Lessons from my 14th Great-Grandfather

Here are three lessons I’ve learned from my great-great-great-great… ninth great-grandfather, Mathieu d’Amours. I wanted to see if we could still connect across centuries, and, in doing so, push his second death (the last time a name is spoken) a little further away. So let’s keep speaking it.

Lesson 1: Be confident

The Conseil Souverain was a governing body made up of the governor of New France, as well as other esteemed men of the province. I believe that Mathieu had a couple of amicable friendships within that group, but his name shows up often in council documents. He was clearly speaking up.

The purpose of the Conseil Souverain was to carry the king’s law into the province. It was meant to serve the people, but also to make sure that what the king wanted was getting done. And Mathieu d’Amours absolutely did that. That was his main mission.

Based on documents from the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, it is clearly seen that Mathieu d’Amours served a long period on the Conseil Souverain. He was confident in supporting the king, even when well-known figures such as Frontenac or others tried to get their way.

During meetings, the minutes show that he was vocal in his positions. He was adamant, sometimes to the point of being stubborn.

The Conseil Souverain wasn’t a debating society. It was a hierarchy. Disagreeing publicly, especially with powerful figures like Frontenac, meant risking reputation, future appointments, and royal favor. For someone already on the margins of inheritance and wealth, being labeled difficult or disloyal could easily end a career.

Yet the records show that Mathieu spoke anyway. He wasn’t reckless, but he was firm. He supported the king’s authority, even when others pushed back or maneuvered for personal gain. That confidence was consistent. And consistency in those minutes is what makes him stand out centuries later.

Lesson 2: Family Comes First

When Mathieu d’Amours arrived in Quebec in 1653, he was 33 years old. He was given command of a flying camp of 200 men and instructed to protect the city from possible Indigenous attacks. I don’t have any knowledge of him having to do that directly, although I expect there was at least one or two incidents—if not in the city proper, then on outposts where settlers were establishing farms.

Three months after his arrival, he married Marie Marsolet, the daughter of Nicolas Marsolet, the official interpreter for the Indigenous peoples.

Now, Nicolas Marsolet deserves his own little story. He had lived with Indigenous communities for nearly twenty years, became fluent in their language, and was well respected. I imagine that having the official interpreter as his father-in-law made Mathieu a valuable asset to the community and helped him in his roles.

Marie was fifteen when she married a thirty-three-year-old man. By today’s standards, that’s shocking. But at the time, it was relatively common. What was not common was Mathieu marrying a non-noble. That broke a major tradition.

Mathieu was the youngest son of his father and would receive very little inheritance. His father had Mathieu and his sister Élisabeth with another woman, meaning Mathieu was considered a bastard (or at least hors mariage “out of wedlock”) and again would receive little. Genealogical records strongly suggest that Mathieu was born outside his father’s lawful marriage. Whether labeled outright or not, the practical reality was clear: he stood to inherit almost nothing.

Being labeled a bastard in 17th-century France wasn’t just a social insult—it was a legal and economic limitation. Mathieu was the youngest son, born outside his father’s marriage, which meant he was excluded from most inheritance and noble advantage. He wasn’t expected to rise. He certainly wasn’t expected to establish a lasting family line.

That context matters. Because when Mathieu chose to marry outside the nobility, it wasn’t simply a romantic decision—it was a practical one. He wasn’t rejecting privilege so much as acknowledging that it was never really his to begin with.

I have to imagine—and maybe I’m romanticizing him a bit—that he married for love. He struggled financially for most of his adult life, and if he had wanted an easier path, he could have married a noblewoman with wealth and inheritance. But he didn’t. He married a young woman outside the nobility.

If Mathieu wanted security, there were safer choices. A noble marriage could have brought land, money, and influence. But he chose stability of a different kind. He married into a family rooted in the colony, connected to Indigenous communities, language, and survival itself.

Family, for Mathieu, was something he built deliberately. And once built, he protected it fiercely.

Mathieu and Marie had a large family— fifteen children—and Mathieu did everything in his power to take care of them. He secured housing and ensured that his children were provided for. He did lose one child in infancy, which must have been traumatizing, even if it was relatively common at the time.

Lastly, the d’Amours family crest featured a boar with three arrows above it. In heraldry, the boar traditionally represents courage, stubborn resolve, and protection—an animal that defends its own even when wounded.

The arrows are often interpreted as readiness or vigilance, but also unity. Three arrows together are harder to break than one alone.

Taken together, the crest doesn’t suggest elegance or inherited refinement. It suggests endurance. Defense. A family that holds its ground.

For a man who had to create his legacy rather than receive it, that symbolism feels well-earned.

A boar defends its ground. But Mathieu’s loyalty didn’t stop at his own front door. It extended to his king, his church, and the colony itself — and that loyalty is what ultimately secured his family’s future in ways he couldn’t have done alone.

Lesson Three: Loyalty Matters

Not only was Mathieu d’Amours a camp commander tasked with protecting the city of Quebec, and not only did he serve on the Conseil Souverain for over thirty years, but he was also a warden of the Notre-Dame Church.

He cast the first bell of that church, which I think demonstrates both his loyalty to the church and the church’s recognition of that loyalty by awarding him the role of warden. This role meant his community trusted him, even if he financially struggled. Wardens administered church property. 

As mentioned earlier, Mathieu ensured that his family was taken care of. In his later years, he petitioned the king to grant his children estates along the Saint John and Saint Lawrence rivers.

His sons were granted the requested land, and one of them—René—received over ninety miles of land from Madawaska to Grand Falls. (I’m not entirely sure on the pronunciation there.)

These lands were later sacked several times by the English and flooded on multiple occasions, but that all occurred after Mathieu’s death.

Regardless, he made sure that his family was taken care of to the best of his ability. By remaining loyal to the king—particularly through his service on the council—he was rewarded for his efforts.

He served on the Conseil Souverain for over thirty years, enforcing royal law in a volatile colony. He commanded troops, oversaw civic matters, and served God and country.

The paper trail matters here. Petitions were answered. Requests were approved. And estates were granted.

What makes this unusual is not that land was granted, but how much and to whom.

Mathieu was not wealthy. He was not a firstborn noble. Yet his sons received vast tracts of land, including René’s grant stretching roughly ninety miles — the largest during the seigneury period of land distribution.

In a colonial world built on uncertainty, trust was currency.

Closing Notes

Mathieu d’Amours’ life before the age of 33 is unknown to me. But as I near that age myself, his story reminds me that so much can be accomplished at any time. 

Somewhere in Quebec, there was once a bell — the first bell ever cast for Notre-Dame Church. Mathieu d’Amours directed the casting. I don’t know what it sounded like. I don’t know who heard it. But I know it rang out over a colony he helped hold together, in a city where his children grew up.

He is not in any textbook. He won’t be. But he was confident, and loyal, and he built something that lasted: a family, a name, a small chain of cause and effect that eventually, somehow, produced me.

When I wonder about my own contributions to society, I’m reminded that these have ripple effects. I’d like for my own impact to have positive waves felt in the centuries to follow. 

Thanks for the lessons, grandfather. And thank you for still being someone whose name gets spoken.