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Volume 6 January, 1904 No. 4


     James Duffield's family was strictly Presbyterian. Husband and wife were born, reared and married in Pennsylvania, in the thick of that religious excitement which carried away the country under the leadership of Lorenzo Dow and Peter Cartwright. The wonderful things accomplished by these men, and the remarkable experiences of their converts, some of whom were the neighbors of the Duffields, were the usual subjects of the conversation I first remember. Father was by training and temperament rather indifferent, until a time later than that of which I speak, 1837 to 1842. Such, however, was the family conviction that each felt less fear of wild beast or savage that he might encounter somewhere in the woods, than of a personal devil or a real lake of fire. So, scarcely had the family become fixed in its new cabin home, when it sought public spiritual intercourse. The settling of five or six families on the west side of the Des Moines river in 1837, supplied the numbers, and the common enthusiasm aided the religious spirit from which came an earnest concentrated movement toward an assemblage for public worship. The essential elements lacking were a minister, and a building. A friend visiting Samuel Clayton, Hill by name, supplied the first of these wants, and as

The groves were God's first temples,

     so in our neighborhood, in August, 1837, upon the right bank of the Des Moines river at the point touched first by the settlers, a few hundred yards above the mouth of Chequest creek, there was selected our "first temple", since known as "The old church tree." Since the land came into my possession from the Des Moines river improvement company, I have carefully preserved this tree as did Samuel Clayton who owned it first.
     And so, "It was given out" that there "would be meetin' at the comin' out of the ford Sabbath day next," and our family's preparation for and attendance at this meeting may be of interest. Sunday was literally a day of rest. Provision against labor both within and without the cabin was always carefully made. The work of rail-making, chopping, deadening, grubbing, brush and log-heaping, persistently engaged in by father, two grown sons and two "chunks of boys," from morning till night even in August, was suspended Saturday morning. Father, taking old Ketch, the flint lock rifle, and the hunting knife, disappears into the woods. Mother has likely begun the clipping of boys' hair, with no less than five or six of them for her task. Fire wood, never supplied far in advance, is now provided for the extra occasion by some of the boys. Presently, at a distance the sharp crack of a rifle. Then a pow wow, as to whether it was father's. The dispute ends by referring the question to mother, who withholds her judgment knowing that another shot will afford a better chance to determine. Soon it came. Then another wrangle and wild gestures by way of expressing our belief that this last shot sounded like the first and that its direction was toward "the little bottom," or the "Cedar bluff." This clamor ends with another report and, mother having given us all the good that can come of such discussion, ends the controversy by saying definitely, not only whether it was father's rifle, but if not to whom it belonged. It is a remarkable truth that our rural citizens today no more clearly distinguish the tones of their own farm bells, or our city friends the peals from their own church steeples, than did the families of the settlers the reports of their several rifles. The different reports this morning tell that more than one family in the country is getting ready for Sunday, and when father came in, about noon, he had only done that which may have been done by each neighbor. Skill at that time was in the shooting rather than in the finding of game, which was plenty. Within four or five miles and within a few hours, he had provided abundantly, bringing either a pheasant or a wild turkey. Hanging them on their proper pins on the north side of the cabin and the gun on the antlers over the mantel, he came out of doors and sat down to await his turn under the shears. He directs Jim and me to mount "old Jule" and go into the woods for the rest of the game. The skill developed by settlers in directing each other, and in following directions, through the pathless and unblazed woods now seems to me remarkable. Accustomed to the natural appearance of the woods, however, the settler's eye instantly detected anything out of the ordinary. A sharp sense of distance and direction was developed. So, on account of the hot weather, and these traits found even in the boys, father was more specific in urging haste than in describing our objective point.
