Wednesday's Good Reading: "Les Loups et les Brebis" by Jean de la Fontaine (in French)

    “Après mille ans et plus de guerre déclarée,  
    Les Loups firent la paix avecque les Brebis,  
    C’était apparemment le bien des deux partis:  
    Car, si les Loups mangeaient mainte bête égarée,  
    Les Bergers de leur peau se faisaint maints habits.  
    Jamais de liberté, ni pour les pâturages,  
    Ni d’autre part pour les carnages:  
    Ils ne pouvaient jouir qu’en tremblant de leurs biens.  
    La paix se conclut donc; on donne des otages:  
    Les Loups, leurs Louveteaux; et les Brebis, leurs Chiens.  

    L’echange en étant fait aux formes ordinaires,  
    Et réglé par des commissaires.  
    Au bout de quelque temps que messieurs les Louvats  
    Se virent loups parfaits et friands de tuerie,  
    Ils vous prennent le temps que dans la bergerie  
    Messieurs les Bergers n’étaient pas,  
    Étranglent la moitié des Agneaux les plus gras,  
    Les emportent aux dents, dans les bois se retirent.  
    Ils avaient averti leurs gens secrètement.  
    Les Chiens, qui, sur leur foi, reposaient surement,  
    Furent étranglés, en dormant,  
    Cela fut sitôt fait qu’à peine ils le sentirent;  
    Tout fut mis en morceaux; un seul n’en échappa.  

    Nous pouvons conclure de là  
    Qu’il faut faire aux méchants guerre continuelle.  
    La paix est fort bonne de soi;  
    J’en conviens: mais de quoi sert-elle  
    Avec des ennemis sans foi?”

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XL

 

Chapter 76

hasty farewell—lofty rock—wrestlings of jacob—no rest—ways of providence—two females—foot of the cross—enemy of souls—perplexed—lucky hour—valetudinarian—methodists—fervent in your prayer—you saxons—weak creatures—very agreeable—almost happy—kindness and solicitude

 

'Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality: I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams.

'Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but nothing seemed to affect my constitution; probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befell me; my life was a dream—a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings, whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable hale old man, who had hold of me. "Let me go!" said I fiercely. "I will not let thee go," said the old man, and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. "In whose name dost thou detain me?" said I, scarcely knowing what I said. "In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, So far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, Thou shalt do no murder." "Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?" said I. "He has," said the old man, "but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go," he continued, as I again struggled; "if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says, in his 'Wrestlings of Jacob'; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou"; and indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. "Who art thou?" he said at last. "A miserable man," I replied. "What makes thee miserable?" said the old man. "A hideous crime," I replied. "I can find no rest; like Cain I wander here and there." The old man turned pale. "Hast thou taken another's life?" said he; "if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next." "No," said I, "I have never taken another's life." "What then, another's goods? If so, restore them sevenfold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able." "I have taken no one's goods," said I. "Of what art thou guilty, then?" said he. "Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?" "Alas, no," said I; "I am neither of these; would that I were no worse."

'Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said, "Young man, I have a great desire to know your name." "What matters it to you what is my name?" said I; "you know nothing of me." "Perhaps you are mistaken," said the old man, looking kindly at me; "but at all events tell me your name." I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, "I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence. I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son."

'He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said "Amen."

'And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man,—the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man,—both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was.

'I stayed several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day my friend said, "I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me." I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit and began to preach. "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden," etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind.

'The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. "Therefore, my friends," said he, in conclusion, "despair not—however guilty you may be, despair not—however desperate your conditions may seem," said he, fixing his eyes upon me, "despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls."

'This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,—perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, "Oh yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible,—begone!" Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said.

'I stayed several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate.

'At last my friend said to me, "It is now time thou shouldest return to thy mother and thy brother." So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said, "I trust thou are come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir—left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days." And I answered, "I will, if so please the Lord"; and I said to myself, "God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour."

