THE THREE NUNS.

swiftly as possible. Old John, the water-carrier,
was a very proper confidant; his back was to be
the scaling-ladder by which the ac.ne of my long-
ings was to be achieved: everything seemed ex-
cusable to obtain a sight of the lovely nun.
The autumn evening was closing-the old
church clock struck seven-the hour the nun
Old John was where he ought to be,
close under that side of the garden-wall which
ran along by the river.

·

WHAT a rarity it was to see a nun thirty years
ago! You could only catch a glimpse of them
through the leaves of some forbidden romance,
and follow only with the mind's eye-and who
did not love to do so?-their ghost-like walk
amongst dimly-lighted cloisters. How delight-walked.
fully filmy and mysterious those creatures were
in their supposititious convents and St. Cecilia-like
appellations! Now, they are substantial realities,
and have a local habitation and a name: yet even
in these railway times, when the Ursulines, the
Sisters of St. Mary, the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters
of Charity, increase and multiply around us, there
is still a wonderful interest about those women
who voluntarily devote themselves to prayer, or
to the relief of their suffering fellow-creatures, for
all of them are not forced into convents by Mrs.
Radcliffe's cruel fathers.

With the romantic notions of my bread-andbutter days, it was scarcely surprising that the arrival of a nun in our quiet little English town should greatly excite my juvenile, but somewhat imaginative brain.

A real live nun from a foreign convent-what a lovely creature she must be!-who, for her health had obtained a dispensation, for a brief space, to visit her native town. Our town had absolutely had the honour of sending a member to a convent! What an event this was for the gossiping little place! How it set every tongue going! Such a raking up of by-gone family affairs; such sifting of circumstances to the very bottom; until it was actually ascertained to be quite a Radcliffe case-a daughter who had been force i into a convent by a cruel father, for the purpose of enriching the son! It was to be hoped the damsel would find some lover, some knighterrant yet extant in our land of liberty, to rescue her and redress her wrongs. How could his holiness the pope trust her so far, and not foresee the danger?

The father, to be sure, did not exactly meet the generally received notions of a cruel parent; for old Mr. Patrick was the very impersonation of the portraits of Monsieur Tonson-a short man with a pinched hat, Hessian boots, and an umbrella under his arm. This was an obvious violation of the costume of the father of a heroine; but I would not let that interfere with my preconceived notions. I strove to forget him, or dressed him in my own imagination. The whole interest, however, centered in the daughter, who was lodged in his house, which, I remember well, stood near the old bridge at the foot of the town, in the midst of a large garden; and here the nun was said to walk about in the actual dress of the convent. To this garden our prying little town went in detachments, and peeped over the wall. 'How interesting!' exclaimed one. 'How humble!' said another.

'The cross and beads depending from the girdle; so exactly what we read of!' added a third.

This was too tantalizing to be longer endured. It might not be lady-like to follow the example of the ru se people, and climb to the top of a wall for the purpose of looking over into a gentleman's garden; but it must be done, and as secretly and

Is she there now, John?' 'Yes, miss.'

'No one with her, John ?'

Nc, miss.'

Does any one see us, John?'
'Yes, miss.'
'Who, John?'

"Your father, miss.'

From the undignified position of stepping upon John's back, I actually dived into a bed of nettles, to hide myself from my father; and there I lay, stung by my guilty conscience, as well as by the venom of the vegetable, trembling and repenting my rash exploit-when: 'No fears, miss, he's gone the other way,' lured me from my leafy retreat. Literally nettled by this interruption to my adventure, I was on the point of giving it up, but John was not so disposed. 'Don't go without a peep at St. Patrick, miss," said John. This prefix the nun's surname had already acquired for her from the vulgar people of our town.

'Fie, John!' said I reprovingly; 'call her by her convent-name-Sister Celeste.'

