CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 3 (continued 2)

"Cobblers! take warning by this cobbler's end."

Yes, ye castle-builders! look upon his undone condition and take warning. Take warning, parents, and bring up your children to suit the sphere in which they are to move. I shall not trouble you with the why and the wherefore of his present condition, but suffice it to say that such it is, and then picture to yourself the untold miseries he must endure when I depict to you the sort of life he is leading, with such passions as I have already described his ruling ones to be. Imprimis: there is Peg—but I had better say as little as possible of her, out of respect for the ladies and out of regard for my friend, because in truth like "Jerry Sneak," he has not eaten a "bit of under crust since he was married," but follow me if you please upon his farm, and let me introduce you to his plagues and tormentors. Let us look for the overseer—we shall find him, if at home, which is seldom the case, seated on a stump, with the symbol of his office under his arm. There he is, you see, mounted on his throne lazily looking at the laborers; working the land to death by injudicious cultivation; extorting the last drop of vitality from it; a foe to every species of improvement, and obstinately bent upon going on in the jog trot of his predecessors. This is Castellanus' companion ex necessitate. Shades of the Orvilles and Mortimers! pity him. What can there be in common between them? What can they talk about? About Evelina and Amanda?—cottages covered with woodbine and honeysuckle?—landscapes and glorious sunsets?—the warbling of birds?—Oh no, Suk and Sall, negro cabins or pig-styes, corn fields and——yes, they can talk of birds, but they are blackbirds and crows, and devil take their warbling—of sunset, but only to lament the shortness of the days. His (the overseer's) themes are rogues and runaways—he is eloquent upon hog-stealing, and neither Simon Sensitive nor Timothy Testy could recount more readily the miseries of human life. His are the miseries of Geoponies. Rot—rust—weevil—fly and cutworm, haunt his imagination and dwell upon his tongue. Castellanus had rather be a dog and bay the moon than discuss such subjects. But my friend's delight was once in horses; it was one of the few pleasures he had. His fancy was early captivated by Alexander mounting Bucephalus; a horse gaily caparisoned and mounted by a steel clad knight, was a sight upon which his imagination feasted. The red roan charger of Marmion at the battle of Flodden had thrilled his every nerve,

"Blood shot his eyes—his nostril spread The loose rein, dangling from his head Housing and saddle bloody red."

Oh what a picture! and that I should be obliged to exhibit to your view the counterfeit presentment. The ploughboys are just coming out of the stable with their master's horses going to plough. Here, sir, is Buck-e-fallus, as the negro boys call Bucephalus. There is no difficulty in mounting him; they have knocked out one of his eyes; he has a blind side and cannot see the shadow cast by the sun. If his spirit was ever as high as his namesake's, he has lost it now—that little ragged urchin can ride him with a grape-vine—raw-boned, spavined and wind-galled! let him pass and let us see the next. This is Smiler! "Lucus a non lucendo," I suppose; alas! he never smiles—he reminds one of Irving's wall eyed horse looking out of the stable window on a rainy day. His look is disconsolate in the extreme; from the imperturbable gravity of his manners, you perceive he is dead to hope; melancholy has marked him for her own; bad feeding, constant toil, and a lost currycomb, have made him "what thou well may'st hate," although he once "set down" as "shapely a shank" as Burns' Auld mare Maggie ever did. Do you see that long legged fellow, that Brobdignag, mounted upon the little mare mule? His legs almost drag the ground, and he ought in justice to toat (aye, sir, toat, a good word, an excellent word, and one upon which I mean to send you an etymological essay some of these days,) the animal he bestrides. There are some singular traits about that mule Golliver, as the boys by a singular misnomer call her. She keeps fat "while other nags are poor;" it is because she lives in the corn-field. She can open the stable-door by some inscrutable means, some sort of open sessame; gates are no impediments to her, and even ten rails and a rider cannot arrest her progress. She seems to have a vow upon her never to leave the plantation; she will go as far as the outer gate with her rider, but if he attempt to pass that boundary his fate is sealed. He is canted most unceremoniously over her head and made to bite the dust; that gate is her ultima Thule; her ne plus ultra; the utmost bound of her ambition. She has acquaintances enough, as Old Oliver says, and wishes not to extend the circle. Her policy is Chinese, or perhaps like Rasselas, she once escaped from her happy valley and was disappointed in the world—"one fatal remembrance" perhaps casts its "bleak shade" beyond that gate.—I know not in sooth, but heaven help me! what am I doing? If I go on thus, with the whole stud of my neighbor, and write at large upon every thing which torments him, I shall never have done. Suffice it then, that I give you a hasty, panoramic sketch of what he has to encounter in his rides over his farm. See him mounted on his little switch tailed grey, which has the high sounding title of White Surrey, and whose tail is nearly cut off at the root by the crupper—the mane in most admired disorder, and fetlocks long and bushy. Now what does he behold? Barren fields—broken fences—gates unhinged—starving cattle—ragged sheep—and jades so galled that they make him wince—hogs that eat their own pigs and devastate his crops—mares that sometimes cripple their own colts—cows on the contrary which have so much of the milk of vaccine kindness, that they suffer their offspring to suck after being broken to the cart—bulls even, that suck—rams, so pugnacious, that they butt his mules down, as the aforesaid Gulliver can attest, for often have I seen her knocked down as fast as she could rise—upon my life it's true, Mr. Editor, and you need not add with Major Longbow, what will you lay it's a lie? It was amusing to see the ram, with head erect and fixed eye, moving round in a small circle and watching his opportunity to plant his blows, with all the pugilistic dexterity of Crib or Molyneux. I once knew my unfortunate neighbor to have a fine blooded colt, foaled in the pasture with his mules. These vicious devils had no sooner perceived that the colt was without those long ears which characterize their species, than they set to work with one accord to demolish the monstrous production, and in spite of all the efforts of the mother, which fought with a desperation worthy of some old Roman, beset by a host of foes, succeeded in trampling to death her beautiful offspring. What a picture this is of some political zealots and envenomed critics, who no sooner perceive that a man has not asses ears, like themselves, than they commence a senseless outcry against him and compass his destruction. I have somewhere read of a madman, and perhaps he was right, who, when confined, protested he was not mad; that all mankind were madder than he, and that they were envious of his superior intellect and therefore wished to put him out of the way. Castellanus goes to ride out with Cecilia, Camilla, the Children of the Abbey, or some such book in his pocket, and so engrossed is his mind with the elegance and refinement of those personages, that he can scarcely bear to go where his overseer is. He shuns him as much as Lovel did Captain Mirvan, or old Mr. Delville Mr. Briggs. He turns with horror from the pictures of desolation and mismanagement around him, and hastens home to find consolation in the bosom of his heroines, not of his Peggy, for he cannot yet say "Non clamosa mea mulier jam percutit aures"¹—and in truth that virtuous lady has a tongue, and with it can ring such a peal about the above mentioned unproductive state of things, that he had rather hear the "grating on a scrannel-reed of wretched straw;"—or, to be less poetical, and to come back to what he hears every day, he had rather listen to the music of his own cart-wheels, which grate so harshly and scream so loudly that they may be heard a mile off. The inevitable result of all I have told you, Mr. Editor, is, that my neighbor is actually sinking three or four per cent. upon his capital every year, and must come to beggary unless you can arouse him from his ridiculous castle-building and novel reading. I wish you could see the style in which he moves with his cara sposa to church; they have come down, as we say, to an old gig, which cannot be quite as old as Noah's ark, because no two of the kind were ever seen in this world, and therefore could not have been preserved at the time of the Deluge, although the brass mountings on the muddy and rain-stiffened harness are of so antique a fashion, that we might well suppose the ingenuity of that celebrated artificer in brass, Tubal Cain, was employed in their construction. This crazy vehicle is drawn by the overseer's horse, which is borrowed for the "nonce,"—because neither Buck-e-fallus nor Smiler, nor any of the stud are fit to go, and Gulliver, besides being a mule, has declined, as I have already shewn, having any thing to do with our "external relations;" and furthermore, because this is the only conceivable mode in which my neighbor can obtain a return for that unlimited control which the said horse exercises over the corn in his corn-house. The contrast between the long lean figure, and rueful and cadaverous countenance of Castellanus, and the short figure resembling "the fat squab upon a Chinese fan," and the ruddy countenance of Mrs. Castellanus, is very striking;

They sit, side by side, in the gig, sir, as solemn As Marriage and Death in a newspaper column.

How they ever came together, except by the fortuitous concourse of atoms, I cannot divine, for certainly without disrespect, I may say, that however charming Mrs. Castellanus may be, she is not

A beauty ripe as harvest, Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over, Than silver, snow, or lilies—

nor has she

————————a soft lip Would tempt you to eternity of kissing, And flesh that melteth in the touch to blood.

But we may cease to wonder at their union, when we reflect on the couples we see every day,—so totally dissimilar in taste and external appearance, that we may almost believe with St. Pierre that we love only those who form a contrast to ourselves. "Love," he says, "results only from contrasts, and the greater they are, the more powerful is its energy. I could easily demonstrate this by the evidence of a thousand historical facts. It is well known, for example, to what mad excess of passion that tall and clumsy soldier, Mark Anthony, loved and was beloved by Cleopatra; not the person whom our sculptors represent of a tall, portly, Sabine figure, but the Cleopatra whom historians paint as little, lively and sprightly, carried in disguise about the streets of Alexandria, in the night time, packed up in a parcel of goods on the shoulders of Apollodorus, to keep an assignation with Julius Cæsar."

NUGATOR.

¹ Nay, what's incredible, alack! I hardly hear a woman's clack.—Swift.

SONG.

