The life of Father Ignatius, O.S.B., the Monk of Llanthony

Front matter

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Preface

THE Author desires that I should write a Preface to this book, and I am glad to comply with her request, because it gives me the opportunity of preparing the reader for the perusal of its extraordinary and incredible contents.

To the reader who is also a believer in our Lord Jesus Christ, I present the following Divine Words for his reverent consideration : —

" The base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen ; and things which are noty to bring to naught things which are^ that no flesh should glory in His Presence."

" Now we have received, not the spirit of the World, but the Spirit which is of God, that we might know the things which are freely given to us of God."

As to the supernatural events recorded, I desire to say that whether the reader believes the statements regarding them or does not believe them, it is no concern of mine. 1 simply give them to the Author because I believe it is our Lord's will and for His glory that I should do so. People will believe them or not as they are taught of God. I have not knowingly mis-stated or over-stated these things, which at all events I myself regard as " wonderful works of God." The time has come to give my witness respecting them, and " The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ knoweth that I He not"

vii viii PREFACE

By this book may our Lord permit that His Most Holy Name may be glorified, many of His people comforted, and that many who sit in darkness may see the Great Light of His Peace, and the supreme Joy of His Salvation.

IGNATIUS OF JESUS, O.S.B., Monk.

Contents

CHAP.

I. "A Sower wbnt out to sow"

!!• "A LiTTLB Child shall lead thbm'' III. "And the Child grew" .

Chapter I «a Soweb Went Out To Sow"

** Hark ! I hear the voice of one Who in the desert cries, Prepare the way for David's Son, The Lord of earth and skies."

TO those who tAini, to every man and woman of average intelligence, the purport of this volume will speak for itself. They will take it for what it is — the faithful life-story of the Monk of Llanthony, that untiring Sower of the Seed Divine, whose mere name has become almost the expression of what should surely be the greatest of all heroism — the negative, the unapplauded, and the misunderstood.

To the soldier who dies sword in hand, the stimulus of emotion, the merciful exhilaration of action, are at least vouchsafed. The picture is rich in suggestive incident. It carries with it the glow of battle, the rush of the charge, and perhaps the hurried " passing " of a score of comradesouls. But what of this other, the black silhouette of the Man of Silence, who in the cold grey light of a nameless poverty goes forth to spend his lifetime amongst the sick and wounded on the burning plains of Humanity ? What of the Monk, the Solitary ? Is he not also a soldier of the King, though he wears serge instead of khaki, and carries no deadlier weapon than the similitude of a wooden aoss?

Even to imagine, how much more to realise^ the supreme significance of self-dedication to such a life, touches very nearly on the impossible ; yet it is to this work of spiritual ambulance, to the infinite charity of Conversion, that Ignatius, Monk of the British Church, has already devoted over forty years of strenuous consecutive labour, literally pouring into an ungrateful cause the first-fruits of an intellectual abundance, which in itself alone would have sufficed to set him amongst the dwellers in high places, so far as a brilliant career in this world is concerned.

On the relative merits or demerits of the life monastic there will always be a divided opinion. The mundane protest that it is a premeditative waste of God's best gifts ; the spiritual, that it is the ideal application of them. Be this as it may, these pages are not intended to interpret a chorus of conflicting voices. Their purpose is to relate, rather than argue, and they are penned from the simple standpoint of the absolute sincerity of one monk's vocation, plus its result, which even his detractors are honest enough to underline as emphatic and world-wide.

Those who are actually acquainted with the Right Reverend Father, either personally or by the medium of his Missions, will appreciate the magnitude of the task it is my privilege to attempt, in offering to the public an approximate outline of a life which, from its unusual surroundings and restless sequence of incredible events, is more likely to read as the fantastic plot-weaving of some old-time romance, than what it really is — ^a monumental page in English Church History.

From the very outset of my work I have had to face one of the fiery trials of the pen — the temptation of an exhaustive overflow of material. Grudgingly, but of necessity, whole sheaves of valuable details have been left by the wayside, in the interest of the book as a whole, and to limit its contents to the possibilities of a single volume. Added to this, the very remarkable and many-sided personality of the actor in this strange one-man drama has in itself been a challenge to the most impossible

« A SOWER WENT OUT TO SOW 3

of all life-studies — word portraUure ; in other words, the problem of the unanswerable.

