CONVENT SKETCHES.-No. III.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SPAIN IN 1830."

ATTRACTED by the extreme beauty of the country around Orihuela, I resolved to remain a few days. Here there is a constant succession of summers and springs ;-winter never approaches. It was the 15th of December when I arrived at Orihuela from Murcia, and yet the morning was milder and more lovely than an August morning in England. The fertility of the vale, or Huerta of Örihuela, has indeed grown into a proverb :-Llueva, o no llueva, trigo en Orihuela-" Whether it rains or not, there is always corn in Orihuela." But it is not corn only that covers the Huerta of Orihuela; it is rich in every production that is congenial to that far southern climate, and is beautifully diversified with orange-groves, and with extensive plantations of date-trees.

These are sometimes

mingled; and it was to a plantation of this kind, about half a league from Orihuela on the road to Elche, that I usually directed my steps every evening. The house of the proprietor stood at one corner of the enclosure; and, one afternoon, a sudden fall of rain that descended like a deluge, forced me to take refuge in it. Besides the master and mistress of the house, there was only one other inmate—a female, apparently about twenty-eight or thirty, habited like a nun. Her countenance bore the remains of more beauty than usually falls to the lot of Spanish women; and the mental suffering that was visible in her face, had not been able altogether to quench the lustre of her full dark eyes. When I left the house, the Senhor de Casa accompanied me through his plantation, and I took the opportunity of inquiring whether the lady I had seen was one of his family? "Her history," said he, " is a remarkable one. She is called Sister Isabel. She was a nun in the Convent of Santa Monica in Murcia, and was one of the few who took advantage of the privilege offered by the Constitution, in 1820, of returning to the world. She afterwards obtained a dispensation, and married her cousin, who is now dead; and she is likely soon to follow him."

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At that time I asked no further question; but I returned again and again to the house, and, the season for gathering the dates having begun, I generally found Sister Isabel alone. Her reserve gradually wore off; I led the conversation to the monastic life, and mentioned that I had seen the sister of a friend in Madrid take the veil. "How old was she?" asked Sister Isabel. "Seventeen only!" I replied. "She may live to repent it," said she: and, poco a poco, I brought her to speak of herself. "You know that I once professed?" said she. I have heard so," I replied. 66 I must not have you to think very ill of me," said she; " if you will listen to me, I will tell you why I did not live and die in the Convent of Santa Monica." I need scarcely say that I did listen; and although the relation I am about to give is from memory, I think it does not deviate materially from the narrative of Sister Isabel :My grandfather was the Conde de V- H—, and my father, one of his sons, held a commission in the Guards. I had several brothers and sisters younger than myself, but, from very early child

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hood, I lived in the house of my grandfather in Murcia. The most remote object of my recollection is my dying grandmother, who told me mine was a blessed lot, for that I was destined to serve God all my days. I was then about ten years of age; and when I was two years older, my father came to visit me, and told me that the sisters in the Convent of Santa Monica would, by-and-bye, receive me as a novice. The confessor to the family, a Dominican friar, often expatiated upon the blessed lot of those who devote themselves to God, and spoke of heaven as only to be attained by a religious profession. For my own part, as the time approached when I should begin my noviciate, I became elated at the prospect of novelty. At home, there was little variety. I was not permitted to mix in society, partly because I was too young, and partly because I was destined for a religious life; and, with the exception of servants, my grandfather and myself were the only inmates of the house. The night previous to the commencement of my noviciate, the confessor spent some hours with me: he told me that my noviciate in no respect bound me to the choice of a monastic life-that I must look upon it only as a change of scene-and that, at the expiration of two years, my adoption or rejection of the profession should be left entirely to my own unbiassed will.

"I entered upon my noviciate joyfully: I believe there is no novice who does not; for all who enter upon their noviciate when children, must feel as I felt, because the world has shown them none of its allurements, and because they believe that, at the termination of their noviciate, they will possess as much the power of rejecting a monastic life, as before its commencement. I found my change of life any thing but disagreeable; my duties were not irksome-the sisters were kind-I had a taste for music, and was encouraged to cultivate it--I was permitted to pass several hours in the garden every day, and to gather at pleasure the most delicious fruits-and I was seldom allowed to be alone. Meanwhile, the kindness and affection of the sisters gained upon my heart; and before the first year of my noviciate expired, I wished that the term were arrived when I might bind myself for ever to so agreeable a mode of life. But at this time a circumstance occurred, which laid the foundation of all that misery that has subsequently been my portion.

