"But, at Paris last year, you were lounging and yawning all the morning in the same way," cried the more vivacious mother. "Perhaps it is my health, I always feel tired; my head aches; I have ever a pain in my side; my back, and "Oh nonsense! a walk will do you good, 'tis not far, just try." classes. Let a girl, instead of her dreamy, monotonous, the very music is scarcely varied in a country town; I finger-work, manage the business of the household, hate sameness.' which, every moment, restrains dreaminess and absence of mind, by new duties and calls on their attention; in early years, let her be employed in everything, from cooking to gardening, from the management of the servants to keeping the accounts. Let no more flighty than intellectual woman declare that housekeeping, as a mechanical affair, is beneath the dignity of her mind, and she would rather be as mentally happy as a man. Is there any mental work without hand work? Do accountants' offices, secretaries' rooms, the military parade, places of the state, set the hands less in motion than the kitchen and household affairs, or is it merely that they do so in a different way? Can the mind show itself earlier, or otherwise, than behind the mask of the laborious body: for instance, the ideal of the sculptor, otherwise than after millions of blows and chisel-strokes, on the marble? The mystic Guyon, who, in an hospital, took on himself, and fulfilled, the duties of a loathing maid-servant, has a higher throne among glorified souls than the general who, with the arms of others, makes wounds which he does not heal." Another practice, most ruinous to young women's health, is that, still too prevalent, of encasing the chest, and confining it tightly within a wall of jean, coutil, whalebone, and what not. The organ which, of all others, should have the freest possible play, to enable the air to come into full contact with the venous blood circulating in the lungs, is that which fashion fixes upon, and cribs, cabins, and confines by means of stays. The Chinese custom of cramming the feet into small shoes, and the Indian fashion of flattening, by sheer force, the foreheads of their children, seems positively rational and humane, when compared with the European practice of tight-lacing. It can have no other effect than to diminish the vital power of the system, and lay it open to the inroads of nervous and dyspeptic disease. Every practice which restricts the free action of the physical system must have such an effect. Besides, it has a direct tendency to produce deformity. Were boys laced up as girls are, we should have as many deformed boys as girls, which happily is not the case, the practice having been long abandoned as regards the former. It is a gross mistake also to suppose that a wasp-waist is handsome, or anything but a deformity. Look at the Venus de Medici, the perfection of the female form-excepting, perhaps, the head, which is too small; but, the other physical proportions are exquisitely true to nature. Let young ladies think then, when about to tighten up their chests, that in every pull which they make at the lace, and in every degree of compression which they thus practice on their persons, they are departing from the standard of female beauty, as exemplified in the "statue that enchants the world." Above all, the practice is fruitful in nervous affections, low spirits, palpitations, hypochondria, and such like; and therefore we would say seriously to young ladies, as Hamlet to the players Pray you avoid it!" THE TWO SISTERS OF CHARITY. "Put on your bonnet, Ernestine, and come with me," said Madame de la Vallée to her daughter, one bright spring morning, "I am going to see the poor woman whose husband was killed in a quarry." "Dear Mamma, pray excuse me, I am so very delicate; we staid too late at Madame de Falonard's, and I danced so much, that, literally, I cannot stir a step." "I can't now, for there is Mademoiselle Flore with my gown. I must try it on! Such an exertion for nothing; for it is sure not to fit, and then I shall be vexed and angry." "Now pray my dear child do not give way to such indolence and fretfulness; you enjoy nothing." "Because everybody and everything is more or less tiresome and stupid; the day is always so long; I have no patience with Madame Caradon's affectation, when she will persist that she finds it too short. "Madame Caradon," answered Madame de la Vallée, "with a sick husband, five children, and a small income, has enough to employ her time." "I wish I could employ mine; I find it so heavy, I don't know what to do," rejoined the lovely, listless young lady, twisting the curls of her beautiful hair, and half shutting her soft blue eyes as she spoke. "Well," answered the mother, "I am sure it is not my fault nor your father's; we have done all that we could. You have been taught music, drawing, languages, and pretty works; you have horses and