Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

It was about nine o'clock on the night of the 16th of January, 1781, that the little army was encamped between the Pacolet and Broad rivers, near a piece of thin woodland known as Hannah's Cowpens. The weather was very cold, for the elevation of that part of the country produces a temperature equal in severity to that of a much higher latitude, but neither tents nor shanties protected the sleeping soldiers from the frosty air. Here and there a rough shelter of pine boughs heaped together to windward of the smouldering camp-fires told of a squad who had not been too weary to work for a little show of comfort; but in most cases the men were stretched out on the bare ground, their feet toward the embers and their arms wrapped up with them in their tattered blankets, which scarcely served to keep out the cold. The regular troops, who had seen some service, might have been easily distinguished from the less experienced militia by their superior sleeping arrangements. Two and sometimes three men would be found wrapped in one blanket, "spoon-fashion," with another blanket stretched above them on four stakes to serve as a tent-fly, and their fires were usually large and well covered with green branches to prevent their burning out too rapidly. One and all, however, slept as soundly as if reposing on beds of down, while the same quiet stars smiled on them and on the anxious wives and mothers who lay waking and praying in many a distant home. In and out among the weird and shifting shadows of the outer lines the dim figures of the sentinels stalked with their old "Queen Anne" muskets at the "right-shoulder shift," or tramped back and forth along their beats at the double quick to keep their blood in circulation. At a little distance from the infantry camp the horses of Washington's dragoons and M'Call's mounted Georgians were picketed in groups of ten, the saddles piled together, and a sentinel paced between every two groups, while the men were stretched around their fires, sleeping on their arms like the infantry, for it was known that Tarleton had crossed the Pacolet that day, and an attack was expected at any time. A party of officers were asleep near one of the fires, with nothing, however, to distinguish them from the men but the red or buff facings of their heavy cloaks. One of these lay with his face to the stars, sleeping as placidly as if his boyish form were safe beneath his mother's roof. One arm lay across his chest, clasping to his body the staff of a small cavalry flag, while the other stretched along his side, the hand resting unconsciously upon a holster-case of pistols. As the glare of the neighboring fire played over his features it was easy to recognize Walter Peyton, guarding faithfully, even in his sleep, the banner which Jane Elliott had cut from her mother's parlor _fauteuil_, and which had already become known to the enemy. A rough log cabin stood a little way from the bivouac, before which two sentinels in the uniform of the Continental regulars were pacing up and down. The gleam of the roaring lightwood fire flashed through the open seams between the logs, and heavy volumes of smoke rolled out of the clay chimney. Just in front of the huge fire-place stood the tall, burly figure of Morgan, and near him were grouped, in earnest consultation, the manly figure of William Washington, the brave and knightly John Eager Howard of Maryland, McDowell, Triplett, Cunningham and other officers of the field and staff. Determination not unmingled with gloom was visible upon the faces of all. Every arrangement had been made for the probable fight of the morrow, and the council was about to disperse, when the silence of the night was broken by the call of a distant sentinel, taken up and repeated along the line. Morgan instantly despatched an orderly, to the bivouac of the guard, and the party were soon cheered by the intelligence that a courier had just arrived who reported the near approach of Pickens with three hundred Carolina riflemen--a timely and valuable addition to the little force of patriots.

The first gray pencilings of dawn were scarcely visible when the slumbering camp was roused by the rolling notes of the reveille from the drum of little Solly Barrett,[A] the drummer-boy of Howard's Maryland Regulars. Fully refreshed by a good night's rest, the men prepared and ate their breakfasts with but little delay, and by seven o'clock the entire force was in line of battle, awaiting the approach of the enemy.

[Footnote A: "Solly" resided for many years after the war at Easton, Maryland. A good portrait of him is still there.]

Tarleton, flushed with the assurance of easy victory, had made a forced march during the night, and his command was much jaded when at eight o'clock he came in sight of Morgan's outposts: notwithstanding this, however, he determined, as was fully expected by those who knew his disposition and mode of warfare, to attack the American lines forthwith. It must be left to the historian to tell how the battle raged with varying fortunes until Howard's gallant Marylanders taught the British regulars that the despised provincials had learned the trick of the bayonet, and decided the issue of the day. Up to this moment the cavalry, which had been posted in reserve behind a slight wooded eminence, had been chafing for a hand in the fray. As has been stated, these troops consisted of McCall's mounted militia and Washington's Light Dragoons. The latter were all well mounted and armed, for their frequent successes in skirmishes with the enemy's horse kept them well supplied. They were a crack corps, and well had they earned their reputation. Just as Howard's regulars turned savagely on their disorderly pursuers and put them to the rout, a squadron of British light horse made a dash at McCall, whose men were unused to the sabre, and had been demoralized by the first bayonet-charge of the enemy, which they had sustained on foot. Now was Washington's chance.

