kneeling at the altar. At least half a dozen times the places at the
altar were filled--chiefly with women. We counted the men,--only
seven,--and those were old and tremulous, with one foot in the grave.
The whole performance was hollow and mechanical. People walked in,
crossed themselves at the door with holy water, and, while kneeling and
saying their prayers, looked about examining the dress of each newcomer,
their lips moving throughout, satisfied in reeling off the allotted
number of prayers in a given time. The one redeeming feature in the
whole performance was the grand music. The deep-toned organ, whose
sounds reverberated through the lofty arches, was very impressive.

The convent consisted of three large buildings, each three stories high,
and a residence for the priests; also a chapel, where women, at their
devotions, might be seen at various hours from four o'clock in the
morning until evening. Inclosed within a high stone wall were beautiful
gardens with fountains and shrines, where images of departed saints, in
alcoves lighted with tapers were worshiped on certain days of the year.

Such were our environments, and our minds naturally often dwelt on the
nature and power of the religion that had built up and maintained for
centuries these peaceful resorts, where cultivated, scholarly men, and
women of fine sensibilities, could find rest from the struggles of the
outside world. The sisters, who managed this large establishment, seemed
happy in the midst of their severe and multifarious duties. Of the
undercurrent of their lives I could not judge, but on the surface all
seemed smooth and satisfactory. They evidently took great pleasure in
the society of each other. Every evening, from six to eight, they all
sat in the gardens in a circle together, sewing, knitting, and chatting,
with occasional merry bursts of laughter. Their existence is not, by
many degrees, as monotonous as that of most women in isolated