments, with a gentlewoman to wait upon her and a private kitchen, with its own staff, which was not under the control of the cellaress. The cellaress, however, sent in to the Abbess 4 lbs. of almonds and eight cakes called "russheaulx" in Lent, eight chickens at Shrovetide, one pottle of wine called Tyre[1649] on Maundy Thursday and a sugar loaf on Christmas Day; while the Abbess' kitchen had to provide the convent with "pittances" and "liveries" of pork, bacon, mutton or eggs on certain days of the year, as will appear hereafter. From the convent kitchen the cellaress had to purvey for: (1) the ladies of the convent, (2) the prioress, two cellaresses and kitchener, who receive a double allowance of almost all food given out, and (3) the priory. The _Charthe_ sets forth exactly how much is to be delivered to each person, the separate allowances of meat being called "messes." It will be convenient to consider the stores to be provided under the five headings of: (1) meat, (2) grain, (3) butter and eggs, (4) fish and condiments for Advent and Lenten fare, and (5) pittances, or extra delicacies provided on certain days of the year. It is to be noted that the _Charthe_ deals for the most part with the special fare appropriate to special occasions. There is no mention of the daily allowance of bread and beer made on the premises; the only fish mentioned is salt fish for Lent; the only vegetables are dried peas and beans; the only fowls are for a special pittance on St Alburgh's day. (1) _Meat._ The chief meat food of the convent, eaten three times a week (on Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday), except in Advent and Lent and on vigils, was beef. The cellaress had to purvey 22 "gud oxen" by the year for the convent. These oxen were fed on her own pastures, and, says the cellaress, "she shall slay but every fortnyght and yf sche be a good huswyff"; accordingly at the end of the first week, she must look and see if she has enough beef to last out the fortnight and if not she must buy what she needs in the market. It would seem that besides the beef provided by the cellaress from the convent kitchen the convent had an extra allowance of beef provided from some source not mentioned in the _Charthe_, or else that they did not always eat each week what was delivered to them. For the cellaress sets down as follows the entry which her clerk is to make in her book each week: on Saturday 20 Sept. (doubtless the day on which she was writing) she answers for four or five messes remaining in store of the week before, and of 63 messes of beef from an ox slain the same week, also of 80 messes of beef bought by her of the convent "of that they lefte behynd of ther lyvere, paying for every mess 1-1/2_d._," total 147 messes, whereof she delivers to each lady for the three meat days three messes and to the priory six messes. After beef the meat food most commonly eaten consisted in various forms of pig's flesh. At Martinmas the cellaress had to ask at the abbess' kitchen for a pittance of pork for each lady and also a livery of "sowsse"[1650], thus defined: "every lady to have three thynges, that is to sey, the cheke, the ere and the fote is a livery; the groyne and two fete ys anodyer leveray; soe a hoole hoggs sowsse shall serve three ladyes." At the same time she had to give them "of sowce of hyre owne provisione two thynges to every lady, so that a hoole hog sowce do serve four ladyes." She also had to provide pork from her own kitchin for two anniversary pittances (of which more anon) and she notes that every hog yields 20 messes. Moreover on Christmas Day she had to ask at the abbess' kitchen for "livery bacon" for the convent, four messes for each lady; a flitch was reckoned to provide ten messes. Of mutton the convent ate very little. Three times a year, between the feasts of the Assumption (Aug. 15) and of St Michael (Sept. 29), the abbess' kitchen had to provide "pittance mutton" for the ladies, a mess to each, "and every mutton yields twelve messes"; and twice a year on certain anniversaries the cellaress had to provide a similar allowance out of her own kitchen. (2) _Grain._ Under this heading comes three quarters of malt, to be brewed into ale for the festal seasons of St Alburgh's[1651] (or Foundress') Day (Oct. 11) and Christmas; one quarter and seven bushels of wheat to be baked into bread or cakes for various pittances; two bushels of dried peas to be eaten in Lent and one bushel of dried beans "against Midsummer." The brewer and baker were paid a tip of 20_d._ and 6_d._ respectively, when they had to make the extra pittance beer and bread. The convent also had a livery of oatmeal from the cellaress, four dishes delivered once a month. (3) _Butter and Eggs._ The cellaress had to provide the convent with butter at certain times, to every lady and double one "cobet," every dish containing three cobets. What was called "feast butter" was payable on St Alburgh's Day, Easter, Whitsunday and Trinity Sunday. What was called "storing butter" was payable five times a year, "to wit Advent and four times after Christmas." What was called "fortnight butter" was payable once for every fortnight lying between Trinity Sunday and Holy Rood Day (Sept. 14). The cellaress was also responsible for providing the convent with money to buy eggs ("ey silver"); each lady had weekly from Michaelmas (Sept. 29) to All Hallows' Day (Nov. 1), 1-1/2_d._, from All Hallows' Day to Advent, 1-3/4_d._, from Advent to Childermas Day (Dec. 28), 1-1/4_d._, from Childermas Day to Ash Wednesday, 1-3/4_d._, and from Easter to Michaelmas, 1-1/2_d._; also an extra allowance of 1/2_d._ on each vigil of the year, when no meat was eaten. Out of this "ey silver" the nuns had to purvey eggs for themselves as best they might; but the cellaress had to give the priory each week in the year 32 eggs or else 2-3/4_d._ in money, except in the four Advent weeks when she provided only 16 and in Lent, when none were due; for every vigil she gave them eight eggs, "or else 1-3/4_d._ and the fourth part of 1/4_d._" in money. At the five principal feasts of the year the abbess left her hall and dined in state in the frater, to wit on Easter Day, Whit Sunday, Assumption Day, St Alburgh's Day and Christmas Day; and on these occasions the cellaress had to ask the clerk of the abbess' kitchen for "supper eggs" for the convent, two for each lady. (4) _Lenten Fare._ For Lent and Advent the cellaress had to provide the convent with their diet of fish, enlivened for their comfort with dried fruits and rice. She laid in two cades of red herring for Advent, a cade being 600 (counting six score to the 100). For Lent she purveyed seven cades of red herring and three barrels (containing 1000 at six score to the hundred) of white herring. To every lady she gave four a day (i.e. in all 28 a week), and to the priory she gave four on every day except Sunday, when she gave them fish, and Friday, when they had figs and raisins. She also had to lay in 18 salt fish (nature unspecified), out of which she provided each lady with a mess and the priory with two messes every other week in Lent, each fish producing seven messes; in the alternate weeks they received salt salmon, of which she laid in fourteen or fifteen, each salmon yielding nine messes. To spice this Lenten fare she bought 1200 lbs. of almonds, three "peces" and 24 lbs. of figs, one "pece" of raisins, 28 lbs. of rice and 12 gallons of mustard. Each lady received 2 lbs. of almonds and 1/2 lb. of rice to last for the whole of Lent, and every week 1 lb. of figs and raisins. (5) _Pittances_, or extra allowances of more delicate food, were due to the nuns on certain feasts of the Church and on the anniversaries of five benefactors, viz. Sir William Vicar, Dame Alys Merton, "dame Mawte the kynges daughter," dame Maud Loveland and William Dun. The pittances on the anniversaries of William Vicar and William Dun were of mutton; on each occasion the cellaress had to lay in three "carse" of mutton, and for William Dun's pittance she had to make sure also of 12 gallons of good ale. For the pittances of Dame Alice Merton and Maud the king's daughter (which fell in the winter) she had to purvey four bacon hogs, each hog producing 20 messes, also six _grecys_[1652], six _sowcys_ and six _inwardys_; also 100 eggs for "white puddings," together with bread, pepper and saffron for the same, and "marrow bones for white wortys"[1653]; also three gallons of good ale. Evidently the convent had a royal feast on those days and had good cause to remember their former abbesses. There are no details as to Dame Maud Loveland's pittance. Another red letter day was Foundress' Day (Oct. 11). On this occasion the abbess' kitchen had to provide each lady of the convent with half a goose, the two chantresses, as well as the four usual recipients, receiving doubles, and with a hen or a cock, the fratresses and the subprioress also receiving doubles. Moreover the cellaress had to give the ladies "frumenty"[1654], for which she laid in wheat and three gallons of milk. On the feast of the Assumption of the Virgin (Aug. 15) each received half a goose. At Shrovetide the cellaress gave each lady "for their cripcis[1655] and for their crumkakers 2_d._"; she had also to purvey eight chickens for the abbess and "bonnes"[1656] for the convent and also four gallons of milk. On Shere or Maundy Thursday she had 12 "stub" eels and 60 "shaft" eels baked with wheat and 8 lbs. of rice; and she sent the abbess a bottle of Tyre and the convent two gallons of red wine; unglorified by a name. On Palm Sunday they had "russheaulx"[1657], for which she provided 21 lbs. of figs. These were little highly spiced pies (rather like mince pies), of which the chief ingredients were figs and flour, and besides providing them in kind on Palm Sunday the cellaress had to pay the ladies "Ruscheaw silver, by xvj times payable in the yere to every lady and doubill at eche time 1/2_d._, but it is paid nowe but at two times, that is to say at Ester and Michelmes." On Easter Eve they had three gallons of ale and one gallon of red wine. On St Andrew's Day and on every Sunday in Lent they had fish (doubtless fresh fish, as a welcome change from salted herrings). NOTE B. SCHOOL CHILDREN IN NUNNERIES. The subject is of such interest from the point of view of educational as well as of monastic history, that I have thought it worth while to print in full all the references to convent education in England (c. 1250-1537), which I have been able to find. For the convenience of the reader I have translated references in Latin and Old French and have arranged the houses under counties. Doubtful references are marked with an asterisk. BEDFORDSHIRE. 1. _Elstow._ Late 12th century. Bishop Hugh of Lincoln sent a little boy, Robert of Noyon, here. "He seemed to be about five years old, or a little older; and after a short space of time (the Bishop) sent him to Elstow to be taught his letters (_literis informandum_)." _Magna Vita S. Hugonis Episcopi Lincolniensis_ (Rolls Ser.), p. 146. 1359. Gynewell enjoins boarders to be sent away on pain of excommunication. "But boys up to the completion of their sixth year and girls up to the completion of their tenth year, ... we do not wish to be understood or included in the above (prohibition)." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 139_d_. 1421-2. Flemyng enjoins "that henceforward you admit or allow to be admitted or received to lodge or stay within the limits of the cloister, no persons male or female, ... who are beyond the twelfth year of their age." _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 49. c. 1432. Gray enjoins that all secular persons shall be removed from the cloister precincts, "... males to wit, who have passed their tenth year, or females who have passed their fourteenth." _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 53. 1442-3. "Dame Rose Waldegrave says that ... certain nuns do sometimes have with them in the quire in time of mass the boys whom they teach, and these do make a noise in quire during divine service." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 90. 2. _Harrold._ 1442-3. At Bishop Alnwick's visitation "Dame Alice Decun says that only two little girls of six or seven years do lie in the dorter." Another nun says the same. The Bishop forbids adult boarders, "ne childere ouere xj yere olde men and xij yere olde wymmen wythe owten specyalle leue of us or our successours bysshops of Lincolne fyest asked and had; ne that ye suffre ne seculere persones, wymmen ne childern, lyg by nyght in the dormytory." _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 130-1. BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. 3. _Burnham._ c. 1431-6. Gray enjoins "that henceforward no secular women who are past the fourteenth year of their age, and no males at all, be admitted in any wise to lie by night in the dorter or be suffered so to lie.... That you henceforth admit or suffer to be admitted and received to lodge in the said monastery no women after they have completed the fourteenth year of their age and no males after the eighth year of their age.... That you remove wholly from the said monastery all ... secular folk, male and female, who, being lodgers in the said monastery, have passed the ages aforesaid." _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 24. 1519. Atwater enjoins "that infants and small children be not admitted into the dorter of the nuns." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Atwater_, f. 42_d_. *4. _Little Marlow._ c. 1530? Margaret Vernon, Prioress of Little Marlow and friend of Cromwell, was entrusted by him with the care of his little son Gregory. Several of her letters are preserved, but they are undated and it is difficult to gather from those which refer to Gregory Cromwell whether they were written before or after the dissolution of Little Marlow. There was in any case no question of her teaching the boy herself. He had with him a tutor, Mr Copland, and the Prioress writes to tell Cromwell that Mr Copland every morning gives Gregory and Nicholas Sadler, his schoolfellow, their Latin lesson, "which Nicholas doth bear away as well Gregory's lesson as his own, and maketh him perfect against his time of rendering, at which their Master is greatly comforted." Master Sadler also had with him a "little gentlewoman," whom Margaret wished permission to educate herself. In another letter she speaks of a proposed new tutor for Gregory and expresses anxiety that he should be one who would not object to her supervision. "Good master Cromwell, if it like you to call unto your remembrance, you have promised me that I should have the governance of your child till he be twelve years of age, and at that time I doubt not with God's grace but he shall speak for himself if any wrong be offered unto him, whereas yet he cannot but by my maintenance; and if he should have such a master which would disdain if I meddled, then it would be to me great unquietness, for I assure you if you sent hither a doctor of divinity yet will I play the smatterer, but always in his well doing to him he shall have his pleasure, and otherwise not." Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, II, 57-9. CAMBRIDGESHIRE. 5. _Swaffham Bulbeck._ 1483. The following references to boarders in the account roll of the Prioress Margaret Ratclyff for 22 Edw. IV almost certainly indicate children. "By Richard Potecary of Cambridge 11_s._ for board for 22 weeks, at 6_d._ per week. By 11_s._ received from John Kele of Cambridge for 22 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week. By £1 received from William Water of ... his son for 40 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week. By 13_s._ received from Thomas Roch ... his son for 26 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week. By 15_s._ received from Manfeld for the board of his son for 30 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week. By £1 received from ... of Cambridge for the board of his daughter for 40 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week. By 8_s._ from ... of Chesterton for the board of his son for 16 weeks. viz. 6_d._ per week. From ... Parker of Walden for the board of his son for 12 weeks. By 3_s._ received from ... the merchant for the board of his daughter for 6 weeks, viz. 6_d._ per week." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 439-60. *6. _St Radegund's, Cambridge._ 1481-2. The account roll for 1481-2 contains the item "And she answers for 20_s._ received from Richard Woodcock for the commons of 2 daughters of the said Richard, as for [_blank_] weeks, at [_blank_] per week." Gray, _Priory of St Radegund's, Cambridge_, p. 176. This is probably a child, because I am inclined to think that payments so worded, as from a father for a son or daughter, usually refer to children. Unfortunately the nuns of this priory kept the details of their receipts from boarders on a separate sheet, and entered only the total, thus: "And by £1. 12. 1 received for the board or repast of divers gentlefolk, particulars of whose names are noted in the paper book of accounts displayed above this account." _Ib._ p. 163 (see also, p. 147). These separate papers are unluckily lost, so no details are available. DERBYSHIRE. *7. _King's Mead, Derby._ Dr J. C. Cox says "Evidence of this priory being used as a boarding school occurs in the private muniments of the Curzon, Fitzherbert and Gresley families." _V.C.H. Derby_, II, p. 44 (note 14). Without more exact reference it is impossible to say whether this is correct, because adult boarders are so often confused with schoolchildren. DEVON. 8. _Cornworthy._ c. 1470. Petition from Thomasyn Dynham, Prioress of Cornworthy concerning two children at school in her house, whose fees have not been paid for five years. See description in text (above, p. 269). ESSEX. 9. _Barking._ 1433. Katherine de la Pole, Abbess of Barking, petitions Henry V, "for as much as she, afore this tyme hath bene demened and reuled, by th'advis of youre full discrete counsail, to take upon hir the charge, costes and expenses of Edmond ap Meredith ap Tydier and Jasper ap Meredith ap Tydier, being yit in her kepyng, for the which cause she was payed, fro the xxvii day of Juyll, the yere of youre full noble regne xv, unto the Satterday the last day of Feverer, the yere of your saide regne xvii, l livres: and after the saide last day of Feverer, youre saide bedewoman hath borne the charges as aboven unto this day and is behynde of the payement for the same charge ... the somme of lii livres xii sols," she asks for payment. Dugdale, _Mon._ I, 437 (note _m_), (quoted from Rymer, _Foedera_, X, p. 828). 1527. Sir John Stanley made his Will on June 20, 1527, and in 1528, after a solemn act of separation with his wife, entered a monastery. The will is largely concerned with provisions for the education of his son and heir, who was at that time three years old. He set aside the proceeds of a certain manor "whych is estemed to be of the yerly valewe of xl li., to the onely use and fyndynge of my said sonne and heyre apparaunte, tyll he comme and be of the full ayge of xxi{ti}, yeres; and I woll that my sayd sonne and heyr shalbe in the custodye and kepynge of the saide Abbes of Barckynge, tyll he accomplyshe and be of thayge of xij yeres and after the sayd ayge of xij yeres I woll that he shalbe in the custodye and guydynge of the sayd Abbot of Westmynster, tyll he come and be of hys full ayge of xxi{ti} yeres." The Abbess and Abbot were to have £15 yearly for the use of their houses in return for their pains and £20 yearly was to be paid them "to fynde my sayd sonne and heyre and hys servauntes, mete, drynke and wayges convenyent and all other thynges necessare un to theym, durynge and by all the tyme that he shalbe in the rule and guydynge of the sayd Abbesse and of the sayd Abbot." _Archaeol. Journ._ XXV (1868), pp. 81-2. It should be noted that there is nothing to suggest that these boys were being taught by the nuns; they were young noblemen attached to a noblewoman's household to learn breeding. HAMPSHIRE. 10. _St Mary's, Winchester._ 1536. Henry VIII's commissioners, who visited the house 15th May, found here twenty-six "chyldren of lordys, knyghttes and gentylmen brought up yn the saym monastery." For the list of names (given in Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 457), see above p. 266. 11. _Romsey._ 1311. Bishop Woodlock decreed "There shall not be in the dormitory with the nuns any children, either boys or girls, nor shall they be led by the nuns into the choir, while the divine office is celebrated." Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 104. *1387. William of Wykeham enjoins (in an injunction dealing with various manifestations of the _vitium proprietatis_) "Moreover let not the nuns henceforth presume to call their own rooms or pupils (_discipulas_), hitherto assigned to them or so assigned in future, on pretext of such assignation, which is rather to be deemed a matter of will than of necessity; nathless it is lawful for the abbess to assign such rooms and pupils according to merit as she thinks fit, etc., etc." But this more probably refers to young nuns or novices. The word _discipula_ is used in this sense in Alnwick's visitation of Gracedieu. (See above, p. 80.) 12. _Wherwell._ 1284. Archbishop Peckham forbids boarders, adding "Let not virgins be admitted to the habit and veil (_induendae virgines et velandae_) before the completion of their fifteenth year and let not any boy be permitted to be educated with the nuns." _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 653. HEREFORDSHIRE. 13. _Lymbrook._ 1422. Bishop Spofford writes: "Wee ordayne and charge you under payne of unobedyence that no suster hald nor receyfe ony surgyner, man or woman weddyd, other maydens of lawful age to be wedded, knave chyldren aboven eght yeer of age." _Reg. Thome Spofford_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), p. 82. HERTFORDSHIRE. 14. _Flamstead._ 1530. At the visitation of Longland one nun "reported that young girls were allowed to sleep in the dormitory.... The Prioress was enjoined ... to exclude children of both sexes from the dormitory." _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 433. 15. _Sopwell._ *1446. In the Warden's Accounts of 1446 there is entered payment of 22/6 for Lady Anne Norbery, for the commons of her daughter, apparently a boarder here. (_Rentals and Surveys_, R. 294.) _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 425 (note 41). 1537. At the time of the Dissolution two children were living in the priory. _Ib._ p. 425. KENT. 16. _Dartford._ In 1527 was confirmed the concession made to sister Elizabeth Cresner by F. Antoninus de Ferraria, formerly vicar of Garsias de Lora, Master General of the Dominican order (1518-24), that she might receive any well born matrons, widows of good repute, to dwell perpetually in the monastery, with or without the habit, according to the custom of the monastery; and also that she might receive young ladies and give them a suitable training, according to the mode heretofore pursued. _Archaeol. Journ._ (1882) XXXIX, p. 178. LEICESTERSHIRE. 17. _Gracedieu._ The following references to boarders occur in the Gracedieu accounts (_P.R.O. Minister's Accounts_, 1257/10). 1413-14. "Item received from William Roby for the board of his daughter on the Feast of the Holy Trinity vj s viij d. Item received from Robert Penell for the board of his daughter on the same day v s. Item received for the board of Cecily Nevell on St James' Day in part payment vj s viij d" (p. 7). 1414-15. "Item received from Giles Jurdon for the board of his daughter in Whitsun week vij s. Item received from Thomas Hinte for the food of a certain daughter of his, in part payment of liij s iiij d,--xl s. Item received for the board of Isabel Jurdon xj s, Alice Strelley xxij s, Alice Grey xiij s iiij d, Robert Drewe xxvj s iiij d, Philip Scargell xxxiij s vj d, Alice Smyth, iij s iiij d and Dame Joan Scargell iiij s--cxiij s ix d" (p. 79). There is a supplementary list for this year written on a loose sheet: "Item, first, received for the board of Isabel Jurdon for the half year, in part payment ix s. Item received for the board of Alice Strelley from the feast of the Finding of the Holy Cross to the feast of [St Peter] in Chains in the following year, vj s viij d. Item received for the board of Alice Gray from the feast of the Holy Trinity to the feast of the Purification of the blessed Virgin Mary xiij s iiij d. Item received for the board of Alice Strelley for ij quarters of the year and v weeks, at the Feast of St Gregory xv s iiij d. Item received for the board of the daughter of Robert Drowe for half a year, xxvj s viij d. Item received for the board of Philip Scargell, in part payment, from the feast of St John etc., paid for the quarter xxij s iiij d, whence at the Feast of Corpus Christi xxij s iiij d. Item received for the board of Isabel Jurdon at the feast of the Translation of St Thomas of Canterbury, in part payment--ij s. Item received for the board of Alice Smyth in part payment at vj s viij d for the quarter, iij s iiij d. Item received for the board of Dame Skargeyle for two weeks, ij s per week, iiij s. Item received for the board of Philyppe Skergell from the feast of St Laurence to the feast of St Michael, for the half quarter xj s ij d. Total, cxiij s x d." 1416-17. "Item received for the board of the daughter of William Rowby, as for the purchase of one ox--xiij s iiij d." 1417-18. "Item received for the board of Mary de Ecton on the feast of All Saints, in part payment of a larger sum, xxxiij s iiij d. Item received for the board of Joan Vilers on the Feast of St Andrew the Apostle vj s viij d. Item received for the board of Katerine Standych on the morrow of the Epiphany vj s viij d. Item received for the board of the daughters of Robert Nevell, knight, on the feast of St Hilary x s. Item received for the board of Joan Villars on the feast of St Hilary xx d. Item received for the board of Mary de Ecton on the Sunday next before the feast of St Valentine xx s. Item received from Joan Villers for her board on the second sunday of Lent vj s viij d. Item received from Katerine Standych in full payment of her board on Whitsunday x s. Item received for the board of the daughters of Robert Neuel on Good Friday x s. Item received from Mary Ecton for her board on the feast of the Purification of the B.V. then owing vj s. Item received from Joan Colyar in part payment of xx s owing for J. Dalby xij s" (p. 179). These accounts obviously contain ordinary adult boarders as well as children. Moreover in some cases the visitors seem merely to have come for the great feasts and not to have stayed for any length of time, a practice which does not suggest schooling. Mr Coulton has analysed the accounts closely. He writes: "The records of four years give us, at the most liberal interpretation, only nineteen children, whose total sojourn amounted to 648 weeks; that is an average of three pupils all the year round and one extra for two or three months of the time." He adds: "I have, of course ruled out 'Dame Joan Scargill,' who paid 2_s._ a week, or four times the sum paid by a child, and Philip Scargill, who paid eighteen pence and was pretty evidently the Dame's husband; but I have included five others on p. 89, though they are distinctly labelled as _perhendinantes_, and the sums they pay would in any case have suggested boarders rather than schoolgirls. If these were omitted (and I note that Abbot Gasquet also interprets them as merely boarders), this would bring down the average of actual children to about two at any given time." (_Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages_, p. 27.) He infers the weekly rate of pay (where it can be inferred with any certainty) to be 6_d._ a week for children and 1_s._ or more for their elders. (_Ib._ p. 39.) 1440-1. At Bishop Alnwick's visitation the prioress deposed "that a male child of seven years sleeps in the dorter with the cellaress." Alnwick makes an injunction forbidding boarders, "save childerne, males the ix and females the xiij yere of age, whome we licencede yow to hafe for your relefe." _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 119, 125. 18. _Langley._ 1440. At Bishop Alnwick's visitation Dame Margaret Mountgomerey "says that secular children, female only, do lie of a night in the dorter." The Bishop forbids boarders "men, women ne childerne" without licence. _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 175-6. LINCOLNSHIRE. 19. _Heynings._ 1347. Bishop Gynewell writes to Heynings: "Item we command you on your obedience that henceforth no secular female child who has passed the tenth year of her age and no male child, of whatever age he may be, be received to dwell among you; and that no child lie in your dorter with the ladies, nor anywhere else whereby the convent might be disturbed." (_Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_.) 1387. Bishop Bokyngham writes: "Item, for the removal of all fleshly wantonness (_carnis pruritus quoscumque_), we will and ordain that secular children and especially males shall henceforth in no wise be permitted to sleep with the nuns, but let an honest place be set aside for them outside the cloister, if by our recent and special grace they should chance to be staying there." (_Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_.) 1442. Alnwick enjoins at his visitation and afterwards in his written injunctions "that fro this day forthe ye receyve no sudeiournauntes that passe a man x yere, a woman xiiij yere of age, wythowten specyalle leve of hus or our successours bysshops of Lincolne asked and had." (_Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 134-5.) 20. _Gokewell._ 1440. At Alnwick's visitation the Prioress "says that they have no boarders above ten years of age of female and eight years of male sex." (_Linc. Visit._ II, p. 117.) 21. _Legbourne._ 1440. Alnwick ordains "that fro hense forthe ye suffre no seculere persone, woman ne childe, lyg be night in the dormytorye." (_Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 68.) 22. _Nuncoton._ 1531. Bishop Longland enjoins: "and that ye suffre nott eny men children to be brought upp, nor taught within your monastery, nor to resorte to eny of your susters, nouther to lye within your monastery, nor eny person young ne old to lye within your dorter, but oonly religious women." (_Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 58.) 23. _Stixwould._ 1440. At Alnwick's visitation: "Dame Alice Thornton says that young secular folk female, of eight or ten years old, do lie in the dorter, but in separate beds.... Also she says that, as she believes, there are males and females, about eighteen in number, who board with divers nuns, not passing fourteen or sixteen years in age.... Dame Maud Shirwode speaks of the children that lie in the dorter." Alnwick in his injunctions forbids seculars ("women ne childern") to lie in the dorter or to be received as boarders without licence. (_Alnwick's Visit._ MS. 75_d_, 76.) MIDDLESEX. 24. _St Helen's, Bishopsgate (London)._ 1298. The Prioress' account for 25-6 Edward I, contains the following items which probably refer to child boarders. "And by xx s received from Dionisia Miles for her daughter [_gap_] ... after the Nativity of St John the Baptist. And by one mark received for the niece of Robert Morton [?]." _P.R.O. Ministers' Accounts_, 1258/2. 1432. The injunctions sent by the Dean and Chapter of St Paul's to St Helen's contain the item: "Also we ordeyne and injoyne yow, prioresse and convent, that noo seculere be lokkyd with inne the boundes of the cloystere; ne no seculere persones come withinne aftyr the belle of complyne, except wymment servaunts and mayde childeryne lerners.... Also we ordeyne and injoine that nonne have ne receyve noo schuldrin wyth hem into the house forseyde, but yif that the profite of the comonys turne to the vayle of the same howse." (Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 553-4, wrongly dated 1439.) *25. _Stratford "atte Bowe."_ 1346. In the will of John Hamond, pepperer, occurs the legacy: "To his niece the daughter of Thomas Hamond, residing with the nuns of Stratford, he leaves a sum of money for her maintenance." (Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills ... in the Court of Hustings, London_, I, p. 516.) The girl _may_ have been a nun, but if so the legacy is curiously worded. NORFOLK. 26. _Carrow._ In Rye, W., _Carrow Abbey_ (1889), pp. 49-52, is a list of boarders at Carrow, compiled by Norris from account rolls now lost. Some of these were almost certainly children; I should suggest that those described as "son of" or "daughter of" N. or M. are children. On these lists, see G. G. Coulton, _Mon. Schools in the Mid. Ages_ (Med. Studies, No. 10), p. 7. 27. _Thetford._ 1532. At Nykke's visitation it was discovered that "John Jerves, gentleman, has a daughter being brought up (_nutritam_) in the priory and he pays nothing." (_Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp (Camden Soc.), p. 304.) NORTHAMPTONSHIRE. 28. _Catesby._ 1442. At Alnwick's visitation the Prioress, Margaret Wavere, deposed that "sister Agnes Allesley has six or seven young folk of both sexes that do lie in the dorter." Alnwick makes the usual injunction against boarders, "ouer thage of x yeere, if thei be men, wommene ouer thage of a xj yere." _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 46, 51. 29. _St Michael's, Stamford._ 1440. At Alnwick's first visitation the sacrist "says that the prioress has seven or eight children, some male, some female, of twelve years of age and less, to her board and to teach them." Alnwick forbids secular persons ("women ne childrene") to lie in the dorter and boarders ("yong ne olde") to be received without licence. (_Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83-83_d_.) 1442. At Alnwick's second visitation: "Dame Maud Multone says that little girls of seven or five years of age do lie in the dorter, contrary to my lord's injunction." (_Ib._ f. 39_d_.) OXFORDSHIRE. 30. _Godstow._ 1358. Bishop Gynewell writes: "Item we ordain that no lady of your said house shall have children, save only one or two females sojourning with them." (_Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 100.) 1445. Bishop Alnwick forbids boarders to be received "but if ye hafe lefe of hus or our successours, bysshope of Lincolne, but if it be yong childerne, a man not ouere ix yere of age and a woman of xii yere of age." (_Linc. Visit._ II, p. 115.) 31. _Littlemore._ 1445. The Prioress says that "the daughter of John fitz Aleyn, steward of the house, and Ingram Warland's daughter are boarders in the house and each of them pays fourpence a week." These are clearly children, for another boarder "sometime the serving woman of Robert fitz Elys" is mentioned and she pays eightpence a week. Alnwick makes the usual injunction forbidding boarders "ouere the age of a man of nyne yere ne woman of xij yere, ne noght thaym wythe owten specyalle lefe of vs or our successours." (_Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 217-8.) STAFFORDSHIRE. 32. _Fairwell._ 1367. Bishop Robert Stretton of Lichfield enjoined that "no nun was to keep with her for education more than one child, nor any male child over seven years of age and even that may not be done without the Bishop's leave. If any have more they are to be removed before the Feast of Purification next." (_Reg. Robert de Stretton_, II, p. 119.) SOMERSET. 33. _Cannington._ 1407. The will of Thomas Woth contains the following legacy: "To the Prioress of Canyngton 40 marks to provide (_inveniendum_) Elizabeth my daughter, if she shall happen to live to the age of ten years." He also leaves Elizabeth 11 marks as a marriage dowry. (_Somerset Medieval Wills_, ed. F. W. Weaver (Somerset Rec. Soc.), I, p. 28.) SUFFOLK. 34. _Redlingfield._ 1514. At Bishop Nykke's visitation Dame Grace Sampson deposed that "boys (_pueri_) sleep in the dorter and are harmful to the convent," and another nun said the same. The Bishop ordained "that boys shall not lie in the dorter." (_Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp (Camden Soc.), pp. 139-40.) WARWICKSHIRE. 35. _Polesworth._ 1537. Henry VIII's commissioners addressed a letter to Cromwell on behalf of this house, representing among other things "the repayre and resort that ys made to the gentylmens childern and studiounts that ther doo lif, to the nombre sometyme of xxx{ti} and sometyme xl{ti} and moo, that their be right vertuously brought upp." (Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 363.) The house at this time contained an abbess and twelve nuns. YORKSHIRE. 36. _Arden._ 1306. Archbishop Greenfield decreed that no girls or boarders were to be taken without special licence of the Archbishop. All girls staying in the house without authority were to be removed within eight days. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113.) 37. _Arthington._ 1315. Archbishop Greenfield decreed that no boys or secular persons were to sleep in the dorter with the nuns. 1318. Archbishop Melton repeated the decree. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 188.) 38. _Esholt._ 1315. Archbishop Greenfield decreed that all women boarders over the age of twelve were to be removed within six days and no more taken without special licence. 1318. Archbishop Melton repeated the decree. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 161.) 1537. Among the debts owing to the Priory at the Dissolution was one of 33_s._ from Walter Wood of Timble, in the parish of Otley, for his child's board for a year and a half, ended at Lent, 28 Hen. VIII. (_Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ IX, p. 321, note 23.) 39. _Hampole._ 1313. Archbishop Greenfield granted the convent licence to receive a young girl Agnes de Langthwayt as a boarder, at the instance "nobilis viri Ade de Everyngham." 1314. He issued a decree that no male children over five years of age should be permitted in the house, "as the Archbishop finds has been the practice." (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 163-4.) 40. _Marrick._ 1252. Archbishop Gray forbade any girl or woman to be taken as boarder or to be taught without special licence. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 117.) 41. _Moxby._ 1314. Archbishop Greenfield forbade boarders or girls over twelve to be taken without licence. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239.) 42. _Nunappleton._ 1489. Archbishop Rotheram enjoined: "Item þat yee take noe perhendinauntes or sogerners into your place from hensforward, but if þei be children or ellis old persones, by which availe by liklyhod may growe to your place." (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, 173, and Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 654). 43. _Nunburnholme._ 1318. Archbishop Melton forbade persons of either sex over twelve years of age to be maintained as boarders. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 119.) 44. _Nunkeeling._ 1314. Archbishop Greenfield forbade boarders to be taken, or girls to be kept in the house after the age of twelve years. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 120.) *45. _Nunmonkton._ 1429. Isabel Salvayn leaves "xiij s iiij d to be paid for Alice Thorp at Nunmunkton for her board." (_Test. Ebor._ I, p. 419.) 46. _Rosedale._ 1315. Archbishop Greenfield decreed, under pain of the greater excommunication, that no nun was to cause a girl or boy to sleep under any consideration in the dorter, and if any nun broke this command, the Prioress, under pain of deposition, was to signify her name without delay to the Archbishop. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 174.) 47. _St Clement's, York._ 1310. Archbishop Greenfield forbade girls over twelve as boarders. 1317. Archbishop Melton forbade little girls, or males of any age, or secular women to sleep in the dorter with the nuns. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 129.) 48. _Sinningthwaite._ 1315. Archbishop Greenfield enjoined the Prioress and Subprioress not to permit boys or girls to eat flesh meat in Advent or Sexagesima, or during Lent eggs or cheese, in the refectory, contrary to the honesty of religion, but at those seasons when they ought to eat such things, they were to be assigned other places in which to eat them. 1319. Archbishop Melton forbade girls over twelve to be retained without special licence. (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177.) *49. _Swine._ 1345. Peter del Hay of Spaldynton leaves in his will "to Joan my daughter residing (_manenti_) in Swyn vj s viij d." (_Test. Ebor._ I, p. 12.) This is probably a boarder in the convent, perhaps a child. 15th century. Thorold Rogers (_Six Centuries of Work and Wages_ (1909), p. 166), says: "During the course of the [fifteenth] century I find it was the practice of country gentlefolks to send their daughters for education to the nunneries, and to pay a certain sum for their board. A number of such persons are enumerated as living _en pension_ at the small nunnery of Swyn in Yorkshire. Only one roll of expenditure for this religious house survives in the Record Office, but it is quite sufficient to prove and illustrate the custom." I have been unable to trace this roll in the Record Office. NOTE C. NUNNERY DISPUTES. Other instances of nunnery disputes may be quoted, among which Peckham's letter to the Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, is a good example: "If there be any nun above you who is quarrelsome and sharp and is of custom unbearable towards her sisters, we order her to be separated from the communion of the convent according to the form of the rule, and to be kept in some solitary place (so that meanwhile no man or woman have conversation with or access to her) until she shall be brought back to humility of spirit and show herself amiable and devout to all. Therefore let there cease among you quarrels, altercations and sharp words, which stain and deform the splendours of monastic honour. And for such contumelious members who have to be separated as aforesaid we assign that dark room under the dorter, if you have none other more suitable"[1658]. The nuns of Wroxall in 1338 were warned to "cease from scoldings, reproofs and other evil words" and were particularly told not to speak "en reproce ne en vilenie" of a certain Dame Margaret de Acton, who had evidently been guilty of some serious fault, but had been duly corrected by the Visitor[1659]; and in the same year it was ordained at Sopwell that "if it happen that any one scold ... let her be placed in silence by all and do penance for three days"[1660]. At Heynings in 1392 Bokyngham ordered "that all the nuns treat their sisters affably, not with an austere but with a benignant countenance and with sisterly affection, nor visit them with railing and hurtful words in public, especially in the presence of laymen, nor threaten or scold them, on pain, etc"[1661]. At Elstow in 1421-2 there was an injunction against the formation of cliques, upon the need for which light is thrown by the _detecta_ at Alnwick's visitation of Gracedieu[1662], "That no nun make any secret cabals or say or imagine anything by way of insinuation or disparagement, whereby charity, unity or the comeliness of religion may be hindered or troubled in the convent"[1663]. The _detecta_ at visitations often give details as to the ill-temper or insubordination of individuals. At Wothorpe in 1323 Bishop Burghersh "ordered inquiry into certain irregularities within the priory, caused by the discords raised among the nuns by sister Joan de Bonnwyche"[1664]. At Littlemore one of the nuns deposed that Dame Agnes Marcham "is very quarrelsome and rebellious and will not do her work like the others"; it appears that the convent resented the fact that although she had worn the habit of profession for twelve years she was not expressly professed and refused to make public profession; she on her part asserted that "she does not mean to make express profession while she stays in that place, because of the ill-fame which is current thereabouts concerning that place and also because of the barrenness and poverty which in likelihood will betake the place on account of the slenderness of the place's revenues," and she proceeded to give details of the access to the priory of two scholars of Oxford and a parish chaplain[1665]. It is difficult to tell who was in the right; Littlemore certainly was a place of ill-repute and went from bad to worse, but Agnes Marcham had stayed there for half her lifetime (she had entered at the age of thirteen and was twenty-six or twenty-eight at the time of the visitation) and it looks as though she had really no intention of departing, but found the threat to do so useful[1666]. At Godstow in the same year it was sister Maud, a laywoman, who caused trouble; she was very rebellious against the abbess and rumour ran high in the convent that she had "obtained a bull from the apostolic see to the prejudice of the monastery and without the abbess's knowledge"[1667]. At Easebourne (1524) the subprioress Alice Hill said that three of the younger nuns were disobedient to her in the absence of the Prioress; but the three delinquents and another nun deposed that "Lady Alice Hill is too haughty and rigorous and cannot bear patiently with her sisters" and the Visitor apparently considered that the complaint was justified, for afterwards Lady Alice Hill, subprioress, appeared and humbly submitted herself to correction, in the presence of the said prioress and co-sisters, upon what has been discovered against her in the visitation. Afterwards my lord enjoined her that from henceforth she should conduct herself well and religiously in all things towards the said prioress and nuns; and as to the other portion of her penance he adjourned it for a time. After doing which (he) enjoined all to be obedient to the Lady Prioress and in her absence to the said subprioress[1668]. The difficulty was perhaps the old one, that crabbed age and youth cannot live together. At Rusper, when the same Visitor came there, it was found that the four sisters were disturbed by the intrigues of an external visitor, for the nuns deposed "that a certain William Tychenor hath frequent access to the said priory and there sows discord between the prioress, sisters and other persons living there"[1669]; sometimes the lay servants of a house seem to have stirred up quarrels among their mistresses and in 1302 John of Pontoise ordered the nuns of Wherwell "to punish well secular persons, both sisters and others, whoever they may be, who reply improperly and impudently to the religious ladies, and especially those who sow quarrels and disputes among the ladies"[1670]. Injunctions as to the making of corrections usually had in view the prevention of ill feeling, by ensuring that such corrections should not be made in a harsh or unfair manner and should take place only in the chapter-house and not in the presence of strangers. It will be remembered that the wicked prioress of Catesby, Margaret Wavere, used to rebuke and reproach her nuns before secular folk, and treat them with great cruelty; her the Bishop charged vnder payne of cursyng that moderly and benygnely ye trete your susters, specyally in correctyng thaire defautes, so that ye make your correcyones oonly in the chaptre hous of suche defautz and excesse as be open and in presence of your sustres[1671]. Bokyngham sent a long and detailed injunction on the subject to Elstow in 1387: In making corrections the abbess, prioress, and others of superior rank shall so observe a moderate and modest temperance and an equitable reasonableness, that having laid aside all hatred and malice and excessive rigour, they shall in charitable zeal proceed to (deal with) the complaints, offences and faults reported to them and shall hear the accused parties, silencing or repelling their excuses, punishing, correcting and reforming their offences and excesses, grave and venial, without harshness or railing words and quarrels or abuse, according as the quality of the fault, the compunction of the delinquents and the repetition or frequency of the offence demand it. And when faults and offences have been punished and excesses corrected let them not reiterate fresh reproaches, but treat their fellow-nuns affably, not with an austere but with a benignant countenance, nor visit them with railing and insulting words in public, especially in the presence of laymen, nor scold them when they have committed excesses, but only in the chapter deal with all that concerns the discipline of regular observance[1672]. For an injunction to the nuns on obedience see Woodlock's injunction to Romsey in 1311: Item, because they are unaware that amongst the vows of religion the vow of obedience is the greater, it is ordered that the younger ladies reverently obey the seniors and especially their presidents and if any rebels are found they shall be sharply rebuked in chapter before all and, the fault growing, the penalty of disobedience shall be increased[1673]. At Rosedale, where in 1306 the nuns had been warned not to quarrel, it was enacted nine years later that any nun disobedient or rebellious in receiving correction was for each offence to receive a discipline from the president in chapter and say the seven penitential psalms with the litany, and if still rebellious the archbishop would impose a still more severe penance[1674]. It is to be feared that these quarrels sometimes got to blows. Besides the notorious instances of Margaret Wavere and Katherine Wells, the excommunication of three nuns of St Michael's, Stamford, for laying violent hands upon a novice may be quoted[1675]. Of another kind were the assaults of a certain nun of Romsey, who was excommunicated for attacking a vicar in church[1676], and of a Prioress of Rowney. It appears from the court rolls of Munden Furnivall (1370) that the latter "had been guilty of a hand to hand scuffle with a chaplain, called Alexander of Great Munden; each was fined for drawing blood from the other and the lady also for raising the hue and cry unjustly"[1677]. In both cases the nun was blamed, but it is perhaps permissible to quote in this connection an anecdote told by Thomas of Chantimpré: When I was in Brussels, the great city of Brabant, there came to me a maiden of lowly birth, but comely, who besought me with many tears to have mercy upon her. When therefore I had bidden her tell me what ailed her, then she cried out amidst her sobs: "Alas, wretched that I am! for a certain priest would fain have ravished me by force, and he began to kiss me against my will; wherefore I smote him with the back of my hand, so that his nose bled; and for this, as the clergy now tell me, I must needs go to Rome." Then I, scarce withholding my laughter, yet speaking as in all seriousness, affrighted her as though she had committed a grievous sin; and at length, having made her swear that she would fulfil my bidding, I said, "I command thee, in virtue of thy solemn oath, that if this priest or any other shall attempt to do thee violence with kisses or embraces, then thou shalt smite him sore with thy clenched fist, even to the striking out, if possible, of his eye; and in this matter thou shalt spare no order of men, for it is as lawful for thee to strike in defence of thy chastity, as to fight for thy life." With which words I moved all that stood by, and the maiden herself, to vehement laughter and gladness[1678]. The list of faults given in the "Additions to the Rules" of Syon Abbey, contains several references to ill temper, though such references are, to be sure, no more proof that the faults were committed than are the model forms of self-examination ("Have I committed murder?") sometimes given to-day to children in preparation for the Communion service. Among "greuous defautes" are mentioned, "if any suster say any wordes of despyte, reprefe, schame or vylony to any suster or brother," "if any sowe dyscorde amonge the sustres and brethren," "if any be founde a preuy rouner or bakbyter." Among "more greuous defautes" are: if any whan thei fal chydyng or stryuyng togyder, if the souereyne or priores, or any serche say thus--"_Sit nomen domini benedictum_" wyl not cese, knokkyng themselfe upon their brestes, answerynge and saynge mekely, and withe a softe spyryte "_Mea culpa_" ... and so utterly cese, if any manesche by chere or wordes to smyte another at any tyme, or for to auenge her own injurye, or els by ungodly wordes repreve another of her contre, or kynrede, or of any other sclaunderous fortune, or chaunse fallen at any tyme. Among "most greuous defautes" are: If any ley vyolente hande upon her souereyne or spituosly smyte or wounde her or elles make any profer to smyte be sygne or token leftying up her fest, stykke, staffe, stone, or any other wepen what ever it be, or else schofte, pusche, or sperne any suster from her withe armes or scholders, handes or fete, violently, in wrekyng of her oun wrethe[1679]. NOTE D. GAY CLOTHES. A council at London in 1200 had restrained the black nuns from wearing coloured headdresses[1680] but the standard English decree on the subject was that issued by the council of Oxford in 1222. Since it is necessary that the female sex, so weak against the wiles of the ancient enemy, should be fortified by many remedies, we decree that nuns and other women dedicated to divine worship shall not wear a silken wimple, nor dare to carry silver or golden tiring-pins in their veil. Neither shall they, nor monks nor regular canons, wear belts of silk, or adorned with gold or silver, nor henceforth use burnet or any other unlawful cloth. Also let them measure their gown according to the dimension of their body, so that it does not exceed the length of the body, but let it suffice them to be clad, as beseems them, in a robe reaching to the ankles; and let none but a consecrated nun wear a ring and let her be content with one alone[1681]. Fifteen years later a synod declared: Item, we forbid to monks, regular canons and nuns coloured garments or bed clothes, save those dyed black. And when they ride, let them use decent saddles and bridles and saddle-cloths[1682]. And nuns are not to use trained and pleated dresses, or any exceeding the length of the body, nor delicate or coloured furs; nor shall they presume to wear silver tiring-pins in their veil[1683]. These regulations were repeated almost word for word by William of Wykeham in his injunctions to Romsey and Wherwell in 1387[1684]. With them may be compared the rule as to dress in force at Syon Abbey in the fifteenth century: whiche (clothes) in nowyse schal be ouer curyous, but playne and homly, witheoute weuynge of any straunge colours of silke, golde or syluer, hauynge al thynge of honeste and profyte, and nothyng of vanyte, after the rewle; ther knyves unpoynted and purses beyng double of lynnen clothe and not of sylke[1685]. The unsuccessful efforts of monastic Visitors to enforce these rules have been described; a few instances may be added here to show the directions in which the nuns erred. Peckham wrote to Godstow: Concerning the garments of the nuns let the rule of St Benedict be carefully observed. For which reason we forbid them ever in future to wear cloth of burnet, nor gathered tunics nor to make themselves garments of an immoderate width with excessive pleats (_nec etiam birrorum immoderantia vestes sibi faciant latitudine fluctuantes_); with this nevertheless carefully observing what was aforetime ordained in such matters by the Council of Oxford[1686]. Buckingham's injunction to Elstow in 1387 gives some interesting details; he forbade the nuns to wear any other veil than that of profession, or to "adorn their countenances" by arranging it in a becoming fashion, spreading out the white veil, which was meant to be worn underneath: (Ainsi qu'il est pour le monde et les cours Un art, un goût de modes et d'atours, Il est aussi des modes pour le voile; Il est un art de donner d'heureux tours[1687] � l'étamine, à la plus simple toile.)[1688] They were not to wear gowns of black wide at the bottom, or turned back with fur at the wrists[1689], and they were in no wise to use "wide girdles or belts plaited (_spiratis_) or adorned with silver, nor wear these above their tunics open to the gaze of man"[1690]. Curious details are also given by Bishop Spofford, writing to the nuns of Lymbrook in 1437; their habit was to "be formed after relygyon in sydnesse and wydnesse, forbedyng long traynes in mantellys and kyrtellys and almaner of spaires and open semes in the same kyrtellys"[1691]. "Large collars, barred girdles and laced shoes" were forbidden at Swine in 1298[1692], red dresses and long supertunics "like secular women" at Wilberfoss in 1308[1693]; at Nunmonkton in 1397 (after Margaret Fairfax's fashionable clothes had been discovered) a general injunction was made to the nuns "not to use henceforth silken clothes, and especially silken veils, nor precious furs, nor rings on their fingers, nor tunics laced-up or fastened with brooches nor any robes, called in English 'gownes,' after the fashion of secular women"[1694]. These Northern houses were continually in need of admonition, sometimes their slashed tunics, sometimes their barred girdles, sometimes their shoes being condemned[1695]. Bishop Alnwick found silken veils at Langley, Studley and Rothwell[1696]; Bishop Fitzjames forbade silver and gilt pins and kirtles of fustian or worsted at Wix in 1509[1697]; and at Carrow in 1532 the subprioress complained that some of the nuns not only wore silk girdles, but had the impudence to commend the use thereof[1698]. Nor could nuns always resist the temptation to let their shorn hair grow again, e.g. at the visitation of Romsey by the commissary of the Prior of Canterbury in 1502, the cellaress deposed "that Mary Tystede and Agnes Harvey wore their hair long"[1699]. Eudes Rigaud had some difficulty in this matter with the frivolous nuns of his diocese of Rouen; at Villarceaux in 1249 he recorded: "They all wear their hair long to their chins," and at Montivilliers he had to condemn ringlets[1700]. One is reminded of the scene in _Jane Eyre_, where Mr Brocklehurst visits Lowood: Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if he had met something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used: "Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what--_what_ is that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled--curled all over?" and extending his cane he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so. "It is Julia Severn," replied Miss Temple, very quietly. "Julia Severn, ma'am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why, in defiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she conform to the world so openly--here in an evangelical, charitable establishment--as to wear her hair a mass of curls?... Tell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall."... He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom: "All those top-knots must be cut off." Or, as Eudes Rigaud expressed it some seven centuries earlier: "Quod comam non nutriatis ultra aures." NOTE E. CONVENT PETS IN LITERATURE. It would be possible to compile a pretty anthology of convent pets, which have played a not undistinguished part in literature. The best known of all, perhaps, are Madame Eglentyne's little dogs, upon which Chaucer looked with a kindly unepiscopal eye: Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed, But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte[1701]. The tender-hearted Prioress risked a terrible fate by so pampering her dogs, if we are to believe the awful warning related by the knight of La Tour-Landry, to wean his daughters from similar habits: Ther was a lady that had two litell doggis, and she loued hem so that she toke gret plesaunce in the sight and feding of hem. And she made euery day dresse and make for her disshes with soppes of mylke, and after gaue hem flesshe. But there was ones a frere that saide to her that it was not wel done that the dogges were fedde and made so fatte, and the pore pepill so lene and famished for hunger. And so the lady, for his saieing, was wrothe with hym, but she wolde not amende it. And after she happed she deied, and there fell a wonder meruailous sight, for there was seyn euer on her bedde ij litell blake dogges, and in her deyeng thei were about her mouthe and liked it, and whanne she was dede, there the dogges had lyked it was al blacke as cole, as a gentillwoman tolde me that sawe it and named me the lady[1702]. Poor Madame Eglentyne! The anthologist would, however, have to go further back than Chaucer, into the eleventh century, and begin with that ill-fated donkey, which belonged to sister Alfrâd of Homburg, and which the wit of a nameless goliard and the devotion of the monks of St Augustine's, Canterbury, have preserved for undying fame[1703]: Est unus locus There is a township Hôinburh dictus, (Men call it Homburg) in quo pascebat There 'twas that Alfrâd asinam Alfrâd Pastured her she-ass, viribus fortem Strong was the donkey, atque fidelem. Mighty and faithful. Que dum in amplum And as it wandered exiret campum, Out to the meadow, vidit currentem It spied a greedy lupum voracem, Wolf that came running, caput abscondit, Head down and tail turned, caudam ostendit. Off the ass scampered. Lupus occurrit: Up the wolf hurried, caudam momordit, Seized tail and bit it. asina bina Quickly the donkey levavit crura Lifted its hind legs, fecitque longum With the wolf bravely, cum lupo bellum. Long did it battle. Cum defecisse Then when at last it vires sensisset, Felt its strength failing, protulit magnam Raised it a mighty plangendo vocem Noise of lamenting, vocansque suam Calling its mistress, moritur domnam. So died the donkey. Audiens grandem Hearing the mighty asine vocem Voice of her donkey Alfrâd cucurrit, Alfrâd came running. "sorores," dixit, "Come, sisters" cried she "cito venite, "Sisters, come quickly, me adiuvate! Come now and help me! Asinam caram My darling donkey misi ad erbam. Out to grass put I. illius magnum I hear a mighty audio planctum, Sound of complaining. spero cum sevo Sure with a cruel ut pugnet lupo." Wolf is it fighting!" Clamor sororum Heard is her crying venit in claustrum, In the nuns' cloister, turbe virorum Men come and women, ac mulierum Crowding together, assunt, cruentum All that the bloody ut captent lupum. Wolf may be taken. Adela namque Adela also, soror Alfrâde, sister of Alfrâd, Rîkilam querit, Rîkila seeketh, Agatham invenit, Agatha findeth, ibant ut fortem All go to vanquish sternerent hostem. The mighty foeman. At ille ruptis But he tore open asine costis Sides of the donkey, sanguinis undam Flesh and blood gobbled carnemque totam All up together, simul voravit, Then helter-skeltered silvam intravit. Back to the forest. Illud videntes And when they saw him cuncte sorores Wept all the sisters, crines scindebant, Tearing their tresses, pectus tundebant, Beating their bosoms, flentes insontem Weeping the guiltless asine mortem. Death of their donkey. Denique parvum Long time a tiny portabat pullum; Foal it had carried. illum plorabat Sadly wept Alfrâd maxime Alfrâd, Thinking upon it, sperans exinde All her hopes ended prolem crevisse. Of rearing the offspring. Adela mitis Adela gentle, Fritherûnque dulcis Fritherûn charming, venerunt ambe, Both came together, ut Alverâde That they might strengthen cor confirmarent Sad heart of Alfrâd, atque sanarent. Strengthen and heal it. "Delinque mestas, "Leave now thy gloomy soror, querelas! Wailing, O sister! lupus amarum Wolf never heedeth non curat fletum: Thy bitter weeping. dominus aliam, The Lord will give thee dabit tibi asinam." Another donkey." Exquisite ending! "The Lord will give thee another donkey." With what delighted applause must the unknown jongleur have been greeted by the monks or nobles, who first listened after dinner to this little masterpiece of humour. All the convent pets who are famed in literature came by a coincidence to a bad end. Our anthologist would seize on two other hapless creatures, both of them birds, Philip Sparrow and the never-to-be-forgotten Vert-Vert. Philip Sparrow needs no introduction to English readers; Skelton was never in happier vein than when he sang the dirge of that pet of Joanna Scrope, boarder at Carrow Priory, dead at the claws of a "vylanous false cat." Space allows only a few lines of the long poem to be quoted here. It begins with the office for the dead, sung by the mourning mistress over her bird: _Pla ce bo_, Who is there, who? _Di le xi_, Dame Margery; _Fa, re, my, my_, Wherefore and why, why? For the sowle of Philip Sparowe, That was late slayn at Carowe, Among the Nones Blake, For that swete soules sake, And for all sparowes soules, Set in our bederolles _Pater noster qui_, With an _Ave Mari_, And with the corner of a Crede The more shalbe your mede. Whan I remembre agayn How mi Philyp was slayn, Neuer halfe the payne Was betwene you twayne, Pyramus and Thesbe, As than befell to me: I wept and I wayled, The tearys doune hayled; But nothynge it auayled To call Phylyp agayne, Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne. * * * * It was so prety a fole, It wold syt on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut, With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut! It had a veluet cap, And wold syt upon my lap, And seke after small wormes, And somtyme white bred crommes; And many tymes and ofte Betwene my brestes softe It wolde lye and rest; It was propre and prest. Somtyme he wolde gaspe Whan he sawe a waspe; A fly or a gnat, He wolde flye at that; And prytely he wold pant Whan he saw an ant; Lord, how he wolde pry After the butterfly! Lorde, how he wolde hop After the grassop! And whan I sayd, Phyp, Phyp, Than he wold lepe and skyp, And take me by the lyp. Alas, it wyll me slo, That Phillyp is gone me fro! _Si in i qui ta tes_, Alas, I was euyll at ease! _De pro fun dis cla ma vi_, Whan I sawe my sparowe dye! * * * * That vengeaunce I aske and crye, By way of exclamacyon, On all the hole nacyon Of cattes wyld and tame; God send them sorowe and shame! That cat specyally That slew so cruelly My lytell prety sparowe That I brought vp at Carowe ...[1704]. It is impossible for a cat-lover to leave the whole nation of cats under this terrific curse. Yet literature will supply no nunnery cat beside the unhappy Gyb and the uncharacterised cat of the _Ancren Riwle_. We must needs turn to the monks, and borrow the truer estimate of feline qualities made in the eighth century by an exiled Irish student, who sat over his books in a distant monastery of Carinthia, and wrote upon the margin of his copy of St Paul's Epistles this little poem on his white cat: I and Pangur Bán, my cat, 'Tis a like task we are at; Hunting mice is his delight, Hunting words I sit all night. Better far than praise of men 'Tis to sit with book and pen; Pangur bears me no ill-will, He, too, plies his simple skill. 'Tis a merry thing to see At our tasks how glad are we, When at home we sit and find Entertainment to our mind. Oftentimes a mouse will stray In the hero Pangur's way; Oftentimes my keen thought set Takes a meaning in its net. 'Gainst the wall he sets his eye Full and fierce and sharp and sly; 'Gainst the wall of knowledge I All my little wisdom try. When a mouse darts from its den, O! how glad is Pangur then; O! what gladness do I prove When I solve the doubts I love. So in peace our task we ply, Pangur Bán, my cat, and I; In our arts we find our bliss, I have mine and he has his. Practice every day has made Pangur perfect in his trade; I get wisdom day and night, Turning darkness into light[1705]. O cat! even at the cost of relevancy we have done thee honour. Two little tragedies of the cloister are concerned with parrots--yet with what different birds and what different mistresses! In the twelfth century Nigel Wireker tells of an ill-bred and ill-fated parrot, kept in a nunnery, who told tales about the nuns and was poisoned by them for his pains: Saepe mala Psittacus in thalamum domina redeunte puellas Prodit et illorum verba tacenda refert; Nescius ille loqui; sed nescius immo tacere Profert plus aequo Psittacus oris habens. Hinc avibus crebro miscente aconita puella Discat ut ante mori quam didicisse loqui; Sunt et aves aliae quae toto tempore vitae Religiosorum claustra beata colunt[1706]. Quite other was the fate of Vert-Vert, whose tragedy told with exquisite irony by Gresset in the eighteenth century deserves a place on every shelf and in every heart which holds _The Rape of the Lock_. Vert-Vert was a parrot who belonged to the nuns of Nevers, the most beautiful, most amiable, the most devout parrot in the world. The convent of Nevers spoiled Vert-Vert as no bird has ever been spoiled: Pas n'est besoin, je pense, de décrire Les soins des soeurs, des nonnes, c'est tout dire; Et chaque mère, après son directeur, N'aimait rien tant. Même dans plus d'un coeur, Ainsi l'écrit un chroniqueur sincère, Souvent l'oiseau l'emporta sur le père. Il partageait, dans ce paisible lieu, Tous les sirops dont le cher père en Dieu, Grâce aux bienfaits des nonnettes sucrées, Réconfortait ses entrailles sacrées. Objet permis à leur oisif amour, Vert-Vert était l'âme de ce séjour.... Des bonnes soeurs égayant les travaux, Il béquetait et guimpes et bandeaux; Il n'était point d'agréable partie S'il n'y venait briller, caracoler, Papillonner, siffler, rossignoler; Il badinait, mais avec modestie; Avec cet air timide et tout prudent Qu'une novice a même en badinant. He fed in the frater, and between meals the nuns' pockets were always full of bon-bons for his delectation. He slept in the dorter, and happy the nun whose cell he honoured with his presence; Vert-Vert always chose the young and pretty novices. Above all he was learned; he talked like a book, and all the nuns had taught him their chants and their prayers: Il disait bien son Benedicite, Et _notre mère_, et _votre charité_; ... Il était là maintes filles savantes Qui mot pour mot portaient dans leurs cerveaux Tous les noëls anciens et nouveaux. Instruit, formé par leurs leçons fréquentes, Bientôt l'élève égala ses régentes; De leur ton même, adroit imitateur Il exprimait la pieuse lenteur, Les saints soupirs, les notes languissantes Du chant des soeurs, colombes gémissantes. Finalement Vert-Vert savait par coeur Tout ce que sait une mère de choeur. Small wonder that the fame of this pious bird spread far and wide; small wonder that pilgrims came from all directions to the abbey parlour to hear him talk. But alas, it was this very fame which led to his undoing. The physical tragedy of Philip Sparrow, an unlearned bird of frivolous tastes, pales before the moral tragedy of Vert-Vert. One day his renown reached the ears of a distant convent of nuns at Nantes, many miles further down the river Loire; and they conceived a violent desire to see him: Désir de fille est un feu qui dévore, Désir de nonne est cent fois pire encore. They wrote to their fortunate sisters of Nevers, begging that Vert-Vert might be sent in a ship to visit them. Consternation at Nevers. The grand chapter was held; the younger nuns would have preferred death to parting with the darling parrot, but their elders judged it impolitic to refuse and to Nantes must Vert-Vert go for a fortnight. The parrot was placed on board a ship; but the ship Portait aussi deux nymphes, trois dragons, Une nourrice, un moine, deux Gascons: Pour un enfant qui sort du monastère, C'était échoir en dignes compagnons. At first Vert-Vert was confused and silent among the unseemly jests of the women and the Gascons and the oaths of the boatmen. But too soon his innocent heart was acquainted with evil; desiring always to please he repeated all that he heard; no evil word escaped him; by the end of his journey he had forgotten all that he had learned in the nunnery, but he had become a pretty companion for a boatload of sinners. Nantes was reached; Vert-Vert (all unwilling) was carried off to the convent, and the nuns came running to the parlour to hear the saintly bird. But horror upon horrors, nothing but oaths and blasphemies fell from Vert-Vert's beak. He apostrophised sister Saint-Augustin with "la peste te crève," and Jurant, sacrant d'une voix dissolue, Faisant passer tout l'enfer en revue, Les B, les F, voltigeaient sur son bec. Les jeunes soeurs crurent qu'il parlait grec. The scandalised nuns dispatched Vert-Vert home again without delay. His own convent received him in tears. Nine of the most venerable sisters debated his punishment; two were for his death; two for sending him back to the heathen land of his birth; but the votes of the other five decided his punishment: On le condamne à deux mois d'abstinence, Trois de retraite et quatre de silence; Jardins, toilette, alcôve et biscuits, Pendant ce temps, lui seront interdits. Moreover the ugliest lay sister, a veiled ape, an octogenarian skeleton, was made the guardian of poor Vert-Vert, who had always preferred the youngest and coyest of the novices. Little remains to be told. Vert-Vert, covered with shame and taught by misfortune, became penitent, forgot the dragoons and the monk, and showed himself once more "plus dévot qu'un chanoine." The happy nuns cut short his penance; the convent kept fête, the dorters were decked with flowers, all was song and tumult. But alas, Vert-Vert, passing too soon from a fasting diet to the sweets that were pressed upon him: Bourré de sucre, et brûlé de liqueurs Vert-Vert, tombant sur un tas de dragées, En noir cyprès vit ses roses changées[1707]. Doubtless so godly an end consoled the nuns for his untimely death. Yet one hardly knows which to prefer, the regenerate or the unregenerate Vert-Vert. The appreciative reader, remembering the inspired volubility with which (after such short practice) he greeted the nuns of Nantes, is almost moved to regret the destruction of what one of Kipling's soldiers would call "a wonderful gift of language." There is an apposite passage in Jasper Mayne's comedy of _The City Match_ (1639), in which a lady describes the missionary efforts of her Puritan waiting-woman: Yesterday I went To see a lady that has a parrot: my woman While I was in discourse converted the fowl, And now it can speak nought but Knox's works; _So there's a parrot lost_. NOTE F. THE MORAL STATE OF LITTLEMORE PRIORY IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. Littlemore Priory, near Oxford, in the early sixteenth century, was in such grave disorder that it may justly be described as one of the worst nunneries of which record has survived. Its state was, as usual, largely due to a particularly bad prioress, Katherine Wells. The following account of it is taken from the record of Bishop Atwater's visitations in 1517 and 1518, the first held by his commissary Edmund Horde, the second by the bishop in person[1708]. The _comperta_ are that the prioress had ordered the five nuns under her to say that all was well; she herself had an illegitimate daughter, and was still visited by the father of the child, Richard Hewes, a priest in Kent[1709]; that she took the "pannes, pottes, candilsticks, basynes, shetts, pelous, federe bedds etc." the property of the monastery, to provide a dowry for this daughter; that another of the nuns had, within the last year, an illegitimate child by a married man of Oxford; that the prioress was excessive in punishments and put the nuns in stocks when they rebuked her evil life; that almost all the jewels were pawned, and that there was neither food, clothing nor pay for the nuns; that one who thought of becoming a nun at Littlemore was so shocked by the evil life of the prioress that she went elsewhere. A few months afterwards the bishop summoned the prioress to appear before him, and after denying the charges brought against her, she finally admitted them; her daughter, she said, had died four years before, but she owned that she had granted some of the plate of the monastery to Richard Hewes. In her evidence she stated that though these things had been going on for eight years, no inquiry had been made, and, as it seems, no visitation of the house had been held; only, on one occasion, certain injunctions of a general kind had been sent her. As a punishment she was deposed from the post of prioress, but was allowed to perform the functions of the office for the present, provided that she did nothing without the advice of Mr Edmund Horde. But some months later when the bishop himself made a visitation "to bring about some reformation," things were as scandalous as ever. The prioress complained that one of the nuns "played and romped (_luctando_)" with boys in the cloister and refused to be corrected. When she was put in the stocks, three other nuns broke the door and rescued her, and burnt the stocks; and when the prioress summoned aid from the neighbourhood, the four broke a window and escaped to friends, where they remained two or three weeks; that they laughed and played in church during mass, even at the elevation. The nuns complained that the prioress had punished them for speaking the truth at the last visitation; that she had put one in the stocks without any cause; that she had hit another "on the head with fists and feet, correcting her in an immoderate way," and that Richard Hewes had visited the priory within the last four months. From the evidence it is clear that the state of things was well known in Oxford, where each party seems to have had its adherents. Several morals may be drawn from this lurid story. It shows how inadequate, in some cases, was the episcopal machinery for control and reform of religious houses. It shows that the "scandalous _comperta_" of Henry VIII's commissioners some sixteen years later were in no way untrue to type. It shows also that Wolsey was not entirely unjustified in his desire to dissolve the house and to use its revenues for educational purposes; he may have been no more disinterested than was his master later, but in the case of Littlemore at least it is difficult not to approve him. NOTE G. THE MORAL STATE OF THE YORKSHIRE NUNNERIES IN THE FIRST HALF OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. It is possible to study in some detail the nunneries in the diocese of York during the first half of the fourteenth century, or roughly between the years 1280 and 1360. The Archbishops' Registers for most of the period have survived, and have either been printed or drawn upon very fully in the admirable accounts of monastic houses given in the _Victoria County History of Yorkshire_. As these accounts are not very widely known and as Yorkshire contained an unusual number of nunneries (twenty-seven) it is worth while to give some description of the state of these houses during a troubled period in their career. Reasons have been suggested elsewhere for some of the disorder which prevailed among the monastic houses of the North. They were most of them both small and poor and, what is of greater significance, they lay in the border country, exposed to the forays of the Scots, and continually disturbed by English armies or raiders, riding north to take revenge. Life was not easy for nuns who might at any moment have to flee before a raid and whose lands were constantly being ravaged; they grew more and more miserably poor and as usual poverty seemed to go hand in hand with laxity. Moreover the conditions of life set its stamp upon the character of the ladies from whom convents were recruited. These Percies and Fairfaxes and Mowbrays and St Quintins schooled their hot blood with difficulty to obedience and chastity and the Yorkshire nunneries were apt to reflect the fierce passions of the Border, quick to love and quick to fight. There were no more quarrelsome nunneries in the kingdom, witness their election fights[1710], and none in which discipline was more lax. During these sixty years nineteen out of the twenty-seven houses came before the Archbishop of York's notice, at one time or another, in connection with cases of immorality and apostasy. It is evident at once, from a study of the registers, that seven houses, i.e., Basedale, Keldholme, Kirklees and Swine of the Cistercian order, Arthington and Moxby of the Cluniac order and St Clement, York, of the Benedictine order were in a serious condition[1711]. At Basedale in 1307 the Prioress Joan de Percy was deprived for dilapidation of the goods of the house and perpetual and notorious misdeeds; whereupon she promptly left the nunnery, taking some of her partisans among the nuns with her. The Archbishop wrote to his official, bidding him warn them to return and not to go outside the cloister precincts and "in humility to take heed to the salutary monitions of their prioress"; but humility dwelt not in the breast of a Percy and in 1308 Joan was packed off to Sinningthwaite, "as she had been disobedient at Basedale." The troubles of the house were not ended; for the same year Agnes de Thormondby a nun, confessed that she had on three separate occasions allowed herself to be "deceived by the temptations of the flesh," a vivid commentary on the _régime_ of Joan Percy. In 1343 another well-born Prioress is in trouble at the house and the Archbishop issues a commission "to inquire into the truth of the articles urged against Katherine Mowbray and if her demerits required it to depose her, and the commission was repeated two years later, nothing apparently having been done"[1712]. The state of Keldholme was even worse. In 1287 Archbishop Romanus ordered the nuns to receive back an apostate, Maud de Tiverington. In 1299 a similar order was issued on behalf of Christiania de Styvelington. In 1308 began the violent election struggle over Emma of York and Joan of Pickering, which has already been described. In the course of the struggle four nuns were sent as rebels to other convents in 1308 and two in 1309, and from the nature of the penance imposed on the last two it would seem that they had been guilty of immorality. In 1318 Mary de Holm, who was one of the ejected rebels of 1308 and had been censured for disobedience to the new prioress in 1315, was sentenced to do penance "for the vice of incontinence committed by her with Sir William Lyly, chaplain"[1713]; and in 1321, Maud of Terrington (who may be the Maud of Tiverington who apostatised in 1287), was given a heavy penance for incontinence and apostasy[1714]. The history of the house during the stormy years from 1308 to 1321 shows how far from being a home of peace and good living a nunnery might be; and illustrates well the difficulty of reforming it while even one incorrigible rebel and sinner such as Mary de Holm dwelt there. The state of Arthington was very similar. Here in 1303 Custance de Daneport of Pontefract had apostatised and was to be received back; trouble seems to have begun in that year, for the Prioress Agnes de Screvyn resigned. In 1307 a visitation revealed considerable disorder and Dionisia de Hevensdale and Ellen de Castleford were forbidden to go outside the convent precincts. In 1312 the subprioress and convent were ordered to render due obedience to the Prioress Isabella de Berghby, who was given Isabella Couvel as a coadjutress. Evidently she resented having to share her authority in temporal matters with another nun, for soon afterwards Isabella de Berghby and Margaret de Tang are said to have cast off their habits and left the convent. Eighteen months later a new prioress was appointed and the two runaways returned and did penance. In 1315 there is mention of quarrels among the nuns and in 1319 Margaret de Tang once more engaged the attention of the Archbishop and was sent to Nunkeeling and prescribed the usual penalty for immorality. In 1321 she was again in trouble; she had apostatised and committed grave misdemeanours; and was again sent back to her convent, to be imprisoned and if necessary chained there, until she showed signs of repentance. In 1349 Isabella de Berghby, in spite of her past apostasy, was once more elected Prioress[1715]. At Moxby, the other Cluniac house in the diocese, Archbishop Greenfield ordered the Prioress to receive back Sabina de Apelgarth, who had apostatised, but was returning in a state of penitence. Her penitence was of the usual type of these Yorkshire ladies and her reputation did not prevent her from rising to the high rank in the convent, for in 1318 Archbishop Melton ordered her to be removed from office and ordained that henceforward no one convicted of incontinence was to hold any office[1716]. In 1321 a penance was pronounced on Joan de Brotherton for having been twice in apostasy; but a note in the margin of the register where the penance is entered takes her history a stage further: "Memorandum quod dominus Walterus de Penbrige, stans cum domina regina, postea impregnavit eandem"[1717]. The next year a Scottish raid dispersed the nuns; Sabina de Apelgarth and Margaret de Neusom were sent to Nunmonkton; Alice de Barton, the Prioress, to Swine; Joan de Barton and Joan de Toucotes to Nunappleton; Agnes Ampleford and Agnes Jarkesmill to Nunkeeling; Joan de Brotherton and Joan Blaunkfront to Hampole[1718]. This disturbance did not improve their morals. In 1325 the Prioress Joan de Barton resigned, having been found guilty of incontinence with the inevitable chaplain. The nuns could find no better successor for her than Sabina de Apelgarth and in 1328 that lady was once more in difficulties; the Archbishop removed her "for certain reasons" and imposed the usual penance for immorality and Joan de Toucotes became Prioress in her stead. At the same time Joan Blaunkfront's penance was relaxed, so she too had apparently fallen; lovely and white-browed she must have been, from her name ("But sikerly she hadde a fair foreheed"), nor could she bear to hide her beauties beneath the hideous garb of a nun. Seventeen long years afterwards, when the forehead was growing wrinkled and the beauty fading, she wished to reconcile herself with the God whom she had flouted. She had powerful friends and could afford to petition the Pope himself, and in 1345 Clement VI gave orders for Joan Blankefrontes, nun of Moxby, who had left her order, to be reconciled to it[1719]. Kirklees, known to romance as the house where a wicked prioress bled Robin Hood to death, was in a deplorable state about the same time. In 1306 Archbishop Greenfield wrote to the house bidding them take back Alice Raggid, who, several times led astray by the temptations of the flesh, had left her convent for the world; in 1313 a similar order was made for Elizabeth de Hopton. The two nuns seem, however, to have been incorrigible, for in 1315 the Archbishop wrote to the Prioress saying that public rumour had reached his ears that some of the nuns of the house, and especially Elizabeth de Hopton, Alice "le Raggede" and Joan de Heton, were wont to admit both secular and religious men into the private parts of the house and to hold many suspicious conversations with them. He forbids these or any other nuns to admit or talk with any cleric or layman save in a public place and in the presence of the Prioress, subprioress or two other nuns; and he specially warns a certain Joan de Wakefeld to give up the private room, which she persists in inhabiting by herself. He refers also to the fact that these and other nuns were disobedient to the Prioress, "like rebels refusing to accept her discipline and punishment." On the same day he imposed a special penance on Joan de Heton for incontinence with Richard del Lathe and Sir Michael, "called Scot," a priest, and on the unhappy Alice Raggid for the same sin with William de Heton of Mirfield, possibly a relative of her fellow nun[1720]. Here again we have an incorrigible offender, guilty of apostasy and immorality off and on during ten years. Swine was not much better. In 1289 a nun of the great St Quintin family was in disgrace, probably (though not certainly) for immorality. In 1290 there was the usual trouble over a new Prioress and Elizabeth de Rue was sent to Nunburnholme under the charge of a brother of the house and a horseman, apparently for immorality as well as contumacy. At the same time another nun, Elizabeth Darrains, had part of her penance lightened; but in 1291 she was sent away to Wykeham Priory. In 1306 John, son of Thomas the Smith, of Swine, was charged with having seduced Alice Martel, a nun of the house, and in 1310 Elizabeth de Rue (whom we have seen was in trouble twenty years before) was said to have sinned with two monks from the Abbey of Meaux. The house had evidently not improved very much at a later date, for in 1358 Alice de Cawode had twice been out in apostasy[1721]. Even close to the city of York itself, the Benedictine house of St Clement's or Clementhorpe did not escape the prevalent decay of morals. In 1300 the Archbishop rehearses unsympathetically a romantic tale of how "late one evening certain men came to the priory gate, leading a saddled horse; here Cecily a nun, met them and, throwing off her nun's habit, put on another robe and rode off with them to Darlington, where Gregory de Thornton was waiting for her; and with him she lived for three years and more." In 1310 Greenfield mitigated a penance, of the kind usually imposed for immorality, upon another nun Joan de Saxton. In 1318 there is mention of Joan of Leeds, another apostate, and in 1324 the Prioress resigned after serious trouble in the house, details of which have not been preserved. In 1331 Isabella de Studley (who had been made a nun there by express permission of the primate in 1315) was found guilty of apostasy and fleshly sin, besides blasphemy and other misdeeds; she had apparently been sent to Yedingham for a penance some time before and was now allowed to return, with the warning that if she disobeyed, quarrelled or blasphemed any more she would be transferred permanently to another house[1722]. These houses were all clearly extremely immoral, but there is evidence of less extreme trouble in other houses in the same diocese. At Arden Joan de Punchardon had become a mother in 1306 and Clarice de Speton confessed herself guilty with the bailiff of Bulmershire in 1311[1723]. At Thicket Alice Darel of Wheldrake was an apostate in 1303 and in 1334 Joan de Crackenholme was said to have left her house several times[1724]. At Wilberfoss Agnes de Lutton was in trouble in 1312[1725]. At Esholt Beatrice de Haukesward left the house pregnant in 1303[1726]. At Hampole Isabella Folifayt was guilty in 1324, and Alice de Reygate in 1358[1727]. At Nunappleton Maud of Ripon apostatised in 1309 and in 1346 Katherine de Hugate, a nun, went away pregnant and a lay sister was said to have been several times in the same condition[1728]. At St Stephen's, Foukeholm, a nun Cecilia, who had run away with a chaplain, returned of her own accord in 1293 and another apostate, Elena de Angrom, returned in 1349[1729]. Agnes de Bedale, an apostate, was sent back in 1286; and in 1343 Margaret de Fenton, who left the house pregnant, had her penance mitigated "because she had only done so once," a startling commentary on the state of the Yorkshire houses[1730]. At Rosedale an apostate Isabella Dayvill was sent back to do penance in 1321[1731]. Of Nunmonkton there is little record during the first half of the century, but it was in a bad state at the end[1732]; at Wykeham also there seems to have been no case of apostasy in the fourteenth century, but in the fifteenth century the Prioress Isabella Wykeham was removed for serious immorality in 1444 and in 1450 two nuns had gone on an unlicensed pilgrimage to Rome, which had led to one of them living with a married man in London[1733]. NOTE H. THE DISAPPEARANCE OR SUPPRESSION OF EIGHT NUNNERIES PRIOR TO 1535. It seems clear that even before the Dissolution proper decay was manifest in some of the smaller nunneries; numbers were dwindling and morals were not always beyond suspicion. At all events in the forty years before Henry VIII's first act of dissolution, no less than eight nunneries[1734], all of which had at one time been reasonably flourishing, faded away or were dissolved. Something may, and indeed must, be allowed for the ulterior motives of those who desired the revenue of these houses; but it is impossible to suspect men like John Alcock, Bishop of Ely, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, even Cardinal Wolsey, of being willing without any excuse to suppress helpless nunneries in order to endow their new collegiate foundations with the spoils. Some truth there must be in the allegations of ill behaviour brought against certain of these houses; and the reduction in numbers seems to point to a decay, more spontaneous than forced. The first of the houses thus to be dissolved was St Radegund's, Cambridge, the accounts of which we have so often quoted. In 1496 John Alcock, Bishop of Ely, visited the house and found but two sisters left there; and he thereupon obtained letters patent from Henry VII to convert the nunnery into a college, founded (like the nunnery) in honour of the Virgin, St John the Evangelist and St Radegund, but called henceforward Jesus College. Some light is thrown by these letters patent on the condition of the convent in 1496. It is therein stated that the king, as well by the report of the Bishop as by public fame, that the priory ... together with all its lands, tenements, rents, possessions and buildings, and moreover the properties, goods, jewels and other ecclesiastical ornaments anciently of piety and charity given and granted to the same house or priory, by the neglect, improvidence, extravagance and incontinence of the prioresses and women of the said house, _by reason of their proximity to the university of Cambridge_, have been dilapidated, destroyed, wasted, alienated, diminished, and subtracted; in consequence of which the nuns are reduced to such want and poverty that they are unable to maintain and support divine services, hospitality and other such works of mercy and piety, as by the primary foundation and ordinance of their founders are required; that they are reduced in number to two only, of whom one is elsewhere professed, the other is of ill-fame, and that they can in no way provide for their own sustenance and relief, insomuch as they are fain to abandon their house and leave it in a manner desolate[1735]. The next nunneries to disappear were Bromhale in Windsor Forest and Lillechurch or Higham in Kent. Their dissolution was begun in 1521 and completed in 1524, when their possessions were granted to St John's College, Cambridge, the foundation of which was then being carried out by John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, as executor of the Lady Margaret. Only three nuns were left in Bromhale and Wolsey directed the Bishop of Salisbury to "proceed against enormities, misgovernance and slanderous living, long time heretofore had, used and continued by the prioress and nuns"[1736]; but there is no further evidence as to the moral condition of the convent. The moral as well as the financial decay of Lillechurch is more certain, for the resignations of the three nuns who remained, together with the depositions of those who accused them of want of discipline, have survived. Their revenues were stated to be in great decay and divine service, hospitality and almsgiving had almost ceased. Moreover it was said that "the same priory was situated in a corner out of sight of the public and was much frequented by lewd persons, especially clerks, whereby the nuns there were notorious for the incontinence of their life," two of them having borne children to one Edward Sterope, vicar of Higham. Some witnesses were heard as to one of them, including a nurse who had taken charge of her baby and a former servant of the nunnery, who had been sent by the bishop to investigate the matter. "He entered the cloister of the aforesaid priory, where he saw the lady sitting and weeping and said to her 'Alas madam, howe happened this with you?' and she answered him, 'And [if] I had been happey [i.e. lucky] I myght a caused this thinge to have ben unknowen and hydden'"[1737]. The next nunneries to be suppressed were a group which went to enrich Cardinal Wolsey's foundations. The Cardinal's policy of dissolving small decayed houses in order to devote their revenues to collegiate foundations, especially to his new college at Oxford, was by no means generally approved and a passage in Skelton's bitterly hostile _Colin Clout_ refers particularly to the case of the nunneries: And the selfe same game Begone ys nowe with shame Amongest the sely nonnes: My lady nowe she ronnes, Dame Sybly our abbesse, Dame Dorothe and lady Besse, Dame Sare our pryoresse, Out of theyr cloyster and quere With an heuy chere, Must cast vp theyr blacke vayles[1738]. The nunneries dissolved were Littlemore (1525), Wix (1525), Fairwell (1527), and St Mary de Pré, St Albans, of which all went to Cardinal College, except Fairwell, which went to Lichfield Cathedral. Of these Littlemore, under the evil prioress Katherine Wells, had been in a state of great disorder since 1517[1739], while Cardinal Morton's famous letter of 1490 showed that there was at least suspicion of immoral relations between the nuns of St Mary de Pré and the monks of St Albans[1740]. Of the other two nunneries little is known at this time, save that they were very small; there were four nuns at Wix. Another house, Davington in Kent, vanished only a few months before the act would have dissolved it; in 1535 it was found before the escheator of the county that no nuns were left in it[1741]. NOTE I. CHANSONS DE NONNES. The theme of the nun in popular poetry deserves a more detailed study than it has yet received, both on account of the innate grace of the _chansons de nonnes_ and on account of their persistence into modern times. The earliest examples (with the exception of the two old French poems quoted in the text) occur in German literature, always rich in folk song. With the song from the _Limburg Chronicle_ and the Latin _Plangit nonna fletibus_ should be compared the following amusing little poem: Ich solt ein nonne werden ich hatt kein lust dazu ich ess nicht gerne gerste wach auch nicht gerne fru; gott geb dem kläffer unglück vil der mich armes mägdlein ins kloster haben wil! Ins kloster, ins kloster da kom ich nicht hinein, da schneidt man mir die har ab, das bringt mir schwäre pein; gott geb dem kläffer unglück vil der mich armes mägdlein ins kloster haben wil! Und wenn es komt um mitternacht das glöcklein das schlecht an, so hab ich armes mägdlein noch keinen schlaf getan; gott geb dem kläffer unglück vil der mich armes mägdlein ins kloster haben wil! Und wenn ich vor die alten kom so sehn sie mich sauer an, so denk ich armes mägdlein hett ich ein jungen man und der mein stäter bule sei so war ich armes mägdlein des fasten und betens frei. Ade, ade feins klösterlein, Ade, nu halt dich wol! ich weiss ein herz allerliebsten mein mein herz ist freuden vol; nach im stet all mein zuversicht, ins kloster kom ich nimmer nicht, ade, feins klösterlein![1742] From the time of the Minnesingers comes a charming, plaintive little song, which rings its double refrain on the words "Lonely" and "O Love, what have I done?" It tells how the nun, behind a cold grating, thinks of her lover as she chants her psalter; and how her father and mother visit her and pray together, clad like gay peacocks, while she is shrouded in cord and cowl; and how At even to my bed I go-- The bed in my cell is lonely. And then I think (God, where's the harm?) Would my true love were in my arm! O Love--what have I done?[1743] A thirteenth century poem, hailing from Bavaria or Austria, strikes a more tragic note: Alas for my young days, alas for my plaint. They would force me into a convent. Nevermore then shall I see the grass grow green and the green clover flowers, nevermore hear the little birds sing. Woe it is, and dead is my joy, for they would part me from my true love, and I die of sorrow. _Alas, alas for my grief, which I must bear in secret!_ Sisters, dear sisters, must we be parted from the world? Deepest woe it is, since I may never wear the bridal wreath and must make moan for my sins, when I would fain be in the world and would fain wear a bright wreath upon my hair, instead of the veil that the nuns wear. _Alas, alas for my grief, which I must bear in secret!_ I must take leave of the world, since the day of parting is come. I must look sourly upon all joy, upon dancing and leaping and good courage, birds singing and hawthorn blooming. If the little birds had my sorrow well might they sit silent in the woods and upon the green branches. _Alas, alas for my grief, which I must bear in silence_[1744]. A sixteenth century French song has something of the same serious tone, though it is more sophisticated and less poignant than the medieval German version: Une jeune fillette de noble coeur gratieuse et honeste de grand valeur, contre son gré l'on a rendu nonette point ne le voloit estre par quoy vit en langueur. One day after Compline she was sitting alone and lamenting her fate and she called on the Virgin to shorten her life, which she could endure no longer: If I were married to my love, who has so desired me, whom I have so desired, all the night long he would hold me in his arms and would tell me all his thought and I would tell him mine. If I had believed my love and the sweet words he said to me, alack, alack, I should be wedded now. But since I must die in this place let me die soon. O poor heart, that must die a death so bitter! Fare you well, abbess of this convent, and all the nuns therein. Pray for me when I am dead, but never tell my thought to my true love. Fare you well, father and mother and all my kinsfolk; you made me a nun in this convent; in life I shall never have any joy; I live unhappy, in torment and in pain[1745]. Usually, however, the _chanson de nonne_ is more frivolous than this and all ends happily. A well defined group contains songs in the form of a round with a refrain, meant to be sung during a dance[1746]. One of the prettiest has a refrain rejecting the life of a nun for the best of reasons: Derrière chez mon père Il est un bois taillis (Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non!) Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. Il chante pour les filles Qui n'ont pas d'ami, Il ne chante pas pour moi, J'en ai un, dieu mercy[1747]. Another (first found in a version belonging to the year 1602) has the dance-refrain: Trépignez vous, trépignez, Trépignez vous comme moy, and the words seem to trip of themselves: Mon père n'a fille que moy-- Il a juré la sienne foy Que nonnette il fera de moy, Et non feray, pas ne voudray. J'amerois mieux mary avoir Qui me baisast la nuit trois fois. L'un au matin et l'autre au soir, L'autre a minuit, ce sont les trois[1748]. Another song of the same date has the refrain: Je le diray, Je le diray, diray, ma mère, Ma Mère, je le diray, and tells the same tale: Mon père aussi ma mère Ont juré par leur foy Qu'ils me rendront nonnette Tout en despit de moy. La partie est mal faite Elle est faite sans moy. J'ay un amy en France Qui n'est pas loin de moy, Je le tiens par le doigt. La nuit quand je me couche Se met auprès de moy, M'apprend ma patenostre, Et aussi mon _ave_, Et encore autre chose Que je vous celeray. De peur que ne l'oublie Je le recorderay![1749] The passage of years never diminished the popularity of these gay little songs; age could not wither them, and when nineteenth century scholars began to collect the folk songs sung in the provinces of France, they found many _chansons de nonnes_ still upon the lips of the people. In Poitou there is a round whose subject is still the old distaste of the girl for the convent: Dans Paris l'on a fait faire Deux ou trois petits couvents. Mon père ainsi que ma mère Veulent me mettre dedans, (Point de couvent, je ne veux, ma mère, C'est un amant qu'il me faut vraiment.) She begs her parents to wait another year; perhaps at the end of a year she will find a lover; and she will take him quickly enough: Il vaut mieux conduire à vêpres Son mari et ses enfants, Que d'être dedans ces cloétres A faire les yeux dolents; A jeûner tout le carême, Les quatre-temps et l'avent; Et coucher dessus la dure Tout le restant de son temps. Serais-je plus heureuse Dans les bras de mon amant? Il me conterait ses peines, Ses peines et ses tourments. Je lui conterais les miennes, Ainsi passerait le temps[1750]. Another round from the same district sings the plaint of a girl whose younger sister has married before her; "lads are as fickle as a leaf upon the wind, girls are as true as silver and gold; but my younger sister is being married. I am dying of jealousy, for they are sending me into a convent": Car moi, qui suis l'aînée On me met au couvent. Si ce malheur arrive J'mettrai feu dedans! (Vous qui menez la ronde, Menez-le rondement.)