University of Virginia Library

Chapter LIV.

THE ABOMINATIONS OF AURICULAR CONFESSION.

THERE are two women who ought to be constant objects of
the compassion of the disciples of Christ, and for whom
daily prayers ought to be offered at the mercy-seat—the Brahmin
woman, who, deceived by her priests, burns herself on the corpse
of her husband to appease the wrath of her wooden gods; and
the Roman Catholic woman, who, not less deceived by her
priests, suffers a torture far more cruel and ignominious in the
confessional-box, to appease the wrath of her wafer-god.

For I do not exaggerate when I say, that for many noble-hearted,
well-educated, high-minded women to be forced to unveil
their hearts before the eyes of a man, to open to him all the
most secret recesses of their souls, all the most sacred mysteries
of their single or married life, to allow him to put to them questions
which the most depraved woman would never consent to
hear from her vilest seducer, is often more horrible and intolerable
than to be tied on burning coals.

More than once, I have seen women fainting in the confessional-box,
who told me afterwards that the necessity of speaking
to an unmarried man on certain things, on which the most
common laws of decency ought to have forever sealed their lips,
had almost killed them! Not hundreds, but thousands of times, I
have heard from the lips of dying girls, as well as married
women, the awful words: "I am forever lost! All my past
confessions and communions have been so many sacrileges! I
have never dared to answer correctly the questions of my confessors!
Shame has sealed my lips and damned my soul!"

How many times I remained as one petrified by the side of
a corpse, when these last words having hardly escaped the lips of

one of my female penitents who had been snatched out of my
reach by the merciless hand of death before I could give her
pardon through the deceitful sacramental absolution. I then
believed, as the dead sinner herself had believed, that she should
not be forgiven except by that absolution.

For there are not only thousands, but millions, of Roman
Catholic girls and women whose keen sense of modest and
womanly dignity are above all the sophisms and diabolical
machinations of their priests. They never can be persuaded to
answer "Yes" to certain questions of their confessors. They
would prefer to be thrown into the flames and burnt to ashes with
the Brahmin widows, rather than allow the eyes of a man to pry
into the sacred sanctuary of their souls. Though sometimes
guilty before God, and under the impression that their sins will
never be forgiven if not confessed, the laws of decency are
stronger in their hearts than the laws of their perfidious church.
No consideration, not even the fear of eternal damnation, can
persuade them to declare to a sinful man sins which God alone
has the right to know, for He alone can blot them out with the
blood of His Son, shed on the cross.

But what a wretched life must that be of those exceptional
noble souls which Rome keeps in the dark dungeons of her
superstition! They read in all their books and hear from all
their pulpits that if they conceal a single sin from their confessors,
they are forever lost! But being absolutely unable to
trample under their feet the laws of self-respect and decency,
which God Himself has impressed in their souls, they live in
constant dread of eternal damnation. No human words can tell
their desolation and distress, when at the feet of their confessors,
they find themselves under the horrible necessity of speaking of
things on which they would prefer to suffer the most cruel death
rather than to open their lips, or to be forever damned if they do
not degrade themselves forever in their own eyes by speaking on
matters which a respectable woman will never reveal to her own
mother, much less to a man!

I have known only too many of these noble-hearted women,
who, when alone with God in a real agony of desolation and

with burning tears, had asked Him to grant them what they considered
the greatest favor, which was to lose so much of their
self-respect as to be enabled to speak of those unmentionable
things just as their confessors wanted them to speak; and, hoping
that their petition had been granted, they went again to the confessional-box,
determined to unveil their shame before the eyes
of that inexorable man. But when the moment had come for
the self-immolation, their courage failed, their knees trembled,
their lips became pale as death, cold sweat poured from all their
pores! The voice of modesty and womanly self-respect was
speaking louder than the voice of their false religion. They
had to go out of the confessional-box unpardoned—nay, with
the burden of a new sacrilege on their conscience.

Oh! how heavy is the yoke of Rome—how bitter is human
life—how cheerless is the mystery of the cross to those deluded
and perishing souls! How gladly they would rush into the
blazing piles with the Brahmin women, if they could hope to
see the end of their unspeakable miseries through the momentary
tortures which would open to them a better life!

I do here publicly challenge the whole Roman Catholic
priesthood to deny that the greater part of their female penitents
remain a certain period of time—some longer, some shorter—
under that most distressing state of mind.

Yes, by far the greater majority of women at first find it
impossible to pull down the sacred barriers of self-respect, which
God Himself has built around their hearts, intelligences and souls
as the best safeguard against the snares of this polluted world.
Those laws of self-respect, by which they cannot consent to
speak an impure word into the ears of a man, and which shut
all the avenues of the heart against his unchaste questions, even
when speaking in the name of God—those laws of self-respect
are so clearly written on their conscience, and they are so well
understood by them to be a most Divine gift, that, as I have
already said, many prefer to run the risk of being forever lost
by remaining silent.

