University of Virginia Library

Chapter XXXII.

THE MIRACLES OF ROME—ATTACK OF TYPHOID FEVER—APPARITION
OF ST. ANNE AND ST. PHILOMENE—MY SUDDEN CURE
—THE CURATE OF ST. ANNE DU NORD, MONS RANVOIZE, A
DISGUISED PROTESTANT.

THE merchant fleet of the fall of 1836 had filled the Marine
Hospital of Quebec with the victims of a ship-typhoid fever
of the worst kind, which soon turned into an epidemic. Within
the walls of that institution Mr. Glackmeyer, the superintendent,
with two of the attending doctors, and the majority of the
servants, were swept away during the winter months.

I was, in the spring of 1837, almost the only one spared by
that horrible pest. In order not to spread terror among the citizens
of Quebec, the physicians and I had determined to keep
that a secret. But, at the end of May, I was forced to reveal it
to the Bishop of Quebec, My Lord Signaie; for I felt in my
whole frame, the first symptoms of the merciless disease. I prepared
myself to die, as very few who had been attacked by it
had escaped. I went to the bishop, told him the truth about the
epidemic, and requested him to appoint a priest, immediately, as
chaplain in my place, for I added, I feel the poison running
through my veins, and it is very probable that I have not more
than ten or twelve days to live.

The young Mons D. Estimanville was chosen, and though I
felt very weak, I thought it was my duty to initiate him in his
new and perilous work. I took him immediately to the hospital,
where he never had been before, and, when at a few feet from
the door, I said: "My young friend, it is my duty to tell you that
there is a dangerous epidemic raging in that house since last fall,
nothing has been able to stop it. The superintendent, two physicians
and most of the servants have been its victims. My

escape till now is almost miraculous. But these last ten hours I
feel the poison running through my whole body. You are
called by God to take my place; but before you cross the threshold
of that hospital, you must make the generous sacrifice of
your life; for you are going on a battle-field from which only
few have come out with their lives."

The young priest turned pale and said: "Is it possible that
such a deadly epidemic is raging where you are taking me?" I
answered: "Yes! my dear young brother, it is a fact, and I consider
it my duty to tell you not to enter that house, if you are
afraid to die!"

A few minutes of silence followed, and it was a solemn
silence, indeed! Did the angels of God appear to show him
the crown given to those who die for their brethren? I do
not know. What I do know is that, a few months later, that
young priest won the glorious crown by falling at his post of
duty. He then took his handkerchief and wiped away some
big drops of sweat, which were rolling from his forehead on his
cheeks, and said: "Is there a more holy and desirable way of
dying than in ministering to the spiritual and temporal wants of
my brethren? No! If it is the will of God that I should fall
when fighting at this post of danger, I am ready. Let his holy
will be done."

He followed me into the pestilential house with the heroic
step of the soldier who runs at the command of his general to
storm an impregnable citadel, when he is sure to fall. It took
me more than an hour to show him all the rooms, and introduce
him to the poor, but very dear sick and dying mariners.

I felt then so exhausted that two friends had to support me
on my return to the parsonage of St. Roch. My physicians
were immediately called (one of them, Dr. Rousseau, is still
living) and soon pronounced my case so dangerous that three
other physicians were called in consultation. For nine days, I
suffered the most horrible tortures in my brains and the very
marrow of my bones, from the fever, which so devoured my
flesh, as to seemingly leave but the skin.

On the ninth day, the physicians told the bishop, who

had visited me, that there was no hope for my recovery. The
last sacraments were administered to me, and I prepared myself
to die, as taught by the Church of Rome. The tenth day I was
absolutely motionless, and not able to utter a word. My tongue
was parched like a piece of dry wood.

