"Are they here,
The dead of other days? And did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? All is gone;
All, save the piles of earth that hold their bones,
The platforms where they worship'd unknown gods,
The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay."
_The Prairies._
The antiquity of "Monk Mound" is a circumstance which fails not to
arrest the attention of every visiter. That centuries have elapsed
since this vast pile of earth was heaped up from the plain, no one can
doubt: every circumstance, even the most minute and inconsiderable,
confirms an idea which the venerable oaks upon its soil conclusively
demonstrate. With this premise admitted, consider for a moment the
destructive effects of the elements even for a limited period upon the
works of our race. Little more than half a century has elapsed since
the war of our revolution; but where are the fortifications, and
parapets, and military defences then thrown up? The earthy ramparts of
Bunker Hill were nearly obliterated long ago by the levelling finger
of time, and scarce a vestige now remains to assist in tracing out the
line of defence. The same is true with these works all over the
country; and even those of the last war--those at Baltimore, for
example {164}--are vanishing as fast as the elements can melt them
away. Reflect, then, that this vast earth-heap of which I am writing
is composed of a soil far more yielding in its nature than they; that
its superfices are by no means compact; and then conceive, if you
_can_, its stupendous character before it had bided the rains, and
snows, and storm-winds of centuries, and before the sweeping floods of
the "Father of Waters" had ever circled its base. Our thoughts are
carried back by the reflection to the era of classic fiction, and we
almost fancy another war of the Titans against the heavens--
"Conati imponere Pelio Ossam--
--atque Ossæ frondosum involvere Olympum,"
if a quotation from the sweet bard of Mantua, upon a topic like the
present, may be pardoned. How large an army of labourers, without the
use of iron utensils, as we have every reason to suppose was the case,
would be required for scraping up from the prairie's surface this huge
pile; and how many years would suffice for its completion? No one can
doubt that the broad surface of the American Bottom, in its whole
length and breadth, together with all the neighbouring region on
either bank of the Mississippi, once swarmed with living men and
animals, even as does now the depths of its soil with their remains.
The collection of mounds which I have been attempting to describe
would seem to indicate two extensive cities within the extent of five
miles; and other groups of the same character may be seen upon a lower
section of the bottom, to say nothing of those within the more
immediate vicinity of St. {165} Louis. The design of these mounds, as
has been before stated, was various, undoubtedly; many were
sepulchres, some fortifications, some watch-towers or videttes, and
some of the larger class, among which we would place Monk Hill, were
probably devoted to the ceremonies of religion.
The number of the earth-heaps known as the Cantine Mounds is about
fifty, small and great. They lie very irregularly along the southern
and eastern bank of Cahokia Creek, occupying an area of some miles in
circuit. They are of every form and every size, from the mere
molehill, perceptible only by a deeper shade in the herbage, to the
gigantic Monk Mound, of which I have already said so much. This vast
heap stands about one hundred yards from the creek, and the slope
which faces it is very precipitous, and clothed with aged timber. The
area of the base is about six hundred yards in circumference, and the
perpendicular altitude has been estimated at from ninety to upward of
a hundred feet. The form is that of a rectangle, lying north and
south; and upon the latter extremity, which commands a view down the
bottom, is spread out a broad terrace, or rather a steppe to the main
body, about twenty feet lower than the summit, extending the whole
length of the side, and is one hundred and fifty feet in breadth. At
the left extremity of this terrace winds up the sloping pathway from
the prairie to the summit of the mound. Formerly this road sloped up
an inclined plane, projecting from the middle of the terrace, ten feet
in breadth and twenty in extent, and seemed graded for that purpose at
{166} the erection of the mound. This declivity yet remains, but now
forms part of a corn-field.
The view from the southern extremity of the mound, which is free from
trees and underbrush, is extremely beautiful. Away to the south sweeps
off the broad river-bottom, at this place about seven miles in width,
its waving surface variegated by all the magnificent hues of the
summer Flora of the prairies. At intervals, from the deep herbage is
flung back the flashing sheen of a silvery lake to the oblique
sunlight; while dense groves of the crab-apple and other indigenous
wild fruits are sprinkled about like islets in the verdant sea. To the
left, at a distance of three or four miles, stretches away the long
line of bluffs, now presenting a surface naked and rounded by groups
of mounds, and now wooded to their summits, while a glimpse at times
may be caught of the humble farmhouses at their base. On the right
meanders the Cantine Creek, which gives the name to the group of
mounds, betraying at intervals its bright surface through the belt of
forest by which it is margined. In this direction, far away in the
blue distance, rising through the mist and forest, may be caught a
glimpse of the spires and cupolas of the city, glancing gayly in the
rich summer sun. The base of the mound is circled upon every side by
lesser elevations of every form and at various distances. Of these,
some lie in the heart of the extensive maize-fields, which constitute
the farm of the proprietor of the principal mound, presenting a
beautiful exhibition of light and shade, shrouded as they are in the
dark, twinkling leaves. The most {167} remarkable are two standing
directly opposite the southern extremity of the principal one, at a
distance of some hundred yards, in close proximity to each other, and
which never fail to arrest the eye. There are also several large
square mounds covered with forest along the margin of the creek to the
right, and groups are caught rising from the declivities of the
distant bluffs.
