University of Virginia Library

Chapter XXXIX.

SENT TO SUCCEED REV. MR. VARIN, CURATE OF KAMOURASKA
—STERN OPPOSITION OF THAT CURATE AND THE SURROUNDING
PRIEST AND PEOPLE—HOURS OF DESOLATION
IN KAMOURASKA—THE GOOD MASTER ALLAYS THE TEMPEST,
AND BIDS THE WAVES BE STILL.

ON the morning of the 25th of August, 1842, we blessed and
opened the seventh school of Beauport. From that day
all the children were to receive as good an education as could be
given in any country place of Canada. Those schools had been
raised on the ruins of the seven taverns which had so long
spread ruin, shame, desolation and death over that splendid
parish. My heart was filled with an unspeakable joy at the
sight of the marvellous things which, by the hand of God, had
been wrought in such a short time.

At about two P. M. of that never-to-be-forgotten day, after I
had said my vespers, and was alone, pacing the alleys of my
garden, under the shade of the old maple trees bordering the
northern part of that beautiful spot, I was reviewing the struggles
and the victories of these last four years. It seemed that everything
around me—not only the giant trees which were protecting
me from the burning sun, but even the humblest grasses and
flowers of my garden—had a voice to tell me, "Bless the Lord
for His mercies."

At my feet the majestic St. Lawrence was rolling its deep
waters; beyond, the old capital of Canada, Quebec, with its
massive citadel, its proud towers, its bristling cannons, its numerous
houses and steeples, with their tin roofs reflecting the
light of the sun in myriads of rays, formed such a spectacle
of fairy beauty as no pen can describe. The fresh breeze from

the river, mingled with the perfume of the thousand flowers of
my parterre, bathed me in an atmosphere of fragrance. Never
yet had I enjoyed life as at that hour. All the sanguine desires
of my heart and the holy aspirations of my soul had been more
than realized. Peace, harmony, industry, abundance, happiness,
religion and education had come on the heels of temperance, to
gladden and cheer the families which God had entrusted to me.
The former hard feelings of my ecclesiastical superiors had been
changed into sentiments and acts of kindness, much above my
merits. With the most sincere feelings of gratitude to God, I
said with the old prophet, "Bless the Lord, O my soul."

By the great mercy of God, that parish of Beauport, which
at first had appeared to me as a bottomless abyss, in which I was
to perish, had been changed for me into an earthly paradise.
There was only one desire in my heart. It was that I never
should be removed from it. Like Peter on Mount Tabor, I
wanted to pitch my tent in Beauport to the end of my life. But
the rebuke which had shamed Peter came as quickly as lightning
to show me the folly and vanity of my dreams.

Suddenly the carrosse of the Bishop of Quebec came in sight,
and rolled down to the door of the parsonage. The sub-secretary,
the Rev. Mr. Belisle, alighting from it, directed his steps
towards the garden, where he had seen me, and handed me the
following letter from the Right Rev. Turgeon, Coadjutor of
Quebec:

His lordship Bishop Signaie and I wish to confer with you on a most
important matter. We have sent our carriage to bring you to Quebec.
Please come without the least delay.

One hour after, I was with the two bishops. My Lord
Signaie said:

"Monseigneur Turgeon will tell you why we have sent for
you in such haste."

"Mons. Chiniquy," said Bishop Turgeon, "is not Kamouraska
your birthplace?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Do you like that place, and do you interest yourself much
in its welfare?"

"Of course, my lord, I like Kamouraska; not only because it
is my birthplace, and the most happy years of my youth were
spent in it, but also because, in my humble opinion, the beauties
of its scenery, the purity of its atmosphere, the fine manners and
proverbial intelligence of its people, make it the very gem of
Canada."

"You know," rejoined the bishop, "that Rev. Mons. Varin
has been too infirm, these last years, to superintend the spiritual
interest of that important place, it is impossible to continue putting
a young vicar at the head of such a parish, where hundreds
of the best families of the aristocracy of Quebec and Montreal
resort every summer. We have, too long, tried that experiment
of young priests in the midst of such a people. It has been a
failure. Drunkenness, luxury and immoralities of the most degrading
kind are eating up the very life of Kamouraska to-day.
Not less than thirty illegitimate births are known and registered
in different places from Kamouraska these last twelve months.
It is quite time to stop that state of affairs, and you are the only
one, Mons. Chiniquy, on whom we can rely for that great and
difficult work."