It takes many years of the most ingenious (I do not hesitate
to call it diabolical) efforts on the part of the priests to persuade

the majority of their female penitents to speak on questions
which even pagan savages would blush to mention among themselves.
Some persist in remaining silent on those matters during
the greater part of their lives, and many of them prefer to throw
themselves into the hands of their merciful God, and die without
submitting to the defiling ordeal, even after they have felt the
poisonous stings of the enemy, rather than receive their pardon
from a man who, as they feel, would surely have been scandalized
by the recital of their human frailties. All the priests of Rome
are aware of this natural disposition of their female penitents.
There is not a single one—no, not a single one of their moral
theologians, who does not warn the confessors against that stern
and general determination of the girls and married women never
to speak in the confessional on matters which may more or less
deal with sins against the seventh commandment. Dens, Liguori,
Debreyene, Bailly, etc.,—in a word, all the theologians of Rome,
own that this is one of the greatest difficulties which the confessors
have to contend with in the confessional-box.

Not a single Roman Catholic priest will dare to deny what I
say on this matter, for they know that it would be easy for me
to overwhelm them with such a crowd of testimonials that their
grand imposture would forever be unmasked.

I intend, at some future day, if God spares me and gives me
time for it, to make known some of the innumerable things
which the Roman Catholic theologians and moralists have written
on this question. It will form one of the most curious books
ever written, and it will give unanswerable evidence of the
fact that, instinctively, without consulting each other, and with
an unanimity which is almost marvellous, the Roman Catholic
women, guided by the honest instincts which God has given
them, shrink from the snares put before them in the confessional-box,
and that everywhere they struggle to nerve themselves with
a superhuman courage against the torturer who is sent by the
pope to finish their ruin, and to make shipwrecks of their souls.
Everywhere woman feels that there are things which ought
never to be told, as there are things which ought never to be
alone, in the presence of the God of holiness. She understands

that to recite the history of certain sins, even of thought, is not
less shameful and criminal than to do them. She hears the voice
of God whispering into her ears, "Is it not enough that thou
hast been guilty once, when alone in My presence, without adding
to thine iniquity by allowing that man to know what should
never have been revealed to him? Do you not feel that you
make that man your accomplice the very moment that you throw
into his heart and soul the mire of your iniquities? He is as
weak as you are; he is not less a sinner than yourself; what has
tempted you will tempt him; what has made you weak will
make him weak; what has polluted you will pollute him; what
has thrown you down into the dust will throw him into the dust.
Is it not enough that My eyes had to look upon your iniquities?
Must My ears, to-day, listen to your impure conversation with
that man? Were that man as holy as My prophet David, may
he not fall before the unchaste veiling of the new Bathsheba?
Were he as strong as Samson, may he not find in you his tempting
Delilah? Were he as generous as Peter, may he not become
a traitor at the maid-servant's voice?"

Perhaps the world has never seen a more terrible, desperate,
solemn struggle than the one which is going on in the soul of a
poor trembling young woman, who, at the feet of that man, has
to decide whether or not she will open her lips on those things
which the infallible voice of God, united to the no less infallible
voice of her womanly honor and self-respect, tell her never to
reveal to any man!

The history of that secret, fierce, desperate struggle, has
never yet, so far as I know, been fully given. It would draw
the tears of admiration and compassion of the whole world, if it
could be written with its simple, sublime, and terrible realities.

How many times I have wept as a child when some noble-hearted
and intelligent young girl, or some respectable married
woman, yielding to the sophisms with which I or some other
confessor, had persuaded them to give up their self-respect and
their womanly dignity to speak with me on matters on which a
decent woman should never say a word with a man. They
have told me of their invincible repugnance, their horror of such

questions and answers, and they have asked me to have pity on
them. Yes! I have often wept bitterly on my degradation,
when a priest of Rome. I have realized all the strength, the
grandeur and the holiness of their motives for being silent on
these defiling matters, and I could not but admire them. It
seemed at times that they were speaking the language of angels
of light; that I ought to fall at their feet and ask their pardon
for having spoken to them of questions on which a man of
honor ought never to converse with a woman whom he respects.

But alas! I had soon to reproach myself, and regret those
short instances of my wavering faith in the infallible voice of
my church. I had soon to silence the voice of my conscience,
which was telling me, "Is it not a shame that you, an unmarried
man, dare to speak on these matters with a woman? Do you
not blush to put such questions to a young girl? Where is your
self-respect—where is your fear of God? Do you not promote
the ruin of that girl by forcing her to speak on these matters?"

How many times my God has spoken to me as He speaks to
all the priests of Rome, and said with a thundering voice:
"What would that young man do, could he hear the questions
you put to his wife? Would he not blow out your brains? And
that father, would he not pass his dagger through your breast if
he could know what you ask from his poor trembling daughter?
Would not the brother of that young girl put an end to your
miserable life if he could hear the unmentionable subjects on
which you speak with her in the confessional?"