Upon the western side of Monk Mound, at a distance of several yards
from the summit, is a well some eighty or ninety feet in depth; the
water of which would be agreeable enough were not the presence of
sulphur, in some of its modifications, so palpable. This well
penetrates the heart of the mound, yet, from its depth, cannot reach
lower than the level of the surrounding plain. I learned, upon
inquiry, that when this well was excavated, several fragments of
pottery, of decayed ears of corn, and other articles, were thrown up
from a depth of sixty-five feet; proof incontestible of the artificial
structure of the mound. The associations, when drinking the water of
this well, united with its peculiar flavour, are not of the most
exquisite character, when we reflect that the precious fluid has
probably filtrated, part of it, at least, through the contents of a
sepulchre. The present proprietor is about making a transfer, I was
informed, of the whole tract to a gentleman of St. Louis, who intends
establishing here a house of entertainment. If this design is carried
into effect, the drive to this place will be the most delightful in
the vicinity of the city.
Monk Mound has derived its name and much of {168} its notoriety from
the circumstance that, in the early part of the present century, for a
number of years, it was the residence of a society of ecclesiastics,
of the order _La Trappe_, the most ascetic of all the monastic
denominations. The monastery of La Trappe was originally situated in
the old province of Perche, in the territory of Orleannois, in France,
which now, with a section of Normandy, constitutes the department of
Orne. Its site is said to have been the loneliest and most desolate
spot that could be selected in the kingdom. The order was founded in
1140 by Rotrou, count of Perche; but having fallen into decay, and its
discipline having become much relaxed, it was reformed in 1664, five
centuries subsequent, by the Abbé Armand Rance. This celebrated
ecclesiastic, history informs us, was in early life a man of fashion
and accomplishments; of splendid abilities, distinguished as a
classical scholar and translator of Anacreon's Odes. At length, the
sudden death of his mistress Montbazon, to whom he was extremely
attached, so affected him that he forsook at once his libertine life,
banished himself from society, and introduced into the monastery of La
Trappe an austerity of discipline hitherto unknown.[129] The vows were
chastity, poverty, obedience, and perpetual silence. The couch was a
slab of stone, the diet water and bread once in twenty-four hours, and
each member removed a spadeful of earth every day from the spot of his
intended grave. The following passage relative to this monastery I
find quoted from an old French author; and as the {169} language and
sentiments are forcible, I need hardly apologize for introducing it
entire.
"_C'est la que se retirent, ceux qui out commis quelque crime secret,
dont les remords les poursuivent; ceux qui sont tourmentes de vapeurs
mélancoliques et religieuse; ceux qui ont oublie que Dieu est le plus
miséricordieux des pères, et qui ne voient en lui, que le plus cruel
des tyrans; ceux qui reduisent à vieu, les souffrances, la mort et la
passion de Jesu Crist, et qui ne voient la religion que du cote
effrayent et terrible: c'est la que sont pratique des austerite qui
abregent la vie, et sont injure à la divinité._"
During the era of the Reign of Terror in France, the monks of La
Trappe, as well as all the other orders of priesthood, were dispersed
over Europe. They increased greatly, however, notwithstanding
persecution, and societies established themselves in England and
Germany. From the latter country emigrated the society which planted
themselves upon the American Bottom. They first settled in the State
of Kentucky; subsequently they established themselves at the little
French hamlet of Florisant, and in 1809 they crossed the Mississippi,
and, strangely enough, selected for their residence the spot I have
been describing.[130] Here they made a purchase of about four hundred
acres, and petitioned Congress for a pre-emption right to some
thousands adjoining. The buildings which they occupied were never of a
very durable character, but consisted of about half a dozen large
structures of logs, on the summit of the mound about fifty yards to
the right {170} of the largest. This is twenty feet in height, and
upward of a hundred and fifty feet square; a well dug by the Trappists
is yet to be seen, though the whole mound is now buried in thickets.
Their outbuildings, stables, granaries, &c., which were numerous, lay
scattered about on the plain below. Subsequently they erected an
extensive structure upon the terrace of the principal mound, and
cultivated its soil for a kitchen-garden, while the area of the summit
was sown with wheat. Their territory under cultivation consisted of
about one hundred acres, divided into three fields, and embracing
several of the mounds.
