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."