CHAPTER 20
The name of Louis Joseph Papineau will be for ever dear to the
French Canadians; for whatever may be the political party to which one belongs
in Canada, he cannot deny that it is to the ardent patriotism, the indomitable
energy, and the remarkable eloquence of that great patriot, that Canada is
indebted for the greater part of the political reforms which promise in a near
future to raise the country of my birth to the rank of a great and free nation.
It is not my intention to speak of the political parties which divided the
people of Canada into two camps in 1833. The long and trying abuses under which
our conquered race was groaning, and which at last brought about the bloody
insurrections of 1837 and 1838, are matters of history, which do not pertain to
the plea of this work. I will speak of Papineau, and the brilliant galaxy of
talented young men by whom he was surrounded and supported, only in connection
with their difficulties with the clergy and the Church of Rome.
Papineau, Lafontaine, Bedard, Cartier and others, though born in the Church of
Rome, were only nominal Romanists. I have been personally acquainted with every
one of them, and I know they were not in the habit of confessing. Several times
I invited them to fulfill that duty, which I considered, then, of the utmost
importance to be saved. They invariably answered me with jests which distressed
me; for I could see that they did not believe in the efficacy of auricular
confession. These men were honest and earnest in their efforts to raise their
countrymen from the humiliating and inferior position which they occupied
compared with the conquering race. They well understood that the first thing to
be done, in order to put the French Canadians on a level with their British
compatriots, was to give good schools to the people; and they bravely set
themselves to show the necessity of having a good system of education, for the
country as well as for the city. But at the very first attempt they found an
insurmountable barrier to their patriotic views in the clergy. The priests had
everywhere the good common sense to understand that their absolute power over
the people was due to its complete ignorance. They felt that that power would
decrease in the same proportion that light and education would spread among the
masses. Hence the almost insurmountable obstacles put by the clergy before the
patriots, to prevent them from reforming the system of education. The only
source of education, then in Canada, with the exception of the colleges of
Quebec, Montreal and Nicolet, consisted in one or two schools in the principal
parishes, entirely under the control of the priests and kept by their most
devoted servants, while the new parishes had none at all. The greater part of
these teachers knew very little more, and required nothing more from their
pupils, than the reading of the A, B, C, and their little catechism. When once
admitted to their first communion the A, B, C, and the little catechism were
soon forgotten, and 95 in 100 of the French Canadian people were not even able
to sign their names! In many parishes, the curate, with his school teacher, the
notary, and half-a-dozen others, were the only persons who could read or write a
letter. Papineau and his patriotic friends understood that the French Canadian
people were doomed to remain an inferior race in their own country, if they were
left in that shameful state of ignorance. They did not conceal their indignation
at the obstacles placed by the clergy to prevent them from amending the system
of education. Several eloquent speeches were made by Papineau, who was their
"Parliament Speaker," in answer to the clergy. The curates, in their
pulpits, as well as by the press, tried to show that Canada had the best
possible system of education that the people were happy that too much education
would bring into Canada the bitter fruits which had grown in France infidelity,
revolution, riots, bloodshed; that the people were too poor to pay the heavy
taxes which would be imposed for the new system of education. In one of his
addresses, Papineau answered this last argument, showing the immense sums of
money foolishly given by those so-called poor people to gild the ceilings of the
church (as was the usage then). He made a calculation of the tithes paid to the
priests; of the costly images and statues of saints, which were to be seen then,
around all the interior of the churches, and he boldly said that the priests
would do better to induce the people to establish good schools, and pay
respectable teachers, than to lavish their money on objects which were of so
little benefit.
That address, which was reproduced by the only French paper of Quebec, "Le
Canadien," fell upon the clergy like a hurricane upon a rotten house,
shaking it to its foundation. Everywhere Papineau and his party were denounced
as infidels, more dangerous than Protestants, and plans were immediately laid
down to prevent the people from reading "Le Canadien," the only French
paper they could receive. Not more than half-adozen were receiving it in St.
Charles; but they used to read it to their neighbours, who gathered on Sabbath
afternoons to hear its contents. We at first tried, through the confessional, to
persuade the subscribers to reject it, under the pretext that it was a bad
paper; that it spoke against the priests and would finally destroy our holy
religion. But, to our great dismay, our efforts failed. The curates then had
recourse to a more efficacious way of preserving the faith of their people.
