The Imperial Church: Catholic Founding Fathers and United States Empire [Illustrated] 1501748815, 9781501748813

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The Imperial Church

A VO LUME IN T H E S ER I ES

THE UNITED STATES IN THE WORLD edited by David C. Engerman, Amy S. Greenberg, and Paul A. Kramer A list of titles in this series is available at cornellpress​.­cornell​.­edu.

The Imperial Church

Catholic Founding ­Fathers and United States Empire

Katherine D. Moran

Cornell University Press Ithaca and London

Copyright © 2020 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca NY 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress.cornell.edu. First published 2020 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Moran, Katherine D., 1977– author. Title: The imperial Church : Catholic founding fathers and   United States empire / Katherine D. Moran. Description: Ithaca [New York] : Cornell University Press, 2020. |   Series: The United States in the world | Includes bibliographical   references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019038240 (print) | LCCN 2019038241 (ebook) |   ISBN 9781501748813 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501748820 (pdf ) |   ISBN 9781501748837 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Catholic Church—United States—Historiography. |   Catholic Church—Missions—United States—History. | Catholic   Church—Missions—Philippines—History. | Anti-Catholicism—   United States—History. | United States—History—Religious   aspects—Catholic Church. | United States—Territorial expansion—   Historiography. | Philippines—History—Religious aspects—Catholic   Church. | United States—History—1865–1921. Classification: LCC BX1406.3 .M67 2020 (print) |   LCC BX1406.3 (ebook) | DDC 325/.320973—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019038240 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019038241

For Anita, Anson, and Lissa and Dirk and Greta

Contents

Acknowl­edgments Note on Terminology Introduction: Thinking with Catholicism, Empire, and History

ix xiii 1

PART I. Jacques Marquette in the Upper Midwest 1. Making a Founding ­Father out of a French Jesuit

23

2. Imagining Peaceful Conquest

54

PART II. Franciscans in Southern California 3. Making Parallel Histories out of Spanish Missions 4. Embodying Hospitality and Paternalism

81 107

PART III. Friars in the Philippines 5. Revising and Rejecting Antifriarism

139

6. Envisioning Catholic Colonial Order

171

Conclusion: Imperial Church Stories

202

Notes 215 Bibliography 269 Index 305

Acknowl­edgments

One of the ­great pleasures of finishing this book is the opportunity to thank the many ­people and institutions who have been a part of its creation. This book began at Johns Hopkins University, and I am grateful to Dorothy Ross for her uncompromising rigor and unflagging support. The work also benefited im­mensely from Ron Walters’s good advice and wide-­ranging knowledge, Jane Dailey’s incisive critique, and Nathan D. B. Connolly’s generous and generative final comments. I have also learned a g­ reat deal—­about historical scholarship and so much else—­from the friends and fellow scholars I was lucky to meet during gradu­ate school, especially Amy Feng-­Parker, Amanda Herbert, Cameron Logan, Clare Monagle, Catherine Molineux, Jessica Roney, Yael Sternhell, Molly Warsh, and the late Andre Young. Catherine, in par­tic­u­lar, has commented on more drafts over the years than I can count—­and always with sparkling insight. Elizabeth and Len Liptak, friends from well before this book was conceived, opened their Sierra Madre home to me for a semester-­long research trip, and remain my models for easy, welcoming hospitality. I am also grateful to the undergraduate professors who convinced me, by word and example, that humanistic scholarship is good work and worth ­doing: especially ­Virginia Anderson, Greg Johnson, and Mark Pittenger. The bulk of this book was conceptualized and written while I was employed at two dif­fer­ent universities and during a year I spent as a Fulbright fellow in Germany. It was a privilege to be a part of the history department at the University of Wisconsin–­Stevens Point. For their wise guidance and joyful

x   A ckno w l­edgments

com­pany, I am especially indebted to Valerie Barske, Tobias Barske, Rob Harper, Nancy LoPatin-­Lummis, and the late Sally Kent. At the John F. Kennedy Institute for North American Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin and the Institut für Anglistik/Amerikanistik at the Universität Osnabrück, I am grateful to friends and colleagues for warm welcomes, engaged scholarly communities, and daily lessons in the multiple ways “U.S. History” has been made abroad. Thanks in par­tic­u­lar to Hans Anders, Frauke Brammer, Andreas Etges, Gudrun Löhrer, Ethan Miller, Simone Müller-­ Pohl, Ulrike Stedtnitz, and Olaf Stieglitz in Berlin, and to Sabine Meyer, Peter Schneck, and Jatin Wagle in Osnabrück. Dirk and Anne Kiso helped make Osnabrück home. I was also lucky to encounter Julia Nitz at the Center for United States Studies, Martin-­Luther-­Universität Halle-­Wittenberg, and Heike Bungert at the Department of History, Westf älische Wilhelms-­Universität Muenster. The department of American studies at Saint Louis University has been a rich and rewarding intellectual home. For their collegiality, encouragement, inspiration, and friendship, I am grateful to the fellow faculty and staff (current and emeritus) in my department: Heidi Ardizzone, Terri Foster, Benjamin Looker, Emily Lutenski, and Matt Mancini. Outside of my department, I have been fortunate to benefit from the advice and ideas of a number of colleagues, in par­tic­u­lar Hal Bush, Mary Gould, Torrie Hester, Mark Ruff, and Silvana Siddali. For many comments on drafts, as well as for embodying scholarly generosity and interdisciplinary creativity, I am grateful to the Cultures of American Religion working group, especially to regular members (past and pre­sent): Isaac Arten, Colten Biro, Megan Brueske, Joel Cerimele, Molly Daily, Jeff Dorr, Idolina Hernandez, Amanda Izzo, Mark Koschmann, Rachel McBride Lindsey, Jack McLinden, Susan Nichols, Adam Park, Carlos Ruiz, Anna Schmidt, and Karen Skinner. For their hard work and probing questions, I thank the gradu­ate assistants I have been lucky to work with: Aretha Butler, Victoria Cannon, Manuela Engstler, Melissa Ford, Mary Maxfield, Rebecca Preiss Odom, Ugur Ozturk, Kendyl Schmidt, and Anna Sweemer. This book would not be pos­si­ble without the expert work of curators, librarians, and archivists. I am grateful to ­those working at a number of repositories across the United States and in the Philippines. In California: Kevin Feeney at the Archival Center of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles; Anna Liza Posas and Kim Walters at the Autry Museum of the American West; Peter Blodgett, Juan Gomez, Kate Henningsen, Olga Tsapina, and Jenny Watts at the Huntington Library; Karen Raines and Steve Spiller at the Mission Inn Museum Archives; Kevin Hallaran at the Riverside Metropolitan Museum;

A ckno w l­edgments    xi

and Ruth McCormick at the Riverside Public Library. In Colorado: Amy Brooks and Jessy Randall at the Tutt Library at Colorado College. In Illinois: Linda Evans at the Chicago History Museum; Kathy Young at the Loyola University Archives; and Keelin Burke, W ­ ill Hansen, and D. Bradford Hunt at the Newberry Library. In Wisconsin: Katie Blank, Amy Cooper Cary, and Susan Stawicki-­Vrobel at the Marquette University Archives. And, fi­nally, for research assistance and truly generous hospitality, in the Philippines: Mercy Servida at the Lopez Museum; and Joshua Amancio and Engracia Santos at the Rizal Library at the Ateneo de Manila University. I would not have been able to conduct the research necessary for this proj­ ect without generous financial assistance from a number of institutions. I am thankful for the support of the Johns Hopkins University, the University of Wisconsin–­Stevens Point, and Saint Louis University, as well as the Cushwa Center for the Study of American Catholicism at the University of Notre Dame, the Fulbright Program, the Huntington Library, the Historical Society of Southern California, and the Newberry Library. The participants at a number of conferences have helped me hone my ideas: I am grateful for the comments and questions I received at annual meetings of the American Acad­emy of Religion, the American Catholic Historical Association, the American Historical Association, the American Lit­er­ a­ture Association, the American Studies Association, the Association of British American Nineteenth ­Century Historians, the Organ­ization of American Historians, the Society for Historians of American Foreign Relations, and the Society for U.S. Intellectual History. I have been honored to be invited to pre­sent work in pro­gress at a number of seminars and colloquia, and thank ­those who made this pos­si­ble and who offered comments and critique at: the Center for United States Studies, Martin-­Luther-­Universität Halle-­Wittenberg; the Cushwa Center for the Study of American Catholicism at the University of Notre Dame; the Department of American Studies at the Universität Osnabrück; the Department of History at the Westf älische Wilhelms-­Universität in Münster; the Interdisciplinary Seminar at Hillsborough College in Tampa, Florida; the John C. Danforth Center on Religion and Politics at Washington University, St. Louis; the Research Colloquium at the John F. Kennedy Institute for North American Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin; and the Vanderbilt History Seminar at Vanderbilt University. At Cornell University Press, Michael McGandy saw the potential of this book early on and has remained a source of good advice and calm reassurance. I am very grateful for his ongoing faith in the proj­ect. Paul Kramer has been for years a model of rigorous scholarship and lucid prose: the time and

xii   A ckno w l­edgments

insight he has given to this proj­ect as one of its series editors has been a true gift. This book, and its author, would be nowhere without the community of friends and scholars who have given their time and critical vision to this work. In addition to t­hose named above, I would like to thank my Young Scholars in American Religion cohort—­Kate Bowler, Heath Car­ter, Joshua Guthman, Brett Hendrickson, Kathryn Gin Lum, Lerone Martin, Angela Tarango, Stephen Taysom, T. J. Tomlin, David Walker, and Grace Yukich—­and our mentors, Laurie Maffly-­Kipp and Douglas Winiarski—­for being a rigorous and creative community of inquiry, and good friends besides. Moving to St. Louis just as Laurie did was a g­ reat piece of luck, and I am deeply thankful for her inspiring example, leavening friendship, and good counsel. To her and to the rest of our St. Louis writing group—­Fannie Bialek, John Inazu, Mark Valeri, and Abram Van Engen—­thank you for your penetrating critiques and enlivening camaraderie, invaluable in equal mea­sure. As the book was nearing completion, both Clare Monagle and John McGreevy generously offered comments on the entire manuscript: I am grateful for their insights and ideas, which have made the book substantially better. In the final stages, Torrie Hester’s keen editorial eye was a welcome gift. And fi­nally I would like to thank my ­family. To the Pompas, O’Neills, Cunicellis and Schugstas, and especially to the late Mary and Leonard Pompa, thank you for (among so much ­else) food, furniture, humor, and an East Coast home during gradu­ate school. Thank you to the Ryans and Thomsons for always asking thoughtful questions about the book, and only rarely asking when it would be finished. Thank you to Elke and the late Gerhard Bönker for love and support, built with grace and generosity across distance and language. Thank you to Anita and Anson Moran, and to Lissa Moran, Kevin Smeds, and Zoe and Owen Moran, for being and building a f­amily that remains a true home and a north star. And to Dirk Bönker and Greta Moran: one of you has brought to the making of this book more than I can ever repay; the other has most gleefully not. Both of you have transformed its author, and graced her days. It is yours.

A Note on Terminology

I use “Protestant” and “Catholic” throughout this book much as my subjects used them: as broad categories whose meaning emerges, in part, in opposition to one another. Throughout the book, men and ­women from a variety of denominations and embracing dif­fer­ent forms and levels of religious commitment identify themselves as Protestant when talking about the value of celebrating Catholic missionaries. Similarly, both Catholics and Protestants identify figures such as Junípero Serra or Jacques Marquette as Catholic when talking about the importance of a cross-­confessional commemorative culture. ­These broad categories mattered to the subjects of this book, but they also obscure as much as they reveal. American Protestantism is characterized by vast denominational diversity and wide ranges of religious devotion and commitment. The ­people featured in this book tend to fall into two groups: ­those who would claim a Protestant background but who w ­ ere not actively religious, and ­those who ­were actively religious and more theologically liberal than conservative, often explic­itly committed to ecumenism. Where I can find evidence of a subject’s denominational identity I include it: it is clear that the ­people featured in this study vary considerably in denomination, though Unitarians are particularly heavi­ly represented. Similarly, the term “Catholicism” or “Catholic pasts” can obscure the specificity of what was being celebrated. In broad terms, I follow the subjects of this book in using “Catholic” as a shorthand for “Roman Catholic,” even though, in Julie Byrne’s succinct phrasing, “not all Catholics are Roman Catholics.”1 Furthermore, as the ensuing chapters show, in celebrating Marquette,

xiv   A N ote on T erminolog y

Serra, and the Spanish friars in the Philippines, U.S. Catholics and Protestants ­were idealizing Jesuits, Franciscans, and other men in religious ­orders—­not laypeople, not ­women religious, and not (most of the time) parish priests. Indeed, ­these cele­brations ­were embedded in a series of longer discursive traditions about friars, Jesuits, and Franciscans in par­tic­u­lar. This book attempts to acknowledge t­ hose par­tic­u­lar differences when they arise, but also to reflect the fact that—­especially given the prevalence of anti-­ Catholicism in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era United States—­the broad categories of Protestant and Catholic were themselves significant. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, an Episcopalian missionary in the Philippines, a defrocked Methodist minister in California, and a Unitarian president would all identify themselves as Protestant in contradistinction to a Catholic other.2 And, when they came together with Catholic laypeople, priests, and prelates to celebrate the history of a Jesuit or a Franciscan, all of them often described what they ­were ­doing as celebrating Catholic ­people and history. My use of “Protestant” and “Catholic” is intended to reflect this binary, while si­mul­ta­neously remaining attentive to its ideological work and historical elisions.

The Imperial Church

Introduction

Thinking with Catholicism, Empire, and History

If anyone could be expected to celebrate the New ­England past as central to American greatness, it would prob­ably be George Everett Adams. The Republican congressman was born in New Hampshire in 1840 and educated at Phillips Exeter Acad­emy and Harvard. Adams was the son of a man named Benjamin Franklin Adams, whose ancestors could be traced back to mid-­ seventeenth-­century Mas­sa­chu­setts: one might expect him to locate the roots of the nation close to home, entwined with ­those of his own ­f amily tree. But Adams’s ­f amily moved to Chicago when he was a young man, and that made all the difference. Like many Americans of his generation, George Adams’s Atlantic-­f acing pedigree was matched by a continent-­spanning vision of the ­f uture, and that vision changed the way he saw the U.S. past and purpose. “We do not fully appreciate,” he told a Republican po­liti­cal club in Chicago in 1894, “the l­abors of the religious teachers who aided in the exploration and civilization of this continent. We who are New E ­ ngland born or bred learned from our school books to regard our own pilgrim f­athers as the representatives of the religious life in the early history of Amer­i­ca. We are coming to take a larger view, embracing Amer­i­ca to the north of us and Amer­i­ca to the south of us.”1 “Amer­ic­ a to the north of us and Amer­i­ca to the south of us” meant, for the Unitarian Adams, the lands colonized by Roman Catholic missionaries from Spain and France. Unlike their parents’ generation, he assured his listeners, “we” have come to appreciate the Spanish missionaries for being “gentle,

2   I N T R O D U C T I O N

loving teachers and ministers, scholars and writers” and the French missionaries for their “lives and characters” of “courage and devotion.” But what, exactly, was Adams ­doing when he told this story of Catholic “exploration and civilization of this continent” to a group of fellow Protestants? Adams was certainly not urging conversion to Catholicism. And he never made reference to the Catholic immigrants arriving daily in his city. Rather, his focus was on empire, past and ­f uture. In the second half of his speech, Adams pivoted from Catholic missionaries in general to the French missionary history of the Midwest in par­tic­u­lar. He noted that the area around the current city of Chicago was a site of ­great traffic among Native Americans, whom the French sought to convert. It was a center of empire then, he argued, and was becoming a center of empire again: “­Here was destined to be the greatest meeting point of the highways of commerce that the world has seen,” he declared. The Catholic missionary past was, for Adams, a precursor and harbinger of what he called—­and what the Chicago Daily Tribune chose to report in bold and title caps—­“Chicago’s Imperial Commercial Position.”2 Adams was not the only Protestant at the turn of the twentieth c­ entury to invoke the imperial Catholic history of the United States. Fifteen years l­ater, the president of the United States would do the same ­thing. In 1909, President William Howard Taft gave a speech in Southern California on the history of Spanish missions t­here. In words that echo Adams’s, Taft declared, “We who come from the Eastern States are accustomed to take much smug satisfaction in making reference to our ancestors and I think it is at least calculated to reduce the swelling of our heads to bear in mind for a while that ­there ­were ­others besides the En­glish who ­were fighting the ­battles of pro­gress during the sixteenth ­century. . . . ​[I]t is hard for us to believe that such impor­tant and unselfish work was being done at this time by t­hose who w ­ ere not our ancestors.”3 Taft’s audience was already prepared to celebrate the Catholic history of California: Taft stood before a predominantly Protestant audience, a­ fter being asked to dedicate a monument to Junípero Serra, the eighteenth-­century Franciscan founder of California’s Catholic mission system. Like Adams’s speech in Chicago, Taft’s in California also moved easily from the Catholic empire of the past to the U.S. empire of the pre­sent. He spoke at the invitation of boosters and railroad barons who w ­ ere building and shoring up new Anglo-­American power in the region, barely half a ­century ­after U.S. conquest. When Taft ­rose to give his speech about the Franciscan missionaries in Southern California—­about whom he knew ­little—he invoked his own experience with Spanish Catholic empire: before becoming president, Taft had served as civil governor of the U.S. colonial Philippines. He prefaced

T hinking w ith C atholicism , E mpire , and H istor y    3

his remarks in Riverside by referring to this experience and what it had taught him about Spanish Catholic empire. “In the Philippines,” he declared, “I have seen the ­great work done, not only by the Franciscans, but by the Jesuits, Rigolettos [sic] and the Augustines; I have had ample evidence of heroic work done by the Spanish Christians in the Pacific Islands.”4 Taft had made similar statements throughout his ­career in the Philippines, not only praising the history of Spanish friars in the archipelago for their “heroic work” but also carefully negotiating with con­temporary Spanish friars, some of whom remained in the Philippines during the American colonial period. For Taft as for Adams, talking about regional histories of Eu­ro­pean Catholic empire was also a way of talking about the recent past and projected f­ uture of U.S. empire. Public pronouncements by prominent politicians, t­ hese speeches are hardly buried in the historical rec­ord. But to a reader t­oday they nonetheless feel anomalous. Students of American religious history know a ­great deal about the anti-­Catholic rhe­toric and organ­izations of the nineteenth ­century: about antipopery discourse in the early Republic, anti-­Catholic gothic convent captivity narratives in the antebellum period, and the rise of the nativist, anti-­Catholic American Protective Association at the end of the nineteenth c­ entury, for example. Less attention has been paid, however, to examples of Protestant admiration for or attraction to Catholicism. Historians do not, in other words, know quite what to make of prominent Protestants arguing for the inclusion of Roman Catholic forefathers in the pantheon of American founding heroes. This book argues that Adams’s and Taft’s speeches w ­ ere, in fact, part of a much larger pattern in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Alongside and against ongoing currents of anti-­Catholicism in U.S. culture, many late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Protestants joined their Catholic compatriots in speaking with nostalgia and admiration about the figures and institutions of Roman Catholic exploration and evangelization. As the United States grew into a global power, t­ hese ­women and men celebrated idealized versions of Catholic imperial pasts and, through ­those cele­brations, addressed themselves to the history and ­f uture of U.S. empire. This new language was part of a broader commemorative spirit in the late nineteenth c­ entury. In the years ­after the Civil War and the end of Reconstruction, Americans engaged in a frenzy of nationalist historical commemoration: erecting monuments, coming together in historical associations, organ­izing community events, and writing pageants, plays, and poems that declared national unity and defined national greatness.5 In the wake of sectional warfare and in the face of growing class conflict and increasing immigration from southern and eastern Eu­rope and East Asia, white, middle-­class Americans in

4   I N T R O D U C T I O N

par­tic­u­lar attempted to knit the multifarious pieces of the nation together with the imaginative threads of historical narrative. Unsurprisingly, they invoked the Puritans and the Pilgrims, the Founding ­Fathers and the revolutionary generation. But they also looked beyond Mas­sa­chu­setts Bay and Bunker Hill to the booming Midwest, the Pacific coast, and, eventually, to overseas colonies. ­There they found histories of Catholic missionaries and explorers: Jesuits, Franciscans, and o ­ thers who had left France and Spain in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eigh­teenth centuries in the name of God and crown. Alongside the familiar Protestant origin stories, they built Catholic ones. As American Protestants wrote, performed, and read t­ hese stories, they did so alongside and encouraged by a growing number of American Catholics. By the end of the Civil War, t­here ­were more Catholics in the United States than adherents to any single Protestant denomination.6 The presence of a large Catholic electorate encouraged Protestant politicians to respond to calls to commemorate Catholic historical figures, and the existence of Catholic elites in the boardrooms and club rooms of Gilded Age and Progressive Era Amer­ i­ca made cross-­confessional camaraderie and commemorative planning pos­si­ ble. Some Catholic priests and prelates also participated in cele­brations of founding Catholic missionaries, convinced that one way to combat anti-­ Catholicism was to show non-­Catholic Amer­i­ca, in word and ceremony, that Catholicism and patriotism could exist side by side. Taft and Adams gave their speeches as Protestants, but they did so in a country that was increasingly home to a large and growing Catholic minority. And they did so in a country looking outward in multiple directions. Bruce Cumings has encouraged scholars to take a “Pacificist” approach to modern U.S. history, one attuned to the shifting geo­g raph­i­cal imagination of many Americans, past and pre­sent. Ever since denizens of the United States first began to think about the global commercial and maritime opportunities presented by continent-­wide settler-­colonial expansion, they linked the places commonly called the American West, on the one hand, and the transpacific East, on the other. By the late nineteenth ­century, not only had the United States acquired its own Pacific coastline (and Pacific overseas territories, for that m ­ atter), but that coastline had come to represent not so much the distant end point of westward continental expansion but rather a key node of the developing imperial nation-­state and an embarkation point for ­future engagement with Asia. What had once been a dense collection of former British colonies on the continental rim of broader Euro-­Atlantic worlds had now become a multicentered, continent-­spanning, two-­ocean nation, one that faced t­oward

T hinking w ith C atholicism , E mpire , and H istor y    5

not only Eu­rope but also decidedly west, across the continent, and well beyond its North American domain.7 That expanse of land and ocean contained opportunities for territory, resources, and trade; it also contained Catholics. For the Protestant clergymen and writers Lyman Beecher and Josiah Strong, the American Midwest and West (terms that bled into one another in the nineteenth ­century) ­were places of astonishing resources and potential for economic and population growth, the soil out of which the ­f uture of the nation would grow. But, as Beecher noted in his widely read 1835 sermon A Plea for the West, and as Strong reiterated in his even more popu­lar 1885 book, Our Country: Its Pos­si­ble ­Future and Its Pre­sent Crisis, ­these spaces of national hope and possibility ­were also home to increasing numbers of Catholic immigrants. Citing Catholics’ supranational allegiances to Rome and their purportedly unthinking reliance on clerical authority, Beecher and Strong feared that the very site of Amer­i­ca’s ­f uture would also contain the seeds of democracy’s demise, and advocated a renewed commitment to Protestant missionary work.8 ­Later debates about U.S. colonies in the Pacific echoed this concern, if tuned to a dif­fer­ent key: Protestant missionaries to the majority-­Catholic Philippines, for example, clamored for more government support, arguing that assimilation to American norms and values required Protestant religious transformation.9 For many Protestants, the view across the continent and into the Pacific was a complicated mix of patriotic optimism and anti-­Catholic anxiety. But for o ­ thers—­for many of the p­ eople who populate this book—­a right reading of history could calm that anti-­Catholic anxiety. In explicit rejection of anti-­Catholicism, they reminded their fellow Americans of the history and legacy of French and Spanish Catholic missionaries in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eigh­teenth centuries. They argued that Catholicism could not corrupt the U.S. proj­ect in the Midwest, West, and Pacific ­because Catholicism—­and Catholics—­had been ­there all along. They also argued that this Catholic history was a vital imaginative resource. They cast historical Catholic missionaries as the heroes of new origin stories about the expanded U.S. nation and empire, as founding f­athers who stood tall in the history of the imperial nation and whose examples ­were available to guide its ­future. Just as one might read lessons for the ­future in other American origin stories—in the plight of the Pilgrims or the purpose of the Puritans—so too might Catholic origin stories light the way forward, helping Americans understand not only their lands’ imperial pasts but also their nation’s imperial ­f uture.

6   I N T R O D U C T I O N

This book tracks ­these stories as they emerged in three dif­fer­ent sites and circumstances: the upper Midwest, Southern California, and the U.S. colonial Philippines. T ­ hese diverse sites ­were all U.S. territories with histories of Eu­ ro­pean Catholic empire. French Jesuits had explored and evangelized the upper Midwest in the seventeenth ­century. Spanish Franciscans had created a chain of missions stretching from San Diego to Sonoma in California, from 1769 to 1823. And the Spanish empire—­administered in large part by Catholic friars—­had ruled the Philippines since the late sixteenth c­ entury. In each of t­ hese places, by the turn of the twentieth ­century, the history of Catholic empire began to m ­ atter to large, cross-­confessional groups of Americans. Beginning in the 1870s, white Protestants joined white Catholics in the Midwest in celebrating the history of the seventeenth-­century French Jesuit missionary and explorer Jacques Marquette. Beginning in the 1880s, a predominantly Protestant group of newly arrived boosters—­who would identify themselves as “Anglos”—­collaborated with the Catholic hierarchy in Southern California to celebrate the Spanish Franciscan Junípero Serra and the mission system he and his brethren founded. And, ­after the end of the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War in 1898, many U.S. soldiers, officials, teachers, journalists, and travelers in the Philippines turned to the archipelago’s history of rule by Spanish friars as a colonial model. The commemorations and conversations that arose in each place w ­ ere ­shaped by the par­tic­u­lar histories and exigencies of each place but ­were not ­limited to that place. During the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, the Midwest was growing into a global center of manufacturing and commerce; Southern California was slowly, often violently, transforming from a ranching economy dominated by Mexican landowning elites to an agricultural and urban economy dominated by newly arrived Anglos; and the Philippines was the site of an anticolonial, anti-­Spanish revolution (aided by the United States) that was quickly followed by a war between U.S. and Filipino nationalist forces for control of the archipelago, and an overlapping and subsequent pro­cess of colonial state building. The diverse ways that Catholic imperial pasts ­were invoked in each place ­were highly situational and contingent, emerging from ­these distinct histories and strug­gles. They referenced dif­fer­ent rhetorical contexts: Euro-­American traditions of anti-­Jesuit rhe­toric, a new transatlantic admiration for St. Francis of Assisi, and a long history of Filipino critiques of Spanish friars, to name only a few. The histories of Catholic empire ­were dif­fer­ent in each place; so too ­were the contexts in which each history became a useable past. Yet the local was not parochial. From the upper Midwest, Southern California, and the Philippines, new language about Catholicism echoed across the

T hinking w ith C atholicism , E mpire , and H istor y    7

United States. In the burgeoning world of national print culture, in an era of rapidly expanding transportation and communication technologies, many Americans in Boston or Baltimore not only traveled to Chicago, Los Angeles, or Manila but also read about t­hese places and mused on what they meant for the nation. Much of the material I have analyzed for this study, therefore, is produced in each place but widely distributed beyond it. I have followed language about the history and current resonance of Catholic imperial pasts as it emerged in the form of po­liti­cal speeches, government reports, poetry, novels, plays, travel narratives, pamphlets, advertisements, and more. I have traced it among p­ eople who ­were self-­consciously crafting historical narratives as amateur and professional historians, boosters, or monument builders, and among o ­ thers who picked up this language as common sense, adopting and adapting it to their own ends. This book is, in one sense, a reclamation proj­ect: it re-­creates a rhetorical world that was common and widespread and that historians have lost sight of. In ­doing so, it helps explain speeches like ­those made by Adams or Taft. It takes statements and actions that ­until now have been written off as exceptions, as the result of individual peculiarities, and places them in their proper context as part of a vibrant, multifaceted national conversation about Catholicism and empire. But this book is also more. To take seriously the fact that many American Protestants at the turn of the twentieth c­ entury integrated Catholic missionaries and explorers into their efforts to commemorate a meaningful past, and that ­doing so involved talking and thinking about a fast-­ developing U.S. empire, requires that historians reconsider some of their key operating assumptions about the histories of U.S. empire and American religion.

Empire The study of U.S. imperial history has taken a religious turn, but the majority of this scholarship is focused on Protestantism. It takes as a starting point the dominance of Protestant evangelical impulses and providential visions of the United States, subjects of long-­standing interest. Impor­tant scholarship has elaborated on the role of Manifest Destiny, the work of Protestant missionaries, and the influence of social Chris­tian­ity—to name just a few themes— in the advancement of U.S. global power.10 Histories of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in par­tic­u­lar, have revolved around what the

8   I N T R O D U C T I O N

historian Andrew Preston has neatly summarized as that “familiar rhe­toric in the history of American exceptionalism: the stuff of providence, manifest destiny, a New Jerusalem, and a shining city upon a hill.”11 In contrast, this book argues that another rhe­toric was at work during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era: one less Protestant and less exceptionalist. Reaching back to histories of Catholic empire, it was a language of cross-­confessional civilizing work and interimperial influence and inheritance. With its focus on Catholic pasts, this book brings new actors, stories, and ideas into the conversation about U.S. empire. It also helps move scholarship on U.S. empire in three impor­tant directions. First, it helps bring diverse sites and types of Gilded Age and Progressive Era U.S. empire together in one analytical frame. Second, it illuminates a historical moment of antiexceptionalism in American imperial thought by demonstrating that claims to a cross-­ confessional civilizing mission involved self-­conscious comparisons to, and borrowings from, e­ arlier Eu­ro­pean empires. And, third, it contributes to the historiographical de-­exceptionalizing of U.S. empire by examining a moment when, in both the United States and Eu­rope, imperial contexts inspired Protestant reevaluations of the place and nature of Catholicism in the body politic. “Empire,” of course, can mean many t­hings. In the late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century United States, ­these included the pro­cess of settler colonialism known in most U.S. history textbooks as “westward expansion,” the United States’ acquisition of a large overseas colonial empire in 1898–99, and the commercial and industrial growth that fueled what historians call, in vari­ ous iterations, the United States’ “market empire” or “empire of production”: the nation’s rise to global industrial preeminence.12 One might expect that each of t­hese versions of empire corresponded, in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, to a dif­fer­ent site in this book: Southern California with westward expansion, the Philippines with colonial empire, and Chicago and its environs with the creation of commercial, economic empire. To some extent this is true, but too firm an attention to ­these distinctions can blind historians to the flow and flux among them. Gilded Age and Progressive Era debates about such topics as race, gender, assimilation, and economic growth cut across ­these dif­fer­ent places and forms of empire—as did conversations about Catholic pasts. Following the subjects of this book in thinking about ­these dif­fer­ent sites and forms of empire together allows diverse circumstances and processes—­histories that are not often told in relation to one another—to be captured in one frame.13 Speeches like Adams’s and Taft’s demonstrate that the Midwest, the Far West, and the Philippines could all be conceived in relation to one another. And they w ­ ere related, as both Adams and

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Taft insist, by the acts of Eu­ro­pean missionaries who, from dif­fer­ent places and in dif­fer­ent centuries, w ­ ere nonetheless understood to be engaging in a similar, racialized task: the spread of “civilization.” The notion that one could spread “civilization” itself has a long history in the United States and elsewhere. As it emerged out of the Enlightenment, it was based on the idea that ­peoples pro­gress in a linear way from states of savagism to barbarism to civilization. ­Because, crucially, not all ­peoples and places ­were ­imagined to do so at the same time, it was up to the more “civilized” ­people to help the less “civilized” advance. Over the years, levels of any person’s or group’s civilization w ­ ere mea­sured according to a bewildering variety of metrics, ranging from gender roles and styles of dress, to language and literacy, to food and technology, to racial formations and geography, almost always including some version of Chris­tian­ity and economic development. For many Americans in the years between the Civil War and the First World War, the mission of bringing “civilization”—­assimilation to middle-­class American Christian modes of faith and life, and access to foreign investment and cap­i­tal­ist development—­cast territorial expansion and colonial acquisition as just and humane.14 This conviction was hardly universal. Particularly ­after the United States acquired overseas territories and colonies, some p­ eople who identified as anti-­ imperialists roundly rejected colonialism’s civilizing pretentions. Mark Twain, for example, acidly referred to American imperialists as members of a “Blessings-­ of-­Civilization Trust,” arranged, like other “trusts” in the Gilded Age, primarily for the profit of its members.15 ­Others rejected overseas colonialism as part of their own white supremacist convictions: they feared that the eventual incorporation of colonial subjects through the extension of the republic would threaten American racial homogeneity. But outside of anti-colonial circles, late nineteenth-­century discourse on civilizing empire flowed naturally from ­earlier ideas about Manifest Destiny. The idea of Manifest Destiny had become popu­lar in the ­middle of the nineteenth ­century, in par­tic­u­lar in the context of the U.S. acquisition of much of northern Mexico in the late 1840s. Proponents argued that the spread of U.S. sovereignty across the continent was the fulfillment of a special God-­g iven destiny, a providential mission for a chosen nation. Ideas about the United States as a civilizing global empire that emerged l­ater in the c­ entury replicated Manifest Destiny’s claim that the expansion of U.S. territorial authority was a right and righ­teous goal, not merely a grasping for material wealth and power but a chance to remake the world in better form. However, as Anders Stephanson has pointed out, the idea of the United States as a civilizing empire was neither as nationally exceptionalist nor as

10   I N T R O D U C T I O N

exclusively Protestant as w ­ ere mid-­nineteenth-­century notions of Manifest Destiny. To think about U.S. empire in civilizational terms meant that the United States was ­doing something—­spreading “civilization”—­that Eu­ro­pean empires had been ­doing and ­were continuing to do as well. Many Americans argued that their country was ­doing it best, to be sure, and that the United States represented the most advanced form of civilization. But, in Stephanson’s words, that argument still connected the United States “up with Eu­rope and the world in lines of continuity, thus replacing absolute distinction.”16 When Gilded Age and Progressive Era Americans such as Adams and Taft talked about the spread of civilization, they w ­ ere placing U.S. civilizing proj­ ects within a longer Eu­ro­pean lineage and including (Euro-­American) Catholics within that lineage. In ­doing so they w ­ ere engaging in a form of interimperial comparison, understanding themselves in relation to, and learning from the example of, other imperial powers. Scholars of U.S. empire have given the pro­cess of interimperial comparison and borrowing close attention. They have demonstrated, for example, how in the years before the First World War, German and U.S. naval elites pursued paths to global sea power characterized by national competition and transnational exchange, and how, in the interwar years, anticolonial discourse in Vietnam drew on and transformed images of the United States and its history.17 The subjects of this book, too, situated their own nation’s empire within a global context and saw themselves as drawing from and related to other empires. But this book adds a twist to existing scholarship, focusing on interimperial comparison that did not reach across space but only across time. Oriented t­oward the Eu­ro­pean Catholic imperial pasts in lands now fallen ­under U.S. dominion, American Protestants brought the figures and features of ­those local pasts to bear on their own present-­day prob­lems and ambitions.18 Beyond the interimperial comparisons made, self-­consciously, by the p­ eople in this book, scholars might also note similarities between this book’s history of Catholicism and U.S. empire and the histories of Catholicism and other, Eu­ro­pean empires. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Americans ­were not the only ­people to reassess the place of Roman Catholicism in the modern imperial nation. Indeed, the language examined in this book is part of a larger pattern of empire-­based challenges to anti-­Catholicism and anticlericalism. To begin with, the history of nineteenth-­century U.S. anti-­Catholicism—­ which ­will be discussed in greater detail below—­can be understood as part of larger transatlantic currents. In Eu­rope, the nineteenth c­ entury had also seen an increase in anti-­Catholicism and anticlericalism. As exemplified by the Italian

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Risorgimento and the German Kulturkampf, Eu­ro­pean states consolidated power by passing laws limiting the authority of the Catholic Church: closing or regulating monasteries and schools, appropriating church land and wealth, and even assuming authority over ecclesiastical appointments.19 Throughout Eu­rope, increased state-­sponsored attacks on the Catholic Church ­were accompanied by an explosion of anti-­Catholic, anticlerical, antimonastic, and anti-­Jesuit lit­er­a­ture, much of which traveled a transnational and transatlantic cir­cuit.20 The French historian Jules Michelet’s anticlerical Du Prêtre, de la femme, et de la famille, for example, was published in the United States in 1845 as Spiritual Direction and Auricular Confession, likely a pirated reprint of a British version. The anticonvent memoir of the Italian ex-­nun Enrichetta Caracciolo was translated into both French and En­glish (the latter by a U.S. consul) and went through multiple editions in both France and the United States.21 In much of Eu­rope as in the United States, in ways po­liti­cally distinct but often rhetorically connected, anti-­Catholicism and anticlericalism ­were power­ful forces in the ­middle of the nineteenth ­century. Then—in Eu­rope as well as in the United States—­the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries saw a reassessment of the relationship between Catholics and the state, in and through colonial contexts. As the newly created German empire acquired colonies in Africa, China, and the Pacific, the letters and publications produced by missionaries—­including Catholic missionaries—­were a principal source of popu­lar information about the overseas empire and succeeded in inspiring commitment to the idea of a civilizing mission. In politics, the Catholic Center Party, though sometimes critical of German colonialism, expressed support for the idea of uplifting colonial subjects and hoped that their support might improve the position of Catholics in state and society in the wake of the Kulturkampf. While the Catholic role in German colonial politics inspired some anti-­Catholic mobilization in Germany, in general the pursuit of German Weltpolitik and colonial empire, as the site of a nationalizing discourse of Germans as a global imperial ­people, opened up spaces for the incorporation of Catholics in the ­imagined German nation.22 In France, the 1880s marked the beginning of an intense period of French overseas colonialism, which involved the l­abor of thousands of Catholic missionaries.23 The result was, at least initially and on paper, a divide between the domestic and the colonial: “Anti-­clericalism,” the anticlerical statesman Léon Gambetta would famously announce, was “not an item for export.”24 The conviction b­ ehind Gambetta’s ­grand statement never reached all the way through the colonial bureaucracy and was undermined in the first de­cade of the twentieth ­century by the revival of anticlericalism in the wake of the Dreyfus Affair.

12   I N T R O D U C T I O N

Nonetheless, the colonies remained a site of French republican negotiation with French Catholic missionaries. In some places, the missionaries themselves responded to rising anticlericalism by claiming a central role in the French civilizing mission, a claim that colonial administrators accepted, at least in practice.25 As agents of civilizing empire, French Catholic missionaries existed in a dif­fer­ent relationship to the state than their coreligionists back in the metropole. In short, if the po­liti­cal revolutions, nationalizing transformations, and liberalizing currents of the first half of the long nineteenth ­century brought anti-­ Catholic and anticlerical animus to the fore in Eu­rope, the imperial ambitions of the ­century’s second half brought a renegotiation of the place of Catholicism in the modern imperial nation-­state. The history recounted in this book, of a commemorative culture that fused cross-­confessional alliances and pluralist cele­brations with an embrace of past and f­ uture civilizing missions, is distinct to the United States, but it is hardly exceptional.

Catholicism Catholicism, like empire, can mean many ­things: a set of doctrine or teachings; a collection of ritual practices; a way of living and orienting oneself to the world, both seen and unseen; or a combination of ­these, holding communities of ­people who call themselves Catholics together across space and time. All of ­these appear in this book, but the book is, at its core, a history of Catholicism as an idea. It is a history of Catholicism as it appeared in speech, writing, and imagery produced by Catholics and—­ especially—by non-­ Catholics. This book tracks repre­sen­ta­tions of Catholicism as they evolved in relationship to historically evolving Catholic institutions, ­peoples, practices, and beliefs and also in relation to historical ­factors that may seem to have ­little to do with a­ ctual Catholicism. It examines, in short, how Americans have thought with Catholicism in their efforts to understand their nation’s past, interpret its pre­sent, and shape its ­f uture. Historians have spent a g­ reat deal of time tracing the history of American Protestants thinking and talking about Catholicism. In fact, at the center of the historiography of American Catholicism is a story about the rise and fall of American anti-­Catholicism.26 Long before the formation of the United States, this story begins, northern Eu­ro­pean colonists brought a power­f ul notion of Catholic threat to the British New World. Protestants continued for generations to cast “popery,” or “Romanism,” as foreign, hierarchical, obscu-

T hinking w ith C atholicism , E mpire , and H istor y    13

rantist, and sexually deviant. Protestant colonists played a game called Break the Pope’s Neck, and schoolchildren learned to read from a New ­England Primer rife with anti-­Catholic images.27 By the late eigh­teenth c­ entury, popery had become so equated with tyranny in general that American colonists could imagine King George III, the head of the Church of ­England, as embodying a kind of papal despotism.28 In the nineteenth ­century—in the United States as in Europe—­anti-­ Catholicism reached a fever pitch, responding in part to a transatlantic exchange of ideas about the incompatibility of the Roman Catholic Church with the emerging modern nation-­state, and tied, in a U.S. context, to par­tic­u­lar Protestant anx­i­eties about recurrent waves of Catholic immigrants. In the antebellum period, American Protestants would make lurid convent captivity tales a best-­selling genre, articulate nativist anx­i­eties about Catholic immigration and the ­future of the republic, and launch a short-­lived po­liti­cal party dedicated to keeping Catholics out of public life. Books such as Maria Monk’s Awful Disclosures of the H ­ otel Dieu Nunnery (1836)—­which earned notoriety for its fictional but harrowing tales of rape and infanticide b­ ehind convent walls—­inspired anti-­Catholic riots and church burnings. T ­ hese books and events expressed a widespread dismay at the way Catholic convents flouted the norms of Victorian gender roles, and a deep distrust of Roman Catholic authority and secrecy.29 Responding to increased Catholic immigration—­ particularly from Ireland and Germany—­nativists argued that Catholic immigrants ­were unsuited to the rigors of demo­cratic citizenship, and, hoping that public schools would assimilate immigrant c­ hildren, battled Catholics who wanted taxes to support their own parochial schools.30 In the 1850s, the Know-­ Nothing party r­ ose to prominence by appealing to fears of Catholic disloyalty to the nation. Half po­liti­cal party, half secret society, the Know-­Nothings restricted membership to native-­born Protestants who w ­ ere not married to Roman Catholics, and required members to vote only for fellow native-­born Protestants, regardless of po­liti­cal affiliation.31 ­After the Civil War, reacting in part to ongoing Catholic immigration, increasingly from eastern and southern Eu­rope, other anti-­Catholic po­liti­cal organ­izations emerged. The most successful of ­these was the nativist American Protective Association, or APA, which was founded in 1887 and influential ­until 1896.32 Its oath included a denunciation of Catholicism and a pledge to avoid voting for or employing a Catholic if a Protestant was available. During its heyday, the APA counted over a million Americans as members and influenced many local elections, but had less luck with national issues. It was followed, in the 1920s, by the revived Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, which

14   I N T R O D U C T I O N

combined a power­ful mix of antiblack racism, anti-­Semitism, and anti-­ Catholicism, and won adherents especially in the South, Midwest, and West.33 Throughout the early twentieth c­ entury, anti-­Catholic rhe­toric was also promoted through an expanding print media. By 1915 the circulation of the most successful anti-­Catholic newspaper, The Menace, exceeded that of some of the nation’s largest daily papers.34 Anti-­Catholicism continued into the mid-­twentieth c­ entury, responding in par­tic­ul­ar to Catholic support of fascist Eu­ro­pean regimes. Old suspicions about Catholic authoritarianism and foreign allegiances w ­ ere increasingly voiced by a secular, liberal intelligent­sia. In 1949, Paul Blanshard’s best seller, American Freedom and Catholic Power, again raised the question of ­whether it was pos­si­ ble to be a responsible citizen of a f­ree society and a Catholic at the same time.35 Then, according to the story of the rise and fall of anti-­Catholicism, a monumental shift occurred. In the 1950s, American Catholics entered the m ­ iddle class and moved from ethnic urban enclaves to the suburbs (in part through the GI Bill), and they entered the po­liti­cal mainstream (in part through anti-­ Communist politics). In 1960, the Catholic John F. Kennedy was elected president. Two years l­ater, Pope John XXIII convened the Second Vatican Council, which set the stage for a series of reforms that eventually made Catholic practice seem less alien to many Protestants.36 In some re­spects, the Protestant embrace of Catholic pasts detailed in this book could be understood as a beginning of the end of hegemonic anti-­ Catholicism in the United States. Certainly, some of the subjects of this book—­men and ­women who self-­consciously understood themselves to be advancing the cause of religious tolerance—­might have embraced this interpretation. However, this book’s argument cuts in the other direction, challenging the dominance of the rise-­and-­fall-­of-­anti-­Catholicism narrative itself. Scholars of anti-­Catholicism have illuminated the scope and complexity of anti-­Catholic thought and organ­izations, recovering the nuance and power of a discourse central to U.S. cultural, po­liti­cal, and religious history. This is an impor­tant story, but as a structuring device for American Catholic history, the rise-­and-­fall-­of-­anti-­Catholicism narrative is by itself insufficient to the task of understanding the full complexity of the history of Catholicism in U.S. culture. First, this narrative fails to account not only for speeches like Adams’s and Taft’s but also for many other ways American Protestants have talked about Catholicism over the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. A small but growing group of scholars of U.S. history, religious studies, and American lit­er­a­ture has been filling out this story, tracing repre­sen­ta­tions of Catholicism that are not anti-­Catholic, and asking what they have meant.

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T. J. Jackson Lears’s pathbreaking study of antimodernism, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880–1920 (1981), drew scholars’ attention to Gilded Age and Progressive Era attractions to Catholic forms and argued that—­alongside attractions to the martial ideal, to Arts and Crafts, and to the M ­ iddle Ages—­they provided an available and ultimately commodifiable response to northeastern white elites’ feelings of weightlessness and alienation brought on by the growth of industrial capitalism.37 (A similar antimodernism, though located far from the Eastern Seaboard and conducted most often in the tones of boosterish optimism, ­will resurface ­later in this book.) In her reading of American Protestant literary engagements with Catholicism in Roads to Rome: The Antebellum Protestant Encounter with Catholicism (1994), Jenny Franchot has noted valences not only of repulsion but also of attraction in antebellum American Protestant writing about encounters with Roman Catholicism. She has demonstrated how ­these w ­ ere ways of building and wrestling with the idea of a unified American Protestantism, of “indirectly voic[ing] the tensions and limitations of mainstream Protestant culture.”38 A de­cade ­later, in Catholicism and American Freedom: A History (2004), John T. McGreevy turned his attention to the intellectual history of po­liti­cal discourse and pointed out that American Protestant ideas about freedom, from the early nineteenth c­ entury to the turn of the twenty-­first, ­were formed not simply in contrast to an i­magined Catholic other but often in conversation with and influenced by Catholic thinkers and ideas.39 Other scholars have traced positive Protestant engagements with Catholicism in every­thing from mid-­nineteenth-­century church architecture to 1930s-­era Hollywood films.40 What brings this diverse scholarship together, across disciplines and subfields, is a conviction that American Protestants have had a much more complex relationship with Catholicism than a history of the forms and fates of anti-­ Catholicism might suggest. Understanding that relationship requires scholars to consider a wide variety of repre­sen­ta­tions of Catholics and Catholicism, both critical and admiring, and to ask what Americans ­were thinking about when they ­were thinking with Catholicism.41 To “think with Catholicism,” as I am using the phrase, is to invoke something recognizably Catholic—­a historical figure, an image, an event—in the pro­cess of talking about something beyond Catholicism. Catholicism is, in this sense, not only a set of beliefs and practices defined by ­people who call themselves Catholics but also a broader rhetorical construct. Thinking with Catholicism necessarily involves thinking about Catholicism: it is affected by, and affects, Catholic p­ eople, ideas, and histories. But it is rarely a s­imple response to or reflection of t­hose p­ eople, ideas, and histories. It has its own history. Catholics

16   I N T R O D U C T I O N

and non-­Catholics have been thinking with vari­ous ele­ments of Catholicism—­ with the idea of a clerical hierarchy, with nuns, with Jesuits, with Franciscans and other friars, with St. Francis and other saints, and much more—­for centuries. Over time, individual acts of thinking about Catholicism have accreted into a history of constraints and possibilities, turning the act of thinking with Catholicism into something that draws on, and is potentially ­limited by, past meanings of the term.42 This book proposes to chart one strand of that history: to explore how Americans have thought with Catholicism about empire. If the first prob­ lem with the dominance of the rise-­ and-­ f all-­ of-­ anti-­ Catholicism narrative is that it fails to account for many kinds of talk about Catholics and Catholicism, the second prob­lem is that its focus on north Atlantic migrations fails to account for the historical trajectories of many American Catholic groups. For example, a story that foregrounds the challenges and triumphs of Euro-­American Catholic immigrants does not adequately contend with the history of African American Catholics. The celebrated midcentury move of American Catholics out of ethnic urban communities and into the college-­educated, suburb-­dwelling ­middle class was not a move available to African Americans, who faced discriminatory applications of the GI Bill, real estate redlining, and more. As Matthew Cressler has argued, the postwar period was not a moment when “Catholics” entered an American “mainstream” but rather a moment when the ­children and grandchildren of Eu­ro­pean immigrant Catholics claimed the privileges and prerogatives of American whiteness.43 Furthermore, the rise-­and-­fall-­of-­anti-­Catholicism narrative leaves out the Catholic populations that the United States incorporated as part of its vari­ous imperial pursuits. Native American Catholics, many Catholics of Mexican descent, and Catholics in U.S. overseas colonial spaces ­were not immigrants to the United States but descendants of ­people who had lived on the land before it became part of the U.S. nation and empire.44 A history focused on nativist responses to Eu­ro­pean Catholic immigration giving way to assimilation and inclusion is, in the end, not a history that captures the experiences of ­these Catholics. The very term that Catholic history surveys use for the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—an era that is often called the era of the “Immigrant Church”—­betrays this preoccupation with north Atlantic crossings.45 The “Immigrant Church” is indeed an apt term for a significant portion of American Catholic history. Much of the U.S. Catholic Church was built, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, through immigration. This immigration fueled nativist anti-­Catholicism and also inspired debates in the U.S. Catholic Church about how much the church should encourage its members to assimilate. Yet in the U.S. Southwest and Far West, and in overseas colonies

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such as the Philippines, the “Immigrant Church” label breaks down. In ­these places in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Protestant Americans ­were often the newcomers. When they arrived they met Catholics who traced their own Catholic history back to Eu­ro­pean exploration and evangelization, and who had become residents of the U.S. nation and empire not b­ ecause they had migrated into it but ­because its borders had expanded to include their land. In terms of both their histories and their pre­sent predicaments, “empire” was a more meaningful concept than “immigration.” This book offers, then, the “Imperial Church” as a complementary and intersecting allegory to that of the “Immigrant Church.” The point is not that the Catholic Church was or is imperialist but rather that the concept of empire was central to how many Americans—­Protestant and Catholic—­ thought about Catholicism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Just as many Americans—­from Catholic immigrants themselves to anti-­ Catholic nativists—­invoked immigration as a central, defining characteristic of American Catholicism, so too did many Americans argue that the prior history of Catholic missions on what had become U.S. territory, and the ways in which the United States came to acquire that territory, w ­ ere central to the meaning of American Catholicism. Paying attention to this Imperial Church—to the stories about Catholic imperial pasts that many Americans ­were telling in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, and to the implications of ­those stories for the history and ­future of U.S. empire—­requires, in the end, that scholars recognize that Los Angeles and Manila are as impor­tant to the history of American Catholicism as are Boston and New York. To do so enables, in fact, a better understanding of the Immigrant Church. As this book w ­ ill demonstrate, Immigrant Church and Imperial Church narratives often intersected with one another, such as when Catholics of Eu­ ro­pean immigrant heritage claimed the status of “white” Americans by invoking their religious ties to the history of French Jesuits in the Midwest, or when Catholics and Protestants joined together to fight nativist anti-­Catholicism in Southern California in part through referencing the Franciscans as regional and national founding f­athers. The Immigrant Church, it turns out, lived alongside and intertwined with the Imperial Church.

Plan for the Book This book is made up of three parts with two chapters each. Each part focuses on a dif­fer­ent site out of which Imperial Church language emerged: the upper

18   I N T R O D U C T I O N

Midwest (beginning in the 1870s), Southern California (beginning in the 1880s), and the Philippines (beginning in the 1890s). The first chapter in each part introduces the history and commemorative culture of each place and then goes on to examine how that commemorative culture challenged or transformed existing anti-­Catholic and anticlerical language, describing Catholic missionaries as national and imperial founding f­athers. T ­ hese odd-­numbered chapters are, broadly, focused on the rejection of anti-­Catholicism and the act of connecting Catholic pasts to the origins of the U.S. nation and empire. The second chapter in each part explores how Catholic imperial pasts w ­ ere understood as offering lessons and models for the U.S. imperial f­ uture. T ­ hese even-­ numbered chapters analyze the ways figures such as Marquette, Serra, and the Spanish friars in the Philippines w ­ ere ­imagined to embody par­tic­u­lar characteristics that Americans in the pre­sent day might learn from and emulate. Part I explores the development in the upper Midwest from the 1870s to the 1910s of a commemorative culture focusing on Jacques Marquette, the French Jesuit missionary who explored the Mississippi with Louis Jolliet in 1673. Chapter 1 analyzes this commemorative culture, with par­tic­u­lar attention to race and commerce: Marquette was most often described as the “first white man” of the Midwest, and the idea of a common whiteness and (broadly defined) Chris­tian­ity allowed his admirers to argue that he was essentially similar to other national founding figures: the Puritans, Pilgrims, and American revolutionaries. This vision of Marquette recast the American origin story as a multisited story of vari­ous Eu­ro­pean Christians encountering the New World, naturalizing, a­ fter the fact, the imperial nation’s expansion into formerly French and Native American territory. The chapter concludes with an examination of the way Marquette’s elevation as a regional founder intersected with the growing midwestern economy, demonstrating not only that Marquette served as a regional symbol and brand but also that his pious example was mobilized to provide a spiritual gloss to the materialism of a developing center of industry and commerce. Chapter 2 focuses on the depiction of Marquette as a model of civilizing empire. Marquette’s admirers drew on and transformed historical sources, hagiography, and even anti-­Jesuit discourse to depict the Jesuit as a particularly effective civilizer b­ ecause of his ability to embody gentleness and bravery at the same time, which they often described as his embodiment of both “female” and “male” attributes. The chapter ends with an analy­sis of the ongoing popularity of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 1855 epic poem, The Song of Hiawatha, the conclusion of which was partly based on Marquette’s journals. It argues that some turn-­of-­the-­century Hiawatha readers invoked the

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poem’s Marquette figure as a way to imagine and celebrate their own ongoing attempts at purportedly “peaceful” forms of conquest through the forced assimilation of Native Americans. Part II explores the mission cele­brations that developed in Southern California, among newly arrived Anglo settlers and tourists, between the 1880s and the First World War. Mission writers celebrated the Spanish Franciscans, led by Junípero Serra, who founded missions in the late eigh­teenth and early nineteenth centuries. Chapter 3 describes t­ hese cele­brations, arguing that—as in the Midwest—­they elevated Catholic missionaries to the status of regional and national founding f­athers in ways that naturalized U.S. territorial expansion. The Serra cele­brations, however, also contended with the recent history of vio­lence in Southern California: war with Mexico and ongoing vio­lence against Mexicans, and the murder and displacement of Native Americans. Casting the missions as a golden era delegitimized the period of Mexican rule, while presenting the Franciscans as founding ­fathers allowed some Anglos to acknowledge their own vio­lence and call for a return to the (purportedly benevolent and civilizing) founding values of the region. Chapter 4 asks—­much as chapter 2 did—­how mission writers and boosters ­imagined the mission era as a model for their own. It argues that they cast Serra and his brethren as embodiments of premodern values of meaningful work and leisure and unbounded hospitality, positioning the Franciscans as precursors to Southern California’s modern hospitality industry and exemplars of paternalist (and antiunion) ­labor management practices. Some boosters also cast assimilationist campaigns and institutions—­particularly the Sherman Institute, a federal off-­reservation Native American boarding school based in Riverside, California—as modern-­day embodiments of the Franciscans’ spirit. Part III examines American repre­sen­ta­tions of Spanish friar history in the Philippines. Beginning at the end of the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War in 1898 and continuing through the Philippine-­American War and early U.S. colonial state-­building pro­cess, many Americans turned to the history of Spanish friars to think about their own colonial rule. Chapter 5 focuses on U.S. responses to widespread Filipino antifriar sentiment. American writers repeated Filipino antifriar critiques but refused to universalize them, instead treating what ­were structural critiques of the ­orders of friars as descriptions of the depths to which an individual friar might sink. Furthermore, most Americans writing on the Philippines drew a sharp historical line between the corruptible friars of the pre­sent and the heroic founding friars of the past, celebrating the earliest Spanish friars in the Philippines as—­like Marquette and Serra—­ Christianizing and civilizing heroes.

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Chapter 6, like chapters 2 and 4, explores how American writers described the Spanish friars as imperial models. Like Marquette and Serra, t­hese friars ­were cast as benevolent civilizers, but they ­were particularly lauded for what many Americans believed to be their ability to maintain social order, particularly through upholding orthodoxy against Philippine transformations of Roman Catholicism, religiously inspired anticolonial rebellions, and the rise of the Iglesia Filipina Independiente, a nationalist Catholic church. Ultimately, many Americans embraced the idea of Americanist Catholicism—­embodied by U.S.-­trained priests—as a tool for ensuring order while promoting religious liberty. The conclusion returns to the main argument of the book: that in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, in the upper Midwest, Southern California, and the U.S. colonial Philippines, many American Protestants and Catholics turned to idealized visions of Catholic imperial pasts in order to talk about the past and ­f uture of U.S. empire. It ends by suggesting the broader relevance of the allegory of the Imperial Church, as Americans have continued—in and beyond the places and eras covered in this book—to think with Catholicism when thinking about their own imperial nation.

Chapter 1

Making a Founding ­Father out of a French Jesuit

On 29 February 1896, Edward Jones was arrested in Washington, DC. He must have seemed like an unlikely criminal: a “well-­dressed, well-­appearing man of about 50 years of age,” the Chicago Daily Tribune reported; just a tourist, visiting from New York. Yet this middle-­aged tourist had become apoplectic in his nation’s capital, threatening to return at night with his broadax and destroy federal property. Luckily for Jones, his arrest did not last long. Within an hour of being detained he had apologized and been released from the guardroom. One can imagine Jones returning to New York, explaining his arrest sheepishly to his ­f amily or laughing about it with friends. “What came over you?” they might have asked. The answer: he had seen a statue of a Jesuit in the National Statuary Hall.1 The object of Jones’s wrath was the marble figure of F ­ ather Jacques Marquette, the French Jesuit missionary and explorer who had helped chart the course of the Mississippi in the seventeenth c­ entury. In 1864, the U.S. Congress had invited each state to send two representative monuments to the nation’s newly established National Statuary Hall. Vermont and Mas­sa­chu­setts sent Ethan Allen and Samuel Adams, respectively; Wisconsin sent Père Marquette. In response, anti-­Catholic individuals and organ­izations, most notably the American Protective Association (APA), launched a national protest. A Catholic missionary in clerical garb should not occupy pride of place in the nation’s capital, they argued. Plans for an elaborate unveiling of the statue w ­ ere scrapped: it was installed silently overnight, and a round-­the-­clock guard was employed to protect it from destruction. It was not ­until 1904 that the U.S. Congress

Figure 1. ​Statue of Jacques Marquette in the National Statuary Hall Collection in Washington, DC. Gaetano Trentanove, sculptor. The text on the pedestal reads: “Wisconsin’s tribute. James Marquette, S.J., who, with Louis Joliet, discovered the Mississippi River at Prairie du Chien, Wis., June 17, 1673.” Undated photo­graph, Courtesy of the Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Marquette University, Milwaukee, WI.

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fi­nally passed a mea­sure officially accepting the statue from the state of Wisconsin.2 Students of the history of Catholicism in the United States are familiar with the story of the APA: of the organ­ization’s founding in Iowa in 1887, its rise to national prominence in the 1890s, and its initiates’ vows to neither vote for a Catholic nor hire one.3 The story of Marquette’s statue, then, is generally treated as a minor episode in the history of the upper Midwest and the APA: an illustrative anecdote, but hardly a surprising one.4 But what if we read the episode of Edward Jones and the Marquette statue backward, concentrating not on the ranting of Jones but rather on the ­simple presence of the statue in the capitol in the first place? As one of the statue’s historians has remarked: “In a de­cade of blatant anti-­Catholic bigotry, perhaps the worst in American history, the opponents of the Marquette statue w ­ ere never able to muster enough support to block this undertaking.”5 It is time we asked why. This chapter and the next argue that Wisconsin’s bid to install the statue in the nation’s capital was not an isolated event. It emerged, instead, out of a broad-­based and ongoing cross-­confessional co­ali­tion dedicated to the commemoration of the French Jesuit missionary. From roughly 1880 to well past the First World War, Protestant and Catholic ­women and men came together throughout the upper Midwest to celebrate Marquette.6 By 1920, owing to the careful work of politicians, town boosters, businessmen, journalists, and amateur and professional historians, Marquette’s name or figure graced monuments, buildings, streets, towns, a university, and even a U.S. postage stamp. The cele­bration of Marquette in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era Midwest, then, was a widespread, energetic, and cross-­confessional affair. Indeed, Marquette was cast as a midwestern hero precisely at the moment when the Midwest most needed one. In the late nineteenth ­century, the very idea of the “­Middle West” as a distinct region was emerging. At the same time, the Midwest was being transformed by industrialization and Catholic immigration. To anti-­Catholic observers, ­these Catholic immigrants—­people whose priests and prayers ­were transported to American soil from Ireland, Germany, Italy, and Poland—­seemed to threaten the f­ uture of a nation whose greatness, they believed, stemmed from its Anglo-­Protestant roots.7 Marquette both embodied and transcended the hopes and fears at the heart of the Midwest’s regional emergence. Historians and popu­lar commentators used Marquette’s French birth and Jesuit affiliation to distinguish the history of the Midwest from the history of British colonialism to the east and Spanish empire to the south and west. At the same time, they argued that Marquette’s

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Eu­ro­pean birth and “civilizing” work justified his inclusion among the imperial nation’s pantheon of founding f­athers, and the Midwest’s inclusion in a larger American origin story. Marquette’s Catholic faith presented a counterargument to anti-­Catholic fears about Catholic immigrants as threats to the republic. To celebrate Marquette as a founding ­f ather was to cast Catholicism as pre­sent at the creation: at the very roots of the U.S. nation and empire, rather than a risk to it. This chapter examines the rise of the commemorative culture around Marquette in the upper Midwest in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It traces the efforts of a cross-­confessional group of Marquette admirers to enlist the Jesuit as a midwestern and American founding ­f ather, and argues that they did so by recasting French Catholic history as part of a common “white,” Eu­ro­pean, Christian national and imperial origin story. To do so meant three t­hings: first, it naturalized the previous history of U.S. territorial expansion, writing the contingency and diversity out of a history that included vari­ous British, French, and Indigenous p­ eople, groups, and ambitions, and transforming it into the history of a common Eu­ro­pean Christian proj­ect of advancing religion and civilization. Against a politics of confessional division, Marquette commemorations became moments when a common cross-­ confessional Chris­tian­ity could be assembled through a cele­bration of the imperial history of the nation. Second, it cast “white” as a capacious racial term, inclusive of what ­were considered vari­ous racially distinct Eu­ro­pean groups. ­Doing so was a strike against nativism and was often celebrated by commemorators themselves as an advance in the history of American tolerance and pluralism. Yet, appealing to a common “white” identity both reflected and reinforced distinctions between t­hose who would be considered white and ­those who would not, relegating Native Americans to the continuous role of objects of Marquette’s civilizing and Christianizing imperative, and writing the increasing number of African Americans in the Midwest—­ including black Catholics—­out of the story entirely. Third, and fi­nally, the cele­bration of Marquette as founding ­f ather of the Midwest drew on his intense and vis­i­ble piety to cast him as a spiritualized midwestern brand, sanctifying the growth of the Midwest into a global economic hub.

Commemorating Marquette A variety of p­ eople engaged in the creation of the commemorative culture surrounding Marquette. Its origins lay in U.S. amateur and professional historical

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study: in local historical socie­ties and in the nascent U.S. historical profession’s fascination with the history of the French in the G ­ reat Lakes region.8 Around the mid-­nineteenth ­century, a predominantly Protestant group of U.S. historians began to mine the Jesuit Relations—­rec­ords of seventeenth-­century Jesuit missionary activity in New France, which ­were compiled and published in France by the missionaries’ contemporaries—to write books that became both popu­lar and academic touchstones.9 The statesman and romantic historian George Bancroft included a brief account of Marquette’s voyage in his monumental History of the United States, from the Discovery of the American Continent (ten volumes, originally published from 1834 to 1874). In 1839, the Harvard historian and Unitarian minister Jared Sparks published an essay-­length history of Marquette in his edited Library of American Biography series.10 Shortly thereafter, the Catholic historian John Gilmary Shea located new sources on Marquette in Montreal and wrote The Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley in 1852. Francis Parkman’s multivolume France and E ­ ngland in North Amer­i­ca followed, published from 1865 to 1892. And, in 1902, ­these classics of the field ­were joined by another major text, a biography of Marquette written by the longtime secretary of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Reuben Gold Thwaites, who had also led the proj­ect that produced the seventy-­three volume published edition, in French and En­glish, of The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents (1896–1901).11 The work of historians from Bancroft to Thwaites offered source material for popu­lar, civic, and institutional commemorations of Marquette. Midwestern Marquette commemorations began in significant numbers in the 1870s, became or­ga­nized and productive in the 1890s and 1900s, and then settled down to become the common sense of local history by the end of the 1910s. The most famous monument to Marquette was the one that inspired Edward Jones’s fantasies about his broadax: the Italian sculptor Gaetano Trentanove’s statue in the National Statuary Hall, unveiled in February 1896. But on a smaller scale, Marquette’s image and name popped up all over the landscape of the upper Midwest. Monuments ­were erected in Wisconsin, Illinois, and Michigan by the Chicago and Alton Railroad, a chapter of the ­Daughters of the American Revolution, a member of the Chicago Historical Society, a group of wealthy boosters and tourists on Mackinac Island, and a Catholic acad­emy in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, to name only a few.12 In 1898, the U.S. Postal Ser­vice issued a Marquette stamp, which, like the Trentanove statue, the APA also protested. (“Just think,” crowed one APA opponent, “of the members of the ­great American Protective Association being compelled to lick the back-­side of F ­ ather Marquette e­ very time they mail a piece of lit­er­a­ture

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Figure 2. ​Marquette one-­cent stamp, part of the Trans-­Mississippi and International Exposition Commemorative Stamp Issue, 1898. The image on the stamp is based on the 1869 painting ­Father Marquette and the Indians by Wilhelm Lamprecht. Courtesy of the Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Marquette University, Milwaukee, WI.

to enlighten the American p­ eople concerning the disloyalty of their Catholic fellow citizens.”13) Marquette’s name was a­ dopted by Marquette College (now University) in 1881 and by a major (and predominantly Protestant) Chicago Republican po­liti­cal club in 1886.14 The club’s minutes even rec­ord confusion with other Marquette clubs in Chicago: a Marquette Social Club and a West Side Marquette Dancing Club.15 And in 1895 a new office building in Chicago was christened the Marquette Building and decorated with bronze bas-­reliefs and brightly colored mosaics depicting events in Marquette’s life.16 Marquette commemorations w ­ ere encouraged and accompanied by continued discoveries of Marquette artifacts, real or ­imagined. One catalyst for the expanding public interest in Marquette in the 1880s was Fr. Edward Jacker’s 1877 discovery of what he believed to be Marquette’s remains at St. Ignace, Michigan.17 In the 1890s, a cross was found near Starved Rock, along the Illinois River, that some thought might be Marquette’s cross.18 And then ­there was an old log church in Highland Park, Illinois: locals called it “Marquette’s Church,” though in real­ity it was likely erected by German Catholic settlers in the mid-­nineteenth c­ entury.19 The cele­bration of Marquette existed at a popular-­scholarly intersection: it incorporated every­thing from exuberant

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mythmaking and creative amateur archaeology to well-­cited investigations into the minutia of Marquette history. Marquette commemorators formed a kind of loosely connected network. One can follow threads of influence and association from place to place, institution to institution. For example, the Marquette Monument Association of Mackinac Island, Michigan, was founded by a group of regional notables, one of whom was the prominent Catholic Chicagoan William J. Onahan. Onahan was invited to speak on the subject of Marquette at Marquette College, on the occasion of the laying of their cornerstone. Two years l­ater, Marquette College received a painting of Marquette by Wilhelm Lamprecht, which was ­later used as the model for the U.S. postage stamp. One could go on.20 While Marquette’s fans throughout the Midwest never formed one organ­ization, and did not always agree, they w ­ ere aware of one another and often borrowed from and collaborated with one another. It was a culture characterized by a high degree of repetition but, as we s­ hall see, also flux and variety. The outline of Marquette’s biography was well established, but the meaning of his work and writing was rehearsed and rearticulated with each commemorative text or event. The seventeenth-­century man himself became, roughly 250 years ­after his birth, a public figure whose story was both confected and contested. Most ­people agreed on the basics: Jacques Marquette was born in 1637 in Laon, France. By his own account, he had been dreaming of missionary work since he was a child. He entered the Society of Jesus in 1654 and set sail for Canada twelve years ­later, where he would help found the mission at Sault Ste. Marie in 1668 and the mission at St. Ignace in 1671.21 His lasting fame, however, came not from evangelization but from exploration. On 17 May 1673, when Marquette was thirty-­six years old, he and the French trader Louis Jolliet, almost ten years his ju­nior, accompanied by a party of five voyageurs, set out from St. Ignace to explore the course of the Mississippi River. In two birch bark canoes, they paddled to Green Bay, then followed the Fox River to present-­ day Portage, Wisconsin, crossed by land to the Wisconsin River, and descended to the Mississippi, reaching it on 17 June. They continued on the Mississippi ­until they had satisfied themselves that, contrary to their hopes, the river did not flow into the Pacific Ocean, and u ­ ntil they had become sufficiently concerned about capture or attack. They turned back at the mouth of the Arkansas River and returned to Green Bay by September, via the Illinois River. The trip was recorded by both of its leaders: Marquette composed a map and kept a journal, which survived the trip, and Jolliet kept his own more detailed account, which was lost when his canoe capsized on his way back to Quebec.

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Marquette died almost two years to the day ­after he had set out to explore the Mississippi: on Saturday, 18 May 1675. The winter prior, he had been traveling to Kaskaskia in order to establish a mission among the Illinois, but illness forced him to set up camp by the Chicago River. He stayed ­there through the winter, at the site of the current city of Chicago, and then resumed his journey in the spring. Marquette’s health, by then, was failing: he continued his travels, but his illness returned. He died on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Almost 225 years ­after Marquette’s death, and roughly two hundred miles north, residents of a town named ­after the missionary gathered to erect a statue in his honor. On 15 July 1897, the citizens of Marquette, Michigan, unveiled a bronze replica of the marble figure that Wisconsin had commissioned for the National Statuary Hall. Even though the statue was only a copy, it would be hard to imagine a more enthusiastic welcome. The small mining town pulled out all the stops to celebrate its namesake. In the pro­cess, its citizens did what other commemorators around the region w ­ ere d­ oing: they took a French Jesuit and transformed him into a founding f­ ather. Festivities began with a parade: five blocks long, according to the local Daily Mining Journal’s special “Pere Marquette Edition,” including a regimental band, a group of marines in uniform, a decorated fire truck, and “distinguished citizens, the mayor, council and city officers in carriages.” It also included “a troop of men and boys, freely smeared with yellow ochre for war paint and gaily decked out in feathers, blankets, and colored cloth[e]s,” and “mounted on ponies.” They pro­cessed alongside representatives from St. Peter’s German Society, St. Joseph’s Polish Society, and the Ancient Order of Hibernians, “represented by a good proportion of its membership which had turned out to do honor and reverence to their g­ reat co-­religionist, Marquette.” So too had three hundred members of nearby Ishpeming’s Francophone St. Jean Baptiste Society. The statue’s original sculptor, the Florentine Gaetano Trentanove, was in the audience. The streets ­were decorated, the Journal reported, “principally with the American colors, ­these also being the colors of France,” a (con­ve­ nient) nod to Marquette’s birthplace. ­After the pro­cession, the audience was treated to a reenactment of Marquette’s landing, which the Journal claimed was “supposed actually to have [been] made at or near the location of the statue.” The “­little birch bark flotilla” included “one white man” dressed in “Jesuit robes, with cross and rosary borrowed for the occasion,” and “sixteen Indians.” Then, a number of speakers ascended the podium.

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First, the novelist and poet Beatrice Hanscom read an ode to Marquette that referred to the Jesuit’s birthplace and to the Italian nationality of his sculptor: O Pere Marquette, brave-­hearted man and true, Full many a lesson may we learn of you, . . . And let us seize this moment as our chance In this dear land where stars and stripes float f­ree, To bless the friendly tricolor of France, To send our thanks to sunny Italy.

­After thirteen cannons shot off a national salute (one for each original state), Peter White—­ a leading citizen of Marquette and the or­ ga­ nizer of the memorial—­presented the statue to the mayor. White’s speech dismissed anti-­ Catholic complaints about a statue in a Jesuit’s gown: of course Marquette’s statue would be dressed as he was, since that was what he wore! Marquette’s legacy, White said, was not the property of just one town or just one religion. He belonged to every­one. White marveled: “It is more than probable that Pere Marquette was the first white man that ever trod ­these shores or passed over the ­waters of this ­great lake. And if this be true, that would be enough to honor him for all time.” The Honorable Don M. Dickinson followed White to the podium, giving the oration of the day. He opened by mentioning how pleased he was to see in the crowd “our fellow-­citizens whose sires w ­ ere [Marquette’s] countrymen and compatriots in the fair and sunny land of France.” He went on to remind the assembled crowd that, as Americans, regardless of French or other ancestry, “we are all brethren in that only true American protective union—­a brotherhood whose standard of admission is as broad as the constitution of the Republic, whose grip is the heavy grasp of freemen’s hands, and whose pass-­ word is Liberty.” More speeches followed. Two of them contained expressions of gratitude to France for Marquette and also for the Marquis de Lafayette’s help during the American Revolution. One was in French. One was given by ­Father Connolly, “the only representative of the Jesuit order in the upper peninsula.” And one was offered by “the 87-­year old Bishop [Ignatius] Mrak,” who “spoke briefly . . . ​in the Chippewa language.”22 From one ­angle, this summer after­noon in Marquette, Michigan, could easily be mistaken for a Fourth of July cele­bration. It had a parade, decorations in

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red, white, and blue, and speeches about liberty and the nation’s founding. But unexpected ele­ments quickly intrude. Expressions of American patriotism ­were combined with odes to France. Speeches w ­ ere given in French and Chippewa. And the statue itself was welcomed to the town by a Jesuit and a Roman Catholic bishop. Marquette was honored in Marquette, Michigan—as he was throughout the upper Midwest—in a ritual of incorporation: commemorators repeatedly acknowledged that Marquette might appear to be foreign, in his French birth and Catholic religion, but then argued for understanding that foreignness as, ­really, part of U.S. history. Commemorators recounted his French birth but recalled French participation in the American Revolution. They cast his Catholicism as part of a larger cross-­confessional Chris­tian­ity, sometimes offering explicit rebuttals to anti-­Catholic sentiment. And they wrote odes to Marquette’s civilizing whiteness. The Daily Mining Journal opened its coverage of the Marquette statue cele­ bration by noting that Marquette was born in Laon, France, a city it described as “surrounded by battlements” and housing a “stately medieval cathedral, which in ­those days formed at once a citadel and a sanctuary.” It then went on to note that Marquette’s “forefathers had distinguished themselves in the continental wars, and three of their descendants fell in the war of the Revolution, fighting bravely for American in­de­pen­dence.”23 The Journal’s coverage was typical: it was a common rhetorical move among ­those who sought to argue for Marquette’s importance in U.S. history to begin with his difference from many other national heroes—­with the fact that, as one Chicago Daily Tribune article bluntly declared, he was a “foreigner and a priest”—­and then to go on to argue against that difference.24 For many writers, this meant beginning in Laon—­a city often described as medieval, monarchical, and Catholic—­and then pivoting quickly to North Amer­i­ca in the late eigh­teenth ­century, where one could find members of Marquette’s ­f amily fighting alongside Lafayette in the American Revolution.25 Tales of the revolutionary valor of Marquette’s f­ amily date back at least to the historian John Gilmary Shea, who wrote that “our own republic is not without its obligations to the valor of the Marquettes, three of whom died ­here in the French army during the Revolutionary war.”26 George Bancroft’s ­earlier History of the United States made no mention of the American Revolution, but Shea—­a Catholic and former Jesuit who was publishing in the heyday of antebellum anti-­Catholicism—­sought, by connecting Marquette to what his contemporaries would see as the most American of wars, to argue for Marquette’s place in the nation’s founding history.

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This argument would become a staple of Marquette commemorations. In the 1880s (the exact date is uncertain) a Marquette College student named Paul P. Aylward won the college’s Catholic Citizen gold medal—an annual prize given for the best En­glish essay—­for his writing on Marquette and the Eu­ro­pean settlement of North Amer­ic­ a. His essay argues forcefully for the inclusion of Catholics in narratives of national origins. He told his readers that “in the [American] Revolutionary War three Marquettes, all relatives of the discoverer of the Mississippi, held con­spic­u­ous commands in the army of De Rochambeau, which lent such gallant aid ­towards the achievement of American in­de­pen­dence.”27 In 1887, when the Episcopalian senator and U.S. Army general George C. Ginty introduced a bill in the Wisconsin senate to select Marquette for the National Statuary Hall, he too brought up the Revolution, declaring that “at least Wisconsin is not forgetful of the country that sent a La Fayette and an army to help achieve the in­de­pen­dence of the United States—an army that contained three Marquettes, who had laid down their lives as a sacrifice to the cause of liberty, as their relative [ Jacques Marquette] did for Chris­tian­ity and civilization.”28 If Marquette’s French birth could be folded into a patriotic narrative through references to Lafayette’s aid, Marquette’s Catholicism and Catholic missionary work could be further absorbed into U.S. historical narratives in a number of other ways. Catholics often stressed the par­tic­u­lar contribution that their coreligionists had made to the development of the nation. The student Aylward highlighted the Catholic nomenclature on what he called “the map of our country”: Catholic missionaries named, he said, “mountain and valley, lake and river, rippling stream and sunny island, from the Land of Mary to San Francisco Bay, from the Isles of the Apostles to St. Augustine and San Antonio.”29 Explic­itly for Aylward, even the terms “Mary­land” and “San Francisco” point to the importance of Catholics to the nation; implicitly, his ability in the 1880s to take for granted that Mary­land and San Francisco ­were similarly “ours” testifies to the way that incorporating Catholics into the founding story of the nation also incorporated, and melded together, successive waves of imperial expansion and successive colonial acts of naming and mapping. Aylward was, perhaps, inspired by Bancroft, who had expressed a similar concern with imperial exploration as national founding. With his gift for a phrase, he inspired what became a common refrain among historically minded Catholics. “Not a cape was turned, nor a river entered,” Bancroft wrote in his History of the United States, “but a Jesuit led the way.”30 Other Catholics, too, pointed out the long history of Catholics in the land that would become the United States. In an 1893 preface to a history of the Catholic Church in

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Amer­i­ca, written on the event of the Columbian Catholic Congress held in Chicago in 1893, the Notre Dame professor Maurice Francis Egan bluntly declared, “Compared with our part in the history of Amer­i­ca, the coming of the Mayflower is but an episode.”31 But while some Catholics focused on the idea of distinctively Catholic contributions to U.S. history, o ­ thers joined Protestants in taking another tack: Ginty’s reference to “Chris­tian­ity” above was telling. In t­hese moments, they did not emphasize the history of Catholic contributions (an approach that accepted the notion of Catholic difference) but emphasized instead the idea of a broad, cross-­confessional Christian history (an approach that collapsed that difference). In 1878, for example, John R. Bailey, an Episcopalian doctor who had moved to Mackinac Island and had become fascinated by local history, published a short pamphlet called the Memoir of Pere James Marquette. Even to the Protestant Bailey, Marquette was a religious exemplar, one who had, in Bailey’s words, “Christian virtues we can only emulate.”32 Often this turn away from confessional distinctions and t­oward a common Chris­tian­ity was even more adamant: Protestant admirers of Marquette offered explicit rebuttals to anti-­Catholic or anti-­Jesuit claims. The genealogist and amateur historian Henry H. Hurlbut, in an 1878 speech before the Chicago Historical Society, declared that “though some of us may reject many dogmas pertaining to the religious faith of the Romanists,—­though we may place no confidence in the Order to which Marquette belonged, . . . ​yet all must concede to F ­ ather Marquette a sincere devotion to what he believed to be the most impor­tant interests of his fellow men.” Reading Marquette’s letters, Hurlbut assured his listeners, one encountered “vari­ous utterances, indicating high Christian princi­ple.” Hurlbut’s language is both consistently laudatory and deeply vague. In retreat from discussing anything that could mark a confessional distinction, Hurlbut praised qualities like “sincerity” or “high Christian princi­ple.”33 The idea that Marquette shared with Protestant Americans a common Chris­tian­ity was repeated frequently, and almost constantly in the fight to have the Marquette statue formally accepted by Congress. On 29 April 1896—­ just weeks ­after Wisconsin’s Marquette statue had been quietly unveiled in the National Statuary Hall, but eight years before a resolution to officially accept it would be passed by both the House and the Senate—­the U.S. Senate passed a resolution in its f­avor. When it was sent to the House it was referred to committee and left to languish, but the Senate debate, at least, presented some politicians with an opportunity to speak about Marquette’s meaning for the nation. Senator James H. Kyle of South Dakota quoted William Henry Mil-

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burn, a Methodist clergyman and the chaplain of the Senate, who asked, “When we hear of faith and love like theirs, can we say contemptuously, ‘They ­were Jesuits,’ and forget they ­were Christians sealing their testimony with their blood?”34 Wisconsin’s John L. Mitchell noted that Marquette “was a Jesuit, it is true.” But he compared the Jesuits to the Puritans and argued, in a line that the Catholic press gleefully repeated, that “in North Amer­i­ca they [the Jesuits] stand the transcendent heroes in the advancing army of civilization.”35 As Mitchell’s speech illustrates, the language of a common Chris­tian­ity was part of a language of a common “civilization.” The Methodist Franklin MacVeagh, in a 1900 speech before the Chicago Historical Society, wrote about Marquette’s time in Chicago as the “first time the site of Chicago was visited by civilized men.”36 And Senator William F. Vilas, speaking in ­favor of the Marquette statue in Washington, talked about Marquette sparking the “lamp of Chris­tian­ity” in the “forest gloom, a solitary beacon . . . ​a Caucasian’s home was builded [sic] and church and school ­were founded; and thus, with typical step, civilization, the civilization of highest evolution, made its advent to the continent’s interior on the land of Wisconsin.”37 The idea that Marquette was bringing “civilization” to the New World was central to his elevation as a national hero, as the civilizing proj­ect—­and the par­tic­ul­ar version of it that he came to embody, as a Catholic and a Jesuit—­was admired as both nationally foundational and as a model for the ­future. But it is also impor­tant to note that, as Vilas’s use of the term makes clear, “civilization” had both religious and racial referents: it could signify a broadly Christian civilization, brought forth by igniting the “lamp of Chris­tian­ity” in the North American interior, and it was also racial, tied to the fact that it was carried by a “Caucasian.” Indeed, the idea of Marquette as a white man was central to the commemorative culture that arose around him. At almost ­every occasion, and sometimes multiple times in the same speech or article, Marquette was described as the “first white man.” He was variously named the “first white man” of Chicago, Milwaukee, Iowa, and Wisconsin, and also the “first white man” to travel the Mississippi (a difficult case to make no ­matter what definition of “white man” one uses).38 He was celebrated for this status in Bancroft’s history, and l­ater by both Catholics and Protestants, by amateur historians, tour book writers, and poets. When the cornerstone was laid for Marquette College in 1880, the prominent Chicago Catholic William J. Onahan declared that Marquette was “the first white man to set foot on Wisconsin soil for the purpose of bringing the cross and the Gospel to the home of the ­children of the forest.”39 In the 1893 Rand, McNally guide to Chicago and the World’s Columbian Exposition, the

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authors identified Marquette, Jolliet, and La Salle as “prophetic precursors of the vast tide of white immigration” to Chicago.40 The “first white man” narrative was itself an American imperial construct, rhetorically naturalizing—­after the fact—­the expansion of U.S. sovereignty into the trans-­Mississippi West. Calling Marquette the “first white man” articulated a transformed vision of midwestern history, redrawing lines of racial and religious commonality in order to make the U.S. possession of the trans-­ Mississippi West seem both natu­ral and inevitable. Using the language of Chris­ tian­ity, civilization, and whiteness allowed Marquette’s partisans to link the history of the French empire to that of the British, the history of the Mississippi valley to that of the shores of New E ­ ngland and the Chesapeake, and the history of Jesuits to that of Puritans. It took a North American past and pre­ sent of racial, religious, and imperial diversity and rewrote it as a history of the encounter of two groups: the “white man” and the “Indian.” In other words, Marquette memorials, in casting Marquette as the first white man, wrote Anglo-­French interimperial conflict, religious and national diversity, and historical contingency out of the midwestern past. They implied that the recent history of U.S. settler colonialism was the inevitable outcome of a longer history of “white” civilizing and exploring. If the nation’s British colonial origin story featured primarily Protestant Anglo-­American founding f­ athers on the East Coast, the origin story emerging in Marquette’s cele­brations featured “civilizers” of dif­fer­ent Eu­ro­pean backgrounds and confessions united by a common color-­defined race and belief in Jesus Christ. The former story focused on the nascent republic on the Atlantic coast; the latter on what would become the continent-­spanning United States.

