The Little Gleaner Part 36

WHAT A PRIEST THOUGHT OF ROMAN CATHOLIC MIRACLES.

"_After the working of Satan with all power, and signs, and lying wonders._"--2 THESSALONIANS ii. 9.

In the autumn of 1836, the Marine hospital of Quebec, in Canada, was filled with patients suffering from ship typhoid fever, and so deadly was the disease that, by the following spring, a number of the officials and servants of the inst.i.tution had also been smitten, and died.

Chiniquy had hitherto been spared, although in constant attendance on the patients, but in May, 1837, he was attacked with the fearful disease. His life was despaired of, and the last Sacraments were administered to him. He could not speak. His tongue became like a piece of wood, and all that could be given him was a little cold water, dropped with much difficulty through his teeth.

On the thirteenth night of his illness, he heard the doctors whisper, "He is dead, or nearly so," and they left the room. A deep horror seized him. An icy wave seemed to creep over his whole frame, and a terrible vision rose before his mind. A pair of scales stood before him. His sins were in one scale; his good works and penances in the other; and all his righteousness seemed but a grain of sand compared with a mountain load of guilt, and to G.o.d he dared not cry for mercy. But he thought of two saints--St. Anne, who was believed to have cured hundreds of cripples, and St. Philomene, who was just then the favourite saint of Rome. To these he cried, with all the earnestness of his failing soul, and soon a bright vision came before him of an aged, grave lady, and a young and beautiful one, the latter distinctly saying to him, "You will be cured."

The vision then disappeared, but the fever had gone also. The crisis was over. He was hungry, and asked for food, which was at once given him, and he ravenously ate the dainties prepared, while the friendly priests gathered round him joyfully, and sang a hymn of praise.

Of course they believed that the saints had cured him, and the Roman Catholic doctors shared their idea; but a Protestant physician denied it altogether, and in a kind manner he tried to prove that no miracle had been wrought, but that returning health came from natural causes, by the will and blessing of G.o.d.

Chiniquy was unwilling, however, to change his mind on the subject, and, true to the vow he made in the hour of fear, he got a splendid picture painted, at a cost of 50, representing his vision as he lay seemingly on the bed of death.

Three months later, he was in the house of the curate of St. Anne, a cousin of his, and he showed him the picture he intended to exhibit in the church next day. But, to his surprise and grief, his older relative, instead of sharing his belief, laughed heartily at his folly, asking him how he, as a man of sense, could possibly believe in such a miracle.

Chiniquy reminded him of all the crutches hanging in St. Anne's Church, belonging to the cripples she had cured, which remark gave rise to another burst of laughter on the curate's part. But, sobering down, he seriously declared that, having carefully watched these so-called cures, he had found that ninety-nine out of every hundred were impostures, the hundredth one being an honest belief, but a superst.i.tious and fancied one.

These pretended cripples were nearly always lazy beggars, who knew that their seeming lameness would get them pity and money, and, when tired of that game, they would make a begging tour, telling all their helpers that they were going to the church of St. Anne, to pray for the use of their legs.

They at last arrive there, pay from one to five dollars to have a ma.s.s said for them, and then, in the midst of the ceremony, just as they receive the wafer, there is a cry of joy. They are cured, and they leave their crutches behind as witnesses of their cure. They then return, and tell all who will listen as they go along, receiving fresh gifts from them until they get home again, to take a farm and settle down with their dishonest gains.

"Such," said the curate, "is the true history of the ninety-nine miracles. In the hundredth case the man is really cured, because he was really afflicted; but his nerves were wrought upon just as I was once cured of a dreadful toothache by seeing the dentist put his instrument on the table. I took my hat and left, and the dentist laughed heartily every time he met me afterwards.

