Awful Disclosures

M >> Maria Monk >> Awful Disclosures

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Not knowing which way to go to find solitude, I spoke to a little boy,
whom I saw on the wharf, and told, him I would give him some money if he
would lead me into the "_bush_". (This is the common word by which,
in Canada, we speak of the woods or forests.) When he understood what I
meant, he told me that there was no _bush_ about New York; but
consented to lead me to the most lonely place he knew of. He accordingly
set off, and I followed him, on a long walk to the upper part of the
city, and beyond, until we reached the outskirts of it. Turning off from
the road, we gained a little hollow, where were a few trees and bushes,
a considerable distance from any house; and there, he told me, was the
loneliest place with which he was acquainted. I paid him for his trouble
out of the small stock of money I had in my possession, and let him go
home, desiring him to come the next day, and bring me something to eat,
with a few pennies which I gave him.

CHAPTER XXV.

Reflections and sorrow in solitude--Night--Fears--Exposure to rain--
Discovered by strangers--Their unwelcome kindness--Taken to the Bellevue
Almshouse.

There I found myself once more alone, and truly it was a great relief to
sit down and feel that I was out of the reach of priests and nuns, and
in a spot where I could patiently wait for death, when God might please
to send it, instead of being abused and tormented according to the
caprices and passions of my persecutors.

But then again returned most bitter anticipations of the future. Life
had no attractions for me, for it must be connected with shame; but
death under any circumstances, could not be divested of horrors, so long
as I believed in the doctrines relating to it which had been inculcated
upon me.

The place where I had taken up, as I supposed, my last earthly abode,
was pleasant in clear and mild weather; and I spent most of my time in
as much peace as the state of my mind would permit. I saw houses, but no
human beings, except on the side of a little hill near by, where were
some men at work, making sounds like those made in hammering stone. The
shade around me was so thick that I felt assured of being sufficiently
protected from observation if I kept still; and a cluster of bushes
offered me shelter for the night. As evening approached, I was somewhat
alarmed by the sound of voices near me, and I found that a number of
labourers were passing that way from their work. I went in a fright to
the thickest of the bushes, and lay down, until all again was still, and
then ventured out to take my seat again on the turf.

Darkness now came gradually on; and with it fears of another
description. The thought struck me that there might be wild beasts in
that neighborhood, ignorant as I then was of the country; and the more I
thought of it, the more I became alarmed. I heard no alarming sound, it
is true; but I knew not how soon some prowling and ferocious beast might
come upon me in my defenceless condition, and tear me in pieces. I
retired to my bushes, and stretched myself under them upon the ground:
but I found it impossible to sleep; and my mind was almost continually
agitated by thoughts on the future or the past.

In the morning the little boy made his appearance again, and brought me
a few cakes which he had purchased for me. He showed much interest in
me, inquired why I did not live in a house; and it was with difficulty
that I could satisfy him to let me remain in my solitary and exposed
condition. Understanding that I wished to continue unknown, he assured
me that he had not told even his mother about me; and I had reason to
believe that he faithfully kept my secret to the last. Though he lived a
considerable distance from my hiding-place, and, as I supposed, far down
in the city, he visited me almost every day, even when I had not desired
him to bring me any thing. Several times I received from him some small
supplies of food for the money I had given him. I once gave him a half-
dollar to get changed; and he brought me back every penny of it, at his
next visit.

As I had got my drink from a brook or pool, which was at no great
distance, he brought me a little cup one day to drink out of; but this I
was not allowed to keep long, for he soon after told me that his mother
wanted it, and he must return it. He several times arrived quite out of
breath, and when I inquired the reason, calling him as I usually did,
"Little Tommy" he said it was necessary for him to run, and to stay but
a short time, that he might be at school in good season. Thus he
continued to serve me, and keep my secret, at great inconvenience to
himself, up to the last day of my stay in that retreat; and I believe he
would have done so for three months if I had remained there. I should
like to see him again and hear his broken English.

I had now abundance of time to reflect on my lost condition; and many a
bitter thought passed through my mind, as I sat on the ground, or
strolled about by day, and lay under the bushes at night.

Sometimes I reflected on the doctrines I had heard at the nunnery,
concerning sins and penances, Purgatory and Hell; and sometimes on my
late companions, and the crimes I had witnessed in the Convent.

