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_Sept. 22d_. This day the patriarch of the place, John Johnston, Esq.,
breathed his last. He had attained the age of sixty-six. A native of the
county of Antrim, in the north of Ireland; a resident for some
thirty-eight years of this frontier; a gentleman in manners; a merchant,
in chief, in the hazardous fur trade; a man of high social feelings and
refinements; a cotemporary of the long list of men eminent in that
department; a man allied to bishops and nobles at home; connected in
marriage with a celebrated Chippewa family of Algonquins; he was another
Rolfe, in fact, in his position between the Anglo-Saxon and the Indian
races; his life and death afford subjects for remark which are of the
deepest interest, and would justify a biography, not a mere notice. I
wrote a brief sketch for the _New York Albion_, and transmitted copies
of the paper to some of his connections in Ireland.
His coming out from that country was during the first presidency of
Washington, and a few years before the breaking out of the Irish
Rebellion.
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