By Rev. Chrysostom Verwyst Wisconsin Historical
Society Founded 1849 The State Historical Society of Wisconsin
Separate No. 173 From the Proceedings of the Society for 1916
Contributed by
Timm Severud
I was born November 23, 1841 in the land of
windmills, dikes, and wooden shoes, in Uden, a town of North Brabant,
Holland. My parents migrated to the United States in 1848, and of my
life in Holland I remember almost nothing.
The occasion of our
removal to the United States was as follows: Rev. Theodore Van den Broek
[Note: Rev. Theodore J. Van de Broek, after officiating for the whites
at Green Bay from 1834 to 1837, established in the latter year his
mission for the Menominee at Little Chute on Fox River. The Indians
built a wigwam for him and then a log church twenty-two by thirty feet,
roofed with bark. Later the church was covered with boards, and about
1844 a schoolhouse was built. After the removal of the Menominee to
their reservation in Shawano County, the mission buildings were used by
the whites. See letters of the Father Van den Broek in Wisconsin
Historical Collections, XIV, 192, 196-205.], a Dominican priest, had
come from Holland to this country in 1832 and had resided for a time in
a house of his order, St. Rose, near Springfield, Washington County,
Kentucky. In 1834 he removed to Green Bay where a brother Dominican,
Father Mazzuchelli [Note: For a sketch of Father Samuel Charles
Mazzuchelli see ibid., 155-61. His Memoir (Chicago, 1915) has been
translated and published in book form.], had been working among the
whites and the Indians. Thereafter the two Fathers labored along the
shores of Green Bay, sometimes separately, sometimes together. Father
Van den Broek was stationed at Little Chute and along the upper Fox
River until his death at Little Chute in 1851. In 1847 he returned to
Holland on some family mission, and his description of the cheap and
good lands to be had in Wisconsin induced many of the people of North
Brabant, among them my father, to migrate thither. Accompanied by Father
Van den Broek and by Father Goddard, a Franciscan, they set sail in
three ships [Note: The three ships were named, respectively, Mary
Magdalena, Liberia, and American.], two of which landed at New York and
the third at Boston.
On the latter ship my father had embarked.
We were fifty-five days on the ocean but the voyage was a prosperous one
and none of the passengers died at sea. On reaching America Father Van
den Broek returned to the scene of his labors at Little Chute, while
Father Goddard went with a number of his countrymen to Hollandtown,
Brown County. This settlement was originally called "Franciscus Bush"
[Note: The settlement is still known as Franciscus Bosch.] in honor of
the patron saint of the church. On the arrival of our ship at Boston
most of our fellow passengers went immediately to the West, but our
family and another by the name of Verkampen were obliged, through lack
of means to travel farther, to stay in Boston. It was in the month of
May and we therefore made our living at first by going into the woods,
to Dorchester and other places near Roxbury, and picking blueberries,
blackberries, and huckleberries, and cutting water cresses.
Soon
after our arrival a laughable adventure happened to our neighbor,
Verkampen. Rooms had been engaged for the two families together, the
Verkampens occupying those in front of the building and our family those
in the rear. One night the owner came with a German boy who acted as
interpreter and told Verkampen we would have to vacate the premises
immediately. When Verkampen at length comprehended the demand thus made
upon him he seized an ax and made for the proprietor with the intention
of scaring him away. The latter promptly beat a hasty retreat, but
shortly afterwards Verkampen was arrested and lodged in jail. His poor
wife was disconsolate. "Scarcely in America and my man in jail," she
lamented. Verkampen, however, urged her not to feel worried. He was
getting plenty to eat, more than he had ever enjoyed in Holland, and was
living, he wrote, "like a prince in a palace." A few days after his
arrest many of the townsmen celebrated the Fourth of July by imbibing
too freely of liquor, and as a result were landed in jail. Verkampen,
who had a bottomless stomach, ate not only his own rations but also
those of the drunken fellows incarcerated with him. For the first time
in all his life, probably, he enjoyed a full meal. A day or two after
the Fourth the prisoners were brought to trial. Verkampen, who was
defended by a German lawyer, was dismissed since it was shown that the
owner of the building had had no right to attempt to eject us in the
middle of the night and that Verkampen had intended only to scare him
away and not to kill him.
We soon removed to East Boston where my
Father and my oldest brother engaged in the cooper trade. About the year
1850 we moved to Roxbury where they obtained employment in a rope
factory. I have omitted to mention, I find, that prior to 1850 Father
and my two brothers, Martin and John, went to Vermont to work on a
railroad, and there John died. Thereupon my Father and my brother Martin
returned to Boston or East Boston. We two boys--both of us still alive
(1916)--attended the German Catholic school in Boston.
Finally,
in the early spring of 1855, our family migrated to Wisconsin. We left
Boston in pleasant spring weather but when the train reached Rutland,
Vermont, the same evening it was snowing and when we arrived at Albany
it was raining. In the depot at Albany there was posted in a conspicuous
place a large placard warning travelers against "thieves, pickpockets,
and confidence men." The notice appeared somewhat strange to us but to
our cost we found out that it was not uncalled for. Father engaged a man
to convey our baggage to another depot, paying him in advance. When we
arrived at the depot he refused to surrender our belongings unless we
again paid him. In vain Father protested. Finally, he appealed to a
policeman, and that worthy representative of law and order declared that
Father had had no right to prepay the baggage man; so he was compelled
to pay the bill a second time. From Albany we went by way of Niagara
Falls, where we passed over into Canada, to Detroit. The train moved
very slowly, and it took us many days--how many I do not now
remember--to reach Chicago. That city left a decidedly dismal impression
on my boyish mind. It certainly did not look neat and clean like Boston.