--.

"On my fifteenth birth-day, I received permission to spend one day in my parental home; and, upon that day, I was for the first time made known to my cousins, Donna Isabella de M, and her brother the young Conde de M- He was then scarcely twenty; his sister was seventeen. It is a cruel and a dangerous kindness to permit her who has once entered a convent walls, to catch a glimpse of that world which is all but renounced for ever. Would to God it had been refused to me! My cousin, Donna Isabella, told me she was soon to be married-You can never marry,' added she. I was grave for a moment-I repeated her words to myself. I had never thought of marriage-I scarcely understood its meaning; and although the conviction that I could never marry, brought with it no uneasiness, yet I continued to think of what my cousin had said. When I raised my eyes, they met those of the young Conde, and a

sudden glow mounted into my cheek. I felt uneasy, and even unhappy; and when evening came, I joyfully returned to the Con

vent.

"The sisters were inquisitive, as you probably know to be the case in every convent. They asked me if I had been happy; and when I answered Yes,' I knew that I spoke falsely. I told them that I had seen my cousin Donna Isabella, but I did not mention her brother. I felt that the omission was sinful, though I could not tell why; and I accused myself of it to the confessor. He saw deeper than I did he saw more in the confession than the mere avowal of an omission-he trembled for the claims of the Convent upon its novice; for although, at that time, he wisely took no notice of the confession, he secretly forbade that, at the expiration of the noviciate, I should be permitted the usual indulgence of passing some days at home. When I resumed my occupations, the event I have mentioned faded from my memory; the words of my cousin, and the glance of the Conde, were forgotten; and I felt as happy and as tranquil as before. As the term at which my noviciate should expire approached, the kindness of the sisters increased; I was the spoilt child of the Convent. The sisters, the priests, the confessor, all spoke of my approaching profession as a praiseworthy act—as a choice that sealed my heavenly destiny-that secured me against sin and sorrow. Alas! it has sealed me over to both, and shut out

from me the prospect of heaven.

"The day arrived, and, along with it, an unusual elevation of spirits. All had been preparation in the Convent, and I was the cause of it. I felt a new importance; there was an éclat in the event that could not be otherwise than flattering to a youthful mind. The families of the Intendente and the Captain-General, and the other principal families of Murcia, had consented to assist in the ceremony; and I accompanied the Abbess to the chapel with as much joy, and with far more pride and exultation, than ever filled the heart of a bride who goes to meet a human bridegroom. What was there to regret? I was renouncing a world of whose allurements I was ignorant-whose pleasures I had never tasted or even imagined -whose freedom I had never felt; a world too, that all told me was full of danger and sorrow. I was about to adopt a life to which I was already accustomed, and for which, if I felt no enthusiasm, I was unconscious of any aversion. I was binding myself to the society of those kind beings whom I preferred to all others; and as for the vows, what were they to me? Poverty, obedience, and chastity! I had never possessed any thing, and what, then, was the vow of poverty? Obedience to one I loved, and to rules to which I had become habituated, was a vow willingly rendered; and, in vowing chastity, I only knew that I promised to serve God.

"The vows were past, the habit of a novice was exchanged for that of a sister, the hood was drawn over my face, and the girdle clasped me round; the solemn service was chaunted, the nuns and the visitors had embraced the new-made sister, and I approached the grating 1 to receive the sacrament, with a heart only so touched with

1

1 In most of the convents of Spain, the ceremony called in England taking

the solemnity of the ceremonies as rendered it more accessible to other impressions. I raised my eyes to look at the officiating priest, who sat at one side of the grated window, but they fell upon the countenance of my cousin the Conde, who stood directly opposite, beyond the grating, among the other visitors who are always attracted by a profession. I will not say that, at this moment, I regretted the vows I had newly uttered-no! but the uneasy feelings I had experienced a year ago, returned with more force; pleasure, as well as pain, mingled with them-I felt a deep glow suffuse my cheek and neck—and I was only recalled to a consciousness of the present, by the silver salver and the consecrated wafer being presented

to me.