carriages at your command, are introduced to the gayest and most agreeable society in the place, you purchase whatever you please, employ the best dressmaker, and if you are ill, can have the best medical advice; to finish the list, I may add, that you are universally admired, have kind friends, and adoring parents. What can you wish for more? for you have all this world can give, and yet you are always discontented-but Flore waits, go and fit on your gown, whilst I walk to the quarry;" so saying, the poor mother left the room with a sigh, which was echoed by her daughter, repeating the words, "this world--there is another, I hope it is a happier world than this." But Mademoiselle Flore and the new dress soon put the next world out of the young lady's thoughts; it fitted à merveille, and the flattery of the maker, the maid, and the mirror together, restored animation for awhile to the ci-devant invalid, who quickly forgot her headache, and began to build castles in the air for that evening at least. It was a brilliant scene, and, for a short hour or two, Ernestine enjoyed, in the flow of youthful spirits, the gaiety with which she was surrounded; and the flattering speeches which told her of her grace, her beauty, and the happiness her smiles alone diffused. She was not naturally envious, and, indeed, there was little to excite that hateful passion in her breast: for, although fragile-looking, and pale, she was an extremely pretty girl; well born, well educated, and an only child, with the prospect of a large fortune. felt "bored," however, as she expressed it, and unamused, after a short time, as usual; and yet, every day, and every night, she continued the same round of insipid amusement: dressing and dancing, boating and pic-nicing, yawning, and feeling wearied; seldom amused, always tired-never employed. She One day, whilst lolling on the sofa, with a pain in her head and a novel in her hand, she heard that her nurse was ill, and had expressed a wish to see her; naturally "Oh! but it is not far, and the fresh air will revive kind-hearted, and warmly attached to her old attendant, you for the redoubt to-night." "Then I suppose we must go! after all, Mamma, these parties are very tiresome; one sees the same people, who say the same sort of things, and wear the same dresses; she immediately forgot herself, jumped up with alacrity, and, in ten minutes, was walking actively towards the little lane, in the outskirts of the town, where old Martha resided. The poor woman was lying gasping on her un made bed, looking very red, and groaning now and then bounded it to the west and north, and a nest of little as if in pain, whilst the three grandchildren, who lived cottage gardens succeeded each other on the east; all with her, stood around crying with fright; all looked un-you saw there was the blush of fruit trees full of bloom comfortable, the floor was unswept, the fire unlighted, the as a background, while immediately in front-under the plates unwashed, and a stifling smell from want of air, window, round which a sweet briar, and a honeysuckle added to the wretchedness of everything. The poor disputed the mastery with a sturdy old jasmine-was a woman, at the sound of Ernestine's voice, opened her wilderness of sweets where the bees kept hovering, and eyes and tried to speak, but, with a difficulty, that ren- ever humming through the sultry summer's day. Soeur dered it impossible to understand what she said. How-Marie sat by the bed-side reading, with the same look, the words "Sœur Marie! Sœur Marie!" suggested the same low voice, the same dress as yesterday, but, the to the terrified young lady the idea of sending her maid sameness here did not annoy Ernestine, it soothed her. for a sister of charity; on whose appearance, and obser- After making inquiries concerning the sick person, she vation that the patient must be bled, Ernestine imme-added, diately returned home. Unable to rest, however, and anxious to know the opinion of the Doctor, Ernestine, not long after, proposed going back to see how her poor ever, nurse went on. "Going out again, Tine," said her mother, "and so far as Beech Lane, when you complained of being ill, and tired this morning-it quite unnecessary my dear, for I shall send to inquire, and you have to dress, recollect, for Madame Albert's dinner." "I would rather not go, I am too anxious about Martha." "But, consider, Ernestine, that the illness of a servant will scarcely be accepted as an excuse, and Madame A. will be disappointed, for she counts upon you to sing 'Mira Norma' with her." But, Ernestine was obstinate-if not allowed to see her nurse, she would not go to the dinner: there was plenty of time for both, she said; and the mother, who, generally gave way to the daughter, did so in this instance, sending her to the end of the lane in the carriage. "Do you not tire here, alone?" "We should never weary in well