Exhibition rooms—Great crowd—The “jolly fat dame”—Her interview with Cadotte—She gives presents to all the Indians—Excitement in the crowd—Women kissing the Indians—Red paint on their faces and dresses—Old Chief’s dream and feast of thanksgiving—An annual ceremony—Curious forms observed—Indians invited to the St. George’s archery-ground—They shoot for a gold medal—They dine with the members of the club—The “jolly fat dame” and Cadotte—She takes him to his lodgings in her carriage—Cadotte (or the “Strong-wind”) gets sick—Is in love with another!—Daniel unfolds the secret to her—Her distress—She goes to the country—The “jolly fat dame” returns—Cadotte’s engagement to marry—Rankin promotes the marriage—The Author disapproves of it.

The reader will easily imagine the position of the Indians at this time to have been a very pleasant and satisfactory one to themselves—all in good health; having seen and pleased the Queen; having met the public several times in the great city of London, where their Hall was crowded every night, and was likely to continue so; where everybody applauded, and many bestowed on them presents in trinkets and money; with plenty of roast beef, and withal indulged in their chickabobboo. The old chief had finished his talks on religion, and Cadotte was in the delightful state of incubation under the genial warmth of the wing of the jolly fat dame.

The Hall on this evening was as overflowing as on the previous nights. The “jolly fat dame” had been the first one at the door, and, by the power of her smiles upon Daniel’s gallantry, she had passed in before the hour for admitting the public. This had most luckily (and bewitchingly, as she did not expect it) allowed her a delightful tÊte-À-tÊte of a few minutes with Cadotte, who happened to be sauntering about in the half-lighted hall of the exhibition, while the Indians were in an ante-chamber, putting on their streaks of paint, and arranging their locks of hair and ornaments for the evening. Lucky, lucky hour! What passed there in these few minutes nobody knows. One thing, however, we may presume, did pass in that short time. Upon Daniel’s authority she had a letter in her hand when she entered, and which was never identified on her person afterwards, though a similar one poor Cadotte was seen poring over for several subsequent days, at odd spells, like a child at its task in its spelling-book. As she was first in, she took her old position, which had afforded her so much pleasure the evening before. As her heart was more smitten, her hand became more liberal: she had come this night loaded with presents, and dealt them out without stint to the whole party. As each one received his brooch, or his pin, or his guard-chain, he held it up and gave a yell, which made the good lady’s kindnesses subjects of notoriety; and we believed, and feared also, that her vanity was such, that, to make the most of the occasion, she drew upon some of the most costly of the ornaments that adorned her own ample person. During the excitement thus produced by the distribution of her trinkets, some female in the midst of the crowd held up and displayed a beautiful bracelet “for the first one who should get to it.” Three or four of the young fellows, with their naked shoulders and arms, leaped with the rapidity almost of lightning into the screaming mass. The little Sah-mah, who was the beau-ideal of Indian beauty among them, bore off the prize. As there was not the same inducement for retracing their steps, and they were in the midst of strong inducements to stay in the crowd, it became exceedingly difficult to get them back, and to resume the amusements of the evening. Many ladies were offering them their hands and trinkets: some were kissing them, and every kiss called forth the war-whoop (as they called it, “a scalp”). The women commenced it as Sah-mah had dashed into the crowd; and as he was wending his way back, finding it had pleased so well, he took every lady’s hand that was laid upon his naked arm or his shoulder as a challenge, and he said that he kissed every woman that he passed. This may or may not be true; but one thing is certain, that many there were in the room that evening who went home to their husbands and mothers with streaks of red and black paint upon their cheeks, which nothing short of soap and water could remove. And, curious to relate, when the amusements were finished, and the audience nearly withdrawn, and the “jolly fat dame” was strolling about the room, she met her two maids, to whom she had given their shillings, and told them to “go and see the Indians.” These two buxom young girls had been in the midst of the crowd, and, both of them having met with the accident I have mentioned above, the good-natured fat lady glowed into a roar of laughter as she vociferated, “Why, girls, you husseys, you have been kissing those Indians! Bless me, what a pretty figure you cut! why, your faces are all covered with red paint!” “And your face, mistress! Look here! all one side of your face, and on your neck! Oh, look at your beautiful new lace!” And it was even so; but how it happened, or where, or in what part of the excitement, or by whom, is yet to be learned.

