“Pray, Sir,” said Susan, “what place does this gloomy picture describe?”

“It is a drawing of the monastery of La Trappe,” answered Mr. Wilmot; “remarkable for the austerity of its monks, and celebrated, in ancient times, as the residence of the learned but licentious Abelard; and, in more modern, by the singular reformation and self-devotedness of Monsieur de RancÉ.

“I will give you an account of it, as described by a gentleman who visited it in 1819.

“The situation of this monastery was well adapted to the founder’s views, and to suggest the name it originally received of La Trappe, from the intricacy of the road which descends to it, and the difficulty of access and egress, which exists, even to this day, though the woods have been very much thinned since the French revolution. Perhaps there never was any thing in the whole universe better calculated to inspire religious awe, than the first view of this monastery: it was imposing even to breathlessness.

“The total solitude, the undisturbed and chilling silence, which seem to have ever slept over the dark and ancient woods; the still lakes, reflecting the deep solemnity of the objects around them;—all impress a peaceful image of utter seclusion and hopeless separation from living man; and appear formed at once to court and gratify the sternest austerities of devotion—to humour the wildest fancies, and promote the gloomiest schemes of penance and privation.

“In ascending the steep and intricate path, the traveller frequently loses sight of the abbey until he has actually reached the bottom; then, emerging from the wood, the following inscription is seen, carved on a wooden cross:

“A venerable grove of oaks, which formerly surrounded the monastery, was cut down in the Revolution. In the gateway of the outer court is a statue of St. Bernard, which has been mutilated by the republicans: he is holding in one hand a church, and in the other a spade, the emblems of devotion and labour. This gateway leads into a court, which opens into a second enclosure; and around that, are granaries, stables, bakehouses, and other offices necessary to the abbey, which have all been happily preserved.

“On entering the gate, a lay-brother received me on his knees, and, in a low and whispering voice, informed me they were at vespers. The stateliness and gloom of the building; (the last rays of the sun scarcely penetrated through its windows;) the deep tones of the monks, chaunting the responses, which occasionally broke the silence, filled me with reverential emotions, which I was unwilling to disturb. It was necessary, however, to present my letter of introduction; and friar Charles, the secretaire, soon after came out, and received me with great civility.

“He requested that, in going over the convent, I would neither speak nor ask him any questions, in those places where I saw him kneel, or in the presence of any of the monks. I followed him to the chapel alone. As soon as the service was over, the bell rung to summon them for supper.

“Ranged in double rows, with their heads enveloped in a large cowl, and bent down to the earth, they chaunted the grace, and then seated themselves. During the repast, one of them standing, read a passage of Scripture, reminding them of death and the shortness of human existence. Another went round the whole community, and, on his knees, kissed their feet in succession; throwing himself prostrate on the floor, at intervals, before the image of our Saviour. A third remained on his knees the whole time, and in that attitude took his repast. These penitents had committed some fault, or neglected their religious duties; which, according to the regulations, they had accused themselves of, and were, in consequence, doomed to the above modes of penance. The refectory was furnished with long wooden tables and benches. Each person was provided with a trencher and a jug of water; and a cup, having on it the name of the brother to whom it was appropriated: as, friar Paul, friar Francis; and which name they assume on taking the order. Their supper consisted of bread soaked in water, a little salt, and two raw carrots placed by each: water is alone their beverage.

“The dinner is varied with a little cabbage or other vegetables: they have very rarely any cheese, and never meat, fish, or eggs. The bread is of the coarsest kind possible. Their bed is a small truckle boarded, with a single covering, generally a blanket; no mattress or pillow; and, as in the former time, no fire is allowed but one in the great hall, which they never approach.

“The hardships undergone by these monks appear almost insupportable to human nature. Their mode of life and regulations exist nearly in the same state as established by the founder. In reciting them, such dreadful perversions of human nature and reason make it almost difficult to believe the existence of so severe an order, and lead us to wonder at the artificial miseries which the ingenuity of pious but mistaken enthusiasm can inflict upon itself.

“The abstinence practised at La Trappe allows not the use of fish, meat, eggs, nor butter, and a very limited allowance of bread and vegetables. They eat only twice a day: their meals consist of a slender repast about eleven in the morning, and two ounces of bread and two raw carrots in the evening; which, both together, do not at any time exceed twelve ounces.

