“I will arise, and go to my father.”--_New Testament_.
It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle bells is
heard, as they slowly emerge from the steep hill path that leads
to Maxwell and Louis Perron’s little clearing; the dark shadows are
lengthening that those wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an
oasis in the vast forest desert that man, adventurous, courageous man,
has hewed for himself in the wilderness. The little flock are feeding
among the blackened stumps of the uncleared chopping; those timbers have
lain thus untouched for two long years; the hand was wanting that should
have given help in logging and burning them up. The wheat is ripe for
the sickle, and the silken beard of the corn is waving like a fair
girl’s tresses in the evening breeze. The tinkling fall of the cold
spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the ear. Who comes from
that low-roofed log cabin to bring in the pitcher of water, that pale,
careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the green pasture, as
one without hope or joy; her black hair is shared with silver, her cheek
is pale as wax, and her hand is so thin, it looks as though the
light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It is the
heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has been
pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her
love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with
cheerful voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering
on that pale cheek,--yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt,
manly brow speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and
Catharine. Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are
talking so earnestly, as they lean across the rail fence of the little
wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on their arms;
they have been reaping. They hear the sudden barking of Bruce and
Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they
display.
An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he
casts down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old
French ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome,
but starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper.
“Ha, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this
way.” The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.
“How is ma chère mère, and the young ones?” asked the old man, in a
husky voice--his kind heart was full. “Can you receive me, and those I
have with me, for the night? A spare corner, a shake-down, will do; we
travellers in the bush are no wise nice.”
“The best we have, and kindly welcome; it is gude for saer een to see
you, Jacob. How many are ye in all?”
“There are just four, beside myself,--young people; I found them where
they had been long living, on a lonely lake, and I persuaded them to
come with me.”
The strong features of the Highlander worked convulsively, as he drew
his faded blue bonnet over his eyes. “Jacob, did ye ken that we lost
our eldest bairns, some three summers since?” he faltered, in a broken
voice.
“The Lord, in his mercy, has restored them to you, Donald, by my hand,”
said the trapper.
“Let me see, let me see my children. To him be the praise and the
glory,” ejaculated the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from
his head; “and holy and blessed be his name for ever. I thought not
to have seen this day. Oh! Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill
you.”
In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken
idea that joy kills, it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers,
have seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded
cheek of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright
sparkle, you would have said that joy does not kill.
“But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?”
Louis whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old
Jacob, had cleared the log fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his
cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his
father’s cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and
sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector
and Catharine to their father.
“But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart
upon that stone by the log fence, her face bent sadly down upon het
knees, her long raven hair shading her features as with a veil,”
asked the Highlander Maxwell, pointing as he spoke’ to the spot where,
unnoticed and unsharing in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian
girl. There was no paternal embrace for her, no tender mother’s kiss
imprinted on that dusky cheek and pensive brow--she was alone and
desolate, in the midst of that scene of gladness.
“It is my Indian sister,” said Catharine, “she also must be your child;”
and Hector hurried to Indiana and half leading, half carrying the
reluctant girl, brought her to his parents and bade them be kind to and
cherish the young stranger, to whom they all owed so much.
I will not dwell upon the universal joy that filled that humble
dwelling, or tell the delight of Kenneth and Donald at the return of
their lost brother and sister, for my story hurries to a close.
Time passes on--years, long years have gone by since the return of
the lost children to their homes, and many changes have those years
effected. The log-houses have fallen to decay--a growth of young pines,
a waste of emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part
of the enclosure, now, hardly serve to mark out the old settlement--no
trace or record remains of the first breakers of the bush, another
race occupy the ground. The traveller as he passes along on that smooth
turnpike road that leads from Coburg to Cold Springs, and from thence
to Gore’s Landing, may notice a green waste by the road-side on either
hand, and fancy that thereabouts our Canadian Crusoes’ home once
stood--he sees the lofty wood-crowned hill, and sees in spring-time,
for in summer it is hidden by the luxuriant foliage, the little forest
creek, and he may if thirsty, taste of the pure fresh icy water, as it
still wells out from a spring in the steep bank, rippling through the
little cedar-trough that Louis Perron placed there for the better speed
of his mother when filling her water jug. All else is gone. And what
wrought the change?--a few words will suffice to tell. Some travelling
fur merchants brought the news to Donald Maxwell, that a party of
Highlanders had made a settlement above Montreal, and among them were
some of his kindred. The old soldier resolved to join them, and it was
not hard to prevail upon his brother-in-law to accompany him, for they
were all now weary of living so far from their fellow-men; and bidding
farewell to the little log-houses at Cold Springs, they now journeyed
downwards to the new settlement, where they were gladly received, their
long experience of the country making their company a most valuable
acquisition to the new colonists.
