_Seville, ---- 1805._
When the last census was made, in 1787, the number of Spanish females
confined to the cloister, for life, amounted to thirty-two thousand.
That in a country where wealth is small and ill distributed, and
industry languishes under innumerable restraints, there should be a
great number of portionless gentlewomen unable to find a suitable
match, and consequently glad of a dignified asylum, where they might
secure peace and competence, if not happiness; is so perfectly
natural, that the founders and supporters of any institution intended
to fulfil those objects, would deserve to be reckoned among the
friends of humanity. But the cruel and wicked church law, which,
aided by external force, binds the nuns with perpetual vows, makes
the convents for females the _Bastilles_ of superstition, where many
a victim lingers through a long life of despair or insanity.
Though I do not mean to enter into a point of theological
controversy, I find it impossible to dwell for a moment on this
subject without expressing my utter abhorrence and detestation of
the cold indifference with which our Church looks on the glaring
evil consequences of some of its laws, when, according to her
own doctrines, they might be either repealed or amended, without
relinquishing any of her claims. The authority of the Roman Pontiff,
in all matters of church government, is not questioned among
Catholics. Yet, from a proud affectation of infallibility, even upon
such points as the most violent partisans of that absurd pretention
have never ventured to place within its reach, the church of Rome
has been so sparing of the power to reform her laws, that it might
be suspected she wished to abandon it by prescription. Always ready
to _bind_, the heirs of Saint Peter have shewn themselves extremely
averse to the more humane office of _loosing on earth_, except when
it served the purposes of gain or ambition. The time, I believe, will
never come when the church of Rome will agree to make concessions
on what are called _matters of faith_. But I cannot discover the
least shadow of reason or interest for the obstinacy which preserves
unaltered the barbarous laws relating to the religious vows of
females; unless it be that vile animal jealousy, which persons,
deprived of the pleasures of love, are apt to mistake for zeal in the
cause of chastity; such zeal as your Queen Elizabeth felt for the
purity of her maids.
The nunneries in this town amount to twenty-nine. Of these, some
are under the exclusive jurisdiction of the Friars, whose rule of
religious life they profess; and some under that of the Episcopal
See. The last, generally follow the monastic rules of Saint Benedict,
Saint Bernard, or Saint Jerom; and it is remarkable, that the same
superiority which is observable in the secular above the regular
clergy, is found in the nuns under the episcopal jurisdiction. Some
of these inhabit large convents, whose courts and gardens allow the
inhabitants ample space for exercise and amusement. Instead of narrow
cells, the nuns live in a comfortable suite of apartments, often at
the head of a small family of younger nuns whom they have educated,
or of pupils, not under religious vows, whom their parents place
there for instruction. The life, in fact, of these communities, is
rather collegiate than monastic; and were it not for the tyrannical
law which deprives the professed nuns of their liberty, such
establishments would be far from objectionable. The dress of these
nuns is still that which the _Dueñas_, or elderly matrons, wore when
the convents were founded; with the addition of a large mantle,
black, white, or blue, according to the custom of the order, which
they use at the choir. From a head-dress not unlike that which, if I
may venture upon such matters, I believe you call a _mob-cap_, hangs
the black veil. A rosary, or chaplet of black beads with a cross
at the end, is seen hanging over the neck and shoulders, or loosely
coiled on a leather strap, which tightens the tunic or gown to the
waist. A slip of cloth of the breadth of the shoulders, called the
_scapulary_, hangs down to the feet both before and behind, probably
with a view to conceal every outline of the female shape.
The mildness of these monastic rules being unsatisfactory to the
fiery spirit of bigotry, many convents have been founded under the
title of _Reformed_, where, without the least regard to the sex of
the votaries, young and delicate females are subjected to a life of
privation and hardship, as the only infallible method of obtaining
the favour of Heaven. Their dress is a tunic of sackcloth, tied
round the waist with a knotted rope. The rule allows them no linen
either for clothing or bedding. Woollen of the coarsest kind frets
their bodies, day and night, even during the burning summers of the
South of Spain. A mantle of the same sackcloth is the only addition
which the nuns make to their dress in winter, while their feet,
shod with open sandals, and without either socks or stockings, are
exposed to the sharp winter blasts, and the deadening chill of the
brick-floors. A band of coarse linen, two inches in breadth, is worn
by the Capuchin nuns, bound tight six or eight times round the head,
in remembrance, it is said, of the _crown of thorns_; and such is
the barbarous spirit of the rule, that it does not allow this band
to be taken off, even under an access of fever. A young woman who
takes the veil in any of the reformed convents, renounces the sight
of her nearest relations. The utmost indulgence, as to communication
with parents and brothers, extends only to a short conversation
once a month, in the presence of one of the elder nuns, behind a
thick curtain spread on the inner side of the iron grating, which
completely intercepts the view. The religious vows, however, among
the Capuchin nuns, put a final end to all communication between
parents and children.
