"He has much talent, and a gentle, fine character. I am convinced that he will delight you." ~ a brief bio of Rev. Joseph Coolidge Shaw

Painting of Rev. Joseph Coolidge Shaw, uncle of Civil War hero, Col. Robert Gould Shaw.

The top spot on my rankings of Civil War movies alternates between two classics: Clint Eastwood's The Outlaw Josie Wales, and Glory, which features an all-star cast including Denzel Washington, Morgan Freeman, Carey Elwes and Matthew Broderick. We re-watched both within the past week.

Of the two, I think Glory is the more intriguing if only because it portrays the deeds of true Civil War heroes: Col. Robert Gould Shaw and the 54th Massachusetts Regiment. After watching it this time, I was inspired to dig a little deeper on Shaw to see what made him tick. What made a Boston brahmin, the scion of one of the wealthiest families in New England at the time, decide to take up the decidedly unglamorous post of leading the Union's first Black regiment? Particularly, I wanted to see if he had any connection at all to the Catholic Church.

As I normally do, I started with his Wikipedia entry. Upon reading it, I had a momentary thrill of discovery: the entry seemed to indicate that Shaw had converted to Catholicism during a trip to Europe! But alas, this was nothing more than imprecise wording in the Wiki entry—a sadly common occurrence that even threw off the chat-bot I asked to confirm this improbable fact. Lo and behold, after some more in-depth reading, it became clear that Robert Gould Shaw had not converted to Catholicism.

It seems that the Wiki entry was referring to Shaw's paternal uncle, Joseph Coolidge Shaw. It was Uncle Coolidge who had converted to Catholicism, not his famous nephew. But my disappointment was soon tempered after delving into the life of Joseph Coolidge Shaw and finding out what an absolutely fascinating fellow he was. 

As a member of the mid-19th century Boston elite, Coolidge Shaw (as he was known) grew up surrounded by the bright, the brilliant, and the bountiful. Born in 1821 to Robert Shaw, Sr. and Elizabeth Parkman, Coolidge was first cousin to Francis Parkman who would go on to write one of the classic histories of colonial North America, the seven volume France and England in North America. 

Coolidge was apparently very well-liked by his contemporaries, some of whom would, like his cousin Francis, go on to become quite famous. His name appears surrounded by laudatory glow in a letter from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to Julie Hepp of Heidelberg, Germany. 

Dearest Friend,

The bearer of this letter is Mr. Shaw of Boston. He will spend the winter in Heidelberg; and I know of no greater pleasure to arrange for him there than your acquaintance. He is from a very respectable family; has much talent, and a gentle, fine character. I am convinced that he will delight you. [The Letters of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, September 28, 1840]

Coolidge Shaw did go to Germany, but not to delight young women, apparently. Rather, he found himself unexpectedly delighted by that bugbear of the English-speaking world of his day—Roman Catholicism. While sojourning in Germany, Coolidge encountered Frederick William Faber, a leading light in the Oxford Movement. Though still an Anglican at the time, Faber influenced Shaw toward Catholicism. Not long afterward, Shaw was baptized a Catholic in Rome by Charles Cardinal Acton. 

It seems that converting to Catholicism met with a very negative reaction in the generally anti-Papist circles Coolidge inhabited in New England. An indication of this may be found in a letter his cousin, Francis Parkman, wrote to his mother while visiting Rome "in the midst of the fooleries of Holy Week." After making some additional snide comments about Catholic practices, Parkman writes: “You will perceive from the tenor of my remarks that the farce of Coolidge Shaw has not been reenacted in my person.” [The Letters of Francis Parkman, April 5, 1844]

It should be recalled that Coolidge's conversion happened as a time when the violently anti-Catholic Know Nothings were reaching the pinnacle of their popularity in the United States. However, it seems that neither popular opinion, nor the mocking disapproval of family and friends could discourage Coolidge. He pressed on with his newfound Faith, and with the zeal of the newly converted, attempted to convince his relations to join him in the Catholic Church. Less than two years after Parkman's letter to his mother above, we find Coolidge attempting to convince his cousin (and his uncle) of the virtues of Catholicism:

Do you think you shall stick to the Law, or cut it in a year to give yourself completely to history? I am glad you have taken this term for we want literary men, and a fair historian is a great desideratum….It was history made Hunter a Catholic; and I think if you continue it, it will make you one; …Remember me with all love to Uncle Francis…Tell him we are now studying the treatise De Trinitate [by St. Augustine of Hippo], which I think, if he read it, would convince him that our Lord is not over well pleased at being stripped of his Divinity and only honored as man when he ought to be worshiped as a God. [Sedgwick, American Men of Letters: Francis Parkman, Letter from Joseph Coolidge Shaw to Francis Parkman, from Rome, November 16, 1845].

At about the same time, we find him corresponding with another well-known New England convert, Orestes Brownson of Vermont. This letter gives a window into Coolidge Shaw's deepening Catholic conviction, along with hints as to where this conviction might be leading. We also again see his interest in not only converting his family to the faith, but in developing a strategy whereby Catholic belief could be introduced to all his New England neighbors in a persuasive way:

As you may suppose, a second year’s experience of religion, and that too in the very centre of Catholicity, has only served to ground me more firmly in the faith, and to fill me with an ever increasing longing for the time when I shall be prepared to go on His mission who alone I love, and teach others to love Him; for it seems to me that we to whom God has shown such unspeakable mercy are in a peculiar manner commissioned, like his great precursor, to go before the face of the Lord and prepare His ways….And oh, pray God for me, that I may not be unmindful of His Call.

     I do not know our people as well as I could wish, for I left home at 19, passed more than three years abroad, and spent the 10 months after my return for the most part quietly at Cambridge. I should think, however, that though they may be more ignorant of the Catholic religion than any other part of the country, and on that account may seem farthest from it, they have, nevertheless, more solidity, more sound principle, and more good will, than either the South or the West, and hence would make better and more earnest converts than those who appear at first sight to be of a more generous nature, for I am inclined to think much of the warmth at the South mere impulse and climate. But my intercourse in Boston, etc., has been chiefly with Episcopalians, Unitarians, and infidels, who are, I imagine, a much better set than the Presbyterian and Methodist part of the community. I wish you would give me some more correct information as to the different sects, and to the general spirit of the N. E. people. The Unitarians, infidels, etc., the most sensible, decidedly, are best acted upon by sound reasoning; the others, I suppose, by the Bible, and by church history. Is it not so? [Orestes Brownson's Middle Life: 1845-1855, p. 65-66, Letter from 

Coolidge Shaw to Orestes Brownson from Tivoli, Italy, October 14, 1845]

Coolidge Shaw's passion for his Catholic faith was not just a passing fancy. In 1847, he was ordained a Catholic priest. By that time, most of his family had come to terms with their eccentric relation's religious direction. Regarding the ordination, Shaw would write in his diary:

The ordination was a species of triumph for the Church in Boston, not of course as regards me personally, but from the circumstances of my family, etc. My Father and Mother who were present themselves at the three ordinations invited a great many of their friends, & especially at the last ordination the church was full of Protestants, & the papers talked a good deal of the matter. [Donovan, Joseph Coolidge Shaw: Boston yankee, Jesuit, early Boston College patron, p. 4]

His amiable nature and familiarity with New England allowed Fr. Shaw to break barriers. He was apparently the first priest to celebrate Mass in Brattleboro, Vermont in the autumn of 1848:

Mass was celebrated for the first time in Brattleboro in the early autumn of 1848, by Reverend Joseph Coolidge Shaw of Boston, under a tree on the Wood farm in the presence of fifty or sixty worshipers. Father Shaw had come to take the water-cure. [Cabot, Annals of Brattleboro, 1681-1895, p. 649].