Leaving these excitements for a while, which were now become of nightly occurrence, we come to one of a different character and of curious interest. It is impossible for me to recollect the day, but it was about this time, the old chief related to Mr. Rankin a dream which he had had the night before, which made it incumbent upon them to make a feast, and of course necessary for Mr. Rankin and myself to furnish all the requisite materials for it.

In his dream (or “vision,” as he seemed disposed to call it) he said the Great Spirit appeared to him, and told him that he had kept his eye upon them, and guarded and protected them across the great ocean, according to their prayers, which he had heard; that he had watched them so far in this country; that they had been successful in seeing their Great Mother the Queen, and that they were now all happy and doing well. But in order to insure a continuance of these blessings, and to make their voyage back across the ocean pleasant and safe, it now became necessary that they should show their thankfulness to the Great Spirit in giving their great annual Feast of Thanksgiving, which is customary in their country at the season when their maize is gathered and their dried meat is laid in and secured for their winter’s food.

This injunction, he said, was laid upon him thus, and he could not from any cause whatever neglect to attend to it; if he did, he should feel assured of meeting the displeasure of the Great Spirit, and they should all feel at once distressed about the uncertainty of their lives on their way back. This Feast of Thanksgiving must be given the next day, and they should wish us to procure for them a whole goat, or a sheep, and said that it must be a male, and that they would require a place large enough to cook it without breaking a bone in its body, according to the custom of their country.

The request of this good old man was of course granted with great pleasure; and Mr. Rankin, in a short time, returned from the market with the sheep, which, on close inspection, seemed to please them; and a large chamber in the Egyptian Hall, which Mr. Clark, the curator of the building, had placed at their service, was decided on as the place where the feast should be prepared and partaken of. Mr. Clark and his wife, who are kind and Christian people, afforded them all the facilities for cooking, and rendered them every aid they could in preparing their feast; and the next day, at the hour appointed, it was announced to Mr. Rankin and myself that the “feast was ready, and that we were expected to partake of it with them.”

When we entered the room we found the feast arranged on the floor, in the centre of the large hall, and smoking, and the men all seated around it on buffalo robes; and the only two guests besides ourselves, my man Daniel and Mr. Clark, who were also seated. Two robes were placed for Mr. Rankin and myself, and we took our seats upon them. The three women of the party came in after we were all arranged, and, spreading their robes, seated themselves in another group at a little distance from us. A short time before the feast was ready, they sent Cadotte to me to request that I would buy for them a small cup of whisky, which was to be partaken of, “not as drink for the belly, but as drink for the spirit,” which by the custom of their country was absolutely necessary to the holding of their Feast of Thanksgiving. In this they were also, of course, indulged; and when we were seated, we found the whisky standing in front of the medicine-man in a small pewter mug.

Everything now being in readiness, the pipe was lit by the war-chief, who rose up with it, and, presenting its stem towards the north and the south, the east and the west, and then upwards to the Great Spirit, and then to the earth, smoked through it himself a few breaths, and then, walking around, held it to the lips of each one of the party (the women excepted), who smoked a whiff or two through it; after which he made a short and apparently vehement appeal to the Great Spirit to bless the food we were then to partake of. When he had taken his seat, the medicine-man took his wa-be-no (medicine-drum) and commenced beating on it as he accompanied its taps with a medicine song to the Great Spirit. When the song was finished he arose, and, shaking a rattle (she-shee-quoin) in his left hand, and singing at the same time, he handed the cup of whisky around to the lips of each guest, all of whom tasted of it; it was then passed to the women, who also tasted it, and returned it to its former position but partially emptied.