These words passed through my soul as a two-edged sword.
My lips quivered, I felt as if I were choking, and my tongue,
with difficulty muttered: "My lord, I hope it is not your intention
to remove me from my dear parish of Beauport."

"No, Mons. Chiniquy, we will not make use of our authority,
to break the sacred and sweet ties which unite you to the
parish of Beauport. But we will put before your conscience the
reasons we have to wish you at the head of the great and important
parish of Kamourska."

For more than an hour, the two bishops made strong appeals
to my charity for the multitudes who were sunk into the abyss
of drunkenness and every vice, and had no one to save
them.

"See how God and men are blessing you to-day," added the

Archbishop Signaie, for what you have done in Beauport! Will
they not bless you still more, if you save that great and splendid
parish of Kamouraska, as you have saved Beauport? Will not
a double crown be put upon your forehead by your bishops, your
country and you God, if you consent to be the instrument of the
mercies of God towards the people of your own birthplace, and
the surrounding country, as you have just been for Beauport
and its surrounding parishes? Can you rest and live in peace
now in Beauport, when you hear day and night the voice of the
multitudes who cry: `Come to our help, we are perishing?'
What will you answer to God, at the last day, when He will
show you the thousands of precious souls lost at Kamouraska,
because you refused to go to their rescue? As Monseigneur
Turgeon has said, we will not make use of our authority to force
you to leave your present position; we hope that the prayers of
your bishops will be enough for you. We know what a great
sacrifice it will be for you to leave Beauport to-day; but do not
forget that the greater the sacrifice, the more precious will the
crown be."

My bishops had spoken to me with such kindness! Their
paternal and friendly appeals had surely more power over me
than orders. Not without many tears; but with a true good
will, I consented to give up the prospects of peace and comfort
which were in store for me in Beauport, to plunge myself again
into a future of endless trouble and warfare, by going to
Kamouraska.

There is no need of saying that the people of Beauport did
all in their power to induce the bishops to let me remain among
them some time longer. But the sacrifice had to be made. I
gave my farewell address on the second Sabbath of September;
in the midst of indescribable cries, sobs and tears, and on the 17th
of the same month, I was on my way to Kamouraska. I had
left everything behind me at Beauport, even to my books, in
order to be freer in that formidable conflict which seemed to be
in store for me in my new parish.

When I took leave of the bishops of Quebec, they showed
me a letter just received by them from Mons. Varin, filled with

the most bitter expressions of indignation on account of the choice
of such a fanatic and fire-brand as Chiniquy, for a place so well
known for its peaceful habits and harmony among all classes."
The last words of the letter were as follows:

"The clergy and people of Kamouraska and vicinity consider
the appointment of Mons. Chiniquy to this parish as an insult,
and we hope and pray that your lordship will change your mind
on the subject."

In showing me the letter, my lord Signaie and Turgeon said:
"We fear that you will have more trouble than we expected
with the old curate and his partisans, but we commend you to the
grace of God and the protection of the Virgin Mary, remembering
that our Saviour has said: `Fear not, I have overcome the
world.' "

I arrived at Kamouraska the 21st of September, 1842, on
one of the finest days of the year. But my heart was filled with
an unspeakable desolation, for all along the way, the curates had
told me that the people, with their old pastor, were unanimous
in their opposition to my going there. It was even rumored
that the doors of the church would be shut against me, the next
Sunday. To this bad news were added two very strange facts.
My brother Achilles, who was living at St. Michel, was to drive
me from that place to St. Roch des Aulnets, whence my other
brother Louis, would take me to Kamouraska. But we had not
traveled more than five or six miles, when the wheel of the newly
finished and beautifully painted buggy, having struck a stone,
the seat was broken into fragments, and we both fell to the
ground.

By chance, as my brother was blessing the man who sold
him that rig for a new and first-class conveyance, a traveler
going the same way passed by. I asked him for a place in his
caleche, bade adieu to my brother, and consoled him by saying:
"As you have lost your fine buggy in my service, I will give
you a better one."

Two days after, my second brother was driving me to my
destination, and when about three or four miles from Kamouraska,
his fine horse stepped on a long nail which was on the

road, fell down and died in the awful convulsions of tetanus. I
took leave of him, and consoled him also by promising to give
him another horse.

