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.