The postmaster of St. Charles was, then, a man whom Mr. Perras had got educated
at his own expense in the seminary of Quebec. His name was Chabot. That man was
a perfect machine in the hands of his benefactor. Mr. Perras forbade him to
deliver any more of the numbers of that journal to the subscribers, when there
would be anything unfavourable to the clergy in its columns. "Give them to
me," said he, "that I may burn them, and when the people come to get
them, give them such evasive answers, that they may believe that it is the
editor's fault, or of some other post-offices, if they have not received
it." From that day, every time there was any censure of the clergy, the
poor paper was consigned to the flames. One evening, when Mr. Perras had, in my
presence, thrown a bundle of these papers into the stove, I told him:
"Please allow me to express to you my surprise at this act. Have we really
the right to deprive the subscribers of that paper of their property! That paper
is theirs, they have paid for it. How can we take upon ourselves to destroy it
without their permission! Besides, you know the old proverb: Les pierres parlent.
(Stones speak.) If it were known by our people that we destroy their papers,
would not the consequences be very serious? Now, Mr. Perrs, you know my sincere
respect for you, and I hope I do not go against that respect by asking you to
tell me by what right or authority you do this? I would not put this question to
you, if you were the only one who does it. But I know several others who do just
the same thing. I will, probably, be obliged, when a curate, to act in the same
manner, and I wish to know on what grounds I shall be justified in acting as you
do."
"Are we not the spiritual fathers of our people?" answered Mr. Perras.
I replied, "Yes sir, we are surely the spiritual fathers of our
people."
"Then," rejoined Mr. Perras, "we have in spiritual matters, all
the rights and duties which temporal fathers have, in temporal things, towards
their children. If a father sees a sharp knife in the hands of his beloved but
inexperienced child, and if he has good reason to fear that the dear child may
wound himself, nay, destroy his own life with that knife, is it not his duty,
before God and man, to take it from his hands, and prevent him from touching it
any more?"
"Yes," I answered, "but allow me to draw your attention to a
little difference which I see between the corporal and the spiritual children of
your comparison. In the case you bring forward, of a father who takes away the
knife from the hands of a young and inexperienced child, that knife has, very
probably, been bought by the father. It has been paid for with that father's
money. It is, then, the father's knife. But the papers of your spiritual
children, which you have thrown into your stove, have been paid for by them, and
not by you. They are theirs, then, before the laws of God and man, and they are
not yours."
I saw that my answer had cut the good old priest to the quick, and he became
more nervous than I had ever seen him. "I see that you are young,"
answered he; "you have not yet had time to meditate on the great and broad
principles of our holy church. I confess there is a difference in the rights of
the two children to which I had not paid attention, and which, at first sight,
may seem to diminish the strength of my argument. But I have here an argument
which will satisfy you, I hope. Some weeks ago I wrote to our venerable Bishop
Panet about my intention of burning that miserable and impious paper, `Le
Canadien,' to prevent it from poisoning the minds of our people against us, and
he has approved me, adding the advice, to be very prudent, and to act so
secretly that there would be no danger in being detected. Here is the letter of
the holy bishop; you may read it if you like."
"I thank you," I replied. "I believe that what you say in
reference to that letter is correct. But suppose that our good bishop has made a
mistake in advising you to burn those papers, would you not have some reasons to
regret that burning, should you, sooner or later, detect that mistake?"
"A reason of regretting to follow the advice of my superiors! Never! Never!
I fear, my dear young friend, that you do not sufficiently understand the duties
of an inferior, and the sacred rights of superiors in the College of Nicolet,
that there can be no sin in an inferior who obeys the orders or counsels of his
legitimate superiors?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, "the Rev. Mr. Leprohon has told us that
in the college of Nicolet."
"But," rejoined Mr. Perras, "your last question makes me fear
that you have forgotten what you have learned there. My dear young friend, do
not forget that it was the want of respect to their ecclesiastical superiors
which caused the apostasy of Luther and Calvin, and damned so many millions of
heretics who have followed them. But in order to bring your rebellious mind
under the holy yoke of a perfect submission to your superiors, I will show you,
by our greatest and most approved theologian, that I can burn these papers,
without doing anything wrong before God."
