Girard0303

January 1844 - Father Antoine Séon to Father Benoît Lagniet, Matamata

Based on the dispatched copy, Archives of the Province of France, personal file of A. Séon.

Three sheets and one leaf, forming fourteen pages, thirteen of which are written.

Translated by Merv Duffy using ChatGPT, August 2026

Station of the Holy Angels, Matamata, January 1844.

To Reverend Father Lagniet.

My dear and Reverend Father,

[1]

I duly received your two letters: the first, dated 4 October 1841, receipt of which I acknowledged in a letter to the Reverend Father Superior General in June 1843; and the other, from London, dated 20 March 1843. Both gave me great pleasure. They recalled all kinds of pleasant memories and friends who remain affectionate. They also informed me of several deaths that grieved me because of the good those courageous workers were doing in the Church of God. But to die with weapons in hand is a glorious and desirable death; and if we regret the absence of our friends, let us rejoice in their reward and strive to win it ourselves.

[2]

I am truly ashamed, Reverend Father, to be replying to you so late. But the ignorance in which we find ourselves among a new people whose language and customs are unknown to us, the study of the language, and frequent journeys among the tribes scarcely leave us time to breathe. I am nowhere near the centre of my mission station; it takes me two days' walking to reach it. Experience also teaches me each day that many of the customs of these people which I thought I understood, I understood only in part, and that I would have misled you on several points.

[3]

You tell me that it cost you dearly to leave the seminary at Belley. I believe it. One readily becomes attached to the sound and lively minds of those young men. They possess what is needed to succeed in the missions, and I hope that Providence will choose several of them to come to these shores and fight the battles of the Lord. Although you are absent from that house, I hope you will still be able to recall me to the memory of everyone who knew me and whom I have not forgotten. Until your second letter, I had been awaiting news from Father Millot. I read with great pleasure the announcement of his long letter, but it has not reached me. More fortunately, I received letters from Reverend Father Mayet and Fathers Eymard, Dupont, Morcel, Raccurt, George, Denis, Fournier, and Pagès. I have read the whole of it several times.

[4]

I should tell Reverend Father Morcel what use I made of the little Novum he gave me. Before we had printed Māori books, a chief compelled me to leave this book with him so that he could drive away the Protestant ministers who came to solicit him. “Here is my prayer,” he would tell them, showing them the spine of his book, which was decorated with a cross. It was this chief who conducted me on my first journey among the tribes, so that I might become acquainted with those that followed the Catholic faith and constituted my mission station.

[5]

On 20 December 1843, I received the letter from Messrs Monnin, Berthozat, Juillard, and Goujon. It reminded me of the excellent spirit of those gentlemen. I should like to write them a few words, but I truly cannot do so at present. Please do so in my name. Assure them that their names, as well as those of many others, have not been erased from my memory. On the contrary, they often return to it and cause me to ask God that they may one day become courageous and zealous missionaries.

[6]

How grateful I am, Reverend Father, for the details you give us about the Society. You cannot imagine how much pleasure they give. Just as you wish to know what is happening around us, so we wish to know what concerns our common mother, what grieves her as well as what consoles her. A letter from Father Mayet to Reverend Father Petit fell into my hands. I read it all eagerly. Discourses of that kind will not exhaust that good Father, and we shall rejoice holily in the Lord.

[7]

I shall now, dear friend, tell you what I have been able to gather that may interest you, all our good confrères, and all your young men, who are still yours although you are no longer among them. The young people here are interesting. If cultivated as they are in educational establishments and raised in religion, they would be a source of consolation. The children are quite open; once introduced to the new ideas preached to them, they grasp them quickly. A very large number of young men and mature men have taught one another to read and write. They studied and copied the manuscript prayer books placed in their hands, and afterwards wrote to one another on sheets of phormium in characters traced with pieces of wood. Like your pupils, they left their names marked in large letters along the paths or written in charcoal on a palisade. They are proud to understand a little arithmetic and appear capable of emulation. The difficulty is bringing them together and securing their regular attendance. Two young men about fifteen years old, who arrived too late for prayers and found the chapel door closed, sat on their heels - they had not yet acquired the habit of kneeling - and said their prayers there aloud.