'And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him.

'There was one thing connected with my new abode which gave me considerable uneasiness—the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, "Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists." "The Methodists," said I, "are there any in these parts?" "There is a chapel," said he, "only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week." Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him, "May I go with you next Sunday?" "Why not?" said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists.

'I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time.

'I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. "Very fervent," said I. "And do you read the Scriptures often?" said he. "No," said I. "Why not?" said he. "Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation." They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer.

'As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world.

'But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces—hang not down your head, Winifred—and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not—selfishness however prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period—suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession—we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend; and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer.

'One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said, "This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible." And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy,—taking pleasure in everything around me,—in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour—O God—God! I came to the fatal passage.

'Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans—for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh the kindness and solicitude of my wife! "What is the matter, husband, dear husband?" she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night—it was a mid-winter night—over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now.

'I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said—what do you think my wife said, young man?'

'It is impossible for me to guess,' said I.

'"Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless."'

 

 

Chapter 77

getting late—seven years old—chastening—go forth—london—same eyes—common occurrence

 

'And so I still say,' said Winifred, sobbing. 'Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late.'

'Rest!' said Peter; 'there is no rest for the wicked!'

'We are all wicked,' said Winifred; 'but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed.'

'Then you will still maintain,' said Peter, 'that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?'

'I will,' said Winifred; 'you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?'

'Have I not read my own condemnation?' said Peter. 'Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? “He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.”'

'You never committed it,' said Winifred.

'But the words! the words! the words!' said Peter.

'The words are true words,' said Winifred, sobbing; 'but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master.'

'And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?' said Peter. 'Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore; thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?'

'No,' said Winifred, 'not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage.'

'Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?' said Peter with a groan. 'Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin.'

'Thou hast not committed it,' said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. 'Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways.'

'I see thou wouldst comfort me,' said Peter, 'as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion.'

'I have not yet heard the whole of your history,' said I.

'My story is nearly told,' said Peter; 'a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair; when one day Winifred said to me, "I see thou wilt be lost, if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee." "And what can I do in the wide world?" said I despondingly. "Much," replied Winifred, "if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God." Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I—I—outcast Peter, became the preacher Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!'

'I am thinking of London Bridge,' said I.

'Of London Bridge!' said Peter and his wife.

'Yes,' said I, 'of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, "Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. Oh, if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!"'

'That's true,' said Peter. 'What is the name of the book?'

'The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders.'

'Some popish saint, I suppose,' said Peter.

'As much of a saint, I daresay,' said I, 'as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your school-fellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?'

'How!' said Peter, 'dost thou think that they had divined my secret?'

'Not they,' said I, 'they were, I daresay, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?'

'Dost thou then imagine,' said Peter, 'the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?'

'As you have described it,' said I, 'of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it.'

'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the young man talks wisely.'

Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said, 'Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?'

'I am neither Papist nor Methodist,' said I, 'but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years—but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.'

'God bless thee, young man,' said Winifred.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Attack on Fort Bannock!" by unknown writer (in English).

art by Everet Kinstler - Geronimo #3 - Avon, November 1951.

 

 

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading; open letter from Kennedy Hall to the Canadian Bishops (in England).

Author’s note: Although this letter concerns an issue pertaining to the state of Catholicism in Canada, I believe it will resonate with Catholics everywhere.

The original text can be found here.

 

Dear Bishops of Canada,

Recently, a radical left-wing politician in Canada put forth a Private Members’ Bill seeking to criminalize “Residential School denialism.” According to the politician, the government of Canada system of boarding schools for Native children that was largely facilitated by the Catholic Church in Canada committed “genocide.” As a result, this person believes that any Canadian who “denies” the “genocide” should be criminally charged. Leaving aside the fact that Private Members’ Bills rarely ever make it past the first reading, this is still a cause for alarm and reflection, and I believe the bishops of Canada must take this as a “wake up call.”