"Are you ready, men? Charge!" The words were scarcely off his lips ere the noble mare which he rode shot forward, touched by her rider's spur. With a wild yell, which drowned the regular cheer of the Englishmen, the men dashed after their brave and impetuous leader, who was ever the first to cross a sabre with the enemy. Rising in his stirrups as the gallant chestnut answered the spur, Walter Peyton looked backward at the men as he raised the light staff of his little banner and shook its folds to the breeze, and the next moment he was close by the side of his chief in the very thickest of the mêlée. For a moment all was dust and confusion, for Tarleton's veterans were not the men to break at the first onset, and they met the furious charge of the Virginians with a determination which promised a bloody and doubtful struggle. One stout fellow, mounted on a powerful horse, singled out the young ensign as his special quarry, not noticing, in his ardor to capture the daring little rebel flag, that the trooper who rode next to it was the gallant colonel himself. Reining back his horse almost upon its haunches, he had raised his sabre in the very act to strike when that of Washington came down with tremendous force, severing the upper muscles of his sword-arm, and at the same instant Peyton, for the first time observing his danger, dropped his rein and, grasping the flagstaff with both hands, swung it full in the face of his assailant. The man's horse shied violently as the folds of the little banner flapped across his eyes, and as his rider fell heavily from the saddle dashed at full speed through the British line. Already this had begun to waver, and in another moment the panicstricken troopers were flying in wild confusion toward their reserve. To rally a body of frightened cavalry is no easy matter under any circumstances, but when a determined pursuing force is pressing hotly on the rear it becomes a simple impossibility. The entire command gave way as the fugitives approached, and in a little while was in full retreat. Colonel Washington, as usual far in advance of his men, caught sight of the British commander, who, with two of his aides, was endeavoring to rally a favorite regiment, and without a thought of support pressed toward the group, accompanied only by Peyton with Jane Elliott's flag and a little bugler, a mere boy, who carried no sword, but who had drawn a pistol from his holster and kept close to the colors all through the day.

Tarleton was not deficient in personal courage, and turned to meet his old enemy in a hand-to-hand encounter. The officer nearest him struck at Washington as he passed, but missed his blow and received a bullet in his side from the young bugler's pistol.

"Carter," cried Tarleton to the other aide, who rode near him, "a captain's brevet if you take that woman's petticoat," pointing with his sword to the saucy little flag, the story of which had reached the British camps.

But it was no woman's hand which was there to defend it, and as the Englishman wheeled his horse for the attack Peyton's pistol flashed almost in his face, and he fell forward on his charger's neck, convulsively clasping it as the animal ran wildly forward unguided toward the American lines. Meanwhile, the two commanders had crossed swords, and as both were good fencers, a duel _à l'outrance_ seemed imminent. But Tarleton had no time for chivalrous encounters. His opponent beat down his guard, and with a sudden thrust wounded the British colonel in the hand. The latter drew a pistol, and as he wheeled to follow his flying squadrons discharged it at his adversary, the ball taking effect near the knee. The battle was now really at an end, and the pursuit was abandoned at this point.

As Walter Peyton lay down beside his camp-fire that night it was with a body worn down by excitement and fatigue, but with a heart beating high with pride as he looked at the flag he had so gallantly defended, and remembered his colonel's words of commendation, which he more than hoped meant promotion to a captain's commission.

In the city of Charleston all was gloom and sorrow except in the little circle of society which boasted of its loyalty to the Crown. Scarcely a family but had some representative in the Continental ranks, and as all intelligence reached the city through British channels, the darkest side of every encounter between the armies was the first which the imprisoned patriots saw. The non-combatant members of all the planters' families had moved into the city before its capitulation, and while the ladies permitted the visits and acquaintance of the English officers, they never lost an opportunity to show them how hateful they esteemed the royal cause.

It was nearly a month after the victory at the Cowpens that Miss Elliott was sitting with her mother one evening in the parlor of their city residence. Conspicuous among the furniture was a large and comfortable arm-chair upholstered in heavy crimson silk damask, but while everything else in the room was neat and even elegant, this chair appeared to be more fit for the lumber-closet, the entire square of silk having been cut from the back, leaving the underlining of coarse striped cotton exposed to view. The tones of the curfew or "first bell," which may still be heard nightly in the seagirt old city, had just died away when a loud rap came from the heavy brass knocker on the street-door, and in a few moments old Billy appeared to announce "Captain Fraser."

A look of slight annoyance passed over the face of the elder lady as she arranged the snowy ruffles of her cap, while the deepened color and sparkling eyes of the younger, with the almost imperceptible sarcasm of her smile, seemed to indicate mingled pleasure, defiance and contempt. The visitor who entered was resplendent in the gay scarlet and glittering lace of the British uniform, and his redundancy of ruffles, powder and sword-knot betokened the military exquisite, his bearing presenting a singular mixture of high breeding and haughty insolence. With his right hand laid upon the spot where his heart was supposed to be, while his left daintily supported the leathern scabbard of his sword, he bowed until the stiff little queue of his curled wig pointed straight at the heavy cornice. The ladies swept the floor with their graceful courtesies, that of the younger presenting the least touch of exaggeration as with folded arms and downcast eyes she sank backward before her guest. Another knock was heard, and when the names of three more of the garrison officers were announced, Miss Elliott whispered to Billy a hasty message to some of her fair friends in the neighborhood to come in and help her entertain them. These impromptu parties were quite common, and in a little while the room was sparkling with beauty, gallantry and wit. It may seem strange that the patriotic belles of the day, the fair Brewtons and Pinckneys and Rutledges, the Ravenels and Mazycks, should have cultivated such pleasant associations with the enemies of their country. But among the officers they had many old friends and acquaintances of _ante-bellum_ days, and not a few marriages had established even closer ties. Thus, Lord Campbell, the last royal governor, was husband to Sarah Izard, the sister of General Ralph Izard, who was brother-in-law to our former acquaintance, Rebecca Stead; and even General Washington had invited Admiral Fairfax to dine, on the ground that a state of war did not preclude the exchange of social civilities between gentlemen who served under opposing flags.

