and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watch-word of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice. "The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Marguerite. "Your father cannot see us," she said "as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water and stood erect, where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprized her that she was recognised, and at the same moment, the Indians who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment, as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air—but with his followers the aspect of armed men, and a force thrice their number, had its usual effect. They fled. He looked after them, cried, shame!' and then with a desperate yell, leaped into the water and stood beside Marguerite. The canoes were now within a few yards-He put his knife to her bosom -"The daughter of Tecumseh," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand must she perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow pierced his own breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Marguerite was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears of pride and joy were poured like rain upon his cheek.” 6 MISCELLANY. MY DEAR FRIEND, A RESIDENCE IN GLASGOW. DR. CHALMERS AND MR IRVINE. I have at last found leisure to redeem my promise of giving you an account of my visit to the "commercial metropolis" of Scotland. On the thirtieth morning after leaving New York, we caught a glimpse of the blue hills of Ireland, and inhaled the strong fumes of her turf fires. The odour was not quite so grateful as that you are regaled with from the young pine-trees, as you approach our own Southern coasts; but it came fresh from the land; and that was enough to give it a zest to those who had not seen the green earth for a whole month. The day was fine, but calm. Towards evening, however, a breeze sprung up; and, before we went to sleep, we could discern the rocky and naked hills of the Western Isles. To the American traveller approaching the western coasts of Scotland, the most striking feature of the country, is the bare and desolate aspect of the surface. As he sails up the Clyde, he sees here and there a romantic spot which city opulence has appropriated for the site of a villa, and the enjoyment of health or of indolence. On drawing near to the "quays" of Greenock he is struck with a few of the pecularities of auld Scotland :draught-horses of hideous, disproportioned make, with legs thick enough to be split up into a double set for any American quadruped of the same kind; a profuse display of bare feet and ankles, on the part of the women and children on the wharf, the ankles of the former remarkable for their døric air of massiveness, strength, and durability; and "though last, not least," the harsli accents of the national dialect, growling along the line of idlers, inquirers, and porters, that forms an animated margin to the quay. A steam-boat passage succeeded, and brought me to Glasgow in a few hours. It was Saturday afternoon, when I arrived. I had barely time to enjoy one noble view, as I hurried along to my boarding-house, or "lodgings," as the Scotch call it. The view I have mentioned, is that which, all at once, presents itself to you, on entering the principal street of the city, after you came up from the river. I have been you know in many a "farre countrie," and have seen many a fine city; but the view from the west end of Argyll street eastward to Trongate street of this city, if taken on a summer afternoon, whilst a little shade yet falls on the south side, is one of the most striking I have ever seen. The street is very wide; and to the terminating point of your view, about a mile long. If you stand in the western part of the street you have before you a history of the architectural taste of successive ages. Near you are the neat, but comparatively slight, fabrics of modern days, farther eastward, the air of the buildings becomes more and more ancient and venerable, till your eye rests on the spire of the Tron church, on the one hand, and that of the old Tolbooth on the other. The mass of stone of every shape and hue, and the grotesque aspect of some of the time-worn edifices in the eastern end of the street, are new and striking objects to the eye of an American. My first sally into the street was on Sunday morning, to St John's church, a non-descript piece of architecture in the eastern part of the city, but the centre of attraction for the many passengers who throng the pavement of the Gallowgate, as they move onward "to hear Dr Chalmers." I went in company with the son of my landlady, who occupied a pew in that church. The steps were thronged by a crowd of rejected applicants for admission; the desire of hearing so distinguished a preacher, inducing many struggles to attempt forcing their way in, to the no slight inconvenience of the legitimate pew-holders. We got in just as the preacher rose to read out the first psalm. The reading was excessively awkward, his voice wretched, and his pronunciation so disfigured by national accent as to be sometimes unintelligible. Still there was a vein of deep and earnest emotion pervading the whole exercise, which made it, to say the least, impressive. His opening prayer I shall remember whilst I live. It was begun in the low husky utterance, which he has entailed on himself by that excessive exertion of the voice which is inseparable from the vehemence of his emotions, and the climax fashion of his interminable sentences. At first he was barely audible; but he seemed to gather strength as he proceeded. There was still, however, a kind of hesitancy in his manner: he seemed to labour with gigantic conceptions, for which even his own lofty expressions were utterly insufficient. His countenance bespoke a solemnized fervency of feeling, such as I had never before seen on human features. The vehemence of his manner startled me at first; but I soon lost sight of this, and of his accent, and of all that was disagreeably peculiar in his manner. A more sublime address to the throne of eternal majesty I have never heard from the lips of man. The force of the preacher's mind seemed to burst through the veil that hides the spiritual world from ordinary minds, and to be holding intercourse with living and present realities. Every thing that he wished you to perceive, became as it were palpable to the very sense. In the conceptions of his grand, but somewhat rude mind, the grotesque I found often mingled with the sublime. What do you think, for instance, of the following idea in a prayer? Alluding to the commercial distress then prevailing, and interceding for the victims of a glutted market, his expressions were, 66 And now that the surfeited and overlain world is rolling back on the heads of its children, the fruits of their frantic speculations," &c. But it was in the sermon that the preacher seemed to make his deepest impression. He began in the same manner as in the psalm and the prayer, and went through the introduction in a sort of conversational undertone which almost bordered on the ludicrous. As his ideas expanded, and his feelings began to play, he became more and more animated in his delivery, from animation he rose to vehemence, and from vehemence I had almost said to phrenzy; he literally screamed till his voice broke. His one and only gesture was repeated with fiercer and yet fiercer energy till he seemed about to fling himself from the pulpit. Then his corporeal powers would fail; he would make a long pause, and wipe off the copious perspiration which actually gushed from his head and face. Here a roar of coughing &c. &c. from all parts of the church, reminded you of the breathless stillness, which had hitherto reigned over the audience. Silence once more resumed its sway, and the preacher began again in his low broken utterance. Again he rose, and again he sunk under fatigue; till at last, he was fairly compelled to take refuge in the expedient of breaking off and giving out a psalm to be sung, whilst he was recovering his jaded energies. The succession of effort and respite in the speaker, drew away my attention, sometimes even from the magnificent succession of images which the eloquence of the composition raised before me; and more than once, I could not help thinking of an account of an English boxing-match, which I had read in an old newspaper; the pugilists had so many rounds of athletic effort and so many minutes respite, in succession, till the struggle was closed. However, to speak the sober truth, there is a moral sublimity in the spectacle of a man sacrificing his health and his life to a sacred enthusiasm; and this must be the sum total of the eloquence of Dr Chalmers' delivery; for in every other point of view it has no power whatever. In force and sublimity of thought, Dr Chalmers has surpassed the whole generation of preachers among whom he lives. For my own part, I never had so many new and stupendous thoughts brought before me in one hour, as in the discourse I heard that morning. They say that people of every, and of no character, crowd to hear this preacher. I do not wonder at the fact. Mental excitement is, more or less, the happiness of all men; and certainly it can nowhere be had to a higher pitch, than in a sermon of Dr Chalmers. [To be continued.] ITALIAN LYRICAL POETRY. DE ROSSI. Giovanni Gherardo de Rossi, a gentleman of Rome, was distinguished, among the Italian poets of the last century, as the author of comedies and of small poems. To the former are assigned a very high rank by Sismondi, and they are praised for their vigorous and exact painting of manners, their elegance of language, their liveliness, wit, and ingenuity; although, in consequence of the bitterness of their satire and their too vivid representation of low and vicious characters, they have enjoyed little popular success. My present business is with his poems only, which consist of epigrams, fables, short amatory pieces, and all the varieties of light, fugitive poems. They are lively, animated, and pretty, but of a very slight texture, and destitute of all genuine sentiment; being, in short, good examples of the cheap, easy, extemporaneous verses, with which the modern Italian Parnassus abounds. As illustrating national taste, therefore, and as specimens of a popular poet, rather than for any uncommon merit of the original pieces themselves, I proceed to my translations from this author, in which I scarcely attempt to imitate their versification with much care. THE WOLF AND THE SHEPHERD. A wolf, who, grown infirm and old, Could rob and rend the flock no more, LOVE'S ANTECHAMBER. A solemn audience Love proclaims And gives Caprice the usher's rod, Who, deaf to merit's idle claims, Admits his minions to the god. Frolic and Laughter first appeared, Yet neither made a long delay; IL LUPO E IL PASTORE. Un Lupo che già vecchio non potea But Youth was much caressed and cheered, With Folly, Love held large discourse, And Treachery came with troubled eye, Then Scorn addressed the Deity, Who, though they'd lived averse awhile, Yet sent his guest well pleased away; Fidelity and Innocence, And now had Love, in guise polite, L'ANTICAMERA D'AMORE. Amore un giorno tenne; Parlò la Gioventù. Ma colle Grazie unita. E momenti non brevi Suole affidare ad esse. Passò poi il Tradimento; |