This is no "dark and dreary world," 'Tis full of life and beauty— Yet not to him, all "primrose path" Who's in the way of duty— And yet, to cheer him on the road, The way-side flower is springing, While to the charms of Nature's day The wild-bird's sweetly singing. There is a bliss in Virtue's path Above all sensual thinking— Would he might prove it, he who hath "Joy"—Is there "joy in drinking?" Believe it not—for who hath wo? Oh, who hath saddest "sorrow?" "Contentions," "wounds," night-revels show, That blush to face the morrow. "The wine is red," but "look not thou Upon it;" false and glowing, "'Twill sting thee like a serpent's tooth," While brightly it is flowing. Eschew the joys of sense; they are Unto my sober thinking, But glozing o'er the black despair, The deep, deep wo of drinking. Look ye around where frowns "the curse"— 'Tis but disguised blessing; The heart that trusts the living God, Feels not its "doom" oppressing. Thine, thine the heart, and thine the doom, When done this earth's probation, To realms of endless light and joy A sure and bright translation. Yet, e'en "the light that's now in thee," (Ah! 'tis no idle thinking,) Will darken'd by "a demon" be, If thou hast "joy in drinking."

M. M.

LINES

To Miss M——t W——s, of P. Edward.

From her own garden Nature chose, In all its blooming pride the Rose, And from the feathered race the Dove: Then Margaret, on thy cheek she threw The blushing flower's most beauteous hue, And formed thy temper from the bird of love! Oh! what delight it is to trace The modest sweetness of thy face— Thy simple elegance and ease— Thy smile, disclosing orient pearl— Thy locks, profuse of many a curl— And hear thy gentle voice, that never fails to please!

LIBERIAN LITERATURE.

We are perfectly serious in speaking of Liberian Literature. Yes—in Liberia, a province on the coast of Africa, where, thirteen years and a half ago, the tangled and pathless forest frowned in a silence unbroken save by the roar of wild beasts, the fury of the tornado, the whoop of the man-stealer, or the agonizing shrieks of his victims on being torn from their homes to brave the horrors of the Middle Passage and of the West Indies—in Liberia, the English language is now spoken; the English spirit is breathed; English Literature exists; and with it, exist those comforts, virtues, and pleasures, which the existence of Literature necessarily implies. Plantations—farm-houses—villages, built of brick, stone, and wood—glass windows, carpeted floors, papered walls, and neat if not elegant furniture—well-supplied tables—stores, filled with various merchandize—churches, where neatly dressed throngs devoutly send up the note of praise—bands of infantry and artillery, properly organized, armed, and trained—schools, in which hundreds are inducted into the pleasant pathway of knowledge—and (the most expressive sign of all) a NEWSPAPER, filled with instructive and entertaining matter—all these, amid an industrious and thriving population of three or four thousand, have taken place of the savage forest and its unlovely concomitants. What heightens—indeed what constitutes the wonder—is, that the main operatives in this great change are not white men. The printer and the editor of the newspaper—the merchants—most of the teachers and all the pupils—the owners and cultivators of the farms—the officers and soldiers in the military companies—the throng in the churches—are all colored people, except some score of whites, whom the climate, generally fatal to white men, spares yet awhile, as if in gratitude for their benefactions to Africa.

What we especially had in view, however, when we began this article, was neither rhapsody nor dissertation upon the march of Liberia to prosperity and civilization—unparalleled as that march is, in the annals of colonization—but a notice (a critical notice, if the reader please) of the aforesaid newspaper; by way of instancing the literary condition of the settlement. Cowper calls a newspaper, "a map of busy life—its fluctuations, and its vast concerns:" and indeed we can imagine no surer index to the moral and intellectual character of a people, than the 'folio of four pages,' which periodically ministers to, and constantly takes its tone from, their prevailing tastes, tempers, and opinions.—We have before us half a dozen numbers of the "LIBERIA HERALD;" coming down to No. 4, of the sixth volume, dated October 31, 1835, whence we learn that it has existed for more than five years. It is printed on a sheet as large as many of our village papers, and larger than several which we occasionally see.

Its contents (considering where, and by whom they are selected, composed, and printed) are in the highest degree curious and interesting.

The shipping list for August, exhibits eleven arrivals, and six departures—that for April, five arrivals, and three departures—for February, 1835, six arrivals, and four departures—for October, three arrivals, and two departures. In the August number, are four distinct paragraphs, each mentioning a ship arrived with emigrants to the colony.

A striking feature in the Herald, is the great quantity of original matter which it contains—either editorial, or communicated. The number whence the above quotation is made, has four columns of editorial articles; and three sensible communications from correspondents—one of them detailing the murderous attack of the natives, in June last, upon the new settlement at Edina. Another tells of an excursion, on which we dare say it will please our readers to accompany the "peregrinator." If he does twaddle, he twaddles to the full as agreeably as many correspondents of American newspapers, and more usefully.

"For the Liberia Herald.

"Mr. Editor: I was induced, a few days since, by special invitation, to visit Caldwell. The occasion was one of the most honorable: the interchange of conjugal vows; the celebration of the nuptials of a couple, who conscious of mutual affection, made their offering at the hymeneal altar. The ceremonies were performed at 7 o'clock, P.M.; after which, the company (small but agreeable) enjoyed the flow of soul and social innocent merriment, until 9, when the happy pair returned, and the company dispersed. I repaired to Mr. Snetter's quarters, where I obtained lodging, comfortable in itself, but rendered much more so, by his peculiarly agreable manners. After breakfast, on the ensuing day, we peregrinated the settlement. Mr. Jameison's farm particularly attracted my attention. The quantity of land he has under cultivation, as also the advanced state of the produce, equally excited astonishment. He has potatoes, cassada, beans, peas, and rice, &c., growing with a luxuriance that I never before witnessed in this country. The cultivation of the latter article has not been much attended to, until lately; its culture has been supposed to be attended with so much difficulty and labor, as to deter from the attempt. The apprehension however, was groundless, and the perseverance of Messrs. Palm and Nixon, has given us evidence, in the most extensive field of rice ever before cultivated in this country, that the difficulties are such only as attend every experiment where there is the want of resolution to undertake it. The settlement of Caldwell is assuming the feature of a regular, farming village. The Agency Farm under the management of Mr. Snetter, is in forward condition.

Yours, &c. L. R. J."

But the greatest curiosity in this August number, is a critique upon Miss Fanny Kemble's Journal. Yes, reader—think of Mrs. Butler, and all the "terrifying exactions" of her redoubtable book, subjected, on the very margin of Guinea, to the criticism of an African Editor, who treats her as unceremoniously, if not as justly, as any critics on this side of the Atlantic, or on the north side of the Mediterranean. Imagine him in his elbow chair at Monrovia, his broad nose dilating and his thick lips swelling with conscious dignity, while he thus passes judgment upon one who perhaps would hardly suffer him to clean her shoes. The errors of spelling and syntax (the unsexing of the authoress included) are doubtless attributable to the printer: but there are some queer expressions, which seem the editor's own, and which are rather characteristic of African magniloquence.

"Francis Ann Butler.—To the politeness of the supercargo of the Brig Eliza, we have been indebted for a peep at the Journal of Miss Kemble, or as announced by the title page, Francis Ann Butler. From the celebrity of the tourist, we had anticipated much; but a perusal of the book treated us to a most vexatious disappointment. On the literary merit of the work, we do not feel ourselves competent to decide. But as it is an immunity allowed ignorance, to admire where it cannot comprehend, we avail ourselves of the privilege, and put in our share of admiration at the bold and beautiful figures which adorn the pages; such as 'Miniature Hell:' 'ghastly smiles of the Devil;' 'Blue Devils,' &c. These are certainly beauties of which we had no conceptions, until we got hold of the work. We may be allowed to say, as we pass, that they are not exactly in unison with that soft and tender delicacy, of which our imagination had composed the fair sex, of the higher order. We regret much that the work is not accompanied by a Lexicon, adapted to the style. The want of one has deprived us of much gratification; as doubtless the excellences of the work is locked up in such words as 'daudle,' 'twaddle,' &c., which are to us 'daudles' indeed, or in plain English, unexplorable regions. Such works may be of utility in communities, where there is sufficient discrimination to separate the little grain from the redundancy of chaff, without being chocked [choked] by it, but we can see no earthly advantage to us in reading them.

"We will venture to say, however, that if the notes are by the same hand, the authoress possesses a pretty considerable share of what may be called sound discriminating judgment on some particulars."

One number of the Herald contains some very sensible observations (editorial) upon the "Relations between France and the United States;" in which the probability of war is spoken of, and its occurrence earnestly deprecated. The danger from it, to Liberia, is considered: fears having been entertained by some, lest France might involve that colony, as she once did the British settlement at Freetown, in her quarrel with the mother country.

"The case, however," says the editor, "is not exactly parallel: Freetown and the whole colony of Sierra Leone, ever since their establishment, have been under the British flag, and as such, considered a member of the British empire—and therefore, its destruction, it might be argued, was perfectly in unison with the established principles of war. Ours is an experiment for political existence;—having a distinct and peculiar flag, owing allegiance to no government, but to that which is represented by the flag that floats over Liberia.

"We recollect having read, that at the time the great Navigator Captain Cook, was on his voyage of discovery, war broke out between England and France, and it was requested that Capt. Cook, should the enemy fall in with him, be allowed an unmolested passage. The French king replied, that he warred not on science, nor with the principles of humanity; and that an expedition undertaken for the benefit of all, should never meet obstruction from the flag of France."

A paragraph in the same number, announcing the organization of a Court of Appeals, with appellate jurisdiction in cases where the sum in dispute exceeds $100, expresses the orthodox republican sentiment, that "Laws are made for the benefit of the poor, as well as the rich; and in legislating, the former should be more especially kept in view."