doing, and it is a Christian duty to attend the sick and helpless." "A duty! yes! but, not a pleasure, unless one is very fond of the sufferer, and even then 'Indeed," answered the good sister, not noticing her hesitation, "I think there is great pleasure, and great interest in administering to the wants of our fellow crea tures, whether they are particularly known to, and loved by us or not." Ernestine said nothing. "There is a pleasure also in active exertion, and a pleasure in the repose that follows it." "But," observed the young lady, "how do you know how to do all these things, you were not born to work I am sure." "We are all born to work in the Lord's vineyard, but such work as you immediately allude to is easily learnt, and after a little practice quickly dispatched, and whilst attending the sick, we have often much time for reading and sewing likewise; here, now I employ my leisure moments in teaching the children, and also instructing them how to keep the house clean, which duty their grandmother always performing herself, they had never before attempted; Madeleine swept and dusted the rooms this morning, and Sabine washed the plates, and Mormite like a first rate scullion," said Sœur Marie, laughing, weeded the portion of the garden I have set them to do, I have promised each a story. You see then with these varied occupations, my day cannot pass otherwise than quickly. I must endeavour to sleep also this afternoon, to enable me to pass the night awake again." What a contrast did the chamber present now, to what it had done only a few hours ago. Martha relieved by bleeding, lay quiet, breathing freely on a neatly arranged bed-the room was perfectly tidy-a window opening to the garden, and letting in air over a bouquet of bright flowers, gave a freshness to everything-the children's bed, and all the things that had littered the back room, to be out of sight (for the front that looked" only breaking one, and cracking two. When they have to the street was show-room and kitchen,) were removed to that more noisy apartment, where the children warmed the sufferer's drink, boiled their own soup, kept quiet, or sent away, all the kindly-intentioned gossips who came to lament and talk. The three little girls, combed and washed, amused themselves without noise, seemed now without apprehension-and Sour Marie, who had done all this, and in so short a time, sat reading a prayer by the bedside, in a low voice, looking as clean, as calm, as pure, as if she had not done anything else but sit still. "The fever is abated, said she suddenly, "the Doctor is sanguine, and through the mercy of God, we hope your nurse will not be taken from these poor little children." The mild look, pure complexion, and low voice of the gentle nun, were like a freshening breeze, upon a sultry day, to the agitated mind of Ernestine; and she was able with more comfortable feelings to accompany her mother to the dinner; where, however, the fadaises uttered at it seemed more distasteful to Mademoiselle de la Vallée than usual, and it was remarked by all that she was distraite Amid the lights, and the laughter, and the glitter of the gay scene, she thought of the cool quiet room, where she had been so relieved by the unobtrusive activity of the mild-voiced nun. Next day she visited the cottage again-all was as neat, as calm, as fresh as the day before. The children were weeding the little garden, and their childish prattle, in a subdued voice, joined with the carol of the birds in the hedges, and was as little disturbing. The garden though small was full of flowers, for Martha sold bouquets. There was a broken moss-grown sundial, shaded by a pear-tree, so old and so fruitful, that it had to be propped up, and on a seat under it, almost all the family stockings were knitted; a large orchard "But, are you really, Ma sœur, really happy?" "What! happy! you a lady, teaching peasant children, tending peevish sick people, dusting dirty rooms, sewing plain work, and reading grave books?" "Indeed, ma chere demoiselle, I never knew real happiness until I did so, and did so from the right motive, the love of God!" The conversation of sœur Marie made a great impression upon Ernestine, and she saw how happy doing good from a right motive made that benevolent being, who, all the time that she worked out her salvation so laboriously, never trusted to her own righteousness for a reward, but, to her humble hope in her Saviour. Often in the midst of the gayest entertainments, Ernestine's thoughts reverted to the quiet room looking into the sunny garden, and the gentle voice, and earnest look of that good religieuse, who, living in the midst of the turmoil and sin of a busy and jarring world, kept on the noiseless tenor of her way without heeding or hearing what shook all Europe; all within seemed so peaceful, that angry, envious, and proud feelings were hushed for the time, under the benign