One of the gratifications I had anticipated in coming hither--my
strongest inducement perhaps--was an introduction to the mother of my
two friends, of whom her children so delighted to speak, and of whom I
had heard much from other sources. A woman of pure Indian blood, of a
race celebrated in these regions as warriors and chiefs from generation
to generation, who had never resided within the pale of what we call
civilised life, whose habits and manners were those of a genuine Indian
squaw, and whose talents and domestic virtues commanded the highest
respect, was, as you may suppose, an object of the deepest interest to
me. I observed that not only her own children, but her two sons-in-law,
Mr. MacMurray and Mr. Schoolcraft, both educated in good society, the
one a clergyman and the other a man of science and literature, looked up
to this remarkable woman with sentiments of affection and veneration.
As soon, then, as I was a little refreshed after my two nights on the
lake, and my battles with the mosquitoes, we paddled over the river to
dine with Mrs. Johnston: she resides in a large log-house close upon the
shore; there is a little portico in front with seats, and the interior
is most comfortable. The old lady herself is rather large in person,
with the strongest marked Indian features, a countenance open,
benevolent, and intelligent, and a manner perfectly easy--simple, yet
with something of motherly dignity, becoming the head of her large
family. She received me most affectionately, and we entered into
conversation--Mrs. Schoolcraft, who looked all animation and happiness,
acting as interpreter. Mrs. Johnston speaks no English, but can
understand it a little, and the Canadian French still better; but in her
own language she is eloquent, and her voice, like that of her people,
low and musical; many kind words were exchanged, and when I said
anything that pleased her, she laughed softly like a child. I was not
well and much fevered, and I remember she took me in her arms, laid me
down on a couch, and began to rub my feet, soothing and caressing me.
She called me Nindannis, daughter, and I called her Neengai, mother
(though how different from my own fair mother, I thought, as I looked up
gratefully in her dark Indian face!). She set before us the best dressed
and best served dinner I had seen since I left Toronto, and presided at
her table, and did the honours of her house with unembarrassed,
unaffected propriety. My attempts to speak Indian caused, of course,
considerable amusement; if I do not make progress, it will not be for
want of teaching and teachers.