hearing herself called by the name of her aunt, she might be perpetually stimulated to imitate her virtues. She had the advantage of a constant correspondence with Her, and after a most holy life, went to rejoin her in the blessed home to which the saintly Mother had long preceded her. In a letter of October, 1671, we meet the following words, the last ever addressed by the Venerable Mother to the beloved niece whom she had been the first to offer to God at her birth, and for whose salvation she had endured so much:–“Oh! how ardently I desire that you may become a saint, at the cost of any suffering or sacrifice to myself! As my farewell, permit me to say to you in the words of our Lord, ‘He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'”
After having borne her heavy interior crosses for seven years, with only partial and temporary alleviation, the Mother of the Incarnation was inspired to apply for relief to the Blessed Virgin. It was on the Feast of the Assumption, 1647. Hardly had the petition been presented, when it was granted. Suddenly she felt, she says, as if divested of a leaden garment, which had long oppressed her with its crushing weight, and on the arrival of the next vessel from Europe, she learned that the period of her emancipation from suffering exactly coincided with that of her niece’s clothing in the convent at Tours. Her soul, she writes, overflowed with a peace which it would be impossible to describe in human language. Capable of understanding the advantages of tribulation, she blessed God with the Psalmist, that He had humbled her; that He had led her through the thorny ways of the cross, to a higher experimental knowledge of the sacred maxims of the Gospel, in which she found strength and support for her soul, not only under the pressure of spiritual trial, but amidst the multiplied difficulties and embarrassments which her arduous external duties entailed.
In order not to interrupt the history of the conversion of her niece, chronological order has been slightly anticipated. Retracing our steps a short distance, we meet some new names intermingled with those already so well known to us. The evergrowing eagerness both of French and Indians for instruction, and the continual increase in the number of applicants for it, had rendered more help indispensable. The harvest was greater than the few labourers could reap, so they appealed once more to France, which sent them Mother Anne of the Seraphim, from Ploermel in Brittany, in 1643, and the Mothers Anne of St. Cecilia, and Anne of our Lady from Tours, the year following. The two first returned to France, the one after thirteen, the other after eleven years in Canada.
In 1645, we find the Venerable Mother relieved from the burden of Superiority, which consistently with the Constitutions of the Ursuline Order cannot be borne by the same individual for more than six consecutive years. This high position had been a heavy cross to her, not only on account of the responsibilities which it entailed, but also because its arduous duties left her comparatively little time for the occupation which she prized beyond all others, the instruction of the Indians. She was succeeded by Mother St. Athanasius, the two continuing alternately to govern the community until death deprived them of the Venerable Mother.
The same year, according to the example of St. Teresa, she made a vow allowable only under very exceptional circumstances, to do, say, and think in all things whatever she considered most perfect, and most conducive to the glory of God, and so naturalized had she become by long habit to the practice of every virtue, that this vow never caused her an uneasiness. “Although I am but a poor sinful creature,” she said, “God assists me to avoid every voluntary imperfection inconsistent with my promise. If involuntary faults mingle with the observance of it, I trust in His goodness to forgive them.” She had at this time acquired that high degree of the habit of virtue, in which its acts are performed not only without pain, but with pleasure.
The first novice professed in Quebec was Charlotte Barré of St. Ignatius, the former companion of Madame de la Peltrie. She made her solemn vows on the 21st of November, 1648, and a few days after, her example was followed by Sister Catherine of St. Ursula, the first Canadian lay sister. Henceforth the little community continued gradually but steadily to increase in numbers.
From the first opening of the schools, the advantages of education had been extended to the French as well as to the Indians. Even in the small tenement which had served as a temporary convent, there were two French boarders; at the period now under consideration the number had increased to eighteen or twenty. That of the seminarists had amounted to eighty.
The year 1649 at which we have arrived, brings us to a tear-stained page in the annals of the infant Church of Canada. By a reference to the introductory chapter, it will be seen that this was the date of the massacre of the concerted Hurons and their saintly pastors, by the savage Iroquois. The sad event afflicted every heart in the colony, but perhaps most of all, the hearts of the Venerable Mother and of the Mother St. Joseph. The survivors, who numbered only four or five hundred, took refuge in Quebec, where they were received with extreme kindness. Some were located on a portion of the Isle of Orleans belonging to the Ursulines, and generously transferred by them to the unhappy fugitives. To relieve their distress, the religious deprived themselves of a good part of the food and clothing which they could very badly spare. The Mother of the Incarnation admitted many of their daughters into the seminary, and undertook, though in her fiftieth year, to learn the Huron tongue, that she might be enabled to impart the blessing of spiritual instruction to the exiles. Her teacher was Father Bressani, who had almost miraculously escaped from the hands of the Iroquois, after having undergone the ordinary course of torture prescribed by savage cruelty. She and the Mother St. Joseph divided the charge of teaching these new pupils, who besides ample instruction, received also generous alms. It was at this time that bread was first seen to multiply in the hands of the Venerable Mother: with only two or three loaves to divide among fifty or sixty persons, it was found that every one had a sufficient share. She perceived the prodigy herself and said quite simply, as she went on dividing the loaves, “I think our good God is multiplying this bread for His poor necessitous creatures.” Even before this special demand on her charity, she had arranged that whatever might be their own distress, no Indian should ever be refused an alms at the monastery, and for this purpose, a supply of Indian meal porridge was always kept in readiness. Once, when she was Superior, a poor woman not satisfied with all she had already got, represented her great want of a pair of shoes in addition. Without the least discomposure at the unreasonable importunity, the charitable Mother took off her own and presented them to her, reserving for herself a very poor, slight pair, quite insufficient to protect her from the cold. The time was fast approaching, when she who had been ever ready to give her strength and life, and all else that she possessed for the relief of others, was to be reduced to the last degree of want, and left without even a shelter for her head!
CHAPTER VI
THE CONFLAGRATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.–REBUILDING OF THE MONASTERY.
The Ursulines had inhabited their new monastery seven years before it could be considered finished, a delay easily explained by their great poverty. They were absolutely dependent for their support on remittances from France, and these, besides being sent only once a year, were liable to many casualties on the way. When the annual arrival of the vessels was unusually retarded, the inconveniences to the colony in general, and to the Nuns in particular, can be better imagined than described. What then must have been the distress of the Sisters, when as happened more than once, a ship was wrecked, or seized by pirates, so that they were obliged to wait another year for the very necessaries of life! Then, when the remittances did arrive, charity had so many claims on them, and so many good reasons to urge in support of those claims, that but little remained to carry on the building.
At the cost of many and many a sacrifice, it had been completed at last, when on the memorable evening of December the 29th, 1650, the lay Sister in charge of the bakery, fearing that the bitter frost would injure her carefully prepared dough, thought to make all safe by placing a pan of hot coals in the bread trough, which she then carefully closed. To complete her imprudence, she forgot to remove the live coals as she had intended, before retiring to rest. The consequences may be anticipated. Towards midnight, the kneading trough ignited; the fire spread from the bakery to the cellars in which the year’s provisions were stored, and thence along the whole lower story. The crackling of the flames, and the suffocation of the smoke providentially gave the alarm in time to save the lives, but the lives alone of all the inmates. Amidst the general terror and confusion, the Mother of the Incarnation retained her usual calm presence of mind. Seeing that any attempt to preserve the house would be vain, she directed her efforts to collect a few articles of clothing, but finding even this useless, she satisfied herself with securing some papers of great importance to the community. While engaged in the hazardous service, she was literally surrounded by flames. The fire raged fiercely in the story under her; it ran with fearful rapidity along the roof above her; the church bell under which she had to pass was pouring down a stream of melted metal, and still she escaped unhurt, though nearly suffocated.
Meantime, the rescued household were assembled under the ash tree, so closely connected by tradition with her loved and venerated memory. All were there except one, but that one was the most precious o any. Had she perished,–she, the soul, the living model, the cherished Mother of the community? Each longed, but none dared to ask the question. Almost breathless from anxiety, yet hoping against hope, the little crowd stood silently awaiting the issue. Happily their fears were soon dissipated; good angels had folded their wings round the venerated Mother and screened her from the flames. Yes, it was she whom they saw advancing. Even if she had not been distinctly visible in the strong, clear light of the blazing house, they would have recognised her by that air of quiet self-possession which nothing could disturb; that sweet serenity which nothing could ruffle. But what a sight for the tender-hearted Mother! All the children both French and Indian were standing on the snow, barefooted, very scantily clad, shivering and trembling, and pressed close together for greater warmth. Madame de la Peltrie, so frail; so delicately nurtured, so sensitive to cold, sharing their sufferings; worst of all, the Mother Sister Joseph in her failing health, pierced through by the biting air, and looking as if she would expire momentarily. It was a scene well calculated to display the virtue of the Mother of the Incarnation, which never shone out more brightly. The heroism of her resignation seemed even to pass into the hearts of her companions in affliction, who falling on their knees, returned thanks to God in the spirit of the martyrs for having been thought worthy of so bitter a trial. The spectators wondered, but the Mother afterwards explained the mystery; “He,” she said, “who tried, strengthened and consoled us too.” The night was calm, but intensely cold; the sky brilliantly studded with stars. Showers of sparks poured from the burning building on the neighbouring forest, on the fort, and on the adjoining houses, menacing the town with destruction. But for a light breeze which providentially arose at the moment, and turned the course of the flames, it must have been consumed. Every effort had been made to arrest the conflagration; the Jesuit Fathers in particular, bad been vigorous and untiring, but when discovered, the fire had progressed too far to be checked. At imminent peril, the Blessed Sacrament and some of the sacred vestments were saved. In less than two hours, nothing remained of the monastery but the blackened walls. Clothing, provisions, furniture, all the earthly possessions of the Ursulines were gone.
With great kindness, the principal citizens offered hospitality to the children, while the Superior of the Jesuits conducted the Nuns to the convent of the Hospital Sisters, who opened not alone their doors, but their hearts to their desolate visitors, clothing them from their own wardrobes, placing the whole house at their disposal, and retaining them for over three weeks as their prized and honoured guests. The day after the calamity, the Governor came to offer his condolence; but sweeter than all to the hearts of the sufferers, was a deputation, and an address of sympathy from the Hurons. Time was, when to use their own expression, the grateful chiefs would have covered the ashes of the monastery with presents, but alas! of their vanished glory nought remained but two wampum belts. [Footnote: Wampum. Small shells of various colours formerly used by the North American Indiana as money, and strung like beads into broad ornamental belts.] Such as they were, it was decided in solemn council that they should be presented to the bereaved Sisters. Accordingly the deputation arrived, and the Grand Chief delivered the oration, too long to be entirely inserted, but too beautiful in its simple language and genuine feeling, to be entirely omitted. “Holy Virgins,” he said; “you see before you the miserable remnant of a once flourishing, now extinct nation. The little left to us, we owe to you. Alas! the misfortune which has befallen you, renews our own woes, and re- opens the source of our only partially dried tears. When we saw the beautiful house of Jesus consumed in a moment before our eyes, the sad sight reminded us of the day when our own homes and hamlets were delivered up a prey to the flames, and our country reduced to a heap of ruins. Holy Virgins, you are then sharers in the misery of the poor Hurons, for whose melancholy fate you showed such tender pity. You too are left without house, home, provisions or help, except the help of that heaven to which your eyes are ever turned. If you belonged to our people, we should try to console you by two presents, one intended to dry your tears, the other to add new strength to your fortitude; but we have not seen you shed one tear over your misfortune; neither we know have you buried your courage under the wreck of your fallen house. Surely it must be that your hearts are too fixed on the treasures of heaven, to value those of earth.”
“One thing we fear, that when your friends in France hear of your distress, they will pray you so earnestly to return to them, that you will be unable to resist their entreaties, so we shall be in danger of losing you, and with you, the chance of instruction for our children. Have courage, holy Virgins, and prove that your love for the poor Indians is a heavenly love, stronger than that which binds you to your relatives. We offer you these two wampum belts, the one to attach you inviolably to our country; the other to found anew a house for Jesus, where you can pray, and teach our children to do so too.”
“We know you could not die happily, if at the last hour you had to reproach yourselves with having loved your friends so much as to give up for their sakes the souls once dear to you in God, and destined to be your eternal crown in heaven.”
