Chapter XXI
GRAND DINNER OF THE PRIESTS—THE MANIAC SISTER OF REV. MR. PERRAS.
It was the custom in those days, in the Church of Rome, to give the title of arch-priest to one of the most respectable and able priests, among twelve or fifteen others, by whom he was surrounded. That title was the token of some superior power, which was granted him over his confreres, who, in consequence, should consult him in certain difficult matters.
As a general thing, those priests lived in the most cordial and fraternal unity, and to make the bond of that union stronger and more pleasant, they were, in turn, in the habit of giving a grand dinner every Thursday.
In 1834 these dinners were really state affairs. Several days in advance, preparations were made on a grand scale, to collect everything that could please the tastes of the guests. The best wines were purchased. The fattest turkeys, chickens, lambs, or sucking pigs were hunted up. The most delicate pastries were brought from the city, or made at home, at any cost. The rarest and most costly fruits and desserts were ordered. There was a strange emulation among those curates, who would surpass his neighbors. Several extra hands were engaged some days before, to help the ordinary servants to prepare the “GRAND DINNER.”
The second Thursday of May, 1834, was Mr. Perras’ turn, and at twelve o’clock, noon, we were fifteen priests seated around the table.
I must here render homage to the sobriety and perfect moral habits of the Rev. Mr. Perras. Though he took his social glass of wine, as was the universal usage at that time, I never saw him drink more than a couple of glasses at the same meal. I wish I could say the same thing of all those who were at this table that day.
Never did I see, before nor after, a table covered with so many tempting and delicate viands. The good curate had surpassed himself, and I would hardly be believed, were I to give the number of dishes and covers, plates et entreplates, which loaded the table. I will only mention a splendid salmon, which was the first brought to Quebec that year, for which Mr. Amiot, the purveyor of the priests around the capital, had paid twelve dollars.
There was only one lady at that dinner, Miss Perras, sister of the curate. However, she was not at all embarrassed by finding herself alone among those jolly celebataires, and she looked like a queen at the head of the table. Her sweet and watchful eyes were everywhere to see the wants of her guests. She had an amiable word for every one of them. With the utmost grace she pressed the Rev. Mr. A. to try that wing of turkey—she was so gently remonstrating with the Rev. Mr. B. for his not eating more, and she was so eloquent in requesting them all to taste of this dish, or of that; which was quite a new thing in Canada. And her young chickens! who could refuse to accept one of them, after she had told their story: how, three months before, in view of this happy day, she had so cajoled the big black hen to watch over sixteen eggs in the kitchen; what a world of trouble she had, when the little dog was coming in, and she (the hen) was rushing at him! how, many times, she had to stop the combatants and force them to live in peace! and what desolation swept over her mind, when, in a dark night, the rats had dragged into their holes three of her newly-hatched chickens! how she had got a cat to destroy the rats; and how in escaping Scylla, she was thrown upon Charybdis, when three days after, the cat made his dinner of two of her dear little chickens; for which crime, committed in open day, before several witnesses, the sentence of death was passed and executed, without benefit of clergy.
Now, where would they find young chickens in the month of May, in the neighborhood of Quebec, when the snow had scarcely disappeared?
These stories, given with an art which no pen can reproduce, were not finished before the delicate chickens had disappeared in the hungry mouths of the cheerful guests.
One of the most remarkable features of these dinners was the levity, the absolute want of seriousness and gravity. Not a word was said in my presence, there, which could indicate that these men had anything else to do in this world but to eat and drink, tell and hear merry stories, laugh and lead a jolly life.
I was the youngest of those priests. Only a few months before, I was in the Seminary of Nicolet, learning from my grave old superior, lessons of priestly life, very different from what I had there under my eyes. I had not yet forgotten the austere preaching of self-denial, mortification, austerity and crucifixion of the flesh, which were to fill up the days of a priest!
Though, at first, I was pleased with all I saw, heard and tasted; though I heartily laughed with the rest of the guests, at their bon mots, their spicy stories about their fair penitents, or at the funny caricatures they drew of each other, as well as of absent ones, I felt, by turns, uneasy. Now and then the lessons of priestly life, received from the lips of my venerable and dear Mr. Leprohon, were knocking hard at the door of my conscience. Some words of the Holy Scriptures which, more than others, had adhered to my memory, were also making a strange noise in my soul. My own common sense was telling me that this was not quite the way Christ taught his disciples to live.
I made a great effort to stifle those troublesome voices. Sometimes I succeeded, and then I became cheerful; but a moment after I was overpowered by them, and I felt chilled, as if I had perceived on the walls of the festive room, the finger of my angry God, writing, “MENE, MENE, TEKEL UPHARSIN.” Then all my cheerfulness vanished, and I felt so miserable that, in spite of all my efforts to look happy, the Rev. Mr. Paquette, curate of St. Gervais, observed it on my face. That priest was probably the one who most enjoyed everything of that feast. Under the snowy mantle of sixty-five years, he had kept the warm heart and the joviality of youth. He was considered one of our most wealthy curates, and he richly deserved the reputation of being the most epicurean of them all. He was a perfect cook, and with his chaplet or his breviarium in hand, he used to pass a great part of the day in his kitchen, giving orders about broiling this beefstake, or preparing this fricassee, and that gravy a la Francais. He was loved by all his confreres, but particularly by the young priests, who were the objects of his constant attentions. He had always been exceedingly kind to me, and when in his neighborhood, I dare say that my most pleasant hours were those passed in his parsonage.
Looking at me in the very moment when my whole intellectual being was, in spite of myself, under the darkest cloud, he said: “My dear little Father Chiniquy, are you falling into the hands of some blue devils, when we are all so happy? You were so cheerful half an hour ago! What is the matter with you now? Are you sick? You look as grave and anxious as Jonah, when in the big whale’s stomach! What is the matter with you? Has any of your fair penitents left you, to go to confess to another, lately?”
At these funny questions, the dining-room was shaken with the convulsive laughter of the priests. I wished I could join in with the rest of my confreres; for it seemed to me very clear that I was making a fool of myself by this singularity of demeanor. But there was no help for it; for a moment before I had seen that the servant girls had blushed; they had been scandalized by a very improper word from the lips of a young priest, about one of his young female penitents; a word which he would, surely, never have uttered, had he not drank too much wine. I answered: “I am much obliged to you for your kind interest. I find myself much honored to be here in your midst; but as the brightest days are not without clouds, so it is with us all sometimes. I am young, and without experience; I have not yet learned to look at certain things in their proper light. When older, I hope I shall be wiser, and not make an ass of myself as I do to-day.”
“Tah! Tah! Tah!” said old Mr. Paquette, “this is not the hour of dark clouds and blue devils. Be cheerful, as it behooves your age. There will be hours enough in the rest of your life for sadness and sombre thoughts. This is the hour for laughing and being merry. Sad thoughts for to-morrow.” And appealing to all, he asked, “Is not this correct, gentlemen?”
“Yes, yes,” unanimously rejoined all the guests.
“Now,” said the old priest, “you see that the verdict of the jury is unanimously in my favor and against you. Give up those airs of sadness, which do not answer in the presence of those bottles of champagne. Your gravity is an anachronism when we have such good wines before us. Tell me the reason of your grief, and I pledge myself to console you, and make you happy as you were at the beginning of the dinner.”
“I would have liked better that you should have continued to enjoy this pleasant hour without noticing me,” I answered. “Please excuse me if I do not trouble you with the causes of my personal folly.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Paquette, “I see it; the cause of your trouble is that we have not yet drank together a single glass of sherry. Fill your glass with that wine, and it will surely drown the blue devil, which I see at its bottom.”
“With pleasure,” I said, “I feel much honored to drink with you,” and I put some drops of wine into my glass. “Oh! oh! what do I see you doing there? Only a few drops in your glass! This will not even wet the cloven feet of the blue devil which is tormenting you. It requires a full glass, an overflowing glass, to drown and finish him. Fill, then, your glass with that precious wine—the best I ever tasted in my whole life.”
“But I cannot drink more than those few drops,” I said.
“Why not?” he replied.
“Because, eight days before her death, my mother wrote me a letter, requesting me to promise her that I would never drink more than two glasses of wine at the same meal. I gave her that promise in my answer, and the very day she got my pledge, she left this world to convey it, written on her heart, into heaven, to the feet of her God!”
“Keep that sacred pledge,” answered the old curate; “but tell me why you are so sad when we are so happy?”
“You already know part of my reasons—if I had drank as much wine as my neighbor, the vicar of St. Gervais, I would probably have filled the room with my shouts of joy, as he does; but you see now that the hands of my deceased, though always dear mother, are on my glass to prevent me from filling it any more, for I have already drank two glasses of wine.”
“But your sadness in such a circumstance is so strange, that we would all like to know its cause.”
“Yes, yes,” said all the priests. “You know that we like you, and we deeply feel for you. Please tell us the reason of this sadness.”
I then answered, “It would be better for me to keep my own secret, for I know I will make a fool of myself here; but as you are unanimous in requesting me to give you the reasons of the mental agony through which I am just passing, you will have them.
“You well know that, through very singular circumstances, I have been prevented, till this day, from attending any of your grand dinners. Twice I had to go to Quebec on these occasions, sometimes I was not well enough to be present—several times I was called to visit some dying person, and at other times the weather, or the roads were too bad to travel; this, then, is the first grand dinner, attended by you all, that I have the honor of attending.
“But before going any further, I must tell you that during the eight months it has been my privilege to sit at Rev. Mr. Perras’ table, I have never seen anything which could make me suspect that my eyes would see, and my ears would hear such things in this parsonage as have just taken place. Sobriety, moderation, truly evangelical temperance in drink and food were the invariable rule. Never a word was said which could make our poor servant girls, or the angels of God blush. Would to God that I had not been here to-day! For I tell you, honestly, that I am scandalized by the epicurean table which is before us; by the enormous quantity of delicate viands and the incredible number of bottles of most costly wines, emptied at this dinner.
“However, I hope I am mistaken in my appreciation of what I have seen and heard—I hope you are all right and that I am wrong. I am the youngest of you all. It is not my business to teach you, but it is my duty to be taught by you.
“Now, I have given you my mind, because you so pressingly requested me to do it, as honestly as human language will allow me to do. I have the right, I hope, to request you to tell me, as honestly, if I am, and in what I am, wrong or right!”
“Oh! ho! my dear Chiniquy,” replied the old curate, “you hold the stick by the wrong end. Are we not the children of God?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, “we are the children of God.”
“Now, does not a loving father give what he considers the best part of his goods to his beloved children?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Is not that loving father pleased when he sees his beloved children eat and drink the good things he has prepared for them?”
“Yes, sir,” was my answer.
“Then,” rejoined the logical priest, “the more we, the beloved children of God, eat of these delicate viands, and drink of those precious wines, which our Heavenly Father puts into our hands, the more he is pleased with us. The more we, the most beloved ones of God, are merry and cheerful, the more he is himself pleased and rejoiced in his heavenly kingdom.
“But if God, our Father, is so pleased with what we have eaten and drunk to-day, why are you so sad?”
This masterpiece of argumentation was received by all (except Mr. Perras), with convulsive cries of approbation, and repeated “bravo! bravo!”
“I was too mean and cowardly to say what I felt. I tried to conceal my increased sadness under the forced smiles of my lips, and I followed the whole party, who left the table, and went to the parlor to drink a cup of coffee. It was then half-past one p. m. At two o’clock the whole party went to the church, where, after kneeling for a quarter of an hour before their wafer God, they fell on their knees at the feet of each other, to confess their sins, and get their pardon, in the absolution of their confessors!
At three p. m. they were all gone, and I remained alone with my venerable old curate Perras. After a few moments of silence, I said to him: “My dear Mr. Perras, I have no words to express to you my regret for what I have said at your table. I beg your pardon for every word of that unfortunate and unbecoming conversation, into which I was dragged in spite of myself; you know it. It does not do for a young priest, as I am, to criticise those whom God has put so much above him by their science, their age and their virtues. But I was forced to give my mind, and I have given it. When I requested Mr. Paquette to tell me in what I might be wrong, I had not the least idea that we would hear, from the lips of one of our veterans in the priesthood, the blasphemous jokes he has uttered. Epicurus himself would have blushed, had he been among us, in hearing the name of God connected with such deplorable and awful impieties.”
Mr. Perras answered me: “Far from being displeased with what I have heard from you at this dinner, I must tell you that you have gained much in my esteem by it. I am, myself, ashamed of that dinner. We priests are the victims, like the rest of the world, of the fashions, vanities, pride and lust of that world against which we are sent to preach. The expenditure we make at those dinners is surely a crime, in the face of the misery of the people by whom we are surrounded. This is the last dinner I give with such foolish extravagance. The next time my neighbors will meet here, I will not expose them to stagger on their legs, as the greater part of them did when they rose from the table. The brave words you have uttered have done me good. They will do them good also; for though they had all eaten and drunk too much, they were not so intoxicated as not to remember what you have said.”
Then, pressing my hand in his, he said, “I thank you my good little Father Chiniquy for the short but excellent sermon you have given us. It will not be lost. You have drawn my tears when you have shown us your saintly mother going to the feet of God in heaven, with your sacred promise written in her heart. Oh! you must have had a good mother! I knew her when she was very young. She was then, already, a very remarkable girl, for her wisdom and the dignity of her manners.”
Then he left me alone in the parlor, and he went to visit a sick man in one of the neighboring houses.
When alone I fell on my knees, to pray and weep. My soul was filled with emotions which it is impossible to express. The remembrance of my beloved mother whose blessed name had fallen from my lips when her sacred memory filled my mind with the light and strength I needed in that hour of trial—the gluttony and drunkenness of those priests, whom I was accustomed to respect and esteem so much—their scandalous conversation—their lewd expressions—and more than all, their confessions to each other after two such hours of profanity and drinking, were more than I could endure. I could not contain myself, I wept over myself, for I felt also the burden of my sins, and I did not find myself much better than the rest, though I had not eaten or drunk quite so much as several of them—I wept over my friends, whom I had seen so weak; for they were my friends. I loved them, and I know they loved me. I wept over my church, which was served by such poor, sinful priests. Yes! I wept there, when on my knees, to my heart’s content, and it did me good. But my God had another trial in store for his poor unfaithful servant.
I had not been ten minutes alone, sitting in my study, when I heard strange cries, and such a noise as if a murderer were at work to strike his victim. A door had evidently been broken open, up stairs, and some one was running down stairs as if one was wanting to break down everything. The cries of “Murder, murder!” reached my ears, and the cries of “Oh! my God! my God! where is Mr. Perras?” filled the air.
I quickly ran to the parlor to see what was the matter, and there I found myself face to face with a woman absolutely naked! Her long black hair was flowing on her shoulders; her face was pale as death—her dark eyes fixed in their sockets. She stretched her hands toward me with a horrible shriek, and before I could move a step, terrified, and almost paralyzed as I was, she seized my two arms with her hands, with such a terrible force as if my arms had been grasped in a vise. My bones were cracking under her grasp, and my flesh was torn by her nails. I tried to escape, but it was impossible. I soon found myself as if nailed to the wall, unable to move any further. I cried then to the utmost compass of my voice for help. But the living spectre cried still louder: “You have nothing to fear. Be quiet. I am sent by God Almighty and the blessed virgin Mary, to give you a message. The priests whom I have known, without a single exception, are a band of vipers: they destroy their female penitents through auricular confession. They have destroyed me, and killed my female child! Do not follow their example!” Then she began to sing, with a beautiful voice, to a most touching tune, a kind of poem she had composed herself, which I secretly got afterward from one of her servant maids, the translation of which is as follows:
“Satan’s priests have defiled my heart! Damned my soul! murdered my child! O my child! my darling child! From thy place in heaven, dost thou see Thy guilty mother’s tears? Canst thou come and press me in thine arms? My child! my darling child! Will never thy smiling face console me?”
When she was singing these words, big tears were rolling down her pale cheeks, and the tone of her voice was so sad that she could have melted a heart of stone. She had not finished her song when I cried to the girl: “I am fainting, for God’s sake bring me some water!” The water was only passed to my lips, I could not drink. I was choked, and petrified in the presence of that living phantom! I could not dare to touch her in any way with my hands. I felt horrified and paralyzed at the sight of that livid, pale, cadaverous, naked spectre. The poor servant girl had tried in vain, at my request, to drag her away from me. She had struck her with terror, by crying, “If you touch me, I will instantly strangle you!”
“Where is Mr. Perras? Where is Mr. Perras and the other servants? For God’s sake call them,” I cried out to the servant girl, who was trembling and beside herself.
“Miss Perras is running to the church after the curate,” she answered, “and I do not know where the other girl is gone.”
In that instant Mr. Perras entered, rushed toward his sister, and said, “Are you not ashamed to present yourself naked before such a gentleman?” and with his strong arms he tried to force her to give me up.
Turning her face towards him, with tigress eyes, she cried out, “Wretched brother! what have you done with my child? I see her blood on your hands!”
When she was struggling with her brother, I made a sudden and extreme effort to get out of her grasp; and this time I succeeded: but seeing that she wanted to throw herself again upon me, I jumped through a window which was opened.
Quick as lightning she passed out of the hands of her brother, and jumped also through the window to run after me. She would, surely, have overtaken me; for I had not run two rods, when I fell headlong, with my feet entangled in my long, black, priestly robe. Providentially, two strong men, attracted by my cries, came to my rescue. They wrapped her in a blanket, taken there by her sister, and brought her back into the upper chambers, where she remained safely locked, under the guard of two strong servant maids.
The history of that woman is sad indeed. When in her priest-brother’s house, when young and of great beauty, she was seduced by her father confessor, and became mother of a female child, which she loved with a real mother’s heart. She determined to keep it and bring it up. But this did not meet the views of the curate. One night, while the mother was sleeping, the child had been taken away from her. The awakening of the unfortunate mother was terrible. When she understood that she could never see her child any more, she filled the parsonage with her cries and lamentations, and, at first, refused to take any food, in order that she might die. But she soon became a maniac.
Mr. Perras, too much attached to his sister to send her to a lunatic asylum, resolved to keep her in his own parsonage, which was very large. A room in its upper part had been fixed in such a way that her cries could not be heard, and where she would have all the comfort possible in her sad circumstances. Two servant maids were engaged to take care of her. All this was so well arranged, that I had been eight months in that parsonage, without even suspecting that there was such an unfortunate being under the same roof with me. It appears that occasionally, for many days, her mind was perfectly lucid, when she passed her time in praying, and singing a kind of poem which she had composed herself, and which she sang while holding me in her grasp. In her best moments she had fostered an invincible hatred for the priests whom she had known. Hearing her attendants often speak of me, she had, several times, expressed a desire to see me, which, of course, had been denied her. Before she had broken her door, and escaped from the hands of her keeper, she had passed several days in saying that she had received from God a message for me which she would deliver, even if she had to pass on the dead bodies of all in the house.
Unfortunate victim of auricular confession! How many others could sing the sad words of thy song,
“Satan’s priest’s have defiled my heart, Damned my soul! murdered my child!”
Chapter XXII
I AM APPOINTED VICAR OF THE CURATE OF CHARLESBOURGH—THE PIETY, LIVES AND DEATHS OF FATHERS BEDARD AND PERRAS.
The grand dinner previously described had its natural results. Several of the guests were hardly at home, when they complained of various kinds of sickness, and none was so severely punished as my friend Paquette, the curate of St. Gervais. He came very near dying, and for several weeks was unable to work. He requested the bishop of Quebec to allow me to go to his help, which I did to the end of May, when I received the following letter:
CHARLESBOURGH, May 25th, 1834.
REV. MR. C. CHINIQUY:
MY DEAR SIR: My Lord Panet has again chosen me, this year, to accompany him in his episcopal visit. I have consented, with the condition that you should take my place, at the head of my dear parish, during my absence. For I will have no anxiety when I know that my people are in the hands of a priest who, though so young, has raised himself so high in the esteem of all those who know him.
Please come as soon as possible to meet me here, that I may tell you many things which will make your ministry more easy and blessed in Charlesbourgh.
His Lordship has promised me that when you pass through Quebec, he will give you all the powers you want to administer my parish, as if you were its curate during my absence.
Your devoted brother-priest, and friend in the love and heart of Jesus and Mary,
ANTOINE BEDARD.
I felt absolutely confounded by that letter. I was so young and so deficient in the qualities required for the high position to which I was so unexpectedly called. I know it was against the usages to put a young and untried priest in such a responsible post. It seemed evident to me that my friends and my superiors had strangely exaggerated to themselves my feeble capacity.
In my answer to the Rev. Mr. Bedard, I respectfully remonstrated against such a choice. But a letter received from the bishop himself, ordering me to go to Charlesbourgh, without delay, to administer that parish during the absence of its pastor, soon forced me to consider that sudden and unmerited elevation as a most dangerous, though providential trial, of my young ministry. Nothing remained to be done by me but to accept the task in trembling, and with a desire to do my duty. My heart, however, fainted within me, and I shed bitter tears of anxiety. When entering into that parish for the first time, I saw its magnitude and importance. It seemed, then, more than ever evident to me that the good Mr. Bedard, and my venerable superiors, had made a sad mistake in putting such a heavy burden on my young and feeble shoulders. I was hardly twenty-four years old, and had not more than nine months’ experience of the ministry.
Charlesbourgh is one of the most ancient and important parishes of Canada. Its position, so near Quebec, at the feet of the Laurentide Mountains, is peculiarly beautiful. It has an almost complete command of the city, and of its magnificent port, where not less than 900 ships then received their precious cargoes of lumber. On our left, numberless ranges of white houses extended as far as the Falls of Montmorency. At our feet the majestic St. Lawrence, dashing its rapid waters on the beautiful “Isle d’Orleans.” To the right the parishes of Lorette, St. Foy, St. Roch, etc., with their high church steeples, reflected the sun’s glorious beams: and beyond, the impregnable citadel of Quebec, with its tortuous ranges of black walls, its numerous cannon and its high towers, like fearless sentinels, presented a spectacle of remarkable grandeur.
The Rev. Mr. Bedard welcomed me on my arrival with words of such kindness that my heart was melted and my mind confounded. He was a man about sixty-five years of age, short in stature, with a well-formed breast, large shoulders, bright eyes, and a face where the traits of indomitable energy were coupled with an expression of unsurpassed kindness.
One could not look on that honest face without saying to himself: “I am with a really good and upright man!” Mr. Bedard is one of the few priests in whom I have found a true honest faith in the Church of Rome. With an irreproachable character, he believed with a child’s faith all the absurdities which the Church of Rome teaches, and he lived according to his honest and sincere faith.
Though the actions of our daily lives were not subjected to a regular and inexorable rule in Charlesbourgh’s as in St. Charles’ parsonage, there was yet far more life and earnestness in the performance of our ministerial duties.
There was less reading of learned, theological, philosophical and historical books, but much more real labor in Mr. Bedard’s than in Mr. Perras’ parish: there was more of the old French aristocracy in the latter priest, and more of the good religious Canadian habitant in the former. Though both could be considered as men of the most exalted faith and piety in the Church of Rome, their piety was of a different character. In Mr. Perras’ religion there was real calmness and serenity, while the religion of Mr. Bedard had more of a flash of lightning and the noise of thunder. The private religious conversations with the curate of St. Charles were admirable, but he could not speak common sense for ten minutes when preaching from his pulpit. Only once did he preach while I was his vicar, and then he was not half through his sermon before the greater part of his auditors were soundly sleeping. But who could hear the sermons of Rev. Mr. Bedard without feeling his heart moved and his soul filled with terror? I never heard anything more thrilling than his words when speaking of the judgments of God and the punishment of the wicked. Mr. Perras never fasted, except on the days appointed by the church: Mr. Bedard condemned himself to fast besides twice every week. The former never drank, to my knowledge, a single glass of rum or any other strong drink, except his two glasses of wine at dinner; but the latter never failed to drink full glasses of rum three times a day, beside two or three glasses of wine at dinner. Mr. Perras slept the whole night as a guiltless child; Mr. Bedard, almost every night when I was with him, rose up, and lashed himself in the most merciless manner with leather thongs, at the end of which were small pieces of lead. When inflicting upon himself those terrible punishments, he used to recite, by heart, the fifty-first Psalm, in Latin, “Miserere mihi Deus secundam magnam misericordiam tuam” (Have mercy upon me, O, Lord, according to thy loving kindness); and though he seemed to be unconscious of it, he prayed with such a loud voice, that I heard every word he uttered; he also struck his flesh with such violence, that I could count all the blows he administered.
One day I respectfully remonstrated against such a cruel self-infliction as ruining his health and breaking his constitution. “Cher petit Frere” (dear little brother), he answered, “Our health and constitution cannot be impaired by such penances, but they are easily and commonly ruined by our sins. I am one of the healthiest men of my parish, though I have inflicted upon myself those salutary and too well-merited chastisements for many years. Though I am old, I am still a great sinner. I have an implacable and indomitable enemy in my depraved heart, which I cannot subdue except by punishing my flesh. If I do not do those penances for my numberless transgressions, who will do them for me? If I do not pay the debts I owe to the justice of God, who will pay them for me?”
“But,” I answered, “Has not our Saviour, Jesus Christ, paid our debts on Calvary? Has he not saved and redeemed us all by his death on the cross? Why, then, should you or I pay again to the justice of God that which has been so perfectly and absolutely paid by our Saviour?”
“Ah! my dear young friend,” quickly replied Mr. Bedard, “that doctrine you hold is Protestant, which has been condemned by the Holy Council of Trent. Christ has paid our debts, certainly; but not in such an absolute way that there is nothing more to be paid by us. Have you never paid attention to what St. Paul says, in his Epistle to the Colossians. I fill up that which is behind of the sufferings of Christ in the flesh for his body’s sake, which is the Church. Though Christ could have entirely and absolutely paid our debts, if it had been his will, it is evident that such was not his holy will—he left something behind, which Paul, you, I, and every one of his disciples, should take and suffer in our flesh for his Church. When we have taken and accomplished in our flesh what Christ has left behind, then the surplus of our merits goes to the treasury of the Church. For instance, when a saint has accomplished in his flesh what Christ has left behind for his perfect sanctification, if he accomplishes more than the justice of God requires, that surplus of merits not being any use to him, is put by God into the grand and common treasure, where it makes a fund of merits of infinite value, from which the Pope and the bishops draw the indulgences which they scatter all over the world as the dew from heaven. By the mercy of God, the penances which I impose upon myself, and the pains I suffer from these flagellations, purify my guilty soul, and raising me up from this polluting world, they bring me nearer and nearer to my God every day. I am not yet a saint, unfortunately, but if by the mercy of God, and my penances united to the sufferings of Christ, I arrive at the happy day when all my debts shall be paid, and my sins cleansed away, then if I continue those penances and acquire new merits, more than I need, and if I pay more debts than I owe to the justice of God, this surplus of merits which I shall have acquired will go to the rich treasure of the Church, from which she will draw merits to enrich the multitude of good souls who cannot do enough for themselves to pay their own debts, and to reach that point of holiness which will deserve a crown in heaven. Then, the more we do penance and inflict pains on our bodies, by our fastings and floggings, the more we feel happy in the assurance of thus raising ourselves more and more above the dust of this sinful world, of approaching more and more to that state of holiness of which our Saviour spoke when he said: ‘Be holy as I am holy myself.’ We feel an unspeakable joy when we know that by those self-inflicted punishments we acquire incalculable merits, which enrich not only ourselves, but our holy Church, by filling her treasures for the benefit and salvation of the souls for which Christ died on Calvary.”
When Mr. Bedard was feeding my soul with these husks, he was speaking with great animation and sincerity. Like myself, he was far away from the Good Father’s house. He had never tasted of the bread of the children. Neither of us knew anything of the sweetness of that bread. We had to accept those husks as our only food, though it did not remove our hunger.
I answered him: “What you tell me here is what I find in all our ascetic books and theological treatises, and in the lives of all our saints. I can hardly reconcile that doctrine with what I read this morning in the 2d chapter of Ephesians. Here is the verse in my New Testament: ‘But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead in sins, he has quickened us together with Christ. By grace ye are saved; for by grace ye are saved, through faith, and not of ourselves, it is this gift of God; not of works, lest any man should boast.’
“Now, my dear and venerable Mr. Bedard, allow me respectfully to ask, how it is possible that your salvation is only by grace, if you have to purchase it every day by tearing your flesh and lashing your body in such a fearful manner? Is it not a strange favour—a very singular grace—which reddens your skin with your blood, and bruises your flesh every night?”
“Dear little brother,” answered Mr. Bedard, “when Mr. Perras spoke to me, in the presence of the bishop, with such deserved eulogium of your piety, he did not conceal that you had a very dangerous defect, which was to spend too much time in reading the Bible, in preference to every other of our holy books. He told us more than this. He said that you had a fatal tendency to interpret the Holy Scriptures too much according to your own mind, and in a sense which is rather more Protestant than Catholic. I am sorry to see that the curate of St. Charles was but too correct in what he told us of you. But, as he added that, though your reading too much the Holy Scriptures brought some clouds in your mind, yet when you were with him, you always ended by yielding to the sense given by our holy Church. This did not prevent me from desiring to have you in my place during my absence, and I hope we will not regret it, for we are sure that our dear young Chiniquy will never be a traitor to our holy Church.”
These words, which were given with a great solemnity, mixed with the good manners of the most sincere kindness, went through my soul as a two-edged sword. I felt an inexpressible confusion and regret, and, biting my lips, I said: “I have sworn never to interpret the Holy Scriptures except according to the unanimous consent of the Holy Fathers, and with the help of God, I will fulfil my promise. I regret exceedingly to have differed for a moment from you. You are my superior by your age, your science and your piety. Please pardon me that momentary deviation from my duty, and pray that I may be as you are—a faithful and a fearless soldier of our holy Church to the end.”
At that moment the niece of the curate came to tell us that the dinner was ready. We went to the modest, though exceedingly well-spread table, and to my great pleasure, that painful conversation was dropped. We had not sat at the table five minutes, when a poor man knocked at the door and asked a piece of bread for the sake of Jesus and Mary. Mr. Bedard rose from the table, went to the poor stranger, and said: “Come, my friend, sit between me and our dear little Father Chiniquy. Our Saviour was the friend of the poor: he was the father of the widow and the orphan, and we, his priests, must walk after him. Be not troubled; make yourself at home. Though I am the curate of Charlesbourgh, I am your brother. It may be that in heaven you will sit on a higher throne than mine, if you love our Saviour, Jesus Christ, and his holy mother, Mary, more than I do.”
With these words, the best things that were on the table were put by the good old priest on the plate of the poor stranger, who, with some hesitation, finished by doing honor to the excellent viands.
After this, I need not say that Mr. Bedard was charitable to the poor; he always treated them as his best friends. So also was my former curate of St. Charles; and, though his charity was not so demonstrative and fraternal as that of Mr. Bedard, I had never yet seen a poor man go out of the parsonage of St. Charles whose breast ought not to have been filled with gratitude and joy.
Mr. Bedard was as exact as Mr. Perras in confessing once, and sometimes twice, every week; and, rather than fail in that humiliating act, they both, in the absence of their common confessors, and much against my feelings, several times humbly knelt at my youthful feet to confess to me.
These two remarkable men had the same views about the immorality and the want of religion of the greater part of the priests. Both have told me, in their confidential conversations, things about the secret lives of the clergy which would not be believed were I to publish them; and both repeatedly said that auricular confession was the daily source of unspeakable depravities between the confessors and their female, as well as male penitents; but neither of them had sufficient light to conclude from those deeds of depravity that auricular confession was a diabolical institution. They both sincerely believed, as I did then, that the institution was good, necessary and divine, and that it was a source of perdition to so many priests only on account of their want of faith and piety; and principally from their neglect of prayers to the Virgin Mary.
They did not give me those terrible details with a spirit of criticism against our weak brethren. Their intention was to warn me against the dangers, which were as great for me as for others. They both invariably finished those confidences by inviting me more and more to pray constantly to the mother of God, the blessed Virgin Mary, and to watch over myself, and avoid remaining alone with a female penitent, advising me also to treat my own body as my most dangerous enemy, by reducing it into subjection to the law, and crucifying it day and night.
Mr. Bedard had accompanied the Bishop of Quebec in his episcopal visits during many years, and had seen with his eyes the unmentionable plague, which was then, as it is now, devouring the very vitals of the Church of Rome. He very seldom spoke to me of those things without shedding tears of compassion over the guilty priests. My heart and my soul were also filled with an unspeakable sadness when hearing the details of such iniquities. I also felt struck with terror lest I might perish myself, and fall into the same bottomless abyss.
One day I told him what Mr. Perras had revealed to me about the distress of Bishop Plessis, when he had found that only three priests besides Mr. Perras believed in God, in his immense diocese. I asked him if there was not some exaggeration in this report. He answered, after a profound sigh: “My dear young friend, the angel could not find ten just men in Sodom—my fear is that they would not find more among the priests! The more you advance in age, the more you will see that awful truth—Ah! let those who stand, fear, lest they fall!”
After these last words he burst into tears, and went to church to pray at the feet of his wafer god!
The revelations which I received from those worthy priests did not in any way shake my faith in my Church. She even became dearer to me; just as a dear mother gains in the affection and devotedness of a dutiful son as her trials and affliction increase. It seemed to me that after this knowledge it was my duty to do more than I had ever done to show my unreserved devotedness, respect and love to my holy and dear mother, the Church of Rome, out of which (I sincerely believed then) there was no salvation. These revelations became to me, in the good providence of God, like the light-houses raised on the hidden and dreadful rocks of the sea, to warn the pilot during the dark hours of the night to keep at a distance, if he does not want to perish.
Though these two priests professed to have a most profound love and respect for the Holy Scriptures, they gave very little time to their study, and both several times rebuked me for passing too many hours in their perusal; and repeatedly warned me against the habit of constantly appealing to them against certain practices and teachings of our theologians. As good Roman Catholic priests, they had no right to go to the Holy Scriptures alone to know what “the Lord saith!” The traditions of the Church were the fountains of science and light! Both of them often distressed me with the facility with which they buried out of view, under the dark clouds of their traditions, the clearest texts of Holy Scripture which I used to quote in defence of my positions in our conversations and debates.
They both, with an equal zeal, and unfortunately with too much success, persuaded me that it was right for the Church to ask me to swear that I would never interpret the Holy Scriptures, except according to the unanimous consent of the Holy Fathers. But when I showed them that the Holy Fathers had never been unanimous in anything except in differing from one another on almost every subject they had treated; when I demonstrated by our Church historians that some Holy Fathers had very different views from ours on many subjects, they never answered my questions, except by silencing me by the text: “If he does not hear the Church let him be as a heathen or a publican,” and by giving me long lectures on the danger of pride and self-confidence.
Mr. Bedard had many opportunities of giving me his views about the submission which an inferior owes to his superiors. He was of one mind with Mr. Perras and all the theologians who had treated that subject. They both taught me that the inferior must blindly obey his superior, just as the stick must obey the hand that holds it; assuring me at the same time that the inferior was not responsible for the errors he commits when obeying his legitimate superior.
Mr. Bedard and Mr. Perras had a great love for their Saviour, Jesus; but the Jesus Christ whom they loved and respected and adored was not the Christ of the Gospel, but the Christ of the Church of Rome.
Mr. Perras and Mr. Bedard had a great fear, as well as a sincere love for their God, while yet they professed to make him every morning by the act of consecration. They also most sincerely believed and preached that idolatry was one of the greatest crimes a man could commit, but they themselves were every day worshipping an idol of their own creating. They were forced by their Church to renew the awful iniquity of Aaron, with this difference only, that while Aaron made his gods of melted gold, and molded them into a figure of a calf, they made theirs of flour, baked between two heated and well-polished irons, and in the form of a crucified man.
When Aaron spoke of his golden calf to the people, he said: “These are thy gods, O, Israel, which brought thee out of the land of Egypt.” So, likewise, Mr. Bedard and Mr. Perras, showing the wafer to the deluded people, said: “Ecce agnus Die qui tollit peccata mundi!” (“Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world!”)
These two sincere and honest priests placed the utmost confidence also in relics and scapularies. I have heard both say that no fatal accident could happen to one who had a scapulary on his breast—no sudden death would overtake a man who was faithful about keeping those blessed scapularies about his person. Both of them, nevertheless, died suddenly, and that too of the saddest of deaths. Mr. Bedard dropped dead on the 19th of May, 1837, at a great dinner given to his friends. He was in the act of swallowing a glass of that drink of which God says: “Look not upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.”
The Rev. Mr. Perras, sad to say, became a lunatic in 1845, and died the 29th of July, 1847, in a fit of delirium.
Chapter XXIII
THE CHOLERA MORBUS OF 1834—ADMIRABLE COURAGE AND SELF-DENIAL OF THE PRIESTS OF ROME DURING THAT EPIDEMIC.
I had not been more than three weeks the administrator of the parish of Charlesbourgh, when the terrible words, “The cholera morbus is in Quebec!” sent a thrill of terror from one end to the other of Canada.
The cities of Quebec and Montreal, with many surrounding country places, had been decimated in 1832 by the same terrible scourge. Thousands upon thousands had fallen its victims; families in every rank of society had disappeared; for the most skillful physicians of both Europe and America had been unable to stop its march and ravages. But the year 1833 had passed without hearing almost of a single case of that fatal disease: we had all the hope that the justice of God was satisfied, and that He would no more visit us with that horrible plague. In this, however, we were to be sadly disappointed.
Charlesbourgh is a kind of suburb of Quebec, the greatest part of its inhabitants had to go within its walls to sell their goods several times every week. It was evident that we were to be among the first visited by that messenger of a just, but angry God. I will never forget the hour after I had heard: “The cholera is in Quebec!” It was, indeed, a most solemn hour to me. At a glance, I measured the bottomless abyss which was dug under my feet. We had no physicians, and there was no possibility of having any one—for they were to have more work than they could do in Quebec. I saw that I would have to be both the body and the soul-physician of the numberless victims of this terrible disease.
The tortures of the dying, the cries of the widows and of the orphans, the almost unbearable stench of the houses attacked by the scourge, the desolation and the paralyzing fears of the whole people, the fatherless and motherless orphans by whom I was to be surrounded, the starving poor for whom I would have to provide food and clothing when every kind or work and industry was stopped; but above all, the crowds of penitents whom the terrors of an impending death would drag to my feet to make their confessions, that I might forgive their sins, passed through my mind as so many spectres. I fell on my knees, with a heart beating with emotions that no pen can describe, and prostrating myself before my too justly angry God, I cried for mercy; with torrents of tears I asked Him to take away my life as a sacrifice for my people, but to spare them: raising my eyes towards a beautiful statue of Mary, whom I believed to be then the Mother of God, I supplicated her to appease the wrath of her Son.
