THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE.

“Sleep hath its own world,And a wide realm of wild reality,And dreams in their development have breath,And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”

“Sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams in their development have breath,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”

OnAlligewi’s[1]mountain heightAn Indian hunter lay reclining,Gazing upon the sunset lightIn all its loveliest grace declining.Onward the chase he had since dawnPursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn,And pine-clad steep, and winding dell,And deep ravine, and covert nookWherein the red-deer loves to dwell,And silent cove, and brawling brook;Yet not till twilight’s mists descending,Had dimmed the wooded vales below,Did he, his homeward pathway wending,Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow.Then, as he breathless paused, and faint,The shout of joy that pealed on highAs broke that landscape on his eye,Imaginings alone can paint.Down on the granite brow, his prey,In all its antlered glory lay.His plumage flowed above the spoil—His quiver, and the slackened bow,Companions of his ceaseless toil,Lay careless at its side below.Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,More pure, more holy, and serene;Who might not feel existence lighterBeneath the power of such a scene?Marking the blush of light ascendingFrom where the sun had set afar,Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blendingWith the pale azure; while each starCame smiling forth ’mid roseate hue,And deepened into brighter lustreAs Night, with shadowy fingers threwHer dusky mantle round each cluster.Purple, and floods of gold, were streamingAround the sunset’s crimson way,And all the impassioned west was gleamingWith the rich flush of dying day.Far, far below the wandering sight,Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night,A mighty river rushing on,Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone.No bark upon its wave was seen,Or if ’twas there, it glided byAs viewless forms, that once have been,Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.Long gazed the hunter on that sight,’Till twilight darkened into night,Dim and more dim the landscape grew,And duskier was the empyrean blue;Glittered a thousand stars on high,And wailed the night-wind sadly by;And slowly fading, one by one,Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain passGrew darker still, and yet more dun,’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass,They seemed to mingle, earth and sky,In one wild, weird-like canopy.Yet lo! that hunter starts, and oneWhom it were heaven to gaze upon,A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn,So playful, wild, and gentle too,—Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn,With step as light, and love as true.It was Echucha! she, his bride,Dearer than all of earth beside,—For she had left her sire’s far home,The woodland depths with him to roamWho was that sire’s embittered foe!And there, in loveliness alone,With him her opening beauty shone.But even while he gazed, that form,As fades the lightning in the storm,Passed quickly from his sight.He looked again, no one was there,No voice was on the stilly air,No step upon the greensward fair,But all around was night.She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind,What wild’ring memories are rushing,As harps, beneath a summer wind,With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,Whose first wild throb of earthly blissWas but to gaze, and to receiveThe boon of hope so vast as this—To clasp that being as his own,To win her from her native bowers;And form a spirit-land, aloneWith her amid perennial flowers.And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,When the soft hand would on him lie,And sooth his soul to happiness.Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,Like the first warm breath of spring,Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,Came swelling along the balmy air,As if a spirit itself was there,So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain,It might not bless the ear again,Now breathed afar, now swelling near,It gushed on the enraptured ear;—And hark! was it her well-known tone?No—naught is heard but the voice alone.“Warrior of the Lenape race,Thou of the oak that cannot bend,Of noble brow and stately grace,And agile step, of the Tamenend,Arise—come thou with me!Echucha waits in silent glade,Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume,As daylight’s golden glories fade,To catch afar her hunter’s plume,—But naught, naught can she see.Her hair is decked with ocean shell,The vermeil bright is on her brow,The peag zone enclasps her well,Her heart is sad beneath it now,She weeps, and weeps for thee.With early dawn thou hiedst away,In reckless sports the hours to while,Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray,Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile,When again she looks on thee!Oh! come, come then with me.”Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep,As broods o’er an unbroken sleep,Seemed hovering round; then slowly cameA glow athwart the darkling night,Bursting at length to mid-day flame,And bathing hill and vale in light.While suddenly a form flits byWith step as fleet, as through the skyThe morning songster skims alongPreceded by his matchless song.So glided she; yet not unseenHer graceful gait, her brow serene,Her finely modelled limbs so round,Her raven tresses all unbound,That flashing out, and hidden now,Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,—As springing from the mountain’s brow,Eager and wild that one to know,The hunter hurried to behold her.On, on the beauteous phantom glidesBeneath the sombre, giant pinesThat stud the steep and rugged sidesOf pendant cliffs, and deep ravines;Down many a wild descent and dellO’ergrown with twisted lichens rude;Yet where she passed a halo fellTo guide the footsteps that pursued,—Like that fell wonder of the skyThat flashes o’er the starry space,And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high,For man portentous truths to trace.And onward, onward still that lightWas all which beamed upon the sight.Of figure he could naught descry,Invisible it seemed to fly;Alluring on with magic artThat half disclosing, hid in part.Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate!Oh! what is like thy magic will,Which men in blind obedience wait,Yet deem themselves unfettered still!By thee impelled that hunter spedThrough shadowy wood, o’er flowery bed;When angels else, beneath his eye,Had passed unseen, unnoticed by.The Indian brave! that stoic wild,Philosophy’s untutored child,A being, such as wisdom’s torchEnkindled ’neath the attic porch,Where the Phoenician stern and eld,His wise man[2]to the world revealing,Divined not western wildness heldUntutored ones less swayed by feeling;Whose firm endurance fire nor stakeNor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake.Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole,In apprehension revelling free,Evolved that fearlessness of soulWhich Greece[3]saw but in theory.Still on that beauteous phantom fled,And still behind the hunter sped.Nor turned she ’till where many a rockLay rent as by an earthquake’s shock,And through the midst a stream its wayHeld on ’mid showers of falling spray,Marking by one long line of foamIts passage from its mountain home.But now, amid the light mist glancingLike elf or water-nymph, the maidWith ravishment of form entrancingThe spell-bound gazer, stood displayed.So looked that Grecian maiden’s face,So every grace and movement shone,When ’neath the sculptor’s wild embrace,Life, love, and rapture flushed from stone.She paused, as if her path to traceThrough the thick mist that boiled on high,Then turning full her unseen face,There, there, the same, that lustrous eye,So fawn-like in its glance and hueAs when he first had met its ray,Echucha’s self, revealed to view—She smiled, and shadowy sank away.Again ’twas dawn: that hunter’s gazeWas wand’ring o’er a wide expanseOf inland lake, half hid in hazeThat waved beneath the morning’s glance.The circling wood, so still and deepIts sombre hush, seemed yet asleep;Save when at intervals from treeA lone bird woke its minstrelsy,Or flitting off from spray to spray’Mid glittering dew pursued its way.When lo! upon the list’ning earThe rustling of a distant tread,That pausing oft drew ever nearA causeless apprehension spread.And from a nook, a snow-white HindCame bounding—beauteous of its kind!—Seeking the silver pebbled strandWithin the tide her feet to lave,E’re noonday’s sun should wave his wandOf fire across the burnished wave.Never hath mortal eye e’er seenSuch fair proportion blent with grace;A creature with so sweet a mienMight only find its flitting placeIn that bright land far, far awayWhere Indian hunters, legends say,Pursue the all-enduring chase.The beautifully tapered head,The slender ear, the eye so bright,The curving neck, the agile tread,The strength, the eloquence, the flightOf limbs tenuitively small,Seemed imaged forth, a thing of lightSpringing at Nature’s magic call.The sparkling surge broke at her feet,Rippling upon the pebbly brink,As gracefully its waters sweetShe curved her glossy neck to drink.Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazedWildly around like one amazed,With head erect, and eye of fear,And trembling, quick-extended ear.Still as the serpent’s hushed advance,The hunter, with unmoving glance,Wound on to where a beech-tree layHalf buried in the snowy sand:He crouches ’neath its sapless sprayTo nerve his never-failing hand.A whiz—a start—her rolling eyeHath caught the danger lurking nigh.She flies, but only for a space;Then turns with sad reproachful face;Then rallying forth her wonted strength,She backward threw her matchless head,Flung on the wind her tap’ring length,And onward swift and swifter sped,—O’er sward, and plain, and snowy strand,By mossy rocks, through forests grand,Which there for centuries had stoodRustling in their wild solitude.On, on, in that unwearied chaseWith tireless speed imbued,Went sweeping with an eldrich pacePursuing and pursued!’Till, as the sinking orb of day,Glowed brighter with each dying ray,The fleetness of that form was lost,Dark drops of blood her pathway crost,And faint and fainter drooped that head,—She falters—sinks—one effort more—’Tis vain—her noontide strength has fled—She falls upon the shore.One eager bound—the Hunter’s knifeSank deep to end her struggling life;Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade,There came a shrill and plaintive cry:The Hind was not—a beauteous maidLay gasping with upbraiding eye.The glossy head and neck were gone,The snowy furs that clasped her round;And in their place the peag zone,And raven hair that all unboundUpon her heaving bosom liesAnd mingles with the rushing gore,The sandaled foot, the fawn-like eyes;All, all are there—he needs no more—“Echucha—ha!” The dream hath passed;Cold clammy drops were thick and fastUpon the awakened warrior’s brow,And the wild eye that flashed aroundTo penetrate the dark profound,Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow.Yet all was still, while far above,Nestling in calm and holy love,The watchful stars intensely brightGleamed meekly through the moonless night.The Hunter gazed,—and from his browPassed slowly off that fevered glow,For what the troubled soul can blessLike such a scene of loveliness?He raised his quiver from his side,And downward with his antlered prey,To meet his lone Ojibway bride,He gaily took his joyous way.A. F. H.