Another carriage took me safely to the end of my journey.
However, having to pass by the church, which was about 200
yards from the parsonage, I dismissed my driver at the door of
the sacred edifice, and took my satehel in hand, which was my
only baggage, entered the church and spent more than an hour
in fervent prayers, or rather in cries and tears. I felt so heartsick
that I needed that hour of rest and prayer. The tears I shed
there relieved my burdened spirit.

A few steps from me, in the cemetery, lay the sacred remains
of my beloved mother, whose angelic face and memory were
constantly before me. Facing me was the altar where I had
made my first communion; at my left, was the pulpit which was
to be the battlefield where I had to fight the enemies of my God
and my people, who, I had been repeatedly told, were cursing
and grinding their teeth at me. But the vision of that old curate
I had soon to confront, and who had written such an impudent
letter against me to the bishops, and the public opposition of the
surrounding priests to my coming into their midst, were the
most discouraging aspects of my new position. I felt as if my
soul had been crushed. My very existence seemed an unbearable
burden.

My new responsibilities came so vividly before my mind in
that distressing hour, that my courage, for a moment, failed me.
I reproached myself for the act of folly in yielding to the
request of the bishops. It seemed evident that I had accepted
a burden too heavy for me to bear. But I prayed with all the
fervor of my soul to God and to the Virgin Mary, and wept to
my heart's content.

There was a marvellous power in the prayers and tears which
came from my heart. I felt as a new man. I seemed to hear
the trumpet of God calling me to the battlefield. My only
business then was to go and fight, relying on Him alone for victory.
I took my traveling bag, went out of the church, and
walked slowly towards the parsonage, which has been burnt

since. It was a splendid two-story building, eighty feet in
length, with capacious cellars. It had been built shortly after
the conquest of Canada, as a store for contraband goods; but
after a few years of failure, became the parsonage of the parish.

The Rev. Mons. Varin, though infirm and sick, had watched
me from his window, and felt bewildered at my entering the
church and remaining so long.

I knocked the first door, but as nobody answered, I opened
it, and crossed the first large room to knock at the second door;
but, here also, no answer came except from two furious little
dogs. I entered the room, fighting the dogs, which bit me several
times. I knocked at the third and fourth doors with the
same result—no one to receive me.

I knew that the next was the old curate's sleeping-room. At
my knocking, an angry voice cried out: "Walk in."

I entered, made a step toward the old and infirm curate, who
was sitting in his large arm chair. As I was about to salute
him, he angrily said: "The people of Beauport have made
great efforts to keep you in their midst, but the people of Kamouraska
will make as great an effort to turn you out of this place."

"Mons. le Cure," I answered calmly, "God knoweth that I
never desired to leave Beauport for this place. But I think it is
that great and merciful God who has brought me here by the
hand; and I hope He will help me to overcome all opposition,
from whatever quarter it may come."

He replied angrily: "Is it to insult me that you call me
`Mons. le Cure?' I am no more the curate of Kamouraska.
You are the curate now, Mr. Chiniquy."

"I beg your pardon, my dear Mr. Varin; you are still, I
hope you will remain all your life, the honored and beloved
curate of Kamouraska. The respect and gratitude I owe you
have caused me to refuse the titles and honors which our bishop
wanted to give me."

"But, then, if I am the curate, what are you?" replied the
old priest, with more calmness.

"I am nothing but a simple soldier of Christ, and a sower of
the good seed of the gospel!" I answered. "When I fight the

common enemy in the plain, as Joshua did, you, like Moses, will
stand on the top of the mountain, lift up your hands to heaven,
send your prayers to the mercy-seat, and we will gain the day.
Then both will bless the God of our salvation for the victory."

"Well! well! this is beautiful, grand and sublime," said the
old priest, with a voice filled with friendly emotions. "But
where is your household furniture, your library?"

"My household furniture," I answered, "is in this little bag
which I hold in my hand. I do not want any of my books, as
long as I have the pleasure and honor to be with the good Mons,
Varin, who will allow me, I am sure of it, to ransack his splendid
library, and study his rare and learned books."

"But what rooms do you wish to occupy?" rejoined the
good old curate.

