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