The battle fought and gained at the grand dinner of the Quebec Seminary by the society of temperance had been decisive.

The triumph was as complete as it was glorious. Hereafter her march to the conquest of Canada was to be a triumph. Her blessed banners were soon to be planted over all the cities, towns and villages of my dear country.

To commemorate the expression of their joy and gratitude to God to the remotest generations, the people of Beauport erected the beautiful Column of Temperance, which is still seen halfway between Quebec and the Montmorency Falls. The Bishop de Nancy, my Lord Forbin Janson, blessed that first monument of temperance, September 7th, 1841, in the midst of an immense multitude of people.

The parishes of St. Peter, St. John, St. Famille (Orleans Island), with St. Michel were the first after Lange Gardien, Chateau Richer, St. Anne and St. Joachin, to request me to preach on temperance.

Soon after, the whole population of St. Roch, Quebec, took the pledge with a wonderful unanimity, and kept it long with marvellous fidelity. In order to show to the whole country their feelings of gratitude, they presented me with a fine picture of the Column of Temperance and a complimentary address, written and delivered by one of the most promising young men of Quebec, Mr. John Cauchon, who was raised some years later to the dignity of a Cabinet Minister, and who has been the worthy lieutenant-governor of Manitoba.

That address was soon followed by another from the citizens of Quebec and Beauport, presented along with my portrait, by Mr. Joseph Parent, then editor of the Canadien, and afterwards Provincial Secretary of Canada.

What a strange being man is! How fickle are his judgments! In 1842, they had no words sufficiently flattering to praise the very man in the face of whom they were spitting in 1838, for doing the very same thing! Was I better for establishing the society of temperance in 1842 than I was in establishing it in 1838? No! And was I worse when, in 1838, bishops, priests and people were abusing, slandering and giving me bad names for raising the banners of temperance over my country, than I was in continuing to lift it up in 1842? No?

The sudden and complete change of the judgment of men in such a short period of time had the good and providential effect of filling my mind with the most supreme indifference, not to say contempt, for what men thought or said of me.

Yea! this sudden passage from condemnation to that of praise, when I was doing the very same work, had the good effect to cure me of that natural pride which one is apt to feel when publicly applauded by men.

It is to that knowledge, acquired when young, that I owe the preservation of my dignity as man and priest, when all my bishops and their priests were arrayed against me at the dining table of the Seminary of Quebec. It is that knowledge, also, that taught me not to forget that I was nothing but a worm of the dust and an unprofitable servant of God, when the same men overwhelmed me with their unmerited praises.

Let not my readers think, however, that I was absolutely indifferent to this change of public feeling; for no words can tell the joy I felt at the assurance which these public manifestations afforded me that the cause of temperance was to triumph everywhere in my country.

Let me here tell a fact too honorable to the people of Beauport to be omitted. As soon as the demon of intemperance was driven from my parish, I felt that my first duty was to give my attention to education, which had been so shamefully neglected by my predecessors that there was not a single school in the parish worthy of that name. I proposed my plan to the people, asked their co-operation and set to work without delay.

I began by erecting the fine stone school house near the church, on the site of the old parsonage. The old walls were pulled down, and on the old foundation a good structure was soon erected with the free collections raised in the village. But the work was hardly half finished when I found myself without a cent to carry it on. I saw at once that, having no idea of the value of education, the people would murmur at my asking any more money. I therefore sold my horse, a fine animal given me by a rich uncle, and with the money finished the building.

My people felt humiliated and pained at seeing their pastor obliged to walk when going to Quebec or visiting the sick. They said to each other; “Is it not a burning shame for us to have forced our young curate to sell his fine horse to build our school houses, when it would have been so easy to do that work ourselves? Let us repair our faults.”

On my return from establishing the society of temperance in St. John, two weeks later, my servant man said to me:

“Please, Mr. le Cure, come to the stable and see a very curious thing.”

“What curious thing can there be?” I answered.