'Then mount miss, and see what a celestial critter she is. So saying, old John placed himself as if for a game at leap frog. I mounted boldly, and clung by my arms, which I threw like grappling irons over the wall, for the sake of relieving poor John's back. O what a reward awaited me! There was the nun, in her long flowing gray dress; her figure met my eye at once-I saw nothing else, and could have gazed for ever. O how I wished myself that nun, or next to that, some ardent youth to carry her off! She had got to the end of the walk; she would doubtless turn, and I should see her face. She did so, and

could it be possible?-my lovely nnn was a horrid old woman. To be a nun, and to be old, was an anomaly I couldn't reconcile: but as I was pondering upon this, my arguments were met face to face by my father, who, obtaining Mr. Patrick's permission, had entered the garden, and mounted on a chair on the inside of the wall, for the purpose of convicting me in the very act.

John had made off on the first appearance of my father's head over the wall amongst the branches of the pear-tree and there I was helplessly left, my feet dangling, and my shoulders pushed up to my ears, by the effort of holding on. Bread and water for a day was the very proper punishment of my undignified introduction to my first nun.

My next was on a very different occasion. I was to behold a really beautiful girl, the admiration of the city, who, with abundance of riches, had voluntarily resigned all the pomps and ranities of the world in exchange for the seclusion of a convent. This was in the charming city of Cork, where I happened to be spending the summer with a relation. A friend, dropping in one

morning, asked me if I would accompany her to the convent, as she was going to see her cousin, the identical beauty, and had the privilege of taking me along with her. Of course, I rejoiced to go; my friend promising that, after I had seen the nun, if I still required to be told, she would acquaint me with the cause of her taking the

VOWS.

We walked about in the garden of the convent for some time, listening to the organ. One of the nuns, the only one visible, and really an interesting-looking creature, came towards us, and informed my companion that sister Beatrice would be at liberty presently. The organ ceased; there was the tinkling of a bell; away rushed the nun, and directly after Sister Beatrice appeared. She came quickly up the walk, holding her long coarse black serge dress a little aside so as not to impede her feet. She was tall, and managed her train with the grace of a court lady. A black veil flowed from her head, apparently of the same thick texture as the dress; but the face was uncovered, and lovely indeed, even in spite of the white fillet low down over the forehead, and the linen tippet, which, hiding every inch of the throat, came most unbecomingly right up under the ear. She was not more than two-and-twenty, and exquisitely fair; with features a model for the sculptor. I was surprised at her elegance, and almost cheerfulness of manner-it was that of the most polished lady of the drawing-room. I confess I expected to meet an aspect of melancholy resignation, somewhat more in accordance with the sombre hue of the dress; but no such thing. She said she was happy: and but for the, to me, forced smile around those beautiful lips, I could have believed her.

And do you not find the convent dull?' I asked, as we got into conversation.

'Never,' she replied. 'I used to be plagued with ennui in the intervals of London gaieties; here we don't know what it means. All the pleasure I derived from balls, plays, parties, and above all, cantering over hill and dale on me avourite Lilla, were poor in comparison with my present happiness!'

'Well,' I remarked, 'I should not, I fear, be able to reconcile myself to the idea of living in a house where every sound of mirth was forbidden. 'Oh, but there is no interdict here,' she replied. 'We are very merry. After our morning meal, when we are all congregated, half an hour is allowed for the relation of some anecdote or incident which may have happened when we were in the world; this half hour we each take by turns, and I assure you, it is generally a mirthful one, and we often laugh heartily.'

I shall never forget the solemn exultation in the nun's utterance of these words: we were silent, and, a few drops of rain falling, took our leave. The tinkling bell caused the nun to hurry into the convent; and as we descended the steps from the garden, we again heard the organ, but this time accompanying the angelic voice of sister Beatrice.

'What,' I asked eagerly of my companion, was the cause which could seclude so beautiful a creature from the world?'

'I thought,' she replied, 'you would not find it out.'

'It was impossible to find it out; she merely alluded to her bereavement.'

'Did you not perceive, then, that she was blind?'

'Blind!' I echoed in astonishment.

'Yes; after a grand ball at Almack's, she caught cold, which resulted in the utter loss of sight; but, as you perceived, without any injury to the appearance of the eye. Her brother, who, after she became blind, devoted himself to her, was her constant companion, and compensated as far as possible her great loss-died. This was the bereavement she alluded to, which she felt more than her deprivation of sight. She then entered the convent, where, from her affable manner, beautiful appearance, and exquisite skill and taste in music, she is beloved and admired by all.'