Not long after the Maxwells took possession of a grant of land, and
cleared and built for themselves and their family. That year Hector,
now a fine industrious young man, presented at the baptismal font as a
candidate for baptism, the Indian girl, and then received at the
altar his newly baptized bride. As to Catharine and Louis, I am not
sufficiently skilled in the laws of their church to tell how the
difficulty of nearness of kin was obviated, but they were married on the
same day as Hector and Indiana, and lived a happy and prosperous life;
and often by their fireside would delight their children by recounting
the history of their wanderings on the Rice Lake Plains.
APPENDIX
APPENDIX A.--_Preface._
Page vii.
Sarah Campbell, of Windsor, who was lost in the woods on the 11th of
August, 1848, returned to her home on the 31st, having been absent
twenty-one days. A friend has sent us a circumstantial account of her
wanderings, of the efforts made in her behalf, and her return home, from
which we condense the following statements:--
It appears that on the 11th of August, in company with two friends,
she went fishing on the north branch of Windsor-brook; and that on
attempting to return she became separated from her companions, who
returned to her mother’s, the Widow Campbell, expecting to find her
at home. Several of her neighbours searched for her during the night,
without success. The search was continued during Sunday, Monday, and
Tuesday, by some fifty or sixty individuals, and although her tracks,
and those of a dog which accompanied her, were discovered, no tidings of
the girl were obtained. A general sympathy for the afflicted widow and
her lost daughter was excited, and notwithstanding the busy season of
the year, great numbers from Windsor and the neighbouring townships of
Brompton, Shipton, Melbourne, Durham, Oxford, Sherbrooke, Lennoxville,
Stoke, and Dudswell, turned out with provisions and implements for
camping in the woods, in search of the girl, which was kept up without
intermission for about fourteen days, when it was generally given up,
under the impression that she must have died, either from starvation, or
the inclemency of the weather, it having rained almost incessantly for
nearly a week of the time. On the 3lst her brother returned home from
Massachusetts, and with two or three others renewed the search, but
returned the second day, and learned to their great joy that the lost
one had found her way home the evening previous.
On hearing of her return, our correspondent made a visit to Widow
Campbell, to hear from her daughter the story of her wanderings. She was
found, as might be supposed, in a very weak and exhausted condition, but
quite rational, as it seems she had been during the whole period of her
absence. From her story the following particulars were gathered:--
When first lost she went directly from home down “Open Brooke,” to a
meadow, about a mile distant from where she had left her companions,
which she mistook for what is called the “_Oxias_ opening,” a mile
distant in the opposite direction. On Sabbath morning, knowing that she
was lost, and having heard that lost persons might be guided by the
sun, she undertook to follow the sun during the day. In the morning she
directed her steps towards the East, crossed the north Branch, mistaking
it for “Open Brooke,” and travelled, frequently running, in a south-east
direction (her way home was due north) seven or eight miles till she
came to the great Hay-meadow in Windsor. There she spent Sabbath night,
and on Monday morning directed her course to, and thence down, the South
Branch in the great Meadow.
After this, she appears to have spent her time, except while she was
searching for food for herself and dog, in walking and running over
the meadow, and up and down the south branch, in search of her home,
occasionally wandering upon the highlands, and far down towards the
junction of the two main streams, never being more than seven or eight
miles from home.
For several days, by attempting to follow the sun, she travelled in a
circle, finding herself at night near the place where she left in the
morning. Although she often came across the tracks of large parties
of men, and their recently-erected camps, and knew that multitudes of
people were in search of her, she saw no living person, and heard no
sound of trumpet, or other noise, except the report of a gun, as she lay
by a brook, early on Thursday morning, the sixth day of her being lost.