I was compelled by all the popes, the moral theologians, and
the Councils of Rome to believe that this warning voice of my
merciful God was the voice of Satan. I had to believe, in spite
of my own conscience and intelligence, that it was good, nay,
necessary, to put those polluting, damning questions. My infallible
church was mercilessly forcing me to oblige those poor
trembling, weeping, desolate girls and women to swim with me
and all their priests in those waters of Sodom and Gomorrah,
under the pretext that their self-will would be broken down,
their fear of sin and humility increased, and that they would be
purified by our absolutions.

With what supreme distress, disgust and surprise we see
to-day, a great part of the noble Episcopal Church of England
struck by a plague which seems incurable, under the name of
Puseyism, or Ritualism, bringing again—more or less openly—
in many places the diabolical and filthy auricular confession
among the Protestants of England, Australia and America
The Episcopal church is doomed to perish in that dark and stinking
pool of popery—auricular confession—if she does not find a
prompt remedy to stop the plague brought by the disguised
Jesuits, who are at work everywhere to poison and enslave her
too unsuspecting daughters and sons.

In the beginning of my priesthood, when I was in Quebec,
I was not a little surprised and embarrassed to see a very accomplished
and beautiful young lady, whom I used to meet almost
every week at her father's house, entering the box of my confessional.
She had been used to confess to another young priest of
my acquaintance, and she was always looked upon as one of the
most pious girls of the city. Though she had disguised herself
as much as possible, in order that I might not know her, I felt
sure that I was not mistaken—she was the amiable Mary * *

Not being absolutely certain of the correctness of my impressions,
I left her entirely under the hope that she was a perfect
stranger to me. At the beginning she could hardly speak; her
voice was suffocated by her sobs, and through the little apertures
of the thin partition between her and me, I saw two streams of
big tears trickling down her cheeks. After much effort, she
said: "Dear Father, I hope you do not know me, and that you
will never try to know me—I am a desperately great sinner.
Oh! I fear that I am lost! But if there is still a hope for me to
be saved, for God's sake, do not rebuke me! Before I begin my
confession, allow me to ask you not to pollute my ears by questions
which our confessors are in the habit of putting to their
female penitents; I have already been destroyed by those questions.
Before I was seventeen years old, God knows that His
angels are not more pure than I was; but the chaplain of the
nunnery where my parents had sent me for my education, though
approaching old age, put to me in the confessional a question

which, at first, I did not understand, but, unfortunately, he had
put the same questions to one of my young class-mates, who
made fun of them in my presence, and explained them to me;
for she understood them too well. This first unchaste conversation
of my life plunged my thoughts into a sea of iniquity, till
then absolutely unknown to me; temptations of the most humiliating
character assailed me for a week, day and night; after
which, sins which I wonld blot out with my blood, if it were
possible, overwhelmed my soul as with a deluge. But the joys
of the sinner are short. Struck with terror at the thought of
the judgment of God, after a few weeks of the most deplorable
life, I determined to give up my sins and reconcile myself to
God. Covered with shame, and trembling from head to foot
I went to confess to my old confessor, whom I respected as a
saint and cherished as a father. It seems to me that, with sincere
tears of repentance, I confessed to him the greatest part of
my sins, though I concealed one of them, through shame and
respect for my spiritual guide. But I did not conceal from him
that the strange questions he had put to me at my last confession
were, with the natural corruption of my heart, the principal
cause of my destruction.

"He spoke to me very kindly, encouraged me to fight
against my bad inclinations, and, at first, gave me very kind and
good advice. But when I thought he had finished speaking.
and as I was preparing to leave the confessional-box, he put to
me two new questions of such a polluting character that, I fear
neither the blood of Christ, nor all the fires of hell will ever be
able to blot them out of my memory. Those questions have
achieved my ruin; they have stuck to my mind like two deadly
arrows; they are day and night before my imagination; they
fill my arteries and veins with deadly poison.

"It is true, that at first, they filled me with horror and disgust;
but alas! I soon got so accustomed to them that they
seemed to be incorporated with me, and as if becoming a second
nature. Those thoughts have become a new source of innumerable
criminal thoughts, desires and actions.

"A month later, we were obliged by the rules of our convent

to go and confess; but by this time, I was so completely
lost, that I no longer blushed at the idea of confessing my shameful
sins to a man; it was the very contrary. I had a real, diabolical
pleasure in the thought that I should have a long conversation
with my confessor on those matters, and that he would
ask me more of his strange questions. In fact, when I had told
him everything without a blush, be began to interrogate me,
and God knows what corrupting things fell from his lips into
my poor criminal heart! Every one of his questions was thrilling
my nerves and filling me with the most shameful sensations!
After an hour of this criminal tete-a-tete with my old confessor
(for it was nothing else but a criminal tete-a-tete), I perceived
that he was as depraved as I was myself. With some half-covered
words, he made a criminal proposition, which I accepted
with covered words also; and during more than a year, we have
lived together on the most sinful intimacy. Though he was
much older than I, I loved him in the most foolish way. When
the course of my convent instruction was finished, my parents
called me back to their home. I was really glad of that change
of residence, for I was begining to be tired of my criminal life.
My hope was that, under the directions of a better confessor, I
should reconcile myself to God and begin a Christian life.

