Life in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal | Page 9

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