Her intercourse with the troops during this period gave Amélie an insight

into the deplorable ignorance in matters of faith that existed in the

majority of them, and the absence of all religious instruction in the

army; it filled her with surprise and grief, and she determined to set to

work and bring about a change in both.

Reforms are proverbially difficult, and in any branch of the public

service pre‐eminently so. But difficulties only stimulate strong hearts to

more strenuous efforts. Amélie was, owing to her high intelligence, her

well‐known virtue, and her widespread relations, better calculated than

most people perhaps to succeed in the undertaking; besides, whatever the

obstacles were, she never reckoned with human means when God’s work was to

be done; she called him to the rescue, and left the issue in his hands. It

would be impossible to recount all she did and suffered in this most

arduous undertaking, the journeys she took, the petitions she drew up, the

letters she wrote, the disappointments and antagonism that attended it in

the beginning, and the physical and moral fatigue that it involved all

through. The frequent and successive journeys of eighteen hours to Paris

and the same back would have been a serious trial of strength to a strong

person; but to Amélie, whose health was extremely delicate, and who hardly

ever knew the sensation of being without pain, most frequently acute and

intense pain, the wear and tear of those journeys in the sultry heat of

summer and the bitter cold of winter alike must have been terrible. But

she made small account of her body, she drove it on like a beast of

burden, goading it with the ardor of her spirit, and never gave in to its

lamentations until it positively refused to go on. Her own shortcomings

were, however, the lightest portion of her difficulties. She had obstacles

to overcome on every side, especially in quarters where it was most

essential for her to find approval and assistance. Silvio Pellico said it

was easier to traverse a battle‐field than the antechamber of a king, and

the same may be said most likely of the antechamber of a minister. At

least Amélie found it so. Many a brave spirit might well have given up in

despair before the contemptuous rudeness and petty opposition of small

functionaries, and the inaccessible coldness of great ones, and the

disheartening predictions of well‐wishers who had gone through similar

experiences, and knew what it was to want anything, even in the natural

course of things, done at the War Office; but Amélie’s courage never

flagged for a moment. By degrees her perseverance began to meet with some

signs of success. It was known that one military man in high repute

supported her views, and was doing his best to enable her to carry them

out; this converted others. Several who had in the first instance treated

her project as impracticable, or unnecessary, or simply absurd, one after

another came over to her; it was not always because she convinced them,

but she won them; they might resist her arguments, but it was impossible

to come often in contact with her without feeling the contagion of her

earnestness and sincerity of purpose. Her labors were finally crowned with

abundant success. She obtained all the concessions she asked, and every

facility for carrying them out and improving the spiritual condition of

the soldiers. One of her chief anxieties had been for the condemned

prisoners in the Fort St. Nicholas. She obtained permission for one of the

dungeons to be turned into a chapel there, and it was henceforth her

delight to go there on the great feasts and decorate the altar, and make

it gay with lights and flowers for the captives. A chaplain was appointed

to the fort, and he was allowed every facility for the exercise of his

ministry.

The little _enfants de troupe_ whose youth recommended them to Amélie’s

solicitude were provided with the needful means of religious instruction

by the establishment of a school, over which she herself presided from

time to time, cheering on the pupils by good advice, and occasional

presents to the most industrious and deserving. General de Courtigis, who

commanded the garrison for many years at Marseilles, and left behind him a

memory respected by all good men, had been from the first a staunch ally

of Amélie’s in her endeavors to introduce a Christian spirit amongst both

the officers and men. At her suggestion he organized a military Mass every

Sunday at the Church of S. Charles, and there a great number of men, with

the general at their head, assisted regularly at the Holy Sacrifice. It

was a great treat to Amélie, whenever she could find time, to go and

assist at it with them. She enjoyed the martial appearance and reverent

bearing of the soldiers with a sort of motherly pride, and the sharp word

of command, and the clanking of the bayonets when they presented arms at

the solemn moment of consecration, used to send a thrill of emotion

through her frame that often melted her to tears.

“Oh!” she was heard once to exclaim, on coming out of S. Charles’, “what a

grand and consoling spectacle it is, to see our soldiers publicly

worshipping God! One feels that they must be invincible in battle when

they set out with the blessing of God on their arms.”

The troops, on their side, repaid her interest in them by the most

enthusiastic affection. They used to call her _notre mère_ amongst

themselves, and it delighted Amélie to hear a grizzly old veteran address

her by this familiar name. Sometimes the brave fellows’ gratitude

expressed itself in a way that was rather trying to their adopted mother.

A regiment which had been quartered at Marseilles, and received many

proofs of zeal and kindness from Amélie during its stay there, happened to

hear, when passing through Lyons some years later, that she was stopping

there. They started off at once in full force, and gave her a military

serenade under her windows. Amélie, of course, showed herself at the

window, and acknowledged the honor, but this did not satisfy the soldiers:

nothing would do them but she should come out and shake hands with every

man in the regiment.

Much as Amélie shrank from public notice or praise, her humility could not

prevent her extraordinary exertions in behalf of the troops, and the

success which had attended them, from shining out before men. The nature

of the undertaking had necessarily brought her in contact with the most

influential military men of the day, both at Marseilles and in Paris.

These gentlemen had ample opportunity to appreciate her character and

judge of the value of her services; and though so many had opposed her in

the beginning, when they saw her labors triumphant, success raised her so

highly in their estimation that they thought it would be becoming to offer

a public tribute of their esteem and gratitude by decorating her with the

Cross of the Legion of Honor. Accordingly, a letter was despatched one day

from the War Office, informing the quiet, unpretending friend of the poor

soldier that the government, to testify their approval of her conduct,

invested her with the most honorable mark of distinction it was in their

power to bestow. Amélie received the announcement at first as a joke. The

idea of her going about the world with the Cross or the red ribbon

fastened to her black gown, and being greeted with the military salute and

presented arms to whenever the symbol caught the eye of a soldier or a

sentry, while she threaded her way through the busy streets of Marseilles,

struck her as so altogether comical that she could only laugh at it. But

neither the authorities nor her friends saw any laughing matter in it; the

latter combated her refusal so strongly that Amélie was perplexed; she

knew not how to reconcile her deference to their wishes with what appeared

to her little short of an act of treason to Christian humility and common

sense; they argued that, by accepting the Cross, she would excite a good

feeling in the minds of many towards the government, a result which in

those turbulent and antagonistic times was always desirable, and, in the

next place, it would invest her with a half‐official position in certain

circumstances that she might find very useful to others in her relations

with minor functionaries. This last consideration had some weight with

Amélie; she turned it to account, though not in the way her friends

desired. She wrote to the minister, declining gratefully an honor which

she did not feel qualified to accept, but requested that he would reward

what he was pleased to call her services by granting her a _droit de

grace_. This would entitle her to present petitions for a commutation of

sentence in case of military prisoners, and even on certain specified

occasions to commute the sentence herself. The privilege was granted at

once, and, if ever virtue had a sweet reward in this world, it was when

Amélie exercised it for the first time in favor of one of the captives of

Fort St. Nicholas. Her friends rejoiced with her, and almost forgave her

for refusing the sterile honor of the Cross of the Legion of Honor. They

never knew, so carefully did her humility keep its secret, that the

government, when granting her the _droit de grace_, exacted as a condition

that she should submit to become a member of the Legion of Honor. It was

years after that a friend, who had heard something in high quarters which

aroused his suspicions, and who was intimate enough with Amélie to take

the liberty of catechising her on the subject, asked point‐blank if she

was decorated, and under promise of secrecy learned the truth.

To Be Concluded In Our Next.

The Progressionists.

From The German Of Conrad Von Bolanden.

Chapter IX. Progress Grows Jolly. Concluded.

In passing near the tables Gerlach overheard conversations which revealed

to him unmistakably the communistic aspirations and tendencies prevailing

among the lower orders, their fiendish hatred of religion and the clergy,

their corruption and appalling ignorance. On every hand he perceived

symptoms of an alarmingly unhealthy condition of society. He heard

blasphemies uttered against the Divinity which almost caused his blood to

run cold; sacred things were scoffed at in terms so coarse and with an

animus so plainly satanical that his hair rose on his head. It was clear

to him that the firmest supports, the only true foundations of the social

order, were tottering—rotted away by an incurable corruption.

In Gerlach’s life, also, as in that of many other men, there had been a

period of mental struggle and of doubt. He, too, had at one time found

himself face to face with questions the solution of which involved the

whole aim of his existence. During this period of mental unrest, he had

thought and studied much about faith and science, but not with a silly

parade of superficial scepticism. He had resolutely engaged in the soul

struggle, and had tried to end it for once and all. Supported by a good

early training and a disposition naturally noble, instructed and guided by

books of solid learning, he had come out from that crisis stronger in

faith and more correct in his views of human science. The scenes which he

was witnessing reminded him vividly of that turning‐point in his life;

they were to him an additional proof that man’s dignity disappears as soon

as he refuses to follow the divine guidance of religion. Grave in mood, he

returned to the table around which were gathered the chieftains. The marks

of respect shown to the millionaire were numerous and flattering. Even the

bluff Sand exerted himself unusually in paying his respects to the wealthy

landholder, and Erdblatt, whose embarrassed financial condition enabled

him beyond them all to appreciate the worth of money, filled a glass with

his own hand, and reached it to Mr. Conrad with the deference of an

accomplished butler. Gerlach was pleased to speak in terms of praise of

the nut‐brown beverage, which greatly tickled Belladonna, the fat brewer.

Naturally enough, the conversation turned upon the subject of the

celebration.

“I confess I am not quite clear respecting the purpose of your city in the

matter of schools,” said Mr. Conrad. “How do you intend to arrange the

school system?”

“In such a way as to make it accord with the requirements of the times and

the progressive spirit of civilization,” answered Hans Shund. “An end must

be put to priest rule in the schools. The establishment of common schools

will be a decided step towards this object. For a while, of course, the

priests will be allowed to visit the schools at specified times, but their

influence and control in school matters will be greatly restricted.

Education will be withdrawn from the church’s supervision, and after a few

years we hope to reach the point when the school‐rooms will be closed

altogether against the priests. There is not a man of culture but will

agree that children should not be required to learn things which are out

of date, and the import of which must only excite smiles of compassion.”

“Whom do you intend to put in the place of the clergy?” inquired Mr.

Conrad.

“We intend to impart useful information and a moral sense in harmony with

the spirit of the age,” replied Hans Shund.

“It seems to me the elementary branches have been very competently taught

heretofore in our schools, consequently I do not see the need of a change

on this head,” said Gerlach. “But you have not understood my question. I

mean, who are to fill the office of instructors in morals and in

religion?”

The chieftains looked puzzled, for such a question they had not expected

to hear from the wealthiest man of the country.

“You see, Mr. Gerlach,” said Sand bluntly, “religion must be done away

with entirely. We haven’t any use for such trash. Children ought to spend

their time in learning something more sensible than the catechism.”

“I am not disposed to believe that what you have just uttered is a correct

expression of the general opinion of this community on the subject of the

school question,” returned the millionaire with some warmth. “It is

impossible to bring up youth morally without religion. You are a

housebuilder, Mr. Sand. What would you think of the man who would expect

you to build him a house without a foundation—a castle in the air?”

“Why, I would regard him as nothing less than a fool,” cried Sand.

“The case is identically the same with moral education. Morality is an

edifice which a man must spend his life in laboring at. Religion is the

groundwork of this edifice. Moral training without religion is an

impossibility. It would be just as possible to build a house in the air,

as to train up a child morally without a religious belief, without being

convinced of the existence of a holy and just God.”

“Facts prove the contrary,” maintained Hans Shund. “Millions of persons

are moral who have no religious belief.”

