The Convent School; Or, Early Experiences of a Young Flagellant

+--------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber’s Note | | | | THIS BOOK IS PORNOGRAPHIC IN NATURE | | AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE. | | | +--------------------------------------+ THE Convent School, OR EARLY EXPERIENCES OF A YOUNG FLAGELLANT. BY ROSA BELINDA COOTE. LONDON: PRIVATELY PRINTED. 1898. [Decoration] Salomon said, in accents mild, Spare the rod and spoil the child; Be they man or be they maid, Whip and wallop ’em, Salomon said The dicta of the Wise Man concerning discipline have been the source of inexpressible dolour to children for very many centuries; and it has only been within the last sixty years that ferocity in the treatment of infants (I am speaking of English children, Jean Jacques Rousseau shamed the French out of the practice of beating their offspring, nearly a hundred years ago) has been gradually diminishing. In the eighteenth century the lot of the British juvenile was certainly a cruel one That admirable woman, the mother of the Wesleys, held that a child should be made to desist from crying and to “fear the rod” at the mature age of twelve months; and Miss Maria Semple, writing on education in 1812, tells a story of a lady who was educated in early years by a relative. “On a certain day in every week she received corporal chastisement. If she had committed faults, ‘the punishment was due;’ if she had not, she probably would in the week ensuing. At the distance of more than half-a-century, the memory of this person, who bore a public character of piety and virtue, was spoken of, and justly, with aversion by the person she had thus treated.” Thus Miss Maria Semple.—“G. A. S.,” in the _Illustrated London News_. INTRODUCTORY LETTER OF THE AUTHORESS. My Dear Nellie,— Since writing you my confessions, in that series of letters which you flattered me by calling “most interesting facts, and deliciously voluptuous reading for lovers of the rod,” the following curious narrative has been entrusted to my confidential keeping by a young Countess of my acquaintance; but as there are no secrets between us, and I think it may afford some little pleasure in the perusal, I hasten to copy it out for you, from notes which I made day by day at the bedside of the dear young creature, as she told the particulars to me, at my visits during her long and painful illness, now, I am afraid, close upon a fatal termination; and you may guess how grieved I am to think that, although I now reserve her name as a secret, too solemn to be entrusted, even to you, the stillness of the grave will soon do away with all necessity for such reticence. Should my confessions ever be printed after our time, this tale certainly ought to bear them company, either as prefix or addenda. Believe me, dear Nellie, Your ever affectionate friend, Rosa Belinda Coote. London, 10th January, 1825. [Decoration] THE CONVENT SCHOOL, OR EARLY EXPERIENCES OF A YOUNG FLAGELLANT Chapter I _The Early Life of Lucille_ Since, dear Rosie, you are so interested to hear my birching and whipping experiences, I will try to recollect them as well as possible, but hope you will consider my weak state of health, and not press me to tell you too much at once. Perhaps you do not know that almost from my infancy it was arranged that I should marry the Earl of Ellington, who was about twelve years my senior, being a family compact of a purely mercenary character, designed to consolidate some very doubtful title deeds, which now that our union has proved unfruitful, are likely to entail great expense and annoyance to our heirs-at-law. My father, you know, was the Honourable Mr. Warton, and my mother died in giving birth to myself, so that I was brought up under a nurse, and afterwards, when about seven years old, a young lady was engaged as governess to instil my juvenile mind with the rudiments of learning, preparatory to being sent to a finishing school. This lady’s name was Miss Birch, and although my papa had known her father, Dr. Birch, for some years, I now believe that the fascination of her name had great influence with him in making a selection from the numerous, and in many instances more eligible ladies, who applied for the situation. Miss Birch was a dark lady about thirty years of age when she entered our family, very good-looking, rather large pouting mouth, set off with lovely rows of most pearly white teeth, which, when she smiled or said much showed to beautiful effect in contrast to her rather swarthy complexion, dark brown eyes, and thick bushy black arching eyebrows, her figure was well moulded and plump, and being about five feet six, she had quite a commanding presence. I was nearly eight years old before I began to notice the significant looks which occasionally passed between papa and governess, but hints were so often thrown out about the necessity of procuring a good birch rod for the naughty bottom of Lucille, that I was gradually awakened to the discovery of some most mysterious kind of understanding which must subsist between them. My infant brain was much puzzled and alarmed, as I already felt in imagination the tingling smart of the green twigs I so much dreaded. Miss Birch seemed more exacting and severe over my lessons, especially when papa happened to be in the schoolroom, and now I will tell you my first experience of the rod. One day after failing both in spelling and arithmetic she rang the bell, and ordered the servant to request Mr. Warton’s presence in the schoolroom for a few minutes. Papa entered with a very serious look, requesting Miss Birch to inform him of the cause of sending for him. “Mr. Warton,” said my governess, “you know we have had many serious conversations about the necessity for proper correction in case Miss Lucille should continue so inattentive to her studies, to-day she has failed in everything, and I am certain that unless her energies are sharpened up by the stinging smart of the rod she will go from bad to worse; I am so averse to wield the birch myself, and would much prefer that her papa should take in hand the serious whipping she ought to have.” Papa.