Girard0261

24–25 June 1843 - Father Chevron to his family, Tonga

Summary

He intends to give his family some description of his new home.

The people well built, no more bronzed than French countrymen used to working outdoors. Describes Tongan customs. Politeness to visitors. Customs very similar to those of Wallis.

Vices of the Tongans: Chevron puts pride, immorality and laziness on a par. Says something about their food, which the people at Pea bring them. Pea is inland on Tongatapu, so fish is not on the diet. Sometimes on their missionary travels they don’t have breakfast until mid-afternoon. “But God takes care of us and makes us indifferent to this way of life...”

Describes their houses, and admires what the builders can do just with an axe. Is particularly impressed by the royal tombs. The produce of the island is much like that of other tropical islands – seeds brought from Europe don’t do well. Fig tree branches brought from NZ have done very well when planted.

Describes the fort at Pea in some detail – quite impressive.

The temperatures quite pleasant 27–29° commonly in the day, never less than 18 at night. The language not greatly different from that of Wallis and Futuna – but he had learnt little Wallisian before being transferred to Tonga.

Problems in instructing about religion with limited language. Need to work with faith in the grace and power of God. However, they are received well everywhere, even among the Protestant converts.

The daily and weekly routine of missionary work is described.

Strongly believes that what has greatly helped them is their willingness to live as much as possible like the locals, eating and sleeping like them, sharing kava three times a day, sharing tools etc. Most important is their concern for the sick. The work of “the Brother” gets high praise (I note that Chevron never refers to “Brother Attale” but to “the Brother”).

Comments on the Protestant missionaries are critical – the bad example given by some.

Based on the document sent, APM Chevron file.

Four sheets of "Bath" paper, forming sixteen pages, fifteen of which are written, with the sixteenth left blank; enclosed in a cover marked "No. 11."

The present letter, begun on June 24, 1843, was completed the following day (see below, §36).

Translation by Merv Duffy, January 2025.

Text of the Letter

Tonga, June 24, 1843

To my mother, my brothers and sisters, relatives, and friends, greetings, blessings, and happiness.

[1]

It has just been announced that a ship bound for Sydney arrived today; I am taking this opportunity to give you a sign of life and, in haste, satisfy your expressed desire to receive some details about our way of life and the places we inhabit in this other part of the globe. This country is no longer a foreign land to me. France now seems almost like a dream. Were it not for that very natural and just feeling of pride in the name of being French and, above all, for your memory, I would be completely Oceanian. Thanks be to God, these memories are, however, full of sweetness and do not bring the pain and turmoil that would be unbearable here more than anywhere else.

[2]

In Europe, people have very mistaken ideas about these archipelagos. They imagine that everything here is extraordinary. The people here differ from Europeans only in colour. Even so, in several islands, like Tonga, for example, many natives, especially among the women, are hardly more sun-kissed than people in France who work regularly outdoors. They are generally well-built, with few short individuals; their facial features are perfectly similar to those of Europeans. The women are generally plump, which might seem a little unusual in France. It seems that Providence has thereby compensated for clothing, concealing what is naturally unpleasant in the sight of a thin body.

The children, generally very attractive, wear a haircut until the age of 12 that is achieved with a razor or a shark’s tooth. It forms a triangle with its base on the forehead and its point at the lower back of the head, leaving curly tufts on each side that give them a very charming look. Both women and men wear their hair cut in a Titus style.

Children are born as white as in Europe, and it is only gradually that their skin darkens to a copper tone. Adult men are tattooed from the knees to the middle of the abdomen; for them, this tattooing marks the occasion of a celebration.

[3]

I believe these people are far from deserving the name "savages" that they are often given. They are more polite than uneducated people in France. When they meet, they offer their friendship: tsi oto ofa ("my friendship"). If they are carrying something they can give, like kava or fruits, it would be considered very rude not to offer it. If they have nothing to give, they offer endless apologies. Inferiors sit on the ground when speaking to their superiors.

When you visit a home, it begins with tsi oto ofa, followed by thanks for your visit and congratulations on your health. Then, while presenting kava, they apologize for not having anything better to offer. If you do not stay long enough for them to prepare food for you—which typically takes two or three hours—they are filled with regret for not anticipating your arrival. Even if they present you with food, they still apologize for not having more to offer. During ceremonial visits, in addition to the obligatory kava, they exchange gifts. They do not know how to refuse a request.