He then went to his library, and brought me a volume of Liguori, from which he
read to me the following Latin words: "Docet Sanchez, ect., parato aliquem
occidere, licite posse suaderi, ut ab eo furetur, vel ut fornicetur." *
With an air of triumph he said, "Do you see now that I am absolutely
justifiable in destroying these pestilential papers. According to those
principles of our holy church, you know well that even a woman is allowed to
commit the sin of adultery with a man who threatens to kill her, or himself, if
she rebukes him; because murder and suicide are greater crimes, and more
irremediable than adultery. So the burning of those papers, though a sin, if
done through malice, or without legitimate reasons, ceases to be a sin; it is a
holy action the moment I do it, to prevent the destruction of our holy religion,
and to save immortal souls."
I must confess, to my shame, that the degrading principles of absolute
submission of the inferior to the superiors, which flattens everything to the
ground in the Church of Rome, had so completely wrought their deadly work on me,
that it was my wish to attain to that supreme perfection of the priest of the
Church or Rome, to become like a stick in the hands of my superiors like a
corpse in their presence. But my God was stronger than His unfaithful and blind
servant, and He never allowed me to go down to the bottom of that abyss of folly
and impiety. In spite of myself, I had left in me sufficient manhood to express
my doubts about that awful doctrine of my Church.
"I do not want to revolt against my superiors," I answered, "and
I hope God will prevent me from falling into the abyss where Luther and Calvin
lost themselves. I only respectfully request you to tell me, if you would not
regret the burning of these papers, in case you would know that Bishop Panet
made a mistake in granting you the power of destroying a property which is
neither yours or his a property over which neither of you has any control?"
It was the first time that I was not entirely of the same mind with Mr. Perras.
Till then, I had not been brave, honest, or independent enough to oppose his
views and his ipse dixit, though often tempted to do so. The desire of living in
peace with him; the sincere respect which his many virtues and venerable age
commanded in me; the natural timidity, not to say cowardice, of a young,
inexperienced man, in the presence of a learned and experienced priest, had kept
me, till then, in perfect submission to the views of my aged curate. But it
seemed impossible to yield any longer, and to bow my conscience before
principles, which seemed to me then, as I am sure they are now, subversive of
everything which is good and holy among men. I took the big Bible, which was on
the table, and I opened it at the history of Susanna, and I answered: "My
dear Mr. Perras, God has chosen you to be my teacher, and I have learned many
things since it has been my privilege to be with you. But I have much more to
learn, before I know all that your books and your long experience have taught
you. I hope you will not find fault with me, if I honestly tell you that in
spite of myself, there is a doubt in my mind about this doctrine of our
theologians," and I said, "is there anything more sublime, in the
whole Bible, than that feeble woman, Susanna, in the hands of those two infamous
men? With a diabolical impudence and malice, they threaten to destroy her, and
to take her before a tribunal which will surely condemn her to the most ignoble
death, if she does not consent to satisfy their criminal desires. She is just in
the position alluded to by Liguori. What will she do? Will she be guided by the
principles of our theologians? Will she consent to become an adulteress in order
to prevent those two men from perjuring themselves, and becoming murderers, by
causing her to be stoned to death, as was required by the law of the Jews? No!
She raises her eyes and her soul towards the God whom she loves and fears more
than anything in the world, and she says, `I am straitened on every side, for if
I do this thing it is death unto me; and if I do it not, I cannot escape your
hands. It is better for me to fall into your hands, and not to do it, than to
sin in the sight of the Lord.' Has not God Almighty Himself shown that He
approved of that heroic resolution of Susanna, to die rather than commit
adultery. Does He not show that He himself planted, in that noble soul, the
principle that it is better to die than break the laws of God, when He brought
His prophet Daniel, and gave him a supernatural wisdom to save the life of
Susanna? If that woman had been guided by the principles of Liguori, which, I
confess to you with regret, are the principles accepted everywhere in our Church
(principles which have guided you in the burning of `Le Canadien'), she would
have consented to the desires of those infamous men. Nay, if she had been
interrogated by her husband, or by the judges on that action, she would have
been allowed to swear before God and men, that she was not guilty of it. Now, my
dear Mr. Perras, do you not find that there is some clashing between the Word of
God, as taught in the Holy Scriptures, and the teachings of our Church, through
the theologians?"