Thinking the gun to have been fired not more than half a mile distant,
she said she “screamed and run” to the place from whence she supposed
the noise came, but found nothing. Early in the day, however, she came
to the camp where this gun was fired, but not until after its occupants
had left to renew their search for her. This camp was about four miles
from the great meadow, where she spent the Sabbath previous. There she
found a fire, dried her clothes, and found a partridge’s gizzard, which
she cooked and ate, and laid down and slept, remaining about twenty-four
hours.
In her travels she came across several other camps, some of which she
visited several times, particularly one where she found names cut upon
trees, and another in which was a piece of white paper. Except three or
four nights spent in these camps, she slept upon the ground, sometimes
making a bed of moss, and endeavouring to shelter herself from the
drenching rains with spruce boughs. For the two first weeks she suffered
much from the cold, shivering all night, and sleeping but little. The
last week she said she had got “toughened,” and did not shiver. When
first lost she had a large trout, which was the only food she ate,
except choke-berries, the first week, and part of this she gave to her
dog, which remained with her for a week, day and night. The cherries,
which she ate greedily, swallowing the stones, she found injured her
health; and for the last two weeks she lived upon cranberries and wood
sorrel. While the dog remained with her, she constantly shared her food
with him, but said she was glad when he left her, as it was much trouble
to find him food.
On Thursday of last week she followed the south towards the junction
with the north branch, where it appeared she had been before, but could
not ford the stream; and in the afternoon of Friday crossed the north, a
little above its junction with the south branch, and following down
the stream, she found herself in the clearing, near Moor’s Mill. Thence
directing her steps towards home, she reached Mr. McDale’s, about a
mile from her mother’s, at six o’clock, having walked five miles in two
hours, and probably ten miles during the day. Here she remained till the
next day, when she was carried home, and was received by friends almost
as one raised from the dead. Her feet and ankles were very much swollen
and lacerated; but strange to say, her calico gown was kept whole, with
the exception of two small rents.
Respecting her feelings during her fast in the wilderness, she says she
was never frightened, though sometimes, when the sun disappeared, she
felt disheartened, expecting to perish; but when she found, by not
discovering any new tracks, that the people had given over searching
for her, she was greatly discouraged. On the morning of Friday, she
was strongly inclined to give up, and lie down and die; but the hope of
seeing her mother stimulated her to make one more effort to reach home,
which proved successful. When visited, she was in a state of feverish
excitement and general derangement of the system, and greatly emaciated,
with a feeble voice, but perfectly sane and collected.
It is somewhat remarkable that a young girl (aged seventeen), thinly
clad, could have survived twenty-one days, exposed as she was to such
severe storms, with no other food but wild berries. It is also very
strange that she should have been so frequently on the tracks of those
in search of her, sleeping in the camps, and endeavouring to follow
their tracks home, and not have heard any of their numerous trumpets, or
been seen by any of the hundreds of persons who were in search for her.
A more dismal result than the deprivations endured by Sarah Campbell,
is the frightful existence of a human creature, called in the American
papers, the “Wild Man of the far West.” From time to time, these details
approach the terrific, of wild men who have grown up from childhood in
a state of destitution in the interminable forests, especially of this
one, who, for nearly a quarter of a century, has occasionally been seen,
and then either forgotten, or supposed to be the mere creation of
the beholder’s brain. But it appears that he was, in March, 1850,
encountered by Mr. Hamilton, of Greene County, Arkansas, when hunting.
The wild man was, likewise, chasing his prey. A herd of cattle fled past
Mr. Hamilton and his party, in an agony of terror, pursued by a giant,
bearing a dreadful semblance to humanity. His face and shoulders were
enveloped with long streaming hair, his body was entirely hirsute, his
progression was by great jumps of twelve or thirteen feet at a leap. The
creature turned and gazed earnestly on the hunters, and fled into the
depths of the forest, where he was lost to view. His foot-prints were
thirteen inches long. Mr. Hamilton published the description of the
savage man in the _Memphis Inquirer_. Afterwards several planters
deposed to having, at times, for many years, seen this appearance. All
persons generally agreed that it was a child that had been lost in the
woods, at the earthquake in 1811, now grown to meridian strength, in a
solitary state. Thus the possibility of an European child living, even
unassisted, in the wilderness, is familiar to the inhabitants of the
vast American continent. Although we doubt that any human creature would
progress by leaps, instead of the paces familiar to the human instinct.