Not long after this time, Fr. Shaw spent some time at Fordham University in New York. It was also at about this time that he was somehow able to convince his brother, Francis Shaw, to send young Robert Gould Shaw then aged 12 to boarding school at Fordham. But while Coolidge would thrive at Fordham, young Robert had a miserable time. His letters home during this time include some rather typical pre-teen angst, including the following:

"I hate it like everything."

"I'd rather do anything than stay here."

"My old teacher scolded me to-day because I didn't do something he didn't tell me to do, and I hate him."

"I wish you hadn't sent me here." [Fordham Prep Hall of Honor page]

Robert only lasted a year at Fordham, retreating at last to the bosom of his family which was about to embark on an extended European tour. He would spend the next two years at a boarding school in Switzerland. As a result, he would not be present for the denouement of his uncle's short life.

God in His providence would see fit to limit Fr. Shaw's life on this earth. Following his stint at Fordham, Fr. Shaw decided to seek admittance to the Society of Jesus. Accepted as a novice, he entered the novitiate in Frederick, Maryland in September of 1850. His time there would be short. Though always in excellent health, he became ill around Christmas of 1850. A passage in Brownson's Middle Life explains what happened next:

...[T]he Novitiate catching fire, Shaw was the first to mount the roof, and receiving buckets of water, handed up by the other novices, succeeded in extinguishing the flames. It was a cold evening and probably Shaw’s clothing was more or less wet; but he returned, as he was, to the usual exercises of the community until the regular bed-time. This exposure brought on an attack of pleurisy, from which he was delivered only by death a little later. [Orestes Brownson's Middle Life: 1845-1855, p. 63]

In the 1850s, deaths at age 30 were sadly not uncommon. Even so, and despite Fr. Shaw being the black sheep of his family, he would be sincerely and universally mourned following his passing. A sermon given by Unitarian minister Ephraim Peabody gives a beautiful illustration of the man whose virtues were recognized even by those whom he had theologically abandoned:

A few years ago, there was one among you, a youth nurtured in the same schools with yourselves, your companion and friend; having in his own heart those gifts which win the hearts of others. A few years went by, and you knew of him as one passing through dark struggles of the mind, but through them reaching repose and peace: you knew of him as making those sacrifices of his sense of duty, which to the gentle and affectionate are the true martyrdom. A few years more passed, and he was again among you, a living and saintly example of devotion to the works of mercy and love—a short season more, and his life sank peacefully away. Where lay the charm of that life? And what took from that death all that lends death terror? It is answered in a single word, and that word is fidelity. Fidelity to his own convictions of duty, fidelity to God, laboring faithfully where he felt himself called to labor. ["Father Joseph Coolidge Shaw: A Memorial Sketch" as found in Woodstock Letters, p. 449]

Coolidge Shaw's death and memory was not the end of his legacy. During his three month long illness, when it became apparent that he should not recover, Father Shaw dictated his last will to a friend. In that will, he would set aside about $4,000—a gift from his father at his ordination—along with his valuable collection of books gathered while traveling Europe—more than 1,500 volumes—for the foundation of a Jesuit University in Boston. That institution would not emerge for another twelve years when Fr. John McElroy, SJ would found Boston College. Fr. Shaw's bequest would make him BC's first benefactor.

As an alum of BC myself, this came as a surprise. It was even more of a surprise to find out that Shaw House on campus was named for him. During my tenure at BC, I never heard his name mentioned once, even though I spent a summer working in the Burns Library and archives. Sadly, that kind of muting of the history of the illustrious religious men who helped found the University was typical of my experience there. 

But if those who benefited from Fr. Shaw's bequest too soon forgot about him, his nephew, Robert Gould Shaw apparently did not. While serving in the Army of the Potomac in the opening months of the Civil War, Robert Shaw relates this charming anecdote of a visit to his uncle's gravesite in Frederick, MD:

Camp near Darnestown
September 3, 1861

Dear Father,

Yesterday, Harry and I got 24 hours leave of absence and drove over to Frederick. We went to the Seminary and saw Uncle Coolidge’s portrait & grave. He has a Jesuit’s dress & the miniature I think has a cassock with buttons down the front. They treated us very well and got permission for us to visit the convent which was very interesting. The nuns, who never go out, and the pupils too, though they cleared the way for us with precipitation, were inquisitive enough to peek out of the windows as we went along the gallery. [Duncan: Blue-Eyed Child of Fortune, p. 135]

I was able to track down an online copy of this portrait mentioned by Robert Gould Shaw above (I think) on the findagrave.com website here and have included a detail from the portrait at the top of this post. The Boston College website also includes an image of what may be the miniature. I have included this at right. The miniature image is used to promote membership in the Shaw Society which encourages alumni, parents and friends to remember the university in their estate planning. 

Given the not-especially-Catholic state of BC in particular, and Jesuit institutions more generally these days, one is forced to wonder whether such a gift is a wise investment for a faithful Catholic or whether it will be used in the spirit of Father Shaw's original bequest.

Let us pray for the repose of Father Joseph Coolidge Shaw's soul.

Let us pray for the repose of Col. Robert Gould Shaw's soul, and the souls of all the men of the 54th Massachusetts.

Let us pray for the renewal of Jesuit educational institutions, that Christ may lead them away from the crass worldliness that infects them, back to grounding young people in the Gospel, which was the founding vision of men like Father Joseph Coolidge Shaw.

Catherine Gandeaktena ~ From Savagery to Slavery to Sanctity

Catherine Gandeanktena and her husband Francis Tonsahoten,
as taken from the cover of Catherine of the Erie. 

Practically everyone has heard of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawk nation and the first formally canonized indigenous American saint. 

Almost no one has heard of Catherine Gandeaktena. 

But a new historical novel, Catherine of the Erie by Claudio R. Salvucci aims to change that. 

