One of the first things done by the
curate Tetu, after his new vicars had been chosen, was to divide, by casting
lots, his large parish into four parts, that there might be more regularity
in our ministerial labours, and my lot gave me the north-east of the parish,
which contained the Quebec Marine Hospital.
The number of sick sailors I had to visit almost every day in that noble institution,
was between twenty-five and a hundred. The Roman Catholic chapel, with its beautiful
altar, was not yet completed. It was only in 1837 that I could persuade the
hospital authorities to fix it as it is today. Having no place there to celebrate
mass and keep the Holy Sacrament, I soon found myself in presence of a difficulty
which, at first, seemed to me of a grave character. I had to administer the
viaticum (holy communion) to a dying sailor. As every one knows, all Roman Catholics
are bound to believe that by the consecration, the wafer is transformed into
the body, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ. Hence, they call that ceremony:
"Porter le bon dieu au malade" (carry the good god to the sick). Till
then, when in Charlesbourgh or St. Charles, I, with the rest of Roman Catholic
priests, always made use of pomp and exterior marks of supreme respect for the
Almighty God I was carrying in my hands to the dying.
I had never carried the good God without being accompanied by several people,
walking or riding on horseback. I then wore a white surplice over my long black
robe (soutane) to strike the people with awe. There was also a man ringing a
bell before me, all along the way, to announce to the people that the great
God, who had not only created them, but had made Himself man to save them, by
dying on Calvary, was passing by; that they had to fall on their knees in their
houses, or along the public roads, or in their fields, and prostrate themselves
and adore Him.
But could I do that in Quebec, where so many miserable heretics were more disposed
to laugh at my god than to adore him?
In my zeal and sincere faith, I was, however, determined to dare the heretics
of the whole world, and to expose myself to their insults, rather than give
up the exterior marks of supreme respect and adoration which were due to my
god everywhere; and twice I carried him to the hospital in the usual solemnity.
In vain, my curate tried to persuade me to change my mind. I closed my ears
to his arguments. He then kindly invited me to go with him to the bishop's palace,
in order to confer with him on that grave subject. How can I express my dismay
when the bishop told me, with a levity which I had not yet observed in him,
"that on account of the Protestants whom we had to meet everywhere, it
was better to make our `god' travel incognito in the streets of Quebec."
He added in a high and jocose tone: "Put him in your vest pocket, as do
the rest of the city priests. Carry him to your dying patients without any scruples.
Never aim at being a reformer and doing better than your venerable brethren
in the priesthood. We must not forget that we are a conquered people. If we
were masters, we would carry him to the dying with the public honours we used
to give him before the conquest; but the Protestants are the stronger. Our governor
is a Protestant, as well as our Queen. The garrison, which is inside the walls
of their impregnable citadel, is composed chiefly of Protestants. According
to the laws of our holy church, we have the right to punish, even by death,
the miserable people who turn into ridicule the mysteries of our holy religion.
But though we have that right, we are not strong enough to enforce it. We must,
then, bear the yoke in silence. After all, it is our god himself, who in his
inscrutable judgment, has deprived us of the power of honouring him as he deserves;
and to tell you my whole mind as plainly as possible, it is not our fault, but
his own doing, so to speak, if we are forced to make him travel incognito through
our streets. It is one of the sad results of the victory which the God of battles
gave to the heretics over us on the plains of Abraham. If, in his good providence,
we could break our fetters, and become free to pass again the laws which regulated
Canada before the conquest, to prevent the heretics from settling among us,
then we would carry him as we used to do in those happy days."
"But," said I, "when I walk in the streets with my good god in
my vest pocket, what will I do if I meet any friend who wants to shake hands
and have a joke with me?"