From Chicago we took a steamboat, which brought us to Sheboygan,
Wisconsin. Here mother and we two boys tarried for over a week while
Father and my oldest brother started out in quest of land. Finally, they
returned and we hired a conveyance to bring us and our baggage to Fond
du Lac. On the way a man ran against our wagon; the two drivers became
very angry, each blaming the other for the collision, and nearly came to
blows. We dined at Green Bush [Note: Greenbush is a town in western
Sheboygan County. The first cabin was built there in 1844; the village
platted in 1848, and became a station on the plank road between
Sheboygan and Fond du Lac.] and arrived late that evening at Fond du
Lac. The next morning we took a small steamer on Lake Winnebago, which
brought us to Menasha. From there we took a wagon and through mud,
stones, and deep holes on the road we finally came to Hollandtown in
Brown County. Father bought sixty acres of land from a man named Stephen
Fink, and we started to erect a cabin of unhewn logs, the neighbors
helping at the raising. The house had no floor but there was a wretched
wooden chimney, which at times smoked fearfully. I cold weather the
occupants would be too warm in front while their backs were almost
freezing. Luckily for us we carried a floor about with us in the shape
of wooden shoes made of poplar. My brother, Cornelius, and myself worked
hard all winter with Father cutting down hardwood and other trees and
chopping them into logs about sixteen feet long. We tacked a piece of
old cloth to our wooden shoes and tied strings together around our legs
below the knees to prevent the snow from falling into our shoes. In this
way we kept our feet dry and warm, better in fact, than we could have
done with leather boots.
In the spring father would split fence
rails, at which work we boys faithfully assisted him. After the clearing
had been fenced, having neither horses nor oxen to plow the ground, we
made potato hills and planted corn and potatoes, doing the work with
heavy grub hoes. There was a clearing of about seven acres when we
bought the land of which one-half was meadowland. We had to work like
beavers all the year round and our only leisure was on Sunday
afternoons, when we were allowed to visit the neighbor boys. At the end
of four years of such toil we had thirty acres cleared, on which we
raised wheat, rye, barley, potatoes, beans, and other vegetables.
In Hollandtown, where a stately brick church now stands, prior to
1855 a small church had been built. A priest used to visit our
settlement about once a month, the good man being obliged to walk all
the way from Little Chute, a distance of about fifteen miles, over most
horrible roads. Every Sunday we had religious services. As the church
had neither steeple nor bell the blowing of a horn announced the time
for religious services. An old man named Van der Hey used to give out
the prayers and read a short sermon. The men and boys sat on one side of
the church and the women and girls on the other. The women used to wear
those queer Holland-fashioned dresses and some had gold earnings. Nearly
all of them came to church in their wooden shoes. A man named Verhulst
was doorkeeper and woe to the luckless canine that happened to get into
the church. Verhulst would grab him in his giant hands and drag him out
of the church, the poor dog howling loudly. Once outdoors Verhulst would
swing the dog in a circle and hit him against the church, the animal
meanwhile is howling for mercy. When finally released the unfortunate
dog would take care to avoid the vicinity of the church in future. Of
course such proceedings did not serve to increase the gravity and
attentive devotion of the youngsters.
Whenever the Father came
from Little Chute there was always a great rush to get to him first to
make one's confession. I think if any of our non-Catholic people had
been present on such an occasion and had seen how we fairly raced to get
to the priest first, they would have concluded that confession after all
is not so difficult an ordeal as some of those outside the church have
imagined it to be. I will now give the names of some of the people I
recall who were at Hollandtown and its vicinity in the period from 1855
to 1860: Van den Berg, Verkuilen, Kobussen, Verhulst, Van den Loop,
Ballard, Beach, Fink, Eittings, Verkamp, Van der Jagt, Loftus, Curtin,
Malloy, Glachine, Sievers, Kersten, Rolf, Kordsmeier, de Bruin, School,
Hoevenaar, Tillemans, Van Aerts, Hintermeister; besides these there were
many others whose names I cannot now remember.
My countrymen used
to have an occasional jollification. There was, for instance, the
carnival entertainment just before Lenten fast. After mass was over they
would betake themselves to the home of Mr. Van den Berg. The house was a
large building for those primitive days, and there they would dance--the
younger generation, of course--all day till sundown, when all would go
home. Night dancing was never carried on, and I believe the present
generation religiously follows this custom of their grandparents; that
is, they dance only during the day, and every decent woman and girl is
supposed to be at home before dark.
Our people also had a guild,
that is, a certain kind of society at the head of which were a king and
a queen for the year. On an appointed day all the members would meet at
the chosen rendezvous to shoot down the wooden bird, made every tough
material, placed at the top of a high pole like a flagstaff. Sometimes
it took much shooting to bring down the last piece of the wooden bird,
whereupon the lucky marksman would be proclaimed king, with the
privilege of choosing a queen and getting a large silver heart made
which he was to wear during the year as a token of his royal dignity. Of
course innocent day dancing and other jollification were indulged in by
the younger generation on this great day.
Occasionally we heard
of a fight, or of some poor fellow becoming tipsy, but nothing more
serious than that occurred. There was universal good will among all and
towards all. Our neighbors lived the simple life of hardworking,
religious, God-fearing people. From time to time they gathered on Sunday
afternoon at the house of some neighbor, where the men played cards and
took an occasional drink from a jug of liquor; the women, meantime,
sipped their tea or coffee and chatted over household affairs and
current news; while the boys found amusement in innocent games. Such
entertainments fostered friendly neighborly feelings and promoted good
will in the community. Indeed, in the four years I spent on the farm
from 1855--60 I do not recall a single instance of a man or woman being
arrested for disorderly conduct.
At house raisings and marriage
feasts there would be some liquor consumed and all kinds of fun indulged
in, but all with a neighborly feeling and not for the mere indulgence of
drinking. When I recall my boyhood days in Wisconsin sixty or more years
ago, I feel a certain regret that they are gone, never to return. It
seems to me that people are now becoming too civilized, and their life
is too artificial and filled with too much sham.
