The Iroquois; or, the bright side of Indian character

by Anna C. Johnson

When Mary Jewison had been formally named De-he-wa-mis, they called her daughter and sister, and treated her in all respects as if she had been born among them and the same blood flowed in her veins; or rather they were accustomed to be more kind to captives than to their own children, because they had not been inured to the same hardships. There was no difference in the caresses bestowed, no allusion was made to the child as if it belonged to a hated race, and it never felt the want of affection.

Mary said her tasks were always light, and every thing was done to win her love and make her happy. She now and then longed for the comforts of her cottage home, and wept at the thought of her mother’s cruel death, but gradually learned to love the freedom of the forest, and to gambol freely and gayly with her Indian playmates. When she was named they threw her dress away, and clothed her in deer-skins and moccasins, and painted her face in true Indian style. She never spoke English in their presence, as they did not allow it; but, when alone, did not forget her mother’s injunction, and repeated her prayer and all the words she could remember, thus retaining enough of the language to enable her easily to [[144]]recall it when she should again return to civilized society, as she constantly indulged the hope of doing by an exchange of captives.

But when she was fourteen years of age her mother selected for her a husband, to whom she was married according to Indian custom. His name was She-nin-jee, and though she was not acquainted with him previously, and of course had no affection for him, he proved not only an amiable and excellent man, but a congenial companion, whom she loved devotedly. He had all the noble qualities of the Indian, being handsome, and brave, and generous, and kind, and to her ever gentle and affectionate.

Now she became thoroughly reconciled to Indian life, her greatest sorrow being the necessary absences of her husband on the war-path and hunting excursions. She followed the occupations of the women, and tilled the fields, dressed the skins, and gathered the fuel for the winter fires; and though this seems to us unfeminine labor, it was performed at their leisure, and occupied very little of their time.

When the hunters returned they were weary and passive, and seldom were guilty of fault-finding, and so well did an Indian woman know her duty, that her husband was not obliged to make known his wants. Obedience was required in all respects, and where there was harmony and affection, cheerfully yielded; and knowing as they did that separation would be the consequence of neglect of duty, and unkindness, there was really more self-control, and care about little things, than among those who are bound for life, weal and woe, love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. They did not agree to live together through good and through evil report, but only while they loved and confided in one another; and they were therefore [[145]]careful not to throw lightly away this confidence and affection.

The labor of the field was performed in so systematic a manner, and by so thorough and wise a division of labor, that there were none of the jealousies and envyings which exist among those who wish to hoard, and are ambitious to excel in style and equipage; and before the fire-water came among them dissensions of any kind were almost unknown. This has been the fruitful source of all their woes.

It was not till Mary became a mother that she gave up all longing for civilized society, and relinquished all hope of again returning to the abodes of white men. Now she had a tie to bind her which could not be broken. If she should find her friends they would not recognize her Indian husband, or consider her lawfully married; they would not care to be connected by ties of blood to a people whom they despised. Her child would not be happy among those who looked upon her as inferior, and she herself had no education to fit her for the companionship of white people. She looked upon her little daughter and said, “It is Sheninjee’s, it is dearer to me than all things else. I could not endure to see her treated with aversion or neglect.”

But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed [[146]]every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone.

But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearly than she did those who stood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words.

Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning [[147]]her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.