Through the terrible ravage on the whole system, my very
eyes were so turned inside their orbits, the white part only could
be seen; no food could be taken from the beginning of the sickness
except a few drops of cold water, which were dropped
through my teeth with much difficulty. But, though all my
physical faculties seemed dead, my memory and my intelligence
were full of life, and acting with more power than ever.
Now and then, in the paroxysms of the fever, I used to see awful
visions. At one time, suspended by a thread at the top of a
high mountain, with my head down over a bottomless abyss; at
another, surrounded by merciless enemies, whose daggers and
swords were plunged through my body. But these were of
short duration, though they have left such an impression on my
mind that I still remember the minutest details. Death had at
first no terrors for me. I had done, to the best of my ability, all
that my church had told me to do to be saved. I had, every
day, given my last cent to the poor, fasted and done penance
almost enough to kill myself, made my confessions with the
greatest care and sincerity, preached with such zeal and earnestness
as to fill the whole city with admiration.

My pharisaical virtues and holiness, in a word, were of such
a glaring and deceitful character, and my ecclesiastical superiors
were so taken by them that they made the greatest efforts to
persuade me to become the first Bishop of Oregon and Vancouver.

One after the other, all the saints of heaven, beginning with
the Holy Virgin Mary, were invoked by me that they might pray
God to look down upon me in mercy, and save my soul.

On the thirteenth night, as the doctors were retiring, they
whispered to the Revs. Baillargeon and Parent, who were at my
bedside: "He is dead, or if not, he has only a few minutes to
live. He is already cold and breathless, and we cannot feel his

pulse." Though these words had been said in a very low tone,
they fell upon my ears as a peal of thunder. The two young
priests, who were my devoted friends, filled the room with such
cries, that the curate and the priest, who had gone to rest, rushed
to my room, and mingled their tears and cries with theirs.

The words of the doctor, "He is dead!" were ringing in my
ears as the voice of a hurricane; I suddenly saw that I was in
danger of being buried alive; no words can express the sense of
horror I felt at that idea. A cold, icy wave began to move slowly,
but it seemed to me, with irresistible force, from the extremities
of my feet and hands toward the heart, as the first symptoms of
approaching death. At that moment, I made a great effort to
see what hope I might have of being saved, invoking the help of
the blessed Virgin Mary. With lightning rapidity, a terrible vision
struck my mind; I saw all my good works and penances, in
which my church had told me to trust for salvation, in the balance
of the justice of God. These were in one side of the
scales, and my sins on the other. My good works seemed only
as a grain of sand compared with the weight of my sins.[2]

This awful vision entirely destroyed my false and pharisaical
security, and filled my soul with an unspeakable terror. I
could not cry to Jesus Christ, nor to God, his Father, for mercy;
for I sincerely believed what my church had taught me on that
subject, that they were both angry with me on account of my
sins. With much anxiety, I turned my thoughts, my soul and
hopes toward St. Anne and St. Philomene. The first was the
object of my confidences since the first time I had seen the
numberless crutches and other "Ex Votos" which covered the
Church of "La Bonne St. Anne du Nord," and the second was
the saint a la mode. It was said that her body had lately

been miraculously discovered, and the world was filled with the
noise of the miracles wrought through her intercession. Her
medals were on every breast, her pictures in every house, and
her name on all lips. With entire confidence in the will and
power of these two saints to obtain any favor for me, I invoked
them to pray God to grant me a few years more of life;
and with the utmost honesty of purpose, I promised to add to
my penances, and to live a more holy life, by consecrating
myself with more zeal than ever, to the service of the poor and
the sick. I added to my former prayer, the solemn promise to
have a painting of the two saints put in St. Anne's Church, to
proclaim to the end of the world their great power in heaven, if
they would obtain my cure and restore my health. Strange
to say! the last words of my prayer were scarcely uttered,
when I saw above my head St. Anne and St. Philomene, sitting
in the midst of a great light, on a beautiful golden cloud. St.
Anne was very old and grave, but St. Philomene was very
young and beautiful. Both were looking at me with great
kindness.

However, the kindness of St. Anne was mixed with such an
air of awe and gravity, that I did not like her looks; while St.
Philomene had such an expression of superhuman love and
kindness, that I felt myself drawn to her by a magnetic power,
when she said distinctly: "You will be cured!" and the vision
disappeard.

