school, as I have stated, to a Popish nunnery. She was a Protestant when
she entered; so are many young ladies in this country when they enter
similar schools. The nuns immediately set about her _conversion_. The
process by which such things are done is sometimes slow, but always
sure. It is often tedious, but never fails; though the knowledge
European Protestants have of such institutions, renders the process
of conversion more tedious than in this land of freedom and Popish
humbuggery. The work of her conversion proceeded with the usual success,
until she finally joined the Romish church. The next step, in such
cases, is to choose a _confessor_. This is done for the young convert
by the mother abbess of the nuns; and now commences the ruin of the soul
and the body of the hitherto guileless, guiltless scholar, and convert
from Protestant _heresy_. She goes to confession; and recollect,
American reader, that what I here state is "_Mutata fabula de te ipso
narratur_." Every word of what I am about to state is applicable to
you. This confession is, literally speaking, nothing but a systematic
preparation for her ruin. It is said that there is, among the creeping
things of this earth, a certain noxious and destructive animal, called
Anaconda. It is recorded of this animal, foul, filthy and ugly as he is,
that when he is hungry, and seizes upon an object which he desires to
destroy and subsequently devour, he takes it with him carefully to his
den, or place of retreat. There, at his ease, unseen and alone with his
prey, he is said to cover it over with slime, and then and there swallow
it. I now declare, most solemnly and sincerely, that after living
twenty-five years in full communion with the Roman Catholic church,
and officiating as a Romish priest, hearing confessions, and confessing
myself, I know not another reptile in all animal nature so filthy, so
much to be shunned, and loathed, and dreaded by females, both married
and single, as a Roman Catholic priest, or bishop, who practises the
degrading and demoralizing office of _auricular confession_.
Let me give American Protestant mothers just a twilight glance at
the questions which a Romish priest puts to those females, who go to
confession to him, and they will bear in mind that there is no poetry
in what I say. It contains no undulations of a roving fancy; there is
nothing dreaming, nothing imaginative about it; it is only a part of a
drama in which I have acted myself. I may truly say of all that occurs
in Popish confession, "_Quorum magna pars fui_."
[Illustration: A young lady confessing to a priest p265]
The following is as fair a sketch as I can, with due regard to
_decency_, give of the questions which a Romish priest puts to a young
female, who goes to confession to him. It is, however, but a very brief
synopsis. But first let the reader figure to himself, or herself, a
young lady, between the age of from twelve to twenty, on her knees, with
her lips nearly close pressed to the cheeks of the priest, who, in all
probability, is not over twenty-five or thirty years old--for here it is
worthy of remark, that these young priests are extremely zealous in the
discharge of their sacerdotal duties, especially in hearing confessions,
which all Roman Catholics are bound to make under pain of eternal
damnation. When priest and penitent are placed in the above attitude,
let us suppose the following conversation taking place between them,
and unless my readers are more dull of apprehension than I am willing to
believe, they will have some idea of the _beauties of Popery_.
Confessor. What sins have you committed?
Penitent. I don't know any, sir.
Con. Are you sure you did nothing wrong? Examine yourself well
Pen. Yes; I do recollect that I did wrong I made faces at school at
Lucy A.
Con. Nothing else?
Pen. Yes; I told mother that I hated Lucy A. and that she was an ugly
thing.
Con. (Scarcely able to suppress a smile in finding the girl perfectly
innocent) Have you had any immodest thoughts?
Pen. What is that, sir?
Con. Have you not been thinking about men?
Pen. Why, yes, sir.
Con. Are you fond of any of them?
Pen. Why, yes; I like cousin A. or R. greatly.
Con. Did you ever like to sleep with him?
Pen. Oh, no.
Con. How long did these thoughts about men continue?
Pen. Not very long.
Con. Had you these thoughts by day, or by night?
Pen. By----!!!!!
In this strain does this reptile confessor proceed till his now
half-gained prey is filled with ideas and thoughts, to which she has
been hitherto a stranger. He tells her that she must come to-morrow
again. She accordingly comes, and he gives another twist to the screw,
which he has now firmly fixed upon the soul and body of his penitent.
