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one act of a farce ? Who ever heard of a committee of two ? Do you often find a four-leafʼd clover? Even things are unknown in nature. A prism has three sides. Revolutions in France last three days. Hens hatch in three weeks. A discourse has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Man has three natures, the moral, intellectual, and physical, and is subject to three great states, life, death, and eternity; and there are three ages on each side of the apex of the • seven ages. The middle point is the important one in every work; it contains the argument of a discourse; it is the fulcrum of the lever. In the ages,' it is the soldier' the age of action.

Behold man in his prime! Infancy has budded, and boyhood blossomed; the fragrance of love and affection has emanated from the flower - now is the fruit. Life has thus far been spent in helplessness — in dreams and visions — in preparation for action. It has been a delight and a discipline. At times, clouds have obscured its happiness, and the youth has met with obstacles he did not anticipate. But as yet he has had no serious grief; for the tears of the school-boy are soon dry, and the sighs of the lover soon dissipated. The fights and disputes, the emulations and rivalries, of the boy, the sorrows, and hot tears, and sobbing disappointments, of too tender hearts having done their office, are soon forgotten. A spirit of hope, strong physical powers, a flow of spirits, known only to youth, have triumphed over all sorrows. No written romance ever equalled, in incident and adventure, in passion and enthusiasm, that romance which can never be written, which has been going on in the human mind in the three first stages of its history. And if it were written, it could never be read, except by its author, for every mind has an individual language, in which it talks to itself. Sometimes our poets have confidence to utter snatches of the inner language to the multitude, and they pronounce it jargon and nonsense. To them it is so. The fault is in the utterance too great a confidence in the sympathy of the world. Some minds, like Shelly, and Chatterton, and Keats, have dared, to their destruction, to summon to the light and scrutiny of the world those spirits never made for day, but created to lie encradled in the bosom, and do the secret bidding of the soul.

But now the illusions are gone ; the mists are lifted from the valleys; the rugged, the smooth, appear what they are. Awakened from his trance, the soldier' rejoices to find that he is to exchange fancy for fact, and his energy knows no bounds, his zeal no modera. tion. A trumpet sounds in his ears ; 'that bright dream was his last!' He flings the garland of roses from his brow; he unclasps the arms that would entwine him; a mightier energy than he has yet known, impels him, and Fame beckons him away from Love. Thus he becomes a 'soldier of the cross,' or he contends in the arena of politics. He reads away his eye-sight over musty parchments, and learns forms and precedents, that he may be a contender in courts. Money, gain, the counterfeit of power, demands his days and nights, that he may wear the palm of victory on 'change. He travels in foreign lands, in danger of life and health, that he may have knowledge. A soldier he becomes, and fights no inglorious battle with want, poverty, and neglect, that he may win — not to be unknown.

Alas ! sometimes a soldier, armed with steel, he is, and hopes to find his heart's ease in a carnage and a slaughter; consents to look upon his fellow men as mere tools, by whose imprisonment and death he is to raise an imperishable monument to his name. Vain hope, this last! The time is coming, if not now just hy, when war shall be considered as base and brutal, as it is wicked and ishonorable; when, instead of tinsel dresses, and the drum and fife, and all its

* pomp and circumstance,' they who fight, whose trade is blood, shall wear mourning dresses, and, like the executioners at hangings, go not unmasked.