Writing Race and Region When commemorators embraced Marquette as the first white man of the Midwest, they often implied their own racial descent—as denizens of the Midwest—­ from its Jesuit founder. Consider, for example, Peter White’s remarks at the unveiling of the statue in Marquette, Michigan. On that July after­noon in 1897, White looked at his multilingual, religiously diverse audience and declared that Marquette belongs to every­one—­regardless of birthplace, regardless of religion. Immediately a­ fter declaring that Marquette belongs to every­one, he also claimed that “we” should all celebrate him as the “first white man” in the area.41 White assumed not only that the “we” of his audience was white but

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also that Marquette’s ability, as a commemorative figure, to cross lines of division implicitly ­stopped at the edges of whiteness. If Marquette could represent the nation as a w ­ hole, White’s remarks implied, that nation was racially white. This appeal to white racial identity in the same breath as a cele­bration of coming together across differences was not unique to Marquette cele­brations. It also characterizes the larger late nineteenth-­century movement for irenic, nationalist historical productions, many of which w ­ ere predicated on the deployment of whiteness as a unifying force. The late nineteenth-­century United States, as many scholars have noted, was home to a mushrooming national commemorative culture that was tied to a desire to reconstitute the nation in the de­cades ­after the Civil War—it was, in one scholar’s words, “the greatest era of monument building ever seen in this country.”42 In pageants and festivals around the nation, Americans set themselves to imagining and celebrating the deep historical roots of national w ­ holeness, and often incorporated references to a postbellum reunion between the (white) men in gray and the (white) men in blue. While Marquette could not be transformed into a figure who literally brought North and South together, he could be cast as a figure meta­phor­ically committed to bridging difference (this time religious) and celebrating national unity ­under the banner of a common whiteness. Explicit references to healing old wounds ­were so common as to suggest that they w ­ ere, in fact, part of the point. Recall, for example, Don M. Dickinson’s speech at the statue cele­bration in Marquette, Michigan, in which he welcomed ­those of French birth as fellow American citizens and declared that they were all “brethren in that only true American protective ­union.” Dickinson was not so subtly invoking the specter of the APA, using a gesture of welcome to the French as a way to reject the APA’s anti-­Catholic nativism more broadly.43 As Reuben Gold Thwaites declared in his 1902 biography of Marquette, Marquette “­will long remain an inspiration to men of e­ very creed and calling.”44 To tie the cele­bration of Marquette to the rejection of anti-­Catholicism was, in part, a riposte to per­sis­tent nineteenth-­century Protestant anx­i­eties about Catholicism in the Midwest (or, as it was often called at the time, the West).45 In 1835, Lyman Beecher had famously published A Plea for the West. The Presbyterian president of Ohio’s Lane Theological Seminary began by arguing that “it is . . . ​plain that the religious and po­liti­cal destiny of our nation is to be de­cided in the West.”46 Beecher defined the West as “eight thousand miles in circumference, extending from the Alleghany [sic] to the Rocky mountains, and from the Gulf of Mexico to the Lakes of the North.”47 The

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East Coast had Atlantic commerce in its f­ avor, but the West “is destined to be the g­ reat central power of the nation.”48 And not just the nation: for Beecher, if the United States was a beacon of light unto the world, the source of that light was the West: “The West is a young empire of mind, and power, and wealth, and ­free institutions, rushing up to a ­giant manhood, with a rapidity and a power never before witnessed below the sun. And if she carries with her the ele­ments of her preservation, the experiment w ­ ill be glorious—­the joy of the nation—­the joy of the w ­ hole earth, as she rises in the majesty of her intelligence and benevolence, and enterprise, for the emancipation of the world.”49 Beecher’s cele­bration of the West was tinged with worry. To him, the West embodied the ­f uture, but it was a f­ uture in grave danger, threatened by immigrants who ­were unfamiliar with U.S. politics and institutions and, most of all, who ­were Catholic. Beecher made an effort to distinguish his po­ liti­cal concerns from the blind bigotry of the anti-­Catholic mobs who burned churches and convents. He cast the Catholic religion itself as tolerable but worried that Catholics—­members of a church that sought temporal as well as spiritual power—­could never be loyal Americans. He compared Catholic immigration to an invasion: “Through the medium of their religion and priesthood,” he wrote, Catholic immigrants w ­ ere “as entirely accessible to the control of the potentates of Eu­rope as if they w ­ ere an army of soldiers, enlisted and officered, and spreading over the land.” They w ­ ere, he said, a clear “danger to our liberties.”50 ­These arguments would echo for de­cades, well into the era of the Marquette cele­brations. In 1841, a writer for Home Missionary magazine quoted the En­glish Congregational clergyman John Angell James, who argued that “the valley of the Mississippi has been, no doubt, mapped as well as surveyed by emissaries of the Vatican; and cardinals are exulting, in the hope of enriching the Papal See by accessions from the United States.”51 Over forty years ­later, the same concerns ­were articulated by the Social Gospel clergyman Josiah Strong, who was then a representative of the American Home Missionary Society in Ohio. In Our Country: Its Pos­si­ble ­Future and Its Pre­sent Crisis (1885), his wildly popu­lar paean to Anglo-­Saxon civilization, Strong called on his fellow Protestant Americans to defend the West against many threats, including ­those posed by Catholic immigrants. Like Beecher, Strong believed that the f­uture of the West was the f­uture of the nation: “National destiny is to be settled” in the West, he argued; the West “­will dominate the nation.”52 (The West, for Beecher, began around the Mississippi.)53 He, too, saw immigrants in military terms, as a “peaceful invasion by an army more than twice as vast as the estimated number of Goths and Vandals that swept over South-

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ern Eu­rope and overwhelmed Rome.”54 And, like Beecher, he thought their Catholicism made them a threat to the nation. “­There is an irreconcilable difference between papal princi­ples and the fundamental princi­ples of our f­ree institutions,” he claimed, declaring that Catholics abjured liberty of conscience, ­free speech and a f­ree press, public schools, and loyalty to the laws of the government. Indeed, for Strong, Jesuits ­were a par­tic­u­lar danger: fleeing anti-­Jesuit sentiment in Eu­rope, the Jesuits, he claimed, “declared that they would plant themselves in the western territories of Amer­i­ca. And they are ­there to-­day with empires in their brains.”55 In the context of Marquette commemorations, the language used by James and Strong seems particularly striking. Though ­these Protestant clergymen worried that nineteenth-­century Jesuits would map and survey the Mississippi and “plant themselves in the western territories of Amer­i­ca,” Marquette commemorators celebrated the Jesuit for having done exactly that. More broadly, though one per­ sis­ tent Protestant story about the Midwest was that its ­future—­and thus the ­future of the nation—­was threatened by the influx of Catholics, Marquette’s commemorators cast Catholicism not as a potential threat to the nation but rather as a key ele­ment in the regional and national origin story. Against ­those who feared a Catholic “invasion,” they argued that a Catholic had been t­here first. Celebrating Marquette as the first white man invoked whiteness, then, as a solvent, dissolving other distinctions between Eu­ro­pean origin and confession. For p­ eople of Eu­ro­pean background in the late nineteenth-­century Midwest, the language of race intersected and overlapped with the language of color in complex ways. By 1900, fully 80 ­percent of Chicago’s population was first-­ or second-­generation immigrants. Many, such as Polish or Italian Catholics, faced discrimination from nativists who argued that immigration from members of the Polish or Italian “race” would degrade the United States. Religion mattered to this idea of race, and a widespread adherence to Catholicism was often cited as evidence of racial inferiority. In a North American Review article from 1879, for example, called “Romanism and the Irish Race,” the author argued that the Irish ­were racially predisposed to Catholicism ­because of an inborn need for intensity and passion.56 In short, when Marquette commemorators argued explic­itly that Marquette was the region’s first white man, and set themselves up against the APA and other nativists, they ­were using whiteness to make an argument for a kind of racial and religious inclusion. At the same time, Eu­ ro­ pean mi­ g rants—­ Polish, Irish, Italians, and ­others—­arrived in the United States already possessing a power­ful claim to whiteness. Some Eu­ro­pean immigrants did not always claim the label of

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“white”: some Polish Americans, for example, refused to attack African Americans during the 1919 Chicago race riot and referred to “whites” as a group separate from themselves.57 But, as Thomas Guglielmo has noted about Italians in early twentieth-­century Chicago, while they faced racial discrimination and talked about themselves more consistently as “Italian” than “white,” they ­were considered white in some key l­egal contexts. Catholic Polish or Italian immigrants could marry p­ eople considered white, for example, and could become naturalized citizens. Citizenship rights ­were, in fact, central to nativist anti-­Catholic anx­i­eties in the first place: nativists worried that Catholics could not think for themselves, that, accustomed to relying on priests, they would simply vote how they w ­ ere told. In Lyman Beecher’s heated words in A Plea for the West: “In what sort of elementary preparation for naturalization at the polls is the mind of a mob—whose rage may be tamed and their purpose controlled by the waving of a bishop’s hand?”58 Their ability to claim naturalized citizenship as white p­ eople was part of what concerned t­hose who argued that Catholic Eu­ro­pean immigrants ­were a potential threat to the nation.59 Celebrating Marquette as the first white man of the Midwest, then, did not pre­sent a novel argument that Eu­ro­pean Catholics w ­ ere white but rather foregrounded the category of whiteness, in contrast to the way nativists foregrounded more fine-­ grained racial and religious distinctions among new immigrants.60 Whiteness as it was used in Marquette cele­brations was an inclusive category, but only to a point. Outside the bounds of whiteness—­and Peter White’s “we”—­were, for example, the sixty-­three Marquette county residents recorded in the 1890 census as “Negro.”61 Even before the G ­ reat Migrations, the African American population of the Midwest was growing substantially: from an estimated 69,291 African Americans living in the Midwest in 1860 to an estimated 495,751 in 1900.62 And a number of them w ­ ere Catholic. In the 1880s, just as the Marquette commemorations w ­ ere getting started, the writer and publicist Daniel Rudd began publishing the nation’s only black Catholic newspaper, the American Catholic Tribune, in Springfield, Ohio. In the same de­cade in Chicago, a congregation of black Catholics was raising money to build the first black Catholic church in the city: in 1891 they would open St. Monica’s, named for the North African ­mother of St. Augustine. At the height of the Marquette cele­brations, St. Monica’s drew national attention for its pastor, Fr. Augustus Tolton, the only black parish priest in the United States and the first recognized African American Catholic priest in U.S. history.63 And Chicago would go on to become a center of black Catholicism: by 1975, at the end of the successive waves of G ­ reat Migrations, Chicago would be home to an

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estimated 80,000 black Catholics, the second-­largest population of black Catholics in the country.64 The Chicago area’s black Catholics actively participated in public Catholic cele­brations in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, claiming a place in the city’s Catholic landscape. In 1893, coinciding with the World’s Columbian Exposition, Catholics from all over the world convened the Columbian Catholic Congress. Alongside that congress, black Catholics came together to form the Congress of Colored Catholics and spoke with one another—­and to the larger Columbian Catholic Congress—­about their history and ­f uture. In 1926, when Chicago was home to the Second Eucharistic Congress, an event that brought Catholics from around the world to the Midwest, the black newspaper the Chicago Defender reported on the many black Catholics—­laypeople, priests, prelates, and even a papal nuncio—­taking part in the cele­bration.65 Speeches from the Congress of Colored Catholics, in par­tic­ul­ar, indicate that black Catholics w ­ ere also, like Marquette commemorators, concerned with placing themselves in meaningful national and religious historical narratives. The shape and nature of their American Catholic history was, however, dif­fer­ent. When Charles H. Butler, a representative of the Congress of Colored Catholics, gave a speech before the Columbian Catholic Congress, titled “The F ­ uture of the Negro Race,” he looked back to the beginning: not to the early days of Catholicism in the New World or to the beginning of the United States but rather to the Emancipation Proclamation. “I would mark his [the Negro’s] existence as a man,” he told his audience of Catholics from all over the world, “from that January morning, when he whom God had created in His own image and likeness was declared ­free.” Butler went on to tie this history to a sacred story. “The history of their [African Americans’] sufferings has been recorded by Him who knows the secrets of all hearts,” he explained. “Their sufferings w ­ ere not unlike the sufferings of the Israelites of old, who ­were held in bondage for 400 years.”66 When the members of the Congress of Colored Catholics connected their own story to an e­ arlier time, they reached back to the biblical story of Egyptian slavery. Or, to African saints. In the final address of the congress, in a speech written by a committee of eight men from around the United States and l­ater reprinted in the nation’s premier Catholic newspaper, the Boston Pi­lot, the authors traced their origins as black Catholics to North Africa, to St. Monica, St. Augustine, St. Cyprian, and St. Cyril.67 Black Catholics, then, w ­ ere a nationally vis­ib­ le and growing presence in the late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Midwest. They actively ­participated

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in midwestern Catholic events, and a major black Catholic congress held in the Midwest was a site for the articulation of a wide-­ ranging historical consciousness—­yet black Catholics seem to have engaged l­ittle, if at all, with the widespread cele­brations of Marquette. Marquette events that w ­ ere covered widely in other papers received ­little to no mention in the Chicago Defender and the American Catholic Tribune. While participants claimed that Marquette cele­brations brought Catholic and Protestant together and united ­those whom the APA would separate, that unifying story was—as the label “first white man” implies—­also an exclusionary one, one that not e­ very midwesterner, Catholic or Protestant, could lay claim to. Indeed, cele­brations of Marquette as the first white man invoked progressive history itself as a property of white ­people—­defined in this case in juxtaposition to Indigenous ­people. Marquette was often declared—­implicitly or explic­itly—to be the beginning of history in the Midwest, the place where the story began. In 1893, for example, when the Illinois State W ­ omen’s Board collected relics of local history, they claimed a mission bell attributed to Marquette was the oldest item in their collection.68 Declaring Marquette the beginning of midwestern history deliberately left out a much longer history. In 1900, the former vice president Adlai Stevenson gave a speech before the Chicago Historical Society. His subject was Illinois history, and he began by marking that subject’s boundary: “I do not speak of the long ago time when Illinois’ forest and prairie ­were the home and hunting ground of the red man, and his frail bark the only craft known to its noble rivers,” he declared. “This belongs to the borderland age of tradition rather than to veritable history.” Instead, it “is Illinois ­under the domination of the white man I would speak.” He then went on to introduce Marquette, Jolliet, and other French missionaries.69 Six years l­ater, in another speech before the Chicago Historical Society, the Evanston ­lawyer and amateur historian Frank R. Grover made a similar claim: “We all know,” he assured his listeners, “that the written history of Illinois begins with the expedition of ­Father Marquette and Jolliet in the year 1673.”70 The “white man” rather than the “red,” “written history” rather than “tradition”: a conflation of whiteness and history is what gave Marquette his first-­ness, his founding status. This conflation of U.S. history and whiteness rhetorically confined present-­ day Native Americans to a prehistorical status. In its special issue on the Marquette, Michigan, cele­bration, the Daily Mining Journal applauded Peter White’s broad-­mindedness in arranging for speeches in Chippewa and French, and included a story in a humor column about a visitor who, on hearing the speeches in three languages, assumed that Michigan citizens could speak not

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only En­glish and French but also Chippewa. The visitor exclaimed, “You must have a regular polyglot population up ­here!” The story’s humor depends on its readers’ unspoken understanding that midwesterners might learn French as well as En­glish, but only an outsider and a rube would imagine that their breadth of education would extend to Chippewa.71 Indeed, the “sixteen Indians” invited to participate in the cele­bration played a par­tic­u­lar role in the festivities. They did not offer speeches—­the speech in Chippewa was given by a European-­born bishop—­but they did row a man dressed in black robes to the shore in a reenactment of Marquette’s landing. In a jovial tone, the Journal commented on how good the fake Jesuit’s “costume” was. In stark contrast, no mention was made of the Native Americans’ costumes: to the Journal reporters, the Native Americans required no costume in order to represent the past.72 In short, the pluralist work done by the Marquette cele­brations—­the jabs at the APA and attempts to forge unity, through a common history, across lines of race and religion—­had distinct limits. Indeed, it was premised on them. Marquette could be compared to the Puritans, Pilgrims, and Revolutionaries ­because he could be cast as an embodiment and purveyor of Eu­ro­pean “civilization,” a category that acquired meaning only through the existence of its opposite: of non-­European ­people, ­people who ­were ­imagined to have been in need of “civilization” rather than in possession of it. Against recurrent and destructive waves of virulent anti-­Catholic nativism, Marquette cele­brations stood firm for cross-­confessional tolerance and the welcome of strangers from Eu­rope, and they did so, consistently, through exclusionary claims to white racial identity and Christian civilization.

Sanctifying Commerce Casting Marquette as a regional founding figure also offered a sacralized history of the Midwest’s economic growth. Most simply, Marquette was himself a marketable icon: commemorative events ­were not only moments to think about the past but also opportunities to sell products to the midwesterners of the pre­sent. Furthermore, while Marquette cele­brations and monuments provided good opportunities to advertise one’s wares, they also provided opportunities to sell Marquette himself as a spiritual balm to the rushing materialism of the modern Midwest. Once again, Marquette’s Catholicism was written in ­these moments in nonspecific terms, as a generalized Christian orientation that could reassure t­hose who feared that Chicago, in par­tic­u­lar, was becoming

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a godless mecca of commerce. Some even argued that Marquette, as midwestern founder, began and foresaw the rise of the upper Midwest to commercial and industrial prominence in the United States and beyond. Fi­nally, some argued that Marquette commemorations themselves helped limit materialist excess. As busy businessmen rushed across the landscape, they might be inspired to stop and remember that their region had been founded not for gain but for God’s glory, and they might be inspired to temper their own greed. In the language of Marquette’s commemorators, then, the economic growth of the modern Midwest became a part of the religious history of the region. This is a classic antimodernist story. For ­those who feared the rapid changes emerging as a result of commercial capitalism in the Midwest, Marquette provided a chance to imaginatively escape from the pursuit of profit and the fear of ­labor unrest into a premodern past governed by religious mores and self-­ sacrificial heroism. And, as T. J. Jackson Lears has argued, this escape could also be repackaged for the pre­sent, turned from a potential critique of greed and materialism to a commodifiable retreat from the stresses of modern life. As Marquette commemorators ­imagined the barons of industry gazing on Marquette’s pious visage, they i­magined not that they would follow his example into poverty, faith, and self-­sacrifice but rather that they would be inspired to make their pursuits of profit just a ­little less greedy, just a ­little more oriented to the common good. This, too, is a story about empire. If the nineteenth-­century growth of U.S. empire had been primarily defined by the acquisition of increasingly vast parcels of land, marked by e­ ither violent warfare against the p­ eople living on that land or ­legal and extralegal attempts to displace them, imperial growth in the twentieth ­century was, with a few key exceptions, less territorial. In the words of Michael Geyer and Charles Bright, at the end of the nineteenth c­entury, modes of expanding U.S. power shifted from the “production of territory,” the practices of settler colonial conquest that constituted the westward expansion of the republic, to the slow and uneven creation of “territories of production,” semiautonomous regions in which raw materials ­ were mined, farmed, or ranched, sent to an urban center, pro­cessed, and exported to markets around the world.73 ­These territories of production did not emerge as the heart of a globally power­ful United States u ­ ntil well into the twentieth c­ entury. But in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, the emergence of Chicago as a corporate and industrial center of the Midwest, and a connection between the region and the world, heralded this transformation. Marquette became an icon who spoke not only to territorial empire but also to the Midwest’s central role in the growing economic empire.74

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In the simplest sense, Marquette became a commercial figure b­ ecause boosters took advantage of Marquette commemorations to sell their wares. At the statue unveiling at Marquette, Michigan, the or­ga­nizer, Peter White, advertised his business in a large ad (“Fire, Accident, Life, Marine, Boiler, Plate Glass, Employer’s Liability, Employes’ [sic] Accident Insurance”). So did Conklin’s Jewelry Store, which advertised not only “beautiful novelties in gold and silver” but also “the only HISTORICAL Souvenir Spoons of F ­ ather Marquette extant.” Each spoon featured a full-­length figure of Marquette standing serenely on the ­handle.75 In a Chicago Daily News article about a recently constructed wooden cross in honor of Marquette, the paper reported that the wood was “the gift of Cameron L. Willey, an importer of hardwood, having his place of business a short distance from the spot selected for the erection of the tribute.”76 If boosters used Marquette’s growing fame as a marketing opportunity, some also saw the chance to go deeper: to capitalize not only on the attention Marquette drew but also on some of the values Marquette was meant to represent. Take, for example, the Marquette Building, advertised as a “legacy of [Marquette’s] achievements . . . ​which stands t­ oday a permanent ‘arrangement’ in terra-­cotta, opposite the site of the new postoffice [sic], on the northwest corner of Adams and Dearborn streets—­a pivotal business point in the heart of the hurly-­burly of irrepressible Chicago.”77 The building was constructed in 1895, designed by the well-­known Chicago architects Holabird and Roche, and stands ­today as a National Historic Landmark. A new, state-­of-­the-­art skyscraper in 1895, it provided office space and historical inspiration to Chicago businessmen. Four bronze panels over the front door feature scenes from Marquette’s journal, while events from his life are depicted in vibrant color in three mosaics in the first-­floor rotunda. On the first and second floors, elevators ­were topped with interior bronze bas-­reliefs, each of them featuring a Eu­ro­pean or Native American figure from the region’s history. In 1897, the Marquette Publishing Com­pany—­with offices in the Marquette Building—­produced The Legacy of Père Marquette, a book that looks at first glance like an attractively bound, elegantly illustrated account of Marquette’s story and reflection on his importance. But the book also describes the layout of the building in workmanlike detail, even listing the dif­fer­ent businesses occupying office space. It served as a primer in Marquette history and commemorative enthusiasm, but also as an advertisement for ­future renters and a building directory to interested customers. According to an introductory essay by the English-­born writer and journalist Walter R. Nursey, the

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juxtaposition of a cele­bration of Marquette and an advertisement for an office building was central to the building’s purpose: “The o ­ wners,” he wrote, “wishing to reduce the commercial appearance of the entrance, while increasing its artistic effect, sacrificed a large space in the center of the building for the purpose of a memorial rotunda in honor of Marquette.”78 Marquette could “reduce the commercial appearance” of a commercial enterprise particularly well, as he was often described as a person absolutely unconcerned with wealth. The Catholic, Jesuit particulars of Marquette’s faith and his vow of poverty became, in this rendering, primarily about a rejection of materialism, a turn away from the glittering pleasures of the world to pursue a more noble and self-­sacrificial path. In his 1870 account, Old and New Mackinac, the Methodist minister J. A. Van Fleet wrote that “in the life of this ­humble and unpretending missionary and explorer t­here is much to admire. Though an heir to wealth and position in his native land, he voluntarily separated himself from his friends, and chose a life of sacrifice, toil, and death, that he might ameliorate the moral and spiritual condition of nations sunk in paganism and vice.”79 Arthur J. McCarey, a Marquette College student writing about Marquette for the student newspaper in 1904, agreed. “Noble blood was in his veins,” he succinctly noted, “and many ­were the worldly honors which he, as the son of such a ­house­hold, might acquire. But he forsook them all.”80 The Marquette Building could be sold as both a con­ve­nient office space and something more profound ­because Marquette himself was described—by both Protestants and Catholics—as a symbol of a Christian renunciation of wealth and worldly concerns. Nursey went further, not only arguing that the presence of Marquette on the building was a way of tempering the commercial appearance but also suggesting that Marquette was a particularly appropriate figurehead and namesake for the building ­because the missionary himself had founded and foreseen the rise of modern, striving Chicago. “Pere Marquette,” Nursey declared, . . . ​was not only an explorer but a man of prescience. . . . ​It is safe to ­hazard that he prophesied the day when the frail birch-­bark would make way for the monster . . . ​“fire canoe”—­bearing vast cargoes from old France, by way of the St. Lawrence and the g­ reat ­Waters to the sea. It is not unreasonable to assume that he also saw, perhaps as “through a glass darkly,” the passing of the wigwams of the Miamis and the log shacks of the coureurs-­des-­bois on the river’s marshy banks, and of the Babelesque structures of stone and steel— beehives of the industry of a polyglot ­people, before which the marts of the older world might easily pale.

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Nursey’s Marquette sees into the ­future as he gazes down a river that moves not only through space but also through time. Nursey ­imagined modern Chicago as a shockingly novel creature: all irrepressibility and “hurly-­burly,” its industry making “the marts of the older world” obsolete. And he posited a progressive line from Marquette’s era through to the pre­sent, following a technological-­architectural story of pro­gress from “frail birch-­bark” to steamboat, from “wigwam” to “log shack” to skyscraper. The Chicago of ­today, he strongly implied, is the fulfillment of Marquette’s ­labors. Nursey was a writer in touch with his times, speaking to a popu­lar vision of Chicago that sang of growth, industry, and commerce. “CHICAGO!” began the British journalist George Warrington Steevens’s depiction of the city in 1897, “queen and guttersnipe of cities, cynosure and cesspool of the world! Not if I had a hundred tongues, e­ very one shouting a dif­fer­ent language in a dif­fer­ent key, could I do justice to her splendid chaos. The most beautiful and the most squalid . . . ​where ­women ­r ide straddlewise, and millionaires dine at mid-­day on the Sabbath.”81 Other literary depictions of the city followed Steevens’s gaze ­toward what was new, monumental, and confounding: skyscrapers, stockyards, and railroads became the stock in trade of Chicago tales.82 The railroad in par­tic­u­lar captured the combination of industry and chaos that the city seemed to emit: when ­people recounted their first sight of the city, in fiction or in memoir, the tale inevitably began with a train ­r ide, with the sensation of approaching the city at tremendous speed, of finding oneself suddenly thrust into urban cacophony.83 Where travel guides to Rome or Paris would have listed churches and cathedrals, guides to Chicago listed commercial buildings: visitors ­were urged not to leave town without seeing the Insurance Exchange Building or Marshall Field & Co.84 Marquette was, in the words of the historian Donald Miller, “a perfect founding hero for a city at times anxious to prove that it was devoted to more than money and merchandising.”85 Under­neath the boosterish exclamations at the size and speed of the city lay a sense that something may be missing. Skyscrapers, for instance, inspired comparisons to religious structures. T ­ hose in the Gothic style, like the Tribune Tower, ­were compared to cathedrals, and—­ just as Nursey alluded to “the Babelesque structures of stone and steel”—­all of them ­were frequently likened to Towers of Babel.86 To figure the skyscraper as a cathedral highlighted the fact that sacred spires had lost pride of place in the new midwestern urban skyline. To figure it as a Tower of Babel signaled a certain anxiety about a biblical lesson. If the ambition that produced the skyscrapers was in some way an offense to God, and if the confusion of languages in the diverse city a predictor of its ultimate demise, Chicago nonetheless

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persisted: steel was piled on steel, industry expanded, and immigrants continued to arrive. Even while ­these meta­phors suggested that the commercial might replace the religious, they also expressed anxiety about the ultimate outcome, leaving the possibility of divine disapproval hovering around the city’s enterprise. The Marquette Building was built—­and advertised—as a commercial building in which space for commerce was sacrificed in order to reduce the appearance of commerce. Only in a city in which “Babelesque structures” ­were at once icons of success and accusations of civic materialism would such an advertising strategy make sense. Nursey was not alone: other Marquette commemorators also claimed that Marquette had somehow predicted, even caused, and certainly approved of the rapid economic and commercial growth of the modern Midwest. This ­simple, unprepossessing man, the argument went, began the pro­cess that transformed the Midwest from a primeval wilderness into a cap­i­tal­ist mecca. In a meeting in August 1900, convened to plan what eventually became the Mackinac Island monument to Marquette, the Presbyterian former congressman John C. Black described Marquette as “a leader in the ways where multitudes have followed; where he walked, brushing the dews from the wild grasses with his sandaled feet, and hearing only the noise of solitude, railways and canals bear busy myriads in their rushing ways.”87 Black’s point was not only to compare the past with the pre­sent but also to credit the advances of the pre­sent—­ the “railways and canals” that bear the “busy myriads”—to Marquette’s initial path-­finding. In 1888, the Chicago ­lawyer and Catholic convert Edward Osgood Brown visited Mackinac, delivering a lecture on Marquette for the benefit of St. Anne’s mission ­there. In his lecture, Brown noted that the place where an ailing Marquette camped was, in fact, “the first settlement upon the stream where now rise the towers of that imperial city [Chicago].”88 As Brown’s description of Chicago as an “imperial” city suggests, Marquette had laid the groundwork not for just any ­future city but rather for a bustling center of industry, manufacturing, and commerce, one poised to rise not just within the national economy but beyond it, as a center of economic empire. ­Others ­were even more explicit. “The interior of the continent, the greatest granary of the world,” remarked the Jesuit Thomas Ewing Sherman, in a 1900 speech before the Marquette Monument Association at Mackinac, “was given to civilization, to geography, to Christendom, by a modest, gentle Jesuit and by a brave young Canadian fur-­trader.” Marquette, he claimed, was “the first to give the Mississippi valley to the world at large” and to camp at the site that became Chicago, the “market of the world.” He reminded his listeners of Mar-

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quette’s early death and cast him as a martyr to the ­f uture development of the region, a “gentle, willing victim of peace and pro­gress.”89 ­These amateur historians wanted more from Marquette than a brand: they wanted his blessing. They wanted to write a balance between God and gold back into Chicago’s history. Some also posited that Marquette commemorations could bring that balance into the pre­sent: that a reminder of this history could direct businessmen away from self-­seeking and greed and t­oward self-­ sacrifice and (vaguely defined) higher values. Sherman, for example, closed the speech above with a g­ rand rhetorical flourish, imagining a g­ reat f­ uture monument. Describing the monument standing on the “open pathways of commerce,” at a site of “trade and traffic,” he shared his hope that it would “lift all minds and hearts to the heights on which [Marquette] treads.”90 Sherman went beyond looking to the past for justification for the pre­sent. He also ­imagined the monument as a kind of ­silent call to prayer in a bustling world of business. This was an oft-­expressed hope: that Marquette’s presence on the landscape would inspire busy businessmen to stop in their quest for growth and profit and to reflect on history and spirituality. In the same year that Sherman spoke at the Mackinac meeting, Franklin MacVeagh, a Methodist, spoke about Marquette at the Chicago Historical Society. MacVeagh acknowledged that by then, in 1900, local historians already knew the story of Marquette. This was, he said, a “twice told tale.” So why repeat it? “I tell it ­because it is never idle to stop in the vast hurry of our bread-­getting and money-­getting life to contemplate for a while one of t­hose rare few men who, though illustrious by reason of the historical importance of their deeds, have their first claim to the reverence of the world by reason of the exceptional, the phenomenal elevation of their characters, their aims and their private lives.”91 Perhaps the most enthusiastic expression of the belief that Marquette would inspire the commercial world to meditate on something higher can be found in the writing of Charles H. Collins, an Ohio l­awyer and Methodist who published a memoir of his travels in Eu­rope in 1886. Attempting to mimic Mark Twain’s comical, world-­weary cynicism from his 1869 travelogue parody, Innocents Abroad, Collins cast himself as unenthusiastic about the won­ders of Eu­rope. (Westminster Abbey, for example, was a “sepulchral show place . . .” that “no longer impresses you.”92) He saved his flights of fancy for writing about his midwestern home. He described himself as “sitting one day on Chimney Rock and looking over the glistening strait ­towards Point St. Ignace, now a ­great manufacturing city, black

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with furnace fires and teeming with industry.” He i­magined Marquette rising from the dead in front of him: The loving Priest and ­Father early lost Arises with a luster from the tomb, His brow is white with Heaven’s pearly frost, And Pere Marquette appears in fadeless bloom, ­Here are no paths of trade, or scenes of mirth, The throbbing soul is turned to sky above, This ­humble Priest ­shall give your thoughts new birth, Whose life was holy faith and perfect love.

The poem closes with an image of a monument rising in the spot: A beacon to the wandering Tourist’s eyes, A pledge of all that’s perfect, true and just. The kings of trade lie in forgotten graves Who changed to bloody scenes this land of peace, But Marquette’s fame ­shall hallow all ­these waves, ‘Till Time itself ­shall in oblivion cease.93

To Collins, the commemoration of Marquette had a contemplative quality, capable of pulling observers from the business of the pre­sent—­the “paths of trades, or scenes of mirth”—­and restoring for them something that’s “perfect, true and just.” And this capacity was particularly valuable, not only ­because of a general concern about excessive materialism but also b­ ecause of a more specific critique about the “kings of trade” and the “bloody scenes” they have created. Efforts to make Marquette the founder of modern business and to use Marquette as a reminder of the right path in business and life spoke to an anxiety about industry itself and the changes that it had wrought on the nation’s moral fabric. Collins published his ode to Marquette the same year that the Haymarket Affair laid bare the class and ethnic fault lines in Chicago, and roughly a de­cade a­ fter the G ­ reat Railroad Strike of 1877 and a de­cade before the Pullman Strike of 1894. In the upper Midwest in the Gilded Age, in other words, to imagine that an image of Marquette, placed at a site of “trade and traffic,” would lift p­ eople’s minds and hearts out of individual, material gain and to a greater spiritual truth was not just a generalized wish but a specific response to a sense that rapid and uneven economic growth might be society’s

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undoing. Writers like Collins interpreted class conflict as rooted in corporate greed, and corporate greed as a personal failing; they hoped that Marquette would temper such greed and conflict by reminding striving cap­i­tal­ists of values beyond wealth. The Marquette Club—­a Republican po­liti­cal club whose members ­were directly concerned with issues of good governance, effective management of industry, and the preservation of social order—­was a frequent site for such concerns. In a column in the Marquette Club’s journal in which the author writes in the voice of Marquette, “Marquette” urged the club members to come together to “work for the deliverance of this city; to rid it of the incompetents, the rascals, the insatiate plunderers of civic virtue” b­ ecause he wants “this city, which I have watched in its metamorphosis from an Indian encampment to a ­great metropolis,” to “be once more turned t­owards pro­ gress, morality and commercial and intellectual glory.”94 ­Here Marquette was once again ­imagined as an originating figure of the f­uture metropolis. Capable of speaking from the grave, he calls its modern denizens back to a higher morality: one that rejects “plunder” but idealizes “commercial . . . ​glory” when combined with “morality.” This Marquette had traveled far from the birch-­ bark canoe: he had become a voice for orderly, morally regulated economic growth as the logical outcome of Christian (Catholic) evangelism. Marquette, then, provided midwesterners concerned with economic growth with more than an opportunity to sell hardwood or spoons. To many, the fundamental economic transformation of the Midwest—­a transformation that was part of the re­orientation of U.S. empire into the twentieth c­ entury—­was one that seemed to do vio­lence to the communal, spiritual values of ­earlier days. In antimodernist fashion, Marquette’s commemorators ­imagined that busy modern men would gaze on Marquette monuments and recall, for a salutary moment, the idealized premodern devotion of the Jesuit missionary, and would become not missionaries themselves, and certainly not antimaterialist, but better, more humane businessmen. Marquette was recruited as a way to rewrite the history of Chicago and the Midwest’s commercial development as part of the religious history of the region, and as a way to reintroduce—in easily digestible moments of inspiration—­the tempering spirit of generalized religion into the acquisitive, materialist pre­sent. Edward Jones, with whom this chapter opened, never succeeded in attacking Trentanove’s Marquette statue with a broadax. But why might he have wanted to? If, like other Americans, he was upset by the statue, it was likely that he acted not (or not only) from a broad hatred of all t­hings Catholic but

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rather from a par­tic­u­lar fear triggered by the sight of an identifiably Catholic monument in a federal building. Many protesters feared that Marquette’s statue was part of a sinister plot: that it was intended to acclimate Americans to Catholic images in government buildings, easing the way for an eventual transition to Roman rule.95 Henry Francis Bowers had founded the APA b­ ecause he believed that the U.S. government was secretly dominated by the power of the pope in Rome, working through U.S. Catholics and their priests.96 Though less expansive in their fears, Lyman Beecher and Josiah Strong w ­ ere also concerned about the survival of the republic in the face of Catholic clericalism and a Roman orientation. At stake in the contest between this brand of anti-­Catholicism and the Marquette commemorators, then, was not only a par­tic­u­lar vision of Catholicism but also a par­tic­u­lar vision of the United States. To anti-­Catholic Americans, the United States was still a nascent and vulnerable Protestant republic, potentially threatened by the monarchies and old powers of Eu­rope. This republican vision of the country retained much of its power in the late nineteenth ­century. But in analyzing the widespread appeal of Marquette as discoverer, one can see another vision of the United States emerge, with a very dif­fer­ent relationship to Catholic pasts. This was a vision that, even while paying homage to the idea of a national identity rooted in the British North American colonies, also challenged that idea, citing as founding ­fathers all who belonged to the broader category of white, Eu­ro­pean, Christian explorers, colonists, and missionaries. This was the vision that the former vice president Adlai Stevenson introduced when he gave his speech on the history of Illinois at the Chicago Historical Society in 1900. In the speech, Stevenson began his long march through Illinois history with Jolliet and Marquette. He passed over familiar terrain: he compared them to well-­known founding figures such as Cabot and Columbus; he noted that their contribution to the nation—as Frenchmen—­was similar to Lafayette’s contribution to the Revolution; he claimed that they marked the introduction of “civilized man” to “our soil” and reflected with satisfaction on the erection of Marquette’s statue in the National Statuary Hall. And if the beginning of his speech sounds the notes of almost all midwestern Marquette commemorations, in linking Marquette to the originating narratives of both region and nation, the end of his speech turns to the question of the nature of the nation itself. The United States, Stevenson declared, no longer had to fear the “foreign foe, as during the first two de­cades”: it was no longer a vulnerable republic in a world of larger foreign aggressors. Nor did the country have to fear strife “along sectional lines, as at a ­later period of our history,” in the years imme-

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diately preceding the Civil War. For a re­united and rising industrial power, what was to be feared instead? Now, he said, the danger lay “with the multiplication and increase of individual fortunes” and the “distance that separates their possessors from the toiling millions . . . ​who can doubt that from all ­these may spring dangers to society, to the state, unknown to the first c­ entury of the republic.” What might serve as a source of stability for a country fast becoming a site of industrial growth and its attendant abuses and dangers? According to Stevenson: Americans needed to be taught a “veneration for the memories of our ­f athers—­the builders of the republic.” He concluded his speech by noting that the nineteenth ­century was closing and ­imagined himself and his audience “standing in its twilight, with hearts grateful to our ­fathers and to our ­f ather’s [sic] God, we take courage, and turn our ­f aces hopefully, trustingly, confidently, to the dawning c­ entury.”97 Stevenson spoke of the nation and the republic, but in including Marquette and Jolliet in the founding story, he was also speaking of the French imperial past. For Stevenson, as for so many o ­ thers in the Midwest, looking back to North American history—to the f­ athers who built the imperial nation and to the Gods of ­those ­f athers—­meant beginning with the work and example of a French Jesuit missionary.

Chapter 2

Imagining Peaceful Conquest

From January to December 1911, a small but thriving Chicago-­area Catholic monthly called the Christian ­Family published one article a month on Marquette.1 The author, Henry Shepherd, started in January with a history of Marquette’s birthplace—­Laon, France—­and a genealogy of the Marquette ­family, ­going back to the twelfth c­ entury.2 He concluded in December with a summary of what he called the “Character of Marquette and His Place in History.” The well-­illustrated articles ­were clearly intended to advertise Marquette to midwestern Catholics and to define Marquette as a par­tic­u­lar type of hero. In his article series, Shepherd placed Marquette among the other figures represented in the National Statuary Hall. “­There are statesmen, generals, soldiers and patriots,” he wrote. “The men who built up and preserved our country.” He named Roger Williams and John Winthrop, Washington and Jefferson, Lincoln and Grant. “In the midst of them stands Marquette,—­fit emblem this of his rank and place among the true and g­ reat and noble and heroic of our country’s history.” This portion of Shepherd’s essay highlights Marquette’s similarity to other American founding figures. But the rest of his essay does something ­else entirely: it is about Marquette’s Catholic faith, a marker of Marquette’s difference from a Winthrop, a Jefferson, or a Lincoln. The first quarter of Shepherd’s article consists almost entirely of a long quote from a memoir written by Marquette’s Jesuit superior in New France, Claude Dablon, approximately two years ­after Marquette’s death. Dablon describes Marquette’s “meekness which endeared him to every­one, and which made him

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all to all—­French with the French, Huron with the Hurons, and Algonquin with the Algonquins.” Dablon dwelled on Marquette’s “most tender and singular devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and especially to the mystery of the Immaculate Conception,” noting that “­every letter or conversation of his ­contained something about the Blessed Virgin Immaculate, as he always styled her.” Dablon, as quoted by Shepherd, wrote about this par­tic­u­lar devotion at ­great length, concluding that Marquette died with a look of joy ­because “he had surrendered his soul into the hands of his good m ­ other.”3 The picture Shepherd created is one of contrasts. Standing beside generals is a man notable for his gentleness and sensitivity, standing ­behind “patriots” is a man at home with many nations and p­ eoples, and standing beside a Puritan leader is a man passionately devoted to the Virgin Mary and the controversial Roman Catholic dogma of the Immaculate Conception. Such contradictions attracted other Marquette observers, including the preeminent Catholic historian John Gilmary Shea. At a speech delivered before the Missouri Historical Society in 1878, twenty-­six years ­after he published on Marquette in The Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley, Shea declared that “­there seemed ­little in” Marquette’s story “to give the actors a place in history, mea­sured by the standard of ­those who see greatness only in the victorious battlefield and no laurels that are not crimsoned with ­human blood.” But, he said, we must reject ­those assumptions and instead study men like Marquette, men, he said, who ­were “peaceful conquerors.”4 The term “peaceful conqueror” is notable for how well it fits into late nineteenth-­century imperial rhe­toric. The radically modifying and mitigating work of “peaceful” in relationship to “conqueror”—­its implied optimism that conquest could be completed without strife and vio­lence—is reflected in other key terms of the period. One can see the same structure in General Samuel Chapman Armstrong’s phrase “tender vio­lence,” coined in the 1870s to describe the assimilationist work of the Hampton Institute, the school he founded for ex-­slaves and Native Americans.5 One can hear its echoes in President McKinley’s 1898 proclamation that “benevolent assimilation” would characterize American goals in the Philippines. What t­hese terms share is not just an oxymoronic form but an acknowl­edgment of the domination that imperial proj­ects require, combined with the argument that a kind character or good intentions could mitigate the vio­lence of that domination. This chapter argues that the Marquette of late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century commemorations became, as a “peaceful conqueror,” a prototypical embodiment of this imperial vision of domination without vio­lence. Marquette’s admirers described him as an unusually respectful and beloved

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evangelist of Native Americans and cast him as a representative figure of a gentle but brave imperial manhood, combining both masculine and feminine ele­ments. Catholics described ­these traits as rooted in Marquette’s Jesuit affiliation and Catholic faith: their Marquette was influenced by the particularities of Jesuit missionary strategy in seventeenth-­century North Amer­ic­ a and ­shaped by a filial devotion to the Virgin Mary (and in par­tic­u­lar to the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception). For Protestants, Marquette embodied the same qualities, shorn of their confessional markers: they spoke instead of Marquette’s personal skill at appealing to ­people across religious and cultural differences, and celebrated his devotion to the universal feminine and to his own earthly ­mother. Marquette the peaceful conqueror also became—­though not ­under his own name—­a key figure in one of the most famous poems in American lit­er­a­ture: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha. Its ending—­ which features words drawn from Marquette’s journals—­served as a parable of gentle conquest. As the Marquette figure arrives, Hiawatha begins his retreat into the sunset, leaving his p­ eople to a new day of Euro-­American civilization in the hands of the “Black-­Robe priest, the prophet.” Though the poem was initially published in 1855, it surged in popularity ­after the American Civil War, embraced by many who saw themselves as friends and educators of Native Americans, supporters of so-­called “assimilation” policies. Against other, ostensibly more violent or aggressive visions of evangelization, colonization, and imperial manhood, Marquette the peaceful conqueror became an argument about what legitimate imperial conquest might look like, in the past and the pre­sent. If Marquette as the first white man provided white Catholics and Protestants in the Midwest with a founding hero who could reframe the history of U.S. expansion and the Midwest’s f­ uture of economic growth, Marquette the peaceful conqueror provided an ideal of empire built on benevolence and consent. ­These visions of Marquette ­were not separate: they often overlapped and intermingled in the same texts and utterances. But in the stories of Marquette as a peaceful conqueror, the idea of a civilizing mission was woven more deeply into narratives of the U.S. national past and purpose. ­Here was a founding ­f ather who pursued not freedom and in­de­pen­dence but gentle paternalism and benevolent uplift: in Marquette celebrations, t­hese qualities w ­ ere elevated to the status of founding ideals, useful for understanding the past and guiding the ­f uture of the imperial nation.

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Missionary as Mediator Academic historians and popu­lar commemorators alike ­were remarkably taken with Marquette’s missionary practice, which they characterized as unusually respectful of Indigenous ­people. Some attributed this quality to Jesuit models of evangelization that, during Marquette’s lifetime, ­were moving in an increasingly acculturated direction: forgoing ambitions to reinvent, ­wholesale, the lives of new converts, North American Jesuits of Marquette’s generation attempted instead to integrate the gospel into potential converts’ prior ways of living and thinking. O ­ thers commented on Marquette’s ability to form connections across differences, but ignored the Jesuit context, casting Marquette as a ­gently heroic personality, uniquely suited to establishing warm relationships and avoiding conflict with the Native Americans he encountered. Indeed, he was celebrated as much for this claim as he was for his work as an explorer, and one of the tales most often told about Marquette—­about his disinterment and reburial—­was above all a testimony to his purported ability to live among diverse ­peoples and inspire love among them all. Some of Marquette’s admirers noted with approval his model of missionary work. To them, Marquette had learned from his Jesuit training a kind of ­limited, instrumentalist cultural relativism, an ability to win Native Americans’ loyalty by meeting them on their own terms. In 1912, Cornelia Steketee Hulst, a Michigan school teacher who had become a noted writer on my­thol­ogy, wrote a book intended for older ­children called Indian Sketches: Père Marquette and the Last of the Pottawatomie Chiefs. Hulst, who was raised Protestant, celebrated her Native subjects as heroic, noble savages and described Marquette as fitting his Christian teaching to them. “He lived among the Indians as a b­ rother who is to spend the rest of his life with them,” she wrote. “He shared their food, even if it was coarse and dirty; he rejoiced with them in their joys and sorrowed with them in their sorrows.” Her reference to “coarse and dirty” food maintained a distinction between Marquette and his potential converts: he may have been with them, but he was not of them. With this distinction in place, Hulst expressed admiration for Marquette’s orientation as a “­brother” to his intended converts, and she credited the Jesuits—­“the wise instructions of his religious order,” in her words—­for fostering in him this brotherly spirit.6 Perhaps Hulst was drawing on Thwaites, whose biography of Marquette had been published a de­cade ­earlier, and who was unusual among Marquette’s Protestant biographers for his attention to Jesuit teaching. In the biography, Thwaites quotes from a Jesuit advice letter, which counseled that “journeys,

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and the cabins of the savages, are truly schools of mortification, of patience, and of resignation.—­More is gained with all the savages by gentleness than by severity.”7 He also referred to a passage in the Jesuit Relations that described the kind of teaching Marquette likely received: “We have to bear every­thing from their bad humor and their brutality, in order to win them by gentleness and affection,” the author advised. “One must make himself, in some sort, a Savage with ­these Savages, and lead a Savage’s life with them.”8 “A Savage with ­these Savages” echoes Marquette’s superior Dablon and his ­later description of Marquette—­the description quoted by Shepherd in his Christian ­Family article—as “French with the French, Huron with the Hurons,” and “all to all.” In t­hese texts, part of Marquette’s legacy is tied to a Jesuit practice cast as particularly acculturated, effective ­because it was able to introduce Catholicism to Native Americans through familiar channels. ­These depictions of Marquette and the Jesuits resonate with the fact that Marquette’s missionary work belongs to what Tracy Neal Leavelle has called “a new phase of Jesuit evangelization” in New France.9 This new phase was deeply informed by the fate of the previous generation of Jesuits, in par­tic­u­lar by the gruesome deaths of F ­ athers Jean de Brébeuf and Gabriel Lalemant when they ­were captured by Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) warriors in 1649, and by the subsequent destruction of the Huron mission of Sainte Marie in 1650. E ­ arlier Jesuits had attempted to avoid superficial conversions by encouraging cultural overhaul among the converted, including the establishment of settled, stationary communities. By the ­middle of the 1660s, however, the relative failure of ­these settlements encouraged a reconsideration of w ­ holesale attempts at cultural transformation, and the missionaries themselves became more mobile and more willing to adapt to the cultures of t­hose they sought to convert. Their new approach involved a greater tolerance of Indigenous traditions and an increase in attempts to find common ground between their own ways of being in the world and t­hose they encountered among the p­ eople they sought to convert.10 Marquette was widely celebrated for his embodiment of this new practice, for what his admirers understood to be a nonaggressive, respectful, and mediating approach to missionary work. But in most texts, unlike ­those by Hulst and Thwaites, ­these qualities ­were internalized and psychologized, depicted not as the result of specific Jesuit policy but rather as a mark of Marquette’s exceptional character. If other heroes might be described as bold, forceful, or strong, Marquette was most frequently described as gentle, meek, or tender. Every­one seemed to agree on this point: Catholics and Protestants, academic historians and popu­lar admirers, writers in the antebellum period and t­hose

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writing de­cades ­later. Back in 1834, George Bancroft had described Marquette as “meek, single-­hearted, [and] unpretending.” In the caption to a widely reproduced image of Marquette—­used in material from photo books to banquet programs at the turn of the ­century—­the missionary was described similarly as having “a gentle and noble nature” in addition to “the highest order of courage.”11 His gentleness was credited with helping him cross between multiple worlds, even mediate disputes. In April 1901, Pearson’s Magazine published an article on Illinois history by Theodore Dreiser, who had just published his first novel, ­Sister Carrie. Dreiser was raised Catholic and would write in other venues of his troubled Catholic childhood, but his depiction of Marquette is full of admiration. In describing Marquette’s encounter with the Illinois at the mouth of the Des Moines River on 24 June 1673, Dreiser noted that, ­after Marquette and Jolliet introduced themselves to the chief, “­because of the sweetness and tenderness of this earliest of Western missionaries a pleasant interview followed, at which fish, hominy, and buffalo meat w ­ ere served and eaten.”12 ­Here, Marquette’s “sweetness and tenderness” is particularly effective at forging bonds. This theme was so central to Marquette commemorations that even tongue-­ in-­cheek depictions of Marquette played with it. In 1903, Chicago’s Marquette Club—­the predominantly Protestant Republican po­liti­cal club—­f aced a crisis over its leadership and direction, dividing its members. In response, their newsletter, the Marquette Journal, began to feature a column called “Pere Marquette’s Corner.” The column was written as if the painting of Marquette that hung in the lodge’s main room was talking to the club members. The unnamed author played with the idea of Marquette speaking from beyond the canvas: in a riff on pastoral speech, he called the club members “my sons” and “my ­children”; in a jovial nod to Jesuit celibacy, he expressed enthusiasm for festivities involving “wives, sweethearts, and ­daughters” ­because “despite my priestly garb the feminine voice is sweet ­music to my ears.” But beneath the humor, the imaginary Marquette always ultimately had the same peacemaking message: he has de­cided to break his customary silence ­because he wants to bring the club back together, to help the fighting factions resolve their differences and get along.13 What­ever the sources of Marquette’s vaunted ability to connect p­ eople across divides, to be “all to all”—­whether a Jesuit-­inspired practice or an exceptional personal quality—­Marquette’s admirers ­were united in praising its efficacy. They argued that Marquette’s gentle approach enabled him to win the hearts of Native Americans. “The savages,” declared a reporter for the Daily Mining Journal on the event of the 1897 statue cele­bration in Marquette,

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Michigan, w ­ ere so devoted to Marquette that they “follow him when he is awake and watch over him when he is asleep. . . . ​They follow him and kiss his footprints in the snow.”14 The reporter’s depiction of Native Americans as childlike and extreme in their devotion invoked a common racist ste­reo­type as a commentary on Marquette himself, on his ability to inspire such devotion. The most common way to depict the esteem in which Marquette was held by Native American converts, however, was to tell a story not of his life but of his death—or, perhaps, a version of his resurrection. In his 1834 history, Bancroft ended the story with Marquette’s death on the banks of the Chicago River. But John Gilmary Shea, and academic and popu­lar writers ­after him, extended Marquette’s story almost two years longer. Marquette’s final moments in ­those texts occur in the winter of 1676, when a group of Kiskakon Ottawas on their return from a winter hunting trip go to Marquette’s grave, dig up his body, wash and dry his bones, and bring them to the mission at St. Ignace. ­There, the story goes, they are met by both Native and French ­people, and together Marquette’s vari­ous friends rebury his bones.15 This moment of disinterment and reburial is central to the story of Marquette the peaceful conqueror. It was repeated to show how much Marquette was beloved by ­those he sought to convert. It was also framed as a story—­ once again—of Marquette’s success as a bridge between worlds. Even in his death, his bones could be “all to all.” Francis Parkman described Marquette’s bones as being disinterred “in accordance with an Indian custom” and then reburied by priests “with solemn ceremony . . . ​beneath the floor of the l­ittle chapel of the mission.”16 To Parkman, Marquette’s reburial brought together “Indian custom” and the “solemn ceremony” of the Catholic Church.17 The story of his bones’ reburial also sets Marquette apart from his Jesuit pre­de­ces­sors, and does so more dramatically than any discussion of shifting Jesuit missionary policy could. The first wave of French Jesuits in early seventeenth-­century New France came to be known above all for their martyrdom. ­Father Jean de Brébeuf was perhaps the most famous example: he was tortured by his Haudenosaunee captors before he died, a pro­cess that involved being burned with boiling ­water in a searing inversion of the ritual of Catholic baptism. Marquette, it was often said, longed to follow in the self-­sacrificial footsteps of Brébeuf and the other martyrs, and indeed his name is often included in the list of Jesuit martyrs of North Amer­i­ca. But telling the story of his reburial highlighted how dif­fer­ent his martyrdom was. Marquette was not killed by t­hose he sought to convert, but rather by an illness that arose from his own delicate health. The Haudenosaunee who killed Brébeuf did so with acts of vio­lence that signified a refusal of his power and his faith. The Kiskakon

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Ottawas who disinterred Marquette’s bones offered Marquette a kind of resurrection, with acts of reverence that included Indigenous traditions and a Roman Catholic burial. In the terms of Christian martyrdom, all of ­these Jesuits ­were successful: they willingly gave their lives in order to share Christ with the world. In the more prosaic metric of earthly conversion and territorial empire, Brébeuf ’s and Lalemant’s deaths w ­ ere marks of their failure; Mar18 quette’s reburial was a sign of his success. The example of the life and death of this peaceful conqueror could thus serve as a foil against which other North American imperial figures could be mea­sured and found wanting. Marquette’s partisans found a lot of them wanting. Hernando de Soto—­Marquette’s closest competitor for the title of discoverer of the Mississippi—­was, according to one Marquette admirer, one of ­those “mail-­clad conquistadores” who w ­ ere “animated with the spirit of greed backed by fire and fagot,” in contrast to Marquette and “his ­humble followers,” who ­were “ambassadors of peace.”19 The Spanish in general, another remarked, ­were “invariably marked by cruelty and bloodshed,” in contrast to Marquette and his compatriots, by whom “no blood was shed but that of their own martyred brethren.”20 Most of all, Marquette was compared with British North American colonists. Shea, in an address before the Missouri Historical Society in 1878, claimed that the “stern settlers of the New E ­ ngland coast” w ­ ere “men narrower in their views, thinking less of humanity at large than of themselves, knowing two hundred years ago less of the country a hundred miles from the coast than the French did of tens of thousands of square miles of the interior.”21 And the Chicago judge (and converted Catholic) Edward Osgood Brown gave a speech comparing the French Jesuits with “the less promising, the more material, the harder and less attractive En­glish civilization from the eastern coast.”22 Protestants joined Catholics in this comparison. Charles H. Collins, the Methodist Ohioan who wrote a travel narrative that reflected also on his midwestern home, claimed that Marquette and the other French Jesuits ­were “bearing the banner of the Cross to the untutored savage” and cast the British, by contrast, as “refugees on the Atlantic shore [who] w ­ ere selling the kindred of t­hese same savages into slavery and cheating them out of their lands.”23 Compared with Marquette’s broad embrace of the p­ eoples he met, the British ­were “narrow”; compared with Marquette’s self-­abnegation, they ­were greedy and self-­interested. If Marquette the first white man was compared to Anglo-­American founding heroes in order to incorporate Marquette—­and therefore the Midwest—­into the foundational history of the nation, Marquette the peaceful conqueror was drawn in marked contrast to the early

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Anglo-­American colonists in order to highlight his purported benevolence and success in inspiring devotion.

Gentleness and Gender By all accounts, Jacques Marquette himself was devoted to the Virgin Immaculate. His par­tic­u­lar devotion, both to the Virgin and to the idea of her sinless conception, was a favorite topic of Catholic commemorators. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, cele­brations of the Immaculate Conception could both signal support for papal power and declare the importance of North Amer­i­ca within the worldwide adoration of the Virgin. Protestants did not comment explic­itly on Marquette’s devotion to the Virgin Immaculate, but they did discuss his devotion to Rose de la Salle, his earthly ­mother. In line with a cross-­confessional late nineteenth-­century interest in Mary and the maternal divine, Protestant admirers of Marquette described him as a model of filial devotion and feminine influence. T ­ hese associations of Marquette with feminine qualities also rearticulated widespread anti-­Jesuit tropes about androgynous Jesuits. While anti-­Jesuit language cast the Jesuit as threatening and disruptive in his embodiment of both genders, Marquette admirers explic­itly celebrated Marquette for embodying Jesuit courage and intrepidity, on the one hand, and gentleness and devotion to the feminine, on the other. According to Marquette’s journals, the accounts from Claude Dablon that ­were quoted by Shepherd, and the historians who have drawn on ­these and other sources, Marquette saw his work in North Amer­i­ca as closely tied to the Virgin’s patronage. He attempted (unsuccessfully) to name the Mississippi a­ fter the Immaculate Conception and (successfully) to found the mission of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin. He turned to the Virgin in moments of gratitude and moments of danger. He used her picture as a tool of conversion. He gazed at her image as he lay d­ ying. Major moments of his life even seemed to fall on a Marian calendar: as he reported with satisfaction in his journal, he was given his ­orders to explore the Mississippi on her feast day.24 He even died on a Saturday, the day of the week traditionally associated with the Virgin. The written texts left by Marquette and t­hose who knew him are so thick with references to the “Blessed Virgin Immaculate” that it should come as no surprise that the academic biographers who drew primarily on ­these sources mention his devotion, though with varying degrees of detail and interest.25 The section on Marquette in the Protestant historian George Bancroft’s

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History of the United States mentions the Virgin occasionally but without comment. The Catholic historian Shea, on the other hand, wrote at length on Marquette’s devotion to the Virgin, describing his love for her, reporting the moments on his journey in which he asked for her protection, and including the detail from Dablon that “no letter, it is said, ever came from his hand that did not contain the words, ‘Blessed Virgin Immaculate.’ ”26 Francis Parkman—­ who, like Bancroft, was the son of a Unitarian minister, but unlike Bancroft developed a fascination for Catholicism over the course of his life—­dwelled on Marquette’s devotion to the Virgin, but cast it in almost erotic tones: he called her Marquette’s “celestial mistress” and claimed that she was “to him the object of adoration not unmingled with a sentiment of chivalrous devotion,” and that “for her he burned to dare and to suffer.”27 And Reuben Gold Thwaites, the secretary of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin (and a fellow Unitarian), followed Marquette in framing his story in terms of the Virgin—­perhaps b­ ecause his work translating the Jesuit Relations immersed him in Marquette’s own words. In Thwaites’s 1902 biography of Marquette, the chapter on the Mississippi expedition begins the same way Marquette’s own description begins: by noting that Jolliet arrived on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.28 The vari­ous, yet ubiquitous, references to the Virgin in t­hese seminal texts ­were repeated in the work of Marquette commemorators in the late nineteenth ­century, particularly among Catholics. The Christian ­Family writer Henry Shepherd provided one example; so too did the Catholic convert and Chicago judge Edward Osgood Brown. In Brown’s 1888 speech “Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac,” he referred to the Mississippi as “the ­Great River he [Marquette] wished to explore and dedicate to Mary” and described how Marquette and his companions knelt as they began their voyage of discovery to “offer in a new devotion their lives and their l­abors, their discoveries and all their undertakings to the Blessed Virgin.”29 ­There is even a print of Wilhelm Lamprecht’s painting published to accompany an 1895 article in the Messenger of the Sacred Heart on which an image of the Virgin and Child is superimposed, suspended in the air in front of Marquette’s canoe, placed as if to suggest that Marquette was voyaging to her, that his ultimate goal was a religious u ­ nion with the Virgin.30 For some Catholics, Marquette commemorations provided a moment to celebrate the Immaculate Conception itself. The often misunderstood dogma refers not to the conception of Jesus Christ but to Mary’s own conception: it purports to resolve the conundrum of how a h ­ uman ­woman, presumably marked by original sin, could have been pure enough to carry the Son of God in her womb. According to the dogma, God had allowed Mary herself to have

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Figure 3. ​Illustration from an article by Rev. Henry S. Spalding, S.J., “Père Marquette—­How the ­People of the West Have Built His Monument,” The Messenger of the Sacred Heart, September 1895, 739. The illustration is a reproduction of the painting by Wilhelm Lamprecht, ­Father Marquette and the Indians, with an image of the Virgin and Child superimposed in the upper right. Courtesy of the Department of Special Collections and University Archives, Marquette University, Milwaukee, WI.

been conceived without original sin, rendering her completely ­free from its stain, or macula. The Immaculate Conception is traceable, as an idea, as far back as the fifth ­century, but it did not become Catholic dogma u ­ ntil 1854, in Pope Pius IX’s Ineffabilis Deus. To some, the procedural issues of this papal bull w ­ ere almost as impor­tant as its content: it marked a moment when a pope whose authority was being challenged by the nationalizing currents of mid-­nineteenth-­century Eu­rope resolved a centuries-­long theological debate with a single, solitary statement. Late nineteenth-­century Vatican watchers thus understood Ineffabilis Deus in light of what came sixteen years l­ater: when Pius IX declared papal infallibility at the First Vatican Council, much to the horror of Protestants. Celebrating the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was thus, for late nineteenth-­century Catholics, also a way of celebrating papal authority in general, and Pius IX’s refusal to bow to liberalizing pressures in par­tic­u­lar.31 Catholics focusing on Marquette’s devotion to the Immaculate Conception ­were also part of a larger nineteenth-­century U.S. Catholic effort to link

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the American church to the Virgin Immaculate. American Catholics sought both to claim the importance of the Virgin Immaculate to their own land and, perhaps more importantly in a nation that the Catholic Church still considered a mission territory, to claim the importance of North Amer­i­ca to this new dogma and revivified global devotional practice. In 1846, at the Sixth Provincial Council of Baltimore, U.S. bishops voted “to place ourselves, and all entrusted to our charge throughout the United States, u ­ nder the special patronage of the holy ­Mother of God, whose immaculate conception is venerated by the piety of the faithful throughout the Catholic Church.”32 Just as midwestern Catholics ­were celebrating their founding missionary’s devotion to the Immaculate Conception, ­these bishops w ­ ere declaring that North Amer­ i­ca was Mary’s—­and the Immaculate Conception’s—­territory. Among Marquette’s many admirers, however, his devotion to the Virgin was not just about the Immaculate Conception. Some of the language used by Catholic Marquette commemorators suggests a willingness to elide Marquette’s specific devotion to the Immaculate Conception in f­avor of broader references to Mary—­such as when Brown, in the speech quoted above, noted that Marquette hoped to dedicate the Mississippi “to Mary.” Furthermore, in Protestant historiography and popu­lar commemorations, depictions of Marquette’s devotion to Mary ­were accompanied, and sometimes replaced, by depictions of his devotion to his ­mother, Rose de la Salle. Rueben Gold Thwaites opened the second chapter of his 1902 biography of Marquette by introducing Marquette’s ­mother and noting that she was “allied to the famous Jean Baptiste de la Salle, founder of the ­Brothers of the Christian Schools. Thus ­were united, in the blood of our missionary [Marquette], the virtues of distinguished connection with the church and philanthropy,” on the one hand, and his ­father’s more po­liti­cal and military connections to the court of King Henry IV, on the other.33 Thwaites noted, a few pages ­later, that it was Marquette’s ­mother who inspired his piety: “His ­mother’s predilections w ­ ere no doubt t­oward the church, and thither the steps of her youn­gest son soon led.”34 Other, less prominent Protestant Marquette chroniclers followed the same script, tracing Marquette’s piety along the maternal line. Charles M. Foell, a judge and onetime Chicago alderman who held a number of executive positions in the city’s Marquette Club, noted in a 1903 speech before the club that while “through [Marquette’s] veins coursed the martial blood of valiant ancestry,” he was “inspired by his ­mother’s piety” and so pursued his missionary dreams.35 Even back in 1873, when the Episcopalian doctor John R. Bailey published a short pamphlet on Marquette for the Marquette Monument

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­ ssociation of Mackinac, Michigan, he opened by pairing a reference to MarA quette’s “pious” ­mother with one to the members of the Marquette ­family who died in the American Revolution.36 In ­these moments, Marquette’s faith was figured as inherited through a maternal line, his life of missionary sacrifice still an act of religious and filial devotion, but without explicit signifiers of Roman Catholicism. When Marquette’s devotion to the Blessed Virgin Immaculate was depicted in a way that removed its Roman referents but preserved his filial piety, it intersected well with more popu­lar late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century ideas about gender, Chris­tian­ity, and domesticity. If the Immaculate Conception carried intimations of papal infallibility, Marian devotion more generally could be subsumed ­under a broader appreciation for the feminine and for motherhood. The era of popu­lar Marquette commemorations occurred in the ­middle of what has been called “the age of Mary,” a c­ entury marked by a broad interest in the Virgin Mary that included Catholic religious devotions as well as more secular depictions of Mary in Catholic and Protestant lit­er­a­ture.37 While a conviction of the truth of the Immaculate Conception was not pan-­ Christian, an increasing glorification of domestic and maternal femininity certainly was. Furthermore, depicting Marquette as a devotee of the divine feminine—­ combined with his reputation as gentle—­made Marquette seem, to some, like a feminine figure himself. In his 1869 history, The Discovery of the ­Great West (part three of the France and ­England in North Amer­i­ca series) Francis Parkman ended his discussion of Marquette with exactly this juxtaposition: “We turn from the ­humble Marquette,” begins his transitional paragraph, “thanking God with his last breath that he died for his Order and his Faith; and by our side stands the masculine form of Cavelier de la Salle.”38 Marquette’s faith and humility, for Parkman, marked him as the opposite of the “masculine form” that La Salle represented.39 Yet ­others cast Marquette as an explic­itly masculine hero. Thwaites was the most extreme example: in his 1902 biography, in the same pages in which he stressed Marquette’s filial devotion to his ­mother, Thwaites also refused the feminizing implications that Parkman saw in Marquette’s religiosity and gentleness. He called him a “sturdy youth” and invoked Theodore Roo­se­velt’s call to young men to avoid the feminizing effects of civilization by engaging in physical challenges: using Roo­se­velt’s phrase, Thwaites argued that Marquette’s “times w ­ ere such as to develop the ‘strenuous life,’ ” and he titled a subsequent chapter on Marquette’s missionary work “A Strenuous Life.”40 Thwaites’s scholarly biography, which in other moments casts Marquette as gentle and

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physically frail, is filled with gendered depictions of Marquette that stand in tension with one another, a tension neither addressed nor resolved in the text. This tension—­the idea that Marquette could embody both male and female characteristics—­ was hardly unusual in Eu­ ro­ pean and American nineteenth-­century repre­sen­ta­tions of Jesuits. As the belief that humanity could be meaningfully divided into two distinct, dif­fer­ent, and complementary sexes became more widespread, anti-­Jesuit discourse in Eu­rope and the United States increasingly depicted Jesuits as dangerous ­because they muddied gender distinctions.41 On the one hand, Jesuits ­were ­imagined to be exceedingly ambitious in their pursuit of global domination, their courage, and their endurance of pain. Unlike other, more contemplative religious ­orders, the Jesuits ­were depicted as men of action and resolve. On the other hand, their piety, their reputed skill in the arts of seduction (spiritual and, in some anti-­Jesuit texts, sexual), and, in par­tic­u­lar, their obedience marked them as feminine. Jesuits not only vowed to obey their general—to submit, in essence, to another man—­ but also took a fourth vow of obedience to the pope. ­These vows ­were evidence, according to some anti-­Jesuit writers, of the effeminate, “slave-­like obedience” of the order.42 Marquette’s popu­lar commemorators, however, w ­ ere not disturbed by the fact that Marquette seemed to undermine gender distinctions. Rather, they celebrated him for combining the virtues of both genders to embody a civilizing ideal. He was, for them, both a martial hero and his ­mother’s pious son. In an 1896 speech on the Marquette Statue Resolution, the Protestant senator John M. Palmer of Illinois declared that Marquette “had more of courage and resolution than a soldier, for without intending to resist the dangers he might encounter he met the threats of savages without fear, inspired with love for them and an ­eager desire to promote their temporal and eternal welfare.”43 A year ­later, in the Daily Mining Journal’s 1897 Père Marquette Edition, the Milwaukee journalist and poet John Goadby Gregory published a poem in which “Christian heroes” like Marquette Faced death not hotly and excitedly, As soldiers do, when charging on the foe, But placidly, at Duty’s sober call; . . . And knew not stern Necessity’s appeal, To Steel their nerves and keep them to their task, But moved by pure benevolence and love, And hope to help ­those who would have their blood.44

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Over the summer of 1909, a monument to Marquette—­this one, like the one in Marquette, Michigan, also a replica of Gaetano Trentanove’s Washington, DC, statue—­was unveiled on Mackinac Island, Michigan. The main speaker at the unveiling was the Reverend J. M. Cunningham, SJ, of Marquette University: “Marquette, too,” Cunningham said, “had the spirit of the soldier—­the only difference was the field of action and the mode of warfare. His ancestors fought u ­ nder the banner of patriotism for country. He fought ­under the banner of the cross, for humanity. They used their guns or pikes or javelins amid the impetuosity of active courage. He used his activity of soul in patient endurance.”45 ­There is a common refrain ­here: if Marquette chose his ­mother’s religious path rather than following his male ancestors into martial glory, he ended up embodying the virtues of both. And to ­great effect: his “patient endurance” and his “pure benevolence and love” made him more courageous than a soldier and more effective as a civilizer. Evolving masculine ideals in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, at least among the white bourgeoisie, are often described as embracing e­ ither an ethos of educated self-­f ashioning and cultivated self-­control or one of physical vigor and vio­lence, often in the ser­vice of expansion and empire. On the one side, typically, sits the prototypical restrained Victorian; on the other, Theodore Roo­se­velt with his Rough Riders.46 Marquette’s commemorators, however, forged a dif­fer­ent path. In describing Marquette as embodying both feminine piety and masculine courage, they drew on feminine and masculine ideals to create a composite imperial ideal of peaceful conquest. It was an ideal that was more aggressive than Victorian restraint, more humane than Roo­se­veltian strenuosity. And it was an ideal that well matched the assimilationist thought of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.47

Conquest and Assimilation In the single most popu­lar depiction of Marquette in late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century American culture—­one that thrilled and delighted readers and audiences across the nation and beyond—­the first words of Marquette’s character are “Peace be with you . . . ​/ . . . ​Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!”48 ­These lines are not part of a statue-­raising ceremony or an essay read at a historical society meeting, but rather come at the end of what is perhaps the United States’ most popu­lar epic poem. In 1855, while Marquette’s early historians ­were beginning to piece together his place in North American his-

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tory, a portion of Marquette’s exploration of the Mississippi was taken from his journals and memorialized in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha.49 Hiawatha does many ­things, but in the last few stanzas it casts the arrival of Eu­ro­pean missionaries as a rightful and fitting end to Hiawatha’s story, one that Hiawatha welcomes even as he himself fades away. It is peaceful conquest in verse. And it was embraced as such, particularly by p­ eople invested in the increasingly popu­lar idea of “assimilating” Native Americans. During the early days of Marquette commemorations, in the late 1870s and 1880s, many Americans w ­ ere becoming increasingly critical of the U.S. military’s use of vio­lence to keep Native Americans off nonreservation lands. Such vio­lence had been celebrated in the ­earlier nineteenth ­century—­and still was in some quarters—­but as Indigenous communities w ­ ere increasingly surrounded by Anglo-­American settlement, and as Indigenous ­people w ­ ere confined to ever-­smaller parcels of barely arable land, military action against them looked less like martial glory and more like brutality.50 What emerged over the next de­cade was a commitment to the idea of assimilation as an alternative, one that would govern—­though unevenly and increasingly half heartedly—­U.S. federal Indian policy ­until the 1930s. Through changes in land use (encouraged and enforced by severalty laws like the Dawes Act of 1887), education (embodied by a large federal off-­reservation boarding school system), and citizenship provisions, assimilationists hoped that the so-­called “Indian prob­lem” would be solved as Native Americans became more like white Americans. In the words of Richard Henry Pratt, founder of Carlisle Indian Industrial School, the goal of assimilation was to “kill the Indian . . . ​and save the man.”51 As Pratt’s maxim suggests, assimilation was not without vio­lence—­both cultural and physical. While some Native American parents and c­ hildren chose to attend federal off-­reservation boarding schools, in other cases the Bureau of Indian Affairs called in the military to round up frightened, hiding ­children and send them tens or hundreds of miles away from f­ amily and community. In theory, however, at the heart of the idea of assimilation was the goal of manufacturing consent. Beyond forcibly moving and shaping bodies, assimilation was supposed to change Native Americans’ minds, to inspire in them a desire to leave their heritage ­behind and to adopt the ways of white American society. Marquette the peaceful conqueror served as a power­ful icon of this ambition. Celebrated for his gentleness and his ability to win potential converts’ affection and esteem, he could embody a benevolent alternative to the long history of U.S. Indian wars and military actions. Furthermore, fictional depictions of Marquette described him as ­doing exactly what assimilationists

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hoped they themselves might do: successfully convincing Native Americans that they must leave their pasts ­behind. The most famous such fictionalization of Marquette is his appearance as “the Black-­Robe chief, the Prophet” at the end of Hiawatha. In one brief note, Longfellow acknowledged what anyone comparing Marquette’s journal with Longfellow’s verse cannot miss: a significant portion of the last section of the poem was inspired by, and sometimes copied directly from, Marquette’s account of his encounter with the Illinois on his 1673 voyage down the Mississippi. Longfellow’s “Black-­Robe chief,” who arrives just as Hiawatha departs into the sunset at the end of the poem, was closely modeled on Marquette himself. Marquette’s journals contain a description of his encounter with the Illinois on his voyage. He described an “old man” greeting them, “with his hands extended and lifted t­oward the sun,” who said, “How beautiful the sun is, O frenchman, when thou comest to visit us!”52 Marquette then gave the Illinois a series of gifts, announcing his peaceful intentions and his hope to make “God, who had Created them,” known to them. He also asked them for any information they had about the “Sea” Marquette and his companions hoped to find at the end of the river, and the “Nations through Whom we must pass to reach it.” In return, Marquette and Jolliet w ­ ere also given gifts—­a calumet, or ceremonial pipe, which Marquette would famously use l­ater in the journey to avoid attack, and a slave. A man Marquette referred to as the “Captain” thanked them for visiting, and said, according to Marquette, “Never has the earth been so beautiful, or the sun so Bright, as to-­day; Never has our river been so Calm, or so clear of rocks, which your canoes have Removed in passing: never has our tobacco tasted so good, or our corn appeared so fine, as We now see Them. ­Here is my son, whom I give thee to Show thee my Heart. I beg thee to have pity on me, and on all my Nation.”53 In this account, Marquette was explicit about his reliance on the Illinois for information about what lay farther down the river. He also framed their language of welcome within the context of rituals of gift exchange and mutual dependence: the “Captain’s” declaration that “never has the earth been so beautiful” is inseparable from his giving his son to the explorers as a slave, and his wish that they “have pity on me, and on all my Nation.” Marquette’s arrival and attempts to introduce “God, who had Created them,” to the Illinois is also inseparable from his wish to be introduced, himself, to the landscape ahead of him. Longfellow took his lines almost verbatim from Marquette’s journal but ignored ­these ele­ments of reciprocity and ritual. Instead, he depicted the Illinois/Hiawatha as gratefully welcoming the Black Robe:

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­Toward the sun his hands ­were lifted Both the palms spread out against it, And between the parted fin­gers Fell the sunshine on his features, Flecked with light on his naked shoulders, . . . Then the joyous Hiawatha Cried aloud and spake in this wise: “Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, When you come so far to see us! All our town in peace awaits you, All our doors stand open for you. . . . “Never bloomed the earth so gayly, Never shone the sun so brightly, As to-­day they shine and blossom When you come so far to see us! Never was our lake so tranquil, Nor so ­free from rocks and sand-­bars; For your birch canoe in passing Has removed both rock and sand-­bar. “Never before had our tobacco Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, never the broad leaves of our cornfields ­Were so beautiful to look on, As they seem to us this morning, When you come so far to see us!”54

Marquette cast the Illinois as kind but savvy po­liti­cal players, seeking to forge goodwill with their potentially useful French visitors, just as Marquette hoped both to evangelize them and to learn from them about the river. Longfellow, however, interpreted the words of welcome in Marquette’s account as a prescient embrace, on the part of the Illinois, of the Euro-­American ­future that would follow the arrival of Marquette and men like him. The encounter—­and the epic poem as a whole—­ends with Hiawatha telling his ­people to “listen to the truth they [the Black Robes] tell you, / For the Master of Life has sent them / From the land of light and morning!” and then disappearing, as the Black-­ Robe chief and his men sleep, into the sunset to “the land of the Hereafter.”

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Marquette’s arrival, then, is the trigger for Hiawatha’s end, but it is notably an end that Longfellow had Hiawatha embrace. Directly before the passage quoted above, Longfellow began the tale of the Jesuit’s arrival with words distinctly not taken from Marquette’s journal, when he said that Hiawatha, as he gazes in the direction from which the Black-­Robe chief would come, is like “one who in a vision / Sees what is to be, but is not” and he meets this vision with “a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation.” The arrival of the Black-­Robe chief / Marquette ends Hiawatha’s story, but it is an ending that Hiawatha welcomes as a victory. It was a compelling fantasy for many white Americans in an era of assimilative ambitions: this idea of the purportedly vanis­hing Indian embracing his own immanent disappearance.55 So compelling, in fact, that this par­tic­u­lar part of the poem became an essential part of the early twentieth-­century Hiawatha revival. The poem had been immediately popu­lar when it was initially ­published, in 1855: its sales matched the record-­breaking sales of ­Uncle Tom’s Cabin, published only five years ­earlier, and every­thing from new ships to Euro-­American babies w ­ ere christened “Hiawatha” and “Minnehaha” in honor of its hero and his love.56 Readers ­were particularly taken with its (sometimes debated) authenticity: Longfellow often discussed how he had based much of the poem on the writing of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, who, as an Indian agent at Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, in the 1820s had married into an Ojibwe ­family and begun to collect and rec­ord Ojibwe and Odawa (or, in their own collective term, Anishinaabe) stories. ­After the U.S. Civil War, when assimilationist spirit boomed, the poem experienced what one newspaper called a “revival.”57 Scores of places throughout the United States w ­ ere named ­after the poem’s protagonists, and, in 1903, the nation’s first insane asylum specifically for Native Americans was opened in Canton, South Dakota, as part of a reformist drive both to provide care for Native American patients’ par­tic­u­lar “afflictions” and to save them from the alternative of the jail or the work­house.58 It was called the Hiawatha Asylum for Insane Indians. Some of this revival focused explic­itly on the end of the poem, when the Black-­Robe chief / Marquette arrives. In the 1880s and 1890s a series of musical compositions ­were performed in Boston inspired by Hiawatha, and often focusing at length on what one called the “Farewell of Hiawatha” at the end of the poem, marked by organs or, in the words of one scholar, the “suggestion of church modes.”59 This revival included per­for­mances of the Hiawatha story by Indigenous ­people themselves.60 From 1901 to 1918, and then continuing irregularly through the 1960s, tourists could visit a production of Hiawatha on the shores

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of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan that featured Anishinaabe actors and a libretto in both En­glish and Ojibwe. As Michael David McNally has demonstrated, neither the audience of this production nor its railroad funders had full control over the production’s meaning. For Native American actors, it presented a complicated mix of opportunities ranging from the financial to the cultural. During the heyday of assimilationist spirit, the production provided a valuable opportunity for the per­for­mance and perpetuation of Indigenous drumming and dance forms that w ­ ere other­wise coming u ­ nder attack, and a close look at the libretto reveals that the translation contains inside jokes for Ojibwe speakers, imperceptible to the Anglophone audience.61 Indeed Native American p­ eople continued a version of this event even a­ fter the railroads ­stopped producing it, gradually incorporating more of their own songs and dances into the production.62 For Euro-­American audiences, the meaning was quite dif­fer­ent, and at least some of this difference was tied to Marquette’s story. While the portion of Hiawatha-­the-­poem based on Marquette’s journals is small in relation to the poem as a ­whole, the arrival of the Black-­Robe chief played a much larger role in Hiawatha-­the-­play. The play, in fact, focused almost entirely on the two scenes in the poem in which Longfellow most diverged from Schoolcraft and his Anishinaabe sources: Hiawatha’s marriage to Minnehaha and his departure as the Jesuits arrive. Hiawatha’s end—­brought on by the arrival of Marquette / the Black-­Robe chief—­became one of Euro-­American audiences’ favorite parts.63 Euro-­American teachers and administrators found the poem so valuable, in fact, that they made it a part of Native American education itself, in the boarding schools that w ­ ere at the center of assimilationist policy.64 The poem was read and analyzed in the classroom, and songs based on it became a part of the ­music curriculum.65 Pedagogically, the poem filled a par­tic­u­lar need: Richard Henry Pratt, founder of Carlisle Indian School, had argued that teaching U.S. history in the school raised uncomfortable questions about the history of the U.S. government’s dealings with Native Americans.66 The vio­lence and broken promises of that history worked at cross-­purposes to the goal of assimilation. Hiawatha, and particularly its ending with the celebrated arrival of the Black-­Robe chief, offered an alternative to the bloody, contentious history in the textbooks. If Native American students could be encouraged to embrace this vision of the past, then perhaps they would embrace a similar vision of peaceful conquest—­both of territory and of culture—in the immediate ­f uture. Some extended this hope beyond boarding schools. In 1913, the photographer, lecturer, onetime minister, and all-­ around impresario Joseph K. Dixon published a book called The Vanis­hing Race. The book—­over three

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hundred pages of photo­graphs and text—­was supported by Rodman Wanamaker, the son of the founder of Wanamaker Department Stores, as part of Dixon’s almost twenty-­year ­career as educational director of the stores. The book purported to describe a gathering of Native American leaders at an event Dixon called “The Last ­Great Indian Council.”67 The book is aptly titled: Dixon presented the “Indian chiefs” as constantly in the pro­cess of vanis­hing. Their individual stories w ­ ere often framed this way: a section on Chief Pretty Voice Ea­gle begins with the chilling sentence, in Dixon’s voice, “Sixty-­eight years is a long time to be an Indian,” and ends with what Dixon quotes as Pretty Voice Ea­gle’s own recollections: “Now I look back upon ­those old Indian customs as foolishness. It is like a man coming out of darkness into light. I was then in the dark; I am now ­going into the valley of light, learning ­every day.”68 Many of the photo­graphs feature Native American figures framed against darkening skies, with captions such as “Vanis­hing into the Mists” and “Sunset of a ­Dying Race.”69 Dixon clearly interpreted his subjects through the lens of Hiawatha. As another part of his collaboration with Wanamaker, he had produced Hiawatha-­ themed per­for­mances and texts, and, as the historian Alan Trachtenberg has noted, the elegiac tone of The Vanis­hing Race echoes the tone of the end of Longfellow’s poem.70 Dixon also directly quoted from the poem, though without citing it. In the last section of the book, entitled “The Farewell of the Chiefs,” Dixon broke into verse: “Once in the valley,” he wrote of his subjects: They said farewell forever. Thus departed the ­Great Chieftains, In the purple mists of eve­ning.71

As many of his readers, raised in the era of the Hiawatha revival, would have recognized, Dixon was drawing an equivalence between the end of Hiawatha and the pre­sent moment in Native American history. “Thus departed Hiawatha,” Longfellow had written in the last stanza of the poem, “In the purple mists of eve­ning.”72 Hiawatha-­inspired texts and events like ­these ­were not always explicit about Longfellow’s debt to Marquette. But the connection between Marquette’s voyage and the end of Hiawatha was well known, at least to ­those who cared about Marquette. When Shea spoke about Marquette to the Missouri Historical Society in 1878, for example, he noted that Marquette inspired “one of the most beautiful passages in ‘Hiawatha.’ ”73 When Edward Osgood Brown read a paper about Marquette before the Chicago Literary Club in 1889, he

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marveled that Marquette’s narrative was “almost literally transcribed” in Hiawatha.74 And if one had been in Marquette, Michigan, in July 1897, one could have purchased a commemorative spoon featuring an image of Marquette on the h ­ andle. The advertisement for the spoons quoted a passage from Hiawatha—­ with the phrase “Black-­Robe Chief ” in bold—­with no other explanation. To celebrate Marquette in the upper Midwest at the turn of the twentieth ­century was to think about Marquette and Hiawatha in the same frame.75 Certainly this was true of a Mrs. W. W. Walker, who wrote a poem in honor of Marquette in 1897. Likely inspired by Longfellow’s work, Walker, who wrote in the voice of a Native American narrator, depicted the moment of the arrival of a “white man” who ­will begin a new era. Her poem was published in the same edition of the Mining Journal that advertised the commemorative spoon. It is unusually explicit about the moral of the Marquette story. The year, she said, was 1670. The scene: the shore of Lake Superior. The poem dwells at length on the narrator’s love of Marquette and on the f­uture that Marquette prophecies for Native American p­ eople. ­Toward the end of the poem, the narrator concludes: Now the white man Comes with words of love, and tale of One, who Came to earth, from yonder sky, to save us From our sins. But the good white f­ ather came From mighty tribes, whose swift canoes, large, strong And sure, sail ‘cross ­great seas, and they ­will come And take our rights away and drive us hence. My blind eyes see full well, the changes wrought By ­these wise strangers in our land. Our homes So dear, by lake and stream, ­will they possess.

