Book Review: Matron of Paris by Phillip Campbell

Saint Germain bestows his blessing upon the girl Genevieve, from a 19th century triptych, 
The Pastoral Life of Saint Genevieve by Pierre-Cécile Puvis de Chavannes

Unbeknownst to many outside of the homeschooling community, there is something of a literary renaissance going on in Catholic circles, particularly with regard to historical novels for younger readers. At the moment, there are enough of these high-quality novels on the market to keep even the most avid young reader going for a very long time. 

One of the eras that has attracted particular attention from writers of Catholic historical novels is the fall of the Western Roman Empire. The most recent entry in this category is Matron of Paris, a lively work by Phillip Campbell about the eventful life and miraculous works of St. Genevieve of Nanterre. Some readers may recall my previous post about this patroness of France: Saint Genevieve and Barbarism: From Attila to the Republic.

A Gallo-Roman woman, Genevieve (or Genovefa as she is called in Latin) was born toward the end of the reign of the weak Western Roman Emperor Honorius, circa AD 422. With Roman power in eclipse, barbarian tribes breached the frontier with increasing ease, carving out their own petty principalities in Roman Gaul and oppressing the inhabitants. This was the chaotic and dangerous era into which the girl Genevieve was born. 

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In Matron of Paris: The Story of Saint Genevieve, Phillip Campbell tells the story of this great saint in his usual engaging style, leading the reader from the simple life of a Gallo-Roman peasant girl into the brutal and complicated world of Late Roman / early Merovingian warfare and politics. While following the tale, readers will be introduced to numerous historical characters: from Saint Germanus, bishop of Auxerre, who first recognized Genevieve's sanctity, to Clovis, king of the Franks, whose story would ultimately become intertwined with that of Genevieve. Others who were Genevieve's rough contemporaries are also mentioned — from Aetius, the Roman magister militum who defeated Attila at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plains, to a mysterious saintly presbyter named Patricius who serves briefly at Nanterre before moving on to greener pastures. 

The core of the book, however, follows Genevieve as a mature woman. She becomes the heart and soul of Paris whose prayers and entreaties would hearten the beleaguered city during Atilla's invasion of Gaul. Later in life, her occasionally miraculous interventions would help the Franks and Gallo-Romans become one people. It is during this part of the novel that two other saints enter the story: Saint Clotilde, the Burgundian wife of Clovis, and Saint Remigius of Reims who would baptize the Frankish king. Campbell does a wonderful job weaving the story of Genevieve together with that of Clovis and Clotilde.

I highly recommend Matron of Paris and think it makes a fantastic addition to the literature of late Rome and the early Middle Ages, ideal for readers ages 12 and up. It fits together beautifully with another novel of the same time period, Centurion's Daughter by Justin Swanton. Considering St. Genevieve's feast day is coming up on January 3, the Christmas season is a particularly appropriate time to purchase this book.

For students who want to do a deep study of this period, here is a quick reading list of available resources in rough chronological order, (including my own books):

• Between the Forest and the Hills by Ann Lawrence (5th century AD)
• Matron of Paris: The Story of Saint Genevieve by Phillip Campbell (5th and 6th century AD)
• Centurion's Daughter by Justin Swanton (late 5th century AD)
• Saint Clothilde: The First Christian Queen of France Tells Her Story by Blandine Malé (5th and 6th century AD)
• Belisarius series by Paolo Belzoni (6th century AD)
• Citadel of God: A Novel about Saint Benedict by Louis de Wohl (6th century AD)

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.

"We are dead men, my brothers...May death find you with God in mind." ~ The Martyrdom and Life of St. Charles Garnier

The death of St. Charles Garnier, as depicted in a French woodcut.

For the feast of the North American martyrs today, I post the account of Saint Charles Garnier's death and life as taken from the Jesuit Relation of 1650. Garnier was slain by the Iroquois on December 7, 1649 at the age of 44. 

Fr. Garnier's death occurred during that year of destruction, 1649, when the Iroquois erupted like a whirlwind from their base in present-day central New York and burst upon their traditional enemies to the north. Newly equipped with British muskets and schooled in their use, the Iroquois had an insuperable advantage over the Hurons, Algonquins, and Tobacco nations who were still armed with their more primitive traditional weapons. 

Fr. Garnier was a missionary among the Petun (or Tobacco) nation, allies of the Hurons who lived south of Georgian Bay in present-day Ontario. During that winter of 1649, news had gone out to the Petun that an Iroquois war party was headed their way. Rather than await the arrival of these raiders, the Petun warriors set out to find and destroy them in the wilderness. Unfortunately, their ambush was misled and the stealthy Iroquois arrived unopposed at the defenseless Petun villages.

The account below was drawn from the testimony of eye-witnesses who escaped the attack, and those who found his remains after the Iroquois withdrew: 

It was on the seventh day of the month of last December, in the year 1649, toward three o'clock in the afternoon, that this band of Iroquois appeared at the gates of the village, spreading immediate dismay, and striking terror into all those poor people—bereft of their strength, and finding themselves vanquished when they thought to be themselves the conquerors. Some took to flight. Others were slain on the spot. To many, the flames, which were already consuming some of their cabins, gave the first intelligence of  the disaster. Many were taken prisoners; but the victorious enemy, fearing the return of the warriors who had gone to meet them, hastened their retreat so precipitately, that they put to death all the old men and children, and all whom they deemed unable to keep up with them in their flight.

It was a scene of incredible cruelty. The enemy snatched from a mother her infants, that they might be thrown into the fire; other children beheld their Mothers beaten to death at their feet or groaning in the flames—permission, in either case, being denied them to show the least compassion. It was a crime to shed a tear, these barbarians demanding that their prisoners should go into captivity as if they were marching to their triumph. A poor Christian Mother, who wept for the death of her infant, was killed on the spot, because she still loved, and could not stifle soon enough her natural feelings. 