Sometimes I would sit and seriously consider how I might best destroy my
life; and sometimes would sing a few of the hymns with which I was
familiar; but I never felt willing or disposed to pray, as I supposed
there was no hope of mercy for me.

One of the first nights I spent in that houseless condition was stormy;
and though I crept under the thickest of the bushes, and had more
protection against the rain than one might have expected, I was almost
entirely wet before morning; and, it may be supposed, passed a more
uncomfortable night than usual. The next day I was happy to find the
weather clear, and was able to dry my garments by taking off one at a
time, and spreading them on the bushes. A night or two after, however, I
was again exposed to a heavy rain, and had the same process afterward to
go through with: but what is remarkable, I took no cold on either
occasion; nor did I suffer any lasting injury from all the exposures I
underwent in that place. The inconveniences I had to encounter, also,
appeared to me of little importance, not being sufficient to draw off my
mind from its own troubles; and I had no intention of seeking a more
comfortable abode, still looking forward only to dying as soon as God
would permit, alone and in that spot.

One day, however, when I had been there about ten days, I was alarmed at
seeing four men approaching me. All of them had guns, as if out on a
shooting excursion. They expressed much surprise and pity on finding me
there, and pressed me with questions. I would not give them any
satisfactory account of myself, my wants, or intentions, being only
anxious that they might withdraw. I found them, however, too much
interested to render me some service to be easily sent away; and after
some time, thinking there would be no other way, I pretended to go away
not to return. After going some distance, and remaining some time,
thinking they had probably left the place, I returned; but to my
mortification found they had concealed themselves to see whether I would
come back. They now, more urgently than before, insisted on my removing
to some other place, where I might he comfortable. They continued to
question me; but I became distressed in a degree I cannot describe,
hardly knowing what I did. At last I called the oldest gentleman aside,
and told him something of my history. He expressed great interest for
me, offered to take me anywhere I would tell him, and at last insisted
that I should go with him to his own house. All these offers I refused;
on which one proposed to take me to the Almshouse, and even to carry me
by force if I would not go willingly.

To this I at length consented; but some delay took place, and I became
unwilling, so that with reluctance I was taken to that institution,
which was about half a mile distant. [Footnote: See the affidavit of Mr.
Hilliker, in Appendix. The letter to which he refers I had forgotten to
mention. It contains a short account of the crimes I had witnessed in
the nunnery, and was written on paper which "little Tommy" had bought
for me.]

CHAPTER XXVI.

Reception at the Almshouse--Message from Mr. Conroy, a Roman priest in
New York--His invitations to a private interview--His claims,
propositions, and threats--Mr. Kelly's message--Effects of reading the
Bible.

I was now at once made comfortable, and attended with kindness and care.
It is not to be expected in such a place, where so many poor and
suffering people are collected and duties of a difficult nature are to
be daily performed by those engaged in the care of the institution, that
petty vexations should not occur to individuals of all descriptions.

But in spite of all, I received kindness and sympathy from several
persons around me, to whom I feel thankful.

I was standing one day at the window of the room number twenty-six,
which is at the end of the hospital building, when I saw a spot I once
visited in a little walk I took from my hiding-place. My feelings were
different now in some respects, from what they had been; for, though I
suffered much from my fears of future punishment, for the sin of
breaking my Convent vows, I had given up the intention of destroying my
life.

After I had been some time in the Institution, I found it was reported
by some about me, that I was a fugitive nun; and it was not long after,
that an Irish woman, belonging to the Institution, brought me a secret
message, which caused me some agitation.

I was sitting in the room of Mrs. Johnson, the matron, engaged in
sewing, when that Irish woman, employed in the Institution, came in and
told me that Mr. Conroy was below, and had sent to see me. I was
informed that he was a Roman priest, who often visited the house, and he
had a particular wish to see me at that time; having come, as I believe,
expressly for that purpose, I showed unwillingness to comply with such
an invitation, and did not go. The woman told me further, that he sent
me word that I need not think to avoid him, for it would be impossible
for me to do so. I might conceal myself as well as I could, but I should
be found and taken. No matter where I went, or what hiding-place I might
choose, I should be known; and I had better come at once. He knew who I
was; and he was authorized to take me to the Sisters of Charity, if I
should prefer to join them. He would promise that I might stay with them
if I chose, and be permitted to remain in New York. He sent me word
farther, that he had received full power and authority over me from the
Superior of the Hotel Dieu Nunnery of Montreal, and was able to do all
that she could do; as her right to dispose of me at her will had been
imparted to him by a regular writing received from Canada. This was
alarming information for me, in the weakness in which I was at that
time. The woman added, that the same authority had been given to all the
priests; so that, go where I might, I should meet men informed about me
and my escape, and fully empowered to seize me wherever they could, and
convey me back to the Convent, from which I had escaped.

