University of Virginia Library

Chapter II.

MY FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS AT ST. THOMAS—THE MONK AND
CELIBACY.

IN the month of June, 1818, my parents sent me to an excellent
shool at St. Thomas. One of my mother's sisters resided
there, who was the wife of an industrious miller, called Stephen
Eschenbach. They had no children, and they received me as
their own son.

The beautiful village of St. Thomas had already, at that time,
a considerable population. The two fine rivers which unite their
rapid waters in its very midst before they fall into the magnificent
basin from which they flow into the St. Lawrence, supplied
the water-power for several mills and factories.

There was in the village a considerable trade in grain, flour
and lumber. The fisheries were very profitable, and the game
was abundant. Life was really pleasant and easy.

The families Tachez, Cazeault, Fournier, Dubord, Frechette,
Tetu, Dupuis, Couillard, Duberges, which were among the most
ancient and notable of Canada, were at the head of the intellectual
and material movements of the place, and they were a real
honor to the French Canadian name.

I met there with one of my ancestors on my mother's side
whose name was F. Amour des Plaines. He was an old and
brave soldier, and would sometimes show us the numerous
wounds he had received in the battles in which he had fought
for his country. Though nearly eighty years old, he sang to us
the songs of the good old times with all the vivacity of a young
man.

The school of Mr. Allen Jones, to which I had been sent,
was worthy of its wide-spread reputation. I have never known

and teacher who deserved more, or who enjoyed in a higher
degree, the respect and confidence of his pupils.

He was born in England, and belonged to one of the most
respectable families there. He had received the best education
which England could give to her sons. After having gone
through a perfect course of study at home, he had gone to Paris,
where he had also completed an academical course. He was
perfectly master of the French and English languages. And it
was not without good reasons that he was surrounded by a great
number of scholars from every corner of Canada. The children
of the best families of St. Thomas were with me, attending the
school of Mr. Jones. But he was a Protestant, the priest was
much opposed to him, and every effort was made by that priest
to induce my relatives to take me away from that school and
send me to one under his care.

The name of the priest was Loranger. He had a swarthy
countenance, and in person was lean and tall. His preaching
had no attraction, and he was far from being popular among
the intelligent part of the people of St. Thomas.

Dr. Tachez, whose high capacity afterwards brought him to
the head of the Canadian Government, was the leading man of
St. Thomas. Being united by the bonds of a sincere friendship
with his nephew, L. Cazeault, who was afterward placed at the
head of the University of Laval, in Quebec, I had many opportunities
of going to the house of Mr. Tachez, where my young
friend was boarding.

In those days, Dr. Tachez had no need of the influence of the
priests, and he frequently gave vent to his supreme contempt for
them. Once a week there was a meeting in his house of the
principal citizens of St. Thomas, where the highest questions of
history and religion were freely and warmly discussed; but the
premises as well as the conclusion of these discussions were
invariably adverse to the priests and religion of Rome, and too
often to every form of Christianity.

Though these meetings had not entirely the character or
exclusiveness of secret societies, they were secret to a great
extent. My friend Cazeault was punctual in telling me the days

and hours of the meeting, and I used to go with him to an
adjoining room, from which we could hear everything without
being suspected. From what I heard and saw in these meetings,
I most certainly would have been ruined, had not the Word of
God, with which my mother had filled my young mind and
heart, been my shield and strength. I was often struck with
terror and filled with disgust at what I heard at those meetings.
But what a strange and deplorable thing! My conscience was
condemning me every time I listened to these impious discussions,
while there was a strong craving in me to hear them that I could
not resist.

There was then in St. Thomas a personage who was unique
in his character. He never mixed with the society of the village,
but was, nevertheless, the object of much respectful attention
and inquiry from every one. He was one of the former monks
of Canada, known under the name of Capucin or Recollets,
whom the conquest of Canada by Great Britain had forced to
leave their monastery.

He was a clockmaker, and lived honorably by his trade.
His little white house, in the very midst of the village, was the
perfection of neatness.