In our personal interactions with them, they generally show the same courtesy to us. However, despite this, we often experience long fasts during our journeys because we cannot always stay long enough for them to cook food for us.

[4]

Their interactions with white people in larger gatherings are not as respectful; they exhibit a kind of disdain. I am almost inclined to believe that this disdain is genuine and that their expressions of friendship toward white people are often self-serving. That said, we are treated fairly well in group settings, with a few exceptions that I think will eventually disappear entirely. I need not tell you that I was falling asleep while writing this—you must have noticed already.

[5]

Customs here are almost the same as those in Wallis, which you may have read about in the Annals of the Propagation of the Faith. These include dances, gatherings, and celebrations for the smallest occasions. Men and women dance separately, never together. These dances are generally quite innocent, except for those imported from the Navigators' Islands (Samoa), which are improper. In such dances, men and women end up entirely naked, but these occurrences are rare here.

Funerals are conducted much like those in Wallis. People tear their faces as a sign of grief, though this grief is often feigned.

[6]

It would be difficult to say which vice is most dominant here; pride, immorality, and laziness go hand in hand. No people on Earth are considered worthy to sit beside them. If the King of France were to come here, he would be shown great respect, though less than that shown to the local king and chief leaders. Even so, the lowest slave in Tonga would consider themselves of nobler origin than him. As for morality, it is best not to speak of it; vice here has no secrets, not even from children. Yet, I can say that we are respected, and people restrain themselves greatly in our presence.

[7]

Laziness seems to be their favourite vice; the natives only do the work they absolutely cannot avoid. Outside of festivals, they eat very little. The food that sustains one man in France would more than suffice for ten here. They suffer, but for them, hunger is preferable to work.

[8]

Travelers often praise the cleanliness of these people, but they have likely only seen them during festivals. Oh, during those times, their cleanliness is meticulous; they adorn themselves as best as their poverty allows, using both their labour and the resources nature provides. But outside of these occasions, their filth is disgusting. In Wallis, I drank kava with pleasure; here, it is torture, yet I endure it at least three or four times a day. I believe many people in France would rather die than touch this kava or, often, even the food they prepare.

Our own food is very simple: a few bananas cooked in a pot or a piece of yam brought to us by the natives. Sometimes Brother prepares it himself or reheats it when it has already been cooked. Often, to make a kind of soup, he dilutes it in a bit of water with salt, to which he adds a spoonful dipped in pork fat. Chickens are fairly rare for us. If our neighbours eat pork, they never fail to bring us a share. The taste of yams could be compared to that of potatoes; when cold, they become hard and quite unappetizing.

[9]

The location of our village deprives us entirely of fish. Occasionally, to season the yams, we eat a type of sea plant that resembles purslane but has no flavor apart from its salty taste, or a small shellfish similar to the mussels found in the lake of Nantua. The ones here are about the size of a finger joint. This shellfish, which can be eaten either raw or cooked, is considered a luxury for us. I think that without special assistance from God, we would not have been able to endure until now—especially if you consider that during our journeys, we sometimes have to wait until 3 or 4 in the afternoon to eat our first meal after walking four leagues, sustained only by a few cups of kava. On two or three occasions, I even travelled eight leagues in 24 hours with nothing but kava. Blessed be God! The beginnings are always difficult. However, it must be said that the good Lord takes care of us and, above all, makes us perfectly indifferent to this way of life, which might at first seem arduous. Father Grange, my colleague who arrived here about eight months ago, suffered greatly from this lifestyle in the beginning. However, he now says he is starting to get used to living without eating. His usual state of weakness has only rarely allowed him to accompany me on the journeys I make with the natives.

[10]

I am inclined to believe that the natives of this archipelago are naturally at least as intelligent as the average person in France. Many of them amaze us with the speed at which they grasp often difficult explanations of the catechism. But they are inconsistent. They are a childish, fickle, and capricious people. The work in which they excel is the construction of houses and canoes. The houses are shaped like those in Wallis—a large, umbrella-like structure with an elliptical shape, supported by columns and an interior framework. Here, the ends of the houses are closed with a beautiful hedge of reeds. The roof interior, columns, and framework are crafted with great care. I do not think that even a skilled European worker with only an axe, as they use, could make something as neat. There is even a kind of elegance, especially in the way they cover the wood with woven bands (a type of flat string they use to tie the wood, replacing nails). These bands form a fabric of various colours, creating intricate designs of remarkable precision.

