And free America, too, will see all her so dearly-bought liberties destroyed the day that the confessional-box is reared in her midst.

Auricular Confession and Liberty cannot stand together on the same ground; either one or the other must fall.

Liberty must sweep away the confessional, as she has swept away the demon of slavery, or she is doomed to perish.

Can a man be free in his own house, so long as there is another who has the legal right to spy all his actions, and direct not only every step, but every thought of his wife and children? Can that man boast of a home whose wife and children are under the control of another? Is not that unfortunate man really the slave of the ruler and master of his household? And when a whole nation is composed of such husbands and fathers, is it not a nation of abject, degraded slaves?

To a thinking man, one of the most strange phenomena is that our modern nations allow all their most sacred rights to be trampled under feet, and destroyed by the Papacy, the sworn enemy of Liberty, through a mistaken respect and love for that same Liberty!

No people have more respect for Liberty of Conscience than the Americans; but has the n.o.ble State of Illinois allowed Joe Smith and Brigham Young to degrade and enslave the American women under the pretext of Liberty of Conscience, appealed to by the so-called "Latter-day Saints?" No! The ground was soon made too hot for the tender conscience of the modern prophets. Joe Smith perished when attempting to keep his captive wives in his chains, and Brigham Young had to fly to the solitudes of the Far West, to enjoy what he called his liberty of conscience with the thirty women he had degraded and enchained under his yoke. But even in that remote solitude the false prophet has heard the distant peals of the roaring thunder. The threatening voice of the great Republic has troubled his rest, and he wisely speaks of going as much as possible out of the reach of Christian civilization, before the dark and threatening clouds which he sees on the horizon will hurl upon him their irresistible storms.

Will any one blame the American people for so going to the rescue of woman?

No, surely not.

But what is this confessional-box? Nothing but a citadel and stronghold of Mormonism.

What is this Father Confessor, with few exceptions, but a lucky Brigham Young?

I do not want to be believed on my _ipse dixit_. What I ask from serious thinkers is, that they should read the encyclicals of the Piuses, the Gregorys, the Benoits, and many other Popes, "De Sollicitantibus." There they will see, with their own eyes, that, as a general thing, the confessor has more women to serve him than the Mormon prophets ever had. Let them read the memoirs of one of the most venerable men of the Church of Rome, Bishop de Ricci, and they will see, with their own eyes, that the confessors are more free with their penitents, even nuns, than husbands are with their wives. Let them hear the testimony of one of the n.o.blest princesses of Italy, Henrietta Carraciolo, who still lives, and they will know that the Mormons have more respect for women than the greater part of the confessors have. Let them hear the lamentations of Cardinal Baronius, Saint Bernard, Savanarola, Pius, Gregory, St. Therese, St. Liguori, on the unspeakable and irreparable ruin spread all along the ways and all over the countries haunted by the Pope's confessors, and they will know that the confessional-box is the daily witness of abominations which would hardly have been tolerated in the lands of Sodom and Gomorrha. Let the legislators, the fathers and husbands of every nation and tongue, interrogate Father Gavazzi, Hyacinthe, and the thousands of living priests who, like myself, have miraculously been taken out from that Egyptian servitude to the promised land, and they will tell you the same old, old story--that the confessional-box is for the greatest part of the confessors and female penitents, a real pit of perdition, into which they promiscuously fall and perish. Yes; they will tell you that the soul and heart of your wife and daughter are purified by the magical words of the confessional, just as the souls of the poor idolaters of Hindoostan are purified by the tail of the cow which they hold in their hands when they die. Study the pages of the past history of England, France, Italy, Spain, &c., &c., and you will see that the gravest and most reliable historians have everywhere found mysteries of iniquity in the confessional-box which their pen refused to trace.

In the presence of such public, undeniable, and lamentable facts, have not the civilized nations a duty to perform? Is it not time that the children of light, the true disciples of the Gospel, all over the world, should rally round the banners of Christ, and go, shoulder to shoulder, to the rescue of women?

Woman is to society what the roots are to the most precious trees of your orchard. If you knew that a thousand worms are biting the root of those n.o.ble trees, that their leaves are already fading away, their rich fruits, though yet unripe, are falling on the ground, would you not unearth the roots and sweep away the worms?