To those unacquainted with the character of our species of
Christianity, it will be difficult to conceive what motive can
influence the mind of a young creature of sixteen thus to sacrifice
herself upon the altars of these Molochs, whom we call Saints and
Patriarchs. To me these horrid effects of superstition appear so
natural, that I only wonder when I see so many of our religious
young females still out of the convent. Remorse and mental horrors
goad some young men into the strictest monasteries, while more
amiable, though equally mistaken views, lead our females to a similar
course of life. We are taught to believe self-inflicted pain to be
acceptable to the Deity, both as an atonement for crime, and a token
of thankfulness. The female character, among us, is a compound of the
most ardent feelings--vehement to delirium, generous to devotedness.
What wonder then if, early impressed with the loveliness and
sufferings of an incarnate Deity, an exquisitely tender mind grow
restless and dissatisfied with a world, as yet known only through the
pictures of morose fanatics, and pant after the most effectual means
of giving her celestial lover an unquestionable proof of gratitude?
The first nascent wish of taking the veil is eagerly watched and
seized by a confessor, who, to a violent jealousy of earthly
bridegrooms, joins a confident sense of merit in adding one virgin
more to the ten thousand of the spiritual _Harem_. Pious parents
tremble at the thought of standing between God and their daughter,
and often with a bleeding heart lead her to the foot of the altar.
There is an extreme eagerness in the Catholic professors of
celibacy, both male and female, to decoy young persons into the
toils from which they themselves cannot escape. With this view they
have disguised the awful ceremony which cuts off an innocent girl
from the sweetest hopes of nature, with the pomp and gaiety, which
mankind have unanimously bestowed on the triumph of legitimate love.
The whole process which condemns a female “to wither on the virgin
thorn,” and “live a barren sister all her life,” is studiously made
to represent a wedding. The unconscious victim, generally in her
fifteenth year, finds herself, for some time previous to her taking
the veil, the queen--nay, the idol of the whole community which has
obtained her preference. She is constantly addressed by the name of
bride, and sees nothing but gay preparations for the expected day of
her spiritual nuptials. Attired in a splendid dress, and decked with
all the jewels of her family and friends, she takes public leave of
her acquaintance; visits, on her way to the convent, several other
nunneries, to be seen and admired by the recluse inhabitants; and
even the crowd which collects in her progress, follows her with
tears and blessings. As she approaches the church of her monastery,
the dignified ecclesiastic who is to perform the ceremony, meets
the intended novice at the door, and leads her to the altar, amid
the sounds of bells and musical instruments. The monastic weeds
are blessed by the priest in her presence; and having embraced her
parents and nearest relations, she is led by the lady who acts as
bride’s-maid to the small door next to the double grating, which
separates the nuns’ choir from the body of the church. A curtain is
drawn while the abbess cuts off the hair of the novice, and strips
her of her worldly ornaments. On the removal of the curtain she
appears in the monastic garb, surrounded by the nuns bearing lighted
tapers, her face covered with the white veil of probationship,
fixed on the head by a wreath of flowers. After the Te Deum, or
some other hymn of thanksgiving, the friends of the family adjourn
to the _Locutory_, or visiting-room, where a collation of ices and
sweetmeats is served in the presence of the mock bride, who, with
the principal nuns, attends behind the grating which separates
the visitors from the inmates of the convent. In the more austere
nunneries the parting visit is omitted, and the sight of the novice
in the white veil, immediately after having her hair cut off, is the
last which, for a whole year, is granted to the parents. They again
see her on the day when she binds herself with the irrevocable vows,
never to behold her more, unless they should live to see her again
crowned with flowers, when she is laid in the grave.