We have a small church that is 60 feet long, 25 feet wide, and 25 to 30 feet high. It is one of the most beautiful houses in this archipelago. You will surely be pleased to learn that, thanks to the charity of devout souls in France, we have been able to decorate our church quite neatly. Using red, yellow, and other coloured mantles adorned with beautiful ribbons and gold trim, we decorate our altar on Sundays and feast days in a way that would make many churches in France envious. It is simple but clean. The natives are slow to complete tasks but truly skilful. A well-made canoe would astonish people in France. They inlay pieces of wood and whale teeth into these canoes as neatly as a French carpenter could.

[11]

I was struck when visiting the tombs of their kings. Near a fort, there are about 40 of these tombs (and others elsewhere). These tombs are vast terraces made of brought-in earth, with the top crowned by enormous stones. I measured one stone that was 24 feet long, 8 feet high, and at least 18 inches thick. These stones were brought from the small islands surrounding Tonga to the north and east. One of these tombs was built by people from Wallis, who transported massive blocks in immense canoes. It is truly astonishing.

[12]

The island of Tonga is entirely flat and low, without a single hill. Its produce is much the same as that of all the other archipelagos: coconut palms, banana trees, yams, breadfruit trees, etc. Sugarcane grows very well here; I have seen some over 25 feet tall. We have a garden next to the house, but the soil, which is usually very damp, is not very suitable for gardening. Seeds germinate with difficulty and slowly, except for balsams from Montanges, which thrive marvellously; soon the island will be full of them. The other flower seeds were spoiled. We planted fig tree cuttings brought from New Zealand, and they have grown magnificently; after just seven months, we were able to eat figs. The vine grows quickly as well, but it will probably not bear fruit. If we later have seeds, we might experiment elsewhere.

[13]

I believe I mentioned that there are four main forts here, whose inhabitants, during peacetime, live in various hamlets nearby. The one we are in, named Pea, is the best fortified. It is considered nearly impregnable here. It is surrounded by earthen ramparts or terraces, 4 to 7 or 8 feet high, topped by a very neat double-interlaced hedge of reeds. This redoubt is itself defended by a ditch 15 to 20, sometimes even 30 feet wide, always filled with water. In certain places, small ironwood stakes, very sharp, have been planted, hidden by the water and spaced closely enough to make it impossible for a man to place his foot there.

The gates are quite ingeniously constructed: beyond an interior gate, which is closed with a strong barricade, there is a kind of long corridor well protected on both sides by the ramparts and the outer ditch, followed at the end by a round area, approximately 30 feet in diameter (give or take), also protected. It is there that the exterior gates are located. The corridor and small round area are entirely outside the ramparts and serve to defend the approach. There are at least fifteen such gates.

All these ramparts are pierced with loopholes made from hollowed-out coconut tree trunks. Our fort is about a kilometre in circumference; there are two others that are larger. Some Europeans have told us that during wartime, this fort held 5,000 people. This number is exaggerated; I think it could hold between 2,000 and 3,000. The entire island might have a population of 12,000 to 15,000.

The forts are divided into compartments formed by very neat reed hedges. These compartments, where the houses are located, create pathways that intersect in all directions, giving the forts the appearance of a small town. Our fort is situated at the end of a lagoon or inlet of the sea that extends into the centre of the island, spanning a circuit of about 2 or 3 leagues.

[14]

The heat here is fairly intense. For nearly two months, we had a constant temperature of 25 to 27 degrees (in the shade and in the breeze, of course). We have grown accustomed to it; this heat does not stop us from traveling, even at midday with the sun directly overhead. However, in the winter, we find the coolness of the nights quite sharp, even though it rarely drops below 12 degrees (Réaumur thermometer). During the day, the temperature never falls below 18 or 20 degrees.

[15]

You must have seen, just as we did, the immense comet. It appeared here on March 3, in the west, very low on the horizon; its tail must have been 60 to 70 degrees long. It disappeared with the brightness of the following moon. Everyone here was filled with consternation. The Protestant missionaries told some tales to their followers about it; the gods had their own explanations too. Thankfully, thanks to some reasoning and many gestures, we were able to explain that it was a completely natural phenomenon. They believed us, and human sacrifices—once offered to appease the wrath of the gods in times past—were spared this time.