Father Charles Garnier was, at that time, the only one of our Fathers in that Mission. When the enemy appeared, he was just then occupied with instructing the people in the cabins which he was visiting. At the noise of the alarm, he went out, going straight to the Church, where he found some Christians. "We are dead men, my brothers," he said to them. "Pray to God, and flee by whatever way you may be able to escape. Bear about with you your faith through what of life remains; and may death find you with God in mind."

He gave them his blessing, then left hurriedly, to go to the help of souls. A prey to despair, not one dreamed of defense. Several found a favorable exit for their flight. They implored the Father to flee with them, but the bonds of Charity restrained him. All unmindful of himself, he thought only of the salvation of his neighbor. Borne on by his zeal, he hastened everywhere—either to give absolution to the Christians whom he met, or to seek, in the burning cabins, the children, the sick, or the catechumens, over whom, in the midst of the flames, he poured the waters of Holy Baptism, his own heart burning with no other fire than the love of God.

It was while thus engaged in Holy work that he was encountered by the death which he had looked in the face without fearing it, or receding from it a single step. A bullet from a musket struck him, penetrating a little below the breast; another, from the same volley, tore open his stomach, lodging in the thigh, and bringing him to the ground. His courage, however, was unabated. The barbarian who had fired the shot stripped him of his cassock, and left him, weltering in his blood, to pursue the other fugitives.

This good Father, a very short time after, was seen to clasp his hands, offering some prayer; then, looking about him, he perceived, at a distance of ten or twelve paces, a poor dying Man—who, like himself, had received the stroke of death, but had still some remains of life. Love of God, and zeal for Souls, were even stronger than death. Murmuring a few words of prayer, he struggled to his knees, and rising with difficulty, dragged himself as best he might toward the sufferer, in order to assist him it dying well. He had made but three or four steps when he fell again, somewhat heavily. Raising himself for the second time, he got, once more, upon his knees and strove to continue on his way; but he body, drained of its blood, which was flowing in abundance from his wounds, had not the strength of his courage. For the third time he fell, having proceeded but five or six steps. 

Further than this, we have not been able to ascertain what he accomplished—the good Christian woman who faithfully related all this to us having seen no more of him, being herself overtaken by an Iroquois, who struck her on the head with a war-hatchet, felling her upon the spot, though she afterward escaped. The Father shortly after, received from a hatchet two blows upon the temples, one on either side, which penetrated to the brain. To him it was the recompense for all past services, the richest he had hoped for from God's goodness. His body was stripped, and left, entirely naked, where it lay.

Two of our Fathers, who were in the nearest neighboring Mission, received a remnant of these poor fugitive Christians, who arrived all out of breath, many of them all covered with their own blood. The night was one of continual alarm, owing to the fear, which had seized all, of a similar misfortune. Toward the break of day, it was ascertained from certain spies that the enemy had retired. The two Fathers at once set out, that they might themselves look upon a spectacle most sad indeed, butt nevertheless acceptable to God. They found only dead bodies heaped together, and the remains of poor Christians—some who were almost consumed in the pitiable remains of the still burning village; others deluged with their own blood; and a few who yet showed some signs of life, but were all covered with wounds,—looking only for death, and blessing God in their wretchedness. At length, in the midst of that desolated village, they descried the body they had come to seek; but so little cognizable was it, being completely covered with its blood, and the ashes of the fire, that they passed it by. Some Christian Savages, however, recognized their Father, who had died for love of them. They buried him in the same spot on which their Church had stood, although there remained no longer any vestige of it, the fire having consumed all.

The poverty of that burial was; sublimed sanctity no less so. The two good Fathers divested themselves of part of their apparel, to cover therewith the dead; they could do no more, unless it were to return entirely unclothed...

Two days after the taking and burning of the village, its inhabitants returned—who, having discovered the change of plan which had led the enemy to take another route, had had their suspicions of the misfortune that had happened. But now they beheld it with their own eyes; and at the sight of the ashes, and the dead bodies of their relatives, their wives, and their children, they maintained for half the day a profound silence—seated, after the manner of savages, upon the ground, without lifting their eyes, or uttering even a sigh—like marble statues, without speech, without sight, and without motion. For it is thus that the Savages mourn—at least, the men and the warriors—tears, cries, and lamentations befitting, so they say, the women.

At this point, the author of the relation, Fr. Paul Ragueneau, provides a brief biography of his Jesuit colleague, Fr. Garnier. 

Father Charles Garnier was born in Paris, in the year 1605, and entered our Society in 1624. He was thus but little over 44 years of age on the 7th of December, 1649—the day on which he died in labors which were truly Apostolic, and in which he had lived since the year 1636, when he left France and went up to the country of the Hurons.

From his infancy, he entertained the most tender sentiments of piety, and, in particular, a filial love toward the most holy Virgin, whom he called his Mother. "It it she," he would say, "who carried me in her arms through all my youth, and has placed me in the Society of her Son." He had made a vow to uphold, until death, her Immaculate Conception. He died on the eve of that august Festival [December 8], that he might go to solemnize it yet more gloriously in Heaven.

From the time of his Novitiate, he seemed an angel, his humility being so uncommon that he was held before all others as a mirror of sanctity. He had experienced the greatest difficulties in obtaining permission from his father to enter our Society; but these were very much enhanced when, ten years after that first separation, it became necessary to reconcile the father to a second, of a still more painful kind. This was his departure from France, to go into these Missions at the end of the world—our Superiors having expressed their wish that his father should yield consent to this, on account of peculiar obligations which our Society was under to him. His voyage was thus delayed, an entire year, but this only served to fan the flame of his desires. Day and night he thought only of the conversion of the savages, and of devoting to them his life, to its latest breath....At length, he succeeded in obtaining this great boon from Heaven, and with so much joy in his heart, that he looked upon that day as the happiest of his entire life.

