Blackfoot Country, Sept. 2nd, 1862

(The following letter to Rev. Enoch wood was written by George McDougall in 1862 and published as a part of John McDougall's book George M. McDougall: Pioneer, Patriot and Missionary in 1888, pg 92 - 97. The first four sentences are used in the video shown at Victoria Settlement Provincial Historic Site, and are very familiar to the interpreters who work there.)

Dear Sir, - We are now in the country of the dreaded Blackfeet, and in the centre of the great prairie. All around us is strange. One seems to be carried back to some remote, long past age. Never before have I felt so forcibly a consciousness of my own insignificance. Hourly expecting an attack from a war-party, living upon the providence of Heaven, our covering the vaulted sky, our only refuge God - and blessed by his holy name, we are witness of His watchful providence over the wants of helpless man.

Our approach to the great camp was very exciting. On the little hillocks that surrounded the little hamlet sat the wild sentinels, each with a loaded gun. many scores of horses graced on the adjacent plain. The vast circle of tents, all made of the dressed skins of the buffalo, and many beautifully ornamented, presented a fine appearance. Once inside the enclosure, and we caught a gleam of savage life under one of its happiest aspects. The day's hunt had been successful.

Many fat animals had been captured, and stages in every direction were covered with the richest meat. Woman, the slave in all heathen lands, was hard at work, while her lord, robed and painted, sat smoking. An old conjurer fearing his craft was in danger, drummed and sang most lustily. We were received with the greatest kindness. Mas-ke-pe-toon, the head chief, set before us a kettle full of the choicest flesh. O-nah-tah-me-nah-oos, his second, placed his tent at our service. The feat over, the pipe of peace was passed round, and arrangements were made for evening service. How solemn, how burdened with the interest of eternity appears the hour when the Indian herald announced to his tribe the commencement of this first camp-meeting.

For ages these virgin plains had echoed to the hideous cry of the warrior and the dismal dirge of the conjurer, but now they resounded to the praise of the most High God. The appearance of the congregation was deeply interesting. The native Christians collected around the missionary. In the background sat the heathen, their fierce restless eyes and blood-stained faces proclaimed their allegiance to the Prince of Darkness. Yet for these degraded and benighted ones there is hope. The earnestness they manifested while listening to the Word cannot be described. Seventeen times we pointed them to the Lam of God which taketh away the sins of the world; and our last service was no only the best attended, but, we trust, the most effective. Oh, God of mercy, have mercy upon this perishing people; their cry, though unheard in Christian lands, is heard by Thee! By many a camp-fire, and in many a smoky lodge, our faithful missionaries have taught these natives the message of salvation, and who can estimate the fruit of their labor? Many of the pagans understand the syllabic characters, and have procured parts of the Book of God; and in this way in many hearts the heavenly leaven is spreading. The head chief, a fine old man, received a New Testament from Mr. Woolsey last winter. Every day he reads two chapters. He was reading the eight of Romans when I visited his tent.

While at the Cree camp, I attended, in company with my brethren, a funeral. The deceased was a little girl, and the parents were Christians. It was a sad and mournful spectacle, and powerfully demonstrated that the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty; and yet such are the anomalies of heathenism, that men who regard it as a merit and glory to murder a disarmed and helpless foe, and afterwards subject the lifeless body to the most shameful treatment, are no strangers to the tenderest sentiments of compassion for their relatives. The loss of parent or husband must be deplored with blood. A finger is cut off, or the arm pierced with a sharp flint, and the deeper the incision the more sincere the sorrow.

At the burial we joined in in order to prevent the enemy from discovering the new-made grave. Every effort was made to obliterate any sign thereof. If it had been winter time, a fire would have been built over the grave. In this case the sod was cut with a knife, the earth placed on a buffalo skin, and after the body was deposited the grave was filled and the sod perfectly replaced, the surface earth being removed to a distance. Yesterday Mr. Steinhauer left for his station. The company of our intelligent and useful Brother was very encouraging, and often reminded me of the venerated Wm. Case. By that man of God the Ojibeway boy was rescued from paganism and placed in a position to receive a respectable education, and now, while the benefactor rests from his labors, the Indian lad is a successful messenger of salvation to his wandering brethren. Parting with the Crees was very affecting. The native Christians cheerfully supplied us with provisions. The fierce pagans seemed to forget their natural ferocity, as one by one they came to bid us good-bye. The head chief and a number of his warriors escorted us some distance on the way. Farewell, ye simple children of the plains. May the Holy Spirit accompany with converting and sanctifying power the living truths to which you have listened.

We are now on our way to Fort Edmonton. The scenery is extremely beautiful. Judging from the appearance of these grassy plains, the soil must be very fertile. Animals are abundant. A herd of buffaloes allowed us to pass within fifty rods without showing fear. The elegant antelope bounded past us with incredible swiftness. More than a score of wolves were feasting on the carcass of a bull. The coyote, or smaller wolf, is frequently seen. Numbers of whitened antlers, some very large, show that we are in the neighborhood of the elk; but the king of the plains is the grizzly bear.

 

G. M. McDougall.

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