“The same spirit of mortification is observed in their cells, which are very small, and have no other furniture than a bed of boards, a human skull, and a few religious books. Silence is at all times rigidly maintained: conversation is never permitted. Should two of them ever be seen standing near each other, though pursuing their daily labour, and preserving the strictest silence, it is considered as a violation of their vow, and highly criminal. Each member is, therefore, as completely insulated as if he alone existed in the monastery. None but the PÈre AbbÉ knows the name, age, rank, or even the native country, of any member of the community.

“Every one, at his first entrance, assumes another name; and, with his former appellation, each is supposed to abjure not only the world, but every recollection and memorial of himself and his connexions. No word ever escapes from his lips, by which another could possibly guess who he is, or where he comes from; and persons of the same name, family, and neighbourhood, have often lived together in the convent for years, unknown to each other, without having suspected the proximity.”

“Surely,” said Mrs. Spencer, “the recluse and solitary life of these mistakenly pious men, is in direct opposition to the precepts of the sacred volume, which enjoin us to love our neighbour as ourselves. Now this love appears best to be exemplified by acts of benevolence and practical kindness. ‘If we would do good to mankind, we must live with them;’ and the daily and hourly instances of self-denial that we are called upon to exercise, is surely of more benefit to the mind, than the most rigid austerity, or the most severe bodily penances.”

“I quite agree with you,” replied Mr. Wilmot: “the very mortifications they endure may induce self-love, or, I should rather say, self-righteousness; and nothing, I think it will be generally allowed, can be more contrary to the tenor of the gospel spirit. Very different was the conduct of Bernard Palissy, a native of Saintes, in the south of France, who lived in the reign of Henry the Third. He was a potter by trade; but, having an innate genius for the sciences, he devoted all the time he could spare from his pottery, to the cultivation of them.

“The king hearing of him, and curious to see so extraordinary a character, sent for him to Paris, and had several interviews with him. Palissy was, by religion, a protestant; and it was thought his religious principles were the great obstacles to his fortune.

“One day the king told him, unless he would change his religion he should be compelled to withdraw his protection from him. Palissy heard the king with the respect due to his rank, but answered with a firm and dignified tone: ‘Your majesty has frequently told me that you pitied my case, but since you can say that you shall be compelled to withdraw your protection from me, I now pity yours. This is not the language of a king; yet know, Sire, that not the whole faction of the Guises, nor all the catholic subjects united, shall ever compel a potter of Saintes to bow the knee to senseless images of wood and stone.’

“The king was so struck with the answer, that he never after mentioned the subject of changing his religion to Palissy; but suffered him, in a short time, to return home to his native town, where he remained in peace to the end of his life. He lived to a great age; never forsaking his business, nor ceasing, in his moments of leisure to follow his favourite scientific pursuits.”

“I am admiring,” said Mrs. Spencer, “this figure of Demosthenes addressing the multitude. What energy and spirit there is in his action.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Wilmot; “and every thing that relates to such a character, is highly interesting, both because it is intimately connected with the history of the times, and because it is a striking example of the influence of mind over the greatest physical powers. Though he neither wore the insignia of royalty, nor presided as supreme magistrate over a powerful republic, nor commanded fleets and armies; yet, by the mere thunder of his eloquence, he made the mightiest monarchs of his day tremble upon their thrones, and roused the slumbering energies of Greece. He was the son of an opulent Athenian manufacturer.

“The style of oratory that charmed his youthful fancy, was not the mild and flowing eloquence of Isocrates, who was then the most celebrated rhetorician in Athens; but the nervous and impassioned harangues of IsÆus, whose school, as well as that of the philosophical Plato, he constantly attended.

“It is said, that he made the most determined efforts to conquer some natural defects which seemed very formidable, and gradually acquired a dignified and manly eloquence. For a time he secluded himself almost entirely from society, that he might form his style on the purest models, and induce a habit of chaste and elegant composition. During this period, he transcribed the history of the Peloponnesian wars, by Thucydides, eight times; so desirous was he of acquiring a style of composition similar to that of the justly-admired historian. But this was not the only advantage derived from the study of Thucydides. Whilst employing himself in copying the works of that historian, Demosthenes imbibed his patriotic spirit; his imagination was filled with the former glory of his country; a generous indignation was kindled in his bosom, in comparing the ancient splendour of Athens with its present state of voluntary degradation; and a noble, but perhaps a romantic ambition possessed his soul, to be the instrument of renovating a decayed republic. Animated with these hopes and various prospects, he appeared in the public assembly; and, in his orations against Philip, poured forth such a strain of eloquence, that none of the venal orators of Athens were able to resist.