Instances of novices quitting the convent during the year of
probation are extremely rare. The ceremony of taking the veil is too
solemn, and bears too much the character of a public engagement,
to allow full liberty of choice during the subsequent noviciate.
The timid mind of a girl shrinks from the idea of appearing again
in the world, under the tacit reproach of fickleness and relaxed
devotion. The nuns, besides, do not forget their arts during the
nominal trial of the victim, and she lives a whole year the object
of their caresses. Nuns, in fact, who, after profession, would have
given their lives for a day of free breathing out of their prison, it
has been my misfortune to know; but I cannot recollect more than one
instance of a novice quitting the convent; and that was a woman of
obscure birth, on whom public opinion had no influence.
That many nuns, especially in the more liberal convents, live happy,
I have every reason to believe; but, on the other hand, I possess
indubitable evidence of the exquisite misery which is the lot of some
unfortunate females, under similar circumstances. I shall mention
only one case, in actual existence, with which I am circumstantially
acquainted.
A lively and interesting girl of fifteen, poor, though connected
with some of the first gentry in this town, having received her
education under an aunt who was at the head of a wealthy, and not
austere, Franciscan convent, came out, as the phrase is, _to see the
world_, previous to her taking the veil. I often met the intended
novice at the house of one of her relations, where I visited daily.
She had scarcely been a fortnight out of the cloister, when that
world she had learned to abhor in description, was so visibly and
rapidly winning her affections, that at the end of three months she
could hardly disguise her aversion to the veil. The day, however, was
now fast approaching which had been fixed for the ceremony, without
her feeling sufficient resolution to decline it. Her father, a good
but weak man, she knew too well, could not protect her from the
ill-treatment of an unfeeling mother, whose vanity was concerned in
thus disposing of a daughter for whom she had no hopes of finding a
suitable match. The kindness of her aunt, the good nun to whom the
distressed girl was indebted for the happiness of her childhood,
formed, besides, too strong a contrast with the unkindness of the
unnatural mother, not to give her wavering mind a strong though
painful bias towards the cloister. To this were added all the arts
of pious seduction so common among the religious of both sexes. The
preparations for the approaching solemnity were, in the mean time,
industriously carried on with the greatest publicity. Verses were
circulated, in which her confessor sang the triumph of Divine Love
over the wily suggestions of the _impious_. The _wedding-dress_ was
shewn to every acquaintance, and due notice of the appointed day was
given to friends and relatives. But the fears and aversion of the
devoted victim grew in proportion as she saw herself more and more
involved in the toils she had wanted courage to burst when she first
felt them.
It was in company with my friend Leandro, with whose private history
you are well acquainted,[35] that I often met the unfortunate Maria
Francisca. His efforts to dissuade her from the rash step she was
going to take, and the warm language in which he spoke to her
father on that subject, had made her look upon him as a warm and
sincere friend. The unhappy girl on the eve of the day when she
was to take the veil, repaired to church, and sent him a message,
without mentioning her name, that a female penitent requested his
attendance at the confessional. With painful surprise he found the
future novice at his feet, in a state bordering on distraction. When
a flood of tears had allowed her utterance, she told him that, for
want of another friend in the whole world to whom she could disclose
her feelings, she came to him, not, however, for the purpose of
confession, but because she trusted he would listen with pity to her
sorrows. With a warmth and eloquence above her years, she protested
that the distant terrors of eternal punishment, which, she feared,
might be the consequence of her determination, could not deter
her from the step by which she was going to escape the incessant
persecution of her mother. In vain did my friend volunteer his
assistance to extricate her from the appalling difficulties which
surrounded her: in vain did he offer to wait upon the archbishop, and
implore his interference: no offers, no persuasions could move her.
She parted as if ready to be conveyed to the scaffold, and the next
day took the veil.
[35] See Letter III.
