Lake Ontario, it should be understood, is the last in the chain of those fresh water seas, on the bosoms of which the Author proposed to make his excursion into the North-West Territory. This lake lies between the British province of Upper Canada on the north, and the state of New York on the south, being about two hundred miles in its length, east and west, and some fifty or sixty in its greatest breadth. It is a scene of active commerce; floats a great deal of shipping; steam-packets of the largest burthen, and of the best accommodations, are constantly plying upon it; and the flags of hostile navies have waved over its bosom, and challenged and sought the fierce encounter. The keel of a ship of war, said at the time to be the largest in the world, was laid at Sacket’s Harbour, in the state of New York, in the year 1814, and some progress made in the building of it, before the news of peace in February following. May it rot under the roof which now covers it, before there shall ever be occasion for its launching! The outlet of Lake Ontario is the beginning of the river St. Lawrence; and a little below are the famous rapids of that magnificent current, which make the scene of the Canadian Boat-song.
Lake Erie lies south-west of Lake Ontario, its eastern termination being at Buffalo, and running in a south-westerly course two hundred and fifty miles, in breadth seventy miles; having the most desirable agricultural regions of Upper Canada in the north, and parts of the states of New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, on the south. This is also a sea of busy commerce; and a memorable naval action has once been contested on its waters: the result of which crowned the American Commodore Perry with distinguished honours. While Britannia claims the pride of ruling the ocean, America may, perhaps, with modesty, assert supremacy on her own fresh-water seas. Better, however, that all comparisons of this kind should be few and far between. The cultivation of the kinder feelings is as much more agreeable, as it is more dignified.
The next in the ascending chain is Lake St. Clair, thirty miles in diameter, lying about half-way between Lake Erie on the south, and Lake Huron on the north, connected with the former by the river Detroit, and with the latter by the river bearing its own name, each current measuring a channel of some thirty miles in length. Lake Huron is a great inland sea, of so many shapes, as to have no shape at all definable. From its outlet, into the river St. Clair on the south, to its head, into the Straits of Michilimackinack, in the north-west, is perhaps three hundred and fifty miles. Its greatest breadth is probably about two hundred and fifty. It opens a vast sea for the safe navigation of shipping of any burthen, besides affording a lodging place for a world of islands in its northern regions, some larger and some smaller—and most romantically situated in their relations to each other—amounting in all to the number of thirty-two thousand. The innumerable bays and straits created by this cluster, most of them navigable for almost any kind of craft, together with the islands themselves, covered with forests, and shooting up the most perfect form of the pointed fir-tree, must present a rare vision to him who shall ever have the privilege of sailing over them in a baloon.
Lake Michigan is a beautiful sea, lying in the form of a calf’s tongue, except the single deformity of Green Bay, an arm of ninety miles in length, and thirty to forty broad, running off from its west shoulder like a lobster’s claw; the bay itself being of many and ugly shapes. Aside from this, Lake Michigan is regular in its form, an open and navigable sea, running from the straits of Michillimackinack on the north, (or, to save trouble, we will henceforth say Mackinaw, as the vulgar do), towards the south west about three hundred and fifty miles, its greatest and central breadth one hundred and fifty.4
But the Queen of fresh-water seas, all the world over, is Lake Superior, most fitly named for its magnificent dimensions and relative importance. Its length, from east to west, is seven hundred miles, and its greatest breadth, perhaps, three hundred. It is generally an open sea, and navigable to all its extremities, with a few important islands thrown upon its bosom, and some portions of the long circuit of its margin studded, not unlike the northern shore of Lake Huron. This vast inland sea has its outlet into Lake Huron, by the Falls of St. Mary, at its eastern termination; or rather by a rapid of one mile in length, making a descent of twenty-two feet in that distance, and which might easily be overcome for the purposes of navigation, by a ship canal of trifling expense. Apart from the occupation of these waters by the bark canoes of the aboriginal tribes, this lake, as yet, is used for little else than the fur trade, and has but a few vessels upon it. But the masters of these vessels are familiar with all its regions. Lake Superior, it will be seen, is the most remote of the seas we are now describing, as well as most magnificent. Its waters and its shores are the least visited by civilized man. No law holds dominion there, but the law of interest, or of passion. Its vast bosom, capable of floating navies, and probably destined for such display, ordinarily bears only the Indian bark upon its waves. The wild and romantic solitudes of its shores, and of the deep forests and unsurveyed territories, by which they are bounded, as yet have been familiar only with the howl of the wild beasts, and little traced except by the devious track of the red man, who pursues his game to satiate his hunger; or by the sinuous paths of the warrior train, intent upon revenge, and thirsting for blood. The position of this lake, in relation to those of which mention has been made, and to the occupied territories of the Canadas and of the United States, is far off in the north-west.
The southern shore of Lake Superior is the northern boundary of a large civil division of the United States, called the North-West Territory; where the events, which will occupy a large portion, and make the leading topic of these pages, transpired. The State of Illinois is on the south of this territory; Lake Michigan on the east; and the river Mississippi on the west; the whole region extending from north latitude 42° 45’ to nearly 49° in its extreme border, around and beyond the western termination of Lake Superior; and comprehending in its longest line from east to west about nine degrees of longitude. The principal scene, however, of the events we are to notice, is laid on the eastern margin of this territory, near the mouth of Fox River, at the head of Green Bay.
But why this lesson in geography? That all concerned may know where they are, and understand, as much as may be convenient, the relations of the events and things described, to other things and events. It may be proper to say in addition, as will ultimately appear, that the whole of this territory, till quite recently, has been exclusively occupied by the aboriginal tribes; except as the fur traders have traversed those regions to traffic with the Indians. Even now there are but few other tenants of the territory.
It may also be observed, that the northern shores of this long chain of Lakes, and their connecting channels, or straits, called rivers, from the outlet of Lake Ontario, nearly to the head of Lake Superior, appertain to the British possessions of North America, and lie within the extensive province of Upper Canada. And the exact boundary between the contiguous jurisdiction of the United States and the British dominions there, as settled a few years since by a joint Board of Commissioners from the two Governments, is for the most part an imaginary line, running from and to certain assumed and fixed points, intended to divide those immense inland waters equally between the two Powers. The Lakes themselves, for the purposes of commerce and navigation, are necessarily subjected to regulations, not unlike those which govern the high seas; but more easily arranged and executed, as only two nations are concerned in their maintenance. The trace of this jurisdiction boundary is of course exceedingly devious.