It cannot be doubted that the sympathy of the Hurons must have been very gratifying to the Mothers, and have tended to cement the already strong tie which bound them to Canada. But the tie was a Divine one, formed by, and wholly dependent on the will of God. “If the Almighty decreed that we should return to France,” the Mother of the Incarnation wrote to her son, “I should go back with the same tranquillity as I came out. To go, or to stay, is a matter of indifference, provided only God be glorified.” In describing the events of the terrible night of the 29th December, she tells him that looking on the disaster as the punishment of her sins, she accepted it with perfect equanimity, only wishing that the chastisement were confined to herself, since she alone deserved it, and beseeching God to spare her innocent Sisters. She says that amidst the horrors of the conflagration, she enjoyed most profound interior peace, undisturbed by a single emotion of regret, sadness, or uneasiness. That closely united in heart with the will of Him who had permitted the blow, she desired that it might be accepted by all in the spirit of the saints both of the Old and New law, who with humble and contrite hearts blessed God under the heaviest afflictions and severest temporal losses.
This imperturbable tranquillity was founded on her perfect confidence in God. Tracing all human events to His ordinance or permission, she sometimes wondered how it was that men should try to reject His hand when it sends adversity, and submit to it willingly only when it bestows prosperity, both being equally His gifts. The calmness of soul thus solidly grounded, must necessarily have been very steady but in addition, the Mother of the Incarnation had, as we know, received from God Himself a special gift of His own Divine peace.
Unwilling to burden the charitable Hospital-Sisters longer, the Ursulines resolved at the end of three weeks, to take up their abode in a small house which Madame de la Peltrie had built for herself within their enclosure, and afterwards generously given them as a school for the Indians. Its dimensions were thirty feet by twenty, and it contained two rooms. Here, it was decided that thirteen Sisters and some boarders should live as best they could, and as the exclusion of converts seeking instruction was not to be dreamt or, the house was made to contain a grated parlour in addition to a chapel, school, refectory, kitchen and dormitory. It had need of an infirmary too, for in that abode of poverty, a well-beloved Sister was slowly wearing her life away, amidst inconceivable sufferings and privations. It was then only the end of January, so that many months were still to elapse before help should come from France, but far from losing courage, the heroic Mothers rejoiced at finding themselves reduced to such utter indigence, as to be compelled to accept alms even from the poor, and so it happened that notwithstanding their own want, the poorest of their neighbours would bring them presents, one of a hen, another of a few eggs, a third of some trifling article of clothing. In their generous charity, the people, not only shared with them all they could spare conveniently, but moreover encroached on absolute necessaries. To complete the distress of the Sisters, the vessels were delayed, and when they did come, they brought but the usual supplies of provisions and clothing, the news of the disaster not having reached in time to secure an additional quantity. But God had not abandoned His own. The Ursulines possessed a small farm, which from want of cultivation, had hitherto yielded them no profit. Deeply touched by their extreme poverty, their chaplain, Rev. M. Vignal, resolved to take it in hands, and not satisfied with merely superintending, he worked, with the labourers, and more actively than any. The Almighty blessed the charity, and the land produced an abundant crop of wheat, barley and peas, which proved a valuable resource to the Sisters. This good priest was massacred by the Iroquois in 1661.
Meantime it had become evident to all interested in the success of the Nuns, that if they were to remain in Canada, they would have to rebuild the convent. They had originally been of opinion, that with some additions, Madame de la Peltrie’s house might be made to afford them sufficient accommodation, but on mature consideration, they determined to adopt the advice of their friends, and to trust to Providence for the means of carrying it out. They were offered a loan free of interest for six years, by the principal citizens headed by the Jesuits of the colony and the Governor, M. d’Ailleboust. The good Fathers who had already assisted them most liberally, promised the services of their lay brothers and workmen to help on the building. All this was encouraging. The snow had hardly melted away when the Nuns began to clear the rubbish from the foundations, and on the 19th of May, 1651, Madame de la Peltrie laid the first stone of the second monastery precisely on the site previously occupied by the first. The burden of care and responsibility again fell on the Venerable Mother, who as before, was charged with the superintendence of the work. While we wait for the completion of the new building, let us see how the Mothers contrived to carry on school work in the interim. The glance will show us a pretty picture traced by the pen of one of their present descendants at the convent of Quebec, in her interesting History of the Monastery.
The number of pupils instead of diminishing, has increased, however in- door accommodation is scant as ever, so if we would assist at a lesson, we must be content with an academy of a primitive kind, and yet, after all, it is one which may well satisfy the most fastidious taste. For roof, it has the canopy of deep blue heaven; for study halls, the lordly forest; for carpet, a fairy web of wild flowers. Here and there, the sun is glancing through the dense foliage, and tinging his resting spots with gold. The ancient trees are looking glorious in their bright, spring clothing; the soft breeze is singing its gentlest notes among the leaves; all looks so fresh, so peaceful and so attractive in the sweet, cool shade, that we do not wonder to hear of numerous candidates for admission to the extemporized academy. In after times, traditionary honours will attach to some of those venerable trees; one in particular will be so often commemorated, that people will learn at last to look on it in the light of an old friend. Here it is; the well-known ash tree, [Footnote: This veteran of the wilderness remained standing until the 19th of June, 1850, when bending under age and honours, it fell to the ground. The wood has been carefully preserved for the sake of dear and old associations, and is used in making ornamental crosses, and similar small devotional articles, as memorials of the Mother Mary of the Incarnation.] under which, whenever she can quit her more pressing duties, we are sure to find the Mother Mary of the Incarnation surrounded by her dear Indian children, to whom she speaks with heavenly unction of “Him who made all things.” How their dark eyes glisten, and their little hearts swell, while they catch each word of life as it falls from her lips to find an echo in their souls! A few steps farther is the famous walnut tree, and here we meet a group of French pupils receiving the lessons of Mother St. Athanasius. At a future day, many of these will be found in the ranks of the Ursuline or Hospital-Sisters; many more faithfully discharging their responsible duties as heads of families, presiding over Christian households, and training their children to virtue by word and example. Farther still, in the shadow of some ancient monarch of the woods, are bark huts occupied by the Neophytes, whom we find participating not only in the heavenly bread of God’s word, but also in the small resources of their impoverished teachers. Many of these too, will do the work of apostles in a humble way among their own tribes. To crown the scene of beauty, the walls of the new monastery are visible in the distance, and like the olive branch in the deluge, they speak o£ hope.
Happily the hope was realized, and far more speedily too, than humanly speaking could have been anticipated. Exactly one year after the first stone had been laid, the new monastery was ready to receive its inmates. So triumphantly successful a termination to the arduous work, was due in great part to the extraordinary natural energy of the Mother of the Incarnation, but still more, to the intervention of her celestial Assistant, the Help of Christians and Queen of heaven. On the 8th of the September preceding the destruction of the first monastery, the community had formally placed itself under the immediate patronage of that glorious Queen, choosing her with solemn ceremonial for its first and chief Superior. That she had graciously condescended to accept the charge, was clearly manifested by the fidelity with which she discharged the trust attaching to it. The marvellous rapidity which marked the erection of the new building, the preservation of the workmen from the slightest accident during its progress, and the almost total freedom of the community from debt at its completion, form a series of favours unhesitatingly ascribed by the Venerable Mother and the Sisters to the manifest protection of their “First Superior,” the “Virgin most powerful, most merciful and most faithful.”
The personal devotion of the Mother of the Incarnation to our Blessed Lady, dating from her earliest years, had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. Her childhood’s prayer had been that, even in this life, she might be permitted to see her dear Heavenly Mother, and, if the petition was not granted literally, it may at least be said to have been at this time answered substantially. She did not see the Blessed Virgin, she says, with her corporal eyes, but, from the commencement to the completion of the building, she had her as constantly and as vividly present to mind and heart, as if she did. She felt her ever by her side, and in her company encountered hardships and dangers without fear. Long accustomed to recur to her in the emergencies of life, she transferred to her, if we may say so, the whole responsibility of the present undertaking, referring to her and consulting her as its first and chief Directress. No wonder, then, that it should have been crowned with extraordinary success. “It was never known in any age, that those who had recourse to Mary were abandoned by her” (St. Bernard). The Venerable Mother, who from the dawn of reason had loved her and trusted in her, could not surely be the one to inaugurate a new experience! So far from it, that some years after the present date, we find her writing, in allusion to the favours of her heavenly Protectress, “Our Blessed Mother assists us in all our wants, and guards us as the apple of her eye. In her own sweet way, she watches over our interests, and relieves us in our embarrassments. We are indebted to her for having many times passed safely through overwhelming difficulties, and, among other benefits, for the rebuilding of our monastery after it had been totally destroyed by fire. What can I fear while shielded by protection at once so loving and so powerful?”
On the 19th of May, 1652, the Ursulines took possession of their second monastery. The great reputation which their schools enjoyed rendered the event one of general interest to all classes. Pleased at the opportunity of testifying their respect for the devoted Mothers, the inhabitants of Quebec determined to make the occasion one of great solemnity. Accordingly, the whole population, ecclesiastic and lay, assembled near the house of Madame de la Peltrie; and thence accompanied the Nuns to their new residence. The Most Adorable Sacrament was borne at the head of the long procession to the convent chapel; the Forty Hours’ prayer was at once commenced, and on each of the three days of its continuance, processions again went out from each of the churches in Quebec to the Ursuline chapel, the chant of the Litanies resounding all along the way. Well might the Mother of the Incarnation say that Divine Providence shows itself a good Mother to those who place their whole reliance on its aid.
About thirty years later, the second monastery, like the first, was consumed by fire, yet not wholly destroyed. The walls raised by the Mother of the Incarnation under the protection of the Queen of Heaven, withstood the flames, and after the lapse of more than two centuries, they are still standing. They form the central portion of the edifice yet known at this remote day as the Ursuline Convent of Quebec.
CHAPTER VII.
LAST ILLNESS AND HAPPY DEATH OF MOTHER ST. JOSEPH.
In the procession to the new convent, one familiar face was missing: Mother St. Joseph, the first companion of the Mother of the Incarnation, was also the first of the little band called home to heaven. Her death and life were so consistent, that the one who knew her best, summed up her panegyric in two words–“She lived a saint, and she died one.” She seemed, indeed, to have been specially privileged by Divine grace from her very infancy, manifesting in early childhood an instinctive love of the beautiful virtue of the angels, and a singular attraction to the poor and afflicted. When only nine years of age she was sent, at her own request, to the Ursuline Convent at Tours, where she made her first Communion with extraordinary fervour. From the period of His first sacramental visit to her soul, our Blessed Lord continued to draw her irresistibly to Himself. Docile to His Divine call, she obtained the reluctant permission of her fond parents to consecrate herself wholly to Him, and at the early age of fourteen, exchanged her brilliant prospects as heiress of two noble houses, for the poverty, seclusion, and mortification of the religious life. Her choice fell on the monastery where she had been educated, and here it was her happiness to be placed under the guidance of the Mother of the Incarnation, at that time in charge of the novices. After the usual probation, she received the habit, and with it the name of St. Bernard, and in due time completed her first sacrifice by holy profession. She continued to edify her sisters by the example of virtues suited rather to a soul far advanced in religious perfection, than to one just touching the mysterious threshold; and, as hers was one of those gifted natures pleasing both to God and man, she charmed and delighted her companions by her amiability and cheerfulness, as much as she edified them by her sanctity. Her great fear was, lest the attention and consideration by which she was surrounded, should prove any obstacle to her progress in perfection.
Some time after her profession she had a mysterious vision, in which the world was represented to her under the symbol of a vast enclosure, abounding in all the delights which here below are wont to fascinate and captivate the hearts of men. She noticed that all who permitted themselves to be attracted too closely by the false glare were at once hopelessly entangled, as if a net had been cast around them, and among the unhappy victims she even recognised an acquaintance of her own. What terrified her most was, that having herself taken a few steps forward, and then, in great alarm, attempted to retreat, she found all means of egress closed, so that there appeared no alternative but to advance. As she was on the point of giving herself up for lost, she was attracted by the sight of a band of young persons arrayed in the costume of Canadian savages, the foremost of whom bore a banner inscribed with unknown characters, and she seemed to hear them say, “Fear not, Mary, for through us you will be saved.” Then they formed into two lines, leaving a passage between them, through which she effected her escape in safety. It was not until her subsequent appointment to the Canadian Mission, that she understood the connection between this supernatural warning and her own destiny; but, although the vision remained for a time unexplained, it served as a strong stimulus to her already ardent zeal for the salvation of souls, especially those of the savages. We have already noticed how manifest was the hand of God in her appointment as the companion of the Mother of the Incarnation to Canada, and we are, therefore, quite prepared to hear of great fruit from her labours in that country. The Almighty seemed, indeed, to have endowed her with some singular attraction for the Indians, young and old. So great was their veneration for her, and, in consequence, so irresistible her influence over them, that the name of “Mary Joseph, the Holy Virgin,” soon became a household word among the Hurons and Algonquins. Charity rendered her an eloquent pleader, and many and generous were the donations which at her prayer found their way from her old home in France, to the wigwams of her dear savages. To the end of life, her greatest earthly joy was to find herself surrounded by her beloved converts, forty or fifty of whom–men, women, and children–might constantly be seen gathered round her, listening to her words with rapt attention. If subsequent exhaustion had not revealed how much the effort had cost her, it might have been thought, when her sufferings became acute towards the end of life, that she had forgotten them in the pleasure of instructing her poor people. When the destruction of the monastery had reduced the inmates to utter destitution, her parents employed every argument to induce her to return to France. The Mothers at Tours joined in the request, but her invariable answer was, that she would rather share the coarse, scanty fare of the savages to the end of her life, or even die a thousand deaths, if that could be, than prove herself thus unfaithful to her vocation and ungenerous to her God.