"One of the weakest points of our religion is the ridiculous miracles said to be wrought by the relics and bones of saints. For the most part, they are the bones of chickens or sheep; and were I a Pope, I would throw all these Pagan mummeries to the bottom of the sea, and would present to the eyes of sinners nothing but 'Christ and Him crucified' as the Object of their faith, just as the Apostles of Jesus do in their Epistles!"

They talked together in this strain till two o'clock in the morning, and then Chiniquy was too puzzled and sad to sleep.

Next morning, mult.i.tudes came to see his picture, and hear about his cure, which he long afterwards believed to be a miracle. Soon after he had finally left his priesthood, however, he again caught the fever, while visiting a dying man, and again on the thirteenth day the malady took a favourable turn; but this time he had felt happy in the prospect of dying, and the vision he saw at the crisis of the disease was not St.

Anne, or St. Philomene, but a dozen bishops, dagger in hand, rushing on him to take his life. He thought he turned on them and slew them, and with this the fever left him. He asked for food, and speedily recovered, and then he knew that it was the Lord who had forgiven all his iniquities, who had also healed his diseases, without the aid of any of the saints of Rome, and the snare which had long held him captive was broken. He no longer sought the aid of departed saints in heaven, any more than he thought of again praying for souls in purgatorial fires.

The Word of G.o.d was henceforth his only guide. May the religion of the Bible only, be our religion also.--_Jottings on "The Life and Work of Father Chiniquy," by Cousin Susan._

COUNTING THE COST.

There are some curious stories respecting Fra Rocco, the celebrated preacher of Naples. On one occasion, it is related, he preached a penitential sermon, and introduced so many ill.u.s.trations of terror that he soon brought his hearers to their knees. While they were thus showing every sign of contrition, he cried out--

"Now, all of you who sincerely repent of your sins, hold up your hands."

Every man in the vast mult.i.tude immediately stretched out both his hands.

"Holy Archangel Michael," exclaimed Rocco, "thou who with thine adamantine sword standest at the right of the judgment-seat of G.o.d, hew me off every hand which has been raised hypocritically."

In an instant every hand dropped, and Rocco, of course, poured forth a fresh torrent of eloquent invective against their sins and their deceit.

[True repentance is given by Jesus Christ, the exalted Prince and Saviour. All other is but mere show, and unavailing before G.o.d.--ED.]

A HEART without a gift is better than a gift without a heart.

JUVENILE GEMS.

The subjects of these memoirs--Ann Jane Woolford, George Woolford, and Hephzibah Woolford--were born in the beautiful town of Cheltenham, August 20th, 1840, January 28th, 1842, and February 14th, 1846.

The names of their parents were George and Ann Woolford, both members of the Church a.s.sembling for worship in Bethel Chapel, Cheltenham.

In all, four children shared their affection, interested their solicitudes, listened to their counsels, and knelt at their domestic altar.

Upon three out of the four the grave closed in comparative infancy; and, believing the "kindness and love of G.o.d our Saviour toward man" appeared to them, the bereaved mother, partly to indulge in a subject of mournful interest, and partly to record the gracious dealings of G.o.d, drew up, with her own hand, the subjoined narrative:--

GEORGE.

"My eldest child, George Woolford, was attacked by scarlatina on October 16th, 1851, from which he partially recovered, but died the following month.

"Perceiving his soul 'drawing nigh unto the grave, and his life to the destroyers,' I remarked, 'It will do you no harm to think of death, seeing we must all die.' With tears in his eyes he exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, I am afraid I shall not go to heaven.' I asked _why_ he thus feared. His answer was, 'I am afraid the Lord will not forgive me.' I said, 'My dear, the Lord is ready to forgive _all_ who from their hearts are sorry for their sins; and I hope the Holy Ghost will enable you to pray for divine forgiveness.' He seemed much affected by these remarks, but said he was too ill to talk or listen to me.

"In great earnestness (and I believe under divine influence) I entreated G.o.d to grant me the great favour of informing me whether my dear boy was interested in the everlasting covenant, which is 'ordered in all things, and sure.'