Niagara Falls is yet the common boundary in the West of the pleasure excursions for the summer, with European visitants of the New World, and with the travelling gentry of the United States. Few find motive enough, or feel sufficient ambition to endure the sea-sickness of the Lakes, that they may penetrate farther, merely for pleasure. It is true, that the rapid crowding of the West, by an emigrant population, settled all along the southern shore of Lake Erie, and through the states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and the Territory of Michigan, together with the grand communication now opened between the city of New York and the great valley of the Mississippi over the bosom of Lake Erie, has made that lake a busy scene of commercial enterprise. Besides all the sailing craft employed, a Steam-packet leaves both the upper and lower extremities of this Lake every day for a voyage of forty-eight hours, more or less, between Buffalo and Detroit, touching at the principal ports on the southern shore; and, in addition to these, several Steamers are employed in shorter trips. One stretches for the most direct course through the entire of the Lake, without touching at any of the intervening ports, for the sake of dispatch, and to accomplish the voyage in twenty-four hours. As might be expected, a constant stream of genteel travellers, going to and from the Mississippi Valley, and to and from the city of Detroit, for the various objects of business, of visiting friends, of scientific observations, of gratifying curiosity, of executing public trusts, or of finding a home for themselves and families, in some one of those regions of promise, is seen to be always moving there, like a fairy vision. Once a month a Steam-packet leaves Buffalo for the far off regions of the north-west, beyond the city of Detroit, through the upper Lakes, to answer the purposes of government, in keeping up a communication with the garrisons of those frontiers, and to accommodate the few travellers, who may have business in those quarters, or who are bold and romantic enough to push their excursions of pleasure so far.
As a Commission from the government of the United States had been ordered to the North West Territory, for August, 1830, to kindle a Council-fire, as it is called, and to smoke the pipe, with a public assembly of the Chiefs of the numerous tribes of Indians, in that quarter, for the purpose of settling certain disputes existing among themselves, in their relations to each other, and also some misunderstandings between sundry of their tribes and the general Government, the Author having leisure, and being a little curious to know more of this race, than he had ever yet seen, conceived, that this extraordinary occasion for the convention of the Chiefs and representatives of the wilder and more remote tribes, would afford a good opportunity for the knowledge and observation he so much coveted. He had seen not a little of the Indians, in their semi-civilized conditions, as they are found insulated here and there, in the midst of the white population of the States; and of course where their manners, habits, character, and very nature have been much modified by their intercourse and intimacies with civilized society. The Indian of North America, in such circumstances, is quite another being from the Indian in his wild and untutored condition; and as the advocates for the resolving of society into its original elements, would say:—he is there in his unsophisticated nature.
No one can pretend to understand the character of the aboriginal tenants of America, who has seen them only as vitiated by contact with Europeans. I say vitiated. For, if they are not made better by proper protection and cultivation, they become much worse, as human nature, left to itself, is more susceptible of the contagion of vice, than of improvement in virtue. The Indian, thrown into temptation, easily takes the vices of the white man; and his race in such exposures melts away, like the snow before a summer’s sun. Such has been the unhappy fate of the aborigines of America, ever since the discovery of that continent by Columbus. They have melted away—and they are still melting away. They have been cut off by wars, which the provocations of the whites have driven them to wage,—and the remnants, depressed, unprotected—and in their own estimation humbled and degraded, their spirit broken within them,—have sunk down discouraged, and abandoned themselves to the fate of those, who have lost all ambition for a political existence, and who covet death rather than life.
The wild Indian, however, whose contact with the European race has not been enough to vitiate his habits, or subdue his self-importance,—who still prowls the forest in the pride of his independence,—who looks upon all nations and tribes, but his own, as unworthy of the contemptuous glance of his eye,—whose dreams of importance become to him a constant reality, and actually have the same influence in the formation of his character, as if they were all that they seem to him;—he regards himself as the centre of a world, made especially for him. Such a being, and much more than this, who is not a creature of the imagination, but a living actor in the scenes of earth, becomes at least an interesting object, if he does not make a problem, yet to be solved, in moral philosophy, in politics, in the nature and character of man, as a social being.
That the author indulged many romantic expectations, in the excursion that was before him, was not only natural, but warranted. He could not reasonably be disappointed, so long as imagination did not become absolutely wild and ungovernable, and fly away from earth—or “call for spirits from the vasty deep”—or fancy things, of which heaven or earth affords no likeness. In constitutional temperament and in principle I was rather fond of the fascinating and ever changing hues, which genuine poetry throws over the variegated phases of the natural world. The universe I had been accustomed to regard, as one grand poetic panorama, laid out by the Creator’s hand, to entertain uncorrupt minds, without danger of satiety, and to “lead them up through nature’s works to nature’s God.” Sermons I could find, or believed were to be found, “in trees, and brooks, and stones; and good in every thing.” “The heavens declare the glory of God,” and “the earth is full of his bounty”—and he who does not admire the former, to the praise of Him that made them, and partake of the rich gifts of the latter with gratitude to their author, it must be ascribed alike to his stupidity and depravity. I have thought, that he who cannot appreciate such sentiments, can never sympathise with the best feelings, and happiest condition of man. The universe, in all its parts, suggests them; and heaven itself, we have reason to believe, is full of them. And there is no place so natural to song, so full of music, so beautiful in its attractive forms, or so enchanting in the combination and display of its glories to the eye, as heaven. All the most lively and glowing sentiments of true religion, of genuine piety, are of a poetic character. And the highest and sweetest inspirations of Divine Revelation, it need not be said, are all poetry.
Green Bay, in the North West Territory, where we were destined, is commonly reckoned the end of the world. It is not even imagined, by the vulgar, that there is any place, or any human being, or any thing with which mortals may have to do, beyond it. Besides, the way is long—the seas dangerous and ever liable to sudden and disastrous storms—the shores uninhabited, or tenanted only here and there by the inhospitable savage. Latitude and longitude and clime were all to be changed, and changed too by a long stretch—not long perhaps to such a voyager as Captain Cook, or Captain Parry; but yet long and dubious, and in no small degree romantic, to one, who had never been accustomed to the wilder regions of the new world. To go up among the Indians, the savages of the wilderness! and be their guest, far from the territories of civilized man! Who has not listened in the nursery to the tales of Indian wars, of the tomahawk and scalping knife, of the midnight massacre and burning of villages and towns; of the mother butchered with her infant in her arms; of the grey head, and man in full vigour of life, slaughtered together; and a train of tender captives, driven away to glut the vengeance of the savage, by the endurance of every imaginable torture;—until the story has thrilled his blood with horror, and he refused to be left in his bed, till his nurse, who had frightened him, had sung him to sleep? And although he may have stood corrected in his maturer years, and entertained less horrible notions of the savage, still he can never altogether efface his first impressions. The poetry of his feelings often overpowers his judgment, and he not only anticipates much from the sight of a savage in his native regions and costume; but he involuntarily shrinks from the peculiar, rigid, and stern aspect of his countenance; shudders at the thought of what may possibly be working in his soul; and calculates a thousand imaginable results of an interview, which perchance has placed him in the power of such an unsocial and awful being. There stands before him a naked man, with visage painted horrible, whose every muscle demonstrates his custom to exertion and fatigue, who knows not how to smile; who never sleeps, or wakes, but that a weapon of death is girded to his side, or borne in his hand; who is a creature of passion, and inflexible in his purpose, when once resolved; who conceals his thoughts beneath his imperturbable countenance; who never betrays his emotions, however deep and strong they are;—who can be indifferent in such society? But we must not anticipate the scenes to come.
