INDIAN LORETTE.
_Slish--squish!..._
Slish--squish!
Who is it comes so swiftly down the snowy highway? Who is it cuts
“eights”, “eighty-eights” and Paisley patterns, among the snowbound
trees of the northern Canadian forests? Who tames the wild, free,
northern country into proper service? Who follows the fur-bearing
animals to the death far in these same northern wilds? Who but the man
on snow-shoes? And who makes snowshoes?
Dropping down for a week at Indian Lorette in the Province of Quebec we
found “rooms” in a very quaint, steep-roofed, old house in the Indian
village by the Falls of Lorette where dwell the last of the Hurons.
There we came and went--idling the mid-summer days--down the little
lanes in slow and friendly fashion; coming upon children at their games;
women in door-yards sewing or embroidering moccasins, ornamenting them
with fancy designs in dyed moose-hair and porcupine quills; stepping
into rooms where small groups of men, and occasionally a woman, were
building canoes; chancing into still other rooms where men were at work
making--snow-shoes.
“_Oui, oui, m’sieu, madame_, the Hurons of Indian Lorette ’tis they who
make the snow-shoes.”
And, who are these Hurons--makers of the moccasin, the canoe, the
snow-shoe?
“Oh, m’sieu, madame, what will you in one leetle week?”
But at the same time, a week in Lorette _is_ a long time if one gives
every moment to it, as we did, scarcely stealing a moment for _déjeuner_
or _diner_.
The Indian Village that proves itself only partly French, despite its
French name, since it utterly refuses to follow one long street, is
neither all French nor all Indian, but resembles some little escaped
English garden romancing as the capital city of the Hurons--nine miles
by the Lake St. John Road out of the city of Quebec.
The English lanes of Indian Lorette all seem to convene at the old
church. And that too, strangely enough, gives one the impression of an
English village church. Perhaps it is the green in front, with the old
George III. cannon, that village tradition says “came here after the
Crimea”. At any rate “the English atmosphere” is there. But the
resemblance blends into old Jesuit, once we cross the threshold. If
Angleterre speaks in the cannon without, _m’sieu_, the dulcet voice of
France charms as sweetly within. First, we must see “the little house of
the Angels”, let into the wall, high above the altar. It is not very big
but great significance attaches to it, for this little house was used as
an object lesson by diplomatic missionary priests of the early days to
drive home to the Indian mind the sanctity of the home and the value of
the centralizing agency of a house as against the tepee.
“It is a little figure of the house of our Saviour and Mary, his
mother,” an elderly Huron woman told us in a half-whisper, “and some bad
men stole it, one time, and the people prayed and prayed; and one
morning, they got up, and the little house was back. The Angels had
brought it in the night.”
It is a dear little house in old dull blues; and somewhere about it,
lines of ashes-of-roses melt in with the blue, and there’s a little
touch of real old gold to give values. A bit of art in its simplicity,
is this little house from France, the “house of the Angels”, that won a
tribe to architecture and--higher things.
I think the Angels did bring it!
I think, too, they tempered the wind to the shorn lamb in sending “Louis
D’Ailleboust, Chevalier, _troisième gouverneur de la Nouvelle France_”
to be, as the crested tablet on the opposite walls says, “_Ami et
protecteur des Hurons_”.
Born at Ancy in 1612, “the friend and protector of the Hurons” died at
Ville Marie “_en la Nouvelle France, en mai, 1660_”. So reads the third
Governor’s life history as here quaintly but all too briefly written.
One could spend hours in this little church, so French within, so
English without; weaving with its souvenirs pages of history! For there
are many treasures locked up carefully in the sacristy--_anciennes
pièces_ of hand-wrought church-silver from France, and many rich
embroideries and a priest-robe wrought by the hand of court ladies and
presented by the queen of Louis Quatorze. “_Ah, oui, oui, madame, c’est
magnifique!_” In detail--but who cares for detail? It is sufficient that
these valuable relics of olden days are _here_ for our modern eyes to
look upon on a summer day, greatly enriching our experience.
Nevertheless, who would expect this sort of treasure in Indian Lorette?
[Illustration:
FAMILY GRAVES.]
