University of Virginia Library

THE NOVICIATE.

The prevalence of monastic institutions is one of
the most striking features of Sicily. Originated during
the dominion of the Spainards, like ill-weeds they
have taken deep root and quite overrun the verdant
island. In the country they occupy the most desirable
sites, and in almost every street of the capital the
high gratings of the nunneries appear protruding from
their lofty walls. Thousands of the fairest daughters
of the land are immured within these spacious
asylums. Among such a multitude, some doubtless
are devoted to that religious meditation which is the
professed object of their seclusion; but the majority

manifest as lively an interest in the world they have
renounced as the busiest of its denizens. By means
of their friends they are constantly informed of the
events of the day, and manage to maintain a surprising
acquaintance with the intrigues and doings of the
metropolis. Indeed, a half hour's chat with one of
these fair recluses is said to subserve the purposes of
the gossip better than a gazette of which there is
quite a dearth. And in return for the sweet scandal
the wicked world provides them, they are constantly
distributing presents of comfits. By this demi-intercourse
with their fellow-beings, and in attending to
their share of the duty and ceremonial of the house,
their hours glide by, and every year adds to their
number. Isabel availed herself of an occasion which
offered to witness the rite by which a noviciate was
entered upon. The daughter of a merchant with whom
Frazier was acquainted being about to perform
these vows, he invited the strangers to attend the
function.

It was the last day of the month. As the carriage
rolled over the flat pavements through the crowded
Toledo, lights gleaming from the cafés and shops,
fell on groups of mechanics toiling by the wide
thresholds, shelves of confectionary thrust forth to
tempt the passers, and now and then revealed a set
of grotesquely-clad buffoons—the light-hearted celebrators
of the carnival, surrounded by a laughing
mob. Now they passed an elegant equipage with
its complement of dashing footmen; and now
the white robes of a Dominican friar fluttered by.