[8]

Another, younger boy was asked why Jesus Christ had wished to be born in a stable among lowly animals, while the sons of princes have magnificent palaces, beautiful swaddling clothes, and splendid beds. He replied: “It is because God alone is what is beautiful.”

[9]

A young woman from the catechism class was given in marriage to a young man who wished to draw her over to the Protestants. To obey him, she stopped coming to the Catholic chapel, but she resisted every solicitation directed against her faith. For a year she had to withstand repeated assaults. I saw her only from time to time and, without knowing anything of this, encouraged her to persevere. I learned the whole story only after obtaining her husband's consent to baptize her. She is now a good Catholic.

[10]

Here are some events of another kind. A certain number of women show strength of character. In defiance of national prejudice and example, they have maintained their position as sole wives. One of them, having caught her husband at fault with his slave, broke a heavy stick over his body. She tied the abused slave to a tree for two days, giving her only a few potatoes for food. When her husband relapsed, she threw herself from the top of a tree; and the husband, doubtless so as not to appear less courageous, hanged himself some time afterwards. Fortunately, neither of them died.

[11]

Another woman, catching her husband at fault, dragged him outside by his hair and threatened to strangle herself. It would have been her second attempt. Fortunately, she agreed to a gentler course. The first time, she already had one end of the fatal cord around her neck and the other tied to her foot. By extending her leg, she would have strangled herself in the Māori manner. Māori is the name of the New Zealanders.

[12]

The inhabitants of New Zealand are generally well formed. In attempting to add to their natural beauty, they disfigure themselves in European eyes through tattooing. For them it is a treasure: “Your clothes, your money, your hair - those are the foreigner's treasures; for us, it is our moko.” When a chief dies, his face is not covered; his moko (tattoo) serves as his shroud. They sacrifice their beards to this ornament by plucking them out. Women also participate, but they have only a few lines beneath the lower lip and on the chin. The Māori have several methods for this operation. The one I saw used consisted of first tracing the outlines with ink made from kauri charcoal. They then drew blood with a pointed nail; formerly, a fish bone was used. This instrument leaves very ugly furrows on the face. National prejudice, however, regards them as marks of beauty indispensable to chiefs, and everyone wishes to appear to be one.

[13]

Their character is wholly Asiatic and full of ostentation. Supremely proud of their rank and chieftainship, according to them they are always very great chiefs, their wives very numerous, and their families and slaves innumerable. On occasions when they must make a display, they do so in both words and actions. Unfortunately, Providence has not given them much to display, but at least they forget nothing. If they make a gift or give a feast, they do so grandly. His Lordship finds them somewhat more open than certain other peoples of Oceania. Charged with obtaining justice themselves for injuries suffered by them or their dependants, they never forget the wrongs of others, and the vengeance they exact is always greater than the offence. A curse directed at the sacred head of a chief will cause the house of the person who uttered it to be stripped, or will occasion a war. They are eloquent, fiery, and animated in their speeches, which abound in imagery and figures of speech. They declaim while walking, holding a small axe or Māori weapon. Their movements are sometimes grave and at other times so rapid that they might be taken for people possessed. Within the family they are unassuming. Because the chief is tapu, he has a separate place, eats alone, and never lowers himself to perform any task reserved for slaves, such as preparing food. Working the land is honourable, and he does it at the head of his family. His wife, if a chief in her own right, shares some of his privileges. Their provision for their livelihood does not extend beyond the year, and they are fortunate if it goes even that far. Ordinarily, toward the end of the season, they are reduced to eating fern root or plants from the fields while awaiting the new potatoes.

[14]

The Māori frequently visit one another. Some visits are required by ceremony; the majority are inspired by a desire to travel about. When a relative is ill, they never fail to visit him; and if he is suffering greatly, they console him with a long tangi (weeping), which shows how deeply they share in his condition. If he dies, distant relatives come to mourn the deceased. A daughter returning to her father's dwelling saw two cloaks that had belonged to him and could not restrain her tears. For a long time she bathed these precious remains in her tears and blood. Her grief was all the more sincere because she believed herself unobserved. Here as everywhere, custom and ceremony are often the sole cause of these demonstrations of affection; but in many circumstances nature is so genuine and touching that the tears falling from their eyes also cause your own to flow. An uncle saw me again two months after the death of his nephew, whom I had baptized. His work axe fell from his hand; he put his head between his hands and began to weep, and we wept together.

