CHAPTER I.
MY REASONS FOR BECOMING A SISTER.
From the earliest time that my memory goes back, I loved Jesus, though I knew very little about Him—only what my dear mother taught me, and she was what is termed a “shy Christian.” But I often wished that people would talk more about Him, at least to me; and as a little girl I used to look at people, and wish they would speak to me of Jesus, though I was too timid to put my thoughts into words.
When I was about fourteen years of age, in the year 1868, there was a great stir about a new preacher who preached at several city churches, including St Edmund’s, Lombard Street, and St. Ethelburga’s, Bishopsgate. His name was Father Ignatius; he was a Church of England clergyman, and called himself a monk. At that period I happened to be on a visit to my aunt, and my sister wrote and told me that Father Ignatius preached monasticism, that he had a monastery and would soon open a convent. I remember how I thought everybody was turning to Roman Catholicism; and I made up my mind not to go near this strange man. So at first I would not go to hear him, though somehow I was very anxious to see him. At last my mother persuaded me to go, and I heard him preach the love of Jesus as I had never before heard it. I recollect how my mother presented me to him, and how he took my hand, and said, “God bless you, dear child!” Though he said neither more nor less I was won, and from that moment I felt compelled to dwell on all his doings, and to drink in his words. What extraordinary power, or mesmerism, is it that this man possesses, enabling him to exert such an influence, not only over a simple child, but also over young and old, man and woman, noble and peasant? How often have I asked myself this question, yet in the course of twenty years I have not solved the mystery! But does he retain the friendship of those he wins? For a short time he does, but as a rule they eventually turn away from him, and sometimes even become his greatest enemies; for he possesses a strange power not only of winning love, but also of casting it away from him when won.
But I have somewhat departed from my story, which I will now resume. I remember being in church one evening, and we sang the words:
The love of Jesus, what it is
None but His loved ones know.
I thought to myself, “Who are His loved ones?” Day after day I went about wondering who they were. I would look into every face I met, but the love of Jesus did not seem to me stamped there; yet I was determined to find out, for, I said to myself, “I must be His loved one!” At last I saw a gentle, pale-faced sister; and she looked so good and pure (my favourite text was, “Blessed are the pure in heart”) that a sudden thought flashed into my mind that it was these sisters, or nuns, who were the “loved ones,” and that therefore I must be a sister. But I was not bold enough to tell any one my thoughts, besides which I thought I was very much too young to be a nun. I recollect that just at this time I went to some private meetings,[3] held by certain sisters, and one of them asked me, on one of these occasions, “Should you like to be a sister?” My heart jumped on hearing the question, and I replied, “Yes.” No more was said then; but when I again went, Father Ignatius asked me the same question, and I made the same reply as before. He then told me to ask my mother to allow me to be “given to God” as a nun. Of course my mother would not hear of it, and only laughed at me, and called me “a goose to want to shut myself away from mother and everybody.” The idea, however, had so taken possession of me, that I begged over and over again to be allowed to go; but my mother would not give her consent. Every time Father Ignatius saw me he asked if I had obtained my mother’s consent, and I was obliged to say “No.” One day, I remember, he said to me, “Well, ask your mother to let you go for a month on a visit!” I dared not ask her for a month, knowing she would not grant me so long a time, so I asked her to let me go for a week, and after considering my request for two days, she told me I might go for a week. I therefore went for that period. I was fifteen years of age then; and the convent was at Feltham, where I stayed for ten years. But before the week had expired, I asked for another week, saying I was so happy in this new life. To my request she made answer, “Another week, but not a day over.” During this week the Father called upon my mother, and persuaded her to “give me to God.” Very reluctantly she gave her consent, as she told me, “for one year, to sicken you of it, and you will soon be glad to come back home to your mother.” No one but God ever knew for years after how I longed to get back to my mother, though I dared not allow it even to myself. When my mother gave me up, she had Father Ignatius’s promise not to let me take life-vows until I was twenty-one or twenty-five years of age.
The first year passed away very happily. I was young; and being small in stature, I was made a pet of, until another young sister came. Then the Mother changed, and she who had so petted me suddenly took a dislike to me; not that she was so very unkind. But how I yearned to be loved! No one seemed to love me, and I loved her, oh, so much! When I went up to her and said, “Mother, dear,” instead of opening her arms, and folding me in them as she used to do, she would turn away with a shudder. Why she did this, I never knew. I could not fail to feel surprise at it, as she had often taught me that “a spiritual father’s, and mother’s, and sister’s love is far greater than that of any earthly parents.” I was sure my mother would never thus turn away from me. Oh, how keenly I felt this coldness! and when I went to bed, I would cry and sob for hours, knowing that no one in that house loved me, and my heart seemed fit to break at such a loveless life. My mother’s smile, her words, and her every look and action, would rise up before me. I remembered my sister and dear little brother, both of whom I so fondly loved, and I would think, “Oh! if it was not wicked of me, I wish I was home”; but I would then blame myself for thinking thus, for I considered it showed unfaithfulness to God to allow such thoughts even for a moment, and I was afraid lest God should take my “holy vocation” from me, and I would also remember how God would have His spouse forsake all other love that she may love Him, and be His alone.
Was there ever a more cruel and bitter mistake? Cruel is the teaching which requires a young girl to separate herself from the dear good mother, whom God has given her, in order that she may, as is falsely said, serve God without hindrance. What folly and delusion is it that takes possession of us, to think that we can get nearer to God, be more pure, more holy in this life, and be brought to greater glory in the next life, by shutting oneself up in a particular house and never going out except to the garden, I cannot fathom!
Listen to the text which brings us up to this unnatural life, or, as we were told, this “supernatural life.” “A garden inclosed is My sister, My spouse; a spring shut up,” etc. Year after year this text bears us up, coupled with the thought that such a life is only a short time in comparison with eternity, when we shall reap the great reward of our life of self-sacrifice. Blinder than the very heathen was I!