Whoever has recently travelled through the WestRiding of Yorkshire, by the main road from Sheffield to Leeds, can hardly have avoided noticing a beautiful edifice which greets him a few miles before his entrance into Wakefield. The venerable pile, seated on an eminence—its turrets covered with ivy—the river, which sweeps nobly round it as if proud of the edifice it reflected—unite in forming an object to arrest and charm the eye of the traveller. Nor is the situation of the building its only claim on attention. A melancholy interest attaches to it, from its being the residence of a remnant of Benedictine Nuns, who, flying from France at the period of the revolution, have here found an asylum, and, in the consolations of religion, a refuge from misfortune. They could hardly have been more fortunate in their choice. The loneliness—the seclusion—the objects that surround the building—invest it with an aspect so inexpressibly calm and tranquil, that it seems to bid defiance to the entrance of any earthly feeling, or unhallowed passion. Behind it, in silent grandeur, rises the thick noble wood of Kirkthorpe, while through the trees, the vilage church raises its humble head in the distance.—
It is not the least remarkable feature of this lowly building, that, in its church-yard, the Nuns from Monte Cassino find their last resting place. Amidst the high grass, which vegetates in dark luxuriance,—distinguished from the more simple memorials of the lowlier inhabitants of the village—rise in proud pre-eminence, the marble monuments of the little Catholic community. The cross carved at the top—their strict uniformity and consanguinity to each other—the rosemary and sweet-briar which flourish thickly around them—finely contrast the simplicity of surrounding objects, and give a picturesque appearance to the scene. Among the inscriptions, which vary only in name and date, was that of ANASTASIA, ONE OF THE SOCIETY OF BENEDICTINES, AGED 21, A Novice, 1813, PROFESSED 1814, DIED 1815.
I was gazing on the tomb of one so young, and forming conjectures as to her history and misfortunes, when I perceived a stranger, melancholy and abstracted, viewing with the most intense interest the same object as myself. I accosted him; and to my numerous queries respecting her who lay mouldering beneath us, he gave me the following particulars. The actors in the scene have long since passed from the stage, and, without hesitation, I give the story to the world. The young will never be persuaded by the aged; nor the foolish by the wise; but the living may learn from the dead, for them they can neither envy nor hate. * It was in the year 18–, when the English army were encamped near Lisbon, that two British officers paid a visit to the Convent of St. Clara. It enclosed within its walls, at that period, two sisters, beautiful and unfortunate girls, who had taken the vows, which rendered them wretched for life, under circumstances of the most unprincipled deception. Their story interested the feelings, and their beauty gave rise to deeper impressions in the breasts of two romantic young men; and repeated interviews ended in the young officers offering to carry off to England these victims of deception, and there to make them their own for life. The wretched state of the country the storm of conventual persecution, of all others the most severe and the most pitiless—induced the Nuns to give their enterprizing admirers a willing assent Colonel Pierrepoint and Sir Harry Trelawney were both men of family and fortune; and Constance and Inez de Castro readily believed them men of honour. It was speedily arranged that Colonel Pierrepoint's brother, who commanded a man of war then lying under sailing orders in the bay, should receive the fugitives on board, and convey them to England. There, their lovers were to join them, immediately on obtaining leave of absence. After almost insupportable delays, the signal that the Andromache would sail on the morrow, and that their lovers would be under the western wall at twelve that night, was perceived in the Convent. The hour, so important to some beating hearts, arrived. The bay of Lisbon lay clear and blue in the summer moonlight; the man-of-war's boat, with muffled oars, was stationed at a little distance from the shore; and the gray massy building of the Convent was distinctly visible through the bending foliage of the lines that surrounded it. The hour had barely struck, when a female form appeared above the Convent wall. " She's mine," cried Pierrepoint, as the high-minded Constance, to inspire courage in her sister, and show her the exam. ple, first descended the rope-ladder. Inez attempted to follow her: but, from some accident never explained, the ladder slipped—she faltered—tottered— and, attempting to grasp one of the buttresses of the wall, fell over into the grounds of the Convent. The scream of agony which escaped her, and the frenzied exclamations of Trelawney, alarmed the sisterhood, who rushed in crowds to the spot, and, after a search, found the insensible Inez. Trelawney was dragged, by main force, from the spot, while Constance was hurried on board the Andromache, which conveyed her to England. There, her lover soon after joined her, but as a lover only. The sacred name of wife he
