“Amid these displays of indulgence, I exhibited an ingratitude totally foreign from my character. I never read the books they furnished me with,--I neglected the flowers with which they filled my room,--and the superb organ they introduced into my apartment, I never touched, except to elicit some deep and melancholy chords from its keys. To those who urged me to employ my talents for painting and music, I still answered with the same apathetic monotony, “I am to be a monk.” “But, my brother, the love of flowers, of music, of all that can be consecrated to God, is also worthy of the attention of man--you abuse the indulgence of the Superior.” “Perhaps so.” “You must, in gratitude to God, thank him for these lovely works of his creation;”--the room was at this time filled with carnations and roses;--“you must also be grateful to him for the powers with which he has distinguished you in hymning his praises--your voice is the richest and most powerful in the church.” “I don’t doubt it.” “My brother, you answer at random.” “Just as I feel--but don’t heed that.” “Will you take a turn in the garden?” “If you please.” “Or will you seek a moment’s consolation from the Superior?” “If you please.” “But why do you speak with such apathy? are the odour of the flowers, and the consolations of your Superior, to be appreciated in the same breath?” “I believe so.” “Why?” “Because I am to be a monk.” “Nay, brother, will you never utter any thing but that phrase, which carries no meaning with it but that of stupefaction or delirium?” “Imagine me, then, stupefied, delirious--what you please--you know I must be a monk.” At these words, which I suppose I uttered in a tone unlike that of the usual _chaunt_ of monastic conversation, another interposed, and asked what I was uttering in so loud a key? “I am only saying,” I replied, “that I must be a monk.” “Thank God it is no worse,” replied the querist, “your contumacy must long ago have wearied the Superior and the brethren--thank God it’s no worse.” At these words I felt my passions resuscitated,--I exclaimed, “_Worse!_ what have I to dread?--am I not to be a monk?” From that evening, (I forget when it occurred), my liberty was abridged; I was no longer suffered to walk, to converse with the boarders or novices,--a separate table was spread for me in the refectory,--the seats near mine were left vacant at service,--yet still my cell was embellished with flowers and engravings, and exquisitely-wrought toys were left on my table. I did not perceive they were treating me as a lunatic, yet certainly my foolishly reiterated expressions might have justified them in doing so,--they had their own plans in concert with the Director,--my silence went for proof. The Director came often to visit me, and the hypocritical wretches _would_ accompany him to my cell. I was generally (for want of other occupation) attending to my flowers, or gazing at the engravings,--and they would