And in the next column is mentioned the establishment, at Caldwell, of a FIFTH Baptist Church in the Colony.

Another number states important and cheering facts in regard to the progress of TEMPERANCE. Five hundred and three persons had signed the pledge of total abstinence from the use or sale of spirits, in the space of one month.

"So great an influence have these Societies exerted upon the community at large, that a sight of the liquid death has become rare.

"To Liberia's honor be it trumped, that for ten gallons sold in the Colony four months back, there is not one now. There are a few that advocate the cause of alcohol; but they cannot support their opposition long. Public opinion is issuing her imperious edicts, and every opposer will soon be awed into silence."

From the October number we extract the following item.

"Sabbath School.—On Sunday the 19th instant, a Sabbath School was opened in the Second Baptist Chapel: 33 children and 3 adults presented themselves, and had their names registered as scholars. Suitable books, such as would enable us to arrange the children in classes, are very much wanting. As it is, each having a different book, we are obliged to hear them singly, which makes it extremely laborious, and precludes the possibility of more than one lesson each, during the hours of school."

We would gladly copy a perspicuous and rational account which is given in several chapters, of the climate and seasons of Africa, the soil of Liberia, and the method of clearing lands; besides many other sensible and interesting articles, which say a great deal for the editor, correspondents, and readers, of the Herald: but we have so far exceeded the space we had allotted for this subject, that we must here close our remarks.

No one can read the Liberia Herald, without not only wonder, that so much intellect should emanate from such a source, but the strongest persuasion, that a colony, which in so brief a time has given such striking evidences of advancement in whatever distinguishes civilized from savage man, must succeed.

GIBBON AND FOX.

Gibbon, the historian, was at one time a zealous partizan of Charles Fox. No man denounced Mr. Pitt with a keener sarcasm, or more bitter malignity. But he had his price. A lucrative office won him over to the ministry. A week before his appointment he had said in Mr. Fox's presence, "that public indignation should not be appeased, until the heads of at least six of the ministers were laid on the table of the House of Commons."

This fact is found stated in the hand writing of Mr. Fox, on a blank leaf of a copy of Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which was purchased after Mr. F's death, at a sale of his effects. The anecdote is followed by these lines, also in Mr. F's hand writing.

King George, in a fright, Lest Gibbon should write The story of Britain's disgrace, Thought no means so sure His pen to secure, As to give the Historian a place. But the caution was vain— 'Tis the curse of his reign, That his projects should never succeed. Though he write not a line, Yet a cause of decline In the Author's example we read. His book well describes How corruption and bribes Overthrew the great Empire of Rome; And his writings declare A degeneracy there Which his conduct exhibits at home.

STATIUS.

In Statius' Poem on the Via Domitiana, are these lines.

Qui primo Tiberim reliquit ortu, Primo vespere navigat Lucrinum—

making a distance of one hundred and twenty-seven miles commonly travelled by the Romans in one day.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAPTER VIII.

——The yews project their shade; the green Spreads her soft lap; the waters whisper sleep: Here thou mayest rest secure. Vacuna, by Sneyd Davies..

Leaving with speed the painful spectacle of my wounded friend, I fled into the close and matted undergrowth of the forest, and pausing for a moment to deliberate, I resolved to return to Chalgrave, and brave the remote risk of a criminal prosecution for an offence which juries tolerate with mercy, and courts with connivance. I was willing to trust to that deep-seated public opinion which enacts laws through one principle, and controls their execution from another; and from whose opiate breath the grim repose of the duelling law has never awakened. I passed through many of the classic paths of the old college, and suddenly diverging from the view of its rude and grotesque steeple, advanced into the broad road. I had not walked far before I perceived that I was pursued. Reasoning upon the principle that retreat is more or less allied to meanness, I soon found the hand of my pursuer firmly fixed on my shoulder, while he said, with a stern voice, "Mr. Granby, you are my prisoner! I arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth."

The powerful and iron grasp which was rivetted to my shoulder, declared the utter folly of resistance. Through the fading twilight I could discern the form of a roughly-built, and the countenance of a brave man; while the odd mixture of his apparel, coarse boots and a gaudy watch-chain, white ruffles and broad plated buttons, told the brief history of many a struggling argument between his purse and gentility.

"Release me," said I, "and this (showing a purse, through the net-work of which a golden sea leaped up to the eye,) shall be your reward."

"Mr. Granby," he replied, throwing his hand suddenly from me, as if a serpent had stung him, "we are now equal. I will teach you that I am as far above dishonor as you are. Put up your purse, for I solemnly swear that you shall not leave this spot until you have satisfied me for your gross and ungenerous insult. Take this pistol—I have another; either make an apology or fight. I will measure the distance, and you may give the word."

I was struck at once by the innate honor and Virginian feeling of the man; and throwing the pistol aside, I tendered him my hand, expressing at the same time my regret in having acted so indiscreetly.

"Why do you arrest me?" continued I. "It was an open duel, and Mr. Ludwell is not dead."

"Is that then the case?" he replied. "Will you pledge me your honor that such is the truth? I was told that it was an unfair duel, and I have put myself to great inconvenience to arrest you."

I gave the pledge required, and I was immediately released from the grasp of the Commonwealth; her chivalric man of law professing himself satisfied of my innocence, complimenting me on being a gentleman, and wishing me good night with a profound and dignified bow. I was in no humor to moralize on this singular scene; yet I could not forbear to smile at this strangest of all paradoxes—that he who was prepared to enforce the duelling law, should be so far elevated above its vulgar penalty, that he could at pleasure either neutralize its severity, or trample on its express ordinances, lending a credulous heart to the dreamy nonsense of chivalry, and a deaf ear to the trumpet-tongued voice of Be it enacted. Such is public opinion, and such are laws; when in conflict, a Mezentian union—when acting in harmony, the firmest and most durable base for the fabric of government.

Pursuing my course, I fortunately encountered Scipio, who was going to the college with his accustomed budget of letters, and dismounting him, with orders to go and attend the sick couch of Arthur, I took his horse, and rode rapidly on to Chalgrave. The night wore sullenly and gloomily away, and ere morning, one of those fast, yet light snow-storms, which rush on with a momentary though softened fierceness, had thrown a spotless mantle around the trees, the hills and plains of Virginia. I passed two or three of our negroes on the skirts of the plantation, standing with slouched hats and folded arms, like so many statues of ebony on a marble floor. 'Tis then that melancholy spreads its deepest gloom over a Virginian farm—a solitude fearful, still, and echoless—while all nature bows to its stern influence. The cattle are gathered to the farm-pen, to ruminate over a rasping shuck, or a marrowless corn-stalk. From a pool in the stable yard, a dense and curling vapor overshadows a motley group of ducks and geese, who are quarrelling and floundering in undisputed possession of their odorous empire; while the lengthened face of the prisoned plough-horse takes a more pallid hue from the sympathy of melancholy, and is protruded on the scene like that eternal spectre of death which is ever flitting athwart the path of life. Within the house there is a confused hurrying to and fro of menials in search of wood, carpets, and rugs, while the mistress fairly frets herself into philosophy amid the snow, mud, and her own contradictory orders. A glance from the window will disclose a crowd of negroes collected around the wood-yard, waiting to carry the logs cut by one, who with a heavy whirl of his ponderous axe, and a loud moan, scatters his wounded chips at every stroke. He is then on the crest of the highest wave of vanity, and will ever and anon rest his axe to tell of the broad clearings which have opened beneath his giant arm. I looked on this quiet and familiar scene with an aching eye and a throbbing heart; yet I was soothed into peace by that witching spell which spreads its empire from "Indus to the Pole." It was home—that spot over whose fairy circle my heart, like the gnomon, had dialled all its sunlit hours of joy and happiness; and in the gushing memory of childhood's romance, I almost forgot that the stain of blood was on my hands.

I did not disturb the family until they were seated at breakfast; and in reply to my mother's inquiries concerning Arthur's health, I hesitated not to relate to her the whole detail of the tragic meeting. Lucy entered the room ere I had finished my sad narrative, and catching the truth of my tale, suddenly stared at me with a full and lustreless eye, and looking up for a moment, fell with an hysteric shriek on the floor. My mother's stern pride subdued her swelling feelings, and rising from her seat, with a starting tear in her eye, she led Lucy from the room. Frederick remained cold and unmoved, throwing his fork into his plate, and playing with his tea-spoon with an air of frigid indifference. My uncle alone advanced to me, and seizing my hand, exclaimed in a generous though quivering voice, "I will not forsake you, my dear boy! You have been indiscreet and passionate, but your honor is untainted! I knew that you could not wilfully kill Arthur. Come with me; an express shall be sent to the college instantly. The odds are greatly in favor of his recovery. I have in the library a table of fifty duels, prepared by my pen, and strengthened by my experience. Out of that number but four were killed, and ten wounded. There is only one bad sign in the whole affair, and that is the fact that Arthur fell too soon. I have known many a man carry two balls in his body before he would droop. No wadding entered his body, for my pistols do not bear it; and you may hope for the best."

My uncle's plan of sending an express to the college was approved by the whole family, and in a short time the house re-echoed to repeated calls for the ostler. He soon made his appearance, and in reply to my mother's directions, he gave the usual stable diary of a Virginian farm.

"Why, ma'am, there is not a horse on the land fit to ride. Mass Charles sent the mare out of the county on yesterday to Col. C.'s for a pointer puppy, and as the boy did not come back in time, he has sent another on the black horse to look for him. The chariot horses Mass Charles sent to the court house, with a barrel of cider royal to Capt. R.; and Miss Lucy's pony has not got a shoe to his foot."