[Illustration:
THE SNOWSHOE.]
To the left of the little “international” church lies the old burying
ground where at dusk one parching summer evening we came upon the
graceful figure of little Marie watering the precious flowers growing on
her “family” graves--graves with the curious “wooden” head-stones--so
popular all through rural Quebec--made by the local carpenter or some
member of the family who is also something in the way of a woodcarver.
As all Lorette roads lead to _l’eglise_, so they ramble their lane-like
ways away from it, wandering first by the little village grocery
occupying a cottage--once an old homestead and neat as a new
pin--picking a tree-lined way between little whitewashed _maisons_ in
yards, flower-filled, up to a _grande maison_ with steep pretentious
French roof, vine-covered porch and dormer windows--a house that was
once an H. B. C. Post, according to village tradition. One can readily
believe it. To speak briefly, it shows the “hall-mark”. Nevertheless its
pretentious dimensions are as much of a surprise here in Indian Lorette
as the exquisite embroideries of _l’eglise_, to which all that this
house suggests of frontier life, when this was the frontier, appears so
entirely opposed, and yet, of course, was not.
For in the “olde days” a strange unity often existed between phases of
life apparently wide apart, giving zest and ambition to adventure and
investing commerce and the early church with the halo of a dramatic
interest that still clings.
All over the British Empire are nooks with these touches--the union of
the truly great of time and circumstance with little places. Canada
appears especially rich and happy in the possession of innumerable
villages and towns of this description. One has but to follow “the
trail” to discover them everywhere.
The atmosphere of Indian Lorette is not all of the dead and gone
variety. “_Non, m’sieu_, Lorette is still--a stage in the limelight.”
It is “a stage” that has moved forward its appointments in a truly
marvellous and skilful fashion so as to link up “the Canada of all
time”. For nothing we could name so bespeaks the true spirit of Canada
in one breath as do the things found here in Indian Lorette in the full
swing of production--the snowshoe, the moccasin and--the canoe.
The canoe, especially is a motif--a giant pattern gliding powerfully
through the very warp and woof of the land. To go back--modifications of
the canoe were here long before the Norsemen or Cabot or Columbus. To
go forward--who can foresee the canoeless day?
So, stepping up to a Lorette door and over the threshold, to happen upon
a bright, berry-eyed, deft-fingered woman with sure and certain strokes
tacking a canvas over the frame of a canoe, the boat that typifies
Canada, was like coming unannounced upon the spirit personality of the
land itself.
Ma’am’selle was all graciousness; at the same time artist enough not to
lay down her tools but kept at work as she talked--tapping punctuations
with her little hammer that had a character of its own, taken on by age
and much use.
“_Mais oui._” Many years she had worked at the canoe-making “_avec mon
père_.” “_Mais certainement_” she liked it.
“_Difficile? Mais non._”
The canvas went on as we watched--then the stem-bands. Ma’am’selle
worked quickly but without haste, after the manner of an old hand. The
stem-bands in place ma’am’selle rested and began to talk again.
“Would we not see the beginnings?”
“_Oui?_ Then upstairs, mesdames.” This invitation was accompanied by a
slight bow and a sweep with the hammer in hand towards a little
pine-board stairs. And up we went to make the acquaintance of _le
bateau_ itself in its “beginnings”.
Have you seen a canoe in the making--the swift manipulations, the
decided, skilful movements, in which every stroke counts? Have you seen
the surety of the French-Huron hand at work at this inherited trade, how
fingers, guided as if by magic, lay the thin, slim boards in place; how
the knives swish through the wood at the desired length; how the little
plane disappears in the maze of shavings it has created? A tap here, a
nail there and the last plank is on.--A moment ago, it was a board lying
on a bench. Now, it is--a canoe!
If you have thus watched, then you know the sensation, as we do, of
having beheld a clever trick performed without knowing how it is done.
For to say the least, canoe-making at Indian Lorette is a fascinating
bit of sleight of hand! Ma’am’selle says it takes two days to build a
canoe. But the preparations--oh yes, that takes much longer.
