CHAPTER 34
"My thoughts are not your thoughts," saith the Lord.
And, we may add, His works are not like the works of man. This great truth has
never been better exemplified than in the marvelous rapidity with which the
great temperance reformation grew in Canada, in spite of the most formidable
obstacles. To praise any man for such a work seems to me a kind of blasphemy,
when it is so visibly the work of the Lord. I had hardly finished reading the
letter of Ireland's Apostle of Temperance, when I fell on my knees and said:
"Thou knowest, O my God, that I am nothing but a sinner. There is no light,
no strength in Thy poor unprofitable servant. Therefore, come down into my heart
and soul, to direct me in that temperance reform which Thou hast put into my
mind to establish. Without Thee I can do nothing, but with Thee I can do all
things."
This was on a Saturday night, March 20, 1839. The next morning was the first
Sabbath of Lent. I said to the people after the sermon:
"I have told you, many times, that I sincerely believe it is my mission
from God to put an end to the unspeakable miseries and crimes engendered every
day, here in our whole country, by the use of intoxicating drink. Alcohol is the
great enemy of your souls and your bodies. It is the most implacable enemy of
your wives, your husbands, and your children. It is the most formidable enemy of
our dear country and our holy religion. I must destroy that enemy. But I cannot
fight alone. I must form an army and raise a banner in your midst, around which
all the soldiers of the Gospel will rally. Jesus Christ Himself will be our
general. He will bless and sanctify us He will lead us to victory. The next
three days will be consecrated by you and by me in preparing to raise that army.
Let all those who wish to fill its ranks, come and pass these three days with me
in prayer and meditation before our sacred altars. Let even those who do not
want to be soldiers of Christ, or to fight the great and glorious battles which
are to be fought, come through curiosity, to see a most marvelous spectacle. I
invite every one of you, in the name of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, whom alcohol
nails anew to the cross every day. I invite you in the name of the holy Virgin
Mary, and of all the saints and angels of God, who are weeping in heaven for the
crimes committed every day by the use of intoxicating drinks. I invite you in
the names of the wives whom I see here in your midst, weeping because they have
drunken husbands. I invite you to come in the names of the fathers whose hearts
are broken by drunken children. I invite you to come in the name of so many
children who are starving, naked, and made desolate by their drunken parents. I
invite you to come in the name of your immortal souls, which are to be eternally
damned if the giant destroyer, Alcohol, be not driven from our midst."
The next morning, at eight o'clock, my church was crammed by the people. My
first address was at half-past eight o'clock, the second at 10:30 a.m., the
third at 2.0 p.m., and the fourth at five. The intervals between the addresses
were filled by beautiful hymns selected for the occasion. Many times during my
discourse the sobs and the cries of the people were such that I had to stop
speaking, to mix my sobs and my tears with those of my people. That first day
seventy-five men, from among the most desperate drunkards, enrolled themselves
under the banner of temperance. The second day I gave again four addresses, the
effects of which were still more blessed in their result. Two hundred of my dear
parishioners were enrolled in the grand army which was to fight against their
implacable enemy. But it would require the hand of an angel to write the history
of the third day, at the end of which, in the midst of tears, sobs, and cries of
joy, three hundred more of that noble people swore, in the presence of their
God, never to touch, taste, or handle the cursed drinks with which Satan
inundates the earth with desolation, and fills hell with eternal cries of
despair. During these three days more than two-thirds of my people had publicly
taken the pledge of temperance, and had solemnly said in the presence of God,
before their altars, "For the love of Jesus Christ, and by the grace of
God, I promise that I will never take any intoxicating drink, except as a
medicine. I also pledge myself to do all in my power, by my words and example,
to persuade others to make the same sacrifice." The majority of my people,
among whom we counted the most degraded drunkards, were changed and reformed,
not by me, surely, but by the visible, direct work of the great and merciful
God, who alone can change the heart of man.
As a great number of people from the surrounding parishes, and even from Quebec,
had come to hear me the third day through curiosity, the news of that marvelous
work spread very quickly throughout the whole country. The press, both French
and English, were unanimous in their praises and felicitations. But when the
Protestants of Quebec were blessing God for that reform, the French Canadians,
at the example of their priests denounced me as a fool and heretic.
The second day of our revival I had sent messages to four of the neighbouring
curates, respectfully requesting them to come and see what the Lord was doing,
and help me to bless Him. But they refused. They answered my note with their
contemptuous silence. One only, the Rev. Mr. Roy, curate of Charlesbourg,
deigned to write me a few words, which I cope here:
.
Rev. Mr. Chiniquy, Curate of Beauport.
My dear Confrere:Please forgive me if I cannot forget the respect I owe to
myself, enough to go and see your fooleries.
Truly yours,
Pierre Roy.
Charlesbourg, March 5th, 1839.
The indignation of the bishop knew no bounds. A few days
after, he ordered me to go to his palace and give an account of what he called
my "strange conduct." When alone with me he said: "Is it
possible, Mr. Chiniquy, that you have so soon forgotten my prohibition not to
establish that ridiculous temperance society in your parish? Had you compromised
yourself alone by that Protestant comedy for it is nothing but that I would
remain silent, in my pity for you. But you have compromised our holy religion by
introducing a society whose origin is clearly heretical. Last evening, the
venerable Grand Vicar Demars told me that you would sooner or later become a
Protestant, and that this was your first step. Do you not see that the
Protestants only praise you? Do you not blush to be praised only by heretics?
Without suspecting it, you are just entering a road which leads to your ruin.
You have publicly covered yourself with such ridicule that I fear your
usefulness is at an end, not only in Beauport, but in all my diocese. I do not
conceal it from you: my first thought, when an eye-witness told me yesterday
what you had done, was to interdict you. I have been prevented from taking that
step only by the hope that you will undo what you have done. I hope that you
will yourself dissolve that anti-Catholic association, and promise to put an end
to those novelties, which have too strong a smell of heresy to be tolerated by
your bishop."
I answered: "My lord, your lordship has not forgotten that it was
absolutely against my own will that I was appointed curate of Beauport; and God
knows that you have only to say a word, and, without a murmur, I will give you
my resignation, that you may put a better priest at the head of that people,
which I consider, and which is really, today the noblest and the most sober
people of Canada. But I will put a condition to the resignation of my position.
It is, that I will be allowed to publish before the world that the Rev. Mr.
Begin, my predecessor, has never been troubled by his bishop for having allowed
his people, during twenty-three years, to swim in the mire of drunkenness; and
that I have been disgraced by my bishop, and turned out from that same parish,
for having been the instrument, by the mercy of God, in making them the most
sober people in Canada."
The poor bishop felt, at once, that he could not stand on the ground he had
taken with me. He was a few moments without knowing what to say. He saw also
that his threats had no influence over me, and that I was not ready to undo what
I had done. After a painful silence of a minute or two, he said: "Do you
not see that the solemn promises you have extorted from those poor drunkards are
rash and unwise; they will break them at the first opportunity? Their future
state of degradation, after such an excitement, will be worse than the
first."
I answered: "I would partake of your fears if that change were my work; but
as it is the Lord's work, we have nothing to fear. The works of men are weak,
and of short duration, but the works of God are solid and permanent. About the
prophecy of the venerable Mr. Demars, that I have taken my first step towards
Protestantism by turning a drunken into a sober people, I have only to say that
if that prophecy be true, it would show that Protestantism is more apt than our
holy religion to work for the glory of God and the good of the people. I hope
that your lordship is not ready to accept that conclusion, and that you will not
then trouble yourself with the premises. The venerable grand Vicar, with many
other priests, would do better to come and see what the Lord is doing in
Beauport, than to slander me and turn false prophets against its curate and
people. My only answer to the remarks of your lordship, that the Protestants
alone praise me, when the Roman Catholic priests and people condemn me, proves
only one thing, viz., that Protestants, on this question, understand the Word of
God, and have more respect for it than we Roman Catholics. It would prove also
that they understand the interests of humanity better than we do, and that they
have more generosity than we have, to sacrifice their selfish propensities to
the good of all. I take the liberty of saying to your lordship, that in this, as
in many other things, it is high time that we should open our eyes to our false
position.
"Instead of remaining at the lowest step of the ladder of one of the most
Christian virtues, temperance, we must raise ourselves to the top, where
Protestants are reaping so many precious fruits. Besides, would your lordship be
kind enough to tell me why I am denounced and abused here, and by my
fellow-priests and my bishop, for forming a temperance society in my parish,
when Father Mathew, who wrote me lately to encourage and direct me in that work,
is publicly praised by his bishops and blessed by the Pope for covering Ireland
with temperance societies? Is your lordship ready to prove to me that Samson was
a heretic in the camp of Israel when he fulfilled the promise made by his
parents that he would never drink any wine, or beer; and John the Baptist, was
not he a heretic and a Protestant as I am, when, to obey the voice of God, he
did what I do today, with my dear people of Beauport?"
At that very moment, the sub-secretary entered to tell the bishop that a
gentleman wanted to see him immediately on pressing business, and the bishop
abruptly dismissed me, to my great comfort; and my impression was that he was as
glad to get rid of me as I was to get rid of him.
With the exception of the Secretary, Mr. Cazeault, all the priests I met that
day and the next month, either gave me the cold shoulder or overwhelmed me with
their sarcasms. One of them who had friends in Beauport, was bold enough to try
to go through the whole parish to turn me into ridicule by saying that I was
half crazy, and the best thing the people could do was to drink moderately to my
health when they went to town. But at the third house he met a woman, who, after
listening to the bad advice he was giving to her husband, said to him: "I
do not know if our pastor is a fool in making people sober, but I know you are a
messenger of the devil, when you advise my husband to drink again. You know that
he was one of the most desperate drunkards of Beauport. You personally know also
what blows I have received from him when he was drunk; how poor and miserable we
were; how many children had to run on the streets, half naked, and beg in order
not to starve with me! Now that my husband has taken the pledge of temperance,
we have every comfort; my dear children are well fed and clothed, and I find
myself as in a little paradise. If you do not go out of this house at once, I
will turn you out with my broomstick." And she would have fulfilled her
promise, had not the priest had the good sense to disappear at the "double
quick."
The next four months after the foundation of the society in Beauport, my
position when with the other priests was very painful and humiliating. I
consequently avoided their company as much as possible. And, as for my bishop, I
took the resolution never to go and see him, except he should order me into his
presence. But my merciful God indemnified me by the unspeakable joy I had in
seeing the marvelous change wrought by Him among my dear people. Their fidelity
in keeping the pledge was really wonderful, and soon became the object of
admiration of the whole city of Quebec, and of the surrounding country. The
change was sudden, so complete and so permanent, that the scoffing bishop and
priests, with their friends, had, at last, to blush and be silent.
The public aspect of the parish was soon changed, the houses were repaired, the
debts paid, the children well clad. But what spoke most eloquently about the
marvelous reform was that the seven thriving saloons of Beauport were soon
closed, and their owners forced to take other occupations. Peace, happiness,
abundance, and industry, everywhere took the place of the riots, fighting,
blasphemies and the squalid misery which prevailed before. The gratitude and
respect of that noble people for their young curate knew no bounds; as my love
and admiration for them cannot be told by human words.
However, though the great majority of that good people had taken the pledge, and
kept it honourably, there was a small minority, composed of the few who never
had been drunkards, who had not yet enrolled themselves under our blessed
banners. Though they were glad of the reform, it was very difficult to persuade
them to give up their social glass! I thought it was my duty to show them in a
tangible way, what I had so often proved with my words only, that the drinking
of the social glass of wine, or of beer, is an act of folly, if not a crime. I
asked my kind and learned friend, Dr. Douglas, to analyze, before the people,
the very wine and beer used by them, to show that it was nothing else but a
disgusting and deadly poison. He granted my favour. During four days that noble
philanthropist extracted the alcohol, which is not only in the most common, but
in the most costly and renowned wines, beer, brandy and whisky. He gave that
alcohol to several cats and dogs, which died in a few minutes in the presence of
the whole people.
These learned and most interesting experiments, coupled with his eloquent and
scientific remarks, made a most profound impression. It was the corner-stone of
the holy edifice which our merciful God built with His own hands in Beauport.
The few recalcitrants joined with the rest of their dear friends.
.
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CHAPTER 35 Back
to Top
The people of Beauport had scarcely been a year enrolled under
the banners of temperance, when the seven thriving taverns of that parish were
deserted and their owners forced to try some more honourable trade for a living.
This fact, published by the whole press of Quebec, more than anything forced the
opponents, especially among the clergy, to silence, without absolutely
reconciling them to my views. However, it was becoming every day more and more
evident to all that the good done in Beauport was incalculable, both in a
material and moral point of view. Several of the best thinking people of the
surrounding parishes began to say to one another: "Why should we not try to
bring into our midst this temperance reformation which is doing so much good in
Beauport?" The wives of drunkards would say: "Why does not our curate
do here what the curate of Beauport has done there?"
On a certain day, one of those unfortunate women who had received, with a good
education, a rich inheritance, which her husband had spent in dissipation, came
to tell me that she had gone to her curate to ask him to establish a temperance
society in his parish, as we had done in Beauport; but he had told her "to
mind her own business." She had then respectfully requested him to invite
me to come and help to do so for his parishioners what I had done for mine, but
she had been sternly rebuked at the mention of my name. The poor woman was
weeping when she said: "Is it possible that our priests are so indifferent
to our sufferings, and that they will let the demon of drunkenness torture us as
long as we live, when God gives us such an easy and honourable way to destroy
his power for ever?"
My heart was touched by the tears of that lady, and I said to her: "I know
a way to put an end to the opposition of your curate, and force him to bring
among you the reformation you so much desire; but it is a very delicate matter
for me to mention to you. I must rely upon your most sacred promise of secrecy,
before opening my mind to you on that subject."
"I take my God to witness," she answered, "that I will never
reveal your secret." "Well, madam, if I can rely upon your discretion
and secrecy, I will tell you an infallible way to force your priest to do what
has been done here."
"Oh! for God's sake," she said, "tell me what to do."
I replied: "The first time you go to confession, say to your priest that
you have a new sin to confess which is very difficult to reveal to him. He will
press you more to confess it. You will then say:
"'Father, I confess I have lost confidence in you.' Being asked 'Why?' You
will tell him: 'Father, you know the bad treatment I have received from my
drunken husband, as well as hundreds of other wives in your parish, from theirs;
you know the tears we have shed on the ruin of our children, who are destroyed
by the bad examples of their drunken fathers; you know the daily crimes and
unspeakable abominations caused by the use of intoxicating drinks; you could dry
our tears and make us happy wives and mothers, you could benefit our husbands
and save our children by establishing the society of temperance here as it is in
Beauport, and you refuse to do it. How, then, can I believe you are a good
priest, and that there is any charity and compassion in you for us?'