"Unfortunately for me, my new confessor, who was very
young, began also his interrogation. He soon fell in love with
me, and I loved him in a most criminal way. I have done with
him things which I hope you will never request me to reveal to
you, for they are too monstrous to be repeated, even in the confessional,
by a woman to a man.

"I do not say these things to take away the responsibility of
my iniquities with my young confessor, from my shoulders, for
I think I have been more criminal than he was. It is my firm
conviction that he was a good and holy priest before he knew
me; but the questions he put to me, and the answers I had to
give him, melted his heart—I know it—just as boiling lead
would melt the ice on which it flows.

"I know this is not such a detailed confession as our holy
Church requires me to make, but I have thought it necessary for

me to give you this short history of the life of the greatest and
most miserable sinner who ever asked you to help her to come
out from the tomb of her iniquities. This is the way I have
lived these last few years. But last Sabbath, God, in His infinite
mercy, looked down upon me. He inspired you to give us the
Prodigal Son as a model of true conversion, and as the most
marvellous proof of the infinite compassion of the dear Saviour
for the sinner. I have wept day and night since that happy day,
when I threw myself into the arms of my loving, merciful
Father. Even now, I can hardly speak, because my regret for
my past iniquities, and my joy that I am allowed to bathe the
feet of the Saviour with tears, are so great that my voice is as
choked.

"You understand that I have forever given up my last confessor.
I come to ask you to do me the favor to receive me
among your penitents. Oh! do not reject nor rebuke me, for
the dear Saviour's sake! Be not afraid to have at your side
such a monster of iniquity! But before going further, I have
two favors to ask from you. The first is, that you will never
do anything to ascertain my name; the second is, that you will
never put to me any of those questions by which so many penitents
are lost and so many priests forever destroyed. Twice I have
been lost by those questions. We come to our confessors that
they may throw upon our guilty souls the pure waters which
flow from heaven to purify us; but instead of that, with their
unmentionable questions, they pour oil on the burning fires
which are already raging in our poor sinful hearts. Oh! dear
father, let me become your penitent, that you may help me to
go and weep with Magdalene at the Saviour's feet! Do respect
me, as He respected that true model of all the sinful, but repenting
women! Did our Saviour put to her any question? Did He
extort from her the history of things which a sinful woman can
not say without forgetting the respect she owes to herself and
to God? No! You told us not long ago that the only thing
our Saviour did was to look at her tears and her love. Well,
please do that, and you will save me!"

I was then a very young priest, and never had any words so

sublime come to my ears in the confessional-box. Her tears and
her sobs, mingled with the frank declaration of the most humiliating
actions, had made such a profound impression upon me
that I was, for some time, unable to speak. It had come to my
mind also that I might be mistaken about her identity, and that
perhaps she was not the young lady that I had imagined. I
could, then, easily grant her first request, which was to do nothing
by which I could know her. The second part of her prayer
was more embarrassing; for the theologians are very positive in
ordering the confessors to question their penitents, particularly
those of the female sex, in many circumstances.

I encouraged her in the best way I could, to persevere in her
good resolutions, by invoking the blessed Virgin Mary and St.
Philomene, who was, then, Sainte a la mode, just as Marie
Alacoque is to-day, among the blind slaves of Rome. I told her
that I would pray and think over the subject of her second request;
and I asked her to come back in a week for my answer.

The very same day, I went to my own confessor, the Rev.
Mr. Baillargeon, then curate of Quebec, and afterwards Archbishop
of Canada. I told him the singular and unusual request
she had made, that I should never put to her any of those questions
suggested by the theologians, to insure the integrity of the
confession. I did not conceal from him that I was much inclined
to grant her that favor; for I repeated what I had already
several times told him, that I was supremely disgusted with the
infamous and polluting questions which the theologians forced
us to put to our female penitents. I told him frankly that several
old and young priests had already come to confess to me; and
that, with the exception of two, they had told me that they
could not put those questions and hear the answers they elicited
without falling into the most damnable sins.

