Boundless was the power exerted when the religious envoys of this
wonderful colony spread over the interior of America. When the heroic
bishop Laval de Montmorency stood on the altar-steps of his Basilica
at Quebec, he could wave his crozier over half a continent, from the
island of St. Pierre Miquelon to the source of the Mississippi, and
from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico. The Jesuits' College at
Quebec was started in a small way as early as 1637, and from it, year
after year, issued forth the dauntless missionaries, carrying the
gospel out among the Indians for over three thousand miles into the
interior, preaching the faith beyond the Mississippi, and down its
valley, throughout Louisiana, many suffering death and martyrdom in
its most cruel forms. Nowhere in the church annals exists a grander
chapter than the record of these missionaries. Unarmed and alone, they
travelled the unexplored continent, bravely meeting every horrible
torture and lingering death inflicted by the vindictive savages, whom
they went out to bless. The world was amazed at their sufferings and
achievements. Even Puritan New England, we are told, received their
envoy with honors, the apostle Eliot entertaining him at Roxbury
parsonage, while Boston, Salem and Plymouth became his gracious hosts.
These devoted men loved the new country. "To the Jesuits," we are
told in their annals, "the atmosphere of Quebec was well-nigh
celestial. In the climate of New France one learns perfectly to seek
only one God; to have no desire but God; no purpose but for God. To
live in New France is in truth to live in the bosom of God. If anyone
of those who die in this country goes to perdition," writes Le Jeune,
"I think he will be doubly guilty." For years old France sent over a
multitude to reinforce these missions. They were urged on by rank,
wealth and power in the great work of converting the heathen, and the
noblest motives gave these missions life. Solitude, toil, privation,
hardship and death were the early French missionary's portion, yet
nothing made his zeal or courage flag. The saints and angels of their
faith hovered around these Jesuit martyrs with crowns of glory and
garlands of immortal bliss. It was no wonder that the French and
Jesuit influence soon extended far beyond the mere circle of converts.
It modified and softened the rude manners of many unconverted tribes.
Parkman, from whom I have already quoted, records that "in the wars of
the next century we do not often find those examples of diabolic
atrocity with which the earlier annals are crowded. The savage burned
his enemies alive, it is true, but he seldom ate them; neither did he
torment them with the same deliberation and persistency. He was a
savage still, but not so often a devil."
The French missionary priests survived the period of torture and
trial, and became, in fact, the revered rulers of many of the Indian
tribes. They thoroughly assimilated and learned the languages. The
priest, regarded with awe and affection, knew so much, and was so
skillful as counsellor and physician, that the untutored savage came
to look upon him almost as a supernatural being. The biographer of the
venerable Father Davion, who governed the Yazoos in Louisiana, tells
how the Indians regarded him as more than human. "Had they not, they
said, frequently seen him at night, with his dark solemn gown, not
walking, but gliding through the woods like something spiritual? How
could one so weak in frame, and using so little food, stand so many
fatigues? How was it that whenever one of them fell sick, however
distant it might be, Father Davion knew it instantly and was sure to
be there before sought for? Did any of his prophecies ever prove
false? What was it he was in the habit of muttering so long, when
counting the beads of that mysterious chain that hung round his neck?
Was he not then telling the Great Spirit every wrong they had done? So
they both loved and feared Father Davion. One day they found him dead
at the foot of the altar; he was leaning against it with his head cast
back, with his hands clasped, and still retaining his kneeling
position. There was an expression of rapture in his face, as if to his
sight the gates of Paradise had suddenly unfolded themselves to give
him admittance; it was evident that his soul had exhaled into a
prayer, the last on this earth, but terminating no doubt in a hymn of
rejoicing above." But great as may be the spectacle of triumphant
martyrdom, there are yet men unwilling to change places with the
missionary priest. Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in _The Problem_:
"I like a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles:
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowléd churchman be."
But others also came to New France besides priests and martyrs; the
adventurers and beggared noblemen--poor, uneducated, yet bold and
courageous. The historian tells us of "the beggared noble of the early
time" who came over, "never forgetting his quality of _gentilhomme_;
scrupulously wearing its badge the sword, and copying, as well as he
could, the fashions of the court which glowed on his vision across the
sea with all the effulgence of Versailles and beamed with reflected
ray from the Chateau of Quebec. He was at home among his tenants, at
home among the Indians, and never more at home than when, a gun in his
hand and a crucifix on his breast, he took the warpath with a crew of
painted savages and Frenchmen almost as wild, and pounced like a lynx
from the forest on some lonely farm or outlying hamlet of New
England. How New England hated him, let her records tell. The reddest
blood-streaks on her old annals mark the track of the Canadian
_gentilhomme_."