Mrs. Elliott received the attentions of her daughter's visitors with dignified grace, but with a degree of reserve which it was impossible altogether to conceal, and to which the officers had become too much accustomed to feel any offence; while the younger ladies drove the keen darts of their sarcasm home to the feelings of their hostile guests, who were forced to submit to it or forego entirely the pleasures of female society.

"May I ask if Company K has been on duty at the picket-lines to-day?" asked Miss Elliott of Captain Fraser, who had just sauntered up to her chair.

"May I answer the question after the fashion of my ancestors," was the reply, "by asking why you should think so?"

"Only because you seem to be suffering from fatigue, which a long march might explain."

Fraser's company was notoriously a "fancy corps," whose severest duty was generally to furnish the guard at head-quarters and to go through a dress parade every evening at the Battery.

"Ah, no, but I have been on inspection duty, and it's a bore, I assure you."

"Inspecting the flower-gardens, I presume, to be sure that there are no rattlesnakes under the rose-bushes, or the milliner-shops, to see that no palmetto cockades are made. May I insist upon a seat for you? Not _that_ chair," she added hastily and with heightened color as the captain was about to occupy the mutilated _fauteuil_: "excuse me, but that is a 'reserved seat.'"

"Ah, I see--beg pardon," said Fraser with a slight sneer, for the story of Washington's flag was generally known, and also Miss Elliott's aversion to the use of the chair by any British officer. "Somebody seems to have carried off the back of that one."

"When last heard from," said the beauty with curling lip, "it was at Colonel Tarleton's back."

"Tarleton should be court-martialed for that affair at Cowpens," said Fraser with some warmth, and forgetting the proffered seat he prepared to take his leave.

"Perhaps Captain Fraser would like to have had a hand in the 'affair' also," added Miss Elliott with a demure smile. This allusion to Tarleton's wound was too much for the gallant captain, and again elevating the point of his queue toward the ceiling, but this time without his hand to his heart, he left the room with a face somewhat redder than his uniform.

III.

There are defeats which are more glorious than victory, and one of these it was which, on the 8th of September, 1781, gave to Jane Elliott's flag the title which has come down with it to posterity. In the earlier days of its history the saucy little standard was known to the gallant men who followed it to action as "Tarleton's Terror," and sometimes it is even now spoken of as "the Cowpens Banner." But the name by which its brave custodians most love to call it is "the Eutaw Flag," It is hard to realize as one stands beside the lovely fountains which flow to-day as they did a hundred--or perhaps a thousand--years ago, that close by these placid waters was fought one of the most desperate and bloody struggles of a long and cruel war. The sunfish and bream floated with quivering fins or darted among the rippling shadows on that autumn morning as we see them doing now. The mocking-bird sang among the overhanging branches the same varied song which gladdens our ears, and the wild deer then, as now, lay peacefully in the shady coverts of the neighboring woods. Who knows what they may have thought when they heard their only enemy, man, ring out his bugle-call to slip the war-dogs on his fellows, or when the sharp crack of the rifle told them for the first time of safety to themselves and of death to their wonted destroyers?