The real kindness of her aunt, and the treacherous smiles of
the other nuns, supported the pining novice through the year of
probation. The scene I beheld when she was bound with the perpetual
vows of monastic life, is one which I cannot recollect without an
actual sense of suffocation. A solemn mass, performed with all the
splendour which that ceremony admits, preceded the awful oaths of
the novice. At the conclusion of the service, she approached the
superior of the order. A pen, gaily ornamented with artificial
flowers, was put into her trembling hand, to sign the engagement for
life, on which she was about to enter. Then, standing before the
iron grate of the choir, she began to chaunt, in a weak and fainting
voice, the act of consecration of herself to God; but, having uttered
a few words, she fainted into the arms of the surrounding nuns. This
was attributed to mere fatigue and emotion. No sooner had the means
employed restored to the victim the powers of speech, than, with a
vehemence which those who knew not her circumstances attributed to
a fresh impulse of holy zeal, and in which the few that were in the
painful secret saw nothing but the madness of despair; she hurried
over the remaining sentences, and sealed her doom for ever.
The real feelings of the new votaress were, however, too much
suspected by her more bigoted or more resigned fellow-prisoners; and
time and despair making her less cautious, she was soon looked upon
as one likely to bring disgrace on the whole order, by divulging
the secret that it is possible for a nun to feel impatient under
her vows. The storm of conventual persecution, (the fiercest and
most pitiless of all that breed in the human heart), had been
lowering over the unhappy young woman during the short time which
her aunt, the prioress, survived. But when death had left her
friendless, and exposed to the tormenting ingenuity of a crowd of
female zealots, whom she could not escape for an instant; unable to
endure her misery, she resolutely attempted to drown herself. The
attempt, however, was ineffectual. And now the merciless character of
Catholic superstition appeared in its full glare. The mother, without
impeaching whose character no judicial steps could be taken to prove
the invalidity of the profession, was dead; and some relations and
friends of the poor prisoner were moved by her sufferings to apply
to the church for relief. A suit was instituted for this purpose
before the ecclesiastical court, and the clearest evidence adduced
of the indirect compulsion which had been used in the case. But the
whole order of Saint Francis, considering their honour at stake, rose
against their rebellious subject, and the judges sanctioned her vows
as voluntary and valid. She lives still in a state approaching to
madness, and death alone can break her chains.[36]
[36] She died in 1821.
Such an instance of misery is, I hope, one of those extreme cases
which seldom take place, and more seldom transpire. The common source
of suffering among the Catholic recluses proceeds from a certain
degree of religious melancholy, which, combined with such complaints
as originate in perpetual confinement, affect more or less the
greater number.
The mental disease to which I allude is commonly known by the name
of _Escrúpulos_, and might be called _religious anxiety_. It is the
natural state of a mind perpetually dwelling on hopes connected
with an invisible world, and anxiously practising means to avoid an
unhappy lot in it, which keep the apprehended danger for ever present
to the imagination. Consecration for life at the altar promises, it
is true, increased happiness in the world to come; but the numerous
and difficult duties attached to the religious profession, multiply
the hazards of eternal misery by the chances of failure in their
performance; and while the plain Christian’s offences against the
moral law are often considered as mere frailties, those of the
professed votary seldom escape the aggravation of sacrilege. The
odious diligence of the Catholic moralists has raked together an
endless catalogue of sins, by _thought, word, and deed_, to every one
of which the punishment of eternal flames has been assigned. This
list, alike horrible and disgusting, haunts the imagination of the
unfortunate devotee, till, reduced to a state of perpetual anxiety,
she can neither think, speak, nor act, without discovering in every
vital motion a sin which invalidates all her past sacrifices, and
dooms her painful efforts after Christian perfection, to end in
everlasting misery. Absolution, which adds boldness to the resolute
and profligate, becomes a fresh source of disquietude to a timid
and sickly mind. Doubts innumerable disturb the unhappy sufferer,
not, however, as to the power of the priest in granting pardon, but
respecting her own fulfilment of the conditions, without which to
receive absolution is _sacrilege_. These agonizing fears, cherished
and fed by the small circle of objects to which a nun is confined,
are generally incurable, and usually terminate in an untimely death,
or insanity.
There are, however, constitutions and tempers to which the atmosphere
of a nunnery seems natural and congenial. Women of uncommon
cleverness and judgment, whose strength of mind preserves them in a
state of rational happiness are sometimes found in the cloisters.
But the true, the genuine nun--such, I mean, as, unincumbered by a
barbarous rule, and blessed with that Liliputian activity of mind
which can convert a parlour or a kitchen into an universe--presents a
most curious modification of that amusing character, _the old maid_.