[16]

I wrote to you previously about the language of Wallis and Futuna. The language here is almost the same, with the exception of many aspirated sounds. Learning the language of these archipelagos is not as quick as some have claimed. The extraordinary difference between the structure of this language and our European languages, combined with the difficulty of pronouncing certain words, as well as the natives’ habit of always hearing their language spoken correctly—or, if you prefer, uniformly—will always create a significant gap between even the most skilled missionary and the natives.

Additionally, when a missionary arrives here, they are no longer young. So, after being here for a year, I am just now beginning to understand and make myself understood (albeit with great difficulty) using the little Uvean I already knew. Yet, many things escape me in conversations with the locals, and I often have to repeat myself two or three times to be understood, especially by those who are not used to hearing me.

Father Grange, my confrère, has been here for about eight months. Despite knowing a few words of New Zealand Māori, he struggles immensely to say even a few simple things that the locals can understand. We know how to ask for a fruit, inquire where someone is going, where they are from, or whether they are sick. But that is still far from being able to hold a conversation, let alone deliver an instruction.

[17]

However, it is necessary to approach teaching these natives as one would with the less religious people in France—that is, to instruct them without letting them realize they are being instructed. They have been “overfed” (as they put it) by missionaries who never open their mouths without reproaching them or speaking of hell, and who conduct English-style sermons lasting three or four hours. As soon as one speaks directly about religion, they either change the subject or walk away unless it is something new that piques their curiosity.

At the beginning, they asked me countless questions and patiently tried to decipher my answers; now that they know—or at least think they know—religion, they are no longer as eager. How, then, can one capture the attention of such difficult people? In France, it is often imagined that one need only come to these lands to convert them. Yet the natives are human, and I would even say more “human” than others; they have passions as intense as Europeans. Like Europeans, they have inherited concupiscence, but perhaps they have never been taught to resist it.

They are highly suspicious, and the behaviour of the white men they have occasionally encountered has rarely helped to earn their trust. Add to this their prejudices, traditions, and the deceptive practices of their priests and priestesses, who work to maintain these beliefs, and you will easily understand, as we do, that if the conversion of a libertine in Europe is a great miracle, the conversion of a native here is an even greater one. Moreover, we must contend with Protestant missionaries, who have at their disposal all the human resources that we often lack. You can see, then, how naturally challenging these missions are.

[18]

Grace—grace alone—is at work here. We would place little confidence in our own small efforts were it not for the support we feel from the prayers of the faithful in Catholic countries. Thanks to these prayers and the infinite mercy of God, who has graciously answered them, the state of this mission gives us hope for the future.

[19]

Today, we are well received everywhere, even by the followers of the Protestant missionaries. I believe—and I say this without boasting—that we generally have more friends among them than the missionaries themselves. They remain attached to Protestant teachings, not so much out of conviction, but some out of pride and most out of partisanship or fear of certain chiefs.

I believe we now have nearly two hundred openly declared catechumens who attend prayers and instructions. If we were to count the way some others do, we might claim nearly two-thirds of the island on our side. Everyone, when speaking of the Catholic religion, refers to it as “our religion.” However, when asked why they do not openly declare themselves Catholic, they respond that they are waiting for their chiefs or relatives or that they still feel too ignorant.

[20]

Here is how we carry out the mission. On Sundays, I give two instructions: one in the morning during Mass, which is usually celebrated at sunrise, and another in the evening during prayers at sunset. At noon, the rosary is recited in the church. On Monday evenings, there is catechism during prayers, primarily for children but attended by adults as well.

For the rest of the week, we have morning prayers at Mass and evening prayers. Afterward, some of the natives gather in the catechists’ house to discuss religion, prepare kava, sing hymns, and recite a few decades of the rosary. Others do the same in their families. Almost every day when we stay in the fort, we visit some of the chiefs or the sick. Once a week, we visit one of the other forts.

Three hours from here, we have a small group of catechumens formed by a neophyte from Wallis. There are more than thirty of them; every two weeks, I go there to lead prayers and at least one instruction.

[21]

What has gained the natives’ trust is the care we have taken to conform to their customs in every way. We live as they do, content with what they bring us, explaining that if we were not absolutely certain of the truth of the religion we proclaim, we would be the most foolish of men. When we visit them, we sleep as they do, either on the ground covered with a mat or on the planks of some boat. We attend their feasts and kava ceremonies.

We make sure to always have a piece of kava to offer to visiting chiefs. At the house, kava is prepared at least three times a day, sometimes up to ten times. We neither buy nor sell anything. If they need a needle, thread, or nail, we give them the little we have. We lend them tools like spades, pickaxes, and axes when they do not have their own.