The society of the Trappists consisted of about eighty monks, chiefly
Germans and French, with a few of our own countrymen, under
governance of one of their number called Father Urbain.[131] Had they
remained, they anticipated an accession to their number of about two
hundred monks from Europe. Their discipline was equally severe with
that of the order in ancient times. Their diet was confined to
vegetables, and of these they partook sparingly but once in
twenty-four hours: the stern vow of perpetual silence was upon them;
no female was permitted to violate their retreat, and they dug their
own graves. Their location, however, they found by no means favourable
to health, notwithstanding the severe simplicity of their habits.
During the summer months fevers prevailed among them to an alarming
extent; few escaped, and many died. Among the latter was Louis Antoine
Langlois, a native of Quebec, more familiarly known as François {171}
Marie Bernard, the name he assumed upon entering the monastery. He
often officiated in the former Catholic church of St. Louis, and is
still remembered by the older French inhabitants with warm emotions,
as he was greatly beloved.
The Trappists are said to have been extremely industrious, and some of
them skilful workmen at various arts, particularly that of
watchmaking; insomuch that they far excelled the same craft in the
city, and were patronised by all the unruly timepieces in the region.
They had also a laboratory of some extent, and a library; but the
latter, we are informed, was of no marvellous repute, embracing
chiefly the day-dreams of the Middle Ages, and the wondrous doings of
the legion of saints, together with a few obsolete works on medicine.
Connected with the monastery was a seminary for the instruction of
boys; or, rather, it was a sort of asylum for the orphan, the
desolate, the friendless, the halt, the blind, the deaf, and the dumb,
and also for the aged and destitute of the male sex. They subjected
their pupils to the same severe discipline which they imposed upon
themselves. They were permitted to use their tongues but two hours a
day, and then very _judiciously_: instead of exercising that "unruly
member," they were taught by the good fathers to gesticulate with
their fingers at each other in marvellous fashion, and thus to
communicate their ideas. As to juvenile sports and the frolics of
boyhood, it was a sin to dream of such things. They all received an
apprenticeship to some useful trade, however, and were no doubt
trained {172} up most innocently and ignorantly in the way they should
go. The pupils were chiefly sons of the settlers in the vicinity; but
whether they were fashioned by the worthy fathers into good American
citizens or the contrary, tradition telleth not. Tradition doth
present, however, sundry allegations prejudicial to the honest monks,
which we are bold to say is all slander, and unworthy of credence.
Some old gossips of the day hesitated not to affirm that the monks
were marvellously filthy in their habits; others, that they were
prodigiously keen in their bargains; a third class, that the younger
members were not so obdurate towards the gentler part of creation as
they _might have been_; while the whole community round about, _una
voce_, chimed in, and solemnly declared that men who neither might,
could, would, or should speak, were a little worse than dumb brutes,
and ought to be treated accordingly. However this may have been, it is
pretty certain, as is usually the case with our dear fellow-creatures
where they are permitted to know nothing at all about a particular
matter, the good people, in the overflowings of worldly charity,
imagined all manner of evil against the poor Trappist, and seemed to
think they had a perfect right to violate his property and insult his
person whenever they, in their wisdom and kind feeling, thought proper
to do so. But this was soon at an end. In 1813 the monks disposed of
their personal property, and leaving fever and ague to their
persecutors, and the old mounds to their primitive solitude, forsook
the country and sailed for France.
{173} Though it is not easy to palliate the unceremonious welcome with
which the unfortunate Trappist was favoured at the hand of our people,
yet we can readily appreciate the feelings which prompted their
ungenerous conduct. How strange, how exceedingly strange must it have
seemed to behold these men, in the garb and guise of a distant land,
uttering, when their lips broke the silence in which they were locked,
the unknown syllables of a foreign tongue; professing an austere, an
ancient, and remarkable faith; denying themselves, with the sternest
severity, the simplest of Nature's bounties; how strange must it have
seemed to behold these men establishing themselves in the depths of
this Western wilderness, and, by a fortuitous concurrence of events,
planting their altars and hearths upon the very tombs of a race whose
fate is veiled in mystery, and practising their austerities at the
forsaken temple of a forgotten worship! How strange to behold the
devotees of a faith, the most artificial in its ceremonies among men,
bowing themselves upon the high places reared up by the hands of those
who worshipped the Great Spirit after the simplest form of Nature's
adoration! For centuries this singular order of men had figured upon
the iron page of history; their legends had shadowed with mystery the
bright leaf of poetry and romance, and with them were associated many
a wild vision of fancy. And here they were, mysterious as ever, with
cowl, and crucifix, and shaven head, and the hairy "crown of thorns"
encircling; ecclesiastics the most severe of all the orders of
monarchism. How strange must it all {174} have seemed! and it is
hardly to be wondered at, unpopular as such institutions undoubtedly
were and ever have been in this blessed land of ours, that a feeling
of intolerance, and suspicion, and prejudice should have existed. It
is not a maxim of _recent_ date in the minds of men, that "whatever is
peculiar is false."
_Madison County, Ill._