It is probable that the wild man of the Arkansas is, in reality, some
species of the oran-outang, or chimpanzee.
APPENDIX B.
Page 72.--_“where Wolf Tower now stands.”_
The Wolf Tower is among the very few structures in Canada not devoted to
purposes of strict utility. It was built by a gentleman of property as a
_belle vue,_ or fanciful prospect residence, in order to divert his mind
from the heavy pressure of family affliction. It was once lent by him to
the author, who dwelt here some time during the preparation of another
house in the district.
APPENDIX C.
Page 113.--_”... as civilization advances.”_
Formerly the Rice Lake Plains abounded in deer, wolves, bears, raccoons,
wolverines, foxes, and wild animals of many kinds. Even a few years ago,
and bears and wolves were not unfrequent in their depredations; and the
ravines sheltered herds of deer; but now the sight of the former is
a thing of rare occurrence, and the deer are scarcely to be seen,
so changed is this lovely wilderness, that green pastures and yellow
cornfields now meet the eye on every side, and the wild beasts retire to
the less frequented depths of the forest.
From the undulating surface, the alternations of high hills, deep
valleys, and level table-lands, with the wide prospect they command, the
Rice Lake Plains still retain their picturesque beauty, which cannot be
marred by the hand of the settler even be he ever so devoid of taste;
and many of those who have chosen it as their home are persons of taste
and refinement, who delight in adding to the beauty of that which Nature
had left so fair.
APPENDIX D. Page 157, _note_.
“I will now,” says our Indian historian, “narrate a single circumstance
which will convey a correct idea of the sufferings to which Indians were
often exposed. To obtain furs of different kinds for the traders, we had
to travel far into the woods, and remain there the whole winter. Once we
left Rice Lake in the fall, and ascended the river in canoes as far as
Belmont Lake. There were five families about to hunt with my father
on his ground. The winter began to set in, and the river having frozen
over, we left the canoes, the dried venison, the beaver, and some flour
and pork; and when we had gone further north, say about sixty miles from
the white settlements, for the purpose of hunting, the snow fell for
five days in succession, to such a depth, that it was impossible to
shoot or trap anything; our provisions were exhausted, and we had no
means of procuring any more. Here we were, the snow about five feet
deep, our wigwam buried, the branches of the trees falling all about us,
and cracking with the weight of the snow.
“Our mother (who seems, by-the-bye, from the record of her son, to have
been a most excellent woman) boiled birch-bark for my sister and myself,
that we might not starve. On the seventh day some of us were so weak
they could not guard themselves, and others could not stand alone. They
could only crawl in and out of the wigwam. We parched beaver skins and
old mocassins for food. On the ninth day none of the men could go abroad
except my father and uncle. On the tenth day, still being without
food, the only ones able to walk about the wigwam were my father, my
grandmother, my sister, and myself. Oh, how distressing to see
the starving Indians lying about the wigwam with hungry and eager
looks!--the children would cry for something to eat! My poor mother
would heave bitter sighs, of despair, the tears falling profusely
from her cheeks as she kissed us! Wood, though in plenty, could not be
obtained on account of the feebleness of our limbs. My father would
at times draw near the fire and rehearse some prayer to the gods. It
appeared to him that there was no way of escape; the men, women, and
children, dying; some of them were speechless, the wigwam was cold and
dark, and covered with snow!