Already had "Light-horse Harry" Lee struck the first blow victoriously in the capture of Coffin and the discomfiture of his force. Already for several hours the old black oaks had quivered beneath the thunder of artillery more fearfully destructive than that of Heaven itself as Williams hurled back from his field-battery the iron hail with which the enemy strove to overwhelm him. Already had Howard's gallant Marylanders, the heroes of the Cowpens, crossed bayonets with the veteran "Irish Buffs" and forced them in confusion from the field. Majoribanks, with his regulars, grenadiers and infantry, was strongly posted behind a copse too dense to be forced by cavalry, and yet to dislodge him was Colonel Washington's special duty. Pointing with his sword toward a narrow passage near the water, he dashed the spurs into the flanks of his gallant mare and called on his men to follow. There was a momentary pause, for the duty was of the most desperate character, but Captain Peyton snatched the little banner which he had carried so long from the hand of the sergeant who had succeeded to its charge, and raising it above his head spurred after his leader. As the silken folds fluttered out on the air a ringing cheer went up from the troop, and the whole line, wheeling into sections so as to pass through the narrow gap, dashed forward as one man. It was a daring attempt, and terribly did they pay for their audacity. A perfect storm of bullets greeted the brave Virginians, and nearly one-half of them went down, horse and man, beneath its fearful breath ere the other half were in the midst of the enemy's ranks. Those were days when a certain simplicity of character made the soldier believe that bayonets and sabres were terrible weapons and meant to do terrible work. No rewards were then offered for "a dead cavalryman" or for "a bloody bayonet." There were cloven skulls at Eutaw as at Crecy, and men were transfixed by each other's deadly bayonet-thrusts. As Washington, maddened by the loss of his brave troopers, swung his sharp blade like the flail of death, a shot from the musket of a tall grenadier pierced the lung of his noble bay, and as the falling steed rolled over on her gallant rider the man shortened his musket and buried the sharp steel in the colonel's body. A second thrust would have followed with deadly result had not the British major, Majoribanks, seized the arm of the soldier and demanded the surrender of his fallen and bleeding foe. The tide of battle had receded like some huge swell of ocean, and as the wounded hero struggled to his feet he found himself surrounded by enemies, to contend with whom would have been folly. Turning his feeble glance for a second toward the retreating remnant of his shattered command, he caught a glimpse through the smoke and dust of his little battle-flag fluttering in the distance, and fast receding toward the point whence Hampton's bugles were already sounding the rally. Neither William Washington nor his "Eutaw Flag" was ever again in battle for the country, for the captivity of the former terminated only with the war, and the latter fades from history from that date until, in 1827, Jane Washington, for seventeen years a widow, presented it as a precious inheritance to the gallant corps of Charleston citizen soldiery, who still guard its folds from dishonor, as they do the name of the knightly paladin which they bear. The wedding was celebrated soon after the establishment of peace. Major Majoribanks escaped the carnage of the day, but he lived not to deliver his distinguished prisoner at Charleston. Sickening on the retreat with the deadly malaria of the Carolina swamps, he died near Black Oak, and his mossy grave may be seen to-day by the roadside, marked by a simple stone and protected from desecration by a wooden paling. It stands near the gate of Woodboo plantation, which old Stephen Mazyck, the Huguenot, first settled, about twenty-five miles from Eutaw and forty-three from Charleston. On the banks of the Cooper, amid the lovely scenes of "Magnolia," Charleston's city of the dead, there stands a marble shaft enwreathed in the folds of the rattlesnake, the symbol of Revolutionary patriotism, and beneath it rests all that was mortal of William Washington and Jane Elliott his wife.

ROBERT WILSON.

CONVENT LIFE AND WORK.

To those who have had but little opportunity to examine the inner workings of the Catholic Church the subject of the conventual life has always been something of a puzzle. Of course it has been difficult for them to obtain a personal insight into its details, just as it would be difficult to gain admittance into the mosque of St. Sophia or a Hindu community of religious. Curiosity, unsatisfied, betakes itself to hearsay, and since those who know most are generally most silent about their knowledge, it is to the gossip of ignorance or prejudice that curiosity looks for an answer. Distorted views or imaginary descriptions end by being received into the mill of public opinion, and issue thence ground into gospel truth and invested with mysterious (because fictitious) interest. It is strange that a phase of life which is in constant practice at the present day, often within a stone's throw of our own doors, and which has personal ramifications in the families of our neighbors and acquaintances, should still be so much of a phenomenon to the public mind. In England, France, Italy, Germany and America I have been familiarly acquainted with it, have studied its principles and its details under many varying forms, and never found it less interesting because it was _not_ mysterious. Human, fallible beings are the inhabitants of monasteries either for males or females, with individual peculiarities and different sympathies--by no means machines, but free and intelligent agents, each with a character as individual as that of separate flowers in a large garden--full of personality and of human imperfection.

In Rome, not far from the Fountain of Trevi--of whose waters it is said that they have the power to ensure the return to Rome of any one who has drunk of them in a cup not heretofore devoted to common purposes--is the spacious convent called San Domenico e Sisto. Here the first convent of Dominican friars was established, and the spot is historic ground in the annals of the order of Preachers. In the turbulent thirteenth century, when papal, feudal and democratic parties opposed each other in Rome, and the vigorous sap of half-tamed barbarian life still coursed through the pulses of Italy, Saint Dominic rose like a reformer, a lawgiver and a peace-maker. On the other side of the Tiber, entrenched behind baronial walls and fiercely protected by baronial champions, was a convent of women whose practice of their vows had become too relaxed for such a bad example to be allowed to remain unreproved. The ecclesiastical authorities wished peremptorily to disestablish the convent and filter its inmates through some neighboring religious houses more zealous and more edifying in their conduct. But the nuns, who were mostly of noble families, appealed to their charters, their immunities and exemption from papal jurisdiction. Their fathers and brothers, the formidable barons who held within the papal city many strongholds well garrisoned, took up their quarrel and dared the world to dispossess the refractory sisterhood. Saint Dominic had just brought his friars to the dilapidated house then known as San Sisto, had caused rapid repairs to be made, and in his fervor had created round himself a nucleus of ardent reformers. The Gordian knot was referred to him, and with characteristic abruptness he promised to cut it at once. He came alone to the gates of the convent, presented no credentials from pope or cardinal, and asked an interview with the abbess. He spoke of the holiness of an austere life, the reward of those that "follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth," the merit of obedience, the need of reform, the great work that his order was doing for God, and the call for more laborers in the field: he proposed to the nuns to be his helpers among their own sex, and his coheiresses in the heavenly reward of the future. His eloquence and zeal soon melted the haughty resolve of the rebellious but still noble-minded women. Roused to a new sense of power and responsibility, they embraced his rigid rule, and with the enthusiasm of their sex, that never halts midway in reform, became models of austerity. The better to signify to the world the spiritual change wrought in their temper, they migrated from the abode which they had sworn to make the symbol and palladium of their independence, and went to San Sisto, Saint Dominic taking his monks to repeople the convent across the Tiber left vacant by the submissive sisterhood.

