—our alphabet-see by what an easy affiliation these letters compose themselves into words-knowing that each word is the condensation of a thought, as the invisible air condenses itself into raindrops, hail and snow; see these words then cumulating into sentences, thought upon thought; and reflect how these sentences, collected upon the page, may excite the emotion of other minds, we see something of the place and beauty and power of writing.

When, again, this writing is committed to letters; when we consider how much of the world's business is done by letter, and how they alone subserve its details and its needful privacy; or when we enter the home, with its affections-affections aching, perhaps, for just a bit of news from some other home; see what an educator the letter is to multitudes, who, with cramped fingers, and not always a good hit at spelling, are yet learning every time to do better; we learn, as they feel, the value and blessing of the Post-office.

When we recall what it has done from its inception; see the plethoric pouch of its carrier as he goes his round of drop-boxes, and returns, like a bee with its pockets full of pollen and honey for the hive to work up-and what is the Post-office, with its compartments and departments and busy swarm, but a hive of working bees? when we reflect upon the one item of Christmas money that goes out-pollen and honey for "the old folks at home," somewhere in the bogs of Ireland; we may understand the place and value of the New York Post-office. And when we multiply this great unit by hundreds or thousands, the country over, see the lines stretching, like a spider's web, from center to circumference; see the vast mass collecting, as our food does, from all parts and corners of the land and world; see it as an agency in binding hearts, nations, the common people everywhere, together; we may appreciate at something of its worth, the General Post-office. We shall then pay due honor to the man who, under British rule, as Postmaster-General, the first American, set its slumbering wheels in motion, gave it system, and made it pay-Benjamin Franklin; to the man who, under the Confederation, amid the prostration of everything, almost without help, and notwithstanding needful lenity to postmasters, by honesty, by great industry and self-denial, kept it running, and made it pay-Ebenezer Hazard; to the man who, though "the stars in their courses fought against " him, has in our own day, by great management and integrity, again made it pay-Thomas L. James. These three names stand out conspicuous with honor in the Postmaster-Generalship

مهشید

CHIEF GEORGE H. M. JOHNSON-ONWANONSYSHON

HIS LIFE AND WORK AMONG THE SIX NATIONS

The career of this eminent Mohawk chief, who did more perhaps than any other individual of our time for the elevation and advancement of his kindred of the red race, deserves a more permanent record than that of a newspaper obituary. His biography forms the latest and by no means the least interesting chapter in the annals of that famous Iroquois confederacy, which has held an important place in the history of the United States and Canada from the era of Champlain almost to our own day. As he claimed a descent from a companion and fellow-counselor of the great founder of the league, the brave but peace-loving lawgiver Hiawatha, so his character and his acts recall something of the traits and the deeds which authentic tradition ascribes to that no longer mythical hero.

The death of the chief occurred on the 19th of February, 1884, at his residence, Chiefswood, on the Grand River Reserve, in the Province of Ontario, a few miles from the city of Brantford. Though he had attained the age of sixty-seven, his death must be deemed premature. He belonged to a long-lived race and family. His venerable father, Chief John Smoke Johnson, for many years Speaker of the Six Nations' Council, in which he is known by his truly poetical Indian name of Sakayenkwaraghton, or "Disappearing Mist," is still living, in vigorous health of mind and body, at the age of ninety-two. The causes which enfeebled the stalwart frame. of his more noted son, and made his last illness fatal, were undoubtedly the injuries which he received in his endeavors to protect the morals and the property of his people from the white outlaws and desperadoes who formerly infested the Reserve. It is somewhat remarkable that an Iroquois chief should, in our peaceful time and among the quiet and law-respecting people of Canada, die from the effect of wounds received from his enemies of European race, as doubtless many of his predecessors had died in the fiercer days of old. But the conditions were strangely reversed. The conflict was still one of civilization with barbarism; but in this case Indian civilization stood at bay before White savagery, and conquered in the end, though at the expense of a noble life.

Chief George Henry Martin Johnson-as his name is recorded in full -was born on the 7th of October, 1816, at what is now known as Bow

