Life in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal / Richardson, Sarah J.

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by Sarah J Richardson

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Title: Life in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal

Author: Sarah J Richardson

Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5734]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on August 18, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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A brief note about the Project Gutenberg edition of Life
in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal.

Life in the Grey Nunnery was first published in Boston,
in 1857 by Edward P. Hood, who was credited as the book's
editor. It is likely that this account is by Sarah J.
Richardson "as told to" Edward Hood, though it may in
fact be completely fictional. It is clearly an
anti-Catholic book, an example of the genre of fiction
referred to as "the convent horror story." Anti-Catholic
sentiments were common in the United States during the
middle part of the 1800s probably directed at the relatively
large number of Catholic immigrants arriving from Germany,
and particularly Ireland during this period. These
sentiments resulted in riots and the burning of churches,
including the destruction by a mob of the Ursuline convent
and girl's school in Charlestown Massachusetts. During
this period a powerful nationalist political party the
"Know Nothings" also emerged, and won a number of
influential positions in the 1850s, particularly in New
England.  They succeeded in creating legislation hostile
to the Catholic church, barring Catholics from various
positions and requiring Catholic institutions to submit
to hostile "inspections." The interested reader is
encouraged to use a literature search for the terms MARIA
MONK or KNOW NOTHINGS to learn more about this genre of
literature and the social circumstances in which it was
created.




LIFE IN THE GREY NUNNERY AT MONTREAL

An authentic narrative of the horrors, mysteries,
and cruelties of convent life by Sarah J. Richardson,
an escaped nun.

Edited by Edward P. Hood




TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I     PARENTAGE--FATHER'S MARRIAGE
CHAPTER II    THE WHITE NUNNERY
CHAPTER III   THE NURSERY
CHAPTER IV    A SLAVE FOR LIFE
CHAPTER V     CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION
CHAPTER VI    THE GREY NUNNERY
CHAPTER VII   ORPHAN'S HOME
CHAPTER VIII  CONFESSION AND SORROW OF NO AVAIL
CHAPTER IX    ALONE WITH THE DEAD
CHAPTER X     THE SICK NUN
CHAPTER XI    THE JOY OF FREEDOM
CHAPTER XII   STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND
CHAPTER XIII  LANDLADY'S STORY CONTINUED
CHAPTER XIV   THE TWO SISTERS
CHAPTER XV    CHOICE OF PUNISHMENTS
CHAPTER XVI   HORRORS OF STARVATION
CHAPTER XVII  THE TORTURE ROOM
CHAPTER XVIII RETURN TO THE NUNNERY
CHAPTER XIX   SICKNESS AND DEATH OF A SUPERIOR
CHAPTER XX    STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY
CHAPTER XXI   SECOND ESCAPE FROM THE NUNNERY
CHAPTER XXII  LONELY MIDNIGHT WALK
CHAPTER XXIII FLIGHT AND RECAPTURE
CHAPTER XXIV  RESOLVES TO ESCAPE
CHAPTER XXV   EVENTFUL JOURNEY
CHAPTER XXVI  CONCLUSION

APPENDIX I    ABSURDITIES OF ROMANISTS
APPENDIX II   CRUELTY OF ROMANISTS
APPENDIX III  INQUISITION OF GOA--IMPRISONMENT OF
              M. DELLON, 1673
APPENDIX IV   INQUISITION OF GOA, CONCLUDED
APPENDIX V    INQUISITION AT MACERATA, ITALY
APPENDIX VI   ROMANISM OF THE PRESENT DAY
APPENDIX VII  NARRATIVE OP SIGNORINA FLORIENCIA
              D' ROMANI




LIFE IN THE GREY NUNNERY.

CHAPTER I.

PARENTAGE.--FATHER'S MARRIAGE.

I was born at St. John's, New Brunswick, in the year
1835. My father was from the city of Dublin, Ireland,
where he spent his youth, and received an education in
accordance with the strictest rules of Roman Catholic
faith and practice. Early manhood, however, found him
dissatisfied with his native country, longing for other
scenes and distant climes. He therefore left Ireland,
and came to Quebec.

Here he soon became acquainted with Capt. Willard, a
wealthy English gentleman, who, finding him a stranger
in a strange land, kindly opened his door, and gave him
employment and a home. Little did he think that in so
doing he was warming in his bosom a viper whose poisonous
fangs would, ere long, fasten on his very heart-strings,
and bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
His only child was a lovely daughter of fourteen. From
what I have heard of her, I think she must have been very
beautiful in person, quiet, gentle and unassuming in her
deportment, and her disposition amiable and affectionate.
She was exceedingly romantic, and her mental powers were
almost, if not entirely uncultivated; still, she possessed
sufficient strength of character to enable her to form
a deep, ardent, and permanent attachment.

The young stranger gazed upon her with admiring eyes,
and soon began to whisper in her ear the flattering tale
of love. This, of course, her parents could not approve.
What! give their darling to a stranger? Never, no, never.
What could they do without her? Grieved that their kindness
should have been thus returned, they bade him go his way,
and leave their child in peace. He did go, but like a
thief he returned. In the darkness of midnight he stole
to her chamber, and bore away from the home of her
childhood, "a father's joy, a mother's pride."

Who can tell the anguish of their souls when they entered
that deserted chamber? How desolate their lonely
hearthstone! How dark the home where her presence had
scattered rainbow hues! A terrible blow it was to Capt.
Willard; a very bitter thing thus to have his cherished
plans frustrated, his brightest hopes destroyed; to see
the very sun of his existence go down at midday in clouds
and darkness. Yes, to the stern father this sad event
brought bitter, bitter grief. But to the mother--that
tender, affectionate mother, it was death. Yea, more than
death, for reason, at the first shock, reeled and tottered
on its throne; then, as days and weeks passed by, and
still the loved one did not return, when every effort to
find her had been made in vain, then, the dread certainty
settled down upon her soul that her child was lost to
her forever. Hope, gave place to despair, and she became,
from that time, a raving maniac. At length death came
to her relief, and her husband was left alone.

Six weary years passed over the lonely man, and then he
rejoiced in the intelligence that his child was still
living with her husband at St. John's. He immediately
wrote to her imploring her to return to her old home,
and with the light of her presence dispel the gloom of
his dwelling. Accordingly she left St. John's, and in
company with her husband returned to her father. I was
then about a year and a half old, but I have so often
heard these facts related by my father and grandfather,
they are indelibly impressed on my mind, and will never
be erased from my memory.

My mother now thought her trouble at an end, that in
future she should enjoy the happiness she once anticipated.
But, alas for all human prospects! Ere one short month
had passed, difficulties arose in consequence of the
difference in their religious opinions. Capt. Willard
was a firm Protestant, while my father was quite as firm
in his belief of the principles of the Roman Catholics.
"Can two walk together except they be agreed?" They parted
in anger, and my father again became a wanderer, leaving
his wife and child with his father-in-law. But my mother
was a faithful, devoted wife. Her husband was her heart's
chosen idol whom she loved too well to think of being
separated from. She therefore left her father's house,
with all its luxuries and enjoyments, to follow the
fortunes of one, who was certainly unworthy of the pure
affection thus lavished upon him. As her health had been
delicate for the last two years, she concluded to leave
me with her father for a short time, intending to send
for me, as soon as she was in a situation to take care
of me. But this was not to be. Death called her away,
and I saw my mother no more till her corpse was brought
back, and buried in her father's garden.

Two years I remained with my grandfather, and from him,
I received the most affectionate and devoted attention.
My father at length opened a saloon, for the sale of
porter, and hired a black woman to do his work. He then
came for me. My grandfather entreated that I might be
allowed to remain. Well he knew that my father was not
the man to be entrusted with the care of a child--that
a Porter House was no place for me, for he was quite sure
that stronger liquors than porter were there drank and
sold. In fact, it was said, that my father was himself
a living evidence of this. But it is of a parent I am
speaking, and, whatever failings the world may have seen
in him, to me he was a kind and tender father. The years
I spent with him were the happiest of my life. On memory's
page they stand out in bold relief, strikingly contrasting
with the wretchedness of my after life. And though I
cannot forget that his own rash act brought this
wretchedness upon me, still, I believe his motives were
good. I know that he loved me, and every remembrance of
his kindness, and those few bright days of childhood, I
have carefully cherished as a sacred thing. He did not,
however, succeed in the business he had undertaken, but
lost his property and was at length compelled to give up
his saloon.

I was then placed in a Roman Catholic family, where he
often visited, and ever appeared to feel for me the most
devoted attachment. One day he came to see me in a state
of partial intoxication. I did not then know why his
face was so red, and his breath so offensive, but I now
know that he was under the influence of ardent spirits.
The woman with whom I boarded seeing his condition, and
being a good Catholic, resolved to make the most of the
occasion for the benefit of the nunnery. She therefore
said to him, "You are not capable of bringing up that
child; why don't you give her to Priest Dow?"--"Will he
take her?" asked my father. "Yes," she replied, "he will
put her into the nunnery, and the nuns will take better
care of her than you can." "On what condition will they
take her?" he asked. "Give the priest one hundred dollars,"
replied the artful woman, "and he will take good care of
her as long as she lives."

This seemed a very plausible story; but I am sure my
father did not realize what he was doing. Had he waited
for a little reflection, he would never have consented
to such an arrangement, and my fate would have been quite
different. But as it was, he immediately sent for the
priest, and gave me to him, to be provided for, as his
own child, until I was of age. I was then to be allowed
to go out into the world if I chose. To this, Priest Dow
consented, in consideration of one hundred dollars, which
he received, together with a good bed and bedding. My
mother's gold ear-rings were also entrusted to his care,
until I should be old enough to wear them. But I never
saw them again. Though I was at that time but six years
old, I remember perfectly, all that passed upon that
memorable occasion. I did not then comprehend the full
meaning of what was said, but I understood enough to fill
my heart with sorrow and apprehension.

When their bargain was completed, Priest Dow called me
to him, saying, with a smile, "You are a stubborn little
girl, I guess, a little naughty, sometimes, are you not?"
Surprised and alarmed, I replied, "No, sir." He then took
hold of my hair, which was rather short, drew it back
from my forehead with a force that brought the tears to
my eyes, and pressing his hand heavily on my head, he
again asked if I was not sometimes a little wilful and
disobedient. I was so much frightened at this, I turned
to my father, and with tears and sobs entreated him not
to send me away with that man, but allow me to stay at
home with him. He drew me to his bosom, wiped away my
tears, and sought to quiet my fears by assuring me that
I would have a good and pleasant home; that the nuns
would take better care of me than he could; and that he
would often come to see me. Thus, by the aid of flattery
on one side, and sugarplums on the other, they persuaded
me at last to accompany the priest to the White Nunnery,
St. Paul's street, Quebec.

I was too young to realize the sad change in my situation,
or to anticipate the trials and privations that awaited
me. But I was deeply grieved thus to leave my father, my
only real friend, my mother being dead, and my grandfather
a heretic, whom I had been taught to regard with the
utmost abhorrence. Little, however, did I think that this
was a last farewell. But such it was. Though he had
promised to come often to see me, I never saw my father
again; never even heard from him; and now, I do not know
whether he is dead or alive.




CHAPTER II.

THE WHITE NUNNERY.

On my arrival at the nunnery, I was placed under the care
of a lady whom they called a Superior. She took me into
a room alone, and told me that the priest would come to
me in the morning to hear confession, and I must confess
to him all my sins. "What are sins?" I asked, and, "How
shall I confess? I don't know what it means." "Don't know
what sins are!" she exclaimed in great astonishment "Why,
child, I am surprised that you should be so ignorant!
Where have you lived all your days?" With all the simplicity
of childhood, I replied, "With my father; and once I
lived with my grandfather; but they didn't tell me how
to confess." "Well," said she, "you must tell the priest
all your wicked thoughts, words, and actions." "What is
wicked?" I innocently asked. "If you have ever told an
untruth;" she replied, "or taken what did not belong to
you, or been in any way naughty, disobedient, or unkind;
if you have been angry, or quarrelled with your playmates,
that was wicked, and you must tell the priest all about
it If you try to conceal, or keep back anything, the
priest will know it and punish you. You cannot deceive
him if you try, for he knows all you do, or say, or even
think; and if you attempt it, you'll only get yourself
into trouble. But if you are resolved to be a good girl,
kind, gentle, frank, sincere, and obedient, the priest
will love you, and be kind to you."

