University of Virginia Library

Chapter XVIII.

NINE STARTLING CONSEQUENCES OF THE DOGMA OF TRANSUBSTANTIATION—THE
OLD PAGANISM UNDER A CHRISTIAN
NAME.

ON the day of my ordination to the priesthood, I had to believe,
with all the priests of Rome, that it was within the limits
of my powers to go into all the bakeries of Quebec, and change
all the loaves and biscuits in that old city, into the body, blood,
soul and divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ, by pronouncing over
them the five words: Hoc est enim corpus meum. Nothing
would have remained of these loaves and biscuits but the smell,
the color, the taste.

2. Every bishop and priest of the cities of New York and
Boston, Chicago, Montreal, Paris and London, etc., firmly believes
and teaches that he has the power to turn all the loaves
of their cities, of their dioceses, nay, of the whole world, into the
body, blood, soul and divinity of our Saviour Jesus Christ.
And, though they have never yet found it advisable to do that
wonderful miracle, they consider, and say, that to entertain any
doubt about the power to perform that marvel, is as criminal as
to entertain any doubt about the existence of God.

3. When in the Seminary of Nicolet, I heard, several times
our Superior, the Rev. Mr. Raimbault, tell us that a French
priest having been condemned to death in Paris, when dragged
to the scaffold had, through revenge, consecrated and changed
into Jesus Christ all the loaves of the bakeries of that great city
which were along the streets through which he had to pass; and
though our learned superior condemned that action in the strongest
terms, yet he told us that the consecration was valid, and that
the loaves were really changed into the body, blood, soul and

divinity of the Saviour of the world. And I was bound to believe
it under pain of eternal damnation.

4. Before my ordination I had been obliged to learn by
heart, in one of the most sacred books of the Church of Rome,
(Missale Romanism, p. 63) the following statement: "If, after
the consecration, the consecrated bread disappear, taken away by
the wind, or through any miracle; or dragged away by an animal,
let the priest take a new bread, consecrate it, and continue
his mass."

And at page 57 I had learned, "If a fly or spider fall into the
chalice, after the consecration, let the priest take and eat it, if he
does not feel an insurmountable repugnance; but if he cannot
swallow it, let him wash it and burn it and throw the ashes into
the sacrarium."

5. In the month of January, 1834, I heard the following
fact from the Rev. Mr. Paquette, curate of St. Gervais, at a
grand dinner which he had given to the neighboring priests:

"When young, I was the vicar of a curate who could eat as
much as two of us, and drink as much as four. He was tall and
strong, and he has left the dark marks of his hard fists on the
nose of more than one of his beloved sheep; for his anger was
really terrible after he drank his bottle of wine.

"One day, after a sumptuous dinner, he was called to carry
the good god (Le Bon Dieu), to a dying man. It was midwinter.
The cold was intense. The wind was blowing hard.
There was at least five or six feet of snow, and the roads were
almost impassable. It was really a serious matter to travel nine
miles on such a day, but there was no help. The messenger was
one of the first marguilliers (elders) who was very pressing,
and the dying man was one of the first citizens of the place.
The curate, after a few grumblings, drank a tumbler of good
Jamaica with his marguillier as a preventative against the cold,
went to church, took the good god (Le Bon Dieu), and threw
himself into the sleigh; wrapped as well as possible in his large
buffalo robes.

"Though there were two horses, one before the other, to
drag the sleigh, the journey was a long and tedious one, which

was made still worse by an unlucky circumstance. They were
met half-way by another traveler coming from the opposite
direction. The road was too narrow to allow the two sleighs
and horses to remain easily on firm ground when passing by each
other, and it would have required a good deal of skill and patience
in driving the horses to prevent them from falling into the soft
snow. It is well known that when once horses are sunk into
five or six feet of snow, the more they struggle the deeper they
sink.

"The marguiller, who was carrying the `good god,' with the
cure, naturally hoped to have the privilege of keeping the
middle of the road and escaping the danger of getting his horses
wounded, and his sleigh broken. He cried to the other traveler,
in a high tone of authority: "Traveler! let me have the road.
Turn your horses into the snow! Make haste, I am in a hurry.
I carry the good god!"

