"I took up the book and did as she requested. Soon she fell into a sleep which lasted about one hour, and again I commenced saying my rosary beads. Presently I heard her murmur, and, listening, I heard her whisper, 'My feet! oh, my feet!' I arose from my chair and removed the sheet with the intention of rubbing her limbs; as I did so her feet were disclosed. A thrill of horror passed through my being as I looked at them, for they were all cut, festered and bruised; a fearful suspicion took possession of me, and, stooping down, I picked up her infirmary shoes. On examination I discovered in them pieces of broken glass; a thrill akin to horror ran through my whole frame. I held the shoes in my hands and looked at the pale, suffering face of Adeline as she lay there on her bed, and this evening the whole scene rises before me—the little infirmary with its clean, white floor, a few cheap prints of the stations of the cross hanging on the otherwise bare walls, the two or three small iron bedsteads, then the white wooden altar upon which was spread a white linen cloth embroidered with red; the two statues, one of 'Our Lady of Dolours' and the second of St. Joseph, the patron of happy deaths. In the center of the altar was a vase with a few cheap paper flowers.
"Yes, it comes to me most vividly. There she lay, the sin of her past life being that she, too, had been deceived at the altars of Rome—a victim of priestly solicitation in the confessional. Even as she lay there in the last stages of consumption, traces of what had at one time been a beautiful face were clearly discernible. What had she not suffered for years! Who could tell the many weary hours of heart anguish she had passed through? And yet she was young—hardly twenty-five years old. She had given up all that was near and dear, and, for the years she had lived in the convent, she had tried to appease God's justice for her early sin by mortifying and chastising herself in a way that can only find a parallel in the doctrines of Buddha. Oh, Madeline! poor, wounded, betrayed one! Who can wonder, as you lay there with the fever of consumption running and coursing through your veins, that, in spite of all the teachings and practices of self-denial in the convent life in which you had lived so many years, yet, when the hour of death drew nigh and your soul was hovering on the borders of the unknown eternity, your thoughts once more went back to the old home-scenes, and you longed, as only a child can, for the sight of a mother's face, the sound of a mother's voice, the cool, soothing touch of a mother's hand passing over your brow? They tried to crush down the natural love that God placed in your heart for your mother, but they could not. The use of the discipline caused the blood to flow and gave you physical suffering; fasting and long prayers made you weak, and thus incapable of exercising will-power; and, when no other eye but God's was upon you, when struggling with the desire to leave forever the hateful prison walls of the convent, the bitter tears forced their way. Then, kneeling before the statue of the 'Mother of Sorrows,' you pleaded with her to help and intercede for you. What comfort did you get? What hope? What consolation? None! You might make good confessions and communions, practice all the self-denials required of one in your vocation, and the only thing that the church could give you, the only gleam of hope she could offer, was that, through your works of supererogation, your purgatory would be lessened; and now, wasted through suffering and consumption, dreading the punishment of purgatory, endeavoring in your dying state to do something to lessen its pangs, you have walked with glass in your shoes and your poor feet give evidence of the agony you endured. And this is Christianity!
"I applied cold cloths to her feet; I sat down in the dimly-lighted infirmary by the side of her bed, and, holding the fevered and trembling hand, I, in my ignorance, tried to give her some comfort. I promised to remember her in my intentions, my communions, and at the sacrifice of the Mass. I spoke to her of the mercy and compassion of Mary, the 'Mother of Sorrows,' and tried to give her hope by pointing to her as mediator between her soul and Christ, but I could see that she received no satisfaction, no assurance. Then her eyes closed and she dozed for a few minutes, only to wake with a moan of pain—'Oh, my feet! oh, my feet!' And then again, 'If only I could see my mother!' would issue from her parched and cracked lips.
"And so I sat through the night, soothing her as well as I knew how, and repeating aspirations for her, until the dawn crept in and the nuns' bell rang out at 4:30 o'clock, arousing the inmates. The quietness and deep stillness still remained throughout the institution, the sisters and penitents walking in the dimly-lighted cloisters with soft tread and down-cast eyes, as if in the land of the silent dead and not the living."
As I write I wonder how it was possible for me to endure the paganism of Catholicism for thirty years, and the only rational reason I can give for this endurance is that I, like thousands of these poor nuns whom I have just written about, was raised to believe that the teachings of Catholicism were right and the only road that lead to eternal glory; therefore I look with pity and compassion upon those black-garbed nuns when I behold them tramping the streets of our large cities, as I realize that they actually believe they are performing God's work, when the truth of the matter is that they are only following the practices of heathen nations.
I could go on and write a thousand pages upon "The Unmarried Cussedness of the Roman Priestcraft," and each page would be as black as the shadows of hell, but I deem it unnecessary, as I have confidence in those who may read this book that they will believe every word of what I have written, therefore it is unnecessary for me to dwell longer upon the hideousness of celibacy.
In conclusion, I desire to say that so long as Roman Catholicism demands that her priestcraft shall not wed, just so long the priestcraft will remain vultures of virtue and just so long convents will be turned into carnivals of vice.
It is only natural that such should be the case, as both the priestcraft and the inhabitants of our convents are brought up from childhood to believe in the absurdities of Roman Catholicism, and to believe that all of their many sins can be pardoned by the cungerings of this Romish doctrine.
My prayer is that the government of the United States may learn in the near future that the broad light of Protestant inspection must penetrate these recesses of darkness before we can ever have them cleansed of their immorality, and this inspection must be made often, and I sincerely believe that the time is not far distant when Protestant America will demand that Catholicism shall do away with her monasteries and nunneries, unless she submits to a rigid examination of her actions, and whenever she submits it will be because she is forced to submit, and whenever she is forced to do so, these monasteries and convents will be closed up, as Protestant America will not allow nor permit these plague spots to exist to pollute the fair name of America when she learns of their actual mission.