The bishop laughed and answered: "Tell your friend you are in a hurry,
and go your way as quickly as possible; but if there is no help, have your talk
and your joke with him, without any scruple of conscience. The important point
in this delicate matter is that the people should not know we are carrying our
god through the streets incognito, for this knowledge would surely shake and
weaken their faith. The common people are, more than we think, kept in our holy
church, by the impressing ceremonies of our processions and public marks of
respect we give to Jesus Christ, when we carry Him to the sick; for the people
are more easily persuaded by what they see with their eyes and touch with their
hands, than by what they hear with their ears."
I submitted to the order of my ecclesiastical superior; but I would not be honest,
were I not to confess that I lost much of my spiritual joy for some time in
the administration of the viaticum. I continued to believe as sincerely as I
could, but the laughing words and light tone of my bishop had fallen upon my
soul as an icy cloud. The jocose way in which he had spoken of what I had been
taught to consider as the most awful and adorable mystery of the church, left
the impression on my mind that he did not believe one iota of the dogma of transubstantiation.
And in spite of all my honest efforts to get rid of that suspicion, it grew
in my mind every time I met him to talk on any ministerial subject.
It took several years before I could accustom myself to carry my god in my vest
pocket as the other priests did, without any more ceremony than with a piece
of tobacco. So long as I was walking alone I felt happy. I could then silently
converse with my Saviour, and give Him all the expression of my love and adoration.
It was my custom, then, to repeat the 103rd or 50th Psalm of David, or the Te
Deum, or some other beautiful hymn, or the Pange Lingua, which I knew by heart.
But no words can express my sadness when, as it was very often the case, I met
some friends forcing me to shake hands with them, and began one of those idle
and commonplace talks, so common everywhere.
With the utmost efforts, I had then to put a smiling mask on my face, in order
to conceal the expressions of faith which are infallibly seen, in spite of one's
self, if one is in the very act of adoration.
How, then, I earnestly cursed the day when my country had fallen under the yoke
of Protestants, whose presence in Quebec prevented me from following the dictates
of my conscience! How many times did I pray my wafer god, whom I was personally
pressing on my heart, to grant us an opportunity to break those fetters, and
destroy for ever the power of Protestant England over us! Then we should be
free again, to give our Saviour all the public honours which were due to His
Majesty. Then we should put in force the laws by which no heretic had any right
to settle and live in Canada.
Not long after that conversation with the bishop, I found myself in a circumstance
which added much to my trouble and confusion of conscience on that matter.
There was then, in Quebec, a merchant who had honourably raised himself from
a state of poverty, to the first rank among the wealthy merchants of Canada.
Though, a few years after, he was ruined by a series of most terrible disasters,
his name is still honoured in Canada, as one of the most industrious and honest
merchants of our young country. His name was James Buteau. He had built a magnificent
house, and furnished it in a princely style. In order to celebrate his "house
warming" in a becoming style, he invited a hundred guests from the elite
of the city, among whom were all the priests of the parishes. But in order not
to frighten their prudery though that party was to be more of a nature of a
ball than anything else Mr. Buteau had given it the modest name of an Oyster
Soiree.
Just as the good curate, Tetu, with his cheerful vicars was starting, a messenger
met us at the door, to say that Mr. Parent, the youngest vicar, had been called
to carry the "good god" to a dying woman.
Mr. Parent was born, and has passed his whole life in Quebec, in whose seminary
he had gone through a complete and brilliant course of study. I think there
was scarcely a funny song in the French language which he could not sing. With
a cheerful nature, he was the delight of the Quebec society, by almost every
member of which he was personally known.
His hair was constantly perfumed with the richest pomade, and the most precious
eau de cologne surrounded him with an atmosphere of the sweetest odours. With
all these qualities and privileges, it is no wonder that he was the confessor,
a la mode, of the young ladies of Quebec.
The bright luminaries which hover around Jupiter are not more exact in converging
toward that brilliant star than those pious young ladies were in gathering around
the confessional box of Mr. Parent every week or fortnight.
The unexpected announcement of a call to the death-bed of one of his poorest
penitents, was not quite the most desirable thing for our dear young friend,
at such an hour. But he knew too well his duty to grumble. He said to us, "Go
before me and tell Mr. Buteau that I will be in time to get my share of the
oysters."
