"I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the saints, and to you, father, that I have sinned exceedingly, both in thought, in word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore I beseech the blessed Mary ever virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, and you father, to pray to our Lord God for me."
Such is the form of confession made by every Roman Catholic who goes into a confessional box, or who in any other place confesses to a priest.
It is not my intention here, to show that no such form of confession as the above was ever used in the Christian Church for more than half a century after its establishment. The whole prayer of this confession is an innovation unknown to the early Christians. It is an impure deposit in the sacred fountains of Christianity, thrown into them and mixed up with them, by the unclean hands of the Romish Popes and priests. Who or which of the primitive Christians, was ever known to pray to saints? Name him, Papists, and I will give you credit for the discovery. You contradict yourselves and some of your most fundamental doctrines in praying to saints. Even the Council of Trent, which you consider infallible, goes no farther than to say,—"It is good and profitable to invoke the prayers of the saints." And how do you, Popish priests, justify yourselves in imposing on your deluded people, the idolatrous practice of praying to saints? Answer the question yourselves. As I stated before, it is not my intention here, to enter into the merits or demerits of your form of confession. I shall confine myself, almost exclusively, to pointing out some of the fatal consequences to society, of introducing such a practice as that of auricular confession, amongst any people. The reader will pardon me, if I quote largely from Michellet, an admirable writer of the present day, and which cannot fail to be very satisfactory to the reader, from the fact, that he is a Roman Catholic and, of course, entitled to credit, as it is not to be presumed that any man will bear witness against himself or against the doctrines which he avowedly professes. The language of Michellet is beautiful, as the Protestant Quarterly Review expresses it He gives a graphic portraiture of a French wife. The reader will keep in mind that Michellet is a Frenchman, that he looks upon France as the world and that therefore his portraiture of a French wife, is a portraiture of any woman in the same position. The fact that Michellet's work is approved of by the Quarterly Review, of the American Protestant Association, is the highest encomium that can be passed upon it. The Review is edited by the Rev. Rufus Griswold, one of the most elegant, chaste and beautiful writers of the day, and whose commendation Michellet's work could not have, were it not eminently entitled to it We have few such writers among our American controversialists as the Rev. Mr. Griswold, and I know not that I am hazarding truth, when I say, that we have not a more patriotic citizen, a more accomplished scholar, nor a more humble and devoted Christian. I shall here quote from Mr. Griswold's translation of Michellet, page 287 of the Quarterly Review of the American Protestant Association.
"When I think of all that is contained in the words confession, direction,—those little words, that great power, the most complete in the world,—when I essay to analyze all that is in it,—I am alarmed. It appears to me that I am descending by an infinite spiral line, a deep and dark mine. I have had pity heretofore for the priest; now, I dread him. We must not be alarmed, we must look it in the face. Let us frame with simplicity the language of the confessor." The reader must suppose here, a priest sitting in the confessional with a young lady kneeling by his side, 2 whose lips almost press his. I know by experience, having often myself heard confessions, that this is the exact position of the parties. The lady is supposed, by Michelet—and he supposes so correctly—to be addressed by the priest in the following words. 'God hears thee; hears thee through me; by me God will reply to thee; but thou tremblest, thou darest not tell to this terrible God thy weak and childish acts.' (The reader will not forget here, that the young lady penitent and the priest are both young.) 'Well, then, tell them to thy father, a father has a right to know the secrets of his child,—an indulgent father who wishes to know them in order to absolve them. He is a sinner, like thyself; has he the right then to be severe? Come then, child, come and speak. That which thou hast never dared to whisper in thy mother's ear, tell me; who will ever know it?' Then, among sighs from the swelling, throbbing breast, the fatal word mounts the lips; it escapes and is concealed. He who has heard it has acquired a great advantage, which he will preserve. God grant that he does not abuse it He who has heard it—be careful—is not wood, the black oak of the old confessional; he is a man of flesh and blood. And this man now knows of this woman what the husband has never known in the long outpouring of the heart by night and day. That which a mother does not know—who believes that she knows her entirely, having held her so often naked on her knees—this man knows; he will know. Do not fear that he forgets; if the avowal is in good hands so much the better, for it is forever. She also knows well that she has a master over her inmost thoughts. She will never pass before that man without lowering her eyes. The day on which this mystery was made common, he was very near her; she felt his presence. Seated above her, he weighed her down by an invisible ascendancy. A magnetic force conquered her, for she did not wish to speak, and yet she spoke in spite of herself. She was fascinated, like the bird before the serpent.
Up to this point there was, perhaps, no art on the side of the priest. The force of things did all; that of the religious institution and that of nature. As a priest he received her at his knees, at the listening box. Then, master of her secret, of her thought,—of the thought of a woman,—he was discovered himself to be a man; and without wishing it—without perhaps knowing it—he has placed on her, feeble and disarmed, the heavy hand of a man. And the family now! the husband! who will dare to say that his situation is the same as before? Every one who reflects, knows very well, that thought is, in a person, that which most controls him. The master of the thoughts is he to whom the person belongs. The priest holds the soul as soon as he has the dangerous gauge of the first secrets, and he will hold it faster and firmer. An entire division is made between the husband and wife, for now there are two; the one has the soul, the other the body. Note, that in this division, one of the two has everything; the other, if he keeps anything, keeps it by grace. Thought, from its very nature, is dominant, absorbing. The master of the thought, in the natural progress of his sway, will go on constantly subjecting the part which remains to the other.
It will be already much, if the husband, widowed of the soul, reserves the involuntary, inert, and dead possession.
Humiliating thing, only to obtain your own but by permission and indulgence! to be seen, followed into the most intimate intimacy, by an invisible witness, who regulates you, and assigns to you your part—to meet in the street a man who knows better than yourself your most secret acts and weakness,—who humbly salutes you, turns aside and laughs.
Who can read the above extract from Michelet on auricular confession, without fancying that it is nothing more than one of those effusions with which rich fancies like his frequently abound? Men unacquainted with anything but the ordinary business of life, cannot fancy, much less realize, truth in the above. Is there even a Roman Catholic to be found, who can realize or believe the fact, that while he supposes himself the only possessor of his wife,—that she is his own—heart and soul—whole and undivided, yet is not so? It is well perhaps for those who have the misfortune to be Roman Catholics themselves, or equally unfortunate in having Roman Catholic wives, that they have no idea of the influence which a Roman Catholic Confessor has over woman. Could any man live in happiness or enjoy the pure blessings of matrimony, if he knew that all the intimacies and secrets, which existed between him and his wife, were far better known to the priest to whom the wife confesses, than to himself? It is well then perhaps, after all, that while such reptiles as Popish confessors are allowed a place in society, that the secrets of the confessional should be confined to themselves alone.
But there is no untruth in the beautiful extract which I have taken from Michelet The picture which he gives is neither over-drawn or over-colored. The wife who goes to confession, is, in reality, more the wife of the priest than the wife of her married husband. Her soul is the priest's, her thoughts are the priest's, and the priest controls all her actions. How beautifully has Michelet expressed the priest's control over her "He has placed on her, feeble and disarmed, the heavy hand of a man."
Many instances of the influence which the priest exercises over married women in the confessional have come to my own knowledge, while I was a Popish confessor. The reader will bear with me while I relate one or two, from hundreds, which I have witnessed in the course of my life.