I was still on my knees, when several knocks at the door told me that some one wanted to speak to me—a young woman was there, bathed in tears and pale as death, who said to me: “My father has just returned from Quebec, and is dying from the cholera—please come quick to hear his confession before he expires!”
No tongue will ever be able to tell half of the horrors which strike the eyes and the mind the first time one enters the house of a man struggling in the agonies of death from cholera. The other diseases seem to attack only one part of the body at once, but the cholera is like a furious tiger, whose sharp teeth and nails tear his victim from head to feet without sparing any part. The hands and the feet, the legs and the arms, the stomach, the breast and the bowels are at once tortured. I had never seen anything so terrific as the fixed eyes of that first victim whom I had to prepare for death. He was already almost as cold as a piece of ice. He was vomiting and ejecting an incredible quantity of a watery and blackish matter, which filled the house with an unbearable smell. With a feeble voice he requested me to hear the confession of his sins, and I ordered the family to withdraw and leave me alone, that they might not hear the sad story of his transgressions. But he had not said five words before he cried out: “Oh my God! what horrible cramps in my leg! For God’s sake, rub it.” And when I had given up hearing his confession to rub the leg, he cried out again: “Oh! what horrible cramps in my arms!—in my feet!—in my shoulders!—in my stomach!” And to the utmost of my capacity and my strength, I rubbed his arms, his feet, his shoulders, his breast, till I felt so exhausted and covered with perspiration, that I feared I should faint. During that time the fetid matter ejected from his stomach, besmeared me almost from head to foot. I called for help, and two strong men continued with me to rub the poor dying man.
It seemed evident that he could not live very long; his sufferings looked so horrible and unbearable! I administered him the sacrament of extreme-unction. But I did not leave the house after that ceremony, as it is the custom of the priests. It was the first time that I had met face to face with that giant which had covered so many nations with desolation and ruin, caused so many torrents of tears to flow. I had heard so much of him! I knew that, till then, nothing had been able to stop his forward march! He had scornfully gone through the obstacles which the most powerful nations had placed before him to retard his progress. He had mocked the art and the science of the most skillful physicians all over the world! In a single step, he had gone from Moscow to Paris!—and in another step he had crossed the bottomless seas which the hands of the Almighty have spread between Europe and America! That king of terrors, after piling in their graves, by millions, the rich and the poor, the old and the young, whom he had met on his march through Asia, Africa, Europe and America, was now before me! Nay, he was torturing, before my eyes, the first victim he had chosen among my people! But the more I felt powerless in the presence of that mighty giant, the more I wanted to see him face to face. I had as a secret pleasure, a holy pride, in daring him. I wanted to tell him: “I do not fear you! You mercilessly attack my people, but with the help of God, in the strength of the One who died on Calvary for me, and who told me that nothing was more sweet and glorious than to give my life for my friends, I will meet and fight you everywhere when you attack any one of those sheep who are dearer to me than my own life!”
Standing by the bedside of the dying man, whilst I rubbed his limbs to alleviate his tortures, I exhorted him to repent. But I closely watched that hand to hand battle—that merciless and unequal struggle between the giant and his poor victim. His agony was long and terrible, for he was a man of great bodily strength. But after several hours of the most frightful pains, he quietly breathed his last. The house was crowded with the neighbors and relations, who, forgetful of the danger of catching the disease, had come to see him. We all knelt and prayed for the departed soul, after which I gave them a few words about the necessity of giving up their sins and keeping themselves ready to die and go at the Master’s call.
I then left that desolated house with feelings of distress which no pen can portray. When I got back to the parsonage, after praying and weeping alone in my closet, I took a bath, and washed myself with vinegar and a mixture of camphor, as a preventive against the epidemic. The rest of the day, till ten at night, was spent in hearing the confessions of a great number of people whom the fear of death had dragged around my confessional box that I might forgive their sins. This hearing of confession was interrupted only at ten o’clock at night, when I was called to the cemetery to bury the first victim of the cholera in Charlesbourgh. A great number of people had accompanied the corpse to his last resting-place: the night was beautiful, the atmosphere balmy, and the moon and stars had never appeared to me so bright. The stillness of the night was broken only by the sobs of the relations and friends of the deceased. It was one of the best opportunities God had ever given me of exhorting the people to repentance. I took for my text: “Therefore, be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh.” The spectacle of that grave, filled by a man who twenty-four hours before, was full of health and life in the midst of his happy family, was speaking more eloquently than the words of my lips, to show that we must be always ready. And never any people entered the threshold of their homes with more solemn thoughts than those to whom I spoke, that night, in the midst of the graveyard.
The history of that day is the history of the forty days which followed—for not a single one of them passed without my being called to visit a victim of the cholera—more than one hundred people were attacked by the terrible disease, nearly forty of whom died!
I cannot sufficiently thank my merciful God for having protected me in such a marvelous way that I had not a single hour of disease during those two months of hard labors and sore trials. I had to visit the sick not only as a priest, but as physician also; for seeing, at first, the absolute impossibility of persuading any physician from Quebec to give up their rich city patients for our more humble farmers, I felt it was my duty to make myself as expert as I could in the art of helping the victims of that cruel and loathsome disease: I studied the best authors on that subject, consulted the most skillful physicians, got a little pharmacy which would have done honor to an old physician, and I gave my care and my medicine gratis. Very soon the good people of Charlesbourgh put as much, if not more confidence, in my medical care, as in any other of the best physicians of the country. More than once, I had to rub the limbs of so many patients in the same day, that the skin of my hands was taken away, and several times the blood come out from the wounds. Dr. Painchaud, one of the ablest physicians of Quebec, who was my personal friend, told me after, that it was a most extraordinary thing that I had not fallen a victim to that disease.
I would never have mentioned what I did, in those never-to-be-forgotten days of the cholera of 1834, when one of the most horrible epidemics which the world has ever seen spread desolation and death almost all over Canada, if I had been alone to work as I did; but I am happy and proud to say that, without a single exception, the French Canadian priests, whose parishes were attacked by that pestilence, did the same. I could name hundreds of them who, during several months, also, day after day and night after night, bravely met and fought the enemy, and fearlessly presented their breasts to its blows. I could even name scores of them who heroically fell and died when facing the foe on that battlefield!
We must be honest and true towards the Roman Catholic priests of Canada. Few men, if even any, have shown more courage and self-denial in the hour of danger than they did. I have seen them at work during the two memorable years of 1832 and 1834, with a courage and self-denial worthy of the admiration of heaven and earth. Though they knew well that the most horrible tortures and death might be the price of their devotedness, I have not known a single one of them who ever shrank before the danger. At the first appeal, in the midst of the darkest and stormiest nights, as well as in the light of the brightest days, they were always ready to leave their warm and comfortable beds to run to the rescue of the sick and dying.
But, shall we conclude from that, as the priests of Rome want us to do, that their religion is the true and divine religion of Christ? Must we believe that because the priests are brave, admirably brave, and die the death of heroes on the battlefields, they are the true, the only priests of Christ, the successors of the apostles—the ministers of the religion out of which there is no salvation? No!
Was it because his religion was the divine and only true one that the millionaire Stephen Gerard, when in 1793 Philadelphia was decimated by a most frightful epidemic, went from house to house, visiting the sick, serving, washing them with his own hands, and even helping to put them into their coffins? I ask it again, is it because his religion was the divine religion of Jesus that that remarkable man, during several months, lived among the dying and the dead, to help them, when his immense fortune allowed him to put a whole world between him and the danger? No; for every one knows that Stephen Gerard was a deist, who did not believe in Christ.
Was it because they followed the true religion that, in the last war between Russia and Turkey, a whole regiment of Turks heroically ran to a sure death to obey the order of their general, who commanded them to charge bayonets on a Russian battery, which was pouring upon them a real hail of bullets and canisters? No! surely no!
These Turks were brave, fearless, heroic soldiers, but nothing more. So the priests of the Pope, who expose themselves in the hour of danger, are brave, fearless, heroic soldiers of the Pope—but they are nothing more.
Was it because they were good Christians that the soldiers of a French regiment, at Austerlitz, consented to be slaughtered to the last, at the head of a bridge where Napoleon had ordered them to remain, with these celebrated words: “Soldiers! stand there and fight to the last; you will all be killed; but you will save the army, and we will gain the day!”
Those soldiers were admirably well disciplined—they loved their flag more than their lives—they knew only one thing in the world: “Obey the command of Napoleon!” They fought like giants and died like heroes. So the priests are a well-disciplined band of soldiers; they are trained to love their church more than their own life; they also know only one thing: “Obey your superior, the Pope!” they fight the battle of their church like giants, and they die like heroes!
Who has not read the history of the renowned French man-of-war, the “Tonnant?” When she had lost her masts, and was so crippled by the red bullets of the English fleet that there was no possibility of escape, what did the soldiers and mariners of that ship answer to the cries of “Surrender!” which came from the English admiral? “We die, but do not surrender!”
They all went to the bottom of the sea, and perished rather than see their proud banners fall into the hands of the foe!
Is it because those French warriors were good Christians that they preferred to die rather than give up their flag? No! But they knew that the eyes of their country, the eyes of the whole world were upon them. Life became to them a trifle: it became nothing when placed in the balance against what they considered their honor, and the honor of their fair and noble country;—nay, life became an undesirable thing, when it was weighted against the glory of dying at the post of duty and honor.
So it is with the priest of Rome. He knows that the eyes of his people, and of his superiors—the eyes of his whole church are upon him. He knows that if he shrinks in the hour of danger, he will forever lose their confidence and their esteem; that he will lose his position and live the life of a degraded man! Death seems preferable to such a life.
Besides, it is not only in the gospel of Christ that we read: “This is my commandment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you.” “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Our great God has written these words in the hearts of all the children of Adam. He has written them in the very heart of humanity. These words are engraven in the hearts of the Turks of Constantinople, as well as in the hearts of the priests of Canada. They are engraven in the hearts of the Esquimaux of the icy regions of Greenland, as well as in the hearts of the refined citizens of Paris.
Hence, in the midst of the wreck of almost all the other virtues, we find a spark of that sacred fire, kept alive, everywhere. For again, God Almighty himself has breathed that spark of fire and life into the heart of man when he made him in his own image. We find that spark of holy and inextinguishable fire of love and life even among the most depraved nations. For that nation must infallibly perish and disappear the day it has lost it entirely. This is the reason why, even among the degraded idolaters of ancient and modern times, we find acts of admirable devotedness and self-sacrifice. Read the history of the Iroquois, written by the Jesuit Father, Charlevoix, and you will see how the savages of our forests often raised themselves to the very stature of giants at the approach of death, when the honor of their nations, or the interests of their friends, or their own reputation was at stake. No men have ever carried the contempt of pain and death so far, perhaps, as the heathen Iroquois of this continent.
Yes! let the people of Canada read the history of “La Nouvelle France,” and they will cease from presenting to us the courage of their priests as an indication of the divinity of their religion. For there they will see that the worshippers of the wooden gods of the forests have equalled, if not surpassed, in courage and self-denial in the face of death, the courage and self-denial of the priests of the wafer god of Rome.
Chapter XXIV
I AM NAMED A VICAR OF ST. ROCH, QUEBEC CITY—THE REV. MR. TETU—TERTULLIAN—GENERAL CARGO—THE SEAL SKINS.
In the beginning of September, 1834, the Bishop Synaie gave me the enviable position of one of the vicars of St. Roch, Quebec, where the Rev. Mr. Tetu had been curate for about a year. He was one of the seventeen children of Mr. Francis Tetu, one of the most respectable and wealthy farmers of St. Thomas. Such was the amiability of character of my new curate, that I never saw him in bad humor a single time during the four years that it was my fortune to work under him in that parish. And although in my daily intercourse with him I sometimes unintentionally sorely tried his patience, I never heard an unkind word proceed from his lips.
He was a fine-looking man, tall and well-built, large forehead, blue eyes, a remarkably fine nose and rosy lips, only a little too feminine. His skin was very white for a man, but his fine short whiskers, which he knew so well how to trim, gave to his whole mien a manly and pleasant appearance.
He was the finest penman I ever saw; and by far the most skillful skater of the country. Nothing could surpass the agility and perfection with which he used to write his name on the ice with his skates. He was also fond of fast horses, and knew, to perfection, how to handle the most unmanageable steeds of Quebec. He really looked like Phaeton when, in a light and beautiful buggy, he held the reins of the fiery coursers which the rich bourgeois of the city liked to trust to him once or twice a week, that he might take a ride with one of his vicars to the surrounding country. Mr. Tetu was also fond of fine cigars and choice chewing tobacco. Like the late Pope Pius IX., he also constantly used the snuff-box. He would have been a pretty good preacher, had he not been born with a natural horror of books. I very seldom saw in his hands any other books than his breviary, and some treatises on the catechism: a book in his hands had almost the effect of opium on one’s brains, it put him to sleep. One day, when I had finished reading a volume of Tertullian, he felt much interested in what I said of the eloquence and learning of that celebrated Father of the Church, and expressed a desire to read it. I smilingly asked him if he were more than usual in need of sleep. He seriously answered me that he really wanted to read that work, and that he wished to begin its study just then. I lent him the volume, and he went immediately to his room in order to enrich his mind with the treasures of eloquence and wisdom of that celebrated writer of the primitive church. Half an hour after, suspecting what would occur, I went down to his room, and noiselessly opening the door, I found my dear Mr. Tetu sleeping on his soft sofa, and snoring to his heart’s content, while Tertullian was lying on the floor! I ran to the rooms of the other vicars, and told them: “Come and see how our good curate is studying Tertullian!”
There is no need to say that we had a hearty laugh at his expense. Unfortunately, the noise we made awoke him, and we then asked him: “What do you think of Tertullian?”
He rubbed his eyes, and answered, “Well! well! what is the matter? Are you not four very wicked men to laugh at the human frailties of your curate?” We for awhile called him Father Tertullian.
Another day he requested me to give him some English lessons. For, though my knowledge of English was then very limited, I was the only one of five priests who understood and could speak a few words of that language. I answered him that it would be as pleasant as it was easy for me to teach the little I knew of it, and I advised him to subscribe for the “Quebec Gazette,” that I might profit by the interesting matter which that paper used to give to its readers; and at the same time I should teach him to read and understand its contents.
The third time that I went to his room to give him his lesson, he gravely asked me: “Have you ever seen ‘General Cargo?’”
I was at first puzzled by that question, and answered him: “I never heard that there was any military officer by the name of ‘General Cargo.’ How do you know that there is such a general in the world?”
He quickly answered: “There is surely a ‘General Cargo’ somewhere in England or America, and he must be very rich; for see the large number of ships which bear his name, and have entered the port of Quebec these last few days!”
Seeing the strange mistake, and finding his ignorance so wonderful, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I could not answer a word, but cried at the top of my voice: “General Cargo! General Cargo!”
The poor curate, stunned by my laughing, looked at me in amazement. But, unable to understand its cause, he asked me: “Why do you laugh?” But the more stupefied he was, the more I laughed, unable to say anything but “General Cargo! General Cargo!”
The three other vicars, hearing the noise, hastily came from their rooms to learn its cause, and get a good laugh also. But I was so completely beside myself with laughing, that I could not answer their questions in any other way than by crying, “General Cargo! General Cargo!”
The puzzled curate tried then to give them some explanation of that mystery, saying with the greatest naivete: “I cannot see why our little Father Chiniquy is laughing so convulsively. I put him a very simple question when he entered my room to give me my English lesson. I simply asked him if he had ever seen ‘General Cargo,’ who has sent so many ships to our ports these last few days, and added that that general must be very rich, since he has so many ships on the sea!” The three vicars saw the point, and without being able to answer him a word, they burst into such fits of laughter that the poor curate felt more than ever puzzled.
“Are you crazy?” he said, “What makes you laugh so when I put to you such a simple question? Do you not know anything about that ‘General Cargo,’ who surely must live somewhere, and be very rich, since he sends so many vessels to our port that they fill nearly two columns of the ‘Quebec Gazette?’”
These remarks of the poor curate brought such a new storm of irrepressible laughter from us all as we never experienced in our whole lives. It took us some time to sufficiently master our feelings to tell him that “General Cargo” was not the name of any individual, but only the technical words to say that the ships were laden with general goods.
The next morning the young and jovial vicars gave the story to their friends, and the people of Quebec had a hearty laugh at the expense of our friend. From that time we called our good curate by the name of “General Cargo,” and he was so good-natured that he joined with us in joking at his own expense. It would require too much space were I to publish all the comic blunders of that good man, so I shall give only one more.
On one of the coldest days in January, 1835, a merchant of seal skins came to the parsonage with some of the best specimens of his merchandise, that we might buy them to make overcoats. For in those days the overcoats of buffalo or raccoon skins were not yet thought of. Our richest men used to have beaver overcoats, but the rest of the people had to be contented with Canada seal skins; a beaver overcoat could not be had for less than $200.
Mr. Tetu was anxious to buy his skins; his only difficulty was the high price asked by the merchant. For nearly an hour he had turned over and over again the beautiful skins, and had spent all his eloquence on trying to bring down their price, when the sexton arrived, and told him, respectfully: “Mr. le Cure, there are a couple of people waiting for you with a child to be baptized.” “Very well,” said the curate, “I will go immediately;” and addressing the merchant, he said: “Please wait a moment; I will not be long absent.”
In two minutes after, the curate had donned the surplice, and was going at full speed through the prayers and ceremonies of Baptism. For, to be fair and true towards Mr. Tetu (and I might say the same thing of the greatest part of the priests I have known), it must be acknowledged that he was very exact in all his ministerial duties; yet he was in this case going through them by steam, if not by electricity. He was soon at the end. But, after the sacrament was administered, we were enjoined, then, to repeat an exhortation to the godfathers and godmothers, from the ritual which we all knew by heart, and which began with these words: “Godfather and godmothers: you have brought a sinner to the church, but you will take back a saint!”
As the vestry was full of people who had come to confess, Mr. Tetu thought that it was his duty to speak with more emphasis than usual in order to have his instructions heard and felt by everyone. But instead of saying, “Godfather and godmother, you have brought a sinner to the church, you will take back a saint!” he, with great force and unction, said: “Godfather and godmother, you have brought a sinner to the church, you will take back a seal skin!”
No words can describe the uncontrollable burst and roar of laughter among the crowd, when they heard that the baptized child was just changed into a “seal skin.” Unable to contain themselves, or do any serious thing, they left the vestry to go home and laugh to their heart’s content.
But the most comic part of this blunder was the sang froid and the calmness with which Mr. Tetu, turning towards me, said: “Will you be kind enough to tell me the cause of that indecent and universal laughing in the midst of such a solemn action as the baptism of this child?”
I tried to tell him his blunder; but for some time it was impossible to express myself. My laughing propensities were so much excited, and the convulsive laughter of the whole multitude made such a noise, that he would not have heard me had I been able to answer him. It was only when the greatest part of the crowd had left that I could reveal to Mr. Tetu that he had changed the baptized baby into a “seal skin!” He heartily laughed at his own blunder, and calmly went back to buy his seal skins. The next day the story went from house to house in Quebec, and caused everywhere such a laugh as they had not had since the birth of “General Cargo.”