Before I continue, please know that it is not my intention to offend or disrespect the offices that you all hold, which are apostolic. That being said, there are some harsh truths that should be considered, and I cannot mince words when the truth is at stake.

We all lived through that awful summer of 2021, when dozens of Catholic parishes were either burned to the ground or damaged severely by malcontents and activists who hate the Church. Of course, these acts of bigotry and violence were spurred on by the bogus claims that Catholic schools had murdered thousands of unnamed Native children and thrown them into “mass graves.” At this point, anyone with even half of their wits about them knows that the whole mass grave hoax was just that, a hoax. Nevertheless, the public was more than willing to accept the narrative without even giving it a second thought because they have been indoctrinated with the myriad lies that plague the Church in our once great nation and abroad.

Virtually all Catholics and non-Catholics in Canada have accepted a “black legend” of sorts about our beloved Church and seem to believe that the Catholic Church is an archaic organization with a very dark past. This is, of course, a lie.

You are all in charge of Catholic education in Canada. As a former Catholic school teacher, I can tell you that Catholic schools are not immune from this lie, and I would argue that Catholic educators are often the worst offenders in this regard.

In any event, what makes this whole saga so tragic goes beyond denial of the fact that there were no mass graves and that there was no genocide. Many Canadians are willing to accept the fact that what was reported was false, as is evidenced by the growing awareness of this fact in much of the mainstream press. However, the public must know that not only were there no veritable concentration camps run by nuns and priests, but the schools run by the Church were exceptional.

The public must know that not only were there no veritable concentration camps run by nuns and priests, but the schools run by the Church were exceptional.Tweet This

The nuns and priests who braved the harshest climates of Canada during the early years of development were not maniacal murderers who sought to abuse children. On the contrary, they were the spiritual sons and daughters of the great missionaries who watered the soil of our country with their blood.

They followed the lead of the great martyrs Brébeuf, Jogues, and their companions. When these great men arrived on our shores, they found a civilization—if we can call it that—groping around in the dark of a diabolical paganism. Reading their journals, one is shocked with horror at what they report: mass starvation was rampant, children were so malnourished that they routinely suffered from physical and mental disabilities; there was nothing resembling true marriage and women were often treated no better than whores and objects; in some cases, if sled dogs were injured or died, women would pull the sleds and be whipped by their masters if they did so poorly; cannibalism was not uncommon; and they enjoyed no written language.

Our great martyrs did not flee from this challenge. On the contrary, they embraced their own deaths—the most gruesome deaths imaginable—if only they could save one soul. In fact, Brébeuf loved the people of our country so much that when he was summoned home the first time, he is recorded as saying that he was not worthy to stay in Canada because of his sins. Can you fathom such a deep love of souls such as his? If we were all to do an examination of conscience and compare it to Brébeuf’s, doubtless we would seem like Satan incarnate when compared to him. Nonetheless, he saw his first exit from this land filled with iniquity and savagery as a punishment.

Could any of us even dare to stand in the same room with a man such as him and do anything but weep at our frailty and unworthiness to breathe the same air?

Your Excellencies, you are all the heirs of his great sacrifice.

It is said that we are all standing on the shoulders of giants. Well, in the case of Brébeuf, it is said that he was such an imposing man that he would carry two canoes while portaging long distances across Huronia. To say that you stand on the shoulders of giants is a literal truth. And, this mountain of a man stood on the Holy Shoulders of Christ, the same Sacred Shoulders that bore the Cross that is the instrument of our salvation.

Respectfully, what have you done to honour this great man? Have you stood boldly in the public square and told the truth without compromise or concern for political correctness? Have you led the Catholic school systems that you rightfully oversee into the truth?

I believe you all know the answer to these questions.

Sadly, it seems that the truth of our great history, especially that of the greatness of the Church’s schools, has been deemed unessential—just like the sacraments, when most, if not all of you, did obeisance to the secular power during that moronic extended flu season of 2020-2022. Our forefathers thought nothing of scurvy, or having their brains splattered on the frozen ground by tomahawks, if it meant they could deliver the sacraments to souls headed to perdition.