It is with this new house, henceforth called San Domenico e Sisto, that one of my earliest recollections of conventual life is connected. The order is one which enjoins strict enclosure. The dress is of coarse white serge or flannel, consisting of a long, narrow tunic with flowing sleeves drawn over tight ones of linen; a _scapular_ or stole (i.e., a piece of straight stuff half a yard broad worn hanging from the shoulders both behind and before); a leathern girdle round the waist, from which hangs a rosary, large, common and set in steel; strong, thick sandals; a linen wimple enveloping the face and hiding the ears, neck and roots of the hair; a woolen veil, black for the professed nuns, white for the novices, and of white _linen_ for the lay sisters; and over all an immense black cloak, falling around the figure in statuesque folds.

In this order, and almost invariably in every other, a candidate is admitted at first as a _postulant_ for a period of six months--a sort of preliminary trial of her fitness for the religious life. She wears ordinary clothes during this time--plain and black, of course, but not of any prescribed shape. Sometimes, however, she is required by custom to wear a plain black cap. After six months she is admitted as a novice--i.e., she solemnly puts off the secular dress and wears the habit of the order, making the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience for the space of one year only. The details of the ceremony vary in different orders, but the ceremony itself is called in all by the generic name of "clothing" or "taking the white veil." In orders where a white woolen veil is the badge of profession (these are not many) a linen one is equally the mark of the novice and the lay sister. Although there exists for convenience' sake a distinction between choir-nuns and lay sisters--the former paying a dowry to the common fund on the day of their entrance, and the latter bringing their manual service to the house instead of any offering--still, the difference is not spiritual, and beyond the mere distribution of labor is not practically discernible. In orders where the education of youth is the primary object, the lay sisters, under the supervision of the choir-nun to whose charge the housekeeping is directly entrusted, perform all the menial service, which would otherwise make too many inroads on the time of the teaching nuns; but in other orders, the Carmelites for instance, the lowest work, be it of the kitchen, the laundry or the chamber, is undertaken in turn by every member of the community. When Madame Louise, the daughter of Louis XV. of France, became a Carmelite nun, the first task assigned her was the washing of coarse dishes and the sweeping of floors. A parallel case is that of the Cistercian monks, who to this day, at their famous farm-monastery at Mount St. Bernard, England, are bound by their rule to labor with their hands so many hours a day. No exception is made for the abbot himself; and when we visited the establishment a few years ago we had to wait some time for the abbot, who was digging in a distant field. Scholar and savant are not exempt any more than the humblest member of the brotherhood; and as it is a very learned order, and attracts many recent converts to Catholicism, it is not infrequently that one recognizes in the monk-laborer, digging potatoes or hoeing turnips, some Anglican clergyman of delicate nurture and scholarly renown. To this monastery, entirely self-supported by its extensive farm, is attached a boys' reformatory, one of whose products is the most excellent butter known in England. Tailoring, shoemaking, carpentry, turning, etc. are all taught under the supervision of the monks: those among the boys who wish it are helped to emigrate, and others apprenticed at the proper time to the trades they have already been taught at Mount St. Bernard.

To resume our sketch of the Dominican nuns in Rome. It is the custom in Italy for a young lady about to "enter religion" to choose a godmother or _madrina_, a lady of proper age and mature experience, who acts as her chaperon during the few weeks preceding the "clothing." She comes forth from the convent where she has been a postulant, and, dressed in the garb of the world, makes formal visits to all her relations, friends and patrons, assists at public ceremonies in the local churches, even visits some places of interest, such as museums and galleries. This is her solemn farewell to the world, and she is supposed thus to have another trial given to the steadfastness of her resolve, another chance to abandon it before it is too late. A young girl of an illustrious Roman family, but of very slender fortune, was about to enter the Dominican order at the time to which I allude, in 1853. Her only sister had for some years been a nun of a strictly enclosed order, and Mademoiselle G----, having chosen as her madrina an English Catholic lady who had been enabled to show her some kindness while still in the world, went to bid farewell to this elder sister. The meeting was very affecting: the sisters could not see each other face to face--a thick grating separated them. The elder had long been a spiritual guide to the younger: she had led her mind in the direction of the cloister, and now rejoiced sincerely that God had smoothed away the family difficulties and pecuniary embarrassments which for some time had stood in the way of her vocation. Still, natural affection was not stifled in the generous, unselfish heart of the cloistered nun, and she wept with her sister at the thought that, though the walls of the same city would hold them both till death, and hardly a few blocks of houses separate their convent homes, yet in the flesh they should never meet again. The English godmother sat in a remote corner of the cool, shady parlor, sympathizing in silence with the touching scene, but keeping as much in the background as etiquette and custom allowed, that she might not intrude on this last farewell. At length the curtain behind the grating fell, and the young girl had severed the tenderest link that bound her to the world. Many other visits were paid--some to friends of Mademoiselle G----'s parents (she had long been an orphan), some to ecclesiastical personages who had interested themselves to procure her admission into the Dominican community. With repeated blessings the young girl left their presence, every day advancing nearer to her spiritual bridal.