OnAlligewi’s[1]mountain height

An Indian hunter lay reclining,

Gazing upon the sunset light

In all its loveliest grace declining.

Onward the chase he had since dawn

Pursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn,

And pine-clad steep, and winding dell,

And deep ravine, and covert nook

Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell,

And silent cove, and brawling brook;

Yet not till twilight’s mists descending,

Had dimmed the wooded vales below,

Did he, his homeward pathway wending,

Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow.

Then, as he breathless paused, and faint,

The shout of joy that pealed on high

As broke that landscape on his eye,

Imaginings alone can paint.

Down on the granite brow, his prey,In all its antlered glory lay.His plumage flowed above the spoil—His quiver, and the slackened bow,Companions of his ceaseless toil,Lay careless at its side below.

Down on the granite brow, his prey,

In all its antlered glory lay.

His plumage flowed above the spoil—

His quiver, and the slackened bow,

Companions of his ceaseless toil,

Lay careless at its side below.

Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,More pure, more holy, and serene;Who might not feel existence lighterBeneath the power of such a scene?Marking the blush of light ascendingFrom where the sun had set afar,Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blendingWith the pale azure; while each starCame smiling forth ’mid roseate hue,And deepened into brighter lustreAs Night, with shadowy fingers threwHer dusky mantle round each cluster.Purple, and floods of gold, were streamingAround the sunset’s crimson way,And all the impassioned west was gleamingWith the rich flush of dying day.Far, far below the wandering sight,Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night,A mighty river rushing on,Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone.No bark upon its wave was seen,Or if ’twas there, it glided byAs viewless forms, that once have been,Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.

Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,

More pure, more holy, and serene;

Who might not feel existence lighter

Beneath the power of such a scene?

Marking the blush of light ascending

From where the sun had set afar,

Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending

With the pale azure; while each star

Came smiling forth ’mid roseate hue,

And deepened into brighter lustre

As Night, with shadowy fingers threw

Her dusky mantle round each cluster.

Purple, and floods of gold, were streaming

Around the sunset’s crimson way,

And all the impassioned west was gleaming

With the rich flush of dying day.

Far, far below the wandering sight,

Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night,

A mighty river rushing on,

Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone.

No bark upon its wave was seen,

Or if ’twas there, it glided by

As viewless forms, that once have been,

Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.

Long gazed the hunter on that sight,’Till twilight darkened into night,Dim and more dim the landscape grew,And duskier was the empyrean blue;Glittered a thousand stars on high,And wailed the night-wind sadly by;And slowly fading, one by one,Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain passGrew darker still, and yet more dun,’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass,They seemed to mingle, earth and sky,In one wild, weird-like canopy.