     "Be peart, now," he would say. "Go up the creek bed from the big rock to the white clay bluff, up the ridge, around the. hollow to the right, and between the dead elm pole in the opening north and the hanging jack oak limb I broke west of it; the deer is in the May apples." With the "big rock" as the only known mark, the rest was explicit, except as to distance, and this didn't matter. Two boys, a blind mare and a hound. Could they go into the woods from three to five miles and find a deer that had been hidden from wolf and Indian? Were they only to follow the general course they could tell when within a few yards by the peculiar motion of old Jule's ears and nostrils. The exact spot was always pointed out by old Ketch stopping in his wide range through the woods to make a short circle and sniff among the May apples. He had helped to hide, and now he helped to find the deer. As the horns were "in the velvet" at this time of the year, father would skin out the head and leave it on the ground. The odor did not induce the greatest composure on old Jule's part, and if otherwise inclined to be quiet, the deer's hoofs gouged into her flanks by the boys trying to lift it to her withers, would set her dancing. So by the time we had the deer and ourselves ready to ride back, the blue gray coat of the deer, the old mare's back and sides, and the clothing of the boys were all covered with gore. In winter the deer would have been hung up out of doors and removed piece by piece from the skin as needed by the family. But in August a different course must be pursued. So this Saturday, the heart and liver, likely, served respectively as supper and breakfast next morning. The rest of the carcass, cleaned and quartered, was hung on the shady side of the cabin. The fat from the entrails and other portions was carefully dressed out, and put into the big kettle out of doors. As quickly as convenient after father returned from the woods, boys were sent to the nearest neighbors to see whether any of the venison were needed. In almost incredible time these neighbors, if they wished the meat, appeared upon the scene, and took away their choice. If any boy messenger came this way to our house, it was the almost involuntary thought that his father had venison that would be wasted if we did not help use it. In such case old Jule was brought into use quickly, and the trail to the neighbor's taken forthwith. On arrival, each was given his selection from the proper number of cuts, the settler who provided it generously refusing to appropriate any part until all but his had been removed. And so father always returned this common favor; the time and task of procuring the game were compensated by his retaining the skin and the tallow, these often being more necessary than the flesh itself. If the venison was not all needed, then came the labor of curing the portions remaining. Long, thin, slender strips were cut, though the width did not matter much. There was a wooden beam across the top of the fire-place, supporting the front of the chimney in place of an arch. Large nails were driven into this from the inner side, so that the heads protruded several inches into the draft. On these nails, or on slender sticks suspended by strips of bark from the end nails in the beam described, would be hung these strips of venison. I have seen the upper two-thirds of that old fire place draped with the fringe of flesh. On the hearth, much farther out than even the fore-stick usually lay, would be piled green hickory, chips and chunks, and the heavy sluggish film of smoke slowly rose among the red strips, now drawing into and up the chimney, then weaving outward into the room and obscuring them, but always keeping off the flies. This, I supposed, was the only purpose of the process, for when the fire became low, the first thing we boys would hear about it would be from mother. "BOYS, take care—the flies." Which meant that we must bestir ourselves for fuel. An awkward move might knock a piece or the whole row of pieces into the ashes; too much fire might scorch it. It made little difference. At the end of the process it was "jerk," and no jerk was bad. It was a universal necessity. Being proof against dirt, insect and water, it was the hunter's lunch; being right at hand where he had either to take it down or spit tobacco on it, it was refreshment for many a frontier beau; many a restless child during long sermons was bribed with it into quiet, and babes cut their teeth upon it. Inside and out of the cabin, all has been a bustle. Some firing the tallow kettle, others dressing game, some doing one thing, some another, but not an idle minute for a single hand. The last of the special Saturday tasks was to clean the kettle and scrub the floor. The tallow rendered out the kettle was partly filled with water, and a shovel of ashes put in. Boiling it, there was little more to do than to empty it to have the kettle clean. Then it was filled, the water heated and with some more ashes and a hand shaved hickory broom the cabin floor underwent a dressing worthy of the name. Fragments and particles there often were, of bark, rotten wood, lint, worm casts and leaf mold in a settler's cabin, even in or on his food; but dirt never. It was annihilated Saturday afternoons. So was the use of stools or chairs for any luckless barefoot boy who dared to "track up" that floor. While the women and children have been otherwise engaged, father has placed the fragment of a mirror as a chink between the logs out doors and with a great broad bladed razor, lather from home made soap and with a home made brush, proceeds to shave. This brush was his own handiwork. Hogs of that day supplied immense bristles. Selecting a handful of the best, their soft ends would be laid even, and with the fresh sinew of a deer; they would be wound and bound together from about two inches, back toward the butts. When done there was a good big sheaf of them made into a complete brush, with handle, and of great endurance. Strops were seldom other than of crude home made leather, and not fit to bring the razor to "an aidge." How many times this was only done by bringing the family bible into use. How many frontier bibles may be misread in days to come; their worn backs translated 'piety" instead of "poverty." The evening closed over the settlement, with every hearth made ready for the first true Sabbath, the advent of church going on the frontier.