In those days
bears, deer, raccoons, and wild pigeons abounded. In some years pigeons
could be seen on the ground and in the air by millions, but alas! Man's
greed has exterminated thee wild pigeons. Year by year they become
scarcer until now I believe there is not a single one in the whole
length and breadth of the United States We have exterminated the pigeon
as we have exterminated the buffalo, and as we are fast exterminating
the deer, elk, whitefish, and lake trout. The white man's philosophy
seems to be summed up in Mark Twain's observation when told that we
should provide for posterity: "Provide for posterity! Do something for
posterity! What has posterity done for us?" In those days bears were
plentiful and occasionally they paid unwelcome visits to the farmers'
cornfields and pigpens. They were fond of pork and would often catch a
squealing pig and make away with him to the woods to enjoy a hearty
meal.
One day--it was on a Sunday and the people had all gone to
church--a big bear invaded the precincts of Mrs. Van der Heide of
Hollandtown. Hearing the squeals of one of her pigs, Mrs. Van der Heide
rushed out of the house and saw a bear trying to carry one of them away.
The animal was attempting to pull the struggling porker over a rail
fence. In this he failed, however, for Mrs. Van der Heide, forgetting
all fear, grabbed the hind feet of the pig and pulled with might and
main while the bear, growling fiercely on the other side of the fence,
did likewise. It was a pitched battle between the undaunted woman and
the bear for the ownership of the pig, but at length the woman won. She
told her little boy to take a stick and hit the bear on his hind legs.
The bear growled fiercely but had to give up. Mrs. Van der Heide save
pig, but the animal had to be butchered as it was so badly lacerated by
the teeth of the bear. Everyone wondered at the courage of the woman and
that the bear did not attack her. Let her name be immortalized in the
annals of Wisconsin!
Occasionally an Indian would pay us a visit,
although I never saw one in the village itself. The neighbors advised us
not to give them anything when they came to beg for something to eat,
for if we once gave them food they would come again and again. I
considered their well-meant advice heartless. Mother, too, pitied the
poor people when they would come asking for something to eat. I remember
perfectly one occasion when she gave a hungry Indian a whole loaf of
bread. He asked for a knife and cut off a slice two or more inches thick
to eat immediately. One time the Father in Little Chute had several
guests at table, among them an Indian. When the meat was passed to the
latter he emptied the whole dish into his bag thinking that it now
belonged to him. The other guests were not particularly pleased with the
procedure, but the thing was done, and they had to make out their dinner
as best they could.
Another time mother had made some homemade
beer, which consisted of hops, water, and molasses boiled in the wash
boiler. This time the brew proved to be a failure. We had some neighbors
as guests on Sunday afternoon, and some of this homemade product was
served them, but very little of it was drunk for it was fearfully
bitter. An Indian happened to come along, and mother offered him some of
it, but after taking some of it in his mouth he spat it out. Mother
afterwards threw away the remainder of the beer. Next day I was working,
planting or hoeing potatoes near a creek that ran through our land.
Suddenly I heard mother screaming at the top of her voice, I ran up to
the house to see what was the matter. On reaching it I found four
Indians on horseback who said they had come to drink beer of which their
comrade--the Indian of yesterday--had told them. We explained to them
that we had thrown it all away because it was not good. Father, who was
working near by for a neighbor, hearing mother's loud call came running
with pitchfork intent on defending his wife and children, but luckily he
was not needed, the Indians laughing good-naturedly at the poor man's
simplicity in thinking to fight four Indians with a pitchfork.
A
neighbor of ours, a distant relative, Martin School by name, lived some
three miles away in a deep valley, or rather ravine through which a
creek ran. One night he heard some noise near the creek and thinking it
was a deer coming to drink he tried to shoot it. His gun, which was one
of the old, fashioned kind, failed to go off, and so he went back in the
dark to his house to fix it. In a moment in rushed an Indian in a
terrible rage, exclaiming: "You want to shoot Indian! Shoot Indian!" The
Poor man tried to make the Indian understand that he was very
near-sighted and that he had thought it was a deer drinking at the
creek. Gradually the Indian comprehended his explanation, which was
given more by signs and motions than by words. The red man's anger
gradually died away but he insisted on having a dance then and there.
Probably he had imbibed too much firewater somewhere. So School had to
do the singing and clapping with his hands to keep time, while the
Indian danced around on the floor until finally he became tired and
departed.
On one occasion in the wintertime my oldest brother,
Martin, who used to work every winter in the pineries near Green Bay to
help support the family, was walking along when he came upon a drunken
Indian. The latter insisted on dancing with him immediately. Martin had
never danced in all his life and, in fact, knew no more about dancing
than the man in the moon, but dance he must, for the Indian demanded it
and to refuse might cost him his life. So the two jumped around it the
snow on the road, yelling as loudly as they could to keep time and
moving about like two inmates of a lunatic asylum My brother began to
get tired of this strenuous exercise, but he dared not stop for fear of
the Indian's gun. At length the Indian suddenly started off and Martin
gladly took the opposite route.
The roads in those primitive days
were generally poor, often in miserable condition. The only good one I
knew of was the military Road from Fond du Lac to Green Bay. It was a
plank road from the county line between Calumet and Brown counties to
Green Bay, a distance of about twenty-four miles. The south end of the
road--not planked through Calumet County to Fond du Lac-- was fairly
good, considering the general condition of Wisconsin roads in those
days, but it was very poor when compared with the public roads of the
present time. Two or three times in my boyhood days I went to Green Bay
on this plank road; the first time with my father about the year 1857.
My brother had earned a little over $200 in the pinery north of Green
Bay, but instead of the cash had received only a note, or check, for his
pay. He had left the check with Timothy Howe [Note: Timothy Otis Howe,
who was born in Maine in 1816, came to Wisconsin in 1845 and opened a
law office at Green Bay. He was circuit judge from 1850 to 1855, when he
resigned and retired to private practice until his election in 1861 to
the United States Senate. He was twice reelected and was tendered the
positions of chief justice of the United States and of minister to
England, both of which he declined. In 1881 he was appointed
postmaster-general and while an incumbent of that office died, Mar. 25,
1883.] in Green Bay for collection. I went along with father to act as
interpreter on this occasion; but we made a long journey of some fifty
miles going and returning for nothing. Ever since then I have felt
rather unkindly toward lawyers. The second occasion was about a year
later when I went to call Martin Van den Broek, then working in Green
Bay, to the funeral of his father. The latter had died from the effects
of partaking too freely of ice-cold water while assisting in haymaking
at Ballard's farm. On this occasion I walked continuously for
twenty-four hours, going to Green Bay in the daytime and returning to
Hollandtown the ensuing night, a total distance of about fifty miles.