To my own particular way of thinking, this is a fashion of gauntlet which might well be left to lie and gather rust. Nothing to my mind is more unsatisfactory, or so impertinent, as individual appreciation. It is so easy to dash in the bold broad lines, so difficult even to suggest the fine intermediate ones, on which the faithfulness of the likeness almost entirely depends. What is, after all, the most expert character-analysis but the elaborate cream-skimming from some miserable little earthen vessel of human vagary — im^ession t

That a single-handed monk should hold throughout all Christendom a complete monopoly which he has gained and sustained through his own unaided efforts, and in the teeth of persistent persecution both from Church and State, is a living testimony to the power and faith of the inner man, under Divine suggestion and the overshadowing of an Almighty purpose. It is one thing, however, to admit an acknowledged fact, quite another to explain it

Carpi, the astute cardinal-statesman, thus speaks of his contemporary, the indomitable Loyola, " This Ignatius," says his Eminence, " has driven in a nail which no man will ever succeed in drawing out." Crude and half-hearted as this tribute may sound, I can offer none more appropriate to the twentieth-century namesake of this sublime leader, to the modern pioneer of an equally great cause — the upheaval of every rotten barrier raised by human intervention (misnamed orthodoxy) between the Creator and the creature, the Redeemer and the already redeemed.

Viewed through a closer lens, the Ignatius of to-day may be described as a brilliant antithesis, an embodiment of contrasts in the shape of contradictory parallels and the overlapping of opposed qualities. He is at once the fervent Catholic and the Bible Christian, the advanced Ritualist and the homely Evangelical, the rippling humorist and the master of pathos. But through all, and above all, he is essentially the " Priest for ever." There can be no two opinions as to the earnestness of his intentions, or the stability of his anchorage in the harbour of his belief.

In the devout and genial Abbot of Llanthony the man and the monk are indissolubly one, and the bent of his life a perpetual love-labour, for his Master, his Monastery, the shrine of unceasing adoration, and his Missions — those magic nets in which so many drifting souls have already been drawn to shore.

Like most dreamers of great dreams who have lived to see, if only in part, the fulfilment of their hearts' desire, the Reverend Father Ignatius is supersensitive on the subject of the personal element. Of his work, or indeed on any topic of religious or social moment, it is easy to induce him to speak at length, and he does so with the zeal of conviction and the knowledge of one who has mastered the ai^ument from both sides ; but of himself, of Joseph Leycester Lyne, he has comparatively little to tell — some fugitive recollections of childhood both sweet and bitter, and the often recurring mention of a dearly loved mother, now gone before. Then the rest is all of " Jesus only," Llanthony, and his Message — the great message of awakening which he carries from time to time to the heavy sleepers in the outer world.

Nevertheless, it is wholly to the kindly patience and courtesy of the Monk of Llanthony himself that I am indebted for the entire material of this book, so far as its statistical value is concerned. Of its more abstract and personal sidelights I am prepared to claim the sole responsibility, and notably of this opening chapter, which I have specially begged the Reverend Father to consider as altogether beyond the pale of his jurisdiction. I have to thank him — and I do so very gratefully — for a most generous gift of time, strength, and interest, and above all for having made in my favour an exception to what I feared might have been a prohibitive rule of reticence.

This is by no means the first time that his many spiritual children have expressed an earnest wish that the strange story of their dear Father's life might receive its due recognition in the form of a comprehensive volume, but up

«A SOWER WENT OUT TO SOW" 5

to the present he has' not seen his way to comply with their request Indeed, he only now does so, on the urgent representation that such a publication would be an additional offering to the Master in whose service he has so faithfully borne the burden and heat of the day,

I think it may interest my readers to know that this work has been compiled at Llanthony, at the very gates of the Abbey itself, and within reach of no other sounds than the voices of Nature and the Monastery bell. So complete an absorption in the atmosphere of its surroundings has afforded me the most convincing of all opportunities — the^ personal one — for judging of the spirituality of the life within this mountain home of prayen It has also brought me face to face with the reality of its simplicity. Only one small spot in all the monastic precincts suggests, or, more accurately speaking, proclaims the presence of riches, and that is the sanctuary of the Church. This is the Monk of Llanthon/s treasure-house, the precious alabaster box which he and his children break so lovingly and ungrudgingly over the feet of their Divine Guest.

Here, indeed, is a dream of flowers, the throb of lights, the wafl of incense — a warm sense of beauty which more than compensates the impression of the silent cloisters that lie but a step beyond, in the shadow of an unqualified obedience, and the abandonment of every human inclination, satisfaction, and possession.