"Unfortunately the traveler was a heretic, who cared much
more for his horses than for the "good god." He answered:

"Le Diable emporte ton Bon Dieu avant que je ne casse le
con de mon cheval!" "The devil take your god before I consent
to break the neck of my horse. If your god has not taught you
the rules of law and of common sense, I will give you a free
lecture on that matter," and jumping out of his sleigh, he took
the reins of the front horse of the marguillier to help him to walk
on the side of the road, and keep the half of it for himself.

"But the marguillier, who was naturally a very impatient and
fearless man, had drank too much with my curate, before he left
the parsonage, to keep cool, as he ought to have done. He also
jumped out of his sleigh, ran to the stranger, took his cravat in
his left hand and raised his right one to strike him in the face.

"Unfortunately for him, the heretic seemed to have foreseen all
this. He had left his overcoat in the sleigh and was more ready
for the conflict than his assailant. He was also a real giant in
size and strength. As quick as lightning his right and left fists
fell like iron masses on the face of the poor marguillier, and
threw him on his back in the soft snow, where he almost
disappeared.

"Till then the curate had been a silent spectator; but
the sight and the cries of his friend, whom the stranger was
pommelling without mercy, made him lose his patience. Taking
the little silk bag which contained the `good god' from about his
neck, where it was tied, he put it on the seat of the sleigh, and
said: `Dear good god! Please remain neutral; I must help
my marguillier! Take no part in this conflict, and I will punish
that infamous Protestant as he deserves.'

"But the unfortunate marguillier was entirely put hors de
combat before the curate could go to his help. His face was
horribly cut—three teeth were broken—the lower jaw dislocated,
and the eyes were so terribly damaged that it took several days
before he could see anything.

"When the heretic saw the priest coming to renew the battle,
he threw down his other coat to be freer in his movements.
The curate had not been so wise. Relying too much on his
herculean strength, covered with his heavy overcoat, on which
was his white surplice, he threw himself on the stranger, like a
big rock which falls from the mountain and rolls upon the oak
below.

"Both of these combatants were real giants, and the first blows
must have been terrible on both sides. But the `infamous
heretic' probably had not drank so much as my curate before
leaving home, or perhaps he was more expert in the exchange
of these bloody jokes. The battle was long and the blood
flowed pretty freely on both sides. The cries of the combatants
might have been heard at a long distance, were it not for the
roaring noise of the wind, which at that instant was blowing a
hurricane.

"The storm, the cries, the blows, the blood, the surplice and
the overcoat of the priest torn to rags, the shirt of the stranger
reddened with gore, made such a terrible spectacle, that in the
end the horses of the marguiller, though well-trained animals,
took fright and threw themselves into the snow, turned their backs
to the storm and made for home. They dragged the fragments
of the upset sleigh a pretty long distance, and arrived at the door
of their stable with only some diminutive parts of the harness.

"The `good god' had evidently heard the prayer of my curate,
and he had remained neutral; at all events he had not taken the
part of his priest, for he lost the day, and the infamous Protestant
remained master of the battle-field.

"The curate had to help his marguillier out of the snow in
which he was buried, and where he had lain like a slaughtered
ox. Both had to walk, or rather crawl, nearly half a mile in
snow to their knees, before they could reach the nearest farmhouse,
where they arrived when it was dark.

"But the worst is not told. You remember when my curate
had put the box containing the `good god' on the seat of the
sleigh, before going to fight. The horses had dragged the
sleigh a certain distance, upset and smashed it. The little silk
bag, with the silver box and its precious contents, was lost in the
snow, and though several hundred people had looked for it,
several days at different times, it could not be found. It was
only late in the month of June, that a little boy, seeing some
rags in the mud of the ditch, along the highway, lifted them and
a little silver box fell out. Suspecting that it was what the
people had looked for so many days during the last winter, he
took it to the parsonage.