influence of her presence. Martha also, an honest bustling woman, who went through her stated religious and moral duties without much thought, was by the good sister awakened to more reflection; she too contributed in her small way to turn the thoughts of her nursling from the pomps and vanities of the world, without in the least intending ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL. it; for she looked to her chère Tine's marrying a grand Seigneur, and giving more splendid balls, and wearing more magnificent dresses than other ladies, as a matter of course. By degrees Ernestine retired more and more within herself, began to read, draw, and employ her time; and, whenever she felt ailing and unhappy, longed to be a sister of charity. In time the wish became an anxiety in the end, the anxiety a determination; and she at length summoned courage to break her resolution to her startled parents. Of course every argument was urged--the curé even joined all his efforts to dissuade her from a life, he feared neither her health nor her natural disposition She refused fitted her to embrace, but all in vain. several unexceptionable offers of marriage, and although in obedience to her parents, she accompanied them into the world, her disgust to it became more and more intense and apparent. They took her to Paris, they travelled with her into various countries, they never opposed her wishes, and for two years no means were left untried to induce her to alter or modify her determination, but Some one says, somewhere, that "we without success. have all our vocation," and the passion for the cloister, like that for the sea, is not to be conquered, the privations of the one, the perils of the other are as nothing in the eyes of their votaries, and the result was that, in the end, Ernestine became a Sister of Charity, under the name of Sœur Agathe. Sister Agathe withdrew, and I never saw her again. A Protestant lady to whom was related the above Some years after she had fulfilled this whim, as I feared it might prove, finding myself near the Convent, where she then was, I went to visit her. Scarcely could I credit what I saw! there stood the once brilliantly attired Ernestine in the coarse garb of a sister, her luxuriant hair no longer visible, before a number of tin candlesticks, to the last of which she was giving a finishing touch, with an air of satisfaction at the brightness into which she had rubbed it, that gave an animated expression I had never before observed in her counte-She gave away seeds and plants, and sometimes a swarm nance, formerly so listless; her skin was clear, and in spite of the increased days of abstinence and fasting, both her face and hands (for her figure of course I could not see) seemed better clothed with flesh than formerly. After expressing our mutual pleasure at the meeting, I asked her if she did not regret the world. "Regret the world! Ah, no! Can I regret ennui and vanity?" "I remember that your health used to be very delicate, are you quite well now?" "Perfectly so, my health is as good as I could wish it, I sleep like a dormouse, and do not know what it is to feel wearied." "And the headaches and-" "Oh, I never have an ache or a pain of any kind, either of body or mind." And pray what cosmetic do you use?" said I, smiling, "for the lilies and roses in your cheeks are brighter than formerly." "Are they? I don't know, for I never look in a glass; early hours, simple food, and a happy contented mind, I suppose, have wrought the change; for I remember my complexion used to be always pale, and sometimes muddy." "But is not this monotonous life of constant obedience and self-denial very tiresome, to you especially, who always had your own way? "I do not find it so, humble prayer for pardon for my former vain life, to use the mildest term, and active usefulness in visiting the poor, and teaching the young the accomplishments I formerly cultivated merely to be admired, make the time pass peacefully and pleasantly here on earth, and the bright future in perspective cheers but I must now leave you, for it is my hour for the school-room duties. May God Almighty bless you and guide you aright amid the rocks and quicksands of that world, which is now to me as nothing." So saying, me on, of bees, with ample instructions for managing and making Surely both Ernestine and Miss are true Sisters WOMEN'S LOVE OF FLOWERS. In all countries women love flowers-in all countries they form nosegays of them; but it is only in the bosom of plenty that they conceive the idea of embellishing their the peasantry indicates a revolution in all the feelings. dwellings with them. The cultivation of flowers among It is a delicate pleasure which makes its way through is the sense of the beautiful, a faculty of the soul which coarse organs; it is a creature whose eyes are opened; it Man then understands that there is in the is awakened. gifts of nature