At last the day came. Early in the morning the madrina arrived at the convent with her two little girls of six and eight years old dressed in white as bridesmaids, or, as the Italian term _angiolini_ has it, little angels. They bore delicate baskets filled with white flowers to strew before the "bride," and their office during the ceremony was to hold the novice's gloves, fan and handkerchief. The young girl herself, looking pale and earnest, walked up the aisle of the convent chapel in bridal robes of white silk, with a veil and wreath on her head, and round her neck a string of pearls, an heirloom in the G---- family. Her brother, the only male representative of her once powerful house, was present in the outer chapel, full of grief at a sacrifice which he had never countenanced, and ready to claim that morning the only legacy of his sister the promise of which he had been able to secure--the thick coils of her black hair when they should have been cut off preparatory to her taking the novice's veil. The scene was very solemn. The nuns sat in their carved stalls within the grating whose black bars divided them from the "bride" and her friends in the ante-chapel: the chant of psalms and versicles came down from a hidden gallery, and the priest in rich vestments stood at the foot of the altar within the railing. The service went on in the midst of a palpable hush; the very air seemed hardly to vibrate; the bride, attended by her two angiolini, left her gorgeous kneeling-chair and advanced to the open door in the grating, where the priest met her. Question and answer were interchanged in Italian, and the young girl vowed that of her own free will she left the world and joined the order of St. Dominic. Prayers in Latin followed, then again a chanted psalm, and Mademoiselle G---- was led away through the iron-grated door, which was then closed. It was not long ere she reappeared in the long close tunic of white serge, her head covered with a temporary veil of coarse linen and her feet shod in sandals. A procession of nuns, each bearing a lighted taper, escorted her to the foot of the altar (everything was visible through the grating), and she knelt before the officiating priest. A white woolen veil was handed to him, which he blessed with holy water, the sign of the cross and the prescribed ejaculations accompanying these rites: he then laid it on her head as a "symbol of the virgin modesty" to which she was now pledged. Two nuns were at hand to pin it into the right folds while a silver ring was being blessed in the same manner as the veil. This was placed on the ring-finger of the left hand as a "symbol of the intimate union and espousal with Christ" signified by her renunciation of the world. The scapular of white serge, similarly blessed, was then laid upon her shoulders as a type of the "yoke of obedience and sacrifice;" and lastly, the black cloak, signifying charity, covering and enveloping the whole person. Then in a loud, firm voice, instinct with passion and resolve, she read, standing, the formal declaration of her religious vows. When this was over the mother-superior led the novice, now Sister Maria Colomba, to a small table on which lay a bridal wreath of white roses and a crown of thorns. She asked her solemnly which was her choice in life, and the novice took up the crown of thorns and placed it on her head. This typical ceremony I never saw performed in any other order. Shortly after the crown of thorns was exchanged for that of roses, the superior saying, "Inasmuch as thou hast chosen the crown which thy Saviour wore, He rewards thee with that which is a shadow of the heavenly crown reserved for His spouses in heaven." This bridal token the new nun wears during the whole day.

To a few ladies and to the angiolini a special permission to enter the enclosure was given in honor of the day: a festive meal was served in the bare, cool refectory, the rule of silence being relaxed for the special occasion, and the nuns wearing a happy, child-like expression that hardly varied in the face of the youngest novice and that of the septuagenarian "mother." The strangers were shown through the dormitories, the kitchen, the laundry, the garden, the community-room, where embroidery, painting and study diversify the labors of the broom and the dishcloth, and everywhere the same exquisite neatness struck the eye. Everything used in the house was of the coarsest description--the linen like sack-cloth, but speckless; the delf as thick and rough as if made for sailors; the floors mostly of brick or stone; the furniture of unpainted deal. Over each bed, which is only a board on trestles covered with heavy sacking, is a common crucifix and a sprig of box or olive blessed on Palm Sunday. The sisters sleep in their tunics. The library is common property, but no one may use or read any book save by permission of the superioress. The rules of fasting and abstinence are not exactly the same in every convent of the order, but the broad rule is that meat should be eaten only on great holidays, vegetables and farinaceous preparations, such as most Italians are not unskilled in, forming the staple of the nuns' food. Fish is almost as rare a luxury as meat. Their bread is coarse and brown, and their drink indifferently water or a wine so sour that it is practically vinegar. Not that these nuns are not good cooks and bakers: witness the delicate sweetmeats, biscuits and pastry they offer to strangers on such festival days as the one just described, the fruit-preserves in blocks sold for their sustenance by the nuns at Funchal, Madeira, and the fairy frostwork of sugar seen on great occasions in French convents. No womanly art is a stranger to the deft fingers of cloistered nuns. Bookbinding is a pursuit well known among them, as is also the mounting in delicate filigree of the "Agnus Dei" or waxen representation of the Lamb of God, blessed by the pope at Easter and distributed throughout Christendom from the papal metropolis. Another convent industry is the preparation of the wafers used in the celebration of mass.