A story that begins with the good news of the Christian missionary devolves into the loss of rights and the dispossession of land. Walker did not ignore the potential contrast between “words of love” from a “good white ­f ather,” on the one hand, and ­these subsequent losses, on the other. Her use of “but” in the fourth line prepares her reader for a critique, but then her critique turns. The ­people who “take our rights away” are still “wise strangers.” And eventually, Walker’s narrator predicts: I see our tribes In homes like theirs, praying to the same God—

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Following them in all ways that ­shall make Us stronger, better men, and live in peace. My ­brothers! listen well, and give thou heed To all the truth the good f­ ather taught us.76

Walker’s poem captures a certain kind of imperial enthusiasm. It acknowledges Marquette’s participation in a system of trade, exploration, evangelization, and settlement that wrought tremendous and ultimately dire changes on Indigenous lives and cultures. But rather than conclude with critique, she left her readers with two assertions: that Native American suffering and loss was harsh but justified, leading ­toward a necessary cultural (“homes like theirs”) and religious (“praying to the same God”) assimilation; and that the wisest Native American p­ eople should be expected to see this, to embrace this change and revere its agents. Poems, productions, and speeches inspired by Marquette or the “Black-­ Robe chief ” often celebrated the same t­hing: the image of Native Americans as giving way, voluntarily and with gratitude, to Euro-­American religion and culture. This cele­bration illuminates how the logic of the peaceful conqueror could unfold. “Peaceful conqueror” stories ­were, at heart, stories that erased the vio­lence of conquest. In cele­brations of Marquette, and in re-­creations of Hiawatha, some Americans not only told ­these stories about the past but also came to believe that they ­were pos­si­ble in the pre­sent, allowing them to imagine that they, too, might aspire to conquer peacefully. The idea of Marquette the peaceful conqueror drew on some of the most specifically Catholic and Jesuit ele­ments of Marquette’s story: his devotion to the Blessed Virgin Immaculate and his missionary practice. It was most fully articulated by Catholic writers—by Shepherd in the Christian ­Family article series or by Shea in his history of the “discovery” of the Mississippi valley and his speeches—­but it extended well beyond Catholic circles into Protestant commemorations as well. For both Catholics and Protestants, Marquette the peaceful conqueror engaged in missionary work as cultural mediation and crossed gendered divides to combine an explorer’s drive and courage with a pious son’s gentleness and love. He was a man of filial devotion and gentle temperament, an explorer who gazed into the horizon and saw his obligation to his Blessed ­Mother, a communicator who was “all to all.” Cele­brations of Marquette as the first white man recast the regional history of the Midwest within a new imperial national origin story, in part through the language of race and whiteness, and in part through a generalized cross-­

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confessional “Chris­tian­ity.” They figured this “Christian,” “white” Marquette as a connecting point between the Midwest and the United States, and described him as a “Christian” and regional founder—as sacralizing the region’s emergence as a hub of U.S. economic empire. Celebrating Marquette as a peaceful conqueror also did the work of imperial nation building by reimagining the history and possibility of racialized encounters. In t­hese moments, Marquette was celebrated for enabling territorial conquest through a practice of empathy and re­spect, and for embodying a gentle, gendered alternative to violent domination. Walker’s poem may have been unusual among Marquette commemorations for its willingness to tie Marquette so explic­itly to Indigenous dispossession, but its fantasy is the same fantasy that governs the vision of Marquette as peaceful conqueror more broadly. It fuses together two contradictory forces: the act of conquering, of domination, on the one hand, and the lack of vio­lence, the embrace of peace, on the other. The “peaceful conqueror” was a vision of the imperial past that also provided, to ­those who believed it, a road map for the ­f uture.

Chapter 3

Making Parallel Histories out of Spanish Missions

In 1910, a Congregationalist Southern California h ­ otel owner named Frank Miller commissioned a Catholic journalist and poet named John Steven McGroarty to write a play.1 For eight weeks, McGroarty stayed at Miller’s Mission Inn and wrote what was to become a tourist sensation and a local institution. “THE MISSION PLAY,” one advertisement read, was a “remarkable pageant-­drama,” a massive outdoor production that “visualizes the simultaneous beginnings of religion and civilization in California, the success and prosperity of the Franciscans’ work. . . . ​It is a sermon in action presented with historical fidelity.”2 Opening in 1912 in San Gabriel, the Mission Play ran for ten straight weeks in its first year, breaking the American theater rec­ ord with 127 consecutive shows.3 It also launched a number of c­ areers, not least of all McGroarty’s own: the playwright went on to become California’s poet laureate and congressman. Tourists attending the Mission Play would have immediately found themselves at a cele­bration of local history that was at once exuberant and elegiac. The play recounted the arrival of eighteenth-­century Spanish Franciscan missionaries, led by Junípero Serra, to what was then Spanish California. It dramatized their erection of twenty-­one missions up and down the coast, from San Diego to what is now Sonoma. In three acts, audiences witnessed Serra’s first attempts to baptize a Native American child in San Diego, the eventual growth of the missions, and, fi­nally, the mission system’s destruction ­under Mexican rule. In the final scene, the child from the first scene, now an old caretaker of a ruined mission, helps a pious member of the Mexican

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elite bury a dead Franciscan in the abandoned, sanctified ground. Together they won­der aloud ­whether the “Americanos” ­will re­spect ­these holy places.4 The play was performed in the specially designed Mission Play­house next to the old San Gabriel Mission and featured local actors and performers, including ­people of Spanish, Mexican, and Indigenous heritage. The advertising copy captured the play’s goals: it was a cele­bration of what the play’s producers and many of its audience members believed to be the beginning of “religion and civilization” in California. It was a local origin story, costumed and choreographed to entertain and instruct. But it was also more than that. In celebrating the coming of the Franciscan missionaries as the beginning of “religion and civilization” in California, the play’s producers ­were also—­much like the Marquette commemorators—­ making an argument about their state’s place in the history of the United States. California, they argued, was not simply new western territory, acquired through the U.S.-­Mexican War barely half a ­century ago. It was, instead, the site of a long history of exploration, civilization, and Christianization efforts that ran parallel to the history of British North Amer­i­ca. In the play’s program, readers w ­ ere encouraged to muse on the “curious fact” that “while the Puritan was establishing the white man’s civilization on the Atlantic seaboard, the brown-­robed Franciscans ­were ­doing exactly the same ­thing and at the same time on the shores of the Pacific.”5 Students of history may have noted that this was indeed a curious claim, as the Franciscans followed the Puritans by over a ­century, but they would have been missing the larger point. The Mission Play taught its audience that the Spanish Franciscan missionaries should be understood not as foreign churchmen, representatives of Catholic, Eu­ro­ pean empire, but rather as co–­founding ­fathers of what eventually became a continent-­spanning nation. And, owing to the work of McGroarty, Miller, and their mission booster compatriots, the Mission Play would be neither the first nor the last time that visitors and locals encountered this version of history. Since the 1880s, Southern California had been the site of a massive public cele­bration of the mission past, a cele­bration that would continue into the 1920s. Mission promoters argued for restoring or preserving existing mission buildings, and told glowing tales of the Franciscan missionaries—­especially Junípero Serra—in pageants and plays, fiction and poetry, and commemorative events and imagery. Most of ­these promoters ­were recent arrivals to Southern California from the Midwest or East Coast. They w ­ ere primarily from Protestant backgrounds, and while most of them would have been identified as white in the Midwest, they would identify themselves in Southern California as Anglos, an elastic designation that could encompass a range of ethnicities

Figure 4. ​Program for the Mission Play by John Steven McGroarty, San Gabriel Mission Play­house, San Gabriel, California. Courtesy of the General Collection, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.

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and religions (Rus­sian Jews, for example, and Irish Catholics would both be considered Anglos) while signaling difference from California’s Native American or Spanish-­speaking residents.6 ­These promoters successfully made Serra and his missionary brethren popu­lar heroes. If, in the Midwest, Marquette’s admirers had hoped that businessmen might catch a glimpse of a cross on a hillside, Southern California’s mission boosters worked to make it impossible for any visitor or resident to avoid the knowledge that they ­were walking on mission land. From the Mission Play, to the mission buildings themselves, to the architectural style they influenced, to the images of friars and mission bells that decorated street signs and advertisements, reminders of the missions ­were, and are, ubiquitous in Southern California. Historians and cultural critics have taken note of this vibrant cele­bration of the missions. In fact, unlike the sparse scholarship on Marquette commemorations, writing about what one scholar has called the “fantasy heritage” is something of a small industry.7 Beginning in the mid-­twentieth ­century and continuing to the pre­sent, scholars have cast Southern California’s cele­bration of mission history as, variously, a distraction from class conflict, a site of racial construction, and a significant ele­ment of the region’s booming tourist economy. Among almost all its commentators, the myth is understood as a particularly Californian phenomenon: an ersatz history for a regional culture of glitz and fakery, a fantasy heritage for a fantastical place.8 The cele­bration of Serra and the mission system he helped found bear, however, a striking resemblance to the Marquette commemorations.9 When understood as a cross-­confessional cele­bration of a Catholic imperial past, the mission cele­brations emerge as part of a larger U.S. phenomenon. They ­were, certainly, a fantasy heritage—­but not an exceptionally Californian one. This chapter explores the origins of the mission cele­brations, tracing them back to texts about the missions produced by firsthand observers of the mission system and to the discursive community created by an influx of Anglo settlers and visitors to Southern California in the late nineteenth ­century.10 It argues that the mission cele­brations repeated—in a more tourist-­oriented form—­some of the same arguments made by Marquette commemorators: the explicit rejection of anti-­Catholicism and the claim that Serra and his brethren resembled the Puritans and meaningfully coincided in time with the American Revolution. ­These arguments represented a rejection of Protestant-­ Catholic and English-­Spanish distinctions in ­favor of a united story of the parallel advancement of Eu­ro­pean civilization on both sides of the North American continent. As a rewriting of history, they relied on the imperial conviction that Catholics—­like Protestants, and in contrast to the region’s

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Indigenous ­people—­could be civilized and capable of civilizing. And they reflected a new idea about the nation that was emerging as a result of western settler colonialism. If California had once been i­magined as the geo­g raph­i­ cal end point of westward expansion, events in the m ­ iddle de­cades of the nineteenth ­century—­from the Gold Rush, to advances in American shipbuilding and intensified charting of the Pacific, to the completion of the transcontinental railroad and the integration of national markets, to the “opening” of Japan and growing American orientation ­toward Pacific trade—­ had combined to tie the Pacific coast ever more tightly to the networks and exchanges of the rest of the country, and to position it as a way station to the vast possibility of the Pacific.11 The cele­bration of Serra and the missionaries naturalized the contingent and contested pro­cess of U.S. settler colonialism in California, and the national and imperial re­orientation of which it was a part. In Southern California at the turn of the twentieth ­century, however, that contingent and contested pro­cess was barely complete. California had only just come ­under U.S. control in 1848, following Mexico’s loss to the United States in the U.S.-­Mexican War. Americans in the late nineteenth ­century possessed living memories of this war (and the antiwar movement it had inspired) and knew well of the ongoing Anglo vio­lence against Mexicans and Native Americans in Southern California. To the extent that cele­brations of Serra and the missions naturalized the establishment of U.S. sovereignty in California, then, they performed a more complicated set of historical manipulations than did the Marquette commemorations. Mission cele­brations often stressed the parallelism of Spanish and U.S. rule, in the pro­cess downplaying or deriding Mexican claims to sovereignty and erasing the recent history of violent conflict between Anglos and Mexicans in Southern California. In contrast to t­hese elisions, Anglo-­Americans frequently used mission cele­brations to explic­itly register a critique of their fellow Anglos’ treatment of California Native Americans. They compared the be­hav­ior of their own compatriots with that of the missionaries, whom they cast as gentle and antimaterialist, and found their own countrymen wanting. Though ­these two approaches to the past seem, at first glance, contradictory— an elision of Mexican history and anti-­Mexican vio­lence combined with a self-­reflexive dwelling on anti–­Native American vio­lence—in fact, they w ­ ere two sides of the same coin. By basing their critique of Anglo vio­lence against Native Americans on a cele­bration of the missionaries’ originating benevolence, and by casting the Mexican period as unimportant or illegitimate in contrast to the Spanish origins and U.S. ­future of the region, mission writers and boosters never wavered from their central argument: that the Spanish Franciscan

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missionaries had “civilized” the West Coast just as the British had “civilized” the East, and that u ­ nion of both coasts u ­ nder the American flag was the appropriate outcome of this parallel history. The Mission Play’s program, it turns out, had been remarkably prescient in its efforts to link the Franciscans to other origin stories across the United States. In 1926, some mission promoters ­were debating how they might increase the profitability of the play. What if, one suggested, “the beautiful play of ­‘Hiawatha,’ made famous by Longfellow . . . ​be put on during the run of the Mission Play on the off nights”? Combining the productions, the argument went, would double ticket sales and would also “unite the early life of the Eastern part of our country with the early life of the Far West.”12 A de­cade ­after McGroarty had sat in a mission-­themed inn and composed California’s dramatic epic, mission promoters ­were still focused on national coherence. Indeed, the mission cele­brations ­were always as focused on the imperial nation as they ­were on Southern California: what made them particularly Californian was not the existence of a Catholic fantasy past, but rather the way in which that past’s articulation was tuned to the recent histories of military conquest and settler colonial vio­lence, and formulated to elide and atone for them.

Celebrating the Missions The late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century cele­bration of Southern California’s mission past was the work, primarily, of Protestant newcomers to the region: of middle-­class Anglo-­Californians. Anglos, however, ­were hardly the first to interpret the region’s mission past. Their interpretation was both a reaction against existing critiques of the missions and a reworking of the narratives and histories told by Mexican landowners and Euro-­American Catholics. ­Until the late nineteenth c­ entury, outside observers of the California missions tended to be critical of the missionaries’ treatment of Native American converts (also called neophytes). The missions had been established by a group of eighteenth-­ century Franciscans led by F ­ather Junípero Serra. They had attempted—­using a modified version of the Spanish colonial policy of congregación and reducción—to convert and exploit the ­labor of the Native Americans in the region, primarily the Kumeyaay, Ipai/Tipai, Cahuilla, Acjachemem, Tongva, and Chumash, while extending the Spanish empire northward.13 Beginning in 1786, visitors from France and ­England compared the missions to slave colonies, recapitulating and advancing common Black

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Legend critiques of Catholic Spain as brutal and enslaving while also reflecting on some of the conditions they witnessed: in par­tic­u­lar, the use of corporal punishment and regimented l­abor on the missions, and frequent attempts by Native American converts to escape.14 In the first widely read U.S. account of Mexican Alta California, Two Years before the Mast (1840), author Richard Henry Dana referred to the neophytes as “slaves.”15 Travelers like Dana w ­ ere not the only ones interpreting mission history: members of the Spanish-­speaking ranching oligarchy known as the Californios also began to tell the history of the missions. Since the advent of U.S. rule in 1848, Anglo settlers and developers had been attempting to wrest landed wealth—­and with it economic and po­liti­cal power—­away from Californios. The complex and uneven pro­cess of Californio displacement took several de­ cades, as Californios faced economic, environmental, and ­legal challenges in the second half of the nineteenth ­century, including declining ­cattle prices, drought, high taxes, Anglo squatters, and American ­legal attacks on Mexican land titles. In the 1880s, Anglo pressure on Californio regional dominance was increased by a boom in Anglo arrivals, made pos­si­ble by a railway rate war that brought transcontinental travel within the reach of many in the Midwest and East. Though a crash followed the boom, by the end of the c­ entury, most of the large Californio ranches had been converted into farms, towns, or citrus tracts.16 At the same time, what had once been a Catholic region became a majority-­Protestant one: by the end of the 1880s, the proportion of the population that belonged to Protestant churches in Los Angeles was greater than that in any other similarly sized American city, and Protestants predominated in local institutions and government.17 In the midst of this pro­cess of displacement and disenfranchisement, in the 1870s, Californios protested Anglo ste­reo­types of lazy and dishonest Californio society by composing their own versions of nostalgic local history. Many of t­hese memoirs, called testimonios, ­were contributed to researchers working for the historian Hubert Howe Bancroft, who used them to write his mammoth History of California. As a ­whole, the Californios’ narratives of the mission era ­were ambivalent. Some Californios advanced liberal critiques of the missions as oppressing the neophytes or keeping them ignorant, or indicted the missionaries for claiming the best land in the region. ­Because many Californios’ own rise to po­liti­cal and economic prominence had depended on the Mexican government’s seizure and sale of mission lands in the mid-­nineteenth ­century, their critiques of the missions also justified their own positions. At the same time, however, other Californios (or sometimes the same Californios in other moments) praised the missionaries for their civilizing work and productivity. For example,

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Antonio Coronel—­a politician and teacher who served as mayor of Los Angeles in the 1850s—­blamed the missionaries for not “train[ing the neophytes] so that they could be self-­governing or self-­sufficient” yet also admired the missionaries for ruling “over a good number of neophytes all in an orderly fashion and without encountering the least insubordination from them.”18 Bancroft did end up using the Californios’ stories in his own histories, ironically reiterating some of the very ste­reo­types that the Californios had been trying to undo. In his seven-­volume History of California (1884–1890) and his companion piece, California Pastoral (1888), the book collector and prolific historian of the U.S. West lauded the Mexican era as a premodern golden age, but did so by characterizing Californios as colorful but lazy. His treatment of the missions also cuts both ways: while he depicted Native Americans as desperately in need of the missionaries’ civilizing influence, he also often described the missionaries themselves as superstitious, sensual, and greedy.19 Bancroft’s work inspired a rejoinder from Fr. Zephyrin Engelhardt, a Franciscan historian who published a series of books on the missions, including the extensive four-­ volume Missions and Missionaries in California (1908–1915). His accounts ­were celebratory, insiders’ histories that showed less regard for the neophytes’ experiences of the missions than they did for the missionaries’ actions and intentions. Engelhardt drew heavi­ly on mission-­ based sources, including the hagiography of Serra published in 1787 by Serra’s friend and fellow missionary Francisco Palou. For mission boosters, Engelhardt’s work served as a kind of historical source text for mission cele­ brations, as did Palou’s, particularly ­after the latter’s book was translated into En­glish in 1884.20 Engelhardt himself also became a de facto expert adviser for mission commemorations and popu­lar histories. In 1911, when McGroarty wrote the Mission Play, he consulted the friar to ensure that he got the history right (though much to Engelhardt’s frustration, McGroarty did not, apparently, take all of his advice).21 When Anglos began to arrive in the area in significant numbers in the 1880s, then, and became inspired by the mission past, t­here w ­ ere already a variety of perspectives on local history for them to draw on. Arguably the most famous Anglo account of old California came from the pen of the New E ­ ngland–­born ­daughter of an orthodox Calvinist minister, Helen Hunt Jackson, who became a lover of Southern California late in life. In 1881, ­Century magazine invited Jackson, who was then a regionalist author of some repute, to travel to Southern California and write a series of essays on the area. She read widely about her subject—­when in California she visited Bancroft’s library and the Franciscan College library at Engelhardt’s Mission Santa Barbara—­and for her

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information about the missions she relied heavi­ly on Palou’s biography. She also sought out local in­for­mants. In Southern California she met the Roman Catholic bishop Francis Mora, and through him became friends with Antonio F. Coronel and his wife. The Coronels told her about Californio history and culture and introduced her to another prosperous Californio ­family, the Del Valles. When writing about the missions, Jackson ­adopted the Californios’ nostalgic tones and evinced a similarly admiring stance t­ oward the missionaries-­ as-­civilizers, yet—­f alling more in line with Palou’s hagiography—­avoided the Californios’ critiques of missionary abuses of power. Her 1883 essays would become one of the key source texts for the mission cele­brations.22 What propelled Jackson—­and the California missions—to fame, however, was not her essays but her wildly popu­lar novel. In 1884, she published Ramona, based on the example of the Del Valles’s ranch, the stories she heard from the Coronels, and the visits she made to Native American villages (guided by the Catholic priest Anthony Ubach).23 The novel revolves around the tragic romance between the half-­Scottish, half–­Native American orphan Ramona and her lover, Alessandro Assis, a Luiseño Indian who is forced off his land and eventually killed by Anglo settlers. A recent convert to the cause of Indigenous rights, Jackson hoped that Ramona would be an ­Uncle Tom’s Cabin for modern-­day “Mission Indians,” whose homes and livelihoods continued to be threatened by speculators and settlers: it was po­liti­cal agitation wrapped in a fictional package. Yet the package turned out to be more attractive than the politics. Beloved for its tragic protagonists and its regionalist color, the story spawned popu­lar investigations into its historical veracity, an annual pageant, three Hollywood films, and a booming tourist industry.24 Ramona mania encouraged a growing Anglo interest in California history in general, and mission history in par­tic­u­lar, the latter of which took a wide variety of forms: architectural, preservationist, literary, dramatic, and tourist. Architects and developers looking for a distinctive regional style turned to the missions. By the end of the nineteenth ­century, enclosed courtyards, whitewashed walls, and red tile roofs adorned mission-­style buildings from ­hotels to train stations, hospitals to homes. The style gained national attention when state boosters chose a mission-­style building to represent their state at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago.25 In 1895, the writer and editor Charles Fletcher Lummis took over a fledgling organ­ization dedicated to preserving the remains of the old missions. The Landmarks Club became Lummis’s pulpit, from which he argued for the missions’ economic and spiritual value while raising money to preserve the mission buildings most in danger of collapse.26 ­Women’s club members joined forces with Lummis to or­ga­nize for

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mission c­ auses and also to agitate for the construction of El Camino Real, a road that ran roughly from San Diego to Sonoma and, by the 1910s, dramatically increased tourist access to the mission sites. George Wharton James, an ex–­Methodist minister who reinvented himself as a national speaker and expert on mission topics, published books with such titles as In and Out of the Old Missions of California and Through Ramona’s Country. And Frank Miller, the midwestern-­born Congregationalist, would transform his ­father’s small ­hotel in Riverside into the Mission Inn, where McGroarty would write the Mission Play. The inn was built to resemble Miller’s vision of a mission (­really an exuberant combination of architectural styles) and eventually boasted a large collection of religious art, wax figures of Pope Pius X and his Pontifical Court, a row of mission-­style arches, a courtyard, and a bell tower.27 ­These prominent boosters w ­ ere joined in their efforts to celebrate the mission past by legions of enthusiasts and curious journalists. The local literary magazine Land of Sunshine (­later Out West) published reams of mission-­related stories and news, particularly ­under the editorships of Lummis and, subsequently, James. Individual tourists wrote home about visits to missions, visiting reporters published accounts of mission events and landmarks in their home papers, and railroads and national package tour operators advertised excursions to mission sites.28 Furthermore, though most mission writers and boosters ­were Protestants (McGroarty was one of the rare exceptions), local Catholic elites and authorities played a major role in the creation of mission cele­brations. In her Ramona research, Jackson consulted not only her Californio friends but also the Catholic bishop Francis Mora, as well as priests in San Diego and Santa Barbara.29 Miller frequently invited Thomas James Conaty, the Roman Catholic bishop of Los Angeles and Monterey, and other Catholic churchmen to join representatives of the Protestant faith in speaking at local history cele­brations; and when he de­cided to declare St. Francis the patron saint of his Mission Inn, he contacted the church for permission.30 Lummis sought cooperation from many local Catholic figures in his work to publicize and preserve the missions, including Bishop Conaty and his successor, Bishop George T. Montgomery, Catholic notables like the ­lawyer and politician Isidore B. Dockweiler, and groups like the Knights of Columbus.31 Some of this collaboration with Catholics was purely practical. Lummis needed the church’s permission to proceed with preservation work on mission buildings. Indeed, the diocese usefully provided the Landmarks Club with temporary leases on some of the mission properties.32 Miller also made use of his connections to the church, particularly to Bishop Conaty. He frequently

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turned to the bishop for information—­“Which St. John is San Juan Capistrano named for?” he wrote to ask in 1909—­and invited Conaty to speak at Mission Inn events in order to add authenticity to the h ­ otel’s Catholic theme.33 This collaboration also served the needs of Southern California’s elite Catholics, including the official hierarchy. Smarting from e­ arlier criticism of the mission system, the local English-­language Catholic newspaper—­the Catholic Tidings—­was pleased by the late-­century emergence of non-­Catholic attraction to the missions. In 1895, the Tidings declared its satisfaction that the mission architectural style was being used in railroad depots. Another Tidings editorial of the same year included an enthusiastic (if somewhat belated) review of Jackson’s Ramona—­citing in par­tic­u­lar Jackson’s sympathetic portrayal of Ramona’s confessor, Fr. Salvierderra—­and praised Lummis and his work for being “exempt . . . ​from . . . ​narrow race or creed prejudices.”34 The paper also made a point of contradicting critical accounts of mission history by citing Jackson’s and Lummis’s accounts, explic­itly pointing out that ­these ­were non-­Catholics who ­were praising the mission past. And Bishop Conaty recommended the work of James and Lummis to Catholics around the country who inquired about the missions.35 Many of the mission cele­brations ­were concocted by a fairly small group of p­ eople, all known to one another, and all part of the Anglo transformation of the region. While Jackson passed away shortly ­after Ramona was published, ­others, such as Lummis, James, McGroarty, and Conaty, would cross paths with one another for de­cades as colleagues and, in some cases, friends. Which is not to say that they always agreed. Their motives differed: some of the most prominent mission boosters—­particularly Lummis and Miller, as well as writers hired by the railroads—­wrote about the missions with an eye t­oward ­celebrating Southern California as a tourist destination, while ­others, such as Jackson or Bishop Conaty, wrote about the missions for other reasons. They also occasionally differed in interpretation. Lummis was horrified by the historical inaccuracy and gauzy romanticism of the Ramona cult, for example: Jackson’s gentle, loving missionaries became more masculine and rugged in Lummis’s rendering. They all agreed, however, on a celebratory interpretation of the mission past: while occasional accusations that the missionaries treated the neophytes as slaves or servants continued to surface, ­these writers all wrote explic­itly against such an interpretation.36 Mission cele­brations w ­ ere part and parcel of Anglo tourists’, settlers’, and boosters’ attempts to narrate local history on their own terms: to claim the land and its stories and to link them to the history of the nation as a w ­ hole. The missions w ­ ere not the only usable past they found compelling: events, novels,

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and advertisements also celebrated an i­magined version of gracious, easy life on the old Californio ranchos, complete with tales of dashing caballeros and dark-­eyed señoritas. But it was within the mission cele­brations that Anglo-­ Californians contended most explic­itly with what a Spanish Catholic past might mean for Anglo-­Californian Protestants.37

Parallel Histories on Parallel Coasts Mission enthusiasts, newly arrived on the Pacific coast and looking for a way to weave rhetorical ties to the nation as a ­whole, often described Junípero Serra and his brethren just as the Mission Play’s program did: as analogues—in their Eu­ro­pean birth and Christianizing and civilizing mission—to the nation’s Protestant found­ers.38 As Marquette’s commemorators did with the Midwest, mission boosters explic­itly urged fellow Protestants to embrace Catholic history and reject anti-­Catholicism, though in Southern California, mission boosters would even perform this cross-­confessional embrace as a tourist draw. They also articulated connections between the Franciscans on the West Coast and vari­ous founding figures—­from Puritans and Pilgrims to American revolutionaries—on the East. In the pro­cess, they concocted a history of the Pacific and Atlantic coasts of North Amer­i­ca as products of the same civilizing proj­ect. They ­imagined both Spanish Catholics and British Protestants as Eu­ro­pean Christian civilizers, engaged—­together—in the transformation of North Amer­i­ca. Like the Marquette statue supporters who railed against the American Protective Association on the floor of the senate, California’s mission boosters made their commemorative culture into a vigorous argument against anti-­ Catholicism and for cross-­confessional toleration. They argued that part of the value the missions held for California was that they allowed ­people to imagine themselves in a space where cross-­confessional hatreds could be put aside and a spirit of Christian unity could be embraced. In a promotional history of the Mission Inn, the innkeeper’s son-­in-­law, DeWitt V. Hutchings, lingered on Bishop Conaty’s 1907 involvement when Miller erected a wooden “Serra Cross” on Mount Rubidoux. Hutchings proudly claimed that “although they [the erectors of the cross] w ­ ere Protestants, they invited a Roman Catholic Bishop to perform the ceremony and to bless the cross, and they dedicated it to the memory of another Catholic, and it stood rough-­hewn and strong against the sky, a tribute to brotherhood and symbol of the true spirit of Christ.”39

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The significance of Protestants and a handful of Catholics celebrating Easter together ­under a cross named for a Franciscan friar struck even first-­ time observers as remarkably ecumenical. When a group of East Coast Shriners—­members of an order of Freemasonry known as the Shriners International—­took a cross-­country tour in 1912, their chronicler W. Hamilton Smith recalled his group’s enjoyment of the Easter sunrise ser­vice and wondered ­whether they w ­ ere “­under the spell of the cross that silvers with the first light of dawn and blazes with the vermillion of eve­ning shadows, where thousands in brotherly and non-­sectarian faith kneel at sunrise on Easter morn—­that emblem planted secure where the mountain touches the sky, not a symbol of a doctrine, but, ­here alone in all the world, the eschutcheon [sic] of universal belief, the signet of God’s Fatherhood of all.”40 Odes to religious toleration in mission cele­brations extended well beyond Riverside. Both Charles Fletcher Lummis and George Wharton James reveled in the tolerant spirit of the mission cele­brations and used language that suggested that toleration was a m ­ atter of finding cross-­confessional commonality in virtues like heroism and manliness.

Figure 5. ​Easter sunrise ser­vice, Mt. Rubidoux, Riverside, California, 1910. Courtesy of the Riverside Metropolitan Museum, Riverside, CA.

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In 1916, Lummis boasted that even though one of his recent Landmarks Club events had been held “on Catholic ground” and marked “a Catholic anniversary[,] . . . ​at least four-­fifths of t­hose who attended w ­ eren’t Catholics; and . . . ​the Hidalgos of Amer­i­ca, a non-­sectarian chivalric order with a very small sprinkling of Catholics not only attended the cele­bration in a body but attended the Franciscan Mass in manly re­spect for the heroism of by-­gone days.”41 Celebrating the Catholic past, in Lummis’s formulation, could become a position of courage and in­de­pen­dence. Throughout Lummis’s tenure as leader of the Landmarks Club, he claimed that one of his proudest achievements was his use of club functions to break down religious prejudice.42 Similarly, James argued that the cele­bration of the missions allowed p­ eople to transcend religious bigotries. Declaring that though “­there is in me of [sic] the blood of the stern Scotch Covenanters who faced death with psalms on their lips rather than yield one iota to the demands of what they deemed a corrupt papacy,” he still believed that “no honest man, be he Hottentot, Mahomedan, Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopalian or Lutheran can gaze with an awakened eye and quickened perception upon ­these noble buildings & not feel the profoundest admiration & esteem for the men who achieved them.”43 Lummis and James did not always agree—­Lummis once published an article accusing James of lying and plagiarism, tellingly titled “Untruthful James”—­ but they did agree that appreciating the mission past meant rejecting anti-­ Catholicism.44 To both men, cross-­confessional cele­brations of the Franciscan missions w ­ ere impor­tant precisely b­ ecause they w ­ ere cele­brations across lines of religious difference. And, to both, crossing such lines was a mark of true manhood. Even as James differentiated himself from his forefathers, he described their anti-­Catholicism so vividly that his readers ­were reminded of the wide gulf between Protestantism and Catholicism (or “Mahomedan”-­ism and Catholicism, for that m ­ atter). In highlighting the existence of this gulf, James and Lummis could then highlight the strength of the p­ eople who could cross it. For Lummis, it was a “manly” act to recognize the “heroism” of the missionaries; to James it was only “honest men” who could see beyond anti-­Catholic prejudice to feel “esteem for the men” who built the missions. In 1946, in one of the earliest critical commentaries on the mission cele­ brations, the journalist and activist Carey McWilliams cited the region’s “numerous Pope-­baiting fundamentalist pastors” and wondered at the fact that “such a distinctly non-­Catholic city as Los Angeles should evince such a consistent emotional preoccupation with its Catholic Past.”45 While the American Protective Association did not or­ga­nize against Serra commemorations in the way they did against Marquette’s statue in the capitol (Serra did get a statue

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in Statuary Hall, but ­later—in 1931—­and without the controversy), Mc­ Williams was right to point to the power of Californian anti-­Catholicism during the era of the mission cele­brations. Late nineteenth-­century California was the site of growing anti-­Catholic sentiment: by 1894, the APA claimed 13 ­percent of Californians as members, Black Legend rhe­toric enjoyed a brief resurgence during the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, and in the 1920s the Ku Klux Klan found a large membership in Southern California.46 But what McWilliams missed about the “preoccupation with the Catholic past” was that its contrast to anti-­Catholicism was neither inexplicable nor incidental: it was, for some boosters and tourists, precisely the point. In California’s mission cele­ brations, part of what was being celebrated was cross-­confessional tolerance itself. And this tolerance was underwritten by the idea that British, En­glish, and Anglo Protestants and Catholics shared a similar Christian “civilization” and “civilizing” proj­ect. California Protestants’ self-­consciously tolerant appreciation of Serra and the other Franciscans as founding f­ athers entailed a nationalizing claim, based on vari­ous histories of British, Spanish, and U.S. empire: a declaration that Serra and the Franciscans ­were one of the many Christian founding ­f athers in North Amer­i­ca whose legacies could be drawn together into a single history of the land that became the United States. As in the upper Midwest, when Southern California’s mission promoters rejected anti-­Catholicism to celebrate Catholic founding heroes, they did so as part of an argument that ­these Catholic heroes belonged to the entire nation. When the Mission Play program, with which this chapter opened, claimed that while “the Puritan was establishing the white man’s civilization on the Atlantic seaboard, the brown-­ robed Franciscans ­were ­doing exactly the same ­thing and at the same time on the shores of the Pacific,” it captured, in part, this spirit of tolerance. It argued that both “civilizing” proj­ects w ­ ere of equal historical value to the United States, that the Catholic missionaries should receive the same level of honor as the Puritan colonists. It also captured assumptions of a common definition of what it meant to “establish . . . ​a white man’s civilization” on two coasts: a common imperial proj­ect that would eventually come to fruition in a continent-­ spanning nation.47 Mission boosters ­were fairly unan­i­mous about the belief that Serra was a local and national founding f­ ather, but founding f­ ather could mean many t­ hings. One version cast the mission era as a step on the way to present-­day California. In this stadial approach to history—in which socie­ties w ­ ere thought to pro­gress up a civilizational hierarchy, with Anglo-­Saxon Protestants embodying the uppermost level—­Serra and the other Spanish Franciscans began the

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pro­cess of historical advancement through stages, from “savagery” to white, Protestant Chris­tian­ity and civilization, but did not complete that pro­cess. According to one Ramona-­related picture book, for example, Serra both taught “the naked savages the arts of husbandry and the way of salvation” and laid “the foundation of an empire destined to be the hope of men”: Serra constituted a step along the path from the Indigenous past to the American ­f uture.48 In this telling, the Franciscan missionaries ­were precursors to American settlement, laying the groundwork for the inevitable arrival of a superior U.S. civilization.49 More often, though, Serra was depicted less as a stepping stone to eventual Anglo-­Protestant rule and more as an equal to the Anglo-­Protestant forefathers of the United States on the East Coast, both Christians and civilizers engaged in similar proj­ects.50 This was the case in the Mission Play’s program, but the program was only repeating what by then, in the latter half of the 1910s, was a common refrain. Recall, for example, President William Howard Taft’s speech in Riverside in 1909, with which this book began. On a tour of the American West, Taft was staying at the Mission Inn, and Frank Miller invited Taft to join him, Bishop Conaty, and a large crowd of Serra enthusiasts at the foot of the Serra Cross on Mount Rubidoux. Together the boosters, the bishop, and the president unveiled a tablet honoring Serra as an “apostle, legislator, [and] builder” who advanced “the beginning of civilization in California.”51 The unveiling had come as a surprise to Taft: he reportedly admitted that he had never heard of “Sierra” before.52 But no m ­ atter—­his speech was a success. Taft chose to honor the missionary by comparing him to the British North American colonists, arguing that “­there ­were ­others besides the En­glish who ­were fighting the ­battles of pro­gress during the sixteenth c­ entury [sic].”53 One of the writers who articulated this idea most clearly was Maj. Benjamin C. Truman. Truman began his c­ areer as a war correspondent during the Civil War and, by the turn of the twentieth ­century, became a promotional writer for the railroads. In 1903 he published a book called Missions of California, which included a long essay on the missions and their histories, directions to each mission, and a number of photo­graphs of the missions.54 In the book, Truman declared that the missions “represent an energy as forceful, a courage as unfaltering, a devotion as true as that manifested by the Puritan f­ athers upon the bleak and unhospitable shores of New ­England; and ­here, now, at their shrine, do the forces of ­these two distinct civilizations meet and clasp hands in one common love of country.”55 Truman’s writing was promotional gold, designed to lure railroad passengers to Southern California by making reference

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to the climate (nothing like New E ­ ngland’s “bleak and unhospitable” shores) and to the idea of travel as a kind of pilgrimage to a “shrine.” But the heart of Truman’s point was the equivalence of East and West, the notion of the comparable “­f athers” on comparable sides of the continent. Truman’s idea that histories of the two halves of the continent would eventually be brought together was repeated by boosters when they turned their attention away from Puritans and ­toward American revolutionaries. Mission boosters often noted that the missions ­were being built on the Pacific coast in the late eigh­teenth ­century, and pointed out that at the same moment, the American Revolution was happening on the Atlantic coast. According to George Wharton James, “just about the time the birth agony of a new country was commencing on the Western shores of the Atlantic events ­were shaping on the Eastern shores of the Pacific which ­were materially to affect the ultimate destiny of the as yet unborn nation.”56 In 1901, the local diocesan newspaper, the Tidings, excerpted an article from the nationally circulated Catholic World, which put the ­matter even more baldly: the creation of the California missions was described as “this early colonization,” which was “contemporaneous with the American Revolution, and the two movements, so widely apart in distance and character, have found close relationship as the long pro­cession of years has united the interest of the Atlantic and Pacific coasts.”57 Neither writer attempted to equate the nature of the American Revolution and the founding of the Franciscan missions in California—­the Catholic World admitted that the “two movements” ­were “widely apart in distance and character.” But both used the chronological parallel to argue for a larger kind of inevitability, casting both as, ultimately, part of the building of the United States.58

Vio­lence and the Remaking of History Telling the mission story as a local origin story analogous to an imperial nation’s origin story was central to the mission commemorations’ work of redefining Southern California’s history as U.S. history. As with the cele­bration of Marquette in the Midwest, casting Serra and the missionaries as U.S. founding ­fathers was a way of making the U.S. conquest of California and subsequent pro­cess of settler colonialism seem both natu­ral and inevitable. But unlike in the Midwest, the conquest of California, and the vio­lence it entailed, existed in living memory. The story of Serra and the missionaries as national found­ers, then, also became a way of eliding and reframing the vio­lence of this history.

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As in the Midwest, differences between British Protestants and Spanish Catholics ­were downplayed in Southern California to depict U.S. history as made up of a broad category of Eu­ro­pean Christians coming to New World shores. Recall that Truman claimed that the qualities of “energy,” “courage,” and “devotion” mattered more than the par­tic­u­lar country or religion to which the ­people w ­ ere devoted. Differences that ­were collapsed, in the Midwest, into the language of “whiteness” ­were also collapsed in Southern California, though more often in the language of “civilization.” Truman describes the British and the French as two “civilizations,” for example, while the Mission Play program declares that both the Puritans and the Franciscans w ­ ere establishing the “white man’s civilization” on New World shores. Like “white” in the Midwest, “Anglo” in Southern California worked as an umbrella term that could incorporate vari­ous Eu­ro­pean immigrants. However, for Anglo-­Californians, English-­Spanish language distinctions ­were key: “Anglo” worked to distinguish English-­from Spanish-­speaking Californians. And just as “Anglo” was itself unmoored from lineage—­rarely relating to British heritage, a construction of racial privilege more than a reflection of any common ancestry or culture—so too ­were its opposites. In Anglo speech and writing, Spanish speakers often became “Mexican” or “Spanish” depending on their economic class, regardless of their birthplace or heritage.59 Moreover, while the Anglo-­Spanish-­Mexican distinctions created a racialized hierarchy based on language and class, describing Serra and the Franciscans as civilizers, or embodiments of a “white” or Euro-­American “civilization,” moved in a dif­fer­ent direction. The idea of a common “civilization” temporarily effaced Spanish-­English distinctions to allow Anglo promoters to claim their own commonality with the Franciscans. United States history, in this telling, was a multisited story of vari­ous and equivalent civilizing efforts. The eventual dominion of the United States from sea to sea could look like a natu­ral, perhaps even inevitable, unfolding of a common proj­ect shared by Puritans, revolutionaries, and Catholic missionaries alike. But this vision of a common proj­ect had to contend with Mexico. ­There w ­ ere other ways to provide geo­g raph­i­cal context to the story of California—­ways that did not look east but rather to Mexico or the Spanish Amer­i­cas. In 1888, the Cuban revolutionary Jose Martí translated Helen Hunt Jackson’s Ramona into Spanish, set it in Baja California, and declared that the most widely known California story in the United States was actually an indigenista novel for the Spanish New World.60 Visions of California as part of Aztlán—­the Aztec ancestral home that became a key ele­ment of Mexican nationalist and indigenist movements—­had been invoked by Mexican leaders in

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mid-­nineteenth-­century California a­ fter the Mexican Revolution, and would become impor­tant to Chicana/o nationalists in California a hundred years ­later.61 Stories that situated California in a broader geo­graph­i­cal context, in short, did not necessarily look t­ oward Boston: the mission boosters had to make an argument for looking eastward. Furthermore, any argument they made had to contend with the living memory of violent conflict with Mexico. What is known colloquially as the Mexican-­American War was, more precisely, a U.S. invasion of Mexico. In 1836, slave-­owning American settlers in the Mexican state of Coahuila y Tejas seceded from Mexico, frustrated with the government’s attempts to limit slaveholding and collect revenue. In 1845, the United States annexed the Republic of Texas—­a response to repeated entreaties from “Texians”—­and President Polk sent troops to the southern border to defend a disputed boundary. The war that followed led U.S. troops west to the Pacific and south to Mexico City before it ended in 1848. The United States ultimately acquired what would amount to roughly one-­third of its continental territory: what is now California, Nevada, and Utah; most of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas; and parts of Colorado, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Wyoming. The war had the highest casualty rate of any American war, with over 10 ­percent of American ser­vicemen dead and, by all accounts, more casualties on the Mexican side, most of whom ­were civilians.62 The fact of the U.S.-­Mexican War sat uneasily alongside the idea that U.S. expansion into California was a natu­ral unfolding of civilizational history. What if the war was, as Congressman Henry Clay had claimed in 1846, nothing more than a land grab, made, shockingly, by one republic against a neighboring republic?63 What if it was an example of the United States acting like the territory-­hungry empires it had so often set itself against? The U.S.-­Mexican War inspired the first national antiwar movement in the United States, and soldiers and officers in the conflict deserted at a rate higher than in any other U.S. war.64 To imagine parallel histories, unfolding on parallel coasts, and destined to come together as the roots of one nation, was to ignore the fact that the two coasts came together only through the vio­lence of a widely criticized war. Furthermore, while the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo officially marked the end of the U.S.-­Mexican War, it did not stop the conflict. The acquisition of Mexican territory continued: twenty-­nine million acres of what would become Arizona and New Mexico w ­ ere acquired ­later, in 1853–54, with the Gadsden Purchase. Individual Americans continued to launch militarized campaigns into the Mexican interior: William Walker, perhaps the most famous, led a band of filibusters into Mexico in 1853, attempting unsuccessfully to win

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territory that might l­ater be annexed to the United States. And Anglo-­American vio­lence against Mexicans on U.S. territory continued as well: Los Angeles itself was the bloody site of what some historians have called a “race war” between Anglo city residents and t­ hose they perceived to be Mexican.65 Mission writers, in telling the story of Californian conquest as the unfolding of bicoastal destiny, ­were turning their backs on the contentious, violent events of the recent past that belied such poetic inevitability. Mission writers told the story of Mexican California as one that, in fact, invited conquest. Beginning with Helen Hunt Jackson, and echoing the e­ arlier histories of Bancroft and Engelhardt, mission boosters cast the Mexican period as a period of crisis and decline. In their telling, Mexico was a potential destroyer of the mission legacy, and therefore an illegitimate heir to the land. The mission writers largely blamed Mexican secularization o ­ rders for what they perceived to be the end of the mission’s glory days. ­After Mexico won in­de­pen­dence from Spain in 1821, the Mexican government secularized the missions in the 1830s: the missions, in other words, became parish churches, shorn of their farmland and industries and placed u ­ nder the charge of parish priests rather than Franciscan friars. In the pro­ cess, the vast mission landholdings—­some of which ­were, by law, supposed to be distributed among the now “emancipated” former neophytes—­were sold off, often to Mexican soldiers or settlers. Some former neophytes received land, while many ­others, left with few resources, e­ ither attempted to return to their villages or took jobs that paid l­ittle or nothing on the region’s expanding Mexican-­owned ranchos.66 In her 1883 ­Century articles, Helen Hunt Jackson castigated the Mexican government for, as she saw it, abandoning the Native Americans and greedily gobbling up mission land. “A more pitiable sight has not often been seen on earth,” she wrote, “than the spectacle of this ­great body of helpless, dependent creatures, suddenly deprived of their teachers and protectors, thrown on their own resources, and at the mercy of rapacious and unscrupulous communities, in time of revolution.”67 Of secularization she wrote, “it is hard to conceive how any student of the history of the period can see, in its shaping and sudden enforcing, anything except bold and unprincipled greed hiding itself ­under specious cloaks of right.”68 Describing this moment of secularization as the result of greed, Jackson was primarily referring to the fact that the lands themselves had been sold away from the owner­ship of the church or the former neophytes. But many ­following Jackson went on to describe this moment not only as a reallocation of land but also as an example of what differentiated the Mexican govern-

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ment’s spirit from that of the friars: Mexico was greedy and land-­hungry, the friars self-­sacrificial and antimaterialist. A de­cade ­after Jackson published her articles on the missions, Los Angeles hosted what would become the first in a yearly series of parades and shows dedicated to celebrating the Spanish history of the city, called the Fiesta de Los Angeles. In 1894, its first year, visitors w ­ ere reminded by the program that though they may be t­here to celebrate the old Spanish days, the Mexican period was another ­matter. “­After the in­de­pen­dence of Mexico,” the program taught its readers, “the discharged soldiers looked with covetous eyes on the riches which had been amassed” on the missions, and, ­under their “improvident management,” “the buildings, orchards and improvements, which had been accomplished by the toil and ­labor of thousands of converted Indians, and which ­were the pride and glory of the Friars, soon became neglected and have almost dis­appeared.”69 In this account, Mexican soldiers are described as both “covetous” and unable to manage the land, the rhetorical opposite, in both ethos and skill, of the friars. This story was remarkably per­sis­tent: over thirty years l­ater, when Mission Play author McGroarty wrote an autobiography that also functioned as his own final take on mission history, he advanced the same interpretation: “The Mexican Government which then owned Cal[i]fornia seeing how rich the Indian had grown in the Missions which they had builded with their own hands, simply drove the Indians away, took the Missions into its own hands without warrant or the slightest semblance of justice, sold them at auction to the highest bidders, and pocketed the spoils.” “The result,” he concluded, “was direful and calamitous.”70 For McGroarty, as for many o ­ thers, the Mexican secularization of the missions was a destructive betrayal of the selfless spirit and work of the missionaries. If Mexico could come ­under fire for a betrayal of the mission spirit, so too, of course, could Anglos. While mission promoters did not dwell on the violent history of the U.S. conquest of Mexico, they did often write about the vio­lence of Anglo attacks on Native Americans and the continued displacement of Native p­ eople. In t­hese moments, the Serra origin story provided ascendant Anglos with a way of thinking through any dismay they felt at their own countrymen’s vio­lence: they invoked Serra as an example of the founding princi­ples of the region, from which Anglos had fallen but to which they could return. They criticized their own countrymen, but, by embracing Serra as their ideal, their critique only distinguished between good and bad forms of conquest; it never questioned the rightness of conquest itself.

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Mission promoters could si­mul­ta­neously criticize their countrymen and also deride the Mexican era. Take the Fiesta de Los Angeles program quoted above. In the program’s text, Mexicans are blamed specifically for secularizing the missions, but Anglos come ­under fire for introducing vio­lence and disorder more generally. The “period when the Americans first occupied California” is described as an “influx of ‘all sorts and conditions of men’; when the murmur of the winds and the lowing of the ­cattle ­were drowned by the turmoil of strife; when pistols w ­ ere used in settling of disputes [sic] rather than the mild voice of the Friar.”71 Mexicans may have secularized the missions, but Anglos bear at least an equal mea­sure of the blame for destroying the California of the friars. This self-­critique was part of Anglo mission cele­brations from the beginning: indeed it was horror at the U.S. treatment of Native Americans that brought Helen Hunt Jackson to California in the first place. In the fall of 1879, she had heard a lecture by the Ponca chief Standing Bear. His tale of forced removal to Indian Territory shocked and galvanized her: from then on, Jackson would be an activist for Native American c­ auses. Two years l­ater, she had researched and written an exposé of American Indian policy called A ­Century of Dishonor, over five hundred pages long. She sent it to e­very member of Congress at her own cost, hoping for a dramatic impact. But that moment never came. So when ­Century invited her to write about California, she saw it as a second chance. She researched California history and became so interested in the plight of California’s former “Mission Indians” that she wrote to Henry Teller, the secretary of the interior, asking that she be officially tasked with investigating the plight of Native Americans in California. On a second trip to California in 1883, she and a colleague composed a report to the commissioner of Indian affairs, arguing that Native Americans in Southern California be allowed to remain on their own lands; and she advocated separately for a number of specific cases, including protecting the Native American villages of San Ysidro Canyon and Soboba and replacing an Indian agent whom she believed to be untrustworthy.72 In short, Jackson was as much an activist during this period of her life as she was a writer. Her writing and her activism ­were, furthermore, intimately connected. “In my ­Century of Dishonor I tried to attack ­people’s consciences directly, and they would not listen,” she wrote to a friend. “Now I have sugared my pill, and it remains to be seen if it ­will go down.”73 All of her work on the missions—no m ­ atter how “sugared”—­was at heart a critique of U.S. Indian policy and the way it allowed and even fostered Anglo vio­lence and theft. In one of her ­Century articles, for example, Jackson argued that “the combination of

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cruelty and unprincipled greed on the part of the American settlers, with culpable ignorance, indifference, and neglect on the part of the Government at Washington, has resulted in an aggregate of monstrous injustice, which no one can fully realize without studying the facts on the ground.”74 She repeatedly set the spirit of the friars in opposition to the degraded morals of the Americans: she i­magined that “One cannot fancy ­Father Junipero’s fiery soul . . . ​looking down on this ruin without pangs of indignation.”75 And before the romantic Ramona craze began, her first readers in Southern California seem to have read the novel as she intended: as a call for them to reform. “I hear [Ramona] has caused much anger in San Diego Co.,” she wrote a friend in 1885. “It is well—­I am glad of it!”76 The mission boosters whose ­careers developed in the wake of Jackson’s writing did not see themselves so exclusively as reformers, but like Jackson they did consistently tie a cele­bration of the Padres-­as-­founders to a critique of Anglo be­hav­ior.77 Sometimes, following Jackson, their critique was of American Indian policy, as when James declared in a text other­wise focused on mission architecture: “Left in the hands of the padres the Indians would slowly but surely have progressed to racial manhood. Left to our tender mercies they have been hurried down a slide greased by white men with ­every known form of slippery evil in order that their destruction might have been more rapid & complete.”78 Charles Fletcher Lummis agreed, at least in reference to the buildings. “Though it is right to criticize the Mexican secularization of the missions as ‘robbery,’ ” he wrote in a report on the Landmarks Club’s work in 1903, “that depredation . . . ​was child’s play compared to the outrage ­these buildings have suffered, not only since California became part of the American Union, but even since it became a hot-­bed of Eastern [U.S.] culture.” If Lummis’s audience was not quite clear that he was talking about them, he added, just to be sure: “That is, within the last 15 years.”79 Much of the self-­critique in the mission texts came around eventually to a condemnation of Anglo-­Californians for their crass, acquisitive materialism. In an article in the magazine California Life that describes the generous welcome that visitors would receive at the old missions, the author argued that “with the coming of the gringo, alas, all was changed,” and put the change down to the “customary greed . . . ​[of ] our mercenary relative.”80 James concluded in his 1914 book California, Romantic and Beautiful that the missionaries provided a “glorious example” in “their unselfish devotion to a spiritual end, their tireless l­abours, their abnegation, their total renunciation of all men most hold dear. Is such an example as this nothing,” he asked, “in an age when most men deem material success of highest importance?”81

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Antimaterialist laments like ­these sometimes focused on the history of the Gold Rush: Anglos had arrived in California looking for quick wealth, the argument went, while the friars came in a spirit of self-­abnegation and ser­ vice to their church and God. But as the California Life article’s reference to the Anglos’ “customary greed” testifies, the critique of Anglo California was not confined to the Gold Rush. It was meant to suggest something more profound about Anglos themselves. The Franciscans, in turn, ­were lauded as an example of the opposite. The Mission Inn produced a handbook, in which a guided tour of the inn was enhanced by drawings and quotes, many of them with a mission theme: the region’s founding missionaries ­were raised higher in comparison with the depths to which Anglos had sunk. In the 1922 edition of the handbook, one uncredited poem pre­sents this idea in rhyme: The hot sands scorched their sandal shoon Where the cactus studded the plain; But ­those friars of old, who sought no gold, Sang, and kept on again.82

Though Bishop Conaty did not speak in the catchy rhythms of promotional poetry, “friars of old, who sought no gold” is a pretty good description of how he, too, described the missionaries. The subject of excessive, selfish materialism was a favorite of Conaty’s. In a 1904 speech he launched a critique, in front of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce no less, of the “speed madness and greed madness [that] are at the bottom of many of our difficulties.”83 Serra, for him as well as for his non-­Catholic booster friends, was the opposite. The Franciscan, Conaty noted in another speech, “came not to seek for gold which lay within ­these mountains, nor did he care for it. He lived not for fame or for the esteem of men; in his soul was no spirit of greed nor selfishness nor hatred, he lived for God and God alone.”84 Conaty’s characterization of Serra in opposition to modern-­day Anglo-­Californians was notably more focused on Serra’s faith than ­were ­those of Protestant mission boosters. But at heart their convictions ­were similar: that much recent Anglo be­hav­ior in California betrayed the founding princi­ples of the region, princi­ples embodied in the selfless and benevolent work of the friars. The cele­bration of Serra and the missionaries provided an ideal opportunity to critique modern American materialism. Not only ­were they religious men who had taken vows of poverty, but they ­were Franciscans; and St. Francis of Assisi, the founder of the order, was himself an ascendant celebrity, praised

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for his austerity throughout the United States and Eu­rope. Beginning in the 1870s, British and American Protestants began to explore the history of St. Francis as part of the rise of church history, inspired by increasingly affordable trips to Eu­rope and exposure to Eu­ro­pean art, particularly the paintings of Giotto.85 While some Protestants strug­gled with certain ele­ments of Francis’s story—in par­tic­u­lar, his devotion to the institutional church and the pope—­for many he became an icon of a par­tic­u­lar kind of Christlike Chris­ tian­ity: ­simple, gentle, poor, and au­then­tic. They pointed to his renunciation of his f­ amily’s wealth, and his order’s founding mission to serve the poor and embrace voluntary poverty.86 In 1866, the French phi­los­op­ her Ernest Renan published a widely read essay on St. Francis in which he held Francis up as a critical mirror to the materialist nineteenth c­ entury.87 In 1893, the French Protestant socialist Paul Sabatier published his Vie de Saint François d’Assise, which would go through twenty printings and influence tourists and scholars alike. St. Francis was a rising symbol of antimaterialist Chris­tian­ity, within and well beyond Southern California. In launching their antimaterialist critique, moreover, mission promoters made their cele­brations of the missions into a call to reform, a Californian jeremiad. The jeremiad, a rhetorical form named a­fter the Hebrew prophet Jeremiah, is most often associated in U.S. history with Puritan divines, who, fearing for the f­ uture of their covenant with God in New E ­ ngland, would castigate their congregations for failing to uphold their side of the bargain and attempt to call them back to their original purpose. While they could invoke no covenant, mission boosters did attempt to call California Anglos back to the founding values of the land, values they described as embodied by Serra and the missionaries.88 Framing their critique of Anglo be­hav­ior this way gave it a certain romance (as Jackson had been counting on) but also ­limited it. As a jeremiad, their critique urged moral, social change, but not a rethinking of the ultimate values or structures of the dominant society.89 In Southern California, turning to the Franciscan missionaries as the embodiments of the foundational values of the region meant a call to treat Indigenous p­ eople better, perhaps, but not one to treat them as full citizens, nor to question the legitimacy of conquest. It meant a call to temper acquisitive individualism with a social conscience, perhaps, but not to question who had a right to own the land. Indeed, the constant reiteration of jeremiads serves as a kind of “ritual of consensus,” to use the scholar Sacvan Bercovitch’s phrase, building community solidarity around a par­tic­u­lar interpretation of an origin story and its inherent values, even while calling that community to account for its failures. Mission writers’ and

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boosters’ critiques of Anglo injustice and greed may sound like cries for change, and certain individuals (such as Jackson or Conaty) may have hoped for a more thoroughgoing overhaul of policy or economic be­hav­ior; but the larger message of ­those critiques was one of continuity. If the jeremiad held out the possibility for redemption on the land, such redemption could be achieved only through a return to the founding values of the friars. Southern California mission cele­brations ­were many t­hings: a form of entertainment, a tourist draw, an inspiration for architects and designers. But at heart they ­were a nationalizing and empire-­building story. Anglo-­Protestant boosters like Lummis and James, together with Catholic collaborators like McGroarty and Conaty, maintained over the de­cades a consistent basic argument: that Serra and the missionaries ­were founding ­fathers of the region and that their founding act was parallel and comparable to that of the Puritans and the American revolutionaries. Like t­ hose who cast Marquette as the Midwest’s first white man, mission boosters made this argument with odes to cross-­confessional comity and visions of a common civilization. They celebrated Serra as a forefather—­both a local forefather and one among many national forefathers—­ and in ­doing so they cast recent, violent, and sometimes controversial U.S. territorial gains in California as natu­ral and even inevitable. In criticizing Anglo be­hav­ior in California, they opened the door to a larger critique of territorial conquest itself. But in framing their criticism of Anglo be­hav­ior in terms of a call to return to the Spanish missionaries’ founding princi­ples, they refused the larger critique of conquest, and in ­doing so protected conquest’s ongoing legacy.

Chapter 4

Embodying Hospitality and Paternalism

A man in a dark hooded robe with a white rope cincture stood beneath a tall wooden cross on Mount Rubidoux in Riverside, California. The landscape beneath him was populated by neat citrus groves and the new construction of a booming small city. But the friar figure gazed up instead of out: ­toward a small child in his arms, and ­behind the child, the cross. He himself was responsible for the cross’s erection, and its presence ­there on that Southern California hilltop embodied much of his life’s work and, by all accounts, some of his deepest passions. Moments ­after the camera shutter clicked, the friar figure—­Frank Miller—­ likely let his wriggling grand­son out of his arms and proceeded down the hill to tend to his business. By the time the undated photo­g raph was taken—­ between 1910 and 1915—­Miller’s Mission Inn was well established.1 When Miller took over his ­family’s Glenwood Cottage in 1880, it was a small hostelry, the kind of rooming h ­ ouse common in new towns in the Far West. Over the next two de­cades, with three major expansions, it became first the Glenwood Mission Inn and then simply the Mission Inn. By the 1920s, the structure included portions meant to reproduce the front of the Santa Barbara Mission, the dome of the Carmel Mission, the arches of the San Fernando and Capistrano Missions, and the Campanario (or bell tower) of the San Gabriel Mission.2 Miller built a corridor he called the Cloister Walk and lined it with paintings and statues of the patron saints of the dif­fer­ent missions, as well as photo­graphs of what remained of the mission buildings themselves.3 ­There was a weathervane decorated with an image of Junípero Serra tending to

Figure 6. ​Frank Miller with grand­son Frank Miller Hutchings, circa 1914. Photo­graph taken at the base of the Serra Cross on Mt. Rubidoux in Riverside, California. Courtesy of the Mission Inn Museum, Riverside, CA.

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kneeling Native Americans.4 The inn’s publicity even boasted that visitors occasionally confused the inn with a real mission: “Letters written to the Inn . . . ​are sometimes addressed to ‘The Rev. F ­ ather,’ or even ‘The Rev. F ­ ather Superior,’ as if the Mission Inn ­were a mission or monastery.”5 Miller had a love of history and a keen eye for branding. Miller did not actually go by “The Rev. ­Father Superior”; he was far too respectful of Catholic protocol for that. Over the years he consulted Bishop Thomas J. Conaty, the Roman Catholic bishop of Los Angeles and Monterey, about what symbols he could appropriate for the inn. Conaty—­who was also Miller’s friend and frequent collaborator on mission-­related events—­said no, for example, to a cross used as a key tag.6 But Miller did enjoy playing with the idea that if his ­hotel could be ­imagined as a modern incarnation of a mission, he himself was in some ways a modern incarnation of Serra. He wore his Serra costume at least once a year, when he played the role of Serra in a Christmas play at the inn, and his friends playfully and admiringly called him “Fra Junípero Franko” and “a new Saint Francis.”7 Miller, in turn, bestowed the same compliment on o ­ thers. In preparation for the dedication ceremony of the Serra cross in 1907, Miller wrote a letter to Bishop Conaty. The bishop was booked to speak at the ceremony, and Miller had an idea about what Conaty should say. Perhaps, he not so subtly suggested, Conaty could praise Miller’s longtime investor Henry E. Huntington, the railroad magnate and real estate mogul, who would be in the audience. Was not Huntington himself like a modern-­day Franciscan, a Junípero Serra of the early twentieth ­century? Would Conaty be willing? “I hope that somewhere in your address it w ­ ill be consistent for you to say something for Mr. Huntington,” Miller began. I want very much to have this done, not ­because I owe him so much personally. . . . ​He is in a way a very rare man, a shrewd, aggressive, hard-­headed business man, and yet with all, pure in heart, ­simple in his life and habits and scrupulously honest; he loves books and flowers and sentiment enough to combine the beautiful with the practical.

“In the way that you are a fit successor to ­Father Junípero Serra . . . ​with your ­g reat intellect and sweet, strong heart,” Miller flattered Conaty, “so Mr. Huntington is a successor to F ­ ather Junípero Serra in that he is building and developing, not missions directly, but his work is of the kind that gives employment to many and improves and beautifies the country.”8

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This surprising suggestion—­that the magnate Huntington was a fit successor to the missionary Serra—­was, for Miller, par for the course. Against anyone who might protest that eighteenth-­ century Franciscans and twentieth-­ century cap­it­al­ists had ­little in common, Miller claimed that both categories of men ­were “building and developing” the region. For Miller and many other boosters, the missions represented both passion and profit: to celebrate Serra and his fellow Franciscans in Gilded Age and Progressive Era Southern California was, more often than not, to make money. What might look, from one perspective, like an inappropriate use of friar history—­the commodification of a religious order known for its voluntary poverty—­looked to Miller and his ilk like nothing of the sort. He made his own c­ areer, in fact, into an extended argument that the spirit of the Franciscan missionaries could be brought into the pre­sent through modern civic development and wealth accumulation in Southern California. While Miller was the most enthusiastic mimic of the mission boosters, his understanding of himself and his compatriots as similar to the padres, in work and spirit, was not unusual. This chapter argues that, like the cele­bration of Marquette, the cele­bration of Serra provided an economic origin story for the region: like Marquette, Serra was ­imagined as laying the groundwork for modern cap­it­al­ist development. Mission boosters and writers went further than Marquette’s admirers, however, in depicting the Franciscans as involved in par­ tic­u­lar industries, and embodying par­tic­u­lar values, all of which ­were relevant to their own present-­day concerns. The missions, in this rendering, represented an ideal, benevolent approach to hospitality and l­abor management, an approach to which boosters and their benefactors could pay homage and through which they might celebrate their own work and politics. Mission boosters claimed that they ­were continuing the legacy of the Franciscans in three ways. First, they described the missionaries as generous and hospitable, and the missions as always open to weary travelers. As such, they ­imagined that the missionaries ­were the forerunners of the local hospitality industry, an industry in which many boosters participated or invested. Second, the missions themselves w ­ ere cast, in a wide variety of mission cele­brations, as remarkably eco­nom­ically productive. Boosters credited this productivity to the hard work of the missionaries and, more often, to the missionaries’ skill at managing neophyte workers. The missionaries, in their telling, embodied a particularly effective approach to paternalist capitalism: one that appealed on labor-­management grounds to the boosters and their wealthy, antiunion benefactors. And fi­nally, when a federal Indian boarding school was established in Riverside, one that sent its students out to work in the community as part of

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an “outing program,” some boosters became involved in supporting the school; Frank Miller, in par­tic­u­lar, often hired its students. By arguing that the school was a modern iteration of the missions, Miller and his compatriots could quite literally imagine themselves as continuing the educational work of the friars and could sell the school as a mission-­related tourist attraction, profiting from their prediction that tourists would pay to see transhistorical “civilizing” work in action.9 To celebrate their own pursuits as similar to the Franciscans’—­indeed, to imagine themselves as continuing the Franciscans’ work—­provided both authorization for and imaginative escape from the cap­i­tal­ist transformations wrought by late nineteenth-­century settler colonialism in Southern California. Along with the Anglo influx came the rise of a massive tourist industry and a market for increasingly valuable land, all of which w ­ ere made pos­si­ble by privately profitable and federally supported railroad development (both the transcontinental railroads and the local trolley system, the Pacific Electric Railway Com­pany) and irrigation proj­ects, and all of which also perpetuated the displacement of Native American and Mexican American landowners and tenants. The pastoral-­seeming citrus groves that lay below Miller as he stood atop Mount Rubidoux w ­ ere themselves part of a highly commercialized and industrialized agricultural system: a system that Carey McWilliams would l­ater call “factories in the field.”10 Dependent, too, on the railroads—­and, by the 1880s, on state-­of-­the-­art refrigerated cars that could ship fruit to a national market—­California citrus was growing faster than any other agricultural product in the world. From a few thousand fruit trees planted in Riverside in the 1870s, it became an industry that, in 1930, would gross “over $100,000,000—­more than Hollywood, more than wheat or rice, more than oil.”11 Citrus and other Southern California agriculture relied on a flexible, low-­paid ­labor force made up primarily of “thousands of Native American, Chinese, Sikh, Japa­nese, Filipino, and Mexican workers,” men and w ­ omen whom growers attempted to keep from organ­izing through residential and ­labor segregation.12 The late-­century Southern California economy was an engine of wealth production that elevated an Anglo oligarchy to economic and po­liti­cal power. A prominent member of that oligarchy was Miller’s candidate for a new Junípero Serra: Henry E. Huntington, nephew of Collis P. Huntington (one of the “Big Four” railroad investors), head of the Pacific Electric Railway Com­pany, successful ­union buster, and, by one count, a billionaire in t­oday’s dollars.13 The mission writers and boosters—in celebrating what they depicted as the premodern world of the missions, and deploying ­those cele­brations in the

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pursuit and justification of modern cap­it­al­ist wealth accumulation—­were participating in larger antimodernist fantasies, what T. J. Jackson Lears has defined as “the recoil from an ‘overcivilized’ modern existence to more intense forms of physical or spiritual experience supposedly embodied in medieval or Oriental cultures.”14 Odes to mission ­labor share some of the language of the antimodernist Arts and Crafts movement, and descriptions of the missions as places of abundance and hospitality draw on popu­lar ideas about the ­Middle Ages. Indeed, some of the most prominent boosters ­were clearly influenced by antimodernist thinkers: Charles Fletcher Lummis, for example, studied at Harvard ­under the medievalist professor of fine arts Charles Eliot Norton, and publicity material for Frank Miller’s Mission Inn frequently featured a prominently displayed testimonial from the Arts and Crafts leader Elbert Hubbard.15 Like the northeastern white bourgeoisie who anchor Lears’s description of antimodernism, many of Southern California’s mission promoters w ­ ere drawn to the idea of physical and ­mental healing through an engagement with premodern forms of l­abor and leisure. However, unlike Lears’s antimodernists, ­these booster antimodernists did not often complain of a sense of modern weightlessness and anomie: optimism, instead, was their principal tone, and economic growth and wealth generation always an explicit aim. Furthermore, the antimodernism of the mission cele­brations was not just a way of escaping or tempering the realities of modern capitalism but also a way of sanding the violent edges off the history of Spanish and U.S. empire. To celebrate the missions and the modern tourist industry as exemplary sites of hospitality was to ignore that both the Franciscans and the Anglo boosters ­were welcoming ­people onto land that had only recently belonged to ­others, and that this act of welcome facilitated ongoing conquests and economic transformations. Similarly, to celebrate the missions and the Southern California economy as sites of benevolent, paternalist l­abor management was to ignore the coercion and vio­lence required to retain that ­labor, in both past and pre­ sent: it ignored the history of neophyte rebellions and attempts to escape on the missions, and the ongoing efforts of Anglo elites to prevent collective bargaining and ensure the perpetuation of a racialized l­abor force in modern-­day Southern California. In attempts to link the mission past to the booming pre­ sent, antimodernism performed a useful substitution: the missions could be celebrated as part of a compelling medievalist fantasy rather than a challenging imperial history.16 To celebrate Franciscan missions in this way—as embodiments of hospitality and paternalist ­labor management—­might look like a de-­Catholicization of their memory. ­There is nothing particularly Roman Catholic, ­after all, about

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­ otels and corporate management. However, the Catholic faith and Franciscan h identity of the missionaries underwrote ­these cele­brations. Mission boosters and writers often based their claims on Catholic hagiographical texts, d­ rawing on language about, for example, mission economic productivity. At other times, they made imaginative leaps through time, inspired by the popu­lar repre­ sen­ta­tions of Catholic religious o ­ rders, conflating the world of eighteenth-­ century Franciscans in California with Eu­ro­pean medieval monks. When they talked about hospitality and paternalist management at the missions, then, the boosters w ­ ere not always talking about the missionaries’ faith, but nonetheless the Catholic, Franciscan nature of the mission proj­ect structured what they said. In this way, the conversion work of the Franciscans was rewritten as hospitality and paternalist ­labor management, and tuned to the cap­i­tal­ist rhythms of the boosters’ own lives and work.

Hospices for Weary Travelers Southern California’s mission boosters ­were, quite literally, in the business of tourism.17 They ran ­hotels and tourist attractions, wrote for publications owned by the railroads, published souvenir mission-­related booklets, and conducted package tours. They invested in land whose value would increase with more tourism and settlement, and even Lummis, whose interests w ­ ere primarily in preservation, still justified his work in terms of tourist dollars and courted benefactors, like Huntington, who had a stake in the tourist industry’s success. In the words of Arthur Burnett Benton, the architect of the Mission Inn’s first renovations and an evangelist for the mission style, the missions “advertise the State as nothing e­ lse can. They give a touch of that romantic and historical atmosphere which is the lure that draws the p­ eople of our new Amer­i­ca by thousands to the Old World, whose ­people have long ago learned the money value of a monument of the olden times.”18 Mission boosters w ­ ere not shy about justifying their activities in terms of good business sense. But they also often saw themselves—­even in their most money-­making, tourist-­oriented pursuits—as d­ oing more than selling.19 Rather, against anyone who might criticize the effort to monetize the legacy of men who had taken vows of poverty, the mission boosters argued that the missions ­were actually early hostelries, the roots of the modern-­day hospitality industry. Understood in this way, by opening h ­ otels, ­running tours, and producing tourist events, mission commemorators ­were carry­ing on the work of the missionaries themselves.

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This theme was taken up by the boosters and Bishop Conaty alike, by local businesses looking for an advertising slogan, and even by tourists. Often in describing the missions, mission writers sounded more like they ­were describing ­hotels than efforts at evangelization. Helen Hunt Jackson, in the ­Century magazine articles that served as source texts for many mission writers, claimed that the friars w ­ ere forced, by the very facts of their situation, into the exercise of a constant and a bounding hospitality. . . . ​Most royally did they discharge the obligations of this hospitality. Travellers’ rooms ­were kept always ready in ­every mission; and ­there ­were even set apart fruit orchards called “travellers’ orchards.” A man might ­r ide from San Diego to Monterey by easy day’s journeys, spending each night as guest in a mission establishment. As soon as he rode up, an Indian page would appear to take his h ­ orse; another to show him to one of the travellers’ rooms. He was served with the best of food and wine as long as he liked to stay, and when he left he might, if he wished, take from the mission herd a fresh ­horse to carry him on his journey. All the California voyagers and travellers of the time speak in glowing terms of this generous and cordial entertaining by the friars.20

The Mission Play program, too, expounded on this theme: In the days when the Missions ­were in their glory the traveler on the King’s Highway, between San Diego’s Harbor of the Sun and Sonoma in the Valley of the Seven Moons, could make that entire journey of 700 golden miles without a penny in his pocket, and never lack for food to eat or a shelter at night. For, in that golden age, the Missions ­were also the hospices of the land. Their ­great oaken doors swung ever inward with welcome to whosoever might come. T ­ here was no price paid for anything. In the plenty that was on ­every hand [sic] all ­were welcome to share.21

This story of the money left for travelers, and language of the doors swinging “ever inward,” was constantly repeated.22 A pageant performed at the annual convention of the California Federation of W ­ omen’s Clubs had Serra declare that “the ­great oaken doors ­shall ever swing inward, for all travellers creed or kind whatsoever.”23 Bishop Conaty claimed that the missions “­were a resting place for the traveller, . . . ​their doors ­were open to all who called, . . . ​and indeed, it has been said that a dish filled with silver coin was placed at the door so that in [sic] the departing guest needed money ­until he reached the next mission, he was f­ree to take what he desired.”24 Even President Taft heard this

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story when he visited Southern California in 1909. Governor James Gillett, in a speech on the occasion of Taft’s arrival, declared that “California is famed for her hospitality, but I think the lessons of hospitality w ­ ere learned from the kindly old mission padres, the doors of whose missions swung inward for e­ very weary traveler.”25 This image was advanced by businesses as well, seeking to place themselves in the mission tradition. Unsurprisingly, Frank Miller’s Mission Inn advertised itself as a modern-­day product of mission-­as-­hospice history: as guests characterized the place as an “Arcadia of hospitality,” Miller himself cited the padres and claimed that “all my life boils down to an effort to express hospitality.”26 The promotional handbook even opened with the claim that “by knowing something of the history of the Missions, one may see the connection between ­those old Mission buildings and this new Mission Inn, between the Spanish Eigh­teenth and the American Twentieth ­Century.”27 Other less likely institutions attempted the same claim. A 1927 advertisement for Bullock’s department store, decorated with a large mission bell, declared that the store’s motto was “Usted está en su casa,” which was translated as “Enter, you are in your own home.” Not only was this sentiment “akin to the ­g reat spirit of Fra Junípero Serra himself,” but it was also the “idea of friendliness and helpfulness upon which Bullock’s was founded.”28 The mission-­ hospice idea had become a way of advertising something particularly Californian: a “friendliness and helpfulness” whose roots could be traced back to the golden days of the mission era. The mission lit­er­a­ture was not the only arena in which California was depicted as a land of hospitality, but it was the rhetorical arena in which the idea of providing a place of welcome for ­those in need was most fully played out. Odes to the heyday of Californio rancho life depicted the haciendas as exceptionally hospitable places as well, though Californio hospitality was i­magined to be more festive than healing. While the haciendas ­were described as opening their doors to revelry and good times, the hospitality of the missions was supposedly directed more to care and comfort. The missions offered “shelter” or places of “refuge” to ­those who needed help or ­were weary. Unlike many other ele­ments of the mission cele­brations, this claim was not drawn from Catholic hagiography. In her ­Century articles, Helen Hunt Jackson had relied heavi­ly on the celebratory biography of Serra written by his friend and fellow Franciscan Francisco Palou in 1787, and Jackson’s articles themselves ­were relied on by ­f uture mission writers. But Jackson diverged from Palou when talking about the missions as hostelries. While Jackson described the spacing of the missions—­a reputed day’s journey apart from one another—

Figure 7. ​Bullock’s department store advertisement, Los Angeles Times, 4 March 1927. Courtesy of the Los Angeles Times. Image produced by ProQuest LLC as part of ProQuest © Historical Papers, www​.­proquest​.­com. Image published with permission of ProQuest LLC. Further reproduction is prohibited without permission.

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in terms of con­ve­nience for travelers, Palou focused on the Franciscans’ evangelization strategy. He argued that the spacing of missions allowed Indigenous groups who spoke dif­fer­ent languages, and ­those who might not get along with one another, to have their own missions, and claimed that “Fr. Junipero’s ­grand aim was the conversion of all the Indians who lived along the coast for two hundred leagues, and if ­there ­were several missions at reasonable intervals from each other, the unbelievers might, he thought, fall into the apostolic net, if not in one place, at least in another.”29 Jackson and the l­ater boosters, however, ignored the notion of an “apostolic net” in f­ avor of imagining the missions’ spacing as similar to that of a chain of h ­ otels. In describing the missions as hostelries, boosters and mission writers ­were reading the missions as similar to medieval monasteries, described as particularly hospitable places by Romantic medievalists. In his utopian writing and his own ­house design, William Morris—an admirer of medieval art and architecture and one of the found­ers of the British Arts and Crafts movement—­ advocated the incorporation of what he considered the medieval spirit of generosity, an antidote to what he perceived to be social atomization and alienation.30 Elbert Hubbard, a disciple of Morris’s, captured this spirit when he described the Mission Inn as “built on the plan of the old mission monastery or hospice . . . ​a refuge and a home for the worn traveler—he could stay as long as he wished and pay what he could afford, and when he went away he took with him the blessing of ­these men of God.”31 Allusions to the missions as medieval monasteries w ­ ere not l­imited to t­hose who made a c­ areer out of making such imaginative connections. In 1912, the reporter Gussie Packard Dubois wrote an account in the Los Angeles Times of her experience at an Easter ser­vice held yearly at the Mission Inn. Describing the Easter morning, she recounted: In the hush before daybreak, the footfalls of pilgrims echoed on the streets of Riverside, the tread of many feet, the sound of wheels. On the eve­ning before, the Mission Inn had been well filled with ­those who had come from all the neighboring towns to rest ­under its arches ­until daybreak. ­Great fires glowed on the hearths and roared up the chimneys; so they may have glowed and roared on the hearths of old abbeys when Arthur and his knights went on quest. Sitting in the cloistered music-­room, with its stalls like Westminster, its many banners and ancient hangings, heraldry and swords, one might well be minded [sic] of the olde days of pilgrimage, and alone in the cloistered walk among statued saints, the sound of the ­great organ coming faintly to the ears, the days of the Mission padres came again.32

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For Dubois, as for Hubbard, the missions shared with medieval monasteries and abbeys a particularly hospitable spirit, and so the same spirit infused a modern-­day inn designed to look like a mission. The notion of missions as places of respite for needy travelers also fit well with one of the hallmarks of the California tourist industry. Throughout the second half of the nineteenth ­century, California’s reputation had rested on vari­ous promises of renewal: the frontier was supposed to have been individually and nationally reinvigorating, and the Gold Rush offered personal renewal through sudden wealth. More recently, the popu­lar health resorts of the 1870s, inspired by Southern California’s climate, had transformed the region into a place of possibility for the chronically weak.33 So many of ­these patients came to Southern California during the final three de­cades of the ­century that they founded entire towns: Pasadena, for example, began as a colony of health seekers from Indiana.34 Well into the second de­cade of the twentieth c­entury, doctors often prescribed a change of climate for ­those suffering from diseases ranging from consumption to rheumatism, and particularly for pulmonary prob­lems.35 Some of the mission writers and major figures of California lit­er­at­ure and commerce ­were drawn to Southern California for this reason: throughout her adult life, Helen Hunt Jackson moved often for her health, and was attracted to Southern California in part ­because she hoped it would promise healing. Both Charles Fletcher Lummis and George Wharton James originally set their sights on California, by way of the Southwest, in their own quests for physical and ­mental health.36 Charles Dwight Willard came to California in the mid1880s to recover from tuberculosis and ended up cofounding the magazine Land of Sunshine and taking over the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce.37 The ability to cite the missionaries as hospitable found­ers allowed boosters to sell California as an exceptionally welcoming place. This version of history was repeated to tourists so often that one visitor from Washington, DC, recalled learning that the California missions ­were “early refuge places” and a “sacred . . . ​heritage” to the “true Californian.”38 It allowed boosters to depict their own profit-­making business in the tradition of something done in the spirit of care and generosity. And it relied, ultimately, on imagining the missions as oriented t­ oward welcoming outside visitors, not t­oward converting the neophytes who lived within the mission bounds or helping the Spanish empire hold the line at a northern border. The missions-­as-­hospices language de-­emphasized the par­ tic­u­lar history of the missions as sites of evangelization and empire, and instead focused on a broader antimodernist association of religious o ­ rders with

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premodern generosity and welcome. In ­doing so, it allowed the ­owners of inns and department stores to perform their own elisions. The idea of the missions as particularly welcoming places could cast boosters’ and business o ­ wners’ pursuits not as a profit-­oriented betrayal of the missionaries’ pious spirit but rather as the organic evolution of a local heritage of medieval hospitality.