Though almost unknown among Catholics today, Catherine Gandeaktena's role was an important one. Indeed, if it were not for Catherine, the world may never have known about Saint Kateri. Catherine of the Erie successfully puts this devout, humble woman and her harrowing life story on the literary map. 

Newly published!
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Here is some historical background which will help the reader appreciate Catherine Gandeaktena's story as presented in this novel.

Catherine was a woman of the Erie nation. Like most of the other Iroquoian-speaking nations—among them the Hurons, Neutrals, Susquehannocks, and the Iroquois themselves—the Eries were a confederacy of tribes organized around clan alliances and living in semi-settled long-house villages. In the traditional scheme of things prior to European contact, the Eries were every bit as powerful as their neighbors, numbering perhaps in the tens of thousands. At the peak of their strength, they could field an army of 3-4,000 warriors. 

In the 1640s when Catherine was born, the Erie nation was situated on the south shore of the Great Lake that bears their name even to this day. They were alternately known as the Nation of the Cat, as explained in the Jesuit Relation of 1655, "because of the prodigious number of Wildcats in their country, two or three times as large as our domestic Cats, but of a handsome and valuable fur." [from the Jesuit Relations as quoted in Iroquois Wars II, p. 108]

By 1650s, however, the political and military balance of power in the Eastern Woodlands began to shift rapidly. For one thing, the Iroquois, whose location in present-day central New York put them in close proximity to Dutch and English settlers, were able to acquire European weapons. With easier access to muskets and ammunition, the Iroquois soon became a terror to their neighbors. By 1649, the powerful Huron nation had been invaded, conquered, and scattered by the Iroquois. A few years later, the same fate befell the Neutrals. Over the next twenty years, the Iroquois would wear down and defeat even the powerful Susquehannocks in what is today central Pennsylvania. 

The Eries knew that they war with the Iroquois was inevitable. But they were a warlike people themselves and many of their young warriors welcomed the conflict. Describing the Cats and their fighting prowess, Fr. Le Mercier writes:

"The Cat Nation is very populous, having been reinforced by some Hurons, who scattered in all directions when their country was laid waste, and who now have stirred up this war which is filling the Iroquois with alarm. Two thousand men are reckoned upon, well skilled in war, although they have no firearms. Notwithstanding this, they fight like Frenchmen, bravely sustaining the first discharge of the Iroquois, who are armed with our muskets, and then falling upon them with a hailstorm of poisoned arrows, which they discharge eight or ten times before a musket can be reloaded." [from the Jesuit Relations as quoted in Iroquois Wars II, p. 108]

In 1653, open warfare broke out between the Iroquois and the Eries. The Cats seemed to be the aggressors in the initial encounters as described by Fr. Mercier: 

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"They [the Iroquois] informed us that a fresh war had broken out against them, and thrown them all into a state of alarm: that the Ehriehronnons [Eries] were arming against them....They informed us that a village of Sonnontoehronnon Iroquois [the Seneca—one of the original five nations of the Iroquois confederacy] had been already taken and set on fire at their first approach; that that same nation had pursued one of their own armies which was returning victorious from the direction of the great lake of the Hurons, and that an entire company of eighty picked men, which formed the rear-guard, had been completely cut to pieces; that one of their greatest Captains, Annenraes by name, had been captured and led away captive by some skirmishers of that Nation." [from the Jesuit Relations as quoted in Iroquois Wars II, p. 108]

It was the capture of this Annenraes which would ultimately bring doom upon the Eries. Reports of his torture and death lit a fire under the Iroquois confederacy who mobilized all their warriors and invaded the Erie homeland with guns blazing. The end result was the utter annihilation of the Cats. Once their fortifications were breached, the Iroquois attacked and slaughtered without mercy: 

"Their boldness so astonished the besieged that, being already at the end of their munitions of war, with which, especially with powder, they had been but poorly provided, they resolved to flee. This was their ruin. For, after most of the first fugitives had been killed, the others were surrounded by the Onnontaguehronnons [the Onnondaga—one of the original five nations of the Iroquois confederacy], who entered the fort and there wrought such carnage among the women and children, that blood was knee-deep in certain places." [from the Jesuit Relations as quoted in Iroquois Wars II, p. 127]

During this period of horrendous cruelty and demonic vice (which I have previously chronicled here, here, and here among other places), it seems almost miraculous that such a gentle creature could emerge who, by her modesty, humility, and aversion to violence, appeared almost pre-disposed to Christian holiness. 

Yet that was Catherine Gandeaktena. 

Having been raised within a simmering cauldron of rage that featured regular displays of horrific torture and cannibalism, somehow Gandeaktena managed to remain aloof from all such excesses of wickedness. When her nation fell, Gandeaktena was made a slave and brought in cruel bondage to the villages of the Iroquois. Yet even as a helpless slave, Gandeaktena was able to win over others by her natural virtues. This description of her early life was recorded by the Jesuit fathers:

"God having permitted that Gentaienton, a village of the Chat nation, should be taken and sacked by the Iroquois, Gandeaktena, which is the name of the one of whom we are speaking, was taken into slavery together with her mother and brought to Onniout [a village of the Oneida nation of the Iroquois]. There the misfortune of her country proved the blessing of our captive. And her slavery was the cause of her preparing herself to receive through baptism the liberty of the children of God. The innocency in which she had lived, even before intending to become a Christian, seemed to have prepared her to receive this grace; and it is an astonishing fact that, in the midst of the extreme corruption of the Iroquois, she was able, before being illumined by the light of the Gospel, to keep herself from participating in their debaucheries, although she was their slave." [Jesuit Relation of 1679]  

Later, Catherine Gandeaktena would become one of the founders of the Mission at La Prairie near present-day Montreal. This Mission would become a magnet attracting Christian converts among the nearby native tribes. So well-known would this haven become that the saying, "I am going to La Prairie," came to mean among the natives: "I am giving up polygamy and drunkenness." 

Catherine died a holy death surrounded by the devout prayers of her husband, Francis Tonsahoten, and friends in AD 1673. 

Four years later, in the autumn of 1677, a young Indian girl named Kateri Tekakwitha would arrive at the mission Catherine had helped to found which, by this time, had moved a short distance away and become a safe haven for converts to Christianity among the nations. It was here that Kateri's faith and devotion would grow, thrive, and achieve full flower. As told by Fr. Pierre Cholonec, her spiritual director and biographer: 

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"[W]hat edified her exceedingly was the piety of all the converts who composed this numerous mission. Above all, she was struck with seeing men become so different from what they were when they lived in their own country. She compared their exemplary life with the licentious course they had been accustomed to lead, and recognizing the hand of God in so extraordinary a change, she ceaselessly thanked Him for having conducted her into this land of blessings." [Kateri Tekakwitha: The Iroquois Saint, page 30]

If you enjoyed reading this brief article about these heroic women of the wilderness, I encourage you to check out Catherine of the Erie. The novel brilliantly captures the life of Catherine and spirit of these harsh times, and has the advantage of being written by an author who really knows his stuff. Mr. Salvucci not only appreciates and illuminates the Catholic aspects of the story, but is also well versed in the history, folk-lore and languages of the Eastern Woodland tribes. In fact, several of the quotes above come from his work as co-editor of two volumes on the Iroquois Wars. And the frequent appearance of Iroquoian words and phrases throughout the novel is the product of his work as editor of a series of early Native American vocabularies and word lists.

