The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
entitled, ‘The Psalms, Hymns, and Spiritual Songs of the Old and New
Testaments; faithfully translated into English Metre, for the Use, Edification,
and Comfort of the Saints, in Public and Private, especially in New
England’.”
During this eulogium on the rare production of his native poets, the stranger
had drawn the book from his pocket, and fitting a pair of iron-rimmed
spectacles to his nose, opened the volume with a care and veneration suited to
its sacred purposes. Then, without circumlocution or apology, first pronounced
the word “Standish,” and placing the unknown engine, already
described, to his mouth, from which he drew a high, shrill sound, that was
followed by an octave below, from his own voice, he commenced singing the
following words, in full, sweet, and melodious tones, that set the music, the
poetry, and even the uneasy motion of his ill-trained beast at defiance:
“How good it is, O see,
And how it pleaseth well,
Together e’en in unity,
For brethren so to dwell.
It’s like the choice ointment,
From the head to the beard did go;
Down Aaron’s head, that downward went
His garment’s skirts unto.”
The delivery of these skillful rhymes was accompanied, on the part of the
stranger, by a regular rise and fall of his right hand, which terminated at the
descent, by suffering the fingers to dwell a moment on the leaves of the little
volume; and on the ascent, by such a flourish of the member as none but the
initiated may ever hope to imitate. It would seem long practice had rendered
this manual accompaniment necessary; for it did not cease until the preposition
which the poet had selected for the close of his verse had been duly delivered
like a word of two syllables.
Such an innovation on the silence and retirement of the forest could not fail
to enlist the ears of those who journeyed at so short a distance in advance.
The Indian muttered a few words in broken English to Heyward, who, in his turn,
spoke to the stranger; at once interrupting, and, for the time, closing his
musical efforts.
“Though we are not in danger, common prudence would teach us to journey
through this wilderness in as quiet a manner as possible. You will then, pardon
me, Alice, should I diminish your enjoyments, by requesting this gentleman to
postpone his chant until a safer opportunity.”
“You will diminish them, indeed,” returned the arch girl;
“for never did I hear a more unworthy conjunction of execution and
language than that to which I have been listening; and I was far gone in a
learned inquiry into the causes of such an unfitness between sound and sense,
when you broke the charm of my musings by that bass of yours, Duncan!”
“I know not what you call my bass,” said Heyward, piqued at her
remark, “but I know that your safety, and that of Cora, is far dearer to
me than could be any orchestra of Handel’s music.” He paused and
turned his head quickly toward a thicket, and then bent his eyes suspiciously
on their guide, who continued his steady pace, in undisturbed gravity. The
young man smiled to himself, for he believed he had mistaken some shining berry
of the woods for the glistening eyeballs of a prowling savage, and he rode
forward, continuing the conversation which had been interrupted by the passing
thought.
Major Heyward was mistaken only in suffering his youthful and generous pride to
suppress his active watchfulness. The cavalcade had not long passed, before the
branches of the bushes that formed the thicket were cautiously moved asunder,
and a human visage, as fiercely wild as savage art and unbridled passions could
make it, peered out on the retiring footsteps of the travelers. A gleam of
exultation shot across the darkly-painted lineaments of the inhabitant of the
forest, as he traced the route of his intended victims, who rode unconsciously
onward, the light and graceful forms of the females waving among the trees, in
the curvatures of their path, followed at each bend by the manly figure of
Heyward, until, finally, the shapeless person of the singing master was
concealed behind the numberless trunks of trees, that rose, in dark lines, in
the intermediate space.
CHAPTER III.
“Before these fields were shorn and till’d,
Full to the brim our rivers flow’d;
The melody of waters fill’d
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dash’d, and rivulets play’d,
And fountains spouted in the shade.”—Bryant
Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions to penetrate
still deeper into a forest that contained such treacherous inmates, we must use
an author’s privilege, and shift the scene a few miles to the westward of
the place where we have last seen them.