The War-chief then rose upon his feet, and, drawing his large knife from his belt, plunged the thumb and fore finger of his left hand into the sockets of the sheep’s eyes, by which he raised the head as he severed it from the body with his knife, and held it as high as he could reach. At this moment he returned his knife to its scabbard, and, seizing the she-shee-quoin (or rattle) in his right hand, he commenced to sing a most eccentric song as he shook his rattle in one hand and brandished the sheep’s head in the other, and danced quite round the circle between the feast and the guests, going so slow as to require some eight or ten minutes to get round. Having got round to his seat, he gave a frightful yell, and, raising the sheep’s head to his mouth, bit off a piece of it, and again danced until he had swallowed it. He then laid the head and the rattle at the feet of another, who sprang upon his feet, and, taking the sheep’s head and the rattle, performed the same manoeuvre, and so did a second and a third, and so on until each male of the party had performed his part. After this, the flesh was carved from the bones by the War-chief, and placed before us, of which we all partook. Parts of it were also carried to the women, and after a little time the greater part of the flesh of the carcase had disappeared.

It is worthy of remark, also, that at this strange feast there was nothing offered but the flesh of the sheep; but which was cooked in a manner that would have pleased the taste of an epicure.

When the eating was done, the war-chief took the rattle in his hand, and, lightly shaking it as a sort of accompaniment, took at least a quarter of an hour to repeat a long prayer, or return of thanks, to the Great Spirit, which was spoken (or rather sung than spoken) in a very remarkable and rapid manner. After this the pipe was lit, and, having been some three or four times passed around, the feast was finished, and we took leave.

I leave this strange affair (having described it as nearly as I possibly could) for the comments of the curious, who may have more time than I can justly devote to it at this moment, barely observing that the old chief, after this, seemed quite contented and happy that he had acted in conformity to the sacred injunction of the Great Spirit, and strictly adhered, though in a foreign country, to one of the established and indispensable customs of his race; for which, and for another cogent reason (that “his lips were getting very dry after eating so much”), he thought we would be willing (as of course we were) to let Daniel go for a jug of chickabobboo.

The whole party now seemed to be completely happy, and in the midst of enjoyment. They were excited and amused every night in their exhibitions, which afforded them wholesome exercise; and during the days they took their drives through the city and into the country, and beheld the sights of the great metropolis, or reclined around their rooms on their buffalo robes, enjoying their pipes and counting their money, of which they had received some thirty or forty pounds, presented to them in the room at various times, independent of that received from her Majesty, and their wages, and trinkets, and other presents.

Of their drives, one of the most exciting and interesting that they had or could have in London was about this time, when her Majesty rode in state to the opening of Parliament. They were driven through the immense concourse of people assembled on the line and along Parliament-street, and conducted to a position reserved for them on the roof of St. Mary’s chapel, near Westminster Abbey. From this elevated position they had a splendid bird’s-eye view of the crowd below, and the progress of the Queen’s state carriage, as it rolled along on its massive wheels of gold, and drawn by eight cream-coloured horses. So grand a pageant filled their rude, uncultivated minds with the strangest conjectures, which were subjects for several evenings’ curious gossip. And what seemed to please them most of all the incidents of the day was, as they said, “that her Majesty and the Prince both most certainly looked up from their golden carriage to see them on the top of the church.”

They were also most kindly invited by the members of the St. George’s Archery Club to witness their bow-and-arrow shooting on one of their prize-days. This was calculated to engage their closest attention; and at night they returned home in great glee. They had been treated with the greatest kindness by the gentlemen of that club. They had put up a gold medal for the Indians to shoot for, which was won by Sah-mah (Tobacco), and other prizes were taken by others of the party.[12] The first shot made by the young man who bore off the golden prize was said to have been one of the most extraordinary ever made on their grounds; but in their subsequent shooting they fell a great way short of it, and also of that of the young gentlemen belonging to the club. After the shooting of the Indians, and also of the members of the club, contending for their valuable prizes, the Indians were invited to their table, where a sumptuous dinner was partaken of. Many toasts were drunk, and many speeches made; and, to their agreeable surprise, as they said, they had plenty of the Queen’s chickabobboo!