Brother Mark, as he was called, was a remarkably well-built
man; high stature, large and splendid shoulders, and the most
beautiful hands I ever saw. His long black robe, tied around
his waist by a white sash, was remarkable for its cleanliness.
His life was really a solitary one, always alone with his own
sister, who kept his house.

Every day that the weather was propitious, Brother Mark
spent a couple of hours in fishing, and as I was myself exceedingly
fond of that exercise, I used to meet him often along the
banks of the beautiful rivers of St. Thomas.

His presence was always a good omen to me; for he was
more expert than I in finding the best places for fishing. As
soon as he found a place where the fish was abundant, he would
make signs to me, or call me at the top of his voice that I might
share in his good luck. I appreciated his delicate attention to me,
and repaid him with the marks of a sincere gratitude. The good

monk had entirely conquered my young heart, and I cherished
a sincere regard for him. He often invited me to his solitary
but neat little home, and I never visited him without receiving
some proofs of a sincere kindness. His good sister rivalled him
in overwhelming me with such marks of attention and love as
I could only expect from a dear mother.

There was a mixture of timidity and dignity in the maners
of brother Mark which I have found in no one else. He was
fond of children: and nothiug could be more graceful than his
smile every time that he could see that I appreciated his kindness,
and that I gave him any proof of my gratitude. But that smile,
and any other expression of joy, were very transient. On a
sudden he would change, and it was obvious that a mysterious
cloud was passing over his heart.

The Pope had released the monks of the monastry to which
he belonged, from their vows of poverty and obedience. The
consequence was that they could become independant, and even
rich, by their own industry. It was in their power to rise to a
respectable position in the world by their honorable efforts. The
pope had given them the permission they wanted, that they
might earn an honest living. But what a strange and incredible
folly to ask the permission of a pope to be allowed to live
honorably on the fruits of one's own industry!

These poor monks, having been released from their vows of
obedience, were no longer the slaves of a man: but were now
permitted to go to heaven on the sole condition that they would
obey the laws of God and the laws of their country! But into
what a frightful abyss of degradation men must have fallen, to
believe that they required a license from Rome for such a purpose.
This is, nevertheless, the simple and naked truth. That excess
of folly, and that supreme impiety and degradation are among
the fundamental dogmas of Rome. The infalible pope assures
the world that there is no possible salvation for any one who
does not sincerely believe what he teaches in this matter.

But the pope who had so graciously relieved the Canadian
monks from their vows of obedience and poverty, had been
inflexible in reference to their vows of celibacy. From this

there was no relief.

The honest desires of the good monk to live according to the
laws of God, with a wife whom heaven might have given him,
had become an impossibility—the pope vetoed it.

The unfortunate monk was bound to believe that he would
be forever damned if he dared to accept as a gospel truth the
Word of God which says:—

Propter fornicationem antem, unusquisque uxorem suam
habeat, unaquaque virum suum habeat. (Vulgate Bible of
Rome.) Nevertheless to avoid fornication let every man have
his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband."
(1 Cor., vii.: 2). That shining light which the Word contains
and which gives life to man, was entirely shut out from brother
Mark. He was not allowed to know that God himself had said,
"It is not good that man should be alone, I will make him an
help-meet for him," (Gen. 2: 18). Brother Mark was endowed
with such a loving heart! He could not be known without
being loved; and he must have suffered much in that celibacy
which his faith in the pope imposed upon him.

Far away from the regions of light, truth and life, that soul,
tied to the feet of the implacable modern Divinity, which the
Romanists worship under the name of Sovereign Pontiff, was
trying in vain to annihilate and destroy the instincts and affections
which God himself had implanted in him.

One day, as I was amusing myself, with a few other young
friends, near the house of brother Mark, suddenly we saw
something covered with blood thrown from the window, and
falling at a short distance from us. At the same instant we
heard loud cries, evidently coming from the monk's house: "O
my God! Have mercy on me! Save me! I am lost!"

The sister of brother Mark rushed out of doors and cried to
some men who were passing by: "Come to our help! My poor
brother is dying! For God's sake make haste, he is losing all
his blood!"

