The sachem of the Onondagas received me well and made me sit down on a mat. He spoke English and understood French; my guide knew Iroquois: conversation was easy. Among other things, the old man told me that, although his nation had always been at war with mine, he had always respected it. He complained of the Americans; he thought them greedy and unjust, and regretted that, in the division of the Indian territories his tribe had not gone to swell the lot of the English. The women served us with a meal. Hospitality is the last virtue left to the savages in the midst of European civilization; their hospitality is well known of old; the hearth had all the power of the altar. When a tribe was driven from its woods, or when a man came to demand hospitality, the stranger began what was called the dance of the supplicant. The child touched the door-sill and said:
"Here is the stranger."
And the chief replied:
"Child, bring the man into the hut."
The stranger entered, under the protection of the child, and sat down by the ashes on the hearth. The women sang the song of consolation:
The stranger has found a mother and a wife; the sun will rise and set for him as of old.
These customs seem borrowed from the Greeks: Themistocles, visiting Admetus, kisses the Penates and his host's young son (I have possibly at Megara trod upon the poor wife's hearthstone beneath which Phocion's cinerary urn lay concealed[478]); and Ulysses, visiting Alcinous, implores Arete:
"Noble Arete, daughter of Rhexenor, after suffering cruel ills, I throw myself at your feet[479]."
Having spoken these words, the hero goes towards the hearth and seats himself by the ashes.