found out that you had been all your life a victim of delusion and
Protestant priestcraft? Ten, twelve, or eighteen, is it? Well, suppose
it is. Is that enough to give you a thorough knowledge of Popery, and to
satisfy you that the Popish Church is composed of purer materials than
any of those numerous churches in which you have believed successively
and alternately for the last thirty years, and from each of which you
have been successively expelled and excommunicated? For, as you tell us
yourself, in your Quarterly Review, so infamous and infidel were your
principles, that even the Universalists could not tolerate you amongst
them, and excommunicated you from their communion without one dissenting
voice. So notoriously profligate and abandoned did they consider you,
in mind, sentiment, thought, and language, that although their doctrine
teaches them that Christ died for all, and that all are to be saved
through him, they excepted you, and you alone, as far as I am aware.
Wide as the range of that belief is, all-comprehensive as their charity
is, and all-sufficient for the salvation of man as they believe the
death of Christ to be, yet they could not believe that you were entitled
to any benefit from it, and accordingly they formally excommunicated
you. I can tell you, Mr. Brownson, that you have taken a false step,
in your last move; you have plunged thoughtlessly into the labyrinth
of Popery, without knowing any thing of its intricacies, certainly
not enough to say much for or against. As yet you have scarcely been
admitted behind the curtain of this vast theatre in which you have
engaged to play a character. And believe me when I assure you that if
you have undertaken any other part than that of a buffoon, you will be
hissed off the boards before long. You may, perhaps, soon be let into
the green room of the vast Popish theatre where you have made a short
engagement, and there some of the machinery of Popery may be opened
to your view. But mind what I tell you; when you see the hidden and
concealed springs, the wheel within wheel, and the dirty workmen who
set them in motion, you will behold sights and experience a stench which
will strike you with an offensiveness as loathing and disgusting as if
you had put your head into a common sewer. Nothing will you see there
but covetous-ness, the weakest vanity, and the most unrestrained
indulgence of the vilest passions--one general system of artifice and
intrigue for power and opportunities for debauching females. Never
before could I realize the belief that man was so entirely and totally
corrupt as he is, until I was admitted as a Popish priest into the
theatre and great machine-shop of Popery.
I have already given to the public some of those scenes which were
witnessed by me in the Romish Church. They were new to some, and--as
I expected--incredible to many Americans: but Americans--at least the
well-informed amongst them--ought to know that I have related nothing
new, or at least very little. My revelations have had, in point of fact
and substantially, full publicity many years before my birth. The
very facts I have stated had long been registered in the archives of
literature, and might have been found on the shelves of the libraries
of our own country. Some of them have been published by me with the sole
view of scattering them amid our people in such form and at such a price
as may be acceptable and accessible to all. Many of my statements might
have seemed dark and cloudy, but truth and justice compel me to say that
they were nothing in comparison with those which are to come. They
bear no more likeness to what I shall give hereafter, than the fleeting
clouds which we see floating here and there, denoting the approach of a
storm, bear to the storm itself. But alas! I fear that it is perfectly
useless for me to attempt to awaken the American mind to a due sense of
the dangers to be apprehended from the introduction of Popery among us.
The general answer which I receive to all my warnings is, "We care not
for what Papists can do; we are a free people." It would be useless to
reply to such childish argument as this, nor shall I attempt it; but I
feel really humiliated at seeing such a people as the free citizens of
the United States permitting themselves to be deluded, and the minds of
their children poisoned by such doctrines as are preached by the infidel
Brownson, now employed by the Pope of Rome, as the apostle of Popery
in this country. It is also a source of deep regret to me to see Roman
Catholics, especially the poor Irish, who owe this country more than any
other people in the world, become its deadliest foes, and ready at
the beck of their tyrant priests and bishops to trample under foot its
glorious constitution, which guarantees to them what they never had
before, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and equal rights.
"_Americans shant rule us_," say this poor, misguided people, the Irish.
This drives me, _nolens volens_, to a farther exposure of some of the
deceptions practised upon them and upon mankind in general, by faithless
Romish priests, trusting, in the mercy of Providence, that if I can show
them that they are deceived in one way by their priests, it may put them
on their guard in future against further deception.