Shortly after my return home, I became ac quainted with my third nun, a very charming young Irish woman, governess to the daughters of our doctor, whose wife, being a Catholic, reared the girls according to her own faith, while the worthy doctor trained his only son in the Protestant religion. Miss Hamilton, as the governess was called, seemed happy to have me with her whenever opportunity permitted; and my father's intimacy with Dr. Renton's family rendered this of frequent occurrence. In one of our many rambles through the beautiful woods which clothed the banks of the river, she, for the first time to me, at least, began to speak of her own previous history, a subject hitherto always avoided by her. I was not a little startled, when, alluding to some circumstance, she inadvertently said, Ah, that happened on my marriage-day.' I felt embarrassed, and was silent. I always suspected she had a secret; and though wondering what it was, I would not for the world have taken advantage of what she had thus incautiously uttered, to win it from her, It appeared as if this very forbearance on my part determined her on making me her confidante.

་

It is a dreary thing,' she said after a pause, Oh, that must be a pleasant half-hour,' re- 'when an incident, in which is at once concenmarked I; and one that I think, from your man- trated the chief happiness and misery of our ner, you must be particularly calculated to en-lives, must be shut up in our own bosoms, unliven and enjoy.'

'It is pleasant,' she replied; 'but since my bereavement'-and she cast up her beautiful blue eyes to heaven, all gaiety of manner banished now the happiness of my life here-and I sometimes think it will be hereafter-is in music -is to make the organ, which you heard faintly pealing just now, pour forth all its magnificent tones, as if to carry up the thanks and praises of our sisterhood to the heaven of heavens!'

talked of, and unsympathized with.'

I felt quite unable to fill up the painful silence which now ensued. At length Miss Hamilton thus resumed: 'My father's second marriage made my home a wretched one, and determined me at a very early age to leave it, and adventure in the world for a subsistence. For this purpose I applied myself closely to study. I was a pretty good musician, was advancing in French, and acknowledged to be the best grammarian in the

school; this, with the advantage of writing well,
made up the whole stock of accomplishments on
which I was about to trade. I packed up my
wardrobe, took a cold leave of my father, and
with five sovereigns in my purse, started by the
the coach for Dublin. I had my projects ar-
ranged, and was singularly confident of success.
'My intention was to offer myself for a year as
a teacher at one of the schools, that I might ac-
quire sufficient knowledge and confidence to take
a situation as a private governess. This was ac-
complished; and at the age of sixteen I was re-
ceived into the family of the Marquis of " to
instruct his young daughters. The son arrived
from Cambridge, bringing his tutor, Mr. Sey-
mour, along with him. I was treated by the
whole family with the most affectionate kindness.
The young tutor, for he was not many years older
than his pupil, hearing me express a desire to
acquire German, volunteered to give me lessons.
A sympathy, strengthened by a singular coinci-
dence of unhappy family circumstances, which
had thrown us both alike on the wide world to
struggle for ourselves, sprang up, and resulted-
on my part at least, and I believe mutually-in
the most devoted attachment; but this we thought
it prudent to conceal from the family, lest it
should prove inimical to our interests. On the
morning of his leaving Dublin with his pupil,
finding an excuse to walk out with me, we were
privately married, vowing to each other never to
divulge the secret until circumstances rendered
it expedient. Even in separation we were happy,
now that our vows were irrevocably made.

Her first letter described to me her arrival at the convent, and the singular feeling she had as the gates closed behind her, probably to separate her for ever from the world. It was night, and by the dim lights she could see the nuns clustering together on the staircase to catch a glimpse of the new-comer. The superior, whom she described as a very charming woman, received her not only with kindness, but affection, confiding her to the care of one of the nuns who could speak a few words of English.

On the following day, her duties commenced. She was forcibly impressed with the admirable system of education, the industry and superior knowledge of the children. On giving a lecture on English, it was no uncommon thing for a girl of eleven years of age to stand up and argue with her, saying: Allow me, Miss Hamilton-that rule is quite contrary to the German.' She liked her new life, and made many friends amongst the German ladies, whose habit it was to bring their work and sit with the nuns during the afternoon.

