250

THE SAD END OF A SAD LIFE.

and Trials of Early Life" (1836); and "Duty and Inclination,” a novel (1838). After her death was published "Lady Ann Granard,” but only the earlier chapters were from the pen of L. E. L.

The career of this highly-gifted woman was, for many reasons, a sad one. The innocent victim of slanders, conceived and circulated by the mean spirits who envied her success and depreciated her genius, she was induced, in 1830, to accept the protection offered her by Mr George Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast Castle. He was a man of some intelligence, but, if L. E. L.'s biographies may be credited, of harsh and unbending. temper, ungenial manners, and dubious character. Shortly after their marriage, they embarked for Cape Coast, where they arrived in the month of August. Over her latter days, however, there hangs a dark and heavy cloud, which it now seems impossible to dispel. All that can be safely said is, that her married life proved unhappy; that she endeavoured to console herself by resuming her literary pursuits; and that on the morning of the 16th of October, after having spent the previous evening in writing some affectionate letters to her English friends, she was found dead in her bedroom, having in her hands a bottle labelled "Acid Hydrocanicum." A hurried inquest was held, and a verdict returned that her death "was caused by her having incautiously taken an overdose of prussic acid, which, from evidence, it appeared she had been in the habit of using as a remedy for spasmodic affections, to which she was subject."

IT

THE NOVICE.*

T was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, richly carved with that imagery - half fantastic, half religious — which marked the works of our industrious and imaginative forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the size; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich colouring and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The window was large, but what with the branch of a huge cork tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple curtains-a purple almost black-the light was nearly excluded.

On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carving was worn smooth and shining with time; and on the other was a cumbrous bookcase, filled with large and silver-clasped tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small table and a heavy, high-backed chair, covered with black serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. The abbess herself was seated in the chair-pale, abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at least, was severe.

The door opened, a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the room, but darkened instantly as the portress admitted the visitor. The abbess rose not from her seat, but motioned with her hand to the stool beside her.

"A stranger and a foreigner?" said she, turning a gaze rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed guest. "What dost thou seek from the servant of the Madonna ?"

A moment's silence intervened, which was broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her.

"I come for refuge." The voice, though broken, was sweet; and the Italian correct, though with the accent of a foreign land.

"Our Lady never yet denied her protection to the unhappy," replied the Abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her suppliant placed her among those to whom assistance is most readily accorded; at the same time, caution might be requisite. "Your voice is sad, but sincere. Let me look upon your face."

*From "Romance and Reality: a Tale" (edit. London, 1831).

252

LONGING FOR REST.

Another moment of hesitation, then a tremulous hand removed the bonnet and veil from a countenance whose momentary blush subsided into marble paleness. With the ready recollection of one who sees but few objects for remembrance, the Abbess recognised the young Englishwoman who had so lately visited her convent.

"I told you of the vanity of hope-have my words so soon proved their truth? What does a stranger-whose home is afar-whose faith is not as our faith-want of Our Lady degli Dolori ?"

Emily clasped her hands passionately. "Peace-calm-a refuge from a wild and weary world, in which my portion is but sorrow. Home, I have none ;-kindred, mine are in the grave;-no living creature will care for my solitude. I ask but a brief sojourn, to turn my thoughts to heaven, and to die."

"We have here rest for the weary-peace for the bruised and broken heart; but your belief is that of your heretical island: you must have friends who will oppose your intent."

"Friends! I have no friends at least, none whose care extends beyond courtesy. I cannot argue on points of faith; but our God is the Bind me by what vow you please. I am rich-I am independent. Will you shelter me? save me from a troubled and evil world?"

same.

"It were a sin against Our Lady, did I not seek to save the soul she sends me. Come, daughter; henceforth we have but one shrine and one

home."

Every individual has some peculiar taste. That of the superior of the convent of La Madre degli Dolori was for authority. An only child, her sway in the parental house had been absolute,-that over the Count Cimarozzo, her husband, even more so. His death, some ten years before, in embarrassed circumstances, leaving her very much at the mercy of a distant relative, who inherited title and estate, and had, moreover, a lady-ruler of his own,-turned the haughty Countess's views to a Cloister. Her own resolute desire of advancement, aided by the family interest, soon placed her at the head of her convent. Without rival or opposition, it may be doubted whether the Sister Cassilda was not a much happier person than the Countess Cimarozzo.

To increase the wealth and power of her convent was the great object of her existence. The rich English convert was indeed a prize. To give

THE SCENE IN THE CHAPEL.

253

her agitation a religious impulse-impress her imagination with some solemn ritual-were the first steps to be taken. That day Emily was kept in a state of powerful excitement. The Abbess asked her no questions; but spoke beautifully and touchingly on the calm of a scul devoted to heaven, and on the many perils and sorrows of life. She bade her kneel at her side during the service of the day. The deep solemn tones of the organ, mingled with sweet young voices, filled the chapel.

Emily was now in that mood to which aught of sacrifice is relief; and

when-her head almost dizzy with previous agitation, a frame tremulous with exertion, her senses overpowered with music and the faint perfumethe Abbess bade her kneel, and record, with a vow and a sign, her resolve at the altar, the feverish and excited girl was a machine in her hands. She knelt, though supported by the arm of the Abbess, which she yet grasped; a black robe was thrown over her form-a black veil over her head; the nuns crowded round to greet their sister; and Emily, as the

254

QUITTING THE OUTSIDE WORLD.

Abbess herself hung the rosary and crucifix round her neck, heard her clear, melodious, but determined tones, bless her by the new name of Sister Agatha.

Pale and faint, they led her to a cell appointed to her use. it was within the convent that Emily heard the vesper hymn.

That night

Three weeks after, all Naples flocked to witness the profession of a young Englishwoman, a dispensation having been obtained for the novitiate. The love of sight-seeing is the characteristic of humanity; and a sight that involves aught of human sorrow or human suffering, is a thousand times more popular than any display of human ingenuity or human genius. Fireworks that sweep the sky, with a rope-dancer that descends through them like a spirit, to boot, bear no comparison as a spectacle to that of a man hanged! And the most eloquent preacher that ever made the truth of religion come home to the heart, would see his congregation turn aside to witness the immolation of youth, hope, and happiness, in the living sacrifice of the cloister.

It was a cloudless day, one of those when sunshine wraps the earth as with a garment, and the clear air brings out every object in the bright and defined outline; every near wave in the bay was a cut and sparkling diamond, while those in the distance formed one broad sweep of unbroken light. The inhabitants most accustomed to the city looked back on its fairy beauty with delight. The green of the country-grass and tree-was of that soft fresh verdure so short-lived in a warm climate; but as yet not a hue was tarnished, not a leaf fallen. The sunny atmosphere was like wine, the spirits rose buoyantly beneath its influence. It was curious to mark the change as the visitors passed through the little wood of gloomy pines in which the convent stood. The laughter ceased with the sunshine; the conversation gradually died away before the melancholy and monotonous sound peculiar to the harsh branches of the pine. As they approached the nunnery, many voices joining in the sacred chorus floated. from the chapel. All crowded in, and more imaginative impressions were lost in the effort to obtain places.

The chapel was splendidly lighted, though day was carefully excluded. This passing from day to candle-light has a singularly exciting effect. A thousand wax tapers burned in honour of the Madonna. Four beautiful children swung the silver censers before her picture, till a cloud of incense