Long gazed the hunter on that sight,

’Till twilight darkened into night,

Dim and more dim the landscape grew,

And duskier was the empyrean blue;

Glittered a thousand stars on high,

And wailed the night-wind sadly by;

And slowly fading, one by one,

Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain pass

Grew darker still, and yet more dun,

’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass,

They seemed to mingle, earth and sky,

In one wild, weird-like canopy.

Yet lo! that hunter starts, and oneWhom it were heaven to gaze upon,A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn,So playful, wild, and gentle too,—Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn,With step as light, and love as true.It was Echucha! she, his bride,Dearer than all of earth beside,—For she had left her sire’s far home,The woodland depths with him to roamWho was that sire’s embittered foe!And there, in loveliness alone,With him her opening beauty shone.But even while he gazed, that form,As fades the lightning in the storm,Passed quickly from his sight.He looked again, no one was there,No voice was on the stilly air,No step upon the greensward fair,But all around was night.

Yet lo! that hunter starts, and one

Whom it were heaven to gaze upon,

A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn,

So playful, wild, and gentle too,—

Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn,

With step as light, and love as true.

It was Echucha! she, his bride,

Dearer than all of earth beside,—

For she had left her sire’s far home,

The woodland depths with him to roam

Who was that sire’s embittered foe!

And there, in loveliness alone,

With him her opening beauty shone.

But even while he gazed, that form,

As fades the lightning in the storm,

Passed quickly from his sight.

He looked again, no one was there,

No voice was on the stilly air,

No step upon the greensward fair,

But all around was night.

She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind,What wild’ring memories are rushing,As harps, beneath a summer wind,With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.

She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind,

What wild’ring memories are rushing,

As harps, beneath a summer wind,

With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.

Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,Whose first wild throb of earthly blissWas but to gaze, and to receiveThe boon of hope so vast as this—To clasp that being as his own,To win her from her native bowers;And form a spirit-land, aloneWith her amid perennial flowers.And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,When the soft hand would on him lie,And sooth his soul to happiness.

Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,

Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss

Was but to gaze, and to receive

The boon of hope so vast as this—

To clasp that being as his own,

To win her from her native bowers;

And form a spirit-land, alone

With her amid perennial flowers.

And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,

Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,

When the soft hand would on him lie,

And sooth his soul to happiness.

Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,Like the first warm breath of spring,Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,Came swelling along the balmy air,As if a spirit itself was there,So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain,It might not bless the ear again,Now breathed afar, now swelling near,It gushed on the enraptured ear;—And hark! was it her well-known tone?No—naught is heard but the voice alone.

Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,

Like the first warm breath of spring,

Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,

Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,

Came swelling along the balmy air,

As if a spirit itself was there,

So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain,

It might not bless the ear again,

Now breathed afar, now swelling near,

It gushed on the enraptured ear;—

And hark! was it her well-known tone?

No—naught is heard but the voice alone.

“Warrior of the Lenape race,Thou of the oak that cannot bend,Of noble brow and stately grace,And agile step, of the Tamenend,Arise—come thou with me!

“Warrior of the Lenape race,

Thou of the oak that cannot bend,

Of noble brow and stately grace,

And agile step, of the Tamenend,

Arise—come thou with me!

Echucha waits in silent glade,Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume,As daylight’s golden glories fade,To catch afar her hunter’s plume,—But naught, naught can she see.

Echucha waits in silent glade,

Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume,

As daylight’s golden glories fade,

To catch afar her hunter’s plume,—

But naught, naught can she see.

Her hair is decked with ocean shell,The vermeil bright is on her brow,The peag zone enclasps her well,Her heart is sad beneath it now,She weeps, and weeps for thee.

Her hair is decked with ocean shell,

The vermeil bright is on her brow,

The peag zone enclasps her well,

Her heart is sad beneath it now,

She weeps, and weeps for thee.

With early dawn thou hiedst away,In reckless sports the hours to while,Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray,Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile,When again she looks on thee!Oh! come, come then with me.”

With early dawn thou hiedst away,

In reckless sports the hours to while,

Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray,

Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile,

When again she looks on thee!

Oh! come, come then with me.”

Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep,As broods o’er an unbroken sleep,Seemed hovering round; then slowly cameA glow athwart the darkling night,Bursting at length to mid-day flame,And bathing hill and vale in light.While suddenly a form flits byWith step as fleet, as through the skyThe morning songster skims alongPreceded by his matchless song.So glided she; yet not unseenHer graceful gait, her brow serene,Her finely modelled limbs so round,Her raven tresses all unbound,That flashing out, and hidden now,Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,—As springing from the mountain’s brow,Eager and wild that one to know,The hunter hurried to behold her.

Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep,

As broods o’er an unbroken sleep,

Seemed hovering round; then slowly came

A glow athwart the darkling night,

Bursting at length to mid-day flame,

And bathing hill and vale in light.

While suddenly a form flits by

With step as fleet, as through the sky

The morning songster skims along

Preceded by his matchless song.

So glided she; yet not unseen

Her graceful gait, her brow serene,

Her finely modelled limbs so round,

Her raven tresses all unbound,

That flashing out, and hidden now,

Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,—

As springing from the mountain’s brow,

Eager and wild that one to know,

The hunter hurried to behold her.

On, on the beauteous phantom glidesBeneath the sombre, giant pinesThat stud the steep and rugged sidesOf pendant cliffs, and deep ravines;Down many a wild descent and dellO’ergrown with twisted lichens rude;Yet where she passed a halo fellTo guide the footsteps that pursued,—Like that fell wonder of the skyThat flashes o’er the starry space,And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high,For man portentous truths to trace.And onward, onward still that lightWas all which beamed upon the sight.Of figure he could naught descry,Invisible it seemed to fly;Alluring on with magic artThat half disclosing, hid in part.

On, on the beauteous phantom glides

Beneath the sombre, giant pines

That stud the steep and rugged sides

Of pendant cliffs, and deep ravines;

Down many a wild descent and dell

O’ergrown with twisted lichens rude;

Yet where she passed a halo fell

To guide the footsteps that pursued,—

Like that fell wonder of the sky

That flashes o’er the starry space,

And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high,

For man portentous truths to trace.

And onward, onward still that light

Was all which beamed upon the sight.