Having made the reader already so much acquainted with Lake Erie, we will not detain him long upon a sea familiar to his thoughts. It may be remarked, that the surface of this lake is five hundred and seventy-five feet above high water on the Hudson river at Albany, the Eastern termination of the Erie canal. The rapids and Falls of Niagara, the rapids of the St. Lawrence, and the general descent of these waters to the ocean, make the difference.
About the 20th of July, 1830, we embarked at Buffalo in the steam-packet, Superior, for Detroit, and made the passage in two days, skirting the southern shore, and touching at the principal ports, without remarkable incident, except an unpleasant encounter with an army of musquitoes in the bay of Sandusky, which were taken on board at the port of the same name, in lieu of passengers left behind; and whose audaciousness, ferocity, and blood-thirstiness, were enough to make one out of temper with the place; and which, notwithstanding all attempts to ward off their assaults, inflicted upon us many deep and annoying impressions.
Lake Erie is unchequered by islands, till we begin to approach its western regions; where, instead of an open sea, the beautiful and curving shores of the main land, and of the insular territories, covered as they generally are with unbroken forests, and opening channels and bays in every direction, lend a vision of enchantment, rarely equalled, to the eye of the passenger, borne along upon the bosom of the deep. It presents the aspects of nature, in all her chasteness, untouched, inviolate; and when the wind is lulled, and the face of the waters becomes a sea of glass, it is nature’s holiest sabbath; and seems to forbid the approach and trespass of the dashing engine, which rushes forward in fury and envy of the scene; while the passenger, wrought to ecstacy in contemplation of the novel exhibition, shrinks back within himself involuntarily, as if in fear of some sudden retribution from above, for the daring violation of this sacred retreat of nature’s repose. In a mood like this, the stranger enters the river of Detroit, almost level with its banks, fancies he hears the thunders of old Maldon, (a British fort on the Canada side at the mouth of the river), gazes at the mean and sordid huts of the unambitious French, (for however unexpected the announcement, there are no people in the world more distant from ambition, than the French of Canada),—admires the lightness and celerity, which characterize the movements of the Indian canoe, filled with copper-coloured faces and uncovered heads, and darting up and down and across the stream, in obedience to the paddles, which enter the water so still and with so little apparent effort, as scarcely to disturb the surface;—and soon finds himself laid in the docks of a busy and flourishing port, presenting handsome streets and handsome steeples, itself the ancient seat of Indian war and Indian romance, identified and connected with a history like romance.
Detroit has long been regarded as the limit of civilization towards the north-west—and to tell truth, there is even yet but little of the character of civilization beyond it. As may be seen from the map, it rests upon the west side of the strait, or river, which connects Lake Huron with Lake Erie; about ten miles below that small extension of the strait, called Lake St. Clair; and twenty miles above the north shore of Lake Erie, towards its western extremity. This town, or commercial port, is dignified with the name, and enjoys the chartered rights, of a city; although its population at present does not exceed three thousand. The banks of the river above and below the city are lined with a French population, descendants of the first European traders among the Indians, in that quarter; and extending from Lake Erie to Lake St. Clair, increasing in density, as they approach the town, and averaging perhaps one hundred per mile.
The city of Detroit dates its history from July 1701. At that time M. de la Motte Cadillac, with one hundred men, and a Jesuit, carrying with them every thing necessary for the commencement and support of the establishment meditated, reached this place. “How numerous and diversified,” says a public literary document, “are the incidents compressed within the history of this settlement! No place in the United States presents such a series of events, interesting in themselves, and permanently affecting, as they occurred, its progress and prosperity. Five times its flag has changed—three different sovereignties have claimed its allegiance, and since it has been held by the United States, its government has been thrice transferred. Twice it has been besieged by the Indians, once captured in war, and once burned to the ground.”
It should be observed, that the French trading ports, on the Upper Lakes, preceded the settlement of Detroit by nearly fifty years; that as early as 1673 they had descended the Mississippi, as far as the Arkanses; and that in 1679 Robert de la Sale penetrated through the Delta of the Mississippi, and saw its waters mingle with the Gulf of Mexico. Then was the interesting and vast conception formed and matured, of establishing a cordon of posts from Quebec, by way of the Upper Lakes and the Mississippi, to the Mexican seas—an enterprise, which, considering the age and the obstacles, both physical and moral, may proudly take rank with any thing done in later days.
What child, whose vernacular tongue is English, has not listened to Indian story with an intensity of interest, which he can never cease to cherish; and with expectation of something new and newer still, from the wildness and fierceness of savage enterprise? Where is the man, however grave with philosophy and bowed with the weight of years, however accustomed to things prodigious, whose ear will not bend to the promise of him, who announces an untold page of Indian warfare? He who is read in the strifes of civilized nations, can easily anticipate the modes and the results, even of Napoleon’s campaigns. But he who follows the track of the savage, thirsting for blood, expects some new development of stratagem and cruelty, at every turn.
Like Tecumseh, whose name signifies a tiger crouching for his prey, a man great in council and in war; and who bore the commission of chief of the Indian forces, in the British army in the late war;—like him, the Ottawa chieftain, of the middle of the last century, gave demonstration of a spirit, which in other circumstances, might have left him a name, not inferior to Alexander, or Cesar, or Napoleon. It is sufficient to say, that in 1763, a time of profound peace, Pontiac had attained such influence and supremacy over all the Indian tribes, spread over those extensive regions, as to have united them in a grand confederacy for the instantaneous extinction of all the European posts along a thousand miles of frontier; and that he actually succeeded, so far as to cut off, almost simultaneously, nine out of twelve of these military establishments. The surprise of Michillimackinack, one of these stations, is narrated in the following manner, by the document above quoted:
“The fort was then upon the main land, near the northern point of the peninsula. The Ottawas, to whom the assault was committed, prepared for a great game of ball, to which the officers of the garrison were invited. While engaged in play, one of the parties gradually inclined towards the fort, and the other pressed after them. The ball was once or twice thrown over the pickets, and the Indians were suffered to enter and procure it. Nearly all the garrison were present as spectators, and those on duty were alike unprepared, as unsuspicious. Suddenly the ball was again thrown into the fort, and all the Indians rushed after it. The rest of the tale is soon told. The troops were butchered, and the fort destroyed.”