Under these circumstances, it seemed to me that the offer to place me
among the Sisters of Charity, with permission to remain in New York, was
mild and favourable. However, I had resolution enough to refuse to see
the priest Conroy.

Not long afterward, I was informed by the same messenger, that the
priest was again in the building, and repeated his request. I desired
one of the gentlemen connected with the Institution, that a stop might
be put to such messages, as I wished to receive no more of them. A short
time after, however, the woman told me that Mr. Conroy wished to inquire
of me whether my name was not St. Eustace while a nun, and if I had not
confessed to Priest Kelly in Montreal. I answered, that it was all true;
for I had confessed to him a short time while in the nunnery. I was then
told again that the priest wanted to see me, and I sent back word that I
would see him in the presence of Mr. Tappan, or Mr. Stevens; which,
however, was not agreed to; and I was afterwards informed, that Mr.
Conroy, the Roman priest, spent an hour in a room and a passage where I
had frequently been; but through the mercy of God; I was employed in
another place at that time, and had no occasion to go where I should
have met him. I afterwards repeatedly heard, that Mr. Conroy continued
to visit the house, and to ask for me; but I never saw him. I once had
determined to leave the Institution, and go to the Sisters of Charity;
but circumstances occurred which gave me time for further reflection;
and I _was saved from the destruction to which I should have been
exposed_.

As the period of my accouchment approached, I sometimes thought that I
should not survive it; and then the recollection of the dreadful crimes
I had witnessed in the nunnery would come upon me very powerfully, and I
would think it a solemn duty to disclose them before I died. To have a
knowledge of those things, and leave the world without making them
known, appeared to me like a great sin: whenever I could divest myself
of the impression made upon me, by the declarations and arguments of the
Superior, nuns, and priests, of the duty of submitting to every thing,
and the necessary holiness of whatever the latter did or required.

The evening but one before the period which I anticipated with so much
anxiety, I was sitting alone, and began to indulge in reflections of
this kind. It seemed to me that I must be near the close of my life, and
I determined to make a disclosure at once. I spoke to Mrs. Ford, a woman
whose character I respected, a nurse in the hospital, in number twenty-
three. I informed her that I had no expectation of living long, and had
some things on my mind which I wished to communicate before it should be
too late. I added, that I should prefer to tell them to Mr. Tappan, the
chaplain, of which she approved, as she considered it a duty to do so
under those circumstances. I had no opportunity, however, to converse
with Mr. T. at that time, and probably my purpose, of disclosing the
facts already given in this book, would never have been executed but for
what subsequently took place. It was alarm which had led me to form
such a determination; and when the period of trial had been safely
passed, and I had a prospect of recovery, anything appeared to me more
likely than that I should make this exposure.

I was then a Roman Catholic, at least a great part of my time; and my
conduct, in a great measure, was according to the faith and motives of a
Roman Catholic. Notwithstanding what I knew of the conduct of so many of
the priests and nuns, I thought that it had no effect on the sanctity of
the Church, or the authority or effects of the acts performed by the
former at the mass, confession, &c. I had such a regard for my vows as a
nun, that I considered my hand as well as my heart irrevocably given to
Jesus Christ, and could never have allowed any person to take it.
Indeed, to this day, I feel an instinctive aversion to offering my hand,
or taking the hand of another person, even as an expression of
friendship. I also thought that I might soon return to the Catholics,
although fear and disgust held me back. I had now that infant to think
for, whose life I had happily saved by my timely escape from the
nunnery; and what its fate might be, in case it should ever fall into
the power of the priests I could not tell.

