same. When I have you with me, as I hope to, another season, I think I shall feel no wants. Till then, adieu! And believe me your ever affectionate cousin,

ANN DUDLEY.'

HERE then was a triumph of affection and virtuous resolution over the negligent habits fostered by ridiculous fondness. She was right, too, as respected myself; and although aware that a too great attention to domestic duties is not an error of the present day, yet in my particular instance, it was an error; and painfully was it felt, when the time arrived that I was to take my place in society, and was introduced to those in my own station, whose acquirements made me blush for my ignorance. True, I had been taught much that was extremely useful, and this knowledge I would not willingly be without; yet I look back to the years spent in acquiring that knowledge, as the saddest in my life; and those who undertook my guardianship, with the best intentions, I doubt not, succeeded in making me thoroughly uncomfortable. If I live, I intend that my daughter shall not only be made acquainted with the particular duties that belong to woman, nor yet acquire them to the neglect of the more important graces of mind, or at the cost of the elegancies and proprieties of life, which fit us as well to be the companion as the help-mate of man, and as much the instructress as the nurse of his children.

THE CHIEFTAIN'S TEAR.

EY ROBERT R. RAYMOND.

'IT is said that the Indians, when preparing to cross the Mississippi, left all their possessions, with peculiar stoicism, until they came to bid farewell to the graves of their fathers, when the stoutest warriors were moved, even to tears. 'JOURNAL OF COMMERCE,' 1837.

He was an Indian warrior-gray and stern;
Furrowed his swarthy brow, and scar-seamed;
Time had set his finger there, and he was old!
Yet, as he stood upon the mountain's brow,
That overhung the dark old wood, his form
Of knitted iron loomed against the sky,
Like a tall hemlock, stricken at its top;
Withered, but still erect. Whither it would,
The wind sprang cheerly onward in its course,
And shouted in his ear. And in its tones,

Were heard speaking the quick, sharp, doubling stroke
Of the stout woodman's axe, as far below,

In the deep, unsunned recess of the glade,

He hurled from his old standing-place the tree

That had lived there more than an hundred years.

And ever and anon, a blithesome song

Rang up in the clear air, and the mossed rocks

And woods, all unaccustomed to such sound,

Flung it straight back again, with mingled scorn,

And strange wonder. That sculptured listener's cheek
Grew darker then; his teeth were closely locked,
Shutting the rising wrath down to his heart
Again; and on his rifle-breech, the quick

Finger paddled convulsively, as though

He would have driven the galling merriment

Back in the white man's throat, and drowned its note

In blood. 'T was but a passing thought; the fire

In his deep eye went slowly out again;

On his lip the leaden hue resumed its throne-
Of cold hate. From his breast a muttered chaunt,
Like the mysterious voices poets say

Welled from the ancient statue-so unmoved
His marble lip*- went up upon the breeze,
Blending its melody with the deep bass

God breathes along the tree-tops. Thus it ran :

'Ax, fell the tall old groves the sacred home

Of the Great Spirit! and the grass-grown mound,
Where his own forest-children used to coine,

And lay their offerings-level to the ground,

Mocking the while Maneto's wrath with the cursed sound!

'When first he built the world, He planted it

By the hill-side there; and beneath its shade

The red man's father's father used to sit,

When a young brave, and woo his star-eyed maid;

And then they reared their children there, in the same glade.

*It may not be generally known, that some of the Indian tribes talk without moving the lips. The writer has used this fact, as applying here, by license.'

'With murderous bullet, drink the Indian's blood! With ruthless steel, raze low his forest-home! Rear your cursed cabins in the sacred wood,

To whose deep gloom the red-deer dared not roam, And none but the dark prophet's step, ere now, hath come.

'It matters not; my wasted tribe are gone!

My black-browed Maqua and her eaglet boy Are far beyond the white-cloud, and alone

On the blue hill-top stands the chieftain! Joy With them hath fled the spot; then let the foe destroy!

'Beyond great Mississippi's sweeping wave,

The broken warrior takes his weary way; 'Mid Oregon's wild wastes to find a grave,

Where the big mountains hide the dying day, And nought may e'er disturb the banquet of decay.

'He heaves no sigh for the old hunting-ground!
Back on your heads a burning curse, to sear,
Wither and blast, is all the parting sound

His soul flings down to ye! Maneto, hear!
To women and the pale-face, leave the coward tear!'