I will now return to, or rather resume the consideration of, the
doctrine of _auricular confession_, which formed in part the subject of
the first volume of this work.
Before I enter on the disgusting subject of auricular confession, let me
give the reader an idea of how it is made. And lest it may be questioned
whether the form I herein give is correct, I shall give it first in
Latin, and then in English, and appeal to any Roman Catholic priest or
bishop in the world, whether so far I misstate or misrepresent facts.
The following is the form:
"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti beatas Marias semper Virgini, beato Michaeli
Archangelo, beato Johanni Baptistae, Sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo,
omnibus Sanctis et (tibi Pater) quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo
et opere (pectus) mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor
beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelum Archangelum, beatum
Johannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes sanctos et
(Pater) orane pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."
Translation of the Above:
"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.
In the year 1822, and in the city of Philadelphia, an elegant carriage,
with servants in livery, drove up to my door, in Fourth street, between
Walnut and Spruce, where I then lived; and a lady, dressed in the
extreme of fashion, unceremoniously stepped up to my door and opened it
without rapping, announcing herself a stranger who wished to see me on
particular business. I knew, almost by intuition, what this particular
business was. I asked no questions and of course received no answers.
The lady, however, said she wanted to confess and get absolution. My
duty was plain, I was a Popish priest But you have not the worst of
it yet, reader; so far, there was nothing evil in the matter save the
infatuation of the lady in believing that a man could forgive her sins,
and my worse than infatuation and weakness in believing that
I had such power. The substance of this confession was the following,
which fully verifies the truth of Michelet's statement This lady had
been in the habit of going to confession to a Popish bishop, who lived
in a neighboring state, and frequently had criminal intercourse with
him, going to his room whenever he directed her, under pretence of going
to confession, though at the time she was a married woman. It will be
asked why she came to me. The reason was this: her paramour being a
bishop, was unwilling to have his crimes known to any priest in his
own diocese, and directed her to come to another; and believing, as all
Catholics do, that one priest can forgive sins as well as another, she
selected me, as I was then comparatively a stranger in the country.
But the worst of the tale is not told yet. That part of it which
corroborates the statement of Michelet remains still to be heard.
Soon after the departure of this lady from my house, an English
gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of an acquaintance some years
previously in London, and with whom I occasionally dined at a well-known
and fashionable boarding-house, not far from my own house, called on
me and insisted that I should dine with him that day, holding out as
a particular inducement the pleasure of introducing me to a lady and
gentleman of the highest respectability, whom I should meet at dinner.
I accordingly went to dine; and the reader may imagine my surprise at
finding the very identical lady who had been at confession with me a
few hours before, and her husband--the respectable lady and gentleman to
whom my friend promised an introduction. Respectable they truly Were, as
far as this world is capable of appreciating respectability; and happy
they were also, to all appearance; but was not Michelet right in saying
of a woman who goes to confession to a priest, "_She will never pass
before that man without lowering' her eyes?_" Could that lady pass
before me without lowering her eyes? or could I, if hardened in the
iniquitous practice of hearing confession much longer than I was then,
pass that lady without lowering mine? Did I not, as Michelet expresses
it, "hold the soul" of that lady? Did I not, were I iniquitously
disposed, as her bishop was, hold her body also? But when I looked at
the husband of this lady--the elegant, accomplished, and gentlemanly
husband--when I reflected on his humiliating position--when I reflected
that this elegant man was widowed, not only of the soul, but partly of
the body, of his beautiful, and as I can easily fancy, once innocent and
virtuous wife, by a Popish bishop in the confessional, I could almost
have cursed the hour that gave me birth in a land of Popery. My very
soul froze within me, and I almost regretted that God in his mercy had
not made me something else than a being who could have broken the cords
of that pure and unmingled love between that elegant man who sat before
me, and his once elegant and virtuous wife. Humiliating indeed, as
Michelet said, must be the condition of that man whose wife goes to the
confessional. When he walks the streets, he is met by the confessor of
his wife, who, as Michelet properly says again, "salutes him humbly,
turns aside, and laughs." O, how true this is! and would to God I could
brand it upon the heart of every man whose wife goes to confession. Is
it true that God lives? is it true that the earth moves? is it true that
man has a soul? is it true that mind is not matter? is it true that the
sun rises and sets? O! it is still more true, if possible, that there
are such things as Popish priests--saints in appearance, but demons in
practice,--who laugh at the ruin and division they have made between man
and wife. I do not know that I was ever so lost to every feeling of
honor, when a Romish priest, as, when I passed through the streets, to
laugh at the husband whose wife was persuaded and fascinated away from
him in the confessional; but I have often walked the streets with Romish
priests, in Europe especially, where Popery predominates, and there is
no sort of amusement upon those occasions which they enjoy more than
calling each other's attention to some of their neighbors, as they pass
along, and whispering into each other's ears, "Look at that gentleman;
how fond he seems, of his wife. It was yesterday she was at the
confessional with me; poor fool!" This chit-chat terminates in a hearty
laugh, all at the expense of the husband. The reader, I trust, will not
think me tedious, if I give him another instance of the evils of Popish
confession. It will be borne in mind that the fact which I am about to
state is not taken from history, though history abounds with similar
cases. It is one within my own knowledge.