Catherine of the Erie is a relatively short novel (about 160 pages) and is suitable for teens. If your young reader is particularly sensitive, be aware that there are some pretty intense scenes of warfare, as well as a dream sequence which is a little scary.

St. Clair Augustin Mulholland ~ Irishman. Philadelphian. Artist. Civil War Hero. Catholic.

General St. Clair Augustin Mulholland later in life.

As Independence Day approaches each year, I make a habit of finding a patriotic movie or two to pop into the DVD player to watch with the kids. This year, we began with Gods and Generals, that beautiful but flawed epic of the first two years of the Civil War. The film contrasts the career of Confederate General Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson with that Union General Joshua Chamberlain, and while focusing on these two, it introduces several other figures as bit players. 

One of these who showed up during the Battle of Fredericksburg was St. Clair Augustin Mulholland. When his name was shown on the screen, it looked familiar. Where had I seen it before? Ah, yes! He appeared prominently in a previous post: "One of the most impressive religious ceremonies I have ever witnessed" ~ Father William Corby's general absolution at Gettysburg.

Mulholland had been at Gettysburg where he witnessed Fr. Corby's general absolution. It was his account of the act that I had included in the post, taken from his book, The story of the 116th Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers in the War of the Rebellion.

But as with so many of these amazing men from the Civil War period, there is much, much more to General Mulholland's story than mere gallantry in combat—though there is plenty of that.

And he is practically forgotten today, even in his adopted hometown of Philadelphia where his earthly remains lie interned in Old Cathedral Cemetery. 

St. Clair Augustin Mulholland was born a son of the Emerald Isle in County Antrim in AD 1839. When still a boy, his family emigrated to the United States in the midst of the Potato Famine. As with many Irish youth, Mulholland gravitated toward a military career, and by the time the American Civil War erupted in 1861, he would become a colonel at the ripe age of 23. 

Mulholland in uniform
during the Civil War.

Serving throughout the war, Mulholland saw action at Fredericksburg where he was wounded leading the ill-fated charge up Marye's Heights. He would be awarded a Congressional Medal of Honor for his gallantry covering the Union retreat at Chancellorsvile. As mentioned above, he served at Gettysburg where his regiment was practically annihilated. He survived to fight and receive wounds at Wilderness. He was wounded again at Po River, and badly injured by a musketball to the groin at Topotomy Creek. 

For his outstanding courage during the the Civil War, Mulholland was given brevet rank of Major General.

But that's not where his story ends, not by a long-shot. 

Following the war, Mulholland returned to Philadelphia where he became chief of police in 1868. In that post, he was credited with bringing discipline to the department which had been in some disorder before his arrival. He is also praised for breaking up a gang known as the "Schuylkill Rangers" which had been terrorizing the city.

He served many years on the Board of Prison Inspections. According to a eulogy written at the time of Mulholland's death in 1910 in the Journal of the American Irish Historical Society:  

It was said of him that he personally helped more unfortunates to start life anew than any other man in the state. He made the subject of prison discipline and its reform a study, and it was he who formed the committee that drafted the new parole law.

General Mulholland was also a lover of American history, particularly the contributions which Irish and Catholic Americans had played in it. Perceiving that secular and Protestant historians tended to minimize or ignore completely the role played by Catholics in American history, Mulholland participated in a campaign of speeches and memorials to remind the nation of their contributions. As part of this effort, Mulholland and his fellow Irish Catholics funded and built several memorials. 

Statue of Commodore Barry in Philadelphia.

Mulholland played a key role in raising $10,500 (the equivalent of about $350,000 in today's dollars) for the creation of the prominent statue of Commodore John Barry which may be seen to this day in dramatic pose behind Independence Hall in Philadelphia. Of Commodore Barry, Mulholland would offer the following praise in a speech: 

One of the most illustrious of Ireland’s sons, a brilliant child of the wind and waves, a heroic warrior of the sea who never knew defeat, the Father and Founder of the Navy of the United States.

It was General Mulholland who first conceived the idea of raising a statue to his friend, Fr. Corby, saying that it would "be of great benefit to the Catholic Church, identifying the Church with patriotism on the battlefields of our country." [Memoirs of a Chaplain's Life, Appendix 2] As chairman of a committee of the Catholic Alumni Sodality, General Mulholland was instrumental moving the project forward. The statue of Fr. Corby was completed shortly after Mulholland's death in 1910. 

Also late in his life, Mulholland was appointed to head the commission to create the Pennsylvania memorial at Gettysburg. Though he did not survive to see the completion of the project, the Pennsylvania memorial would be built and is the grandest on the battlefield. 

While doing the research on this post, I was surprised to discover that there was another side of General Mulholland. Beneath his rough exterior hardened by years of exposure on the march and danger on the battlefield, St. Clair Mulholland retained the softer soul of an artist. Similar to Lew Wallace, who eclipsed his fame as a general during the Civil War by writing a memorable novel (Ben Hur), St. Clair Mulholland was an accomplished painter of landscapes. Following the war, he embarked on a five year tour of Europe where he painted many beautiful scenes. Some examples of his work may be seen below:

Grand Canal, Venice.

Rowing in the Marsh

Shipping of the Coast

Mulholland was also personally devout and chivalrous. In a 1928 essay, Anne Easby-Smith records the following about the general: 

Yet this richly gifted man was, in his piety, as sincere and simple as a little child. His devotion to the Blessed Virgin was touching. From the age of fifteen until his death, he recited the rosary daily. His courtesy to women is illustrated by an incident during the War. Leading a hundred men through the swamp of Chickahominy, he came to a narrow pass where there was room for only one. Two Sisters of Charity were approaching. Immediately, the young officer stepped into the muddy swamp, to be followed by the whole regiment, to the great confusion of the Sisters.

For all his accomplishments, General Mulholland seemed to remain a humble soul to the very end of his life. When he died in 1910, he was buried in Old Cathedral Cemetery in a grave without a marker. The existing plaque was added much later. In the conclusion of her essay, Anne Easby-Smith sums up General Mulholland's character in this way:  

A soldier first and last, General Mulholland had simple tastes and few personal wants. “When I die,” he had said, “wrap me in the American Flag and put me in the hole. That is all the funeral I need.” Faithful to the flag for which he had fought and bled, General St. Clair Mulholland was equally faithful to the creed of his fathers, a true Catholic layman who stood before the world proud of the dual loyalty to God and country of which his entire life was a noble illustration.

