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.
Chapter XXXIII.
MY NOMINATION AS CURATE OF BEAUPORT—DEGRADATION AND RUIN OF THAT PLACE THROUGH DRUNKENNESS—MY OPPOSITION TO MY NOMINATION USELESS—PREPARATIONS TO ESTABLISH A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY—I WRITE TO FATHER MATHEW FOR ADVICE.
The 21st of September, 1838, was a day of desolation to me. On that day I received the letter of my bishop, appointing me curate of Beauport.
Many times, I had said to the other priests, when talking about our choice of the different parishes, that I would never consent to be curate of Beauport.
That parish, which is a kind of a suburb of Quebec, was too justly considered the very nest of the drunkards of Canada. With a soil of unsurpassed fertility, inexhaustible lime quarries, gardens covered with most precious vegetables and fruits, forests near at hand to furnish wood to the city of Quebec, at their doors, the people of Beauport were, nevertheless, classed among the poorest, most ragged and wretched people of Canada. For almost every cent they were getting at the market went into the hands of the saloon-keepers.