On the first examination of her pupils-an important day in the convent-Miss Hamilton, who still wore her own costume, had dressed herself very carefully, completing her toilet with a pair of close-fitting primrose coloured gloves. The superior wished to see her; smiled, and said she would supply her with a more appropriate covering for her hands, at the same time presenting her with a large awkward pair of black kid in exchange for her own. Miss Hamilton put them on and retired; but the really good-natured su'Several letters had arrived from him, addressed perior recalled her, saying: 'I see you are disto me, by previous arrangement, at the post-appointed. Put on your own gloves again: we office; when, one morning, the marquis informed pardon the vanity for once.' his family that he had received from his son the melancholy news of Mr. Seymour's sudden death. You cannot imagine, my dear friend,' continued Miss Hamilton-for I cannot call her by any other name-what my sensations were; it would be impossible to describe them. Yet in the midst of my distress I kept my secret; I was ashamed, so young as I was, to reveal the duplicity I had practised. But my health sunk beneath the struggle, and compelled me to resign a situation which, from these circumstances had now become irksome to me. For a time my only consolation was in the advice and sympathy of the good old priest who joined our hands; besides yourself, he is the only person acquainted with this portion of my history. I owe it to you, my dear friend,' concluded Miss Hamilton, 'to be thus sincere; and oh, let it warn you against clandestine friendship, love, or alliance. Few circumstances can excuse them, and the result is always sorrow.

Of course, Miss Hamilton was dearer to me and more interesting than ever; and after she had left Dr. Renton's family, and gone to reside in the West of England, a letter arrived stating that she was going to a convent in Germany, which supported a school, to be English teacher there; and that, at the termination of the first twelvemonth, she might, if she chose, commence her novitiate this she declared to be her intention-and eventually take the veil. I tried to dissuade her would I had succeeded!-but all in vain: she went.

True to her intention, she commenced her novitiate, and as it drew to a termination, these were her words: 'My dear friend-I have a hungry longing for my profession-day, that day which shall separate me forever from most of the things of time; not from the correspondence of my friends, but from the false pleasures of a treacherous world.' I could not but regret this, a young creature, not yet eighteen; and then the clipping off of those luxuriant tresses, which I had so often envied her! However, it was decided, and my friend took the veil. I occasionally received letters, all breathing the most pious feelings, and prayers for my being brought into the true path, and joining her in her seclusion.

An unusually long silence made me fear that she had sunk under somewhat drooping health, when a letter arrived, a communication indeed to wonder at. The substance of it was this: She was alone with the superior and her confessor one evening, when two priests were introduced who, brought messages from a convent in England. Sister Lavine, so my friend was now called, at the superior's request, remained, merely retiring ingin meditation' to a recess of the apartment. There was something in the voice of one of the priests singularly sad; it seemed to command her attention. She fancied she recollected the sound; she must have met the priest in England; she would look up and recognise him. She did so; and in that tall, thin, pale man she saw her husband! The superior and her confessor

were acquainted with her story, and gave no small share of sympathy to the painful scene which ensued. What had been reported as sudden death, it appeared, was paralysis, which, after a period of unconsciousness, prostrated the poor sufferer helplessly on a bed of sickness for three years. Life was a burden. Could he be so selfish as to share that burden with the poor girl he had, sinfully perhaps, persuaded to a secret marriage, and who, from the false statement in the newspapers, which confirmed the report, must think him dead? At length he slowly recovered, and went to Ireland to seek out the old priest for news of his young and spotless bride. The priest was dead. He knew the address of her father. To him he applied, and received the information that a letter had arrived from his daughter some time previously, bidding him farewell, preparatory to her taking the veil, but in what convent she would not reveal. This ended all hope, and from that moment he devoted him self to a religious life; and now, by mere accident, accompanying his fellow-priest to the convent, he was on his way to join a severe and self-denying brotherhood of monks.

