But, just as the eyes of Thomas were opened, and his intelligence was convinced of the divinity of Christ, only after he had seen the wounds in his hands and side, so I could never have believed that the monastic institutions were of heathen and diabolical origin, if my God had not forced me to see with my own eyes, and to touch with my fingers, their unspeakable corruptions.
Though I remained for some time longer, a sincere Catholic priest, I dare say that God himself had just broken the strongest tie of my affections and respect for that church.
It is true that several pillars remained, on which my robust faith in the holiness and apostolicity of the church rested for a few years longer, but I must here confess, to the glory of God, that the most solid of those pillars had forever crumbled to pieces, when in the monastery of Longueuil.
Long before my leaving the oblates, many influential priests of the district of Montreal, had told me that my only chance of success, if I wanted to continue my crusade against the demon of drunkenness, was to work alone.
“Those monks are pretty good speakers on temperance,” they unanimously said, “but they are nothing else than a band of comedians. After delivering their eloquent tirades against the use of intoxicating drinks, to the people, the first thing they do is to ask for a bottle of wine, which soon disappears! What fruit can we expect from the preaching of men who do not believe a word of what they say, and who are the first, among themselves, to turn their own arguments into ridicule? It is very different with you; you believe what you say; you are consistent with yourself; your hearers feel it; your profound, scientific and Christian conviction pass into them with an irresistible power.
“God visibly blesses your work with a marvellous success! Come to us,” said the curates, “not as sent by the superior of the oblates, but as sent by God himself, to regenerate Canada. Present yourself as a French Canadian priest; a child of the people. That people will hear you with more pleasure, and follow your advice with more perseverance.
“Let them know and feel that Canadian blood runs in your veins; that a Canadian heart beats in your breast; continue to be in the future, what you have been in the past. Let the sentiments of the true patriot be united with those of a Catholic priest; and when you address the people of Canada, the citadels of Satan will crumble everywhere before you in the district of Montreal, as they have done in that of Quebec.”
At the head of the French Canadian curates, who thus spoke, was my venerable personal friend and benefactor, the Rev. Mr. Brassard, curate of Longueuil. He had not only been one of my most devoted friends and teachers, when I was studying m the college of Nicolet, but had helped me, with his own money, to go through the last four years of my studies, when I was too poor to meet my collegiate expenses. No one had thought more highly than he of the oblates of Mary Immaculate, when they first settled in Canada. But their monastery was too near the parsonage for their own benefit. His sharp eyes, high intelligence and integrity of character, soon detected that there was more false varnish than pure gold, on their glittering escutcheon. Several love scrapes between some of the oblates and the pretty young ladies of his parish, and the long hours of night spent by Father Allard with the nuns, established in his village, under the pretext of teaching them grammar and arithmetic, had filled him with disgust. But what had absolutely destroyed his confidence, was the discovery of a long suspected iniquity, which at first seemed incredible to him. Father Guigues, the superior, after his nomination, but before his installation to the Bishopric of Ottawa, had been closely watched, and at last discovered opening the letters of Mr. Brassard, which, many times, had passed from the post office through his hands. That criminal action came very near being brought before the legal courts by Mr. Brassard; this was avoided only by Father Guigues acknowledging his guilt, asking pardon in the most humiliating way, before me and several other witnesses.
Long before I left the oblates, Mr. Brassard had said to me: “The oblates are not the men you think them to be. I have been sorely disappointed in them, and your disappointment will be no less than mine, when your eyes are opened. I know that you will not remain long in their midst. I offer you, in advance, the hospitality of my parsonage, when your conscience calls you out of their monastery!”
I availed myself of this kind invitation on the evening of the 1st of November, 1847.