These Dominicanesses rise at four in the morning and dine at eleven, making after that only one slight meal in the evening--bread and vegetables, for instance, or a saucerful of macaroni. At stated times they assemble in the chapel for the singing of the "divine office," and always have an early mass, at which the whole community receives holy communion. This is administered by the priest through a square opening in the iron grating dividing the nuns from the altar. At eight, or at latest nine o'clock in the evening, all are in bed, whence they rise again at midnight (in some orders at two o'clock in the morning, but this custom involves rising somewhat later, generally five o'clock) for matins and lauds.

The duties of separate departments are judiciously divided among the sisters. There is the infirmarian; the _économe_, or housekeeper, to whose share falls the supplying of the larder; the librarian, the sacristan, the portress (often in cloistered orders this position, which is exceptional in its exemptions, involves the ordering of outside business matters), the care-taker of the garments and linen, the gardener, the secretary, the mistress and sub-mistress of novices. The house is managed like clockwork. Punctually as the bell rings each sister goes to the task appointed for that hour, and leaves it, no matter how important or absorbing it may be, for the duty appointed by the rule for the next division of time. Silence prevails among the sisters at almost all hours: for at most three times a day speech is permitted, and seldom for more than half an hour at a time. During meals one sister reads the _Lives of the Saints_ aloud. Each in her turn takes the place of server at table. The superioress alone has power to dispense with the rule of silence in case of necessity, as she transacts most of the business, social or legal, of her community.

During the year of novitiate the novices are under the direct rule of the mistress of novices, whose authority over them is paramount, though she herself is of course under a vow of obedience to the superior. When a novice receives a visit from one in the world she is accompanied by the "mistress," and if the visitor be a near relation and a woman the curtain behind the grating is withdrawn; if only a friend, the visitor does not even see the nun, as the thick curtain is drawn, and the only communication possible is by speech. It is generally possible, on any necessity arising, to obtain a special permission to break through the rule of enclosure: this is done by applying to the superior-general of the order, or in Rome to the Holy Father, whose authority naturally supersedes all others. Sometimes the power to dispense lies with the local superior, but it is a prerogative seldom used, and wisely so. In every order the internal government of each house is of an elective form, but when once chosen the superiors exercise absolute authority. The community meets every three years (in some orders every year) and chooses by vote a superioress, an assistant superioress and a mistress of novices. Only the professed nuns have a vote, and the majority carry the day. These "officers," once appointed, rule the house and choose all minor deputies themselves. The heads alone of each house assemble at the death of the superior-general (or abbess, as she is styled in some of the more ancient orders) and choose another, equally by vote, the election being sometimes decided by only one vote. This assembly is called a "chapter." The generals of most orders reside in Rome.

The year after the "clothing" of Sister Maria Colomba we witnessed the final ceremony of her "profession"--that is, of her assuming the black veil and renewing her religious vows _for life_. Hitherto, she had been free to return to the world and marry: henceforth such a return (unless by a dispensation so rarely given that it is practically non-existent) would be sacrilege. The details of the ceremony vary in different orders, and with those which are not cloistered the scene is far less impressive. What we were going to see included the most solemn forms ever used. This time the whole service took place behind the grating: there were no "bridesmaids" now, no shadow of worldly pomp was borrowed to enhance the last and momentous consecration of religion. The novice knelt between the superior and the mistress of novices, each bearing a lighted taper. The white veil was taken from her head, and a black one, previously blessed with holy water sprinkled over it in the form of a cross, substituted: the low chant of the unseen choir of nuns sounded impressively as the echo of another world. Then came the renewal of the dread vows, binding now until death, and the voice of the young girl seemed firm though low: her face wore a calm, peaceful look, subdued by the solemn occasion, yet irrepressibly suggesting a joy unknown in the world, where joy is seldom free from passion. The most interesting ceremony, however, was yet to come. The slow chant shaped itself into the words of the psalm _De Profundis_, the special prayer which in the Catholic Church is reserved for the dead, and four professed nuns advanced toward their new sister, who was now prostrate at the foot of the altar. Each held the corner of a funeral pall, which they slowly; dropped over the figure of Sister Maria Colomba, and, kneeling, held it over her until the last verse of the psalm had been sung. This suggestive ceremony closed the service. It is a forcible and picturesque type of the complete severance of the nun's future life and interests from the outside world, the death of her heart to all carnal affections, the "dying daily" which Saint Paul calls the "life" of the Christian soul. A long procession accompanied the newly-professed nun to the inner rooms of the convent, and for this one day again she wore over the black veil the bridal wreath, which to-morrow would be put away until required for her last adornment in the coffin.

Ten years after our farewell to Sister Maria Colomba behind the bars of the convent-parlor we saw her again, and, armed with a papal permission, were shown by her over the whole convent. Those rare occasions when a stranger is allowed to penetrate the "enclosure" are always gala-days for the nuns. I remarked the blithe, youthful look that shone on all their faces: Sister Maria Colomba herself, from a pale, nervous girl, had expanded into a strong, hale, buxom woman. The glow of health was on her cheek, the sparkle of innocent mirth shone in her eye. There was one among the sisters who gleefully asked me to guess at her age. She was a sweet, fresh-complexioned, matronly woman. "Not more than fifty, good mother," was the answer.