Swiftly he turned upon his heel and leaped,
Light as the springy wild-cat, down the steep;
Catching, from limb to limb, amid the trees
And slender saplings, that in living green
Clad its round side. Crackling and crashing then,
Beneath his foot, the brush-wood light gave way,
Scaring the wood-bird from his swinging nest,
And shaking the slim branches, till their rows
Of countless leaves gave out a silvery sound,
Like tinkling of a thousand tiny bells.

In a dark clump of elms, that seemed as though,
The patriarchs of all the trees -- they there
Were holding council, grave and politic,
The straggling sunbeams worming lazily

Through their locked branches, to the holy shade -
And flinging gauzy shadows on dry leaves,
That whispered ceaselessly, all o'er the ground
The chieftain checked his step. A spot for awe!
The singing bird was not upon the bough.
Happy wood-rabbits came not there. Creatures
That love the light, and gladden in God's smile,
And in their being's sunshine, were away.
Mayhap the ground-mole burrowed silently,
Beneath the mould — and the lone whippoorwill
Cowered from the day, in some sequestered nook.
But the wild squirrel shunned the dark abodes
In the old trunks, and chippered far away,
Where the green hickory, in some pleasant place,
Stood up and nodded to the golden day.
The blast went on its path complainingly,

And kindred fancies stirred to its sad call,

As it sighed on the red-man's brow. Three graves

Were there, marked by three mounds of earth. He flung

His stalwart frame upon the ground, and strove

As though by clasping in his arms the sod,

He might caress the dear decay beneath.

Now fixing on the sky those eyes of midnight,
Deeply, unfathomably dark; and then,

Again upon the consecrated turf

While his huge frame shivered convulsively,

With the fierce agony of a strong man's grief

Once more with that strange chime he stirred the stillness. How altered in its tone!

THE SYMPATHIES.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF WIELAND.

I.

How blissful is it, O, J ...! when sympathizing souls commune! Souls, which perhaps once loved in a former heaven, and now that they meet, the remembrance of each other arises dimly, like the confused recollection of a dream, of which naught but an indefinite though agreeable idea can be realized. Perchance Fate separated them, when they descended from that happy condition, to commence their perilous pilgrimage of trial in this strange land. But their better genius again unites them, even though years, mountains, and oceans may intervene. Scarcely do these twin souls awake from the confusion into which their fall into this wretched world has plunged them; scarcely do they feel their former serenity return, ere a secret longing also arises, strange even to themselves. They aspire to a good which is wanting; they are not contented. Oftentimes they are buried in solitary reveries, or, under the dark wings of the night, wander in serious dreams. A thousand varied visions pass before the meditating soul, but the chord is yet untouched; at length it creates an image worthy of its affection; it contemplates and loves it, and wishes, like Pygmalion, that it might exist, as yet ignorant that this picture has an original, and that it is only engaged in recalling lineaments once familiar. How pleasing is then the astonishment of these harmonizing spirits, when at an unhoped-for and unexpected moment, that original stands in all its beauty before them! A secret magnetic attraction draws them together; they gaze and love for ever; and the more deeply, the longer they examine. And how could they do otherwise than love? Their hearts are attuned to the sweetest harmony. Nature has the same charms for both; this pure azure of the heavens, these balsamic flowers, this blooming landscape, that slumbers peacefully beneath the silver light of the moon, and the more lofty aspirations of the mind, spiritual beauty, order, goodness, innocence, virtue, which, unencouraged, unknown, and uninitiated, remains in the midst of the turmoils of a degenerate world, faithful to the call of heaven. All these affect both in the same manner. How delightful is it to them to unlock to each other their inmost thoughts! How readily do they comprehend them! How speedily does each feeling find an answering emotion in the heart of the other! There is no great thought, no beautiful perception, no joyful hope, no noble deed, that they do not share in common. There is no dissonance in the one, which is not changed into harmony by the sympathy of the other. The mutual desire to approach ever more nearly the immortals in that holy land from whence they have sprung; this rooted desire, whether it be called virtue or religion, unites them in all that they think, and in all that they do. For what other species of harmony can exist between soul and soul, that is not based upon virtue ?

Beware, oh ye grovelling souls! whom avarice or luxury (degra ding cares!) unite for a brief space under the same yoke, beware that ye profane not the names of Love and Friendship! Call not that