What more is there to say? General Mulholland is yet another of those incredible, multi-faceted individuals whose characters were shaped in the forge of the American Civil War and whose subsequent noble lives are an ornament to the country they loved. Given General Mulholland's devotion to God, Ireland, America, and the memory of Civil War comrades, I suspect that the depiction of the sacrifice of the 116th Pennsylvania at Fredericksburg in Gods and Generals would have met with his approval, even if his own prominent presence in the film as their heroic leader may have piqued his humility.

Here are a few other posts on the Civil War that have appeared on this blog:

• Gen. James Longstreet: "Brave soldier, gallant gentleman, consistent Christian"
• Commander of the Union Army: Giuseppe Garibaldi?
• Civil War Vets Aboard the Cruiser Olympia ~ Seamen Purdy and McCue Re-fight their Ancient Battle
• "One of the most impressive religious ceremonies I have ever witnessed" ~ Father William Corby's general absolution at Gettysburg
• Will the Left tear down Stand Watie's monument?
• The Conversion of Frederick Douglass

"Among laymen, none are superior to him in devotion and zeal for the Church." ~ A review of "Pierre Toussaint: A Citizen of Old New York"

Pierre Toussaint, from a miniature painted ca. 1825 by Anthony Meucci.

I recently picked up a copy of Pierre Toussaint: A Citizen of Old New York by Arthur and Elizabeth Odell Sheehan (published by the good folks at Hillside Education) of at a homeschool conference on Long Island. Truth be told, I knew next to nothing about Toussaint before I began reading, though I can honestly say I had wanted to know more about him. I especially wanted to know what heroic virtues this man possessed that has him on the path to canonization as a saint of the Catholic Church.

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Well, to start with, Venerable Pierre Toussaint's life story is anything but typical. It is a study in contrasts and paradoxes. It began in a country that was considered a paradise on earth at the time — Saint-Domingue, a French colony on the island of Hispanola in the Caribbean which is today known as the nation of Haiti. But like many European colonies in the western hemisphere, Saint-Domingue was burdened at its creation with the original sin of slavery. Pierre himself was born a slave, though perhaps atypically, he was born into a French family that did not consider its slaves as mere property but as children of God with souls who could love and be loved.

During Pierre's early life, the slave-supported paradise of Saint-Domingue would become hell on earth for the original colonizers. The ideals of the French revolution took root in the colony and encouraged former slaves like Toussaint Loverture and Jean-Jacques Dessalines to consider freedom the birthright of all men. With the advent of Napoleon, a slave rebellion broke out in Saint-Domingue which quickly escalated into a war of atrocities, with the French and Haitians vying to outdo each other in brutality. Eventually, the French lost. But their cruelty toward their former slaves was not forgotten. By way of revenge, General (and later Emperor) Jean-Jacques Dessalines systematically slaughtered the 3-5,000 French who remained in the country.

Pierre Toussaint witnessed little of this, however. As the conflicts increased, Pierre's French family, the Bérards, fled Saint-Domingue in 1787 for what they believed was temporary refuge in New York City. Little did they know that they would never return to their homes again. Pierre himself would live in New York for nearly 60 years.

Over the course of those 60 years, the fortunes of the Bérard family would decline. They would have been completely ruined and destitute if not for the abilities of their indefatigable slave, Pierre. While in New York, Pierre was apprenticed to a man who was an expert hair-dresser. In an era where arranging women's hair was a complicated art form, Pierre became a master. His talents were soon in high demand among the rich ladies of New York. But Pierre was no mere mindless automaton who curled and coiffed all day long. He had other talents, among them an approachable demeanor, an ear for listening, a quiet wisdom, and a genuine care for the trials and tribulations of others. 

In a short time, Pierre became the sole support of the Bérards. Jean Bérard, the scion of the family, had returned to Haiti in 1791 an attempt to reclaim his family's property, only to die of sickness shortly after his arrival. His widow, Marie, was now destitute. During this time, Pierre supported her with his earnings as a hair-dresser. She would later marry another French refugee, only to perish in 1807. Upon her death, Marie Bérard gave Pierre his freedom.

With freedom and a marketable skill in tremendous demand, Pierre could have lived the easy life of a wealthy ne'er-do-well. He did exactly the opposite. He transformed his earnings into charitable good works. He purchased the freedom of another slave, Juliette Noel, then married her. He also displayed an almost supernatural sense of magnanimity, secretly assisting many distressed French refugees in New York. Former slave-holders found themselves beholden to a former slave. And Pierre never lorded this paradox over them. Instead, as Our Lord suggested, he kept his works of mercy discreetly quiet so that his beneficiaries could save face.

Euphemia Toussaint, Pierre's adopted
daughter, from a miniature painted ca. 1825
by Anthony Meucci.

When Pierre's sister Rosalie died, Pierre and Juliette adopted her infant daughter, Euphemia. Unable to have children of their own, Pierre and Juliette would raise Euphemia as their child. Tragically, the child would die at age 14 of tuberculosis. This incident and the pain it caused Pierre is described poignantly in Pierre Toussaint: A Citizen of Old New York.

Incredibly, Pierre's devotion to the French family that held him as a slave extended decades after his freedom. Word reached Pierre that his godmother Aurora, the sister of Jean Bérard, had fallen upon hard times in France. Pierre and Juliette kept up a lively correspondence with Aurora over many years, sending her expensive presents to help alleviate her straits. In one letter, regarding some dresses and Madras handkerchiefs Pierre and Juliette had sent her, Aurora wrote: "To judge from the dearness of the articles here, I fear you may have made some sacrifice to purchase them, and this idea gives me pain." [Lee: Memoir of Pierre Toussaint]

Examples of Pierre's charity are too numerous to mention in their entirety. His hard work, intelligent money management, and scrupulous penny-pinching meant that he had resources enough for a comfortable home for Juliette and Euphemia, and largesse for both the poor and the Church. Pierre's devotion as a Catholic is the stuff of legend. Whatever rudeness Pierre endured as a black man in antebellum New York was redoubled by the fact that he was a very public Papist in an era where Catholicism was considered by many to be the moral equivalent of treason. Neither of these social handicaps thwarted Pierre. It is said that Pierre attended Mass every day of his life after his arrival in New York.