The most wretched road I remember was the one from Hollandtown to
Kaukauna, or Kaukaulo, as it was then called. This road followed no
particular town or section line but zigzagged through the woods. There
were innumerable mud holes; each one apparently worse than the rest, and
no attempt had been made to improve the road. It struck the river bottom
not far from Beaulieu's Mill and then continued up the river to the dam,
above which people would cross the river to the village of Kaukaulo.
This consisted of some half a dozen houses in addition to a stroke kept
by Hunt. On the south side of the river there were in 1855 only two
settlers; one was Beaulieu, an Indian, or half-breed, who had a small
farm and a gristmill [Note: Paul H. Beaulieu settled on the south side
of Fox River in 1835 and purchased the mill that had been erected by the
government for the Stockbridge Indians. He died at Kaukauna in 1850. His
son Bazil was a partner in the mill, and in 1842 first clerk of the town
of Kaukauna. In 1871 the Beaulieu property was sold for a paper-mill
site, and in 1878 Bazil removed to White Earth, Minn., where he died in
1894.]; the other was Sanders, a Dutchman, who had a large farm across
the river from Hunt's store.
One time a Dutchman named Jan den
Dickken (John the Thick, John the Fat) wanted to buy some pork at Hunt's
store. Someone had told him he should ask for pig's pork. When he told
Hunt what he wanted, the latter did not understand him. Finally,
thinking that John wanted to buy a pitchfork, he brought some samples of
the latter article for him to choose from. "No, No! Pick pork!" replied
John the Fat. Luckily a pig chanced to run by the door, whereupon John
pointed at it, at the same time making a motion with his knife as if he
wanted to cut off a piece. Thus assisted Hunt at length comprehended the
fat Dutchman's request.
In those days it was sometimes difficult
to obtain provisions. For some time our nearest store was Hunt's at
Kaukauna, eight or nine miles away. After some years Bertus Van den Berg
opened a store at Hollandtown, and then we were no longer compelled to
travel through mud and slush to Kaukauna to procure the necessaries and
conveniences of life. Before our arrival at Hollandtown things had been
still worse. Some of the settlers actually had to carry sacks of flour
on their backs all the way from Green Bay to Hollandtown, a distance of
about twenty-four miles. I remember vividly an incident of my own
boyhood days. Father and I carried a sack of grain, either wheat or rye,
I have forgotten which, on our backs to Beaulieu's gristmill about a
mile or so below the dam opposite Hunt's store. It was a trip of some
sixteen miles going and coming, over horrible roads. We were compelled
to make this trip three times before we got our grains ground.
After a time things grew more convenient. In the wintertime farmers near
Fond du Lac used to take loads of flour to Green Bay, a distance of
about sixty-five miles. Of course they would gladly sell their whole
load somewhere on the way if they could fine a buyer. John Kobussen, our
rich neighbor, occasionally bought one or more loads of flour and then
disposed of it to his neighbors.
There was a stopping place at
Dundas, about one mile from our place, kept by an enterprising American
named Beach, the father of a large family of boys. He kept the post
office and had a large, well-cultivated farm. At his place most of the
travelers and flour sellers were in the habit of stopping. He was about
twenty-five years ahead of his surrounding neighbors with respect to his
buildings and other improvements. On one occasion a Hollander asked
Beach to give him the post-office address in full, in order that he
might send it to his Boston relatives. Beach wrote: "Send your letters
to Dundas Post Office, Calumet County, Wis." Thereafter the Boston
correspondent would always address his letters to his Wisconsin relative
thus: "Mr. Henry Fink, send your letters to Dundas Post Office, Calumet
County, Wis." Naturally the queer address caused much merriment among
the postmasters. Another enterprising Yankee, a regular New Englander,
was Ballard, a good-hearted industrious bachelor. I often worked for
him, for he lived only half a mile from our place. In spring and fall
especially, he would hire "the general," as he delighted to call me, to
help him plant or dig potatoes and do other light work. He kept his
house scrupulously clean and tidy and had periodicals and newspapers and
quite a library. With "the general" he would discuss all kinds of
questions, occasionally urging me to hurry up when I paid more attention
to my employer's talk than to my work. He doubtless conceived a liking
for me because I was fond of reading and he had a large number of
well-chosen books, which I delighted to read. Road making was carried on
in those days in rather primitive fashion. The citizens would vote a
certain amount of road tax at the regular town meeting, or Election Day.
The farmers elected a "path master" who had charge of the road in a
certain district. When the time came to work on them, he would send
notice to all the taxpayers within his district to come on a certain day
to the place appointed to work on the road. The farmers would meet,
perhaps at nine o'clock in the morning, with axes, shovels, and grub
hoes and begin to build a corduroy bridge over some creek, throwing over
the logs a few shovels full of dirt; or, if there was a mud hole to be
filled up, they would cut some green brush, throw it into the hole, and
scatter over it a few shovels of earth and lo! The road was fixed. More
than once I have worked on the road and though but a boy of fifteen to
seventeen years I believe I did more work than the average farmer when
working out his road tax. I traveled very little during my boyhood. I
went a few times to Green Bay, Appleton, and Little Chute. As to Depere
I have no distinct recollection, although of course I must have passed
through it on my way to Green Bay. In those days we called the place
"Rapides des Peres," which was afterwards abbreviate to Depere. The
ancient name, a French appellation, was derived from the fact that from
1672 to about the year 1720 the Jesuit Fathers had a house of their
order and a church there.
In a letter dated at Green Bay, June
11, 1831, Right Reverend Bishop Fenwick of Cincinnati speaks of Reverend
Mazzuchelli as having traveled with him from Mackinac to Green Bay; also
of Mrs. Dousman [Note: For a sketch of Mrs. Dousman see Wis, Hist.