Fidelity to her calling had been the watchword of her existence, and now that her time of merit had nearly run, no close observer could fail to see that this undeviating fidelity had produced rich fruits. To analyse her character as a religious, would be simply to attribute to her every virtue which, belongs to a perfect one. Our Lord once showed her her soul under the figure of a very beautiful and strongly-fortified castle, and He warned her to watch cautiously over its external approaches, promising that He would guard the interior of the edifice. In compliance with this direction, she resolved to surround the mystic castle with the deep trenches of humility, and so well did she succeed, that unfeigned contempt of self breathed at last in every act and thought of her life, inspiring a love and desire of humiliation which secured for those who tried her, the warmest gratitude of her heart, and the most devoted of her services. Not satisfied with mediocrity in any virtue, she carried mortification to an absorbing love of the cross; charity, to the sacrifice of every natural feeling; obedience, to child-like submission, spiritualized by faith; reverence for the rule, to most minute observance of its least prescription. She also attained an eminent degree of prayer and union with God.
For more than four years before her happy death, she had to endure the two-fold martyrdom of anguish of soul and great physical suffering. Yet while the wearing fever of prolonged consumption slowly undermined her life, so wonderfully did her great courage sustain her, that she seldom kept her bed, or relinquished her work. If sometimes compelled to yield to exhaustion and pain, she received the attention of her Sisters with so much humility and gratitude, that all felt it a happiness to render her any service. Far from complaining, she was confused when others showed compassion for her, and in return for their offers of kind offices, was always ready to remark that they themselves required indulgence more than she did. She learned at last to rejoice in the sufferings which she looked on as precious pledges of the love of her Divine Spouse, and that she should lose no part of her treasure, she desired to suffer without consolation or relief, indemnifying herself by practices of voluntary mortification for the occasional alleviations forced on her by charity. Towards the end, dropsy was added to her complicated maladies, and so, for the last two months, she was compelled to yield to the claims of utterly worn-out nature. Let us visit her in the humble lodging where those two closing months of life were passed, and we shall feel constrained to own, that the scene before us is one very grand and beautiful in the eyes of faith, whatever may be its aspect in those of the world.
She whose still young life is thus gradually ebbing away, might be now enjoying in her luxurious home all the comforts which wealth can purchase, but because she preferred the poverty of Jesus Christ to the treasures of earth, she is surrounded in lieu of them by unmistakable traces of abject indigence. Her bed of death is formed of one of the narrow wooden shelves which run in tiers all round the small apartment as a substitute for bedsteads, the highest reached by a ladder. Adjoining this common dormitory is the chapel, and as the one serves as a passage to the other, she is perpetually disturbed by the noise of the heavy wooden shoes, which since the conflagration, the whole family have been obliged to adopt for want of leather. Her wearying cough is irritated by the constant smoke of the ill-contrived chimney; her oppressed breathing additionally impeded by the closeness of the overcrowded room; her rest interrupted by the voices of the pupils, the ringing of the bells, the chanting of the Office, and the various other sounds inevitable under existing circumstances. Far from murmuring, she will assure us that she is amused rather than inconvenienced by these unwanted surroundings of a sick room, and that she considers herself specially favoured in the opportunity which her position affords of assisting at the holy Mass, joining in the Office, hearing the sermons, and thus in some manner keeping up to the end the observances of common life.
For her final and more entire purification from the dross of earth, her all-merciful Father permitted that she should be afflicted with desolation of soul, such as with all her experience of it, she had never known before. To interior anguish was added the intensity of bodily pain, yet in her sharpest pangs, even when the surgeon’s knife gashed her flesh, piercing to the bone, no sound betrayed her agonies, save once, a gentle invocation of the name of Jesus: for this impulse of nature as she considered it, she reproached herself as for a want of patience, and begged pardon as if it were a cause of disedification. Her sufferings reached their height in Holy week, and this coincidence she looked on as a particular privilege, thanking our Lord for thus associating her to His cross. To her visitors, she spoke only of the happiness of heaven, the riches of religious poverty, and the fidelity with which those who have embraced it, should cling to it for ever. “Tell all our friends in France,” she said to her Sisters, “that I rejoice in death at having left them for the love of our Lord Jesus Christ, and assure them that I feel myself infinitely privileged in having been called to this savage land.” Our Lord did not permit His faithful servant to die in utter bereavement of spirit. For the three days before her end, she enjoyed a foretaste of paradise; her interior pains vanished; her physical tortures were alleviated. “I know,” she said to her director, Father Lalemant, “that our good God has promised a hundred-fold in this world, and eternal bliss in the next to those who renounce all things for His love. As to the hundred-fold, I have had it; eternal happiness I hope through His infinite mercy soon to enjoy.” She renewed her vows, asked pardon of the assistants, and returned thanks to the Rev. Father Ragueneau, Superior of the Missions, for his charity to their community especially since the conflagration. She also expressed her gratitude to the physician, for whom she promised to pray in heaven, and most of all to the Mother of the Incarnation, who had watched and tended her night and day with untiring care and love. She retained perfect consciousness during her long agony of twenty-four hours, and about eight o’clock on the evening of the Thursday in Easter week, April the 4th, 1652, her happy soul returned to the God who all through life had been the only Object of her love. The Mother of the Incarnation remarks, that the beauty of her countenance after death, appeared to her Sisters like a reflection of the glory of which she was already in possession; while the heavenly peace and unction which at the same time filled their own hearts, seemed to say, that over those remains no tears should be shed, but tears of holy joy and gratitude. The impulse of each was to invoke her intercession, of which all very quickly experienced the power and efficacy. She was but thirty- six years of age, yet considering the frailty of her health, the wonder was that she had been able so long to resist the rigour of the climate and the privations attending the foundation of the monastery. Her remains were followed by the whole population both French and Indian, to their temporary resting-place in the garden of the convent, whence twelve years later they were transferred to the vault in the new church, which by that time was ready to receive the precious and venerated deposit.
As a mark of their respect and affection, the Hurons residing on the Isle of Orleans had a solemn service celebrated for her on the morning, of her interment. The tradition of Quebec speaks touchingly of the gratitude of these poor children of the wilderness towards their dear Mother St. Joseph, recording that they continually came to inquire for her in her illness, and brought her presents of every thing delicate which they could procure by the chase. “Here, Mother,” they would say to the Mother of the Incarnation, “give these birds to Mary the holy virgin, that she may eat, and live to instruct us again.”
The Almighty was pleased quickly to reveal the glory of His servant, as many trustworthy witnesses bore evidence. Among the first of these was a lay Sister at Tours, named Elizabeth, from whom Mother St Joseph had received maternal care in her childhood. Almost at the hour of her decease, the Mother appeared to this Sister, bidding her prepare for the great journey to eternity, on which she would soon be called to enter. Without the loss of a moment, the Sister informed the Superior that the Mother St. Joseph was dead, and had come to forewarn her of her own approaching end. In effect, she was summoned away in a few days, and later accounts from Canada fully corroborated the truth of the Sister’s vision.
The Rev. Father Paul Ragueneau, Superior of the Missions at Quebec, testifies that about an hour after her venerated remains had been laid in the grave, Mother St. Joseph appeared in vision to a person bound on some errand of charity. Her air, he says, was full of majesty; her countenance resplendent with glory; rays of light seemed to pass from her eyes to his heart, as if she would thus have shown her desire to impart a share of her happiness to him. The effect of the vision was to fill his soul with Divine love and heavenly consolation in such abundance, that he felt as if without supernatural support, he must have died. On his return from his journey of charity, the Mother appeared to him again in the same glory as before, and revealed to him admirable secrets, which the Mother of the Incarnation who records the above fact, has not seen fit to disclose. Of the veracity of this witness also, there can be no doubt.
The same person having the next day to cross the frozen river, and not knowing that the ice was too thin to bear his weight, walked on for some distance unconscious of danger. Suddenly he heard a warning voice bidding him stop; then he looked round only to see himself surrounded on all sides by water. The slight sheet of ice on which he stood, had no depth or solidity; it was a mere superficial crust floating on the surface of the terrible abyss. In an agony of terror, he recommended himself to the care of her who had arrested him on the way to destruction, then retraced his steps, and on reaching the river bank, perceived that he had actually walked for a considerable distance on water, as if it had been dry land. His first act was to relate the wonder to the Mother of the Incarnation, assuring her that he attributed his marvellous escape to the charity of Mother St. Joseph.
The love which this good Mother while on earth had shown for her neighbour, was assuredly not diminished in heaven, where charity is made perfect. That it survived the grave, was manifested in at least one singular instance, which occurred some years after the present date of our history. Among the captives whom Governor Tracy compelled the Iroquois to set free in 1666, was a young French girl named Anne Baillargeon, who had been made prisoner at the age of nine. So naturalized had she become to life in the woods, that when her companions in misfortune were about to return to their families she refused to accompany them, and lest she should be constrained to do so, she concealed herself in the forest at the moment of their departure. Just as she was exulting at the supposed success of her stratagem, a lady wearing the religious dress suddenly stood before her, and in a tone which admitted of no reply, commanded her to rejoin the French, threatening her at the same time with punishment if she hesitated. Having no other alternative, she reluctantly obeyed. When she arrived in Quebec, the Governor confided her to the care of the Ursulines. The moment she entered the house and saw the portrait of Mother St. Joseph, she exclaimed, “Ah, there she is! There is the person who spoke to me in the woods, even the dress is exactly the same.” The exclamation convinced the witnesses of the strange scene that it was indeed Mother St. Joseph who had acted the part of guardian angel to the truant, and conducted her to the haven of safety.
CHAPTER VIII.
THREATENED INVASION OF THE IROQUOIS.–HEROES OF VILLE MARIE.
In eighteen months after the destruction of the first monastery, the Ursulines were enabled to re-open schools for the French, and a seminary for the Indians, and so great was the increase of applicants for admission, especially to the latter, that the Mother of the Incarnation tells us she was obliged to her great regret to refuse many, who went away with tears in their eyes, leaving her, as she beautifully expresses it, with tears in her heart. The children who could not be accommodated in the school, were taught in the parlour, and a little later, bark cabins were again constructed in the neighbourhood of the old ash tree for the reception of the Huron girls, eighty of whom at a time might daily be seen receiving not only spiritual instruction, but also a plentiful meal of the never-failing Indian meal porridge. The seminarists resumed possession of the now vacant house of Madame de la Peltrie.
The progress of God’s work was partially checked about this time by the growing passion of the Indians for intoxicating drinks, and their increased facility for procuring them. The sad example of the parents was beginning to react on the children, and when the religious attempted to remonstrate with such of these as came only for occasional instruction, the refractory young ones took to flight “It is their nature,” the Mother of the Incarnation says, “to be easily led away by bad example, unless thoroughly confirmed in habits of virtue.” The awful calamities which we shall meet later, led to a much-needed reformation. Among the resident Indian pupils, happily removed from the contagion of evil example, the labours of the zealous Mothers continued as ever to produce abundant fruit. Of the large number instructed by the Ursulines, it is true that only a comparatively small proportion were formed to European habits. “A Frenchman would more easily become a savage,” remarks the Mother of the Incarnation, “than a savage a Frenchman.” None of the Canadian tribes ever advanced beyond a sort of semi-civilization, and almost all passed away without attaining even this. But they made good Christians none the less–perhaps all the more–for if life in the woods debarred them from the advantages of civilized society, it secured them also from the dangers of its corrupting influence.