Never have I seen such a sudden change in the face and manners of a man, as I
saw in that hour. That Mr. Perras, who had, till then, spoken with so much
kindness and dignity, completely lost his temper. Instead of answering me, he
abruptly rose to his feet, and began to pace the room with a quick step. After
some time he told me: "Mr. Chiniquy, you forget that when you were ordained
a priest, you swore that you would never interpret the Holy Scriptures according
to your own fallible private judgment; you solemnly promised that you would take
them only according to the unanimous consent of the Holy Fathers speaking to you
through your superiors. Has not Liguori been approved by the Popes by all the
bishops of the Church? We have then, here, the true doctrine which must guide
us. But instead of submitting yourself with humility, as it becomes a young and
inexperienced priest, you boldly appeal to the Scriptures, against the decisions
of Popes and bishops against the voice of all your superiors, speaking to you
through Liguori. Where will that boldness end? Ah! I tremble for you, if you do
not speedily change: you are on the high road to heresy!"
These last words had hardly fallen from his lips, when the clock struck 9 p.m.
He abruptly stopped speaking, and said, "This is the hour of prayer."
We knelt and prayed.
I need not say that that night was a sleepless one to me. I wept and prayed all
through its long dark hours. I felt that I had lost, and for ever, the high
position I had in the heart of my old friend, and that I had probably
compromised myself, for ever, in the eyes of my superiors, who were the absolute
masters of my destinies. I condemned myself for that inopportune appeal to the
Holy Scriptures, against the ipse dixit of my superiors. I asked God to destroy
in me, that irresistible tendency, by which I was constantly going to the Word
of God to know the truth, instead of remaining at the feet of my superiors, with
the rest of the clergy, as the only fountain of knowledge and light.
But thanks be to God that blasphemous prayer was never to be granted.
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CHAPTER 21 Back
to Top
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 to 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 those dinners were really state affairs. Several days in advance,
preparations were made on a grand scale, to collect everything that could please
the taste 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 neighbours. 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 it 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 his 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. Amoit, the purveyor for 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 along 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 hatch 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 on 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
neighbourhood 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 he 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 these 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 beefsteak, or preparing this fricassee, and that gravy a la Francaise. 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 neighbourhood, 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 honoured 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 today."
"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 somber 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 favour 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 honoured 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 over-flowing 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 drunk as much wine as my
neighbour, 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, which I have the honour 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's 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 today! 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! oh! 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 one of God, are merry and cheerful, the
more He is Himself and rejoiced in His heavenly kingdom.
"But if God our Father is so pleased with what we have eaten and drunk
today, 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 too 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 parlour 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 to 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 criticize 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 he 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 neighbours will meet here, I will not expose them to stagger, 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 parlour, and he went to visit a sick man in one of
the neighbouring 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 form 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 knew 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, upstairs, and someone 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 parlour 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 towards 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 vice. 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 afterwards 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 pressed
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 towards his sister, and said,
"Are you not ashamed to present yourselves 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 to my cries,
came to my rescue. They wrapped her in a blanket, taken there by her sister, and
brought her back into her 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, when 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 of the priests whom she had known. Hearing her
attendants often speak of me, she had, several times, expressed the 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 priests have defiled my heart,
Damned my soul! murdered my child!"
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER 22 Back
to Top
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 month's experience of the ministry.
Charlesbourgh is one 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 when received their precious cargoes of
lumber. On our left, numberless ranges of white houses extend 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, Roch, ect., 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 labour 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 the 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, besides two or three glasses of wine at dinner. Mr. Perras slept the whole
night as a guiltless child. Mr. Bedard, almost every night 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 mei, Deus, secundam magnam misericordiam tuam" (Have
mercy upon me, O Lord, according to Thy lovingkindness); 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 penance 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 my 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 of 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 a 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 would, 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 2nd 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,
hath quickened us together with Christ. By grace ye are saved....for by grace
are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God;
not of works, least any man should boast.'
"Now, my dear and venerable Mr. Bedard, allow me respectfully to ask, how
is it 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 euloqium 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 I 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
fulfill 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 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 in the plate of the poor stranger, who with some hesitation finished
by doing honour 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 yet never 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.
Those 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 heir 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 invariable 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 so 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 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
afflictions 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 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 their fountain 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 Scriptures which I used to quote in defense 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
which 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 worshiping 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 moulded them into the figure of a calf,
they made theirs with 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: "Ecc
agnus Dei 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 scapular on his breast no sudden death would overtake a man who
was faithful in 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 colour 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 on the 29th
of July, 1847, in a fit of delirium.