Colls., XIX, 105, note 42.], a pious Catholic widow. I met the latter
later on in Keshena in 1866 where she was then a teacher, perhaps also a
government interpreter to some extent. She acted as interpreter for me
also, and I never saw a woman so lively, energetic, and expressive in
gesture and tone in her conversation. The Bishop also states in the
letter to which I have referred that he had chosen the site for a new
church halfway between Averino (Navarino) and Shantytown, for which two
acres of land had been promised. I remember passing through Shantytown
on my trips to Green Bay and hearing the people speak a language of
which I could not understand a word. I learned afterwards that they were
Belgian Walloons.
I made several trips to Appleton. On one of
them, I remember, I went with a neighbor of ours to get a load of grain
ground. Both Green Bay and Appleton seem to me to have been then about
the size of Bayfield at the present time. Little Chute was a rural
hamlet with from twelve to fifteen houses, a store belonging to John
Verstegen, and a long, low, and framed church on the bluff facing Fox
River. The majority of the farmers in that vicinity were Hollanders who
had come to America in 1848 and the following years.
Farming in
those days on land full of stumps and roots was conducted in very
primitive fashion. When a man had succeeded in cutting down the trees
and chopping them into logs of fourteen to sixteen feet in length, he
had to pile them up. This was a laborious task, especially if he had no
oxen or horses. I remember how, when I was a lad of about thirteen, we
had to work with might and main to roll up the heavy logs into piles to
burn. Father was a small man, below medium size, but Mother was a large
and strong woman and we boys had to work like little men. When the
difficult task of burning the logs and brush had been accomplished, we
cultivated the land thus wrested from the primitive forest.
For
the first two years we had no oxen and so were compelled to plow with
heavy grub hoes. Oftentimes our wrists would ache from digging and
working in the hard, rooty ground. We would hoe a great number of hills
in which to plant potatoes and corn. When the plants appeared above
ground it was necessary to hoe them again to kill the weeds and get the
crop to grow. Of course we had dig the potatoes with our heavy grub hoes
and stow them away in some kind of root house or cellar. It was hard,
slavish work throughout the entire year. There were no mowing machines,
and I remember seeing Father cut our grain with a sickle, such as was
used 4,000 years ago. The first improvement on the sickle was the
cradle, with which a good cradler might cut five acres in a day,
provided he had strong arms and an iron will. Haymaking was carried on
much as it had been in Old Testament times. Heat, fatigues, and sweat
were expended lavishly in procuring food for the stock. In spite of the
want of modern machinery, however, the farms grew in size and value year
by year. First, five to ten acres of stumpy and rooty land, a small log
house with wooden chimney and floor made of hewn logs or rough boards, a
small stable for the cattle, a pigpen, and a henhouse--such were the
rude beginnings of farm life in those days. However, things began
gradually to change for the better. Frame house and barn took the place
of the old log buildings; horses replaced the slow, patient oxen; the
roads became more fit for travel; board fences replaced those made of
rails; thus primitive Wisconsin developed into one of the most
prosperous states of the Union. This transformation was largely wrought
by the strong arm and tireless industry of the now-sometimes-despised
foreigner. The German, Dutch, and Irish immigrants dug our canals, built
our railroads, cleared our forests, and made a paradise of what was but
a few years before a dreary wilderness, the habitation of uncivilized
Indians and of wild animals.
In the summer of 1859 I determined
to train for the priesthood and began to study Latin, Greek, and French
under the instruction of our first pastor in Hollandtown, Reverend
Father Spierings. He was a countryman of mine and was also dear friend
whom I shall never forget. After the death of my father Reverend
Spierings sent me to the Seminary of St. Francis near Milwaukee to
continue my studies. A neighbor took me as far as Brothertown and from
there I walked all the way to Fond du Lac, arriving late in the evening
or rather in the night. If ever there was a tired boy, I was the one,
for I had walked twenty-five or thirty miles carrying a heavy grip. Next
day I took the train to Milwaukee and walked out to the Seminary, a
distance of about five or six miles. A Jew, a countryman, accosted me on
the sidewalk and, overflowing with suavity, smiles, and friendliness,
invited me to enter his store and urged me to buy a watch, but his
officiousness and excessive suavity made me distrust him.
I began
to surmise that he must be a Jew, a race of which I had heard so much at
home, and I told him I did not need a watch just then, nor anything
else. He then pressed me to buy at least a pair of suspenders, but
without avail, and I finally got away from my importunate Jewish
countryman.
My seminary days were passed during the stormy period
of our Civil War, 1861-65. I was drafted for service but I attempted to
be released on the plea of being a subject of the king of Holland. To
establish this fact I obtained from our Dutch consul in Milwaukee a
document about two feet square, the cost of which was $3. Armed with it
and with $300 in my pocket, partly procured at home and partly through
the efforts of kind friends, especially Father Gernbauer, I presented
myself at the provost marshal's office in Milwaukee. That officer
questioned me as to my parents and I told him that Father had taken out
his first citizenship papers in Boston; and that subsequently he had
voted in Wisconsin, as other aliens had done. I was thereupon most
solemnly declared to be a citizen of the United States, having been a
minor when I came into the country in 1848 and my Father having voted;
accordingly I was told to step into a side room to be examined. I was as
sound as a dollar and knew that I would not have any chance to escape
military duty on the score of physical ailments or defects. So I told
the marshal I would pay the commutation fee of $300, in order to be
absolved from military duty. I was then taken by a soldier to an
adjoining building where I paid my money and received a receipt
exempting me from military duty for three years. This document is still
preserved in the courthouse in Superior.
I walked back to the
Seminary in a very pensive mood. About three or four months later came
the spring election, and as I had paid $300 for my American citizenship
I thought I would go to the polls to vote. The voting lords recognized
that I was a stranger and some one challenged my right to vote,
requiring me to swear to my citizenship. I told them how I had been
drafted and been declared a citizen liable to military duty, and that I
had paid $300 commutation money to exempt me from military service.