The confessor is the worm which is biting, polluting, and destroying the very roots of civil and religious society, by contaminating, debasing, and enslaving woman.

Before the nations can see the reign of peace, happiness, and liberty, which Christ has promised, they must, like the Israelites, pull down the walls of Jericho. The confessional is the modern Jericho, which proudly and defiantly dares the children of G.o.d!

Let, then, the people of the Lord, the true soldiers of Christ, rise up and rally around His banners; and let them fearlessly march, shoulder to shoulder, on the doomed city: let all the trumpets of Israel be sounded around its walls: let fervent prayers go to the throne of Mercy, from the heart of every one for whom the Lamb has been slain: let such a unanimous cry of indignation be heard, through the length and breadth of the land, against that greatest and most monstrous imposture of modern times, that the earth will tremble under the feet of the confessor, so that his very knees will shake, and soon the walls of Jericho will fall, the confessional will disappear, and its unspeakable pollutions will no more imperil the very existance of society.

Then the mult.i.tudes who were kept captive will come to the Lamb, who will make them pure with His blood and free with His word.

Then the redeemed nations will sing a song of joy: "Babylon, the great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth, is fallen! fallen!"

CHAPTER VIII.

DOES AURICULAR CONFESSION BRING PEACE TO THE SOUL?

The connecting of Peace with Auricular Confession is surely the most cruel sarcasm ever uttered in human language.

It would be less ridiculous and false to admire the calmness of the sea, and the stillness of the atmosphere, when a furious storm raises the foaming waves to the skies, than to speak of the Peace of the soul either during or after the confession.

I know it; the confessors and their dupes chorus every tune by crying "Peace, peace"! But the G.o.d of truth and holiness answers, "There is no peace for the wicked!"

The fact is, that no human words can adequately express the anxieties of the soul before confession, its unspeakable confusion in the act of confessing, or its deadly terrors after confession.

Let those who have never drunk of the bitter waters which flow from the confessional box, read the following plain and correct recital of my own first experiences in auricular confession. They are nothing else than the history of what nine tenths of the penitents[5] of Rome old and young are subject to; and they will know what to think of that marvellous Peace about which the Romanists, and their silly copyists, the Ritualists, have written so many eloquent lies.

In the year 1819, my parents had sent me from Murray Bay (La Mal Baie) where they lived, to an excellent school, at St. Thomas. I was then, about ten years old. I boarded with an uncle, who, though a nominal Roman Catholic, did not believe a word of what his priest preached. But my Aunt had the reputation of being a very devoted woman. Our School-master, Mr.

John Jones, was a well educated Englishman: and a staunch PROTESTANT. This last circ.u.mstance had excited the wrath of the Roman Catholic Priest against the teacher and his numerous pupils to such an extent, that they were often denounced from the pulpit with very hard words. But if he did not like us, I must admit that we were paying him with his own coin.

But let us come to my first lesson in Auricular Confession, No! No words can express to those who have never had any experience in the matter, the consternation, anxiety and shame of a poor Romish child, when he hears his priest saying from the pulpit, in a grave and solemn tone; "This week, you will send your children to confession. Make them understand that this action is one of the most important of their lives, that for every one of them, it will decide their eternal happiness or ruin. Fathers, Mothers and guardians of those children, if, through your fault or theirs, your children are guilty of a false confession: if they do not confess every thing to the priest who holds the place of G.o.d, Himself, this sin is often irreparable: the Devil will take possession of their hearts: they will lie to their father confessor, or rather to Jesus Christ, of whom he is the representative: Their lives will be a series of sacrileges, their death and eternity, those of reprobates. Teach them therefore to examine thoroughly all their actions, words, thoughts and desires, in order to confess every thing just as it occurred, without any disguise."

I was in the Church of St. Thomas, when these words fell upon me like a thunderbolt. I had often heard my mother say, when at home and my aunt, since I had come to St. Thomas, that upon the first confession depended my eternal happiness or misery. That week was, therefore, to decide the vital question of my eternity!