     Breakfast at the same early hour, on cold corn pone instead of fritters usually, and deer liver broiled on the coals. A toilet completed on a scale never before attempted. That is, every one in the family was washed, combed, and dressed at the same time. This may be better understood when I say, first, that on this grand occasion not one wore buck skin, while never on week days, did less than three or four wear it. And I can add, too, to make the toilet better understood, that at or about this time the youngest three or four of us were habitually sent into the woods on the approach of strangers, because of the lack of garments on our forms. For months, one old musk-rat cap served the youngest three boys. The earliest riser wearing it, and the others going barehead. And on this dress (full dress) occasion, it is worth the trouble to describe the costumes.
     I can see them now. I could describe all but mother's. She then dressed like her daughters and other pioneer women, but lived to don the best of wear, and grace it too. To deck her out in frontier style now seems a sacrilege. All the girls wore cotton gowns of the same stuff as their bonnets, and as the boys shirts, the difference was such as only the inherent taste and skill of woman could devise from the means at hand. The fabric was bought in bolts, and was white, but after it underwent all the possible alterations of color to be obtained from the use of walnut bark and hulls, chamber lye, copperas, sumac, indigo and madder, each girl was furnished a separate hue, and each boy an appropriate color. The suit I wore I thought had ruined me, for the next day when I went in my soft buckskin breeches and white cotton shirt to the swimming hole, I found the color and perspiration of the day before had stained my skin, while the jeans had taken hold of my leather-polished legs like hooks of steel. Going to meeting all sat flat in the bottom of the wagon, except father and mother, who sat in chairs. The girls and younger boys all wore bonnets, and every bonnet was a golden crown. It seems to me every settler's bonnet was yellow. And when father, sitting upright, whip in hand, got the oxen under way, the waving, nodding bunch of bonnets looked indeed unique. Father's figure is to be described as a type of the settler, and is not unlike the popular representations of "Uncle Sam" in outline. A tall bell-crowned, black fur hat; a stock that kept his chin in air; a "dicky" hiding the flannel shirt front; coat and trousers of blue home-made jeans, and boots of great size and strength. And final mark of gala day attire, the fawn-skin "wescot" or vest. This, from the skin of the beautiful spotted fawns we killed, made a handsome addition to an otherwise appropriate costume (hardly, though, for the month of August). Out on the trail toward the ford, the oxen swing along in a really graceful, and not slow gait, keeping their heels out of the way of the wagon wheels going down one grade, and humping and squirming under the lash going up the next. Finally, on the river bank, where other settlers have already congregated, father directs the oxen in and out among the trees merely with a "gee" and "haw," and at last into the edge of a walnut's shade. John unhitches the oxen from the wagon, and drives them, like those of the other settlers, into the woods. The yellow bonnets and blue jeans breeches each looks out for herself and himself, respectively. One thing, however, must be remarked. Father, all deference to mother in our cabin home, now leaves her after frontier fashion to look after herself and baby, not even lending her a hand down from the wagon. Mother passes the baby to Maria, who, with the boys, has sprung to the ground. She then goes toward the group of women under the tree, while the boys and girls scatter among the children of their age and acquaintance.
     Presently the preacher, a Baptist, to which denomination the Claytons belonged, strode down toward the water's edge, and, turning toward the rising bank, took off his hat and laid it at his feet. In loud, clear, monotone, with slow movement and quaint inflection, he lines out:
Think O my soul! The dreadful day
When this incensed God—
chopping off the last word and "raising the tune" of Dunlap's creek. The women, in imitation, are just drawling out the sonorous "Gawd," when he strikes "rend" in
Shall rend the skies and burn the seas
And fling his wrath a-broad!