Pierre also took up the philanthropic works of the Church as his own. He donated and helped raise money for the first Catholic cathedral in New York City—Old Saint Patrick's. According to Hannah Lee, who knew Pierre and compiled a memoir of his life, Pierre endeavored to do the 19th century equivalent of "paying it forward":

"One of the methods in which Toussaint did essential good was by bringing up colored boys one after another, sending them to school, and, after they were old enough, teaching them some useful business. In all these plans of charity Juliette united." [Lee: Memoir of Pierre Toussaint]

Juliette, wife of Pierre Toussaint, 
from a miniature painted ca. 1825
by Anthony Meucci.

Pierre Toussaint: A Citizen of Old New York chronicles many of Pierre's charitable works. Written in 1950, the authors could not know that Pierre would be declared Venerable by Pope John Paul II in 1996, though doubtless they would have celebrated the announcement. It should be kept in mind that this book is not an historical novel like many of the others I review. It is more of a biography with numerous dramatized scenes sprinkled throughout. As such, it easily holds the attention of the reader and is especially well-suited for young Catholics. It is a perfect addition to a homeschool curriculum for those who "read their way through history" as it covers a somewhat obscure period of US and world history. It allows for tangential discussions of such historical events as the revolution in Haiti, the Napoleonic wars and their aftermath, slavery both in the US and abroad, numerous devastating epidemics, the free Black community in New York, the growth of Catholicism in the US during the early 19th century, and life in America cities more generally during the early years of the Republic. 

But perhaps the most important contribution made by this book is that it successfully spurs curiosity about the humble and virtuous Pierre Toussaint. Based on the research I have done on him subsequent to reading this book, there is much more that could be said about him. But that was not the object of this brief review, so I will close with a quote taken from Fr. Quin's oration subsequent to Pierre's funeral Mass which seems to exemplify the esteem in which Venerable Pierre Toussaint was held at the time of his death: 

"There were few left among the clergy superior to him in devotion and zeal for the Church and for the glory of God. Among laymen, none." [Lee: Memoir of Pierre Toussaint]

Such high praise seems to presage that Venerable Pierre Toussaint will be recognized as a saint in due course. Read Pierre Toussaint: Citizen of Old New York now so that you'll be well prepared when that happy day arrives.

"Never give up." ~ A review of Pelayo: King of Asturias by James Fitzhenry

Detail from a 19th century engraving of Pelayo, king of Asturias.

Almost exactly 15 years ago, I received a book in the mail entitled El Cid: God's Own Champion. When first flipping through this book, I remember thinking to myself, "This probably won't be very good." After all, it was a work by an unknown author, meant for young readers, and self-published to boot. But as it turned out, I loved it. My kids have read it—even the one with dyslexia read and enjoyed it. Since I wrote the above-linked review in 2008, I have recommended El Cid to hundreds of people.

A few years later, Mr. Fitzhenry published another equally admirable book—Saint Fernando III: A Kingdom for Christ. Much like his first book, Fitzhenry's second endeavor delved into the epic life of a Spanish hero that almost no one knows about today. Again, I found myself enchanted with the book and have recommended it numerous times. 

Shortly thereafter followed Defenders of Christendom, offering a collection of excellent capsule biographies of forgotten Catholic heroes from the crusading period. 

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By this time, I have come to have very high expectations for Mr. Fitzhenry's work, so when I received a copy of Pelayo: King of Asturias, I was ready to tear into it straight away. 

And Pelayo did not disappoint. 

Much like Fitzhenry's previous books, Pelayo tells an ancient story that is rarely heard today. It is the sobering tale of the end of Visigothic Spain—a state whose leaders had become corrupt, corpulent and cowardly. They had largely abandoned their Christian ethic and had little remaining loyalty to God or man. When confronted with a zealous, powerful enemy who wished to impose an alien culture upon them, their internal dissensions proved stronger than their desire to preserve their heritage.

Fitzhenry does a brilliant job setting the stage for Pelayo's heroism. Starting with the collapse of Visigothic Spain under the beleaguered King Roderick, Fitzhenry emphasizes the treason of those closest to the king as a contrast to the steadfast loyalty of Pelayo. At the Battle of Guadalete, the Visigoths are catastrophically defeated when part of their army commanded by renegade nobles and an apostate bishop turn on their own Christian countrymen. Following the battle, the Muslim emir, Tariq, overruns the whole kingdom. Pelayo and a remnant of loyal Visigoths retreat into the mountains of northern Spain. There, he begins his exploits—escaping from an assassination attempt, rescuing his kidnapped sister, and building up the solid core of a Christian army to resist Islam.

After finishing Pelayo: King of Asturias, I immediately began searching for the ancient sources underpinning Fitzhenry's inspiring biography. I quickly discovered that Pelayo is the hispanicized version of the name Pelagius. He is considered a Visigothic noble, but given that Pelagius is not a typical Gothic name, he likely had a Greco-Roman strain somewhere in his lineage. This makes sense given that the Spanish Visigothic kingdom was built upon the foundation of the Roman provinces of Hispania. My search eventually led to a 10th century source called The Chronicle of Alfonso III. While reading it, I discovered that Fitzhenry stayed true to the history. His description of the events surrounding the history-changing Battle of Covadonga was drawn faithfully from this ancient historical work. 

Fitzhenry's Pelayo joins El Cid and Saint Fernando III among the growing list of exceptional historical books meant to educate young Catholic men about their heritage. Angels in Iron and Crown of the World are two other examples of this counter-cultural trend—portraying distinctly Catholic heroes as what the world desperately needs. I hope that my own books about the late Roman general Belisarius are serving a similar function. 

Toward the end of the book, the author lays out the message of Pelayo's life for those of us today: 

"Never give up. Even if it seems that you struggle in complete isolation, know that you are not alone....Follow closely in the footsteps of Christ. There are many who have trod the narrow path before you, and for those who do not give up the fight, eternal glory awaits in a kingdom that is not of this world!"

During a time when many Catholic institutions have failed and our leaders seem content to bury their talents in the ground, such a message is badly needed.

Old Hickory and Our Lady of Prompt Succor

Mosaic of the three times Our Lady of Prompt Succor saved New Orleans. General Jackson
and his men may be seen in the bottom right. I took this photo of the mosaic at the
Ursuline Convent in New Orleans in 2019. 

Andrew Jackson was a study in contrasts. By most accounts, he was hot tempered and had a tendency to violence. In his youth, he engaged in most of the vices common to young men of that time: drinking, carousing, and engaging in every form of gambling known to man. He apparently had a passion for cock-fighting. He got into brawls without number and fought duels, killing at least one man—though admittedly, that man had shot him first, hitting Jackson square in the chest. The bullet lodged too close to his heart to be extracted, and Jackson would carry it inside him for the rest of his life.

Jackson was a slave owner and an Indian fighter. He is perhaps most infamous today for his policy while president of removing tribes from the eastern states to Indian Territory in the present-day state of Oklahoma. This policy's most noteworthy and awful result was the removal of the Cherokee from Georgia along the Trail of Tears. At the same time, Jackson was compassionate, taking in an orphaned Creek boy named Lyncoya after the Battle of Tallushatchee in 1813. He would adopt Lyncoya as his son, and later took in two other Creek orphans, Theodore and Charley.   