Notwithstanding this the election board declared I was no citizen and,
therefore, had no right to vote. I was so deeply disgusted at this
manifest humbug and conceived so great a dislike for Uncle Same that I
did not take out my citizenship papers until about fifteen years later.
During my vacation time in the summer of 1862 I was working at a
neighbor's place helping to thresh grain. I believe it was the first
time I ever saw grain threshed with a machine instead of with the flail
as had always been done in my boyhood. While thus engaged there suddenly
came to us the startling report: "The Indians are coming! They are
killing the whites!" The threshing ceased instantly and every man
hastened home to get his gun to go to fight the Indians. I, too, hurried
home. Father was dead, and Mother and Brother Cornelius were the only
remaining members of the family. The latter was confined to the house on
account of a sore foot. Not having bullets or lead, I pounded some
pewter spoons into bullets and started for Hollandtown with loaded gun.
There all was in an uproar. People had abandoned their farms in terror
and dismay, some to hide in the woods, others to seek refuge in the
village. Reverend Van Luytelaar was then the pastor of the Hollandtown
congregation. His house was full of women with crying babies, many of
who were laid crosswise on his bed. All kinds of wild reports were in
circulation; some said that the Indians had been driven into a swamp and
surrounded; others had still wilder tales to relate.
I think it
was in the afternoon when we first heard of the Indians coming and
killing the white people. It was decided that after dark some men should
be posted on the outskirts of the town as sentinels to watch and report
any Indians that might be coming; others, myself amongst the rest, were
to go to the intersection of the Military and Kaukaulo roads and watch
there. It was a bright, moonlight night when my worthy neighbor,
Ballard, carrying two guns, and I wended our way homeward, for we were
hungry, not having eaten anything since noon. "Look out general," the
fat Yankee would say to me, what I would walk carelessly along, "look
out, general, walk as much as possible in the shade, not in the
moonlight. The Indians may see and shoot you." At length we posted
ourselves behind a fence near the road. Woe to the poor Indian, if he
had come along that way! He would have been shot down without mercy or
inquiry. Luckily no redskins showed themselves, and we finally got up
and went home.
After eating supper I went alone to the crossing
mentioned above. There was a small clearing near by in which I noticed a
fire burning. Probably the people had been burning brush and chips on
the land that afternoon and had fled into the woods or to town when news
of the Indian foray came. Seeing nothing suspicious I walked a few rods
from the road into the woods, stood my gun up against a tree, and lay
down and slept soundly until morning, for I was tired out by the day's
work and my trip to the village and return. I learned afterwards that
some men, who had been working on the Fox River Canal near Little Chute
and whose folks lived in or near Holland-town, had been on their way to
this village that night.
When they reached the intersection of
the Military Kaukaulo roads they saw the fire and all at once some pigs
began to squeal. "Oh! The Indians are there! See the fire! Hear the
pigs! They are killing everything!" And my brave countrymen ran at top
speed back to Little Chute to tell the terrified people there the
fearful news about the Indians' doings. "Of course they had not seen a
single Indian, but terror made them imagine all kinds of wild sights.
The next day the Indian scare which, I subsequent learned, extended all
over Wisconsin was over, and many a ludicrous story was told about what
had been done during the universal fright.
This scare on the part
of the people of Wisconsin, especially of those dwelling in the northern
part of the State, was not without some reason, for at that very time
Hole-in-the-Day had planned to attack Crow Wing, Minnesota, and kill the
whites there and in that vicinity. The project was frustrated by the
efforts of a venerable Catholic priest of seventy-seven years, Reverend
Father Pierz [Note: Francis Xavier Pierz was born in Carniola, Austria,
in 1785. At the request of Father Baraga, Pierz in 1835 came to the
United States and was a missionary at Sault Ste. Marie, La Pointe, and
l'Arbre Croche. In 1852 he removed to Crow Wing on the Mississippi where
he ministered until 1864. In 1873 he returned to his native land where
he died in 1880.] (Pirec was his Slavonian name) who induced
Hole-in-the-Day to give up his cruel design [Note: As the writers the
Minnesota massacre, either designedly or from ignorance do not mention
this fact, I will give the account as it is found in Acta et Dicta, III,
83--84, published by the St. Paul Catholic Historical Society:
"Through his [Rev. Pirec's] influence with the chiefs he frequently
averted wars and hostile expeditions among them. He prevented the
threatened massacre of the inhabitants of Crow Wing in 1862. From a
friendly Indian he received the information that the Red men of Leech
under the leadership of Chief Holeda were preparing to attack the above
named village. Father Pirec at once set out towards the camp in a dark
forest. When approaching the place were the council of war was held he
was halted by two heavily armed horsemen, who refused to let him pass
the "dead-line." The sentinels informed him that no white man was
allowed to pass alive beyond that spot. But as the good father insisted,
he was lifted bodily from the ground and carried across the danger
point. The chiefs were sullen and silent at the approach of the aged
black-robe; but after half an hour's convincing and serious talk on the
evils of war Pirec succeeded in showing them how useless it is for them
to wage war] against the whites. Holeda finally grasped the missionary's
hand and promised that the next day the chiefs would come to Crow Wing
to make peace. Matters were finally settled in an amicable manner the
following day." This is but a summary account of the affair. Many years
ago I read a more detailed description of it, but I cannot find it now.
There is no doubt that Father Pierz averted--at the danger of his own
life--the intended massacre of the whites at Crow Wing. He took his life
in his hands in daring to go to the hostile Indian camp. What saved him
from being killed was the respect they had for him, knowing him to be a
kind-hearted, good old man. None of the Indians, as he afterwards
declared, was Catholic. --C. A. V.].
On November 5, 1865 I was
ordained with many others and sent to New London, Wisconsin. The village
at that time was small and the inhabitants consisted of Americans,
Irish, Germans, and Poles. I think New London was not far from the site
of the ancient village of the "Oudagamig" after whom Outagamie County
has been named [Note: These Indians called themselves "Miskwakig," that
is, "Red Land People," probably from the fact that they inhabited a
country where red clay was the predominant soil. They were called by the
French, Reynards (Foxes), and their territory seems to have stretched
northward from Lake Winnebago and along the Wolf and Fox rivers. They
were constantly at war with the Chippewa and later on with the French.