That priest was a good type of the greatest part of the priests of Canada: Fine fellows—social and jovial gentlemen—as fond of smoking their cigars as of chewing their tobacco and using their snuff; fond of fast horses; repeating the prayers of their breviary and going through the performance of their ministerial duties with as much speed as possible. With a good number of books in their libraries, but knowing nothing of them but the titles; possessing the Bible, but ignorant of its contents; believing that they had the light, when they were in awful darkness; preaching the most monstrous doctrines as the gospel of truth; considering themselves the only true Christians in the world, when they worshipped the most contemptible idols made with hands. Absolutely ignorant of the Word of God, while they proclaimed and believed themselves to be the lights of the world. Unfortunate, blind men, leading the blind into the ditch!
Chapter XXV
SIMONY—STRANGE AND SACRILEGIOUS TRAFFIC IN THE SO-CALLED BODY AND BLOOD OF CHRIST—ENORMOUS SUMS OF MONEY MADE BY THE SALE OF MASSES—THE SOCIETY OF THREE MASSES ABOLISHED AND THE SOCIETY OF ONE MASS ESTABLISHED.
In one of the pleasant hours which we used invariably to pass after dinner, in the comfortable parlor of our parsonage, one of the vicars, Mr. Louis Parent, said to the Rev. Mr. Tetu: “I have handed this morning more than one hundred dollars to the bishop, as the price of the masses which my pious penitents have requested me to celebrate, the greatest part of them for the souls in purgatory. Every week I have to do the same thing, just as each of you, and every one of the hundreds of priests in Canada have to do. Now, I would like to know how the bishops can dispose of all these masses, and what they do with the large sums of money which go into their hands from every part of the country to have masses said. This question vexes me, and I would like to know your mind about it.”
The good curate answered in a joking manner, as usual: “If the masses paid into our hands, which go to the bishop, are all celebrated, purgatory must be emptied twice a day. For I have calculated that the sums given for those masses in Canada cannot be less than $4,000 every day, and, as there are three times as many Catholics in the United States as here, and as those Irish Catholics are more devoted to the souls in purgatory than the Canadians, there is no exaggeration in saying that they give as much as our people; $16,000 at least will thus be given every day in these two countries to throw cold water on the burning flames of that fiery prison. Now, these $16,000 given every day, multiplied by the 365 days of the year, make the handsome sum of $5,840,000 paid for that object in low masses, every year. But, as we all know, that more than twice as much is paid for high masses than for the low, it is evident that more than $10,000,000 are expended to help the souls of purgatory end their tortures every twelve months, in North America alone. If those millions of dollars do not benefit the good souls in purgatory, they at all events are of some benefit to our pious bishops and holy popes, in whose hands the greatest part must remain till the day of judgment. For there is not a sufficient number of priests in the world to say all the masses which are paid for by the people. I do not know any more than you do about what the bishops do with those millions of dollars; they keep that among their secret good works. But it is evident there is a serious mystery here. I do not mean to say that the Yankee and the Canadian bishops swallow those huge piles of dollars as sweet oranges; or that they are a band of big swindlers, who employ smaller ones, called Revs. Tetu, Baillargeon, Chiniquy, Parent, etc., to fill their treasuries. But, if you want to know my mind on that delicate subject, I will tell you that the least we think and speak of it, the better it is for us. Every time my thoughts turn to those streams of money which day and night flow from the small purses of our pious and unsuspecting people into our hands, and from ours into those of the bishops, I feel as if I were choking. If I am at the table I can neither eat nor drink, and if in my bed at night, I cannot sleep. But as I like to eat, drink and sleep, I reject those thoughts as much as possible, and I advise you to do the same thing.”
The other vicars seemed inclined, with Mr. Parent, to accept that conclusion; but, as I had not said a single word, they requested me to give them my views on that vexatious subject, which I did in the following brief words:
“There are many things in our holy church which look like dark spots; but I hope that this is due only to our ignorance. No doubt these very things would look as white as snow, were we to see and know them just as they are. Our holy bishops, with the majority of the Catholic priests of the United States and Canada, cannot be that band of thieves and swindlers whose phantoms chill the blood of our worthy curate. So long as we do not know what the bishops do with those numberless masses paid into their hands, I prefer to believe that they act as honest men.”
I had hardly said these few words, when I was called to visit a sick parishioner, and the conversation was ended.
Eight days later, I was alone in my room, reading the “L’ami de la Religion et du Roi,” a paper which I received from Paris, edited by Picot. My curiosity was not a little excited, when I read, at the head of a page, in large letters: “Admirable Piety of the French Canadian People.” The reading of that page made me shed tears of shame, and shook my faith to its foundation. Unable to contain myself, I ran to the rooms of the curate and the vicars, and said to them: “A few days ago we tried, but in vain, to find what becomes of the large sums of money which pass from the people, through our hands, into those of the bishop, to say masses; but here is the answer, I have the key to that mystery, which is worthy of the darkest ages of the Church. I wish I were dead, rather than see with my own eyes such abominations.” We then read that long chapter, the substance of which was that the venerable bishops of Quebec had sent not less than one hundred thousand francs, at different times, to the priests of Paris, that they might say four hundred thousand masses at five cents each! Here we had the sad evidence that our bishops had taken four hundred thousand francs from our poor people, under the pretext of saving the souls from purgatory! That article fell upon us as a thunderbolt. For a long time we looked at each other without being able to utter a single word; our tongues were as paralyzed by our shame; we felt as vile criminals when detected on the spot.
At last, Baillargeon, addressing the curate, said: “Is it possible that our bishops are swindlers, and we, their tools to defraud our people? What would that people say, if they knew that not only we do not say the masses for which they constantly fill our hands with their hard-earned money, but that we send those masses to be said in Paris for five cents! What will our good people think of us all when they know that our bishop pockets twenty cents out of each mass they ask us to celebrate according to their wishes.”
The curate answered: “It is very lucky that the people do not know that sharp operation of our bishops, for they would surely throw us all into the river. Let us keep that shameful trade as secret as possible. For what is the crime of simony if this be not an instance of it?”
I replied: “How can you hope to keep that traffic of the body and blood of Christ a secret, when not less than 40,000 copies of this paper are circulated in France, and more than 100 copies come to the United States and Canada? The danger is greater than you suspect; it is even at our doors. Is it not on account of such public and undeniable crimes and vile tricks of the clergy of France that the French people in general, not only have lost almost every vestige of religion, but, not half a century ago, condemned all the priests and bishops of France to death as public malefactors?
“But that sharp mercantile operation of our bishops takes a still darker color, when we consider that those ‘five-cent masses’ which are said in Paris are not worth a cent. For who among us is ignorant of the fact that the greatest part of the priests of Paris are infidels, and that many of them live publicly with concubines? Would our people put their money in our hands if we were honest enough to tell them that their masses would be said for five cents in Paris by such priests? Do we not deceive them when we accept their money, under the well understood condition that we shall offer the holy sacrifice according to their wishes? But, instead of that, we get it sent to France, to be disposed of in such a criminal way. But, if you allow me to speak a little more, I have another strange fact to consider with you, which is closely connected with this simonical operation.”
“Yes! speak, speak!” answered all four priests.
I then resumed: “Do you remember how you were enticed into the ‘Three Masses Society?’ Who among us had the idea that the new obligations we were then assuming were such that the greatest part of the year would be spent in saying masses for the priests, and that it would thus become impossible to satisfy the pious demands of the people who support us? We already belonged to the societies of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of St. Michael, which raised to five the number of masses we had to celebrate for the dead priests. Dazzled by the idea that we would have two thousand masses said for us at our death, we bit at the bait presented to us by the bishop as hungry fishes, without suspecting the hook. The result is that we have had to say 165 masses for the 33 priests who died during the past year, which means that each of us has to pay $41.00 to the bishop for masses which he has had said in Paris for $8.00. Each mass which we celebrate for a dead priest here, is a mass which the bishop sends to Paris, on which he gains twenty cents. Then the more priests he enrolls in his society of ‘Three Masses,’ the more twenty cents he pockets from us and from our pious people. Hence his admirable zeal to enroll every one of us. It is not the value of the money which our bishop so skilfully got from our hands which I consider, but I feel desolate when I see that by these societies we become the accomplices of his simonical trade. For, being forced the greatest part of the year to celebrate the holy sacrifice for the benefit of the dead priests, we cannot celebrate the masses for which we are daily paid by the people, and are therefore forced to transfer them into the hands of the bishop, who sends them to Paris, after spiriting away twenty cents from each of them. However, why should we lament over the past? It is no more within our reach. There is no remedy for it. Let us then learn from the past errors how to be wise in the future.”
Mr. Tetu answered: “You have shown us our error. Now, can you indicate any remedy?”
“I cannot say that the remedy we have in hand is one of those patented medicines which will cure all the diseases of our sickly church in Canada, but I hope it will help to bring a speedy convalescence. That remedy is to abolish the society of ‘Three Masses,’ and to establish another of ‘One Mass,’ which will be said at the death of every priest. In that way it is true that instead of 2,000 masses, we shall have only 1,200 at our death. But if 1,200 masses do not open to us the gates of heaven, it is because we shall be in hell. By that reduction we shall be enabled to say more masses at the request of our people, and shall diminish the number of five-cent masses said by the priests of Paris at the request of our bishop. If you take my advice, we will immediately name the Rev. Mr. Tetu president of the new society, Mr. Parent will be its treasurer, and I consent to act as your secretary, if you like it. When our society is organized, we will send our resignations to the president of the other society, and we shall immediately address a circular to all the priests, to give them the reason for the change, and respectfully ask them to unite with us in this new society, in order to diminish the number of masses which are celebrated by the five-cent priests of Paris.”
Within two hours the new society was fully organized, the reasons of its formation written in a book, and our names were sent to the bishop, with a respectful letter informing him that we were no more members of the ‘Three Masses Society.’ That letter was signed, “C. Chiniquy, Secretary.” Three hours later, I received the following note from the bishop’s palace:
“My Lord Bishop of Quebec wants to see you immediately upon important affairs. Do not fail to come without delay. Truly yours,
“CHARLES F. CAZEAULT, Sec’y.”
I showed the missive to the curate and the vicars, and told them: “A big storm is raging on the mountain; this is the first peal of thunder—the atmosphere looks dark and heavy. Pray for me that I may speak and act as an honest and fearless priest, when in the presence of the bishop.”
In the first parlor of the bishop’s palace I met my personal friend, Secretary Cazeault. He said to me: “My dear Chiniquy, you are sailing on a rough sea—you must be a lucky mariner if you escape the wreck. The bishop is very angry at you; but be not discouraged, for the right is on your side.” He then kindly opened the door of the bishop’s parlor, and said: “My lord, Mr. Chiniquy is here, waiting for your orders.”
“Let him come, sir,” answered the bishop.
I entered and threw myself at his feet, as it is the usage of the priests. But, stepping backward, he told me in a most excited manner: “I have no benediction for you till you give me a satisfactory explanation of your strange conduct.”
I arose to my feet and said: “My lord, what do you want from me?”
“I want you, sir, to explain to me the meaning of this letter signed by you as secretary of a new-born society called, ‘One Mass Society.’” At the same time he showed me my letter.
I answered him: “My lord, the letter is in good French—your lordship must have understood it well. I cannot see how any explanation on my part could make it clearer.”
“What I want to know from you, is what you mean, and what is your object in leaving the old and respectable ‘Three Masses Society?’ Is it not composed of your bishops and of all the priests of Canada? Did you not find yourself in sufficiently good company? Do you object to the prayers said for the souls in purgatory?”
I replied: “My lord, I will answer by revealing to your lordship a fact which has not sufficiently attracted your attention. The great number of masses which we have to say for the souls of the dead priests makes it impossible for us to say the masses for which the people pay into our hands; we are, then, forced to transfer this money into your hands; and then instead of having these holy sacrifices offered by the good priests of Canada, your lordship has recourse to the priests of France, where you get them said for five cents. We see two great evils in this: First—Our masses are said by priests in whom we have not the least confidence; and though the masses they say are very cheap, they are too dearly purchased; for between you and me, we can say that, with very few exceptions, the masses said by the priests of France, particularly of Paris, are not worth one cent. The second evil is still greater, for in our eyes, it is one of the greatest crimes which our holy church has always condemned, the crime of simony.”
“Do you mean to say,” indignantly replied the bishop, “that I am guilty of the crime of simony?”
“Yes! my lord; it is just what I mean to say, and I do not see how your lordship does not understand that the trade in masses by which you gain 400,000 francs on a spiritual merchandise, which you get for 100,000, is not simony.”
“You insult me! You are the most impudent man I ever saw. If you do not retract what you have said, I will suspend and excommunicate you!”
“My suspension and my excommunication will not make the position of your lordship much better. For the people will know that you have excommunicated me because I protested against your trade in masses. They will know that you pocket twenty cents on every mass, and that you get them said for five cents in Paris by priests, the greatest part of whom live with concubines, and you will see that there will be only one voice in Canada to bless me for my protest and to condemn you for your simoniacal trade on such a sacred thing as the holy and tremendous sacrifice of the body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ.”
I uttered these words with such perfect calmness that the bishop saw that I had not the least fear of his thunders. He began to pace the room, and he heaped on my devoted head all the epithets by which I could learn that I was an insolent, rebellious and dangerous priest.
“It is evident to me,” said he, “that you aim to be a reformer, a Luther, au petit pied, in Canada. But you will never be anything else than a monkey!”
I saw that my bishop was beside himself, and that my perfect calmness added to his irritation. I answered him: “If Luther had never done anything worse than I do to-day, he ought to be blessed by God and man. I respectfully request your lordship to be calm. The subject on which I speak to you is more serious than you think. Your lordship, by asking twenty-five cents for a mass which can be said for five cents, does a thing which you would condemn if it were done by another man. You are digging under your own feet, and under the feet of your priests the same abyss in which the Church of France nearly perished, not half a century ago. You are destroying with your own hands every vestige of religion in the hearts of the people, who will sooner or later know it. I am your best friend, your most respectful priest, when I fearlessly tell you this truth before it is too late. Your lordship knows that he has not a priest who loves and cherishes him more than I do—God knows, it is because I love and respect you, as my own father, that I profoundly deplore the illusions which prevent you from seeing the terrible consequences that will follow, if our pious people learn that you abuse their ignorance and their good faith, by making them pay twenty-five cents for a thing which costs only five. Woe to your lordship! Woe to me, woe to our holy church, the day that our people know that in our holy religion the blood of Christ is turned into merchandise to fill the treasury of the bishops and pope!”
It was evident that these last words, said with most perfect self-possession, had not all been lost. The bishop had become calmer. He answered me: “You are young and without experience: your imagination is easily fed with phantoms. When you know a little more, you will change your mind and will have more respect for your superiors. I hope your present error is only a momentary one. I could punish you for this freedom with which you have dared to speak to your bishop, but I prefer to warn you to be more respectful and obedient in future. Though I deplore for your sake that you have requested me to take away your name from the ‘Three Masses Society,’ you and the four simpletons who have committed the same act of folly are the only losers in the matter. Instead of two thousand masses said for the deliverance of your souls from the flames of purgatory, you will have only twelve hundred. But, be sure of it, there is too much wisdom and true piety in my clergy to follow your example. You will be left alone, and, I fear, covered with ridicule. For they will call you the ‘little reformer.’”
I answered the bishop: “I am young, it is true, but the truths I have said to your lordship are as old as the gospel. I have such confidence in the infinite merits of the holy sacrifice of the mass, that I sincerely believe that twelve hundred masses said by good priests are enough to cleanse my soul and extinguish the flames of purgatory. But, besides, I prefer twelve hundred masses said by one hundred sincere Canadian priests, to a million said by the five-cent priests of Paris.”
These last words, spoken with a tone half serious, half jocose, brought a change on the face of my bishop. I thought it was a good moment to get my benediction and take leave of him. I took my hat, knelt at his feet, obtained his blessing and left.
XXVI. CONTINUATION OF THE TRADE IN MASSES
The hour of my absence had been one of anxiety for the curate and the vicars. But my prompt return filled them with joy.
“What news!” they all exclaimed.
“Good news,” I answered; “the battle has been fierce but short. We have gained the day; and if we are only true to ourselves, another great victory is in store for us. The bishop is so sure that we are the only ones who think of that reform, that he will not move a finger to prevent the other priests from following us. This security will make our success infallible. But we must not lose a moment. Let us address our circular to every priest in Canada.”
One hour later there were more than twenty writers at work, and before twenty-four hours, more than three hundred letters were carried to all the priests, giving them the reasons why we should try, by all fair means, to put an end to the shameful simoniacal trade in masses which was going on between Canada and France.
The week was scarcely ended, when letters came from nearly all the curates and vicars to the bishop, respectfully requesting him to withdraw his name from “The Society of the Three Masses.” Only fifty refused to comply with our request.
Our victory was more complete than we had expected. But the bishop of Quebec, hoping to regain his lost ground, immediately wrote to the bishop of Montreal, my Lord Telemesse, to come to his help and show us the enormity of the crime we had committed, in rebelling against the will of our ecclesiastical superiors.
A few days later, to my great dismay, I received a short and very cold note from the bishop’s secretary, telling me that their lordships, the bishops of Montreal and Quebec, wanted to see me at the palace, without delay. I had never seen the bishop of Montreal, and my surprise and disappointment were great in finding myself in the presence of a man, my idea of whom was of gigantic proportions, when in reality he was very small. But I felt exceedingly well pleased by the admirable mixture of firmness, intelligence and honesty of his whole demeanor. His eyes were piercing as the eagle’s; but when fixed on me, I saw in them the marks of a noble and honest heart.
The motions of his head were rapid, his sentences short, and he seemed to know only one line—the straight one—when approaching a subject or dealing with a man. He had the merited reputation of being one of the most learned and eloquent men of Canada. The bishop of Quebec had remained on his sofa and left the bishop of Montreal to receive me. I fell at his feet and asked his blessing, which he gave me in the most cordial way. Then, putting his hand upon my shoulder, he said in a Quaker style: “Is it possible that thou art Chiniquy—that young priest who makes so much noise? How can such a small man make so much noise?”
There being a smile on his countenance as he uttered these words, I saw at once that there was no anger or bad feeling in his heart. I replied: “My lord, do you not know that the most precious pearls and perfumes are put up in the smallest vases?”
The bishop saw that this was a compliment to his address; he smilingly replied: “Well, well, if thou art a noisy priest, thou art not a fool. But tell me, why dost thou want to destroy our ‘Three Mass Society’ and establish that new one on its ruins, in spite of thy superiors?”
“My lord, my answer will be as respectful, short and plain as possible. I have left the ‘Three Mass Society’ because it was my right to do it, without anybody’s permission. I hope our venerable Canadian bishops do not wish to be served by slaves!”
“I do not say,” replied the bishop, “that thou wert bound in conscience to remain in the ‘Three Mass Society;’ but, can I know why thou hast left such a respectable association, at the head of which thou seest thy bishops and the most venerable priests in Canada?”
“I will again be plain in my answer, my lord. If your lordship wants to go to hell with your venerable priests by spiriting away twenty cents from every one of our honest and pious penitents for masses which you get said for five, by bad priests in Paris, I will not follow you. Moreover, if your lordship wants to be thrown into the river by the furious people, when they know how long and how cunningly we have cheated them with our simoniacal trade in masses, I do not want to follow you into the cold stream.”
“Well, well!” answered the bishop, “let us drop that matter forever.”
He uttered this short sentence with such an evidence of sincerity and honesty, that I saw he really meant it. He had, at a glance, seen that his ground was untenable, in the presence of priests who knew their rights and had a mind to stand by them.
My joy was great indeed at such a prompt and complete victory. I again fell at the bishop’s feet and asked his benediction before taking leave of him. I then left to go and tell the curates and vicars the happy issue of my interview with the bishop of Montreal.