But no one stratagem of Indian warfare is like another. We only know, that eight of the other stations were annihilated nearly at the same instant. Detroit was one of the three stations successfully defended, but not without the shedding of much blood. Pontiac himself appeared before it. And so unsuspected was his stratagem, that nothing would have prevented its triumphant execution, but for the informations of a friendly Indian woman. Pontiac had negotiated a great council to be held in the fort, to which himself and warriors were to be admitted, with rifles sawed off and hid under their blankets; by which, with the tomahawk and knife, at a concerted signal from their chieftain, they were to rise and massacre the garrison. But in consequence of the advice from the woman, the garrison were prepared. Pontiac and his warriors being rebuked, were too generously dismissed, and in return for this kindness commenced and waged a most bloody war.
Pontiac, unsuccessful in his wars against these posts, notwithstanding the great advantages he had gained, and after committing numberless and untold cruelties, (though he was not without his fits of generosity, and of what are called the noble traits of Indian character),—implacable in his hatred and resentments; finally retired to the Illinois, in the south-west, and was there assassinated by the hand of an Indian. “The memory of this great Ottawa chief,” says the document used above, and from which this account is abridged, “is still held in reverence among his countrymen. And whatever be the fate, which awaits them, his name and deeds will live in their traditionary narratives, increasing in interest, as they increase in years.”
Detroit, originally, and for ages a post for trade, and a garrison for its protection—having enjoyed and suffered alternately peace and war, with the aborigines and between rival civilized powers, for such a long series of years—has now become the beautiful and flourishing metropolis of a wide and interesting territory—a territory destined soon to make at least two of the most important states of the American Union. The city looks proudly across one of the noblest rivers of the continent, upon the territory of a great and rival power, and seems to say, though in such vicinity, in reference to her former exposure and painful vicissitudes:—“Henceforth I will sit in peace, and grow and flourish under the wing of this Confederate Republic.” And this place, but a little while ago so distant, is now brought within four days of the city of New York—the track pursued being seven hundred and fifty miles. Here, at Detroit, some of the finest steamers in North America, come and go every day, connecting it with the east, and have begun already to search out the distant west and north.
The peninsula of Michigan, lying between the lake of the same name on the west, and Huron on the east, is one of the greatest beauties of the kind in America, if not in the world. Where can be found such a tongue of land, and of so great extent, skirted by a coast of eight hundred miles, of the purest fresh-water seas, navigable for ships of any burthen? The climate mild and healthful, the country ascertained to be the best of land—with streams and rivers sufficient for all useful purposes—and the upland level, between the two great lakes, chequered with innumerable small lakes, or basins, of one, three, five, and ten miles in circumference, pure and clear as the fountains of Eden, and abounding with fish, as do the rivers. There is something in the character of these basins of water, and in the multitude of them, which imparts a charm to this region, altogether unrivalled. They are the sources of the rivers and smaller streams, which flow into either lake—themselves and their outlets pure as crystal. How many gentlemen of large estates, and noblemen of Europe, have undertaken to create artificial lakes, and fill them with fish—which after all their pains are doomed to the constant deposits of filth and collections of miasmata; and which maybe clouded by the plunge of a frog? But in the territory of Michigan is a world of lakes, created by the hand of God, of all dimensions and shapes, just fitted for the sports of fancy, of childhood, and of youth—for the relaxations of manly toil—for the occupation of leisure;—the shores of which are overhung with beautiful and wholesome shades—and the waters deep, and so clear, that the fish cannot play in their lowest beds, without betraying their motions to the observer, floating in his bark upon the surface. The common processes of nature maintain the everlasting and perfect purity of these waters, independent of the care of man. The transparency of the waters, in those upper regions, and in the great lakes, is a marvel—an incredible wonder to those, who have been accustomed only to turbid lakes and turbid rivers.
We will not detain the reader any longer at Detroit, except to notice a remarkable instance of capital crime. On the 26th of July, during our stay at Detroit, S. G. S. received the sentence of death, from the proper tribunal, for the murder of his wife, under circumstances, aggravated by brutality and savageness, too painful for recital; and in the contemplation of which humanity shudders. The wretched man’s own children were the principal witnesses, on whose testimony he had been convicted. In telling the story of their mother’s dreadful end, they brought their father to the gallows. In the progress of the trial, a history of savage violence was disclosed, such, we would fain believe, as rarely passes upon the records of crime. What demon of hell can be more fatal to human happiness, and to the souls of men, than ardent spirits? The children, a son and two daughters, of adult years, testified abundantly to the natural amiableness and affectionate kindness, in the conjugal and parental relations, not only of the mother, but also of their father, in his sober moments. But when intoxicated, he seemed possessed of the furies of a more abandoned world.
As the murderer entered the place of judgment, and was conducted to the bar to receive the sentence of the law, I observed in him a noble human form, erect, manly, and dignified; of large but well proportioned stature; bearing a face and head not less expressive, than the most perfect beau ideal of the Roman; with a countenance divinely fitted for the play of virtue, of every parental and conjugal affection; and an eye beaming out a soul, which might well be imagined to have been once susceptible of the love and worship of the Eternal One—all—all marred and spoiled by the demon of intemperance; and now, alas! allied to murder of the most diabolical cast. Rarely is seen among the sons of men a more commanding human form, or a countenance more fitly set to intelligence and virtue—made, all would say, to love and be honoured. But now what change, by the debasements of brutal appetite, and the unprovoked indulgence and instigation of a fatal passion! By what a fearful career of vice and crime, had he come to this! “What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!” But when debased and ruined by vice, how like a fiend, in shape so unbefitting such a spirit! And yet, who could see the fiendly stamp upon this poor and wretched man? For he wept—he sobbed! His inmost soul heaved with anguish! he bore the marks of contrition. As a man, and such a man—if we could forget his crime—he was to be respected; as being in a condition of suffering, he was to be pitied; and as seeming the image of repentance, heaven might forgive what man could not.
It was an awful hour, when he approached the bar even of this earthly tribunal, anticipating well his doom. For a jury of his country, as he knew, had set their seal upon it. As he entered this now awful chamber of justice, he cast his eye around upon the expecting throng, whose presence and gaze could only be a mockery of his condition;—and with the greatest possible effort for self-possession, braced his muscular energies to support his manly frame, while trembling under the tempest of passion, which agitated his soul. But the moment he was seated, all his firmness dissolved into the weakness of a child;—and he wept;—he sobbed aloud. A silence reigned through the crowd, and a thrill of sympathy seemed to penetrate every heart.
