d,
dry, unpleasant, their voices false, as if spoiled by sufferings. I
thought for a moment they were chanting prayers for the dead; but,
listening more attentively, I distinguished on the contrary, "_Te
rogamus, audi nos_," the song of hope which invokes the benediction of
the God of life upon fruitful nature. This May-song, chanted by these
lifeless nuns, offered to me a bitter contrast. To see these pale
girls crawling along on the flowery, verdant turf, these poor girls;
who will never bloom again!--The thought of the middle ages that had at
first flashed across my mind soon died away: for then monastic life was
connected with a thousand other things; but in our modern harmony what
is this but a barbarous contradiction, a false, harsh, grating note?
What I then beheld before me was to be defended neither by nature nor
by history. I shut my window again, and sadly resumed my book. This
sight had been painful to me, as it was not softened or atoned for by
any poetical sentiment. It reminded me much less of chastity than of
sterile widowhood, a state of emptiness, inaction, disgust--of an
intellectual[1] and moral fast, the state in which these unfortunate
creatures are kept by their absolute rulers.

We were speaking of habit; it is certainly there that it reigns a
tyrant. Very little art is required to rule over these poor,
insulated, immured, and dependent women; as there is no outward
influence to counterbalance the impression that one person, ever the
same person, makes on them daily. The least skilful priest may easily
fascinate their natures, already weakened, and brought down to the most
servile, trembling obedience. There is little courage or merit in thus
trampling over the creature which is already crushed.

To speak first of the power of habit: nothing of all that we see in the
world can give us an idea of the force with which it acts upon this
little immured community. Family society, doubtless, modifies us, but
its influence is neutralised by outward events. The regularity with
which our favourite newspaper comes every morning with uniform
monotony, has certainly some influence; but this newspaper has its
rivals, its opponents. Another influence which exists less in our
time, but is still very powerful over secluded persons, is that of a
book, the captivating perusal of which may detain us for months and
years. Diderot confesses that Clarissa was read by him over and over
again, and that it