Hives of Industry In April 1907, Frank Miller invited guests to travel first to Mount Rubidoux to witness the dedication of the newly erected Serra Cross and then to the Mission Inn to make plans for the advancement of the good roads movement. Mission history and road building may have seemed unrelated, but Bishop Conaty, whom Miller had asked to speak at the event, was capable of weaving the two topics together.39 He ­imagined Southern California’s tourists and residents traveling up a new highway from mission to mission: “­There is no better way of educating the ­people to the meaning of the mission life of old and the preservation of the missions at pre­sent than by a ­great highway movement which ­will give opportunities to the traveller to pass, one by one, ­these old centers of civilization and business activity. . . . ​[They ­will] realize that ­there is in this section vast territory devoted to the cultivation, in a more advanced stage, of the same ­things which the early ­Fathers taught the Indians to plant and gather.”40 For Conaty, the landscape between the missions was almost as impor­tant as the missions themselves: driving through that landscape of “agriculture and horticulture” would inspire an appreciation, he believed, for the economic legacy of the padres’ work. Conaty had given, and would continue to give, many speeches on Serra and the missionaries over the course of his c­ areer. He depicted them as evangelists and civilizers, as gentle and benevolent men, and as daring heroes. But h ­ ere his point was dif­fer­ent: the missions, he said, w ­ ere “centers” of “business activity.” As we have already seen, the mission cele­brations w ­ ere a profitable enterprise: they lured tourists to visit and to spend, and settlers to stay and invest. They produced wealth for ­people ranging from railroad investors to land speculators to souvenir makers. Indeed, in scholarly accounts, the mission cele­brations’ money-­making capacity is a common refrain: odes to the mission past are often described as a clever sleight of hand, their soaring language and pastoral imagery obscuring the economic motives of the boosters. But many mission promoters, Conaty among them, cast the Franciscan missions themselves as businesses, and remarkably productive ones at that. Far from ignoring

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the politics of production, the mission cele­brations elevated and authorized a par­tic­ul­ar vision of agricultural industry and paternalist ­labor management. The mission writers’ stories ­were produced within Southern California’s emergent cap­i­tal­ist economy, to be sure, but they ­were also stories, at least in part, about capitalism itself.41 Mission writers warmed to the theme of mission productivity early on. In 1883, Helen Hunt Jackson, in her ­Century magazine article “­Father Junipero and His Work,” used the phrase “hives of industry” to describe the missions, and many other writers ­adopted the same language.42 Charles Dudley Warner, the essayist who co­wrote The Gilded Age: A Tale of T ­ oday with Mark Twain in 1873, published in 1890 one of the era’s classic depictions, by a Protestant New En­glander, of Southern California. In “Our Italy,” Warner depicted Southern California as the nation’s Mediterranean and noted that the “­f athers brought with them the vine and the olive, reduced the savage Indians to industrial pursuits, and opened the way for . . . ​ranchero and adobe civilization.”43 In 1903, Benjamin C. Truman’s book Missions of California created an even more vivid depiction of the productivity of the missions and the ingenuity of the missionaries. “Besides the building of shops for the manufacture of shoes and hats and woolen clothes, soaps and syrups, e­ tc.,” he wrote, the mission ­fathers set out fruit trees and grape cuttings and planted vegetables and flowers. . . . ​The Franciscans of Alta (Upper) California began to cultivate the soil as soon as they arrived. The first grape vines w ­ ere brought from Lower California in 1769, and w ­ ere soon planted at nearly all of the missions. Before the year 1800 the orchards at the missions contained apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, cherries, figs, olives, oranges and pomegranates. At San Diego and San Buenaventura (then in Santa Barbara County), thirty miles down the coast from Santa Barbara city, t­ here w ­ ere also sugar canes, date palms, plantains, bananas and citrons.44

Tourists w ­ ere encouraged to muse on this productivity as part of their travel experiences. When planning a package tour of Southern California, they could read in their Raymond and Whitcomb brochures that “it was on the lands of this mission [Carmel] that the first potatoes grown in California w ­ ere raised in 1826. The temporal welfare of the estate had reached a rich development in the year 1825, when the f­ athers possessed 90,000 c­ attle, 50,000 sheep, 2,000 ­horses, 2,000 calves, 370 yoke of oxen, with merchandise to the value of $50,000, and over $40,000 in silver.”45 Staying at the Mission Inn, they would be reminded by the ­hotel’s handbook “not [to] forget that ­those missionaries

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brought the palm, the olive, the vine, the date and the orange.”46 Off to see the Mission Play, they would hear a long enumeration of each mission’s primary productive industries.47 If they de­cided to stay, and looked into real estate, they would have read advertisements like the one for the Mission Court tract in West Coast Magazine in 1907: the land, it noted, is “located on the historic spot made famous by the early ­fathers, who selected it for its ­great fertility . . . ​and pure ­water.”48 The missionaries, one was not allowed to forget, ­were men of good financial sense as well as religious sensibility, their missions practically bucolic factories.49 Gilded Age and Progressive Era historians of Serra and the missions all made this point. In his hagiography of Serra, Palou preferred throughout to discuss evangelizing activities and the sacrifices endured by the missionaries, but he also included references both to Serra’s interest in “forming . . . ​habits of industry” in the neophytes and to the mission system’s ultimate productivity.50 In his California Pastoral, Bancroft also noted the missions’ productivity but used it as evidence of the missionaries’ exploitation of neophytes: “If you accept their religion,” he argued, “you must give up your liberties and your lands, and work for them [the missionaries], thereby making them rich and comfortable even in this life, so that they secure a foretaste of heaven h ­ ere.” Zephyrin Engelhardt, in his defense of the missions against Bancroft, rebutted the latter’s criticism but reiterated and amplified his focus on the missions’ productivity. Engelhardt claimed repeatedly that the missionaries did not grow wealthy from the missions but instead used the missions’ excess produce to support soldiers or benefit the neophytes. In the end, Engelhardt showed an even greater interest in mission productivity than did Palou or Bancroft, repeatedly listing the number of heads of ­cattle and sheep and enumerating the crops, even including an appendix called “Wealth of the Missions.”51 Given the importance that Catholic writers such as Palou and Engelhardt placed on mission productivity, it is not surprising that booster language about mission productivity was matched by similar claims made by the church. Lauding Serra in 1914, the Southland’s diocesan newspaper the Tidings claimed: “One of the palm trees which he set out is still standing triumphant at the foot of the Presidio hill. The olive orchard which he planted is still bearing. . . . ​ The ­whole agricultural industry of the west and its w ­ hole civilization date from 52 the arrival of Junipero Serra.” To some extent, this was language about the land: its use, its owner­ship, and its value. By a logic common in North American imperial history, Native Americans w ­ ere cast as passive residents of the land that Eu­ro­pe­ans would arrive to cultivate, earning the right of possession through agricultural transformation.

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The same logic that made Marquette the “founder” of the Midwest through an act of exploration and mapping made Serra and the Franciscans “founding ­f athers” of California in part through the cultivation of the land.53 The discussions of mission productivity w ­ ere also about religion, l­abor, and ­labor management. Ubiquitous depictions of the missions as “hives of industry” constituted, among other t­hings, a riposte to anti-­Catholic ste­reo­types. As one Land of Sunshine writer felt the need to assure his readers, “[The missionaries’ Catholic] religion did not unfit them for hard sense and hard l­abor.”54 Anti-­Catholic and anticlerical discourse frequently figured Catholic churchmen as sensuous and lazy, arguing that they, like the church as a w ­ hole, lived lavishly on ­others’ ­labor. Southern California boosters described the missionaries, instead, as turning their backs on the luxury and pomp of Rome to toil in the wilderness. Far from being the feminized, luxury-­loving, indolent churchmen of anti-­Catholic ste­reo­type, the missionaries became, in the boosters’ writing, hard and hardy workers. Junípero Serra was himself often made to fit this image. He was praised for his rejection of power and ornament: in the many popu­lar biographical sketches of Serra produced in the de­cades around the turn of the ­century, Serra is reported to have denied himself the lavish comforts of Rome, and his almost-­ guaranteed success in the Roman hierarchy, to become a poor, sandaled missionary. According to the Honorable G. H. Hutton in a 1906 article in West Coast Magazine, “the pathway of fame and honor laid glitteringly before” Serra ­because of his successes as an orator in Spain. “The Church of Rome beckoned him with her princely gifts, and he might have had all that he had asked, yet he willfully and willingly turned away from the shining pathway and begged to be sent away unto a dark and unknown region where ­trials, difficulties and pos­si­ble death awaited him.” The California missions as a w ­ hole w ­ ere “the creation of priests, but in this instance more than priests, for they ­were men who gave up all of t­hose fascinations and allurements and attractions that the world estimates most highly, and merely went about d­ oing good.”55 The idea that the missions ­were practical and productive institutions, then, was part of a larger discourse that framed Serra—as a man and a Franciscan— in contrast to anti-­Catholic ste­reo­types of Catholic lavishness and laziness. The defense of the missionaries’ work habits was such a common refrain in booster lit­er­a­ture that some scholars have read it as an attempt to de-­Catholicize the missionaries. For Protestants to celebrate the work of the missionaries, they argue, boosters needed to cast ­those missionaries as proto-­Protestants, austere and diligent.56

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However, as we have seen, Protestant mission boosters constantly invoked the Catholic faith of the missionaries and celebrated their own collaborations with the con­temporary Catholic hierarchy. They did not need or want to de-­ Catholicize the missionaries. Instead, mission boosters—­both Catholic and Protestant—­identified Serra and his fellow missionaries as embodying not Protestant traits but characteristically Franciscan ones.57 As we have seen, their depictions of the missionaries as gentle and antimaterialist mirrored a rising Euro-­American Protestant admiration for St. Francis, and mission writers and boosters ­were often explicit about setting Franciscans apart from other missionary o ­ rders. Helen Hunt Jackson, for example, celebrated Franciscans as unusually self-­sacrificing in her mission history essays. And the Mission Play author McGroarty, in his history of California, explained that Serra traveled everywhere on foot and “glor[ied] in his vow of poverty” b­ ecause he was a “true Franciscan.”58 Nineteenth-­century American Protestants lauded Francis and other Catholics, most frequently Giordano Bruno and Girolamo Savonarola, for their exemplary returns to Christlike simplicity or prescient pre-­ Reformation rebellions. Serra did not need to be transformed into a Protestant: Catholic history itself contained a number of individuals who w ­ ere already exempted from anti-­Catholic ste­reo­types of luxury and corruption, and the fact that Serra was a Franciscan made him an easy candidate for inclusion into that group.59 Mission writers ­were not trying to make Serra palatable to Protestants, then, as much as they w ­ ere exploring the missionaries’ relationship to l­abor and ­labor management. Mission writers cast Serra and his brethren not only as rejecting Romish excess but also as personally embodying effective modern management techniques. The boosters attributed the productivity of the missions not to the neophytes who performed the work but to the padres in charge. In 1894, for example, the Fiesta de Los Angeles program credited “the energy and tact with which the Friars managed the Indians and the general affairs of the missions” with producing “granaries and store ­houses . . . ​filled to overflowing, and their live stock cover[ing] the country.”60 Almost twenty years ­later, a 1913 West Coast Magazine article made the same point, praising the missions’ tile roofs and describing them as having been made “­under the Padre’s direction.”61 What made the padres such good man­ag­ers, the missions such productive enterprises? The missionaries ­were described as guiding the neophytes’ entire lives, providing them with enjoyment as well as l­abor and education. As much as the missions produced, and as much as the neophytes labored, time and again

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boosters assured their readers that the missions ­were actually wonderful places to live and work, where beauty and play ­were mixed with well-­organized ­labor. The Mission Play program declared that the “days of the Missions” ­were a “wonderful time [when] every­body was happy, well fed and content. Nobody was poor. Nobody was rich. It was an age of easy toil, of prayer and song and laughter, of peace and an existence wholly ideal.”62 In his history of California, McGroarty ­imagined life at the missions as similarly balanced between work and plea­sure: ­ here was the sound of anvils ringing and the quaint chant of harvest songs T from the fields. The w ­ omen ­were at the looms or sewing. At eleven ­o’clock the bells summoned the workers to their midday meal, which consisted of ­simple but ­wholesome fare. . . . ​At nine o ­ ’clock the day was done—­a day spent in prayer and toil—­the stars gleamed above the Mission towers, enfolding it and its happy ­people in peace and dreams. This was the usual daily routine, but life at the Mission was not permitted to become monotonous. ­There w ­ ere ­great feast days—­many of them, indeed—­ when the w ­ hole community gave itself over to some religious cele­bration, followed by play and sport, horse-­racing, feats of strength and endurance, games and e­ very kind of innocent plea­sure.63

The railroad writer Ben Truman, too, described the missionaries as combining high expectations and strong discipline with paternalistic care and enjoyable entertainments. In his 1903 Missions of California, he claimed that “for seventy years ­these missions constituted a paradise, not only for the missionaries and their troops, but for the Indians, who, while they w ­ ere compelled to work from ten to sixteen hours a day, w ­ ere well enough fed and clothed, philanthropically cared for, and treated to ­horse racing, bear baiting, bull fighting and cock fighting Sunday after­noons.”64 ­These descriptions of play suggest that the boosters saw the friars’ approach to leisure as, in fact, redolent of a medieval Catholic past and markedly dif­fer­ent from a Protestant one. A few years ­after Truman’s Missions of California was published, the subject of bear baiting was raised again in local promotional material, this time not to describe the joys of mission life but to mark a distinction between the “Puritan” ethos of Anglo-­Americans and the Catholic culture that grew up on the West Coast. In discussing a festival in Los Angeles in the West Coast Magazine, the promoter muses that such festivities “could not have originated in a Puritanical community, in which, as McCauley said, they objected to bear baiting, not ­because it hurt the bear, but ­because it gave plea­sure to the spectators.” Rather,

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it could only have come from Catholics, “whose religion does not teach men that to enjoy themselves in this life they risk eternal torment in the next.”65 Their purported concern with the ­whole of the neophytes’ lives—­with shaping their leisure as well as their l­abor—­hardly looks unusual in the annals of missionary history. The Franciscans ­were, ­after all, attempting to effect a fundamental change in the way the converts lived. Indeed, this was exactly what the mission writers w ­ ere celebrating: the idea of l­abor management as oriented ­toward the uplift of the laborer. If industrial l­abor was often criticized for destroying the body and mind, mission writers described the missions as scenes of joyful, healthful ­labor; if modern, industrial, and commercial society was criticized for producing a ­middle and upper class who, in the words of the woodworker and Arts and Crafts spokesman Gustav Stickley, have lost “the charm of youth” and “forgotten how to play,” mission writers’ depictions of the missions focused on play as part of a healthy work environment.66 The idea that the missions w ­ ere both productive places and pleas­ur­able environments offered not only an antimodernist fantasy but also a model for modern industry. From this perspective, the Franciscans begin to look like forebears of the paternalistic cap­i­tal­ists of the industrial age: men like George Pullman or Henry Ford. Or Henry E. Huntington. The railroad magnate Huntington—­the man whom Miller had compared to Junípero Serra—­was working during this time to shape Southern California’s po­liti­cal economy according to his own vision of how ­labor and management ­ought to interact. For him, as for many of his fellow business leaders, that vision was one that did not involve negotiating with ­unions. By the end of the 1880s, they had made their town famous as an “open shop” city: in contrast to the power of ­unions in San Francisco, Los Angeles businessmen boasted that they had succeeded in keeping ­unions from getting a toehold in their city. (Their shop floors ­were “open,” theoretically, to anyone who wanted to work, not “closed” to every­one but ­union members.) Some of the leading ­people and organ­izations in this fight w ­ ere financial backers of mission cele­brations. Like his famous ­uncle Collis P. Huntington, Henry Huntington was also an ardent antiunionist. In 1903, he successfully fought a strike of workers laying track for his Pacific Electric Railway, using such tactics as persuading the city to place police in the streetcars, bringing in outside laborers, and using detectives to infiltrate the u ­ nion.67 Thirteen years ­earlier, in 1890, Harrison Gray Otis—­the Los Angeles Times publisher and mentor to both Lummis and McGroarty—­had waged war against the ­union of typesetters at the Times, reducing their wages by 20 ­percent and then responding to their strike by persuading the three other newspapers in town to lock

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out their workers at the same time. The Times became an open shop and would continue to be one for de­cades.68 Otis also helped found the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce—­which would both support local business and or­ga­ nize antiunion efforts—­and ­later became a leading member of the Merchants and Manufacturers Association (M&MA). The M&MA effectively enforced a no-­union rule among its members—­any member who allowed their workers to ­unionize would be boycotted by the other members—­and ran a successful and sometimes brutal antiunion campaign that involved lockouts, l­abor spies, blacklists of ­union activists, and, in 1910, a ­legal ban on picketing within Los Angeles. The Chamber of Commerce and the M&MA formed the nucleus of the open-­shop campaign, and ­these organ­izations also invested heavi­ly in booster efforts to celebrate the missions, particularly in the Landmarks Club, the Mission Inn, and the Mission Play.69 The mission cele­brations became a rhetorical ground on which this fight was fought, though rarely explic­itly. Leave it to the ebullient George Wharton James to put the m ­ atter in its starkest pos­si­ble terms. In a draft of one of his many essays on the mission buildings, he let himself wax poetic about the padres and their productivity, this time in relation to the mission buildings they created: “Go to!” he exclaimed, “Ye sneerers & scoffers at the priesthood! [Y]e who declare it a useless & unproducing order! Look at the ­simple accomplishments of ­these men! Compare your wooden-­frame, ­union ­labor, ‘churches’ with ­these structures of priest & Indian erection.”70 Union l­abor churches versus structures produced by missionaries and their converts: the region’s rising oligarchs would have enjoyed the shout-­out to the open shop. Against the backdrop of what the Times itself called a “Forty Years War” to defeat ­union ­labor, and drawing on both Catholic hagiography and medievalist fantasy, mission writers rejected ­earlier critical comparisons of the mission ­labor system to chattel slavery and rewrote the power of the missionaries less as enslaving and more as benevolent and effective management.71 Understanding that the missions could be cast as sites of a nascent paternalist capitalism makes Miller’s claim that Huntington was “a successor to ­Father Junípero Serra” in “building and developing” the region seem more logical.72 It was a logic that linked the boosters and their funders to the spirit of the mission days. It made the rapid cap­i­tal­ist transformations of Southern California—­ transformations in which they ­were key players and from which they richly profited—­seem rooted in, and legitimized by, the mission industries of the past.

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Learning and ­Labor Perhaps the most obvious con­temporary institution that could be i­magined as a successor to the missions was the federal off-­reservation boarding school. Begun as part of a turn to assimilationist policy in the 1880s, boarding schools were opened across the country, managed by the Office of Indian Affairs.73 One of them was Sherman Institute, located in Riverside, California. ­There, the idea that the missions ­were places of nurturing hospitality, that the missionaries ­were skilled at paternalist l­abor management, and that both of t­hese ­things ­were precursors to and harbingers of the economic development of the region informed the relationship between boosters and the school. Frank Miller and other boosters advertised Sherman Institute as an attractive tourist destination and even cast the missions and the school as remarkably similar institutions, with the school’s supporters and the federal government—­and, in Miller’s case, sometimes himself—­playing the role of modern-­day padres.74 He often invited students to perform at the inn—­sometimes to showcase their par­tic­u­lar talents, but other times to act the role of neophytes. He also took advantage of the school’s “outing program” to secure students as (nonunion) workers and helped ­others in the community do the same. Sherman Institute was founded with only eight students in 1892 as the Perris School in Perris Valley, California, an agricultural area south of Riverside. It was the twenty-­fifth of a series of federal off-­reservation boarding schools modeled on Richard H. Pratt’s Carlisle Industrial School, key institutions in the new assimilationist policy orientation in U.S. Indian affairs beginning in the 1880s.75 The federal government moved the school to Riverside in 1902, ostensibly ­because the school did not have enough w ­ ater for agricultural training, but likely also ­because the new superintendent of the school, Harwood Hall, hoped that the wealth of Riverside would provide a secure community in which to grow the school.76 Its impending move caught the attention of a variety of mission boosters. Charles Fletcher Lummis argued—­unsuccessfully—to keep the school in Perris Valley, likely motivated by his mentor, Los Angeles Times publisher Otis, whose son owned land in Perris Valley.77 Frank Miller lobbied hard for moving the school to Riverside, with help in Washington, DC, from Collis P. Huntington. When Miller eventually won the contest, the government purchased the Riverside land it needed from his s­ister and brother-­in-­law, Frank and Alice Richardson. Miller was also majority stockholder in the Riverside and Arlington Railway line, a street car line that ran to the land.78 And the

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school’s Riverside opening in 1902 was particularly good timing for Miller: in early 1903, Miller’s New Glenwood Mission Inn opened its doors, and Miller ­later used the railway line to run tours to Sherman Institute for his guests.79 Not all mission writers w ­ ere firm supporters of the federal boarding schools, or the assimilationist spirit ­behind them. Helen Hunt Jackson had supported sending teachers to Native Americans in California, but she was ambivalent about assimilation as a general goal.80 And Lummis was at least as ambivalent. As a young man he had walked from Ohio to Los Angeles, documenting and bankrolling his trip by writing for newspapers along the way. He had praised the Haskell Institute—­a boarding school in Lawrence, Kansas—­and expressed support for the boarding school policy of removing c­ hildren from their homes to advance their educations.81 But years ­later, when he was living in New Mexico, Lummis was called on by his friends and hosts at Isleta Pueblo to intervene with the Albuquerque Indian School. The school’s new principal had declared that c­ hildren would not be allowed to return to their homes during school breaks, and the Isleta parents ­were appalled. Lummis publicized the affair in the Los Angeles Times and helped launch an 1892 l­egal challenge that was ultimately de­cided in the parents’ ­f avor. Lummis’s experience with the Albuquerque school did not get in the way of his willingness to sell Sherman Institute as a tourist attraction, however, even ­after he and Otis had lost the contest over its location. In 1905, Out West published an article lauding the tourist opportunities in Riverside: the last paragraph explic­itly invites readers to “write to the Chamber of Commerce at Riverside” to get more information on the town and also to “buy a ticket over ­either of the three transcontinental lines which reach Riverside” for a visit, making sure to send a “telegraph to Frank Miller at the Glenwood Tavern when to look for you.”82 Sherman Institute occupies a prominent place among the article’s list of Riverside attractions: “It may be that the Indian (whose forefathers, ­under the direction of the padres, built the Missions) is of par­tic­u­lar interest to you. . . . ​­There is no other place in California where you can see so many Indian c­ hildren, at so light cost of time and trou­ble, as at Sherman Institute, with its five to six hundred pupils.”83 The article casts the “Indian ­children” themselves as a tourist attraction, and, in citing their “forefathers, ­under the direction of the padres,” depicts them and the institution as inheritors of mission history, part and parcel of the array of mission-­themed attractions offered by the small city. Miller seems to have had this possibility in mind early on. Attempting to secure his benefactor’s support for the school’s move to Riverside, Miller had written to Henry E. Huntington that the school would “mean a g­ reat deal to

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tourist business” if it was located t­here.84 And he used his own promotional material to make this point as well. A Mission Inn publicity book from 1902 presented Sherman Institute and the “Indian Park” nearby as “centers of g­ reat interest” in Riverside.85 Other promoters joined in. George Wharton James conducted his own California tours, which involved a ten-­day jaunt all over California, including Lake Tahoe and Santa Cruz. He also advertised a mission tour of Southern California in which he recommended “a visit to the Mission Play as a prelude to the Southern Mission Trip, to give our patrons a better understanding of the Land of the Padres.” One after­noon on the tour “is occupied by a visit to Mt. Rubidoux at Riverside and the Sherman Indian Institute, reaching world-­ famed Glenwood Mission Inn in time for dinner.”86 Primed by the Mission Play and anticipating a dinner and night at the mission-­themed inn, James’s tour patrons ­were encouraged to understand Sherman Institute as belonging to the mission tradition. Huntington’s Pacific Electric Railway had a similar idea: the railroad ran an Orange Empire Trolley Trip that “passes down famous Magnolia Ave­nue [in Riverside], giving a comprehensive view of Mount Rubidoux crowned by the Junipero Serra cross, to Sherman Indian School,” where tourists w ­ ere then “conducted through the school” before returning to “the Mission Inn where ample time is given for a tour of inspection of this unique hostelry.”87 Tours of Native American boarding schools themselves ­were common, but what made the Sherman Institute tours unusual was the way they w ­ ere connected to the mission past. Richard Henry Pratt had conducted such tours when he first began experimenting with an educational program among the Native American prisoners at Fort Marion, Florida—­the precursor to his Carlisle program. He invited visitors to the fort in order to win the interest and support of wealthy and influential Florida vacationers. In Riverside, Sherman Institute’s superintendent Harwood Hall himself would often invite tourists to see the campus.88 Miller and other mission promoters offered something new in Riverside, though: an argument that Sherman Institute was not just a modern attempt at education and assimilation but also the inheritor of the mission tradition. Every­thing about Sherman Institute signaled this imaginative connection. It was designed in Mission Revival style. It was included in a book of photo­ graphs of Riverside called California Mission Architecture: Among the Orange Groves of Riverside, which also included a photo of the sunrise ser­vice at the Serra Cross.89 Two of the buildings ­were named the Ramona Home and the Alessandro Lodge ­after the heroine and the hero of Helen Hunt Jackson’s famous

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novel.90 And one photo­graph shows young men from Sherman Institute constructing, in the words of the caption, “ ‘mission style’ furniture in the wood shop.”91 Booster material was also explicit in depicting the old missions themselves as schools. A Landmarks Club pamphlet described the missions as “not merely churches for the Indians” but also “schools for religious and primary education” and “industrial schools.”92 The Handbook of the Glenwood Mission Inn made an explicit claim for similarity, describing the government itself as a missionary: “An impor­tant f­ actor of Riverside is the Sherman Institute, or Indian school on Magnolia Ave­nue. . . . ​­Here our United States government is ­doing very much the same sort of work for the Indians as was done by Fray Junipero Serra and his brown-­robed companions.”93 The comparison went both ways: the missions had been like industrial schools, and the industrial schools ­were now like the old missions. Furthermore, just as the missions could be understood as “hives of industry,” the federal boarding schools w ­ ere sites of l­abor as well as of conversion or education. They operated on an “outing” system in which students ­were sent out to do wage l­abor. At Carlisle, Pratt had intended to use the outing program to develop students’ skills while acclimating them to living among non-­Native ­people. By the time Sherman Institute was founded, outing programs had become less pedagogically oriented: they served more often as employment agencies that provided local homes, farms, and businesses with low-­wage ­labor. The programs worked at cross purposes to the ostensible educational mission of the schools: c­ hildren ­were both too busy and too exhausted to do much studying, and the wage work itself was primarily low-­ skilled, giving them l­ittle opportunity to learn a craft or trade.94 According to the anthropologist Alice Littlefield, ­these outing programs became forces less of “assimilation” than of “proletarianization”: rather than teaching useful skills, they instilled obedience and punctuality, preparing students for positions as low-­wage workers in a cap­i­tal­ist economy.95 While hardly a fit for Pratt’s original vision, the outing program did appear to have some uses for Indigenous students and their families themselves: former students and their parents testified to the value of any paid ­labor in times of economic hardship. Riverside had an outing program like ­those of the other federal off-­ reservation boarding schools. Boys w ­ ere sent around the region to work on ranches and in citrus groves, often ­doing the same work as mi­grant workers for similarly low wages, and girls ­were sent to do domestic work or child care in nearby ­house­holds. Superintendent Hall explic­itly advertised the ­labor of Sherman Institute students as particularly easy to manage, and Miller clearly appreci-

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ated the school not only as a potential tourist draw but also as a source of low-­wage, nonunion ­labor.96 Miller hired students to work as domestics at the inn and, it appears, operated at least sometimes as an unofficial employment agent for Sherman students.97 In 1906, a businessman hosting a meeting in Los Angeles and looking for entertainment wrote to Miller hoping to book the Sherman Institute band. Miller replied positively, noting that he thought the band “­will prove very acceptable and ­will be a novelty” and added that “as the boys are not ‘Union Men’ you ­will get all the ­music out of them that you want.”98 Miller’s passing, critical reference to “Union Men” is characteristic: though he was not as actively engaged in open shop fights as ­were Huntington and Otis, Miller held tightly to what he believed was his absolute right to determine the working conditions for his “­f amily” of employees at the inn. Described in a 1914 Los Angeles Times Magazine profile as a kindly “patriarch and dictator,” Miller saw himself as a fatherly figure offering his employees a home environment. In this spirit, Miller launched a l­egal challenge in 1912 to new state l­abor regulations that ­limited w ­ omen employees’ workdays to eight hours.99 The side of Miller that admired the padres as benevolent, paternalistic man­ ag­ers and had ­little patience with state regulations or or­ga­nized ­labor must have enjoyed the opportunity to hire nonunion Native American students, who went to school in a building designed to look like a Spanish mission, to come to work at his inn, also designed to look like a Spanish mission. But his enthusiasm for the modern replication of mission life did not stop ­there. He also hired Sherman students to play “Indian” in vari­ous forms, sometimes in settings that allowed him to join them and play “Padre.” In ­these moments he made the Mission Inn—­a hub of mission booster culture and tourism—­into a site where the common booster claim that their work continued the legacy of the padres was visibly, theatrically performed. Miller secured the ser­vice of Sherman Institute student musicians to add charm and authenticity to his mission-­style events. When the New Glenwood Mission Inn opened its doors in 1903, the Sherman Institute band was ­there to play for the guests.100 Ten years l­ater, the tradition still held strong: George Wharton James wrote a description of the Mount Rubidoux Easter sunrise ser­vice in 1913 for Out West, in which he noted that a crowd of thousands climbed the hill before sunrise “to the singing of Easter songs by the Indian girls from Sherman Institute.”101 Sometimes such per­for­mances ­were part of larger cultural programs at the inn. In 1908 Miller hosted an event in which James gave a lecture on Hopi culture, perhaps drawn from his new book The Indians of the Painted Desert

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Region. Miller also invited eight Hopi students and the Hopi leader Kikmongwi Tawaquaptewa, all current students at Sherman Institute, to sing Hopi songs. Just two years ­earlier, in 1906, the thirty-­four-­year-­old Hopi village chief Tawaquaptewa, along with his f­amily and almost seventy Hopi students, had been sent to Sherman Institute by the U.S. commissioner of Indian Affairs.102 While government agents had sent him to Riverside in the hope that he would embrace assimilation, Tawaquaptewa remained, according to Matthew Sakiestewa Gilbert, a leader and counselor of his ­people during his three years at the school, a role that included leading them in song and dance. Miller and Sherman Institute saw the Hopi students’ per­for­mances at the inn as a potentially profitable public relations event, one that incorporated “Indians” into the mission-­themed landscape of Riverside. Tawaquaptewa and the other Hopi performers, on the other hand, likely performed their songs as a way of embracing and strengthening their Hopi identity, even while far from home, and sharing their culture with other Native and non-­Native ­people around Riverside.103 Miller also sometimes engaged Sherman students to play specifically historical “Mission Indian” roles, ones that fit with his own interpretation of the mission past. According to Esther Klotz, who wrote an in-­house history of the Mission Inn in 1981, the Christmas Nativity Pageant started around 1920. It was held in the Cloister ­Music Room on Christmas Eve, and in it the inn’s employees presented “scenes from the nativity, the life of St. Francis, and the California missions.” Frank Miller (in his costume) played ­Father Serra, a security officer played St. Francis, and other roles went to other Miller f­amily members and inn employees. To top it all off, “Indian Students from Sherman Institute acted and danced.”104 Francis Borton, in the Handbook of the Glenwood Mission Inn, called this yearly pageant “a s­ imple repre­sen­ta­tion of Christmas in an old Mission,” and the students’ roles ­were meant to mimic what Miller ­imagined neophyte ­children might have felt about Christmas.105 According to a newspaper report, saved in the Mission Inn’s scrapbook: Singing the Christmas hymn of “Joy to the World,” the ­children entered the room of the mission and ­were seated facing the manger scene. In sympathetic and kindly tones, old Padre Pedro ([Miller’s son-­in-­law and the play’s author] Dewitt Hutchings) explained to the breathless ­children the story of the birth of the Christ-­Child and told them of the arrival of the Wise Men and S­ imple Shepherds who ­were grouped around the manger with Maria and Jose. The

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ancient padre took the part exactly as a typical priest would have done; he walked informally among the ­children, patted them kindly upon the head and conducted himself for all the world as if he had been d­ oing that same t­hing for two score years. . . . Following this, Frank Miller exemplified three scenes from the life of Junipero Serra, in one of which the kindly f­ather turned the m ­ usic for the song of several of the tiniest c­ hildren of the mission. Following ­these tableaux, the excited c­ hildren gave their l­ittle program of songs, dances and recitations. Encouraged by the gentle assistance of the two padres, they gave their offerings to the enthusiastic approval of their fellows and the delight of the audience in which they seemed but l­ittle interested.

The “­little play,” the article concludes, was “rich in dramatic force and power.”106 In the play, Miller, his ­f amily, and his employees presented themselves—in costume and in demeanor—as friars of old: “exactly,” the paper reported, “as a typical priest would have done.” The c­ hildren themselves ­were depicted as “breathless” listening to the story of the Christ child, as if the audience could somehow experience the exact moment in which a mission neophyte was exposed to Chris­tian­ity. The students of Sherman Institute—­who w ­ ere no strangers to the Christmas story—­were presented as historical figures always at the moment of being educated, always fresh and new for the imprint of their patrons. And yet, at the end, the reporter perhaps unintentionally suggests that the ­children made something ­else out of the experience for themselves. As they played their songs and dances they seemed “but ­little interested in the audience.” Just as Miller was playing Padre for his own purposes, the ­children—­even as they had ­little control over the proceedings—­were playing “Indian” for theirs. In ­these moments Miller’s per­for­mances also illuminated the l­imited control he and other mission promoters had over the narratives they w ­ ere constructing, particularly when it came to influencing the perspectives of their Native American contemporaries. In playing Padre, Miller hosted a ritual that relied on the presence of Indigenous p­ eople, even as t­hose same p­ eople made dif­fer­ent meanings out of the experience.107 Miller presented himself and his life’s work as cloaked in the history of the missions. His was a singular per­for­mance, but it captured a larger ethos. For him, as for the other mission boosters involved in Sherman Institute, the school provided more than just a profitable tie-in to a mission-­themed tourist industry.

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It offered them a setting in which to argue that they too ­were walking in the footsteps of the padres. The mission cele­brations told a story about the past, but they also supported a par­tic­u­lar vision of the ­f uture. This was a vision of Southern California as a producer for national and even global markets, home to a hospitality industry that promised care and rejuvenation, a region built by workers ­under the paternalistic care of their employers, a community in which Indigenous ­people would be educated and assimilated to Euro-­American culture and capitalism. This vision served booster interests in the most obvious sense: celebrities like Lummis and James, as well as their financial backers, benefited from a robust tourist industry and increase in land values. Some of them also directly benefited from Sherman Institute’s move to Riverside or from the successes of antiunion campaigns. But beyond personal enrichment, the mission writers’ and boosters’ odes to mission hospitality and paternalist management supported the mechanisms of Anglo ascendance. Tourism and land sales promised to lure ever-­greater numbers of Anglos to the region from the Midwest and East. The maintenance of the open shop supported an Anglo oligarchy against a cadre of u ­ nion organizers and members, and a l­abor force that included numerous p­ eople of Mexican, Asian, and Native American heritage. And envisioning relationships with Native American ­people as characterized by Franciscan-­like care and uplift veiled the harsh realities of U.S. territorial conquest, economic exploitation, and assimilation policy. California’s mission boosters—­like their compatriots in the Midwest—­ turned to the Catholic missionaries of the past for a set of models for the pre­sent. As in the Midwest, they used the example of missionaries to sanctify the economic growth of the region, but—as the tourist industry and open shop campaigns ­were directly tied to boosters’ work and patrons—­they did so more explic­itly than did Marquette commemorators in the Midwest. Mission boosters’ vision of the Franciscans was dif­fer­ent too: whereas Marquette was celebrated for his filial piety and his skill as a cultural mediator, and cast—in a transformation of anti-­Jesuit discourse—as an imperial figure who embodied both male and female virtues, the Franciscans w ­ ere lauded by boosters for their gentleness and antimaterialism, described as possessing a dedication to work and skill at ­labor management, and folded into antimodernist and medievalist visions of hospitality and joyful work. Yet both cele­brations—of Marquette as the embodiment of a peaceful conqueror and of Serra and the Franciscans as embodiments of hospitality and ­labor management—­were also cele­brations of the idea that settler colonialism and cap­i­tal­ist development could be a be-

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nevolent, nonviolent pro­cess. The stories that commemorators told about Marquette made him an icon of peaceful conquest, available for anyone to pick up; the California boosters saw Serra and his brethren as embodiments of Southern California’s original benevolent, civilizing spirit and argued that it was they who would carry forward the mission legacy. In both places, Eu­ro­ pean Catholic imperial histories provided the inspiration and material for new stories about the past and f­uture of the United States as a civilizing empire.

Chapter 5

Revising and Rejecting Antifriarism

At the edge of Manila’s Rizal Park, near a busy intersection in what President William Howard Taft once described as the most “prominent” spot in the Philippines, stands a monument to two sixteenth-­century Spaniards: the explorer Miguel López de Legazpi and the Augustinian friar Andrés de Urdaneta. The old bronze statue, now partially obscured by fo­liage, dates back to the 1890s, when Rizal Park was called the Luneta and the Philippines was a colony of Spain. It does not look, at first glance, like an artifact of American religious history.1 Yet it is worth a closer look. By the time the statue was erected, the Philippines had become a site of U.S. overseas colonial empire. A ­ fter the Spanish-­ Cuban-­American War of 1898, the United States launched another war for control of the archipelago, this time against Filipino nationalists. The Philippine-­ American War lasted from 1899 ­until 1902 (officially, though fighting persisted in many places for years), and the Philippines did not achieve formal in­de­pen­dence ­until 1946. Though conceived and produced u ­ nder Spanish rule, the monument was erected by the U.S. military government.2 Before he became president of the United States, William Howard Taft was the first U.S. civil governor of the Philippines, and as civil governor he endeavored to describe the statue to Americans back home. In a 1904 speech at the University of Notre Dame, which was l­ater reprinted in the first U.S. census of the Philippines, Taft reported that the monument featured a figure of Legazpi, who “bears in his left hand the standard of Spain; . . . ​and slightly in advance of Legaspi, Urdaneta carries in his right hand, and immediately in front

Figure 8. ​Photo­graph of the Legazpi-­Urdaneta Statue, Manila, Philippines, c. 1909. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago, IL—­William Edward Parsons Papers.

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of the Spanish standard, the cross.”3 The cross, reported Taft, preceded the flag. It was no secret: the new colonial government was erecting a monument to Catholic conquest. This chapter and the next argue that the Legazpi-­Urdaneta statue did not stand alone. During the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, the Philippine-­ American War, and the overlapping and subsequent colonial state building pro­cess in the Philippines, many American ­women and men—­Protestants as well as Catholics—­traveled to the Philippines and erected their own rhetorical monuments to the history of the Spanish friars t­here, praising them in widely read histories, travel memoirs, government reports, and newspaper and magazine articles. In ­these texts, they often turned to an idealized Catholic imperial past to explain, justify, and shape the American imperial pre­sent, much as their compatriots had in the Midwest and Southern California.4 And, as with Marquette and Serra, ­these writers cast Urdaneta and his missionary brethren as having begun a proj­ect of civilization and Christianization. On this faraway archipelago, building their own colonial empire, Americans once again celebrated a Catholic imperial past. They did not, however, import ideas about Catholic imperial history straight from the metropole, but rather formed their own narratives of Philippine Catholic history through interactions and experiences in the newly acquired colony.5 The way they did so was conditioned by two specific issues, both of which set the response to Catholic imperial history in the Philippines apart from that in the Midwest or Southern California. First, Americans began writing about the Spanish friars almost as soon as U.S. military engagement in the Philippines began. They w ­ ere writing not only about a distant past but also about a story unfolding as they wrote. Often, they ­were writing about friars they knew personally. And the way they talked about the friars was implicated not only in the ex post facto justification of territory that the U.S. military had already acquired, but also—­most significantly—in the very pro­cess of acquiring that territory and imagining how it might be governed in the ­f uture. Second, and relatedly, American Protestant writers and officials, seeking authorization for the colonization of the majority-­Catholic Philippines, found themselves, when it came to Catholicism, between something of a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, the civil government had to tread carefully when praising the friars, lest the government come ­under criticism from American Protestants and also from antifriar contingents in the Philippines, particularly the educated elites with whom the Americans most wanted to form alliances. Filipino antifriar discourse, a potent force in Filipino revolutionary politics, had been s­ haped by the fact that the friars not only had led the evangelization

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of the islands but also had remained in the archipelago for over three centuries, serving as parish priests and Spanish imperial administrators. On the other hand, many Filipinos (even ­those who advanced antifriar critiques) w ­ ere afraid that U.S. colonialism meant Protestant evangelism. American Catholics shared their concern, particularly in response to the resurgence of anti-­Catholic Black Legend language about Spain in the lead up to the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, and also to the l­ater influx of American Protestant missionaries to the islands ­after the Philippine-­American War.6 Filipino Catholics, the Catholic hierarchy, and the U.S. Catholic press—­which represented a sizable and growing proportion of the American electorate—­all kept a careful eye out for any evidence that the United States was fighting a crusade against Roman Catholicism.7 Indeed, most of the scholarship on Catholic-­Protestant relations in the U.S. colonial Philippines is focused on cross-­confessional tension and conflict. Historians have argued that belief in a Protestant providential mission guided U.S. foreign policy, and they have traced the actions and ambitions of Protestant missionaries in the Philippines. They have illuminated the continuing existence of anti-­Catholic rhe­toric in the U.S. press and examined how Catholic periodicals and organ­izations went into ­battle against it.8 Yet, in focusing primarily on anti-­Catholicism and Catholic responses to it, scholars have paid much less attention to the emergence of a cross-­ confessional narrative of admiration for, and commonality with, the Spanish friars. U.S. journalists, civil officials, and memoirists in the Philippines repeated antifriar claims but qualified and contained them, avoiding a universalized critique of all friars. They often pointedly refused to condemn Catholicism in general, and frequently suggested that American teachers, soldiers, or Protestant ministers might also commit the kinds of misdeeds the friars w ­ ere accused of. And, in language similar to that of their compatriots in the Midwest and Southern California, they celebrated Catholic “Christianizing” work for providing a founding moment of Philippine “civilization” and a model for U.S. colonial state building. This chapter describes the diverse body of texts in which this language is apparent, ranging from the writing of young American schoolteachers coming to the islands, to official descriptions of the Philippines in government documents like the census, to Taft’s own personal memoir, and one written by his wife, Helen. It explores the major conflicts and controversies—­including debates about the friars—­that brought Catholicism to the center of U.S. discussions of the Philippines. It then charts the history of Filipino antifriar critiques, and the way some American writers and government officials

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r­esponded to ­those critiques by repeating but also reshaping them. Transforming what was a structural critique of the o ­ rders of friars into an individualized critique of some bad friars, and studiously attempting to avoid potential accusations of anti-­Catholicism, Americans created their own usable friar past. U.S. writers and officials focused on the friars’ domestic and sexual lives, projecting onto the friars their own concerns about race, sexuality, and reproduction. And they wrote histories of the Philippines that contrasted the friars’ current state of (qualified) corruption with what they described as their heroic beginnings as sixteenth-­century civilizers, working backward from the complicated pre­sent to construct a historical golden age as founding story and ­f uture model.

Introducing “Them Philippians” At the onset of the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, most Americans ­were unfamiliar with the Philippines. As one self-­f ashioned expert on the subject recalled: “I fancy that the knowledge then possessed [in 1898] by the average American citizen relative to the Philippines was fairly well typified by that of a good old lady at my Vermont birthplace . . . ​who, a­ fter my first return from the Philippine Islands, said to me, ‘Deanie, are them Philippians [sic] you have been a visitin’ the p­ eople that Paul wrote the Epistle to?’ ”9 The war that brought “Deanie” to the Philippines began neither in the United States nor in the Philippines but rather in Cuba. In 1895, Cuban revolutionaries commenced the last in a series of wars of in­de­pen­dence against Spain. Observing events in Cuba—­and, in par­tic­u­lar, brutal Spanish tactics, including the “reconcentration” of peasants from the countryside into internment camps—­some Americans argued that the United States should join the fight against Spain, that the Cuban strug­gle was analogous to their own revolutionary strug­gle. Calls to intervene on the side of Cuba ­were driven in part by the sensationalist yellow press—­ the papers of William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer in particular—­and in part by the presence of U.S. economic interests in the island. On 15 February 1898, the USS Maine, which had been sent to Cuba to safeguard U.S. interests, exploded in Havana Harbor. Though the explosion itself went unexplained, it provided the impetus interventionists needed. By the end of April, the United States was at war.10 The U.S. Navy quickly engaged Spanish forces not only in Cuba but throughout the Spanish empire: in Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines as well. The Spanish-­Cuban-­American War lasted from 21 April to 13 August:

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ten weeks of fighting that the soon-­to-be Secretary of State John Hay famously called a “splendid l­ittle war.” The ensuing Treaty of Paris granted Cuba in­de­ pen­dence from Spain and ceded Guam, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines to the United States. Or, at least, ceded them on paper. In May, the U.S. Asiatic Squadron, u ­ nder the command of Commodore George Dewey, had achieved a rapid and thorough defeat of the Spanish Navy in Manila Bay. But by the close of the war, U.S. forces controlled only the city of Manila: Philippine nationalist forces controlled most of the Philippines. During the war the U.S. Navy had transported Emilio Aguinaldo y Famy, the exiled leader of a failed rebellion against Spain in 1896, back to the islands. When he landed, he resumed the anticolonial strug­gle, capturing Spanish garrisons outside Manila. In June, he declared the Philippines in­de­pen­dent and began organ­izing a government, but in August, U.S. forces conspired with the beleaguered Spanish to take Manila in a quick, prearranged b­ attle. Filipino forces learned of the b­ attle only a­ fter it had begun; when they tried to join, they ­were ­stopped by U.S. troops. It became increasingly clear to Aguinaldo and other Filipino nationalists that the United States was not about to leave. Even as Aguinaldo was establishing the Philippine Revolutionary Government, thousands of U.S. troops ­were arriving in the islands. In December, President William McKinley issued the “Benevolent Assimilation” proclamation, claiming U.S. sovereignty, and proposing that the United States was ­there “not as invaders or conquerors, but as friends.” Any Americans who harbored fantasies of peaceful, friendly conquest ­were disabused of them less than two months l­ater. On the night of 4 February 1899, U.S. soldiers exchanged fire with Filipino troops, and in the morning U.S. forces launched a full assault against Aguinaldo’s Army of Liberation, sending in two brigades supported by naval gunfire.11 Thus the “splendid ­little war” was followed, beginning in February 1899, by the Philippine-­American War: a much longer war between Filipino nationalists and U.S. forces. Fighting a war of attrition in which they had difficulty telling friend from foe, U.S. forces employed some of the same tactics for which Americans had previously criticized the Spanish, including “reconcentration” camps. The war was officially declared over on the fourth of July, 1902 (a date both symbolically meaningful and po­liti­cally useful, in advance of the midterm elections), but fighting continued against Filipino forces now declared to be “outlaws,” or “ladrones.”12 Not only would U.S. forces continue to contend with ongoing, sporadic re­sis­tance, but the U.S. Army would also continue to engage in significant campaigns in Leyte, Samar, Cavite, and the so-­called Moro Province.13 While U.S. policymakers had always understood

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the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War in pragmatic terms, the war had been presented to the public as an idealistic enterprise: an effort to rescue Cuba from Spain. As a result, the Philippine-­American War came freighted with a dark (if fictive) irony: what had been initially celebrated as an anticolonial war against Spanish imperialism had become, quickly, a war of imperial conquest.14 Even as the Philippine-­American War was being waged by the military, U.S. civilians w ­ ere traveling to the islands to begin establishing the institutional framework of colonial rule. The members of the first Philippine Commission, led by Jacob Gould Schurman, then president of Cornell University, ­were sent by President McKinley to investigate conditions in the archipelago and advise on Philippine policy. The commission was created before the outbreak of hostilities, but the commissioners arrived in the Philippines a­ fter the Philippine-­ American War had begun, and advised, among other t­hings, on the creation of a civil government to replace the U.S. military governorship then in place. William Howard Taft, then a judge in Ohio, was tapped to lead the second Philippine Commission, which passed a number of laws, established a ­legal system and a civil ser­vice, and held a series of information-­gathering meetings with collaborating Filipino elites. Taft became the Philippines’ first civil governor in 1901.15 Meanwhile, hundreds of American civilians steamed to the islands. Many ­were young teachers, e­ ager to begin what they believed would be their task of uplift and education through the emerging colonial state’s hallmark program: the American-­style public school system. The colonial bureaucracy also went to work on massive social engineering proj­ects, many of them supported by private financing, including the building of railroads, roads, schools, prisons, sewers, public health systems, and agricultural experimentation stations. Many of ­these programs ­were intended to “uplift” Philippine society, to make it easier to govern, or to open the archipelago up to U.S. investment and resource extraction—or all three at once. All of them w ­ ere based on presumptions of U.S. cultural and technological superiority.16 As one historian notes, even before the Philippine-­American War was over, not only teachers and soldiers but also “doctors, engineers, agronomists, surveyors, sanitation specialists,” as well as “swindlers, hucksters and dubious adventurers,” arrived from the United States, some looking to help, ­others looking to gain, and many looking for a combination of both.17 Some also sought to teach their fellow Americans about the Philippines: to explain to a U.S. audience their vision of the archipelago’s past, its pre­sent, and (what they hoped might be) its American f­ uture. If p­ eople in the United States w ­ ere ignorant about the Philippines when Dewey first entered Manila

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Bay, this gap in knowledge was quickly addressed by popu­lar books and articles, written mostly by white, Protestant Americans, purporting to explain the history of the archipelago and the religion, society, and culture of the ­people who lived ­there.18 Among the first to publish book-­length narratives was “Deanie,” better known as the naturalist-­cum-­colonial-­official Dean C. Worcester. Worcester was blessed with good timing; he had traveled to the Philippines in 1887 and 1890 as a student and scientist and so was able to publish an account of his travels as early as 1898. His Philippine Islands and Their P ­ eople established him in the United States as a widely quoted expert on the Philippines, and he and his work influenced a number of l­ater writers.19 In 1899 he was appointed to the U.S. Philippine Commission, and in 1901 he became secretary of the interior in the Philippines.20 The writer Charles Morris had good timing of another sort: by 1898 the Pennsylvania native had already established himself as a popu­lar nonfiction author. His book Our Island Empire: A Hand-­Book of Cuba, Porto Rico, Hawaii, and the Philippine Islands was first published in 1899 and eventually went through six editions.21 ­These two books w ­ ere soon joined by works penned by Americans traveling to the islands ­after 1898. In 1899, the Outlook sent H. Phelps Whitmarsh to report on the Philippines, and he quickly moved from writing about the Philippines to participating in the imperial government: in December 1900 he was appointed governor of Benguet Province.22 In 1900, Florence Kimball Russel set out with her husband, a Signal Corps officer, on a trip around the islands to lay telegraph cable. She ended up writing a book that resembles nothing so much as a blithe travel narrative, with its focus on short tours throughout the islands, encounters with a few elite Filipinos, and visits to a number of cultural sites.23 The same year, Fred Washington Atkinson began his job as the first general superintendent of education in the Philippine Islands, and a year ­later, Paul T. Gilbert, a f­ uture newspaper columnist and editor, set out for the Philippines a­ fter graduating from Yale. Atkinson’s writing focused primarily on educational issues in the islands, while Gilbert took his teaching job as an opportunity to try his hand at colorful, quasi-­ethnographic prose.24 Russel, Atkinson, and Gilbert all quickly published books on their experiences intended for popu­lar audiences. Though they wrote dif­fer­ent narratives, determined in part by their dif­fer­ ent backgrounds, jobs, and relationships to U.S. policymaking, they all positioned themselves as mediators and interpreters, producing texts that attempted to explain the nature of the Philippines and American goals in the Pacific to a curious reading public back home. They all wrote about the Philippines for

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a general audience, a broad national public of middle-­class and elite American readers. Some of their narratives, such as Charles Morris’s Our Island Empire, ­were widely read; many ­others w ­ ere reviewed in national newspapers such as the Los Angeles Times or the New York Times.25 Their books w ­ ere all also, to varying degrees, attempts to defend the colonial proj­ect to their readership, particularly in the context of vocal critique of that proj­ect. So-­called anti-­imperialists (who w ­ ere, more accurately, anticolonial) protested against territorial acquisitions, often invoking American founding commitments to “liberty” against territorial aggression. Dif­fer­ent po­liti­cal parties and positions came together u ­ nder the “anti-­imperialist” banner—­ Republicans and Demo­crats, mugwumps and socialists—­and so too did dif­fer­ ent concerns. Some argued out of a concern for the fate of the republic; ­others argued in solidarity with Filipinos who wanted in­de­pen­dence; and o ­ thers argued out of racist fears that territorial incorporation would introduce more nonwhite ­people into the United States. At its height, in late 1899 and 1900, the national American Anti-­Imperialist League counted almost seven hundred thousand contributors, hailing from e­ very state in the ­union.26 While they ­were largely unsuccessful in their immediate policy goals and campaigns, they forced their countrymen to wrangle with the potential incongruity between a nation founded on “liberty” and a growing colonial empire.27 Against this contingent of anticolonialists, most American civil officials, teachers, and travelers writing from the Philippines sought to explain the challenges of colonial rule and justify the need for it. They may have disagreed about par­tic­u­lar policies, but they did agree with one another on the basic princi­ple that the ­people of the Philippines ­were not yet ready for self-­rule. Some explic­itly stated that the purpose of their writing was to convince Americans of this fact; most dedicated numerous pages to elaborating on what they took to be the roots and character of Filipino incapacity.28 ­These writers drew on material published about the Philippines by non-­ Americans who ­were widely acknowledged experts or insiders—­particularly the work of John Foreman and Trinidad H. Pardo de Tavera. The Philippine Islands, a description of the archipelago written by the British Catholic John Foreman, was reputed to be the most influential (if also the most mistake-­ ridden) guide to the Philippines in the En­glish language.29 Trinidad H. Pardo de Tavera was an elite, European-­educated Filipino writer who belonged to a social and intellectual class known as ilustrados.30 He served as a member of the Philippine Commission and produced a number of descriptions of the Philippines, including a historical sketch that was part of the 1903 census. ­Because Foreman was Catholic but willing to critique Spanish Catholicism in

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the islands, and Pardo de Tavera was Filipino but sympathetic to U.S. Philippine policy, the work of both was mined by American writers for particularly agreeable insiders’ perspectives. Fi­nally, Americans at home got their information about issues in the Philippines not only from book-­length narratives but also from the secular and religious press and U.S. government publications. Throughout the first de­cade of colonization, the U.S. press produced extensive reporting and commentary on the Philippines. Magazines and newspapers ranging from the North American Review to the New York Evangelist did their own reporting and also ­published articles that drew heavi­ly on the more famous book-­length accounts, particularly Worcester’s. U.S. colonial officials also submitted yearly Philippine Commission reports to the president and, in 1903, conducted a census of the Philippines, from which reporters often quoted at length.31 ­Whether in the official, putatively neutral taxonomic language of the census, or in the intimate and quotidian terms of a teacher’s memoir, references to Catholicism in par­tic­u­lar played a central role in Americans’ understandings of the archipelago, for two reasons. First, the Catholic population of the Philippines confounded established American ideas about colonialism and Christian civilization: Could one “Christian” ­people actually colonize another? Anticolonialists used this point to argue against colonization, while proponents of U.S. empire in the Philippines turned it around: the Philippines became a proving ground for visions of an exceptional U.S. empire, involving the management of subjects precivilized by Spanish missionaries yet alienated by Spanish friars’ ties to the state.32 And, second, Philippine religious difference influenced the very shape and nature of U.S. colonial rule. While the population of the Philippines was approximately 90 ­percent Catholic when Dewey arrived in 1898, the Spanish had not succeeded in evangelizing the Muslims in the south and animist communities in the highlands. In response, U.S. officials ­adopted the Spanish distinction between Christian and infidel, dividing the archipelago’s population into “Christians” and “non-­Christians.” Such a binary constituted, as Paul A. Kramer has argued, a “racialized construction of religion,” creating a bifurcated colonial state through the attribution of “civilization” to Catholic Filipinos in contrast to their Muslim and animist brethren.33 Legally as well as linguistically power­f ul, the distinction was territorialized ­under U.S. rule: non-­Christians ­were governed separately, through the “Moro” and the “Mountain” provinces. Furthermore, the presumed divide between the “Christians” and “non-­Christians” was eventually used to justify the need for American supervision, based on an argument that each group needed to be protected from the vio­lence or coercion of the other.34 The

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(incomplete) history of Catholic evangelization of the islands, then, was central to American policymakers’ conceptions of the archipelago and justifications for their presence ­there. American Catholic and Protestant groups approached the Philippines with dif­fer­ent ambitions and interests. Protestant missionary groups responded to Dewey’s victory in Manila Bay by calling for a missionary drive to the Philippines, and the Catholic Church Extension Society—­a major Catholic home mission organ­ization—­pledged, in turn, to raise money for U.S. Catholics to “save the church . . . ​in the Philippines, the anchor of the church in the Pacific.”35 Outside of missionary competition, however, U.S. officials in the Philippines—­and often writers as well—­found themselves carefully staking out a ­middle ground, avoiding anti-­Catholicism, on the one hand, and what might look like state support for the Catholic Church in the islands, on the other. One early issue that required such navigation was the widespread use—­and pos­si­ble abuse—of Catholic churches by American soldiers.36 Americans ­were indeed using t­ hose churches for military objectives, and d­ oing so quite openly: stereopticon slides and books of photo­graphs often featured American soldiers perched atop steeples surveying the countryside or posing in front of churches-­ cum-­barracks.37 Catholic papers had been reporting on rumors of abuses of sacred spaces within religious buildings since at least December 1898, when the Boston Pi­lot reported on accusations that a soldier had broken into a convent looking for supplies and even, against the s­ isters’ protests, entered the cloister. In September 1899, this issue reached the front pages of the mainstream press when Colliers Weekly ran a photo­graph of American soldiers posing on a Catholic altar in Caloocan with a telegraph wire ­running over a tabernacle.38 A Catholic group called the Metropolitan Truth Society quickly issued a statement protesting such use as desecration and describing even worse be­hav­ior, including testimony that U.S. soldiers invaded Catholic burial vaults, “pulled out the bodies, broke open the coffins, and robbed the dead.”39 In response, President McKinley invited two members of the Catholic hierarchy who had already expressed support for American goals in the Philippines—­James Cardinal Gibbons and F ­ ather William McKinnon, the Catholic chaplain to the First California Regiment in the Philippines—to meet with him in the White House. Gibbons assured the president that the Metropolitan Truth Society did not represent the Catholic Church, and that the church itself, according to the Los Angeles Times, “had no complaint to make.”40 McKinnon defended the American soldiers: any desecrations that had happened, he said, ­were the fault of “natives and Chinamen” rather than American soldiers.41 The issue had a large enough impact that when Taft gave his

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speech at Notre Dame, he went out of his way to defend the use of church buildings as a military necessity.42 ­After the Philippine-­American War officially ended, U.S. Catholics’ concerns turned from Protestant soldiers’ conduct of war to the potential incursion of Protestant missionaries into the business of colonial government, and particularly the new colonial school system. In this they ­were joined by Catholics in the Philippines: both ­were angered by the influx of American ­Protestant missionaries to the islands. Some U.S. Protestant missionaries, in turn, complained that their own government was undermining their work by preventing them from preaching in American school­houses in the islands.43 American officials, for their part, wanted to distinguish their newly built, putatively secular school system from the church-­run schools of the Spanish era, but worried that Filipinos would boycott any school they perceived to be anti-­Catholic.44 The U.S. Philippine Commission eventually embraced a compromise in which religious instruction could be provided three days a week in the new public schools to students whose parents requested it.45 President Theodore Roo­se­velt attempted to further ease U.S. Catholic anx­i­eties by collaborating with Archbishop John Ireland of St. Paul, perhaps the most enthusiastic U.S. prelate regarding U.S. Philippine policy, on the hiring of a number of U.S. Catholic teachers for the Philippines, and even exempted them from the standard civil ser­vice examination.46 Protestant teachers w ­ ere carefully cautioned to avoid proselytizing, and ­were advised to acknowledge and re­ spect the power of Catholicism in their towns.47 Administrative caution was accompanied by literary circumspection; reporters and popu­lar writers realized early that, when reporting on Spanish Catholicism in the Philippines, they might have to defend themselves against accusations of anti-­Catholic bias. Already in 1898, the NewYork Evangelist complained that “if anybody protests against the United States becoming guardian of the monastic ­orders which have robbed and plundered the Filipinos and the Porto Ricans, he is pronounced a narrow-­minded bigot and religious fanatic.”48 Certainly the Evangelist was not the place to look for pro-­Catholic rhe­toric, but the complaint points to a concern that affected many popu­lar writers on the Philippines. Both Worcester and Morris criticized the friars extensively—­ sometimes in harsh terms—­but often did so by quoting long passages from the Catholic John Foreman’s Philippine Islands. As Worcester explained, “It is not from any lack of similar facts within my personal knowledge that I have quoted [Foreman] so extensively in this connection, but for the reason that

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his religious proclivities place him above the suspicion of prejudice which might attach to one not an adherent of the Catholic faith.”49 Combining negotiations with sympathetic U.S. Catholic leadership with strategic gestures of deference to Philippine Catholic concerns, colonial officials and sympathetic American writers continued to fight accusations that the colonies ­were a missionary enterprise in secular garb. The grounds on which this ­battle was fought extended from the United States to the Philippines to— in its most dramatic iteration—­Rome itself, as the Roo­se­velt administration sought a solution to what it called the “friar question.”

The Friar Question In the late nineteenth c­ entury, the o ­ rders of friars on the islands w ­ ere criticized by many Filipinos (often ­those who ­were devoutly Catholic) for five interconnected reasons.50 First, and arguably most importantly, the friars possessed absolute authority in some Philippine towns by virtue of their assumption of numerous civil as well as religious functions. T. H. Pardo de Tavera detailed such jobs in the Philippine Commission’s 1903 report: in addition to their religious duties, friars could also hold, among many other titles, “inspector of the primary schools,” “member of the board for partitioning Crown lands,” “inspector of taxation,” “supervisors of the election of the police force,” and “censor of the plays, comedies, and dramas in the language of the country, deciding ­whether they ­were against the public peace or the public morals.”51 Often friars assumed such a large civil role, critics argued, b­ ecause they ­were the only Spanish speakers in the towns. This complaint points to the second criticism of the friars: that they, as administrators of the educational system of the islands, attempted to secure such power by refusing to teach the Spanish language. (Beginning in the mid-­nineteenth c­ entury, increasing numbers of wealthy Filipino elites did begin to learn Spanish, but this change resulted from increased intermarriage with Spaniards and at-­home language instruction, rather than any change in the friars’ educational program.)52 The third complaint, which became a major po­liti­cal issue for American occupation officials, was that the ­orders owned massive tracts of fertile land on the islands—­over four hundred thousand acres—­and rented this land to Filipino tenants at extortionist rates.53 Adding to this impression of friar greed was the fourth complaint: that friars charged exorbitant sums for performing religious ser­vices, especially marriages and funerals. And fi­nally t­here ­were charges of

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friar sexual misconduct and allusions to the ostensibly high number of fair-­ skinned friar ­children to be found in many towns.54 ­These critiques of the friars had roots in two main ele­ments of the centuries-­ long history of the friars in the Philippines: the unusual power that the Spanish crown ceded to the friars in the Philippines, and the continued lack of Filipino repre­sen­ta­tion among the Catholic clergy in the islands. Both became impor­ tant in American books and articles that considered how the United States might respond to Filipino friar critiques, in part b­ ecause both had contributed to Filipino calls for revolution against Spain. In large part b­ ecause of the Philippines’ distance from Spain, much of the Spanish empire in the Philippines was administered by the Catholic Church. The friars had, along with the Jesuits, attempted the evangelization of the archipelago, beginning in 1565. On at least three separate occasions, the ­orders’ representatives in Spain persuaded the crown to retain the Philippines for religious reasons, even though the archipelago was never eco­nom­ically profitable. Contrary to the Catholic Church’s own rules, the friars retained control of Philippine parishes long ­after their initial missionary work was completed. They refused to cede the parishes to secular clergy (i.e., parish priests) and successfully fought a series of archbishops who sought to place the ­orders ­under episcopal oversight. Conversant in Philippine languages and living for many years in the islands, the friars distinguished themselves from the primarily Spanish-­speaking government officials on short-­term assignments, gradually amassing civil as well as religious authority and large tracts of arable land. Even given the typically intimate relationship between the Roman Catholic Church and the Spanish empire, the ­orders of friars wielded an unusual amount of authority in the Spanish Philippines.55 The power that the church wielded in the Philippines remained—­even more than three centuries ­after Catholics began their evangelizing work—­ primarily in Spanish hands. Some Filipino Catholics became parish priests, but Filipinos ­were prevented from admission to the o ­ rders. Eventually Filipino secular clergy did come to hold some parishes, but many lost them in the m ­ iddle of the nineteenth ­century, when they ­were turned over to the returning Jesuits (who had been expelled from the islands in 1768). Not only did religious authority significantly overlap with civil authority in the Spanish Philippines, then, but religious authority was predominantly—­and increasingly—­unavailable to Filipinos.56 Filipino antifriar sentiment developed as a central, organ­izing theme in Philippine reform and revolutionary politics in the late nineteenth ­century. In the 1860s, Filipino priests had protested the ­orders of friars’ dominance of par-

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ishes, leading to the execution of the Filipino priests Mariano Gomez, José Burgos, and Jacinto Zamora by Spanish colonial authorities in 1872, on charges of subversion.57 In the following de­cade the ilustrado-­driven propaganda movement familiarized many in the Western world with a Philippine critique of friar sovereignty. This critique was most memorably articulated by the writer and doctor who came to be considered the movement’s chief spokesman, Dr. José Rizal, in his pathbreaking novel, Noli Me Tangere. (The novel would be widely circulated in the United States ­after 1898, and considered by some a Filipino ­Uncle Tom’s Cabin).58 Propaganda texts helped inspire a short-­lived revolution against Spain in 1896. One of its leaders was Emilio Aguinaldo y Famy, the revolutionary who had been exiled to Hong Kong and returned to the islands at the behest of U.S. forces in 1898. A ­ fter the defeat of the Spanish, in addition to establishing a revolutionary government and Philippine Republic, Aguinaldo also advocated an expulsion of the friars and a confiscation of their lands. During and a­ fter the revolution, hundreds of friars w ­ ere imprisoned, and some ­were even tortured and murdered. Many fled their rural parishes and ­were living in exile in Manila.59 The U.S. colonial government spent a good deal of time debating what to do with ­these exiled churchmen and their vast landholdings. Not only did the government not want to antagonize the Vatican, and the large and growing U.S. Catholic voting population, but the U.S. was also bound by the Treaty of Paris. The treaty, which ended the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, included a provision that obligated the Americans to attempt to secure the release of the imprisoned friars and to re­spect ecclesiastical property rights.60 At the same time, many of the friars who had been ousted from their parishes ­were prevented from returning by threats of vio­lence on the part of their former parishioners. The central attempt of the Roo­se­velt administration to resolve the “friar question” is itself a case study in the efforts Roo­se­velt, Taft, and ­others made to satisfy all religious interest groups, and the difficulty of such a balancing act. Secretary of War Elihu Root put Taft in charge of an American del­e­ga­ tion sent to Rome in June 1902.61 This was a delicate task: the United States had cut off diplomatic relations with the Vatican in 1867, and the idea of pursuing diplomatic relations with a purely religious ruler seemed to contravene the separation of church and state. Before finalizing the plans, Theodore Roo­ se­velt had quietly ascertained that the editors of the United States’ two principal Protestant weeklies—­the Outlook and the Independent—­would stand ­behind the mission. He also carefully appointed both Protestants and Catholics to the mission.62 Nevertheless, the mission ran into diplomatic and public

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Figure 9. ​Photo­graph of Corregidor Island. The caption—­which both reports on antifriar sentiment and juxtaposes antifriar vio­lence with American military and colonial order—­reads: “Corrigidor Island [sic] is one of the most picturesque spots in the Philippines. The large building is the church from which the priest was taken by the natives and drowned in the bay. Corrigidor was soon brought ­under control [sic] of the Americans.” An Illustrated and Descriptive Art Collection of Amer­i­ca’s New Possessions (Chicago: International View, 1902). Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago, IL—­DS659 .I55 1902.

relations prob­lems. Negotiations broke down over the question of ­whether the Spanish friars could be removed from the islands: it was not u ­ ntil a year ­after the mission had been concluded that a solution was reached, which included the sale of friar estates to the United States for over $7 million and an encyclical from Pope Leo XIII encouraging the development of native Filipino clergy and the importation of American clergy to replace Spanish bishops.63 The friars, by this point, had dwindled in number to 246.64 Despite Roo­se­velt’s careful planning, some Protestant groups criticized what looked like the renewal of diplomatic relations with the Vatican—­even though Roo­ se­velt explic­itly denied this implication—­and some American Catholic groups, convinced the friars w ­ ere innocent by the pope’s refusal to allow their expulsion, began to blame Roo­se­velt for conducting the mission in the first place.65 Antifriar sentiment was itself repeated in the American press by both Americans and “representative” Filipinos. In an article published in the North American Review in 1902, for example, the Filipino members of the Philippine Commission—­T. H. Pardo de Tavera, Benito Legarda, and José Ruiz de

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Luzuriaga—­wrote that “the principal benefit resulting from American sovereignty in the Philippine Islands has been the liberation of the Filipinos from the sad and hated po­liti­cal intervention of the Friars.”66 In the same month, U.S. secretary of war Elihu Root was reported to have told the House Committee on Insular Affairs the same ­thing: that, in the words of the New York Times, “the most impor­tant ­thing to be done now was to dispose of the friar question, as it was felt that when the last proprietorship was brought to an end most of the agitation would end.”67 “Disposing of the friar question” meant, in a po­liti­cal and practical sense, figuring out what to do with the friars and the lands they claimed. But as American journalists, teachers, travelers, and civil officials in the islands encountered both antifriar sentiment and friars themselves, and as they penned descriptions of the Philippines past and pre­sent for e­ ager readers back home, they confronted their own friar question: they strug­gled to figure out how, exactly, to tell the friars’ story. W ­ ere t­hese men forces for the Christianization and civilization of the islands? ­Were they corrupted representatives of a decaying Spanish empire? Did they provide a model, or a warning, for Americans seeking to establish their own colonial order? T ­ hese questions mattered: as Americans at home and in the islands began to imagine what U.S. colonial rule might look like, the friars provided the nearest example at hand. In their accounts of the friars—as they drew on, transformed, and qualified Filipino antifriar language—­American writers told a story about colonial risks and rewards, and about heroism and civilization, in which they could find themselves.

Recasting Filipino Antifriarism Americans in the islands wrote feverishly about the friars. Some eschewed large-­scale critiques of clerical authority in ­f avor of explanations for friar corruption that ­were based on the friars’ economic class or individual moral fiber. Some focused on the domestic and sexual lives of friars, implicating them in larger concerns about gender, sexuality, and reproduction. And, most importantly, almost all of them drew a firm line between the heroic friars of the early days and the more complicated situation of present-­day friars, casting the early friars as part of a golden age of missionary ­labor in the Philippines. Two of the earliest—­and most popu­lar—­writers on the Philippines discussed the corruption of the friars but explained it as a prob­lem of class rather than religion. Charles Morris’s 1899 book on the Philippines acknowledged

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that the friars abused their power, but traced t­hese abuses not to the friars’ religion but to their class. Morris was a Pennsylvanian native who spent his early working years as a factory superintendent and then found a c­ areer in writing. He published a number of books throughout his ­career, including a biography of McKinley and three editions of The Aryan Race: Its Origins and Its Achievements, a book of racial pseudoscience that purported to chart the “evolution” of the so-­called Aryan race from its origins in southeastern Rus­sia to “its pre­sent intellectual supremacy and advanced stage of enlightenment.”68 In Our Island Empire, Morris often expressed criticism of the friars and even hoped that Protestant competition with the Catholic Church might raise the “morality” of the religion. Yet he also explained the friars’ misbehavior as originating from class rather than Catholicism. “The Austin [sic], Dominican, Franciscan, and Recoleto friars are largely recruited from the lowest classes of Spain,” he assured his readers. They “have no other training than that of the seminary, their lack of secular education leaving them a very ignorant class.”69 In his first book, the naturalist and soon-­to-be member of the colonial government Dean C. Worcester made the same claim, even implying that the friars’ religion was barely relevant in comparison with their rude quest for power. Like Morris, Worcester was no champion of all ­things Catholic: in fact, his book was pilloried by the Catholic press in the United States for what it considered an excessively unfair treatment of the church’s legacy on the islands. But he, like Morris, attempted to explain the source of antifriarism through reference to class: he too contended that the friars ­were recruited from Spain’s “lowest classes,” and then went on to explain that “rough soldiers have been known to profit by their observations while campaigning in the islands, return to Spain, and in a short time reappear in the colony as full-­fledged friars.”70 The quality that most characterized the friars, then, was not their religion but the fact that they w ­ ere occupying power­ful positions unsuited to their class status. Clerical power itself was not corrupting, just power in the hands of “rough” ­people. The British Catholic John Foreman may have been the source of Worcester’s and Morris’s claims about the friars’ class backgrounds, as Foreman’s book was cited explic­itly and quoted at length by many American writers in the Philippines, including Worcester. Foreman wrote that the friars “emerg[ed] from the lowest ranks of society, with no training what­ever but that of the seminary,” yet unlike his American admirers, Foreman saw this class background not as a reason for corruption but as an explanation for why they w ­ ere “more capable, than ambitious po­liti­cal men of the world, of blending their ideas with ­those of the native, and of forming closer associations with a rural

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population engaged in agricultural pursuits familiar to themselves in their own youth.”71 Clearly Worcester and Morris ­were not inventing their claims that the friars came from “rough” backgrounds. Yet just as clearly they saw ­those class distinctions in a dif­fer­ent light. Their use of the friars’ class backgrounds as an explanation for the friars’ abuses of power points to the fact that they w ­ ere on the lookout for explanations for t­hose abuses, and that s­imple anti-­Catholic claims about the corrupting power of Roman Catholicism or religious authority would not suffice. Beyond attention to class, Worcester, Morris, and other American writers assiduously reminded their readers that corruption was a universal temptation, and that each friar must be judged as an individual. Worcester, a­ fter championing the arrival of Protestant missionaries on the islands and arguing that they provided a useful atmosphere of religious competition, explained to his readers that such competition not only kept the friars from bad be­hav­ior but might also prevent such be­hav­ior among all religious authorities. A religious f­ree market, he claimed, would keep every­one “in that strait and narrow path from which, unfortunately, Protestant as well as Catholic missionaries have been known to stray.”72 Particularly in the context of the complaints against the friars, Worcester’s placement of Protestant missionaries on an equal moral footing with Catholics was striking: it cast friar misconduct not as a characteristic of Catholics in par­tic­u­lar but as a more universal temptation. Charles Morris was even more explicit in his individualism, making this argument a number of times in his book. “While many of the friars have been moral and well-­ meaning men,” he wrote, “their ranks have included a number of black sheep.” Just three pages l­ater he reminded his readers that “the friars, as a w ­ hole, are not chargeable with ­these faults, but their reputation suffers from the delinquency of many of their members.”73 Though the ultimate aim of each statement was critique, each critique was prefaced by a caveat that refused the extension of the critique to the entire body of friars in the islands. Neither Worcester nor Morris was denying the charges made against the friars but rather attempting to defend the corps of friars as a w ­ hole; they blamed ­those charges more on ­human nature than on Catholic faith or authority structures.74 This individualist approach to the friars was even more pronounced when talking about specific interactions with par­tic­u­lar friars. Government officials often hosted friars at social events, teachers ­were advised to make close friends with the local “Padre,” and travelers often boarded with friars during their trips to Philippine towns.75 In ­these contexts, American writers could depict sympathetic, hospitable friars as the opposite of the corrupted friars of

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Filipino antifriar discourse. They cast their hosts not as men bent on the acquisition of power and land—or the seduction of Filipino ­women—­but rather as gentle and sensuous figures, whose nostalgia for the Old World resulted in a kind of domesticated epicureanism. ­These friar depictions became both models for American colonial detachment and commentaries on the loneliness that such detachment could involve. The practice of staying with friars was established before the first wave of Americans arrived. In his 1890 Philippine Islands, John Foreman advised f­ uture travelers to visit the friars: “The parish priests, as a rule,” he explained, “are hospitable, and as a ­matter of courtesy should be visited.”76 Americans following in Foreman’s wake both took his advice and repeated it for t­hose who followed them. Worcester apparently made such use of friar hospitality that Neil ­MacLeod, the London Times’s representative in Manila, criticized him for what he thought was an ungratefully harsh portrait of his former hosts in his first book.77 Paul T. Gilbert, like Worcester, wrote a number of critical descriptions of friars in his ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia. The ­f uture newspaperman—­ himself the son of a Methodist minister—­did not let his own critiques of some friar be­hav­ior get in the way of his taking advantage of their hospitality. In a comment that was dismissive of the public outrage the friars faced, he called the priests and bishops that he met “charming and delightful men” who “are such hospitable entertainers that they have been frequently imposed upon by traveling Americans, who take the convents for ­hotels, regardless of the public sentiment.”78 Clearly t­hese two discursive strains w ­ ere not mutually incompatible: writers who recapitulated antifriar sentiment in one context could also describe individual friars in friendly tones in another. A few writers propagated stories of friars as genteel, if lonely, embodiments of civilization and lovers of the trappings of Old World elegance. In 1899, the Protestant weekly the Outlook sent H. Phelps Whitmarsh to the islands to write a series of articles. Whitmarsh was already known as a writer of seagoing tales with such titles as “The World’s Rough Hand.” The Canadian-­born son of an En­glish clergyman, he claimed that he had rejected his ­f ather’s plans to make him a pastor in order to lead a life of adventure.79 His life would shortly take a new turn, when he was appointed governor of Benguet Province by the Philippine Commission, but before that appointment he sent a number of essays on his experiences in the Philippines to the Outlook, including a long essay on a visit to a friar in Luzon. The essay was published u ­ nder his byline, though it was actually a translated and edited version of an essay published in Spanish in the 1880s by Spain’s chief columnist on the Philippines, Pablo Feced Temprano, or “Quioquiap.”