They continued their amusements nightly, much in the same way as I have above described, with full houses and similar excitements, all of which and their effects we will imagine, as I pass over a week or two of them without other notice than merely to say that the “jolly fat dame” still continued to visit them, as she had promised, and nightly to strengthen the spell she seemed to be working upon the heart of poor Cadotte. She was elegant, but rather fat. She rode in a good carriage. She bestowed her presents liberally, and on all; and insisted the whole time that “it was the most interesting exhibition she ever saw,” and that “Cadotte was almost a giant!” “She could not keep away, nor could she keep the Indians out of her mind.” All were inquiring who she could be, and nobody could tell. She had delivered three or four letters into Cadotte’s hand in the time; and, though “her carriage could put him down at his door quite easy,” she had driven him home but one night, and then he was landed quite quick and quite safe. The Indians talked and joked much about her, but Cadotte said little. He was young, and his youth had had a giant growth in the timid shade of the woods. He was strong; but he knew not the strength that was in him, for he had not tried it. He was like a mountain torrent—dammed up but to burst its barriers and overflow. The glow of this fair dame upon him was a sunshine that he had never felt, and, like the snow under a summer’s sun, he was about to have melted away. In the simplicity of his native ambition, he had never aspired to anything brighter than his own colour; and few were dreaming till just now that the warrior Cupid was throwing his fatal arrows across the line. Nor did those who suspected them (or even saw them), from the source that has been named, know more than half of the shafts that were launched at the “Strong-wind” at this time, nor appreciate more than half the perplexities that were wearing away his body and his mind. He knew them, poor fellow, and had felt them for some time; but the world saw no symptom of them until his treatment of this fair dame on one night set them inquiring, when they found that she, with her little archer, was not alone in the field.

Reader, we are now entering upon a drama that requires an abler pen than mine, which has been used only to record the dry realities of Indian life, stripped of the delicious admixture which is sometimes presented when Cupid and civilization open their way into it.

I regret exceedingly that I cannot do justice to the subject that is now before us; but, knowing the facts, I will simply give them, and not aspire to the picture, which the reader’s imagination will better paint than my black lead can possibly draw.

On the unlucky evening above alluded to the “jolly fat dame” had made her appearance at the rooms half an hour before the doors were to open; and, with Daniel’s usual indulgence, she passed into the room, in the hope, as she said, to have a few words with the Indians, and shake hands with them all, and bid the good fellows good by, as she was going into the country for a few days. She loitered around the room until it began to fill with its visitors for the evening, without the good luck to meet the “Strong-wind,” as she had been in the habit of doing, before the chandelier was in full blaze, and while the Indians were in their adjoining room, putting on their paint and ornaments. This disappointment, for reasons that she probably understood better than we can, seemed to embarrass her very much, and most likely, even at that early stage, carried forebodings of troubles that were “brewing.” In the embarrassment of these painful moments, not being able to spend the evening in the exhibition, as usual, but under the necessity of returning to pack her things and complete her preparations for her journey, she was retreating towards the door as fast as the audience filled in in front, determined to hold a position in the passage where she could shake hands with the Indians as they passed in, and drop a little billet into the hands of the “Strong-wind,” which, if received, was intended only to stop a sort of palpitation there would be in the side of her breast, in case she should have gone off to the country without informing the “Strong-wind” of it, and that she was to return again in a very few days.

Unlucky device! The Indians all passed by, excepting the “Strong Wind,” and, as each one shook her hand, he saluted her with a yelp and a smile. All this was gratifying to her, but added to the evident fever that was now coming on her. She paced the hall forward and back for some time, living yet (and thriving) upon the hope at that moment raised in her mind, that he (“noble fellow!”) was hanging back in order to have a moment of bliss alone with her in the hall, after the gazing visitors had all passed by. This hope sustained her a while, and she many times more walked the length of the passage, but in vain. At this moment the sound of the drum and the echoing of the war-whoop through the hall announced their exhibition as commenced; and the liberal dame, advancing to the door, and standing on tiptoe, that she might take a peep once more at the good fellows over the heads of the audience, beheld, to her great astonishment, the noble figure of the “Strong-wind,” swinging his tomahawk, as he was leading the dance! Unhappy dame! the room was closely stowed, and not the possibility left of her getting half way to her old stand by the end of the platform, if she tried.