“Well, sir, please come and you will see.”

What was both my surprise and pleasure to find one of the most splendid Canadian horses there, as mine! For my servant said to me: “During your absence the people have raised five hundred dollars and bought this fine horse for you. They say they do not want any longer to see their curate walking in the mud. When they drove the horse here, that I might present him to you as a surprise on your arrival, I heard them saying that, with the temperance society, you have saved them more than five hundred dollars every week in money, time and health, and that it was only an act of justice to give you the savings of a week.”

The only way of expressing my gratitude to my noble people was to redouble my exertions in securing the benefits of a good education to their children. I soon proposed to the people to build another school house two miles distant from the first.

But I was not long without seeing that this new enterprise was to be still more uphill work than the first one among the people, of whom hardly one in fifty could sign his name.

“Have not our fathers done well without those costly schools?” said many. “What is the use of spending so much money for a thing that does not add a day to our existence, nor an atom to our comfort?”

I soon felt confronted by such a deadly indifference, not to say opposition, on the part of my best farmers, that I feared for a few days lest I had really gone too far. The last cent of my own revenues was not only given, but a little personal debt created to meet the payments, and a round sum of $500 had to be found to finish the work. I visited the richest man of Beauport to ask him to come to my rescue. Forty years before he had come to Beauport barefooted, without a cent, to work. He had employed his first earned dollars in purchasing some rum, with which he had doubled his money in two hours; and had continued to double his money, at that rate, in the same way, till he was worth nearly $200,000.

He had then stopped selling rum, to invest his money in city properties. He answered me: “My dear curate, I would have no objections to give you the $500 you want, if I had not met the Grand Vicar Demars yesterday, who warned me, as an old friend, against what he calls your dangerous and exaggerated views in reference to the education of the people. He advised me, for your own good, and the good of the people, to do all in my power to induce you to desist from your plan of covering our parishes with schools.”

“Will you allow me,” I answered, “to mention our conversation to Mr. Demars, and tell him what you have just said about his advising you to oppose me in my efforts to promote the interests of education?”

“Yes, sir, by all means,” answered Mr. Des Roussell. “I allow you to repeat to the venerable superior of the Seminary of Quebec what he said to me yesterday; it was not a secret, for there were several other farmers of Beauport to whom he said the very same thing. If you ignore that the priests of Quebec are opposed to your plans of educating our children you must be the only one who does not know it, for it is a public fact. Your difficulties in raising the funds you want come only from the opposition of the rest of the clergy to you in this matter; we have plenty of money in Beauport to-day, and we would feel happy to help you. But you understand that our good-will is somewhat cooled by the opposition of men whom we are accustomed to respect.”

I replied: “Do you not remember, my dear Mr. Des Roussell, that those very same priests opposed me in the same way in my very first efforts to establish the temperance society in your midst?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered with a smile, “we remember it well, but you have converted them to your views now.”

“Well, my dear sir, I hope we shall convert them also in this question of education.”

The very next morning, I was knocking at the door of the Rev. Grand Vicar Demars, after I had tied my splendid horse in the courtyard of the Seminary of Quebec. I was received with the utmost marks of courtesy. Without losing any time, I repeated to the old superior what Mr. Des Roussell had told me of his opposition to my educational plans, and respectfully asked him if it were true.

The poor Grand Vicar seemed as if thunder-struck by my abrupt, though polite question. He tried, at first, to explain what he had said, by taking a long circuit, but I mercilessly brought him to the point at issue, and forced him to say, “Yes, I said it.”

I then rejoined and said: “Mr. Grand Vicar, I am only a child before you, when comparing my age with yours; however, I have the honor to be the curate of Beauport. It is in that capacity that I respectfully ask you by what right you oppose my plans for educating our children?”