My confessor seemed to be much perplexed about what he
should answer. He asked me to come the next day, that he
might review some theological books, in the interval. The next
day, I took down in writing his answer, which I find in my old
manuscripts, and I give it here in all its sad crudity:—

"Such cases of the destruction of female virtue by the questions

of the confessors is an unavoidable evil. It cannot be
helped; for such questions are absolutely necessary in the greater
part of the cases with which we have to deal. Men generally
confess their sins with so much sincerity that there is seldom any
need for questioning them, except when they are very ignorant.
But St. Liguori, as well as our personal observation, tells us that
the greatest part of girls and women, through a false and criminal
shame, very seldom confess the sins they commit against
purity. It requires the utmost charity in the confessors to prevent
these unfortunate slaves of their secret passions from making
sacrilegious confessions and communions. With the greatest
prudence and zeal he must question them on those matters,
beginning with the smallest sins, and going, little by little, as
much as possible by imperceptible degrees, to the most criminal
actions. As it seems evident that the penitent referred to in your
questions of yesterday is unwilling to make a full and detailed
confession of all her iniquities, you cannot promise to absolve
her without assuring yourself, by wise and prudent questions,
that she has confessed everything.

"You must not be discouraged when, through the confessional
or any other way, you learn the fall of priests into the
common frailties of homan nature with their penitents. Our
Saviour knew very well that the occasions and the temptations
we have to encounter, in the confessions of girls and women,
are so numerous, and sometimes so irresistible, that many would
fall. But He has given them the Holy Virgin Mary, who constantly
asks and obtains their pardon; He has given them the
sacrament of penance, where they can receive their pardon as
often as they ask for it. The vow of perfect chastity is a great
honor and privilege; but we cannot conceal from ourselves that
it puts on our shoulders a burden which many cannot carry forever.
St. Liguori says that we must not rebuke the penitent
priest who falls only once a month; and some other trustworthy
theologians are still more charitable."

This answer was far from satisfying me. It seemed to me
composed of soft soap principles. I went back with a heavy
heart and an anxious mind; and God knows that I made many

fervent prayers that this girl should never come again to give
me her sad history. I was then hardly twenty-six years old, full
of youth and life. It seemed to me that the stings of a thousand
wasps to my ears could not do me so much harm as the words of
that dear, beautiful, accomplished, but lost girl.

I do not mean to say that the revelations which she made,
had, in any way, diminished my esteem and my respect for her.
It was just the contrary. Her tears and her sobs, at my feet;
her agonizing expressions of shame and regret; her noble words
of protest against the disgusting and polluting interrogations of
the confessors, had raised her very high in my mind. My sincere
hope was that she would have a place in the kingdom of
Christ with the Samaritan women, Mary Magdalene, and all the
sinners who have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.

At the appointed day, I was in my confessional, listening to
the confession of a young man, when I saw Miss Mary enter
ing the vestry, and coming directly to my confessional-box,
where she knelt by me. Though she had, still more than at
the first time, disguised herself behind a long, thick, black veil,
I could not be mistaken; she was the very same amiable young
lady in whose father's house I used to pass such pleasant and
happy hours. I had often listened, with breathless attention, to
her melodious voice, when she was giving us, accompanied by
her piano, some of our beautiful church hymns. Who could
then see and hear her, without almost worshipping her? The
dignity of her steps, and her whole mien, when she advanced
towards my confessional, entirely betrayed her and destroyed
her incognito.

Oh! I would have given every drop of my blood in that
solemn hour, that I might have been free to deal with her just
as she had so eloquently requested me to do—to let her weep
and cry at the feet of Jesus to her heart's content. Oh! if I had
been free to take her by the hand, and silently show her the
dying Saviour, that she might have bathed His feet with her
tears, and spread the oil of her love on His head, without my
saying else but "Go in peace: thy sins are forgiven."

But, there, in that confessional-box, I was not the servant of

Christ, to follow His Divine, saving words, and obey the dictates
of my honest conscience. I was the slave of the Pope! I had
to stifle the cry of my conscience, to ignore the inspirations of
my God! There, my conscience had no right to speak; my
intelligence was a dead thing! The theologians of the Pope,
alone, had a right to be heard and obeyed! I was not there to
save, but to destroy; for, under the pretext of purifying, the real
mission of the confessor, often, if not always, in spite of himself,
is to scandalize and damn their souls.

As soon as the young man who was making his confession
at my left hand, had finished, I, without noise, turned myself
towards her, and said, through the little aperture, "Are you
ready to begin your confession?"

But she did not answer me. All that I could hear was: "Oh,
my Jesus, have mercy upon me! I come to wash my soul in Thy
blood; wilt Thou rebuke me?"

During several minutes she raised her hands and eyes to
heaven, and wept and prayed. It was evident that she had not
the least idea that I was observing her; she thought the door of
the little partition between her and me was shut. But my eyes
were fixed upon her; my tears were flowing with her tears, and
my ardent prayers were going to the feet of Jesus with her
prayers. I would not have interrupted her for any consideration,
in this, her sublime communication with her merciful Savior.

But after a pretty long time, I made a little noise with my
hand, and putting my lips near the opening of the partition
which was between us, I said in a low voice, "Dear sister, are
you ready to begin your confession?"

She turned her face a little towards me, and said with trembling
voice, "Yes, dear father, I am ready."

But she then stopped again to weep and pray, though I
could not hear what she said.