One moment Isabel admired the dexterity of the
coachmen as they drove furiously on, the wheels of
their vehicles almost in contact, another gazed
upon a fountain murmuring amid its old sculptured
ornaments and weed-grown inscriptions; and the
next instant they turned into a narrow street, dark,
and silent but for the clear echo of their horses' feet
as they struck the flag stones. Riding rapidly through
the streets of an European city produces in the
stranger's mind a novel excitement. One thought
predominated in the mind of Isabel. She remembered
that the insignia of life, of active and cheerful existence,
whose inspiration she then felt was about to
be abandoned by her whose vows she was soon to
hear. She endeavoured to imagine her own feelings,
if such were her lot. “It is not love of what is called
the world”—(thus she mused)—“that would make
such an hour dismal to me. I am not indissolubly
wedded to the pursuit of pleasure. Long since I
have realized the vanity of the petty triumphs sought
in artificial society. I should mourn to quit life
because it is the arena of experience, the sphere of
duty, the lot of my race. I would not, if I could,
escape the common destiny of a human being. I
would share in the toil, anxiety, and suffering, I
would take part in the higher enjoyments, I would
have my inheritance in the kingdom of thought and
affection, because it is human. A mightier will than
mine placed me here; a holier agency than that of
accident creates the circumstances of life. Let the
afflictions, the temptations, the cares of being be endured;
let me be free to commune with nature and
society, let me courageously fulfill my destiny; and
for the truth that shall guide and protect me, let me
trust to the paternity of God.” The strain of her
meditations was abruptly broken by their arrival at
the convent. They entered the parlatorio, or conversation
room. It was already half-filled with
company who, to judge by their gay dresses, and the
occasional laughter and lively discourse with which
they were beguiling the time, one would suppose
had assembled for some purpose of glad festivity.
At the head of the room, surrounded by the ladies
of her family, and the companions of her youth,
sat the maiden on whose account they had assembled.
She was tall, and of that form which, at a glance,
we are apt to denominate genteel. A dress of
white satin richly decorated with lace, showed to
the best advantage her fine, intelligent face, dark
eyes shaded with long black lashes and head of hair,
amid the ebon masses of which clusters of diamonds
glittered beneath a knot of snow-white ostrich feathers
that nodded above, and gave to the tout ensemble,
a queen-like aspect. This impression was enhanced
by the air and manner of the lady. Occasionally
turning to a party of nuns who clustered about
the open door which formed the limits of their asylum,
she replied to their words of encouragement
with an affable dignity. Sometimes addressing her
mother who sat beside her she seemed to perform
the same kind office of consolation to her. At the
entrance of one of the friends whose society had
enlivened, with girlish playfulness, many an hour of
her young life, she rose and gracefully, often even
joyously, saluted her as if she were receiving the
gratulations of a bride. Sometimes she caressed her
little brother, a pretty boy of five or six, apparently
delighted at the brilliant costume of his lovely sister:
at others, although but momently, she would sit silently
looking around her, as if called for the first
time to play the part of an entertainer, and, as yet
unskilled in disguising the weariness which too often
renders that character one of the most onerous in the
whole range of social requisitions. A blithe tone,
pleasant, talkative mood, and happy smile distinguished
her from the other young ladies upon whose
faces seriousness would oftener rest, and glances of
thoughtful regret not unfrequently be cast towards
their smiling friend. Isabel watched the scene, and
recalled the beautiful simile which compares an
unconscious sufferer to the sacrificial victim that
wears proudly, and playfully nibbles the flowery
garlands that to all else are emblems of its approaching
fate. Ices and sweetmeats were distributed. The
buzz of conversation rose and fell. There were pleasant
jests and calm discussions among the party, and
as little apparent commiseration as the ancient assemblies
at the gladiatorial combats, were wont to
show for the beings whose death was to be barbarously
consummated for their amusement. Isabel
was separated from her friends, and found herself
near some acquaintances with whom she had little
sympathy; and after the ordinary greetings were interchanged,
was at liberty to entertain herself with
her own thoughts. These were presently entirely
engrossed in attempting to conjecture the motives
and present feelings of the noviciate. She was soon
convinced that there was a deep sentiment veiled by
the blitheness of her manner; an eye and a contour
so speakingly intelligent, she was convinced appertained
