Now as we pass, look up! How minute appears the colossal statue of Our Lady in its niche on the vast front of the cathedral. And the nunneries—self-constituted prisons for those whom God hath born to freedom—how like birds of evil omen they do congregate. Here is that of the Grey Order. Ring at the gateway—we will enter. Here we pass the court-yard; how still, how gloomy, and how prison-like! This is their hospital. Piteous collection! The blind, the halt, the maimed, the hideously deformed—consumption—palsy—the wrecks of fevers! See! with what continued torture that wretched being writhes in her fixed position. Oh! this is the small spark of good amid the black brands of evil. These orphan children are kindly cared for, but where the child-like joy and mirthful freedom! With what stealthy step the officials move about their duties along the silent corridors! and,—aye! here is the chapel, with its gilded altars, its ornaments, its embroideries, its bleeding hearts, its sacred symbols. See with what gentleness the “_Lady_” performs the servile duties of the sanctuary! with what humility she bends before the altar. Oh! how beautiful that cheek of tint of Indian shell; those dark romantic eyes, with their long pensile lashes; that nose of Grecian outline; the small vermilion mouth; the throat and neck of snow, and the glossy raven tresses escaping in rich luxuriance from the plaited coif as they fall upon her sloping shoulders. Mournful seems her devotion—now rising she stands before the Mater Dolorosa; now wistfully gazes down the dark long corridor, in sorrowful meditation. Hush! be silent. I will steal gently near her. Lady! Turn not—’tis thy kind spirit whispers—art thou content? Does thy young active soul find employ congenial in these gloomy mysteries? Does thy springing, youthful heart, sympathize in these cold formalities—this company of grim-visaged saints and bearded martyrs with joy enchain thee? Does the passionate imagination and deep feeling flashing in those dark eyes—the already hectic kindling of that cheek, look with pleasure to long years—a life of cold monotonous routine—of nightly vigils—fastings—of painful mortifications? Lady! listen. They chain thy soul. Break thou away. Quick in thy youth, fly from them, fly. One moment. Speak not. See’st thou yon cottage peering from its green shades and gravelled walks—its parterres of the myrtle and the lily, its diamond lattice enwreathed and almost hidden in the embrace of sweet-smelling honeysuckles and clustering roses—and its interior with its simple yet delicate refinements? See’st thou in snowy dishabille the lovely woman? with what heart-felt glee the frolicking, half-naked child, with chubby arms, almost suffocates in its little embrace her neck, its golden ringlets mingling like streams of light ’mid her dark tresses,—with what ecstasy she enfolds him in her embraces, with maternal lips pressing in exquisite delight the plump alabaster shoulders? Lady,