[1751] Many folk-songs take the form of a dialogue between a mother and daughter, sometimes (as in two of the rounds quoted above) preserved only in the refrain. An old song taken down at Fontenay-le-Marmion contains a charmingly frivolous conversation. "Mother," says the daughter of fifteen, "I want a lover." "No, no, no, my child, none of that," says her mother, "you shall go to town to a convent and learn to read." "But tell me, mother, is it gay in a convent?": "Dites-moi, ma mère, ah! dites-moi donc, Dedans ce couvent, comme s'y comporte-t-on? Porte-t-on des fontanges et des beaux habits, Va-t-on à la danse, prend-on ses plaisis?" "Non, non, non, ma fille, point de tout cela; Une robe noire et elle vous servira, Une robe noire et un voile blanc; Te voilà, ma fille, à l'état du couvent." "No, mother, to a convent I will not go; never will I leave the lad I love"; as she speaks her lover enters. "Fair one, will you keep your promise?" "I will keep all the promises I ever made to you, in my youth I will keep them; it is only my mother who does not wish it--but all the same, do not trouble yourself, for it shall be so. My father is very gentle when he sees me cry; I shall speak to him of love and I shall soon make him see that without any more delay I must have a lover"[1752]. In another of these dialogues the seventeen-year-old girl begs her mother to find her a husband. "You bold wicked girl," says the mother: Effrontée, hélas! que vous êtes! Si je prends le manche à balai, Au couvent de la soeur Babet Je te mets pour la vie entière, Et à grands coups de martinet On apaisera votre caquet! But "Mother," says the girl, "When you were my age, weren't you just the same? When love stole away your strength and your courage, didn't you love your sweetheart so well that they wanted to put you into a convent? don't you remember, mother, that you once told me that it was high time my dear father came forward, for you had more than one gallant?" The horrified mother interrupts her, "I see very well that you have a lover": Mariez-vous, n'en parlons plus Je vais vous compter mille écus![1753] Another group of songs (in narrative form and more _banal_ than the rounds and dialogues) deals with the escape from the convent. Among folk-songs collected in Velay and Forez there is one in which the girl is shut in a nunnery, whence her lover rescues her by the device of dressing himself as a gardener and getting employment in the abbess's garden[1754]; and another in which a soldier returns from the Flemish wars to find his mistress in a convent and takes her away with him in spite of the remonstrances of the abbess[1755]. In a version from Low Normandy (which probably goes back to the seventeenth century) the lover invokes the help of a chimney sweep, who goes to sweep the convent chimneys and pretends to be seized with a stomach-ache, so that the abbess hurries away for a medicine bottle and enables him to pass the young man's letter to his mistress; on a second visit the sweep carries the girl out in his sack, under the very nose of the reverend mother[1756]. An Italian version is less artificial: In this city there is a little maid, a little maid in love. They wish to chastise her until she loves no more. Says her father to her mother: "In what manner shall we chastise her? Let us array her in grey linen and put her into a nunnery." In her chamber the fair maiden stood listening. "Ah, woe is me, for they would make me a nun!" Weeping she wrote a letter and when she had sealed it well, she gave it to her serving man, and bade him bear it to her lover. The gentle gallant read the letter and began to weep and sigh: "I had but one little love and now they would make her a nun!" He goes to the stable where his horses are and saddles the one he prizes most. "Arise, black steed, for thou art the strongest and fairest of all; for one short hour thou must fly like a swallow down by the sea." The gentle gallant mounts his horse and spurs forward at a gallop. He arrives just as his fair one is entering the nunnery. "Hearken to me, mother abbess, I have one little word to say." As he spake the word to the maiden, he slipped the ring on her finger. "Is there in this city no priest or no friar who will marry a maiden without her banns being called?" "Goodbye to you, Father, goodbye to you, Mother, goodbye to you all my kinsfolk. They thought to make me a nun, but with joy I am become a bride"[1757]. Another very ribald Italian folk-song of the fourteenth or fifteenth century is specially interesting because it is founded upon Boccaccio's famous tale of the Abbess and the breeches. It is somewhat different from the usual nun-song; less plaintive and more indecent, as befits its origin in a _conte gras_; it is a _fabliau_ rather than a song, but it is worth quoting: Kyrie, kyrie, pregne son le monache! lo andai in un monastiero, a non mentir ma dir el vero, ov' eran done secrate: diezi n' eran tute inpiate, senza [dir de] la badesa, che la tiritera spesa faceva con un prete. Kyrie, etc. Or udirete bel sermona: ciascuna in chiesa andone, lasciando il dileto che si posava in sul leto; per rifare la danza ciascuno aspetta l' amanza che diè retonare. Kyrie, etc. Quando matutin sonava in chiesa nesuna andava, [poi] ch' eran acopiate qual con prete e qual con frate: con lui stava in oracione e ciascuno era garzone che le serviva bene. Kyrie, etc. Sendo in chiesia tute andate, e tute erano impregnate, qual dal prete e qual dal frate, l' una e l' altra guata; ciascuna cred' esser velata lo capo di benda usata; avrino in capo brache. Kyrie, etc. E l' una a l' altra guatando si vengon maravigliando; credean che fore celato, alor fu manifestato questo eale convenente: a la badessa incontenente ch' ognun godesse or dice. Kyrie, etc. Or ne va, balata mia, va a quel monastiero, che vi si gode in fede mia e questo facto è vero; ciascuna non li par vero, e quale [è] la fanziulla ciascuna si trastulla col cul cantano kyrie. Kyrie, etc.[1758] One characteristic form of the nun-theme has already been referred to in the text: the dialogue between the clerk and the nun, in which one prays the other for love and is refused. A terse version in which the nun is temptress exists in Latin and evidently enjoyed a certain popularity: _Nonna._ Te mihi meque tibi genus, aetas et decor aequa[n]t: Cur non ergo sumus sic in amore pares? _Clericus._ Non hac ueste places aliis nec uestis ametur: Quae nigra sunt, fugio, candida semper amo. _N._ Si sim ueste nigra, niueam tamen aspice carnem: Quae nigra sunt, fugias, candida crura petas. _C._ Nupsisti Christo, quem non offendere fas est: Hoc uelum sponsam te notat esse Dei. _N._ Deponam uelum, deponam cetera quaeque: Ibit et ad lectum nuda puella tuum. _C._ Si uelo careas, tamen altera non potes esse: Vestibus ablatis non mea culpa minor. _N._ Culpa quidem, sed culpa leuis tamen ipsa fatetur Hoc fore peccatum, sed ueniale tamen. _C._ Uxorem uiolare uiri graue crimen habetur, Sed grauius sponsam te uiolare Dei. _N._ Cum non sit rectum uicini frangere lectum Plus reor esse reum zelotypare Deum[1759]. In the Cambridge Manuscript there is a famous dialogue, half-Latin and half-German, in which a clerk prays a nun to love him in springtime, while the birds sing in the trees, but she replies: "What care I for the nightingale? I am Christ's maid and his betrothed." Almost the whole of the dialogue, in spite of the nun's irreproachable attitude, has been deleted with black ink by the monks of St Augustine's, Canterbury, who were accustomed thus to censor matter which they considered unedifying; but modern scholars have been at infinite pains to reconstruct it[1760]. It is rare to find in popular songs the idea of the convent as a refuge for maidens crossed in love; but some pretty poems have this theme. In a sixteenth century song a girl prefers a convent, if she cannot have the man she loves best, but she wishes her lover could be with her there: Puis que l'on ne m'at donne A celuy que j'aymois tant, avant la fin de l'annee quoy que facent mes parens, je me rendray capucine capucine en un couvent. Si mon amis vient les feste a la grille regardant, je luy feray de la teste la reverence humblement come pauvre capucine; je n'oserois aultrement. S'il se pouvait par fortune se couler secretement dedans ma chambre sur la brune, je lui dirois mon tourment que la pauvre capucine pour luy souffre en ce couvent. Mon dieu, s'il se pouvoit faire que nous deux ensemblement fussions dans ung monastere pour y passer nostre temps, capucin et capucine nous vindrions tous deux content. L'on me vera attissee d'ung beau voille de lin blanc; mais je seray bien coiffee dans le coeur tout aultrement, puis que l'on m'a capucine mise dedans ce couvent. N'est ce pas une grand raige quand au gre de ses parens il faut prendre en mariaige ceulx qu'on n'ayme nullement? j'ameroy mieulx capucine estre mise en ce couvent[1761]. Somewhat similar is the song (first printed in 1640) of the fifteen year-old girl married to a husband of sixty: M'irai-je rendre nonette Dans quelque joly couvent, Priant le dieu d'amourette Qu'il me donne allegement Ou que j'aye en mariage Celuy là que j'aime tant?[1762] A round, with the refrain Ah, ah, vive l'amour! Cela ne durera pas toujours, goes with a delightful swing: Ce matin je me suis levée Plus matin que ma tante; J'ai descendu dans mon jardin Cueillire la lavande. Je n'avais pas cueilli trois brins Que mon amant y rentre; Il m'a dit trois mots en latin: Marions nous ensemble. --Si mes parents le veul' bien, Pour moi je suis contente. Si mes parents ne le veul' pas Dans un couvent j'y rentre. Tous mes parents le veul' bien, Il n'y a que ma tante. Et si ma tante ne veut pas Dans un couvent je rentre. Je prierai Dieu pour mes parents Et le diable pour ma tante![1763] In another song, with the refrain Je ne m'y marieray jamais Je seray religieuse, the girl laments her own coyness which has lost her her lover[1764]. Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the lover's falseness which drives her to enter a convent. In a song, which first occurs about 1555, the maiden laments "qu'amours sont faulses": Je m'en iray rendre bigotte Avec les autres, Et porteray le noir aussi le gris (sont les couleurs de mon loyal amy) si porteray les blanches patenostres comme bigotte[1765]. In another very graceful little ditty the lover goes through the world in rain and wind, seeking his true love and finds her at last in a green valley: Je luy ay dit "doucette, où vas tu maintenant? (m'amour)" "m'en vois rendre nonnette (helas) en un petit couvent. Puis que d'aultre que moy vous estes amoureux. (m'amour) qui faict qu'en grand esmoy (helas) mon coeur soit langoureux. Helas, toute vestue je seray de drap noir (m'amour) monstrant que despourveue (helas) je vis en desespoir"[1766]. Moreover the convent also plays its part in that numerous class of folk songs, which tells of the discomfiture of a too bold gallant by the wits of a girl. An early example occurs in 1542: L'autrier, en revenant de tour Sus mon cheval qui va le trou, Par dessoubs la couldrette L'herbe y croit folyette. Je m'en entray en ung couvent Pour prendre mes esbatemens. Par ung petit guinchet d'argent Je vis une nonnette, Vray Dieu, tant jolyette. Dessoubz les drabs quand je la vys Blanche comme la fleur du lys, Je masseitys aupres du lit En lui disans: nonnette Serez vous ma miette? Chevalier, troup me detenez, D'en faire a vostre voulente Si m'en laissez ung peu aller, Tant que je soye parée, Tost seray retournée. Sire chevalier, rassemblez A l'ésperirer vous resemblez, Qui tient la proye enmy ses pieds Et puis la laisse enfuire Ainsi faictes vous, sire. La nonnette si s'en alla A son abbesse racompta Là en ces bois a ung musart Qui d'amour m'a priée, Je luy suis eschappée. Le chevallier il demeura Soulz la branche d'ung olivier Attendant la nonnette-- Encore y peust il estre![1767] Folk-songs, like flowers, spring up--or perhaps are transplanted--in the same form in different lands and under different skies; they laugh at political divisions and are a living monument to the solidarity of Europe. Thus a song taken down from the lips of a Piedmontese _contadina_ in the nineteenth century is almost exactly the same as the sixteenth century French poem just quoted, even to such details as the olive and the fowler: Gentil galant cassa'nt ël bosc, S'è riscuntrà-se'nt üna múnia, L'era tan bela, frësca e biunda. Gentil galant a j'à ben dit: --Setè-ve sì cun mi a l'umbreta, Mai pi viu sarì munigheta. --Gentil galant, spetei-me sì, Che vada pozè la tunicheta Poi turnrò con vui a l'umbreta-- A l'à spetà-la tre dì, tre nóit Sut a l'umbreta de l'oliva. E mai pi la múnia veniva. Gentil galant va al munastè, L'à pica la porta grandeta; J'e sortì la madre badessa. --Coza cerchei-vo, gentil galant? --Mi ma cerco na munigheta, Ch'a m'à promess d'avnì a l'umbreta. --J'avie la quaja dnans ai pè, V'la sì lassà-v-la vulè via. Cozi l'à faít la múnia zolia[1768]. Another version, still sung in many parts of France, is called _The Ferry Woman_. In this a girl ferrying a gentleman from court across a stream, promises him her love in return for two thousand pounds, but bids him wait till they land and can climb to the top room of a house. But when the gallant leaps ashore she pushes off her boat, taking the money with her and crying: "Galant, j't'ai passé la rivière: Avec ton or et ton argent Je vais entrer dans un couvent, Dans un couvent de filles vertueuses Pour être un jour aussi religieuse! "Si je passe par le couvent, J'irai mettre le feu dedans, Je brûlerai la tour et la tournière Pour mieux brûler la belle batelière"[1769]. Occasionally the references to nuns in folk-songs have even less significance. Thus one of the metamorphoses gone through by the girl, who (in a very common folk theme) assumes different shapes to elude her lover, is to become a nun: "Si tu me suis encore Comme un amant Je me ferai nonne Dans un convent, Et jamais tu n'auras Mon coeur content." "Si tu te fais nonne Dans un couvent Je me ferai Moine chantant Pour confesser la nonne Dans le couvent"[1770]. Again in _Le Canard Blanc_ occur the question and answer: Que ferons nous de tant d'argent? Nous mettrons nos filles au couvent Et nos garçons au régiment. Si nos fill's ne veul' point d'couvent Nous les marierons richement[1771]. One very curious song deserves quotation, a Florentine carnival song of the time of Lorenzo the Magnificent, written by one Guglielmo called _Il Giuggiola_. It retails the woes of some poor "Lacresine" or "Lanclesine" who have come to Rome on a pilgrimage and been robbed of all their money on the way, and the ingenious suggestion has been made that "Lacresine" is a corruption of "Anglesine" and that the song is supposed to be sung by English nuns; certainly it is in broken Italian, such as foreigners would use: Misericordia et caritate Alle pofer Lacresine Che l'argente pel chammine Tutt'a spese et consumate. Del paese basse Magne, Dove assai fatiche afute Tutte noi pofer compagne Per ir Rome sian fenute. Ma per tanto esser piofute, Non pofer Lanclesine. Nelle parte di Melane State noi mal governate, Che da ladri et gente strane Nostre robe star furate; Talche noi tutte bitate [Non mai più far tal chammine.] Pero pofer Lanclesine Buon messer dà caritate. Queste pofer Nastasie Le fu tutte rotte stiene Talchè sue gran malattie Per vergognia sotto tiene. Così zoppe far conviene Con fatiche suo chammine Però pofer Lanclesine Buon messer dà caritate. Chi è dijote San Branchatie Che star tant' in ciel potente, Per afer sue sancte gratie Voglia a noi donare argente, Che le pofer malcontente Pessin compier lor chammine, Però pofer Lanclesine Buon messer dà caritate[1772]. "Pity and charity for poor English ladies, who have spent and used up all their money on the road. From the land of low Germany, where we have had great difficulties, all we poor sisters are on our way to Rome, but because it has rained so hard, we have not been able to continue our road. _Therefore, good sirs, give alms to us poor English ladies._ In the district of Milan ill-used were we, for thieves and strangers stole all our goods; so buffetted were we, never again will we go on such a journey. _Therefore, good sirs, give alms to us poor English ladies._ Poor Anastasia was so knocked about, that in shame she hides her ill and must needs continue her road limping. _Therefore, good sirs, give alms to us poor English ladies._ Whoever is a devotee of St Pancras, who is so powerful in heaven, whoever wishes to have his grace, let him give us money, so that we poor miserable creatures may get to our journey's end; _therefore, good sirs, give alms to us poor English ladies_." Sometimes the nun is found playing a part in the romantic ballad-literature of Europe. A Rhineland legend of the dance of death, interesting because it embodies the names and dates of the actors, has for its setting a convent; it is thus summarised by Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco[1773]: In the fourteenth century Freiherr von Metternich placed his daughter Ida in a convent on the island of Oberwörth, in order to separate her from her lover, one Gerbert, to whom she was secretly betrothed. A year later the maiden lay sick in the nunnery, attended by an aged lay sister. "Alas!" she said "I die unwed though a betrothed wife." "Heaven forfend!" cried her companion, "then you would be doomed to dance the death-dance." The old sister went on to explain that betrothed maidens who die without having either married or taken religious vows, are condemned to dance on a grassless spot in the middle of the island, there being but one chance of escape, the coming of a lover, no matter whether the original betrothed or another, with whom the whole party dances round and round till he dies; then the youngest of the ghosts makes him her own and may henceforth rest in her grave. The old nun's gossip does not delay the hapless Ida's departure, and Gerbert, who hears of her illness on the shores of the Boden See, arrives at Coblenz only to have tidings of her death. He rows over to Oberwörth; it is midnight in midwinter. Under the moonlight dance the unwed brides, veiled and in flowing robes; Gerbert thinks he sees Ida among them. He joins the dance; fast and furious it becomes, to the sound of a wild unearthly music. At last the clock strikes and the ghosts vanish--only one, as it goes, seems to stoop and kiss the youth, who sinks to the ground. There the gardener finds him on the morrow, and in spite of all the care bestowed upon him by the sisterhood, he dies before sundown. Another German ballad, taken down from oral recitation, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, opens with a good swing: Stund ich auf hohen bergen Und sah ich über den Rhein Ein Schifflein sah ich fahren, Drei Ritter waren drein. "I stood upon a high mountain and looked out over the Rhine, and I saw three knights come sailing in a little boat. The youngest was a lord's son, and fain would have wed me, young as he was. He drew a little golden ring from off his finger, "Take this, my fair, my lovely one, but do not wear it till I am dead." "What shall I do with the little ring, if I may not wear it?" "O say you found it out in the green grass." "O that would be a lie and evil. Far sooner would I say that the young lord was my husband." "O maiden, were you but wealthy, came you but of noble kin, were we but equals, gladly would I wed you." "Though I may not be rich yet am I not without honour, and my honour I will keep, until one who is my equal comes for me." "But if your equal never comes, what then?" "Then I will go into a convent and become a nun." There had not gone by a quarter of a year when the lord had an evil dream; it seemed to him that the love of his heart was gone into a convent. "Rise up, rise up, my trusty man, saddle horses for thee and me. We will ride over mountains and through valleys--the maid is worth all the world." And when they came to the convent, they knocked at the door of the tall house, "Come forth, my fair, my lovely one, come forth for but a minute." "Wherefore should I come forth? Short hair have I, my locks they have cut off--for a long year has passed." Despair filled the lord's heart; he sank upon a stone and wept glittering tears and could never be glad again. With her snow-white little hands she dug the lord a grave and the tears fell for him out of her brown eyes. And to all young men this happens who seek after great wealth. They set their love upon beautiful women; but beauty and riches go not always hand in hand"[1774]. It is a strange thing that in all the ballad and folk-song literature of England and Scotland there should be one and only one reference to a nun. But that reference is a profoundly interesting one, for it is to be found in the fine ballad of the _Death of Robin Hood_, which tells how the great outlaw came to his end through the treachery of the Prioress of Kirklees: When Robin Hood and Little John _Down a-down, a-down, a-down_, Went o'er yon bank of broom Said Robin Hood to Little John, "We have shot for many a pound: _Hey down, a-down, a-down_. "But I am not able to shoot one shot more, My broad arrows will not flee; But I have a cousin lives down below, Please God, she will bleed me." "I will never eat nor drink," he said, "Nor meat will do me good, Till I have been to merry Kirkleys My veins for to let blood. "The dame prior is my aunt's daughter, And nigh unto my kin; I know she wo'ld me no harm this day For all the world to win." "That I rede not," said Little John, "Master, by th' assent of me, Without half a hundred of your best bowmen You take to go with yee." "An thou be afear'd, thou Little John, At home I rede thee be." "An you be wrath, my deare mastèr You shall never hear more of me." Now Robin is gone to merry Kirkleys And knocked upon the pin; Up then rose Dame Prioress And let good Robin in. Then Robin gave to Dame Prioress Twenty pounds in gold, And bade her spend while that did last, She sho'ld have more when she wo'ld. "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin; And drink some beer with me?"-- "No, I will neither eat nor drink Till I am blooded by thee." Down then came Dame Priorèss Down she came in that ilk, With a pair of blood-irons in her hand, Were wrappèd all in silk. "Set a chafing dish to the fire," she said, "And strip thou up thy sleeve." --I hold him but an unwise man That will no warning 'leeve. She laid the blood-irons to Robin's vein, Alack the more pitye! And pierc'd the vein, and let out the blood That full red was to see. And first it bled the thick, thick blood, And afterwards the thin, And well then wist good Robin Hood Treason there was within. And there she blooded bold Robin Hood While one drop of blood wou'd run; There did he bleed the livelong day, Until the next of morn. Then Robin, locked in the room and too weak to escape by the casement, blew three weak blasts upon his horn, and Little John came hurrying to Kirklees and burst open two or three locks and so found his dying master. "A boon, a boon!" cried Little John: "What is that boon," said Robin Hood "Little John, thou begs of me?"-- "It is to burn fair Kirkleys-hall And all their nunnerye." "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, "That boon I'll not grant thee; I never hurt woman in all my life, Nor men in their company." "I never hurt maid in all my time, Nor at mine end shall it be; But give me my bent bow in my hand, And a broad arrow I'll let flee; And where this arrow is taken up There shall my grave digg'd be"[1775]. So died bold Robin Hood. The English boy nurtured on his country's ballads, has little cause to love the memory of the nun. NOTE J. THE THEME OF THE NUN IN LOVE IN MEDIEVAL POPULAR LITERATURE. It may be of interest to note some further examples of the nun in love as a theme for medieval tales, and in particular: (1) other versions of the eloping nun theme, (2) the story of the abbess who was with child and was delivered by the Virgin, and (3) some other _contes gras_. (1) Various versions of the eloping nun tale enjoyed popularity, though never as great popularity as was enjoyed by the story of Beatrice the Sacristan. An old French version in the form of a miracle play tells of a knight, who loved a nun and persuaded her to leave her convent with him; but she saluted the Virgin's image in passing and twice the image descended from its pedestal and barred her way when she tried to pass the door, until at last she ran by without saluting it and escaped with her lover. They married and had two children and lived happily together for several years. Then one day Our Lady came down from heaven to seek her faithless friend. She bade the nun return and the husband, hearing this, was moved in his heart and said "since for love of me thou didst leave thy convent, for love of thee I will leave the world and become a monk." Thus they departed together and their babies were left to cry for mother and father in vain[1776]. In another story the nun, trying to insert the key of the convent into the lock and make her escape, was prevented by some invisible object, which formed a barrier between her and the lock; she beat and pushed in vain and at last turned to go, and saw in her path, the Virgin with white hands bleeding. "Behold," said the Virgin, "it was I who withstood thee and see what thou hast done to me"[1777]. In another a nun, the sacristan of a convent, was tempted by a clerk and agreed to meet him after Compline. But when she was trying to pass through the door of the chapel, she saw Christ standing in the arch, with hands outspread, as though upon the cross. She ran to another doorway and to another and to another, but in each she found the crucifix. Then, coming to herself, she recognised her sin and flung herself before an image of the Virgin to ask pardon. The image turned away its face; then, as the trembling nun redoubled her entreaties, stretched out its arm and dealt her a buffet saying: "Foolish one, whither wouldst thou go? return to thy dorter." And so powerful was the Virgin's blow that the nun was knocked down thereby and lay unconscious upon the floor of the chapel until morning[1778]. In another version the nun falls asleep on the night upon which the elopement is fixed and has a vivid dream of the pains of hell, from which she is rescued by the Virgin, who exhorts her to chastity, so that she awakes and sends away her lover's messenger[1779]. In another the Virgin's image prevents the nun from going through one door, but she escapes by another and is seduced[1780]. A more rational version makes the nun strike her head so violently against the lintel of the door, by which she is trying to escape, that she is rendered unconscious and when she recovers her senses the temptation has gone from her and she returns to her bed[1781]. In another the nun packs her clothes into two bundles and passes them out of the window to her lover, climbing out after them herself; but thieves intercept her and her bundles and carry them off into a wood. The unhappy nun calls upon the Virgin for help and forthwith falls into a deep sleep, from which she awakes to find herself back in her dorter, with the bundles beside her[1782]. A rather different tale of the nun turned courtesan makes her return after many years to her convent, where by meditating upon the childhood of Christ she is reconverted[1783]. (2) Another theme, which is almost as widespread as that of the eloping nun, is that known as _l'abbesse grosse_. In this an abbess, who was famed for the strict discipline which she kept among her nuns, fell in love with her clerk and became his mistress, so that she soon knew herself to be with child: Then it happened that she waxed great and drew near her time and her sisters the nuns perceived, and were passing fain thereof, because she was so strait unto them, that they might have a cause to accuse her in. And her accusers gart write unto the bishop and let him wit thereof and desired him to come unto their place and see her. So he granted and the day of him coming drew near. And this abbess, that was great with child, made mickle sorrow and wist never what she might do; and she had a privy chapel within her chamber, where she was wont daily as devoutly as she couth [knew how] to say Our Lady's matins. And she went in there and sparred the door unto her and fell devoutly on knees before the image of Our Lady and made her prayer unto her and wept sore for her sin and besought Our Lady for to help her and save her, that she were not shamed when the bishop came. So in her prayers she happened to fall on sleep, and Our Lady, as her thought, appeared unto her with two angels, and comforted her and said unto her in this manner of wise: "I have heard thy prayer and I have gotten of my son forgiveness of thy sin and deliverance of thy confusion." And anon she was delivered of her child and Our Lady charged these two angels to have it unto an hermit and charged him to bring it up unto it was seven years old; and they did as she commanded them; and anon Our Lady vanished away. And then this abbess wakened and felt herself delivered of her child and whole and sound. In the sequel the bishop came to the house and could find no sign that the abbess was with child and was about to punish her accusers, when she told him the whole tale. He sent messengers to the hermit and there the child was found; and (in fairy tale phrase, for what are these but religious fairy tales), they all lived happy ever afterwards[1784]. (3) Ribald stories on the same theme are, naturally enough, common in medieval literature, which never spared the Church. A few of the more interesting may here be added to those quoted or referred to in the text. The _Cento Novelle Antiche_ contains a curious tale of a Countess and her maidens, who, having disgraced themselves with a porter, retired to hide their shame in a nunnery; the story continues thus: They became nuns and built a convent that is called the Convent of Rimini. The fame of this convent spread and it became very wealthy. And this story is narrated as true, viz. they had a custom that when any cavaliers passed by that had rich armour the abbess and her attendants met them on the threshold and served them with all sorts of good fare and accompanied them to table and to bed. In the morning they provided them with water for washing and then gave them a needle and thread of silk for them to thread and if they could not accomplish this in three tries, she took from them all their armour and accoutrement and sent them away empty, but if they succeeded she allowed them to retain their possessions and gave them presents of jewellery, etc.[1785] Francesco da Barberino in his book of deportment, _Del reggimento e costumi di donne_, has a tale of a convent in Spain, which Satan receives permission to tempt; accordingly his emissary Rasis sends into the house three young men, disguised as nuns, to whom all the nuns and the Abbess in turn succumb[1786]. In one Italian version of an extremely widespread theme, found among the _Novelle_ of Masuccio Guardata da Salerno (1442-1501), a Dominican friar deceives a devout and high-born nun. The story is thus summarised by A. C. Lee: In one of her books of devotion were some pictures of saints, amongst others the third person of the Trinity; from the mouth of this figure he makes proceed the words in letters of gold, "Barbara, you will conceive of a holy man and give birth to the fifth evangelist." He acts as the holy man and on the lady becoming _enceinte_ he deserts her[1787]. Among medieval French stories may be mentioned those which occur in _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, a fifteenth century collection of tales, probably written by Antoine de la Sale in imitation of the _Cento Novelle_. No. XV, concerning the relations between two neighbouring houses of monks and nuns respectively, is too gross to be summarised; No. XXI is the story of the sick abbess, who was recommended by her physician to take a lover and out of respect for her all her nuns did the same; No. XLVI is one of the many tales of a Jacobin friar, who haunted a convent and obtained the favours of a nun[1788]. These are really prose fabliaux; and verse fabliaux on this theme are not wanting, for example Watriquet Brassenal's story of _The Three Canonesses of Cologne_[1789] and the most indecent fabliau of _The Three Ladies_[1790]. There is a rather delightful and merry little German poem called _Daz Maere von dem Sperwaere_, which is a version of the popular French fabliau of _The Crane_[1791]. In this thirteenth century poem a little nun, who has never seen the world, looks over her convent wall and sees a knight with a sparrow hawk; she begs for it and he says he will sell it her for "love," a thing of which she has never heard. He teaches her what it is and gives her the sparrow hawk. But the nun, her schoolmistress, is so angry with her, that she watches on the wall again and next time the knight passes, she makes him give her back her "love" and take the sparrow hawk again[1792]. English versions of these tales are extremely rare; for the English were always less adroit than the French and the Italians in the matter of _contes gras_. The nun theme occasionally appears, however, in the sixteenth century; Boccaccio's "breeches" story is in Thomas Twyne's _The Schoolmaster_ (1576)[1793] and the behaviour of nuns and "friars" at Swineshead Abbey forms a comic interlude in _The Troublesome Raigne of King John_ (1591), which was one of the sources used by Shakespeare in his more famous play. In Scene X of the old play Philip Falconbridge comes to Swineshead, with his soldiers, and bids a friar show him where the abbot's treasure is hid. They break open a chest and a nun is discovered inside it. The friar cries: Oh, I am undone Fair Alice the nun Hath took up her rest In the Abbot's chest. _Santa benedicite_, Pardon my simplicity Fie, Alice, confession Will not salve this transgression. Philip remarks: What have we here? a holy nun? so keep me God in health, A smooth-faced nun, for aught I know, is all the abbot's wealth. The nun begs for the life of the first friar and offers in exchange to show Philip a chest containing the hoard of an ancient nun. They pick the lock and discover a friar within. The first friar cries: Friar Laurence, my lord; Now holy water help us: Some witch or some devil is sent to delude us: _Haud credo, Laurentius_, That thou shouldst be pen'd thus In the press of a nun: We are all undone, And brought to discredence, If thou be Friar Laurence. Philip's comment is pertinent: How goes this gear? the friar's chest fill'd with a sausen nun. The nun again locks friar up to keep him from the sun. Belike the press is purgatory, or penance passing grievous: The friar's chest a hell for nuns! How do these dolts deceive us? Is this the labour of their lives, to feed and live at ease? To revel so lasciviously as often as they please? I'll mend the fault, or fault my aim, if I do miss amending; 'Tis better burn the cloisters down than leave them for offending. Eventually, Friar Laurence buys his freedom for a hundred pounds[1794]. In conclusion may be mentioned the entertaining little English _fabliau_, which was at one time attributed to Lydgate, called _The Tale of the Lady Prioress and her three Suitors_; this is not a _conte gras_, but recounts the adroit expedient, by which a prioress succeeded in ridding herself of her three wooers, a knight, a parson and a merchant[1795]. NOTE K. NUNS IN THE _DIALOGUS MIRACULORUM_ OF CAESARIUS OF HEISTERBACH. The _Dialogus Miraculorum_, written between 1220 and 1235 by Caesarius, Prior and Teacher of the Novices in the Cistercian Abbey of Heisterbach in the Siebengebirge, is one of the most entertaining books of the middle ages[1796]. Caesarius in a prologue describes how it came to be written and the plan upon which it is arranged, taking as his text a quotation from John vi. 12: "Gather up the fragments lest they perish": Since I was wont to recite to the novices, as in duty bound, some of the miracles which have taken place in our time and daily are taking place in our order, several of them besought me most instantly to perpetuate the same in writing. For they said that it would be an irreparable disaster if these things should perish from forgetfulness which might be an edification to posterity. And since I was all unready to do so, now for lack of the Latin tongue, now by reason of the detraction of envious men, there came at length the command of my own abbot, to say naught of the advice of the abbot of Marienstatt, which it is not lawful for me to disobey. Mindful also of the aforesaid saying of the Saviour, while others break up whole loaves for the crowd (that is to say, expound difficult questions of the Scriptures or write the more signal deeds of modern days) I, collecting the falling crumbs, from lack not of good will but of scholarship, have filled with them twelve baskets. For I have divided the whole book into as many divisions. The first division tells of conversion, the second of contrition, the third of confession, the fourth of temptation, the fifth of demons, the sixth of the power of simplicity, the seventh of the blessed Virgin Mary, the eighth of divers visions, the ninth of the sacrament of the body and blood of Christ, the tenth of miracles, the eleventh of the dying, the twelfth of the pains and glories of the dead. Moreover in order that I might the more easily arrange the examples, I have introduced two persons in the manner of a dialogue, to wit a novice asking questions and a monk replying to them.... I have also inserted many things which took place outside the [Cistercian] order, because they were edifying, and like the rest had been told to me by religious men. God is my witness that I have not invented a single chapter in this dialogue. If anything therein perchance fell about otherwise than I have written it, the fault should rather be imputed to those who told it to me[1797]. It will be seen from this sketch that the book is really a collection of stories grouped round certain subjects which they are intended to illustrate and connected by a slender thread of dialogue. Such collections of _exempla_ are nearly always valuable, but the work of Caesarius is particularly so, because he does not confine himself to "stock" stories, but relates many with details of time and place, drawn from his own experience and from that of his friends. The book is full of local colour and gives an exceedingly vivid picture of lay and ecclesiastical life in medieval Germany. For our purpose it is interesting because it contains many _exempla_ concerning nuns, and any reader attracted by this particular class of didactic literature may be glad to add some more stories to those quoted in the text. Caesarius has much to say of the devil, a very visible and audible and tangible devil and one who can be smelt with the nose. His tales of devil-haunted nuns display a side of convent life about which English records are in the main silent; but that they represent with fair accuracy the sufferings of some half-hysterical, half-mystical women cannot be doubted by anyone familiar with the lives of medieval saints and mystics, such as Mary of Oignies, Christina of Stommeln and Lydwine of Schiedam. He tells in his section on "Confession" of a nun Alice or Aleidis, who had led an ill life in the world, but had repented her when her lover, a priest, hanged himself, and had taken the veil at Langwaden in the diocese of Cologne: Once when she was standing in the dorter and looking out of the window, she beheld a young man, nay rather a devil in the form of a young man, standing hard by a well, which was near the wall of the dorter; who in her sight set one foot upon the wooden frame which surrounded the well, and as it were flying with the other, conveyed himself to her in the window, and tried to seize her head with his extended hand; but she fell back stricken with terror and almost in a faint, and cried out and hearing her call, her sisters ran to her and placed her upon her bed. And when they had gone away again and she had recovered her breath and lay alone, the demon was once more with her, and began to tempt her with words of love, but she denied him, understanding him to be an evil spirit. Then he answered "Good Aleidis, do not say so, but consent to me, and I will cause you to have a husband, honest, worthy, noble and rich. Why do you torture yourself with hunger in this poor place, killing yourself before your time by vigils and many other discomforts? Return to the world and use those delights which God created for man; you shall want for nothing under my guidance." Then said she, "I grieve that I followed thee for so long; begone for I will not yield to thee." Then the foul fiend blew with his nostrils and spattered her with a foul black pitch and vanished. Neither the sign of the cross, nor sprinkling with holy water, nor censing with incense prevailed against this particular demon; he would retreat for a time and return again as soon as Aleidis ceased to employ these weapons against him. She was in despair, when one day One of the sisters, of maturer years and wisdom than the others, persuaded her when the demon tried to approach her to hurl the angelic salutation[1798] in a loud voice in his face; and when she had done so the devil, as though struck by a dart or driven by a whirlwind, fled away and from that hour never dared to approach her. Another time the same Aleidis went to confession, hoping thus to rid herself forever of her tormentor: And behold as she was hastening along the road, the devil stood in her path and said: "Aleidis, whither away so fast?" And she replied: "I go to confound myself and thee." Then said the devil: "Nay, Aleidis, do not so! Turn again!" And she replied: "Oft hast thou put me to confusion, now will I confound thee. I will not turn back." And when he could turn her back neither by blandishments nor by threats, he followed her to the place of confession flying in the air above her in the form of a kite; and as soon as she bent her knee before the Prior and opened her lips in confession, he vanished, crying and howling and was never seen or heard by her from that hour. Behold here ye have a manifest example of what virtue lieth in a pure confession. These things were told to me by the lord Hermann, Abbot of Marienstatt[1799]. In his section "De Daemonibus" Caesarius has a yet more startling collection of stories about devils. The trials of sister Euphemia are described as having been related to him by the nun herself, at the instance of her abbess: When the aforesaid nun was a little maid in her father's house, the devil ofttimes appeared to her visibly in divers shapes, and in divers ways affrighted and saddened her tender age. And since she feared to be driven mad she expressed her wish to be converted[1800] into our order. One night the devil appeared to her in the form of a man and tried to dissuade her, saying: "Euphemia, do not be converted, but take a young and handsome husband and with him thou shalt taste the joys of the world. Thou shalt not want for rich garments and delicate meats. But if thou enter the order, thou wilt be forever poor and ragged, thou wilt suffer cold and thirst, nor will it ever be well with thee henceforth in this world." To which she replied: "How would it be with me if I should die amidst those delights, which thou dost promise me?" To these words the devil made no reply, but seizing the maid and carrying her to the window of the chamber wherein she was lying, he sought to throw her out. And when she said the angelic salutation the enemy let her go, saying, "If thou goest to the cloister, I will ever oppose thee. For hadst thou not in that hour called upon _that woman_ I should have slain thee." And having spoken thus, squeezing her tightly, he sprang out of the window in the shape of a great dog and was seen no more. Thus was the virgin delivered by invoking the Virgin Mother of God. How harassing the devil is to those who have been converted and in how many and divers ways he vexes and hinders them, the following account shall show. When the aforesaid maiden had been made a nun, one night as she lay in her bed and was wakeful, she saw around her many demons in the form of men. And one of them of an aspect most foul was standing at her head, two at her feet and the fourth opposite her. And he cried in a loud voice to the others: "Why are you standing still? Take her wholly up as she lies and come." And they replied: "We cannot. She has called upon _that woman_."... Now the same demon, after she had said the angelic salutation, seized the maiden by her right arm, and squeezed her so tightly as he dragged at it, that his grasp was followed by a swelling and the swelling by a bruise. Now when she had her left hand free, she in her great simplicity dared not make the sign of the cross therewith, deeming that a sign with the left hand would avail her nought. But now, driven by necessity, she signed herself with that hand, and put the demons to flight. Delivered from them she ran half fainting to the bed of a certain sister, and, breaking silence, told her what she had seen and suffered. Then, as I was informed by the lady Elizabeth of blessed memory, abbess of the same convent, the sisters laid her in her bed, and reading over her the beginning of the Gospel of St John, found her restored on the morrow. Now in the following year, in the dead of night when the same nun was lying awake on her couch, she saw at a distance the demons in the shape of two of the sisters who were most dear to her; and they said to her: "Sister Euphemia, arise, come with us to the cellar to draw beer for the convent." But she suspecting them, both on account of the lateness of the hour and of their breach of silence, began to tremble, and, burying her head in the bedclothes, replied nothing. Straightway one of the malignant spirits drew near and laying hold of her breast with his hand, squeezed it until the blood burst forth from her mouth and nose. Then the demons, taking the shape of dogs, leaped out of the window. When the sisters, rising for matins, beheld her worn out, as it were pale and bloodless, they inquired of her the reason by signs; and when they had learned it from her, they were much perturbed, both on account of the cruelty of the demons and of the distress of the virgin. Two years before this, when a new dorter had been made for the convent and the beds had been placed therein, the same nun saw a demon in the shape of a deformed and very aged mannikin, going round the whole dorter and touching each of the beds, as though to say: "I will take careful note of each place, for they shall not be without a visit from me"[1801]. The abbey of Hoven, which sheltered Euphemia, seems to have been subjected to a continual siege by devils; or perhaps, as the more materially-minded might suggest, Euphemia's malady was contagious. Sister Elizabeth of the same house had a short way with such gentry: "In the same monastery," says Caesarius, "was a nun named Elizabeth, who was oftentimes haunted by the devil. One day she saw him in the dorter, and since she knew him, she boxed his ears. Then said he: 'Wherefore dost thou strike me so hardly?' and she replied: 'Because thou dost often disturb me,' to which the devil replied: 'Yesterday I disturbed thy sister the chantress far more, but she did not hit me.' Now she had been much agitated all day, from which it may be gathered that anger, rancour, impatience, and other vices of the sort are often sent by the devil. On another occasion when the same Elizabeth, very late for matins (owing, as afterwards appeared, to the machinations of the devil), was hurrying along to the belfry, bearing a lighted candle in her hand, just as she was about to enter the door of the chapel, she saw the devil in the shape of a man, dressed in a hooded tunic, standing in front of her. Thinking that some man had got in, she recoiled in alarm and fell down the dorter stairs, so that for some days she lay ill of the sudden fright as well as of the fall.... And when she was asked the cause of her fall and her scream and had expounded this vision, she added: 'If I had known that it was the devil and not a man, I would have given him a good cuff.' By that time, however, she had girded her loins with strength and strengthened her arm against the devil"[1802]. Not all the visions seen by these nuns of whom Caesarius writes were evil visions. He has several tales to tell of appearances of the Virgin Mary and of the saints. Besides the well-known story of Sister Beatrice and of the nun whose ears were boxed by the Virgin, the most charming Mary-miracle related by Caesarius tells of a nun who genuflected with such fervour to the blessed Mother that she strained her leg; and as she lay asleep in the infirmary, she saw before her the Virgin, bearing a pyx of ointment in her hand; and the Virgin anointed her knee with it, till the sweet odour brought the sisters running to find out the cause; but the nun held her peace and bade them leave her. Sleeping again, she found herself once more in the company of the Virgin, who led her into the orchard, and placing her hand beneath the nun's chin, said to her, "Now do thou kneel down upon thy knee"; and when she had done so our Lady added: "Henceforth do thou bow thy knee thus, modestly and in a disciplined manner," showing her how. And she added: "Every day thou shouldst say to me the sequence 'Ave Dei Genitrix,' and at each verse thou shouldst bow thy knee. For I take great delight therein." And the nun, waking, looked upon her knee, to see whether aught had been accomplished in the vision, and in great surprise she saw that it was whole[1803]. Another pretty story tells how, when a certain sister was reading her psalter before a wooden statue of the Virgin and child, "the little boy suddenly came to her and as though he would know what she was reading, peeped into her book and went back again"[1804]. Sometimes it is not the Virgin or her Son but a patron saint who appears to a nun who holds him in veneration. Caesarius tells the following tale of a nun who specially venerated St John the Baptist: More than all the saints she took delight in him. Nor did it suffice her to think upon him, to honour him with prayers and devotions, to declare his prerogatives to her sisters, but in order to perpetuate his memory she made verses concerning his annunciation and nativity and the joy of his parents. For she was learned and sought therefore to describe in verse anything which she had read concerning his sanctity. Moreover she exhorted and besought all secular persons with whom she spoke to call their children John or Zacharias, if they were boys, Elizabeth if they were girls. Now when she was about to die John a monk of the Cloister came to visit her, and knowing her affection towards St John, said: "My aunt, when you are dead, which mass would you have me say first for your soul, the mass for the dead or of St John the Baptist?" To which she without any hesitation replied: "Of St John, of St John!" And when she was at the point of death, having compassion upon the sister who was tending her, she said: "Go upstairs, sister, and rest for a little." When the sister had done so and was resting in a light sleep, she heard in her slumber a voice saying, "Why liest thou here? St John the Baptist is below with Sister Hildegunde"--for that was her name. Roused by this voice the sister, not waiting to put on her clothes, came down in her shift and found the nun already dead; and round her was so sweet a perfume that the sister doubted not that St John had been there, to accompany the soul of his beloved to the angelic host[1805]. Some of Caesarius' anecdotes show an amusing rivalry, if not among the company of heaven, at least among their votaries on earth. Two delightful stories may be quoted to show how deep-rooted is the competitive instinct, which, baulked in one direction by the prohibition of property, showed itself in hot disputes as to the rival merits of patron saints: There were and I think still are, in Fraulautern in the diocese of Trèves, two nuns, of whom one took special delight in St John the Baptist and the other in St John the Evangelist. Whenever they met, they contended together concerning which was the greater, so that the mistress was scarce able to restrain them. The one declared the privileges of her beloved in the presence of all, the other set up against them the very real prerogatives of hers. One night, however, before matins St John the Baptist appeared to his worshipper in her sleep and set forth a list of the virtues of the other St John, declaring that the latter was far greater than he, and bidding her the next morning call her sister before the mistress and seek her pardon for having so often annoyed her because of him. That morning after matins, however, St John the Evangelist also visited his champion in her sleep and after retailing all St John the Baptist's claims to superiority, assured her that the latter was far greater and gave her a similar order to ask pardon of her sister: "On the morrow," says Caesarius, "they came separately to the mistress and revealed what they had seen. Then together prostrating themselves and asking pardon of each other as they had been bidden, they were reconciled by the mediation of their spiritual mother, who warned them that henceforth they should not contend about the merits of the saints, which are known to God alone"[1806]. In spite of this excellent moral, however, Caesarius has very clear ideas himself as to the respective merits of certain saints; and, if we are to believe him, even St John the Evangelist was sometimes guilty of a scandalous neglect of duty: "It is not long ago," says he, "that a certain nun of the monastery of Rheindorf near Bonn, by name Elizabeth, went the way of all flesh. Now this monastery is of the rule of St Benedict the Abbot. But the said Elizabeth delighted specially in St John the Evangelist, lavishing on him all the honour she could. She had a sister in the flesh in the same monastery, who was called Aleidis. One night when the latter was sitting upon her bed after matins and saying the office of the dead for the soul of her sister, she heard a voice near her. And when she demanded who was there, the voice replied, 'I am Elizabeth, thy sister.' Then said she, 'How is it with thee, sister, and whence comest thou?' and it answered, 'Ill indeed has it been with me, but now it is well.' Aleidis asked, 'Did St John in whom thou didst so ardently delight avail thee aught?'--and it replied, 'Truly, naught. It was our holy father Benedict who stood by me. For he bent his knee on my behalf before God'"[1807]. St John the Evangelist, it will be perceived, suffered from the incalculable disadvantage of never having thought of founding a monastic order. Caesarius narrates a great many other _exempla_ concerning nuns, but I have quoted the most characteristic. There never was a book so full of meat; and it is greatly to be regretted that no translation has as yet placed it within the reach of all who are interested, not only in medieval life but in the medieval point of view[1808]. APPENDIX II VISITATION OF NUNNERIES IN THE DIOCESE OF ROUEN BY ARCHBISHOP EUDES RIGAUD, 1248-1269 For twenty-seven years in the thirteenth century the Archbishopric of Rouen was held by a man who was at once a scholar and a man of action, a great saint and a great reformer. Eudes Rigaud (Odo Rigaldi), "the Model of Good Life," as he was afterwards called, was among the most able and energetic churchmen produced by the middle ages. Salimbene, that gossiping friar of Parma to whom we owe perhaps the most entertaining chronicle of all the middle ages, describes him thus: Now this Brother Rigaud was of our order [Franciscan] and one of the most learned men in the world. He had been doctor of theology in the convent [at Paris]: being a most excellent disputator and a most gracious preacher. He wrote a work on the Sentences; he was a friend of St Louis, King of France, who indeed laboured that he might be made Archbishop of Rouen. He loved well the Order of the Friars Preachers, as also his own of the Friars Minor and did them both much good; he was foul of face but gracious in mind and works, for he was holy and devout and ended his life well; may his soul, by God's mercy, rest in peace[1809]. This great scholar, with an admirable devotion to duty, renounced for ever the leisure of a man of books, and spent his life, from the moment that he became Archbishop, in a ceaseless peregrination of his diocese; and by a dispensation of providence (so the historian must think) he kept a diary. For twenty-one years (1248-1269) he moved about from parish to parish, from monastery to monastery, inquiring into the life and discipline of secular and of regular clergy alike, hearing complaints, giving injunctions, removing (though seldom) offenders, and making notes of the results of his visits, place by place and day by day, in his great _Regestrum Visitationum_[1810]. His diocese was in a bad state; and his discouragement sometimes found its way into the official record of his inquisitions. The few words which betray his feelings, together with the particularity and detail with which the visits are recorded, make the register of Eudes Rigaud a very human document. It would be beyond the scope of this book to enter into any discussion of the general picture of the medieval church which it leaves upon the mind. But it is both useful and interesting to detach those parts of it which deal with the nunneries visited and reformed (with varying success) by the Archbishop. In the first place the records of his visitations, though not as complete as those of the visitations of the Lincoln diocese by Bishop Alnwick in the early fifteenth century, or of the diocese of Norwich by Bishops Goldwell and Nykke, during the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, or of the Sede Vacante visitations of the Winchester diocese by Dr Hede in 1502, are nevertheless a great deal more detailed than any series of English visitation records of an equally early date. The report of Walter Giffard's visitation of Swine in 1267-8, which comprises both the _comperta_ and the injunctions based upon them, is indeed fuller than any of Rigaud's notes, which contain only _comperta_ and _ad interim_ injunctions[1811]; but this is an isolated case. The only other thirteenth century documents at all comparable with those of Rigaud are Peckham's injunctions to Barking (1279), Godstow (1279 and 1284), Wherwell (1284) and Romsey (? 1284), and Wickwane's injunctions to Nunappleton (1281) and these are the final injunctions only, the _comperta_ upon which they were based having disappeared. There is, so far as it is possible to ascertain, no English register of the thirteenth century recording regular visitations of all the nunneries in a diocese over a period of years and the study of Rigaud's register is therefore of unique interest. In the second place it is of special interest to English readers because of the close connection which at one time existed between the religious houses of England and Normandy. Most of the alien priories in England were cells of Norman houses and several of the nunneries visited by Rigaud had possessions in England. Stour in Dorset was a cell of St Léger de Préaux, founded by Roger de Beaumont as early as William I's reign[1812]. Levenestre or Lyminster in Sussex was founded some time before 1178 as a cell of Almenèches probably by Roger de Montgomery Earl of Arundel, to whom the mother house owed its foundation and was apparently the only alien priory in England in which a community of nuns actually resided during the later middle ages.[1813] In 1255 Almenèches possessed twenty-five marks of annual rent in England[1814]. The great Abbaye aux Dames at Caen had two cells in England, Horstead in Norfolk (which afterwards became part of the endowment of King's College, Cambridge, and was founded in William II's reign[1815]) and Minchinhampton in Gloucestershire (afterwards cell of Syon)[1816]. In Rigaud's day this house had rents to the value of £160 sterling in England[1817] and at the visitation of 1256 the Abbess did not appear, because she was absent there[1818]. French moreover was still the language of daily speech in thirteenth century England, and there was constant intercourse between the two countries. It is not unreasonable to expect that we may learn something to our purpose by a comparison of French and English nunneries. The Register includes visitations of fourteen religious houses of women[1819]. Seven of these were visited with great regularity during the twenty-one years covered by the Register; the Priory of St Saëns fourteen times, the abbey of Bival and the priory of St Aubin each thirteen times, the abbey of Montivilliers twelve times, the abbeys of Villarceaux and St Amand of Rouen each eleven times and the priory of Bondeville ten times. Of the others the abbeys of St Léger de Préaux and St Désir de Lisieux (both in the diocese of Lisieux) and St Sauveur of Evreux each received four visits and the abbeys of St Mary of Almenèches and the Holy Trinity of Caen three. Two other houses, St Paul by Rouen (a dependent cell of Montivilliers) and Ariete (a very poor and small Benedictine house), appear to have been visited only once. For the most part these nunneries were large houses, often having lay sisters and sometimes lay brothers attached to them. The Archbishop made very careful notes of the temporal affairs of each and generally entered in his Register the number of nuns and lay sisters and often also the number of secular maidservants in the employ of each house. The largest of all was the Abbaye aux Dames or Holy Trinity at Caen, "one of the great nunneries of Christendom"; in Rigaud's time its numbers ranged between sixty-five and eighty. St Sauveur of Evreux and Montivilliers both contained at least sixty nuns and the other houses were all comparatively large, with the exception of St Saëns, Villarceaux, St Aubin and Ariete. Even these, however, were large compared with some of the small nunneries in England. The financial condition of many of these houses was very bad, and there is evidence both of the poverty and of the bad management which seem to have been characteristic of nunneries everywhere. The care with which Rigaud entered into his diary, at almost every visitation, the debts owed by a house and the condition of its stores, makes it possible to follow with some ease the financial progress of the nunneries from year to year. Some houses were evidently in a flourishing condition; the abbey at Caen was very rich and never in difficulties (its debts were suddenly assessed at the huge sum of £1700 in 1267 but at the previous visitations it had been stated that more was owed to the nuns than they owed). Montivilliers was also well managed and in a good condition; here again the debts due to it were larger than those which it owed, and on several occasions the Archbishop found a good round sum in the treasury, a plentiful supply of stores and some valuable plate, which the nuns had been rich enough to purchase recently. Similarly St Désir de Lisieux and St Léger de Préaux, though debts are mentioned, were evidently living well within their respective incomes of £500 and £700 (in rents). But the other houses display a lamentable list of debts growing heavier and heavier. In spite of St Amand's income of £1000 to £1200, its debts rose from £200 in 1248 to £900 in 1269. Almenèches, with an income of a little over £500, had debts to the amount of £500 in 1260. Bondeville obviously had a quite insufficient income (it was given as £93 in 1257); on three occasions its debts reached the sum of £140 and on two other occasions they were £200 and £250. St Saëns, St Aubin, Bival and Villarceaux (it is significant that these are the houses whose moral record was bad) were always in difficulties. Bival went steadily from bad to worse; its debts rose from £40 in 1251 to £60 in 1268 and in 1269 they had exactly doubled themselves (£120) since the previous visitation. The debts of St Saëns rose from £60 in 1250 to £100 in 1269; and in 1260 they stood at £350. At Villarceaux (the income of which was placed at £100 in 1249) the debts ranged between £30 in 1251 and £100 in 1264 and 1265. At St Aubin the actual sums of money owed by the nuns were small, ranging between £5 and £40 (except in 1257 when their debts were assessed at £1000, which is probably a mistake), but the house was evidently in grave financial straits. When even a wealthy house such as St Sauveur of Evreux could not keep out of debt (the amount owed by it varied from £200 to £600), one cannot wonder that smaller and poorer houses were deeply involved. Occasionally the diary throws some light on special causes of impoverishment; thus the nuns of St Amand were in debt to the large sum of £400 in 1254 and the reason given was "on account of a conduit (_aqueductum_), which they had to make again, because it was needed"[1820]; St Sauveur of Evreux was burdened with the payment of about £40 in pensions[1821]; and in 1263 the nuns of St Aubin complained that they owed some £20 "for a certain ferm (or payment) by which they held themselves to be greatly burdened"[1822]. Other evidence besides that of debts is not wanting to show that some of the houses were in great financial straits. The Archbishop constantly gave poverty as a reason for limiting the number of nuns, e.g. at St Aubin, Bival and Villarceaux[1823]. At Almenèches poverty was given as a reason for the imperfect observance of the rule[1824]. At St Saëns (1262) and at Villarceaux (1264) the roofs of the monastic buildings were in need of repair[1825]; in the latter year the roofs of the buildings at St Aubin were _male cooperte_ also and that of the nave of the church was so bad that the nuns could hardly stay there in rainy weather[1826]. Bondeville was so badly in need of repairs in 1257 that it was said that £80 would not suffice for the work[1827]. Sometimes the devices by which the nuns strove to gain a little ready money are noted down in Rigaud's diary. At Villarceaux in 1254 a book of homilies and some silken copes were in pledge to the Prior of Serqueu[1828]; at Bival in 1269 the old abbess had pledged a chalice which the new abbess was ordered to redeem[1829]; and at Bondeville in 1257 the nuns had pawned two chalices "for their needs"[1830]. When they tried to borrow money outright matters were even worse; at Villarceaux in 1266, Rigaud notes, "they owed £100, of which £20 was owed to the Jews and Caursini (_Catturcensibus_) of Mantes at usury"[1831]. Sometimes they were reduced to selling part of their property, as at St Saëns, where they sold a wood at Esquequeville[1832], and at Bondeville, where they parted with land to the value of £300[1833]. But they were apparently bad women of business, for at the latter house in 1257 the Archbishop complained that they had pledged a certain tithe for £75 for three years, whereas its real value was £40 per annum[1834]; and in 1256 it transpired that the nuns of Bival had given up the manor of Pierremains (without Rigaud's consent) to a certain Master William of the Fishponds (_de Vivariis_) for £50, while it was really worth £140[1835]. Perhaps the difficulty found by so many of the houses in collecting the debts due to them may be set down in part to the incompetence of the nuns. At St Amand, for instance, in 1262, as much as £377 7_s._ seems to have been owing to the nuns at a time when they themselves were £142 in debt, and at the next two visitations complaint was made of debts (described in 1264 as "bad" debts, _debitis male solubilibus_) owing to them[1836]. Other nunneries were from time to time owed large sums of money, religiously recorded by Rigaud in his diary. The case of St Saëns illustrates this difficulty particularly well; in 1261 the nuns had sold part of their wood at Esquequeville for £350 and had received £240 of the total sum owing to them; the next year the £110 left owing had swelled with interest to £160; in 1264 £40 was said to be owing on the same sale and £55 on a sale of fallen trees and wood (_de caablo_); but in 1267 the Archbishop noted, "A great sum of money is to come to them from the sale of woods," and in 1269 the amount still owing on the sale had risen with interest to £100, while £80 was owing to the nuns from another source[1837]. Another instance of the incompetence of the nuns was their laxity in the matter of keeping accounts, in which the Rouen nuns were in no way exceptional. At Caen, in 1250 Rigaud wrote: They do not know how much they have in rents and they say that more is owed to them than they owe, neither do they know the state of the monastery; but the Abbess accounts in her chamber before several nuns annually elected for this purpose, and the account is announced in the chapter before them all; and they said that this was quite sufficient for them. The Archbishop appears to have obtained a statement of their rents by some means and he contented himself with confirming the arrangement that the Abbess should account annually to certain nuns elected _ad hoc_[1838]. Certainly when the head of the house was competent there was no need for the convent to know the details of administration; but sometimes even the head was unable to inform Rigaud of those details. At Villarceaux in 1258 he wrote: "They did not know how much they owed and they were somewhat ignorant of the state of the house"[1839]; and in the following year the Prioress of St Saëns was found to be an incompetent administrator and was ordered to draw up an account, which two neighbouring priors were deputed to hear[1840]. At St Amand in 1262 the Abbess had not prepared a proper account, so that the Archbishop was unable to get full information as to the state of the house; he noted however that the nuns believed that more was owing to them than they owed, and he ordered the Abbess to inspect her papers and to certify him concerning the state of the house[1841]. On several other occasions he ordered her to account more often (on one of these it had transpired that she had not done so for three years) before the elder nuns, and to call in the Prioress, Subprioress or one of these _maiores_ to help her[1842]. At Villarceaux in 1253 the Prioress did not account and in 1254 a coadjutress was appointed to assist her[1843]. Sometimes Rigaud ordered the income of a house to be written down in rolls, or in books[1844]. Sometimes he provided for the more frequent rendering of accounts; twice or thrice yearly was the usual injunction, sometimes simply "more often," the minimum being once a year[1845]; occasionally a small account of current expenses was to be read monthly[1846]. Sometimes he ordered the accounts to be read before certain nuns elected _ad hoc_ (with the addition of the priest at Villarceaux in 1249), the elder nuns being often specified[1847]. At the same time, although nothing was to be done without the knowledge and consent of the convent, the nuns were not to interfere unduly in the management of temporal affairs, for the prioress of Bondeville was sentenced to receive one discipline before the assembled chapter, as a punishment for giving up the common seal to them, without the Archbishop's knowledge, "because of their clamour"[1848]. Nuns were notoriously bad financiers, but even where a male _custos_ had charge of their business the arrangement was not invariably satisfactory; and at Bondeville in 1261 Rigaud noted, "We removed Melchior the priest, who had managed the business of the convent for some time, for the reason that the convent had not full confidence in him and that he was odious to them." The house was heavily in debt, so that the mistrust of the nuns, if not their dislike, was clearly justified, and the Archbishop evidently decided not to replace Melchior by another man, for he ordered the Abbess to make one of the nuns treasuress to look after the expenditure of the house, receiving the income and administering it[1849]. Another matter about which Rigaud inquired and entered particulars in his diary was the amount of provisions in the granaries and storehouses of the nuns. Had they enough corn and oats to last till the next harvest? Had they a good supply of wine and cider to drink? The number of cases in which it is noted that the nuns had "_pauca estauramenta_," or not enough to last till the new year, points to a mixture of poverty and of bad management[1850]. The nuns of Bival in 1263 had few stores and no corn for sowing[1851]; those of St Saëns in 1250 had no wine or cider to drink nor corn to last till Whitsuntide[1852]; at St Aubin in 1259 the Archbishop noted comprehensively that they had no stores[1853]. Oats seem to have run short in a number of cases[1854], and sometimes wine[1855]. But occasionally Rigaud's diary contains even fuller information about the temporal affairs of a nunnery. It was his regular practice at Villarceaux (why at Villarceaux only it is impossible to say) to enumerate the live stock possessed by that impecunious house, horses, mares, foals, bullocks, cows, calves, sheep and pigs. And on two occasions the happy accident of a Prioress' resignation (always an occasion for the presentation of an account) has left us with complete inventories of the possessions and expenses of two houses, St Saëns in 1257 and Bondeville in the same year. The inventory of St Saëns runs as follows: They owe £212. The king gave them Esquequeville with its appurtenances, which is worth £230 and 4 carucates of land worth £40, and thus they have in all rents to the value of £290 (_sic_). To the house of nuns of St Saëns there belong 245 acres of land in all and 7 acres of meadow, of which 115 acres in all are sown with wheat (_frumento_), corn (_blado_, probably rye), barley and other vegetables (_leguminibus_). They have in money rents £170. 2_s._ 8_d._; in corn rents 8 _modii_; in rents of oats 66 _minae_[1856]; in rents of capons 220; item in egg rents 1100 eggs[1857]; item they have in money rents, paid with the capons and the eggs, 27_s._ 6_d._ Item they have a mill at Esquequeville and a wood of which they do not know the size[1858] and the priest of the same place takes a tithe in the said mill. Item they have rights of pannage and stubble and multure (i.e. payment by their tenants for grinding at their mill) of which they know not the value. Item they have a mill at St Saëns of small value. Item they have 57 sheep, item 12 plough horses and one waggon (_quadrigam_); item they have 18 beasts, as well cows as oxen. Item they have only 2 _modii_ of corn for their food until harvest. They have nothing to drink. There is owing to them £26. 5_s._ 2_d._ The debts which they owe amount in all to £234. 3_s._ 3_d._[1859] The inventory of Bondeville for the same year is equally interesting: These are the goods and rents of the house of Bondeville: £93 _tournois_; of common corn 30 _modii_; in the grange of Heaus they believe that they have 7 _modii_ of common corn; in the abbey grange about one _modium_ of barley; in the other granges nothing. In the abbey there are 2 waggons (_quadrige_), with 6 horses and one riding horse, 6 cows and 14 calves. They have in the granges 264 sheep; item in the grange of Heaus 27 cows; item 30 little pigs; item three ploughs (_aratra_) in all, each for three beasts; item 4 little foals. These are the debts of the house, concerning which account has been rendered to the convent: £220 in money and 2 _modii_ of barley; [wages] to the household for the harvesting. Item they had no oats save for sowing time. They expend each month at least 68 _minae_ of corn; item they have in the cellar 6 barrels of wine and 2 of cider; item they do not think that the buildings can be repaired [at a less cost than] for £80 _tournois_; item after Easter they will be obliged to buy all the other foodstuffs for the house, save bread, peas and vegetables[1860]. Mention is sometimes made in Rigaud's register of dependent cells attached to some of the houses. St Paul by Rouen was thus attached to Montivilliers, Bourg-de-Saane to St Amand and Ste Austreberte to St Saëns. These cells were doubtless used partly as centres of administration for the more distant estates of the convent, partly as places of recreation or convalescence, where sick nuns could be sent for a change. For instance there were six nuns of Montivilliers at St Paul by Rouen in 1263 and it was noted that there ought to be four, but that two others were there because of illness; the nuns had a lay boarder staying with them and two servants; their income--as assessed for the tithe--was £140 and their debts amounted to £40; they complained that the king's foresters oppressed them by frequently dining at their expense and by unjustly molesting their servants in the forest, although they had usage (i.e. rights of hunting, gathering wood, etc.) there; the Archbishop had no fault to find with them except that they did not sing the service _cum nota_, because there were so few of them, and that they had only a single mass, the parochial mass, daily[1861]. It is evident that a close connection was supposed to be kept up between the mother house and the cell, for in 1260 the Abbess of Montivilliers had been ordered to visit them diligently[1862]; and in 1258 Rigaud noted, "Alice prioress of Saint Paul by Rouen was presented to us by the prioress of Montivilliers, she having been elected by the convent of the said place"[1863]. At his first visitation of St Amand in 1248 the Archbishop found that they had a single priory at Saane, where there are four nuns[1864]. In 1261 he ordered the Abbess to visit these nuns at Saane more often than had been her custom and at subsequent visitations he noted the number of nuns (varying from four to five) in residence there[1865]. Ste Austreberte, the daughter cell of St Saëns, was hardly more than a grange with a chapel attached. In 1254 Rigaud found that one nun was living there alone and ordered that another should be sent to join her; in 1257 there was still a single inmate, but in 1258 and 1259 the number had been raised to two[1866]. In 1260 the Archbishop decided to recall the inmates to St Saëns: Because truly the place of St Austrebert is very slenderly endowed with rents, so that these two nuns cannot live there conveniently and decently, we ordered the prioress to call them back and forbade her henceforth to send any more thither, on account of the danger[1867]. But now complications arose. Evidently the dependent house had been used for the purpose of getting rid of a quarrelsome nun, for in 1261 Rigaud found that the Prioress had not obeyed his order to recall the two nuns, "because, as she says, Marie d'Eu (_de Augo_) one of these two, was a scold and she feared lest she should upset the whole convent if she returned"[1868]. The order was repeated and was apparently obeyed as far as the ill-tempered Marie was concerned (although there were still two nuns at Ste Austreberte in 1264[1869]), for in 1265 the Archbishop found the whole convent "living in discord and in disorder, especially the prioress and Marie d'Eu"[1870]; he would perhaps have done better to leave her where she was. An echo of her _régime_ at Ste Austreberte was heard in 1265, when Marie d'Eu was ordered to return the chalice of the chapel of Ste Austreberte as quickly as possible and to restore to the Prioress any charter or letters concerning the manor of Ste Austreberte, which she had received from the convent. At the same time the Prioress was ordered to provide the chapel there with a suitable server (_servitore_)[1871]. Mention of visits to the granges or farms of the convents sometimes occurs. At Bondeville in 1251 it was found that "the sisters drank in the granges"[1872] and in 1255 that a lay sister and a lay brother were living alone in a grange (perhaps in the grange of Heaus, mentioned in the inventory), whereupon the Archbishop ordered the sister to be withdrawn or else given a companion[1873]. In 1268 the Abbess of Bival was ordered to remove "a certain child," whom she was having brought up in the grange of Pierremans (which had been so improvidently let to William of the Fishponds twelve years before) and a penance was imposed upon her in 1269 because she had not obeyed the injunction[1874]. So far only the temporal affairs of these Rouen nunneries have been considered; there remains the more important question of their social, moral and spiritual condition. A clearer idea will be formed of the results of Eudes Rigaud's investigations, if the chief sources of complaint be classified under the following heads: (1) Complaints of incompetence and irregular behaviour against the head of a house, (2) General laxity in keeping the rule, (3) The sin of property and the failure to live a communal life, (4) Various attempts to make money by illicit means, (5) Leave of absence and intercourse with seculars, both within and without the cloister precincts, (6) Frivolous clothes and amusements, and (7) Serious moral faults, such as drunkenness, quarrelsomeness and incontinence. (1) Complaints of incompetence, laxity, self-indulgence or favouritism against the head of a house are common in visitation records. The charge of failure to render accounts has already been dealt with, but hardly less usual was the charge of failure to live a communal life. The abbess or prioress of a house had separate apartments and it was always a temptation to dine or to sleep alone, instead of keeping the frater and the dorter. Again the charges of favouritism on the one hand and of undue harshness on the other were very common. Rigaud's register provides examples of all these faults. At two visitations (1254 and 1257) the Archbishop remarked that the Abbess of St Léger de Préaux did not live a communal life in dorter and frater nor attend the chapter[1875]; the same charge was made against the Prioress of Villarceaux in 1253 and it was mentioned that she did not often get up to matins nor daily hear mass[1876]; and the Abbess of St Amand did not keep the frater, but ate in her own room and always had the same companions there, instead of calling the others for recreation[1877]. Not all prioresses were, like Chaucer's, "ful plesaunt and amiable of port." The Abbess of Montivilliers seems to have been a forbidding lady; in 1260 the Archbishop ordered her to minister pilches, cloth and other necessary things more carefully than had been her custom to the nuns, not forgetting their ginger "hot i' the mouth"[1878], and also to bear herself more courteously and affably towards their friends particularly in the matter of their admission (on visits); at the same time she was warned to be present in chapel more often and to live the communal life better[1879]. This warning apparently bore no fruit and in 1262 the Archbishop noted, "because she was slow to administer new pilches, headdresses and cloth and other things to the nuns for their needs, we ordered her to labour to minister better and more fitly to them in this matter and to be careful about it"; it was also remarked that she frequented the convent but little and was seldom present at chapter and frater; and she was ordered to render a general account once a year and to hear and receive the particular accounts of the obedientiaries. The next year her failure to frequent chapter, dorter and choir was again noted and some of the nuns still complained of her harshness, whereupon the Archbishop (apparently despairing of inducing her to look after them properly herself), ordered her to depute two or three nuns, "with whom the others could talk more familiarly and more boldly, to minister to their sisters small things for their needs, ginger and other things of the kind"; the quality of the wine was also to be improved. The difficulties, however, continued. In 1265 the Abbess was ordered to provide the nuns more carefully with pilches and in the following year she was again ordered "prudently to cause the pilches and robes of the nuns to be repaired, so that she may provide them with such things more fitly than she is used and have more workpeople than she has been accustomed to do. For in this," adds the Archbishop, "we found a deficiency"[1879]. Rigaud had a great deal of difficulty with the Prioress of Bondeville. In 1251 there were many complaints against her; she exercised favouritism in the distribution of clothes and in the provision of food in the infirmary and she did not look after the sick; when in the infirmary she ate at a table by herself and she did not live a communal life; she wandered about a great deal outside the convent, even without the excuse of convent business, and when she went to Rouen she stayed there for three or four days; moreover she was quarrelsome and stirred up discord in the house "so that she could not have peace with the convent nor with anyone." The next year she resigned, probably as a result of these complaints and of the financial condition of the house, but in 1255 the register has an entry: "We found the Prioress quarrelsome and sharp of tongue, not knowing how to make corrections and also speaking ill of her sisters; we warned her to desist from these things"; so that her resignation had evidently not been accepted. In 1257 she made another attempt at resignation, and the occasion is interesting because it provides us not only with an inventory of Bondeville, but also with the sole complete list of inmates preserved among the Rouen nunneries[1880]. The Archbishop decided to take an inquisition in the convent as to whether the Prioress should or should not be removed; and the votes of the twenty-six nuns and three brothers of the house were taken upon oath. Of these nineteen were in favour of her removal and nine of her retention, while Brother Roger permitted himself to express the ambiguous opinion that "it would be evil for temporal affairs and good for spiritual affairs to remove the prioress" (_quod dampnum esset temporale et utilitas spiritualis removere priorissam_!)[1881]. It is not clear from the Register whether she was removed; Rigaud notes: "Item we received the resignation of Marie, late the prioress," but in 1261 there occurs a further entry: "Item the Prioress offered us her seal, begging us to absolve her from her office, but we, being unwilling to condescend to her in this matter, ordered her to exercise her office with greater zeal." In particular she was ordered "to frequent the convent at least by day (viz. chapter, frater and choir) better than she was wont and not to stand about talking in the cemetery or outside the house after Compline, as she had been in the habit of doing"[1882]. At Bival an abbess resigned in 1248, doubtless owing to the unsatisfactory moral conditions revealed at the visitation[1883]; there were no complaints against her successor until 1268 (though two cases of immorality occurred in the convent before that date); then, among minor injunctions concerning matters of administration, she was ordered to bear herself more kindly and courteously towards the nuns[1884]. (2) Besides injunctions dealing specially with the behaviour of the head of a house, the Archbishop was obliged to deal with breaches of the rule by the convent generally. Many of his regulations were concerned with the strictly religious duties of the nuns. Sometimes the church services were not being properly performed, as at St Amand, St Aubin, Villarceaux, St Saëns and Montivilliers. The most common defect was failure to sing these services with music (_cum nota_ or _ad notam_)[1885]; at St Saëns (a constant offender--Rigaud notes the fault at eight visitations) the nuns did not do so even on Sundays[1886]. Occasionally a specific excuse was given; the nuns of Villarceaux omitted the music on the days upon which they received the periodical bleeding considered necessary to the health of those who embraced the monastic life[1887]; at St Aubin in 1264 they complained that many of them were often ill[1888] and at St Saëns also (in 1257) they dwelt upon their infirmities[1889]. At St Paul's by Rouen they were too few in number to perform the service properly[1890]. The Archbishop contented himself at St Aubin (1251) with the injunction that they should sing at least in monotone--_saltem cum bassa nota_[1891]. Moreover even when the nuns did sing the services they occasionally did so carelessly. At St Amand the Archbishop made a significant injunction: They sometimes sing the hours of the Blessed Virgin and the psalms of suffrage with too great haste and precipitation of words. We ordered them to sing in such a way that the side [of the choir] singing the first half of the verse should hear the end of the preceding verse and the side singing the second half should hear the beginning of the next verse[1892]. Evidently both sides of the choir came in too soon in their anxiety to hurry through the service--a clear case for Tuttivillus. At Montivilliers the fault lay in beginning too late and Rigaud ordered that better provision should be made for ringing a bell at the due hours, so that the service might be said without haste and finished while it was light (_de luce_)[1893]. At Villarceaux he ordered that all the nuns should at once assemble in the church when the bell rang, unless they were ill or had special leave of absence[1894]. Even at the great abbey of Caen the service was being said "_confuse et male_, one part in the choir and one outside"[1895]. At St Amand (1263), which evidently contained young and obstreperous--or perhaps only ignorant--members, it was ordered that the nuns should be equally divided in the choir, so that all the young ones might not be together[1896]. At St Saëns (1254) a nun served the mass with the priest; and at Bondeville (1263) the nuns had not the necessary priests and did not hear enough sermons[1897]. St Aubin apparently shared the parish priest; there were only fifteen parishioners (most of them doubtless dependents of the nunnery) and the priest dwelt with the nuns and was maintained at their expense; in 1257 the Archbishop ordered them to find a clerk to assist him[1898]. The nuns of St Paul's heard only one mass--that of the parish--daily[1899]. Sometimes deficiencies in the services may have been due to lack of books. At St Sauveur d'Evreux, in 1258, it was found that the nuns did not possess adequate books and they were ordered to procure some[1900]; at Villarceaux in 1257 they lacked two antiphonaries and in 1261 it was again noted that their books were insufficient and worn out[1901]. At Montivilliers the Archbishop in 1260 ordered the chantress to have an ordinal of the hours made at the Abbess' cost; this had not yet been done in 1262 and from Rigaud's injunction on this occasion it appears that the nuns were expected to write the book themselves, for the ordinal was "to be made by the chantress and by the more discreet nuns, i.e. by the older ones who knew and understood better the service of the order." At the same house reference was made three years later to a certain glossed psalter which had been bequeathed to it by a benefactor, and had been alienated without the knowledge of the convent; the Abbess was told to have it restored without delay and replied "that she could do so easily enough, because Master William de Beaumont had it"[1902]. Another common fault was negligence in the matter of confession and communion. Sometimes a house had a fixed rule as to the number of times the nuns had to confess and communicate. At Bival, for example, the nuns seem to have attended communion seven times a year, though they confessed more often[1903]. At Villarceaux they confessed and communicated six times a year[1904]. At St Aubin the Archbishop noted that they were bound to confess and to communicate seven times a year, but that they had sometimes been negligent in the matter; they gave an inadequate excuse, and Rigaud ordered them on no account to be absent from communion and warned the Prioress to consider any such absence without due cause as a serious fault[1905]. At St Léger de Préaux in 1249 he found that the nuns confessed and communicated only four times a year and ordered them to do so monthly[1906]. At Montivilliers[1907] and at Bondeville[1908] they were supposed to confess and to communicate monthly, but at the latter house he found them negligent in 1261, and ordered that the nun who did not communicate with the others or within the next two or three days was to be punished by abstention from wine and pottage for three days[1909]. The Archbishop's usual custom was to order monthly confession and communion[1910]. Sometimes there seems to have been some difficulty about getting a confessor; at Almenèches (where, in 1250, the nuns had no rule or term for confession or communion[1911]) it was found in 1260 that they were in the habit of confessing to passing friars when they wished to do so, and Rigaud ordered the Bishop to provide them with regular confessors, friars minor or others[1912]. At St Saëns in 1261 they had not had a confessor for a long time and were ordered to procure the Prior of Crissy[1913], but in 1265 the Archbishop still found that they did not go to confession as well as they should[1914]. At Ariete the nuns did not all confess to their own priest[1915]. Other minor faults were late rising[1916], breach of silence[1917] and laxity in causing novices to make their profession[1918]. At Villarceaux in 1249 only four out of the twenty-three nuns had been properly professed[1919]. The Archbishop ordered the vows to be taken when the novices reached the age of fourteen years[1920]; this was not to be done before[1921] and if any refused to do so at the appointed age they were to be sent back to the world[1922]; he also ordered in several cases that only the three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience should be taken[1923]. Another set of injunctions is concerned with the conduct of the frater, the infirmary and the chapter house. The Archbishop dealt with the observances of the frater from the point of view of the communal life, from that of the food eaten by the nuns and from that of almsgiving. The growing practice among the nuns of dining separately in their rooms or in little cliques, instead of keeping the frater, was a menace to a strictly communal life, and as such will be considered later, with other practices which tended in the same direction. Here it may be noted that already in the thirteenth century the regulations of the monastic rule as to diet were being contravened. Many convents were convicted of eating meat unnecessarily, _etiam sane_, "even when in good health"[1924], and it was becoming the custom--in Rigaud's diocese as elsewhere--to use the infirmary as a _misericord_, in which meat was eaten on certain days of the week, generally thrice a week[1925]. Sometimes even fast days were not regularly kept[1926]. Another breach of the rule frequently encountered by the Archbishop was inadequate almsgiving. The nuns were supposed to give alms regularly to the poor and in particular to give them the food which remained over from the convent meals; but in view of the poverty of some of the houses it is not surprising that the rule was sometimes unobserved. Very often the nuns, instead of collecting the fragments left over in frater and infirmary, each kept what remained of her own share and sold it or gave it away to people outside the convent. St Amand was a constant offender; in 1248 the Archbishop had occasion to forbid the unequal distribution of wine to the nuns "to one more and to another less," and he added that if any of them gave away any part of her measure of wine to anyone outside the house without licence she was to be punished by being deprived of wine the next day[1927]; in 1251 he enjoined that no nun was to put forth any of her food save in the way of alms[1928]; but some thirteen years later St Amand (doubtless on account of its poverty) was still remiss in the matter of almsgiving and Rigaud warned the nuns separately that it must not be diminished and that everything left over from meals must be given to the poor[1929]. At St Saëns it was discovered that the nuns had separate portions of bread allotted to them and that the fragments were never given in alms, because each either sold or gave away these fragments as she pleased[1930]. At Montivilliers almsgiving was diminished because the nuns gave away the remnants of the portions of bread, wine and other food to "serving maids and other acquaintances"[1931]; and at Villarceaux and Bival also it was necessary to warn the nuns not to give away or sell any of their clothes or food[1932]. The practice was the more reprehensible in the Archbishop's eyes in that it savoured of the private ownership of property. Rigaud made general orders for the increase of almsgiving and for the more careful collection of food after meals in the frater and in the infirmary[1933]. Sometimes the custom of a house prescribed special obligations; the Abbess of Montivilliers was required to give alms thrice a week and to entertain thirteen poor men daily[1934]. Sometimes the revenues of a special manor or rent were earmarked for the expenses of almsgiving; the recalcitrant St Amand was found to have abstracted the rents of a certain manor from the almoness and was ordered to restore them to their proper purpose[1935]. Other departments of the convent of which mention is made in Rigaud's Register are the infirmary and the chapter house. At Montivilliers the Archbishop, in 1262, ordered the infirmary to be repaired and the convent to be provided with physic[1936]; and at Bondeville, St Sauveur and St Amand he was obliged to order that sick nuns should be better looked after[1937]. There are some interesting notes about the meetings of the chapter in various houses. At several (Bondeville, St Saëns and Villarceaux) the Archbishop found that the chapter was seldom held[1938]. At others the duty incumbent upon the nuns to accuse or proclaim (_clamare_) each other's faults was imperfectly performed. There was a most natural reluctance on the part of the elder nuns to allow the indiscriminate criticism of their juniors and a tendency to keep the latter in their place by allowing them only to be accused and never to retaliate. At Caen (1250) the Archbishop found that none made the statutory accusations save certain nuns who were deputed to reveal the faults of the younger ones[1939] and at St Amand also only the elder nuns made accusations, and he ordered that all without exception should reveal what they saw amiss[1940]. At Montivilliers the same complaint that the nuns refrained from accusing each other was made[1941]. From one point of view this imperfect performance of their duty in chapter meant that the nuns were winking at each other's peccadilloes, and it was for the sake of discipline that the Archbishop insisted upon a more strict obedience to the rule. From another point of view the obligation certainly gave rise to much ill-feeling; the author of the _Ancren Riwle_ placed "Exposing faults" and "Backbiting" among the brood of seven, offspring of "the venomous serpent of hell, Envy"; for human nature would need to be very perfect if the accusations were always to be made in the spirit of sisterly admonition, "sweetly and affectionately," which the same treatise describes so eloquently a few pages later[1942]. It is significant that the Abbess of Montivilliers had to be warned in no way to molest one of her nuns, nor to conceive rancour against her on account of anything that she said in chapter[1943]. Finally the Archbishop sometimes found fault with the management of the secular servants and of the lay brothers and sisters attached to different houses. It was his custom to note the number of maidservants (_ancille_, _pedissece_) employed and to reprove the nuns if he thought that they were employing too many, or falling into the sin of property by keeping certain maids in the service of individual nuns, as they did at Almenèches in 1255[1944], at St Léger de Préaux in 1267[1945] and at St Sauveur in 1269; at the last house he noted: The convent had three common maids and several special maids were kept at the cost of the house; so we ordered that there were henceforth to be no special maids, but that if necessary the number of common maids might be increased[1946]. At St Amand he twice ordered the removal of all superfluous servants, adding in 1267 that all were to be paid at a fixed rate out of the common funds[1947]. At St Aubin in 1265 he found two servants, one of whom was incontinent and of ill repute (little wonder, considering the evil morals of the nuns) and he ordered her instant expulsion[1948]. Of the lay sisters attached to some of the houses there is less mention; in 1259 Rigaud noted that two of those at Bondeville were of weak intellect (_fatue_)[1949]. There was sometimes trouble with the lay brothers; at Bondeville (1251) he made a list of corrections for them[1950] and in 1259 a certain brother Roger (doubtless the same whose dark saying about the Prioress has already been recorded) was announced to be disobedient and rebellious, and the injunction that he should obey the Prioress had to be repeated in 1268, nearly ten years later[1951]. There was occasionally also need for correction in the behaviour of the convent priest, for it is clear that an unsuitable chaplain might give great cause for scandal. The not very reputable houses of St Saëns and Bival both suffered in this way; in 1254 the Archbishop found that the priest of the former house was incontinent and ordered the nuns to find another[1952]; and in 1256, at Bival, he noted: "We removed the priest from this place on account of the scandal of the nuns and of the populace, though we found nothing which we could prove against him"[1953]. At St Aubin in 1261 the nuns were ordered not to drink with seculars in the priest's house[1954]. (3) The most frequent fault which Eudes Rigaud found in the nunneries under his care was the persistent hankering of the nuns after private property and their failure to live a communal life according to the rule. The possession of private property was a very common charge. The nuns had chests in which to keep such possessions as they were allowed and there was a perpetual struggle over the question as to whether or not they were to be allowed keys, with which to lock the boxes. The nuns of Montivilliers begged for keys in 1257 and the stern Rigaud refused[1955]; of this refusal they took not the smallest notice, and in 1262 the Register contains the injunction that keys were to be given up and that those who were unwilling to obey were to be severely punished; "for," added the Archbishop, We understood that when the abbess asked them for their keys certain of them would not give the keys up for two or three days, until they should have gone through their things and taken away those which they did not want the Abbess to see, and so we ordered these nuns to be punished for disobedience and for the ownership of property[1956]. The injunction that the boxes should be inspected frequently was repeated at three subsequent visitations[1957]. It was the Archbishop's usual custom to order the Abbess or Prioress to look into the nuns' boxes often and unexpectedly in order to remove private property, and the injunction was repeated from year to year, which looks as though it were greatly honoured in the breach[1958]. Besides the injunction against closed boxes there was an oft-repeated injunction to the effect that, in accordance with the rule[1959], no nun was to have more than one set of garments; directly new clothes were given out the old ones were to be handed back (and given to the poor), so that no nun might rejoice in the semblance of a wardrobe[1960]. At St Amand in 1264 the Archbishop made the following note of his action: Item we ordered them that when they received new pilches, shifts and any sort of new garments or foot-wear (_calciamentorum_), they were to give the old in alms, whereat they murmured somewhat to our displeasure, and we forbade the abbess to give them any new clothes until they had rendered up the old[1961]. It appears from an injunction given at St Sauveur in 1258[1962] that the nuns sometimes sold or gave away their old clothes as they did with the remains of their portions of food and drink; in both cases the sin of property was encouraged and almsgiving diminished. Rigaud made the most comprehensive injunction on these points at Villarceaux in 1249: We warn you, all and sundry, that ye observe the communism which ought to be observed in religion in the matter of clothes, food and other like things, neither sell nor give away at your own will any of those things which belong to the common food or dress; and if ye shall have received anything from your friends, ye shall apply it to the use of the community and not each to your own use[1963]. In one case at least, that of Bival, the practice (which afterwards became common) of giving each of the nuns a separate allowance with which to buy her own clothes or food was already in force; the Abbess of Bival gave to each an annual sum of 12_s._ out of which to buy her clothes[1964]. At Montivilliers Rigaud ordered the nuns to be clothed in common[1965] and at St Aubin he made a special injunction that they were to use their scapularies in common[1966]. But the sin of property crept into convents in every direction and was most difficult of all to eradicate. At Almenèches in 1250 Rigaud noted: "All are _proprietarie_, owning saucepans, copper kettles and necklaces of their own"[1967]. At St Aubin in 1265 there is the entry: Because divers of the nuns have divers cocks and hens and often quarrel over them, we ordered that all cocks and hens were to be nourished alike and to be kept in common and the eggs ministered equally among the nuns and fowls sometimes given to the sick to eat in the infirmary[1968]. But in vain; each nun clung to her own hen; still there continued the rivalry when eggs were counted, the jealousy over the possession of a good layer, the turmoil when some fickle fowl laid in the wrong nest. After all it was a _Nonnes Prest_ who described that immortal farmyard lorded over by Chantecler and his seven wives. Could the happy owner of "damoysele Pertelote," bearing herself so fair and companionable, be expected to give her up into cold communal ownership? Two years later the Archbishop remarked in his diary that nothing had been done about the poultry[1969]. Some nuns even had rents of their own, which they kept for their private use instead of adding the money to the common income of the priory. This was the case at Bondeville[1970] and at St Désir de Lisieux[1971]. At the latter Rigaud began by ordering these rents to be held in common, but in later years contented himself with an injunction that they should be retained only at the discretion of the Abbess. At St Saëns in 1250 it was noted: "They receive gifts and retain and expend them without licence"[1972]. Usually the injunction was that the nuns were to receive nothing from their friends without licence from the head of the house[1973]; the poverty of some convents made it impossible altogether to prohibit such gifts. Closely connected with this sin of property was the failure to live a communal life. Already at this early date the practice of eating in separate chambers and of receiving separate allowances of food was becoming common. The most comprehensive indictment was made at Almenèches. In 1250 (the same year that Rigaud found them to be _proprietarie_, owning pots and pans) he noted: They run up debts in the town and eat together and sit at table in cliques (_per societates_). To each money is given to provide herself with food. Many stay away from compline and from matins and they drink after compline[1974]. On this occasion the moral record of the convent was found to be peculiarly bad. In 1255 there was no further complaint of immorality but the nuns were as lax as ever in keeping the rule as to communal life: They have chambers with partitions in the dorter. They have separate maids of their own, who do not serve the community[1975]. They do not eat out of the same dish but have divers dishes. Each had one loaf to herself and kept what was over; we ordered the abbess to give them bread without livery (i.e. in common) and to take back what was over. They do not live on the same pittance; in short they do not live in common[1976]. In 1260 it was the same story: The frater was often left empty, to wit because they did not eat together therein, but they ate meat scattered in cliques by twos and by threes in their chambers (_due et due, tres et tres, sparsim et