“That’s an egregious mistake, sir,” opposed the landholder. “The

repudiation of a Supreme Being and the violent extinction of the idea of

the Divinity in the breast are of themselves grave offences against moral

conscience. I grant you that, in the eyes of the public, thousands of men

pass for moral who have no faith in religion. But public opinion is

anything but a criterion of certainty when the moral worth of a man is to

be determined. A man’s interior is a region which cannot be viewed by the

eye of the public. You know yourselves that there are men who pass for

honorable, moral, pure men, whose private habits are exceedingly filthy

and corrupt.”

Hans Shund’s color turned a palish yellow; the eyes of the chieftains

sank.

“Besides, gentleman, it would be labor lost to try to educate youth

independently of religion. Man is by his very nature a religious being. It

is useless to attempt to educate the young without a knowledge of God and

of revealed religion; to be able to do so you would previously have to

pluck out of their own breasts the sense of right and wrong, and out of

their souls the idea of God, which are innate in both. Were the attempt

made, however, believe me, gentlemen, the yearning after God, alive in the

human breast, would soon impel the generation brought up independently of

religion to seek after false gods. For this very reason we know of no

people in history that did not recognize and worship some divinity, were

it but a tree or a stone, that served them for an object of adoration. In

my opinion, it would be far more indicative of genuine progress to adhere

to the God of Christians, who is incontestably holy, just, omnipotent, and

kind, whilst to return to the sacred oaks of ancient Germany or to adopt

the fetichism of uncivilized tribes would be a most monstrous reaction,

the most degrading barbarism.”

The chieftains looked nonplussed. Earnest thinking and investigation upon

subjects pertaining to religion were not customary among the disciples of

progress. They looked upon religion as something so common and trivial

that anybody was free to argue upon and condemn it with a few flippant or

smart sayings. But the millionaire was now disclosing views so new and

vast, that their weak vision was completely dazzled, and their steps upon

the unknown domain became unsteady.

Mr. Seicht, observing the embarrassment of the leaders, felt it his duty

to hasten to their relief. His polemical weapons were drawn from the

armory of bureaucracy.

“The progressive development of humanity,” said Mr. Seicht, “has revealed

an admirable substitute for all religious ideas. A state well organized

can exist splendidly without any religion. Nay, I do not hesitate to

maintain that religion is a drawback to the development of the modern

state, and that, therefore, the state should have nothing whatever to do

with religion. An invisible world should not exert an influence upon a

state—the wants of the times are the only rule to be consulted.”

“What do you understand by a state, sir?” asked the millionaire.

“A state,” replied the official, “is a union of men whose public life is

regulated by laws which every individual is bound to observe.”

“You speak of laws; upon what basis are these laws founded?”

“Upon the basis of humanity, morality, liberty, and right,” answered the

official glibly.

“And what do you consider moral and just?”

“Whatever accords with the civilization of the age.”

A faint smile passed over the severe features of Mr. Conrad.

“I was watching the procession,” spoke he. “I have seen the religious

feelings of a large number of citizens publicly ridiculed and grossly

insulted. Was that moral? Was it just? You are determined to oust God and

religion from the schools; yet there are thousands in the country who

desire and endeavor to secure a religious education for their children. Is

it moral and just to utterly disregard the wishes of these thousands? Does

it accord with a profession of humanity and freedom to put constraint on

the consciences of fellow‐citizens?”

“The persons of whom you speak are a minority in the state, and the

minority is obliged to yield to the will of the majority,” answered

Seicht.

“It follows, then, that the basis of morality and justice is superior

numbers?”

“Yes, it is! In a state, it appertains to the majority to determine and

regulate everything.”

“Gentlemen,” spoke Gerlach with great seriousness, “as I was a moment ago

strolling over this place, I overheard language at several tables, which

was unmistakably communistic. Laborers and factorymen were maintaining

that wealth is unequally distributed; that, whilst a small number are

immensely rich, a much greater number are poor and destitute; that

progress will have to advance to a point when an equal division of

property must be made. Now, the poor and the laboring population are in

the majority. Should they vote for a partition, should they demand from us

what hitherto we have regarded as exclusively our own, we, gentlemen, will

in consistency be forced to accept the decree of the majority as perfectly

moral and just—will we not?”

There was profound silence.

“I, for my part, should most emphatically protest against such a ruling of

the majority,” declared Greifmann.

“Your protest would be contrary to morals and equity; for, according to

Mr. Seicht, only what the majority wills is moral and just,” returned the

landowner. “And, in mentioning partition of property, I hinted at a red

monster which is not any longer a mere goblin, but a thing of real flesh

and bone. We are on the verge of a fearful social revolution which

threatens to break up society. If there is no holy and just God; if he has

not revealed himself, and man is not obliged to submit to his will; if the

only basis of right and of morals is the wish of the majority, this

terrible social revolution must be moral and just, for the majority wills

it and carries it out.”

“Of course, there must be a limit,” said the official feebly.

“The demands of the majority must be reasonable.”

“What do you understand by reasonable, sir?”

“I call reasonable whatever accords with the sense of right, with sound

thinking, with moral ideas.”

“Sense of right—moral ideas? I beg you to observe that these notions

differ vastly from the sole authority of numbers. You have trespassed upon

God’s kingdom in giving your explanation, for ideas are supersensible;

they are the thought of God himself. And the sense of right was not

implanted in the human breast by the word of a majority; it was placed

there by the Creator of man.”

The official was driven to the wall. The chieftains thoughtfully stared at

their beer‐pots.

“It is clear that the will of the majority alone cannot be accepted as the

basis of a state,” said Schwefel.

“The life of society cannot be put at the mercy of the rude and fickle

masses. There must be a moral order, willed and regulated by a supreme

ruler, and binding upon every man. This is plain.”

“I agree with you, sir,” said the millionaire. “Let us continue building

on Christian principles. As everybody knows, our civilization has sprung

from Christianity. If we tear down the altars and destroy the seats from

which lessons of Christian morality are taught, confusion must inevitably

follow. And I, gentlemen, have too exalted an opinion of the German

nation, of its earnest and religious spirit, to believe that it can be

ever induced to fall away completely from God and his holy law. Infidelity

is an unhealthy tendency of our times; it is a pernicious superstition

which sound sense and noble feeling will ultimately triumph over. We will

do well to continue advancing in science, art, refinement, and industry,

in true liberty and the right understanding of truth; we will thus be

making real progress, such progress as I am proud to call myself a

partisan of.”

The chieftains maintained silence. Some nodded assent. Hans Shund gave an

angry bite to his pipe‐stem, and puffed a heavy cloud of smoke across the

table.

“I have confidence in the enlightenment and good sense of our people,”

said he. “You have called modern progress ‘a pernicious superstition and

an unhealthy tendency of the times,’ Mr. Gerlach,” turning towards the

millionaire with a bow. “I regret this view of yours.”

“Which I have substantiated and proved,” interrupted Gerlach.

“True, sir! Your proofs have been striking, and I do not feel myself

competent to refute them. But I can point you to something more powerful

than argument. Look at this scene; see these happy people meeting and

enjoying one another’s society in most admirable harmony and order. Is not

this spectacle a beautiful illustration and vindication of the moral

spirit of progress?”

“These people are jubilant from the effect of beer, why shouldn’t they be?

But, sir, a profound observer does not ‘suffer himself to be deceived by

mere appearances.’ ”

An uproar and commotion at a distance interrupted the millionaire. At the

same instant a policeman approached out of breath.

“Your honor, the factorymen and the laborers are attacking one another!”

“What are you raising such alarm for,” said Hans Shund gruffly. “It is

only a small squabble, such as will occur everywhere in a crowd.”

“I ask your honor’s pardon: it is not a small squabble, it is a bloody

battle.”

“Well, part the wranglers.”

“We cannot manage them; there are too many of them. Shall I apply for

military?”

“Hell and thunder—military!” cried Hans Shund, getting on his feet. “Are

you in your senses?”

“Several men have already been carried off badly wounded,” reported the

policeman further. “You have no idea how serious the affray is, and it is

getting more and more so; the friends of both sides are rushing in to aid

their own party. The police force is not a match for them.”

Women, screaming and in tears, were rushing in every direction. The bands

had ceased playing, and noise and confusion resounded from the scene of

action. Louise ran to take her brother’s arm in consternation. The wives

and daughters of the chieftains huddled round their natural protectors.

“Hurry away and report this at the military post,” was Seicht’s order to

the policeman. “The feud is getting alarming. One moment!”

Tearing a leaf from a memorandum book, he wrote a short note, which he

sent by the messenger.

“Off to the post—be expeditious!”

Louise hastened with her brother and Gerlach senior to their carriage, and

her feeling of security returned only when the noise of the combat had

died away in the distance.

The next day the town papers contained the following notice: “The

beautiful celebration of yesterday, which, on account of its object, will

be long remembered by the citizens of this community, was unfortunately

interrupted by a serious conflict between the laborers and factorymen. A

great many were wounded during the _mêlée_, of whom five have since died,

and it required the interference of an armed force to separate the

combatants.”

Chapter X. Brown Bread And Bonnyclabber.

Seraphin had not gone to the celebration. He remained at home on the plea

of not feeling well. He was stretched upon a sofa, and his soul was

engaged in a desperate conflict. What it was impossible for himself to

look upon, had been viewed by his father with composure: the burlesque

procession, the public derision of holy practices, the mockery of the

Redeemer of the world, in whose place had been put a broken bottle on the

symbol of salvation. He himself had been stunned by the spectacle; and his

father? Was it his father? Again, his father had accompanied the brother

and sister to the infamous celebration. Was not this a direct confirmation

of his own suspicions? His father had become a fearful enigma to his soul!

And what if, upon his return from the festival, the father were to come

and insist upon the marriage with Louise, declaring her advanced notions

to be an insufficient ground for renouncing a pet project? A wild storm

was convulsing his interior. He could not bear it longer, he was driven

forth. Snatching his straw hat, he rushed from the house, ran through the

alleys and streets, out of the town, onward and still onward. The August

sun was burning, and its heat, reflected from the road, was doubly

intense. The perspiration was rolling in large drops down the glowing face

of the young man, whom torturing thoughts still kept goading on. Holt’s

whitewashed dwelling became visible on the summit of a knoll, and gleamed

a friendly welcome as he came near it—a welcome which seemed opportune for

one who hardly knew whither he was hastening. The walnut‐tree which could

be seen from afar was casting an inviting shade over the table and bench

that seemed to be confidingly leaning against its stem. A flock of

chickens were taking a sand‐bath under the table, flapping their wings,

ruffling their feathers, and wallowing in the dust. Seated on the sunny

hillock, the cottage appeared quiet, almost lonesome but for a ringing

sound which came from the adjoining field and was made by the sickle

passing through the corn. A broad‐brimmed straw hat with a blue band could

be noticed from the road moving on over the fallen grain, and presently

Mechtild’s slender form rose into view as she pushed actively onward over

the harvest field. Hasty steps resounded from the road. She raised her

head, and her countenance first indicated surprise, then embarrassment.