By chance, the sick house was on the way and not far from Mr. Buteau's splendid
mansion. He left us to run to the altar and take the "good god" with
him. We started for the soiree, but not sympathizing with our dear Mr. Parent,
who would lose the most interesting part, for the administration of the viaticum.
The extreme unction, with the giving of indulgences, in articulo moris, and
the exhortations to the dying, and the people gathered from the neighbourhood
to witness those solemn rites, could not take much less than three quarters,
or even an hour of his time. But, to my great surprise, we had not yet been
ten minutes in the magnificent parlour of our host, when I saw Mr. Parent, who
like a newborn butterfly, flying from flower to flower, was running from lady
to lady, joking, laughing, surpassing himself with his inimitable and refined
manners. I said to myself, "How is it possible that he has so quickly got
rid of his unpalatable task with his dying penitent?" and I wanted an opportunity
of being alone with him, to satisfy my curiosity on that point; but it was pretty
late in the evening when I found a chance to say to him: "We all feared
lest your dying patient may deprive us of the pleasure of your company the greatest
part of the soiree!"
"Oh! oh!" answered he, with a hearty laugh, "that intelligent
woman had the good common sense to die just two minutes before I entered her
house. I suppose that her guardian angel, knowing all about this incomparable
party, had despatched the good soul to heaven a little sooner than she expected,
in my behalf."
I could not but smile at his answer, which was given in a manner to make a stone
laugh. "But," said I, "what have you done with the 'good god'
you had carried with you?"
"Ah! ah! the 'good god,'" he replied, in a jocose and subdued tone.
"Well, well; the 'good god!' He stands very still in my vest pocket; and
if he enjoys this princely festivity as well as we all do, he will surely thank
me for having brought him here, even en survenant. But do not say a word of
his presence here; it would spoil everything."
That priest, who was only one year younger than myself, was one of my dearest
friends. Though his words rather smelt of the unbeliever and blasphemer, I preferred
to attribute them to the sweet champagne he had drank than to a real want of
faith.
But I must confess that, though I had laughed very heartily at first, his last
utterance pained me so much that, from that moment to the end of the soiree,
I felt uneasy and confounded. My firm belief that my Saviour, Jesus Christ,
was there in person, kept a prisoner in my young friend's vest pocket, going
to and fro from one young lady to the other, witnessing the constant laughing,
hearing the idle words, the light and funny songs, made my whole soul shudder,
and my heart sunk within me. By times I wished I could fall on my knees to adore
my Saviour, whom I believed to be there. However, a mysterious voice was whispering
in my ear: "Are you not a fool to believe that you can make a God with
a wafer; and that Jesus Christ, your Saviour and your God, can be kept a prisoner,
in spite of himself, in the vest pocket of a man? Do you not see that your friend,
Parent, who has much more brains and intelligence than you, does not believe
a word of that dogma of transubstantiation? Have you forgotten the unbeliever's
smile, which you saw on the lips of the bishop himself only a few days ago?
Was not that laugh the infallible proof that he also does not believe a particle
of that ridiculous dogma?"
With superhuman effort I tried, and succeeded partly, to stifle that voice.
But that struggle could not last long within my soul, without leaving its exterior
marks on my face. Evidently a sad cloud was over my eyes, for several of my
most respectable friends, with Mr. and Mrs. Buteau, kindly asked if I were sick.
At last I felt so confused at the repetition of the same suggestion by so many,
that I felt I was only making a fool of myself by remaining any longer in their
midst. Angry with myself for any want of moral strength in this hour of trial,
I respectfully asked pardon from my kind host for leaving their party before
the end, on account of a sudden indisposition.
The next day there was only one voice in Quebec saying that young Parent had
been the lion of that brilliant soiree, and that the poor young priest, Chiniquy,
had been its fool.