Yet, the Successors to the Apostles in present-day Canada seem more afraid of bad news headlines and public perception than Brébeuf was of having his literal heart ripped from his chest while he was still conscious. Some of you even sidelined unvaccinated priests if they did not comply with your diocesan mandates, which is made all the more ironic considering we have been led to believe since Vatican II that the conscience is sacrosanct.

I say all this, and, again, I apologize if I have offended you, because I want to see you in Heaven. Of course, I need your prayers because I am a sinner and I could squander my eternal inheritance as easily as anyone. However, I am a layman who will not be judged as harshly as you will. When you die, and you will all die, there will be no opportunity to explain to the Judge why you stood back and did little more than nothing to defend His Church in our country. Your bodies will decay in caskets six feet under the ground, the same ground watered by Brébeuf’s sacrificial blood, and I pray that your souls do not decay in an even deeper pit.

Please, I beg you, find even just an ounce of courage and defend our history, our saints, and Our Blessed Lord. So much damage has been done under your watch, but it is not too late. All you need to do is tell the truth and tell it boldly. I can guarantee you that as uncomfortable or as unpopular as this may feel, it will feel nothing like the hot irons that cooked the living flesh of our martyrs or the boiling water that was poured over their heads while they still breathed. I can also guarantee many will convert and save their souls if you act rightly, as they did after our martyrs were sacrificed.

All you have to do is say a few words, and you can do it from the comfort of your temperature-controlled cathedrals; you will not be frostbitten or develop a disease from malnutrition.

Please, Your Excellencies, if you will not do it for the sake of our martyrs or the souls of your sheep, please do it for the sake of your own souls. Time waits for no man, and you will all run out sooner rather than later.

 

In Christ,

 

Kennedy Hall

Friday's Sung Word: "Mamãe eu Quero" by Jararaca and Vicente Paiva (in Portuguese)

"Mamãe Eu Quero" was composed solely by Jararaca and became an immediate success. However, he was unable to get permission to record it on a disc. After much persistence, Vicente Paiva gave his authorization, and the recording was made more as a joke, due to the low recording costs. In gratitude, Jararaca gave him the "co-authorship."

During the recording, on December 17, 1936, some unscheduled things happened, such as the funny prologue in which Almirante and Jararaca has an improvised dialogue. This dialogue was added to keep up with the recording time, which was very short in the initial take.

Carmen Miranda make the song an international success in 1939 when participated of the musical "Streets of Paris". In America the song was called "I Want My Mamma"

 

Mamãe eu quero...
Mamãe eu quero...
Mamãe eu quero mamar...
Dá a chupeta...
Dá a chupeta...
Dá a chupeta pro bebê não chorar!

Dorme filhinho
do meu coração!
Pega a mamadeira
e vem entrar pro meu cordão.
Eu tenho uma irmã que se chama Ana -
De piscar o olho já ficou sem pestana!

Eu olho as pequenas
Mas daquele jeito
Tenho muita pena
Não ser criança de peito
Eu tenho uma irmã que é fenomenal
Ela é da bossa e o marido é boçal!

 

You can listen  "Mamãe eu Quero" sung by Jararaca and chorus (Almirante, Ciro Monteiro e Odete Almaral) with Vicente Paiva (piano), Luís Americano (clarinet), José Alves (banjo), Canhoto (cavaquinho), Carlos Lentini e Nei Orestes (guitarrs) e Russo do Pandeiro (pandeiro) here.

 

You can watch "Mamãe eu Quero" sung by Carmen Miranda, Canhoto, and the Bando da Lua in the movie "Down Argentine Way" here.