[15]

During their visits, they have several ways of greeting one another. Here is one greeting that they pronounce in chorus and aloud, concluding with a universal cry: “Come, bird of passage whom my son has gone to seek at the other end of the sky, come!” Their arms move about with the edge of a cloak or blanket. After this the tangi, or weeping, begins. It is in this way that they demonstrate their affection, and so they accuse us of having no love for one another because we do not weep. This tangi is performed while seated on the ground. It lasts for a longer or shorter time according to the strength of the affection. Blood is sometimes mingled with it, and it is always accompanied by tender words. If the new arrivals are not relatives, they merely invite them with the words “Nau mai ... tautimai ... haere mai ... come here.” The hongi is also a Māori greeting: nose pressed against nose. Afterwards, they invite their visitors to eat. This is a sign of friendship that they sometimes extend to passing travellers, and it must be reciprocated or they are offended. When chiefs visit one another, they ordinarily exchange gifts. They are always well treated. Whatever is served to them becomes their property; they consume it as needed or even carry it away.

[16]

When they declare war on one another, they have several customs with which I am not well acquainted. Ordinarily, a messenger goes to warn the chiefs to be on their guard. A long time passes before the enemy appears, for he seeks to take them by surprise. The pā (town or village) where I am staying was threatened with an imminent attack by an enemy tribe. The new cause of hostility was that four men travelling through the area had eaten potatoes belonging to that tribe. At this news, the alarm was raised in the pā and everything was prepared for war. Divided into two groups, the people of the pā assembled in a fairly open place, and the great chief lay down on the ground. The two groups advanced, shouting; their spears crossed above his head, and then they separated. This was a kind of oath that everyone would fight for the common cause. That very evening guards began to show themselves inside and outside the pā. Their purpose was to warn the enemy that, if he approached, they were ready to receive him. Musket shots were therefore fired at intervals. During the night, strong voices from different parts of the pā sang war songs. Their high pitch and mournful endings kept the warriors awake and signalled that watch was being kept. My people had asked tribes living on a nearby mountain to light a great fire if they saw the enemy coming up the river flowing below their settlement. The fire appeared, and vigilance was redoubled. At that time there were two priests at Matamata. We were asked to remain together and to go and negotiate peace if there were any possibility of agreement. We would willingly have done so, but the enemy was not contemplating war so soon. They had come to mourn some of their dead who were buried upriver. Their canoes went peacefully back down the river. On various occasions I have seen the war dance and heard the cries they utter before combat; nothing is more wild or frightening. The use of muskets has made their wars much less deadly.

[17]

Their former weapons included a spear, the taiaha, made of hard wood and pointed at both ends. They held it by the middle, using it to parry their enemies' blows and to strike them in the chest. The tewhatewha, heavy at one end and pointed at the other, was used for striking and piercing. With the taiaha, sharpened on both sides along one-third of its length, they split their enemies' heads. The formidable mere hung from the wrist. It is an oval, sharpened stone with a handle that they grasped when the enemy had been brought down; with a single blow they broke open his skull and scattered his brains. Some arrows were thrown by the strength of the arm. Others planted an arrow in the ground and, using a cord attached to a whip-shaped stick, wound the cord around the arrow and launched it with both hands at distant enemies. They greatly feared this weapon, but the musket is another matter entirely: they fire it only while lying on the ground. Dead chiefs were dragged into the hangi. This is a broad pit filled with stones heated red-hot, in which food is cooked for many people. Only the men refreshed themselves after the fatigues of battle by eating their enemies. A little over a year ago, such scenes occurred again among the tribe that was supposed to attack us. Peace, however, has just been concluded definitively, and as a sign of friendship the chief made a gift of food: dried fish and everything obtainable along the seashore. The quantity was considerable. The other tribe responded, but because the eels had not been sufficiently abundant this year, they offered fern root, which is considered highly presentable food among the Māori.

[18]

When their relatives die, they display great sorrow. One mother held a two-day tangi beside the body of her child, bathing it with her tears and blood. It rested sometimes on her knees and sometimes on the ground beneath a cloth, its head decorated with feathers. A little food for the spirit of the dead was suspended at the entrance to the hut. They also place pipes, tobacco, and precious objects in the coffin.