These were the incidents with which I became acquainted in the life of my third nun; and though the peculiarity of the circumstances might have warranted a renunciation of her vows, her destiny was the bride of heaven; for, in that one eventful interview, the long-parted took leave of each other for ever in this world. The trial, she said, had been a hard one, but only a befitting penance for having swerved from the direct path of sincerity; and her concluding words were: 'Remember that the result of dissimulation is surely

sorrow!'

ECHO.

7th Class, Edinburgh Academy, 1831.

Hail! vagrant spirit of the sky!

Sweet minstrel of the mountain wood!
Whose strains of liquid melody

Float o'er the holy solitude;
Wild lover of the ancient caves
That skirt the unfrequented shore,
When the fretting ocean raves,

And the foamy tempests roar;
Thy lyre of universal tone

Can imitate each varied measure,
And make each wandering note its own
Of joy, or grief-or pain, or pleasure.
The village schoolboy at his play,
On a summer holiday,
Loitering in the leafy wood,

Enamour'd of its berries rude,
Whoops, to scare the snowy dove

Nestling on the boughs above,
And laughs with roguish look to hear
His cry come back upon his ear,
Then shouts his joyous carol round,

Till all the neighbouring glades resound.

When the vestal train is kneeling
On the holy altar stone,

And through the choir the hymn is pealing
In a sweet and hallowed tone-
All the notes in Union blending,
Like sister streams at silent even,
To the raptured spirit lending

The choral harmonies of heaven-
On thy harp with airy finger,

Thou dost raise the heavenly lay-
In the far aisles its echoes linger,
And die in half heard notes away!

How sweet at moonlit eve to lie

Upon some balmy breathing steep,
Whose verdant forehead, lone and high,
Looks down on a long cottaged dell,
Where the simple rustics dwell,

Buried all in balmy sleep-
When the smoke had ceased to rise

From the mossy cottage roof,
And naught disturbs the drowsy skies

But the hollow trampling hoof

Of some lone traveller's wearied steed,
Pressing him with eager speed;
Or the long but distant bark

Of sleepless watch-dog, through the dark;
If then, perchance a beauteous strain
Should rise along the silent plain

From some embowered nook,
And swell in circling notes along,
Till every grotto found a tongue,

And every minstrel mountain took
The chorus up, how sweet unto the list'ning ear
That glorious melody to hear,

Soft thrilling through the azure sky,
So fairy-like-so heavenly,

In that delightful hour,

As if 'twere borne on angel's wings
From some fair star where music springs

With every golden flower,

Where every honied breeze that blows,
Joins in a soft melodious song,

To charm the blisful ears of the undying throng!

We never knew a "Selling off" where the purchasers were not included in the Selling.

We never met an English tourist who could drink a glass of Continental beer without inwardly regretting it.

We never eat an oyster opened by an amateur, that didn't taste like spoilt periwinkle mixed with gravel walk.

We never met a cockney so sanguine of longevity as to hope to live to see the river Thames deodorised.

The tongue was intended for a divine organ; but the devil often plays upon it.

MORTON HALL*.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

Up to this time we had felt it rather impertinent to tell each other of our individual silent wonder as to what Miss Phillis lived on: but I know in our hearts we each thought about it with a kind of respectful pity for her fallen low estate. Miss Phillis, that we remembered like an angel for beauty, and like a little princess for the imperious sway she exercised, and which was such sweet compulsion that we had all felt proud to be her slaves; Miss Phillis was now a worn, plain woman, in homely dress, tending towards old age! and looking-(at that time I dared not have spoken so insolent a thought, not even to myself)-but she did look as if she had hardly the proper nourishing food ehe required. One day, I remember Mrs. Jones the butcher's wife-(she was a Drumble person)—saying in her Baucy way, that she was not surprised to see Miss Morton so bloodless and pale, for she only treated herself to a Sunday's dinner of meat, and lived on slop and bread-and-butter all the rest of the week. Ethelinda put on her severe face-a look that I am afraid of to this day-and said, "Mrs. Jones, do you suppose Miss Morton can eat your half starved meat? You do not know how choice and dainty she is, as becomes one born and bred like her. What was it we had to bring for her only last Saturday from the grand new butcher's in Drumble, Biddy?"-(we took our eggs to market in Drumble every Saturday, for the cotton-spinners would give us a higher price than the Morton people; the more fools they!)