But I was cured, perfectly cured! At the disappearance of
the two saints, I felt as though an electric shock went through my
whole frame; the pains were gone, the tongue was untied, the
nerves were restored to their natural and easy power; my eyes
were opened, the cold and icy waves which were fast going
from the extremities to the regions of the heart, seemed to be
changed into a most pleasant warm bath, restoring life and
strength to every part of my body. I raised my head, stretched
out my hands, which I had not moved for three days, and looking
around, I saw the four priests. I said to them: "I am cured,
please give me something to eat, I am hungry."

Astonished beyond measure, two of them threw their arms

around my shoulders to help me sit a moment, and change my
pillow; when two others ran to the table which the kind nuns of
Quebec had covered with delicacies in case I might want them.
Their joy was mixed with fear, for they all confessed to me
afterwards that they at once thought that all this was nothing
but the last brilliant flash of light which the flickering lamp
gives before dying away. But they soon changed their minds
when they saw that I was eating ravenously, and that I was
speaking to them and thanking God with a cheerful though
very feeble voice. "What does this mean?" they all said. "The
doctors told us last evening that you were dead; and we have
passed the night not only weeping over your death, but praying
for your soul, to rescue it from the flames of purgatory, and now
you look so hungry, so cheerful and so well."

I answered: "It means that I was not dead, but very near
dying, and when I felt that I was to die, I prayed to St. Anne
and St. Philomene to come to my help and cure me; and they
have come. I have seen them both, there, above my head. Ah!
if I were a painter, what a beautiful picture I could make of that
dear old St. Anne and the still dearer St. Philomene! for it is St.
Philomene who has spoken to me as the messenger of the
mercies of God. I have promised to have their portraits painted
and put into the church of The Good St. Anne du Nord."

While I was speaking thus, the priests, filled with admiration
and awe, were mute; they could not speak, except with tears of
gratitude. They honestly believed with me that my cure was
miraculous, and consented with pleasure to sing that beautiful
hymn of gratitude, the "Te Deum."

The next morning the news of my miraculous cure spread
through the whole city with the rapidity of lightning, for besides
a good number of the first citizens of Quebec who were related
to me by blood, I had not less than 1,800 penitents who loved
and respected me as their spiritual father.

To give an idea of the kind inteaest of the numberless friends
whom God had given me when in Quebec, I will relate a single
fact. The citizens who were near our parsonage, having been
told by a physician that the inflammation of my brain was so

terrible that the least noise, even the passing of carriages or the
walking of horses on the streets, was causing me real torture,
they immediately covered all the surrounding streets with
several inches of straw to prevent the possibility of any more
noise.

The physicians having heard of my sudden cure, hastened to
come and see what it meant. At first, they could scarcely believe
their eyes. The night before, they had given me up for dead,
after thirteen days suffering with the most horrible and incurable
of diseases! And there I was, the very next morning, perfectly
cured! No more pain, not the least remnant of fever, all the
faculties of my body and mind perfectly restored!

They minutely asked me all the circumstances connected with
that strange, unexpected cure; and I told them simply but plainly,
how, at the very moment I expected to die, I had fervently
prayed to St. Anne and St. Philomene, and how they had come,
spoken to me and cured me.

Two of my physicians were Roman Catholics, and three
Protestants. They, at first, looked at each other without saying
a word. It was evident that they were not all partakers of my
strong faith in the power of the two saints. While the Roman
Catholic doctors, Messrs. Parent and Rousseau, seemed to believe
in my miraculous cure, the Protestants energetically protested
against that view in the name of science and common sense.

Dr. Douglas put me the following questions, and received the
following answers. He said:

"Dear Father Chiniquy, you know you have not a more devoted
friend in Quebec than I, and you know me too well to
suspect that I want to hurt your religious feelings when I tell
you that there is not the least appearance of a miracle in your so
happy and sudden cure. If you will be kind enough to answer
my questions, you will see that you are mistaken in attributing
to a miracle a thing which is most common and natural. Though
you are perfectly cured, you are very weak; please answer only
`yes' or `no' to my questions, in order not to exhaust yourself.
Will you be so kind as to tell us if this is the first vision you
have had during the period of that terrible fever?"