Day after day, week after week, and month after month does this hapless
girl come to confession, until this wretch has worked up her passions to
a tension almost snapping, and then becomes his easy prey. I cannot as
I before stated, detail the whole process by which a Romish confessor
debauches his victims in the confessional, but if curiosity, or any
other motive creates in the public mind a desire to know all the
particulars about it, I refer them to Antoine's Moral Theology, which I
have read in the college of Maynooth, or to Den's treatise,
"De _Peccatis_" which I have read in the same college, and in the same
class with _some of the Romish priests now in this country_, hearing
confessions perhaps at the moment I write, and debauching their
penitents, aye even in New England, the land of the pilgrims! In those
books I have mentioned, they will find the obscene questions which are
put by priests and bishops of the Romish church, to all women, young and
old, married or single; and if any married man, or father, or brother,
will, after the perusal of these questions, allow his wife, his
daughter, or his sister, ever again to go to confession, I will only say
that his ideas of morality are more vague and loose than those of the
heathen or the Turk. Christian he should not be called, who permits
these deeds in our midst. I beg here to lay before my readers an extract
from a work, recently published in Paris, entitled, "Auricular
Confession and Direction." The work is written by M. Michelet, one of
the most distinguished writers in France. It has been noticed in the
last number of the Foreign Quarterly Review, and in that admirably
conducted press, the Boston Courier.
The following is given as the mysterious opening of the book:!!!!!
"The family is in question;
'That home where we would all fain repose, alter so many useless
efforts, so many illusions destroyed.
'We return home very wearied--do we find repose there?
'We must not dissimulate--we must frankly confess to ourselves the real
state of things. There exists in the bosom of society--in the family
circle--a serious dissension, nay, the most serious of all dissensions.
'We may talk with our mothers, our wives or our daughters, on all those
matters about which we talk with our acquaintances: on business, on
the news of the day, but not at all on matters nearest the heart, on
religion, on God, on the soul.
'Take the instant when you would fain find yourself united with your
family in one common feeling, in the repose of the evening, round the
family table; there, in your home, at your own hearth, venture to utter
a word on these matters; your mother sadly shakes her head, your wife
contradicts you, your daughter, although silent, disapproves. They are
on one side of the table, you on the other, alone.
'It would seem as if in the midst of them, opposite to you, sat an
invisible man to contradict what you say.'
"The invisible enemy here spoken of, is the priest. The reviewer
proceeds!!!!!
'The priest, as confessor, possesses the secret of a woman's soul; he
knows every half-formed hope, every dim desire, every thwarted feeling.
The priest, as spiritual director, animates that woman with his own
ideas, moves her with his own will, fashions her according to his own
fancy. And this priest is doomed to celibacy. He is a man, but is bound
to pluck from his heart the feelings of a man. If he is without faith,
he makes desperate use of his power over those confiding in him. If he
is sincerely devout, he has to struggle with his passions, and there
is a perilous chance of his being defeated in that struggle. And even
should he come off victorious, still the mischief done is incalculable
and irreparable. The woman's virtue has been preserved by an accident,
by a power extraneous to herself. She was wax in her spiritual
director's hands; she has ceased to be a _person_, and is become a
_thing_.'
"There is something diabolical in the institution of celibacy
accompanying confession. Paul Louis Courrier has painted a fearful
picture of the priest's position as an unmarried confessor; and as
Courrier's works are far less read than they deserve to be, we make no
scruple of transferring his powerful sentences to our pages.
'What a life, what a condition is that of our priests'? Love is
forbidden them, marriage especially; women are given up to them. They
may not have one of their own, and yet live familiarly with all, nay, in
the confidential, intimate privity of their hidden actions, of all their
thoughts. An innocent girl first hears the priest under her mother's
wing; he then calls her to him, speaks alone with her, and is the first
to talk of sin to her, before she can have known it. When instructed,
she marries; when married, he still confesses and governs her. He has
preceded the husband in her affections, and will always maintain himself
in them. What she would not venture to confide to her mother, or confess
to her husband, he, a priest, must know it, asks it, hears it, and yet
shall not be her lover. How could he, indeed? is he not _tonsured?_
He hears whispered in his ear, by a young woman, her faults, passions,
desires, weaknesses, receives her sighs without feeling agitated, and he
is five-and-twenty!