While crossing the sea, he made some remarkable conversions on shipboard. Among others, he was informed that belonging to the crew was a man without conscience, without Religion, and without God. This man avoided every one, and all avoided him. It was over ten years since he had confessed. The Father, carried away by his usual zeal, took in hand that gloomy temper and that hopeless man, and, after a thousand evidences of love—exhibited in all manner of attentions, instructions, and good of fines—succeeded at last in winning him. He induced this man to make a general confession, and brought him into so great a peace, and joy of conscience, that all wondered, and were touched by it.

As soon as he came among the Hurons, we had in him an indefatigable worker, replete with every gift of Nature and of Grace that could make an accomplished Missionary. He had mastered the language of the Savages so thoroughly that they themselves were astonished at him. He worked his way so far into their hearts, and with such a power of eloquence, as to carry them away with him. His face, his eyes—even his laugh, and every movement of his body—preached sanctity. His heart spoke yet louder than his words and made itself heard, even in his silence. I know of several who were converted to God by the mere aspect of his countenance, which was truly Angelic, and which imparted a spirit of devotion, and chaste impressions, to those approaching him—whether he were at prayer, of seemed to be communing with himself, collecting his thoughts, after some activity in behalf of his neighbor; or whether he spoke of God; or it might be, even, when Charity had engaged him in discourse of a different character, which afforded some relaxation to his mind. The love of God which reigned in his heart gave life to all his movements, and made them heavenly.

His virtues were heroic, nor was there lacking in him one of those which go to make up the greatest Saints....His prayers were so full of reverence for the presence of God, and so peaceful in the hush of all his own powers, that he scarcely seemed to suffer the least distraction, though engaged in occupational most apt to dissipate his thoughts. His Prayers, from the outset, were but a series of colloquies, devout emotions, and acts of love; and this ardor grew even more intense until the close.

His mortification was equal to his love. He sought it night and day. He always lay on the bare ground, and bore constantly upon his body some portion of that Cross which during life he held most dear, and on which it was his desire to die. Every time that he returned from his Mission rounds he never failed to sharpen freshly the iron points of a girdle all covered with spur-rowels, which he wore next to his skin. In addition to this, he would very often use a discipline of wire, armed, besides, with sharpened points. His daily fare differed in no way from that of the savages—that is to say, it was the scantiest that a miserable beggar would expect in France. During that last year of famine, acorns and bitter roots were, to him, delicacies—not that he was insensible to their bitterness, but that love gave a relish to them. And yet he had ever been the cherished child of a rich and noble house, and the object of all a Father's endearments....

In his latest letters, addressed to me three days before his death, in response to a request which I made to him touching the state of his health—asking if it would not be right that he should quit for a time his Mission, in order to come once more to see us, and recover a little his strength—he answered me by urging, at great length, many reasons which disposed him to remain in his Mission, but reasons which gathered their force only from the spirit of charity and truly Apostolic zeal with which he was filled. "It is true," he added, "that I suffer something in regard to hunger, but that is not to death; and, thank God, my body and my spirit keep up in all their vigor. I am not alarmed on that side. But what I should fear more would be that, in leaving my flock in the time of their calamities, and in the terrors of war—in a time when they need me more than ever—I would fail to use the opportunities which God gives me of losing myself for him, and so render myself unworthy of his favors. I take only too much care of myself," added he; "and if I saw that my powers were failing me, I should not fail, since your Reverence bids me, to come to you; for I am at all times ready to leave everything, to die, in the spirit of obedience, where God wills. But otherwise, I will never come down from the Cross on which his goodness has placed me."

These great aspirations after sanctity had grow with him from his infancy. For myself, having known him for more than twelve years—in which he opened to me all his heart, as he did to God himself—I can truly say that, in all those years, I do not think that, save in sleep, he has spent a single hour without these burning and vehement desires of progressing more and more in the ways of God, and of helping forward in them his fellow-creatures. Outside of these considerations, nothing in the world affected him—neither relatives, nor friends, nor rest, nor consolation, nor hardships, nor fatigues. God was his all; and, apart from Him, all else was to him as nothing.

He took some sick people, and carried them on his shoulders for one or two leagues, in order to gain their hearts and to secure the opportunity to baptize them. He accomplished some ten or twenty leagues during the most excessive heat of Summer, along dangerous roads, where the enemy was continually perpetrating massacres. All breathless, he would hurry after a single savage, who served him as guide, that he might baptize some dying man, or a captive of war who was to be burnt that same day. He has passed whole nights in groping after a lost path, amid the deep snows and the most biting cold of winter—his zeal knowing no obstacle at any season of the year.

During the prevalence of contagious diseases—when they shut on us everywhere the doors of the cabins, and talked of nothing but of massacring us—not only did he go unswervingly where he felt there was a soul to gain for Paradise, but, by an excess of zeal and an ingenuity born of Charity, he found means of opening all the ways that had been closed against him, and of breaking down, sometimes forcibly, all that opposed his progress. But that which imparted a more heavenly aspect to every such procedure, and did not result from human sagacity, was this, that, from the moment of his entry, he won over fierce spirits by a single word, and accomplished all that he had set himself to do. Nothing repelled him; and he always looked for good, even from souls the most hopeless.

He had a way of recourse to the angels all his own, and experienced their most powerful assistance. The savages, to whose aid he went at the hour of death, have seen him accompanied, as they said, by a young man of rare beauty and majestic glory, who remained at his side, and urged them to obey the instructions of the Father. These good people could tell no more, and inquired who was this companion who had so stolen away their hearts. They knew not that the angels do more than we in the conversion of sinners, although ordinarily, their operation is not so evident.

His strongest inclination was to aid the most depraved, however repulsive the disposition that any one might possess, however vile and insolent he might be. He felt for all alike, with the bowels of a Mother—not omitting any act of corporal Mercy which he could perform for the salvation of souls. He has been seen to dress ulcers so loathsome, and which emitted a stench so offensive, that the savages, and even the nearest relatives of the sick man, were unable to endure them. He alone would handle these, wiping off the pus and cleansing the wound, every day, for two and three months together, with an eye and a countenance that betokened only charity—though he often saw very clearly that the wounds were incurable. "But," said he, "the more deadly they are, the stronger inclination have I to undertake the care of them—that I may lead these poor people even to the gate of Paradise, and keep them from falling into sin at a time which is for them the most perilous in life."