Ans. I have had many other visions, but I took them as
being the effect of the fever.

Doctor. Please make your answers shorter, or else I will
not ask you another question, for it would hurt you. Tell us
simply, if you have not seen in those visions, at times, very frightful
and terrible, and at others, very beautiful things?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Have not those visions stamped themselves on
your mind with such a power and vividness that you never
forget them, and that you deem them more realities than mere
visions of a sickly brain?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Did you not feel, sometimes, much worse, and
sometimes much better after those visions, according to their
nature?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. When at ease in your mind during that disease,
were you not used to pray to the saints, particularly to St. Anne
and St. Philomene?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. When you considered that death was very near
(and it was indeed) when you had heard my imprudent sentence
that you had only a few minutes to live, were you not taken
suddenly by such a fear of death as you never felt before?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Did you not then make a great effort to repel
death from you?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Do you know that you are a man of an exceedingly
strong will, and that very few men can resist you when
you want to do something? Do you not know that your will is
such an exceptional power that mountains of difficulties have
disappeared before you, here in Quebec? Have you not seen
even me, with many others, yielding to your will almost in spite
of ourselves, to do what you wanted?

With a smile, I answered, "Yes, sir."

Doctor. Do you not knew that the will, or if you like it

better, the soul, has a real, mysterious, and sometimes an irresistible,
power over the body, to silence its passions, calm its sufferings,
and really heal its diseases, particularly when they are of a
nervous nature, as in all cases of fever?

Ans. Yes, sir! I know that.

Doctor. Do you not remember seeing, many times, people
suffering dreadfully from toothache, coming to us to have their
teeth extracted, who were suddenly cured at the sight of the
knives and other surgical instruments we put upon the table for
use?

I answered, with a laugh, "Yes, sir. I have seen that very
often, and it has occurred to me once."

Doctor. Do you think that there was a supernatural power,
then, in the surgical implements, and that those sudden cures of
toothache were miraculous?

Ans. No, sir.

Doctor. Have you not read the volume of the Medical
Directory I lent you, on typhoid fever, where several cures exactly
like yours are reported?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Then, addressing the physicians, Dr. Douglas said to
them:

"We must not exhaust our dear Father Chiniquy. We are
too happy to see him full of life again, but from his answers you
understand that there is no miracle here. His happy and sudden
cure is a very natural and common thing. The vision was what
we call the turning-point of the disease, when the mind is powerfully
bent on some very exciting object, when that mysterious
thing of which we know so little as yet, called the will, the spirit,
the soul, fights as a giant against death, in which battle, pains,
diseases, and even death, are put to flight and conquered.

"My dear Father Chiniquy, from your own lips we have it;
you have fought, last night, the fever and approaching death, as
a giant. No wonder that you won the victory, and I confess, it
is a great victory. I know it is not the first victory you have
gained, and I am sure it will not be the last. It is surely God
who has given you that irresistible will. In that sense only does

your cure come from Him. Continue to fight and conquer as
you have done last night, and you will live a long life.
Death will long remember its defeat of last night, and will not
dare approach you any more, except when you will be so old
that you will ask it to come as a friend, and put an end to the
miseries of this present life. Good-bye."

And with friendly smiles, all the doctors pressed my hand
and left me, just as the bishop and the curate of Quebec, Mons.
Baillargeon, my confessor, were entering the room.

An old proverb says: "There is nothing so difficult as to
persuade a man who does not want to be persuaded." Though
the reasoning and kind words of the doctor ought to have been
gladly listened to by me, they had only bothered me. It was
infinitely more pleasant, and it seemed then, more agreeable to
God, and more according to my faith in the power of the saints
in heaven, to believe that I had been miraculously cured. Of
course, the bishop with his coadjutor, and my Lord Turgeon, as
well as my confessor, with the numberless priests and Roman
Catholics who visited me during my convalesence, confirmed me
in my views.

The skillful painter, Mr. Plamondon, recently from Rome,
was called, and painted at the price of $200 (£50) the tableau,
I had promised to put in the church of St. Anne du Nord. It
was one of the most beautiful and remarkable paintings of that
artist, who had passed several years in the Capitol of Fine Arts
in Italy, where he had gained a very good reputation for his
ability.

