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:

My dear Mons. Chiniquy.

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 Kamouraska.”

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 your 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 satchel 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 heart-sick 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 right-hand 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 young 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 Kamouraska, 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.