The Indian possesses great taste, which is displayed in the carving of his paddles, in the shape of his canoes, in the elegance and symmetry of his bows, in the cut of his leggings and moccasins, the sheath of his hunting-knife, and in all the little ornaments in which he delights.  It is almost impossible for a settler to imitate to perfection an Indian’s cherry-wood paddle.  My husband made very creditable attempts, but still there was something wanting—­the elegance of the Indian finish was not there.  If you show them a good print, they invariably point out the most natural, and the best-executed figure in the group.  They are particularly delighted with pictures, examine them long, and carefully, and seem to feel an artist-like pleasure in observing the effect produced by light and shade.

I had been showing John Nogan, the eldest son of old Peter, some beautiful coloured engravings of celebrated females; to my astonishment he pounced upon the best, and grunted out his admiration in the most approved Indian fashion.  After having looked for a long time at all the pictures very attentively, he took his dog Sancho upon his knee, and showed him the pictures, with as much gravity as if the animal really could have shared in his pleasure.

The vanity of these grave men is highly amusing.  They seem perfectly unconscious of it themselves and it is exhibited in the most child-like manner.

Peter and his son John were taking tea with us, when we were joined by my brother, Mr. S—–.  The latter was giving us an account of the marriage of Peter Jones, the celebrated Indian preacher.

“I cannot think,” he said, “how any lady of property and education could marry such a man as Jones.  Why, he’s as ugly as Peter here.”

This was said, not with any idea of insulting the red-skin on the score of his beauty, of which he possessed not the smallest particle, but in total forgetfulness that our guest understood English.  Never shall I forget the red flash of that fierce dark eye as it glared upon my unconscious brother.  I would not have received such a fiery glance for all the wealth that Peter Jones obtained with his Saxon bride.  John Nogan was highly amused by his father’s indignation.  He hid his face behind the chief; and though he kept perfectly still, his whole frame was convulsed with suppressed laughter.

A plainer human being than poor Peter could scarcely be imagined; yet he certainly deemed himself handsome.  I am inclined to think that their ideas of personal beauty differ very widely from ours.

Tom Nogan, the chief’s brother, had a very large, fat, ugly squaw for his wife.  She was a mountain of tawny flesh; and, but for the innocent, good-natured expression which, like a bright sunbeam penetrating a swarthy cloud, spread all around a kindly glow, she might have been termed hideous.