After some time in silent prayer, I said, "My dear sister, if
you are ready, please begin your confession." She then said,
"My dear father, do you remember the prayers which I made to
you, the other day? Can you allow me to confess my sins without
forcing me to forget the respect that I owe to myself, to

you, and to God, who hears us? And can you promise that you
will not put to me any of those questions which have already
done me such irreparable injury? I frankly declare to you that
there are sins in me that I cannot reveal to anyone, except to
Christ, because He is my God, and that he already knows them
all. Let me weep and cry at His feet: can you not forgive me
without adding to my iniquities by forcing me to say things that
the tongue of a Christian woman cannot reveal to a man?"

"My dear sister," I answered, "were I free to follow the
voice of my own feelings I would be only too happy to grant
your request; but I am here only as the minister of our holy
church, and bound to obey the laws. Through her most holy
Popes and theologians she tells me that I cannot forgive your
sins, if you do not confess them all, just as you have committed
them. The church tells me also that you must give the details,
which may add to the malice or change the nature of your sins.
I am sorry to tell you that our most holy theologians make it a
duty of our confessor to question the penitent on the sins which
he has good reason to suspect have been voluntarily omitted."

With a piercing cry she exclaimed, "Then, O my God, I am
lost—forever lost!"

This cry fell upon me like a thunderbolt; but I was still more
terror-stricken when, looking through the aperture, I saw she
was fainting; I heard the noise of her body falling upon the
floor, and of her head striking against the sides of the confessional
box.

Quick as lightning I ran to help her, took her in my arms,
and called a couple of men who were at a little distance, to assist
me in laying her on a bench. I washed her face with some cold
water and vinegar. She was as pale as death, but her lips were
moving, and she was saying something which nobody but I
could understand—

"I am lost—lost forever!"

We took her home to her disconsolate family, where, during
a month she lingered between life and death. Her two first
confessors came to visit her; but having asked every one to go
out of the room, she politely, but absolutely, requested them to

go away, and never come again. She asked me to visit her
every day, "for," she said, "I have only a few more days to
live. Help me to prepare myself for the solemn hour which
will open to me the gates of eternity!"

Every day I visited her, and I prayed and I wept with her.

Many times, when alone, with tears I requested her to finish
her confession; but, with a firmness which, then, seemed to be
mysterious and inexplicable, she politely rebuked me.

One day, when alone with her, I was kneeling by the side of
her bed to pray, I was unable to articulate a single word, because
of the inexpressible anguish of my soul on her account, she
asked me, "Dear father why do you weep?"

I answered, "How can you put such a question to your
murderer! I weep because I have killed you, dear friend."

This answer seemed to trouble her exceedingly. She was
very weak that day. After she had wept and prayed in silence,
she said, "do not weep for me, but weep for so many priests who
destroy their penitents in the confessional. I believe in the
holiness of the sacrament of penance, since our holy church has
established it. But there is, somewhere, something exceedingly
wrong in the confessional. Twice I have been destroyed, and I
know many girls who have also been destroyed by the confessional.
This is a secret, but will that secret be kept forever? I
pity the poor priests the day that our fathers will know what
becomes of the purity of their daughters in the hands of their
confessors. Father would surely kill my two last confessors, if
he could only know they have destroyed his poor child."

I conld not answer except by weeping.

We remained silent for a long time; then she said, "It is true
that I was not prepared for the rebuke you have given me, the
other day, in the confessional; but you acted conscientiously as a
good and honest priest. I know you must be bound by certain
laws."

She then pressed my hand with her cold hand and said,
"Weep not, dear father, because that sudden storm has wrecked
my too fragile bark. This storm was to take me out from the
bottomless sea of my iniquities to the shore where Jesus was

waiting to receive and pardon me. The night after you brought
me, half dead, here, to father's house, I had a dream. Oh, no! it
was not a dream, it was a reality. My Jesus came to me, He
was bleeding; His crown of thorns was on His head, the heavy
cross was bruising His shoulders. He said to me, with a voice so
sweet that no human tongue can imitate it, `I have seen thy
tears, I have heard thy cries, and I know thy love for Me: thy sins
are forgiven; take courage; in a few days thou shalt be with Me!' "

She had hardly finished her last word when she fainted, and
I feared lest she should die just then, when I was alone with her.

I called the family, who rushed into the room. The doctor was
sent for. He found her so weak that he thought proper to
allow only one or two persons to remain in the room with me.
He requested us not to speak at all: "For," said he, "the least
emotion might kill her instantly; her disease is, in all probability,
an aneurism of the aorta, the big vein which brings the blood to
the heart: when it breaks, she will go as quick as lightning."

