There was a flourishing chapel where this good preacher was
esteemed, and his infrequent messages were gladly accepted. He hated
Romish practices, especially the Sunday dancing after mass, which Father
Olivier allowed his humbler parishioners to indulge in. They were such
children. When their week's work was over and their prayers were said,
they could scarcely refrain from kicking up their heels to the sound of
a fiddle.
But when the preacher saw a friar peddling spirits, he determined to
denounce Kaskaskia as Sodom and Gomorrah around his whole circuit in the
American bottom lands. While the fire burned in him he encountered
Father Olivier, who despised him as a heretic, and respected him as a
man. Each revered the honest faith that was in the other, though they
thought it their duty to quarrel.
"My friend," exclaimed the preacher, "do you believe you are going in
and out before this people in a God-fearing manner, when your colleague
is yonder selling liquor?"
"Oh, that's only poor half-crazy Father Baby.
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