MY FIRST SCHOOL-DAYS AT ST. THOMAS—THE MONK AND CELIBACY.
In the month of June, 1818, my parents sent me to an excellent school 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 manners of brother
Mark which I have found in no one else. He was fond of children: and
nothing 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 monastery to which he belonged,
from their vows of poverty and obedience. The consequence was that they
could become sic 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 infallible
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 tragedy. 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 pressure 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 despair
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!