The court, unaccustomed in that land to such an office, felt themselves in a new and an awful condition, with a fellow-being arraigned at their bar, charged and convicted of a most atrocious—and in its circumstances, an unparalleled crime, and his doom suspended at that moment on their lips. Their emotions were too evident to be mistaken, and in the highest degree honourable to their hearts. “S. G. S.”—the name in full being pronounced by the court, broke the awful silence of the place,—“have you any thing to say, why the judgment of the court should not now be pronounced?” The prisoner rose convulsed, and with faltering voice, and in broken accents, replied: “Nothing, if it please the court, except what I have already communicated”—and resumed his seat. Upon which a very appropriate, eloquent, and impressive address was made by the court to the prisoner, setting forth the fact and nature of the crime, of which he stood convicted; appealing to his own knowledge for the fairness of his trial; and to his own consciousness of the justice of his doom; commending him to heaven for that clemency, which he could no longer ask of men;—and then the awful sentence was pronounced. “And may God Almighty,” said the judge, with that subdued emphasis and touching pathos, which became the responsibility of his office, and the nature of the occasion—“may God Almighty have mercy on your soul.”
The prisoner, by all the testimony, was in his nature kind. He had loved his wife excessively, and loved her, strange as it may seem, unto the last. And for that very love he was the more cruel, and the greater monster. He was jealous of her fidelity, without cause. Jealousy! “’tis a monster begot upon itself—born on itself.” “That’s he—that was Othello!” And only when intoxicated with strong drink did this terrible passion gain its dominion over him. In the moments of his sobriety, he loved and confided, and could say in company of his wife,
But it would seem, that hell itself were scarcely more furious, or more terrible, than he, when the demon of ardent spirits assumed control of his passions. If demoniacs were now-a-days about, the name of that man, in such predicament and mood, were worthy to be written, as prince of the host. But in prison, and before the tribunal of justice, this wretched being, once kind in nature, and made a fiend by the abuse of his nature, stood dispossessed, the guilty and conscious murderer of her, whom he espoused in her youth and loveliness, and who was ever worthy of his love;—and whom he took to his bosom, and promised, by the light and love of heaven, to be her husband and protector.
He was executed on the 24th of September.
On the 4th of August the steam-packet, Sheldon Thomson, left Detroit for the Upper Lakes, her ultimate destination being Green Bay, with the United States’ Commissioners, bound on the errand heretofore alluded to, and which we shall notice again by-and-by;—three companies of troops for the frontier garrisons;—several parties of ladies and gentlemen; some in pursuit of pleasure, some of materials for science and literature; some of business; some families returning, or emigrating to those new and remote settlements;—with pigs, poultry, &c. &c. As near as we recollect, the number of souls on board, including troops, commissioners and suite, ladies and gentlemen, and the crew—was not far from two hundred and fifty.
The rarity of this expedition gave it some importance. The character of the company, but especially the objects of the mission from Government to the Indians of the North-West, magnified the interest not inconsiderably. It is true there is some sailing craft habitually employed in this line of navigation. It is also true, that one of the steam-packets of Lake Erie, ordinarily makes a trip into those remote regions, some two or three times in a season; as encouragements offer. But Detroit is reckoned the common limit of the crowd, who flock to the west in the summer; and a trip beyond is quite notable, and esteemed a great treat with the curious, and with all who have a taste for novel, wild, and romantic scenery; or an ambition to see that which is seldom seen by the common herd of travellers. It is confessed, that an expedition to the North Pole, is somewhat more important to the persons concerned;—and if they have the good luck to get back again, it may be more important to the world. If Captain Symmes had lived to accomplish his expedition to the centre of the earth, that would at least have been more interesting. It is possible, it may not yet be understood, all the world over, that the earth is hollow, and to be entered by a passage towards the imaginary poles; the polar points being themselves of course in the celestial regions, and therefore unattainable to man. This important discovery was made by the above-named Captain Symmes, of Ohio, United States.
It is not pretended, that the particular expedition, which makes the subject of our story, can claim a paramount importance, with either of those just alluded to. But still it attracted considerable attention. All the newspapers of the country—at least very extensively—announced it long beforehand;—that is—the proprietors of the steam-packet took care to put it in circulation, for the greater profit of the voyage, by attracting the attention of the curious, and offering motive to the enterprising. It was by this sort of newspaper puffing, that the author was drawn into the train; as was the fact with a great portion of the company.
On the morning of the 4th of August, the city of Detroit was in no little bustle, and the wharf, along-side of which lay the Sheldon Thomson, with her signals snapping in the wind, exhibited a most busy swarm of human beings, running to and fro, in the way of preparation. At eleven o’clock A. M. the gun was fired, and the packet bore away for Lake St. Clair, under all the force of wind and steam, and with as fine a day, as the sun ever made upon the earth. Indeed the scene and the occasion were quite inspiriting; and the objects in view wore the aspect of many powerful and romantic attractions. The beautiful city of Detroit began to recede, while the packet, borne along between the Canadian shore and Hog Island, (a name, it must be confessed, ill deserved by a thing so beautiful) glided in fine style into the opening expanse of Lake St. Clair.
Lake St. Clair, as before recognized, is an expansion of the strait, nearly in a circular form, with a diameter of thirty miles; and in consequence of the depression of all its shores, and there being no hills in the immediate interior, the position of a vessel in any part of its border, opens from the deck a shoreless sea in the distant prospect. The centre of the lake presents a beautiful and enchanting looming up of the shores, as the sailors call it, in all directions; and the marginal forests, broken every here and there, by the indentations of the coast, seem to hang suspended in the horizon, between the sea and the heavens, and play and dance before the eye, in a sort of fairy vision. The images of this kind, fore and aft, and on either side, were continually changing their forms, and showing the most fantastic shapes, as the vessel wended her serpentine course, by the channel through the lake, from its southern to its northern border. For Lake St. Clair is an exception to all the others, in this particular: that its waters are generally shallow, except in the channel; and that channel is perpetually changing by the effect of storms, and requires a frequent survey for the direction of the pilot. Indeed this body of water is hardly worthy to be dignified with the name of a Lake, in comparison of the others, and might as well be considered, as a flooding of low lands—which seems to be the exact truth. The main current of water through it, however, always maintains a channel, sufficient for all the purposes of navigation, though it is somewhat devious.