[19]

When the wife of a great chief died, before her limbs had been stiffened by the cold of death, the body was placed in the posture of a living person squatting on her heels, with her hands crossed over her chest. She was dressed in her finest possessions, and several pretty feathers adorned her forehead. This woman remained on display for several days beneath a tent made from blankets, her face turned toward the east so that she might properly direct her journey into the regions of the spirits. All her relatives came to mourn. This tangi is performed standing, bowing deeply and extending the arms toward the loved one. The body was placed in a secret location to await the exhumation of the bones.

[20]

This ceremony takes place every three or four years. After the customary prayers, designated persons take up the heads of their dead amid volleys of musket fire and carry them to a prepared place. At one ceremony of this kind that I saw, there were two tapu places outside the pā for two different tribes. One contained eight heads and the other fourteen. They rested on foreign rags, and some wore caps. They refuse nothing to their dead. Thus, when some Māori saw an Englishman buried in only a single calico shroud, they became angry and accused the relatives of having no affection for their deceased kinsman. Several days were devoted to tears and lamentations. Those keeping vigil are tapu and cannot touch food. A feeding trough is therefore erected nearby for them. Wearing a garment that is not tapu, they approach it with their hands behind their backs and take the prepared food with their lips. A filled pipe is fastened to a stick and taken in the same manner.

[21]

On the occasion of this ceremony, the Māori make great gifts of food to the invited guests. One hundred and thirty-five pigs were killed, cooked, and distributed, with potatoes and kūmara in proportion. Elsewhere, for the same ceremony, I saw pork cut into small pieces, cooked, and swimming in fat. It was all placed in large basket-shaped vessels made from tree bark.

[22]

The food is distributed in an orderly fashion. A chief holding a staff designates each share and names the recipient, ordinarily adding some pleasant words to the name. He often offers it to people who are absent. The person who accepts a share either takes it away or offers it in turn to a friend who is present.

[23]

When travelling, two parties that meet ordinarily share the best of what they possess. A refusal, or a failure to respond generously, offends them. The climate encourages travel; it could scarcely be more favourable. Rain, however, is very frequent, especially in winter, swelling the rivers and filling the swamps. The cold of June and July covers only the trees with a heavy white frost and stagnant water with a thin layer of ice. By ten o'clock, the sun has made it all disappear. Throughout the year, nevertheless, mornings and evenings are very cool. Before and toward the end of summer, there are morning frosts that greatly damage the crops, checking the growth of potatoes and kūmara.

[24]

As for natural curiosities, I know of only one hot spring near here. In another part of the mission station there are also several small lakes with quite beautiful scenery and many eels.

[25]

Since my arrival, we have felt two fairly mild earthquakes. On 5 March 1843, toward the west, we saw the largest comet I have ever seen. Its tail was ablaze. It astonished the local people and frightened the Europeans. It remained visible throughout the rest of that month, gradually diminishing.

[26]

God, who condemned man to labour, also willed that necessity should remind him of this obligation and compel him to fulfil it. Driven by necessity, the Māori therefore begin their work toward the end of August. Their agricultural implements formerly consisted entirely of a flat, sharp spade made of hard wood. They now have the same implement in iron. Sitting on their heels, they cut the weeds, turn the soil to a depth of six or eight inches, and form it into small mounds in which they place their potato and kūmara seed. The latter food is long and sweet, but very light. Under their ancient customs, they have strict tapu rules to observe when cultivating it. They gather it into carefully constructed storehouses.

[27]

They place potatoes in carefully covered pits. To keep the wood needed for cooking close at hand, the Māori choose a dwelling place near or even within a forest. Fire first enlarges the clearing, however, and when they abandon the site, fern replaces the beautiful trees that once shaded it. Each year they plant successively in several places, often at considerable distances from one another. I believe that their frequent wars forced them to take this measure, so that if an enemy destroyed some of their storehouses, they would have another resource against hunger elsewhere.

[28]

In addition to potatoes, they have received maize from Europeans. To eat it, they ferment it in water, crush it with a pestle, and make a soup that gives off an offensive smell. Nevertheless, they eat it with pleasure. The bottle gourd, which they cultivate generally, also provides them, while still tender and cooked, with a rather refreshing food. Those allowed to reach their natural size are used to hold water and other liquids they wish to preserve. They also hollow out a kind of wooden tub that is very useful. Together with the pot in which they cook their maize, these constitute all their kitchen utensils.

[29]

The way the women prepare food attracts the attention of a foreigner seeing it for the first time. With a shell they skilfully remove the skins from potatoes. Meanwhile, stones are heated red-hot in a fire. They are thrown into a deep, round pit and covered with a layer of wet grass, upon which the potatoes, kūmara, pork, fish - in short, everything to be cooked - are poured. Water is thrown over it all, and the rising steam is trapped by covering everything with grass and earth. After three-quarters of an hour, everything is taken out perfectly clean and thoroughly cooked. While the food is cooking, the women weave small baskets, fill them, and carry them on the upturned right hand raised to shoulder height.

[30]

A person who had no cooking pot prepared a herbal broth for a sick person in my presence. She cooked it in a wooden vessel using stones heated red-hot in the fire. It gave off an aroma as pleasant as if it had been prepared in the most precious vessel.

[31]

This remedy is almost the only one they use for their illnesses, and even then they do not use it often enough. They suffer frequent ailments resulting from their carelessness in resting on the ground in damp places. Skin diseases caused by uncleanliness are widespread, as are cold swellings. Colds are innumerable and carry off an extraordinary number of the local people. To these diseases, Europeans have added others that either cut down, or cover with a shameful affliction, these poor victims of their passions or of the unworthy expatriates who traffic in them.

[32]

Before the arrival of foreigners, Māori clothing was limited to the weruweru or tātara. The former was a chief's cloak. It is shaped like an elongated square and made from Phormium tenax. It is bordered all around with black fringes, which are also scattered individually throughout the interior and across its entire surface. The women, who alone make these garments, spend about three weeks on them. The tātara is also a cloak of roughly the same shape, but with long fibres to protect against rain. The colours and ornaments that the women introduce into their work make it attractive.

[33]

The Māori dye things black. This colour is obtained from the bark of several trees. They crush it and leave it to soak in water.

[34]

Kōkōwai is a red pigment for which these people have a marked affection. To make it, they take red, silty mud from certain ditches and harden it in the fire. Once it is baked, they reduce it to powder and mix it with oil or water. They rub it over their bodies and hair, which then gives them a repulsive appearance. They paint their houses, tombs, and waka (canoes) red. I believe this colour forms part of their tapu.

[35]

As a means of defence, the people of New Zealand ordinarily built their pā (towns or villages) on high ground. The numerous sites encountered along the way all resemble a kind of flattened sugarloaf. They surrounded themselves with strong palisades and waited for the enemy. Since the introduction of firearms, they readily establish themselves on level ground, but then erect a double palisade. In the outer palisade, at a height of a foot and a half above the ground, they leave openings for musket barrels. Behind the inner palisade they dig trenches in which the marksmen conceal themselves. At intervals, these palisades have outward-projecting sections where warriors stand to defend the approaches to the pā. These towns or villages contained as many as a thousand people or even more.

[36]

The interior is divided into several sections, each under a chief who takes everyone assembled within that enclosure under his protection. His house accommodates the entire family. The building is shaped like an elongated square, larger or smaller according to custom or the number of people who take shelter there. The sides are between two and five feet high, and the roof rises toward the centre. Every house has an overhanging roof beneath which there is a small oblong window on one side and, on the other, a small door through which one can pass only by crawling. At night, these two sole openings are closed almost hermetically with sliding boards. There, as though in a steam room, old and young, men and dogs, cats, piglets, and so forth all sleep soundly.

[37]

Chiefs ordinarily have a clean mat to offer a visiting foreigner. It is upon this that he rests. Apart from this and several muskets, few objects are seen in Māori houses. Since Europeans have settled nearby, however, the Māori have obtained lockable chests, which they greatly desire.

[38]

To build their houses, they erect strong planks at intervals. These were formerly made with a stone axe and are now made with an adze. A crosspiece rests on each of them. These are sometimes carved, as is the central post supporting them. Everything is painted red, but that represents the highest degree of refinement. The doorframe is often worked in a very pleasing manner. Laths are then fastened to this first framework. A layer of kākaho is tied over it. This is a kind of long, yellow rush which, when carefully used, produces very neat work. Several overlapping layers of raupō, a long marsh plant intended to retain heat in the room, are then fastened over it. Long grasses help the rainwater to run off. All these materials vary according to locality and circumstances, but the general style and taste are everywhere the same. Once completed, the house remains standing for as long as it can hold together. It is tapu; spirits make their dwelling on its roof, and when it falls into ruin it is abandoned. A few paces in front, a long pole is laid out to mark the limit of the tapu and the place where food must be eaten, even in rainy weather. Nearby is a kind of storehouse raised on four posts in which food and small provisions are kept. They place maize seed thirty or forty feet high in dead trees from which the bark has been stripped.

