the other hand, the pious belief of the average Catholic layman that it is an institution of unusual meritoriousness—that convents 'are the lightning conductors averting the divine wrath from great cities,' &c.—is pitifully incorrect. Monasticism, not for the first time in its history, has in spite of its high spiritual profession a luxurious overgrowth of sensuousness; indeed, there are many who contend that the whole spirituality of the Church of Rome, paradoxical though it may seem, is generously blended with sensuousness. 'People are led away by the senses,' said F. B. Vaughan, when asked about the operatic performances of his church and the theatrical aspect of his own work, 'and so we must lead them back by the senses.' In monastic life, however, we find a sensuousness pure and simple, quite distinct from the æsthetic influences that are clothed with a religious dignity.
This is partly due to their inactivity, partly to their vow of celibacy. Of their idleness, which is one of the most uniform features of monastic establishments, enough has been said. Their religious ceremonies do not afford serious occupation of mind; they never undertake manual labour in these days, and they are conspicuously deficient in study; the amount of work they are entrusted with does not give occupation to half their members. Hence results much idleness, and idleness, as Francis of Assisi tells them, is the 'devil’s pillow.