On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapid stream,
within an hour’s journey of the encampment of Webb, like those who
awaited the appearance of an absent person, or the approach of some expected
event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of the river,
overhanging the water, and shadowing its dark current with a deeper hue. The
rays of the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, and the intense heat of the
day was lessened, as the cooler vapors of the springs and fountains rose above
their leafy beds, and rested in the atmosphere. Still that breathing silence,
which marks the drowsy sultriness of an American landscape in July, pervaded
the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low voices of the men, the
occasional and lazy tap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay,
or a swelling on the ear, from the dull roar of a distant waterfall. These
feeble and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters to draw
their attention from the more interesting matter of their dialogue. While one
of these loiterers showed the red skin and wild accouterments of a native of
the woods, the other exhibited, through the mask of his rude and nearly savage
equipments, the brighter, though sun-burned and long-faced complexion of one
who might claim descent from a European parentage. The former was seated on the
end of a mossy log, in a posture that permitted him to heighten the effect of
his earnest language, by the calm but expressive gestures of an Indian engaged
in debate. His body, which was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of
death, drawn in intermingled colors of white and black. His closely-shaved
head, on which no other hair than the well-known and chivalrous scalping
tuft[1]
was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a
solitary eagle’s plume, that crossed his crown, and depended over the
left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping knife, of English manufacture, were in
his girdle; while a short military rifle, of that sort with which the policy of
the whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly across his bare and sinewy
knee. The expanded chest, full formed limbs, and grave countenance of this
warrior, would denote that he had reached the vigor of his days, though no
symptoms of decay appeared to have yet weakened his manhood.
[1]
The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole body;
a small tuft was left on the crown of his head, in order that his enemy might
avail himself of it, in wrenching off the scalp in the event of his fall. The
scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more
important to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great
stress on the honor of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly
disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic states.
The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealed by his
clothes, was like that of one who had known hardships and exertion from his
earliest youth. His person, though muscular, was rather attenuated than full;
but every nerve and muscle appeared strung and indurated by unremitted exposure
and toil. He wore a hunting shirt of forest-green, fringed with faded
yellow[2],
and a summer cap of skins which had been shorn of their fur. He also bore a
knife in a girdle of wampum, like that which confined the scanty garments of
the Indian, but no tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after the gay
fashion of the natives, while the only part of his under dress which appeared
below the hunting-frock was a pair of buckskin leggings, that laced at the
sides, and which were gartered above the knees, with the sinews of a deer. A
pouch and horn completed his personal accouterments, though a rifle of great
length[3], which
the theory of the more ingenious whites had taught them was the most dangerous
of all firearms, leaned against a neighboring sapling. The eye of the hunter,
or scout, whichever he might be, was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving
while he spoke, on every side of him, as if in quest of game, or distrusting
the sudden approach of some lurking enemy. Notwithstanding the symptoms of
habitual suspicion, his countenance was not only without guile, but at the
moment at which he is introduced, it was charged with an expression of sturdy
honesty.
[2]
The hunting-shirt is a picturesque smock-frock, being shorter, and ornamented
with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended to imitate the hues of the
wood, with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have been
thus attired, and the dress is one of the most striking of modern times. The
hunting-shirt is frequently white.
[3]
The rifle of the army is short; that of the hunter is always long.
“Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chingachgook,” he
said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly
inhabited the country between the Hudson and the Potomac, and of which we shall
give a free translation for the benefit of the reader; endeavoring, at the same
time, to preserve some of the peculiarities, both of the individual and of the
language. “Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the big
river[4], fought
the people of the country, and took the land; and mine came from the red sky of
the morning, over the salt lake, and did their work much after the fashion that
had been set them by yours; then let God judge the matter between us, and
friends spare their words!”
[4]
The Mississippi. The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among
the tribes of the Atlantic states. Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced
from the circumstances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history
of the Indians.
“My fathers fought with the naked red man!” returned the Indian,
sternly, in the same language. “Is there no difference, Hawkeye, between
the stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden bullet with which you
kill?”
“There is reason in an Indian, though nature has made him with a red
skin!” said the white man, shaking his head like one on whom such an
appeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment he appeared to be
conscious of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again, he
answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner his limited
information would allow:
“I am no scholar, and I care not who knows it; but, judging from what I
have seen, at deer chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below, I should
think a rifle in the hands of their grandfathers was not so dangerous as a
hickory bow and a good flint-head might be, if drawn with Indian judgment, and
sent by an Indian eye.”
“You have the story told by your fathers,” returned the other,
coldly waving his hand. “What say your old men? Do they tell the young
warriors that the pale faces met the red men, painted for war and armed with
the stone hatchet and wooden gun?”
“I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural
privileges, though the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois,