The Cow, the Sucking Pig, and Purgatory.
"The tree is known by its fruit."—Matthew xii. 33.
Mr. Chiniquy died very suddenly, when his little son Charlie was only twelve years old. The boy had been fetched home from the house of a relative who lived at a distance, and where he had attended a good school, kept by a Protestant gentleman. He had gone through various lessons with his father, and delighted him with the progress he had made. They had read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and retired to rest full of joy; but before the next day dawned, the boy awoke to his mother's heartrending cry, "Oh, my dear child, you have no more a father! He is dead!"
Poor child! He felt he could not believe it. He ran to his father's bed, kissed him, pressed his hands, and prayed that he might live. But it was too true. The breath had fled, and only a lifeless corpse remained.
After such overwhelming sorrow, surely they needed the tenderest sympathy; but only a few days elapsed before the parish priest (who had, years before, tried to get their Bible away) called on them, and, after a few cold words, he said that something was owing for the prayers that had been offered for the departed, and he would be glad to receive it! Poor Mrs. Chiniquy assured him that, although her husband had received a considerable income as a notary, yet their expenses had been so heavy that he had left her little besides debts. The house he had had built, and the piece of land he purchased not long ago, were only half paid for, "and I fear," said she, "I shall lose them both. I hope, sir," she added, "that you are not the man to take away from us our last piece of bread."
"But, madam," was the cruel answer, "the money for the masses offered for the rest of your husband's soul must be paid!"
For some time the widow sat shedding silent tears. At length she raised her tearful eyes, and said, "Sir, you see that cow in the meadow? Her milk, and the butter made from it, form the principal part of my children's food. I hope you will not take her away from us. If, however, such a sacrifice must be made to deliver my poor husband's soul from purgatory, take her as the payment of the masses to be offered to extinguish those devouring flames."
"Very well, madam," said the priest, rising, and walking out.
They anxiously watched to see what he would do; and, to their horror, he went straight to the meadow and drove away their useful and cherished favourite. Poor Mrs. Chiniquy nearly fainted; and when able to speak, she said—
"Dear child, if ever you become a priest, never be so hard-hearted towards poor widows as are the priests of to-day."
Those words were never forgotten, as our next story will show.
Many years had passed. The child had become a man and a priest, when he was invited to preach a course of three sermons in the church of a rich curate. On the second day, walking with him to the parsonage, a very poor, ragged, and miserable man took off his hat, and tremblingly addressed the curate, saying—
"You know, sir, that my poor wife died, and was buried ten days ago; but I was too poor to have a funeral service sung for her, and I fear she is in purgatory. Almost every night I see her in my dreams in burning flames, and she cries to me to help her. Will you be so kind as to sing that high mass for her?"
"Of course," answered the curate. "Your wife is suffering in purgatory. Give me five dollars, and I will sing the mass to-morrow morning."
The poor man replied that his wife had long been ill, and he was too distressed to pay the money, and begged that five low masses might be said for her. The priest told him he must pay five shillings for them, but the wretched man declared he had no money, and that he and his children were starving.
"Well, well," said the curate, "I saw two beautiful sucking pigs before your house this morning. Give me one of them."
"Those pigs, sir," said the man, "were given me by a charitable neighbour, that I might raise them for my children's food next winter. They will surely starve if I give my pigs away."
Chiniquy could not wait to hear the conclusion of the shameful bargain. He hurried away to his room, refused to take tea, and spent a sleepless night wondering whether the Church of Rome could be the Church of Christ. Next morning, he gave five dollars to the poor man, and went breakfastless to church.
After preaching, he was led by the curate to his dining-room. The long fast had made him very hungry, and the foremost dish was a delicious sucking pig. He had cut a piece, and was just about to eat, when the scene of yesterday flashed across his mind, and he inquired, "Was this that sucking pig?"
"Yes," replied the curate, with a hearty laugh, "it is just that. If we cannot take the poor woman's soul out of purgatory, we will, at all events, eat a fine sucking pig."
The priestly guests all joined in the laugh except Chiniquy, who, with a burst of righteous indignation, pushed his plate away, and in a few thrilling words told them what he thought of the whole proceeding. Of course they were very angry; but the sucking pig was untouched by any one.
Thus were Chiniquy's eyes gradually opened, and he "saw men as trees walking," until the final touch gave him to "see all things clearly."
Lord, open Thou our eyes, and give us clearer and yet clearer light, that we not only may forsake every evil way, but may follow Thee with full purpose of heart.