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The essay, titled “The Friar: A Philippine Sketch” in the Outlook, includes the racist disparagement of Filipinos typical of Quioquiap, but focuses primarily on a depiction of a friar named Fray Celestino as authoritarian but also sympathetic, nostalgic for Spain, and something of a gourmand. The friar and his visitor early on establish their common disdain for Filipinos: “I tell you,” the friar says, “they have neither consciences nor hearts; and considering ­these defects, I think we have accomplished a ­great deal. ­Don’t you think so?” Quioquiap/Whitmarsh replies, “I quite agree with you ­Father.” Commonality thus established, the author then goes on to describe in detail the food the friar served his visitor: choco­late with boiled rice, a cigar, and an elaborate dinner consisting of “puchero,” a substantial dish of ham, cabbage, carbanzos, and bananas boiled together. Then, in turn, a “kari,” or curry of kid’s meat; a fine “dalag,” a lagoon fish; and a mountain fowl, something like a pheasant, fried w ­ hole. ­Later a salad called “palasa,” and made of tender rattan-­shoots and the heart of a young palm, was handed round; and last a dessert of fruits was set before us. ­There was a green “nanca,” resembling a huge pineapple; some luscious mangoes; choice “lacatanes,” the finest kind of banana; chicos, guanabanas, and papayas. All through the meal a plate of the indispensable morisqueta [boiled rice] was left beside us to take the place of bread, and our glasses w ­ ere kept full of heavy Spanish claret.80

While the fancy dishes included both Spanish and Philippine foods, the friar also complained of homesickness: “Do you know,” he told his visitor, “my one hope is to return to my own p­ eople, my own country!” And l­ater he assured him that though they had a local dinner to­night, in general he himself eats “the good, old-­f ashioned Spanish puchero, or something like it” and complained that “the worst of it is that Eu­ro­pean articles ­here have been outrageously expensive.”81 While the story itself was not originally Whitmarsh’s, in translating, editing, and sending it to the Outlook without commentary, Whitmarsh was erasing the distance between American and Spanish colonial perspectives. His choice of the narrative is a telling one, both for the narrator’s expression of sympathy and agreement with the friar, and for the way it dwells on the epicurean delights and metropolitan longings of the friar’s home life.82 Paul T. Gilbert was more fully expressive of this trope than anyone e­ lse. He described one el­derly friar, with whom he stayed on an expedition, as “a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown, who bustled around so for us, . . . ​cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna, holding

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the glass of moscatel so lovingly up to the light before he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth crullers, tea, and elderberry pie.”83 The same chapter contains a long description of Padre Pedro, whom Gilbert identified as a “Recoleto.” Gilbert attributed to Padre Pedro a love of carefully prepared food and an affection for another male religious and their joint rituals of epicurean consumption: “Padre Pedro used to make a certain egg-­fizz which was a refreshing drink of a long after­noon. The eggs ­were lashed into a froth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the palms. The beauty of this beverage was that you could drain the cup, and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter up again, and have another drink of the same quality. ‘When Padre Cipriano comes ­here,’ said the friar, ‘eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make the foam come up three times. He knows well how to make thees drink.’ ”84 Gilbert’s narrative often approaches the long-­standing ste­reo­ type of the wealthy and sensual friar, only to confound the ste­reo­type with an affectionate (if condescending) portrait of a convivial displaced gourmand. Friar sensuality, it seems, when combined with colonial empire, became instead an embodied longing for the metropole and a heroic re­sis­tance to the lures of the local. Fourteen years ­later, the novelist Willa Cather would create a similar characterization of French churchmen in her classic novel about an archbishop in nineteenth-­century New Mexico, Death Comes for the Archbishop. But Gilbert prefigured her tone and style—­even her use of food as a signifier of high culture and nostalgia—­when writing about the Spanish friars in the Philippines in 1903. ­These depictions of friars-­as-­hosts provide a vision of imperial authority that was nostalgic and oriented t­oward the metropole. The friar may have engaged with the cultural landscape of the Philippines, but his primary desire was to retreat from it and to attempt to re-­create the sensual experience of his homeland. The loneliness and nostalgia at the heart of this characterization—­ the experience of empire as exile—­not only echoed an emotion that many American teachers and government officials reported when they first came to the Philippines, but also figures empire as duty and sacrifice, part of—in Kipling’s memorable phrase—­the “white man’s burden.”85 Furthermore, the “grandmotherly” friars ­were doyenes of a feminized domestic world. Sometimes the friars ­were portrayed as brave in the face of danger and willing to tuck “a revolver ­under his gown [and] . . . ​gallop down the road,” in Gilbert’s words.86 But in Gilbert’s long report on Padre Pedro’s home life, the author contributed to a larger domesticating discourse of empire, in which tales of adventure, risk, and bravado w ­ ere replaced by detailed depictions of daily life in the colonies. ­These domesticated narratives ­were often—­

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though not always—­the special purview of female authors, whose authority as imperial observers rested on their ability, even obligation, to place the vio­ lence of empire out of the frame of their descriptions.87 What Vicente Rafael has noted about the “banal” domestic details of w ­ omen’s imperial writing applies to ­these descriptions of friars as well: they contain “trace[s] of a certain triumph.” In other words, the domestic nature of ­these tales implied a conquest so complete that it allowed for boring domestic details.88 Read in this way, the detailed domestic scenes featuring Fray Celestino and Padre Pedro ­were declarations of the thorough success of their work as colonizers. T ­ hese friars had achieved what many American officials (and their wives) ­were attempting: they carved out a domestic haven for themselves, providing a vision of empire in which mud-­caked boots ­were exchanged for a long gown and a glowing glass of moscatel. And fi­nally, the friars in t­hese depictions ­were figures of both sexual and racial purity, figures who resisted full incorporation into the Philippine culture and landscape around them. In Gilbert’s story in par­tic­u­lar, the friar’s sensuality can be read as sexuality turned inward, creating not a mixed-­race empire but one that contained discrete oases of racial and cultural purity. Contrary to the more salacious images of friars at work in American and Philippine antifriar depictions, ­these men did not produce c­ hildren with Filipino ­women; rather, they reproduced Old World culture in their own homes. The semantic attention to that productivity in Gilbert’s text—to the egg fizz that, when lashed by a brush rolled between a friar’s palms, can “come up again and again”—­could be read as containing undercurrents of homosexual be­hav­ior or desire, a common trope in comic or critical depictions of friars or monks.89 Yet the turn from productive engagement with a Filipino w ­ oman to productive engagement with another Eu­ro­pean friar was also a refusal to mingle one’s substance with an “other,” a way of talking about plea­sure and sociability that was cordoned off from the potential sexual intermixtures of which the friars ­were accused, and which so many Americans feared. Accusations and fears of sexual mixture w ­ ere, in fact, frequently pre­sent in American discussions of the Spanish friars, sometimes in ways that extended beyond the original Filipino antifriar critiques. Accounts of rape and sexual misconduct ­were part of Philippine antifriar discourse both before and ­after 1898, but t­here is some evidence that American officials foregrounded sexual complaints when they talked about Philippine antifriar sentiment. During the first Philippine Commission’s interviews with elite Filipinos in 1899—­interviews that w ­ ere both information-­ gathering exercises and rituals of war­ time collaboration—­commissioners repeatedly asked about Spanish friars’ sexual

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misconduct while their interview subjects attempted to lead them back to the issue of friar land tenure. An example of one such testimony was given by Manila-­born José de Loyzaga y Ageo in August 1899. In the transcript included in the commission report, Loyzaga introduced himself as a l­awyer and director of the newspaper his ­f ather founded, El Comercio. A ­ fter Loyzaga testified that the friars’ civil authority entered into ­every aspect of ­people’s lives, the commission member asked him how that “affect[ed] the morality of the ­people,” to which he replied, “It had no effect.” Not satisfied with that answer, the commission pressed on: “Do you mean to say that the priests or the friars had no influence on the morality of the ­people, for we have heard a ­great deal of talk to the contrary, and we would like your opinion?” Loyzaga, evidently not understanding that by “morality” the commission almost always meant “sexual abstinence,” replied by talking about the “­little desire for work which the ­people have.” The commission, unsatisfied, became more blunt: “I mean to ask the question—­I might as well ask it directly—­whether the priests ­were immoral or not in connection with the Filipino ­women?” Loyzaga responded equally bluntly: “The friars lived with concubines. I think that only 5 per cent of them may be calculated as being half moral.” Now looking for the impact of this immorality, the commission asked ­whether “that condition create[d] a good deal of feeling among the Filipinos.” Loyzaga responded that he did not know ­because “anyone that showed any such feeling was deported, so that the feeling of the ­people was not made known.” Yet rather than use this opportunity to dwell on a previously forbidden subject, when the commission asked Loyzaga if friar sexual abuse was a cause of the revolution, he corrected them, explaining that the “insurrection of 1896 began over a purely agrarian question” and went on to explain about the o ­ rders of friars’ land owner­ship.90 Loyzaga’s testimony indicates that he was aware of and credited sexual critiques of the friars, but that, unlike his American interlocutors, he found questions of land owner­ship more impor­tant. The fact that he and other commission interviewees needed to be prodded to talk about sexual abuse suggests that an American preoccupation with the subject came more from the Americans’ own priorities than from what they w ­ ere hearing from Filipinos. Some observers commented on this American focus on sexual issues, which apparently continued during the tenure of the second Philippine Commission, led by Taft. Daniel R. Williams, who traveled with the Taft Commission as a secretary, noted in his 1913 memoir how unconcerned Filipinos seemed to be with the sexual be­hav­ior of friars.91 And Taft’s wife, Helen, agreed. In her 1914 memoir, Recollections of Full Years, Helen Taft even argued that Fili-

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pino testimony of friar sexual abuse became more frequent when Filipinos realized that a sexual critique was one that Americans w ­ ere particularly interested in hearing. She observed that “this charge [of friar sexual misconduct] was urged with more eagerness and emphasis ­after the Filipinos began to appeal to the American government than during Spanish times, and when the standard of morality in the Filipino priesthood of the period was considered, it seemed as if the accusers thought the charge would have more weight with ­those they sought to influence than it did with themselves.”92 Taft’s statement is clearly a critique of Filipino sexual mores; she manages to suggest both American virtue and innate Filipino immorality, pivoting from Filipino critiques of Spanish friars to her own critique of Filipino priests. Yet it is also a testimony that American officials found sexual accusations particularly compelling, and that Filipino criticism of friars changed as a result. Both Williams and Taft testify to the fact that American civil officials understood Filipino friar complaints in heavi­ly sexualized terms. This is not to say that the Americans ­were making it up, that sexual issues ­were not a part of Philippine antifriarism. Indeed, Rizal’s novel, Noli Me Tángere, centrally features an immoral friar, figuring him as both a driver of individual tragedy and a symbol of the hy­poc­r isy of the Spanish friars and their exploitation of the Philippines. But to draw a straight line from Rizal and his compatriots to American antifriarism would be to miss the fact that Americans ­were creatively appropriating and redeploying sexual critiques of friars for their own ends. Philippine antifriar politics comprised, on its own terms, a power­ful mixture of an agrarian critique and a bourgeoise enlightenment morality play. When, in American hands, the latter often came to overshadow the former, it was yet another way in which structural, economic critique could be turned into a conversation about individual ethics. When Williams and Taft observed that their American compatriots ­were more concerned about friar sexual be­hav­ior than ­were the Filipinos they spoke with, they ­were making an argument about a high American moral standard and a low Filipino one, turning what had been a Filipino critique of abuses of imperial and religious power into a description of general sexual immorality in the islands that could then serve as a rationale for American uplift. Furthermore, the conventions of American anti-­Catholicism prepared Americans in the Philippines to find sexual critiques of friar power particularly meaningful, and meaningful in a way that related directly to the history of race, sex, and domination in the United States. American Catholics back home ­were quick to note that the stories they heard coming out of the Philippines sounded like old antebellum anti-­Catholic horror stories. They w ­ ere

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not wrong: the convent captivity narratives that w ­ ere so popu­lar in the antebellum United States often revolved around graphic descriptions of priests’ voracious and violent sexual appetites. T ­ hese antebellum tales of i­magined captivity in Catholic spaces ­were, in the literary scholar Jenny Franchot’s words, “a strategic displacement for a­ ctual and ongoing captivities in antebellum Amer­i­ca”: ­these narratives achieved their fantastic antebellum popularity in part ­because they allowed white Protestant Americans to proj­ect anx­i­ eties about the enslavement of African Americans onto a po­ liti­ cally safe imaginative space.93 So it is no surprise that, when Americans repeated Filipino sexual critiques of friars, they read t­hese critiques in part through the lens of widespread white American ideas about sex, vio­lence, and race in the antebellum South. Their sexually focused take on antifriar critiques evinced not so much a concern about Catholic churchmen’s sexuality but rather a concern about the potential—­among Spanish friars and Americans alike—­for sexual abuse and interracial mixture. Take Worcester’s first book, for example. In it, he described a trip to Siquijor during which he encountered a friar who was “so fully occupied with caring for the morals of the community that he had scant time to look a­ fter his own.” Worcester then pivoted from morality to racial mixture: he reported leaving the community, and on his return three years l­ater, finding that “the number of Spanish mestizo ­children in the place had increased by ten.”94 While the critiques above remain focused on the friars, sexual critiques of the friars—­precisely b­ ecause they ­were also tied to race and reproduction—­ contained the potential to turn back on their American authors and audiences. In a North American Review article in 1902, the journalist Stephen Bonsal wrote at length about antifriar critiques. He concluded by acknowledging accusations of friar sexual misconduct, but noted forebodingly that “for more than four years the friars have been withdrawn, [yet] ­these miserable Eurasian ­children continue to come into the world in ever increasing numbers.” He left the cause of this “increase” during the U.S. colonial period to his audience’s imagination.95 Frank R. Steward was more direct. An African American military officer and provost judge in the province of Laguna during the U.S. military occupation, Steward wrote a series of short stories for Boston’s Colored American Magazine in 1902–3.96 Steward’s stories are explic­itly critical of the friars, and primarily on sexual grounds: he broke narrative flow in one story to argue that the United States should expel the friars, and the story’s plot revolves around a beautiful Filipina who, as the illicit d­ aughter of a friar, is rejected by Philippine society and becomes a prostitute. Yet he subtly suggested that the

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friar prob­lem was not confined to Spanish friars or even to the Philippines, but was a larger prob­lem endemic to any regime of racialized domination—­ returning, in a sense, to the concerns of antebellum anti-­Catholic fiction. One of his characters refers to the Filipina woman as a “pickanniny de frailes,” a nod to a racist American caricature of black c­ hildren that, itself, invokes the history of African American slavery. In another story, Steward described an American soldier from Texas whose “ancestry numbered some comrades of Sam Houston,” and who takes a Filipina mistress and then leaves her pregnant and abandoned.97 This second story—­slyly entitled “Men Who Prey”—­ reminded his readers that the Philippines was not the first place in which U.S. dominion followed Spanish empire, nor the first place in which white men used their power to gain access to nonwhite ­women’s bodies. Steward’s stories express both anxiety about the links between rape and sexual exploitation and systems of racialized authority, and a stubborn re­sis­tance to American exceptionalism: they suggest that links between sexual and territorial exploitation characterized both Spanish and U.S. imperial histories, from the U.S. Southwest all the way to Asia.98 Unlike Worcester or Bonsal, Steward’s concern was less with the potential for racial mixture than it was with the opportunity that empire provided—in both Spanish and U.S. contexts—­for white men to exploit and betray nonwhite ­women. Steward was both a participant in U.S. colonial empire and its critic, attuned to the white racism at the heart of the civilizing proj­ect even as he worked, as an American, to implement it.99 While American writers and officials individualized or explained away Filipino antifriar critiques, their approach to sexual critiques of friars was more complex. Appealing to ­those critiques could do many t­hings: distract from structural and economic critiques of the o ­ rders of friars, tar not only the friars in the Philippines but all of Philippine society with the brush of amorality, and speak to American histories of sexual vio­lence and white anx­i­eties about racial mixture. By far the most common way, however, for American writers and officials to qualify Filipino antifriar discourse was to make a sharp distinction between the admittedly complicated pre­sent and a simpler, more heroic past. American officials and writers almost universally drew a conceptually clear, if chronologically uncertain, line between the heroic friars of the early imperial period and the more corruption-­prone friars of the pre­sent. According to this narrative, the early friar missionaries ­were admirable, civilizing heroes. In his popu­lar 1899 book, Our Island Empire, Morris advised his readers that the “Roman Catholic missionaries” ­were “the true conquerors of the

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Philippines,” who “made their way fearlessly among the natives, converted them widely to Chris­tian­ity, and gained such an influence over them as to keep them in subjection to Spain during most of the time since.”100 His two principal themes would characterize many other depictions of the Philippines by American writers. The first theme was that the friars ­were “fearless,” overcoming danger and difficulty for the sake of spreading the gospel; the second that they, not Spanish soldiers, achieved the “subjection” of the Philippines. In his 1900 book, History and Description of the Picturesque Philippines, Hannaford began a chapter dedicated to “The Religious ­Orders” by claiming that “the church ruled the Philippines, through or sometimes in defiance of the Governor-­General, and the o ­ rders ruled the church.” Like Morris, Hannaford set the friars up as the real agents of Spanish conquest, in comparison with—­ and occasionally in competition with—­state officials. Perhaps imagining his readers’ dismay at a religious order usurping a state function, Hannaford went on to defend the work of the friars: “Nor was this originally so gross a violation of the fitness of ­things as it first seems. The conquest very largely, the civilizing and Christianizing wholly, of the native population w ­ ere toilsomely and patiently accomplished, so far as accomplished at all, by the members of the o ­ rders. It was they who tamed the masses into orderly beings. They ­were the class that stood next to the p­ eople, whose dialect they had spent years in learning. They understood the subject race sympathetically, and this was something the government placeholders never attempted to do.”101 Again like Morris, Hannaford stressed the difficulty of the friars’ work, casting the “civilizing and Christianizing” of the Philippines as a monumental task, with much work still left to be accomplished. But he also did more than praise the friars: he described why they ­were particularly fit for the task, in terms that echo depictions of Marquette as “peaceful conqueror” or Serra as a paternalist man­ ag­er of missions. In his estimation of early Spanish colonial history in the Philippines, Hannaford cast the friars as the colonial personnel most intimately involved in the lives of the “native population.” Unlike the “government placeholders,” the friars learned native languages and approached the p­ eople of the Philippines not with force or rule but with understanding and sympathy. Their “conquest” was “patient,” the friars “tamed” rather than dominated. Five years ­later, when Fred W. Atkinson published his book-­length description of the Philippines, The Philippine Islands, he too dwelled on the heroism and effective ­labors of the early friars. In the seventeenth c­ entury, he recounted, “religious activity of a most w ­ holesome kind continued to increase, and through the friar missionaries and their native lieutenants converted to the Christian faith the work of educating the ­people was seriously begun. ­Those accepting

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Chris­tian­ity as their new creed ­were constantly growing in numbers, and the friars ­were ever pushing farther into the interior, establishing missions in the very midst of heathendom and utterly indifferent to their own comfort and safety, carry­ing on the work of God, in a manner that was at once most praiseworthy and inspiring.”102 Like Morris and Hannaford, Atkinson depicted the friars in heroic terms. The language of “pushing” ever “farther into the interior” mimics tales of imperial exploration and conquest, and the claim that the friars w ­ ere “utterly indifferent to their own comfort and safety” depicts the friars as selfless in much the same way that Morris did in his characterization of the friars as “fearless.” Atkinson’s language also praised the seventeenth-­ century friars in terms that resonated with U.S. colonial goals. His claim that the religious activity the friars inspired was “­wholesome” subtly aligns with stated U.S. goals of improving the health and sanitation of the islands, and his description of evangelization as the “work of educating the ­people” mirrors his own ambitions as the first general superintendent of education in the Philippines. James A. LeRoy, who served as Worcester’s private secretary on the second Philippine Commission, agreed. In the first chapter of his two-­volume Americans in the Philippines, published in 1914, he acknowledged that some friars “abused and exploited” Filipinos, but argued that by and large they accomplished enough “to excuse even Spanish boastfulness.” In what might have served as a comprehensive definition of what he and his contemporaries thought of as “civilizing” work, LeRoy argued that, by 1700, “about three fourths of a million souls ­were baptized and settled in orderly communities, clothed in a modified Eu­ro­pean style, familiarized with the catechism and with vari­ous religious exercises printed for them in their native dialects, and ­were attending mass . . . ​in stone structures wherein Eu­rope seems for a moment to be transported to the Far East.” He went on to cite the advances in law, commerce, and navigation; improved “ways of agriculture,” charity, and education; and a “higher position” for “­woman” than “in any other Oriental country.” In an echo of the comparisons between Marquette or Serra and British North American colonists, LeRoy even argued that “Manila had its hospitals . . . ​ nearly half a c­ entury before the Pilgrims came to Plymouth” and “the first printing press in the Philippines was at work before the founding of Jamestown.” He concluded: “Enough of good ­there was about this period of conquest and settlement to justify its being called the ‘golden age,’ the glorious era of missionary work.”103 In the many historical narratives like ­these produced by American writers, the friars w ­ ere described in intensely positive terms—­a sharp contrast to

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Filipino antifriar discourse. American writers, as we have seen, repeated this antifriar discourse with qualifications and emendations, but—­when talking about present-­day friars—­they could never ignore it completely. So the enthusiastic cele­bration of the early friars was made pos­si­ble by a lapsarian narrative: when American writers described the early friars as inhabiting an imperial Eden of virtue and influence, they often also described the moment when that Eden fell. They did not always describe that moment in the same way. According to Hannaford, the friars began to lose their virtue and effectiveness when their greed got the better of them: “Till their greed for corporate wealth swallowed up worthier and kindlier motives,” he explained, “they befriended the natives consistently, and helped them in many ways.”104 But most other writers placed the blame less on a personal quality like greed and more on the mixture of church and state authority. Atkinson explained, “The so-­called friar question dates rather far back into the previous history of the Philippines, to the times when the members of ­these ­orders first began to act in other than a purely religious capacity.”105 William Howard Taft, in his own 1902 account of Philippine history, disagreed with the timeline but based his explanation of the friar situation on a similar lapsarian arc: ­ reat credit is due to the religious o G ­ rders for the work which they did in Christianizing the Archipelago and in bringing about the civilization which to-­day exists in the islands, but in the last half-­century the Spanish government, apparently without objection by the friars, imposed upon them extensive civil duties in connection with municipal and provincial governments, ­until substantially all the po­liti­cal power exercised in municipal governments became absorbed by the friars. . . . ​To the ­people of the pueblos the friar was the crown of Spain, and ­every oppression by the Spanish government was traced by them to the men whose po­liti­cal power had far outgrown that exercised by them as priests.106

Atkinson and Taft, both Protestant, could have explained friar corruption as part of a corrupting dynamic in the Catholic Church, but instead chose to root it in a contingent historical moment (and a failure of imperial administration), allowing them to idealize every­thing before that moment. The Legazpi-­Urdaneta monument raised by the U.S. military government in Manila may well be the only statue raised by Americans in the Philippines to Spanish friars. But throughout the first de­cade of U.S. war and colonial state

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building, American officials, teachers, journalists, and travelers memorialized the friars in many other ways. Rarely unqualified in their cele­brations, always attuned to the dif­fer­ent religious and po­liti­cal convictions of multiple pos­si­ble audiences, American observers insisted on a repre­sen­ta­tion of the friars that could acknowledge—­even make their own meaning of—­Philippine antifriar criticism, but that was ultimately about Eu­ro­pean Christian imperial heroism. And they did insist on it, as a rare narrative break in the 1903 census makes clear. The census’s official historical essay on the Spanish period—­including a discussion of the friars—­was written by the Filipino intellectual and politician T. H. Pardo de Tavera. The very fact that he was invited to write the essay testifies to the impor­tant place that he and other ilustrados occupied in colonial society. His essay is critical of the friars and seeks to explain Filipino re­sis­ tance, though also includes conciliatory gestures. “The friars undoubtedly ­were responsible for many [bad] ­things,” he wrote, “but they also should be credited with the attainment of certain results in the civilization of the Filipino ­people, the credit for which is now denied them.”107 Pardo’s attempt to include some positive reference to the friars was not enough for Gen. J. P. Sanger, the director of the census. Sanger’s introduction to the first volume explic­itly criticizes Pardo’s text. “While the facts stated by him are generally correct,” Sanger acknowledged, “and his views are entitled to the greatest consideration, it is not thought that he has given to the religious o ­ rders in the Philippines the commendation which their efforts in behalf of the Filipinos fairly merit.”108 The census then goes on to include an excerpt from a speech Taft gave at Notre Dame in 1904—­the same speech that opened this chapter. The quote is inserted directly into the introduction, extending for almost five full pages. It contains Taft’s description of the Legazpi-­Urdaneta monument, as well as his compliments to the U.S. military government for the “graceful act” of erecting it, and his claim that it “satisfies the sense of admiration that one feels in reading of the enterprise, courage, and fidelity to duty that distinguished ­those heroes of Spain who braved the then frightful dangers of the deep to carry Chris­tian­ity and Eu­ro­pean civilization into the far-­off Orient.”109 The inclusion of Taft’s celebratory speech—­framed as a rebuttal to Pardo’s historical essay—­constitutes an unusual break in the flow of the census. It testifies to two ­things. It is a reflection of American officials’ and writers’ constant engagement with Filipino antifriar discourse, a subject so impor­tant that Pardo’s explanation of it was included in the census. And the very intrusion of Taft’s words into Pardo’s testimony also reflects the U.S. commitment to qualifying and transforming that discourse.

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American writers and officials did so by blaming corruption on the class background of the friars or on bad individual friars, avoiding critiques that could be accused of anti-­Catholicism or that framed friar corruption as a structural prob­lem of Spanish colonialism. In this individualized climate of critique, con­temporary Spanish friars—­both good and bad—­became models and cautionary tales, rhetorical sites for talking about the challenges of colonial administration. And, by erecting a clear rhetorical wall between the complicated status of the present-­day friars and the heroism and inspiring qualities of the early friars, the early friars became heroes of a golden age of Philippine missionary history, lauded for their civilizing work in ways that echoed the cele­ bration of other “civilizing” Catholic histories in the Midwest and Southern California. Five years a­ fter Taft gave the speech quoted in the census, he gave another speech. In 1909, in a speech that opens this book, the newly elected president of the United States spoke in Riverside, California, about the virtues of the Spanish Franciscan Junípero Serra. Knowing ­little about Serra himself, Taft turned to his experience in the Philippines, and to his admiration of the early Spanish friars. He prefaced his remarks about Serra and the history of the Franciscans in California by establishing his expertise on Spanish friar history in general. “In the Philippines,” he told his audience, “I have seen the ­great work done, not only by the Franciscans, but by the Jesuits, Rigolettos [sic] and the Augustines; I have had ample evidence of heroic work done by the Spanish Christians in the Pacific Islands—­the Spanish Christians w ­ ere the only Christians who carried the gospel to t­hese savages and they are entitled to all praise for the work which they accomplished in the sixteenth ­century.”110 For Taft, the same logic pertained in the telling of the missionary histories of the Philippines and of California: the United States now governed both places, and owed a debt of gratitude to the civilizing work done by ­earlier Spanish Catholic missionaries. As with Marquette and Serra, the language of “civilization” and “Christianization” elided distinctions of confession and nationality. It advanced, instead, a vision of a putatively common, transhistorical, global proj­ect of Eu­ro­pean and American conquest and assimilation.

Chapter 6

Envisioning Catholic Colonial Order

In February 1901—­almost a year and a half before the official end of the Philippine-­American War—­one of the United States’ major Protestant weeklies, the In­de­pen­dent, attempted to explain the “friar prob­lem” to its readers. Why do Filipinos hate the Spanish friars so much? For the answer, it turned to Antonio Regidor, a Manila-­born ­lawyer of Spanish heritage and writer who published extensively against the friars. He gave an explanation typical of Filipino antifriar discourse: the principal prob­lem, he said, was that the friars ­were property hungry. The In­de­pen­dent also published a preface, written by the editors, that commented not so much on Regidor’s specific claims but rather on their implications for religion in the U.S. colonial Philippines. Lambasting Catholic Church policy for its “stupidity” and “folly,” the In­de­pen­dent cited the loss of the pope’s territory in Italy and po­liti­cal controversy in “France, in Spain, in all Latin Amer­i­ca,” and claimed that the Catholic Church seemed, even though it had believers the world over, not to be able to keep itself from antagonizing its faithful. “A notable t­hing about the Catholic Church is its sad lack of statesmanship,” the editors maintained. “No won­der Protestantism spreads.” Remarkably, even though the In­de­pen­dent’s editors identified themselves as Protestants who supported any victory for their own faith, they did not predict a Protestant ­future for the American Philippines. “We hold to the Protestant type of Chris­tian­ity, not the Roman,” they declared, “but we expect the Roman Church long to live, and that it ­will long hold sway in the Philippines. Therefore we want it t­here at its best, not its worst. It is better, more

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prosperous and successful h ­ ere [in the United States] than in any other country in the world, and its adherents are loyal, as they are not in any of the Latin countries. It is this kind of Catholicism that they [the Roman Catholic Church] ­ought to want to develop in our new American possessions.” When they defined “this kind of Catholicism” they turned to the relationship between the church and the state: “­Every American Catholic knows,” the editors argued, “that an entire separation between Church and state is best for the Church.” They averred that the development of this kind of Catholicism in the Philippines was not just in the interest of the Catholic Church; it was also in their own interest, as Americans. “We need their [the Catholic Church’s] help,” they bluntly noted, “not their hindrance.”1 The In­de­pen­dent’s diatribe against the Catholic Church’s statesmanship contains within it the three key ele­ments of American forward-­looking discourse about Catholicism in the Philippines: the lessons that many Americans—as new administrators of the Philippines—­believed they could learn from their friar pre­de­ces­sors. First, as the In­de­pen­dent argued, none but the most ardent Protestant missionaries believed that the American Philippines would become Protestant—or at least not any time soon. Observing Protestant missionaries’ minimal success, other American Protestants joined their Catholic compatriots in claiming that perhaps Catholicism was the right religion for the Philippines, at least for the time being. Second, the In­de­pen­dent was typical in expressing a sometimes grudging support for the perpetuation of the Catholic Church in the Philippines. “We need their help,” the In­de­pen­dent declared, and many other Protestants agreed. American Protestant writers argued that the United States could be helped by the church b­ ecause the church had provided a source of imperial order in the past, and might do so in the f­ uture. They pointed to examples of friars instilling order in Philippine society—in both the distant past and the pre­sent, notwithstanding antifriar uprisings—to show the potential value of Catholic religious authority in a colonial environment. They also dwelled at length on the opposite of religious order: examples they encountered in the Philippines of the power of Catholic faith and ritual run amok, outside the bounds of the friars’ authority. They painted a picture of a community of Catholics who might be excellent colonial subjects if provided with the right kind of religious leadership, but who, without that leadership, could become a potent source of disorder, even rebellion. And third, as the In­de­pen­dent declared, many Americans concluded that they wanted the Catholic Church in the Philippines “at its best.” Its “best,” for them, meant a church or­ga­nized in relation to the state on an American model,

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one that embraced, as the In­de­pen­dent claimed, “an entire separation between Church and state.” ­Here the notion of religious freedom was invoked in the ser­vice of empire: American officials and writers promised Filipinos religious freedom, casting it as liberation, while refusing them po­liti­cal self-­determination. This move also brought Protestant observers and colonial officials into alignment with a movement within the U.S. Catholic Church itself. The so-­called Americanist wing of the church had, for de­cades, been arguing against their more conservative coreligionists that the church as a ­whole needed to embrace an American model of religious freedom. Some Americanist prelates took advantage of this alignment between their own vision for the Catholic Church and the colonial vision for what a liberal Catholicism could do for the United States. They championed the ability of liberal Catholicism to serve the ends of American colonialism, and through such public advocacy for U.S. empire they sought paths to po­liti­cal influence.2 This chapter analyzes this forward-­looking discourse, exploring the lessons that American writers and officials i­magined the Catholic history of the Philippines might provide for the advancement of the U.S. colonial state. It argues that, like the commemorations of Marquette and Serra, admiring stories about the friars cast them as model civilizing heroes. But unlike in the Midwest and in Southern California, where Marquette and Serra ­were ­imagined to have laid the foundation for gentle, assimilative conquest and economic growth, in the Philippines at the beginning of the twentieth ­century, the most common value that Americans associated with the friars’ version of “civilizing” work was their purported ability to instill order. U.S. observers’ concern with the friars’ civilizing order reflected both a fear of insurgency developed during war­time and specific responses to Philippine transformations of Catholicism. When, in November 1899, Aguinaldo’s forces determined that what hope they had for victory lay in the adoption of guerilla tactics, American observers and policymakers responded by racializing Filipino fighters. They began to describe all Filipinos as inherently unreliable and potentially treacherous, and to treat them accordingly.3 This distrust and fear of uprisings continued beyond the official end of the war and, during and ­after war­time, colored American interpretations of Philippine transformations of Catholicism. U.S. writers and officials expressed derision and alarm in response to the Filipino practice of culturally distinct Catholic rituals; the rise of a popu­lar Filipino nationalist, schismatic church called the Iglesia Filipina Independiente; and the existence of militarized religio-­political uprisings. Looking for a way to preserve religious and po­liti­cal order without replicating the Spanish ­mistake of uniting church and state, and convinced that

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Filipinos would remain Catholic—­and therefore in need of strong religious guidance—­many Americans turned to a particularly U.S.-­centered vision of Roman Catholicism, and even to advocating for the import of Americanized Catholic priests. The fact that Protestants ­were advocating this level of close collaboration with the Catholic Church—­and, in par­tic­u­lar, with priests and prelates—­set the cele­bration of friar history in the Philippines apart from the cele­bration of other Catholic imperial pasts. To be sure, in the Midwest and Southern California, Catholic priests and prelates had collaborated with Protestants and lay Catholics to raise monuments to Marquette and Serra. Bishop Conaty, in par­tic­ul­ar, even became an impor­tant leader in Serra cele­brations. But in neither place did large groups of Protestants suggest that modern-­day Catholic priests and prelates ­were needed to carry on the legacy of the historical missionary o ­ rders. To do so would not only have been to reject the possibility that present-­day Protestants could carry on that legacy—an impor­tant claim in both the Midwest and in Southern California—­but also to collapse the subtle distinction between the missionary o ­ rders, on the one hand, and the clerical Catholic hierarchy, on the other. In Marquette and Serra cele­ brations, the relative in­de­pen­dence of the missionary o ­ rders from the hierarchical church, together with their historical remove from the pre­sent, acted as buffers: American Protestants could celebrate historical Catholic missionaries as found­ers of their communities and even models for their own work without fully embracing the idea of Catholic clerical authority. In other words, one might celebrate the civilizing work of an eighteenth-­century Franciscan and still have trou­ble accepting the religious authority of a present-­day parish priest or a bishop. Yet, in the Philippines, this buffer collapsed: past bled into pre­sent, and Americanized priests and prelates ­were envisioned as replacements for the friars. An embrace of religious freedom made this pos­si­ble: American Protestants might laud the friars’ legacy and advocate for the import of Americanized priests to the Philippines, but only while they also advocated for a Catholicism that would preserve and protect religious freedom, that would— in other words—­continue to hold the line against Rome’s claims to global temporal and spiritual authority.

Catholicism as Colonial Control Americans on secular assignments in the Philippines consistently parted with their Protestant missionary brethren, claiming that Filipinos would—­and should—­remain Catholic. Catholicism, they argued, was the religion best suited

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to what they believed to be the racial character of Filipinos. It was also, observers noted, a potent source of imperial control. Even amid the widespread antifriar sentiment discussed in the previous chapter, many Americans—­both Catholic and Protestant—­claimed that good friars played a key role in colonial administration. Their attention to the connection between the church and social control pervaded American arguments about the value of friars, and even inflected their descriptions of Catholic cele­brations and pro­cessions. Everywhere around them they saw evidence of the church’s role in establishing and maintaining an orderly society. Fred W. Atkinson, for example, the educator from Mas­sa­chu­setts who became the first general superintendent of education in the Philippines, argued that Catholicism was “the religion best suited to the temperament, spirit, and character of the vari­ous Filipino races.”4 He remained vague about what he meant by Filipino racial “character,” but o ­ thers w ­ ere more explicit. Though some struck out rather wildly—­Jacob Isselhard, the author of the self-­published Filipino in Every-­Day Life (1904) and himself a Catholic, claimed that the church’s numerous holidays made it “an institution well adapted to the Filipino’s inherent aversion for work”—­the most common explanation cast Catholicism as a gilded version of Chris­tian­ity.5 In the Philippines as elsewhere, Protestantism was described (by Protestants) as a religion of text and reason, and Catholicism as a religion of surface and form—of g­ rand architecture and decoration, of pleasing ritual, and of holy images—­which made it particularly appropriate for a putatively irrational p­ eople. Adjutant Ebenezer Hannaford made just this point. In his lavishly illustrated, magazine-­style History and Description of the Picturesque Philippines with Entertaining Accounts of the ­People and Their Modes of Living, Customs, Industries, Climate and Pre­sent Conditions (1900), he told his readers that “the ritualism and gorgeous splendor characterizing the rites of Roman Catholicism ­were exactly suited to attract the show-­loving, impressible native.”6 Isselhard struck an almost identical note: “The Filipino,” he wrote, “. . . ​is very imaginative, is easily influenced by outward appearances and pompous displays, and, therefore, the decorative ritualism peculiar to the Roman Church impresses him.”7 In declaring that Catholicism’s appropriateness for Filipinos was rooted in its pomp and imagery, t­ hese writers ­were also saying that Catholic forms ­were particularly suited to influencing the Filipino mind. American Protestant writers did not cast ­these forms—as they often did when talking, for example, about travel to Eu­ro­pean Catholic sites—as sublime and impressive, capable of seducing even the most wary observer.8 In the Philippines, they argued that the attraction of Catholic form and ritual was felt most intensely by Filipinos—­

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evidence not of the par­tic­u­lar magnetism of Catholicism but rather of “the Filipino’s” par­tic­u­lar receptivity to such displays. In Isselhard’s and Atkinson’s formulations, the Filipino believer was presumed to be “easily influenced,” a “show-­loving, impressible native.” The issue was not one of the Catholic Church’s intrinsic attractions, but of its sway over Filipinos in par­tic­u­lar. This logic worked for Protestant American imperialists as evidence of the primitive nature of Filipinos. It demonstrated Filipino Catholics’ unfitness for self-­rule by illuminating the ease with which they could be led. Filipinos’ devotion to Catholicism also demonstrated, to some, the mechanism by which Filipinos could be led. Catholicism, in this sense, was not only a marker of a primitive mind but also a technology of empire. Some writers w ­ ere explicit about linking the friars and their religion to this kind of control. In his Our Island Empire (1899), Charles Morris argued that the friars “­were enabled to control [Filipinos] through the agencies of faith and superstition.”9 Four years ­later Paul T. Gilbert struck the same note in his ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia. He described the “subjugation” of the “natives” as originating in “the finding of the Santo Niño [a Christ figure in Cebu with a reputation for miraculous power].” “Since then,” he wrote, “the monks and friars, playing on the superstition of the islanders, have managed to control them and to mold them to their purposes.”10 U.S. Catholics frequently reminded their readers that, in the words of one American Catholic Quarterly Review writer, the Catholic Church was an “ele­ment for the preservation of peace and public order” in the Philippines.11 But many writers for Protestant publications did not need that reminder. Provided the friar was ­doing his job well, they argued, he would indeed inspire social order. As early as 1898, a writer for the Presbyterian New York Evangelist, an American merchant who, the editor reported, had “spent over twenty years in Manila,” claimed that “one can tell on entering a village by its appearance ­whether the priest be a true pastor to his flock, or not. In the one case, the streets ­will be clean, the surroundings of the h ­ ouses neat and orderly, trees w ­ ill be planted between the ­houses to check the pro­gress of fires, and every­thing ­will indicate habits of thrift and care.”12 A good priest—­and in 1898, most priests ­were friars—­was understood to be responsible for every­thing from making the Philippines governable to beautifying the village: he dispelled both po­liti­cal and aesthetic chaos, turning the ­people tractable and the wild landscape into a suburban neighborhood.13 In the words of an essay in the 1903 census, a good friar could be the “controlling influence in ­these primitive communities.”14 A similar sentiment was expressed by Theo­philus Gould Steward, an African Methodist Episcopal minister and U.S. military chaplain. In his memoir,

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Fifty Years in the Gospel Ministry, he quoted a letter he wrote to the Catholic Archbishop Placide Louis Chapelle in which he declared, “I am a Protestant, but I do see the crying need of ministers of God in t­hese [Philippine] towns. Especially is their power needed to encourage ­f athers and ­mothers in guarding their ­daughters from the trying temptations of the hour. I observe a difference in the town where ­there are curates.”15 Theo­philus Steward was the ­father of Frank R. Steward, the short story writer whose work was discussed in the previous chapter. While his son used his writing as an opportunity to subtly critique the white racism he saw around him in the U.S. colonial Philippines, the elder Steward spoke from his position as an American missionary to critique—as other Americans and missionaries did—­the social and moral order of Philippine society. As Helen H. Jun has argued about depictions of the “heathen” Chinese in the black press in the United States, what she calls “Black Orientalism” was not just an “unfortunate” example of African American prejudice but rather a way that some African Americans “waged strug­gles for po­liti­cal inclusion within [a] dominant discursive context of racialized citizenship.”16 In an era in which African Americans w ­ ere denied the full mea­sure of citizenship through law, regulation, custom, and terror, some turned to language to produce a “civilized” black subject. One way to do so was to claim Chris­tian­ity, as part of Western Civilization, against the “heathen.” In the context of a colonial proj­ect that could be described—as it was in Paul T. Gilbert’s title—as the proj­ect of the “­Great White Tribe” of Americans, the elder Steward’s calls for Christian order echo the strategies Jun illuminates in the black press at home, but with a cross-­confessional twist: in writing to an archbishop, Steward is aligning himself, an A.M.E. minister, with a Catholic prelate in the same civilizational work. As ­these diverse claims make clear, American Protestants both in the islands and reporting second­hand from the United States often attributed successful imperial control to Catholicism—to the Santo Niño, to “agencies of faith and superstition”—­all u ­ nder the guiding hand of the friars. While American observers could find evidence of this control in quotidian details—in clean streets and orderly homes—­the moments when religious faith was most publicly and visibly professed ­were of par­tic­u­lar interest. Saint’s Day festivals and pro­cessions, for some writers, became per­for­mances of colonial order ­under a religious imprimatur. American writers often cast religious pro­cessions as necessary to Philippine social life, releases from a buildup of monotony that would other­wise be crushing. In 1906, William B. Freer published The Philippine Experiences of an American Teacher. The Episcopalian Freer arrived in the Philippines ­after having

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taught in Native American boarding schools in California, and showed ­great interest in Philippine religious cele­brations. Freer described the role of festivals in almost social-­scientific language: he classed festivals (along with the Sunday mass, the market, and the cockfight) as one of “the only opportunities for the gratification of the social instinct in the small and remote towns.”17 In 1907, George Waldo Browne, a prolific writer of popu­lar histories and c­ hildren’s lit­ er­a­ture and the author of the six-­volume New Amer­i­ca and the Far East, said almost the same ­thing about the city of Manila: “The streets of Manila are narrow, and have a dark, oppressive, monastic atmosphere, seemingly decidedly gloomy in ­these modern days. Religious pro­cessions are about the only relief afforded the secluded, monotonous life of the town.”18 ­These descriptions bring a sense of secular, social necessity to religious festivals: the festivals w ­ ere described as uniquely capable of providing respite from the pressures of everyday life. They imply, particularly considering that ­these pro­cessions ­were sponsored by church leaders who w ­ ere also imperial authorities, that religious cele­brations kept Philippine society bearable, and so ­were necessary for imperial order. Charles Morris put the connection between the pro­cessions and their usefulness to imperial rule boldly. “It is in considerable mea­sure by religious pro­cessions,” he wrote, “that the Church holds its ascendency [sic] over the Filipinos, ­these being the pride and delight of the native mind.”19 Religious pro­cessions, in other words, ­were the bread and circuses of Spanish imperial rule. Some Americans in the Philippines also suspected that pro­cessions may have been a way of policing community uniformity. American teachers and missionaries in par­tic­u­lar, who paid close attention to their own position in the communities in which they worked, noted that pro­cessions involved a public declaration of one’s religious allegiance, with potentially power­f ul results. In a speech at the American Teachers’ Institute at Cebu in 1902, the deputy division superintendent offered this advice: ­after telling American teachers that their success in Filipino towns depended on their ability to make friends with the “padres,” he remarked: “I can not go into details as to just how this can best be achieved, but I may throw out the hint that a candle placed in the win­ dow of your ­house when, on some fiesta, the ­whole pueblo is decorated and the pro­cession is to pass by, ­will go a long way ­toward placing you in ­f avor. And be assured that the padre ­will know it.”20 He was prob­ably right. In 1904, the missionary Celia Sainz reported in the Watchman that Catholics “stoned the ­house of some of the Protestants [in Pontevedra], b­ ecause they did not put lamps outside the win­dows when the pro­cession passed.”21 To missionaries and teachers, who often worked and socialized away from other Americans, festivals

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appeared to be moments when community outsiders w ­ ere marked by their lack of participation. They ­were both cele­brations and a quasi-­compulsory per­ for­mance of allegiance to the principal authority of the town. While for Sainz and the Teachers’ Institute speaker the Filipino Catholic faithful ­were ­doing the observing during the festivals—­winding through the streets, looking out for the h ­ ouses without lights—­for o ­ thers, the p­ eople in the pro­cessions ­were the ones who ­were performing. Such is the case in William B. Freer’s many depictions of festivals in The Philippine Experiences of an American Teacher. Freer’s beliefs about the appropriateness of colonial rule for the Filipino ­people ­were written into his book’s descriptions of religious festivals, including an entire chapter devoted to a festival honoring San Luis de Ventran in Solano. Freer began his book by explic­itly stating his imperialist sympathies: he chose as his epigraph a stanza from Kipling’s poem “White Man’s Burden,” and he stated in the foreword that he hoped his book would give his readers, among other ­things, “a stronger conviction of the unwisdom of granting, at this time, any greater degree of self-­government than the Filipinos already possess.”22 To Freer, the Filipino ­people had long required an external governing authority, and his generally admiring descriptions of Philippine religious festivals indicate the ways he saw Catholic cele­brations as supporting that authority. Freer highlighted the long history of t­ hese festivals, depicting them as markers of social and cultural stability and of the consistent power of the church over generations. He dedicated ten pages to the description of a festival in Nueva Cáceres, “in honor of Our Lady—­Nuestra Señora de Peña Francia.” This festival, which “eclipses all o ­ thers of southern Luzon,” featured a period of nine days of prayer (a novenario), a Solemn High Mass, and a pro­cession that involved transporting the statue of Nuestra Señora by boat down the river. The festival ended with a large dance. A ­ fter his description of t­hese events, Freer closed his account by musing not about the nature of the festival but about its longevity and imperial origin: “So, for almost two hundred years have the ­people of the Bicol region rendered homage to their most excellent patroness, Nuestra Señora de Peña Francia. In some re­spects,” he concluded, “the Spanish friars did their work well.”23 Freer ultimately understood this festival in the context of Spanish imperial tutelage. For him, the festival continued, even ­after “almost two hundred years,” to be marked by its origins as externally imposed, and so its per­sis­tence was testimony not to the faith of Filipino believers but rather to the lasting influence of the Spanish. But Freer did not have to praise the friars explic­itly in order to portray the festivals as reflecting and reinforcing social order and colonial hierarchy. In his

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chapter on the festival in Solano for San Luis de Ventran, he paid special attention to the ways that the cele­bration became a per­for­mance of social and po­liti­cal authority. In his recounting, the festival period began with a big dinner and dance, to which, he pointed out, only Americans and leading Filipinos w ­ ere invited. The next day revolved around the pro­cession, which he described in detail: First, came a boy bearing a silk banner decorated with religious devices; next the crucifer, and on ­either side candle-­bearers holding aloft burning candles set in ornate silver candlesticks. Following them marched the choir of men and boys, chanting, and ­after ­these was borne a statue, two-­thirds life-­size, arrayed in ecclesiastical robes, representing Santo Domingo. The pedestal on which the image stood was decorated with lighted candles and carried on the shoulders of men, who, in common with all o ­ thers assisting, wore red and white surplices. Then came a sacristan walking backward and waving a censer of burning incense in front of the statue which followed, that of San Luis de Ventran, in whose honor the ser­vice and fiesta ­were celebrated. This figure was magnificently dressed and was surrounded by many lighted candles and artificial flowers in colored glass vases. Next came the parish priest, in heavy white robes, richly embroidered with gold. We Americans followed him, and ­behind us marched in straggling pro­cession the principal personages of the town, bearing lighted candles.24

First came the religious part of the pro­cession: the banner with the “religious devices,” the candles, the choir, and the richly ornamented statues. This part of the pro­cession consisted of Filipino parishioners, transformed by sacralized attire (the surplices) and be­hav­ior (chanting, carry­ing candles or statues). B ­ ehind them came the priest, the link between the two sections of the pro­cession, significant in both a religious and a po­liti­cal sense. The po­liti­cal part of the pro­cession followed him, featuring ­those carry­ing or ­doing nothing par­tic­u­ lar, representative not of sacred power but of social and po­liti­cal authority. In this part, the Americans led the way, followed by the “principal personages” of the town. The inclusion of this order in Freer’s narrative, and his careful noting of the Americans’ proscribed role, was not incidental; throughout his description of the festival, Freer was acutely attentive to the position of Americans in relation to “principal personages.” A ­ fter describing the pro­cession, he went on to discuss the position of the Americans in the ensuing church cele­bration.

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“Fi­nally we passed back into the church,” he recounted, “and the Americans ­were given one of the two seats at the front of the men’s side.” ­Later he remarked that during mass “the presidente and other municipal officials occupied seats of honor jointly with ourselves.”25 For Freer, the festival was a way of performing and constituting Philippine social order and the Americans’ place within it. Freer’s festival participation was a religious form of what Paul A. Kramer has called “fiesta politics”: in the first few years of U.S. rule, American civilians in the Philippines attempted to set themselves apart from their military pre­de­ces­sors and forge bonds with Filipino elites through formal social interaction, often revolving around festivals or dances. At the private festivities described by Kramer, Filipino and American w ­ omen played key roles. In a religious context like the festival for San Luis de Ventran, however, men took center stage, and pro­cessions in par­tic­u­lar provided the opportunity for a hierarchical constitution of colonial social order.26 Few writers described religious pro­cessions in as ­great detail as did Freer, but most understood them to be per­for­mances of social order, both religious and po­liti­cal. One 1902 Christian Advocate article described a pro­cession in which, b­ ehind “the banner of the church,” c­ hildren pro­cessed dressed up as the king and queen of Spain, followed by the “ladies and gentlemen of the court.”27 A New York Times article from the previous year—­written by a Presbyterian chaplain to the United States military—­described a festival to which Americans ­were invited by the presidente of the town (a fact that the author declared “worthy of note” and evidence of “Church and State uniting in the cele­bration”). The festival was preceded by a flag-­raising ceremony at which the American Volunteer Infantry and the Visayan com­pany stood with their hats off while “The Star-­Spangled Banner” played.28 Both pro­cessions w ­ ere depicted as per­for­mances of religious and imperial power, and the latter—­like Freer’s—­was also presented as evidence of the American place in that order. For none of t­ hese authors was the church the only source of social order: their depictions of the pro­cessions point to other hierarchies, embodied by “principal personages,” the king and queen, and the U.S. military and its Visayan forces. Yet the impetus and the rationale for the entire per­for­mance w ­ ere a Catholic holiday and a recognizably Catholic way of celebrating. Thus Catholicism was depicted as both a marker of the Filipinos’ need for guidance and a way in which control over the Filipino population was achieved and demonstrated. American Protestants could be objects of that discipline, such as when they felt compelled to put candles in their win­dows during

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pro­cessions. But by and large the authority was one that the American officials and observers saw as benefiting them, making Filipinos “governable” and Filipino communities clean and orderly.

Filipino Transformations of Catholicism Many American writers w ­ ere attracted to the notion of the Catholic Church as a source of social order, both b­ ecause of their broad concerns for colonial order and ­because of their more par­tic­u­lar anx­i­eties about Filipino religious agency. Their commentary on Filipino religious practices recorded—in ways big and small—­this agency. On a g­ rand scale, they noted the history and ongoing real­ity of militarized, religiously inflected movements against colonial rule. They also expressed ambivalence about what was, from the perspective of the Roman Catholic Church, the greatest prob­lem of Filipino religious agency on the islands: the creation of a nationalist, schismatic Filipino Catholic Church, the Iglesia Filipina Independiente. Furthermore, even in the small-­scale symbolism of religious ritual and pro­cession, American observers frequently noted what they saw as comical or worrisome Filipino transformations of Catholic practice. If the church itself could be a source of social control, religion without Euro-­American clerical supervision was, they feared, the source of something ­else entirely. During the Philippine-­American War, American soldiers had developed a fear of so-­called fanatical Filipino fighters, men and w ­ omen who believed that they possessed divine mandate and magical protection. From sporadic fighting in Manila in the months ­after the defeat of the Spanish, to the official outbreak of war in February 1899, to increasing guerilla tactics on the part of Filipino “insurgents” and w ­ holesale destruction on the part of U.S. forces, the war inspired a growing conviction among American combatants that they ­were fighting a savage foe. When the war was declared over in 1902, U.S. colonial officials sought to attract elite Christian Filipino collaborators and to justify an imperial proj­ect of education and uplift. In the pro­cess, the racialized war­time language of Filipino “savagery” was revised along religious lines, with “savagery” rhetorically confined to the non-­Christian territories. Yet this division—­between a pacified and peaceful “Christian” Philippines and more “savage” non-­Christian territories—­was consistently destabilized, in part through recurrent uprisings in the “Christian” territories themselves, often conducted u ­ nder the banner 29 of religion.

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In 1906, William B. Freer described one such occurrence. In the first chapter of his book, he recounted his arrival in Manila and attempted to give his reader a sense of the sights and sounds of the Philippines, often by describing Filipino ­people in minute physical detail. He described a visit to a friend of his, an American col­o­nel, who took him to Pagsanjan with an armed escort. ­There, the “officer in command exhibited to us a capture which he had recently made; the story illustrates as well as any I know the gross ignorance and superstition of the tao,” or peasant. “For several weeks,” he wrote, agents of the insurrectos had been ­going from hamlet to hamlet, surreptitiously exhibiting religious images for the purpose of raising money to carry on the insurrection. Having procured a suitable dwelling, a life-­size wooden statue with a dark face, attired in rich ecclesiastical robes, was placed in the corner of a room not too well lighted, and the p­ eople ­were invited to visit what was described as a miraculous image of the Saviour. One of the exhibitors concealed himself in the adjacent room directly ­behind the image, and the ­people who gathered w ­ ere bidden to listen to the wonderful words. What they believed to be the divine voice then told them, in their own Tagalog dialect, that Heaven supported them in their warfare against the Americans, and would sustain their cause and assist them to drive the infidels from their land.30

A year ­later, Florence Kimball Russel—­who was accompanying her husband, a Signal Corps officer, to the archipelago—­recounted an insurrection in Dumaguete in her book, A ­Woman’s Journey through the Philippines. The insurrection, she wrote, was instigated by a man who “boasted of an anting-­anting, a charm against bullets and a guarantee of ultimate success in b­ attle, which consisted of a white camisa, the native shirt, on which was written in Latin a chapter from the Gospel of St. Luke.”31 Neither Russel nor Freer called this par­tic­u­lar adoption of Catholic symbols “Catholicism,” or “religious”; Russel called it “fetishism of the worst kind,” and Freer claimed that his story “illustrates as well as any I know the gross ignorance and superstition of the tao,” or Filipino peasant.32 Yet both contain explicit references to symbols of Catholicism conjoined with symbols of Philippine identity: in Russel’s example it is the camisa and the anting-­anting (derived from a pre-­Spanish Philippine belief in talismans that produced invulnerability) combined with the Gospel of Luke written in Latin, and in Freer’s example it is the dark skin of the statue and its speech in Tagalog combined with the “ecclesiastical robes.”33 Their tone swung between amusement and incredulity: the speaking Savior image was to them an obvious hoax, and

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the anting-­anting, Russel noted immediately, did nothing to protect its wearer. Both writers described t­hese upheavals as quickly defeated.34 The presence of Catholic figures and symbols in Filipino uprisings has a long history in the Philippines. One of the earliest dates back to 1663 in Panay: the leader called himself “God Almighty,” and his aides and chief followers ­were named “Jesus Christ,” the “Holy Ghost,” and “Maria Santísima.” Vari­ous “popes” and “bishops” rounded out his cadre of supporters.35 The ensuing centuries saw other religiously inflected rebellions, increasing in size and organ­ization in the nineteenth c­ entury ­until the Cofradía de San José became, in the words of one of its historians, “the first coordinated religious rebellion in Philippine history.”36 Originating in 1841 in Lucban, the Cofradía was initially a prayer community formed by a devout Catholic named Apolinario de la Cruz, who had been refused entry into the ­orders of friars on racial grounds. When Spanish clerical officials began to persecute the growing group, the Cofradía armed itself. It achieved one military victory before being massacred by the governor-­general’s forces.37 U.S. forces encountered another group called the Guardia de Honor in the province of Pangasinan. Originally founded by the Dominicans as a Catholic fraternal organ­ization, the Guards of Honor of the Virgin Mary, the Guardia became a millenarian group led by charismatic figures who styled themselves as God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the Virgin Mary. In 1896 they participated in uprisings against the Spanish, and then, in late 1898 and early 1899, engaged in a peasant revolt that both Aguinaldo and then U.S. forces tried to put down. In 1901, U.S. forces attacked Guardia strongholds and captured Guardia leaders and a number of their followers.38 Dean C. Worcester—­who collected thousands of photo­graphs during his time in the Philippines—­included in his collection photo­graphs of two imprisoned leaders of the group, whom his index identifies as having “impersonated the Virgin Mary” and “God, the Son.” The entry on ­these photo­graphs in his index continues: “Nothing is easier, in the Philippine Islands, than to start a religious sect. Since the arrival of the Americans, as well as before, we have had self-­appointed popes, archbishops and other high religious dignitaries without number among the less civilized ­people; nor are the religious crazes confined to the least civilized. ­Every few months word comes that t­here is a miracle worker at some place who is curing the sick, healing the blind, ­etc., and thousands of ­people flock to the scene of the won­ders.” Unusual among Worcester’s photo­graphs of individuals, t­hese subjects ­were posed in front of the barred win­dows of a jail.39 The combined American response of alarm and derision directed ­toward religio-­political rebellions did not significantly change ­until the 1920s, with

Figures 10a and 10b. Photos of two leaders of the Guardia de Honor from Dean C. Worcester’s collection. Worcester identified ­these individuals as “the ­woman who impersonated the Virgin Mary” and “the man who impersonated ‘God, the Son’ ” The photo­graphs are taken in front of the jail at Ligayen, Pangasinan. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago, IL—­Dean C. Worcester Collection of Philippine Photo­graphs. Quotes above from Worcester’s index to the collection, photo­graphs 38-­y 6 and 7; Ayer 290 .A983 1905.

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the increasing strength of the Colorum uprisings. The Colorums w ­ ere a folk cult begun by former disciples of Apolinario de la Cruz. A ­ fter the confraternity’s defeat in November 1841, some of de la Cruz’s former disciples set up camp in two neighboring mountains: Mt. San Cristobal and Mt. Banahao. By 1870, they had begun to call themselves “Colorums,” apparently deriving the name from the end of the Latin Catholic prayer, “per omnia saecula saeculorum” (forever and ever).40 Colorum communities spread through the rural areas of the islands, but most Americans remained unaware of them u ­ ntil an uprising in 1923 in Mindanao caught their attention.41 In 1925, Katherine Mayo featured the Colorums in her book The Isles of Fear: The Truth about the Philippines and became something of an authority on the subject—­excerpts from this section of her book ­were also published in the Washington Post.42 As one might surmise from its title, Mayo’s book was written explic­itly in opposition to the idea of Filipino in­de­pen­dence—­she described Filipinos as cruel and treacherous. To Mayo, the Colorums constituted the ne plus ultra of Roman Catholicism gone native, the realization of the anx­ie­ ties pre­sent in ­earlier depictions of less threatening Philippine religious rebellions. “The sect,” she averred, “is spread all over the Islands. . . . ​ Blessed Virgins, Popes and other holy personages spring up e­ very year, ­here and ­there, announce their cures and cults and get their blind following.”43 Her language (holy personages “spring[ing] up ­every year”) describes an overly fecund religious culture, one characterized not by the restraint imposed by the Roman Catholic hierarchy but rather by the fertile soil of the tropics. “The Chris­tian­ity of Spain,” she explained to her readers, “as taken on by the lowland tribesmen of the Philippines, became an absorbent of their original religious beliefs. And ­these ­were of a type to select and weld themselves with the apocryphal parts of the new faith.” Echoing the language of miscegenation, she called the resulting faith “a childlike and darkling t­hing upon which the divine nomenclature stands out with something of a shock.”44 The use of the word “darkling” si­mul­ta­neously implied racial difference and shadowy threat: a threat that came not from the dark recesses of Roman power but rather from uncontrollable local appropriations of that power. The subtle anx­ie­ ties over religious mixture apparent in her compatriots’ e­ arlier narratives exploded in Mayo’s ­later, more po­liti­cally polemical text into the language of fecundity, with dangerous Philippine profusion breaking down both Catholic and racial imperial order. It is worth pausing for a moment to note the language used in ­these texts. While anti-­Catholic language had long equated Roman Catholicism as a ­whole with “superstition” and derided it as false and dangerous, in t­hese depictions

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of Philippine transformations of Catholicism, a conceptual and rhetorical realignment occurs. Russel and Freer—­neither of whom was Catholic—­did not describe what they ­were observing as “Catholicism” or “religion.” They held ­those terms apart, reserving them as a more legitimate form of religious belief and practice. Instead, they talked about “superstition” and “fetishism” as a result of mixtures between orthodox Catholicism and other beliefs or practices. Similarly, Mayo distinguished the Colorums from Catholicism, which she called “the Chris­tian­ity of Spain”: in her text, the former is inherently ridicu­lous or inappropriate, even monstrous (“a childlike and darkling t­ hing”), while the latter refers to a form of Catholicism uncontaminated by Philippine beliefs and practices. T ­ hese non-­Catholic writers became, in their own rendering, arbiters of what counted as legitimate Catholicism. They held that vision of legitimate Catholicism apart from the threatening Catholic ele­ments of the po­liti­cal uprisings they derided or feared, retaining Catholicism as a category of civilization and imperial order in juxtaposition to the notion of “superstition” as a component of re­sis­tance. Three years into the American occupation, Catholic imperial order also appeared to break down in a more institutional way: in 1902, Isabelo de los Reyes and Gregorio Aglipay founded a nationalist Catholic church called the Iglesia Filipina Independiente (IFI).45 Aglipay was a Catholic priest and Filipino nationalist who had fought against U.S. forces and served as vicar general of Aguinaldo’s Philippine Revolutionary Government. De los Reyes was an ilustrado journalist and critic of the friars. De los Reyes wrote most of the doctrine and devised the orga­nizational structure, but the church was often referred to as “Aglipayan” ­because Aglipay was the church’s first Obispo Maximo and its most vis­ib­ le symbol. Initially the church courted American Protestant missionaries, but when ­those missionaries demanded doctrinal changes beyond what the representatives of the IFI envisioned, the potential alliance was dropped. During its first few years it grew rapidly: up to a quarter of the Catholic population of the islands converted.46 With ­these conversions—­which sometimes encompassed entire congrega­ tions—­the IFI attempted to claim the formerly Catholic conventos and cemeteries as their own. Aglipayan believers argued that since the buildings ­were built by the Filipino laity, the community should be able to use them for what­ever worship they wanted. This debate continued u ­ ntil 1906, when the courts ruled in ­f avor of the Roman Catholic Church, a development that (along with some scandals and some steadfastly Roman Catholic Filipino priests) slowed the IFI’s growth, although it remained (and remains) a significant part of the Philippine religious landscape.47

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American writers’ depictions of the IFI ­were often sympathetic. William B. Freer portrayed the religion as a version of Chris­tian­ity that avoided some of the pitfalls of Roman Catholicism. Referring to an IFI priest in Camagon as “my friend,” he reported that the priest was well educated and interested in world affairs. Most importantly for Freer as a teacher, the priest was “particularly interested in the United States and t­hings American. He took an active interest in the public school and from the pulpit encouraged his parishioners, who comprised the entire population of the town, to send their ­children to it.”48 For Freer, the religion of the IFI was a kind of Americanized Catholicism. It preserved social hierarchy—he reported how the priest was often carried about in a chair “on the shoulders of four stout taos [peasants]”—­but also championed U.S-­style public education. Protestant clergy and writers for Protestant periodicals often went even further, their evangelical ambitions encouraging them to see the formation of the IFI as a halfway step ­toward Protestantism. John Bancroft Devins, a Presbyterian minister and editor of the New York Observer, hoped that a transfer of allegiance from Roman Catholicism to the IFI would lead believers eventually to his own church. He reported that “the Bible socie­ties are having their greatest sales in the provinces where this movement is strongest,” and quoted Rev. Homer C. Stuntz, DD—­the president of the executive committee of the Evangelical Union and pastor of the American Methodist Church in Manila—­ saying: “­These ­people would never have left the Roman Catholic Church to become Protestants, feeble as was the hold of the old Church upon them; but once outside and hungry for spiritual food, they hear and are saved. Aglipay loosens this fruit from the tree and we gather it.”49 Stuntz, in fact, was one of the missionaries who had been initially approached by the found­ers of the IFI but who had demanded more Protestant-­like changes in doctrine; now, it seems, he was waiting for the IFI to do half the work of conversion for him and was poised to complete the job. Howard Agnew Johnston wrote similarly in the New York Observer and Chronicle in April 1907.50 Calling the IFI a “semi-­ Protestant movement,” he said it was “proving to be a stepping stone to the Protestant Church in many places.”51 Yet the Aglipayan church was a double-­edged sword. As much as Devins celebrated the hope that the IFI would lead Filipino Catholics to Protestantism, he did not celebrate the Aglipayan rebellion against Rome. In language dripping with disdain, he wrote that Aglipay’s church was “spectacular rather than substantial. A deposed priest styling himself Archbishop, and placing other priests in bishoprics, is amusing rather than edifying. Apparently the man . . . ​ does not see the incongruity of assuming and transmitting ecclesiastical au-

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thority with no or­ga­nized body b­ ehind him.”52 Atkinson, the superintendent of education, was also filled with contempt for the Aglipayan movement, writing that he “has viewed with doubt a certain tendency on the part of so-­called enlightened natives to the exercise of f­ree thought” and advised the Roman Catholic Church to send more priests as soon as pos­si­ble so that “certain malcontents who are b­ ehind this movement ­will be reconciled and return to the church.”53 Helen Taft also portrayed the IFI as essentially a rebellion. Taft introduced the subject of Aglipayanism in her memoir in order to defend her husband’s policy of extending to the Aglipayan church the same freedoms and protections that the United States government would extend to any church, boasting that American policy in this regard was more enlightened than that of Spain. She expressed some sympathy with Filipino members of the church, describing them as frustrated with the Vatican’s refusal to remove the Spanish friars from the islands and so liable to find some relief with Aglipay. But she described Aglipay and his organ­ization with less warmth. Aglipay, she said, “became an insurgent leader with a reputation for g­ reat cruelty, and continued in the field against Spain, and subsequently against the United States, ­until re­sis­ tance was no longer pos­si­ble. He was among the last insurrecto chiefs to surrender in northern Luzon. When peace was restored he began immediately to solicit the interest and aid of other Filipino priests, of politicians and influential men in a plan for organ­izing an In­de­pen­dent Filipino Catholic Church, and his temporary success must have surprised even him.”54 She went on to say that Aglipay “constituted himself Obispo Maximo, assumed a fine regalia, and conferred upon fifteen or more of his lieutenants the regular church dignities and titles of a lesser order,” and that “many of the least tractable insurrecto leaders w ­ ere among its [the IFI’s] directors.”55 In her text, Taft’s attitude ­toward Aglipay swings back and forth between the poles of danger and derision: on the one hand, he had a “reputation for ­great cruelty” and was one of the last insurgent leaders to surrender, immediately thereafter forming an organ­ ization with other “intractable insurrecto leaders.” Yet she also described him as comically unprepared for the success of his new church, and her depiction of him “constitut[ing] himself Obispo Maximo” and “assum[ing] a fine regalia” makes him seem like ­little more than a fancy-­dress, pretend pope. Like Devins, Taft’s prob­lem was not with the religion but with the act of rebellion, the idea of a Filipino man assuming power outside of traditional channels. No ­matter how much ­these writers may have been happy—or at least unconcerned—to see Filipinos leave the authority of Rome, such feelings w ­ ere overshadowed by their sense that it was inappropriate, even dangerous, for

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Filipinos to or­ga­nize themselves outside the authority of an established hierarchy.56 Like Russel, Freer, and Mayo writing about religio-­political uprisings, Devins and Taft marked a sharp distinction between legitimate religion—­ Catholicism and Protestantism as led by Eu­ro­pe­ans or Americans—­and Philippine variants. The habit of distinguishing between a purportedly legitimate Catholicism and its Philippine opposite went beyond reporting on the headline-­grabbing events of militarized religio-­political rebellions and a nationalist church: American observers also noted evidence of what they described as “superstition” everywhere around them, in mixtures of Catholic practices and forms with secular or non-­Christian religious ele­ments. In his 1903 book, The ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia, Gilbert recalled a Mystery Play performed during Christmas Week in Iloilo. The Virgin Mary, he said, was represented by a girl in soiled white stockings and a confirmation dress. The Christ Child was a Spanish doll in a glass case. ­There w ­ ere the three wise men—­one in a long beard and a pink mask, and the o ­ thers in gold braid and knickerbockers—­more like dandies than phi­los­o­phers. “Joseph” was splendid, with a shepherd’s crook and a sombrero. Adoration before the manger was the theme that was developed in a series of ballets danced by the c­ hildren to a tambourine and castanet accompaniment. At the conclusion of the play, the ­little actors in their starry costumes, Joseph and the Virgin (carry­ing the Babe), the three phi­los­o­phers, and the musicians and the army of admiring followers, filed out into the moonlight, and as the sweet m ­ usic of the “Shepherd’s Song” diminished gradually, they dis­appeared within a shadowy grove of palms.57

Gilbert’s description, on the surface a charming tableaux of c­ hildren acting out the Christmas story, was also a study in the dynamic tension between Roman Catholic and Filipino symbols at play in Catholic cele­brations. Beginning with the first sentence, almost e­ very statement in Gilbert’s paragraph swings from the traditional Catholic to the (for Gilbert) novel Filipino. The Christ child was pre­sent, but he was represented by a “Spanish” doll; Joseph was arrayed in both shepherd’s crook and sombrero. And it continues, ­until, to familiar m ­ usic, the w ­ hole party dissolves into the landscape. Unlike Freer’s descriptions of religious festivals as cele­brations of imperial tradition and hierarchical social order, Gilbert’s story played at the bound­aries of imperial order, marking the places where the Philippine was acting on the Roman Catholic rather than the other way around. T ­ here ­were no references to the

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friars responsible for it all, or to the place of Americans in an ordered pro­ cession. Instead t­here ­were competing images, equally balanced for the moment, but suggestively surrounded by the dark grove of palms. Dean C. Worcester, too, wrote a vivid description of the collision of cultural signs. In his first book, written about his experiences as a naturalist, he recounted a visit to Samar during which he saw a Holy Week pro­cession that featured a statue of St. Peter “dangling a bunch of huge keys from a limp hand, with a live game-­cock strutting at his feet.”58 The game-­cock, to almost all American observers, was a particularly Filipino obsession: Ebenezer Hannaford was typical in instructing his readers that the amusement “dearest of all” to the Filipino was “cock-­fighting and betting.”59 Even a ­children’s story set in the Philippines employed the same trope. When James Otis Kaler—­a prolific author of ­childrens’ adventure tales—­published When Dewey Came to Manila; or, Among the Filipinos in 1899, he used the game-­cock to introduce the exotic sights and ­people of the Philippines to his readers. One might typically see in the Philippines, he claimed, “queer-­looking Filipinos,—­men who are more often seen with game-­cocks ­under their arms than books.”60 The inclusion of the game-­cock in Worcester’s tale was thus not simply the inclusion of the profane amid the sacred, but—­like Gilbert’s Mystery Play—­a mixture of the identifiably Filipino with the traditionally Catholic. Worcester played this contrast for comedy—­“We had some difficulty in controlling our feelings” on seeing it, he reported smugly. In both Gilbert’s and Worcester’s narratives, the collision of two symbol systems was also presented as a transformation of Catholic icons. Worcester did not just describe St. Peter as near a game-­cock, but rather equated the presence of the game-­cock with the presence of St. Peter’s keys. Gilbert described Joseph as possessing both “a shepherd’s crook and a sombrero.” The key and the shepherd’s crook are identifying symbols in Catholic iconography: we know a man is Joseph by his crook, or St. Peter by his keys. In Worcester’s and Gilbert’s narratives, the sombrero and the game-­cock bore the same relationship to the saints as did their Catholic identifying markers, suggesting that the saints themselves, when transported to the Philippines, a­ dopted a composite identity. Game-­cocks in religious pro­cessions proved a particularly popu­lar concern, perhaps b­ ecause they combined Catholic iconography with a form of gambling that was popu­lar in the Philippines and that horrified American moralists. Sherman A. Harvey, a captain in the African American Twenty-­Third Kansas Volunteer Infantry who ­later became an attorney in the Philippines, made the same critique that Worcester had in a 1912 article for the Topeka Plaindealer:

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“In all of ­these parades St. Peter has a con­spic­u­ous place, carry­ing his famous rooster, perched high on a pole. From the importance attached to both, the Filipino attaches some connection between St. Peter and his rooster and cock-­fighting, for ­every town has its cock pit and ­every church seal has on it a rooster.” For both men, the inclusion of game-­cocks in religious pro­cessions was a sign of disorder. While Worcester played the story for laughs, Harvey mused more reflectively that “it all seems rather out of place.”61 Tales of misplaced religious sentiment could be understood as a variant on the common Protestant claim that Catholicism was a religion of forms and surfaces, too easily disengaged from under­lying Christian truth. Harvey claimed that Filipinos “spend too much time g­ oing through empty forms, masses, pro­ cessions and observing festival and saint’s days and spend too ­little time in applying practical Chris­tian­ity to everyday life,” a statement that seems to reflect a generally anti-­Catholic stance. Yet Harvey’s critique was more targeted. He made sure to note that though, “in religion the Filipino is a Catholic, . . . ​ they have many forms and ceremonies that you d­ on’t see in our Catholic churches ­here.” The point was not to criticize Catholicism in general but rather to imply that ­there was something particularly superficial about its practice in the Philippines.62 Harvey seemed more aware than Worcester that the rooster, in Catholic iconography, is “famously” associated with St. Peter. Indeed, in t­ hese accounts it is pos­si­ble to see the uneven development of a kind of Protestant expertise about Catholic symbols. American Protestant writers assumed—in Worcester’s case incorrectly—­that they and their readers knew how to read Catholic symbols accurately and how to deploy them appropriately, and that Catholic Filipinos, by contrast, did not. Catholics themselves, of course, also made t­hese distinctions: Harvey was not only glossing long-­standing Protestant critiques of Catholicism but also repeating the critiques that some in the American Catholic church—­and particularly its Irish American hierarchy—­were making about other forms of Catholic practice. In the late-­nineteenth and early-­twentieth-­century United States, Italian immigrants, for example, w ­ ere coming u ­ nder similar criticism from their priests and from other Catholics for their mixture of the sacred and secular in daily life.63 A similar phenomenon affected Mexican Americans, as some U.S. Catholic clergy attacked their practices—­including pilgrimages, shrines, and holy cards—as superstitious.64 What was remarkable in the Philippines was not that Filipino Catholics ­were being criticized for religious practices at odds with the norms of the U.S. Catholic hierarchy, but that American Protestants ­were the ones ­doing the criticizing.

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Furthermore, Vicente Rafael has argued that American colonial writers often accused Filipinos of having a “penchant for mimicry,” claiming that they ­were “incapable of original thought” and “could excel only in copying their colonial and class superiors.”65 On the one hand, this claim was used as a sign of Filipino racial inferiority and an “invitation to white supervision,” justifying the proj­ect of benevolent assimilation. Yet the notion of mimicry also implied the threat of (mis)appropriation: when Americans reported on Filipinos ­going into ­battle protected by a gospel verse on a shirt, or including a game-­ cock in a religious pro­cession, they ­were recounting examples of Filipinos mobilizing Catholic symbols and practices to their own ends, outside the bounds of orthodoxy and Euro-­American clerical supervision. Exactly this concern for symbols escaping the bounds of orthodoxy runs through Florence Kimball Russel’s story of her encounter with the wooden Santo Niño of Cebu. A small wooden statue of the Christ child, the statue is said to have miraculous and intercessory powers dating as far back as 1565, when it survived a fire that by all accounts should have reduced it to ashes. In the centuries since, Cebuanos have proclaimed the statue their patron saint, and it has become the subject of adoration, prayers, and pilgrimages.66 In 1907, Russel described the Santo Niño in her book, A ­Woman’s Journey through the Philippines.67 Writing about her visit to the Santo Niño, Russel followed narrative conventions similar to ­those employed by American Protestant travelers to Catholic Eu­rope: she described the miracles the figure was reported to perform, detailed the pro­cess she went through in order to see the figure, and, once fi­nally face to face with the figure, expressed astonishment at its sumptuous dress and the care and tenderness exhibited ­toward it by the faithful.68 But Russel also added commentary on the figure’s complexion. She described the Santo Niño as “not beautiful” and noted that he did not “even faintly resemble our conception of the Christ-­child.”69 For one ­thing, he was “carved very roughly out of some dark wood, which, when contrasted with his rich vestments and ornamentation, seems strangely incongruous.” She described herself staring “into this brown face” and ­later concluded that the figure as a ­whole seemed “barbarically splendid.”70 Like Philippine Catholicism as a w ­ hole, the Santo Niño was both familiar and alien to the American Protestant observer, the racialized “incongruity” both fascinating and disturbing. The existence of “incongruous” mixtures comprised an implicit challenge to the Roman Catholic Church’s containment of the power­f ul symbols it had created, a challenge that is fully illustrated in a story Russel recounted about the Santo Niño. The pope, she reported, had once expressed a desire to see the Santo Niño, and so the figure had been packed away in a special box and put

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aboard a ship, guarded by a bishop. Misfortune then plagued the island: epidemics and crop failures followed one ­after the other. To make ­things worse, the figure went missing: when the bishop unlocked the box at the Vatican, it was empty. The p­ eople prayed for the Santo Niñ­o’s return, and then, months ­later, a workman knocked down a partition and discovered “the Santo Niño himself, gravely smiling, his ­little hands outstretched in benediction. He had not wanted to go abroad, and so had left the carefully locked boxes and returned to his old home. What was more natu­ral?”71 Russel’s story of a dark-­skinned Christ child who refused to travel to Rome captures the essence of the American colonial discourse about religious mixture. Perhaps Russel found this story worth repeating ­because it confirmed her suspicions about the ­little figure: that with its dark face, it truly did not belong in the Re­nais­sance church of her imagination. ­Behind her bemused tone lurks a disturbing suspicion about race and religious agency: that the Philippine Catholic Church may have gone native. Less threatening than a militarized uprising and less or­ga­nized than a nationalist church, ele­ments of Philippine Catholicism like t­hese still gave American imperial observers a sense that the dominance of the Roman Catholic Church was threatened by the figurative— or, in the case of the Santo Niño, quite literal—­escape of Catholic symbols from clerical control. In their accounts of the threat of the Colorums or the dark-­skinned Santo Niño of Cebu, Philippine Catholicism was figured as a phenomenon with an internal contradiction, a version of Catholicism that existed ostensibly in honor of the larger church but that possessed local loyalties.

An Empire of (Religious) Liberty For many American observers, then, Catholicism could be a force for social order, a buttress to colonial authority, but only if contained and managed within the institutional church. The friars had been forces of this containment, but they had been rendered po­liti­cally problematic—­and less effective—by widespread antifriar sentiment. The dilemma was how to preserve the useful possibilities of Catholic clerical authority without developing a corrupted (and hated) clerical elite. For some, the answer was to imagine American schoolteachers in the islands as a kind of secularized clergy. To o ­ thers, though, the answer was to retain, but improve, Catholic pastoral guidance, through the establishment of an Americanized Catholic church on the islands, one that embraced religious freedom and the separation of church and state.

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For some, the friars’ modern, American equivalents ­were schoolteachers. Spain had sent friars to educate, uplift, and civilize, the argument went, and this—­without the catechetical instruction—­was exactly what the schoolteachers ­were also intent on ­doing. The census of 1903 reported that “the work of the teacher cannot be understood ­unless he is thought of as discharging the many-­sided functions, other than religious, formerly the prerogative of the Spanish friar. Socially, and in his intellectual influence, he is the successor of the man who for centuries was the controlling influence in ­these primitive communities of the Philippines. He has been the quiet mediator of modern ideas, and far transcended the rôle of a mere pedagogue.”72 William B. Freer quoted this claim in The Philippine Experiences of an American Teacher, and Stephen Bonsal, one of the friars’ greatest apologists in the American press, compared the friars at length with American teachers in a North American Review article (and found the teachers wanting).73 For most, however, the “many-­sided functions” of the Spanish friars would have to continue to be performed by Catholic priests. Partly this was a pragmatic response to the fact that, despite the presence of Protestant missionaries in the islands, most Filipinos ­were still Catholic, and the infrastructure of the Catholic Church was im­mense: it would be hard to imagine a Philippines without priests. And partly this was a response to the belief that Philippine religiosity could tend t­oward ­either order and hierarchy or disorder and Filipino agency: only effective clerical authority could keep the former from degenerating into the latter. In this sense, then, the question was how to retain the good ele­ments of the Spanish friars while eliminating the bad; how to use Catholic priests as forces of civilization and social order, without risking the corruptions that might lead—as they had in the past—to anticlerical rebellions. The answer lay in the importation of religious freedom. Americans writing from the Philippines, as well as t­hose reporting from home, often cast religious freedom as a key ele­ment of U.S. rule, and one alien to Filipinos. Ignoring the fact that the fifth article of the Philippine Republic’s Malolos constitution, promulgated in 1899 before the beginning of the Philippine-­American War, guaranteed religious freedom and the separation of church and state, Americans who had been to the Philippines claimed instead that the Filipinos they encountered ­were so far from embracing religious freedom on their own that Filipinos and Americans could barely even understand one another across the conceptual divide.74 Ebenezer Hannaford, in his illustrated History and Description of the Picturesque Philippines (1900), remembered his own confusion, stating that “in the Philippines church and state have been

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for ages interjoined and blended in ways and to an extent that almost baffle American comprehension,” while William Howard Taft recalled that “it is very hard for the common ­people [of the Philippines] to understand the princi­ple of the separation of Church and State.”75 Worcester’s secretary James A. LeRoy went even further. In his exhaustive Americans in the Philippines, published in 1914, he argued that “the theory of separation of Church and State, though much talked about, was not at all comprehended by the Filipinos,” and that the idea had been only dimly understood, and half heartedly applied, by the government at Malolos.76 Many Americans presented the idea of religious freedom—­which, for them, necessarily involved the separation of church and state—as a par­tic­u­lar gift of U.S. imperial governance. Charles Morris, ­after referring to the American occupation as “the new dispensation” in the Philippines, said that “freedom of religious belief is one of the assured results of their passing u ­ nder the influ77 ence of the United States.” The medical missionary Alice B. Condict gave thanks in her narrative, Old Glory and the Gospel in the Philippines, that “our Government has held itself entirely aloof from all religious parties in carry­ing out the princi­ples of our Constitution. Church and State are entirely separate; liberty of conscience the ­grand cornerstone, which nothing may move a jot from the place given it by the Puritan statesmen who planned so wisely and so well.”78 The conviction that religious freedom followed the flag was not confined to the Philippines but was, in fact, a staple of American writing on the new, overseas colonial empire in general. Americans writing about U.S. rule in Puerto Rico also made the same claim, imagining the United States as providing, in the words of one writer, “a ­great and glorious ­future” for Puerto Rico, premised in part on the provision of “religious freedom.”79 Nor was it confined to relations with Catholics. The Bates Treaty of 1899, between the United States and the sultanate of Sulu, promised that the United States would not interfere in Muslim religious m ­ atters in the Philippines. Though the treaty itself was abrogated by Theodore Roo­se­velt in 1904, and though toleration of Muslims may have originated more out of military necessity than constitutional conviction, some American commentators nonetheless embraced it.80 LeRoy claimed in a 1902 In­de­pen­dent article that the United States had gained authority over Muslims in the south precisely b­ ecause they offered the Muslims religious freedom. It was done so well, he reported with pride, that the “Moros” did not believe Americans w ­ ere “Christians” at all.81 From almost the very beginning of their time in the Philippines, American officials ­were, in effect, negotiating the terms of “freedom”: offering (a

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l­imited) religious freedom to colonized subjects while denying them other kinds of freedom. For ­those justifying the role of the United States in the Philippines, the idea that U.S. colonialism brought not simply po­liti­cal and military rule but also a series of gifts to the Philippine p­ eople—of which religious freedom was a principal one—­was an argument for its benevolence. This logic even enabled a U.S. soldier, writing for the Manila-­published Philippine Magazine in 1899, to list religious freedom among the many gifts of U.S. empire, and then to ask, with apparent sincerity, why “the Filipino” continued to fight American rule. Given ­these new freedoms, he wondered, “what more does he desire?”82 One of the benefits of focusing on religious freedom was also that it recast the terms of American anx­i­eties about empire and its corruptions. The fear of a corrupted clerical class was not only a response to what many Americans understood to be the historical corruption of the Spanish friars in the Philippines; it also echoed an older republican anxiety: that even well-­formed governments could become corrupted over time. Focusing on clerical corruption and religious freedom recast the terms of this fear: it was not the American republic that risked being corrupted by imperial overreach, but rather a benevolent empire that risked being corrupted by the conflation of church and state. Understood in this context, the challenge for the American state was not the preservation of republican virtue amid the temptations of empire, but rather the much easier task of holding the line between religious and civil power in the colonies. For ­those less enthusiastic about religious freedom, American policymakers’ sharp distinction between religious and po­liti­cal freedoms seemed less intuitive and more arbitrary. Why, they wondered, when Filipinos clamored for all kinds of rights, would Americans stand so firm in support of religious freedom while denying Filipinos po­liti­cal self-­determination? Some Jesuits in the Philippines, for example, posed this question. For the Report of the Philippine Commission to the President of 1901, the commission had asked the Jesuit ­f athers of Manila to write the section on religion in the Philippines. The Jesuits w ­ ere not members of the criticized ­orders of friars, and Americans in the Philippines frequently lauded Philippine Jesuit schools and described the Jesuits as the most educated and sophisticated churchmen on the islands.83 Worcester relied heavi­ly on the Jesuits for information, as well as for contributions to his massive collection of photo­graphs.84 While the fact that the commission relied on them to write the report testifies to the power of this distinction in the minds of the commission members, the Jesuit writers themselves used the forum in part to argue in support of their fellow Catholic religious. Their

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section was largely a defense of the friars, and at the end they called for a reconsideration of the administration’s support for religious freedom. “Why, then, should not this religious liberty be granted to the Filipinos if they themselves demand it?,” the authors facetiously asked, mimicking a Protestant American query. “We answer that they also ask for in­de­pen­dence. ­Will the Americans, therefore, give it to them?”85 The American commitment to religious freedom could certainly look, to some Catholics, like anti-­Catholicism. In the name of religious freedom, the U.S. government welcomed Protestant missionaries to the islands and withdrew financial support from the Catholic Church. More broadly, the very notion of religious freedom could be—­and sometimes was—­understood as a kind of soft Protestant evangelism, a rejection of the Catholic Church’s claim to be the one true church.86 When the medical missionary Condict argued, above, that the American commitment to the princi­ple of religious freedom was the work of wise “Puritan statesmen,” she figured such tolerance and freedom as a Protestant characteristic, set against Catholic refusals of such freedoms.87 In a 1902 article on the friar prob­lem for the New York Times, Richard A. Zerega declared: “Our illogical Anglo-­Saxon Protestantism, frequently more generous t­oward the Roman church than Roman Catholic officialism shows itself, does not permit us to suppress convents and monasteries and to forbid the presence of the members of certain religious ­orders in our midst. Such procedures may be common enough in Roman Catholic lands, such as France and Mexico, but are unknown in Amer­i­ca.”88 As Zerega noted, in 1864, Pope Pius IX had famously condemned the separation of church and state in his Syllabus of Errors. Yet, in the context of the Catholic Philippines, paeans to religious freedom usually turned not t­oward Protestant ideals but t­oward the example provided by the American Catholic Church: the ­imagined gift of religious freedom was tied not to a rejection of Catholicism but rather to a redefinition of Catholicism, by both Catholic and Protestant observers, along so-­called Americanist lines. American politicians and journalists pointed to the Catholic Church in their own country—­particularly to its liberal wing—as a model for how a combination of Catholicism and religious freedom could work. Contrary to the conservative wing of the United States church—­and to many other Catholic authorities outside of the United States—­“Americanist” Catholics argued for a more progressive, historicist approach to Catholicism, a uniting of “the church and age,” in the words of one of its champions.89 They supported religious freedom and the separation of church and state and argued that the U.S. ­Catholic Church represented the f­uture of the global Catholic Church. In

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January 1899—­just days before the beginning of the Philippine-­American War—­“Americanism” was officially condemned by Pope Leo XIII in the encyclical Testem Benevolentiae. But by then “Americanism” had been extensively covered by the U.S. press, both secular and religious, for over a de­ cade.90 In the context of the Philippines, both Catholics and Protestants continued to invoke the idea of an exceptional Americanized Catholicism, available for export to the colonies. In fact, war and colonial state building in the Philippines opened opportunities of national influence for Americanist Catholics. Liberal Catholics ­insisted—to a Protestant public often suspicious of Catholic immigrant enclaves—­that they could be both devout Catholics and patriotic Americans at the same time. Support for American imperialism in the Philippines was one way of demonstrating this possibility. Two of the Americanist movement’s leading figures—­James Cardinal Gibbons and Archbishop John Ireland, the latter of whom was a close friend of President McKinley—­both advised U.S. presidents on Catholic issues abroad and encouraged U.S. Catholic support for the new empire.91 Even American Jesuits, who had been firm opponents of the Americanist movement, came to a closer relationship with the U.S. state through involvement in the Philippine colonies. As John T. McGreevy has demonstrated, even though American Jesuits had initially responded to the outbreak of the Spanish-­ Cuban-­American War with caution and critique, they too came to play a significant role in the colonial state-­building pro­cess. American Jesuit universities accepted Filipino students on U.S. government scholarships, and, in 1903, Saint Louis University even invited President Roo­se­velt to attend a public disputation by a Spanish-­born Jesuit student, whose tenure at the university was intended to help him learn both En­glish and an appreciation for American culture, before he set sail for the Philippines. In the archipelago, U.S. officials continually relied on Spanish and, over time, American Jesuit knowledge.92 American commentators, both Catholic and Protestant, w ­ ere explicit in their conviction that Americanized Catholicism was the f­ uture of the Philippines. In 1903 the Washington Post published an article advocating the perpetuation of the Catholic Church in the Philippines through the ordination of more Filipino priests—­echoing one variant of Philippine antifriar criticism—­ but was equally concerned that ­those priests be trained to embody an Americanized Catholicism. The author approvingly quoted an American chaplain’s idea of bringing Filipino priests to Catholic University in Washington, DC, to “familiarize them with American ideals.”93 In February 1901, as noted above, the In­de­pen­dent’s editorialists argued that though they w ­ ere Protestants, they

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recognized the need for a Catholic Philippines, but they wanted Catholicism “­there at its best, not its worst. It is better, more prosperous and successful ­here than in any other country in the world.”94 A Paulist ­father writing for the Catholic World agreed, arguing that “the most thorough Americans among the Catholic priests of the country” should be sent to the Philippines.95 The Colored American editors also agreed, adding that—in a conclusion that echoed some African American soldiers’ claims that they could mediate between white Americans and nonwhite colonial subjects—­the “assignment of a few Negro priests would have a most helpful effect.”96 Far from advocating the Protestantization of the Philippines, many Protestant observers advocated the preservation of the Catholic Church in their country’s new imperial possession, and the relocation of the heart of that church to American shores. Ultimately, Americanized Catholicism was embraced by Protestants and Catholics alike as a potential carrier of Chris­tian­ity and American civilization. In October 1902, the “Comment” section of Harper’s Weekly—­a place for editorial reflections on the issues of the day—­included a discussion of the Spanish friars in the Philippines. Over the course of one long paragraph, the editors traversed much of the territory covered ­here. They began by framing the issue in terms of the friar prob­lem: “Our government,” they noted, “is trying to get the friars out of the Philippines, not in response to an American sentiment, but ­because the Filipinos want them to go. T ­ here seems no question about the strength of the Filipino feeling in this m ­ atter.” They moved, however, directly from describing the strength of Filipino sentiment to expressing their own doubts about it: “Most of us have reasoned, naturally enough, that if the Filipinos are so universally anxious to be rid of the friars, the friars must be bad ­people. That is not a safe deduction for us, for the Filipinos have seemed anxious to get rid of the Americans also.” To further buttress their point, they turned to Stephen Bonsal—­the friars’ most ardent defender in the non-­Catholic American press—­ noting that he ably defended the friars by arguing that “such pro­gress as the Filipinos have made from barbarism was almost wholly due to it [the work of the friars].” The friars uplifted Filipinos in a religious and civilizational sense, while keeping them constrained po­liti­cally, having “made themselves very useful in discovering conspiracies and putting down insurrections.” The editors reserved their criticism not for the friars but rather for the system of government ­under which the friars operated. “­Under Spain,” they explained, “the government of the Philippines was for centuries a government by the Church, and very largely by the friars. That kind of government is out of date. It would

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not do in our time even in the Philippines.” An old-­f ashioned comingling of church and state, the editors suggested, is what has broken the friars’ influence in the Philippines. And so, one question was left: “Who ­will take their place remains to be seen.”97 Unlike civic leaders and boosters in the upper Midwest and Southern California, who celebrated the histories of Jacques Marquette and Junípero Serra with such enthusiasm, the Harper’s Weekly editors followed the lead of Americans in the Philippines and wrote about the friars with more distance and circumspection. But ultimately, like t­hose writing about Marquette and Serra, they agreed on two t­hings. The first was that the friars, for what­ever faults they may have possessed, had brought the Philippines out of “barbarism.” They ­were civilizing forces, and the work they had done was all for the good of their non-­European charges. And, second, they w ­ ere figures with whom modern Americans, considering their own imperial ­ f uture, might identify. Filipinos might be “universally anxious to be rid of the friars,” but they w ­ ere “anxious to get rid of the Americans also.” If the Harper’s Weekly editors ­were not sure who might step in to take over the responsibilities of the Spanish friars, their colleagues at the Washington Post suffered from no such uncertainty. Just a month before the Harper’s Weekly editorial appeared, a Washington Post headline had put it succinctly: “American Friars in Islands: They W ­ ill Carry American Ideas and Fi­nally Solve the Friar Prob­lem.”98 Neither the Washington Post nor Harper’s Weekly was erecting a statue or planning a pageant, but both ­were nonetheless invoking their version of the history of the friars—­the Catholic imperial history of the Philippines—to think about, and indeed to plan, the American imperial f­ uture.

