Appendix 37
Blandford Express 13th August 1881
Spetisbury
Inside a Convent
It is not improbable that some thoughtful passenger by the Somerset and Dorset Railway, as he neared Spetisbury Station, may have speculated on the character of a huge, gloomy old building just below. No semblance of interior life is ever seen there, and “no face at the window” ever watches the passing train, for it is, and has been for many years, a convent for “ladies”. Surrounded by high and jealous walls, nothing intruded on its privacy till this railway was made, by which it is so completely dominated as to render it hardly preferable for the purpose for which it once answered so well; and pleasure-seeking excursionists, if informed of the nature of Sion House, only smile in derision or shrug their shoulders at the insanity or enthusiasm which thus immures itself. For within those murky walls about 18 sisters live their secluded lives, some of them doubtless “resting in the Lord and waiting patiently for Him”, and others are just as probably “eating their hearts out” with the monotony of each recurring day, crying, inaudibly though it be, “in the morning would God it were evening”, and “in the evening would God it were morning”. But of this there is no sign, for no complaints ever reach outside those walls. They never go out; and even if they did, Spetisbury is not one of the gayest or most attractive of places. It possesses its one long street, erst Middle-street, its church, two chapels, railway-station, and big grocery store; but none of these would, we should think, have much charm for “the sisters”, one of whom, the villagers relate, has been a nun for no less than 50 years. Save and except the father confessor, and his clerk or the priest, who performs mass, no one ever sees them, speaks to them, or knows scarcely anything of them. “The world forgetting, by the world forgot,” their’s is a living death, as it appears to us; or, as they no doubt conscientiously think, a life of self-forgetfulness and devotion.
The Convent has a history of its own, dating back as far as the year 1800; and although it is not our purpose to recall its varied experiences, we may just mention that according to “Shipp’s Revised edition of Hutchin’s Dorset” it then became the residence of a society of religious ladies of the order of St. Augustine. They came from the Continent, in the Duchy of Brabant, and having to fly at the near approach of the French army in 1794, returned – they sought refuge in their own country, and Spetisbury House, as it was then called, became a sort of boarding-school, in which were over 70 inmates, comprising 33 members of the society – the remainder being boarders. There were separate residences for the chaplains. This community remained until 1861, when they were succeeded by a religious body, whose order was founded by a Swedish princess – St. Bridget. After various vicissitudes of several centuries this order found its way to Spettisbury, and named their place of residence Sion House; after the name of their residence in London. They possessed a piece of sculpture of great value and some fine paintings, also a valuable library of old books. In the cemetery, on the west, lie the remains of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and respecting one of the chaplains of their house the following short inscription speaks volumes: -
In memory of RALPH SOUTHWORTH,
Died July 13th, 1810,
Aged 63 years.
“Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least ye my friends”. – Job
While these lines on the tomb of another priest, Rev. Charles Catraw, who died in 1804, aged only 51 years, show up the somewhat melancholy and dreary sort of existence passed by the lady residents of those days: -
For thee the virgin wandering in this grove,
Sacred to solitude and heaven-born love,
With mournful looks she views the azure sky,
The tender tear still trembling in her eye;
And as she sighs, a vow to heaven shall send
Peace to my guide, my father, and my friend.
Thus far Hutchins; but some years back these ladies were succeeded by the present order, respecting whom even less is known than the scanty information that verbose and minute historian could supply respecting the place. The building is large and roomy, and as may be supposed, old-fashioned, standing in its own grounds, with extensive gardens reaching to the river Stour, which meanders at its back, and renders complete on that side a privacy which we have never heard has been intruded upon. But with all this separateness and exclusion, on Sundays and fete days its doors stand open, and not only permit but invite entrance. For the chapel is to the fore, and by an easy descent of a few steps admission to it is gained, the back part of the chapel being even visible from the road through the open doorway, and being attracted there some few Sunday evenings ago, partly by curiosity, and partly with a desire to listen to the singing, which we were informed was really good, we found ourselves forming part of a congregation numbering at the most five-and-twenty persons.
Respect for the prejudices of a religion which when dominant has never shown much respect for other forms of worship, induce here a reticence which true Christianity suggests, although it is to be hoped that our unbiased relation of the impression produced by the visit may fail to cause an offence which is far from our intention to give.
The chapel is, then, an unpretentious, rather low room capable of holding, at the most, about 150 persons; but in the present instance, as we believe is very often the case, nearly destitute of worshippers. A marble image, of life size, of Christ on the Cross is fixed at the end of the chapel facing the altar, and on the walls are coloured pictures of the sort seen in all Catholic chapels – of the progress to Calvary, the Crucifixion, &c. The Apotheosis of the Virgin and images of the Virgin and child Christ were the prominent features here, the Communion being railed off and relieved by flowers in pots. In a side gallery, so placed as to gain a view of the altar and, yet to be unseen by the congregation, were the nuns. These, we judged, formed the choir, performed on the organ, and conducted the choral parts of the service. Somewhat unpunctually entered the priest on duty, habited in coarse drab sackcloth robes. We were informed he was not the chaplain of the place, but an invalid convalescent. The duties being very light, it is usual to send those who from ill-health are too incapacitated temporarily, for harder service.
He commenced intoning in English what appeared to be a sort of litany to the Virgin, commencing “Hail Mary, Mother of God,” with almost endless repetitions of the same prayer. Respect for that which is too sacred for comment, prompts us here to a reticence which will further apply to the genuflexions; bowings down to and worshipping before the altar and the Host; and the incense burnings of the second half of the service. Nearly all the time the music and singing and music continued in the upper gallery; the responses from the congregation being fervent and audibly devout. The hymns and chants were fairly rendered, but noticeable enough was that lack of swing and energy, and want of “attacca” which is only to be gained by contact with other choirs and listening to and joining in with voices of acknowledged excellence. This could not be expected from those whose lives are thus hidden but they are certainly as far superior to the usual run of choirists in parish churches as they are below the first-rates of the “Pro.” at Kensington or of “St. Mary” at Moorfields.
The strains induced in our party, as well, a feeling of satisfaction that those who were thus voluntarily buried alive could yet cultivate at least one of the fine arts to ameliorate the monotony, if not the misery, of their every-day lives.
During the incense burning and elevation of the Host, the priest changed his coarse raiment for sumptuous robes of gold and crimson embroidery. To this succeeded the collection, inevitable with all sects and parties and places. In less then 35 minutes all was concluded and we escaped from the incense fumes and the constraint of the place to the upper world; to the calm, cool quiet of the evening of that hot summer’s day, thankful that it had not fallen to our lot to pass our existence “inside a convent.”
Sherborne Journal