“I hope, Mr. Chiniquy,” he answered, “that you do not mean to say that I am the enemy of education; for I would answer you that this is the first house of education on this continent, and that I was at its head before you were born. I hope that I have the right to believe and say that the old Superior of the Seminary of Quebec understands as well as the young curate of Beauport the advantage of a good education. But I will repeat to you what I said to Mr. Des Roussell, that it is a great mistake to introduce such a general system of education as you want to do in Beauport. Let every parish have its well educated notary, doctor, merchants, and a few others to do the public business; that is enough. Our parishes of Canada are models of peace and harmony under the direction of their good curates, but they will become unmanageable the very day your system of education spreads abroad; for then all the bad propensities of the heart will be developed with an irresistible force. Besides, you know that since the conquest of Canada by Protestant England, the Protestants are waiting for their opportunity to spread the Bible among our people. The only barrier we can oppose to that danger is to have in the future, as in the past, only a very limited number of our people who can read or write. For as soon as the common people are able to read, they will, like Adam and Eve, taste the forbidden fruit; they will read the Bible, turn Protestant, and be lost for time and eternity.”

In my answer, among other things, I said: “Go into the country, look at the farm which is well cultivated, ploughed with attention and skill, richly manured, and sown with good seed, is it not infinitely more pleasant and beautiful to live on such a farm than on one which is neglected, unskilfully managed and covered with noxious weeds? Well, the difference between a well-educated and an uneducated people is still greater in my mind.

“I know that the priests of Canada, in general, have your views, and it is for that reason that the parish of Beauport, with its immense revenues, has been left without a school worthy the name, from its foundation till my going there. But my views are absolutely different; and as for your fear of the Bible, I confess we are antipodes to each other. I consider that one of the greatest blessings God has bestowed upon me, is that I have read the Bible when I was on my mother’s knees. I do not even conceal from you that one of my objects in giving a good education to every boy and girl of Beauport, is to put the gospel of Christ in their hands as soon as they are able to read it.”

At the end of our conversation, which was very excited on both sides, though kept in the bounds of politeness during nearly two hours, I said: “Mr. Grand Vicar, I did not come here to convert you to my views—this would have been impertinence on my part; nor can you convert me to yours, if you are trying it, for you know I have the bad reputation of being a hard case. I came to ask you, as a favor, to let me work according to my conscience in a parish which is mine and not yours. Do not interfere any more in my affairs between me and my parishioners than you would like me to interfere in the management of your seminary. As you would not like me to criticize you before your pupils and turn you into ridicule, please cease adding to my difficulties among my people, by continuing in the future what you have done in the past.

“You know, Mr. Grand Vicar, that I have always respected you as my father; you have many times been my adviser, my confessor and my friend; I hope you will grant me the favor I ask from you in the name of our common Saviour. It is for the spiritual and temporal good of the people and pastor of Beauport that I make this prayer.”

The old priest was a kind-hearted man. These last words melted his heart. He promised what I wanted, and we parted from each other on better terms than I had expected at first.

When crossing the courtyard of the seminary, I saw the Archbishop Signaie, who, coming from taking a ride, had stopped to look at my horse and admire it. When near him, I said: “My lord, this is a bishop’s horse, and ought to be in your hands.”

“It is what I was saying to my secretary,” replied the bishop. “How long is it since you got it?”

“Only a few days ago, my lord.”

“Have you any intention of selling it?”

“I would, if it would please my bishop,” I replied.

“What is the price?” asked the bishop.

“Those who gave it to me paid $500 for it,” I replied.

“Oh! oh! that is too dear,” rejoined the bishop; “with five hundred dollars we can get five good horses. Two hundred would be enough.”

“Your lordship is joking. Were I as rich as I am poor, one thousand dollars would not take that noble animal from my hands, except to have it put in the carosse of my bishop.”

“Go and make a check for two hundred dollars to the order of Mr. Chiniquy,” said the bishop to his sub-secretary, Mr. Belisle.

When the secretary had gone to make the check, the bishop being alone with me, took from his portfeuille three bank bills of one hundred dollars each, and put them into my hands, saying: “This will make up your $500, when my secretary gives you the check. But please say nothing to anybody, not even to my secretary. I do not like to have my private affairs talked of around the corners of the streets. That horse is the most splendid I ever saw, and I am much obliged to you for having sold it to me.”

I was also very glad to have $500 in hand. For with $300 I could finish my school house, and there was $200 more to begin another, three miles distant.

Just two weeks later, when I was dressing myself at sunrise, my servant came to my room and said: “There are twenty men on horseback who want to speak to you.”

“Twenty men on horseback who want to speak to me!” I answered. “Are you dreaming?”

“I do not dream,” answered my young man; “there they are at the door, on horseback, waiting for you.”

I was soon dressed and in the presence of twenty of my best farmers, on horseback, who had formed themselves in a half-circle to receive me.

“What do you want, my friends?” I asked them.

One of them, who had studied a few years in the Seminary of Quebec, answered:

“Dear pastor, we come in the name of the whole people of Beauport to ask your pardon for having saddened your heart by not coming as we ought to your help in the superhuman efforts you make to give good schools to our children. This is the result of our ignorance. Having never gone to school ourselves, the greater part of us have never known the value of education. But the heroic sacrifices you have made lately have opened our eyes. They ought to have been opened at the sale of your first horse. But we were in need of another lesson to understand our meanness. However, the selling of the second horse has done more than anything else to awaken us from our shameful lethargy. The fear of receiving a new rebuke from us, if you made another appeal to our generosity, has forced you to make that new sacrifice. The first news came to us as a thunderbolt. But there is always some light in a thunderbolt. Through that light we have seen our profound degradation, in shutting our ears to your earnest and paternal appeals in favor of our own dear children. Be sure, dear pastor, that we are ashamed of our conduct. From this day, not only our hearts but our purses are yours, in all you want to do to secure a good education for our families. However, our principal object in coming here to-day is not to say vain words, but to do an act of reparation and justice. Our first thought, when we heard that you had sold the horse we had given you, was to present you with another. We have been prevented from doing this by the certainty that you would sell it again, either to help some poor people or to build another school house. As we cannot bear to see our pastor walking in the mud when going to the city or visiting us, we have determined to put another horse into your hands, but in such a way that you will not have the right to sell it. We ask you then, as a favor, to select the best horse here among these twenty which are before you, and to keep it as long as you remain in our midst, which we hope will be very long. It will be returned to its present possessor if you leave us; and be sure, dear pastor, that the one of us who leaves his horse in your hands will be the most happy and proudest of all.”

When speaking thus, that noble-hearted man had several times been unable to conceal the tears which were rolling down his cheeks, and more than once his trembling voice had been choked by his emotion.

I tried in vain at first to speak. My feelings of gratitude and admiration could be expressed only with my tears. It took some time before I could utter a single word. At last I said: “My dear friends, this is too much for your poor pastor. I feel overwhelmed by this grand act of kindness. I do not say that I thank you—the word thank is too small, too short and insignificant to tell you what your poor unworthy pastor feels at what his eyes see and his ears hear just now. The great and merciful God, who has put those sentiments into your hearts, alone can repay you for the joy with which you fill my soul. I would hurt your feelings, I know, by not accepting your offering. I accept it. But to punish your speaker, Mr. Parent, for his complimentary address, I will take his horse for the time I am curate of Beauport, which I hope will be till I die.” And I laid my hand on the bridle of the splendid animal.

There was then a struggle which I had not expected. Every one of the nineteen whom I left with their horses began to cry: “Oh! do not take that horse; it is not worth a penny; mine is much stronger,” said one. “Mine is much faster,” cried out another. “Mine is a safe rider,” said a third. Every one wanted me to take his horse, and tried to persuade me that it was the best of all; they really felt sorry that they were not able to change my mind.

Has any one ever felt more happy than I was in the midst of these generous friends?

The memory of that happy hour will never pass away from my mind.