Nature: Fountains, springing from basons of white Marble, cooled
the air with perpetual showers; and the Walls were entirely
covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The hour now
added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging through
a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling lustre,
and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A
gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the
Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur
from the shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot
bent his steps.
In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed
in imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of
roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy.
Seats of Turf were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade
fell from the Rock above. Buried in himself the Monk approached
the spot. The universal calm had communicated itself to his
bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his
soul.
He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself,
when He stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied.
Extended upon one of the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.
His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in
mediation. The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He
watched him in silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After
some minutes the Youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully
upon the opposite Wall.
'Yes!' said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; 'I feel all the
happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were
I, could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust
upon Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable
solitude, and forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be
loved! Oh God! What a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!'
'That is a singular thought, Rosario,' said the Abbot, entering
the Grotto.
'You here, reverend Father?' cried the Novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew
his Cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the
Bank, and obliged the Youth to place himself by him.
'You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,' said He;
'What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light,
Misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?'
'The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped
my observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my
reading them; and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!'
As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the
opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.
INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE
Who-e'er Thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This Desart drear,
That with remorse aconscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in Halls and Towers
That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-Fiend's dearest darkest Powers,
In state preside.
I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour's sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That He was still deceiv'd, who trusted
In Love or Friend;
And hither came with Men disgusted
My life to end.
In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a Foe to noisy folly,
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This Grot, than e'er I felt before in
A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
This wish I sigh.
'Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
''To God I fly''!'
Stranger, if full of youth and riot
As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The Hermit's prayer:
But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault, or care;
If Thou hast known false Love's vexation,
Or hast been exil'd from thy Nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,
Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
'Were it possible' said the Friar, 'for Man to be so totally
wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human
nature, and could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these
lines express, I allow that the situation would be more
desirable, than to live in a world so pregnant with every vice
and every folly. But this never can be the case. This
inscription was merely placed here for the ornament of the
Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.
Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to
the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly
forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind,
the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit,
and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate
inflames his bosom, possibly He may feel contented with his
situation: But when his passions begin to cool; when Time has
mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which He bore with
him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes his
Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence
of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living,
and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks
round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of
society revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that
world which He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his
eyes: No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in
his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the
fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with
a vacant eye, He views without emotion the glory of the setting
Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there
is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary
unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss
despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as
joyless, as monotonous as the former.'
'You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you
to solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the
consciousness of a life well spent communicate to your heart that
calm which. . . .'
'I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am
convinced of the contrary, and that all my forti
tude would not
prevent me from yielding to melancholy and disgust. After
consuming the day in study, if you knew my pleasure at meeting my
Brethren in the Evening! After passing many a long hour in
solitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel at once
more beholding a fellow-Creature! 'Tis in this particular that I
place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution. It secludes
Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure
necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him
the mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and
yet permits him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you,
Rosario, do YOU envy an Hermit's life? Can you be thus blind to
the happiness of your situation? Reflect upon it for a moment.
This Abbey is become your Asylum: Your regularity, your
gentleness, your talents have rendered you the object of
universal esteem: You are secluded from the world which you
profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits of
society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of
Mankind.'
'Father! Father! 'tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had
it been for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and
abandoned! Had I never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! 'Tis
my unbounded adoration of religion; 'Tis my soul's exquisite
sensibility of the beauty of fair and good, that loads me with
shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh! that I had never seen
these Abbey walls!'
'How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different
tone. Is my friendship then become of such little consequence?
Had you never seen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me:
Can that really be your wish?'
'Had never seen you?' repeated the Novice, starting from the
Bank, and grasping the Friar's hand with a frantic air; 'You?
You? Would to God, that lightning had blasted them, before you
ever met my eyes! Would to God! that I were never to see you
more, and could forget that I had ever seen you!'
With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio
remained in his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth's
unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to suspect the
derangement of his senses: yet the general tenor of his conduct,
the connexion of his ideas, and calmness of his demeanour till
the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to discountenance
this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned. He again
seated himself upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one
hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from
his eyes at intervals.