The passage over Lake St. Clair, in a day of such unrivalled physical glories, in such a company, on such an expedition, leaving the regions of civilization behind us, and just about to plunge into the regions of barbarism;—or rather, flying from a world, violated by the track and by the hand of man, into a world of virgin waters and into a virgin wilderness—all vast, and their proper character inconceivable, except by actual inspection; such a passage might well make an apology for the indulgence of some trifling ingredients of poetry and romance. Every heart seemed light and buoyant, as the clouds floating in the sky, and its affections active, as the elements by which the bark, which made their home, was wafted along;—and all prospects bright and cheering, as the sun, which shone upon the scene. The climate and aspects of the heavens seemed changed. The clouds, such, as a clear atmosphere and its brisk currents fold together in their fleecy robes, and toss along in sublime and majestic sport;—the shores and islets successively receding in one direction, and coming into view from another;—a new and fine steamer, dashing through the waves, with all her sails set to the breeze, and crammed with a population, like bees upon the hive, in a summer’s day, all life and bustle;—the toute ensemble presented a scene, as picturesque, as could well be grouped, under a traveller’s eye. And then again the variety of character on board: three detachments of raw recruits, bidding adieu to the common world, and going to occupy the frontier posts, to keep the peace between the traders and Indians, between the Indians themselves, and if needs be, between the querulous parties of Canadians and Americans, strolling in those regions;—a Commission from Government, on their way to settle disputes and negotiate treaties with the aboriginal tribes of the North-West;—traders, voyagers of pleasure and observation, and friends going to visit friends, in those distant retreats;—a vicar general from the pope of Rome, with plenipotentiary powers of remission and retention in things spiritual, and of supervising the interests of the Catholic church; together with two Protestant clergymen and a missionary of Mackinaw;—men, women, and children of all grades, and all conditions—and withal the rare character of the excursion;—all these things together, as might be supposed, contributed to lend an interest and a charm to the expedition, so auspiciously commenced, not easily conceived by any one, who did not make one of the party.
About four o’clock, P.M., we found ourselves; hard upon what may be called, with the greatest propriety, the Delta of the river St. Clair, which discharges itself by about fifty mouths into the lake of the same name. The principal navigable channels are five. The extended marshes, challenging the utmost scope of the eye, lying only a few inches higher than the water, and all waving with heavy burdens of high prairie grass;—the meandering mouths of the river, shooting in every direction, and insulating the region in the most fantastic forms;—the thick and impenetrable copses of wood, of larger and smaller extent, springing up here and there, in all their various shapes, until after a few miles they are merged in one unbroken forest, and seeming to vie with the outlets of the river in creating a variety of their own peculiar kind;—these several and combined features, changing their forms continually, as we ascended the channel selected, like the coming and flitting visions of creative fancy, might almost dispossess a sober man of his senses, and persuade him, by a world of reality, that he was in a world of illusions. And then to see the French huts—for the French are to be found, scattered along the old line of trading posts, from Quebec to Detroit, from Detroit to Mackinaw, at the head of Lake Huron, from Mackinaw across the North-West Territory to Prairie du Chien, on the Mississippi; and from the last point along the banks of that mighty river, to the Gulf of Mexico—to look upon the habitations of that indolent race, so mean and sordid, as they are, resting upon the river’s brink, and demonstrating by their every feature a dull and lazy existence, akin to that of the savage;—and now and then to see a group of Indians, old and young, male and female, some entirely naked, and others with the rag of a shirt, or blanket never washed, pendant and ready to drop by its rottenness from their shoulders—darting out of a thicket upon the bank, and running and jumping with frantic, or joyous signs and exclamations of amazement, to see such a great canoe, so full of people, and rushing up against the tide, drawn, as they imagine, by great sturgeons, harnessed under water;—we a wonder to them and they a very piece of romance to us;—who, fresh from the centre of civilization, and unaccustomed to these scenes, would not gaze with interest, and imagine himself dreaming?—
After leaving Lake St. Clair, we run in the evening about fifteen miles up the river, having enjoyed one of the most brilliant sunsets that Italy, or Greece could ever boast of,—and then stopped to take in a supply of fuel for Mackinaw. The rest of the night from nine in the evening, till four in the morning, was industriously occupied in running twenty-five miles to Fort Gratiot, having the double obstacle of a stiff current to stem, equal to a rapid, and a schooner in tow, which with us, was bound for the Upper Lakes. If this vessel in tow could not classically be called an obsta-cle, it was at least a grave Saxon hold back. But nevertheless, as the master of the steamer was sure of our money, there seemed no objection in his mind to get a little more, for helping this weather-bound ship; although he had never stipulated with us for the privilege. And besides, if it was not an act of humanity, it was a kindness—it being understood, that vessels, upward bound, are often detained in this current, not only days, but weeks, before a south wind springs up, sufficiently strong to bear them into Lake Huron.
Fort Gratiot has the honour of its name from its original projector, Colonel Gratiot, now chief engineer of the United States at Washington. The fort has a beautiful and commanding position, immediately at the outlet of Huron, and of course at the commencement of the strait, called the river St. Clair; which, opposite the fort, is so narrow and rapid, as to require nearly the full power of a steamer to force her up. With our schooner hold back, it seemed for a long time doubtful, whether the packet would be able to run into the lake. She buffeted the current “with lusty sinews,” springing to one side, then to the other, like the draught-horse, pulling his burden up hill; but notwithstanding often went backward instead of forward, and gained nothing, until, by raising the steam, more perhaps, than what was prudent, she finally carried her companion into the sea above, and then dismissed her to make her own way. This current is deep, and a sublime object, not only in consideration of its own rapid career, but more especially, when we reflect, that here all the waters of Huron, Michigan, and Superior, are disemboguing through so narrow a channel, with a determination not to be resisted.
Those of the passengers, who were disposed, had time at Gratiot to go on shore, and view the fort. At that time it was surrounded only by pickets, fit only to check an Indian assault. It was ordered, however, from the importance of its position on the Canada frontier, to be made a strong place. It is understood, that the opposite side of the river, within musket shot, is in the British dominions. Our reception at the fort was not only polite and cordial, but even in the forms of drawing-room parade. They had been notified of the visit, and knew the very hour to expect it. And as such a call rarely happens in that secluded and wild retreat, they must needs take it when it comes, and make the most of it. It was in all respects a grateful interview, and well improved. An hour’s interchange of civilities on such an occasion, and in such a place, are moments of high enjoyment—they make an incident in the common monotony of life, and a subject of interesting recollections.
Among my memoranda of this voyage, I find the following:—
August 6:—Still in Lake Huron, and borne onward with great rapidity by wind and steam,—the latter of which we always have at command, and the former being most favourable;—our course laid for the river St. Mary, or rather for the common passage, leading to Lake Superior. For there is no such thing, as the river St. Mary, commonly marked as such, in the books and charts. That region is a world of islands, straits, and bays. Lake Huron, as the map will show, is one of the great inland seas of the North-West. Our course from the river St. Clair to St. Mary’s, is nearly a direct line, keeping the west shore ordinarily in sight, when the weather will permit. The borders of this lake present a wild, uninhabited region—and the navigation beautiful in its stillness; but doomed to fitful and terrible agitations by the sudden waking of the tempest. The greatest fury of the wide Atlantic is mere mockery to Huron’s maddest moods and roughest shapes. The most experienced mariner of the former has been filled with wonder, and stood aghast at the terrors of the latter.
