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 labors, and my lot gave me the northeast 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 to-day. 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 Charlesborough 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 with 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 honors 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 honoring 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 that 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 expressions of my love and adoration. It was my custom, then, to repeat the 103d or 50th psalm of David,—or the Te Deum, or some other beautiful hymn, or the Pange Langua, 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 common-place talks, so common everywhere.

With the utmost efforts, I had then to put a smiling mask on my face, in order to conceal the expression 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 forever the power of Protestant England over us! Then we should be free again, to give our Saviour all the public honors which were to due 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 honorably 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 honored 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 the party was to be more of the 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 called to carry the “Good God” to a dying woman.

Mr. Parent was born, and had 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 eaux de cologne surrounded him with an atmosphere of the sweetest odors. 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 the 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 deathbed 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 Mrs. 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 without 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 mortis, and the exhortation to the dying, and the people gathered from the neighborhood 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 parlor 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, lovely 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 had a chance to say to him; “We all feared lest your dying patient might deprive us of the pleasure of your company the greater 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 dispatched 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 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 drunk 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 that I was only making a fool of myself by remaining any longer in their midst. Angry with myself for my 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.