Fifty Years in the Church of Rome

by Charles Paschal Telesphore Chiniquy

“But if God, our Father, is so pleased with what we have eaten and drunk to-day, why are you so sad?”

This masterpiece of argumentation was received by all (except Mr. Perras), with convulsive cries of approbation, and repeated “bravo! bravo!”

“I was too mean and cowardly to say what I felt. I tried to conceal my increased sadness under the forced smiles of my lips, and I followed the whole party, who left the table, and went to the parlor to drink a cup of coffee. It was then half-past one p. m. At two o’clock the whole party went to the church, where, after kneeling for a quarter of an hour before their wafer God, they fell on their knees at the feet of each other, to confess their sins, and get their pardon, in the absolution of their confessors!

At three p. m. they were all gone, and I remained alone with my venerable old curate Perras. After a few moments of silence, I said to him: “My dear Mr. Perras, I have no words to express to you my regret for what I have said at your table. I beg your pardon for every word of that unfortunate and unbecoming conversation, into which I was dragged in spite of myself; you know it. It does not do for a young priest, as I am, to criticise those whom God has put so much above him by their science, their age and their virtues. But I was forced to give my mind, and I have given it. When I requested Mr. Paquette to tell me in what I might be wrong, I had not the least idea that we would hear, from the lips of one of our veterans in the priesthood, the blasphemous jokes he has uttered. Epicurus himself would have blushed, had he been among us, in hearing the name of God connected with such deplorable and awful impieties.”

Mr. Perras answered me: “Far from being displeased with what I have heard from you at this dinner, I must tell you that you have gained much in my esteem by it. I am, myself, ashamed of that dinner. We priests are the victims, like the rest of the world, of the fashions, vanities, pride and lust of that world against which we are sent to preach. The expenditure we make at those dinners is surely a crime, in the face of the misery of the people by whom we are surrounded. This is the last dinner I give with such foolish extravagance. The next time my neighbors will meet here, I will not expose them to stagger on their legs, as the greater part of them did when they rose from the table. The brave words you have uttered have done me good. They will do them good also; for though they had all eaten and drunk too much, they were not so intoxicated as not to remember what you have said.”

Then, pressing my hand in his, he said, “I thank you my good little Father Chiniquy for the short but excellent sermon you have given us. It will not be lost. You have drawn my tears when you have shown us your saintly mother going to the feet of God in heaven, with your sacred promise written in her heart. Oh! you must have had a good mother! I knew her when she was very young. She was then, already, a very remarkable girl, for her wisdom and the dignity of her manners.”

Then he left me alone in the parlor, and he went to visit a sick man in one of the neighboring houses.

When alone I fell on my knees, to pray and weep. My soul was filled with emotions which it is impossible to express. The remembrance of my beloved mother whose blessed name had fallen from my lips when her sacred memory filled my mind with the light and strength I needed in that hour of trial—the gluttony and drunkenness of those priests, whom I was accustomed to respect and esteem so much—their scandalous conversation—their lewd expressions—and more than all, their confessions to each other after two such hours of profanity and drinking, were more than I could endure. I could not contain myself, I wept over myself, for I felt also the burden of my sins, and I did not find myself much better than the rest, though I had not eaten or drunk quite so much as several of them—I wept over my friends, whom I had seen so weak; for they were my friends. I loved them, and I know they loved me. I wept over my church, which was served by such poor, sinful priests. Yes! I wept there, when on my knees, to my heart’s content, and it did me good. But my God had another trial in store for his poor unfaithful servant.

I had not been ten minutes alone, sitting in my study, when I heard strange cries, and such a noise as if a murderer were at work to strike his victim. A door had evidently been broken open, up stairs, and some one was running down stairs as if one was wanting to break down everything. The cries of “Murder, murder!” reached my ears, and the cries of “Oh! my God! my God! where is Mr. Perras?” filled the air.

I quickly ran to the parlor to see what was the matter, and there I found myself face to face with a woman absolutely naked! Her long black hair was flowing on her shoulders; her face was pale as death—her dark eyes fixed in their sockets. She stretched her hands toward me with a horrible shriek, and before I could move a step, terrified, and almost paralyzed as I was, she seized my two arms with her hands, with such a terrible force as if my arms had been grasped in a vise. My bones were cracking under her grasp, and my flesh was torn by her nails. I tried to escape, but it was impossible. I soon found myself as if nailed to the wall, unable to move any further. I cried then to the utmost compass of my voice for help. But the living spectre cried still louder: “You have nothing to fear. Be quiet. I am sent by God Almighty and the blessed virgin Mary, to give you a message. The priests whom I have known, without a single exception, are a band of vipers: they destroy their female penitents through auricular confession. They have destroyed me, and killed my female child! Do not follow their example!” Then she began to sing, with a beautiful voice, to a most touching tune, a kind of poem she had composed herself, which I secretly got afterward from one of her servant maids, the translation of which is as follows: