Chapter V.
THE PRIEST, PURGATORY, AND THE POOR WIDOW'S COW.
THE day following that of the meeting at which Mr. Tache
had given his reasons for boasting that he had whipped the
priest, I wrote to my mother: "For God's sake, come for
can stay here no longer. If you knew what my eyes have seen
and my ears have heard for some time past, you would not delay
your coming a single day."
Indeed, such was the impression left upon me by that flagellation,
and by the speeches which I had heard, that had it not
been for the crossing of the St. Lawrence, I would have started
for Murray Bay on the day after the secret meeting at which I
had heard things that so terribly frightened me. How I
regretted the happy and peaceful days spent with my mother in
reading the beautiful chapters of the Bible, so well chosen by
her to instruct and interest me! What a difference there was
between our conversations after these readings, and the conversations
I heard at St. Thomas!
Happily my parents' desire to see me again was as great as
mine to go back to them. So that a few weeks later my mother
came for me. She pressed me to her heart, and brought me
back to the arms of my father.
I arrived at home on the 17th of July, 1821, and spent the
afternoon and evening till late by my father's side. With what
pleasure did he see me working difficult problems in algebra,
and even in geometry! for under my teacher, Mr. Jones, I had
really made rapid progress in those branches. More than once
I noticed tears of joy in my father's eyes when, taking my slate,
he saw that my calculations were correct. He also examined me
in grammar. "What an admirable teacher this Mr. Jones
must be," he would say, "to have advanced a child so much in
the short space of fourteen months!"
How sweet to me, but how short, were those hours of happiness
passed between my good mother and my father! We had
family worship. I read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, the
return of the prodigal son. My mother then sang a hymn of
joy and gratitude, and I went to bed with my heart full of
happiness to take the sweetest sleep of my life. But, O God!
what an awful awakening thou hadst prepared for me!
At about four o'clock in the morning heart-rending screams
fell upon my ear. I recognized my mother's voice.
"What is the matter, dear mother?"
"Oh, my dear child, you have no more a father! He is
dead!"
In saying these words she lost consciousness and fell on the
floor!
While a friend who had passed the night with us gave her
proper care, I hastened to my father's bed. I pressed him to
my heart, I kissed him, I covered him with my tears, I moved
his head, I pressed his hands, I tried to lift him up on his
pillow; I could not believe that he was dead! It seemed to me
that even if dead he would come back to life—that God could
not thus take my father away from me at the very moment
when I had come back to him after so long an absence! I
knelt to pray to God for the life of my father. But my tears
and cries were useless. He was dead! He was already cold
as ice!
Two days after he was buried. My mother was so overwhelmed
with grief that she could not follow the funeral
procession. I remained with her as her only earthly support.
Poor mother! How many tears thou hast shed! What sobs
came from thine afflicted heart in those days of supreme grief!
Though I was then very young, I could understand the
greatness of our loss, and I mingled my tears with those of my
mother.
What pen can portray what takes place in the heart of a
woman when God takes suddenly her husband away in the
prime of his life, and leaves her alone, plunged in misery, with
three small children, two of whom are even too young to know
their loss! How long are the hours of the day for the poor
widow who is left alone, and without means, among strangers!
How painful the sleepless night to the heart which has lost
everything! How empty a house is left by the eternal absence
of him who was its master, support, and father! Every object
in the house and every step she takes remind her of her loss
and sinks the sword deeper which pierces her heart. Oh, how
bitter are the tears which flow from her eyes when her youngest
child, who as yet does not understand the mystery of death,
throws himself into her arms and says: "Mamma, where is
papa? Why does he not come back? I am lonely!"
My poor mother passed through those heart-rending trials.
I heard her sobs during the long hours of the day, and also
during the longer hours of the night. Many times I have seen
her fall upon her knees to implore God to be merciful to her and
to her three unhappy orphans. I could do nothing then to
comfort her, but love her, pray and weep with her!
Only a few days had elapsed after the burial of my father
when I saw Mr. Courtois, the parish priest, coming to our house
(he who had tried to take away our Bible from us). He had
the reputation of being rich, and as we were poor and unhappy
since my father's death, my first thought was that he had come
to comfort and to help us. I could see that my mother had the
same hopes. She welcomed him as an angel from heaven.
The least gleam of hope is so sweet to one who is unhappy!
From his very first words, however, I could see that our
hopes were not to be realized. He tried to be sympathetic, and
even said something about the confidenee that we should have
in God, especially in times of trial; but his words were cold
and dry.
Turning to me, he said:
"Do you continue to read the Bible, my little boy?"
"Yes, sir," answered I, with a voice trembling with anxiety,
for I feared that he would make another effort to take away
that treasure, and I had no longer a father to defend it.
Then addressing my mother, he said:
"Madam, I told you that it was not right for you or your
child to read that book."
My mother cast down her eyes, and answered only by the
tears which ran down her cheeks.
That question was followed by a long silence, and the priest
then continued:
"Madam, there is something due for the prayers which have
been sung, and the services which you requested to be offered
for the repose of your husband's soul. I will be very much
obliged to you if you pay me that little debt."
"Mr. Courtois," answered my mother, "my husband left me
nothing but debts. I have only the work of my own hands to
procure a living for my three children, the eldest of whom is
before you. For these little orphans' sake, if not for mine, do
not take from us the little that is left."
"But, madam, you do not reflect. Your husband died
suddenly and without any preparation; he is therefore in the
flames of purgatory. If you want him to be delivered, you
must necessarily unite your personal sacrifices to the prayers of
the Church and the masses which we offer."
"As I said, my husband has left me absolutely without
means, and it is impossible for me to give you any money,"
replied my mother.
"But, madam, your husband was for a long time the only
notary of Mal Bay. He surely must have made much money.
I can scarcely think that he has left you without any means to
help him now that his desolation and sufferings are far greater
than yours."
"My husband did, indeed, coin much money, but he spent
still more. Thanks to God, we have not been in want while he
lived. But lately he got this house built, and what is still due
on it makes me fear that I will lose it. He also bought a piece
of land not long ago, only half of which is paid, and I will,
therefore, probably not be able to keep it. Hence I may soon,
with my poor orphans, be deprived of everything that is left us.
In the meantime I hope, sir, that you are not a man to take away
from us our last piece of bread."
"But, madam, the masses offered for the rest of your husband's
soul must be paid," answered the priest.
My mother covered her face with her handkerchief and
wept.
As for me, I did not mingle my tears with hers this time.
My feelings were not those of grief, but of anger and unspeakable
horror. My eyes were fixed on the face of that man who
tortured my mother's heart. I looked with tearless eyes upon
the man who added to my poor mother's anguish, and made her
weep more bitterly than ever. My hands were clenched, as if
ready to strike. All my muscles trembled; my teeth chattered
as if from intense cold. My greatest sorrow was my weakness
in the presence of that big man, and my not being able to send
him away from our house, and driving him far away from my
mother.
I felt inclined to say to him: "Are you not ashamed, you
who are so rich, to come and take away the last piece of bread
from our mouths?" But my physical and moral strength were
not sufficient to accomplish the task before me, and I was filled
with regret and disappointment.
After a long silence, my mother raised her eyes, reddened
with tears, on the priest, and said:
"Sir, you see that cow in the meadow, not far from our
house? Her milk and the butter made from it form the principal
part of my children's food. I hope you will not take her
away from us. If, however, such a sacrifice must be made to
deliver my poor husband's soul from purgatory, take her as
payment of the masses to be offered to extinguish those devouring
flames."
The priest instantly arose, saying, "Very well, madam," and
went out.
Our eyes anxiously followed him; but instead of walking
towards the little gate which was in front of the house, he
directed his steps towards the meadow, and drove the cow before
him in the direction of his home.
At that sight I screamed with despair: "O, my mother! he
is taking our cow away! What will become of us?"
Lord Nairn had given us that splendid cow when it was three
months old. Her mother had been brought from Scotland, and
belonged to one of the best breeds of that country. I fed her
with my own hands, and had often shared my bread with her.
I loved her as a child always loves an animal which he has
brought up himself. She seemed to understand and love me
also. From whatever distance she could see me, she would run
to me to receive my caresses, and whatever else I might have to
give her. My mother herself milked her; and her rich milk
was such delicious and substantial food for us. We all felt so
happy, at breakfast and supper, each with a cupful of that pure
and refreshing milk!
My mother also cried out with grief as she saw the priest
taking away the only means which heaven had left her to feed
her children.
Throwing myself into her arms, I asked her: "Why have
you given away our cow? What will become of us? We
shall surely die of hunger."
"Dear child," she answered, "I did not think the priest
would be so cruel as to take away the last resource which God
had left us. Ah! if I had believed him to be so unmerciful I
would never have spoken to him as I did. As you say, my
dear child, what will become of us? But have you not often
read to me in your Bible that God is the Father of the widow
and the orphan? We shall pray to that God who is willing to
be your father and mine. He will listen to us, and see our
tears. Let us kneel down and ask of Him to be merciful to
us, and to give us back the support of which the priest has
deprived us."
We both knelt down. She took my right hand with her
left, and, lifting the other hand towards heaven, she offered a
prayer to the God of mercies for her poor children such as I
have never since heard. Her words were often choked by her
sobs. But when she could not speak with her voice, she spoke
with her burning looks raised to heaven, and with her uplifted
hand. I also prayed to God with her, and repeated her words,
which were broken by my sobs.
When her prayer was ended she remained for a long time
pale and trembling. Cold sweat was flowing on her face, and
she fell on the floor. I thought she was going to die. I ran
for cold water, which I gave her, saying: "Dear mother! O, do
not leave me alone upon earth!" After drinking a few drops
she felt better, and taking my hand, she put it to her trembling
lips; then drawing me near her, and pressing me to her bosom,
she said: "Dear child, if ever you become a priest, I ask of you
never to be so hard-hearted towards poor widows as are the
priests of to-day." While she said these words, I felt her
ourning tears falling upon my cheek.
The memory of these tears has never left me. I felt them
constantly during the twenty-five years I spent in preaching the
inconceivable superstitions of Rome.
I was not better, naturally, than many of the other priests.
I believed, as they did, the impious fables of purgatory; and
as well as they (I confess it to my shame), if I refused to take,
or if I gave back the money of the poor, I accepted the money
which the rich gave me for the masses I said to extinguish the
flames of that fabulous place. But the remembrance of my
mother's words and tears has kept me from being so cruel and
unmerciful towards the poor widows as Romish priests are, for
the most part, obliged to be.
When my heart, depraved by the false and impious doctrines
of Rome, was tempted to take money from widows and orphans,
under pretence of my long prayers, I then heard the voice of
my mother, from the depth of her sepulchre, saying: "My dear
child, do not be cruel towards poor widows and orphans, as are
the priests of to-day." If, during the days of my priesthood at
Quebec, at Beauport and Kamouraska, I have given almost all
that I had to feed and clothe the poor, especially the widows
and orphans, it was not owing to my being better than others,
but it was because my mother had spoken to me with words
never to be forgotten. The Lord, I believe, had put into my
mother's mouth those words, so simple but so full of eloquence
and beauty, as one of His great mercies towards me. Those
tears the hand of Rome has never been able to wipe off;
those words of my mother the sophisms of Popery could not
make me forget.
How long, O Lord, shall that insolent enemy of the gospel,
the Church of Rome, be permitted to fatten herself upon the
tears of the widow and of the orphan by means of that cruel
and impious invention of paganism—purgatory? Wilt thou not
be merciful unto so many nations which are still the victims of
that great imposture? Oh, do remove the veil which covers the
eyes of the priests and people of Rome, as thou hast removed it
from mine! Make them to understand that their hopes of
purification must not rest on these fabulous fires, but only on the
blood of the Lamb shed on Calvary to save the world.