From that time till now, at the death of every priest, the Clerical Press never failed mentioning whether the deceased priest belonged to the “Three” or “One Mass Society.”
We had, to some extent, diminished the simoniacal and infamous trade in masses, but unfortunately we had not destroyed it; and I know that to-day it has revived. Since I left the Church of Rome, the bishops of Quebec have raised the “Three Mass Society” from its grave.
It is a public fact, that no priest dare deny, that the trade in masses is still conducted on a large scale with France. There are in Paris and other large cities in that country public agencies to carry on that shameful traffic. It is, generally, in the hands of booksellers or merchants of church ornaments. Every year their houses send a large number of prospectuses through France and Belgium and other Catholic countries, in which they say that, in order to help the priests, who having received money for their masses, don’t know where to have them said, they offer a premium of twenty-five or thirty per cent. to those who will send them the surplus of the money they have in hand, to offer the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
The priests who have such surplus, tempted by that premium, which is usually paid with a watch or chain, or a chalice, disgorge a part or the whole of the large sums they possess into the hands of the pious merchants, who take this money and use it as they please.
But they never pay the masses in money, they give only merchandise. For instance, that priest will receive a watch if he promises to celebrate one or two hundred masses, or a chalice to celebrate three or four hundred masses. I have, here in hand, several of the contracts or promissory notes sent by those merchants of masses to the priests. The public will, no doubt, read the following documents with interest. They were handed me by a priest lately converted from the Church of Rome:
RUE DE REIMES—PARIS.
Ant. Levesques, editor of the works of Mr. Dufriche—Desgenettes. Cure of Notre Dame des Victoires.
Delivered to the Rev. Mr. Camerle, curate of Ansibeau (Basses Alpes).
PARIS, October 12, 1874.
F. 10 metres of Satin cloth, at 22 francs 220. 8 ” of merino, all wool 123. Month of May 2. History of Mary Christina 1.40 Life of St. Stanislas Koska 2. Meditations of the Soul 4. Jesus Christ, the light of the world 2. Packing and freight 9.30 ——— Total 363.70
MR. CURATE: We have the honor of informing you that the packages containing the articles you have ordered on the 4th of October, were shipped on the 12th of October, to Digne, where we respectfully request you to go and ask for them. For the payment of these articles, we request you to say the following masses:
58 ad intentionem of the giver, for the discharge of Rev. Mr. Montet.
58 ad intentionem of the givers, for the discharge of Rev. Mr. Hœg.
100-188 for the dead, for the discharge of Rev. Mr. Wod.
MR. CURATE: Will you be kind enough to say or have said all those masses in the shortest time possible, and answer these Rev’d gentlemen, if they make any inquiries about the acquittal of those masses.
Respectfully yours,
(Signed) ANT. LEVESQUES.
PARIS, Nov. 11, 1874.
REV. MR. CAMERLE: We have the honor of addressing you the invoice of what we forwarded to you on the 12th of October. On account we have put to your credit 188 masses. We respectfully request you get said to the following intentions:
73 for the dead, to the acquittal of Rev. Mr. } Watters,
70 pro defucto, } For the discharge
20 ad intentionem donatis, } of Rev. Mr. C——
13 ad intentionem donatis, }
——
176
MR. CURATE: Be kind enough to say these masses or have them said as soon as possible, and answer the reverend gentlemen who may inquire from you about their acquittal. The 188 masses mentioned in our letter of the 3rd inst., added to the 176 here mentioned, make 364 francs, the value of the goods sent you. We thought you would like to have the pamphlets of propaganda we address you.
Respectfully yours,
Signed: ANT. LEVESQUES.
Hence it is that priests, in France and elsewhere, have gold watches, rich house furniture, and interesting books, purchased with the money paid by our poor deluded Canadian Catholics to their priests for masses which are turned into mercantile commodities in other places. It would be difficult to say who makes the best bargain between those merchants of masses, the priests to whom they are sold, or those from whom they are bought at a discount of twenty-five to thirty per cent.
The only evident thing is the cruel deception practiced on the credulity and ignorance of the Roman Catholics by their priests and bishops. To-day, the houses of Dr. Anthony Levesques in Paris are the most accredited in France. In 1874, the house of Mesme was doing an immense business with its stock of masses, but in an evil day, the Government suspected that the number of masses paid into their hands, exceeded the number of those celebrated through their hired priests. The suspicion soon turned into certainty when the books were examined. It was then found that an incredible number of masses, which were to empty the large room of purgatory, never reached their destination, but only filled the purse of the Parisian mass merchant; and so the unlucky Mesme was unceremoniously sent to the penitentiary to meditate on the infinite merits of the holy sacrifice of the mass, which had been engulfed in his treasures.
But these facts are not known by the poor Roman Catholics of Canada, who are fleeced more and more by their priests, under the pretext of saving souls from purgatory.
A new element of success in the large swindling operations of the Canadian priests has lately been discovered. It is well known that in the greater part of the United States, the poor deluded Irish pay one dollar to their priest, instead of a shilling, for a low mass. Those priests whose conscience are sufficiently elastic (as is often the case), keep the money without ever thinking of having the masses said, and soon get rich. But there are some whose natural honesty shrinks from the idea of stealing; but unable to celebrate all the masses paid for and requested at their hands, they send the dollars to some of their clerical friends in Canada, who, of course, prefer these one dollar masses to the twenty-five cent ones paid by the French Canadians. However, they keep that secret and continue to fill their treasury.
There are, however, many priests in Canada who think it less evil to keep those large sums of money in their own hands, than to give them to the bishops to traffic with the merchants of Paris. At the end of one of the ecclesiastical retreats in the seminary of St. Sulpice in 1850, Bishop Bourget told us that one of the priests who had lately died, had requested him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to ask every priest to take a share in the $4,000 which he had received for masses he had never said. We refused to grant him that favor, and those $4,000 received by that priest, like the millions put into the hands of other priests and the bishops, turned to be nothing less than an infamous swindling operation under the mask of religion.
To understand what the priests of Rome are, let the readers note what is said in the Roman Catholic Bible, of the priest of Babylon:
“And King Astyges was gathered to his fathers, and Cyrus, of Persia, received his kingdom, and Daniel conversed with the king, and was honored above all his friends. Now the Babylonians had an idol, called Bel, and there were spent upon him, every day, twelve measures of fine flour, and forty sheep and six vessels of wine. And the king worshipped it and went daily to adore: but Daniel worshipped his own God, and the king said unto him: ‘Why dost thou not worship Bel?’ who answered and said: ‘because I may not worship idols made with hands, but the living God, who hath created the heavens and the earth, and hath sovereignty over all flesh.’ Then the king said: ‘Thinkest thou not that Bel is a living God! Seest thou not how much he eateth and drinketh every day?’
“Then Daniel smiled and said: ‘Oh, king! be not deceived; for this is but clay within and brass without, and did never eat or drink anything.’
“So the king was wroth, and called for his priests and said: ‘If ye tell me not who this is that devoureth these expenses, ye shall die; but if ye can certify me that Bel devoureth them, then Daniel shall die, for he has spoken blasphemy against Bel.’ And Daniel said unto the king: ‘Let it be according to thy word.’
“Now the priests of Bel were three score and ten, besides their wives and children.
“And the king went with Daniel to the temple of Bel—so Bel’s priests said: ‘Lo! we got out, but thou, O king, set on the meat, and make ready the wine, and shut the door fast, and seal it with thine own signet; and to-morrow when thou comest in, if thou findest not that Bel hath eaten up all, we will suffer death; or else, Daniel, that speaketh falsely against Bel shall die—and they little regarded it, for under the table they had made a privy entrance, whereby they entered continually and consumed those things.’
“So when they were gone forth, the king set meats before Bel.
“Now Daniel had commanded his servants to bring ashes, and those they strewed throughout all the temple, in the presence of the king alone: then they went out, and shut the door, and sealed it with the king’s signet, and so departed.
“Now in the night came the priests, with their wives and children, as they were wont to do, and did eat and drink up all.
“In the morning betimes the king arose, and Daniel with him.
“And the king said, ‘Daniel, are the seals whole?’ And he said, ‘Yea, O king, they be whole.’ And as soon as they had opened the door, the king looked upon the table, and cried with a loud voice: ‘Great art thou, O Bel! and with thee there is no deceit at all.’ Then laughed Daniel, and held the king that he should not go in, and said: ‘Behold now the pavement, and mark well whose footsteps are these.’ And the king said: ‘I see the footsteps of men, women and children.’ And then the king was angry, and took the priests, with their wives and children, who showed him the privy doors, where they came in and consumed such things as were on the tables.
“Therefore the king slew them, and delivered Bel into Daniel’s power, who destroyed him and his temple.”
Who does not pity the king of Babylon, who, when looking at his clay and brass god, exclaimed: “Great art thou, O Bel, and with thee there is no deceit!”
But, is the deception practiced by the priests of the Pope on their poor, deluded dupes, less cruel and infamous? Where is the difference between that Babylonian god, made with brass and baked clay, and the god of the Roman Catholics, made with a handful of wheat and flour, baked between two hot polished irons?
How skilful were the priests in keeping the secret of what became of the rich daily offerings brought to the hungry god! Who could suspect that there was a secret trap through which they came with their wives and children to eat the rich offerings?
So, to-day, among the simple and blind Roman Catholics, who could suppose that the immense sums of money given every day to the priests to glorify God, purify the souls of men, and bring all kinds of blessings upon the donors, were, on the contrary, turned into the most ignominious and swindling operation the world has ever seen?
Though the brass god of Babylon was a contemptible idol, is not the wafer god of Rome still more so? Though the priests of Bel were skilful deceivers, are they not surpassed in the art of deception by the priests of Rome! Do not these carry on their operations on a much larger scale than the former?
But, as there is always a day of retribution for the great iniquities of this world, when all things will be revealed; and just as the cunning of the priests of Babylon could not save them, when God sent his prophet to take away the mask, behind which they deceived their people, so let the priests of Rome know that God will, sooner or later, send his prophet, who will tear off the mask, behind which they deceive the world. Their big, awkward and flat feet will be seen and exposed, and the very people whom they keep prostrated before their idols, crying: “O God! with thee there is no deceit at all!” will become the instruments of the justice of God in the great day of retribution.
Chapter XXVII
QUEBEC MARINE HOSPITAL—THE FIRST TIME I CARRIED THE “BON DIEU” (THE WAFER GOD) IN MY VEST POCKET—THE GRAND OYSTER SOIREE AT MR. BUTEAU’S—THE REV. L. PARENT AND THE “BON DIEU” AT THE OYSTER SOIREE.
One of the first things done by the curate Tetu, after his new vicars had been chosen, was to divide, by casting lots, his large parish into four parts, that there might be more regularity in our ministerial labors, and my lot gave me the northeast of the parish which contained the Quebec Marine Hospital.
The number of sick sailors I had to visit almost every day in that noble institution, was between twenty-five and a hundred. The Roman Catholic chapel, with its beautiful altar was not yet completed. It was only in 1837 that I could persuade the hospital authorities to fix it as it is to-day. Having no place there to celebrate mass and keep the Holy Sacrament, I soon found myself in presence of a difficulty which, at first, seemed to me of a grave character. I had to administer the viaticum (holy communion) to a dying sailor. As every one knows, all Roman Catholics are bound to believe that by the consecration, the wafer is transformed into the body, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ. Hence, they call that ceremony: “Porter le bon dieu au malade” (carry the good God to the sick.) Till then, when in Charlesborough or St. Charles, I, with the rest of Roman Catholic priests, always made use of pomp and exterior marks of supreme respect for the Almighty God I was carrying in my hands to the dying.
I had never carried the good God without being accompanied by several people, walking or riding on horseback. I then wore a white surplice over my long black robe (soutane) to strike the people with awe. There was also a man ringing a bell before me, all along the way, to announce to the people that the great God, who had not only created them, but had made himself man to save them, by dying on Calvary, was passing by; that they had to fall on their knees in their houses, or along the public roads or in their fields, and prostrate themselves and adore him.
But could I do that in Quebec, where so many miserable heretics were more disposed to laugh at my God than to adore him?
In my zeal and sincere faith, I was, however, determined to dare the heretics of the whole world, and to expose myself to their insults, rather than give up the exterior marks of supreme respect and adoration which were due to my God everywhere; and twice I carried Him to the hospital with the usual solemnity.
In vain my curate tried to persuade me to change my mind. I closed my ears to his arguments. He then kindly invited me to go with him to the bishop’s palace, in order to confer with him on that grave subject. How can I express my dismay when the bishop told me, with a levity which I had not yet observed in him, “that on account of the Protestants whom we had to meet everywhere, it was better to make our ‘God’ travel incognito in the streets of Quebec.” He added in a high and jocose tone: “Put Him in your vest pocket, as do the rest of the city priests. Carry Him to your dying patients without any scruples. Never aim at being a reformer and doing better than your venerable brethren in the priesthood. We must not forget that we are a conquered people. If we were masters, we would carry Him to the dying with the public honors we used to give Him before the conquest; but the Protestants are the stronger. Our governor is a Protestant, as well as our Queen. The garrison which is inside the walls of their impregnable citadel, is composed chiefly of Protestants. According to the laws of our holy church, we have the right to punish, even by death, the miserable people who turn into ridicule the mysteries of our holy religion: But though we have that right, we are not strong enough to enforce it. We must, then, bear the yoke in silence. After all, it is our God himself, who in his inscrutable judgment, has deprived us of the power of honoring Him as He deserves, and to tell you my whole mind as plainly as possible, it is not our fault, but His own doing, so to speak, if we are forced to make Him travel incognito through our streets. It is one of the sad results of the victory which the God of battles gave to the Heretics over us on the plains of Abraham. If, in His good providence, we could break our fetters, and become free to pass again the laws which regulated Canada before the conquest, to prevent the heretics from settling among us, then we would carry Him as we used to do in those happy days.”
“But,” said I, “when I walk in the streets with my good God in my vest pocket, what will I do if I meet any friend who wants to shake hands and have a joke with me?”
The bishop laughed and answered: “Tell your friend you are in a hurry, and go your way as quickly as possible; but if there is no help, have your talk and your joke with him, without any scruple of conscience. The important point in this delicate matter is that the people should not know that we are carrying our God through the streets incognito; for this knowledge would surely shake and weaken their faith. The common people are, more than we think, kept in our holy church, by the impressing ceremonies of our processions and public marks of respect we give to Jesus Christ, when we carry Him to the sick; for the people are more easily persuaded by what they see with their eyes and touch with their hands, than by what they hear with their ears.”
I submitted to the order of my ecclesiastical superior; but I would not be honest, were I not to confess that I lost much of my spiritual joy for some time in the administration of the viaticum. I continued to believe as sincerely as I could, but the laughing words and light tone of my bishop had fallen upon my soul as an icy cloud. The jocose way in which he had spoken of what I had been taught to consider as the most awful and adorable mystery of the church, left the impression on my mind that he did not believe one iota of the dogma of transubstantiation. And in spite of all my honest efforts to get rid of that suspicion, it grew in my mind every time I met him to talk on any ministerial subject.
It took several years before I could accustom myself to carry my God in my vest pocket as the other priests did, without any more ceremony than with a piece of tobacco. So long as I was walking alone I felt happy. I could then silently converse with my Saviour, and give Him all the expressions of my love and adoration. It was my custom, then, to repeat the 103d or 50th psalm of David,—or the Te Deum, or some other beautiful hymn, or the Pange Langua, which I knew by heart. But no words can express my sadness when, as it was very often the case, I met some friends forcing me to shake hands with them, and began one of those idle and common-place talks, so common everywhere.
With the utmost efforts, I had then to put a smiling mask on my face, in order to conceal the expression of faith which are infallibly seen, in spite of one’s self, if one is in the very act of adoration.
How, then, I earnestly cursed the day when my country had fallen under the yoke of Protestants, whose presence in Quebec prevented me from following the dictates of my conscience! How many times did I pray my wafer god, whom I was personally pressing on my heart, to grant us an opportunity to break those fetters, and destroy forever the power of Protestant England over us! Then we should be free again, to give our Saviour all the public honors which were to due his majesty. Then we should put in force the laws by which no heretic had any right to settle and live in Canada.
Not long after that conversation with the bishop, I found myself in a circumstance which added much to my trouble and confusion of conscience on that matter.
There was then, in Quebec, a merchant who had honorably raised himself from a state of poverty, to the first rank among the wealthy merchants of Canada. Though, a few years after, he was ruined by a series of most terrible disasters, his name is still honored in Canada, as one of the most industrious and honest merchants of our young country. His name was James Buteau. He had built a magnificent house and furnished it in a princely style.
In order to celebrate his “house warming” in a becoming style, he invited a hundred guests from the elite of the city, among whom were all the priests of the parishes. But in order not to frighten their prudery, though the party was to be more of the nature of a ball than anything else, Mr. Buteau had given it the modest name of an Oyster Soiree.
Just as the good curate Tetu, with his cheerful vicars was starting, a messenger met us at the door, to say that Mr. Parent, the youngest vicar, had called to carry the “Good God” to a dying woman.
Mr. Parent was born, and had passed his whole life in Quebec, in whose seminary he had gone through a complete and brilliant course of study. I think there was scarcely a funny song in the French language which he could not sing. With a cheerful nature, he was the delight of the Quebec society, by almost every member of which he was personally known.
His hair was constantly perfumed with the richest pomade, and the most precious eaux de cologne surrounded him with an atmosphere of the sweetest odors. With all these qualities and privileges, it is no wonder that he was the confessor “a la mode” of the young ladies of Quebec.
The bright luminaries which hover around Jupiter are not more exact in converging toward the brilliant star, than those pious young ladies were in gathering around the confessional box of Mr. Parent every week or fortnight.
The unexpected announcement of a call to the deathbed of one of his poorest penitents, was not quite the most desirable thing for our dear young friend, at such an hour. But he knew too well his duty to grumble. He said to us: “Go before me and tell Mrs. Buteau that I will be in time to get my share of the oysters.”
By chance, the sick house was on the way and not far from Mr. Buteau’s splendid mansion. He left us to run to the altar and take the “Good God” with him. We started for the soiree, but not without sympathizing with our dear Mr. Parent, who would lose the most interesting part, for the administration of the viaticum. The extreme unction, with the giving of indulgences, in articulo mortis, and the exhortation to the dying, and the people gathered from the neighborhood to witness those solemn rites, could not take much less than three quarters, or even an hour of his time. But, to my great surprise, we had not yet been ten minutes in the magnificent parlor of our host, when I saw Mr. Parent, who like a newborn butterfly, flying from flower to flower, was running from lady to lady, joking, laughing, surpassing himself with his inimitable, lovely and refined manners. I said to myself, how is it possible that he has so quickly got rid of his unpalatable task with his dying penitent! and I wanted an opportunity of being alone with him, to satisfy my curiosity on that point. But it was pretty late in the evening, when I had a chance to say to him; “We all feared lest your dying patient might deprive us of the pleasure of your company the greater part of the soiree!”
“Oh! Oh!” answered he, with a hearty laugh, “that intelligent woman had the good common sense to die just two minutes before I entered her house. I suppose that her guardian angel, knowing all about this incomparable party, had dispatched the good soul to heaven a little sooner than she expected, in my behalf.” I could not but smile at his answer, which was given in a manner to make a stone laugh. “But,” said I, “what have you done with the ‘Good God’ you carried with you?”