When I was conducted to my room, at bedtime, I rejoiced
to find in it several little cot beds, occupied by little
girls about my own age, who had been, like myself,
consigned to the tender mercies of priests and nuns. I
thought if we must live in that great gloomy house, which
even to my childish imagination seemed so much like a
prison, we could in some degree dispel our loneliness
and mitigate our sorrows, by companionship and sympathy.
But I was soon made to know that even this small comfort
would not be allowed us, for the Superior, as she assisted
me to bed, told me that I must not speak, or groan, or
turn upon my side, or move in any way; for if I made the
least noise or disturbance, I would be severely punished.
She assured me that if we disobeyed in the least particular,
she would know it, even if she was not present, and deal
with us accordingly. She said that when the clock struck
twelve, the bell would ring for prayers; that we must
then rise, and kneel with our heads bowed upon the bed,
and repeat the prayer she taught us. When, at length,
she left us, locking the door after her, I was so
frightened, I did not dare to sleep, lest I should move,
or fail to awake at the proper time.

Slowly passed the hours of that long and weary night,
while I lay, waiting the ringing of the bell, or thinking
upon the past with deep regret. The most fearful visions
haunted my brain, and fears of future punishment filled
my mind. How could I hope to escape it, when they were
so very strict, and able to read my most secret thoughts?
What would I not have given could I have been again
restored to my father? True he was intemperate, but at
that time I thought not of this; I only knew that he was
always kind to me, that he never refused what I asked of
him. I sometimes think, even now, that if he had not so
cruelly thrust me from him, I might have been able to
win him from his cups and evil course of life. But this
was not to be. Having given himself up to the demon of
intemperance, it is not surprising that he should have
given away his only child; that he should have placed
her in the hands of those who proved utterly unworthy of
the trust. But however indignant I may at times have felt
towards him, for the one great wrong he committed against
me, still I do not believe he would ever have done it
but for the influence of ardent spirits. Moreover, I do
not suppose that he had the least idea what kind of a
place it was. He wished, doubtless, that his child might
be well educated; that she might be shielded from the
many trials and temptations that cluster around the
footsteps of the young and inexperienced, in the midst
of a cold and heartless world. From these evils the
nunnery, he thought, would be a secure retreat, for there
science, religion, and philanthropy, PROFESSEDLY, go hand
in hand. Like many other deluded parents, he thought that
"Holiness to the Lord" was inscribed upon those walls,
and that nothing which could pervert or defile the youthful
mind, was permitted to enter there. With these views and
feelings, he was undoubtedly sincere when he told me, "I
would have a good home, and the nuns would take better
care of me than he could." Rash his decision certainly
was, cruel it proved to be; but I shall ever give him
credit for good intentions.

At length the bell rang, and all the girls immediately
left their beds, and placed themselves upon their knees.
I followed their example, but I had scarcely time to
kneel by my bed, when the Superior came into the room
with a light in her hand, and attended by a priest. He
came to me, opened a book, and told me to cross myself.
This ceremony he instructed me to perform in the following
manner: the right hand is placed upon the forehead, and
drawn down to the breast; then across the breast from
left to right. The Superior then told me to say the prayer
called "Hail Mary!" I attempted to do so, but failed,
for, though I had often repeated it after my father, I
could not say it correctly alone. She then bade me join
my hands, and repeat it after her. "Hail Mary! Full of
grace! The Lord be with thee! Blessed art thou among
women! Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus! Mother
of God! Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our
death, Amen."

"Now," said the Superior, as I rose from my knees, "you
must learn every word of that prayer before to-morrow
night, or go without your supper." I tried my best to
remember it, but with so little instruction, for she
repeated it to me but once, I found it quite impossible
the next night to say it correctly. Of course, I was
compelled to go without my supper. This may seem a light
punishment to those who have enough to eat--who sit down
to a full table, and satisfy their appetite three times
per day, but to a nun, who is allowed only enough to
sustain life, it is quite a different thing. And especially
to a child, this mode of punishment is more severe, and
harder to bear than almost any other. I thought I would
take good care not to be punished in that way again; but
I little knew what was before me.

Before the Superior left us she assisted me into bed,
and bade me be very still until the second bell in the
morning. Then, I must rise and dress as quickly as
possible, and go to her room. Quietness, she enjoined
upon me as a virtue, while the least noise, or disturbance
of any kind, would be punished as a crime. She said I
must walk very softly indeed along the halls, and close
the doors so carefully that not a sound could be heard.
After giving me these first instructions in convent life,
she left me, and I was allowed to sleep the rest of the
night.

The next morning, I awoke at the ringing of the first
bell, but I did not dare to stir until the second bell,
when the other little girls arose in great haste. I then
dressed as quickly as possible, but not a word was spoken
--not a thought, and scarcely a look exchanged. I was
truly "alone amid a crowd," and I felt the utter loneliness
of my situation most keenly. Yet I saw very clearly that
there was but one course for me to pursue, and that was,
to obey in all things; to have no will of my own, and
thus, if possible, escape punishment. But it was hard,
very hard for me to bring my mind to this. I had been
the idolized child of affection too long to submit readily
and patiently to the privations I was now forced to
endure. Hitherto my will had been law. I had naturally
an imperious, violent temper, which I had never been
taught to govern. Instead of this, my appetites were
pampered, my passions indulged, and every desire gratified
as far as possible. Until that last sad parting, I hardly
knew what it was to have a request refused; and now, to
experience such a change--such a sudden transition from
the most liberal indulgence to the most cruel and rigorous
self-denial--Oh, it was a severe trial to my independent
spirit to submit to it. Yet, submit I must, for I had
learned, even then, that my newly appointed guardians
were not to be trifled with. Henceforth, OBEDIENCE must
be my motto. To every command, however cruel and unjust,
I must yield a blind, passive, and unquestioning obedience.

I dressed as quickly as possible, and hastened down to
the Superior. As I passed through the hall, I thought I
would be very careful to step softly, but in my haste I
forgot what she said about closing the door, and it came
together with a loud crash. On entering the room, I found
the Superior waiting for me; in her hand she held a stick
about a foot long, to the end of which was attached nine
leather strings, some twelve or fifteen inches long, and
about the size of a man's little finger. She bade me come
to her, in a voice so cold and stern it sent a thrill of
terror through my frame, and I trembled with the
apprehension of some impending evil. I had no idea that
she was about to punish me, for I was not aware that I
had done anything to deserve it; but her looks frightened
me, and I feared,--I know not what. She took hold of my
arm, and without saying a word, gave me ten or twelve
strokes over the head and shoulders with this miniature
cat-o'-nine-tails. Truly, with her, it was "a word and
a blow, and the blow came first." Wherever the strings
chanced to fall upon the bare flesh, they raised the
skin, as though a hot iron had been applied to it. In
some places they took off the skin entirely, and left
the flesh raw, and quivering with the stinging pain. I
could not think at first what I had done to deserve this
severe punishment, nor did she condescend to enlighten
me. But when I began to cry, and beg to go to my father,
she sternly bade me stop crying at once, for I could not
go to my father. I must stay there, she said, and learn
to remember all her commands and obey then. She then
taught me the following verse:

   I am a little nun,
   The sisters I will mind;
   When I am pretty and learn,
   Then they will use me kind.
   I must not be so noisy
   When I go about the house,
   I'll close the doors so softly
   They'll think I am a mouse.

This verse I repeated until I could say it correctly.
I was then taken to the breakfast-room, where I was
directed to kneel before the crucifix, and say my prayers,
which I repeated after the Superior. I was then seated
at the table, and directed to hold my head down, and fix
my eyes upon my plate. I must not look at any one, or
gaze about the room; but sit still, and quietly eat what
was given me. I had upon my plate, one thin slice of
wheat bread, a bit of potato, and a very small cup of
milk. This was my stated allowance, and I could have no
more, however hungry I might be. The same quantity was
given me every meal, when in usual health, until I was
ten years of age. On fast days, no food whatever was
allowed; and we always fasted for three meals before
receiving the sacrament. This ceremony was observed every
third day, therefore we were obliged to fast about
one-third of the time. Yet, however long the fast might
be, my allowance of food was never increased.

After breakfast the Superior took me to Priest Dow for
confession. He kept me with him all day, allowing me
neither food nor drink; nor did he permit me to break my
fast until four o'clock the next day. I then received
what they call the sacrament, for the first time.

To prepare for this, I was clad in a white dress and
cape, and a white cap on my head. I was then led to the
chapel, and passing up the aisle, knelt before the altar.
Priest Dow then came and stood before me, and taking from
a wine-glass a small thin wafer, he placed it upon my
tongue, at the same time repeating some Latin words,
which, the Superior afterwards told me, mean in English,
"The body and blood of Christ." I was taught to believe
that I held in my mouth the real body and blood of Christ.
I was also told that if I swallowed the wafer before it
had melted on my tongue, IT WOULD CHOKE ME TO DEATH; and
if I indulged an evil thought while I held it in my mouth
I SHOULD FALL INTO A POOL OF BLOOD.




CHAPTER III.

THE NURSERY.

While in the White Nunnery, I spent the most of my time
in the nursery. But the name gives one no idea of the
place. The freedom and careless gayety, so characteristic
of other nurseries, had no place in this. No cheerful
conversation, no juvenile merriment, or pleasureable
excitement of any kind, were ever allowed. A merry laugh,
on the contrary, a witty jest, or a sly practical joke,
would have been punished as the most heinous offence.
Here as elsewhere in the establishment, the strictest
rules of silence and obedience were rigidly enforced.
There were twenty little girls in the room with me, but
we were never permitted to speak to each other, nor to
any one except a priest or a Superior. When directly
addressed by either of them we were allowed to answer;
but we might never ask a question, or make a remark, or
in any way, either by looks, words, or signs, hold
communication with each other. Whenever we did so, it
was at the risk of being discovered and severely punished.
Yet this did not repress the desire for conversation; it
only made us more cautious, artful, and deceptive. The
only recreation allowed us was fifteen minutes' exercise
in the yard every morning and evening. We might then
amuse ourselves as we chose, but were required to spend
the whole time in some kind of active exercise; if one
of our number ventured to sit still, we were all punished
the next day by being kept in the house.

It was my business, while in the nursery, to dust all
the furniture and the floor, with a flannel mop, made
and kept for this purpose. The floors were all painted
and varnished, and very easily kept clean.

Two hours and a half each day we spent with a priest,
whom we were taught to call Father Darity (I do not know
as I spell this and other names correctly, but I give it
to the reader as it sounded to my ear). He appeared to
take great pleasure in learning us to repeat the prayers
and catechism required by Priest Dow. He also gave us a
variety of instructions in other things, enjoining in
particular the most absolute obedience and perfect silence.
He assured us that if we dared to disobey him in the
least particular, he should know it, even if he was not
present with us at the time. He said he knew all our
thoughts, words, and actions; and if we did not obey, he
should "EAT US WITH A GRAIN OF SALT."

I presume my reader will smile at this, and exclaim, "How
absurd!" Yes, to you it is absurd; but to the mind of a
child who placed the utmost confidence in his veracity,
it was an evidence that he was invested with supernatural
powers. For myself I believed every word he said, and
nothing would have tempted me to disobey him. Perfect
obedience he considered the highest attainment, and, to
secure this, the greatest of all virtues, no means were
thought too severe. We were frightened and punished in
every possible way.

But, though Father Darity acted on the one great principle
with the Romanists, that the "end sanctifies the means,"
he was in general a much kinder man than Priest Dow. He
urged us on with our catechism as fast as possible,
telling us, as a motive to greater diligence, that the
bishop was soon to visit us, and that we could not be
admitted to his presence until we had our prayers and
catechism perfectly.

One day, when we were in the yard at play, I told one of
the little girls that I did not like to live there; that
I did not like one of the people in the house; that I
wished to return to my father, and I should tell him so
the first time he came to see me.

"Then you like to live with your father?" said she. I
told her I did, for then I could do as I pleased, without
the fear of punishment. She said that she did not like
to live there any better than I did. I asked her why she
did not go away, if she disliked to stay. She replied,
"I should like to go away well enough, if I had any
friends to go to; but my father and mother are both dead,
and I have no home but this; so you see I must stay here
if they wish me to; but there is one consolation; if we
are good girls, and try to do right, they will be kind
to us." I made no further remark; but the moment we
returned to the house she told the Superior what I said,
taking good care not to repeat her own expressions, and
leaving the Superior to infer that she had made no reply.

I saw at once by the stern look that came over the lady's
face that she was very angry; and I would gladly have
recalled those few hasty words had it been in my power
to have done so. She immediately left the room, but soon
returned with Priest Dow. His countenance also indicated
anger, as he took hold of my arm and led me to a darkened
room, in which several candles were burning.

Here I saw three scenes, which I think must have been
composed of images, pictures, and curtains. I do not
pretend to describe them correctly, I can only tell how
they appeared to me.

The first was an image of Christ on the cross, with his
arms extended as we usually see them in pictures. On his
right hand was a representation of heaven, and on the
left, of hell. Heaven was made to appear like a bright,
beautiful, and glorious place. A wall of pink color
surrounded it, and in the center was a spring of clear
water. In the midst of this spring stood a tree, bearing
on every limb a lighted candle, and on the top, the image
of Christ and a dove.