a something more than is necessary for existence; colours, forms, odours, are perceived for the Those who have travelled in the country can a honeyfirst time, and these charming objects have at least spectators. testify, that a rose-tree under the window suckle around the door of a cottage, are always a good omen to the tired traveller. The hand which cultivates flowers is not closed against the supplications of the poor, or the wants of the stranger. Isle. THE LOST ISLE; A LEGEND OF LAKE SUNAPEE. IN the interior of New Hampshire-the Scotland of America-lies a blue expanse of water, which the Indians call Sunapee. It is little, if at all, inferior to its northeastern sister, Lake Winnepissingee, "the smile of the Great Spirit," or, perhaps, to old Scotia's proud lochs of Lomond and Katrine, in picturesque beauty. Here, where Nature reigns in loveliness and grandeur surpassing Art, lies the scene of the Legend of the Lost About a century had passed away since the Puritan's pilgrim-foot first pressed the Rock of Plymouth. The sickly smoke of civilization had never yet stained the blue above or withered the green below. Art had not laid the axe at the foot of the oak-king, which mirrored its tall form in the translucent water each revolving season. I stand upon its shores, looking into its clear, gently: heaving bosom, I am carried back, as though I looked into an enchanter's glass, to the old wood's primeval grandeur-days when Solitude's reign was unbroken save by the din of the sylvan cascade, or the rich, varied, and As mellow notes of the wild birds. The tall trees again cast their lengthened shade upon the waters, and the birds build their nests in their branches unharmed-the stream let comes singing down from Kearsarge, and leaps into the lake like a panting spaniel-the graceful, lithe-limbed deer drinks the blue waters unscared-and the "cloudcleaving geese forsake the upper air, and rest calmly in رو the lake's thousand miniature harbours. But as I look up to the white farm house on yonder declivity, the dream fades away for ever. Let the half-degenerate woods make a sylvan requiem for the oak-kings of Eld! Aluakeag's wigwam was pitched upon the eastern shore of Lake Sunapee. A few of his tribe were leaving the margin of the islet, with their light birchen canoes upon their shoulders, having just finished an hour's piscatory labour. The wigwam and the habits of the tribe presented a motley mingling of savage with refined art; but Aluakeag himself despised the tawdry dress of the white man, and wore habiliments such as his forefathers wore. He was the last Sachem of the Penacook-the chieftain of a noble, though fallen race, who still sadly clung to a legendary virtue carved upon their fathers' graves." That morning he had left the Merrimack-he had stood upon its shores, yet had seen no trace of his father's wigwam, for the noisy town of the white man stood upon its ruins. And the old lightning-seamed oak, which told the red man where lay the ashes of the virtuous, peace-loving Passaconaway, had been hewn down to make way for the flying iron horse of the railroad. The bones of his forefathers had been dug up and removed by the white man; but a tall tree, whose hollow trunk made it of little worth, told where lay his father's ashes. As he sat upon the grassy mound, it seemed to him he "Could not tear his heart away From graves wherein his fathers lay." But whence are the decrees of fate? He had left he beautiful Merrimack, never again to look upon its placid waters. It was loveliest of rivers to him; it came from the "Smile of the Great Spirit." The sun was just dipping down behind Kearsarge, when Aluakeag's revery was disturbed by the approach of a white hunter. With the Indian and the hunter the recognition was mutual, for Aluakeag had often been at his house on the eastern shore of the Falls of Amoskeag. replied, although not without betraying the secret passion that swayed him My white brother is kind to welcome me back to the home of my fathers!" The young hunter's heart was touched with compunction and sympathy, for he knew full well the injustice of his white brethren towards the red men of the New World. He continued, however, to speak kindly to the chief, whose gloomy passions, as they conversed, gradually sunk back to their wakeful retreat. Anger and hate were allayed by the voice of kindness, but sorrow unutterable rested on every lineament of his dusky face. He was a brave and noble, yet broken-hearted child of forest freedom. They conversed for some time, when the conversation lagge, and the hunter and the chief were alike silent and sunken island he had that day, owing to the stillness of thoughtful. The thought of the former recurred to the the waves, examined more minutely than ever before. He had often speculated as to the cause of its disappearance from the surface. He recollected a half-told, wondrous Indian legend, which pretended to account for it. Turning to his companion, who was also looking out upon the broad expanse of water, gently rippled by the evening breeze, he said "Beneath the surface of this lake I have marked to day, as often before, what apparently was once an island. I have distinctly seen the rocks, the decayed, upright trees, and traced the extent of the whole. I have heard that there is a fearful tradition connected with its disappearance. Is it so ?" "My white brother speaks truly," said the chief. "It is a dark and fearful tale.' "Will my red brother tell the story?" asked the hunter. 