Three months after my recovery, I was at the parsonage of
the curate of St. Anne, the Rev. Mr. Ranvoize, a relative of
mine. He was about 64 years of age, very rich, and had a magnificent
library. When young he had enjoyed the reputation of
being one of the best preachers in Canada.

Never had I been so saddened and scandalized as I was by
him on this occasion. It was evening when I arrived with my
tableau. As soon as we were left alone, the old curate said: "Is
it possible, my dear young cousin, that you will make such a fool
of yourself to-morrow? That so-called miraculous cure is nothing

but "naturœ suprema vis," as the learned of all ages have called
it. Your so-called vision was a dream of your sickly brain, as
it generally occurs at the moment of the supreme crisis of the
fever. It is what is called the "turning-point" of the disease,
when a desperate effort of nature kills or cures the patient. As
for the vision of that beautiful girl, whom you call St. Philomene,
who has done you so much good, she is not the first girl,
surely, who has come to you in your dreams, and done you
good!" At these words he laughed so heartily that I feared
he would split his sides. Twice he repeated this unbecoming
joke.

I was, at first, so shocked at this unexpected rebuke, which I
considered as bordering on blasphemy, that I came very near
taking my hat, without answering a word, to go and spend the
night at his brother's; but, after a moment's reflection, I said to
him:

"How can you speak with such levity on so solemn a thing?
Do you not believe in the power of the saints, who, being
more holy and pure than we are, see God face to face,
speak to Him and obtain favors which he would refuse to us
rebels? Are you not the daily witness of the miraculous cures
wrought in your own church, under your own eyes? Why
those thousands of crutches which literally cover the walls of
your church?"

My strong faith, and the earnestness of my appeal to the
daily miracles of which he was the witness, and above all,
the mention of the numberless crutches suspended all over the
walls of his church, brought again from him such a Homeric
laugh, that I was disconcerted and saddened beyond measure.
I remained absolutely mute; I wished I had never come into
such company.

When he had laughed at me to his heart's content, he said:
"My dear cousin, you are the first one to whom I speak in this
way. I do it because, first: I consider you a man of intelligence,
and hope you will understand me. Secondly: because
you are my cousin. Were you one of those idiotic priests, real
blockheads, who form the clergy of to-day; or, were you a stranger

to me, I would let you go your way, and believe in those ridiculous,
degrading superstitions of our poor ignorant and blind people,
but I know you from your infancy, and I have known your
father, who was one of my dearest friends; the blood which
flows in your veins, passes thousands of times every day through
my heart. You are very young and I very old. It is a duty
of honor and conscience in me to reveal to you a thing which I
have thought better to keep till now, a secret between God and
myself. I have been here more than thirty years, and though our
country is constantly filled with the noise of the great and small
miracles wrought in my church, every day, I am ready to swear
before God, and to prove to any man of common sense, that not
a single miracle has been wrought in my church since I have
come here. Every one of the facts given to the Canadian people
as miraculous cures, are sheer impositions, deceptions, the work
of either fools, or the work of skillful impostors and hypocrites,
whether priests or laymen. Believe me, my dear cousin, I have
studied carefully the history of all those crutches. Ninety-nine
out of a hundred have been left by poor, lazy beggars, who, at
first, thought with good reason that, by walking from door to
door with one or two crutches, they would create more sympathy
and bring more into their purses; for how many will indignantly
turn out of doors a lazy, strong and healthful beggar,
who will feel great compassion, and give largely to a man who
is crippled, unable to work, and forced to drag himself painfully
on crutches? Those crutches are, then, passports from door to
door. They are the very keys to open both the hearts and purses.
But the day comes when that beggar has bought a pretty good
farm with his stolen alms; or when he is really tired, disgusted
with his crutches and wants to get rid of them! How can he do
that without compromising himself?