Not one Mission was there in the whole territory of the Hurons in which he had not been; and several of them he had himself originated—that, in particular, in which he died. Toward the savages he conducted himself with a remarkable prudence, and with a sweetness of charity that could excuse all, and bear with all, though having in it nothing that was mean-spirited....

He was not so wedded to the conversion of the Hurons that his heart did not go out to Nations the most distant—were it only to baptize the infants, "who," he remarked, "are a certain gain for Heaven." He often said to us that it would have pleased him to fall into the hands of the Iroquois, and be their captive. For, had they burned him alive, he would at least have had a chance of instructing them for as long a time as they prolonged his torments; and, if they had spared his life, that would have been a precious means of obtaining their conversion—a thing impossible, as it is, the way being closed against us as long as they remain our enemies....

The full account, followed by a letter written by one of the Jesuit Fathers who buried St. Charles wrote, may be found here: Jesuit Relations, Volume XXXV. 

Other posts on this blog drawn from the Jesuit Relations may be found here:

• "The Invincible Spirit, Rising Again from the Midst of the Flames" — The gruesome death of the Iroquois Christian, Pierre Ononelwaia
• When the Jesuits were Catholic
• Charles Huault de Montmagny - The Great Mountain of New France
• Saint Isaac Jogues and the sign of the cross

"The Holy Apostle Luke Painted this Image" ~ The traditional Lucan origin of the icon of the Hodegetria

15th century Greek representation of St. Luke painting the Hodegetria icon.

Today is the feast of Saint Luke, a father of the ancient Church renowned as Evangelist, Historian, and Physician. We should be aware of one additional title that is traditionally attributed to this early disciple of Christ: Artist. For the name of Saint Luke is attached to one of the most venerable works of art of the ancient Church—the Hodegetria icon which resided in Constantinople until its destruction in 1453. 

While the origins of the Hodegetria icon are shrouded in mystery, its connection to St. Luke is based upon traditions stretching back to the early centuries of Constantinople as a Christian capital. Among the most ancient sources to record this tradition is a manuscript known as the Anonymous Mercati, a document penned by an English pilgrim who journeyed to Constantinople in the 11th century AD. A translation of the key passage may be found in Pentcheva's work, Icons and Power: The Mother of God in Byzantium. Here is a snippet:

“In the part of the palace near the church of Hagia Sophia, very near to the great palace by the sea, is situated the monastery of the Mother of God, Theotokos. And in this monastery there is a holy icon of the Theotokos, called Hodegetria, which can be translated as “She Who Leads the Way.” … The holy apostle Luke painted this image of the Mother of God holding the Christ Child on her arm.” (Pentcheva, Icons and Power, page 126).

There is a further legend that explains how this icon of the Mother of God, presumably painted by St. Luke in Antioch (Luke’s presumed home town), Jerusalem, or some other city in the Levant, became associated with Constantinople. A late 14th century text known as the Logos Diegematikos holds that the icon was sent from the Levant by the empress Eudocia to her sister-in-law, Saint Pulcheria, in the mid-5th century AD:

“In fact, the empress Eudocia, upon receiving these holy and divine gifts [the Hodegetria icon and relics] from those holy monks like some much-valued treasure, sent them to the empress Pulcheria….Which gift, Pulcheria, as one could say, receiving it with great joy, deposited in the famous and holy sanctuary of the Theotokos and ordered the holy and sacred icon to be in the church as a protection of the palace, the entire city, and the whole world.” (Pentcheva, Icons and Power, page 128).

A previous post on this blog notes that Eudocia was indeed resident in both Antioch and Jerusalem for a time. Readers will also recall posts about Saint Pulcheria here and here, as well as a post demonstrating Pulcheria’s keen interest in bringing relics to Constantinople. Another post, citing a passage in the writings of St. John Damascene in the 8th century, indicates that Pulcheria and her consort, the emperor Marcian, had an interest in Marian relics and had specifically sought (though in vain) for the body of the Mother of God.

Pentcheva believes that the late recording of these acts make it likely that they are mere interpolations of medieval writers. An alternative viewpoint may be found in Grotowsky's The Hodegon: Considerations on the location of the Hodegetria sanctuary in Constantinople (Byzantina Symmeikta, Volume 27). This excellent work compiles and interprets the fragments of history on the Hodegetria that have come down to us. 

This story of St. Luke painting the famous icon has served as fodder for other artists down through the centuries. The version shown at the top of this post was painted by an unknown Greek artist, likely in the early 15th century shortly before the fall of Constantinople to the Turks. Below is a fanciful version, showing Our Lady and the Christ child actually sitting for their portraits, with both the artist and the subjects dressed in Renaissance garb and looking very Dutch.

Saint Luke Painting the Virgin, Derick Baegert, ca. 1470.

Next, we see an even more fanciful, proto-Baroque rendition of the same event as imagined by Florentine artist Giorgio Vasari, complete with Saint Luke’s symbol (the ox) and the heavenly Virgin attended by cherubs. 

Saint Luke Painting a Portrait of the Madonna, ca 1565

As recorded by the 15th century Greek historian Constantine Dukas, the original Hodegetria icon was destroyed by the Turks after the sack of Constantinople in AD 1453. As the story goes, four Turkish looters found it in the Chora monastery where it had been placed to protect the city during the siege. The Turks debated over which of them should possess it, and utilizing the wisdom of Solomon, decided to break it into four pieces. 

There are many likely spurious accounts, however, which maintain that the true icon was spirited out of Constantinople at some point during its long history, with several cities in Italy, including Venice, claiming ownership. The Poles also claim that the icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa is the original Hodegetria. For more on these claims, see, Wolff, "Footnote to an Incident of the Latin Occupation of Constantinople: The Church and the Icon of the Hodegetria" (Traditio, vol. 6 (1948), pp. 319-328).

