We bought some black-bass from an Indian who was spearing fish: and, _a
propos_, I never yet have mentioned what is one of the greatest
pleasures in the navigation of these magnificent upper lakes--the
purity, the coldness, the transparency of the water. I have been told
that if in the deeper parts of the lake a white handkerchief be sunk
with the lead it is distinctly visible at a depth of thirty fathoms--we
did not try the experiment, not being in deep water; but here, among
shoals and islands, I could almost always see the rocky bottom, with
glittering pebbles, and the fish gliding beneath us with their waving
fins and staring eyes--and if I took a glass of water, it came up
sparkling as from the well at Harrowgate, and the flavour was delicious.
You can hardly imagine how much this added to the charm and animation of
the voyage.
About sunset, we came to the hut of a fur trader, whose name, I think,
was Lemorondiere; it was on the shore of a beautiful channel running
between the mainland and a large island. On a neighbouring point,
Wai-sow-win-de-bay (the Yellow-head) and his people were building their
wigwams for the night. The appearance was most picturesque, particularly
when the camp fires were lighted and the night came on. I cannot forget
the figure of a squaw, as she stood, dark and tall, against the red
flames, bending over a great black kettle, her blanket trailing behind
her, her hair streaming on the night breeze;--most like to one of the
witches in Macbeth.
We supped here on excellent trout and white-fish, but the sand-flies and
mosquitoes were horridly tormenting; the former, which are so diminutive
as to be scarcely visible, were by far the worst. We were off next
morning by daylight, the Yellow-head's people cracking their rifles by
way of salute.
The voyageurs measure the distance by _pipes_. At the end of a certain
time there is a pause, and they light their pipes and smoke for about
five minutes, then the paddles go off merrily again, at the rate of
about fifty strokes in a minute, and we absolutely seem to fly over the
water. "Trois pipes" are about twelve miles. We breakfasted this morning
on a little island of exceeding beauty, rising precipitately from the
water. In front we had the open lake, lying blue, and bright, and
serene, under the morning sky, and the eastern extremity of the
Manitoolin Island; and islands all around as far as we could see. The
feeling of remoteness, of the profound solitude, added to the sentiment
of beauty: it was nature in her first freshness and innocence, as she
came from the hand of her Maker, and before she had been sighed upon by
humanity--defiled at once, and sanctified by the contact. Our little
island abounded with beautiful shrubs, flowers, green mosses, and
scarlet lichens. I found a tiny recess, where I made my bath and
toilette very comfortably. On returning, I found breakfast laid on a
piece of rock; my seat, with my pillow and cloak all nicely arranged,
and a bouquet of flowers lying on it. This was a never-failing
_galanterie_, sometimes from one, sometimes from another of my numerous
_cavaliers_.