socialiter in cameris_). They had many chambers and five maid servants to boot.... Each of them had one loaf daily and retained what remained over. We ordered that the remnant should be given in alms and counselled them to eat and to live in common and to remove the chambers[1977]. At Montivilliers the order to dine together was repeated at almost every visitation; the nuns had separate dishes cooked for themselves in the kitchen and when they were in the infirmary "for recreation or for slight ailments" they used to eat separately in little companies (_per conventicula_)[1978]. At St Saëns[1979] and at St Léger de Préaux[1980] also the nuns had separate food allowances and ate in the infirmary; at Bival some of them had food prepared separately[1981], and at Villarceaux in 1266 the Archbishop made the following injunction: We ordered her (the Abbess) to permit them to dine together twice a day according to their rule and to have a bell rung twice, to wit for dinner and for supper, so that they might come together at the sound into the frater, in a more seemly way than they have been wont. For they often ate separately in their chambers[1982]. At St Sauveur also Rigaud ordered all to dine together in the frater, and in the infirmary all nuns, except those actually in bed, were to use the same food at the same table[1983]. At Bondeville the nuns seem to have been in the habit of congregating, with the servants of the house, in a certain oven room, doubtless for the sake of the warmth; and the Archbishop several times forbade the practice on account of possible scandal[1984]. Private drinking parties sometimes occurred; at St Sauveur the nuns occasionally drank outside the frater or infirmary in their own chambers[1985] and at Almenèches they drank after Compline[1986]. (4) It has already been said that the nunneries were often reduced to great straits by poverty. As a result they invented a number of devices for obtaining ready money. Some of these devices seem to modern eyes harmless enough; but they were opposed by medieval Visitors because they brought the nunneries into too close contact with the world and were subversive of discipline. One of their devices has already been described. At St Saëns, Villarceaux, Bival and St Sauveur it is evident that the nuns were in the habit not merely of giving away but actually of selling the food and drink left over from meals and their old clothes to people outside the convent. At Bondeville Rigaud had, in 1251, to forbid them to sell their thread and their spindles[1987]. At many houses they were accustomed to knit or embroider silken purses, tassels, cushions or needle cases, either for sale or as gifts to their friends, and the Archbishop forbade them to do any silkwork except for church ornament[1988]. He was not remarkably successful, since he had to repeat the injunction eight times at St Amand, between 1254 and 1267. It is interesting to compare his attitude with the similar prohibition made to the anchoresses of the _Ancren Riwle_ early in the same century: "Make no purses to gain friends therewith, nor blodbendes of silk; but shape and sew and mend church vestments and poor people's clothes"[1989]. Another means of getting money was by taking schoolchildren as boarders and the general attitude of the Church towards this custom is strikingly illustrated in Eudes Rigaud's Register. The provincial council of Rouen in 1231, attempting to deal with the bad discipline in Benedictine nunneries, had promulgated a statute forbidding the reception of children to be educated, and the context shows that the practice was regarded solely in the light of an interference with convent discipline, by bringing the nuns into contact with the world: On account of the scandals which rise out of the conversation of nuns, we ordain for black nuns that they shall receive nothing to be deposited with them in their houses by any persons; above all let them by no means permit the strong-boxes of clergy, or of the laity too, to be placed in their custody[1990]. Boys and girls who are accustomed to be brought up and taught there are immediately to be put away[1991]. In accordance with this statute and with the invariable custom of ecclesiastical authorities it was Eudes Rigaud's practice to order the expulsion of children wherever he found them, and the number of these prohibitions increased during the last years covered by his diary, which points to a firm determination to eradicate the fault, though it would also seem to imply a certain flouting of his authority by the nuns. In four cases (St Saëns, St Aubin, Bival and Villarceaux) the moral record of the houses concerned was so disgraceful that the Archbishop might well be thought to have been actuated by concern for the children growing up under such evil influences[1992]; but the fact that he took the same course at Bondeville, St Sauveur, St Amand and St Léger de Préaux, against which none but minor breaches of the rule were charged, shows that his policy was dictated by care for the nuns and not for their pupils. Bondeville was an obstinate offender. There in 1255 the Archbishop ordered the Prioress and Subprioress to remove their little nieces[1993] and a certain other girl[1994]; in 1257 he noted the presence of five ladies (_domicelle_) who had not been received as novices[1995]; and in 1261 he noted again that "Many secular girls were used to be placed there with their costs"[1996]. In the two last cases the Register--probably, as Mr Coulton suggests, by a clerical oversight--contains no injunction to remove the children; and in 1266 only one boarder, "a lady of Rouen, Laurentia called _quatuor Homines_" was ordered to be sent away, though the Archbishop explicitly stated that "Certain girls (_iuvencule_), daughters of burgesses of Rouen, were there as it were in charge [of the nuns], which displeased us"[1997]. There was, however, no ambiguity about his action in 1268 when he ordered a certain Basiria, daughter of Amelina of Aulnay, who was there as a boarder, to be sent away and forbade the Prioress henceforth to keep any girl or girls there, except such as had been received as novices[1998]. But it was a difficult task to force the needy nuns, reduced already to pawning the very vessels of the altar, to give up this more certain and less sacrilegious method of adding to their income. It is indeed a significant fact, as Mr Coulton has pointed out, that "the prohibitions are in inverse proportion to the temporal prosperity of the convent"[1999]. The wealthy Abbaye-aux-Dames at Caen had no need to take in school children. But Villarceaux, £50 in debt in 1249 and going steadily downhill, vainly struggling in the toils of Jews and Caursini, was the most frequent offender of all and resisted the most stubbornly Rigaud's attempts at reform. In 1257 he ordered the nuns to remove all the boys and girls who were in the house, except one girl who was going to be veiled[2000]. The next year they were threatened with severe punishment if they postponed any longer the ejection of the children "whom they are bringing up in their house against our inhibition"[2001]. Follows silence for the next three visitations; then, eight years later, "There were several girls there, as it were in the charge of certain nuns, which displeased us exceedingly and shortly afterwards we ordered the Prioress by our letters to remove all secular girls" within a certain date[2002]; and in 1268 We ordered, as we had done before, that the nuns should utterly put away all secular ladies or girls (_domicellas seu puellulas_), if any were there, and that they should suffer neither one nor more of such girls to remain there, except such as were to be made nuns[2003]. What of St Saëns, with bad morals, growing debts and a deficiency of cider? In 1260, "We ordered secular girls to be removed," with one favoured exception[2004]; in 1261, "They were keeping in the priory two ladies, to wit the daughter of the châtelain of Belencombre and the elder daughter of the lord of Mesnières (de Maneriis) whom we ordered to be sent away"[2005]. It is the same with St Aubin, with its bad morals and its tumble-down buildings[2006]; with Bival, immoral also, overcome with debts even to its own servants for their wages, and always short of stores; in 1252 the nuns had ten children there to be brought up (_pueros decem nutriendos_) and Rigaud ordered their removal[2007]. It is the same, too, with St Amand, where the debts increased from year to year and the nuns could not even get in the money due to them; in 1263 a certain daughter of Lady Aeliz de Synoz was found there and removed[2008]. At St Léger de Preaux (1249) secular girls were all to be sent away[2009]; and at St Sauveur d'Evreux all unveiled children (_infantes non velatas_) were immediately to be removed[2010], while some years later Rigaud made a general injunction there against receiving relatives of the nuns as boarders[2011]. A mysterious child was being brought up in a grange belonging to the Abbey of Bival at Pierremans, but why or whose we know not; was it a needy relative of the Abbess, or an indiscretion of sister Isabel or sister Florence, or merely an ordinary paying boarder? History is silent, but the Archbishop was sufficiently annoyed when his order to remove it in 1268 was still disregarded in the following year[2012]. The constant attempts of the nuns to add to their numbers were actuated by the same desire to obtain ready money, in the shape of a dowry; the Archbishop was more far-seeing and recognised that the immediate good would be out-balanced by the strain on their scanty revenues in the future; nor was he unmindful of the fact that the demand for a dowry was contrary to the rule. The heavy debts and the insufficiency of stores, which he found at convent after convent, certainly seem to indicate that their only hope lay in a rigid limitation of membership. Moreover overcrowding was certainly subversive of discipline and it looks as though Rigaud had, in some cases (e.g. at Villarceaux in 1249)[2013], been unwilling to permit new recruits to enter a house whose moral record was bad. This may explain in part his long struggle with St Saëns and with St Aubin, though here, as at Villarceaux, poverty was always the chief reason noted in his diary. At St Aubin the financial _arrière pensée_ is very clear. In 1251 Rigaud noted that nuns were received simoniacally; on this and on the four subsequent visitations the Prioress was forbidden to receive any girl as a nun without special licence, and girls received in contravention of this rule were not to be considered veiled or recognised as nuns[2014] (this was the usual form in which his prohibition was couched). Then in 1259 came another case of simony; in spite of the Archbishop's former inhibition the nuns had received and veiled a certain lady, the daughter of Sir Robert Mauvoisin (_Mali Vicini_), knight. Asked why they had done this they said that urgent necessity and poverty had forced them to it and that the father of the girl had given them an annual rent of 10_s._ with her; but they admitted that they had acted against the wish of the Prioress and without her consent. The Archbishop "seeing them to have acted with cupidity and with the vice of simony" soon afterwards ordered the girl to be removed, unveiled and sent back to her father's house and enjoined a penance upon the nuns[2015]; the prohibition to receive nuns without licence was repeated at subsequent visitations[2016]. There were similarly protracted struggles between the Archbishop and the nuns at St Saëns and at St Amand. At St Saëns, when he came to visit it in 1258, he found two little girls in residence and in spite of the prayers of the Prioress and some of the nuns that he would allow the children (_puellule_) to be received and veiled, he ordered them to be removed within a week[2017]. The next year, however, he found that the obstinate nuns had promised four girls, nieces of certain of the nuns, that they should be received if his consent could be obtained, whereupon the Archbishop in great irritation tore up the letters before the assembled chapter and once more repeated his prohibition[2018]. In 1260 he made an exception in favour of one girl[2019], and in 1261, when the nuns asked permission to veil five new inmates "in order that the divine service might be increased" (_ampliandum_), he ordered them to send the candidates or their relatives to him and promised to give the necessary licence if it seemed expedient[2020]. In 1262 and 1264[2021] the usual prohibition was repeated. The nuns of St Amand persisted with equal obstinacy in admitting novices without licence. In 1254 and again in 1257 the Archbishop noted the presence of four girls who had been promised admission as soon as there was a vacancy[2022]. In 1263 he ordered one of them to be removed[2023]. In the next year he found that four ladies (_domicelle_) in secular habit had been received, one of them in spite of his inhibition; the Abbess was punished for disobedience and the girl was sent home[2024]. In 1267 seven girls were waiting to be veiled, but he seems to have made no objection[2025]. At Villarceaux in 1257 the niece of a neighbouring prior was found in the house, in secular dress; "and she in the chapter," says Rigaud, "throwing herself upon her knees, besought us to permit her to be received by them, because the Prioress and convent had promised to veil her"[2026]. Whether he acceded to her request is not known, but in the following year there was serious trouble, because the Prioress had raised the number of nuns above the statutory number of twenty, by receiving two girls against the bishop's order and the convent's will, one to be a nun and the other to be a lay sister. The Archbishop ordered their instant expulsion and specifically mentioned that his former prohibition had been dictated by a desire to do what was best for the convent, "since its resources hardly suffice for a small number of persons"[2027]. At Bondeville also a girl had been received without licence in 1266 and the Archbishop forbade her to be veiled[2028]. Sometimes it is clear that he had to protect the nuns, less against their own improvidence than against the enforced reception of nuns "dumped" upon them by powerful people outside their own ranks. The nuns of Villarceaux were forbidden to receive any lay sister or novice "even if the abbess of St Cyr send her"[2029]. At Bival, in 1254, where it is specifically stated that no more nuns are to be received without licence on account of the poverty of the house, he ordered no exception to be made even for two girls sent by the bishop and one by Sir William of Poissy[2030]; and at Montivilliers in 1266 he noted that in spite of his prohibition a girl had been placed there by the Legate[2031]. (5) A very common fault in these Rouen (and indeed in all) houses was the imperfect claustration of the nuns; seculars entered the precincts; nuns left them. There were constant injunctions that no secular or suspected persons were to enter the cloister precincts[2032] or to talk with the nuns anywhere save in the parlour[2033]. At Bival, however, a significant exception was made to the general prohibition; no one was to be introduced except those whom it would be a scandal to turn away[2034]--potential benefactors and other powerful folk, no doubt. It seems that the nuns were in the habit of dining and of eating meat with seculars (at Bival they absented themselves from Compline for this purpose)[2035], and the Archbishop forbade, time after time, the eating together of nuns and seculars[2036]. No secular person was to sleep in the house[2037]; and no nun was to converse with seculars, even in the parlour, without licence from the head of the house and without a suitable companion, such as the doorkeeper[2038]. These precautions seem to have been necessary, for one is left with the impression that secular visitors gained access without much difficulty to the cloister precincts; at Bival it was complained that brothers and relatives of the nuns and others, entered the house[2039]; and at Bondeville friends and relatives used to come into the cloister at will and talk with the nuns in the meadows and guest rooms of the house[2040]; at a later visitation the archbishop remarked that the house where guests were received was too close to the cloister and to the conventual buildings[2041]. The abuses to which such freedom of access might give rise are obvious. They appear in the case of St Aubin, morally the worst of all the houses; the state of that community at the visitations of 1254, 1256, 1257 and 1261 will be referred to later; in 1266 a certain miller was not to be allowed to frequent the house, as scandal had arisen through him, and the schoolmaster (_Rector scolarum_) of Beauvoir had "sometimes impudently frequented the said house or priory, from which evil rumours had arisen," and he was to be warned to desist[2042]; next year the same miller and two clerics (a rector and a clerk) were frequenting the house and causing scandal and the Archbishop forbade them to enter it[2043]. The wandering of nuns outside the precincts was even more dangerous, and it is significant that after the terrible revelations at Villarceaux in 1249 the Archbishop, in his injunctions, paid special attention to the entrance of seculars into the convent and to the conditions under which the nuns were wont to leave it. Rigaud strictly forbade any nun to go out without special licence from the head of the house and that licence was not to be given except for an adequate reason[2044]; "not quickly and easily but with difficulty and for an appointed time only"[2045], ran the injunction to the Abbess of St Amand. A term was always to be fixed by which the nun had to return and she was always to have a suitable companion allotted to her[2046]. This seems to have been a necessary precaution, for at St Saëns the nuns were found to stay away alone for fifteen days or more[2047]; it is perhaps not accidental that St Saëns was one of the immoral houses. At St Léger de Préaux, also, the nuns were in the habit of going out alone to the houses of relatives[2048]: "They go outside the abbey when they can and return when they will," says the Archbishop[2049]; in 1267 one of them was found to be alone with her mother at Argoulles, "which displeased us and we forbade the Abbess to give any nun permission to go out without company"[2050]. At Bondeville they used often to go to Rouen[2051]. Another precaution taken against the wandering of nuns in the world was the closing or careful guarding of the cloister doors; it was ordered at Bival in 1257 that a door opening on to the meadows, which was often unlocked, should be kept locked[2052]. The causes which took nuns outside the gates were many: sometimes they seem to have gone simply to take a walk; sometimes to visit relatives or to act as godmothers to the children of friends (a practice which was specifically forbidden at Montivilliers in 1257 and again in 1265)[2053]; sometimes on business to the granges of the convent; sometimes to work in the fields (three of the nuns of St Aubin were absent at the vintage (_in vindemiis_) when the Archbishop came in 1267)[2054]; sometimes to beg (at St Aubin in 1261 it was ordered that the younger nuns were not to be sent out to beg (_pro questu_)[2055] and two years later two nuns of this poverty-stricken house were absent in France, seeking alms)[2056]; sometimes for less reputable reasons. There is no more striking commentary on the writings of contemporary moralists like Matheolus and Gilles li Muisis than the Register of Eudes Rigaud[2057]; and the stress laid upon the ill results of allowing seculars to enter and nuns to leave the cloister, shows that the attempts of the medieval Church to impose strict claustration upon nuns, harsh as they seem to modern minds, were dictated by a real social necessity. (6) Modern minds would also be inclined to consider as trifling offences the various cases of frivolous behaviour--games, gay clothes, pet animals--which the Archbishop entered from time to time in his diary. The custom of indulging in games on Innocents' Day, which prevailed in certain English nunneries, was fairly common in Rigaud's diocese. In 1249 he made the following injunction at Villarceaux: Item we forbid you in future to indulge in your accustomed gaieties (_ne ludibria exerceatis consueta_) to wit, dressing yourselves up in secular clothes or leading dance-songs (_choreas_) among yourselves or with seculars[2058]. But the nuns clung to their rare amusements and in 1253 the Archbishop noted: "They sing ditties (_cantilenas_) on the Feast of Innocents"[2059]. At St Léger des Préaux in 1254 the diary has: "We forbade disorders (_inordinaciones_) on the Feast of Innocents"[2060] and at the Holy Trinity of Caen two years later: "The younger ones on the Feast of Innocents sing the scriptures with _farsa_; this we forbade"[2061]. Montivilliers was a serious offender and the Archbishop's note is learnedly technical over the different kinds of songs sung by the nuns: Item on the Feasts of St John, St Stephen and the Innocents they use excessive frivolity (_nimia iocositate_) and scurrilous songs, to wit, farces (_farsis_), canticles (_conductis_) and motets (_motulis_); we ordered that they should bear themselves more fittingly and with greater devotion[2062]. The order seems to have borne fruit, for in 1262 he noted: "The frivolities which used to take place on Innocents' Day have been utterly given up, so they say"; and then, and again in 1265, he simply repeated the injunction that such things should cease[2063]. At St Amand in 1263 he ordered: That the younger nuns are not to remain behind in the choir on the Feast of Innocents, as they have done in the past, singing the office and proses which belong to the day, the seniors having gone away and left the juniors there[2064]. But afterwards we hear no more of these sports among the nuns; so perhaps Rigaud succeeded in stamping them out. They were perhaps (if one may judge from the usual character of the Feast of Fools) more scurrilous and less innocently pretty than they sound; but it is difficult not to feel a little out of sympathy with the conscientious Archbishop[2065]. The keeping of pet animals here, as in England, was a common fault and one against which Rigaud's animadversions were singularly unsuccessful. The nuns of St Sauveur d'Evreux had small dogs, squirrels and birds, "and we ordered such things to be removed; they do not profit the rule"[2066]; but we had to repeat our injunction in 1258 and again in 1269[2067]. At St Léger des Préaux they had two small dogs and three squirrels[2068], and at the Holy Trinity of Caen they kept larks and little birds in cages, which were to be removed[2069]; but the cage birds were still there six years later[2070]. The most amusing case was at Villarceaux in 1268, where for once one of the nuns gave the Archbishop a piece of her mind. "Eustachia, late prioress" (we shall hear of her again), "had a certain bird, which she kept to the annoyance and displeasure of some of the more elderly nuns" (did it disturb their slumbers?) "For the which reason we ordered her to remove it; and she thereupon bespake us with little discretion or reverence, which greatly displeased us"[2071]. One may forgive the archbishop for this lapse in his sense of humour; he had had trouble with Eustachia before; it was just like her to keep a bird that squawked in the dorter. Nor probably did Rigaud fare better than any other medieval visitor in his attempts to turn fashionable clothes out of the nunneries. The disreputable ladies of Villarceaux (1249) curled their hair and scented their veils with saffron, they had pilches of rabbit and hare and fox fur, they wore belts adorned with silver-work and steel-work[2072]. Those of Montivilliers (1265 and 1266) were nearly as luxurious, though their morals were unimpeachable; they also wore their hair in ringlets, had pilches of squirrel fur and of the costly "griz," and used girdles curiously adorned with ironwork; they ornamented their collars and cuffs with expensive cloth trimmings and possessed "excessively curious and precious knives, with carved and silvered handles"[2073]. The nuns of St Amand also used not only shifts and pilches, but also pillows and bedclothes soft with the fur of rabbit, hare, fox and cat[2074]; and the ornamented girdles of ironwork were found at St Aubin and at St Sauveur[2075]. The Archbishop strenuously forbade long hair and curls, belts of ironwork, saffron, rich cloth and the more costly kinds of fur. It is unlikely that he was successful. The world never called more seductively to medieval nuns than in contemporary fashions. The Church clung to the belief that the habit made the nun, but the souls of sister Jacqueline and sister Johanna, and sister Philippa and sister Marguerite expressed themselves appropriately in furs and saffron and, one fears, would not have been less frivolous in the regular garb of their order: Il est bien vray que tourel, voille ou guymple Fort scapullaire ou autre habit de corps, Ne rend jamais homme ou femme plus simple, Mais rompt souvent l'union et accords Mectant divorce entre l'âme et le corps[2076]. (7) It is now necessary to consider the more serious faults, such as quarrelling, drunkenness or immorality, detected by Eudes Rigaud in his visitations, and to give a fuller account of those nunneries which were in a particularly evil state. The quarrels which were inseparable from convent life continually occupied his attention; and nine out of the twelve houses which he visited more than once were at one time or another disturbed by petty squabblings among the nuns. It is clear--as might be expected--that the discord was worse in those convents where discipline was loose, and where the behaviour of the nuns in other directions was open to grave censure. At the visitation of Villarceaux in 1249, for instance, Ermengarde of Gisors and Johanna of Auvilliers beat one another and the Archbishop was obliged to order the punishment of quarrels passing from words to blows[2077] (_de verbis ad verbera_--he was not above a mild ecclesiastical pun in the privacy of his diary)[2078]. At St Aubin (1254) Agnes of the Bridge (_de Ponte_) and Petronilla refused to speak to each other, and Agnes, "who is a fomenter of discord and a scold," was ordered to give up her rancour against Petronilla, on pain of being removed from the convent[2079]. At Bival in 1252 two sisters were described as rebellious[2080] and two years later the Register contains the following entry: There are two sets of couples who refuse to speak to one another and we caused them to make peace with each other and to kiss and be friends (_quantum ad os, et deosculari ad invicem_), and we forbade that any mention should henceforth be made of the bone of contention between them, on pain of excommunication, which we have called down upon her who shall be the first to mention it, and we ordered the Abbess to keep us informed[2081]. At St Saëns a certain Johanna Martel--evidently a lady of substance with relatives in the neighbourhood--was said in 1259 to be rebellious, disobedient and given to wrangling with the Prioress[2082], and in 1265 the house was full of discord[2083]. At Almenèches (1250) there was a good deal of quarrelling in cloister and choir[2084]. Quarrels were common, however, in houses against which no grave moral disorders were ever charged. St Amand was perhaps the worst of these; there in 1258 the Archbishop ordered that each nun was to forget the injury and offence of the other, before she presumed to receive communion[2085]; but the discords continued and in 1262 he wrote: Because we found there many heart-burnings and rancours among the nuns, we ordered the abbess and the confessor that they should reconcile those whom they knew to have fallen into this fault before, and that they should live in charity as far as they were able, punishing offenders by taking away their beer and pittances[2086]. But it was in vain, and after seven years Rigaud was still commanding the Abbess to labour to the best of her ability that the nuns should live in peace and concord[2087]. At Bondeville (1251 and 1255) it will be remembered that one of the charges against the Prioress was her quarrelsomeness[2088]; and in 1259 a certain Lucy was found to be a quarrelsome and ill-tempered person, disobedient to the Prioress and given to wrangling with her in the frater, whereupon the Archbishop enjoined a penance of silence upon her[2089]. At St Désir de Lisieux (1254) there were two or three nuns who would not speak to the rest[2090]; and even at the great Abbaye aux Dames at Caen Rigaud noted in 1267, "There was great contention among them and concerning this they had a case in the law-courts"[2091]. Quarrelsomeness was, however, a mild fault compared with the really bad immorality which prevailed in some of the houses. At three of them, St Aubin, St Saëns and Bival, this state of affairs continued from visitation to visitation; they were evidently hopelessly corrupt. At the two others (Villarceaux and Almenèches) there is mention of serious disorders only once and from the Archbishop's silence on later occasions it may be hoped that he succeeded in reforming the houses. One of these isolated cases was in many ways the most serious of all; Rigaud's note of his visitation of Villarceaux in 1249 reads more like a description of La Maison Tellier than that of a priory; except that the former was more discreet: We visited the priory of Villarceaux. There are twenty-three nuns and three lay sisters. [Here follow several minor disorders.] Only four nuns there are fully professed, to wit Eustachia, Comitissa, Ermengarde and Petronilla. Many of them have pilches made from the fur of rabbits, hares and foxes. They eat flesh unnecessarily in the infirmary; they do not observe silence anywhere and they do not keep within the cloister. Johanna of "Aululari" once went out of the cloister and lived with someone, by whom she had a child; and she sometimes goes out of the cloister to see that child; item she is ill-famed (_infamata_) with a certain man called Gaillard. Isabella la Treiche is a fault finder, murmuring against the Prioress and others. The cellaress is ill-famed with a man called Philip of Villarceaux. The Prioress is too negligent and does not reprove, nor does she get up [for matins]. Johanna of Auvilliers goes outside the house alone with Gayllard and within the year she had a child by him. The cellaress is ill-famed with Philip of Villarceaux and with a certain priest of her own neighbourhood. Item the subprioress with Thomas the carter. Idonia her sister with Crispinatus. Item the prior of Gisors frequents the house for the sake of the said Idonia. Philippa of Rouen is ill-famed with the priest of Suentre, in the diocese of Chartres; Marguerita the treasuress with Richard de Geneville, clerk. Agnes of Fontenoy is ill-famed with the priest of Guerreville, of the diocese of Chartres. La Tooliere [? the chambress] is ill-famed with Sir Andrew de Monchy, knight. They all wear their hair long to their chins (_nutriunt comam usque ad mentum_) and scent their veils with saffron. Jacqueline came back pregnant from a certain chaplain, who was expelled from the house for this. Item Agnes de Montsec was ill-famed with the same. Ermengarde of Gisors and Johanna of Auvilliers beat each other. The Prioress is drunk almost any night ... she does not rise for matins nor eat in the frater nor correct faults[2092]. After these terrible revelations the Archbishop directed a letter of injunctions to the convent, which, contrary to his usual practice, was copied into his diary[2093]. These injunctions deal only with general breaches of the rule, which by loosening discipline would tend to give opportunities for the behaviour described in the _comperta_, and they contain no reference to specific cases of immorality. Thus he provides for the proper performance of divine service; for the maintenance of silence; for the simultaneous entry of the nuns into their dorter, the keys of which and of the cloister were to be carefully kept and a "Visitor" appointed to see that the rule was kept in these matters; he forbids secular or suspected persons to be entertained or lodged within the cloister, and nuns to be given permission to go outside without good reason and a companion, or to speak with any external person unlicensed and unaccompanied; he deals also with the frivolous garments, the sports on Innocents' Day and the quarrels which he had found; he forbids the reception of any more nuns without licence, orders the frequent rendering of accounts, warns them to live in common, and ends with an order to recite his letter at least once a month in the chapter. These injunctions seem strangely superficial in comparison with the _comperta_ which precede them; but a note entered in the Register, on the occasion of the next visitation of Villarceaux, would seem to suggest that the Archbishop had taken other steps to deal with the matter. It is there written: "Here are twenty nuns, but six of them were not present; for one of them left the house and married in the world and two are without the house, according to a previous mandate and ordinance of ours"[2094]. It is possible that the Archbishop had sent separate letters (not copied into his Register) dealing with the worst cases of immorality, and that he had sent two of the erring nuns to do penance in another house. At any rate there are no further complaints of immorality against Villarceaux, and perhaps prompt measures at the beginning of his career as visitor had stayed the nuns on their downward course. It was on Rigaud's first visitation of Almenèches also that moral disorders were found. He went there in 1250 and found that the rule had been greatly relaxed. The nuns (who were among the most inveterate property owners recorded in the Register) used to run up debts in the town, doubtless with the money given to them for the purchase of their food. They did not live a communal life, they admitted seculars to talk with them in the cloister, they remained away from Matins and Compline, they had drinking parties after Compline, and they were always quarrelling. The result of this laxity showed in more serious faults. Sister Tiphaine was a drunkard (_ebriosa_); three other nuns, Hola, Aaliz the chantress and the late prioress had each had a child; and a fourth, Dionisia Dehatim, was ill-famed with a certain Master Nicholas de Bleve. In this case some of the disorder may have been due to the fact that the house was without an abbess, she having died shortly before[2095]. Here again it is impossible to tell what steps the Archbishop took to reform the house, but at his two subsequent visitations, although the nuns persisted in their refusal to live a communal life, there were no further notices of immorality. One may hope that these were exceptional cases in the history of the houses concerned. But there was nothing exceptional about the bad behaviour of St Aubin and St Saëns and to a lesser degree of Bival. The Archbishop first visited the latter house in 1248 and found there "several nuns ill-famed of the vice of incontinence"; the abbess resigned, probably as a result of this discovery[2096]. No complaint of immorality was made at the next two visitations; then in 1254 the Archbishop noted that sister Isabella had had a child at Whitsuntide by a priest[2097]. At the next visitation (1256) he found that Florence had had a child recently and that the whole house had fallen into ill-repute because of this; Rigaud on this occasion ordered the removal of the convent priest, "on account of the scandal of the nuns and populace, though we found nothing that could be proved against him"[2098]. On the eight subsequent visitations there were no further charges of immorality. St Aubin and St Saëns must be charged with persistent immorality, continuing over a long period of years. They seem indeed to have been little better than brothels. At St Aubin in 1254 Aeliz of Rouen was incontinent and had lately had a child by a priest[2099]. In 1256 she was in trouble again: We unveiled Aeliz of Rouen and Eustachia of Etrepagny for a time, on account of their fornication. Item we sent Agnes of the Bridge (_de Ponte_) [the same whose quarrelsomeness had been reproved in 1254] to the lazar-house of Rouen, because she consented to Eustachia's sin and even procured it, as the rumour runs, _et quia dedit dicte Eustachie herbas bibere ut interficeretur puer conceptus in dicta Eustachia, secundum quod dicitur per famam_[2100]. We removed the Prioress from office. We postponed the infliction of a punishment upon Anastasia, the subprioress, for ill-fame of incontinence against her, until she should be made prioress there[2101]. Here at last we have definite information of the steps taken by Rigaud to deal with a bad case; two nuns were unveiled and sent to do penance among lepers and the prioress was deposed; but what a confession of weakness that Rigaud should propose to fill the place of the latter with a woman herself ill-famed of sin. The effect of his punishment upon the two nuns whom he had unveiled was, moreover, unfortunate, for they went from bad to worse. The next year Eustachia was in apostasy (_vagabunda_) and had been pregnant when she left the convent and the blame for it was set down to John, the chaplain of Fry. Aeliz of Rouen also was "in grave sin"[2102]. In 1261 the Archbishop came again. Aeliz had borne a child since his last visitation and she was said to have had three children in all; Beatrice of Beauvais had had a child at Blaacort and her lover was the Dean of St Quentin, of the Diocese of Beauvais. The Prioress informed Rigaud that these two had long been in serious fault and that they had undergone penance according to the rule[2103]. In 1263 Aeliz and Beatrice had run away ("led," Rigaud confided to his diary, "by the levity of their spirits and by the instigation of the devil") and he ordered them not to be readmitted without his special licence[2104]. The next year Beatrice was still wandering abroad and was said to have had several children[2105]. No more is heard of these erring sisters at the three subsequent visitations, but it is evident that the discipline of the house was still far from good, and the constant visits of a miller and of several other men (all clerics)[2106] had caused scandals in 1265 and again in 1267[2107]. In 1267 the Subprioress was punished for giving up her office at her own will[2108]; and in 1268 there is an ambiguous entry which leads one to suppose that Anastasia had never became prioress after all and that Eustachia (it may not be the same woman) was back again; on that occasion Anastasia "late subprioress" was punished because she gave up her office contrary to the will of the Prioress, while Eustachia and Margaret were punished because they would not undertake it, when commanded to do so[2109]. The case of St Saëns was hardly less serious; for the first six visitations there was no charge of immorality, though it is clear from the Archbishop's note in 1254 that the discipline of the house was lax and in particular that the nuns had leave of absence to stay away alone for as long as a fortnight at a time and that their priest was incontinent[2110]. In any case the visitation of 1259 showed a state of things so disgraceful, that it is difficult to believe that it could have arisen within the two years that had elapsed since the last visitation. Some of them stayed away unduly long when they happened to go out with the licence of the Prioress. We ordered that such were to be given a shorter term by which to return. Johanna Martel was rebellious and disobedient and she wrangled with the Prioress and went out riding to see her relatives, wearing a mantle of burnet with sleeves; and she had a private messenger whom she used often to send to those relatives. Nicholaa had had a child in the same house on Maundy Thursday and its father was said to be Master Simon, the parson of St Saëns; the boy was baptized in the monastery and then sent to a certain sister of Nicholaa's. She lay in the monastery and underwent her churching with them; she was attended in childbed by two midwives from the village. Item another of the nuns had a child by the same Simon. The Prioress was held suspect with Richard of Maucomble; it was also said that she managed the goods and business of the house badly and that she concealed some of the rents and returns. The same Richard had lodged in the house together with the brother and parents of the Prioress and had often dined there[2111]. Five years later (in 1264) Petronilla of Dreux was ill-famed of incontinence with Ralph, the hayward (_messerius_) of the Priory, and also with a married man, and the Archbishop ordered the former to be removed from his office and not to be permitted to frequent the priory. The Prioress was ill-famed with a priest, and it was said that she often went to the manor of Esquequeville and elsewhere, where she entertained many guests and kept ill company (_ubi secum habebat multos convivas et inhonestam societatem ducebat_), for which Rigaud censured her and ordered her to improve. There was more scandal about Nicholaa (now called "of Rouen" and described as the chantress); it was apparently common talk in the village that she used to dine with her sister at Rouen, in the house of Master Simon, Rector of St Saëns, and rumour made a yet more serious charge against her[2112]. "But," says the Archbishop, "we could find nothing to prove concerning this in our visitation and the nuns said that the last charge was falsely and mendaciously imputed to her"[2113]. Nevertheless it is significant that Nicholaa's name should still, after five years, be connected with the Rector of St Saëns and with her complacent sister. In 1265 there was no mention of immorality, but the nuns were living together "in discord and disorder": "Because indeed," wrote Rigaud, "we perceived them to be in a bad state, particularly as concerning certain observances of the rule, we sought eagerly how we might labour to reform them to a more honest and salutary condition, according to God and to their rule"; and he returned the next day to complete his measures for this reform[2114]. But in 1266-7 the cellaress Petronilla of Dreux was again very gravely ill-famed (_plurimum diffamata_) with Ralph, "a certain yeoman who served them in harvest time" and there can be no better proof that the Archbishop's injunctions often went unfulfilled, for he had ordered Ralph's expulsion in 1264[2115]. Nevertheless the rest of the house was in good order, so perhaps his eager labour had not been altogether in vain. In 1267, however, things were as bad as ever. The Prioress, Johanna of Morcent, was ill-famed with the same priest against whom she had been warned in 1264; Petronilla of Dreux was still "very gravely ill-famed with Ralph de Maintru, as she was before; and," says the Archbishop, with one of those personal touches which make his Register a real human document, "Agnes of Equetot and Johanna of Morainville we found to be liars and perjurers, when we demanded certain things of them on oath; wherefore we came away from the place, as it were impatient and sad ... (_Quasi impacientes et tristes_)"[2116]; it was indeed no wonder. APPENDIX III FIFTEENTH CENTURY SAXON VISITATIONS BY JOHANN BUSCH Three accounts of medieval visitations stand out in general interest above all others, the thirteenth century Norman visitations of Eudes Rigaud, Archbishop of Rouen, described in his diary, the fifteenth century English visitations of Alnwick, Bishop of Lincoln, described in his Register[2117] and the almost contemporary German visitations of the Austin Canon and reformer Johann Busch, described in his _Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum_. Busch's account is less formal and more literary than those of Rigaud and Alnwick; he sets out not to keep a journal, like the former, nor to record official documents, like the latter, but to look back in retrospect upon his work and to make for posterity a chronicle of the reforms connected with the congregation of Windesheim. For this reason, and because Busch was a remarkable man, his book will probably transcend the others in interest for the general reader; his account of the difficulties which he encountered is so vivid and at times so humourous, the sidelight thrown upon his own character shows him so admirable and yet so human. Johann Busch was born in 1399 and in 1419 became a canon in the Austin monastery of Windesheim, a new foundation, famed for the strictness of its rule and already the head of a congregation of daughter houses. He has left an interesting account of the doubts and temptations which assailed him during his novitiate; they were the stormy dawn clouds of a day which was to become glorious in the annals of his order. During the next twenty years he held from time to time various posts in different houses of the reformed congregation; in 1431 he was attached to the nunnery of Bronopia, in 1436 he became Subprior of Wittenberg and in 1439 he went to Sülte, near Hildesheim, where he was made Prior in the following year. He had therefore had considerable experience of monastic houses and it was when he became Prior of Sülte that his great work as a reformer of monasteries began. He undertook it originally at the request of the Bishop and Chapter of Hildesheim, who were appalled at the decadence of monastic life in that diocese and anxious for the introduction of reforms on the model of Windesheim. His success in Hildesheim prompted Archbishop Günther of Magdeburg to invite him to carry the reforming movement into that diocese and in 1447 Busch became _praepositus_[2118] of the Neuwerk in Halle. This brought him to the notice of the Papal Legate Nicholas of Cues, who came to hold a provincial council in Magdeburg in 1451, and Nicholas, himself an ardent reformer, issued a general mandate empowering him to enter and reform the Austin monasteries of the provinces of Magdeburg, Mainz, Saxony and Thuringia. Unfortunately Busch now quarrelled with the Archbishop of Magdeburg and had to resign in 1454. He returned to Wittenberg and continued his campaign of reform, turning his attention specially to nunneries. Then, after a short sojourn at Windesheim he returned to Sülte in 1459, where he remained until his death in 1480. He left behind him two books, a _Chronicon Windeshemense_, and the _Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum_, which between them give an invaluable account not only of the rise of Windesheim and of the reforming movement which emanated from it, but of the life and character of Busch himself[2119]. Book II of the _Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum_ describes the reform of twenty-three nunneries and two houses of lay sisters, of which the great majority belonged to his own order of Austin Regular Canons[2120]. The work was not carried out without considerable opposition, not only from the nuns themselves, for the desire for reform seldom came from within the unreformed orders[2121], but also from their friends and kinsmen in the world, to whom they frequently appealed for help. Moreover certain ecclesiastical magnates, notably the Bishop of Minden, opposed and impeded reforms in their districts, and even when they submitted to such reforms lent them an indifferent and easily discouraged support. On the other hand Busch received his most powerful support from great ecclesiastics such as the Cardinal Legate Nicholas of Cues, the Archbishop of Magdeburg and the Bishops of Halberstadt and Hildesheim, and also from the superiors and chief inmates of houses belonging to the congregation of Windesheim, or already reformed under its influence. Men such as Rutger, prior of Wittenberg, were of the greatest assistance to him; they accompanied him as co-visitors and promoted his work in every possible way, while the reformed nunneries often provided him with nuns to dwell for a time in the houses which he was reforming and to teach their inmates how to comport themselves. Apart from such powerful ecclesiastical support Busch was particularly fortunate in the assistance which he received from the Dukes of Brunswick, Otto, William and Henry, who reigned during his lifetime. These nobles, especially Duke William, had the greatest esteem for Busch and not infrequently accompanied him on his visitations, lending the temporal intimidation of their arguments and armed retainers to his more spiritual menaces. The support of the secular arm was, indeed, necessary, in view of the opposition of lay kinsfolk to the reform of their daughters and sisters. The monastic houses of Germany had by the fifteenth century fallen into great laxity of rule. The nuns seem to have lost all knowledge of how to perform the ordinary offices of convent life, in choir, chapter and frater, according to the rule, and Busch was often at pains to go carefully through the routine with them, teaching them what to do at each moment. This occasionally gave rise to some amusing scenes. At one of the first houses to be reformed, St Mary Magdalen near Hildesheim (1440), Busch and an elderly monk of Sülte were teaching the nuns by ocular demonstration how to comport themselves in frater. Having arranged the sisters in seemly order Busch and brother John Bodiker began to intone _Benedicite_, after the fashion of reformed religious; but the nuns, who had not been accustomed to singing the _Benedicite_ at table, all burst out laughing, instead of following. Busch and the brother, however, kept on until the nuns collected themselves and came in with bowed heads at the verse _Gloria patri_. Similarly when Busch was showing them how to confess their own and proclaim others' faults in chapter (a custom which they had completely lost), brother John, acting the sinner, rose up among the sisters and cast himself flat upon the pavement, whereat "the astonished nuns fell to marvelling that such an old brother should seek thus to lie prone"[2122]. The most serious fault found by Busch, serious not only because it was a breach of one of the three substantial vows of monasticism, but because it brought in its train other and worse evils, was the ownership of private property. The nuns were almost universally _proprietarie_, owning money and annual rents, to say nothing of their own private cooking and dining utensils, for, as always, communal life had gone with individual poverty and the nuns provided their own meals and dined in _familia_. At Derneburg Busch describes the girls and women of the village coming up to the doors and windows of the house with bread and meat and cheese in sacks and baskets for the nuns to buy[2123]. It was his custom on visiting a house to demand that all the private possessions of the nuns should be brought and heaped up before him. Unwillingly they came with the charters reciting their private rents, the ready money from their purses and chests, the gold and silver rings, the coral paternosters, and all the pots and pans and basins, the cups and plates and spoons which they used for their private meals. All these Busch carefully noted down: "I marvelled," he says on one occasion, when he had collected a particularly large heap from quite a small house, "how they could have collected from their parents and predecessors and reserved for themselves, as it were by right of inheritance, such a large number of utensils"[2124]. All the money, endowments and implements thus brought together Busch then handed over to the common treasury and store-room of the house. This rooting out of private property gave rise to the bitterest opposition. The nuns had been wont to evade the charge of _proprietas_ by the merest quibble, which Busch contemptuously swept away. They had deposited all their money and charters with the abbess and when they wanted any they had asked her for it; but she was merely the guardian of their private incomes, which were never merged in a common stock[2125]. When they found that this device was rejected by Busch, they did all they could to preserve their hoards. Sometimes they secretly sent their money out of the house before his arrival[2126]; sometimes they locked it up and tried to conceal it[2127]. The attitude of their kinsfolk also was a stumbling block. These gentlemen were willing enough to endow their own daughters and nieces, but not so willing to support the children of others by gifts which were turned to the common use. Thus it was the nuns who frequently protested that their house was too poor to permit of their living in common, since it was only by these individual endowments that they maintained their existence. It was therefore Busch's practice, before completing the reformation of a house, to make the nuns obtain from their kinsfolk an undertaking to continue, and if possible to augment, the rents which they had been wont to give their relatives, on the threat of turning out the nuns and distributing them among other houses[2128]. The nobles and burghers of the district naturally wished to keep their kinswomen near them and the endowments were usually forthcoming. At St George (or Marienkammer) near Halle even this device did not result in a large enough income for the nuns; so Busch caused sermons to be preached in all the churches of the district, saying that because of their poverty the fathers of their order wished to distribute the nuns in other houses in the dioceses of Hildesheim and Halberstadt, but that they would be able to remain if they were helped by alms. Whereupon the townsfolk, out of pity for them, gave generously enough to support them for a whole year. Busch led the way himself, sending them openly two large cartloads of corn and a sack of cheeses, an example which was soon followed by the townsfolk, who had ample opportunity of observing the progress of the cart from Busch's door to the gates of the convent, "for" (says he), "I lived on the eastern, they on the western side of the town." Dr Paul, the _praepositus_ of St Maurice, Halle, also helped with a cask of wine[2129]. Closely connected with the question of private property was the dowry system, against which Busch also set his face, for it was not only in itself contrary to the rule, but it was one method by which the nuns received those private endowments which they afterwards turned to their own uses: "All the nuns of Saxony," says Busch, "whatever their order, made a simoniacal entry into their monasteries before the new reform, giving a sum of money for their reception; and according to ancient custom the newcomers give a certain potation to all the _praepositi_, priests and chaplains and a great feast for their many friends and for all the nuns and inhabitants [of the house]. This was the common custom in all the nunneries of Saxony and particularly in those which were rich"[2130]. Busch forbade the custom everywhere. The nuns thus lived like seculars, performing the minimum number of services and owning private property. Like seculars also they loved to give that "fetis" pinch to their wimples, that elegant turn to their mantles, which changed the sombre habit of their order into the dress of a lady of fashion. Busch, in common with all the reformers of the later middle ages, has a great deal to say about their clothes. All the nuns of Saxony and Thuringia refused to crop their heads, and contented themselves with cutting their hair short at the neck[2131]. The nuns of Wülfinghausen and Fischbeck wore long flowing white veils over their heads, so that it was hardly possible to recognise them as nuns[2132]. Those of St Cyriac's appeared very pompously arrayed in long tunics and mantles, with tall peaked caps and flowing veils, "que non monialium sed domicellarum castrantium apparatum habuerunt"[2133]. The nuns of Barsinghausen were very slender, having underneath long tight tunics of white cloth, and above being clad in almost transparent robes of black linen, which they called _superpellicia_, not girdled but flowing, with long sleeves, which they turned back for capes, beneath which almost all their form, which was bare underneath, could be seen[2134]. The nuns of the penitential order of St Mary Magdalen near Hildesheim wore "a pleated veil, called in the vulgar tongue _Ranse_, such as they imagine the blessed Mary Magdalen used to wear, and over tunics very straitly girdled at the breast, so as to make them appear slender, and with very loose pleated trains behind, from the girdle to the hem, after the fashion of secular women. I and my brother John Bodiker," adds Busch, "censured their habit, for that it was not religious but rather ministered to worldly vanity, and with many pious admonishments we led them all in turn to put off those pleated veils and put over their heads plain white veils without folds and to give up those gowns, which were tight in the upper part and in the lower part wide and pleated, lest they should seem to be following worldly vanity and the subtlety of their own hearts, rather than religion"[2135]. As might be expected laxity of rule and widespread _proprietas_ brought immorality in their train and Busch in several cases mentions that a convent was ill-famed for incontinence. On the other hand this was by no means invariably the case. At Wülfinghausen, for instance, Busch told the nuns that he had never heard a word breathed against their chastity[2136]. At Weinhausen, where the old abbess withstood reform so strenuously that she had to be removed by force, and where all the nuns possessed private incomes, he specially notes "these nuns observed well the vow of chastity, for their lady the old abbess ruled them very strictly, and they held her in great reverence and fear and called her 'gracious lady,' because of her high birth"[2137]. Moreover certain houses received reform so readily and became so soon models of good behaviour, that there cannot have been any very serious moral decay in them. But a passage in the course of Busch's account of the reform of the Magdalenenkloster at Halle, shows his own opinion as to the relation between absolute immorality and lesser breaches of the rule, and shows in particular the important part which he held to be played by the vice of _proprietas_ in the downward path of a nun. It is interesting also because in it he attributes a great deal of the decadence of nunneries to insufficient control by their pastors and above all to too infrequent visitation: "The feminine sex," he says, "cannot long persist in the due observance of their rule without men, who are proven, and reformed and who often call them by wise counsels to better things. For our eyes saw no monastery of nuns belonging to any order (and there is no small number of them in Saxony, Misnia and Thuringia) who remained for long in their good intent, holy life and due reform without reformed fathers. For wherever nuns and holy sisters do not confess at set times, nor communicate, nor hold chapter meeting concerning their faults at least once a week, nor are visited by their [spiritual] fathers every year ..., such nuns and sisters we saw and heard often to be fallen from the observance of their rule and from the religious life to a dissolute life, odious in the sight of God and men, to the grave peril and eternal damnation of their souls. For first laying aside the fear of God, they fall into the sin of property in small things, then in greater things and then in the _peculium_ of money and clothes, thence they break out into the desires of the flesh and incontinence of the outward senses and so to the evil act, and thus they fear not to give themselves over bit by bit to all uncleanliness and foulness"[2138]. He ends with an eloquent plea for a closer watch to be kept over nuns by those responsible for their spiritual welfare. Such were the main faults which Busch strove to abolish in bringing the nunneries under the reformed rule of Hildesheim. It remains to give some account of the difficulties which he encountered in the course of his work. In some houses he was well received; at Erscherde he says of the nuns: These virgins were well obedient, pious and tractable, ... dealing with us and with each other kindly and benignantly by word and deed, wherefore we were no little edified by them[2139]; and at St Martin's, Erfurt, he says: We found a prioress and nuns living in great poverty, very simple and humble, but of good will and ready for all good work; for they applied themselves promptly to obedience and to the observance of their rule, and very willingly brought to us all those things which they held in private possession[2140]. In other houses reform was not so easy. Busch was frequently impeded by old and obstinate members of a convent, who refused to accept a change in the routine which they had followed for so long. Such was the nobly born abbess of Weinhausen, who was over seventy years of age and had to be removed by force from the house, before any reforms could be carried out: "I found this way of life kept in this monastery forty years ago; this way have I served during as many years and this way and not otherwise will I continue to serve." One cannot but pity the poor old lady, brought out of her house and forced to ascend the carriage which was to take her away, with Busch pulling her by one sleeve and the Abbot of St Michael by the other; and one is relieved to hear that she was allowed back again shortly afterwards, though forced to resign the position of Abbess[2141]. But Busch's experience in reforming monasteries caused him to dread the opposition of men and women who had been long in religion. In the course of his panegyric on Fischbeck, which had been reformed from within by a remarkable Abbess, he says: This monastery hath this advantage over many other Saxon houses, as well of monks as of nuns, that it contains no old people, for these old folk do not fear God nor care they for conscience or for obedience, but when no one is looking, then they do all that they think or desire, chattering with one another and with anyone else, by day and by night, even in places where it is forbidden by the rule[2142]. Besides the obstinacy of old members of the house Busch had also to contend with the occasional opposition of confessors or _praepositi_, who resented his interference in their domain. At the Magdalenenkloster at Hildesheim, their confessor, who had been with the nuns for eight years, desired to be released after the reformation of the house, saying to the _praepositus_: "I have been their confessor for so many years, yet nought do I receive from them, save one or two refections in three or four weeks. I would fain be free of them and let them get another confessor." Busch comments significantly: "He said this, because when they were property-owners, they gave him many little gifts in money, and spices. Now, because they had no private property, they gave him nothing"[2143]. At the convent of White Ladies and at Marienberg the _praepositus_ of the house did everything possible to hinder the reform[2144]. Moreover in several cases Busch had also to deal with the opposition of laymen, objecting either to the enclosure of their kinswomen, or to the abolition of private endowments, or merely supporting on general grounds the objections of the nuns. The difficulties encountered by a fifteenth century German reformer are best estimated by giving an account of some of Busch's adventures at recalcitrant houses. At his first attempt to reform Wennigsen in Hanover (1455) he had against him the Bishop of Minden and all the nobles of the neighbouring castles, but he was supported by William Duke of Brunswick and by the authority of the Council of Basel. Taking with him the Duke, his minister Ludolph von Barum and Rutger, Prior of Wittenberg, Busch went to the house and they all four entered the nuns' choir. The Duke addressed the assembled sisters and bade them receive reformation, but they, crossing their hands above their breasts, replied: "We have all concluded together and sworn that we will not reform nor observe our rule. We beseech you not to make us perjured." Twice the Duke sent them out to reconsider their decision and twice they made the same reply, finally throwing themselves on their faces on the ground, spreading out their arms in the form of a cross and intoning in a loud voice the antiphon "Media vita in morte sumus." The visitors, however, thought they were singing "Revelabunt celi iniquitatem Iude" (used as a spell in the middle ages) and the Duke was terrified, lest he should lose all his possessions. But Busch said: "If I were duke of this land I would rather have that song than a hundred florins, for there is no curse over us and over your land, but a benediction and heavenly dew, but over these nuns is a stern rebuke and the sign of their reformation. But we are few, being but our four selves, and the nuns are many. If they were to attack us with their distaffs and with stones hidden in their long sleeves, what should we do? Let us call in others to help." Then the duke, going up alone to them said, "May what you sing be upon you and your bodies"; and to his servants who were standing with the nuns in the choir, he said, "come hither to us." The nuns followed the Duke and the servants, thinking that their chests and money boxes were going to be broken up, whereupon the Duke rebuked them, saying that if they and their noble friends and the Bishop of Minden opposed reform any longer, he would turn them off his lands. The nuns then asked to be allowed to take counsel with their friends and relatives, to which the Duke, on Busch's intercession, unwillingly agreed. The friends accordingly came to a conference, but all they did was to repeat the nuns' request in the same form, and they continued to do so after the Duke had given them two or three chances to reconsider the matter; whereupon he sent them away, and they rode off, followed by their shield-bearers. The Duke then ordered the gates of the house to be opened to Busch, but the nuns returned a message that the keys were lost. The Duke, on Busch's authority, sent for several rustics and villeins, who brought a long bench and broke open the door. The reformers went up into the choir and there found the nuns, flat on their faces with arms out like a cross, and round them a circle of little wooden and stone images of saints, with a burning candle between each. Seeing that it was useless to resist, they approached the visitors, and the Duke addressed them, saying that if they would receive reform, he would keep them on his land, and if not carriages were ready to take them away for ever. The nuns begged him to "remove those monks from their necks," when they would do his will, but the Duke replied that he did everything by the advice of Rutger and Busch. The nuns then gave way and the reform was begun, after which the Duke and his followers rode away, leaving his councillor and notary with Busch. But at nightfall the nuns sent their _praepositus_ to Busch, with the message: "My ladies the prioress and nuns say that they are not willing to serve as they promised, but they wish to remain as they were and are." The Duke had to be sent for once more and eventually all the nuns submitted except one, who seems to have fallen into a fit, and the reform went on apace: "Because we instructed them kindly and not austerely," says Busch, "they said to us, 'At first we thought that you would be very austere and unkind, but now we see that you are gentle as the angels of heaven. Now we have more faith in you than in the lord duke.'" Busch's troubles, however, were not over, for twice within the next few days he was attacked by armed men objecting to the new enclosure of the nuns, and only his native wit and conciliatory words saved him from a very dangerous situation[2145]. Almost equally difficult was the reform of Mariensee, where again the Bishop of Minden did all in his power to oppose reform, having (according to Busch) been bribed by the nuns to defend them. The Duke of Brunswick, however, forced the nuns to admit the reformers and forced the Bishop to send four emissaries to assist in carrying out the reform. These four prelates entered the house first to ask the nuns if they would consent to receive reform; but they refused, and one young woman tore off her veil and crown and casting them at the feet of the Bishop's suffragan cried: "Always hitherto you have told me that I need not be reformed and now you want to compel me to be reformed. Behold your crown and veil! I will no longer be a nun." The Bishop's emissaries after this gave up their half-hearted attempt to reform the house and retired, leaving the field to Busch and his companions. The Duke then caused four carriages to be brought to the door, in which the rebellious nuns could be taken away, whereat the Abbess and the nuns climbed up into the vaults of the church and hid themselves there. The Duke ordered his servants to fetch ladders and place them against the roof and then to climb up and fetch down the nuns, but the prudent Busch prevented this, saying that the nuns would push over and kill the first who went up the ladder. Instead he went into the choir and, finding one nun still walking there, threatened her that unless the whole convent came down from the roof at once, they should be taken away in the carriages, "to-night you shall be in the Duke's castle of Nyerstadt, tomorrow in his castle of Calenberg, and after that outside his lands, perchance never to return." Whereupon the horrified nuns descended. Then followed an amusing scene. All the nuns agreed to accept the new reforms, except one young woman, who refused: "Then," says Busch, "I said to the lord Duke, 'This sister scorns obedience and contradicts everything.' Whereupon, finding how perverse she was, he seized her and tried to draw her to the carriage. But when he had thrown his arms about her, she fell back flat on the ground, the Duke on the top of her, and the other nuns on the top of the Duke, each pushing the other on to him, so that the Duke could not raise himself from off her, especially as his arms were crushed beneath her scapular. And we, who saw him lying thus, stood away, waiting for the end of the business. At length he got one arm away from her, and with it pushed off the nuns who were lying upon him, hitting them and drawing blood from their arms, for he was a man and the nuns were like children, without strength and resistance." (This was the age of chivalry!) When he had got rid of these nuns he lifted the nun on whom he was lying, pulled his other arm free and sprang to his feet again, saying to the vassals and servants, who were standing round: "Why do you allow your liege lord thus to be trampled under foot by nuns?" One of them replied for all, "Gracious lord! we have ever stood by thee where the war engines were hurling their stones and the bows their arrows; only tell us what we are to do and we will willingly do it." Then said he, "Whichever nun I seize, do you seize her too," and they replied. "Willingly, gracious lord." Whereupon the nuns gave in and professed themselves willing to be reformed. But they were still recalcitrant at heart, and when Busch, Rutger and the Duke were going away, they all began to sing the antiphon "Media vita" at the top of their voices and pursued the hapless reformers through the church, pelting them with burning candles. One girl followed them outside to the cemetery, chanted "Sancte deus, sancte, fortis, sancte et immortalis" three times and falling on her knees, bit the ground thrice in sign of a curse, and threw stones and earth after them. In the end, however, even this stormy convent was reduced to peace and reform, after three reformed nuns from Derneburg were brought in to teach them[2146]. Busch had almost as much difficulty with the nuns of Derneburg, an Austin house near Hildesheim, in which, as he says: "the nuns had long lived an irregular life, owning private property, and, according to public rumour, incontinent," paying long visits outside their house as often as they pleased and performing only the minimum routine of monastic life. On one occasion, Busch tells us, When I was taking their private possessions away from the nuns and placing them in the common stock, it happened that I was going through their cupboards and cellars, for several of them had a small cellar encircling the monastery, which was entered by three or four steps and had covered vaults, in which they kept their beer and other private allowances. They were showing me the cellars, and going down into them before me, and the last nun said to me: "Do you go first now, father, for my cellar is the same as those of the other sisters," and without thinking I did so. But when I went down into it, she suddenly clapped to the door or vault over my head and stood upon it. I was shut up alone in there, thinking what would have happened if the nuns had shut me up there secretly; and I shouted to my brother, who was standing outside with them, bidding him cause them to open the door and let me out. At length after some delay they opened the trap-door of the cellar and let me come out. After that I was never willing to go first into any closed place in any nunnery, lest anything of the kind should happen, and lest I should be unable to get out easily. But when two or three preceded me, then I followed them. One only going in front did not suffice me, lest they should shut me up for some time alone with her and then spread tales about me. The sister who did this was good enough and very simple, whence I was astonished that she should think of such a thing. It was while he was reforming this house, too, that he was attacked by several armed laymen, who took the part of the nuns. The nuns of Derneburg were never effectually reformed, although Busch gave himself the greatest trouble over them. At the end of three years they prevailed upon their friends and relatives in the neighbourhood to get rid of Busch and his brethren, and the nuns received Henry, Abbot of Marienrode, as their spiritual father and reformer instead. But they did not gain by the change, for he, being a Cistercian, introduced a nun of his own order as their prioress, and finally the Bishop of Hildesheim, the Abbot of Marienrode and other reformers came one morning to the house and, rebuking the nuns for their imperviousness to reform, made them come away in all their old clothes, leaving their books and possessions behind them, placed them in carriages and distributed them among other houses, where many were forced to become Cistercians. The house itself was turned into a Cistercian priory. "Thus," says Busch, not without some satisfaction, "they lost the holy father St Augustine with me!"[2147] The methods employed by Busch to carry out a reform were to undertake the initial stages himself and if necessary to obtain a few nuns from a previously reformed house to live in the convent and bring it to right discipline. He always began by hearing the confessions of the nuns, which often caused considerable fluttering in the convent. At St George, near Halle, he found that the convent was subordinated to the monastery of Zinna, and received its confessor from that house, which Busch decided to alter, for the Abbot of Zinna was impeding his reforms. He therefore bade the Abbess send the sisters to confess to him, but she replied: "The sisters dare not confess to you by reason of the apostolic mandate and the abbot of Zinna and our own confessor, who comes from him." Then Busch said: "Because I have authority to do so, say to them: the confessor is sitting in the church, in front of the window, where you are wont to confess, so you may go there and confess." Then the prioress or eldest of the sisters came to the window and confessed fully to me ... and when she had finished I said, "Sister, have you more to say?" Whereat she cried in alarm, "Are you the provost of the Neuwerk?" I answered, "Even so." "Then have I confessed to the provost?" "Yea." "What now shall I do and say?" I replied, "Be silent and tell no one that I have heard your confession, so that the others may come to confess, otherwise you will be the only one to have confessed to me." She did so and receiving absolution left me, telling no one that she had confessed to me. After that each nun who came received the same advice, until all had confessed[2148]. At Derneburg the nuns were afraid to come and confess for another reason. There was current in the taverns and dining halls of the whole country side a tale of the terrible penance imposed by Busch upon a brother of his monastery of Sülte, who took a larger draught of drink from the drinking cup than Busch thought seemly, whereupon he was said to have caused the unfortunate man to lie for three hours before the dining table in the frater, with his mouth stretched open by a large horse-bone; and when one of the brothers burst out laughing at the sight, Busch was said to have thrown the drinking cup in his face. The weeping nuns informed him between their sobs: "We are virgins and maids, we cannot do such a great penance for such a little fault." Busch was obliged to assure them that the whole tale was a fabrication[2149]. At Escherde he had the same difficulty. The frightened nuns were afraid to confess to me, because they had heard that I was wont to inflict very severe penances, which was not true, as I afterwards told them. Then their _praepositus_ said to them: "The bishop's mandate orders you to confess to him under pain of excommunication and if you refuse then you will be under an interdict. My good ladies, I counsel you to confess to him. I will place beside him my servant with a drawn sword and if he says one bad or harsh word to you it shall cleave his head." When they saw and heard that they could not escape they consented to confess to me, but they sent before them first one bold nun in order to beard me. Seated in the confessional, she began, "Sir, what do you here?" I answered, "I lead you all to the kingdom of heaven."... Half the nuns confessed to me that day. To the third of them I said, "Sister, am I as harsh as you said I was?" and she replied, "You are a man of gold, gentle and kind beyond all things." In the evening, when we were supping I said to the _praepositus_: "What are your nuns saying about me? Am I as severe as they thought?" He replied, "When it was their turn to go to confession, the hair of their heads stood on end, but when they came away from you, they returned in great consolation." The next day I finished the others before dinner, and towards the end I asked one of them. "Am I as hard and severe as you heard?" and she replied, "Now you are honey-tongued. But when you have got our consent and have tied a rope to our horns to drag us along, then you will say to us: You must and shall do all that I desire." I answered her, "Beloved sister, fear not, for I shall always remain kind and benign towards you"[2150]. Besides confessing the nuns Busch and his fellow visitors went through the conventual routine with them, showing them how they ought to perform divine service, to behave in the frater and to hold chapters. The most efficacious means of reform employed, however, was to send for some reformed nuns from another convent, to dwell in the newly reformed house. Nuns of the order of Mary Magdalen in Hildesheim went to Heiningen, Stederburg, Frankenburg, and the White Ladies of Magdeburg. Fischbeck was reformed by nuns of the Windesheim order. Marienberg was reformed by nuns of Bronopia and in its turn sent reformers to Marienborn and Stendal, where nuns of Dorstadt had already made reforms, from which the original members soon fell away. Two nuns and a _conversa_ were sent from Heiningen to the Holy Cross at Erfurt and the Abbess and four nuns of Derneburg went to Weinhausen[2151]. The newcomers were usually gladly lent and graciously received in their new homes; sometimes they remained and held office in the latter and sometimes they returned to their own houses, when the reform was firmly rooted. The tale of the reform of Marienberg is charming[2152]. Busch, with the consent of the chapter-general of the congregation of Windesheim, took from Bronopia two nuns, Ida and Tecla and a lay sister Aleidis, who for his sake and for the sake of the good work left their own country and their noble friends and relatives, and made a long and sometimes dangerous journey with Busch across Westphalia and Saxony to Helmstedt. Here they were joyfully received. Ida was made subprioress to introduce reforms and to order all the internal discipline of the house; Tecla, who was a learned lady, was made governess of the novices, teaching them to sing and to read Latin and "to write letters and missives in a masterly manner, in good Latin, as I have seen and examined with my eyes." Aleidis was made mistress of the _conversi_. For three years these nuns dwelt at Helmstedt, beloved of all and bringing the place to excellent order. Then Tecla fell ill. The Prioress sent for Busch: and I came and found her sitting in the infirmary and ordered her to be bled and to receive suitable medicine. And when I had remained there for two or three days I decided to go away without taking them and I bade them farewell at eventide; for Busch had decided that it was time for the sisters to return to Bronopia: After this the proctress of the house came to me, saying: "Beloved father! Sister Tecla is asking for you with tears, for she says she will never see you again. I beseech you that you will go and speak to her once again tomorrow, before you leave." I answered, "Willingly, for she is my dear sister and for God's sake and mine she left all her rich friends and her own country and followed me to this strange and distant land." The next day, therefore, I visited her in her bed, in the presence of Ida and Aleidis. Then she was better and was well content that I should go away and soon she recovered altogether from that illness. Shortly afterwards Busch took the three nuns with him and they set off to drive back to Bronopia, staying at various monastic houses on the way; and the nuns of Helmstedt all the time sent messengers after them, with letters assuring the three sisters of their love and sorrow. The journey was at length completed without any accident, except that fat sister Ida tumbled into a cellar at Wittenberg and hurt her leg, so that Busch had to carry her into the carriage. To his account of this episode Busch subjoins four letters, one from himself, one from the prioress and stewardess of Helmstedt to the three sisters, one from the young scholars of the house to their mistress Tecla, and the reply of the three sisters to the convent and of Tecla to her scholars[2153]. In the Prioress' letter there is a vivid description of the sorrow of the nuns at the departure of their three visitors: Our sister Geseke Zeelde wept most tearfully and could not go into the workroom, so grieved she after sister Aleydis. Sister Mettike Guestyn was so miserable that she could not eat or drink. When I went into the kitchen sister Tryneke wept so much that all who were with her in the kitchen wept too and said: "_O wi_, now has our leader gone away!" When sister Elyzabeth Cyriaci began the office of the mass, she sang it so dolefully through her tears, that she could hardly sing. When she had to begin the 'Benedictus' after the 'Sanctus' she burst out crying, so that she could not sing at all, but sister Elyzabeth Broysen had to go on with it and she could hardly finish it. Geseke Obrecht and Heylewich the chantress are very sorrowful, because they did not say goodbye to you, for they did not know you were going so early. They now send you as many good wishes as there are sands in the sea. When the scholars come to school on Sunday, we cannot describe to you how many tears are shed there. The stewardess and I have to console the other sisters, but we are the rather in need of someone to console us. When we look on your places in choir and frater and dorter, then we grow sad and weep, saying, "O God, if only Bronopia were where Heiningen is, five miles away from us, then we might often visit each other, which now we cannot do, for we are forty miles away. We are as it were dead to each other at the two ends of the earth." We have many other things to write to you, but because it is the middle of the night, we must separate and go to matins. Dearest sisters, we give you deepest thanks for all the good you have done for us, in spiritual and in temporal matters. God speed you a thousand times, in Jesus' name.... As many as there are pearls, as many as there are planets in the heaven, as many as there are ends to the earth, so many godspeeds send we to you[2154]. The letter of the little novices to sister Tecla deserves quotation, to show their progress under her tuition: Ihesum pium consolatorem merentium pro salute! Notum facimus charitati vestre, charissima soror Tecla magistra nostra, quod nos omnes scholares vestre in magna sumus tristitia et dolore de vestro a nobis recessu. Non enim possumus oblivisci presentiam vestram, sed cotidie querimus vos, et dum non invenimus, tunc contristamur et dolemus. Vix potestis credere, quanta tristitia et quantus dolor est in claustro nostro de vestra absentia tam de senioribus quam de iunioribus. Quapropter petimus cordintime, sicut amplius non sumus nos invicem visure in hac mortali vita, ut oretis pro nobis deum, ut taliter vivamus in hoc seculo, ut nos invicem videre valeamus in conspectu sancte Trinitatis. Valete, soror dilectissima, cum charissimis sororibus vestris Ida et Aleide in domino semper! Et deus omnipotens omnem tribulationem et angustiam a vobis removeat et vestram sanctitatem conservet tempora per eterna, Amen[2155]. It is a pretty picture of affection and concord, which is given by these letters, and may well be set against the pictures of conventual bickering, which are too often to be found in visitation reports. Busch's reforms seem to have been very successful. He often mentions that such and such a house remained in a good state of reform for such and such a number of years, or up to the day on which he wrote. Sometimes he describes reforming prioresses or other nuns, who did good work in their houses[2156]; sometimes also he mentions the assistance given by a wise confessor or custos. His only real failure seems to have been Derneburg; this house withstood both his efforts (for three years he had acted as confessor, walking two miles before breakfast to confess the nuns before communion) and those of the Cistercian abbot of Marienrode, who had been their benefactor for over 300 florins; and Busch quotes rather bitterly the proverb current in Germany: Gratia nulla perit, nisi gratia sola sororum. Sic fuit, est et erit: 'ondanc' in fine laborum[2157]. But he seldom got _ondanc_ at the end of his work; and when his life drew to a close he could look back on hundreds of monks and nuns not only reformed by him, but also cherishing for him the greatest gratitude and affection. His was a large and humane spirit, and for all his zeal for reform and his reputation for sternness, it is plain that he had that greatest of gifts, the capacity to win the hearts of men. APPENDIX IV LIST OF ENGLISH NUNNERIES. c. 1275-1535 [In this list Ab. = Abbey, Pr. = Priory; A. = Austin, B. = Benedictine, C. = Cistercian, Cl. = Cluniac, Dom. = Dominican, Fr. = Franciscan, Brig. = Brigittine. P. = Premonstratensian. Gilbertine houses are not included.] House Dedication Order County Diocese Founder and date 1. ACONBURY Holy Cross A.Pr. Her. Her. Margery, wife of Walter de Lacy, temp. John 2. AMESBURY St Mary and B.Pr. Wilts. Salis. Saxon Abbey: St Meilor refounded as a priory for nuns of Fontevrault by King John, 1199 3. ANKERWYKE St Mary B.Pr. Bucks. Linc. Gilbert de Magd. Muntfichet, c. 1160 4. ARDEN St Andrew B.Pr. York., York Peter de Hoton, N.R. temp. Henry II 5. ARMATHWAITE St Mary B.Pr. Cumb. Carl. Unknown, before 1200 6. ARTHINGTON St Mary Cl.Pr. York., York Peter, son of W.R. Serlo de Arthington, middle of twelfth century 7. BARKING St Mary and B.Ab. Essex Lon. St Earconwald, St Ethelburga Bishop of London, 675-93, probably in 666 8. BARROW GURNEY St Mary and B.Pr. Som. B. and Unknown: (MINCHIN St Edward W. probably a BARROW) Gurney, before 1212 9. BASEDALE St Mary C.Pr. York., York Guy de N.R. Bovincurt, c. 1190 (see _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, 158) 10. BLACKBOROUGH St Mary and B.Pr. Norf. Norw. Roger de Scales St Katherine and Muriel his wife, c. 1150 11. BLITHBURY St Giles B.Pr. Staffs. C.L. Hugh Malveysin, after 1129 12. BREWOOD St Mary B.Pr. Staffs. C.L. Unknown, twelfth (Black century Ladies) 13. BREWOOD St Leonard C.Pr. Salop C.L. Unknown, twelfth (White century Ladies) 14. BRISTOL St Mary A.Pr. Glouces. Worc. Eva, widow of Magd. Robert Fitzhardinge, c. 1173 15. BRODHOLME St Mary P.Pr. Notts. York Agnes de Camville, wife of Peter de Gousla, temp. Stephen 16. BROMHALE St Margaret B.Pr. Berks. Salis. Unknown, before 1200 17. BRUISYARD Ann. of St Fr.Ab. Suff. Norw. Edward III, Mary 1366, at instigation of Lionel, Duke of Clarence 18. BUCKLAND St John A.Pr. Som. B. and Henry II, c. (Minchin) Bapt. (nuns W. 1186 (instead of St of House of John of Austin canons Jerusalem) founded 1166 by William de Erlegh) 19. BUNGAY St Mary and B.Pr. Suff. Norw. Roger de Holy Cross Glanville and Gundred his wife, c. 1160 20. BURNHAM St Mary A.Ab. Bucks. Linc. Richard, King of the Romans, 1266 21. CAMBRIDGE St Radegund B.Pr. Cambs. Ely c. 1133-8, temp. Nigel, Bishop of Ely 22. CAMPSEY St Mary A.Pr. Suff. Norw. Theobald de Valognes, c. 1195 23. CANNINGTON St Mary B.Pr. Som. B. and Robert de W. Courcy, c. 1138 24. CANONSLEIGH St Mary, St A.Ab. Devon Ex. Maud de Clare, John Countess of Evangelist Gloucester and and St Hertford, temp. Audrey Edward I (previously a house of canons) 25. CANTERBURY St Sepulchre B.Pr. Kent Cant. St Anselm, 1100 26. CARROW St Mary and B.Pr. Norf. Norw. King Stephen, St John 1146 27. CATESBY St Mary, St C.Pr. Northants. Linc. Robert de Edmund and Esseby, c. 1175 St Thomas the Martyr 28. CHATTERIS St Mary B.Ab. Cambs. Ely Eadnoth, Abbot of Ramsey, c. 1010 29. CHESHUNT St Mary B.Pr. Herts. Lon. Unknown, twelfth century 30. CHESTER St Mary B.Pr. Chester C.L. Ranulf, Earl of Chester, c. 1140 31. CLEMENTHORPE St Clement B.Pr. York., York. Thurstan, W.R. Archbishop of York, c. 1130 32. CLERKENWELL Assumption B.Pr. Midd. Lon. Jordan Brisett, of St Mary c. 1100 33. COKEHILL -- C.Pr. Worc. Worc. Isabel, Countess of Warwick, end of twelfth century 34. CORNWORTHY St Mary A.Pr. Devon Ex. Uncertain, fourteenth century 35. CRABHOUSE St Mary A.Pr. Norf. Norw. Roger, prior, Magd. St and canons of John Evang. Rainham, c. St Thomas 1181 and St Peter 36. DARTFORD St Mary and A.Pr. Kent Roch. Edward III, St Margaret (ac- 1355 cording to rule and in charge of Dom. friars) 37. DAVINGTON St Mary B.Pr. Kent Cant. Fulk de Magd. Newenham, 1153 38. DELAPR� St Mary Cl.Ab. Northants. Linc. Simon of (de Pratis) Saint-Liz, Earl of Northampton, temp. Stephen (first at Fotheringay) 39. DELAPR� St Mary B.Pr. Herts. Linc. Under abbey of (de Prato) St Albans 40. DENNY St James Fr.Ab. Cambs. Ely Mary de Valence, and St Countess of Leonard Pembroke, 1342 41. DERBY St Mary B.Pr. Derby C.L. Aubin, Abbot of (Kingsmead Darley, c. 1160 or de Pratis) 42. EASEBOURNE Nativity of B.Pr. Suss. Chich. ... de Bohun, B.V.M. before 1248 43. ELLERTON St Mary C.Pr. York., York Uncertain, (in N.R. before 1227 Swaledale) 44. ELSTOW St Mary and B.Ab. Beds. Linc. Judith, Countess St Helen of Huntingdon, late eleventh century 45. ESHOLT St Mary, St C.Pr. York., York Uncertain, Leonard and W.R. twelfth century St James 46. FAIRWELL St Mary B.Pr. Staffs. C.L. Roger, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, c. 1140 47. FLAMSTEAD St Giles B.Pr. Herts. Linc. Roger de Tony, temp. Stephen 48. FLIXTON St Mary and A.Pr. Suff. Norw. Margery, widow St Katherine of Geoffrey de Hanes and daughter of Bartholomew de Crek, 1258 49. FOSSE St Nicholas C.Pr. Linc. Linc. The men of Torksey, before the reign of John 50. GODSTOW St Mary and B.Ab. Oxon Linc. Edith, widow of St John Sir William Baptist Launcelene, c. 1133 51. GOKEWELL St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. William Dawtrey, before 1148 or 1185 52. GORING St Mary A.Pr. Oxon Linc. Thomas de Druval, temp. Henry I 53. GRACEDIEU Holy Trinity A.Pr. Leices. Linc. Rohese de and St Mary Verdon, c. 1239 54. GREENFIELD St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. Eudes of Grainsby and Ralph his son, before 1153 55. GRIMSBY St Leonard A.Pr. Linc. Linc. Before 1184 56. HALIWELL St John B.Pr. Midd. Lon. Roger son of (Shoreditch) Baptist Gelren, before 1127 57. HAMPOLE St Mary C.Pr. York., York William de W.R. Clarefai and Avice de Tany his wife, c. 1170 58. HANDALE St Mary C.Pr. York., York William Percy (or N.R. of Dunsley, Grendale) 1133 59. HARROLD St Peter A.Pr. Beds. Linc. Sampson le Fort, before 1148 (as Arroasian house). Nunnery, 1181 60. HEDINGHAM, Holy Cross, B.Pr. Ess. Lon. Aubrey de Vere, CASTLE St Mary and Earl of Oxford, St James and Lucy his wife, before 1191 61. HENWOOD St Margaret B.Pr. Warw. Worc. Ketelbern de Langdon, between 1149 and 1161 62. HEYNINGS St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. Reyner d'Evermue, temp. Stephen 63. HINCHINBROOKE St James B.Pr. Hunts. Linc. Removed from Eltisley, Cambs., temp. William I 64. HOLYSTONE -- B.Pr. Northumb. Dur. ... Umfraville of Harbottle, before 1235 65. ICKLETON St Mary B.Pr. Cambs. Ely Uncertain, c. Magd. 1190 66. ILCHESTER Holy Trinity A.Pr. Som. B. and William Dennis, (White Hall) W. c. 1220 (as a hospital). A nunnery before 1281 67. IRFORD St Mary P.Pr. Linc. Linc. Probably Ralph d'Albini, temp. Henry II 68. IVINGHOE St Margaret B.Pr. Bucks. Linc. [William Giffard?], Bishop of Winchester, twelfth century 69. KELDHOLME St Mary C.Pr. York., York Robert de N.R. Stuteville, temp. Henry I 70. KILBURN St Mary and B.Pr. Midd. Lon. Herbert, Abbot St John of Westminster, Baptist 1139 71. KINGTON St Mary B.Pr. Wilts. Salis. Before 1155 ST MICHAEL 72. KIRKLEES St Mary and C.Pr. York., York Reiner le St James W.R. Fleming, temp. Henry II 73. LACOCK St Mary and A.Ab. Wilts. Salis. Ela, Countess St Bernard of Salisbury, 1232 74. LAMBLEY St Patrick B.Pr. Northumb. Durh. Adam de Tynedale, temp. John 75. LANGLEY St Mary B.Pr. Leic. Linc. William Pantulf and Burga his wife, temp. Henry II 76. LEGBOURNE St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. Robert, son of Gilbert of Tathwell, after 1150 (removed from earlier site) 77. LILLECHURCH St Mary B.Pr. Kent Roch. King Stephen, (Higham) before 1151 78. LITTLEMORE St Mary, St B.Pr. Oxon Linc. Robert de Nicholas Sandford, temp. and St Stephen Edmund 79. LONDON St Helen B.Pr. Midd. Lon. William, son of (Bishopsgate) and Holy William, the Cross goldsmith, before 1216 80. LONDON St Mary and Fr.Ab. Midd. Lon. Edmund, Earl of St Francis Lancaster, 1293 81. LYMBROOK St Mary A.Pr. Her. Her. Uncertain 82. LYMINSTER St Mary B.Pr. Suss. Chich. Roger de Montgomery, c. 1082 (as cell of Almenèches) 83. MALLING St Mary and B.Ab. Kent Roch. Gundulf, Bishop St Andrew of Rochester, 1090 84. MARHAM St Mary, St C.Ab. Norf. Norw. Isabel, widow Barbara and of Hugh de St Edmund Albini, Earl of Arundel, 1249 85. MARKYATE Holy Trinity B.Pr. Beds. Linc. 1145, under influence of Geoffrey, Abbot of St Albans 86. MARLOW, St Mary B.Pr. Bucks. Linc. Uncertain, LITTLE twelfth century 87. MARRICK St Andrew B.Pr. York., York Roger de Aske, and St Mary N.R. temp. Henry II 88. MOXBY St John A.Pr. York., York Henry II, Evangelist N.R. before 1167 (removed from double house at Marton) 89. NEASHAM St Mary B.Pr. Durh. Durh. Probably the Lord of Greystoke, before 1157 90. NEWCASTLE- St B.Pr. Northumb. Durh. Uncertain, UPON-TYNE Bartholomew twelfth century 91. NUNAPPLETON St Mary and C.Pr. York., York Eustace de St John W.R. Merch and Alice Evangelist St Quintin his wife, c. 1150 92. NUNBURNHOLME -- B.Pr. York., York Ancestors of E.R. Roger de Merlay, Lord of Morpeth, twelfth century 93. NUNCOTON St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. Alan de Mounceaux, before 1129 94. NUNEATON St Mary B.Pr. Warw. Worc. Robert, Earl of Leicester, c. 1155, for nuns of Fontevrault 95. NUNKEELING St Mary and B.Pr. York., York Agnes de St Helen E.R. Arches, widow of Herbert St Quintin, 1152 96. NUNMONKTON St Mary B.Pr. York., York William de W.R. Arches and Ivetta his wife, temp. Stephen 97. PINLEY St Mary C.Pr. Warw. Worc. Robert de Pillarton, temp. Henry I 98. POLESWORTH St Edith B.Ab. Warw. C.L. Saxon foundation. Refounded by Robert Marmion, temp. Stephen 99. POLSLOE St Katherine B.Pr. Devon Ex. Traditional founder, William Bruere, before 1169 100. REDLINGFIELD St Andrew B.Pr. Suff. Norw. Manasses, Count and St Mary of Guisnes, and Emma de Arras his wife, 1120 101. ROMSEY St Mary and B.Ab. Hants. Win. Edward the St Elfrida Elder, c. 907: refounded by King Edgar, 967 102. ROSEDALE St Mary and C.Pr. York., York Robert, son of St Lawrence N.R. Nicholas de Stuteville, temp. Richard I 103. ROTHWELL St John A.Pr. Northants. Linc. ... de Clare, Baptist thirteenth century 104. ROWNEY St John B.Pr. Herts. Linc. Conan, Duke of Baptist Britanny and Earl of Richmond, temp. Henry II, suppressed 1459 105. RUSPER St Mary B.Pr. Suss. Chich. Twelfth century, Magd. probably by one of the Braose family 106. ST STEPHEN'S St Stephen B.Pr. York, York Uncertain. (Foukeholme) N.R. Disappeared after 1349 107. SETON St Mary B.Pr. Cumb. York Henry son of (Lekeley) Arthur son of Godard, Lord of Millom, twelfth century 108. SEWARDSLEY St Mary C.Pr. Northants. Linc. Richard de Magd. Lestre, temp. Henry II 109. SHAFTESBURY St Mary and B.Ab. Dorset Salis. King Alfred, St Edward c. 888 110. SHEPPEY St Mary and B.Pr. Kent Cant. St Sexburga, (Minster) St Sexburga 675 111. SINNING- St Mary C.Pr. York, York Bertram Haget, THWAITE W.R. c. 1160 112. SOPWELL St Mary B.Pr. Herts. Linc. Under abbey of St Albans 113. STAINFIELD St Mary B.Pr. Linc. Linc. William or Henry de Percy, temp. or before Henry II 114. STAMFORD St Mary and B.Pr. Northants. Linc. William St Michael Waterville, Abbot of Peterborough, c. 1155 115. STIXWOULD St Mary C.Pr. Linc. Linc. Lucy, Countess of Perche, temp. Stephen 116. STRATFORD- St Leonard B.Pr. Midd. Lon. William, Bishop BY-BOW of London, temp. Henry I 117. STUDLEY St Mary B.Pr. Oxon Linc. Probably Bernard of St Valery, before 1176 118. SWAFFHAM -- B.Pr. Cambs. Ely Uncertain, BULBECK before temp. John 119. SWINE St Mary C.Pr. York., York Robert de E.R. Verli, temp. Stephen 120. SYON St Saviour, Brig. Midd. Lon. King Henry V, St Mary and Ab. 1414 St Bridget 121. TARRANT St Mary and C.Ab. Dorset Salis. Ralph de KEYNES All Saints Keynes, before 1235 122. THETFORD St George B.Pr. Norf. Norw. Hugh, Abbot of and St Bury St Gregory Edmunds, c. 1160 (removed from Ling) 123. THICKET St Mary B.Pr. York., York Roger FitzRoger, E.R. temp. Richard I 124. USK -- B.Pr. Monm. Llan. Sir Richard de Clare, before 1236 125. WALLINGWELLS St Mary B.Pr. Notts. York Ralph de Chevrecourt, temp. Stephen 126. WATERBEACH St Mary of Fr.Pr. Cambs. Ely Denise de Pity and Mountchesney, St Clare 1294. Removed to Denny, 1348 127. WESTWOOD St Mary B.Pr. Worc. Worc. Osbert son of Hugh and Eustacia de Saye, his mother, temp. Henry II (for nuns of Fontevrault) 128. WHERWELL Holy Cross B.Ab. Hants. Win. Queen Elfrida, and St Peter c. 986 129. WHISTON St Mary C.Pr. Worc. Worc. Walter de Magd. Cantilupe, Bishop of Worcester, before 1255 130. WILBERFOSS St Mary B.Pr. York., York Uncertain, E.R. temp. Stephen 131. WILTON St Mary, St B.Ab. Wilts. Salis. St Alburga, c. Barthlomew 800: refounded and St Edith by King Alfred, c. 871 132. WINCHESTER St Mary and B.Ab. Hants. Win. King Alfred and St Edburga Queen Ealhswith, c. 900. Refounded by St Ethelwold, 963 133. WINTNEY St Mary, St C.Pr. Hants. Win. Richard Holte Mary Magd. and Christine and St John his wife, Baptist daughter of Thomas Cobreth, twelfth century 134. WIX St Mary B.Pr. Ess. Lon. Walter Mascherell, Alexander and Edith, children of Walter the Deacon, temp. Henry I 135. WOTHORPE St Mary B.Pr. Northants. Linc. Uncertain: united to St Michael's, Stamford, 1354 136. WROXALL St Leonard B.Pr. Warw. Worc. Hugh, Lord of Hatton and Wroxall, temp. Henry I 137. WYKEHAM St Mary and C.Pr. York., York Pain FitzOsbert, St Michael N.R. c. 1153 138. YEDINGHAM St Mary B.Pr. York., York Helewise de E.R. Clere, before 1163 BIBLIOGRAPHY A. MANUSCRIPT SOURCES I. EPISCOPAL REGISTERS (_a_) _Lincoln Episcopal Registers_ Register of Memoranda, Sutton (1280-99). Register of Memoranda, Dalderby (1300-20). Register of Memoranda, Gynewell (1347-62). Register of Memoranda, Bokyngham (1363-98). Register of Visitations, Alnwick[2158] (1436-49). Register of Visitations, Atwater (1514-21). Register of Visitations, Longland (1521-47). (_b_) _Lambeth Palace Registers_ Register of Langham (1366-8). Register of Courtenay (1381-96). (_c_) _New College Oxford_ Register of William of Wykeham Bishop of Winchester, for 1386-7, ff. 84_d_-89_d_ (Injunctions to Romsey and Wherwell)[2159]. II. DOCUMENTS IN THE PUBLIC RECORD OFFICE (_a_) _Account Rolls_ Ministers Accounts, 867/21-6, 30, 33-6. (Delapré, St Albans. Between 16 Edw. III and 2 Ric. III.) _Ib._ 1257/1 (Catesby, 11-14 Hen. VI). _Ib._ 1257/2 (Denny, 14 Hen. IV-1 Hen. V). _Ib._ 1257/10 (Gracedieu, 1-5 Hen. V). _Ib._ 1260 (St Michael's, Stamford, 24 rolls between 32 Edw. I and 20 Hen. VI). _Ib._ 1261/4 (Syon, Cellaress' Account, 21-2 Edw. IV). _Ib._ 1307/22 (Syon, Cellaress' Account, 36 Hen. VI). (_b_) _Petitions_ Early Chancery Proceedings, 181/4 (Petition from Elizabeth Webley, late Prioress of Sopwell, concerning her deposition and imprisonment by John Rothbury, Archdeacon of St Albans Abbey). _Ib._ 4/196 (Petition from Richard English and Margery his wife concerning a corrody withheld from them by the Abbess of Malling). _Ib._ 7/70 (Petition from Richard Haldenby and Agnes his wife concerning the daughters of Agnes by a former marriage, one of whom has been made to take the veil by an uncle, for the sake of her inheritance). _Ib._ 44/227 (Petition from Thomasyn Dynham, Prioress of Cornworthy, concerning two children at school in her house, whose fees have not been paid for five years). Ancient Petitions 302/15063 (Petition from the Prioress and nuns of Rowney for leave to have a proctor to beg alms for them, as their buildings are ruinous). Ancient Correspondence, 36/201 (Petition to Queen Isabel from the Prioress and Convent of Clerkenwell, asking her to obtain the King's leave for them to receive certain lands, by reason of their poverty). Chancery Warrants, Series 1/1759, 1762, 1764, 1769 (Petitions for the arrest of apostate nuns, nine in all). B. PRINTED SOURCES I. ARCHIEPISCOPAL AND EPISCOPAL REGISTERS (_a_) _Bath and Wells_ Registers of Walter Giffard (1265-6) and of Henry Bowet (1401-7), ed. T. S. Holmes. (Somerset Record Soc. 1899.) Register of John of Drokensford (1309-29), ed. E. Hobhouse. (Somerset Record Soc. 1887.) Register of Ralph of Shrewsbury (1329-63), ed. T. S. Holmes. (Somerset Record Soc. 1896.) 2 vols. (_b_) _Canterbury_ Registrum Epistolarum Fratris Johannis Peckham Archiepiscopi Cantuariensis (1279-92), ed. C. Trice Martin. (Rolls Series, 1882-5.) 3 vols. Visitations of Archbishop Warham in 1511, ed. Mary Bateson. (English Historical Review, VI, 1891, pp. 28 ff.) (Full abstracts.) See also The British Magazine, vols. XXIX-XXXII, _passim_ (abstracts). (_c_) _Chichester_ Episcopal Register of Robert Rede, Bishop of Chichester (1397-1415), ed. Cecil Deedes. (Sussex Rec. Soc. 1908.) Blaauw, W. Episcopal Visitations of the Priory of Easebourne (1442-1527). (Sussex Archaeol. Collections, IX, 1857, pp. 1-32.) Way, A. Notices of the Benedictine Priory of St Mary Magdalen at Rusper (1442-1527). (Sussex Archaeol. Collections, V, 1852, pp. 244-62.) (_d_) _Durham, York, Carlisle_ Historical Papers and Letters from the Northern Registers, ed. James Raine. (Rolls Series, 1873.) (_e_) _Durham_ Registrum Palatinum Dunelmense. Register of Richard de Kellawe, Lord Palatine and Bishop of Durham, 1311-16, ed. Sir T. Duffus Hardy. (Rolls Series, 1873-8.) 4 vols. (_f_) _Exeter_ Register of Walter de Stapeldon, Bishop of Exeter, 1308-26, ed. F. C. Hingeston-Randolph (1892). Register of John de Grandisson, Bishop of Exeter, 1327-69, ed. F. C. Hingeston-Randolph (1894-9). Register of Thomas de Brantyngham, Bishop of Exeter, Part I; 1370-94, ed. F. C. Hingeston-Randolph (1901). Register of Edmund Stafford, Bishop of Exeter, 1395-1419, ed. F. C. Hingeston-Randolph (1886). (_g_) _Hereford_ Registrum Thome de Cantilupo, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1275-82, transcribed by R. C. Griffiths, with an introduction by W. W. Capes. (Canterbury and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc. 1907.) Registrum Ricardi de Swinfield, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1283-1317, ed. W. W. Capes. (Canterbury and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc. 1909.) Registrum Adae de Orleton, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1317-27, ed. A. T. Bannister. (Canterbury and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc. 1908.) Registrum Roberti Mascall, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1404-16, transcribed by J. H. Parry with introductory note by Charles Johnson. (Canterbury and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc. 1917.) Registrum Thome Spofford, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1422-48, ed. A. T. Bannister. (Canterbury and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc. 1919.) Registrum Thome Myllyng, Episcopi Herefordensis, 1472-92, ed. A. T. Bannister (1920). (_h_) _Coventry and Lichfield_ Register of Roger de Norbury, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, 1322-59, ed. Edmund Hobhouse. (William Salt Archaeol. Soc. Collections, I, 1881.) (Table of contents only.) The Second Register of Bishop Robert de Stretton, 1360-85, abstracted into English by R. A. Wilson. (William Salt Archaeol. Soc. Coll., New Series, vol. VIII, 1905.) (Brief calendar.) (_i_) _Lincoln_ Visitations of Religious Houses in the Diocese of Lincoln, ed. A. Hamilton Thompson. Vol. I. Injunctions and other Documents from the Registers of Richard Flemyng and William Gray, 1420-36. (Lincoln Record Soc. and Canterbury and York Soc. 1915.) Visitations of Religious Houses in the Diocese of Lincoln, ed. A. Hamilton Thompson. Vol. II. Alnwick's Visitations (1436-49). (Lincoln Record Soc. and Canterbury and York Soc.) Injunctions of John Longland, Bishop of Lincoln, to certain Monasteries in his Diocese, 1531, ed. E. Peacock. (Archaeologia, XLVII, pp. 49-64, 1883.) (_j_) _London_ Registrum Radulphi Baldock, Gilberti Segrave, Ricardi Newport et Stephani Gravesend, Episcoporum Londoniensium, 1306-38, ed. R. C. Fowler. (Canterbury and York Soc. 1911.) (_k_) _Norwich_ Visitations of the Diocese of Norwich, 1492-1532, ed. A. Jessopp. (Camden Soc. 1888.) (_l_) _Rochester_ Registrum Hamonis Hethe Episcopi Roffensis (1319-52). (Canterbury and York Soc. 1914 ff., in course of publication.) (_m_) _Salisbury_ Registrum Simonis de Gandavo Episcopi Saresbiriensis (1297-1315), ed. C. T. Flower. (Canterbury and York Soc. 1914, in course of publication.) (_n_) _Winchester_ Registrum Johannis de Pontissara (1282-1304), ed. C. Deedes. (Canterbury and York Soc. 1913-15.) Registers of John de Sandale and Rigaud de Asserio, Bishops of Winchester, 1316-23, ed. F. J. Baigent. (Hants. Rec. Soc. 1897.) Wykeham's Register, 1367-1404, ed. T. F. Kirby. (Hants Rec. Soc. 1896-9.) 