Evening of the same day:—At anchor in St. Mary’s Straits, five miles from the Falls. Our passage from Fort Gratiot to the west straits, plunging into an open and wide sea, we made in thirty-six hours, the wind all the way in favour, and for a good part of the time leaving the western shore, and of course all other land out of sight. To such a scene in good weather, as we have had, there is but one page. But those of us, who are strangers here, felt that we were entering a region remote from civilization, and but little marked with the traces of human enterprize. Since we approached the northern shores of this lake and entered the straits, no pictures of romance could divide us farther from accustomed scenes and associations. The great Maniton, or Spirit-island—in Indian tradition and belief the home and residence of spirits—lifted up a prominence in its centre, which might well pass among heathen, as a sanctuary of the gods. And so is it esteemed. Next the little Maniton—and then the Drummond Isle—on the last of which and near the straits, as we approached, was distinctly brought under our eye, through a beautiful harbour, and within one mile of our course, a fort and little village, erected by and formerly belonging to the British, apparently well built;—but now without a solitary human being, since, by the recent demarcation of the boundary line, the island has fallen within the jurisdiction of the United States. A deserted village, in this uninhabited region, was a melancholy spectacle—and resting, as it does, in such a beautiful spot! It really looked covetable—like a little paradise, peeping out upon the sea, by the point of land, which defends the harbour, skirted by a lovely forest-scene, and spreading its fair bosom to the heavens, seems to invite those, who may be tired of the world, to its enchanting retreat. I cannot imagine, how it should be left unoccupied; and I can hardly yet persuade myself, that such is the fact. I strained my eyes through the glass, as we passed, to see the busy population; but no human form appeared. And thus I thought it must be a fairy creation, in kindness laid before our eye, to relieve us for a moment, from the monotony of these desolate abodes;—for we had seen nothing like the feature of an inhabited world, since we left Fort Gratiot, except a solitary sail, far off on the bosom of the lake;—but the melancholy effect upon my own feelings, when I was obliged to believe, that no man, or woman, or child was there—none of human kind to enjoy the apparent desirableness of the place—will not allow me to appreciate the favour intended. And the lusus naturæ of all the regions we have passed, within a few hours, from that point, till we came to anchor this evening—the veriest sportings of nature, in her most fantastic creations of islets, and bays, and straits; the former springing up and the latter opening in every direction; accompanied with the thought, that nowhere among them all rests the habitation of civilized man, or is often found the track of the savage;—these all made fancy more vivid, romance more romantic, and the very wildness of nature more wild. We also passed the ruins of another fort, on the island of St. Joseph, a valuable and beautiful territory, twenty miles by ten, lifting up a mountain in its centre, and said to embosom a mine of silver, known only to an Indian, whose guardian spirit will not permit either himself, or others, to reap the advantages of the disclosure. This island, formerly belonging to the United States, has, by the recent settlement of the boundary line, fallen to the British Government, in exchange, we may suppose, for Drummond’s Isle.
On turning an island of some two or three miles in extent this afternoon—(for since we entered the straits, we have been penetrating the vast cluster of islands, with which the northern parts of Huron are sprinkled, of such various dimensions, that some of the smallest, crowned with trees and shrubbery, have reminded me of the tuft of feathers in the peacock’s head, and they are scarcely less beautiful)—on turning this island, and running into a bay of some several miles in diameter, we suddenly met an Indian canoe, of great beauty, its sides and many paddles glaring with various and rich colours, propelled by eight Indians, dressed in a singularly gaudy, yet uniform costume;—who bore down upon us with apparent intent of speaking. But our canoe, not responding with a favourable disposition to their signs, but dashing forward with unbending course, the Indians suddenly lifted their paddles from the water, and sat down. When lo! a white man, well dressed, stood up in the middle of the bark, uncovered, and made obeisance. We all responded. But the distance was too great to hold a conversation. Our captain, knowing his time was precious, to accomplish the object of the day—that is, to get to the Falls, which after all we have not reached—and being more accustomed to such sights than we, did not show himself inclined to gratify our curiosity, in coming to an interview. Whereupon, as the gentleman in the canoe found he could not speak us, he resumed his sitting out of our sight; and the Indians, rising to their paddles, gave one tremendous and frightful yell, resounding through all the bay, and sending back its echoes from the hills;—and then to a time-keeping song, they sprung away, as if in challenge, for a trial of speed with us, and darted off for the great lake, with a celerity, for which we all agreed to award them the victory;—and in a few moments they turned an island, and were out of sight. This unexpected and novel exhibition threw us all into an ecstacy of admiration. The singular costume of the Indians, with many and various coloured feathers, bending and waving on their heads; the exquisite beauty of their canoe; their paddles of the most glaring red, so far as they are immersed; the perfect time and admirable exactitude of their movements, as if they and their bark were only so many parts of a piece of mechanism; and the amazing celerity, with which they seemed to fly over the tops of the waves;—absolutely confounded all the ideas I had ever indulged of the Indian’s skill and dexterity in this exercise.
I would here remark, that this canoe had been charted, as was afterwards learned, by the gentleman passenger before noticed, to take him from the Falls of St. Mary to Mackinaw, a distance of an hundred miles, the half of which is over the open sea of Huron. This mode of travelling in the North-West, resorted to by necessity, is not only a substitute for stage-coaches and steam-boats, but is scarcely less expeditious, when the canoe is manned and propelled by a select corps of Indians.
Our passage this afternoon has been picturesque and interesting, especially when allied to its associations, beyond my powers to describe. The scenery in itself stands unrivalled, by anything I have ever seen, or conceived, for its variety, and wildness, and beauty. And then it is to be observed, that scarcely a trace of man is left imprinted here, except rarely, upon the shores, may be found the marks of a transient Indian encampment;—that the forests are so dark and thick, that the wild buck, with his branching horns, cannot run among them;—that the trees and shrubbery are of a character peculiar to the climate;—and that innumerable firs may be seen shooting up their conical tops, over the rest of the forest, not inferior, in the exactitude and symmetry of their proportion, to the most beautiful spire of a church. And the frequent islands, together with the straits and bays, which they necessarily create, would utterly defy any but an experienced pilot, with his compass, to make his way from Lake Huron to Lake Superior. Often we have seemed to be running directly on the shore; when in an instant some channel, darkened by the overhanging wood, opened and invited us to enter, as the only way of egress. And then again a half-dozen channels offer themselves, each perhaps equally attractive, and confounding choice. And their serpentine course, and the abruptness of their angles, after once the right one is selected, by dodging the islands and shooting across the bays;—the alternate expansions and contractions, forming successively small basins and narrows;—contribute equally to amaze and delight the unexpecting voyager. Hills and mountains too, in every shape—not even the likeness of which presents itself on any shore of the lakes between this region and Buffalo—here lift themselves up in near and distant vision, one above another, restoring the long-lost charm of such a scene, and making the accustomed tenant of the hills at home again.