Of figure he could naught descry,

Invisible it seemed to fly;

Alluring on with magic art

That half disclosing, hid in part.

Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate!Oh! what is like thy magic will,Which men in blind obedience wait,Yet deem themselves unfettered still!By thee impelled that hunter spedThrough shadowy wood, o’er flowery bed;When angels else, beneath his eye,Had passed unseen, unnoticed by.

Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate!

Oh! what is like thy magic will,

Which men in blind obedience wait,

Yet deem themselves unfettered still!

By thee impelled that hunter sped

Through shadowy wood, o’er flowery bed;

When angels else, beneath his eye,

Had passed unseen, unnoticed by.

The Indian brave! that stoic wild,Philosophy’s untutored child,A being, such as wisdom’s torchEnkindled ’neath the attic porch,Where the Phoenician stern and eld,His wise man[2]to the world revealing,Divined not western wildness heldUntutored ones less swayed by feeling;Whose firm endurance fire nor stakeNor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake.Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole,In apprehension revelling free,Evolved that fearlessness of soulWhich Greece[3]saw but in theory.

The Indian brave! that stoic wild,

Philosophy’s untutored child,

A being, such as wisdom’s torch

Enkindled ’neath the attic porch,

Where the Phoenician stern and eld,

His wise man[2]to the world revealing,

Divined not western wildness held

Untutored ones less swayed by feeling;

Whose firm endurance fire nor stake

Nor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake.

Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole,

In apprehension revelling free,

Evolved that fearlessness of soul

Which Greece[3]saw but in theory.

Still on that beauteous phantom fled,And still behind the hunter sped.Nor turned she ’till where many a rockLay rent as by an earthquake’s shock,And through the midst a stream its wayHeld on ’mid showers of falling spray,Marking by one long line of foamIts passage from its mountain home.

Still on that beauteous phantom fled,

And still behind the hunter sped.

Nor turned she ’till where many a rock

Lay rent as by an earthquake’s shock,

And through the midst a stream its way

Held on ’mid showers of falling spray,

Marking by one long line of foam

Its passage from its mountain home.

But now, amid the light mist glancingLike elf or water-nymph, the maidWith ravishment of form entrancingThe spell-bound gazer, stood displayed.So looked that Grecian maiden’s face,So every grace and movement shone,When ’neath the sculptor’s wild embrace,Life, love, and rapture flushed from stone.She paused, as if her path to traceThrough the thick mist that boiled on high,Then turning full her unseen face,There, there, the same, that lustrous eye,So fawn-like in its glance and hueAs when he first had met its ray,Echucha’s self, revealed to view—She smiled, and shadowy sank away.

But now, amid the light mist glancing

Like elf or water-nymph, the maid

With ravishment of form entrancing

The spell-bound gazer, stood displayed.

So looked that Grecian maiden’s face,

So every grace and movement shone,

When ’neath the sculptor’s wild embrace,

Life, love, and rapture flushed from stone.

She paused, as if her path to trace

Through the thick mist that boiled on high,

Then turning full her unseen face,

There, there, the same, that lustrous eye,

So fawn-like in its glance and hue

As when he first had met its ray,

Echucha’s self, revealed to view—

She smiled, and shadowy sank away.

Again ’twas dawn: that hunter’s gazeWas wand’ring o’er a wide expanseOf inland lake, half hid in hazeThat waved beneath the morning’s glance.The circling wood, so still and deepIts sombre hush, seemed yet asleep;Save when at intervals from treeA lone bird woke its minstrelsy,Or flitting off from spray to spray’Mid glittering dew pursued its way.When lo! upon the list’ning earThe rustling of a distant tread,That pausing oft drew ever nearA causeless apprehension spread.And from a nook, a snow-white HindCame bounding—beauteous of its kind!—Seeking the silver pebbled strandWithin the tide her feet to lave,E’re noonday’s sun should wave his wandOf fire across the burnished wave.

Again ’twas dawn: that hunter’s gaze

Was wand’ring o’er a wide expanse

Of inland lake, half hid in haze

That waved beneath the morning’s glance.

The circling wood, so still and deep

Its sombre hush, seemed yet asleep;

Save when at intervals from tree

A lone bird woke its minstrelsy,

Or flitting off from spray to spray

’Mid glittering dew pursued its way.

When lo! upon the list’ning ear

The rustling of a distant tread,

That pausing oft drew ever near

A causeless apprehension spread.

And from a nook, a snow-white Hind

Came bounding—beauteous of its kind!—

Seeking the silver pebbled strand

Within the tide her feet to lave,

E’re noonday’s sun should wave his wand

Of fire across the burnished wave.

Never hath mortal eye e’er seenSuch fair proportion blent with grace;A creature with so sweet a mienMight only find its flitting placeIn that bright land far, far awayWhere Indian hunters, legends say,Pursue the all-enduring chase.The beautifully tapered head,The slender ear, the eye so bright,The curving neck, the agile tread,The strength, the eloquence, the flightOf limbs tenuitively small,Seemed imaged forth, a thing of lightSpringing at Nature’s magic call.

Never hath mortal eye e’er seen

Such fair proportion blent with grace;

A creature with so sweet a mien

Might only find its flitting place

In that bright land far, far away

Where Indian hunters, legends say,

Pursue the all-enduring chase.

The beautifully tapered head,

The slender ear, the eye so bright,

The curving neck, the agile tread,

The strength, the eloquence, the flight

Of limbs tenuitively small,

Seemed imaged forth, a thing of light

Springing at Nature’s magic call.

The sparkling surge broke at her feet,Rippling upon the pebbly brink,As gracefully its waters sweetShe curved her glossy neck to drink.Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazedWildly around like one amazed,With head erect, and eye of fear,And trembling, quick-extended ear.

The sparkling surge broke at her feet,

Rippling upon the pebbly brink,

As gracefully its waters sweet

She curved her glossy neck to drink.

Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazed

Wildly around like one amazed,

With head erect, and eye of fear,

And trembling, quick-extended ear.