It was nearly ten at night when I left the house, to go and
take some rest. But it is not necessary to say that I passed a
sleepless night. My dear Mary was there, pale, dying from the
deadly blow which I had given her in the confessional. She
was there, on her bed of death, her heart pierced with the
dagger which my church had put into my hands! and instead of
rebuking, and cursing me for my savage, merciless fanaticism,
she was blessing me! She was dying from a broken heart! and
I was not allowed by my church to give her a single word of
consolation and hope, for she had not made her confession? I
had mercilessly bruised that tender plant, and there was nothing
in my hands to heal the wounds I had made!

It was very probable that she would die the next day, and I
was forbidden to show her the crown of glory which Jesus has
prepared in His kingdom for the repenting sinner!

My desolation was really unspeakable, and I think I would
have been suffocated and have died that night, if the stream of
tears which continually flowed from my eyes had not been as a
balm to my distressed heart.

How dark and long the hours of that night seemed to me!

Before the dawn of day, I arose to read my theologians
again, and see if I could not find some one who would allow me
to forgive the sins of that dear child, without forcing her to tell
me anything she had done. But they seemed to me, more than
ever, unanimously inexorable, and I put them back on the shelves
of my library with a broken heart.

At nine A. M. the next day, I was by the bed of our dear
sick Mary. I cannot sufficiently tell the joy I felt, when the
doctor and whole family said to me, "She is much better; the
rest of last night has wrought a marvelous change, indeed."

With a really angelic smile she extended her hand towards
me, that I might press it in mine, and she said, "I thought last
evening, that the dear Savior would take me to Him, but He
wants me, dear father, to give you a little more trouble; however,
be patient, it cannot be long before the solemn hour of the appeal
will ring. Will you please read me the history of the suffering
and death of the beloved Savior, which you read me the
other day? It does me so much good to see how He has loved
me, such a miserable sinner."

There was a calm and solemnity in her words which struck
me singularly, as well as all those who were there.

After I had finished reading, she exclaimed, "He has loved
me so much that He died for my sins!" And she shut her eyes
as if to meditate in silence, but there was a stream of big tears
rolling down her cheeks.

I knelt down by her bed, with her family, to pray; but I
could not utter a single word. The idea that this dear child was
there, dying from the cruel fanaticism of my theologians and my
own cowardice in obeying them, was a mill-stone to my neck.
It was killing me.

Oh! if by dying a thousand times, I could have added a
single day to her life, with what pleasure I would have accepted
those thousand deaths!

After we had silently prayed and wept by her bedside, she
requested her mother to leave her alone with me.

When I saw myself alone, under the irresistible impression
that this was her last day, I fell on my knees again, and with

tears of the most sincere compassion for her soul, I requested
her to shake off her shame and to obey our holy church, which
requires every one to confess their sins if they want to be forgiven.

She calmly, but with an air of dignity which no human
words can express, said, "Is it true that, after the sins of Adam
and Eve, God Himself made coats and skins, and clothed them
that they might not see each other's nakedness?"

"Yes," I said, "this is what the Holy Scriptures tell
us."

"Well, then, how is it possible that our confessors dare to
take away from us that holy, divine coat of modesty and self-respect?
Has not Almighty God Himself made, with His own
hands, that coat of womanly modesty and self-respect, that we
might not be to you and to ourselves, a cause of shame and
sin?"

I was really stunned by the beauty, simplicity, and sublimity
of that comparison. I remained absolutely mute and confounded.
Though it was demolishing all the traditions and doctrines
of my church, and pulverizing all my holy doctors and theologians,
that noble answer found such an echo in my soul, that it
seemed to me a sacrilege to try to touch it with my finger.

After a short time of silence, she continued, "Twice I have
been destroyed by priests in the confessional. They took away
from me that divine coat of modesty and self-respect which God
gives to ever human being who comes into this world, and
twice, I have become for those very priests a deep pit of perdition,
into which they have fallen, and where, I fear, they are
forever lost! My merciful heavenly Father has given me back
that coat of skins, that nuptial robe of modesty, self-respect, and
holiness, which had been taken away from me. He cannot
allow you or any other man, to tear again and spoil that vestment
which is the work of His hands."

These words had exhausted her; it was evident to me that
she wanted some rest. I left her alone, but I was absolutely beside
myself. Filled with admiration for the sublime lessons
which I had received from the lips of that regenerated daughter

of Christ, who, it was evident, was soon to fly away from us, I
felt a supreme disgust for myself, my theologians,—shall I say
it? yes, I felt in that solemn hour a supreme disgust for my
church, which was cruelly defiling me, and all her priests, in the
confessional-box. I felt, in that hour, a supreme horror for that
auricular confession, which is so often a pit of perdition and
supreme misery for the confessor and penitent. I went out and
walked two hours on the Plains of Abraham, to breathe the
pure and refreshing air of the mountains. There, alone, I sat
on a stone, on the very spot where Wolf and Montcalm fought
and died; and I wept to my heart's content, on my irreparable
degradation, and the degradation of so many priests through the
confessional.