"Where is the overseer?" said my mother, who was too much accustomed to scenes of this character to lose any of the calmness of her temper.

"Oh, he went to the warrant-trying yesterday evening to dispute the blacksmith's account; and I heard him say that he would stay at the shop till he could have the beards of two of Mass Charles' Levier fishing hooks altered. Now, if mistress must send, I will get one of the blooded plough-horses, and he will make out as well as any."

This ready auxiliary of a Virginian hurry was necessarily adopted; and in a short time the old servant, encased in a pair of ponderous boots, enveloped in an overcoat which fitted him like a shroud, and mounted on a plough-horse—the gaunt anatomy of poverty—wended his way to fulfil a mission of charity and repentance.

The return of the messenger brought the agreeable tidings of Arthur's convalescence; and when, at the expiration of a week, Scipio delivered me a letter from Arthur, full of undiminished friendship, the spirits of our whole household rose to unusual elevation. They were satisfied that he was now secure from every burst of my dangerous temper; and when I told them that I was guiltless of his blood, I found my recompense in the blush of mingled pride and gratitude which mantled over the cheek of Lucy. My misfortune, in humbling my pride, had the happy effect of silencing that "fearful felicity" of elocution (as Sir Philip Sidney terms it) which made my uncle the zealous annalist of duels, pistols, chivalry, and arrangements.

How naturally does the heart, when oppressed by disease, or humbled by misfortune, turn, like the wounded deer, to the silent refuge of solitude—invoking, under its peaceful shade, that balm of life—woman's love—that rare medicinal, which pours its rosy health into the wounds of manhood's fretted existence. Ambition—the quick pulse of bloated avarice—the rotten pageantry of the world—and the fret and faction of life, may for a while lure us from its sacred altar; yet in our moments of despair, we turn to its holy shrine with renewed devotion, and ever find its radiance, like the brightness of the tropic-lights, flitting its steady blaze around the darkness of our destiny. I was so deeply cursed by temper, and depraved by its exercise, that the love which commonly cheats us into happiness, or obliterates ennui, brought no relief to my lacerated spirit. Romance no longer culled its flattering trophies from the memory of Isa Gordon. I looked on her as one who was too proud to bow to my despotic love, while I had gained by absence from her at college a spirit of freedom and independence. She was my first love; and, despite the dictates of common sense, I was almost compelled to believe that such love was of the purest and firmest character, merely because I had fallen into it in the ignorance and inexperience of boyhood. What a paradox! and how fondly does stupidity cherish it! The boy's heart is a tablet on which is shadowed the outline of an April day—a gorgeous sunshine plays around his imagination, and the fleeting clouds which disturb it, never dim the horizon before him. He loves from nature—he is ever a poligamist—and mistakes the fervor of passion for the truth of love; while his youth, which cures every disease, soon cicatrizes the wound of despised affection. 'Tis manhood's destiny to writhe under the slow and searching poison of unrequited constancy. He lays all the powers of his heart, mind, and education, at the foot of woman; and the blow which prostrates him, shakes to its base a granite fabric. He knows the value of the priceless feeling which he offers, and demands in return a heart which must make him the god of its idolatry. I was egotistical and selfish in my reasoning; yet that very reasoning, in teaching me to forget Isa Gordon, made my heart loiter with a holy enthusiasm around the memory of Ellen Pilton. She had written to me in a style of affectionate and confiding attachment; and though I did not answer her letters, she still continued to write, and wondered why I did not receive them. No dream of my treachery ever entered her guileless heart, and she knew not that her letters were the harvest of my revenge. Suddenly I ceased to hear from her, and I then found that the darkest passion of our nature loses its poisoned fang when struck by the magic wand of love. Could I forget her purity and gentleness of character—the impassioned tenderness with which she had entrusted the destiny of her life—the aspirations of her untainted youth—and all the faith and fervor of her virgin innocence—to whom? to one who had gained this unique gem, as the plaything of a fiend.

Stimulated by jealousy, and prompted by a desire to satisfy myself of Ellen's truth, I resolved to visit a college friend who lived in the immediate vicinity of her father's residence, and there patiently wait until I might have an opportunity of seeing her. My uncle was my confidant; and when I entered his room for the purpose of disclosing my intentions, I found him seated as usual amid a crowd of antique volumes, while his eyes were keenly gloating over the original-brained tittle-tattle of "Howel's Letters." His large centre table displayed a motley mixture of the stable, chase, and library. On a copy of the Divine Legation lay a curb-bit. The Castle of Indolence was crowded into an old-fashioned stirrup. A dog collar belonging to one of King Charles' breed, surmounted Clarendon. Two broken throat-lashes were placed on State Trials, and a pair of spurs had worked their rowels deep into the binding of Stith's History of Virginia. The Defence of Poesy, Rhymer's Foedera, Fuller's Holy State, Catullus, and Tom Jones, were tied together with a bridle rein; while a full record (tested by the clerk of the council, and dated July 9th, 1630,) of the trial of Doctor John Pott, late Governor of Virginia, for cattle stealing, spread its broad pages over the whole table. I caught a glimpse of a long and copious commentary which my uncle had written at the foot of it, in which he had proved the innocence of the Ex-Governor, and the perjury of Kingsmell, the principal witness, whom as the record narrates, "Doctor Pott endeavored to prove an hypocrite by a story of Gusman of Alfrach the rogue."

I soon declared the purpose of my visit, and that I was determined to see Ellen Pilton.

"I do not like her name," said my uncle; "it would have a plebeian sound in any part of the world; yet her mother bore a proud title, and as she loves you, do not act dishonorably. I take it for granted that she loves you merely because you affirm it, but you may rest assured that she will yet make a goose of you. Coquetry—arrant coquetry, is the business, the pursuit, the occupation of woman's life. They learn its treacheries when they dress their first doll; its edge is sharpened by every lover; and many a belle who dies in early glory, coquettes with the priest who shrives her. Venus commenced its practice the moment she was born; and though untaught in its mysteries, she laughingly bid the Tritons to look some other way. Horace reads us many a fine truth about it, and Tibullus and Propertius tell in trembling lines of the fascinations of that female garb which was brought from the Coian Isle. Our Virginian girls have a prescriptive right to all its prerogatives. Oh, there was rare coquetry when that gentle ship landed its blushing freight at Jamestown! Old "Dust and Ashes,"¹ that fast friend of the colony, and he who stole this title from a sexton, that under its shade he might nobly endow a free school in Virginia, made their invoice in a gay doublet, and copied the bill of lading with a smile on his care-worn cheek, and a fresh posy in his bosom. Our proud ancestor, Sir Eyre Granby, was present when they landed, and saw them leaping and gambolling about the shore like young minnows in a mountain stream. One fair girl, with a dove-like face and a sparkling eye, gave Sir Eyre a silver tobacco pipe, which she had brought from home for the stranger who should most interest her maiden heart. Alas! he was a married man; and all he could do was to kiss her hand and give her a bunch of flowers. The anxious bachelors who found a wife on that day, imitated his example; and to this hour, Virginia's maidens ask no better declaration of love than this silly compliment. Take care, my dear boy, of their hands; do not look at their rings; and let the flowers grow where God planted them. If they should be sick, do not show too much tenderness. I have known coquetry assume every type of fierce fever and pining atrophy; and remember, that the last dyke in the fortress of coquetry, is the coral cheek of consumption. Go, and learn from experience, and may Cupid prosper you."

¹ "Mr. Nathaniel Barber, the chief manager and book-keeper of the Company's lotteries." Stith 216. Even at that dark period public education though a puling was a lusty child—'tis now a paper mummy.

Early on the next morning I left Chalgrave; and finding the outer gate of the plantation closely barred with fence rails, I was about to dismount and open it, when my old nurse made her appearance, exclaiming, "Let it alone, Mass Lionel; I barred it—for I did not want you to go from home to-day till I could see you. Bad luck is hanging over our family. Is not this the seventh day of the month?—the day on which your stout old grandfather died, and on which your father sickened unto death. Did I not last night gather the wild hemlock from his grave; and with a lock of his hair, and a piece of the caul which covered your baby face, try seven times the charm which an Obi man taught my mother? Oh! it was a dreadful sight; I saw you mangled and wounded, and your white hand was red with blood. I heard an owl shriek seven times on the wall of our graveyard; it flew in at my window, put out my light, and left me in darkness. Do not go away now."

"Do you still take me for a child? I must go; farewell, dear mammy."

"Oh! call me dear mammy once more," she replied, "and let me kiss you for the last time."

I granted her request, and rode rapidly away, while I vainly endeavored to keep down the fear and superstition with which her narrative had filled my bosom. My journey was long and tedious, and ere night I had lost myself in the mazes and tortuous paths of a forest road. On every side I was met by gates, drawbars, and gaps—the necessary appendages in the economy of Virginian idleness,—and wandered about until I was finally fairly lost in a broad thicket of luxuriant myrtle. Trusting to the sagacity of my horse, he brought me into an open road, at the extremity of which a feeble light caught my eye. Advancing to it, I found a crowd of negroes gathered in a cabin, and dancing with that joyous flush of elastic carelessness which a negro only feels, to the music of a banjo, triangle, and squirrel-skin fiddle. All of them offered to show me the way, and each invariably decreased the distance in proportion to the anxiety which my inquiries expressed. I took the direction which I had thus received, and late at night I passed by an old-fashioned house, from a lower window of which shot a feeble and fluttering light. Here I met a negro who informed me that I was on the Pilton plantation—that the mansion-house was before me—that he was the best axe-man on the land—that his Mass Edmund had just come home on a fine horse—and that Miss Ellen was sick and poorly. A pang of remorse passed through my bosom; and reckless of every principle of honor, I determined to approach nearer to the house, and gaze, like the pilgrim, on that shrine which held the worshipped idol of my heart. Riding rapidly away from the negro, I suddenly turned my course, and dismounting from my horse, leaped over the garden wall. Cautiously threading my path through tangled shrubbery, leafless rosebushes, and crooked hedges, I quickly turned, as the light from the house streamed before me, and looking up to the window, I beheld the form of Ellen Pilton in an attitude which arrested my attention, and chained my footsteps to the earth. Her head was resting on her right hand, while in her left she held the fatal evergreen which had marked with tenderness our earliest acquaintance. A dark and fleecy cloud of long and luxuriant hair swept over her marbled brow. Her cheek was illuminated with a vermillion glow, like those bright colors which decorate the holiness of some antique missal, while the ardent gaze which she bestowed on this memorial of my treachery, mingled itself with the patient melancholy which disease had written on her face. I saw her weep like a child, as she replaced it in her bosom; and at that moment the giant voice of conscience rang through my heart, pealing the knell of my perfidy and duplicity. Chastened by contrition—humbled by the consciousness of my own falsehood—and elevated by this unerring indication of her singleness of heart, I felt the contagion of resistless sympathy, and on that silent spot I poured out the pure orisons of a love which had sprung from the blackest passion of my nature. I continued in a fixed posture for many moments, inebriated into utter forgetfulness of my flagrant violation of honor. A feeling of debasement came over me, and yielding to its influence, I turned away from the window. My position was no sooner changed, than I was met by Edmund Pilton,—his face almost touching my shoulder.

"Mr. Granby," said he, in a voice of stifled anger, "an eavesdropper!—a cowardly intruder on female privacy!—I wish him profit in his honorable profession, and may darkness ever hide his blush of shame."

I staggered back with fear and agitation; and for the only time in my life I felt as a coward. Nature had given me courage, and education had endowed me with that chivalry which feared only the shame of fear; yet that consciousness of disgrace which wrecks the proudest heart, left me the shuddering craven of its withering power.

"Mr. Pilton must excuse me," I replied; "I was endeavoring to find the way to—" here I half uttered a rising falsehood. "I will satisfy him at another time of my innocence—I must now retire."

"Certainly, sir," said he, "you may retire, and rest in the shade of your victorious laurels; but remember—" and here his hollow voice increased in volume, and quivered with passion, "that if ever you again approach my sister in any shape or form, I will put you to death, even in her hallowed presence. I refused your foolish challenge; but there is a point beyond which prudence loses all its virtues, and the next time I chastise you for an insult to a sister, your blood shall write the record. Neither darkness shall conceal, cowardice protect, nor lunacy excuse you!"

I might have been more humbled by my own sense of degradation, but the last word was a talisman which awoke into frenzy the demoniac hate which had long rioted in my bosom; and approaching nearer to Pilton, I leaped at him, and grasped his throat with the fierceness of the tiger. He was better built, more athletic, and stronger than myself, and in the struggle that ensued, I found myself fast wasting away; yet I could hear his short and strangled breath laboring under the iron grasp of my fingers. He now drew a small knife, and began to cut the hand which held his throat. I felt the warm blood trickling over its relaxed strength; and releasing my hold, I sunk upon the ground. He instantly fell upon me; and after a long and violent scuffle, I succeeded in rescuing myself. We were again on our feet, and I now had time to draw a small dirk from my bosom. He was ignorant that I was armed; and approaching him, as he leaned breathless and exhausted against a tree, I struck him with the weapon just below his shoulder. He gave one groan, and reeled to the earth. I was about to repeat the blow, when a piercing shriek burst upon my ear,—and Ellen Pilton fell upon the body of her prostrate brother.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "kill him not—spare him!—take my life! Is it you, Lionel?" she screamed, as she looked up and recognized my features—"and would you murder my brother—you would not, dear Lionel."

I was silent.

"Go away—I loathe, I abhor, I hate you!"

Ere the first light of day had kissed the tranquil waters of the Chesapeake, my jaded horse was browzing on the fertile meadows of the Rappahannock, and I found a refuge on board the good ship "Tobacco Plant," Capt. Z., bound to London.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

JONATHAN P. CUSHING was born March 12, 1793, at Rochester, New-Hampshire, and, like most of the eminent men of our country, in humble circumstances. He was early left an orphan to the care of a guardian, who seems to have been both negligent and unfaithful. By this man he was carried to his own residence, in a remote part of the State, where the population was scanty, and there were few schools. In his immediate vicinity there were none. There he was employed in doing the drudgery of his guardian's farm and mill until his thirteenth or fourteenth year. It was an improvement in his situation, when at that time he was bound apprentice to a saddler, especially as in New Hampshire by law, or custom equally imperative with law, it is the duty of a master to send his apprentices to school for six months of the term for which they are bound. This advantage Mr. Cushing enjoyed, and it seems to have been the only regular instruction he received before his eighteenth year. But even that germ, falling on a good soil, fructified. He began to feel the thirst for learning, which was to be the reigning impulse of his later years, and to loathe the prospect of a life spent in mere bodily labor. His mind, conscious of its own powers, and having once tasted of the sweets flowing from their exercise, could not submit to sink back again to the state of lethargy from which it had just been roused. The fruit of such thoughts and feelings was a resolution which he formed and very suddenly announced while at work one day, with another apprentice. Starting up from his seat he said "I am determined to have a liberal education, if it cost me forty years of my life to get it." He bought out the remainder of his term, and entered himself at an academy at Exeter, in his native State. There he prosecuted his studies with great diligence, supporting himself meanwhile by laboring at his trade, until he was prepared to enter Dartmouth College. He became a member of the Junior Class in that institution in 1815, and obtained his first degree in 1817. His standing in his class was highly respectable, though not so elevated as would naturally be supposed by his acquaintances in after life, who knew nothing of the deficiencies of his early education, and only adverted to his acknowledged talents, his literary zeal, and the strength and constancy of his character. On leaving the walls of College, the world was all before him. Go where he would, he must look to his labors, not merely for fame and fortune, but for subsistence; and in every direction around him (thanks to the good Being who has so abundantly blessed our country) he saw fields of usefulness and distinction inviting, and promising liberally to reward, his exertions. The intensity of his studies, however, for the last few years, had impaired his constitution, and he had reason to believe that a southern residence would be more propitious to the restoration of his health, and at least equally favorable to his success in other respects. With these views he left his native State, determined to establish himself as a lawyer at Charleston, S. C. On reaching Richmond, he met with an acquaintance from New England, who had been engaged as a tutor at Hampden Sidney College, (an institution of which until that time Mr. Cushing had never heard) but who from ill health was not able to enter on the discharge of his duties. At his solicitation, strengthened by that of the late Dr. Rice, ("clarum et venerabile nomen") with whom Mr. C. then became acquainted, the latter was induced to undertake for a few weeks the fulfilment of his friend's engagement. Before even that brief time had expired, the young man died, and Mr. Cushing became, by a train of circumstances apparently fortuitous, and almost without his own agency, a member of the Faculty of H. S. College. There was but little in the condition of the institution at that time to induce such a man, young, of energetic character, and conscious ability, to desire to cast in his lot there. No class had graduated regularly for several years, and the degrees occasionally conferred on individuals, who had gone through the whole course, were not respected at other Colleges. There was hardly the name of a Library or Philosophical Apparatus; and the buildings were to the last degree unsightly and inadequate. It had, however, one recommendation, which with Mr. Cushing, would outweigh many defects. It was a seminary of learning, where he could gratify the strong passion of his soul for acquiring and communicating instruction, more delightful to him, as he often declared, than food to a hungry man. With all this, however, he could not readily forego the advantages attending the line of life he had chalked out for himself. Twice he determined to dissolve the connexion he had formed with the College, and once he had gone to the tavern for the purpose of taking his seat in the stage which was to carry him away. On this occasion he was induced to return by Dr. Hoge, the then President, to whom he looked up with affectionate veneration, and his acquaintance with whom he was accustomed to regard as one of the most fortunate events of his life. So soon as he considered himself established at Hampden Sidney, he set to work with characteristic vigor and singleness of purpose, to raise the standing of the institution. He prevailed on the Trustees to introduce a new system of discipline and study, and being soon appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, and experiencing the disadvantages of the very deficient apparatus, he made large additions to it at his own expense, trusting to the future ability of the College to repay him. Dr. Hoge dying in 1820, Mr. Cushing was elected President, and from that time till his own death within the last twelve months, the events of his life were little more than a series of efforts, the most judicious, untiring, and self-sacrificing, to foster the interests of the College over which he presided. One of his first objects, necessarily, was to improve and enlarge the College buildings, which at that time were probably by far the most indifferent belonging to any institution of the kind in the Union. But while it was obvious that the prosperity, perhaps the existence of the College depended on making this improvement, the means of making it were far from being equally apparent.