However, the care of the sick is what they value most.

[22]

I am the primary doctor here. When a sick person comes, I ask about their illness and its details, then prescribe a diet (usually) or, if necessary, the most suitable local food. I advise them to keep warm and dry and to drink cooked coconuts. I also have the brother provide a few camphor oil massages, a cup of orange leaf tea, or some equally harmless remedy. With that, they are patient while the illness runs its course.

If the sick person recovers, we receive all the credit; if they die, it is never our fault. However, we do have more effective remedies, such as medicines and a solution made with blue vitriol stone for eye inflammations, which are very common here. Calomel is used for persistent ulcers, which many natives suffer from; calomel and castor oil are for intestinal worms; and a bit of opium is used for sudden colics, to which they are very prone. These three remedies work wonders.

One thing that has especially impressed the natives is a sort of syringe that the brother made using a pig bladder; it has saved several lives. The poor brother greatly contributes to winning the natives’ affection through all the services he provides. Every evening, he distributes a pot of orange leaf tea. On Saturdays, he shaves many of the natives, and every day, he applies and distributes the remedies prescribed by the doctor.

In short, we try to do good for everyone without demanding anything in return, welcoming even the poorest of these pagans and Protestants alike without distinction. While taking every favourable opportunity to slip religious explanations into conversations, we aim not to exhaust these poor souls, who are weary of instructions and have grown intolerant of missionaries in this regard, as in so many others.

[23]

Our goal is to present a stark contrast to the Protestant missionaries, and we strive to make this contrast as striking as possible. Thanks be to God, I believe their dominance in these lands has received a mortal blow and that they will soon be forced to yield to the power of the One in whose name we have taken spiritual possession of this island and who alone has defeated the enemies of the Church of her Son throughout the world: Mary!

[24]

There are three Protestant missionaries on this island, including their families, of course. One of them is a former steward on a whaling ship (which is about equivalent to a scullion in France). Tired of serving, he decided to stay on this island, much to the dismay of the missionaries, as he led their followers astray. However, this did not stop them from taking him on as a collaborator, to the great scandal of the natives, who still retained some sense of modesty. By this example, you can judge the others.

[25]

These gentlemen, however, do not hesitate to act as if they are grand figures. Apart from a few loyal and devoted preachers, they admit no one into their circle. Often, poor natives, bringing yams or pigs, prostrate themselves before those who shamelessly call themselves the true preachers of the Gospel, seeking remedies, only to be brutally turned away because the pigs are not fat enough or the yams not large enough—or because they come at a time other than the one assigned by the missionaries.

When they visit their villages, they demand to be treated no less than the king himself. "It would still be tolerable," a native told me, "if they were content like him with one or two mats, but they insist on gathering all the mats in the village to make their bed softer." If they do not feel inclined to walk, they have themselves carried in a litter, with their wives, of course, sometimes one or two leagues to the place where they are to propose Jesus Christ to the natives as an example. Let it be noted, by the way, that the burden is not light, as the general corpulence of these gentlemen and their wives fully justifies the reproach made by the natives that they are always in pursuit of the best of what the natives have.

[26]

I will not elaborate on the public confession that they have introduced among their followers; I mentioned it briefly in my last letter, as well as the "charitable" penances they imposed on sinners. Our presence in these islands, they say, has put an end to all the cruelties that were carried out in the name of religion. Punches to the face, lashings with ropes, and beatings with sticks have now been replaced by a few weeks or months of forced labour. We still see daily the marks of these barbarities: broken teeth from punches, swollen eyes, and wide, numerous scars will long testify here to the gentleness of Protestant morality.

Nevertheless, we are accused of intolerance and cruelty. And by whom? By catechists who, after exhausting their eloquence trying to convert the natives, would end by saying: "Think of Houlé." (Houlé is a small fort that was destroyed by the Protestants because of the people's obstinate infidelity, presumably to fulfil the command that God gave His people to destroy the Philistines. It is undoubtedly by recalling the words, "Blessed are those who dash infants against the rock," that they mercilessly massacred nursing infants, whom some less fanatical natives wanted to spare.)

