before them, in which some green plants or hollyhocks are growing;
and to each house is a gate, that has mostly a picture or queer-carved
ornament upon or about it, and bears the name, not of the Beguine who
inhabits it, but of the saint to whom she may have devoted it--the house
of St. Stephen, the house of St. Donatus, the English or Angel Convent,
and so on. Old ladies in black are pacing in the quiet alleys here and
there, and drop the stranger a curtsy as he passes them and takes off
his hat. Never were such patterns of neatness seen as these old ladies
and their houses. I peeped into one or two of the chambers, of which the
windows were open to the pleasant evening sun, and saw beds scrupulously
plain, a quaint old chair or two, and little pictures of favorite saints
decorating the spotless white walls. The old ladies kept up a quick,
cheerful clatter, as they paused to gossip at the gates of their little
domiciles; and with a great deal of artifice, and lurking behind walls,
and looking at the church as if I intended to design that, I managed to
get a sketch of a couple of them.


But what white paper can render the whiteness of their linen; what black
ink can do justice to the lustre of their gowns and shoes? Both of the
ladies had a neat ankle and a tight stocking; and I fancy that heaven
is quite as well served in this costume as in the dress of a scowling,
stockingless friar, whom I had seen passing just before. The look and
dress of the man made me shudder. His great red feet were bound up in
a shoe open at the toes, a kind of compromise for a sandal. I had just
seen him and his brethren at the Dominican Church, where a mass of music
was sung, and orange-trees, flags, and banners decked the aisle of the
church.

One begins to grow sick of these churches, and the hideous exhibitions