The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to
interrupt his meditations. Both observed for some time a
profound silence. The Nightingale had now taken her station upon
an Orange Tree fronting the Hermitage, and poured forth a strain
the most melancholy and melodious. Rosario raised his head, and
listened to her with attention.
'It was thus,' said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; 'It was thus,
that during the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to
sit listening to the Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in
the Grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.'
'You had a Sister?'
'You say right, that I HAD; Alas! I have one no longer. She
sunk beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of
life.'
'What were those sorrows?'
'They will not excite YOUR pity: YOU know not the power of those
irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a
prey. Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One
endowed with every virtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for
a divinity, proved the bane of her existence. His noble form,
his spotless character, his various talents, his wisdom solid,
wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the bosom of the most
insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared to love though She
never dared to hope.'
'If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the
obtaining of its object?'
'Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows
to a Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved,
and for the Husband's sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning
She found means to escape from our Father's House: Arrayed in
humble weeds She offered herself as a Domestic to the Consort of
her Beloved, and was accepted. She was now continually in his
presence: She strove to ingratiate herself into his favour: She
succeeded. Her attentions attracted Julian's notice; The
virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished Matilda above
the rest of her Companions.'
'And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely
to their loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?'
'Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew
too violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian's
person, She ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded
moment She confessed her affection. What was the return?
Doating upon his Wife, and believing that a look of pity bestowed
upon another was a theft from what He owed to her, He drove
Matilda from his presence. He forbad her ever again appearing
before him. His severity broke her heart: She returned to her
Father's, and in a few Months after was carried to her Grave.'
'Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was
too cruel.'
'Do you think so, Father?' cried the Novice with vivacity; 'Do
you think that He was cruel?'
'Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.'
'You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity
me!'
The Friar started; when after a moment's pause Rosario added with
a faltering voice,--'for my sufferings are still greater. My
Sister had a Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of
her feelings, nor reproached her with her inability to repress
them. I . . .! I have no Friend! The whole wide world cannot
furnish an heart that is willing to participate in the sorrows
of mine!'
As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was
affected. He took Rosario's hand, and pressed it with
tenderness.
'You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not
confide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever
used it with you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside
the Monk, and bid you consider me as no other than your Friend,
your Father. Well may I assume that title, for never did Parent
watch over a Child more fondly than I have watched over you.
From the moment in which I first beheld you, I perceived
sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I found a
delight in your society which no one's else could afford; and
when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I
rejoiced as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then
lay aside your f
ears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me,
Rosario, and say that you will confide in me. If my aid or my
pity can alleviate your distress. . . .'
'Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I
unveil to you my heart! How willingly would I declare the
secret which bows me down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I
fear!'
'What, my Son?'
'That you should abhor me for my weakness; That the reward of my
confidence should be the loss of your esteem.'
'How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past
conduct, upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown
you. Abhor you, Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give
up your society would be to deprive myself of the greatest
pleasure of my life. Then reveal to me what afflicts you, and
believe me while I solemnly swear. . . .'
'Hold!' interrupted the Novice; 'Swear, that whatever be my
secret, you will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my
Noviciate shall expire.'
'I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may
Christ keep his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and
rely upon my indulgence.'
'I obey you. Know then. . . . Oh! how I tremble to name the
word! Listen to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every
latent spark of human weakness that may teach you compassion for
mine! Father!' continued He throwing himself at the Friar's
feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with eagerness, while
agitation for a moment choaked his voice; 'Father!' continued He
in faltering accents, 'I am a Woman!'
The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the
ground lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the
decision of his Judge. Astonishment on the one part,
apprehension on the other, for some minutes chained them in the
same attitudes, as had they been touched by the Rod of some
Magician. At length recovering from his confusion, the Monk
quitted the Grotto, and sped with precipitation towards the
Abbey. His action did not escape the Suppliant. She sprang from
the ground; She hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw
herself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove
in vain to disengage himself from her grasp.
'Do not fly me!' She cried; 'Leave me not abandoned to the
impulse of despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while
I acknowledge my Sister's story to be my own! I am Matilda; You
are her Beloved.'
The Monk - A Romance Page 6