The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1903-08-09
A COMMUNITY OF SILENCE
THE TRAPPIsT MONASTERY OF
MOUNT MELLERAY, ~ IRELAND.
The Monks Never Speak to One An
other and Lead a Peacefui Lille
Hospitality to Chance Guests.
London Mail.

London Mail.
From Cappacuin in Waterford there is a
lonely fve-mile road that leads out OF the
world. UP the slopes of the Knockmele-
down mountains. to the Trappist monastery
of Mount Melleray. Along this road you
will find no sign of human Industry unth
the crossssurmoUnted gates leading to the
poor pastures warn you that you are on
holy ground. Once within those gates you
have left the world behind you, and are
received into a family to whom the voices
of the world are silent, its interests dead.
and where the whole business of life is a
preparation for eternity.
Founded sixty years ago by Irish Cister-
clans who were expelled from France dur
ing the troubles that followed the Access
sion of Louis Philippe, the community has
prospered under the Industry of the monks,
who have reclaimed a large tract OIL Wild
mountain land, planted it With trees. and
reared the plain quadrangle of buildings
that forms their prison and their home.
1t is a place of silence, strangely peace
full and melancholy. The Trappist rule for
bids all speech except of praise or prayer,
and all necessary communication is made
by signs. This rule is only suspended in
the case of those attending on guests or
trAnsacting business, but even the guests
are expected to practice silence, ana, indeed.
the atmosphere of the place Is discouraglng
to speech. So, day in. day out, there Is,
save for the bell and the offices, hardly a
sound but of the dripping rain, the chlrp
of birds, the wind in the trees, or footsteps
in the cloisters The fathers wear a white,
the lay brothers a brown habit; and in the
long corridors and ~cloisters one sees them
like ghosts pacing up and down with folded
hands. avoiding the glance anu even the
presence Of the stranger. The hush or
lninan voices dwells here like a presence,
sitting the mind, encouraging the soul,
Z Here all day. however. mingle the sounds
of labor and of praise, the lowing of cattle
with the booming of the chapel organ, the
ring of the smiths anvil with the Gregor-
ian plainsong. From prime to compline
the monastery bell is never for long dumb,
but is continually summoning the abbot
from his cell, the father from his medita-
tions, the brother from his work in the
fields. the guest from the guesthouse; or
ringing out it's message of the uplifted
Host across the imply mountain side,
where there are no ears to hear or heads
to be bowed. but only the idle cattle and
the Indifferent birds.
AN AUSTERE LIFE.
The monks rise at 2 o'clock in the morn
ing all the year round, except on Sundays
and feast days, when they rise an hour
earlier. From that hour until s o'clock
at night they are continually occupied with
the offices as we'll as by their manual work,
and their time is so divided and apportioned
that the hours and days seem to glide away
easily enough. They eat nothing but bread
and vegetables, and drink nothing but milk
or water, and even of this spare diet they
nave but two meals in their long day, and
sometimes only one. They sleep In their
habits in tiny cubicleS partitioned off in the
great dormintory, and the furniture of
these cubicles is simply a raised wooden
platform, with a mattress laid upon it.
Some Of the monks are very old men, and
when I think of them shivering in the
chapel when they rise I'm the drear winter
nights, unfed, unwarmed, uncheered by
human converse I can only hope that some
great inward fire is comforting and sup
| porting them with its warmth.
A monk may live here for twenty years
and never speak to the man beside whom
he kneelS in chapel or eats in the refectory.
And he may die here, and be laid in the
burying ground among the rows of his
brethren who sleep there, without a human
soul knowing what were his thoughts, his
| Municipalities the little mental character
istics that endear human beings to one an
other. Truly 1t is an austere and withered
life. but 1 cannot think it is a difficult one:
The iron hand of the church has marked
1t out, has buoyed the dangerous reefs and
lighted the difficult channels, until there
is nothing to be done but to sail into the
harbor. This, however, is an excursion
into theology, which is not my business,
only one cannot see these ghosts Of once
living men dreaming and praying and
singing their lives away without being
| surprised into some thoughts of their object,
and, i'm my case, some regrets that the
world is so little the better for all their
piety.
LIFE IN THE GUEST HOUSE.
In the guest house the routine is also
monastic. The guests are milne either
to their own rooms, the garden, or the
chapel; they are expected TO rise at 6 and
TO retire at s. l fell upon an evil time.
| since not only was the week of my visit
a solemn octave, but two out of the three
| lays of my stay were fast days, and the
diet was dry bread with milk or tea, and
fish at midday. But the monks are hos
| pitality itself. / was the only hereto at the
guest table, and the lay brother, discover
| ing this, produced bottled beer for my bene-
fit. But the shadow of the church brooded
over even our meals; in place of cOnversa-
ton a monk read aloud TO US the sad and
| and it was strange to hear his rough Irish
voice admonishlng US that no earthly
creature could ever satisfy our desires the
while we sat. contentedly enough MUNICH
ing bread and butter. On another day he
read us the account of a certain pious
abbess of Tours, but 1t reminded me so ir-
resistibly of Balzac that / fear | was but
little edited. I had some long talks with
the guest master, who, when he had visit
fully relinquished the hope of my CONVEX
sion, showed himself a man of ripe and
tolerant nature who had seen something
of the world, and. by virtue of his COM
munication with guests, retained a healthy
human curiosity in its far-off affairs.
The great event of the day, for guests
and monks alike. is the service of COM