MY NOMINATION AS CURATE OF BEAUPORT—DEGRADATION AND RUIN OF THAT
PLACE THROUGH DRUNKENNESS—MY OPPOSITION TO MY NOMINATION
USELESS—PREPARATIONS TO ESTABLISH A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY—I WRITE TO
FATHER MATHEW FOR ADVICE.
The 21st of September, 1838, was a day of desolation to me. On that day
I received the letter of my bishop, appointing me curate of Beauport.
Many times, I had said to the other priests, when talking about our
choice of the different parishes, that I would never consent to be
curate of Beauport.
That parish, which is a kind of a suburb of Quebec, was too justly
considered the very nest of the drunkards of Canada. With a soil of
unsurpassed fertility, inexhaustible lime quarries, gardens covered with
most precious vegetables and fruits, forests near at hand to furnish
wood to the city of Quebec, at their doors, the people of Beauport were,
nevertheless, classed among the poorest, most ragged and wretched people
of Canada. For almost every cent they were getting at the market went
into the hands of the saloon-keepers.
Hundreds of times I had seen the streets which led from St. Roch to the
upper town of Quebec almost impassable, when the drunkards of Beauport
were leaving the market to go home.
How many times I heard them fill the air with their cries and
blasphemies; and saw the streets reddened with their blood, when
fighting with one another, like mad dogs.
The Rev. Mr. Begin, who was their cure since 1825, had accepted the
moral principles of the great Roman Catholic “Theologia Liguori,” which
says, “that a man is not guilty of the sin of drunkenness, so long as he
can distinguish between a small pin and a load of hay.” Of course the
people would not find themselves guilty of sin so long as their eyes
could make that distinction.
After weeping to my heart’s content at the reading of the letter from my
bishop, which had come to me as a thunderbolt, my first thought was that
my misfortune, though very great, was not irretrievable. I knew that
there were many priests who were as anxious to become curates of
Beauport as I was opposed to it.
My hope was that the bishop would be touched by my tears, if not
convinced by my arguments, and that he would not persist in putting on
my shoulders a burden which they could not carry.
I immediately went to the palace, and did all in my power to persuade
his lordship to select another priest for Beaufort.
He listened to my arguments with a good deal of patience and kindness,
and answered:
“My dear Mr. Chiniquy, you forget too often that ‘implicit and perfect
obedience’ to his superiors is the virtue of a good priest? You have
given me a great deal of trouble and disappointment by refusing to
relieve the good Bishop Provencher of his too heavy burden. It was at my
suggestion, you know very well, that he had selected you to be his
co-worker along the coasts of the Pacific, by consenting to become the
first Bishop of Oregon. Your obstinate resistance to your superiors in
that circumstance, and in several other cases, is one of your weak
points. If you continue to follow your own mind rather than obey those
whom God has chosen to guide you, I really fear for your future. I have
already too often yielded to your rebellious character. Through respect
to myself, and for your own good, to-day I must force you to obey me.
You have spoken of the drunkenness of the people of Beauport, as one of
the reasons why I should not put you at the head of that parish; but
this is just one of the reasons why I have chosen you. You are the only
priest I know, in my diocese, able to struggle against the long-rooted
and detestable evil, with a hope of success.
“‘_Quod scriptum scriptum est._’ Your name is entered in our official
registers as the curate of Beauport; it will remain there till I find
better reasons than those you have given me to change my mind. After
all, you cannot complain; Beauport is not only the most beautiful
parsonage in Canada, but it is one of the most splendid spots in the
world. In your beautiful parsonage, at the door of the old capital of
Canada, you will have the privileges of the city, and the enjoyments of
some of the most splendid scenery of this continent. If you are not
satisfied with me to-day, I do not know what I can do to please you.”
Though far from being reconciled to my new position, I saw there was no
help; I had to obey. As my predecessor, Mr. Begin, was to sell all his
house furniture, before taking charge of his far distant parish, La
Riviere Ouelle, he kindly invited me to go and buy, on long credit, what
I wished for my own use, which I did.
The whole parish was on the spot long before me, partly to show their
friendly sympathy for their late pastor, and partly to see their new
curate. I was not long in the crowd without seeing that my small stature
and my leanness were making a very bad impression on the people, who
were accustomed to pay their respects to a comparatively tall man, whose
large and square shoulders were putting me in the shade.