“Ah! ah! the Good God,” he replied in a jocose and subdued tone. “Well, well! the ‘Good God’? He stands very still in my vest pocket. And if he enjoys this princely festivity as well as we all do, he will surely thank me for having brought him here, even en survenant. But do not say a word of his presence here; it would spoil everything.”
That priest, who was only one year younger than myself, was one of my dearest friends. Though his words rather smelt of the unbeliever and blasphemer, I preferred to attribute them to the sweet champagne he had drunk than to a real want of faith.
But I must confess that, though I had laughed very heartily at first, his last utterance pained me so much that, from that moment to the end of the soiree, I felt uneasy and confounded. My firm belief that my Saviour Jesus Christ was there in person, kept a prisoner in my young friend’s vest pocket, going to and fro from one young lady to the other, witnessing the constant laughing, hearing the idle words, the light and funny songs, made my whole soul shudder, and my heart sunk within me. By times I wished I could fall on my knees to adore my Saviour, whom I believed to be there. However, a mysterious voice was whispering in my ear: “Are you not a fool to believe that you can make a God with a wafer; and that Jesus Christ your Saviour and your God, can be kept a prisoner, in spite of himself, in the vest pocket of a man? Do you not see that your friend Parent, who has much more brains and intelligence than you, does not believe a word of that dogma of transubstantiation? Have you forgotten the unbeliever’s smile which you saw on the lips of the bishop himself only a few days ago? Was not that laugh the infallible proof that he also does not believe a particle of that ridiculous dogma?”
With superhuman effort I tried, and succeeded partly, to stifle that voice. But that struggle could not last long within my soul without leaving its exterior marks on my face. Evidently a sad cloud was over my eyes, for several of my most respectable friends, with Mr. and Mrs. Buteau, kindly asked if I were sick.
At last I felt so confused at the repetition of the same suggestion by so many, that I felt that I was only making a fool of myself by remaining any longer in their midst. Angry with myself for my want of moral strength in this hour of trial, I respectfully asked pardon from my kind host for leaving their party before the end, on account of a sudden indisposition.
The next day there was only one voice in Quebec, saying that young Parent had been the lion of that brilliant soiree, and that the poor young priest Chiniquy had been its fool.
Chapter XXVIII
DR. DOUGLAS—MY FIRST LESSON IN TEMPERANCE—STUDY OF ANATOMY—WORKING OF ALCOHOL IN THE HUMAN FRAME—THE MURDERESS OF HER OWN CHILD—I FOREVER GIVE UP THE USE OF INTOXICATING DRINKS.
God controls the greatest as well as the smallest of the events of this world. Our business during the few days of our pilgrimage, then, is to know His will and do it. Our happiness here, as in heaven, rests on this foundation, just as the success and failures of our lives come entirely from the practical knowledge or ignorance of this simplest and sublimest truth. I dare say that there is not a single fact of my long and eventful life which has not taught me that there is a special providence in our lives. Particularly was this apparent in the casting of the lots by which I became the first chaplain of the Quebec Marine Hospital. After the other vicars had congratulated each other for having escaped the heavy burden of work and responsibilities connected with that chaplaincy, they kindly gave me the assurance of their sympathies for what they called my bad luck. In thanking them for their kindly feelings, I confessed that this occurrence appeared to me in a very different light. I was sure that God had directed this for my good and His own glory, and I was right. In the beginning of November, 1834, a slight indisposition having kept me for a few days at home, Mr. Glackmayer, the superintendent of the hospital, came to tell me that there was an unusually large number of sick, left by the Fall fleets, in danger of death, who were day and night calling for me. He added in a secret way, that there were several cases of small-pox of the worst type; that several had already died and many were dying from the terrible cholera morbus, which was still raging among the sailors.
This sad news came to me as an order from heaven to run to the rescue of my dear sick seamen. I left my room, despite my physician, and went to the hospital.
The first man I met was Dr. Douglas, who was waiting for me at Mr. C. Glackmayer’s room. He confirmed what I had known before of the number of sick, and added that the prevailing diseases were of the most dangerous kind.
Dr. Douglas, who was one of the founders and governors of the hospital, had the well-merited reputation of being one of the ablest surgeons of Quebec. Though a staunch Protestant by birth and profession, he honored me with his confidence and friendship from the first day we met. I may say I have never known a nobler heart, a larger mind and a truer philanthropist.
After thanking him for the useful though sad intelligence he had given me, I requested Mr. Glackmayer to give me a glass of brandy, which I immediately swallowed.
“What are you doing there?” said Dr. Douglas.
“You see,” I answered; “I have drank a glass of excellent brandy.”
“But please tell me why you drank that brandy.”
“Because it is a good preservative against the pestilential atmosphere I will breathe all day,” I replied. “I will have to hear the confessions of all those people dying from small-pox or cholera, and breathe the putrid air which is around their pillows. Does not common sense warn me to take some precautions against the contagion?”
“Is it possible,” rejoined he, “that a man for whom I have such a sincere esteem is so ignorant of the deadly workings of alcohol in the human frame? What you have just drank is nothing but poison; and, far from protecting yourself against the danger, you are now much more exposed to it than before you drank that beverage.”
“You poor Protestants,” I answered, in a jocose way, “are a band of fanatics, with your extreme doctrines on temperance; you will never convert me to your views on that subject. Is it for the use of the dogs that God has created wine and brandy? No; it is for the use of men who drink them with moderation and intelligence.”
“My dear Mr. Chiniquy, you are joking; but I am in earnest when I tell you that you have poisoned yourself with that glass of brandy,” replied Dr Douglas.
“If good wine and brandy were poisons,” I answered, “you would be long ago the only physician in Quebec, for you are the only one of the medical body whom I know to be an abstainer. But, though I am much pleased with your conversation, excuse me if I leave you to visit my dear sick sailors, whose cries for spiritual help ring in my ears.”
“One word more,” said Dr. Douglas, “and I have done. To-morrow morning we will make the autopsy of a sailor who has just died suddenly here. Have you any objections to come and see with your eyes, in the body of that man, what your glass of brandy has done in your own body?”
“No, sir; I have no objection to see that,” I replied. “I have been anxious for a long time to make a special study of anatomy. It will be my first lesson; I cannot get it from a better master.”
I then shook hands with him and went to my patients, with whom I passed the remainder of the day and the better part of the night. Fifty of them wanted to make general confessions of all the sins of their whole lives; and I had to give the last sacraments to twenty-five who were dying from small-pox or cholera morbus. The next morning I was, at the appointed hour, by the corpse of the dead man, when Dr. Douglas kindly gave me a very powerful microscope, that I might more thoroughly follow the ravages of alcohol in every part of the human body.
“I have not the least doubt,” said he, “that this man has been instantly killed by a glass of rum, which he drank one hour before he fell dead. That rum has caused the rupture of the aorta” (the big vein which carries the blood from the heart).
While talking thus, the knife was doing its work so quickly, that the horrible spectacle of the broken artery was before our eyes almost as the last word fell from his lips.
“Look here,” said the doctor, “all along the artery, and you will see thousands, perhaps millions of reddish spots, which are as many holes perforated through it by alcohol. Just as the musk rats of the Mississippi river, almost every spring, dig little holes through the dams which keeps the powerful river within its natural limits, and cause the waters to break through the little holes, and thus carry desolation and death along its shores, so alcohol every day causes the sudden death of thousands of victims, by perforating the veins and opening small issues through which the blood rushes out of its natural limits. It is not only this big vein which alcohol perforates; it does the same deadly work in the veins of the lungs and the whole body. Look at the lungs with attention, and count, if you can, the thousands and thousands of reddish, dark and yellow spots, and little ulcers with which they are covered. Every one of them is the work of alcohol, which has torn and cut the veins and caused the blood to go out of its canals, to carry corruption and death all over these marvelous organs. Alcohol is one of the most dangerous poisons—I dare say it is the most dangerous. It has killed more men than all the other poisons together. Alcohol cannot be changed or assimilated to any part or tissue of our body, it cannot go to any part of the human frame without bringing disorder and death to it. For it cannot in any possible way unite with any part of our body. The water we drink, the wholesome food and bread we eat, by the laws and will of God are transformed into the different parts of the body, to which they are sent through the millions of small canals which take them from the stomach to every part of our frame. When the water has been drunk, or the bread we have eaten is, for instance, sent to the lungs, to the brain, the nerves, the muscles, the bones—wherever it goes it receives, if I can so speak, letters of citizenship; it is allowed to remain there in peace and to work for the public good. But it is not so with alcohol. The very moment it enters the stomach it more or less brings disorder, ruin and death, according to the quantity taken. The stomach refuses to take it, and makes a supreme effort to violently throw it out, either through the mouth, or by indignantly pushing it to the brain or into the numberless tubes by which it discharges its contents to the surface through all the tissues. But will alcohol be welcome in any of these tubes and marvellous canals, or in any part or tissue of the body it will visit on its passage to the surface? No! Look here with your microscope, and you will see with your own eyes that everywhere alcohol has gone into the body there has been a hand-to-hand struggle and a bloody battle fought to get rid of it. Yes! every place where King Alcohol has put his foot has been turned into a battlefield, spread with ruin and death, in order to ignominiously turn it out. By a most extraordinary working of nature, or rather by the order of God, every vein and artery through which alcohol has to pass suddenly contracts, as if to prevent its passage or choke it as a deadly foe. Every vein and artery has evidently heard the voice of God: ‘Wine is a mocker: it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder!’ Every nerve and muscle which alcohol touched trembled and shook as if in the presence of an implacable and unconquerable enemy. Yes, at the presence of alcohol every nerve and muscle loses its strength, just as the bravest man, in the presence of a horrible monster or demon, suddenly loses his natural strength, and shakes from head to foot.”
I cannot repeat all I heard that day from the lips of Dr. Douglas, and what I saw with my own eyes of the horrible workings of alcohol through every part of the body. It would be too long. Suffice to say that I was struck with horror at my own folly, and at the folly of so many people who make use of intoxicating drinks.
What I learned that day was like the opening of a mysterious door, which allowed me to see the untold marvels of a new and most magnificent world. But though I was terror-stricken with the ravages of strong drink in that dead man, I was not yet convinced of the necessity of being a total abstainer from wine and beer, and a little brandy now and then, as a social habit. I did not like to expose myself to ridicule by the sacrifice of habits which seemed then, more than now, to be among the sweetest and most common links of society. But I determined to lose no opportunity of continuing the study of the working of alcohol in the human body. At the same time I resolved to avail myself of every opportunity of making a complete study of anatomy under the kind and learned Dr. Douglas.
It is from the lips and works of Dr. Douglas that I learned the following startling facts:
1st. The heart of man, which is only six inches long by four inches wide, beats seventy times in a minute, 4,200 in one hour, 100,300 in a day, 36,792,000 in a year. It ejects two ounces and a half of blood out of itself every time it beats, which makes 175 ounces every minute, 656 pounds every hour, seven tons and three-quarters of blood which goes out of the heart every day! The whole blood of a man runs through his heart in three minutes.
2d. The skin is composed of three parts placed over each other, whose thickness varies from a quarter to an eighth of a line. Each square inch contains 3,500 pores, through which the sweat goes out. Every one of them is a pipe a quarter of an inch long. All those small pipes united together would form a canal 201,166 feet long—equal to forty miles, or nearly thirteen leagues!
3rd. The weight of the blood in a common man is between thirty and forty pounds. The blood runs through the body in 100 seconds, or one minute and forty-one seconds. Eleven thousand (11,000) pints of blood pass through the lungs in twenty-four hours.
4th. There are 246 bones in the human body; 63 of them are in the head, 24 in the sides, 16 in the wrist, 14 in the joints, and 108 in the hands and feet.
The heart of a man who drinks nothing but pure water beats about 100,300 a day, but will beat from 25,000 to 30,000 times more if he drinks alcoholic drinks. Those who have not learned anatomy know little of the infinite power, wisdom, love and mercy of God. No book except the Bible, and no science except the science of astronomy, is like the body of man, to tell us what our God is, and what we are. The body of man is a book written by the hand of God, to speak to us of Him as no man can speak. After studying the marvellous working of the heart, the lungs, the eyes and the brain of man, I could not speak; I remained mute, unable to say a single word to tell my admiration and awe. I wept, as overwhelmed with my feelings. I should have liked to speak of those things to the priests with whom I lived, but I saw at first they could not understand me; they thought I was exaggerating. How many times, when alone with God in my little closet, when thinking of those marvels, I fell on my knees, and said: “Thou art great, O my God! The works of thy hands are above the works of man! But the works of thy love and mercy are above all thy other works!”
During the four years I was chaplain of the Marine Hospital, more than one hundred corpses were opened before me, and almost as many outside the hospital. For when, by the order of the jury and the coroner, an autopsy was to be made, I seldom failed to attend. In that way, I have had a providential opportunity of acquiring the knowledge of one of the most useful and admirable sciences, as no priest or minister probably ever had on this continent. It is my conviction that the first thing a temperance orator ought to do is to study anatomy; get the bodies of drunkards, as well as those of so-called temperate drinkers, opened before him, and study there the workings of alcohol in the different organs of man. So long as the orators on temperance will not do that, they cannot understand the subject on which they speak. Though I have read the best books written by the most learned physicians of England, France and the United States, on the ravages of rum, wine and beer, of every kind and name, in the body of men, I have never read anything which enlightened me so much, and brought such profound convictions to my intelligence, as the study I have made of the brain, the lungs, the heart, veins, arteries, nerves and muscles of a single man or woman. These bodies, opened before me, were books written by the hand of God himself, and they spoke to me as no man could speak. By the mercy of God, to that study is due the irresistible power of my humble efforts in persuading my countrymen to give up the use of intoxicating drinks. But here is the time to tell how my merciful God forced me, His unprofitable and rebellious servant, almost in spite of myself, to give up the use of intoxicating drinks.
Among my penitents there was a young lady belonging to one of the most respectable families in Quebec. She had a child, a girl, almost a year old, who was a real beauty. Nothing this side of heaven could surpass the charms of that earthly angel. Of course that young mother idolized her; she could hardly consent to be without her sweet angel, even to go to church. She carried her everywhere, to kiss her at every moment and press her to her heart. Unfortunately that lady, as it was then, and is still now too often the case, even among the most refined, had learned in her father’s house, and by the example of her own mother, to drink wine at table, and when receiving the visits of her friends or when visiting them herself. Little by little she began to drink, when alone, a few drops of wine, at first by the advice of her physician, but soon only to satisfy the craving appetite, which grew stronger day by day. I was the only one, excepting her husband, who knew this fact. He was my intimate friend, and several times, with tears trickling down his cheeks, he had requested me, in the name of God, to persuade her to abstain from drinking. That young man was so happy with his accomplished wife and his incomparably beautiful child! He was rich, had a high position in the world, numberless friends, and a palace for his home! Every time I had spoken to that young lady, either when alone or in the presence of her husband, she had shed tears of regret; she had promised to reform, and take only the few glasses prescribed by her doctor. But, alas! that fatal prescription of the doctor was like the oil poured on the burning coals; it was kindling a fire that nothing could quench. One day, which I will never forget, a messenger came in haste and said: “Mr. A. wants you to come to his home immediately. A terrible misfortune has just happened—his beautiful child has just been killed. His wife is half crazy; he fears lest she will kill herself.”
I leaped into the elegant carriage, drawn by two fine horses, and in a few minutes I was in the presence of the most distressing spectacle I ever saw. The young lady, tearing her robes into fragments, tearing her hair with her hands and cutting her face with the nails of her fingers, was crying, “Oh! for God’s sake, give me a knife that I may cut my throat? I have killed my child! My darling is dead! I am the murderess of my own dear Lucy! My hands are reddened with her blood. Oh! may I die with her!”
I was thunderstruck, and at first remained mute and motionless. The young husband, with two other gentlemen, Dr. Blanchet and Coroner Panet, were trying to hold the hands of his unfortunate wife. He did not dare to speak. At last the young wife, casting her eyes upon me, said: “Oh, dear Father Chiniquy, for God’s sake give me a knife that I may cut my throat! When drunk, I took my precious darling in my arms to kiss her; but I fell—her head struck the sharp corner of the stove. Her brain and blood are there spread on the floor! My child! my own child is dead! I have killed her! Cursed liquor! Cursed wine! My child is dead! I am damned! Cursed drink!”
I could not speak, but I could weep and cry. I wept, and mingled my tears with those of that unfortunate mother. Then, with an expression of desolation which pierced my soul as with a sword, she said: “Go and see.” I went to the next room, and there I saw that once beautiful child, dead, her face covered with her blood and brains! There was a large gap made in the right temple. The drunken mother, by falling with her child in her arms, had caused the head to strike with such a terrible force on the stove that it upset on the floor. The burning coals were spread on every side, and the house had been very nearly on fire. But that very blow, with the awful death of her child, had suddenly brought her to her senses, and put an end to her intoxication. At a glance she saw the whole extent of her misfortune. Her first thought had been to run to the sideboard, seize a large, sharp knife, and cut her own throat. Providentially, her husband was on the spot. With great difficulty, and after a terrible struggle, he took the knife out of her hands and threw it into the street through the window. It was then about five o’clock in the afternoon. After an hour passed in indescribable agony of mind and heart, I attempted to leave and go back to the parsonage. But my unfortunate young friend requested me, in the name of God, to spend the night with him. “You are the only one,” he said, “who can help us in this awful night. My misfortune is great enough, without destroying our good name by spreading it in public. I want to keep it as secret as possible. With our physician and coroner, you are the only man on earth whom I trust to help me. Please pass the night with us.”
I remained, but tried in vain to calm the unfortunate mother. She was constantly breaking our hearts with her lamentations—her convulsive efforts to take her own life. Every minute she was crying, “My child! my darling Lucy! Just when thy little arms were so gently caressing me, and thy angelic kisses were so sweet on my lips, I have slaughtered thee! When thou wert pressing me on thy loving heart and kissing me, I, thy drunken mother, gave thee the death blow! My hands are reddened with thy blood! My breast is covered with thy brains! Oh! for God’s sake, my dear husband, take my life. I cannot consent to live a day longer! My dear Father Chiniquy, give me a knife, that I may mingle my blood with the blood of my child! O that I could be buried in the same grave with her!”
In vain I tried to speak to her of the mercies of God towards sinners; she would not listen to anything I could say; she was absolutely deaf to my voice. At about ten o’clock, she had a most terrible fit of anguish and terror. Though we were four men to keep her quiet, she was stronger than we all. She was stronger than a giant. She slipped from our hands and ran to the room where the dead child was lying in her cradle. Grasping the cold body in her hands, she tore the bands of white linen which had been put round the head to cover the horrible wound, and with cries of desolation she pressed her lips, her cheeks, her very eyes, on the horrible gap from which the brain and blood were oozing, as if wanting to heal it and recall the poor dear one to life.
“My darling, my beloved, my own dear Lucy,” she cried, “open thy eyes—look again at thy mother! Give me a kiss! Press me again to thy bosom! But thine eyes are shut! Thy lips are cold! Thou dost not smile on me any longer! Thou art dead, and I, thy mother, have slaughtered thee! Canst thou forgive me thy death? Canst thou ask Jesus Christ, our Saviour, to forgive me? Canst thou ask the blessed Virgin Mary to pray for me? Will I never see thee again? Ah, no! I am lost—I am damned! I am a drunken mother who has murdered her own darling Lucy! There is no mercy for the drunken mother, the murderess of her own child.”
And when speaking thus to her child, she was sometimes kneeling down, then running around the room as if flying before a phantom.