The institution possessing very little corporate property, and having never been a favorite with the Legislature, the possible munificence of individuals seemed to offer the only hope of success. That this would avail, was so little expected, that in the expressive language of one of its friends, his plans were looked on by the trustees as the dreams of youth. He was the man, however, to change such dreams into realities. His appeals to the liberality of the friends of the College were so well responded to, that in a short time he had caused to be erected the centre and one wing of a stately and commodious building, altogether suited to the purposes intended; and in the years 1829, '30, and '31, he procured additional subscriptions to the amount of $30,000, with which that building was completed, others erected, and a permanent fund established to aid in the support of the Professors. From time to time he continued to make additions to the philosophical apparatus, and carried the students of the College through a regular course of literary and scientific study, having early obtained for his graduates an admission "ad eundem gradum" at other Colleges without examination. While thus efficiently discharging his duties as President, he did not neglect those of Professor. On the contrary, all who knew him will bear witness to the study and labor with which he extended his researches into those branches of learning which it was his province to teach. His lectures were thus the overflowings of a mind filled with the results of previous investigation and meditation; not, as we sometimes see in the case of indolent Professors, themes prepared for the occasion, and exhausting the scanty stock of science which had been accumulated on the subject. But while justice is thus done to Mr. Cushing's real ability, and to the admirable use which he made of it, (his strength of purpose, like a hard master, exacting its full quota of exertion from every faculty,) it yet cannot be maintained that his mind was of the highest order. His case well illustrated the distinction which has been taken between genius and talent. The former original and creative; the latter acquiring, modifying, and adapting to general use the productions of the first. While it is the prerogative of genius to discover fields of science hitherto unknown, it is the more humble, but perhaps not less useful province of talent, to cultivate what is thus brought to light, and prepare it to be possessed by the public mind. The love of communicating knowledge, which has been already mentioned as one of Mr. Cushing's most striking characteristics, indicated, or at least happily coincided with, the line of usefulness for which, according to this view of his mental constitution, nature had fitted him. And it may well be questioned whether any of those who have sounded the profoundest depths of science, and first brought into light great truths previously unknown, would, if placed in the same circumstances with himself, have effected so much, and discharged the manifold and peculiar duties devolving on him, with equal skill and success. As a disciplinarian, he was mild and lenient, even to an extent considered by some as approaching to laxity. But such persons do not seem sufficiently to have adverted to the difficulties of his situation. He was not the Rector of Christ Church, or of Trinity—not even the President of Harvard or of Yale, but the head of a feeble institution, struggling almost for existence, and dependent on public patronage for support. With him, forbearance was among the first and most essential duties. Moreover, it was well understood by his students that his mildness was the result of principle, not of feebleness of character, and that there was a point beyond which they could not with impunity transgress. Such zeal, tempered by such prudence, could not be fruitless. The result of his labors and his cares, of what he did, and what he forebore to do, was, that in a few years after his induction into the Presidency, Hampden Sidney might fairly be pronounced the most flourishing literary institution in the Commonwealth. Its tide of success, however, was soon checked, and its onward progress stayed, by the opening of the halls of the University to students, an event which, however auspicious to the literary interests of the community at large, could not fail to be unfavorable to another seminary of learning in the same region of country, and dependent in a great degree on the same population for its supply of pupils. Visible as this was in the thinned ranks of his students, it does not seem to have caused Mr. Cushing to "bate one jot of heart or hope," but rather to have stimulated him to renewed exertions. For it was soon after this that he undertook and effected the improvement of the College buildings and the acquisition of a permanent fund. Nor did he cease to urge on the Legislature the just claims of the College to some share of the public favor. But the bills introduced for that purpose, though generally zealously supported and sustained, on grounds which ought to have insured their success, were always gotten rid of—most usually by the parliamentary manœuvre of tacking to them other subjects more or less incongruous, until they broke down under their own weight.

It is our purpose to consider the character of President Cushing, mainly as one of the scholars and public men of Virginia. We shall therefore dwell but little on his private affairs. But in a sketch of his life, even so brief as this, we cannot omit a fact which exerted the strongest influence on the happiness of his latter years. In the year 1827 he married, in an adjoining county, a pious, intelligent, and interesting young lady, of whom, as she survives to mourn his loss, delicacy forbids that we should speak in terms of stronger panegyric. A good Providence crowned their union with lovely children; and in the bosom of a family so interesting, President Cushing found a felicity which he well knew how to enjoy, and a relaxation from his incessant toils and harassing cares equally necessary to his body and to his mind. Though to the world chiefly known as a scholar and the President of a College, it was perhaps in the mild and mellow light of domestic retirement that his character shone with the most attractive lustre. As a friend he made few professions, but when self-denying service was needed, his zeal prompted him to exertions the most strenuous, persevering, and efficient. He knew how to feel for the bereavement of the widow's heart, and with tender sympathy to wipe the tear from the widow's eye. May He who seeth in secret reward him for these deeds of love, by pouring consolation into that cup of affliction which His providence has presented to the lip of her who was once too happy in being her husband's helpmate in ministering consolation to others.

Although a native of another State, Mr. Cushing was, in his connexions and his feelings, thoroughly a Virginian; and, as might be supposed from the nature of his pursuits, peculiarly regardful of the literary interests of the Commonwealth. He therefore hailed with joy, and actively engaged in establishing and fostering the Society for the promotion of those interests, formed in Richmond four or five years ago, of which he continued a zealous and efficient member the short residue of his days. For Hampden Sidney, however, he continued to feel a peculiar regard, which he evinced not only by the faithful performance of his duties as its President, but by repeatedly refusing very advantageous offers made him of Professorships in other Colleges, and by expressions of warm attachment to that institution, at that last solemn period of his life, when affectation of such regard, if ever possible with him, would have been effectually checked by the near prospect of the awful realities of the eternal world. His death, though an untimely, was not a sudden event. His constitution had perhaps never entirely recovered from the injury inflicted by intense application whilst a college student; and as his habits of study continued the same, the effects became gradually more apparent, until at length the unprecedented rigor of the last winter prostrated the structure which had been so long undermined. Early in the spring, being advised by his physicians to seek a milder climate, he set out for the south, accompanied by a part of his family. But on reaching Raleigh, his journey and his earthly pilgrimage were both cut short. There, surrounded by those whom he loved best on earth, and who he knew well returned his love, looking back on a life of useful and honorable exertion, rewarded by distinguished success; and looking forward in the full assurance of hope to an eternity of happiness, secured to him by a Savior in whom he cordially believed, and whom he had long found precious to his soul, he met death not with calmness and fortitude merely, but with triumph! He had just entered on his forty-third year, and it may be supposed had hardly obtained the maturity of his powers and the full limits of his influence. To our eyes, it would seem his sun went down at noonday. His death was a source of the truest and deepest grief, not only to a family more than ordinarily devoted to him, but to a large circle of friends his virtues had gained to him throughout Virginia, and to those especially who had at heart the prosperity of the College over which he had so ably presided. He died in the communion of the Episcopal Church, which with many inducements to bias him in another direction, he had chosen for his spiritual mother at the commencement of his religious life, and which with decided, and it is believed increasing affection, he continued to love even unto death. Yet no man possessed a spirit more truly Catholic, and no man delighted more to enjoy Christian communion with the followers of his master, though they might in some less essential particulars, understand the will of that master differently from himself. Like the Apostle Paul, he rejoiced in the spread of the gospel, by whomsoever preached; and he was far more desirous to see his Savior honored, and to learn that sinners had repented and believed, through whatever instrumentality it pleased God to use, than to see the tokens of divine favor confined even to that church which he best loved. In his last days, like the illustrious Grotius, he suspected that even science, with all her loveliness and her benificence, had engrossed more of his affections and more of his thoughts than should have been given to aught below the skies; and as he drew nearer to the eternal world, his soul was more and more rapt in the beatific contemplation of that incomprehensible glory which God hath prepared for them that love his Son.

His remains are interred in the burying-ground of the Episcopal Church in the city of Raleigh. The spot which contains them is marked by a monument erected by the Trustees of Hampden Sidney College, and designed, while it commemorates his merits, to testify their sorrow for his loss, and their gratitude for his services. But a more enduring monument, and that which he would have prized far above any other, will be found, as we trust, in the abiding and brightening glories of the Institution to which his best years were devoted, and which shared, with the partner of his bosom and the children of his affection, the last anxieties of his ebbing life.

LINES

On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818.

Mighty stream, I see thee rushing Proudly, madly, wild along— Like a summer torrent, gushing Sudden, rapid, swift and strong. Now my prow is on thy waters, And I gaze with secret aim, To discover wherein centered, Lies the secret of thy fame. But I gaze in vain—thy billows Gurgle as they haste away; Could their sounds my soul unriddle, I might learn wherein it lay. I might learn that riven mountains, Headlong falls, unpencilled yet, Plains untravelled, thou hast wandered, Ere thy weary waters met. Plains! where still the Bison feeding, Paws in ire the solid ground— Or the fiery Bear, in fury, Sudden pours his lion-sound. In thy rushing roar of waters I might learn that rivers speak; Great Missouri cries—I mingle, Konza—ho! the sea I seek. Mild Ohio, sweet and mighty, In thy onward wave is lost, And a thousand lesser fountains, Pouring down a varied coast. In a region, drear and polar, Thou hast thy unnoticed rise, And dost issue where the solar Burning heats pervade the skies. Far beyond the white man's daring Sits the lordly Indian lone, Gazing on that rich creation Heaven, he deems, hath made his own. Length, and depth, and speed, and volume, All that swell o'er swell, create— These, perchance, thy sounds would tell me, These, these only, make thee great. 'Tis not clearness—'tis not brightness, Such as dwell in mountain brooks— 'Tis thy big, big, boiling torrent— 'Tis thy wild and angry looks. Flow then, river—rushing river— Flow, till thou invade the sea; Many millions, uncreated, Shall desire thy waves to see. But while millions uncreated, Sigh o'er millions pass'd away, Thou shalt roll, in all thy splendor, Till thy Maker bids thee stay.

H. R. S.

Washington.

SKETCHES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.

No part of America presents a more ample field of scenic attractions than the lake referred to. In some respects these attractions are peculiar. It is not only the largest body of fresh water on the continent, but pre-eminently so, the largest in the world. Titicaca, the greatest lake of South America, is computed to be two hundred and forty miles in circumference—a circle less than Ontario, and falling infinitely short of Erie, Huron or Michigan.

Superior is about ten miles short of five hundred, in its most direct line of coast, and may be computed at fifteen hundred miles in circumference.¹ About one third of this is caused by its promontories and inlets, which give it a striking irregularity of outline. The direct line of inland navigation, which would be opened were the rapids at St. Mary's overcome, would be about twelve hundred and sixty miles in the outward voyage. It possesses several fine harbors and anchorage grounds. Its general features may be inferred from the maps, but no existing map can be relied on for the accuracy of its delineations. Its basin consists of massy formations of primitive rock, with dykes of trap, and horizontal walls of sandstone, giving rise to much variety in its features. Islands, mountains and cliffs, pass the eye of the voyager, with an animating succession, and appear as if they were suspended in the pellucid waters, for which this lake has been noted from the earliest times. This purity may be noticed in connexion with the absence of limestone among its formations, no locality of which has hitherto been discovered. It has, apparently, been the theatre of extensive geological convulsions, which have lifted up its horizontal rocks for a hundred and twenty miles in extent. Other portions bear striking evidences of having been submitted to oceanic action, the effect of which has been to break down its sandstone coasts, and deposit the debris in extensive plains, or sand mountains. Peaks, of a black basaltic aspect, cast their angular shadows over some of the more westerly portions of the lake; and the prospect from some of the higher points of those on which we have stood, is such as to excite the most exalted and transporting conceptions.

¹ Mackenzie says seventeen hundred.

The Porcupine mountains may be distinguished, from all that is known of them, as a volcanic group. They are situated in latitude 46° 52'. It would be practicable, in the range of American mountain scenery, to indicate points which have a higher elevation above the sea. Some of the peaks of New England or Virginia lift the observer into the mid heavens. But they are entirely wanting in the effect produced by a transparent mirror of water at their base—for it must be remembered, that no increase of altitude or magnitude can compensate for the absence of water. There is a single precipice, in these mountains, which the Indians represent to be one thousand feet in perpendicular height, having a deep, crater-shaped lake at its base.

The peninsula of Kewena extends into lake Superior about forty-five miles from its southern shore—the last ten or fifteen of which exhibit the shape of a lofty comb of the trap formations. Two points of this, which are sometimes called the Mamelles, have been descried, in clear weather, sixty-five miles. From the top of this ridge, the spectator looks to the east, and the west, and the north, and beholds one interminable sheet of crystal water. It seems, from the height, that the action of a single tempest, on so vast a mass of water, would be sufficient to prostrate the whole in ruins. Yet there is a breadth of several miles of solid rock, which has resisted the storms of ages. The effects of the action of the water, are the most striking on its western coast, which has been fretted into bays and inlets, leaving huge, castellated portions of unbroken rock standing in the water. These isolated masses, in misty weather, assume a spectral aspect. The Indians, who find aliment to their superstitions in scenes of awe, formerly deemed this part of the peninsula sacred, and never passed around it in their canoes.

The splendid formation of graywacke rocks on Presque Isle river, is worth the whole journey from St. Mary's, to behold. In its spring floods this river is a torrent rushing from a mountain. When drained to the minimum of its summer level, an extensive area of denuded rock is exposed to view, arranged in a stair-like form, and partaking of an air of gloom, from the dark hue of the deeply excavated banks.

Iron river has its course through a similar formation, being east, as the Presque Isle is west, of the Porcupine range. This river has no striking perpendicular falls, but flows down a hackly, rocky bed, in which the water, in its summer phase, stands in pools, or trickles from one triangular tank to another.

The Breast, or Potoash, and the Cradle Top mountains, are two prominent elevations in the primitive range west of the Grand Island. No one, we venture to predict, from our own experience, will ever ascend them without labor, or reach their summits without high gratification.

The outer coast of Grand Island presents the north westerly front of that magnificent sandstone formation, called Ishpábica by the Indians, and Picture Rocks by the whites, which assumes so imposing an outline in the range of coast ruins immediately east of that island. The Great Sand Downs,² form a continuation of this coast toward the east, and renew in this lighter form, a most picturesque series of elevations, which the former range exhibits in rock. Minuter sections of the coast, and of the banks of the rivers that intersect it, are of a character to arrest attention, and will furnish, in after years, a tissue of glowing themes for the pen and pencil. Among these, we may notice the falls of the Taquimenon, the Monia, and the St. Louis.

² Les Grandes Sables.

Up to the year 1820, very little was known, even by report, of this interesting and romantic region. The scanty notices of it in the colonial writers were of the most vague and unsatisfactory character. The tale of the massacre of the garrison of Michilimackinac, and of a far off region in which Pontiac exerted his power, had been occasionally heard. But as these events were to be found only in the works of the early French writers, few took the trouble to examine them. Still fewer knew aught of its topography and natural resources, or of the interesting communities of men, women and children, to whom it was "a home and a country" long before Columbus reached St. Salvador. In the year referred to, the gentleman who at present fills the chair of the War Department conducted an exploratory expedition through the region. Its capacities for military occupation, and the character and disposition of its native population and mineral topography, constituted the principal objects of attention. But no one who was a member of that expedition, could remain an indifferent spectator of the striking scenery, and the varied forms of thrilling interest which it threw before the eye. It may be regretted that Mr. Cass himself has given so little of his attention to descriptions of these rife scenes. His graphic notice of the "Pictured Rocks," and his historical illustrations of ancient Indian institutions, will be remembered by the reader.

We have merely adverted to this era, to notice the apathy which has succeeded. The "far West" and the sunny "South," have engaged the pens of genius. But much of the area to which we have called attention, remains, as to its description, a terra incognita. We have given most of the time we have ourselves spent in its solitudes, to the consideration of its phenomena, as mere physical facts, and to the history and language of its native inhabitants. But aside from these objects, we think it a rich field for the future tourist. We anticipate the time, as not far distant, when it will not only attract frequent visits from the literary and scientific, but from all classes who possess the means of enjoying out door health and intellectual pleasure.

We submit the following letters, embracing sketches of some prominent portions of the scenery of this lake, as a sequel to these remarks. They are from the pen of a young man who accompanied the writer of this notice on a tour through that lake in 1831. His mind was much engrossed with the beauty and grandeur of the scenes he daily witnessed, and he wrote these unpretending letters, at snatches of time, by the way. Soon after his return from this tour, he visited one of our Atlantic cities, where he suddenly sickened and died. This circumstance is mentioned, as the motive for retaining the name of the individual, which is associated with recollections of modest worth and ingenuous sensibility.

I.

Granite Point, Lake Superior, July 3, 1831.

Esteemed Friend,—While looking over the life of Dr. Payson, at your house, I was pleased with a remark of his, in which he says "that a formal letter to a friend, is like 'Madam, I hope I have the pleasure to see you in good health,' addressed by a son to his mother, after a year's absence." These may not be the exact words, but they convey the sentiment. Had I the disposition to write to you such a letter, the circumstances of my situation would most effectually preclude its gratification.

One week has now elapsed since we were climbing the rugged sides of the Iroquois mountain, and together gazing upon the peaceful lake whose waters reposed in quietness at its base. During that week you may well imagine that scenes have passed before me, as diverse and varied in interest and excitement as the vicissitudes of human life. We have glided over the limpid waters of the Superior, when its broad surface lay stretched out before us with all the placidity of a polished mirror, and anon our slender barks have been tossed like a feather upon the rushing billows. We have rambled along the sandy beach, or the gravelled shore, or bounded from rock to rock in search of new objects of attraction. We have ascended the sliding sands of the Grande Sable, viewed with admiration and awe the variegated walls of the Pictured Rocks, passed under the Doric arches, and scaled its summit, and last but not least, climbed a weary way up the mountain of the Breast. But I shall not be thanked for filling up my sheet with such general observations.

Very little of interest is to be found upon the coast from Point Iroquois to the Grande Marais. Nothing but a continuous sandy beach meets the eye, which at length becomes tedious in the extreme. At the Grande Marais, however, the scene changes. Here the lofty mountains of Sable commence, which in themselves are sufficient to occupy the mind until new wonders are presented. Mr. Johnston and myself, accompanied by two of the Indian lads, ascended them near the beginning of the range. Upon arriving at the summit, the prospect was at once impressive and sublime. Behind us was the Superior, bounded but by the horizon,—before us a gigantic amphitheatre, whose walls on either side rose into the magnitude of mountains. We descended into the area, and it was one in which the Olympian combatants would have delighted to wage their contests for a false and short-lived fame. It was early when we embarked, and being invigorated by the night's repose, we felt inclined, despite fatigue, to make a survey of all that might prove interesting. Passing on, we found that the winds had disposed of the sand alternately in hills and valleys. Nothing but an arid waste met the eye, except when here and there a hardy plant had reared its head above the yellow surface, or a little islet oasis of green was observed on a hillock's side, struggling with surrounding desolation. Being informed that a small lake lay beyond the Grande Sable, we immediately resolved upon paying it a visit. The distance we had to traverse was about a mile; and as we wound our way along, I involuntarily drew the comparison between the journey of life and our morning's excursion. How true is it that the great portion of our existence in this world, is filled up with events that but leave the soul in bitterness, while at times some bright flower, some sunny spot will appear, to which memory can recur with pleasure, and draw new hopes for the future. How miserable the condition of those whose ideas of happiness are bounded by present enjoyment; to them, futurity appears a something gloomy and undefinable, the very thoughts of which are unwelcome. But the Christian can look into a world beyond the grave, and the vista, like the green forest around this miniature Zahara, is pleasant to the sight. And even here, although his course may be over a desert, yet every bud of promise, every opening flower, serve but as a source of new excitement, and from them he gathers strength to press his onward march amid the many thorns that beset his path. But ere I had concluded moralizing,—upon gaining the top of a sand hill, a scene opened to the view, of the most romantic beauty. Unconsciously I stopped, lest I should too soon rush upon a prospect of such quiet loveliness. We had passed over a desert whose only attraction consisted in the novelty of its character and the majesty of its outline, but the repetition of its barrenness began to pall upon the sight, and oppress the mind with a sensation of weariness, when instantly the entire scene was changed. Instead of sterile heights, every thing bloomed in the vigor and freshness of vegetation. The forest resounded with "the sweet notes of the summer birds," and as the eye sought for the merry warblers, it caught a glimpse of the blue water as its ripples sparkled in the morning sun. My hesitation was but for a moment,—and bounding down the precipitous sand hills, the isolated lake, that seemed to exult in its wild solitude, with its richly diversified and picturesque enclosures, was spread before me. O, it was a scene that the poet and the painter would love to dwell upon. Cold must be the heart, ungrateful the affections of that being, who, blessed with intelligence, can behold the fairest of Nature's works, and not adore the God of Nature. My fancy might have been highly wrought,—but it all appeared more like a pleasant dream that fills the mind, when slumber steals over the senses as we are thinking upon absent friends, and the haunts of happy hours.