Like their virgin sisters all over the world, they too have, more or
less, a flirting period, of which the confessor is always the happy
and exclusive object. The heart and soul of almost every nun not
passed fifty, are centred in the priest that directs her conscience.
The convent messengers are seen about the town with lots of spiritual
_billets-doux_, in search of a soothing line from the ghostly
fathers. The nuns not only address them by that endearing name, but
will not endure from them the common form of speech in the third
person:--they must be _tutoyé_, as children are by their parents.
Jealousy is a frequent symptom of this nameless attachment; and
though it is impossible for every nun to have exclusive possession of
her confessor, few will allow the presence of a rival within their
own convent.
I do not intend, however, to cast an imputation of levity on the
class of Spanish females which I am describing. Instances of gross
misconduct are extremely rare among the nuns. Indeed, the physical
barriers which protect their virtue are fully adequate to guard
them against the consequences of a most unbounded intimacy with
their confessors. Neither would I suggest the idea that nothing but
obstacles of this kind keeps them, in all cases, within the bounds of
modesty. My only object is to expose the absurdity and unfeelingness
of a system which, while it surrounds the young recluses with strong
walls, massive gates, and spiked windows, grants them the most
intimate communication with a man--often a young man--that can be
carried on in words and writing. The struggle between the heart thus
barbarously tried, and the unnatural duties of the religious state,
though sometimes a mystery to the modest sufferer, is plainly visible
in most of the young captives.
About the age of fifty, (for spiritual flirtation seldom exhausts
itself before that age,) the genuine nun has settled every feeling
and affection upon that shifting centre of the universe, which,
like some circles in astronomy, changes with every step of the
individual--I mean _self_. It has been observed that no European
language possesses a true equivalent for your English word _comfort_;
and, considering the state of this country, Spanish would have little
chance of producing a similar substantive, were it not for some
of our nuns, who, as they make a constant practical study of the
subject, may, at length, enrich our dictionary with a name for what
they know so well without it. Their comforts, however, poor souls!
are still of an inferior kind, and arise chiefly from the indulgence
of that temper, which, in the language of your _ladies’ maids_,
makes their mistresses _very particular_; and which, by a strange
application of the word, confers among us the name of _impertinente_.
The squeamishness, fastidiousness, and morbid sensibility of nuns,
make that name a proverbial reproach to every sort of affected
delicacy. As great and wealthy nunneries possess considerable
influence, and none can obtain the patronage of the Holy Sisters
(_Mothers_, they are called by the Spaniards,) without accommodating
themselves to the tone and manners of the society; every person,
male or female, connected with it, acquires a peculiar mincing air,
which cannot be mistaken by an experienced observer. But in none does
it appear more ludicrously than in the old-fashioned _nun-doctors_.
Their patience in listening to long, minute, and often-told
reports of cases; the mock authority with which they enforce their
prescriptions, and the peculiar wit they employ to raise the spirits
of their patients, would, in a more free country, furnish comedy with
a most amusing character. Some years ago a very stupid practitioner
bethought himself of taking orders, thus to unite the spiritual and
bodily leech, for the convenience of nuns. The Pope granted him a
dispensation of the ecclesiastical law, which forbids priests to
practise physic; and he found himself unrivalled in powers, among the
faculty. The scheme succeeded so well that our doctor sent home for a
lad, his nephew, whom he has brought up in this twofold trade, which,
for want of direct heirs, of which priests in this country cannot
boast, is likely to be perpetuated in the collateral branches of that
family. With regard to their curative system, as it applies to the
souls, I am a very incompetent judge: the body, I know--at least the
half-spiritualized bodies of the nuns--they treat exclusively with
syrups. This is a fact of which I have a melancholy proof in a near
relation, a most amiable young woman, who was allowed to drop into
an early grave, while her growing disease was opposed with nothing
but syrup of violets! I must add, however, that the wary doctor, not
forgetting the ghostly concerns of his patient, never omitted to
add a certain dose of _Agnus Castus_ to every ounce of the syrup; a
practice to which, he once told a friend of mine, both he and his
uncle most religiously adhered when attending young nuns, with the
benevolent purpose of making their religious duties more easy.