Whom did her eyes behold rushing wildly by, like a fugitive, but the

generous rescuer of her family from the clutches of the usurer Shund. His

hat was in his hand, his auburn locks were hanging down over his forehead,

his face was aglow, his whole being seemed to be absorbed in a mad

pursuit. To her quick eye his features revealed deep trouble and violent

excitement. She was frightened, and the sickle fell from her hand. Not a

day passed on which she would not think of this benefactor. Perhaps there

was not a being on earth whom she admired and revered as much as she did

him. All the pure and elevated sentiments of an innocent and blooming girl

united to form a halo of affection round the head of Seraphin. At evening

prayer when her father said, “Let us pray for our benefactor Seraphin,”

her soul sent up a fervent petition to God, and she declared with joy that

she was willing to sacrifice all for him. But behold this noble object of

her admiration and affection suddenly presented before her in a state that

excited the greatest uneasiness. With his head sunk and his eyes directed

straight before him, he would have rushed past without noticing the

sympathizing girl, when a greeting clear and sweet as the tone of a bell

caused him to look up. He beheld Mechtild with her beautiful eyes fixed

upon him in an expression of anxiety.

“Good‐morning, Mr. Seraphin,” she said again.

“Good‐morning,” he returned mechanically, and staring about vaguely. His

bewilderment soon passed, however, and his gaze was riveted by the

apparition.

She was standing on the other side of the ditch. The fear of some unknown

calamity had given to her beautiful face an expression of tender

solicitude, and whilst a smile struggled for possession of her lips her

look indicated painful anxiety. Mechtild’s appearance soon directed the

young man’s attention to his own excited manner. The dark shadow

disappeared from his brow, he wiped the perspiration from his face, and

began to feel the effect of his walk under the glowing heat of midsummer.

“Ah! why, here is the neat little white house, your pretty country home,

Mechtild,” he said pleasantly. “If you had not been so kind as to wish me

good‐morning, I should actually have passed by in an unpardonable fit of

distraction.”

“I was almost afraid to say good‐morning, Mr. Seraphin, but—” She faltered

and looked confused.

“But—what? You didn’t think anything was wrong?”

“No! But you were in such a hurry and looked so troubled, I got

frightened,” she confessed with amiable uprightness. “I was afraid

something had happened you.”

“I am thankful for your sympathy. Nothing has happened me, nor, I trust,

will,” he replied, with a scarcely perceptible degree of defiance in his

tone. “This is a charming situation. Corn‐fields on all sides, trees laden

with fruit, the skirt of the woods in the background—and then this

magnificent view! With your permission, I will take a moment’s rest in the

shade of yon splendid walnut‐tree planted by your great‐grandfather.”

She joyfully nodded assent and stepped over the ditch. She shoved back the

bolt of the gate. Together they entered the yard, which a hedge separated

from the road. The cock crew a welcome to the stranger, and led his

household from the sand‐bath into the sunshine near the barn.

“This is a cool, inviting little spot,” said the millionaire, as he

pointed to the shade of the walnut‐tree. “No doubt you often sit here and

read?”

“Yes, Mr. Seraphin; but the dirty chickens have scattered dust all over

the bench and table. Wait a minute, you’ll get your clothes dusty.”

She hurried into the house. His eyes followed her receding form, his ears

kept listening for her departing steps, he heard the opening and closing

of doors: presently she reappeared, dusted the bench and table with a

brush, and spread a white cloth over the table. Seraphin looked on with a

smile.

“I do not wish to be troublesome, Mechtild!”

“It is no trouble, Mr. Seraphin! Sit down, now, and rest yourself. I am so

sorry father and mother are not at home. They will be ever so glad to hear

that you have honored us with a visit.”

“Is nobody at home?”

“Father is in town, and mother is at work with the children in the harvest

field.”

“Are you not afraid to stay here by yourself?”

“What should I be afraid of? There are no ghosts in daytime,” she said

with a bewitching archness; “and as for thieves, they never expect to find

anything worth having at our house.”

She was standing on the other side of the table, looking at him with a

beautiful smile.

“Won’t you have a seat on this bench?” said he, making room for her. “You

need rest more than I do. You have been working, and I am merely an idle

stroller. Do take a seat, Mechtild.”

“Thank you, Mr. Seraphin—I could not think of doing so! It would not be

becoming,” she answered with some confusion.

“Why not becoming?”

“Because you are a gentleman, and I am only a poor girl.”

“Your objection on the score of propriety is not worth anything. Oblige me

by doing what I ask of you.”

“I will do so, Mr. Seraphin, since you insist upon it, but after a while.

I would like to offer you some refreshments beforehand, if you will allow

me.”

“With pleasure,” he said, nodding assent.

A second time she hurried away to the house, whilst he kept listening to

her footsteps. The extraordinary neatness and cleanliness which could be

seen everywhere about the little homestead did not escape his observation.

On all sides he fancied he saw the work of Mechtild. The purity of her

spirit, which beamed so mildly from her eyes and was revealed in the

beauty of her countenance and the grace of her person, seemed embodied in

the very odor of roses wafted over from the neighboring flower garden. He

was unconscious of the rapid growth within his bosom of a deep and tender

feeling. This feeling was casting a warm glow, like softest sunshine, over

all that he beheld. Not even the chickens looked to him like other fowls

of their kind; they were ennobled by the reflection that they were objects

of Mechtild’s care, that she fed them, that when they were still piping

little pullets she had held them in her lap and caressed them. He

abandoned himself completely to this sentiment; it carried him on like a

smooth current; and he could not tell, did not suspect even, why so

wonderful a reaction had in so short a time taken place in his interior.

Beholding himself seated under the walnut‐tree surrounded only by

evidences of honorable poverty and rural thrift, and yet feeling a degree

of happiness and peace he had never known before, he fancied he was

performing a part in some fairy tale which he was dreaming with his eyes

open. And now the fairy appeared at the door having on a snowy‐white

apron, and carrying a shallow basket from which could be seen, protruding

above the rest of its contents, a milk jar. She set before him a pewter

plate, bright as silver. Then she took out the jar and a cup, next she

laid a knife and spoon for him, and finished her hospitable service with a

huge loaf of bread.

“Don’t get dismayed at the bread, Mr. Seraphin! I am sorry I cannot set

something better before you. But it is well baked and will not hurt you!”

“You baked it yourself, did you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Seraphin!”

He attacked the loaf resolutely. From the dimensions of the slice which he

cut off, it was plain that both his appetite and his confidence in her

skill were satisfactory. She raised the jar of bonnyclabber, which lurched

out in jerks upon his plate, whilst he kept gayly stirring it with the

spoon. Then she dipped a spoonful of rich cream out of the cup and poured

it into the refreshing contents of the plate.

“Let me know when you want me to stop, Mr. Seraphin.” Mechtild poured

spoonful after spoonful; he sat immovable, seemingly observing the spoon,

but in reality watching her soft plump fingers, then her well‐shaped hand,

next her exquisitely turned arm, and, when finally he raised his eyes to

her face, they were met by a mischievous smile. The cup was empty, and all

the cream was in his plate.

“May I go and fetch some more?” she asked.

“No, Mechtild, no! Why, this is a regular yellow sea!”

“You wouldn’t cry ‘enough!’ ”

“I forgot about it,” he replied, somewhat confused. “To atone for my

forgetfulness, I will eat it all.”

“I hope you will relish it, Mr. Seraphin!”

“Thank you! Where is your plate?”

“I had my dinner before you came.”

“Well, then, at any rate you must not continue standing. Won’t you share

this seat with me?”

She seated herself upon the bench, took off her hat, smoothed down her

apron, and appeared happy at seeing him eating heartily.

“Don’t you find that dish refreshing, Mr. Seraphin?”

“You have done me a real act of charity,” he replied. “This bread is

excellent. Who taught you how to make bread?”

“I learned from mother; but there isn’t much art in making that sort of

bread, Mr. Seraphin. The food which people in the country eat does not

require artistic preparation. It only needs good, pure material, so that

it may give strength to labor.”

“I suppose you attend to the kitchen altogether, do you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Seraphin. That’s not very difficult, our meals are of the

plainest kind. We have meat once a week, on Sundays. When the work is

unusually hard, as in harvest time, we have meat oftener. We raise our own

meat and cure it.”

“You have assumed household cares at quite an early age, Mechtild.”

“Early? I am seventeen now, and am the oldest. Mother has a great deal of

trouble with the small ones, so the housework falls chiefly to my share.

It does not require any great exertion, however, to do it. Plain and

saving is our motto. Mother specially recommends four things: industry,

cleanliness, order, and economy. She advises me not to neglect any one of

these points when once I will have a household of my own.”

“Do you think you will soon set up a separate household?” asked he with

some hesitation.

“Not for some time to come, Mr. Seraphin, yet it must be done one day. If

my own inclination were consulted, I would prefer never to leave home. I

should like things to continue as they are. But a separation must come.

Death will pay us a visit as it has done to others, father and mother will

pass away, and the course of events will sever us from one another.”

Her head sank, the brightness of her face became obscured beneath the

shadow of these sombre thoughts, and, when she again looked up, there

appeared in her eyes so touching and childlike a sadness that he felt

pained to the soul. And yet this revelation of tenderness pleased him, for

it made known to him a new phase of her amiable nature.

For a long time he continued conversing with the artless girl. Every word

she uttered, no matter how trifling, had an interest for him. Besides her

charming artlessness, he had frequent occasions to admire the wisdom of

her language and her admirable delicacy. The setting sun had already cast

a subdued crimson over the hilltops, hours had sped away, the chickens had

gone to roost, still he remained riveted to the spot by Mechtild’s grace

and loveliness.

“Father is just coming,” she said, pointing down the road. “How glad he

will be to find you here!”

His head bent forward, Holt came wearily plodding up the road. His right

hand was hidden in the pocket of his pantaloons, and his head was bowed,

as if beneath a heavy weight. As Mechtild’s clear voice rang out, he

raised his head, caught sight of his high‐hearted benefactor, and smiled

in joyful surprise.

“Welcome, Mr. Seraphin; a thousand times welcome!” he cried from the other

side of the road. “Why, this is an honor that I had not expected!”

He stood uncovered, holding his cap in the left hand, his right hand was

still concealed. Mechtild at once noticed her father’s singular behavior,

and her eye watched anxiously for the hidden hand.

“Your daughter has been so kind as to offer refreshments to a weary

wanderer,” said Gerlach, “and it has been a great pleasure for me to sit

awhile. We have been chatting for several hours under this glorious tree,

and may be I am to blame for keeping her from her work.”

Holt’s honest face beamed with satisfaction. He entirely forgot about his

secret, he drew his hand out of his pocket, Mechtild turned pale, and a

sharp cry escaped her lips.

“For mercy’s sake, father!” And she pointed to the broken chain.

“What are you screaming for, foolish girl? Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Seraphin!

this chain has got on my arm in an honorable cause. I will tell you the

whole story; I know you will not inform on me.”

Seating himself on the bench, he related the adventures of the day.

The mock procession passed before Mechtild’s imagination with the

vividness of reality. The narration transformed her. Her mildness was

changed to noble anger. She had heard of the vicar of Christ being

insulted, of holy things being scoffed at, of the Redeemer being derided

by a horde of wretches. With her arms akimbo, she drew up her lithe and

graceful form to its full height, and with flashing eyes looked at her

father while he related what had befallen him. Seraphin could not help

wondering at the transformation. Such a display of spirit he had not been

prepared to witness in a girl so gentle and beautiful. When her father had

ended his account, she seized his hand passionately, pressed it warmly

between her own hands, and kissed the chain.

“Father, dear father,” she exclaimed in a burst of feeling, “I thank you

from my heart for acting as you did! Those wretches were scoffing at our

holy religion, but you behaved bravely in defence of the faith. For this

they put chains on you, as the heathen did to S. Peter and S. Paul.”

Once more she kissed the chain, then, turning quickly, hastened across the

yard to the house.

“Mechtild isn’t like the rest of us,” said Holt, smiling. “There’s a great

deal of spirit in her. I have often noticed it. But I am not astonished at

her being roused at the mock procession—I was roused myself. I declare,

Mr. Seraphin, it is a shame, a crying shame, that persons are permitted to

rail at doctrines and things which we revere as holy. One would almost

believe Satan himself was in some people, they take so fanatical a delight

in scoffing at a religion which is holy and enjoins nothing but what is

good.”

