Life in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal | Page 3

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