to a mind that could pierce the shadows of
gross superstition, and a heart with a capacity of
feeling which had, or would ere long, occasion its
possessor intense suffering. Thus her sympathy was
earnestly excited; nor could she relieve the longing
she felt to interfere with the proposed vows, till she
was assured that after a year's trial the novice
would be at liberty to leave the convent. This consideration,
however, would not have greatly solaced
Isabel, had she been aware of the means assiduously
used to rivet the chain of motives which first allure
the young to make trial of conventual life. From
the parlatorio the company adjourned to the church,
which was brilliantly lighted for the ceremony.
Isabel, as a stranger, was provided with a place near
the grate, about which a dense crowd soon collected.
The priest at the main altar commenced a mass.
An orchestra stationed in a high gallery began a
sacred strain, and turning to the chapel she saw a
procession of the sisterhood approaching, bearing
lighted tapers, and in the midst walked the novice.
They encircled a little platform, placed just within
the lattice, on which sat the abbess and her assistants,
and at the feet of the former, kneeled the devoted
maiden. She was still apparelled in her ballroom
attire, but a crown of flowers was substituted
for the jewels and plumes, and in her right hand she
bore a wand of palm. At Isabel's side, in a high
chair covered with crimson velvet, sat the officiating
priest. The aged mother of the institution threw
back her silken cowl, drew forth and assumed her
tortoise-shell spectacles, and opened the ritual. Isabel
noted the picture as the soft radiance of the numerous
lights fell on the upturned face of the novice, and
the time-withered lineaments of the abbess. In the
one she read youth and innocence—the harmony of
a confiding and undimmed nature; in the other, the
traces of experience, the expression of command, the
quiet and fixed features of that epoch in life, when
Hope's visions have melted away, and the listless content
of subdued feeling, like the calm surface of a
summer sea, reflects what is around, but stirs not in
the exhausted breeze of fresh emotion. She observed
the bright eye of the maiden glance kindly at
the younger nuns, and, as the monotonous recitative
of the priest succeeded that of the women, on her
fresh lips stole such a smile, as she caught the eye of
the old lady, as would have provoked a responsive
look from one more sensible to such an appeal or
less disciplined in self-control. A lock of the dark
hair was severed, and the silken curtain drawn. In a
few moments it was again thrown back, and, arrayed
in the black robe and white cape of a nun,
appeared the inducted novice. The dress was singularly
becoming—more so than that it had displaced.
Again she kneeled and the preacher commenced his
exhortation. Fervently did he congratulate the fair
girl on her choice. Eloquently did he picture the
evils she had escaped and the blessings she had
secured. There was sincerity in his tones; but Isabel
remembered the silver sweetness of voice which
the novice's responses had betrayed, and the spell of
the speaker's was lost. She turned to the mother and
saw the tears roll down upon the lace 'kerchief
which covered the breast whereon this lovely creature
had so often reposed. The little brother of the
noviciate, whether offended by her new array or
touched with the solemnity of the scene, became
very restless, and after many vain attempts to attract
his mother's attention, began to cry piteously as if in
remonstrance to the vows with which they were
severing from him, perhaps forever, an indulgent and
fond sister. His wailing was not suffered to interrupt
the orator who continued his discourse. The
child was hurried from the crowd. Isabel observed
that throughout the ceremony, the novice ventured
not a glance towards her kindred and friends gathered
about the tressil-partition; but she saw her breast
heave beneath the folds of her sacred habit, and fancied
that not one of her mother's sighs escaped her
ear. When the address was brought to a close, the
nuns pressed forward and embraced the new member
of their society. The company in the church
slowly withdrew. Isabel followed the ladies to the
parlatorio, and entered just as the mother and daughter
were tearfully embracing. A throng of congratulating
friends encircled the noviciate. Isabel wished
for her sake that all was over. But soon the maiden
eagerly inquired for her father. He was in a distant
corner of the apartment. When he approached, his
beautiful daughter, clad as it seemed to the strangers
in the habiliments of a living grave, kissed him affectionately.
Isabel saw him whisper to the abbess
and doubted not it was a request to treat his child
kindly. She thought of her own parent and asked
herself whether he could thus leave her to linger out
a sad existence in the cloister. The idea chilled her
very soul; and seizing the proffered arm of her
uncle, they hurried from the place.

