Chapter I.
THE BIBLE AND THE PRIEST OF ROME.
MY father, Charles Chiniquy, born in Quebec, had studied in
the Theological Seminary of that city, to prepare himself
for the priesthood. But a few days before making his vows,
having been the witness of a great iniquity in the high quarters
of the church, he changed his mind, studied law and became a
notary.
Married to Reine Perrault, daughter of Mitchel Perrault, in
1808, he settled at first in Kamoraska, where I was born on the
30th July, 1809.
About four or five years later, my parents emigrated to
Murray Bay. That place was then in its infancy, and no school
had yet been established. My mother was, therefore, my first
teacher.
Before leaving the Seminary of Quebec my father had
received from one of the Superiors, as a token of his esteem, a
beautiful French and Latin Bible. That Bible was the first
book, after the A B C, in which I was taught to read. My
mother selected the chapters which she considered the most
interesting for me; and I read them every day with the greatest
attention and pleasure. I was even so much pleased with several
chapters, that I read them over and over again till I knew them
by heart.
When eight or nine years of age, I had learned by heart the
history of the creation and the fall of man; the deluge; the
sacrifice of Isaac; the history of Moses; the plagues of Egypt;
the sublime hymn of Moses after crossing the Red Sea; the
history of Samson; the most interesting events of the life of
David; several Psalms; all the speeches and parables of Christ
and the whole history of the sufferings and death of our Saviour
as narrated by John.
I had two brothers, Louis and Achille; the first about four,
the second about eight years younger than myself. When they
were sleeping or playing together, how many delicious hours I
have spent by my mother's side, in reading to her the sublime
pages of the divine book.
Sometimes she interrupted me to see if I understood what I
read; and when my answers had made her sure that I understood
it, she used to kiss me and press me on her bosom as an
expression of her joy.
One day, while I was reading the history of the sufferings of
the Saviour, my young heart was so much impressed that I could
hardly enunciate the words, and my voice trembled. My mother,
perceiving my emotion, tried to say something on the love of
Jesus for us, but she could not utter a word—her voice was
suffocated by her sobs. She leaned her head on my forehead,
and I felt two streams of tears falling from her eyes on my
cheeks. I could not contain myself any longer. I wept also;
and my tears were mixed with hers. The holy book fell from
my hands, and I threw myself into my dear mother's arms.
No human words can express what was felt in her soul and
in mine in that most blessed hour! No! I will never forget that
solemn hour, when my mother's heart was perfectly blended
with mine at the feet of our dying Saviour. There was a real
perfume from heaven in those my mother's tears which were
flowing on me. It seemed then, as it does seem to me to-day,
that there was a celestial harmony in the sound of her voice and
in her sobs. Though more than half a century has passed since
that solemn hour when Jesus, for the first time, revealed to me
something of His suffering and of His love, my heart leaps with
joy every time I think of it.
We were some distance from the church, and the roads, in
the rainy days, were very bad. On the Sabbath days the neighboring
farmers, unable to go to church, were accustomed to
gather at our house in the evening. Then my parents used to
put me up on a large table in the midst of the assembly, and I
delivered to those good people the most beautiful parts of the
Old and New Testaments. The breathless attention, the applause
of our guests, and—may I tell it—often the tears of joy which
my mother tried in vain to conceal, supported my strength and
gave me the courage I wanted, to speak when so young before
so many people. When my parents saw that I was growing
tired, my mother, who had a fine voice, sang some of the beauful
French hymns with which her memory was filled.
Several times, when the fine weather allowed me to go to
church with my parents, the farmers would take me into their
caleches (buggies) at the door of the temple, and request me to
give them some chapter of the Gospel. With a most perfect
attention they listened to the voice of the child, whom the Good
Master had chosen to give them the bread which comes from
heaven. More than once, I remember, that when the bell called
us to the church, they expressed their regret that they could not
hear more.
On one of the beautiful spring days of 1818, my father was
writing in his office, and my mother was working with her
needle, singing one of her favorite hymns, and I was at the door,
playing and talking to a fine robin which I had so perfectly
trained that he followed me wherever I went. All of a sudden
I saw the priest coming near the gate. The sight of him sent a
thrill of uneasiness through my whole frame. It was his first
visit to our home.