At four o'clock in the afternoon I went back again to the house
of my dear dying Mary. The mother took me apart, and very
politely said, "My dear Mr. Chiniquy, do you not think it is
time that our dear child should receive the last sacraments? She
seemed to be much better this morning, and we were full of
hope: but she is now rapidly sinking. Please lose no time in
giving her the holy viaticum and the extreme unction."

I said, "Yes, madam: let me pass a few minutes alone with
our dear child, that I may prepare her for the last sacraments."

When alone with her, I again fell on my knees, and, amidst
torrents of tears, I said, "Dear sister, it is my desire to give you
the holy viaticum and the extreme unction: but tell me, how can
I dare do a thing so solemn against all the prohibitions of
our holy church? How can I give you the holy communion
without first giving you absolution? and how can I give you
absolution when you earnestly persist in telling me that you
have so many sins which you will never declare to me or any
other confessor?

"You know that I cherish and respect you as if you were an
angel sent to me from heaven. You told me, the other day, that
you blessed the day that you first saw and knew me. I say
the same thing. I bless the day that I have known you; I
bless every hour that I have spent by your bed of suffering;
I bless every tear which I have shed with you on your sins and

on my own; I bless every hour we have passed together in looking
to the wounds of our beloved, dying Savior; I bless you
for having forgiven me your death! for I know it, and I confess
it in the presence of God, I have killed you, dear sister. But
now I prefer a thousand times to die than to say to you a word
which would pain you in any way, or trouble the peace of your
soul. Please, my dear sister, tell me what I can and must do for
you in this solemn hour?"

Calmly, and with a smile of joy such as I had never seen
before, nor seen since, she said, "I thank and bless you, dear
father, for the parable of the Prodigal Son, on which you
preached a month ago. You have brought me to the feet of the
dear Savior; there I have found a peace and a joy surpassing
anything that human heart can feel; I have thrown myself into
the arms of my Heavenly Father, and I know He has mercifully
accepted and forgiven His poor prodigal child! Oh, I see
the angels with their golden harps around the throne of the
Lamb! Do you not hear the celestial harmony of their songs?
I go—I go to join them in my Father's house. I SHALL NOT
BE LOST!"

While she was thus speaking to me my eyes were really
turned into two fountains of tears; I was unable, as well as unwilling,
to see anything, so entirely overcome was I by the sublime
words which were flowing from the dying lips of that dear
child, who was no more a sinner, but a real angel of Heaven to
me. I was listening to her words; there was a celestial music in
every one of them. But she had raised her voice in such a
strange way, when she had begun to say, "I go to my Father's
house," and she had made such a cry of joy when she had to let
the last words, "not be lost," escape her lips, that I raised my
head and opened my eyes to look at her. I suspected that something
strange had occurred.

I got upon my feet, passed my handkerchief over my face
to wipe away the tears which were preventing me from seeing
with accuracy, and looked at her.

Her hands were crossed on her breast, and there was on her
face the expression of a really superhuman joy; her beautiful

eyes were fixed as if they were looking on some grand and
sublime spectacle; it seemed to me, at first, that she was praying.

In that very instant the mother rushed into the room, crying,
"My God! my God! what does that cry `lost' mean?"—
For her last words, "not to be lost," particularly the last one, had
been pronounced with such a powerful voice, that they had been
heard almost everywhere in the house.

I made a sign with my hand to prevent the distressed mother
from making any noise and troubling her dying child in her
prayer, for I really thought that she had stopped speaking, as she
used so often to do, when alone with me, in order to pray. But
I was mistaken. The redeemed soul had gone, on the golden
wings of love, to join the multitude of those who have washed
their robes in the blood of the Lamb, to sing the eternal
Alleluia.

The revelation of the unmentionable corruptions directly and
unavoidably engendered by auricular confession, had come to me
from the lips of that young lady, as the first rays of the sun
which were to hurl back the dark clouds of night by which
Rome had wrapped my intelligence on that subject.

So miserable by her fall and her sins, but so admirable by
her conversion, that young lady was standing before me, for the
rest of my priestly life, as the bright beacon raised on the solitary
rocks stands before the sailor whose ship is drifting through the
shoals, in a dark and stormy night.

She was brought there, by the merciful hand of God, to right
my course.

Lost and degraded by auricular confession, only after having
given it up, that precious soul was to find peace and life, when
washed in the blood of the Lamb, as the only hope and refuge
of sinners.

Her words, filled with a superhuman wisdom, and her burning
tears, came to me, by the marvelous Providence of God, as
the first beams of the Sun of Righteousness, to teach me that
auricular confession was a Satanic invention.

Had this young person been the only one to tell me that, I might

still have held some doubt about the diabolical origin of that institution.
But thousands and thousands, before and after her,
have been sent by my merciful God to tell me the same tale, till
after twenty-five years of experience it became a certitude to me
that that modern invention of Rome must, sooner or later, with
very few exceptions, drag both the confessor and his female penitents
into a common and irreparable ruin.[4]