Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 146.djvu/387

All this not unfrequently delays them.

The hour strikes; the novices all trip up-stairs—for the private chapel is on the second floor—to meditate from 4.30 to 5.30. The subject was given out the day before, and is taken from the Exercitia Spiritualia. Leaving the novices to kiss the ground in the presence of God, and then to work out the different heads, we may remark that some of them take advantage of this hour to practise a most painful kind of penance, insupportable to not a few. They remain all the time absolutely motionless on their knees. Now, in England, immobility would signify little; but we are in France, and in the south of France, where the utmost cleanliness fails to keep a house clear of fleas, at least in summer. Novices are forbidden to wear sackcloth on account of their health; but the crawling, tickling sensation, here — there — everywhere — and then the sharp unexpected bite, is a great deal worse, and more irritating—Experto crede! I had to give it up very soon, and as the slightest movement was enough to frighten the torturers, it was not difficult to keep them off.

The Meditation coming to an end, pens run over paper during a quarter of an hour devoted to the Review. This part of the exercise, considered so essential a part of the Meditation by St Ignatius that he will on no account suffer it in any case to be set aside, is a mental glance or survey of the hour that has just gone by. The grand principle of practical reflection on the Past, with a view towards progress, is brought to bear on Meditation; whether it has been successful or not, and why, is noted down in the "Spiritual Journal." The beds are then made, and this is no easy task. If the furniture of the Fathers down-stairs seemed to be the acme of simplicity, that of the novices is the acme in very deed. We pass over the want of fire (supplied in cold weather by a box of hay or a foot-bag), of a wash-hand stand, of a prie-Dieu, and even of matches. The bedstead consists of two trestles, across which three or four deal boards are laid; the bed is a mere sack filled with maize-straw, covered with sheets and blankets. The art of the bed-maker is to give this a decent and neat appearance—and he succeeds. See, an Ancien de Chambre—a novice of the second year, appointed in each room to instruct the new-comers—is giving a lesson. He shows how the ends of the counterpane must be symmetrically folded together, with what care every straw that falls should be picked up, and how the bolster-ends, covered with the sheet, can be made to assume an artistic form. Art too should appear in the folding of the white curtains, that must hang gracefully over their iron rods; and often does the Frére Admoniteur—the Master’s organ and representative—come round to see that all is in perfect order. Often, too beds not sufficiently neat are pulled down to be made up again; and sometimes, it is hinted, this is done merely as a trial of patience.

Again the bell rings, and again the novices troop away—to Mass, this time. One Brother, rather sulky and stubborn-looking, with a high forehead and a dull eye and complexion, comes in late; he was intent on doing something else, and would not put it by at once. And the Rule insists on complete, instant, and joyful obedience. A bad omen, Brother, if at the