“Well, it is shameful for men to pretend to be what they are not,” observed Mr. Scales. “This Colonel Tickner sometimes bores me with his company; and it is not at all improbable that he may look in after dinner. If so, we will have some rare fun with him.”
“If he dar-r-rs to have any of his impudence to me,” cried the captain, looking particularly ferocious at the moment, “I’ll trate him as I trated a French dhragoon at Water-r-r-loo. ‘Come hither, ye spalpeen, and let me cut ye down to the middle!’ says I.—‘Oui, Monsieur,’ says he; and on he comes with a rush.—‘Blood and thunther!’ says I, ‘is it fighting ye mane, when I’ve as good as taken ye prisoner before-hand?’—and griping him by the throat, I throttled him, sir, in less time than ye’d be in tossing off a thimblefull of potheen. But pray go on telling me about the Charter House, my frind—and let’s hear all your little gravances. Ye were spaking of the discipline of the place just now;—and sure it’s meself that knows what discipline ought to be.”
“Ah! my dear sir, the discipline of the Army and that of the Church are two very different things,” said Mr. Scales. “We’re eighty Poor Brothers in this establishment; and every night the curfew rings—eighty strokes of the bell! When one dies, there are only seventy-nine strokes until the vacancy is filled up;—and you may believe me when I tell you that there is something horrid in sitting in one’s lonely room of a dark wintry night, and counting the bell to see whether a Brother has not died since we all met in the common hall in the afternoon. For there are some very, very old men here; and old men go off, you know, like the snuff of a candle. Then, when one does die, and we hear the bell stop at seventy-nine, it sends the blood all cold and icelike to the heart—and a shudder creeps over the frame, from head to foot,—for there’s no saying whose turn it may be next. Ah! captain, it may seem but a trifling thing to you—a very trifling and paltry thing, this tolling of the curfew-bell: but I can assure you that to us, who are pent up here, it is no such trivial matter. For, in the deep, deep silence of this cloistral building, the dreary, dull, monotonous tolling of that bell suddenly arouses the most painful thoughts,—thoughts of approaching death, and coffins, and shrouds, and new-made graves, and all the sombre ceremony of funerals. But to hear that bell toll one less,—to know that a Brother has succumbed to the icy hand of the destroyer—to feel that there is a gap in our fraternity—a vacancy in our association,—even though we may not have loved—perhaps not even respected the individual who is gone,—still to have forced open us, by the deep-toned monitor, the conviction that he is gone,—this—this is terrible in our cloistral loneliness!”
The captain made no observation; but he evidently listened with profound attention;—and Mr. Scales, warming in his subject, went on.
“I told you just now that I am naturally of a gay and cheerful disposition, and that I can make myself happy under most circumstances. But when I am alone here of an evening, and listen to the curfew-bell, I—yes, I also am seized with a cold shuddering, and my blood creeps with an ice-chill in my veins. And if I hear the strokes stop at seventy-nine, it suddenly appears to me that a shape, dim, shadowy, and wrapped in a shroud, flits past me;—and I cast my eyes around—almost dreading lest the pale and ghastly spectre of the deceased Brother should be standing behind my chair. And, when there is one lying dead in the Charter House, I feel afraid at night—and sleep visits not my pillow. I do not believe in ghosts—at least, I do not believe in them when it is day-time; but in the deep, silent, and dark night,—yes, then I believe in them—and I tremble! Oh! you can form no idea of the horrors endured in this place while the curfew-bell tolls: for if it give forth a single note less than the eighty, then every one shudderingly says within himself—aye, and in the solitude of his own chamber—‘Who knows but that it may be my turn next?’ Is it not cruel, then, to maintain that monastic custom of ringing the nightly bell,—to alarm weak and trembling old men, whose intellects are attenuated by the weight of years, and whose imaginations are so susceptible of all influences likely to engender the gloomiest forebodings: for such is the case with the great majority of the Poor Brothers of the Charter House.”