If you read about Jackson in any of the earlier biographies, you get a sense that Old Hickory's contemporaries—whether friend or foe—struggled to pigeon-hole the man. Later in his life, Jackson apparently became quite religious, even helping to found Hermitage Presbyterian Church on land donated from his estate in Nashville, Tennessee. Indeed, even in Jackson's dissipated youth, it seemed that there was a latent tendency toward Christian piety to be found buried deep within him. Biographers struggled to reconcile these conflicting tendencies, resulting in awkward passages like this one from Cyrus Townsend Brady:

General Jackson was a thoroughly religious man during the greater part of his life…Now, when I say he was a religious man I do not mean that his religion was at first of the active, personal sort. On the contrary, it was originally intermixed with worldliness to an excessive degree. [The True Andrew Jackson (1906), p. 366]

Writing in 1888, another biographer, James Parton, recorded the following anecdote that exemplifies Jackson’s internal paradox in a concrete way:

After his wife had joined the [Presbyterian] church, the general, in deference to her wishes, was accustomed to ask a blessing before meals. The company had sat down at the table one day, when the general was telling a warlike story with great animation, interlarding the discourse, as was then his custom, with a profusion of expletives most heterodox and profane. In the full tide of this narration, the lady of the house interrupted her lord, “Mr Jackson, will you ask a blessing?” Mr. Jackson stopped short in the midst of one of his most soldier-like sentences, performed the duty required of him, and then instantly resumed his narrative in the same tone and language as before. [Life of Andrew Jackson, Volume 2 (1888), p. 655]

Many of us have known men similar to this. They are often individuals who have lived a harsh early life (Jackson was orphaned at 14) and find it nearly impossible to make that final conversion of heart to Christ, crying out with the young Augustine of Hippo, "Lord make me pure—but not yet!" 

I, for one, think Jackson's religious tendencies were sincere, even if he often consciously chose the course of worldliness and sin. Let's look at an incident during the Battle of New Orleans as an example. 

In January of 1815, at the age of 47, Jackson was placed in command of a rag-tag collection of regular army units, local militia, a squad of gunners from Jean Lafitte's crew of privateers, and even a detachment of Choctaws. Jackson's force numbered about 5,000 all told. 

These men were meant to defend New Orleans against an army of 10,000 British regulars under the command of General Edward Pakenham. Many of these men were veterans of the Napoleonic War in Europe and both officers and men had every expectation that they would brush aside Jackson's disorderly mob with little effort and capture New Orleans. 

Gambler that he was, Jackson must have known that the odds of survival were long, and the odds of victory even longer still. As Pakenham's redcoats advanced, Jackson came face-to-face with that old adage: there are no atheists in foxholes. Some accounts of activities prior to the battle include mention of Jackson visiting Abbe William DuBourg to request public prayers for the success of American arms. 

In New Orleans, that city of contrasts nearly as striking as those affecting Jackson, the 18,000 inhabitants were in a state of near panic. The mood at the Ursuline Convent, however, was markedly different. Writing in The Story of the Battle of New Orleans (1915) Stanley Clisby Arthur offers the following account of what went on among the nuns on that fateful eve of battle:

From the windows of the Convent, the Ursulines could see the smoke rising from the battle-field on the plains of Chalmette. The night of January 7th had been spent in prayer before their Blessed Sacrament. Everything seemed hopeless for the Americans; and Jackson himself had sworn that, should he be vanquished, the enemy would find New Orleans a heap of ruins.

The wooden statue of Our Lady of
Prompt Succor that was placed on the
altar during the Battle of New Orleans 

In order to assist in averting this imminent peril — for all was in consternation on the morning of January 8th — the Chapel was continually thronged with pious ladies and poor negresses, all weeping and praying at the foot of the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor, which had been placed on the main altar; and the Community, through the Superioress, Mother Ste Marie (in the world, Marie Francoise Victoire Olivier de Vezin), made a vow to have a solemn Mass of thanksgiving sung every year, should the Americans gain the victory.

That morning, January 8, 1815, Very Reverend William DuBourg, the Vicar Apostolic (afterwards Bishop of New Orleans), offered up the holy sacrifice of the Mass before the statue of Our Lady of Prompt Succor.

At the moment of communion, a courier entered the chapel to announce the glad tidings of the enemy’s defeat.

After Mass, the Abbe DuBourg entoned Te Deum, which was taken up and sung with accents of such lively gratitude that it seemed as though the very vaults of the chapel would open to allow this touching thanksgiving to ascend more freely to the throne of God. [The Battle of New Orleans (1915), p. 239). 

It is said that the battle itself was over within half-an-hour. The badly mauled British were forced to retreat and Jackson's riff-raff were left in possession of the field. Operating from a hastily fortified position, Jackson's troops inflicted over 2,000 casualties on the British. By contrast, the Americans had suffered only 13 killed in action, and 39 wounded. 

The latter group, along with the sick, were lodged in the schoolrooms of the convent and nursed by the gentle hands of the Ursuline sisters who had prayed so fervently for them. Shortly after returning to New Orleans, Jackson would visit the Ursulines. In a lecture read before the Louisiana Historical Society in 1901, Henry Renshaw described the scene:

In the period of the city's dread anxiety and peril, the Ursulines invoked Divine assistance that victory might be won by the soldiery of the Republic. Andrew Jackson, in the flush of brilliant triumph, visited the convent and thanked these pious women for their prayers for his success. What a scene was this — the victorious warrior expressing gratitude to these nuns for the petitions which they had offered for celestial aid in his behalf. What a subject to be represented in stone or in metal, or upon the painted canvas. 

And not alone by fervent supplication did the Ursulines evince their sympathetic patriotism. The sick and wounded soldiers were received at the convent and lodged in the class rooms of the day scholars where, for three months they were cared for by the nuns. ["The Louisiana Ursulines," Publications of the Louisiana Historical Society, Volume 2, Issues 3-4].