Conclusion

Imperial Church Stories

In the de­cades before the Civil War, nuns loomed large in antebellum Americans’ imaginations. To a remarkable degree, when American Protestants talked about Catholicism, they invoked the figure of a female religious, ­imagined as a trapped and tragic young w ­ oman, held captive within the confines of an authoritarian faith and thick convent walls. The idea of t­hese captive nuns inspired the convent burnings of the 1830s and made convent investigations a recurring phenomenon thereafter.1 An engraved portrait of Maria Monk was circulated along with her lurid 1836 convent captivity narrative, the best-­selling Awful Disclosures of the ­Hotel Dieu Nunnery: t­ here she sat in full habit and imploring visage, with her ill-­begotten infant on her knee.2 The juxtaposition of purity and sexuality in the engraving mirrored the contradictions that made the idea of an imprisoned nun so compelling: vows of celibacy betrayed by a regime of unlimited sexual license, “­Father” confessors and “­Mother” Superiors establishing a grotesque parody of Protestant domesticity, the corruption of the Old World taking root in the New. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, another iconic repre­ sen­ta­tion of the relationship between “Romanism” and American culture arose to join the imprisoned nuns. Catholic missionaries—­Jesuits, Franciscans, Augustinians, Dominicans, and Recollects—­became the embodiments of an alternative vision of Catholicism’s relationship with the United States. T ­ hese men did not peek out from the pages of a lurid exposé but strode purposefully across the landscape, starring in diverse pageants and speeches, inspiring

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local nomenclature, and even taking up residence as statues in the capital cities of the nation and empire. Heroic tales of Catholic missionaries emerged as a new kind of story about Catholicism, nation, and empire. In antebellum convent captivity tales, readers eyes w ­ ere drawn downward, to the corruption that was supposed to exist beneath the surface of Catholic exteriors. In the literary scholar Jenny Franchot’s words, the convent was figured as a “hierarchy of vice”: nuns ­were assaulted in the upper floors, and their babies w ­ ere murdered and thrown in the lime pits beneath the building.3 Even the famous ­etching of Monk is vertically arranged: one’s eye travels from Monk’s habited, imploring face down her body to the baby on her lap, the evidence of sexual sin. This “hierarchy of vice” resembled other Catholic spaces—­such as the Roman catacombs—­ that antebellum American Protestant writers understood to symbolize the morbid depths of Catholicism and the gradual accretion of historical layers in the decaying Old World. In the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, however, Catholic missionaries w ­ ere depicted differently. Looking outward across the horizon, hand on a canoe paddle, they ­were posed in the midst of horizontal movement. They set out across territory far from their Eu­ro­pean homes, exploring, Christianizing, and “civilizing” the lands and the ­people who lived ­there. Throughout much of the nineteenth ­century, American Protestants created and re-­created “Romish” Catholicisms as foils, embodiments of Eu­ro­pean age and corruption against which they could imagine American futurity and promise. Then, in the last de­cades of the nineteenth ­century, many American Protestants—­and their Catholic allies—­forged a new way of thinking with Catholicism, appropriate to a fast-­developing U.S. nation and empire. They did so in a number of dif­fer­ent sites and circumstances. In the upper Midwest, they raised statues to Jacques Marquette, the French Jesuit missionary and explorer who helped chart the Mississippi. In Southern California, they built a regional brand and tourist industry around commemorations of Junípero Serra and his fellow Spanish Franciscans, who had established a chain of twenty-­one missions up the coast of California. And in the Philippines, they wrote histories, official reports, and travelers’ accounts that praised the Spanish friar ­orders—­the Augustinians, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Recollects—as the men who accomplished the “Christianization” of the islands and modeled, at least at their best, an ongoing source of imperial order. ­These vari­ous invocations of Catholic imperial pasts emerged in the context of three concurrent developments. First, a postbellum national commemorative boom saw Americans erecting monuments—­and writing histories and

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performing in pageants—at a remarkable rate. Cele­brations of Catholic pasts stood beside cele­brations of many other pasts and contributed to this larger commemorative culture. Second, two waves of nineteenth-­century Catholic Eu­ro­pean immigration had supplied American Protestants with Catholic friends, colleagues, and constituents. Early nineteenth-­century Catholic immigrants had laid the groundwork for what became, in the late nineteenth ­century, a network of Catholic clerical and lay elites and a power­f ul Catholic press, while a late-­century wave of Catholic immigrants made Catholics increasingly influential in electoral politics. And, third, the center of U.S. economic and cultural power was shifting away from the Eastern Seaboard, no longer so dominated by events and individuals on the Atlantic coast. The Midwest, Far West, and Philippines, sites of Gilded Age and Progressive Era travel and settlement, economic development, and colonial empire building, ­were united not by a common Anglo-­American colonial history but rather by histories of French and Spanish Catholic exploration, evangelization, and colonization. In the context of a larger commemorative culture, among and in concert with a growing population of American Catholics, and in places with long Catholic histories of their own, many American Protestants ­were learning to celebrate—in the words of William Howard Taft—­those who ­were “not our ancestors.”4 Or perhaps, ­these Protestants argued, they ­were “our” ancestors. Though cele­brations of Catholic pasts varied by place and circumstance, they shared some common themes, one of which was that they downplayed Eu­ro­pean national and confessional distinctions in ­favor of advancing a common story of a Euro-­American “Christianizing” and “civilizing” mission. When American Protestants embraced Catholic histories as their own, they w ­ ere rejecting the primacy of confessional distinctions and often explic­itly challenging the anti-­Catholic language of organ­izations like the American Protective Association. They ­were also marking a firm distinction between t­ hose whom they cast as agents of civilizing empire (often, but not always, ­people who would consider themselves white) and t­hose whom they would cast as its objects (Native American and Filipino ­people in par­tic­u­lar). And fi­nally, they ­were rewriting U.S. history to foreground this civilizing binary. They elided the difference, conflict, and contingency of a history characterized by strug­gles between Catholics and Protestants, and among different European, North American, and Philippine peoples, and groups in ­f avor of a common story of Eu­ro­pean advancement across the continent and the globe. Marquette and Serra w ­ ere transformed from subjects of foreign Catholic powers to co–­founding ­f athers of the imperial nation, while the friars of the Philip-

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pines moved, with striking speed, from war­time enemies to colonial forerunners and models. The complex and contested history of U.S. settler-­colonial expansion and overseas colony building was reframed as the inevitable coming together, eventually u ­ nder the American flag, of common Euro-­American pro­ cesses of Christian exploration and civilization. Furthermore, to invoke Catholic pasts in this way—to tell Imperial Church stories—­was to argue that the Jesuits, Franciscans, and friars embodied certain foundational and exemplary qualities. Marquette was celebrated as a “peaceful conqueror”: an exemplar of a mediating approach to missionary work, a Catholic and Jesuit devotee of the divine feminine, and an embodiment of the virtues of both genders. The Franciscan missions of Southern California w ­ ere held up as examples of economic growth through nurture and uplift: of hospitality and w ­ holesome, paternalist l­abor practices. And the Spanish friars of the Philippines ­were lauded for their ability—­marred only recently by antifriar sentiment—to maintain colonial order in the Philippines, against both anticolonial rebellion and Filipino transformations of Catholic faith and ritual. Imperial Church stories looked forward as much as they looked backward. While they celebrated sixteenth-­, seventeenth-­, and eighteenth-­century Eu­ ro­pean Catholic missionaries, they also spoke to the ­f uture of U.S. empire: to territorial consolidation, economic growth, and U.S. colonial state building. In the upper Midwest and Southern California, boosters and civic leaders used Marquette and Serra to sell local products and to sanctify local business activity. Invoking ideas about the missionaries’ piety and selflessness, businesses ranging from a hardwood importer in Michigan to a department store in Southern California advertised themselves as attached to a regional inheritance that transcended mere material gain. In Southern California, moreover, Serra and the missions became a significant wealth-­generator, powering a massive tourist industry and constituting a local brand. Industrial transformation and economic growth in the Midwest and Southern California was hardly a smooth pro­cess, impoverishing many as it enriched some. In both places, the Imperial Church stories celebrated cap­i­tal­ist economic growth and wealth accumulation while attempting to inspire a beneficent spirit among the wealthy and power­f ul. Some civic leaders in the Midwest told the story of Marquette’s stay in Chicago as a tale of his identifying the area as a potential site for productive business, sanctifying the wealth accumulation on which so much of the city seemed bent. At the same time, they expressed hope that Marquette’s piety—­made vis­ib­ le on the landscape by monuments and in nomenclature—­would encourage spiritual consideration among ­those striving for that wealth. In Southern California, the missions built

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by Serra and the other Franciscans served boosters as handy parables for the pre­sent. By casting the missions as idealized institutions of hospitality and production, and imagining ­those missions as precursors to the present-­day Southern California economy, boosters and mission writers elided the prob­lem of ­labor exploitation, both on the missions of the past and in the factories and on farms of the pre­sent. In the Midwest, Southern California, and the U.S. colonial Philippines, the history of Catholic empire was also made to speak to vari­ous and ongoing pro­ cesses of conquest: of vio­ lence, displacement, and assimilation attempts. When they figured Catholic missionaries as examples of a kind of benevolent paternalist authority, American Protestants and Catholics ­imagined the missionaries as providing models of, and laying the groundwork for, relationships with Native Americans and Filipinos that minimized compulsion, vio­lence, and social disorder in f­ avor of grateful assent to gentle leadership. The idea of a “peaceful conqueror” was written into commemorations of Marquette and into Longfellow’s classic poem Song of Hiawatha, and was even taught to Native American boarding school students. A similar vision of Serra and the Franciscans was performed in plays (sometimes featuring boarding school students) in Southern California, and the school itself—­Riverside’s Sherman Institute—­ was even designed to reflect an idealized mission image. More broadly, among mission writers in Southern California, the missionaries w ­ ere held up as examples of paternalist care directed to Indigenous p­ eople, and Anglos called on one another to return to ­these founding ideals. In the Philippines, the friars could be framed as a pacifying force, an example of how to hold the line against both colonial and religious disorder. Even alongside cross-­confessional tensions inflamed by the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War and ensuing religious controversies, and against a power­ful Filipino antifriar sentiment, the image of the friar as a source of potential colonial order was so strong that some journalists and policymakers even hoped to maintain the friars’ function within the American Philippines through the importation of American (or Americanized) friars and priests. This new approach to Catholic imperial pasts constituted a reevaluation of long-­standing American Protestant repre­sen­ta­tions of Catholic authority. The power of the Catholic priest was often described, in the early republic and the antebellum period, as a threat to American (Protestant) in­de­pen­dence of thought, and therefore perhaps a threat to the young nation. Against the nation’s putative foundations in democracy, individualism, and freedom of thought, American Protestants cast the Catholic Church as an authoritarian, hierarchical, and obscurantist foil. Yet as the nineteenth c­ entury gave way to

I mperial C hurch S tories    207

what would come to be called the “American ­Century,” some American Protestants began to rethink this opposition.5 Without denying the ­earlier association of Catholicism with hierarchy and authority, they found in the history of Catholic missionary o ­ rders an admirable version of Catholic authority, one that they depicted as gentle, courageous, and civilizing. To t­ hese ­women and men, the mechanisms and power of Catholic authority began to look less like antirepublican compulsion and more like a useful technology of imperial control. ­These Imperial Church stories do not fit easily into a progressive history of gradually unfolding American religious pluralism. While writers, boosters, and organizers of commemorative events in the Midwest and Southern California might have celebrated cross-­confessional collaborations, and journalists and officials in the Philippines might have carefully policed their language for potential accusations of anti-­Catholicism, they ­were not the beginning of a wave of cross-­confessional tolerance. The ongoing popularity of the anti-­ Catholic press in the 1910s, the rise of the second Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s, and the popularity of Paul Blanshard’s 1949 best-­seller, American Freedom and Catholic Power, testified to the continuing viability of anti-­Catholic arguments, regardless of whose statue stood proud in the capitol. Even in the early twenty-­ first ­ century, some scholars have argued that anti-­ Catholicism persists as “Amer­ic­ a’s Last Acceptable Prejudice,” while ­others have noted the continuities between old anti-­Catholic and resurgent anti-­Muslim language.6 The Imperial Church stories—­and the communities and collaborations they gave rise to—­did not mark the beginning of the end of anti-­Catholic animus, however much some of the subjects of this book hoped they might. Yet Imperial Church stories do fit well within a more precisely defined history of cross-­confessional engagements: they help illuminate longer histories of how American Protestants and Catholics have thought with Catholicism about U.S. empire. For example, from the beginning of a professionalized chaplaincy during the First World War, the U.S. military became a site for the advancement—­not always consistent and often uneven—of a l­imited religious pluralism, one that included Catholics.7 During the Second World War, Catholic priests traveled with Jewish rabbis and Protestant ministers as “Tolerance Trios,” speaking to almost nine million Americans on military bases about the importance of religion to American life, and the inclusion of Catholicism (and Judaism) in the Amer­i­ca they w ­ ere fighting for.8 During the Cold War, anticommunism in the United States had a consistent pro-­Catholic cast, in part ­because of the out­spoken anticommunist politics of public Catholic figures like New York’s Cardinal Francis Spellman and the radio and tele­vi­sion

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personality Bishop (­later Archbishop) Fulton Sheen.9 Publisher William Randolph Hearst’s 1935 claim that “I am an Episcopalian, but I honor the magnificent courage, the inspiring crusading spirit, the high sense of obligation to God and mankind with which the Catholic Church has met this sinister communistic menace” echoes in tone and spirit some of the statements we have heard about Marquette or the friars in the Philippines, differing only in that Hearst focused not on past “civilizing” work but on present-­day anticommunist credentials.10 Indeed, in the 1950s, J. Edgar Hoover’s Federal Bureau of Investigation recruited young Catholic college gradu­ates, and U.S. support for Ngo Dinh Diem in Vietnam was premised in part on Diem’s Catholicism, and the belief—­ prevalent among policymakers and in the intelligence community—­that communism and Catholicism ­were antithetical to one another.11 From this perspective, Gilded Age and Progressive Era Imperial Church stories are, indeed, part of a larger U.S. history: one in which the pursuit of U.S. global power and influence has led, repeatedly, away from anti-­ Catholic animus and ­ toward Protestant-­ Catholic collaboration, and away from suspicion of Catholic allegiances and ­toward an embrace of Catholic Americanism. Imperial Church stories may not fit easily into a broad-­ gauge history of the rise and fall of American anti-­Catholicism, but that is part of their value: they encourage us to look at the multiple and sometimes conflicting ways in which Americans have thought with Catholicism over the centuries, and thus to change the shape and vocabulary of that broad-­ gauge history itself.

Looking Outward The history of how U.S. Catholics and Protestants have invoked Catholic imperial pasts in reference to the past and ­future of the U.S. nation and empire is much larger than the scope of this book. The upper Midwest, Southern California, and the U.S. colonial Philippines ­were not the only sites in which Protestant Americans encountered Catholics and Catholic histories in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Interest in North Amer­ic­ a’s French and Spanish past extended beyond Southern California to places such as Louisiana, Florida, Arizona, and New Mexico, and the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War produced encounters with Catholic histories and populations beyond the Philippines, in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Guam. Rather than attempt a comprehensive history, this book has focused on par­tic­u­lar places, texts, and ­people to offer a set of soundings—­like fragmentary pictures of the ocean floor—­

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illuminating key portions of a historical terrain that has so far been obscured from view, inviting other scholars to map the adjacent, still uncharted spaces.12 The ­f uture of t­ hese stories, as the twentieth c­ entury unfolded, also remains uncharted. The statues erected to Marquette, Serra, and Urdaneta still stand, but the stories being told about t­hese men and their fellow missionaries have changed. Over the de­cades since they w ­ ere initially celebrated as co–­founding ­fathers of the nation and empire, they have continued to be vectors for thinking about U.S. empire, but in ways that might be hard for their early admirers to recognize. Sometimes they have been employed to talk about new topics: about environmentalism, sainthood, or scientific colonialism. At other times they have been invoked as part of anticolonial politics: the act of revising the old Imperial Church stories has served as a power­f ul critique of Spanish, French, and U.S. imperial histories and also of the present-­day racism and imperialism that often influence how t­ hese histories are remembered. For over a ­century, a wide variety of ­people have continued to think and talk about U.S. empire by invoking the histories of ­these Eu­ro­pean Catholic missionaries. They have served as the rhetorical framework for a host of meaningful and multivalent conversations. In the upper Midwest, for example, at the C ­ entury of Pro­gress fair in 1933, a replica of Marquette’s cabin was displayed. The visitor’s logbook includes a variety of entries—­ranging from “feet hurt” to “yowza!”—­but the most common are references by Catholics about how happy they ­were to see a Catholic celebrated (“Proud of religion” wrote one person from Louisiana; “My ‘­Father’ ” wrote another from Michigan) and by a variety of p­ eople about how “primitive” t­ hings ­were in Marquette’s day, compared with their current state of “pro­gress.”13 Forty years ­later, in 1973, on the three hundredth anniversary of Marquette and Jolliet’s voyage, a team of ­people re-­created their river journey. In their reenactment, a Catholic priest playing Marquette said Mass along the way, and the group was met in Chicago by a welcoming committee that included a Catholic cardinal. One or­ga­nizer mused about what it must have been like to be the “first white men” in the area, and the group repeatedly play-­acted encountering Native Americans on their vari­ous stops along the river. Beyond the familiar moves ­toward the inclusion of Catholics and the elevation of French Jesuits as representatives of whiteness, this trip also had a novel purpose: its organizers framed it as an opportunity for a critique of what “civilization” had done to the landscape that Marquette had encountered.14 Almost half a c­ entury ­later, at Marquette University, students w ­ ere also thinking with Marquette in order to think about empire, but in a very dif­fer­ent

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way. For them, talking about Marquette provided an opportunity to critique and decenter narratives of white exploration in early American history. In November 2014, some students launched a movement to promote re­spect and repre­sen­ta­tion for p­ eople of color at the university, inspired by the Black Lives ­Matter movement. Among their ten-­point list of demands was a request that the image on the university seal be redesigned to include a Native American giving directions to Marquette’s party. The seal was based on William Lamprecht’s 1869 painting of Marquette in his canoe, a painting that included a Native American guide directing Marquette’s party. The students argued that the university seal erased Marquette and Jolliet’s reliance on Indigenous p­ eoples’ knowledge when it cropped out the Indigenous guide, and thus contributed to a white-­dominated history of American discovery and knowledge creation.15 From the First World War to the pre­sent, in ongoing debates about Serra’s canonization and his place in the California grade school curriculum, the missions have appeared in familiar ways, with the missionary as a pious evangelizer and caring protector of the neophytes, and the missions serving as emblems of regional identity. At the same time, t­hese debates have consistently raised the issue of mission vio­lence, an issue that would have been familiar to early nineteenth-­century observers who likened the missions to slave plantations, but that Gilded Age and Progressive Era mission writers and boosters had (temporarily) succeeded in dislodging.16 In debates about Serra’s canonization, a wide variety of individuals and groups have argued about how ­people in the pre­sent should contend with the suffering and vio­lence of the past. ­After the First World War, inspired by studies of the h ­ uman body’s responses to deprivation, the physiologist Sherburne F. Cook attempted to evaluate California mission history from the evidence he could find of its physical effect on the neophytes, a study that inspired the journalist Carey McWilliams to ­later compare the missions to Nazi concentration camps.17 Rejecting ­these arguments, in 1948 the prominent Protestant historian Herbert Eugene Bolton testified in glowing terms about Serra’s work before the Diocesan Historical Commission.18 When the pope declared Serra venerable in 1985, the debate began anew, with Native American activists and their allies expressing vari­ous forms of anger and concern over Serra’s canonization pro­cess, with some critics turning again to the language of genocide. Supporters of Serra responded by denying that ­there was an unusual level of vio­lence on the missions, and called the uproar another example of age-­old American anti-­Catholicism.19 The debate has continued even a­ fter Pope Francis beatified Serra in 2015, citing Serra’s enthusiasm for “blazing trails, ­going forth to meet many ­people, learning and valu-

I mperial C hurch S tories    211

ing their par­tic­u­lar customs and ways of life,” and lauding the Franciscan as a loving protector of Native Americans.20 ­Others have sought to shape Serra’s legacy through the classroom. Since at least the 1930s, California school c­ hildren have studied the missions as part of the fourth-­g rade California-­history social studies curriculum.21 For generations, the lesson has involved the creation of model mission buildings. Made from cardboard boxes, popsicle sticks, sugar cubes, or any other available material, ­these models have occupied families and decorated classrooms up and down the state. In 2016, new history and social science standards a­ dopted by the California State Board of Education recommended ­doing away with this tradition: arguing that “building missions from sugar cubes or popsicle sticks does not help students understand the period and is offensive to many,” the new standards urge teachers to explain to students that “once Indians converted to Catholicism, missionaries and presidio soldiers conspired to forcibly keep the Indians in residence at the missions,” that Native Americans ­were often used as sources of forced l­abor, and that the death rate was “extremely high.”22 One proponent of this change compared the missions both to Southern slavery and to Nazi concentration camps, while some opponents—­particularly parents who had grown up building mission models themselves—­argued that the miniature mission proj­ect was valuable b­ ecause it helped c­ hildren learn about “our history as Californians.”23 Americans have paid less attention over the years to the history of the Philippines. But when they have, they have also thought about that history with reference to the Spanish Catholic past, and have revised and reevaluated Imperial Church stories in the pro­cess. For example, the 1939 film The Real Glory, produced when the Philippines was still a U.S. colonial possession, included a Spanish friar character who served as host and mediator for American military personnel. The friar figure was depicted as superstitious, however, and the source of American tutelage and colonial order was explic­itly moved from the realm of religion to the realm of science.24 Directed by Henry Hathaway, The Real Glory is set in 1906 and tells a story about U.S. Army officers and, in par­tic­u­lar, a civilian doctor (Dr. Canavan, played by Gary Cooper) attempting to train the Philippine Constabulary to resist attack by neighboring “Moros.” ­Father Philippe, a sympathetic but defeated figure, enters the film by welcoming the Americans with the old gladiatorial greeting: “We who are about to die salute you.” He is repeatedly depicted as an in­effec­tive leader—­when a drought threatens the town, he leads a religious pro­cession while the Americans discuss practical plans—­but a useful cultural mediator. He provides Dr. Canavan with the “Achilles heel of the Moro”: the fact that

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“the Moro” is supposedly deathly afraid of being buried in pig skin, information that Dr. Canavan uses to inspire courage in the Filipino soldiers. However, the priest is also depicted as markedly not holding the line of orthodoxy against Filipino transformations of Catholicism: he even borrows the Filipino term “anting-­anting” (signifying an object with magical properties) to describe the cross that hangs from his neck.25 It is Dr. Canavan—­the man of science, impatient with religion—­who emerges as the representative colonial hero, the figure who ­will lead the American Philippines into the ­f uture. Since Philippine in­de­pen­dence, the history of the Spanish friars in the Philippines has not been the subject of the same U.S.-­based decolonizing efforts that have characterized public debates about the histories of Marquette and Serra, in large part b­ ecause the U.S. colonial period in the Philippines has so long been exceptionalized as aberrant to the general thrust of U.S. history, written out of celebratory accounts of American anticolonial origins and the westward expansion of the republic. But some have refused such pressure to forget. In 1998, for example, the artist Paul Pfeiffer exhibited a solo show in New York City called “The Pure Products Go Crazy.” In the show Pfeiffer, who was born in Hawaii and grew up in the Philippines exhibited a digital Chromogenic print titled Leviathan: a seven-­by-­three-­foot close-up of blond hair emerging from the pink plastic of what looked like a mass-­produced doll’s scalp.26 The plastic doll’s flesh, which is vis­i­ble only in a thin line, forms a shape in the ­middle of the image, around and beyond which the blond hair flows. The shape is the floor plan of a cathedral.27 According to Sarita See, Pfeiffer’s work signifies “what might be called the bicoloniality of the Philippines. Three hundred and fifty years in a convent, fifty years in Hollywood: So goes the popu­lar refrain summing up the Philippines’ history of colonial encounter with Spain and the United States.”28 In other words, the cathedral shape, on the one hand, and the plastic platinum hair, on the other, gesture to the histories of Spanish and U.S. colonialism in the Philippines. Given the history of Imperial Church stories, Pfeiffer’s image is particularly striking for the way it collapses the linear chronology of Philippine colonial history, the idea that the Spanish and American periods unfolded one ­after another, separate and distinct. It envisions, rather, the American period as intimately connected to—­ emerging from and flowing around and beyond—­the Eu­ro­pean Catholic past. An image of dolls’ hair, an imperialist film, a curricular debate, a dramatic reenactment, and an anti-­colonial university protest movement: clearly, ongoing American references to midwestern, Southern Californian, and Philippine Catholic imperial pasts have been united neither in form nor in content. They neither constitute a coherent conversation, nor evince a common purpose. But

I mperial C hurch S tories    213

together they speak to the capacity of the Imperial Church stories to be reconsidered, reframed, and repurposed. For over a ­century, a variety of Americans have continued to find the histories of Catholic missionaries on lands that became U.S. states and colonies to be compelling, in the most magnetic sense of the word: they have been drawn to think anew—in pride, anger, admiration, and critique—­about what ­those histories might mean for the past and ­f uture of the U.S. nation and empire. At the turn of the twentieth ­century, George Everett Adams and William Howard Taft—­the politicians with whom this book began—­stood before their respective audiences in Illinois and California and claimed that understanding United States history required that one look beyond Protestants on the Eastern Seaboard. They argued that their compatriots should not only “regard our own pilgrim f­ athers as the representatives of the religious life in the early history of Amer­i­ca,” but also “take a larger view,” that they should “bear in mind for a while that ­there ­were ­others besides the En­glish who ­were fighting the ­battles of pro­gress.”29 They w ­ ere speaking what was to them a radical truth. They hoped that other non-­Catholic Americans would begin to think differently about the U.S. past, to include French and Spanish Catholic missionaries among the nation’s founding f­ athers. Their calls to cross-­confessional historical appreciation ­were also calls to place the United States in a long history—­ and prepare it for a successful f­uture—of civilizing empire. At the dawn of what came to be called the “American C ­ entury,” in a country controlling vast lands formerly colonized by Catholic empires, it was impossible to think about the roots and routes of the imperial nation without thinking about—­and with—­ Catholicism. It still is.

Notes

Note on Terminology 1. ​Julie Byrne, “Catholic but Not Roman Catholic,” American Catholic Studies 125, no. 3 (2014): 16. For an impor­tant account of in­de­pen­dent Catholics who resist this terminological collapse, see Byrne’s The Other Catholics: Remaking Amer­i­ca’s Largest Religion (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016). 2. ​Jenny Franchot has argued influentially, in fact, that the creation of a (always unstable) concept of a unitary American Protestantism was part of the work of anti-­Catholic discourse. Jenny Franchot, Roads to Rome: The Antebellum Protestant Encounter with Catholicism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). In Religious Liberties: Anti-­Catholicism and Liberal Democracy in Nineteenth-­ Century U.S. Lit­er­a­ture and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), Elizabeth Fenton critically engages Franchot’s argument, demonstrating that early American appeals to “religious liberty” and “freedom of conscience”—­appeals that depended on and idealized at least a l­imited religious diversity, and that w ­ ere central themes in religious and po­liti­cal thought—­gained force from depicting an “intolerant” Roman Catholicism as an alternative and e­ nemy. In short, while Franchot argues that anti-­Catholicism could unite disparate Protestant groups against a common other, Fenton shows how anti-­Catholicism could also be a language that celebrated Protestant diversity and voluntarism.

Introduction: Thinking with Catholicism, Empire, and History 1. ​“Marquette’s Coming to Chicago,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 10 October 1894. 2. ​“Marquette’s Coming to Chicago.” 3. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909. 4. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast.” 5. ​For more on commemorative culture, including its growth in the late nineteenth-­century United States, see Michael Kammen, Mystic Chords of Memory:The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture (New York: Vintage, 1993); and Erika Doss, Memorial Mania: Public Feeling in Amer­i­ca (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). Also see chapter 1 of this book.

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  6. ​For another mea­sure­ment: in 1830, Catholics had constituted 3 ­percent of the population of the United States; by 1920, their numbers had reached almost 21 ­percent. James M. O’Toole, The Faithful: A History of Catholics in Amer­i­ca (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), 100.   7. ​Bruce Cumings, Dominion from Sea to Sea: Pacific Ascendancy and American Power (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009). See also my “Catholicism and the Making of the U.S. Pacific,” Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 12, no. 4 (October 2013): 434–74.   8. ​Lyman Beecher, A Plea for the West (Cincinnati: Truman & Smith, 1835); and Josiah Strong, Our Country: Its Pos­si­ble F ­ uture and Its Pre­sent Crisis (New York: American Home Missionary Society, 1885), 16, 57.   9. ​See, for example, John Bancroft Devins, An Observer in the Philippines, or Life in Our New Possessions (Boston: American Tract Society, 1905), 266. Devins’s narrative was also published in the New York Observer and Chronicle in installments in 1904. 10. ​Monographs along ­these lines include Amy DeRogatis, Moral Geography: Maps, Missionaries, and the American Frontier (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003); Melani McAlister, Epic Encounters: Culture, Media, and U.S. Interests in the M ­ iddle East since 1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Ian Tyrrell, Reforming the World:The Creation of Amer­i­ca’s Moral Empire (Prince­ ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2010); Andrew Preston, Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith: Religion in American War and Diplomacy (New York: Anchor Books, 2012); Emily Conroy-­Krutz, Christian Imperialism: Converting the World in the Early American Republic (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015); and Cara Lea Burnidge, A Peaceful Conquest:Woodrow Wilson, Religion, and the New World Order (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016). Attention to Protestantism and U.S. empire is particularly pre­sent in general histories of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, including Thomas Bender, A Nation among Nations: Amer­i­ca’s Place in World History (New York: Hill & Wang, 2006); and T. J. Jackson Lears, Rebirth of a Nation: The Making of Modern Amer­ic­a, 1877–1920 (New York: HarperCollins, 2009). For an overview of the religious turn, with extensive bibliography, see Andrew Preston, “The Religious Turn in Diplomatic History,” in Explaining the History of American Foreign Relations, 3rd edition, ed. Frank Costigliola and Michael J. Hogan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 284–303. For formative, foundational histories, see Albert Katz Weinberg, Manifest Destiny: A Study of Nationalist Expansionism in American History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1935); Frederick Merk, Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History: A Reinterpretation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963); Ernest Lee Tuveson, Redeemer Nation: The Idea of Amer­i­ca’s Millennial Role (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968); and Anders Stephanson, Manifest Destiny: American Expansion and the Empire of Right (New York: Hill and Wang, 1995). An early, Catholic-­focused exception to this rule is Wilson D. Miscamble, “Catholics and American Foreign Policy from McKinley to McCarthy: A Historiographical Survey,” Diplomatic History 4, no. 3 (Summer 1980): 223–40. 11. ​Preston, Sword of the Spirit, 7–8. On this point, see also Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” Diplomatic History 30, no. 5 (November 2006): 798-99. 12. ​For market empire, see Victoria de Grazia, Irresistible Empire:Amer­i­ca’s Advance through Twentieth-­ Century Eu­rope (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005); for empire of production, see Charles S. Maier, Among Empires: American Ascendancy and Its Pre­de­ces­sors (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006). On the question of U.S. empire, in its multiple forms and historiographical treatments, see Anders Stephanson, “A Most In­ter­est­ing Empire,” in The New American Empire: A 21st ­Century Teach-­In on U.S. Foreign Policy, ed. Lloyd C. Gardner and Marilyn B. Young (New York: New Press, 2005), 253–75; Ian Tyrrell, “Empire in American History,” in Colonial Crucible: Empire in the Making of the Modern American State, ed. Alfred W. McCoy and Francisco A. Scarano (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2009), 541–56; and Paul A. Kramer, “Power and Connection: Im-

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perial Histories of the United States in the World,” American Historical Review 116, no. 5 (December 2011): 1348–91. For general histories of formal U.S. empire, see Frank Ninkovich, The United States and Imperialism (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2001); McCoy and Scarano, Colonial Crucible; A. G. Hopkins, American Empire: A Global History (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2018); and Daniel Immerwahr, How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2019). 13. ​In this sense, this book is less concerned with defining what an empire precisely is (entering into a debate, for example, about where the pro­cess of industrialization ends and economic empire building begins) than in using the imperial as an analytic. As Paul A. Kramer has argued, one of the benefits of this approach is that it allows comparison across space and time. Kramer, “Power and Connection.” 14. ​On Gilded Age and Progressive Era U.S. notions of civilization, see Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996); Michael Adas, Dominance by Design: Technological Imperatives and Amer­i­ca’s Civilizing Mission (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006); Frank A. Ninkovich, Global Dawn: The Cultural Foundation of American Internationalism, 1865–1890 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009); and Benjamin Allen Coates, Legalist Empire: International Law and American Foreign Relations in the Early Twentieth C ­ entury (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016). 15. ​Mark Twain, “To the Person Sitting in Darkness,” North American Review 172, no. 531 (February 1901): 161–76. For more on anti-­imperialism, see chapter 5. 16. ​Anders Stephanson, “An American Story? Second Thoughts on Manifest Destiny,” in Manifest Destinies and Indigenous P ­ eoples, ed. Biorn Maybury-­Lewis, David Maybury-­Lewis, and Theodore Macdonald (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 37. On the United States as one civilizing empire among many, see Coates, Legalist Empire. 17. ​Dirk Bönker, Militarism in a Global Age: Naval Ambitions in Germany and the United States before World War I (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012); and Mark Philip Bradley, Imagining Vietnam and Amer­ic­a: The Making of Postcolonial Vietnam, 1919–1950 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000). For scholarship more generally on imperial comparison and connection, see Ann Laura Stoler, ed., Haunted by Empire: Geographies of Intimacy in North American History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006); Kramer, “Power and Connection”; Julian Go, Patterns of Empire:The British and American Empires, 1688 to the Pre­sent (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); and Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper, Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2011). 18. ​Christopher Schmidt-­Nowara’s work also traces Gilded Age and Progressive Era U.S. imperial connections and comparisons to the Spanish empire: Schmidt-­Nowara and John M. Nieto-­Phillips, eds., Interpreting Spanish Colonialism: Empires, Nations, and Legends (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005); and Schmidt-­Nowara, “From Columbus to Ponce de León: Puerto Rican Commemorations between Empires, 1893–1908,” in McCoy and Scarano, Colonial Crucible, 230–37. 19. ​Michael B. Gross, The War against Catholicism: Liberalism and the Anti-­Catholic Imagination in Nineteenth-­Century Germany (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004), 11. 20. ​ Christopher Clark and Wolfram Kaiser, eds., Culture Wars: Secular-­ Catholic Conflict in Nineteenth-­Century Eu­rope (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 21. ​Timothy Verhoeven, Transatlantic Anti-­Catholicism: France and the United States in the Nineteenth ­Century (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 27–28, 37. For more on transnational routes of anti-­Catholic discourse, see Peter R. D’Agostino, Rome in Amer­i­ca: Transnational Catholic Ideology from the Risorgimento to Fascism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004); Susan M. Griffin, Anti-­Catholicism and Nineteenth-­Century Fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); and Clark and Kaiser, Culture Wars, chaps. 1 and 2.

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22. ​Sebastian Conrad, German Colonialism: A Short History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 23–24, 33. See also Andrew Zimmerman, “Race and World Politics: Germany in the Age of Imperialism, 1878–1914,” in The Oxford Handbook of Modern German History, ed. Helmut Walser Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Jeff Bowersox, Raising Germans in the Age of Empire: Youth and Colonial Culture, 1871–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Stefan Manz, Constructing a German Diaspora: The “Greater German Empire,” 1871–1914 (New York: Routledge, 2014); John S. Lowry, Big Swords, Jesuits, and Bondelswarts: Wilhelmine Imperialism, Overseas Re­sis­tance, and German Po­liti­cal Catholicism, 1897–1906 (Leiden: Brill, 2015); and Albert Monshan Wu, From Christ to Confucius: German Missionaries, Chinese Christians, and the Globalization of Chris­ tian­ity, 1860–1950 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016). 23. ​J. P. Daughton, An Empire Divided: Religion, Republicanism, and the Making of French Colonialism, 1880–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 11. 24. ​Daughton, Empire Divided, 14. 25. ​For ongoing scholarly debates about republican versus Catholic civilizing ideology in French colonial history, see Alice L. Conklin, A Mission to Civilize: The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895–1930 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997); Sarah A. Curtis, Civilizing Habits: ­Women Missionaries and the Revival of French Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). This was not true everywhere. In French Senegal, as Elizabeth A. Foster has shown, the missionaries’ ongoing ­battle for influence had less to do with facing republican anticlericalism and more to do with intricate contestations and negotiations between vari­ous local power brokers. Foster, Faith in Empire: Religion, Politics, and Colonial Rule in French Senegal, 1880–1940 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013). 26. ​The classic historical surveys of American anti-­Catholicism are Ray Allen Billington, The Protestant Crusade, 1800–1860: A Study of the Origins of American Nativism (New York: Macmillan,1938); John Higham, Strangers in the Land: Patterns of American Nativism, 1860–1925 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1992); and David Brion Davis, “Some Themes of Counter-­ Subversion: An Analy­sis of Anti-­Masonic, Anti-­Catholic, and Anti-­Mormon Lit­er­a­ture,” Mississippi Valley Historical Review 47, no. 2 (September 1960): 205–24. Other surveys include Jay P. Dolan, In Search of an American Catholicism: A History of Religion and Culture in Tension (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002); Philip Jenkins, The New Anti-­Catholicism: The Last Acceptable Prejudice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Mark Massa, Anti-­Catholicism in Amer­i­ca:The Last Acceptable Prejudice (New York: Crossroad, 2003; and John T. McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom:A History (New York: W. W. Norton, 2003). 27. ​For colonial anti-­Catholicism, see Mary Augustina Ray, American Opinion of Roman Catholicism in the Eigh­teenth ­Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1936); Francis D. Cogliano, No King, No Popery: Anti-­Catholicism in Revolutionary New ­England (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1995); Elizabeth Fenton, Religious Liberties: Anti-­Catholicism and Liberal Democracy in Nineteenth-­ Century U.S. Lit­er­at­ure and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Maura Jane Farrelly, Papist Patriots: The Making of an American Catholic Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); and Farrelly, Anti-­Catholicism in Amer­i­ca, 1620–1860 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 28. ​Fenton, Religious Liberties, 25. 29. ​Maria Monk, Awful Disclosures of the ­Hotel Dieu Nunnery, in Veil of Fear: Nineteenth-­Century Convent Tales by Rebecca Reed and Maria Monk, ed. Nancy Lusignan Schultz (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, NotaBell Books, 1999), 1–137. The original, full title of the book was Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, as Exhibited in a Narrative of Her Suffering During a Residence of Five Years as a Novice, and Two Years as a Black Nun, in the H ­ otel Dieu Nunnery at Montreal. Also see Rebecca Reed, Six Months in a Convent, in Schultz, Veil of Fear, 1–186 (pagination is restarted for each narrative in the volume). On antebellum convent captivity narratives, see Mary Ewens, The Role of the

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Nun in Nineteenth ­Century Amer­i­ca (New York: Arno Press, 1978), 161–200; Joseph G. Mannard, “The 1839 Baltimore Nunnery Riot: An Episode in Jacksonian Nativism and Social Vio­lence,” The Mary­land Historian 11 (Spring 1980): 13–27; Jenny Franchot, Roads to Rome:The Antebellum Protestant Encounter with Catholicism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), chaps. 4–7; Joseph G. Mannard, “Protestant M ­ others and Catholic S­ isters: Gender Concerns in Anti-­Catholic Conspiracy Theories, 1830–1860,” American Catholic Studies 111 (Spring–­Winter 2000): 1–21; and Griffin, Anti-­ Catholicism and Nineteenth-­Century Fiction, chap. 1. On antebellum convent burnings, see Nancy Lusignan Schultz, Fire and Roses: The Burning of the Charlestown Convent, 1834 (New York: ­Free Press, 2000); and Daniel A. Cohen, “Passing the Torch: Boston Firemen, ‘Tea Party’ Patriots, and the Burning of the Charlestown Convent,” Journal of the Early Republic 24, no. 4 (Winter 2004): 527–86. 30. ​For parochial school debates, see Billington, Protestant Crusade, chap. 6; Higham, Strangers in the Land, chaps. 3 and 4; Lerond Curry, Protestant-­Catholic Relations in Amer­i­ca:World War I through Vatican II (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1972), 49–55, 98–104; McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom, introduction and chap. 1; Tracy Fessenden, “The Nineteenth ­Century Bible Wars and the Separation of Church and State,” Church History 74, no. 4 (December 2005): 784– 811; and Fessenden, Culture and Redemption: Religion, the Secular, and American Lit­er­a­ture (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2006), chap. 3. 31. ​On the Know-­Nothings, see Tyler Anbinder, Nativism and Slavery: The Northern Know-­ Nothings and the Politics of the 1850s (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992); and David H. Bennett, The Party of Fear: The American Far Right from Nativism to the Militia Movement. Rev. ed. (New York: Vintage, 1995), chaps. 7–9. 32. ​Les Wallace, The Rhe­toric of Anti-­Catholicism: The American Protective Association, 1887–1911 (New York: Garland Publishing, 1990), 2. 33. ​On the second Klan, see Kathleen M. Blee, ­Women of the Klan: Racism and Gender in the 1920s (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Shawn Lay, ed., The Invisible Empire in the West:­Toward a New Historical Appraisal of the Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1992); Nancy MacLean, ­Behind the Mask of Chivalry: The Making of the Second Ku Klux Klan (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994); Linda Gordon, The Second Coming of the KKK: The Ku Klux Klan of the 1920s and the American Po­liti­cal Tradition (New York: Liveright, 2017); and Felix Harcourt, Ku Klux Kulture: Amer­i­ca and the Klan in the 1920s (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017). 34. ​Justin Nordstrom, Danger on the Doorstep: Anti-­Catholicism and American Print Culture in the Progressive Era (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006), 10. 35. ​Barbara Welter, “From Maria Monk to Paul Blanshard: A C ­ entury of Protestant Anti-­ Catholicism,” in Uncivil Religion: Interreligious Hostility in Amer­i­ca, ed. Robert N. Bellah and Frederick E. Greenspahn (New York: Crossroad, 1987), 56; John T. McGreevy, “Thinking on One’s Own: Catholicism in the American Intellectual Imagination, 1928–1960,” Journal of American History 84, no. 1 ( June 1997): 97–131; and McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom, chap. 6. 36. ​For descriptions of the mid-­twentieth-­century change in Catholic status—­always a complex, partial, and contingent process—­see Mark S. Massa, Catholics and American Culture: Fulton Sheen, Dorothy Day, and the Notre Dame Football Team (New York: Crossroad, 1999); and Massa, Anti-­ Catholicism in Amer­i­ca; Dolan, In Search of American Catholicism, 182–86, 191–94; and McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom, 208–15. Kevin Schultz has argued for the rise of a “tri-­f aith” image of the United States—­the origins of the so-­called Judeo-­Christian nation—in the 1940s and 1950s. Kevin M. Schultz, Tri-­Faith Amer­i­ca: How Catholics and Jews Held Postwar Amer­i­ca to Its Protestant Promise (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). 37. ​T. J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880–1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). I am particularly indebted to Lears, whose work taught me to understand repre­sen­ta­tions of Catholicism as a key part of U.S. cultural history.

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38. ​Franchot, Roads to Rome, xvii. 39. ​McGreevy, Catholicism and American Freedom. 40. ​Ryan K. Smith, Gothic Arches, Latin Crosses: Anti-­Catholicism and American Church Designs in the Nineteenth C ­ entury (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006); and Anthony Burke Smith, The Look of Catholics: Portrayals in Popu­lar Culture from the G ­ reat Depression to the Cold War (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2010). 41. ​For additional scholarship working with the ambiguity of Protestant attitudes ­toward Catholicism, see Paula M. Kane, Separatism and Subculture: Boston Catholicism, 1900–1920 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994); D’Agostino, Rome in Amer­i­ca; Michael P. Carroll, American Catholics in the Protestant Imagination: Rethinking the Academic Study of Religion (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007); Colleen McDannell, ed., Catholics in the Movies (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007); James T. Fisher, On the Irish Waterfront: The Crusader, the Movie, and the Soul of the Port of New York (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009); Fenton, Religious Liberties; Fessenden, Culture and Redemption; Kathleen Holscher, Religious Lessons: Catholic S ­ isters and the Captured Schools Crisis in New Mexico (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); Kristy Nabhan-­Warren, The Cursillo Movement in Amer­i­ca: Catholics, Protestants, and Fourth-­Day Spirituality (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2013); Brett Hendrickson, Border Medicine: A Transcultural History of Mexican American Curanderismo (New York: New York University Press, 2014); David Mislin, “ ‘Against the Foes That Destroy the ­Family, Protestants and Catholics Can Stand Together’: Divorce and Christian Ecumenism,” in Faithful Republic: Religion and Politics in Modern Amer­i­ca, ed. Andrew Preston, Bruce J. Schulman, and Julian E. Zelizer (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015), 9–21; and Brett Hendrickson, The Healing Power of the Santuario de Chimayó: Amer­i­ca’s Miraculous Church (New York: New York University Press, 2017). For an argument that locates the roots of liberal American Protestant religious pluralism in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, see David Mislin, Saving Faith: Making Religious Pluralism an American Value at the Dawn of the Secular Age (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2015). 42. ​The language of “thinking with Catholicism” was inspired by David Nirenberg’s discussion of “thinking with Judaism” in his monumental book, Anti-­Judaism:The Western Tradition. Nirenberg traces the history of anti-­Judaism as a constitutive ele­ment of Western thought: he asks, in his words, how “­people have used ideas about Jews and Judaism to fashion the tools with which they construct the real­ity of their world.” He opens by posing a series of questions, among them: “What work did thinking about Judaism do for [­people] in their efforts to make sense of their world?” and “Did that work in turn affect the ways in which ­future socie­ties could or would think with Judaism?” While this book has a considerably narrower scope than does Nirenberg’s, and is more concerned with collaborations and negotiations between Catholics and non-­Catholics than Nirenberg is between Jews and non-­Jews, I found Nirenberg’s discussion of “thinking with Judaism” to be a useful description of the way language about Catholicism can be a par­tic­u­lar, situationally specific attempt to depict Catholic history, p­ eople, practices, or ideas while also being constrained by historical uses of the term. Nirenberg, Anti-­Judaism:The Western Tradition (New York: W. W. Norton, 2014), 468 (first quote), 2 (second quote). 43. ​Matthew J. Cressler, “What White Catholics Owe Black Americans,” Slate, 2 September 2016, accessed 1 November 2018, http://­www​.­slate​.­com​/­articles​/­news​_­and​_­politics​/­history​ /­2016​/­09​/­georgetown​_­s​_­reparations​_­are​_­to​_­be​_­commended​_­but​_­catholics​_­still​_­owe​_­black​.­html. For an introduction to Black Catholic history and the historiographical reevaluation that a full account of this history requires, see Cyprian Davis, The History of Black Catholics in the United States (New York: Crossroad, 1995); John T. McGreevy, Parish Bound­aries:The Catholic Encounter with Race in the Twentieth-­Century Urban North (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); James M. O’Toole, Passing for White: Race, Religion, and the Healy F ­ amily, 1820–1920 (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts

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Press, 2002); Shannen Dee Williams, “The Global Catholic Church and the Radical Possibilities of #BlackLivesMatter,” Journal of Africana Religions 3, no. 4 (2015): 503–15; Matthew J. Cressler, “Race, White Supremacy, and the Making of American Catholicism: Introduction,” American Catholic Studies 127, no. 3 (2016): 1–5; Timothy B. Neary, Crossing Parish Bound­aries: Race, Sports, and Catholic Youth in Chicago, 1914–1954 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016); Shannen Dee Williams, “Forgotten Habits, Lost Vocations: Black Nuns, Contested Memories, and the 19th ­Century Strug­gle to Desegregate U.S. Catholic Religious Life,” Journal of African American History 101, no. 3 (2016): 231–60; and Matthew J. Cressler, Authentically Black and Truly Catholic:The Rise of Black Catholicism in the G ­ reat Migration (New York: New York University Press, 2017). On the uncertain place of African Americans in the mid-­twentieth-­century’s “Tri-­Faith” co­ali­tion, see Schultz, Tri-­Faith Amer­i­ca; and Ronit Y. Stahl, Enlisting Faith: How the Military Chaplaincy S ­ haped Religion and State in Modern Amer­i­ca (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017). 44. ​Timothy Matovina made this critique in “Remapping American Catholicism,” U.S. Catholic Historian 28, no. 4 (2010): 31–72. See also Steven M. Avella, “Catholicism on the Pacific: Building a Regional Scaffolding,” U.S. Catholic Historian 31, no. 2 (2013): 1–24; Laurie F. Maffly-­Kipp, “Eastward Ho! American Religion from the Perspective of the Pacific Rim,” in Retelling U.S. Religious History, ed. Thomas A. Tweed (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 127–148; and Moran, “Catholicism and the Making of the U.S. Pacific.” A number of monographs have pushed Catholic studies in just this direction, including Roberto Ramón Lint Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia: Religion, Ethnicity, and the Creation of Place (New York: New York University Press, 2014); and Anne M. Martínez, Catholic Borderlands: Mapping Catholicism onto American Empire, 1905–1935 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014). 45. ​For examples of Catholic histories that include an “Immigrant Church” period, see Jay P. Dolan, The American Catholic Experience: A History from Colonial Times to the Pre­sent (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992) and O’Toole, The Faithful. This narrative is not just a textbook staple, but also structures discussions of American Catholic history in a variety of contexts. For example: reflecting on clerical sex abuse, Marian Ronan writes: “In this article I consider three phases in the history of American Catholicism in relation to mourning and the inability to mourn: an immigrant phase in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; a phase of increasing immigrant assimilation into mainstream American culture leading up to the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965); and a phase extending from the end of Vatican II through the first years of the twenty-­ first c­entury.” Marian Ronan, “The Clergy Sex Abuse Crisis and the Mourning of American Catholic Innocence,” Pastoral Psy­chol­ogy 56, no. 3 (2008): 321.

1. Making a Founding ­Father out of a French Jesuit   1. ​“Threats Made against a Statue,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 1 March 1896.   2. ​On the Marquette statue controversy, see K. Gerald Marsden, “­Father Marquette and the A.P.A.: An Incident in American Nativism,” Catholic Historical Review 46, no. 1 (1960): 1–21; E. David Cronon, “­Father Marquette Goes to Washington: The Marquette Statue Controversy,” Wisconsin Magazine of History 56, no. 4 (Summer 1973): 266–83; and Steven M. Avella, “Jacques Marquette et Junipero Serra: deux destins mémoriels aux États-­Unis,” trans. Tangi Villerbu, Histoire, monde et cultures religieuses 17, no. 1 (March 2011): 15–34.   3. ​For more on the APA, see John Higham, “The Mind of a Nativist: Henry Bowers and the A.P.A.,” American Quarterly 4 (Spring 1952): 16–24; Higham, Strangers in the Land: Patterns of American Nativism, 1860–1925, chaps. 3 and 4; Donald L. Kinzer, An Episode in Anti-­Catholicism: The American Protective Association (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1964); David H. Bennett, The Party of

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Fear: From Nativist Movements to the New Right in American History (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), 171–79; and Wallace, Rhe­toric of Anti-­Catholicism.   4. ​Kinzer, Episode in Anti-­Catholicism, 210–11. Cronon and Marsden explore the subject in greater detail but within the same historiographical frame as Kinzer. Cronon, “­Father Marquette Goes to Washington”; and Marsden, “­Father Marquette and the A.P.A.”   5. ​Cronon, “­Father Marquette Goes to Washington,” 283.   6. ​This chapter and the next focus on the upper Midwest—­particularly Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois—­because of the density of Marquette commemorations ­there. This is not an exhaustive survey of Marquette’s monuments and cele­brations of Jesuit history, however, and scattered evidence suggests that Marquette commemorations could be found throughout the Midwest, particularly south along the Mississippi.   7. ​James R. Shortridge, The ­Middle West: Its Meaning in American Culture (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1989); Andrew R. L. Cayton and Peter S. Onuf, The Midwest and the Nation: Rethinking the History of an American Region (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); Jon Gjerde, The Minds of the West: Ethnocultural Evolution in the Rural ­Middle West, 1830–1917 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997); Andrew Cayton and Susan Gray, eds., The American Midwest: Essays on Regional History (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001); and Jon K. Lauck, The Lost Region: ­Toward a Revival of Midwestern History (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2013).   8. ​One of the ­things that fascinated many historians about Marquette was how close his story came to being lost: Marquette completed his famous voyage at precisely the wrong time in history if he had been hoping for fame. Though the rec­ords of the French Jesuits in North Amer­i­ca had been published in France as the Jesuit Relations beginning in 1632, the Relations ceased publication in 1673, the same year that Marquette left on his journey with Jolliet. Marquette’s journal, then, remained unpublished in the years ­after his death, and the story of its reemergence was a favorite among Marquette historians. See, for example, John Gilmary Shea, Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley:With the Original Narratives of Marquette, Allouez, Membré, Hennepin, and Anastase Douay (Clinton Hall, NY: Redfield, 1852), lxxv.   9. ​­Because the Relations ceased publication in 1673, Marquette material can be found in the “allied documents” portion. ­These documents continue to be a major source of information about the ­later Jesuit missions in New France. For a discussion of scholarly approaches to t­hese sources, see the “Note on Sources and Methods” in Tracy Neal Leavelle, The Catholic Calumet: Colonial Conversions in French and Indian North Amer­i­ca (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 199– 203. 10. ​Jared Sparks, “Père Marquette,” in The Library of American Biography, vol. 10, ed. Jared Sparks (Boston: Hilliard, Gray, 1839), 265–99. 11. ​While Sparks was the only ordained Protestant minister in the group, and Shea the only Catholic, the other Protestant historians ­were all from Unitarian backgrounds. Frederick Jackson Turner talks about Thwaites’s Unitarianism in his Reuben Gold Thwaites: A Memorial Address (Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1914), 37. On Unitarianism and the writing of histories of Catholic empire, see Jenny Franchot’s Roads to Rome, chap. 3. 12. ​On the railroad: Robert Somerville, “­Father Marquette’s Monument, Summit, Illinois,” bound notebook of correspondence, F37Y .S95, Chicago History Museum, Chicago (hereafter CHM). On the ­Daughters of the American Revolution: “Landmarks in Wisconsin,” State Historical Society of Wisconsin Bulletin of Information, no. 30 ( June 1906), Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 7, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, Marquette University, Special Collections and University Archives, Milwaukee, WI (hereafter MU Archives). On the Chicago Historical Society: Ossian Guthrie, [Account of the expedition of a committee from the Chicago Historical Society through the Des Plaines area, for the purpose of locating the sites of Marquette’s winter cabins,

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e­ tc.] (23 May 1907), listed incorrectly in the card cata­log as “Assian Guthrie,” CHM. On Mackinac Island: “Statue of F ­ ather Marquette on Mackinac Island,” Catholic Citizen, 9 June 1900, Rec­ ord Group D-2, Series 4.8, box 18, Pere Marquette Collection—­Memorials, MU Archives. On St. Mary’s Acad­emy in Prairie du Chien: “Prairie Du Chien Statue and Text,” [c. 1910], Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 7, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 13. ​The stamp was part of a group of stamps commissioned in honor of the Trans-­Mississippi and International Exposition in Omaha, Nebraska. Protesters of the Marquette stamp argued that he was a Jesuit and a foreigner and so should not be honored. Bonnie M. Miller, “The Trans-­ Mississippi and International Exposition Commemorative Stamp Issue,” in The Trans-­Mississippi and International Expositions of 1898–1899: Art, Anthropology, and Popu­lar Culture at the Fin de Siècle, ed. Wendy Jean Katz (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2018), 70–71; Cronon, “­Father Marquette Goes to Washington,” 282. The quote is Patrick O’Farrell to Major Jerome Bourke, 21 June 1898, Mary T. O’Farrell Manuscripts, Catholic University of Amer­i­ca Library, Washington, DC, as quoted in Kinzer, Episode in Anti-­Catholicism, 211. 14. ​Lawrence A. Olwell and Shepard Barclay, Marquette College—­A Quarter C ­ entury: 1881– 1906, Stray Leaves from the College History; The Silver Jubilee (1906), MU Archives; Charles Ulysses Gordon, Sixty Years in Chicago ([Chicago]: self-­pub., 1953), CHM. 15. ​Special Board of Directors Meeting, 19 February 1889, and Regular Meeting Marquette Club, 3 February 1891, Marquette Club Minutes Books, Marquette Club Collection, CHM. 16. ​Walter R. Nursey, Ralph D. Cleveland, and J.H.A. Mirosky, The Legacy of Père Marquette (Chicago: Marquette, 1897). 17. ​The claim that t­hese ­were Marquette’s remains prompted significant debate, but John Gilmary Shea, at least, supported Jacker. Shea, “Romance and Real­ity of the Death of F ­ ather James Marquette, and the Recent Discovery of His Remains,” Catholic World 26 (November 1877): 267– 81. For an example of the controversy, see Henry H. Hurlbut, “­Father Marquette Again,” letter to the editor, Chicago Daily Tribune, 31 August 1879. 18. ​“ ‘Marquette’s Cross’ Found Near Starved Rock,” unattributed newspaper article, “History of St. Ignatius College. Newspaper Clippings No. 3 1892–1900,” scrapbook, 183, Loyola University Chicago, University Archives and Special Collections (hereafter LU Archives). 19. ​“Postcard of Marquette Church, Highland Park, Ill.,” 7 April 1911, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.2, box 4, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives; Frank R. Grover, “­Father Pierre François Pinet, S.J. and His Mission of the Guardian Angel of Chicago, A.D. 1696–1699,” a paper read before a joint meeting of the Chicago Historical Society and the Evanston Historical Society, 27 November 1906, Chicago Historical Society Proceedings, vol. 3, Proceedings of the Chicago Historical Society, December 5, 1905 to November 19, 1907 (Chicago: Chicago Historical Society, 1908), CHM, 156. 20. ​The Lamprecht image itself was at the center of a number of dif­fer­ent Marquette sites and commemorations: in addition to the postage stamp, it serves as a model for the Marquette University seal (see the conclusion of this book) and was reproduced in countless popu­lar articles on Marquette history (see the beginning of chapter 2 for an example of how its reproduction could also be modified). The Marquette Building in Chicago was (and is) another source of oft-­ reproduced Marquette imagery, including images reproduced in the banquet invitations of the Marquette Club of Chicago. 21. ​Leavelle, Catholic Calumet, 11. See also Eric Hinderaker, Elusive Empires: Constructing Colonialism in the Ohio Valley, 1673–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), esp. chap. 2; and Kathleen DuVal, The Native Ground: Indians and Colonists in the Heart of the Continent (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006). For ­earlier work, see Joseph P. Donnelly, Jacques Marquette, S.J., 1637–1675 (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1968) and Raphael N.

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Hamilton, S.J., Marquette’s Explorations: The Narratives Reexamined (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1970). 22. ​Statue Unveiled,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 5. 23. ​“Pere Marquette: The City Named in His Honor Now Holds His Statue,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 24. ​“The Marquette Statue,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 2 March 1896. 25. ​ “The West S­hall Build His Monument,” Marquette University Journal 8, no. 1 (October 1909), MU Archives, 9–16. 26. ​Shea, Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley, xli–­xlii. 27. ​Paul P. Aylward, “­Father Marquette,” Scrapbook #3 1881–1889, MU Archives, 53. 28. ​“For Its Removal,” Catholic Citizen, 13 February 1897, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.4, box 8, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. The statement—­useful in ­these par­tic­u­lar contexts as a marker of patriotism at a Catholic college or a plea for entry into the capitol’s statuary hall—­also became a standard part of the Marquette story and can be found in a variety of texts, from Reuben Gold Thwaites’s 1902 biography of Marquette, to a speech before the Chicago Historical Society, to a pamphlet put out by the Marquette Monument Association on Mackinac Island. Reuben Gold Thwaites, ­Father Marquette (New York: D. Appleton, 1902), 6; Franklin MacVeagh, “­Father Marquette,” speech before the Chicago Historical Society, 3 April 1900, CHM; John R[ead] Bailey, Memoir of Pere James Marquette (Detroit: ­Free Press Book and Job Print House, 1878), CHM, 5. For more examples, see “Ac­cep­tance of the Statue of James Marquette. Speech of Hon. John L. Mitchell, of Wisconsin, in the Senate of the United States, April 29, 1896,” Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 6, 8; Edward Osgood Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, a Lecture Delivered at the Village of Mackinac for the Benefit of St. Anne’s Mission in August 1888; The Parish Register of the Mission of Michilimackinac, a Paper Read before the Chicago Literary Club in March, 1889 (Chicago: Barnard & Gunthorp, 1889), CHM, 15; “The West S­ hall Build His Monument,” Marquette University Journal 8, no. 1 (October 1909), MU Archives, 9–16; Peter Primeau’s speech, quoted in “Statue Unveiled,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­ Articles, MU Archives, 5. 29. ​Paul P. Aylward, “­Father Marquette,” Scrapbook #3 1881–1889, MU Archives, 53. 30. ​For example: Nursey, Cleveland, and Mirosky, Legacy of Père Marquette, 21. Bancroft elaborated on this sentiment over the years. In the 1853 printing of his History of the United States, he wrote: “The history of their ­labors is connected with the origin of ­every celebrated town in the annals of French Amer­ic­ a: not a cape was turned, nor a river entered, but a Jesuit led the way.” George Bancroft, History of the United States, from the Discovery of the American Continent, vol. 3 (Boston: L ­ ittle, Brown, 1853), 122. In the 1895 edition, he included a comparison between the Jesuits of New France and the Puritans of New E ­ ngland: “Religious enthusiasm colonized New E ­ ngland; religious enthusiasm took possession of the wilderness on the upper lakes and explored the Mississippi. Puritanism gave New E ­ ngland its worship and its schools; the Roman church and Jesuit priests raised for Canada its altars, its hospitals, and its seminaries. The influence of Calvin can be traced in ­every New ­England village; in Canada, not a cape was turned, nor a mission founded, nor a river entered, nor a settlement begun, but a Jesuit led the way.” Bancroft, History of the United States of Amer­i­ca, from the Discovery of the Continent, vol. 2 (New York: D. Appleton, 1895), 138. 31. ​Maurice Francis Egan, Preface to Pro­gress of the Catholic Church in Amer­ic­a and the ­Great Columbian Catholic Congress of 1893, 4th ed. (Chicago: J. S. Hyland, 1897), 6.

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32. ​Bailey, Memoir of Pere James Marquette, CHM, 10. For another example, see John Goadby Gregory, “The Jesuits in the Northwest,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 33. ​Henry H. Hurlbut, ­Father Marquette at Mackinaw and Chicago: A Paper, Read before the Chicago Historical Society, October 15, 1878 ( Jansen, McClurg, 1878), pamphlet, F38BA .M34H9, CHM, 16. 34. ​Senator James H. Kyle of South Dakota, speaking in f­avor of a resolution to accept the statue of Jacques Marquette into the National Statuary Hall, on 29 April 1896, 54th Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Rec­ord 28, pt. 5: 4549. 35. ​“Ac­cep­tance of the Statue of James Marquette. Speech of Hon. John L. Mitchell, of Wisconsin, in the Senate of the United States, April 29, 1896,” Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. See also “Statue Is Accepted,” Catholic Citizen, 2 May 1896, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.4, box 8, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 36. ​Franklin MacVeagh, “­Father Marquette,” speech before the Chicago Historical Society, 3 April 1900, CHM. 37. ​Senator William F. Vilas of Wisconsin, speaking in f­ avor of a resolution to accept the statue of Jacques Marquette into the National Statuary Hall, on 29 April 1896, 54th Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Rec­ord 28, pt. 5: 4550. 38. ​On Chicago: Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, CHM, 15. On Milwaukee: Aylward, “­Father Marquette,” MU Archives, 53. On Iowa: Bancroft, History of the United States, 3:158; and Laenas Gifford Weld, Jolliet and Marquette in Iowa (1903), pamphlet, reprinted from the Iowa Journal of History and Politics ( January 1903), F46B W4j, CHM, 3. On Wisconsin and Michigan: “Ac­cep­tance of the Statue of James Marquette. Speech of Hon. John L. Mitchell, of Wisconsin, in the Senate of the United States, April 29, 1896,” Rec­ ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 6, 8. 39. ​Olwell and Barclay, Marquette College, MU Archives, 9. For other explic­itly Catholic examples, see John Gilmary Shea’s speech before the Missouri Historical Society in 1878 and the sermon given by the chancellor of the Chicago archdiocese, Rev. P. J. Muldoon, at a Solemn High Mass that was part of the World’s Columbian Catholic Congress and Educational Exhibit. “Marquette. Address Delivered before the Missouri Historical Society on July 19, 1878, by John Gilmary Shea,” New World, 1 and 8 September 1900, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives; and The World’s Columbian Catholic Congresses and Educational Exhibit (Chicago: J. S. Hyland, 1893), CHM, 10–11. 40. ​ Rand, McNally & Co.’s Handy Guide to Chicago and World’s Columbian Exposition (Chicago: Rand, McNally, 1893), 15. For an example from a Methodist clergyman, see Rev. J. A. Van Fleet, Old and New Mackinac; with Copious Extracts from Marquette, Hennepin, La Houtan, Cadillac, Alexander, Henry, and ­Others (Ann Arbor, MI: Courier Steam Printing-­House, 1870), CHM, 5. 41. ​“Statue Unveiled,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 4. 42. ​Quote is from Kirk Savage, Standing Soldiers, Kneeling Slaves: Race, War, and Monument in Nineteenth-­Century Amer­i­ca (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1997), 3. For more on commemorative culture, including its growth in the late nineteenth-­century United States, see John F. Sears, Sacred Places: American Tourist Attractions in the Nineteenth ­Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); David Glassberg, American Historical Pageantry:The Uses of Tradition in the Early Twentieth ­Century (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990); Edward Tabor Linenthal, Sacred Ground: Americans and Their Battlefields (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991); Kammen, Mystic Chords of Memory; Doss, Memorial Mania; and Sarah J. Moore, Empire on Display: San Francisco’s

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Panama-­Pacific International Exposition of 1915 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2013). David W. Blight has argued that commemorative narratives of national unity in the postbellum era ­were part of a larger attempt by white Americans to privilege reunion over race, or, in other words, to privilege the coming together of Northern and Southern whites a­ fter the rift of the U.S. Civil War over the harder work of securing lasting equality and justice for former African American slaves. Edward Blum has shown that Northern Protestant Chris­tian­ity was an impor­tant force in defining postwar white nationalism. Blight, Race and Reunion:The Civil War in American Memory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002); and Blum, Reforging the White Republic: Race, Religion, and American Nationalism, 1865–1898 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2007). 43. ​“Statue Unveiled,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 4. 44. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 233. 45. ​Shortridge, ­Middle West, chap. 2. 46. ​Beecher, Plea for the West, 11. 47. ​Beecher, Plea, 34. 48. ​Beecher, Plea, 11. 49. ​Beecher, Plea, 12. 50. ​Beecher, Plea, 56–57. For antebellum responses to Beecher’s anti-­Catholicism, and other antebellum discussions of the French imperial past in what became the Midwest, see Edward Watts, In This Remote Country: French Colonial Culture in the Anglo-­American Imagination, 1780–1860 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), esp. chap. 5. 51. ​“The Missionary Field in the Mississippi Valley,” Home Missionary, 1841, as quoted in Gjerde, Minds of the West, 44. For more on the hopes and fears expressed about the Midwest in the late nineteenth c­ entury, see his chapter 1. 52. ​Strong, Our Country, 16, 57. 53. ​Strong defined the West as “that portion of the country lying west of the Mississippi, not including Alaska.” Strong, Our Country, 16. 54. ​Strong, Our Country, 30. 55. ​Strong, Our Country, 53, 58. 56. ​“Romanism and the Irish Race,” North American Review, December 1879 and January 1880, as quoted in Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Dif­fer­ent Color: Eu­ro­pean Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 70. 57. ​McGreevy, Parish Bound­aries, 30. 58. ​Beecher, Plea for the West, 93–94. L ­ ater, Beecher makes the same point about the priesthood, arguing that the Catholic religion “is wielded by a priesthood educated, for the most part, in the despotic governments of Eu­rope, of recent naturalization and retaining the ecclesiastical and po­liti­cal partialities of their country and early associations” (145). 59. ​Thomas A. Guglielmo, White on Arrival: Italians, Race, Color, and Power in Chicago, 1890– 1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 9, 14. See also Jacobson, Whiteness of a Dif­fer­ent Color; Fessenden, “From Romanism to Race: Anglo-­American Liberties in ­Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Prospects: An Annual Journal of American Cultural Studies 25 (2000): 229–68; Blum, Reforging the White Republic; and Fessenden, Culture and Redemption. The French Jesuits w ­ ere not always cast as unambiguously white. Jenny Franchot argues that Francis Parkman interpreted the contest between Native Americans and the pre-1649 generation of French Jesuits as decisively not a contest between white Eu­ro­pean civilization and an indigenous antithesis but rather a contest between “superstition” and “savagery,” a “fight between slaves before the master arrives.” Franchot, Roads to Rome, 70. 60. ​In ­doing so, it prefigured the post–­World War I emergence of a common, self-­consciously “white” midwestern racial identity, which scholars have argued emerged only in the context of the

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­ reat Migrations of African Americans to the Midwest. Cayton and Gray, American Midwest, 24. G ­There is a large body of scholarship on whiteness as a socially constructed racial category. This scholarship has demonstrated the variability and instability of whiteness as a category, and the power and privilege that have historically come with claiming it. See, for example, David R. Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class (New York: Verso, 1991); Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark:Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (New York: Vintage, 1993); Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995); Jacobson, Whiteness of a Dif­fer­ent Color; George Lipsitz, The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: How White ­People Profit from Identity Politics (Philadelphia: ­Temple University Press, 1998); and Nell Irvin Painter, The History of White ­People (New York: W. W. Norton, 2011). For critiques that testify to the lack of religion in early whiteness scholarship, see Eric Arnesen, “Whiteness and the Historians’ Imagination,” International ­Labor and Working-­Class History 60 (October 2001): 3–32; and Edward J. Blum, et al., “American Religion and ‘Whiteness,’ ” Religion and American Culture: A Journal of Interpretation 19, no. 1 (Winter 2009): 3. See also Blum’s corrective in Reforging the White Republic, and Joshua Paddison, American Heathens: Religion, Race, and Reconstruction in California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012). 61. ​United States Bureau of the Census, Bulletin No. 8, Negroes in the United States (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1904), 206. 62. ​Anna-­Lisa Cox, “African-­Americans,” in The American Midwest: An Interpretive Encyclopedia, ed. Richard Sisson, Christian K. Zacher, and Andrew R. L. Cayton (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007), 200. 63. ​Neary, Crossing Parish Bound­aries, 19–21. The Healy ­brothers—­sons of an Irish American slaveholder and a ­mother considered “mulatto”—­were priests before Tolton, though they ­were not consistently identified as African American. O’Toole, Passing for White. 64. ​Cressler, Authentically Black and Truly Catholic, 20. 65. ​See, for example, “Bring Cardinals to Chicago” and “Throng Kneels to Catholic Host,” Chicago Defender, 26 June 1926. 66. ​ Pro­gress of the Catholic Church in Amer­i­ca and the G ­ reat Columbian Catholic Congress of 1893, 4th ed. (Chicago: J. S. Hyland, 1897), 123. 67. ​Davis, History of Black Catholics, 190. For more on African American communal narratives that weave together race, religion, and history, see Laurie F. Maffly-­Kipp, Setting Down the Sacred Past: African-­American Race Histories (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010). 68. ​Marquette himself did not build the church building—­that was built in 1782 by another priest—­but Marquette was credited b­ ecause he “established” the mission and “preached the first sermon to the Indians.” “Early Day Relics: Historical Displays Gathered for the W ­ oman’s Board,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 16 April 1893. 69. ​Adlai Ewing Stevenson, “Illinois,” speech at a special meeting of the Chicago Historical Society, 26 April 1900, in Chicago Historical Society, Charter, Constitution, By-­Laws, Membership List, Annual Report [Proceedings] ([Chicago]: The Society, 1888-1901), CHM, 274. 70. ​Grover, “­Father Pierre François Pinet, S.J.,” 156. 71. ​“Marquette Minutes,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 6. 72. ​For more on Native Americans performing the role of historical “Indians” in Marquette cele­brations, see chapter 2 of this book. 73. ​Charles Bright and Michael Geyer, “Where in the World Is Amer­i­ca? The History of the United States in the Global Age,” in Rethinking American History in a Global Age, ed. Thomas Bender (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 74–85.

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74. ​For the Gilded Age and Progressive Era Midwest—­and in par­tic­u­lar its producers’ desires for export markets—as both a “root” of American empire and as entwined in already-­existing British imperial networks, see Kristin L. Hoganson, The Heartland: An American History (New York: Penguin Press, 2019), chap. 3. 75. ​“Statue Unveiled,” “Pere Marquette: The City Named in His Honor Now Holds His Statue,” and John Goadby Gregory, “The Jesuits in the Northwest,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­ Articles, MU Archives. 76. ​“Honor Early F ­ athers: Mahogany Cross Unveiled on Spot Where Marquette and Joilet Camped,” Chicago Daily News, 28 September 1907. 77. ​Nursey, Cleveland, and Mirosky, Legacy of Père Marquette, 2. 78. ​Nursey, Cleveland, and Mirosky, Legacy of Père Marquette, 27. 79. ​Van Fleet, Old and New Mackinac, 18. 80. ​Arthur J. McCarey, “Père Marquette (A Sketch),” Marquette College Journal 2, no. 1 (December 1904): 11. For another example, see Grover, “­Father Pierre François Pinet, S. J.,” 157. 81. ​G. W. Steevens, The Land of the Dollar (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1898), 144. 82. ​Carl S. Smith, Chicago and the American Literary Imagination, 1880–1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 9. Following nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century writing on the city—­particularly the work of Chicago’s literary naturalists, such as Theodore Dreiser—­historians of Chicago tend to focus on the city’s rapid growth, massive industry, and architectural innovation. Carl S. Smith’s thought-­provoking studies of the “imaginative dimensions” of par­tic­u­lar Chicago events, and the literary repre­sen­ta­tion of Chicago as a w ­ hole, illustrate the extent to which events like the g­ reat fire or the World’s Columbian Exposition and structures like skyscrapers, stockyards, and railroads dominated late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Chicago’s reputation and self-­ conception. Smith, Chicago and the American Literary Imagination; and Smith, Urban Disorder and the Shape of Belief: The G ­ reat Chicago Fire, the Haymarket Bomb, and the Model Town of Pullman (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). See also James Gilbert, Perfect Cities: Chicago’s Utopias of 1893 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); and Donald L. Miller, City of the C ­ entury:The Epic of Chicago and the Making of Amer­i­ca (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996). 83. ​Gilbert, Perfect Cities, 46. See, for example, Theodore Dreiser, ­Sister Carrie, with an introduction by E. L. Doctorow (1900; repr., New York: Bantam Books, 1992), 1–8. 84. ​Rand, McNally & Co.’s Handy Guide to Chicago, 83–90. Unrivaled Chicago, another guidebook published by Rand, McNally, features a long section of biographical sketches of prominent Chicago men, mostly ­lawyers and businessmen, along with some biographies of their businesses. Unrivaled Chicago: Containing an Historical Narrative of the ­Great City’s Development and Descriptions of Points of Interest, Such as Parks, Boulevards . . . ​with Biographical Sketches of Representative Men in Their Several Lines (Chicago: Rand, McNally, 1897), 25–82, esp. the section entitled “Business Interests,” 51–82. 85. ​Miller, City of the ­Century, 41. 86. ​On the Tribune Tower, see Katherine Solomonson, The Chicago Tribune Tower Competition: Skyscraper Design and Cultural Change in the 1920s (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), chap. 5; on Babel, see Smith, American Literary Imagination, 123. 87. ​Black was likely conflating his missionaries, lumping Marquette together with ­others, like Franciscans, who w ­ ere known for wearing sandals. “Marquette Day at Mackinac: Memorial Ser­ vices Held at Island in Honor of the Former Missionary,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 2 August 1900. For other examples, see Leroy T. Steward, “Organ­ization [THE MARQUETTE],” in Memorial Third Annual Banquet Marquette Club, Chicago, March 26th, 1889. ­Grand Pacific ­Hotel (Chicago: Press of the Wm. Johnston Printing Co., 1889), CHM, 43; and “Marquette. Address Delivered before the Missouri

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Historical Society on July 19, 1878, by John Gilmary Shea,” New World, 1 and 8 September 1900, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 88. ​Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, 19. For another example, see Charles H. Collins, From Highland Hills to an Emperor’s Tomb: Episodical, Reflective, and Descriptive (Cincinnati: Press of Robert Clarke, 1886), 326–27. 89. ​Thomas Ewing Sherman, James Marquette, Missionary and Explorer (Chicago Historical Society, 16 April 1901), pamphlet F40X .M2M34, CHM, 338. 90. ​Sherman, James Marquette, Missionary and Explorer, 338. William J. Onahan had expressed a similar sentiment two de­cades ­earlier, when he too hoped that a monument at Mackinac would “be so placed as to make it a landmark to e­ very ship passing that highway of commerce.” “Pere Marquette: A Monument to the Memory of the Missionary and Explorer,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 14 August 1879. 91. ​Franklin MacVeagh, “­Father Marquette,” speech before the Chicago Historical Society, 3 April 1900, CHM. For another example, see Senator George C. Ginty’s speech on Marquette in Paul P. Aylward, “­Father Marquette,” Scrapbook #3 1881–1889, MU Archives, 53. 92. ​Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad, or, The New Pilgrims’ Pro­gress: Being Some Account of the Steamship Quaker City’s Plea­sure Excursion to Eu­rope and the Holy Land, with descriptions of Countries, Nations, Incidents, and Adventures as They Appeared to the Author (San Francisco: H. H. Bancroft, 1869); Collins, From Highland Hills to an Emperor’s Tomb, 241. 93. ​Collins, From Highland Hills to an Emperor’s Tomb, 327–28. 94. ​“Pere Marquette’s Corner,” Marquette Journal 3, no. 3 (March 1903): 7–8, CHM. 95. ​Marsden, “­Father Marquette and the A.P.A.,” 8. 96. ​Kinzer, Episode in Anti-­Catholicism, 37. 97. ​Stevenson, “Illinois,” 295–96.

