No. 143]

OR,

THE CARMELite convenT OF SANTA ROSA, AND STORY OF THE NUN DOMINGA.

During my residence at Arequipa, one of my favourite pastimes was to sit on the dome of our house, whence I could contemplate the beautiful panorama spread out before me. I loved to glance from the volcano to the dark rolling' river at its foot; and from the valley which it cools, to the magnificent convents of Santa Catalina and Santa Rosa. This last, particularly fixed my attention, for within its gloomy precincts had taken place a drama full of interest, and the heroine of which was as unfortunate, as she was fond and beautiful.

The young lady was a near relative of mine: and after describing the convent, I will at once proceed to her story, which though it be novel in incident, is not the less true.

SANTA ROSA is one of the richest and most spacious convents of Arequipa, and the distribution of the interior is commodious. It has four cloisters, each enclosing in the centre an extensive court. Large stone columns support the low vaulted roof of these cloisters: the cells are arranged round them. They are of good size, and the walls kept very white light is introduced by a window of four panes of glass only, which, as well as the door, looked into the cloister. The furniture consists of an oak table and stool, an earthen pitcher and a pewter goblet. Above the table is placed a large crucifix of black wood and bone, discoloured by age, and upon it a scull, a little hour glass, and one or more prayer books. Beside the table hangs from a large nail a 'discipline' of black leather. Not one nun, excepting the prioress, is allowed to sleep in her cell; they are intended only for silent and solitary meditation. The nuns take their meals in a refectory of immense dimentions: the dinner hour is twelve, that of the supper, six. During their meals one of them reads some passages from the lives of saints. They all sleep in dormitories, which in this convent are three in number. These 'halls of sleep' are square, vaulted, and without any window. A sepulchral lamp placed at one of the angles throws a dim light over a space of about six feet only, so that in the remainder of the dormitory prevails perfect darkness. Such is therefore the gloomy appearance of these places that on approaching them it is difficult to avoid a sensation of terror. They are interdicted not only to strangers, but even to domestics; and if perchance curiosity should lead any individual to steal under the cold and sombre vaults of these long halls, he could not help fancying himself in a catacomb. Indeed the places where the nuns sleep are called tombs. They line the sides of the dormitories at the distance of twelve or fifteen feet from each other. Raised upon an estrade, covered with a black woollen cloth, similar to the hangings used in funeral ceremonies; they resemble, perfectly, sepulchres in the vaults of a Catholic church. The interior of the tomb is from ten to twelve feet in length, from five to six in width, and as much in depth; and it contains a bed composed of two large oak boards, supported on four pedestals, and a mattrass of flock, straw, ashes, pebbles, or thorns, according to the sanctity of the occupier. At the foot of the bed is placed a piece of furniture of black wood, which answers the purpose of table, cupboard, and oratory. A crucifix, a scull, a prayer book, a discipline', and rosary are placed upon this oratory. It is

VOL. 12

absolutely forbidden under any circumstances whatever to have a light in the tombes, so that when a nun is ill she is sent to the infirmary.

The nuns lead a most painful life; they rise at four o'clock to go to matins, then follow almost without interruption a series of religious practises at which they are compelled to assist, and which last until twelve, when they repair to the refectory. From twelve to three there is a leisure time; after which prayers re-commence and continue until the evening. Numerous processions and other ceremonies, inherent to their order, add to their daily duties.

Such is the outline of the austerities imposed upon the nuns in the convent of Santa Rosa; their only recreation being to walk in their three splendid flower gardens, cultivated and kept in excellent order by themselves.

Upon taking the veil the nuns make a vow of poverty and silence. When they meet, one is required to say-" Sister, we must die!"-and the other-"Sister, death is our deliverance !" and not one word more. Nevertheless these ladies speak, nay, they talk much, but it is only during their labours in the garden or in the kitchen, where they go to inspect the labours of the servants, or on the tops of the towers when their duties call them there. It is scarcely possible to imagine a more gloomy state of existence.

STORY OF THE NUN DOMINGA.

Dominga was the loveliest of three sisters. Her personal beauty was fully developed in her fourteenth year, and a handsome patrimony ensured the attentions of many suitors. Amongst these was a young Spanish physician who, like most of the Europeans who go to South America, was actuated by the' desire of making a large fortune in a short time. He sued the young Dominga not in vain. She loved him as women of her age love with warmth, with sincerity, without suspicion; believing, in the plenitude of her innocence, that the sentiment' she inspired was equal to that which she felt. The young Spaniard proposed, and was accepted by Dominga's mother, but on account of her being still too young, their union was postponed for a year. A few months after this period Dominga's suitor became acquainted with a widow lady, who though not possessed of any attractive quality was much richer than Dominga.

As he was more influenced by cupidity than love, he sacrificed to this new idol the sincere passion of Dominga, careless as to the misery which must ensue. Dominga's heart was cruelly lacerated by this treacherous conduct; the more so as her engagement to the faithless Spaniard had been announced to all her relations, and her pride could not endure the blow it had received. The anxiety and solicitude of her friends far from being consolatory, tended only to irritate a sorrow which she wished to dissemble even to herself. In her despair, Dominga saw no other refuge but in the obliviousness of a monastic life. She told her relatives that God called her to himself, and declared her intention to retire to a Convent. The opposition of her family, their entreaties and advice, had no effect. Dominga's reason was impaired by the excess of her suffering. She spurned admonition, insisted on her project, and superadding stubbornness to rashness selected the most rigid convent of the order of the Carmelites. After a year's noviciate she took the veil in Santa Rosa.