[39]

Since the faith penetrated among them, some Protestant pā have erected meeting houses of every size. Near my dwelling there is one measuring eighty English feet long, forty wide, and thirty high. It displays both labour and daring.

[40]

Another product of Māori labour is their tombs. It is there that they display their taste, patience, and the most revolting indecency. There are two at my mission station, both alike. They are about ten feet high, seven or eight feet wide, and two feet deep. The façade is divided into three or four compartments in which a head, a large belly, and two thighs have been carved. The design is grotesque beyond example. The upper part is crowned by a cornice supported by two small columns, all of which is also carved. Nothing is placed within tombs of this kind. They erect them in memory of a great chief, but his remains rest in an unknown place. The palisades of the former pā are decorated with grotesque figures recalling dead chiefs.

[41]

Their vessels do them as much credit as their tombs and are more useful. They select the most suitable tree in the forest; once it has been felled and is ready to be worked, they hollow it out and shape it like a fish. Some are thirty, forty, or even sixty feet long. The upper part is raised by two strong planks sewn onto the sides and supported from above at intervals by stout crosspieces. Both ends of the canoe are decorated with carvings. At the front is an enormous tongue projecting from a half-open mouth, and at the rear an openwork carved tail rises three or four feet. There are also simpler canoes, without ornament and made from a single piece. In general, it is dangerous to be caught in bad weather in these vessels. Māori often lose their lives in them; sometimes, if they are fortunate enough to escape, they are seen reaching shore astride the overturned hulls of their canoes.

[42]

There, my dear and Reverend Father, are the few words I wished to tell you about the peoples among whom your confrères live. It is by visiting these peoples that we come to know them and teach them to know us and to know God. It costs us some effort. The paths here are poor and the swamps numerous, with varying depths. Some dry out only toward the end of February and in March, after summer has passed; throughout the rest of the year one travels through water like a duck. Ordinarily, one or two Māori accompany you. One carries the blankets for the night and a little change of linen; the other carries medicines and the sacred objects needed to administer baptism. The provisions are used up upon reaching the first pā, after which we share their potatoes, kūmara, eels, and pork when any is available. The Māori are flattered that we live with them and as they do, sleep in their houses, and converse together far into the night. We then teach catechism and speak about everything that may be useful to them. These journeys often last a month or forty days.

[43]

On almost every journey, things occur that console you. You see Providence guiding you for the salvation of His chosen ones. On my first journey - at that time I was writing out a prayer book in every pā, because we did not yet have printed books - my inkwell spilled. The day after my arrival, I was taken to an Irishman who lived half an hour away to obtain ink. That tribe followed the Catholic faith. While I was conversing with them as best I could, two mothers brought me their sick children. One was nearing her end. I promised to return the following morning. Despite heavy rain, I went there, and that same day little Mary went to offer her beautiful soul to God as the first fruits of her tribe, which is now very fervent. Peter died there two days later.

[44]

Later, I visited another settlement containing about thirty souls. Most were elderly Māori rooted in their superstitions, but they were good people. I arrived at nightfall. A mother entered the house and presented her sick child to me. Because it was night and the house was very poorly lit, I could scarcely discern the child's condition. The next day, occupied with the illness of two other people, I lost sight of this child and departed. While I was visiting another settlement along my route, heavy rain fell, swelling the river I had to cross and forcing me to remain where I was. I used this delay to see my old friends and their two sick people again. I was well received, but the fruit was not ripe. I was returning without having accomplished anything and sadly climbing a mountain behind my guide when, three paces from the path, I saw a mother with her nearly dying child. “Your child is very ill.” - “I presented him to you three days ago, and you said nothing to me.” - “I did not perceive his condition. Do you want me to baptize him?” - “Yes.” The grave is now on a hill overlooking that solitary dwelling. I cannot see it again without blessing the designs of Providence.