'To confess a woman! imagine what that is. At the end of the church a
species of closet or sentry-box is erected against the wall, where the
priest awaits in the evening, after vespers, his young penitent whom
he loves, and who knows it; love cannot be concealed from the beloved
person. You will stop me there: his character of priest, his education,
his vow.... I reply that there is no vow which holds good, that every
village _cure_ just come from the seminary, healthy, robust, and
vigorous, doubtless loves one of his parishioners. It cannot be
otherwise; and if you contest this, I will say more still, and that is,
that he loves them _all_, those at least of his own age; out he prefers
one, who appears to him, if not more beautiful than the others, more
modest and wiser, and whom he would marry; he would make her a virtuous,
pious wife, if it were not for the Pope. He sees her daily, and meets
her at church or elsewhere, and sitting opposite her in the winter
evenings, he imbibes, imprudent man! the poison of her eyes!
'Now, I ask you, when he hears that one coming the next day, and
approaching the confessional, and when he recognizes her footsteps, and
can say, 'It is she;' what is passing in the mind of the poor confessor?
Honesty, duty, wise resolutions, are here of little use, without
peculiarly heavenly grace. I will suppose him a saint: unable to fly, he
apparently groans, sighs, recommends himself to God; but if he is only a
man, he shudders, desires, and already unwillingly, without knowing it,
perhaps, he hopes. She arrives, kneels down at his knees, before him
whose heart leaps and palpitates. You are young, sir, or you have been
so; between ourselves, what do you think of such a situation? Alone
most of the time, and having these walls, these vaulted roofs, as sole
witnesses, they talk; of what? alas! of all that is not innocent They
talk, or rather murmur, in low voice, and their lips approach each
other, and their breaths mingle. This lasts for an hour or more, and is
often renewed.
'Do not think I invent. This scene takes place such as I describe it; is
renewed daily by forty thousand young priests, with as many young girls
whom they love, because they are men, whom they confess in this manner,
entirely _tete-a-tete_, and visit, because they are priests, and whom
they do not marry, because the Pope is opposed to it.'
*****
"The priest has the spiritual care of her he loves; her soul is in his
hands. He is connected with her by the most sacred ties; his interest in
her he disguises to himself under the cloak of spiritual anxiety. He
can always quiet the voice of conscience by an equivoque. The mystic
language of love is also the mystic language of religion, and what guilt
is shrouded under this equivoque, the history of priestcraft may show.
_Parler l'amour c'est faire l'amour_, is a profound truth. From the love
of God, it is easy to descend to the love of man; especially when this
man is a priest, that is to say, a mediator between the woman and God,
one who says, 'God hears you through me; through me he will reply.'
This man whom she has seen at the altar, and there invested with all the
sacred robes and sacred associations of his office; whom she has visited
in the confessional, and there laid bare her soul to him; whose visits
she has received in her _boudoir_, and there submitted to his direction;
this man, whom she worships, is supposed to be an idea, a priest; no one
supposing him to be a man, with a man's passions!
"M. Michelet's book contains the proofs of what I have just said; but
they are too numerous to quote. I shall only borrow from his work the
passages he gives from an unexceptionable authority, Llorente."
'Llorente, a contemporary, relates (t. hi., ch. 28. article 2, ed. 1817)
that when he was secretary to the Inquisition, a capuchin was brought
before that tribunal, who directed a community of _beguines_, and
had seduced nearly all of them, by persuading them that they were not
leaving the road to perfection. He told each of them in the confessional
that he had received from God a singular favor: "Our Lord," he said,
"has deigned to show himself to me in the Sacrament, and has said to me,
Almost all the souls that thou dost direct here are pleasing to me, but
especially such a one, (_the capuchin named her to whom he spoke_.)
She is already so perfect, that she has conquered every passion, except
carnal desire, which torments her very much. Therefore, wishing virtue
to have its reward, and that she should serve me tranquilly, I charge
thee to give her a dispensation, but only to be made use of with thee;
she need speak of it to no confessor; that would be useless, as with
such a dispensation she cannot sin." Out of seventeen _beguines_,
of which the community was composed, the intrepid capuchin gave the
dispensation to thirteen, who were discreet for some length of time; one
of them, however, fell ill, expected to die, and discovered everything,
declaring that she had never been able to believe in the dispensation,
but that she had profited by it.