We inquired as to the market, where they were sold. At this ma’am’selle
contracted her shoulders in a French shrug, threw out her hands--still
holding the hammer in the right--and cried, “_Mais oui_--all over
Canada.”
Hand-and-glove with canoes and snowshoes goes the moccasin. The moccasin
in Indian Lorette is an old, old story--as well as an elaborate
one--real and flourishing to-day. It was a surprise to us to find that
the Hurons still wear them, in lieu of shoes, about their daily
business. Men and women pass silently up and down these little lanes,
with no need of rubber heels, where the sole is like velvet.
The tannery lies across the bridge above the famous “Falls of Lorette”.
In the tannery yards moose-hides from the Canadian northland flap in the
wind, side by side with “hides” from Singapore. (For moccasin making
here is a business big enough to call for imported skins.) And yet “the
factory” is small, because most of the moccasin making is done in the
homes. The cutting, cutters and machines are at “the shop” but the
artistic embroideries in coloured beads and porcupine quills grow under
the skillful touch of women and girls sitting on their vine-clad,
tree-shaded balconies or making purchases from the butcher’s or baker’s
cart in the shady lanes, moccasin in hand.
In this way moccasins enter into the home life of this “remnant of the
Hurons” in a most intimate fashion. Even in the days of their prosperity
as a tribe the number of moccasins made never equalled the trade of
to-day. Nor was the market so large or so far-flung. One hears half a
million pairs spoken of with equanimity. One is surprised that so many
moccasins find their way to the woods and boudoirs of Canada and the
United States; surprised, too, that the Indians have made good to such
an extent from the commercial angle, creating, as it were, their own
market.
Followed through all its quills and fancies, it is a pretty, homely
story. But after all it is a story that brings one back to the people
themselves. The chief is Monsieur Picard, residing in the old Hudson’s
Bay Company house. He is a young man who saw service in France. The
ex-grand chief--M. Maurice Bastien of maturer years--is actually the
ruling power. Chief Bastien belongs to “the old school”, is very
dignified, quiet, stands on ceremony, is the real head of the moccasin
industry and has the gift of entertaining. He has an exceedingly
pleasing personality and can carry solemn functions through to a
successful issue. All the responsibility of doing the honours of the
tribe to distinguished visitors falls to him. It is he who owns the
precious wampum and the invaluable silver medals, gifts of
distinguished sovereigns to himself and predecessors in office--one
medal from King George III, one from Louis Quinze of France, one from
King George IV, two from the late Queen Victoria.
Monsieur Bastien lives in a fine house tastefully furnished. On the
table in the parlour stands a photograph of Philippe, Comte de Paris, in
a blue vellum frame, a simple gold fleur-de-lys at the top. The Comte
presented his photograph to Chief Bastien’s father who was the
grandchief on the occasion of the Comte’s visit to Lorette.
There are many other valuable souvenirs but we liked best an old oil
painting of the pioneer days, showing Hurons approaching, as visitors,
the Ursuline Convent in Quebec. As a work of art it is probably of
little value, but its theme--its theme, _m’sieu, il parle_.
As Monsieur Bastien talks of the past while graciously showing his
visitors all these souvenirs, including his own feathered head-dress and
the blue coat with its time-faded brocade which he wears on state
occasions, he has the true story-teller’s art of making the times and
occasions live again, so that through the ages you see the long
procession of great families--Siouis, Vincents, Picards, Bastiens--from
the earliest time down to the present--hunters, makers of the moccasin,
the canoe, the snowshoe.
You see them off in the northern wilds of the Laurentides hunting the
skins that enabled them to fill British Government contracts every fall
for several years after 1759 for several thousand pairs of snowshoes,
caribou moccasins and mittens for the English regiments garrisoning the
citadel of Quebec.
A Sioui is still the central figure in the making of snowshoe frames.
Siouis and Vincents are still keen on the chase. ’Tis they who in season
guide the sportsman from over the border to the haunts of the moose and
_truite rouge_, ensuring plenty of sport.
But at this season of the year the Huron of Indian Lorette is off on his
homemade snowshoes far in the silences of the great fur country and the
timber lands of Northern Quebec working for a living--“hunting the fur
and the big log, m’sieu”.