Among the contrasts which the seminary of this period presented were a widow advanced in years, and a little child only seven. Geneviève, the widow, was an Algonquin by birth, and though certainly not a candidate for school, she had so effectually worked on the charity of the Mothers, that they found it impossible to refuse her request for admittance. Her fervour was most remarkable. She followed the nuns to every choir observance of the day, spending the time in reciting rosary after rosary for various, intentions, among others, the conversion of the Algonquins. She was never tired of praying, or of listening to instructions on the mysteries of our holy faith. She was especially delighted with the choir ceremonies, of which she asked minute explanations, giving it as her opinion that they must be representations of what the angels and saints are doing in heaven. Her life-long grief was that her children had died without baptism. In the end, she left Quebec for Three Rivers, where an opportunity offered of doing practical good among the female converts of her own nation. Her little contemporary went to join the angels, and pray for her benefactresses in heaven. “Catherine is going to see Jesus and her Mother Mary,” she would smilingly say to her companions when they came to visit her; “she is very happy, and she will pray for you.” And so she was inconceivably happy to die in the house of Jesus and Mary, and in the arms of Madame de la Peltrie, who watched her with a mother’s love, and charged her with many a message for the angels, those especially of the Mothers and the Indians. Her sufferings were very great, but her patience was equal to them. After death, she was attired in white and laid in the church, where the savages came in crowds to pray around her bier. She was the last pupil to whom the venerated Foundress rendered the final services.
No Bishop had yet been appointed to govern the Church of Canada, ardently as it desired, and frequently as it had implored the blessing. At last, in 1659, the privilege was granted, to the universal joy of the colony. The first ruler of the infant Church was Monseigneur de Laval, who bore at first the title of Vicar Apostolic only. Of him it may, in truth, be said, that he was a man according to God’s own heart, insensible to human respect, indefatigable in labour, detached from the world, dead to self, poor in spirit, a model of humility, and a consoling angel of charity. One of his first acts on the day of landing was to stand sponsor for a Huron infant; another, to administer the last sacred rites to a dying youth of the same nation. This was a worthy commencement of an episcopate destined to prove so fruitful in works of holiness and of general utility. The arrival of a vessel infected with fever, soon afforded him ample opportunity of signalizing his love for his neighbour. Of the two hundred persons whom it contained, nearly all had been attacked by the malady; eight had died on the passage; many more had been carried off after landing. The contagion spread through the town, and the hospital was quickly filled. The good Pastor was at all times to be found in the midst of his suffering people, ministering not only to their spiritual, but even to their corporal necessities. He who could trace his pedigree through a line of ancestors of the noble house of Montmorency, deemed it not a degradation, but an honour, to make the beds of the poor patients in the plague-stricken hospital at Quebec. No argument could induce him to think of his own safety, for he had learned from the lessons and the example of his Divine Master, that the good shepherd must be ready to lay down his life, if needful, for his flock. In his establishment, and in his personal habits, he was a model of evangelical poverty, but where the rights of the Church and the dignity of his charge were concerned, he understood perfectly how to maintain both, and his desire and aim were ever to surround the ceremonial of religion with all the pomp and majesty attainable in a country only as yet in its infancy.
The late panic had scarcely subsided, when it was succeeded by another yet more terrible. In the spring of 1660, the inhabitants of the town were one day dispersed through the adjoining fields, peacefully engaged in agricultural pursuits, when suddenly the thrilling news arrived that twelve hundred Iroquois had assembled in the neighbourhood of Montreal, with the intention of utterly annihilating the colony. Their plan, it was said, was to begin with the capital, as the residence of the Governor, for they argued that the head once destroyed, the members would soon follow. It would be vain to attempt a description of the universal consternation occasioned by this intelligence. The first impulse of the trembling people was to try to propitiate heaven by public prayer; accordingly, the Blessed Sacrament was exposed, and devotions in honour of the Blessed Virgin were commenced. The Bishop, alarmed for the safety of the Nuns, removed the two communities from their own homes to lodgings near the Jesuits. The remaining inhabitants either fortified their dwellings or abandoned them for others more securely located. Meantime the monastery was placed in a state of siege; redoubts were raised; the windows walled half-way, and well supplied with loop-holes. Every aperture was carefully closed, and no entrance to the monastery left open except one narrow door, through which only a single person could pass at a time. Twenty-four men were placed on guard in the house, and, more formidable to the enemy than any soldiers, twelve enormous dogs were stationed on the outside. Woe to the Iroquois who should glide serpent- like through the tall grass, or lie in ambush in the shade of the brushwood! The sagacious animals would quickly detect his place of concealment, fly at him in a bound, and tear him to pieces without ceremony, a fact so well known to the hostile savages, that they feared the dogs of the French more than their warriors or their cannon.
Undismayed by the danger, the Mother of the Incarnation obtained permission to remain in the monastery with three other Sisters, to prevent disorder and see that the soldiers wanted for nothing. The first night passed over in safety, but to the inhabitants in general, it was one of mortal agony. The next morning after Mass, seeing that all was quiet, the Ursulines and their pupils returned to the convent. In the evening, they again sought their refuge of the night before, and so things went on for some weeks. It was a time of cruel suspense. Every sound was transformed by over-heated imagination into a signal of attack; every shadow into the form of some stealthy Iroquois; every breath of the night breeze into the echo of an enemy’s approaching step. The vast, silent solitudes surrounding the town in every direction, the wild aspect of the unreclaimed land, the gloomy appearance of the thickly wooded forest seemingly formed expressly to conceal a foe, all combined to impress the mind with that painful suspicion of unseen danger, which to many is more torturing than actual peril. Through all the agitation and alarm, the Mother of the Incarnation retained her accustomed self- possession, and by the calmness of her demeanour, encouraged the timid and desponding. During the five weeks’ general excitement, she says that she experienced no fear, though she owns that she endured extreme fatigue. Sleep, either by day or night, was indeed a stranger to Quebec for the whole of that most trying period. As time passed on, and no enemy appeared, courage began to revive, but the dream of hope was soon dispelled. Once more the people were startled by the dread announcement, “The Iroquois are coming! They are close at hand!” While the imminence of the danger froze the life-blood in many a heart, it seemed, however, only to nerve the arms of the defenders of the town. In a half-an-hour every man was at his post, prepared to defend it to the last, and surrender it only with life. Some were even heard to wish in their enthusiasm, that the alarm might this time prove well founded. Notwithstanding the panic, confidence in God’s providence had not deserted the inhabitants. “Mother,” said one of the workmen to the Mother of the Incarnation, “do not imagine that the Almighty will permit the enemy to surprise us. No; He will hear the powerful prayers of the Blessed Virgin on our behalf, and send some friendly Huron to put us on our guard in time. The Mother of God has never refused us this favour, nor will she now.” The very next day proved the accuracy of the prediction. Two Huron prisoners who had miraculously escaped from the hands of the Iroquois, brought the almost incredible news that the enemy had precipitately retreated, humbled and confounded at the unexpected resistance which they had encountered. It was indeed true that the colony was saved, but equally so, that its Safety had been dearly purchased.
The continual ravages of the Iroquois had hitherto been a standing obstacle to the progress of the young nation. Wherever they appeared, utter devastation followed, and as no precaution could prevent, and no foresight anticipate their incursions, life itself was felt by the inhabitants to hang merely on a thread. At length, sixteen of the colonists headed by an officer named Daulac, [Footnote: Sometimes written Dolard, and Daulard.] resolved to confront the long dreaded foe, and conquer or die in the cause of faith and country, The determination was a bold one, and it was carried out with an unflinching spirit. Before setting out on their expedition, the Christian warriors approached the sacraments, and in presence of the holy altar promised never to surrender, and never to desert each other. They took leave of their friends as if assured of not meeting them on earth again, and having been joined by forty Hurons and six Algonquins with their respective Chiefs, they intrenched themselves on the first of May behind a half-ruined palisade at Saut-des-Chaudières, on the Ottawa river. There for eight days they resisted an army of seven hundred Iroquois, enduring meantime the aggravating tortures of hunger, want of sleep, and worst of all, consuming thirst. Through, the loop-holes of their little fort, they fired with unerring precision at the Iroquois, decimating them rapidly, while sustaining but trifling loss themselves. Even after the defection of twenty-four of the Hurons who were lured over to the enemy by deceitful promises, the small garrison still counted thirty-five undaunted hearts, and but for a sad accident, might have maintained its ground much longer. When the Iroquois bad advanced sufficiently near the fort to render the attempt practicable, Daulac determined to attach a fuse to a barrel of gunpowder, and fling it into the midst of them. Unfortunately the missile caught in a branch, and was thrown back into the fort, exploding with disastrous consequences to the besieged. The savages taking advantage of the confusion, forced their way into the fort;–one more desperate struggle,–then all was over. Only four Frenchmen and four Hurons fell alive into the bands of the Iroquois, who, terrified at a victory which had cost them so dearly, returned to their villages as fast as possible, not daring to carry out the projected invasion of a country of heroes such as these. Of the prisoners, some were put to a cruel death; two of the Hurons escaped as we have noticed, and were the first to bring to Quebec and Montreal the news of the death of Daulac and his brave companions.
In 1663, on his return from his first voyage to France, Monseigneur de Laval founded the seminary of Quebec, which he named the Holy Family of the Foreign Missions. Like all great works, the beginnings of the institution were small, yet it was destined to exercise a vast and salutary influence over Canada, and at a later day to acquire wide renown as the famed Laval University.
CHAPTER IX.
TRADE IN INTOXICATING DRINKS.–AWFUL VISITATION OF DIVINE ANGER.– REPENTANCE.–NEW ERA OF PROSPERITY.–THE MARQUIS OF TRACY VICEROY.
If association with Europeans had been in some respects a blessing to the Indians, it must be owned that in others it had proved very much the reverse. Among the numerous emigrants to Canada, were necessarily a large proportion of self-interested fortune seekers, who in order to secure a lucrative traffic with the natives, availed largely of their well-known propensity for strong drinks. The severest regulations, and the utmost vigilance of the authorities, though successful for a time, were powerless to repress the destructive trade permanently. After a short interruption, it was renewed, now clandestinely, now more openly, but as it seemed irrepressibly.
The savage in a state of intoxication becomes an ungovernable maniac, who in the violence of his fury will rush into any excess and commit any crime. At the epoch which our history has now reached, the terrible vice threatened to demoralize the entire country, and to destroy the fruit of all the efforts made to convert the savages. Writing to her son on the subject, the Mother of the Incarnation says, “We have at present to contend with an evil far more calamitous in its results, than even the hostility of the Iroquois. It is unhappily but too true, that this country now harbours Frenchmen, who for their own selfish ends deliberately risk the spiritual ruin of the Indians, giving them in exchange for their beaver skins, those intoxicating liquors which are the absolute destruction of men, women, and even children.” “To satisfy this insane craving for drink,” Father Lalemant adds, “the savage will reduce himself to beggary; nay, will sell his own children. My ink is not dark enough,” he continues, “to describe in their true colours, the calamities thus entailed on this infant church; the gall of the dragon would be more appropriate for the purpose. Suffice it to say, that in one month, we lose the fruit of our labours of ten or twenty years.”
After every means of persuasion had been exhausted, a sentence of excommunication was at last pronounced against all who persevered in trading in the prohibited article, but not even the thunders of the Church could intimidate the hardened transgressors, and so the evil continued undiminished. Profoundly afflicted at so daring an insult to the Most High, and so fatal an interruption to the work of grace among the Indians, all the servants of God in Canada united in earnest prayer for the repentance of the sinful, but from no heart did the petition for mercy ascend more fervently or more continuously, than from that of the Mother of the Incarnation, who not content with simply imploring the conversion of the people, offered herself as a victim for their transgressions, consenting to assume the responsibility of their crimes, and to endure the punishment which they merited. The prayer of charity was heard, but if the Almighty condescended to arouse His people to a sense of their iniquity, it was not without a very awful manifestation of His power.