“It is incontestable that infidelity hates and opposes God and religion,”

replied Gerlach. “The boasted culture of those who find a pleasure in

grossly wounding the most sacred feelings of their neighbors, is wicked

and stupid.”

Mechtild returned with a file in her hand.

“Right, my child! I was just thinking of the file myself. Here, cut the

catches of the lock.”

He laid his arm across the table. A few strokes of the file caused the

lock and remnant of chain to fall from his wrist.

“We will keep this as a precious memento,” said she. “Only think, father,

that wicked official ordered you to be manacled, and he is the

representative of authority. How can one respect or even pray for

authorities when they allow religion to be ridiculed?”

“Pray for your enemies,” answered the countryman gravely.

“I will do so because God commands me; but I shall never again be able to

respect the official!”

Her anger had fled; she appeared again all light and loveliness. He did

not fail to observe a searching look which she directed upon him, but its

meaning became clear to him only when, as he was taking leave, she said in

a tone of humility: “Pardon my vehemence, Mr. Seraphin! Don’t think me a

bad girl.”

“There is nothing to be forgiven, Mechtild. You were indignant against

godless wretches, and they who are not indignant against evil cannot

themselves be good.”

“We are most heartily thankful for this visit,” spoke Holt. “I need not

say that we will consider it a great happiness as often as you will be

pleased to come.”

“Good‐night!” returned the young man, and he walked away.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts, Seraphin went back to town. What he was

thinking about, his diary does not record. But the excitement under which

he had rushed forth was gone—dispelled by the magic of a rural sorceress.

He walked on quietly like a man who seems filled with confidence in his

own future. The recent painful impressions seemed to his mind to lie far

back in the past; their place was taken up by beautiful anticipations

which, like the aurora, shed soft and pleasing light upon his path. He

halted frequently in a dream‐like reverie to indulge the happiness with

which his soul was flooded. The full moon, just peering over the hills,

shed around him a mystic brightness that harmonized perfectly with the

indefinable contentment of his heart, and seemed to be gazing quizzingly

into the countenance of the young man, who almost feared to confess to

himself that he had found an invaluable treasure.

As he stopped before the Palais Greifmann, all the bright spirits that had

hovered round about him on the way back from the little whitewashed

cottage, fled. He awoke from his dream, and, ascending the stairs with a

feeling of discomfort, he entered his apartment, where his father sat

awaiting him.

“At last,” spoke Mr. Conrad, looking up from a book. “You have kept me

waiting a long time, my son.”

“I was in need of a good long walk, father, to get over what I witnessed

this morning. The country air has dispelled all those horrible

impressions. There is only one thing more required to make me feel

perfectly well, dear father, which is that you will not insist on my

allying myself to people who are utterly opposed to my way of thinking and

feeling.”

“I understand and approve of your request, Seraphin. The impressions made

on me, too, are exceedingly disagreeable. The advancement of which this

town boasts is stupid, immoral, detestable. How this state of society has

come about, is inexplicable to me who live secluded in the country.

Society is diseased, fatally diseased. Many of the new views professed are

sheer superstition, and their morality is a mere cloak for their

corruption and wickedness. All the powers of progress so‐called are

actively at work to subvert all the safeguards of society. And what your

diary reports of Louise, I have found fully confirmed. Though it cost the

sacrifice of a long cherished plan, a son of mine shall never become the

husband of a progressionist woman.”

“O father! how deeply do I thank you!” cried the youth, carried away by

his feelings.

“I must decline being thanked, for I have not merited it,” spoke Mr.

Conrad earnestly. “A father’s duty determines very clearly what my

decision upon the matter of your marriage with Louise, ought to be. But I

am under obligations to you, my son, which justice compels me to

acknowledge. Your discernment and moral sense have prevented a great deal

of discord and unhappiness in our family. Continue good and true, my

Seraphin!”

He pressed his son to his bosom and imprinted a kiss on his forehead.

“To‐morrow we shall start for home by the first train. Fortunately your

prudent behavior makes it easy for us to get away, and the final breaking

off of this engagement I will myself arrange with Louise’s father.”

Seraphin Gerlach To The Author.

DEAR SIR: Two years ago, I took the liberty of sending you my

diary, with the request that you would be pleased to publish such

portions of its contents as might be useful, in the form of a tale

illustrative of the times. I made the request because I consider

it the duty of a writer who delineates the condition of society,

to transmit to posterity a faithful picture of the present social

status, and I am vain enough to believe that my jottings will be a

modest contribution towards such a tableau.

The meagre account given by the diary of my intercourse with

Mechtild, will probably have enabled you to perceive the germ of a

pure and true relation likely to develop itself further. I shall

add but a few items to complete the account of the diary, knowing

that poets, painters, and artists have rigorously determined

bounds, and that a twilight cannot be represented when the sun is

at the zenith. I am emboldened to use this illustration because

your unbounded admiration of pure womanhood is well known to me,

and because the brightness of Mechtild’s character, were it

further described, would no more be compatible with the sombre

colorings in which a true picture of modern progress would have to

be exhibited, than the noonday sun with the shadows of evening.

My memoranda concerning Mechtild, which, despite studied

soberness, betrayed a considerable degree of admiration, made

known to my parents, naturally enough, the secret of my heart.

Hence it came that a quiet smile passed over my father’s face

every time I commenced to speak of Mechtild. Holt’s manly deed at

the mock procession had already gained for him my father’s esteem,

and, as I spoke a great deal about Holt’s thoroughness as a

cultivator, my father began to look upon him as a very desirable

man to employ.

“We want an experienced man on the ‘green farm,’ ” said father,

one day. “Offer the situation to Holt, and tell him to come to see

me about it. I want to talk with him.”

“Give the good man my compliments,” said mother; “tell him I would

be much pleased to become acquainted with Mechtild, who

sympathized with you so kindly on that memorable day!”

I wrote without delay. Holt came, and so did Mechtild. But few

moments were necessary to enable mother to detect the girl’s fine

qualities. Father, too, was delightfully surprised at her modesty,

the beauty of her form, and grace of her manner. He visited the

farm accompanied by Holt. The cultivator’s extraordinary

knowledge, his practical manner of viewing things, and the

shrewdness of his counsels in regard to the improvement of worn‐

out land and the cultivation of poor soil, completely charmed my

father. A contract containing very favorable conditions for Holt

was entered into, and three weeks later the family took charge of

the “green farm.”

Upon mother’s suggestion, Mechtild was sent to an educational

institution, where she acquired in ten months’ time the learning

and culture necessary for associating with cultivated people.

Father and mother had received her on her return like a daughter.

This reception was given her not only in consideration of Holt’s

skilful and faithful management of business, but also on account

of Mechtild’s own splendid womanly character—perhaps, too, partly

on account of my unbounded admiration for the rare girl.

“The girl is an ornament to her sex,” lauded my father. “Her

polished manner and ease in company do not suffer one to suspect

ever so remotely that she at any time plied the reaping‐hook, and

came out of a stubblefield to regale a weary wanderer with brown

bread and bonny‐clabber. I am quite in harmony with your secret

wishes, my dear Seraphin! At the same time, I am of opinion that a

step promising so much happiness ought not to be longer deferred.

I think, then, you should ask the father for his daughter without

delay, so that I may soon have the pleasure of giving you my

blessing.”

From my father’s arms, into which I had thrown myself in

thankfulness, I hastened away to the “green farm,” where Mechtild

with maidenly blushes, and Holt in speechless astonishment, heard

and granted my petition.

I am now four months married. I am the blest husband of a wife

whose lovely qualities are daily showing themselves to greater

advantage. Mechtild presides over Chateau Hallberg like an angel

of peace. Towards my father and mother she conducts herself with

filial reverence and never‐ceasing delicate attentions. Mother

loves her unspeakably, and no access of ill humor in father can

withstand her charming smile and prudent mirth. Concerning the

banking‐house of Greifmann, I have only sad things to tell. Carl’s

father had entered into very considerable speculations which

failed and drove him into bankruptcy. Carl saw the blow coming,

and saved himself in a disgraceful manner. There was a savings

institution connected with the bank in which poor people and

servants deposited the savings of their hard labor. Carl

appropriated this fund and made off a short time before the

failure of the house. Thousands of poor persons were robbed of the

little sums which they were saving for old age, by denying

themselves many even of the necessaries of life.

The maledictions and curses of these unfortunate people followed

across the ocean the thief whose modern culture and progressive

humanity did not hinder him from committing a crime which no

Christian can be guilty of without losing his claim to the title.

Carl, however, still continues to pass for a man of culture and

humanity notwithstanding his deed. And why should he not, since

without faith in the Deity moral obligations do not exist, and

consequently every species of crime is allowable? The old

gentleman Greifmann died shortly after his ruin; Louise lost her

mind.

My father felt the misfortune of the Greifmanns deeply, without,

however, regretting in the smallest degree the wise determination

which their godless principles and actions had driven him to.

Formerly he could never find time to take part in the elections.

But now he is constantly speaking about the duty of every

respectable man to oppose the infernal machinations and plans of

would‐be progress. He intends at the next election to use all his

influence for the election of conscientious deputies, so that the

evil may be put an end to which consists in trying to undermine

the foundations of society.

Accept, dear sir, the assurance of the esteem with which I have

the honor to be

our most obedient servant,

SERAPHIN GERLACH.

CHATEAU HALLBERG, Jan. 4, 1872.

[Two chapters have been omitted in this translation of “The

Progressionists.”—ED. C. W.]

F. James Marquette, S.J.

Among the names that have become immortalized in the history of our

country, there are few more certainly destined for perpetual fame than

those connected with the discovery and exploration of that mighty river

which courses so boldly and majestically through this vast continent. Thus

it is probable that there never will be a time when even children at

school will not be familiar with such names as De Soto, Marquette, and La

Salle.

James Marquette was born in the city of Laon, near a small branch of the

Oise, in the department of Aisne, France, in the year 1637. His family was

the most ancient of that ancient city, and had, during many generations,

filled high offices and rendered valuable services to their country, both

in civil and military life. We have accounts of eminent services rendered

to his sovereign by one of his ancestors as early as 1360. The usefulness

and public spirit of the family, we may well suppose, did not expire with

the distinguished subject of this memoir; for we find that, in the French

army that aided our fathers in the achievement of American Independence,

there were no less than three Marquettes who laid down their lives in the

cause of liberty. His maternal name was no less distinguished in the

annals of the church. On the side of his mother, Rose de la Salle, he was

connected with the good and venerable John Baptist de la Salle, founder of

the Brothers of the Christian Schools, so distinguished for their

successful services in the cause of popular religious education. It was

this pious mother that instilled into her illustrious son that tender and

fervid devotion to the Blessed Virgin which so ravished his soul and

adorned his whole life. In 1654, when but seventeen years old, he entered

the Society of Jesus, in which the time of his novitiate, the terms of

teaching and of his own theological studies, consumed twelve years. He had

chosen for his model S. Francis Xavier, and in studying his patron’s life,

and meditating on his virtues, the young priest conceived a holy longing

to enter the field of missionary toil. He was enrolled in the province of

Champagne; but, as this had no foreign missions, he caused himself to be

transferred to the province of France. His cherished object was soon

attained. In 1666, he was sent out to Canada, and arrived at Quebec on the

20th of September of that year.