The priest was a person below the common stature, and had
an unpleasant appearance—his shoulders were large and he was
very corpulent; his hair was long and uncombed, and his double
chin seemed to groan under the weight of his flabby cheeks.
I hastily ran to the door, and whispered to my parents, "M. le
ure arrive" ("Mr. Curate is coming"). The last sound was
hardly out of my lips, when the Rev. Mr. Courtois was at the
door, and my father, shaking hands with him, gave him a
welcome.
That priest was born in France, where he had a narrow
escape, having been condemned to death under the bloody
administration of Robespierre. He had found a refuge, with
many other French priests in England, whence he came to
Quebec, and the bishop of that place had given him the charge
of the parish of Murray Bay.
His conversation was animated and interesting for the first
quarter of an hour. It was a real pleasure to hear him. But of
a sudden his countenance changed as if a dark cloud had come
over his mind, and he stopped talking. My parents had kept
themselves on a respectful reserve with the priest. They seemed
to have no other mind than to listen to him. The silence which
followed was exceedingly unpleasant for all the parties. It looked
like the heavy hour which precedes a storm. At length the
priest, addressing my father, said, "Mr. Chiniquy, is it true that
you and your child read the Bible?"
"Yes, sir," was the quick reply, "my little boy and I read
the Bible, and what is still better, he has learned by heart a great
number of its most interesting chapters. If you will allow it,
Mr. Curate, he will give you some of them."
"I did not come for that purpose," abruptly replied the
priest; "but do you not know that you are forbidden by the
holy Council of Trent to read the Bible in French?"
"It makes very little difference to me whether I read the
Bible in French, Greek or Latin," answered my father, "for I
understand these languages equally well."
"But are you ignorant of the fact that you cannot allow your
child to read the Bible?" replied the priest.
"My wife directs her own child in the reading of the Bible,
and I cannot see that we commit any sin by continuing to do in
future what we have done till now in that matter."
"Mr. Chiniquy," rejoined the priest, "you have gone through
a whole course of theology; you know the duties of a curate;
you know it is my painful duty to come here, get the Bible from
you and burn it."
My grandfather was a fearless Spanish sailor (our original
name was Etchiniquia), and there was too much Spanish blood
and pride in my father to hear such a sentence with patience in
his own house. Quick as lightning he was on his feet. I pressed
myself, trembling, near my mother, who trembled also.
At first I feared lest some very unfortunate and violent scene
should occur; for my father's anger at that moment was really
terrible.
But there was another thing which affected me. I feared
lest the priest should lay his hands on my dear Bible, which was
just before him on the table; for it was mine, as it had been
given to me the last year as a Christmas gift.
Fortunately, my father had subdued himself after the first
moment of his anger. He was pacing the room with a double-quick
step; his lips were pale and trembling, and he was muttering
between his teeth words which were unintelligible to any
one of us.
The priest was closely watching all my father's movements;
his hands were convulsively pressing his heavy cane, and his face
was giving the sure evidence of a too well-grounded terror. It
was clear that the ambassador of Rome did not find himself infallibly
sure of his position on the ground he had so foolishly chosen
to take; since his last words he had remained as silent as a tomb.
At last, after having paced the room for a considerable time,
my father suddenly stopped before the priest, and said, "Sir, is
that all you have to say here?"
"Yes, sir," said the trembling priest.
"Well, sir," added my father, "you know the door by which
you entered my house; please take the same door and go away
quickly."
The priest went out immediately. I felt an inexpressible joy
when I saw that my Bible was safe. I ran to my father's neck,
kissed and thanked him for his victory. And to pay him, in my
childish way, I jumped upon the large table and recited, in my
best style, the fight between David and Goliath. Of course, in
my mind, my father was David and the priest of Rome was the
giant whom the little stone from the brook had stricken down.
Thou knowest, O God, that it is to that Bible, read on my
mother's knees, I owe, by thy infinite mercy, the knowledge of
the truth to-day; that Bible had sent, to my young heart and
intelligence, rays of light which all the sophisms and dark errors
of Rome could never completely extinguish.
