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 mid-winter. 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 marguillier, 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 cou 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 marguillier, 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 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.)