During the autumn of 1662, such extraordinary signs had from time to time been seen in the air, that the more thoughtful were impressed with a vague fear of impending calamities, while even the least serious were not altogether unmoved. These horrors, however, were but faint foreshadowings of those to come. The evening of Shrove Monday, February the 5th, 1663, was calm and serene; no eye however keen, no ear however sensitive could have detected sight or sound indicative of the approaching catastrophe. Forgetful of past warnings, and undisturbed by present misgivings, the unreflecting crowd plunged into the exciting pleasures of gay carnival. About half-past five o’clock, the town was alarmed by a distant rumbling, such as might be produced by the rapid passage of a number of carriages over a stone pavement. This unnatural sound was followed by another, and a louder, which seemed to combine the crackling of flames, the rattling of hailstones, the muttering of thunder and the dashing of the waves on the sea shore. Clouds of thick dust obscured the air; the earth trembled, rose, fell, undulated like the billows of the ocean, and burst open in innumerable places. The trees of the old forest swayed back and forwards like reeds in a hurricane, and were uprooted by hundreds. Entire forests were in some instances swallowed by the yawning abyss, so that only the tops of a few trees could be seen. Mountains were torn from their beds; rocks were rent, and enormous blocks of stone rolled into the valleys, crushing all before them. The houses were shaken to the foundation, and tottered as though they would have fallen; the walls were split asunder, the floors gave way, the doors opened or closed violently, without being touched. The church bells, set in motion by the swaying of the belfries, tolled mournfully to the accompaniment of the wild cries of terrified animals and the shrill screams of equally frightened children. The convulsion of the water was not less fearful than that of the land. The ice, five or six feet in depth, burst with a crash like the roar of cannon; huge blocks were shot up into the air, and fell again to the earth, shivered into powder, while from the openings, clouds of smoke or jets of mud and sand were projected to a great height. The fish darted in terror from the turbulent waters, and it was noticed that one species, abandoning its usual haunts, made its way to a lake where it had never been seen before. The springs were either choked, or impregnated with sulphur. The waters of some of the rivers became red, others yellow; the St. Lawrence as far as Tadoussac appeared white.
Stunned by the suddenness of the calamity, and utterly unable to comprehend it, some thought that a fire had broken out, and ran for help; others that the Indians had made an incursion, and flew to arms, but soon the momentarily increasing violence of the shocks led to the universal conclusion that the end of the world had come. The consternation both of French and Indians can hardly be imagined. The general impulse was to hasten to the churches, and prepare to appear before the judgment seat of God, and truly wonderful were the conversions which ensued: a missioner afterwards told the Mother of the Incarnation, that he had himself heard eight hundred general confessions at that period of panic. After a half- an-hour, the oscillations of the earth became fainter, without however wholly ceasing, but about eight o’clock there was a second shock so severe, that the Sisters who were at the time standing in their stalls chanting the Office, were all thrown to the ground. The earthquake continued at intervals for a full year, the first five months in its original force, the remainder of the period with less violence. Sometimes the motion of the earth was like the pitching of a large vessel dragging heavily at its anchors; at others, it was hurried and irregular, creating sudden, and occasionally very violent jerks, but in general it was merely tremulous. During all that time, men lived in constant dread of immediate death, and actually withered away from fear. The Lent was spent by the Sisters in redoubled austerities, and increasing prayers to appease the anger of God. “Every evening,” the Mother of the Incarnation wrote to her son, “we disposed ourselves to be engulphed in the yawning earth before morning, and when a new day dawned, we prepared to stand in God’s presence before its close.”
After the fearful convulsion of nature had at last ceased, its terrible traces were but too distinctly visible over the entire country. In some parts, mountains had disappeared, swallowed by the gaping earth, or precipitated into adjacent rivers, leaving vast chasms in the places which they had occupied; in others, new ones had suddenly arisen. Lakes were to be seen in localities previously occupied by forests. A new island had sprung up in the St. Lawrence; volcanic craters had burst open; some rivers had been turned from, their course, others totally lost. A rocky mountainous district of three hundred miles in extent, had been levelled as if some mighty harrow had passed over it. The earthquake seems to have extended more than six hundred miles in length, and about three hundred in breadth; thus one hundred and eighty thousand square miles of land were convulsed at the same moment. A most singular circumstance connected with the awful visitation is, that not a single individual perished, or was even slightly injured.
At last, Almighty wrath was appeased; salutary fear of the Divine judgments had done its work, and so the avenging angel was permitted to sheathe his fiery sword. The restored serenity of nature seemed emblematic of the recovered peace of the people, who, in their reconciliation with God, and their resolution of amendment, had adopted the most effectual security against a repetition of the late disasters. Their return to duty seemed the signal of a new era of benediction.
In 1663, the Marquis of Tracy was nominated Viceroy, and as no arrangement could possibly have been more advantageous to Canada at that particular crisis, the news of his appointment was received with an enthusiasm equalled only by that which at a later period greeted his arrival. He had for many years occupied a very high position in the French army, and had been equally distinguished through life for courage in danger, and prudence in negotiation. His commission obliging him in the first place to re-establish the authority of France in Cayenne, which had leagued with the Dutch, and then, to restore order in the French Antilles, he did not land at Quebec until the 30th of June, 1665. If he had chosen the season expressly with a view to first favourable impressions, the selection could not have been more judicious. Nature was then looking her loveliest. On the old time-honoured rock stood the little capital, in the first flush of its youth, like clinging childhood beside protecting age. Scattered over the height were the houses of the French, intermingled with religious edifices of sufficiently imposing appearance, the whole crowned by the romantically-situated Castle of St. Louis. Here and there a solitary Indian wigwam nestled among the trees; the glorious river, flashed and sparkled in the morning light; the grand old woods towered in the background, looking like links between the past, with its solemn memories, and the present, with its hopes so bright and fair. With all its variety of picturesque contrasts, Quebec must certainly have presented a striking scene on that lovely summer’s day when the Marquis of Tracy saw it for the first time.
Charmed with the country, and profoundly interested in the inhabitants, he entered on his functions with an ardour and energy which augured well for his success. His sole ambition from the very first was to promote the happiness of the people over whom he was called to rule, and whom he loved with the tenderness of a father. The poorest savages were as much the objects of his paternal solicitude, as the highest dignitaries among the French. He listened to their harangues with the kindest interest, and accepted their little presents with the most amiable condescension. The King had assigned four companies of the regiment of Carignan for his bodyguard, and, to the colonists unaccustomed to the sight of regular troops, they formed a splendid spectacle. As to the Indians, they had never even imagined anything so grand.
One of the first objects of the Viceroy was the effectual repression of the audacious Iroquois, who, though sorely humbled by the glorious feat of the heroes of Ville Marie, continued to disturb the colony to the utmost extent of their power, and still proved an insuperable obstacle to its steady progress. The. harvest could not be gathered in safety; life was yet insecure, and there were times of particular alarm, when the more timid entertained serious notions of returning permanently to France. There was, however, strong reason to hope that as consternation had once been created in the ranks of the savages by a mere handful of resolute champions, they would now be thoroughly and effectually intimidated by a force comprising not only all the brave spirits of the colony, but also the brilliant guard of the Marquis of Tracy. A resolution was accordingly taken to proceed from defensive to aggressive measures, and attack the enemy in the heart of his own territory. The expedition was unavoidably delayed until September, 1666. The pious commander chose the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross for the day of its departure, and the brave warriors secured the protection of the God of Armies by approaching the Holy Sacraments. Although advanced in years, the Viceroy would take the personal direction of his troops in this most perilous and arduous journey of four hundred and fifty miles, carrying on his shoulders, like the meanest soldier, his arms, provisions, and baggage. The savages were panic-stricken at the sight of so large an army; the brilliant uniforms, the colours, the martial music, above all the rolling of the drums, inspired them with such extreme terror that they fled without striking a blow. Their four large villages at once fell a prey to the invaders, who reduced them to ashes, in order to compel the owners to sue for peace. The enormous quantity of Indian meal found in these hamlets would have sufficed to support the colony for two years if it could have been removed. Besides abundance of provisions, the cabins contained a variety of articles of furniture scarcely to have been looked for, in the huts of savages. The next day, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass was offered on the spot in thanksgiving for the bloodless victory, the ceremonial closing by a solemn, _Te Deum_. From the departure of the army until the news of its triumph, the Forty Hours’ prayer had been continued without intermission at the Ursuline monastery, and in private families as well as in the public churches, unceasing supplications had been offered to God for the success of the French arms. Dreading the annihilation of their tribe, the Iroquois were only too happy to sue for peace, and willingly gave up several of their families as hostages. [Footnote: The restoration of Anne Baillargeon, already noticed in our little sketch of Mother St. Joseph, belongs to this period.] At their own request, three Jesuits were sent to reside among them, and then each day witnessed some new conversions. Their famous chief, Garakontié, was baptized and confirmed in the cathedral of Quebec by Monseigneur Laval, whom he humbly thanked after the ceremony for having opened to him the doors of the Church and of Paradise. Finding the surroundings of their pagan homes a great obstacle to the practice of their holy faith, the new Christians determined to establish themselves among the French, where they could serve God in peace. To meet their wishes, the Jesuits prepared a residence for them on the rich prairie of the Madeleine, situated on the south bank of the St. Lawrence, nearly opposite Montreal. The indispensable condition of admission was a solemn promise to avoid intemperance. This mission of St. Francis Xavier-du-Sault was afterwards celebrated for the number and fervour of its converts, and became the nucleus of the Iroquois colony, destined later on to play an important part in the affairs of the Canadian nation.
After having given a decided and permanent impulse to the prosperity of the country, and in all respects faithfully fulfilled his mission, the Marquis of Tracy was honourably recalled to France, but he never lost his interest in the welfare of Canada. His departure was regretted by all parties in the colony, and not least by the Ursulines, to whom he had shown himself a devoted and efficient friend. “This young church will sustain an indescribable loss in him,” wrote the Mother of the Incarnation. “Had it nothing else to be grateful for, his example alone was a priceless blessing. He has been seen to spend six consecutive hours in the church, where his very appearance was in itself a striking lesson. He is truly a model of piety and virtue, and so greatly is he beloved that his influence is irresistible.” Fortunately for Canada, he left after him two men thoroughly imbued with his own spirit–Monsieur de Courcelles, the Governor, and the celebrated Intendant, Talon, under whose joint administration the country made more progress than since its first colonization. Thus it happened that from. its founder, Champlain, onwards, Canada had hitherto been greatly blessed in its rulers.
Before we close this chapter, we shall take a glance at Quebec as it was in 1670, three years after the departure of the Marquis of Tracy, when we shall find it much altered since we saw it first at the arrival of the Mother of the Incarnation. Its scanty population has swelled to upwards of four thousand. The scattered huts which constituted the town, have been replaced by comfortable dwellings. Churches and convents have sprung up. Manufactures of serge and of hempen cloth have been introduced. A market, a brewery, and a tannery have been opened. The ground has been considerably cleared, and the agricultural resources of the country have been developed; three-fourths of the inhabitants can now live on the produce of the land, merely at the cost of their own labour. Commercial relations have been, established with France and the West Indian islands. The cod fishery of Newfoundland promises to become a source of immense revenue. Mines of lead, slate, and coal have been discovered near Montreal. Money, once so so scarce, has become abundant since the arrival of the Marquis of Tracy and his suite. [Footnote: It is interesting to renew the glance something about two hundred years later, and note time’s work. The Quebec of today consists of an upper and a lower town. The former, standing on that side of Cape Diamond which slopes towards the river St. Charles, contains the principal public buildings, the dwellings of the wealthy, and the best shops; the latter, extending for two or three miles on a narrow strip of land between the St. Lawrence and the cliffs, is densely crowded with stores, merchants’ offices, warehouses and inns. The communication between the two is by a winding street and steep flights of steps, at the top of which is a fortified gate. No scene can be more imposing than Quebec and its surroundings, as it first breaks on a traveller sailing up the river. Nothing of the city is visible until the spectator has reached a line between the west coast of the Isle of Orleans and Point Levi, and then all the beauties of the magnificent scene burst suddenly on his view. The Isle of Orleans is fertile, well cultivated, and in the centre well wooded. Point Levi is a large, picturesque village, with brightly-painted cottages, and a romantic little church. From these, the eye turns to the abrupt promontory, three hundred and fifty feet in height, crested by the city and battlements of Quebec. The impregnable citadel, the dense mass of buildings, the bright tinned steeples o£ the churches and roofs of the houses, the fleets of ships at the quays, the vessels on the stocks or being launched, the steamers plying in every direction, the multitude of boats of every shape, the Indian wigwams at Point Levi, the vast rafts floating down the St. Lawrence with their cargo of timber from the forests of the Ottawa; farther on, the cataract of Montmorenci tumbling into the St. Lawrence over a ledge of rock two hundred and twenty feet in height; the houses, churches and woods of Beauport and Charlesbourg; the high grounds, spire, and homesteads of St. Joseph; the miles of richly cultivated country, terminating in a ridge of mountains–all form a picture which once seen can never be forgotten. The vast, grand landscape is, in fact, one of the most striking in the Old World or the New.–_Chiefly from Martin’s British Colonies_.] “Merchants will now find this country a high road to fortune,” says the Mother of the Incarnation, from whose letters we have borrowed the above details. “As for us,” adds the saintly Mother, “_our fortune is made_; we are the portion of Jesus Christ, and Jesus Christ is ours; the only wealth we covet is the possession of Himself, and this we can secure by observing our holy rule, and faithfully accomplishing His blessed will. Ask His Divine Majesty to give us grace to do so.”