So far as possible, I have striven to invoke the " Llanthony spirit" upon every detail of this imperfect tribute to its Superior and Founder. Each chapter bears the heading of some familiar watchword from the Book of Life — his inseparable companion. Every little accompanying stanza is the child of his own pen. Some of these fugitive verses are blossoms from the garland of "Llanthony Mission H)rmns/' but a great many are derived from a manuscript collection kindly placed at my disposal, and also from a tiny volume entitled "The Christian Seasons poetically illustrated " by Joseph Leycester Lyne — a work which was both written and published by the author at the age of fifteen.

I am well aware that, to the thinkers of advanced "modern thoughts," there are several chapters in this volume which are likely to appear altogether beyond the prospect of belief, by reason of their supernatural significance. It is not my intention to defend what is beyond defence, or to seek to justify what I believe to be above justification. I would only commend to thb category of readers the digestion of the following simple thought: Nowhere in our Bible (the Christian's Oracle) are we told that the " peace of God " is the only Divine attribute which " passeth understanding " ; whereas we are told, and most emphatically, that with God all things are possible, even to the removing of mountains and the dividing of the boundless seas. Surely if so wonderful a promise is worthy " of all men to be believed," it cannot be so impossible to imagine that a faithful servant, whose life-service of sacrifice must have made him inexpressibly dear to his Master, may not at times, and for some gfeat end, be permitted also to draw near to Him— even very, very near 1

Chapter II « A Little Child Shall Lead Them "

" Softly sJDg that Name so tender, Many a trembling one is here : Only tenderness can draw them.

And they are so very dear."

ON the 7th day of May 1835, and in the picturesque little church of Cookham*on-Thames, was celebrated what was destined to prove a very significant ceremony — the marriage of the parents of the Monk of Llanthony. The contracting parties were at the time described as Miss Louisa Genevieve Leycester, of White Place, Berks, a member of the well-known Cheshire family the Leycesters of Tabley (represented for centuries by the successive Barons and Bar(Miets of that name), and Mr. Francis Lyne, the descendant of a Cornish branch of an originally Welsh tree, and himself a much-respected merchant of the City of London.

Of this marriage — an ideally happy one — there were seven children, four sons and three daughters ; and of the former, Joseph Leycester, known in religion as " Father Ignatius of Jesus,*' was the eldest but one, being born in Trinity Square, London, on the 23rd of November 1837.

In Mr. Francis Lyne's Family Bible, now carefully preserved at Llanthony Abbey, occurs the following somewhat involved entry, concerning the date and manner of this child's baptism : " Joseph Leycester " (writes his father) "was baptized at All Hallow's, Barking, on the 29th of December 1837, by the Rev. Mr. White, and christened ^.t Preston Church, Dorsetshire, by the Rev. H. H. Harington, on the 13th of March 1838. Under this date (March 13, 1838), the Register being left in arrear for the month, he was registered at All Hallow's, Barking, by Mr. White, on the 27th of April 1838." There is no record extant, or obtainable, either as to the reason or necessity for this second supplementary rite, or the plea on which the defective registration of the first baptism was based. This being the case, and the Reverend Father himself naturally entertaining some scruples as to the absolute certainty of his having been validly baptized at all, he voluntarily underwent a conditional re-baptism at the hands of the Rev. Canon Prynne, Vicar of St Peter's, Plymouth, shortly before his ordination to Deacon's Orders in Wells Cathedral at the close of the year j86o.

The above lengthy statement may seem a superfluous one, but in reality it is not so, inasmuch as the uncertainty attached to the Reverend Father's infant baptism has more than once been called in question (and notably by Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster) as the only obstacle to the validity of the Priestly Orders conferred on him in 1898 by Mar Timotheus, the " Archbishop and Metropolitan " for the Old Catholics of America.

Accepting the advice of two friends — both of whom were members of the Roman Catholic priesthood — Father Ignatius wrote to Canon Prynne and laid his case before him. In reply, he received on the isth of September 1899, not only an affectionate personal letter, but the enclosure of an official baptismal certificate, of which the following is a faithful reproduction : —

" I hereby certify that I baptized J. Leycester Lyne conditionally at his request, in Advent i860, as he had some scruples as to the certainty of his having been duly and validly baptized.

Vicar of St. Peter's, Plymouth."

• ••••••

It was in the form of a very fragile and sensitive little child that the future " fisher of men " made his first baby steps across this world's stage. His was indeed one of

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM'* 9

those strangely susceptible natures which are so delicate to manipulate, because so difficult to understand. To the little Leycester Lyne, every passing breath was a whirlwind, every dewdrop a shower of hail — at least during the opening years of his life; and even now, despite the self-repression and discipline of a long monastic training, the footprints of this highly-strung sensibility are still apparent. Time has only been able to change, not efface them altogether. What in the child might almost be termed a nervous weakness, in the man has become a spiritual strength — the strength that commands in others an irresistible response to the magnetism of its own indiscriminate sympathy.