• The soldier' must have deep excitements. No longer can he bend to the delicate influences of his youth, save for pastime and relief. His nature asks the storm. As the early shoots and tendrils of the plant, grown to become the tree, which no longer can wave, to quicken the circulation of its juices, with the evening breeze, nor feel the lighter zephyrs of the heavens, now seems to court the rising wind, and fling its arms joyfully in the tempest; so man, the soldier, rushes to the conflicts, frenzies, quarrels, which may task his strength. Excitement he must have. Talk not of the dangers of youth, the seductions of vice, and the love of pleasure, in the young, and quake with fear. Bad influences these may be ; yet how do they compare in danger with those riper crimes, those smooth-faced villanies, those canting deviltries, those speculating robberies, that task the pride of mind, at the same time that they subserve baser passions, and burl the strong man down many fathoms deep in sin, never to rise! The youth allured from virtue, taken in a fault, in which his body sins and not his mind, may still come back and seek his father's face,' repent, and love, and be forgiven. Not so the man to whom the world is real. Led away by no soft passion, no novel game, he sins in earnest with his soul; concocts, and plans, and executes, and riots in his crime. He seeks the bubble reputation, even in the cannon's mouth;' reputation for skill, talent, energy; and loses virtue, peace, and heaven. Jealous in honor,' he fights duels; 'sudden and quick in quarrel,' he seeks contention.

Happy may he consider himself, who, in this dangerous age, makes his campaigns clothed in the Christian armor; who takes unto bimself the whole armor of God, that he may be able to stand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand, therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breast-plate of righteousness, and your feet shod with the preparation of the Gospel of Peace; above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith you shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.'

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Fair land! where every mountain dell, I turn me to the Athenian grove,
To old poetic legends given,

Where calm Cephissus loved to flow, Of patriot-valor's deeds could tell,

While Plato drew from realms above Unnumbered as the stars of heaven; Fair Wisdom's self to dwell below. Land of the Muses' only home,

Where art thou, grove of Academe! The Muses' first and latest love,

Where thy pure waters river fair, Where Pindus and gray Helicon,

And where Ílissus' whispering stream ? And every stream and mountain-grove, Gone - numbered with the things that Recalls the voice of ages past;

were ! The warrior's meed, the poet's song,

And gone is old 'Athena's' power, The echoing trumpet's batile-blast,

The city of Minerva's sway,
The lay of love thy plains along: Where crumbling fane and roofless tower
Land of the olive and the vine,

Look lovely still, amid decay.
Of sunny crag and dark blue skies, Or shall I stand on Lunium's brow,
Where roses with the bay entwine,

And gaze along the Ægean wave,
To form the wreath that never dies : Whose thousand islands sleep below,
The wreath that hung around thy name, Lull'd by the murmuring waters' lave?

Child of the Muse, Minerva's pride! Ah, God of Day! 'tis only thou Suill claims for thee the envied fame, Remain'st of all that once was fair;

The swelling wave of glory's tide : Thy beauteous isles are lonely now, Land of the old poetic dream,

Yet still thou lov'st to linger there! Where erst Apollo loved to dwell, Where is thy Dolos, Sun-God, where And poured along Thessalia's stream* Thy naial island of the seas The music of his golden shell;

Latona's wave-emerging lair, Where from each height an Oread sung,

The star-gem of the Cyclades? Each tree a Dryad's native home, Thy shrine hath sunk, and thou art lest, While from her urn each Naiad flung

God of the voice and vision old !
The crystal fountain's silvery foam : of fount, of song, and lyre bereft,
Oh! where are we, and where are thon, Thy throne in dust, thy altar cold !

Beloved of heaven, fair freedom's pride!
In dust thy glorious banner low,

Thou of the vineyard and the vine, And shiver'd spear, lie side by side!

Does Naxos* still thy presence own, Oh! where is now that spirit free,

The verdant lendrils still entwine When, as the turban'd slave came on,

Around thy temple's once loved home? The voice of old Thermopylæ.

Child of the wave! fair beauty's queen, Sent back the cry of Marathon?

Whom ocean gave to light above, Lord of the lion-heart and name, t

While round thy brow were clustering seen Awake! arouse thee from the tomb! The golden flowers of life and love; Thy country calls from tower and plain, Say, does thine own Cythera'st dome And glory's watch-fires, quenched in

With streaming incense greet no more, gloom.

No more the circumambient foam

Make music with its rocky shore? Where, isle of Teucer,t where are they

Lord of Olympus! Ægis-king! Whose blood once crimsoned freedom's Around whose calm majestic brow

The Phidiani curls hung clustering, wave, When down along Ægina's bay,

While ether bathed thy throne below: Proud Persia's myriads found a grave ?

