The history of NONNENWERTH discloses a curious trait of human nature, which has seldom been noticed. In the first moral storms of the French revolution, a number of nuns and novices of noble families, took refuge in the Sestertian convent of Nonnenwerth. They remained tranquil till Napoleon came to the throne, when a great disaster threatened to overwhelm their peaceful asylum. The emperor was a calculating philosopher, as well as an able general. He foresaw that monasteries and convents—especially the latter—were bad nurseries for conscripts; and therefore, in imitation of our Eighth Henry, of blessed and pious memory, he suppressed them all, with one stroke of his pen! The nuns of Nonnenwerth petitioned for an exemption from the proscription, but petitioned in vain. Josephine, like Juno, interceded with the sceptre-bearer, and begged that the convent on the Rhine might be made an exception to the general rule—that the nuns might be suffered to remain, and add to their number as death thinned their ranks. Napoleon, like Jove— “——Accorded half the prayer— The rest, the god dispersed in empty air.” They were permitted to retain possession of the convent during their natural lives—after which, Nonnenwerth was to revert to the state. This was a great concession, and the nuns were satisfied, as they themselves were provided for—and some favourable revolution might occur when they were gone. Time rolled on smoothly,—and, although a sister occasionally paid the debt of nature, the event did not make a very serious impression, but only afforded topics of reflection on the uncertainty of human life, or perhaps recalled to the memory of the living some traits of goodness and amiability in the dead, that had, somehow or other, escaped their notice while their sainted sister resided amongst them. But every year diminished the number of the survivors, till, at length, the vacant chambers and the contracted circle at prayers and refection, forced themselves on the notice of even the most inobservant of the sisterhood. And now it was that the unwelcome question began to obtrude itself on the thoughts of the nuns:—“Who shall go next to her long abode?” It required no great extent of arithmetic to shew the strength of the establishment at present, as compared with ten or twelve years before—and each sister began to assume the office of actuary, and calculate the probable duration of life within the walls of the convent! From this time, the serenity of their minds was somewhat disturbed. The question would obtrude itself on their thoughts, even in their devotions, and rise occasionally in the troubled dream. Meanwhile the inexorable tyrant did not fail to knock as regularly at the gate of the convent as at the door of the peasant’s hut on the neighbouring mountain. “Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regumque turres!”—[8]