Flesh Isn’t iron, that a man can live forever, and see his kith and kin driven to a far country, and he left to mourn, with none to keep him company.”
“John,” said the divine, tenderly, “do you hear me? do you wish the prayers appointed by the church, at this trying moment?”
The Indian turned his ghastly face toward the speaker, and fastened his dark eyes on him, steadily, but vacantly.
No sign of recognition was made: and in a moment he moved his head again slowly toward the vale, and began to sing, using his own language, in those low, guttural tones, that have been so often mentioned, his notes rising with his theme, till they swelled so loud as to be distinct.
“I will come! I will come! to the land of the just I will come!
The Maquas I have slain! I have slain the Maquas! and the Great Spirit calls to his son.
I will come!
I will come to the land of the just! I will come!”
“What says he, Leather-Stocking?” Inquired the priest, with tender interest; “sings he the Redeemer’s praise?”
“No, no—‘tis his own praise that he speaks now,” said Natty, turning in a melancholy manner from the sight of his dying friend; “and a good right he has to say it all, for I know every word to be true.”
“May heaven avert such self-righteousness from his heart!
Humility and penitence are the seals of Christianity; and, without feeling them deeply seated in the soul, all hope is delusive, and leads to vain expectations.
Praise himself when his whole soul and body should unite to praise his Maker!
John! you have enjoyed the blessings of a gospel ministry, and have been called from out a multitude of sinners and pagans, and, I trust, for a wise and gracious purpose.
Do you now feel what it is to be justified by our Saviour’s death, and reject all weak and idle dependence on good works, that spring from man’s pride and vainglory?”
The Indian did not regard his interrogator, but he raised his head again, and said in a low, distinct voice:
“Who can say that the Maqous know the back of the Mohegan?
What enemy that trusted in him did not see the morning?
What Mingo that he chased ever sang the song of triumph?
Did Mohegan ever he?
No; the truth lived in him, and none else could come out of him.
In his youth he was a warrior, and his moccasins left the stain of blood.
In his age he was wise; his words at the council fire did not blow away with the winds.”
“Ah! he has abandoned that vain relic of paganism, his songs,” cried the divine; “what says he now? is he sensible of his lost state?”
“Lord!! man,” said Natty, “he knows his end is at hand as well as you or I; but, so far from thinking it a loss, he believes it to be a great gain.
He is old and stiff, and you have made the game so scarce and shy, that better shots than him find it hard to get a livelihood.
Now he thinks he shall travel where it will always be good hunting; Where no wicked or unjust Indians can go; and where he shall meet all his tribe together agin.
There’s not much loss in that, to a man whose hands are hardly fit for basket-making Loss! if there be any loss, ‘twill be to me.
I’m sure after he’s gone, there will be but little left for me but to follow.”
“His example and end, which, I humbly trust, shall yet be made glorious,” returned Mr. Grant, “should lead your mind to dwell on the things of another life.
But I feel it to be my duty to smooth the way for the parting spirit.
This is the moment, John, when the reflection that you did not reject the mediation of the Redeemer, will bring balm to your soul.
Trust not to any act of former days, but lay the burden of your sins at his feet, and you have his own blessed assurance that he will not desert you.”
“Though all you say be true, and you have scriptur’ gospels for it, too,” said Natty, “you will make nothing of the Indian.
He hasn’t seen a Moravian p sin’ the war; and it’s hard to keep them from going hack to their native ways.
I should think ‘twould be as well to let the old man pass in peace.
He’s happy now; I know it by his eye; and that’s more than I would say for the chief, sin’ the time the Delawares broke up from the head waters of their river and went west.
Ah’s me! ‘tis a grevious long time that, and many dark days have we seen together sin’ it.”
“Hawk-eye!” said Mohegan, rousing with the last glimmering of life.
“Hawk-eye! listen to the words of your brother.”
“Yes, John,” said the hunter, in English, strongly affected by the appeal, and drawing to his side, “we have been brothers; and more so than it means in the Indian tongue.
What would ye have with me, Chingachgook?”
“Hawk-eye! my fathers call me to the happy hunting grounds.
The path is clear, and the eyes of Mohegan grow young.
I look—but I see no white-skins; there are none to be seen but just and brave Indians.
Farewell, Hawk-eye—you shall go with the Fire-eater and the Young Eagle to the white man’s heaven; but I go after my fathers.
Let the bow, and tomahawk, and pipe, and the wampum of Mohegan he laid in his grave; for when he starts ‘twil be in the night, like a warrior on a war-party, and he can not stop to seek them.”
“What says he, Nathaniel?” cried Mr. Grant, earnestly, and with obvious anxiety; “does he recall the promises of the mediation? and trust his salvation to the Rock of Ages?” Although the faith of the hunter was by no means clear, yet the fruits of early instruction had not entirely fallen in the wilderness. He believed in one Cod, and one heaven; and when the strong feeling excited by the leave-taking of his old companion, which was exhibited by the powerful working of every muscle in his weather-beaten face, suffered him to speak, he replied:
“No—no—he trusts only to the Great Spirit of the savages, and to his own good deeds.
He thinks, like all his people, that he is to be young agin, and to hunt, and be happy to the end of etarnity, its pretty much the same with all colors, parson.