God of the ratıling thunder-peal, Oh where, Cithæron, s is the band

Of regal eye, and stern command, That kept Platea's field of fame,

Who mad'st the guilty nations feel And onward, for their native land,

The terrors of thy living brand; Drove tyrant-threat, and slavery's chain? Son of the banished lord of heaven, s Land of the brave! for thee no more Thy father's hate, thy father's foe,

The patriot-prayer shall rise to heaven, To whom the sceptre once was given, No more along thy rocky shore

O'er sunny skies, and earth below; The exulting victor's shout be given ; Still high in air thy mountain soars, Gone is the lightning of thine eye,

Snow-diadem'd, of many a peak,ll And gone the banner and the spear;

Still mid its billowy foliage roars Around thy path dark shadows lie,

The warrior-blasi from Ossa's steep. And strangers drop for thee the tear.

* Naxos was sacred to Bacchus. * The river • Amphysus.'

# Island of Cythera, near which Veous is said i Leonidas, King of Sparta. The effigy of a

to have sprung from the sea, and where she had lion was placed upon his tomb, in allusion to

a celebrated temple. bis pame.

Phidias declared that he derived his model Salamis.'

of the statue of Olympian Jove from the celeThe field of Platea Jay near the base of brated line of Homer. Mount Citheron.

$ .Saturu.'

li Πολυόειραδος Ολυμπoιο. Homer. VOL. XI.



But where art thou, Etern al Jove !

Thy gushing waters still ascend, And where the altar and the fane, * And at them all of human kind That down along the Æliant grove

Still low the knee of homage bend; Graced Pisa's loved and sunny plain ? To thee the lonely scholar comes, All, all has vanished like a dream,

With care-dimmed eye, and pallid brow, The muses' lay, the poet's creed; And muses mid thy ruined homes, No more the Naiad haunts the stream, Where all he loves is silent now.

No more a thousand victims bleed. To thee the patriot ever turns,
Gone are the Dorian melodies,

O glorious nurse of freedom's tree!
The incense-cloud, the choral strain, For on thy hallowed altar burns
And Delphi now neglected lies –

The watch-fire of the brave and free; Forever ceased Apollo's reign :

For thee e'en Beauty heaves the sigh, Yet, fairest mount of poet's dream,

For thee she drops the pensive tear Parnassus of the double peak,

Since with thee from her native sky, Still from thy rocks Castalia's stream She came to linger many a year. In prattling music loves to leap:

She came to Plato's hallowed grove, Suill winds the bee his little horn,

And taught the lay of other spheres, O'er thy lone sides, Hymettus fair ; Where, bathed in fires of heavenly love, The crystal dew-drops of the morn, Our long-losy home* at length appears;

The mountain thyme, still linger there; She came to breathe along the page, And still Alphéus loves to flow,

Where fancy's visions ever dwell, And join his bride & in western seas, Unscathed by time, undimmed by age, While still are heard thy whisperings low, The music ihat she loved so well.

O king of rivers ! to the breeze,ll Ah! land of beauty, and of love,

And now for thee, sweet land ! once more Of cave, and dell, and valley green, She oft recalls those happier days, And moss-grown fane, and haunted grove, When all around thy rocky shore

And golden skies, and crystal stream! The Sun of Freedom poured its rays. Ah! parent of a valiant line,

When hill, and stream, and tower, and Whose deeds shall live on history's scroll, town, Beyond the power of scathing time,

Freed from dark slavery's vassalage, While seas shall heave, and planets roll; Exchanged the blood-stained tyrant's Ah! nurse of earlier, happier years,

crown, Whose name comes fraught with every For freedom's holiest heritage. charm,

Farewell, a long farewell to thee, To call forth pity's scalding tears,

Land of the brave, and wise, and good! Or with heroic feelings warın !

Thy day-spring ne'er again may be, Eternal fountain of the mind,

Thy sun

hath set mid waves of blood.