Cheering as was the Venerable Mother’s account of Canada, all, however, was not sunshine. At one time we hear of a fearful storm, attended by immense loss of property; at another, of a pestilential fever brought to the town by foreign vessels. One winter was so rigorous, that many of the Sisters made up their minds to be frozen; a later one was, if possible, still more severe. “During the last thirty-one years,” remarks the Mother, “we certainly have had time to forget the comforts of our old homes in France.” She might have added, with perfect truth, that their generous spirits were as indifferent to the privations of the new home, as they were detached from the luxuries of the old.
It was in the year of which we write, 1670, that Quebec was elevated to the dignity of a Bishopric.
CHAPTER X.
LINGERING ILLNESS OF THE MOTHER OF THE INCARNATION.–LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH OF MADAME DE LA PELTRIE.
In 1670, the original little community of three, had multiplied to twenty, but if its numbers had increased, so had its work. Once more, then, it became necessary to call on France for help, and once more the appeal was cordially responded to by two Sisters from the convent at Paris, and two from that of Bourges, who arrived in the spring of the next year. Of the three first pillars of the edifice, one had disappeared; the two remaining were, alas! soon to follow. Dom Claude Martin prefaces his notice of the long illness which preceded the death of his saintly Mother by the remark, that no cross is more holy or more meritorious than that which God Himself imposes. Crosses of our own choice he says, are, no doubt, agreeable to Him, when borne with love and patience, but there is danger that self-will may mingle with them and diminish their value; and again, they are not likely to be always judiciously chosen. But there is nothing to fear in crosses of Providence; they bear the stamp of the will of God alone; and, as He never permits His creatures to be tempted beyond their strength, He either sends light trials suitable to their weakness, or with the, heavier ones, strength in proportion. Sickness being among the precious crosses of Providence, it was not to be expected that the Mother of the Incarnation should have been exempted from it, and thus deprived of the opportunity of increasing her patience and fortifying her other virtues. As far back as 1664, she had received her remote summons to her eternal home. A complication of violent maladies then brought her apparently so near death, that she received the last sacraments amidst the sighs and tears of her loving children. The news of her illness plunged the whole city into mourning; each family felt as if it were about to lose a mother, and day and night heaven was besieged by one uninterrupted supplication that she might be spared yet longer. Finding that remedies only aggravated her excruciating sufferings, the physicians determined at last to leave her in the hands of God, whose will it seemed to be that the remainder of her life should be passed on the cross. That life of crucifixion was destined to endure eight weary years, from the first date of her illness, before the dawn of the eternal day should at last dispel the long night of pain and sorrow. “I cannot shake off the effects of my severe sickness,” she wrote to Her son, “and I still find them very trying, although nature has now become familiarized with suffering. But I am happy under my cross, because the cross was the chosen portion of Jesus. Viewed in the light of God, my trials are so welcome, that my only apprehension, is lest I should constrain our Lord to chastise my infidelities by removing, or at least, diminishing them. Some say that it is excess of work which has undermined my health, but I maintain with more truth, that my illness is a precious pledge of the love of my God, for which I heartily thank Him.” She was perfectly indifferent as to the result of her malady, desiring, as she said, neither life nor death, but only the God of life and death. During six of these years of lingering malady, she bore the weight of authority for the third time, her Director, who understood the blessing of her government to the community, having opposed her request for permission to resign it. That she could even exist in the state of exhaustion and emaciation to which she was reduced, seemed a miracle, yet she fulfilled all the duties of each day most punctually; she allowed herself no additional rest, rising as usual summer and winter at four o’clock; she assisted at all the observances, applied unremittingly to the functions of her charge; wrote an amazing number of letters, and when fatigue or weakness incapacitated her from more laborious business, she occupied her leisure in painting or embroidery, for both of which she had an exquisite taste. The fruit of her beautiful work in this way went to adorn altars and churches. Burning with zeal for the salvation of the Indians, and wishing in a manner to prolong her apostolate among them after death, she devoted herself untiringly to the preparation of the younger Sisters destined to succeed her in the charge of instructing them. In the winter mornings, she assembled them round her to teach them the Indian dialects, and knowing from experience the difficulty of committing the vocabularies to memory, she determined to leave them as much help from manuscripts as possible. Accordingly, between the commencement of the Lent of 1668, and the feast of the following Ascension, she accomplished the writing of a large volume of sacred history in Algonquin, and a dictionary and catechism in Iroquois. The preceding year she had written a voluminous Algonquin dictionary.
Four or five years before her end, she wrote to her son, “When you receive the news of my demise, I beg you to get as many Masses as possible said for me by the Reverend Fathers of your holy Congregation. To all appearance, I have not, it is true, any immediate prospect of death, but at my age, the end cannot be far off. My infirmities, too, are a perpetual warning to keep myself ever prepared to render an account of my life, especially of the misuse of great graces, for which I shall suffer long in the fire of Purgatory, unless powerfully succoured by the suffrages of the Church. I am very fortunate in being able to calculate on your help and that of your good Fathers, hoping that through your united sacrifices I shall the sooner behold Him whom my heart and soul long to bless and praise for ever. Oh! how happy shall we be when this has become our sole employment! It is now forty years since by an immense favour God called me to praise Him on earth, as the angels and saints praise Him in heaven. This favour has been the source of great and magnificent graces to my soul, but there can be no doubt that, owing to my imperfections and distractions, something of my own spirit has mingled with those Divine praises, hence I continually say, “Who can understand sin? From my secret sins, cleanse me, O Lord” (Ps. xviii 13). I have not only numerous external defects, but a vast number besides of hidden and internal, for all of which I shall be rigorously punished, unless you obtain my pardon through the Holy Sacrifice. The purity which God requires of a soul elevated to a close and constant union with his Adorable Majesty, is infinitely precious, and it is the high standard at which I estimate it, which renders me fearful, but underlying the fear is a peace profound beyond words to describe. Pray that this peace may be solid, because in the spiritual life, there is much false peace. I have boundless confidence in the adorable Blood of our Divine Saviour, bequeathed by Him as a rich and permanent legacy to His Church.”
But after all, the Mother of the Incarnation was not to be the next of the three foundation-stones removed to the Heavenly Jerusalem. In the designs of God, Madame de la Peltrie was to precede her; the interval between both deaths, however, was to be very short, so that the hearts united in life, should not be long divided after its close. Five months only before the Mother of the Incarnation, the gentle, pious Foundress was called away, after a violent and short attack of pleurisy. The main points of her history, both before and after her vocation to the foreign mission, are already known to us; the hidden virtues of her obscure life in Canada are less easily discerned. Humility and zeal for God’s glory seem to have been the characteristics of her sanctity. The meanest offices were those for which alone she felt herself qualified, and which, therefore, she was not only ever ready to embrace, but to plead for. During eighteen years, she had charge of the general clothing, and the only drawback to her enjoyment of the duty was that the articles she could provide were not as good as she would have wished. For herself were reserved the old patched garments too bad for anyone else. The last place in the choir and refectory was the one which she selected. She could not bear to be addressed as the Foundress, saying that she was a worthless creature who did nothing but offend God. Never was she heard to speak of herself, except to depreciate her own merit. She followed the common rule with regard to food and rising, except, indeed, that she often anticipated the hour of the latter, early as it was. Although she had received the gift of uninterrupted prayer, and could speak admirably to seculars who applied to her for advice, among the religious she never touched on spiritual subjects, fearing to appear better than she believed herself to be. Frail and weakly as her health was, she practised austerities which would have tried persons of robust constitution, redoubling them whenever she heard that some particular soul was in unusual danger, and therefore required unusual help. Honouring our Lord in the indigent, she was never so pleased as when she could clothe and console the poor. Of her love for the Indian pupils, we have more than once had occasion to speak, but it would be difficult to do it justice. She seemed to feel that she never could do enough not only to serve, but even to please and gratify her dear children. It was her delight to see herself surrounded by them, to receive and return their caresses, to head their processions, lead them on pious pilgrimages, and even give them little excursions for amusement. The means of carrying out her projects of charity often failed, but the charity never, so it was often said that if her pecuniary resources were only as large as her heart, all the Indian children, and their parents too, would be well provided for. Inseparably united in heart to Jesus in His most adorable Sacrament, she found her sweetest earthly happiness in Holy Communion, and made it her practice to procure as many Masses as possible for the convent, assisting at them all with the respect and fervour of an angel. Her great devotion to the Blessed Sacrament inspired her with a desire to build a church adjoining the monastery, in which she happily succeeded. The foundation- stone was laid in 1656, and two years and a half later the sacred edifice was completed.
Her death sickness lasted but seven days, yet short as was the interval, it sufficed to exhibit her virtues in all their lustre. In death, even more if possible than in life, she showed herself humble, affable, patient, obedient, mortified, united to God, and resigned to His holy will. In death too, she clung with all her old love to the evangelical poverty which had long had irresistible charms for her, for the sake of Him who became poor, that we might be enriched. Seeing near her bed a few delicacies which the hand of affection had provided, she had them immediately removed, saying that dainties were inconsistent with poverty. It would indeed have been difficult to detect anything incompatible with poverty in the humble room, where lay expiring the once envied heiress of large possessions. A poor bed, two straw chairs and a wooden table constituted all the furniture; a picture of the Crucifixion, the only ornament. When asked if she regretted life, she answered that the day of her death was more precious to her than all the years of her existence united. The day which proved her last, happened to be Wednesday, a coincidence which filled her heart with joy. “Oh! how happy I should be,” she said, “if God called me on this day, dedicated to St. Joseph!” Every hour seemed to her like a year, so vehement was her desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ. She continually asked how soon she might expect the blissful moment which would unite her to her Sovereign Good for ever, and she begged the loving Sisters who surrounded her bed, constantly to whisper to her the words of the Psalmist, “I rejoiced at the things that were said to me: we shall go into the house of the Lord.” (Ps. cxxi.1.) She gently expired at eight o’clock on the evening of November the 12th, 1671, aged sixty-eight years, thirty-two of which she had passed in Canada. Her interment was attended by all persons of position in the city and its environs. Considering herself unworthy to inhabit the monastery which she had founded, she had begged as an alms a last resting-place in the vault destined for the religious. Contrary to her intentions, her remains were inclosed in a leaden coffin. By her own directions, her heart was buried under the altar step of the Jesuits’ Church, that it might crumble into its original dust at the feet of the God of the Tabernacle, a holocaust of His love.
CHAPTER XI
LAST ILLNESS AND HAPPY DEATH OF THE VENERABLE MOTHER MARY OF THE INCARNATION.
In the middle of the January following the death of the venerated Foundress, the Mother of the Incarnation relapsed into violent illness. Her previous symptoms re-appeared, with the addition of indescribably painful tumors in both sides. Unable to rest in any position, consumed with fever, tortured in every nerve, not a sigh, or moan, or movement betrayed her agonies, and yet, at that moment, the hand of God pressed heavily on her soul as well as on her body. That she might resemble Him to the end, her crucified Lord presented her once more with the bitter cup of interior dereliction which she had so often before shared with Him, again despoiling the inferior part of the soul of those heavenly consolations which would so greatly have lightened the pressure of physical suffering. “It is hard,” the “Imitation of Christ” says, “to want all comfort, human and Divine,” but the Venerable Mother was well familiarized with the privation, of both. In the purity of her love, she sought only the accomplishment of the will of her God. “With Christ I am nailed to the cross,” she said in a holy transport, and none understood better than she, that it is good to be with Christ even on the cross. The physicians having declared the malady hopeless on the fifth day; she received the last sacraments, made her profession of faith, and then asked pardon, first of the Father Superior and of her director, then of the Mother Superior and community, thanking them for their charity and expressing her regret at the trouble which her long illness had occasioned them. Hearing shortly after, that the grand-daughter of an Algonquin Chief had just joined the seminary, she expressed a wish to see the child, and after affectionately caressing her, she once more impressively exhorted her dear Sisters ever cordially to cherish her “joys,” as she called the Indians. All the pupils, both French and savage, were repeatedly brought to receive her blessing.
