The Savannah morning news., 1903-11-08
LIVE AND DIE IN SILENCE.
Irish Monastery Where COwIed
Fathers Never Speak.
From tho TOpdop Mail

From the London Mail.
From Cappoquin in Waterford there
Is lonely five-mile road that leads out
of the world, up the slopes of the
Knockmeledown mountains. to the
Trappist monastery of Mount MELEE
ray. Along this road you will find no
sign of human industry until the cross
surmounted gates leading to the poor
pastures warn you that you are on holy
ground. Once within those gates you
have left the world far behind you
and are received into a family to whom
the voices Of the world are silent, it's
interests dead. and where the whole
business of life is a preparation for
the life beyond the grave. Founded
sixty years ago by Irish Cistercians
who were expelled from France during
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 of wild mountain land, planted it
with trees and reared the plain quad
rdngle of buildings that forms their
prison and their home.
1t is a place of silence, strangely
peaceful and melancholy. The Trap
pist rule forbids all speech except of
praise or prayer, and all necessary
ID IIlelNG NY olSbS. HAS
rule is only suspended in the case of
those attending on guests or transact
ing business, but even the guests are
expected to practice silence, and in
deed the atmosphere of the place is
discouraging 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 chirp of birds, the
wind in the trees or footsteps in the
cloisters.
Avoid All Strangers.
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 and
even the presence of the stranger. The
hush of human voices dwells here like
o presence, sitting the mind, encour-
aging the soul.
Here all day, however, mingle the
sounds of labor and of praise, the low
ing of cattle with the booming of the
chapel organ, the ring of the smiths
anvil with the Gregorian plainsong.
From prime to compline the monastery
bell is never for long dumb, but is con-
tinually summoning abbot from his cell,
the father from his medtations. the
brother from his work in the fields,
the guest from the gueSthouse, or ring
ing out its message of the uplifted host
across the empty mountain side, where
there are no ears to hear or heads to
be bowed, but only the idle cattle and
the Indifferent birds.
The monks rise at 2 in the morning
all the year around, except on Sun
days and feast days, when they rise an
hour earlier. From that hour until 8
at night they are continually occupied
with the offices. as well as by their
manual work. and their time is so di
Vided and apportiOned that the hours
and days seem to glide away easily
enough. They eat nothing but bread
and vegetables, and drink nothing but
skim milk or water, and even of their
spare diet they have but two meals
in their long day, and sometimes only
one They sleep in their habits, in
tiny cubicles partitioned off in the great
dormitory and the furniture of these
cubicles is simply raised wooden
platform with a mattress laid upon it.
A monk may live here for twenty
years and never speak to the man be-
side 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 know
ing what were his thoughts, his indi-
vidualities, the little mental character
lSLlCS IDaL enuSdI uuIllca1A DSlASS w OAAS
another.
In the guesthouse the routine is also
monastic. The guests are confined
either to their own rooms. the garden
or the chapel. They are expected to
rise at and to retire at s. 1 fell upon
an evil time, since net only was the
week OF my visit a solemn octave. but
two out of sthe three days of my stay
were fast DAYS. and the diet was dry
bread with milk or tea and fish at mid
day.
But the monks are hospitality itself.
I was the only hereto at the guest ia
BILE, and the lay brother, discovering
this, produced bottled beer for my ben
eft. But the shadow of the church
brooded over even our meals. In place
of conversation q monk read aloud to
us the sad and .repressive doctrines of
one of the fathers. and it was strange
to hear his rough Irish voice admonish
irg us that no earthly creature could
ever satisfy our desires the while we
sat, contentedIy enough, munching
bread and butter. On another day he