And now the old man, delighted with the addition to his autographs, proposed to treat us to an exhibition of several medals gained by him for deeds of valor when he was a warrior, and previously to his having entered upon the career of a bottler of root-beverages.  He had silver disks presented to him by at least two of Thackeray’s Georges, a couple from William IV., and I think one from her present Majesty, Queen Victoria.  All of these he touched with reverence, and not until he had purified his hands upon a dirty towel.  After we had duly admired these decorations, and listened with patience to the old man’s garrulous talk about them, he told us that he had yet another to show,—­one presented to him many years ago by a great man of that day,—­a man embalmed for all posterity on account of his unrivalled performances upon the tight-rope,—­a man of whom he reduced all description to mendicancy in designating him as un danseur tres-renomme sur la corde tendue.  The medal was a small silver one, and it bore the following inscription:—­

FROM EDMUND KEAN, THE BRITISH ACTOR,

TO TOUSSAHISSA, CHIEF OF THE HURON INDIANS. 1826.

And such is fame!  It appears that Kean, always fond of excitement, had organized a tremendous pow-wow among these poor specimens of the red man, on his visit to Quebec.  They adopted him,—­constituted him a chief of their tribe.  It would be interesting to have a full account of the great passionist’s demeanor upon that solemn occasion.  Did he harrow up his hearers with a burst from “Othello” or a deep-sea groan from “Hamlet,” and then create a revulsion of feeling by somersaulting over the centre-fire of the circle and standing on his head before it, grinning diabolically at the incensed pot?  Or did he, foreshadowing the coming Blondin, then unplanned, stretch his tight-rope across the small Niagara that flashes down into the chasm of the St. Charles, and, kicking his boots off, carry some “mute, inglorious” Colcord over in an Indian bark basket?  If he did such things, the old Huronite was foggy upon the subject and reserved, limiting his assertions to the statement, that “the British actor” was a farceur, and likewise un danseur tres-renomme sur la corde tendue.

Long afterwards, when I resided at Quebec, my visits to Lorette were very frequent.  Once, as I passed along the street, or road, between the straggling log-houses, I was accosted, in good English, by a fat and very jovial old squaw, who was attired in a green silk dress, sported a turban, and appeared to be altogether a superior kind of person.  On inquiry, I learned from her that she was the widow of a former chief of the tribe, and came originally from Upper Canada, where she learned to speak English.  Her husband had been presented with many medals, she said;—­would I like to see them?  I followed the old lady into her dwelling, where she showed me several silver medals, which I thought I recognized as the same exhibited by the aged Huronite with the red legs.  But the Kean medal was not among them; nor could I, by any system of description in my power, recall the features of the relic to the memory of the old squaw.