No words from my pen can give an idea of the distress and
shame I felt when these unmerited praises and public honors began
to flow upon me. For, when the siren voice of my natural
pride was near to deceive me, there was the noise of a sudden
storm in my conscience, crying with a louder voice: "Chiniquy,
thou art a sinner, unworthy of such honors."
This conflict made me very miserable. I said to myself. "Are
those great successes due to my merits, my virtues and my eloquence?
No! Surely No! They are due to the great mercy
of God for my dear country. Will I not forever be put to
shame if I consent to these flattering voices which come to me
from morning till night, to make me forget that to my God
alone, and not to me, must be given the praise and glory of that
marvellous reform?"
These praises were coming every day, thicker and thicker,
through the thousand trumpets of the press, as well as through
the addresses daily presented to me from the places which had
been so thoroughly reformed.
Those unmerited honors were bestowed on me by multitudes
who came in carriages and on horseback, bearing flags, with
bands of music, to receive me on the borders of their parishes,
where the last parishes had just brought me with the same kind
of ovations.
Sometimes, the roads were lined on both sides, by thousands
and thousands of maple, pine or spruce trees, which they had
carried from distant forests, in spite of all my protests.
How many times the curates, who were sitting by me in the
best carriages, drawn by the most splendid horses, asked me:
"Why do you look so sad, when you see all these faces beaming
with joy?" I answered, "I am sad, because these unmerited
honors these good people do me, seems to be the shortest way
the Devil has found to destroy me."
"But the reform you have brought about is so admirable and
so complete—the good which is done to the individuals, as well
as to the whole country, is so great and universal, that the people
want to show you their gratitude."
"Do you know, my dear friends," I answered, "that that
marvellous change is too great to be the work of man? Is it not
evidently the work of God? To Him, and Him alone, then we
ought to give the praise and the glory."
My constant habit, after these days of ovation, was to pass a
part of the night in prayer to God, to the Virgin Mary, and to
all the saints in heaven, to prevent me from being hurt by these
worldly honors It was my custom then to read the passion of
Jesus Christ, from his triumphant entry into Jerusalem to his
death on the cross, in order to prevent this shining dust from adhering
to my soul. There was a verse of the gospel, which I
used to repeat very often in the midst of those exhibitions of the
vanities of this world: "What is a man profited if he should
gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" (Matt. 16:26).
Another source of serious anxiety for me, was then coming
from the large sums of money constantly flowing from the hands
of my too kind and grateful reformed countrymen into mine.
It was very seldom that the public expression of gratitude
presented me in their rhetorical addresses were not accompanied
by a gift of from $50 to $500, according to the means and importance
of the place. Those sums multiplied by the 365 days
of the year would have soon made of me one of the richest men
of Canda.
Had I been able to trust to my own strength against the
hungers of riches, I should have been able, easily, to accumulate
a sum of at least $70,000. with which I might have done a great
amount of good.
But I confess, that when in the presence of God, I went to
the bottom of my heart, to see if it were strong enough to carry
such a glittering weight, I found it, by far, too weak. I knew
so many who, though evidently stronger than I was, had fallen
on the way and perished under too heavy burden of their treasures,
that I feared for myself at the sight of such unexpected
and immense fortune. Besides, when only 18 years old, my venerable
and dear benefactor, the Rev. Mr. Leprohon, director of
the College of Nicolet, had told me a thing I never had forgotten:
"Chiniquy," he said, "I am sure you will be what we call
a successful man in the world. You will easily make your way
among your contemporaries; and, consequently, it is probable
that you will have many opportunities of becoming rich. But
when the silver and gold flow into your hands, do not pile and
keep it. For, if you set your affections on it, you will be miserable
in this world and damned in the next. You must not do
like the fattened hogs, which give their grease only after their
death. Give it while you are living. Then you will not be
blessed only by God and man, but you will be blessed by your
own consience. You will live in peace and die in joy."
These solemn warnings from one of the wisest and best
friends God had ever given me when young, has never gone out
of my mind. I found them corroborated in every page of that
Bible which I loved so much and studied every day. I found
them also written, by God, on my heart. I then, on my knees,
took the resolution, without making an absolute vow of it, to
keep only what I wanted for my daily support and give the rest
to the poor, or some Christian or patriotic object. I kept my
promise. The £500 given me by parliament did not remain
three weeks in my hands. I never put a cent in Canada in the
vaults of any bank; and when I left for Illinois, in the fall of
1851, instead of taking with me $70,000, as it would have been
very easy, had I been so minded, I had hardly $1,500 in hand,
the price of a part of my library, which was too heavy to be
carried so far away.
