STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND.
That night and the next day I suffered all the horrors of sea-sickness;
and those who have known by experience how completely it prostrates the
energies of mind and body, can imagine how I felt on leaving the boat at
night. The kind-hearted captain set me on shore at a place where he left
coal and lumber, a short distance from the village of Ogdensburg. He
gave me twelve and half cents, and expressed regret that he could do no
more for me. He said he could not direct me to a lodging for the night,
being a stranger in the place, and this the first time he had been on
that route. Should this narrative chance to meet his eye, let him know
that his kind and delicate attentions to a stranger in distress, are and
ever will be remembered with the gratitude they so richly merit. It
was with evident reluctance that he left me to make my way onward as I
could.
And now, reader, imagine, if you can, my situation. A stranger in a
strange land, and comparatively a stranger to the whole world--alone in
the darkness of night, not knowing where to seek a shelter or a place
to lay my head; exhausted with sea-sickness until I felt more dead than
alive, it did seem as though it would be a luxury to lie down and die.
My stockings and shoes were all worn out with so much walking, my feet
sore, swollen, and bleeding, and my limbs so stiff and lame that it was
only by the greatest effort that I could step at all. So extreme were my
sufferings, that I stopped more than once before I reached the village,
cast myself upon the cold ground, and thought I could go no further.
Not even the idea of being run over in the darkness by some passing
traveller, had power to keep me on my feet. Then I would rest awhile,
and resolve to try again; and so I hobbled onward. It seemed an age of
misery before I came to any house; but at length my spirits revived
at the sight of brilliant lights through the windows, and the sound of
cheerful voices that fell upon my ear.
And now I thought my troubles over for that night at least. But no, when
I asked permission to stay over night, it was coldly refused. Again
and again I called at houses where the people seemed to enjoy all the
comforts and even the luxuries of life; but their comforts were for
themselves and not for a toil-worn traveller like me. This I was made to
understand in no gentle manner; and some of those I called upon were not
very particular in the choice of language.
By this time my feet were dreadfully swollen, and O! so sore and stiff,
that every step produced the most intense agony. Is it strange that I
felt as though life was hardly worth preserving? I resolved to call at
one house more, and if again refused, to lie down by the wayside and
die. I accordingly entered the village hotel and asked for the landlady.
The bar-tender gave me a suspicious glance that made me tremble, and
asked my business. I told him my business was with the landlady and no
other person. He left the room a moment, and then conducted me to her
chamber.
As I entered a lady came forward to meet me, and the pleasant expression
of her countenance at once won my confidence. She gave me a cordial
welcome, saying, with a smile, as she led me to a seat, "I guess, my
dear, you are a run-a-way, are you not?" I confessed that it was even
so; that I had fled from priestly cruelty, had travelled as far as I
could, and now, weary, sick, and faint from long fasting, I had ventured
to cast myself upon her mercy. "Will you protect me?" I asked, "and are
you a Roman Catholic?" "No," she replied, "I am not a Roman Catholic,
and I will protect you. You seem to have suffered much, and are quite
exhausted. But you will find a friend in me. I will not betray you, for
I dislike the priests and the convents as much as you do."
She then called her little girl, and ordered a fire kindled in another
chamber, saying she did not wish her servants to see me. The child
soon returned, when the lady herself conducted me to a large, pleasant
bed-room, handsomely furnished with every convenience, and a fire in
the grate. She gave me a seat in a large easy-chair before the fire, and
went out, locking the door after her. In a short time she returned with
warm water for a bath, and with her own hands gave me all the assistance
needed. As I related the incidents of the day, she expressed much
sympathy for my sufferings, and said she was glad I had come to her.
She gave, me a cordial, and then brought me a cup of tea and other
refreshments, of which I made a hearty supper. She would not allow me to
eat all I wished; but when I had taken as much as was good for me,
she bathed my feet with a healing wash, and assisted me to bed. O, the
luxury of that soft and comfortable bed! No one can realize with what a
keen sense of enjoyment I laid my head upon those downy pillows, unless
they have suffered as I did, and known by experience the sweetness of
repose after excessive toil.
All that night this good lady sat beside my bed, and kept my feet wet in
order to reduce the swelling. I was little inclined to sleep, and at her
request related some of the events of my convent life. While doing this,
I hardly knew what to make of this curious woman. Sometimes she would
weep, and then she would swear like any pirate. I was surprised and
somewhat afraid of her, she seemed so strange and used such peculiar
language. She understood my feelings at once, and immediately said, "You
need not be afraid of me, for I have a kind heart, if I do use wicked
words. I cannot help swearing when I think about the priests, monsters
of iniquity that they are; what fearful crimes they do commit under the
cloak of religion! O, if the people of this land could but see their
real character, they would rise en masse and drive them from the
country, whose liberties they will, if possible, destroy. For myself I
have good cause to hate them. Shall I tell you my story, dear?" I begged
her to do so, which she did, as follows:
"I once had a sister, young, talented, beautiful, amiable and
affectionate. She was the pride of all our family, the idol of our
souls. She wished for an education, and we gladly granted her request.
In our zeal to serve her, we resolved to give her the very best
advantages, and so we sent her to a Romish school. It was a seminary for
young ladies taught by nuns, and was the most popular one in that
part of the country. My father, like many other parents who knew such
establishments only by report, had not the least idea of its true
character. But deluded by the supposed sanctity of the place, he was
happy in the thought that he had left his darling where it was said that
'science and religion go hand in hand.' For a season, all went on well.
She wrote to us that she was pleased with the school, and wished to
remain. We thought her hand writing wonderfully improved, and eagerly
looked forward to the time when she would return to us a finished
scholar, as well as an accomplished lady. But those pleasant prospects
were soon overcast. Too soon, our happy, bounding hearts were hushed by
unspeakable grief, and our brilliant anticipations were dissipated in
the chamber of death. In their place came those solemn realities, the
shroud, the coffin, the hearse and the tomb."
"Did she die?" I asked. "Yes," replied the lady, as she wiped away the
fast flowing tears; "Yes, she died. I believe she was poisoned, but we
could do nothing; we had no proof." She had been long at school before we
suspected the deception that was practised upon us. But at length I went
with my other sister to see her, and the Superior informed us that she
was ill, and could not see us. We proposed going to her room, but to our
great surprise were assured that such a thing could not be allowed.
We left with sad hearts, and soon called again. I cannot describe my
feelings when we were coldly informed that she did not wish to see us.
What could it mean? Surely something must be wrong; and we left with
terrible presentiments of coming evil. It came. Yes, too soon were our
worst fears realized. I called one day resolved to see her before I left
the house. Conceive, if you can, my surprise and horror, when they told
me that my beautiful, idolized sister had resolved to become a nun.
That she had already renounced the world, and would hold no further
communication with her relatives. "Why did I not know this before? I
exclaimed." "You know it now," was the cold reply. I did not believe a
word of it, and when I told my father what they said, he went to them,
and resolutely demanded his child. At first they refused to give her up,
but when they saw that his high spirit was aroused--that he would not be
flattered or deceived, they reluctantly yielded to his demand."