Hell was surrounded by a black wall, within which, there
was also a spring; but the water was very black, and
beside it stood a large black image, with horns on its
head, a long tail, and a large cloven foot. The place
where it stood was in deep shadow, made to resemble, as
neatly as possible, clouds and darkness. The priest led
me up to this fearful object, and placed me on one side
of it, while he stood on the other; but it would turn
away from him towards me, roll up its great eyes, open
its mouth and show its long white tusks. The priest said
it turned from him, because he was a good man, and I was
very wicked. He said that it was the devil, come up from
the bottomless pit to devour me; and if I said such wicked
words again, it would carry me off. I was very much
frightened, for I then thought that all he said was true;
that those images, which I now know were strung on wires
were really what they were made to represent.

In fact, until I was fifteen years old, I really believed
that the image I then saw was an evil spirit. But since
that time, I have been made to know that the priests
themselves are the only evil spirits about the place.

Priest Dow then led me back to the nursery, and left me
with the Superior. But he soon came, back, saying he
"knew what I was thinking about; that I had wicked thoughts
about him; thought he was a bad man, and that I wished
to leave him and go to my father;" Now this was all true,
and the fact that he knew it, frightened me accordingly.
It was a sure proof that what Father Darity said was
true. But how could I ever be safe, if they could thus
read the inmost secrets of my soul? I did dislike them
all very much indeed and I could not help it. How then
could I avert the consequences of this deep aversion to
convent life, since it could not be concealed? Was it
possible for me so far to conquer myself, as to love the
persons with whom I lived? How many nights did I lie
awake pondering this question, and resolving to make the
effort. I was, of course, too young to know that it was
only by shrewd guessing, and a general knowledge of human
nature, that he was enabled to tell my thoughts so
correctly.

"Now," said he, "for indulging these dreadful thoughts,
I shall take you back to the devil, and give you up to
him." I was frightened before; but I have no words to
describe my feelings when he again led me back, and left
me beside the image, saying, as he closed the door, "If
the devil groans three times, and the Lord does not speak,
you must stay here until to-morrow at this time." I
trembled so that I could hardly stand, and when, after
a few moments, a sound like a groan fell upon my ears,
I shrieked in the extremity of terror.

[Footnote: Cioui, formerly a Benedictine Monk, giving an
account of his imprisonment at Rome, after his conversion
says:--

"One evening, after listening to a discourse filled with
dark images of death, I returned to my room, and found
the light set upon the ground. I took it up and approached
the table to place it there, but what was my horror and
consternation at beholding spread out upon it, a whitened
skeleton! Before the reader can comprehend my dismay, it
is necessary he should reflect for a moment on the
peculiarities of childhood, especially in a Romish country,
where children are seldom spoken to except in superstitious
language, whether by their parents or teachers: and
domestics adopt the same style to answer their own
purposes, menacing their disobedient charges with
hobgoblins, phantoms and witches. Such images as these
make a profound impression on tender minds, leaving a
panic terror which the reasoning of after years is often
unable entirely to efface. There can be no doubt but that
this pernicious habit, is the fruit of the noxious plant
fostered in the Vatican. Rising generations must be
brought up in superstitious terror, in order to render
them susceptible to every kind of absurdity; for this
terror is the powerful spring, employed by the priests
and friars, to move at their pleasure families, cities,
provinces, nations. Although in families of the higher
order, this method of alarming infancy is much
discountenanced, nevertheless, it is impossible but that
it should in some degree prevail in the nursery. Nor was
it probable that I should escape this infections malady,
having passed my whole days in an atmosphere, charged
more than any other with that impure miasma priest-craft."]

Then immediately I heard the question, and it seemed to
come from the figure of Christ, "Will you obey? Will you
leave off sin?" I answered in the affirmative as well as
I could, for the convulsive sobs that shook my frame
almost stopped my utterance. I now know that when the
priest left me, he placed himself, or an assistant, behind
a curtain close to the images, and it was his voice that
I heard. But I was then too young to detect their
treacherous practices and deceitful ways.

On being taken back to the Superior, I was immediately
attacked with severe illness, and had fits all night. It
seemed to me that I could see that image of the devil
everywhere. If I closed my eyes, I thought I could feel
him on my bed, pressing on my breast, and he was so heavy
I could scarcely breathe. I was very sick, and suffered
much bodily pain, but the tortures of an excited imagination
were greater by far, and harder to bear than any physical
suffering. For long years after, that image haunted my
dreams, and even now I often, in sleep, live over again
the terrors of that fearful scene. I was sick a long
time; how long I do not know; but I became so weak I
could not raise myself in bed, and they had an apparatus
affixed to the wall to raise me with. For several days
I took no nourishment, except a teaspoonful of brandy
and water which was given me as often as I could take it
I continued to have fits every day for more than two
years, nor did I ever entirely recover from the effects
of that fright. Even now, though years have passed away,
a little excitement or a sudden shock, will sometimes
throw me into one of those fits.




CHAPTER IV.

A SLAVE FOR LIFE.

During this illness I was placed under the care of an
Abbess whom they called St. Bridget. There were many
other Abbesses in the convent, but she was the principal
one, and had the care of all the clothing. If the others
wished for clean clothes, they were obliged to go to her
for them. In that way I saw them all, but did not learn
their names. They approached me and looked at me, but
seldom spoke. This I thought very strange, but I now know
they dared not speak. One day an Abbess came to my bed,
and after standing a few moments with the tears silently
flowing down her cheeks, asked me if I had a mother. I
told her I had not, and I began to weep most bitterly.
I was very weak, and the question recalled to my mind
the time when I shared a father's love, and enjoyed my
liberty. Then, I could go and come as I chose, but now,
a slave for life, I could have no will of my own, I must
go at bidding, and come at command. This, I am well
aware, may seem to some extravagant language; but I use
the right word. I was, literally, a slave; and of all
kinds of slavery, that which exists in a convent is the
worst. I say, THE WORST, because the story of wrong and
outrage which occasionally finds its way to the public
ear, is not generally believed. You pity the poor black
man who bends beneath the scourge of southern bondage,
for the tale comes to you from those who have seen his
tears and heard his groans. But you have no tears, no
prayers, no efforts for the poor helpless nun who toils
and dies beneath the heartless cruelty of an equally
oppressive task-master. No; for her you have no sympathy,
for you do not believe her word. Within those precincts
of cruelty, no visitor is ever admitted. No curious eye
may witness the secrets of their prison-house.
Consequently, there is no one to bear direct testimony
to the truth of her statements. Even now, methinks, I
see your haughty brow contract, and your lip curl with
scorn, as with supreme contempt you throw down these
pages and exclaim, "'Tis all a fiction. Just got up to
make money. No proof that it is true." No proof do you
say? O, that the strong arm of the law would interpose
in our behalf!--that some American Napoleon would come
forth, and break open those prison doors, and drag forth
to the light of day those hidden instruments of torture!
There would then be proof enough to satisfy the most
incredulous, that, so far from being exaggerated, the
half has not been told. Sons of America! Will you not
arise in your might, and demand that these convent doors
be opened, and "the oppressed" allowed to "go free"? Or
if this be denied, sweep from the fair earth, the
black-hearted wretches who dare, in the very face of
heaven, to commit such fearful outrages upon helpless,
suffering humanity? How long--O how long will you suffer
these dens of iniquity to remain unopened? How long permit
this system of priestly cruelty to continue?

But I am wandering from my story. Would that I might
forever wander from it--that I might at once blot from
memory's page, the fearful recollection that must follow
me to my grave! Yet, painful as it is to rehearse the
past, if I can but awaken your sympathy for other sufferers,
if I can but excite you to efforts for their deliverance,
it is all I ask. I shall have my reward. But to return
to my story.

The Abbess saw how deeply I was grieved, and immediately
left the room. St. Bridget told me not to cry, for she
would be a mother to me as long as I remained with her,
and she was true to her promise. Another sister, who
sometimes came to my room, I believe was crazy. She would
run up to my bed, put her hand on me, and burst into a
loud and hearty laugh. This she repeated as often as she
came, and I told the Abbess one day, I did wish that
sister would not come to see me, for she acted so strange,
I was afraid of her. She replied, "do not care for her;
she always does just so, but we do not mind her; you must
be careful what you say," she continued, "for if you
speak of her before any of the sisters, they may get you
into trouble."

When I began to get better, I had a sharp appetite for
food, and was hungry a great part of the time. One of
the sisters used to bring me a piece of bread concealed
under her cape and hide it under my pillow. How she
obtained it, I do not know, unless she saved it from her
own allowance. It was very easy for her to hide it in
this way, for the nuns always walk with one hand under
their cape and the other by the side. Truly, in this
instance, "bread eaten in secret" was "pleasant." Of all
the luxuries I ever tasted, those stolen bits of bread
were the sweetest.

During my illness I thought a great deal about my father,
and wondered why he did not come to see me, as he had
promised. I used to cry for him in my sleep, and very
often awoke in tears. St. Bridget sought in every possible
way to make me forget him, and the priest would tell me
that I need not think so much about him, for he no longer
cared for me. He said the devil had got him, and I would
never see him again. These cruel words, so far from making
me forget, served to awaken a still greater desire to
see him, and increased my grief because I was denied the
privilege.

In the room with me, were six other little girls, who
were all sick at the same time, and St. Bridget took care
of us all For two of the little girls, I felt the greatest
sympathy. They were quite young, I think not more than
three years of age, and they grieved continually. They
made no complaint, did not even shed a tear, but they
sobbed all the time, whether asleep or awake. Of their
history, I could learn nothing at that time, except the
fact, that they were taken from their parents for the
good of their souls. I afterwards overheard a conversation
that led me to think that they were heirs to a large
property, which, if they were out of the way, would go
to the church. But it is of what I know, and not what I
think, that I have undertaken to write, and I do know
that the fate of those little girls was hard in the
extreme, whatever might have been the cause of their
being there. Poor little creatures! No wonder their
hearts were broken. Torn from parents and friends while
yet in early childhood--doomed while life is spared, to
be subject to the will of those who know no mercy--who
feel no pity, but consider it a religious duty to crush,
and destroy all the pure affections--all the exquisite
sensibilities of the human soul. Yet to them these hapless
babes must look for all the earthly happiness they could
hope to enjoy. They were taught to obey them in all
things, and consider them their only friends and protectors.
I never saw them after I left that room, but they did
not live long. I was glad they did not, for in the cold
grave their sufferings would be over and they would rest
in peace.

O, how little do Protestants know the sufferings of a
nun! and truly no one can know them except by personal
experience. One may imagine the most aggravated form of
cruelty, the most heart-rending agonies, yet I do believe
the conception of the most active imagination would fall
far short of the horrible reality. I do not believe there
was one happy individual in that convent, or that any
one there, if I except the lady Superior, knew anything
of enjoyment. Life with them was a continual round of
ceaseless toil and bitter self-denial; while each one
had some secret grief slowly but surely gnawing away the
heart-strings. I have sometimes seen the Abbess sitting
by the bedside of the sick, with her eyes closed, while
the big tears fell unchecked over her pale cheeks. When
I asked her why she wept, she would shake her head, but
never speak. I now know that she dare not speak for fear
of punishment.

The abbesses in the various parts of this convent are
punished as much as the nuns, if they dare to disobey
the rules of the priests; and if the least of these are
broken in the presence of any one in the house, they will
surely tell of it at confession. In fact, they are
required to do this; and if it is known that one has seen
a rule broken, or a command disobeyed, without reporting
it, a severe punishment is sure to follow. Thus every
individual is a spy upon the rest; and while every failure
is visited with condign punishment, the one who makes
the most reports is so warmly approved, that poor human
nature can hardly resist the temptation to play the
traitor. Friendship cannot exist within the walls of a
convent, for no one can be trusted, even with the most
trifling secret. Whoever ventures to try it is sure to
be betrayed.

