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WM“ 77, ABROTHER CHIEF. ’ ‘J 9' ’8

BY E. PAULINE JOHNSON.

Inaccessible as is the haughty Iroquois, there are instances when he unbends with the most exquisite condescension from his rigid tribal ordinances, and confers both honor and favor where worth merits the distinction. His keep insight into national and individual character seldom deceives him; it has been too often whetted by the white man’s grinding stone of greed and injustice to lack an edge. There are few who meet the North American Indians disinterestedly; if native life is studied at all it is generally for gain. The researches made in archaeology and ethnology benefit not the subjects studied. The scholar but strengthens his own mental acquirements, just as the trade fattens his pocketbook. But there are to this class of self-seekers some noble and welcome exceptions, who are not only practically sympathetic regarding the rights of a royal humanity, but who are doing their utmost to show the world how the good old Indian character when unsullied by contamination with the vices of their white brethren, breathes nobility, romance and beauty, as forest pines in their native grandeur exhale a wild, stimulating perfume.

There is no nation in this world more tenacious of their birthrights--and of all heritages, chiefiainship ranks the highest. The “titled” families, exclusive and conservative for centuries, renew in each generation their claims to a peerage, the accession of which has never been weakened by the intermixture of race or blood. The Iroquois Chief possesses a purer pedigree, a “bluer” blood, than any hand, British or French, that ever planted the Red, White and Blue in his territory.

But there are rare instances where this rite of chieftainship has been conferred upon outsiders, and the one I have in my memory is the occasion when one of England’s young princes received this most exalted honor that his mother’s Indian subjects could bestow. The Duke of Connaught, who was cheered by all “Canada from sea to sea” two years ago, has for twenty years been possessed of the right to sit among the hereditary chiefs in the great council and to have a voice in the administration of the affairs of the Six Nations.

Twenty years ago! My childish recollection of the ceremony consists of such rude outlines that I fear they would make but a very unfinished sketch if reproduced unaided, but this old yellow newspaper bearing the date of October 2, 1869, will be admirable reference, and has the additional magic of having once been the property of the prince himself, and was sent to one of his favorite Mohawks with the direction written in the old-fashioned manner, on the wide white space near a big capital lettered heading. The ink is beginning to fade, but the writing, which is by the same pen as the little message inscribed on the inner margin, is still clear, with the firm English curve in its lettering, well known as that of the genial Arthur.

How he has changed since that day when some strong arm lifted me up to the windows and a kindly old gentleman took sufficient interest in my childish curiosity to tell me which was “the prince.” I cannot recall what I expected to see; what I did see was a slender,