F. Marquette was at first destined for the Montagnais mission, whose

central station was at Tadousal, and on the 10th of October he started for

Three Rivers, in order to study the Montagnais language, a key to many

neighboring Indian tongues, under that celebrated philologist as well as

renowned missionary, F. Gabriel Druilletes. His intervals of leisure were

here employed in the offices of the holy ministry. F. Marquette was thus

occupied till April, 1668, when his destination was changed, and he

received orders to prepare for the mission on Lake Superior, known as the

Ottawa mission. He accordingly returned to Quebec, and thence set out for

Montreal on the 21st of April, with Brother Le Boesme and two other

companions; and from the latter place he embarked on the Ottawa flotilla.

He was accompanied by other missionaries on this toilsome and dangerous

voyage up the Ottawa, through French River, to and across Lake Huron, and

to the Sault St. Mary. This region had long before been dedicated to God

by the erection of the cross by Fathers Jogues and Raymbault, and twenty

years later, 1660, F. Ménard became the founder of the Ottawa mission; and

when F. Marquette arrived in Canada, F. Allouez was then pushing his

spiritual conquests beyond any points reached by his zealous predecessors.

On the advent of F. Marquette to the shores of Lake Superior, it was found

expedient to establish two missions, one of which should be located at the

Sault St. Mary, and the other at Green Bay. Erecting his cabin at the foot

of the rapids on the American side, F. Marquette opened his mission at the

Sault, where he was joined the following year by F. Dablon, Superior of

the Ottawa mission. These two zealous missionaries soon gathered a

Christian flock around them, and the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass was now

offered up in that wild region in “a sanctuary worthy of the faith.” “It

is,” says Bancroft, “the oldest settlement begun by Europeans within the

present limits of the commonwealth of Michigan.” So rich was the harvest

which the enthusiastic and apostolical Marquette saw before him that he

writes in one of his letters: “Two thousand souls were ready to embrace

the faith, if the missionary were faithful to his task.” Yet knowing the

uncertainty of the Indian character, he proceeded cautiously and prudently

in his undertakings. Though his ardent hopes were not fully realized, the

harvest was not a fruitless one; and Fathers Dablon and Marquette labored

on with undaunted courage and undiminished zeal, instructing the people,

baptizing such as were in danger of death, and laying the solid

foundations of a future Christian commonwealth.

In August of 1669, F. Marquette was transferred from the Sault to

Lapointe, to conduct the missions of the Holy Ghost among the Ottawas, and

to fill the place recently occupied by F. Allouez, who had gone to Green

Bay. After a perilous and exhausting navigation, amid snow and ice, of a

month’s duration, he reached Lapointe in safety, and full of ardor for the

work before him. A few extracts from the account of this mission, which F.

Marquette gave to his superior in his letter of the following year, will

be more acceptable to the reader than any synopsis we could prepare from

it:

“Divine Providence having destined me to continue the mission of

the Holy Ghost begun by Allouez, who had baptized the chiefs of

the Kiskakonk, I arrived there on the thirteenth of September, and

went to visit the Indians who were in the clearings, which are

divided into five towns. The Hurons, to the number of about four

or five hundred, almost all baptized, still preserve some little

Christianity. A number of the chiefs assembled in council were at

first well pleased to see me; but I explained that I did not yet

know their language perfectly, and that no other missionary was

coming, both because all had gone to the Iroquois, and because F.

Allouez, who understood them perfectly, did not wish to return

that winter, as they did not love the prayer enough. They

acknowledged that it was a just punishment, and during the winter

held talks about it, and resolved to amend, as they tell me.

“The nation of the Outaouaks Sinagaux is far from the kingdom of

God, and being above all other nations addicted to lewdness,

sacrifices, and juggleries. They ridicule the prayer, and will

scarcely hear us speak of Christianity. They are proud and

undeveloped, and I think that so little can be done with this

tribe that I have not baptized healthy infants who seem likely to

live, watching only for such as are sick. The Indians of the

Kinouché tribe declare openly that it is not yet time. There are,

however, two men among them formerly baptized. One, now rather

old, is looked upon as a kind of miracle among the Indians, having

always refused to marry, persisting in this resolution in spite of

all that had been said. He has suffered much, even from his

relatives, but he is as little affected by this as by the loss of

all the goods which he brought last year from the settlement, not

having even enough left to cover him. These are hard trials for

Indians, who generally seek only to possess much in this world.

The other, a new‐married young man, seems of another nature than

the rest. The Indians, extremely attached to their reveries, had

resolved that a certain number of young women should prostitute

themselves, each to choose such partner as she liked. No one in

these cases ever refused, as the lives of men are supposed to

depend on it. This young Christian was called; on entering the

cabin, he saw the orgies that were about to begin, and, feigning

illness, immediately left, and, though they came to call him back,

he refused to go. His confession was as prudent as it could be,

and I wondered that an Indian could live so innocently, and so

nobly profess himself a Christian. His mother and some of his

sisters are also good Christians. The Ottawas, extremely

superstitious in their feasts and juggleries, seem hardened to the

instructions given them, yet they like to have their children

baptized. God permitted a woman to die this winter in her sin; her

illness had been concealed from me, and I heard it only by the

report that she had asked a very improper dance for her cure. I

immediately went to a cabin where all the chiefs were at a feast,

and some Kiskakonk Christians among them. To these I exposed the

impiety of the woman and her medicine men, and gave them proper

instructions. I then spoke to all present, and God permitted that

an old Ottawa rose to advise granting what I asked, as it made no

matter, he said, if the woman did die. An old Christian then rose

and told the nation that they must stop the licentiousness of

their youth, and not permit Christian girls to take part in such

dances. To satisfy the woman, some child’s play was substituted

for the dance; but this did not prevent her dying before morning.

The dangerous state of a sick man caused the medicine men to

proclaim that the devil must be invoked by extraordinary

superstitions. The Christians took no part. The actors were these

jugglers and the sick man, who was passed over great fires lighted

in every cabin. It was said that he did not feel the heat,

although his body had been greased with oil for five or six days.

Men, women, and children ran through the cabins, asking, as a

riddle, to divine their thoughts, and the successful guesser was

glad to give the object named. I prevented the abominable lewdness

so common at the end of these diabolical rites. I do not think

that they will recur, as the sick man died soon after.

“The nation of Kiskakous, which for three years refused to receive

the Gospel preached them by F. Allouez, resolved in the fall of

1668 to obey God. This resolution was adopted in full council, and

announced to that father, who spent four winter months instructing

them. The chiefs of the nation became Christians, and, as F.

Allouez was called to another mission, he gave it to my charge to

cultivate, and I entered on it in September, 1669.

“All the Christians were then in the fields harvesting their

Indian corn; they listened with pleasure when I told them that I

came to Lapointe for their sake and that of the Hurons; that they

never should be abandoned, but be beloved above all other nations;

and that they and the French were one. I had the consolation of

seeing their love for the prayer and their pride in being

Christians. I baptized the new‐born infants, and instructed the

chiefs whom I found well disposed. The head chief having allowed a

dog to be hung on a pole near his cabin, which is a kind of

sacrifice the Indians make to the sun, I told him that this was

wrong, and he went and threw it down.

“Having invited the Kiskakous to come and winter near the chapel,

they left all the other tribes, to gather around us so as to be

able to pray to God, be instructed, and have their children

baptized. They all call themselves Christians; hence in all

councils and important affairs I address them, and, when I wish to

show them that I really wish what I ask, I need only address them

as Christians; they told me even that they obeyed me for that

reason. They have taken the upper hand, and control the three

other tribes. It is a great consolation to a missionary to see

such pliancy in savages, and to live in such peace with the

Indians, spending the whole day in instructing them in our

mysteries, and teaching them the prayers. Neither the rigor of the

winter nor the state of the weather prevents their coming to the

chapel; many never let a day pass, and I was thus busily employed

from morning till night, preparing some for baptism, some for

confession, disabusing others of their reveries. The old men told

me that the young men had lost their senses, and that I must stop

their excesses. I often spoke to them of their daughters, urging

them to prevent their being visited at night. I knew almost all

that passed in two tribes near us; but, though others were spoken

of, I never heard anything against the Christian women, and when I

spoke to the old men about their daughters, they told me that they

prayed to God. I often inculcated this, knowing the importunities

to which they are constantly exposed, and the courage they need to

resist. They have learned to be modest, and the French who have

seen them perceive how little they resemble the others from whom

they are thus distinguished.

“After Easter, all the Indians dispersed to seek subsistence; they

promised me that they would not forget the prayer, and earnestly

begged that a father should come in the fall when they assemble

again. This will be granted, and, if it please God to send some

father, he will take my place, while I, to execute the orders of

my father‐superior, will go and begin my Illinois mission.

“The Illinois are thirty days’ journey by land from Lapointe by a

difficult road; they lie south‐southwest of it. On the way you

pass the nation of the Ketchigamins, who live in more than twenty

large cabins; they are inland, and seek to have intercourse with

the French, from whom they hope to get axes, knives, and ironware.

So much do they fear them that they unbound from the stake two

Indian captives, who said, when about to be burned, that the

Frenchman had declared that they wished peace all over the world.

You pass then to the Miamiwek, and by great deserts reach the

Illinois, who are assembled chiefly in two towns containing more

than eight or nine thousand souls. These people are well enough

disposed to receive Christianity. Since F. Allouez spoke to them

at Lapointe to adore one God, they have begun to abandon their

false worship; for they adored the sun and thunder. Those seen by

me are apparently of good disposition, and they are not night‐

runners, like the other Indians. A man kills his wife if he finds

her unfaithful. They are less prodigal in sacrifices, and promise

me to embrace Christianity, and do all I require in their country.

In this view, the Ottawas gave me a young man recently come from

their country, who initiated me to some extent in their language

during the leisure given me in the winter by the Indians at

Lapointe. I could scarcely understand it, though there is

something of the Algonquin in it; yet I hope, by the help of God’s

grace, to understand and be understood if God by his goodness

leads me to that country.

“No one must hope to escape crosses in our missions, and the best

means to live happily is not to fear them, but, in the enjoyment

of little crosses, hope for others still greater. The Illinois

desire us, like Indians, to share their miseries and suffer all

that can be imagined in barbarism. They are lost sheep, to be

sought amid woods and thorns, especially when they call so

piteously to be rescued from the jaws of the wolf. Such, really,

can I call their entreaties to me this winter. They have actually

gone this spring to notify the old men to come for me in the fall.

“The Illinois always come by land. They sow maize, which they have

in great plenty; they have pumpkins as large as those of France,

and plenty of roots and fruit. The chase is very abundant in wild

cattle, bears, stags, turkeys, duck, bustard, wild pigeon, and

cranes. They leave their towns at certain times every year to go

to their hunting‐grounds together, so as to be better able to

resist if attacked. They believe that I will spread peace

everywhere if I go, and then only the young will go to hunt.

“When the Illinois come to Lapointe, they pass a large river

almost a league wide. It runs north and south, and so far that the

Illinois, who do not know what canoes are, have never yet heard of

its mouth; they only know that there are very great nations below

them, some of whom raise two crops of maize a year. East‐southeast

of the country is a nation they call Chawawon, which came to visit

them last summer. They wear beards, which shows intercourse with

Europeans; they had come thirty days across land before reaching

their country. This great river can hardly empty in Virginia, and

we rather believe its mouth is in California. If the Indians, who

promise to make me a canoe, do not fail to keep their word, we

shall go into this river as soon as we can, with a Frenchman and

this young man given me, who knows some of these languages, and

has a readiness for learning others; we shall visit the nations

which inhabit it, in order to open the way to so many of our

fathers who have long awaited this happiness. This discovery will

give us a complete knowledge of the southern or western sea.