     What were, when he began, a number of scattered squads, now took the form of moving individuals. From the shady spots came the older men; from the wagons above the bank, and from the canoes which brought many from up, down and across the river, came younger men and boys all toward the white haired figure. The women who had sat bonneted beneath the tree, bared their heads. The elderly men walked down and sat apart from the women. Each one carefully selected his spot, composed himself as best he could, and after a pause which was never omitted, and for which I could never account, slowly and deliberately removed his hat. This custom, indulged in by the younger men as well, of entering the congregation, taking seat, and awaiting the beginning of the service before baring the head, was common even in a much later day. This first service was, like all such events in a sparsely settled country, widely heralded and largely attended. There were perhaps a hundred people, including many Indians. These, after the settlers all took places, gathered, standing, around the edges of the crowd. With their blankets over their shoulders and heads bare, they were a picturesque feature of the crowd. This tree, by the way, may have been selected as the first meeting place, because of its familiar form and situation. It is certain that the Indians made it a common meeting place among themselves and with the settlers. It was beneath this tree, in citizens' clothes and with great stove pipe hat, that I last saw Black Hawk. He was lying asleep or drunk, in its shade, a party of his tribe having moored their canoes near by.
     I do not know the text from which Mr. Hill preached, nor whether it had any relation whatever to his discourse. But I do remember his face and figure, and a part of what he said. I was filled with awe at the time. I had been somewhat frightened at different times, both from Indian and hunting stories, and from vague hints about perdition. I seldom pass that elm tree to this day, but that I unconsciously look at its roots as I did that day at Mr. Hill's direction when he screamed: "Oh sinner, Look! Look! (bending with hands nearly to the ground) while I take off the hatch of HELL!" and with his long bony finger and writhing body he pictured the tortures of the damned. He did this after so arranging matters that I was sure young people in general, and I, in particular, were but a few inches above the rotten ridge pole of the burning pit.
     What a relief when he quit. After lining another well known common meter hymn, those who had sat through his two hours of agony joined him in the song, and I caught my first idea of what gentle soothing music brings. This hymn, like a hundred others I have heard beneath that tree, and like thousands such as the settlers sang out doors in early times, might be described. Not the words—these are preserved. Not the notes—these are familiar. But what will not the future offer for a fragment of a frontier sacred chorus! But it may be sufficient to suggest that when the leader "raised the tune" he sang alone for half a line, then a voice or two near him took it up; led slowly by the leader and by others retarded, the volume was increased and the time delayed. The rear rank joined perhaps a full beat later, and every throat but the Indians' poured its suppressed ardor on the air. An enlivening scene even to the red-skin, what was it to impressionable, sympathetic, ecstatic youth. I did not shout that day, but elsewhere, under the same influences I have many times seen the ground literally strewn with writhing, screaming penitents, strangling for relief. That great volume of discordant sound grew harmonious in a large sense, for it softened, rolled and echoed back from across the stream.
     I know that the customs of those times, the style of dress and music have all passed away. I am thankful for the changes time has brought. But there is a matter I would like to know. Were we foolish, spiritual gluttons in that day, or are religious people now only finding crumbs beneath the table of the Lord?



     Vital statistics are valuable from n genealogical, historical, sociological and scientific standpoint. The data embraced in such statistics differ in various states and countries. When the Iowa State Board of Health was created by the legislature in 1880, among other duties specified under the statute, it was required to supervise all registration of marriages, births and deaths occurring within the State. In some other states such statistics also embrace divorces. Upon the organization of the State Board of Health, in accordance with the above requirement blanks were adopted requiring the following data:


     Number of license; date of license; by whom affidavit was made; by whom consent to marriage was given; full name of groom; place of residence; occupation; age; place of birth; father's name; mother's maiden name; color; race and number of marriage; full name of bride; maiden name— if a widow; place of residence; age; place of birth; father's full name; mother's full maiden name; color; race and number of marriage; where and when married; by whom married—name and official position; witnesses; date of return of marriage and when registered. The clerk of every county in the State has a copy of this blank form and is expected to enter therein the data called for, and the law requires him on or before the first day of June of each year to furnish a copy thereof to the Secretary of the State Board of Health, who, as they are received, arranges them by counties alphabetically and has them substantially bound.
     A moment's reflection will show the great value and importance of such a record from a domestic, social and legal, as well as historical standpoint, especially when it is considered that the original records have been destroyed in some of the counties from which they were sent to the office of the State Board of Health. It ought also to emphasize the importance of care and fidelity on the part of the respective county clerks in requiring all the data indicated to be furnished them and in making full and complete returns to the State Board of Health as the law directs. The fact is, however, that many of these items have been omitted from our reports by the county clerks and to that extent they are imperfect. The probability, however, is that the reports of marriages so far as number and names are concerned are approximately, if not absolutely, correct.