Still as the serpent’s hushed advance,The hunter, with unmoving glance,Wound on to where a beech-tree layHalf buried in the snowy sand:He crouches ’neath its sapless sprayTo nerve his never-failing hand.A whiz—a start—her rolling eyeHath caught the danger lurking nigh.She flies, but only for a space;Then turns with sad reproachful face;Then rallying forth her wonted strength,She backward threw her matchless head,Flung on the wind her tap’ring length,And onward swift and swifter sped,—O’er sward, and plain, and snowy strand,By mossy rocks, through forests grand,Which there for centuries had stoodRustling in their wild solitude.

Still as the serpent’s hushed advance,

The hunter, with unmoving glance,

Wound on to where a beech-tree lay

Half buried in the snowy sand:

He crouches ’neath its sapless spray

To nerve his never-failing hand.

A whiz—a start—her rolling eye

Hath caught the danger lurking nigh.

She flies, but only for a space;

Then turns with sad reproachful face;

Then rallying forth her wonted strength,

She backward threw her matchless head,

Flung on the wind her tap’ring length,

And onward swift and swifter sped,—

O’er sward, and plain, and snowy strand,

By mossy rocks, through forests grand,

Which there for centuries had stood

Rustling in their wild solitude.

On, on, in that unwearied chaseWith tireless speed imbued,Went sweeping with an eldrich pacePursuing and pursued!’Till, as the sinking orb of day,Glowed brighter with each dying ray,The fleetness of that form was lost,Dark drops of blood her pathway crost,And faint and fainter drooped that head,—She falters—sinks—one effort more—’Tis vain—her noontide strength has fled—She falls upon the shore.

On, on, in that unwearied chase

With tireless speed imbued,

Went sweeping with an eldrich pace

Pursuing and pursued!

’Till, as the sinking orb of day,

Glowed brighter with each dying ray,

The fleetness of that form was lost,

Dark drops of blood her pathway crost,

And faint and fainter drooped that head,—

She falters—sinks—one effort more—

’Tis vain—her noontide strength has fled—

She falls upon the shore.

One eager bound—the Hunter’s knifeSank deep to end her struggling life;Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade,There came a shrill and plaintive cry:The Hind was not—a beauteous maidLay gasping with upbraiding eye.The glossy head and neck were gone,The snowy furs that clasped her round;And in their place the peag zone,And raven hair that all unboundUpon her heaving bosom liesAnd mingles with the rushing gore,The sandaled foot, the fawn-like eyes;All, all are there—he needs no more—“Echucha—ha!” The dream hath passed;Cold clammy drops were thick and fastUpon the awakened warrior’s brow,And the wild eye that flashed aroundTo penetrate the dark profound,Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow.Yet all was still, while far above,Nestling in calm and holy love,The watchful stars intensely brightGleamed meekly through the moonless night.

One eager bound—the Hunter’s knife

Sank deep to end her struggling life;

Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade,

There came a shrill and plaintive cry:

The Hind was not—a beauteous maid

Lay gasping with upbraiding eye.

The glossy head and neck were gone,

The snowy furs that clasped her round;

And in their place the peag zone,

And raven hair that all unbound

Upon her heaving bosom lies

And mingles with the rushing gore,

The sandaled foot, the fawn-like eyes;

All, all are there—he needs no more—

“Echucha—ha!” The dream hath passed;

Cold clammy drops were thick and fast

Upon the awakened warrior’s brow,

And the wild eye that flashed around

To penetrate the dark profound,

Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow.

Yet all was still, while far above,

Nestling in calm and holy love,

The watchful stars intensely bright

Gleamed meekly through the moonless night.

The Hunter gazed,—and from his browPassed slowly off that fevered glow,For what the troubled soul can blessLike such a scene of loveliness?He raised his quiver from his side,And downward with his antlered prey,To meet his lone Ojibway bride,He gaily took his joyous way.A. F. H.

The Hunter gazed,—and from his brow

Passed slowly off that fevered glow,

For what the troubled soul can bless

Like such a scene of loveliness?

He raised his quiver from his side,

And downward with his antlered prey,

To meet his lone Ojibway bride,

He gaily took his joyous way.

A. F. H.

[1]The Alleghany.

[1]

The Alleghany.

[2]Zeno imagined his wise man, not only free from all sense of pleasure, but void of all passions, and emotions capable of being happy in the midst of torture.

[2]

Zeno imagined his wise man, not only free from all sense of pleasure, but void of all passions, and emotions capable of being happy in the midst of torture.

[3]The stoics were philosophers, rather in words than in deeds.

[3]

The stoics were philosophers, rather in words than in deeds.

MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD.

———

BY JESSE E. DOW.

———

Mygrandmother was one of the old school. She was a fine, portly built old lady, with a smart laced cap. She hated snuff and spectacles, and never lost her scissors, because she always kept them fastened to her side by a silver chain. As for scandal she never indulged in its use, believing, as she said, that truth was stranger than fiction and twice as cutting.

My grandmother had a penchant for old times and old things, she delighted to dwell upon the history of the past, and once a year on the day of thanksgiving and prayer, she appeared in all the glories of a departed age. Her head bore an enormous cushion—her waist was doubly fortified with a stomacher of whale-bone and brocade. Her skirt spread out its ample folds of brocade and embroidery below, flanked by two enormous pockets. Her well-turned ankles were covered with blue worsted stockings, with scarlet clocks, and her underpinning was completed by a pair of high quartered russet shoes mounted upon a couple of extravagant red heels. When the hour for service drew near, she added a high bonnet of antique form, made of black satin, and a long red cloak of narrow dimensions. Thus clothed, as she ascended the long slope that led to the old Presbyterian meeting house, she appeared like a British grenadier with his arms shot off, going to the pay office for his pension.

Her memory improved by age, for she doubtless recollected some things which never happened, and her powers of description were equal to those of Sir Walter Scott’s old crone, whose wild legends awoke the master’s mind to a sense of its own high powers.

My grandmother came through the revolution a buxom dame, and her legends of cow boys and tories, of white washed chimnies and tar and featherings, of battles by sea, and of “skrimmages,” as she termed them, by land, would have filled a volume as large as Fox’s book of the Martyrs, and made in the language of the day a far morereadable work.

I was her pet—her auditor: I knew when to smile, and when to look grave—when to approach her, and when to retire from her presence; her pocket was my paradise, and her old cup-board my seventh heaven.

