go to the church.  But it is of what I know, and not what I think, that I have undertaken to write, and I do know that the fate of those little girls was hard in the extreme, whatever might have been the cause of their being there.  Poor little creatures!  No wonder their hearts were broken.  Torn from parents and friends while yet in early childhood—­doomed while life is spared, to be subject to the will of those who know no mercy—­who feel no pity, but consider it a religious duty to crush, and destroy all the pure affections—­all the exquisite sensibilities of the human soul.  Yet to them these hapless babes must look for all the earthly happiness they could hope to enjoy.  They were taught to obey them in all things, and consider them their only friends and protectors.  I never saw them after I left that room, but they did not live long.  I was glad they did not, for in the cold grave their sufferings would be over and they would rest in peace.

O, how little do Protestants know the sufferings of a nun! and truly no one can know them except by personal experience.  One may imagine the most aggravated form of cruelty, the most heart-rending agonies, yet I do believe the conception of the most active imagination would fall far short of the horrible reality.  I do not believe there was one happy individual in that convent, or that any one there, if I except the lady Superior, knew anything of enjoyment.  Life with them was a continual round of ceaseless toil and bitter self-denial; while each one had some secret grief slowly but surely gnawing away the heart-strings.  I have sometimes seen the Abbess sitting by the bedside of the sick, with her eyes closed, while the big tears fell unchecked over her pale cheeks.  When I asked her why she wept, she would shake her head, but never speak.  I now know that she dare not speak for fear of punishment.

The abbesses in the various parts of this convent are punished as much as the nuns, if they dare to disobey the rules of the priests; and if the least of these are broken in the presence of any one in the house, they will surely tell of it at confession.  In fact, they are required to do this; and if it is known that one has seen a rule broken, or a command disobeyed, without reporting it, a severe punishment is sure to follow.  Thus every individual is a spy upon the rest; and while every failure is visited with condign punishment, the one who makes the most reports is so warmly approved, that poor human nature can hardly resist the temptation to play the traitor.  Friendship cannot exist within the walls of a convent, for no one can be trusted, even with the most trifling secret.  Whoever ventures to try it is sure to be betrayed.