In the morning all three departed; Pathfinder earnest and intelligent in all he did, the Great Serpent silent and imitative, and June meek, resigned, but sorrowful. They went in two canoes, that of the woman being abandoned. Chingachgook led the way, and Pathfinder followed, the course being up stream. Two days they paddled westward, and as many nights they encamped on islands. Fortunately the weather became mild, and when they reached the lake, it was found smooth, and glassy as a pond. It was the Indian summer, and the calms, and almost the blandness of June, slept in the hazy atmosphere.
On the morning of the third day, they passed the mouth of the Oswego, where the fort and the sleeping ensign invited them in vain to enter. Without casting a look aside, Chingachgook paddled past the dark water of the river, and Pathfinder still followed, in silent industry. The ramparts were crowded with spectators, but, Lundie, who knew the persons of his old friends, refused to allow them to be even hailed.
It was noon, when Chingachgook entered a little bay, where the Scud lay at anchor, in a sort of road-stead. A small, ancient clearing was on the shore, and near the margin of the lake was a log dwelling, recently and completely though rudely fitted up. There was an air of frontier comfort, and of frontier abundance around the place, though it was necessarily wild and solitary. Jasper stood on the shore, and, when Pathfinder landed, he was the first to take him by the hand. The meeting was simple, but very cordial. No questions were asked, it being apparent that Chingachgook had made the necessary explanations. Pathfinder never squeezed his friend’s hand more cordially, than in this interview, and he even laughed cordially in his face, as he told him how happy and well he appeared.
“Where is she, Jasper?—where is she,” the guide at length whispered, for, at first, he had seemed to be afraid to trust himself with the question.
“She is waiting for us in the house, my dear friend, where you see that June has already hastened before us.”
“June may use a lighter step, to meet Mabel, but she cannot carry a lighter heart. And so, lad, you found the chaplain at the garrison, and all was soon settled?”
“We were married within a week after we left you, and Master Cap departed next day—You have forgotten to enquire about your friend, Salt-water—”
“Not I—not I. The Sarpent has told me all that, and then I love so much to hear of Mabel, and her happiness, I do. Did the child smile, or did she weep, when the ceremony was over?”
“She did both, my friend; but—”
“Yes, that’s their natur’; tearful and cheerful! Ah’s me! they are very pleasant to us of the woods, and I do believe, I should think all right, whatever Mabel might do. And do you think, Jasper, that she thought of me, at all, on that joyful occasion?”
“I know she did, Pathfinder; and she thinks of you, and talks of you daily, almost hourly. None love you as we do!”
“I know few love me better, than yourself, Jasper. Chingachgook is perhaps now the only creatur’, of whom I can say that. Well, there’s no use in putting it off, any longer; it must be done, and may as well be done at once; so, Jasper, lead the way, and I’ll endivor to look upon her sweet countenance once more.”
Jasper did lead the way, and they were soon in the presence of Mabel. The latter met her late suitor, with a bright blush, and her limbs trembled so, she could hardly stand. Still her manner was affectionate and frank. During the hour of Pathfinder’s visit, for it lasted no longer, though he ate in the dwelling of his friends, one who was expert in tracing the workings of the human mind, might have seen a faithful index to the feelings of Mabel, in her manner to Pathfinder and her husband. With the latter she still had a little of the reserve that usually accompanies young wedlock; but the tones of her voice were kinder even than common, the glance of her eye was tender, and she seldom looked at him without the glow that tinged her cheek betraying the existence of feelings that habit and time had not yet soothed into absolute tranquillity. With Pathfinder all was earnest, sincere, even anxious, but the tones never trembled, the eye never fell, and if the cheek flushed it was with the emotions that are connected with concern.
At length the moment came, when Pathfinder must go his way. Chingachgook had already abandoned the canoes, and was posted on the margin of the woods, where a path led into the forest. Here he calmly waited to be joined by his friend. As soon as the latter was aware of this fact he rose in a solemn manner, and took his leave.
“I’ve sometimes thought that my own fate has been a little hard,” he said, “but that of this woman, Mabel, has shamed me into reason—”
“June remains, and lives with me,” eagerly interrupted our heroine.
“So I comprehend it. If any body can bring her back from her grief, and make her wish to live, you can do it, Mabel, though I’ve misgivings about even your success. The poor creatur’ is without a tribe, as well as without a husband, and it’s not easy to reconcile the feelings to both losses. Ah’s me!—What have I to do, with other people’s miseries, and marriages, as if I had n’t affliction enough of my own. Don’t speak to me, Mabel—don’t speak to me, Jasper—let me go my way, in peace and like a man. I’ve seen your happiness, and that is a great deal, and I shall be able to bear my own sorrow, all the better for it. No—I’ll never kiss you ag’in, Mabel: I’ll never kiss you ag’in—Here’s my hand, Jasper— squeeze it, boy, squeeze it; no fear of its giving way, for it’s the hand of a man—And, now, Mabel do you take it,—nay, you must not do this—” preventing Mabel from kissing it, and bathing it with her tears—“you must not do this—”
“Pathfinder—” asked Mabel; “when shall we see you, again?”