“The Illinois are warriors; they make many slaves, whom they sell

to the Ottawas for guns, powder, kettles, axes, and knives. They

were formerly at war with the Nadouessi, but, having made peace

some years since, I confirmed it, to facilitate their coming to

Lapointe, where I am going to await them, in order to accompany

them to their country.”

Much as he loved his children at Lapointe, and faithfully as he had served

them, the voice of his superior had ordered him to this new, vaster, and

more laborious field, which to his true Jesuit obedience was a task of

love. The Illinois at once become dear to his heart as his future

children; he studies their language, loses no opportunity of learning all

about their country, its tribes and their customs, sends them presents of

pious pictures and the loving messages of a father, welcomes every member

of their nation who might visit Lapointe with open arms, and presses him

to his heart, and devotes every moment of leisure afforded him from his

labors to sedulous preparation for the contemplated mission of the

Immaculate Conception. His intelligent mind fully comprehended the vast

importance of the undertaking in its relations to the church and the

civilized world, and conceived at once the bold and daring project of a

thorough exploration of the great river around which so much mystery,

intermingled with romantic fables and dim traditions, still hung. It is

with equal truth and justice that Bancroft writes: “The purpose of

discovering the Mississippi, of which the tales of the natives had

published the magnificence, sprang from Marquette himself.”

It has already been stated that F. Marquette had sent some pious pictures

to the Illinois, and by the same messenger to the Sioux, whom he expected

to be embraced in his intended mission. The messenger who carried the

father’s presents also bore his request for protection and a safe‐conduct

to such European missionaries as might visit or pass through their

country, and a message, “That the black‐gown wished to pass to the country

of the Assinipoils and Kilistinons; that he was already among the

Outagamis; and that he himself was going in the fall to the Illinois.”

Sad indeed must have been the feelings of the good father, when, early in

the winter, the Sioux returned to him the pious pictures he had sent them,

in which he saw an ominous forerunner of impending war. The Ottawas and

Hurons had by their insolence aroused the indignation of the Sioux, and

the latter had seized the tomahawk and prepared for the bloody and

revengeful strife. His hopes of reaching the cabins of the Sioux by an

overland route now vanished before the approaching storm. The Indians at

Lapointe could not withstand the fierce onsets of the Dakotah war‐parties,

and first the Ottawas, abandoning their village, launched their canoes

upon the lake, and were soon gathered in Ekaentoulon Island. The Hurons

remained alone at Lapointe, and F. Marquette remained in the midst of them

to minister to their spiritual wants, share their dangers, and uphold

their faith and courage. And when they too were forced to depart, the good

father, ever true to his spiritual flock, was content to “turn his back on

his beloved Illinois to accompany his Hurons in their wanderings and

hardships.” The Hurons settled at Mackinaw, a bleak and desolate spot, but

the abundance of fish the neighboring waters afforded was certain to

secure the fugitives from starvation, while the very desolation of the

scene seemed a protection from hostile bands. Scarcely had the Hurons

thrown up their cabins on this dreary shore, when a rude sylvan chapel,

surmounted by a cross, graced and cheered the scene, and became the cradle

of religion at the mission of S. Ignatius. Such was the early origin of

Michilimackinac. Beside the enclosure of cabins and chapel arose a

palisade fort for defence. For several years F. Marquette labored in this

remote and arduous station, cheered only by the consolations which spring

from faith and by the bountiful harvests of souls he reaped.

Though longing to proceed on his mission to the Illinois, as all his

letters so earnestly manifest, F. Marquette found ample work both for his

mind and hands in arranging matters at Lapointe, so that his departure

should cause as little damage as possible to that mission, to which he had

been so faithful and devoted, and which he was now about to confide to the

care of another, and in making the necessary preparations for his

departure; for his time seemed now near at hand. The dreary days of winter

were enlivened by recounting the projected plans of the coming spring, and

in gathering all the information within his reach concerning the

Mississippi and the nations inhabiting its banks. Most of the actual

knowledge then possessed on the subject was derived from the accounts and

relations of the Jesuit missionaries of the Northwest, and from the

reports of the Canadian traders among the Indians. His inquiries of the

more northern tribes were eagerly answered by startling fables of various

hues and contradictory generalities, but nothing definite could be learned

from them as to the course of the great river, its direction or outlet, or

of the natives along its course. All was conjecture and theory. As early

as 1639 the Sieur Nicolet, who was the interpreter of the French colony of

New France, had penetrated westward to the furthest grounds of the

Algonquins, and had encountered the Winnebagoes, “a people called so

because they came from a distant sea, but whom the French erroneously

called Puents.” And we learn from F. Vimont that “the Sieur Nicolet, who

had penetrated furthest into those distant countries, avers that, had he

sailed three days more on a great river which flows from that lake (Green

Bay), he would have found the sea.” And although the Indians called the

Mississippi itself “the sea,” and the Sieur Nicolet may have fallen into

the same error, in either case it seems quite certain that he was the

first to reach the waters of that river. In 1641, Fathers Isaac Jogues and

Charles Raymbaut carried their missionary labors to the Sault St. Mary,

and received distinct accounts of the Sioux, and of the great river on

whose banks they lived. In 1658, after F. Garreau had suffered martyrdom

on the St. Lawrence on his way to renew the Western missions destroyed by

the recent Iroquois war, De Groseilles and another Frenchman penetrated to

Lake Superior, and passed the winter on its shores. They visited the

Sioux, learned with greater clearness and particularity of the course of

the great river on whose banks they stood. Their annalist writes: “It was

a beautiful river, large, broad, and deep, which would bear comparison,

they say, with the St. Lawrence.” The missionaries of the Saguenay had

also “heard of the Winnipegouek, and their bay whence three seas could be

reached.” And war parties of the Iroquois told the missionaries of New

York of their wars with the Ontoagannha, “whose towns lay on a beautiful

river (Ohio), which leads to the great lake, as they called the sea, where

they traded with Europeans who pray to God as we (the French) do, and have

rosaries and bells to call men to prayer.”(225) F. Ménard, the founder of

the Ottawa mission, also heard, in 1660, of the Mississippi and the

nations on its banks, and was only prevented from visiting them by meeting

with a martyr’s death while prosecuting his work. F. Allouez, his

successor, also writes of the great river, “which empties, as far as I can

conjecture, into the sea of Virginia,” and was the first to reveal to

Europeans its Indian name; for, in speaking of one of its tribes, he says:

“They live on a great river called Messipi.” At the time that F. Dablon

was appointed Superior of the Ottawa missions, and F. Marquette appointed

to establish the intended Illinois mission, and the exploration of the

river was about to be undertaken, the latter, as already stated, was for

some time engaged in gathering information concerning its course and

outlet. Three principal conjectures prevailed at this time: first, that it

ran towards the southwest, and entered the Gulf of California; second,

that it flowed into the Gulf of Mexico; third, that it took a more

easterly direction, and discharged itself into the Atlantic Ocean,

somewhere on the coast of Virginia. To F. Marquette belonged the glory of

solving the problem, and thus of opening the interior of the continent to

Christianity and civilization.

The war which was raging in the country rendered it impossible for the

missionaries of themselves to undertake the opening of the long‐desired

mission of the Illinois, and they had accordingly applied for assistance

to the French government to further this great enterprise. F. Marquette,

as we have seen from his letters, remained ever ready at a moment’s notice

from his superiors to advance into this dangerous field. He was not

deterred by a consciousness of his own declining health, already enfeebled

by labors and exposures, nor by the hostile character of the nations

through whose country he would have to pass, nor by the danger of a cruel

death at the hands of the fierce Dakotah. This last only made the prospect

more enticing to one whose highest ambition was to win the glorious crown

of martyrdom in opening the way for his brother Jesuits to follow in the

battle of the faith. The same flotilla that carried his letter to F.

Dablon to Quebec in the summer of 1672, on its return conveyed to him the

joyous news that the petition of the missionaries had found favor with the

government; that the Sieur Jolliet was designated to undertake the

exploration of the Mississippi; and that F. Marquette was chosen the

missionary of the expedition. It was the Blessed Virgin whom, F. Marquette

says, “I had always invoked, since my coming to the Ottawa country, in

order to obtain of God the favor of being able to visit the nations on the

Mississippi River.” It was on the feast of the Immaculate Conception of

the same Blessed Virgin Mary that he received the glorious tidings that

the realization of his hopes and prayers was at hand. He bestowed upon the

great river the name of the Immaculate Conception, which, however, as well

as its earlier Spanish name of River of the Holy Ghost, has since yielded

to its original Indian appellation.

The exploring party, consisting of “the meek, single‐hearted,

unpretending, illustrious Marquette, with Jolliet for his associate, five

Frenchmen for his companions, and two Algonquins as guides, lifting their

canoes on their backs, and walking across the narrow portage that divides

the Fox River from the Wisconsin,” set out upon their glorious expedition.

Mr. J. G. Shea, to whom we are so much indebted for his researches into

this interesting part of the history of our country, describes the voyage

in the following graphic and eloquent manner:

“In the spring they embarked at Mackinaw in two frail bark canoes;

each with his paddle in hand, and full of hope, they soon plied

them merrily over the crystal waters of the lake. All was new to

Marquette, and he describes as he went along the Menonomies, Green

Bay, and Maskoutens, which he reached on the 7th of June, 1673. He

had now attained the limit of former discoveries; the new world

was before them; they looked back a last adieu to the waters

which, great as the distance was, connected them with Quebec and

their countrymen; they knelt on the shore to offer, by a new

devotion, their lives, their honor, and their undertakings to

their beloved Mother, the Virgin Mary Immaculate; then, launching

on the broad Wisconsin, sailed slowly down its current, amid its

vine‐clad isles and its countless sand‐bars. No sound broke the

stillness, no human form appeared, and at last, after sailing

seven days, on the 17th of June they happily glided into the great

river. Joy that could find no utterance in words filled the

grateful heart of Marquette.

“The broad river of the Conception, as he named it, now lay before

them, stretching away hundreds of miles to an unknown sea. Soon

all was new; mountain and forest had glided away; the islands,

with their groves of cottonwood, became more frequent, and moose

and deer browzed on the plains; strange animals were seen

traversing the river, and monstrous fish appeared in its waters.

But they proceeded on their way amid this solitude, frightful by

its utter absence of man. Descending still further, they came to

the land of the bison, or pisikiou, which, with the turkey, became

sole tenants of the wilderness; all other game had disappeared. At

last, on the 25th of June, they descried footprints on the shore.

They now took heart again, and Jolliet and the missionary, leaving

their five men in the canoes, followed a little beaten path to

discover who the tribe might be. They travelled on in silence

almost to the cabin‐doors, when they halted, and with a loud

halloa proclaimed their coming. Three villages lay before them;

the first, roused by the cry, poured forth its motley group, which

halted at the sight of the new‐comers and the well‐known dress of

the missionary. Old men came slowly on, step by measured step,

bearing aloft the all‐mysterious calumet. All was silence; they

stood at last before the two Europeans, and Marquette asked, ‘Who

are you?’ ‘We are Illinois,’ was the answer, which dispelled all

anxiety from the explorers, and sent a thrill to the heart of

Marquette; the Illinois missionary was at last amid the children

of that tribe which he had so long, so tenderly yearned to see.

“After friendly greetings at this town of Pewaria, and the

neighboring one of Moing‐wena, they returned to their canoes,

escorted by the wondering tribe, who gave their hardy visitants a

calumet, the safeguard of the West. With renewed courage and

lighter hearts, they sailed in, and, passing a high rock with

strange and monstrous forms depicted on its rugged surface, heard

in the distance the roaring of a mighty cataract, and soon beheld

Pekitanoui, or the Muddy River, as the Algonquins call the

Missouri, rushing like some untamed monster into the calm and

clear Mississippi, and hurrying in with its muddy waters the trees

which it had rooted up in its impetuous course. Already had the

missionaries heard of the river running to the western sea, to be

reached by the branches of the Mississippi, and Marquette, now

better informed, fondly hoped to reach it one day by the Missouri.