Left: Image of the Madonna Nicopeia from Saint Mark’s Basilica, Venice. Right: Icon of
Our Lady of Czestochowa which is housed in Jasna Gora Monastery, Czestochowa, Poland.

"The Invincible Spirit, Rising Again from the Midst of the Flames" — The gruesome death of the Iroquois Christian, Pierre Ononelwaia

Torture of a captive in the Eastern Woodands. Detail of a woodcut from
Mason: True Stories of Our Pioneers, 1904. 

In my previous review of the novel Joseph the Huron by Antoinette Bosco, I mentioned briefly a scene in the book describing the capture and torture of an Iroquois prisoner by the Hurons. The details of this scene were drawn from the true story which appeared in the Jesuit Relations. Of course, Mrs. Bosco softened the story somewhat to make it more suitable for her audience of younger readers. 

When writing the review, I revisited the original account of this prisoner in the Relations. Written in 1639 by an eye-witness—Jesuit Fr. Jerome Lalemant—I recalled the impression the account had made on me when I first read it some 20 years ago. Beyond the sheer cruelty and brutality of the scene, what strikes the reader most forcefully is the victim's supernatural courage in the face of certain death. 

I post Fr. Lalemant's account here in part so I should not lose it again within the vast gulf of the internet. But I also post it so that those Catholics, who lack even a fraction of the fortitude of their forebears and who would apologize for their audacious missionary work among the indigenous tribes, may think twice. Indeed, may they shrink from such pusillanimous apologies once, twice, and every time they are tempted to offer them.

Without further ado, here is Fr. Lalemant's description of the death of the Iroquois convert Pierre Ononelwaia:

The first one baptized in this village was a poor unfortunate Hiroquois, a prisoner of war, who was taken to another village, near this, to be given as a recompense to the relatives of that brave Taratwane who was captured during these last years by the enemy, as has been mentioned in previous Relations. I do not know if I should not tarry for a moment to consider and admire the adorable Providence of God towards this poor wretch, and his fellow prisoners, to the number of 12 or 13, baptized by the Fathers of this Residence; but I prefer to leave these reflections to those who shall cast their eyes over this Narrative, and to stop only to observe some circumstances of these events which render them more important.

For a long time, the Hurons had no more good fortune or advantage over their enemies until last year. Having gone to war, together with some Algonquains, their neighbors, they captured at one stroke about eighty of their enemies, whom they brought home alive. Besides this victory, the most notable of all, they had others of less importance, which in all gave them more than a hundred prisoners.

All those who were assigned to the villages where we have residences, or which are near these, were, thank God, instructed and baptized, and hardly one without circumstances so peculiar that there is reason to believe that there was, in their cases, some special guidance of divine Providence and of their predestination. In many instances, we had only the exact time necessary for their instruction and baptism; others, after having been baptized, were so comforted that they could not refrain from putting into song the cause of their consolation, — that thenceforward, at least, they were sure of going to Heaven. Others nobly refused to imitate foul and immodest actions to which their captors tried to incite them. Others afterward displayed so much fortitude in their torments that our barbarians resolved no longer to allow us to baptize these poor unfortunates, reckoning  it a misfortune to their country when those whom they torment shriek not at all, or very little.

Indeed, this has given us so much trouble since then, that there has not been one of these for whose baptism we have not been obliged to give battle to those who are their Masters and Guardians; and sometimes it has been necessary to atone for this violence by some present.

Among those who showed most fortitude, and most appreciation of their good fortune, was one Ononelwaia, in baptism named Pierre, who was one of the prisoners at that principal defeat of which we have just spoken, a Captain of the Oneiouchronons [Oneidas], a nation of the Hiroquois. This man, being fastened to a stake upon a platform, not very far from his companion fastened to another — where our barbarians, every one according to his pleasure, tormented them, by the application of flames, firebrands, and glowing irons, in ways cruel beyond all power of description, and beyond all imagination of those who have not seen it — Pierre, I say, seeing this companion of his lose patience in the midst of these torments, comforted and encouraged him  by representing the blessedness they had found in their misfortune, and that which was prepared for them after this life. Finally seeing him dead, “ Ah, my poor comrade,” said he, “ didst thou ask pardon of God before dying? “ — fearing that the evidence of suffering he had given was some grievous sin.

This brave spirit, who merited a better fate, was more tormented than ever by our barbarians after the death of his companion; for, the latter having died sooner than they expected, they all wreaked the rest of their fury upon him who remained. Accordingly, the first thing they did to him afterward was that one of them cut with a knife around his scalp, which he stripped off in order to carry away the hair, and, according to their custom, to preserve it as very precious.

After such treatment one would hardly believe that there could remain any sensation of life in a body so worn out with tortures. But lo! He suddenly rises, and, seeing upon the scaffold only the corpse of his dear companion, he takes in his hands, which were all in shreds, a firebrand, that he might not die as a captive, and that he might defend the brief liberty he had recovered a little while before death. The rage and the cries of his enemies redouble at this sight; they rush towards him with pieces of red-hot iron in their hands. His courage gives him strength; he puts himself on the defensive; he hurls his firebrands upon those who come nearest him; he throws down the ladders, to cut off their way, and avails himself of the fire and flame, the severity of which he has just experienced, to repel their attack vigorously. The blood that streamed down from his head over his entire body would have rent with pity a heart which had any remnant of humanity; but the fury of our barbarians found therein its satisfaction. 

Some throw upon him coals and burning cinders; others underneath the scaffold find open places for their firebrands. He sees on all sides almost as many butchers as spectators; when he escapes one fire, he encounters another, and takes not one step without falling into the evil that he flees.

While defending himself thus for a long time, a false step causes him to fall backward to the ground. At the same time, his enemies pounce upon him, burn him anew, then throw him upon the fire. This invincible spirit, rising again from the midst of the flames — all covered with cinders that were imbued in his blood, two flaming firebrands in his hands — turns towards the mass of his enemies, to inspire them with fear once more before he dies. Not one is so hardy as to touch him; he makes a way for himself, and walks towards the village, as if to set it on fire.