Many a red streaked apple and twisted doughnut have I munched from the former,—and many a Pisgah glimpse have I had of the bright pewter and brighter silver that garnished the latter. Among the old lady’s silver was a venerable massive tankard that had come down from the early settlers of Quinapiack, and she prized it far above many weightier and more useful vessels. This relic always attracted my notice—a coat of arms was pictured upon one side of it, and underneath it the family name in old English letters, stood out like letters upon an iron sign. It was of London manufacture, and must have been in use long before the Pilgrims sailed for Plymouth. It had, doubtless, been drained by cavaliers and roundheads in the sea girt isle,

“Ere the May flower layIn the stormy bay,And rocked by a barren shore.”

“Ere the May flower lay

In the stormy bay,

And rocked by a barren shore.”

The history of this venerable relic was my grandmother’s hobby, and as she is no longer with us to relate the story herself, I will hand it down in print, that posterity, if so disposed, may know something also of

Inthe year 1636, a company of fighting men from the Massachusetts colony, pursued a party of Pequots to the borders of a swamp in the present county of Fairfield, in Connecticut, and destroyed them by fire.

The soldiers on their return to the colony spoke in rapture of a goodly land through which they passed in the south country, bordering upon a river and bay, called by the Indians Quinapiack, and by the Dutch the Vale of the Red Rocks.

In the year 1637, the New Haven company, beaten out by the toils and privations of a long and boisterous voyage across the Atlantic, landed at the mouth of the Charles River, and continued for a season inactive in the pleasant tabernacles of the early pilgrims. Hearing of the fair and goodly land beyond the Connectiquet, or Long River, and disliking the sterile shores of Massachusetts bay, the newly arrived company sent spies into the land to view the second Canaan, and bring them a true report.

In 1638, having received a favorable account from the pioneers, the company embarked, and sailed for that fair land, and at the close of the tenth day the Red Rocks appeared frowning grimly against the western horizon, and the Quinapiack spread out its silver bosom to receive them. The vessel that brought the colony, landed them on the eastern shore of a little creek now filled up and called the meadows, about twenty rods from the corner of College and George streets, in New Haven, and directly opposite to the famous old oak, under whose broad branches Mr. Davenport preached his first sermon to the settlers, “Upon the Temptations of the Wilderness.” Time, that rude old gentleman, has wrought many changes in the harbor of Quinapiack since the days of the pilgrims; and a regiment of purple cabbages are now growing where the adventurers’ bark rested her wave-worn keel.

In 1638, having laid out a city of nine squares, the company met in Newman’s barn, and formed their constitution. At this meeting it was ordered that the laws of Moses should govern the colony until the elders had time to make better ones.

Theophilus Eaton, Esq. was chosen the first governor: and the whole power of the people was vested in the governor, Mr. Davenport, the minister, his deacon, and the seven pillars of the church of Quinapiack. Here was church and state with a vengeance, and the pilgrims who sought freedom to worship God found freedom to worship him as they pleased, provided they worshipped himas Mr. Davenportdirected.

The seven pillars of the church were wealthy laymen, and were its principal support; among the number I find the names of those staunch old colonists, Matthew Gilbert and John Panderson.

Governor Eaton was an eminent merchant in London, and when he arrived at Quinapiack, his ledger was transformed into a book of records for the colony. It is now to be seen with his accounts in one end of it, and the records in the other. The principal settlers of New Haven were rich London merchants. They brought with them great wealth, and calculated in the new world to engage in commerce, free from the trammels that clogged them in England. They could not be contented with the old colony location. They now found a beautiful harbor—a fine country—and a broad river: but no trade. Where all were sellers there could be no buyers. They had stores but no customers: ships but no Wapping: and they soon began to sigh for merry England, and the wharves of crowded marts. In three years after landing at New Haven, a large number of these settlers determined to return to their native land.

Accordingly a vessel was purchased in Rhode Island, a crazy old tub of a thing that bade fair to sail as fast broadside on as any way, whose sails were rotten with age, and whose timbers were pierced by the worms of years. Having brought the vessel round to New Haven, the colonists, under the direction of the old ship master Lamberton, repaired and fitted her for sea.

The day before Captain Lamberton intended to sail, Eugene Foster, the son of a wealthy merchant in London, and Grace Gilman, the daughter of one of the wealthy worthies of Quinapiack, wandered out of the settlement and ascended the East Rock.

Grace Gilman was the niece of my great, great grandmother. Possessing a brilliant mind, a lovely countenance, and a form of perfect symmetry, she occupied no small share of every single gentleman’s mind asleep or awake, in the colony. Her dark hair hung in ringlets about a neck of alabaster, and sheltered with smaller curls a cheek where the lily and the rose held sweet communion together.

Foster had followed the object of his love to her western home, and having gained Elder Gilman’s consent to his union with the flower of Quinapiack, he was now ready to return in the vessel to his native land, for the purpose of preparing for a speedy settlement in the colony.

Eugene Foster was a noble, spirited youth, of high literary attainments. Besides his frequent excursions with the scouts, had made him an experienced woodman and hunter. His countenance was pleasant; his eye possessed the fire of genius; and his form was tall and commanding.

It was a glorious morning in autumn. The whole space around the settlement was one vast forest, and the frost had tipped the leaves of the trees with russet crimson and gold. The bare sumac lifted its red core on high, and the crab apple hung its bright fruit over every crag. The maple shook its blood-colored leaves around, and the chesnut and walnut came pattering down from their lofty heights, like hail from a summer cloud. The heath hens sate drumming the morning away upon the mouldering trunks, whose tops had waved above the giants of the forest in former ages. The grey squirrel sprang from limb to limb. The flying squirrel sailed from tree to tree in his downward flight; and the growling wild cat glided swiftly down the vistas of the wood with her shrieking prey.

The blue jay piped all hands from the deep woods—and the hawk, as he sailed over the partridge’s brood, shrieked the wild death cry of the air. A haze rested upon the distant heights, and a cloud of mellow light rolled over the little settlement, and faded into silver upon the broad sound that stretched out before it.