     From 1880 until 1894 the physicians and midwives of the state were obliged, under a penalty of ten dollars for each neglect, to report within thirty days after their occurrence, to the clerk of the county in which they occurred, all births and deaths coming under their professional observation.
     This requirement, though it may be somewhat humiliating to admit, was never very cordially approved by the medical profession, from the fact that it entailed a duty, and a labor in its performance, without any compensation. Because of this, some, and because of indifference, others, refused or neglected to comply with the law. The supreme court, however, in a case to test the constitutionality of the requirement, declared the law reasonable and constitutional —one that the physicians as members of a noble profession should cheerfully comply with. The data required to be furnished by physicians and midwives in the case of births, embraced the following items: full name of child; sex; number of child by this mother; color; time of birth; place of birth; born in wedlock? yes or no; father's full name; age; occupation; and place of birth; mother's place of birth; age; maiden name and residence; name and address of medical or other attendant; returned by; date of return. As in the case of marriages and deaths, the county clerks are obliged to furnish to the Secretary of the State Board of Health, on or before the first day of June a report of all births occurring within their respective counties for the year ending with the thirty-first day of December immediately preceding.
     Notwithstanding, however, the decision of the supreme court above referred to, and the professional obligations resting upon the physicians of the State to make these reports to the county clerks, from which only his returns could be copied, there were many who still neglected or refused to do so; and hence their patrons did not have the pleasure and the State and science lost the benefits to be derived from such records when faithfully reported, compiled and deposited in the archives of the respective counties and State. This neglect, however, does not lessen the value of those that are reported and are thus incorporated into the history of the State. Because of the failure on the part of the physicians of the State to faithfully report births and deaths, the legislature in 1894 relieved the physicians and midwives of this obligation, and so changed the law as to have these casualties collected by the assessors appointed by the county auditors, upon blanks furnished by the State Board of Health.
     In order to render this task as easy as possible for the assessor the State Board of Health only required information as to the name of the child; sex; date of birth; place of birth; mother's full maiden name; and father's full name. It is to be regretted that the change in the method of collecting these statistics was not an improvement upon the former one. The assessors, though furnished with proper blanks, by the county auditors and paid and sworn to do their duty, neglected to do so in so many cases that the county clerks in a State Convention held in the city of Des Moines in the fall of 1901 unanimously declared the present law ineffective and recommended a return to the former one. The former law with a reasonable compensation for each complete return of a birth or death, and a sufficient penalty including the right and duty of the State Board of Medical Examiners to revoke the certificates of physicians convicted of neglecting or refusing to comply with the law, would secure, as they have in most of the eastern states, vital statistics so complete and reliable as to be valuable for historical, legal and sanitary purposes.


     The law relating to the reporting of deaths, prior to 1894 was the same as in the case of births. The data sought to be obtained were as follows: Name of deceased; nationality; sex; color; age and occupation; date, cause and place of death; social condition—single, married, widow or widower; place and date of burial and name of physician making the report.
     After the law was changed so as to place the collection of these data in the hands of the assessors as above stated in the case of births, the data required were as follows: Full name, sex, age, occupation, date when born; single, married, widow or widower; place of death; cause of death and place of burial. The same incompleteness obtained in regard to these data as in the case of births, and for the same reason.
     Yet with all these defects, not in the facts reported, but because of the data not reported, the vital statistics thus collected, arranged and conveniently and substantially bound are invaluable to the State as exploiting important events in the personal history of persons who were born, married and who died in Iowa.
     Births, marriages and deaths are important, if not the most important epochs in the life of any individual. There is a natural and commendable pride in the place of one's birth and surely to be born in Iowa is to be born well.
     Reliable vital statistics, furnishing the data above suggested are of great value as a basis for sanitary operations. Such returns would not only show the relative proportion of deaths to births and of births to marriages and the ratio of increase of population by births and by immigration, respectively, but giving the causes of death in different localities would enable the State and local Boards of Health, where there is an apparent or real excess of deaths from any disease to ascertain the cause and to more intelligently adapt and apply remedies for its removal.