“On the eleventh day, just before daylight, my father fell into a sleep;
he soon awoke, and said to me: ‘My son, the good Spirit is about to
bless us this night; in my dream I saw a person coming from the east
walking on the tops of the trees; he told me we should obtain two
beavers about nine o’clock. Put on your mocassins, and go along with me
to the river, and we will hunt beaver, perhaps, for the last time.’ I
saw that his countenance beamed with delight and hope; he was full of
confidence. I put on my mocassins and carried my snow-shoes, staggering
along behind him about half a mile. Having made a fire near the river,
where there was an air-hole through which the beaver had come up during
the night, my father tied a gun to a stump with the muzzle towards the
air-hole; he also tied a string to the trigger, and said, ‘Should you
see the beaver rise pull the string, and you will kill it.’ I stood by
the fire, with the string in my hand; I soon heard the noise occasioned
by the blow of his tomahawk; he had killed a beaver and brought it to
me. As he laid it down, he said, ‘Then the great Spirit will not let
us die here;’ adding, as before, ‘if you see the beaver rise, pull
the string;’ and he left me. I soon saw the nose of one, but I did not
shoot. Presently, another came up; I pulled the trigger, and off the
gun went. I could not see for some moments for the smoke. My father
ran towards me with the two beavers, and laid them side by side; then,
pointing to the sun,--‘Do you see the sun?’ he said; ‘the great Spirit
informed me that we should kill these two about this time in the
morning. We will yet see our relatives at Rice Lake. Now let us go home,
and see if our people are yet alive.’ We arrived just in time to save
them from death. Since which we have visited the same spot the year the
missionaries came among us.
“My father knelt down, with feelings of gratitude, on the very spot
where we had nearly perished. Glory to God! I have heard of many who
have perished in this way far up in the woods.”--_Life of George Copway,
written by himself_, p. 44.
APPENDIX E.
Page 184.--“_... on first deciding that it was a canoe._”
The Indians say, that before their fathers had tools of iron and steel
in common use, a war canoe was the labour of three generations. It was
hollowed out by means of fire, cautiously applied, or by stone hatchets;
but so slowly did the work proceed, that years were passed in its
excavation. When completed, it was regarded as a great achievement,
and its launching on the waters of the lake or river was celebrated by
feasting and dancing. The artizans were venerated as great patriots.
Possibly the birch-bark canoe was of older date, as being more easily
constructed, and needing not the assistance of the axe in forming it;
but it was too frail to be used in war, or in long voyages, being liable
to injuries.
The black stone wedges, so often found on the borders of our inland
waters, were used by the Indians in skinning the deer and bear. Their
arrow-heads were of white or black flint, rudely chipped into shape, and
inserted in a cleft stick. A larger sort were used for killing deer;
and blunt wooden ones were used by the children, for shooting birds and
small game.
APPENDIX F.
Page 195.--_”... the Christian mind revolts with horror.”_
There is, according to the native author, George Copway, a strong
feeling in the Indians for conversion and civilization, and a
concentration of all the Christianised tribes, now scattered far and
wide along the northern banks of the lakes and rivers, into one nation,
to be called by one name, and united in one purpose--their general
improvement. To this end, one of the most influential of their chiefs,
John Jones, of Dover Sound, offered to give up to his Indian brethren,
free of all cost, a large tract of unceded land, that they might be
gathered together as one nation.
In the council held at Sangeeny, where were convened Indian chiefs from
lakes St. Clare, Samcoe, Huron, Ontario, and Rice, and other lakes, it
was proposed to devise a plan by which the tract owned by the Sangeenys
could be held for the benefit of the Ojebwas, to petition Government for
aid in establishing a manual-labour school, and to ascertain the general
feeling of the chiefs in relation to forming one large settlement at
Owen’s Sound. At this meeting forty-eight chiefs were assembled.
There is much to admire in the simple, earnest, and courteous style of
the oration delivered by Chief John Jones, and will give to my readers
some idea of the intelligence of an educated Indian:--
“Brothers, you have been called from all your parts of Canada, even from
the north of Georgian Bay. You are from your homes, your wives, and your
children. We might regret this, were it not for the circumstances that
require you here.
“Fellow-chiefs and brothers, I have pondered with deep solicitude our
present condition and the future welfare of our children, as well as of
ourselves. I have studied deeply and anxiously, in order to arrive at
a true knowledge of the proper course to be pursued to secure to us and
our descendants, and even to those around us, the greatest amount of
peace, health, happiness, and usefulness. The interests of the Ojebwas
and Ottawas are near and dear to my heart; for them I have often
passed sleepless nights, and have suffered from an agitated mind. These
nations, I am proud to say, are my brothers, many of them bone of my
bone; and for them, if needs be, I would willingly sacrifice anything.
