Did the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery vapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's prayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that slept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there. But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores. They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or of gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power? Witness the result. Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of Acadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent to and fro "like giants possessing fearful secrets," enduring hunger, privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and often cast upon its inhospitable rocks. Follow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the love of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded by Loyola, best can tell. Among the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr, as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the Lamb. Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not even knowing of the existence of his great Creator. Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order, and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments carried by the wandering Romish priests. Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such as he had never seen even in _la belle France_. He chaunted the vespers alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of the war-chief rung through the village.