     Every State should have a reliable bureau of information, especially relating to the personnel of its citizens and the vital statistics above detailed is the nearest and only approach to it in Iowa. Some interesting incidents might be given illustrating the advantages of such records. A gentlemen came to this State from England some years ago, leaving his wife and family behind him. His wife heard from him for two or three years and then there came a lapse in the correspondence. The wife sought to get information in various ways and finally wrote to the secretary of the State Board of Health. She gave the name of the county from which he had last written. An examination of the records in the office of the State Board of Health showed that in the county named a party corresponding to the name given had died, that he was a native of England, married, etc.; the date and cause of death; place of burial; and name of the attending physician. The facts were reported to the wife and a letter received from her later expressed her gratitude and appreciation at the information furnished, sad as it was.
     There have been innumerable instances where parents have sought official information respecting the birth or death of their children and where parents have looked for a record of their marriage. In counties where the original records have been destroyed by fire or otherwise, the copies of these records deposited safely with the State are of inestimable advantage. The foregoing is suggestive of what the State has aimed to do in the way of collecting vital statistics; what it has done; what it has failed to do and the cause of such failure as well as some of the benefits of such statistics. It also suggests the duty of the legislature to so amend our present law as to cure its defects and assure such a registration in the future as will reflect the intelligence of our people, and place our State on an equality with the most progressive States in the Union.


     THE PRESENT has been one of the severest winters experienced since the first settlement of the west. The Dubuque Express of the 17th inst. says that, in the morning of that day, the mercury stood at 40 degrees below zero. At Galena on the 7th, it was 32 below zero. We have had colder weather, and a great deal more of it than in any of the thirteen winters we have spent in the west.—Bloomington (Muscatine) Herald, Feb. 21, 1843.


     The ANNALS OF IOWA is the Hall of Fame for the illustrious men of the State and especially for those who have had a hand in the making of the Commonwealth and the insuring of its glory.
     Of the pioneers of civilization within our borders few have contributed more largely to its diffusion, fewer still have identified themselves more intimately with the formation of the State, And no one of them all loved the institutions of our country more deeply, or had keener foresight of our splendid successes, than Samuel Charles Mazzuchelli—priest of the order of Saint Dominic, or of the Friar Preachers, as they were known in the old world. A little niche in the Court of THE ANNALS is all that is available at this time—and to fit it the beautiful Memoir, written by one of his spiritual daughters of St. Clara's College, must be cut down and shorn of its literary graces to embody the name and deservings of this scholarly, heroic and patriotic priest.— Rev. B. C. LENEHAN.

     Father Mazzuchelli was born in Milan, Italy, on the 4th of Nov., 1807, of a family whose records were old when Barbarossa razed the city walls and passed the plow over its foundations. The upper classes of the Italians were devoted to the Bible—and the trait is shown in the choice of the Scriptural name of Samuel for the babe when presented for baptism— to which was added Charles, in honor of St. Charles Borromeo, patron of the city on whose Feast Day he was born. Italian parents of the higher classes are exceedingly vigilant in their home training and this child never set foot in the city alone, but under his father's watchful eye competent tutors opened his mind to a vast store of information, broad, solid, and brilliant, upon the riches of which he drew in after days.
     Proud of the virtues, talents and acquirements of his favorite son, the father planned for him a brilliant future, and it was a bitter disappointment to him, when his boy, at the tender age of sixteen, asked permission to enter the Dominican Order. He yielded, finally, to the grave and manly youth, his affections giving way to his judgment, and the boy entered the Monastery at France, at the age of seventeen, and was afterwards sent to the Mother House of the Order, Santa Sabina, at Rome.