But even then, she was constantly pressing the motionless body to her bosom, or convulsively passing her lips and cheeks over the horrible wound, so that her lips, her whole face, her breast and hands, were literally besmeared with the blood flowing from the wound. I will not say that we were all weeping and crying, for the words “weeping and crying” cannot express the desolation—the horror we felt. At about eleven o’clock, when on her knees, clasping her child to her bosom, she lifted her eyes towards me, and said:
“Dear Father Chiniquy, why is it that I have not followed your charitable advice when, still more with your tears than with words, you tried so often to persuade me to give up the use of those cursed intoxicating wines? How many times you have given me the very words which come from heaven: ‘Wine is a mocker; it bites as a serpent, and stings as an adder!’ How many times, in the name of my dear child, in the name of my dear husband, in the name of God, you have asked me to give up the use of those cursed drinks! But listen now to my prayer. Go all over Canada; tell all the fathers never to put any intoxicating drink before the eyes of their children. It was at my father’s table that I first learned to drink that wine which I will curse during all eternity! Tell all the mothers never to taste these abominable drinks. It was my mother who first taught me to drink that wine which I will curse as long as God is!
“Take the blood of my child, and go redden with it the top of the doors of every house in Canada, and say to all those who dwell in those houses that that blood was shed by the hand of a murderess mother when drunk. With that blood write on the walls of every house in Canada that ‘wine is a mocker.’ Tell the French Canadians how, on the dead body of my child, I have cursed that wine which has made me so wretchedly miserable and guilty.”
She then stopped, as if to breathe a little for a few minutes. She added:
“In the name of God, tell me, can my child forgive me her death? Can she ask God to look upon me with mercy? Can she cause the blessed Virgin Mary to pray for me and obtain my pardon?”
But before I could answer, she horrified us by the cries, “I am lost! When drunk I killed my child! Cursed wine!”
And she fell a corpse on the floor. Torrents of blood were flowing from her mouth on her dead child, which she was pressing to her bosom even after her death!
That terrible drama was never revealed to the people of Quebec. The coroner’s inquest was that the child’s death was accidental, and that the distressed mother died from a broken heart six hours after.
Two days later the unfortunate mother was buried, with the body of her child clasped in her arms. Many tears were shed on that tomb, and this dear little child’s guardian angel must have written with its blood on that tomb: “Wine is a mocker; look not at it. It biteth like a serpent, and stings like an adder.” However, what I had just seen and heard could not be buried and forgotten in the grave.
After such a terrible storm, I was in need of solitude and rest, but above everything I was in need of praying. I shut myself in my little room for two days, and there, alone, in the presence of God, I meditated on the terrible justice and retribution which He had called me to witness. The unfortunate woman had not only been my penitent: she had been, with her husband, among my dearest and most devoted friends. It was only lately that she had become a slave to drunkenness. Before that, her piety and sense of honor were of the most exalted kind known in the Church of Rome. Her last words were not the commonplace expressions which ordinary sinners proffer at the approach of death; her words had a solemnity for me which almost transformed them into oracles of God in my mind. Each of them sounded in my ears as if an angel of God had touched the thousand strings of my soul, to call my attention to a message from heaven. Sometimes they resembled the terrible voice of thunder; and again it seemed as if a seraph, with his golden harp, were singing them in my ears, that I might prepare to fight faithfully for the Lord against His gigantic enemy, alcohol.
In the middle of that horrible night, when the darkness was most profound and the stillness fearful, was I awake, was I sleeping? I do not know. But I saw the calm, beautiful and cherished form of my dear mother standing by me, holding by the hand the late murderess, still covered with the blood of her child. Yes! my beloved mother was there standing before me; and she said, with power and authority which engraved every one of her words on my soul, as if written with letters of tears, blood and fire: “Go all over Canada; tell every father of a family never to put any intoxicating drink before his children. Tell all the mothers never to take a drop of those cursed wines and drinks. Tell the whole people of Canada never to touch nor look at the poisoned cup, filled with those cursed intoxicating drinks. And thou, my beloved son, give up forever the use of those detestable beverages, which are cursed in hell, in heaven and on earth. It bites like a serpent; it stings like an adder.”
When the sound of that voice, so sweet and powerful, was hushed, and my soul had ceased seeing that strange vision of the night, I remained for some time exceedingly agitated and troubled. I said to myself, “Is it possible that the terrible things I have seen and heard these last few days will destroy my mind, and send me to the lunatic asylum?”
I had hardly been able to take any sleep or food for the last three days and nights, and I seriously feared lest the weakness of my body would cause me to lose my reason. I then threw myself on my knees to weep and pray. This did me good. I soon felt myself stronger and calmer.
Raising again my mind to God, I said: “O my God, let me know thy holy will, and grant me the grace to do it. Do the voices I have just heard come from thee? Hast thou really sent one of the angels of thy mercy, under the form of my beloved mother? or is all this nothing but the vain dreams of my distressed mind?
“Is it thy will, O my God, that I should go and tell my country what thou hast so providentially taught me of the horrible and unsuspected injuries which wine and strong drink cause to the bodies as well as to the souls of men? Or is it thy will that I should conceal from the eyes of the world the wonderful things thou hast made known to me, and that I might bury them with me in my grave?”
As quick as lightning the answer was suggested to me. “What I have taught thee in secret, go and tell it on the housetops!” Overwhelmed with an unspeakable emotion, and my heart filled with a power which was not mine, I raised my hands toward heaven, and said to my God:
“For my dear Saviour Jesus’ sake, and for the good of my country, O my God, I promise that I will never make any use of intoxicating drinks; I will, moreover, do all in my power to persuade the other priests and the people to make the same sacrifice!”
Fifty years have passed since I took that pledge, and, thanks be to God, I have kept it.
For the next two years, I was the only priest in Canada who abstained from the use of wine and other intoxicating drinks; and God only knows what I had to suffer all that time—what sneers, and rebukes and insults, of every kind, I had silently to bear! How many times the epithets of fanatic, hypocrite, reformer, half-heretic, have been whispered into my ear, not only by the priests, but also by the bishops.
But I was sure that my God knew the motives of my actions, and, by His grace, I remained calm and patient. In His infinite mercy, He has looked down upon His unprofitable servant and has taken his part. He had himself chosen the day when my humiliations were to be turned into great joy. The day came when I saw those same priests and bishops, at the head of their people, receiving the pledge and blessing of temperance from my hands. Those very bishops who had unanimously, at first, condemned me, soon invited the first citizens of their cities to present me with a golden medal, as a token of their esteem, after giving me, officially, the title of “Apostle of Temperance of Canada.” The Governor and the two Chambers of Parliament of Canada voted me public thanks in 1851, and presented me £500 as a public testimony of their kind feelings for what had been done in the cause of temperance. It was the will of my God, that I should see, with my own eyes, my dear Canada taking the pledge of temperance and giving up the use of intoxicating drinks. How many tears were dried in those days! Thousands and thousands of broken hearts were consoled and filled with joy. Happiness and abundance reigned in many once desolate homes, and the name of our merciful God was blessed everywhere in my beloved country. Surely this was not the work of poor Chiniquy!
It was the Lord’s work, for the Lord, who is wonderful in all His doings, had once more chosen the weakest instrument to show His mercy towards the children of men. He had called the most unprofitable of His servants to do the greatest work of reform, Canada has ever seen, that the praise and glory might be given to Him, and Him alone!
Chapter XXIX
CONVERSIONS OF PROTESTANTS TO THE CHURCH OF ROME—REV. ANTHONY PARENT, SUPERIOR OF THE SEMINARY OF QUEBEC: HIS PECULIAR WAY OF FINDING ACCESS TO THE PROTESTANTS AND BRINGING THEM TO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH—HOW HE SPIES THE PROTESTANTS THROUGH THE CONFESSIONAL—I PERSUADE NINETY-THREE FAMILIES TO BECOME CATHOLICS.
“Out of the Church of Rome there is no salvation,” is one of the doctrines which the priests of Rome have to believe and teach to the people. That dogma, once accepted, caused me to devote all my energies to the conversion of Protestants. To prevent one of those immortal and precious souls from going into hell seemed to me more important and glorious that the conquest of a kingdom. In view of showing them their errors, I filled my library with the best controversial books which could be got in Quebec, and I studied the Holy Scriptures with the utmost attention. In the Marine Hospital, as well as in my intercourse with the people of the city, I had several occasions of meeting Protestants and talking to them; but I found at once that, with very few exceptions, they avoided speaking with me on religion. This distressed me. Having been told one day that the Rev. Mr. Anthony Parent, superior of the Seminary of Quebec, had converted several hundred Protestants during his ministry, I went to ask him if this were true. For answer, he showed me the list of his converts, which numbered more than two hundred, among whom were some of the most respectable English and Scotch families of the city. I looked upon that list with amazement; and from that day I considered him the most blessed priest of Canada. He was a perfect gentleman in his manners, and was considered our best champion on all points of controversy with Protestants. He could have been classed, also, among the handsomest men in his time, had not he been so fat. But, when the high classes called him by the respectable name of “Mr. Superior of the Seminary,” the common people used to name him Pere Cocassier (“Cock-fighting Father”), on account of his long-cherished habit of having the bravest and strongest fighting-cocks of the country. In vain had the Rev. Mr. Renvoyze, curate of the “Good St. Anne,” that greatest miracle-working saint of Canada, expended fabulous sums of money in ransacking the whole country to get a cock who would take away the palm of victory from the hands of the superior of the Seminary of Quebec. He had almost invariably failed; with very few exceptions his cocks had fallen bruised, bleeding and dead on the many battlefields chosen by those two priests. However, I feel happy in acknowledging that, since the terrible epidemic of cholera, that cruel and ignominious “passe temps” has been entirely given up by the Roman Catholic clergy of this country. Playing cards and checkers is now the most usual way the majority of curates and vicars have recourse to spend their long and many idle hours, both of the week and Sabbath days.
After reading over and over again that long list of converts, I said to Mr. Parent: “Please tell me how you have been able to persuade these Protestant converts to consent to speak with you on the errors of their religion. Many times I have tried to show the Protestants whom I met, that they would be lost if they do not submit to our holy Church, but, with few exceptions, they laughed at me as politely as possible, and turned the conversation to other matters. You must have some secret way of attracting their attention and winning their confidence. Would you not be kind enough to give me that secret, that I may be able also to prevent some of those precious souls from perishing?”
“You are right when you think that I have a secret to open the doors of the Protestants, and conquer and tame their haughty minds,” answered Mr. Parent. “But that secret is of such a delicate nature, that I have never revealed it to anybody except my confessor. Nevertheless, I see that you are so in earnest for the conversion of Protestants, and I have such a confidence in your discretion and honor, that for the sake of our holy Church I consent to give you my secret; only you must promise that you will never reveal it, during my lifetime, to anybody—and even after my death you will not mention it, except when you are sure it is for the greatest glory of God. You know that I was the most intimate friend your father ever had; I had no secret from him, and he had none from me. But God knows that the friendly feelings and confidence I had in him are now bestowed upon you, his worthy son. If you had not in my heart and esteem the same high position your father occupied, I would not trust you with my secret.”
He then continued: “The majority of Protestants in Quebec have Irish Roman Catholic servant girls; these, particularly before the last few years, used to come to confess to me, as I was almost the only priest who spoke English. The first thing I used to ask them, when they were confessing, was, if their masters and mistresses were truly devoted and pious Protestants, or if they were indifferent and cold in performing their duties. The second thing I wanted to know was, if they were on good terms with their ministers; whether or not they were visited by them. From the answers of the girls, I knew both the moral and immoral, the religious or irreligious habits of their masters as perfectly as if I had been an inmate of their households. It is thus that I learned that many Protestants have no more religion and faith than our dogs. They awake in the morning, and go to bed at night, without praying to God any more than the horses in their stables. Many of them go to church on the Sabbath day, more to laugh at their ministers and criticise their sermons than for anything else. A part of the week is passed in turning them into ridicule; nay, through the confessions of these honest girls, I learned that many Protestants liked the fine ceremonies of our Church; that they often favorably contrasted them with the cold performances of their own, and expressed their views in glowing terms about the superiority of our educational institutions, nunneries, etc., over their own high schools or colleges. Besides, you know that a great number of our most respectable and wealthy Protestants trust their daughters to our good nuns for their education. I took notes of all these things, and formed my plans of battle against Protestantism, as a general who knows his ground and the weak points of his adversaries, and I fought as a man who is sure of an easy victory. The glorious result you have under your eyes is the proof that I was correct in my plans. My first step with the Protestants whom I knew to be without any religion, or even already well disposed toward us, was to go to them with sometimes £5, or even £25, which I presented to them as being theirs. They, at first, looked at me with amazement, as a being coming from a superior world. The following conversation then almost invariably took place between them and me:
“Are you positive, sir, that this money is mine?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “I am certain that this money is yours.”
“But,” they replied, “please tell me how you know that it belongs to me? It is the first time I have the honor of talking with you, and we are perfect strangers to each other.”
I answered: “I cannot say, sir, how I know that this money is yours, except by telling you that the person who deposited it in my hands for you has given me your name and your address so correctly that there is no possibility of any mistake.”
“But can I not know the name of the one who has put that money into your hands for me?” rejoined the Protestant.
“No, sir; the secret of confession is inviolable,” I replied. “We have no example that it has ever been broken; and I, with every priest of our Church, would prefer to die, rather than betray our penitents and reveal their confession. We cannot even act from what we have learned through their confession, except at their own request.”
“But this auricular confession must then be a most admirable thing,” added the Protestant; “I had no idea of it before this day.”
“Yes, sir, auricular confession is a most admirable thing,” I used to reply, “because it is a divine institution. But, sir, please excuse me; my ministry calls me to another place. I must take leave of you, to go where my duty calls me.”
“I am very sorry that you go so quickly,” generally answered the Protestant. “Can I have another visit from you? Please do me the honor of coming again. I would be so happy to present you to my wife; and I know she would be happy also, and much honored to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes, sir, I accept with gratitude your invitation. I will feel much pleased and honored to make the acquaintance of the family of a gentleman whose praises are in the mouth of every one, and whose industry and honesty are an honor to our city. If you will allow me, next week, at the same hour, I will have the honor of presenting my respectful homage to your lady.
“The very next day, all the papers reported that Mr. So-and-So had received £5, or £10, or even £25, as a restitution through auricular confession: and even the staunch Protestant editors of those papers could not find words sufficiently eloquent to praise me and our sacrament of penance.
“Three or four days later, I was sure that the faithful servant girls were in the confessional-box, glowing with joy to tell me that now their masters and mistresses could not speak of anything else than the amiability and honesty of the priests of Rome. They raised them a thousand miles over the heads of their own ministers. From those pious girls, I invariably learned that that they had not been visited by a single friend without making the eulogium of auricular confession, and even sometimes expressing the regret that the reformers had swept away such a useful institution.
“Now, my dear young friend, you see how, by the blessing of God, the little sacrifice of a few pounds brought down and destroyed all the prejudices of those poor heretics against auricular confession and our holy Church in general. You understand how the doors were opened to me, and how their hearts and intelligences were like fields prepared to receive the good seed. At the appointed hour, I never failed from paying the requested visit, and I was invariably received like a messiah. Not only the gentlemen, but the ladies, overwhelmed me with marks of the most sincere gratitude and respect; even the dear little children petted me, and threw their arms around my neck to give me their sweetly angelic kisses. The only topic on which we could speak, of course, was the great good done by auricular confession. I easily showed them how it works as a check to all the evil passions of the heart; how it is admirably adapted to all the wants of the poor sinners, who find a friend, a counsellor, a guide, a father, a real saviour in their confessor.
“We had not talked half an hour in that way, when it was generally evident to me that they were more than half way out of their Protestant errors. I very seldom left the houses without being sure of a new, glorious victory for our holy religion over its enemies. It is very seldom that I do not succeed in bringing that family to our holy Church before one or two years; and if I fail of gaining the father or mother, I am nearly sure to persuade them to send their daughters to our good nuns and their boys to our colleges, where they, sooner or later, become our most devoted Catholics. So you see that the few dollars I spend every year for that holy cause are the best investments ever made. They do more to catch the Protestants of Quebec than the baits of the fishermen do to secure the cod fishes of the Newfoundland banks.”
In ending this last sentence, Mr. Parent filled his room with laughter.
I thanked him for these interesting details. But I told him: “Though I cannot but admire your perfect skill and shrewdness in breaking the barriers which prevent Protestants from understanding the divine institution of auricular confession, will you allow me to ask you if you do not fear to be guilty of an imposture and a gross imposition in the way you make them believe that the money you hand them has come to you through auricular confession?”
“I have not the least fear of that,” promptly answered the old priest, “for the good reason that, if you had paid attention to what I have told you, you must acknowledge that I have not said positively that the money was coming from auricular confession. If those Protestants have been deceived, it is only due to their own want of a more perfect attention to what I said. I know that there were things that I kept in my mind which would have made them understand the matter in a very different way if I had said them. But Liguori and all our theologians, among the most approved of our holy Church, tell us that these reservations of the mind (‘mentis reservationes’) are allowed when they are for the good of souls and the glory of God.”
“Yes,” answered I, “I know that such is the doctrine of Liguori, and it is approved by the popes. I must confess, however, that this seems to me entirely opposed to what we read in the sublime gospel. The simple and sublime ‘Yea, yea,’ and ‘Nay, nay,’ of our Saviour seems to me in contradiction with the art of deceiving, even when not saying absolute and direct falsehoods; and if I submit myself to those doctrines, it is always with a secret protest in my inmost soul.”
In an angry manner, Mr. Parent replied: “Now, my dear young friend, I understand the truth of what the Rev. Messrs. Perras and Bedard told me lately about you. Though these remarkable priests are full of esteem for you, they see a dark cloud on your horizon; they say that you spend too much time in reading the Bible, and not enough in studying the doctrines and holy traditions of the Church. You are too much inclined also to interpret the Word of God according to your own fallible intelligence, instead of going to the Church alone for that interpretation. This is the dangerous rock on which Luther and Calvin were wrecked. Take my advice. Do not try to be wiser than the Church. Obey her voice when she speaks to you through her holy theologians. This is your only safeguard. The bishop would suspend you at once were he aware of your want of faith in the Church.”
These last words were said with such emphasis that they seemed more like a sentence of condemnation from the lips of an irritated judge than anything else. I felt that I had again seriously compromised myself in his mind; and the only way of preventing him from denouncing me to the bishop as a heretic and a Protestant was to make an apology, and withdraw from the dangerous ground on which I had again so imprudently put myself. He accepted my explanation, but I saw that he bitterly regretted having trusted me with his secret. I withdrew from his presence, much humiliated by my want of prudence and wisdom. However, though I could not approve of all the modus operandi of the superior of Quebec, I could not but admire, then, the glorious results of his efforts in converting Protestants; and I took the resolution of devoting myself more than ever to show them their errors and make them good Catholics. In this I was too successful; for during my twenty-five years of priesthood I have persuaded ninety-three Protestants to give up their gospel light and truth, in order to follow the dark and lying traditions of Rome. I cannot enter into the details of their conversions, or rather perversions; suffice it to say, that I soon found that my only chance of success in that proselytizing work was among the Ritualists. I saw at first that Calvin and Knox had dug a really impassable abyss between the Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists and the Church of Rome. If these Ritualists remain Protestants, and do not make the very short step which separates them from Rome, it is a most astonishing fact, when they are logical men. Some people are surprised that so many eminent and learned men, in Great Britain and America, give up their Protestantism to submit to the Church of Rome; but my wonder is that there are so few among them who fall into that bottomless abyss of idolatry and folly, when they are their whole life on the very brink of the chasm. Put millions of men on the very brink of the Falls of Niagara, force them to cross to and fro in small canoes between both shores, and you will see that, every day, some of them will be dragged, in spite of themselves, into the yawning abyss. Nay, you will see that, sooner or later, those millions of people will be in danger of being dragged in a whole body, by the irresistible force of the dashing waters, into the fathomless gulf. Through a sublime effort the English people, helped by the mighty and merciful hand of God, have come out from the abyss of folly, impurity, ignorance, slavery and idolatry called the Church of Rome. But many, alas! in the present day, instead of marching up to the high regions of unsullied Gospel truth and light—instead of going up to the high mountains where true Christian simplicity and liberty have forever planted their glorious banners—have been induced to walk only a few steps out of the pestiferous regions of Popery. They have remained so near the pestilential atmosphere of the stagnant waters of death which flow from Rome, that the atmosphere they breathe is still filled with the deadly emanations of that modern Sodom. Who, without shedding tears of sorrow, can look at those misguided ministers of the Gospel who believe and teach in the Episcopal Church that they have the power to make their God with a wafer, and who bow down before that wafer god and adore him! Who can refrain from indignation at the sight of so many Episcopal ministers who consent to have their ears, minds and souls polluted at the confessional by the stories of their penitents, whom in their turn they destroy by their infamous and unmentionable questions? When I was lecturing in England, in 1860, the late Archbishop of Canterbury, then Bishop of London, invited me to his table, in company with Rev. Mr. Thomas, now Bishop of Coulbourne, Australia, and put to me the following questions, in the presence of his numerous and noble guests:
“Father Chiniquy, when you left the Church of Rome, why did you not join the Episcopalian rather than the Presbyterian Church?”
I answered: “Is it the desire of your lordship that I should speak my mind on that delicate subject?”
“Yes, yes,” said the noble lord bishop.
“Then, my lord, I must tell you that my only reason is that I find in your Church several doctrines which I have to condemn in the Church of Rome.”
“How is that?” replied his lordship.
“Please,” I answered, “let me have one of your Common Prayer Books.”
Taking the book, I read slowly the article on the visitation of the sick: “Then shall the sick person be moved to make a special confession of his sins, if he feels his conscience troubled with any weighty matters. After which confession the priest shall absolve him, after this sort: ‘Our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath left power to His Church to absolve all sinners who repent and believe in Him, of His great mercy forgive thee all thine offenses, and by His authority, committed to me, I absolve thee of all thy sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.’” I then added: “Now, my lord, where is the difference between the errors of Rome and your Church on this subject?”
“The difference is very great,” he answered. “The Church of Rome is constantly pressing the sinners to come to her priests all their lifetime, where we subject the sinner to this humiliation only once in his life, when he is near his last hour.”
“But, my lord, let me tell you that it seems to me the Church of Rome is much more logical and consistent in this than the Episcopal Church. Both churches believe and teach that they have received from Christ the power to forgive the sins of those who confess to their priests, and you think yourself wiser because you invite the sinner to confess and receive his pardon only when he is tied to a bed of suffering, at the last hour before his death. But will your lordship be kind enough to tell me when I am in danger of death. If I am constantly in danger of death, must you not, with the Church of Rome, induce me constantly to confess to your priests, and get my pardon and make my peace with God? Has our Saviour said anywhere that it was only for the dying, at the last extremity of life, that He gave the power to forgive my sins? Has He not warned me many times to be always ready; to have always our peace made with God, and not to wait till the last day, to the last hour?”
The noble bishop did not think fit to give me any other answer than these very words: “We all agree that this doctrine ought never to have been put in our Common Prayer Book. But you know that we are at work to revise that book, and we hope that this clause, with several others, will be taken away.”
“Then,” I answered, in a jocose way, “my lord, when this obnoxious clause has been removed from your Common Prayer Book, it will be time for me to have the honor of belonging to your great and noble Church.”
When the Church of England went out of the Church of Rome, she did as Rachel, the wife of Jacob, who left the house of her father, Laban, and took his gods with her. So the Episcopal Church of England, unfortunately, when she left Rome, concealed in the folds of her mantle some of the false gods of Rome; she kept to her bosom some vipers engendered in the marshes of the modern Sodom. These vipers, if not soon destroyed, will kill her. They are already eating up her vitals. They are covering her with most ugly and mortal wounds. They are rapidly taking away her life.
May the Holy Ghost rebaptize and purify that noble Church of England, that she may be worthy to march at the head of the armies of the Lord to the conquest of the world, under the banners of the great Captain of our Salvation.
Chapter XXX
THE MURDERS AND THEFTS IN QUEBEC FROM 1835 TO 1836—THE NIGHT EXCURSION WITH TWO THIEVES—THE RESTITUTION—THE DAWN OF LIGHT.
The three years which followed the cholera will be long remembered in Quebec for the number of audacious thefts and the murders which kept the whole population in constant terror. Almost every week, the public press had to give us the account of the robbery of the houses of some of our rich merchants, or old wealthy widows.
Many times, the blood was chilled in our veins by the cruel and savage assassinations which had been committed by the thieves when resistance had been offered. The number of these crimes, the audacity, with which they were perpetrated, the ability with which the guilty parties escaped from all the researches of the police, indicated that they were well organized, and had a leader of uncommon shrewdness.
But in the eyes of the religious population of Quebec, the thefts of the 10th of February, 1835, surpassed all the others by its sacrilegious character. That night, the chapel dedicated to the blessed Virgin Mary was entered, a silver statue of the Virgin, the gift of the King of France, a massive lamp, a silver candlestick, and the silver vases which contained the bread which the Roman Catholics believe to be the body, blood and divinity of Jesus Christ, were stolen, and the holy sacrament impiously thrown and scattered on the floor.
Nothing can express the horror and indignation of the whole Catholic population at this last outrage. Large sums of money were offered in order that the brigands might be detected. At last, five of them—Chambers, Mathieu, Gagnon, Waterworth, and Lemoine—were caught in 1836, tried, found guilty and condemned to death in the month of March, 1837.
During the trial, and when public attention was most intensely fixed on its different aspects, in a damp, chilly dark night, I was called to visit a sick man. I was soon ready, and asked the name of the sick man from the messenger. He answered that it was Francis Oregon. As a matter of course, I said that the sick man was a perfect stranger to me, and that I had never heard that there was even such a man in the world. But when I was near the carriage which was to take me, I was not a little surprised to see that the first messenger left abruptly and disappeared. Looking with attention, then, at the faces of the two men who had come for me in the carriage, it seemed that they both wore masks.
“What does this mean?” I said; “each of you wear a mask. Do you mean to murder me?”
“Dear Father Chiniquy,” answered one of them, in a low, trembling voice, and in a supplicating tone, “fear not. We swear before God that no evil will be done to you. On the contrary, God and man will, to the end of the world, praise and bless you, if you come to our help, and save our souls, as well as our mortal bodies. We have in our hands a great part of the silver articles stolen these last three years. The police are on our track, and we are in great danger of being caught. For God’s sake, come with us. We will put all those stolen things in your hands, that you may give them back to those who have lost them. We will then immediately leave the country, and lead a better life. We are Protestants, and the Bible tells us that we cannot be saved if we keep in our hands what is not ours. You do not know us, but we know you well. You are the only man in Quebec to whom we can so trust our lives and this terrible secret. We have worn these masks that you may not know us, and that you may not be compromised if you are ever called before a court of justice.”
My first thought was to leave them and run back to the door of the parsonage; but such an act of cowardice seemed to me, after a moment’s reflection, unworthy of a man. I said to myself, these two men cannot come to steal from me; it is well known in Quebec that I keep myself as poor as a church mouse, by giving all I have to the poor. I have never offended any man in my life, that I know. They cannot come to punish or murder me. They are Protestants, and they trust me. Well, well, they will not regret to have put their trust in a Catholic priest.
I then answered them: “What you ask from me is of a very delicate, and even dangerous nature. Before I do it, I want to take the advice of one whom I consider the wisest man of Quebec—the old Rev. Mr. Demars, ex-president of the seminary of Quebec. Please drive me as quickly as possible to the seminary. If that venerable man advises me to go with you, I will go; but I cannot promise to grant you your request if he tells me not to go.”
“All right,” they both said; and in a very short time, I was knocking at the door of the seminary. A few moments after, I was alone in the room of Mr. Demars. It was just half-past twelve at night.
“Our little Father Chiniquy here on this dark night, at half-past twelve! What does this mean? What do you want from me?” said the venerable old priest.
“I come to ask your advice,” I answered, “on a very strange thing. Two Protestant thieves have in their hands a great quantity of the silverware stolen, these last three years. They want to deposit them in my hands, that I may give them back to those from whom they have been stolen, before they leave the country and lead a better life. I cannot know them, for they both wear masks. I cannot even know where they take me, for the carriage is so completely wrapped up by curtains that it is impossible to see outside. Now, my dear Mr. Demars, I come to ask your advice. Shall I go with them or not? But remember that I trust you with these things under the seal of confession, that neither you nor I may be compromised.”
Before answering me, the venerable priest said: “I am very old, but I have never heard of such a strange thing in my life. Are you not afraid to go alone with these two thieves in that covered carriage?”
“No, sir,” I answered; “I do not see any reason to fear anything from these two men.”
“Well! well,” rejoined Mr. Demars, “if you are not afraid under such circumstances, your mother has given you a brain of diamond and nerve of steel.”
“Now, my dear sir,” I answered, “time flies, and I may have a long way to travel with these two men. Please, in the shortest possible way, tell me your mind? Do you advise me to go with them?”
He replied, “You consult me on a very difficult matter; there are so many considerations to make, that it is impossible to weigh them all. The only thing we have to do is to pray God and His Holy Mother for wisdom—Let us pray.”
We knelt and said the “Veni Sancte Spiritus;” “Come Holy Spirit,” etc., which prayer ends by an invocation to Mary as Mother of God.
After the prayer Mr. Demars again asked me: “Are you not afraid?”
“No, sir, I do not see any reason to be afraid. But, please, for God’s sake hurry on, tell me if you advise me to go and accept this message of mercy and peace.”
“Yes! go! go! if you are not afraid,” answered the old priest, with a voice full of emotion, and tears in his eyes.
I fell on my knees and said: “Before I start, please, give me your blessing and pray for me, when I shall be on my way to that strange, but, I hope, good work.”
I left the seminary and took my seat at the right hand of one of my unknown companions, while the other was on the front seat, driving the horse.
Not a word was said by any of us on the way. But I perceived that the stranger, who was at my left, was praying to God; though in such a low voice that I understood only these words twice repeated: “O Lord! have mercy upon me—such a sinner!”
These words touched me to the heart, and brought to my mind the dear Saviour’s words: “The publicans and harlots shall go into the kingdom of God before you,” and I also prayed for that poor repenting sinner and for myself, by repeating the sublime 50th Psalm:
“Have mercy upon me, O Lord!”
It took about half an hour to reach the house. But, there, again, it was impossible for me to understand where I was. For the carriage was brought so near the door that there was no possibility of seeing anything beyond the carriage and the horse through the terrible darkness of that night.
The only person I saw, when in the house, was a tall woman covered with a long black veil, whom I took to be a disguised man, on account of her size and her strength; for she was carrying very heavy bags with as much ease as if they had been a handful of straw.
There was only a small candle behind a screen, which gave so little light that everything looked like phantoms around us. Pictures and mirrors were all turned to the wall, and presented the wrong side to view. The sofa and the chairs were also upset in such a way that it was impossible to identify anything of what I had seen. In fact, I could see nothing in that house. Not a word was said, except by one of my companions, who whispered in a very low voice, “Please, look at the tickets which are on every bundle; they will indicate to whom these things belong.” There were eight bundles. The heaviest of which was composed of the melted silver of the statue of the virgin, the candlesticks, the lamp of the chapel, the ciborium, a couple of chalices, and some dozens of spoons and forks. The other bundles were made up of silver plates, fruit baskets, tea, coffee, cream and sugar pots, silver spoons and forks, etc.
As soon as these bundles were put into the carriage we left for the parsonage, where we arrived a little before the dawn of day. Not a word was exchanged between us on the way, and my impression was, that my penitent companions were sending their silent prayers, like myself, to the feet of that merciful God who has said to all sinners, “Come unto me, all ye who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
They carried the bundles into my trunk, which I locked with peculiar attention. When all was over, I accompanied them to the door to take leave of them. Then, each seizing one of my hands, by a spontaneous movement of gratitude and joy, they pressed them on their lips, shedding tears, and saying in a low voice: “God bless you a thousand times for the good work you have just performed. After Christ, you are our saviour.”
As these two men were speaking, it pleased God to send forth into my soul one of those rays of happiness which he gives us only at great intervals.
I believe our fragile existence would soon be broken up were we by such joys incessantly inundated. Those two men had ceased to be robbers in my eyes. They were dear brethren, precious friends, such as are seldom to be seen. The narrow and shameful prejudices of my religion were silent before the fervent prayers that I had heard from their lips; they disappeared in those tears of repentance, gratitude and love, which fell from their eyes on my hands. Night surrounded us with its deepest shades; but our souls were illuminated with a light purer than the rays of the sun. The air that we breathed was cold and damp; but one of these sparks brought down from heaven by Jesus to warm the earth, had fallen into our hearts, and we were all penetrated by its glow. I pressed their hands in mine, saying to them:
“I thank and bless you for choosing me as the confident of your misfortunes and repentance. To you I owe three of the most precious hours of my life. Adieu! We shall see one another no more on this earth; but we shall meet in heaven. Adieu!”
It is unnecessary to add that it was impossible to sleep the remainder of that memorable night. Besides, I had in my possession more stolen articles than would have caused fifty men to be hanged. I said to myself: “What would become of me if the police were to break in on me, and find all that I have in my hands. What could I answer if I were asked, how all these had reached me?”
Did I not go beyond the bounds of prudence in what I have just done? Have I not, indeed, slipped a rope around my neck?
Though my conscience did not reproach me with any thing, especially when I had acted on the advice of a man as wise as Mr. Demars, yet was I not without some anxiety, and I longed to get rid of all the things I had, by giving them to their legitimate owners.
At ten o’clock in the morning, I was at Mr. Amiot’s, the wealthiest goldsmith in Quebec, with my heavy satchel of melted silver. After obtaining from him a promise of secrecy, I handed it over to him, giving him at the same time its history. I asked him to weigh it, keep its contents, and let me have its value, which I was to distribute according to its label.
He told me that there was in it a thousand dollars’ worth of melted silver, which amount he immediately gave me. I went down directly to give about half of it to Rev. Mr. Cazeault, chaplain of the congregation, which had been robbed, and who was then the secretary of the Archbishop of Quebec; and I distributed the remainder to the parties indicated on the labels attached to this enormous ingot.
The good Lady Montgomery could scarcely believe her eyes when, after obtaining also from her the promise of the most inviolable secrecy on what I was going to show her, I displayed on her table the magnificent dishes of massive silver, fruit baskets, tea and coffee pots, sugar bowls, cream jugs, and a great quantity of spoons and forks of the finest silver, which had been taken from her in 1835. It seemed to her a dream which brought before her eyes these precious family relics.
She then related in a most touching manner what a terrible moment she had passed, when the thieves, having seized her, with her maid and a young man, rolled them in carpets to stifle their cries, whilst they were breaking locks, opening chests and cupboards to carry off their rich contents. She told me how nearly she had been stifled with her faithful servants under the enormous weight of carpets heaped upon them by the robbers.
This excellent lady was a Protestant, and it was the first time in my life that I met a Protestant whose piety seemed so enlightened and sincere. I could not help admiring her.
When she had most sincerely thanked and blessed me for the service I had done her, she asked if I would have any objection to pray with her, and to aid her in thanking God for the favor he had just shown her. I told her, I should be happy in uniting with her to bless the Lord for his mercies. Upon this, she gave me a Bible, magnificently bound, and we read each in turn a verse slowly, and on our knees, the sublime Psalm 103: “Bless the Lord, O my soul,” etc.
As I was about to take leave of her, she offered me a purse containing one hundred dollars in gold, which I refused, telling her that I would rather lose my two hands than receive a cent for what I had done.
“You are,” she said, “surrounded with poor people. Give them this that I offer to the Lord as a feeble testimony of my gratitude, and be assured that as long as I live I will pray God to pour his most abounding favors upon you.”
In leaving that house I could not hide from myself that my soul had been embalmed with the true perfume of piety that I had never seen in my own church.
Before the day closed, I had given back to their rightful owners the effects left in my hands, whose value amounted to more than $7,000, and had my receipts in good form.
I am glad to say here, that the persons, most of whom were Protestants, to whom I made these restitutions, were perfectly honorable, and that not a single one of them ever said anything to compromise me in this matter, nor was I ever troubled on this subject.
I thought it my duty to give my venerable friend, the Grand Vicar Demars, a detailed account of what had just happened. He heard me with the deepest interest, and could not retain his tears when I related the touching scene of my separation from my two new friends, that night, one of the darkest—which, nevertheless, has remained one of the brightest of my life.
My story ended, he said, “I am, indeed, very old, but I must confess that never did I hear anything so strange and so beautiful as this story. I repeat, however, that your mother must have given you a brain harder than diamond and nerves more solid than brass, not to have been afraid during this very singular adventure in the night.”
After the fatigues and incidents of the last twenty-four hours, I was in great need of rest, but it was impossible for me to sleep a single instant during the night which followed. For the first time, I stood face to face with that Protestantism which my Church had taught me to hate and fight with all the energy that heaven had bestowed on me, and when that faith had been, by the hand of Almighty God, placed in the scale against my own religion, it appeared as a heap of pure gold opposite a pile of rotten rags. In spite of myself, I could hear incessantly the cries of grief of that penitent thief: “Lord, have mercy on me, so great a sinner!”
Then, the sublime piety of Lady Montgomery, the blessings she had asked God to pour on me, his unprofitable servant, seemed, as so many coals of fire heaped upon my head by God, to punish me for having said so much evil of Protestants, and so often decried their religion.
A secret voice arose within me: “Seest thou not how these Protestants, whom thou wishest to crush with thy disdain, know how to pray, repent, and make amends for their faults, much more nobly than the unfortunate wretches whom thou holdest as so many slaves at thy feet by means of the confessional?
“Understandest thou not that the Spirit of God, the grace and love of Jesus Christ, produces effectually in the hearts and minds of these Protestants a work much more durable than thy auricular confession? Compare the miserable wiles of Mr. Parent, who makes false restitutions, to cast dust into the eyes of the unsuspecting multitude, with the straightforwardness, noble sincerity, and admirable wisdom of these Protestants, in making amends for their wrongs before God and men, and judge for thyself which of those two religions raise, in order to save, and which degrades, in order to destroy the guilty.
“Has ever auricular confession worked as efficiently on sinners as the Bible on these thieves to change their hearts?
“Judge, this day, by their fruits, which of the two religions is led by the spirit of darkness, or the Holy Ghost?”
Not wishing to condemn my religion, nor allow my heart to be attacked by Protestantism during the long hours of that restless night, I remained anxious, humiliated, and uneasy.
It is thus, O my God, that thou madest use of everything, even these thieves, to shake that wonderful fabric of errors, superstitions, and falsehoods that Rome had raised in my soul. May thy name be forever blessed for thy mercies towards me, thy unprofitable servant!