Brothers, you see my heart.” _[Here he held out a piece of white paper,
emblematical of a pure heart.]_
“Fellow-chiefs and warriors, I have looked over your wigwams throughout
Canada, and have come to the conclusion that you are in a warm place
_[query, too hot to hold you]_. The whites are kindling fires all round
you _[i.e. clearing land]_.
“One purpose for which you have been called together, is to devise some
plan by which we can live together, and become a happy people; so that
our dying fires may not go out, _i.e._ our people become extinct, but
may be kindled, and burn brightly, in one place. We now offer you any
portion of the land we own in this region, that we may smoke the pipe
of peace, and live and die together, and see our children play and
be reared on the same spot. We ask no money of you. We love you; and
because we love you, and feel for you, we propose this.
“My chiefs, brothers, warriors. This morning” _[the speaker now pointed
with his finger towards the heavens]_, “look up and see the blue sky:
there are no clouds; the sun is bright and clear. Our fathers taught us,
that when the sky was without clouds, the Great Spirit was smiling upon
them. May he now preside over us, that we may make a long, smooth, and
straight path for our children. It is true I seldom see you all, but
this morning I shake hands with you all, in my heart.
“Brothers, this is all I have to say.”
* * * * *
APPENDIX G.
Page 213.--_”... and aimed a knife at his throat”_
The period at which these events are said to have occurred was some
sixty or eighty years ago, according to the imperfect chronology of my
informant. At first, I hesitated to believe that such horrible deeds as
those recorded could have taken place almost within the memory of men.
My Indian narrator replied--“Indians, no Christians in those days, do
worse than that very few years ago,--do as bad now in far-west.”
The conversion of the Rice Lake Indians, and the gathering them together
in villages, took place, I think, in the year 1825, or thereabouts.
The conversion was effected by the preaching of missionaries from
the Wesleyan Methodist Church; the village was under the patronage of
Captain Anderson, whose descendants inherit much land on the north shore
on and about Anderson’s Point, the renowned site of the great battle.
The war-weapon and bones of the enemies the Ojebwas are still to be
found in this vicinity.
* * * * *
APPENDIX H.
Page 232.--_“This place she called Spooke Island”_
Spooke Island. A singular and barren island in the Rice Lake, seventh
from the head of the lake, on which the Indians used formerly to bury
their dead, for many years held as a sacred spot, and only approached
with reverence. Now famous for two things, _picnics_ and _poison ivy,
rhus toxicodendron,_--many persons having suffered for their temerity in
landing upon it and making it the scene of their rural festivities.
APPENDIX I.
Page 253.--_“and nothing but fire.”_
The Indians call the Rice Lake, in allusion to the rapidity with
which fires run over the dry herbage, the Lake of the Burning Plains.
Certainly, there is much poetical fitness and beauty in many of the
Indian names, approximating very closely to the figurative imagery of
the language of the East; such is “Mad-wa-osh,” the music of the winds.
APPENDIX K.
Page 272.--_“but it was not so in the days whereof I have spoken.”_
_From George Copway’s Life._
Converted Indians are thus described in the “Life” of their literary
countryman, George Copway:--
_Chippewas of the River Credit._--These Indians are the remnant of a
tribe which formerly possessed a considerable portion of the Elome and
Gore Districts, of which, in 1818, they surrendered the greater part for
an annuity of 532_l._ 10_s._ reserving only certain small tracts at the
River Credit; and at sixteen and twelve miles creeks they were the first
tribe converted to Christianity. Previous to the year 1823 they were
wandering pagans. In that year Peter Jones, and John his brother,
the sons of a white by a Mississaga woman, having been converted to
Christianity, and admitted as members of the Wesleyan Methodist Church,
became anxious to redeem their countrymen from their degraded state
of heathenism and spiritual destitution. They collected a considerable
number together, and by rote and frequent repetitions, taught the first
principles of Christianity to such as were too old to learn to read, and
with the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, and Commandments, were thus committed
to memory. As soon as the tribes were converted they perceived the evils
attendant on their former state of ignorance and vagrancy. They began to
work, which they had never done before; they recognised the advantage
of cultivating the soil; they gave up drinking, to which they had been
greatly addicted, and became sober, consistent, industrious Christians.
J. Sawyer, P. Jones, Chiefs; J. Jones, War-chief.
The _Chippewas of Alnwick_ were converted in 1826-7 They were wandering
pagans, in the neighbourhood of Belleville, Kingston, and Gannoyne,
commonly known as Mississagas of the Bay of Quintè; they resided on
Grape Island, in the Bay of Quintè, six miles from Belleville.
They resided eleven years on the island, subsisting by hunting and
agriculture. Their houses were erected partly by their own labour and by
the Wesleyan Missionary funds; these consist of twenty-three houses,
a commodious chapel and school, an infant school, hospital, smithy,
shoemaker’s shop and joiner’s. There are upwards of 300 of these
Indians.
The chiefs are--Sunday; Simpson; G. Corrego, chief and missionary
interpreter.
_Rice Lake Chippewas_.--In 1818 the greater part of the Newcastle and
Colburn districts were surrendered, for an annuity of 940_l_. These
Indians have all been reclaimed from their wandering life, and settled
in their present locations, within the last ten or twelve years.
_[FN: I think G. Copway is incorrect as to the date of the settling
of the village, as it was pointed out to me in 1832. Note,--In the year
1822 the larger part of the Indian village on Anderson’s Point was built
and cultivated.]_ The settlement is on the north side of the lake, twelve
miles from Peterborough. Number of Indians, 114; possessing 1,550 acres,
subdivided in 50-acre lots.
Chiefs--Pondash, Copway, Crow.
Deer were plenty a few years ago, but now only few can be found. The
Ojebwas are at present employed in farming instead of hunting; many of
them have good and well-cultivated farms; they not only raise grain,
enough, for their own use, but often sell much to the whites.
APPENDIX L.
Page 282.--_”... that an outward manifestation of surprise.”_
A young friend, who was familiar with Indian character from frequent
intercourse with them in his hunting expeditions, speaking of their
apparent absence of curiosity, told me that, with a view to test it, he
wound up a musical snuff-box, and placed it on a table in a room where
several Indian hunters and their squaws were standing together, and
narrowly watched their countenances, but they evinced no sort of
surprise by look or gesture, remaining apathetically unmoved. He retired
to an adjoining room, where, unseen, he could notice what passed, and
was amused at perceiving, that the instant they imagined themselves free
from his surveillance, the whole party mustered round the mysterious
toy like a parcel of bees, and appeared to be full of conjecture
and amazement, but they did not choose to be entrapped into showing
surprise. This perfect command over the muscles of the face, and
the glance of the eye, is one of the remarkable traits in the
Indian character. The expression of the Indian face, if I may use so
paradoxical a term, consists in a want of expression--like the stillness
of dark deep water, beneath which no object is visible. APPENDIX M.
Page 332.--_“bracelets of porcupine quills cut in fine pieces and strung
in fanciful patterns.”_
The Indian method of drawing out patterns on the birch bark, is simply
scratching the outline with some small-pointed instrument, Canadian
thorn, a bodkin of bone, or a sharp nail. These outlines are then
pierced with parallel rows of holes, into which the ends of the
porcupine quills are inserted, forming a rich sort of embroidery on the
surface of the bark.
The Indian artistes have about as much notion of perspective, or the
effects of light and shade, as the Chinese or our own early painters;
their attempts at delineating animals, or birds, are flat, sharp, and
angular; and their groups of flowers and trees not more graceful or
natural than those on a china plate or jar; nevertheless, the effect
produced is rich and striking, from the vivid colours and the variety
of dyes they contrive to give to this simple material, the porcupine
quills. The sinew of the deer, and some other animals, furnish the
Indian women with thread, of any degree of fineness or strength. The
wants of these simple folk are few, and those easily supplied by the
adaptation of such materials as they can command with ease, in their
savage state.
APPENDIX N.
Page 339.--_“is Mount Ararat.”_
Mount Ararat, the highest elevation on the Rice Lake Plains, for nearly
two years the residence of the Authoress and her family.
End of Project Gutenberg’s Canadian Crusoes, by Catherine Parr Traill