I had, however, reason for alarm. Would a child destined to destruction,
like the infants I had seen baptized and smothered, be allowed to go
through the world unmolested, a living memorial of the truth of crimes
long practised in security, because never exposed? What pledges could I
get to satisfy me, that I, on whom her dependence must be, would be
spared by those who I had reason to think were then wishing to sacrifice
me? How could I trust the helpless infant in hands which had hastened
the baptism of many such, in order to hurry them to the secret pit in
the cellar? Could I suppose that _Father Phelan, Priest of the Parish
Church of Montreal_, would see _his own child_ growing up in the
world, and feel willing to run the rink of having the truth exposed?
What could I expect, especially from him, but the utmost rancor, and the
most determined enmity against the innocent child and its abased and
defenceless mother?

Yet, my mind would sometimes still incline in the opposite direction,
and indulge the thought, that perhaps the only way to secure heaven to
as both, was to throw ourselves back into the hands of the Church, to be
treated as she pleased. When, therefore, the fear of immediate death was
removed, I renounced all thoughts of communicating the substance of the
facts in this volume. It happened, however, that my danger was not
passed. I was soon seized with very alarming symptoms; then my desire to
disclose my story revived.

I had before had an opportunity to speak in private with the chaplain;
but, as it was at a time when I supposed myself out of danger, I had
deferred for three days my proposed communication, thinking that I might
yet avoid it altogether. When my symptoms, however, became more
alarming, I was anxious for Saturday to arrive, the day which I had
appointed; and when I had not the opportunity on that day, which I
desired, I thought it might be too late. I did not see him till Monday,
when my prospects of surviving were very gloomy; and I then informed him
that I wished to communicate to him a few secrets, which were likely
otherwise to die with me. I then told him, that while a nun, in the
convent of Montreal, I had witnessed the murder of a nun, called Saint
Francis, and of at least one of the infants which I have spoken of in
this book. I added some few circumstances, and I believe disclosed, in
general terms, some of the other crimes I knew of in that nunnery.

My anticipations of death proved to be unfounded; for my health
afterward improved, and had I not made the confessions on that occasion,
it is very possible I never might have made them. I, however, afterward,
felt more willing to listen to instruction, and experienced friendly
attentions from some of the benevolent persons around me, who, taking an
interest in me on account of my darkened understanding, furnished me
with the Bible, and were ever ready to counsel me when I desired it.

I soon began to believe that God might have intended that his creatures
should learn his will by reading his word, and taking upon them the free
exercise of their reason, and acting under responsibility to him.

It is difficult for one who has never given way to such arguments and
influences as those to which I had been exposed, to realize how hard it
is to think aright after thinking wrong. The Scriptures always affect me
powerfully when I read them; but I feel that I have but just begun to
learn the great truths, in which I ought to have been early and
thoroughly instructed. I realize, in some degree, how it is, that the
Scriptures render the people of the United States so strongly opposed to
such doctrines as are taught in the Black and the Congregational
Nunneries of Montreal. The priests and nuns used often to declare, that
of all heretics, the children from the United States were the most
difficult to be converted; and it was thought a great triumph when one
of them was brought over to "the true faith." The first passage of
Scripture that made any serious impression upon my mind, was the text on
which the chaplain preached on the Sabbath after my introduction into
the house--"Search the Scriptures."

I made some hasty notes of the thoughts to which it gave rise in my
mind, and often recurred to the subject. Yet I sometimes questioned the
justice of the views I began to entertain, and was ready to condemn
myself for giving my mind any liberty to seek for information concerning
the foundations of my former faith.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Proposition to go to Montreal and testify against the priests--
Commencement of my journey--Stop at Troy, Whitehall, Burlington, St.
Alban's, Plattsburgh, and St. John's--Arrival at Montreal--Reflections
on passing the Nunnery, &c.

About a fortnight after I had made the disclosures mentioned in the last
chapter, Mr. Hoyt called at the Hospital to make inquiries about me. I
was introduced to him by Mr. Tappan. After some conversation, he asked
me if I would consent to visit Montreal, and give my evidence against
the priests and nuns before a court. I immediately expressed my
willingness to do so, on condition that I should be protected. It
immediately occurred to me, that I might enter the nunnery at night, and
bring out the nuns in the cells, and possibly Jane Ray, and that they
would confirm my testimony. In a short time, arrangements were made for
our journey, I was furnished with clothes; and although my strength was
but partially restored, I set off in pretty good spirits.