Father Claude Allouez, S. J., first visited them early in the spring of
1670 and on March 25 of that year, St. Mark's Day, he said Mass at their
village for the first time and hence named the place "The Mission of St.
Mark." From Marquette's map of 1674 it appears that the village was
located on Wolf River about due west from the head of Green Bay at
Depere, which would indicate that it must have been somewhere in the
vicinity of New London.--C. A. V.]. I had the whole of Waupaca County
for my mission district and I was almost always on the road traveling
from one place to another. The people, mostly Irish, were very kind to
their priest and many a pleasant evening I spent with them, they telling
me about old Ireland and generally winding up their narratives with some
uncanny ghost story. A few days after my arrival in New London I had to
go to Waupaca, the county seat, to register my clergyman's certificate.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon when, on horseback and but thinly clad, I
started for Waupaca via Weyauwega, but the weather soon changed.
Shivering with cold I came to Weyauwega where I stayed over night. Next
morning I continued my journey, the weather being still very cold. On
the way the horse stumbled and fell, throwing me over his head on to the
frozen ground. Luckily no bones were broken but my wrists ached from
striking the hard ground with my hands. I rode on, however, and about
noon arrived at Waupaca. I put up at a hotel and after dinner called
upon the proper county official and had my certificate registered. Then
I started homeward via Ogdensburg, Royalton, and Northport to New
London. The weather was so cold that I was frequently forced to dismount
and walk in order to warm myself somewhat; then I would mount and ride
until the biting wind forced me again to take to walking. Finally, after
dark, I arrived at the house of Sullivan, near Royalton, where I stayed
over night. After a good warming up and an appetizing supper, I was
shown my bedroom. "Father," said Mrs. Sullivan, "not long ago a woman
died in that room and before she died she saw five ghosts coming into
it." A creeping sensation of terror came over me at this news of walking
spirits. I believe in all my life I never said my bedside prayers as
fervently as I did that night; but I was tired out by the hardships of
the day and when I got into the warm bed I slept as soundly as a bear,
and if ghostly visitors put in an appearance I did not notice them. Next
day I returned safe and sound to my residence, which consisted of a
couple of rooms in the second story of an old frame house. Later on I
built a small parsonage for myself near the church. Towards the end of
December, 1865 I went to Keshena via Bear Creek, Clintonville, and
Shawano, riding all the way on horseback and carrying my vestments in a
saddlebag. Here and there were small clearings and poor log houses. At
Clintonville I saw but one house in the midst of a small clearing.
Whether there was a village of the same name somewhere else, not on my
route, I cannot tell, but I believe not. At Shawano, which was then but
a mere hamlet, I stopped over night at the house of Doctor Wiley, who
was married to a daughter of Mrs. Dousman, a half-breed lady, one of
whose daughters was a governmental teacher at Keshena.
The
Menomonees were first visited by Father Allouez in 1669, and
subsequently by Father Andr�, S. J. Father Marquette, who stopped at
their village in 1673 on his voyage of discovery and exploration of the
Mississippi, says that some of them were Christians. They tried to
dissuade him from his intended exploration, depicting in most lively
fashion the many dangers which he would encounter [Note: See Reuben G.
Thwaites (ed.), Jesuit Relations (Cleveland, 1896-1901), LXIV to LXIX,
passim.]. In 1853 Reverend Father Skolla, O. S. Fr. St. Obs. went to
them and labored among them about two years [Note: Rev. Otton Skolla,
born in Carniola, Austria, in 1805, was ordained in 1831 and came to
America in 1841. He was stationed at Detroit in 1842; at Mackinac,
1843-45; and at La Pointe from the latter year to 1853. Thence he was
sent to the Menominee Indians for whom he built a chapel at Keshena,
Wis. Father Skolla died at Fiume, Austria, in 1879.]. They finally
turned against him for various superstitious reasons. Occasionally
Father Skolla played chess all by himself in his poor habitation, while
some distrustful Indians watched him stealthily through some window or
aperture in the wall. Seeing the chessmen of two different colors
arranged on the board, fighting one another as it were, they concluded
that the game was "bad medicine" used by the whites to exterminate the
red man. The Father had also a large cat to which at times he would talk
or say some words, and this again was interpreted as "bad medicine," for
how could a man converse with a cat if they did not understand each
other? At length a pagan Chippewa told them that the Father dug up the
bodies of the dead (I suppose also for "bad medicine") and, pointing to
a box on which he was sitting, asserted that it contained human flesh.
These absurd and malevolent stories turned the people against the priest
and he was obliged to leave in 1855, returning to his native land, where
he died many years later.
After Father Skolla's departure Father
Mazeaud [Note: Father was a French priest who officiated at Keshena,
1863-64. He was arrested and taken to Shawano where he was released and
departed for Milwaukee, never to return.] was stationed in Keshena,
where he became embroiled with the Indian agent and was arrested for
persisting, contrary to the agent's prohibition, in having church
services during a season of smallpox. At the time I visited the natives
in 1865 and in March 1866, they had had no divine service for some
years. The first time I visited Keshena I stayed for some days at the
house of the Indian agent, who treated me very kindly. The second time,
in March, I stayed at the house of Mrs. Dousman, who acted as my
interpreter. Later on Father Maschelein [Note: Father Amandus Maschelein
was at Keshena from 1875 until 1880. He built the Catholic Church for
the Menominee in 1875. He did not know their language and obliged to
communicate through an interpreter. In September, 1880 the Franciscans
from St. Louis arrived and the aged priest, Maschelein, retired.] had
charge of the Menominee mission for many years, but as he was getting
old and infirm the mission was finally given in charge to the Franciscan
Fathers. They continue to labor there, having a large frame church and
boarding school for Indian children not far from the government school.
