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.