Park, then a part of the Grand River Reserve, where his parents resided. Of his father, an eminent war-chief and orator of the Six Nations, who bore a notable part as a military leader in the war of 1812, some mention has already been made. On the mother's side the boy's lineage was, according to Indian notions, still more distinguished. Her family had taken the English name of Martin, and had some strain of European blood, derived from the marriage of an Indian chief, in former days, with a captive white girl, adopted into a Mohawk household. None the less it was known as one of the fifty noble families of the Iroquois confederacy, descended from the fifty great chiefs who, about the middle of the fifteenth century, under the leadership of Hiawatha, framed that confederacy, and thus founded an Indian state which was for a long time the dominant power on our continent north of Mexico. During the American war of Independence, this confederacy, in the clash of stronger forces, was for a time broken up. At the close of that war Brant and his followers, comprising the greater portion of the Iroquois people, left their ancient abodes on the south side of the lakes, and withdrew to Canada. The government for which they had fought gave them lands along the Grand River, from its source to its mouth; and here, just a hundred years ago, they re-established their league, and rekindled its council fire. The laws and policy framed by Hiawatha and his associates, more than four centuries ago, are still in force among their descendants in this district. The territory has shrunk, by many sales, made at the well-meant instance of the protecting government, to an extent of little more than fifty thousand acres, with a population of some three thousand souls. But in this small domain the chiefs are still elected, the councils are still conducted, and the civil policy is decided, as nearly as possible, by the rules of their ancient league. Not many persons are aware that there exists in the heart of Canada this relic of the oldest constitutional government of America-a free commonwealth, older even than any in Europe, except those of England and Switzerland and perhaps two small semi-independent republics which lurk in the fastnesses of the Pyrenees and the Apennines.

Chief John S. Johnson was in his way an educated man. He had learned to read and write, but only in the Mohawk language, as it was written by the missionaries. He was determined that his son should have better advantages than he had enjoyed, and accordingly sent him for a time to the school in the then small frontier village of Brantford. Here the lad showed an intelligence and an aptitude for learning which fortunately attracted the attention of a newly arrived missionary. This was the late Rev. Adam Elliot, a clergyman of the English church, who for many

years devoted himself with untiring zeal to the religious instruction of the Iroquois converts. He found their language-which is a peculiarly complex speech, and is broken up into several dialects-not easy to master. As the Mohawk (or Canienga) idiom was spoken by the largest number of the people, and was generally understood by the others, it occurred to him that his best course would be to train up an intelligent youth of that nation to interpret his exhortations to his hearers. Young George Johnson was recommended for this office, and thus had the good fortune to find

himself installed in Mr. Elliot's family, as at once his pupil and his assistant. He was still but a lad, and the instruction and practice which he needed to qualify him for his responsible duty occupied several years. To translate readily the recondite reasonings of an English sermon into a language of such a different type as the Iroquois was a task of no small difficulty. That he finally mastered this art, and was able to convey to an Indian audience, promptly and accurately, the meaning of the most complicated passage of an English speech, was admitted by all among his hearers who were acquainted with both languages. In translating rapidly from Iroquois

into English he was not always so happy. In his childhood he had spoken and thought only in Mohawk. English always remained to him, in a measure, a foreign speech; and a certain hesitation was sometimes apparent in finding the right word, which, however, usually came at last. But in his own language he was always ready, and could, when his feelings were stirred, rise into the eloquence proper to his race.

In 1840 young Johnson was formally appointed to the office of interpreter for the English Church Mission on the Reserve, an office which brought with it a small salary, and no little toil and exposure. He was the constant companion of the missionary in his rides or drives through the Reserve, over roads which then were bogs in the spring and autumn, and were commonly piled with snowdrifts in the winter. He had often to make long trips by himself, on horseback or on foot, by night as well as by day, to carry announcements, to read the services, and to visit the sick, when the missionary was otherwise engaged. But the work seemed light to him, for he was young and hardy, and his heart was entirely in it. His religious feelings were fervent; his attachment to the English Church was sincere; and his affection for his people amounted to a passion. Many of them were pagans, as some unfortunately still remain. Young Johnson saw, or thought he saw, no hope for these, either in this world or in the next, except in becoming Christians. On one occasion his zeal for their conversion led him beyond the bounds of prudence, though happily with no ill result. Among the Indians on the Reserve was a small band of Delawares, an intelligent but highly conservative race, who for the most part still adhered to their heathen belief. They had formerly been conquered by the Iroquois, but had lately been elevated by them to the position of members of the confederacy. The Indians of the United States and Canada, as is well known, had in general no idols; but the Delawares had advanced, as some ethnologists would say, to the status of idolaters. They had carved a post into a rude image of the human form, and around it performed their religious dances. When the young Mohawk neophyte heard of these awful rites, he mused until the fire burned in his heart. Seizing an axe, he made his solitary way through the forest to the distant outskirt which had been allotted to the Delawares. Here he suddenly appeared before them, and after haranguing them, to the best of his ability, on the monstrous nature of their religion and its ceremonies, demanded to be allowed to destroy the image. The people listened sullenly, ready at a word to rush upon the intruder and fell him to the earth. But their chief was a well-informed and prudent man, possibly half a convert in his heart. He knew that the youth belonged to an influential