"By a miracle! Then, he will sometimes travel again hundreds
of miles from door to door, begging as usual, but this time,
he asks the prayers of the whole family, saying, `I am going to
the `good St. Anne du Nord' to ask her to cure my leg (or
legs). I hope she will cure me, as she has cured so many others,
I have great confidence in her power!"

"Each one gives twice, nay, ten times as much as before to
the poor cripple, making him promise that if he is cured, he will
come back and show himself, that they may bless the good St.
Anne with him. When he arrives here, he gives me sometimes
one, sometimes five dollars, to say mass for him. I take the
money, for I would be a fool to refuse it when I know that his
purse has been so well filled. During the celebration of the mass,
when he receives the communion, I hear generally, a great noise,
cries of joy! A miracle! A miracle!! The crutches are thrown
on the floor, and the cripple walks as well as you or I! And the
last act of that religious comedy is the most lucrative one, for he
fulfills his promise of stopping at every house he had ever been
seen with his crutches. He narrates how he was miraculously
cured, how his feet and legs became suddenly all right. Tears of
joy and admiration flow from every eye. The last cent of that
family is generally given to the impostor, who soon grows rich
at the expense of his dupes. This is the plain, but true story, of
ninety-nine out of every hundred of the cures wrought in my
church. The hundredth, is upon people as honest, but, pardon
me the expression, as blind and superstitious as you are; they
are really cured, for they were really sick. But their cures are
the natural effects of the great efforts of the will. It is the result
of a happy combination of natural causes which work together
on the frame, and kill the pain, expel the disease and restore
to health, just as I was cured of a most horrible toothache,
some years ago. In the paroxysm, I went to the dentist and requested
him to extract the affected tooth. Hardly had his knife
and other surgical instruments come before my eyes than the
pain disappeared. I quietly took my hat and left, bidding a
hearty `good-by' to the dentist, who laughed at me every time
we met, to his heart's content.

"One of the weakest points of our religion is in the ridiculous,
I venture to say, diabolical miracles, performed and believed
every day among us, with the so-called relics and bones of the
saints.

"But, don't you know that, for the most part, these relics
are nothing but chickens' or sheeps' bones. And what

could not say, were I to tell you of what I know of the daily
miraculous impostures of the scapulars, holy water, chaplets and
medals of every kind. Were I a pope, I would throw all these
mummeries, which come from paganism, to the bottom of the sea,
and would present to the eyes of the sinners, nothing but Christ
and Him crucified as the object of their faith, invocation and
hope, for this life and the next, just as the Apostle Paul, Peter
and James do in their Epistles."

I cannot repeat here, all that I heard, that night, from that
old relative, against the miracles, relics, scapulars, purgatory,
false saints and ridiculous practices of the Church of Rome. It
would take too long, for he spoke three hours as a real Protestant.
Sometimes what he said to me seemed according to common
sense, but as it was against the practices of my church, and
against my personal practices, I was exceedingly scandalized and
pained, and not at all convinced. I pitied him for having lost
his former faith and piety. I told him at the end, without ceremony:
"I heard, long ago, that the bishops did not like you,
but I knew not why. However, if they could hear what you
think and say here about the miracles of St. Anne, they would
surely interdict you."

"Will you betray me?" he added, "and will you report our
conversation to the bishop?"

"No, my cousin," I replied, "I would prefer to be burned
to ashes. I will not sell your kind hospitality for the traitor's
money."

It was two o'clock in the morning when we parted to go to
our sleeping rooms. But that night was again a sleepless one
to me. Was it not too sad and strange for me to see that that
old and learned priest was secretly a Protestant!

The next morning, the crowds began to arrive, not by hundreds,
but by thousands, from the surrounding parishes. The
channel between "L'Isle D'Orleans" and St. Anne, was literally
covered with boats of every size, laden with men and women
who wanted to hear from my own lips, the history of my
miraculous cure, and see, with their own eyes, the picture of the
two saints who had appeared to me. At 10 A. M., more than

10,000 people were crowded inside and outside the walls of the
Church.

No words can give an idea of my emotion and of the emotion
of the multitude when, after telling them in a simple and plain
way, what I then considered a miraculous fact, I disclosed to
their eyes, and presented it to their admiration and worship.
There were tears rolling on every cheek and cries of admiration
and joy from every lip.

