A council was also held, when Mr. Melody and I were called in, and by some it was proposed to start for home, and by others to go to Paris and see a King, as they had tried, but in vain, to see the Queen of England. A visit to Paris had been a favourite theme with them for some months past, and all at length joined in the wish to see the King and Queen of France.
The most skilful physicians were called to attend the poor Roman Nose, and they advised us to place him in an hospital. He was consulted, and, wishing to go, was removed there, where the interpreter, Jeffrey, stayed, and every attention was paid him. A few nights of exhibitions in Liverpool finished our stay in that town, and brought us to an engagement we had made, for four nights, in the Free Trade Hall in Manchester.
The Indians saw that their fellow-warrior was to sink to the grave in a few days, and yet, like philosophers, they said it was the will of the Great Spirit, and they must not complain. They said they would give their exhibitions for the four nights, as they were promised to the public, and then stop until their companion was dead and buried; our exhibitions were consequently made to immense crowds on those evenings, and to the same people who had seen the Ojibbeways with such a relish when they first arrived. The different appearance of this tribe, and difference in their modes, made them subjects of new and fresh interest, and no doubt that their exhibitions, if they had been continued, would have been nightly filled for a length of time. They here gave their exhibitions the additional interest of erecting three wigwams into a sort of Indian village on the immense platform, and stationed their targets at the two ends, giving a fair illustration of their skill in archery, as they shot for prizes across the breadth of the immense hall.
Their exhibitions gained them much applause here, as in other places, with which they were well pleased, and they had many invitations from kind families in town, but which they declined, as they said they were sad, as one of their number was dying. Thus their amusements in Manchester, and for the kingdom, were finished, and they retired to their private apartments, awaiting the end of the poor Roman Nose, which was now daily expected. Mr. Melody and Jeffrey stayed by him, and I went to see him, and so did several of the Indians, on each day until his death.
While the Indians were thus resting in their quarters, they were surprised and cheered by the sudden arrival of their old friend, Bobasheela, who had just come from Cornwall to see them again before their departure for America, as he supposed, from seeing by the papers that they had arrived in Liverpool.
They thus amused themselves from day to day, lying still, not wishing to ride about, or to admit company, or to attend to the invitations from various quarters given to them. Their time was now chiefly taken up in repairing their dresses, &c., in anticipation of going before the King of France, and listening to the amusing and shocking things which Daniel was daily reading in Jim’s newspaper, and minuting down in his note-book, as he required. He wished Daniel and his friend Bobasheela to find in his paper, if they could, how many churches there were in England, and how many black-coats (as he called them) there were who were constantly reading the good book and preaching to them. This they could not do at the moment, but Bobasheela told him he could get it all out of a book that had lately been published, and would give it to him the next day. This was done according to promise, and by Daniel recorded in his book.
Bobasheela’s anxieties were now turned towards the poor suffering Roman Nose, and he went to Liverpool to see him, and arrived with some of the Indians just in time to see him breathe his last. Alas! poor, fine fellow! he went down gradually and regularly to the grave; and though amongst strangers and far away from all of the graves of his relatives, he died like a philosopher, and (though not a Christian) not unlike a Christian. He said repeatedly to Jeffrey that he should live but so many days, and afterwards so many hours, and seemed to be perfectly resigned to the change that was to take place. He said that his time had come; he was going to the beautiful hunting-grounds, where he would soon see his friends who had gone before him: he said that when he shut his eyes he could plainly see them, and he felt sure it was only to change the society of his friends here for that of his dear parents and other friends, and he was now anxious to be with them. He said the road might be long, but it did not matter where he started from; the Great Spirit had promised him strength to reach it. He told his friend Bobasheela that in his pouch he would find some money, with which he wished him to buy some of the best vermilion, and, if possible, some green paint, such as Chippehola used to get for him in London, and have them put in his pouch with his flint and steel, and to be sure to be placed in his grave, that he might be able to make his face look well among his friends where he was going. He wished him, and Daniel also, to have his arrows examined in his quiver, and repaired with new and sharp blades, as he recollected that, before he was sick, many of them were injured by shooting at the target, and during his illness others might have been destroyed. He had requested his silver medal, which was given to him by the American government for saving the lives of ten of his defenceless enemies, to be suspended by a blue ribbon over his head while he was sick, that he might see it until he died, and in that position it hung when I was last with him—his eyes were upon it, and his smile, until he drew his last breath. After his death his friend Bobasheela, and Jeffrey and the Doctor, laid him in his coffin, and, placing in it, according to the Indian mode, his faithful bow and quiver of arrows, his pipe and tobacco to last him through the “journey he was to perform,” having dressed him in all his finest clothes, and painted his face, and placed his bow and quiver and his pouch by his side, and his medal on his breast, the coffin was closed, and his remains were buried, attended by his faithful friends around him, by the officers of the institution, and many citizens, who sympathized in his unlucky fate.
Thus ended the career of No-ho-mun-ya (or the Roman Nose), one of the most peaceable and well-disposed and finest men of the party, or of the tribe from which he came.
The reader will now contemplate the Indians and their friend Bobasheela again in their private rooms in Manchester, spending a week or so together, smoking their pipes, with their faces painted black, recounting the deeds of the vanished warrior, and recapitulating the events of their tour through England, Scotland, and Ireland, and trying to cheer the view that was ahead of them by drinking chickabobboo. These few days passed heavily by, and they soon became anxious to throw off the gloom that was cast over them, by seeing something new, and by resuming the exercise and excitements of the dance. Their thoughts were now on Paris, and I was there making arrangements for their reception. The reader will therefore, with my help, imagine himself across the Channel (and probably for the first time in his life without being sea-sick), and ready to commence, with the Indians and me, amidst new scenes and new scenery, the following chapter.