'Aluakeag," said the chief, and his eye again shone with the waked passions of his heart, Aluakeag is a stranger in the land of his fathers. Their tomahawks have rusted away in their places where His people are few. they buried them when they smoked the calumet. Their white brothers took their hunting grounds. A little while, and Aluakeag will be like yon decaying oak. His heart is slave of his white brothers. He will do what his white rotten already. He is no longer strong. brother commands." He is the in the breast of Aluakeag many gloomy recollections. This simple, yet passionate recital of his wrongs awoke He thought of the manifold injuries inflicted upon his race by the white man-injuries yet unavenged. But, oh! how bitterly he remembered the weakness of his people. "Does not the Great Spirit do all things well? Is friend of Aluakeag?" said the hunter, in an earnest, yet Is he not the the white hunter's tongue forked? kind, voice. Aluakeag recounted the tradition current among his own tribe, the Penacooks,-and also notorious from the Coos to the Narraganset. Divested of the peculiar sententiousness and metaphor of the Indian style, the narrative of Aluakeag ran much as follows: Years immemorial past, there dwelt on the Lost Isle an Indian in unbroken solitude. None ever greeted him when it was possible to turn aside from the path of the Mysterious; he was tall and slim as the mountain pine; and his countenance was stern, yet not malignant. He was not strong in the strength of manhood, for the hairs upon his head were grizzled with many sorrows. The Penacooks called him Caosopee, or the Mysterious. But none knew him well, or whence he came. The Penacooks knew him not, nor the Norwichwanock, nor the Ossipee, nor the Coos. He was a being alone. A Penacook brave, who boasted to have been on the island, said he was a prophet or seer. He said he learned also, that he was from beyond the mountains of the dis * * * * tant West, and that he was the last of his tribe, which boat, and take to the mainland. The spot where their had been hunted down and massacred by their more boat had been left was some seven or eight rods from the powerful foes. Dwelling alone, he had escaped the fate wigwam; but they had proceeded scarcely half that disof the people. Afterwards, sick at heart, he had jour- tance, when suddenly they came to the edge of the water, neyed hitherward, and made the beautiful isle his home. now boiling and flashing in the almost constant lightSuch was the generally received history of the Myste- ning. The appalling truth flashed upon their minds in an rious. instant-the island was sinking! Terror and despair seized upon the energies of their souls. A flash of lightning so vivid as to make the whole like a mass of lambent flame, showed their boat floating upon the water at a considerable distance. Down-down-the island sunk! * * * It were useless to prolong the story. Of the eight hunters, only one escaped to the boat, and then to the mainland. The bones of the others lie white beside those of Caosopee-the prophet of the Lost Isle. Caosopee had been in his little kingdom hardly twenty summers, when some white men from Massachusetts Bay visited the lake. They hunted many days in its One vicinity, and caught fish from its clear waters. night, when the heavens were black with lowering clouds, when the deluges of rain as suddenly fell as the clouds arose, the white man sought shelter in his wigwam-a place sacred to all but the Puritans. Caosopee had heard of the white men who had lately come across the "big waters," but he now saw them for the first time. He had gathered tales of many wrongs done the red men of Massachusetts by the new comers, and hence he looked upon his visitors with a jealous eye. So ran the tale of Aluakeag, a tale remembered by villagers round Lake Sunapee even to this day. THOMAS HOOD. We are When the hunters entered, Caosopee rose; but when they addressed him, he shook his head in token that he AMONG those to whom posterity will assign a glorious did not understand them. Paying little attention far-niche in the Temple of Fame is Thomas Hood. ther to him, they piled wood upon the fire, and moved almost too near him; have too much of the blindness of about the spacious wigwam as if in search of food or the present about us, to