struggle. From one hand (which remained clasped) some fragments of dress, coarser than what belonged to the body, were forced with difficulty; but they did not lead to detection. The stranger was buried, and as much inquiry made respecting him as is usual for persons for whom no one feels an interest. His murderer never was discovered. Denbigh left the place immediately that the inquisition was over. He did not volunteer his evidence upon the occasion. His natural love of justice, and perceptions of right, were per haps obscured by his affection for his friend; besides which, nothing that he could have said upon the occasion would have exceeded a vague suspicion of the fact. At all events, he kept Gordon's secret, until he deemed that it was not dangerous to disclose it.

In regard to Gordon himself— he was never more heard of. A man, indeed, bearing somewhat of his appearance, was afterwards seen in the newly-cleared country near the Ohio; but, excepting the resemblance that he bore to Denbigh's friend, and a certain intelligence beyond his situation (which was that of a common laborer), there was nothing to induce a belief that it was the same person. Whoever he might be, however, even he too now has disappeared. He was killed accidentally, while felling one of those enormous hemlock-trees, with which some parts of the great continent abound. A shallow grave was scooped for him; a fellow-laborer's prayer was his only requiem; and, whatever may have been his intellect, whatever his passions or strength of purpose, the frail body which once contained them now merely fertilizes the glade of an American forest, or else has become food for the bear or the jackal.

[The story of Aguirra, referred to in the foregoing narrative, occurs in one of our early periodical works, and is to the following effect: Aguirra was a Spanish soldier, under the command of Esquivel, governor of Lima or Potosi.

For some small cause, or for no cause, (to make an example, or to wreak his spite,) this governor caused Aguirra to be stripped and flogged. He received some hundred stripes; his remonstrances (that he was a gentleman, and as such exempt by law from such disgrace, and that what he had done was unimportant, and justified by common usage) being treated with contempt. He endured the punishment in the presence of a crowd of comrades and strangers, and swore (with a Spaniard's spirit) never to be satisfied but with his tyrant's blood. He waited patiently, until Esquivel was no longer governor; refusing consolation, and declining, from fancied unworthiness, all honorable employment. But, when the governor put off his authority, then Aguirra commenced his revenge. He followed his victim from place to place,- - haunted him like a ghost, and filled him (though surrounded by friends and servants) with perpetual dread. No place, no distance, could stop him. He has been known to track his enemy for three, four, five hundred leagues at a time! He continued pursuing him for three years and four months; and at last, after a journey of five hundred leagues, came upon him suddenly at Cuzco; found him, for the first time, without his guards, and instantly stabbed him to the heart!

Such is the story of Aguirra. It is believed to be a fact; and so is the story which I have recounted above. The circumstances are not only curious as showing a strange coincidence, but they show also what a powerful effect a narrative of this kind may produce. For there is little doubt but that the South American tale, although it may not absolutely have generated the spirit of vengeance in Gordon's mind, so shaped and modified it as to stimulate his flagging animosity; carried him through all impediments and reverses to the catastrophe; and enabled him to exhibit a perseverance that is to be paralleled nowhere, except perhaps in the history of fanatics or martyrs.]

THE NORSEMAN.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

A

SWARTHY strength with face of light,
As dark sword-iron is beaten bright;

A brave, frank look, with health aglow,
Bonny blue eyes and open brow;
His friend he welcomes, heart-in-hand,
But foot to foot his foe must stand:

A Man who will face, to his last breath,
The sternest facts of life and death:

This is the brave old Norseman.

The wild wave-motion weird and strange
Rocks in him! seaward he must range;
His life is just a mighty lust

To wear away with use, not rust!
Though bitter wintry cold the storm,
The fire within him keeps him warm:
Kings quiver at his flag unfurled,
The Sea-King's master of the world!

And conquering rides the Norseman.

He hides at heart of his rough life

A world of sweetness for the Wife:

From his rude breast a Babe may press
Soft milk of human tenderness, —

Make his eyes water, his heart dance,

And sunrise in his countenance:

In merry mood his ale he quaffs
By firelight, and his jolly heart laughs :

The blithe, great-hearted Norseman.

But when the Battle Trumpet rings,
His soul's a war-horse clad with wings!
He drinks delight in with the breath
Of Battle and the dust of death:
The Axes redden; spring the sparks
Blood-radiant grow the gray mail-sarks;
Such blows might batter, as they fell,
Heaven's gates, or burst the booms of hell!
So fights the fearless Norseman.

The Norseman's king must stand up tall,
If he would be head over all;
Mainmast of Battle! when the plain
Is miry red with bloody rain!
And grip his weapon for the fight,
Until his knuckles all grow white;
Their banner-staff he bears is best
If double handful for the rest:

When "Follow me!" cries the Norsetun.

Valiant and true, as Sagas tell,

The Norseman hated lies like hell;

Hardy from cradle to the grave,

'T was their religion to be brave:

Great, silent fighting-men, whose words

Were few, soon said, and out with Swords!

One saw his heart cut from his side

Living, and smiled; and smiling, died:
The unconquerable Norseman.

They swam the flood; they strode in flame;
Nor quailed when the Valkyrie came

To kiss the chosen, for her charms,
With "Rest my Hero, in mine arms."
Their spirits through a grim wide wound,
The Norse door-way to heaven found;
And borne upon the battle blast,

Into the hall of Heroes passed:

And there was crowned the Norseman.

The Norseman wrestled with old Rome,
For Freedom in our Island home;
He taught us how to ride the sea
With hempen bridle, horse of tree :
The Norseman stood with Robin Hood

By Freedom in the merry green wood,
When William ruled the English land
With cruel heart and bloody hand.

For Freedom fights the Norseman.

Still in our race the Norse king reigns;
His best blood beats along our veins;
With his old glory we can glow,
And surely sail where he could row:
Is danger stirring? from its sleep
Our War-dog wakes his watch to keep,
Stands with our Banner over him,
True as of old, and stern and grim!

Come on, you'll find the Norseman

When Swords are gleaming you shall see
The Norseman's face flash gloriously,
With look that makes the foeman reel;
His mirror from of old was steel!
And still he wields, in Battle's hour,
The old Thor's hammer of Norse power,
Strikes with a desperate arm of might,
And at the last tug turns the fight:

For never yields the Norseman