     Bishop Fenwich, first Bishop of Cincinnati, a Dominican himself, visiting Santa Sabina, the home of his own youth, and seeking young missionaries for the far west, was attracted by the handsome and cultured young monk, who was glowing with zeal and ambition to labor with him in the wilds of the New World. Permission was obtained from his Superior. Pope Leo XII gave him every encouragement, with his fatherly blessing, and after a brief visit to his family home, he set out for Paris, to meet the Bishop. Urgent business had summoned Bishop Fenwich to the United States, and he left the young zealot to make his weary voyage of six weeks across the stormy seas alone. Arriving at New York City, Nov. 1, 1829, he found a long journey of 800 miles before him and he knew not a single word of English; but, fortunately, he fell in with a generous-hearted American gentleman, with whom he traveled to Cincinnati, where awaited him the loving father—Bishop Fenwich, whose zeal had fired his own, and to whom was given his loyal devotion that lasted while he lived. He at once set to work to learn our language, an easy task for one so gifted, and after Christmas, was sent to the Dominican House of studies in Kentucky. On his way, he was thrown upon the hospitality of the learned French exile Bishop Flaget, of Bardstown, Ky., a soul to whom his own was kin. Ordained priest Sept. 5, 1830, he was sent to that part of the Cincinnati diocese which embraced Michigan and Wisconsin and fixed his home at Mackinac Island—the center of the great trading posts of the entire northwest. There were five priests besides him in Michigan but these labored in the southern portion, the northern peninsula he was to share alone with the traders and the savages. His work and success among the rude peoples from his arrival—until the year 1843—are set forth in his admirable book, "Memorie Istoriche," written to elicit help from his family and friends in Milan at his last visit home, in a manner uniquely his and inimitable. He never mentions his own name, nor uses the pronoun I throughout its pages, satisfying himself with the description—"The Missionary." It was no assumption of humility, merely a natural self-oblivion, made more admirable by his hearty and delighted admiration of the men who came after him and largely shared the credit of his devotion.
     Especially does his generous love and reverence for the early missionaries of other Orders arouse us strongly, because it is by no means common even among the excellent men who have labored here most abundantly. But his sincere and straightforward mind rejoiced in every good by whomsoever done, end enforced the principle on all he taught. The nearest approach to fault finding we discover in his book is when he blames the Whites for the vices of his beloved Indians, and assures us that those tribes furthest from them were purer, gentler, and more easily converted to Christianity. Their simple virtues, their homes, their family ties, their joys and sorrows are mentioned with as much respectful sympathy, as if they were his own kinsfolk. His boyish hope of laying down his life for the faith among the Indians, was disappointed; for he won the hearts of his savage people.
     The only martyrdom that awaited him. was that which falls to the lot of every man who lives in advance of his age; who seeing afar, with clarified vision, the good that all may reach if they would but try, struggles to grasp it for them, only to meet cold misunderstanding and ingratitude in return. Cold, hunger, hardship, and the miseries of savage life were nothing to him, though long after he acknowledged, shamefacedly enough, that the struggle was long and bitter before he could bring himself to eat their filthy food.
     Those who love his memory will find these little things worthy of note when they remember that he was small of stature, of extremely delicate physique, slender, agile, rapid in motion; and unlike the typical Italian, of a fair, bright complexion, with a color in his cheek like a girl's that never faded till the end of his life. In 1833 coming down the Mississippi, after a voyage up the Fox and down the Wisconsin, on his way to St. Louis to see some brother priest, he found at the Dubuque Lead Mines a number of his own race, more in need of him than were the poor Indians. They begged him to abide with them. His Bishop gave consent, the General of his Order approved, and he at once began the series of labors that eclipsed all that he had hitherto achieved. He was almost ubiquitous. He built in Dubuque St. Rappel's Church, an imposing structure for those days, from designs of his own, the facsimile almost of the ancient Church in St. Augustine, Florida, and labored on its walls, setting stone and spreading mortar with the men, hurrying it to a finish that he might keep with his fellow citizens therein the first public observance of the Fourth of July. In Galena, where he was building at the same time the first church, again after his own designs, he displayed his skill as architect and draughts man in the fine old court house of Jo Daviess County, which stands to this day. At Davenport he secured for the church, from Antoine Le Claire, the splendid property they still enjoy, and built his combination school, church and house, and kept school himself for the children of the settlers. Among them was that most celebrated jurist of our day, Hon. John F. Dillon, of New York. Every river town was a field for similar work, and church and school rose together. Burlington, the first seat of Iowa territorial government, found him among the pioneers, in his little church, chaplain to the legislature gathered there, as he had been also to the territorial legislature of Wisconsin.
     The State House was to be erected in the new capital, Iowa City. Father Mazzuchelli drew the plans for it, and laid off the streets of the new city. He used to laugh, in his own happy-hearted way, at the circumstance of his apparent claim upon two nationalities and two names— Irish and Italian. His own long musical name—Mazzuchelli— was often with western brevity made over into Kelley, and Matthew Kelley. The writer recalls one of the old Wisconsin converts, who used to boast pompously of "my dear old friend Father Matthew Samuel Kelley," and much of his own work is said to have been inscribed to Father Kelley. This was matter of merry laughter to him: if good were done, it was of no importance to him, to whom it was accredited. Throughout Iowa, on the east, and as far west as the Iowa City line; in Wisconsin as far east as Green Bay, where the tablet to him in the old church was lately carelessly lost in the removal of the building and in Northern Illinois, churches and school houses rose under his hand, and memories are rich among the old people, of the devoted young Italian, who labored with them and for them so long and so lovingly. At least twenty churches, between St. Louis and St. Paul is the estimate of a brother priest who knew him well in the early days.