But now their course lay south, and, passing a dangerous eddy, the

demon of the Western Indians, they reached the Waboukigou, or

Ohio, the river of the Shawnees, and, still holding on their way,

came to the warm land of the cane, and the country which the

mosquitoes might call their own. While enveloped in their sails as

a shelter from them, they came upon a tribe who invited them to

the shore. They were wild wanderers, for they had guns bought of

Catholic Europeans at the East.

“Thus, after all had been friendly, and encouraged by this second

meeting, they plied their oars anew, and, amid groves of

cottonwood on either side, descended to the 33d degree, when, for

the first time, a hostile reception was promised by the excited

Metchigameas. Too few to resist, their only hope on earth was the

mysterious calumet, and in heaven the protection of Mary, to whom

they sent up fervent prayers. At last the storm subsided, and they

were received in peace; their language formed an obstacle, but an

interpreter was found, and after explaining the object of their

coming, and announcing the great truths of Christianity, they

embarked for Akamsea, a village thirty miles below on the eastern

shore.

“Here they were well received, and learned that the mouth of the

river was but ten days’ sail from this village; but they heard,

too, of nations there trading with Europeans, and of wars between

the tribes, and the two explorers spent a night in consultation.

The Mississippi, they now saw, emptied into the Gulf of Mexico,

between Florida and Tampico, two Spanish points; they might, by

proceeding, fall into their hands. Thus far only Marquette traced

the map, and he put down the names of other tribes of which they

heard. Of these, in the Atotchasi, Matora, and Papihaka, we

recognize Arkansas tribes; and the Akoroas and Tanikwas, Pawnees

and Omahas, Kansas and Apiches, are well known in after‐days.

“They accordingly set out from Akensea, on the 17th of July, to

return. Passing the Missouri again, they entered the Illinois,

and, meeting the friendly Kaskaskias at its upper portage, were

led by them in a kind of triumph to Lake Michigan; for Marquette

had promised to return and instruct them in the faith. Sailing

along the lake, they crossed the outer peninsula of Green Bay, and

reached the mission of S. Francis Xavier just four months after

their departure from it.

“Thus had the missionaries achieved their long‐projected work. The

triumph of the age was thus completed in the discovery and

exploration of the Mississippi, which threw open to France the

richest, most fertile and accessible territory of the New World.

Marquette, whose health had been severely tried in this voyage,

remained at St. Francis to recruit his strength before resuming

his wonted missionary labors; for he sought no laurels, he aspired

to no tinsel praise.

“The distance passed over by F. Marquette on this great

expedition, in his little bark canoe, was two thousand seven

hundred and sixty‐seven miles. The feelings with which he regarded

an enterprise having so grave a bearing on the future history and

development of mankind may be appreciated from the following

closing passage of the ninth section of his _Voyages and

Discoveries_:

“ ‘Had all this voyage caused but the salvation of a single soul,

I should deem all my fatigue well repaid. And this I have reason

to think; for, when I was returning, I passed by the Indians at

Peoria. I was three days announcing the faith in all their cabins,

after which, as we were embarking, they brought me to the water’s

edge a dying child, which I baptized a little before it expired,

by an admirable Providence, for the salvation of that innocent

soul.’ ”

F. Marquette prepared a narrative of his voyage down the Mississippi (from

which the foregoing quotation is taken), and a map of that river; and on

his return transmitted copies to his superior, by the Ottawa flotilla of

that year. It is also probable that Frontenac, the Governor of New France,

as he had promised, sent a copy of them to the French government. The loss

of Jolliet’s narrative and map gave an inestimable value to those of

Marquette. Yet the French government did not publish them, probably in

consequence of the discontinuance of the publication of the Jesuit

_Relations_ about this time; and thus the great interests involved in the

discovery were neglected. Fortunately, F. Marquette’s narrative fell into

the hands of Thevenot, who had just published a collection of travels, and

such was his appreciation of it that he issued a new volume, entitled

_Recueil de Voyages_, in 1681, containing the narrative and map of the

Mississippi.(226) Mr. Sparks, in his life of F. Marquette, speaks thus of

the narrative:

“It is written in a terse, simple, and unpretending style. The

author relates what occurs, and describes what he sees, without

embellishment or display. He writes as a scholar and as a man of

careful observation and practical sense. There is no tendency to

exaggerate, nor any attempt to magnify the difficulties he had to

encounter, or the importance of his discovery. In every point of

view, this tract is one of the most interesting of those which

illustrate the early history of America.”

Having reached Green Bay, the exhausted voyager sank down under the

effects of his recent travels and exposures. His disease was so obstinate

and protracted that he suffered during the entire winter, though with

patience and resignation, and did not recover before the end of the

following summer. Having received from his superior the necessary orders

for the establishment of the Illinois mission, he started on the 25th of

October, 1674, for Kaskaskia. He was accompanied and assisted by two

faithful and devoted Frenchmen, and by a number of Pottawattomies and

Illinois Indians. They coasted along the mouth of Fox River, and then,

advancing up as far as the small bay breaking into the peninsula, they

reached the portage leading to the lake. As the canoes proceeded along the

lake shore, the missionary walked upon the beach, returning to the canoes

whenever the beach was broken by a river or stream; and their provisions

were obtained from the abundant yield of the chase. On the 23d of

November, the courageous missionary found his malady returning, but pushed

on, amid cold and snow, until, on the 4th of December, he reached the

Chicago River, which was closed with ice. Here again the unpropitious

elements and his own infirmities compelled him to stop and spend the

winter. But his time was not idly spent during this detention, for his

missionary zeal found occupation in the spiritual care of his Indian

companions, whom he instructed as well as he could, and sent them forward

on their journey. His faithful Frenchmen remained now alone with him; but

at a distance of fifty miles was an Illinois village, where there were two

Frenchmen, traders and trappers; and these, hearing of the forlorn

condition of the missionary, arranged that one of them should go and visit

him. They had prepared a cabin for him, and the Indians, alarmed for his

safety, were also anxious to send some of their tribe to convey their

father and his effects to their village. Touched by their attentions, he

sent them every assurance of his visiting them, intimating, however, the

uncertainty of his doing so in the spring, in consequence of his continued

illness. These messages only added to the alarm of the Indians, and the

sachems assembled and sent a deputation to the black‐gown. The presents

they bore were three sacks of corn, dried meat, and pumpkins, and twelve

beaver skins. The objects of their visits were, first, to make him a mat

to sit on; second, to ask him for powder; third, supply him with food;

fourth, to get some merchandise. The good father made answer in

characteristic terms, as follows: “First, that I came to instruct them by

speaking of the prayer; second, that I would not give them powder, as we

endeavor to make peace everywhere, and because I did not wish them to

begin a war against the Miamis; third, that we did not fear famine;

fourth, that I would encourage the French to bring them merchandise, and

that they must make reparation to the traders there for the beads taken

from them while the surgeon was with me.” Presenting them with some axes,

knives, and trinkets, he dismissed them with a promise to make every

effort to visit them in a few days. Bidding their good father to “take

heart,” and beseeching him to “stay and die in their country,” the

deputation “returned to their winter camps.”

The ensuing winter months, though marked by every bodily suffering and

privation, were replete with religious consolation. His whole time was

spent in prayer. Admonished by his disease that his last end could not be

far off, he offered his remaining days entirely to God. He lost sight of

the sufferings of his body in the overflow of heavenly consolations with

which his soul was ravished. Still the recollection that he had been

appointed missionary of the Illinois, and the duty this seemed to impose

upon him of laboring for the conversion of those noble but benighted

souls, filled his heart with the desire of visiting them, if it should be

the will of God, and the establishment of the Illinois mission became the

absorbing thought of his mind and the burden of the prayers which he

addressed to the throne of heaven. His sufferings he bore not only with

patience, but with joy; if he prayed for their cessation, it was only with

the view that he might thus be enabled to encounter the new sufferings,

labors, and hardships of his mission, and that he might devote his

remaining days to the salvation of his beloved Illinois. To obtain this

privilege from heaven, he induced his companions to unite with him in a

novena of prayers in honor of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed

Virgin Mary. Some time after Christmas, 1675, his Patroness in heaven

obtained the desired boon of health for her devoted client; for he soon

began to recover from his disease, and, though still feeble, was enabled

by the 29th of March, when the snow and ice began to melt, and the

inundations compelled them to move, to set out for Kaskaskia, in the Upper

Illinois. He arrived at that Illinois town on the 8th of April, but his

journal was discontinued from the 6th of April, and we have no record of

his movements from that time. He was received by his children as an angel

from heaven, for they scarcely supposed he had escaped alive the rigors of

the winter. It was Monday in Holy Week, and the good man immediately

commenced his work. He visited the chiefs and ancients of the town, and

gave them and the crowds who assembled in the cabins he visited the first

necessary instructions in the Gospel. So great were the throngs that

assembled to hear him preach that the narrow accommodations of the cabins

could not hold them. On Maundy Thursday he called a general assembly of

the people in the open field, a beautiful prairie near the town, which was

decorated after the fashion of the country, and spread with mats and bear

skins. He formed a little rustic altar by suspending some pieces of Indian

taffety on cords, to which were attached, so as to be seen on all four

sides, four large pictures of the Blessed Virgin, under whose invocation

the mission was placed. The assembly was immense; composed of five hundred

chiefs and ancients seated in a circle around the missionary, and around

these stood fifteen hundred young men. Besides these, great numbers of

women and children attended. He addressed his congregation with ten words

or presents, according to the Indian fashion, associating each word or

present, which represented some great truth or mystery, with one of the

ten beads on the belt of the prayer which he held in his hand. He

explained the object of his visit to them, preached Christ crucified—for

it was the eve of Good Friday—and explained to them the principal

mysteries of the Christian religion. The Holy Mass was then celebrated for

the first time in this new mission. On each of the following days he

continued his instructions, and on Easter Sunday he celebrated the great

Feast of the Resurrection, offering up Mass for the second time. He took

possession of the land in the name of his risen Lord, and bestowed upon

the mission the name of the Immaculate Virgin Mary.

His former malady now returned with renewed violence. His strength was

wasting away. To remain would accomplish no good for his children, for he

was unable to discharge the duties of the missionary, and no alternative

was left but to make an effort to reach his former mission, Mackinaw,

where he hoped to die in the midst of his fellow‐members of the Society of

Jesus. He was the more willing now to seek rest in the bosom of his

Redeemer and in the Society of his Blessed Mother in Heaven, because he

had performed his promise, the mission of the Illinois had been founded,

his words had been lovingly received by his people, the good seed had been

sown in their hearts, the Holy Sacrifice had been offered up in their

presence and for their salvation, and future missionaries might now

advance to cultivate the field and reap the harvest he had prepared. His

docile Indians, with the devotion of children, begged him to return to

them as soon as his health should permit. He repeatedly promised them that

he or some other missionary would come to continue the good work amongst

them. The people followed him on his journey, escorted him thirty leagues

on his way with great pomp, showing him every mark of friendship and

affection, and many contended among themselves for the honor of carrying

the scanty baggage he possessed. Taking the way of the St. Joseph’s River

and the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, along which he had yet to travel

over a hundred leagues through an unknown route, his strength soon began

to fail entirely. He could no longer help himself; his two faithful French

companions had to lift him in and out of his canoe when they landed at

night; and so exhausted had he become under his wasting disease that they

had to handle and carry him like a child. In the midst of his sufferings

and the hardships of such a journey in his enfeebled health, his

characteristic equanimity, joy, and gentleness never for a moment left

him. He could even forget his own sufferings to console his companions. He

encouraged them to sustain the fatigues of the way, assuring them that God

would protect and defend them. His native mirthfulness was even in this

extreme crisis conspicuous in his conversations. He now calmly saw the

approach of death, and joyfully and heroically welcome it as the reward of

his toils and sacrifices. He had some time before prepared a meditation on

death, to serve him in these last hours of his life, which he now used

with great consolation. He said his office to his last day. His devotions

frequently assumed the shape of colloquies with his merciful Lord, with

his Holy Mother, with his angel guardian, and with all heaven. He

repeatedly pronounced with fervor the sublime words, “I believe that my

Redeemer liveth”; and again, “Mary, Mother of grace, Mother of God,

remember me.” Perceiving a river on whose banks loomed up a prominent

eminence, he ordered his companions to stop, that he might die and be

buried there. He pointed out the spot on this eminence in which he desired

them to inter his remains. This river, until recent years, bore his name.