She laughed and gently clapped her hands. "Add twenty years to that," she answered with an innocent burst of pride. Then she told how she had entered the order while yet in her "teens," had held half the offices of trust in the community, and had never missed any of the most rigid fasts or absented herself once from the midnight office, never having known so much as a day's ill-health. "Ah, a nun's life is a healthy one, child, as well as a happy one," she said in conclusion.

We went over the kitchen, laundry, refectory, dormitories, chapel, garden, etc. Just the same as before--a little "calvary" at one end of the garden and a rough picture of a Madonna in an arbor, the long, echoing corridors spotless as the deck of a man-of-war, and the smiling faces making a very flower-garden of the community-room. We left loaded with specimens of the nuns' work--Agnus Deis in frames of silver filigree dotted with white roses and hanging from white satin ribbon-bows; flake-like biscuits of peculiar flavor; and baskets, pincushions, etc. of delicate workmanship. I do not know whether this convent is still in the hands of the Dominicanesses, so many in Rome having become barracks since the new royal authority superseded that of the pope. But the picture of San Domenico e Sisto as it was in 1853 and 1863 may yet interest many who perhaps will never have the opportunity of seeing such an establishment for themselves.

This is a very fair sample of the convents of the stricter and cloistered orders: there are some exceptional houses, such as that of the Sepolte Vive, where the rule is far more austere. There is but one convent of this description in Rome, and I believe one or two in France. It is a noteworthy fact that most of the strictest observances of penance originated in France, and are continued there to this day. This convent of the Sepolte Vive ("Buried Alive") is not formally sanctioned by the papal authority, but only _tolerated_. The nuns were forbidden more than ten years ago to admit any more novices, and although the individual zeal of those who started the order was not exactly censured, still a tacit intimation of its being considered excessive and imprudent was given by the highest ecclesiastical court. Among their customs (which much resemble those of the Trappist monks) these nuns have that of digging their own graves, and as the cemetery is small and included in the "enclosure," the oldest graves are opened after a period of forty or fifty years, and the crumbling contents ejected to make room for the lately deceased. The death of a nun's nearest relation, be it father, mother, brother or sister, is made known to the superior alone, and she in her turn announces it, _not_ to the bereaved one, but to the whole sisterhood, in this manner: They are all assembled in the community-room, and admonished to "pray for the soul of the father or mother" (as the case may be) "of one among their number." To the day of her death the nun never knows how near and dear by the ties of Nature may have been the soul for which she has prayed every day since the announcement was made.

The Sepolte Vive, when found guilty of any breach of the rule, are labeled with a ticket attached to their habit, and on which their fault is written in large, conspicuous letters--for instance, "Disobedience," "Curiosity," "Talkativeness"--and this they wear at their ordinary avocations for as many hours as the superioress commands. They never undress on going to bed, and wear the same habit winter and summer, the stuff being too hot for the one and too cold for the other; so that at all times the penance is the same. On the wrists many of them wear iron manacles that graze the skin and cause constant irritation at every turn of the hand: this is sometimes imposed as a penance, but very often is voluntarily inflicted on themselves by zealous members of the sisterhood. Before the prohibition to receive additional novices the sisterhood consisted of a fixed number, and when a vacancy occurred by the death of one the place was filled by the first on the list of postulants. _This list was always a large one_, and generally contained many names belonging to the noblest families of Rome. These details were gathered from the same lady who acted as madrina to the Dominican nun Sister Maria Colomba; and when she and a friend obtained permission from the pope to penetrate the "enclosure," the nuns told her that it was _twenty years_ since the same privilege had been granted. For almost the space of a generation no stranger had been seen or heard by them, for not even the privilege of a grated and curtained parlor interview is allowed to the Sepolte Vive. And yet with all this unparalleled refinement of austerity they were as blithe and healthy a body of women, as cheerful and youthful in manner, as peaceful and calm in appearance, as could be found among the Sisters of Charity or the lay members of an association of Mercy.

The Carmelites are an order spread wide over the Christian world. The reform of Saint Teresa was sadly needed among these nuns three hundred years ago, and the recital of the vehement opposition made to her efforts shows the merit due to her. At the present day the order is one of the strictest in existence. The habit is of coarse brown serge, including the tunic and scapular, a cord round the waist, sandals (in England and other northern climates shoes are allowed), a black veil and an ample white cloak. They rise at two o'clock, winter and summer alike, to sing matins, and when they retire to rest at night one of their number walks through the corridors--in this order each nun has a cell--springing a rattle and repeating in a clear tone a verse of Scripture to serve as a subject of meditation before going to sleep. In the choir the Carmelites are only permitted the use of three notes, the reason alleged for this restriction being that the service of God must not run the risk of becoming an occasion of temptation to the singers. These nuns are very strictly cloistered, and their rules regarding visitors are much the same as those described at length in the beginning of this paper.