"Sport is part of culture and a good way to learn about another country… To discover why people are so passionate about it, it's like, 'Tell me what your sport is and I'll tell you who you are,' " he said.

"We really want to see what everyone wants to say.… When you have a lot of people passionate about hockey, and not about religion, it's interesting to see people's reactions to the question," she said. "If they can make connections between religion and sport, it helps get people involved; there will be a lot of diversity."

The arena is their temple, the players are their saviours, and those who worship them pray that the sacrifices made on the ice — of blood, sweat and tears — will lead them to glory. They are the fans of the Montreal Canadiens. In Prof. Olivier Bauer's class at the Université de Montréal, worshippers can argue that their team is their religion. "It's a divine inspiration," Bauer said of the idea behind the theology course that begins in January 2009. Two years ago, shortly after the minister moved to Montreal, he and one of his students decided the university should offer the opportunity to study whether the Canadiens are, in fact, a fait

The Richard Riot is generally considered the firstexplosion of French-Canadian nationalism, the beginning of asocial and political dynamic that shapes Canada to this day. Theriot was a harbinger of the 1960 election of Quebec premier JeanLesage, which gave Francophiles a greater sense of empowerment,and the so-called Quiet Revolution, in which French Quebecoisbegan asserting greater control over their lives.

In a match the previous Sunday, Richard had twice viciouslyslashed his nemesis, Hal Laycoe of the Boston Bruins, and thenassaulted a linesman. Three days later Campbell suspendedRichard for the Canadiens' three remaining regular-season gamesand the entire playoffs. Montreal was aghast. Campbell's rulingwas considered an act not of justice but of vindictiveness, theEnglish-speaking boss thwarting the aspirations of theFrench-speaking populist hero. Richard had led the Canadiens tothree Stanley Cups and had scored 50 goals in 50 games, but hehad never won a scoring title and was on the brink of his first.With teammate Bernie Geoffrion three points behind him, it wasapparent that Richard wouldn't win it this year, either.

On the night of Thursday, March 17, 1955, the haze was aghostly yellowish white. Smoke from a tear-gas canister haddriven thousands of hockey fans into the streets, sparking afour-hour rampage that yielded the requisite fires, shatteredwindows, looted stores, overturned cars and 137 arrests. Sportsriots have become commonplace, but the one in '55 was like noother because one of its central figures, Maurice Richard, waslike no other hockey player.

He is heavier, older, his eyes softer, but still intense. Maurice Richard stands before them where he had performed so many of his amazing feats — his five-goal game in 1944; the single-handed goal against the Bruins in 1952; his 325th goal that made him the NHL’s all-time leading goal scorer the following season — and raises his hand to gesture thank you and signal he is ready for them to be done. But they continue to cheer — to clap, to whistle, to holler — as though they don’t want to let go of this place and these men, these great men who had animated le Forum for them, especially this last one. They stay on their feet and continue to cheer. A full minute. Another minute. Another.

He perceived an ethnic dimension to the abuse he — and his French-Canadian teammates — endured. Opponents slung ethnic slurs — frog, French pea soup, dirty French bastard — their way as frequently as they tripped, slashed and hooked them. Richard felt the need to protect himself because, he claimed, the officials would not.

It was the time of la Grande Noirceur (the Great Darkness), when French-Canadians felt confined in their home province both by their language and ethnicity, the last vestige of New France. They outnumbered the English-speaking Canadians — three to one in Montreal — but the majority lived as second-class citizens. In the 1950s, the Anglos controlled the wealth, ruled society and enforced the laws. A disproportionate number of French-Canadians lived in poverty. Only 13 percent finished high school, compared to 36 percent for English-Canadians. Many deplored the gloom of the imperialistic atmosphere that spread from Westmount, Montreal’s affluent Anglo enclave on the southwest slope of Mount Royal, where its citizens symbolically looked down on the city below them. Within that context, every goal their guy scored was a victory for the little guy, a rebellion against a kind of colonial imperialism, a reordering of the social order that set things right … at least for a night.

eyes, dark, focused, under a heavy brow. “When he’s worked up, his eyes gleam like headlights,” said Frank Selke, then the Canadiens general manager, to Sports Illustrated in 1960. “Not a glow, but a piercing intensity.”

Once the officials finally subdue Richard and Laycoe, the referee, Frank Udvari, sends Laycoe to the penalty box with a five-minute major for drawing blood. When Laycoe throws a bloody towel at him, he adds 10 minutes. The punishment is worse for Richard. Udvari kicks him out of the game. The Canadiens trainer guides him off the ice. Thompson skates behind them, to make sure he actually leaves and does not turn back to fight some more. Richard presses a towel to the gash on his scalp, which will take five stiches to close. He clutches a stick in his right hand.

Hockey's greatest player at that time was Richard, who in 1945 became the first to score 50 goals in a season (in 50 games, no less). He was a talent so large that Conn Smythe, owner of the Toronto Maple Leafs, offered a million dollars to the Canadiens for him (about $10 million today)

How Francophone players in the NHL, almost exclusively the property of the Montreal Canadiens, believed they were more harshly treated by league president Clarence Campbell — especially Richard — when it came time to dish out suspensions and fines.

Maurice Richard said many times that, in order to understand the events leading up to the riot of March 17, 1955 that forever bears his name, it was crucial to know how violent the National Hockey League was in those days.

The Iroquois, enemies of the Hurons, to the number of about a thousand men, well furnished with weapons,—and mostly with firearms, which they obtain from the Dutch, their allies,—arrived by night at the frontier of this country, without our having had any knowledge of their approach; although they had started from their country in the Autumn, hunting in the forests throughout the Winter, and had made over the snow nearly two hundred leagues of a very difficult road, in order to come and surprise us. They reconnoitered by night the condition of the first place upon which they had designs,—which was Surrounded with a stockade of pine trees, [page 123] from fifteen to sixteen feet in height, and with a deep ditch, wherewith nature had strongly fortified this place on three sides,—there remaining only a little a space which was weaker than the others.

This juggler does not fail to say, as is his wont, that a certain Demon had reduced their daughter to that state; and that, in order to expel him, it was necessary to present the patient with some embellishments and ornaments of clothing, of which the girls of that age are sufficiently desirous. The little sick girl, although she was very low, nevertheless had strength enough, and her faith gave her courage enough, to belie this impostor.

On the 2nd, Monsieur Bourdon returns [page 57] with father bailloquet; the journey was quite successful: he brought salt, codfish, etch

In this volume, we take pleasure in presenting an excellent portrait of Rev. Arthur Edward Jones, S. J the learned archivist of St. Mary's College, Montreal, in whose keeping are many of the precious literary remains of the early Jesuit missionaries in New France

The funeral ceremonies over, the mourning does not cease, the wife continues it the whole year for the husband, and the husband for the wife; but the great mourning properly lasts only ten days. During this time they remain lying on mats and enveloped in furs, their faces against the ground, without speaking or answering anything except Cway, to those who come to visit them. They do not warm themselves even in Winter, they [192] eat cold food, [page 273] they do not go to the feasts, they go out only at night for their necessities; they cause a handful of hair to be cut from the back of the head; they say this is done only when the grief is profound,—the husband practicing this ceremony generally on the death of his wife, or the wife on the death of her husband. This is what there is of their great mourning.

T is amusing to hear them speak their souls,—or rather, I should say, it is a thing quite worthy of compassion to see reasonable men, with sentiments so low concerning an essence so noble and bearing so distinct marks of Divinity. They give it different names according to its different conditions or different operations. In so far as it merely animates the body and gives it life, they call it khiondhecwi; in so far as it is possessed of reason, oki andaérandi, "like a demon, counterfeiting a demon; " in so far as it thinks and deliberates [97] on anything, they call it endionrra; and gonennoncwal, in so far as it bears affection to any object; whence it happens that they often say ondayee ihaton onennoncwat, "That is what my heart says to me, that is what my appetite desires." Then if it is separated from the body they call it esken, and even the bones of the dead, atisken,—in my opinion, on the false persuasion entertained by them that the soul remains in some way attached to them for some time after death, at least that it is not far removed from them; they think of the soul as divisible, and you would have all the difficulty in the world to make them believe that our soul is entire in all parts of the body. They give to it even a head, arms, legs,—in short, a body; [page 141] and to put them in great perplexity it is only necessary to ask them by what exit the soul departs at death, if it be really corporeal, and has a body as large as that which it animates; for to that they have no reply. As to what is the state of the soul after death, they hold that it separates in such a way from the body that it does not abandon it immediately. When they bear it to the [98] grave, it walks in front, and remains in the cemetery until the feast of the Dead; by night, it walks through the villages and enters the Cabins, where it takes its part in the feasts, and eats what is left at evening in the kettle; whence it happens that many, on this account, do not willingly eat from it on the morrow; there are even some of them who will not go to the feasts made for the souls, believing that they would certainly die if they should even taste of the provisions prepared for them; others, however, are not so scrupulous, and eat their fill. At the feast of the Dead, which takes place about every twelve years, the souls quit the cemeteries, and in the opinion of some are changed into Turtledoves, which they pursue later in the woods, with bow and arrow, to broil and eat; nevertheless the most common belief is that after this ceremony, of which I shall speak below, they go away in company, covered as they are with robes and collars which have been put into the grave for them, to a great Village, which is toward the [99] setting Sun,—except, however, the old people and the little children who have not as strong limbs as the others to make this voyage; these remain in the country, where they have their own particular Villages. Some [page 143] assert that at times they hear the noise of the doors of their Cabins, and the voices of the children chasing the birds in the fields. They sow corn in its season, and use the fields the living have abandoned; if any Village takes fire, which often happens in this country, they take care to gather from the middle of this fire the roasted corn, and lay it by as a part of their provisions. The souls which are stronger and more robust have their gathering place, as I have said, toward the West, where each Nation has its own Village; and if the soul of an Algonquin were bold enough to present itself at the Village of the Bear Nation's souls, it would not be well received. The souls of those who died in war form a band by themselves; the others fear them, and do not permit their entry into their Village, any more than to the [100] souls of those who have killed themselves. As to the souls of thieves, they are quite welcome, and, if they were banished from them, there would not be a soul left; for as I have said, Huron and thief are one and the same thing; and the wealthiest man in the Country will do all he can to try his hand at it, if he finds something in your house lying apart which he likes. I asked one day one of our Savages where they thought the Village of souls was; he answered that it was toward the Tobacco Nation, that is to say, toward the West, eight leagues from us, and that some persons had seen them as they were going; that the road they took was broad and well-beaten; that they passed near a rock called Ecaregniondi, which has often been found marked with the paint which they use to smear their faces. [page 145] Another told me that on the same road, before arriving at the Village, one comes to a Cabin where lives one named Oscotarach, or "Pierce-head," who draws the brains out of the heads of the dead, and keeps them. You must pass a river, and [101] the only bridge you have is the trunk of a tree laid across, and very slightly supported. The passage is guarded by a dog, which jumps at many souls, and makes them fall; they are at the same time carried away by the violence of the torrent, and stifled in the waters. "But," said I to him, "whence have you learned all this news of the other world?" "It is," he told me, "persons brought back to life, who have reported it." Thus it is the devil deceives them in their dreams; thus he speaks by the mouth of some, who having been left as dead, recover health, and talk at random of the other life, according to the ideas that this wretched master gives them. According to them the Village of souls is in no respect unlike the Village of the living,—they go hunting, fishing, and to the woods; axes, robes, and collars are as much esteemed as among the living. In a word, everything is the same; there is only this difference, that day and night they do nothing but groan and complain. They have Captains, who from time to time put an end to it and try to moderate their [102] sighs and groans. God of truth, what ignorance and stupidity! Illuminare his qui in tenebris, et in umbra mortis sedent. Now this false belief they have about souls is kept up among them by means of certain stories which the fathers tell their children, which are so poorly put together that I am perfectly astounded to see .how men believe them and accept them as truth. [page 147] Here are two of the most stupid ones, which I get from persons of intelligence and judgment among them.

On the fourteenth of April, the son of Chief Aenons, after having lost at the game of straws a Beaver robe and a collar of four hundred Porcelain beads, had such a fear of meeting his relatives that, not daring to enter the Cabin, he became desperate, and hanged himself to a tree. He had a [56] very melancholy disposition. The first of the Winter he was on the point of putting an end to himself, but a little girl caught him in the act. When asked what had led him to this wicked resolution, " I do not know," said he, " but some one within me seems always to be saying, 'Hang thyself, hang thyself."' Gambling never leads to anything good; in fact, the Savages themselves remark that it is almost the sole cause of assaults and murders.

"Do you think [16] you are going to succeed in overturning the Country?" T

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Maria Chapdelaine, by Louis Hemon

"Yes, I know that I am dying. I feel it. The doctor is only an old fool, and he cannot tell what to do. He is not even able to say what the trouble is, and the medicine he gave me is useless; it has done me no good. I tell you I am dying."

All through October, frosty and rainy days came alternately, and meanwhile the woods were putting on a dress of unearthly loveliness. Five hundred paces from the Chapdelaine house the bank of the Peribonka fell steeply to the rapid water and the huge blocks of stone above the fall, and across the river the opposite bank rose in the fashion of a rocky amphitheatre, mounting to loftier heights-an amphitheatre trending in a vast curve to the northward.

In the Province of Quebec there is much uncertainty in the spelling and the use of names. A scattered people in a huge half-wild country, unlettered for the most part and with no one to turn to for counsel but the priests, is apt to pay attention only to the sound of names, caring nothing about their appearance when written or the sex to which they pertain. Pronunciation has naturally varied in one mouth or another, in this family or that, and when a formal occasion calls for writing, each takes leave to spell his baptismal name in his own way, without a passing thought that there may be a canonical form. Borrowings from other languages have added to the uncertainties of orthography and gender. Individuals sign indifferently, Denise, Denije or Deneije; Conrad or Courade; men bear such names as Hermenegilde, Aglae, Edwige.

Cleophas Pesant, son of Thadee Pesant the blacksmith, was already in light-coloured summer garments, and sported an American coat with broad padded shoulders; though on this cold Sunday he had not ventured to discard his winter cap of black cloth with harelined ear-laps for the hard felt hat he would have preferred to wear.

MARIA CHAPDELAINE A TALE OF THE LAKE ST. JOHN COUNTRY