waters I will still glide unrestrained in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food. On these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my fathers sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did. The stranger came, a timid suppliant, few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, It is mine. Stranger, there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels.

If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the South, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the West? the fierce Mohawk, the man-eater, is my foe. Shall I fly to the East? the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here I will die! and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction. For that alone I thank thee; and now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle by thee; when thou liest down at night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn, till the white man or the Indian shall cease from the land. Go thy way, for this time, in safety; but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee!

4. DOGAN, A MINGO CHIEF, TO LORD DUNMORE

The charge against Colonel Cresap, in the subjoined speech, or, rather, mesage, sent to Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia, in 1774, through John Gibson, an Indian trader, has been proved to be untrue. Gibson corrected Logan on the spot, but probably felt bound to deliver the speech as it was delivered to him.

I APPEAL to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed at me as they passed, and said, "Logan is the friend of white men." I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not sparing even my women and chil

dren. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not think that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. Logan will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one!

5. MORAL COSMETICS. -Horace Smith. Born, 1779; died, 1849.

YE who would save your features florid,

Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled forehead,
From Age's devastation horrid,

Adopt this plan,

'T will make, in climate cold or torrid,
A hale old man :

Avoid, in youth, luxurious diet;
Restrain the passions' lawless riot;
Devoted to domestic quiet,
Be wisely gay;

So shall ye, spite of Age's fiat,
Resist decay.

Seck not, in Mammon's worship, pleasure;
But find your richest, dearest treasure,
In books, friends, music, polished leisure:
The mind, not sense,

Made the sole scale by which to measure
Your opulence.

This is the solace, this the science,
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance,
That disappoints not man's reliance,
Whate'er his state;

But challenges, with calm defiance,
Time, fortune, fate.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. - Caroline Bowles Souther

TREAD Softly, bow the head,

In reverent silence bow;

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,
With holy reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.

HOPE leads the child to plant the flower, the man to sow the seed;
Nor leaves fulfilment to her hour, but prompts again to deed.
And ere upon the old man's dust the grass is seen to wave,
We look through falling tears to trust Hope's sunshine on the grave.
O no! it is no flattering lure, no fancy weak or fond, —
When hope would bid us rest secure in better life beyond.
Nor loss, nor shame, nor grief, nor sin, her promise may gainsay;
The voice divine hath spoke within, and God did ne'er betray.

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8. DEATH.-Horace Smith.

FATE! Fortune! Chance! whose blindness, hostility or kindness,
Play such strange freaks with human destinies,-
Contrasting poor and wealthy, the life-diseased and healthy,

The blessed, the cursed, the witless and the wise,

Ye have a master; one, who mars what ye have done;
Levelling all that move beneath the sun,

Death!