Overwhelmed with the deepest grief, the religious redoubled their prayers and mortifications, beseeching that their precious Mother might be left to them even a little longer. She could not understand their desire to prolong a life which she deemed useless, but her director, Father Lalemant, comprehending her value to the community far better than she did herself, and compassionating the affliction of her children, commanded her to join in their prayers for her restoration. The order startled her, but at once raising her eyes and hands to heaven, she said, “I think I shall die of this illness, however if God wills that I should live longer, I am resigned.” “That is all well, Mother,” replied the inexorable Father, “but it is not enough; you must take our side of the question, and do your best to preserve yourself to the community, which still has need of you.” The direction was too explicit to admit of appeal; preferring obedience to sacrifice, as had even been her practice, she said, almost in the words of her own St. Martin of Tours, “My Lord and my God! if Thou seest that I am still necessary to this little community, I refuse not pain or labour: may Thy will be done!” A change for the better was at once apparent, and so wonderfully rapid was the improvement, that at his next visit, the physician who had pronounced her recovery hopeless, declared her out of danger. She assisted at the solemn Te Deum which was offered in the choir in thanksgiving for her restoration, and with her usual sweet affability received the congratulations of her now happy daughters, as well as of her numerous friends Presents of the most delicate food were sent from every quarter to tempt her appetite; she tried to partake of it through condescension, but since the commencement of her illness eight years before, her palate had retained a bitterness which imparted the flavour of gall to every species of nourishment, and necessarily created a loathing for it.
Her convalescence continued during the Lent; she was able to join in the ceremonies of Palm Sunday, and on Good Friday, to assist at the Passion and the Adoration of the Cross, but that evening, she felt compelled to tell the Mother Superior that she was suffering excessively from the tumors in both sides. They proved to be abscesses, which on the next day had to be laid open to the bone. She bore this, and subsequent torturing operations as if she had been deprived of all sense of feeling. Once she slightly shuddered, and then she accused herself of impatience, and asked forgiveness. The humility, meekness, and charity always so striking in her seemed to have gained an increase under this new test, but it was because she had laid up an abundant store of them in the days of her strength, that they did not fail in the hour of nature’s weakness, when, above all, is proved the truth of the maxim, that it is the moment of trial which shows what we really are. When, long years before, she had offered herself to God as His Victim, it was with the full comprehension that the title implied a life of suffering and sacrifice; now that the hour of immolation had come, she renewed the oblation, content to bear her excruciating pains to the day of judgment, if only God could be thus honoured, and the salvation of souls promoted. Some of the Sisters having asked her to share her merits with them, she replied with a smile, “All belongs to the savages; I have no longer anything of my own.” The holy Communion, which she received every alternate day, continued to be her support in death, as it had been in life. By the end of the week, it was apparent that her strength was declining, and her life fast passing away. When informed that all chance of recovery was at an end, her countenance beamed with celestial joy, and from that moment until her last, her existence was one almost uninterrupted ecstasy. Although constantly absorbed in God, she replied sweetly and amiably to all who spoke to her, but at the same time in as few words as possible. The Mother St. Athanasius, who never left her, asked if she had any commission for her son. She seemed affected at the question, and begged the Mother to let him know that she would bear him to heaven in her heart and pray for his perfect sanctification. On the morning of the 30th of April, feeling that the last hour was near, she wished to bid a final adieu to her dear little Indians. She blessed them with all the love of her great heart, and then spoke a few impressive words to them in their own language on the beauty of our holy mysteries and the happiness of serving God. At mid-day, she entered into her agony, if that could be called an agony, where there was no struggle. Although she lost her speech and hearing, it was easy to see that her soul was intimately united to God. Her trembling hand still tried to lift the crucifix to her lips, and when her confessor would have rendered her this service, he found it so impossible to disengage the beloved image from her grasp, that he had to substitute another. A few minutes before six in the evening, she opened her eyes and looked at her dear Sisters, as if to take a last farewell of them, then closed them for ever to earth. At six o’clock, two faint sighs were heard,–so faint, that but for the breathless stillness of the room they must have been inaudible, but the hearing of affection is acute, and every heart present caught the feeble echo, and interpreted it correctly. Death had come at last, but death in a form so fair, that even angels might have envied it, if angels could die. In its flight to God, her pure soul seemed to have left a lingering ray of glory flitting round the calm, still features, which shone as if illumined with heaven’s own light, and almost dazzled the beholders by their seraphic beauty. All the Sisters witnessed and attested the prodigy; tradition has faithfully handed it down even to our own day, and still, as each revolving year brings round the 30th of April, a solemn Te Deum resounds through the Ursuline Church at Quebec, as a thanksgiving to God for the exceptional privileges attending the blessed death of the Mother Mary of the Incarnation.
To say that grief for her loss was universal, would be more than superfluous. Throughout the country, she had for many a year been known, consulted, prized, revered, beloved: now that the Mother was taken from amidst her children, no wonder that the children were lonely and that they mourned their desolation. It would be impossible to describe the feelings of the savages; as soon as the news of her death reached Sillery and Loretto, they came crowding round the monastery to pray for her whom they had loved so well and with so much reason. “Our Mother is dead !” It was all they said, and all they had to say. Sorrow like theirs was too deep for words, and to show that they felt it so, they followed up the pathetic exclamation by a gesture indicating that they would speak no more. The Sisters, overcome by their child-like grief, tried to administer to them the comfort of which they were themselves so much in need, and then both went their respective ways to await in prayers and tears the sad, solemn hour which was to hide from them for ever, the object of their reverence and love.
From early dawn on the day of the interment, the convent church was filled to overflowing with a reverential crowd, all eager to pay the last honours to the venerated servant of God. Bishop Laval being then in France, the obsequies were performed by Monsieur de Bernières, Vicar- General of the diocese, Father Superior of the monastery, and nephew to the kind friend of the same name who had so efficiently promoted the success of the Ursuline foundation at Quebec. The funeral oration was preached by Father Lalemant, who better than any one else could do justice to his subject, and then the cherished and revered Mother of Canada was laid to her rest, in the vault destined as the place of sepulture of the community.
Unwilling to lose all trace of her dear familiar features, the authorities both civil and religious joined in requesting that while there was yet time, her likeness might be secured. Accordingly, the day after the interment the coffin was uncovered, and an artist sent by the Governor succeeded in taking a remarkably correct one. This portrait was unfortunately consumed in the second conflagration of the monastery in 1686. That which now hangs in the community room of the Ursuline convent, Quebec, was sent from France.
The Mother of the Incarnation was tall, and the dignity of her deportment was so striking, that while she was in the world, persons were often seen to stand and look at her as she proceeded unconsciously through the streets on her missions of devotion or charity. The gravity of her demeanour was tempered by the modesty of her address, and the courteous affability of her manner. Her features were regular, but their chief attraction lay in their expression, which seemed like a revelation of the invisible beauty of her soul. The irresistible sweetness of her glance appeared to leave a trace of heaven wherever it fell, and although her habitual interior union with God communicated something of an unearthly air to her exterior, no one ever felt restrained or ill at ease in her company. Her constitution was strong, and thereby fitted for the life of unceasing labour to which God called her. She possessed mental qualities of a high order, had great natural abilities, and was what the world would call a clever woman of business, but best of all, she was a saint. From the hour, when at seven years of age she consecrated her young soul to God, until that when at seventy-two, she surrendered it into His hands, her one sole aim had been to adorn it with every virtue, so that it might become ever more and more pleasing in the eyes of His Divine Majesty, and so well did she succeed in this her holy object, that the history of her life, is in fact the history of her virtues; in studying the one, we have at the same time been making acquaintance with the other. Much however as we have learned of those resplendent virtues, we fain would pause a moment longer on them before relinquishing her sweet company, just as we love to linger over a beautiful sunset, and even after the great orb has disappeared, still to watch the traces of his departing glory resting on the golden clouds.
As the virtues of the Mother of the Incarnation have passed in review before us in the course of her history, the same thought may perhaps have occurred to us, as to her son, Dom Claude Martin, that where all were so admirable, it would be difficult to say which was the most worthy of special notice. She was raised up, we know, to glorify God both in her own person and in that of her neighbour; in her own, by her individual sanctification,–in that of her neighbour by leading many souls to heaven. For the fulfilment of this two-fold destiny, it is evident that she had need of a deep ground-work of humility, with a vast fund of charity and self-abnegation; accordingly we find her possessed of these virtues in such perfection, that remarkable as she was for every other, we may perhaps consider her greatest of all in these. In the exalted degree of union with Himself by which the Almighty recompensed her generosity, we adore His own immense, gratuitous liberality;–in the heroism with which, aided by Divine grace, she died to every human feeling, we admire the grandeur of her own utter detachment from self, and the beauty of her thoroughly spiritualized nature.
Her humility, she had early established on the fundamental principles, that God is all, and the creature nothing. From these two truths, as from two great fountain heads, came the one absorbing desire of her life, that the All should engulph the nothing; that God should be exalted and she herself annihilated; hence, there was no height to which she would not have soared to promote honour to God, and no depth to which she would not have descended to procure her own abasement. The generosity of her humility inspired her equally to undertake great things for her Divine Master, when His service required them, and to remain contentedly in inaction when this was more agreeable to Him. Far from attaching any importance to the benefits which she had conferred on the monastery, she looked on herself as useless, sincerely believing that she was tolerated in the house of God only through charity. “I know nothing,” she wrote; “I do nothing in comparison with my Sisters; although I teach others, I am the most ignorant of all.” That these were no mere empty words was proved by her insatiable thirst for humiliation, to which her humble soul was drawn by the consideration of God’s greatness and her own nothingness, as a stone to its centre by its natural weight. In reading of the success which crowned her labours, and the universal love and reverence which her great qualities inspired, we are tempted to imagine, that whatever may have been her interior crosses, she must at least have been a stranger to the mortifications which come to us from others. But it was not so. She loved humiliation in her heart of hearts, as the appropriate homage of the nothing to the All, and God loved her too much to spare it, therefore all through life, in youth as in mature age, in Canada as in France, in religion as in the world, it followed her like a shadow. “I am destined for the cross,” she wrote to one of the Mothers at Tours; “trials are my lot, and in them is my peace; help me to return thanks to Him who provides for me so generously.” She was contradicted and slighted; she was suspected, misjudged and misrepresented, sometimes to test her virtue, sometimes from more questionable motives, but the possibility that she could he wronged or unjustly depreciated, never for a moment seemed to occur to her. Considering herself the last, the lowest, the most sinful of God’s creatures, she confessed that any amount of humiliation was inadequate to her deserts, while at the same time firmly impressed that the unfavourable opinions expressed of her were the correct ones, she was incapable of resentment. The Sisters who knew how discourteously she was often treated, once asked her how she bad been able to restrain her irritation under some particular insult; “I have guarded against that,” she replied, “by forgetting all about it.” “You admired our Mother’s humility under her last annoyance,” one Sister remarked to another; “yet this was a trivial one compared with those to which she is accustomed; still nobody ever hears her speak of them.” Nevertheless she owned that the persecutions which she endured thus silently, were more trying than even her terrible temptations, for that while the one caused her only personal suffering, the other checked the work of God. Her imperturbable equanimity under humiliations sometimes led to a doubt of her having noticed them at all; she had, and that very clearly too, but because she loved the contempt which she believed her due, she received each new evidence of it with an interior joy, and an exterior calmness, which deceived superficial observers. While incapable of taking offence herself, if she thought that she had inadvertently given even apparent cause of it to others, she never hesitated to ask pardon in the most humble manner even of the youngest Sister. No trace of self-reliance or self-esteem was ever seen in her. She was always ready to receive the suggestions and profit of the opinions even of those far inferior to her in every respect. It is recorded that when, consummated in virtue and experience, she was nearing the end of life, a novice who was at work with her, took the liberty of remarking that she was doing hers wrong. “Show me, my child, how it should be done,” the humble Mother gently answered, and while the novice had the simplicity to teach her mistress, the mistress had the humility to take the directions, although she knew them to be incorrect, saying that it matters little whether a piece of work be done in one way or in another, but very much that we practise child-like humility, so as to deserve a place among the little ones of whom our Lord declared is the kingdom of heaven. Sinking ever lower and deeper into her nothingness, she found there a resting-place for her soul, a security against illusion, a safeguard for her virtue, and an antidote for self-complacent thoughts, if by a rare chance, imagination ever suggested one.