The Marina of Palermo is one of the most admirable
promenades in Europe. By many continental
travellers it is deemed unsurpassed. The broad,
blue expanse of the bay rolls to the very base of the
long and smoothly-paved walk; a spacious and level
road for carriages lies between this and the range of
palaces and gardens which bound it on the opposite
side; while at both extremities, the noble promontories,
which rear themselves protectingly and enclose
the harbor, shield the beautiful resort and gratify the
eye of the visitor. Thus the imposing vicinity of the
finest edifices, the verdure and perfume of a public
garden, and the cool, bright sea are concentrated, as
it were, around this magnificent Marina. Those
who dislike the vicinity of vehicles and horsemen,
can repair to the terrace which rises above the road
and extends to half the length of the drive. The

continuance of this upper walk is all that is wanting
to complete the splendid promenade. On gala
days nothing can exceed the cheerful and elegant
aspect of this scene. Equipages of every degree of
richness pass, in long lines, to and fro through the
centre, and the walks appear thronged with the various
costumes of Southern Europe. And daily, at
all seasons, the stranger about two hours after midday,
may find it more or less fashionably occupied.
But it is in the summer evenings that the Marina of
Palermo appears to the greatest advantage, and is
most generally and consciously enjoyed. Half the
population repair thither to enjoy the sea-breeze.
The distant mountains are robed in a greener hue; the
adjacent groves are clothed in the richest tints; the
ocean cooly murmurs and stretches, like a crystal
plain, before the eye wearied with the scorching
heat of these southern skies. The burning sun is
slowly sinking in the west. Then the nobility seek
in their open carriages the refreshing breeze from the
ocean. The fat priest seats himself on one of the
marble benches; the soldier leans upon his musket
and raises his heavy cap to catch the delicious air;
the freed child gambols along the terrace-walk; the
languid beauty readily accepts the ice which her gallant
proffers at the side of her landau; and to stir
the serenity of the scene with a congenial excitement,
music from a band stationed about the centre of the
drive, in a temporary theatre, steals forth to cheer
and to charm the gay multitude. Such is the Marina
on a summer night. But when Frazier and the
Count, obeying the suggestion of Isabel, left the carriage
at one of the gates and came out upon the
promenade, it was almost entirely solitary. In the
distance, the figure of a single individual might be
seen hurrying along; and at one or two points, a
knot of fishermen were arranging their nets. High,
dark, and towering rose the mountains, and the foliage
seemed blent in one heavy mass. But over the face of
the sea and on the palace-roofs, the beams of the full
moon glittered; and the foam-streaks shone in the
mild light, as they ran with a plaintive and hollow
murmur along the stones. As Isabel and her companions
gained the walk, and felt the soothing effect
of a promenade by the sea at so quiet an hour, they
wondered that so few had improved the privileged
time. But her mind was intent upon the scene she had
left. The light demeanor of the young noviciate, the
interesting expression of her face, the solemnity of
the rite remained vividly impressed upon her mind;
and she was eager in her inquiries of Vittorio as to
the views of the parent and the feelings of the child.

“You must have observed me,” he replied, “conversing
with a young man in the parlatorio, who
was seated near your uncle. That youth, more than
two years since, became enamoured of the novice.
He had a small income, not however sufficient to
warrant his marriage unassisted by additional means.
His affection was reciprocated. The father of the
young lady is a man of wealth. At the commencement

of the suit he objected to its consummation on
several trivial grounds. These difficulties were at
length obviated; but the father at last peremptorily
refused to advance his daughter the sum requisite for
her establishment. There is no doubt that he could
have done this without any actual sacrifice; but he
is a man who has gained his property slowly, and in
its acquisition, acquired that base love of wealth for
its own sake, which too often shows itself stronger
than those affections which are the deepest, and
should be the most inviolate sentiments of the heart.
The daughter wearied with the disappointment and
suspense of her situation, and despairing of any favorable
change, resolved to quit the world.”

“This accounts,” said Isabel, “for the smiling
manner in which she went through the ceremony.
It was the levity of hopelessness, the mock-playfulness
of despair.”

“And wonder not,” resumed Vittorio, “that she
should find little to interest in this world after her
prospects were thus blighted. She has seen only
or chiefly the worst side of human nature. She has
reason to believe in the universal reign of selfishness;
for this, society and her own kindred have taught
her. Her passion was not a violent one. She sought
in the cloister, not so much a refuge from disappointed
affection, as an asylum adapted to one who
is indifferent to the world because she has nothing
to hope from it.”

“The more shame to the land of her birth!” exclaimed

Frazier, “since there was in the circle of
her experience, no human being whose example inspired
her with an ambition to be useful; no one of
her sex whose character and domestic influence
suggested the idea of living for the improvement of
others; no instance of female devotion in the path of
single life. In America, thank heaven, there is
scarcely a family, where there is not a genuine sister
of charity, in the shape of what is vulgarly called an
old maid.” Isabel smiled, and said, when they were
again seated in the carriage, “there is to my mind
something awful in the idea of so young and gifted
a woman incarcerating herself thus without even the
supporting motive of devotional enthusiasm. Her
blithe manner when kneeling in that cloistral garb
was more touching to me than would have been her
tears. It spoke of a light estimation of life and its
blessings, a want of perception of human responsibility,
an utter insensibility to that spiritual destiny
which can throw over the most objectless existence,
an infinite interest and a superhuman dignity. Of
this not a thought seems to have dawned upon that
maiden's mind.”

“No,” said the Count, “she has gone in all her
loveliness and innocence from the home of her childhood.
She has left the circle her presence should
have gladdened; the kindred whose happiness should
have been hers. Talents of untried power, love of
unfathomable intensity will be palsied by a round of
mechanical rites and trivial occupations. Yet negative

and blighting as I feel such a fate to be, consider
how I am obliged to reproach my country,
when I say that, in all probability, her life as a
Catholic nun will be infinitely happier than that of a
Sicilian wife.”