It was nearly noon when the lovers—whose conversation on such an occasion I must leave the reader to imagine—turned from the enchanting prospect, which at this day exceeds any thing in America—to return to the settlement. Two Indians, of the Narragansett tribe, now bounded from the thicket, and before Foster could bring his musketoon to its rest—for he always went armed—they levelled him to the earth. A green withe was speedily twined around his arms, and he was apparently as powerless as a child. Grace sprang to a little path that led to the parapet of the bluff and screamed for help; that scream was her salvation, for the Indian who was binding Foster’s hands, left the withe loose, and sprang toward her. In a moment the rude hand of the red-man rested heavily upon her shoulder, and his grim look sent the blood tingling from her cheeks. Another withe was speedily passed around her arms, and then the two Narragansetts seated themselves to make a hurdle to bear the pale faced maiden away. As they were busily engaged Grace heard a whisper behind her. She turned her head half round—Foster, by great exertions, had got loose from his withe, and was crawling slowly toward his musketoon.

The Narragansetts, suspecting nothing, were sitting behind a little clump of sassafras, and nothing but their brawny chests could be seen through a small bend in the trunks of the trees that composed the thicket.

Stealthily crept the experienced Foster to the tree where his musketoon rested. Not a crackling twig, nor rustling leaf, gave the slightest evidence of his movements. The Indians spoke in their own wild gutterals of the beauty of the pale-faced squaw, and chuckled with delight at the speedy prospect of roasting the young long knife by Philip’s council fire.

The musketoon was just as he had left it: not a grain of powder had left the pan,—the match burned brightly at the butt, and every thing seemed to be as effective as possible. Foster seized it and motioned to Grace to stoop her head, so as to give him a chance to bring the red men in a range through the opening in the thicket.

Grace bent her head to the ground, while her heart beat with fearful anticipation. The young pilgrim aimed his deadly weapon, as a fine opportunity presented itself. The two savages were sitting cross-legged, side by side, and their brawny breasts were seen, one bending slightly before the other. Foster aimed so as to give each a fair proportion of slugs—for he had a charge for a panther in his barrel—and fired. A loud report rang down the aisles of the forest, and rattled in echoes over the settlement, while the two Indians bounded up with a fearful yell, and fell dead upon the half-made hurdle. Foster sprang to the side of Grace, and casting loose the withe that confined her swollen arms, bore her over the bodies of the Narragansetts, whose horrid scowls never were forgotten by the affrighted maid.

A war-whoop now rang in the usual pathway to the settlement, and Foster saw that he must take a shorter cut or die. Grace had fainted, and every thing depended upon his manliness and strength. He therefore approached the brink of the precipice. A wild grape vine, that had grown there since the morning of time, for aught he knew, extended far up the perpendicular rock, from a crag below. He bound the fair girl to his breast with his neckcloth and shot-belt, and grasping the stem of the vine, descended. As he slipped down, the vine began to yield, and just as his foot touched the narrow crag, the whole vine, with a mass of loose earth and stones, gave way with a tremendous crash, and hung, from the crevice where he stood, like a feather quivering beneath his feet. Foster was for a moment dizzy, but he cast his eyes upward, and beheld the eyes of an Indian glaring upon him from the top of the rock. He was nerved in a moment: and seeing a ledge a foot and a half broad, beyond a fissure, about eight feet over, and very deep, he determined to spring for it. Grace Gilman, however, was a dead weight to the young man, and he feared the result. The ledge seemed to run at an angle of forty-five degrees along the front of the rock, to a side hill, formed by fallen rocks and earth. A wild vine hung down over the fissure, covered with tempting fruit. He reached out his hand and grasped the main stem as it waved in the breeze,—it was strong, and its roots seemed firmly imbedded in a crevice above him. Commending himself to that Creator whose tireless eye takes in at a glance his creatures, he made his leap! The damp wind from the fissure rushed by his ears; the vine cracked and rustled above him; rich clusters of luscious fruit came tumbling upon his head; and the birds of night came shrieking out from their dark shelters in the fissure as he swung past. Foster, however, did not waver, his foot struck the ledge and he leaned forward; the vine flew back like a pendulum as he let it go, and he slid down the smooth ridge of the ledge in safety. In a short time he brought up against a heap of earth that had fallen from the mountain top, and springing up, bounded like the chamois hunter from crag to crag, until he stood upon the broad bottom, without a bruise or a scratch upon himself or his fair charge. In twenty minutes the young pilgrim entered the settlement by the forest way, with the almost lifeless form of his beloved buckled to his breast, while savage yells of disappointment came down from the summit of the East Rock, and caused the young mothers of Quinapiack to press their startled babes closer to their trembling hearts.

None had dared to follow the adventurous pilgrim’s course down the mountain’s perpendicular side: and the ledges that jut out like faint shadows from the bluff, are called Foster’s Stepping Stone by those who know the incident to this day.

The report of the musketoon was heard in the settlement. The soldiers of the colony stood to their arms, and when Foster had made his report, several strong parties went out upon a scout; but it was of no use; drops of blood only were discovered sprinkled upon the sassafras-leaves, and a heavy trail leading toward the Long River. The fighting men of Quinapiack, after a weary march, gave up the pursuit of the Narragansetts, and returned leisurely to the settlement. Night now settled like a raven upon the land—the drums beat to prayers—one by one the lights went out in the cottages of the pilgrims; and as the watch-fire sent forth its ruddy blaze from the common—now the college green—the colony slumbered in sweet forgetfulness, or wandered in visions amid the scenes of their childhood by the broad Shannon or the silver Ayr.

Who can tell the strange thoughts that agitated the sleepers’ souls? The old men, had they no pleasures of memory? The young men and the maidens, had they no dreams of joy—no bright pictures of trysting trees and lovely glens where the white lady moved in her noiseless path, or the fairies danced on the moonlight sward? Had the politician no dream of departed power? No sigh for his rapid fall? Had the soldier no dream of glory—no sound of stirring bugles melting upon his ear? Had the minister of God no dream of greatness—when before the kings and princes of the world he stood? and like Nathan of old said in Christ-like majesty to the offending monarch—

“Thou art the man.”