“I’ve thought of that too; yes I’ve thought of that, I have. If the time should ever come when I can look upon you altogether as a sister, Mabel, or a child—it might be better to say a child, since you’re young enough to be my daughter—depend on it, I’ll come back, for it would lighten my very heart to witness your gladness. But if I cannot—Farewell—farewell—the sarjeant was wrong—yes, the sarjeant was wrong.”
This was the last the Pathfinder ever uttered to the ears of Jasper Western and Mabel Dunham. He turned away, as if the words choked him, and was quickly at the side of his friend. As soon as the latter saw him approach, he shouldered his own burthen, and glided in among the trees, without waiting to be spoken to. Mabel, her husband and June, all watched the form of the Pathfinder, in the hope of receiving a parting gesture, or a stolen glance of the eye, but he did not look back. Once or twice, they thought they saw his head shake, as one trembles in bitterness of spirit, and a toss of the hand was given, as if he knew that he was watched, but a tread whose vigor no sorrow could enfeeble, soon bore him out of view, and he was lost in the depths of the forest.
Neither Jasper nor his wife ever beheld the Pathfinder again. They remained for another year on the banks of Ontario, and then the pressing solicitations of Cap, induced them to join him in New-York, where Jasper eventually became a successful and respected merchant. Thrice Mabel received valuable presents of furs, at intervals of years, and her feelings told her whence they came, though no name accompanied the gifts. Later in life still, when the mother of several youths, she had occasion to visit the interior, and found herself on the banks of the Mohawk, accompanied by her sons, the eldest of whom was capable of being her protector. On that occasion, she observed a man, in a singular guise, watching her, in the distance, with an intentness, that induced her to inquire into his pursuits and character. She was told he was the most renowned hunter of that portion of the State—it was after the revolution—a being of great purity of character, and of as marked peculiarities, and that he was known in that region of country, by the name of the Leatherstocking. Further than this, Mrs. Western could not ascertain, though the distant glimpse and singular deportment of this unknown hunter, gave her a sleepless night, and cast a shade of melancholy over her still lovely face, that lasted many a day.
As for June, the double loss of husband and tribe produced the effect t
hat Pathfinder had foreseen. She died in the cottage of Mabel, on the shores of the lake, and Jasper conveyed her body to the island, where he interred it by the side of that of Arrowhead.
Lundie, lived to marry his ancient love, and retired a warworn and battered veteran, but his name has been rendered illustrious in our own time, by the deeds of a younger brother, who succeeded to his territorial title, which, however, was shortly after merged in one earned by his valor on the ocean.
THE DEERSLAYER
or, The First War-Path
Preface
* * *
THIS BOOK has not been written, without many misgivings as to its probable reception. To carry one and the same character through five several works would seem to be a wilful over drawing on the good nature of the public, and many persons may very reasonably suppose it an act, of itself, that ought to invite a rebuke. To this natural objection, the author can only say that, if he has committed a grave fault on this occasion, his readers are in some measure answerable for it. The favorable manner in which the more advanced career, and the death of Leather Stocking were received, has created, in the mind of the author at least, a sort of necessity for giving some account of his younger days. In short the pictures, of his life, such as they are, were already so complete as to excite some little desire to see the ‘study,’ from which they have all been drawn.
“The Leather-Stocking Tales,” form now something like a drama in five acts; complete as to material and design, though quite probably very incomplete as to execution. Such as they are, the reading world has them before it. Their author hopes, should it decide that this particular act, the last in execution, though the first in the order of perusal, is not the best of the series, it will also come to the conclusion that it is not absolutely the worst. More than once, he has been tempted to burn his manuscript, and to turn to some other subject, though he has met with an encouragement, in the course of his labors, of a character so singular, as to be worth mentioning. An anonymous letter from England, has reached him, written as he thinks by a lady, in which he is urged to do almost the very thing he had already more than half executed; a request that he has been willing enough to construe into a sign that his attempt will be partially forgiven, if not altogether commended.
Little need be said concerning the characters and scenery of this Tale. The former are fictitious, as a matter of course; but the latter is as true to nature, as an intimate knowledge of the present appearance of the region described, and such probable conjectures concerning its ancient state as could be furnished by the imagination, enabled the writer to render it. The lake, mountains, valley and forests, are all believed to be sufficiently exact, while the river, rock and shoal are faithful transcripts from nature. Even the points exist, a little altered by civilization, but so nearly answering to the descriptions, as to be easily recognised by all who are familiar with the scenery of the particular region in question.
As to the accuracy of the incidents, of this Tale, in whole or in part, it is the intention of the author to stand on his rights, and say no more than he deems to be necessary. In the great struggle for veracity, that is carrying on between History and Fiction, the latter has so often the best of it, that he is quite willing to refer the reader to his own researches, by way of settling this particular point. Should it appear on inquiry, that any professed historian, the public documents, or even the local traditions, contradict the statements of this book, the writer is ready to admit that the circumstance has entirely escaped his observation, and to confess his ignorance. On the other hand, should it be found that the annals of America do not contain a syllable, in opposition to what has been now laid before the world, as he firmly believes investigation will show to be the case, he shall claim for his legend just as much authority as it deserves.