Ethelinda and I, do believe that the two or three score of Cabbages he raised were all they had to live on that winter, besides the bit of meal and tea they got at the village shop.

One Friday night I said to Ethelinda, "It is a shame to take these eggs to Drumble to sell, and never to offer one to the Squire on whose lands we were born." She answered "I have thought so many a time; but how can we do it! I, for one, dare not offer them to the Squire; and as for Miss Phillis it would seem like impertinence." "I'll try at it," said I.

So that night I took some eggs-fresh yellow eggs from our own pheasant hen, the like of which there were not for twenty miles roundand I laid them softly after dusk on one of the little stone seats in the porch of Miss Phillis's cottage. But, alas! when we went to market at Drumble, early the next morning, there were my eggs all shattered and splashed, making an ugly yellow pool in the road just in front of the cottage. I had meant to have followed it up by a chicken or so; but I saw now it would never do. Miss Phillis came now and then to call upon us; she was a little more high and distant then she had been when a girl, and we felt we must keep our place. I suppose we had affronted the young Squire, for he never came near our house.

Well! there came a hard winter, and provisions rose; and Ethelinda and I had much ado to make ends meet. If it had not been for my sister's good management, we should have been in debt I know; but she proposed that we should go without dinner and only have a breakfast and a tea, to which I agreed, you may be snre.

I thought it rather cowardly of Ethelinda to One baking day I had made some cakes for put the story-telling on me; but she always tea-potato-cakes we called them. They had a thought a great deal of saving her soul; more savoury hot smell about them; and, to tempt than I did, I am afraid, for I made answer, as Ethelinda, who was not quite well, I cooked a bold as a lion, "Two sweetbreads, at a shilling rasher of bacon. Just as we were sitting down a-piece and a fore-quarter of house lamb, at Miss Phillis knocked at our door. We let her in. eightpence a pound," So off went Mrs. Jones God only knows how white and haggard she in a huff, saying "their meat was good enough looked. The heat of our kitchen made her totter for Mrs. Donkin the great mill owner's widow and for a while she could not speak. But all the and might serve a beggarly Morton any day." time she looked at the food on the table as if she When we were alone, I said to Ethelinda, "I'm feared to shut her eyes lest it should all vanish afraid we shall have to pay for our lies at the away. It was an eager stare like that of some great day of account," and Ethelinda answered animal, poor soul! "If I durst," said Ethelinda very sharply-(she's a good sister in the main)-wishing to ask her to share our meal, but being "Speak or yourself, Biddy. I never said a word. I only asked questions. How could I help it if you told lies? I'm sure I wondered at you, how glib you spoke out what was not true." But I knew she was glad I told the lies in her heart.

After the poor Squire came to live with his aunt, Miss Phillis, we ventured to speak a bit to ourselves. We were sure they were pinched.They looked like it. He had a bad hacking cough at times; though he was so dignified and proud he would never cough when any one was near. I have seen him up before it was day, sweeping the dung off the roads, to try and get enough to manure the little plot of ground behind the cottage, which Miss Phillis had let alone but which her nephew used to dig in and till; for, said he, one day in his grand slow way "he was always fond of experiments in agriculture."

Continued from page 77, vol 4.-Concluded.

afraid to speak out. I did not speak, but handed her the good hot buttered cake; on which she seiz ed and putting it up to her lips as if to taste it, she fell back in her chair, crying.

We had never seen a Morton cry before; and it was something awful. We stood silent and aghast. She recovered herself, but did not taste the food; on the contrary, she covered it up with both hands, as if afraid of losing it. "If you'll allow me," said she, in a stately kind of way to make up for our having seen her crying, "I'll take it to my nephew." And she got up to go away; but she could hardly stand for very weakness, and had to sit down again; she smiled at us, and said she was a little dizzy, but it would soon go off; but as she smiled the bloodless lips were drawn far back over her teeth making her face seem somehow like a death's head. Morton," said I, "do honour us by taking tea with us this once. The Squire, your father, once took a luncheon with my father, and we are

"Miss