"Listen with a respectful silence to what he will tell you; accept his
penance, and when he asks you if you regret that sin, answer him that you cannot
regret it till he has taken the providential means which God offers him to
persuade the drunkards.
"Get as many other women whom you know are suffering as you do, as you can,
to go and confess to him the same thing; and you will see that his obstinacy
will melt as the snow before the rays of the sun in May."
She was a very intelligent lady. She saw at once that she had in hand an
irresistible power to face her priest out of his shameful and criminal
indifference to the welfare of his people. A fortnight later she came to tell me
that she had done what I had advised her and that more than fifty other
respectable women had confessed to their curate that they had lost confidence in
him, on account of his lack of zeal and charity for his people.
My conjectures were correct. The poor priest was beside himself, when forced
every day to hear from the very lips of his most respectable female
parishioners, that they were losing confidence in him. He feared lest he should
lose his fine parish near Quebec, and be sent to some of the backwoods of
Canada. Three weeks later he was knocking at my door, where he had not been
since the establishment of the temperance society. He was very pale, and looked
anxious. I could see in his countenance that I owed this visit to his fair
penitents. However, I was happy to see him. He was considered a good priest, and
had been one of my best friends before the formation of the temperance society.
I invited him to dine with me, and made him feel at home as much as possible,
for I knew by his embarrassed manner that he had a very difficult proposition to
make. I was not mistaken. He at last said:
"Mr. Chiniquy, we had, at first, great prejudices against your temperance
society; but we see its blessed fruits in the great transformation of Beauport.
Would you be kind enough to preach a retreat of temperance, during three days,
to my people, as you have done here?"
I answered: "Yes, sir; with the greatest pleasure. But it is on condition
that you will yourself be an example of the sacrifice, and the first to take the
solemn pledge of temperance, in the presence of your people."
"Certainly," he answered; "for the pastor must be an example to
his people."
Three weeks later his parish had nobly followed the example of Beauport, and the
good curate had no words to express his joy. Without losing a day, he went to
the two other curates of what is called "La Cote de Beaupre,"
persuaded them to do what he had done, and six weeks after all the saloons from
Beauport to St. Joachim were closed; and it would have been difficult, if not
impossible, to persuade anyone in that whole region to drink a glass of any
intoxicating drink.
Little by little, the country priests were thus giving up their prejudices, and
were bravely rallying around our glorious banners of temperance. But my bishop,
though less severe, was still very cold toward me. At last the good providence
of God forced him, through a great humiliation, to count our society among the
greatest spiritual and temporal blessings of the age.
At the end of August, 1840, the public press informed us that the Count de
Forbin Janson, Bishop of Nancy, in France, was just leaving New York for
Montreal. That bishop, who was the cousin and minister to Charles the Tenth, had
been sent into exile by the French people, after the king had lost his crown in
the Revolution of 1830. Father Mathew had told me, in one of his letters, that
this bishop had visited him, and blessed his work in Ireland, and had also
persuaded the Pope to send him his apostolical benediction.
I saw at once the importance of gaining the approbation of this celebrated man,
before he had been prejudiced by the bishop against our temperance societies. I
asked and obtained leave of absence for a few days, and went to Montreal, which
I reached just an hour after the French bishop. I went immediately to pay my
homage to him, told him about our temperance work, asking him, in the name of
God, to throw bravely the weight of his great name and position in the scale in
favour of our temperance societies. He promised he would, adding: "I am
perfectly persuaded that drunkenness is not only the great and common sin of the
people, but still more of the priests in America, as well as in Ireland. The
social habit of drinking the detestable and poisonous wines, brandies, and beers
used on this continent, and in the northern parts of Europe, where the vine
cannot grow, is so general and strong, that it is almost impossible to save the
people from becoming drunkards, except through an association in which the elite
of society will work together to change the old and pernicious habits of common
life. I have seen Father Mathew, who is doing an incalculable good in Ireland;
and, be sure of it, I shall do all in my power to strengthen your hands in that
great and good work. But do not say to anybody that you have seen me."
Some days later, the Bishop of Nancy was in Quebec, the guest of the Seminary,
and a grand dinner was given in his honour, to which more than one hundred
priests were invited, with the Archbishop of Quebec, his coadjutor, N. G.
Turgeon, and the Bishop of Montreal, M.Q.R. Bourget.
As one of the youngest curates, I had taken the last seat, which was just
opposite the four bishops, from whom I was separated only by the breadth of the
table. When the rich and rare viands had been well disposed of, and the more
delicate fruits had replaced them, bottles of the choicest wines were brought on
the table in incredible numbers. Then the superior of the college, the Rev. Mr.
Demars, knocked on the table to command silence, and rising on his feet, he
said, at the top of his voice, "Please, my lord bishops, and all of you,
reverend gentlemen, let us drink to the health of my Lord Count de Forbin Janson,
Primate of Lorraine and Bishop of Nancy.
The bottles passing around were briskly emptied into the large glasses put
before everyone of the guests. But when the wine was handed to me I passed it to
my neighbour without taking a drop, and filled my glass with water. My hope was
that nobody had paid any attention to what I had done; but I was mistaken. The
eyes of my bishop, my Lord Signaie, were upon me. With a stern voice, he said:
"Mr. Chiniquy, what are you doing there? Put wine in your glass, to drink
with us the health of Mgr. de Nancy."
