Staid mostly at our lodgings, writing, and
conversing with some intelligent travellers. One
of them related a conversation between one Frobish-
er, a merchant in the north-west trade, when at the
Grand Portage, west end of Lake Superior, and an
old Indian from the north-west; which so much co-
incided with my own sentiments, that I note it.
Frobisher was inquiring after the curiosities of the
northern clime, which the Indian related as far as
he had travelled — but added, that younger Indians,
who had travelled further north-west, had seen some
things still more wonderful. Frobisher asked him,
if he did not think some parts of their relation un-
true? The old Indian replied, no; it is not possible
it can be lies, for they had never seen a white man
in their lives! A severe reflection on Christians, so
called.

A woman was interred at the Roman cha-
pel, with the usual pomp, parade, and superstition.
Candles burning in clear sunshine — host and holy
water displayed — black pall surplices. All the males
bare-headed, walking slowly — the sexton going be-
fore, the host-bearer next, with a boy on each side,
carrying lighted candles. Then the priest, in his
pontifical robes, with a boy before him, with a brass
laver or font, containing the consecrated water, with
a brush in it. On each side of the priest were sing-
ers, dolefully humming Latin. The priest held a
book in his hand, which he sometimes opened, and
then sung Latin — several times sprinkling the bier
and pall with the water. The singers and boys bear-
ing the candlesticks and laver, as also those who
supported the bier, were clothed outside with black.
The bells rung frequently. Indeed, the whole pro-