It is possible that the atmosphere of his early home — a very representative one, according to the highest religious and moral standards of a day gone by — may have contributed to this unsatisfied sense of yearning for the unicnown; still more probable that the shadow of predestination, then no bigger than a man's hand, was already b^[inning to steal across the dawn. Be this as it may, there is no doubt that the child-self of our great modem Evangelist was essentially peculiar, though at the same time a very lovable one. Partly owing to his natural sweetness of disposition, and also by reason of his delicate health, this winsome little personality held a very tender place in his parents' hearts, and especially in that of his mother, herself a beautiful embodiment of all that is gentlest and strongest in womanhood.

This partiality, however, aroused no jealousy on the part of the other members of the nursery circle. They too, though with the more limited vision of childhood, both saw and felt that this frail little brother was not altogether one of themselves, that his thoughts were not their thoughts, nor his ways quite like their own, and they tacitly accepted the distinction, even if they]^ could not understand it.

The religious memories of Father Ignatius date back to very early days indeed. One of the first includes the removal of his family to No. 6 Hunter Street, Brunswick Square, when he was only two years old, and the quaint glimmers of spiritual impressions which began to perplex his baby brain about that time. He recalls himself as a tiny white-shod, white-gloved boy, undergoing the equipment of his "Sunday best" — a ceremony which always preceded the gathering of the family party for the Sabbath walk to morning service. Then the church itself (St. Peter's, Regent Square) suggested a whole crowd of curious, weird imaginings. ** This is God's house," his father would often remind him, as he installed his little son in the great grim pew; and with this solemn exhortation to discreet behaviour came also the natural deduction of childish logic. If this was God's house, God must live in it, just as his own father lived in his house, the comfortable home they had just quitted ; but where was He ? That was the question.

Long and earnestly did he look around for some sign of the Supreme Presence, but in vain. God was certainly not in any of the ugly high-backed pews, or in the organloft either, and he could plainly see there was no one in the pulpit, and only " the man in his nightgown " at the readingdesk. Where could He be? Then all at once the light broke int Standing on tiptoe on the seat of that mysterious enclosure the old-fashioned pew, his eyes had caught the dusky outline of the ponderous gallery above, and the glory of the crimson cushions and festooned fringes which adorned its luxurious front row. How silly he had been ! Why, of course God had chosen this lofty and select portion of His house for His own personal habitation! — and the little dreamer heaved a big sigh of relief at the solution of so mighty a problem, followed by many fnore of awestruck admiration at the magnificence of the Divine surroundings.

But as time went on, the signs of an unchildlike religious preoccupation became more and more apparent, and especially an unaccountable attraction for old-world usages, and all things suggestive of a life of separation from the interests and ambitions of ordinary modern-minded humanity. To see

«A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM'* u

a Quaker couple pass up the street, or watch some devout old Baptist woman on her way to chapel, with her Bible folded in her best handkerchief, were sources of intense pleasure to this extraordinary little being, and he would spend whole Sunday afternoons with his face pressed against the dining-room window, waiting and hoping for the smallest glimpse of these primitive passers-by. The vbits to church were also productive of strange results. To be '' a man in his nightgown," and preach to multitudes, became the absorbing aim of this four-year-old postulant, and it was to a congregation composed of his brothers and sisters, nursery chairs, and any other available article of furniture which he could contrive to heap together, that the first orations of the embryo Monk were delivered. " I must have crowds, crowds I" was his constant cry on these occasions, and in further simulation of a densely packed church, he would purposely leave so narrow a space for ^[ress between the chairs, that those seated on them had the greatest difficulty in extricating themselves at the close of the proceedings. It was a matter of real distress to him when, with the cruel candour of childhood, one or other of his ^ congregation " would remind him that '' after all it was only a game, and no fun at all to be so dreadfully squeezed." **You spoil my pleasure," would be his indignant reply, and then he would climb down from his pulpit, white-robed and dejected, but undaunted, and ready to resume his discourse at the very first opportunity.

Yet another of this strange little child's favourite occupations was to watch the steeple of Christ Church, Woburn Square, from a remote comer of the nursery window ; and no amount of persuasion or scolding would induce him to abandon this unaccountable attraction, or even to explain it. Being of a very reserved and nervous temperament, he shrank from confiding, even to his mother, that this quaint old Grothic steeple was to him a mighty finger, and that he loved to see it pointing up to heaven, and silently calling on the dwellers in the great city to look up also, and follow its inspiration.