"About two or three days after, he commenced a conversation by saying, 'Mother, I am afraid I shall not go to heaven. I have been such a sinner. I am afraid I am so great a sinner that the Lord will not save me. I have done so many things that are sinful, and they come into my mind and make me grieve.' I repeated several portions of the Holy Scripture, to which he listened in great earnestness, and then inquired, 'But, as I have not long to live, will the Lord forgive me after putting it off so long?' I answered in the affirmative, and mentioned the dying thief, a.s.suring him the Lord was as willing to pardon him as He had been to pardon that malefactor. This relieved his mind, and he asked for his Testament to read.

"A few days after, while I was gazing intently on him, he meekly exclaimed, 'Do not look at me so, my dear mother. It almost breaks my heart.' I said, 'My dear boy, do you ever _pray_?' He answered, 'I _try_ to do so; but do not know that I pray _aright_.' I remarked, 'If it is from your heart, the Lord will answer it in His own time, for the prayer of necessity is that in which He delights.'

"On the Lord's Day before his death he appeared much better, ate a hearty dinner, and remained up till between four and five in the afternoon, when he exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, I am afraid my breath is getting bad again.' After several hours of great suffering, he cried out, 'Dear Lord, take me--do take me!' Hearing him thus call upon the name of the Lord, I approached him softly, and in soothing terms expressed my gladness at finding he was not afraid to die. 'No, dear mother,' he said, 'I am not afraid to die. I am happy now.' I inquired, 'Do you love the Lord?' 'Oh, yes,' was his ready answer, and immediately e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, 'Dearest Lord, take me--take me--take me!' a great many times.

"His pains becoming stronger, he said, 'Dear mother, do pray the dear Lord to take me!' I did so; and when risen from my knees, he said, 'Thank you, my dear mother. I hope the Lord will answer your prayer,'

and then added, 'Oh, my dear, dear Lord, do take me! Take me from this world now. I do not want to live here. Take me with my next breath. This moment, dear Lord, take me.'

"Observing the state of his mind, I put this question to him--'My dear boy, do you think the Lord has washed you in His blood, and clothed you in His precious righteousness?' 'Oh, yes, I do, mother,' was his prompt reply.

"His pains abating, he remarked, 'How kind the Lord is to me! I shall never be able to praise Him enough.' I said, 'My dear, you will have the countless ages of eternity to praise Him in.' He said, 'I want to go.' I answered, 'Pray for patience, that you may wait the Lord's time.' 'I am not impatient, but my pains are great,' was his meek reply, and he began entreating the Lord to remove him from this sinful world.

"A short time after this, he exclaimed, 'Oh, that precious Book, the Bible!' I answered, 'It is indeed a precious Book. It tells us of a Saviour, who washed you and me in His precious blood!' He said, 'Yes'; and added, 'Pray for Him to take me soon. Do, dear mother,' &c.

"Expressing a desire to kiss my hand, I gave him one. He held it very tightly, and kissed it several times. I asked him if he thought he had been a little sinner or a great one. Surprised by this question, and apparently hurt, he replied, 'Oh, mother, a _great_ one--a _great_ one.'

"Overhearing a part of my conversation with his aunt, he said, 'Oh, mother, do not ask the Lord to let me live. I want to die. I would not live half a second.'

"Shortly after, he repeated a similar prayer, wished to see his father, kiss him, and take his leave of him, which he did in an affectionate manner. He then inquired what o'clock it was, and being disappointed, cried out in a tone of thrilling solemnity, 'O Lord of Hosts, come and take me!' Shortly afterwards he exclaimed, lifting up his eyes and hands to heaven, 'I think I am dying. Pray again, dear mother, that the Lord may take me.' Persuaded of his interest in Christ, I was enabled to resign him, and much as I loved him, actually entreated the Lord to fetch him away. When this was over, he said, 'Thank you, my dearest mother. I hope the Lord will answer all your prayers before long.'