Itwas sunrise at Quinapiack, and the seven pillars were no longer seven sleepers. Eugene Foster stood beside Grace Gilman, while the old elder wrestled valiantly in prayer. When the morning service was ended, and a substantial breakfast had been stowed away with no infant’s hand, Foster imprinted a kiss upon the cheek of the bashful puritan.

“Farewell, Grace,” said he, “we are ready to sail. In a few months more the smoke shall curl from my cottage chimney, and the good people of the colony shall wait at the council board for good man Foster.”

“Eugene,” said Grace, with eyes suffused with tears, “your time will pass pleasantly in England; but, oh! how long will the period of your absence seem in this lone outpost of civilization. Do not, then, tarry in the land of your fathers beyond the time necessary for accomplishing your business. There are many Graces in England, but there are but few Fosters here.”

“Grace,” said Foster blushing, “there is no Grace in England like the Grace of Quinapiack, and he who would leave the blooming rose of the wilderness, for the sick lily of the hot-house, deserves not to enjoy the fresh blessings of Providence. The wind that blows back to the western continent shall fill my sails, and I will claim my bride.”

The old puritan now gave the young man his blessing. Foster drew from his cloak fold this silver tankard,—marked, as you now see it,—[so said my grandmother, as she held the antique vessel up to the light,] and presented it to Grace as an earnest of his love. The elder, after seeing that it was pure silver, exclaimed against the gew-gaws, and the drinking measures of a carnal world, and left the room. Two hearty kisses were now heard, even by the domestics in the Gilman family. The elder entered the breakfast room in haste; Eugene bounded out of the door—Grace glided like a fairy up stairs, and the old tankard rested upon the table.

After placing on board of the return ship the massive plate, and other valuables of the discontented merchants, those whose hearts failed them, embarked amid the tears and prayers of Davenport and his faithful associates. The sails were spread to the breeze—the old ship bowed her head to the foam, and dashed out of the harbor in gallant style. Grace watched the vessel as she departed, and when the evening came, she wept in her silent chamber, for her heart was sad.

It was a sad day for the remaining colonists when the ship dipped her topsails in the southern waves. A feeling of loneliness, such as the traveller feels when lost in a boundless wood, seized upon them, and the staunchest wept for their native land, and the air was damp with tears. The next morning the settlement became more cheerful, for what can raise the drooping soul like the still glories of a New England autumn morning? The ship would, in all probability, return in a few months with necessary stores for the colonists, and then, should the company grow weary of the new country, they could return to their native land with their wives, and recount to kind friends the perils of an ocean voyage, and of a solitary home in a savage land.

Sixlong and melancholy months rolled away, and no tidings of the pilgrims’ ship had reached the ears of the anxious settlers of Quinapiack. A vessel had arrived at Plymouth after a short passage, but nothing had been heard of Lamberton’s bark when she sailed. A terrible mystery hung over the ill-filled and crazy ship. Autumn now came in its beauty, and still no tidings came to cheer the sinking soul, and gladden the heavy heart. Grace Gilman now began to pine, like the fair flower, whose root the worm of destruction has struck, and whose brightness slowly fades away. At length the good people of Quinapiack could stand this state of suspense no longer, and the Rev. Mr. Davenport, and his little flock, besought the Lord with sighs and tears, and heartfelt prayers to shew them the fate of their friends by a visible sign from heaven.

Four successive Sabbaths the worthy minister strove for a revelation of the mystery, and on the afternoon of the last day, when silence brooded over the settlement; when even the barn-fowl grew silent upon his roost, and the well-trained dog lay watching by the old family clock, for sunset, and the hour of play, the cry came up from the water side,—“A sail! a sail!”—and the drums beat with a double note, and the gravest leaped for joy. The cry operated like an electric shock upon the whole mass of the people. The old and the young, the sick and the well, went out upon the shore to view the approaching stranger, and the seaman stood by the landing place ready to make her fast. Grace Gilman was in the centre of the throng, and the worthy minister, Davenport, waited silently by her side.

There is no moment so full of interest to us as that when a vessel from our native land approaches us upon a distant shore. How many anxious hearts are waiting to rise or fall, as good or bad tidings salute their ears. How many watch the faces that throng the deck, and turn from countenance to countenance with eager look, until their eyes rest upon some familiar face, and their anxiety is satisfied.

There are cold hearts also in such a crowd,—worldly men, who come to gather news. What care they for affection’s warm greeting, or the throb of sympathy? What know they of a sister’s love; aye! or of that deeper love which only exists in the breast of woman! which carried her to Pilate’s hall, to Calvary’s scene of blood, and to Joseph’s tomb? The price of cotton, of tobacco, bread-stuffs, rise of fancy stocks, election of a favorite candidate, or the death of a rich relative, are sweeter than angel whispers to their ears, anda rise of two pence on cornis enough to fill a whole exchange with raptures.

There were but few such worldlings on the landing place of Quinapiack on the Sabbath eve when the gallant vessel of the pilgrims approached the shore. Silence reigned upon the landing, and a dreadful stillness hung over the approaching ship. Gallantly she entered the harbor, and the boldest on shore trembled for her temerity in carrying such a press of canvass. Not a sail had she handed—not a man was aloft. Her course varied not—neither did the water ripple before her bows. All was now anxiety. A hail went forth from the land,—a moment of breathless curiosity passed, but no answer came. Another hail was treated with the same neglect. At length Mr. Davenport hailed the stranger. As the words slowly burst from the brazen trumpet, a bright ray of sunlight gleamed full upon the vessel. Her top-masts now faded into air—then the sails and rigging down to her courses—her ensign next rolled away upon the breeze, and when the East Rock sent back the last echo of the trumpet, the pilgrims’ ship had vanished away. A similar ship, though of much smaller dimensions, now appeared upon a heavy cloud that hung over Long Island, and faded away with the brightness of the day.

“It is the promised sign,” said Mr. Davenport.

“Our friends are lost at sea,” cried the multitude.

“Eugene is drowned!” screamed Grace Gilman, and the crowd dispersed to weep alone.

As the throng moved away from the water side, a maniac girl who had been gathering wild flowers upon the East Rock, came running in from the forest way, chaunting the following words to a plaintive air:—

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