An even earlier historical record confirms the good offices of the Ursuline sisters:

The Ursuline nuns are also entitled to a particular notice. They gave admittance within the walls of their monastery to as many of the sick as could be conveniently lodged therein, and afforded them every aid, comformably to the dictates of true charity. [Historical Memoir of the War in West Florida and Louisiana (1816) Appendix, p. cxxviii]

Jackson also chose to express his gratitude publicly at the very center of Catholicism in the city:

In the old cathedral, burnished up for the occasion, a solemn service of thanksgiving was held at Jackson's request. [Crawford, Romantic Days in the Early Republic (1912) p. 383]

This was not merely a momentary episode of piety on the part of Jackson. Thirteen years later, during the bruising election campaign of 1828, Jackson would have occasion to visit New Orleans again. Though a man embroiled in the bare-knuckles brawl of a very contentious political battle for the nation's highest office, Jackson made time to visit the humble sisters who had prayed so fervently for him at the crisis of his life:

In 1824, the Ursulines removed to their present convent near the lower limits of the city. There, also, Andrew Jackson visited the nuns. This was in 1828. The political campaign which eventuated in his election to the presidency had opened. Jackson had come to New Orleans upon the invitation of the Louisiana legislature to participate in the thirteenth anniversary of the victory at Chalmette. He was accompanied to the convent by several of his staff and by some of the most distinguished men and women of the city. The convent’s cloistered precincts were opened to the renowned guest and to those who were with him. It may that among these surroundings the chieftains thoughts were diverted from the presidential contest, that the suggestions of ambition receded before the grateful reminiscence of the nuns who, thirteen years before, had prayed for victory to his battalions. ["The Louisiana Ursulines," Publications of the Louisiana Historical Society, Volume 2, Issues 3-4].

Here we find yet another example of how God Almighty uses very imperfect men as the instruments of His holy Will. 

Statue of Andrew Jackson in Jackson Square, New Orleans, with the Cathedral-Basilica of
Saint Louis in the background. I took this photo during a visit in 2016.

Book Review: "Joseph the Huron" by Antoinette Bosco

Years ago, I read the first 30 or so volumes of the Jesuit Relations—that vast treasure house of historical and ecclesiastical data on the eastern woodlands peoples and the early colonization of Canada, New England and New York. This was part of a very rewarding project called Iroquois Wars, Volume 1: Extracts from the Jesuit Relations and Primary Sources from 1535 to 1650. While pouring over the multitude of reports and letters written by intrepid and saintly men with names like Brebeuf, Jogues, and Lallemant, one also runs across numerous intriguing native people with names like Taratwane, Atironta, and Ondaaiondiont. But perhaps the one that stands out most vividly is Chiwatenhwa. 

This man of the Huron nation, called Joseph Chiwatenhwa after his baptism, lived that most remarkable of lives. Even before the Jesuits arrived, his existence had been markedly different from most of his people. He was an independent thinker, who did not participate thoughtlessly in some of the more ignoble aspects of Huron life. Whereas the French missionaries were often horrified at the grotesque behaviors of some whom they termed "savages" (meaning, literally, "people of the woods"), they soon came to admire Chiwatenhwa as a different sort of man. Writing of events that occurred in the Huron country in AD 1638, Father Fraçois le Mercier offers the following summary of Chiwatenhwa's character even before the time of his baptism: 

This brave Neophyte is thirty-five years old, or thereabout, and has almost nothing of the Savage, except his birth. Now, although he is not one of the most prosperous men of this village, he belongs, nevertheless, to one of the most notable families, being the nephew of the captain of this Nation. He is a man of superior mind, not only as compared with his countrymen, but even, in our judgment, he would pass as such in France. As for his memory, we have often wondered at it, for he forgets nothing of what we teach him, and it is a satisfaction to hear him discourse upon our Holy Mysteries. 

He has been married since his youth, and has never had more than one wife,—contrary to the ordinary practice of the Savages, who are accustomed at that age to change wives at almost every season of the year. He does not gamble, not even knowing how to handle the straws, which are the cards of the country. He does not use tobacco, which is, as it were, the wine and the intoxication of the country. If he annually makes a small garden near his cabin, it is only for pastime, he says, or to give to his friends, or to buy some little conveniences for his family. He has never made use of a charm to be successful. [See Jesuit Relations, Volume 15.]

Following his baptism, Chiwatenwha and his family would be ostracized by his fellow Hurons, many of whom viewed the Jesuit Blackrobes as men of ill omen who would bring destruction upon the nation.

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This is the setting for a remarkable book for younger readers entitled: Joseph the Huron by Antoinette Bosco. I recently discovered this short work, put back into publication by Bethlehem Books in 2017, and my interest in those heady years of extreme zeal and extreme danger in the forests of 17th century North America came flooding back. Originally written in 1961, the book remains faithful to the true history as I recalled it, softening the more awful parts, but only a little. Indeed, the author included a scene that had remained in my memory from reading the Relations twenty years ago thanks to the sheer dreadfulness of it. The incident followed the capture of an Iroquois warrior who was put to a day-long torturous death by the Hurons that was the equivalent of a town-wide festival in those evil days. As the man was literally being burnt alive, bit-by-bit, the Jesuit fathers, unable to restrain the fury of the pre-Christian Hurons, were able to console the victim with the solace of Christ's suffering and the promise of eternal life. Before being literally torn apart, scalped and decapitated, the Iroquois accepted baptism, and the Jesuit father who witnessed this atrocity, remarked afterwards, "that this brave spirit is now enjoying in Heaven the freedom of the children of God, since even his enemies loudly exclaimed that there was something more than human within him."

But incidents like this form only the briefest of interludes within Joseph the Huron. Most of the book concerns the man's journey of faith, from a virtuous pagan to a wondering if impatient neophyte, and finally into a thoughtful Christian who, at times, seemed to eclipse the piety of even the saintly future martyrs who were his mentors and friends. The faith of Joseph Chiwatenwha is not that of the comfortable Christians of our own time. It is a faith constantly challenged by the omnipresent reality of struggle, hunger, disease, and death. Living during a time when Huron culture and behavior was often governed by the precise fulfillment of dreams—often quite ludicrous in nature—Joseph struggled with his own dreams, sometimes wondering whether they were tricks of the demon or visions from God. It may be remembered from a previous post that "abandoning their belief in dreams" was one of the commandments that St. Jean de Brebeuf enjoined upon the Hurons who would become Christians.

The characters of his immediate family also loom large in Joseph the Huron. In particular, the author explores Joseph's relationship with his beloved wife, Marie Aonetta, who would suffer much for her Christian faith. Similarly, the book shows the often contentious relationship between Chiwatenwha and his elder brother, Teondechoren, one of those among the Hurons who was deeply skeptical of anything have to do with Christianity. But the most vividly drawn character aside from Chiwatenwha himself is the man known as Echon—St. Jean de Brebeuf. Echon is accurately presented as Chiwatenwha's friend, teacher, spiritual father, and collaborator. 

As a novel, Joseph the Huron is a fast-paced and beautiful vignette of one man's life during a time of great strife and struggle, particularly well-suited for readers ages 12 and up. Unlike most books written for young readers, the main protagonist is not a young person but a fully grown man grappling with spiritual revelations and cultural differences. As a fully grown man myself, I enjoyed it thoroughly. By pulling the details of this saintly man's life out of the history books, the author has done the world a great favor.