Sunday, October 18.
We hear high mass in the church of the "Calatrava," (an ancient order of knighthood,) where are crowds of pious looking men. Certainly it will be difficult for the revolution to rob these people of their religion. For a time they may be intoxicated with the excitement of the change, but the reaction must come, when the sober second thought will bring them back to their true friends. Now, the banishment of the Jesuits, the best and most learned teachers, the confiscation of church property, and the destruction of churches initiates the new order of things. Yesterday, an English gentleman (one of the noisiest supporters of the revolution) told us how the junta had given two places of great trust and importance into the hands of two of the lowest and most vulgar and ignorant of the bull fighters; and thus this class of people who have helped on the revolution must be rewarded. We hear, to-day, that General Prim has offered to promote, one grade, every officer of the army lately opposed to him. To their honor be it spoken, every one refused such promotion.
To Be Continued
Translated From The French.
Sister Aloyse's Bequest.
I.
How delightful it is to sit under the grand old trees of the courtyard on this charming mid-summer evening! The light breeze is redolent with the fragrance of the new-mown hay, and the leaves seem to quiver with joy in an atmosphere heavy with sunshine. The swallows pursue each other in play with short, wild cries, and in the foliage of the linden-tree that brown bird, the nightingale, tries her brilliant cadences, drowned at times by the shouts of the children at their sports answering her in the silences, whom without doubt they understood and admired. The children, happy as the birds, dance and whirl about, just like those motes one frequently sees rising up in a sunbeam. The nuns, sombre and silent figures, watch them, contemplating life in its flower and carelessness. This court-yard where the children play and the birds sing belonged formerly to a monastery of the order of St. Benoit; but now to a cloister built out of its ruins, where the virtues of ancient days flourish under the shelter of modern walls, which are hallowed by the memories of the past.
Some young girls, no less pleased with the gambols of the children, were walking in groups to and fro under the vaulted arches which encircled the court, talking and laughing merrily; but whenever they approached a nun reclining in an easy chair, by an involuntary impulse they lowered their voices. She was a poor invalid, who had been brought out to enjoy the sweet odors and the pleasant warmth of the evening. She appeared to be nearing the end of life, though still young. For the paleness of her cheeks, the emaciation of her body, and the transparent whiteness of her hands, all proclaimed the ravages of a long and incurable illness. There was no more sand in the hourglass, no more oil in the lamp, and her heart—like a timepiece about to stop—was slacking its pulsations. One could not help but see that Sister Aloyse retained a very powerful fascination in the beauty which her terrible illness had not been able to efface. Her dark blue eyes had not lost their almond-shape or sapphire hue. Her figure was still elegant, seen under the loose robe which wrapped her like a winding-sheet; and her voice was as sweet and agreeable as in former days.
At first she felt a little better upon being brought into the garden; but she still suffered, and neither the pure air nor the mildness of the beautiful evening had revived her. She sat in silence, absorbed, perhaps, in those last thoughts, which she did not confide even to herself, and which, to one who is about departing, seem to give a glimpse of those unknown shores which are yet so near to her who waits them.
What is she thinking of? Of her past without remorse; of her future without terror? Does she regret anything which she has renounced for her God? Does one last thread hold captive this celestial bird? I cannot say. She appears sad; yet her companions, always so affectionately attentive, do not seem to be surprised. For Sister Aloyse had always been characterized, even in the more beautiful days of her youth, by a kind of melancholy. She resembled an angel of peace, but yet an angel who weeps.