These unexpected words fell upon me as a thunderbolt, and really paralyzed me
with terror. I felt the approach of the most terrible tempest I had ever
experienced. My blood ran cold in my veins; I could not utter a word. For what
could I say there, without compromising myself for ever. To openly resist my
bishop, in the presence of such an august assembly, seemed impossible; but to
obey him was also impossible; for I had promised God and my country never to
drink any wine. I thought, at first, that I could disarm my superior by my
modesty and my humble silence. However, I felt that all eyes were upon me. A
real chill of terror and unspeakable anxiety was running through my whole frame.
My heart began to beat so violently that I could not breathe. I wished then I
had followed my first impression, which was not to come to that dinner. I think
I would have suffocated had not a few tears rolled down from my eyes, and help
the circulation of my blood. The Rev. Mr. Lafrance, who was by me, nudged me,
and said, "Do you not hear the order of my Lord Signaie? Why do you not
answer by doing what you are requested to do?" I still remained mute, just
as if nobody had spoken to me. My eyes were cast down; I wished then I were
dead. The silence of death reigning around the tables told me that everyone was
waiting for my answer; but my lips were sealed. After a minute of that silence,
which seemed as long as a whole year, the bishop, with a loud and angry voice,
which filled the large room, repeated: "Why do you not put wine in your
glass, and drink to the health of my Lord Forbin Janson, as the rest of us are
doing?"
I felt I could not be silent any longer. "My lord," I said, with a
subdued and trembling voice, "I have put in my glass what I want to drink.
I have promised God and my country that I would never drink any more wine."
The bishop, forgetting the respect he owed to himself and to those around him,
answered me in the most insulting manner: "You are nothing but a fanatic,
and you want to reform us."
These words struck me as the shock of a galvanic battery, and transformed me
into a new man. It seemed as if they had added ten feet to my stature and a
thousand pounds to my weight. I forgot that I was the subject of that bishop,
and remembered that I was a man, in the presence of another man. I raised my
head and opened my eyes, and as quick as lightning I rose to my feet, and
addressing the Grand Vicar Demars, superior of the seminary, I said, with
calmness, "Sir, was it that I might be insulted at your table that you have
invited me here? Is it not your duty to defend my honour when I am here, your
guest? But, as you seem to forget what you owe to your guests, I will make my
own defense against my unjust aggressor." Then, turning towards the Bishop
de Nancy, I said: "My Lord de Nancy, I appeal to your lordship from the
unjust sentence of my own bishop. In the name of God, and of His Son, Jesus
Christ, I request you tell us here if a priest cannot, for His Saviour's sake,
and for the good of his fellow-men, as well as for his own selfdenial, give up
for ever the use of wine and other intoxicating drinks, without being abused,
slandered, and insulted, as I am here, in your presence?"
It was evident that my words had made a deep impression on the whole company. A
solemn silence followed for a few seconds, which was interrupted by my bishop,
who said to the Bishop de Nancy, "Yes, yes, my lord; give us your
sentence."
No words can give an idea of the excitement of everyone in that multitude of
priests, who, accustomed from their infancy abjectly to submit to their bishop,
were, for the first time, in the presence of such a hand-to-hand conflict
between a powerless, humble, unprotected, young curate, and his all-powerful,
proud, and haughty archbishop.
The Bishop of Nancy at first refused to grant my request. He felt the difficulty
of his position; but after Bishop Signaie had united his voice to mine, to press
him to give his verdict, he rose and said:
"My Lord Archbishop of Quebec, and you, Mr. Chiniquy, please withdraw your
request. Do not press me to give my views on such a new, but important subject.
It is only a few days since I came in your midst. It will not do that I should
so soon become your judge. The responsibility of a judgment in such a momentous
matter is too great. I cannot accept it."
But when the same pressing request was repeated by nine-tenths of that vast
assembly of priests, and that the archbishop pressed him more and more to
pronounce his sentence, he raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and made a
silent but ardent prayer to God. His countenance took an air of dignity, which I
might call majesty, which gave him more the appearance of an old prophet than of
a man of our day. Then casting his eyes upon his audience, he remained a
considerable time meditating. All eyes were upon him, anxiously waiting for the
sentence. There was an air of grandeur in him at that moment, which seemed to
tell us that the priest blood of the great kings of France was flowing in his
veins. At last, he opened his lips, but it was again pressingly to request me to
settle the difficulty with the archbishop among ourselves, and to discharge him
of that responsibility. But we both refused again to grant him his request, and
pressed him to give his judgment. All this time I was standing, having publicly
said that I would never sit again at that table unless that insult was wiped
away.