The chapter of incidents also gave additional variety and interest to this new and rapidly shifting scene. On turning one of those sharp angles, about twenty miles above the point, where we first entered these straits, some lodges of Indians, as they are called, perched in the bushes on the bank, opened upon us, being recognised by the reflection of white birch bark, with which they are covered. These lodges, are made as light, and are as soon taken down and removed, as a soldier’s camp tent. And they are the only habitations of the wild Indians, in their migratory enterprises of war, hunting, and fishing. In these regions, indeed, they have little else to shelter them, either in winter, or summer. The wall of the lodge, is a sort of mat, or woven texture of the wild rice stalk, found growing in shallow waters; and which, after being shaken of its fruits into a floating canoe, for food, is pulled up and manufactured into this useful article, serving, like the Turk’s rug, for bed and chair, to the more luxurious; and also for a part of the lodge, or house, by being drawn, itself erect, in a circle of some ten, or fifteen feet in diameter, according to the extent of the household to be accommodated;—the whole being capped with pieces of birch bark to turn the rain; in the apex of which, ordinarily from six to ten feet in elevation, is left a small aperture for the escape of the smoke. The Indians here, depending more upon fish, than upon the chase, make these slender encampments immediately upon the margin of the waters, each consisting generally, in times of peace, of a group of a few families, with one canoe, or two, for each household, according to its number. At a few minutes’ notice, whether started by alarm, or actuated by motives of change, the whole encampment, with all their furniture, may be seen afloat, and darting off for some new retreat. The encampment is again established, with the same dispatch, as that, which characterised its breaking up;—and they are all at home again, with their canoes drawn ashore, and turned bottom upwards; and the smoke is seen, emitting its lazy currents from their newly-erected lodges.
One of these encampments suddenly burst upon us, as we made a turning this afternoon. Immediately a canoe, filled with these sons of the forest—and it might be added, the lords of these wild waters—with rifles in hand, launched from the shore, in our advance, and bore down upon us. And what was amusing, the American ensign floated over it, though somewhat smoked and rent by use, or abuse. This was an indication, that a chief was on board of the canoe, as men of this rank in the Tribes within the jurisdiction of the United States, are often presented with a government flag. On the Canadian frontier they are not unfrequently able to display the flag of either nation, Great Britain, or the States, as may suit their purposes. Instantly, as they shot from the shore, a feu de joie saluted us; and the channel, pent up by the dark forests, echoed as briskly with the popping of their rifles, as if they had been engaged in a running fight. They seemed to paddle with one hand, and load and fire with the other; and in such rapid succession, that no Yankee could equal them, even with both hands. But with all their eagerness and noise, they could not bring our captain to speak. Whether he doubted their intent, and was afraid of being shot, I cannot tell. Perceiving the captain’s incivility, and themselves fast dropping astern of us in consequence, down went their rifles into the bottom of the canoe, and both hands of every Indian being applied to the paddles, they seemed resolved on overtaking us: and so indeed they did, deciding the question at once, that the Indian paddle is swifter than steam. As a reward for this extraordinary feat,—they seeming no wise unfriendly in their dispositions, but making all signs of good feeling, laughing, and rattling off with indescribable volubility their unintelligible jargon—we threw them a tow-line, and having caught it, they immediately dropped under our stern;—and in this relation we held a long parley with them, by means of an interpreter on board our vessel, ascertaining them to be of the Chippewa tribe, and possessing ourselves of sundry items of information, which they were able to communicate, and which we were curious and much gratified to know. Some of our passengers, delighted with such a visit, threw them some pieces of money; and the scramble, which ensued in the canoe, plainly proved, that however perfect their unsophisticated society may be, they had not yet arrived to the happy condition of holding all things common. The amusement, which this strife occasioned, turned out to the no small profit of the Indians. For a shower of copper and silver coin poured into the canoe, till they all had busy work in picking it up. And when, perchance, a white piece fell into the water—(as some of them did)—alas! what a grave countenance the poor Indians put on, and smote their hands in agony, and looked up, as if they were about to expire with regret. The rattling of another piece of coin in the bottom of their canoe would bring them to their senses again, and renew the squabble. When, however, the purse was satisfied, in rendering its contents, a bottle of whiskey, with a cord to its neck, was lowered to the eager grasp of these tawney and simple folk. But not being inclined to drink it on the spot, how should they dispose of it, and return the bottle, which for some reason was not offered them. It was a decanter, I believe, belonging to the steward. Necessity being the mother of invention, a smoked tin kettle, of some gallons’ capacity, used for cooking over their fires, yet having been well cleaned by the tongue of the dogs, the common way of performing this office—was snatched up from the bottom of the canoe for the occasion, and received the contents. The bottle was returned, and filled, and sent down again, a plural number of times; till, I am sorry to say, they had got enough, in their capacious vessel, to make the whole camp drunk—and which will probably occasion a famous pow-wow, or Indian carousal. After our guests had been kept in tow long enough to satisfy curiosity, and to enrich them by these bounteous gifts, we let them drop, and they returned to their lodges.
A few miles above at another turning, another Indian camp, and much larger than the last, opened upon us, showing an extended cluster of lodges, on the shore; and numerous canoes drawn up in the usual style. As they were unapprised of our coming, they seemed utterly amazed—and men, women, and children ran about, and the dogs barked, as if confusion and war had come upon them. Immediately the men darted from their lodges, with rifle in hand, while the women and children launched the canoes; and in the shortest imaginable space we were right on the shore, within thirty feet of this strange assemblage of human beings;—and pop—pop—pop—went their rifles, directly at us, in a quick and furious volley, as if they would shoot every one of us from the deck. I am sure for one, I started back, contracted myself within the smallest possible dimensions, and dodged a little. And I dare to say, I was not alone in these sensations. To be thus saluted, by such uncertain beings, having nothing to defend us, was not altogether welcome. Even if their rifles had nothing in them more solid, the very wadding might have come in our faces. No one, however, was killed; and it proved to be a mere feu de joie, to express how glad they were to see us. Ours is only the third Steam-packet, that has ever penetrated this region; and this particular group of Indians probably never saw one before. We soon ran by them; but had not passed out of sight, before we plunged upon a sand-bar. This accident gave them an opportunity to fill their canoes, and come along side, and offer their assistance and hospitality: the manner of which was certainly very grateful, although the things offered were not very valuable. While we were engaged in working off the vessel, which occupied an hour, they amused us greatly by their talk and manners, and received, like our other guests, no trifling donations from the passengers—not trifling to them. Through ignorance of these channels, we have run aground some half-dozen times, and being overtaken by night, in this wild and dark retreat, under the very boughs of the forest, we are compelled to lie at anchor, and wait for day-light—within five miles of our place of destination:—the Saut de St. Marie.