     His mode of travel was by saddle, by canoe, and afoot, from mission to mission, school to school, from the house of sickness to the house of death; celebrating Mass, administering the sacraments, planning, working, planting, draughting, lecturing. With his radiant face, bright manner, and tender sympathy for every ill, and his love for little children, his kindly interest in every one, even the roughest and most uncouth of the mixed population of a new country, he pouring out the rich resources of his cultured mind, upon poor and rich, the illiterate and the educated, without distinction. All loved him and met him on common ground as is always the case when a great and richly dowered soul gives itself to others without thought of self. The trappers and miners and planters used to wonder how he made them forget to be hungry or tired, in their readiness and eagerness to carry out his purposes.
     Higher education owns him as an apostle. Gen. George W. Jones had obtained a splendid tract of land in southwestern Wisconsin from the general government for his services in the Black Hawk war. Of this Sinsinawa Mound was a notable feature. Father Samuel came riding by and stayed as the General's guest. The artist soul of the Dominican took in the commanding beauty of the spot, and he said to his host, "Science and religion alone are worthy of this noble hill." The owner was moved by his earnestness and agreed to sell it; the contract was closed. Father Mazzuchelli started at once for Milan to secure the necessary funds. His own rich patrimony had been long since built into every church and school in the northwest and treasured in the hands of the Lord's poor. Returning speedily he built the noble old College of Sinsinawa Mound from which many distinguished men have gone out into the business and professional world, among whom is Ex-Senator Thomas A. Power, of Montana, and also many eminent and faithful clergymen. This institution he endowed; had it incorporated, and provided with a faculty of professors of which he was himself the first president. Before the war, it numbered among its students young men from New Orleans and from Mexico, so widely known was the remarkable man who founded it.
     In 1847 he organized the Community of Dominican Sisters for the purpose of carrying on his numerous parish schools. The foundations were deeply and wisely laid, and today the admirable Order conducts the St. Clara College which the successor of Sinsinawa Mound College affiliated with the Catholic University for the higher education of young women, where noble buildings emphasize the romantic beauty of the landscape.
     In the awful cholera year of 1850, the plague spread all over the southwestern section of Wisconsin, and his labors for the sufferers were commensurate with the ravages of the epidemic. He introduced the first scientific apparatus in the northwest, much of which is still in use, and his children of St. Clara preserve with devotion the electrical machine made by himself for the teaching of his first corps of teachers, and Father Samuel, as they loved to call him, rules St. Clara still. His mode of government, his free bright spirit, his large-minded patriotism, his love of freedom and devotion to the Republic, all are there living and acting; the outgrowth of the seed he planted, the perpetuation of his own principle. During the memorable events of 1863 he endured an unusual strain; sick calls night and day almost without intermission through the straggling country parishes, over almost impassable roads, sapped his strength.
     One bitter night he spent laboring from one death bed to another, and dawn overtook him creeping to his poor little cottage, no fire, no light, for he kept no servant, and benumbed and exhausted, he was glad to seek some rest. When morning came, unable to rise, they found him stricken with pneumonia, and in a few days his hardships were at an end forever. He who had served the dying in fever haunted wigwams, in crowded pest houses, in the mines, and on the river, added this last sacrifice to the works of his devoted life. He died without the consolations of his brother priest, at four o'clock of the morning of February 23, 1864.
     Of gentle birth and training, a plain, simple gentleman, a democrat, an American of the Americans, unused to toil or hardship, insatiable of work, irresistible in prosecution, of a capacity to lead men, to direct them, to rule them, he was ambitious to gain their love and confidence only to teach them the Gospel, to soften their manners, to mold their hearts, to improve their minds, to humanize, to civilize, to Christianize them. He lived what he taught. He worked out what he believed, and he made us the inheritors of the treasures of his learning. May all Iowa men and women learn to love the memory of Father Mazzuchelli.

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