In 1868 I was sent by Right Reverend Bishop--afterwards
Archbishop-Henni [Note: John Martin Henni was born in Switzerland in
1805; in 1829 he met Bishop Fenwick of Ohio at Rome, and at his
solicitation came to America. Shortly afterwards he was ordained at
Bardstown, Ky. In 1843 he was elected bishop of Milwaukee, and having
been consecrated, preceded to his diocese, where he arrived May 3, 1844.
He became archbishop in 1875, and his death occurred Sept. 7, 1881.] of
Milwaukee to Hudson. Here I had a large territory under my care, namely,
St. Croix, Polk, and Pierce counties, my mission extending from Long
Lake in Polk County to Diamond Bluff, about fifteen miles below
Prescott. The principal places were Hudson, Prescott, Big River,
Somerset, and Farmington.
Hudson was at that time (1868-72) a
thriving town with a good farming country adjacent. Before the railroad
was built into it the farmers from Erin Prairie, New Richmond, Hammond,
Pleasant Valley, and other places used to haul their grain to Hudson and
do their trading there. I think the railroad took much of this trade
away as thereafter people brought their grain to the nearest railroad
station and did their trading at that place.
There are two St.
Croix lakes, the upper and the lower. The upper lake extends from Solon
Springs--formerly White Birch--to Gordon. The Chippewa name is
Wigwassikag (Wig-wau-se-kaug), which means a place where there are many
white birch trees. They call St. Croix River "Manominikeshi Sibi
[Man-no-me-ne-kesh-e-Se-be]," Wild Rice Bird, or Snipe, River. The lower
St. Croix Lake, from Stillwater to Prescott, where it empties into the
Mississippi River, is called by the Indians "Gigo-Agomod
[Ge-go-Aug-o-mod]. [Note: This signifies "something floating."]" An
Indian told me the following legend concerning this lake. In the olden
time, before the advent of the palefaces, two Indians were hunting on
the shores of the Lake. Evening came and they had nothing to eat except
two fish, which one of them had caught. "Friend," said he to his
companion, "take one of the fish to eat." "Never mind," replied the
other, "tomorrow we will get some game. When I eat fish, I become very
thirsty and can't stop drinking." At length, however, he yielded to his
friend's request and ate one of the fish. He became very thirsty and
during the night his companion had to go frequently to the lake and
fetch water in a birch-bark vessel; this the thirsty man would hastily
drink and fall asleep again. In a short time, however, he would awake
and call for more water. Finally, his companion grew tired and fell
asleep. His friend awaking called out to him to get more water, but
being sound asleep the water carrier did not hear the request; so the
thirsty Indian arose and going to the edge of the lake lay down and
drank to his heart's content. When his friend awoke he missed his
thirsty companion and immediately went down to the lake. But lo! There
was no more water in it! The thirsty hunter had drunk all the water,
only here and there could be seen some pools of muddy water where some
fish were floating about; hence the Chippewa name.
At a very
early day there was a French fort or trading post up the St. Croix
River, at the mouth of Yellow River, probably built about the year 1686.
I suppose it was the French traders who named the stream "St. Croix
[Holy Cross] River. [Note: The fur-trade post on Yellow River was built
much later than the author thinks. It was established in the latter part
of the eighteenth century. See report of a trader there in 1803-4 in
Wis. Hist. Colls., XX, 396-471. There were, however, seventeenth-century
trading posts on the St. Croix-Brule waterway. Duluth took this route in
1680 and may have established a temporary post at upper St. Croix Lake.
Le Sueur had trading posts to protect this waterway in 1693. See id.,
XVI, 173, note 1.St. Croix River was named for an early coureur de bois
of that name who was wrecked at its mouth. Ibid., 185-86.] "
In
1872 I was sent to Seneca, Crawford County, a hamlet of about a dozen
houses some twenty-two miles north of Prairie du Chien. The people,
about 130 Irish families, were industrious and well behaved, most of
them being farmers. I was the first resident priest, the place having
previously been attended by the priest from Rising Sun. During my
six-year stay there I built a church and a parsonage. Oftentimes I used
to go to Prairie du Chien to visit my clerical friends there. Through
the generosity of John Lawler a large college was bought and liberally
endowed, and a large academy for Notre Dame Sisters established [Note:
John Lawler was born in Ireland, May 4, 1832; he came to America at the
age of four and at fifteen entered the railway construction business.
When the first railroad reached Prairie du Chien in 1857 he was
appointed station agent and two years later general agent. Lawler
accumulated a fortune in the transportation business, building in 1874
the pontoon bridge across the Mississippi; he was liberal patron of
education and was awarded by the pope the knighthood of St. Gregory. He
died Feb. 24, 1891. St. Mary's Institute for girls was founded in 1872
on the grounds of old Fort Crawford. The college of the Sacred Heart
founded about the same time is now a training school for the Jesuit
Order.]. Both institutions are in a flourishing condition and are doing
a noble educational work. Lawler was a noble-hearted, energetic,
self-made man and a model Catholic. While in Seneca I became acquainted
with Walter Fardy, a bright young man, who was then teaching school
somewhere in the vicinity. He studied for the priesthood, was ordained,
and subsequently was stationed at New Richmond and Superior. For many
years he was vicar-general of the diocese of Superior; he died last
autumn in West Superior, where he was buried. As the Indians of the La
Crosse diocese had had no resident priest for three years (1875-78)
Bishop Heiss, then bishop of La Crosse but afterwards archbishop of
Milwaukee [Note: Michael Heiss was born in Bavaria, April 17, 1812. He
was ordained at Munich in 1840, and two years later came to the United
States. In 1844 he went to assist Bishop Henni at Milwaukee, and in 1868
was made bishop of La Crosse. In 1880 Bishop Heiss became coadjutor of
Archbishop Henni, whom the next year he succeeded. He died at La Crosse,
March 26, 1890.], requested me to go to the Lake Superior country. I
arrived at Bayfield on June 19, 1878 and for about half a year had
charge of this place, and also of La Pointe (Madeleine Island) and Bad
River Reservation.
The whites first visited the region at the
western end of Lake Superior about the year 1659 [Note: The date of the
visit of the first white explorers of Lake Superior, Radiss
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