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admiring the singular appearance of the scenery, my attention is called off to a very distressing accident. An old Indian is seen falling from his horse, receiving in the fall a severe wound between his eyes; he remains senseless, all efforts {316} to revive him are fruitless. It was the old Black-Foot chief, Nicholas, whom I baptized five years ago; he acted, ever since, the part of a most effective missionary, in preparing the way for the introduction of the gospel among his tribe.[203] To-day he entered what he called his own country, chanting hymns of praise and thanksgiving in the happy anticipation of soon presenting us to his brethren. He dies! not even a sigh escapes him. Oh, how profound are the designs of God. Happily he leaves a son worthy of so excellent a sire. His attachment to religion equals that of his father. Having resided several years among the Flat-Heads, he has acquired a perfect knowledge of their language—acting in the capacity of interpreter, he has already rendered me considerable assistance. Notwithstanding his great grief, he performs the last sad offices near the tomb of his father with the composure and firmness of a Christian. It is customary among the Black-Feet to express their grief by wailings and lacerations of the body, calculated only to afflict those around, though intended by them as a mark of respect towards the lamented dead. The son of Nicholas, himself a chief and a great brave, knowing the Christian practice, {317} passes the night in prayer, with his wife and children, near the funeral couch of his father. His friends and brother, Pegans[204] (pagan in name and in fact), would now and then gather around him, kneeling