[27]

It must be said, however, to the credit of the natives, that they have now generally abandoned these fanatical ideas. The island is at peace; we visit Protestant villages as we do others, and we are very well received. We have even visited the missionaries, who will no doubt see it as beneath them to return our visit. Protestant natives come to us for explanations; they distrust their missionaries. Even the most devout among them admit that they find themselves in a strange state of perplexity. They still cling to their missionaries but also feel drawn to us. They find answers to their doubts with us and do not dare to express them to their missionaries, who, they say, would reject them, as they only admit the elite of the catechists into their circle.

We encourage them to pray often; we never argue with them but simply provide explanations.

[28]

One thing that strikes them profoundly is that, since our arrival, division has arisen among them. It seems as though the hand of God has struck them; even they are astonished by the disorder that reigns in their community. It is a defection of surprising proportions, the cause of which they seek in vain. They also perceive the hand of God in the death of four of their missionaries and a ten-year-old child in this archipelago and in Fiji, all of whom passed away suddenly within a few months.

[29] 

The numerous defections they have to lament should not surprise them if they reflect a little on their followers: a few, in small numbers, come over to our side, but the majority fall back into infidelity or, rather, without changing their beliefs, simply return to their former practices. I asked one of these individuals for his baptismal name; he replied that he did not know it. I then asked him how many gods there are; he said he didn’t know that either. But are you baptized? "Yes," he told me, "but against my will."

"I lived," he added, "in the western fort of Tonga. For a long time, they alternated between persuasion and threats to make us embrace the religion, but we always refused. They then gathered the forces of Vava'u, Ha'apai, and all the Protestants of Tonga against us." (I was anchored there while traveling from the Bay of Islands to Wallis when they took that fort.) "Our fort was defeated. I, along with many others, was taken to Vava'u. They wanted to instruct us against our will, and despite our resistance, they forcibly made us all lotu Christians. They then allowed us to return. Once back here, I abandoned the religion."

This is how the Protestants claim to convert the natives. One can understand that with this "Mahometan" method of preaching, the practice of confession—especially with satisfaction delivered through punches and elbow strikes—is in perfect harmony. It is also understandable that most of these natives, once restored to freedom, will soon abandon a religion they only embraced and retained under duress.

Their method of prayer is rather curious. They kneel and then prostrate themselves, resting on both hands. They remain in this position for a long time, which is as ridiculous as it is painful. The catechists are present to awaken those who fall asleep with blows from a stick and to strike those who dare to raise their eyes; and, indeed, they do not strike lightly.

[30]

We had no difficulty making people understand the absurdity of such practices, as well as the absurdity of the missionaries’ behaviour. Some preach the indissolubility of marriage, while others advocate the permissibility of religious divorce, and so on. But whether due to blindness in some or fear and pride in many others, only a few convert to Catholicism.

However, the good Lord seems to be blessing the small number who follow our instructions. This week, we will perform the first baptisms: there will be 28 or 30 people, both adults and children, who, added to the 30 or so neophytes from Wallis, will form a small nucleus. We hope this will soon grow with a second baptism, which will not be long in coming.

Many catechumens have come in recent days (though a little too late) to ask to be admitted as well. We have baptized 25 people in danger of death, including, among others, several children baptized by subterfuge.

[31]

Here, as in Europe, Protestantism bears its fruits, although the catechists are hardly given the freedom to interpret the Bible. One of them went to the Navigator Islands (or Samoa) to establish a new religion. He named it after himself, Sio Vili (a corruption of Monsieur d’Urville, taken from a French ship commander). In his religion, he allows only one Sunday per month, apparently permits the plurality of wives, and claims to receive special revelations. He has gained many followers.

[32]

Just the other day, I baptized a sick child in a similar manner. They brought the child to me several times to show me its condition. Seeing that it was in imminent danger of death and fearing they might not allow me to baptize it, I devised a plan. The father held the child while I had him rub it lightly with a mixture of cologne and water, pretending it was for medicinal purposes, while I took care of the “lotion for the head,” which was, in fact, the baptism. The child passed away a few hours later. I have baptized six or eight children in similar ways, as you can see, narrowly managing to save their souls.

Because of this, I often present myself primarily as a doctor for children. Our new neophytes will make their first communion next Sunday.

[33]

Some of these neophytes are truly remarkable. One of them, a father of a family, stood out two months after our arrival. He publicly confounded an English missionary who, in front of the natives, mocked the rosary he wore around his neck. I was amazed at how the grace of the Holy Spirit worked in his response; I do not think he could have naturally delivered such a precise answer.

The missionary, in a mocking tone, questioned the usefulness of this “devilish necklace.” In reply, the man calmly sat in the middle of the gathered circle, in the missionary’s presence, and said: “You want to know the meaning of our losalio (rosary)? I’ll tell you. This rosary is simply a way to count and organize our prayers in the order we say them.” He then proceeded to recite the Credo: “Here are the prayers we say.”

First, he began: “I believe in God. You see, this prayer is not diabolical; on the contrary, I say, ‘I believe in God.’ I do not believe, as you falsely accuse us, in one thing or another, but I believe directly in God, the Father Almighty, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son,” and so on.

As he continued the Creed, the missionary abruptly stood up and left for his home. The catechumen laughed, and the gathered natives, including Protestants, applauded.

What is most astonishing is that this catechumen had received no formal instruction other than a few conversations with a catechist from Wallis whom I had brought with me. On several other occasions, he has given equally admirable answers.

[34]

The neophytes who have come from Ouvea, while speaking and recounting with simplicity what they have seen and heard, do undoubtedly more good than I could with all my instructions. Our catechumens then converse with the Protestants and the unbelievers.

[Author's note in the margin and across the page]

These conversations are spreading to the nearby islands of Hapai and Vavau, from which natives often come here. Protestantism is already quite shaky there.

I believe this is how God uses to draw these poor peoples to the faith. Alas for me, I am only a poorly sounding brass. May God bless the missionary and the natives, and may He bring them all together in heaven one day. Please pray for us.

[35]

I do not forget you either. I realize it is already late, and I have not been able to write much today (Sunday, the 25th), and this letter must be sent tomorrow morning. I have no time to reread it, but God be blessed, you will surely be kind enough to overlook the spelling mistakes and even the French errors that you will certainly encounter. If I lived much longer (may God protect me), I believe I would end up no longer speaking French, so entirely occupied are we with our new language.

[36]

Please present my respects to Mr. Baroudel, my friendship to Mr. and Mrs. Brachet, Cuzin, Guy Ravinet, and other Codillers, to the priests at the parish. Do not forget my confreres, the inhabitants of Montanges, whose names I cannot recite at this moment, not forgetting the parish priest and Marie; Aimé Baroudel, Mrs. Vaudel, and her family. I have not forgotten any of the neighbouring clergy, especially the priest from Arloz. I could not ask poor Abbé Girard to present my respects to Monsignor and the priests of Belley and Bourg who are interested in me. God be blessed. Please tell everyone that I do not forget anyone, not even Marie Chavant and her family, nor my poor nurse. I feel like I would enjoy writing here a long list of names, for I feel myself that a distant memory has something that pleases, but I am so rushed. Soon, we will see each other in heaven. However, do not forget the Abbés Collet, Malfroid, and C. who had the kindness to write me a letter in the last shipment. I do not name you, for you know very well that none of you can escape my memory for even a single day. I cannot, however, finish without sending a little special remembrance for my nephews and nieces. I would be glad to receive news from each of them in particular and to learn that they are all wise and dedicated to their studies.

[37]

I embrace you all, starting with my mother, Chevron, Joséphine, Louise St. Cyrille, Jeannette, Mariette, Alphonse, Rosalie, and Joséphine. Many regards to the entire Lyon family and to Brother Régis. Truly, it pains me to end, but farewell, or rather, until we meet again. I have only one thing left to wish for in this world, and I would die happy, but I no longer dare hope for it. Pray to God that He grants it to me. It is to receive the crown of martyrdom after many years of ministry; in this, as in everything, may God's will be done.

Goodbye.

Joseph Chevron

[38]

One more word, however, for the charitable souls who have kindly joined me in union of prayers. Please remind me to keep each of them in mind. I ask them to continue offering the alms of their prayers for me. It is a great act of charity toward these poor natives as well. You see that the successes are still small in appearance. However, considering the obstacles we have had to overcome, they are great. I regard these successes as the work of their prayers; may they therefore continue to lift their pious hands to heaven to bring down God’s grace upon these vast plains and upon the weak workers to whom God has entrusted them. Please remember me in particular, if you have the opportunity, to the prayers of the Sisters of St. Clare and St. Charles in Nantua; not forgetting Julie Berou and her family, Miss Collet, Father Coblot, etc., etc.

[39]

If I do not write a personal response to each person who writes to me, I ask them to believe that it is due to impossibility; they should continue to do so. It is a good work in the eyes of God.

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