'I remember,' said Llorente, 'having said to him: "But, father, is it
not astonishing that this singular virtue should have belonged exactly
to the thirteen young and handsome ones, and not at all to the other
four, who were ugly or old?" He coolly replied, "The Holy Spirit
inspires where it listeth."
'The same author, in the same chapter, while reproaching the Protestants
with having exaggerated the corruption of confessors, avows that,
"In the sixteenth century, the Inquisition had imposed on women the
obligation of denouncing guilty confessors, but the denunciations
were so numerous, that the penitents were declared dispensed from
denouncing."'
I should not have laid the above extract before the public, were I not
well aware that such is the extraordinary infatuation of Americans
on the subject of Popery and confession, that they may suspect my
statements of exaggeration. This alone could induce me to give more
than my own assertion for the truth of my statements, as no writer
upon Popery knows more, or can relate more of _Auricular Confession
and Direction_, than I can myself, of my own knowledge, and from my own
personal experience. I shall not, however, ask American Protestants
to take my naked word for anything which I may say on Popery. I shall
substantiate all I assert by proofs from history.
The title of Christian land should not be given to this country, nor to
any country, which legalizes institutions where deeds of darkness are
sanctioned, and the foul debauchers of our youth, of our wives and our
sisters, find a shelter.
Shall the cowl shelter the adulterous monk in this land of freedom?
Are the sons of freemen required to countenance, nay, asked to build
impassable walls around a licentious, lecherous, profligate horde of
foreign monks and priests, who choose to come among us, and erect little
_fortifications_, which they call nunneries, for their protection? Shall
they own by law and by charter places where to bury, hidden from the
public eye, the victims of their lust, and the murdered offspring of
their concupiscence? Beware, Americans! There are bounds, beyond which
sinners cannot go. Bear in mind the fact that the same God who can limit
the sphere of an individual's crimes, can also limit those of a nation.
You have flourished. Take heed lest you begin to decay before you come
to full maturity; and I regret to say, that symptoms of this are now
apparent. Already can I see the hectic flush of moral consumption upon
the fair face of America. Already can I see a demon bird of ill omen
plunging its poisoned beak into the very vitals of your national
existence, stopping here, and stopping there only to dip his wings
in the life streams of your national existence, with the sole view of
giving its spread more momentum, until it encompasses the whole length
and breadth, centre and circumference of your country.
Infidelity is now fast careering and sporting over the whole face of
our land, and if history has not deceived us, and our own personal
experience has not been vain, it never moves, it never travels, it
never exists, unaccompanied by political as well as moral death. Look at
ancient Rome, how it fell in its pride! Look at France--how often it
has tottered and stumbled in its beauty! Look at England at the present
moment,--see how she trembles even in her strength. Think you that all
these things were brought about by the causes to which the world would
attribute them? What signifies the Texas question in the sight of God?
What the Oregon difficulties? what the trade with China? what the repeal
brawlings? Such things would have happened if our "mother's cat had but
kittened, and we ourselves had ne'er been born."
The decay of nations, the fall of thrones, are brought about by
infidelity, by national insults to the God of nations, by the sins of
the people against the King of glory; and how can this country, deeply
steeped as it is, and darkly stained as it is, with the crime of aiding
Popery, idolatry, and auricular confession; how can it expect, I repeat
the words, that the moral breezes of heaven should breathe upon her,
and restore to her again that strong and healthy constitution, which her
ancestors have left to her sons? No, no. It cannot be. You must, as the
lawyers would say, stand "rectus in _curia_," before your God. Withdraw
your countenance and your support from Popery. Touch not the unclean
thing. Then, and not until then, can you raise clean hands and pure
hearts to the throne of God, and ask for a blessing upon the United
States and its territories.
But it may be replied, all you say of Popery in the _old_ countries may
be true, but it is a different thing altogether in the United States.