While I was sick Father Darity came often to see me, and
by his kindness succeeded in gaining my affections. I
was a great favorite with him; he always called me his
little girl, and tried in every way to make me contented.
He wished to make me say that I was happy there, that I
liked to live with them as well as with my father. But
I could never be persuaded to say this, for it was not
the truth, and I would not tell a falsehood unless forced
to do so. He said I must be a good girl, and he hoped I
would sometime see better times, but I could never see
my father again, and I must not desire it. He advised
me, however hard it might be, to try and love all who
came into the nunnery, even those who were unkind, who
wished to injure me or wound my feelings. He told me how
Jesus Christ loved his enemies; how he died for them a
cruel death on the cross; how, amid his bitter agonies,
he prayed for them, and with his expiring breath he cried,
"Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." "And
now," said he, "can you do as Jesus Christ did? He has
set you an example, can you not follow it?" "No, sir,"
I replied, "I cannot love those who punish me so cruelly,
so unjustly. I cannot love the little girl who reported
what I said in the yard, when she said as bad things as
I did." "But you forget," said he, "that in doing this
she only obeyed the rules of the house. She only did her
duty; if you had done yours, you would have reported
her." "I'll never do that," I exclaimed, emboldened by
his kindness. "It is a bad rule, and--" "Hush, hush,
child!" he cried, interrupting me. "Do you know to whom
you are speaking? and do you forget that you are a little
girl? Are you wiser than your teachers? I must give you
a penance for those naughty words, and you will pray for
a better spirit." He said much more to me, and gave me
good advice that I remember much better than I followed.
He enjoined if upon me to keep up good courage, as I
would gain my health faster. He then bade me farewell,
telling me not to forget, to repeat certain prayers as
a penance for my sin in speaking so boldly. O, did he
think when he talked to me so kindly, so faithfully, that
it was his last opportunity to give me good advice? Did
he know that he left me to return no more? I saw nothing
unusual in his appearance, and I did not suspect that it
was the last time I should see his pleasant face and
listen to his kindly voice. I loved that man, and bitter
were the tears I shed when I learned that I should never
see him again. The Abbess informed me that he was sent
away for something he had done, she did not know what.
O that something! I knew well enough what it was. He had
a kind heart; he could feel for the unfortunate, and
that, with the Roman Catholics, is an "unpardonable sin."




CHAPTER V.

CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION.

I continued to regain my health slowly, and the Abbess
said they would soon send me back to the nursery. I could
not endure the thought of this, for I had the greatest
fear of the Abbess who had the charge of that department.
She was very cruel, while St. Bridget was as kind as she
dare to be. She knew full well that if she allowed
herself to exhibit the least feeling of affection for
those children, she would be instantly removed, and some
one placed over them who would not give way to such
weakness. We all saw how it was, and loved her all the
more for the severity of her reproofs when any one was
near. With tears, therefore, I begged to be allowed to
stay with her; and when the priest came for me, she told
him that she thought I had better remain with her till
I gained a little more strength.

To this he consented, and I was very grateful indeed for
the kindness. Wishing in some way to express my gratitude,
as soon as I was able I assisted in taking care of the
other little girls as much as possible. St. Bridget, in
turn, taught me to read a little, so that I could learn
my prayers when away from her. She also gave me a few
easy lessons in arithmetic, and instructed me to speak
the Celt language. She always spoke in that, or the
French, which I could speak before, having learned it
from the family where I lived after my father gave up
his saloon. They were French Catholics and spoke no other
language.

As soon as I was sufficiently recovered to leave my room,
I was taken to the chapel to be confirmed. Before they
came for me, the abbess told me what questions would be
asked, and the answers I should be required to give. She
said they would ask me if I wished to see my father; if
I should like to go back to the world, etc. To these and
similar questions she said I must give a negative answer.
"But," said I, "that will be a falsehood, and I will not
say so for any of them." "Hush, hush, child!" she exclaimed,
with a frightened look. "You must not talk so. From my
heart I pity you; but it will be better for you to answer
as I tell you, for if you refuse they will punish you
till you do. Remember," she added, emphatically, "remember
what I say: it will be better for you to do as I tell
you." And she made me promise that I would. "But why do
they wish me to tell a lie?" I asked. "They do not wish
you to tell a lie," she replied; "they wish you to do
right, and feel right; to be contented and willing to
forget the world." "But I do not wish to forget the
world," I said. "I am not contented, and saying that I
am will not make me feel so. Is it right to tell a lie?"
"It is right for you to obey," she replied, with more
severity in her tone than I ever heard before. "Do you
know," she continued," that it is a great sin for you to
talk so?" "A sin!" I exclaimed, in astonishment; "why is
it a sin?" "Because," she replied, "you have no right to
inquire why a command is given. Whatever the church
commands, we must obey, and that, too, without question
or complaint. If we are not willing to do this, it is
the duty of the Bishop and the priests to punish us until
we are willing. All who enter a convent renounce forever
their own will." "But I didn't come here myself," said
I;" my father put me here to stay a few years. When I am
eighteen I shall go out again." "That does not make any
difference," she replied. "You are here, and your duty
is obedience. But my dear," she continued, "I advise you
never again to speak of going out, for it can never be.
By indulging such hopes you are preparing yourself for
a great disappointment. By speaking of it, you will, I
assure you, get yourself into trouble. You may not find
others so indulgent as I am; therefore, for your own
sake, I hope you will relinquish all idea of ever leaving
the convent, and try to be contented." Such was the kind
of instruction I received at the White Nunnery. I did
not feel as much disappointed at the information that I
was never to go into the world again as she had expected.
I had felt for a long time, almost, indeed, from my first
entrance, that such would be my fate, and though deeply
grieved, I was able to control my feelings.

The great day at length came for which the Abbess had
been so long preparing me. I say great, for in our
monotonous life, the smallest circumstance seemed important.
Moreover, I was assured that my future happiness depended
very much upon the answers, I that day gave to the various
questions put to me. When about to be taken to the chapel,
St. Bridget begged the priest to be careful and not
frighten me, lest it should bring on my fits again. I
was led into the chapel and made to kneel before the
altar. The bishop and five priests were present, and
also, a man whom I had never seen before, but I was told
he was the Pope's Nuncio, and that he came a long way to
visit them. I think this was true, for they all seemed
to regard him as a superior. I shall never forget my
feelings when he asked me the following questions, which
I answered as I had been directed. "Who do you believe
in?" "God." "How many persons are there in God?" "Three;
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost" "What world have you
lately left?" "The world of sin and Satan." "Do you wish
to go back and live with your father?" "No Sir." "Do you
think you can live all your life with us." "I think I
can, sir." He then said, "You will not fare any better
than you have hitherto, and perhaps not as well." It was
with the greatest difficulty that I could control my
feelings sufficiently to answer this last question. But
remembering what the Abbess had told me, I suppressed my
tears, and choked down the rising sob. Surely those men
must have known that I was telling a falsehood--that
the profession I made was not in accordance with my real
sentiments. For myself, I then felt, and still feel that
the guilt was not mine. The sin did not rest with me.

The Bishop was then told to hear my confession, after
which, a priest took some ointment from a small box, and
rubbed it on my forehead, and another priest came with
a towel and wiped it off. I was then taken back to St.
Bridget, with whom I remained, as long as I was in the
White Nunnery.

On my tenth birthday, the Bishop came to the Abbess very
early in the morning, and informed her that I was to take
the White Veil that day, and immediately after the
ceremony, I would leave for the Grey Nunnery in Montreal.
He desired her to make all the necessary preparation,
and take her leave of me, as she would not see me again.
This was sad news for us both, for I felt that she was
my only friend, and I knew that she felt for me, the most
sincere affection. She gave me much good advice in
reference to my future conduct, and with tears exhorted
me to be kind, cheerful, and obedient. I was going to a
new place, she said, and if I was a good girl, and sought
to please my superiors, I would find some one to be kind
to me. She advised me to try and appear contented in
whatever situation I might be placed, and above all other
considerations, never disobey the least command.
"Obedience," she again repeated, "is the rule in all
convents, and it will be better for you to obey at once,
and cheerfully, and willingly comply with every request,
than to incur displeasure and perhaps punishment, by any
appearance of reluctance or hesitation. If there is any
one thing that you dislike to do, be sure that you do
not betray your feelings, for if you do, that will be
the very thing they will require of you; and I assure
you, if you once become the object of suspicion or dislike,
your condition will be anything but agreeable. You will
be marked and watched, and required to do many unpleasant
things, to say the least. Therefore I hope you will
perform all your duties with a cheerful and willing
spirit." Bitterly did I grieve at the thought of being
separated from the only being on earth who seemed to care
for me. In the anguish of the moment, I wished I might
die. St. Bridget reproved me, saying encouragingly that
death was the coward's refuge, sought only by those who
had not the resolution to meet, endure, or overcome the
trials of life. She exhorted me to courage, perseverance
and self denial, saying that if I fought life's battle
bravely, I would have my reward.

She changed all my clothes, and assisted me to put on a
white dress and cape, and a white cap and veil. She then
gave me a card of good behavior, embraced me for the last
time, and led me out to the Bishop, who was waiting to
conduct me to the chapel where the ceremony was to be
performed.

I there met ten other little girls, who, like myself,
were compelled to take upon themselves vows they did not
understand, and thus, by an apparently voluntary act,
consign themselves to slavery for life. They were all
strangers to me, sent here, as I afterwards learned, from
some nunnery in Ireland, where they had friends who were
too solicitous for their welfare. The priests do not wish
the nuns to see friends from the world, and they will
frame almost any plausible excuse to prevent it. But when
the friends become too urgent, as they sometimes do, and
their inventive powers are taxed too severely, or if the
task of furnishing so many excuses become too irksome,
the poor hapless victims are sent off to some other
nunnery, and the friends are told that they were not
contented, and wished to go to some other place, and that
they, generous creatures that they are, have at length,
after much solicitation, kindly consented to their removal.
And this too, when they know that these very girls are
grieving their lives away, for a sight of those dear
friends, who, they are confidently assured, are either
dead, or have entirely forgotten them! Can the world of
woe itself furnish deceit of a darker dye?

The Bishop led me up to the altar, and put a lighted
candle into my hand. He then went under the altar, on
which a lighted candle was placed, and soon returned
followed by two little boys whom they called apostles.
They held, each, a lighted torch with which they proceeded
to light two more candles. On a table near the altar,
stood a coffin, and soon two priests entered, bearing
another coffin, which they placed beside the other. A
white cloth was spread over them, and burning candles
placed at the head and foot. These movements frightened
me exceedingly, for I thought they were going to kill me.

Forgetting in my terror that I was not allowed to speak,
I asked the Bishop if he was going to kill me. "Kill
you!" he exclaimed, "O no; don't be frightened; I shall
not hurt you in the least. But it is our custom, when a
nun takes the veil, to lay her in a coffin to show that
she is dead to the world. Did not St. Bridget tell you
this?" I told him she did not, but I did not dare to tell
him that I supposed she felt so bad when she found I must
leave her, that she entirely forgot it. He then asked
very pleasantly, which of the two coffins I liked the
best, saying I could have my choice. I replied, "I have
no choice." This was true, for although he assured me to
the contrary, I still believed he was about to kill me,
and I cared very little about my coffin. They were both
large enough for a grown person, and beautifully finished,
with a large silver plate on the lid. The Bishop took me
up in his arms, and laid me in one of them, and bade me
close my eyes.

I lay in that coffin a long time, as it seemed to me,
without the least motion. I was so much alarmed, I felt
as though I could not even lift a finger. Meantime the
Bishop and priests read alternately from a book, but in
a language I could not understand. Occasionally they
would come and feel my hands and feet, and say to each
other, "She is very cold." I believe they were afraid I
should die in their hands, of fear. When at last they
took me up, they told me that I would carry that coffin
to Montreal with me--that I would be laid in it when
robed for the grave--and that my bones would moulder to
dust in it. I shall never forget the impression these
words made on my mind. There was something so horrible
in the thought of carrying a coffin about with me all my
life, constantly reminding me of the shortness of time,
and the sure approach of death, I could not endure it.
Gladly would I have left it, costly and elegant as it
was, choosing rather to run the risk of being buried
without one, but this was not allowed. I could have no
choice in the matter.

These ceremonies concluded. I was taken to a small room,
and a woman assisted me to change my clothes again, and
put on the Grey Nunnery suit. This consisted of a grey
dress and shoes, and a black cap. Each nunnery has a
peculiar dress which every nun is required to wear. Thus,
on meeting one of them, it is very easy to tell what
establishment she belongs to, and a run-away is easily
detected. On leaving the chapel, I was taken to the
steamboat, with the other ten girls, accompanied by a
priest. Our coffins were packed in cotton, and placed on
the boat with us. On our arrival at Montreal, we found
a priest and two nuns waiting for us to conduct us to
the nunnery.




CHAPTER VI.

THE GREY NUNNERY.

The Grey Nunnery is situated on St. Paul Street, Montreal.
It is four stories high, besides the basement. It occupies
a large space of ground, I do not know how much, but it
is a very extensive building. The roof is covered with
tin, with a railing around it, finished at the top with
sharp points that look like silver, about a foot in
length, and three feet apart. Over the front door there
is a porch covered with a profusion of climbing plants,
which give it a beautiful appearance. The building stands
in a large yard, surrounded on all sides by a high fence,
so high indeed, that people who pass along the street
can see no part of the nunnery except the silver points
on the roof. The top of this fence is also finished with
long iron spikes. Every thing around the building seems
expressly arranged to keep the inmates in, and intruders
out. In fact it would be nearly impossible for any one
to gain a forcible or clandestine admittance to any part
of the establishment. There are several gates in the
fence, how many I do not know, but the front gate opens
on St. Ann Street. Over each of the gates hangs a bell,
connected with the bells in the rooms of the Superior
and Abbesses, which ring whenever the gate is opened.
There is always a guard of two men at each gate, who walk
up and down with guns upon their shoulders. While attempting
to give a brief description of this building, I may as
well say that it is constructed with non-conductors
between the walls, so that the ringing of a bell, or the
loudest shriek, could not be heard from one room to the
other. The reader will please bear this in mind, as the
reason for the precaution will appear in the course of
my narrative.