Then he said with unspeakable dignity: "My Lord of Quebec! Here, before us,
is our young priest, Mr. Chiniquy, who, once on his knees, in the presence of
God and his angels, for the love of Jesus Christ, the good of his own soul and
the good of his country, has promised never to drink! We are the witnesses that
he is faithful to his promise, though he has been pressed to break it by your
lordship. And because he keeps his pledge with such heroism, your lordship has
called him a fanatic! Now, I am requested by everyone here to pronounce my
verdict on that painful occurrence. Here it is. Mr. Chiniquy drinks no wine!
But, if I look through the past ages, when God Himself was ruling His own
people, through His prophets, I see Samson, who, by the special order of God,
never drank wine or any other intoxicating drink. If from the Old Testament I
pass to the New, I see John the Baptist, the precursor of our Saviour, Jesus
Christ, who, to obey the command of God, never drank any wine! When I look at
Mr. Chiniquy, and see Samson at his right hand to protect him, and John the
Baptist at his left to bless him, I find his position so strong and impregnable,
that I would not dare attack or condemn him!" These words were pronounced
in the most eloquent and dignified manner, and were listened to with a most
respectful and breathless attention.
Bishop de Nancy, keeping his gravity, sat down, emptied his wine glass into a
tumbler, filled it with water and drank to my health.
The poor archbishop was so completely confounded and humiliated that everyone
felt for him. The few minutes spent at the table, after this extraordinary act
of justice, seemed oppressive to everyone. Scarcely anyone dared look at his
neighbour, or speak, except in a low and subdued tone, as when a great calamity
has just occurred. Nobody thought of drinking his wine; and the health of the
Bishop de Nancy was left undrunk. But a good number of priests filled their
glasses with water, and giving me a silent sign of approbation, drank to my
health. The society of temperance had been dragged by her enemies to the
battlefield, to be destroyed; but she bravely fought, and gained the victory.
Now, she was called to begin her triumphant march through Canada.
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CHAPTER 36 Back
to Top
Has God given us ears to hear, eyes to see, and intelligence
to understand? The Pope says, no! But the Son of God says, yes. One of the most
severe rebukes of our Saviour to His disciples, was for their not paying
sufficient attention to what their eyes had seen, their ears heard, and their
intelligence perceived. "Perceive ye not yet, neither understand? Have ye
your heart yet hardened? Having eyes, see ye not? and having ears, hear ye not?
and do not ye remember?" (Mark viii. 17, 18).
This solemn appeal of our Saviour to our common sense, is the most complete
demolition of the whole fabric of Rome. The day that a man ceases to believe
that God would give us our senses and our intelligence to ruin and deceive us,
but that they were given to guide us, he is lost to the Church of Rome. The Pope
knows it; hence the innumerable encyclicals, laws, and regulations by which the
Roman Catholics are warned not to trust the testimony of their ears, eyes, or
intelligence.
"Shut your eyes," says the Pope to his priests and people; "I
will keep mine opened, and I will see for you. Shut your ears, for it is most
dangerous for you to hear what is said in the world. I will keep my ears opened,
and will tell you what you must know. Remember that to trust your own
intelligence, in the research of truth, and the knowledge of the Word of God, is
sure perdition. If you want to know anything, come to me: I am the only sure
infallible fountain of truth," saith the Pope. And this stupendous
imposture is accepted by the people and the priests of Rome with a mysterious
facility, and retained with a most desolating tenacity.
It is to them what the iron ring is to the nose of the ox, when a rope is once
tied to it. The poor animal loses its self-control. Its natural strength and
energies will avail it nothing; it must go left or right, at the will of the one
who holds the end of the rope. Reader, please have no contempt for the
unfortunate priests and people of Rome, but pity them, when you see them walking
in the ways into which intelligent beings ought not to take a step. They cannot
help it. The ring of the ox is at their nose, and the Pope holds the end of the
rope. Had it not been for that ring, I would not have been long at the feet of
the wafer god of the Pope. Let me tell you one of the shining rays of truth,
which were evidently sent by our merciful God, with a mighty power, to open my
eyes. But I could not follow it; the iron ring was at my nose; and the Pope was
holding the end of the rope.
This was after I had been put at the head of the magnificent parish of Beauport,
in the spring of 1840. There was living at "La Jeune Lorette" an old
retired priest, who was blind. He was born in France, where he had been
condemned to death under the Reign of Terror. Escaped from the guillotine, he
had fled to Canada, where the Bishop of Quebec had put him in the elevated post
of chaplain of the Ursuline Nunnery. He had a fine voice, was a good musician,
and had some pretensions to the title of poet. Having composed a good number of
church hymns, he had been called "Pere Cantique," but his real name
was "Pere Daule." His faith and piety were of the most exalted
character among the Roman Catholics; though these did not prevent him from being
one of the most amiable and jovial men I ever saw. But his blue eyes, like the
eyes of the dove; his fine yellow hair falling on his shoulders as a golden
fleece; his white rosy cheeks, and his constantly smiling lips, had been too
much for the tender hearts of the good nuns. It was not a secret that "Pere
Cantique," when young, had made several interesting conquests in the
nunnery. There was no wonder at that. Indeed, how could that young and
inexperienced butterfly escape damaging his golden wings, at the numberless
burning lamps of the fair virgins? But the mantle of charity had been put on the
wounds which the old warrior had received on that formidable battlefield, from
which even the Davids, Samsons, Solomons, and many others had escaped only after
being mortally wounded.