Thursday’s Serial: “ Le avventure di Pinocchio: Storia di un burattino” by Carlo Collodi (in Italian) - VII

XIX. Pinocchio è derubato delle sue monete d’oro e, per gastigo [sic] si busca quattro mesi di prigione.

 

Il burattino, ritornato in città, cominciò a contare i minuti a uno a uno: e quando gli parve che fosse l’ora, riprese subito la strada che menava al Campo dei miracoli.

E mentre camminava con passo frettoloso, il cuore gli batteva forte e gli faceva tic, tac, tic, tac, come un orologio da sala, quando corre davvero. E intanto pensava dentro di sè:

— E se invece di mille monete, ne trovassi su i rami dell’albero duemila?... E se invece di duemila, ne trovassi cinquemila? E se invece di cinquemila ne trovassi centomila? O che bel signore, allora, che diventerei!... Vorrei avere un bel palazzo, mille cavallini di legno e mille scuderie, per potermi baloccare, una cantina di rosolii e di alchermes, e una libreria tutta piena di canditi, di torte, di panettoni, di mandorlati e di cialdoni colla panna. —

Così fantasticando, giunse in vicinanza del campo, e lì si fermò a guardare se per caso avesse potuto scorgere qualche albero coi rami carichi di monete: ma non vide nulla. Fece altri cento passi in avanti, e nulla; entrò sul campo.… andò proprio su quella piccola buca, dove aveva sotterrato i suoi zecchini, e nulla. Allora diventò pensieroso, e, dimenticando le regole del Galateo e della buona creanza, tirò fuori una mano di tasca e si dette una lunghissima grattatina di capo.

In quel mentre sentì fischiare negli orecchi una gran risata: e voltatosi in su, vide sopra un albero un grosso pappagallo, che si spollinava le poche penne che aveva addosso.

— Perchè ridi? — gli domandò Pinocchio con voce di bizza.

— Rido, perchè nello spollinarmi mi son fatto il solletico sotto le ali. ―

Il burattino non rispose. Andò alla gora e riempita d’acqua la solita ciabatta, si pose nuovamente ad annaffiare la terra che ricopriva le monete d’oro.

Quand’ecco che un’altra risata, anche più impertinente della prima, si fece sentire nella solitudine silenziosa di quel campo.

— Insomma, — gridò Pinocchio, arrabbiandosi, — si può sapere, Pappagallo mal educato, di che cosa ridi?

— Rido di quei barbagianni, che credono a tutte le scioccherie e che si lasciano trappolare da chi è più furbo di loro.

— Parli forse di me?

— Sì, parlo di te, povero Pinocchio, di te che sei così dolce di sale, da credere che i denari si

possano seminare e raccogliere nei campi, come si seminano i fagiuoli e le zucche. Anch’io l’ho creduto una volta, e oggi ne porto le pene. Oggi (ma troppo tardi!) mi son dovuto persuadere che per mettere insieme onestamente pochi soldi, bisogna saperseli guadagnare o col lavoro delle proprie mani o coll’ingegno della propria testa.

— Non ti capisco, — disse il burattino, che già cominciava a tremare dalla paura.

— Pazienza! Mi spiegherò meglio — soggiunse il Pappagallo. — Sappi dunque che, mentre tu eri in città, la Volpe e il Gatto sono tornati in questo campo: hanno preso le monete d’oro sotterrate, e poi sono fuggiti come il vento. E ora chi li raggiunge, è bravo! ―

 

Pinocchio restò a bocca aperta, e non volendo credere alle parole del Pappagallo, cominciò colle mani e colle unghie a scavare il terreno che aveva annaffiato. E scava, scava, scava, fece una buca così profonda, che ci sarebbe entrato per ritto un pagliaio: ma le monete non c' erano più.

Preso allora dalla disperazione, tornò di corsa in città e andò difilato in tribunale, per denunziare al giudice i due malandrini, che lo avevano derubato.