The captain made a brief remark to show that he was listening with deep attention—as indeed he was; and Mr. Scales proceeded in the following manner:—
“Yes—the greater portion of the Poor Brothers are very infirm old men, who need companionship to enliven them, and little attentions to cheer them, and indulgences to render their existence tolerable. But every morning,—summer and winter—hot or cold—sunshine above, or snow knee-deep below,—they must all turn out at an early hour from their warm beds; and while still fasting, must repair to the chapel to attend prayers. And in the performance of this duty, which is rigidly enforced by fine, we are compelled to wear long, dark cloaks, so that when thus muffled up we appear to be a procession of monks, each wrapped in his cowl! Here again you may observe that there is no harm in the custom;—but you must remember that there is a vast difference between what one does spontaneously, and what he is forced by a rigid, inexorable discipline to do. The fact that these poor old men are thus compelled to wear the badge of monastic pauperism is the iron that enters into their souls. They have been compelled by their necessities to accept an asylum in this place—and they feel that they are treated as paupers. Their old age, which the world without believes to be passing in a serene and tranquil happiness here, unruffled by mundane cares, is rendered miserable and wretched by a thousand little vexatious points of discipline which make up an aggregate sum of tremendous ecclesiastical oppression. In the deep silence of the night—the awful silence that reigns throughout this pile,—and in the solitude of his gloomy apartment,—each of those poor old creatures broods upon what he deems to be his wrongs;—and you need not be surprised when I tell you that they are often driven to the very verge of despair—or to the threshold of madness! Ah! and it is not only the curfew-bell—nor the compulsory attendance at chapel—nor the long, dark cowls,—it is not all this alone,” continued the Brother, now speaking with solemn earnestness;—“but it is that we are watched by spies—watched in all our movements within or without the walls,—watched to be caught tripping, be it never so lightly—in order that we may be punished—or perhaps expelled, to make room for some one whom the Master or any other authority is anxious to provide for. The surgeon is a spy upon us—the porter is a spy upon us—all the nurses are spies upon us; and what is worse,” added Mr. Scales, now sinking his voice to an ominous whisper, and bending his head forward so as almost to reach the captain’s ear with his lips,—“and what is worse,” he repeated, bitterly but still in that low tone,—“we are spies upon each other!”
Captain O’Blunderbuss started, and surveyed his new friend with astonishment.
“I do not mean to say that I am a spy upon the rest,—nor will I assert that we are all spies with regard to each other,” resumed Mr. Scales: “but this I declare—that there are many inmates of the place who do enact the part of spies against their fellows. Some wish to curry favour with the Master, Archdeacon Hale—others carry their tittle-tattle to the surgeon;—some gossip of their Brethren to the manciple, or steward—others endeavour to worm themselves into the good graces of even the cook;—and all the nurses, with scarcely an exception, are the spies of the matron. I tell you, sir, that there is a monstrous system of supervision and espionnage in existence within these walls;—and one Brother cannot talk as a friend to another—because he is afraid that he may be all the time making revelations to an individual who will betray him! We have no confidence in each other—we are all afraid of one another. There is not such a thing as a good-natured chat and harmless conversation in the Charter House. If you make the most common-place observation upon things the most indifferent, Brother Gray, or Brother Jones, or Brother Jenkins will shake his head knowingly, as if he saw something covert and mysteriously significant at the bottom of the remark. But wherefore does such a state of things prevail in the Charter House, you will enquire;—and perhaps you will observe that if the Brethren enact the part of spies upon each other, they alone are to blame for making themselves miserable. Pause, however—and reflect that it is all the fault of the authorities. They encourage this contemptible tittle-tattle—they show favour to the poor silly old dotards who carry them tidings of all the complaints, expressions of discontent, or occasional instances of convivial excess which occur on the part of the rest. These spies are favoured by the authorities: the others know it, and become spies themselves;—and thus they all spy upon each other, even as the Jesuits do in obedience to the rules of their Order. Oh! the mean and contemptible littleness of mind which such a state of things engenders! I am sick—disgusted, Captain O’Blunderbuss, when I think of it.”