To help the poor blind priest, the curates around Quebec used to keep him by
turn in their parsonages, and give him the care and marks of respect due to his
old age. After the Rev. Mr. Roy, curate of Charlesbourgh, had kept him five or
six weeks, I had him taken to my parsonage. It was in the month of May a month
entirely consecrated to the worship of the virgin Mary, to whom Father Daule was
a most devoted priest. His zeal was really inexhaustible, when trying to prove
to us how Mary was the surest foundation of the hope and salvation of sinners;
how she was constantly appeasing the just wrath of he son Jesus, who, were it
not for His love and respect to her, would have long since crushed us down.
The Councils of Rome have forbidden the blind priests to say their mass; but on
account of high piety, he had got from the Pope the privilege of celebrating the
short mass of the Virgin, which he knew perfectly by heart. One morning, when
the old priest was at the altar, saying his mass, and I was in the vestry,
hearing the confessions of the people, the young servant boy came to me in
haste, and said, "Father Daule calls you; please come quick."
Fearing something wrong had happened to my old friend, I lost no time, and ran
to him. I found him nervously tapping the altar with his two hands, as in
anxious search of some very precious thing. When very near to him, said:
"What do you want?" He answered with a shriek of distress: "The
good god had disappeared from the altar. He is lost! J'ai perdu le Bon Dieu. Il
est disparu de dessus l'autel!" Hoping that he was mistaken, and that he
had only thrown away the good god, "Le Bon Dieu," on the floor, by
some accident, I looked on the altar, at his feet, everywhere I could suspect
that the good god might have been moved away by some mistake of the hand. But
the most minute search was of no avail; the good god could not be found. I
really felt stunned. At first, remembering the thousand miracles I had read of
the disappearance, and marvelous changes of form of the wafer god, it came to my
mind that we were in the presence of some great miracle; and that my eyes were
to see some of these great marvels of which the books of the Church of Rome are
filled. But I had soon to change my mind, when a thought flashed through my
memory which chilled the blood in my veins. The church of Beauport was inhabited
by a multitude of the boldest and most insolent rats I have ever seen. Many
times, when saying my mass, I had seen the ugly noses of several of them, who,
undoubtedly attracted by the smell of the fresh wafer, wanted to make their
breakfast with the body, blood, and soul, and divinity of my Christ. But, as I
was constantly in motion, or praying with a loud voice, the rats had invariably
been frightened and fled away into their secret quarters. I felt terror-stricken
by the thought that the good god (Le Bon Dieu) had been taken away and eaten by
the rats.
Father Daule so sincerely believed what all the priests of Rome are bound to
believe, that he had the power to turn the wafer into God, that, after he had
pronounced the words by which the great marvel was wrought, he used to pass from
five to fifteen minutes in silent adoration. He was then as motionless as a
marble statue, and his feelings were so strong that often torrents of tears used
to flow from his eyes on his cheeks. Leaning my head towards the distressed old
priest, I asked him: "Have you not remained, as you are used, a long time
motionless, in adoring the good god, after the consecration?"
He quickly answered, "Yes; but what has this to do with the loss of the
good god?"
I replied in a low voice, but with a real accent of distress and awe, "Some
rats have dragged and eaten the good god!"
"What do you say?" replied Father Daule. "The good god carried
away and eaten by rats!"
"Yes," I replied, "I have not the least doubt about it."
"My God! my God! what a dreadful calamity upon me!" rejoined the old
man; and raising his hands and his eyes to heaven, he cried out again, "My
God! my God! Why have you not taken away my life before such a misfortune could
fall upon me!" He could not speak any longer; his voice was chocked by his
sobs.
At first I did not know what to say; a thousand thoughts, some very grave, some
exceedingly ludicrous, crossed my mind more rapidly than I can say them. I stood
there as nailed to the floor, by the old priest, who was weeping as a child,
till he asked me, with a voice broken by his sobs, "What must I do
now?" I answered him: "The Church has foreseen occurrences of that
kind, and provided for them the remedy. The only thing you have to do is to get
a new wafer, consecrate it, and continue your mass as if nothing strange had
occurred. I will go and get you, just now, new bread." I went, without
losing a moment, to the vestry, got and brought a new wafer, which he
consecrated and turned into a new god, and finished his mass, as I had told him.
After it was over, I took the disconsolate old priest by the hand to my
parsonage for breakfast. But all along the way he rent the air with his cries of
distress. He would hardly taste anything, for his soul was really drowned in a
sea of distress. I vainly tried to calm his feelings, by telling him that it was
no fault of his; that this strange and sad occurrence was not the first of that
kind; and that it had been calmly foreseen by the Church, which had told us what
to do in these circumstances; that there was no neglect, no fault, no offense
against God or man on his part.
But as he would not pay the least attention to what I said, I felt the only
thing I had to do was to remain silent, and respect his grief by telling him to
unburden his heart by his lamentations and tears.