“The magistrates and common people were borne along by the mighty torrent, ere they were aware: his audience, instead of finding leisure or inclination to admire the splendid corruscations of his genius, found themselves imperceptibly animated by the same patriotic spirit, and roused from their lethargy by the impassioned vehemence of the youthful orator. In those unequalled specimens of ancient eloquence, which have been preserved amid the wreck of ages, we meet with such elevated sentiments, clothed in such glowing language, that, while reading them with delight approaching to admiration, we are no longer surprised at the powerful effect they produced on the popular assemblies of Greece. We cannot wonder that multitudes should throng from every province, to hear him declaim on a subject so deeply interesting to their feelings;—that so many states rose at his hope-inspiring call, from the slumber of inactivity, or the shades of despair, to make a vigorous effort for their expiring liberties;—or that Philip should have confessed, that the eloquence of Demosthenes injured him more than all the armies and fleets of the Athenians. ‘His harangues,’ said the Macedonian monarch, ‘are like the machines of war and distant batteries raised against me, by which all my projects are subverted, and my enterprises ruined, in spite of all my efforts. I believe,’ continued that generous adversary, ‘had I been present and listened to his orations, I should have been the first to conclude on the necessity of waging war with myself.’

“During the active reigns of Philip and Alexander, Demosthenes sounded a perpetual alarm, and ceased not to warn his countrymen against yielding to the ambitious projects of these enterprising monarchs. But when Antipater obtained possession of Athens, the orator fled to the isle of Calauria, and took sanctuary in a temple dedicated to Neptune. Fully persuaded that he had nothing to hope from the clemency of Antipater, he withdrew into the interior; and, under a pretence of writing to his family, put a poisoned quill in his mouth, which, in a few minutes, terminated his mortal existence, and disappointed the meditated vengeance of his enemies.

“A higher eulogium could scarcely have been pronounced on this prince of orators, than that which was spoken by Antipater himself, several years before his death. ‘I regard not,’ said he, ‘the harbours, the fleets, the armies of the Athenians: Demosthenes alone gives me pain. Without him, the Athenians would be amongst the most despicable inhabitants of Greece. He alone inspires and animates them: he rouses them, with his thundering eloquence, from their slumbers, and puts arms and oars into their hands, in spite of themselves. He perpetually sets before them the ancient victories of Marathon and Salamis, and invites them to similar deeds of valour. Nothing escapes his penetrating mind: he foresees all our projects—countermines and defeats all our designs: insomuch, that if Athens confided in his wisdom, and implicity followed his counsels, our condition were hopeless. No bribe can tempt him: like another Aristides, he is impenetrable to such overtures: patriotism alone inspires and actuates him.’ Such was the honourable testimony, borne by an enemy, to the commanding talents and public virtue of this celebrated orator.”

“How strikingly is St. Paul’s definition,” said Mrs. Spencer, “of that light and frivolous propensity of the Athenians, which led them to pass the day only to ‘hear and tell some new thing,’ illustrated by Plutarch’s relation of the illiterate citizen, who voted Aristides to the punishment of the ostracism. When that great man questioned his accuser, whether Aristides had ever injured him, he replied: Far from it: that he did not even know him; only he was quite tired of hearing him every where called ‘the just.’ Besides that spirit of envy which is remarkably displayed in his speech, to have heard this excellent person calumniated must have been a refreshing novelty, and have enabled him to tell a new thing.”

Mr. Wilmot smiled and said: “The delicate and refined females of our favoured country, should feel peculiar thankfulness in comparing their happy lot with the degraded state of women in the politest ages of Greece. Condemned to ignorance, labour, and obscurity—excluded from rational intercourse, debarred from every species of intellectual improvement or innocent enjoyment, they never seem to have been the objects of respect or esteem. In the conjugal relation, they were the servile agents, not the endeared companions of their husbands. Their depressed state was, in some measure, confirmed by illiberal legal institutions, and their native genius was systematically restrained from rising above one degraded level. Such was the lot of the virtuous part of the sex. I forbear to oppose to this gloomy picture, the profligate renown to which the bold pretensions of daring vice elevated mercenary beauty; nor should I glance at this impure topic, but to remind my young cousins, that immodesty in dress, contempt of the sober duties of domestic life, a boundless appetite for pleasure, and a misapplied devotion to the arts, were among the steps which led to this systematic profession of shameless profligacy, and to the establishment of those countenanced corruptions, which raised the more celebrated but infamous Athenian women to that bad eminence. But, Ann, you are engaged with a fine historical subject.”