"As the parsonage is yours, and not mine," I answered,
"please tell me where you want me to sleep and rest. I will
accept, with gratitude, any room you will offer me, even if it
were in your cellar or granary. I do not want to bother you in
any way. When I was young, a poor orphan in your parish,
some twenty years ago, were you not a father to me? Please
continue to look upon me as your own child, for I have always
loved you and considered you as a father, and still do the same.
Were you not my guide and adviser, in my first steps in the
ways of God? Please continue to be my friend and adviser
to the end of your life. My only ambition is to be your righthand
man, and to learn from your old experience and your
sincere piety, how to live and work as a good priest of Jesus
Christ."

I had not finished the last sentence, when the old man burst
into tears, threw himself into my arms, pressed me to his heart,
bathed me with his tears, and said, with a voice half-suffocated
by his sobs: "Dear Mr. Chiniquy, forgive me the evil things I
have written and said about you. You are welcome in my parsonage,
and I bless God to have sent me such a youg friend,
who will help me to carry the burden of my old age."

I then handed him the bishop's letter, which had confirmed
all I had said about my mission of peace towards him.

From that day to his death, which occurred six months after,
I never had a more sincere friend than Mr. Varin.

I thanked God, who had enabled me at once, not only to
disarm the chief of my opponents, but to transform him into my
most sincere and devoted friend. My hope was that the people
would soon follow their chief, and be reconciled to me, but I did
not expect that this would be so soon, and from such an unforeseen
and unexpected cause.

The principal reason the people had to oppose my coming to
Komouraska, was, that I was the nephew of the Hon. Amable
Dionne, who had made a colossal fortune at their expense. The
Rev. Mr. Varin, who was always in his debt, was also forced by
the circumstances, to buy everything, both for himself and the
church, from him, and had to pay, without a murmur, the most
exorbitant prices for everything.

In that way, the church and the curate, though they had very
large revenues, had never enough to clear their accounts. When
the people heard that the nephew of Mons. Dionne was their
curate, they said to each other: "Now our poor church is forever
ruined, for the nephew will, still more than the curate, favor
his uncle, and the uncle will be less scrupulous than ever in asking
most unreasonable prices for his merchandise."

They felt they had more than fallen from Charybdis into Scylla.

The very next day after my arrival, the beadle told me that
the church needed a few yards of cotton for some repairs, and
asked me if he would not go, as usual, to Mr. Dionne's store.
I told him to go there first, ask the price of that article, and then
go to the other stores, ordering him to buy at the cheapest one.
Thirty cents was asked at Mr. Dionne's, and only fifteen cents
at Mr. St. Pierre's; of course we bought at the latter's store.

The day was not over before this apparently insignificant
fact was known all over the parish, and was taking the most extraordinary
and unforeseen proportions.

Farmers would meet with their neighbors, and congratulate
themselves that, at last, the yoke imposed upon them by the old
curate and Mr. Dionne was broken; that the taxes they had to
pay the store were at an end, with the monopoly which had cost

them so much money. Many came to Mr. St. Pierre to hear
from his own lips that their new curate had, at once, freed them
from what they considered the long and ignominious bondage,
against which they so often, but so vainly protested. For the
rest of the week, this was the only subject of conversation. They
congratulated themselves, that they had, at last, a priest, with
such an independent and honest mind, that he would not do them
any injustice, even to please a relative in whose house he had
spent the years of his childhood.

This simple act of fair play towards that people won over
their affection. Only one little dark spot remained in their
minds against me. They had been told that the only subject on
which I could preach was: Rum, whiskey and drunkenness.
And it seemed to them exceedingly tedious to hear nothing else
from the curate, particularly when they were more than ever
determined to continue drinking their social glasses of brandy,
rum and wine.

There was an immense crowd at church the next Sunday.
My text was: "As the Father has loved me, so have I loved
you." Showing them how Jesus had proved that He was their
friend.

But their sentiments of piety and pleasure at what they had
heard were nothing compared to their surprise when they saw
that I had preached nearly an hour without saying a word on
whiskey, rum or beer.

People are often compared to the waters of the sea in the
Holy Scriptures. When you see the roaring waves dashing on
that rock to-day, as if they wanted to demolish it, do not fear
that this fury will last long. The very next day, if the wind
has changed, the same waters will leave that rock alone, to spend
their fury on the opposite rock. So it was in Kamouraska.
They were full of indignation and wrath when I set my feet in
their midst; but a few days later, those very men would have
given the last drop of their blood to protect me. The dear
Saviour had evidently seen the threatening storm which was to
destroy His poor unprofitable servant. He had heard the roaring
waves which were dashing against me. So he came down and
bid the storm "be still," and the waves be calm.