I had hoped that this good common sense would help him to overcome his feelings,
but I was mistaken; his lamentations were as long as those of Jeremiah, and the
expressions of his grief as bitter.
At last I lost patience, and said: "My dear Father Daule, allow me to tell
you respectfully that it is quite time to stop these lamentations and tears. Our
great and just God cannot like such an excess of sorrow and regret about a thing
which was only, and entirely, under the control of His power and eternal
wisdom."
"What do you say there?" replied the old priest, with a vivacity which
resembled anger.
"I say that, as it was not in your power to foresee or to avoid that
occurrence, you have not the least reason to act and speak as you do. Let us
keep our regrets and our tears for our sins: we both have committed many; we
cannot shed too many tears on them. But there is no sin here, and there must be
some reasonable limits to our sorrow. If anybody had to weep and regret without
measure what has happened, it would be Christ. For He alone could foresee that
event, and He alone could prevent it. Had it been His will to oppose this sad
and mysterious fact, it was in His, not in our power to prevent it. He alone has
suffered from it, because it was His will to suffer it."
"Mr. Chiniquy," he replied, "you are quite a young man, and I see
you have the want of attention and experience which are often seen among young
priests. You do not pay sufficient attention to the awful calamity which has
just occurred in your church. If you had more faith and piety you would weep
with me, instead of laughing at my grief. How can you speak so lightly of a
thing which makes the angels of God weep? Our dear Saviour dragged and eaten by
rats! Oh! great God! does not this surpass the humiliation and horrors of
Calvary?"
"My dear Father Daule," I replied, "allow me respectfully to tell
you, that I understand, as well as you do, the nature of the deplorable event of
this morning. I would have give my blood to prevent it. But let us look at that
fact in its proper light. It is not a moral action for us; it did not depend on
our will more than the spots of the sun. The only one who is accountable for
that fact is our God! For, again I say, that He was the only one who could
foresee and prevent it. And, to give you plainly my own mind, I tell you here
that if I were God Almighty, and a miserable rat would come to eat me, I would
strike him dead before he could touch me."
There is no need of confessing it here; every one who reads these pages, and
pays attention to this conversation, will understand that my former so robust
faith in my priestly power of changing the wafer into my God had melted away and
evaporated from my mind, if not entirely, at least to a great extent.
Great and new lights had flashed through my soul in that hour; evidently my God
wanted to open my eyes to the awful absurdities and impieties of a religion
whose god could be dragged and eaten by rats. Had I been faithful to the saving
lights which were in me then, I was saved in that very hour; and before the end
of that day I would have broken the shameful chains by which the Pope had tied
my neck to his idol of bread. In that hour it seemed to me evident that the
dogma of transubstantiation was a most monstrous imposture, and my priesthood an
insult to God and man.
My intelligence said to me with a thundering voice: "Do not remain any
longer the priest of a god whom you make every day, and whom the rats can
eat."
Though blind, Father Daule understood very well, by the stern accents of my
voice, that my faith in the god whom he had created that morning, and whom the
rats had eaten, had been seriously modified, if not entirely crumbled down. He
remained silent for some time, after which he invited me to sit by him; and he
spoke to me with a pathos and an authority which my youth and his old age alone
could justify. He gave me the most awful rebuke I ever had; he really opened on
my poor wavering intelligence, soul and heart, all the cataracts of heaven. He
overwhelmed me with a deluge of Holy Fathers, Councils, and infallible Popes who
had believed and preached before the whole world, in all ages, the dogma of
transubstantiation.
If I had paid attention the voice of my intelligence, and accepted the lights
which my merciful God was giving me, I could easily have smashed the arguments
of the old priest of Rome. But what has the intelligence to do in the Church of
Rome? What could my intelligence say? I was forbidden to hear it. What was the
weight of my poor, isolated intelligence, when put in the balance against so
many learned, holy, infallible intelligences?
Alas! I was not aware then that the weight of the intelligence of God, the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, was on my side; and that, weighted against the
intelligence of the Popes, they were greater than all the worlds against a grain
of sand.
One hour after, shedding tears of regret, I was at the feet of Father Daule, in
the confessional box, confessing the great sin I had committed by doubting, for
a moment, of the power of the priest to change a wafer into God.
The old priest, whose voice had been like a lion's voice when speaking to the
unbelieving curate of Beauport, had become sweet as the voice of a lamb when he
had me at his feet, confessing my unbelief. He gave me my pardon. For my penance
he forbade me ever to say a word on the sad end of the god he had created that
morning; for, said he, "This would destroy the faith of the most sincere
Roman Catholics." For the other part of the penance I had to go on my knees
every day, during nine days, before the fourteen images of the way of the cross,
and say a penitential psalm before every picture, which I did. But the sixth day
the skin of my knees was pierced, and the blood was flowing freely. I suffered
real torture every time I knelt down, and at every step I made. But it seemed to
me that these terrible tortures were nothing compared to my great iniquity!
I had refused, for a moment, to believe that a man can create his god with a
wafer! and I had thought that a church which adores a god eaten by rats, must be
an idolatrous church!