This dilemma was most awful. The thought of actually “going off to the country, as she had promised, for several days, without the chance to say even good bye, or to shake hands, was too bad,—it was cruel!” She went to the door to see Daniel, and said, “Well, this is very curious; I wanted to have seen Cadotte for a moment before I went away, and I can’t stay to-night. I shook hands with all the rest as they went in, but I did not see Cadotte. I don’t understand it.” “Why,” said Daniel, “the poor fellow is not here to-night; he’s getting sick: he was here when you first came in, but he shot out a few moments afterwards, and told me to tell you, if you came, that he was too unwell to be here to-night. He is looking very pale and losing flesh very fast, and his appetite is going. He has only danced once or twice in the last week.” “Poor fellow! I am sorry. What a pity if he should get sick! I don’t see what they would do without him; he is worth more than the whole party besides. He’s a fine young man. What an immense fellow he is! Did you examine his hand? What a grip he has got—ha! I may not go to-morrow, but if I do, it will only be for a few days. I have promised to go, and you know it is wrong to break promises, Daniel. If anything should prevent me from going to-morrow I shall certainly be here again to-morrow night. Poor fellow! I hope he won’t get sick: I think a little ride in the country would do him good. Mr. Catlin ought to send him into the country for a while. That’s what he should do, shouldn’t he? I won’t stand here too long, Daniel; it’s rather a cold place: so good night.”

It was a fact that the “Strong Wind” was getting sick; and a fact also that Daniel thought he had gone home, as he told the good lady; and two other facts followed the next day—the one was, that the journey to the country was not made that morning; and the other, that the “jolly fat dame” was at the Hall at an early hour of the evening as usual. Her visit was carefully timed, so as to allow her a little time for gossip with Daniel at the door, and to subject her to the delightful possibility of accidentally meeting the “Strong Wind” as she had sometimes done, in the half-lighted hall.

“You see, Daniel, that I didn’t get off this morning; and when I am in London I cannot keep away from those curious fellows, the Indians. They are here, I suppose, before this?” “Yes, madam, they have just come in in their bus.” “Well, how is Cadotte? he is my favourite, you know.” “Well,” said Daniel, “I don’t think he’s any better: I believe there is but one thing that will cure him.” “Bless me, you don’t say so! What do you think is the matter with him?” “Why, I think he is in love, madam; and I don’t believe there is anything under heaven else that ails him.” “Oh! now, but you don’t think so, do you, really?” “I do, indeed, madam; and I don’t wonder at it, for there are charms that are lavished upon him that are enough to——” “Oh! come, come, now, Daniel, don’t give us any of your dry compliments. He’s a fine man, certainly—that I know, and I should be sorry if he should get sick. He will be in the exhibition, I suppose, to-night?” “No, madam, I saw him a few minutes since, and he had lain down on his buffalo robe on the floor, and I heard him tell Mr. Rankin that he should not go into the room to-night; that he did not feel well enough.” “So, you cruel man, you think the poor fellow is in love, do you?” “I am sure of it, madam: in the next house to where the Indians lodge there is one of the most beautiful black-eyed little girls that I have seen since I have been in London, and, by putting her head out of the back window to look at the Indians, and by playing in the back yard, she long since showed to everybody who saw her that she was fascinated with Cadotte. She used to kiss her hand to him, and throw him bouquets of flowers, and, at last, letters.” “Pshaw!” “It’s true! And, finally, she and her sisters got in the habit of coming in to see the Indians, and, at last, the father, and mother, and brother; and they all became attached to Cadotte, and invited him to their house to take tea with them and spend the evenings; and he has at last become so perfectly smitten with the girl that he is getting sick: that is the reason why he is not at the Hall more than three evenings in the week; he spends his evenings with her, and often don’t get home before twelve and one o’clock.” “Oh, but you shock me, you shock me, Daniel—but I don’t believe it—I can’t believe it—he couldn’t be led away in that silly manner—I don’t believe a word of it. You say he is in the dressing-room?” “Yes, madam, I know he is there.” “You don’t think he’ll come into the exhibition-room to-night?” “No, I know he will not.” “You don’t think he would come out a minute? I can’t stay to-night, and I shall certainly go in the morning. I must go—you don’t think he would come out?” “I don’t know, madam; I will ask him if you wish.” “Well, do, Daniel; come, that’s a good fellow—or, stop!—look here—just hand him this note; it is merely to say good bye: give it to him, and only tell him I am here, will you, and going out of town to-morrow morning?”