He advances about a hundred paces, when some one throws a club which fells him to the ground; before he can rise again, they are upon him; they cut off his feet and hands, and, having seized the rest of this mangled body, they turn it round and round over nine different fires, which he almost entirely extinguished with his blood. Finally they thrust him under an overturned tree-trunk, all on fire, so that, at the same time, there may be no part of his body which is not cruelly burned. It was then that nature, before yielding to the cruelty of these torments, made one last effort, that could never have been expected. For, having neither feet nor hands, he rolled over in the flames, and, having fallen outside of them, he moved more than ten paces, upon his elbows and knees, in the direction of his enemies, who fled from him, dreading the approach of a man to whom nothing remained but courage, of which they could not deprive him except by wresting away his life.

This they finally did, one of them cutting off his head with a knife. Happy stroke which gave him freedom! For we have reason to believe 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, and that without doubt baptism had given him his strength and courage, which surpassed all that they had ever seen.

Several Savages have reported with wonder, and a sort of conviction of the truths that we preach to them, that, shortly before he received the last blow which caused his death, he raised his eyes to Heaven and cried out joyfully, “ Let us go, then, let us go,” as if he were answering a voice that invited him. [Thwaites: Jesuit Relations, Volume 17]

The common reaction of modern secular scholars to these types of accounts is as facile as it is dishonest. The claim is advanced that this and similar accounts were "fictionalized" or "exaggerated" by the Jesuit fathers. It is noteworthy that the one thing these critics often don't do in their long-winded attempts to excuse this type of grotesque brutality is quote liberally from the accounts themselves. 

Which is another reason I have done that here.

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.

Click here for more info.

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.

"I am tossed with the waves of this wicked world" ~ Pope Saint Gregory the Great and Christian endurance during times of worldly distress

Pope St. Gregory the Great in marble as executed by Nicholas Cordier in AD 1602.
This work resides in the Oratory of Saint Barbara which is part of the church of Saint Gregory
on the Caelian Hill in Rome. This church was built on the site of Gregory's boyhood home
and also contains a statue by the same artist of Gregory's mother, Saint Silvia. 

September 3 is the feast of Pope St. Gregory the Great. This most significant of popes lived during a time of societal dissolution, when the Roman Empire in the West was in its final death agony. Though the Eastern Empire had re-established dominion in Africa and Italy in the 550s AD under Justinian, the invasion of the brutal Lombards in AD 568 proved unstoppable, leaving Italy in a state of perpetual fracture and chaos that would last centuries.

Following is the opening to Gregory's work, The Dialogues. This great work was written during a period of brief respite, when Gregory had the opportunity to look back on the decades of tumult, death and destruction that he and all of Italy had managed to endure. Even over 1,400 years later, the Dialogues continue to resonate with modern readers, offering a glimpse into a period when it seemed to many that everything good in the world was going to pieces, while cruelty and brutality reigned supreme.

In the Dialogues, Gregory begins by setting a gloomy tone, lamenting that his life of spiritual contemplation had been interrupted and overwhelmed with the care of temporal affairs:

Click here for more info.

Being upon a certain day too much over-charged with the troubles of worldly business, in which oftentimes men are enforced to do more than of duty they are bound, I retired myself into a solitary place, very fit for a sad and melancholy disposition—where each discontentment and dislike concerning such secular affairs might plainly show themselves, and all things that usually bring grief, mustered together, might freely be presented before mine eyes. In which place after that I had sat a long while, in much silence and great sorrow of soul, at length Peter, my dear son and deacon, came unto me—a man whom, from his younger years, I had always loved most entirely, and used him for my companion in the study of sacred scripture: who, seeing me drowned in such a dump of sorrow, spake unto me in this manner:

"What is the matter? Or what bad news have you heard? For certain I am, that some extraordinary sadness doth now afflict your mind."

To whom I returned this answer: "O Peter, the grief which continually 1 endure is unto me both old and new: old through common use, and new by daily increasing. For mine unhappy soul, wounded with worldly business, doth now call to mind in what state it was, when I lived in mine Abbey, and how then it was superior to all earthly matters, far above all transitory and corruptible pelf, how it did usually think upon nothing but heavenly things....For do you not behold at this present, how I am tossed with the waves of this wicked world, and see the ship of my soul beaten with the storms of a terrible tempest? and therefore, when I remember my former state of life, I cannot but sigh to look back, and cast mine eyes upon the forsaken shore.

But Gregory doesn't remain in this state of gloom, and instead suggests that Peter ask him questions. Peter gamely takes up the challenge. When Peter relates that he's never heard of anyone in Italy famous for living virtuously, Gregory sets him straight, offering a series of tales meant to demonstrate how even during times of severe tribulation, the hope of Christ shines forth through the works of the virtuous. He tells numerous stories of saints, heroes and villains from his own lifetime, the most substantial among them is the longest extant biography of the famous Saint Benedict of Nursia. 

Though occasionally considered folk-history similar to the stories in the Golden Legend, the Dialogues served a higher function than simple history—they were meant to be a spiritual exhortation to Gregory’s worn and weary countrymen. To modern readers, these tales of visions, miracles, virtue rewarded and wickedness punished paint a vivid portrait of daily life amid the wreckage of once-prosperous Roman Italy as the region lurched painfully into the so-called Dark Ages. 

Many of the stories in the Dialogues have been featured on this blog, including the following:

• Saint Maurus Walks on Water ~ As told by Pope Saint Gregory the Great
• The curious tale of Florentius and the bear ~ early 6th century Italy
• "Now, leave if you can" ~ Saint Scholastica and her brother, Saint Benedict
• "Fiery lances and armies appearing from the north." ~ Gregory the Great and the devastation of Roman Italy by the Lombards
• Saint Benedict Chases the Devil off a Boulder
• When Saint Benedict met Totila, King of the Goths
• "I beseech you to pray unto our Lord for me" ~ Ancient Roots of the Doctrine of Purgatory, Part II
• The Rebel Usurper who Became a Saint ~ Saint Hermengild, prince of Visigothic Spain
• "Cut off a thong of his skin" ~ The martyrdom of Saint Herculanus AD 549
• "The blessed pope John, worn by illness, gave up the ghost and died in prison" ~ Pope Saint John I, a political martyr of the 6th century AD
• "The fire marvelous strangely turned back" ~ Saint Marcellinus of Ancona
• Paulinus of Nola ~ A Roman plutocrat who became a Christian saint

The Four Things I Posted that Got Me Sent to the Digital Gulag

Just to create a public record of the absolute stupidity of the people who are moderators at F-Book—assuming they are people at all—I am going to share my history of posts over the past year that resulted in my account being restricted. 

Here's the first one, posted September 29, 2021, during the height of the COVID vaccine mandate foolishness: 

Want to know what this video is? See below. It's an undercover video from Project Veritas showing two employees from Johnson & Johnson expressing doubts about their company's vaccine. 

If anything, the supposed "false information" on this video is being provided by employees of Johnson & Johnson. So are we to assume that 60 Minutes-style undercover reporting is now considered against F-Book's community standards? Or only if they don't like what is revealed?

The next one is this, also posted on September 29, 2021:

No idea what this is about. Given the date, it may be another posting of the same video. The funny thing is -- I don't remember F-Book restricting my account on either of these occasions. They may have given me hidden demerits for my bad behavior retroactively and not informed me. 

The next one requires a little context. This was posted on October 5, 2021 in response to something I read on the Amanpour and Company F-Book page. Don't ask me what I was doing there. I'm guessing the post showed up in my feed because F-Book likes to give their favored narrative-builders additional free play. In any event, the original post was one of those disgraceful elitist feeding-frenzies from last fall calling for all sorts of exotic, unconstitutional punishments to be meted out to the most wicked pariahs among us, the vaccine hesitant—otherwise known as independent thinkers. I posted this as an absurd, sarcastic rebuttal to one of the more egregious of these comments:

 But of course, the F-Book bot-mods don't understand sarcasm. 

And apparently, they don't understand colloquial usage of certain terms between friends. Just today, I got 24 hours in the cooler for this terrifying post:

Did you catch that? Do you understand why this post violates F-Book's community standards? I had to read it through three or four times before I got it. Yes, someone (or something) at F-Book interpreted my invitation for my friend's son to come visit my boys as a terroristic threat.

If the soulless morons running Big Tech have their way, this is the world we're headed for: 

No humor allowed. 

Absolutely no sarcasm allowed. 

No unapproved opinions allowed—and we won't apologize to you if said opinions turn out to be facts later on. 

You will be told how you may use language. 

If you use unapproved words (even ones that were fine for centuries), you will be punished.

You are guilty until proven innocent. 

We will track all your sins (and anything we say is a sin, but isn't) and keep a record of them.

Your punishment starts immediately, but your appeal will be heard in 2-3 weeks. 

Maybe. 

If we feel like it. 

Probably not. 

The Destruction of Fort Drum, the Famous Concrete Battleship of Manila Bay

Broadside view of Fort Drum guarding Manila Bay during the interwar years. 

The United States is credited with building a battleship that, to this day, is certified as completely unsinkable. It sported four 14-inch naval rifles in two turrets with impressive arcs of fire, along with a variety of smaller guns in casemates along the sides. 

Though completely unsinkable, this battleship had one major drawback — it could not move. In fact, it was fixed in place in Manila Bay in the Philippines. 

It was also made of concrete.

The name of this battleship was not New Jersey, or Missouri, or North Carolina. 

It was Fort Drum.

If you visit the Philippines today, you will find the burnt-out hulk of the unsinkable concrete battleship silently rusting away in Manila Bay. 

Fort Drum was originally the island of El Fraile, one of the smallest islands of the Philippine archipelago. Meaning “The Friar” in Spanish, the island’s peaceful moniker would become ironic when the Spanish added gun emplacements prior to the Spanish-American War. Though these weapons proved ineffective at stopping Admiral Dewey's squadron from penetrating Manila Bay on May 1 of 1898 to engage the Spanish fleet, the Americans did not forget the strategic placement of El Fraile once they had taken the Philippine archipelago for themselves.

Beginning in 1909, the US flattened the craggy heights of El Fraile and completely reconstructed the small island using steel and concrete. They reshaped the island completely until it resembled the oblong shape of a ship’s hull. At 350 feet wide and 144 feet at the beam, Fort Drum had the rough dimensions of a battleship of the time. The addition of two main gun turrets, casemated secondary armament and a lattice-work mast and spotting top completed the illusion.

Bow view of Fort Drum's cage-style mast and "B" turret, compared with
that of its rough contemporary, the battleship USS Delaware.

When the Japanese invaded the Philippines in late 1941, Fort Drum proved a thorn in the invaders' side, firing effectively on troop transports attempting to land on Corregidor. When defeat became inevitable, Fort Drum was the last American outpost in the Philippines to surrender. Before departing, however, the Americans spiked the fort's main guns, leaving them inoperable.

The situation was turned on its head in April of 1945 when Fort Drum became one of the last outposts held by the Japanese in Manila Bay. But much like their fanatical late-war defense of such island fortresses as Iwo Jima and Okinawa, the Japanese defenders of Fort Drum refused to surrender. What happened next forms one of the most memorable vignettes from Phillip Campbell's new text for young readers, The Story of the Philippines: God's Rampart in Asia:

While American soldiers were already overrunning Manila, the concrete fortress of Fort Drum defied all U.S. attempts at taking it. U.S. army Lieutenant Miles Schafer and Captain Benny Biancho of the 38th Infantry Regiment scratched their heads.

“It’s like a concrete battleship,” said Lieutenant Schafer.

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“Correction, it is a concrete battleship—with four massive 14-inch guns in two turrets,” responded Captain Biancho.

“Poor fellas don’t realize the battle is already lost for them,” said

Schafer, shaking his head. “If only they’d just surrender.”

Rata-tat. Rata-tata!

Machine-gun fire erupted from Fort Drum. Schafer and Biancho took cover. The bullets sailed harmlessly overhead and plinked into the water.

“The Japs won’t surrender. For them, it’s a matter of honor. They would rather die,” said Biancho. “We’re going to have to force them out somehow. It’s gonna be tough because that entire island is one concrete block.

“We’ve come up with a solution for that,” chimed in a third man. It was Major General William Chase, commander of the 38th Infantry Division. Schafer and Biancho stood at attention. “At ease men,” said the Major General. “The top brass has a plan for breaking the Japs out of Fort Drum. We tried it at Fort Hughes back in March and it worked like a charm. It’s a doozey, but it sure does the trick.”

“We’re all ears, sir,” said Biancho.

Rata-tata! Another volley of machine-gun fire exploded from Fort Drum. The three men huddled and listened to General Chase’s plan, struggling to hear over the mortar rounds that also flew out of the embattled fort.

The next day everything was in position to carry out the plan. A landing ship medium—a type of troop transport ship used for amphibious landings—moved into position near Fort Drum. It had been modified with a large bridge structure. On board were Captain Biancho, Lieutenant Schafer, and a hundred men of the 38th. When the ship got close enough, Biancho called out, “Lower bridge!”

“Lower bridge!” Schafer echoed. A team of men scrambled into action, working pulleys and cranks to lower the bridge. It landed on the concrete deck of Fort Drum with a heavy thud. Another team of several dozen men stormed across the bridge and on to the deck. The huge 14-inch cannons of Fort Drum had been spiked and rendered useless by the Americans when they surrendered in 1942, but the men were wary of a suicidal ambush by the Japanese defenders using small arms and grenades. However, the Japanese had retreated into the assumed security of the fort’s lower decks, waiting to attack the Americans when they attempted to enter.

“The deck is secure, sir!” called Lieutenant Schafer.

“Excellent!” cried Biancho from the landing ship. Then, turning to his crew: “Fuel team, move!” Another team of soldiers came running from the ship to the bridge, dragging a large, long hose. The hose was connected to a tank on board the landing ship that was filled with 2,500 gallons of diesel fuel mixed with gasoline.

“Find the air vents!” ordered Schafer. The first team had already located the air vents, the small two square-foot openings atop the deck that provided access to the interior of the fort. The soldiers broke the vent coverings off the opening while the fuel team shoved the hose into the duct. The hose being in place, the team leader gave a thumbs up. Schafer saw the thumbs up and gave a thumbs up to Biancho. Biancho nodded, and turning to one of his officers on the Landing Ship, gave him the signal to turn on the pump. The man cranked a large wheel, opening the valves of the tank and sending gallons of the diesel fuel through the hose.

The hose began belching out hundreds of gallons of fuel down into the darkness of the ventilation duct. Within a few moments the fuel team could hear the panicked cries of the Japanese soldiers within echoing up the duct. They must have realized what was about to happen when they saw their command station being flooded with fuel. The U.S. soldiers did not waver though—they stood stoically atop the deck, holding the hose firm until all 2,500 gallons had been evacuated into the vent.

“Clear deck!” shouted Lieutenant Schafer. In an instant, all the soldiers upon the deck of Fort Drum retreated back across the bridge onto the landing ship. Lieutenant Schafer was the last man to leave the deck. In his hands he dragged a massive wooden spool threaded with copper wire. As he retreated, he unwound the spool. The wire was connected to a timed detonator that had been lowered down the ventilation shaft. He hopped back into the landing ship.

“How much wire do you have left?” said Biancho.

“I’d say 400 yards,” replied Schafer. Captain Biancho nodded. “Move us out about 400 yards!” he called to the ship pilot. When the ship had moved off 400 yards, the spool was almost completely unwound. A pair of soldiers took the wire from the spool and fused it into a detonator, a metallic black box with an ominous red button. It only took a moment to splice the wire into the detonator.

Schafer handed Captain Biancho the box. “Care to do the honors?” he said to the captain.

Biancho took the box. “Here’s a present from Uncle Sam!” he yelled towards Fort Drum. Then he pressed the red button with his thumb.

Fort Drum rumbled and exploded in a blast of destruction that shocked even Biancho and Schafer. The concrete deck of the fortress fragmented into thousands of pieces and was flung hundreds of feet into the air by the force of the explosion. Smoke and flame engulfed the entire concrete island.

Footage of Fort Drum exploding, April 13, 1945.

“Cover!” shouted Schafer. The men on the landing ship covered their heads. Moments later a shower of dirt and pebbles rained down upon them. Fortunately, the heavier pieces of concrete had not fallen so far out, or the landing ship could have been severely damaged.

The men uncovered their heads and looked at the hell they had made of Fort Drum: wreathed in flame, smoke pouring from every opening, the 14-inch gun turrets charred and useless, metal glowing orange, crumbling pieces of concrete deck falling into the orange inferno that had once been the command station.

Captain Biancho grinned. “Schafer, send a message to Major General Chase. Tell him Fort Drum has fallen. Manila is ours.”

* * *

The destruction of Fort Drum was total. Every single one of the sixty-eight Japanese soldiers inside was killed, obliterated in the explosion.

The capture of Fort Drum marked the end of major U.S. operations in Manila, although the city was not completely cleared of Japanese troops until early March. The invasion of Luzon was the largest American operation in the Pacific War, involving more U.S. troops than had fought in North Africa, France, or Italy.

If you enjoyed this vignette, check out Phillip Campbell's The Story of the Philippines: God's Rampart in Asia. While the book is an outstanding introduction for young readers (ages 12-18) to the history of the Philippine archipelago from earliest times right up through the the 2020s, even an old guy like me learned a tremendous amount reading it!