A short time previous to my coming to this country, and soon after my
being installed as confessor in the Romish Church, I became intimately
acquainted with a Popish family of great respectability. This family
consisted of a widowed father and two daughters and never in my life
have I met two more interesting young ladies than the daughters were.
These ladies lived not far from the church where I officiated, and were
frequently in the habit of going to mass to my church, and calling upon
me when service was over, to take breakfast with them at their father's
house. This custom of having young ladies call upon Roman Catholic
clergymen to accompany them home to breakfast after mass is over, is
very prevalent in Europe, among the most fashionable members of the
Popish Church; it is particularly so in the city of------, where I then
officiated, and where the melancholy circumstance which I am about to
relate took place. The father of the two young ladies to whom I have
alluded, was a gentleman of about the age of fifty-five, distinguished
for his charity and benevolence. He was wealthy; and whenever any object
which might advance the good of his fellow beings was suggested or
proposed, he was among the first to advocate and support it. His
influence and his money were never wanting, when either could promote
the happiness of his fellow beings. It may easily be imagined that the
daughters of such a gentleman were well educated and accomplished.
It may also be supposed that their home, being a home of plenty and
abundance, was one of peace, happiness, charity, and domestic love. It
was truly so, when I had the honor of first knowing the family. But the
serpent found its way into this little garden of happiness.
In less than two months after my first visit to this family, at their
peaceful and hospitable breakfast table, I observed the chair which had
been usually occupied by the elder of the two sisters, occupied by the
younger, and that of the latter vacant I inquired the cause, and was
informed by the father that he had just accompanied her to the coach
which left that morning for Dublin, and that she went on a visit to the
sister of the Rev. B. K. I, of course, made no further observations,
but I suspected that something was wrong; I also knew full well, that
whatever the cause was, I should learn the particulars of it in my
capacity as confessor. As time advanced, I made the usual inquiries for
this young lady, who was then only about eighteen years old. The
answers were such as any one acquainted with the world might expect,
and entirely satisfactory to all who knew nothing of the iniquitous
practices encouraged and fostered in the Romish confessional.
I will here pass over an interval of about three months. A detail of
the private occurrences in any particular family can have no general
interest. At or about the expiration of that period, the younger sister
complained of indisposition, and it was found necessary to send her also
on a visit to Dublin.
Now the whole truth broke upon me at once. I knew there was foul play
somewhere, and soon enough did the fact in all its particulars come to
my ear. It seems that both the daughters of whom I have spoken, went to
a school attached to the Ursuline Nunnery in the city of--------. The
confessor, whose duty it was to hear the confessions of the pupils of
this institution, was one Rev. Mr. B. K., a friar of the Franciscan
order, who, as soon as his plans were properly laid, and circumstances
rendered matters ripe for execution, seduced the elder lady; and finding
that the fact could no longer be concealed, arranged matters with a
friend in Dublin, so that the victim of his iniquity might be concealed
and privately supplied with all the usual attendants which her situation
required.
She was confined at the house of his friend, and her illicit offspring
given to the managers of the Foundling Hospital in Dublin.