There is a respectable class of novel-readers—respectable for numbers, quite as much as for every thing else—who have often been likened to the man that “sings when he reads, and reads when he sings.” These persons are exceedingly imaginative in all matters of fact, and as literal as a school boy’s translation, in every thing that relates to poetry. For the benefit of all such persons, it is explicitly stated, that Judith Hutter is Judith Hutter, and not Judith any one else; and, generally, that wherever a coincidence may occur in a christian name, or in the color of hair, nothing more is meant than can properly be inferred from a coincidence in a christian name, or in the color of hair. Long experience has taught the writer, that this portion of his readers is much the most difficult to please, and he would respectfully suggest, for the benefit of both parties, that they try the experiment of reading works of the imagination as if they were intended for matters of fact. Such a plan might possibly enable them to believe in the possibility of fiction.
There is another class of readers—less important certainly, in a republican country, inasmuch as it is materially in the minority—which is addicted to taking things as they are offered, and of understanding them as they are meant. These persons are advised to commence at chapter first, and to read consecutively, just as far as the occupation may prove agreeable to themselves, and not a page beyond it. Should any of this class reach the end of the book, and fancy the time spent in the perusal not entirely thrown away, the circumstance will afford its author sincere gratification.
Preface to The Leather-Stocking Tales
* * *
THIS SERIES of Stories, which has obtained the name of “The Leather-Stocking Tales,” has been written in a very desultory and inartificial manner. The order in which the several books appeared was essentially different from that in which they would have been presented to the world, had the regular course of their incidents been consulted. In “The Pioneers,” the first of the series written, the Leather-Stocking is represented as already old, and driven from his early haunts in the forest, by the sound of the axe, and the smoke of the settler. “The Last of the Mohicans,” the next book in the order of publication, carried the readers back to a much earlier period in the history of our hero, representing him as middle-aged, and in the fullest vigor of manhood. In “The Prairie,” his career terminates, and he is laid in his grave. There, it was originally the intention to leave him, in the expectation that, as in the case of the human mass, he would soon be forgotten. But a latent regard for this character induced the author to resuscitate him in “The Pathfinder,” a book that was not long after succeeded by “The Deerslayer,” thus completing the series as it now exists.
While the five books that have been written were originally published in the order just mentioned, that of the incidents, insomuch as they are connected with the career of their principal character, is, as has been stated, very different. Taking the life of the Leather-Stocking as a guide, “The Deerslayer” should have been the opening book, for in that work he is seen just emerging into manhood; to be succeeded by “The Last of the Mohicans,” “The Pathfinder,” “The Pioneers,” and “The Prairie.” This arrangement embraces the order of events, though far from being that in which the books at first appeared. “The Pioneers” was published in 1823; “The Deerslayer” in 1841; making the interval between them eighteen years. Whether these progressive years have had a tendency to lessen the value of the last-named book, by lessening the native fire of its author, or of adding somewhat in the way of improved taste and a more matured judgment, is for others to decide.
If anything from the pen of the writer of these romances is at all to outlive himself, it is, unquestionably, the series of “The Leather-Stocking Tales.” To say this, is not to predict a very lasting reputation for the series itself, but simply to express the belief it will outlast any, or all, of the works from the same hand.
It is undeniable that the desultory manner in which “The Leather-Stocking Tales” were written, has, in a measure, impaired their harmony, and otherwise lessened their interest. This is proved by the fate of the two books last published, though probably the two most worthy an enlightened and cultivated reader’s notice. If th
e facts could be ascertained, it is probable the result would show that of all those (in America, in particular) who have read the three first books of the series, not one in ten has a knowledge of the existence even of the two last. Several causes have tended to produce this result. The long interval of time between the appearance of “The Prairie” and that of “The Pathfinder,” was itself a reason why the later books of the series should be overlooked. There was no longer novelty to attract attention, and the interest was materially impaired by the manner in which events were necessarily anticipated, in laying the last of the series first before the world. With the generation that is now coming on the stage this fault will be partially removed by the edition contained in the present work, in which the several tales will be arranged solely in reference to their connexion with each other.
The author has often been asked if he had any original in his mind, for the character of Leather-Stocking. In a physical sense, different individuals known to the writer in early life, certainly presented themselves as models, through his recollections; but in a moral sense this man of the forest is purely a creation. The idea of delineating a character that possessed little of civilization but its highest principles as they are exhibited in the uneducated, and all of savage life that is not incompatible with these great rules of conduct, is perhaps natural to the situation in which Natty was placed. He is too proud of his origin to sink into the condition of the wild Indian, and too much a man of the woods not to imbibe as much as was at all desirable, from his friends and companions. In a moral point of view it was the intention to illustrate the effect of seed scattered by the way side. To use his own language, his “gifts” were “white gifts,” and he was not disposed to bring on them discredit. On the other hand, removed from nearly all the temptations of civilized life, placed in the best associations of that which is deemed savage, and favorably disposed by nature to improve such advantages, it appeared to the writer that his hero was a fit subject to represent the better qualities of both conditions, without pushing either to extremes.
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