[45]

One day my guides caused me to change direction so that they could have a warmer house in which to eat at the place they wished to visit. I consented, and there I found a poor mother watching her poor little daughter visibly decline. Unfortunately, religion was not what most concerned this woman. Nevertheless, I ventured a word. “What use will your baptism be to her?” was her entire reply. The day after next, I brought some medicine to this good woman. While I showed her how to wash her child's head, the mother said to me: “Our children do not have skin as white as foreign children. They are dirty.” - “What does that matter? Let me do it.” The little girl died several days later. In this way we often place children in heaven despite their poor parents.

[46]

This is how the work of God advances. Some listen to us, while others are deaf; some call us, while others reject us. But I believe they all love and respect us, except those who have been blinded by ministers. Even they often remain silent and regret that religion is divided in this way. God, prayer, and time will accomplish everything. Let us pray that the word of God may spread and be welcomed by the peoples who hear it. For a long time, I have been asking His Lordship to allow me to move my dwelling to the centre of my mission station and for His Lordship to come and visit us. I expect much from this visit for the many catechumens who may be baptized. I shall then, however, be six or eight days away from Father Petitjean on one side and five days away from Father Pezant on the other. When shall we be able to have two priests together? I live with a Māori who cooks for me and accompanies me on my journeys. He happens to possess a character that would do honour to many better-educated young Europeans. I train him in everything that arises, and he helps me perfect my command of the language. A Frenchman has come to me recently, but one always prefers a Brother.

[47]

I shall conclude with a word to the Reverend Fathers of the Capuchin House. I ask Reverend Father Déclas to accept my respectful remembrance; he would find ample opportunity here to exercise his zeal. The same applies to Father Humbert and the Reverend Father Superior. I have kept the reliquary he gave me for my mission station. I hope that Reverend Father Favre's theologians will multiply, and that they will come to this island and elsewhere to share the labours and consolations that the good God grants to those who work in His vineyard. It is not all hardship, nor is it all consolation. There are times to thank God for His gifts and others to ask for His help. Yet it must be said that the good God sustains both the work and the worker, and that amid hardships and privations never does the shadow of regret or fear trouble the soul. Farewell, Reverend Father. Accept my respect and remembrance. Please do not forget at the altar the one who will always remain

your devoted and affectionate confrère,

Antoine Joseph Séon

missionary priest

[48]

A short supplement. Reverend Father Lagniet, I received Monsieur Lapière's greetings. I also received for myself those he had addressed to good Father Borjon. I was wearing one of his cassocks so as to finish wearing it out. Please thank him for his kind remembrance. I embrace him with all my heart, as well as Monsieur Martin, director of Meximieux, and all the other gentlemen whom I have the honour of knowing.

[49]

I have not forgotten Monsieur Louvet, Monsieur Niermont, Monsieur Burtin, or Monsieur Deschamp the missionary. If you have occasion to see them, convey my affection to them, as well as to everyone who speaks to you about me.

[50]

I know nothing of Father Convers, but I ask him nevertheless to accept my affection and to grant me several decades of his rosary. Where is Father Rocher? We hear nothing about him in this land. I shall say nothing to Father Bourdin this time. I hope to write to him shortly in reply to the letter he sent me, for which I thank him.

[51]

Reverend Father, please thank Monsieur Abbé Rey, superior of the house at Oullins established for the education of young men. I shall have the honour of writing to him and thanking him myself for the care lavished upon my brother, which has benefited him so greatly. I received my brother's letter, in which this worthy ecclesiastic had added a few words. I am very sensitive to [illegible text]. If my brother wishes to join the number of Brothers in that house, may he be grateful to God for this favour and respond to it. He can do nothing more useful for his salvation. I venture to entrust you with this small commission, Reverend Father, because I recall that you know this estimable ecclesiastic.

[52]

Although I remained silent for so long, I have not forgotten anyone at our good seminary in Belley, nor the good religious sisters who exhaust themselves in toil and care there. Please convey my respectful greetings to them. If any of the former servants are still there, greet them on my behalf as well: good Marie and all the others. These remembrances and greetings are doubtless very late, but they are merely the expression of the feelings I habitually hold before God. Please pray for me. I remain very wretched and very poor,

your wholly devoted confrère

and servant,

Antoine Joseph Séon

missionary priest