LESSON IX.

New England.-MISS FRANCIS.

I NEVER View the thriving villages of New England, which speak so forcibly to the heart, of happiness and prosperity, without feeling a glow of national pride, as I say, 'This is my own, my native land.' A long train of associations are connected with her picturesque rivers, as they repose in their peaceful loveliness, the broad and sparkling mirror of the heavens,—and with the cultivated environs of her busy cities, which seem every where blushing into a perfect Eden of fruit and flowers.

The remembrance of what we have been, comes rushing on the heart in powerful and happy contrast. In most nations, the path of antiquity is shrouded in darkness, rendered more visible by the wild, fantastic light of fable; but with us, the vista of time is luminous to its remotest point. Each succeeding year has left its footsteps distinct upon the soil, and the cold dew of our chilling dawn is still visible beneath the mid-day sun.

Two centuries only have elapsed, since our most beautiful villages reposed in the undisturbed grandeur of nature; when the scenes now rendered classic, by literary associations, or resounding with the din of commerce, echoed nought but the sound of the hunter, or the fleet tread of the wild deer. God was here in his holy temple, and the whole earth kept silence before him!

But the voice of prayer was soon to be heard in the desert. The sun, which, for ages beyond the memory of man, had gazed on the strange, fearful worship of the Great Spirit of the wilderness, was soon to shed its splendour upon the altars of the living God. That light, which had arisen amid the darkness of Europe, stretched its long, luminous track across the Atlantic, till the summits of the western world became tinged with its brightness. During many long, long ages of gloom and corruption, it seemed as if the pure flame of religion was every where quenched in blood;-but the watchful vestal had kept the sacred flame still burning deeply and fervently. Men, stern and unyielding, brought it hither in their own bosom, and amid desolation and poverty, they kindled it on the shrine of Jehovah.

In this enlightened and liberal age, it is perhaps too fashionable to look back upon those early sufferers in the cause

of the Reformation, as a band of dark, discontented bigots Without doubt, there were many broad, deep shadows in their characters, but there was likewise bold and powerful light. The peculiarities of their situation occasioned most of their faults, and atoned for them. They were struck off from a learned, opulent, and powerful nation, under circumstances which goaded and lacerated them almost to ferocity;—and no wonder that men, who fled from oppression in their own country, to all the hardships of a remote and dreary province, should have exhibited a deep mixture of exclusive, bitter, and morose passions.

LESSON X.

Boston garrisoned by British Troops.-HOLMES.

On the 28th September, 1768, two British regiments, escorted by seven armed vessels, arrived at Boston, from Halifax. Perpetual disagreement between the commissioners of the customs and the inhabitants of Boston, had induced the advocates for an American revenue to solicit, that a regular force might be stationed in that town; and his majesty had given orders for it, in compliance with that solicitation. The fleet having taken a station, which commanded the town, the troops, under cover of the cannon of the ships, landed without molestation, and to the number of upwards of seven hundred men, marched, with muskets charged, bayonets fixed, martial music, and the usual military parade, into the common. In the evening, the selectmen of Boston were required to quarter the two regiments in the town; but they absolutely refused. A temporary shelter, however, in Fanueil Hall, was permitted to one regiment, that was without its camp equipage.

The next day, the state house, by order of the governour, was opened for the reception of the soldiers; and, after the quarters were settled, two field pieces, with the main guard, were stationed just in its front. Every thing was calculated to excite the indignation of the inhabitants. The lower floor of the state house, which had been used by gentlemen and merchants as an exchange; the representatives' chamber; the court house; Fanueil Hall-places with which were intimately associated ideas of justice and freedom, as well as of convenience and utility were now filled with regular soldiers. Guards were

placed at the doors of the state house, through which the council must pass, in going to their own chamber. The common was covered with tents. Soldiers were constantly marching and countermarching to relieve the guards. The sentinels challenged the inhabitants, as they passed. The Lord's day was profaned, and the devotion of the sanctuary disturbed, by the sound of drums and other military music. There was every appearance of a garrisoned town.

The colonists felt disgusted and injured, but not overawed, by the presence of the obtruded soldiery. After the troops had obtained quarters, the council were required to provide barracks for them, agreeably to act of parliament; but they resolutely declined any measure, which might be constructed

into a submission to that act.

LESSON XI.

Marguerite and Louis.-MISS SEDGWICK.

ON a point of land, at the junction of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, is a broken stone wall, the remains of a fortification. Tradition says, that a commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois, who was, before or after the marriage, converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made, by her people, to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord-her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

On one occasion, he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions natural enough, at a time, when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurence. She had sat in the tower and watched

for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;—the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm-again she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds.

Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were 'household words' with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing, hand in hand, towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite, it was her husband's order, that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders-she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, I am my mother's body-guard, you know.' Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events, that followed, rendered them memorable.

'The distance,' continued the stranger, 'from the fort to the place where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed. Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore, and were in the arms of Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties and resistance were alike vain. Resistance was made, with a manly spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the Indians, and attempted to plunge it in the bosom of Mecumeh, who was roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him, as if he recognised in the brave boy, a scion from his own stock.

The Indians had two canoes; Marguerite was conveyed to one, Louis to the other-and both canoes were rowed into

the Oswegatchie, and up the stream, as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.

Not a word nor cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose, and when the canoe approached near the shore, he took off a military cap he wore, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged, where he meant it should, on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The Indians had observed the boy's movement-they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap; but after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed; hid their canoes behind some trees on the river's bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It seems to have been their intention to have returned to their canoes in the morning, and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Marguerite and Louis.

Poor Marguerite, as may be supposed, had no mind to eat ; but Louis, saith tradition, ate as heartily as if he had been safe within the walls of the fort. After the supper, the Indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lightning; the moon poured its beams through the naked branches, upon her face, convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held a crucifix to her lips, the other was on her rosary. The sight of his mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy-but he lay powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms. He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep, that in the depth of the night steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him-his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped beside him and left Louis free.

He rose cautiously, looked for one instant on the Indians, and assured himself they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and