Our journey was delayed for a little while, by Mr. Hoyt's waiting to get
a companion. He had engaged a clergyman to accompany us, as I
understood, who was prevented from going by unexpected business. We went
to Troy in a steamboat; and, while there, I had several interviews with
some gentlemen who were informed of my history, and wished to see me.
They appeared to be deeply impressed with the importance of my
testimony; and on their recommendation it was determined that we should
go to St. Alban's, on our way to Montreal, to get a gentleman to
accompany us, whose advice and assistance, as an experienced lawyer,
were thought to be desirable to us in prosecuting the plan we had in
view: viz. the exposure of the crimes with which I was acquainted.

We travelled from Troy to Whitehall in a canal packet, because the easy
motion was best adapted to my state of health. We met on board the Rev.
Mr. Sprague of New York, with whom Mr. Hoyt was acquainted, and whom he
tried to persuade to accompany us to Montreal. From Whitehall to
Burlington we proceeded in a steamboat; and there I was so much
indisposed, that is was necessary to call a physician. After a little
rest, we set off in the stage for St. Alban's; and on arriving, found
that Judge Turner was out of town. We had to remain a day or two before
he returned; and then he said it would be impossible for him to
accompany us. After some deliberation, it was decided that Mr. Hunt
should go to Montreal with us, and that Judge Turner should follow and
join us there as soon as his health and business would permit.
[Footnote: Mr. Hunt was recommended as a highly respectable lawyer; to
whose kindness, as well as that of Judge Turner, I feel myself under
obligations.]

We therefore crossed the lake by the ferry to Plattsburgh, where, after
some delay, we embarked in a steamboat, which took us to St. John's. Mr.
Hunt, who had not reached the ferry early enough to cross with us, had
proceeded on to ----, and there got on board the steamboat in the
night. We went on to Laprairie with little delay, but finding that no
boat was to cross the St. Lawrence at that place during the day, we had
to take another private carriage to Longeuil, whence we rowed across to
Montreal by three men, in a small boat.

I had felt quite bold and resolute when I first consented to go to
Montreal, and also during my journey: but when I stepped on shore in the
city, I thought of the different scenes I had witnessed there, and of
the risks I might run before I should leave it. We got into a caleche,
and rode along towards the hotel where we were to stop. We passed up St.
Paul's street; and, although it was dusk, I recognised every thing I had
known. We came at length to the nunnery; and then many recollections
crowded upon me. First, I saw a window from which I had sometimes looked
at some of the distant houses in that street; and I wondered whether
some of my old acquaintances were employed as formerly. But I thought if
I were once within those walls, I should be in the cells for the
remainder of my life, or perhaps be condemned to something still more
severe. I remembered the murder of St. Francis, and the whole scene
returned to me as if it had just taken place; the appearance, language,
and conduct of the persons most active in her destruction. Those persons
were now all near me, and would use all exertions they safely might, to
get me again into their power.

And certainly they had greater reason to be exasperated against me, than
against that poor helpless nun, who had only expressed a wish to escape.
[Footnote: My gloomy feelings however did not always prevail. I had hope
of obtaining evidence to prove my charges. I proposed to my companions
to be allowed to proceed that evening to execute the plan I had formed
when a journey to Montreal had first been mentioned. This was to follow
the physician into the nunnery, conceal myself under the red calico sofa
in the sitting-room, find my way into the cellar after all was still,
release the nuns from their cells, and bring them out to confirm my
testimony. I was aware that there were hazards of my not succeeding, and
that I must forfeit my life if detected--but I was desperate; and
feeling as if I could not long live in Montreal, thought I might as well
die one way as another, and that I had better die in the performance of
a good deed. I thought of attempting to bring out Jane Ray--but that
seemed quite out of the question, as an old nun is commonly engaged in
cleaning a community-room, through which I should have to pass; and how
could I hope to get into, and out of the sleeping-room unobserved? I
could not even determine that the imprisoned nuns would follow me out--
for they might be afraid to trust me. However, I determined to try, and
presuming my companions had all along understood and approved my plan,
told them I was ready to go at once. I was chagrined and mortified more
than I can express, when they objected, and almost refused to permit me.
I insisted and urged the importance of the step--but they represented
its extreme rashness. This conduct of theirs, for a time diminished my
confidence to them, although everybody else has approved of it.]

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