Il giudice era uno scimmione della razza dei Gorilla: un vecchio scimmione rispettabile per la sua grave età, per la sua barba bianca e specialmente per i suoi occhiali d’oro, senza vetri, che era costretto a portare continuamente, a motivo d’una flussione d’occhi, che lo tormentava da parecchi anni.

Pinocchio, alla presenza del giudice, raccontò per filo e per segno l’iniqua frode, di cui era stato vittima; dette il nome, il cognome e i connotati dei malandrini, e finì chiedendo giustizia.

Il giudice lo ascoltò con molta benignità; prese vivissima parte al racconto: s’intenerì, si commosse: e quando il burattino non ebbe più nulla da dire, allungò la mano e suonò il campanello.

A quella scampanellata comparvero subito due can mastini vestiti da giandarmi.

Allora il giudice, accennando Pinocchio ai giandarmi, disse loro:

— Quel povero diavolo è stato derubato di quattro monete d’oro: pigliatelo dunque e mettetelo subito in prigione. ―

Il burattino, sentendosi dare questa sentenza fra capo e collo, rimase di princisbecco e voleva protestare: ma i giandarmi, a scanso di perditempi inutili, gli tapparono la bocca e lo condussero in gattabuia.

E lì v’ebbe a rimanere quattro mesi: quattro lunghissimi mesi: e vi sarebbe rimasto anche di più, se non si fosse dato un caso fortunatissimo. Perchè bisogna sapere che il giovane Imperatore che regnava nella città di Acchiappacitrulli, avendo riportato una gran vittoria contro i suoi nemici, ordinò grandi feste pubbliche, luminarie, fuochi artificiali, corse di barberi e velocipedi, e in segno di maggiore esultanza, volle che fossero aperte le carceri e mandati fuori tutti i malandrini.

— Se escono di prigione gli altri, voglio uscire anch’io — disse Pinocchio al carceriere.

— Voi no, — rispose il carceriere — perchè voi non siete del bel numero....

— Domando scusa; — replicò Pinocchio — sono un malandrino anch’io.

Gli tapparono la bocca e lo condussero in gattabuia.

— In questo caso avete mille ragioni, — disse il carceriere; e levandosi il berretto rispettosamente e salutandolo, gli aprì le porte della prigione e lo lasciò scappare.

 

 

XX. Liberato dalla prigione, si avvia per tornare a casa della Fata; ma lungo la strada trova un serpente orribile, e poi rimane preso alla tagliuola.

 

Figuratevi l’allegrezza di Pinocchio, quando si sentì libero. Senza stare a dire che è e che non è, uscì subito fuori della città e riprese la strada che doveva ricondurlo alla Casina della Fata.

A motivo del tempo piovigginoso, la strada era diventata tutta un pantano e ci si andava fino a mezza gamba.

Ma il burattino non se ne dava per inteso.

Tormentato dalla passione di rivedere il suo babbo e la sua sorellina dai capelli turchini, correva a salti come un can levriero, e nel correre le pillacchere gli schizzavano fin sopra il berretto. Intanto andava dicendo fra sè e sè:

— Quante disgrazie mi sono accadute.... E me le merito! perchè io sono un burattino testardo e piccoso..., e voglio far sempre tutte le cose a modo mio, senza dar retta a quelli che mi voglion bene e che hanno mille volte più giudizio di me!… Ma da questa volta in là, faccio proponimento di cambiar vita e di diventare un ragazzo ammodo e ubbidiente… Tanto ormai ho bell’e visto che i ragazzi, a essere disubbidienti, ci scapitano sempre e non ne infilano mai una per il su’ verso. E il mio babbo mi avrà aspettato?… Ce lo troverò a casa della Fata? È tanto tempo, pover’uomo, che non lo vedo più, che mi struggo di fargli mille carezze e di finirlo dai baci! E la Fata mi perdonerà la brutta azione che le ho fatto?… E pensare che ho ricevuto da lei tante attenzioni e tante cure amorose… e pensare che se oggi son sempre vivo, lo debbo a lei! Ma si può dare un ragazzo più ingrato e più senza cuore di me?… ―

Nel tempo che diceva così, si fermò tutt’a un tratto spaventato e fece quattro passi indietro.