The priest, who met us as we left the boat, conducted us
to the front door and rang the bell. Soon a lady appeared,
who drew a slide in the middle of the door, exposing one
pane of glass. Through this she looked, to see who was
there, and when satisfied on this point, opened the door.
Here let me remark, that since I left the nunnery, I have
heard of another class of people who find it convenient
to have a slide in their door; and if I am not very much
mistaken, the character of the two houses, or rather the
people who live in them, are very much alike, whether
they are nunneries of private families, Catholics or
Protestants. Honest people have no need of a slide in
the door, and where there is so much precaution, may we
not suppose that something behind the curtain imperatively
calls for it? It is an old adage, but true notwithstanding,
that "where there is concealment, there must be something
wrong."

In the hall opposite the front door were two other doors,
with a considerable space between them. The right hand
door was opened by the door-tender, and we entered a room
furnished in the plainest manner, but every thing was
neat, and in perfect order. Instead of chairs, on two
sides of the room a long bench was fastened to the sides
of the house. They were neither painted, nor cushioned,
but were very white, as was also the floor, on which
there was no carpet. Beside the door stood a basin of
holy water, and directly opposite, an image of the Saviour
extended on the cross which they call a crucifix.

Here we were left a few moments, then the door-keeper
came back, and asked us if we would like to see the Black
Cloisters; and if so, to follow her. She led us back into
the hall, and in the space between the two doors that I
mentioned, she unlocked a bar, and pulling it down,
touched a spring, and immediately a little square door
slid back into the ceiling. Across this door, or window
or whatever they called it, were strong bars of iron
about one inch apart. Through this aperture we were
allowed to look, and a sad sight met my eyes. As many
as fifty disconsolate looking ladies were sitting there,
who were called Black Nuns, because they were preparing
to take the Black Veil. They were all dressed in black,
a black cap on the head, and a white bandage drawn across
the forehead, to which another was attached, that passed
under the chin. These bandages they always wore, and were
not allowed to lay aside. They sat, each one with a book
in her hand, motionless as so many statues. Not a finger
did they move, not an eye was raised, but they sat gazing
upon the page before them as intently as though life
itself depended upon it. Our guide informed us that they
were studying the [footnote] Black Book preparatory to
taking the Black Veil and entering the Cloister. This
book was quite a curiosity. It was very large, with a
white cover, and around the edge a black border about an
inch wide.

[Footnote: "The Black Book, or Praxis Sacra Romance
Inquisitionis, is always the model for that which is to
succeed it. This book is a large manuscript volume, in
folio, and is carefully preserved by the head of the
Inquisition. It is called Libro Nero, the Black Book,
because it has a cover of that color; or, as an inquisitor
explained to me, Libro Necro, which, in the Greek language,
signifies 'The book of the dead.'

"In this book is the criminal code, with all the punishments
for every supposed crime; also the mode of conducting
the trial, so as to elicit the guilt of the accused; and
the manner of receiving accusations. I had this book in
my hand on one occasion, and read therein the proceedings
relative to my own case; and I moreover saw in this same
volume some very astounding particulars; for example, in
the list of punishments I read concerning the bit, or as
it is called by us THE MORDACCHIA, which is a very simple
contrivance to confine the tongue, and compress it between
two cylinders composed of iron and wood and furnished
with spikes. This horrible instrument not only wounds
the tongue and occasions excessive pain, but also, from
the swelling it produces; frequently places the sufferer
in danger of suffocation. This torture is generally had
recourse to in cases considered as blasphemy against God,
the Virgin, the Saints, or the Pope. So that according
to the Inquisition, it is as great a crime to speak
disparagingly of a pope, who may be a very detestable
character, as to blaspheme the holy name of God. Be that
as it may, this torture has been in use till the present
period; and, to say nothing of the exhibitions of this
nature which were displayed in Romanga, in the time of
Gregory 16th., by the Inquisitor Ancarani--in Umbria by
Stefanelli, Salva, and others, we may admire the
inquisitorial seal of Cardinal Feretti, the cousin of
his present holiness, who condescended more than once to
employ these means when he was bishop of Rieti and Fermo."
Dealings with the Inquisition, by the Rev. Giacinto
Achilli D. D., late Prior and Visitor of the Dominican
Order, Head Professor of Theology and Vicar of the master
of the Sacred Apostolic Palace, etc., etc., page 81.]

Our curiosity being satisfied as far as possible, we
returned to the side room, where we waited long for the
lady Superior. When at length she came, she turned to me
first, as I sat next the door, and asked me if I had
anything to show in proof of my former good character.
I gave her my card; she looked at it, and led me to the
other side of the room. The same question was asked of
every girl in turn, when it was found that only four
beside myself had cards of good behavior. The other six
presented cards which she said were for bad behavior.
They were all placed together on the other side of the
room; and as the Superior was about to lead them away,
one of them came towards us saying that she did not wish
to stay with those girls, she would rather go with us.
The Superior drew her back, and replied, "No, child; you
cannot go with those good girls; you would soon learn
them some of your naughty ways. If you will do wrong,
you must take the consequences." Then, seeing that the
child really felt very bad, she said, in a kinder tone,
"When you learn to do right, you shall be allowed to go
with good girls, but not before." I pitied the poor child,
and for a long time I hoped to see her come to our room;
but she never came. They were all led off together, and
that was the last I ever saw of any of them.

I was taken, with the other four girls, to a room on the
second floor. Here we found five cribs, one for each of
us, in which we slept. Our food was brought to us regularly,
consisting of one thin slice of fine wheat bread for each
of us, and a small cup of milk. It was only in the morning,
however, that the milk was allowed us, and for dinner
and supper we had a slice of bread and a cup of water.
This was not half enough to satisfy our hunger; but we
could have no more. For myself I can say that I was hungry
all the time, and I know the others were also; but we
could not say so to each other. We were in that room
together five weeks, yet not one word passed between us.
We did sometimes smile, or shake our heads, or make some
little sign, though even this was prohibited, but we
never ventured to speak. We were forbidden to do so, on
pain of severe punishment; and I believe we were watched
all the time, and kept there, for a trial of our obedience.
We were employed in peeling a soft kind of wood for beds,
and filling the ticks with it. We were directed to make
our own beds, keep our room in the most perfect order,
and all our work in the middle of the floor. The Superior
came up every morning to see that we were thoroughly
washed, and every Saturday she was very particular to
have our clothes and bed linen all changed. As every
convenience was provided in our rooms or the closets
adjoining, we were not obliged to go out for anything,
and for five weeks I did not go out of that room.

My bed was then brought from Quebec, and we were moved
to a large square room, with four beds in it, only two
of which were occupied. We were then sent to the kitchen,
where in future, we were to be employed in cleaning sauce,
scouring knives and forks, and such work as we were able
to do. As we grew older, our tasks were increased with
our strength. I had no regular employment, but was called
upon to do any of the drudgery that was to be done about
the house. The Superior came to the kitchen every morning
after prayers and told us what to do through the day.
Then, in her presence we were allowed five minutes
conversation, a priest also being present. For the rest
of the day we kept a profound silence, not a word being
spoken by any of us unless in answer to a question from
some of our superiors.

In one part of the building there was a school for young
ladies, who were instructed in the various branches of
education usually taught in Catholic schools. Many of
the scholars boarded at the nunnery, and all the cooking
and washing was done in the kitchen. We also did the
cooking for the saloons in Montreal. If this did not keep
us employed, there were corn brooms and brushes to make,
and thus every moment was fully occupied. Not a moment
of leisure, no rest, no recreation, but hard labor, and
the still more laborious religious exercises, filled up
the time. It was sometimes very annoying to me to devote
so many hours to mere external forms; for I felt, even
when very young, that they were of little worth. But it
was a severe trial to our temper to make so many pies,
cakes, puddings, and all kinds of rich food, which we
were never allowed to taste. The priests, superiors, and
the scholars had every luxury they desired; but the nuns,
who prepared all their choice dainties, were never
permitted to taste anything but bread and water. I am
well aware that this statement will seem incredible, and
that many will doubt the truth of it; but I repeat it:
the nuns in the Grey Nunnery, or at least those in the
kitchen with me, were allowed no food except bread and
water, or, in case of illness, water gruel.




CHAPTER VII.

ORPHAN'S HOME.

The Grey Nunnery is said to be an orphan's home, and no
effort is spared to make visitors believe that this is
the real character of the house. I suppose it is true
that one part of it is devoted to this purpose; at least
my Superior informed me that many children were kept
there; and to those apartments visitors are freely
admitted, but never to that part occupied by the nuns.
We were never allowed to communicate with people from
the world, nor with the children. In fact, during all
the time I was there, I never saw one of them, nor did
I ever enter the rooms where they were.

In the ladies' school there were three hundred scholars,
and in our part of the house two hundred and fifty nuns,
besides the children who belonged to the nunnery. Add to
these the abbesses, superiors, priests, and bishop, and
one will readily imagine that the work for such a family
was no trifling affair.

In this nunnery the Bishop was the highest authority,
and everything was under his direction, unless the Pope's
Nuncio, or some other high church functionary was present.
I sometimes saw one whom they called the Archbishop, who
was treated with great deference by the priests, and even
by the Bishop himself.

The Holy Mother, or Lady Superior, has power over all
who have taken or are preparing to take the veil. Under
her other superiors or abbesses are appointed over the
various departments, whose duty it is to look after the
nuns and novices, and the children in training for nuns.
The most rigid espionage is kept up throughout the whole
establishment; and if any of these superiors or abbesses
fail to do the duty assigned them, they are more severely
punished than the nuns. Whenever the Lady Superior is
absent the punishments are assigned by one of the priests.
Of these there were a large number in the nunnery; and
whenever we chanced to meet one of them, as we sometimes
did when going about the house, or whenever one of them
entered the kitchen, we must immediately fall upon our
knees. No matter what we were doing, however busily
employed, or however inconvenient it might be, every
thing must be left or set aside, that this senseless
ceremony might be performed. The priest must be honored,
and woe to the poor nun who failed to move with sufficient
alacrity; no punishment short of death itself was thought
too severe for such criminal neglect. Sometimes it would
happen that I would be engaged in some employment with
my back to the door, and not observe the entrance of a
priest until the general movement around me would arrest
my attention; then I would hasten to "make my manners,"
as the ceremony was called; but all too late. I had been
remiss in duty, and no excuse would avail, no apology be
accepted, no forgiveness granted; the dreaded punishment
must come.

While the nuns are thus severely treated, the priests,
and the Holy Mother live a very easy life, and have all
the privileges they wish. So far as the things of this
world are concerned, they seem to enjoy themselves very
well. But I have sometimes wondered if conscience did
not give them occasionally, an unpleasant twinge; and
from some things I have seen, I believe, that with many
of them, this is the fact. They may try to put far from
them all thoughts of a judgment to come, yet I do believe
that their slumbers are sometimes disturbed by fearful
forebodings of a just retribution which may, after all,
be in store for them. But whatever trouble of mind they
may have, they do not allow it to interfere with their
worldly pleasures, and expensive luxuries. They have
money enough, go when, and where they please, eat the
richest food and drink the choicest wines. In short, if
sensual enjoyment was the chief end of their existence,
I do not know how they could act otherwise. The Abbesses
are sometimes allowed to go out, but not unless they have
a pass from one of the priests, and if, at any time, they
have reason to suspect that some one is discontented,
they will not allow any one to go out of the building
without a careful attendant.

My Superior here, as in the White Nunnery, was very kind
to me. I sometimes feared she would share the fate of
Father Darity, for she had a kind heart, and was guilty
of many benevolent acts, which, if known, would have
subjected her to very serious consequences. I became so
much attached to her, that my fears for her were always
alarmed when she called me her good little girl, or used
any such endearing expression. The sequel of my story
will show that my fears were not unfounded; but let me
not anticipate. Sorrows will thicken fast enough, if we
do not hasten them.

I lived with this Superior one year before I was
consecrated, and it was, comparatively, a happy season.
I was never punished unless it was to save me from less
merciful hands; and then I would be shut up in a closet,
or some such simple thing. The other four girls who
occupied the room with me, were consecrated at the same
time.