This is a great error on the part of Americans, and I feel it my duty
to correct it if possible. I am not surprised that, Americans should
entertain ideas of this kind. I was once partly of that opinion myself,
and, as I stated in a former page, I determined to visit this new and
free country, in the hope--alas! it was a vain one--of finding true
religion, and purity of life, even in the Roman Catholic church. I
remember well, having consulted a friend on the propriety of such a
course, he strongly dissuaded me from it, assuring me that I would
find Popery here essentially the same that it was in Europe, with
this difference only, that the crimes and private lives of priests
and bishops were more grossly immoral, and, though indirectly, more
effectually sanctioned by the laws of the land. This, however, did not
satisfy me, and accordingly, having received from my then ecclesiastical
superior, what in church parlance is called _an Exeat_, (the document
is in my possession, if any one wishes to see it,) or, as American
theologians would term it, "a regular dismission" from the church where
I officiated, I arrived in New York, in Nov., 18----. But the reader may
well judge of my disappointment, when I found, on my arrival there, not
altogether such Romish priests and bishops as I had left behind me,--for
many of them were gentlemen by birth, and paid some regard to public
decency, even in their profligacies; but a set of coarse, vulgar, half
educated, I may say, half civilized, Irish and French brutes, most of
whom might be seen daily lolling in grog-shops, and electioneering among
the lowest dregs of society. I have met but one exception to this, and
that was the Reverend Wm. Taylor, who was then in New York.
Having stated to Taylor my object in coming over, I shall never forget
the sad and sorrowful smile which but dimly lit up his naturally kind
and cheerful countenance. "My friend," said he, "all your hopes in
coming to this country will be disappointed. You must not stay in this
city. Go into the country. Go to Albany; you may there see less of those
scenes from which you have fled; and as I perceive your introductions
from Europe to De Witt Clinton, are numerous and of the best kind, you
will find much pleasure in the society of that excellent gentleman, and
make up your mind either to leave this country, or to retire from the
Romish church altogether. The latter I will do myself, but not without
an effort to correct the abuses of Popery." This effort he has made, as
I have stated in my _Synopsis of Popery, as it was and as it is_; but he
lacked moral as well as physical courage to carry it through.
I lost no time in retiring to Albany. The legislature of the State of
New York was then commencing its annual session, and though an entire
stranger, so high were my testimonials, both from the Romish bishops,
as a priest, and from private individuals, as a man of honor and correct
deportment, that I was unanimously elected chaplain to the legislature,
without any application on my part for such an appointment. I will not
allude to the flattering attentions which were paid to me by the people
of Albany, during my residence among them, which was only about six
months. The public presses in that city, while I was there, bear
witness to the fact. Even the Roman Catholics, some of whom were native
Americans, left nothing undone to render me happy. My salary was more
than I desired, and more than I wanted of them. As a body, I have no
complaint to make against them, so far as money was concerned. Why then,
it will be said, did you leave them? This too is a sad tale. But, as
some of them are now living, justice even to them demands that I should
state the cause which forced me to leave them.
The Roman Catholics of Albany had, during about two years previous to
my arrival among them, three Irish priests alternately with them,
occasionally preaching, but always hearing confessions. I know the names
of these men; one of them is dead, the other two living, and now in
full communion in the Roman church, still saying mass and hearing
confessions. As soon as I got settled in Albany, I had of course to
attend to the duty of _auricular confession_, and in less than two
months found that those three priests, during the time they were there,
were the fathers of between sixty and one hundred children, besides
having debauched many who had left the place previous to their
confinement. Many of these children were by married women, who were
among the most zealous supporters of those vagabond priests, and whose
brothers and relatives were ready to wade, if necessary, knee deep in
blood for the holy, _immaculate infallible church of Rome_. There is
a circumstance connected with this, that renders the conduct of these
priests almost frightfully atrocious. There are in many of the Roman
Catholic churches, things, as Michelet properly calls them, like
sentry-boxes, called confessionals. These are generally situated in the
body of the church, and priests hear confessions in them, though the
priest and lady penitent are only separated by a sliding board, which
can be moved in any direction the confessor pleases, leaving him and the
penitent ear to ear, breath to breath, eye to eye, and lip to lip, if
he pleases. There were none of these in the Romish church of Albany, and
those priests had to hear confessions in the _sacristy_ of the church.
This is a small room back of the altar, in which the Eucharist,
containing, according to the Romish belief, the real body and blood of
Jesus Christ, is kept, while mass is not celebrating in the chapel. This
room is always fastened by a lock and key of the best workmanship, and
the key kept by the priest day and night. This sacristy, containing
the wafer, which the priests blasphemously adore, was used by them as a
place to hear confessions, and here they committed habitually those acts
of immorality and crime of which I have spoken.