Che cosa aveva veduto?

Aveva veduto un grosso serpente, disteso attraverso alla strada, che aveva la pelle verde, gli occhi di fuoco e la coda appuntuta, che gli fumava come una cappa di camino.

Impossibile immaginarsi la paura del burattino: il quale, allontanatosi più di mezzo chilometro, si mise a sedere sopra un monticello di sassi, aspettando che il serpente se ne andasse una buona volta per i fatti suoi e lasciasse libero il passo della strada.

Aspettò un’ora; due ore: tre ore: ma il serpente era sempre là, e anche di lontano, si vedeva il rosseggiare de’ suoi occhi di fuoco e la colonna di fumo che gli usciva dalla punta della coda.

Allora Pinocchio, figurandosi di aver coraggio, si avvicinò a pochi passi di distanza, e facendo una vocina dolce, insinuante e sottile, disse al serpente:

— Scusi, signor Serpente, che mi farebbe il piacere di tirarsi un pochino da una parte, tanto da lasciarmi passare? —

Fu lo stesso che dire al muro. Nessuno si mosse.

Allora riprese colla solita vocina:

— Deve sapere, signor Serpente, che io vado a casa, dove c’è il mio babbo che mi aspetta e che è tanto tempo che non lo vedo più!… Si contenta dunque, che io seguiti per la mia strada? —

Aspettò un segno di risposta a quella domanda: ma la risposta non venne: anzi il serpente, che fin allora pareva arzillo e pieno di vita, diventò immobile e quasi irrigidito. Gli occhi gli si chiusero e la coda gli smesse di fumare.

— Che sia morto davvero? — disse Pinocchio, dandosi una fregatina di mani dalla gran contentezza; e senza mettere tempo in mezzo, fece l’atto di scavalcarlo, per passare dall’altra parte della strada. Ma non aveva ancora finito di alzare la gamba, che il Serpente si rizzò all’improvviso improvviso come una molla scattata: e il burattino, nel tirarsi indietro spaventato, inciampò e cadde per terra.

E per l’appunto cadde così male, che restò col capo conficcato nel fango della strada e colle gambe ritte su in aria.

Alla vista di quel burattino, che sgambettava a capofitto con una velocità incredibile il serpente fu preso da una tal convulsione di risa, che ridi, ridi, ridi, alla fine, dallo sforzo del troppo ridere, gli si strappò una vena sul petto: e quella volta morì davvero.

Allora Pinocchio ricominciò a correre per arrivare a casa della Fata avanti che si facesse buio. Ma lungo la strada non potendo più reggere ai morsi terribili della fame, saltò in un campo coll’intenzione di cogliere poche ciocche d’uva moscadella. Non l’avesse mai fatto!

Appena giunto sotto la vite, crac… sentì stringersi le gambe da due ferri taglienti, che gli fecero vedere quante stelle c’erano in cielo.

Il povero burattino era rimasto preso da una tagliuola appostata là da alcuni contadini per beccarvi alcune grosse faine, che erano il flagello di tutti i pollai del vicinato.

 

 

XXI. Pinocchio è preso da un contadino, il quale lo costringe a far da can da guardia a un pollaio.

 

Pinocchio, come potete figurarvelo, si dètte a piangere, a strillare, a raccomandarsi: ma erano pianti e grida inutili, perchè lì all’intorno non si vedevano case, e dalla strada non passava anima viva.

Intanto si fece notte.

Un po’ per lo spasimo della tagliuola, che gli segava gli stinchi, e un po’ per la paura di trovarsi solo e al buio in mezzo a quei campi, il burattino principiava quasi a svenirsi: quando a un tratto vedendosi passare una lucciola di sul capo, la chiamò e le disse:

— O Lucciolina, mi faresti la carità di liberarmi da questo supplizio?...