The Bishop came to our room early one morning, and took
us to the chapel. At the door we were made to kneel, and
then crawl on our hands and knees to the altar, where
sat a man, who we were told, was the Archbishop. Two
little boys came up from under the altar, with the vesper
lamp to burn incense. I suppose they were young Apostles,
for they looked very much like those we had seen at the
White Nunnery, and were dressed in the same manner. The
Bishop turned his back, and they threw incense on his
head and shoulders, until he was surrounded by a cloud
of smoke. He bowed his head, smote upon his breast, and
repeated something in latin, or some other language, that
we did not understand. We were told to follow his example,
and did so, as nearly as possible. This ceremony over,
the Bishop told us to go up on to the altar on our knees,
and when this feat was performed to his satisfaction, he
placed a crown of thorns upon each of our heads. These
crowns were made of bands of some firm material, which
passed over the head and around the forehead. On the
inside thorns were fastened, with the points downward,
so that a very slight pressure would cause them to pierce
the skin. This I suppose is intended to imitate the
crown of thorns which our Saviour wore upon the cross.
But what will it avail them to imitate the crucifixion
and the crown of thorns, while justice and mercy are so
entirely neglected? What will it avail to place a crown
of thorns upon a child's head, or to bid her kneel before
the image of the Saviour, or travel up stairs on her
knees, while the way of salvation by Christ is never
explained to her; while of real religion, holiness of
heart, and purity of life she is as ignorant as the most
benighted, degraded heathen? Is it rational to suppose
that the mere act of repeating a prayer can heal the
wounded spirit, or give peace to a troubled conscience?
Can the most cruel penance remove the sense of guilt, or
whisper hope to the desponding soul? Ah, no! I have tried
it long enough to speak with absolute certainty. For
years I practiced these senseless mummeries, and if there
were any virtue, in them, I should, most certainly have
discovered it. But I know full well, and my reader knows
that they cannot satisfy the restless yearnings of the
immortal mind. They may delude the vulgar, but they cannot
dispel the darkness of the tomb, they cannot lead a soul
to Christ.

On leaving the chapel after the ceremony, I found a new
Superior, waiting for us at the door to conduct us to
our rooms. We were all very much surprised at this, but
she informed us that our old Superior died that morning,
that she was already buried, and she had come to take
her place. I could not believe this story, for she came
to us as usual that morning, appeared in usual health,
though always very pale, and made no complaint, or
exhibited any signs of illness. She told us in her kind
and pleasant way that we were to be consecrated, gave us
a few words of advice, but said nothing about leaving
us, and I do not believe she even thought of such a thing.
Little did I think, when she left us, that I was never
to see her again. But so it was. In just two hours and
a half from that time, we were told that she was dead
and buried, and another filled her place! A probable
story, truly! I wonder if they thought we believed it!
But whether we did or not, that was all we could ever
know about it. No allusion was ever made to the subject,
and nuns are not allowed to ask questions. However excited
we might feel, no information could we seek as to the
manner of her death. Whether she died by disease, or by
the hand of violence; whether her gentle spirit peacefully
winged its way to the bosom of its God, or was hastily
driven forth upon the dagger's point, whether some kind
friend closed her eyes in death, and decently robed her
cold limbs for the grave, or whether torn upon the
agonizing rack, whether she is left to moulder away in
some dungeon's gloom, or thrown into the quickly consuming
fire, we could never know. These, and many other questions
that might have been asked, will never be answered until
the last great day, when the grave shall give up its
dead, and, the prison disclose its secrets.

After the consecration we were separated, and only one
of the girls remained with me. The others I never saw
again. We were put into a large room, where were three
beds, one large and two small ones. In the large bed the
Superior slept, while I occupied one of the small beds
and the other little nun the other. Our new Superior was
very strict, and we were severely punished for the least
trifle--such, for instance, as making a noise, either in
our own room or in the kitchen. We might not even smile,
or make motions to each other, or look in each other's
face. We must keep our eyes on our work or on the floor,
in token of humility. To look a person full in the face
was considered an unpardonable act of boldness. On
retiring for the night we were required to lie perfectly
motionless. We might not move a hand or foot, or even a
finger. At twelve the bell rang for prayers, when we must
rise, kneel by our beds, and repeat prayers until the
second bell, when we again retired to rest. On cold winter
nights these midnight prayers were a most cruel penance.
It did seem as though I should freeze to death. But live
or die, the prayers must be said, and the Superior was
always there to see that we were not remiss in duty. If
she slept at all I am sure it must have been with one
eye open, for she saw everything. But if I obeyed in this
thing, I found it impossible to lie as still as they
required; I would move when I was asleep without knowing
it. This of course could not be allowed, and for many
weeks I was strapped down to my bed every night, until
I could sleep without the movement of a muscle. I was
very anxious to do as nearly right as possible, for I
thought if they saw that I strove with all my might to
obey, they would perhaps excuse me if I did fail to
conquer impossibilities. In this, however, I was
disappointed; and I at length became weary of trying to
do right, for they would inflict severe punishments for
the most trifling accident. In fact, if I give anything
like a correct account of my convent life, it will be
little else than a history of punishments. Pains, trials,
prayers, and mortifications filled up the time. Penance
was the rule, to escape it the exception.

I neglected at the proper time to state what name was
given me when I took the veil; I may therefore as well
say in this place that my convent name was Sister Agnes.




CHAPTER VIII.

CONFESSION AND SORROW OF NO AVAIL.

It was a part of my business to wait upon the priests in
their rooms, carry them water, clean towels, wine-glasses,
or anything they needed. When entering a priest's room
it was customary for a child to knock twice, an adult
four times, and a priest three times. This rule I was
very careful to observe. Whenever a priest opened the
door I was required to courtesy, and fall upon my knees;
but if it was opened by one of the waiters this ceremony
was omitted. These waiters were the boys I have before
mentioned, called apostles. It was also a part of my
business to wait upon them, carry them clean frocks, etc.

One day I was carrying a pitcher of water to one of the
priests, and it being very heavy, it required both my
hands and nearly all my strength to keep it upright. On
reaching the door, however, I attempted to hold it with
one hand (as I dare not set it down), while I rapped with
the other. In so doing I chanced to spill a little water
on the floor. Just at that moment the door was opened by
the priest himself, and when he saw the water he was very
angry. He caught me by the arm and asked what punishment
he should inflict upon me for being so careless. I
attempted to explain how it happened, told him it was an
accident, that I was very sorry, and would try to be more
careful in future. But I might as well have said that I
was glad, and would do so again, for my confession,
sorrow, and promises of future obedience were entirely
thrown away, and might as well have been kept for some
one who could appreciate the feeling that prompted them.

He immediately led me out of his room, it being on the
second floor, and down into the back yard. Here, in the
centre of the gravel walk, was a grate where they put
down coal. This grate he raised and bade me go down. I
obeyed, and descending a few steps found myself in a coal
cellar, the floor being covered with it for some feet in
depth. On this we walked some two rods, perhaps, when
the priest stopped, and with a shovel that stood near
cleared away the coal and lifted a trap door. Through
this we descended four or five steps, and proceeded along
a dark, narrow passage, so low we could not stand erect,
and the atmosphere so cold and damp it produced the most
uncomfortable sensations. By the light of a small lantern
which the priest carried in his hand, I was enabled to
observe on each side the passage small doors, a few feet
apart, as far as I could see. Some of them were open,
others shut, and the key upon the outside. In each of
these doors there was a small opening, with iron bars
across it, through which the prisoner received food, if
allowed to have any. One of these doors I was directed
to enter, which I did with some difficulty, the place
being so low, and I was trembling with cold and fear.
The priest crawled in after me and tied me to the back
part of the cell, leaving me there in midnight darkness,
and locking the door after him. I could hear on all
sides, as it seemed to me, the sobs, groans, and shrieks
of other prisoners, some of whom prayed earnestly for
death to release them from their sufferings.

For twenty-four hours I was left to bear as I best could
the pains and terrors of cold, hunger, darkness, and
fatigue. I could neither sit or lie down, and every one
knows how very painful it is to stand upon the feet a
long time, even when the position can be slightly changed;
how much more so when no change can be effected, but the
same set of muscles kept continually on the stretch for
the space of twenty-four hours! Moreover, I knew not how
long I should be kept there. The other prisoners, whose
agonizing cries fell upon my ears, were evidently suffering
all the horrors of starvation. Was I to meet a fate like
this? Were those terrible sufferings in reserve for me?
How could I endure them? And then came the thought so
often present with me while in the convent, "If there is
a God in heaven, why does He permit such things? What
have I done that I should become the victim of such
cruelty? God of mercy!" I involuntarily exclaimed, "save
me from this terrible death."

My prayer was heard, my petition granted. At the close
of twenty-four hours, the Lady Superior came and released
me from my prison, told me to go to the priest and ask
his forgiveness, and then go to my work in the kitchen.
I was very faint and weak from my long fast, and I resolved
never to offend again. I verily thought I could be careful
enough to escape another such punishment. But I had not
been in the kitchen one hour, when I chanced to let a
plate fall upon the floor. It was in no way injured, but
I had broken the rules by making a noise, and the Superior
immediately reported me to the priest. He soon appeared
with his bunch of keys and a dark lantern in his hand.
He took me by the ear which he pinched till he brought
tears to my eyes, saying, "You don't try to do well, and
I'll make you suffer the consequences." I did not reply,
for I had learned that to answer a priest, or seek to
vindicate myself, or even to explain how things came to
be so, was in itself a crime, to be severely punished.
However unjust their treatment, or whatever my feelings
might be, I knew it was better to suffer in silence.

Unlocking a door that opened out of the kitchen, and
still keeping hold of my ear, he led me into a dark,
gloomy hall, with black walls, and opening a door on the
right, he bade me enter. This room was lighted by a
candle, and around the sides, large iron hooks with heavy
chains attached to them, were driven into the wall. At
the back part of the room, he opened the door, and bade
me enter a small closet. He then put a large iron ring
over my head, and pressed it down upon my shoulders.
Heavy weights were placed in my hands, and I was told to
stand up straight, and hold them fifteen minutes. This
I could not do. Had my life depended upon the effort, I
could not have stood erect, with those weights in my
hands. The priest, however, did not reprove me. Perhaps
he saw that I exerted all my strength to obey, for he
took out his watch, and slowly counted the minutes as
they passed. Ere a third part of the time expired, he
was obliged to release me, for the blood gushed from my
nose and mouth, and I began to feel faint and dizzy. The
irons were removed, and the blood ceased to flow.

I was then taken to another room, lighted like the other,
but it was damp and cold, and pervaded by a strong, fetid,
and very offensive odor. The floor was of wood, and badly
stained with blood. At least, I thought it was blood,
but there was not light enough to enable me to say
positively what it was. In the middle of the room, stood
two long tables, on each of which, lay a corpse, covered
with a white cloth. The priest led me to these tables,
removed the cloth and bade me look upon the face of the
dead. They were very much emaciated, and the features,
even in death, bore the impress of terrible suffering.
We stood there a few moments, when he again led me back
to his own room. He then asked me what I thought of what
I had seen. Having taken no food for more than twenty-four
hours, I replied, "I am so hungry, I can think of nothing
else." "How would you. like to eat those dead bodies?"
he asked. "I would starve, Sir, before I would do it,"
I replied. "Would you?" said he, with a slight sneer.
"Yes indeed," I exclaimed, striving to suppress my
indignant feelings. "What! eat the flesh of a corpse?
You do not mean it. I would starve to death first!"
Frightened at my own temerity in speaking so boldly, I
involuntarily raised my eye. The peculiar smile upon his
face actually chilled my blood with terror. He did not,
however, seem to notice me, but said, "Do not be too
sure; I have seen others quite as sure as you are, yet
they were glad to do it to save their lives; and remember,"
he added significantly, "you will do it too if you are
not careful." He then ordered me to return to the kitchen.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the nuns had a slice of
bread and cup of water; but, as I had been fasting, they
gave me a bowl of gruel, composed of indian meal and
water, with a little salt. A poor dinner this, for a
hungry person, but I could have no more. At eleven, we
went to mass in the chapel as usual. It was our custom
to have mass every day, and I have been told that this
is true of all Romish establishments. Returning to my
work in the kitchen, I again resolved that I would be so
careful, that, in future they should have no cause for
complaint For two days I succeeded. Yes, for two whole
days, I escaped punishment. This I notice as somewhat
remarkable, because I was generally punished every day,
and sometimes two or three times in a day.