“The death of Pericles, the Athenian general,” said Mrs. Spencer. “Will you kindly relate to them the particulars of it?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Wilmot. “When Pericles was at the point of death, his surviving friends and the principal citizens, sitting round his bed, discoursed together concerning his extraordinary virtue, and the great authority he had enjoyed. They enumerated his various exploits, and the number of his victories; for, whilst he was commander, he had erected no less than nine trophies to the honour of Athens. These things they talked of, supposing that he attended not to what they said, but that his senses were gone. He took notice, however, of every word they had spoken, and thereupon delivered himself as follows: ‘I am surprised, that, while you dwell upon and extol those acts of mine, though fortune had her share in them, and many other generals have performed the like, you take no notice of the greatest and most honourable part of my character; that no Athenian, through my means, ever put on mourning.’”

“Since you are talking of benefactors to their country,” said Mrs. Spencer, “allow me to relate a few particulars of Herodes Atticus, an Athenian citizen, whose munificent gifts would have been worthy of the greatest king.

“The family of Herod was lineally descended from Cimon and Miltiades, Theseus and Cecrops, Ægeus and Jupiter; but the posterity of so many gods and heroes was fallen into the most abject state. His grandfather had suffered by the hands of justice; and Julius Atticus, his father, must have ended his life in poverty and contempt, had he not discovered an immense treasure, buried under an old house, the last remains of his patrimony.

“According to the rigour of the law, the emperor might have asserted his claim; and the prudent Atticus prevented, by a frank confession, the officiousness of informers. But the equitable Nerva, who then filled the throne, refused to accept any part of it, and commanded him to use, without scruple, the present of fortune. The cautious Athenian still insisted that the treasure was too considerable for a citizen, and that he knew not how to use it. ‘Abuse it, then,’ said the monarch, with a good-natured peevishness, ‘for it is your own.’

“Many will be of opinion, that Atticus literally obeyed the emperor’s last instructions, since he expended the greatest part of his fortune, which was much increased by an advantageous marriage, in the public service. He had obtained for his son Herod the prefecture of Asia; and the young magistrate, observing that the town of Troas was but indifferently supplied with water, obtained from the munificence of Hadrian three hundred myriads of drachms, (about one hundred thousand pounds of our money.) But in the execution of the work, the charge amounted to more than double the estimate; and the officers of the revenue began to murmur, till the generous Atticus silenced their complaints, by requesting that he might be permitted to take upon himself the whole additional expence.

“The ablest preceptors of Greece and Asia had been invited, by liberal rewards, to direct the education of young Herod. Their pupil soon became a celebrated orator, according to the useless rhetoric of that age; which, confining itself to schools, disdained to visit either the forum or the senate. He was honoured with the consulship at Rome; but the greatest part of his life was spent in a philosophical retirement, at Athens and the adjacent villas; perpetually surrounded by sophists, who acknowledged, without reluctance, the superiority of a rich and generous rival. The monuments of his genius have perished, but some considerable ruins still preserve the fame of his taste and munificence.

“Modern travellers have measured the remains of the Stadium which he constructed at Athens. It was six hundred feet in length, built entirely of white marble, capable of admitting the whole body of the people; and was finished in four years, whilst Herod was president of the Athenian games.

“To the memory of his wife Regilla he dedicated a theatre, scarcely to be paralleled in the empire: no wood, except cedar very curiously carved, was employed in any part of the building.

“The Odeum, designed by Pericles for musical performances, and rehearsals of new tragedies, had been a trophy of the arts over barbaric greatness, as the timbers employed in the construction consisted chiefly of the masts of the Persian vessels. Notwithstanding the repairs bestowed on that ancient edifice by a king of Cappadocia, it was again fallen to decay. Herod restored its ancient beauty and magnificence.

“Nor was the liberality of that illustrious citizen confined to the walls of Athens. The most splendid ornaments bestowed on the temple of Neptune in the Isthmus, a theatre at Corinth, a Stadium at Delphi, a bath at Thermopylae, and an aqueduct at Canusium in Italy, were even insufficient to exhaust his treasures.

“The people of Epirus, Thessaly, Euboea, Boeotia, and Peloponnesus, experienced his favours; and many inscriptions of the critics of Greece and Asia, gratefully style Herodes Atticus their patron and benefactor.

“But we have had a long meeting this morning,” said Mr. Wilmot: “let us adjourn till tomorrow.”