The links of childhood must be very strong though slender, for the Reverend Father tells me that to this day, when driving through London to and from his Mission services, he still loves to see that old steeple, and that he always does so with something between a smile and a sigh, so vividly does it recall the shadows and sunbeams of those old nursery days.

It may well be imagined that all these unusual sayings and doings on the part of so young and delicate a child ended by awakening a very natural astonishment and anxiety in his parents' minds. His father, a man of somewhat stolid and deliberate judgment, was inclined to resent what he feared might develop into a positively morbid tendency; but his mother, like one other sweet woman of old, kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. Not, however, that at this time she could fully follow the direction whither the hand of her little child was unconsciously beckoning her onward and upward. It was only in later years, and when that same hand had grown worn and wasted in his Master's service, that her beloved Monk and son was permitted to draw her lovingly and reverently to stand beside himself at the foot of that Master's Cross.

There is a very pathetic element in the hushed and hallowed atmosphere with which Father Ignatius surrounds his mother's name and memory. As the little child, he would often, and in secret, choose her empty room as the most fitting shrine wherein to offer up his baby prayers and praises ; and as the matured man, he still speaks of her patient devotion, her strong faithful love, as the holiest and most sustaining influence that his earthly life has known. Even now, as the one left to follow, the dream is with him still. It is her face, he says, that will be one of the first to greet him in the Better Land ; her spirit that will be watching at the Golden Gate, when it is his turn to pass through.

In the Abbof s cell there are two priceless relics which no hands save his own may touch. One is a well-worn

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM** 13

Bible, bearing this simple little message from a silent pen: " For my dearest Leycester, when I am taken home." The other is her watch, and this also holds perpetual vigil by the Monk's bedside. In another part of the cell hangs a beautiful picture of the thorn-crowned Jesus, likewise a very precious echo from the home of long ago.

These souvenirs, and the thoughts they must invoke, are too sacred to approach in detail. Nevertheless, this chapter would be altogether incomplete did I omit to mention the very special corner in Llanthony Abb^ set apart by its Abbot to his mother's memory. Here, beneath her portrait, which is enclosed in an illuminated fiamework of dedicatory texts, the fairest flowers bloom all the seasons round, and here also once in every year the lights are lighted, and a solemn Requiem is sung for the gentle soul whose anniversary occurs that day. This beautiful and impressive service is invariably numerously attended, not only as a personal tribute to *'the one passed out of sight," but in many instances as a spontaneous and respectful note of sympathy to her son — ^the sleepless Watchman on the Narrow Way — to whom this function is a very sweet and restful moment in all the long hours of the busy Christian Year,

Chapter III "and The Child Grew

'' He can look back on times gone by, And think thereon with joy ; His trials and his woes are changed To bliss without alloy."

IT is instructive as well as refreshing to note that the early childhood of our future Abbot was beautifully exempt from any of those priggish tendencies which usually disfigure religious precocity. He was essentially a child and a boy too in everything but thought ; and what is still more delightful, he could be thoroughly naughty when so disposed. Not that these ungodly moments were many, as his nursery sobriquet " The Prince of Peace," and, later on, the school nickname of " Saintly Lyne,*' will best testify ; but they just sufficed to indicate a healthy ripple of old mortality, together with a strength of purpose which has long since been dedicated to a better cause. There is pathos as well as comedy in the contrition with which the Monk of Llanthony even now reverts to his quaint little peccadilloes, two of which in especial seem to sit heavy upon his soul as monuments of juvenile enormity.

The first occurred in the very peep of day, when, as " Master Lessie," the Ascetic of the Black Mountains might still be seen on his high chair at the nursery tea-table ; and the primary cause was a certain cup of milk which he declined to drink, on the ground that it was not warm enough to suit his fancy. Nurse, the local magnate, was appealed to, but in vain ; and on receiving her stereotyped admonition to "drink it up like a good boy," some little rebel demon rose within him, and he secretly determined to take

« AND THE CHILD GREW *• 15

the law into his own hands. With the rapid power of deduction which even then must have been one of his peculiar characteristics, it did not take ''Master Lessie" many minutes to combine a plan of action which would at once circumvent authority and gratify his own whim. How he managed to evade detection history does not reveal, but certain it is that he contrived to slip from his chair and push his teaspoon unobserved between the bars of the nursery fire. This he did with the practical intention of stirring his milk with it so soon as it should become effectually heated.