On the third morning, I was dusting the furniture in the
room occupied by the priest above mentioned, who treated
me so cruelly. The floor being uncarpeted, in moving the
chairs I chanced to make a slight noise, although I did
my best to avoid it. He immediately sprang to his feet,
exclaiming, "You careless dog! What did you do that for?"
Then taking me by the arms, he gave me a hard shake,
saying, "Have I not told you that you would be punished,
if you made a noise? But I see how it is with you; your
mind is on the world, and you think more of that, than
you do of the convent. But I shall punish you until you
do your duty better." He concluded this choice speech by
telling me to "march down stairs." Of course, I obeyed,
and he followed me, striking me on the head at every
step, with a book he held in his hand. I thought to escape
some of the blows, and hastened along, but all in vain;
he kept near me and drove me before him into the priests
sitting-room. He then sent for three more priests, to
decide upon my punishment. A long consultation they held
upon "this serious business," as I sneeringly thought
it, but the result was serious in good earnest, I assure
you. For the heinous offence of making a slight noise I
was to have dry peas bound upon my knees, and then be
made to crawl to St. Patrick's church, through an
underground passage, and back again. This church was
situated on a hill, a little more than a quarter of a
mile from the convent. Between the two buildings, an
under-ground passage had been constructed, just large
enough to allow a person to crawl through it on the hands
and knees. It was so low, and narrow, that it was
impossible either to rise, or turn around; once within
that passage there was no escape, but to go on to the
end. They allowed me five hours to go and return; and
to prove that I had really been there, I was to make a
cross, and two straight lines, with a bit of chalk, upon
a black-board that I should find at the end.

O, the intolerable agonies I endured on that terrible
pathway! Any description that I can give, will fail to
convey the least idea of the misery of those long five
hours. It may, perchance, seem a very simple mode of
punishment, but let any one just try it, and they will
be convinced that it was no trifling thing. At the end,
I found myself in a cellar under the church, where there
was light enough to enable me to find the board and the
chalk. I made the mark according to orders, and then
looked around for some means of escape. Alas! There was
none to be found. Strong iron bars firmly secured the
only door, and a very slight examination convinced me
that my case was utterly hopeless. I then tried to remove
the peas from my swollen, bleeding limbs, but this, too,
I found impossible. They were evidently fastened by a
practised hand; and I was, at length, compelled to believe
that I must return as I came. I did return; but O, how,
many times I gave up in despair, and thought I could go
no further! How many times did I stretch myself on the
cold stones, in such bitter agony, that I could have
welcomed death as a friend and deliverer! What would I
not have given for one glass of cold water, or even for
a breath of fresh air! My limbs seemed on fire, and while
great drops of perspiration fell from my face, my throat
and tongue were literally parched with thirst. But the
end came at last, and I found the priest waiting for me
at the entrance. He seemed very angry, and said, "You
have been gone over your time. There was no need of it;
you could have returned sooner if you had chosen to do
so, and now, I shall punish you again, for being gone so
long." At first, his reproaches grieved me, for I had
done my best to please him, and I did so long for one
word of sympathy, it seemed for a moment, as though my
heart would break. Had he then spoken one kind word to
me, or manifested the least compassion for my sufferings,
I could have forgiven the past, and obeyed him with
feelings of love and gratitude for the future. Yes, I
would have done anything for that man, if I could have
felt that he had the least pity for me; but when he said
he should punish me again, my heart turned to stone.
Every tender emotion vanished, and a fierce hatred, a
burning indignation, and thirst for revenge, took
possession of my soul.




CHAPTER IX.

ALONE WITH THE DEAD.

The priest removed the peas from my limbs, and led me to
a tomb under the chapel, where he left me, with the
consoling assurance that "THE DEAD WOULD RISE AND EAT
ME!" This tomb was a large rectangular room, with shelves
on three sides of it, on which were the coffins of priests
and Superiors who had died in the nunnery. On the floor
under the shelves, were large piles of human bones, dry
and white, and some of them crumbling into dust. In the
center of the room was a large tank of water, several
feet in diameter, called St. Joseph's well. It occupied
the whole center of the room leaving a very narrow pathway
between that, and the shelves; so narrow, indeed, that
I found it impossible to sit down, and exceedingly
difficult to walk or even stand still. I was obliged to
hold firmly by the shelves, to avoid slipping into the
water which looked dark and deep. The priest said, when
he left me, that if I fell in, I would drown, for no one
could take me out.

O, how my heart thrilled with superstitious terror when
I heard the key turn in the lock, and realized that I
was alone with the dead! And that was not the worst of
it. They would rise and eat me! For a few hours I stood
as though paralyzed with fear. A cold perspiration covered
my trembling limbs, as I watched those coffins with the
most painful and serious apprehension. Every moment I
expected the fearful catastrophe, and even wondered which
part they would devour first--whether one would come
alone and thus kill me by inches, or whether they would
all rise at once, and quickly make an end of me. I even
imagined I could see the coffins move--that I heard the
dead groan and sigh and even the sound of my own chattering
teeth, I fancied to be a movement among the dry bones
that lay at my feet. In the extremity of terror I shrieked
aloud. But this I knew was utterly useless. Who would
hear me? Or who would care if they did hear? I was
surrounded by walls that no sound could penetrate, and
if it could, it would fall upon ears deaf to the agonizing
cry for mercy,--upon hearts that feel no sympathy for
human woe.

Some persons may be disposed to smile at this record of
absurd and superstitions fear. But to me it was no laughing
affair. Had not the priest said that the dead would rise
and eat me? And did I not firmly believe that what he
said was true? What! A priest tell a falsehood? Impossible.
I thought it could not be; yet as hour after hour passed
away, and no harm came to me, I began to exercise my
reason a little, and very soon came to the conclusion
that the priests are not the immaculate, infallible beings
I had been taught to believe. Cruel and hard hearted,
I knew them to be, but I did not suspect them of falsehood.
Hitherto I had supposed it was impossible for them to do
wrong, or to err in judgement; all their cruel acts being
done for the benefit of the soul, which in some inexplicable
way was to be benefited by the sufferings of the body.
Now, however, I began to question the truth of many things
I had seen and heard, and ere long I lost all faith in
them, or in the terrible system of bigotry, cruelty and
fraud, which they call religion.

As the hours passed by and my fears vanished before the
calm light of reason, I gradually gained sufficient
courage to enable me to examine the tomb, thinking that
I might perchance discover the body of my old Superior.
For this purpose I accordingly commenced the circuit of
the room, holding on by the shelves, and making my way
slowly onward. One coffin I succeeded in opening, but
the sight of the corpse so frightened me, I did not dare
to open another. The room being brilliantly lighted with
two large spermaceti candles at one end, and a gas
burner at the other, I was enabled to see every feature
distinctly.

One of the nuns informed me that none but priests and
Superiors are laid in that tomb. When these die in full
communion with the church, the body is embalmed, and
placed here, but it sometimes happens that a priest or
Superior is found in the convent who does not believe
all that is taught by the church of Rome. They desire to
investigate the subject--to seek for more light--more
knowledge of the way of salvation by Christ. This, with
the Romanists is a great sin, and the poor hapless victim
is at once placed under punishment. If they die in this
condition, their bodies are cast out as heretics, but if
they confess and receive absolution, they are placed in
the tomb, but not embalmed. The flesh, of course, decays,
and then the bones are thrown under the shelves. Never
shall I forget how frightful those bones appeared to me,
or the cold shudder that thrilled my frame at the sight
of the numerous human skulls that lay scattered around.

Twenty-four hours I spent in this abode of the dead,
without rest or sleep. The attempt to obtain either would
have been sheer madness, for the least mis-step, the
least unguarded motion, or a slight relaxation of the
firm grasp by which I held on to the shelves, would have
plunged me headlong into the dark water, from which escape
would have been impossible. For thirty hours I had not
tasted food, and my limbs, mangled and badly swollen,
were so stiff with long standing, that, when allowed to
leave the tomb, I could hardly step. When the priest came
to let me out, he seemed to think it necessary to say
something to cover his attempt to deceive and frighten
me, but he only made a bad matter worse. He said that
after he left me, he thought he would try me once more,
and see if I would not do my duty better; he had, therefore,
WILLED THE DEAD NOT TO EAT ME! AND THEY, OBEDIENT TO HIS
WILL, WERE COMPELLED TO LET ME ALONE! I did not reply to
this absurd declaration, lest I should say something I
ought not, and again incur his displeasure. Indeed, I
was not expected to say anything, unless I returned thanks
for his unparalleled kindness, and I was not hypocrite
enough for that. I suppose he thought I believed all he
said, but he was greatly mistaken. If I began to doubt
his word while in the tomb, this ridiculous pretence only
served to add contempt to unbelief, and from that time
I regarded him as a deceiver, and a vile, unscrupulous,
hypocritical pretender.

It was with the greatest difficulty that I again made my
way to the kitchen. I was never very strong, even when
allowed my regular meals, for the quantity, was altogether
insufficient, to satisfy the demands of nature; and now
I had been so long without anything to eat, I was so
weak, and my limbs so stiff and swollen, I could hardly
stand. I managed, however, to reach the kitchen, when I
was immediately seated at the table and presented with
a bowl of gruel. O, what a luxury it seemed to me, and
how eagerly did I partake of it! It was soon gone, and
I looked around for a further supply. Another nun, who
sat at the table with me, with a bowl of gruel before
her, noticed my disappointment when I saw that I was to
have no more. She was a stranger to me, and so pale and
emaciated she looked more like a corpse than a living
person. She had tasted a little of her gruel, but her
stomach was too weak to retain it, and as soon as the
Superior left us she took it up and poured the whole into
my bowl, making at the same time a gesture that gave me
to understand that it was of no use to her, and she wished
me to eat it I did not wait for a second invitation, and
she seemed pleased to see me accept it so readily. We
dared not speak, but we had no difficulty in understanding
each other.

I had but just finished my gruel when the Superior came
back and desired me to go up stairs and help tie a mad
nun. I think she did this simply for the purpose of giving
me a quiet lesson in convent life, and showing me the
consequences of resistance or disobedience. She must have
known that I was altogether incapable of giving the
assistance she pretended to ask. But I followed her as
fast as possible, and when she saw how difficult it was
for me to get up stairs, she walked slowly and gave me
all the time I wished for. She led me into a small room
and closed the door. There I beheld a scene that called
forth my warmest sympathy, and at the same time excited
feelings of indignation that will never be subdued while
reason retains her throne. In the center of the room sat
a young girl, who could not have been more than sixteen
years old; and a face and form of such perfect symmetry,
such surpassing beauty, I never saw. She was divested of
all her clothing except one under-garment, and her hands
and feet securely tied to the chair on which she sat. A
priest stood beside her, and as we entered he bade us
assist him in removing the beds from the bedstead. They
then took the nun from her chair and laid her on the
bedcord. They desired me to assist them, but my heart
failed me. I could not do it, for I was sure they were
about to kill her; and as I gazed upon those calm,
expressive features, so pale and sad, yet so perfectly
beautiful, I felt that it would be sacrilege for me to
raise my hand against nature's holiest and most exquisite
work. I therefore assured them that I was too weak to
render the assistance they required. At first they
attempted to compel me to do it; but, finding that I was
really very weak, and unwilling to use what strength I
had, they at length permitted me to stand aside. When
they extended the poor girl on the cord, she said, very
quietly, "I am not mad, and you know that I am not." To
this no answer was given, but they calmly proceeded with
their fiendish work. One of them tied her feet, while
the other fastened a rope across her neck in such a way
that if she attempted to raise her head it would strangle
her. The rope was then fastened under the bedcord, and
two or three times over her person. Her arms were extended,
and fastened in the same way. As she lay thus, like a
lamb bound for the sacrifice, she looked up at her
tormentors and said, "Will the Lord permit me to die in
this cruel way?" The priest immediately exclaimed, in an
angry tone, "Stop your talk, you mad woman!" and turning
to me, he bade me go back to the kitchen. It is probable
he saw the impression on my mind was not just what they
desired, therefore he hurried me away.

All this time the poor doomed nun submitted quietly to
her fate. I suppose she thought it useless, yea, worse
than useless, to resist; for any effort she might make
to escape would only provoke them, and they would torment
her the more. I presume she thought her last hour had
come, and the sooner she was out of her misery the better.
As for me, my heart was so filled with terror, anguish,
and pity for her, I could hardly obey the command to
leave the room.

I attempted to descend the stairs, but was obliged to go
very slowly on account of the stiffness of my limbs, and
before I reached the bottom of the first flight the priest
and the Superior came out into the hall. I heard them
whispering together, and I paused to listen. This, I
know, was wrong; but I could not help it, and I was so
excited I did not realize what I was doing. My anxiety
for that girl overpowered every other feeling. At first
I could only hear the sound of their voices; but soon
they spoke more distinctly, and I heard the words. "What
shall we do with her? she will never confess." In an
audible tone of voice, the other replied, "We had better
finish her." How those words thrilled my soul! I knew
well enough that they designed "to finish her," but to
hear the purpose announced so coolly, it was horrible.
Was there no way that I could save her? Must I stand
there, and know that a fellow-creature was being murdered,
that a young girl like myself, in all the freshness of
youth and the fullness of health, was to be cut off in
the very prime of life and numbered with the dead; hurried
out of existence and plunged, unwept, unlamented, into
darkness and silence? She had friends, undoubtedly, but
they would never be allowed to know her sad fate, never
shed a tear upon her grave! I could not endure the thought.
I felt that if I lingered there another moment I should
be in danger of madness myself; for I could not help her.
I could not prevent the consummation of their cruel
purpose; I therefore hastened away, and this was the last
I ever heard of that poor nun. I had never seen her
before, and as I did not see her clothes, I could not
even tell whether she belonged to our nunnery or not.




CHAPTER X.

THE SICK NUN.

On my return to the kitchen I found the sick nun sitting
as we left her. She asked me, by signs, if we were alone.
I told her she need not fear to speak, for the Superior
was two flights of stairs above, and no one else was
near. "Are they all away?" she whispered. I assured her
that we were quite alone, that she had nothing to fear.
She then informed me that she had been nine days under
punishment, that when taken from the cell she could not
stand or speak, and she was still too weak to walk without
assistance. "O!" said she, and the big tears rolled over
her cheeks as she said it, "I have not a friend in the
world. You do not know how my heart longs for love, for
sympathy and kindness." I asked if she had not parents,
or friends, in the world. She replied, "I was born in
this convent, and know no world but this. You see," she
continued, with a sad smile, "what kind of friends I have
here. O, if I HAD A FRIEND, if I could feel that one
human being cares for me, I should get better. But it is
so long since I heard a kind word--" a sob choked her
utterance. I told her I would be a friend to her as far
as I could. She thanked me; said she was well aware of
the difficulties that lay in my way, for every expression
of sympathy or kind feeling between the nuns was strictly
forbidden, and if caught in anything of the kind a severe
correction would follow. "But," said she "if you will
give me a kind look sometimes, whenever you can do so
with safety, it will be worth a great deal to me. You do
not know the value of a kind look to a breaking heart."

She wept so bitterly, I feared it would injure her health,
and to divert her mind, I told her where I was born;
spoke of my childhood, and of my life at the White Nunnery.
She wiped away her tears, and replied, "I know all about
it. I have heard the priests talk about you, and they
say that your father is yet living, that your mother was
a firm protestant, and that it will be hard for them to
beat Catholicism into you. But I do not know how you came
in that nunnery. Who put you there?" I told her that I
was placed there by my father, when only six years old.
"Is it possible?" she exclaimed, and then added
passionately, "Curse your father for it." After a moments
silence, she continued, "Yes, child; you have indeed
cause to curse your father, and the day when you first
entered the convent; but you do not suffer as much as
you would if you had been born here, and were entirely
dependent on them. They fear that your friends may sometime
look after you; and, in case they are compelled to grant
them an interview, they would wish them to find you in
good health and contented; but if you had no influential
friends outside the convent, you would find yourself much
worse off than you are now."

She then said she wished she could get some of the brandy
from the cellar. Her stomach was so weak from long fasting,
it would retain neither food or drink, and she thought
the brandy would give it strength. She asked if I could
get it for her. The idea frightened me at first, for I
knew that if caught in doing it, I should be most cruelly
punished, yet my sympathy for her at length overcame my
fears, and I resolved to try, whatever might be the
result. I accordingly went up stairs, ostensibly, to see
if the Superior wanted me, but really, to find out where
she was, and whether she would be likely to come down,
before I could have time to carry out my plan. I trembled
a little, for I knew that I was guilty of a great
misdemeanor in thus boldly presenting myself to ask if
I was wanted; but I thought it no very great sin to
pretend that I thought she called me, for I was sure my
motives were good, whatever they might think of them. I
had been taught that "the end sanctifies the means," and
I thought I should not be too hardly judged by the great
searcher of hearts, if, for once, I applied it in my own
way.

I knocked gently at the door I had left but a few moments
before. It was opened by the Superior, but she immediately
stepped out, and closed it again, so that I had no
opportunity to see what was passing within. She sternly
bade me return to the kitchen, and stay there till she
came down; a command I was quite ready to obey. In the
kitchen there was a small cupboard, called the key
cupboard, in which they kept keys of all sizes belonging
to the establishment. They were hung on hooks, each one
being marked with the name of the place to which it
belonged. It was easy for me to find the key to the
cellar, and having obtained it, I opened another cupboard
filled with bottles and vials, where I selected one that
held half a pint, placed it in a large pitcher, and
hastened down stairs. I soon found a cask marked "brandy,"
turned the faucet, and filled the bottle. But my heart
beat violently, and my hand trembled so that I could not
hold it steady, and some of it ran over into the pitcher.
It was well for me that I took this precaution, for if
I had spilt it on the stone floor of the cellar, I should
have been detected at once. I ran up stairs as quickly
as possible, and made her drink what I had in the pitcher,
though there was more of it than I should have given her
under other circumstances; but I did not know what to do
with it. If I put it in the fire, or in the sink, I
thought they would certainly smell it, and, there was no
other place, for I was not allowed to go out of doors.
I then replaced the key, washed up my pitcher, and secreted
the bottle of brandy in the waist of the nun's dress.
This I could easily do, their dresses being made with a
loose waist, and a large cape worn over them. I then
began to devise some way to destroy the scent in the
room. I could smell it very distinctly, and I knew that
the Superior would notice it at once. After trying various
expedients to no purpose, I at length remembered that I
had once seen a dry rag set on fire for a similar purpose.
I therefore took one of the cloths from the sink, and
set it on fire, let it burn a moment, and threw it under
the caldron.

I was just beginning to congratulate myself on my success,
when I saw that the nun appeared insensible, and about
to fall from her chair. I caught her in my arms, and
leaned her back in the chair, but I did not dare to lay
her on the bed, without permission, even if I had strength
to do it. I could only draw her chair to the side of
the room, put a stick of wood under it, and let her head
rest against the wall. I was very much frightened, and
for a moment, thought she was dead. She was pale as a
corpse, her eyes closed, and her mouth wide open. Had I
really killed her? What if the Superior should find her
thus? I soon found that she was not dead, for her heart
beat regularly, and I began to hope she would get over
it before any one came in. But just as the thought passed
my mind, the door opened and the Superior appeared. Her
first words were, "What have you been burning? What smells
so?" I told her there was a cloth about the sink that I
thought unfit for use, and I put it under the caldron.
She then turned towards the nun and asked if she had
fainted. I told her that I did not know, but I thought
she was asleep, and if she wished me to awaken, and assist
her to bed, I would do so. To this she consented, and
immediately went up stairs again. Glad as I was of this
permission, I still doubted my ability to do it alone,
for I had little, very little strength; yet I resolved
to do my best. It was long, however, before I could arouse
her, or make her comprehend what I said, so entirely were
her senses stupified with the brandy. When at length I
succeeded in getting her upon her feet, she said she was
sure she could not walk; but I encouraged her to help
herself as much as possible, told her that I wished to
get her away before any one came in, or we would be
certainly found out and punished. This suggestion awakened
her fears, and I at length succeeded in assisting her to
bed. She was soon in a sound sleep, and I thought my
troubles for that time were over. But I was mistaken. In
my fright, I had quite forgotten the brandy in her dress.
Somehow the bottle was cracked, and while she slept, the
brandy ran over her clothes. The Superior saw it, and
asked how she obtained it. Too noble minded to expose
me, she said she drew it herself. I heard the Superior
talking to a priest about it, and I thought they were
preparing to punish her. I did not know what she had told
them, but I did not think she would expose me, and I
feared, if they punished her again, she would die in
their hands.

I therefore went to the Superior and told her the truth
about it, for I thought a candid confession on my part
might, perchance, procure forgiveness for the nun, if
not for myself. But no; they punished us both; the nun
for telling the lie, and me for getting the brandy. For
two hours they made me stand with a crown of thorns on
my head, while they alternately employed themselves in
burning me with hot irons, pinching, and piercing me with
needles, pulling my hair, and striking me with sticks.
All this I bore very well, for I was hurt just enough to
make me angry.

When I returned to the kitchen again, the nun was sitting
there alone. She shook her head at me, and by her gestures
gave me to understand that some one was listening. She
afterwards informed me that the Superior was watching
us, to see if we would speak to each other when we met.
I do not know how they punished her, but I heard a priest
say that she would die if she suffered much more. Perhaps
they thought the loss of that precious bottle of brandy
was punishment enough. But I was glad I got it for her,
for she had one good dose of it, and it did her good;
her stomach was stronger, her appetite better, and in a
few weeks she regained her usual health.

One day, while at work as usual, I was called up stairs
with the other nuns to see one die. She lay upon the bed,
and looked pale and thin, but I could see no signs of
immediate dissolution. Her voice was strong, and respiration
perfectly natural, the nuns were all assembled in her
room to see her die. Beside her stood a priest, earnestly
exhorting her to confess her sins to him, and threatening
her with eternal punishment if she refused. But she
replied, "No, I will not confess to you. If, as you say,
I am really dying, it is with my God I have to do; to
him alone will I confess, for he alone can save." "If
you do not confess to me," exclaimed the priest, "I will
give you up to the devil." "Well," said she, "I stand in
no fear of a worse devil than you are, and I am quite
willing to leave you at any time, and try any other place;
even hell itself cannot be worse. I cannot suffer more
there than I have here." "Daughter," exclaimed the priest,
with affected sympathy, "must I give you up? How can I
see you go down to perdition? It is not yet too late.
Confess your sins and repent." "I have already confessed
my sins to God, and I shall confess to no one else. He
alone can save me." Her manner of saying this was solemn
but very decided. The priest saw that she would not yield
to his wishes, and raising his voice, he exclaimed, "Then
let the devil take you."

Immediately the door opened, and a figure representing
the Roman Catholic idea of his Satanic Majesty entered
the room. He was very black, and covered with long hair,
probably the skin of some wild animal. He had two long
white tusks, two horns on his head, a large cloven foot,
and a long tail that he drew after him on the floor. He
looked so frightful, and recalled to my mind so vividly
the figure that I saw at the White Nunnery, that I was
very much frightened; still I did not believe it was
really a supernatural being. I suspected that it was one
of the priests dressed up in that way to frighten us,
and I now know that such was the fact. But what of that?
We all feared the priests quite as much as we should the
Evil One himself, even if he should come to us in bodily
shape, as they pretended he had done. Most of the nuns
were very much frightened when they saw that figure walk
up to the bedside, taking good care, however, to avoid
the priest, he being so very holy it was impossible for
an evil spirit to go near or even look at him.

The priest then ordered us to return to the kitchen, for
said he, "The devil has come for this nun's soul, and
will take it with him," As we left the room I looked
around on my companions and wondered if they believed
this absurd story. I longed to ask them what they thought
of it, but this was not allowed. All interchange of
thought or feeling being strictly forbidden, we never
ventured to speak without permission when so many of us
were present, for some one was sure to tell of it if the
least rule was broken.

I was somewhat surprised at first that we were all sent
to the kitchen, as but few of us were employed there;
but we were soon called back again to look at the corpse.
I was inexpressibly shocked at this summons, for I had
not supposed it possible for her to die so soon. But she
was dead; and that was all we could ever know about it.
As we stood around the bed, the priest said she was an
example of those in the world called heretics; that her
soul was in misery, and would remain so forever; no masses
or prayers could avail her then, for she could never be
prayed out of hell. Sins like hers could never be forgiven.

I continued to work in the kitchen as usual for many
months after this occurrence, and for a few weeks the
sick nun was there a great part of the time. Whenever we
were alone, and sure that no one was near, we used to
converse together, and a great comfort it was to us both.
I felt that I had found in her one real friend, to
sympathize with me in my grievous trials, and with whom
I could sometimes hold communication without fear of
betrayal. I had proved her, and found her faithful,
therefore I did not fear to trust her. No one can imagine,
unless they know by experience, how much pleasure we
enjoyed in the few stolen moments that we spent together.

I shall never forget the last conversation I had with
her. She came and sat down where I was assisting another
nun to finish a mat. She asked us if we knew what was
going on in the house. "As I came from my room," said
she, "I saw the priests and Superiors running along the
halls, and they appeared so much excited, I thought
something must be wrong. As they passed me, they told me
to go to the kitchen, and stay there. What does it all
mean?" Of course we did not know, for we had neither seen
or heard anything unusual. "Well," said she, "they are
all so much engaged up stairs, we can talk a little and
not be overheard. I want to know something about the
people in the world. Are they really cruel and cold-hearted,
as the priests say they are? When you was in the world
were they unkind to you?" "On the contrary," I replied,
"I would gladly return to them again if I could get away
from the convent. I should not be treated any worse, at
all events, and I shall embrace the-first opportunity to
go back to the world." "That is what I have always thought
since I was old enough to think at all," said she, "and
I have resolved a great many times to get away if possible.
I suppose they tell us about the cruelty in the world
just to frighten us, and. prevent us from trying to
escape. I am so weak now I do not suppose I could w