The extraordinary graces with which God favoured her, far from exalting, served only to lower her in her own estimation. She fully recognised the magnificence of those graces, but wholly separating the great Giver from the lowly recipient, she viewed them in Him, not in herself; they were His always, hers never, and provided they redounded to His glory, she asked no more. “I am overwhelmed with astonishment,” she writes, “that a God who is loved purely by myriads of millions of souls, should cast His eyes on me, the last of His creatures, and condescend to grant me a share in His love.” And again, “If a soul is beautiful, good, or holy, it is with the beauty, the goodness and the holiness of God. Knowing that these attributes belong wholly to Him, she desires that He alone should have the honour of them, wishing no honour or praise for herself from any creature. Her only fear is lest vain complacency should open the door of the inner temple to the enemy, who would soon despoil her of her gifts.” “Tremble for me,” she said to her son, “when you hear of the favours which the Almighty has conferred on me, for He has placed His treasures in the very frailest of earthen vessels: the vessel may at any moment be broken and the contents lost.” This humble distrust of human weakness never left her heart. “O my great God!” she would say, “grant me humility, and help me to serve Thee as Thou commandest, in fear and trembling.” “I am now near my end,” she wrote two years before her death, “and I have yet done nothing worthy of a soul soon to appear before God. Our Lord has ever led me by the spirit of love and confidence, never by that of fear, but when I consider that through the frailty of my fallen nature, I may at any moment lose the Divine friendship, I am seized with dread, and overwhelmed with humiliation. I could not exist if I retained this apprehension of separation from God,–that all-good God from whom I have received more graces and favours than there are grains of sand in the ocean bed. But my firm confidence in His mercy dispels alarm, and rejecting doubts and fears, I cast myself trustingly into His arms, there to repose in peace.” Her superior intelligence and eminent virtue would have rendered her a very desirable acquisition to the Jansenists, who used their best efforts to allure her to their ranks, but her humility was her safeguard, and to manifest her horror of their innovations, she would not even reply to their letters.
Flowing from her humility was her spirit of obedience, a virtue of which she so clearly recognised the imperative necessity for all who aim at perfection, that she would do nothing but under its guidance. Even the revelations with which God had favoured her, she never thought of acting on, until she had submitted them to the examination of her director, and so persuaded was she that this course was in accordance with the established order of Providence, that she would have thought herself deluded had she acted otherwise. She was perfectly free from the least attachment to her own lights, natural and supernatural, and never had a difficulty in subjecting her conduct and judgment to the guidance of superiors; this she esteemed a most special grace. It may be remembered that in the years of her servitude in her brother-in-law’s house, she made a vow of obedience to him and her sister. Knowing nothing of it, they were lost in astonishment at her wonderful submission, which they could only attribute to her affection for themselves, and consequent zeal for their interests. After she entered religion, obedience was still among her favourite virtues; she almost flew to execute the most trivial order of superiors, or rather she recognised none as trivial, viewing all as emanating from God. In the position of Superior which she held for eighteen years, she still found means of exercising her beloved virtue, and when in the intervals, she resumed her place among the Sisters, her submission to the new Superior was that of a simple child. Obedience had become so natural to her from habit, that she was a stranger even to a repugnance to obey. She strongly inculcated the importance of obedience to spiritual direction, saying that it is the source of that true simplicity which forms the saints.
A soul so humble could not but be meek, and so it was notorious, that although while she was engaged in the world her business had been of a most harassing kind, and that in Canada her varied duties brought her into continual contact with persons of all classes and all humours, she was never seen out of patience. Even when most severely pressed at the time of her great interior trials by temptations to antipathy and irritability, the closest observer could scarcely ever have detected that vanquished nature had made an effort to rebel. If perchance an almost imperceptible reflection of her pains of soul ever passed over her accustomed sweetness of demeanour, she reproached herself for it as for a fault. After her death, when her virtues formed the favourite topic of conversation in her bereaved community, one who had known her for thirty years, observed that “the Mother of the Incarnation always showed the courage of the lion in confronting difficulties and dangers, and the gentleness of the lamb in her intercourse with her neighbour.” And this latter remark applied not only to the meekness which is easily maintained because it is not tried, but much more to that which bears the test of sharp and continuous contradictions, and is never found to fail. A person who had occasioned her very great annoyance, finally pronounced as his conclusive opinion, that her patience was made of iron. She was, indeed, so thoroughly inured to mortifications, that injuries had ceased to be injuries, and enemies were enemies no more. Those who had treated her worst, might, for that reason, count securely on special evidences of her sweetness and kindness. For the sake of peace, she was ever ready to yield her judgment, when this could be doue without compromise of duty.
It once happened that in an important matter submitted to the decision of the community, she held a different opinion from most of the Sisters. Finding herself in the minority, she at once yielded the point without a remonstrance or even a remark. A Sister who took her view of the case, a little disappointed at such ready acquiescence, observed, “Well, Mother, one would thank that you had made a vow to obey those people, and do just as they wish.” “No,” replied the Mother, with her own gentle smile, “I have not vowed to obey them or consult their wishes, but I have promised to please God, and for His love to do all in my power to maintain peace with my neighbour.” Perfect, however, as was the meekness of the Venerable Mother, her firmness could equal it when occasion required, and never, perhaps, were the two qualities more admirably balanced in any character than in hers.
Compassion for all in want or trouble seemed like an instinct of her nature. It showed itself, as we have seen, from her earliest childhood, and gained strength with every breath of her life. To see her fellow- creatures in distress, and not make an effort to relieve them, was at all times an impossibility to her kind heart. Known in the world as the mother and advocate of the poor, in religion she maintained, and, if possible, strengthened her claim to the beautiful title. She would have considered that a lost day on which she had not exercised the works of mercy, so during her prolonged tenure of authority as Superior, it was remarked that she never passed one without giving alms of one kind or another. Among the distressed French families whom she thus relieved were persons of respectable condition, who she knew would have shrunk from manifesting their poverty, therefore she took care to spare them the necessity of an appeal for charity, managing also to have her gifts conveyed so cautiously, that they should be unable to trace them to their source, or to consider them in the light of alms. When nothing more remained to her for the destitute, she called on the resources of the rich, and when these, too, were exhausted, she had recourse to God, who never failed to send her help in her emergencies.
If she was the refuge of the French in their wants, still more was she the resource of the Indians, to whom her generous heart and her hospitable monastery were ever open. Vain would be the attempt to tell of all she did and all she endured to procure means of providing for them in their necessities, and helping them through their difficulties. But if their temporal welfare was a subject of deepest concern to her, infinitely more lively was her zeal for their spiritual interests; to these she had devoted her labours; to these she had consecrated her energies and her life; for these were her first, her last, her ceaseless prayers. So well did she succeed in communicating her own ardour to the rest of the community, that from the very commencement of the house the Sisters bound themselves to receive the Holy Communion and recite the Rosary once every month in honour of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, observing a fast on the eve of the festival, all in order to obtain the conversion of the savages. This beautiful devotion is perpetuated in the monastery to the present day.
Another practice of the first Mothers was to draw by lot the names of the different Indian tribes, each offering her prayers, labours, and merits for the conversion of that which had fallen to her. The Venerable Mother had her particular nation like the rest, but her great heart embraced all others at the same time, for nothing less than all could satisfy zeal which, like hers, embraced the universe. As her history has shown us, her whole life in Canada was but one prolonged act of charity to the forlorn race, and when that life was about to close, she bequeathed her love for them to her community, as the most precious legacy she had to bestow.
As well-ordered charity begins at home, her Sisters were naturally the first objects of hers. From the commencement of her religious career, her delight had been to oblige and serve them at the cost of any amount of personal fatigue or inconvenience, and, when Superior, it was her practice to do a considerable portion of their work in addition to her own, thus to procure them a little more rest. That all might be enabled to retire sooner after their weary day, she took for her especial charge to remain up the last at night, and see all the fires extinguished–no easy task when wood was the only fuel, the huge, red-hot logs requiring much time and caution in the cooling. She has been known to leave herself without bed-clothes in the intense cold of winter nights, that she might add a little to the comfort of her shivering novices, her own chilled frame meantime depending for warmth, as Père Charlevoix remarks, “only on the fire of her love;” and this was but one small instance of the compassionate charity which she was ever practising.
She had peculiar tact in reconciling enemies, and a wondrous gift for consoling the afflicted, especially those tried by temptations and interior pains. Many were the sufferers who came to her sorrowful and discouraged, and left her presence consoled and strengthened. Once a person under great trial sought her help, but experienced insuperable difficulty in communicating the subject of her pains. “Let us pray, my child,” the Mother said, “that God may enlighten me.” Leaning her head on her hand, she prayed for the space of a _Pater_ and _Ave_; then looking up gently, she asked, “What hesitation could you have had in telling me such and such a thing?”–specifying the causes of trouble. “Should you not have known me better?” Having directed the person what course to pursue, and exhorted her to courage, fidelity, and abandonment to God, she foretold her that her troubles were not at an end, but consoled her by the assurance that they would tend to the Divine honour. The wise counsels not only imparted immediate peace to the suffering soul, but, moreover, helped to sustain her through the remainder of the conflict, which, as the event proved, was not yet over. The good Mother was ever at the command of all who sought her help, ready at all times to lay aside her most pressing occupations the moment any one expressed a desire to speak to her, giving her visitors ample opportunity of unburdening their minds fully, and dismissing all satisfied and consoled. She could not endure to hear an unkind remark, and so perfect was her own practice of charity in speech, that she was never known to utter a word to the disadvantage of any one, even those who had treated her worst. Such was the tenderness of her compassion for the erring, that, as she was accustomed to say, she would have wished to hide them in her heart.
She was so easily pleased, that the charge of assisting her in her different occupations, was quite an envied post. A Sister, who for several years had had the care of preparing her colors for her paintings, and her materials for gilding and similar works, declared that during all that time she had never heard a word from her lips but of encouragement, gentleness, and affection. The kind Mother took delight in teaching her what she knew, and then, with the liveliest interest, would show the Sister’s attempts to all who entered, remarking how good they were, and how sure the pupil would be to advance if she only had courage. “How can you praise such work, dear Mother?” somebody one day asked in reference to another’s Sister’s production; “you who are so good a judge, and, therefore, must have seen its defects.” “It was done to the best of the Sister’s ability,” the Mother answered, “so it was well done for her, and in that sense deserving of praise.” Although always recollected in God, she liked to see her Sisters gay at recreation, and that she might be no restraint on their innocent mirth, was herself invariably cheerful. The instances on record of her charity to her neighbour, both before and after she entered religion, are much too numerous for insertion in these pages, but we cannot have perused her history, without discerning that the beautiful spirit of fraternal love influenced her whole life, manifesting itself in a ceaseless effort to relieve the wants, console the sorrows, promote the temporal happiness, and, above all, advance the spiritual interests of all within her reach, as well as by her prayers and desires, of those beyond it.
Charity and patience like those of the Mother Mary of the Incarnation can flourish only in souls whence inordinate self-love has been banished; detachment from self is, in fact, their essence and their life. It was because that of the Venerable Mother was so deeply grounded, that her love of her neighbour was proof against all trials. Disengagement from self is synonymous with sacrifice of self, and of this she was unsparing. For her greater merit, and our instruction and encouragement, the Almighty permitted that during several successive years she should feel the revolt of her passions, and experience all that is painful to nature in the effort to subdue them. The perfect control over them which resulted in her admirable meekness and forbearance was the reward of her fidelity in the hour of the conflict. If her passions were brought so thoroughly under subjection to reason and faith, that they seemed at last to have lost their power, the grand conquest was the work of mortification. Knowing that Christ would live in her in the plenitude of His Spirit, only when her natural life had been destroyed, she sought opportunities of self-crucifixion, as men in general seek chances of gratification and enjoyment. Every feeling, every faculty, every sense, was fastened to the cross. To her interior mortification there was no limit; to her exterior, only that imposed by obedience, and as long as her austerities involved no singularity, obedience imposed but little restraint on them.
While apparently leading an ordinary life, she contrived that no part of her frame should be without its particular suffering, managing to transform into new acts of penance, the very refreshment of food and sleep. Her joy was in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which not only the external, but also the inner world was crucified to her. At any moment of her existence, as well as on her dying bed, she might have truly said, “With Christ I am nailed to the cross;” and with equal truth she might have added, “God forbid that I should glory save in that precious and well-loved cross.”
The earnestness with which she sought the entire crucifixion of nature, appears in the rules which she laid down for her particular guidance after having made her vow to do in all things what she believed most perfect. By these she bound herself to make no excuse when unjustly accused; to watch so carefully over mind and heart, that no complaint should escape her under any provocation; never to speak a word to her own advantage, and to be always ready to applaud what was commendable in others; to show special sweetness to those for whom nature felt least