"I was there when it was opened; we had the hope that the
`good god' would be found pretty intact, but we were doomed
to be disappointed, The good god was entirely melted away.
Le Bon Dieu etait fondu!"

During the recital of that spicy story, which was told in the
most amusing and comical way, the priests had drunk freely and
laughed heartily. But when the conclusion came: "Le Bon
Dieu etait fondu!"

"The good god was melted away!" There was a burst of
laughter such as I never heard—the priests striking the floor
with their feet, and the table with their hands, filled the house
with the cries, "The good god melted away!"

"The good god melted away!"

"Le Bon Dieu est fondu!" "Le Bon Dieu est fondu!"
Yes, the god of Rome, dragged away by a drunken priest, and
really melted away in the muddy ditch. This glorious fact was

proclaimed by his own priests in the midst of convulsive laughter,
and at tables covered with scores of bottles just emptied by them!

6. About the middle of March, 1839, I had one of the most
unfortunate days of my Roman Catholic priestly life. At about
two o'clock in the afternoon, a poor Irishman had come in haste
from beyond the high mountains, between Lake Beauport and the
river Morency, to ask me to go and anoint a dying woman. It
took me ten minutes to run to the church, put the "good god" in
the little silver box, shut the whole in my vest pocket and jump
into the Irishman's rough sleigh. The roads were exceedingly
bad, and we had to go very slowly. At 7 p. m. we were yet
more than three miles from the sick woman's house. It was
very dark, and the horse was so exhausted that it was impossible
to go any further through the gloomy forest. I determined to
pass the night at a poor Irish cabin which was near the road. I
knocked at the door, asked hospitality, and was welcomed with
that warm-hearted demonstration of respect which the Roman
Catholic Irishman knows, better than any other man, how to pay
to his priests.

The shanty, twenty-four feet long by sixteen wide, was built
with round logs, between which a liberal supply of clay, instead
of mortar had been thrown, to prevent the wind and cold from
entering. Six fat, though not absolutely well-washed, healthy
boys and girls, half-naked, presented themselves around their
good parents as the living witnesses that this cabin, in spite of its
ugly appearance, was really a happy home for its dwellers.

Besides the eight human beings sheltered beneath that hospitable
roof, I saw, at one end, a magnificent cow with her newborn
calf, and two fine pigs. These two last boarders were
separated from the rest of the family only by a branch partition
two or three feet high.

"Please your reverence," said the good woman, after she had
prepared our supper, "excuse our poverty, but be sure that we
feel happy and much honored to have you in our humble dwelling
for the night. My only regret is that we have only potatoes,
milk and butter to give you for your supper. In these
backwoods, tea, sugar and wheat flour are unknown luxuries."

I thanked that good woman for her hospitality, and caused
her to rejoice not a little by assuring her that good potatoes,
fresh butter and milk, were the best delicacies which could be
offered to me in any place. I sat at the table and ate one of the
most delicious suppers of my life. The potatoes were exceedingly
well-cooked—the butter cream and milk of the best quality, and
my appetite was not a little sharpened by the long journey over
the steep mountains.

I had not told these good people, nor even my driver, that I
had "Le bon Dieu," the good god, with me in my vest pocket.
It would have made them too uneasy, and would have added too
much to my other difficulties. When the time of sleeping arrived,
I went to bed with all my clothing, and slept well; for I
was very tired by the tedious and broken roads from Beauport
to these distant mountains.

Next morning, before breakfast and the dawn of day, I was
up, and as soon as we had a glimpse of light to see our way, I
left for the house of the sick woman, after offering a silent prayer.

I had not not traveled a quarter of a mile when I put my hand
into my vest pocket, and to my indescribable dismay, I found that
the little silver box containing the "good god" was missing.
A cold sweat ran through my frame. I told my driver to stop
and turn back immediately, that I had lost something which
might be found in the bed where I had slept. It did not take
five minutes to retrace our way.

On opening the door I found the poor woman and her husband
almost besides themselves, and distressed beyond measure.
They were pale and trembling as criminals who expected to be
condemned.

"Did you not find a little silver box after I left?" I said.