—“Lucille, you hear what Miss Birch says, (I noticed him cast most excited and amorous looks towards the governess as he spoke), she has been most forbearing with you, and interceded with me many times to save your bottom, and even now cannot bring herself to lift her own hand to make you smart a little; it must indeed be a serious fault to induce her to ask me to use the rod, but, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ has always been a maxim with me; lay her across your lap, Miss Birch, and pull up her clothes, whilst I get the rod out of the table drawer.” Miss Birch, with heaving bosom, and quite a deep blush upon her face.—“I feel as ashamed at baring her naughty posteriors as if I was going to suffer the degradation and humiliation myself, but come, Lucille dear, you must bear it, and I hope you will be a better and more diligent girl in future.” Then catching me by the wrist, as I stood by her side covered with confusion, she tried to lay me across her knees, but I struggled and screamed, “No! No!! No!!! I won’t be whipped! Oh! Oh!! dear papa, do forgive me this time!” my face quite crimson and streaming with tears. Papa, having got out the rod, a fine switch of long thin birch twigs, tied up with velvet and silk ribbons at the handle,—“Come! Come!! Lucille, this resistance will only make it worse for you.” As he seized and threw me on the governess’s lap, Miss Birch securing my head well under her left arm, speedily pulled up dress and skirts, till my fat little bottom was exposed in a tight fitting pair of drawers, my legs being left to kick about, although I was quite firmly secured, and to all intents quite helpless, and my toes could scarcely touch the ground. I could hear papa whisking the birch about, and then he said, “That will do famously, Miss Birch, keep her head and shoulders well down as you hold up her skirts; much as I pity my darling little Lucille, I must do my duty and make her smart for her idleness in school.” My face was burning hot with the deep blushes of shame, and I struggled desperately to free my head from the vice-like pressure of Miss Birch’s arm, as I begged with piteous sobs to be let off for this once. “Oh! dear papa! Oh! pray don’t beat me!” Papa.—“Indeed, I must, though every blow will send a pang to my own heart, you naughty, bad, inattentive girl, all this has come by your great idleness, and trusting too much to the kind heart of your governess.” As he said this, three sharp stinging cuts whacked on my tight-fitting drawers in quick succession. The pain was intense, I kicked, writhed and screamed for “Mercy! Mercy! Oh! Oh!! I will be good! Oh! Papa! Oh, Miss Birch, do let me go!” Papa, in quite an excited tone, (for I could see nothing), “So you mean to be good in future! Do you feel the birch is doing you good already? Ha! ha!! my little Lucille, you must have a little more yet to make a perfect cure of your idleness.” Whack—whack—whack—whack—four more cuts, each one more agonizing than the last, in spite of my sobbing and screaming. “Now, Miss Birch,” he continued, “let her feel it on the bare flesh, open her drawers so we can see the effects of the cuts.” This was at once done, as I cried, “Ah! Ah!! No! No!! Oh, Papa! How cruel!” Papa.—“What a sight. The rod has made her bottom blush finely. It’s best to make her feel sore a few days, or she will soon forget it, and relapse into her old ways.” The drawers were unbuttoned, and I could feel they were quite pulled down my thighs, exposing the entire surface of my smarting rump, but I had only a few moments for reflection before the blows fell again in rapid succession, cutting, tearing, and scratching the skin, whilst the boiling blood in my veins seemed to throb as if it must spurt through the pores at every burning touch of the rod. My head was pressed against the tumultuously heaving bosom of my governess, and notwithstanding the intensity of my suffering, I could plainly hear the beating of her heart, and knew that her thighs were tightly compressed together, whilst a strange tremor pervaded her entire frame. “There, there, that will do,” said Papa, in a very excited tone. “I’ve drawn the blood for her. Now, Miss Dunce, kneel and kiss the rod, and ask your kind governess to forgive you.” I slipped down on my knees, and hiding my face in my hands in her lap, promised Miss Birch “if she would forgive me now, to be a better girl in future.” “That will do. I don’t want to be too hard upon Lucille this time. We will leave her to think over her disgrace and shame, and let her beware of the birch again,” said Papa, taking Miss Birch’s hand, to lead her from the room. “This has been a most agitating scene for your governess, who must repose in her private room for a while to recover herself.” The schoolroom door, which opened directly into her private room, was closed upon me, and the key turned in the lock, but all my hurts and bruises were insufficient to distract my attention from the peculiarly warm and excited glances which passed from papa towards my governess, whose face was suffused with blushes, and her eyes turned down, as if afraid to meet his ardent looks as they passed from the room. My curiosity was excited so much, that I listened at the keyhole. Papa