Lady Rosamond's book

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"You ought to be thankful, Sister, that you have such humiliations put upon you," answered Sister Catherine. "You know nothing is so precious as humility. Come, let us go to our duty, dear Sister, and be thankful that we dwell in the dust and are trampled on by the foot of pride. 'Tis a far safer and more blessed place, and we ought to rejoice to be despised."

With that, before I could hinder, she knelt down and kissed my feet, and walked away, looking, I am sure, anything but humble. I don't see either why one should rejoice in being despised, since 'tis a wicked thing to despise people.

I heard Sister Catherine summoned to the parlor, as were several other Sisters, and Mother Gertrude as well.

This morning his Lordship called the whole family together, and made them one of the very best discourses I ever heard in all my life. I wish I could hear such an one every day. I am sure I should be the better. He began by commending highly the order and neatness of the house, the garden, and specially the library and sacristy. Then he said he had discovered some things which gave him pain, and of which he must needs speak. Here I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula exchange glances. He went on to remark that he had discovered a spirit of jealousy and detraction, of fault-finding and tattling, which ought to exist in no family, least of all in a religious house, and one specially vowed to holy poverty, as we were. Then warming up—

"One would think, my children, that you should rejoice in each other's gifts and achievements. Instead thereof I find murmurs and complaints one of another, as if one Sister were injured because another is chosen to execute some special office or piece of work to which she is judged specially fitted. Sisters should be more ready to hide each other's faults than to betray them; but here a perfectly harmless and even religious act is reported to me as a flagrant breach of discipline."

Here again I saw an exchange of glances, quite of another kind.

"Ah, my daughters (the Bishop went on to say, as near as I can remember), these things ought not to be. Believe me, it is not the coarse habit, nor the sandals, nor the veils—no, nor the seclusion, nor the enclosure, nor even the watchings, and fastings, and many prayers, which make a true religious. All these things are good and holy, when well used; but they may all exist in company with many things utterly hateful to God and our blessed Lady. Let me show you in what true charity consisteth."

Then he repeated a description of charity so noble, so full, that methinks all Christian perfection was contained therein—as how a man might give all his goods in alms, and perform miracles, and even become a martyr, and yet be nothing better than a bit of sounding brass. Then showing what made true charity—even kindness, and patience, and gentleness, and humbleness, and thinking no evil, but hoping and believing the best at all times.

['Twas the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul, his first Epistle to the Corinthians which he recited, but I, who had never seen a New Testament at that time, did not know it.]

Then with a deep shade of sadness on his kind old face, such as I never saw before, he besought us to dwell in unity and love, that our prayers be not hindered, but that we might strive together for our house, our order, and the whole Church. He said we had fallen on evil times, and there was no telling what might happen; and he advised a special devotion to our Lady and our blessed founder, for the averting of judgments which even now threatened us; and so at last dismissed us with his blessing. I am sure I shall remember the discourse as long as I live, and I hope I shall be the better for it. I know very well I am altogether too prone to judge and to impute evil, or at the least foolish motives to good actions, and specially to judge hardly of those who in any way offend my taste.