Pale and dismayed, I left the church after the service, and returned to the house of my relations. I took my place at the table, but could not eat, so much was I troubled. I went to my room for the purpose of commencing my examination of conscience, and to try to recall every one of my sinful actions, thoughts and words!

Although scarcely over ten years of age, this task was really overwhelming to me. I knelt down to pray to the Virgin Mary for help, but I was so much taken up with the fear of forgetting something or making a bad confession, that I muttered my prayers without the least attention to what I said. It became still worse, when I commenced counting my sins, my memory, though very good, became confused: my head grew dizzy: my heart beat with a rapidity which exhausted me, and my brow was covered with perspiration.

After a considerable length of time, spent in those painful efforts, I felt bordering on despair from the fear that it was impossible for me to remember exactly every thing, and to confess each sin as it occurred. The night following was almost a sleepless one: and when sleep did come, it could hardly be called sleep, but a suffocating delirium. In a frightful dream, I felt as if I had been cast into h.e.l.l, for not having confessed all my sins to the priest. In the morning, I awoke fatigued, and prostrate by the phantoms and emotions of that terrible night. In similar troubles of mind were pa.s.sed the three days which preceeded my first confession.

I had constantly before me the countenance of that stern priest who had never smiled upon me. He was present to my thoughts during the days, and in my dreams during the nights, as the minister of an angry G.o.d, justly irritated against me, on account of my sins. Forgiveness had indeed been promised to me, on condition of a good confession; but my place had also been shown to me in h.e.l.l, if my confession was not as near perfection as possible.

Now, my troubled conscience told me that there were ninety chances against one that my confession would be bad, either if by my own fault, I forget some sins, or if I was without that contrition of which I had heard so much, but the nature and effects of which were a perfect chaos in my mind.

At length came the day of confession, or rather of judgment and condemnation. I presented myself to the priest, the Rev. Mr. Beaubien.

He had then, the defects of lisping and stammering which we, often turned into ridicule. And as nature had unfortunately endowed me with admirable powers as a mimic, the infirmities of this poor priest afforded only too good an opportunity for the exercise of my talent. Not only was it one of my favorite amus.e.m.e.nts to imitate him before the pupils amidst roars of laughter but also, I preached portions of his sermons before his parishioners of villages, with similar results. Indeed, many of them came from considerable distances to enjoy the amus.e.m.e.nt of listening to me, and they rewarded me, more than once, with cakes of maple sugar, for my performances.

These acts of mimicry were, of course, among my sins; and it became necessary for me to examine myself upon the number of times I had mocked the priests. This circ.u.mstance was not calculated to make my confession easier or more agreeable.

At last, the dread moment arrived, I knelt for the first time, at the side of my confessor, my whole frame trembled: I repeated the prayer preparatory to confession, scarcely knowing what I said, so much was I troubled by fears.

By the instructions which had been given us before confession, we had been made to believe that the priest was the true representative, yea, almost the personification of Jesus Christ. The consequence was that I believed my greatest sin was that of mocking the priest--and I, as I had been told that it was proper first to confess the greatest sins, I commenced thus: "Father I accuse myself of having mocked a priest!"

Hardly had I uttered these words, "mocked a priest", when this pretended representative of the humble Jesus, turning towards me, and looking in my face, in order to know me, better, asked abruptly; "what priest did you mock, my boy?"

I would have rather chosen to cut my own tongue than to tell him to his face who it was. I, therefore, kept silent for a while, but my silence made him very nervous, and almost angry. With a haughty tone of voice, he said: "what priest did you take the liberty of thus mocking, my boy?" I saw that I had to answer. Happily his haughtiness had made me bolder and firmer; I said: "sir, you are the priest whom I mocked!"

"But how many times did you take upon you to mock me, my boy?" asked he angrily.

"I tried to find out the number of times, but I never could."

"You must tell me how many times, for to mock one's own priest is a great sin."

"It is impossible for me to give you the number of times," I answered.

"Well, my child, I will help your memory by asking you questions. Tell me the truth. Do you think you mocked me ten times?"

"A great many times more," I answered.

"Have you mocked me fifty times?"

"Oh! many more still!"

"A hundred times?"