“You see, my lord,” I said, “that by my indiscreet and rash answer I have forever lost the respect and confidence of that people. They already hate me; their brutal cursings have fallen upon me like balls of fire. I prefer to be carried to my grave next Sabbath than have to address such a degraded people. I feel that I have neither the moral nor the physical power to do any good there.”
“I differ from you,” replied the bishop, “Evidently the people wanted to try your mettle, by inviting you to buy those glasses, and you would have lost yourself by yielding to their desire. Now they have seen that you are brave and fearless. It is just what the people of Beauport want; I have known them for a long time. It is true that they are drunkards; but, apart from that vice, there is not a nobler people under heaven. They have, literally, no education, but they possess marvellous common sense, and have many noble and redeeming qualities, which you will soon find out. You took them by surprise when you boldly said you wanted to break their glasses and decanters. Believe me, they will bless you if, by the grace of God, you fulfill your prophecy; though it will be a miracle if you succeed in making the people of Beauport sober. But you must not despair. Trust in God; fight as a good soldier, and Jesus Christ will win the victory.”
Those kind words of my bishop did me good, though I would have preferred being sent to the back woods of Canada, than to the great parish of Beauport. I felt that the only thing that I had to do was to trust in God for success, and to fight as if I were to gain the day. It came to my mind that I had committed a great sin by obstinately refusing to become bishop of Oregon, and my God, as a punishment, had given me the very parish for which I felt an almost insurmountable repugnance.
The next Sunday was a splendid day, and the church of Beauport was filled to its utmost capacity by the people, eager to see and hear, for the first time, their new pastor.
I had spent the last three days in prayers and fastings. God knows that never a priest, nor any minister of the gospel, ascended the pulpit with more exalted views of his sublime functions than I did that day, and never a messenger of the gospel had been more terrified than I was, when in that pulpit, by the consciousness of his own demerits, inability and incompetency, in the face of the tremendous responsibilities of his position. My first sermon was on the text: “Woe unto me if I preach not the gospel” (1 Cor. ix.:16). With a soul and heart filled with the profoundest emotions, a voice many times suffocated by uncontrollable sobs, I expounded to them some of the awful responsibilities of a pastor. The effect of that sermon was felt to the last day of my priestly ministry in Beauport.
After the sermon, I told them: “I have a favor to ask of you. As it is the first, I hope you will not rebuke me. I have, just now, given you some of the duties of your poor young curate toward you; I want you to come again this afternoon at half-past two o’clock, that I may give you some of your duties toward your pastor.” At the appointed hour the church was still more crowded than in the morning, and it seemed to me that my merciful God blessed still more that second address than the first.
The text was: “When he (the shepherd) putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.” (John x.:4.)
Those two sermons on the Sabbath were a startling innovation in the Roman Catholic Church of Canada, which brought upon me, at once, many bitter remarks from the bishop and surrounding curates. Their unanimous verdict was that I wanted to become a little reformer. They had not the least doubt that in my pride I wanted to show to the people “that I was the most zealous priest of the country.” This was not only whispered from ear to ear among the clergy, but several times it was thrown into my face in the most insulting manner. However, my God knew that my only motives were, first, to keep my people away from the taverns, by having them before their altars during the greatest part of the Sabbath day; second, to impress more on their minds the great saving and regenerating truths I preached, by presenting them twice on the same day under different aspects.
I found such benefits from those two sermons that I continued the practice during the four years I remained in Beauport, though I had to suffer and hear in silence, many humiliating and cutting remarks from many co-priests.
I had not been more than three months at the head of that parish, when I determined to organize a temperance society on the same principles as Father Mathew, in Ireland.