2. Imagining Peaceful Conquest   1. ​The Christian ­Family began monthly publication in January 1906, with approximately forty pages per issue and a circulation around eleven thousand. It was published by the Society of the Divine Word in Techny, Illinois. N. W. Ayer & Son’s American Newspaper Annual and Directory: A Cata­ logue of American Newspapers (Philadelphia: N. W. Ayer & Son, 1911), 1137.   2. ​Henry Shepherd is likely a pen name for Henry S. Spalding, a Jesuit educator who was connected with Marquette College and wrote extensively on Jacques Marquette. The Christian ­Family series was reprinted in the Catholic Historical Review in 1926, and authorship was credited to Spalding. See Henry S. Spalding, “The Life of James Marquette,” Illinois Catholic Historical Review 9, no. 1 ( July 1926): 3.   3. ​Henry Shepherd, “Finding the ­Great River: The Story of ­Father Marquette. Chapter XII. Character of Marquette and His Place in History,” Christian ­Family 6 (December 1911): 555–56. Shepherd most likely relied on John Gilmary Shea for his translation of Dablon, as the texts are almost identical. See Shea, Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley, 64. Compare with the somewhat dif­fer­ent wording in Thwaites’s translation: Reuben Gold Thwaites, ed., The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents: Travels and Explorations of the Jesuit Missionaries in New France 1610– 1791, vol. 59, Lower Canada, Illinois, Ottawas, 1673–1677 (Cleveland: Burrows B ­ rothers Publishers, 1900), 207.   4. ​“Marquette. Address Delivered before the Missouri Historical Society on July 19, 1878, by John Gilmary Shea,” New World, 1 and 8 September 1900, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 527.

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  5. ​Laura Wexler, Tender Vio­lence: Domestic Visions in an Age of U.S. Imperialism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000), 52–53.   6. ​Cornelia Steketee Hulst, Indian Sketches: Père Marquette and the Last of the Pottawatomie Chiefs (New York: Longmans, Green, 1912), 4.   7. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 35.   8. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 59.   9. ​Leavelle argues that this era is less well known to scholars ­because it is less well covered by the Jesuit Relations, which ceased publication in 1873, and ­because it is characterized less by “spectacular martyrdom” and more by “constant travel and the opening of new missions, many of them short-­lived and unsuccessful.” Leavelle, Catholic Calumet, 200–201. 10. ​Leavelle, Catholic Calumet, 134. 11. ​See, for example, Nursey, Cleveland, and Mirosky, Legacy of Père Marquette; Marquette Club, “Chicago Day Banquet Program,” 9 October 1901, Marquette Club, Miscellaneous Pamphlets, CHM. 12. ​Theodore Dreiser, “The Story of the States, No. III—­Illinois,” Pearson’s Magazine, April 1901, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.4, box 8, Pere Marquette Collection—­Memorials, MU Archives, 513. 13. ​Marquette Journal 3, nos. 2–4 (February–­April 1903), CHM. 14. ​“Pere Marquette: The City Named in His Honor Now Holds His Statue; It Is Unveiled with Imposing Ceremonies ­Today,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 15. ​For other examples of this story, see J. W. Foster, “Chicago and ­Father Marquette,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 27 April 1873; James O’Donnell Bennett, “Michigan Shore Stirs Memories of Marquette,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 4 October 1926; Collins, From Highland Hills to an Emperor’s Tomb, 326–27; Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, 20–23; Thomas Ewing Sherman, “James Marquette. Missionary and Explorer,” speech before the Chicago Historical Society, 16 April 1901, CHM, 335. 16. ​Francis Parkman, The Discovery of the ­Great West (Boston: L ­ ittle, Brown, 1869), 71. This is part three of the France and ­England in North Amer­i­ca series. Parkman added La Salle to the title in ­later editions. Though Parkman revised his text considerably over time, the passages quoted in this chapter remain the same. See Parkman, La Salle and the Discovery of the ­Great West, 12th ed., revised with additions (London: Macmillan and Co., 1885), 50, 71, 73. 17. ​On this point, see also Leavelle, Catholic Calumet, 150–51. 18. ​For a fascinating analy­sis of the legacy of the Jesuit martyrs, see Emma Anderson, The Death and Afterlife of the North American Martyrs (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013). Of par­tic­u­ lar note is her discussion of con­temporary Quebecois Jesuit appreciation for Marquette’s “intercultural openness” over and against the approach of the martyrs. Anderson, Death and Afterlife, 220–22. On martyr narratives, or what he calls “colonial hagiography,” see Allan Greer, “Colonial Saints: Gender, Race, and Hagiography in New France,” William and Mary Quarterly 57 (April 2000): 323–48. 19. ​Nursey, Cleveland, and Mirosky, Legacy of Père Marquette, 13. See also “Statue W ­ ill Stay. Marquette Statue Removal Bill Killed by the Legislature,” Catholic Citizen, 10 April 1897, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 7, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 20. ​John R[ead] Bailey, Memoir of Pere James Marquette (Detroit: F ­ ree Press Book and Job Print House, 1878), 10. 21. ​“Marquette. Address Delivered before the Missouri Historical Society,” 529. 22. ​Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, 3–4. 23. ​Collins, From Highland Hills to an Emperor’s Tomb, 324. See also “Marquette Statue Resolution,” Congressional resolution, Washington, DC, 29 April 1896, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.4, box 8, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 4993. 24. ​Thwaites, Jesuit Relations, 89.

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25. ​Jared Sparks is the only early historian I found who does not mention Marquette’s devotion to the Virgin at all. His short 1838 essay is more about Marquette-­the-­explorer than Marquette-­ the-­missionary: the first part of the essay even ignores Marquette entirely and instead attempts to disprove the claim that o ­ thers—­primarily Hernando de Soto—­should be called the “discoverer” of the Mississippi. Sparks, “Père Marquette,” 265–99. 26. ​Shea, Discovery and Exploration, xxviii, xxix, xxxi, lxviii–­lxix, lxxii. Shea’s attention to this detail is perhaps to be expected: not only was Shea Catholic and, for a time, a Jesuit, but he had taken the name “Gilmary”—­meaning “servant of Mary”—­upon entering the Society of Jesus. Peter Guilday, John Gilmary Shea: F ­ ather of American Catholic History, 1824–1892 (New York: United States Catholic Historical Society, 1926), 15. Guilday also notes that Shea had a delicate constitution—as a result, his ­f ather called him “Mary” when he was a child. 27. ​Parkman, Discovery of the G ­ reat West, 50–51. Parkman’s fascination with Catholicism—­and in par­tic­ul­ar with the Jesuits of North American history—­moved between the celebratory and the condemnatory. On Parkman as anti-­Jesuit, see Franchot, Roads to Rome, chap. 3; and Verhoeven, Transatlantic Anti-­Catholicism. 28. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 137. 29. ​Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, 13–14. 30. ​Rev. H. S. Spalding, “Pere Marquette—­How the P ­ eople of the West Have Built His Monument,” Messenger of the Sacred Heart, September 1895, 739. 31. ​Marina Warner, Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and the Cult of the Virgin Mary (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1976), chap. 16; Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary through the Centuries: Her Place in the History of Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996), chap. 14; Miri Rubin, ­Mother of God: A History of the Virgin Mary (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 303–4, 408–10, 414–16; and Thomas A. Tweed, Amer­i­ca’s Church: The National Shrine and Catholic Presence in the Nation’s Capital (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 27–28. 32. ​Xavier Donald ­Macleod, History of the Devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary in North Amer­i­ca (New York: Virtue and Yorston, 1866), 28–29, as quoted in Tweed, Amer­i­ca’s Church, 27. 33. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 8. 34. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 10. 35. ​Charles M. Foell, “Address of Mr. Charles M. Foell before the Marquette Club, Chicago Day, October 9, 1903,” Marquette Journal 3, no. 10 (October 1903): 1. 36. ​Bailey, Memoir of Pere James Marquette, 5. 37. ​Tweed, Amer­i­ca’s Church, 27; and Ann Braude, “­Women’s History Is American Religious History,” in Retelling U.S. Religious History, ed. Thomas A. Tweed (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 87–107. 38. ​Parkman, Discovery of ­Great West, 73. 39. ​For more on Parkman, Jesuits, and gender, see Franchot, Roads to Rome, chap. 3. 40. ​Thwaites, ­Father Marquette, 10. 41. ​Verhoeven, Transatlantic Anti-­Catholicism, 104. For more on Jesuit androgyny, see also Róisín Healy, “Anti-­Jesuitism in Imperial Germany: The Jesuit as Androgyne,” in Protestants, Catholics and Jews in Germany 1800–1914, ed. Helmut Walser Smith (Oxford: Berg, 2001), 153–81; Timothy Verhoeven, “Neither Male nor Female: The Jesuit as Androgyne 1843–1870,” Modern & Con­ temporary France 16, no. 1 (February 2008): 37–49; Verhoeven, “ ‘A Perfect Jesuit in Petticoats’: The Curious Figure of the Female Jesuit,” Journal of Jesuit Studies 2, no. 4 (2015): 624–40; and, more generally, Monika Mazurek, “Perverts to Rome: Protestant Gender Roles and the Abjection of Catholicism,” Victorian Lit­er­a­ture and Culture 44, no. 3 (September 2016): 687–723. 42. ​Healy, “Anti-­Jesuitism,” 160. Anti-­Jesuit sentiment has, of course, a long history, among both Catholics and Protestants. The seventeenth ­century saw Jesuits barred from entering the

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Mas­sa­chu­setts Bay Colony and New York, among other places, and the eigh­teenth c­ entury saw the Jesuits expelled from a number of Eu­ro­pean countries. What was new in the nineteenth c­ entury was the turn to the language of gender to describe the danger that Jesuits ­were ­imagined to embody. John T. McGreevy, American Jesuits and the World: How an Embattled Religious Order Made Modern Catholicism Global (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2016), 8; and Verhoeven, Transatlantic Anti-­Catholicism, 116. 43. ​“Marquette Statue Resolution,” 4993. 44. ​John Goadby Gregory, “The Jesuits in the Northwest,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition. 45. ​ “The West S­hall Build His Monument,” Marquette University Journal 8, no. 1 (October 1909): 10. For a similar sentiment also expressed at Marquette College, see Olwell’s speech in Lawrence A. Olwell and Shepard Barclay, Marquette College—­A Quarter C ­ entury: 1881–1906, Stray Leaves from the College History;The Silver Jubilee (1906), MU Archives, 74. 46. ​Bederman, Manliness and Civilization; and E. Anthony Rotundo, American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity from the Revolution to the Modern Era (New York: Basic Books, 1993). Amy S. Greenberg locates a version of this divide in the antebellum period, in what she calls “restrained manhood” versus “martial manhood,” though she distinguishes “martial manhood” from the “primitive masculinity” that she argues becomes hegemonic late in the ­century as a result of social Darwinism and the nostalgia of the Civil War generation. Greenberg herself notes that restrained manhood discourse did not extend to a critique of imperial might: “restrained” men could support a vision of American empire that was keyed to religious or ideological conversion—an empire of hearts and minds—or to economic influence. Amy S. Greenberg, Manifest Manhood and the Antebellum American Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 9, 17, 275. 47. ​For other work on intersections of gender and religion that challenge a dichotomous framing of turn-­of-­the-­century masculinities, see Sarah Imhoff, “Manly Missions: Jews, Christians, and American Religious Masculinity, 1900–1920,” American Jewish History 97, no. 2 (April 2013): 139– 58; Imhoff, Masculinity and the Making of American Judaism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017); and R. Marie Griffith, “Apostles of Abstinence: Fasting and Masculinity during the Progressive Era,” American Quarterly 52, no. 4 (2000): 599–638. 48. ​Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Song of Hiawatha,” in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Poems and Other Writings, ed. J. D. McClatchy (New York: Penguin, 2000), 275. 49. ​For a list of Longfellow’s sources, including the 1855 edition of Marquette’s Voyages et Découvertes, see Ernest J. Moyne, Hiawatha and Kalevala: A Study of the Relationship between Longfellow’s “Indian Edda” and the Finnish Epic (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1963), 58–60. 50. ​Frederick E. Hoxie, A Final Promise: The Campaign to Assimilate the Indians, 1880–1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 2. See also Tisa Wenger, We Have a Religion: The 1920s Pueblo Indian Dance Controversy and American Religious Freedom (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), chap. 1; and John R. Gram, Education at the Edge of Empire: Negotiating Pueblo Identity in New Mexico’s Indian Boarding Schools (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015), introduction. For a related discussion of Catholic and Protestant “friends of the Indian” and their involvement in the forced displacement and attempted cultural transformation of the Kiowas, and Kiowas’ responses, see Jennifer Graber, The Gods of the Indian Country: Religion and the Strug­gle for the American West (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). The claims to nonviolent benevolence and the “civilizational” goals of t­hese “friends of the Indian” mirror in many ways the idea of Marquette as a “peaceful conqueror.” 51. ​Richard H. Pratt, “The Advantages of Mingling Indians with Whites,” Proceedings of the National Conference of Charities and Correction (1892), 46, cited in David Wallace Adams, Education for

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Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experience, 1875–1928 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1995), 52. 52. ​Thwaites, Jesuit Relations, 117. 53. ​Thwaites, Jesuit Relations, 121. 54. ​Longfellow, “Song of Hiawatha,” 274–75. 55. ​Many scholars have read the ending of Hiawatha as I do, as complicit in a larger “vanis­ hing Indian” language, though t­here is some disagreement on Longfellow’s own embrace of that reading. See, for example, Alan Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha: Staging Indians, Making Americans, 1880–1930 (New York: Hill & Wang, 2004), chap. 1; and Patricia Jane Roylance, Eclipse of Empires: World History in Nineteenth-­Century U.S. Lit­er­a­ture and Culture (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2013), chap. 5. 56. ​Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, 52, 54–55. 57. ​Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, 86. 58. ​Jared Farmer, On Zion’s Mount: Mormons, Indians, and the American Landscape (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 253; Vinod S. Bhatara, Sanjay Gupta, and Martin Brokenleg, “The Hiawatha Asylum for Insane Indians: The First Federal M ­ ental Hospital for an Ethnic Group,” American Journal of Psychiatry 156, no. 5 (May 1999): 767. 59. ​Michael V. Pisani, “From Hiawatha to Wa-­Wan: Musical Boston and the Uses of Native American Lore,” American ­Music 19, no. 1 (2001): 42–43. 60. ​ For more on Hiawatha plays and per­ for­ mances by Native Americans, see Lonna Malmsheimer, “ ‘Imitation White Man’: Images of Transformation at the Carlisle Indian School,” Studies in Visual Communication 11, no. 4 (Fall 1985): 54–74; Rayna Green and John Troutman, “ ‘By the ­Waters of the Minnehaha’: ­Music and Dance, Pageants and Princesses,” in Away from Home: American Indian Boarding School Experiences, 1879–2000, ed. Margaret L. Archuleta, Brenda J. Child, and K. Tsianina Lomawaima (Phoenix: Heard Museum, 2000), 60–83; Michael David McNally, “The Indian Passion Play: Contesting the Real Indian in Song of Hiawatha Pageants, 1901–1965,” American Quarterly 58, no. 1 (March 2006): 105–36; and John R. Gram, “Acting Out Assimilation: Playing Indian and Becoming American in the Federal Indian Boarding Schools,” American Indian Quarterly 40, no. 3 (Summer 2016): 251–73. On Native Americans “playing Indian” in general, see Philip J. Deloria, Indians in Unexpected Places (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2004); and Philip J. Deloria, “ ‘I Am of the Body’: Thoughts on My Grand­f ather, Culture, and Sports,” South Atlantic Quarterly 95, no. 2 (1996): 321–38. 61. ​McNally, “Indian Passion Play.” 62. ​McNally, “Indian Passion Play,” 112. 63. ​McNally, “Indian Passion Play,” 111. McNally argues that from the perspective of Anishinaabe stories, Longfellow’s last scene was not just a ­simple addition but actually constituted a fundamental change. The Anishinaabe story on which most of Hiawatha was based is a recurrent story cycle, one in which the Hiawatha character continues to reappear. In adding the Marquette-­based material at the end, Longfellow took a story based in cyclical time and implanted it in linear history. 64. ​Scholarship on federal Indian boarding schools has stressed both the physical and the cultural vio­lence done by federal policy and school practices, and also the ways in which Native American students formed community and created opportunities for expression, creativity, and re­sis­tance within this po­liti­cal and institutional context. Texts analyzing the schools and school policy on a national level are Hoxie, Final Promise; David Wallace Adams, Education for Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experience, 1875–1928 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1995); and Jacqueline Fear-­Segal, White Man’s Club: Schools, Race, and the Strug­gle of Indian Acculturation (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007). For examples of scholarship on Native American approaches to boarding schools, see Robert A. Trennert, Jr., The Phoenix Indian School:

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Forced Assimilation in Arizona, 1891–1935 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988); K. Tsianina Lomawaima, They Called It Prairie Light:The Story of Chilocco Indian School (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994); Brenda J. Child, Boarding School Seasons: American Indian Families, 1900–1940 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998); John Bloom, To Show What an Indian Can Do: Sports at Native American Boarding Schools (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000); Michael C. Coleman, American Indian ­Children at School, 1850–1930 ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2007); Matthew Sakiestewa Gilbert, Education beyond the Mesas: Hopi Students at Sherman Institute, 1902–1929 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2010); and Nicole Strathman, “Student Snapshots: An Alternative Approach to the Visual History of American Indian Boarding Schools,” Humanities 4, no. 4 (2015): 726–47. For more on boarding schools and per­for­ mances of Catholic North American empire, see chapter 4 of this book. 65. ​McNally, “Indian Passion Play”; and Malmsheimer, “Imitation White Man,” 72–73. 66. ​Richard Henry Pratt, Morning Star, August 1883, 3, as quoted in Malmsheimer, “Imitation White Man,” 71. 67. ​Joseph K. Dixon, The Vanis­hing Race:The Last ­Great Indian Council, 2nd and rev. ed. (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Page, 1914); and Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, 214. For a longer and multifaceted analy­sis of Dixon’s Wanamaker work, see Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, chap. 5. 68. ​Dixon, Vanis­hing Race, 72–88. 69. ​Dixon, Vanis­hing Race, 204–5, 216–17. 70. ​Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha, 253. 71. ​Dixon, Vanis­hing Race, 220. 72. ​Longfellow, “The Song of Hiawatha,” 279. 73. ​“Marquette. Address Delivered before the Missouri Historical Society,” 531. 74. ​Brown, Two Missionary Priests at Mackinac, 16. 75. ​Advertisement for a historical spoon, Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives. 76. ​Mrs. W. W. Walker, “The Indian Prophet’s Vision,” Daily Mining Journal, 15 July 1897, Père Marquette Edition, Rec­ord Group D-2, Series 4.3, box 6, Pere Marquette Collection—­Articles, MU Archives, 4.

3. Making Parallel Histories out of Spanish Missions   1. ​Miller joined the Congregational Church in 1875, served as trea­surer and trustee for a number of years, and donated to the new church building in 1911, using his influence to have it placed on Mission Inn Ave­nue. Frank’s ­father was an elder in the Methodist Episcopal church in Wisconsin. His ­mother was a Christian Scientist, as w ­ ere other ­family members, but Miller never mentioned his Christian Science connections in his autobiographical writings, instead insisting that his ­mother was a Quaker. Maurice Hodgen, Master of the Mission Inn: Frank A. Miller, a Life (North Charleston, SC: Ashburton Publishing, 2013), 12, 71, 160.   2. ​Advertisement, West Coast Magazine 13, no. 4 ( January 1913): 66.   3. ​William Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe:The Rise of Los Angeles and the Remaking of Its Mexican Past (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 216. For an in-­depth discussion of the Mission Play, see Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe, 207–52.   4. ​Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe, 219–22; John Steven McGroarty, The Mission Play: A Pageant Play in Three Acts (Acting Version) ([Los Angeles?]: (copyright, by John Steven McGroarty), 1911), Rare Books, Huntington Library, Pasadena, CA (hereafter HL).

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  5. ​John Steven McGroarty, “Old Missions of California,” in “The Mission Play by John Steven McGroarty, Presented in the Mission Play House at Old San Gabriel Mission, California” program ([Los Angeles: privately printed, 1923]), Rare Books, HL, 32. This is an almost identical reprint from McGroarty, “Old Missions of California,” California Life 17, no. 3 (24 January 1920): 38–42.   6. ​Phoebe S. Kropp, California Vieja: Culture and Memory in a Modern American Place (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 9. I use the term “Anglo” to mirror the way the settlers defined themselves, distinguishing themselves from Native Americans, Mexicans, or Mexican Americans. I follow Carey McWilliams’s Southern California Country in defining Southern California as the half of the state south of the Tehachapi mountains. Like McWilliams and Kropp but against standard practice, I capitalize “Southern California” in reference to a self-­conscious regional identity. Carey McWilliams, Southern California Country: An Island on the Land (New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1946); Kropp, California Vieja.   7. ​The mission cele­brations are the subject of a rich and critical history, begun by the journalist Carey McWilliams, who famously decried Southern California’s “fantasy heritage” in his 1949 history, North from Mexico: The Spanish-­Speaking ­People of the United States (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1949). See Franklin Walker, A Literary History of Southern California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1950); Earl Pomeroy, In Search of the Golden West: The Tourist in Western Amer­ic­a (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990), chap. 2; Kevin Starr, Inventing the Dream: California through the Progressive Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985); and Starr, Material Dreams: Southern California through the 1920s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990); Mike Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the ­Future in Los Angeles (New York: Vintage, 1992); David J. Weber, “The Spanish Legacy in North Amer­i­ca and the Historical Imagination,” Western Historical Quarterly 23 (February 1992): 5–24; James J. Rawls, “The California Mission as Symbol and Myth,” California History 71, no. 3 (Fall 1992): 342–61; William Alexander McClung, Landscapes of Desire: Anglo Mythologies of Los Angeles (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe; Dydia DeLyser, Ramona Memories: Tourism and the Shaping of Southern California (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005); Kropp, California Vieja; Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia; Elizabeth Kryder-­Reid, California Mission Landscapes: Race, Memory, and the Politics of Heritage (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016); Richard L. Kagan, “The Invention of Junípero Serra and the ‘Spanish Craze,’ ” in The Worlds of Junípero Serra: Historical Contexts and Cultural Repre­sen­ta­tions, ed. Steven W. Hackel (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018), 227–56; and Michael K. Komanecky, “The Public Consumption of Junípero Serra,” in Hackel, Worlds of Junípero Serra, 257–84. Sagarena is unusual for his focus on religion: both on the cross-­confessional conflicts and cooperation that w ­ ere part of mission cele­brations (topics I also explore h ­ ere) and on the way t­hose cele­brations themselves could be spiritual acts of place making.   8. ​A few scholars have placed the mission cele­brations in a larger national or imperial context. Phoebe Kropp gestured in this direction, arguing that as “cultural memory” it is “not simply a West Coast curiosity; it is an example of a central method Americans have used to express race and nation. From blackface minstrelsy to a passion for Navajo blankets, white Americans’ ability to disdain and yet desire, to reject and yet possess, was a familiar and consistent strategy for dealing with non-­ white p­ eoples and cultures in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.” Kropp, California Vieja, 7. Richard L. Kagan has argued for seeing ­these cele­brations as part of a “Spanish Craze” that was expressed also in art and architecture, and whose traces can be found not only in California, the Southwest, and Florida but even in places without such a claim to Spanish heritage: West Hartford, Connecticut, for example. Kagan connects the cele­bration of Serra to a larger civilizationist spirit but argues that commemorators downplayed the Catholicism of the Franciscans in order to appeal

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to Protestant audiences. Kagan, “Invention of Junípero Serra” (Connecticut reference is on 236). See, more broadly, Richard L. Kagan, The Spanish Craze: Amer­i­ca’s Fascination with the Hispanic World, 1779–1939 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2019).   9. ​For another exploration of this connection, see Avella, “Jacques Marquette et Junipero Serra.” 10. ​I define mission cele­brations, and their component texts, broadly: I include not only texts produced by prominent boosters and writers but also travel narratives, news reporting, and advertising copy written by less well-­known individuals throughout the United States. 11. ​Bruce Cumings details this pro­cess at length in Dominion from Sea to Sea, especially chapters 3 and 4. 12. ​L. E. Behymer to W. I. Hollings­worth, 18 August 1926, Mission Play Correspondence Folder, box 4, Lynden Ellsworth Behymer Papers, HL. 13. ​For lit­er­a­ture on the history of the missions—­much of which uses a variety of sources and methods to reconstruct Indigenous perspectives, and stresses Indigenous agency and internal variety among the missions—­see David J. Weber, The Spanish Frontier in North Amer­i­ca (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992); Robert H. Jackson and Edward Castillo, Indians, Franciscans, and Spanish Colonization:The Impact of the Mission System on California Indians (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995); Steven W. Hackel, ­Children of Coyote, Missionaries of Saint Francis: Indian-­Spanish Relations in Colonial California, 1769–1850 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005); and Lisbeth Haas, Saints and Citizens: Indigenous Histories of Colonial Missions and Mexican California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014). On historians’ involvement in an ongoing debate about Serra and sainthood, see James A. Sandos, “Junípero Serra’s Canonization and the Historical Rec­ord,” American Historical Review 93, no. 5 (December 1988): 1253–69. Biographies of Serra include Steven W. Hackel, Junípero Serra: California’s Founding F ­ ather (New York: Hill and Wang, 2013); and Rose Marie Beebe and Robert M. Senkewicz, Junípero Serra: California, Indians, and the Transformation of a Missionary (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2015). See also Hackel, ed., The Worlds of Junípero Serra: Historical Contexts and Cultural Repre­sen­ta­tions (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018). 14. ​Rawls, “California Mission as Symbol and Myth,” 344–45. 15. ​Such comparisons to slavery became less popu­lar in the United States a­ fter the Civil War. Even Dana replaced “slaves” with “serfs” in editions of his book printed a­ fter 1869. On Dana’s shift in language, see John Ogden Pohlman, “California’s Mission Myth” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1974), 22; and Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, 28. 16. ​For more on the Californios, see Albert Camarillo, Chicanos in a Changing Society: From Mexican Pueblos to American Barrios in Santa Barbara and Southern California, 1848–1930 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979); Leonard Pitt, The Decline of the Californios: A Social History of the Spanish-­Speaking Californians, 1846–1890, updated with a new foreword by Ramón A. Gutiérrez (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Douglas Monroy, Thrown among Strangers:The Making of Mexican Culture in Frontier California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Lisbeth Haas, Conquests and Historical Identities in California, 1769–1936 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); James A. Sandos, “ ‘­Because He Is a Liar and a Thief ’: Conquering the Residents of ‘Old’ California, 1850–1880,” California History 79 ( July 2000): 86–112; Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe; and Monroy, The Borders Within: Encounters between Mexico and the U.S. (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008), chap. 2. 17. ​Michael E. Engh, Frontier Faiths: Church, ­Temple, and Synagogue in Los Angeles, 1846–1888 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1992), 187–210; and Gregory H. Singleton, Religion in the City of Angels: American Protestant Culture and Urbanization, Los Angeles, 1850–1930 (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1979), 83–84. See also Engh, “Practically ­Every Religion Being

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Represented,” in Metropolis in the Making: Los Angeles in the 1920s, ed. William Francis Deverell and Tom Sitton (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 201–19. 18. ​Rosaura Sánchez, Telling Identities:The Californio Testimonios (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995), 72–75. Other testimonios have been published in Gregorio Mora-­Torres, ed., Californio Voices:The Oral Memoirs of José María Amador and Lorenzo Asisara (Denton: University of North Texas Press, 2005). For more on Californio memoirs, see Pitt, Decline of the Californios; Genaro M. Padilla, My History, Not Yours:The Formation of Mexican American Autobiography (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993); and Louise Pubols, “Becoming Californio: Jokes, Broadsides, and a Slap in the Face,” in Alta California: P ­ eoples in Motion, Identities in Formation, ed. Steven W. Hackel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 131–55. 19. ​The title of Bancroft’s California Pastoral: 1769–1848, as well as his focus on the so-­called golden age of California, suggests nostalgia for the pre–­Gold Rush past. But in his book’s first sentence, Bancroft tempers that nostalgia and raises the specter of precisely the ste­reo­types his Californio in­for­mants ­were trying to reverse: “Before penetrating into the mysteries of our modern lotos-­land [sic],” he writes, “or entering upon a description of the golden age of California, if indeed any age characterized by ignorance and laziness can be called golden, let us glance at life and society elsewhere on this planet.” Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Works of Hubert Howe Bancroft, vol. 34, California Pastoral: 1769–1848 (San Francisco: History Com­pany, Publishers, 1888), 1. 20. ​Francis[co] Palou, Life of Ven. Padre Junipero Serra: First Apostle of California, trans. J. Adam (San Francisco: P. E. Dougherty, 1884). 21. ​Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe, 210–11. For more on Palou, Englehardt, and Bancroft, see Steven W. Hackel, “Junípero Serra across the Generations,” in A Companion to California History, ed. William Deverell and David Igler (New York: Wiley, 2013): 99–115. For other uses of Englehardt’s praise as a kind of mission-­history imprimatur, see Cla­ris­sa Garland Goodwin, The International Marriage; or The Building of a Nation: A Spanish California Historical Drama with Au­then­tic Characters, Period of 1830–46 (Los Angeles: n.p., 1931), 82; and Msgr. Francis J. Weber, preface to Fray Junipero Serra: Hero of California, by George Wharton James, edited and with a historical preface by Msgr. Francis J. Weber (Van Nuys, CA: Richard J. Hoffman, 1989), 4. 22. ​Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, 67. For more on Jackson’s research on California, see Kate Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson: A Literary Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 244–45. Jackson’s ­Century essays ­were also included in a collection published posthumously called Glimpses of Three Coasts (Boston: Roberts ­Brothers, 1886). For her relationship with the Del Valles—­and their larger engagement in the creation of a romantic Spanish past—­see Richard Griswold del Castillo, “The Del Valle ­Family and the Fantasy Heritage,” California History 59, no. 1 (Spring 1980): 2–15. 23. ​Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 243. 24. ​Helen Hunt Jackson, Ramona (1884; repr., Boston: ­Little, Brown, 1939). For more on Jackson, see Ruth Odell, Helen Hunt Jackson (H. H.) (New York: D. Appleton-­Century, 1939); Valerie Sherer Mathes, Helen Hunt Jackson and Her Indian Reform Legacy (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990); Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson; and Helen Hunt Jackson, The Indian Reform Letters of Helen Hunt Jackson, 1879–1885, ed. Valerie Sherer Mathes (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1998). On Ramona’s cultural legacy, see DeLyser, Ramona Memories; David Hurst Thomas, “Harvesting Ramona’s Garden: Life in California’s Mythical Mission Past,” in Columbian Consequences, vol. 3, The Spanish Borderlands in Pan-­American Perspective, ed. David Hurst Thomas (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 119–57; and Starr, Inventing the Dream, chap. 2. In the early twentieth ­century, many books ­were published that ­either investigated Ramona’s story as history or showcased Southern California sites where the “true” Ramona lived. For examples, see Carlyle Channing Davis and William A. Alderson, The True Story of “Ramona”: Its Facts and Fictions, Inspiration and Purpose (New York: Dodge, 1914); D. A. Hufford, The Real Ramona of Helen

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Hunt Jackson’s Famous Novel, 3rd ed. (Los Angeles: D. A. Hufford Publishers, 1900); George Wharton James, Through Ramona’s Country (Boston: ­Little, Brown, 1908); and A. C. Vroman and T. F. Barnes, The Genesis of the Story of Ramona (Los Angeles: Kingley-­Barnes & Neuner, 1899). 25. ​For more on the mission revival style, see Kropp, California Vieja, especially chapter 4; Starr, Inventing the Dream, 187–94, 334–39; Karen J. Weitze, California’s Mission Revival (Los Angeles: Hennessey & Ingalls, 1984); and Kagan, The Spanish Craze, chap. 6. 26. ​For more on Lummis, see Edwin R. Bingham, Charles F. Lummis: Editor of the Southwest (San Marino, CA: Huntington Library, 1955); Turbesé Lummis Fiske and Keith Lummis, Charles F. Lummis:The Man and His West (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1975); Dudley Gordon, Charles F. Lummis: Crusader in Corduroy (Los Angeles: Cultural Assets Press, 1972); Mark Thompson, American Character: The Curious Life of Charles Fletcher Lummis and the Rediscovery of the Southwest (New York: Arcade Publishing, 2001); and Lawrence Culver, The Frontier of Leisure: Southern California and the Shaping of Modern Amer­i­ca (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), chap. 1. 27. ​The Mission Inn is discussed in Weitze, California’s Mission Revival; and Starr, Inventing the Dream. For work on the inn’s own history, see Zona Gale, Frank Miller of Mission Inn (New York: D. Appleton-­Century, 1938); Esther Klotz, The Mission Inn: Its History and Artifacts, 3rd ed. with an update by Alan Curl (Corona, CA: UBS Printing Group for Friends of the Mission Inn and Esther Klotz, 1993); and Maurice Hodgen, Master of the Mission Inn: Frank A. Miller, a Life (North Charleston, SC: Ashburton Publishing, 2013). The Mission Inn itself is still open for business. During its heyday, in addition to mission paraphernalia, it also showcased Asian art, two parrots, and a collection of bells and crosses from around the world. 28. ​For examples, see the scrapbook of Mission Inn articles from 1909 to 1916, numbered A500–190 in the Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, Sub-­Series, III.I, in the Riverside Metropolitan Museum, Riverside, California (hereafter RMM); or the travel diary of Sara J. Ballard, “Diary of Sara J. Ballard, 1892–1895,” Manuscripts, HL. 29. ​Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 238–39; H. H. [Helen Hunt Jackson], “The Pre­sent Condition of the Mission Indians in Southern California,” ­Century, August 1883, 519–20. 30. ​Frank Miller, “Notes for an Autobiography, Dictated at Laguna Beach, Mar. 1935, by Frank Miller,” Mission Inn Museum Archives, Riverside, California, 7–8. For an example of Catholic repre­sen­ta­tion at a Miller event, see “Riverside,” Tidings, 28 November 1913. 31. ​On Dockweiler, see Charles Fletcher Lummis to Frank Miller, 23 May 1916, Charles Fletcher Lummis Manuscript Collection, Landmarks Club Series, Braun Research Library Collection, Autry Museum of the American West, Los Angeles (hereafter Braun). On Knights of Columbus, see “Barbecue of the Knights. Wondrous Feast Extended to Visiting B ­ rothers,” Los Angeles Times, 8 June 1905. 32. ​Bishop Thomas James Conaty to James D. Phelan, 9 May 1911, Thomas James Conaty Collection, Archival Center, Archdiocese of Los Angeles, San Fernando Mission, Mission Hills, CA (hereafter AALA). 33. ​Frank Miller to Bishop Conaty, 26 July 1909, Conaty Collection, AALA. 34. ​“The Coming of the F ­ ather,” Catholic Tidings, 7 August 1895, 4 (editorial page); untitled note, Catholic Tidings, 29 June 1895, 4. 35. ​Conaty to Lena K. Hofstetter, 11 May 1906, and Conaty to Mrs. B. Ellen Burke, 16 June 1911, Conaty Collection, AALA; Esperanza, “A Historical Fraud,” Tidings, 13 June 1904, 1–2. In 1897 the Catholic Tidings shortened its name to the Tidings. The Tidings also paid close attention to the Marquette statue controversy, even suggesting in 1904 that California erect a statue of Serra in the National Statuary Hall as “a companion piece to that of Pere Marquette erected by Wisconsin.” Serra’s statue did enter the capitol as California’s representative almost thirty years ­later. Untitled editorial, Tidings, 3 February 1905, 8.

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36. ​One 1897 writer in the San Francisco literary magazine Overland Monthly, for instance, claimed that “the mission ­fathers had it in their power to make citizens of the Indians, [but] they chose to make them their slaves.” John E. Bennett, “Should the California Missions Be Preserved?” Overland Monthly, February 1897, 161. 37. ​Spanish Catholics w ­ ere also not the only religious and cultural “other” featured in popu­lar Anglo repre­sen­ta­tions. For Anglo repre­sen­ta­tions of Chinese religions—­including intersections with Ramona and other mission writings (Maffly-­Kipp) and anti-­Catholicism (Paddison)—­see Laurie F. Maffly-­Kipp, “Engaging Habits and Besotted Idolatry: Viewing Chinese Religions in the American West,” Material Religion 1, no. 1 (March 2005): 72–96 and Joshua Paddison, American Heathens: Religion, Race, and Reconstruction in California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), Ch. 4. 38. ​This language persists, in, for example, the title of Steven W. Hackel’s excellent 2013 biography: Junípero Serra: California’s Founding F ­ ather. 39. ​DeWitt V. Hutchings, The Story of Mount Rubidoux, Riverside, California (Riverside, CA: Mission Inn, n.d.), ­Album 76: Dramatic Pageants and Programs, Lynden Ellsworth Behymer Papers, HL, 4. 40. ​W. Hamilton Smith, A Joy Ride from Coast to Coast with Boumi-­Almas (Washington, DC: privately printed, 1912), Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, RMM, 23. 41. ​[Charles Fletcher Lummis] to Mr. Watt L. Moreland, President, California Prosperity League, [Los Angeles], 10 August 1916, Charles Fletcher Lummis Manuscript Collection, Landmarks Club Series, Braun. 42. ​See, for example, [Charles F. Lummis] to Hon. Isidore B. Dockweiler, Los Angeles, 24 September 1917, Charles Fletcher Lummis Manuscript Collection, Correspondence Series, Braun. In this letter, Lummis talks about his Landmarks Club work “break[ing] down the barricade of the A.P.A.” in Los Angeles and fostering “a better brotherhood between men of dif­fer­ent creeds in this community.” 43. ​George Wharton James, “The Franciscan Mission Buildings of California,” carton 5, undated manuscript draft, George Wharton James Collection, Braun, 10–11. 44. ​Charles Fletcher Lummis, “Untruthful James,” Land of Sunshine, March 1901, 215–17. This was not just a onetime t­hing. Twenty-­six years l­ater Lummis was still criticizing James for what he took to be James’s willingness to play fast and loose with fact and attribution: he warned an editor that it “is pos­si­ble that [ James] told the truth—­but if so, it must have been an accident.” Lummis to Book Editor, Messrs. ­Little, Brown & Co., Boston, MA, 12 May 1927, Charles Fletcher Lummis Manuscript Collection, Correspondence Series, Braun. James, for his part, could not resist a few jabs at his rival’s grandiosity. In a 1912 article for National Magazine, he gleefully reprinted a poem about the Massachusetts-­born Lummis that had appeared in the San Francisco Newsletter a de­cade ­earlier. It began: “My name is Lummis, I’m the West, / For culture I ­don’t give a hang. / I hate the puny East, although / I c­ an’t conceal my Yankee twang.” George Wharton James, “Charles F. Lummis: A Unique Literary Personage of Modern Amer­i­ca,” National Magazine, October 1912, 87–88. For more on the James/Lummis contretemps, see Peter Wild, George Wharton James, Boise State University Western Writers Series, no. 93 (Boise, ID: Boise State University Printing and Graphics Ser­vices, 1990). On James in general, see Patricia Nelson Limerick, Desert Passages: Encounters with the American Deserts (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1985), chap. 6; and Roger Keith Larson, Controversial James: An Essay on the Life and Work of George Wharton James (San Francisco: Book Club of California, 1991). James was also the inspiration for a fictional work: A. B. Ward, The Sage Brush Parson (Boston: ­Little, Brown, 1905). 45. ​McWilliams, Southern California Country, 79–80. In part of the quote, McWilliams himself is quoting a Commonweal article. Most of the extant scholarship remarks on the paradox of a Protestant population celebrating a Catholic past, but does so only in passing. The work of Roberto

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Ramón Lint Sagarena is an impor­tant exception: see Aztlán and Arcadia as well as his “Building California’s Past: Mission Revival Architecture and Regional Identity,” Journal of Urban History 28, no. 4 (May 2002): 429–44; and “Re-­forming the Church: Preservation, Renewal, and Restoration in American Christian Architecture in California,” in Practicing Protestants: Histories of Christian Life in Amer­i­ca, 1630–1965, ed. Laurie F. Maffly-­Kipp, Leigh E. Schmidt, and Mark Valeri (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006), 118–34. Sagarena’s book is primarily concerned with exploring how the mission cele­brations ­were themselves religious—­with analyzing how they made spiritual sense of place—­and in this sense putting them in conversation with notions of Aztlán. 46. ​Kinzer, Episode in Anti-­Catholicism, 106–8, 178–79. Also Lay, Invisible Empire in the West, introduction and chap. 4. For work on the second Klan in general, see the introduction. On the Black Legend, and in par­tic­u­lar on its interaction with U.S. attractions to Spain and the Spanish, see Philip Wayne Powell, Tree of Hate: Propaganda and Prejudices Affecting United States Relations with the Hispanic World, with an introduction by Robert Himmerich y Valencia (1971; repr., Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008); Richard L. Kagan, “Introduction” and “From Noah to Moses: The Genesis of Historical Scholarship on Spain in the United States,” in Spain in Amer­i­ca: The Origins of Hispanism in the United States, ed. Richard L. Kagan (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002); and María DeGuzmán, Spain’s Long Shadow: The Black Legend, Off-­Whiteness, and Anglo-­American Empire (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005). 47. ​McGroarty, “Old Missions of California,” in “The Mission Play by John Steven McGroarty,” 32. 48. ​Edwin H. Clough, Ramona’s Marriage Place (Chula Vista, CA: Denrich Press, 1910), Rare Books, HL, 57. 49. ​This argument, like the ­others I describe below, would persist. In 1931, Serra (like Marquette) got a statue in the National Statuary Hall. In one of the speeches accepting the statue, the Catholic ­lawyer and politician Isadore B. Dockweiler, who was also a patron of the Mission Play, said: “The transition of the California of Serra to the California of to-­day was, as history is interpreted, a normal sequence. Serra therefore is a legitimate precursor of the later-­day civil authorities established by the American Government upon the shores of the Pacific. And such work of preparation accomplished by such a precursor! Lands, p­ eoples; agriculture, horticulture, viticulture; communications, arts, government; hearts, minds, and above all, souls, prepared and tempered and awaiting a ­later larger development, but a development always predicated upon the previous monumental work of the urbane and saintly padre of the Indians.” Ac­cep­tance and Unveiling of the Statues of Junípero Serra and Thomas Starr King, Presented by the State of California, Proceedings in the Congress and in Statuary Hall, United States Capitol [1 March 1931], 72d Cong., 1st sess., Senate Document No. 102 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1932), 39. 50. ​For more on the analogy between friars and Puritans and American revolutionaries, see Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, chap. 2. Phoebe Kropp reads this material somewhat differently, giving more weight to the idea of a stadial mind-­set. Kropp, California Vieja, 89. For more on nineteenth-­ century historicism in the United States, see Dorothy Ross, “Historical Consciousness in Nineteenth-­Century Amer­i­ca,” American Historical Review 89 (October 1984): 909–28. 51. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909. For another reference to Taft’s Riverside speech, see Frank A. Miller, ed., Songs of the Glenwood Mission Inn (Riverside, CA: n.p., 1913). 52. ​“Was It in Good Taste?,” Riverside Daily Press, n.d., Scrapbook—1901–1914, Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, RMM. 53. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast.” 54. ​Benjamin Cummings Truman, Missions of California (Los Angeles: M. Rieder, 1903).

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55. ​Truman, Missions of California, 2–3. Though it is unclear where the language originated, Truman’s formulation is very similar to that found in a Catholic World article published in 1901, which read: “The work is moving on for the protection of ­these venerable piles, which represent, on the Pacific coast, an energy as forceful and courage as true as that manifested by the Puritan ­Fathers upon the bleak and inhospitable shores of New E ­ ngland.” E. H. Enderlein, “The Preservation of the Missions in Southern California,” Catholic World, August 1901, 639. An excerpt of Enderlein’s article (including this sentence) appeared on the first page of the Tidings on 17 August 1901 ­under an identical headline. 56. ​James, “The Franciscan Mission Buildings of California.” 57. ​“The Preservation of the California Missions,” Tidings, 17 August 1901. 58. ​For a 2009 example of a similar equivalence, from a Franciscan press, see a comic book entitled Serra: American Founding F ­ ather. A panel that depicts Thomas Jefferson writing “We declare ­these truths to be self-­evident. That all men are created equal” follows a panel depicting Serra saying “In this part of the New World, all of God’s p­ eople ­will be equal.” The author writes of Serra: “His thoughts echoed exactly the momentous declaration recently a­dopted by the brand-­new country of the United States 3,000 miles to the east. No won­der the U.S. government has a statue of Serra in the Capitol in Washington, D.C. He was, without a doubt, one of the American founding ­fathers.” Roy Gasnick, OFM and Julien Grycan, Serra: American Founding ­Father (Cincinnati, OH: St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2009), 31. 59. ​An examination of the ways in which the Spanish past myth could become an exercise in invidious ethnic remapping has dominated the Spanish past historiography since Carey McWilliams first made the argument in North from Mexico. For recent work on the subject, see in par­tic­u­lar William Deverell’s Whitewashed Adobe and Phoebe S. Kropp’s California Vieja. Deverell traces Los Angeles’s civic “maturation” back to the strategies that Anglo-­American creators of the Spanish past used to “creat[e] distance (cultural or personal) between themselves and the Mexican past and the Mexican ­people in their midst” (Whitewashed Adobe, 8). Deverell concentrates primarily on the repre­sen­ta­ tional moves made by the power­f ul, and their capacity to proscribe and subsume Mexican-­American re­sis­tance to t­hose repre­sen­ta­tions. Kropp examines the interaction between Anglos and Mexican Americans and Native American ­people and argues that their multiple approaches to local historical memory effected a material transformation of California roads, suburbs, and cities that has, in turn, continued to influence the way that past is negotiated. 60. ​As both Robert McKee Irwin and Roberto Lint Sagarena point out, ­these other visions—­ Martí’s use of Ramona as part of his Nuestra Amer­i­ca proj­ect, and vari­ous iterations of Aztlán—­are themselves mythic constructions. The point ­here is to note that the Anglo mission cele­brations wrenched the narrative of the missions out of the Spanish New World context to place it in a U.S. national one. Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, 113–14; and Robert McKee Irwin, “Ramona and Postnationalist American Studies: On ‘Our Amer­i­ca’ and the Mexican Borderlands,” American Quarterly 55, no. 4 (December 2003): 539–67. 61. ​See Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, chap. 4. Also Haas, Saints and Citizens, 151–52. 62. ​Amy S. Greenberg, A Wicked War: Polk, Clay, Lincoln, and the 1846 U.S. Invasion of Mexico (New York: Vintage, 2013), xvii. See also Robert W. Johannsen, To the Halls of the Montezumas:The Mexican War in the American Imagination (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985); Benjamin Heber Johnson, Revolution in Texas: How a Forgotten Rebellion and Its Bloody Repression Turned Mexicans into Americans (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003); Brian DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts: Indian Raids and the U.S.-­Mexican War (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008); and Peter Guardino, The Dead March: A History of the Mexican-­American War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017).

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63. ​Greenberg, Wicked War, 124. 64. ​Greenberg, Wicked War, xvi–­xvii. For more on desertions and U.S. soldiers’ experiences, see Paul Foos, A Short, Offhand, Killing Affair: Soldiers and Social Conflict during the Mexican-­American War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002). 65. ​Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe, chap. 1. See page 15 for his use of the term “race war,” which itself is a reference to Leonard Pitt’s use of the term in Decline of the Californios, chap. 9. On filibusters, see also Robert E. May, Manifest Destiny’s Underworld: Filibustering in Antebellum Amer­i­ca (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004); and Greenberg, Manifest Manhood. 66. ​On land re­distribution, see Kropp, California Vieja, 25; and Benjamin Madley, An American Genocide: The United States and the California Indian Catastrophe, 1846–1873 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 51. On secularization and Protestant mission writers, see Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, 26–30. On secularization more generally, see Camarillo, Chicanos in a Changing Society, 9–10; Haas, Saints and Citizens, chaps. 5 and 6; Jackson and Castillo, Indians, Franciscans, and Spanish Colonization, chap. 5; and Pitt, Decline of the Californios, 7–11. The secularization and emancipation pro­cess was long and complex: while most mission land ended up with Californios, some did go to Indigenous p­ eople, mostly—­though not exclusively—in small parcels. In addition to an unwillingness among authorities to honor the l­egal requirement to redistribute the land more fully to ex-­ neophytes, the pro­cess was also bedev­iled by an ongoing refusal—on the part of government officials and missionaries—to recognize the bound­aries and nature of pre-­mission-­era Indigenous land claims. For more on this, see Haas, Saints and Citizens, esp. chaps. 5 and 6. 67. ​Helen Jackson (H. H.), “­Father Junipero and His Work,” in Glimpses of Three Coasts (Boston: Roberts ­Brothers, 1888), 65. 68. ​Jackson, “­Father Junipero and His Work,” 64. 69. ​A.L.P., “A Sketch. Discovery, Settlement and Pro­gress,” in La Fiesta de Los Angeles ([Los Angeles]: R. W. Pridham, 1894), 22–23, Rare books, HL. The ­actual text is filled with small errors, which I have corrected h ­ ere: in the original quote, “buildings” is “bulldings,” and “Indians” is “indians.” 70. ​John Steven McGroarty, Mission Memories, illus. Frederick V. Carpenter (Los Angeles: Neuner, 1929), 11–12. 71. ​A.L.P., “A Sketch. Discovery, Settlement and Pro­gress,” 13. 72. ​Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 247–50. 73. ​Quoted in Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 30. 74. ​H. H. [Helen Hunt Jackson], “The Pre­sent Condition of the Mission Indians in Southern California,” 519. 75. ​H. H. [Helen Hunt Jackson], “The Pre­sent Condition of the Mission Indians in Southern California,” 522. 76. ​Helen Hunt Jackson to Mary Elizabeth (Sheriff ) Fowler, 17 July 1885, box 2, Helen Hunt Jackson Collection of Manuscripts and Letters, HL. 77. ​Matthew F. Bokovoy argues for seeing the mission cele­brations as part of a humanist sentiment, in part ­because of Jackson and the influence of her reformist thought. Bokovoy, “Humanist Sentiment, Modern Spanish Heritage, and California Mission Commemoration, 1769–1915,” Journal of San Diego History 48, no. 3 (Summer 2002): 177–203. 78. ​George Wharton James, “The Influence of the ‘Mission’ Style upon the Domestic, Civic & Religious Architecture of Modern California,” draft essay [­after 1906], box 6, George Wharton James Papers, HL, 24–26 (emphasis in the original). James liked this argument. In an article for the magazine Indoors and Out he said much the same t­ hing: “It is sheer ignorance to say that they [the padres] failed in their work. While it continued, it was immeasurably more successful than is our Indian policy of t­oday. When the civil power, however, stepped in and took away all control of financial

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and material affairs from the priests, decay began.” James, “The Mission Style in Modern Architecture. I. The Founding of the Old Missions,” Indoors and Out 4, no. 2 (May 1907): 59. Back in 1890, when Charles Dudley Warner published his famous “Our Italy” essay in Harper’s, in which he compared Southern California to the Mediterranean, he was most interested in issues of climate and landscape. But he did stop to note that the story of the culture of the region was a tale of decline: “Its history begins with the establishment of the chain of Franciscan missions, the first of which was founded by the g­ reat F ­ ather Junipero Serra at San Diego in 1769.” He lists their accomplishments and then notes in contrast that ­today we have seen “the advent of the restless, the cranky, the invalid, the fanatic, [arriving] from e­ very other State in the Union.” Charles Dudley Warner, “Our Italy,” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine 81, no. 486 (November 1890): 823–24. See also a similar argument in Davis and Alderson, True Story of “Ramona,” 23–24. 79. ​The Landmarks Club:What It Has Done,What It Has to Do (Los Angeles: Out West, 1903), 7. 80. ​Katherine Thompson Von Blon, “The Hospices of ­Today,” in “Mission Play Special,” California Life 17 (24 January 1920): 29. 81. ​George Wharton James, California, Romantic and Beautiful (Boston: Page, 1914), 73. 82. ​Francis S. Borton, Handbook of the Glenwood Mission Inn ([Riverside, CA]: privately printed, c. 1922), 5. For another example of this critique in verse, see Charles Stoddard, “The Bells of San Gabriel,” reprinted from The Sunset Magazine in California Classics Series: Charles Warren Stoddard with an appreciation of Charles Warren Stoddard by George Wharton James (Los Angeles: Arroyo Guild Press, 1909), 20–24. James, in an essay on this poem published two years l­ater, noted with customary subtlety that Stoddard “rises in majestic dignity and power almost to Christ-­likeness in his righ­teous indignation ­toward, and denunciation of, the ruthless spoilers of t­ hese sacred establishments merely for selfish pelf and unholy greed.” George Wharton James, “Charles Warren Stoddard,” National Magazine, August 1911, 672. 83. ​Thomas James Conaty, “Address to the Chamber of Commerce, 1904,” Homilies, Addresses, and Lectures, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA. 84. ​Thomas James Conaty, “Sermon on Mt. Rubidoux [1907],” Homilies, Addresses, and Lectures, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA. 85. ​Patricia Appelbaum, St. Francis of Amer­i­ca: How a Thirteenth-­Century Friar Became Amer­i­ca’s Most Popu­lar Saint (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015), 14–19. 86. ​Appelbaum, St.  Francis of Amer­i­ca, 9. 87. ​Appelbaum, St.  Francis of Amer­i­ca, 23–24. 88. ​As Sacvan Bercovitch and o ­ thers have argued, the jeremiad can also be understood as a form of po­liti­cal critique outside of the bounds of Puritan sermons: the classic iteration, in Bercovitch’s formulation, is the Fourth of July oration that calls Americans back to the founding values of their nation. Jackson’s biographer Kate Phillips has argued that Ramona itself can be understood as a jeremiad in that sense, calling Americans back to “their original commitment to ­human equality and justice, first articulated in the Declaration of In­de­pen­dence.” The mission cele­brations in general, however, not only issue a customary call to American revolutionary first princi­ples but actually locate the ­imagined first princi­ples of Southern California in the Franciscan missions. Sacvan Bercovitch, American Jeremiad (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1978); Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 259. For the legacy of Bercovitch’s argument, see Donald Weber et al., “Symposium on the Puritan Origins of the American Self,” Early American Lit­er­a­ture 47, no. 2 (2012): 377–441. 89. ​My argument h ­ ere is not that the jeremiad is a particularly or uniquely American rhetorical form, nor that all American po­liti­cal reform language takes the form of the jeremiad. Rather, I argue that by the time the boosters ­were writing, the jeremiad was a power­f ul rhetorical mode in the United States, one useful for talking about—­and, indeed, constructing through discourse—­the bounds and nature of the nation. And so for the mission boosters, speaking in the jeremiadic mode

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was both a way to talk about the past, pre­sent, and ­f uture of their own region and a way to subtly link that region to the nation as a w ­ hole, a link only recently achieved militarily and po­liti­cally.

4. Embodying Hospitality and Paternalism   1. ​The cross was erected in 1907. Frank Miller’s ­daughter, Allis Miller, the ­mother of the grand­child in the photo­graph, was married in 1909.   2. ​Francis S. Borton, Handbook of the Glenwood Mission Inn ([Riverside, CA]: privately printed [c. 1922]), Local History Files, Mission Inn (Ephemera Files), Riverside Metropolitan Museum, Riverside, CA (hereafter RMM), 8.   3. ​Borton, Handbook, 15–16.   4. ​Borton, Handbook, 37.   5. ​Allis Miller Hutchings, The Monkey Book (Riverside, CA: Mission Inn, 1946), 29. The inn was nothing like a historical reproduction: its style was, and is, eclectic. It has included, over the years, a fountain meant to evoke the Trevi Fountain in Rome and a collection of bells, including a Chinese bell standing over six feet high called the Nanking bell. As a symbol of state pride, Miller even included a California grizzly on the weathervane with Serra and the kneeling Native Americans. But even with this mixture of symbols, the Mission Inn always remained, at heart, a cele­bration of the region’s mission past. On the fountain and bells, see Steve Lech and Kim Jarrell Johnson, Riverside’s Mission Inn, Images of Amer­i­ca Series (Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2006), 33, 35; on the grizzly, see Borton, Handbook, 37.   6. ​Frank Miller to Thomas James Conaty, 8 September 1904, and Frank Miller to E. C. Bliss & Co., 15 September 1904, Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, RMM.   7. ​“Nativity Play Given at the Inn,” unidentified newspaper article in scrapbook, A500–190, Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, Sub Series III.I., RMM. See also Borton, Handbook, 14–15; and Hodgen, Master of the Mission Inn, 212.   8. ​Frank Miller to Thomas James Conaty, 22 April 1907, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA.   9. ​Roberto Lint Sagarena notes that John Steven McGroarty even hoped to create his own “non-­sectarian” mission, inspired by the padres. Sagarena, Aztlán and Arcadia, 106. 10. ​Carey McWilliams, Factories in the Field:The Story of Migratory Farm L ­ abor in California (Boston: ­Little, Brown, 1939). 11. ​For the growth rate, see Matt Garcia, A World of Its Own: Race, L ­ abor, and Citrus in the Making of Greater Los Angeles, 1900–1970 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001), 23; for the quote about 1930, see Anthea M. Hartig, “ ‘In a World He Has Created’: Class Collectivity and the Growers’ Landscape of the Southern California Citrus Industry, 1890–1940,” California History 74, no. 1 (1995): 103. For more on citrus, see John McPhee, Oranges (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1966); Gilbert G. González, ­Labor and Community: Mexican Citrus Worker Villages in a Southern California County, 1900–1950 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994); Lisbeth Haas, “San Juan Capistrano: A Rural Society in Transition to Citrus,” California History 74, no. 1 (1995): 46– 57; Ronald Tobey and Charles Wetherell, “The Citrus Industry and the Revolution of Corporate Capitalism in Southern California, 1887–1944,” California History 74, no. 1 (1995): 6–21; and Douglas Cazaux Sackman, Orange Empire: California and the Fruits of Eden (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005). For this transformation more generally, see Starr, Inventing the Dream, esp. chap. 5; and McClung, Landscapes of Desire. 12. ​Quote is from Garcia, World of Its Own, 45. For segregation, see Garcia, World of Its Own, 51; and McWilliams, Factories in the Field, esp. chap. 7. For workers’ attempts to organize—­and their

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successes—­see Fred B. Glass, From Mission to Microchip: A History of the California ­Labor Movement (Oakland: University of California Press, 2016). 13. ​Cumings, Dominion from Sea to Sea, 268. 14. ​Lears, No Place of Grace, xv. 15. ​Lears, No Place of Grace, 66. On Lummis’s relationship to Norton, see Starr, Inventing the Dream, 81; The Days of Peace and Rest at the Glenwood by ­Those Who Know (East Aurora, NY: Roycrofters Print Shop, 1907), Rare Books, HL, 7. Roycrofters Print Shop was started by Hubbard as part of a larger reformist community in New York. In 1946, Miller’s ­daughter Allis printed a ­little book of the funny t­ hings guests are reported to have said about the inn. According to the book, one man wrote home to his wife: “This is a queer place, sort of a church and junk shop with a flavor of Elbert Hubbard, Mary Baker Eddy and [the health drink] Postum.” Hutchings, Monkey Book, 22. 16. ​For a dif­fer­ent discussion of Gilded Age and Progressive Era medievalism and its ties to empire—­one that stresses knighthood and chivalry over monasticism—­see Amy Kaplan, The Anarchy of Empire in the Making of U.S. Culture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), chap. 3. 17. ​On domestic tourism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, see Sears, Sacred Places; and Marguerite S. Shaffer, See Amer­i­ca First: Tourism and National Identity, 1880–1940 (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2001). 18. ​The speech was published as Arthur Burnett Benton, “The California Mission and Its Influence upon Pacific Coast Architecture,” Architect and Engineer of California 24 (February 1911): 75. 19. ​For work on the relationship between tourism and Spanish Catholic history in other U.S. sites, see Thomas S. Bremer, Blessed with Tourists:The Borderlands of Religion and Tourism in San Antonio (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004); and Hendrickson, Healing Power of the Santuario de Chimayó. 20. ​Helen (H. H.) Jackson, “­Father Junipero and His Work,” in Glimpses of Three Coasts, 55–56. 21. ​John Steven McGroarty, “Old Missions of California,” in “The Mission Play by John Steven McGroarty, Presented in the Mission Play House at Old San Gabriel Mission, California” program ([Los Angeles: privately printed, 1923]), Rare Books, HL, 33. 22. ​In addition to the examples ­here, see Von Blon, “Hospices of ­Today,” 29. 23. ​ “California the Land of Dreams”: A Pageant Presented at the Twentieth Annual Convention California Federation of ­Women’s Clubs (Hollywood, CA: Hollywood Print Shop [c. 1921]), Rare Books, HL. 24. ​Thomas James Conaty, “The Missions,” Homilies, Addresses, and Lectures, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA. 25. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909. 26. ​[Mission Inn], Days of Peace, 7. On “Arcadia,” see Smith, Joy Ride, 23. On “all my life,” see Gale, Frank Miller of Mission Inn. The author of Miller’s most recent biography, Maurice Hodgen, put it this way: “He [Miller] envisioned missions restored, not in adobe and sacred icons or priestly ministry or even in the play, but in quiet expressions of hospitality redolent of missions i­magined.” Hodgen, Master of the Mission Inn, 213. 27. ​Borton, Handbook, 3. 28. ​Bullock’s Store Advertisement, Los Angeles Times, 4 March 1927. 29. ​Palou, Life of Ven. Padre Junipero Serra, 66 (dif­fer­ent tribes), 106 (apostolic net). 30. ​Marcus Waithe, William Morris’s Utopia of Strangers:Victorian Medievalism and the Ideal of Hospitality (Woodbridge and Rochester, NY: D. S. Brewer, 2006). 31. ​[Mission Inn], Days of Peace and Rest, 7. 32. ​Gussie Packard Dubois, “Impressive Ser­vices on Mt. Rubidoux,” Los Angeles Times, 20 April 1912. 33. ​For more on health seekers in California, see John E. Baur, Health Seekers of Southern California, 1870–1900 (San Marino, CA: Huntington Library, 1959).

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34. ​Baur, Health Seekers, 56. 35. ​Baur, Health Seekers, vii–­viii. 36. ​On Lummis, see Baur, Health Seekers (Pasadena), 129. On James, see Starr, Inventing the Dream, 109–12. 37. ​Baur, Health Seekers, 128. 38. ​Smith, Joy Ride, 22. 39. ​On the good roads movement, see chapter 2 in Kropp, California Vieja. 40. ​Thomas James Conaty, “Padre Junipero Serra,” Homilies, Addresses, and Lectures, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA. 41. ​The mission cele­brations’ earliest critics—­Louis Adamic and Carey McWilliams—­were particularly attuned to this sleight of hand and offered a substantial analy­sis of the class interests ­behind the mission cele­brations. But in depicting odes to the mission past as a way of obscuring and eliding ­these economic interests, they failed to note that the odes themselves w ­ ere also about the politics of production. Louis Adamic, “Los Angeles! ­There She Blows!” Outlook and In­de­pen­dent, 13 August 1930, 563–66, 594–97; McWilliams, Southern California Country; and McWilliams, North from Mexico. For a historical perspective on their critique, see Davis, City of Quartz, chap. 1. 42. ​Jackson, “­Father Junipero and His Work,” 55. For other “hives of industry” comments, see John Steven McGroarty, Santa Barbara, California (n.p.: Southern Pacific Lines, 1925), Rare Books, HL, 19; and Von Blon, “Hospices of ­Today,” 29. 43. ​Warner, “Our Italy,” 823–24. 44. ​Truman, Missions of California. 45. ​W. Raymond and I. A. Whitcomb, Raymond’s Vacation Excursions—­a Winter Trip to California (Boston: James S. Adams, Printer [1883]), Rare Books, HL, 38. 46. ​Borton, Handbook, 16. 47. ​McGroarty, Mission Play. 48. ​Ad in West Coast Magazine 2, no. 4 ( July 1907). 49. ​For other examples, see “California the Land of Dreams”; Franciscan Missions of California:Their History and Traditions, 5th ed. (Los Angeles: Mary Allen-­Pinchon, 1912), pamphlet, Local History Files, Mission Inn, RMM; Clough, Ramona’s Marriage Place, 57; The California Missions: A Page from the Early History of Alta California (Santa Barbara: Show & Hunt, n.d.). Although Californios often criticized the missionaries for hoarding the best land, some also expressed admiration for the missionaries’ entrepreneurship and productivity, which may have inspired Anglo-­American accounts. Sánchez, Telling Identities, 67. 50. ​Palou, Life of Ven. Padre Junipero Serra, 17 (for quote), 80–81, 93 (for list of t­ hings produced). 51. ​Bancroft, California Pastoral, 156; Fr. Zephyrin Engelhardt, The Missions and Missionaries of California, vol. 2, Upper California, part 1, General History (San Francisco: James H. Barry, 1912), 262–63; Engelhardt, The Missions and Missionaries of California, vol. 3, Upper California, part 2, General History (San Francisco: James H. Barry, 1913), 79–80, 629–37; Engelhardt, The Missions and Missionaries of California, vol. 4, Upper California, part 3, General History (San Francisco: James H. Barry, 1915), 535. 52. ​“The San Diego Exposition. Beautiful Site, Buildings and Exhibits for the Plea­sure and Instruction of the Visitor to the Panama-­California World’s Fair,” Tidings, 18 December 1914. 53. ​Garcia, World of Its Own, 29. 54. ​Juan Del Rio, “A Splendid Ruin,” Land of Sunshine 6 (1896–97): 14. 55. ​G. H. Hutton, “Old California Missions,” West Coast Magazine 1, no. 3 (November 1906): 7. 56. ​See, for example, Pomeroy, In Search of the Golden West, 45; and Kropp, California Vieja, 87. 57. ​For more on St. Francis’s appeal to American Protestants, see Appelbaum, St. Francis of Amer­i­ca.

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58. ​John Steven McGroarty, California: Its History and Romance (Los Angeles: Grafton, 1911), Rare Books, HL, 71. See also Hutton, “Old California Missions,” 8. 59. ​Travel narratives written by Americans in Assisi provide a good example of this attitude ­toward St. Francis. See, for example, George Stillman Hillard, Six Months in Italy, 6th ed. (1853; repr., Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1857), 479–81. A vivid example of the Protestantization of Savonarola can be found in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s 1862 novel, Agnes of Sorrento. 60. ​A.L.P., “A Sketch. Discovery, Settlement and Pro­gress,” in La Fiesta de Los Angeles ([Los Angeles]: R. W. Pridham, 1894), Rare Books, HL, 22. For a similar claim about padre managerial efficiency, see Laurence Blair, “The King’s Highway,” West Coast Magazine 1, no. 1 (September 1906): 3. 61. ​W. G. Willis, “An Inn and a Mission,” West Coast Magazine 13, no. 4 ( January 1913): 15. 62. ​McGroarty, “Old Missions of California,” 33. 63. ​McGroarty, California, 94–95 64. ​Truman, Missions of California, 6. 65. ​Harry Ellington Brook, “La Fiesta de Los Angeles,” West Coast Magazine 2, no. 2 (April-­ May 1907, The Fiesta Number): 11. 66. ​“A Word about Joking,” Craftsman 6 ( July 1904): 391, quoted in Lears, No Place of Grace, 69. 67. ​Glass, From Mission to Microchip. 174–75. 68. ​Glass, From Mission to Microchip, 92–93. On Otis, also see Starr, Inventing the Dream, 74–75; on Huntington, see Davis, City of Quartz, 113. 69. ​Harrison Gray Otis served on the Landmarks Club’s advisory board and also supported the Mission Play and Mission Inn, both of which ­were partly funded by Henry E. Huntington. The Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce, the M&MA, and the Los Angeles Realty Board all joined a movement to restore the San Fernando Mission. And the Mission Play and a similar Ramona pageant w ­ ere both, at times, financed by local chambers of commerce. Landmarks Club: What It Has Done,What It Has to Do (Los Angeles: Out West, 1903), Rare Books, HL; Starr, Inventing the Dream, 86–88; List of contributors to San Fernando Mission Candle Day [c. 1916], Charles Fletcher Lummis Manuscript Collection, Landmarks Club Series, Braun; Ramona: California’s Greatest Outdoor Play ([Hemet, CA]: Ramona Pageant Association, [c. 1933]), Rare Books, HL; Deverell, Whitewashed Adobe, 234–35. 70. ​George Wharton James, “The Franciscan Mission Buildings of California,” undated manuscript draft, George Wharton James Collection, Braun. 71. ​Davis, City of Quartz, 31. 72. ​See the quote at the beginning of the chapter. Frank Miller to Thomas James Conaty, 22 April 1907, Thomas James Conaty Collection, AALA. 73. ​Clifford E. Trafzer and Leleua Loupe, “From Perris Indian School to Sherman Institute,” in The Indian School on Magnolia Ave­nue: Voices and Images from Sherman Institute, ed. Clifford E. Trafzer, Matthew Sakiestewa Gilbert, and Lorene Sisquoc (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2012), 19. 74. ​This chapter focuses on Sherman Institute ­because of its importance to some of the key boosters featured ­here, but boarding-­school references to the California mission past ­were not ­limited to Sherman Institute or even to California. Santa Fe had a “Ramona Industrial School of the University of New Mexico, Santa Fe,” which tourists also visited. And the Roman Catholic St. Boniface Indian Industrial School, in Banning, California, was ­imagined, by ­those in charge, as the continuation of the work of the padres. At one point McGroarty was involved in planning a special production of the Mission Play for St. Boniface. On the Ramona school, see Augustus F. Tripp, “Notes of an Excursion to California in the Winter and Spring of 1893,” 16 February 1893–21 April 1893, HL. On St. Boniface, see Tanya L. Rathbun, “Hail Mary: The Catholic Experience at

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St. Boniface Indian School,” in Boarding School Blues: Revisiting American Indian Educational Experiences, ed. Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 155–73; and John Steven McGroarty to Rev. William Hughes, 6 March 1922, John Joseph Cantwell Collection, AALA. 75. ​Trafzer and Loupe, “From Perris Indian School,” 19. For notes on scholarship on Native American boarding schools in general, see chapter 2 of this book. An introduction to published material on the subject should begin with Jean A. Keller, Empty Beds: Indian Student Health at Sherman Institute, 1902–1922 (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2002); Diana Meyers Bahr, Viola Martinez, California Paiute: Living in Two Worlds (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2003), chap. 3; Trafzer, Keller, and Sisquoc, Boarding School Blues; Gilbert, Education beyond the Mesas; Trafzer, Gilbert, and Sisquoc, Indian School on Magnolia Ave­nue; Bahr, The Students of Sherman Indian School: Education and Native Identity since 1892 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2014); and Kevin Whalen, Native Students at Work: American Indian L ­ abor and Sherman Institute’s Outing Program, 1900–1945 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2016). 76. ​Trafzer and Loupe, “From Perris Indian School,” 21–22. 77. ​On Lummis and Otis, see Nathan Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian: Frank A. Miller and the Creation of Sherman Institute,” Southern California Quarterly 84, nos. 3/4 (2002): 206. 78. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 208, 215. 79. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 216. 80. ​Phillips, Helen Hunt Jackson, 27–28. 81. ​Wenger, We Have a Religion, 66–67. 82. ​[Charles Fletcher Lummis], “Riverside,” Out West, October 1905, 519. 83. ​Lummis, “Riverside,” 517. 84. ​As quoted in Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 209. 85. ​ The Glenwood: A New ­Hotel at Riverside California (San Francisco: Norman Pierce, 1902), Rare Books, HL. 86. ​“George Wharton James California Tours,” advertising pamphlet, in a box of James’s articles ­under the number 249423, Rare Books, HL. 87. ​Pacific Electric Railway, Sight-­Seeing Trolley Trips: The Way to See Southern California (Los Angeles, CA, n.d.), Ephemera, HL. For more on the inclusion of Sherman Institute in tours, see William Oscar Medina, “Selling Indians at Sherman Institute, 1902–1922” (PhD diss., University of California, Riverside, 2007). Medina notes that this was such a common tourist route that it was even the one that the French ambassador to the United States completed when he visited Riverside. Medina, “Selling Indians,” 62. 88. ​Medina, “Selling Indians,” 39. 89. ​ California Mission Architecture: Among the Orange Groves of Riverside (Los Angeles: Julius J. Hecht, Publisher, n.d.), Rare Books, HL. 90. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 212–14. 91. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 210. 92. ​Landmarks Club:What It Has Done, 6. 93. ​Borton, Handbook, 50. 94. ​Kevin Whalen, “Labored Learning: The Outing Program at Sherman Institute, 1902– 1930,” in Trafzer, Gilbert, and Sisquoc, Indian School on Magnolia Ave­nue, 108; and Whalen, “Finding the Balance: Student Voices and Cultural Loss at Sherman Institute,” American Behavioral Scientist 58, no. 1 (2014): 131–32. 95. ​Alice Littlefield, “Indian Education and the World of Work in Michigan, 1893–1933,” in Native Americans and Wage ­Labor: Ethnohistoric Perspectives, ed. Alice Littlefield and Martha C. Knack (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1996), 101.

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96. ​Whalen, “Labored Learning,” 113. See also Whalen, “Finding the Balance,” 132–34; and Trafzer and Loupe, “From Perris Indian School,” 23. 97. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 219. 98. ​Miller to W. H. Guerin, 27 March 1906, as quoted in Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 211. 99. ​Hodgen, Master of the Mission Inn, 205–6. 100. ​Gonzales, “Riverside, Tourism, and the Indian,” 219. 101. ​George Wharton James, “The Romance of a Mountain,” Out West, May 1913, 267. 102. ​At Sherman Institute in the first de­cade of the twentieth ­century, Hopi students ­were the second-­largest group, outnumbered only by the former “mission Indians” of California. Gilbert’s book is one of a recent generation of off-­reservation federal boarding-­school histories that attempt to, in his words, place “the history and culture of the Hopi ­people at the focal point of the narrative,” rather than telling the story from administrators’ and policymakers’ perspectives. Gilbert, Education beyond the Mesas, xxix, 72. 103. ​Gilbert makes this argument in greater detail in Education beyond the Mesas, xxv. In general, ­music programs ­were some of the most popu­lar programs at boarding schools. While schools publicly advertised their ­music programs as evidence of their ability to assimilate Native students to the supposed heights of Eu­ro­pean classical instruments and ­music, the students and their families valued ­these programs for the extra opportunity to travel and to socialize with one another. Clifford E. Trafzer, Matthew Sakiestewa Gilbert, and Lorene Sisquoc, “Introduction,” in Trafzer, Gilbert, and Sisquoc, Indian School on Magnolia Ave­nue, 7; Medina, “Selling Indians,” chap. 4. 104. ​Klotz, Mission Inn, 61. 105. ​Borton, Handbook, 14–15. 106. ​“Nativity Play Given at the Inn,” unidentified newspaper article in scrapbook, A500– 190, Frank Miller Hutchings Collection, Sub Series III.I., RMM. 107. ​On “playing Indian” generally, see Philip J. Deloria, Playing Indian (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998). On per­for­mance in federal Indian boarding schools, see Deloria, “ ‘I Am of the Body,’ ”; Green and Troutman, “ ‘By the ­Waters of the Minnehaha’ ”; and John R. Gram, “Acting Out Assimilation: Playing Indian and Becoming American in the Federal Indian Boarding Schools,” American Indian Quarterly 40, no. 3 (Summer 2016): 251–73.

5. Revising and Rejecting Antifriarism   1. ​William Howard Taft, quoted in J. P. Sanger, “Introduction,” in United States Bureau of the Census, Census of the Philippine Islands:Taken ­under the Direction of the Philippine Commission in the Year 1903, vol. 1, Geography, History, and Population (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1905), 31.   2. ​On the monument’s history, see Filomeno V. Aguilar, Clash of Spirits:The History of Power and Sugar Planter Hegemony on a Visayan Island (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), 156–57; Marciano R. de Borja, Basques in the Philippines (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 2005), 17; and Paul A. Kramer, The Blood of Government: Race, Empire, the United States, and the Philippines (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 210–11. My understanding of the monument as a symbol and part of a larger U.S. appreciation for the “civilizing” and “Christianizing” work done by early Spanish friars draws on Kramer’s reading of it.   3. ​Taft quoted in Sanger, “Introduction,” 31. Legazpi’s name was sometimes spelled with an “s”.   4. ​For an extended discussion of this comparison in terms of California and the Philippines, see my “Catholicism and the Making of the U.S. Pacific.”

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  5. ​In this re­spect, the religious history of the United States in the Philippines fits comfortably within a growing body of scholarship on empire that stresses multidirectional flows of influence and exchange. ­Here I am influenced in par­tic­u­lar by Paul A. Kramer’s argument against an export-­ oriented approach to colonial racial formations in the Philippines in Blood of Government. See also Julian Go’s analy­sis of the spaces of contact and negotiation between empire and metropole in “The Chains of Empire: State Building and ‘Po­liti­cal Education’ in Puerto Rico and the Philippines,” in The American Colonial State in the Philippines: Global Perspectives, ed. Julian Go and Anne L. Foster (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); and Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper’s call for historians to trou­ble the bound­aries between colony and metropole in “Between Metropole and Colony: Rethinking a Research Agenda,” in Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World, ed. Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 1–56.   6. ​In order to whip up public enthusiasm for a war against the Spanish empire in Cuba, the yellow press invoked the old anti-­Catholic Black Legend about Spain. DeGuzmán, Spain’s Long Shadow. On visual repre­sen­ta­tions of the Black Legend in the context of the Spanish-­Cuban-­ American War, see Bonnie M. Miller, From Liberation to Conquest: The Visual and Popu­lar Cultures of the Spanish-­American War of 1898 (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 2011).The missionaries’ language about Philippine Catholicism was, by necessity, more theologically oriented and focused on competition than was popu­lar discourse. Regarding the complex interplay among vari­ous missionaries, see Kenton J. Clymer, Protestant Missionaries in the Philippines, 1898–1916: An Inquiry into the American Colonial Mentality (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986). Missionary discourse did parallel popu­lar discourse about Catholicism in two re­spects. American Protestant missionaries tended to express admiration for the early Catholic missionaries on the islands, and some Episcopal missionaries identified more with the Catholic Church than with Protestant churches. The Episcopal mission in general tended to focus on converting Filipino animists and Muslims rather than Filipino Catholics. Clymer, Protestant Missionaries, 2, 27, 105 (on the Episcopal Church), chap. 5 (on approaches to Roman Catholicism).   7. ​Beginning from 1898 to 1899, ­there was widespread concern in U.S. newspapers about how a U.S.-­Philippine war would affect an American polity potentially divided along Protestant/Catholic lines. See, for example, “Of Interest from Exchanges: Annexation of Porto Rico and the Philippines Involves No Religious Prob­lem or Attack on Catholics,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 12 August 1898. The American Catholic cause was not helped by reports that the pope was ordering Catholic Americans not to join the fight against Catholic Spain, or by suggestions on the part of U.S. Catholics that the pope might be called on to resolve the conflict through mediation. Frank T. Reuter, Catholic Influence on American Colonial Policies, 1898–1904 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1967), 4, 10.   8. ​This chapter builds on a small but growing scholarship on religion and American war and colonial state building in the Philippines, almost all of which focuses on religious conflict. This scholarship ­will be cited throughout; key texts include Edgar Albert Hornig, “The Religious Issue in the Taft-­Bryan Duel of 1908,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 105, no. 6 (15 December 1961): 530–37; Reuter, Catholic Influence; Richard E. Welch Jr., “Or­ga­nized Religion and the Philippine-­American War,” Mid-­America 55, no. 3 (1973): 184–206; Clymer, Protestant Missionaries in the Philippines; Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters: Americans and the Philippines, 1898–1902 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Matthew McCullough, The Cross of War: Christian Nationalism and U.S. Expansion in the Spanish-­American War (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2014); Karine V. Walther, Sacred Interests: The United States and the Islamic World, 1821–1921 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015), chaps. 5 and 6; and Tisa Wenger, Religious Freedom: The Contested History of an American Ideal (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017), chaps. 1 and 2. For a focus on Catholic perspectives, see Anne M. Martínez, Catholic Borderlands: Mapping Catholicism

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onto American Empire, 1905–1935 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014); Benjamin Wetzel, “A Church Divided: Roman Catholicism, Americanization, and the Spanish-­American War,” Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 14, no. 3 ( July 2015): 348–66; and McGreevy, American Jesuits and the World, chap. 6. For scholarship focused on Philippine religious history and the impact of American colonialism, see Reynaldo Clemeña Ileto’s pathbreaking Pasyon and Revolution: Popu­lar Movements in the Philippines, 1840–1910 (Quezon City, Philippines: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1979); as well as Gerald H. Anderson, ed., Studies in Philippine Church History (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1969); John N. Schumacher, Readings in Philippine Church History, 2nd ed. (Quezon City, Philippines: Loyola School of Theology, Ateneo de Manila University, 1987); and Schumacher, Growth and Decline: Essays on Philippine Church History (Quezon City, Philippines: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2009).   9. ​Dean C. Worcester, The Philippines Past and Pre­sent, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1914), 6. 10. ​On the Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, see Richard Hofstadter, “Cuba, the Philippines, and Manifest Destiny,” in Hofstadter, The Paranoid Style in American Politics and Other Essays (New York: Knopf, 1965), 145–87; David F. Trask, The War with Spain in 1898 (New York: F ­ ree Press, 1981); Ivan Musicant, Empire by Default: The Spanish-­American War and the Dawn of the American ­Century (New York: Henry Holt, 1998); Louis A. Pérez, The War of 1898: The United States and Cuba in History and Historiography (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998); Kristin L. Hoganson, Fighting for American Manhood: How Gender Politics Provoked the Spanish-­American and Philippine-­American Wars (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998); and John Lawrence Tone, War and Genocide in Cuba, 1895–1898 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006). 11. ​Richard E. Welch Jr., Response to Imperialism: The United States and the Philippine-­American War, 1899–1902 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1979), chap. 2; David J. Silbey, A War of Frontier and Empire:The Philippine-­American War, 1899–1902 (New York: Hill and Wang, 2007), 35–49, 64–78; and Kramer, Blood of Government, 87–110. On the Philippine-­American War, see also Welch, Response to Imperialism; Stuart Creighton Miller, “Benevolent Assimilation”: The American Conquest of the Philippines, 1899–1903 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982); Glenn Anthony May, “Was the Philippine-­American War a ‘Total War’?,” in Anticipating Total War:The German and American Experiences, 1871–1914, ed. Stig Förster, Roger Chickering, and Manfred F. Boemeke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Hoganson, Fighting for American Manhood; Brian McAllister Linn, The Philippine War: 1899–1902 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2000); Kramer, “Race-­Making and Colonial Vio­lence in the U.S. Empire: The Philippine-­American War as Race War,” Diplomatic History 30, no. 2 (April 2006): 169–210; and Daniel Immerwahr, How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2019); Ch. 6. 12. ​Regarding July 4th and “outlaws,” see Silbey, War of Frontier and Empire, 205, 206. On “ladrones,” see Kramer, Blood of Government, 155. 13. ​Silbey, War of Frontier and Empire, 207. 14. ​Pérez, War of 1898, chap. 2, esp. 47–50. 15. ​For work on the U.S. colonial state in the Philippines, see Glenn Anthony May, Social Engineering in the Philippines:The Aims, Execution, and Impact of American Colonial Policy, 1900–1913 (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1980); Stanley Karnow, In Our Image: Amer­i­ca’s Empire in the Philippines (New York: Random House, 1989); Angel Velasco Shaw and Luis H. Francia, eds., Vestiges of War: The Philippine-­American War and the Aftermath of an Imperial Dream, 1899–1999 (New York: New York University Press, 2002); Julian Go and Anne L. Foster, eds., The American Colonial State in the Philippines: Global Perspectives (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003); Kramer, Blood of Government; Julian Go, American Empire and the Politics of Meaning: Elite Po­liti­cal Cultures in the Philippines and Puerto Rico during U.S. Colonialism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008); Alfred W.

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McCoy, Policing Amer­i­ca’s Empire:The United States, the Philippines, and the Rise of the Surveillance State (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2009); McCoy and Scarano, Colonial Crucible; Rebecca Tinio McKenna, American Imperial Pastoral: The Architecture of US Colonialism in the Philippines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017); and Colin D. Moore, American Imperialism and the State, 1893–1921 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 16. ​Moore, American Imperialism and the State, 2–6, and generally chaps. 4–6. See also Welch, Response to Imperialism, 155. 17. ​Karnow, In Our Image, 196. 18. ​­These chapters are based on an analy­sis of the public writing of Americans who lived and traveled in the Philippines—as soldiers, government officials, teachers, journalists, and “official wives”—­and published their work in the first de­cade or so of the U.S. occupation. Most book-­ length descriptions of work or travel in the Philippines w ­ ere published in the first de­cade or so of American presence in the islands, prob­ably to take advantage of a newly curious market. A few of ­these narratives—­such as Helen Herron Taft’s memoir, Recollections of Full Years (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1914)—­f all outside this time frame, but they are exceptions. On “official wives” as a category, see Vicente L. Rafael, White Love and Other Events in Filipino History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000), chap. 2; Kimberly Alidio, “ ‘When I Get Home, I Want to Forget’: Memory and Amnesia in the Occupied Philippines, 1901–1904,” Social Text, no. 59 (1 July 1999): 105–22; and Cecilia Samonte, “Obtaining ‘Sympathetic Understanding’: Gender, Empire, and Repre­sen­ta­tion in the Travel Writings of American Officials’ Wives, 1901–1914,” Journal of Transnational American Studies 3, no. 2 (2011): 1–14. In addition to this scholarship, a number of scholars have analyzed American repre­sen­ta­tions of the Philippines around the turn of the twentieth ­century, focusing primarily on lit­er­a­ture and memoir, photography, and the St. Louis Exposition. ­These scholars include Robert W. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair:Visions of Empire at American International Expositions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), chap. 6; Benito M. Vergara Jr., Displaying Filipinos: Photography and Colonialism in Early 20th-­Century Philippines (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 1995); Wexler, Tender Vio­lence; Kaplan, Anarchy of Empire; Allan Punzalan Isaac, American Tropics: Articulating Filipino Amer­i­ca (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006); David Brody, Visualizing American Empire: Orientalism and Imperialism in the Philippines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010); Gretchen Murphy, Shadowing the White Man’s Burden: U.S. Imperialism and the Prob­lem of the Color Line (New York: New York University Press, 2010); Lanny Thompson, Imperial Archipelago: Repre­sen­ta­tion and Rule in the Insular Territories ­under U.S. Dominion ­after 1898 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010); Harris, God’s Arbiters; Meg Wesling, Empire’s Proxy: American Lit­er­a­ture and U.S. Imperialism in the Philippines (New York: New York University Press, 2011); Lucy Mae San Pablo Burns, Puro Arte: Filipinos on the Stages of Empire (New York: New York University Press, 2012); John Cullen Gruesser, The Empire Abroad and the Empire at Home: African American Lit­er­at­ure and the Era of Overseas Expansion (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2012); Jennifer M. McMahon, Dead Stars: American and Philippine Literary Perspectives on the American Colonization of the Philippines (Diliman, Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2011); and Mark Rice, Dean Worcester’s Fantasy Islands: Photography, Film, and the Colonial Philippines (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014). Finely attuned to the work of race and gender, in par­tic­u­lar, this body of scholarship pays l­ittle attention to religion in general and Catholicism in par­tic­u­lar (Susan K. Harris’s work is a welcome exception). When Catholicism is discussed, it is almost always in the context of cross-­confessional conflict. 19. ​Dean C. Worcester, The Philippine Islands and Their P ­ eople (New York: MacMillan, 1898), 228. Worcester had a ­great deal of influence on ­later writers, both personally and through his writing. For examples, see Taft’s introduction to James A. LeRoy’s The Americans in the Philippines, 2 vols. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1914), in which he testifies to Worcester’s influence on LeRoy; or chapter 22 of Marshall Everett’s Exciting Experiences in Our Wars with Spain and the Filipinos (Chicago:

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Book Publishers Union, 1899), Rare Books, Newberry Library, Chicago (hereafter NL), which repeats one of Worcester’s anecdotes. 20. ​In 1914, on his way out of office, Worcester published a second, more polemical account of his work in the Philippines, entitled The Philippines Past and Pre­sent. In it he defends the necessity of U.S. retention of po­liti­cal authority in the Philippines by depicting “non-­Christian” Filipinos as noble savages in need of both uplift and defense against the corrupted Christian majority. 21. ​Charles Morris, Our Island Empire: A Hand-­Book of Cuba, Porto Rico, Hawaii, and the Philippine Islands (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1899). 22. ​ H. Phelps Whitmarsh, “The Friar: A Philippine Sketch,” Outlook 64, no. 14 (7 April 1900): 834, 835–36. 23. ​Florence Kimball Russel, A ­Woman’s Journey through the Philippines (Boston: L. C. Page, 1907). 24. ​Fred W. Atkinson, The Philippine Islands (Boston: Ginn, 1905); and Paul T. Gilbert, The ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia (Cincinnati: Jennings and Pye, 1903). Gilbert would l­ater become well known as the writer of the Bertram series of ­children’s books. 25. ​William H. Taft and Theodore Roo­se­velt, The Philippines (New York: Outlook, 1902). 26. ​Michael Patrick Cullinane, Liberty and American Anti-­Imperialism: 1898–1909 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 57. 27. ​For more on anti-­imperialism, see Christopher Lasch, “The Anti-­Imperialists, the Philippines, and the In­equality of Man,” Journal of Southern History 24, no. 3 (1958): 319–31; Welch, Response to Imperialism; Philip S. Foner and Richard C. Winchester, eds., The Anti-­Imperialist Reader: A Documentary History of Anti-­Imperialism in the United States, Vol. 1, From the Mexican War to the Election of 1900 (New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, 1984); Robert L. Beisner, Twelve against Empire:The Anti-­Imperialists, 1898–1900, with a new preface (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985); Foner, The Anti-­Imperialist Reader: A Documentary History of Anti-­Imperialism in the United States, Vol. 2, The Literary Anti-­Imperialists (New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, 1986); Eric T. L. Love, Race over Empire: Racism and U.S. Imperialism, 1865–1900 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004); Fabian Hilfrich, Debating American Exceptionalism: Empire and Democracy in the Wake of the Spanish-­American War (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Cullinane, Liberty and American Anti-­ Imperialism; and Nathan Jessen, Pop­u­lism and Imperialism: Politics, Culture, and Foreign Policy in the American West, 1890–1900 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2017). 28. ​See, for example, the foreword in William B. Freer, The Philippine Experiences of an American Teacher: A Narrative of Work and Travel in the Philippine Islands (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1906), vii. 29. ​John Foreman, The Philippine Islands. A Po­liti­cal, Geo­graph­ic­al, Ethnographical, Social and Commercial History of the Philippine Archipelago and Its Po­liti­cal Dependencies, Embracing the Whole Period of Spanish Rule, 2nd ed., rev. and enl. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1899). Senator Albert J. Beveridge, for instance, proclaimed its influence on the Senate floor. He declared that Foreman “first gave to the world any au­then­tic information concerning the characteristics of the Philippino [sic] ­people” in a Senate speech on 3 June 1902. Albert J. Beveridge, “Civil Government for the Philippine Islands: Speech of Hon. Albert J. Beveridge, of Indiana, in the Senate of the United States, Tuesday, June 3, 1902,” Congressional Rec­ord 35, no. 147 (14 June 1902): 7260. For con­temporary commentary on Foreman’s inaccuracies, see James A. LeRoy’s review of The Philippine Islands in the American Historical Review 12 ( January 1907): 388–91. 30. ​T. H. Pardo de Tavera, “History,” in United States Bureau of the Census, Census of the Philippine Islands: Taken ­under the Direction of the Philippine Commission in the Year 1903, vol. 1, Geography, History, and Population (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1905), 309–410. Ilustrado, literally meaning “enlightened,” referred to a group of similarly elite, often European-­educated

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Filipinos. The term “Filipino” is somewhat anachronistic, as its bound­aries w ­ ere being debated during this time by both Americans and Philippine-­born men and ­women. Its present-­day meaning is a result of a national identity that was in formation during the early years of American occupation. Throughout this chapter I use “Filipino” in its broadest context, to signify men and w ­ omen born in the Philippine islands. Few of my sources are explicit about how they are using the term, but from context it appears that they used it to connote Philippine birth (in contrast to Americans or Spaniards) and, in a more specific sense, to indicate Hispanized Catholic natives of the Philippines, excluding the mountain tribes and the Muslims. When a more narrow definition of the term affects the argument, I make that fact explicit. For a discussion of the origins of the term and its contested bound­ aries, see Kramer, Blood of Government, 66–73. 31. ​Annual Report of the Philippine Commission (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1900–1916); United States Bureau of the Census, Census of the Philippine Islands: Taken ­under the Direction of the Philippine Commission in the Year 1903, 4 vols. (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1905). Another census was not completed u ­ ntil 1918. The census itself was a document of imperial repre­sen­ta­tion, which Vicente L. Rafael has analyzed as an “apparatus for producing a colonial order coextensive with the repre­sen­ta­tion of its subjects.” Rafael, White Love, 24. 32. ​Kramer, Blood of Government, 211. 33. ​Kramer, Blood of Government, 208. 34. ​Kramer, Blood of Government, 208–14; Peter G. Gowing, Mandate in Moroland: The American Government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899–1920 (Quezon City: University of the Philippines, 1977); Donna J. Amoroso, “Inheriting the ‘Moro Prob­lem’: Muslim Authority and Colonial Rule in British Malaya and the Philippines,” in The American Colonial State in the Philippines: Global Perspectives, ed. Julian Go and Anne L. Foster (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 118–43; Michael Salman, The Embarrassment of Slavery: Controversies over Bondage and Nationalism in the American Colonial Philippines (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Michael C. Hawkins, Making Moros: Imperial Historicism and American Military Rule in the Philippines’ Muslim South (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2012); Walther, Sacred Interests, chap. 5; Wenger, Religious Freedom, chap. 2. 35. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 5–6, 14; Martínez, Catholic Borderlands, 26. 36. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 72–73. 37. ​Photos of t­hese slides appear in Maria Serena I. Diokno, Voices and Scenes of the Past: The Philippine-­American War Retold (Quezon City, Philippines: Jose W. Diokno Foundation, 1999), 81, 82, 101; F. Tennyson Neely, Neely’s Color Photos of Amer­i­ca’s New Possessions (New York: F. T. Neely, 1899), 86; and “Souvenir from Philippine Islands” scrapbook, Lopez Museum and Library, Manila, Philippines. 38. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 73. The photo­graph also appeared in Color Photos of Amer­i­ca’s New Possessions (n.p.: Press Association, 1900). 39. ​“Protest Filed by Catholics,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 17 September 1899. On the Metropolitan Truth Society, see also “Churches Are Sacked,” Washington Post, 17 September 1899. 40. ​“Have No Complaint,” Los Angeles Times, 22 September 1899. Also see “Editorials,” In­de­ pen­dent 51, no. 2652 (28 September 1899): 2637. 41. ​“Canards Refuted,” Los Angeles Times, 22 October 1899. 42. ​William H. Taft, The Church and Our Government in the Philippines (Notre Dame, IN: The University Press, 1904), 28–30. 43. ​Devins, Observer in the Philippines, 266. Devins’s narrative was also published in the NewYork Observer and Chronicle in installments in 1904. 44. ​May, Social Engineering in the Philippines, 81–82; and Frank T. Reuter, “American Catholics and the Establishment of the Philippine Public School System,” Catholic Historical Review 49, no. 3 (1963): 373–74.

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45. ​Reuter, “American Catholics,” 373–74. 46. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 151; Reuter “American Catholics,” 380; Judith Raftery, “Textbook Wars: Governor-­General James Francis Smith and the Protestant-­Catholic Conflict in Public Education in the Philippines, 1904–1907,” History of Education Quarterly 38, no. 2 (Summer 1998): 146, 151. For more on American teachers, see Sarah Steinbock-­Pratt, Educating the Empire: American Teachers and Contested Colonization in the Philippines (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019); and Wesling, Empire’s Proxy. 47. ​“ ‘Advice to American Teachers in the Provinces’ from the Deputy Division Superintendent of Cebu, 1902,” in Tales of the American Teachers in the Philippines, ed. Geronima T. Pecson and Maria Racelis (Manila: Carmelo & Bauermann, 1959), 123–30. 48. ​“The Religious Press,” New York Evangelist, 8 December, 1898, 15. 49. ​Worcester, Philippine Islands, 346–47. See also Morris, Our Island Empire, 376–79. 50. ​In 1898, the friars w ­ ere not the only churchmen on the islands; other religious o ­ rders such as the Capuchins w ­ ere more recent arrivals. The Jesuits had been expelled in 1768 and, a­ fter their return in 1859, w ­ ere engaged mainly in missionary and educational work. For more on Jesuits in the United States and the Philippines a­ fter 1898, see McGreevy, American Jesuits and the World, chap. 6. 51. ​Pardo de Tavera, “History,” 369–70. 52. ​On the linguistic Hispanization of late nineteenth-­century Filipino elites, see Barbara Gaerlan, “The Politics and Pedagogy of Language Use at the University of the Philippines: The History of En­glish as the Medium of Instruction and the Challenge Mounted by Filipinos” (PhD diss., University of California at Los Angeles, 1998), 78–89. On Filipino elites’ relationship to Castillian more generally, see Vicente L. Rafael, The Promise of the Foreign: Nationalism and the Technics of Translation in the Spanish Philippines (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005). 53. ​Cesar Adib Majul, “Anticlericalism during the Reform Movement and the Philippine Revolution,” in Anderson, Studies in Philippine Church History, 167. In an official communication regarding disputed friar property in Cavite, Taft himself said that “on some accounts it is the most troublesome question that we are likely to have ­here.” Note from Taft, 15 October 1901, referring a dispute to “the commanding general Division of the Philippines and military governor,” in Annual Reports of the War Department for the Fiscal Year Ended June 30, 1903, Vol. 5: Report of the Philippine Commission (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1903), 272. 54. ​This list of complaints can be found in most histories that touch on religion in the Philippines during this time. For a discussion of American Protestant attitudes ­toward Philippine antifriarism, see Clymer, Protestant Missionaries, chap. 5. For a discussion of ­these tensions from a point of view sympathetic to the friars, see Vicente R. Pilapil, “Nineteenth-­Century Philippines and the Friar-­Problem,” The Amer­i­cas 18, no. 2 (October 1961): 127–48. On friar landholdings, see José N. Endriga, “The Friar Lands Settlement: Promise and Per­for­mance,” Philippine Journal of Public Administration 14, no. 4 (1970): 397–413; Chester L. Hunt, “The Nemesis of American Agricultural Policy in the Philippines: From the Friar Lands to the Hardie Report: An Overview,” Asian Profile 14, no. 2 (1986): 133–39; John P. McAndrew, Urban Usurpation: From Friar Estates to Industrial Estates in a Philippine Hinterland (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994); and Aurora L. Almeda Martin, “Philippine Land Reform Cycles: Perpetuating U.S. Colonial Policy,” Philippine Studies 47, no. 2 (1999): 181–205. On the friar lands controversy in the context of U.S. policy-­ makers’ attempts to uphold (and define) religious freedom in a Philippine colonial context, see Anna Su, Exporting Freedom: Religious Liberty and American Power (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2016), 20-27. 55. ​John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims and Filipino Responses, 1565–1700 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959); Vicente L. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism:Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society u­ nder Early Spanish Rule (Durham, NC: Duke

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University Press, 1993); Schumacher, Readings in Philippine Church History; and Schumacher, Growth and Decline. 56. ​Pilapil, “Nineteenth-­Century Philippines and the Friar-­Problem,” 144–45; Phelan, Hispanization, 85–87. 57. ​Kramer, Blood of Government, 40–41. 58. ​José Rizal, Noli Me Tangere, trans. Soledad Lacson-­Locsin (Makati City, Philippines: Bookmark, 1996); Miller, “Benevolent Assimilation,” 32. 59. ​Scholarly accounting differs. Guerrero and Gowing count approximately three hundred friars imprisoned, with fewer tortured and murdered: León Ma. Guerrero, “Nozaleda and Pons: Two Spanish Friars in Exodus,” in Anderson, Studies in Philippine Church History, 174; and Peter G. Gowing, “The Disentanglement of Church and State Early in the American Regime in the Philippines,” in Anderson, Studies in Philippine Church History, 204. According to Frank Reuter, when the United States entered into negotiations about the imprisoned friars, ­there ­were 130 imprisoned clergymen and nuns, including the bishop of New Segovia. Reuter, Catholic Influence, 66. Cesar Adib Majul says approximately four hundred friars w ­ ere held prisoner by the revolutionaries between 1898 and 1899. Majul, “Anticlericalism during the Reform Movement and the Philippine Revolution,” 166. The broad outlines of this story w ­ ere widely reported in the United States. See, for example, “Friars and Filippinos,” New York Observer and Chronicle 76, no. 32 (11 August 1898): 171; “Outrages by Filipinos,” Washington Post, 19 October 1898; “Friars Held by Aguinaldo,” New York Times, 17 November 1898; “Chief Aguinaldo Persecuting and Killing Roman Catholics,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 5 December 1898. 60. ​Gowing, “Disentanglement,” 207. The Vatican came, in fact, to support American control over the Philippines; Vatican officials worried for the safety of the friars and their property if the islands fell into the hands of non-­Catholic countries like Japan. Reuter, Catholic Influence, 17. 61. ​On Taft’s mission to the Vatican, see John T. Farrell, “Background of the 1902 Taft Mission to Rome,” Catholic Historical Review 36, no. 1 (April 1950): 1–32; Reuter, Catholic Influence, chap. 7; and David Alvarez, “Purely a Business ­Matter: The Taft Mission to the Vatican,” Diplomatic History 16, no. 3 (1992): 357–70. 62. ​Alvarez, “Purely a Business ­Matter,” 362. 63. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 153. 64. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 155. 65. ​Reuter, Catholic Influence, 153–55. Years ­later, Taft would express relief and some surprise that his po­liti­cal ­career had survived t­ hese events: speaking before the Colored Young Men’s Christian Association in 1909, he praised them for advancing religious toleration and claimed that, without such toleration, a man who had negotiated with the pope could never have been elected president. “Taft a Friend,” Washington Bee, 30 January 1909. 66. ​T. H. Pardo de Tavera, Benito Legarda, and Jose Ruiz de Luzuriaga, “Filipino Views of American Rule,” North American Review 174, no. 542 ( January 1902): 73. 67. ​“Mr. Root on Friar Lands,” New York Times, 19 January 1902. Not all Filipinos ­were antifriar, though l­ittle of this opinion made it into American accounts. One exception arose in December 1902, when a group called the Philippine Catholic Centre wrote a letter to the p­ eople of the United States expressing sympathy for the friars and claiming that antifriar Filipinos ­were “traitors” to both Spain and the United States. “Filipinos Defend Friars,” New York Times, 8 December 1902. For other articles that talk about friar abuses, see “Friars and Filipinos,” New York Observer and Chronicle 76, no. 32 (11 August 1898): 171; and Margherita Arlina Hamm, “The Filipinos and the Friars,” In­de­pen­dent 50, no. 2598 (15 September 1898): 748. 68. ​Charles Morris, The Aryan Race: Its Origins and Its Achievements (Chicago: S. C. Griggs, 1888), v.

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69. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 376. 70. ​Worcester, Philippine Islands, 342–43. Worcester’s book, and this par­tic­u­lar claim, ­were quoted widely in the American press. See, for example, “The Friars of the Philippines,” New York Evangelist, 7 July 1898. 71. ​Foreman, Philippine Islands, 218. 72. ​Worcester, Philippine Islands, 349. 73. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 376, 379. 74. ​This claim, like that about class, was repeated in the American press. See, for example, Hamm, “The Filipinos and the Friars,” 748. 75. ​On advice to teachers, see “ ‘Advice to American Teachers in the Provinces’ from the Deputy Division Superintendent of Cebu, 1902,” in Pecson and Racelis, Tales of the American Teachers in the Philippines, 123–30. 76. ​Foreman, Philippine Islands, 488. 77. ​Report of the Philippine Commission to the President, vol. 2, Testimony and Exhibits (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1900), 43. The same critique was made of Foreman as well. An article that appeared in the American Catholic Quarterly Review called Foreman “a man of perverted moral sense and consummate hy­poc­r isy” b­ ecause he criticized the friars ­after he “enjoyed f­ree and unlimited hospitality from the friars for years in his journeys through the islands and counted personal friends, such as ­Father Moises Santos, of Malolos, among the slain.” Ambrose Coleman, “Do the Filipinos R ­ eally Hate the Spanish Friars?,” American Catholic Quarterly Review 30, no. 120 (October 1905): 672. 78. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe, 250. For other claims that the friars w ­ ere hospitable, see Worcester, Philippine Islands, 132; and E[benezer] Hannaford, History and Description of the Picturesque Philippines with Entertaining Accounts of the P ­ eople and Their Modes of Living, Customs, Industries, Climate and Pre­sent Conditions (Springfield, OH: Crowell & Kirkpatrick, 1900), 99. 79. ​“A Wanderer and His Book, ‘The World’s Rough Hand’: True Stories of a Boy Who Would Not Become a Pastor,” Atlanta Constitution, 12 March 1899, 5. Whitmarsh retained his British citizenship all his life, though he referred to himself as an American in an article in the Outlook; and, as his biographer noted, he “took a strong stand in f­avor of what he saw as vital American national interests.” James J. Halsema, “Hubert Phelps Whitmarsh: Adventurer, Writer, and First Governor of Baguio,” Bulletin of the American Historical Collection 9, no. 2 ( June 1981): 57–58, 65. 80. ​ H. Phelps Whitmarsh, “The Friar: A Philippine Sketch,” Outlook 64, no. 14 (7 April 1900): 834, 835–36. 81. ​Whitmarsh, “The Friar,” 834, 835. 82. ​On Quioquiap, see Florentino Rodao, “ ‘The Salvational Currents of Emigration’: Racial Theories and Social Disputes in the Philippines at the End of the Nineteenth C ­ entury,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 49, no. 3 (October 2018): 426–44. Almost six months ­after the publication of the original article, the Outlook published a short paragraph explaining that the plagiarism was a result of a ­simple m ­ istake. “An Explanation,” Outlook 66, no. 4 (22 September 1900): 206. 83. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe, 245. 84. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe, 243–44. 85. ​See, for example, the teacher’s accounts in Pecson and Racelis, Tales of the American Teachers; and Mary Racelis and Judy Celine Ick, eds., ­Bearers of Benevolence:The Thomasites and Public Education in the Philippines (Pasig City, Philippines: Anvil Publishing, 2001). 86. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe, 246. 87. ​Rafael, White Love, chap. 2; Wesling, Empire’s Proxy, chap. 3; and Wexler, Tender Vio­lence. 88. ​Rafael, White Love, 58–59.

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89. ​For a take on the history of ­these depictions and their transformation in Gilded Age and Progressive Era American medievalism, see Jonathan McGregor, “A Queer Orthodoxy: Monastic Socialism and Celibate Sexuality in Vida Dutton Scudder and Ralph Adams Cram,” Journal of American Studies 52, no. 1 (February 2018): 65–90. For an exploration of the colonial state’s racial-­ sexual governance, as well as imperialist cultural fantasies about sexual deviance and the Philippines, see Victor Román Mendoza, Metroimperial Intimacies: Fantasy, Racial-­Sexual Governance, and the Philippines in U.S. Imperialism, 1899–1913 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2015). 90. ​ Report of the Philippine Commission to the President. Vol. 2, Testimony and Exhibits (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1900), 368–71. For a similarly leading interrogation, see the testimony of Manuel Xerez y Burgos, 405. 91. ​Daniel R. Williams, The Odyssey of the Philippine Commission (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1913), 77–78. 92. ​Taft, Recollections of Full Years, 132–33. 93. ​Franchot, Roads to Rome, 103–6, 171. See also Fessenden, “From Romanism to Race.” 94. ​Worcester, Philippine Islands, 228. 95. ​Stephen Bonsal, “The Work of the Friars,” North American Review, October 1902, 460. 96. ​­These stories have been reprinted in Frank R. Steward, John Gruesser, and Gretchen Murphy, “Three Stories,” Publications of the Modern Language Association 126, no. 3 (1 May 2011): 780–97. 97. ​Steward, Gruesser, and Murphy, “Three Stories,” 793. 98. ​For more on ­these stories, and on African American lit­er­a­ture and U.S. empire, see George P. Marks, The Black Press Views American Imperialism: 1898–1900 (New York: Arno Press, 1971); Willard B. Gatewood, Black Americans and the White Man’s Burden, 1898–1903 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1975); Kevin Gaines, “Black Americans’ Racial Uplift Ideology as ‘Civilizing Mission’: Pauline E. Hopkins on Race and Imperialism,” in Cultures of United States Imperialism, ed. Amy Kaplan and Donald E. Pease (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993), 433–55; Jennifer C. James, A Freedom Bought with Blood: African American War Lit­er­a­ture from the Civil War to World War II (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007); Murphy, Shadowing the White Man’s Burden; and Gruesser, Empire Abroad. On African American soldiers’ correspondence, see Gatewood, “Smoked Yankees” and the Strug­gle for Empire: Letters from Negro Soldiers, 1898–1902 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1971). 99. ​African American writing about the American Philippines could si­mul­ta­neously echo and critique American imperial language, demonstrating, in Murphy’s lyrical phrasing, “a sense of possibility pulled from the interstices between race and nation and pieced together from an imperial history more uncertain and internally divided than we often remember.” Murphy, Shadowing the White Man’s Burden, 227. 100. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 324. 101. ​Hannaford, History and Description, 97. 102. ​Atkinson, Philippine Islands, 76–77. 103. ​LeRoy, Americans in the Philippines, 13–15. 104. ​Hannaford, History and Description, 97 105. ​Atkinson, Philippine Islands, 321. 106. ​Taft and Roo­se­velt, Philippines, 128–30. 107. ​Pardo de Tavera, “History,” 341. 108. ​Sanger, “Introduction,” 30. 109. ​Quoted in Sanger, “Introduction,” 31. 110. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909.

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6. Envisioning Catholic Colonial Order   1. ​“The Catholic Church in the Philippines,” In­de­pen­dent, 7 February 1901.   2. ​“Religious freedom” is, of course, a notoriously slippery concept, and must be understood as historically and po­liti­cally constituted, and constantly contested. Scholars have illuminated debates in U.S. history about w ­ hether religious freedom applies to groups or individuals, how to understand the relationship between freedom of religion and the separation of church and state, and what counts as protected “religion.” Tisa Wenger and Anna Su have also, importantly, charted the relationship between religious liberty and U.S. imperial power. For history of ­legal and policy debates and negotiations about what religious freedom might look like in the Philippines, see Su, Exporting Freedom, chap. 1. For an analy­sis of what she calls “religious freedom talk” in the Philippines, articulated by both Americans and Filipinos, and its complex relationship to multiple and protean notions of race and civilization, see Wenger, Religious Freedom, chaps. 1 and 2. My argument h ­ ere adds to this work by illuminating the connection between widespread expressions of admiration for Spanish friars and language of Spanish-­U.S. imperial continuity, on the one hand, and claims that the United States was exporting religious freedom to the Philippines, on the other., See also Philip Hamburger, Separation of Church and State (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002); Winnifred Fallers S­ ullivan, Elizabeth Shakman Hurd, Saba Mahmood, and Peter G. Danchin, eds., Politics of Religious Freedom (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015); Finbarr Curtis, The Production of American Religious Freedom (New York: New York University Press, 2016).   3. ​Kramer, Blood of Government, 90, 130–34.   4. ​Atkinson, Philippine Islands, 334.   5. ​Jacob Isselhard, The Filipino in Every-­Day Life: An In­ter­est­ing and Instructive Narrative of the Personal Observations of an American Soldier during the Late Philippine Insurrection (Chicago: self-­pub., 1904), 51.   6. ​Hannaford, History and Description, 32.   7. ​Isselhard, Filipino in Every-­Day Life, 56. For another example, see Secretary Root’s claim that the “Filipino is unalterably a Catholic. To speak of nothing e­ lse, the g­ reat beauty of your ceremonial attracts him. The austere barronness [sic] of the Quaker meeting ­house or the average conventicle of any Protestant denomination would make no appeal to his nature and the drift of his sympathies and his intellectual and emotional interests.” “No Plan to Expel Friars,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 28 July 1902.   8. ​The idea that the unwary Protestant might be seduced by Catholicism was a commonplace in Italian travel narratives. One 1872 writer for the Galaxy was typical in describing the Milan Cathedral’s “majesty, its rich, rare, unapproachable beauty” and comparing it to “one of ­those snow mountains you have just left ­behind in the fastnesses of Switzerland.” Just as American travelers carefully navigated the sometimes dangerous passages through the mountains, they also recorded a cautious self-­reflexivity in the presence of the Catholic sublime, warning one another that sometimes ­these cathedrals could hold one in “a kind of enchantment which he has neither the power nor the disposition to break.” M. E. W. S., “Milan and the Italian Lakes,” Galaxy 13, no. 1 ( January 1872): 77; and A. B. Leonard, “A Brief Tour of Rome,” Christian Advocate 76, no. 24 (13 June 1901): 938.   9. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 325. 10. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia, 51. 11. ​J. I. Rodriguez, “The Church and the Church Property in the Island of Cuba,” American Catholic Quarterly Review, April 1900, 370. 12. ​Ogden E. Edwards, “The Religious O ­ rders in the Philippines,” New York Evangelist 69, no. 38 (22 September 1898): 5.

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13. ​See also the quote from Archbishop Placide Louis Chapelle of New Orleans, the apostolic delegate to Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines, in “Friars and Filipinos,” Los Angeles Times, 24 October 1899. The same quote can also be found in “Defends the Luzon Friars,” New York Times, 24 October 1899; and “Defends the Luzon Friars,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 24 October 1899. For a more ambivalent take, but one using the same language, see “The Prob­lem of the Friars,” New York Observer and Chronicle 77, no. 45 (9 November 1899): 591. 14. ​Prescott F. Jernegan, “­Under the Americans,” in United States Bureau of the Census, Census of the Philippine Islands:Taken ­under the Direction of the Philippine Commission in the Year 1903, vol. 3, Mortality, Defective Classes, Education, Families, and Dwellings (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1905), 645. 15. ​Theo­philus Gould Steward, Fifty Years in the Gospel Ministry (Philadelphia: A. M. E. Book Concern, 1921), 334–35. 16. ​Helen H. Jun, “Black Orientalism: Nineteenth-­Century Narratives of Race and U.S. Citizenship,” American Quarterly 58, no. 4 (2006): 1049. See also Jun, Race for Citizenship: Black Orientalism and Asian Uplift from Pre-­emancipation to Neoliberal Amer­i­ca (New York: New York University Press, 2011). Gretchen Murphy uses Jun’s notion of Black Orientalism to analyze Frank R. Steward’s work in her Shadowing the White Man’s Burden, chap. 3. For more on African American writing on the American Philippines, see the notes to chapter 5 of this book. 17. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 74. 18. ​George Waldo Browne, The New Amer­i­ca and the Far East: A Picturesque and Historic Description of t­hese Lands and ­Peoples, vol. 2 (Boston: Marshall Jones, 1907), 270. 19. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 379. 20. ​ Excerpts from a paper read before the American Teachers’ Institute at Cebu, 16 June 1902, as quoted in the “Report of the General Superintendent of Education for the Year Ending September 1, 1902,” Annual School Reports, 1901–1905 (Manila: Bureau of Printing, 1954), reprinted in Pecson and Racelis, Tales of the American Teachers, 130. 21. ​Celia Sainz, “At Work in the Philippines,” Watchman 86, no. 35 (1 September 1904): 16. 22. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, vii. 23. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 253. 24. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 78–79. 25. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 79. 26. ​On fiesta politics, see Kramer, Blood of Government, 185–91, 291, 294. 27. ​Jennie Bryan Shellaberger, “The Friars in the Philippines,” Christian Advocate 77, no. 24 (12 June 1902): 930. 28. ​James W. Hillman, “A Filipino Fiesta,” New York Times, 2 June 1901. 29. ​On racialization, see Kramer, Blood of Government, chaps. 2 and 3; and Kramer, “Race-­ Making and Colonial Vio­lence in the U.S. Empire.” On the war itself, see, in addition to Kramer, Welch, Response to Imperialism; Miller, “Benevolent Assimilation”; Glenn Anthony May, “Was the Philippine-­American War a ‘Total War’?”; Linn, Philippine War; and Silbey, War of Frontier and Empire. 30. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 10. 31. ​Russel, ­Woman’s Journey, 42. 32. ​Russel, ­Woman’s Journey, 42; and Freer, Philippine Experiences, 10. 33. ​On anting-­anting, see Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution, 28–35; and David R. Sturtevant, Popu­lar Uprisings in the Philippines, 1840–1940 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1976), 25, 117. 34. ​For another example of a discussion of Filipino “religious fanat­i­cism” as a challenge for U.S. forces, showing “how easily some crank or charlatan can lead the Filipino masses astray by preying upon their superstitions,” see LeRoy, Americans in the Philippines, 2:207–10. 35. ​Sturtevant, Popu­lar Uprisings, 80.

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36. ​Sturtevant, Popu­lar Uprisings, 83. 37. ​On the Cofradía, see Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution, 37–91; and Sturtevant, Popu­lar Uprisings, 82–95. 38. ​David Reeves Sturtevant, Agrarian Unrest in the Philippines: Guardia de Honor—­Revitalization within the Revolution, and Rizalistas—­Con­temporary Revitalization Movements in the Philippines, Papers in International Studies, Southeast Asia Series, no. 8 (Athens: Ohio University, Center for International Studies, 1969), 1–17; Milagros Guerrero, Luzon at War: Contradictions in Philippine Society, 1898–1902 (Mandaluyong City, Philippines: Anvil, 2015), 205–35. 39. ​Dean C. Worcester, “Index to Philippine Photo­graphs” (Manila, 1905) Vol IV, Series 38 -­ History, 38-­y, Miscellaneous Persons and Groups, 6 and 7, Ayer Photo­graphs, Philippine Collection, NL. On Worcester’s photography, see Rice, Dean Worcester’s Fantasy Islands. Worcester does not name the man and ­woman in ­these photo­graphs, but Sturtevant notes that Worcester encountered Antonio Valdez and Maria de la Cruz, leaders of the Guardia, in a provincial jail. Sturtevent, Agrarian Unrest in the Philippines, 13. 40. ​For the derivation of the name, see Milagros Guerrero, “The Colorum Uprisings: 1924– 1931,” Asian Studies 5 (April 1967): 65. 41. ​For a longer discussion of the Mindanao Colorum uprising, see Sturtevant, Popu­lar Uprisings, chap. 7. 42. ​Katherine Mayo, “Colorum Uprising, Fatal to Many, Illustrates Credulity and Intense Religious Superstition in Philippines,” Washington Post, 23 December 1924. 43. ​Katherine Mayo, The Isles of Fear: The Truth about the Philippines (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1925), 194. ­Earlier in her ­career, Mayo had also come ­under fire for anti-­Catholicism. She would ­later become famous for the publication, in 1927, of ­Mother India, in which she argued for the continuation of British rule. According to Mrinalini Sinha, the arguments in ­Mother India ­were prefigured in Mayo’s Isles of Fear. Sinha, introduction to ­Mother India, by Katherine Mayo (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 1–17. 44. ​Mayo, Isles of Fear, 185. 45. ​For a celebratory and detailed account of Aglipay’s life and church, see Pedro S. de Achútegui and Miguel A. Bernad, Religious Revolution in the Philippines, 2 vols. (Manila: Ateneo de Manila, 1960). On Protestant missionary responses to the Aglipayan church, including a discussion of Aglipay’s negotiations with the Episcopalian bishop Charles Brent, see Clymer, Protestant Missionaries, 116–23. See also Mary Dorita Clifford, “Iglesia Filipina Independiente: The Revolutionary Church,” in Studies in Philippine Church History, ed. Gerald H. Anderson (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1969), 203–22; Peter G. Gowing, “The Disentanglement of Church and State Early in the American Regime in the Philippines,” in Studies in Philippine Church History, 203–22; Alfrredo Navarro Salanga, The Aglipay Question: Literary and Historical Studies on the Life and Times of Gregorio Aglipay (Quezon City, Philippines: Communication Research Institute for Social and Ideological Studies, 1982); Schumacher, Readings in Philippine Church History, 313–33; and Wenger, Religious Freedom, 71–82. William Henry Scott, Cracks in the Parchment Curtain and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City, Philippines: New Day Publishers, 1982) also contains three essays on Isabelo de los Reyes. 46. ​Gowing, “Disentanglement,” 219. 47. ​Clifford, “Revolutionary Church,” 274–78. For examples of the dif­fer­ent petitions regarding Aglipayan believers’ attempts to use their local churches, see “Exhibit I: Report on Religious Controversies,” in Bureau of Insular Affairs, War Department, Fourth Annual Report of the Philippine Commission, 1903, part 1 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1904), 213–351. 48. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 197–98. 49. ​John Bancroft Devins, An Observer in the Philippines, or Life in Our New Possessions (Boston: American Tract Society, 1905), 259–60.

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50. ​­These observers ­were right about the potentially close relationship between the IFI and Protestantism. Though an initial collaboration had proved impossible, attempts continued to be made. In the first four years of the IFI’s existence, Aglipay met with both Bishop Brent of the Protestant Episcopal Church and Bishop Eduard Herzog of the Old Catholic Church in Switzerland in unsuccessful attempts to secure apostolic succession. In 1906 the Missionary Herald contained the (self-­congratulatory) report that the Reverend E. Lund “has been sought out by Bishop Aglipay,” who was described in derogatory terms as “repeating word by word, like a ­little child, the words of the Baptist preacher. Aglipay has opened his churches to Mr. Lund, and encouraged his followers to hear his preaching.” De­cades l­ater, however, full communion was established with the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States, as well as with the Anglican Communion and the Old Catholic Union of Utrecht. Clifford, “Revolutionary Church,” 223, 247; and “Notes from the Wide Field,” Missionary Herald 102, no. 1 ( January 1906): 40. 51. ​Howard Agnew Johnston, “Protestantism in the Philippines,” New York Observer and Chronicle 85, no. 16 (18 April 1907): 496. 52. ​Devins, Observer in the Philippines, 254. 53. ​Atkinson, Philippine Islands, 334. 54. ​Taft, Recollections, 258. 55. ​Taft, Recollections, 259, 260. 56. ​U.S. newspapers did not describe the IFI in such detail, but headlines about the IFI also suggested that the church produced chaos. See, for example, “Church War in Manila. ­Women Attack a Priest and He Appeals to Taft,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 7 November 1902. This story—­which was also printed by the Washington Post, New York Times, and Los Angeles Times—­describes a priest who was attacked by supporters of Aglipay a­ fter purportedly divulging confessional secrets from the altar. 57. ​Gilbert, ­Great White Tribe, 158–59. 58. ​Worcester, Philippine Islands, 327 (emphasis in the original). 59. ​Hannaford, History and Description, 48. 60. ​James Otis, When Dewey Came to Manila; or, Among the Filipinos (Boston: Dana Estes, 1899), 15. Kaler published ­under the name “James Otis.” 61. ​“Capt. Harvey Tells of Life in the Philippines,” Topeka Plaindealer, 15 November 1912. St. Peter does have a biblical relationship to a rooster: Jesus predicts correctly that Peter ­will deny him three times before the cock crows (Matthew 26: 33–34). On the symbolism and practice of cockfighting in the context of U.S. empire, see Janet M. Davis, “Cockfight Nationalism: Blood Sport and the Moral Politics of American Empire and Nation Building,” American Quarterly 65, no. 3 (2013): 549–74; and Greenberg, Manifest Manhood, chap. 7. 62. ​“Capt. Harvey Tells of Life in the Philippines.” 63. ​Robert A. Orsi, The Madonna of 115th Street: Faith and Community in Italian Harlem, 1880– 1950 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002), 62. 64. ​Roberto R. Treviño, The Church in the Barrio: Mexican American Ethno-­Catholicism in Houston (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006). 65. ​Rafael, White Love, 34. 66. ​Julius J. Bautista, Figuring Catholicism: An Ethnohistory of the Santo Nino De Cebu (Quezon City, Philippines: Ateneo De Manila University Press, 2011); Abe Florendo, Santo Niño: The Holy Child Devotion in the Philippines (Manila: Congregacíon del Santisimo Nombre del Niño Jesus, 2001); F. Landa Jocano, Folk Chris­tian­ity: A Preliminary Study of Conversion and Patterning of Christian Experience in the Philippines (Quezon City, Philippines: Trinity Research Institute, Trinity College of Quezon City, 1981); and Rosa C. P. Tenazas, The Santo Niño of Cebu (Manila: Catholic Trade School, 1965). 67. ​Russel, ­Woman’s Journey, 119–31.

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68. ​See, for example, one American traveler’s description of an encounter with the wooden “Sanctissima Bambino” in Rome in 1875: “­After some inquiry, we find the guardian of the Bambino, who consents to show the prized image to us. We are politely invited into a well-­lighted chapel, and the monk proceeds to clear away the altar furniture, and then unlocks some doors and opens a recess ­behind the altar. T ­ here are two absurd-­looking repre­sen­ta­tions of Joseph and Mary bending with wondering solicitude over a closed wooden box. The monk takes this out, opens it, and removes several richly-­jeweled coverings, and exposes to view a wooden baby about eigh­teen inches or two feet long. It is elaborately decorated with jewels, the offerings of t­hose who reverence the antique toy, or perhaps of t­hose who have fancied themselves cured of disease by its help.” S. R., “From Our Eu­ ro­pean Correspondent, No. 60: At Rome,” Friends’ Intelligencer 32, no. 25 (14 August 1875): 394. 69. ​She was in good com­pany with this observation: both John Foreman and Dean C. Worcester had made it as well. Foreman, Philippine Islands, 197; Worcester, Philippine Islands, 301. 70. ​Russel, ­Woman’s Journey, 126–28. 71. ​Russel, ­Woman’s Journey, 124–25. 72. ​Prescott F. Jernegan, “­Under the Americans,” 645. This was considered an impor­tant enough statement about the teachers that it was included in the (largely celebratory) collection of primary material published by Pecson and Racelis, Tales of the American Teachers, 75. 73. ​Freer, Philippine Experiences, 99–100; Stephen Bonsal, “The Philippines—­after an Earthquake,” North American Review, March 1902,, 9–10. Anti-­imperialists sometimes used the idea that American teachers and officials ­were filling the roles of Catholic friars in the Philippines as a critique, mobilizing anti-­Catholic rhe­toric. See Foner and Winchester, Anti-­Imperialist Reader, 247– 48, 397. 74. ​On the Malolos constitution, see Majul, “Anticlericalism during the Reform Movement,”, 168–69; and Wenger, Religious Freedom, 61–65. Wenger argues that religious freedom talk had not been pre­sent in elite Filipino circles before the American arrival, and article five of the constitution can be understood as one way in which nationalist Filipino leaders sought to “demonstrate their civilizational credentials.” Wenger, Religious Freedom, 59. 75. ​Hannaford, History and Description, 94; and Taft and Roo­se­velt, Philippines, 122. For another example, see Freer, Philippine Experiences, 90. 76. ​LeRoy, Americans in the Philippines, 1:314–320, 2:294. 77. ​Morris, Our Island Empire, 381. 78. ​Alice Byram Condict, Old Glory and the Gospel in the Philippines (Chicago: Fleming H. Revell, 1902), 64. 79. ​James D. Dewell, Down in Porto Rico with a Kodak (New Haven, CT: Rec­ord Publishing, 1898), 98–100. For a comparison with Puerto Rico, see my “Beyond the Black Legend: Catholicism and U.S. Empire Building in the Philippines and Puerto Rico, 1898–1914,” Issue on Empire: Global Expansion of U.S. Catholicism, U.S. Catholic Historian 33, no. 4 (Fall 2015), 27–51. For an analy­sis of religious freedom language in debates about U.S. naval policy in Guam a­ fter 1898, see Anne Perez Hattori, “Colonialism, Capitalism and Nationalism in the US Navy’s Expulsion of Guam’s Spanish Catholic Priests, 1898–1900,” Journal of Pacific History 44, no. 3 (2009): 281–302. 80. ​Stuart Creighton Miller argues that the Americans did not have enough soldiers to occupy the islands. Miller, “Benevolent Assimilation,” 197. 81. ​James A. LeRoy, “The Moro and Pagan Question,” In­de­pen­dent, July 24, 1902. For more on religious freedom in the Moro Province, see Hawkins, Making Moros, 9–10, 17; Gowing, Mandate in Moroland; Amoroso, “Inheriting the ‘Moro Prob­lem’ ”; Wenger, Religious Freedom, 82–98; and Su, Exporting Freedom, 27–34. 82. ​H. W. Shidelfr, “The Caloocan Charge,” Philippine Magazine (October 1899), Lopez Museum and Library, Manila, Philippines.

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83. ​See, for example, Worcester, Philippine Islands, 339–42; Morris, Our Island Empire, 377. 84. ​Worcester sold a collection of thousands of his prints to Edward Ayer, a trustee of the Newberry Library, and as part of the sale Worcester included an index. The index testifies to his reliance on the Jesuits for photo­graphs, particularly the Jesuit scientist Fr. José Algué. Dean C. Worcester, Index to Philippine Photo­graphs (Manila: n.p., 1905), NL, 272, 290. 85. ​Report of the Philippine Commission to the President, vol. 4 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1901), 111. 86. ​Elizabeth Fenton explores anti-­Catholic aspects of the U.S. notion of religious pluralism in ­g reat depth in Religious Liberties: Anti-­Catholicism and Liberal Democracy in Nineteenth-­Century U.S. Lit­er­a­ture and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). See also Tracy Fessenden, Culture and Redemption: Religion, the Secular, and American Lit­er­a­ture (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2006), 64–66; and Wenger, Religious Freedom. 87. ​For an example of Protestant perceptions of religious freedom as exclusively Protestant, see Condict, Old Glory and the Gospel, 64. 88. ​Richard A. Zerega, “The Philippine Friars,” New York Times, 21 July 1902. 89. ​Dolan, American Catholic Experience, 308. 90. ​Dolan, American Catholic Experience, 309, 311–12, 315–19; and Dolan, In Search of an American Catholicism, 99–117. On the Americanist controversy, see also R. Scott Appleby, Church and Age Unite! The Modernist Impulse in American Catholicism (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992); Thomas McAvoy, The ­Great Crisis in American Catholic History, 1895–1900 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957); and Wetzel, “Church Divided.” 91. ​Dolan, In Search of an American Catholicism, 99–101. On Ireland also see Reuter, Catholic Influence, 7–11, 25–26; Welch, “Or­ ga­ nized Religion and the Philippine-­ American War,” 186–87; Welch, Response to Imperialism, 93; and Miller, “Benevolent Assimilation,” 183. 92. ​McGreevy, American Jesuits and the World, 160–66 (Americanism), 190–94 (involvement with the state). 93. ​“Want Native Priests,” Washington Post, 25 July 1903. 94. ​“The Catholic Church in the Philippines,” In­de­pen­dent, February 1901, 337. 95. ​“A Catholic View of Religious Prob­lems in the Philippines,” Literary Digest, 15 October 1898. The replacement of Spanish friars with American priests was widely advocated. See Ogden E. Edwards, “The Religious O ­ rders in the Philippines,” New York Evangelist, 22 September 1898, 5; and “Schurman in the City,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 21 August 1899. Taft himself suggested that it would be a good idea, as long as enough clergy ­were available. Taft and Roo­se­velt, Philippines, 133–34. 96. ​[No title,] Colored American, 16 August 1902, 8. The replacement of Spanish friars with American priests was also advocated in Edwards, “Religious O ­ rders in the Philippines,” 5; “Schurman in the City”; “Friars Not to Return,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 19 April 1901; and “The Religious Question in the Philippines,” Outlook 71, no. 13 (26 July 1902): 764. 97. ​“Comment,” Harper’s Weekly, 25 October 1902, 1541. 98. ​“American Friars in Islands,” Washington Post, 21 September 1902.

Conclusion: Imperial Church Stories   1. ​On captivity narratives, see Franchot, Roads to Rome; Schultz, Fire and Roses; and Griffin, Anti-­Catholicism and Nineteenth-­Century Fiction.   2. ​Monk’s narrative was outsold by only one novel before the U.S. Civil War: Harriet Beecher Stowe’s ­Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Franchot, Roads to Rome, 154. See also Ewens, Role of the Nun in Nine-

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teenth ­Century Amer­i­ca, 150–51. The engraving is dated 1836 and may have been included in initial printings of Monk’s narrative. It was definitely included in a follow-up text, Further Disclosures by Maria Monk, concerning the ­Hotel Dieu Nunnery of Montreal, 2nd ed. (London: James S. Hodson, 1837). For evidence of this, see Pisanus Fraxi, Bibliography of Prohibited Books, vol. 2 (Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing, 1942), 149. The engraving is reproduced in most of the extant scholarship on Monk, including Franchot, Roads to Rome, 156.   3. ​Franchot, Roads to Rome, 155.   4. ​“President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909.   5. ​The term “American ­Century” was coined by media magnate Henry Luce in a 1941 Life magazine editorial. Henry R. Luce, “The American C ­ entury,” Life, 17 February 1941. On Luce and the American ­Century, see Alan Brinkley, The Publisher: Henry Luce and His American ­Century (New York: Vintage, 2011); and Michael J. Hogan, ed., The Ambiguous Legacy: U. S. Foreign Relations in the American ­Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).   6. ​Jenkins, New Anti-­Catholicism; Massa, Anti-­Catholicism in Amer­i­ca; R. Scott Appleby and John T. McGreevy, “Catholics, Muslims, and the Mosque,” New York Review of Books, 30 September 2010.   7. ​Stahl, Enlisting Faith, esp. chaps. 1 and 2.   8. ​Schultz, Tri-­Faith Amer­i­ca, 43–47.   9. ​Jonathan P. Herzog, The Spiritual-­Industrial Complex: Amer­i­ca’s Religious ­Battle against Communism in the Early Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 56–67. 10. ​Quoted in part in Herzog, Spiritual-­Industrial Complex, 55. The quote was included in a press release issued by the National Catholic Welfare Conference, which noted that Hearst had instructed “his editors to ‘print a series of editorials commending the Catholic Church for its militant attitude against communism.’  ” “W.R. Hearst Lauds Catholic Church’s Communism Stand,” N.C.W.C. News Ser­vice, 14 December 1935, archived at the Catholic News Archive, accessed 27 March 2019, https://­thecatholicnewsarchive​.­org. 11. ​Herzog, Spiritual-­Industrial Complex, 132–33; Seth Jacobs, Amer­i­ca’s Miracle Man in Vietnam: Ngo Din Diem, Religion, Race, and U.S. Intervention in Southeast Asia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004), 81. 12. ​The meta­phor of soundings is borrowed from Massa, Catholics and American Culture, 11. For a comparison with Puerto Rico, see my “Beyond the Black Legend,” 27–51. 13. ​Visitor’s Register for the ­Century of Pro­gress (Chicago, 1933), box 2, folder 8 Marquette Cabin Visitor’s Log, Series 3: C ­ entury of Pro­gress, 1933–1934, Illinois Catholic Historical Society Rec­ords, Loyola University Archives, Chicago. 14. ​Reid H. Lewis, “Three Hundred Years L ­ ater: Reenactment of the 1673 Jolliet-­Marquette Voyage,” Historic Preservation, 1 January 1974. 15. ​Erin Heffernan, “What’s the Deal with Marquette’s University Seal?,” Marquette Wire (blog), 14 January 2014, accessed 3 December 2017, https://­marquettewire​.­org​/­3848257​/­tribune​/­tribune​ -­news​/­whats​-­the​-­deal​-­with​-­marquettes​-­university​-­seal​/­; Nicolette Perry, “Students of Color Co­ali­ tion Demands List of Changes at Marquette,” Marquette Wire (blog), 14 April 2015, accessed 3 Dec. 2017, https://­marquettewire​.­org​/­3924052​/­tribune​/­tribune​-­news​/­students​-­of​-­color​-­coalition​ -­demands​-­list​-­of​-­changes​-­at​-­marquette​/­; “Protest over Racial Profiling Begins on Marquette Campus, Ends at County Jail a­ fter Four Arrested, ” FOX6Now​.­com (blog), 27 April 2015, accessed 3 Dec. 2017, http://­fox6now​.­com​/­2015​/­04​/­27​/­developing​-­protest​-­on​-­mu​-­campus​-­moves​-­to​-­county​ -­jail​-­after​-­four​-­demonstrators​-­arrested​/­. 16. ​For a discussion of the evolution and contestation of mission history representations—­including a revised Mission Play and an attempt to remove Serra’s statue from the National Statuary Hall—­see Steven W. Hackel, “Introduction. Junípero Serra: New Contexts and Emerging Interpretations,” in

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The Worlds of Junípero Serra: Historical Contexts and Cultural Repre­sen­ta­tions, ed. Steven W. Hackel (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018), 1–9. 17. ​Sandos, “Junipero Serra’s Canonization,” 1257–59. See also Albert L. Hurtado, Herbert Eugene Bolton: Historian of the American Borderlands (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 248–51. 18. ​Sandos, “Junipero Serra’s Canonization,” 1259–62. 19. ​Sandos, “Junipero Serra’s Canonization,” 1263–67. 20. ​“Homily of His Holiness Pope Francis,” Holy Mass and Canonization of Blessed Fr. Junípero Serra, National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, Washington, DC, 23 September 2015, accessed 14 February 2018, https://­w2​.­vatican​.­va​/­content​/­francesco​/­en​/­homilies​/­2015​ /­documents​/­papa​-­francesco​_­20150923​_­usa​-­omelia​-­washington​-­dc​.­html. For one among many examples of protests, see Veronica Rocha, “Decapitated and Doused with Red Paint: Vandals Target St. Junipero Serra Statue at Santa Barbara Mission,” Los Angeles Times, 14 September 2017, accessed 14 February 2018, http://­www​.­latimes​.­com​/­local​/­lanow​/­la​-­me​-­ln​-­junipero​-­serra​-­statue​-­vandalized​ -­santa​-­barbara​-­20170914​-­htmlstory​.­html. 21. ​Rawls, “California Mission as Symbol and Myth,” 354. 22. ​“Chapter 7: California, a Changing State,” in History Social Science Framework for California Public Schools, Kindergarten through Grade Twelve (Sacramento: California Department of Education, 2017), 74–76 (quotes from 76 and 75, respectively). 23. ​Regarding slavery and concentration camps, see Tuyen Tran, “Repeat ­after Us: Say No to the Mission Proj­ect,” California History Social Science Proj­ect (blog), 23 May 2017, accessed 14 February 2018, http://­chssp​.­ucdavis​.­edu​/­blog​/­mission; and Deborah A. Miranda, Bad Indians:A Tribal Memoir (Berkeley, CA: Heyday, 2013), xvii. For an example of a parent response, see “California Mission Proj­ect Now History,” CBS Los Angeles, 25 September 2017, accessed 14 February, 2018, http://­ losangeles​.­cbslocal​.­com​/­2017​/­09​/­25​/­california​-­mission​-­project​-­now​-­history​/­. On the meaning of ­these ­children’s mission models, see also Kryder-­Reid, California Mission Landscapes, 170–77. 24. ​The Real Glory, directed by Henry Hathaway (West Hollywood, CA: Samuel Goldwyn Studios, 1939). For more on Catholicism in U.S. film, see McDannell, Catholics in the Movies; Fisher, On the Irish Waterfront; and Smith, Look of Catholics. For more on the Philippines in American per­for­mance culture, see Burns, Puro Arte. 25. ​On The Real Glory, see Vivienne Angeles, “Philippine Muslims on Screen: From Villains to Heroes,” Journal of Religion and Film 20, no. 1 (2016): 1–19; and Charles V. Hawley, “­You’re a Better Filipino Than I Am, John Wayne: World War II, Hollywood, and U.S.-­Philippines Relations,” Pacific Historical Review 71, no. 3 (August 2002): 389–414. On The Real Glory and scientism, see Isaac, American Tropics, 82–99. 26. ​Pfeiffer has worked and exhibited extensively in the Philippines, and his art often sits at the intersection of Philippine and U.S. culture and history. One video and sculpture work, for example, featured images of the pop star Justin Bieber as a Santo Niño, created by an ecclesiastical sculptor with whom Pfeiffer worked in Pampanga. Audrey N. Carpio, “ ‘Paul Pfeiffer: Incarnator’ Asks Viewers to Reflect on Objectification and Pop­u­lism,” Esquire Philippines, 10 July 2018, accessed March 29, 2019, https://­www​.­esquiremag​.­ph​/­culture​/­arts​-­and​-­entertainment​/­​-­paul​-­pfeiffer​ -­incarnator​-­bellas​-­artes​-­outpost​-­a1521–20180710. 27. ​Pfeiffer’s Leviathan has been read as a commentary on race, religion, whiteness, consumer culture, and the state. The size of the image and its title—­a reference, perhaps, to Thomas Hobbes’s philosophical work on state rule over individuals—­suggest looming state power. The reference to purity in the name of the exhibit, the blondness of the hair, and the use of dolls as material have led one scholar to read it as a riff on Kenneth and Mamie Clark’s “doll test” study of the 1940s, in which the early impact of racism on c­ hildren was demonstrated by black c­ hildren’s preferences for

N O T E S T O P A G E S 2 1 2 – 2 1 3     267

white dolls. Coco Fusco, “Racial Time, Racial Marks, Racial Meta­phors,” in Only Skin Deep: Changing Visions of the American Self, ed. Coco Fusco and Brian Wallis (New York: International Center of Photography and Harry N. Abrams, Publishers, 2003), 30. See also Jennifer González, “Morphologies: Race as Visual Technology,” in Fusco and Wallis, Only Skin Deep, 386–87. 28. ​Sarita Echavez See, The Decolonized Eye: Filipino American Art and Per­for­mance (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), xi. For more on Pfeiffer’s work in the context of Philippine history, see The Decolonized Eye, chap. 2; Paul Pfeiffer, “Quod Nomen Mihi Est? Excerpts from a Conversation with Satan,” in Vestiges of War:The Philippine-­American War and the Aftermath of an Imperial Dream, 1899–1999, ed. Angel Velasco Shaw and Luis H. Francia (New York: New York University Press, 2002), 279–89; and Wayne Baerwaldt, Memories of Overdevelopment: Philippine Diaspora in Con­temporary Art (Winnipeg, Manitoba: Plug In Editions: 1997). 29. ​“Marquette’s Coming to Chicago,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 10 October 1894; and “President Takes His Farewell of Coast,” Los Angeles Times, 13 October 1909.

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Index

Italicized page numbers indicate photo­graphs. Adams, George Everett, 1–2, 3, 4, 7, 8–9, 213 African Americans: in Midwest, 26, 40–42; in Philippines, 164–65, 177, 200; ­after World War II, 16 Aglipay, Gregorio, 187, 188 Aguinaldo y Famy, Emilio, 144, 153, 173, 187 Albuquerque Indian School, 128 American Anti-­Imperialist League, 147 American Catholic Quarterly Review, 176 American Catholic Tribune, 40 American Freedom and Catholic Power (­Blanshard), 14, 207 “Americanist” Catholics, 198–201 American Protective Association (APA), 3, 13, 204; Marquette’s memory and, 23, 25, 37, 42, 43, 52; Southern California and Serra and, 94–95 American Revolution: as contemporaneous with missions in California, 97; Marquette’s ­f amily and, 32–33 Americans in the Philippines (LeRoy), 167, 196 American Teachers’ Institute, 178, 179 Anglos, in Southern California, 6, 82, 84; Franciscans contrasted, 100–106; mission history and, 86–92; racial hierarchy and, 98; treatment of Native Americans, 85–86

Anti-­Catholicism: in antebellum U.S., 163–65, 202–3, 206; challenges and prob­lems with historiography, 14–17; history in Eu­rope, 11–12; history in U.S., 10–11, 12–14; imperial church stories and, 207; Marquette and Upper Midwest, 23–26, 31–32, 37–38, 40, 43, 52; Philippine rhe­toric and avoidance of, 142–43, 149–50, 157, 170, 186, 192, 198, 204, 207–8; Spanish missions and rejection of, 84–85, 92–97, 121–25, 210 Antifriarism. See Spanish friars, in Philippines; Spanish friars, U.S. responses to Filipino antifriarism Antimodernism: Lears and, 14–15; Marquette and, 44, 51; Spanish mission boosters and, 107–13, 118–19, 125, 134 Anting-­anting, in Philippines, 183–84, 212 Anti-­union movement, open shops in Southern California, 125–26 Armstrong, Samuel Chapman, 55 Arts and Crafts movement, 15, 112, 117, 125 Aryan Race: Its Origins and Its Achievements,The (Morris), 156 Atkinson, Fred Washington, 146, 166–67, 168, 175, 176, 189

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Awful Disclosures of the ­Hotel Dieu Nunnery (Monk), 13, 202 Aylward, Paul P., 33 Aztlán, 98–99 Bailey, John R., 34, 65–66 Bancroft, George, 27, 32, 33, 35, 59, 60, 62–63, 100 Bancroft, Hubert Howe, 87, 88, 121 Bates Treaty (1899), 196 Beecher, Lyman, 5, 37–39, 40, 52 Benton, Arthur Burnett, 113 Bercovitch, Sacvan, 105 Black, John C., 48 Black Catholics, 26, 40–42. See also African Americans Black Legend, 86–87, 95, 142 Blanshard, Paul, 14, 207 Blessed Virgin Immaculate, Marquette’s devotion to, 55, 62–68 Boarding schools. See Carlisle Industrial School; Sherman Institute Bolton, Herbert Eugene, 210 Bonsal, Stephen, 164, 195, 200 Borton, Francis, 132 Boston Pi­lot, 41, 149 Bowers, Henry Francis, 52 Bright, Charles, 44 Brown, Edward Osgood, 48, 61, 63, 65, 74–75 Browne, George Waldo, 178 Bruno, Giordano, 123 Bullock’s department store, 115, 116 Burgos, ­Father José, 153 Butler, Charles H., 41 Byrne, Julie, xi California, Romantic and Beautiful ( James), 103 California Life magazine, 103–4 California Mission Architecture: Among the Orange Groves of Riverside, 129 California Pastoral (Bancroft), 121 Californios, missions and, 87–89, 90, 92, 115 Camino Real, El, 90 Caracciolo, Enrichetta, 11 Carlisle Industrial School, 69, 73, 127, 129, 130 Cather, Willa, 160 Catholic Church Extension Society, 149 Catholicism, generally, xi–­xii; Immaculate Conception dogma and, 63–65; nationalist

historical commemoration and, 3–7; “thinking with,” 15–16, 20 Catholicism and American Freedom: A History (McGreevy), 15 Catholic Tidings, 91, 97, 121 Catholic World, 97, 200 ­Century magazine, 88, 100, 102–3, 114, 115, 120 ­Century of Dishonor, A ( Jackson), 102 Chicago Daily News, 45 Chicago Daily Tribune, 2, 23, 32 Chicago Defender, 41, 42 Chippewa language, 31–32, 42–43 Christian Advocate, 181 Christian ­Family, 54–55, 58, 63, 76 Clay, Henry, 99 Cofradía de San José, 184 Colliers Weekly, 149 Collins, Charles H., 49–51, 61 Colored American Magazine, 164–65 Colorums, 186–87, 194 Columbian Catholic Congress, 34, 41 Conaty, Bishop Thomas James, 90–91, 96, 104, 106, 109, 114, 119, 174 Condict, Alice B., 196, 198 Congress of Colored Catholics, 41 Cook, Sherburne F., 210 Coronel, Antonio F., 88, 89 Corregidor Island, 154 Cressler, Matthew, 16 Cuba, 143–45, 208. See also Spanish-­Cuban-­ American War Cumings, Bruce, 4 Cunningham, Reverend J. M., 68 Dablon, Claude, 54–55, 58, 62, 63 Daily Mining Journal, 30, 32, 42–43, 59–60, 67, 75 Dana, Richard Henry, 87 Death Comes for the Archbishop (Cather), 160 De Brébeuf, ­Father Jean, 58, 60–61 De la Cruz, Apolinario, 184, 186 De la Salle, Rose, 62, 65 De los Reyes, Isabelo, 187 De Soto, Hernando, 61 Devins, John Bancroft, 188–89, 190 Dewey, George, 144, 145, 148 Dickinson, Don M., 31, 37 Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley, The (Shea), 27, 55 Discovery of the ­Great West,The (Parkman), 66

I nde x    307

Dixon, Joseph K., 73–74 Dockweiler, Isidore B., 90 Dreiser, Theodore, 59 Dubois, Gussie Packard, 117–18 Du Prêtre, de la femme, et de la famille (­Michelet),  11 Egan, Maurice Francis, 34 Engelhardt, ­Father Zephyrin, 88, 100, 121 ­Father Marquette (Thwaites), 57–58, 63, 65, 66–67 Fiesta de Los Angeles, 101, 102, 123 Fifty Years in the Gospel Ministry (Stewart), 176–77 Filipino in Every-­Day Life (Isselhard), 175 First World War, cross-­confessional engagement and, 207 Foell, Charles M., 65 Foreman, John, 147–48, 150, 156–57, 158 France, anticlericalism in, 11–12 France and ­England in North Amer­i­ca (­Parkman),  27 Franchot, Jenny, 15, 164, 203 Francis, Pope, 210 Franciscans. See Serra, ­Father Junípero; Southern California, Spanish missions in; Spanish friars, in Philippines Francis of Assisi, Saint, 104–5, 123 Freer, William B., 177–81, 183–84, 187, 188, 190, 195 Gadsden Purchase, 99 Gambetta, Léon, 11 Game-­cocks, 191–93 Germany, anti-­Catholicism in, 11 Geyer, Michael, 44 Gibbons, James Cardinal, 149, 199 Gilbert, Matthew Sakiestewa, 132 Gilbert, Paul T., 146, 158, 159–60, 161, 176, 190–91 Gillett, James, 115 Ginty, George C., 33 Gomez, ­Father Mariano, 153 ­Great White Tribe in Filipinia (Gilbert), 158, 176, 190–91 Gregory, John Goadby, 67–68 Grover, Frank R., 42 Guam, 143–44, 208 Guardia de Honor, 184, 185 Guglielmo, Thomas, 40

Hall, Harwood, 129, 130 Handbook of the Glenwood Mission Inn, 130, 132 Hannaford, Ebenezer, 166–67, 168, 175, 191, 195–96 Hanscom, Beatrice, 31 Harper’s Weekly, 200–201 Harvey, Sherman A., 191–92 Haskell Institute, 128 Hathaway, Henry, 211 Hay, John, 144 Hearst, William Randolph, 143, 208 History and Description of the Picturesque Philippines (Hannaford), 166–67, 168, 175, 195–96 History of California (Bancroft), 87, 88 History of the United States, from the Discovery of the American Continent (Bancroft), 27, 32, 33, 35 Home Missionary magazine, 38, 39 Hoover, J. Edgar, 208 Hubbard, Elbert, 112, 117–18 Hulst, Cornelia Steketee, 57, 58 Huntington, Collis P., 111, 125, 127 Huntington, Henry E., 109–10, 111, 113, 125–26, 128–29, 131 Hurlbut, Henry H., 34 Hutchings, DeWitt V., 92, 132 Hutchings, Frank Miller, 108 Hutton, G. H., 122 Iglesia Filipina Independiente (IFI), 20, 173, 182, 187–89 Immaculate Conception. See Blessed Virgin Immaculate, Marquette’s devotion to “Immigrant Church,” use of term, 16–17 Immigration, Catholics and, 3–4, 13, 16–17, 25–26, 38–40, 204 Imperial church stories, 17, 20, 202–3; cele­bration of cap­i­tal­ist economic growth, 205–6; Christianizing and civilizing missions and, 204–5; contexts of, 203–4; cross-­confessional engagement and, 207–8; reevaluation of Protestant repre­sen­ta­tions of, 206–7; twentieth ­century revisions of, 209–13 In­de­pen­dent, 153, 171–73, 196, 199–200 Indian Sketches: Père Marquette and the Last of the Pottawatomie Chiefs (Hulst), 57 Indians of the Painted Desert Region,The ( James), 131–32 Ineffabilis Deus (Pius IX), 64

308   I nde x

Ireland, Archbishop John, 150, 199 Isles of Fear:The Truth about the Philippines,The (Mayo), 186–87 Isselhard, Jacob, 175, 176 Jacker, ­Father Edward, 28 Jackson, Helen Hunt, 88–91, 98, 100–103, 105, 106, 114, 115, 117, 118, 120, 123, 128, 129–30 James, George Wharton, 90, 91, 93, 94, 97, 103, 106, 118, 126, 129, 131–32, 134 James, John Angell, 38, 39 Jeremiad, Southern California and, 105–6 Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents,The (Thwaites), 27, 58, 63 Jesuits: anti-­Jesuitism, 18, 34, 39, 62, 67, 134; development of Philippines and, 152, 170, 197–99. See also Marquette, ­Father Jacques Johnston, Howard Agnew, 188 Jolliet, Louis, 18, 29, 36, 42, 52–53, 59, 63, 70, 209–10 Jones, Edward, 23, 25, 27, 51–52 Jun, Helen H., 177 Kaler, James Otis, 191 Klotz, Esther, 132 Know-­Nothing Party, 13 Kramer, Paul A., 148, 181 Ku Klux Klan, 13–14, 95, 207 Kyle, James H., 34–35 Lalemant, Gabriel, 58, 61 Lamprecht, Wilhelm, painting of Marquette, 29, 63, 64, 210 Landmarks Club, 89–90, 94, 103, 126, 130 Land of Sunshine magazine, 90, 118, 122 Lears, T. J. Jackson, 15, 44, 112 Leavelle, Tracy Neal, 57 Legacy of Père Marquette,The, 45–48 Legarda, Benito, 154–55 Legazpi, Miguel López de, statue of, 139, 140, 141, 168, 169 Leo XIII, Pope, 154, 199 LeRoy, James A., 167, 196 Leviathan (Pfeiffer), 212 Library of American Biography, 27 Littlefield, Alice, 130 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. See Song of Hiawatha,The (Longfellow) Los Angeles Times, 117–18, 125–26, 128, 149

Los Angeles Times Magazine, 131 Loyzaga y Ageo, José de, 162 Lummis, Charles Fletcher, 89–91, 93–94, 103, 106, 112, 113, 118, 125, 127, 128, 134 Luzuriaga, Jose Ruiz de, 154–55 Mackinac Island, Michigan, 27, 29, 34, 48–49, 63, 65–66, 68 ­MacLeod, Neil, 158 MacVeagh, Franklin, 35, 49 Manifest Destiny, U.S. expansion and, 7–10 Marquette, ­Father Jacques, 6; American Revolution and ­f amily of, 32–33; challenge to Eastern founding story of U.S., 26, 52–53; commemorative culture surrounding, 18, 23, 24, 25–35, 28, 59, 63, 66, 67–68, 84, 134–35, 203; cross-­confessional culture and, 25–26, 32–34, 35–43, 62; death of, 30, 55, 60, 62; disinterment and reburial of, 60–61; as explorer, 18, 29–30, 42, 59; feminine piety and masculine courage of, 54–55, 62–68; as “first white man of Midwest” narrative, 35–36; as founding ­f ather, and region’s economic growth, 26, 43–51, 205; Jesuit training and missionary practices, 55, 57–62; Philippine cele­brations contrasted, 174; seen as “peaceful conqueror,” 55–56, 68–77, 134–35, 206; statue of, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30–32, 33, 34–35, 36–37, 45, 59–60, 209 Marquette, Michigan, 30–32, 36–37, 42–43, 45, 59–60, 68, 75 Marquette Building, in Chicago, 45–48 Marquette Journal, 59 Marquette Monument Association of Mackinac Island, Michigan, 29, 48 Marquette Publishing Com­pany, 45–48 Marquette University (­earlier Marquette College), 28, 29, 33, 35, 46, 68, 209–10 Martí, Jose, 98 Mary, ­mother of Jesus. See Blessed Virgin Immaculate, Marquette’s devotion to Mayo, Katherine, 186–87, 190 McCarey, Arthur J., 46 McGreevy, John T., 15, 199 McGroarty, John Steven, 81–82, 86, 90, 91, 101, 123, 124 McKinley, William, 55, 144, 145, 149 McKinnon, ­Father William, 149 McNally, Michael David, 73

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McWilliams, Carey, 94–95, 111, 210 Memoir of Pere James Marquette (Bailey), 34 Menace,The (newspaper), 14 Merchants and Manufacturers Association (M&MA), 126 Messenger of the Sacred Heart, 62–63 Metropolitan Truth Society, 149 Mexico, sovereignty over Southern California, 85–86, 97–106 Michelet, Jules, 11 Midwest region: economic growth of, 43–51, 205; role in U.S. founding, 25–35, 52–53; imperial church stories and, 203, 204–5, 209–10; white identity and, 35–43. See also Marquette, ­Father Jacques Milburn, William Henry, 34–35 Miller, Donald, 47 Miller, Frank, 109–11, 125, 126; Mission Inn and, 90–91, 107, 109, 112, 115, 119, 128; Mission Play and, 81, 82; Serra commemoration and, 92, 96, 107, 108, 109, 119, 132–33; Sherman Institute and, 127–33 Mission Inn, 81, 90–91, 92, 96, 104, 112, 115, 128, 131–32; described, 107, 109, 113, 117–18; legacy of missions and, 128–34; mission productivity and, 120–21, 126, 128–30 Mission Play (McGroarty) and program for, 81–82, 83, 84, 86, 88, 90, 92, 95, 96, 98, 114, 121, 124, 126, 129 Missions and Missionaries in California (Engelhardt), 88 Missions of California (Truman), 96–97, 120, 124 Mitchell, John L., 35 Monk, Maria, 13, 202, 203 Montgomery, Bishop George T., 90 Mora, Bishop Francis, 89, 90 Morris, Charles, 146, 150, 155–56, 157, 165–66, 167, 176, 178, 196 Morris, William, 117 Mount Rubidoux, cross honoring Serra on, 92, 93, 96, 107, 108, 109, 111, 119, 129, 131 Muslims, in Philippines, 148, 196 Native Americans: in Midwest, 2, 18–19, 26, 42–43, 45, 57–62, 68–72, 124; Song of Hiawatha and attempts at assimilation of, 55–56, 69, 72–77; Sherman Institute and, 19, 110–11, 127–34; and Southern

California missions, 85–92, 100–101, 110–12, 118, 121, 123–25, 127, 130–33, 210 Nativism, as response to immigration, 13, 16–17, 26, 37–40, 43. See also American Protective Association (APA) New Amer­ic­a and the Far East (Browne), 178 New York Evangelist, 150, 176 New York Observer and Chronicle, 188 New York Times, 155, 181, 198 Noli Me Tangere (Rizal), 153, 163 No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture (Lears), 14–15 North American Review, 39, 148, 154–55, 164, 195 Nursey, Walter R., 45–48 Old and New Mackinac (Van Fleet), 46 Old Glory and the Gospel in the Philippines (Condict), 196 Onahan, William J., 29, 35 Otis, Harrison Gray, 125–26, 127, 128, 131 Our Country: Its Pos­si­ble ­Future and Its Pre­sent Crisis (Strong), 5, 38–39 Our Island Empire: A Hand-­Book of Cuba, Porto Rico, Hawaii, and the Philippine Islands (Morris), 146, 155–56, 157, 165–66, 167, 176 Outlook, 146, 153, 158 Out West, 128, 131 Pacific Electric Railway Com­pany, 111, 125, 129 Palmer, John M., 67 Palou, Francisco, 88–89, 115, 117, 121 Pardo de Tavera, Trinidad H., 147–48, 151, 154–55, 169 Parkman, Francis, 27, 60, 63, 66 Pearson’s Magazine, 59 Pfeiffer, Paul, 212 Philippine-­American War, 19, 139, 141–42, 144–45, 150, 173, 182, 195, 199 Philippine Commission(s), of U.S., 144–48, 149, 153–55, 157, 161, 166, 196 Philippine Experiences of an American Teacher, The (Freer), 177–81, 183–84, 195 Philippine Islands,The (Atkinson), 166–67, 168 Philippine Islands,The (Foreman), 147–48, 150, 158 Philippine Islands and Their ­People (Worcester), 146, 148, 156, 157, 164 Philippine Magazine, 197

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Philippine Republic’s Malolos Constitution, 195, 196 Philippines: Americanist Catholicism and, 198–201; Americans, religious freedom, and separation of church and state, 172–73, 194–95; “benevolent assimilation” and, 55; Catholicism, colonial control, and social order, 171–72, 174–82, 200–201; cross-­ confessional commemorative culture and, 6–7, 8, 142, 177, 206–8; Iglesia Filipina Independiente, 187–90; imperial church stories and, 203, 204–5, 206, 211–12; religio-­political rebellions, 182–87; Taft on, 2–3. See also Spanish friars, in Philippines; Spanish friars, U.S. responses to Filipino antifriarism Pius IX, Pope, 64, 198 Plea for the West, A (Beecher), 5, 37–39, 40 Polk, James, 99 Pratt, Richard Henry, 69, 73, 127, 129, 130 Preston, Andrew, 8 Puerto Rico, 142–44, 196, 208 Pulitzer, Joseph, 143 Puritans, Catholic origin stories and: in Midwest, 18, 35–36, 42; in Philippines, 196, 198; in Southern California, 82, 84, 92, 95–96, 105–6, 124 Rafael, Vicente, 161, 193 Ramona ( Jackson), 89–91, 98, 103 Real Glory,The (film), 211–12 Recollections of Full Years (H. Taft), 162–63 Regidor, Antonio, 171 Religious freedom, Catholics in Philippines and, 172–73, 194–98 Renan, Ernest, 105 Report of the Philippine Commission to the President (1901), 197 Richardson, Frank and Alice, 127 Rizal, Dr. José, 153, 163 Roads to Rome:The Antebellum Protestant Encounter with Catholicism (Franchot), 15 Roo­se­velt, Theodore, 150, 151, 153, 196, 199 Root, Elihu, 153, 155 Rudd, Daniel, 40 Russel, Florence Kimball, 146, 183–84, 187, 190, 193 Sabatier, Paul, 105 Sainz, Celia, 178–79

Sanger, J. P., 169 Santo Niño of Cebu, 176–77, 193–94 Savonarola, Girolamo, 123 Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe, 72 Schurman, Jacob Gould, 145 See, Sarita, 212 Serra, Saint Junípero, 19, 88; canonization of, 210; commemoration of, 203; credited with mission productivity, 121, 126; cross honoring, on Mt. Rubidoux, 92–93, 93, 96, 107, 108, 109, 111, 119, 129, 131, 209; drawn into national history story, 95–96; image as decoration at Mission Inn, 107, 109; imperial church stories and, 204–5, 210–11; mission boosters and, 109–10; missions and hospitality, 114, 115, 134–35, 205–6; Native Americans and, 86–87; as opposite of modern materialist, 104–5; Philippine cele­brations contrasted, 174; praised for rejection of power, 122–23; represented in mission cele­brations, 82, 84, 92; represented in Mission Play, 81; seen as U.S. founding ­f ather, 97–98, 101, 103, 106, 121–22, 130; statue in Washington, DC, 94–95. See also Southern California, Spanish missions in; Southern California region Shea, John Gilmary, 27, 32, 55, 60, 61, 63, 74, 76 Sheen, Archbishop Fulton, 208 Shepherd, Henry, 54–55, 58, 62, 63, 76 Sherman, Thomas Ewing, 48–49 Sherman Institute, 19, 129, 134, 206; as inheritor of mission tradition, 129–34; “outing program” of, 110–11, 127, 130–31; promoters of, 127–29 Smith, W. Hamilton, 93 Social order, Catholics and colonialism in Philippines and, 171–72, 174–82, 200–201 Song of Hiawatha,The (Longfellow), 18–19, 206; efforts at assimilation of Native Americans and, 55–56, 69, 72–77; Marquette’s journals and, 68–75; Mission Play and, 86 Southern California, Spanish missions in: cele­brations and commemorations of, 6–7, 81–97, 106, 203; Sherman Institute and boarding schools as modern iteration of missions, 110–11, 127–34; tourism, hospitality, and missions as hostelries, 110, 113–19. See also Serra, ­Father Junípero

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Southern California region: economics of region generally, 110, 119–26, 205–6; imperial church stories and, 203, 204–7, 210–11; parallel history with East Coast, 92–97; secularization of missions and, 100–106; U.S. history and, 82, 85–86, 97–100 Spanish-­Cuban-­American War, 6, 19, 95, 139, 141–45, 153, 199, 206, 208–9 Spanish friars, in Philippines, 3, 18, 141; Filipino antifriarism, 151–55; as U.S. colonial model, 6, 19–20, 139–42, 148, 168–70, 205 Spanish friars, U.S. responses to Filipino antifriarism, 142; class issues and corruption, 155–57, 170; domesticated narratives, 158–61; heroic past of friars, 165–68, 170; individualist defense of friars, 157–58, 170; sexual critiques, 161–65; friars’ property, 153–55; U.S. colonial proj­ect defended, 143–51. See also Philippines Sparks, Jared, 27 Spellman, Cardinal Francis, 207–8 Spiritual Direction and Auricular Confession (Michelet), 11 Standing Bear (Ponca chief ), 102 Steevens, George Warrington, 47 Stephanson, Anders, 9–10 Stevenson, Adlai, 42, 52–53 Steward, Frank R., 164–65, 177 Steward, Theo­philus Gould, 176–77 Stickley, Gustav, 125 Strong, Josiah, 5, 38–39, 52 Stuntz, Reverend Homer C., 188 Taft, Helen, 142, 162–63, 189–90 Taft, William Howard: Catholics and U.S. history and, 2–3, 4, 7, 8–9, 204, 213; Philippines and, 3, 139, 141, 142, 145, 149–50, 153, 162, 168, 169, 196; Southern California and, 96, 114–15, 170 Tawaquaptewa, Kikmongwi (Hopi), 132 Teller, Henry, 102 Temprano, Pablo Feced (“Quioquiap”), 158–59 Testem Benevolentiae (Leo XIII), 199 Texas, U.S. annexation of, 99 Thwaites, Reuben Gold, 27, 37, 57–58, 63, 65, 66–67

Tolton, ­Father Augustus, 40 Topeka Plaindealer, 191–92 Tourism, in Southern California: mission hospitality and, 113–19; mission productivity and, 120–25 Trachtenberg, Alan, 74 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 99 Treaty of Paris (1898), 144, 153 Trentanove, Gaetano, 27, 30, 68 Truman, Benjamin C., 96–97, 98, 120, 124 Twain, Mark, 9 Two Years before the Mast (Dana), 87 Ubach, ­Father Anthony, 89 Urdaneta, Andrés de, statue of, 139, 140, 141, 168, 169, 209 U.S.-­Mexican War, 82, 85, 99–101 U.S. Postal Ser­vice, Marquette stamp of, 27, 28, 29 Van Fleet, J. A., 46 Vanis­hing Race,The (Dixon), 73–74 Vie de Saint François d’Assise (Sabatier), 105 Vilas, William F., 35 Walker, Mrs. W. W., 75–76, 77 Walker, William, 99–100 Wanamaker, Rodman, 74 Warner, Charles Dudley, 120 Washington Post, 186, 199, 201 Watchman, 178 West Coast Magazine, 121, 122, 123 When Dewey Came to Manila; or, Among the Filipinos (Kaler), 191 White, Peter, 31, 36–37, 40, 42–43, 45 White racial identity, 26, 35–43 Whitmarsh, H. Phelps, 146, 158–59 Willard, Charles Dwight, 118 Williams, Daniel R., 162, 163 ­Woman’s Journey through the Philippines, A (Russel), 183–84, 193–94 Worcester, Dean C., 146, 148, 150–51, 156, 157, 158, 164, 184, 191, 192, 197 Yellow journalism, Philippines and, 143 Zamora, ­Father Jacinto, 153 Zerega, Richard A., 198