His companions still desired to press forward, in the hope of reaching

Mackinaw; but they were driven back by the wind, and, entering the River

Marquette by its former channel, they erected a bark cabin, under which

Marquette, like his great model, S. Francis Xavier, was stretched upon the

shore, and, like him, sighed only to be dissolved and to be with Christ.

So cheerfully did he realize his approaching dissolution that he gave all

the necessary directions to his companions touching his burial. He had a

week before blessed some water, which he instructed them how to use on the

occasion, how to arrange his hands, feet, and head, with what religious

ceremonies to bury him, even telling them that they should take his little

altar bell, and ring it as they carried him to the grave. On the eve of

his death, he told them with a countenance radiant with joy that the

morrow would be his last day on earth. Still mindful of his sacred

ministry, and anxious to be doing good, he administered the sacrament of

penance to his two companions for the last time. He thanked them for their

charity to him during this arduous and eventful voyage, begged their

pardon for the trouble he had given them, and directed them to ask pardon

for him and in his name of all the Fathers and Brothers of the Society of

Jesus in the Ottawa country; he also gave them a paper in which he had

written all his faults since his last confession, which he begged them to

give to his superior, that he might pray the more earnestly for him. He

promised not to forget them in heaven. Ever mindful of others in this

trying moment, and overflowing with charity for his neighbor, he insisted

upon his companions taking some rest, leaving him to commune with heaven,

assuring them that his hour was not yet at hand, and that he would call

them in due time. This he did; summoning them to his side, just as his

agony was approaching. Hastening to him, they fell melting into tears at

his feet. He embraced them for the last time, called for the holy water he

had blessed and his reliquary, and, taking his crucifix from around his

neck, and handing it to one of them, he requested him to hold it up before

him, so that he could behold it every moment he had yet to live. Clasping

his hands, and fixing his eyes affectionately on the image of his expiring

Saviour, he pronounced aloud his profession of faith, and thanked God for

the favor he enjoyed in dying a Jesuit, a missionary of the cross, and,

above all, in dying in a miserable cabin, amid forests, and destitute of

all human consolation and assistance. He then communed secretly for some

time with his Creator, but his devotion from time to time found vent in

the ejaculations, “Sustinuit anima mea in verba ejus,” and “Mater Dei,

memento mei.” These were his last words before he was taken with the agony

of death. His companions frequently pronounced the names of Jesus and

Mary, as he had previously requested them to do, and, when they saw he was

about to expire, they called out “Jesus, Maria,” whereupon he repeated

those enrapturing names several times with distinctness, and then

suddenly, as if his Saviour and Mother had appeared to him, he raised his

eyes above the crucifix, gazing with a countenance lit up with pleasure at

those blissful apparitions. He expired as peacefully and gently as a child

sinking into its evening slumber.

“Thus he died, the great apostle,

Far away in regions West;

By the Lake of the Algonquins

Peacefully his ashes rest;

But his spirit still regards us

From his home among the blest.”

The devoted companions of the illustrious missionary, happy, in the midst

of their bereavement, in the privilege of witnessing one of the most

heroic and saintly deaths recorded in the history of our race, carried out

every injunction of their departed father, and added every act that love

and veneration could suggest, and that their impoverished condition in the

wilderness could afford. They laid out his remains as he had directed,

rang the little altar bell as they carried him with profound respect to

the mound of earth selected by himself, interred him there, and raised a

large cross to mark the sacred spot.

The surviving companions of the deceased now prepared to embark. One of

them had been ill for some time, suffering with such depression of spirits

and feebleness of body that he could neither eat nor sleep. Just before

embarking he knelt at the grave of his saintly friend, and begged him to

intercede for him in heaven as he had promised, and, taking some earth

from the breast of the departed, and placing it upon his own breast, it is

related that he felt his sadness and bodily infirmity immediately depart,

and he resumed his voyage in health and gladness. Many are the pious

traditions of miraculous results attributed to the sanctity of F.

Marquette; many of them are still handed down among the Western

missionaries, and some of them have found a place in the pages of serious

history.

The remains of the saintly Jesuit were, two years afterwards, disinterred

by his own flock, the Kiskakons, while returning from their hunting‐

grounds, placed in a neat box of bark, and reverently carried to their

mission. The flotilla of canoes, as it passed along in funeral solemnity,

was joined by a party of the Iroquois, and, as they approached Mackinaw,

many other canoes, including those of the two missionaries of the place,

united in the imposing convoy, and the deep, reverential chant, _De

Profundis_, arose heavenward from the bosom of the lake until the body

reached the shore. It was carried in procession with cross, burning

tapers, and fragrant incense to the church, where every possible

preparation had been made for so interesting and affecting a ceremony;

and, after the Requiem service, the precious relics were deposited in a

vault prepared for them in the middle of the church, “where he reposes,”

says the pious chronicler, “as the guardian angel of our Ottawa missions.”

“Ever after,” says Bancroft, “the forest rangers, if in danger on Lake

Michigan, would invoke his name. The people of the West will build his

monument.”

The following notice of the character of F. Marquette is from the gifted

pen of Mr. Shea:

“Such was the edifying and holy death of the illustrious explorer

of the Mississippi, on Saturday, the 18th of May, 1675. He was of

a cheerful, joyous disposition, playful even in his manner, and

universally beloved. His letters show him to us as a man of

education, close observation, sound sense, strict integrity, a

freedom from exaggeration, and yet a vein of humor which here and

there breaks out in spite of all his self‐command.

“But all these qualities are little compared to his zeal as a

missionary, to his sanctity as a man. His holiness drew on him in

life the veneration of all around him, and the lapse of years has

not even now destroyed it in the descendants of those who knew

him. In one of his sanctity we naturally find an all‐absorbing

devotion to the Mother of the Saviour, with its constant

attendants, an angelical love of purity, and a close union of the

heart with God. It is, indeed, characteristic with him. The

privilege which the Church honors under the title of the

Immaculate Conception was the constant object of his thoughts;

from his early youth he daily recited the little offices of the

Immaculate Conception and fasted every Saturday in her honor. As a

missionary, a variety of devotions directed to the same end still

show his devotions, and to her he turned in all his trials. When

he discovered the great river, when he founded his new mission, he

gave it the name of the Conception, and no letter, it is said,

ever came from his hand that did not contain the words, ’Blessed

Virgin Immaculate’; and the smile that lighted up his dying face

induced his poor companions to believe that she had appeared

before the eyes of her devoted client.

“Like S. Francis Xavier, whom he especially chose as the model of

his missionary career, he labored nine years for the moral and

social improvement of nations sunk in paganism and vice, and, as

he was alternately with tribes of varied tongues, found it was

necessary to acquire knowledge of many American languages: six he

certainly spoke with ease; many more he is known to have

understood less perfectly. His death, however, was, as he had

always desired, more like that of the apostle of the Indies; there

is, indeed, a striking resemblance between their last moments; and

the wretched cabin, the desert shore, the few destitute

companions, the lonely grave, all harmonize in Michigan and

Sancian.”

Prayer Of Custance, The Persecuted Queen Of Alla Of Northumberland.

Mother, quod she, and maiden bright, Mary!

Soth is that through womanne’s eggement

Mankind was lorn, and damned aye to die,

For which thy Child was on a cross yrent:

Thy blissful eyen saw all his torment;

Then is there no comparison between

Thy woe and any woe man may sustain.

Thou saw’st thy Child yslain before thine eyen,

And yet now liveth my little child parfay,

Now, lady bright! to whom all woful crien,

Thou glory of womanhood, thou faire May,

Thou haven of refute, bright star of the day!

Rue on my child, that of thy gentleness

Ruest on every rueful in distress.

—_Chaucer._

Acoma.

“Mr. S——, would you like to visit Acoma?” asked the commandant.

“Most assuredly,” I replied; “I came out here to see all I could see. But

what or who is Acoma?”(227)

“A town built on the top of a rock rising from a level plain to a height

of over two hundred feet is Acoma—the home of the Acoma Indians, a tribe

of the great Pueblo family. I am ordered thither to have a talk with the

principal men, and induce them to give up some Navajo

children—captives—they are said to have taken in a recent skirmish.”

I had been enjoying the hospitality of the commandant for some days at old

Fort Wingate, near the Ojo del Gallo, in the northwestern part of New

Mexico. Acoma lies about fifty miles to the southeast of the fort, by a

very rough trail across the mountains. It was somewhat further by the

regular trail.

As we started, the sun was creeping over the brow of lofty San Mateo. The

party consisted of the commandant, Don Juan Brown, a Castilianized

American, who speaks Spanish like a native, and went with us as volunteer

interpreter; Messrs. Jim Durden and Joe Smithers, gentlemen loafers; a

sergeant and twenty cavalry as escort in case of unexpected and undesired

rencounters with hostile Apaches or Navajoes; last, the writer, a denizen

of the city of Gotham, general tourist, grand scribe and chronicler.

We all rode on horseback, except Don Juan Brown, who, being a trifle over

225 lbs., divided his weight between a pair of good horses attached to a

light buggy. The order of march was: two cavalrymen five hundred yards in

advance; the commandant, with Jim and Joe and the writer; the main body of

the escort; Don Juan Brown with his buggy, and a rear guard of two

cavalrymen five hundred yards behind.

A brisk trot of three miles brought us to the Puertocito, or Little Door,

which leads from the Valley of the Gallo into the Mal Païs, a petrified

sea of lava, which lies between the Puertocito and the mountains. The lava

stream seems to have been suddenly turned to stone by a wave of some

enchanter’s wand while it was a raging, seething torrent.

We halted and dismounted, tightened girths, etc. Jim and Joe, unused to

the equitating mood, and evidently disliking particularly the trotting

tense, had fallen back to the rear guard, and looked somewhat shaken. The

relief of a walk of some miles was in store for them, as the trail through

the Mal Païs admitted only of that gait and of single file.

The Puertocito is formed by two rocks about twenty feet high. We wound our

way through tortuous passages, through lava spires, at a slow walk. We

could not see more than a few yards ahead. It was a dreary pathway. The

knowledge that it was a haunt for Indians bound on robbery or revenge gave

imagination an opportunity to put her darkest colors on the natural gloom.

An hour’s slow walking brings us to the Bajada, or Descent, where our path

is up and down the steep sides of a lava rock thirty feet high. We

dismount and lead our horses carefully down. Half a dozen men holding on

to the buggy behind make sufficient drag to let it down in safety, though

with some wrenching of the wheels in the channelled surface of the rock.