estimate aright his high qualities, something else. Caosopee sunk back upon his couch of or, separating the mere man from the poet, to put a true skins in the corner, eyeing the intruders askance the value on that immortal spirit which flowed out from the while. point of the pen of the almost-inspired writer; and which will survive in the eternity of the mind, long after the flesh has returned to its parent dust, and the mound over his grave has crumbled under wandering feet. Those, at a greater distance, will gaze upon the rays gushing from the star of genius, and revel in their genial warmth and golden brightness, when the personal individuality of the source from whence they proceeded has been forgotten, and the memory of the man has been "Hang the Indian dog!" exclaimed Jonathan Phelps, a tall, cadaverous hunter, "hasn't he got anything at all to eat?" "Can't smell anything,” replied another; "'spose we make him stir his stumps, just to see what he can bring out?" "Greed!" exclaimed half a dozen voices.-"Phelps, see if you can't make him understand." The individual called upon turned round towards Cao-numbered among the things which have been. sopee, and made motions with his hands and jaws as It is curious to observe the pertinacity with which the though he would eat something. Caosopee, thinking he world refuses to recognise its really great men, and how was derided and mocked at, perhaps, hastily lifted a tom-they, apparently indifferent to what the world may ahawk; but the practised eye of the hunter was quick think or say about them, enveloped in a sphere of to catch the motion, and with a quicker movement still, their own, created by their own enthusiasm and earnesthe shot the Indian through the breast, while the hatchet ness, and peopled by the gorgeous creations of their fell harmless at his feet. Caosopee fell back without a teeming souls; go about their work of preparation for futugroan. At that moment a terrific thunderbolt, accom-rity, with all the simplicity, and seeming unconsciousness, panied with a blinding flash of lightning, struck a tree before the wigwam, and the fragments rained against it, and many pieces even entered. It was a tall hemlock, which being spiral-grained, was consequently left without limb or branch. Caosopee was mortally wounded. Yet, he had strength enough to raise himself, upon his elbow. In the coarse guttural of his native tongue, he cursed his murderers: "A curse upon ye, white men! A curse upon ye all! May the Great Spirit curse ye with words of fire, even as yonder tree! May the catamount jump upon ye from his lair! May the green things wither before ye, and the waters dry up! May your dwellings lie in the warpath of the Narraganset, and your scalps dangle at his belt! Caosopee is weak. but his words are strong. He goes to the Spirit-Land, but his curse shall follow ye. May the Great Spirit hear the prayer of Caosopee!" Faint from loss of blood, the prophet sunk back and expired. The white hunters were filled with terror. The deeds of useless murder, and the deep curse of the prophet, conspired to fill their stout hearts with nameless fear. The rain still fell in torrents, and the heaven's blackness was made more horrid by the incessant and vivid flashes of lightning that forked the firmament. They felt a rumbling of the earth beneath them, which still increased their alarm. They resolved at once to seek their with which a child pursues its studies or its pastimes, as an involuntary preparation for the period of maturity. The men who stand out in high relief, gilded by the splendour of fame, from the background of littleness or obscurity, into which their contemporaries have sunk, giants, as they are now, were but pigmies in their own time. Men knew little, and perhaps cared less about them; or, if they gave them any prominence, did so for qualities which have been long since forgotten. It is seldom that any personal traits or characteristics of such men are preserved beyond the age in which they lived. They seem as though they had been in their lives destitute of the egotism of individualism, and to have silently carried with them their individuality to their graves, where it was quietly interred with their bones, and forgotten with their personal appearance. It is as if they had consented to abdicate the individuality of self, for the possession of the universality of nature, and that their own hearts had mingled with, been absorbed by, and lost amid, the hearts of those, into whose deepest recesses they looked, by virtue of that magic sympathy with the feelings of all, which was the highest element of their real greatness. One would be almost justified in saying that the men, who are to become great in the estimation of futurity, are the children of the present; and, like children, pass unnoticed among the crowd of men by whom they are surrounded; but, that in atter years, when the full |