— Povero figliuolo! — replicò la lucciola, fermandosi impietosita a guardarlo. — Come mai sei rimasto colle gambe attanagliate fra codesti ferri arrotati?

— Sono entrato nel campo per cogliere due grappoli di quest’uva moscadella, e...

— Ma l’uva era tua?

— No….

— E allora chi t’ha insegnato a portar via la roba degli altri?…

— Avevo fame….

— La fame, ragazzo mio, non è una buona ragione per potersi appropriare la roba che non è nostra….

— È vero, è vero! — gridò Pinocchio piangendo — ma un’altra volta non lo farò più. —

A questo punto il dialogo fu interrotto da un piccolissimo rumore di passi, che si avvicinavano. Era il padrone del campo che veniva in punta di piedi a vedere se qualcuna di quelle faine, che gli mangiavano di nottetempo i polli, fosse rimasta presa al trabocchetto della tagliuola.

E la sua maraviglia fu grandissima quando, tirata fuori la lanterna di sotto al pastrano, s’accòrse che, invece di una faina, c’era rimasto preso un ragazzo.

— Ah, ladracchiòlo! — disse il contadino incollerito — dunque sei tu che mi porti via le galline?

— Io no, io no! — gridò Pinocchio, singhiozzando. — Io sono entrato nel campo per prendere soltanto due grappoli d’uva!

— Chi ruba l’uva è capacissimo di rubare anche i polli. Lascia fare a me, che ti darò una lezione da ricordartene per un pezzo. —

E aperta la tagliuola, afferrò il burattino per la collottola e lo portò di peso fino a casa, come si porterebbe un agnellino di latte.

Arrivato che fu sull’aia dinanzi alla casa, lo scaraventò in terra: e tenendogli un piede sul collo, gli disse:

— Oramai è tardi e voglio andare a letto. I nostri conti li aggiusteremo domani. Intanto, siccome oggi m’è morto il cane che mi faceva la guardia di notte, tu prenderai subito il suo posto. Tu mi farai da cane di guardia. —

― Tu puoi andare a cuccia in quel casotto di legno.

Detto fatto, gl’infilò al collo un grosso collare tutto coperto di spunzoni d’ottone, e glielo strinse in modo, da non poterselo levare passandoci la testa di dentro. Al collare c’era attaccata una lunga catenella di ferro: e la catenella era fissata nel muro.

— Se questa notte — disse il contadino — cominciasse a piovere, tu puoi andare a cuccia in quel casotto di legno, dove c’è sempre la paglia che ha servito di letto per quattro anni al mio povero cane. E se per disgrazia venissero i ladri, ricordati di stare a orecchi ritti e di abbaiare. —

Dopo quest’ultimo avvertimento, il contadino entrò in casa chiudendo la porta con tanto di catenaccio: e il povero Pinocchio rimase accovacciato sull’aia più morto che vivo, a motivo del freddo, della fame e della paura. E di tanto in tanto cacciandosi rabbiosamente le mani dentro il collare, che gli serrava la gola, diceva piangendo:

— Mi sta bene!… Pur troppo mi sta bene! Ho voluto fare lo svogliato, il vagabondo… ho voluto dar retta ai cattivi compagni, e per questo la fortuna mi perseguita sempre. Se fossi stato un ragazzino per bene, come ce n’è tanti; se avessi avuto voglia di studiare e di lavorare, se fossi rimasto in casa col mio povero babbo, a quest’ora non mi troverei qui, in mezzo ai campi, a fare il cane di guardia alla casa di un contadino. Oh, se potessi rinascere un’altra volta!… Ma oramai è tardi e ci vuol pazienza! —

Fatto questo piccolo sfogo, che gli venne proprio dal cuore, entrò dentro il casotto e si addormentò.