Chapter X: Brown Bread And Bonnyclabber (1)

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.