I ran to the door, but the lady shut it abruptly and turned
me out, saying, "we do not want children here."

I had a sincere affection for the good brother. He had

invariably been so kind to me! I insisted and respectfully
requested to be allowed to enter. Though young and weak, it
seemed that my friendly feelings towards the suffering brother
would add to my strength, and enable me to be of some service.
But my request was sternly rejected, and I had to go back to
the street among the crowd which was fast gathering. The
singular mystery in which they were trying to wrap the poor
monk, filled me with trouble and anxiety.

But that trouble was soon changed into an unspeakable
confusion when I heard the convulsive laughing of the low
people, and the shameful jokes of the crowd, after the doctor
had told the nature of the wound which was causing the
unfortunate man to bleed almost to death. I was struck with
such horror that I fled away; I did not want to know any more
of that tradegy. I had already known too much!

Poor brother Mark had ceased to be a man—he had become
an eunuch.

O cruel and Godless church of Rome! How many souls
hast thou deceived and tortured! How many hearts hast thou
broken with that celibacy which Satan alone could invent!
This unfortunate victim of a most degrading religion, did not,
however, die from his rash action; he soon recovered his usual
health.

Having, meanwhile, ceased to visit him; some months later
I was fishing along the river in a very solitary place. The fish
were abundant, and I was completely absorbed in catching them,
when, on a sudden, I felt on my shoulder the gentle presure of
a hand. It was brother Mark's.

I thought I would faint through the opposite sentiments of
surprise, of pain and joy, which at the same time crossed my
mind.

With an affectionate and trembling voice he said to me, "My
dear child, why do you not come to see me any more?"

I did not dare to look at him after he had addressed me these
words. I liked him on account of his acts of kindness to me.
But the fatal hour when, in the street before the door, I had
suffered so much on his account—that fatal hour was on my

heart as a mountain which I could not put away—I could not
answer him.

He then asked me again with the tone of a criminal who sues
for mercy; "Why is it my dear child, that you do not come any
longer to see me? You know that I love you."

"Dear brother Mark," I answered "I will never forget your
kindness to me. I will forever be grateful to you; I wish that
it would be in my power to continue, as formerly, to go and see
you. But I cannot, and you ought to know the reason why I
cannot."

I had pronounced these words with down-cast eyes. I was
a child, with the timidity and happy ignorance of a child. But
the action of that unfortunate man had struck me with such a
horror that I could not entertain the idea of visiting him any
more.

He spent two or three minutes without saying a word, and
without moving. But I heard his sobs and his cries, and his
cries were those of dispair and anguish, the like of which I have
never heard since.

I could not contain myself any longer, I was suffocating with
suppressed emotion, and I would have fallen insensible to the
ground if two streams of tears had not burst from my eyes.
Those tears did me good—they did him good also—they told
him that I was still his friend.

He took me in his arms and pressed me to his bosom—his
tears were mixed with mine. But I could not speak—the
emotions of my heart were too much for my age. I sat on a
damp and cold stone, in order not to faint. He fell on his knees
by my side.

Ah! if I were a painter I would make a most striking tableau
of that scene. His eyes, swollen and red with weeping, were
raised to heaven, his hand lifted up in the attitude of supplication;
he was crying out with an accent which seemed as though it
would break my heart.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu que je suis malheureux."

My God! My God! what a wretched man I am!

* * * * * * * * * * *

The twenty-five years that I have been a priest of Rome,
have revealed to me the fact that the cries of desolation I heard
that day, were but the echo of the cries of desolation which go
out from almost every nunnery, every parsonage and every
house where human beings are bound by the ties of the Romish
Celibacy.

God knows that I am a faithful witness of what my eyes
have seen and my ears have heard, when I say to the multitudes
which the Church of Rome has bewitched with her enchantments.
Wherever there are nuns, monks and priests who live in
forced violation of the ways which God has appointed for man
to walk in, there are torrents of tears, there are desolated hearts,
there are cries of anguish and despair which say in the words of
brother Mark:

"Oh! que je suis malheureux!"

Oh! how miserable and wretched I am!