The lake itself is about nine miles in circumference, and in general form, as near as a comparison can be made, resembles a heart. The shores are deeply indented and irregular, now projecting into the water in small semi-circular promontories, and again retiring, as if half afraid of the embraces of the limpid element. On the south and west, as far as the eye can reach, the land rises into mountainous elevations; on the north, stand the lofty sand banks, affording a fine contrast with the fertility around, while on the east, it is bounded by lower grounds, that in one instance descend to a beautiful grassy lawn. The water appears to be very deep, and as we sent a shout over its surface we were answered by a startled water fowl, that seldom, very seldom, hears the sound of a human voice in its wild retreat. Every thing seemed to conspire to render this one of the most enchanting spots in nature, and it was with regret that we turned to regain our canoe.

Such is lake Leelinau; and while the breeze that moved over its waters sent its waves to my feet, I thought of the friend after whom I named it, and from my heart wished that her life might be as calm and joyous as the bright prospect before me. By that name it shall be known; and if this faint description of the beauties it unfolds, will serve to beguile a passing moment, a double object will have been achieved.

As we hurried along on our return, George pointed out to me the fairy tracks that occasionally are seen on these hills. They were, in fact, exact representations of the print of the human foot, and about the size of your Chinese lady's. But alas! how unpoetical! we were forced to come to the conclusion that our fairy was nothing more than a porcupine. Although the 30th of June, we stopped at a snow bank, and after indulging for a moment in a winter's sport, filled one of our Indian's hats with specimens for Mr. S. We travelled over nearly four miles of these sandy mountains. Their summit, near the lake, is covered with pebbles, among which I found several carnelians.

It was nearly six o'clock when we descended to our canoes; and the thought crossed my mind, that probably our friends at St. Mary's were beginning to shake the poppies from their eyes, and seriously think of taking a peep at the sunny sky. At eight we landed to breakfast, and need I tell you that consumption presided at the board—not the arch fiend with the bright though sunken eye, the hectic cough, and the delicate but death-boding tint, but a consumption that caused the solid viands before us to disappear with a marvellous quickness.

But to ensure the perusal of any future production, I must tax your patience no farther now. Suffice it to say that the farther I advance the better am I pleased with the tour I have undertaken. Let the issue be what it may, the commencement has introduced to me a friend, whom I shall never forget. May the blessing of the Christian's God attend you.

MELANCTHON L. WOOLSEY.

To —— ——.

II.

Lake Superior, July 5, 1831.

It was my intention to have had a letter for you in readiness to send by Mr. Aikin, but we met him sooner than we expected, and I was obliged to postpone the fulfilment of my promise until the Indian boys returned.

In my letter to Mrs. S., I conducted her as far as Lake Leelinau. Supposing that an account of our further progress would be as acceptable as any thing I can write, I will give you an invitation to a seat in our canoe, as we depart for the Pictured Rocks. These you have often heard described, and nothing can be added by my poor pen to what has already been said about them. They were all, and more than an excited imagination had conceived them to be. As we approach them the mind is struck with awe at their lofty battlements, and in comparison the most stupendous of the works of art sink into insignificance. Near their commencement a beautiful cascade comes tumbling down the rocks, and finally makes a leap of about thirty feet into the waters below. Passing on from this, we soon come to a most singular arrangement of rocks and arches, and the first thought that strikes the mind is, to ascend and give them an examination. It is the work but of a moment, for the eye is unsatisfied until it has drunk in all the wonders before it. Our first resting place was under the main arch, from which we had a bird's-eye view of the world of woods, and waters, and rocks, by which we were surrounded. While here, Mr. Clary with his barge came along, and jumping upon the rocks, he soon made one of our party, when we commenced a minute examination of the celebrated Doric Rock. The principal arch, under which we were, is about twenty feet in height; and while standing under its crumbling walls, our sensations were not lessened by the idea that in an instant it might be said of us, we had been. At our left, and in the centre of one of the large pillars another arch is formed,—upon entering this we still find one more at our right, and which commands a view of the lake. Between the two stands a pillar of stone, near four feet in height, entirely detached at the sides, and composed of thin plates of sand rock. As we go out from these, for the purpose of ascending the roof, a large urn of nature's own design and workmanship, appears before us. It might be a fit depository for the ashes of some of those mighty men, who before the children "with a white, white face," overran their country, strode through these forests, or in their light canoes bounded over these vast waters—but alas, their graves and those of their fathers are mingling with the common dust! Near this urn are the remains of an Indian's fire, which he had lighted at the close of his fast, when propitiating his Manito—a place well calculated to foster the wildness of superstition, and which to a mind more enlightened than that of the poor wanderer of the wilderness, would not be deficient in suggestions of mystery. Who can wonder that the untaught natives of a region like this, should make to themselves a Deity in the rushing stream or the beetling cliff? They act from the impulse of nature, and well will it be for those who enjoy every advantage that civilization and Christianity can bestow, if when weighed in the balance, even with the pagan Indian, they are not found wanting. We were soon at the top of the Doric Rock, and from its dizzy height the prospect was such as to preclude all attempt at delineation, at least by language. Your brother expressed his emotion as well as it was in the power of any mortal to do. Clapping his hands together, and putting a peculiar emphasis upon the last syllable, he exclaimed "Oh! Oh!" Nothing more could be said. But while enjoying the grandeur of the scene, I wished that M. was at my side, for my pleasure would have been increased tenfold by sharing it with her. The summit of the arch is itself a curiosity. It does not appear to be more than three feet in thickness, and yet it supports and nourishes several lofty pine trees, whose weight alone I should think would crush it to atoms. The root of one of them winds around the outer edge of the rock, as if to support the source of its existence. But we had not long to indulge our admiration, for our table was spread under the shade of one of these immense rocks, and all the sublimity around us could not satisfy the imperious demands of appetite; so after regaling ourselves on some of the dainties furnished by our excellent friends at the Sault, we departed to behold new wonders, and utter repeated exclamations of Oh! Oh! Turning a point of the rocks, we came in view of those natural excavations that have excited so much astonishment. It was our intention to pass through one of them, but the entrance was blocked up by the falling of an arch, the ruins of which were scattered around. We were obliged to content ourselves with an outside view; but this surpassed every thing of the kind I had before seen. We were in a bay formed by a semi-circle in the rocks. Above us the cliff, at the height of upwards of a hundred feet, projected far beyond our canoes, and formed a canopy of the most terrific description. We could not behold it without a shudder of awe. Upon leaving it we discharged our gun, and the reverberations were almost deafening. The sound rolled through these vast ramparts, and seemed to shake them to their foundations. It was like the groaning of an imprisoned spirit in its struggle to be free. At every stage of our progress we had new cause for amazement; and when we left them it was with the impression that we "ne'er should look upon their like again." Our encampment was at Grand Island. The next day we reached the Riviere des Moines,—here we pitched our tents, and immediately commenced a search for some of the precious minerals. The locality proved so interesting that it was determined we should devote a day or two to its examination. For the first time we were compelled to resort to our musquito bars, and it afforded me infinite amusement upon waking in the morning, to see about fifty of these insects puzzling their brains to discover the meaning of certain initials that seemed to attract their attention. This day we removed our encampment four miles. In so doing we passed a rocky mountain, that filled us instantly with a desire to ascend to its summit. This was resolved on, and at five in the afternoon we procured an Indian guide, and were soon clinging to the roots and branches that overhung its precipitous sides, as we scrambled up the ascent. We were amply repaid for our fatigue, by the prospect from its peak. Immediately before us was a beautiful bay, studded with numerous islands, some of which were crowned with verdure, while others were immense masses of rock. The bay was formed by the projections of Granite Point and Presque Isle, both of which terminated in circular mountainous elevations that were connected to the main land, but by very narrow isthmuses. At the distance of fifty miles were seen Grand Island and the Pictured Rocks. To the north-west are seen seven large bays, and Point Kewena, from which we are 65 miles distant. In the back ground, mountain rises on mountain, as far as the eye can reach. Here and there, to add variety to the scene, a lofty peak of massy, naked granite, rears its head high above its less aspiring neighbors; and to soften the asperity of the view, there are two beautiful open spots of level green, that might be taken for fairy playgrounds—so secluded, and so environed, that even the spirits of the air in them could find a resting place. And think you not when my eyes were gazing at the splendor of this scene, glowing as it was in the last rays of a glorious sun-set, that my mind wandered to the Being who is the author of these creations?