"O, my God!" answered the desolate woman, "Yes, I have
found it, but would to God I had never seen it. There it is."

"But why do you regret finding it, when I am too happy to
find it here, safe in your hands?" I replied.

"Ah! your reverence, you do not know what a terrible
misfortune has just happened to me not more than half a minute
before you knocked at the door."

"What misfortune can have fallen upon you in so short a
time," I answered.

"Well, please your reverence, open the little box and you
will understand me."

I opened it, but the "good god" was not in it!! Looking
in the face of the poor distressed woman, I asked her, "What
does this mean? It is empty!"

"It means," answered she, "that I am the most unfortunate
of women! Not more than five minutes after you had left the
house, I went to your bed and found that little box. Not
knowing what it was, I showed it to my children and to my
husband. I asked him to open it, but he refused to do it. I
then turned it on every side, trying to guess what it could contain;
till the devil tempted me so much that I determined to open it.
I came to this corner, where this pale lamp is used to remain on
that little shelf, and I opened it. But, O, my God; I do not
dare to tell the rest."

At these words she fell on the floor in a fit of nervous excitement—her
cries were piercing, her mouth was foaming. She
was cruelly tearing her hair with her own hands. The shrieks
and lamentations of the children were so distressing that I could
hardly prevent myself from crying also.

After a few moments of the most agonizing anxiety, seeing
that the poor woman was becoming calm, I addressed myself to
the husband, and said: "Please give me the explanation of these
strange things?"

He could hardly speak at first, but as I was very pressing, he
told me with a trembling voice: "Please your reverence; look
into that vessel that the children use, and you will perhaps
understand our desolation! When my wife opened the little
silver box, she did not observe the vessel was there, just beneath
her hands. In the opening, what was in the silver box fell into
that vase, and sank! We were all filled with consternation
when you knocked at the door and entered."

I felt struck with such unspeakable horror at the thought
that the body, blood, soul and divinity of my Saviour, Jesus
Christ, was there, sunk into that vase, that I remained speechless,

and for a long time did not know what to do. At first it came
to my mind to plunge my hands into the vase and try to get my
Saviour out of that sepulchre of ignominy. But I could not
muster courage to do so.

At last I requested the poor desolated family to dig a hole
three feet deep in the ground, and deposit it, with its contents,
and I left the house, after I had forbidden them from ever saying
a word about that awful calamity.

7. In one of the most sacred books of the laws and regulations
of the Church of Rome (Missale Romanism), we read,
page 58, "If the priest after the communion vomit, and that
in the vomited matter the consecrated bread appears, let him
swallow what he has vomited. But if he feels too much
repugnance to swallow it, let him separate the body of
Christ (the consecrated bread), from the vomited matter,
till it be entirely corrupted, and then throw it into the
sacrarium."

8. When a priest of Rome, I was bound, with all the
Roman Catholics, to believe that Christ had taken His own
body, with his own hand to His mouth! and that he had eaten
Himself, not in a spiritual, but in a substantial, material way!
After eating himself, he had given himself to each one of his
apostles, who then ate him also!!

9. Before closing this chapter, let the reader allow me to
ask him, if the world in its darkest ages of paganism has ever
witnessed such a system of idolatry, so debasing, impious,
ridiculous and diabolical in its consequences as the Church of
Rome teaches in the dogma of transubstantiation!

When, with the light of the gospel in hand, the Christian
goes into those horrible recesses of superstition, folly and impiety,
he can hardly believe what his eyes see and his ears hear. It
seems impossible that men can consent to worship a god whom
the rats can eat! A god who can be dragged away and lost in
a muddy ditch by a drunken priest! A god who can be eaten,
vomited, and eaten again by those who are courageous enough
to eat again what they have vomited!!

The religion of Rome is not a religion: it is the mockery,

the destruction, the ignominious carricature of religion. The
Church of Rome, as a public fact, is nothing but the accomplishment
of the awful prophecy: "Because they receive not the
love of the truth that they might be saved, God shall send them
strong delusions that they might believe a lie." (2 Thess. ii. x.
xi.)