Many jovial remarks, though made in half-suppressed tones, came to my
ears, to tell me that I was cutting a poor figure by the side of my
jolly predecessor.
“He is hardly bigger than my tobacco-box,” said one not far from me; “I
think I could put him in my vest pocket.”
“Has he not the appearance of a salted sardine!” whispered a woman to
her neighbor, with a hearty laugh.
Had I been a little wiser, I could have redeemed myself by some amiable
or funny words, which would have sounded pleasantly in the ears of my
new parishioners.
But, unfortunately for me, that wisdom is not among the gifts I received
from nature. After a couple of hours of auction, a large cloth was
suddenly removed from a long table, and presented to our sight an
incredible number of wine and beer-glasses, of empty decanters and
bottles of all sizes and quality.
This brought a burst of laughter and clapping of hands from almost every
one. All eyes were turned toward me, and I heard from hundreds of lips:
“This is for you, Mr. Chiniquy.”
Without weighing my words, I instantly answered: “I do not come to
Beauport to buy wine glasses and bottles, but to break them.”
These words fell upon their ears like a spark of fire on a train of
powder. Nine-tenths of the multitude, without being very drunk, had
emptied from four to ten glasses of beer or rum, which Rev. Mr. Begin
himself was offering them in a corner of the parsonage. A real deluge of
insults and cursings overwhelmed me; and I soon saw that the best thing
I could do was to leave the place without noise, and by the shortest
way.
I immediately went to the bishop’s palace to try again to persuade his
lordship to put another curate at the head of such a people.
“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.
I opened my mind, at first, on that subject to the bishop, with the hope
that he would throw the influence of his position in favor of the new
association, but, to my great dismay and surprise, not only did he turn
my project into ridicule, but absolutely forbade me to think any more of
such an innovation.
“Those temperance societies are a Protestant scheme,” he said. “Preach
against drunkenness, but let the respectable people who are not
drunkards alone. St. Paul advised his disciple Timothy to drink wine. Do
not try to be more zealous than they were in those apostolic days.”
I left the bishop much disappointed, but did not give up my plan. It
seemed to me if I could gain the neighboring priests to join with me in
my crusade I wanted to preach against the usage of intoxicating drinks,
we might bring about a glorious reform in Canada, as Father Mathew was
doing in Ireland.
But the priests, without a single exception, laughed at me, turned my
plans into ridicule, and requested me in the name of common sense, never
to speak any more to them of giving up their social glass of wine.
I shall never be able to give any idea of my sadness, when I saw that I
was to be opposed by my bishop and the whole clergy in the reform which
I considered then, more and more every day, the only plank of salvation,
not only of my dear people of Beauport, but of all Canada. God alone
knows the tears I shed, the long, sleepless nights I have passed in
studying, praying, meditating on that great and holy work of Beauport. I
had recourse to all the saints of heaven for more strength and light;
for I was determined, at any cost, to try and form a temperance society.
But every time I wanted to begin, I was frightened by the idea, not only
of the wrath of the whole clergy, which would hunt me down, but still
more of the ridicule of the whole country, which would overwhelm me in
case of a failure. In these perplexities, I thought I would do well to
write to Father Mathew, and ask him his advice and the help of his
prayers. That noble apostle of temperance of Ireland answered me in an
eloquent letter, and pressed me to begin the work in Canada as he had
done in Ireland, relying on God, without paying any attention to the
opposition of man.
The wise and Christian words of that great and worthy Irish priest came
to me as the voice of God; and I determined to begin the work at once,
though the whole world should be against me.
I felt that if God was in my favor, I would succeed in reforming my
parish and my country in spite of all the priests and bishops of the
world, and I was right. Before putting the plow into the ground, I had
not only prayed to God and all his saints, almost day and night, during
many months, but I had studied all the best books written in England,
France and the United States on the evil wrought by the use of
intoxicating drinks. I had taken a pretty good course of anatomy in the
Marine Hospital under the learned Dr. Douglas.
I was then well posted on the great subject I was to bring before my
country. I knew the enemy I was to attack. And the weapons which would
give him the death blow were in my hands. I only wanted my God to
strengthen my hands and direct my blows. I prayed to Him, and in His
great mercy He heard me.