2 vols. (_o_) _Worcester_ Register of Godfrey Giffard, 1268-1302, ed. J. W. Willis-Bund. (Worcester Hist. Soc. 1898-1902.) 2 vols. Register of the Diocese of Worcester during the vacancy of the see, usually called Registrum Sede Vacante, 1301-1435, ed. J. W. Willis-Bund. (Worcester Hist. Soc. 1893-7.) (_p_) _York_ Register of Walter Gray, Archbishop of York, 1216-55, ed. J. Raine. (Surtees Soc. 1872.) Register of Walter Giffard, Archbishop of York, 1266-79, ed. W. Brown. (Surtees Soc. 1904.) Register of William Wickwane, Archbishop of York, 1279-85, ed. W. Brown. (Surtees Soc. 1907.) Register of John le Romeyn, Archbishop of York, 1286-96, ed. W. Brown. Vol. I. (Surtees Soc. 1913.) Registers of John le Romeyn Archbishop of York, 1286-96, Part II, and of Henry of Newark, Archbishop of York, 1298-99, ed. W. Brown. Vol. II. (Surtees Soc. 1917.) Visitations in the Diocese of York, holden by Archbishop Edward Lee (1531-44), ed. W. Brown. (Yorks. Archaeol. Journal, XVI, 1901, pp. 319-68.) (_q_) _Foreign Visitations_ Des Augustinerpropstes Iohannes Busch Chronicon Windeshemense und Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum, bearbeitet von Dr Karl Grube. (Halle, 1886.) Regestrum Visitationum Archiepiscopi Rothomagensis, Journal des Visites Pastorales d'Eude Rigaud Archevêque de Rouen, 1248-69, pub. par Th. Bonnin. (Rouen, 1852.) II. ACCOUNT ROLLS (_a_) _Catesby_ (_2-3 Hen. V_) Baker, History of Northampton (1822-30), vol. I, p. 278. (_b_) _Romsey_ (1412-13, _summary_) Liveing, H. G. D., Records of Romsey Abbey (1906), p. 194. (_c_) _St Helen's, Bishopsgate_ (_sixteenth century, extracts_) Victoria County History: London, I, p. 460. (_d_) _St Radegund's, Cambridge_ (1449-51, 1481-2) Gray, A., The Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge (1898), pp. 145-179. (_e_) _St Mary de Pré, St Albans_ (1487-9) Dugdale, Monasticon, III, p. 358. (_f_) _Swaffham Bulbeck_ (1483-4) Dugdale, Monasticon, IV, p. 458. (_g_) _Syon_ (_Cellaress' and Chambress' Accounts_, 1536-7) Myroure of Oure Ladye, ed. J. H. Blunt. (E.E.T.S. 1873.) Introduction, pp. xxvi-xxxi. (_h_) _Miscellaneous_ (_Extracts_) C. T. Flower, Obedientiars' Accounts of Glastonbury and other Religious Houses. Trans. St Paul's Ecclesiological Soc. vol. VII, Pt. II (1912), pp. 50-62. III. INVENTORIES (_a_) _Brewood_ (1536) Dugdale, Monasticon, IV, p. 500. (_b_) _Cheshunt_ (1536) Cussans, History of Hertfordshire, Hertford Hundred, App. II, pp. 267-71. (_c_) _Easebourne_ (1450) Sussex Archaeol. Coll. IX, pp. 10-13. (_d_) _Gracedieu_ (1536) Nichols, History and Antiquities of the County of Leicester (1804), III, pp. 653-4. (_e_) _Hedingham, Castle_ (1536) Trans. Essex Archaeological Soc. IX, pp. 289-92. (_f_) _Kilburn_ (1536) Dugdale, Monasticon, IV, p. 424. (_g_) _Langley_ (1485) Walcott, Mackenzie E. C., Inventory of St Mary's Benedictine Nunnery at Langley, Co. Leicester, 1485. (Leicestershire Architec. Soc. 1872.) (_h_) _Lillechurch_ (1525) R. F. Scott, Notes from the Records of St John's College, Cambridge, 3rd series (privately printed, 1906-13), pp. 403-8. (_i_) _Sheppey_ (1536) Walcott, Mackenzie E. C., Inventories of St Mary's Hospital, Dover, St Martin New-Work, Dover, and the Benedictine Priory of SS. Mary and Sexburga in the Island of Shepey for Nuns. (Reprinted from Archaeologia Cantiana, 1868, pp. 18-35.) (_j_) _Wherwell_ (_Sacristy_, c. 1340) Victoria County History, Hants. II, pp. 134-5. (_k_) _Wintney_ (_Frater_, 1420) Victoria County History, Hants. II, pp. 150-1. (_l_) _Miscellaneous Fragments_ Fowler, R. C., Inventories of Essex Monasteries in 1536. (Trans. Essex Archaeol. Soc. vol. IX, Pt. IV.) Walcott, Mackenzie E. C., Inventories and Valuations of Religious Houses at the Time of the Dissolution. (Archaeologia, XLIII, 1871.) IV. CARTULARIES (_a_) _Buckland_ A Cartulary of Buckland Priory in the County of Somerset, ed. F. W. Weaver. (Somerset Rec. Soc. 1909.) (_b_) _Crabhouse_ The Register of Crabhouse Nunnery, ed. Mary Bateson. (Norfolk and Norwich Arch. Soc. Norfolk Archaeology, XI, 1892.) (_c_) _Godstow_ The English Register of Godstow Nunnery, ed. Andrew Clark. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1905-11.) V. WILLS Calendar of Wills proved and enrolled in the Court of Husting, London, ed. R. R. Sharpe (1889). Early Lincoln Wills, ed. A. Gibbons (1888). The Fifty Earliest English Wills in the Court of Probate, London, ed. F. J. Furnivall. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1882.) Lincoln Diocese Documents, ed. A. Clark. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1914.) Lincoln Wills, ed. C. W. Foster. Vol. I. (Lincoln Record Soc. 1914.) Testamenta Eboracensia, a Selection of Wills from the Registry at York, ed. James Raine. 6 vols. (Surtees Soc. 1836-1902.) Somerset Medieval Wills (1383-1558), ed. F. W. Weaver. 3 vols. (Somerset Record Soc. 1901-5.) VI. MISCELLANEOUS RECORDS AND LETTERS Calendar of Close Rolls. Calendar of Patent Rolls. Calendar of Papal Letters. Calendar of Papal Petitions. Dugdale. Monasticon Anglicanum, ed. J. Caley, H. Ellis and B. Bandinel. 6 vols. in 8 (1817-30). Ellis, H. Original Letters illustrative of English History, 1st series, vol. II (1824). Fowler, J. T. Cistercian Statutes, A.D. 1256-7, with supplementary statutes of the order, 1257-8. (Reprinted from Yorks. Archaeol. Journal, vols. IX-XI, 1885-90.) Gasquet, F. A. Collectanea Anglo-Premonstratensia, 3 vols. (Camden Soc. 1906.) Gibbons, A. Ely Episcopal Records (1891). Lyndwood. Provinciale (1679). Madox. Formulare Anglicanum (1702). Paston Letters, ed. J. Gairdner. 4 vols. (1900). Rotuli Parliamentorum. (Record Com. 6 vols. n.d. Index, 1832.) Valor Ecclesiasticus. (Record Com. 1810-34). Wharton. Anglia Sacra, 2 vols. (1691). Wilkins. Concilia Magnae Britanniae et Hiberniae, 4 vols. (1737). Wood, M. A. E. Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies of Great Britain. 3 vols. (1846). VII. CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE[2160] An Alphabet of Tales, An English 15th Century Translation of the Alphabetum Narrationum once attributed to Etienne de Besançon, ed. M. M. Banks. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1904-5.) Amundesham. Annales Monasterii S. Albani (Rolls Series, 1870), I. Ancren Riwle, ed. and trans. James Morton (Camden Soc. 1853). Also trans. (by Morton) with introd. by F. A. Gasquet in The King's Classics, 1907. Caesarius of Heisterbach. Dialogus Miraculorum, ed. Joseph Strange, 2 vols. (Cologne, 1851.) Chaucer, Complete Works, ed. Skeat (1906). Chronicle of Lanercost, translated by Sir Herbert Maxwell (1913). Clene Maydenhod, ed. F. J. Furnivall. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1867.) Court of Love, The, printed in Chaucer's Complete Works, ed. R. Morris (1891), vol. IV. Early English Lives of Saints, ed. F. J. Furnivall. (Trans. of the Philological Soc. 1858.) For _The Land of Cokayne_ and _Why I can't be a Nun_. Etienne de Bourbon. Anecdotes Historiques, etc., ed. Lecoy de la Marche. (Soc. de l'Hist. de France, 1877.) Fifteenth Century Cookery Book, A, ed. R. W. Chambers, and Two Fifteenth Century Franciscan Rules, ed. W. W. Seton. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1914.) Gower. Vox Clamantis, ed. G. Macaulay (1902). Hali Meidenhad, ed. O. Cockayne. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1866.) Jacobi Vitriacensis Exempla e Sermonibus Vulgaribus, ed. T. F. Crane. (Folk Lore Soc. 1890.) Langland. Vision of William Concerning Piers the Plowman, ed. Skeat, 2 vols. (1886). Medieval Garner, A, selected, translated and annotated by G. G. Coulton (1910). Myroure of Oure Ladye, The, ed. J. J. Blunt. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1873.) Rule of St Benedict, ed. Gasquet. (King's Classics, 1909.) Tale of Beryn, The, ed. Furnivall and Stone. (Chaucer Soc. 1887.) Three Middle English Versions of the Rule of St Benet, ed. E. A. Kock. (Early Eng. Text Soc. 1902.) Walsingham. Gesta Abbatum Monasterii Sancti Albani, ed. H. T. Riley (Rolls Series, 1867-9), 3 vols. ---- Historia Anglicana, ed. H. T. Riley (Rolls Series, 1863), vol. I. VIII. PLANS Burnham Abbey, by H. Brakspear, in Archaeol. Journal, LX (1903). (See Bucks. Archit. and Archaeol. Soc. Records, XXXI.) Carrow Priory, by R. M. Phipson, in Norf. and Norw. Arch. Soc. Trans. IX, and Rye, Carrow Abbey (1889). Kirklees Priory, by J. Bilson, in Yorks. Archaeol. Journ. XX (1908). Lacock Abbey, by H. Brakspear, in Archaeologia, LVII (1900). (See also Wilts. Archaeol. Journ. XXXI.) Marlow, Little, by C. R. Peers, in Archaeol. Journ. LIX (1902). Marrick Priory, facsimile of plan taken at time of Dissolution in Coll. Topog. et Gen. V (1838). St Radegund, Cambridge (now Jesus College) in Gray, The Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge (1898). C. MODERN WORKS I. ON PARTICULAR NUNNERIES (INCLUDING CHARTERS, ETC.) _Aldgate (Minoresses)._ Fly, H. Some account of an Abbey of Nuns, formerly situated in the street now called the Minories. Archaeologia, XV (1803). _Barrow Gurney._ Hugo, T. Medieval Nunneries of the County of Somerset (1867). _Brodholme._ Cole, R. E. G. The Priory of St Mary of Brodholme. (Linc. Archit. and Archaeol. Soc.) in Assoc. Archit. Socs. Reports and Papers, XXVIII (1905-6). _Bromhale._ Scott, R. F. Notes from the Records of St John's College, Cambridge (reprinted from The Eagle, 1890-1903, _passim_), Series I and III. (Documents from Bromhale and Lillechurch.) _Buckland._ Hugo, T. History of Minchin Buckland Priory and Preceptory in Somerset (1861). _Cannington._ See Barrow Gurney. _Carrow._ Beecheno, F. R. Notes on Carrow Priory (1886). Rye, W. Carrow Abbey (1889). Rye and Tillett in Norfolk Antiq. Misc. II. _Crabhouse._ Jessopp, A. Frivola (1896). For 'Ups and Downs of an Old Nunnery' (Crabhouse). _Dartford._ C. F. Palmer. Hist. of the Priory of Dartford in Kent. Archaeol. Journ. XXXVI (1879). Notes on the Priory of Dartford in Kent. _Ib._ XXXIX (1882). _Delapré, Northampton._ Serjeantson, R. M. A History of Delapré Abbey, Northampton (Northampton, 1909). _Delapré, St Albans._ Page, W. History of the Monastery of St Mary de Pré. St Albans and Herts. Archit. and Archaeol. Soc. Trans., New Ser. X. _Easebourne._ Hope, Sir W. H. St John. Cowdray and Easebourne Priory in the county of Sussex (1920). _Elstow._ Wigram, S. R. Chronicle of Elstow Abbey (1909). _Fosse._ Cole, R. E. G. The Royal Borough of Torksey, its Churches, Monasteries and Castle. Linc. Archit. and Archaeol. Soc. In Assoc. Archit. Soc. Reports and Papers, XXVIII (1905-6). _Ickleton._ Goddard, A. R. Ickleton Church and Priory. Cambridge Antiq. Soc. Proc. and Commun. XLV (1905). _Ilchester, White Hall._ See Barrow Gurney. _Kirklees._ Armytage, Sir G. Kirklees Priory. Yorks. Archaeol. Journ. XX (1908). Chadwick, S. J. Kirklees Priory. Yorks. Archaeol. Journ. XVI (1901), XVII (1902), XX (1908). _Lacock._ Bowles, W. L. and Nichols, J. C. Annals of Lacock Abbey (1835). Clark-Maxwell, W. G. Outfit for the Profession of an Austin Canoness at Lacock, etc. Archaeol. Journ. LXIX (1912). _Lillechurch._ See Bromhale. _Marlow._ Peers, C. R. The Benedictine Nunnery of Little Marlow. Archaeol. Journ. LIX (1902). _Nunburnholme._ Morris, M. C. K. Nunburnholme and its Antiquities (1907). _Romsey._ Liveing, H. G. D. Records of Romsey Abbey (1906). _St Helen's, Bishopsgate._ Hugo, T. The Last Ten Years of the Priory of St Helen, Bishopsgate (1865). _St Radegund, Cambridge._ Gray, A. The Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge (1898). _Syon._ Aungier, G. J. History and Antiquities of Syon (1840). _Swine._ Duckett, Sir G. Charters of the Priory of Swine in Holderness. Yorks. Archaeol. Journ. VI (1881). Thompson, T. History of the Church and Priory of Swine in Holderness (1824). II. GENERAL BUTLER, C. Benedictine Monachism (1919). CLAY, R. M. Hermits and Anchorites of England (1914). COULTON, G. G. The Interpretation of Visitation Documents. (Eng. Hist. Review, 1914.) ---- Medieval Studies. (First Series, 1915.) ---- Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages. (Medieval Studies, No. 10, 1913.) DEANESLY, M. The Lollard Bible (1920). ECKENSTEIN, L. Woman under Monasticism (1896). FOSBROKE, T. D. British Monachism (1802). FOWLER, R. C. Episcopal Registers of England and Wales. (S.P.C.K. 1918.) GASQUET, F. A. English Monastic Life (1904). GRAHAM, R. An Essay on English Monasteries. (Hist. Assoc. 1913.) ---- St Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertines (1901). GREEN, M. A. EVERETT. Lives of the Princesses of England. Vol. II (1849). JACKA, H. T. The Dissolution of the English Nunneries. Thesis submitted for the degree of M.A. in the University of London. (Unpublished; deposited at the University.) JARRETT, B. The English Dominicans (1921). Journal of Education, 1909 and 1910. (Articles and Correspondence by J. E. G. de Montmorency, G. G. Coulton and A. F. Leach on "The Medieval Education of Women in England.") MODE, P. G. The Influence of the Black Death on the English Monasteries. (A Dissertation for the Degree of Ph.D.) (Privately printed, Univ. of Chicago Libraries, 1916.) SAVINE, A. English Monasteries on the Eve of the Dissolution, in Oxford Studies in Social and Legal History, ed. P. Vinogradoff (1909), I. THIERS, J. B. Traité de la Clôture des Religieuses. (Paris, 1681.) THOMPSON, A. HAMILTON. English Monasteries (1913). ---- Double Monasteries and the Male Element in Nunneries. (In The Ministry of Women, A Report by a Committee appointed by his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury (1919), App. VIII.) ---- The Monasteries of Leicestershire in the Fifteenth Century. (Leicester. Archit. and Archaeol. Soc. Trans. 1913-14.) ---- Registers of John Gynewell, Bishop of Lincoln, for the years 1347-50. (Archaeol. Journ. vol. LXVIII (2nd Ser. vol. XXI), 1914.) ---- Visitations of Religious Houses by William Alnwick, Bishop of Lincoln, 1436-49. (Proceedings of the Soc. of Antiquaries, 2nd ser. XXVI, 1914.) Victoria County Histories. Articles on Religious Houses, _passim_. (Cited as V.C.H.) WALCOTT, MACKENZIE E. C. English Minsters (1879), 2 vols. Vol. II. The English Student's Monasticon. WORKMAN, H. B. The Evolution of the Monastic Ideal (1913). INDEX Ff. after an entry implies that there are references to the same subject on at least two immediately succeeding pages. Abbess, autocratic power of, 64ff., 149 ---- chaplain of (nun), 62ff., 112, 129, 250 ---- entertainment of guests by, 59ff., 69, 118; nuns by, 61 ---- executrix or supervisor of wills, 73, 73_n. 2_ ---- lodging and household of, 59, 135, 151, 167, 316, 317 ---- of Fools, 311 _Abbey of the Holy Ghost_, 533 Abbot of Fools, 311 Aberford, Rector of, 220_n. 5_ _Accidia_, 293ff., 302, 437 Accounts, 96ff., 118ff., 245, 333ff., 639ff.; annual statement of, 221; audit of, 220, 221 ---- presentation of, by head of house, 219, 220; by obedientiaries, etc., 219, 224; _see also_ _Status domus_ Aconbury Priory, 23_n. 1_, 339 ---- Churches appropriated to, 113_n._ Adeburn, Alicia de, 21 Adeleshey, Joan, 443 Aelred, Abbot of Rievaulx, 271 Alcock, John, Bishop of Ely, 398, 533, 602 Aldelesse, Juliana, 399 Aldgate, St Clare outside, 171_n. 2_ Alesbury, Agnes of, 39, 40 Alfrâd, the donkey of, 383, 588ff. Alice, Prioress of Wintney, 87 Alienation of goods, 225 Allesley, Agnes, 272, 409 Almenèches, St Sauveur, 636; moral state of, 666, 667 Almoness of nunnery, 132 Almsgiving by nuns, 118, 120, 121, 132, 649 Alnwick, William, Bishop of Lincoln, 22, 23, 26, 32, 33, 62, 66ff., 71, 77, 79, 80, 82, 83, 154, 161, 162, 164, 165, 199, 204, 207, 210, 215, 221, 225, 226, 234, 245, 249, 250, 263, 264, 272, 273, 277, 278, 283, 304, 317, 320, 331, 332, 334, 336, 340, 357, 358, 361_n. 1_, 363, 367, 377_n. 2_, 380, 382, 397, 399_n. 1_, 400, 402_n. 3_, 405_n. 2_, 408, 412, 414, 416, 437, 449, 457, 461, 463, 481, 483, 486, 488, 490, 491, 500 _Alphabet of Tales, An_, 511_n._, 516_n. 2_, 519_n. 1_ Alsace, 239 Alsop, Robert of, 234 Amesbury Priory, 2, 3, 242_n. 8_, 268_n._, 350, 360_n. 2_, 454, 455, 470, 482, 497 Anchoresses, 271, 528ff. _Ancren Riwle_, 156, 258, 271, 305, 383, 500, 525, 527ff., 557, 592, 650, 655 Ankerwyke Priory, 26, 81, 82, 111_n. 3_, 146, 166, 218, 333, 405_n. 2_, 441_n._, 460, 461, 487_n._, 491_n. 2_ ---- financial mismanagement of, 205, 225_n. 2_; illiteracy of inmates at, 250; inventory of goods of, 222_n. 3_; poverty of, 153, 154, 162, 167, 177, 234, 235; Prioress of, 32, 62, 66, 163_n. 1_, 210, 304_n. 2_, 340, 414, 493; _and see_ Kirkby, Margery; Medforde, Clarence; _status domus_ of, 221, 222; teacher for young nuns appointed, 260; visitors at, 490 Anlaby, Josiana de, 53 Apelgarth, Sabina de, 469 Appropriation of benefices, 113, 135, 144, 224 Arden, Henry, 85 ---- Priory, 16, 153_n. 3_, 184, 213, 242, 382_n. 1_, 494_n. 1_, 601 ---- accounts of, 220; boarders at, 579; corrody granted by, 206; custos of, 230_n. 8_; dilapidations at, 170, 175; mismanagement of, 85, 86; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; Prioress of, 83; _and see_ Eleanor of Arden; relics at, 116 Arderne, Katherine de, 189 Armathwaite Priory, 428, 429 Armstrong, Jane, 326 Arnecliffe, Hugh de, 234 Arthington, 213, 217, 291_n. 2_, 356_n. 4_, 400_n. 1_ ---- accounts of, 220; bequests to, 326; children at, 579; coadjutress appointed at, 224; _custos_ of, 231; dilapidations at, 170; dorter of, 170; frater of, 170; moral state of, 598, 599; private property at, 336, 337; prioresses of, 180, 217; _and see_ Berghby, Isabella de; Popeley, Elizabeth; Screvyn, Agnes de; relics at, 117 Arundell, Elizabeth, 442 ---- Sir John, 73, 74, 429ff. ---- Thomas, Bishop of Ely, 176 Aschby, William, 399_n. 3_ Aske, Robert, 282ff. Asserio, Rigaud de, Bishop of Winchester, 188, 369 Asshe, John de, 198 Assize of bread and ale, 104 Astley, Lora, 30 Astom, Matilda, 453 Atwater, William, Bishop of Lincoln, 222_n. 3_, 273, 292, 382_n. 3_, 441_n._, 491, 596 Aubrey, John, 274, 381 _Aucassin and Nicolete_, 513, 514, 541 Auditor of nunnery accounts, 99, 100 Audley, Lady, 306, 412 ---- Sir Hugh, 419 Aunselle, Alice, 337 Avernay, novice of, 500, 507 Avice of Beverley, 365_n. 3_ Aylesbury, Margaret, 318 Ayscough, Bishop, 182 Ayton, John of, 354, 391, 435 Babyngton, Katherine, 243 Backwell, Rector of, 233 Bacton, Margaret, 168 Badlesmere, Bartholomew de, 203 Bailiff of nunnery, 99ff., 109, 129, 138, 143, 147, 148, 219, 227, 228, 257 Bakewell, Mr, 124, 140 Baldock, Ralph, Bishop of London, 34_n. 2_ Ball, John, 138 Barber, Isabel, 268 Bardi, the, 91 Bardney, Abbot of, 364 Barking Abbey, 2, 13, 19, 42, 64_n. 6_, 142, 156_n. 7_, 162, 176, 186, 188, 258_n. 4_, 320_n._, 326, 347_n. 2_, 366_n. 3_, 404_n. 5_, 406_n. 3_, 407, 635 ---- Abbess of, 60, 61, 105, 117, 185, 198, 420; _and see_ Pole, Katherine de la ---- Cellaress of, 131_n._, 133, 257, 563; accounts of, 136, 139_n. 5_; _Charthe_ of, 562ff. ---- children at, 571, 572; church appropriated to, 113_n. 1_; claustration at, 348, 349; Clemence of, 239; corrodies at, 190, 197, 198; library of, 242_n. 8_; pensions demanded from, 195, 196; pittances at, 143_n._, 323, 324; _Puerilia solemnia_ at, 312; resident chaplains at, 144; sanctuary at, 420, 421 Barnehous, John, 269 Barnwell, Prior of, 125, 142_n. 3_, 202_n. 3_ Barrow Priory, 233, 385_n. 4_, 360_n. 1_; _custos_ of, 233; Prioress of, 233; _and see_ Gurney, Joanna Barsinghausen, 674 Barton, Elizabeth, 419_n. 2_ Bartone, Isabel, 399_n. 1_ ---- Joan, 413 Basedale Priory, 445; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_, 231; moral state of, 597, 598; prioresses of, 205, 284_n._, 360_n. 2_; _and see_ Davell, Elizabeth; Fletcher, Joan; Percy, Joan de Basilia de Cotum, 361_n. 2_ Basle, Synod of, 314 Bassett, Christian, 69, 97, 102_n._, 105, 106, 201; accounts of, 118_n._, 313, 334 Batayle, Margaret de la, 26 Bateman, Bishop of Norwich, 268 Bath and Wells, Bishops of, 37, 38, 71; _and see_ Drokensford, John de Bauceyn, Juliana, 185 Beatrice, story of, 512ff. Beauchamp, Agnes de, 192 ---- Katherine de, 25, 26, 330_n. 3_ ---- Sir Guy de, 25, 330_n. 3_ ---- Thomas, Earl of Warwick, 330 Beaumont, Lady, 257 ---- Lord, 268 Beauvais, John, Bishop of, 418 Becon, Thomas, 282 Bedford, Jacquetta, Duchess of, 419 Bedford, Sheriff of, 195 Belers, Margaret, 367, 382 _Bel-Eyse, L'Ordre de_, 537, 537_n. 2_, 542 Belgrave, Bridget, 137; _and see_ Syon Abbey, chambress of Belle Doette, 555, 556 Benedict, Rule of St, 23, 50, 61, 66, 136, 150, 245, 278, 285ff., 300, 315, 322, 341ff., 356, 408_n. 4_ ---- translations of, 251, 252, 341_n. 1_ Benet, Isabel, 80, 83, 278, 283, 292, 310, 378, 389, 449, 460, 486, 489, 493 Bengeworth, John, 449 Berghby, Isabella de, 224, 469, 598, 599 Berkeley, Lady Elizabeth, 410, 411 ---- Lord, 74 Bernard, Eleanor, 360_n. 2_ Berners, Juliana, 240, 308 Bernier, 433ff. Berre, Alice, 206, 207 ---- William, 206 Berthold of Regensburg, 518_n. 1_ Berwick, North, Priory of, 418 Berwick-on-Tweed, Gild at, 11 Berzé, Seigneur de, 542 Betsone, Thomas, 287 Bever, John, 86 Beverley, St Nicholas' Hospital, 365 Bible, reading of, by nuns, 254, 255 Bicester, Prior of, 234 ---- Priory, 210_n. 2_ Birlaunde, Henry of, 233 Bischofsheim, Abbess of, 237 Bishopsgate, St Helen's, 2, 13, 55, 56, 58_n._, 109_n._, 292_n. 3_, 309, 311, 395, 402_n. 4_, 405, 408, 441_n._; children at, 265, 273, 576, 577; corrodies granted by, 209; Prioress of, 55, 56, 265, 307 Bival Abbey, 636, 647; Abbess of, 645; financial state of, 637, 638 Bixley, John, 208 Blackborough Priory, 32, 170, 371, 412; fair of, 106_n. 2_; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; Prioress of, 64, 65, 220 Black Death, the, 164, 177ff., 215, 457 Blacklow Hill, 419 Blankney, Vicar of, 232 Bleden, Joan, 5 Bleeding of nuns, 257ff., 259_n. 2_, 316, 324, 646; of monks, 258, 259 Blois, Robert de, 8 Blund, Ann le, 6 ---- Sir John le, 6 Boarders in nunnery, 112, 113, 158 Boccaccio, 516_n. 4_, 522 Bodenham, Cecily, 72 Boleyn, Anne, 54, 55 ---- Thomas, 77 Bondeville Priory, 636, 646; accounts of, 640; _custos_ of, 640; financial state of, 255_n. 2_, 637, 638; inventory of, 641, 645; Prioress of, 644, 645 Bonevyll, Sir William, 329 Boniface VIII, 201_n. 2_, 344, 350, 351, 353, 354 ---- IX, 117, 175, 345 Booth, Archbishop William, 175 Bossall, Vicar of, 231 Boteler, Margaret la, 365 Botere, Walter, 33 Botulphe, Joan, 312 Bourbon, Etienne de, 309, 372, 516_n. 1_ Bourbon, Marie de, 558 Bowes, Agnes, 457 Bowet, Henry, Archbishop of York, 83_n._, 339, 477 Bowlis, Alice, 48ff. Boy Bishop, the, 311ff. Boyfield, Alice, 46 ---- Elizabeth, 46ff. Bradford-on-Avon, Church of, 176 _Braies au Prestre, Les_, 541 Brakle, Agnes, 88 Brampton Church, 463 Brantyngham, Thomas de, Bishop of Exeter, 353, 403_n. 5_, 417 Brasyer, Stephen, 103 Brentford, Chapel of the Angels, 99 Brenyntone, Alicia, 33 Bret, Isabel, 27, 32, 191, 192 ---- Robert, 191_n. 2_, 192 Brewood (Staffs.), 98, 147_n. 4_, 308, 443_n. 2_ ---- Prioress of, 183_n. 6_ Brid, Aleyn, 207 Bridlington, 427 Bristol, St Bartholomew's Hospital, 442_n. 2_ ---- St Mary Magdalen, 183, 184_n. 4_ Brittany, Duke John of, 429 Brodholme Priory, 229_n. 1_, 244, 449; _custos_ of, 230; Prioress of, 423 Broke, Elizabeth, 88_n._, 149, 169, 389, 469 Bromele, Thomas, 267 Bromhale Priory, 73, 81, 87, 360_n. 2_, 377; dissolution of, 603; prioresses of, _see_ Juliana of Bromhale Brompton, John, 326 ---- Rector of, _see_ Playce, Robert de Bromyard, John, 516_n. 2_ Broughton (Northants.), Rector of, 352 Browne, Agnes, 20 Bruce, Robert, 427 Brugge, Joan, 424_n. 2_ ---- Peter, 424_n. 2_ Brun, Alicia, 21 Brunne, Robert of, 521 Brus, Elizabeth de, 420 ---- Robert de, 420 Bruys, Joan, 441_n._ Bryce, Master, 149, 170 Buckingham, Archidiaconate of, 174 ---- John, Bishop of Lincoln, 22, 24, 220, 223, 226, 249, 273, 322_n._, 337, 386, 390_n. 5_ Buckland Priory, 1, 2, 37, 330; poverty of, 165; Prioress of, 37, 38 Bugga, Abbess, 237 Bungay, 33, 442_n. 2_ Buonvisi, Lucrezia, 474 Burghersh, Bishop, 450_n. 2_, 582 Burgo, Elizabeth de, 420 Burn, John, 242 Burnham Abbey, 146, 188, 191, 301, 326, 351, 442_n. 2_, 457; education of children at, 263, 272, 569; poverty of, 184_n. 4_ Burton, Abbot of, 4 ---- Margaret of, 443_n. 2_ Burtscheid, Abbey of, 28 Bury St Edmunds, 48, 370 Busch, Johann, 271, 296, 345, 473, 670ff. Bustard, John, 231 Butler, Agnes, 449 Bycombe, Isolda, 410 ---- John, 410 Byland Abbey, 427 Caen, Abbaye-aux-Dames, 305, 636, 646; accounts of, 639; financial state of, 637 Caesarius of Heisterbach's _Dialogus Miraculorum_, 27, 27_n. 1_, 28, 108, 274_n._, 277_n. 1_, 296, 297, 450_n. 3_, 511_n._, 516_n. 3_, 520, 531, 627ff., 656 Caldwell Priory, 308_n. 1_, 386; Prior of, 46 Calle, Richard, 411, 412 Caluerley, Richard, 399 Calwell, Thomas, 120 Camberwell, 71 Cambridge, Elizabeth de, 398 ---- Friars Minor of, 122 ---- Jesus College, 270, 602 ---- Mayor of, 122 ---- St John's College, 603 ---- St Radegund's Priory, 60_n._, 106_n. 1_, 122, 137ff., 148, 151ff., 157, 158, 175, 292_n. 2_, 356_n. 2_, 398, 571; accounts of, 98, 102_n. 2_, 103, 119, 123, 127, 128_n. 1_, 142, 152, 327, 571; alms given by, 121, 122; bailiff of, _see_ Key, Thomas; chaplains of, 153; church of, 125; churches appropriated to, 135_n. 5_; confessor of, 152; clothes of nuns at, 323; dissolution of, 602; fire at, 172; Garlick Fair of, 106_n. 1_; gifts to, 175, 176; hospitality of, 119, 120; liveries of servants at, 137; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; prioresses of, 147_n. 5_, 152, 169, 177, 366_n. 2_; _and see_ Lancaster, Joan; repairs at, 123ff., 169; servants of, 137, 152; visitation of, 494_n. 1_ Camoys, Margaret de, 73 Campsey Priory, 2, 39, 64_n. 6_, 167, 168, 243, 336; hospitality at, 417, 418; mismanagement by Prioress of, 168, 417 _Canard Blanc, Le_, 617 Cannington Priory, 188, 194, 410, 452; boarders at, 453, 578; coadjutresses appointed at, 225; corrodies, unauthorised sale of, at, 224; Prioress of, 21, 224, 225, 410, 453; simoniacal admission of nuns at, 224 Canons Ashby Priory, 231; Prior of, 231 Canonsleigh Abbey, 2, 113_n. 1_, 183_n. 4_, 248, 353, 376, 406_n. 1_, 411, 416_n. 1_, 417; Abbess of, 71_n. 4_, 224; coadjutress appointed at, 224; claustration relaxed at, 354, 355, 355_n. 2_; presentation of accounts at, 219 Canterbury, Archbishops of, 87, 347_n. 2_, 482_n. 1_ ---- Holy Sepulchre, 41, 156_n. 7_, 224, 348, 350, 356_n. 2_, 359_n. 2_, 387, 399, 403_n. 5_, 413_n. 2_, 449, 487, 494_n. 1_, 581; alms given by, 120; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_, 232, 234, 487; poverty of, 234 ---- Hospital of St James, 82_n. 4_, 184_n. 5_, 390_n. 5_, 494_n. 1_ ---- pilgrimage to, 95, 145 ---- Priory, 210_n. 2_; Prior of, 461, 482_n. 1_ Cantilupe, Thomas de, Bishop of Hereford, 248, 324, 347_n. 2_, 367_n. 2_, 369 Capron, John, 454 Carey, Eleanor, 54, 55 ---- John, 54 Carinthia, Monastery of, 592 Carmaynton, David, 36, 37 Carrow Priory, 6, 12, 113_n. 1_, 148_n. 1_, 268, 292, 305, 366, 587; boarders at, 411, 577; children at, 267, 268; churches appropriated to, 113_n. 2_; complaints of bad food, etc., at, 168_n. 2_; enforced reception of nuns into, 212; lawsuit of, 202_n. 2_; pestilence at, 181; Philip Sparrow at, 590ff.; Prioress of, 72, 105_n. 3_; _and see_ Wilton, Edith; revels at, 312; sanctuary at, 422; titles granted to, 116_n. 1_ Cassian, 294 Castile, Constance of, 421_n. 1_ Castle Hedingham Priory, 188, 192; Prioress of, 360_n. 2_ Catesby, Joan, 84 ---- Priory, 78, 82, 83, 87, 106, 107_n. 1_, 110, 146, 186, 188, 225, 228, 292, 304, 335, 358_n. 2_, 378, 388, 395, 402_n. 3_, 408_n. 2_, 447, 477, 486, 489, 583; accounts of, 98, 102_n. 2_, 105_n. 3_, 115_n. 1_, 118_n._, 127, 220; children at, 265, 272, 409, 577; dilapidations at, 171_n. 2_; home farm of, 109, 127; households of nuns at, 320; jewels pawned, 211; master of, 231; _peculium_ for clothes, 323, 333; pilgrimages to, 117; poverty of, 175, 184_n. 4_, 205; Prioress of, 66, 107, 109, 121, 180, 192, 210, 211, 255, 272, 283, 320, 323, 333, 395, 452, 463, 477, 488, 493; _and see_ Rich, Margaret; Wavere, Margaret Catherine, nun of Bungay, 33 Catley, 18 Catton, Rector of, 30 Caxton, 241 Caynes, Sir Robert de, 192 Cellaress of nunnery, 117, 119, 132ff., 141, 143, 367, 368; duties of, 133, 138; accounts of, 119, 131_n._, 135 Chambress of nunnery, 119, 132, 134, 137, 368; accounts of, 119, 131_n._, 135 Champnys, Alice, 243 _Chansons de Nonnes_, 502ff., 604ff. Chantimpré, Thomas of, 584 Chantress of nunnery, 131, 132 Chaplains, 143ff., 148_n. 3_, 151; residences of, 144 Chapter house, 249, 252, 475ff., 648ff., 672 Chark, John, 156 Charles V of France, 429 Charter, foundation, exhibition of, 221, 251 Charterys, Elizabeth, 152 Chatok, Elizabeth, 403 Chatteris Abbey, 19, 184_n. 4_, 306; Abbess of, 65 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 19, 62, 74, 77, 94, 95, 371, 561, 588 Chaucy, Elizabeth, 19 _Checker_, 319 Chelles, nuns of, 345 Cheshunt Priory, 172, 313; poverty of, 173, 174, 184_n. 4_ ---- priest's chamber at, 145 Chester, 185 ---- St Mary's, 146; poverty of, 172 Chicksand Priory, 420 Children, education of, 261ff., 568ff.; costs of, 269, 270 Chilterne, Alice de, 88_n._, 233 Chivynton, Johanna, 399 Chondut, Agnes, 17 Chondut, Katherine, 17, 18 ---- Ralph, 17 Chygwell, William de, 197 Chyld, Margery, 399 Cîteaux, Abbot of, 375_n. 1_ Clay, Richard del, 52 _Clef d'Amors, La_, 8 Clemence of Barking, 239 Clementhorpe Priory, 326, 360_n. 2_, 365_n. 3_, 384_n. 1_, 600, 601 _Clene Maydenhod_, 16, 525 Clerkenwell Priory, 2, 13, 179, 259_n. 3_ Cleveland, Archdeacon of, 51, 52 Clinton, Isabel, Lady, 7, 39 Clouvill, Isabel, 441 Coadjutress, 223, 224 Cobham, Thomas de, Bishop of Worcester, 39, 223 ---- Eleanor de, 418, 419_n. 2_ ---- Henry de, 421 _Cokaygne, The Land of_, 534ff., 542 Cokehill Priory, 165, 232_n. 5_, 385, 481, 482; chaplain of, 232_n. 5_; Prioress of, 185_n. 6_ Cokke, John, 124, 152 Colchester, 420 Coldingham, nuns of, 303_n. 2_, 365, 471 Coleworthe, Joan, 84 Cologne, Provincial Council of, 360_n. 1_ Colte, Anne, 447_n. 6_ Common Pleas, Court of, 70 Condé, Jean de, 539, 541, 542 _Congé d'élire_, 43_n. 2_, 44ff. Conyers, Alice, 328_n. 2_ ---- Cecily, 31 Cook, Alice, 395 ---- William, 395 Copeland, John, 197 Cornhill, 41, 192 Cornwallis, Katherine, 50 Cornworthy Priory, 267, 413_n. 4_, 444, 445, 571; boarders at, 269, 279; Prioress of, 269; _and see_ Dynham, _and_ Wortham Corp, Isabella, 328 ---- Thomas, 328 Corrodians, 188, 190, 197, 206ff., 409ff. Corrodies, 151, 155, 190ff., 197, 206ff., 225, 226 Cotnall, William, 454 Coton Priory, _see_ Nuncoton Cotton, Ellen, 459 Courtenay, Joan, 242 ---- Lady Elizabeth, 417 ---- Sir Hugh de, 417 ---- William, Archbishop of Canterbury, 176, 226, 383, 459, 468 _Court of Love_, 509, 511 Couvel, Isabella, 224, 337 Coventry, 256 Cox, Agnes, 261_n. 2_ Crabhouse Priory, 30, 42, 90ff., 169, 378_n. 3_, 461, 468, 477_n. 1_; dilapidations at, 170; fire at, 171, 172; Prioress of, 65; _and see_ Wiggenhall; Register of, 134, 135, 207; repairs at, 92ff., 169 Cranmer, 270 Crayke, Cecilia, 57 Crécy, 10 Cressy, Sir Hugh de, 214 ---- Jonetta, 214 Crioll, Margery de, 330 Crofton, John, 370 ---- Juliana de, 329 Cromwell, Gregory, 263, 267 ---- Thomas, 30_n. 5_, 32, 51_n._, 55, 57, 72, 146, 263 Crosse, Margaret, 363, 364 Croxton, 231 Cumberworth, Sir Thomas, 72, 166, 330, 370 Cunyers, Alice, 328 _Custos_ of nunnery, 229ff. Dalderby, John, Bishop of Lincoln, 78, 173, 174, 231, 351ff., 366, 423, 443ff. Damory, Roger, 420 Danby, Margaret, 360_n. 2_ Danne, Roger, 198 Dante, quoted, 294, 295 Darcy, Lord, 146 ---- Margaret, 7, 322_n._ Dartford Abbey, 2, 3, 98, 247_n. 2_; alms given by, 120; boarders at, 573 Daubeney, Henry Lord, 146 Daubriggecourt, Sir John, 6 ---- Margery, 6 Davell, Elizabeth, 360_n. 2_ Daventry Priory, 58 ---- Roger de, 230_n. 1_ Davington Priory, 165, 184, 366, 604; _custos_ of, 232; financial mismanagement at, 203; Prioress of, 183_n. 4_ Davy, Alice, 360_n. 2_ Davye, Agnes, 20, 319 Decun, Alice, 496 Delapré Priory (Herts.), 142, 244, 245, 313, 456, 479, 481; accounts of, 97, 102_n._, 118_n._, 121, 131_n._, 139_n. 5_, 163_n. 4_, 309, 335, 479_n. 4_; dissolution of, 604; grades of inmates at, 244, 245; huntsman of, 308; illiterate inmates at, 244, 245; litigation by, 201; master of, 231; merrymaking at, 309; pittances at, 324; Prioress of, 206, 370, 479_n. 4_; _see_ Bassett, Christian; Wafer, Alice Delapré Abbey (Northants.), 249, 321_n. 2_, 425, 457; Abbess of, 360_n. 2_; claustration at, 351ff.; nuns of, excommunicated, 441, 442; pensions demanded from, 195; poverty of, 175 Delft, Franciscan tertiaries of, 240_n. 2_ Dene, William de, 203, 204 Denesson, Henry, 123ff. Denny Abbey, 3, 13, 378_n. 3_; Abbess of, 122 Depeden, Margaret, 326 ---- Sir John, 325 Derby, Earl of, 146 Dereham, William de, 195 Derneburg, 673, 680 Deschamps, Eustache, 500, 507 Despenser, Hugh, 30, 420 ---- Juliana, 198, 199 _Diolog concerning the Monarché_, 251 _Dives and Pauper_, 366_n. 4_ Dorset, Marquess of, 146 Dorter, 155, 169ff., 272, 273, 283, 313, 319, 409 Draycote, Cecilia de, 224 Dreffield, Maud de, 214 Drokensford, John de, Bishop of Bath and Wells, 71, 233, 358_n. 4_, 410 Du Bois, Pierre, 56 Dudley, Sir John, 279 Dunkirk, 258 Dunstable Priory, 308_n. 1_ Dunwyche, Alice, 484 Durant, Geoffrey, 40 ---- Molde, 40 Durham, Bishops of, 31, 309_n. 6_, 427; _see_ Hatfield, Thomas; Skirlaw, Walter ---- Priory, 210_n. 2_ ---- Sherburn Hospital, 361_n. 2_ Dychere, Agnes, 167 Dymmok, Elizabeth, 413, 417 Dynham, Thomasyn, 269, 571 Eadburg, Abbess of Thanet, 237 Easebourne Priory, 4, 33, 63, 79, 188, 209, 255, 292_n. 2_, 330, 331, 340, 448_n. 1_, 452, 494_n. 1_, 582; boarders at, 415; churches appropriated to, 113_n. 1_, 182; dilapidations at, 170, 171_n. 2_; disorder at, 453, 454, 462; inventory of goods of, 222_n. 3_; library of, 241; poverty of, 177; prioresses of, 76ff., 83_n._, 205, 255, 454; _see_ Montfort, Isabel de; Sackfelde, Margaret; Tawke, Agnes Edmund, Earl of Cornwall, 191 Edward I, 455, 462 Edward II, 197, 204, 247, 427, 419 ---- III, 9, 12, 198, 234 Edyndon, William of, Bishop of Winchester, 173, 213_n. 1_, 416 Egglestone Abbey, 428_n. 3_ Eleanor, Prioress of Arden, 83, 85, 87, 94, 211, 218, 382_n. 1_ Eleanor, wife of Henry III, 455 Elizabeth, Countess of Hereford, 196 ---- of York, 19 Ellerton Priory, 31, 428 Elstow Abbey, 2, 22, 24, 51_n._, 64_n. 6_, 186, 217, 226, 291_n. 2_, 333, 335, 351, 369, 383, 387, 390, 401_n. 1_, 402_n. 4_, 404, 405, 407_n. 1_, 454, 459ff., 463ff., 477, 581, 583; Abbesses of, 19, 61, 64, 171, 195, 196, 217, 318, 464, 477; _and see_ Boyfield, Eliz., _and_ Gascoigne, Agnes; accounts, 131_n._, 335_n._; bailiffs of, 227, 228, 249; boarders at, 411, 415; dilapidations at, 171; education of children at, 262, 263, 272ff., 569; election of Abbess at, 46ff.; fair of, 106_n. 2_; fashions at, 304, 586; hospitality at, 358_n. 5_; households of nuns at, 318, 320_n._, 321_n. 1_; learning of novices, 244; livings held by, 114; number of nuns at, 216; pensions demanded from, 195; Precentress of, 261_n. 2_; sacrist's accounts at, 136; treasuress to be appointed at, 223; visitations of, 497 Ely, Archdeacon of, 175 ---- Bishops of, 423; _see_ Alcock, John; Arundell, Thomas; Fordham, John of; Grey, William ---- fair, 138 Embroidery by nuns, 255ff., 287 Emma of Stapelton, 52, 53 ---- of York, 51ff. Ensfrid of Cologne, 54 Erasmus, 139, 376; _Colloquies_, 549ff. Erfurt, St Cyriac, 674 ---- St Martin, 676 Erle, Peter, 327 Erlham, John de, 268 Escherde, 681, 682 _Escoufle, L'_, 560_n._ Esholt Priory, 52, 170_n. 3_, 177, 213, 251_n. 2_, 390, 402, 405, 467_n. 3_, 601; bequest to, 326; children at, 263, 269, 284, 579; indulgence for contributors to repairs at, 175; immorality at, 284; Prioress of, 31, 57_n. 2_ Estates, management of, 71, 99, 100 Estrées, Angélique d', 451_n. 5_, 474 Eton, Robert de, 448 Etton, Alice, 31 Euphemia, Abbess of Wherwell, 29, 89, 90, 94, 169, 243, 501 Everesdon, John, 152 Everingham, Margaret, 449 Everyngham, Alice de, 442_n. 2_ Evesham Chronicle, 489_n. 1_ Evreux, St Sauveur, 636ff., 646 Ewer, Margaret, 370 Excommunication of nuns, 183 Exeter, Bishops of, 444, 445; _and see_ Stapeldon, Grandisson, etc. Eynsham Abbey, 449; Abbot of, 234 Fairfax family, 7, 15, 18_n. 4_, 19, 20 ---- Elizabeth, 328 ---- John, 327 ---- Margaret, 76, 77, 303_n. 1_, 327, 329, 399_n. 3_, 468_n. 4_, 500, 587 Fairs, 105, 106, 133, 138; _and see_ Stourbridge Fair Fairwell Priory, 217_n._, 220_n. 1_, 248, 320_n._, 356_n. 3_, 384, 416_n. 1_; children at, 272, 273, 578; dissolution of, 604 Falowfeld, Isabel, 362 "Farms," 101, 102, 209, 335 Favences, Antoinette de, 258 Faversham, Vicar of, 232 Feast of Fools, 312ff. Felawe, William, 328 Felton, Mary de, 442_n. 2_ Feriby, Benedict de, _see_ Broughton, Rector of Ferrar, Agnes, 185 _Ferry Woman, The_, 616 Ffychmere, Joan, 202 Fisher, Jane, 247_n. 2_ FitzAleyn, John, 267 ---- Katherine, 368 Fitzjames, Richard, Bishop of London, 385 FitzRichard, Elizabeth, 326 ---- John, 326 Fitzwilliam, Lady Isabel, 329 Flagge, Alice de la, 43, 45, 173 Flamstead, Matilda de, 57 ---- Priory, 59_n. 2_, 351, 458, 461; children at, 573; churches appropriated to, 113_n. 1_, 181; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; poverty of, 174, 177 Flemyng, Richard, Bishop of Lincoln, 22, 24, 217, 223, 226, 249, 263, 308_n. 1_, 384_n. 1_, 386, 407_n. 1_, 415, 459, 477 Fletcher, Joan, 88_n._, 467_n. 3_ Flixborough, Rector of, 235 Flixthorpe, Agnes de, 353, 443ff., 457, 467_n. 3_ Flixton Priory, 59_n. 1_, 63, 79, 168, 292_n. 2_, 340, 489_n. 2_; cloister and frater defective at, 170; poverty of, 181; Prioress of, 63, 65, 66, 307; _and see_ Pilly, Katherine Folgeham, Cecily, 22 Fonten, Margaret de, 446 Fontrevrault, Abbess of, 305_n. 6_, 360_n. 2_; cells of, 455; nuns of, 3, 343; rule of, 400_n. 2_ Fordham, John of, Bishop of Ely, 176, 177 Fosse Priory, 333; Master of, 231; poverty of, 165, 175, 184_n. 4_; Prioress of, 180, 250 Foster, Alice, 49 ---- Thomas, 208 Foukeholm, St Stephen's, 180, 448_n. 1_ Fountains, Abbot of, 375_n. 1_ Fox, Richard, Bishop of Winchester, 149, 252, 392 ---- John, 449 ---- William, 449 Franke, Beatrice, 365, 366 Frater, 315ff., 328, 648, 649; children in, 273; repair of, 125 Fratress of nunnery, 131, 132 Fraunceys, John, 207 Free Warren, Grants of, 105 Fréjus, Council of, 373 French, knowledge of, in 14th century, 246, 247 Froissart, 240, 428, 431, 435 Frost, Ellen, 22 Fulham, Nicholas de, 259_n. 3_ Furmage, Joan, 187, 338, 362 Fychet, John, 410 Gandersheim Abbey, 238; Roswitha's history of, 238 Gascoigne, Agnes, 46 ---- Thomas, 253, 254, 447_n. 6_, 531 Gaveston, Piers, 419 Geoffrey de Saint Belin, 345 George, Christopher, 149 Germyn, Helen, 480 Gertrud the Great, of Helfta, 239, 500 _Gesta Romanorum_, 516_n. 2_, 541 Ghent, Simon of, Bishop of Salisbury, 195, 201, 350, 528 Gibbs, Elizabeth, 243 Giffard, Agatha, 463, 464 ---- Alice, 462 ---- Godfrey, Bishop of Worcester, 350, 463, 464 ---- Juliana, 463, 462 ---- Mabel, 463 ---- Sir Osbert, 463ff. ---- Walter, Archbishop of York, 21, 166, 214, 229, 232, 247, 302, 355_n. 1_, 399_n. 3_, 463, 472_n. 1_, 482, 494_n. 1_, 635 Glastonbury, Abbot of, 162; _and see_ Whiting, Richard Gloucester, Duke of, 26 ---- Eleanor, Duchess of, 328_n. 5_ ---- Richard, Earl of, 161 ---- Thomas of, 418 Godstow Abbey, 2, 121, 162, 248, 249, 291_n. 2_, 292_n. 2_, 325, 347_n. 2_, 348, 351, 353, 384_n. 1_, 395ff., 401, 402, 405_n. 1_, 407_n. 1_, 440, 448_n. 1_, 449, 460, 582, 586, 635; Abbess of, 180, 270; _and see_ Henley, Alice; bailiff of, 148; boarders forbidden at, 414, 416, 578; books of, 253, 254, 277; claustration at, 348, 356_n. 5_, 357, 358_n. 1_; debts of, 164, 234; disorder at, 456; education of children at, 263, 273, 283, 319, 456; households of nuns at, 318ff.; Prior of, 230ff.; _Puerilia solemnia_ at, 312; _Register_ of, 17, 40, 206_n. 3_, 253; steward of, 205; visitors at, 408, 414 Gokewell Priory, 111_n. 3_, 332; children at, 576; households of nuns at, 318; poverty of, 163, 235; Prioress of, 23, 250; steward of, 235, 236_n. 2_ Goldesburgh, Joan, 469, 470 Goldwell, James, Bishop of Norwich, 461_n. 1_, 494_n. 1_ Goring Priory, 53_n. 2_, 301, 304, 351, 353, 358, 395, 457; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; dilapidations at, 171; poverty owing to lawsuits of, 202; violence at, 423, 424, 435 Gorsyn, Alice, 301 Gosden, William, 454 Gower, John, 447, 499, 509, 544, 545 Gower's _Temple of Glas, The_, 509, 510; _Vox Clamantis_, 499, 544, 545 Gowring, Jane, 32 Gracedieu Priory, 97, 110_n._, 111_n. 3_, 127, 149_n._, 154, 155, 205, 210, 358, 363, 364, 367, 382, 400_n. 1_; bailiff of, 257; boarders at, 418, 573ff.; cellaress of, 146, 272, 409; chaplain of, 145, 146; children at, 268, 272, 283, 409; debts of, 163; embroidery made at, 257; households of nuns at, 318, 320_n._; jewels, etc., pawned by, 210; mismanagement at, 225_n. 2_; _peculium_ for clothes given at, 323; Prioress of, 57, 61, 66, 80, 162, 180, 318, 413, 478, 484, 490; relics at, 116_n. 3_; treasuress of, 163, 323 Granary, repair of, 125, 157 Grandisson, John de, Bishop of Exeter, 183_n. 4_, 192, 193, 353 Grangyer, Joan, 152 Gravesend, Richard de, Bishop of Lincoln, 175 ---- Stephen, Bishop of London, 188, 481 Gray, Barbara, 48 ---- Richard, 465, 466 ---- William, Bishop of Lincoln, 24, 83, 216, 244, 249, 253, 272, 308_n. 1_, 319, 321, 325, 365, 396, 402, 405_n. 1_, 457, 488, 491 Great Billing, Rector of, 46 Green, Nicholas, 441_n._ Greenfield, Margaret, 455 ---- Priory, 180, 241, 330; corrodies, etc., granted by, 214_n. 4_; Prioress of, 61, 78, 180, 214; solitary confinement at, 30; titles remitted, 184_n. 2_ ---- William, Archbishop of York, 16, 26, 51ff., 214, 220, 222, 257_n. 2_, 264, 273, 302_n. 1_, 337, 339, 357, 362, 478, 491 Gregory X, 212 Grey, William, Bishop of Ely, 176 Grimeley, William de, 45 Grimsby, St Leonard's Priory, 111_n. 3_, 174, 177, 457; fire at, 172; Master of, 231, 232_n. 1_ Grome, Katherine, 168 Grosseteste, Robert, Bishop of Lincoln, 309, 471 Guest-house, 118, 119, 125, 157; accounts of, 120 Guiot de Provins, 542 Gurney, Joanna, 233 Gynewell, John, Bishop of Lincoln, 7, 200_n. 4_, 249, 262, 272, 273, 322_n._, 356_n. 5_, 357, 358, 374_n. 1_, 386, 400, 401, 415, 441_n._ Gyney, Joan, 189 Hainault, Bailiwick of, 105 ---- John of, 435 Hales, Thomas of, 513_n. 1_, 525 Halewey, Agnes, 83 _Hali Meidenhad_, 16, 40, 441, 525ff. Haliwell Priory, 2, 13, 34_n. 2_, 422_n. 2_, 442; alms given by, 120; Prioress of, 71, 442 Hallam, Bishop, 385 Halle, St George (Marienkammer), 673, 681 ---- St Maurice, 674 Hampole Priory, 113_n. 3_, 146, 213, 214, 320_n._, 326, 329, 339, 365_n. 3_, 401_n. 1_, 427, 428, 466_n. 1_, 477, 579, 601; and Richard Rolle, 532_n. 2_; bad administration at, 203; boarders at, 413_n. 4_, 414; children at, 272; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; Prioress of, 26, 83_n._, 205, 329_n. 5_, 339, 477 Hampole, Richard, 254 Hampton, Alice de, 189 Hanam, Elianora, 361_n. 1_ Handale Priory, 52, 57_n. 2_, 146, 175, 220_n. 5_, 361_n. 2_; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_, 231 Harcourt, Catherine d', 558 Harmer, Margaret, 168 Harold, Henry, 105, 422 ---- Isabel, 105 Harreyes, John, 449 Harrold Priory, 154, 226, 457, 465; children at, 272, 569; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; debts of, 162; financial mismanagement at, 205; Prioress of, 66, 205, 210 Harvesting, 128 Hatfield, Thomas, Bishop of Durham, 234 Haukeforth, Elizabeth, 33 Haunsard, John, 457 Hauteyn, Alice, 41 ---- Walter, 40, 41 Haverholme Priory, 35, 442_n. 2_ Head of house, conduct of, 80, 86, 87, 94, 643ff.; disciplinary powers of, 300, 302; dress, etc., of, 76, 77, 94; favouritism by, 66ff.; financial mismanagement by, 81ff., 203ff., 217ff.; hospitality of, 78, 79; journeys of, 69, 70ff.; luxurious living of, 74ff., 94, 211; _and see_ Abbess Hede, Dr, 282, 461, 482 Hedington, Sir Nicholas, 121 Hedsor, Margery, 457 Heidenheim, 237 Helewell, Ada de, 444 ---- Peter, 444, 445 ---- William, 444 Helfta, Convent of, 89, 239, 500 Helmsley, 242 Helmstedt, 682ff. Helswindis, Abbess, 28 Henley, Alice, 252, 253 Henry II, 308 ---- III, 346 ---- IV, 247 ---- VIII, 46, 78, 216, 313 Henwood Priory, 180; Prioress of, 180 Herars, John, 397 Hereford, Countess of, 196 Herminal, John de, 233 Hermyte, Isabel, Prioress, 88, 94 Herrad, Abbess, 239 Herryson, John, 152 Herward, Elene, 138 Hexham Priory, 426 ---- schools of, 426 Heyden, John, 325 Heynings Priory, 7, 22ff., 111_n. 3_, 155, 220, 226ff., 249, 291_n. 2_, 292_n. 2_, 322_n._, 337, 374_n. 1_, 400, 402_n. 4_, 459ff., 489, 581; accounts not kept at, 205; appropriation by, 209; children at, 263, 272, 273, 575, 576; claustration at, 357_n. 1_, 358_n. 1_; corrodies at, granted by, 209; _custos_ at, 231; hospitality at, 200; poverty of, 162, 177, 184, 209; Prioress of, 66, 67, 205, 210; restriction of numbers at, 215; seculars at, 409, 415, 416; treasuress of, 223 Heyroun, Margaret, 328, 330 ---- William, 328 Higham Ferrers College, 380_n. 4_ Hildesheim, St Mary Magdalen, 672, 675, 677, 680, 682 Hilton, Sir Robert de, 399_n. 3_ Hinchinbrooke Priory, 361_n. 1_; Prioress of, 180 Hodesak, Beatrice de, 365 Hohenburg, 239 Holewaye, Elizabeth, 442_n. 2_ Holland, Robert de, 36 Holm, Mary de, 52, 53 Holystone Priory, 427 Home Farm of Nunnery, 125ff., 133, 135, 137, 150, 151; harvesting on, 128, 129 Horde, Dr, 492 _Hortus Deliciarum_, 239 Hosey, Agnes, 33 Hours, Canonical, 286, 291ff.; irreverence at, 292, 293 Hubbart, Alicia, 441_n._ Humberstone Abbey, 377_n. 2_ Hunter, Matilda, 442_n. 2_ Huntingdon, Archidiaconate of, 175 ---- Priory, 308_n. 1_, 360_n. 1_ ---- St James' outside, 175 Hutton, Joan, 467_n. 3_ Hyde Abbey, 369; Abbot of, _see_ Bromele, Thos. Hylyarde, Elynor, 326 Hythe, Hamo of, Bishop of Rochester, 204, 218 Ickleton Priory, 184_n. 4_, 306, 400_n. 1_ Ilchester, St John's, Rector of, 233 ---- White Hall Priory, 386, 447; coadjutresses appointed at, 224; condition of, 233; _custodes_ of, 233; poverty of, 172; Prioress of, 88_n._, 172, 224, 233; _and see_ Chilterne; Draycote _Imitatio Christi_, 243 Indulgences, 174, 175 Infirmaress, 134 Infirmary, 316, 322, 649 Ingham, Katherine de, 39 Inglewood Forest, 429 Ingoldesby, Margaret, 412 Ingoldesthorpe, Sir John, 90 Innocent III, 363 Irford Priory, 244, 330 "Issues of the Manor," 109ff. Ivinghoe Priory, 175, 184_n. 4_, 357_n. 1_; Prioress of, 363, 364 Jafford, William de, 220 James I of Scotland, 510 James I's _King's Quair_, 510 James V of Scotland, 552 Jeanne de France, 342_n. 1_, 345 Jecke, Philippa, 66 Jerves, John, 265, 269 Joan de Barton, 88_n._ ---- Princess of Wales, 418 Jocelin of Brakelond, 45ff., 496 John of Gaunt, 19, 370_n. 5_, 418, 421_n. 1_ Johnson, Margaret, 326 ---- William, 399 Jordan, Isabel, 54, 55, 392 Joseph, Stephen, 37 Josiana de Anelagby, 362 Julian of Norwich, 366, 502_n. 1_ Juliana of Bromhale, 87, 211 Jumièges, Abbot of, 310_n. 2_ Jurdane, Isabel, 67 Keldholme Priory, 51ff., 111_n. 3_, 306, 360_n. 2_, 443_n. 2_, 448_n. 1_, 467, 477; moral state of, 598; Prioress of, _see_ Emma of Stapelton; Emma of York; Pykering, Joan de Kemp, John, Archbishop of York, 86, 175, 374 Kempe, Alice, 489 Kempis, Thomas à, 243 Kent, Holy Maid of, _see_ Barton, Elizabeth ---- Isabella de, 423, 424 Kentwood, Dean, 209, 261_n. 2_, 273, 307, 309, 405, 408 Kessingland, Rectory of, 114 Key, Thomas, 138, 147, 152 Kilburn Priory, 13, 18_n. 4_, 528; chaplain's chamber at, 144; library of, 241 King, Philippa, 453, 454 King's Mead Priory, 4, 262, 361_n. 1_; children at, 571; _custodes_ of, 234; hospitality of, 200; poverty of, 180, 234; Prior of, 230; relics at, 116_n. 3_ _King's Quair, The_, 510 Kington, St Michael, 255, 350, 360_n. 2_ Kippax, Rector of, 231 Kirkby, Margery, 81, 82, 167 Kirk Deighton, Rector of, 231 Kirklees Priory, 320_n. 1_, 325, 448_n. 1_; _custos_ of, 220_n. 5_, 230_n. 8_, 235, 236; moral state of, 599, 600; Prioress of, 180, 258, 620, 621 Kitcheness of nunnery, 131ff. Knaresborough, St Robert's, 231 Knight, Laurens, 267, 269 ---- Richard, 198 Knyghte, Elizabeth, 269, 279 ---- Jane, 269, 279 Koc, Margaret, 422 ---- William, 422 Kyme, 249_n. 7_ Kyrkeby, Margery, 405_n. 2_ Lacock Abbey, 2, 19_n. 3_, 268_n._, 497; alms given by, 121; claustration at, 350; visitors at, 238 Lacy, Henry de, 420 Lambley Priory, 426, 429 _Lamentations de Matheolus, Les_, 542, 543 Lampet, Julian, 366_n. 3_ Lancaster, Isabella de, 240, 455 ---- Joan, 138, 147_n. 5_, 327 ---- Margaret de, 417, 418 ---- Thomas of, 419 Lanercost Chronicle, 426 Langeland, Thomas, 88 Langeloft, Isabella de, 52 Langendorf Nunnery, 305_n. 4_ Langland, William, 30, 178, 202, 263, 297ff., 301, 308_n. 1_, 309, 310, 373, 390, 544 Langley Priory, 22, 23, 32, 111_n. 3_, 210, 306, 313_n. 5_, 333, 336, 402_n. 3_, 408, 412, 587; children at, 409, 575; corrody sold by, 207; embroidery at, 256, 257; households of nuns at, 318; illiteracy at, 250; poverty of, 162, 163, 205, 211; Prioress of, 207, 210, 250, 252 Langton, Thomas, 149 Lateran Council, Fourth, 21 Latin, knowledge of, by nuns, 246, 247 Latymer, Matilda, 330 Lawrence, Robert, 399 Lay-brothers, 288 Lee, Edward, Archbishop of York, 61_n. 2_, 154, 211, 220, 251_n. 2_, 284_n. 1_, 356_n. 5_, 390, 402, 405 Legbourne Priory, 23, 68, 78, 111_n. 3_, 153, 228, 330, 332, 356_n. 5_, 409, 412, 413; bailiff of, 148, 149, 205; boarders at, 576; corrody in, 205; _custodes_ of, 231, 236_n. 2_; dilapidated condition of property of, 170_n. 1_, 181; households of nuns at, 318; poverty of, 164, 205; Prioress of, 67, 71, 163, 170_n._, 205, 221; _status domus_ of, 221 _Legenda aurea_, 241 Legh, Margaret, 261_n. 2_ Leicester, Countess of, 257 Lelle, Avice de, 448_n. 1_ Leominster Priory, Sub-prior of, 449 Leycroft, Thomas Leygrave, Alice de, 196 ---- Ellen de, 196 ---- Juliana de, 196 Leyva, Virginia de, 474 Libaud, Sibyl, 421_n. 1_ ---- Thomas, 421_n. 1_ _Libel of English Policie_, 112 _Liber Poenitentialis_ of Theodore, 450_n. 3_ Lillechurch Priory, 143_n._, 603 Lilleshall, 265 _Limburg Chronicle_, 604 Limington, Rector of, 233 Lincoln, Archdeacon of, 90 ---- Bishops of, 44, 47, 120, 123; _and see_ Alnwick; Buckingham; Flemyng; Gravesend; Longland; Sutton ---- Cathedral, 465, 466 Lindesay, Sir David, 251, 510, 511, 549, 552ff. Lindesay's _Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_, 510, 549, 552ff. Lingiston, Thomas de, 449 Lioba, _see_ Bischofsheim, Abbess of Liseway, Roger, 198 Lisieux, St Désir, 636; financial state of, 637 Lisle, Honor, Viscountess, 258, 279 ---- Sibil de, 365 Little Chester, Simon of, 234 Little Coates, Vicar of, 232_n. 1_ Littlemore, Agnes de, 366 ---- Priory, 26, 60_n._, 265, 267, 269, 301, 448_n. 1_, 452, 578, 604; dilapidations at, 169; ill-fame of, 397, 491, 492, 582; moral state of, 595, 596; Prioress of, 180, 469, 477; _and see_ Wells, Katherine Llewelyn, 30, 185 Lokton, Anabilla de, 52 Londesborough, Rector of, 220, 231 London, 68, 70, 105, 191, 233 ---- Council of, 1200, 21, 585 ---- nunneries of, 99 Longland, John, Bishop of Lincoln, 23, 79, 153, 170, 208, 211, 273, 304, 312, 321, 356_n. 5_, 369, 374, 380, 387, 399, 404 Longspey, Alice, 397, 398, 449, 456, 460 Loughborough, 146 Loveday, Anne, 19 Loweliche, Denise, 64_n. 5_, 88_n._, 458, 460, 469, 486_n. 2_, 493 Ludlow, Gild of Palmers, 11 Luitgard of Tongres, 500, 525 _Luue Ron, A_, 16, 513_n. 1_, 525, 527 Lylis, John, 77 Lymbrook Priory, 113_n. 1_, 183, 248, 263, 309ff., 347_n. 2_, 356_n. 5_, 359_n. 3_, 367_n. 2_, 369, 377, 384, 403_n. 5_, 408_n. 2_, 449, 586; children at, 573; Prioress of, 361_n. 1_; private property at, 324, 325, 339_n. 2_ Lyminster, 478, 635 Lynn, King's, 43, 138, 147 Maiden Bradley, Prior of, 451 Malling Abbey, 2, 13, 56, 58_n._, 146; Abbess of, 20_n._, 57, 155_n. 1_, 180, 203, 204, 218; _and see_ Retlyng, Lora de; corrody granted in, 208_n. 2_; fair of, 106_n. 2_; financial mismanagement at, 203, 204; falling mill of, 107_n. 1_; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; prebends of, 144; seal of, 218 Malnouë, nuns of, 345 Malory, Sir Thomas, 514 Malory's _Morte Darthur_, 556, 557 Manorial courts, 103ff. Marcens, 433ff. Marcham, Agnes, 26, 397 Mare, Thomas de la, 244, 479 Margaret, Countess of Ulster, 39 Marham, Abbess of, 105, 380_n. 4_; chartulary of, 107 Marie de Bretagne, 305_n. 6_ ---- de France, 558 Marienberg, 682 Mariensee, 678ff. Markyate Priory, 154, 156, 351, 358, 408, 423, 450_n. 2_, 452, 457, 460; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; debts of, 162, 210; disorder at, 457, 458, 488, 491, 492; domestic economy of, 332; illiteracy at, 250; Prioress of, 64, 180, 250, 352; _and see_ Loweliche, Denise; visitation at, 351, 352, 354 Marlow, Little, Priory to, 174, 351, 366; children at, 570; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; prioresses of, 17_n. 2_; _and see_ Bernard, Eleanor; Vernon, Margaret Marmyll, Cecily, 455 Marrick Priory, 111_n. 3_, 201, 213, 214, 230_n. 8_, 326, 328, 356_n. 5_, 401_n. 1_, 428, 579; Prioress of, 148_n. 3_, 214 Marshall, Richard, 243 Marshalsea, the, 201 Martin IV, Pope, 209 Mason, Barbara, 380_n. 4_ _Matheolus, Les Lamentations de_, 542, 543 _Matrimony, The Christen State of_, 378 Matthew Paris, 240 Maundy Thursday, 142, 142_n. 3_, 143_n._ Mautravers, Sir John, 194 Maxstoke Priory, 210_n. 2_ Meaux Abbey, 449 Mechthild of Hackeborn, 239, 500 ---- of Magdeburg, 500, 525, 533 Medforde, Clemence, 73, 76, 77, 81, 82, 166, 167, 218, 221, 234, 330, 361_n. 1_, 377, 405_n. 2_, 490 Melton, William de, Archbishop of York, 199, 235, 248_n. 7_, 264, 301, 329, 356_n. 4_, 365, 373, 427, 467, 468_n. 1_, 469, 477 _Menagier de Paris_, 563 _Messe des oisiaus, etc._, 539 Mestowe, Hundred of, 105, 422, 422_n. 2_ Metham, Margaret, 138 Middle class, rise of, 9ff. Middleton, manor-house at, 90 Minchin Barrow Priory, 4, 188, 358_n. 4_; _custos_ of, 153; poverty of, 184_n. 4_; Prioress of, 71 Minories, the, 2, 3, 12, 13, 26, 39, 100, 114, 146, 176_n. 3_, 328_n. 5_ Minster Priory, 20 _Misericord_, 316 Mistress of novices, 134 Mitford, Katherine, 33 Molynes, Lord, 423 Montagu, Katherine, 442_n. 2_ Montfort, Isabel de, 73 ---- Peter de, 30 ---- Simon de, 346 Montivilliers Abbey, 560_n._, 636, 641, 647; Abbess of, 644, 650; financial state of, 637 Montmartre, nuns of, 345 More, Avice de la, 58, 59 Mori, Gui de, 532 Mortimer, daughters of, 420, 450, 451 ---- Roger, 420 Mortival, Bishop, 213 Morton, John, Archbishop of Canterbury, 219, 230_n. 6_, 480, 482_n. 1_ Mortuaries, 107ff. Mounceaux, Ella de, 457 Mowbray, Katherine, 598 Moxby, 58_n._, 122, 199, 217_n._, 325, 385, 402_n. 4_, 429, 447, 580; bakehouse and brewhouse of, dilapidated, 170; debts of, 200, 220_n. 4_; destroyed by Scots, 427; masters of, 231; moral state of, 599; prioresses of, 148_n. 3_, 427; _and see_ Apelgarth, Sabina de, _and_ Bartone, Joan; Whenby Church appropriated to, 113_n. 1_ Muisis, Gilles li, 305, 542, 543, 661 ---- "Register" of, 543, 544 Munkton, John, 77, 303_n. 1_, 399_n. 3_ Musgrave, Agnes, 365 Mydelsburg, Thomas, 220_n. 5_ _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, 253, 254, 293, 531, 532 Myssenden, James, 326 Neasham, St Mary's, 31, 170_n. 3_, 402_n. 4_; Prioress of, 360_n. 2_ Needlework in nunneries, 255, 256 Nether Sutton, 184 Nevers, nuns of, 305, 593; _and see_ Vert-Vert Neville's Cross, Battle of, 428 Newark, Henry of, Archbishop, 248, 338_n. 3_ ---- Ermentrude, 441 Newburgh Priory, 232; Prior of, 184 Newcastle, St Bartholomew's Priory, 362_n. 3_; appropriations to, 172; _custos_ of, 234; fire at, 172; poverty of, 234; Prioress of, 360_n. 2_ Newemerche, Elizabeth de, 329 Newhouse Abbey, 230, 387, 399_n. 3_ Newington, Prioress of, 305 Newman, Nicholas, 149 Newmarch, Jane, 18 Newton, Matilda, 366_n. 3_ Nicke, Richard, Bishop of Norwich, 63, 65, 183, 388, 461, 484_n. 1_ Nicolson, Margaret, 48 _Nonnes, Chansons de_, 437 Norbery, Lady Anne, 267 Norbury, Roger de, Bishop of Lichfield, 21, 190_n._, 248 Noreton, Roger de, 165 Norfolk, Thomas, family of, 35 Northallerton, St Stephen's nunnery, 428_n. 3_ Northampton, Archdeacon of, 174, 175, 353, 441 ---- Battle of, 45 ---- Friary at, 388 ---- St James, Abbot of, 220 Northeleye, Rector of, _see_ Joseph, Stephen Northlode, Alice de, 194, 452 ---- John de, 194 Norwich, Bishops of, 57, 63, 65, 175, 309_n. 6_, 411; _and see_ Goldwell _and_ Nicke ---- Isabel, 168, 336 ---- Priory, 210_n. 2_, 388 ---- Tombland in, 91 Nottingham, Archdeacon of, 444 _Novellae Definitiones_ of Cistercians, 362 Novice, the, 1ff., 352, 260, 261; mistress of, 134, 261_n. 2_; teacher of, 260 Noyon, Robert de, 263 _Nun who Loved the World, The_, 511 _Nun, Why I can't be a_, 545ff. Nunappleton Priory, 16, 52, 61_n. 2_, 87, 154_n. 1_, 200, 213, 251_n. 2_, 248_n._, 322_n._, 326, 338_n. 3_, 339, 373, 374, 389, 400, 402_n. 4_, 406, 410, 445, 601; accounts of, audited, 220; boarders at, 417, 580; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; gifts to, 326ff.; poverty of, 184_n. 4_, 200; Prioress of, 326; visitations of, 497, 635 Nunburnholme Priory, 53_n. 2_, 213, 365_n. 3_, 400_n. 1_, 428, 478; boarders at, 580; _custos_ of, 220, 230_n. 8_; Prioress of, 478 Nuncoton Priory, 22, 23, 33, 111_n. 3_, 153, 211, 215, 217_n._, 263, 291, 292, 301, 330, 332, 337, 358, 371, 374, 380, 381_n. 2_, 382, 387, 399, 402_n. 4_, 408_n. 4_, 457; boarders of, 413, 576; bondmen of, alienated, 205; corrodies sold at, 205, 207, 208; debts of, 225_n. 4_; frater at, 317_n. 1_; households of nuns at, 318; invalids at, 259_n. 1_; jewels, etc., pawned, 211; master of, 231; Prioress of, 79, 153, 205, 211, 408; revels at, 312, 313; seculars at, 409 Nuneaton Priory, 2, 3, 14, 34_n. 1_, 146, 186, 421_n. 1_, 441_n._; alms given by, 120; numbers of nuns at, 215 Nunkeeling Priory, 6, 52, 58, 184_n. 4_, 212, 257, 291_n. 2_, 357_n. 5_, 427, 448_n. 1_, 477, 598; boarders at, 580; bursars of, 223; cellaress of, 469; enforced reception of nuns at, 212; Prioress of, _see_ More, Avice de la; St Quintin, Isabella de Nunmonkton Priory, 7, 15, 18_n. 4_, 111_n. 3_, 399_n. 3_, 427, 469, 494_n. 1_, 580, 587, 601; Prioress of, 19, 242; _see_ Fairfax, Margaret Nunneries, amusements in, 303, 304ff., 662; animals in, 662, 663; aristocratic members of, 3ff., 12ff., 73, 74, 194, 212, 255, 324, 503; books of, 239ff.; children in, 264ff., 496, 568ff., 655ff.; episcopal disapproval of, 270ff., 568ff., 655ff.; _custodes_ of, 228ff.; discipline in, 300ff.; disputes in, 300ff.; education of girls in, 260ff., 568ff.; _and see_ children in; election of superior in, 43ff.; expenses of, 117ff., 134, 183, 211, 636ff.; farm labourers of, 150, 151; financial difficulties of, 161ff., 180ff., 217ff., 655; mismanagement of, 166ff., 179_n. 3_, 203ff., 235; food supplies of, 138ff., 332ff., 334ff., 640ff.; girls forced into, 33ff.; home farms of, 109ff.; hospitality at, 200, 201, 401ff., 417ff., 649; household staff of, 150, 151; illiteracy in, 250ff.; income of, 2, 3, 100ff., 134, 161, 183, 223, 270, 641; earmarked, 135; Latin, study of, in, 246, 247, 249, 250, 276, 286, 288; middle-class members of, 10ff., 26; moral state of, 436ff., 597ff., 665ff., 675; numerical size of, 2, 3, 161, 213, 215, 215_n. 4_; overcrowding of, 212ff., 225; payments for reception into, 17ff., 658; pensions demanded from, 194ff.; private rooms in, 318ff., 328, 336, 654; quarrels in, 663ff.; reasons for entering, 25ff., 290; repairs to, 123ff., 135; right of nominating to, 189ff., 244_n. 1_; routine in, 285ff., 475ff.; ruinous condition of, 168ff.; satirists on, 533ff.; seculars in, 401ff., 446, 470, 660ff.; separate households (_familiae_) in, 272ff., 316ff., 332, 335, 336, 338, 654, 655; servants of, 129, 143ff., 651; _status domus_ of, 221, 484; weak-minded in, 33, 34; widows in, 38ff. Nuns, almsgiving by, 118, 120, 121, 132, 649; annuities for, 324, 325; beer allowance of, 141, 141_n._, 167, 168_n. 1_; bread allowance of, 141_n._, 167, 168_n. 2_; Bible reading by, 254, 255; claustration of, 7, 71, 72, 78, 173, 201_n. 2_, 228, 259, 303, 341ff., 543, 660ff.; clothes of, 119, 135, 136, 211, 235, 255, 302_n. 1_, 303ff., 315, 329ff., 585ff., 663, 674, 675; dowries of, 17ff., 191_n. 1_, 214, 224, 268; education, etc., of, 237ff.; food allowances for, 334, 564ff., 648, 649; journeys out of cloister by, 354ff.; legacies to, 325ff.; linguistic learning of, 246, 247, 276, 288; love and, in medieval popular literature, 622ff.; money allowance of, 141, 338ff.; penances of, 466ff.; personal property of, 19, 20, 272, 273, 315ff., 322ff., 337ff., 651ff., 672ff.; pets of, 302, 303, 305ff.; pilgrimages of, 371ff.; pocket money (_peculium_) of, 322, 323, 331, 334, 336ff.; occupations of, 251ff., 285ff.; recreation of, 259; songs about, 502ff. Nuremberg, library of Dominicans at, 240_n. 2_ ---- St Clare, 239 Obedientiaries, 131, 132, 150, 219, 319, 322, 367; _and see_ Cellaress, Treasuress, etc. Odiham, John de, 198 Oignies, Mary of, 525 Okeley, Katherine, 397, 398 Oldyngton, Henry de, 197 Olifaunt, Elizabeth, 420 ---- William, 420 Olyfard, Hugh, 420, 421 Origny, nunnery of, 432ff. Orwell, 188 Oseney, Abbot of, 396 Ottobon, Constitutions of, 338, 346, 354, 367, 369 Oundyl, Henry, 203 Overton, William, 242 Oxborow, Parson of, _see_ Wiggenhall, John Oxford, Council of, 1222, 21, 165, 310, 323, 337, 338, 415 ---- St Frideswide, 308_n. 1_ ---- scholars of, 325, 395, 396, 398, 456, 460 Page, Robert, 152 Palmer, Robert, 152 Panham, Countess of, 257 Pantolfe, Sir William, 251 Pape, Thomas, 399_n. 3_ Papelwyk, Sibil, 67, 68 Paris, Faculty of Theology at, 314 Paston, Edmond, 10 ---- John, 10_n._, 72, 423 ---- Margaret, 267_n. 1_, 302 ---- Margery, 411, 412 Patent, Joan, 322_n._ Pateshull, Sir John, 411 Patryk, Alice, 327 Pavy, Joan, 412 Paynel, Cecilia, 370 Peasants' Revolt, 114 Peckham, John, Archbishop of Canterbury, 27, 60, 62, 64, 149, 156_n. 7_, 167, 188, 191, 217, 223, 224, 230_n. 8_, 232, 248, 258_n. 4_, 306, 307, 312, 313, 346ff., 353, 358, 385_n. 2_, 387, 390_n. 5_, 407, 416, 456, 464, 487, 581, 586 Pecok, Reginald, Bishop of Chichester, 447_n. 6_ Peke, William, 18 Pelayo, Alvar, 545_n. 1_ Pelham, Maud, 452 Pembroke, Countess of, 330 Percy, Joan de, 597, 598 ---- Lady Margaret, 411 ---- Sir W., 146 Peresson, John, 152 Pergolotti, Francesco, 111 _Periculoso_, 343_n. 3_, 344ff., 350, 353, 354, 360, 367, 376, 440 _Persones Tale_, Chaucer's, 295, 296 Peruzzi, the, 9 Perys, Edmund, 43, 91, 92 Peterborough Abbey, 200, 291 ---- Abbots of, 44, 45, 115, 230, 444, 481 Philippa, Queen, 198 ---- Duchess of York, 418 Pilgrimage of Grace, 282 Pilgrimages, 371ff. Pilly, Katherine, 57, 58 Pinley, 30 Pirckheimer, Charitas, 239, 500 ---- Wilibald, 501 Pisan, Christine de, _Livre du dit de Poisy_, 558ff. Pittancer, 143 Pittances, 112, 118, 120, 135, 142, 143, 147, 155, 221, 223, 323, 328_n. 2_, 334, 336, 370, 522, 567, 568 Plagues, medieval, 178ff.; _and see_ Black Death Plantagenet, Bridget, 276, 279ff. ---- Elizabeth, 279 Playce, Robert de, 18 Pocket money (_peculium_), 322, 323 Poer, Maude, 410 _Poisy, Livre du dit de_, 558ff. Poisy, Priory of, 558ff. ---- Prioress of, _see_ Bourbon, Marie de Poitiers, Holy Cross, 345 Pole, Katherine de la, 42, 263, 270, 571 Polesworth Abbey, 160, 366, 416_n. 1_; Abbess of, 42_n. 1_, 217_n. 1_; alms given by, 120; children at, 265, 267, 282, 579; servants of, 159 Poleter, Robert le, 198 Polsloe Priory, 171_n. 2_, 190, 242, 248, 259_n. 1_, 286, 353, 386, 403_n. 5_, 408_n. 2_, 416_n. 1_; claustration relaxed at, 354, 355; meals at, 317; poverty of, 192, 193; presentation of accounts at, 219 Poncher, �tienne, 345 Pontefract, 419 Pontoise, John of, Bishop of Winchester, 156, 183, 195, 218ff., 244_n._, 259_n. 1_, 336, 350, 387 Poore, Richard, Bishop of Salisbury, 527 Popeley, Elizabeth, 88_n._ Porter, Alice, 67 ---- James, 198 ---- Richard, 152 Portsmouth, Joan, 453 Potton, Rectory of, 114 Poutrelle, Agnes, 67 Powes, Emma, 361_n. 1_ _Pratica della Mercatura_, 111 Pratt, Ralph, 462 Praty, Richard, Bishop of Chichester, 340 Preaux, St Leger, 636; Abbess of, 643; financial state of, 637 Precentrix of nunnery, _see_ Chantress Prémontré, nuns of, 343 Prestewych, Margaret de, 35, 36 Preston, Anne, 46, 49 ---- Margery, 49 Prioress, _see_ Head of house Proctors for begging, 173, 174 Punchardon, Margaret de, 365 Punder, Margaret, 63 Pyghtesley, Richard, 103 Pykering, Joan de, 51ff. ---- Margaret de, 328_n. 1_ Pykkell, Robert, 152 Rading, Philippa de, 198 Radyngton, Joan de, 224 _Raoul de Cambrai_, 432ff., 560_n._ Rasponi, Felice, 474, 501 Ratclyff, Margaret, 44, 102 Raulyn, 202 Rayn, John, 46, 47 Raynevill, Thomas de, 466_n. 1_ Reading, Abbot of, 279 Receiver of nunnery, 99, 100, 147, 151, 219 Redlingfield Priory, 64_n. 6_, 249, 263, 319_n. 3_, 452, 468, 578 ---- Prioresses of, 64, 65, 467; _see_ Hermyte, Isabel Redynges, Margaret, 202 Relics, 116, 117 Rennes, Cloth of, 76, 77 "Rents of Assize," 101, 102 Rents from lands and houses, 100, 101, 118, 119 Retlyng, Lora de, 204 Reymound, Thomas, 242 Reynolds, Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, 36, 37, 179 Rich, Margaret, 117 Richemond, Elianore, 152 Ridel, Mary, 198, 199 Rievaulx, Abbot of, _see_ Aelred Rigaud, Eudes, Archbishop of Rouen, 163_n. 4_, 255_n. 2_, 258, 271, 305_n. 3_, 308_n. 2_, 310_n. 2_, 312, 324, 337_n. 2_, 338_n. 3_, 380_n. 4_, 450_n. 3_, 473, 491, 587, 635ff. Ripon Minster, 377_n. 2_ Roche, Abbot of, 214 ---- Joan de la, 189 Rochester, Bishops of, 208_n. 2_; _and see_ Hythe, Hamo of Roger atte Bedde, 197 Rolf, Katherine, 157 Rolle, Richard, of Hampole, 532_n. 2_, 533 _Rolls of Parliament_, quoted, 196 Romayn, Alice, 442_n. 2_ Romeyn, John de, Archbishop of York, 26, 53, 184, 231, 361_n. 1_, 411 Romsey, Abbess of, 60ff., 118, 167, 170_n. 2_, 185, 195, 216, 217, 224, 248, 252, 306, 308, 350, 410, 461; _and see_ Broke, Elizabeth; Rowse, Joyce; Walerand, Agnes; accounts of, 101_n._, 118, 219; animals at, 307; coadjutress appointed to, 224; children at, 572, 573; corrodies at, 190, 198, 199; dilapidations at, 169, 170; disorder at, 461, 462; _magister noviciarum_ at, 261; Manor courts of, 104_n. 2_; mills of, 118; mismanagement at, 167, 218; numbers at, 215_n. 4_, 216; obedientiaries of, 132; pensioners at, 195; pittances at, 259_n._, 324; poverty of, 173, 181, 210; prebendary canons of, 144, 229; private property at, 337, 339_n. 5_; pupils at, 273; servants of, 156; taxation of, 185; too many nuns at, 212, 213; visitations of, 496; visitors at, 238, 407, 408, 416 Romsey Abbey, 2ff., 7, 21, 26, 58_n._, 88_n._, 111_n. 2_, 113_n. 1_, 132, 149, 162, 186ff., 210, 213_n. 1_, 217_n._, 218, 220, 259, 263, 291_n. 2_, 292_n. 2_, 301, 304_n. 1_, 320_n._, 322_n._, 348ff., 353, 358_n. 3_, 361_n. 1_, 367_n. 2_, 369, 380, 384_n._, 386, 389, 395, 400_n. 1_, 402_n. 4_, 404, 416, 424, 448_n. 1_, 454, 482, 558, 583, 584, 586, 587 Roos, Eleanor, 242 ---- Joan, 328 ---- Sir Robert de, 242, 328 Rosedale Priory, 53, 111_n. 3_, 205, 306, 339, 360, 400_n. 1_, 467_n. 3_, 580, 584, 601; dilapidations at, 170; destruction of, by Scots, 427; process of, 222; relics at, 117; _status domus_ of, 222 Roselis, Joan de, 52 Roswitha, 238, 239 Rotherham, Thomas, Archbishop of York, 177, 374, 389, 406, 417 Rothwell Church, 463 Rothwell Priory, 98, 161, 171_n. 2_, 304_n. 1_; begging license granted to, 174; boarders at, 424; debts of, 162, 173, 211; Desborough church appropriated, 113_n. 1_; Prioress of, 180, 250, 445; violent scene at, 424 Rouen, St Amand, 636; Abbess of, 644; accounts of, 639; financial state of, 637, 638 Rouen, St Paul by, 636, 641, 646 Rowney Priory, 171_n. 2_, 176_n. 3_, 423, 443; alms-collector appointed for, 173; master of, 231; Prioress of, 584 Rowse, Joyce, 149, 493 Rudd, Agnes, 326 Rummynge, Elynour, 389 Rusper Priory, 4, 79, 91_n._, 144, 245, 399_n. 3_, 462, 494_n. 1_, 583; poverty of, 153; Prioress of, 79, 221_n. 1_, 462 Russel, Alice, 464 Rutebeuf, 375 Sackfelde, Margaret, 209 Sacrist of nunnery, 131, 132, 134; accounts of, 136 Sadler, Hugh, 397 St Agnes of Bohemia, 500 St Albans Abbey, 70, 230, 245, 335, 456_n. 4_, 479, 482 ---- Abbots of, 56_n. 2_, 259_n. 1_, 335, 361_n. 2_, 476, 480; _see_ Mare, Thomas de la _St Albans, The Boke of_, 239 St Albans Chronicle, 429ff. St Aldhelm, 303 St Andrews, Bishop of, 418 St Aubin's Priory, 636, 646; financial state of, 637, 638; moral state of, 667, 668 St Bernardino of Siena, 518_n. 1_ St Boniface, 237 St Caesarius of Arles, 343 _St Catherine, Life of_, 239 St Christina of Stommeln, 501 St Clare, 500 ---- Order of, 417, 418 St Douceline, 501 St Elizabeth of Schönau, 239 St Francis of Paula, 345 St Francis de Sales, 363, 392 St Hildegard of Bingen, 239 St Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, 262, 263 St John Baptist, Fair of, 138, 139 _St Katherine of Alexandria, Life of_, Capgrave's, 243 St Lydwine of Schiedam, 501 St Mary Graces, Abbot of, 375_n. 1_ St Paul, John de, 195 St Quintin, Anne, 327 ---- Isabella de, 469 St Saens Priory, 636, 641, 646; financial state of, 637ff.; inventory of, 641; moral state of, 668, 669 St Sepulchre's, Canterbury, _see_ Canterbury, Holy Sepulchre St Theresa, 501 Salimbene, 27, 634 Salisbury, Bishops of, 189, 190 Saltmershe, Maud, 22 Salwayn, Sir Roger, 260 Sanctuary, 420ff. _Satyre of the Thrie Estaits, Ane_, 510, 549, 552ff. Sauvage, William, 420 Savernake, Forest of, 105, 172 Saxony, 239 Saxton, Roger de, 235 Scorue, Isabella de, 487 Screvyn, Agnes de, 336, 337 Scrope, Eleanor Lady, 39 Scroupe, Jane, 278 Seal, Common, of nunnery, 218, 225, 248_n. 7_ Seckworth, William de, 40 Sele, William, 399 Sempringham Priory, 35, 228, 326, 328, 420; fire at, 171_n. 3_ ---- Chronicle of, 419 ---- Order of, 537 Senoke, Sir John, 415 Sens, Council of, 369 Sermons, medieval, 249, 518ff., 518_n. 1_ Seton Priory, 36, 478, 479 Sevekworth, John de, 447 Sewardby, Elizabeth, 19, 166_n. 4_ ---- William, 19 Sewardsley Priory, 34_n. 1_, 174, 351, 353, 419, 457ff., 461; appropriation of church to, 181; begging license granted to, 174; church appropriated to, 113_n. 1_; disorder at, 458, 459; fair of, 106_n. 2_; master of, 231 Shaftesbury, Abbess of, 78_n. 5_, 162, 185, 188, 190, 195; _see_ Bauceyn, Juliana; Ferrar, Agnes; Furmage, Joan; Giffard, Mabel ---- Abbey, 2, 30, 101_n._, 146, 181, 186, 188, 189, 243, 268_n._, 300_n. 1_, 338, 339, 385_n. 2_, 421_n. 1_, 464, 482, 558; appropriations to, 113_n. 1_, 176, 182; bread allowance at, 141_n._; claustration at, 350; corrodies at, 198, 199; financial difficulties of, 162, 177, 182, 187; hospitality at, 238; license to crenellate, 424; number of nuns at, 213, 215_n. 4_; pensions demanded from, 195; prebendary canons of, 144, 228_n. 5_; Prioress of, 328; _Register_ of, 141_n._; resident chaplains at, 144; steward of, 146 Sheen, Agnes of, 440 Sheldon, Matilda, 46, 48 Shelley, Elizabeth, 279ff. Sheperd, Richard, 107 Sheppey Priory, 13, 20, 147, 154_n. 1_, 156, 158, 159, 221_n. 1_, 300_n. 2_, 313, 325_n. 1_, 330_n. 6_, 336, 403, 494_n. 1_; cattle owned by, 126, 127; "confessor's chamber" at, 145, 147_n. 1_; dorter at, 319; library at, 241; numbers at, 216; servants of, 159; "steward's chamber" at, 147_n. 1_ Sherburn, Bishop, 170, 462 Shouldham Priory, 7, 25, 26, 330_n. 3_, 420; Prior of, 91, 420 Shrewsbury, George, Earl of, 146 ---- Ralph of, Bishop of Bath and Wells, 21, 188, 194, 224, 410, 452 Sinclere, Elizabeth, 49 Sinningthwaite Priory, 214, 217, 249_n. 7_, 251_n. 2_, 284_n._, 291_n. 2_, 302_n. 1_, 320_n._, 381_n. 2_, 402, 428, 446; children at, 273, 580; claustration relaxed at, 356_n. 5_; _custos_ of, 231; jewels pledged, 211; poverty of, 154, 165, 211; Prioress of, 31, 217, 273, 302_n. 1_; relics at, 116; visitation of, resisted, 482 Skelton, quoted, 139, 278, 590ff., 603 Skerning, Roger de, Bishop of Norwich, 175 Skirlaw, Joan, 327, 328 ---- Walter, Bishop of Durham, 73, 327, 328 Skotte, Alice, 22 Slibre, John, 152 Slo, Katherine, 328 Smith, John, 453, 454 ---- Margaret, 167 Snawe, Helen, 46ff. Snowe, William, 399_n. 3_ Sompnour, Richard, 452 Sonnenburg, Abbess of, 377_n. 4_ Sopwell Priory, 13, 245, 259_n. 1_, 265, 370, 378_n. 3_, 402_n. 4_, 456_n. 4_, 476, 479, 481, 581; accounts of, 267; _custos_ of, 230; children at, 263, 573; Prioress of, 245, 370, 480; _and see_ Berners, Juliana; Flamstead, Matilda de; Germyn, Helen; Webbe, Elizabeth; seculars at, 406; warden of, 480 Southwark, St Thomas the Martyr, 442_n. 2_ Spalding, Robert de, 231 _Sparrow, Philip_, 305, 412, 590ff. Sperri, Reyner, 26 Sperry, Joan, 365_n. 3_ Spina, Juliana de, 244_n. 1_ Spinning by nuns, 255 _Spiritualities_, 100, 113ff. Spofford, Thomas, Bishop of Hereford, 23_n. 1_, 339, 356_n. 5_, 377, 384 Stafford, John, Archbishop of Canterbury, 447_n. 6_ Stainfield Churchyard, 390_n. 5_ ---- Priory, 38, 111_n. 3_, 199, 292, 365, 381_n. 2_, 409; church appropriated to, 113_n. 1_; Prioress of, 61 Stamford, St Michael's, 23, 44, 49_n._, 70, 117, 122, 123, 128, 129, 135_n. 3_, 142, 164, 180, 200_n._, 236, 310, 332, 334, 350, 358, 368, 402_n. 3_, 408, 443ff., 449, 450, 457, 460, 465, 480, 481, 584; accounts of, 70, 97, 98, 115, 117_n. 4_, 118_n._, 120, 128, 136, 143_n._, 163, 202, 221, 323, 370; alms given by, 121; begging license granted to, 174; boarders at, 414, 415, 577, 578; chambress of, 136, 323; children at, 265, 272, 283, 459; churches appropriated to, 115, 128, 135_n. 4_, 143_n._; debts of, 221; disorder at, 491, 492; financial mismanagement at, 204, 225_n. 2_; guests at, 120; households of nuns at, 318; litigation by, 201; _peculium_ for clothes at, 323; pension paid by, 199, 200; pittances at, 143_n._, 324, 334; Prior of, 230, 233; Prioress of, 57, 62, 66, 80, 162, 199, 204, 221, 233, 235, 250, 310, 318, 323, 368_n. 4_, 452, 460; treasuresses of, 111, 128, 185_n. 6_, 202, 205, 235, 368_n. 4_; warden, special, appointed, 233 Stanley, Agnes, 442_n. 2_ ---- Isabel, Prioress, 4 ---- Sir John, 263 Stapeldon, Walter de, Bishop of Exeter, 219, 224, 248, 259_n. 1_, 286, 354, 357, 376, 406_n. 1_ Stapelton, Emma of, 52, 53 Starkey, Cecilia, 46, 47, 49 _Status domus_, 221 Staunton, Richard de, 229 Steinfeld Monastery, 108 Stevyn, Joan, 454 Steward of nunnery, 99, 100, 103, 112, 143, 146, 147, 149, 221, 250, 267 Stil, Clarice, 35ff., 500 ---- Robert, 36, 37 ---- William, 37 Stixwould Priory, 111_n. 3_, 228ff.; boarders at, 413, 417, 576; children at, 265, 409; debts of, 162, 184_n. 4_; domestic economy of, 332; frater at, 317_n. 1_; households of nuns at, 318, 320_n._; master of, 230; Prioress of, 66, 78 Stok, William de, 230_n. 5_ Stokesley, John, Bishop of London, 447_n. 6_ Stommeln, Christina von, 27_n. 2_ Stonore, John, 17_n. 2_ Stories, medieval, 515ff. Story, Edward, Bishop of Chichester, 453 Stourbridge Fair, 125, 138 Stow, William, 241 Strasburg, 239 Stratford, Abbot of, 375_n. 1_, 481 ---- John de, Bishop of Winchester, 7, 189, 212 ---- Priory, 13, 27, 32, 51_n._, 191, 577; poverty of, 191, 192; Prioress of, 191, 192 Stretford, Jonette de, 189 Stretton, Robert de, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, 36, 248, 272, 384 Studley, Isabella de, 301_n._ ---- Priory, 26, 153_n. 3_, 156, 168_n. 1_, 208, 268_n._, 304_n. 1_, 351, 380, 397, 398, 399_n. 1_, 408_n. 2_, 587; claustration relaxed at, 356_n. 5_, 358; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; debts of, 211; Prioress of, 66, 208, 209, 358, 447 Sturges, Dorothy, 32, 33 Style, N., 453 Suffewyk, William, 445 Suffield, Walter de, Bishop of Norwich, 175 Surlingham Church, 113 Suthwell, John de, 85 Sutton, Oliver, Bishop of Lincoln, 176_n. 3_, 231, 232, 440, 447 ---- Richard, 441_n._ ---- William de, 233 Sutton-on-Derwent, Rector of, 231 Swaffham, Agnes, 327 Swaffham Bulbeck Priory, 263; accounts of, 98, 102_n. 1_, 279; children at, 265, 268, 279, 570, 571; mill of, 107_n. 1_; Prioress of, _see_ Ratclyff, Margaret Swine Priory, 15, 21, 52, 53, 111_n. 3_, 146, 213, 214, 228, 229, 248, 291_n. 2_, 320_n._, 337_n. 3_, 355_n. 1_, 399_n. 3_, 427, 449, 472_n. 1_, 580, 581, 586; books left to, 242_n. 5_; _custos_ of, 229ff., 230_n. 8_; dilapidations at, 170; disobedience at, 302; gifts to, 326; mismanagement at, 166, 223; papal exemption from tithes, 184_n. 2_; prioresses of, 73, 166, 169, 223, 302, 329; _and see_ Anlaby, Josiana de; Skirlaw, Joan; visitation of, 449_n. 1_, 635 Swine, Vicar of, 242 Swinfield, Richard de, Bishop of Hereford, 183 Swynford, Elizabeth, 110, 333 Symon, Katherine, 168 Syon Abbey, 2, 3, 67, 98, 136, 140, 141_n. 1_, 146, 253, 256, 268_n._, 586; Abbesses of, 104, 105, 366_n. 3_; _and see_ Gibbs, Eliz.; building accounts of, 92_n._; cellaress of, 98, 111_n. 1_, 122, 131_n._, 136, 139, 368; accounts of, 136, 333; chambress of, 131_n._, 136, 137, 368; dumb signs at, 287; library of, 240_n. 2_, 242; _Myroure of Oure Ladye_ written for, 531, 532; privileges of, 103, 104; _Rule_ of, 132ff., 141, 286, 287, 584, 585; Sacrist's accounts of, 131_n._, 136 Syward, John, 11 ---- Dionisia, 11 Talbot, Thomasine, 167 Talke, Anne, 467_n. 3_ Tanfield, Amicia, 403 Tang, Margaret de, 467_n. 3_ Tarrant Keynes Abbey, 2, 101_n._, 350, 424; Abbess of, 71; and _Ancren Riwle_, 527, 528; debts of, 164; Fair of, 106_n. 2_ Tates, Joan, 88 Tawke, Agnes, 4, 88_n._, 211 Taylour, William, 82, 84, 463 _Temporalities_, 100ff., 182, 186, 187, 204, 205, 228, 235 Terbock, 149 Terrington, Maud of, 443_n. 2_, 467 Thanet, Abbess of, _see_ Eadburg Thélème, Abbey of, 32, 539 Thetford Priory, 33, 210_n. 2_, 260, 267, 269, 361_n. 1_, 577; corrody granted by, 208; poverty of, 182; Prioress of, 32 Thicket Priory, 111_n. 3_, 146, 177, 213, 291_n. 2_, 428, 601; bequests to, 325; dilapidations at, 170; Prioress of, 61 Thirkleby, Vicar of, 231 Thomson, Johann, 326 Thormondby, Agnes de, 445 Thornton, Abbot, 365 ---- Robert, 396 Thornton-upon-Humber, 387 Thornyf, Katherine, 374, 375 Thorpe, William, 241, 372_n. 2_ Timber, sale of, by nuns, 210, 217, 225, 226 Titchmarsh, Maud, 441 Tithes, 107, 113, 114, 128, 184 Titles, farming out of, 114, 115; granted to nunneries, 116 Tittivillus, 293, 646 Traherne, William, 413 Translations for nuns, 251ff. Treasuress of nunnery, 109, 110, 117, 118, 132, 134, 136, 219, 223ff.; accounts of, 118, 127, 137 Trent, Council of, 345 Treverbyn, Lady Margery, 411 Trimelet, Joan, 453, 467_n. 3_ Tuddenham, Sir Thomas, 30 Tudor, Edmund, 270 ---- Jasper, 270 Tudowe, Agnes, 31 Tufton, Manor-house at, 90 Tunstede, Hugh de, 30 Turberville, Agnes, 189, 192_n. 5_ ---- Johanete de, 192, 193 Turvey, Rector of, 46 Tusser, Thomas, quoted, 128, 129, 131 Tychenor, William, 399_n. 3_, 462, 583 Tydeswell, William de, 195 Tylney, Grace de, 418 ---- Margery de, 413, 417, 418 Tyrelton, Simon de, 196 Tyttesbury, Katherine, 458 Ufford, Robert de, Earl of Suffolk, 330_n. 3_ Ulrich of Steinfeld, 108 Upton, Vicar of, 232 Urban IV, 181, 342_n. 1_, 344 Usk Priory, 223, 224, 348, 350; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_, 232 _Valor Ecclesiasticus_, 96ff., 114ff., 120, 146, 161 Ver, J. de, 224 Vergi, Châtelaine of, 303 Vernon, Margaret, 55, 56, 263, 267, 570 Vert-Vert, 413, 593ff. Vienne, Council of, 1311, 306_n. 3_ Villarceaux Abbey, 636, 645ff.; accounts of, 639, 640; financial state of, 637, 638; live stock of, 640, 641; moral state of, 665; Prioress of, 643 Virgin, Cult of the, 513ff. _Virgin averse to Matrimony, The_, 549ff. _Virgin, The Penitent_, 549, 551ff. Visitations, injunctions after, 494ff.; regularity of, 492; routine of, 483ff. Vitry, Jacques de, 372_n. 1_, 516_n. 1_, 519_n. 1_ _Vox Clamantis_, 499, 545 Vylers, Agnes de, 198 Wace, Humphrey, 195 Wachesam, Sir Robert de, 268 Wafer, Alice, 201 Wake, Anne, 46ff. ---- Thomas, 419 Waldegrave, Rose, 273 Walerand, Agnes, 149 Waleys, Joan, 326 Wallingford, Richard de, 361_n. 2_, 479 Wallingwells Priory, 35, 52; Prioress of, 180 Walsheman, John, 103 Ward, Joan, 31 Warde, John, 399 ---- Robert, 205 Wardon, Robert de, 231 Warenne, John de, 455 Warham, William, Archbishop of Canterbury, 216, 221_n. 1_, 390_n. 5_, 494_n. 1_ Warland, Ingelram, 267 Warwick, Countess of, 18 Wason, Joan, 410 Waterville, William of, 480, 481 Watlington, Parson of, _see_ Perys, Edmund Watre, Johanna atte, 442_n. 2_ Watson, Edward, 46 Watton Priory, 326, 412_n. 2_; gifts to, 326; pittances at, 326 Wavere, Margaret, 81, 82, 84ff., 94, 220, 299, 388, 460, 489, 583, 584 Webbe, Elizabeth, 480 Webster, John, 103 Weinhausen, 675 Welan, Thomas, 268 Wellingborough Church, 465 Wellisham, Sir Roger, 267 Wellow Abbey, 231, 232_n. 1_, 249_n. 7_ Wells, Katherine, 88_n._, 211, 299, 493, 584, 595, 596 Wennigsen, 677 Wester, Richard, 152 Westirdale, Isabella, 87 Westminster, Abbot of, 263 ---- Council of, 1175, 21 Westmoreland, Joan, Countess of, 418 Weston, Matilda de, 191 Westwood Priory, 114, 184 Wherwell Abbey, 2, 3, 29, 156_n. 1_, 167_n. 2_, 186, 188, 195, 263, 320_n._, 329, 353, 461, 635; Abbesses of, 60, 61, 104, 105, 224, 252, 324_n. 1_, 410, 422; _and see_ Colte, Anne; Euphemia of Wherwell; building at, 169; burning of, 425, 433; claustration at, 350, 351, 402_n. 4_, 404; children at, 573; coadjutress appointed at, 224; hospitality at, 401, 402; _jocalia_ at, 330_n. 3_; library of, 242_n. 8_, 243_n. 3_; prebendary canons at, 144, 228_n. 5_; prosperous condition of, 89, 90; sacrist of, 330_n. 3_; sanctuary at, 422 Whiston Priory, 43, 45; poverty of, 173, 186; Prioress of, _see_ Flagge, Alice de la Whitby, 471 Whiting, Richard, 265 Whitstable, Rector of, 234 Whittell, Roger, 121 Whytford, Richard, 254 Wickham, Vicar of, 232, 487 Wickwane, William, Archbishop of York, 6, 212, 338_n. 3_, 339 Wiggenhall, Joan, 42, 43, 90ff., 169, 170, 172, 502 ---- John, 43, 92 ---- St Peter's, 91, 134 Wilberfoss Priory, 6, 30, 175, 212, 213, 325, 401_n. 1_, 416_n. 1_, 587, 601; _custos_ of, 231; Prioress of, 58_n._ William of Stanton, 75 Willoughby, Sir Thomas, 57 Willynge, Hugh, 452 Wilton Abbey, 2, 3, 146, 186, 188, 189, 242_n. 8_, 392, 421_n. 1_; Abbess of, 54, 105, 172, 185, 188, 350; _and see_ Bodenham, Cecily; Giffard, Juliana; _and_ Jordan, Isabel; fire at, 172, 425; pensions from, 195, 198; prebendary canons at, 144, 228_n. 5_; resident chaplains at, 144 Wilton, Alice, 470_n. 3_ ---- Edith, 422 Wimborne nunnery, 237 Winchelsea, Robert, Archbishop of Canterbury, 33, 300_n. 2_, 325_n. 1_ Winchester, Bishop of, 118, 179, 252, 309_n. 6_; _and see_ Asserio, Rigaud de; Pontoise, John of; Wykeham, William of, etc. ---- St Swithun's Priory, 369, 387; Compotus Rolls of, 131_n._, 313; register of, 310_n. 2_; revels at, 313 ---- St Mary's Abbey, 2, 3, 34_n. 1_, 151, 153, 159, 160, 171_n. 2_, 186, 188, 189, 195, 210, 279, 369, 387, 451, 454, 461; Abbess of, 5, 60, 185, 195, 252, 265, 276, 300, 451; _and see_ Shelley, Elizabeth; appropriation to, 181, 187; boarders at, 151, 153; chaplains of, 151, 153; children at, 265ff., 279ff., 572; corrodies at, 190, 196, 197; debts of, 164, 173, 185, 187; disobedience at, 300; fire at, 425; hospitality at, 185, 200_n. 3_; library of, 241_n. 4_, 242_n. 8_; mistress of novices at, 201_n. 2_; obedientiaries at, 132; prebendal canons of, 144, 228_n. 5_ Windesheim, monastery of, 670; _and see_ Busch, Johann Windsor, Lord, 99, 100, 146 ---- Sir Anthony, 281 Wing, Manor-court at, 105 Wingate, Katherine, 47 Winterton Church, 365 Wintney Priory, 87, 153, 179, 448_n. 1_, 461; bad management at, 203; embroidery made by, 257; poverty of, 183, 184_n. 4_; Prioress of, 252, 452; _and see_ Alice of Wintney Winton, William de, 449 Wireker, Nigel, 593 Wittlesey, Archbishop, 494_n. 1_ Wix, Priory of, 88, 308, 361_n. 1_, 374, 385, 467, 587; poverty of, 209, 210; Prioress of, 360_n. 2_ Wodhouse, John de, 328 Wolfe, Juliane, 489 Wolsey, Cardinal, 30, 54, 55, 392, 602ff. Womersley, Church of, 209 Wonnenstein, 240_n. 2_ Wood, grants of, 105, 172; unauthorised selling of, 205 Wood, Walter, 269 Woodlock, Henry, Bishop of Winchester, 156, 218ff., 248, 259_n. 1_, 319_n. 3_, 336, 416 Wool, sale of, by nunneries, 110, 111, 127, 217 Worcester, Priors of, 184, 186 Wortham, Margaret, 269 Wothorpe Priory, 115, 135_n. 4_, 171_n. 2_, 176_n. 3_, 180, 200_n. 3_, 353, 457, 584; Prioress of, 180; _and see_ Bowes, Agnes Write, John, 149 Wroxall, 7, 39, 217_n. 1_, 223, 356_n. 1_, 359_n. 3_, 385, 402_n. 4_, 581; Prioress of, 58_n._, 78; _and see_ Alesbury, Agnes of Wülfinghausen, 675 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 146 Wykeham Priory, 18, 53_n. 2_, 111_n. 3_, 257, 291_n. 2_, 374, 428; dilapidations at, 170; fire at, 172; Prioress of _see_ Westirdale, Isabella Wykeham, William of, Bishop of Winchester, 5, 21, 63, 156, 167, 170, 216, 218, 219, 249, 261_n. 2_, 273, 300, 306, 324_n._, 337, 353, 358_n. 2_, 367_n. 2_, 369, 380, 401, 410, 451 Wyllyamesson, John, 152 Wylughby, Elizabeth, 465 Wynkyn de Worde, 254, 533 Wyteryng, Alice de, 204 Yedingham Priory, 18, 58_n._, 111_n. 3_, 170_n. 3_, 206_n. 3_, 257, 291_n. 2_, 325, 362, 532_n. 2_; _custos_ of, 230_n. 8_; repairs at, 175 Yong, Juliana, 423_n. 4_ York, Abbot of, 200_n. 1_ ---- Archbishops of, 58, 59, 165; _and see_ Giffard, Walter; Greenfield, William; Romeyn, John de ---- Cathedral, Chaplain of, _see_ Burn, John ---- council of, 1195, 373 ---- Emma of, 51ff. ---- friars of, 122, 199 ---- St Clement's, 53_n. 2_, 111_n. 3_, 122, 165, 175, 199, 301_n. 1_, 414_n. 2_; boarders at, 580; churches appropriated to, 113_n. 1_; relics at, 117 ---- St Mary's, 199 Yorkshire, moral state of nunneries in, 597ff. Ypres, William of, 433 Zouche, Elizabeth la, 443_n. 2_ PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY J. B. PEACE, M.A., AT THE CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS [Illustration: ENGLISH NUNNERIES IN THE LATER MIDDLE AGES (EXCLUDING DOUBLE GILBERTINE HOUSES)] Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought ERRATA FOR THE PASTONS AND THEIR ENGLAND Add to List of Authorities: Berkeley _Extracts_. Abstracts and extracts of Smyth's _Lives of the Berkeleys_. Fosbroke, T. D. London. 1821. Libraries. Old English Libraries. Savage, E. A. London. 1911. p. 9, l. 6. _For_ "in the cathedral" _read_ "at the door of the cathedral," and so on pp. 174, 184, and 221 _n._ p. 53, ll. 14 ff. I have somewhat exaggerated the amount of spinning and weaving done at home for purely domestic use in the fifteenth century. The industry in East Anglia was by then highly organised under capitalist clothiers, who employed workers to perform the various processes of the industry in their own homes, providing the raw materials and taking away the finished cloth. Spinning was thus essentially a bye industry as well as a purely domestic occupation. The Bury citizen was probably a clothier "putting out" work and following the quite common practice of having a number of webbers or websters under his eye in his own house. See _The Paycockes of Coggeshall_, Power, Eileen, pp. 45-8. p. 113, ll. 11 ff. _For_ "_de Regimine Principium_ of Hoccleve" _read_ "_de Regimine Principum_ of Lydgate" and so on p. 261. p. 154, l. 23. _For_ "Brabraham" _read_ "Babraham." p. 168, l. 1. _For_ "Paston's" _read_ "Pastons'." p. 193, l. 31. _For_ "S. Peter's Hungate" _read_ "S. Peter, Hungate," and so on p. 285. p. 198, l. 32. _For_ "herse" _read_ "hearse." p. 208, n. 2. _For_ "Oddy" _read_ "Addy." p. 219, n. 1. _For_ "Prothero" _read_ "Ernle (Lord)." p. 240, n. 5. _For_ "Jessop, J. J." _read_ "Jessopp, A." p. 280, Index, sub Cambridge, corporal punishment at. _For_ 88 _read_ 82. p. 284, Index, sub Margaret of Anjou. _For_ "(Queen of Edward IV)" _read_ "(Queen of Henry VI)." p. 286, Index, sub Paston, Sir John II. _For_ "make knight" _read_ "made knight." p. 288, Index. _For_ "Straton Richard," _read_ "Stratton, Richard." ERRATA FOR SOCIAL LIFE IN THE DAYS OF PIERS PLOWMAN The main errata are on matters of coinage (pp. 69-70). (_a_) There were no "copper" coins in England in the 14th (or 15th) centuries. (_b_) The designs of "noble" and "groat" were not so exactly similar as the text might imply. The noble bears a king with sword and shield on a ship; the groat has a king's head crowned. (_c_) "Groats" were first struck in the reign of Ed. III; it is therefore questionable whether they had become the "commonest" silver coins. (_d_) "Pence" and "farthings" were of silver. (_e_) There was no coined "shilling" until Henry VII's reign; until then, the "shilling" was only money of account. p. 103. _For_ "signing" of charters _read_ "sealing." No signing was necessary until the Statute of Frauds. See B. II. 112, "this dede I assele." p. 100. A reviewer in _The Manchester Guardian_ has expressed strong disagreement with these generalizations on the medieval woman; and we are loth to neglect such criticisms from a serious source, even when they cannot be called corrections of fact. Both author and editor, on careful reconsideration, are still convinced that these words represent the actual documentary evidence; but their epigrammatic conciseness, necessitated by the whole plan of the book, may well have misled some readers. They would prefer now, therefore, to write thus: "There was a very general tendency, _in ecclesiastical circles_, to a painful depreciation of women. Marriage (in spite of frequent protests that no such blame was intended) was often regarded by the clergy as a practical confession of failure, since the titles of 'virgin' and 'martyr' were most desirable. It will be remembered that Chaucer is even more explicit than Langland on the subject of clerical anti-feminism; and if Chaucer, like Dante, gives us fine types of women, these owe far more to the troubadour tradition than to any ecclesiastical source." FOOTNOTES: [1] Based on Professor Savine's analysis of the returns in the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ (Oxford Studies in Social and Legal History), I, 269-288. [2] I have based this estimate partly on a list compiled by M. E. C. Walcott, _English Minsters_, vol. II ("The English Student's Monasticon"), partly on one compiled by Miss H. T. Jacka in an unpublished thesis on _The Dissolution of the English Nunneries_; the figures, if not always exactly correct, are approximately correct as far as the classification into groups, according to size, is concerned. It must be remembered, however, that there were more nuns at the beginning than at the end of the period 1270-1536; the convents tended to diminish in size, especially those which were poor and small to begin with. [3] These are discussed in Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 112 _sqq._ [4] _V.C.H. Sussex_, II, p. 84. [5] _Ib._ II, p. 63. [6] Hugo, _Medieval Nunneries of the County of Somerset, Minchin Barrow_, p. 108. [7] Well-known names occur, for instance, among the prioresses of the poor convents of Ivinghoe, Ankerwyke and Little Marlow in Bucks. _V.C.H. Bucks_, I, p. 355. [8] Lysons, _Magna Britannia_, V, p. 113. Compare the remark of a nun of Wenningsen, near Hanover, who considered herself insulted when the great reformer Busch addressed her not as "Klosterfrau" but as "Sister." "You are not my brother, wherefore then call me sister? My brother is clad in steel and you in a linen frock" (1455). Quoted in Coulton, _Medieval Garner_, p. 653. [9] _Wykeham's Register_ (Hants. Rec. Soc.), II, p. 462. Cf. _ib._ II, p. 61. [10] E.g. _Reg. ... of Rigaud de Asserio_ (Hants. Rec. Soc.), p. 394; _Reg. ... Stephani Gravesend_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), p. 200; _Wykeham's Register_, _loc. cit._ [11] Bishop Cobham of Worcester at Wroxall in 1323 (_V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 71). Cf. the case of Usk in Monmouthshire, "in quo monasterio solum virgines de nobili prosapia procreate recipi consueverunt et solent" (_Chron. of Adam of Usk_, ed. E. M. Thompson, p. 93). [12] Gibbons, _Early Lincoln Wills_, p. 117. [13] Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills enrolled in the Court of Husting_, I, p. 236. Cf. _ib._ I, p. 350 and _Testamenta Eboracensia_ (Surtees Soc.), I, pp. 170, 354. [14] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 71. [15] _Reg. of Archbishop William Wickwane_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 113. [16] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 98. [17] William de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, mentions two daughters, nuns at Shouldham, in his will (1296). Sir Guy de Beauchamp mentions his little daughter Katherine, a nun there (1359) and his father Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, mentions the same Katherine and his own daughter Margaret, nuns there (1369). Katherine was still alive in 1400, when she is mentioned in the next Earl's will. _Testamenta Vetusta_, I, pp. 52, 63, 79, 153. [18] See below, p. 15. [19] See below, pp. 39-40. [20] "Et pur certayn cause nous auens enioynt a dame Margaret Darcy, vostre soer, qel ne passe les lieus de cloistre, cest assauoir de quoer, de cloistre, de ffraitour, dormitorie ou fermerie, tantque nous en aueroms autre ordeigne, et qele ne parle od nul estraunge gentz, et soit darreyn enstalle, et en chescun lieu qele ne porte anele, et qele die chescun iour un sautier et june la quarte et la sexte ferie a payn et eu. Ensement voilloms qe la dit dame Margaret se puisse confesser au confessour de vostre couent quant ele auera mester." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. It looks like the penance for immorality. [21] "Item quod nulla monialis ibidem cameram teneat priuatam, sed quod omnes moniales sane in dormitorio et infirme in infirmaria iaceant atque cubant, preter dominam Margaretam Darcy, monialem prioratus antedicti, cui ob nobilitatem sui generis de camera sua quam tenet in privata, absque tamen alia liberata panis et ceruisie, extra casum infirmitatis manifeste, volumus ad tempus tollerare." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Buckingham_, f. 397_d_. [22] _Canterbury Tales_ (ed. Skeat), Prologue, ll. 127 ff. It is interesting to notice that the _Roman de la Rose_, of which Chaucer translated a fragment, contains some remarks upon this subject which are almost paraphrased in his description of Madame Eglentyne. [23] _La Clef d'Amors ..._, ed. Doutrepont (1890), V, 3227 ff. [24] Le Chastiement des Dames (Barbazon and Méon, _Fabliaux et Contes_, II, p. 200). [25] See Mrs Green, _Town Life in the Fifteenth Century_, II, pp. 77-80. [26] Langland, _Vision of Piers the Plowman_, ed. Skeat, passus A, VIII, l. 31. [27] _English Gilds_, ed. L. T. Smith (E.E.T.S.), p. 194. [28] _Ibid._ p. 340. [29] Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 589. [30] Sharpe, _op. cit._ II, p. 299. The Fishmongers, who, up to 1536, were divided into the two companies of salt-fishmongers and stock-fishmongers, were a powerful and important body, as the annals of the City of London in the fourteenth century show, "these fishmongers" in the words of Stow "having been jolly citizens and six mayors of their company in the space of twenty-four years." Stow's _Survey of London_ (ed. Kingsford), I, p. 214. [31] Sharpe, _op. cit._ II, p. 606. [32] Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 594. [33] Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, App. IX, pp. xvi, xvii, xviii. [34] See _Archaeologia_, XV (1806), pp. 100-101; _ib._ XXXV (1853), p. 464. [35] _V.C.H. London_, I, p. 518. [36] _Ib._ pp. 518-9. [37] Sharpe, _op. cit._ II, p. 267. Two years previously (1396) John de Nevill had left legacies to his sister Eleanor and to his daughter Elizabeth, minoresses of St Clare; _Durham Wills and Inventories_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 39. [38] Sharpe, _op. cit._ II, p. 589. [39] _Ib._ II, p. 331. [40] _Ib._ II, p. 577. [41] Not counting legacies left to various nunneries, without specific reference to a relative professed there. [42] Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, pp. 107, 300, 313, 324, 408, 501, 585, 701. Philip le Taillour had three daughters here in 1292 (I, p. 107), and William de Leyre had three daughters here in 1325 (I, p. 300). [43] _Ib._ I, pp. 222, 303, 569, 638, 688; II, pp. 20, 76, 115. [44] _Ib._ I, pp. 229, 303, 342, 400, 435; II, pp. 47, 170. Ten nuns in all. [45] _Ib._ II, pp. 119, 267, 331, 577, 589. [46] _Ib._ I, pp. 26, 126, 238, 349, 628. Ralph le Blund's three daughters and his sister-in-law were all nuns here in 1295 (I, p. 126) and Thomas Romayn, alderman and pepperer, left bequests to two daughters and to their aunt in 1313 (_ib._ I, p. 288). [47] _Ib._ I, pp. 34, 111, 611; II, p. 119. [48] _Ib._ II, pp. 167, 271, 274. [49] _Ib._ II, pp. 474, 564. [50] _Ib._ I, pp. 510, 638. [51] _Ib._ I, p. 119; II, p. 306. [52] There are two exceptions, Greenfield (Lincs.) (_ib._ II, p. 327), and Amesbury (Wilts.) (_ib._ II, p. 326), but the testators in these cases are not burgesses, but a knight and a clerk. [53] The corresponding fines for girls were _merchet_ if they married off the manor and _leyrwite_ if they dispensed with that ceremony. The medieval lord, concerned above all with keeping up the supply of labour upon his manor, naturally held the narrow view of the functions of women, which has been expressed in our day by Kipling: "Now the reserve of a boy is tenfold deeper than the reserve of a maid, she having been made for one end only by blind Nature, but man for several" (_Stalky and Co._ p. 212). [54] Henry de Causton, _mercator_ of London, left a bequest to Johanna, a "sister" at Ankerwyke, formerly servant to his father (1350). Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 638. [55] _Register of Bishop Godfrey Giffard_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), II, pp. 288-9. [56] _Testamenta Eboracensia_ (Surtees Soc.), I, p. 6. [57] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 9, dated 1345. Cf. will of Roger de Moreton "civis et mercerus Ebor." 1390; two of four daughters nuns at St Clement's, York (_ib._ I, p. 133). [58] Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 400, dated 1335. [59] _Ib._ I, p. 501, dated 1349. [60] _Ib._ I, p. 503, dated 1348. [61] _Testamenta Vetusta_, I, p. 286. [62] See above, p. 7. There were two Welbys, two Lekes and two Paynelles at Stixwould; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 76. Other references might be multiplied. [63] Cf. also Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 238; and _Reg. of Bishop Ginsborough_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), p. 51. [64] _Testamenta Eboracensia_ (Surtees Soc.) I, pp. 187 ff. (will of Sir John Fayrfax, rector of Prescot, 1393). [65] See below, p. 302. [66] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172. [67] On this subject see Coulton, _Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages_ (Medieval Studies), pp. 34-5. [68] _Hali Meidenhad_, ed. Cockayne (E.E.T.S.), p. 8. [69] _Old English Miscellany_, ed. Morris (E.E.T.S., 1872), p. 96. [70] _Clene Maydenhod_, ed. Furnivall (E.E.T.S.), pp. 5-6. [71] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113. [72] _The English Register of Godstow Nunnery_ (E.E.T.S.), introduction, pp. xxv-xxvi. Cf. _Cartulary of Buckland Priory_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), introd. pp. xxii-xxiii. [73] _Reg. of Godstow_, u.s. no. 76, pp. 78-9. See also an exceedingly interesting action of _quare impedit_ brought by John Stonor (probably the Lord Chief Justice) against the Prioress of Marlow in 1339, probably merely to secure a record. He had bought the advowsons of the two moieties of the church of Little Marlow and an acre of land with each and conveyed the whole to the Prioress, subject to the provision "that out of it the said Prioress and nuns shall find Joan and Cecily, sisters of the aforesaid John, and Katherine, daughter of the aforesaid John, nuns of the aforesaid place, 40_s._ a year each during their lives, and also for the sustenance of all the nuns towards their kitchen half a mark of silver each year and for the vesture of the twenty nuns serving God there each year 10_s._ of silver, to be divided equally between them." After the deaths of the Stonor ladies all the money is to go to the common funds of the house, with certain provisions. _Year Books of Edward III, years XII and XIII_, ed. L. O. Pike (Rolls Series, 1885), pp. cxi-cxvii, 260-2. For the appropriation of these money dowries to the use of the individual nuns, see below, Ch. VIII, _passim_. [74] Nicolas, _Testamenta Vetusta_, I, p. 118. [75] Gibbons, _Early Lincoln Wills_, p. 113. [76] _Testamenta Eboracensia_, I, p. 11. [77] See above, p. 6. See also the interesting deed (1429-30) in which Richard Fairfax "scwyer," made arrangements for the entrance of his daughter "Elan," to Nunmonkton, always patronised by the Fairfaxes. He left an annual rent of five marks in trust for her "yat my doghtir Elan be made nun in ye house of Nun Monkton, and yat my saydes feffis graunt a nanuel rent of fourty schilyngs ... terme of ye lyffe of ye sayd Elan to ye tym be at sche be a nun." His feoffees were to pay nineteen marks "for ye makyng ye sayd Elan nun." And "if sche will be no nun" his wife and feoffees were to marry her at their discretion. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 123. Cf. an interesting case in which Matilda Toky, the orphan of a citizen of London, is allowed by the mayor and aldermen to become a nun of Kilburn in 1393, taking with her her share (£38. 5_s._ 4-1/2_d._) of her father's estate, after which the prioress of the house comes in person to receive the money from the chamberlain of the city. Riley, _Memorials of London_, p. 535. The father's will is in Sharpe, _op. cit._ II, pp. 288-9; he had three sons and a daughter besides Matilda. [78] _V.C.H Essex_, II, p. 117. [79] Quoted in _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 254. [80] _Testamenta Eboracensia_, III, p. 168. The sum left for entrance of Ellen Fairfax to Nunmonkton was about the same, £10. 13_s._ 4_d._ (16 marks). Above, p. 18, note 4. There is an interesting note of the outfit provided for an Austin nun of Lacock on her profession in 1395, attached to a page of the cartulary of that house. "Memorandum concerning the expenses of the veiling of Joan, daughter of Nicholas Samborne, at Lacock, viz. in the 19th year of the reign of King Richard the second after the conquest. First paid to the abbess for her fee 20_s._ then to the convent 40_s._, to each nun 2_s._ Item paid to John Bartelot for veils and linen cloth 102_s._" (this large sum may include a supply for the whole house). "Item to a certain woman for one veil 40_d._ Item for one mantle 10_s._ Item for one fur of shankes (a cheap fur made from the underpart of rabbit skin) for another mantle, 16_s._ Item for white cloth to line the first mantle, 16_s._ Item for white cloth for a tunic 10_s._ Item one fur for the aforesaid pilch 20_s._ Item for a maser (cup) 10_s._ Item for a silver spoon 2_s._ 6_d._ Item for blankets 6_s._ 8_d._ Item in canvas for a bed 2_s._ Item for the purchase of another mantle of worsted 20_s._ Item paid at the time of profession at one time 20_s._ Item for a new bed 20_s._ Item for other necessaries 20_s._ ... Item paid to the said Joan by the order of the abbess." The total (excluding the last item) is £17. 6_s._ 2_d._ _Archaeol. Journ._ 1912, LXIX, p. 117. [81] Mackenzie E. C. Walcott, _Inventories of ... the Benedictine Priory of St Mary and Sexburga in the Island of Shepey for Nuns_ (1869) (reprinted from _Archaeologia Cantiana_, VII, pp. 272-306). Compare the letter to Cromwell from Sir Thomas Willoughby, who asks that Elizabeth Rede, his sister-in-law, who had resigned the office of Abbess of Malling, may have suitable lodging within the monastery, "not only that but such plate as my father-in-law did deliver her to occupy in her chamber, that she may have it again." Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, II, p. 153. [82] "Nullus praelatus in recipiendo monacho, vel canonico, vel sanctimoniali pretium sumere vel exigere ab hiis, qui ad conversionem veniunt, aliqua pacti occasione praesumat. Si quis autem hoc fecerit anathema sit." Wilkins, _Concilia_, I, p. 477. [83] "Monachi etiam sub pretio non recipiantur in monasterio.... Si quis autem exactus pro sua receptione aliquid dederit, ad canonicos ordines non accedat." _Ib._ p. 508. [84] "Praeterea statuimus, praesenti concilio approbante, ut nullus de cetero pro receptione alicujus in religionis domum pecuniam vel quicquam aliud extorquere praesumat; adeo ut si pro paupertate domus ingrediens debeat vestire seipsum praetextu vestimentorum ultra justum pretium eorum ab eo nihil penitus recipiatur." _Ib._ p. 591. [85] _Reg. of Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 147. [86] _Reg. of Roger de Norbury_ (Will. Salt Archaeol. Soc. Collections, I), p. 259. [87] _Reg. of Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), p. 684. [88] _MS. Register at New College_, f. 87_d_. [89] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_. [90] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 49. [91] See _Linc. Visit._ II, and _Alnwick's Visit._ MS., _passim_. [92] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 133, 134. See also the very sternly worded prohibition sent by Bishop Spofford of Hereford to Aconbury in 1438. _Reg. Thome Spofford_ (Cantilupe Soc.), pp. 223-4. [93] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 57. [94] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 117. [95] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 49. [96] _Reg. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Series), I, p. 189. [97] _Ib._ I, pp. 40-1, 356. [98] _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 60-61. Cf. _ib._ p. 462. [99] _Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_, pp. 240, 252. [100] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_. [101] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 53. Cf. Flemyng's injunction in 1422, _ib._ [102] _Testamenta Vetusta_, I, pp. 63-4. [103] See above, p. 7, note 2. [104] _V.C.H. London_, I, p. 518. [105] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 5. [106] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 26_d_. [107] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 217. [108] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 248. [109] _V.C.H. Yorks_, III, p. 163. In 1312 the prioress of Hampole was rebuked for receiving a little girl (_puellulam_), not on account of her youth, but because she had omitted to obtain the archbishop's licence. _Ib._ [110] _Reg. of Archbishop John le Romeyn_ (Surtees Soc.), I, p. 66. [111] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Series), I, p. 356. Compare Caesarius of Heisterbach: "In the diocese of Trèves is a certain convent of nuns named Lutzerath, wherein by ancient custom no girl is received but at the age of seven years or less; which constitution hath grown up for the preservation of that simplicity of mind which maketh the whole body to shine" (_Dial. Mirac._ I, p. 389, quoted in Coulton, _Medieval Garner_, p. 255). The thirteenth century visitations of the diocese of Rouen by Eudes Rigaud make it clear that novices there were often very young, e.g. at St-Saëns in 1266 "una earum erat novicia et minima" (_Reg. Visit. Archiepiscopi Rothomagensis_, ed. Bonnin, p. 566). The Archbishop ordered novices to be professed at the age of fourteen and not before (_ib._ pp. 51, 121, 207). [112] For example the béguine Christina von Stommeln, who said of herself, "So far back as my memory can reach, from the earliest dawn of my childhood, whensoever I heard the lives and manners, the passion and the death of saints and especially of our Lord Christ and His glorious Mother, then in such hearing I was delighted to the very marrow" (quoted in Coulton, _op. cit._ p. 403). At the age of ten she contracted a mystic marriage with Christ, and at the age of thirteen she joined the béguines at Cologne. Cf. St Catherine of Siena. [113] Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialogus Miraculorum_, ed. Joseph Strange, I, pp. 53-4. [114] This was Helswindis von Gimmenich, first abbess of Burtscheid after the transference thither of the nuns of St Saviour of Aachen c. 1220-1222. See Quix, _Gesch. der ehemaligen Reichs-Abtei Burtscheid_ (Aachen 1834). [115] Caesarius, _op. cit._ I, pp. 54-5. For another case of children in this convent see the charming story of Gertrude's purgatory, _ib._ pp. 344-5. There are fifteenth century English translations in the _Myroure of Oure Ladye_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 46-7 and in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 249. A little girl of nine years old had died, and, after death, appeared in broad daylight in her own place in the choir, next to a child of her own age. The latter was so terrified that she was noticed and on being questioned told the vision to the Abbess (from whom Caesarius professes to have had the story). The Abbess says to the child "Sister Margaret, ... if Sister Gertrude come to thee again, say to her: _Benedicite_, and if she reply to thee, _Dominus_, ask her whence she comes and what she seeks." On the following day (continues Caesarius) "she came again and since she replied _Dominus_ when she was saluted, the maiden added: 'Good Sister Gertrude, why come you at such a time and what seek you with us?' Then she replied: 'I come here to make satisfaction. Because I willingly whispered with thee in the choir, speaking in half tones, therefore am I ordered to make satisfaction in that place where it befell me to sin. And unless thou beware of the same vice, dying thou shalt suffer the same penance.' And when she had four times made satisfaction in the same way (by prostrating herself) she said to her sister: 'Now have I completed my satisfaction; henceforth thou shalt see me no more.' And thus it was done. For in the sight of her friend she proceeded towards the cemetery, passing over the wall by a miracle. Behold such was the purgatory of this virgin." It is a tender little tale, and kinder to childish sins than medieval moralists sometimes were; Saint Douceline beat a little girl of seven (one of her béguines) "so shrewdly that the blood ran down her ribs, saying meanwhile that she would sacrifice her to God" simply because she had looked at some men who were at work in the house (see Coulton, _op. cit._ p. 321). [116] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 184. But the usual custom was to place such women as lay boarders in the custody of a nunnery. See below, pp. 419 ff. [117] "Processus et sententia divortii inter Thomam Tudenham militem et Aliciam filiam quondam Johannis Woodhous armigeri, racione quia est monialis professa in prioratu de Crabhous et nunquam carnaliter cognita per maritum suum predictum durante matrimonio predicto, licet matrimonium predictum duravit et ut vir et uxor cohabitaverunt per spacium viij annorum. Durante matrimonio unicus filius ab eadem suscitatus, non tamen per dictum Thomam maritum suum, sed per Ricardum Stapleton servientem patris ipsius Aliciae" (1437). Her husband's sister Margaret Bedingfield left her a legacy of 10 marks in 1474. _Norfolk Archaeology_ (Norf. and Norwich Arch. Soc.), XIII, pp. 351-2. [118] _Testamenta Vetusta_, I, p. 74. [119] _Testamenta Eboracensia_, I, p. 18. [120] See the letter from John Clusey to Cromwell in her favour: "Rygthe honorable, after most humyll comendacyons, I lykewyce besuche you that the Contents of this my symple Letter may be secret; and that for as myche as I have grete cause to goo home I besuche your good Mastershipe to comand Mr Herytag to give attendans opon your Mastershipe for the knowlege off youre plesure in the seyd secrete mater, whiche ys this, My Lord Cardinall causyd me to put a yong gentyll homan to the Monystery and Nunry off Shafftysbyry, and there to be provessyd, and wold hur to be namyd my doythter; and the troythe ys shew was his dowythter; and now by your Visitacyon she haythe commawynment to departe, and knowythe not whether Wherefore I humely besuche youre Mastershipe to dyrect your Letter to the Abbas there, that she may there contynu at hur full age to be professed. Withoute dowyte she ys other xxiiij yere full, or shalbe at shuche tyme of the here as she was boren, which was abowyte Mydelmas. In this your doyng your Mastershipe shall do a very charitable ded, and also bynd her and me to do you such servyce as lyzthe in owre lytell powers; as knowythe owre Lord God, whome I humely besuche prosperyusly and longe to preserve you. Your orator John Clusey." Ellis, _Original Letters_, Series I, II, pp. 92-3. An injunction had been made that profession made under twenty-four years was invalid, and that novices or girls professed at an earlier age were to be dismissed. [121] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 161. [122] _Test. Ebor._ III, p. 289, note. She was one of the Conyers of Hornby (Richmondshire) and is mentioned in the will of her brother Christopher Conyers, rector of Rudby in 1483. [123] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177. [124] _V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107. For another instance of dispensation and installation on the same day see _Reg. of Bishop Bronescombe of Exeter_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, p. 163. For other dispensations _super defectu natalium_, see _Cal. of Papal Letters_, III, p. 470 (cf. _Cal. of Petit._ I, p. 367), V, p. 549 and _Reg. Johannis de Trillek Episcopi Herefordensis_ (Cantilupe Soc.), p. 404. [125] Rabelais, _Gargantua_, ch. LII. [126] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), I, p. 367. Cf. pp. 191 ff. below. [127] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 4. She was also charged with the introduction of unsuitable persons as lay boarders, etc. "Item priorissa introducit in prioratum diuersos extraneos et ignotos, tam mares quam feminas et eos sustentat communibus expensis domus et aliquas quasi ideotas et alias inhabiles fecit moniales. Negat articulum." But _ideota_ probably simply means unlearned here, and in the case of Agnes Hosey, below p. 33. Compare the case at Bival in Normandy 1251. "Ibi est quedam filia burgensis de Vallibus que stulta est." _Reg. Visit. Archiep. Rothomag._, ed. Bonnin, p. 111. [128] _Visitations of the Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 91, 311. [129] Gasquet, _Henry VIII and the English Monasteries_ (pop. ed. 1899), p. 293. [130] Gairdner, _Letters and Papers, etc._, IX, no. 1075. [131] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 71_d_. [132] _Visitations of the Diocese of Norwich_, p. 91. [133] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 26. [134] Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 487. [135] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 77. [136] Hence the certificates sometimes required from bishops to testify whether or not a girl had actually been professed. Such a certificate occurs in _Wykeham's Register_ (II, p. 192), announcing that Joan, daughter of Stephen Asshewy, deceased, was not yet professed at St Mary's Winchester or at any other house. The case of Isabel, daughter of Sir Philip de Coverle, is also interesting; she left the wretchedly poor house of Sewardsley to claim her share of her mother's inheritance, therewith to provide fit maintenance for herself among the nuns; but she was excluded from inheriting with her sisters on account of her religious profession (_V.C.H. Northants._ II, pp. 125-6). Compare also the case of Joan, wife of Nicholas de Grene (1357-8); on a question of inheritance the King's court issued a writ of inquiry as to whether she had been professed at Nuneaton. _Reg. of Bishop Roger de Norbury_ (William Salt Archaeol. Soc. Collections, I), pp. 285-7. [137] See e.g. the commission for the release of a novice preserved in the register of Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London (1310). "We have lately received the supplication of our beloved daughter in Christ, Cristina de Burgh, daughter of the noble Sir Robert Fitzwalter, to the effect that whereas she was delivered by her parents, while not yet of a marriageable age, into the order of St Augustine in the monastery of Haliwell of our diocese, and for some time wore the habit of a novice therein and still wears it, nevertheless there is no canonical reason why she should not freely return to the world at her own free will; and whereas we do condescend to licence her to return to the world, having diligently made inquiries in the aforesaid monastery for our information as to the truth of the aforesaid matters, etc. etc."; the Bishop having no time to finish the inquiry himself commissions his official to carry it on and to release Cristina if the result is satisfactory. _Reg. Radulphi Baldock_ (Cant. and York Soc.), p. 129. But note that this girl is only a novice. [138] See below, pp. 502-9, and Note H. [139] _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 355. [140] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, I, p. 17. [141] _P.R.O. Early Chanc. Proc._ 7/70. [142] _Reg. of Bishop Robert de Stretton_ (Will. Salt Archaeol. Soc. Collections, N.S. VIII), pp. 149-50. With her case compare that of Jane Wadham, which came up after the Dissolution in 1541. She "after arriving at years of discretion was forced by the threats and machinations of malevolent persons to become a regular nun in the house of nuns at Romsey, but having both in public and in private always protested against this seclusion, she conceived herself free from regular observance and in that persuasion joined herself in matrimony with one John Foster, _per verba de presenti_, intending to have the marriage solemnised as soon as she was free from her religion." For the further vicissitudes of her married life, see Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 255. Compare also the case of Margery of Hedsor who left Burnham in 1311. _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 383. [143] _Year Book of 12 Richard II_, ed. G. F. Deiser (Ames Foundation, 1914), pp. 71-7. Cf. pp. 150-3. It may be noticed that Marvell, in his poem "Upon Appleton House" (dedicated to the great Lord Fairfax), preserves the tradition of another of these cases. In the time of Anna Langton, the last Prioress of Nunappleton, a certain Isabella Thwaites, who had been placed in her charge, fell in love with William Fairfax. The Prioress, who wished her to become a nun, shut her up, but eventually Fairfax, having got the law upon his side, broke his way into the nunnery and released her and she married him in 1518. It was her sons who obtained the house on its dissolution (see Markham, _Life of the great Lord Fairfax_, pp. 3, 4). For a somewhat similar case to that of Clarice Stil, see _Gentleman's Magazine_, vol. 102, p. 615. A widow Joan de Swainton married a widower Hugh de Tuthill. She had four daughters by her first husband, and of these Hugh married two to his own two sons by his first wife, and placed the other two (they being under twelve years of age) in the nunnery of Kirklees, in order that his two sons might obtain through their wives the whole inheritance of the co-heiresses. But the wardship of the girls belonged to a certain William de Notton, who prepared to dispute the arrangement, but was dissuaded by one of the young nuns. [144] It was probably more common for widows to take a simple vow of chastity and to remain in the world. But the will of Thomas de Kent, fishmonger, seems to show that it would be considered quite natural for a widow to take the veil, even in the burgess class, which possibly remarried more frequently than the nobles. He left his wife a tenement for life, adding that should she wish to enter any religious house the same was to be sold and half the proceeds given for her maintenance (Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 124). [145] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 113. Cf. _Testamenta Eboracensia_, I, p. 117. [146] _V.C.H. London_, I, p. 519. Cf. Sybil de Felton, widow of Sir Thomas Morley, who became Abbess of Barking in 1393, at the age of thirty-four. _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 121. [147] _V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 71. [148] _English Register of Godstow Nunnery_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 43. [149] _Ib._ p. 383. Confirmation of this deed of grant by Peter Durant, about 1200. _Ib._ p. 384. [150] Sharpe, _op. cit._ I, p. 108. [151] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, pp. 120-2. Margaret Botetourt became Abbess of Polesworth in 1362, by episcopal dispensation, when under the age of twenty. "This early promotion was not the only mark of favour which this prioress obtained. In 1390 the Pope granted her exemption from the jurisdiction of the Archbishop or Bishop of Lichfield." _V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 63. [152] "I take it that Prioress Joan was an heiress, and, in fact, the last representative of the elder line of her family, and the nuns knew perfectly well what they were about when they chose a lady of birth and wealth, and highly connected to boot, to rule over them. They certainly were not disappointed in any expectations they may have formed. The new prioress set to work in earnest to make the nunnery into quite a new and imposing place and her friends and kinsfolk rallied round her nobly." Jessopp, _Ups and Downs of an Old Nunnery_ in _Frivola_, pp. 59-60. [153] _Reg. of Crabhouse Nunnery_, ed. Mary Bateson (_Norf. Archaeology_, XI), pp. 57-62 _passim_. [154] They are as follows: (1) _congé d'élire_ by the Bishop-Elect as patron, (2) notification by the subprioress and nuns of the date appointed for the election, (3) formal warning by the subprioress that all who ought not to be present should leave the chapter house, (4) notification of the election of Alice de la Flagge, (5) declaration of Alice's assent, (6) letter from subprioress and convent to the Bishop-Elect praying him to confirm the election, (7) letter from the Prior of Worcester to the same effect, to the Bishop-Elect, (8) the same to the commissary general, (9) commission from the Bishop-Elect to the Prior and to the commissary-general, empowering them to receive, examine and confirm the election, (10) instrument by the subprioress and convent appointing Richard de Bereburn, chaplain, their proctor to present the elect to the Bishop-Elect, (11) another appointing two of the nuns as proctors "to instruct and do things concerning the business of the election," (12) decree by the subprioress and convent, describing the method and result of the election and addressed to the Bishop-Elect, (13) acts concerning the election made before the Bishop's commissaries by Richard de Bereburn, proctor, by the subprioress and by the two nuns, _instructrices_, examined on oath, (14) certificate by the Dean of the Christianity of Worcester that he had proclaimed the election, (15) confirmation of the election by the commissaries, (16) final declaration by the Prior of this confirmation and of the installation and benediction of the new prioress and of the injunction of obedience upon the nuns, and (17) a certificate by the commissaries of the Bishop-Elect that the business was completed. _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), pp. 111-4; the text in Nash, _Hist. and Antiquities of Worcestershire_ (1781), I, pp. 212-6, which also contains many documents relating to the election of other prioresses of this house. There are frequent notices of elections in episcopal registers; for other very detailed accounts, see _Reg. of Bishop Grandisson of Exeter_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, pt III, pp. 999-1002 (Canonsleigh) and _Reg. of Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.) pp. 284-7 (Cannington). See also Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, pp. 367-8. [155] See e.g. _V.C.H. Glouc._ II, p. 93; _Reg. of Bishop Grandisson_, pt II, p. 742; _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 114-5, 120, 124; Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 636; _ib._ V, p. 207; _V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107. [156] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 458. [157] Evidently this was the usual payment here, for, in the roll for 1392-3, there is an item "Paye al officiale pour stalling de prioris x_s._" _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/4. [158] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260. [159] The Cistercians fixed the age at 30. Later the Council of Trent fixed it at 40 including 8 years of profession. [160] An election by acclamation was said to be conducted _via Spiritus sancti_ or _per inspirationem_. For this and the methods of election _via scrutinii_ and _via compromissi_, see J. Wickham Legg, _On the Three Ways of Canonical Election_ (_Trans. St Paul's Eccles. Soc._ III, 299-312). [161] _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), p. 114, and Nash, _op. cit._ I, p. 214. [162] From a document preserved at the Exchequer Gate, Lincoln. [163] For the following account, see _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Longland_, ff. 22-25. [164] Compare the complaint of one of the nuns at St Michael's Stamford in 1445, "Dicit quod priorissa est sibi nimis rigorosa in correccionibus, nam pro leuibus punit eam rigorose." _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 96. [165] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 415. For another instance of disturbances in a convent caused by the appointment of a Prioress (here the head of the house) by the Bishop contrary to the will of the nuns, see two letters written by the nuns of Stratford to Cromwell, about the same time that Longland was having such trouble at Elstow. In one they ask his help "for the removing of our supposed prioress," explaining "Sir, since the time that we put up our supplication unto the king, we have been worse entreated than ever we were before, for meat, drink and threatening words; and as soon as we speak to have anything remedied she biddeth us to go to Cromwell and let him help us; and that the old lady, who is prioress in right, is like to die for lack of sustenance and good keeping, for she can get neither meat, drink nor money to help herself." In another letter they report "that the chancellor of my lord of London (the Bishop) hath been with us yesterday and that he sayeth the prioress shall continue and be prioress still, in spite of our teeth, and of their teeths that say nay to it, and that he commanded her to assault us and to punish us, that other may beware by us." Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, I, nos. xxx and xxxi, pp. 68-70. [166] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 167-9. [167] _Ib._ III, p. 180 and _Reg. of John le Romeyn_ (Surtees Soc.), I, pp. 213-4. Whether any nuns were sent to Rosedale does not appear, but shortly afterwards two nuns, Elizabeth de Rue and Helewis Darains, were sent to Nunburnholme and to Wykeham respectively; these punishments may not have been connected with the election trouble. _Reg. Romeyn_, I, pp. 177, 214 note, 225; compare p. 216. Josiana appears to have been twice Prioress; she was confirmed in 1290 and finally resigned because of old age in 1320, but Joan de Moubray is mentioned as Prioress in 1308 and she resigned in 1309. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. There was discord over an election at St Clement's, York, in 1316, one party in the convent electing Agnes de Methelay, and the other Beatrice de Brandesby. _Sede vacante_, the Dean and Chapter appointed the former. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 129. See also a case at Goring. _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 103. [168] Translated from Caesarius of Heisterbach's _Dialogus Miraculorum_ in Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_, pp. 251-2. [169] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 318. [170] See Brewer, _Reign of Henry VIII_, II, pp. 281-3. [171] See Wood, _op. cit._ II, nos. xxi, xxii, pp. 52-6. (See nos. xxiii, xxiv, xxv, lxxiii and lxxiv for further letters from Margaret Vernon.) [172] See, for example, the account in the _St Albans Chronicles_ (Rolls Series) of the great costs incurred by the Abbots of St Albans in seeking confirmation here. A detailed account of expenses incurred at Rome for the confirmation of Abbot John IV in 1302 has been translated in Coulton, _Medieval Garner_, p. 517; the total was 2561 marks sterling, i.e. about £34,000 in modern money. See also Froude's essay entitled "Annals of an English Abbey" in his _Short Studies on Great Subjects_, 3rd ser. pp. 1 _sqq._ [173] Pierre Du Bois, _De Recuperatione Terre Sancte_, ed. Ch.-V. Langlois (Paris, 1891), p. 83. [174] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 363. [175] At the time of the suppression Joan Scott "late prioress" is placed second in the list of nuns at Handale and is described as "aet. 90 and blynd." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 166. At Esholt the ex-prioress was over 70 and is described as "decrepita et non abilis ad equitandum, neque eundum." _Ib._ p. 162. [176] Wood, _op. cit._ II, p. 153. See A. H. Thompson, _English Monasteries_, p. 123. [177] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 116. See also the provision made for Joyce Brome, ex-prioress of Wroxall. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 89 note. For the case of Isabel Spynys, prioress of Wilberfoss (1348), see _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 126; and for an example of such an arrangement at a priory of monks see the very detailed ordinance for the living of John Assheby, ex-prior of Daventry, by Bishop Flemyng of Lincoln in 1420. _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 39-42. It was not unusual to make provision in the form of corrodies such as these for other nuns, who were prevented by age and infirmity from taking part in the communal life of the convent. Isabel Warde of Moxby, "impotens et surda," held such a grant for life at the time of the dissolution (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239) and Margaret de Shyrburn of Yedingham, who was ill of dropsy, had a secular girl to wait on her in 1314. _Ib._ p. 127 note. Compare the amusing case of Joan Heyronne of St Helen's, Bishopsgate (1385), who was ill of gout and not sympathised with by her sisters (_V.C.H. London_, I, p. 458), and see also cases at Romsey (1507), Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 230; Malling (1400), _Cal. of Pap. Letters_, V, p. 355; and St Mary's, Neasham, _V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107. [178] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 120-1. Compare an amusing and very similar disturbance at Flixton between 1514 and 1532. _Visit. of Dioc. Norwich_, ed. Jessopp (Camden Soc.), pp. 142-4, 185, 190, 261, 318. [179] The abbess's or prioress's chamber is constantly mentioned in the surveys of nunneries made at the time of the Dissolution, e.g. at Arthington, Wykeham, Basedale and Kirklees (_Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ IX, pp. 212, 326, 327, 332); at Cheshunt (Cussans, _Hist. of Herts., Hertford Hundred_, II, p. 270), Sheppey (Mackenzie E. C. Walcott, _Inventories of St Mary's Hospital, Dover, etc._ p. 28), Kilburn (Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 424). See also the inventory of the goods of Langley in 1485 (Walcott, _Inventory of St Mary's Benedictine Nunnery at Langley_ [Leic. Architec. Soc. 1872], p. 4). The last three contain interesting inventories of the furniture of the prioress's chamber. At Sheppey it was hung with green "saye" and contained "a trussyng bed of waynscot with testar, sylar and cortens of red and yelow sarcenet"; at Kilburn it was hung with "four peces of sey redde and grene, with a bordure of story," and contained "a standinge bedd with four posts of weynscott, a trundle bedd under the same ... a syller of yelowe and redde bokerame and three curteyns of the same work." At Langley also there were two beds in the prioress's chamber "hur owne bed" and "ye secunde bed in hur chambur." Clearly the prioress nearly always had a nun to sleep with her, and the evidence of visitations bears this out; see e.g. cases at Redlingfield, 1427 (_V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 83), Littlemore, 1445 (_Linc. Visit._ II, p. 217, "iacet de nocte in eodem lecto cum priorissa"), Flamstead, 1530 (_V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 433). For the position of the prioress's chamber see plan of the nunnery buildings of St Radegund's, Cambridge (now Jesus College) (Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 53). [180] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 458. [181] _Ib._ I, pp. 443, 445. [182] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Series), I, p. 84. [183] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, II, pp. 651-2. [184] _Ib._ II, pp. 659-60, 662-3. For another instance of a prioress faring better than her nuns, see Archbishop Lee's injunctions to Nunappleton in 1534: "That their be no difference betwene the breade and ale prepared for the prioresse and the bredde and ale provided for the covent, but that she and they eatt of oon breade, and drinke of oon drinke and of oon ale." _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI. pp. 443-4. [185] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 214. [186] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. [187] _Ib._ II, p. 124. [188] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, pp. 155, 131-2. [189] Sometimes, however, bishops licenced the head of a house to hear the service separately, e.g. in 1401 Wykeham licenced dame Lucy Everard, abbess of Romsey, to hear divine service in her oratory during one year, in the presence of one of her sisters and of her servants (_familia_). _Wykeham's Reg._ (Hants. Rec. Soc.), II, p. 538. Cf. similar licence to the prioress of Polsloe in 1388. _Reg. of Bishop Brantyngham of Exeter_, pt. II, p. 675. [190] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 8. The same injunction was sent to Stixwould. _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 75_d_. [191] _Ib._ f. 83_d_. The next year when Alnwick came again this prioress announced that she did not lie in the dorter, nor keep frater, cloister and church on account of bodily weakness; she alleged that he had dispensed her from these observances, which he denied. _Ib._ f. 39_d_. Compare injunctions to Godstow, Gracedieu and Langley, _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 115, 125, 177. For other injunctions on these points, see _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 78 (Nuncoton, 1440); _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 119 (Nunburnholme, 1318), 120 (Nunkeeling, 1314), 124 (Thicket, 1309), 188 (Arthington, 1318), 239 (Moxby, 1318). [192] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Series), II, p. 662. Compare _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 239 and _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. [193] Before it was realised that this office was often held by a woman in nunneries, scholars were much exercised to explain this passage in Chaucer's _Prologue_, though a search through Dugdale would have provided them with several instances. The office is still held in modern convents, and Dr Furnivall printed an interesting letter from a Benedictine nun, describing the duties attached to it. "It is in fact the nun who has special charge of attending on the Abbess and giving assistance when she needs it, either in writing when she (the Abbess) is busy, or in attending when sick, etc., but that which comes most often to claim her services is, on the twelve or fourteen great festivals," when the chaplain attends the Abbess in the choir and holds her crosier, while she reads the hymns, lesson, etc. _Anglia_, IV, pp. 238-9. In the middle ages the chief stress was laid on the constant presence of a witness to the superior's mode of life, that it might be beyond suspicion. Miss Eckenstein has pointed out that in the allegory of the "Ghostly Abbey," by the béguine Mechthild of Magdeburg, in which the nuns are personified Virtues, Charity is Abbess and Meekness her Chaplain; and in the English version of the poem printed by Wynkyn de Worde (1500), Charity was Abbess and Mercy and Truth were to be her "chapeleyns" and to go about with her wherever she went. The Prioress (Wisdom) and the Sub-Prioress (Meekness) were also to have chaplains (Righteousness and Peace) because they were "most of worship." Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, pp. 339, 377. [194] _New College_ MS., f. 88_d_. [195] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 15. [196] _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 190. [197] _Ib._ p. 108. [198] _Ib._ p. 138. [199] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. For other references to the abbess's nun-chaplain at Elstow, see _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 52 and Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 415. [200] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. The Prioress was Denise Loweliche (see p. 458 below) and at the visitation Dame Margaret Loweliche "_cappellana priorisse_" (evidently a relative) said that she had held the office for the last eight years. Another nun said "that the Prioress ever holds and has held for seven years, one and the same nun as chaplain, without ever replacing her by another, and when she goes out she always has this young nun with her." [201] E.g. at Campsey (1532) and Redlingfield (1526 and 1532). _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, pp. 224, 291, 297. At Elstow (1539). Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 415. At Barking (still in receipt of pension in 1553). _Ib._ I, p. 438 note. [202] _Litt. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Series), II, pp. 658-9. Compare injunctions to the Abbess of Chatteris in 1345. Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 619. [203] _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 108, 109, 138-9, 143, 185, 190-1. [204] See _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 3, 48, 120, 130, 133; and _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83, 75_d_, 26_d_. [205] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 49. [206] _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 108. [207] _Ib._ pp. 143, 191. [208] See below, p. 216 ff. [209] Among "greuous defautes" enumerated in the "additions to the rules" of Syon Abbey (fifteenth century) is the following: "If any lye in a wayte, or in a spye, or els besyly and curyously serche what other sustres or brethren speke betwene themselfe, that they afterwardes may revele or schewe the saynge of the spekers to ther grete hurte"; others are, "if any sowe dyscorde amonge the sustres and brethren," and "if any be founde a preuy rowner or bakbyter." Aungier, _Hist. and Antiquities of Syon Monastery_, p. 257. [210] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 121, 123. [211] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 123, 185, 133. [212] See e.g. _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 143, 290. [213] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 186. Compare _ib._ pp. 124, 135 (Gracedieu and Heynings); _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, ff. 139-40 (Elstow, 1359); _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, ff. 343 (Elstow, 1387), 397 (Heynings, 1392); _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 117 (Moxby, 1252), 164 (Hampole, 1314). [214] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 359-60. There are various other references to "Wynge" (i.e. Wing in Buckinghamshire) in the account, e.g. "Item receyvid of Richard Saie for the ferme of the personage of Wynge for a yere and a half within the tyme of this accompte xlviij_li_. Item. rec. of the same Richard Saie as in party of payment of the same ferme for a quarter of a yere x_s_," "item, paid to the bisshop of Lincolns officers for the licens of Wynge for ij yere xxij_s_ viij_d_. Item paid to the ffermour of Wynge for his goune for ij yere xiij_s_ iiij_d_." For the London lawsuit see below, p. 202. [215] See _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260, _passim_. The London references are in 1260/7 and 1260/17 respectively. [216] Constitutions of the legate Ottobon in 1268. Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 18. [217] Hugo, _Medieval Nunneries of the County of Somerset, Minchin Barrow_, p. 81. [218] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 187. [219] _Wykeham's Reg._ (Hants Rec. Soc.), p. 500. [220] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 89. In 1374 the Abbess of Canonsleigh had licence to have divine service celebrated in her presence in the chapel of St Theobald in the parish of Burlescombe "dicto monasterio contigua," but her nuns were not to leave the claustral precincts on this pretext. _Reg. of Bishop Brantyngham_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, pt I, p. 335. [221] Wood, _op. cit._ II, pp. 156-7. Even Ap Rice seems to have considered Dr Legh's enforcement of enclosure as overstrict "for as many of these houses stand by husbandry they must fall to decay if the heads are not allowed to go out." Gairdner, _Letters and Papers, etc._ IX, no. 139; cf. preface, p. 20. [222] Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, p. 8. [223] _Linc. Dioc. Documents_, ed. A. Clark (E.E.T.S.), pp. 50, 53. [224] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 314. [225] For instance Margaret Fairfax of Nunmonkton was one of the _supervisores testamenti_ of John Fairfax, rector of Prescot, in 1393 and of Thomas Fairfax of Walton in 1394. _Ib._ I, pp. 190, 204. The abbess of Syon was one of the three overseers of the will of Sir Richard Sutton, steward of her house in 1524. Aungier, _Hist. and Antiquities of Syon Mon._ p. 532. Emmota Farethorpe, Prioress of Wilberfoss, was executrix of John Appilby of Wilberfoss in 1438. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 126 note. Margaret Delaryver, Prioress of St Clement's York, was executrix of Elizabeth Medlay (probably a boarder there). _Ib._ III, p. 130. Joan Kay in 1525 left most of her property to her daughter the Prioress of Stixwould to found an obit there and made her executrix. _Linc. Wills_, ed. C. W. Foster (Linc. Rec. Soc.), I, p. 155. Sir John Beke, vicar of Aby, who left the greater part of his property to Greenfield for the same purpose, made the Prioress Isabel Smith executrix. _Ib._ I, p. 162. These offices were sometimes filled by nuns other than heads of houses, e.g. the will of John Suthwell, rector of St Mary's South Kelsey, Lincs., was witnessed by his sister Margaret, a nun, in 1390. Gibbons, _Early Linc. Wills_, p. 76. Alice Conyers of Nunappleton was made coadjutress of the executors of Master John de Woodhouse in 1345. _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 15. For Carrow nuns (usually the prioress) as executors, supervisors and witnesses, see Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, pp. xv, xvi, xxii, xxiii, xxix. [226] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 2. [227] _V.C.H. Sussex_, II, p. 84. See _Rot. Parl._ I, p. 147. [228] _An Alphabet of Tales_, ed. M. M. Banks (E.E.T.S., 1904), no. XV, pp. 13-14. I have modernised spelling. This fifteenth century English version is ultimately derived from an _exemplum_ by Jacques de Vitry, of which it is a close translation. _Exempla e sermonibus vulgaribus J. Vitriacensis_, ed. T. F. Crane, no. LIX, pp. 23-4. [229] "Item Priorissa raro venit ad matutinas aut missas. Domina Katerina Hoghe dicit quod quedam moniales sunt quodammodo sompnolentes, tarde veniendo ad matutinas et alias horas canonicas." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 133. [230] J. P. Krapp, _The Legend of St Patrick's Purgatory; its later Literary History_ (1899), pp. 75-6. [231] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 3, 4, 5, 8. The Prioress of Brewood White Ladies in Shropshire was severely rebuked in the first part of the fourteenth century for _expensae voluptuariae_, dress and laxity of rule. _Reg. of Roger de Norbury_ (Will. Salt Archaeol. Soc. Collections, I), p. 261. [232] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [233] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, pp. 7-9. [234] Compare the anecdote related by Caesarius of Heisterbach about Ensfrid of Cologne. "One day he met the abbess of the holy Eleven Thousand Virgins; before her went her clerks, wrapped in mantles of grey fur like the nuns; behind her went her ladies and maidservants, filling the air with the sound of their unprofitable words; while the Dean was followed by his poor folk who besought him for alms. Wherefore this righteous man, burning with the zeal of discipline, cried aloud in the hearing of all: 'Oh, lady Abbess, it would better adorn your religion, that ye, like me, should be followed, not by buffoons, but by poor folk!' Whereat she was much ashamed, not presuming to answer so worthy a man." Translated in Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_, p. 251. [235] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 148. [236] _V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 71. [237] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 155. Sometimes however, the heads of houses received episcopal dispensations to reside for a period outside their monasteries, for the sake of health. Joan Formage, Abbess of Shaftesbury, received one in 1368, allowing her to leave her abbey for a year and to reside in her manors for air and recreation. _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78. Josiana de Anlaby (the Prioress of Swine about whose election there had been so much trouble) had licence in 1303 to absent herself on account of ill-health. Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 493. [238] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 638. [239] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 187. [240] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 619. [241] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, pp. 18-19. [242] _Ib._ V, p. 256. [243] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 78. [244] _Archaeologia_, XLVIII, pp. 56, 58. [245] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83 and _d_, 39_d_, 96. [246] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 120, 121. [247] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 2-4, 6. [248] _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_ (1441-6), p. 141. [249] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 46-52. [250] Compare the complaint of the sisters of the hospital of St James outside Canterbury in 1511, that the Prioress was a _diffamatrix_ of the sisters and used to say publicly in the neighbourhood that they were incontinent _et publice meretrices_, to the great scandal of the house. The ages of the sisters were 84, 80, 50 and 36 respectively and the Prioress herself was 74. _Eng. Hist. Rev._ VI, p. 23. [251] Compare Archbishop Bowet's injunction to the Prioress of Hampole in 1411 that "Alice Lye, her nun who held the office of _hostilaria_, or anyone who succeeded her in office, should henceforth be free from entering the rooms of guests to lay beds, but that the porter should receive the bedclothes from the _hostilaria_ at the lower gate, and when the guests had departed, should give them back to her at the same place." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 165. For the charge that the Prioress made the nuns work, compare the case of Eleanor Prioress of Arden in 1396 (pp. 85-6 below) and the case of the Prioress of Easebourne in 1441: "Also the Prioress compels her sisters to work continually like hired workwomen (_ad modum mulieres conducticiarum_) and they receive nothing whatever for their own use from their work, but the prioress takes the whole profit (_totum percipit_)." _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 7. [252] Compare the case of Denise Loweliche, p. 458 below. [253] _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 283-5 (summary in _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 114-5). [254] An analysis of receipts and expenditure by the Prioress during her term of office, given at the end of the _comperta_, stands thus: In the first year: Receipts £22. 7_s._ 6_d._ Expenses £27. 6_s._ 8_d._ In the second year: Receipts £25. 3_s._ 0_d._ Expenses £40. In the third year: Receipts £26. 9_s._ 6_d._ Expenses £27. 3_s._ 0_d._ [255] The nuns of Swine made the same complaint in 1268. "Binis, tamen, diebus in ebdomada aqua pro cervisia eisdem subministratur." _Reg. of Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 148. [256] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 506 note. [257] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, VI, p. 55. [258] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, pp. 83-4. The other cases may be noted more briefly. For the story of Denise Loweliche, Prioress of Markyate (Beds.), see _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 82-6, and below, pp. 458-9. Alice de Chilterne, Prioress of White Hall, Ilchester, was deprived for incontinence with the chaplain and for wasting the goods of the house to such an extent that the nuns were reduced to begging their bread (1323). Hugo, _Med. Nunneries of Somerset, Whitehall in Ilchester_, pp. 78-9 and _Reg. John of Drokensford_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), pp. 227, 245, 259. In 1325 Joan de Barton, Prioress of Moxby, was deprived _super lapsu carnis_ with the chaplain. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 240. In 1495 Elizabeth Popeley was deprived, two years after her confirmation as Prioress of Arthington, for having given birth to a child and for wasting the goods of the house. _Ib._ p. 189. The case of Katherine Wells, Prioress of Littlemore, who put her nuns in the stocks and took the goods of the house to provide a dowry for her illegitimate daughter is noted below, Note F. See also the stories of Elizabeth Broke, Abbess of Romsey, and Agnes Tawke, Prioress of Easebourne. Liveing, _Rec. Romsey Abbey_, pp. 211-222 and _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, pp. 14-19. Joan Fletcher, Prioress of Basedale, resigned from fear of deposition in 1527 and then cast aside her habit and left the house. _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI, pp. 431-2. [259] It was translated by the Rev. Dr Cox in _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 132-3, from a chartulary of Wherwell Abbey compiled in the fourteenth century (_Brit. Mus. Egerton MS._ 2104) and quoted by Gasquet, _English Monastic Life_, pp. 155-8. [260] See the account in the _Reg. of Crabhouse Nunnery_, ed. Mary Bateson (_Norfolk Archaeology_, XI, pp. 59-63). Also a charming account of Crabhouse (founded largely on this register) in Jessopp, _Ups and Downs of an Old Nunnery_ (_Frivola_, 1896, pp. 28 ff.). The English portion of the register was written some time after 1470. [261] _Reliquiae Antiquae_, I, p. 314. See also a little further on in the Crabhouse Register: "And xx mark we hadde of the gifte of Edmunde Peris persoun of Watlington before seyde sekatoure to the same Roger wiche was nought payed tyl xvj yere aftyr his day." Compare the complaint at Rusper in 1478: "Item dicit quod Johannes Wood erat executor domini Ricardi Hormer ... qui fuit a retro in solucione pensionis v_s._ per xxx annos priorisse et conventui de Rushper." But this may mean that the late Richard (a rector) had failed to pay. _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ V, p. 255. [262] With this account of the building of Crabhouse church it is interesting to compare the costs incurred in building the "newe chirch" of Syon Abbey in 1479-80. Two small schedules of accounts dealing with this work are preserved in the Public Record Office. The first is particularly interesting for its list of workmen employed: "Summa of the wages of Werkmen wirchyng as well opon and wyane the newe chirch of the monastery of Syun, as opon parte of the newe byldyng of the Brether Cloyster, chapitirhous and library, that is to sey fr. the xth day of October in the xixth yere of the reigne of kyng E. the iiijth vnto the vijth day of October in the xxth yere of the reigne of the same kyng, as it is declared partelly in ij jurnalles of work thereof examyned. It. ffremasons ccxlv li. xij s. xj d. It. harde-hewers xxx li. xj s. vij d. ob. It. Brekeleyers xvj li. xvj s. ij d. It. chalk-hewers xlj s. iij d. It. Carpenters and joynours xlvj s. ix d. It. Tawyers ix li. xvj s. iiij d. It. Smythes xliiij li. xix s. x d. It. Laborers xxxvj li. xix s. vij d. It. Paied to James Powle Brekeman for makyng of breks lxxvj li. viij s. iiij d. Summa to{l}, cccclxvij li. viij s. iij d. ob." (_P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1261/2). The other schedule gives further details: "Expenses vpon our newe churche. The makyng of the rof w{t} tymber and cariage and workmanship ix{c}lxv li. xviij s. iij d. q{a}, lede castyng, jynyng, leyyng sawdir with diuers cariage v{c}xxxv li. x s. x d. Iron bought with cariage, weyng and whirvage lxxiij li. xvi s. x d. Ragstone, assheler ffreston with cariage, masons and labourers for the vantyng and ffurryng of the pilers and purvyaunes vnto the xxvij of maii m{l}m{l}v{c}xlix li. xj s. j d. ob. Summa total for the church m{l}m{l}m{l}m{l}cxxxiiij li. xvij s. ob. q{a}. Expenses of the cloystor and dortour vnto the xxvij day of maii vj{c}iiij{xx}xviij li. ix s. x d. Summa to{l}. m{l}m{l}m{l}m{l}viij{c}xxxiij li. vj s. x d. ob. q{a}." (_Ib._ 1261/3.) [263] Mr Coulton suggests the reading 'a mason hewande,' i.e. a hard-hewer or rough hewer, as opposed to the better freemason. [264] The _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ was published in six volumes by the Record Commission (1810-34). It is the subject of a detailed study by Professor Alexander Savine, "English Monasteries on the Eve of the Suppression," in _Oxford Studies in Social and Legal History_, ed. Vinogradoff, vol. I (1909). For this reason, and also because of their greater interest, I have preferred to base my study of nunnery finance on the account rolls of the nuns. The _Valor_ as it affects nunneries has been largely drawn upon in an unpublished thesis by Miss H. T. Jacka, _The Dissolution of the English Nunneries, Thesis submitted for the Degree of M.A. in the University of London_ (Dec. 1917). It is a pity that this useful little work is not published. I have been able to consult it and have made use (as will be seen from footnotes to this chapter) of the admirable chapter II on "The Property of the Nunneries"; for my quotations from the _Valor_ I have invariably used her analysis. Anyone wishing for an intensive study of the Dissolution from the point of view of monastic houses for women cannot do better than consult this thesis, which is far more detailed, exact and judicial in tone than any other modern account. [265] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260. [266] The wardens' accounts are in _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 867/21-6 and the prioress's accounts, _ib._ 867/30, 32, 33-36. and _Hen. VII_, no. 274. They are briefly described in _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 430-1 (notes 30, 31, 39). An excellent prioress's account for 2-4 Hen. VII is printed by Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 358-61, the prioress being Christian Bassett. [267] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1257/10. See Gasquet, _Eng. Monastic Life_, pp. 158-176. [268] A. Gray, _Priory of St Radegund's, Cambridge_, pp. 145-85. [269] Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, pp. 278-83. Compare _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1257/1 for a Catesby account roll for 11-14 Hen. IV. [270] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 458-60. See also _P.R.O._ 1257/2 for Denney, 14 Hen. IV-1 Hen. V. [271] See Ch. IV, _passim_. [272] _Valor Eccles._ IV, p. 302. [273] _Ib._ III, p. 103. [274] _Ib._ I, p. 119. [275] _Ib._ I, p. 397. [276] _Ib._ I, p. 424. [277] Jacka, _op. cit._ f. 44. [278] Jacka, _op. cit._ ff. 27, 29-30. The information about Syon and the Minoresses is taken from _Valor Eccles._ I, p. 424 and I, p. 397 respectively. [279] See Jacka, _op. cit._ f. 25. [280] If the demesne land were let out in farm the customary ploughing and other services of the villeins would no longer be needed and if only a portion of it were so farmed the number of villein services required would be proportionately less. This, as well as the increasing employment of hired labour on the demesne during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, accounts for the item "Sale of Works" which appears in the Romsey account for 1412. Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 194. From another point of view the number of rent-payers was increased by the fact that both free and unfree tenants could rent pieces of the demesne. As to the farming of the demesne, note however the conclusion to which Miss Jacka comes from a study of the _Valor_ and the Dissolution _Surveys_ now in the Augmentation Office: "The question 'to what extent did the nuns in 1535 farm their demesnes?' cannot be confidently answered on the evidence of any of the records before us. Apart from the fact that in many cases there is no statement at all, the word 'firma' or 'farm' is used so ambiguously that even where it occurs it is impossible to be certain that a lease existed.... There are, of course, unmistakeable cases in which the demesnes were farmed: Tarrant Keynes kept in hand the demesnes of 3 manors and farmed that of 7; Shaftesbury occupied the demesne of one manor and farmed that of 18 (_Valor Eccles._ I, pp. 265, 276). But in none of the few cases in which the whole of the demesne is described as yielding a 'firma,' should we be justified, in view of the several uses of the word, in asserting that it had the definite character of a lease. That is to say, whatever may be our suspicions, the evidence before us does not warrant the assertion that in a single case did the nuns farm the whole of their demesnes; and this conclusion is an unexpected and remarkable one, for we might well expect them to be among the first land holders who seized this method of simplifying their manorial economy." Jacka, _op. cit._ f. 47. [281] In the account roll of Dame Christian Bassett, Prioress of Delapré (St Albans) for 2-4 Hen. VII, the "rente fermys" range between £7 from Robert Pegge for the farm of the whole manor of Pray, to 2_s._ received from Richard Franklin "for the ferme of vj acres of londe in Bacheworth"; one John Shon pays 6_s._ 8_d._ "for the ferme of certeyne londs in Bacheworth and ij tenements in Seint Mighell strete with a lyme kylne"; Richard Ordeway pays 10_s._ for rent farm of "an hous w{t}in the Pray" and Robert Pegge 8_s._ for rent farm of "an hous and a stable w{t}in Praygate." Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 358-9. In this account her assize rents amount to £2. 11_s._ 2_d._ within the town of St Albans and her rents farm to £4. 13_s._ 2_d._; while outside the town the rents of assize amount to £2. 5_s._ 0_d._ and the rents farm to £11. 19_s._ 8_d._, while four items amounting to £1. 19_s._ 11_d._ are doubtful, but probably represent farms. That is to say very nearly three quarters of the lands and houses belonging to Delapré were farmed out, and if we except payments from the town of St Albans, which were probably house-rents, over four-fifths of its possessions were in farm. Similarly in the account roll of Margaret Ratclyff, Prioress of Swaffham, for 22 Ed. IV. the rents are classified as _Redditus Assise_ (£6. 0_s._ 4_d._ in all), _Firma Terrae_ (£13. 0_s._ 3-1/2_d._ in all) and _Firma Molendini_, the farm of a mill (£3. 14_s._ 4_d._). _Ib._ IV, p. 459. [282] References to money paid in fees to rent-collectors, or in gratuities to men who had brought rents up to the house often occur in account rolls, e.g. in the Catesby roll for 1414-15, "Also in expenses of collecting rents wheresoever to be collected ... xix_s._ Also paid to divers receivers of rent for the time viij_s._ viij_d._" Baker, _Hist. of Northants._ I, p. 280. In the Delapré account of 2-4 Hen. IV, "Item paid to a man that brought money from Cambryg for a rewarde viij_d._ Item for dyvers men y{t} brought in their rent at dyvers tymes xx_s._ ij_d._" Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359. In the St Radegund's Cambridge account of 1449-51, "In the expenses of Thomas Key (xvij_d._ ob.) at Abyngton, Litlyngton, Whaddon, Crawden, Bumpsted and Cambridge for the business of the lady (prioress) and for levying rent ... and in the stipend of Thomas Key collecting rents in Cambridge and the district this year xiii_s._ iiij_d._" Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, pp. 173-4. [283] Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 148, 164. [284] See for a translation of the whole charter, Aungier, _Hist. of Syon_, pp. 60-67. The original is given _ib._ pp. 411-8. [285] See the valuation of Syon Monastery, A.D. 1534, translated from the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_, _ib._ pp. 439-450. At Romsey in 1412 the perquisites of courts brought in a total of £14 out of an annual income of £404. 6_s._ 0-1/2_d._, made up of the rents and farms, sale of works, sale of farm produce and perquisites of courts on six manors. Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 194. [286] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 135. [287] _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 370. So apparently had the Prioress of Carrow. Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, p. 21. [288] See p. 70 above. Compare the Catesby roll for 1414-15. "And in the expenses of the steward at the court this year and at other times vi_s._ viii_d._" Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, p. 280. [289] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 118. [290] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1272-9, p. 392. [291] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1296-1302, p. 238. [292] In the account of the Prioress of Delapré already quoted occurs the item "Receyvid for ij standyngs at Prayffayre at ij tymes v_s._" Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359. The fair time was the feast of the Nativity of the B.V.M. (Sept. 8th) and the account for another year shows that over £1 was spent on the convent and visitors at this time. The accounts for 1490-3 include payments for making trestles and forms in connection with the fair. _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 430 (note 31) and p. 439 (note 39). The nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, were granted by Stephen a fair, which was afterwards known as Garlick fair, and was held in their churchyard for two days on August 14th and 15th. They did not receive much from it; in 1449 the tolls amounted only to 5_s._ 2_d._; moreover they had to give the toll collectors 6_d._ for a wage and they evidently made the occasion one for entertainment, for they hired an extra cook for 3_d._ "to help in the kitchin at the fair time." Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, pp. 49-50. [293] The _Valor Eccles._ occasionally notes income derived from fairs. Tarrant Keynes had £2 from the fair at Woodburyhill, Shaftesbury had £2. 4_s._ 6_d._ from Shaftesbury fair, Malling received £3. 6_s._ 8_d._ from Malling market and fair and £3 from a market "cum terris et tenementis" at Newheth, Blackborough had £1 from Blackborough fair and Elstow had £7. 12_s._ 0_d._ from Elstow fair. _Valor Eccles._ I, pp. 265, 276, 106; II, p. 205; III, p. 395; IV, p. 188. [294] The mill belonging to the home farm would be in the charge of a miller, who was one of the hired servants of the house and was paid a regular stipend. Other mills would probably be farmed out. The nuns of Catesby had two mills, which brought them in 12_s._ and 22_s._ a year respectively; one, a wind-mill, was probably farmed, but the water-mill was in charge of Thomas Milner, at a wage of 20_s._ and his servant, who was paid 2_s._ 6_d._ The nuns also received tolls of grain in kind from the mill; a certain proportion of which was handed over to the miller for his household. The mill does not seem to have paid very well, for a heavy list of "Costs of the Mill," amounting to 31_s._ 6_d._ appears in the account; it includes the wages of the miller and his boy and payments to a carpenter for making the mill-wheel for seventeen days and in damming the mill-tail and buying shoes with nails for the mill horses. Baker, _op. cit._ I, pp. 279, 281. At Swaffham Bulbeck the "Firma Molendini" brought in £3. 14_s._ 4_d._ Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 457. Malling Abbey had a fulling-mill. _Valor Eccles._ I, p. 276. [295] For instance in Hone, _The Manor and Manorial Records_ (1906). [296] Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 591. [297] Baker, _op. cit._ I, pp. 279, 282. [298] _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 370. [299] For examples of mortuary law-suits, receipts and results, see Coulton, _Med. Garn._, pp. 561-6. On the whole subject of mortuaries and the unpopularity which they entailed upon the church, see Coulton, _Medieval Studies_, no. 8 ("Priests and People before the Reformation," pp. 3-7). [300] Translated in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 323. Compare another of Caesarius' tales of the usurer who was taken by the devil through various places of torment: "There also he saw a certain honest knight lately dead, Elias von Rheineck, castellan of Horst, seated on a mad cow with his face towards her tail and his back to her horns; the beast rushed to and fro, goring his back every moment so that the blood rushed forth. To whom the usurer said, 'Lord, why suffer ye this pain?' 'This cow,' replied the knight, 'I tore mercilessly from a certain widow; wherefore I must now endure this merciless punishment from the same beast.'" _Ib._ p. 214. Certainly the medieval imagination had a genius for making the punishment fit the crime. [301] A nunnery in a large town would be far more dependent on buying food. Thus an account of the household expenses of St Helen's Bishopsgate, in the sixteenth century shows that the nuns had to pay £22 for buying corn and £60. 13_s._ 4_d._ for meat and other foodstuffs. They were heavily in debt, and their creditors included a brewer, a "cornman," two fishmongers and a butcher. _V.C.H. London_, I, p. 460. [302] Baker, _op. cit._ I, pp. 281-3. [303] The convent bought 4-1/2 qrs. of salt for 25_s._ for the operation this year. Baker, _op. cit._ I, p. 280. Compare, for the operation at Gracedieu, Gasquet, _Eng. Mon. Life_, p. 174. [304] The account of the cellaress of Syon for the year 1536-7 gives very full details of the income derived from the sale of hides and fells. John Lyrer, tanner, buys from her fifty-five ox-hides at 3_s._ 6_d._ each, and three cow-hides, two steer-hides, one bull-hide, and one murrain ox-hide at 2_s._ 4_d._ each, making a total of £10. 8_s._ 10_d._ The same John Lyrer buys 230 calf-skins for £3. 16_s._ 8_d._ John Cockes, fellmonger, buys 287 "shorling felles," at 3_s._ the dozen, 190 "skynnes of wynter felles" at 6_s._ the dozen, 77 "skynnes somerfelles" at 8_s._ the dozen, for a total for £10. 18_s._ 1_d._ The different qualities of wool were always carefully distinguished and priced. _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. Blunt, p. xxix. [305] A few examples taken at random will suffice: "By the sale of wool 4 marks 11_s._ 8_d._ From Gilbert of Chesterton for the wool _del aan ke est aveni_ 100_s._" (32-3 Edw. I). _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/1. "From the sale of 14 stone of wool, price per stone 7_s._, 4_l._ 18_s._" (48-9 Edw. III). _Ib._ 1260/4. "Received for one sack of 20 stone of wool sold last year, at 4_s._ per stone, 13 marks, 10_s._ 8_d._ Received for one sack of this years wool, at 4_s._ 6_d._ per stone, 5_l._ 17_s._ 0_d._" (either 46-7 or 47-8 Edw. III). _Ib._ 1260/21. "From John of the Pantry for 11-1/2 stone of wool at 6_s._ the stone, 69_s._" (1-2 Rich. II). _Ib._ 1260/7. In 1412 Romsey Abbey derived £60 out of a total income of £404. 6_s._ 4-1/2_d._ from the sale of wool. Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 194. [306] See, for this very interesting document, Cunningham, _Growth of English Industry and Commerce_ (1905 ed.), I, App. D, pp. 628-41. The nunneries mentioned, with the amount of wool obtainable from each annually, are Stainfield (from 12 sacks), Stixwould (from 15 sacks), Nuncoton (from 10 sacks), Hampole (from 6 sacks), St Leonard's Grimsby (from 2 sacks), Heynings (from 2 sacks), Gokewell (from 4 sacks), Langley (from 5 sacks), Arden (from 10 sacks), Keldholme (from 12 sacks), Rosedale (from 10 sacks), St Clement's York (from 3 sacks), Swine (from 8 sacks), Marrick (from 8 sacks), Wykeham (from 4 sacks), Ankerwyke (from 4 sacks), Thicket (from 4 sacks), Nunmonkton (number missing), Yedingham (do.), Legbourne (from 3 sacks). A similar Flemish list mentions Hampole, Nuncoton, Stainfield and Gracedieu (33 lbs.). Varenbergh, _Hist. des Relations Diplomatiques entre le Comté de Flandre et l'Angleterre au Moyen �ge_ (Brussels, 1874), pp. 214-7. [307] "The Libel of English Policie," in _Hakluyt's Voyages_ (Everyman's Lib. edit.), I, p. 186. [308] See, for instance, a petition from the nuns of Carrow asking to be allowed to appropriate the church of Surlingham, of which they had the advowson, "qar, tres dute seignour, lauoesoun ne les fait bien eynz de les mettre en daunger de presentement en chescune voedaunce"; _P.R.O. Anct. Petit._ 232/11587. It appears that the prioress had letters patent to appropriate the church, probably in answer to this petition in 22 Edw. II; Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, App. p. xxxvi. It may be useful to give a few out of very many references to the appropriation of a church to a nunnery on account of poverty: Clifton to Lingbrook (_Reg. R. de Swinfield_, p. 134), Wolferlow and Bridge Sollers to Aconbury (_Reg. A. de Orleton_, pp. 176, 200), Rockbeare to Canonsleigh (_Reg. Grandisson_, II, p. 698), Compton and Upmardon to Easebourne (_Bp. Rede's Reg._ p. 137), Itchen Stoke to Romsey (_Reg. Sandale_, p. 269), Whenby to Moxby (_Reg. Wickwane_, p. 290), Horton to St Clement's York (_Reg. Gray_, p. 107), Bishopthorpe to the same (_Reg. Giffard_, p. 59), Dallington to Flamstead (Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 301), Quadring to Stainfield (_V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 131), Easton Neston to Sewardsley and Desborough to Rothwell (_V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 137), Lidlington to Barking (_V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 119), Bradford, Tisbury and Gillingham to Shaftesbury (_V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 77). [309] An analysis of the possessions of Carrow gives some good examples of this. The churches of Earlham, Stow Bardolph, Surlingham, Swardeston, East Winch and Wroxham were all appropriated soon after their advowsons had been granted to the priory, which also possessed the advowsons of four churches in Norwich, the moiety of another advowson, the moiety of a rectory and various tithes or portions of tithes in different manors and parishes. Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, App. X. [310] Gasquet, _Eng. Mon. Life_, p. 194. [311] For the abuses of appropriation, see Coulton, _Medieval Studies_, no. 8, pp. 6-8. For the part played by the lower clergy in the Peasants' Revolt, see Petit-Dutaillis, _Studies Supplementary to Stubbs' Constit. Hist._ II, pp. 270-1, and Kriehn, _Studies in the Sources of the Social Revolt_ in 1381 (_Amer. Hist. Review_, 1901), VI, pp. 480-4. [312] _Valor Eccles._ IV, p. 188. [313] _Ib._ III, p. 276. [314] _Ib._ I, p. 897. [315] Jacka, _op. cit._ f. 35. See the list of "Farms and Pensions" in the prioress of Catesby's accounts for 1414-5. Baker, _Hist. and Antiqs. of Northants._ I, p. 279. [316] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 98. [317] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 268. [318] This appears from the regular entry of the amount brought in by the farms of the two churches in the account rolls. In 1458 the nuns received formal permission from the bishop to lease out and dispose of the fruits and revenues of any of the appropriated churches. Madox, _Form. Anglic._ dxc. [319] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/7. [320] See for instance Norris' note (quoted by Rye) on the grant to Carrow Priory of the tithes of all wheat growing in the parishes of Bergh and Apton, which tithes "occasioned many disputes between the Rector and the Convent, till at length about the year 1237 it was agreed by the Prioress and Convent and Thomas, the then Rector, ... that the Rector should pay to the Convent 14 quarters of wheat in lieu of all their tithes there, which was constantly paid, with some little allowance for defect of measure, until 29 Edw. III, when there was a suit between Prioress and Rector about them. What was the event of it I find not, but they soon after returned to the old payment of 14 qrs., which continued until 21 Hen. VI, when the dispute was revived and in a litigious way they continued above ten years, but I find they afterwards returned again to the old agreement and kept to it, I believe, to the dissolution of the Priory." Rye mentions a suit between the Rector and Prioress in 1321. Similarly the nuns were involved in a tedious suit (10 Edw. I) about the tithes of the demesne of the manor of Barshall in Riston, with the Rector of Riston. Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, App. pp. xxx, xxxv. [321] See below, p. 199, for the other side of the matter. [322] Similarly the nuns of Kingsmead, Derby, had part of the shirt of St Thomas of Canterbury, and the nuns of Gracedieu had the girdle and part of the tunic of St Francis, both of which were good for the same purpose. _V.C.H. Derby_, II, p. 43; Nichols, _Hist. of Leic._ III, p. 652. [323] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 115, 119, 130, 159, 178, 189. [324] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 122. [325] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 118. [326] See for instance the receipts of the nuns of St Michael's Stamford from _Almes, Almoignes et Auenture_ entered in their roll for 45-6 Edw. III. "From Sir John Weston for a soul, 13_s._ 4_d._ For the soul of Simon the Taverner, 1_s._ For the soul of Sir Robert de Thorp, £20. 6_s._ 7_d._ For the soul of William Apethorp, 3_s._ 4_d._ For the soul of Alice atte Halle, 3_s._ 4_d._ In alms from William Ouneby, 6_s._ 8_d._ In alms from Emma of Okham £5. Received from the pardon at the church 6_s._ 8_d._ For the pardon from Lady Idayne and from Emma Okham £1." _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/3. But this was an unusually good year. [327] The account rolls of St Michael's Stamford usually arrange expenses under the following headings: (1) rents, (2) petty expenses, (3) convent expenses, (4) cost of carts and ploughs, (5) repair of houses, (6) purchase of stock, (7) weeding corn and mowing hay, (8) threshing and winnowing, (9) harvest expenses, (10) hire of servants, (11) chaplains' fees. See _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/_passim_. The active prioress of St Mary de Pré, Christian Bassett, classifies her payments as for (1) "comyns, pytances and partycions," (2) "yerely charges," (3) "wagys and ffees," (4) "reparacions," (5) "divers expensis." Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 358-61. The prioress of Catesby (1414-5) classifies (1) rents, (2) petty expenses, (3) expenses of the houses (i.e. repairs), (4) household expenses, (5) necessary expenses (miscellaneous), (6) expenses of carts, (7) purchase of livestock, (8) customary payments (to nuns, pittancers, farmers, cottagers, etc. in clothing; details not given); (9) purchase of corn, (10) rewards (various small tips to nuns and servants), (11) tedding and making hay, harvest expenses, stubble, thrashing and winnowing corn, (12) costs of the mill, (13) servants' wages. Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, pp. 278-83. [328] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 194-5. [329] See below, p. 323. [330] See below, pp. 157-8. [331] Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 156. [332] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/10. [333] _Valor Eccles._ I, p. 84. [334] _Ib._ I, p. 119. [335] _Ib._ I, p. 394. [336] _Ib._ III, p. 76. [337] _Ib._ III, p. 77. [338] _Archaeol. Journ._ LXIX (1912), pp. 120-1. [339] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 172. [340] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359. The heading under which this item comes is _Yerely Charges_. [341] Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, p. 281. [342] A. G. Little, _Studies in English Franciscan History_ (1917), pp. 25, 43. [343] See below, p. 199. [344] Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 156, 172. [345] _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. Blunt, introd. p. xxxi. [346] See below, p. 202. [347] See e.g. above, p. 70. [348] Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 153-5. [349] Mackenzie Walcott, _Inventories of ... Shepey_, pp. 32-3. [350] Maurice Hewlett, _The Song of the Plow_ (1916), pp. 9-10. [351] Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, p. 283. Compare the St Radegund's Cambridge accounts: "Et in butumine empto cum pycche hoc anno pro bidentibus signandis et ungendis, ij s j d. Et in clatis emptis ad faldam, iij s iij d. Et solutum pro remocione falde per diversas vices, iij d. ... Et in bidentibus hoc anno lavandis et tondendis ij s iij d." Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 155, 171. [352] They are a regular item in the St Michael's, Stamford, accounts and compare the accounts of St Radegund's, Cambridge: "And in viij pairs of gloves bought for divers hired men at harvest as was needful xij d." Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 157, 172. [353] Tusser, _Fiue Hundred Pointes of Good Husbandrie_, ed. W. Payne and S. J. Herrtage (Eng. Dialect. Soc. 1878), pp. 129-30. [354] Tusser, _op. cit._ p. 132. [355] _Ib._ p. 181. [356] C. T. Flower, _Obedientiars' Accounts of Glastonbury and other Religious Houses_ (St Paul's Ecclesiological Soc. vol. VII, pt II (1912)), pp. 50-62. The nunnery accounts described include accounts of the Abbess of Elstow (22 Hen. VII), the Prioress of Delapré (4 and 9 Hen. VII), the Cellaress of Barking, the Cellaress of Syon, the Sacrist of Syon and the Chambress of Syon. On obedientiaries and their accounts in general, see the introduction to _Compotus Rolls of the Obedientiaries of St Swithun's Priory, Winchester_, ed. G. W. Kitchin (Hants. Rec. Soc. 1892). [357] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 236. At St Mary's Winchester at the same date the 14 nuns included the abbess, prioress, subprioress, infirmaress, _precentrix_ and three sub-chantresses, _scrutatrix_, _dogmatista_ and librarian. _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 124. [358] Aungier, _Hist. of Syon Mon._ p. 392. [359] _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. Blunt (E.E.T.S.), introd. p. xxviii. [360] Aungier, _op. cit._ pp. 392-3. [361] See below, Note A. [362] Aungier, _op. cit._ p. 395. [363] I have been unable to discover what is meant by _feri_ and _asser_. [364] _Tabite_ was a sort of _moiré_ silk. Probably carpets or tablecloths here. [365] _Register of Crabhouse Nunnery_, ed. M. Bateson (Norfolk Archaeology, XI, 1892), pp. 38-9. [366] See, for instance, the Godstow Register; charters nos. 105, 139, 556 and 644 concern grants appropriated to clothing and nos. 52, 250, 536, 619 and 630 to the infirmary. No. 862 is a grant of five cartloads of alderwood yearly "to be take xv dayes after myghelmasse to drye their heryng." _Eng. Reg. of Godstow Nunnery_, ed. A. Clark (E.E.T.S. 1905-11), pp. 102, etc. In the Crabhouse Register it is noted that a certain meadow is set aside so that "all the produce of the said meadow be forever granted for the vesture of the ten ladies who are oldest in religion of the whole house, so that each of the ten ladies receive yearly from the aforesaid meadow four shillings at the feast of St Margaret." _Op. cit._ p. 37. When Wothorpe was merged in St Michael's, Stamford, the diocesan stipulated that the proceeds of the priory and rectory of Wothorpe should be applied to the support of the infirmary and kitchen of St Michael's. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 268. [367] See, for instance, the payment of a yearly pension of five marks from the appropriated church of St Clement's for the clothing of the nuns of St Radegund's, Cambridge, and similar assignations of the income from appropriated churches at Studley, St Michael's Stamford, and Marrick. Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 27. [368] See C. T. Flower, _loc. cit._, for an account of the Syon, Barking and Elstow accounts; also Blunt, _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, introd. pp. xxvi-xxxi, for Syon chambresses' and cellaresses' accounts (1536-7) and _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1261/4 for a Syon cellaress's account (1481-2). See _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/14 for a St Michael's Stamford chambress's account (1408-9). [369] See below, Ch. VIII. [370] Blunt, _op. cit._ pp. xxvi-xxviii. [371] Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 149, 165, 167. [372] A barrel contained ten great hundreds of six score each. [373] A cade contained six great hundreds of six score each. [374] A warp was a parcel of four dried fish. [375] Gray, _op. cit._ See the accounts, pp. 145-79 _passim_. [376] _Ib._ pp. 10-11. [377] _Catholicon Anglicum_, ed. S. J. Herrtage (E.E.T.S. 1881), p. 365. [378] Blunt, _op. cit._ p. xxx. In 1481-2 their Lenten store included "saltfysshe," "stokfyssh," "white heryng," "rede haryng," "muddefissh," "lyng," "aburden," "Scarburgh fysshe," "salt samon," "salt elys," "oyle olyue" (34-3/4 gallons), a barrel of honey and figs. At other times this year the cellaress purchased beans (1 qr. 4 bushels), green peas (7 bushels), "grey" (i.e. dried) peas (4 bushels), "harreos" (3 bushels), oatmeal (2 qrs. 7 bushels), bread, wheat, malt, various animals for meat and to stock the farm, a kilderkin of good ale, 15 lbs. of almonds, 39 Essex cheeses, 111-1/2 gallons of butter, white salt and bay salt, also firewood and coals. _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1261/4. [379] _Poems of John Skelton_, ed. W. H. Williams, pp. 107-8 (from "Colyn Cloute," ll. 210-13). For the curious custom of eating dried peas on the fifth Sunday in Lent, called Passion or Care Sunday, see Brand, _Observations On Popular Antiquities_ (1877 ed.), pp. 57 ff. In the north of England peas boiled on Care Sunday were called _carlings_. Compare the St Mary de Pré (St Albans) accounts (2-4 Hen. VII) "Item paid for ij busshell of pesyn departyd amongs the susters in Lente xvj d." Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359, and the Barking cellaress' _Charthe_, below, Note A. [380] See below, p. 568. [381] Blunt, _op. cit._ pp. xxx-xxxi. [382] Shakespeare, _Winter's Tale_, IV, ii, 38 sqq. [383] For _sowce_, see below, p. 565. [384] The weekly allowance of beer to each member was supposed to be seven gallons, four of the better sort and three weaker, but the amount varied from house to house. See _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 89 (note). The Syon nuns had water on certain days, but doubtless as a mortification of the flesh, for it was sometimes complained of as a hardship when nuns had to drink water. ("Item they say that they do not get their corrody (i.e. weekly allowance of bread and beer) at the due times, but it is sometimes omitted for a fortnight and sometimes for a month, so that the nuns, by reason of the non-payment of the corrody, drink water." _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 284.) The weekly allowance of bread was seven loaves. A note in the Register of Shaftesbury Abbey (15th century) which then numbered about 50 nuns and a large household, says: "Hit is to wytyng that me baketh and breweth by the wike in the Abbey of Shaftesbury atte leste weye xxxvj quarters whete and malt. And other while me baketh and breweth xlj quarters and ij bz. whete and malte." Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 473. [385] Aungier, _op. cit._ pp. 393-4. [386] See below, p. 568. [387] They are diversely defined as pancakes, cheese cakes or custards, but they differed from our pancakes in being made in crusts. See the recipe in _Liber Cure Cocorum_ for flawns made with cheese: Take new chese and grynde hyt fayre, In morter with egges, without dysware; Put powder therto of sugur, I say, Coloure hit with safrone ful wele thou may; Put hit in cofyns that ben fayre, And bake hit forthe, I the pray. _Liber Cure Cocorum_, ed. Morris (Phil. Soc. 1862), p. 39. A fifteenth century cookery book gives this recipe for _Flathouns in lente_: "Take and draw a thrifty Milke of Almandes; temper with Sugre Water; than take hardid cofyns [pie-crusts] and pore thin comad [mixture] theron; blaunch Almaundis hol and caste theron Pouder Gyngere, Canelle, Sugre, Salt and Safroun; bake hem and serue forth." _Two Fifteenth Century Cookery Books_, ed. T. Austen (E.E.T.S. 1888), p. 56. [388] For Maundy Thursday, see Brand, _op. cit._ pp. 75-9. For the Barking Maundy see below, p. 568, for the St Mary de Pré Maundy see Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359, and for the St Michael's, Stamford, Maundy, see _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260 _passim_. The nuns of St Radegund's owned certain lands in Madingley which were held by the Prior of Barnwell on payment of a rent of 2_s._ 3_d._, called "Maundy silver." Gray, _op. cit._ p. 146. Maundy money is still distributed at Magdalen College, Oxford. [389] See below, p. 566, for the Barking pittances. The following extracts from one of the St Michael's, Stamford, accounts is typical of the rest: "Item paid for wassail 4_d._ ... paid to the convent on the Feast of St Michael and the dedication of the church 6_s._ Item paid for ... on All Saints Day and St Martin's Day 3_s._ Item paid for a pittance of pork on two occasions 6_s._ Item paid for fowls at Christmas for the convent 5_s._ 6_d._ Item paid for herrings on St Michael's Day for the poor 1_s._ 8_d._ Item paid for beer for the convent on Maundy Thursday (_Jour de Cene_) 10_d._ Item paid for bread and wafers on the same day 6_d._ Item paid for spices on the same day 3_s._ Item paid for herrings for the poor on the same day 1_s._ 8_d._ Item given to the poor on the same day 1_s._ 9_d._ Item for holy bread on Good Friday 2_d._ Item paid for _fflaunes_ 2_d._ Item paid for herrings on St Laurence's Day 9_d._" _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/11. At this convent "holy bread" was always brought for Good Friday, "flaunes" (or sometimes eggs, saffron and spices to make them) for Rogationtide, beer and spices on Maundy Thursday, herrings on St Lawrence's Day, and various money pittances were paid to the nuns from time to time for the _misericord_ of Corby and sometimes of Thurlby, the appropriated churches. On one occasion there is an entry "Paid to the convent for the misericord of Thurlby, to wit 28 fowls, 12 gallons of beer and mustard and a gift to the prioress 9_s._, paid to the convent for the misericord of Corby 9_s._, paid to the pittancer for a pittance from Thurlby throughout the year 14_s._ 4_d._" _Ib._ 1260/3. See an interesting list of pittances payable on forty different feasts throughout the year to the nuns of Lillechurch or Higham: they are either extra portions of food or special sorts of food, e.g. "crepis" on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, "flauns" on Easter Day and 12_d._ on St Radegund's Day. R. F. Scott, _Notes from the Records of St John's Coll. Cambridge_, 1st series (from _The Eagle_, 1893, vol. XVII, no. 101, pp. 5-7). [390] For these prebendal canonries see Mr Hamilton Thompson's article on "Double Monasteries and the Male Element in Nunneries," in _The Ministry of Women, A Report by a Committee appointed by his Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury_, app. VIII, pp. 150 _sqq._ [391] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 424. [392] Walcott, M. E. C. _Inventories of ... the Priory of Minster in Shepey_ (_Arch. Cant._ 1869), p. 30. This house paid stipends to three chaplains, one being "curat of the Paryshe churche"; a "Vycar's chamber" is described among what are obviously outlying buildings. At Cheshunt the "Prestes Chamber" contained a feather bed, with sheets and coverlet and a "celer of blewe cloth," valued at 4_s._ 10_d._ Cussans, _Hist. of Herts. Hertford Hundred_, II, p. 70. [393] Chaucer, _Cant. Tales_, Prologue of the Nonne Prestes Tale, ll. 3998 ff. [394] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 120-1, 123. [395] _Valor. Eccles._ I, p. 397, IV, p. 220. [396] _Ib._ I, p. 276. [397] _Ib._ II, p. 109. [398] _Ib._ III, p. 76. [399] _Ib._ I, p. 106. [400] _Ib._ V, pp. 43, 87, 94. [401] _Ib._ I, p. 114. [402] _Ib._ V, p. 206. [403] _Ib._ I, p. 424, IV, p. 339. [404] E.g. in the Sheppey inventory, after "the chamber over the Gate Howse called the Confessor's Chamber," comes "the Chamber next to that," "_the Steward's chamber_" (well furnished), "the next chamber to the same," "the chamber under the same," and "the Portar's Lodge," all evidently outside the cloister. Walcott, M. E. C. _op. cit._ p. 31. [405] Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 163, 167, 173. Cf. pp. 156, 157, 158. [406] Walcott, M. E. C. _op. cit._ pp. 30, 33. [407] E.g. Brewood (Black Ladies). See Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 500. [408] A Joan Key or Kay votes at the election of Joan Lancaster as prioress of St Radegund's in 1457 and is receiver-general, keeping the account in 1481-2. Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 38, 176. [409] See, for instance, an item in the accounts of St Radegund's Cambridge: "Paid in a pittance for the convent ... at the month's mind of John Brown, lately bailiff there ... in accordance with his last will." Gray, _op. cit._ p. 151. [410] _The Ministry of Women_, _loc. cit._ pp. 162-3. So in 1492 it is complained at Carrow "quod mali servientes Priorissae fecerunt magnum dampnum in bonis prioratus." Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 16. [411] Chaucer, _Cant. Tales_, Prologue, ll. 597 ff. [412] See, for instance, the Prioress of Marrick _v._ Simon Wayt, to give an account for the time when he was her bailiff in Fletham (1332); the Prioress of Molseby (Moxby) _v._ Lawrence de Dysceford, chaplain, to give an account of the time when he was bailiff of Joan de Barton, late Prioress of Molseby at Molseby (1330)--an interesting case of a chaplain acting as bailiff for a small and poor house; Idonia, Prioress of Appleton _v._ John Boston of Leven for an account as bailiff and receiver in Holme (1413). _Notes on Relig. and Secular Houses of York_, ed. W. P. Baildon (Yorks. Arch. Soc. 1895), I, pp. 127, 139, 161. Visitation injunctions sometimes regulate the presentation of accounts by bailiffs and receivers, e.g. _Exeter Reg. Stapeldon_, p. 318, _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 356. [413] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 67. [414] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 185. An illustration may be found in the Gracedieu rolls where on one occasion the nuns paid wages to the bailiff John de Northton, to his wife Joan, to his daughter Joan, to Philip de Northton (doubtless his son) and to Philip's wife Constance. _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1257/10, ff. 203-5. [415] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 84. [416] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), II, pp. 658-9. Compare p. 662. The injunction that the head of the house should not appoint stewards, bailiffs or receivers without the consent of the major part of the convent was a common one; cf. _ib._ II, p. 652; Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 619. [417] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 218-22 _passim_. [418] Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 229-30, 232. [419] _Essays on Chaucer_, 2nd Series, VII (Chaucer Soc.), pp. 191-4; also in Dugdale, _Mon._ II, 456-7. [420] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 158; cf. p. 174. [421] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, 151. [422] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 71_d._ The Bishop forbade them to keep more than the necessary servants and made the same injunction at Legbourne. _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 187. [423] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, pp. 57-8. Compare his injunction to Studley, _ib._ pp. 54-5. In 1306 every useless servant who was a burden to the impoverished house of Arden was to be removed within a week. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113. In 1326 the _custos_ of Minchin Barrow was told to remove the _onerosa familia_. _Reg. John of Drokensford_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), p. 242. [424] _P.R.O. Suppression Papers_, 833/39. [425] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 4, 121, 131; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. At Ankerwyke Alnwick enjoined "that ye hafe an honeste woman seruaund in your kychyne, brewhowse and bakehowse, deyhowse and selere wythe an honeste damyselle wythe hire to saruf yowe and your sustres in thise saide offices, so that your saide sustres for occupacyone in any of the saide offices be ne letted fro diuine seruice." Compare the complaint of the nuns of Sheppey that they had no "covent servante" to wash their clothes and tend them when they were ill, unless they hired a woman from the village out of their own pockets. _E.H.R._ VI, pp. 33-4. The provision of a laundress was ordered at Nunappleton in 1534. _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 444. [426] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 443. [427] "Also she says that secular servingwomen do lie among the sisters in the dorter, and especially one who did buy a corrody there" (Heynings, 1440). _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 133. The Abbess of Malling in 1324 was forbidden to give a corrody to her maid. Wharton, _Anglia Sacra_, I, p. 364. [428] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 133. [429] See below, pp. 395, 396. [430] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 121. Alnwick notes "Amoueatur quedam francigena manens in prioratu propter vite inhonestatem, nam omnes admittit vniformiter ad concubitus suos"; and see his general injunction, _ib._ pp. 122, 125. [431] _Ancren Riwle_, introd. Gasquet (King's Classics), p 287. [432] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 7. [433] _Ib._ f. 26_d_. [434] _E.H.R._ VI, p. 33. [435] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 101. [436] _Ib._ p. 104. Compare Peckham's injunctions to Wherwell in 1284 "Et si quis inveniatur, serviens masculus aut femina, qui amaris responsionibus consueverit monialem aliquam vel aliquas molestare, nisi se monitione praemissa sufficienter corrigat in futurum, illico expellatur." _Reg. Epist. J. Peckham_, II, p. 654; also his injunctions to Barking and Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, _ib._ I, p. 85; II, p. 707. Also Thomas of Cantilupe's injunctions to Lingbrook, c. 1277. _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 202. [437] _New Coll._ MS. f. 87_d_. [438] Gray, _op. cit._ _passim_. [439] "_Names of the Servants now in Wages by the yere._ Mr Oglestone, taking wages by the yere. Mr White, taking 26 s 8 d by the yere and lyvere. John Coks, butler, lyvere, xxvi s viij d, whereof to pay 1 quarter and lyvere. Alyn Sowthe bayly, taking by yere for closure and hys servant 6 l 13 s 4 d and two lyveryes. Jhon Mustarde 20 s a kowes pasture and a lyvere. William Rowet, carpentar, 40 s and lyvere. Richard Gyllys 26 s 8 d and lyvere. The carter 33 s 4 d and no lyvere. Thomas Thressher by yere 33 s 4 d and no lyvere. Robert Dawton by yere 33 s 4 d and no lyvere. The kowherd for kepyng of the kene and hoggys by yere 30 s and no lyvere. Jhon Hartnar by yere 28 s and no lyvere. Robard Welshe, brewer, by yere 20 s and no lyvere. A thatcher 33 s 4 d, a hose cloth and no lyvere. William Nycolls 20 s and no lyvere. Jhon Andrew 22 s 4 d and no lyverye. Jhon Putsawe 13 s 4 d and a shyrt redy made. George Myllar 21 s 8 d and no lyverye. Robert Rychard, horse keper, 20 s and no liverye. Jhon Harryes, Frencheman, 13 s 4 d, a shyrt and no lyverye. Jhon Gyles the shepherd, 14 s, a payre of hoses, a payre of shoys and no lyverye. Richard Gladwyn for to make malte, 26 s 8 d by yere, he hath ben here 8 wekes, and no lyverye. Dorothe Sowthe, the baylyffe wyfe, owing for a yere's wages at 40 s by yere and no liverye. Ales Barkar 13 s 4 d and lyvere. Also Sykkers 13 s 4 d and lyverye. Gladwyn's wyfe 13 s 4 d and lyverye. Ellyn at my ladyes lyndyng. Emme Cawket 12 s and lyvere. Rose Salmon 12 s, she hath been here a month. Marget Lambard 13 s 4 d and lyvere. Sir Jhon Lorymer, curat of the Parysche churche, 3 l 16 s 8 d and no lyvere. Sir Jhon Ingram, chaplen, 3 l 3 s 3 d and no lyvere. Jhon Gayton shepard 53 s 4 d and no lyvere. Jhon Pelland 20 s and no lyverye. Jhon Marchant 13 s 4 d and pasture for 40 shepe and no lyverye. Jhon Helman 16 s and 10 shepes pasture and no lyverye. Jhon Cannyng shepard by yere 20 s and no lyverye." Walcott, E. C. M. _op. cit._ pp. 33-4. [440] _Letters relating to the Suppression of the Monasteries_, ed. Thomas Wright (Camden Soc. 1843), p. 140. [441] _Essays on Chaucer_, 2nd Series (Chaucer Soc.), p. 189. [442] Savine, _English Monasteries on the Eve of the Dissolution_ (Oxford Hist. Studies, ed. Vinogradoff, I, pp. 221-2). See also above, Ch. I, pp. 2-3. [443] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, p. 436. In 1442 its numbers (which should have been fourteen) had sunk to seven and it was six marks in debt (_Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 38). The clear annual value of the house in the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_ was only £5. 19_s._ 8-1/2_d._ Compare the case of Heynings, whose founder, Sir John Darcy, had also died without completing its endowment. _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. [444] Fuller, _Church History_, III, p. 332. Its net income at the Dissolution was £1329. 1_s._ 3_d._ Compare _The Italian Relation of England_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 40-1. [445] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 1, 49, 117, 119, 130, 133, 175, 184; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 6_d_, 38, 83. [446] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. [447] The Prioress of Ankerwyke also claimed to have reduced the debt from 300 marks to £40, but one of the nuns said that it had been only £30 on her installation and that it had not been paid by the Prioress but from other sources. _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 1, 3. [448] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260 _passim_. [449] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/1. It should, however, be noted that some of the items which go to make up the total of the debts are sums of money owing to members of the convent (e.g. the Prioress and Subprioress) by the treasuresses, though the sums owing to outsiders are larger. [450] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1257/10 ff. 34 and 34_d_, 39_d_. Similarly the Prioress's account of Delapré for 4 Henry VIII contains a long list of debts. _St Paul's Ecclesiological Soc._ VII (1912), p. 52. An analysis of Archbishop Eudes Rigaud's visitations of nunneries in the Diocese of Rouen gives even more startling information on this point; all but four of the fourteen houses show a list of debts growing heavier year by year and this was in the thirteenth century (1249-69). See _Reg. Visit. Archiep. Rothomag._ ed. Bonnin _passim_. [451] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 88. [452] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 73. [453] _Cal. of Papal Petit._ I, pp. 56, 122, 230. [454] For other cases of debt, in different centuries, see _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 124, 161, 163-4, 188, 239, 240; _Reg. Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 148; _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, pp. 78, 104; _V.C.H. Essex_, p. 122; _V.C.H. Derby_, II, p. 43; _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 351; _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 150; _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 355; _Visit. of Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 108, 109; _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 284-5; _Cal. of Papal Letters_, VI, p. 25; _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 7. [455] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 186. [456] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 157. [457] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 92. [458] _The Knights Hospitallers in England_ (Camden Soc.), p. 20. [459] _V.C.H. Worcs._ II, pp. 157-8. [460] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 285. [461] See below, p. 340. [462] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177. [463] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 133. The account book of Gracedieu (1414-8) contains entries of money paid by William Roby "for the clothes of his relation Dame Agnes Roby" and at another time by Margaret Roby for the same purpose (6_s._ 8_d._). Gasquet, _English Monastic Life_, p. 170. [464] _Lincoln Diocese Documents_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 57. [465] It is amusing to notice the indignation of the nuns when their beer was not strong enough. See e.g. _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 71_d_, 72; _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 209; _Yorks. Archaeol. Journal_, XVI, p. 443. [466] Dugdale, _Mon._ V, pp. 493-4. [467] When little Elizabeth Sewardby was boarding in Nunmonkton she had ten pairs in eighteen months! _Test. Ebor._ III, p. 168. [468] _Reg. of Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), pp. 147-8. [469] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [470] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 4, 5. This lack of bedclothes for the younger nuns was partly due to the fact that the Prioress did not want them to sleep in the dorter, for Thomasine adds "and when my lord had commanded this deponent to lie in the dorter and this deponent asked bedclothes of the Prioress, she said chidingly to her 'Let him who gave you leave to lie in the dorter supply you with raiment.'" Mr Hamilton Thompson thinks that "probably sister Thomasine had previously been lodged separately with the other younger nuns and the Prioress and elders objected to the crowding of the dorter." But poverty was the main cause, for at a later visitation the Prioress stated that she was unable to supply the sisters with sufficient raiment for their habits "because of the poverty and insufficiency of the resources of the house." _Ib._ p. 7. [471] The same injunction was sent to Wherwell. _Reg. Epist. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), II, pp. 651, 659-60. [472] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 103. [473] _New Coll._ MS. f. 86_d_. [474] _Visit. of the Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 290-2. Cf. the complaint of the nuns of Studley in 1530: "They be oftentymes served with beffe and no moton upon Thursday at nyght and Sondays at nyght and be served oftentymes with new ale and not hulsome." _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 78. [475] Other houses in the diocese of Norwich which complained of bad food were Flixton (1520) and Carrow (1492, 1514, 1526). Carrow was one of the most famous nunneries in England, but in 1492 one of the Bishop's _comperta_ ran: "That the present sisters are restricted to eight loaves, and this is very little for ten sisters, for the whole day. Item there is often a lack of bread in the house, contrary to the good repute of the place." See _Visit. of the Diocese of Norwich_, pp. 16-17, 145, 185-6, 209. [476] _Reliquiae Antiquae_, I, p. 291. Translated in Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_, p. 597. [477] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 135. The belfry of St Radegund's, Cambridge, fell down and injured the church in 1277. Gray, _Hist. of the Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, pp. 37-8; cf. p. 79. That of Esholt fell in 1445. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 161. [478] _Reg. of Crabhouse Nunnery_ (_Norfolk Archaeology_, XI, 1892), pp. 61, 62. [479] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [480] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 32. [481] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 217. [482] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 129-31 _passim_. For another complaint that tenements and leasehold houses belonging to a priory were ruinous and like to fall down, through the negligence of the prioress and bailiff, see the case of Legbourne in 1440. _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 185. [483] _New Coll._ MS. ff. 87_d_-88. He ordered the Abbess to repair defects at once out of the common goods of the house. Better still, he would seem to have assisted them from his own pocket to carry out the injunction, for by his will (1402) he remitted to them a debt of £40, for the repair of their church and cloister. Nicolas, _Testamenta Vetusta_, II, p. 708. [484] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 124, 168, 174, 181, 183, 188, 240; Yedingham and Esholt (_ib._ pp. 128, 161) and St Mary, Neasham (_V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107) needed repair in the middle of the fifteenth century. [485] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 23; V, pp. 256, 258. [486] _Visitations of the Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 107-8, 109, 261, 311. [487] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, pp. 52, 54, 59. [488] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 104. A few out of many other references to ruinous buildings may be given here. Easebourne (1411). _Bishop Rede's Reg._ p. 137. Polsloe (1319). _Reg. of Bishop Stapeldon of Exeter_, p. 318. Delapré (Northampton) (1303), Wothorpe (1292), Rothwell (fourteenth century), Catesby (1301, 1312). _V.C.H. Northants._ II, pp. 101, 114, 138, 123. Rowney (1431). _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 435-6. St Radegund's Cambridge. Gray, _op. cit._ pp. 36-8, 79. St Clare without Aldgate (1290). _Ely Epis. Records_, ed. Gibbons, p. 415. St Mary's Winchester (1343-52). _Cal. of Pap. Pet._ I, pp. 56, 122, 230. [489] Perhaps in the same way that a fire broke out at Sempringham in the lifetime of St Gilbert. "A nun, bearing a light through the kitchen by night, fixed a part of a burnt candle to another she was going to burn, so that both were alight at once. But when the part fixed on to the other was almost consumed, it fell on the floor, on which much straw was collected, ready for a fire. The nun did not heed it, and believing that the fire would go out by itself, she went away and shut the door. But the flame, finding food, first devoured the straw lying close by, then the whole house with the adjacent offices and their contents, whence a great loss happened to the church." Quoted from MS. Cott. _Cleop. B._ I, f. 77 by R. Graham, _St Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertines_, p. 135. It will be remembered that the author of the thirteenth century treatise, called "Seneschaucie," is most careful to declare that ploughmen, waggoners and cowherds must not carry fire into the byres, stables and cowhouse, either for light or to warm themselves, "unless the candle be in a lantern and this for great need and then it must be carried and watched by another than himself." _Walter of Henley's Husbandry_, ed. E. Lamond (1890), p. 113. [490] _Reg. of Crabhouse Nunnery u.s._ p. 61. [491] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 328. See also _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 426. [492] _V.C.H. Herts._ _loc. cit._ [493] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1296-1302, p. 238. [494] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 183. [495] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 79. [496] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 179. [497] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 485. [498] Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, I, p. 35. [499] _Reg. of John of Drokensford_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), p. 227. Text in Hugo, _Medieval Nunneries of Somerset: Whitehall in Ilchester_, p. 78. But seven years before they had been begging, according to the Bishop, by the compulsion of this expelled prioress, whose case was _sub judice_. _Reg._ p. 115 and Hugo, _loc. cit._ [500] _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Rec. Soc.), pp. 112-3. [501] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 145. [502] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 427. [503] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 137. [504] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 434-5. The text of their petition is as follows: "A tres reverend pier en dieu, mon treshonure seigneur le chaunceller dengleterre, suppliant voz pouers oratrices la prioresse et les noneyns de Rowney en le countee de ... qe come lour esglise et autres mesons sont en poynt de cheyer a terre pur defaute de reparacion et ils nount dont lez reparailler, si noun dalmoigne de bones gens, qe plese a vostre treshonure seignurie de vostre grace eux granter vn patent pur vn lour procuratour, de aler en la paiis a coiller almoigns de bones gentz pur la sustenance et releuacioun du dit pouere mesoun et en noun de charite." _P.R.O. Ancient Petitions_, 302/15063. [505] _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 358. [506] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 179. Another licence in 1459. [507] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 137. [508] _Ib._ pp. 100, 126. [509] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 374. (_Pro monialibus de Rowell._) It is surprising, however, that Peckham, in his constitution forbidding nuns to be absent from their convents for longer than three, or at the most six, days, adds: "We do not extend this ordinance to those nuns who are forced to beg their necessities outside, while they are begging." Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 59. It is certain that the nuns did beg in their own persons. When Archbishop Eudes Rigaud visited St-Aubin in 1261 he ordered that the younger nuns should not be sent out to beg (_pro questu_); and in 1263 two of them were absent in France, seeking alms. _Reg. Visit. Archiepiscopi Rothomagensis_, ed. Bonnin, pp. 412, 471. [510] On this subject see an interesting article by C. Wordsworth, "On some Pardons or Indulgences preserved in Yorkshire 1412-1527" (_Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 369 ff.). [511] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 426, 432. [512] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, pp. 114, 123, 116. [513] _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 353. [514] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 157. [515] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, ff. 96_d_, 244_d_. [516] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 115, 128, 161. [517] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, p. 393; V, p. 373. [518] Except where otherwise stated the following references all occur in Gray, _op. cit._ p. 79 and are printed in full in R. Willis, _Architectural Hist. of the Univ. of Cambridge_, ed. J. Willis Clark (1886), II, pp. 183-6. [519] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 96_d_. [520] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 36. [521] _Ib._ pp. 37-8. [522] A few other references may be given: Bishop Fordham of Ely for Rowney (1408) and Bishop Alcock of Ely for the Minories (1490). Gibbons, _Ely Epis. Records_, pp. 406, 414. Bishop Sutton of Lincoln to Wothorpe (1292). _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 114. [523] _V.C.H. Wilts._ II, p. 77. [524] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 119. References to this occur in 1380, 1382, 1384, 1392, 1402 and 1409. [525] Gibbons, _Ely Epis. Records_, p. 399. [526] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 179. Cf. Thetford. _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 355. [527] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 161. [528] _Ib._ p. 124. [529] _V.C.H. Wilts._ II, p. 77. The reference is perhaps to the famous storm of St Maur's Day, 1362, which, together with the Black Death, is commemorated in a _graffito_ in the church of Ashwell (Herts.) and in a distich quoted by Adam Murimuth C ter erant mille, decies sex unus et ille. Luce tua Maure, vehemens fuit impetus aurae. Ecce flat hoc anno, Maurus in orbe tonans. [530] Gray, _op. cit._ p. 79. [531] _Bishop Rede's Reg._ (Sussex Rec. Soc.), p. 137. [532] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. [533] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 301. [534] The following account of medieval plagues and famines is taken mainly from Creighton, _Hist. of Epidemics in Britain_, I, pp. 202-7, 215-223. See also Denton, _England in the Fifteenth Century_, pp. 91-105. [535] Creighton, _op. cit._ I, p. 19. [536] Denton, _op. cit._ p. 93. [537] _Ib._ p. 93 _sqq._ [538] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 150. He attributed their condition to negligence and bad administration. [539] _P.R.O. Ancient Correspondence_, XXXVI, no. 201. [540] _V.C.H. Derby_, II, p. 43. See below, p. 200. [541] See P. G. Mode, _The Influence of the Black Death on the English Monasteries_ (Univ. of Chicago, 1916), _passim_. [542] Dugdale. _Mon._ IV, p. 268. [543] A. Hamilton Thompson, _Registers of John Gynewell, Bishop of Lincoln for the years 1347-1350_ (reprinted from _Archaeol. Journ._ LXVIII, pp. 301-360, 1912), p. 328. [544] _Ib._ pp. 359-60. [545] A. Hamilton Thompson, _The Pestilences of the Fourteenth Century in the Diocese of York_ (reprinted from _Archaeol. Journ._ LXXI, pp. 97-154, 1914), pp. 121-2. [546] Wharton, _Anglia Sacra_, I, pp. 364, 375. [547] _V.C.H. Warwick._ II, p. 65. [548] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 116. [549] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 146. [550] _Cal. of Papal Petitions_, I, p. 230. [551] _Cal. Pat. Rolls_, 1364, pp. 21, 485. [552] Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, p. 37. [553] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 126. [554] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 301. Their petition had been presented in 1380. _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 433. [555] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, p. 521. [556] _Bishop Rede's Reg._ p. 137. [557] _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 335. [558] _Rot. Parl._ III, p. 129 and Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 485. [559] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 77. [560] _Visit. of Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 155. [561] _V.C.H. Glouc._ II, p. 93. [562] On other occasions, however, they were careful to take all their due. _Vide_ the great Bishop Grandisson's letter to the abbess and convent of Canonsleigh, announcing his forthcoming visitation and "mandantes quod in illum eventum de procuracione ea occasione nobis debita providere curetis in pecunia numerata." _Reg. of Bishop Grandisson_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, pt II, p. 767. At Davington in 1511 the Prioress deposed that "the house has to pay 20_s._ to the Archbishop for board at the time of his visitation." _E.H.R._ VI, p. 28. [563] _Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), I, p. 299. [564] _Reg. Rich. de Swinfield_ (Cantilupe Soc.), p. 366. Other cases of excommunication are sometimes to be found in Bishops' Registers, e.g. in 1335 the Prioresses of Cokehill and Brewood were excommunicated for failure to pay the tenth; one owed 9-1/2_d._ and the other 1_s._ 8-1/4_d._--paltry sums for which to damn a poor nun's soul! _Reg. Thomas de Charlton_ (Cantilupe Soc.), p. 57. [565] _Reg. John le Romeyn_ (Surtees Soc.), I, p. 159. [566] _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), p. 62. Cf. remission of tithes by Bishop Dalderby to Greenfield, because of its poverty. _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 155. Some Cistercian houses held papal bulls exempting them from the payment of tithes, e.g. Sinningthwaite and Swine. Dugdale, _Mon._ V, pp. 463, 494. [567] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 288. [568] For a few out of many instances of remission of payment on account of poverty see Ivinghoe, Little Marlow, Burnham (_V.C.H. Bucks._ I, pp. 353, 358, 382); Cheshunt (_V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 426-7); Stixwould, Heynings, Greenfield, Fosse, St Leonard's Grimsby (_V.C.H. Lincs._ II, pp. 122, 147, 149, 155, 157, 179); Catesby (_V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 122); Ickleton, Swaffham, Chatteris, St Radegund's Cambridge (Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 439); Malling (_Ib._ III, p. 382); St Mary Magdalen's Bristol (_V.C.H. Glouc._ II, p. 93); Minchin Barrow (Hugo, _op. cit._ p. 108); Blackborough (_V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 351); Arden (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113); Nunkeeling and Nunappleton (_Reg. John le Romeyn_, I, pp. 140, 234); Wintney (_V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 150). [569] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. Compare the case of the hospital of St James of Canterbury which "grievoussement ad estez chargez pur diverse contribucions faitz au Roy entre les laiz, ou les biens ... ne sufficent mye ala sustinaunce de la Priouresse et les seoures." _Hist. MSS. Comm. Report_, IX, p. 87. [570] _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_, 1467-77, pp. 138, 587. [571] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 472. Cf. p. 328. [572] _Ib._ p. 473. Cf. _Parl. Writs_ (Rec. Comm.), II, div. 3, 1424. [573] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1339-41, pp. 215, 217. [574] On this subject see Rose Graham, _St Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertines_, pp. 90-2. [575] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1307-13, p. 50. Compare the entry in the treasuresses' account of St Michael's, Stamford, for 1392-3. "Item done en curtasy a le Balyf de Roy quant nostre carre fuist areste al seruice del roy viijd." _P.R.O. Ministers' Accounts_, 1260/10. [576] _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1307-13, pp. 262-6, _passim_. [577] For instance in 1275 the King granted the custody of Barking Abbey, void and in his hands, to his mother, Queen Eleanor. _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1272-9, p. 210. [578] _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Rec. Soc.), pp. 112-3. Compare the petition of St Mary's Chester to Queen Eleanor, p. 172 above. [579] See above, p. 182. [580] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 485 and _Rot. Parl._ III, p. 129. The petition was granted, but the nuns seem to have shown themselves unworthy of the royal clemency, for, after the death of Abbess Joan Furmage in 1394, the King was forced to abrogate the grant, because by fraudulent means an election had been obtained of an unfit person, who, with the object of securing confirmation, had repaired with an excessive number of men to places remote, to the waste and desolation of the convent. _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_, 1391-6, p. 511. [581] _Cal. of Papal Petitions_, I, pp. 56-7. [582] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1313-8), p. 189 and _ib._ (1333-7), pp. 70-1; cf. _ib._ (1307-13), p. 1 and _ib._ (1323-7), p. 252 and _ib._ (1349-54), p. 29. [583] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1339-41), p. 377. [584] _Ib._ (1343-6), pp. 407-8. Cf. p. 418. [585] _Ib._ (1343-6), p. 599. The profits during vacancy were similarly remitted to Godstow in 1385 "because of its poverty and misfortunes" (_V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 73). [586] _Reg. Epist. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), I, pp. 40-1, 56-7, 189-90, 356-7, 366-7, 577. [587] _Reg. of ... Rigaud de Asserio_ (Hants. Rec. Soc.), pp. 387, 388, 394-5. Compare nominations of John de Pontoise. _Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), I, pp. 240, 241, 252 and of William of Wykeham, _Wykeham's Reg._ (Hants. Rec. Soc.), II, pp. 60, 61. [588] _Reg. of Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), pp. 26, 39, 146. [589] _Reg. ... Stephani de Gravesend_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), p. 200. [590] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 473 and _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 75. [591] Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 97-8 and _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 461-2. [592] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 98. [593] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1307-8), pp. 48, 53, 134. [594] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 117. [595] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, pp. 76-7. [596] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1318-23), p. 517. She was still unadmitted in 1327, when the order was repeated. _Ib._ (1327-30), p. 204. [597] _Ib._ (1333-7), p. 175. [598] _Ib._ (1343-6), p. 604. [599] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 99, and in the Register of Bishop Norbury of Lichfield there is a certificate (dated 1358) of "having admitted, twenty years ago, _thirty_ nuns at Nuneaton at the request of the patron, the E. of Lancaster," Will Salt Arch. Soc. Coll. I, p. 286. Perhaps there is a clerical error. [600] _Reg. Epist. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), I, pp. 189-90. [601] _Ib._ I, pp. 356-7. The reference to "distinguished friends and benefactors" is interesting, because she was the daughter of Robert Bret, "_civis London._" [602] _Op. cit._ I, pp. 366-7. The assertion that the convent was required to receive Isabel "without burden to themselves by the provision of the parents of the said little maid" is interesting, partly because it suggests that the royal and episcopal nominees were not always received at a loss, partly because it looks suspiciously like a condonation of the dowry system by an otherwise strict disciplinarian. [603] Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills_, I, p. 111. [604] _Op. cit._ I, pp. 56-7. [605] _Ib._ II, p. 704. [606] An Agnes Turberville was sent by the King to Shaftesbury in 1345. _Cal. of Close Rolls_, 1343-6, p. 604. [607] _Reg. of Bishop Grandisson_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, I, pp. 213-4. [608] _Op. cit._ I, pp. 222-3. Does the Bishop mean that he will help to provide a dowry for Johanete out of his private purse, in another religious house? [609] See below, p. 452. [610] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1313-8), p. 210. A few months later, however, Richard de Ayreminn was sent on the same pretext (p. 312). [611] _Op. cit._ (1333-7), p. 175. [612] _Op. cit._ (1349-54), p. 82. [613] _Op. cit._ (1339-41), p. 466. [614] _Op. cit._ (1337-9), p. 286. [615] _Op. cit._ (1343-6), p. 652. [616] _Op. cit._ (1318-23), p. 517; (1343-6), p. 475. [617] _Op. cit._ (1327-30), p. 366. [618] _Op. cit._ (1313-8), p. 611; (1327-30), p. 564; (1341-3), p. 133. [619] See below. For the prebendal stalls in the churches of five of these abbeys (Romsey, Wherwell, St Mary's Winchester, Shaftesbury and Wilton), see above, p. 144. [620] _Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), I, pp. 243-4, 300-1, 315-6. [621] _Reg. Simonis de Gandavo_ (Cant. and York. Soc.), pp. 2-3. [622] _Hist. MSS. Comm. Report_, IV, p. 329. [623] _Rot. Parl._ I, p. 381. John de Houton, clerk, had been sent to Elstow in 1318 (_Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1318-23), p. 119). [624] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1313-8), p. 611. [625] _Op. cit._ (1307-13), pp. 581-2. [626] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1313-8), p. 437. The avenere was an officer of the household who had the charge of supplying provisions for the horses. See _Promptorium Parvulorum_ (Camden Soc.), I, p. 19, n. 2. [627] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1327-30), p. 393. [628] _Ib._ p. 523. [629] _Ib._ pp. 396, 534. [630] _Rot. Parl._ II, pp. 381-2. Letters patent were duly sent to Barking bidding them admit Agnes, on Nov. 6th, 1331. _Cal. of Patent Rolls_ (1330-3), p. 407. [631] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 117. [632] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1307-13), p. 267. [633] _Op. cit._ (1318-23), p. 117. [634] _Op. cit._ (1307-13), p. 328. She was the niece of John de London, late the King's escheator south of Trent. [635] _Loc. cit._ [636] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 129. [637] _Ib._ p. 237. [638] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 83. The Taxation of Pope Nicholas mentions a pension due to the Abbot of York of £3 for the church of Corby, which was appropriated to the nuns, and for other tithes elsewhere. The sum of £3 is occasionally mentioned in the account rolls of St Michael's, Stamford, as having been paid to "our Lady of York," or as being still due. [639] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 256 ff. Payments to the abbot and to other officiaries of Peterborough also occur very frequently in the conventual accounts. [640] See above, p. 180. Compare the case of St Mary's, Winchester, where the nuns complained in 1468 that they were so burdened, that they could not fulfil the obligations of their order as to hospitality. _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 123-4. The difficulty of keeping up the accustomed hospitality was one of the reasons for annexing Wothorpe to St Michael's, Stamford, after the Black Death. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 268. [641] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. Compare Gynewell's injunction in 1351: "E vous, Prioresse, chastiez les soers qils ne acuillent mie trop souent lour amys en la Priorie, a costage e damage de dit mesoun." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. [642] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 117, 171, 172, 239. On the subject of abuse of monastic hospitality, see Jusserand, _English Wayfaring Life_, p. 121. Edward I forbade anyone to eat or lodge in a religious house, unless the superior had invited him or that he were its founder, and even then his consumption was to be moderate. [643] Pope Boniface VIII's edict for the stricter enclosure of nuns contained a clause warning secular lords against summoning nuns to attend in person at the law courts; they were to act through their proctors (see version promulgated by Simon of Ghent, Bishop of Salisbury in 1299. _Reg. Simonis de Gandavo_ [Cant. and York Soc.], p. 11). The heads of the larger houses often did act through proctors, but less wealthy convents usually sent the head or one of the other nuns in person. See Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, pp. 362-3. [644] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 360. [645] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 104. Compare a long lawsuit waged by Carrow Priory. Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, App. p. xxi. [646] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/4. Compare the amusing account of how the Prior of Barnwell secured a favourable judgment from the itinerant justices. "Ipsis eciam justiciariis dedit herbagium alicui tres acras et alicui quatuor, et exennia panis, ceruisie et vini frequenter, in tantum quod in recessu suo omnes tam justiciarii quam clerici, seruientes et precones, gracias uberes referebant, et ipsi Priori (et) canonicis se et sua obligabant." _Liber Memorandorum Ecclesie de Bernewelle_, ed. J. Willis Clark (1907), p. 171. [647] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 150. [648] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164. The "misrule of past presidents" is mentioned as a contributory cause of distress at Lilleshall (1351), St Mary's Winchester (1364) and Tarrant (1366). _Cal. Pat. Rolls_, 1351, p. 177; 1364, p. 485; 1366, p. 239. [649] _E.H.R._ VI, p. 28. [650] Wharton, _Anglia Sacra_, I, p. 362. [651] _Ib._ I, p. 364. [652] _Ib._ I, p. 377. [653] Gasquet, however, mistakenly attributes its state entirely to the plague. _The Great Pestilence_, p. 106. [654] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 39_d_, 83, 96. [655] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 185. [656] _Ib._ II, p. 114. [657] _Ib._ II, p. 133. [658] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 72. [659] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 130, 131. [660] _Ib._ II, p. 175. [661] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 159. [662] _Ib._ p. 174. [663] _Ib._ p. 164. [664] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 7. [665] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 353. [666] It must be understood that the judicious sale of corrodies was not necessarily harmful to a house. Sometimes it might lead to the acquisition of land or rents at comparatively little expense to the convent, as a glance at some of the charters in the English Register of Godstow Abbey will show. See _Eng. Reg. of Godstow Abbey_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. xxvii-xxviii. The convent probably drove a good bargain when in 1230 the harassed Stephen, son of Waryn the miller of Oxford, conveyed all his Oxford property to Godstow "and for this graunte, & cetera, the forsaid mynchons yaf to them to ther grete nede, that is to sey, to aquyte hym of the jewry and otherwise where he was endited, X markes of siluer in warison. And furthermore they graunted to hym and to hys wyf molde, with ther seruant to serve them while they lived, two corrodies of ij mynchons and a corrodye of one seruant to their systeynynge" (_op. cit._ p. 392). Nor was there much harm in grants for a term of years, such as the grant of board and lodging made by the convent of Nunappleton in 1301 to Richard de Fauconberg, in return for certain lands bringing in an annual rent of two marks of silver, both the corrody and the tenure of these lands being for a term of twelve years. Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 653. Sometimes, again, corrodies were granted in return for specified services; in 1270 Richard Grene of Cassington surrendered 5-1/2 acres of arable and 2 roods of meadow land to Godstow in return for "the seruyce under the porter for ever at the yate of Godestowe and j half mark in the name of his wagis yerely." _Eng. Reg. of Godstow_, p. 305. At Yedingham in 1352 an interesting grant of a _corrodium moniale_ was made to one Emma Hart, who, in return for a sum of money, was given the position of deye or dairy woman; she was to have the same food-allowance as a nun and a share in all their small pittances, and a building called "le chesehouse" with a solar and cellar to inhabit and was allowed to keep ten sheep and ten ewes at the convent's charge. In return she was to do the dairy-work and when too old to work any longer the convent engaged to grant her a place in "le sisterhouse." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 128. Sometimes also corrodies were granted by way of pensioning off old servants, as when, in 1529, the nuns of Arden granted one to their chaplain "for the gud and diligent seruice yt oure wellbeloued sir Thomas parkynson, preste, hav done to vs in tyme paste." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 115. To corrodies such as these there was little objection (though the last might lead to financial loss). The danger came from life-grants in return for an inadequate sum of ready money. [667] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 115. [668] She received 68_s._ 4_d._ in part payment for the commutation of the corrody. [669] Jessopp, _Frivola_, pp. 55-6. [670] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 175. [671] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 71_d_. [672] _Visit. of the Diocese of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 243, 303-4. There is in the Record Office a petition to the Chancellor from Richard Englyssh and Marjorie his wife, setting out that the Bishop of Rochester had granted Marjorie for life a corrody in Malling Abbey of seven loaves and four gallons of convent ale and three pence for cooked food weekly, which corrody she and her husband had held for some time, but that now the abbess and convent withheld it. Evidently it was a burden to the house, but it is not clear whether the bishop had forced a corrodian on the nuns, or had merely confirmed a grant by them. _P.R.O. Early Chanc. Proc._ 4/196. [673] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 58. [674] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 554. He had once before ordered the holders of corrodies there to display their grants, that it might be known whether they had fulfilled the services due from them. _V.C.H. London_, I, p. 459. [675] The appropriation was confirmed by the Pope in 1401. _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 347. In 1440 Bishop Alnwick made an injunction at Heynings against the granting of corrodies. _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 135. [676] See below, pp. 225-6. [677] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ IX, p. 25. [678] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 516. [679] See below, pp. 225-6. [680] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [681] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 175. [682] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. [683] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 146; _Cal. of Papal Petitions_, I, p. 122. At Studley in 1530 it was found that the woods of the priory had been much diminished by the late prioress and by "Thomas Cardinal of York for the construction of his college in the university of Oxford." _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 78. [684] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 120. [685] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 147. [686] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, pp. 58-9. [687] _V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107. [688] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177. [689] _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 283-4. [690] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 506, note _b_. [691] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 19. [692] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 76. [693] See above, p. 153. [694] See Ch. IV. [695] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 71. [696] _Reg. of Archbishop William Wickwane_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 113. [697] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 98. Similarly Bishop Edyndon wrote in 1346 and again in 1363 to St Mary's Winchester, Wherwell and Romsey, forbidding them to take a greater number of nuns than was anciently accustomed or than could be sustained by them without penury. _Ib._ p. 165. [698] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 77. Nevertheless at Romsey and at Shaftesbury the King and the Bishop himself continued to "dump" nuns, in accordance with their prerogative right, throughout the career of both houses. In the six years following this prohibition of 1326 Bishop Stratford not only gave permission for a novice to be received at the nuns' own request, but deposited no less than three there himself. The words and the actions of bishops sometimes tallied ill. [699] See _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 117, 119, 120, 124, 161, 163, 171-2, 188; _Reg. of Archbishop Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 148; _Reg. of Archbishop Wickwane_ (Surtees Soc.), pp. 112, 113, 140-1. [700] _Reg. Giffard_, _loc. cit._ [701] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 117. [702] _Ib._ III, p. 163. The house was heavily in debt at the time and though the Bishop had forbidden the granting of corrodies and liveries without leave, the Prioress was also charged with having "sold or granted corrodies very burdensome to the house." [703] Heynings, Ankerwyke, Legbourne, Nuncoton, St Michael's Stamford, Gracedieu, Langley. [704] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 134. [705] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 71_d_, 77_d_. [706] It would be interesting to collect statistics as to the relative size of different nunneries at different periods. It is here possible to give only a few examples of the decline in the number of inmates. The numbers at Nuneaton varied as follows: 93 (1234), 80 (1328), 46 (1370), 40 (1459), 23 (1539). (_V.C.H. Warwick._ II, pp. 66-9.) At Romsey (where the statutory number was supposed to be 100) as follows: 91 (1333) and 26 (from 1478 to the Dissolution). (Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, _passim_.) At Shaftesbury as follows: forbidden to receive more than 100 in 1218 and in 1322; number fixed at 120 in 1326; between 50-57 (from 1441 to the Dissolution). _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 77. [707] _New Coll._ MS. f. 55_d_. [708] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 53. [709] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 55. [710] _E.H.R._ VI, pp. 33-4. From the fact that the Prioress was ordered to make up the number again to fourteen, as soon as she conveniently could, it appears that the ten nuns who gave evidence before the Archbishop represented the full strength of the house. [711] A few out of many specific instances may be given: Wroxall 1323 (_V.C.H. Warwick._ II, p. 71); Polesworth 1456 (_ib._ p. 63); Fairwell 1367 (_Reg. of Bishop Stretton_, p. 119); Romsey 1302 (_Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_ Cant. and York. Soc. p. 127); Moxby 1318 (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239); Nuncoton 1531 (_Arch._ XLVII, p. 58); Sinningthwaite 1534 (_Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 441). [712] See above, pp. 64-5. [713] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. [714] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 188. [715] _Ib._ III, p. 177. [716] E.g. Clemence Medforde at Ankerwyke in 1441 and Eleanor of Arden in 1396. See above, pp. 81, 85. [717] Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 100-101. [718] _New Coll._ MS. f. 88_d_. [719] See above, p. 204. [720] _Reg. of Bishop Stapeldon_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, p. 318. [721] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 99-100. [722] _Ib._ pp. 102-3. [723] _New Coll._ MS. f. 87. In 1492, at the visitation by Archbishop Morton's commissioners, a nun prays that injunctions be made to the sisters and abbess that they choose no one as auditor without consulting the Archbishop of Canterbury. Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 218-9. [724] For other mentions of the rendering of accounts by bailiffs, officiaries, etc. see Arden 1306 and Arthington 1315 (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 188), Fairwell 1367 (_Reg. of Robert de Stretton_, p. 119), Elstow 1422 (_Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50). [725] Writing to Sinningthwaite in 1534. _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI, pp. 442-3. [726] _Visit. of the Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 108. [727] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 119. [728] Sometimes specific mention is made of this duty, e.g. in 1318 Thomas de Mydelsburg, rector of Loftus, was ordered to administer the temporal goods of the Cistercian house of Handale, to receive the accounts of the servants and to substitute more capable ones for those who were useless. _Ib._ III, p. 166. Cf. the commission to the rector of Aberford to be custos of Kirklees about the same time. _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI, p. 362. [729] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 171. [730] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 52-3. [731] In 1442, for instance, the Prioress of Rusper was ordered to render accounts yearly before the Bishop of Chichester and the nuns of the house (_Sussex Arch. Coll._ V, p. 255), and at Sheppey in 1511, two nuns having complained that the Prioress did not account, she was ordered to render accounts, with an inventory to the convent and to Archbishop Warham (_E.H.R._ VI, p. 34). [732] _Alnwick Visit._ MS. f. 83. [733] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 184. [734] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 1. [735] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 174. [736] An inventory of the goods of Easebourne Priory, drawn up for the Bishop of Chichester on May 27th, 1450, has survived. It is very complete and comprises all departments of the house, together with a list of land, chapels and appropriated churches and a note that the house can expend in all £22. 3_s._ on repairs and other expenses and that the debts "for repairs and other necessary expenses this year" amount to £66. 6_s._ 8_d._ _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, pp. 10-13. It may be of interest to quote the briefer inventory of the poor house of Ankerwyke, as presented to Bishop Atwater at his visitation in 1519 and copied by his clerk into the register. There were at the time five nuns in the house and one in apostasy. "Redditus ibidem extendunt prima facie ad xxxiij li. x s. Inde resoluunt pro libris (_sic_) redditibus v li. x s. Et sic habent clare ad reparacionem & alia onera sustinenda ultra xl marcas. _Jocalia in Ecclesia_: Habent ibidem vestimenta sacerdotalia ad minus serica xiij. Habent eciam vnicam capam de serica & auro. j calicem de argento deaurato. j par Turribulorum. j pixidem de argento pro sacramento. ij libros missales impressos. j magnum par candelabrorum ante summum altare. j paruum par candelabrorum super summum altare. ij urciolos argenteos. j paxbread de argento, una parua campana argentea. _Catalla_: Habent vaccas duas, ij equas, boues senes iij, unus bouiculus (_sic_), j vaccam anne (_sic_) (_blank_), iij equas pro aratro. _Vtensilia_ vj plumalia, x paria linthiaminum, iiij superpellectilia, iiij paria de le blanketts, ij le white Testers. Habent Redditus Annuales preter terras ipsarum dominicalium (_sic_) in earundem manibus occupatas xlvj li. xj s. x d." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Atwater_, f. 42. A fair number of inventories of convent property made for this or for other purposes is extant; notably those drawn up, for purposes of spoliation instead of preservation, at the Dissolution. See _Bibliography_. [737] _Reg. of Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 147. [738] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 120. [739] _V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 71. [740] See below, p. 226. [741] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), III, pp. 805-6. [742] See below, pp. 337-8. [743] See _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls. Ser.), II, pp. 654-5, 659, 708. [744] _V.C.H. Yorks._ II, pp. 187-8. [745] _Reg. of Bishop Stapeldon_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, p. 96. [746] _Reg. of Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), pp. 240-1, 684. [747] At Ankerwyke, Catesby, Gracedieu and St Michael's Stamford. _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 6, 9, 52, 125; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. [748] To this reception of boarders was sometimes added, but with a different purpose, viz. to protect the nuns from contact with the world. [749] At Moxby in 1318 no fresh debts, especially large ones, were to be incurred without the convent's consent and the Archbishop's special licence. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239. At Nuncoton in 1440 "ne that ye aleyne or selle any bondman" was added to the usual prohibition. _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 77_d_. [750] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 131. A few other instances of these injunctions may be given: Arden (1306), Marrick (1252), Nunburnholme (1318), Nunkeeling (1314), Thicket (1309), Yedingham (1314), Esholt (1318), Hampole (1308, 1312), Nunappleton (1489), Rosedale (1315), Sinningthwaite (1315), Arthington (1318), Moxby (1314, 1318, 1328), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 117, 119, 124, 128, 161, 163, 172, 174, 177, 188, 239-40; Sinningthwaite (1534), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 441; Arthington (1286), _Reg. John le Romeyn_ (Surtees Soc. I, p. 55); Ankerwyke, Godstow, Gracedieu, Heynings, Langley, Legbourne, Markyate, Nuncoton, Stixwould, St Michael's Stamford (all 1440-5), _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 8, 115, 124, 134, 186 and _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 6_d_, 77_d_, 81_d_, 75_d_; Elstow (1359), _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 139_d_; Elstow (1421), Burnham (1434), _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 24, 49; Studley, Nuncoton (1531), _Arch._ XLVII, pp. 54, 58; Polsloe and Canonsleigh (1319), _Reg. Stapeldon of Exeter_, p. 317; Romsey (1302), _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, p. 127. [751] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343. [752] _Lambeth Reg. Courtenay I_, f. 336. [753] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 49-50. [754] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, ff. 397-397_d_. These injunctions are scattered among the others, but have been placed together here for the sake of reference. [755] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343. Compare Flemyng's injunctions in 1422. _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 49. [756] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 151. [757] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, pp. 148, 150, 154 (note 1). [758] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 121. [759] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 178-9, and _Reg. of Archbishop Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), pp. 147-8. The canons at these houses must be distinguished from the canons who held prebendal stalls in the Abbeys of Romsey, St Mary's, Winchester, Wherwell, Wilton and Shaftesbury; these were often bad pluralists and could have been of little use to the abbeys, as chaplains or as _custodes_. See _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 122-3 and p. 144 above, note 1. [760] _Loc. cit._ Compare the complaint of the nuns of Brodholme in 1321-2. "A nostre Seyngnur le Roy e a son Counsaill monstrent le Prioresse el Covente de Brodholme, qe lour Gardayns de la dit meson par lour defaute sount lour Rentes abatez, e lour meson a poy ennente e le dit Gardayns ne vollent nulle entent mettre ne despender pur les ayder kaunt eles sount empleydie, mes come eles meymes defendent a graunt meschef. Pur qoi eles prient pur l'amour de Dieu, trescher Seygnour, pur l'alme vostre Pier, e ouir de charite, qe Vous vollez graunter vostre Charter qe l'avantdit Prioresse el covent pouissent avoir lour rentes e lour enproumens, de ordiner a lour voluntes, e al profist de la dit meson, si pleiser Vous soit, Kare autrement ne poivent eles viver." The reply was "Injusta est peticio, ideo non potest fieri." _Rot. Parl._ I, pp. 393-4. Brodholme was one of the only two convents of Premonstratensian nuns in England; the guardians were probably the canons of the Premonstratensian Abbey of Newhouse; for an ordinance (1354, confirmed 1409) regulating the relations between the two houses, see _Cal. of Papal Letters_, VI, pp. 159-60. [761] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 148 (from Pat. 2 Edw. II, pt ii, m. 22_d_.). [762] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 330. Roger de Dauentry, canon of Catesby, had been made master in 1297. _Reg. Memo. Sutton._ f. 175. [763] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, III, pp. 850-1. [764] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 98. [765] _V.C.H. Derby._ II, p. 43. [766] _Loc. cit._ see also _Linc. Epis. Reg. Institution Roll_ (_Northampton_) of Sutton for the presentation of William de Stok, monk of Peterborough as Prior of St Michael's Stamford, by the Abbot, and the Bishop's ratification. [767] Walsingham, _Gesta Abbatum_ (Rolls Ser.), II, p. 519, and _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 429. On their misdeeds see Archbishop Morton's famous letter in 1490. Wilkins, _Concilia_, III, p. 632. [768] See _Cal. of Papal Letters_, VI, pp. 159-160. [769] Mention of _custodes_ occurs at the following houses, in addition to those mentioned in the text: Studley (1290), Goring (1309), _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, pp. 78, 104; Markyate (1323), Harrold (late thirteenth century), _V.C.H. Beds._ I, pp. 359, 388; Flamstead (1337), Rowney (1302, 1328), _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 432, 434; Arden (1302, 1324), Marrick (1252), Nunburnholme (1314), Yedingham (1280), Basedale (1304), Hampole (1268, 1280, 1308), Handale (1318), Nunappleton (1306), Swine (1267, 1291, 1298), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 117, 119, 127, 159, 163, 166, 171, 180; all in Lincoln or York. For mention of _custodes_ in other dioceses, see Cookhill (1285), _Reg. of Godfrey Giffard_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), II, p. 267; St Sepulchre's Canterbury, Davington, Usk, Whitehall (Ilchester), Minchin Barrow, Easebourne, St Bartholomew's Newcastle, King's Mead, Derby, below, pp. 231-5 _passim_. The frequency with which _custodes_ occur in houses in the diocese of Lincoln and York and their rarity in other dioceses would seem to support the theory of Gilbertine influence. Of the cases quoted from other dioceses all are either _custodes_ appointed as a deliberate policy by Archbishop Peckham, or _custodes_ appointed to meet some special moral or financial crisis, not regular officials. King's Mead, Derby, seems to be the only nunnery outside the two dioceses of York and Lincoln (with the exception of those in direct dependence on a house of monks) which started its career under the joint government of a _custos_ and a Prioress. _V.C.H. Derby_, II, p. 43. [770] _Reg. of John le Romeyn_ (Surtees Soc.), I, pp. xii, xiii, 86, 125, 157, 180. [771] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, ff. 23_d_, 37, 44, 60_d_, 79_d_, 118_d_, 328_d_, 366, 373, 378, 382, 388. (These comprise two appointments to Rowney, Godstow and Nuncoton; the dates are between 1301 and 1318.) [772] _Reg. of John le Romeyn_, I, pp. 203-4, 209, 211, 217. [773] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, ff. 82_d_-83. [774] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 179. But in 1318 Dalderby appointed the vicar of Little Coates, _loc. cit._ f. 373. Originally St Leonard's Grimsby, had been placed under the protection of the canons of Wellow. [775] _Reg. of Archbishop Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 54. [776] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113. [777] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, ff. 25, 92_d_. [778] Sometimes the chaplain of the house must have acted as an unofficial _custos_ and sometimes he held the position by special mandate, e.g. in 1285 Bishop Giffard ordered the nuns of Cookhill that "for the better conduct of temporal business and for the increase of divine praise," Thomas their chaplain was to have full charge of their temporal affairs. _Reg. of Godfrey Giffard_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), II, p. 267. [779] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), I, pp. 72-3; II, pp. 708-9, III, p. 806. [780] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 99. [781] _V.C.H. Somerset_, II, p. 157. Text in Hugo, _Medieval Nunneries of the County of Somerset: Whitehall in Ilchester_, App. VII, pp. 78-9. [782] _Reg. of Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Somerset Rec. Soc.), p. 177. [783] Hugo, _op. cit._ _Minchin Barrow Priory_, App. II, pp. 81-3. With these cases compare the appointment of _custodes_ to the worldly Prioress of Easebourne in 1441. See above, p. 77. [784] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 413. [785] _Ib._ IV, p. 485. [786] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 73. [787] _V.C.H. Derby_, II, pp. 43-4 (from _Ancient Petitions_, No. 11730); cf. _Cal. Pat. Rolls_, 1327-30, p. 139. See above, p. 180. [788] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 7. [789] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. [790] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 117. [791] See e.g. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 113, 117, 119. [792] _Yorks. Arch. Journal_, XVI, p. 362. [793] It will be noticed that all the references to _custodes_ given on p. 230, note 8, belong to the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries; appointments at a later date are generally made to meet some regular crisis. There are no references to the Prior of St Michael's Stamford in the later account rolls of that house, though one or two rolls belonging to the beginning of the century mention him. One of the few references to the regular appointment of a master in a Cistercian house after the first quarter of the fourteenth century is at Legbourne, where "later Lincoln regulations record the appointment of several masters from 1294-1343 and in 1366 the same official is apparently called an _yconomus_ of Legbourne" (_V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 154, note 1). The will of Adam, vicar of Hallington, "custos sive magister domus monialium de Legbourne," dated 1345, has been preserved. Gibbons, _Early Lincoln Wills_, p. 17. The _yconomus_ of Gokewell in 1440 is a very late instance. (Compare Bokyngham's advice to the Abbess of Elstow in 1387, above, p. 228.) Much the same function as that of the _custos_, was, however, probably performed by the steward (_senescallus_), an official often mentioned during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. [794] See account in L. Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, ch. IV. [795] L. Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, ch. IV, pp. 160 ff. [796] _Ib._ pp. 238 ff. [797] _Ib._ pp. 256 ff. [798] _Ib._ pp. 328 ff. [799] _Ib._ pp. 416, 419, 428, 458 ff. [800] See _Romania_ XIII (1884), pp. 400-3. "Je ke la vie ai translatee Par nun sui Climence numee, De Berekinge sui nunain; Par s'amur pris ceste oevre en main." [801] Devon, _Issues of the Exchequer_, p. 144. [802] There does exist a catalogue of Syon library, but unluckily it is that of the brothers' library and the catalogue of the sisters' library is missing; it was probably a good one since we have notice of several books written for them. See M. Bateson, _Cat. of the Lib. of Syon Mon._ (1898). Only three continental library catalogues survive, of which two are printed and accessible; one is of the library of the Dominican nuns of Nuremberg, made between 1456-69 and containing 350 books, the other belonged to the Franciscan tertiaries of Delft in the second half of the fifteenth century and contained 109 books; the third comes from the women's cloister at Wonnenstein in 1498. See M. Deanesly, _The Lollard Bible_, pp. 110-5. [803] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 12. [804] Mackenzie, Walcott, _Inventories of ... the Ben. Priory ... of Shepey for Nuns_, pp. 21, 23, 28. [805] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 424. [806] At a visitation of St Mary's Winchester by Dr Hede in 1501, "Elia Pitte, librarian, was also well satisfied with that which was in her charge." _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 124. [807] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 179. [808] Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills_, II, p. 327. [809] _Test. Ebor._ II, p. 13. [810] _Ib._ III, p. 262. [811] _Ib._ III, p. 199. See an interesting list of books left by Peter, vicar of Swine, to Swine Priory some time after 1380. _King's Descrip. Cat. MS._ 18. [812] _Reg. Stafford of Exeter_, p. 419. [813] _Test. Ebor._ II, p. 66. [814] For Barking books (including a book of English religious treatises) see M. Deanesly, _The Lollard Bible_, pp. 337-9. Besides the books mentioned in the text there are fine psalters written for nuns at St Mary's Winchester, Amesbury and Wilton in the libraries of Trinity College, Cambridge, All Souls College, Oxford, and the Royal College of Physicians respectively. There is an interesting book in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (_McClean MS._ 123), which belonged to Nuneaton; it contains (1) the metrical Bestiary of William the Norman, (2) the _Chasteau d'Amours_ of Robert Grosseteste, (3) exposition of the Paternoster, (4) the Gospel of Nicodemus, (5) Apocalypse with pictures, (6) _Poema Morale_, etc. [815] Wright and Halliwell, _Reliquiae Antiquae_, II, p. 117. [816] Capgrave, _Life of St Katharine of Alexandria_, ed. Horstmann (E.E.T.S. 1893), Introd. p. xxix. [817] _St John's Coll. MS._ 68. Other psalters from the aristocratic house of Wherwell are _MS. add._ 27866 at the British Museum and _MS. McClean_ 45 at the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. [818] _MS._ 136 (T. 6. 18). See J. Young and P. Henderson Aitkin, _Cat. of MSS. in the Lib. of the Hunterian Museum in the Univ. of Glasgow_ (1908), p. 124. In the introduction the book is conjectured to have belonged to the Carthusian monastery at Sheen, where it obviously was written; but the reference to "sorores et ffratres" and the name of Elizabeth Gibbs (see Blunt, _Myroure of Oure Ladye_ (E.E.T.S.), p. xxiii), show clearly that it belonged to Syon. [819] So John of Pontoise sends Juliana de Spina to Romsey on the occasion of his consecration (1282), with the recommendation "Ejusdem Juliane competenter ad hujusmodi officii debitum litterate laudabile propositum speciali gracia prosequentes, etc." _Reg. J. de Pontissara_ (Cant. and York Soc.), I, p. 240. Cp. _ib._ p. 252. [820] _Collectanea Anglo-Praemonstratensia_, II, p. 267. [821] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 53. [822] _Gesta Abbatum_ (Rolls Ser. 1867), II, pp. 410-2. But professions were often written by others, and the postulant only put his or her cross. So also with the vote. [823] _Ib._ II, p. 213. This was a not uncommon method of voting. It is clear, too, from prohibitions of letter-writing in various injunctions that nuns could sometimes write. [824] _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ V, p. 256. Compare the editor's note on the education of Christina von Stommeln: "Simul cum psalterio videtur tantum didicisse linguae latinae, quantum satis erat non solum illi legendo, sed etiam epistolis ad se Latine scriptis pro parte intelligendis, ac vicissim dictandis: nam scribendi ignoram fuisse habeo." _Acta SS. Junii_, t. IV, p. 279. [825] Jusserand, _A Literary History of the English People_, I, pp. 239-40. [826] Jusserand, _op. cit._ I, p. 236. [827] It is interesting to find the Master-General of the Dominicans in 1431 giving Jane Fisher, a nun of Dartford, leave to have a _master_ to instruct her in grammar and the Latin tongue. Jarrett, _The English Dominicans_, p. 11. [828] _Reg. Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), pp. 147-8. [829] _Reg. John le Romeyn_, etc. (Surtees Soc.), II, pp. 222-4. [830] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), III, pp. 845-52. [831] _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_ (Cant. and York Soc. and Cantilupe Soc.), p. 202. [832] _Reg. R. de Norbury_ (Wm. Salt Archaeol. Soc. Coll. I), p. 257. [833] _Reg. R. de Stretton_ (_ib._ New Series, VIII), p. 119. [834] _Reg. W. de Stapeldon_, p. 316. See below, p. 286. In the same year Archbishop Melton writes to the nuns of Sinningthwaite that in all writings under the common seal a faithful clerk is to be employed and the deed is to be sealed in the presence of the whole convent, the clerk reading the deed plainly in the mother tongue and explaining it. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177. [835] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 105. [836] _New Coll._ MS. f. 84. [837] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, ff. 34. 139_d_, 100_d_. [838] _Ib._ _Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, ff. 343 (Elstow), 397 (Heynings). [839] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 83. [840] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 52. [841] _Ib._ I, p. 45. At Kyme and Wellow, houses of canons, however, the injunctions are also to be expounded in the mother tongue. [842] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 1. [843] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. [844] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 91; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83, 38. [845] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 117. [846] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 174. [847] Archbishop Lee's visitations of the York diocese on the eve of the Dissolution (1534-5) are typical. The injunctions sent to the nunneries of Sinningthwaite, Nunappleton and Esholt (_Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI, pp. 440, 443, 451) are in English, but those sent to the houses of monks and canons are all in Latin. [848] Sir David Lyndesay's _Poems_, ed. Small, Hall and Murray (E.E.T.S. 2nd ed. 1883), p. 21. [849] _Three Middle Eng. Versions of the Rule of St Benet_ (E.E.T.S. 1902), p. 48. On the other hand the Caxton abstract at the end of the century is translated "for men and wymmen, of the habyte therof, the whiche vnderstande lytyll laten or none." _Ib._ p. 119. [850] The preface is quoted in _The Register of Richard Fox while Bishop of Bath and Wells, with a Life of Bishop Fox_, ed. E. C. Batten (1889), pp. 102-4. [851] _Eng. Reg. of Godstow Nunnery_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 25-6. [852] _The Myroure of Oure Ladye_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 2-3. [853] _Ib._ pp. 63 ff. [854] _Ib._ pp. xliv-xlvi; Eckenstein, _op. cit._ p. 395. Wynkyn de Worde's edition was reprinted for the Henry Bradshaw Society in 1893. [855] Deanesly, _The Lollard Bible_, pp. 320, 336-7. It may be noted as of some interest that when in 1528 a wealthy London merchant was imprisoned for distributing Tyndale's books and for similar practices, he pleaded that the abbess of Denney, Elizabeth Throgmorton, had wished to borrow Tyndale's _Enchiridion_ and that he had lent it to her. Dugdale, _Mon._ VI, p. 1549. [856] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 7. [857] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 49. At Bondeville in 1251 Archbishop Eudes Rigaud has to forbid the nuns to sell their thread and their spindles to raise money, "quod moniales non vendant nec distrahant filum _et lor fusees_," _Reg. Visit. Archiepiscopi Roth._ ed. Bonnin (1852), p. 111. [858] "Nuns with their needles wrote histories also," as Fuller prettily says, "that of Christ his passion for their altar clothes, as other Scripture (and moe legend) Stories to adorn their houses." Fuller, _Church Hist._ (ed. 1837), II, p. 190. [859] J. H. Middleton, _Illuminated MSS._ (1892), p. 112. On nunnery embroidery at different periods see _ib._ pp. 224-30; but the book must be read with great caution. [860] Mackenzie Walcott, _Inventory of St Mary's Ben. Nunnery at Langley, Co. Leic. 1485_ (Leic. Architec. Soc. 1872), pp. 3, 4. [861] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, 120, 127, 183. Greenfield may have so enjoined other houses; the injunctions are not always fully summarised. As to nuns' embroidery there is an interesting passage in the thirteenth century German poem _Helmbrecht_ by Wernher "the Gardener": "Old farmer Helmbrecht had a son. Young Helmbrecht's yellow locks fell down to his shoulders. He tucked them into a handsome silken cap, embroidered with doves and parrots and many a picture. This cap had been embroidered by a nun who had run away from her convent through a love adventure, as happens to so many. From her Helmbrecht's sister Gotelind had learned to embroider and to sew. The girl and her mother had well earned that from the nun, for they gave her in pay a calf, and many cheeses and eggs." J. Harvey Robinson, _Readings in Eur. Hist._ I, pp. 418-9, translated from Freytag, _Bilder aus der deutschen Vergangenheit_ (1876, II, pp. 52 ff.). [862] _Manners and Household Expenses_ (Roxburghe Club 1841), p. 18. [863] Gasquet, _Engl. Monastic Life_, p. 170. [864] _Trans. St Paul's Eccles. Soc._ VII, pt II (1912), p. 54. [865] _Ancren Riwle_, ed. Gasquet, p. 318. [866] See below, p. 655. [867] Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, II, pp. 229-31. [868] Peckham, forbidding the nuns of Barking (1279) to eat or sleep in private rooms or to receive mass there, makes an exception for those who are seriously ill, "in which case we permit the confessor and the doctor, also the father or brother, to have access to them." _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, I, p. 84. Cf. _ib._ II, pp. 652, 663. For nuns and medicine see S. Luce, _La Jeunesse de Bertrand de Guesclin_ (1882), p. 10. [869] At Romsey Abbey a pittance of sixpence was due to each nun "when blood is let" (see Bishop John de Pontoise's injunctions in 1302 and those of Bishop Woodlock in 1311, both of which refer to the payments not having been made). Bishop Woodlock enjoined that "Nuns who have been bled shall be allowed to enter the cloister if they wish." Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 100, 103, 104. In 1338 Abbot Michael of St Albans orders all the nuns of Sopwell to attend the service of prime, "horspris les malades et les seynes." Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 366. At Nuncoton in 1440 the sub-prioress deposed that "the infirm, the weakminded and they that are in their seynies ... do eat in the convent cellar." _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 71_d_. Bishop Stapeldon forbids the nuns of Polsloe in 1319 to enter convent offices outside the cloistral precincts "pour estre seigne ou pur autre encheson feynte." _Reg. Stapeldon_, ed. Hingeston-Randolph, p. 317. [870] On the custom of periodical bleeding in monasteries see J. W. Clark, _The Observances ... at Barnwell_, Introd. pp. lxi, ff. It is interesting to note that medieval treatises on the diseases of women occasionally refer specifically to nuns, e.g. in a fourteenth century English MS. a certain "worschipfull sirop" for use in cases of anaemia is said to be "for ladyes & for nunnes and other also þat ben delicate." Brit. Mus. MS. Sloane 2463, f. 198 vº. [871] E.g. Nicholaa de Fulham dates her will in 1327 from Clerkenwell and leaves certain rents for life to Joan her sister, a nun there. Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills enrolled in Court of Husting_, I, p. 324. The will of Elizabeth Medlay "of the house of St Clement's in Clementthorpe" directs her body to be buried in the conventual church, bequeathes legacies to the high altar, the Prioress and each nun there and appoints dame Margaret Delaryver, prioress, as executor (1470). _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 130. [872] _New Coll._ MS. ff. 88, 88_dº_. [873] _The Fifty Earliest Wills in the Court of Probate_, ed. F. J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S.), p. 54. But she may have been a sister from a hospital. [874] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 4, 5, 6. [875] _Visit. of Dioc. Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 243. [876] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 226, 236. William of Wykeham in 1387 ordered that three or four at least of the more discreet nuns of this large abbey, "in regula sancti benedicti et obseruanciis regularibus sufficienter erudite" should be chosen to instruct the younger nuns in these matters. _New Coll._ MS. f. 86. At St Mary's, Winchester, in 1501, besides Margaret Legh, mistress of the novices, there was Agnes Cox, senior teacher (_dogmatista_). _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 124. At Elstow in 1421-2 the bishop ordered "That a more suitable nun be deputed and ordained to be precentress; and that elder nuns, if they shall be capable and fit for such offices, be preferred to younger." _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. Dean Kentwode's injunction to St Helen's Bishopsgate in 1432 runs: "That ye ordeyne and chese on of yowre sustres, honest, abille and cunnyng of discretyone, the whiche can, may and schall have the charge of techyng and informacyone of yowre sustres that be uncunnyng, for to teche hem here service and the rule of here religione." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 554. [877] The controversy was roused by an article by Mr J. E. G. de Montmorency entitled "The Medieval Education of Women in England" in the _Journal of Education_ (June, 1909) pp. 427-31. This was challenged by Mr Coulton, _loc. cit._ (July, 1910), pp. 456-7; see the correspondence _passim_, especially the two articles by Mr A. F. Leach, _loc. cit._ (Oct. and Dec. 1910), pp. 667-9, 838-41. The subject was afterwards treated with great erudition by Mr Coulton in a paper read before the International Congress of Historical Studies in 1913, reprinted with notes as _Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages_ (_Medieval Studies_, X, 1913). [878] For the rest of this chapter I shall not give full references in footnotes, because they can easily be traced in Note B, p. 568 below. [879] _Cistercian Statutes_, 1256-7, ed. J. T. Fowler (reprinted from _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._), p. 105. [880] Probably, however, after the dissolution of her house. [881] Tanner, _Notitia Monastica_ (1744 edit.), p. xxxii (basing his opinion on three secondary authorities and on a misunderstanding of two medieval entries, one of which refers to lay sisters and the other to an adult boarder). [882] N. Sanderus, _de Schismate Anglicana_, ed. 1586, p. 176. The statement is not in the original Sanders. A well-known passage in the _Paston Letters_ illustrates the practice as regards girls; Margaret Paston writes to her son in 1469 "Also I would ye should purvey for your sister to be with my Lady of Oxford, or with my Lady of Bedford, or in some other worshipful place whereas ye think best, for we be either of us weary of other." It is probable that this method of educating girls was more common than nunnery education. [883] Quoted by Mr Leach, _Journ. of Educ._ (1910), p. 668. [884] Possibly, as Mr Coulton points out (_Med. Studies_, X, p. 26), this may account for the fact that evidence of girl pupils is wanting for some of the wealthier and more important nunneries; he instances Shaftesbury, Amesbury, Syon, Studley and Lacock. For the life of the nuns at Lacock and Amesbury we have very little information of any kind, but our information is fairly full for Shaftesbury, and very full for Syon and for Studley. [885] For a discussion of these charges and of other prices and payments, with which they may be compared, see J. E. G. de Montmorency in _Journ. of Educ._ (1909), pp. 429-30 and Coulton, _op. cit._ app. iv. (School Children in Nunnery Accounts), pp. 38-40. [886] Quoted in S. H. Burke, _The Monastic Houses of England, their Accusers and Defenders_ (1869), p. 32. Compare the words of a Venetian traveller, Paolo Casenigo: "The English nuns gave instructions to the poorer virgins as to their duties when they became wives; to be obedient to their husbands and to give good example," a curious note. _Ib._ p. 31. [887] Quoted in Fosbroke, _British Monachism_ (1802), II, p. 35. [888] _Ancren Riwle_, ed. Gasquet, p. 319. [889] Notice the recognition of the financial reasons for taking schoolchildren. So also in 1489 the nuns of Nunappleton are to take no boarders "but if they be childern or ellis old persons by which availe by likelihod may grow to your place"--fees or legacies, in fact. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 654. [890] Caesarius of Heisterbach gives a picture of a less disturbing child in quire (though she was more probably a little girl who was intended for a nun). This is the English fifteenth century translation: "Caesarius tellis how that in Essex" (really in Saxony, but the translator was anxious to introduce local colour for the sake of his audience), "in a monasterye of nonnys, ther was a litle damysell, and on a grete solempne nyght hur maistres lete hur com with hur to matyns. So the damysell was bod a wayke thyng, and hur maistres was ferd at sho sulde take colde, and she commaundid hur befor Te Deum to go vnto the dortur to her bed agayn. And at hur commandment sho went furth of the where, thuff all it war with ill wyll, and abade withoute the where and thoght to here the residue of matyns"; whereat she saw a vision of the nuns caught up to heaven praising God among the angels, at the _Te Deum_. _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S. 1905), II, p. 406. [891] Fuller, _Church Hist._ See p. 255 above, note 3. [892] Quoted in Gasquet, _Eng. Monastic Life_, p. 177. [893] Hugo, _Medieval Nunneries of Somerset_ (_Minchin Buckland_), p. 107. [894] G. Hill, _Women in Eng. Life_ (1896), p. 79. [895] _Times Educational Supplement_ (Sept. 4, 1919). This seems to be taken from Fosbroke, _Brit. Monachism_, II, pp. 6-7, who takes it from Sir H. Chauncey's _Hist. and Antiqs. of Hertfordshire_, p. 423; it is the first appearance of dancing; as Fosbroke sapiently argued, "The dancing of nuns will be hereafter spoken of and if they dance they must somewhere learn how." [896] _Journ. of Education_, 1910, p. 841. Mr Hamilton Thompson sends me this note: "Probably, so far as any systematic teaching went, they were taught 'grammar' and song, which would vary in quality according to the teacher. These are the only two elements of which we regularly hear in the ordinary schools of the day. I do not see any reason to suppose that they were taught more or less. Song (i.e. church song) takes such a very prominent part in medieval education that I think it would not have been neglected; it was also one of the things which nuns ought to have been able to teach from their daily experience in quire. Bridget Plantagenet's book of matins (see below) would be an appropriate lesson book for both grammar and song, as nuns would understand them." [897] _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S. 1905), p. 272, from Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialog. Mirac._ ed. Strange, I, p. 196. [898] See e.g. the Knight of La Tour Landry, p. 178, "Et pour ce que aucuns gens dient que ilz ne voudroient pas que leurs femmes ne leurs filles sceussent rien de clergie ne d'escripture, je dy ainsi que, quant d'escryre, n'y a force que femme en saiche riens; mais quant a lire, tout femme en vault mieulx de le scavoir et cognoist mieulx la foy et les perils de l'ame et son saulvement, et n'en est pas de cent une qui n'en vaille mieulx; car c'est chose esprouvee." Quoted in A. A. Hentsch, _De la littérature didactique du moyen âge s'addressant spécialement aux femmes_ (Cahors, 1903), p. 133. So Philippe de Novare ([dagger] 1270) refuses to allow women to learn reading or writing, because they expose her to evil, and Francesco da Barberino ([dagger] 1348) refuses to allow reading and writing except to girls of the highest rank (not including the daughters of esquires, judges and gentlefolk of their class); both, however, make exception for nuns. _Ib._ pp. 84, 106-7. [899] See below, p. 388. [900] _Archaeologia_, XLIII (1871), p. 245 (Redlingfield and Bruisyard). [901] See below, p. 309. [902] Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, II, pp. 213-7. [903] Quoted Gasquet, _Hen. VIII and the Eng. Monasteries_ (1899), p. 227. [904] _The Catechism of Thomas Bacon, S.T.P._, ed. John Ayre (Parker Soc. 1894), p. 377. [905] See above, p. 82. [906] _Yorks. Archaeol. Journ._ XVI, pp. 452-3. Unluckily among Archbishop Lee's injunctions there remain only three sets addressed to nunneries; there are also two letters concerning an immoral and apostate ex-Prioress of Basedale. At the other two nunneries addressed, Nunappleton and Sinningthwaite, no specific accusations are made, but the Archbishop enjoins that the nuns shall "observe chastity" (§ IX, p. 440) and avoid the suspicious company of men (§ V, p. 441). [907] Aungier, _Hist. of Syon Mon._ p. 385. Compare also the regulations for behaviour in choir, "There also none shal use to spytte ouer the stalles, nor in any other place wher any suster is wonte to pray, but yf it anone be done oute, for defoylyng of ther clothes." _Ib._ p. 320. [908] The hours seem to have varied in length according to the season; see Butler, _Benedictine Monachism_, ch. XVII. [909] _Reg. W. de Stapeldon_, p. 316. [910] Aungier, _op. cit._ pp. 405-9. It is unlikely, however, that Betsone actually invented any of the signs, for similar lists are to be found in the early consuetudinaries of Cluniac houses and other sources. The signs were probably to a great extent "common form." [911] _Ib._ p. 298. [912] Bernold, _Chron._ (1083) in _Mon. Germ. Hist._ V, p. 439, quoted in Workman, _The Evolution of the Monastic Ideal_, p. 157. [913] E.g. a nun asks that sufficient clothes and food be ministered to her "ut fortis sit ad subeundum pondus religionis et diuini seruicii." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 5. A bishop orders no nun to be admitted unless she be "talem que onera chori ... ceteris religionem concernentibus poterit supportare." _Ib._ I, p. 53. [914] Vattasso, _Studi Medievali_ (1904), I, p. 124. Quoted in _Mod. Philology_ (1908), V, pp. 10-11. I have ventured to combine parts of two verses. [915] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 1_d_; but some of these would be absent from the monastery. [916] _Ib._ ff. 71_d_, 72. For other injunctions against "cutting" services, see Heynings, 1351 and 1392 (_Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_, and _Bokyngham_, f. 397), Elstow 1387 and 1421 (_ib._ _Bokyngham_, f. 343 and _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 51), Godstow 1279 and 1434 (_Reg. J. Peckham_, III, p. 846, _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 66), Romsey 1387 (_New Coll._ MS. f. 84), Cannington 1351 (_Reg. R. of Shrewsbury_, p. 684), Nunkeeling 1314, Thicket 1309, Yedingham 1314, Swine 1318, Wykeham 1314, Arthington 1318 (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 120, 124, 127, 181, 183, 188), Sinningthwaite 1534 (_Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 443), etc. [917] See e.g. _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 1, 8, 67, 131, 133, 134-5, _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_, _Sede Vacante Reg._ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), p. 276, _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, pp. 651-2, etc. [918] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 131. For other instances of lateness at matins, see Heynings 1442 (_Linc. Visit._ II, p. 133), Godstow 1432 (_Linc. Visit._ I, p. 66), Flixton 1514 (Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 143), Romsey 1302 (Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 100), Easebourne 1478, 1524 (_Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, pp. 17, 26-7), St Radegund's, Cambridge (Gray, _Prior of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 36). [919] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 48; Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 209; _Arch._ XLVII, p. 55; compare Romsey 1387, 1507 (_New Coll._ MS. f. 84; Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 231), St Helen's Bishopsgate, c. 1432 (_Hist. MS. Com. Rep._ IX, App. p. 57). [920] "These are they who wickedly corrupt the holy psalms: the dangler, the gasper, the leaper, the galloper, the dragger, the mumbler, the foreskipper, the forerunner and the over leaper: Tittivillus collecteth the fragments of these men's words." G. G. Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 423. He also collected the gossip of women in church. On Tittivillus see my article in the _Cambridge Magazine_, 1917, pp. 158-60. [921] _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. Blunt (E.E.T.S.), p. 54. [922] Greek [Greek: akêdia]; whence _acedia_ or _accidia_ in Latin; English _accidie_. It is a pity that the word has fallen out of use. The disease has not. [923] An interesting modern study of this moral disease is to be found in a book of sermons by the late Bishop of Oxford, Dr Paget, _The Spirit of Discipline_ (1891), which contains an introductory essay "concerning _Accidie_," in which the subject is treated historically, with illustrations from the writings of Cassian, St John of the Ladder, Dante and St Thomas Aquinas, in the middle ages, Marchantius and Francis Neumayer in the seventeenth century, and Wordsworth, Keble, Trench, Matthew Arnold, Tennyson and Stevenson in the nineteenth century. See also Dr Paget's first sermon "The Sorrow of the World," which deals with the same subject. He diagnoses the main elements of _Accidia_ very ably: "As one compares the various estimates of the sin one can mark three main elements which help to make it what it is--elements which can be distinguished, though in experience, I think, they almost always tend to meet and mingle, they are _gloom_ and _sloth_ and _irritation_." _Op. cit._ p. 54. On _Accidia_, see also H. B. Workman, _The Evolution of the Monastic Ideal_ (1913), pp. 326-31. During the great war the disease of _accidie_ was prevalent in prison camps, as any account of Ruhleben shows very clearly. For a short psychological study of this manifestation of it, see Vischer, A. L., _Barbed Wire Disease_ (1919). [924] See book X of Cassian's _De Coenobiorum Institutis_, which is entitled "De Spiritu Acediae" (Wace and Schaff, _Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church_, 2nd ser., vol. XI, Sulpitius Severus, Vincent of Lerins and John Cassian, pp. 266 ff.; chapters I and II are paraphrased by Dr Paget, _op. cit._ pp. 8-10); Book IX, on the kindred sin of _Tristitia_ is also worthy of study; the two are always closely connected, as is shown by the anecdotes quoted below. [925] Dante, _Inferno_, VII, l. 121 ff. Translation by J. A. Carlyle. [926] Chaucer, _The Persones Tale_, §§ 53-9. [927] See the translation of the episode (from Busch, _Chronicon Windeshemense_, ed. K. Grube, p. 395) in Coulton, _Med. Garner_, pp. 641-4. On the subject of medieval doubt and despair see Coulton in the _Hibbert Journal_, XIV (1916), pp. 598-9 and _From St Francis to Dante_, pp. 313-4. [928] Caes. of Heist. _Dial. Mirac._ ed. Strange, I, pp. 209-10. [929] _Ib._ I. pp. 210-11. For a case of doubt in an anchoress, which, however ended well, see _ib._ I, pp. 206-8. [930] Langland, _Piers Plowman_, ed. Skeat, B, passus X, 300-5. [931] Langland, _Piers Plowman_, ed. Skeat, B, passus V, ll. 153-65. The C text has a variant for the last four lines: Thus thei sitte the sustres · somtyme, and disputen, Til "thow lixt" and "thow lixt" · be lady over hem alle; And then awake ich, Wratthe · and wold be auenged. Thanne ich crie and cracche · with my kene nailes, Bothe byte and bete · and brynge forthe suche thewes, That alle ladies me lothen · that louen eny worschep. It is strange that the same hand which wrote these lines should have written the beautiful description of convent life quoted on p. 297. [932] See above, p. 82 and below, Note F. [933] From "Why can't I be a nun," _Trans. of Philol. Soc._ 1858, Pt II, p. 268. [934] _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 361-2 (1384). Compare case at Shaftesbury (1298) where the nuns had incurred excommunication. _Reg. Sim. de Gandavo_, p. 14. [935] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 8. Compare Winchelsey's injunctions to Sheppey in 1296. _Reg. Roberti Winchelsey_, pp. 99-100. [936] Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 245-6. The "bad language" may be scolding or defamation rather than swearing. It is rare to find a nun accused of using oaths. But see the list of faults drawn up for the nuns of Syon Abbey; among "greuous defautes" is "if any ... be take withe ... any foule worde, or else brekethe her sylence, or swerethe horribly be Criste, or be any parte of hys blyssed body, or unreuerently speketh of God, or of any saynte, and namely of our blessyd lady"; among "more greuous defautes" is "yf they swere be the sacramente, or be the body of Cryste, or be hys passion, or be hys crosse, or be any boke, or be any other thynge lyke"; and among "most greuous defautes" is "yf any in her madness or drunkenesse blaspheme horrybly God, or our Lady, or any of hys sayntes" (Aungier, _Hist. of Syon Mon._ pp. 256, 259, 262). In 1331, on readmitting Isabella de Studley (who had been guilty of incontinence and apostasy) to St Clement's York, Archbishop Melton announced that if she were disobedient to the Prioress or quarrelsome with her sisters or _indulged in blasphemy_ he would transfer her to another house. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 130. [937] _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 383 and _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 155. [938] In 1311 Archbishop Greenfield issued a general order that nuns only and not sisters were to use the black veil; sisters wore a white veil (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 188 note, and _Journ. of Education_, 1910, p. 841). This order was repeated at various houses, which shows that there must have been a widespread attempt to usurp the black veil (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 124, 127, 175, 177, 188). At Sinningthwaite the Prioress was also ordered not to place the sisters above the nuns. A common punishment in this district was to remove the black veil from a nun and this was reserved for the more serious misdeeds. [939] _York Reg. Giffard_, pp. 147-8. For further instances, see Note C below. [940] Injunctions against dicing and other games of chance are common in the case of monks (see e.g. _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 30, 46, 77, 89). I have found none in nunneries, but a more stately game of skill, the fashionable tables, was played by Margaret Fairfax with John Munkton. Above, p. 77. [941] Quoted from St Aldhelm's _De Laudibus Virginitatis_ in Eckenstein, _Woman under Mon._ p. 115. Compare Bede's account of the nuns of Coldingham some years before: "The virgins who are vowed to God, laying aside all respect for their profession, whenever they have leisure spend all their time in weaving fine garments with which they adorn themselves like brides, to the detriment of their condition and to secure the friendship of men outside." _Ib._ pp. 102-3. [942] For detailed examples, see Note D below. [943] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 118. Similar _detecta_ and injunctions at Catesby, Rothwell and Studley (_ib._ pp. 47, 52; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 38, 26_d_) and at Ankerwyke (quoted above, p. 76). Also at Studley (1531), _Archaeol._ XLVII, p. 55, and Romsey (1523), Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 244. [944] _Archaeol._ XLVII, p. 52. For an equally detailed account see the case of the Prioress of Ankerwyke, quoted above p. 76. [945] See below, p. 543. [946] See below, pp. 325-30. [947] For nunnery pets as a literary theme, see Note E and for pet animals in the nunneries of Eudes Rigaud's diocese see below, p. 662. [948] "Ye shall not possess any beasts, my dear sisters, except only a cat." _Ancren Riwle_, p. 316. At the nunnery of Langendorf in Saxony, however, a set of reformed rules drawn up in the early fifteenth century contains the proviso "Cats, dogs and other animals are not to be kept by the nuns, as they detract from seriousness." Eckenstein, _op. cit._ p. 415. [949] "Mem. quod apud manerium de Newenton fuerunt quedam moniales.... Et postea contingit [_sic_] quod priorissa eiusdem manerii strangulata fuit de cato suo in lecto suo noctu et postea tractata ad puteum quod vocatur Nunnepet." Quoted from Sprott's Chronicle in _The Black Book of St Augustine's Abbey, Canterbury_ (British Acad. 1915), I, p. 283. In Thorn's Chronicle, however, the crime is attributed to the prioress' _cook_. See Dugdale, _Mon._ VI, p. 1620. The nuns were afterwards removed to Sheppey. [950] There really seems to have been a parrot at Fontevrault in 1477, to judge from an item in the inventory of goods left on her death by the Abbess Marie de Bretagne, "Item xviij serviecttes en une aultre piece, led. linge estant en ung coffre de cuir boully, en la chambre ou est la papegault (perroquet)." Alfred Jubien, _L'Abbesse Marie de Bretagne_ (Angers and Paris 1872), p. 156. It is interesting to note that J. B. Thiers, writing on enclosure in 1681, mentions "de belles volieres à petits oiseaux" as one of those unnecessary works for which artisans may not be introduced into the cloister. Thiers, _De la Clôture_, p. 412. [951] _Reg. Epis. Peckham_ (R.S.), II, p. 660. [952] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 619 (Chatteris) and _Camb. Antiq. Soc. Proc._ XLV (1905), p. 190 (Ickleton). [953] A decree of the Council of Vienne (1311) complains that many church ministers come into choir "bringing hawks with them or causing them to be brought and leading hunting dogs." Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 588. Similarly Geiler on the eve of the Reformation complains, in his _Navicula Fatuorum_, that "some men, when they are about to enter a church, equip themselves like hunters, bearing hawks and bells on their wrists and followed by a pack of baying hounds, that trouble God's service. Here the bells jangle, there the barking of dogs echoes in our ears, to the hindrance of preachers and hearers." He goes on to say that the habit is particularly reprehensible in clergy. The privilege of behaving thus was an adjunct of noble birth and in the cathedrals of Auxerre and Nevers the treasurers had the legal right of coming to service with hawk on wrist, because these canonries were hereditary in noble families. _Ib._ pp. 684-5. Medieval writers on hawking actually advise that hawks should be taken into church to accustom them to crowds. "Mais en cest endroit d'espreveterie, le convient plus que devant tenir sur le poing et le porter aux plais et entre les gens aux églises et ès autres assamblées, et emmy les rues, et le tenir jour et nuit le plus continuelment que l'en pourra, et aucune fois le perchier emmi les rues pour veoir gens, chevaulx, charettes, chiens, et toutes choses congnoistre." Gaces de la Bugne gives the same advice. _Le Ménagier de Paris_ (Paris, 1846), II, p. 296. [954] Below, p. 412. [955] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 168, 175. [956] _New Coll._ MS. ff. 88-88_d_, translated in Coulton, _Soc. Life in Britain from the Conquest to the Reformation_, p. 397. [957] _Hist. MSS. Com. Rep._ IX, app. pt. I, p. 57. [958] Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 191. [959] Chaucer's description of the monk is well known: Therfore he was a pricasour aright; Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel in flight; Of priking and of hunting for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. Compare Langland's picture of the monk, riding out on his palfrey from manor to manor, "an hepe of houndes at hus ers as he a lord were" (_Piers Plowman_, C Text VI, ll. 157-61). Visitation documents amply bear out these accounts; in a single set of visitations (those by Bishops Flemyng and Gray of Lincoln during the years 1420-36) we have "Furthermore we enjoin and command you all and several ... that no canon apply himself in any wise to hunting, hawking or other lawless wanderings abroad" (Dunstable Priory 1432); "further we enjoin upon you, the prior and all and several the canons of the convent aforesaid ... that you utterly remove and drive away all hounds for hunting from the said priory and its limits; and that neither you nor any one of you keep, rear, or maintain such hounds by himself or by another's means, directly or indirectly, in the priory or without the priory, under colour of any pretext whatsoever" (Huntingdon Priory 1432); "also that hounds for hunting be not nourished within the precinct of your monastery" (St Frideswide's Oxford, 1422-3) and a similar injunction to Caldwell Priory. _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 27, 47, 78, 97. [960] Wm. Salt Arch. Soc. Coll. I, p. 261. Compare also the provision in one of Charlemagne's capitularies: "Ut episcopi et abbates _et abbatissae_ cupplas canum non habeant nec falcones nec accipitres," Baretius, _Capit. Reg. Franc._ (1853), p. 64. Some of the birds at Romsey may have been hawks, though it is more likely that they were larks and other small pets, such as Eudes Rigaud found in his nunneries. [961] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 123, and see above, p. 105. [962] The nuns of St Mary de Pré, St Albans, kept a huntsman. _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 430 (note). [963] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 431 (note); Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 359-60. [964] _Hereford Reg. Thome Spofford_, p. 82. (This was combined with an injunction against going to "comyn wakes and festes, spectacles and other worldly vanytees" outside the convent. Below, p. 377.). [965] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 554. [966] Quoted in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 304. [967] See Chambers, _op. cit._ I, pp. 38-41. [968] _Ib._ I, p. 56 (note). "The bishops of Durham in 1355, Norwich in 1362, and Winchester in 1374, 1422, and 1481 had 'minstrels of honour' like any secular noble." [969] _Ib._ I, pp. 39, 56 (notes). [970] Langland, _Piers the Plowman_, C, Text VIII, l. 97. [971] "Payments for performances are frequent in the accounts of the Augustinian priories at Canterbury, Bicester and Maxstoke and the great Benedictine houses of Durham, Norwich, Thetford and St Swithin's, Winchester, and doubtless in those of many another cloistered retreat. The Minorite chroniclers relate how, at the coming of the friars in 1224, two of them were mistaken for minstrels by the porter of a Benedictine grange near Abingdon, received by the brethren with unbecoming glee, and when the error was discovered, turned out with contumely," Chambers, _op. cit._ I, pp. 56-7. In the Register of St Swithun's it is recorded under the year 1374 that "on the feast of Bishop Alwyn ... six minstrels with four harpers performed their minstrelsies. And after dinner in the great arched chamber of the lord Prior, they sang the same geste.... And the said jongleurs came from the household of the bishop," _ib._ I, p. 56 (note). See extracts from the account books of Durham, Finchale, Maxstoke and Thetford Priories relating to the visits of minstrels, _ib._ II, pp. 240-6. At Finchale there was even a room called "le Playerchambre," _ib._ II, p. 244. In 1258 Eudes Rigaud had to order the Abbot of Jumièges "that he should send strolling players away from his premises." _Reg. Visit. Arch. Roth._ p. 607. At a later date, in 1549, a council at Cologne directed a canon against comedians who were in the habit of visiting the German nunneries and by their profane plays and amatory acting excited to unholy desires the virgins dedicated to God. Lea, _Hist. of Sacerdotal Celibacy_, II, p. 189. [972] "Histrionibus potest dari cibus, quia pauperes sunt, non quia histriones; et eorum ludi non videantur, vel audiantur vel permittantur fieri coram abbate vel monachis." _Annales de Burton_ (_Ann. Monast. R. S._ I, p. 485), quoted Chambers, _op. cit._ I, p. 39 (note). [973] _Alnwick's Visit._ f. 83. [974] _Aucassin and Nicolete_, ed. Bourdillon (1897), p. 22. [975] See the well-known story of "Le Tombeor de Notre Dame" (_Romania_, II, p. 315), and "Du Cierge qui descendi sus la viele au vieleeux devant l'ymage Nostre Dame," Gautier de Coincy, _Miracles de Nostre Dame_, ed. Poquet (1859), p. 310. Both are translated in _Of The Tumbler of Our Lady and Other Miracles_ by A. Kemp-Welch (King's Classics 1909). [976] For the following account, see A. F. Leach's article on "The Schoolboy's Feast," _Fortnightly Review_, N.S. LIX (1896), p. 128, and Chambers, _op. cit._ I, ch. XV. [977] See below, p. 662. [978] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, I, pp. 82-3. For a similar injunction to Godstow, see _ib._ III, p. 846. At Romsey the Archbishop forbade the festivities altogether: "Superstitionem vero quae in Natali Domini et Ascensione Ejusdem fieri consuevit, perpetuo condemnamus," _ib._ II, p. 664. The superstition was probably the election of the youngest nun as abbess. [979] _Norwich Visit._ pp. 209-10. [980] _Archaeol._ XLVII, p. 56. On the Lord of Misrule, see Chambers _op. cit._ I, ch. XVII. There is a vivid account (from the Puritan point of view) in Philip Stubbes, _The Anatomie of Abuses_ (1583) quoted in _Life in Shakespeare's England_, ed. J. D. Wilson (1915), pp. 25-7. [981] Chambers, _op. cit._ I, p. 361 (note 1). [982] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 360. [983] Cussans, _Hist. of Herts., Hertford Hundred_, app. II, p. 268. [984] Walcott, _Inventory of Shepey_, p. 23. There is perhaps another reference in the inventory of Langley in 1485: "iij quesyns (cushions) of olde red saye, ij smale quechyns embrodred and ij qwechyns namyde Seynt Nicolas qwechyns," Walcott, _Inventory of Langley_, p. 6. [985] E.g. (besides the well-known case of Dr Rock in _The Church of Our Fathers_), Gayley, _Plays of our Forefathers_, pp. 67-8. [986] Leach, _op. cit._ p. 137. [987] _Ib._ p. 131. [988] Leach, _op. cit._ p. 137 (from _Martène_, III, p. 39). I have slightly altered the translation. [989] On Benedictine poverty, see Dom Butler, _Benedictine Monachism_, ch. X. [990] The alteration was made even by the Cistercians in 1335. See _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 238 (under _Misericord_). Among Black Monks it began much earlier. [991] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 238. Alnwick's visitations sometimes mention this division of the frater. "Also she prays that frater may be kept every day, since there is one upper frater wherein they feed on fish and food made with milk, and another downstairs, wherein they feed of grace on flesh" (Nuncoton 1440). "Also she says that they feed on fish and milk foods in the upper frater and on flesh in the lower" (Stixwould 1440). _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 71_d_, 76. [992] "Et qe nule Dame de Religion ne mange hors du Refreytour en chambre severale si ceo ne soit en compaignie la Priouresse, ou par maladie ou autre renable encheson.... Item, purceo qe ascune foitz ascunes Dames de vostre Religion orent lur damoiseles severales por faire severalement lur viaunde, si ordinoms, voloms et establioms qe totes celles damoiseles soyent de tut oste de la cusine, et qe un keu covenable, qi eit un page desoutz lui soit mys per servir a tut le Covent" (1319). _Exeter Reg. Stapeldon_, pp. 317-8. Compare _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 165 (Hampole 1411). [993] For the following references, see _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 46, 89, 114, 117, 119, 121, 175; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 71_d_, 76, 77, 83. [994] Pupils or boarders may account for these discrepancies. [995] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 67 (and note 3); compare _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [996] Walcott, M. E. C., _Inventories of ... the Ben. Priory of ... Shepey for Nuns_ (_Arch. Cant._ 1869), pp. 23 ff. [997] E.g. at Gracedieu "_The dorter_, item ther three nunnes selles whyche as sould for 30_s._" Nichols, _Hist. and Antiq. of Leic._ (1804), III, p. 653; at Catesby where the "sells in the dorter were sold at 6_s._ 8_d._ apiece," _Archaeologia_, XLIII, p. 241. In theory the nuns were supposed to get up and lie down in full view of each other and curtains were forbidden by Woodlock at Romsey in 1311. Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 104. On the other hand at Redlingfield in 1514 a nun complained that "sorores non habent curricula inter cubilia, sed una potest aliam videre quando surgit vel aliquid aliud facit" and the Bishop ordered the Prioress to provide curtains between the cubicles in the dorter. Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), pp. 139-40. Dom Butler thus traces the transition from the open dorter to private cells: open dorter; side partitions between the beds; curtains in front; a latticed door in front, making a cubicle; a solid door with a large window; the window grew smaller and smaller until it became a peephole; the dorter became a gallery of private rooms. _Downside Review_ (1899), pp. 119-21. [998] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 51-2. See also among many other injunctions and references to the custom the following: Gracedieu (1440-1), _ib._ II, p. 125; Godstow (1432), _ib._ I, pp. 67-8; Barking (1279); Wherwell (1284), _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, I, p. 84, II, p. 653; Hampole (1311), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181; Swine (1318), _ib._ p. 163; Nunappleton (1346 and 1489), _ib._ pp. 171-2; Fairwell (1367), _Reg. Stretton of Lichfield_, p. 119; Romsey (1387 and 1492), _New Coll._ MS. ff. 85, 85_d_, 86, Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 218; Aconbury (1438), _Reg. Spofford of Hereford_, p. 224; Stixwould (1519), _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 148; Sinningthwaite (1534), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 441. Sometimes the system can be traced in one house over a long period of years. At Elstow, for instance, in 1387, _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343; in 1421-2, _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 50, 51; in 1432, _ib._ I, p. 53; in 1442-3, _ib._ II, p. 89; and in 1531, _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 51. For an admonition to a nun by name see "Moneatis insuper dominam Johannam de Wakefelde commonialem quod illam cameram quam modo inhabitat contra debitam honestatem religionis predicte solitarie commorando omnino dimittat et sequatur conventum assidue tam in choro, claustro, refectorio et dormitorio quam in ceteris locis et temporibus opportunis, prout religionis convenit honestati" (Kirklees 1315), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 359. [999] See, for instance, Longland's careful injunction to Elstow in 1531: "Foras moche as the very ordre off sainct benedicte his rules ar nott ther obserued in keping the ffratrye att meale tymes ... butt customably they resorte to certayn places within the monasterye called the housholdes, where moche insolency is use contrarye to the good rules of the said religion, by reason of resorte of seculars both men women and children and many other inconvenyents hath thereby ensewed ... we inioyne ... that ye lady abbesse and your successours see that noo suche householdes be then kepte frome hensforth, butt oonly oon place which shalbe called the mysericorde, where shalbe oon sadde lady of the eldest sorte oversear and maistres to all the residue that thidre shall resorte, whiche in nombre shall nott passe fyve att the uttermoost, besides ther saide ladye oversear or maistres and those fyve wekely to chaunge and soo ... all the covent have kepte the same, and they agen to begynne and the said gouernour and oversear of them contynally to contynue in thatt roome by the space of oon quarter of a yere, and soo quarterly to chaunge att the nominacon and plesure of the ladye abbesse for the tyme being. Over this it is ordered undre the said payne and Iniunction that the ladye abbesse haue no moo susters from hensforth in hir householde butt oonly foure with hir chapleyne and likewise wekely to chaunge till they have goon by course thrugh the hole nomber off susters, and soo aghen to begynne and contynue." _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 51. [1000] Wilkins, _Conc._ II, p. 16. See also "Et fetez qe lez deuz parties du covent a meyns mangent checun jour en le refreytour" (Wroxall 1338); _Sede Vacante Reg._ (Worc.), p. 276; cf. Elstow (c. 1432), _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 53. It is often accepted that the nuns shall keep frater only on the three fish days, but see Gray's injunction to Delapré Abbey (c. 1432-3) enjoining its observance on the three accustomed days (Sunday, Wednesday and Friday) and on Monday as well. _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 45. [1001] _Ib._ I, p. 68. [1002] See, for instance, Bokyngham's injunction to Heynings in 1392: "Item that no nun there shall keep a private chamber, but that all the nuns, who are in good health, shall lie and sleep in the dorter and those who are ill in the infirmary, saving dame Margaret Darcy, nun of the aforesaid house, to whom on account of her noble birth we wish for the time being to allow that room which she now occupies, but without any service of bread and beer, save in case of manifest illness," _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_. But see Gynewell's injunctions to the convent in 1351. _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. For the use of separate rooms allowed to ill nuns, see Nunappleton (1489), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172. At Romsey in 1507 the nuns, under the eye of the visitor, "concluded and provided that Joan Patent, nun, who had hurt her leg, by her consent shall in future have meals in her own chamber and shall daily have in her chamber the right of one nun." Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 230. But usually the use of the common infirmary is enjoined. Separate lodgings were also allowed to ex-superiors after resignation. See above, p. 57. [1003] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1257/10, ff. 46, 119, 170, 214. [1004] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/14. [1005] Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, pp. 27, 147, 155, 163, 171. [1006] Baker, _Hist. of Northants._ I, p. 280. [1007] _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, I, p. 126. William of Wykeham writes to Wherwell in 1387 concerning the abbess' illicit detention of "certain distributions and pittances as well in money as in spices," which divers benefactors had endowed. _New Coll._ MS. f. 89 vº. [1008] See below, p. 653. [1009] _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 202. Compare Archbishop Winchelsey's injunction to Sheppey (1296) "ne qua monialis pecuniam vel aliam rem sibi donatam aut aliqualiter adquisitam sibi retineat sine expressa licencia priorisse" (a loophole). _Reg. Roberti Winchelsey_, p. 100. [1010] W. Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, app. IX, p. xix. [1011] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 68. [1012] See above, pp. 15, 17, 18. [1013] _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 296-7. [1014] _Ib._ II, p. 97. [1015] _Lincolnshire Wills_, ed. A. R. Maddison (1880), pp. 4, 6. [1016] See, for example, _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 6, 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 31, 43, 54, 62, 90, 98, 109, 143, 166, 179, 216, 292, 337, 345, 349, 363, 376, 382 (chiefly wills of clergy and country gentry); Nicolas, _Test. Vetusta_, I, pp. 52, 70, 76, 79, 85, 115, 116, 120, 121, 123, 137, 155, 170, 196, 300, 377 (chiefly wills of the aristocracy); Gibbons, _Early Lincoln Wills_, pp. 18, 21, 25, 26, 40, 41, 56, 60, 67, 71, 76, 80, 87, 97, 125, 138, 139, 150, 160 (chiefly wills of clergy and country gentry). The wills of the citizens of London preserved in the court of Husting contain many legacies to nuns, chiefly annual rents. [1017] Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 156. [1018] _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 317, 322, 324. The items occur in the inventory of the Bishop's goods and against each is written "Detur Priorissae de Swyna sorori meae." [1019] _Ib._ I, p. 332. [1020] _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 187-9. He also left the Prioress 13_s._ 4_d._ and each nun 6_s._ 8_d._ and each sister 3_s._ 4_d._ To certain nuns he left special bequests, to Margaret de Pykering, "one piece of silver, with the head of a stag in the bottom and 2_s._," to Elizabeth Fairfax 26_s._ 8_d._ and to Margaret de Cotam 13_s._ 4_d._; also to the Prioress and convent "my white vestment with the gold stars and all the appurtenances thereof and my cross with Mary and John in silver and one gilt chalice." Nor were his legacies confined to Nunmonkton; he left his two sisters at Sempringham 100_s._ and two nuns of Nunappleton and Marrick respectively, a cow each. [1021] _Ib._ I, pp. 14-15. He also leaves 40_s._ to the Prioress and convent "for a pittance," 20_s._ to another nun there and 6_s._ 8_d._ to a nun of Watton. He evidently had great confidence in Alice Conyers, for the injunctions of his will are to be carried out "according to the counsel and help of the said Alice Conyers and of my executors." For other gifts of plate to individuals, see _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 216, _Somerset Med. Wills_, I, pp. 18, 144, _Reg. Stafford of Exeter_, pp. 392, 415, 416, _Testamenta Leodiensia_ (Thoresby Soc. Pub. II, 1890), p. 108. [1022] Sharpe, _Cal. of Wills ... in the Court of Husting_, I, p. 688. She also leaves Margaret and two other nuns a piece of blanket to be divided between them. [1023] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 179. He also leaves her 40_s._ and a silver cup. [1024] _Somerset Medieval Wills_, I, p. 47. Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, left a bed among other things to her daughter, a nun of the house of Minoresses without Aldgate (1399). Nicolas, _Test. Vetusta_, I, p. 148. [1025] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 382. [1026] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [1027] _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 51. [1028] _Reg. Stafford of Exeter_, p. 392. For other gifts of clothes see Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, app. p. xix (a habit cloth), _Lincoln Wills_, ed. Foster, p. 84 ("a fyne mantyll of ix yerds off narow cloth"), _Test. Ebor._ I, p. 59 (my two robes with mantles), _ib._ II, p. 255 (my best harnassed belt). [1029] At Hampole in 1320 he warned the prioress to correct those nuns who used new-fangled clothes, contrary to the accustomed use of the order, "whatever might be their condition or state of dignity," _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164 (where the date is wrongly given as 1314). [1030] See e.g. Wilkins, _Conc._ I, p. 591; _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 383; _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 52; _ib._ II, pp. 3, 8. [1031] See above, p. 76. [1032] See above, p. 328. For other bequests of rings, see the wills of Sir Guy de Beauchamp, 1359 (his fourth best gold ring to his daughter Katherine at Shouldham), Robert de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, 1368 ("to the Lady of Ulster, a Minoress ... a ring of gold, which was the duke's, her brother's"), Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, 1369 (rings to his daughter and granddaughter at Shouldham). Nicolas, _Test. Vetusta_, I, pp. 63, 74, 79. But rings might be put to pious uses. The inventory of _jocalia_ in the custody of the sacrist of Wherwell (c. 1333-40) contains the item, "a small silver croun, with eleven gold rings fixed in it, for the high altar; another better croun of silver, with nineteen gold rings." _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 135. [1033] _Linc. Dioc. Doc._ ed. A. Clark (E.E.T.S.), p. 50. [1034] _Reg. Stafford of Exeter_, p. 415. [1035] Gibbons, _Early Linc. Wills_, p. 5. In the Prioress' room at Sheppey at the Dissolution were found "iiij payre of corall beds, contaynyng in all lviij past gawdy (ed.)." Walcott, _Invent. of ... Shepey_, p. 29. [1036] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 8. [1037] See pp. 272-3. [1038] Another nun says that she has nothing at all for raiment and another deposes, "seeing that the revenues of the house are not above forty pounds and the nuns are thirteen in number with one novice, so many out of rents so slender cannot have sufficient food and clothing, unless some help be given them from other sources by their secular friends." _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 184, 186. [1039] For these references, see _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 7, 47, 92, 117, 184, 186; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 6, 71_d_, 76, 83. Also injunctions as to food at Elstow _ib._ II, p. 39 (and note). [1040] Baker, _Hist. and Antiq. of Northants._ I, pp. 280, 282-3. [1041] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 359. [1042] Temp. Henry VII the Abbess of Elstow's account records the payment of double commons of 1_s._ a week to the Prioress and 6_d._ a week single commons to each of the nuns. Pittances (double to the prioress) are paid on days of profession and on the greater feast. The nuns also had dress allowances in money. C. T. Flower, _Obedientiars' Accounts of Glastonbury and other Relig. Houses_ (St Paul's Ecclesiol. Soc. VII, pt II, 1912), pp. 52, 55. [1043] _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp, p. 290. [1044] _Eng. Hist. Rev._ VI, p. 34. [1045] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 176, 177. [1046] _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, I, p. 125. [1047] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 103. [1048] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164. [1049] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_. Compare Eudes Rigaud's difficulties with the hens at Saint-Aubin, below, p. 653. [1050] E.g. in the will of Agnes de Denton, 1356 (Item to dame Cecilie de Hmythwayt two cows), _Testamenta Karleolensia_, p. 12; Sir John Fairfax, 1393 (Item I bequeath to dame Katherine de Barlay, nun of Appleton, one cow. Item to dame Custance Colvyll, nun of Marrick, one cow); Sir William Dronsfeld, 1406 (Item I bequeath to dame Alice de Totehill, nun, one cow. Item I bequeath to dame Margaret de Barneby, one cow); Sir Thomas Rednes 1407 (Item to Alice Redness nun [of Hampole] one cow and one fat pig). _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 189, 345, 349. [1051] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 72. [1052] Wilkins, _Conc._ I, p. 593. [1053] _New Coll._ MS. ff. 85_d_, 86. The sin of _proprietas_ seems to have been serious in this house, for the Bishop couples his prohibition of wills with a prohibition of private rooms and pupils, and later (f. 86_d_) makes a general injunction against private property. [1054] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78. [1055] Wilkins, _Conc._ I, p. 592. [1056] In connection with this, see Wickwane's injunction to Nunappleton in 1281, "We also forbid locked boxes and chests, save if the prioress shall have ordained some seemly arrangement of the kind and shall often see and inspect the contents." _Reg. Wickwane_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 141. Also Newark's injunction to Swine in 1298 that "the Prioress and two senior nuns should cause the boxes of any nuns of whom suspicion [of property] should arise to be opened in her presence and the contents seen. And if anyone will not open her box ... then let the prioress break it open." _Reg. of John le Romayn and Hen. of Newark_ (Surtees Soc.), II, p. 223; compare Eudes Rigaud's struggle against locked boxes, below, p. 652. [1057] Wilkins, _Conc._ II, p. 16. [1058] "Where the lawe and the professyon of yche religyouse person that thei have shuld have one fraitoure and house to ete in in commyn and not in private chaumbers, and so to lygg and slepe in one house, in youre said covent sustren reteynen money and proveis thame selfe privatly ayensthe ordir of religion, etc." The injunction is coupled with a strong injunction against dowries. _Hereford Reg. T. Spofford_, p. 224. Compare the injunction to Lymbrook, p. 324 above. [1059] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 77. [1060] For other references to the _peculium_ for clothing, see _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp, p. 274; _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 23; Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 130. [1061] Thus William of Wykeham, in the course of his severe injunction against _proprietas_ at Romsey (1387), thus defines it: "Vt autem quid sit proprium vobis plenius innotescat, nos sancti Benedicti regulam imitantes, id totum proprium siue proprietatem fore dicimus et eciam declaramus, quicquid videlicet dederitis vel receperitis sine iussu vestre Abbatisse aut retinueritis sine permissione illius." _New Coll._ MS. f. 86_d_. [1062] _Reg. Wickwane_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 140. [1063] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 174. [1064] _Ib._ III, p. 164. [1065] Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, p. 143. [1066] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 8. [1067] "The monastery, however, itself ought if possible to be so constructed as to contain within it all necessaries, that is, water, mill, garden and [places for] the various crafts which are exercised within a monastery, so that there be no occasion for monks to wander abroad, since this is in no wise expedient for their souls." _Rule of St Benedict_, tr. Gasquet, pp. 117-8. [1068] Chap. L, _ib._ p. 88. [1069] Chap. LI, _ib._ p. 89. [1070] Chap. LXVII, _ib._ p. 118. This, however, is clearly exceptional; the regulation comes in a later chapter and not in the first edition of the rule. The translations of the rule made at a later date for nuns, sometimes specify visits "to fadir or moder or oþer frend" not mentioned in the original. [1071] In some reformed orders founded at a later date the formula of profession actually contained a vow of perpetual enclosure, e.g. the Poor Clares, whose vow, under the second rule given to them by Urban IV in 1263, comprised obedience, poverty, chastity and enclosure. Thiers, _De la Clôture_ (1681), pp. 41-2. Compare the formula given in the rule of the Order of the Annunciation, founded at the close of the fifteenth century by Jeanne de France, daughter of Louis XI. _Ib._ p. 55. The nuns of the older orders did not make any specific vow of enclosure, and it was enforced upon them only as an indispensable condition for the fulfilment of their other vows, which accounts for the obstinacy of their opposition; some jurisconsults, indeed, were of the opinion that the Pope could not oblige a nun to be enclosed against her will. _Ib._ p. 50. [1072] The passage is quoted in the preface to Thiers, _op. cit._ For the Church's view of virginity, see especially St Jerome's famous _Epistola_ (22) _ad Eustochium_. [1073] Thiers, _op. cit._ p. 245. Quoting the jurisconsult Philippus Probus. For a good example of the mixture of ideas, see Mr Coulton's account of the arguments used by the monk Idung of St Emmeram in favour of enclosure: "He begins with the usual medieval emphasis on feminine frailty, of which (as he points out) the Church reminds us in her collect for every Virgin Martyr's feast 'Victory ... even in the weaker sex.' Then comes the usual quotation from St Jerome, with its reference to Dinah, which Idung is bold enough to clinch by a detailed allusion to Danae. This, of course, is little more than the usual clerkly ungallantry; but it is followed by a passage of more cruel courtesy. The monk must needs go abroad sometimes on business, as for instance, to buy and sell in markets; 'but such occupations as these would be most indecent for even an earthly queen, and far below the dignity of a bride of the King of Heaven.'" Coulton, _Med. Studies_, No. 10, "Monastic Schools in Middle Ages" (1913), pp. 21-2. [1074] Words which Menander puts in the mouth of one of his characters. Compare the famous Periclean definition of womanly virtue, which is "not to be talked about for good or for evil among men." [1075] Coulton, _Chaucer and his England_, p. 111. [1076] The following references will be found conveniently collected in Part I chs. 1-16 of a very interesting little book, the _Traité de la Clôture des Religieuses_, published in Paris in 1681 by Jean-Baptiste Thiers, "Prestre, Bachelier en Theologie de la Faculté de Paris et Curé de Chambrond." The treatise is divided into two parts, one of which shows "that it is not permitted to nuns to leave their enclosure without necessity," the other "that it is not permitted to strangers to enter the enclosure of nuns without necessity." The author contends that enclosure was the immemorial practice of the Church, though the first general decree on the subject was the Bull _Periculoso_; but what he proves is really that the demand grew up gradually and naturally out of the effort to reform the growing abuses in conventual life, which sprang from too free an intercourse with the world. [1077] _Sext. Decret._ lib. III, tit. XVI. Quoted in _Reg. Simonis de Gandavo_, pp. 10 ff.; from which I quote. See also Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 45-9. [1078] See Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 53-60 for these, except the reforms of Busch, for which see below, App. III. Three papal bulls were published in the sixteenth century reinforcing _Periculoso_, viz. the Bull _Circa pastoralis_ (1566) and _Decori et honestati_ (1570) of Pius V and the Bull _Deo sacris_ of Gregory XIII (1572). [1079] "Cependant il n'y a gueres aujourd'hui de point de Discipline Ecclesiastique qui soit ou plus negligé, ou plus ignoré que celui de la clôture des Religieuses; et quoique les Conciles, les Saints Docteurs et les Pères des Monasteres, ayent en divers temps et en divers rencontres, employé leur zèle et leur authorité pour en établir la pratique; nous ne laissons pas neanmoins de voir souvent avec douleur qu'on le viole empunément, sans scrupule, sans réflexion et sans necessité. L'Eglise gemit tous les jours en veuë de ce desordre qui la deshonore notablement; et c'est pour compatir en quelque façon à ses gemissemens, que j'entreprens de le combattre dans ce Traité." _Op. cit._ Preface. [1080] Wilkins, _Concilia_, II., p. 18. [1081] See, however, the injunctions of Thomas of Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford, to Lymbrook in 1277, which are in part a recital of Ottobon's Constitutions. _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 201. Peckham, in the injunctions which he sent to Barking and Godstow in 1279, states that they are based respectively upon those issued by John de Chishull, Bishop of London, and by Robert de Kilwardby, his predecessor as Archbishop of Canterbury, and it is probable that both of these prelates had attempted to enforce Ottobon's Constitutions. _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, I, p. 81; II, p. 846. [1082] He visited Wherwell in the same year, but his injunctions to that house dealt with the entrance of seculars into the nunnery, not with the exit of nuns. [1083] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 247. [1084] _Ib._ I, pp. 85-6. [1085] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, I, pp. 265-6, and in Wilkins, _op. cit._ II, p. 61. [1086] Wilkins, _op. cit._ II, pp. 53-9. Thiers' remarks on the practice of begging by nuns are interesting in this connection. He contends that only sheer famine justifies the breach of enclosure and adds: "C'est pourquoy je ne comprends pas d'où vient que nous voyons à Paris et ailleurs, tant de Religieuses, quelquefois assez jeunes et assez bien faites qui sous pretexte que leurs Monasteres sont dans le besoin, demandent l'aumône aux portes des Eglises, qui courent par les maisons des seculiers et qui demeurent un temps considerable hors de leurs Monasteres, le plus souvent sans sçavoir ne la vie ni les moeurs des personnes qui exercent l'hospitalité envers elles. On rendroit, ce me semble, un grand service à l'Eglise si on les reduisoit aux termes de la Bulle de Gregoire XIII. _Deo sacris_, qui leur procure les moyens de subsister honnestement dans leurs Monasteres, sans rompre leur clôture. Car ainsi les gens de bien ne seroient point scandalisez de leurs sorties ne de leurs courses, et elles feroient incomparablement mieux leur salut dans leurs Convents que dans le Monde, où je n'estime pas qu'elles puissent rester en seureté de conscience." He quotes an ordinance of the General of the Franciscan Order in 1609, forbidding even the sisters of the Tertiary Order to beg. Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 167-9. [1087] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, pp. 659, 664-5. [1088] _Ib._ II, pp. 707, 806. [1089] _Reg. Simonis de Gandavo_, pp. 10 ff., 109. [1090] _Reg. Godfrey Giffard_, II, pp. 515, 517. [1091] _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, p. 546. [1092] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 9. [1093] _Ib._ ff. 9_d_, 10_d_, 11, 12_d_, 15_d_. [1094] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 10_d_. [1095] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 35_d_. [1096] _Ib._ f. 16. See below, p. 441. [1097] _Ib._ [1098] Agnes Flixthorpe. See below, p. 443. [1099] _Ib._ f. 152. [1100] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, ff. 5_d_, 32_d_, 154. For these and other cases of apostasy see Chap. XI, _passim_. [1101] Lyndwood, _Provinciale_ (1679), Pt II, p. 155. Quoted by Mr Coulton in _Med. Studies_, No. 10, "Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages," p. 21. [1102] Apparently friends and relatives in the world outside sometimes intervened, by threats or prayers, to save a nun from punishment. A _compertum_ of Archbishop Giffard's visitation of Swine in 1267-8 runs: "_Item compertum est_ that the Prioress is a suspicious woman and far too credulous, and easily breaks out into correction, and often punishes some unequally for equal faults, and follows with long dislike those whom she dislikes until occasion arise to punish them; hence it is that the nuns, when they suspect that they are going to be troubled with excessive correction, procure the mitigation of her severity by means of the threats of their kinsfolk." _Reg. Walter Giffard_, p. 147. [1103] _Reg. Walter de Stapeldon_, p. 317. Cf. p. 95. When the London mob had beheaded Stapeldon in Cheapside, his place was filled (after the short rule of Berkeley) by an even greater bishop, John Grandisson, who, in the year of his consecration, directed a mandate to the nuns of Canonsleigh in which he attempted to carry out more closely than his predecessor, though still not exactly, the terms of _Periculoso_. He forbade the abbess to allow any nuns to leave the precincts before his visitation "that is to such a distance that it is not possible for them to return the same day." This was on June 23rd 1329; a month later he was obliged to compromise, for on July 18th he sent a licence to Canonsleigh, recapitulating his former mandate but adding a special indulgence, permitting ("for certain legitimate reasons") the nuns to absent themselves from the monastery "with honest and senior ladies to visit near relatives and friends of themselves and of the house, who are free from all suspicion," and fixing the limit of their visit at fifteen days, an improvement on Stapeldon's month, but still far removed from the spirit of Boniface VIII's bull. _Reg. John de Grandisson_, I, pp. 508, 511. [1104] See e.g. Wroxall 1338, "Et vous emouvums [? enioiniums], dame prioresse, qe vous ne seyez mes si legere de doner licence a vos soers de isser de le encloystre et nomement la priourie cume vous avez este en ces houres saunz verreye et resonable enchesun et cause." _Worc. Reg. Sede Vacante_, p. 276; and St Radegund's, Cambridge, 1373: "Item, the Prioress is too easily induced to give permission to the nuns to go outside the cloister." Gray, _Priory of St Radegund's, Cambridge_, p. 36. [1105] See e.g. Fairwell, 1367. _Reg. Robert de Stretton_, p. 118. The necessity for an injunction against favouritism is shown by the _comperta_ of Archbishop Langham's visitation of St Sepulchre, Canterbury, in 1367-8. "Prioressa non permittit moniales ire in villam ad visitandum amicos suos nisi Margeriam Child et Julianam Aldelesse que illuc vadunt quociens eis placet." _Lambeth Reg. Langham_, f. 76_d_. She was also charged with allowing them to receive suspected visitors. See below, p. 399. [1106] An example of such a licence for a particular nun to leave her house is printed in Fosbroke, _British Monachism_ (1817), p. 361 (note _g_) and also in Taunton, _Engl. Black Monks of St Benedict_, I, p. 108, note 2. It is said to be granted on the prayer of "Lady J. wife of Sir W. knight, of our diocese," whom the nun is to be allowed to visit, with a companion from the same priory and to go thither on horseback "notwithstanding your customs to the contrary." [1107] But Archbishop Melton said twice a year at Arthington in 1315. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 188. [1108] See e.g. Bishop Spofford's regulation at Lymbrook in 1437: "nor to be absent lyggyng oute by nyght out of their monastery, but with fader and moder, excepte causes of necessytee." _Hereford Epis. Reg. Spofford_, I, f. 77; and Archbishop Lee's injunction to Sinningthwaite in 1534: "that she from henceforth licence none of her susters to go fourth of the housse, onles it be for the profitt of the house, or visite their fathers and modres, or odre nere kynsfolkes, if the prioresse shall think it conuenient." _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 442. Compare Bishop Gynewell's injunction to Godstow (1358), "par necessarie et resonable cause ouesque lour parents, honestement au profit de vostre mesoun." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 100_d_. Sometimes, however, friends were mentioned, e.g. at Nunkeeling (1314) none was to go out "except on the business of the house or to visit friends and relations." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 120. Sometimes the sickness of friends was specified. At Marrick (1252) none was to go out unless "the sickness of friends or some other worthy reason" demanded it, _ib._ p. 117; and at Studley in 1530-1 Bishop Longland ordained "that ye lycence not eny of your ladyes to passe out of the precincte of our monastery to visite their kynsfolks or frendes, onles it be for ther comforte in tyme of ther sikenes, and yett not than onles it shall seme to you, ladye priores, to be behouefull and necessarye, seing that undre suche pretence moche insolency have been used in religion," _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 54. One of the nuns of Legbourne in 1440 complained bitterly that "the Prioress will not suffer this deponent to visit her parent who is sick [even] when it was thought that he would die." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 186. [1109] As, needless to say, she sometimes did. In 1351 Bishop Gynewell was obliged to write to Heynings rebuking such disobedience: "encement si auoms entenduz que les dames de dit mesoun sount acustumez demurrer od lour amys outre le terme par vous, Prioresse, assigne, nous commandoms a vous, Prioress auant dit, qe taunt soulement une foith en 1 an donez conge a les dames de visiter lour amys, et certeyn terme resonable pur reuenir, outre qeule terme sils facent demoer, saunz cause resonable par vous accepte, les chastes pur le trespasse solonc les obseruances de vostres ordre saunz delay." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. At Ivinghoe in 1530 it was discovered that one of the nuns had gone on a visit to her friends without permission and had stayed away from the Feast of St Michael to Passion Sunday in the following year (i.e. over six months), which came perilously near to apostasy, _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 355. In the _Vitae Patrum_, XC, 206, however, there is a tale of a nun who was lent by her Abbess to a certain religious matron and lived with her for a year. See the version in _Exempla e sermonibus, etc._ ed. T. F. Crane, pp. 26-7. [1110] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 120, 128, 175, 177, 178. [1111] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 100_d_. [1112] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 118, 122, ff. 6-7, 25, 72, 83, 109. At Godstow the prioress said "that the nuns have often access to Oxford under colour of visiting their friends," p. 114; and at Heynings a discontented nun said "that sisters Ellen Bryg and Agnes Bokke have often recourse to Lincoln and there make long tarrying." They denied the charge, but a note in the register states, "The nuns have access too often to the house of the treasurer of Lincoln, abiding there sometimes for a week." The Bishop forbade "accesse suspecte to Lincolne," pp. 132, 133, 135. [1113] Ff. 28_d_, 77_d_, 95_d_. To Catesby, _op. cit._ p. 51. Compare injunctions to Godstow, Gracedieu, Nuncoton and St Michael's, Stamford, pp. 116, 125. [1114] Above, p. 348. And compare William of Wykeham's injunction to Romsey, which repeats Peckham's constitution on this point word for word. _New Coll._ MS. f. 85. [1115] See e.g. Drokensford's injunction to Minchin Barrow [i.e. Barrow Gurney] in 1315: "quod tunc bene incedant et in habitu moniali et non ad alia loca quam se extendit licencia se diuertant quoque modo, et ultra tempus licencie sue se voluntarie non absentent." Hugo, _Med. Nunneries of Somerset, Barrow_, App. II, p. 81. [1116] See e.g. the synodal Constitutions of c. 1237, Wilkins, _Concilia_, I, p. 650. Archbishop Courtenay in 1389 sent an interesting injunction to Elstow Abbey, which had evidently been remiss in offering hospitality to travelling nuns: "Inasmuch as it has happened that nuns coming to the monastery on their return from a visit to their friends, have been refused necessities for themselves and for their horses, inhumanly and contrary to the good repute of religion, which we wish to remedy, we order that for each nun thus tarrying provision be made according to the resources of the house, for four horses at least if by day for a whole day, and if [she come] by night or after the hour of nones for the rest of the day and for the night following." _Lambeth Reg. Courtenay_, I, f. 336. Injunction repeated by Bishop Flemyng of Lincoln in 1421-2. _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, pp. 50-1. [1117] See e.g. Peckham's injunctions to Barking and Godstow. Above, p. 348. Religious houses of men were sometimes specially ordered not to receive them, e.g. Bridlington in 1287. _Reg. John le Romeyn_, I, p. 200. The necessity for such an order appears below, pp. 446 ff. [1118] E.g. Peckham to St Sepulchre, Canterbury (1284): "Nullum quoque potum aut cibum ibidem sumat, moram non protrahat, sed statim expedita causa accessus hujusmodi redeat indilate." _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 707; and Bokyngham to Elstow (1387): "Cum vero recreacionis causa, obtenta superioris licencia, moniales antedicte egrediuntur monasterii sui septa, incedant cum familiarium honesta comitiua et sufficiente, ad idem monasterium, redeuntes de eodem citra solis occasum." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343. [1119] At Wroxall in 1338 it was specially ordered "qe deux jeunes ne issent poynt ensemble pur male suspecioun qe de ceo purra legerement sourdre, ke Dieuz defent." _Worc. Reg. Sede Vacante_, p. 276. At Lymbrook in 1437 Bishop Spofford ordered that no nun was to go out without a companion, and "in case they lygge owte be nyght, two sustres to lye togeder in on bed," a practice which (according to the usual custom) he forbids in the dorter. _Hereford Epis. Reg. Spofford_, f. 77. [1120] See Thiers, _op. cit._ Pt I, chs. XVIII, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXXI. He quotes the stories of the nuns of Arles in the fifth century and of Marcigny in the eleventh century, who refused to break their enclosures even for fire and were miraculously preserved, pp. 12-13, 32-5. [1121] The rhymed Northern Rule of St Benedict for nuns (l. 2094) says that when they go away into the country they should wear "more honest" clothes. "In habitu moniali" is one of the conditions imposed on the nuns of Barrow Gurney in 1315. See above, p. 358, note 4. The necessity for such a regulation appears in the decree made by Henry Archbishop of Cologne, executing an enactment of the Provincial Council of Cologne (1310), promulgating _Periculoso_. "Nevertheless we often see that having come out of their monasteries they [the nuns] wander about the roads and public places and frequent the houses of secular persons. And, what is more deplorable, having put off their religious habit, they appear in secular dress and bear themselves in public with so much vanity that their conduct may justly be considered suspicious, although their conscience be really pure and without sin. And although hitherto they have been menaced with divers penalties, nevertheless the more strictly they are forbidden to live after this fashion, the more eagerly they disobey, so strongly do they hanker after forbidden things." The whole injunction is worthy of study. Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 491-3. Discipline was laxer in German convents than in those of England. In England, however, there are sometimes complaints that male religious leave their convents in secular attire; see a case at Huntingdon Priory in 1439, _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 154-5. [1122] See _ib._ XXV, XXVI, XXVII. A few examples may be given of nuns leaving their houses to become superiors elsewhere: Basedale got prioresses from Rosedale in 1524 and 1527 (_Yorks. Arch. Soc._ XVI, p. 431 note); Rosedale from Clementhorpe in 1525 (Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 317, 385); Kington from Bromhale in 1326 (_ib._ IV, p. 398) and Ankerwyke from Bromhale in 1421 (_Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, p. 156). Sometimes the prioress of one house left it to rule another, e.g. Elizabeth Davell, Prioress of Basedale, became Prioress of Keldholme in 1467 (_V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 169). Alice Davy, who occurs as Prioress of Castle Hedingham in 1472 and was afterwards Prioress of Wix (_V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 123), and Eleanor Bernard, Prioress of Little Marlow (c. 1516) became Abbess of Delapré (Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 149). For a form of licence from a prioress, permitting a nun to accept the office of prioress elsewhere, see _MS. Harl._ 862, f. 94 ("Literae Priorissae de Bromhale quibus licenciam impertit Clementiae Medforde ejusdem Domus, consorori et communiali, ut Prioratui de Ankerwyke sicut Priorissa praeesse valeat"); and compare the reply of the Prioress of St Bartholomew's, Newcastle, to the Bishop of Durham about the election of Dame Margaret Danby, a nun of her house, to be Prioress of St Mary's, Neasham, "Whilk Postulacion I graunt fully with assent of my chapiter atte Reverence of God and in plesing of yor gracious lordship; not wythstondyng yat she is ful necessarye and profitable to us both in spirituall governance and temporall" (1428). (_V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107.) Sometimes a mother house from over the sea tried to assert its right to nominate the head of one of its daughter houses, but Cluniacs, Cistercians, Premonstratensians and houses affiliated to Fontevrault were all extremely jealous of French interference. See the letter written by Mary, daughter of Edward I, a nun of Amesbury, to her brother the King in 1316 protesting against the action of the Abbess of Fontevrault, who was reputed to be sending "a prioress from beyond the sea," instead of acceding to the convent's request that one of their own number might succeed to the office. Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, I, pp. 60-63. It was always held desirable if possible to take a superior from among the nuns of the house in which the vacancy occurred, but sometimes no suitable person could be found. [1123] See Thiers, I, ch. XXII, who mentions the corollary that the superior of another house may be called in to correct rebellious nuns if their own head is unable to do so. See below, p. 466. In 1501 Emma Powes, then at Romsey, is said to have been professed at King's Mead near Derby "and from that place had been removed to another priory in the Hereford diocese, where she had been prioress, and thence had come to this house." A charge of incontinence was made against her, and we know from another source that she had been prioress of Lymbrook (she was deprived on or about 24 Nov. 1488, _Hereford Reg. Myllyng_, p. 112). It is interesting that in 1492 one of the nuns had asked that "a nun who has been brought in, be restored to the place to which she is professed." Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 219, 225. One of Alnwick's injunctions to Clemence Medforde, Prioress of Ankerwyke in 1441, was "that henceforth she should not admit that nun of Hinchinbrooke either into the house or to dwell among them, and also that she should not deliver to her that bond which she has from the house of Hinchinbrooke, or any other goods which she has of the same house." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 6. In a list of the nuns of Thetford in 1526 occurs the name of "Domina Elianora Hanam, professa in Wyke (Wix)." Jessopp, _Visit. in Dioc. Norwich_, p. 243. [1124] Such, for instance, as leprosy. In 1287 Archbishop John le Romeyn sent a request to the master of Sherburn Hospital, Durham, to receive Basilia de Cotum, a nun of Handale, "quia, ... lepre deformitate aspersa, propter suspectam morbi contagionem, morari non poterit inter sanos, devocionem vestram rogamus quatinus ipsam in hospitali vestro velitis recipere et seorsum in necessariis exhibere, ita, tamen, quod sub religioso habitu quem gerit Deo serviat dum subsistit." _Reg. John le Romeyn_, I, p. 163. Richard de Wallingford, the great abbot of St Albans, was a leper, but remained in his house. [1125] Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 493. Dugdale remarks that "a little scandal also appears to have been attached to her character." She finally resigned on account of old age in 1320, and perhaps the leave of absence referred to accounts for the appearance of another Prioress in 1308 who resigned in 1309. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 180-1. [1126] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 127, note 13. [1127] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78. In 1427 the papal licence was granted to one Isabel Falowfeld, nun of St Bartholomew's, Newcastle on Tyne, to transfer herself to another monastery of the same order, on account of her weak constitution and the inclemency of the air near St Bartholomew's. _Cal. of Papal Letters_, VII, p. 516. See Thiers on the subject, _op. cit._ pp. 140-2, 213-5. He quotes the decision of the University of Salamanca on the question as to whether the General or any minor official of the Minorites had the power to give permission to a nun of the order who was dangerously ill, to leave her house and enter another of the same order, so as to recover her health. "Exactissima discussione facta circa praesentem difficultatem, omnes unanimiter atque uno ore responderunt atque dixerunt, non posse id fieri stando in jure communi, quod et multis juribus atque rationibus comprobarunt" (p. 214). He also quotes the case of a nun of the Annunciation of Agen, of whom the doctors said that if she stayed in her house she would infallibly die, but if she went out for a change of air and medicinal baths she would infallibly be cured. To which alternative the General of the Order, on being asked to give her a dispensation to go out, replied in one word "_Moriatur_" (p. 217). But these were both strictly enclosed orders. [1128] "Si quae vero moniales ad balnea qualitercumque processerint extra monasteria, irremissibiliter priventur habitu regulari; et licentiantes easdem ut praedicta petant balnea, sententiam excommunicationis incurrant." _Nomasticon Cisterciense_, p. 533, also in Thiers _op. cit._ p. 220; cf. pp. 216 ff. But the public baths were of notoriously bad reputation. [1129] See Thiers, _op. cit._ Pt I, ch. XLII-XLVII. From the fact that he thinks it necessary to devote five chapters to the subject and from the evidence which he adduces and the language which he uses, it is clear that the practice was very prevalent. [1130] _Decret._ III, tit. XXXI, c. 18. See Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 161-2. Licences to migrate to a convent professing a stricter rule are sometimes found in episcopal registers. See e.g. _Hereford Reg. Caroli Bothe_, p. 241. [1131] See his letter to a superior, quoted by Thiers: "Je suis tout-à-fait d'avis que l'on n'ouvre point la porte au changement des Maisons pour le souhait des filles: car ce changement est tout-à-fait contraire au bien des Monasteres qui ont la clôture perpetuelle pour article essentiel. Les filles comme foibles, sont sujettes aux ennuis et les ennuis leur font trouver des expediens et importuns et indiscrets. Que les changemens doncques procedent des jugemens des superieurs et non du désir des filles, qui ne sçauroient mieux declarer qu'elles ne doivent point estre gratifiées, que quand elles se laissent emporter a des desirs si peu justes. Il faut donc demeurer là, et laisser chaque rossignol dans son nid; car autrement le moindre deplaisir qui arriveroit à une fille, seroit capable de l'inquieter et luy faire prendre le change: Et au lieu de se changer elle-même, elle penseroit d'avoir suffisament remedié à son mal, quand elle changeroit de Monastere." Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 160-1. [1132] Plainly she regarded the things as her own private property and was thus guilty of the sin of _proprietas_ as well. Compare the evidence of the Abbot of Bardney concerning one of his monks in 1439-40. "Also he deposes that brother John Hale sent out privily all his private goods, with the mind and intent, as it appeared, to leave the house in apostasy and especially a silver spoon and a mazer garnished with silver; and yet he has not yet gone, nor will he disclose to the abbot where such goods are." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 26. [1133] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 127-9. [1134] The three anchoresses of _The Ancren Riwle_ and their maids will be remembered. [1135] Raine, _Letters from Northern Registers_ (Rolls Ser.), pp. 196-8. See also Rotha Clay, _Hermits and Anchorites of England_, pp. 93-4. [1136] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113 (cf. _Test. Ebor._ II, p. 98). Two other Yorkshire nuns are found as anchoresses in the first part of the fourteenth century. Joan Sperry, nun of Clementhorpe, was anchoress at Beeston near Leeds in 1322, and in 1348 Margaret la Boteler, nun of Hampole, was anchoress at the chapel of East Layton, Yorks. Clay, _op. cit._ pp. 254-5, 256. See also the curious case of Avice of Beverley, a nun of Nunburnholme, concerning whom "the Prioress and nuns say that Avice of Beverley, sometime professed nun of Nunburnholme, thrice left the house to the intent that she might lead a stricter life elsewhere. They say that fourteen years at least have passed since she last went away; howbeit they believe her to have lived in chastity. They say that she was disobedient every year and very often while she was with them. They say that she dwelt with them for thirty years before she left the monastery for the first time." The inquiry which elicited this information was made because she wanted to return (1280). _Reg. Wm. Wickwane_, p. 92. She had probably tried being an anchoress. [1137] _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, pp. 113-15. The prioress' licence addressed to Beatrice is also printed. It may be well here to repeat the editor's warning that "acts of this description probably form the foundation for the ridiculous superstition, made famous by a striking passage of Scott's _Marmion_, that nuns and others who had broken the laws of the church were commonly walled up and left to perish." Another and perhaps more probable explanation of the superstition is that Scott probably, and certainly others after him, misinterpreted the words _immuratio_, _emmurer_, which are constantly used of strict imprisonment by inquisition officials and others. See on the subject, H. Thurston, S.J., _The Immuring of Nuns_ (Catholic Truth Soc. Historical Papers, No. V). [1138] Celestria (? Celestina), nun, and Adilda, nun, are mentioned as anchoresses there. Clay, _op. cit._ pp. 222-3. [1139] _Ib._ p. 184. An "ancress" was found at this house at the time of the Dissolution. [1140] For her works see _Revelations of Divine Love, recorded by Julian, Anchoress at Norwich_, ed. Grace Warrack (1901). She is apparently not to be confused with another famous anchoress, Julian Lampet, bequests to whom are often recorded in Norwich wills between 1426 and 1478. The priory seems to have had a succession of two or even three anchoresses named Julian. See Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, pp. 7-8 and App. IX, _passim_. For anchoresses enclosed at conventual houses of men, see Clay, _op. cit._ pp. 77-8; anchoresses are sometimes described as "nun," _ib._ pp. 224, 232, 238, 244. Matilda Newton, a nun of Barking, who had been appointed to rule the new Abbey of Syon, but for some reason did not become abbess, returned to her own house as a recluse in 1417. _Ib._ p. 144. [1141] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 10 (date 1300). The author of _Dives and Pauper_ declares that such secessions were rare among women: "We se that whanne men take them to be ankeris and reclusys withinne fewe yerys comonly eyther they falle in reuersys or eresyes or they breke out for womans loue or for inkyede of ther lufe or by some gile of þe fend. But of wimen ancres so inclusid is seldome herde any of these defautys, but holely they beginne and holely they ende." _Dives and Pauper_, com. VI, ch. B. [1142] See above, pp. 69-71. [1143] Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 18. Compare William of Wykeham's injunctions to Romsey in 1387: "Constitutiones bone memorie domini Othoboni quondam sedis apostolice in Anglia legati in hoc casu editas ut conuenit imitantes, vobis sub penis infrascriptis districcius inhibemus, ne ad officinas aliquas aut alias cameras quascumque forinsecas extra septa claustri, vel ad alia loca in villam vel alibi extra vestrum monasterium, illis quibus hoc ex officio competit dumtaxat exceptis ... exeatis." _New Coll._ MS. f. 84. Compare also the injunctions (likewise modelled on Ottobon's constitution) sent by Thomas of Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford, to Lymbrook about 1277. _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 201. [1144] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 122, 125. [1145] _Cistercian Stat._ A.D. 1257-88, ed. J. T. Fowler, 1890, p. 106. [1146] Blunt, _Myroure of Oure Ladye_ (E.E.T.S.), Introd. pp. xxviii, xxxii. [1147] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/3. [1148] "Paid for the hire of three horses for six days going to London for our tithes ..., paid for the hire of a serving-man and for his expenses going with the said horses 2/3, item sent to Dame Katherine Fitzaleyn at the same time 6/8" (Prioress' Account), _ib._ 1260/4. The treasuress' account for the same year throws further light upon her movements. "Paid for the expenses of Dame Katherine Fitzaleyn and Dame Ida going to London and for the hire of their horses going and returning, for our tithes £2. 11. 0. ... In the expenses of the sub-Prioress and Dame Katherine Fitzaleyn and two men and three horses going to Fleet for rent and for salt 3/8. In the expenses of Dame Katherine Fitzaleyn and dame Joan Fishmere [the treasuress] for hire of horses 8_d._" _Ib._ 1260/5. Dame Katherine also went to the Bishop to get a certificate and in 1377-8 she went with the treasuress Dame Margaret Redinges to Corby and to Sempringham (perhaps to visit the Gilbertine nuns there) and Dames Margaret Redinges and Joan Fishmere went with Robert Clark to Clapton. _Ib._ 1260/7 [1149] _Reg. of John de Sandale and Rigaud de Asserio_, p. 418. Similar letter to Prior and Convent of the Cathedral Church, p. 576. [1150] Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 18. [1151] _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 201. [1152] _New Coll._ MS. f. 85_d_. [1153] Quoted in Thiers, _op. cit._ p. 133, who considers the question in his ch. XIX. [1154] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, pp. 52-3. [1155] See illustration of Henry VI being received as a Confrater at Bury St Edmunds, reproduced in Gasquet, _Engl. Mon. Life_, facing p. 126, from _Harl. MS._ 2278, f. 6. [1156] Amundesham, _Annales_ (Rolls Ser.), I, pp. 65-9, _passim_. [1157] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 424. [1158] "I will that Ilke prior and priores that comes to my beryall at y{t} day hafe iii s iiij d and Ilke chanon and Nune xij d ... and Ilke prior and priores that comes to the xxx day [i.e. the so-called "month's-mind"] hafe vj s viij d and Ilke chanon or none that comes to the said xxx day haf xx d." _Lincoln Diocese Documents_, ed. A. Clark (E.E.T.S.), pp. 50, 53. [1159] _P.R.O. Mins. Accts._ 1260/20. This was probably Constance of Castile, second wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who died on March 24, 1394, and was buried with great magnificence at The Newarke, Leicester. S. Armitage Smith, _John of Gaunt_ (1904), pp. 357-8. The date of the account roll is unfortunately illegible, but from this internal evidence it should probably be dated 1393-4. There is another entry "paye a couent pur lalme le Duk de Lancastre vij s iij d," in which "Duk" is possibly a slip for "Duchesse." [1160] There were over seventy places of pilgrimage in Norfolk alone. Cutts, _Scenes and Characters of the Middle Ages_ (3rd ed. 1911), p. 162. [1161] Jacques de Vitry does not mince his words: "I have seen many pilgrims who, weary of wayfaring, used to drink themselves tipsy.... You will find many harlots and evil women in the inns, who lie in wait for the incautious and reward their guests with evil, even as a mouse in a wallet, a serpent in the bosom." Etienne de Bourbon has the same tale to tell: "A pilgrimage should be sober, lest the pilgrims be despoiled and slain and turned to scorn, both materially and spiritually. For I have seen a person who had laboured greatly making a pilgrimage overseas lose both his virtue and his money, when drunk and lying with a chambermaid in an inn." _Anecdotes Historiques etc., d'Etienne de Bourbon_, ed. Lecoy de la Marche (1877), pp. 167-8. Mine Host's words to the drunken cook (_Manciple's Prol._ II, pp. 15-19) are significant in the light of these quotations. So also are the adventures of "that loose fish the Pardoner" with the tapster Kit at the Chequer Inn. _Tale of Beryn_, ed. Furnivall and Stone (Chaucer Soc. 1887). See also _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 258, No. CCCLXXVI. [1162] Compare the words of the Lollard William Thorpe in 1407: "Such fond people waste blamefullie Gods goodes in their vaine pilgrimages, spending their goods upon vitious hostelars, which are oft uncleane women of their bodies.... Also, sir, I knowe well that when divers men and women will goe thus after their oun willes and finding, out on pilgrimage, they will ordaine with them before to have with them some men and women that can well sing wanton songes; and some other pilgrimages will have them with bagge-pipes," etc. This and other information about pilgrimages may be found in Coulton, _Chaucer and his England_, pp. 138-43. See also _The Book of the Knight of La Tour-Landry_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 47 ff. [1163] The wyff of bath was so wery, she had no will to walk; She toke the Priores by the hond; "madam, wol ye stalk Pryuely in-to þe garden, to se the herbis growe? And aftir, with our hostis wyff, in hir parlour rowe, I wol gyve ghewe the wine, and yee shull me also: ffor tyll wee go to soper, wee have naught ellis to do." The Priores, as womman taught of gentil blood and hend, Assentid to hir counsell; and forthe (tho) gon they wend Passyng forth (ful) softly in-to the herbery: ffor many a herbe grewe, for sewe and surgery; And al the Aleyis fair I-parid, I-ralid and I-makid: The sauge and the Isope, I-frethid and I-stakid. _Tale of Beryn_, p. 10. Cf. p. 6 for the scene with the holy water sprinkler. [1164] Langland, _Piers Plowman_, B Text, Passus XII, 36-38. [1165] "Let it never be permitted to any abbess or any other nun, whosoever she may be, to undertake the journey to Rome or to any other holy places; for it is the Devil, taking the form of an angel of light, who inspires such pilgrimages under a false pretext of piety: and there is no one so foolish and so devoid of reason as not to know how irreligious and blameworthy a thing it is for Virgins vowed to God to hold converse with men, through the necessity of a journey. If after the prohibition of this venerable Council, there be found anyone so bold as to disobey this ordinance, which has been promulgated by unanimous consent, let him be punished according to the rigour of the canons, to wit let him be excommunicated." Thiers, _op. cit._ p. 135. [1166] Wilkins, _Concilia_, I, p. 502. [1167] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172. Compare Bishop Gynewell's injunction to Heynings in 1351: "Item pur ceo que ascun de les dames de dit mesoun sount trop acustumez de faire auowes de pilgrimage et dautres abstinences, saunz conge de lour souerayn, par quar ils ount souent occasion de les retrer de lour religion; si vous comandoms sur peyn descomengement que nul de vous face tiel maner auowe en destourbance de vostre religion, saunz especial conge de vostre souereyn. Et que nul tiel auowe soit fait par ascun de vous, pur faire paregrinage ou autre abstinence a quel il nest pas tenuz par sa religion, nous lui relessoms tut maner de tel auowe, issint qil se poet doner entirement a sa religion parfaire." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. [1168] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172, and Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 654. [1169] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 124. [1170] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, pp. 56-7. [1171] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 183. This episode is a striking illustration of the complaint made about those Jubilee pilgrimages by the abbots of Fountains, St Mary Graces and Stratford, who had been appointed by the Abbot and Chapter-General of Cîteaux to report on the condition of English monasteries of that order. Writing to the Abbot of Cîteaux in 1500, they beg that several bulls of Jubilee indulgence should be sent to England, adding, "for many lesser religious of the order, under pretext of obtaining the grace of this indulgence, led by a spirit less of devotion than of levity and curiosity, are begging their superiors for licence to go to the Roman curia, and we have besought them to remain at home in the hope of obtaining this jubilee [indulgence]. For we rarely see, in this country of ours, any good and devout secular or religious man visiting the Mother City (most justly though it be accounted holy), who returns home again in better holiness and devotion." _Mélanges d'Histoire offerts à M. Charles Bémont_ (Paris, 1913), p. 429. [1172] Quoted in Gregorovius, _Hist. of Rome in the Middle Ages_, III, p. 78 note. See the fifteenth century Florentine carnival song, quoted below, pp. 617-8. [1173] Les blanches et les grises et les noires nonains Sont sovent pelerines aus saintes et aus sainz; Les Diex lor en set gre, je n'en suis pas certains, S'eles fussent bien sages eles alassent mains. Quant ces nonains s'en vont par le pays esbatre Les unes a Paris, les autres a Montmartre, Tels foiz enmaine deus qu'on en ramaine quatre, Quar s'on en perdroit une il les covenroit batre. From "De la vie dou Monde," _Rustebeufs Gedichte hg. v. Adolf Krefaner_ (1885), p. 185. [1174] And of such specific decrees as that of the Council of Oxford (1222) which forbade them to go merely to visit relatives or for recreation except (there was always a saving clause under which nuns and bishops alike could shelter) in such case as might arouse no suspicion. Wilkins, _Concilia_, I, p. 592. [1175] _Reg. Walter de Stapeldon_, p. 95. Cf. injunctions to Polsloe, above, p. 355. [1176] _All the Familiar Colloquies of Erasmus_, ed. N. Bailey, 2nd ed. 1733, p. 379. [1177] _Hereford Epis. Reg. Spofford_, p. 81. Compare the charge made against the clergy of Ripon Minster in 1312: "Vicarii capellani, et caeteri ministri ... spectaculis publicis, ludibriis et coreis, immo teatricalibus ludis inter laicos frequentius se immiscent." J. T. Fowler, _Memorials of Ripon Minster_ (Surtees Soc.), II, p. 68. Also one of the _comperta_ at Alnwick's visitation of Humberstone Abbey in 1440, "He says that Wrauby answered the abbot saucily and rebelliously when [the abbot] took him to task for climbing up a gate to behold the pipe-players and dancers in the churchyard of the parish church." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 140. [1178] _Manners and Meals in Olden Time_, ed. Furnivall (E.E.T.S.), p. 40. [1179] See above, p. 81, and compare the injunctions sent by Cardinal Nicholas of Cues to the Abbess of Sonnenburg, c. 1454, forbidding her to go on pilgrimages or to visit health resorts or to attend weddings. Eckenstein, _Woman under Monasticism_, p. 425. [1180] Quoted in Brand's _Observations on Popular Antiquities_ (ed. 1877), pp. 382, 394. Compare the almost precisely similar account given by Erasmus in his _Guide to Christian Matrimony_ (1526), quoted in Coulton, _Social Life in Britain from the Conquest to the Reformation_, pp. 439-40. [1181] See above, p. 309 and below, p. 388. [1182] Coulton, _Chaucer and his England_, pp. 108-9. Weddings were, however, occasionally celebrated in convent churches, e.g. on Jan. 3rd, 1465-6 the Bishop of Ely addressed a licence to Thomas Trumpington, "President of religion of the Minoresses of the convent of Denny," authorising him to celebrate matrimony in the convent church between William Ketterich junior and Marion Hall, domestic servants in the monastery, the bans to be put up in the parish church of Waterbeach. _Ely Epis. Records_, ed. Gibbons, p. 145. Compare case at Crabhouse in 1476, _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 409. Dugdale notes that Henry VIII is said to have married one of his wives in the Chapel at Sopwell. Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 364. Such weddings would necessarily have taken place in convent churches where the nave was also used as a parish church, but this was not so at Denny. Wriothesley's _Chronicle_ contains an account of a triple wedding held at Haliwell in 1536. "This yeare, the 3 daye of July, beinge Mondaye, was a greate solempnytie of marriage kept at the nonnerye of Halywell, besyde London, in the Erle of Ruttlandes place, where the Erle of Oxfordes sonne and heyer, called Lord Bulbeke maryed the Erle of Westmorelandes eldest daughter named Ladye Dorytye and the Erle of Westmorelandes sonne and heyre, called Lord Nevell, maryed the Erle of Ruttlandes eldyste daughter, named Ladye Anne, and the Erle of Rutlandes sonne and heire called Lord Roosse maryed the Erle of Westmorelandes daughter, named Ladye Margaret; and all these three lordes were maryed at one masse, goinge to churche all 3 together on by another and the laydes, there wyfes, followinge, one after another, everye one of the younge ladyes havinge 2 younge lordes goinge one everye syde of them when they went to church and a younge ladye bearinge up everye of their gowne traynes; at wh. maryage was present all the greate estates of the realme, both lordes and ladyes." Afterwards they all went home and had a great feast, followed by a dance, to which the King came dressed as a Turk. _Wriothesley's Chronicle_, ed. W. D. Hamilton (Camden Soc. 1875), I, pp. 50-1. A reference may also be made to No. XLVI of _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, ed. Th. Wright, t. I, p. 284: "Or advint toutesfoiz ung jour que une des niepces de madame l'abbesse se marioit et faisoit sa feste en l'abbaye; et y avoit grosse assemblée des gens du païs; et estoit madame l'abbesse fort empeschée de festoyer les gens de bien qui estoyent venuz à la feste faire honneur à sa niepce." [1183] From "Proofs of Age, temp. Henry IV," quoted in _Trans. R. Hist. Soc._ N.S. XVI (1902), p. 163. [1184] "Or viennent commeres de toutes pars; or convient que le pauvre homme [i.e. the husband] face tant que elles soient bien aises. La dame et les commeres parlent et raudent, et dient de bonnes chouses et se tiennent bien aises, quiconques ait la peine de le querir, quelque temps qu'il face ... et tousjours boyvent comme bottes.... Lors les commeres entrent, elles desjunent, elles disnent, elles menjent a raassie, maintenant boivent au lit de la commere, maintenant à la cuve, et confondent des biens et du vin plus qu'il n'en entreroit en une bote; et à l'aventure il vient à barrilz ou n'en y a que une pipe. Et le pauvre homme, qui a tout le soussy de la despense, va souvent veoir comment le vin se porte, quant il voit terriblement boire.... Briefment tout se despend; les commeres s'en vont bien coiffées, parlant et janglant, et ne se esmoient point dont il vient." _Les Quinzes Joyes de Mariage_ (Bib. Elzevirienne, 1855), pp. 27-8, 30, 37-8. [1185] G. G. Coulton, _French Monasticism in 1503_ (Medieval Studies No. XI. 1915), p. 22 note 2. [1186] _New Coll._ MS. f. 87. On the other hand such connections with rich families might be a source of wealth to a house. Mr Coulton draws attention to "the letter of an abbot at Bordeaux in Father Denifle's _Désolation des Eglises, etc._ I, p. 583 (A.D. 1419). The abbey had been so impoverished by war that the Abbot begged for a papal indult permitting him to stand godfather to forty children of noble or wealthy families." Coulton, _loc. cit._ [1187] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 77_d_. [1188] "That frome hensforthe ye give noo more licence ne suffre eny of your susters to be godmother to eny child, nither at the christening nother at the confirmacon, and undre like payne chardge you nott to be godmother to eny child in christening nor confirmacon." _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 54. Compare similar prohibitions by Eudes Rigaud, Archbishop of Rouen, addressed to the nuns of Montivilliers in 1257 and 1265. _Reg. Visit. Archiepis. Rothomag._ ed. Bonnin (1852), pp. 293, 517. The prohibition was frequently broken by monks as well as by nuns. See e.g. the _comperta_ at Alnwick's visitation of Higham Ferrers College in 1442: "Also Sir William Calverstone haunts suspect places and especially the house of Margery Chaumberleyn, for whose son he stood sponsor at his confirmation, and, though warned by the master, he does not desist. The same does also haunt the house of one Plays, for whose son he likewise stood sponsor." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 138. Also the complaint of Guy Jouenneaux, Abbot of St Sulpice de Bourges in his _Defence of Monastic Reform_ (1503): "Sometimes they eat in the houses of their gossips, though the law forbids them such relationships, or again among citizens, at whose houses they are as frequent guests, or more frequent, than even worldly-minded folk." Coulton, _loc. cit._ It is interesting that Barbara Mason, ex-Prioress of Marham, who died shortly after the dissolution in 1538, mentions two god-daughters. "I wyll Barbara Barcom my goddowter and seruant, shall haue my wosted kyrtyll and clothe kyrtell and my frok in Hayll. Itm. I bequeth to Elyn Mason's chyld, my goddowter xij d." _Bury Wills and Inventories_, ed. S. Tymms (Camden Soc.), p. 134. Henry VIII's visitors gave her a bad character. [1189] For her life see M. A. E. Green, _Lives of the Princesses of England_, II, pp. 404-42. [1190] Their gardens are often mentioned, e.g. at Nuncoton in 1440 it was complained that the nuns had private gardens and that some of them did not come to Compline, but wandered about in the gardens, gathering herbs. _Alnwick's Visit._ f. 72. At Stainfield in 1519 a similar complaint was made that on feast days they did not stay in the church and occupy themselves in devotion, between the Hours of Our Lady and High Mass, but came out and walked about the garden and cloisters. _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 131. The nuns of Sinningthwaite (1319) were ordered to provide themselves with a competent gardener for their curtilage, so that they might always have an abundance of vegetables. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 177. Christine de Pisan's description of the great gardens of the convent of Poissy is most attractive. See below, p. 560. [1191] Quoted in Gasquet, _English Monastic Life_, p. 177. [1192] One of the charges against Eleanor Prioress of Arden in 1396 was that "she compelled three young nuns to go out haymaking very early in the morning and they did not come back before nightfall and so divine service was not yet said." _Test. Ebor._ (Surtees Soc.), p. 283. [1193] _Alnwick's Visit._ f. 71_d_. [1194] _Ib._ pp. 120, 121, 123, 125. At Bishop Atwater's visitation of Legbourne in 1519 it was stated that the nuns often worked at haymaking, but only in the presence of the Prioress. _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 154. [1195] See below, p. 653. [1196] See below, p. 589. [1197] See Thiers on the subject: "Si les Religieuses estoient aussi soigneuses de leur honneur et de leur reputation comme elles devroient, si elles vouloient asseurer la grace de leur vocation et de leur election ... elles ne nourriroient point de vaches dans leur clôture, estant indecent que les Religieuses s'occupent à les mener paistre, à les retirer des pasturages, et à faire tout ce qui est necessaire pour en recevoir quelque profit. Je dis la même choses des asnesses, qu'elles y retiennient pour en prendre le lait dans leurs infirmitez. Car elles peuvent les avoir au dehors et en tirer à peu près les mêmes avantages, que si elles les renoient au dedans. Aussi est-il dit dans les Statuts du Couvent de Saint Estienne de Reims, de l'ordre des Chanoinesses regulieres de Saint Augustin: Il ne sera loisible de recevoir dans le Monastere aucun gros bestail: ce qui est parfaitement conforme à cette défense du 1. Concile Provincial de Milan en 1565. _Moniales ne intus in septis Monasterii boves, equos et jumenta cujusvis generis alant._" _Op. cit._ p. 415. [1198] _Ancren Riwle_ (King's Classics), pp. 316-7. [1199] _Lambeth Reg. Courtenay_, I, f. 336. The injunction was repeated by Bishop Flemyng in 1421-2. _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Lincoln_, I, p. 52. At Godstow Peckham made the following order concerning the conversations of nuns with seculars: "Cum insuper talia sunt colloquia terminata, inhibemus decetero ne moniales hujusmodi pro colloquentium conductu, locutorii januam exeant ullo modo, nec etiam stent exterius in atrio, ubi saecularium est concursus, _sed interius tantum in hortis et pomeriis_ quatenus requirit necessitas et honestas patitur, si non desit omnimoda securitas, consolentur." _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, p. 848. At Romsey in 1311 Bishop Woodlock ordered that "there shall be an entrance into the garden by a gate or postern for the sick _in loco non suspecto_ for their recreation and solace." Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 104. At Clementhorpe in 1310 a nun confined to the cloister for penance might "for recreation and solace go into the orchard and gardens of the nunnery accompanied by nuns." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 129. [1200] _Hereford Epis. Reg. Spofford_, p. 82. [1201] William Salt Archaeol. Soc. Coll. New Series, VIII, pp. 118-9. [1202] Coulton, _Chaucer and his England_, p. 109. He quotes one such rule from the "Ménagier de Paris." "When thou goest into town or to church, walk with thine head high, thine eyelids lowered and fixed on the ground at four fathoms distance straight in front of thee, without looking or glancing sideways at either man or woman to the right hand or the left, nor looking upward." [1203] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 124. [1204] Cf. Coulton, _Medieval Studies_ (first series, 2nd ed., p. 61) and Bishop Hallam's admonition to Shaftesbury in 1410. _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78. Also Peckham's Constitution in 1281. Wilkins, _Concilia_, II, p. 58. [1205] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239. [1206] _Reg. Godfrey Giffard_, p. 267. [1207] _Reg. Sede Vacante_ (Worc. Hist. Soc.), p. 276. [1208] _Reg. Ralph of Shrewsbury_, p. 241. [1209] _Reg. Walter de Stapeldon_, p. 317. [1210] _A Boke of Precedence_, ed. F. J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S. Extra Ser. VIII), p. 39. [1211] _The Wife of Bath's Prologue_, ll. 545-7. [1212] _Reg. Epis. Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), II, p. 664. [1213] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 114. Cf. Gray's injunction in 1432. _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. of Linc._ I, p. 67. [1214] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 139_d_. [1215] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343. [1216] _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, pp. 25, 51. [1217] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 57. [1218] _Reg. Johannis de Pontissara_, pp. 251-2. [1219] _Reg. Epis. Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), II, p. 707. [1220] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 50. With this account of the entertainment provided by the Friars of Northampton for their visitors, compare the evidence given at Bishop Nykke's visitation of the Cathedral priory of Norwich in 1514. "Item, the Brethren are wont to dance in the guesten-house, by favour of the guest-master, by night (and) up to noon." _Visit. of the Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 75. One of the Bishop's _comperta_ was that suspicious women had access to the house of the guest-master, which throws further light on the Catesby case. Incidentally the latter bears out Chaucer's description of the Friar, who was so fond of harping. [1221] _Exempla e sermonibus vulgaribus Jacobi Vitriacensis_, ed. T. F. Crane, p. 131. [1222] _Anecdotes Historiques, etc. d'Etienne de Bourbon_, ed. Lecoy de La Marche, p. 229. [1223] See below, p. 460. [1224] See also below, pp. 448-50. [1225] Dugdale, _Mon._ V, p. 654. [1226] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 218. [1227] _Poetical Works of John Skelton_, ed. Dyce, I, p. 95. [1228] Langland, _Piers Plowman_, ed. Skeat, Text B, Passus V, ll. 304 ff. [1229] See above, p. 373. [1230] _Songs and Carols_, ed. Th. Wright (Percy Soc.), pp. 91-5. [1231] Gower, _Mirour de l'Omne_, ed. G. C. Macaulay, p. 289. Translated in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ pp. 577-8. [1232] At Esholt in 1535 Archbishop Lee even had to enjoin "that the prioress suffer no ale house to be kept within the precinct of the gates of the saide monasterie." _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 452. An explanation of this may be found by comparing the evidence at Archbishop Warham's visitation of the Hospital of St James outside Canterbury in 1511. "The Prioress complains that Richard Welles stays and talks in the precincts of the house and his wife sells beer in the precincts. They are very quarrelsome people, brawlers and sowers of discord. There is always a crowd of people at the house of Richard." _E.H.R._ VI, p. 22. At both these houses the nuns probably employed a secular alewife to make their beer and she sold also to other customers within their precincts. Compare Peckham's injunction to Wherwell in 1284: "Iterum ob Dei reverentiam et ecclesiae honestatem perpetuo inhibemus ne mercatores sedere in ecclesia cum suis mercibus permittantur." _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_ (Rolls Ser.), II, p. 654. Also Bishop Bokyngham's letter forbidding merchants to sell their wares in the conventual church or churchyard of Stainfield under pain of excommunication (1392). _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 131. Medieval churches were put to strange uses. They served sometimes as a market-place, sometimes as a granary, sometimes as a playground, sometimes as a stage. [1233] Wood, _Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies_, II, p. 35, note _b_. [1234] Wood, _op. cit._ pp. 35-6. [1235] Wood, _op. cit._ pp. 36-37 (No. XV). [1236] On this subject see Part II of Thiers' treatise _De la Clôture_, pp. 265-497. [1237] _Ancren Riwle_ (King's Classics), p. 67. [1238] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 46-7. The Benedictine rule runs: "It is by no means lawful, without the abbot's permission, for any monk to receive or give letters, presents and gifts of any kind to anyone, whether parent or other." Cap. LIV. [1239] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 104. [1240] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 232. [1241] _Hist. MSS. Com. Report_, IX, App. p. 57 (early fifteenth century). [1242] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, p. 847. From a letter which he wrote to the Abbess on Nov. 12, 1284, it appears that the Prioress had been defamed of incontinence, for, while professing his belief in her innocence, he repeated his prohibition of casual conversation between nuns and seculars, adding "Oveke ceo nous defendons de part Deu ke nule nonein ne parle a escoler de Oxeneford, se il nest sun parent prechein, e ovekes ceo saunz le conge la abbesse especial. E ceo meismes entendons nous de touz prestres foreins, le queus font mout de maus en mout de lus, e aussi de touz religieus ki ne venent pur precher u pur confesser oue lautorite le apostoile e le eveske de Nichole." _Ib._ III, p. 851. Compare an injunction to Nunmonkton in 1397: "Item non permittatis clericos prioratum vestrum frequentare absque causa rationabili." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [1243] _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 67-8. [1244] _Ib._ p. 65. [1245] See below, p. 449. [1246] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 114. Alnwick made a very strong injunction: "For as mykelle as your saide monastery and diuerse singulere persones ther of are greuously noysed and sclaundred for the grete and contynuelle accesse and recourse of seculere and regulere persones, and in specyalle of scolers of Oxenford to your said monastery and seculere persones ther of, that fro hense forthe ye suffre no seculere persones scolers no othere ... to hafe any accesse or recourse to your said monastery ne to any singulere persone ther of, ne there to abyde nyght ne daye, etc." _Ib._ pp. 115-6. [1247] _Ib._ II, p. 218. [1248] See _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, pp. 76-7. [1249] _Op. cit._ f. 26_d_. [1250] Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, p. 35. [1251] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 190. See below p. 602. [1252] _Lambeth Reg. Langham_, f. 76_d_. Compare the note in Alnwick's visitation of Studley (1445): "Sister Isabel Bartone. It is said that there is great recourse of seculare guests to the aforesaid Isabel and to her chamber." _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 26_d_. [1253] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 57. [1254] A few more examples may be quoted. At Swine one of the _comperta_ of Giffard's visitation in 1267-8 runs: "The household of Sir Robert de Hilton, knight, wanders about far too freely (_nimis dissolute_) in the cloister and parlour, and often holds very suspicious conversations with the nuns and sisters, whence it is feared that harm may come. And this same Robert is very injurious and dangerous to them, wherefore, for fear of his oppression, the canons of the house lately, without the consent of the convent, gave him a barn full of corn, with which the convent should have been maintained." _Reg. Walter Giffard_, p. 148. At Nunmonkton in 1397 the Prioress, Margaret Fairfax, was ordered to see that John Munkton (the same who scandalised the convent by feasting and playing tables with her in her room), Sir William Aschby, chaplain, William Snowe and Thomas Pape held no conversation nor kept company with her, nor with any nun of her house, except in the presence of two of the elder nuns, and she was warned not to allow clerks to frequent the priory without reasonable cause. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. At Rusper in 1524 "a certain William Tychenor has frequent access to the said priory and there sows discord between the prioress and sisters and others living there." _Sussex Arch. Coll._ V, p. 257. It will be noticed how often these suspected visitors are clerics; the prefix "sir" in the Nuncoton extract quoted in the text almost certainly denotes a churchman and the persons mentioned are probably secular clergy or canons from neighbouring houses such as Newhouse, probably chantry-priests and parish chaplains. See below, p. 416. [1255] The following examples are typical of a host of others. At Nunappleton (1281) external visitors come into frater and cloister. _Reg. William Wickwane_, p. 141. At Rosedale (1306) the infirmary is to be kept from the passing to and fro of seculars; at Arthington (1318) they are not to frequent cloister, infirmary or other private places; at Nunburnholme (1318) there is scandal from the frequent access and gossiping of seculars with certain of the nuns. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 119, 174. At Ickleton (1345) the precincts are not to be made the resort of any secular woman, nor is any such person to come into the choir during the hours of service. Goddard, _Ickleton Church and Priory_ (_Cambridge Antiq. Soc. Proc._ XLV, p. 190). At Gracedieu (1440-1) seculars and nuns eat together _commixtim_ in the Prioress' hall. _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 122. At Heynings (1440) the infirmary was occupied by secular folk, "to the great disturbance of the sisters." _Ib._ p. 133. At Romsey (1492) people stand about chatting in the middle of the choir. Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 220. [1256] On the right of the patron or founder of a monastery, or of persons of noble birth, to enter the cloistral precincts, see Thiers, _op. cit._ pp. 296-309. He quotes the rule of Fontevrault (cap. VII): "If the most Christian King, the Queen, the Dauphin and other princes of the blood-royal, the founders and foundresses, being instantly besought, refuse nevertheless to desist from entering the precincts, let them enter with as small a suite of attendants as you can arrange, in long and decent garments and not otherwise; but let them not seek to pass the night on pain of excommunication." _Ib._ p. 297. It was never possible in practice to keep out great lords and ladies. [1257] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. [1258] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 133-5, _passim_. Compare the injunctions to some Yorkshire houses: at Marrick (1252) the nuns were forbidden to sit with guests or anyone else outside the cloister after curfew, or for a long time unless the guests arrived so late that it was impossible to serve them sooner, nor was a nun to remain alone with a guest. At Hampole (1302) no nun except the _hostillaria_ was to eat or drink in the guest-house, save with worthy people, and at Wilberfoss (1302) they were forbidden to linger in the guest-house or elsewhere, for amusement with seculars. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 117, 126, 163. At Elstow in 1432, however, Bishop Gray enjoined "that when parents or friends or kinsfolk of nuns, or other persons of note and honesty, shall journey to the same monastery to visit any nuns of the said monastery, the same nuns be nowise bound for that day to observance of frater, but be excused to this end by grace of the abbess or president." _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, p. 54. [1259] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, pp. 851-2. [1260] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 100_d_. [1261] _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 73-4. The special prohibition of friars is significant, for their reputation was growing worse and worse throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. See also _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 164, 171, 181 and _Arch._ XLVII, p. 57. On the other hand it should be noted that "during the later thirteenth and earlier fourteenth centuries the bishops in many dioceses made a point of insisting that the confessors to the nuns should be chosen, not from the secular clergy, but from the Mendicant Orders, especially from the Minorites." A. G. Little, _Studies in English Franciscan Hist._ (1917), p. 119 (and the references which he gives). [1262] _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Linc._ I, p. 66. [1263] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 441. Compare Alnwick's injunctions to Catesby (1442), Langley (1440-1) and St Michael's, Stamford (1440). _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 51, 117, _Alnwick's_ MS. f. 83_d_. [1264] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 452 (cf. p. 440). These injunctions were very common, for the rule was often broken. Peckham's regulation for Wherwell (1284) was that no man was to enter after sunset at night, or before the end of chapter (which followed directly after Prime) in the morning. _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 653. For other examples see Romsey (1302-11), Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 102, 103; Moxby (1318), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239; Sopwell (1338), Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 366; Wroxall (1338), _Worc. Reg. Sede Vacante_, p. 275; Heynings (1351), _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_; Elstow (1387), _ib._, _Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343: St Mary's Neasham (1436), _V.C.H. Durham_, II, p. 107; St Helen's, Bishopsgate (1439), Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 552; Nunappleton (1489), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172; Studley (1530-1), _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 59; Nuncoton (1531), _ib._ pp. 56, 59. [1265] This certainly seems very strict, for (as appears from the injunctions quoted) it was customary to order the doors to be shut when the bell rang for Compline, the last office of the day. Vespers was the service immediately before supper. [1266] _Cantarista_ usually means a chantry-priest. The more usual word is _Precentrix_. [1267] Chaucer, _Boke of the Duchesse_, ll. 300-4. [1268] _E.H.R._ VI, pp. 33-4. [1269] This was reiterated in Ottobon's Constitutions and in the Bull _Periculoso_. See also Thomas of Cantilupe's letter to Lymbrook in 1277 (_Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 201) and Archbishop Peckham's injunction to Godstow, both based upon Ottobon. _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, p. 848. Also Bishop Brantyngham's commission concerning the nuns of Polsloe in 1376, which is based upon _Periculoso_. _Reg. of Bishop Brantyngham_, pt. II, pp. 152-3. [1270] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, II, pp. 652-3. Compare injunctions to Barking, _ib._ I, p. 84, and to St Sepulchre's, Canterbury, _ib._ II, p. 706. [1271] _Ib._ II, p. 663 "volentes ibi moniales curiose respicere vel cum eis garrulas attemptare." [1272] _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 52. Compare Bishop Gray's injunction to Godstow in 1432-4. "Also that all the doors of the nuns' lodgings towards the outer court, through which it is possible to enter into the cloister precinct, even if the other doors of the cloister be shut for the time being, be altogether blocked up, or that such means of barring or shutting be placed upon them that approach or entrance through the same doors may not be given to secular folk." _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 68. Compare also Dean Kentwode's injunction to St Helen's, Bishopsgate, in 1432: "Also we injoyn yow, Prioresse, that there may be a doore at the Nonnes quere, that noo straungers may loke on them, nor they on the straungers, wanne thei bene at dyvyne service. Also we ordene and injoyne yow, prioresse, that there be made a hache of conabyll heythe, crestyd with pykys of herne to fore the entre of yowre kechyne, that noo straunge pepille may entre with certeyne cleketts avysed be yow and be yowre steward to suche personys as yow and hem thynk onest and conabell. Also we injoyne yew, prioresse, that non nonnes have noo keyes of the posterne doore that gothe owte of the cloystere into the churche yerd but the prioresse, for there is moche comyng in and owte unlefulle tymys." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 554. [1273] _Loc. cit._ With this compare Alnwick's visitation of Ankerwyke in 1441, at which one of Margery Kyrkeby's charges against the Prioress Clemence Medeforde was: "Also she has ... blocked up the view Thamesward, which was a great diversion to the nuns. She confesses blocking up the view, because she saw that men stood in the narrow space close to the window and talked with the nuns." _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 3. [1274] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 452-3. Compare Bishop Stapeldon's injunction to Canonsleigh in 1320: "Et pur ceo que nous avoms oyi et entendu par ascune gent qe par my deus us dedenz vostre abbeye ileoqes plusours mals esclandres et deshonestetes sunt avenues avant cest hure, et purront ensement avenir apres, si remedie ne soit mys, ceo est asavoir, un us qe est en lencloistre au celer desouz la Sale la Abbesse devers la court voloms, ordinoms et comaundoms qe meisme ceux deus us soyent bien estupees par mur de pere, entre cy et la Paske procheyn avenir." _Reg. W. de Stapeldon_, p. 96. [1275] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 172. He also said that "No man loge undir the dortir nor oon the baksede, but if hit be such sad persones by whome your house may be holpyne and socured w{t}out slaundir or suspicion." [1276] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 366. But at Barking Peckham ordered in 1279: "In officiis, autem, quae per foeminas fieri nequeunt, operariorum cum eisdem cautelis introitus admittatur." _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, I, p. 84. On the entrance of carpenters, masons and other workmen into convents see Thiers, _op. cit._ II, ch. xxvi. He insists that the work must be a necessity and something which could not be done by the nuns themselves. "Ainsi les artisans sont coupables du violement de la clôture, lorsqu'ils entrent pour des ouvrages de bienseance ou de commodite, pour des decorations ou des embelissemens; en un mot, pour des ouvrages dont les Religieuses se peuvent passer; et je ne vois pas en quelle seurete de conscience les abbesses, les Prieures et les autres superieures des Religieuses, les y laissent entrer, soit pour polir des grilles, pour tendre et pour detendre des chambres et des lits, pour faire et pour peindre des plat-fonds et des alcoves, pour boiser des chambres, des galleries et des cabinets, pour faire de beaux vitrages, de belle volieres à petits oiseaux et d'autres choses semblables. Car outre que tout cela est directement opposé à la modestie et à la pauvreté, dont elles font profession, quel pretexte peuvent-elles alleguer pour se mettre à couvert de l'excommunication que les Conciles, les Papes et les Eveques ont fulminée contre les Religieuses, qui laissent entrer les personnes étrangeres dans leur clôture sans necessité." _Op. cit._ pp. 412-3. He is particularly urgent that nuns should cultivate their own gardens and should have their vegetable gardens outside the precincts: "par ce moyen elles ne seroient point obligées d'ouvrer et fermer si souvent les portes de leur clôture, à des jardiniers qui ne sont pas toûjours exempts de scandale" (_ib._ p. 414), which recalls a famous story of Boccaccio's. _Decameron_, 3rd day, novel I. [1277] _Loc. cit._ and compare his injunction to Wherwell, _ib._ p. 268. Bishop Flemyng's introduction to Elstow is rather contradictory: "Also that no nun admit secretly to her chamber any seculars or other men of religion and that if they be admitted she do not keep them there too long." _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Lincoln_, I, p. 51. At Godstow (1432) the injunction ran: "Also that the beds in the nuns' lodgings be altogether removed from their chambers, save those for small children and that no nun receive any secular people for any recreation in the nuns' chambers under pain of excommunication." _Ib._ I, p. 67. [1278] As at Godstow in 1432, _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 67, or Romsey in 1523, Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 244. [1279] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 664. Cf. his injunctions to other nunneries. [1280] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 116. Compare injunctions to Catesby, Langley, Markyate and St Michael's, Stamford. _Ib._ pp. 51, 177, and _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 6, 83_d_. For other examples see Lymbrook (1277), _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo_, p. 201; Polsloe (1319), _Reg. W. de Stapeldon_, p. 317; Studley (1530), _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 54. [1281] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 83_d_, cf. f. 6, and _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 177. [1282] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 554. Compare Romsey (1387), _New Coll._ MS. f. 86; Nuncoton (1531), _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 60. St Benedict's Rule forbids all letters (cap. LIV). [1283] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 46, 177; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 39_d_, 76, 95_d_. [1284] _Ib._ p. 119. [1285] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 185. [1286] _Ib._ p. 133. [1287] _Ib._ pp. 113, MS. ff. 71_d_, 72, 77. [1288] For other examples see Romsey (1311), Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 104; Clementhorpe (1317), Hampole (1308, 1314), Nunappleton (1346), Rosedale (1315), Arthington (1315, 1318); _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 129, 163-4, 172, 174, 188. Sopwell (1338), Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 366; Heynings (1392), _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 397_d_; Lymbrook (1437), _Hereford Epis. Reg. Spofford_, p. 81; Burnham (1432-6), _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Lincoln_, I, p. 24; Redlingfield (1514), _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, pp. 139-40; Flamstead (1530), _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 433; Nuncoton (1531), _Archaeologia_, XLVII, p. 58; Sinningthwaite (1534), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 440-1. The injunction to St Helen's, Bishopsgate, in 1432 has an odd variation: "withowte specialle graunte hadde in the chapetter house, among yow alle." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, pp. 553-4. [1289] _Reg. of John of Drokensford_, p. 81. The Isabel Fychet mentioned in 1336 was probably one of these ladies. [1290] _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 162-3. On this couple, see Smyth, _Lives of the Berkeleys_, pp. 364 ff. [1291] _Reg. Ralph of Shrewsbury_, pp. 277, 278, 744-5. A few out of many other examples may be quoted: Alice, wife of John D'Aumarle, _domicellus_, may stay at Cornworthy from January till September (1333), _Reg. of J. de Grandisson_, pt. II, p. 724; Beatrix Paynell, sister of Sir John Foxley, may stay at Whitney from December to the Feast of St John the Baptist (1367), _Wykeham's Reg._ II, p. 7; Avice de Lyncolnia, niece of William de Jafford, may stay for four years in Nunappleton (1309); he was the Archbishop's receiver. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, 171; Alice, wife of Alan of Ayste, may spend two years in Godstow (1363), _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 73. It will be noted that nearly all these are great folk, who cannot lightly be refused. [1292] _Reg. J. de Grandisson_, pt. I, p. 190. [1293] _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 355. [1294] _Reg. John le Romeyn_, I, p. 114. [1295] See the list in Rye, _Carrow Abbey_, pp. 48-52, _passim_. Some of the men also brought servants or chaplains with them, e.g. William Wryght and servants, William Wade and William his chaplain, John Bernard and John his chaplain. The men must have been lodged outside the cloister precincts. [1296] _Paston Letters_, ed. Gairdner (1900 ed.), II, p. 390 (no. 633). See also no. 617 and Introd. pp. ccxc-ccxcii. [1297] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 175 (at this house there were also three women boarding with the Prioress and one with the Subprioress). Compare the case of Agnes de Vescy at Watton in 1272. The King wrote to the sheriff of Yorkshire that "Agnes de Vescy has been to the house of Watton with a great number of women and dogs and other things, which have interfered with the devotions of the nuns and sisters." Graham, _St Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertines_, p. 83. The fact was that no one had any real control over these great ladies, least of all their hostesses. [1298] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 185. [1299] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 76. Compare a _compertum_ at St Sepulchre, Canterbury, in 1367-8. "Perhendinantes male fame steterunt cum priorissa, ad quas habebatur eciam accessus nimium suspectus," _Lambeth Reg. Langham_, f. 76_d_. [1300] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 120, 122. [1301] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 71_d_, 72. Compare the state of affairs at Hampole in 1411, when the Archbishop ordered the removal of "secular servants and _corrodiarii_ who attracted to themselves other secular persons from the country, by whom the house was burdened." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 165. When Bishop Grandisson of Exeter licensed the reception of Alice D'Aumarle at Cornworthy (1333) he added "proviso quod ad vos, per moram hujusmodi, secularium personarum non pateat suspectis horis liberior frequencia vel accessus." _Reg. Grandisson_, pt. II, p. 724. [1302] _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. of Lincoln_, I, p. 87. [1303] Note for instance the Archbishop of York's injunction when mitigating a severe penance on a nun of St Clement's, York, which is clearly for immorality: "That twice a year if necessary she might receive friends ... but she was to have nothing to do with Lady de Walleys and if Lady de Walleys was then in their house, she was to be sent away before Pentecost (1310)," _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 129. [1304] _V.C.H. Yorks._ II, p. 165. [1305] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. [1306] Possibly a priest. [1307] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 18. [1308] Wilkins, _Concilia_, I, p. 592. [1309] _Visit. of Relig. Houses in Dioc. Lincoln_, I, pp. 48-9. Compare Gray's injunction, laying more stress on married boarders. _Ib._ p. 53. [1310] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 34_d_. [1311] _Visit. Linc._ II, p. 135. For other injunctions against boarders see Godstow, Gracedieu, Harrold, Langley, Nuncoton, Stixwould, _ib._ pp. 115, 124-5, 131, 177, _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 77_d_, 75_d_; Wherwell, Romsey (1284), Sheppey (1286), _Reg. Epis. Peckham_, II, pp. 653-4, III, p. 924; Wilberfoss, Nunkeeling and Nunappleton (1281-2), _Reg. William Wickwane_, pp. 112-3, 140-1; Polsloe (1319), _Reg. W. de Stapeldon_, p. 317; Canonsleigh (1391), _Reg. of Brantyngham_, pt. II, p. 724; Farwell (1367), _Reg. R. de Stretton_, p. 119; Polesworth (1352, 1456), _V.C.H. Warwick_, II, p. 63. These are only a few examples taken at random; the registers of the Archbishops of York and of the Bishops of Lincoln alone record many more. (See the _V.C.H._ for the counties in these dioceses, _passim_.) [1312] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 664; Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 102, 165. [1313] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 100_d_; _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 67; II, p. 115. [1314] _Gynewell_, f. 139_d_, _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 355; _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 48-9, 53. [1315] "That ye receyve ne holde no suiournauntes, men, women ne childerne, wyth ynne your place, and thoe that nowe are there, ye voyde thaym wythe yn a quartere of a yere after the receyvyng of thise our lettres, but if ye here yn hafe specyalle licence of hus or our successours, bysshops of Lincolne, except our wele belufede doghters, dame Elizabeth Dymmok and dame Margaret Tylney, by whose abydyng, as we truste, no greve but rathere avayle is procured to your place." _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 75_d_. [1316] _Reg. of Brantyngham_, pt. II, p. 724. [1317] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 173. [1318] See examples above, p. 410. [1319] See Ch. VI, _passim_. [1320] _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_ (Camden Soc.), p. 290. [1321] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, pp. 37-8. [1322] _Ib._ IV, p. 212. [1323] _Ib._ IV, p. 167. [1324] _Ib._ IV, p. 182. [1325] _Ib._ IV, p. 394. [1326] For example, _ib._ I, pp. 522, 526; IV, p. 38; VII, pp. 70, 440, 617. Sometimes, too, they were ordered to pay their own expenses, e.g. _ib._ VI, p. 293. [1327] _Ib._ VI, p. 132. [1328] _Ib._ VII, p. 220. [1329] _Ib._ V, p. 91. [1330] I.e. Jean de Dormans, bishop of Beauvais 1360-8, cardinal 1368, d. 1373. [1331] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, p. 170. [1332] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 126. Sewardsley was near Grafton Regis, where Jacquetta, then widow of Richard Wydville, earl Rivers, lived. This recalls the more famous case of Eleanor de Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester. It is worth noticing also that on the eve of the Reformation the famous Elizabeth Barton, called "the Holy Maid of Kent," found refuge for a part of her short career in the nunnery of St Sepulchre's, Canterbury. Archbishop Warham secured her admission there in 1526, and she became a nun and remained there for seven years, until the fame of her outspoken condemnations of the royal divorce finally brought about her execution in 1533. See Gasquet, _Hen. VIII and the English Monasteries_ (Pop. Edit. 1899), ch. III, _passim_. [1333] _Le Livere de Engletere_ (Rolls Series), p. 344. [1334] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1318-23), p. 428. [1335] _Ib._ (1323-7), pp. 88-9; cf. _Le Livere de Engletere_, p. 350. [1336] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 184. [1337] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1307-13), p. 114. [1338] _Ib._ (1302-7), p. 419. [1339] _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1313-18), p. 43. Sometimes the King sent his friends as well as his enemies to board in a convent and occasionally he endeavoured to do so without paying for them. In 1339 he sent first to Wilton and then to Shaftesbury "Sibyl Libaud of Scotland who lately came to England to the king's faith and besought that he would provide for her maintenance, requesting them to provide her and her son Thomas, who is of tender age, with maintenance from that house, in food and clothing, until Whitsuntide next, knowing that what they do at this request shall not be to the prejudice of their house in the future." _Cal. of Close Rolls_ (1339-41), pp. 261, 335. John of Gaunt made use of the convent of Nuneaton to provide a home for five Spanish ladies, who had doubtless come to England with his duchess Constance of Castile; early in 1373 he wrote to his receiver at Leicester bidding him pay the prioress for their expenses 13_s._ 4_d._ each week; but evidently they found the convent too dull for their tastes, for in August one of them was "demourrant a Leycestre ovesque Johan Elmeshalle," and in December the Duke wrote to his receiver again to say that he had heard "que noz damoisels d'Espaigne demurrantz a Nouneton ne voullont pas illoeques pluis longement demurrer"; so it was "Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies" at Nuneaton. It is probable that these "damoisels" were quite young girls, and had been placed at the convent to learn "nortelry." _John of Gaunt's Reg._ (R. Hist. Soc.), II, pp. 128, 231, 276-7. See, for more about these ladies, pp. 320-1, 328, 338. [1340] Browning, _Fra Lippo Lippi_. [1341] _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 352. This case is particularly interesting, because it would seem to show that "benefit of clergy" was not claimed by nuns. On this point see Pollock and Maitland, _Hist. of Engl. Law_, 2nd ed. I, p. 445. "There seems no reason for doubting that nuns were entitled to the same privilege, though, to their credit be it said, we have in our period, found no cases which prove this." Maitland cites Hale, _Pleas of the Crown_, II, p. 328, as saying: "Nuns had the exemption from temporal jurisdiction but the privilege of clergy was never granted them by our law"; but elsewhere (_Pleas of the Crown_, II, p. 371): "Anciently nuns professed were admitted to privilege of clergy"; he cites a case from 1348 (Fitzherbert's _Abridgment Corone_, pl. 461) which speaks of a woman, not expressly called a nun, being claimed by and delivered to the ordinary. Stephen, _Hist. of Crim. Law of England_, II, p. 461, thinks that "all women (except, till the Reformation, professed nuns) were for centuries excluded from benefit of clergy, because they were incapable of being ordained." [1342] Mr Hamilton Thompson thinks that "Mestowe" is probably the hundred of Meon-Stoke (Hants.), in a distant part of the county; it is difficult to see why the Abbess made a general claim there and in any case Wherwell, where Henry Harold lived, is in Wherwell Hundred. [1343] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 135. [1344] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 369. [1345] Gibbons, _Ely Epis. Records_, p. 406. [1346] _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_ (1381-5), p. 355. [1347] On the other hand for a case of spoliation in which Juliana Yong, a nun, was involved as one of the aggressors see _Cal. of Pap. Petit._ I, pp. 333-4. [1348] _Linc. Reg. Dalderby_, f. 16. [1349] _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 108-9. Compare a case in 1375 at Romsey when certain persons broke into the houses of the Abbess within the Abbey and carried off Joan, late the wife of Peter Brugge, and her property, consisting of her gold rings, gold brooches or bracelets with precious stones, linen and woollen clothes and furs; her chaplain aiding. Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 166. [1350] _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_ (1340-3), p. 127. [1351] _Ib._ (1367-70), p. 10. The Abbess was the worldly Joan Formage. Licences for crenellating monasteries are rather unusual; but cathedral closes were very generally crenellated at the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth centuries, e.g. Lincoln, York, Lichfield, Wells and Exeter. There is a good example of a crenellated monastery at the Benedictine Priory of Ewenny near Bridgend, Glamorgan, a cell of Gloucester. This is near the south coast of Wales, where, as along the Welsh border, towers either crenellated or with certain defensive features are common. Cf. the numerous fortified churches in the south of France, e.g. Albi Cathedral (Tarn) and Les Saintes-Maries (Bouches-du-Rhône), the latter close to the shore of the Mediterranean. (For this note I am indebted to Mr A. Hamilton Thompson.) [1352] Froissart, tr. Berners, I, ch. xxxviii. For the sufferings of other monasteries on the south coast see P. G. Mode, _The Influence of the Black Death on the English Monasteries_, p. 31. [1353] See Denifle, _La Désolation des Eglises ... pendant la Guerre de Cent Ans_ (1899). In t. I is a long list of monasteries which had been ruined during the fourteenth century. The following (no. 176) is typical: "Monasterium monialium B. Mariae de Bricourt O.S.B. Trecen. dioec., causantibus a 40 annis guerris desolatum et destructum, libris aliisque destitutum et ab omnibus monialibus derelictum 1442" (pp. 55-6). [1354] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, pp. 316, 452, 636. [1355] Serjeantson, _Delapré Abbey_ (1909), pp. 21-3. [1356] Graham, _Essay on Engl. Monasteries_ (Hist. Ass. 1913), p. 29. The text of the assessment is given in the notes to the _Taxatio Ecclesiastica Pape Nicholai_ (Record Com. 1802). [1357] _The Chronicle of Lanercost_, translated by Sir Herbert Maxwell [1913], p. 136. [1358] _Reg. Palat. Dunelm._ I, p. 353. In 1291 the number of nuns was twenty-seven, together with four lay brothers, three chaplains and a master. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 197. [1359] _Hist. Letters from the Northern Reg._ ed. Raine, pp. 319-23. [1360] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 175, 240. [1361] Froissart, tr. Berners, I, ch. cxxxvii. The English army on its way to Neville's Cross was also a sore burden to the religious houses of the neighbourhood. See the very interesting document about Egglestone Abbey quoted from Archbishop Zouche's Register (under the date 1348) by A. Hamilton Thompson, _The Pestilences of the Fourteenth Century in the Diocese of York_ (_Archaeol. Journ._ vol. LXXI, New Series, vol. XXI, p. 120, n. 4). It is probable that this campaign, together with the Black Death, which followed hard upon it, brought about the final ruin of the little nunnery of St Stephen's near Northallerton, which is not heard of after 1350. See _ib._ p. 121, n. 12, and _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 116. [1362] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 160, cp. the case of Armathwaite below. The muniments of Carrow were burnt during the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. Hoare, C. M., _Hist. of an East Anglian Soke_ (Bedford 1918), p. 112. "The destruction of charters, privileges and muniments was a severe loss; evidence for the holding of each strip of land and in support of every custom was of the utmost importance." Graham, _St Gilb. of Semp. and the Gilbertines_, p. 138. [1363] _V.C.H. Cumberland_, II, p. 190, and Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 271-2. [1364] _Aug. Off. Misc. Books_, 281, f. 11 [_P.R.O._]. For the sufferings of Northern monasteries from the Scots 1330-50 see references collected from the patent rolls in P. G. Mode, _op. cit._ p. 32. [1365] _Chronicon Angliae_, ed. E. M. Thompson (R.S. 1874), pp. 247-53. [1366] It is extremely difficult to identify the nunnery spoken of in the story. According to Froissart the expedition sailed from Southampton (Froissart, _Chron._ I, ch. ccclvi); according to another account the port of departure was Plymouth (see J. H. Ramsay, _The Genesis of Lancaster_, II, p. 131). If Southampton be correct, Romsey Abbey would be the nearest nunnery answering to the description in the text, though it stands some miles from the coast. If Sir John sailed from Plymouth the only nunnery in the vicinity would be the little priory of Cornworthy, which certainly never contained a large number of nuns and boarders (though as to this the chronicler may be exaggerating). It is strange that no record of the crime appears to have survived in episcopal registers or in any official document; but it seems unlikely that the story is pure invention, since we know from other sources that the troops were notorious for general depredations along the coast. A petition presented to the King in Parliament (1379/80) runs: "Item, beseech the commons and the good folk who dwell near the coasts of the sea, to wit, of Norfolk, Suffolk, Kent, Surrey, Hampshire, Dorset and Cornwall: That whereas they and their chattels have oftentimes been robbed, and are destroyed and spoiled by men-at-arms, archers and others coming and going by the said ports to the service of our Lord the king at the war and by their long sojourn; and chiefly the people of Hampshire during the last expedition which was ruled and ordered, for by the sojourn and destruction made by men ordered upon the said expedition, the goods and chattels of the good people of Hampshire are destroyed, spoiled and annihilated, to the very great abashment and destruction of all the Commons of those parts, as well folk of Holy Church as others; and they will lodge themselves of their own authority, having no regard to the billets (herbegage) assigned to them by our lord [the king], to the destruction of the common people, if it be not remedied as soon as may be." (_Rot. Parl._ III, p. 80.) The other nunneries in Hampshire were St Mary's Winchester, Wherwell, and Whitney. [1367] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, pp. 452, 636. [1368] To show how a twelfth century baron might speak to a cloistered nun, the mother of one of his knights, his words deserve quotation: Voir, dist R. vos estes losengiere. Je ne sai rien de putain, chanberiere, Qi est este corsaus ne maaillere, A toute gent communax garsoniere. Au conte Y. vos vi je soldoiere, La vostre chars ne fu onques trop chiere; Se nus en vost, par le baron S. Piere! Por poi d'avoir en fustes traite ariere. _Raoul de Cambrai_, ll. 1328-1335. [1369] _Raoul de Cambrai_, pub. P. Meyer et A. Longnon, _Soc. des Anc. Textes Fr._ 1882, stanzas LXIII-LXXI, _passim_ (pp. 42-50). [1370] "Incontynent it was taken by assaut and robbed and an abbey of ladyes vyolated and the town brent." Froissart, _Chronicles_, tr. Berners. [1371] See M. K. Brady, _Psycho-Analysis and its Place in Life_ [1919], p. 117; H. O. Taylor, _The Medieval Mind_ [2nd ed., 1914], I, ch. XX. [1372] See above, p. 29. For the effects of this at a later period in Italy see J. A. Symonds, _The Renaissance in Italy. VI. The Catholic Reaction_, pt. I (1886), pp. 339 ff. [1373] See below, p. 502. [1374] See above, pp. 422 ff. [1375] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, ff. 5_d_, 32_d_. [1376] The unions were sometimes referred to as "marriages" and a priest unaware of the facts of the case may have been got to celebrate them. For instance Bishop Gynewell recites how Joan Bruys, nun of Nuneaton, was abducted by Nicholas Green of Isham and "postmodum se in nostram diocesim divertentes matrimonium de facto in eadem nostra diocesi scienter inuicem contraxerunt et incestum ibidem commiserunt et in ea cohabitant indies vir et vxor." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Gynewell_, f. 102. Marriage is also referred to in the case of Joyce, an apostate from St Helen's, Bishopsgate, in 1388. _Hist. MSS. Com. Rep._ IX, App. pt. I, p. 28. At Atwater's visitation of Ankerwyke in 1519 it was stated "Domina Alicia Hubbart stetit ibidem in habitu per quatuor annos et tunc in apostasiam recessit et cuidam ... Sutton consanguineo Magistri Ricardi Sutton Senescalli de Syon fuit nupta et cum eo in patria ipsius Sutton remanet in adulterio." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Atwater_, f. 42. [1377] _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Dalderby_, f. 16. Translated in R. M. Serjeantson, _Hist. of Delapré Abbey, Northampton_, pp. 7-8. [1378] _P.R.O. Chancery Warrants_, Series I, File 1759; _Cal. of Patent Rolls_ (1381-5), p. 235. This file of Chancery Warrants contains a large number of petitions for the arrest of vagabond monks and nuns. These petitions usually emanate from the head of the apostate's house, but occasionally from the Bishop of the diocese, as in another warrant in the same file in which the Bishop of Norwich petitions for the arrest of Katherine Montagu, Benedictine nun of Bungay (1376). Other petitions besides those quoted in the text concern Alice Romayn, Austin nun of Haliwell (1314, _ib._), Matilda Hunter, Austin nun of Burnham (1392), (File 1762); Alice de Everyngham, Gilbertine nun of Haverholm (1366), (File 1764); and the following sisters of Hospitals, Agnes Stanley of St Bartholomew's, Bristol (1389), Johanna atte Watre of St Thomas the Martyr at Southwark (1324) and Elizabeth Holewaye of the same house (File 1769, nos. 1, 15, 18). On receipt of these petitions the writ _De apostata capiendo_ would be issued and the royal commissions for the arrest of the delinquents are sometimes found enrolled on the patent rolls, as in the cases quoted in the text. Alice Everyngham was excommunicated by the master of Sempringham; but on her case being brought to the papal court and committed by the Pope to the dean and two canons of Lincoln, she was absolved by them. The master appealed to the Pope against her absolution, and the case was committed for trial to the Archbishop of York. _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, pp. 69-70. For a royal commission to arrest Mary de Felton of the House of Minoresses at Aldgate, see _Cal. Pat. Rolls_, 1385-9, p. 86. [1379] _P.R.O. Chancery Warrants_, Series I, File 1759; _Cal. of Pat. Rolls_, 1401-5, pp. 418, 472. [1380] There are several references to this ceremony: "Dictam igitur commonialem vestram, iniuncta ei penitencia seculari pro suis reatibus atque culpis, ad vos et domum vestram, a qua exiit, remittimus absolutam; deuocionem vestram firmiter in Domino exhortantes quatinus ... dictam penitentem ... si in humilitatis spiritu, reclinato corpore more penitencium, pulset ad portam, misericordiam deuote postulans et implorans, si suum confiteatur reatum, si signa contricionis ac correccionis appareant in eadem, secundum disciplinam vestri ordinis, filiali promptitudine admittatis" (Maud of Terrington at Keldholme, 1321), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 456-7. Compare _ib._ XVI, p. 363 (Margaret of Burton at Kirklees, 1337); Wm. Salt Archaeol. Soc. Coll. I, p. 256 (case against Elizabeth la Zouche who, with another nun, had escaped from Brewood in 1326; she was not recovered until 1331). [1381] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, pp. 99-100. [1382] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 159. [1383] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 138. The surname "Suffewyk" should probably read Luffewyk, i.e. Lowick. [1384] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 171. [1385] _Ib._ III, p. 177. [1386] See for Renaissance Italy, J. A. Symonds, _The Renaissance in Italy_ (1886), VI, p. 340; A. Gagnière, _Les Confessions d'une Abbesse du xvi{e} siècle_ (Paris, 1888), pp. 128 ff. (Felice Rasponi); G. Marcotti, _Donne e Monache_ (Firenze, 1884); but ecclesiastics were found among these _monachini_. In France the same pursuit became fashionable under the League. For a later date the _Memoirs_ of Casanova provide the most striking illustrations. [1387] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. [1388] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 84. [1389] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113. [1390] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83, 83_d_. [1391] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [1392] "En visitaunt vostre mesun por plusure fiez truuames nus ke Johan de Seuekwurth, clerk, se auoit si mauuesement porte en demurant en la mesun ke il esteit atteint de folie de cors od vne de vos nuneins e vne autre esteit de ly atteinte, par defaute de purgaciun ke ele ne se poeit de li purger. Par quei nus defendimes a vus ke vus no le suffrissez en vostre mesun demurer, e a li ke la euene demurast." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, f. 129_d_. [1393] _V.C.H. Somerset_, II, p. 157. [1394] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 240. [1395] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 47. [1396] See below, p. 545. [1397] Gascoigne accuses John Stafford, Archbishop of Canterbury, of having had sons and daughters by a nun at a time when he was Bishop of Bath and Wells. "In diebus meis, anno Domini 1443, electus fuit, vel verius intrusus, unus archiepiscopus qui fuit genitus ex manifesto adulterio, et existens genuit filios et filias ex una moniali, in episcopali gradu existens antequam fuit archiepiscopus." _Loci e Libro Veritatum_, ed. J. E. Thorold Rogers (1881), p. 231. Gascoigne was a learned Doctor of Theology and Chancellor of the University of Oxford. His theological dictionary gives an extraordinarily vivid and gloomy picture of the corruptions of the church in his day. It must be noted however that Stafford's support of the heretical Bishop Reginald Pecok (author of the _Repressor of Overmuch Blaming of the Clergy_) made Gascoigne his implacable enemy, while there is no foundation for his statement that Stafford was of illegitimate birth. His charge is therefore unworthy of belief. The scandal which later connected the name of John Stokesley, Bishop of London, with Anne Colte, Abbess of Wherwell, seems likely to be equally devoid of foundation, though she was several times summoned before the Council in 1534; the King and Cromwell evidently resented her refusal to give a farm to one of their protégés. _L. and P. Hen. VIII_, VI, 1361, VII, 527-9, 907; _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 136. [1398] See, besides the references given above, cases in which a priest or chaplain was implicated at St Stephen's Foukeholm (abduction of Cecilia by William, Chaplain of Yarm, 1293), _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 113; Nunkeeling (Avice de Lelle had confessed to incontinence; ordered not to talk to Robert de Eton, chaplain, or any other person, 1318), _ib._ p. 121; Keldholme, 1318 (Mary de Holm and Sir William Lely, chaplain, 1318), _ib._ p. 169; Kirklees (Joan de Heton and Sir Michael, called the Scot, priest, 1315), _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 361; Godstow (Sir Hugh Sadylere of Oxford, chaplain, and Alice Longspee, 1445), _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 114; Littlemore (Prioress Katherine Wells and Richard Hewes, priest of Kent, 1517), _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 76; Wintney (Prioress and Thomas Ferring, a secular priest, 1405), _Cal. Papal Letters_, VI, p. 55; Romsey (charge against Emma Powes and the vicar of the parish church, 1502), _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 130; Easebourne (Sir John Smyth, chaplain, concerned in abduction of two nuns, 1478), _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, p. 17; and various other instances of suspicious behaviour or of chaplains and priests warned off the premises. Some of these cases are described in detail below, _passim_. [1399] E.g. "Fatebatur se carnaliter cognitam a D.B. apud S. in domo habitacionis sue ibidem situata," _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 71. "Item dicit quod priorissa consueuit sola accedere ad villam de Catesby ad gardinas cum vno solo presbytero." _Ib._ II, p. 47. [1400] E.g. "Domina Agnes Smyth inquisita dicit quod Simon Prentes cognovit eam et suscitavit prolem ex ea infra prioratum, extra tamen claustrum." Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. Norwich_, p. 109. There are many references to and injunctions against suspicious confabulations with men in the nave and other parts of the priory church. [1401] See above, pp. 386-9, 401. [1402] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, II, p. 708. [1403] _Reg. Thome de Cantilupo, Epis. Herefordensis_ (Canterbury and York Society), p. 265. [1404] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [1405] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 83. See above, p. 310. [1406] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 91, 116. [1407] R. E. G. Cole, _The Priory of Brodholme_ (_Assoc. Architec. Soc. Reports and Papers_, XXVIII), p. 66. [1408] At Markyate in 1336 "an apostate nun was received back again and absolved by Bishop Burghersh and three others sought absolution at the same time for having aided and abetted her in her escape." _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 360. [1409] It must be conceded that the Church gave the nuns every inducement to take measures to prevent such disasters; for instance in the _Liber Poenitentialis_ of Theodore the Anglo-Saxon nun guilty of immorality is given eight years of penance and ten if there be a child; a married layman and a nun who are lovers have six years of penance and seven if there be a child. Here, as ever, the Church went on the principle that sin was bad but scandal worse; _si non caste tamen caute_. Of the practice of abortion I find no record in English pre-Reformation documents, though Henry VIII's disreputable commissioner, Dr Layton, accused the Yorkshire nuns of taking potations "ad prolem conceptum opprimendum." _Letters Relating to the Suppression of the Monasteries_ (Camden Soc. 1843), p. 97. There is a proved case of it in Eudes Rigaud's visitation of St-Aubin (1256), and a suspicion at St Saëns (1264), _Reg. Visit. Rigaud_, ed. Bonnin, pp. 255, 491. See below, p. 668. One of Caesarius of Heisterbach's _exempla_ hangs upon it. Caes. Heist. _Dial. Mirac._ ed. Strange, II, p. 331. In seventeenth and eighteenth century Italy the practice seems to have been common, witness Casanova. [1410] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 96. [1411] _Wykeham's Reg._ II, pp. 114-5. [1412] "Et proles obiit immediate post." Jessopp, _op. cit._ p. 109. [1413] See e.g. faculty given "to dispense twenty persons of illegitimate birth of the realms of France and England, whether sons of priests or married persons, or monks, _or nuns_, to be ordained and to hold two benefices apiece." _Cal. of Papal Letters_, IV, p. 170. [1414] M. E. Lowndes, _The Nuns of Port Royal_ (1909), p. 13. The Abbess in question was Angélique d'Estrées, sister of Gabrielle, Henry IV's mistress, and famous for her scandalous life and her struggle with her successor, the famous Mère Angélique (Jacqueline Arnauld) of Port Royal. [1415] _Letters Relating to the Suppression of the Monasteries_ (Camden Soc. 1843), p. 58. But it must be remembered that we cannot believe uncorroborated a single word that Layton says. [1416] See below, Note F. [1417] _Reg. Ralph of Shrewsbury_ (Som. Rec. Soc.), pp. 683-4; the charge is not given in full in this edition of the Register and must be eked out from the extract in Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 416 (note). [1418] _Reg. John of Drokensford_, pp. 60, 126, 167, 287. [1419] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, pp. 17-19. [1420] _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi Benedicti Abbatis_, ed. Stubbs, Rolls Ser., I, pp. 135-6. [1421] Dugdale, _Mon._ II, p. 334. [1422] _Cal. of Pap. Letters_, III, p. 169. She was born 11 March 1278 and took the veil at the age of seven years. Some annalists put the date of her profession at 1285 and some at 1289; in any case the Warenne charge was not made until 1345. See above, p. 381, note 1. [1423] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, V, p. 161. [1424] _Ib._ VII, p. 373. [1425] _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, p. 851. [1426] See Note G, p. 597, below. [1427] In general an apostate may be said to mean a lover, but there must also have been cases of nuns apostatising out of general discontent with the convent or Prioress. [1428] Two of these, St Mary de Pré (St Albans) and Sopwell ought not, however, to be counted, being entirely under the control of the Abbey of St Albans and exempt from episcopal visitation. It was concerning St Mary de Pré that Archbishop Morton made the charges against St Albans, rendered famous by Froude. [1429] Above, p. 440. [1430] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 101 (note), from _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Sutton_, f. 154. [1431] _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 389. [1432] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 126. [1433] _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 103. [1434] _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 360. [1435] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 179. [1436] _V.C.H. Bucks._ I, p. 383. [1437] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 114. [1438] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 101. [1439] See A. H. Thompson, "Registers of John Gynewell, Bishop of Lincoln, for the Years 1347-1350." _Archaeol. Journ._ 2nd ser., vol. XVIII, p. 331. [1440] _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 81-2. [1441] _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 82-6. [1442] _Ib._ pp. 111-2. It should be noted that the word "incest" is used in its religious sense; it was properly used of intercourse between persons who were both under ecclesiastical vows and thus in the relation of spiritual father and daughter, or brother and sister, but it soon came to be used loosely to denote a breach of chastity in which one party was professed. [1443] Lambeth, _Reg. Courtenay_, I, f. 336. [1444] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. Flemyng adds "or manifestly suspect." [1445] _Ib._ p. 54. [1446] _Ib._ p. 65. [1447] _Ib._ pp. 69-71. [1448] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 6. [1449] See above, p. 449. [1450] See above, pp. 82-4, 388. [1451] See above, pp. 80, 310, 449. [1452] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 3. The form of her admission is curious: "Fatetur totidem moniales recessisse, absque tamen sciencia sua." [1453] Jessopp, _Visit. of Dioc. Norwich_ (Camden Soc.) gives also Bishop Goldwell's visitations some ten years before, which brought to light no cases of immorality among nuns. [1454] _Ib._ p. 109. [1455] See _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 129-31 (Romsey, where the date is wrongly given as 1312 by a slip), 124, 135, 151. Unfortunately all but the Romsey visitation are given in the barest summary. [1456] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 130. [1457] Above, pp. 453-4. [1458] _Sussex Arch. Coll._ IX, pp. 25-6. [1459] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 48. [1460] In Archbishop Walter Giffard's York Register occurs the following entry of payments for Agatha: "Item A. Giffard xx_s._ Item Thomae de Habinton ad Expensas versus Elnestowe" (1271), _Reg. W. Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 115. This seems sufficient reason for identifying the Elstow sister as Agatha, though the editor identifies her with Mabel "afterwards abbess of Shaftesbury," _ib._ p. 164. [1461] _Reg. W. Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.) p. 164 and _Hist. Letters and Papers from the Northern Regs._ ed. J. Raine (Rolls Ser.), pp. 33-4. [1462] _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78. [1463] She was in trouble in 1287 for refusing to pay certain moneys left for an obit and had to be threatened with excommunication; see _Worc. Reg. Godfrey Giffard_, Introd. pp. cxxxvi-vii. [1464] _Worc. Reg. Godfrey Giffard_, II, pp. 278-80. It is followed by a letter enjoining the Abbess and convent of Wilton to receive back the two nuns. [1465] For another version of the penance see _Reg. Epis. J. Peckham_, III, pp. 916-7. This forbids him to enter any nunnery or speak with any nuns without special licence from their metropolitan. [1466] _V.C.H. Beds._ I, p. 389. [1467] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. Compare the case of Thomas de Raynevill who in 1324 was ordered, as penance for seducing a nun of Hampole, to stand on a Sunday, while high mass was being celebrated, in the conventual church of Hampole, bareheaded, wearing only his tunic and holding a lighted taper of one pound weight of wax in his hand, which he was to offer, after the offertory had been said, to the celebrant, who was to explain to the congregation the cause of the oblation. Also on feast days he was to be beaten round the parish church of Campsall. But two years later the Archbishop was still repeating directions for the performance of the penance. _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164. [1468] From Nunkeeling to Yedingham (1444); from Arthington to Yedingham (1310); from St Clement's, York, to Yedingham (1331); from Basedale to Sinningthwaite (1308); from Hampole to Swine (1313); four disobedient nuns of Keldholme to Handale, Swine, Nunappleton and Wallingwells respectively (1308); and two others to Esholt and Nunkeeling (1309); from Nunappleton to Basedale (1308); from Rosedale to Handale (1321); from Swine to Wykeham (1291); from Wykeham to Nunappleton (1444); from Arthington to Nunkeeling (1219). _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 121, 127, 130, 159, 163-4, 168, 171, 175, 180, 183, 189. Also from Kirklees to Hampole (1323) and from Basedale to Rosedale (1534). _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 362, 431-3. [1469] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 84. [1470] See for instance the insistence on costs and charges in Archbishop Lee's letter transferring Joan Fletcher, ex-Prioress of Basedale, from Rosedale where she was doing (or not doing) her penance, back to Basedale again. _Loc. cit._ pp. 431-3. [1471] Joan Trimelet of Cannington was to be shut up for a year, fasting thrice a week on bread and water, _suos calores macerans juveniles_. Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 416. Margaret de Tang of Arthington was "if need be to be bound by the foot with a shackle, but without hurting her limbs or body." _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 189. The runaway Agnes de Flixthorpe was similarly to be bound, see above, p. 444; Anne Talke was imprisoned for a month. Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 244. Joan Hutton of Esholt, who had had a child (1535), for two years unless the Archbishop relaxed her penance. _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI. p. 453. [1472] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 456-7. The recorded penances given by Archbishop Melton are all very severe, though it must be admitted that the state of the nunneries in his diocese gave him cause for severity and that the penitents were all hardened sinners. Compare penances given by him in _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 175, 189. There is an extremely severe penance imposed by Archbishop Zouche on a nun who had several times run away from Thicket, _ib._ p. 124, and another by Archbishop Lee in 1535 cited in the last note. [1473] Jessopp, _Visit. in Dioc. Norwich_, p. 110. [1474] _V.C.H. Suffolk_, II, p. 84. [1475] "Expresse inhibentes, ne infuturum aliqua monialis de crimine incontinencie conuicta vel publice diffamata, antequam de innocencia sic diffamate constiterit, ad aliquod officium domus predicte et precipue ad ostiorum custodiam admittatur." Lambeth, _Reg. Courtenay_, I, f. 336. Injunction to Elstow in 1390 and repeated by Bishop Flemyng in 1421. See above, p. 396. Compare the charge against Margaret Fairfax, Prioress of Nunmonkton, in 1397: "_Item_, moniales quae lapsae fuerint in fornicatione faciliter restituit." Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [1476] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 239. [1477] _Ib._ p. 183. [1478] _Ib._ p. 120. For those Yorkshire cases see below, Note G, _passim_. [1479] Liveing, _op. cit._ pp. 213-6. [1480] See below, Note F. [1481] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, X, p. 471. The dispensation mentions that she "has secretly lost her virginity and has not yet been publicly defamed." [1482] _Ib._ V, p. 161 and VII, p. 373. [1483] The Pope writes to Mitford, Bishop of Salisbury, desiring him to restore Alice Wilton, nun of Shaftesbury, to the position which she had forfeited by the sin of incontinence. The Bishop reinstates the nun and declares her eligible for all offices except that of Abbess. _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 78, note 93. [1484] See Chs. IX, X, above. [1485] See below, p. 491. [1486] Bede, _Eccles. Hist._ Book IV, ch. 25. [1487] Benedict of Peterborough, _Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi_, ed. Stubbs (Rolls Series, 1867), I, pp. 135-6. Ralph Niger describes the transaction thus: "Juratus se tria monasteria constructurum, duos ordines transvertit, personas de loco ad locum transferens, meretrices alias aliis, cenomannicas Anglicis substituens." _Ib._ II, p. XXX. [1488] "Et quod indignum scribi, ad domos religiosarum veniens, fecit exprimi mammillas earundem, ut sic physice si esset inter eas corruptela experiretur" [1251]. Matt. Paris, _Chron. Majora_, ed. H. R. Luard (Rolls Series, 1880), V, p. 227. In 1248 he had deposed an abbess of Godstow, Flandrina de Bowes, and Adam Marsh writes to him: "Plurimum credo fore salutiferam visitationem quam in domo Godestowe fieri fecistis. Paternitatis vestrae sollicitudinem largitio divina remuneret." _Monumenta Franciscana_, ed. J. S. Brewer (Rolls Series, 1858), p. 117. If Matthew Paris' account of his procedure be true it would seem almost to rival the behaviour of Layton and Legh, however different the character and motive which inspired it. [1489] The earliest list of _comperta_ which we possess is the result of Archbishop Walter Giffard's visitation of Swine in 1268. Though there is no charge of actual immorality the house was in a thoroughly unsatisfactory state. The Archbishop's two sisters, the one Prioress of Elstow and the other Abbess of Shaftesbury, were both in serious trouble in 1270 and 1298 respectively, their nuns being also involved, and in 1296 there occurred the famous Giffard abduction from Wilton. Peckham's injunctions to nunneries show widespread breach of enclosure and some suspicious conduct during the '80s, a nun of Lymbrook is guilty with a monk of Leominster in 1282, and besides Matthew Paris' account of Grosseteste's proceedings in the diocese of Lincoln in 1251, we have notice of apostates there in 1295, 1296 and 1298 and in the York diocese in 1286, 1287, 1293 and 1299. See this chapter and notes, _passim_. [1490] For the disappearance or suppression of eight small nunneries prior to 1535 see Note H below. [1491] At Chicksand, for instance, Layton "fownde two of the nunnes not baron," and at Harrold "one of them hade two faire chyldren, another one and no mo"; but is this so much worse than what Alnwick found at Catesby and St Michael's, Stamford, in the same diocese a century before? Or take Layton's description of the Prior of Maiden Bradley, quoted above; is it not much less serious than the description of Alexander Black of Selby in one of Archbishop Giffard's visitation _detecta_ in 1275? "Alexander Niger, monachus, tenet Cristinam Bouere et Agnetem filiam Stephani, de qua suscitavit prolem, et quamdam mulierem nomine Anekous, de qua suscitavit vivam prolem apud Crol, et aliam apud Sneyth quae vocatur Nalle, et alias infinitas apud Eboracum et Akastre et alibi, et quasi in qualibet villa unam; et fetidissimus est, et recte modo captus fuit cum quadam muliere in campis, sicut audivit." _Reg. Walter Giffard_, p. 326. Or than what Alnwick discovered at the New Collegiate Church at Leicester in 1440? Layton's general charges against the monks and nuns of Yorkshire are pure gossip or invention; but we should not have been deeply surprised to find them in a York archiepiscopal register of the early fourteenth century. [1492] Of some of the Anglo-Saxon kings it was said, and said with horror, that they most willingly chose their mistresses from convents. See a letter from St Boniface to Ethelbald King of Mercia on this point, instancing the similar habits and evil fates of Ceolred of Mercia and Osred of Northumbria (_Bon. Epis._ XIX). [1493] For these ladies, see references in p. 451, note 5, and below, p. 501, note 3. [1494] _Mémoires de J. Casanova de Seingalt_ (edition Garnier, 1910), tt. II, III, IV. [1495] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 365-6. Compare a _detectum_ at Crabhouse (1514): "Item, the younger nuns are disobedient and when the seniors charge them with their faults the prioress punishes alike the reformers and the sinners." _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp, p. 109. [1496] _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 50. Compare _Reg. Walter Giffard_, p. 249; _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp ("Item Dna. A. D. et Dna. G. S. ... revelant secreta religionis et correctionis factae in conventu") _Linc. Epis. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, ff. 397, 397_d_ ("Et quod nullum decetero capitulum in domo capitulari in presencia secularis seu extranee persone quoquomodo teneatur sub pena iniunccionis nostre infrascripta"). [1497] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, 120, 167-8. [1498] See below, Note F. [1499] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164. [1500] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 47, 120. [1501] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 118. [1502] For an account of the house, see _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 428-32. The regulations made by Abbot Richard de Wallingford (1328-36) are given in _Gesta Abbat._ II, pp. 213-4 and those by Abbot Michael or his successor Thomas de la Mare in Cott. MS. Nero D. i. ff. 173-4_d_; regulations by Thomas de la Mare (1349-96) occur in _Gesta Abbat._ II, p. 402. See also W. Page, "Hist. of the Monastery of St Mary de Pré" (_St Albans and Herts. Arch. Soc. Trans._ (New Series) I). [1503] For an account of the house, see _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 422-6. [1504] The accounts of the warden of St Mary de Pré for 1341-57 are preserved in the Public Record Office (_Mins. Accts._, bundle 867, Nos. 21-6) and are described in _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 430 (notes). In the second half of the fifteenth century the accounts seem to have been kept by the Prioress; those for 1461-93 have survived. _Ib._ p. 431 (note). [1505] See _Gesta Abbat._ II, p. 212. [1506] Quoted from _P.R.O. Early Chancery Proceedings_, 181/4 in _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, pp. 424-5. [1507] Wilkins, _Concilia_, III, p. 632. [1508] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 425. [1509] Printed in Dugdale, _Mon._ III, pp. 365-6 and _Gesta Abbat._ ed. Riley, II, App. D. pp. 511-19. [1510] _Gesta Abbat._ III, p. 519. [1511] See _V.C.H. Northants._ II, pp. 98-101. [1512] _E.H.R._ 1914, p. 38 (note 60). [1513] The religious houses were also subject to metropolitan visitation by the Archbishop. Among important records of visitations of nunneries by the Archbishop of Canterbury or by his commissioners are Peckham's visitations (_Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, _passim_) in the last quarter of the thirteenth century, Courtenay's visitations in the last quarter of the fourteenth century (see Lambeth, _Reg. Courtenay_, I, f. 335_d_, for his injunctions to Elstow in 1389, used by Flemyng as a model for his own injunctions in 1421-2, _Linc. Visit._ I, p. 48) and Archbishop Morton's visitations in the last quarter of the fifteenth century (see Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, pp. 217-22 for the visitation of Romsey in 1492). The visitations of the Winchester diocese by Dr Hede, commissary of the Prior of Canterbury, during the vacancy of the sees of Canterbury and Winchester in 1501-2 were made in the same right (see _V.C.H. Hants._ II, pp. 124, 129, 135, 151). [1514] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 176 (quoting Dugdale, _Mon._ V, pp. 464-5 and _Reg. Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), p. 295). [1515] See _Linc. Visit._ II, _passim_, and also the Editor's admirable introduction to _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. ix-xiii. [1516] See above, p. 250. [1517] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 119. 126-7. [1518] Sometimes the bishop's clerk summarises the information given as to the financial state of the house, which would seem to indicate that the prioress gave and the bishop accepted merely a verbal account. See _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 38. In _Linc. Epis. Reg. Atwater_, f. 42, is a brief account of a visitation of Ankerwyke in 1519, to which is added the _status domus_ as submitted by the nuns, comprising an inventory. [1519] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 49-50. [1520] See e.g. the case of Denise Loweliche at Markyate in 1433, _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 83-5. [1521] _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, II, pp. 706-8 (injunctions), 708-9 (mandate to commissary). Compare the proceedings at Ankerwyke six months after Alnwick's visitation. _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 7. [1522] _Linc. Visit._ I, pp. 82-3. [1523] G. G. Coulton in _Eng. Hist. Review_ (1914), p. 37. "The _locus classicus_ here is the Evesham Chronicle, in which one of the most admirable abbots of the thirteenth century tells us how solemnly he and his brethren had promised to conceal all their former abbot's blackest crimes from the visiting bishop; and how they would never have complained even to the legate (whose jurisdiction they did recognize) if only the sinner had kept his pact with them in money matters." [1524] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 47, 48, 49, 52. At Heynings (where nothing seriously amiss transpired) one nun said that "the prioress reproaches her sisters, saying that if they say aught to the bishop, she will lay on them such penalties that they shall not easily bear them." _Ib._ p. 133. The wicked Prioress of Littlemore was found in 1517 to have ordered her nuns on virtue of their obedience to reveal nothing to the commissioners and in 1518 it was stated that she had punished them for speaking the truth at the visitation. _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 75. At Flixton in 1514 it was said: "The sisters scarce dare to depose the truth on account of the fierceness of the prioress." _Visit. of the Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp (Camden Soc.), p. 143. For episcopal injunctions against revealing or quarrelling over _detecta_ made at the visitation, see _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 51, 124, etc., _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 442, _Reg. Epis. Johannis Peckham_, II, p. 661. [1525] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 184-5. [1526] _Ib._ p. 4. [1527] _Ib._ pp. 120, 122, 123-4. [1528] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, p. 76. [1529] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 83, 39_d_, 96. Similarly at Ankerwyke, where there was great discord between Prioress and nuns, he prorogued his visitation for six months and then sent down commissioners to expound his injunctions, inquire how they were followed and deal with further grievances. _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 6-8. [1530] _V.C.H. Lincs._ II, pp. 76-7. [1531] _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. f. 39_d_. [1532] See above, pp. 388-9, 460. [1533] See above, p. 469. [1534] Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_, p. 220. [1535] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 5. [1536] As full reports containing _detecta_ or _comperta_ are specially valuable, it may be useful to indicate those concerning nunneries, which have been published: (1) The earliest _comperta_ extant are those of Archbishop Giffard's visitation of Swine in Yorkshire in 1267-8; the individual _detecta_ are absent, but there is a fine set of injunctions, issued two months later, the earliest English nunnery injunctions which we possess, _Reg. Walter Giffard_ (Surtees Soc.), pp. 147-8, 248-9. (2) The _comperta_ of Archbishop Wittlesey's metropolitan visitation of St Radegund's, Cambridge (including only _interim_ injunctions) have been published in Gray, _Priory of St Radegund, Cambridge_, pp. 35-6. (3) The _Sede Vacante_ visitation of Arden in 1396 includes _detecta_ but no injunctions, _Test. Ebor._ I, pp. 283-5 (note) and that of Nunmonkton in the same year includes _comperta_ and injunctions, Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194; both of these are concerned almost entirely with charges against the respective prioresses. (4) The finest collection in existence is Alnwick's book of Lincoln visitations, which is in the course of publication, _Linc. Visit._ II and III (in the press). (5) Records of visitations of Rusper and Easebourne from the Chichester registers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries contain _detecta_ and some injunctions, _Sussex Arch. Coll._ V and IX, _passim_. (6) Records of the visitations of monastic houses in the diocese of Norwich by Bishops Goldwell (1492-3) and Nykke (1514-32) include _detecta_ and _injunctions_ (sometimes only _interim_), _Visit. of Dioc. of Norwich_, ed. Jessopp, _passim_. (7) Dr Hede's _Sede Vacante_ visitations of the four houses in the diocese of Winchester in 1501-2, summarised in _V.C.H. Hants._ II, _passim_, include _detecta_, but not injunctions. (8) Archbishop Warham's visitations of houses in the diocese of Canterbury (Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, the hospital of St James, Canterbury, Sheppey and Davinton) in 1511 include _detecta_ and sometimes injunctions, _Eng. Hist. Review_, VI. When more registers are published other _detecta_ and _comperta_ will doubtless appear; there are some valuable sets, still in manuscript in _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Atwater_ and _ib._ _Reg. Visit. Longland_. [1537] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. xlviii; for an admirable and detailed discussion of the whole question, in the light of Alnwick's records, Mr Hamilton Thompson's introduction to this volume (especially pp. xliv-li) should be studied. See also the learned article by Mr Coulton on "The Interpretation of Visitation Documents," _E.H.R._ 1914, pp. 16-40. [1538] Liveing, _op. cit._, pp. 99, etc. [1539] _Revelationes Gertrudianae ac Mechthildianae_, ed. Oudin (Paris, 1875). See also Preger, _Geschichte der deutschen Mystik im Mittelalter_ (1874), I, pp. 70-132; Eckenstein, _Woman under Mon._ pp. 328-53; Taylor, _The Medieval Mind_, I, pp. 481-6; A. M. F. Robinson (Mme Darmesteter), _The End of the Middle Ages_ (1889), pp. 45-72 (the Convent of Helfta); A. Kemp-Welch, _Of Six Medieval Women_ (1913), pp. 57-82 (Mechthild of Magdeburg); G. Ledos, _Ste Gertrude_ (Paris, 1901). The name of the Abbess Gertrude of Hackeborn, who ruled the house during the greater part of the time that these three mystics lived there, deserves to be added to theirs. For her life see _Revelationes, etc._, I, pp. 497 ff. [1540] See her life by Thomas of Chantimpré, _Acta SS. Jun._, t. III, pp. 234 ff. See also Taylor, _op. cit._ I, pp. 479-81. [1541] See E. Gilliat Smith, _St Clare of Assisi, her Life and Legislation_ (1914); Mrs Balfour, _Life and Legend of the Lady St Clare_, with introd. by Father Cuthbert (1910); Fr. Marianus Fiege, _The Princess of Poverty_ (Evansville, Ind. 1900) which contains a translation of Thomas of Celano's _Life of St Clare_ (_Acta SS. Aug._ t. II, pp. 754-67), Paschal Robinson, _Life of St Clare_ (1910), Locatelli, _Ste Claire d'Assise_ (Rome, 1899-1900). Also _La Vie et Légende de Madame Sainte Claire par Frère Françoys de Puis_, 1563, ed. Arnauld Goffin (Paris, 1907). [1542] _Acta SS. Mar._ t. I, pp. 501-31. See also Jentsch, _Die Selige Agnes von Böhmen._ She is always regarded as a saint but was never officially canonised. [1543] Pirckheimer, _B. Opera_, ed. Goldast (1610). See also, T. Binder, _Charitas Pirkheimer_ (1878), and Eckenstein, _op. cit._ pp. 458-76. [1544] _The Life of St Theresa of Jesus, written by Herself_, tr. D. Lewis, ed. Zimmerman (1904). _The Letters of St Theresa_, tr. J. Dalton (1902). See also G. Cunningham Grahame, _Santa Teresa_, 2 vols. (1894). [1545] See A. Gagnière, _Les Confessions d'une Abbesse du xvi{e} siècle_ (Paris, 1888), based on a manuscript at Ravenna ("Vita della Madre Donna Felice Rasponi, Badessa di S. Andrea, scritta da una Monaca") which the author considers to be an autobiography. Some interesting details as to the scandalous condition of Italian convents at the end of the century are to be found in J. A. Symonds' _Renaissance in Italy: The Catholic Reaction_, pt. I (1886), pp. 341-70, dealing with the careers of Virginia Maria de Leyva, in the convent of S. Margherita at Monza and Lucrezia Buonvisi (sister Umilia) in the convent of S. Chiara at Lucca. [1546] _La Vie de Ste. Douceline, fondatrice des béguines de Marseille_, ed. J. H. Albanès (Marseille, 1879). See also A. Macdonell, _Saint Douceline_ (1905). [1547] _Acta SS. Aprilis_, t. II, pp. 266-365. See also Huysmans, _Ste. Lydwine de Schiedam_ (3rd ed. Paris, 1901). [1548] _Acta SS. Jun._ t. IV, pp. 270 ff. See also Th. Wollersheim, _Das Leben der ekstatischen Jungfrau Christina von Stommeln_ (Cologne, 1859); and Renan, _Nouvelles �tudes d'Histoire Religieuse_ (1884) (_Une Idylle Monacale au xiii{e} siècle: Christine de Stommeln_), pp. 353-96. Extracts from Christina's correspondence and life by Peter of Sweden are translated in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ pp. 402-21. [1549] On these saintly and learned women see Eckenstein, _op. cit._ cc. III and IV, and Montalembert, _The Monks of the West_ (introd. Gasquet), vol. IV, Book XV. The great fourteenth century mystic Julian of Norwich (1343-c. 1413) was, it is true, connected with Carrow Priory, but she was an anchoress and never a nun there; see above, p. 366. [1550] On these songs see A. Jeanroy, _Les Origines de la Poésie Lyrique en France au moyen âge_ (2nd ed. 1904), pp. 189-92; and P. S. Allen in _Modern Philology_, V (1908), pp. 432-5. The songs themselves have to be collected from various sources; see below, Note I. [1551] Langland, _Piers Plowman_, ed. Skeat. C text, Passus X, 72-5. [1552] There was (as usual) however, more chance for a man than for a woman of villein status to enter a monastery and even to rise to the highest ecclesiastical dignities. A villein who could save enough to pay a fine to his lord might put his son to school and might buy that son's enfranchisement, so that he would be eligible for a place in a monastery. And though it was forbidden by canon and by temporal law to ordain a serf, once ordained he was free. Pollock and Maitland, _Hist. of Engl. Law_ (1911), I, p. 429; the lower ranks of the clergy probably contained many men of low or villein birth (see e.g. Chaucer's Poor Parson, whose brother was a ploughman and the complaint in "Pierce the Plouman's Crede" that beggars' brats become bishops). Sometimes, though very rarely, a villein rose high, for once he was a churchman, it was _la carrière ouverte aux talents_: Bishop Grosseteste was of very humble, probably of servile, origin; and Sancho Panza's motto will be remembered: "I am a man and I may be Pope." For a woman, however, the Church offered no such chance of advancement through the religious orders; the nunneries were essentially upper and middle class institutions. [1553] From a charming round, sung in Saintonge, Aunis and Bas-Poitou. "Dans l'jardin de ma tante Plantons le romarin! Y'a-t-un oiseau qui chante, Plantons le romarin, Ma mie, Au milieu du jardin, etc." Bujeaud, J., _Chants et chansons populaires des provinces de l'ouest_ (1866), I, pp. 136-7. [1554] M. Vattasso, _Studi Medievali_, I (1904), p. 124. A long poem of seven verses, much mutilated in parts. [1555] Uhland, _Alte hoch- und niederdeutsche Volkslieder_ (1844-5), t. II, p. 854 (No. 328). A slightly modernised version. Also printed in _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_, ed. von Arnim and Brentano (Reclam ed.), p. 25, and in _Deutsches Leben im Volkslied um 1530_, ed. Liliencron (1884), p. 226. Translation by Bithell, _The Minnesingers_, I (1909), p. 200, except the last two lines, which are by Mr Coulton; there is another in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 476. [1556] Ferrari, _Canzone per andare in maschera per carnesciale_, pp. 31-2. Referred to in Jeanroy, _op. cit._ I have been unable to consult the book. [1557] Bartsch, _Altfranzösische Romanzen und Pastourellen_ (1870), pp. 28-9 (No. 33). [1558] Bartsch, _op. cit._ pp. 29-30 (No. 34). [1559] _Oeuvres Complètes d'Eustache Deschamps_ (Soc. des Anc. Textes Fr.), IV, pp. 235-6. (Virelay, DCCLII, sur une novice d'Avernay.) [1560] Bladé, J. F. _Poésies populaires de la Gascogne_ (1882), III, pp. 372-4. Also in Lénac-Moncaut, _Littérature populaire de la Gascogne_ (1868), pp. 291-2. [1561] Damase Arbaud, _Chants Populaires de la Provence_ (1862-4), II, pp. 118-22. [1562] See below, p. 611. [1563] _The Court of Love in Chaucer's Poetical Works_, ed. R. Morris (1891), IV, pp. 38-40. [1564] Lydgate's _Temple of Glas_, ed. J. Schick (E.E.T.S. 1891), p. 8. [1565] _The Kingis Quair in Medieval Scottish Poetry_, ed. G. Eyre-Todd (1892), p. 47. [1566] _Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_, by Sir David Lyndesay, ed. Small, Hall and Murray (E.E.T.S., 2nd ed., 1883), p. 514. "And seis thou now yone multitude, on rawe Standing behynd yon trauerse of delyte? Sum bene of thayme that haldin were full lawe And take by frendis, nothing thay to wyte, In youth from bye into the cloistre quite; And for that cause are cummyn, recounsilit, On thame to pleyne that so thame had begilit." [1567] _An Alphabet of Tales_, ed. M. M. Banks (E.E.T.S.). No. CCCCLXVIII, pp. 319-20. (In this and the following quotations from this work in this chapter I have modernised the spelling.) This version is translated from Caesarius of Heisterbach. _Dial. Mirac._, ed. Strange, II, pp. 42-3, which is the original version of all the widespread legends on this theme. From Caesarius it found its way into many other collections of miracles, in prose and in verse, in Latin, French, Spanish, German, Icelandic, Dutch and English. Perhaps the most beautiful is the Dutch poem (c. 1320) published by W. J. A. Jenckbloet, _Beatriij_ (Amsterdam, 1846-59) and re-edited with a grammatical introduction and notes in English by A. J. Barnouw (_Pub. of Philol. Soc._ III, 1914). An edition with illustrations by Ch. Doudelet accompanied by a translation into French by H. de Marez was published in Antwerp (1901) and was also issued with an English translation by A. W. Sanders vaz Loo. The best English translations are those in prose by L. Simons and L. Housman in _The Pageant_, ed. C. H. Shannon and J. W. Gleeson White (1896) pp. 95-116 and in verse by H. de Wolf Fuller (_Harvard Coop. Soc._, Cambridge, U.S.A. 1910). Modern writers have retold the tale almost as often as their medieval forebears; see for example Maeterlinck's play, _Soeur Béatrice_, John Davidson's poem, _The Ballad of a Nun_, one of Villier de l'Isle-Adam's _Contes Cruels_ (_Soeur Natalia_), one of Charles Nodier's _Contes de la Veillée_ (_La Légende de Soeur Béatrice_), and one of Gottfried Keller's _Sieben Legenden_ (_Die Jungfrau und die Nonne_). For a study of the Beatrice story see Heinrich Watenphul, _Die Geschichte der Marienlegende von Beatrix der Küsterin_ (Neuwied, 1904); also P. Toldo, _Die Sakristanin_ (with bibliography by J. Bolte) in _Zeitschrift des Vereins für Volkskunde_ (1905), J. van der Elst, _Bijdrage tot de Geschiedenis der Legende van Beatrijs_ in _Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsche Taal- en Letterkunde_, XXXII, pp. 51 ff., and Mussafia, _Studien zu den Mittelalterlichen Marienlegenden_ (Vienna, 1887), I, p. 73. See also A. Cotarelo y Valledor, _Una Cantiga celebre del Rey Sabio, fuentes y desarollo de la leyenda de sor Beatriz, principalmente en la literatura española_ (1914). For other variants of the _Nonne Enlevée_ see below, Note J. [1568] Chambers and Sidgwick, _Early English Lyrics_ (1907), No. XC, p. 163. But perhaps the most beautiful of medieval English poems which moralise on this theme is the _Luue Ron_ which Thomas of Hales wrote in the thirteenth century for a nun: "Hwer is Paris and Heleyne That weren so bryght and feyre on bleo? Amadas, Tristram and Dideyne, Yseude and alle theo, Ector with his scharpe meyne, And Cesar riche of worldes feo? Heo beoth iglyden ut of the reyne, So the scheft is of the cleo," --they have passed away as a shaft from the bowstring. It is as if they had never lived. All their heat is turned to cold. (_An Old English Miscellany_, ed. R. Morris (E.E.T.S. 1872), p. 95.) This catalogue of the lovely dead was a favourite device, immortalised later by "ung povre petit escollier, qui fust nommé Francoys Villon" (who certainly was not a moralist) in his _Ballade des Dames du Temps jadis_. [1569] For an entertaining and stimulating account of the popular cult of the Virgin see Henry Adams, _Mont St Michel and Chartres_ (1913), especially chs. VI and XIII. [1570] Modern poets who have written upon the same theme have drawn this moral more overtly than the medieval authors. Maeterlinck's Virgin in _Soeur Béatrice_ sings: Il n'est péché qui vive Quand l'amour a prié; Il n'est âme qui meure Quand l'amour a pleuré.... Davidson's sacristan (in _A Ballad of a Nun_) cries: "I care not for my broken vow; Though God should come in thunder soon, I am sister to the mountains now And sister to the sun and moon," and the Virgin, welcoming her back on her return, tells her: "You are sister to the mountains now, And sister to the day and night; Sister to God." And on her brow She kissed her thrice, and left her sight. [1571] "Cum in hyemis intemperie post cenam noctu familia divitis ad focum, ut potentibus moris est, recensendis antiquis gestis operam daret." _Gesta Romanorum_, ed. Oesterley (1872), ch. CLV. Quoted in Jusserand, _Lit. Hist. of the Eng. People_, I, p. 182. [1572] One particular kind of story, the _fabliau_ (defined by Bédier as "un conte à rire en vers") was brought to great perfection by French jongleurs. See Montaiglon and Raynaud, _Recueil général et complet des Fabliaux_ (Paris, 1872-90), 6 vols.; and Bédier, _Les Fabliaux_ (Paris, 1873). [1573] See Dante, _Paradiso_, XXIX, 11, for a violent attack on the practice. Compare the decree of the Council of Paris in 1528: "Quodsi secus fecerint, aut si populum more scurrarum vilissimorum, dum ridiculas et aniles fabulas recitant, ad risus cachinnationesque excitaverint, ... nos volumus tales tam ineptos et perniciosos concionatores ab officio praedicationis suspendi," etc., quoted in _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, ed. T. F. Crane (1890), Introd. p. lxix. The great preacher Jacques de Vitry himself, while advocating the use of _exempla_, adds "infructuosas enim fabulas et curiosa poetarum carmina a sermonis nostris debemus relegare ... scurrilia tamen aut obscena verba vel turpis sermo ex ore predicatoris non procedant." _Ib._ Introd., pp. xlii, xliii. [1574] For instance _exempla_ were much used by Jacques de Vitry (see _op. cit._). Etienne de Bourbon (see _Anecdotes Historiques, etc., d'Etienne de Bourbon_, ed. A. Lecoy de la Marche (Soc. de l'Hist. de France)), and John Herolt. On the whole subject of _exempla_ see the Introduction to T. F. Crane's edition of the _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, and the references given there. [1575] The most famous is the _Gesta Romanorum_. _Gesta Romanorum_, ed. Oesterley (Berlin, 1872); and see _The Early English Version of the Gesta Romanorum_, ed. S. J. H. Herrtage (E.E.T.S. 1879). The largest is the _Summa Praedicantium_ of John Bromyard, a fourteenth century English Dominican. See also an interesting fifteenth century English translation of a similar collection, the _Alphabetum Narrationum_ (which used to be attributed to Etienne de Besançon), _An Alphabet of Tales_, ed. M. M. Banks (E.E.T.S. 1904-5); many of the _exempla_ in this come from Caesarius of Heisterbach. Specimens of _exempla_ from these and other sources are collected in Wright's _Latin Stories_ (Percy Soc. 1842), and many tales from Caesarius of Heisterbach, Jacques de Vitry, Etienne de Bourbon, Thomas of Chantimpré, etc., are translated in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ [1576] For instance Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dialogus Miraculorum_, ed. Strange (1851); Thomas of Chantimpré (Cantimpratanus), _Bonum Universale de Apibus_ (Douay, 1597); and the knight of la Tour Landry, who wrote a book of deportment for his daughters, copiously illustrated with stories. _The Book of the Knight of la Tour Landry_, ed. T. Wright (E.E.T.S. revised ed. 1906). For some account of Caesarius of Heisterbach's stories, other than those quoted in the text, see below Note K. [1577] Collections of stories, such as those of the _Decameron_, the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, the _Il Pecorone_ of Ser Giovanni, the _Novelle_ of Bandello, the _Heptameron_ of Margaret of Navarre, became very popular. But individual stories have also given plots to many great writers from the middle ages to the present day; it is only necessary to mention Chaucer, Shakespeare, Molière and La Fontaine, to illustrate the use which has been made of them. [1578] For examples of medieval mission sermons, with their colloquialisms, interruptions from the audience and strings of stories, the reader cannot do better than turn to the sermons of Berthold of Regensburg (1220-72) and of St Bernardino of Siena (1380-1444). Specimens of these are translated in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ pp. 348-64, 604-19. See also for Berthold, Coulton, _Medieval Studies_, 1st series. No. II ("A Revivalist of Six Centuries Ago") and for St Bernardino, Paul Thureau-Dangin, _St Bernardine of Siena_, trans. Baroness von Hügel (1906), and A. G. Ferrers Howell, _St Bernardino of Siena_ (1913). [1579] Chaucer, _Cant. Tales, Wife of Bath's Prol._ ll. 556-8. [1580] Translated from Jacques de Vitry (_Exempla ..._, ed. T. F. Crane, p. 22) in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 95 (No. CXXXVI). The story is a very old one, first found in the _Vitae Patrum_, X, cap. 60. It is sometimes attributed to St Bridget of Ireland, but Etienne de Bourbon, who repeats the story twice, tells it of Richard King of England and "a certain nun" (_Anec. Hist., etc., d'Etienne de Bourbon_, ed. Lecoy de la Marche, Nos. 248 and 500); and other medieval versions make the persecuting lover "a king of England." (See T. F. Crane, _op. cit._ p. 158.) [1581] _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, No. LVIII, pp. 22-3. For other versions of this story, see _ib._ p. 159. [1582] Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dial. Mirac._ ed. Strange, I, p. 389. I have used the translation by Mr Coulton, _Med. Garn._ p. 124. The story is a variant of the theme of "the novice and the geese," one of the most popular of medieval stories (see Coulton, _ib._ p. 426); for analogues, see A. C. Lee, _The Decameron, its Sources and Analogues_, pp. 110-16. [1583] Robert of Brunne's _Handlyng Synne_, ed. F. J. Furnivall (Roxburghe Club, 1862), pp. 50-52. (This is an amplified translation of William of Wadington's _Le Manuel des Pechiez_.) See also _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, No. CCLXXII, p. 113, which is translated in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 303. [1584] _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, No. CXXX, p. 59. For other versions, see _ib._ p. 189. There is an English version in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 78 (No. CVIII). [1585] Caesarius of Heisterbach, II. pp. 160-1. Compare the tale of Abbess Sophia whose small beer was miraculously turned into wine. _Ib._ p. 229. [1586] Boccaccio, _Decameron_, 9th day, novel 2. But the story is older than Boccaccio, who constantly uses old tales. There is a French version by Jean de Condé: "Le Dit de la Nonnete" (Montaiglon et Raynaud, _op. cit._ t. VI, pp. 263-9). It was often afterwards copied in various forms in French, German and Italian jest- and story-books and there is an extremely gross dramatic version entitled "Farce Nouvelle a cinq personnages, c'est a sçavoir l'Abesse, soeur de Bon Coeur, seur Esplourée, seur Safrete et seur Fesne" in a collection of sixteenth century French farces (_Rec. de farces, moralités et sermons joyeux_, ed. Le Roux de Lincy et Francisque Michel, Paris, 1837, vol. II). It is also referred to in _Albion's England_: It was at midnight when a Nonne, in trauell of a childe, Was checked of her fellow Nonnes, for being so defilde; The Lady Prioresse heard a stirre, and starting out of bed, Did taunt the Nouasse bitterly, who, lifting up her head, Said "Madame, mend your hood" (for why, so hastely she rose, That on her head, mistooke for hood, she donde a Channon's hose). For these and references to other analogues see A. C. Lee, _The Decameron, its Sources and Analogues_ (1909), pp. 274-7. See also a curious folk-song version, below, p. 611. La Fontaine founded his fable of _Le Psautier_ on Boccaccio's version. [1587] Boccaccio, _Decameron_ (3rd day, novel 1). For analogues and imitations, see A. C. Lee, _op. cit._ pp. 59-62. The story is the source of La Fontaine's _Mazet de Lamporechio_. For other ribald stories about nuns see Note J, below, p. 624. [1588] I have made no attempt to describe the many treatises in praise of virginity composed by the fathers of the church. These include works by Evagrius Ponticus, St Athanasius, Sulpicius Severus, St Jerome, St Augustine, St Caesarius of Arles and others. Among the most interesting is one of English origin, the _De Laudibus Virginitatis_ of Aldhelm ([dagger] 709). For short analyses of these works, see A. A. Hentsch, _De la Littérature Didactique du Moyen Age, s'adressant spécialement aux Femmes_ (Cahors, 1903), _passim_. From the eleventh century onwards several imitations of these treatises occur. A few of the more interesting will be noted later. [1589] Uhland, _Alte hoch und niederdeutsche Volkslieder_ (1845), II, pp. 857-62 (No. 331). The first verse may be quoted to give the style: Es war ein jungfrau edel Si war gar wol getan, in ainen schonen paungarten wolt si spacieren gan, in ainen schonen paungarten durnach stuont ir gedank, nach pluomen mangerlaie, nach vogelein suessem gesank. [1590] Uhland, _op. cit._ II, p. 852 (No. 326). See also Nos. 332 and 334. [1591] _An Old English Miscellany_, ed. R. Morris [E.E.T.S. 1872], pp. 93-99. [1592] Printed in _The Stacions of Rome_, etc., ed. F. J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S. 1867), and again in _Minor Poems of the Vernon MS._, Part II, ed. F. J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S. 1901), No. XLII, pp. 464-8. [1593] _Hali Meidenhad_, ed. O. Cockayne (E.E.T.S. 1866). [1594] See on this point Taylor, _The Medieval Mind_ (2nd ed. 1914), I, pp. 475 ff. [1595] _Hali Meidenhad_, ed. O. Cockayne (E.E.T.S. 1866), p. 20. [1596] _Hali Meidenhad_, ed. O. Cockayne (E.E.T.S. 1866), p. 22. [1597] _Ib._ pp. 8, 30. [1598] _Ib._ p. 36. [1599] See e.g. p. 28. "Under a man's protection thou shalt be sore vexed for his and the world's love, which are both deceptive and must lie awake in many a care not only for thyself as God's spouse must, but for many others and often as well for the detested as the dear; and be more worried than any drudge in the house, or any hired hind and take thine own share often with misery and bitterly purchase it. Little do blessed spouses of God know of thee here, that in so sweet ease without such trouble in spiritual grace and in rest of heart love the true love and in his only service lead their life." [1600] The _Ancren Riwle_ was translated and edited by J. Morton for the Camden Soc. (1853). I quote from the cheap and convenient reprint of the translation, with introduction by Gasquet, in The King's Classics, 1907. For the most recent research as to the different versions, authorship, etc., see article by G. C. Macaulay, "The _Ancren Riwle_" in _Modern Language Review_, IX (1914), pp. 63-78, 145-60, 324-31, 464-74, Father MacNabb's article _ib._ XI (1916), and Miss Hope Emily Allen's thesis, _The Origin of the Ancren Riwle_ (Publications of the Mod. Lang. Assoc. of Amer. XXXIII, 3, Sept. 1918); see also her note in _Mod. Lang. Review_ (April 1919), XIV, pp. 209-10, and Mr Coulton's review of her thesis, _ib._ (Jan. 1920), XV, p. 99; also Father MacNabb's attack on her theory, _ib._ (Oct. 1920) XV and her reply, _ib._ Research is gradually pushing the date of the first English translation (if indeed it be not after all the original) further and further back. [1601] _Ancren Riwle_ (King's Classics), p. 12. [1602] _Ancren Riwle_, p. 259. [1603] Pp. 164-5. [1604] Pp. 294-6. [1605] Pp. 313-4. [1606] Pp. 317-8. [1607] P. 68. [1608] Pp. 319-20. [1609] Pp. 316-19, _passim_. [1610] P. 325-6. [1611] _The Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. J. H. Blunt (E.E.T.S. 1873, 1898). [1612] _Op. cit._ pp. 65-9, _passim_. [1613] As for instance the various other books written or translated for the nuns of Syon (on which see Eckenstein, _op. cit._ pp. 394-5) and the mystical treatise "Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat," which was written by Richard Rolle of Hampole for a nun of Yedingham. Rolle was kindly cherished by the nuns of Hampole, where he settled; they often sought his advice during his lifetime and after his death they tried to obtain his canonisation; an office for his festival was composed and a collection of his miracles made. (See _Cambridge Hist. of Engl. Lit._ II, pp. 45, 48.) For similar treatises of foreign origin, see the _Opusculum_ of Hermann der Lahme (1013-54), Francesco da Barbarino's _Del Reggimento e Costumi di Donne_ (which contains a section dealing with nuns), (c. 1307-15), Francisco Ximenes' _Libre de les dones_ ([dagger] 1409) and John Gerson's ([dagger] 1429) letter to his sister. See Hentsch, _op. cit._ pp. 39, 114, 151, 152. [1614] Printed from the Thornton MS. in _Religious Pieces in Prose and Verse_, ed. G. G. Perry (E.E.T.S. 1867, 1914), No. III, pp. 51-62. Compare _Brit. Mus. MS._ Add. 39843 (La Sainte Abbaye), some pictures from which are reproduced in this book. [1615] Mechthild von Magdeburg, _Offenbarungen, oder Das fliessende Licht der Gottheit_, ed. Gall Morel (1869), pp. 249 ff.; see Eckenstein, _op. cit._ p. 339. The same idea is found in a little German Volkslied: Wir wellen uns pawen ein heuselein Und unser sel ain klosterlein, Jesus Crist sol der maister sein, Maria jungfraw die schaffnerein. Götliche Forcht die pfortnerein, Götliche Lieb die kelnerein, Diemuetikait wont wol do pei Weisheit besleust daz laid all ein. --Uhland, _Alte hoch- und niederdeutsche Volkslieder_, II, pp. 864-5. [1616] English text in Furnivall, _Early English Poems_ (Berlin, 1862), printed in _Trans. of Philological Soc._ 1858, pt. II, pp. 156-61; and in Goldbeck and Mätzner, _Altenglische Sprachproben_ (Berlin, 1867). pt. I, p. 147; W. Heuser, _Die Kildare-Gedichte_ (Bonn, 1904), p. 145; and in a slightly modernised form in Ellis, _Specimens of Early English Poets_, 1801, I, pp. 83 ff., who took it from Hickes' _Thesaurus_, pt. I, p. 231. I have here used the modernised version for the sake of convenience. An attempt has been made to identify the religious houses mentioned in the poem with real monasteries in Kildare; the poem is certainly of Anglo-Irish origin and occurs in the famous "Kildare Manuscript" (MS. Harl. 913). See W. Heuser, _op. cit._ pp. 141-5. There is a French version in Barbazon et Méon, _Fabliaux_ III, p. 175. [1617] "It is not until French wit flashes across English seriousness that we travel to the Land of Cokaygne," G. Hadow, _Chaucer and His Times_, p. 35. Stories of a food country are, however, common in medieval literature, being sometimes legends of a vanished golden age, as in the Irish "Vision of MacConglinne" (late twelfth century), and sometimes ideal pictures of a life of lazy luxury, as in the French and English Lands of Cokaygne and the German Schlaraffenland. On the whole subject, see Fr. Joh. Poeschel, _Das Märchen von Schlaraffenland_ (Halle, 1878), and the introduction by W. Wollner to _The Vision of MacConglinne_, ed. Kuno Meyer (1892). [1618] _Polit. Songs of England_, ed. T. Wright (Camden Soc. 1839), pp. 137-48. [1619] The idea of the _Ordre de Bel-Eyse_ is probably taken from the twelfth century Anglo-Latin poem by Nigel Wireker entitled _Speculum Stultorum_, which tells the story of the ass Burnellus, who goes out into the world to seek his fortune. At one point Burnellus decides to retire to a convent and passes the different orders under review, to see which will suit him. This gives the author an opportunity for some pointed satire, including a reference to nuns; "they never quarrel save for due cause, in due place, nor do they come to blows save for grave reasons"; their morals are very questionable, "Harum sunt quaedam steriles et quaedam parturientes, virgineoque tamen nomine cuncta tegunt. Quae pastoralis baculi dotatur honore, illa quidem melius fertiliusque parit. Vix etiam quaevis sterilis reperitur in illis, donec eis aetas talia posse negat." Finally Burnellus decides to found a new order; from the Templars he will borrow their smoothly pacing horses, from the Cluniacs and the black Canons their custom of eating meat, from the order of Grandmont their gossip, from the Carthusians the habit of saying mass only once a month, from the Premonstratensians their warm and comfortable clothes, from the nuns their custom of going ungirdled; and in this order every brother shall have a female companion, as in the first order which was instituted in Paradise. _Anglo-Latin Satirical Poets of the Twelfth Century_, ed. T. Wright (Rolls Series, 1872), I, pp. 94-6. [1620] With these two highly successful _jeux d'esprit_ at the expense of monastic luxury may be compared a passage in the curious thirteenth century poem entitled "A Disputison bytwene a cristene mon and a Jew," in which an incidental shaft is perhaps aimed at nunneries, which affected the habits of Cokaygne and Fair Ease. _The Minor Poems of the Vernon MS._, pt. II, ed. F. J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S. 1901), No. XLVI, p. 490. [1621] See e.g. Rabelais, _Gargantua_, cap. LII (Comment Gargantua fit bastir pour le moine l'abbaye de Theleme). [1622] Text in _Dits et Contes de Badouin de Condé et de son fils Jean de Condé_, pub. par Aug. Scheler, Ac. Roy. de Belgique, Brussels, 1866-7, III, No. XXXVII, pp. 1-48. The portion of the poem containing the lawsuit is translated in part into modern French by Le Grand d'Aussy, in _Fabliaux et Contes_, ed. Le Grand d'Aussy et Renouard, 1829, I, pp. 326-36. [1623] A convenient collection of these is summarised in an excellent little book by Ch.-V. Langlois, entitled _La Vie en France au Moyen Age d'après quelques Moralistes du Temps_ (2me éd. 1911). [1624] The text of both _La Bible Guiot_ and _La Bible au Seigneur de Berzé_ is printed in _Fabliaux et Contes_, ed. Barbazon-Méon, t. II (Paris, 1808), and both are fully analysed, with extracts in Langlois, _op. cit._ pp. 30-88. The text of _La Bible Guiot_ is also printed in San Marte, _Parcival Studien_ (Halle, 1861), with a translation into German verse. [1625] _Les Lamentations de Matheolus_, pub. A. G. Van Hamel (_Bib. de l'Ecole des Chartes_, 1892, t. I, pp. 89-90). See also the analysis in Langlois, _op. cit._ pp. 223-75, especially p. 248. [1626] Langlois, _op. cit._ pp. 248-9, Note 2. [1627] _Poésies de Gilles li Muisis_, pub. Kervyn de Lettenhove (Louvain, 1882), t. I, pp. 209-36. The whole register is analysed in Langlois, _op. cit._ pp. 305-53. [1628] See above, p. 298. [1629] See _Vox Clamantis_, Lib. IV, ll. 578-676 in _The Complete Works of John Gower_, ed. G. C. Macaulay, _Latin Works_ (1902), pp. 181-5. The same subject is treated more shortly by Gower in his _Mirour de l'Omne_, ll. 9157-68. (_Ib._ _French Works_, p. 106.) [1630] Compare the priestly logic of Alvar Pelayo who enumerates the abuse of the confessional among the habitual sins of _women_! _De Planctu Ecclesiae_, Lib. II, Art. 45, n. 84. (See Lea, _Hist. of Sacerdotal Celibacy_, I, 435-6 for this and other medieval complaints of the corruption of nuns by their confessors.) [1631] Text in Furnivall, _Early Engl. Poems_ (Berlin, 1862), printed in _Trans. of Philological Soc._ 1858, pt. II, pp. 138-48 (from Cotton MS. Vesp. D. IX, f. 179). [1632] _All the Familiar Colloquies of Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam_, trans. N. Bailey (2nd ed. 1733), pp. 147-55. [1633] "Nec omnes virgines sunt, mihi crede, quae velum habent.... Nisi fortasse elogium, quod nos hactenus judicavimus esse Virgini matri proprium, ad plures transiit, ut dicantur et a partu virgines ... quin insuper, nec alioqui inter illas virgines sunt omnia virginea ... quia plures inveniuntur, quae mores aemulentur Sapphus, quam quae referant ingenium." Erasmus, _Colloquia, accur. Corn. Schrevelio_ (Amsterdam, 1693), p. 196. [1634] _Op. cit._ pp. 155-7. [1635] This account of Katherine's experiences, whether they were due (as the translator suggests) to "the crafty tricks of the monks, who terrify and frighten unexperienced minds into their cloysters by feigned apparitions and visions," or (as was more probably Erasmus' meaning) to the mere power of suggestion upon a hysterical girl, should be compared with the numerous accounts of such apparitions seen by novices or intending novices, which are to be found in lives of saints and in edifying _exempla_. See the examples quoted from Caesarius of Heisterbach, below, pp. 628 _sqq._ [1636] For the expenses incidental to taking the veil, see above, pp. 19-20. [1637] _Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_, in Sir David Lyndesay's _Poems_, ed. Small, Hall and Murray (E.E.T.S. 2nd ed., 1883), pp. 421-3. [1638] _Ane Satyre of the Thrie Estaits_, in Sir David Lyndesay's _Poems_, ed. Small, Hall and Murray (E.E.T.S. 2nd ed., 1883), p. 506. [1639] _Ib._ p. 514. [1640] _Ib._ p. 521. [1641] Quoted from the ballad by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe ("The Murder of Caerlaverock") in McDowall, W., _Chronicles of Lincluden_, p. 28. [1642] Constans, _Chrestomathie de l'Ancien Français_ (1890), pp. 178-9. [1643] Malory, _Morte Darthur_, ed. Strachey (Globe ed., 1893), pp. 481-5. [1644] See above, p. 529. [1645] See _Le Livre du Dit de Poissy_, ll. 220-698, _passim_, in _Oeuvres Poétiques de Christine de Pisan_, ed. Maurice Roy (Soc. des Anc. Textes Fr. 1891), t. II, pp. 160-80. With this may be compared another, but much slighter "courtly" description of a nunnery, contained in the _roman d'aventure_, _L'Escoufle_, written at the close of the twelfth century. At the beginning of the poem the author describes the service of the mass in the Abbey of Montivilliers (see below, p. 637), on the occasion of the departure of the Count of Montivilliers on a crusade; the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Lisieux took part in the service and a large concourse of lords and ladies was present. The author describes the singing of the service, Li couvens avoit ja la messe Commencie et l'abbesse Commanda a ij damoiseles Des mix cantans et des plus beles Les cuer a tenir, por mix plaire Et por la feste grignor faire. He describes the rich offerings made at the altar by the Count and the rest of the congregation; and the stately visit of farewell paid by them afterwards to the nuns in the chapter house, when the Count asked for their prayers and in return gave them an annual rent of 20 or 30 silver marks. _L'Escoufle_, ed. H. Michelant and P. Meyer (Soc. des Anc. Textes Fr. 1894), pp. 7-9, _passim_. The other notable twelfth century description of a nunnery (in Raoul de Cambrai) is very different. See above. pp. 433-5. [1646] Chaucer, Prologue to _The Canterbury Tales_, ed. Skeat. ll. 118-64. [1647] See Dugdale, _Mon._ I, pp. 442-5. [1648] 'Pudding' was a sausage. [1649] Tyre was a favourite sweet wine in the middle ages; "if not of Syrian growth [it] was probably a Calabrian or Sicilian wine, manufactured from the species of grape called _tirio_." _Early Eng. Meals and Manners_, ed. Furnivall (E.E.T.S. 1868), p. 90. [1650] Sowce (Lat. _salsagium_, verjuice) was a sort of pickle for hog's flesh. _Promptorium Parvulorum_, ed. A. L. Mayhew (E.E.T.S. 1908), notes, p. 701. See the rather ominous verse in Tusser: Thy measeled bacon, hog, sow, or thy bore, Shut up for to heale, for infecting thy store: Or kill it for bacon, or sowce it to sell, For Flemming, that loues it so deintily well. Tusser, _Five Hundred Pointes of Good Husbandrie_ (Eng. Dialect Soc. 1878), p. 52. The word is still in use in the north of England for a concoction of mincemeat, vegetables, cloves and vinegar and in 'soused herrings' i.e. herrings cooked in vinegar. [1651] I.e. St Ethelburga, for whom the Abbey was founded by her brother Erconwald, Bishop of London, in 666. [1652] Probably _gris_, i.e. a little pig. Compare _Piers Plowman_, Prol. l. 226: Cokes and here knaues crieden, 'hote pies, hote! Gode gris and gees gowe dyne, gowe!' [1653] "White worts," was a kind of _potage_ ("potage is not so moche used in all Chrystendome as it is used in Englande. Potage is made of the licour in the whiche flesshe is sod in, with puttynge to, chopped herbes and Otmell and salte," _Early Eng. Meals and Manners_, p. 97). This is a recipe for _White Worts_, written down, c. 1420: "Take of the erbys as thou dede for _jouutes_ and sethe hem in water tyl they ben neyshe; thanne take hem up, an bryse hem fayre on a potte an ley hem with flowre of Rys; take mylke of almaundys and cast therto and hony, nowt to moche, that it be nowt to swete, an safron and salt; an serve it forth ynne, rygth for a good potage." The herbs used for _jouutes_ are "borage, violet, mallows, parsley, young worts, beet, avens, buglos and orach"; and it is recommended to use two or three marrow bones in making the broth. _Two Fifteenth Century Cookery Books_, ed. T. Austen (E.E.T.S. 1888), pp. 5, 6. [1654] Frumenty or Furmety (Lat. _frumentum_, wheat) is wheat husked and boiled soft in water, then boiled in milk, sweetened and spiced. Here is a recipe for it from the same book as that for white worts: "Take whete and pyke it clene and do it in a morter, an caste a lytel water theron; an stampe with a pestel tyl it hole [hull, lose husks]; than fan owt the holys [hulls, husks], an put it in a potte, an let sethe tyl it breke; than set yt douun, an sone after set it ouer the fyre an stere it wyl; an whan thow hast sothyn it wyl, put therinne swete mylke, an sethe it yfere, an stere it wyl; and whan it is ynow, coloure it wyth safron, an salt it euene, and dresse it forth." _Op. cit._ pp. 6-7. See the rhymed recipe in the _Liber cure cocorum_ (c. 1460), ed. Morris (Phil. Soc. 1862), p. 7. [1655] Crisps (Mod. Fr. _crêpe_) were fritters. Here is a recipe for them in a cookery book written c. 1450: "Take white of eyren [eggs], Milke, and fyne flowre, and bete hit togidre and drawe hit thorgh a streynour, so that hit be rennyng, and noght to stiff; and caste thereto sugar and salt. And then take a chaffur ful of fressh grece boyling; and then put thi honde in the batur and lete the bater ren thorgh thi fingers into the chaffur; And whan it is ren togidre in the chaffre, and is ynowe, take a skymour and take hit oute of the chaffur, and putte oute al the grece, And lete ren; and putte hit in a faire dissh and cast sugur thereon ynow and serue it forth." _Op. cit._ p. 93. [1656] Buns. Compare the instructions to the cellaress of Syon: "On water days [i.e. days when the sisters drank water instead of beer] sche schal ordeyne for bonnes or newe brede." Aungier, _Hist. and Antiq. of Syon Mon._ p. 393. [1657] Here is a recipe: "_Risshewes._ Take figges and grinde hem all rawe in a morter and cast a litull fraied oyle there-to; and then take hem vppe yn a versell, and caste thereto pynes, reysyns of corance, myced dates, sugur, Saffron, pouder ginger, and salt: And then make Cakes of floure, Sugur, salt and rolle the stuff in thi honde and couche it in the cakes, and folde hem togidur as risshewes, and fry hem in oyle, and serue hem forth." _Op. cit._ p. 93. There are other recipes, _ib._ pp. 43, 45, 97. The word survives in _rissole_. [1658] _Reg. Epis. Peckham_, II, p. 706. [1659] _Worc. Sede Vac. Reg._ p. 276. [1660] Dugdale, _Mon._ III, p. 366. [1661] _Linc. MS. Reg. Bokyngham Mem._ f. 397_d_. [1662] _Linc. Visit._ II, pp. 120-1. [1663] _Ib._ I, p. 51. [1664] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 101. [1665] See above, p. 397. [1666] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 115. [1667] _Ib._ p. 115. [1668] Sussex Arch. Soc. Coll. IX, pp. 25-7. [1669] Sussex Arch. Soc. Coll. V, p. 257. [1670] _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, I, p. 125. [1671] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 51. [1672] _Linc. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343. Compare Buckingham's similar injunction to Heynings, _ib._ f. 397, Gynewell's injunction to Elstow in 1359, _ib._ _Reg. Gynewell_, ff. 139_d_-140, Pontoise's injunction to Wherwell in 1302, _Reg. J. de Pontissara_, I, p. 125, and Peckham's injunction to the Holy Sepulchre, Canterbury, in 1284, _Reg. Ep. Peckham_. II, p. 706. [1673] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 104. [1674] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 174. [1675] _V.C.H. Northants._ II, p. 99. [1676] Liveing, _op. cit._ p. 168. [1677] _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 434. [1678] Translated from his _Bonum Universale de Apibus_, Lib. II, c. 30, written about 1260, in Coulton, _Med. Garn._ pp. 372-3. [1679] Aungier, _Hist. and Antiq. of Syon Mon._ pp. 256, 257, 259, 261-2. For further instances of quarrels in the province of Rouen, see below, pp. 664-6. [1680] Wilkins, _Conc._ I, p. 508. [1681] _Ib._ pp. 590-1. Compare a decree of the contemporary Council of Trier (1227) for German nuns, Harzheim, _Conc. Germ._ III, p. 534. [1682] And, whan he rood, men might his brydel here Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere, And eke as loude as dooth the chapel-belle Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. [1683] Wilkins, _Conc._ I, p. 660. [1684] _New Coll._ MS. f. 86. [1685] Aungier, _op. cit._ p. 392. [1686] _Reg. Ep. Peckham_, III, p. 849. [1687] Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was! [1688] Gresset, _Vert Vert_, ll. 142-6. See below, p. 593. [1689] I seigh his sleves purfiled at the hond With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond. Chaucer, _Prologue_, ll. 193-4. [1690] _Linc. Reg. Memo. Bokyngham_, f. 343_d_. [1691] _Hereford Reg. Spofford_, I, f. 77_d_. [1692] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 181. [1693] _Ib._ p. 126. [1694] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194. [1695] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 119, 120, 127, 164, 168, 174-5, 181, 183, 240. [1696] _Linc. Visit._ II, p. 176; _Alnwick's Visit._ MS. ff. 26_d_, 38. [1697] _V.C.H. Essex_, II, 124. [1698] _Norwich Visit._ p. 274. [1699] _V.C.H. Hants._ II, p. 130, where the date is wrongly given as 1512. [1700] See below, p. 663. [1701] _Prologue_, ll. 146-9. Chaucer was certainly a dog-lover: a passage in the _Book of the Duchess_ (ll. 387 ff.) puts it beyond doubt: I was go walked fro my tree, And as I wente ther cam by me A whelp, that fauned me as I stood That hadde y-folowed, and coude no good. Hit com and creep to me as lowe, Right as hit badde me y-knowe, Hild doun his heed and joyned his eres, And leyde al smothe doun his heres. I wolde han caught hit, and anoon Hit fledde, and was fro me goon. [1702] _The Book of the Knight of La Tour-Landry_, ed. T. Wright (E.E.T.S. revised ed. 1906), pp. 28-9. [1703] Printed in _The Cambridge Songs_, ed. Karl Breul (1915), No. 29, p. 62; and in _Denkmäler_, ed. Müllenhoff und Scherer, _Deutscher Poesie und Prosa aus dem_ VIII-XII _Jahrhundert_ (Berlin, 1892), I, pp. 51-3 (No. XXIV). I have ventured to attempt a translation. [1704] Skelton, _Selected Poems_, ed. W. H. Williams (1902). pp. 57 ff. [1705] Translation by Robin Flower in _The Poem Book of the Gael_, ed. Eleanor Hull (1913), p. 132. The poem has also been translated by Kuno Meyer and by Alfred Perceval Graves. [1706] Quoted in Fosbroke, _Brit. Monachism_, II, p. 34. [1707] _Oeuvres Choisies de Gresset_ (Coll. Bibliothèque Nationale), pp. 3 ff. There is an eighteenth century English translation (1759) by J. G. Cooper in Chalmers, _English Poets_, XV, pp. 528-36. [1708] Summarised in _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, pp. 76-7. [1709] When the nuns exhorted her to abstain from his company, she replied "quod ipsum amavit et amare volet." _Linc. Epis. Reg. Visit. Atwater_, f. 87. [1710] See above, p. 58. [1711] So also was Nunkeeling, where there was a particularly violent election struggle, but no mention of immorality. [1712] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 159. [1713] _Ib._ pp. 167-9. [1714] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 456-7. [1715] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 187-9. A Prioress was deposed here for incontinence in 1494. [1716] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 239-40. [1717] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 457-8. Queen Isabella, wife of Edward II, is referred to. [1718] See above, p. 427. [1719] _Cal. of Papal Letters_, III, p. 1345. [1720] _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, pp. 355, 358-62. Another nun apostatised and lived a dissolute life for some time in the world, returning in 1337. _Ib._ p. 363. [1721] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 179-81. The house was in an unsatisfactory condition as early as 1268. _Reg. Walter Giffard_, pp. 147-8. [1722] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, pp. 129-30. [1723] _Ib._ III, p. 113. The house seems to have been in much the same condition later. A nun had run away in 1372 and the misdeeds of the bad prioress Eleanor came to light in 1396. _Ib._ 114-5. [1724] _Ib._ p. 124. [1725] _Ib._ p. 126. [1726] _Ib._ p. 161. In 1535 Archbishop Lee found that a nun here, Joan Hutton, "hath lyved incontinentlie and unchast and hath broght forth a child of her bodie begotten." _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ XVI, p. 453. [1727] _V.C.H. Yorks._ III, p. 164. [1728] _Ib._ p. 164. [1729] _Ib._ p. 116 and _Yorks. Arch. Journ._ IX, p. 334. [1730] _Ib._ pp. 176-7. [1731] _Ib._ p. 175. [1732] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 194; see also _Cal. of Pap. Letters_, X, p. 471. [1733] _Ib._ p. 183. [1734] It may be noted that five nunneries had already disappeared between 1300 and 1500, viz. Waterbeach (transferred to Denny, 1348), Wothorpe (annexed to St Michael's, Stamford, 1354) and St Stephen's, Foukeholme, all of which owed their end to the Black Death; Lyminster (dissolved as an alien priory, 1414); and Rowney (suppressed on account of poverty, 1459). [1735] Gray, _Priory of St Radegund_, pp. 44-5. For evidence of the decay of the nunnery during the last half of the fifteenth century, see _ib._ pp. 39-44. [1736] Eckenstein, _Woman under Mon._ p. 436. [1737] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV. p. 378. [1738] _Selected Poems of John Skelton_, ed. W. H. Williams (1902), p. 113. There is an interesting _compertum_ at Dr Rayne's visitation of Studley in 1530 to the effect that "the woods of the priory had been much diminished by the late prioress and also by Thomas Cardinal of York for the construction of his College in the University of Oxford." _V.C.H. Oxon._ II, p. 78. [1739] See above, Note F. [1740] See above, p. 480. [1741] Dugdale, _Mon._ IV, p. 288. [1742] Uhland, _Alte hoch- und niederdeutsche Volkslieder_ (1844-5), II, p. 854 (No. 329); also in R. v. Liliencron, _Deutsches Leben im Volkslied um 1530_ (1884), p. 226, and (in a slightly different and modernised version) in L. A. v. Arnim and Clemens Brentano, _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_ (Reclam edit.), p. 24. [1743] Translated in Bithell, _The Minnesingers_ (Halle, 1909), I, p. 200. I have been unable to trace the original. I have slightly altered the wording of the translation. [1744] Karl Bartsch, _Deutsche Liederdichter des zwölften bis vierzehnten Jahrhunderts_ (4th ed. Berlin, 1901), p. 379 (No. XCVIII, ll. 581-616). Slightly modernised version in Uhland, _op. cit._ II, p. 853 (No. 327). [1745] _Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie_, V (1881), p. 545 (No. 28). A slightly different version in Moriz Haupt, _Französische Volkslieder_ (Leipzig, 1877), p. 152. [1746] In a round the last two lines of each verse are repeated as the first two lines of the following verse, and the refrain is repeated at the end of each verse. The songs lose much of their charm by being quoted in compressed form, for the cumulative effect of the repetition is exceedingly graceful and spirited. [1747] Haupt, _op. cit._ p. 40. [1748] Weckerlin, _L'Ancienne Chanson Populaire en France_ (1887), p. 354. [1749] _Ib._ p. 319. [1750] Bujeaud, J., _Chants et Chansons populaires des Provinces de l'ouest_ (1866), I, p. 137. [1751] _Ib._ I, p. 132. [1752] _Romania_, X, p. 391. [1753] _Ib._ X, p. 395 (No. XLVIII). [1754] _Ib._ VII, p. 72 (No. XX). Another version in De Puymaigre, _Chants Populaires recueillis dans le Pays Messin_ (1865), p. 39 (No. X). [1755] _Ib._ VII, p. 73 (No. XXI). Other versions in Jean Fleury, _Littérature Orale de la Basse-Normandie_ (Paris, 1883), p. 311, and De Puymaigre, _op. cit._ p. 35 (No. IX), and note on p. 37. Compare Schiller's ballad _Der Ritter von Toggenburg_. [1756] Fleury, _op. cit._ p. 313. [1757] Nigra, _Canti Popolari del Piemonte_ (1888), No. 80, pp. 409-14. [1758] T. Casini, _Studi di Poesia antica_ (1913). There is a very racy French song called _Le Comte Orry_ which deserves notice here: see H. C. Delloye, _Chants et Chansons Populaires de la France_ (1{re} série), 1843. [1759] Hagen, _Carmina Medii Aevi_ (Berne, 1877), pp. 206-7. There is an exceedingly long and tedious sixteenth century French version, evidently founded on the Latin poem, in Montaiglon, _Rec. de Poésies Françoises des XVI{e} et XVII{e} siècles_, t. VIII, pp. 170-5. [1760] _The Cambridge Songs_, ed. Karl Breul (1915), No. 35, p. 16. See also Koegel, _Geschichte der Deutschen Litteratur_ (1867), I, pp. 136-9. [1761] _Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie_, V (1881), p. 544, No. 27. Also in Weckerlin, _op. cit._ p. 405 (under date 1614). [1762] Rolland, _Rec. de Chansons Populaires_, II, p. 81. [1763] _Ib._ I, pp. 226-7. [1764] Weckerlin, _op. cit._ p. 355. [1765] Haupt, _Französische Volkslieder_ (1877), p. 84. A slightly different version in Weckerlin, _op. cit._ p. 297. [1766] Haupt, _op. cit._ p. 63. [1767] Weckerlin, _op. cit._ p. 262; also in E. Rolland, _Rec. de Chansons Populaires_ (1883-90), t. II, p. 36. [1768] "A gentle gallant went hunting in the wood and there he met a nun. She was so lovely, so fresh and so fair. Said the gentle gallant to her: 'Come, sit with me in the shade and never more shalt thou be a little nun.' 'Gentle gallant, wait here for me; I will go and put off my habit and then I will come back to you in the shade.' He waited for her three days and three nights and never came the fair one. The gentle gallant goes to the monastery and knocks at the great door; out comes the mother abbess: 'What are you looking for, gentle gallant?' 'I am looking for a little nun, who promised to come into the shade.' 'You once had the quail at your feet and you let it fly away. Even so has flown the pretty nun.'" Nigra, _Canti Populari del Piemonte_ (1888), No. 72, p. 381. With these two songs should be compared the English poem in Percy's _Reliques_, called _The Baffled Knight or Lady's Policy_, and the Somerset folksong, _Blow away the morning dew_, with its _dénouement_: But when they came to her father's gate So nimble she popped in, And said "There is a fool without And here's the maid within. We have a flower in our garden We call it marygold-- And if you will not when you may You shall not when you wolde." _Folk Songs from Somerset_ (1st Series, 1910), ed. Cecil Sharp and Charles Marson, No. VIII, pp. 16-17. [1769] Fleury, _op. cit._ p. 308. Other versions in De Puymaigre, _op. cit._ pp. 145-8 (Nos. XLV-XLVI). [1770] Rolland, _op. cit._ IV, p. 31. Cf. versions on pp. 30, 32, 33. The theme recalls a pretty poem by Leigh Hunt: If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show. What! you become a nun, my dear? I'll not believe it, no! If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chant "We trust in thee." The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a-dying, The water turn to wine; What! you go take the vows, my dear? You may--but they'll be mine! [1771] Rolland, _op. cit._ I, p. 253, cf. pp. 249-54. [1772] _Chants de Carnaval Florentins (Canti Carnascialeschi) de l'époque de Laurent le Magnifique._ Pub. par P. M. Masson (Paris, 1913). For a copy of the song and for the suggestion that it refers to English nuns I am indebted to Mr E. J. Dent of King's College, Cambridge. But the mention of Low Germany sounds more like German nuns. [1773] Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco, _Essays in the Study of Folksongs_ (Everyman's Lib. Ed.), pp. 191-2. [1774] L. A. v. Arnim and Clemens Brentano, _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_ (Reclam ed.), p. 50. [1775] _The Oxford Book of Ballads_, ed. Quiller-Couch (1910), p. 635 (No. 125). In the long collection of ballads narrating Robin Hood's career known as _A Little Geste of Robin Hood and his Meiny_ (which was in print early in the sixteenth century) the Prioress is said to have conspired with her lover, one Sir Roger of Doncaster, to slay Robin. _Ib._ p. 574. In the version in Bishop Percy's famous folio MS. "Red Roger" is described as stabbing the weakened outlaw, but losing his own life in the act. _Bishop Percy's Folio MS._ ed. Hales and Furnivall (1867), I, pp. 50-58. "In 'Le Morte de Robin Hode,' a quite modern piece printed in Hone's _Every-day Book_ from an old collection of MS. songs in the Editor's possession, the prioress is represented as the outlaw's sister and as poisoning him." _Ib._ p. 53. [1776] _Miracles de Nostre Dame par Personnages_, pub. G. Paris and U. Robert (Soc. des Anc. Textes Français, 1876), t. I, pp. 311-51. [1777] Translated in Evelyn Underhill, _The Miracles of Our Lady Saint Mary_ (1905), pp. 195-200. [1778] Caesarius of Heisterbach, II, pp. 41-2. "Although the buffet was hard," says Caesarius, conscious perhaps that the Virgin had acted with less than her wonted gentleness, "she was utterly delivered from temptation by it. A grievous ill requires a grievous remedy." [1779] Gautier de Coincy, _Miracles de N.D._, ed. Poquet, p. 474. [1780] _Exempla of Jacques de Vitry_, ed. Crane, p. 24. See variant in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), p. 321. [1781] Caesarius of Heisterbach, _Dial. Mirac._ ed. Strange, I, pp. 222-3. [1782] Wright, _Latin Stories_, p. 96. [1783] Etienne de Bourbon, _Anecdotes Historiques_, ed. Lecoy de la Marche, p. 83 (translated in Taylor, _The Medieval Mind_, I, pp. 508-9). [1784] I have used the version in _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 11-12. For other versions, see _Miracles de Nostre Dame_ (Soc. des Anc. Textes) I, pp. 59-100. For other versions, see Etienne de Bourbon, _op. cit._ p. 114, Wright, _op. cit._, p. 114, Barbazon et Méon, _Nouveau Recueil de Fabliaux_, II, p. 314, _Dodici conti morali d'anonimo Senese: Teste inedite de sec._ XIII (Bologna, 1862), No. 8; Small, _Eng. Metrical Homilies_, p. 164. There is a very interesting Ethiopian version (told of Sophia the abbess of Mount Carmel) in _Miracles of the B.V.M._ (Lady Meux MSS.), ed. E. A. Wallis Budge (1900), pp. 68-71. Most versions preserve the interesting detail that the nuns dislike their abbess and are anxious to betray her on account of her strictness and particularly because she will not give them easy licence to see their friends. In the French dramatic version Sister Isabel stays away from a sermon and gives as her excuse that a cousin came to see her, with some cloth to make a veil and a "surplis," whereupon she is scolded and then pardoned by the Abbess. [1785] _Le Cento Novelle Antiche_, ed. Gualteruzzi (Milan, 1825), No. 62. I quote the translation by A. C. Lee, _The Decameron, its Sources and Analogues_, p. 60. [1786] Francesco da Barberino, _Del Reggimento e Costumi di Donne_, ed. Carlo Baudi di Vesme (Bologna, 1875), p. 273. See A. C. Lee, _loc. cit._ [1787] A. C. Lee, _op. cit._ p. 125. The story is of Eastern origin and for its many analogues see _ib._ pp. 123-35. [1788] _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, ed. Th. Wright (Bib. Elzévirienne, 1858), t. I, pp. 81-4, 114-20, 283-7. [1789] Montaiglon et Raynaud, _Rec. Gén. des Fabliaux_, III, pp. 137-44. [1790] _Ib._ IV, pp. 128-32. [1791] Barbazon et Méon, _Nouv. Rec. de Fabliaux_, IV, p. 250. [1792] _Erzählungen und Schwänke_, hrsg. von Hans Lambel (Leipzig, 1888), No. VIII, pp. 309-22. [1793] Koeppel, _Studien zur Geschichte der italienischen Novelle in der englischen Litteratur des XVI Jahrhunderts_ (1892), p. 183. [1794] _King John by William Shakespeare together with the Troublesome Reign of King John_, ed. F. G. Fleay, (1878), pp. 158-62. [1795] Printed in _A Selection from the Minor Poems of Dan John Lydgate_, ed. J. O. Halliwell (Percy Soc. 1840), pp. 107-17. Professor MacCracken denies the authorship to Lydgate, see _The Minor Poems of John Lydgate_, ed. H. N. MacCracken (E.E.T.S. 1911), I, p. xlii (note). [1796] The edition used is that of Joseph Strange in two volumes (Cologne, Bonn and Brussels, 1851). For a study of the life and times of Caesarius, see A. Kaufmann, _Caesarius von Heisterbach, Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte des zwölften und dreizehnten Jahrhunderts_ (Cologne, 1850). For anecdotes from this source already quoted in the text, see pp. 27-9, 296-7, 511, 520 ff., etc. [1797] _Op. cit._ I, pp. 1-2. [1798] I.e. "_Ave Maria, gratia plena._" The Virgin Mary was always the most potent help against the devil, as may be seen from any collection of her miracles (e.g. that made by Gautier de Coincy in French verse in the thirteenth century and edited by the Abbé Poquet). [1799] _Ib._ I, pp. 125-7. For an abbreviated version of this story, taken from Caesarius, see _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 178-9 (No. CCLV). [1800] Used in the common medieval sense of entering a religious order. [1801] _Ib._ I, pp. 328-30. At the end of this story the novice asks: "Why is it that the good Lord allows maidens so tender and so pure to be thus cruelly tormented by rough and foul spirits?" And the monk replies: "Thou hast experienced how if a bitter drink be first swallowed a sweet one tastes the sweeter, and how if black be placed beneath it, white is all the more dazzling. Read the Visions of Witinus, Godescalcus and others, to whom it was permitted to see the pains of the damned and the glory of the elect, and almost always it was the vision of punishment which came first. The Lord, wishing to show his bride his secret joys, permitteth well that she should first be tempted by some dreadful visions, that afterwards she may the better deserve to be made glad, and may know the distance between sweet and bitter, light and darkness." [1802] _Ib._ I, pp. 330-31. [1803] _Ib._ II, pp. 68-9. "As I infer from this vision," says the Novice, "an indiscreet fervour in prayers is not pleasing to the blessed Virgin, neither an undisciplined movement in genuflections." On the other hand she did not like her devotees to hurry over their prayers, for Gautier de Coincy has a tale of a nun, Eulalie, who was accustomed to say at each office of the Virgin the full rosary of a hundred and fifty _Aves_; but she had much work to do and often hurried over her prayers, till one night she saw a vision of the mother of God, who promised her salvation and told her that the _Ave Maria_ was a prayer which gave herself much joy; therefore she bade Eulalie not to hurry over it, but of her bounty permitted her to say a chaplet of fifty _Aves_, instead of the long rosary. See Gautier de Coincy, _Les Miracles de la Sainte Vierge_, ed. Poquet (Paris, 1857). [1804] _Ib._ II, p. 100. [1805] _Ib._ II, pp. 121-2. [1806] _Ib._ II, pp. 122-3. For a variant in which the place of the two nuns is taken by two doctors of divinity, see _An Alphabet of Tales_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 274-5. [1807] _Ib._ II, pp. 343-4. With these holy rivalries should be compared Caesarius' tales of the drawing of apostles by lot. "It is a very common custom among the matrons of our province to choose an Apostle for their very own by the following lottery: the names of the twelve Apostles are written each on twelve tapers, which are blessed by the priest and laid on the altar at the same moment. Then the woman comes and draws a taper and whatsoever name that taper shall chance to bear, to that Apostle she renders special honour and service. A certain matron, having thus drawn St Andrew, and being displeased to have drawn him, laid the taper back on the altar and would have drawn another; but the same came to her hand again. Why should I make a long story? At length she drew one that pleased her, to whom she paid faithful devotion all the days of her life; nevertheless when she came to her last end and was at the point of death, she saw not him but the Blessed Andrew standing at her bedside. 'Lo,' he said, 'I am that despised Andrew!' from which we can gather that sometimes saints thrust themselves even of their own accord into men's devotions." Another matron was so much annoyed at drawing St Jude the Obscure instead of a more famous Apostle that she threw him behind the altar chest; whereupon the outraged Apostle visited her in a dream and not only rated her soundly but afflicted her with a palsy. See _ib._ II, pp. 129, 133, translated in Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_, pp. 259-60. [1808] Several of the stories have, however, been translated by Mr Coulton, _op. cit._ Nos. 102-32. [1809] Translated in Coulton, _From St Francis to Dante_ (1907), p. 290; see _ib._ pp. 289-91, for a short account of Eudes Rigaud, also references on p. 395 (n. 17). [1810] _Regestrum Visitationum Archiepiscopi Rothamagensis_, ed. Bonnin (1852). See analysis by L. Delisle in the _Bibliothèque de l'�cole des Chartes_, 1846. [1811] There is however a copy of the Bishop's letter of injunctions, sent on later, appended to his report of the state of Villarceaux in 1249 (_Reg._ pp. 44-5). [1812] Walcott, M. E. C., _English Minsters, II_ (_The English Student's Monasticon_), pp. 210 and _V.C.H. Dorset_, II, p. 48. [1813] _V.C.H. Sussex_, II, p. 121 and Dugdale, _Mon._ VI, pp. 1032-3. The later history of this cell can be traced from occasional references. It was a very small house and contained only a prioress and two nuns in 1380. Dugdale says that after the French wars Richard Earl of Arundel treated with the Abbess of Almenèches for the purchase of some lands belonging to Lyminster and in 1404 a papal brief enumerated the possessions of Almenèches in England and elsewhere, with a threat of penalties against all who should disturb them. Dugdale, _Mon._ VI, pp. 1032-3. Five years later a memorandum in the Register of Bishop Rede of Chichester notes the admission of a new Prioress, Nichola de Hereez, on the presentation of the Abbess and Convent of Almenèches, in place of Georgete la Cloutiere, deceased. _Reg. Robert Rede_ (Sussex Rec. Soc. 1908), pp. 38-9. Clearly French women were ruling over the house, though the nuns may possibly have been English. Shortly afterwards Henry V finally dissolved the alien priories in England and the lands belonging to Lyminster were settled by Henry VI upon Eton College. [1814] _Reg._ p. 236. [1815] Walcott, _op. cit._ p. 141 and _V.C.H. Norfolk_, II, p. 463, and Dugdale, _op. cit._ p. 1057. [1816] Walcott, _op. cit._ p. 173. [1817] _Reg._ p. 94. [1818] _Ib._ p. 261. In 1314-5 the Abbess of the Holy Trinity petitioned the King of England, complaining that she had been distrained in aid of the marriage of his eldest daughter, whereas she held all her lands in frank almoin. _Rot. Parl._ I, p. 331. [1819] Irrespective of double houses such as the Magdalen of Rouen. [1820] _Reg._ p. 202. [1821] p. 73. [1822] p. 471. [1823] E.g. pp. 43, 207, 323, 361. [1824] pp. 235, 374. [1825] pp. 451, 490. [1826] p. 194. [1827] p. 299. [1828] p. 194. [1829] pp. 636-7. [1830] p. 298. [1831] p. 572. [1832] p. 419. [1833] p. 298. [1834] p. 298. [1835] p. 268. [1836] pp. 456, 486, 512. [1837] pp. 419, 451, 491, 598, 634. [1838] p. 94. [1839] p. 323. [1840] p. 338. [1841] p. 456. [1842] pp. 16, 121, 201, 326, 512, 588. [1843] pp. 166, 194. [1844] E.g. at St Désir de Lisieux (1249), at Bondeville (1259), and at St Saëns (1262). At Bival (1257 and 1259) such a roll was kept. See pp. 62, 299, 339, 348, 451. [1845] pp. 16, 60, 62, 73, 121, 197, 199, 201, 220, 266, 339, 348, 431, 512. [1846] pp. 43, 44, 220, 305, 326. [1847] pp. 43, 44, 326, 431, 588, 602. [1848] p. 348. [1849] p. 410. [1850] See e.g. pp. 100, 274, 299, 339, 361, 402, 407, 410, 451, 468, 471, 523, 602, 619. [1851] p. 468. [1852] p. 100. [1853] p. 361. [1854] pp. 487, 598, 615. [1855] pp. 100, 572, 592. [1856] The exact definition of these measures is a thorny subject, but probably the _modius_ was roughly a quarter and the _mina_ a little more. [1857] The list of rents in kind is an interesting illustration of the monastic economy; such rents were probably retained, where estates belonged to large communities, for some time after they were commuted for money on secular lands. [1858] The same which they sold in 1261. [1859] pp. 273-4. Compare the inventory of Bondeville, _ib._ p. 299. [1860] p. 299. [1861] p. 457. [1862] p. 384. [1863] p. 316. [1864] p. 16. [1865] pp. 401, 456, 471, 512. [1866] pp. 187, 273, 310, 338. [1867] p. 380. [1868] p. 419. [1869] p. 491. [1870] p. 522. [1871] p. 522: he probably means _vicar_. [1872] p. 111. [1873] p. 217. [1874] pp. 610, 636. [1875] pp. 197, 295. [1876] p. 166. [1877] p. 285. [1878] For other references to the fondness of nuns for ginger see the _Life of Christina von Stommeln_: "Item per annum cum dimidio non comedit aliud quam gingiber" (_Acta SS._ t. IV, p. 454 A). Also the _Ancren Riwle_, p. 316: "Of a man whom ye distrust receive ye neither less nor more--not so much as a race of ginger." Cf. _ib._ p. 279. [1879] pp. 384, 431, 472, 517, 564. [1880] See pp. 793-4 for the inquisition. The name of the house is not given and the editor places the list in the appendix, but the date is 1257 and from internal evidence it is quite clear that it refers to the resignation of Marie, prioress of Bondeville. [1881] p. 793. [1882] pp. 111, 133, 217, 298, 410. [1883] p. 6. [1884] p. 610. [1885] pp. 44, 115, 166, 255, 273, 338, 419, 451, 457, 491, 500, 522, 550. [1886] p. 522, compare p. 550. [1887] pp. 166, 194. [1888] p. 500. [1889] p. 273. [1890] p. 457. [1891] p. 115. [1892] p. 15. [1893] pp. 384, 431, 472. [1894] p. 44. [1895] p. 575. [1896] p. 486. [1897] p. 487. [1898] pp. 283, 319, 361. [1899] p. 457. [1900] p. 305. [1901] pp. 281, 402. [1902] pp. 384, 431, 817. [1903] pp. 268, 299, 339. On one occasion the number is given as 12. p. 207. [1904] pp. 43, 534. However in 1268 Rigaud noted that they ought to do so monthly. p. 602. [1905] p. 412. [1906] p. 62, but in 1267 Rigaud noted that they were obliged to do so seven times a year. p. 600. [1907] pp. 293, 517, 564. [1908] pp. 298, 487. In 1255 he noted that they did so seven times a year and ordered fortnightly confessions and communions instead (p. 217), but from the later visitations it appears that the seven times rule referred only to lay brothers and sisters. [1909] p. 410. [1910] (St Amand), pp. 121, 202, 326, 456; (St Désir de Lisieux), p. 199; (St Sauveur d'Evreux), pp. 220, 305. [1911] p. 82. [1912] p. 374. [1913] p. 419. [1914] p. 522. [1915] p. 245. [1916] p. 517 (Montivilliers). [1917] pp. 43, 44 (Villarceaux); 117, 146 (Bival); 170, 310 (St Saëns); 261 (Caen); 285, 486 (St Amand); 305 (St Sauveur); 348 (Bondeville). [1918] pp. 15 (St Amand); 60 (St Léger de Préaux). [1919] p. 43. [1920] pp. 15, 121 (St Amand); 207 (St Aubin). [1921] p. 207 (Bival). [1922] p. 207 (St Aubin). [1923] pp. 197, 295, 591 (St Léger-de-Préaux); 201 (St Amand); 261 (Caen). [1924] p. 170 (St Saëns). [1925] pp. 16 (St Amand): 62, 199 (St Désir de Lisieux); 60 (St Léger de Préaux); 170, 187 (St Saëns). [1926] pp. 62 (St Désir de Lisieux); 884 (Montivilliers). [1927] p. 16. [1928] p. 121. [1929] p. 512. [1930] p. 338. [1931] p. 384. [1932] pp. 44, 468. [1933] pp. 431, 451, 472, 517, 564, 600, 624. Cf. also p. 652, below. [1934] pp. 384, 431, 472, 517, 600. Cf. St Saëns, p. 451. [1935] p. 638. [1936] p. 431. [1937] pp. 111, 285, 486, 625. [1938] pp. 111, 166, 170, 194. [1939] p. 94. Cf. p. 261: "Una non clamat aliam" (1256). [1940] p. 201. [1941] p. 293. [1942] _Ancren Riwle_, tr. Gasquet, pp. 151, 192. [1943] p. 518. An amusing example of convent amenities on these occasions and particularly of the way in which the younger nuns seized a chance of "getting even" with their elders is to be found in Johann Busch's account of his visitation of Dorstadt (in the _Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum_ described below, App. III). At this house it was the custom for the chapter disciplines to be administered to the whole convent by two of the youngest nuns, who then received discipline themselves. "And," says Busch, "they had somewhat large rods and beat each other somewhat severely, because the younger nuns were ordained to give disciplines for this reason, that they were stronger than the others. I asked one of them after confession whether she ever gave one more or sharper blows than another. She answered, 'Truly I do. I hit more sharply and as much as I can her who in my judgment deserves more.' This girl was about eight or ten years old. I asked one elderly sister, who was prioress in another monastery of her order, but because she was unwilling to reform was expelled from it, whether she received severe disciplines from them. She replied, 'I have counted ten or eight strokes, which she has often given me as hard as she could, within the space in which "Misereatur tui" is read.' Then I said to her, 'You ought to make her a sign, that she may understand that you have had enough.' She answered, 'When I do that, she hits me all the more. And I dare not say anything to her on account of the prioress's presence, but I think to myself: I must bear these on account of my sins, because the prioress and all the seniors receive from them as much as they like to give, without contradiction.' And she added, 'before her profession I used to teach her and often beat her with a rod: now she pays me back as she likes.'" Busch, _Chron. Wind. et Liber de Ref. Mon._, ed. Grube, pp. 644-5. [1944] p. 235. [1945] p. 591. [1946] pp. 624-5. [1947] pp. 512, 588. [1948] p. 550. [1949] p. 348. Perhaps one of these is referred to in 1251 when Rigaud noted "Ibi est quedam filia cuiusdam burgensis de Vallibus que stulta est" (p. 111). It may however refer to a boarder. [1950] p. 111. [1951] pp 348, 615. [1952] p. 187. [1953] p. 268. [1954] p. 412. [1955] p. 293. [1956] p. 431. [1957] pp. 472, 517, 564. [1958] pp. 170, 187, 522 (St Saëns); 201, 326, 401, 512 (St Amand); 298, 348, 455 (Bondeville); 73, 220, 305 (St Sauveur); 117, 146 (Bival); 199, 296 (St Désir de Lisieux); 295-6, 592 (St Léger de Préaux); 402 (Villarceaux); 412 (St Aubin). [1959] See _Rule of St Benedict_, tr. Gasquet, pp. 95-6: "When receiving new clothes the monks shall always give back the old ones at the same time, to be put away in the clothes room for the poor. For it is sufficient that a monk have two cowls, as well for night wear as for the convenience of washing. Anything else is superfluous and must be cut off." [1960] pp. 384, 517, 564 (Montivilliers); 295 (St Léger de Préaux); 62 (St Désir de Lisieux); 220, 305 (St Sauveur). [1961] p. 512. [1962] p. 305. [1963] pp. 44-5. [1964] "Abbatissa dat cuilibet moniali per annum xii solidos pro vestibus tantummodo, et singule earum provident sibi de residuo." p. 339; cf. p. 299. Cf. also Almenèches in 1250, p. 82. [1965] p. 384. [1966] p. 207. [1967] p. 82. [1968] p. 550. [1969] p. 587. [1970] p. 615. [1971] pp. 62, 199, 296. [1972] p. 100. [1973] pp. 115, 273, 285. Cf. injunctions to Villarceaux in 1249, quoted above. [1974] p. 82. [1975] Cf. the case of Johanna Martel at St Saëns, p, 338, quoted below, p. 668. [1976] p. 235 [1977] p. 374. [1978] pp. 384, 431, 472, 517, 564. In 1260 the injunction was: "Item quod omnes sane insimul comederent; item inhibuimus ne in refectorio per conventicula et colligationes comederent sed sederent in mensis indifferenter et escis communibus vescerentur" (p. 384). [1979] pp. 170, 380, 522. [1980] pp. 60, 197, 295. [1981] p. 146. [1982] p. 572. [1983] p. 220. [1984] pp. 111, 217, 571. The oven room of St Amand was looked after by a lay brother, p. 588. [1985] p. 73. [1986] p. 82. [1987] p. 111. "Quod moniales non vendant nec distrahant filum et _lor fusees_." [1988] pp. 202, 283, 326, 401, 456, 486, 512, 588 (St Amand); 73, 624 (St Sauveur); 518 (Montivilliers); 451 (St Saëns); 534 (Villarceaux). [1989] _Ancren Riwle_, tr. Gasquet, p. 318. [1990] The custom of depositing valuables in a monastery for safety was very general. Caesarius of Heisterbach has an entertaining anecdote on the point: "A certain usurer committed a large sum of his money to a certain cellarer of our order to be kept for him. The monk sealed it up and put it in a safe place together with the money belonging to the monastery. Afterwards the usurer came to ask for his deposit, but when the cellarer opened the chest, he found neither that nor his own money. And when he beheld that the locks of the chest were intact and the seals of the bags unbroken and that there was no suspicion of theft, he understood that the money of the usurer had eaten up the money of the monastery." Caes. of Heist., _Dial. Mirac._ ed. Strange (1851), I, p. 108. For another example of goods being deposited for safety in a nunnery see _V.C.H. Herts._ IV, p. 431 (note 40). A certain Joan Sturmyn entrusted goods to the value of £50 to the keeping of Alice Wafer, Prioress of St Mary de Pré (near St Albans), which afterwards gave rise to a case in chancery, 1480-5. [1991] Coulton, _Monastic Schools in the Middle Ages_ (Medieval Studies, No. 10) quoting from Martène, _Thesaurus_, IV, col. 175, § IV. [1992] See references to convent schools by Gerson and by Erasmus quoted in Coulton, _op. cit._ pp. 22-3, note 17. [1993] Or grandnieces (_nepotulas_). [1994] p. 217. [1995] p. 298. [1996] p. 410. [1997] p. 571. [1998] p. 615. [1999] Coulton, _op. cit._ p. 5. [2000] p. 282. [2001] p. 324. [2002] p. 572. [2003] p. 602. [2004] p. 380. [2005] p. 419. [2006] p. 412: "Item ne pueros admitterent ad nutriendum." [2007] p. 146. [2008] p. 486. [2009] p. 60. [2010] p. 220. [2011] p. 305. [2012] pp. 610, 636. [2013] pp. 43, 44. [2014] pp. 115, 207, 255, 283, 319. [2015] p. 361. [2016] pp. 412, 471, 550, 587. [2017] p. 310. [2018] p. 338. [2019] p. 380. [2020] p. 419. [2021] pp. 451, 491. [2022] pp. 201, 285. [2023] p. 486. [2024] p. 512. [2025] p. 588. [2026] p. 281. [2027] p. 323. [2028] p. 571. [2029] pp. 44, 572. [2030] p. 207. [2031] p. 564. [2032] pp. 43, 82, 146, 348. [2033] pp. 348, 410. [2034] p. 117. [2035] p. 146. [2036] pp. 146, 207, 220, 235, 255, 283, 305, 319, 348, 419, 624, 636. [2037] pp. 43, 207, 255, 283, 305. [2038] pp. 43, 326. [2039] p. 117. [2040] p. 348. [2041] p. 220. [2042] pp. 43, 117, 220, 235, 268, 486, 491, 534, 550. [2043] p. 587. [2044] p. 44. [2045] p. 285. [2046] pp. 43, 197, 296, 338, 348, 374, 380, 419, 451, 455, 486, 491, 534, 591, 624. [2047] p. 187 (1254); in 1259 it is again complained that the nuns stay for a long time when they have licence to go outside and on three other occasions it is noted that the nuns go out alone; in 1262 a penance was enjoined on the Prioress for allowing one nun to do so. See pp. 338, 380, 419, 451, 491. [2048] p. 197. [2049] p. 295. [2050] p. 591. [2051] p. 298; cf. p. 455. [2052] p. 281; cf. pp. 146, 486, 588. [2053] pp. 293, 517. [2054] p. 587. [2055] p. 412. [2056] p. 471. [2057] See above, pp. 542 ff. [2058] p. 44. [2059] p. 166. [2060] p. 197. [2061] p. 261. [2062] p. 384. [2063] pp. 431, 517. [2064] p. 486. [2065] See above p. 311 and E. K. Chambers, _The Medieval Stage_, I, ch. XV, _passim_. [2066] p. 73. [2067] pp. 305, 624. [2068] p. 295. [2069] p. 95. [2070] p. 201. [2071] p. 602; compare a similar case at Legbourne, above, p. 412. [2072] p. 43. [2073] pp. 518, 564. [2074] p. 16. [2075] pp. 73, 207, 220, 305, 624. [2076] Montaiglon, _Recueil de Poésies Françoises des XVI{e} et XVII{e} siècles_, t. VIII, pp. 171, 173. [2077] pp. 43-4. [2078] But a better example of his wit is shown in his repartee to another's pun, quoted in Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_, p. 289. "A clerical buffoon once ventured to ask him across the table, 'What is the difference, my lord, betwixt _Rigaud_ and _Ribaud_ [rascal]?' 'Only this board's breadth,' replied the Archbishop." The jest is however widespread, _mutatis mutandis_, in the east as well as in the west. It is told of one John Scot, 'What difference is there between sot and scot?' 'Just the breadth of the table.' _Calendar of Jests, Epigrams, Epitaphs etc._ (Edinburgh 1753); it also occurs in Gladwin's _Persian Moonshee_ and in several Indian collections of _facetiae_. W. A. Clouston, _Popular Tales and Fictions_ (1887) I, p. 51. [2079] p. 207. [2080] p. 146. [2081] p. 207. [2082] p. 338. [2083] p. 522. [2084] p. 82. [2085] p. 326. [2086] p. 456. [2087] p. 638. [2088] See pp. 645-6, above. [2089] _Reg._ p. 348. [2090] p. 199. [2091] p. 575. Cf. the case of the Priory of Couz, when it was visited in 1283 by Simon of Beaulieu, Archbishop of Bourges. Baluze, _Miscellanea_, I, 281. [2092] pp. 43-4. Notice the disjointed character of the report and the repetition of charges, e.g. against Johanna of _Alto Villari_ (who is probably the same as Johanna of _Aululari_) the cellaress and the Prioress. This probably indicates that it is a verbatim report of evidence taken down from the lips of the nuns, as they came before the Archbishop. [2093] pp. 44-5. [2094] p. 117. [2095] p. 82. [2096] p. 6. [2097] p. 207. [2098] p. 268. [2099] p. 207. [2100] A similar charge was made at the convent of St Saëns in 1264 where scandal imputed to Nicholaa, a notoriously immoral nun, "_quod ipsa nondum erat mensis elapsus fecerat abortivum_"; but the Archbishop apparently disbelieved the charge. p. 491. See p. 669, below. [2101] p. 255. [2102] p. 283. [2103] p. 412. [2104] p. 471. [2105] p. 500. [2106] It is noticeable how often in these visitations the nuns are reported to have been led astray by priests; but when one considers the character borne by many of the parochial and other clergy of the diocese, as it is recorded in the Register, this is hardly surprising. [2107] pp. 550, 587. [2108] p. 587. [2109] p. 619. [2110] p. 187. [2111] p. 338. [2112] See above, p. 667, note 6. [2113] p. 491. [2114] p. 522. [2115] p. 566. [2116] p. 598. [2117] Or rather on loose sheets, which were not intended for official preservation and have survived only by accident. [2118] I.e. abbot. These German Augustinians never used the term _abbas_, but used _praepositus_ instead. [2119] _Des Augustinerpropstes Iohannes Busch Chronicon Windeshemense und Liber de Reformatione Monasteriorum_ ... bearbeitet v. Dr Karl Grube (_Hist. Com. der Provinz. Sachsen._ Halle, 1886). [2120] The nunneries dealt with by Busch are the following (A. = Austin, B. = Benedictine, C. = Cistercian, M.M. = penitentiary order of St Mary Magdalen, following the Cistercian rule): (1) Wennigsen (S. of Hanover, dioc. Minden, A.); (2) Mariensee (N. of Hanover, dioc. Minden, C.); (3) Barsinghausen (S. of Hanover, dioc. Minden, A.); (4) Marienwerder (N. of Hanover, dioc. Minden, A.); (5) St George, or Marienkammer (in Glaucha, a suburb of Halle, dioc. Magdeburg, C.); (6) Magdalenenkloster, Hildesheim (dioc. Hildesheim, M.M.); (7) Derneburg (W. of Hildesheim, dioc. Hildesheim, A.); (8) Escherde (S.W. of Hildesheim, B.); (9) Heiningen (in Hanover, between Wolfenbüttel and Goslar, dioc. Hildesheim, A.); (10) Stederburg (near Brunswick, dioc. Hildesheim, A.); (11) Frankenburg (in Goslar, dioc. Hildesheim, M.M.); (12) Kloster zum hl. Kreuze (Holy Cross) or Neuwerk, Erfurt (dioc. Mainz, A.); (13) St Cyriac's in Erfurt (dioc. Mainz, B.); (14) Weissfrauenkloster (White Ladies) in Erfurt (dioc. Mainz, M.M.); (15) St Martin's in Erfurt (dioc. Mainz, C.); (16) Marienberg (near Helmstedt, dioc. Halberstadt, A.); (17) Marienborn (near Helmstedt, dioc. Halberstadt, A.); (18) Weinhausen (near Lüneburg, dioc. Hildesheim, C.); (19) Weissfrauenkloster (White Ladies) in Magdeburg (dioc. Magdeburg, M.M.); (20) Wülfinghausen (near Wittenberg, dioc. Hildesheim, A.); (21) Fischbeck (near Rinteln on the Weser, in Hessen-Nassau, dioc. Minden, A.); (22) Dorstadt (near Wolfenbüttel, dioc. Hildesheim, A.); (23) Stendal (in the mark of Brandenburg, A.). Also (24) Bewerwijk in N. Holland (Franciscan tertiaries), and (25) Segeberchhus in Lübeck, both houses of lay sisters. [2121] But see _Liber_, pp. 600, 637, 640. [2122] _Liber_, p. 580. [2123] _Liber_, p. 591. [2124] _Ib._ p. 610. For interesting lists of money and goods put into common stock by Busch see also pp. 614, 616, 617, 633. [2125] _Ib._ pp. 633-4. [2126] _Ib._ p. 633. [2127] _Ib._ pp. 571-2. [2128] See _ib._ pp. 572, 591. [2129] _Liber_, pp. 573-4. Compare the exertions of Berthold, Prior of Sülte, to provide the poor nuns of Heiningen with sufficient stores of food and to pay off their debts, _ib._ pp. 601-2; see also, p. 599. [2130] _Ib._ p. 614. [2131] _Ib._ p. 582. [2132] _Ib._ p. 643. [2133] _Ib._ p. 614. [2134] _Ib._ p. 567. [2135] _Liber_, pp. 582-3; compare pp. 603, 638. [2136] _Ib._ p. 639. [2137] _Ib._ p. 633. [2138] _Liber_, p. 587. [2139] _Ib._ p. 599. [2140] _Ib._ p. 617. Compare Marienwerder, _ib._ pp. 567-8. [2141] _Ib._ pp. 630-2. [2142] _Ib._ p. 642. [2143] _Liber_, p. 581. [2144] _Ib._ pp. 615, 652-3. But the _praepositus_ of Erfurt, when he saw the result of the reforms, was delighted and thanked Busch. [2145] _Liber_, pp. 555-62. [2146] _Liber_, pp. 562-5. [2147] See _ib._ pp. 591-7. [2148] _Liber_, pp. 575-6. [2149] _Ib._ p. 589. [2150] _Liber_, pp. 597-8. [2151] _Ib._ pp. 580, 607, 612, 619, 628, 631, 635, 642, 649, 651. [2152] _Ib._ pp. 618-22. [2153] _Liber_, pp. 622-7. [2154] _Liber_, pp. 624-5. [2155] _Ib._ p. 625. For the learning of reformed nuns, see pp. 576, 607, 642. [2156] See e.g. _ib._ pp. 585-6, 636, 640. [2157] _Ib._ p. 596. [2158] In course of publication, edited by Mr A. Hamilton Thompson. The printed portion is cited in the text as _Linc. Visit._ II, and the unprinted portion as _Alnwick's Visit. MS._ [2159] Bishop Lowth says: "This MS. belonged to Wykeham himself, for the injunctions are the original drafts corrected. It came afterwards into the hands of Robert Shirborn, Master of St Cross Hospital, afterwards Bishop of Chichester." It contains a long series of documents relating to a controversy between the Bishop and the masters of St Cross Hospital and injunctions sent to the Cathedral Church of Winchester, the monasteries of Hyde, Merton, Romsey and Wherwell, and the Hospital of St Thomas the Martyr, Southwark, covering the years 1386 and 1387. It is of the highest interest and should certainly be published. My thanks are due to Dr Moyle, Bursar of New College, for permission to transcribe the injunctions sent to the two nunneries. [2160] Foreign books mentioned only in ch. XIII are not included here. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. The yogh symbol has been replaced, without note, with the letters "gh" in English passages and "z" in French passages. The original text contains letters with diacritical marks that are not represented in this text version. Where appropriate, these forms have been expanded to improve readability. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. Two symbols are represented by [dagger] and [Maltese cross].