"You are aware, no doubt, of the practice in some convents, of which Santa Monica is one, that after a sister has professed, the visitors who have attended the ceremony, and even some of those who have witnessed it from beyond the grating, are permitted to walk over every part of the convent. The practice is injudicious; for it effaces the solemn impression of the past scene; and, at the moment of renouncing the world for ever, she who has renounced it is compelled to mingle with it. When I retreated from the grating, and when all the ceremonies were concluded, I walked into the garden, and was surprised to feel myself less happy than I expected. The pomp was over; the éclat was past. I glanced at my habit, and recollected the fixed gaze of my cousin. The garden now began to be traversed by visitors, and I entered an orange-bower, and sat down. Presently, glancing through the leaves, I saw my cousin approach: I felt violently agitated, and would have retired, but that, in doing so, I must have met him. The next moment he stood at the entrance. 6 Isabel,' said he, with a grave and earnest look, I congratulate you; may you be happy!' and, turning away, I saw him no more.

"I felt strangely-strangely moved; and, for the first time, conscience whispered to me that my feelings were sinful. I kissed my crucifix, repeated an Ave, and returned to the Convent. . Where hast thou been, Isabel?' said the Abbess. In the garden,' I replied; but my unusual agitation was no doubt visible; and the Abbess, with a searching look, said, Go to thy chamber, child.' There the words and the look of the Conde pursued me. A chaplet of flowers lay upon my pillow, and sweet lilies and gilliflowers were strewn upon my bed. I sat down upon it; I took from my head the crown which I had placed there with so much pride, and laid it down beside me. A new bright metal lamp, upon the opposite wall, reflected my own figure and my religious habit: the youthfulness of my countenance and the sombreness of my dress forcibly struck me, and I burst into tears. When I recovered from this paroxysm, I

the veil," is performed in an apartment separated from the convent-church by a wide grating, in the centre of which there is a little window that falls back. The officiating priest is without the grating, in the church; and at this window he administers the sacrament, after the previous ceremonies have concluded.

This custom is peculiar only to a few of the convents; and when the writer of this Article was in Spain, it was understood that the Archbishop of Toledo had, a short time before, held a consultation with the heads of some of the orders respecting the propriety of abolishing it.

began to reflect upon the vow I had taken, the life to which I had dedicated myself, and the impiety of indulging in wayward thoughts when I had newly devoted myself, in life and in death, to God: and in this frame of mind I was called to the performance of some religious duty.

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A convent life is barren of events. I could only present you with a record of feelings, were I to speak of the two years that followed my profession. Impressed in favour of a monastic life during my noviciate, not from religious feeling, but from affection for the sisterhood and from false views of the world,-my zeal in the performance of religious duties after my profession was always languid. Nevertheless, the constant necessity for external devotion, a hatred of hypocrisy, and a recollection of my vows and sacred calling, produced their effect upon the mind, and led, if not to enthusiasm in religion, at least to a more settled conviction of the sacredness of my obligations, and the sin and danger of apostacy. But it is a strange truth, that along with these feelings, a dream of untasted felicity in the world became more distinct, and, in proportion to the distinctness of that vision, was the intensity of my devotion. Sinful thoughts and religious feeling grew into strength together: I paid my adorations with ardour; but retired to my chamber to be intruded upon by flitting, vague, yet strong and ever-recurring, visions of what might have been.

"The spring of 1820 arrived; and, one day in the month of April, we were startled even within our Convent-walls by the roar of cannon and loud acclamations. I ventured to inquire of the Abbess what these things meant. At this moment the officiating priest of the Convent entered, pale and agitated. The Government is overthrown,' said he; the Constitution has just been proclaimed in Murcia, and it is expected that one of its first acts will be the suppression of the convents, and the confiscation of their revenues.' The Abbess trembled from head to foot, and the sisters called upon the Virgin to protect them. I joined in the prayer, but a secret joy lurked in my heart. The prediction of the friar was partly, and speedily, accomplished. A week had scarcely elapsed, when it was announced by him that an Act had passed, by which every conventgate throughout Spain was thrown open for those who were inclined to return to the world; and declaring, that all vows entered into before the age of sixteen required no Papal dispensation, but were

void.

"The same evening, at the hour of recreation, I strolled into the garden, my mind occupied with the intelligence I had heard-I felt a strange Äutter at my heart. Never was religious feeling so languid, -never so vivid the recollections that I knew to be sinful. I returned to the Convent, and sought my chamber. At this moment I was startled by a strange noise below, and by new and strong voices; and, soon after, a bell summoned me to the hall. Judge of my surprise and agitation when I saw my cousin the Conde and two strangers, and the Abbess seated beside them. Isabel,' said the Abbess, I dare not resist the order which authorizes this gentleman to see every sister, and to offer her freedom from the restraints of a convent. I need not tell you that the Act of the Sovereign Pontiff