The picture represented me dying in my bed of sufferings,
and the two saints seen, at a distance, above me, and stretching
their hands, as if to say: "You will be cured." It was hung on
the walls, in a conspicuous place, where thousands and thousands
have come to worship it from that day to the year 1858, when
the curate was ordered by the bishop to burn it, for it had pleased
our merciful God, that very year, to take away the scales which
were on my eyes and show me his saving light, and I had published
all over Canada, my terrible, though unintentional error,
in believing in that false miracle. I, however, was honest in
my belief in a miraculous cure; and the apparition of the two
saints had left such a deep impression on my mind, that, I confess
it to my shame, the first week after my conversion, I very
often said to myself: "How is it that I now believe that the
Church of Rome is false, when such a miracle has been wrought
on me as one of her priests?"

But, our God, whose mercies are infinite, knowing my honesty
when a slave of Popery, was determined to give me the full
understanding of my errors in this way.

About a month after my conversion, in 1858, I had to visit a
dying Irish convert from Romanism, who had caught in Chicago,
the same fever which so nearly killed me at the Marine
Hospital of Quebec. I again caught the disease, and during
twelve days, passed through the same tortures and suffered the
same agonies as in 1837. But this time, I was really happy to
die; there was no fear for me to see the good works as a grain
of sand in my favor, and the mountains of my iniquities in the
balance of God against me. I just had given up my pharisaical
holiness of old; it was no more in my good works, my alms,

my penances, my personal efforts, I was trusting to be saved;
it was in Jesus alone. My good works were no more put by
me in the balance of the justice of God to pay my debts and to
appeal for mercy. It was the blood of Jesus, the Lamb slain
from the foundation of the world for me, which was in the balance.
It was the tears of Jesus, the nails, the crown of thorns,
the heavy cross, the cruel death of Jesus only, which was there
to pay my debts and to cry for mercy. I had no fear then, for
I knew that I was saved by Jesus, and that that salvation was
a perfect act of His love, His mercy and His power; I was glad
to die.

But when the doctor had left me, the thirteenth day of my
sufferings, saying the very same words of the doctors of Quebec:
"He has only a few minutes to live, if he be not already dead,"
the kind friends who were around my bed, filled the room with
their cries! Although, for three or four days, I had not moved
a finger, said a single word, or given any sign of life, I was perfectly
conscious. I had heard the words of the doctor and I was
glad to exchange the miseries of this short life for that eternity
of glory which my Saviour had bought for me. I only regretted
to die before bringing more of my dear countrymen out of the
idolatrous religion of Rome, and from the lips of my soul, I said:
"Dear Jesus, I am glad to go with thee just now, but if it be
thy will to let me live a few years more, that I may spread the
light of the gospel among my countrymen; grant me to live a
few years more, and I will bless thee eternally, with my converted
countrymen, for thy mercy. This prayer had scarcely
reached the mercy seat, when I saw a dozen bishops marching
toward me, sword in hand, to kill me. As the first sword raised
to strike was coming down to split my head, I made a desperate
effort, wrenched it from the hand of my would-be murderer,
and struck such a blow on his neck that the head rolled down to
the floor. The second, third, fourth, and so on to the last,
rushed to kill me; but I struck such terrible blows on the necks
of every one of them, that twelve heads were rolling on the floor
and swimming in a pool of blood. In my excitement, I cried to
my friends around me: "Do you not see the heads rolling and
the blood flowing on the floor?"

And suddenly I felt a kind of electric shock from head to foot.
I was cured! perfectly cured!! I asked my friends for something
to eat; I had not taken any food for twelve days. And
with tears of joy and gratitude to God, they complied with my
request.

This last cure was not only the perfect cure of the body, but
it was a perfect cure of the soul. I understood then clearly that
the first was not more miraculous than the second. I had a perfect
understanding of the diabolical forgeries and miracles of
Rome. I was not cured or saved by the saints, the bishops or
the Popes, but by my God, through his son Jesus.