Daniel took in the note to the “Strong Wind,” who was lying on his robe, and in a minute returned with the note and this awful message:—“Tell her she may go out of town—I don’t wish to see her.” This was as much of his ungallant message as Daniel could venture to bear to the good lady, though the “Strong Wind” continued to say, “Take the note back to her: she is making too free with me, and all the people see it. She wants a husband too bad, and I hope she will soon get one.” Daniel returned the note, and apologized for being the bearer of such a message to her; but he said, as he had carried her message to Cadotte, he felt bound to bring his message back. “Certainly, certainly,” said she; “I can’t blame you, Daniel; but this is strange—all this is strange to me; it’s quite incomprehensible, I assure you. The crowd is coming in, I see, Daniel; and I can’t possibly be here through the evening, I’ll be here as soon as I come back. Good night.”

One can easily imagine how the peace of the bosom of this good-natured unoffending lady was broken up by the abrupt way of the “Strong Wind,” and how unhappy might have been the few days she was to spend in the country, and which she could not then fail to do, as she had made a promise to friends, that she could not break. By her absence from the exhibition-room for a week or more, it was evident that she was accomplishing her visit to the country; and, though her little archer was unemployed in her absence, it would seem as if the very show of so many bows and arrows in the great city of London had suddenly called into existence, or into service, a reinforcement of those little marksmen, who were concentrating their forces about this time, and seemed to be all aiming their shafts at the breast of the “Strong Wind.” There were several fair damsels who nightly paid their shillings, and took their positions near the platform, in a less conspicuous way, though not less known to the “Strong Wind,” than our friend who had “gone for a while to the country.” From the fair hands of these he had received, unobserved, many precious and sly gifts, and amongst them several little billets of the most sentimental nature, containing enclosures of beautiful little stanzas, and cards of address, &c.

Among this jealous group of inveterate gazers and admirers was always, though most coy and least noticed, the sweet little “black-eyed maiden” of whom I have said Daniel gave some account to the good lady who has gone to the country, as having “kissed her hand and thrown bouquets of flowers” to the “Strong Wind” from the back windows of her father’s house in George-street. The whole soul of the “Strong Wind,” which, until now, had been unchained and as free as the mountain breeze, was completely enveloped in the soft and silken web which the languishing black eyes, the cherry and pulpy lips, and rosy cheeks of this devouring little maid had spun and entwined about it. He trembled when he straightened his tall and elegant figure above the platform, not that he was before the gazing world, but because her soft black eyes were upon him. His voice faltered and his throat was not clear when he brandished his glistening tomahawk and sounded the shrill war-whoop. This was not that the ears of hundreds, but that the ears of ONE, were open to catch the sound.

His heart was now free, for a few days at least, from the dangers of the first siege, the guns of which for the time were all silent. The glances of his eyes and his occasional smiles were less scrupulously watched; and now and then they could be welcomed by sweet returns. He had now but one real enemy in the field, and his shafts, though they went to his inmost soul, were every one of them welcome messengers of peace and love.

Thus besieged, thus pierced and transfixed, the “Strong Wind” did as much as he could to continue his natural existence, to eat his accustomed meals, and to act his customary parts in the dance; but efforts all seemed in vain. The sweet and balmy-sleep that had been the pleasure of his untaught youth had fled; roast beef and plum-puddings, his favourite bits, had ceased to please him; sighs and long breaths had taken all the place of peaceful and equal respiration; the paleness of his face showed there was trouble within; his noble frame and giant strength were giving way; and save the devouring pleasure that was consuming him, nothing was acceptable to him but seclusion and his occasional mugs of chickabobboo.