B. H. J.

“тнE PEACE от Gop.?

Oh what can compare to the peace of God, / 'T is not like the peace of the fruitful land, When it cometh upon the heart,

When the valleys are thick with corn ; Where once contending passions trod, That peace all hearts may understand, When it bids them all depart:

For of earthly things 't is born ; Oh! not the peace of the battle plain, But thou wouldst not call it peace, hadst When the day's hot fight is o'er;

Before God's holy shrine, [knelt There war may madly rage again - And that blessed calm in thy spirit felt In that heart it can rage no more.

That none can e'er define. 'Tis not like the peace to the ocean given, Turn not to earth, for its brightest joys When above the soft skies smile;

Beside his light are dim;
True, it may image the face of heaven, But there is a pleasure nought destroys,
And be gentle and calm awhile ;

And it flows alone from him.
But shall not the clouds again be hung Oh, be that peace within thy breast!
Above it, in gorgeous gloom,

Then shalt thou surely know,
And shall not many a life be fiung That save his pure and holy rest,
Away on that stormy tomb ?

There is no true peace below.

M. A. B.

* Temple of Jupiter, at Olympus. { Altis.

Doric mood, usually employed in pæans. Arethusa in the island of Orty gia,off Syracuse. I Eurotas, now called Basili Potamo.

* Plato's doctrine of the to kalov, or eter nal beauty, blended with his other doctrine of the immortality of the soul, and its return to carth from its dwelling in the skies.


All persons who are in the least familiar with the early history of the West, know with what pure and untiring zeal the Catholic missionaries pursued the work of conversion among the savages. Before a Virginian had crossed the Blue Ridge, and while the Connecticut was still the extreme frontier of New England, more than one man, whose youth had been passed among the warm valleys of Languedoc, had explored the wilds of Wisconsin, and caused the hymn of Christian praise to rise from the prairies of Illinois. The Catholic priest went even before the soldier and trader. From lake to lake, from river to river, the Jesuits pressed on, unresting, and with a power that no other Christians have exhibited, won to their faith the warlike Miamis, and the luxurious Illinois. For more than a hundred years did this work go forward. Of its temporary results we know little. The earliest of the published letters from the missionaries were written thirty years after La Salle's voyage down the Great River. But, were the family records of France laid be. fore us, I cannot doubt that we should find there evidences of savage hate diminished, and savage cruelty prevented, through the labors of the brotherhood of Jesus. And yet it was upon these men that England charged the war of Pontiac! Though every motive for a desperate exertion existed on the part of the Indians — the dread of annihilation, the love of their old homes and hunting-grounds, the reverence for their fathers'


- all that nerved Philip, and fired Tecumseh yet to the Protestant English the readiest explanation was, that Catholics, that Jesuits, had poisoned the savage mind!

It was during this war — the war of extermination which the savages commenced as one man, on Michigan, Huron, Erie, and On, tario, along the frontiers, and among the quiet hollows of Pennsyl. vania and Virginia -- that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate.

A chief of the Wyandots, which tribe had returned to its old home upon the Maumee, since the conclusion of the war between the Iroquois and Miami confederacy, instead of joining Pontiac, who commanded at the north, went with some of his warriors to the aid of the Shawanese, then living upon the Scioto. He was a man much resembling Logan, so celebrated ten years later - calm, stern; in peace kindly, but in war a true Indian; of vast personal strength, and commanding energies, he led wherever he went. Many a mother, during the terrible summer of '63, started at the howl of the watch-dog, and listening, thought she heard the dreaded voice of the Deep-river, as the Wyandot chief was called; and many a mother did hear that voice. He had taken up the hatchet for extermination, and he spared not age, or sex, or beauty, or courage. Forty scalps, that autumn, stretched upon twigs, were drying in the air at his wigwam door.

Yet the Deep-river had spared one. In a narrow valley near the Green-briar, not far from the now fashionable White Sulphur Spring, dwelt a little family of four, who, when they heard in April of the peace that had been concluded between France and England, thanked

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