All things at the Egyptian Hall went on as usual for several days, the Indians giving their nightly entertainments, but without the aid of the “Strong Wind,” and consequently without the presence of the “languishing little black eyes” that used to be seen peeping over the corner of the platform. The reader (who has heard already that the “Strong Wind” loved to ride home with this sweet little creature—that he took his dishes of tea in her father’s house, which was next door—and that he often stayed there until twelve and one o’clock at night) can easily understand how the time now passed with the “Strong Wind,” and how hopeless were to be the chances of the good dame who had “gone to the country but for a few days, where she had promised to go, but from which she was soon to return.” The reader who is old enough will easily understand also why the “Strong Wind” grew pale; how it was that everything ceased to taste good—beautiful things to look pretty; and why I had to translate, as well as I could, the speeches of the Indians, who now had no better interpreter.

The exhibition-room continued to be filled night after night without the presence of the “Strong Wind;” and at length, on one of these occasions, the “jolly fat dame,” who had gone to the country for a few days, presented herself at the door as usual before the audience had assembled. She was admitted by Daniel’s kindness; and as she got into the passage, the party of Indians came in from their omnibus, and, passing her, gave her their hands, and as they passed on each one gave a hideous yell. She seemed delighted at this, and, turning to Daniel, said, “Oh, did you hear the poor fellows rejoicing? they are delighted to see me back again.” “Why, madam,” said Daniel, “that was the war-whoop; and when that is given, the tomahawk always follows.” She seemed a little startled at this; “But,” said she, “the good fellows, I have lots of fine presents here for them to-night; I can make it all right with them I think. But I don’t see Cadotte—I hope he’s not sick—he’s a splendid fellow—I have not seen a man like him in all my travels in the country, and I have been a great way. I have a nice present for him, d’ye see?—is’nt that a fine brooch? I know he’ll like it.” “But I fear you are too late, madam—I believe it is all over with him.” “What! you don’t mean to say that he is dead?” “No, he’s not dead, but he’s nearly as bad—he don’t come here at all—he don’t eat or drink—he’s pining away for that pretty little girl I told you of. It’s been all her doing: the foolish girl fell in love with him, and is determined to have him, and I believe he will marry her.” “Oh, pshaw! fie on it! I don’t believe a word of it;—they will get over it all in a day or two.” The kind lady after this took her position in the Hall as usual, and during the exhibition smiled on all the group, and dealt out her presents to them, and went home as usual well pleased.

Most curiously, all this affair of Cadotte’s and the sweet-mouthed, black-eyed little girl, had passed unnoticed by me, and I had of course entirely mistaken his malady, having sent my physician to attend him. His symptoms and the nature of his disease were consequently fully understood by examinations of the patient and others who had watched closely all the appearances from the commencement of his attack. Getting thus a full report of the case, I held a conversation with Mr. Rankin, who at once told me that it had been well understood by him for some time, and that Cadotte had asked for his consent to marry the young lady, and that he had frankly given it to him. I told him I thought such a step should be taken with great caution, for the young lady was an exceedingly pretty and interesting girl, and, I had learned, of a respectable family, and certainly no step whatever should be taken in the affair by him or me without the strictest respect to their feelings and wishes. He replied that the mother and sisters were in favour of the marriage, and had been the promoters of it from the beginning; that the father was opposed to it, but he thought that all together would bring him over. I told him that I did not know either the father or the mother, but that, as long as there was an objection to it on the part of the father, I thought it would be cruel to do anything to promote it; and that, much as I thought of Cadotte, I did not feel authorized to countenance an union of that kind, which would result in his spending his life in London, where his caste and colour would always be against him, and defeat the happiness of his life; or she must follow him to the wilderness of America, to be totally lost to the society of her family, and to lead a life of semi-barbarism, which would in all probability be filled with excitements enough for a while, but must result in her distress and misery at last. To these remarks his replies were very short, evidently having made up his mind to let them raise an excitement in London if they wished, and (as I afterwards learned) if he could possibly bring it about.