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heard. The little property some of them have retained, has been looked upon with longing eyes by unprincipled men; and it is quite possible for a very few to inflict wounds too wide for a great many to heal. We have been told by some, that they desired nothing more than that the Indians should rise, for then there would be large bodies of troops stationed there, who would afford an excellent market for their produce, and Government would pay for all the dwellings that the Indians might destroy.

But let us be understood: such is not universally the feeling of the whites. The inhabitants of Florida are as honest as any other white men. Whether the whites are generally as good as the 'reds,' is another question. If inquirers have not all read the character Columbus gave of the Indians to his sovereigns, just after the discovery, it is time they had — for his is the most correct of any we have ever seen. It is true, there are variations in the leading traits of the various tribes. The Caribs of the West Indies, for instance, have been uniformly represented as extremely cruel; but not so the others, excepting by the interested and misinformed, or those who could not penetrate beyond the surface of their minds.

As above hinted, an accident, and perhaps a romantic feeling such as many youth possess, made us more familiar in a short time than many could become in all their lives. They opened their whole souls to us, and told us many things which they would not have intrusted to any one in whom they had not implicit confidence.

It is generally thought, that the Indian has no feelings in common with the white man; but we apprehend that the difference consists chiefly in this: the Indian has greater passions, and is more under the influence of his feelings, while the white man has weaker passions, and they are more mixed. A white man rarely loves or hates with his whole heart. The Indian, on the contrary, gives his heart full play. Nothing is too good for his friends, or too bad for his enemies. It is delightful to correspond with such people. 'All or nothing,' is our motto. Rather give us no appearance of a friend, than one who becomes like a pile of scorched leaves in the forest, a mass of dust, when we seek but for a moment to repose upon it.

The mutual understanding, by the language of the eye, surprised us not a little. With the young Indians of our own age, there seemed to be as perfect an understanding and community of feeling as if we had always been on terms of intimacy; and they clasped us around the waist, and hung upon our neck, like younger brothers around one from whom they had long been parted.

Their voices are as soft as girls' in friendship; and in conversation, it is more musical than the Italian. We have heard chanting with which we might compare it — but it cannot well be described. Their war-whoop, on the contrary, is in the full sense of the word frightful, to one not accustomed to it. They give two or three loud, shrill yelps, and then flutter their tongues as if they were literally as malicious men have described certain angels, with tongues 'loose at both ends.' We hear much of the gravity of the Indian character; but this only exists upon the surface, and when they are with strangers, before whom they wish to support their dignity — for truly they are the proudest people under heaven. But when they may indulge their risible propensities, no trifle is too small to convulse them with laughter. We were one day sailing with a couple of them in a sail-boat, huilt after the manner in which they are usually constructed here at the North, to steer with a rudder and tiller; and every time we turned in tacking, they burst out into the most ungovernable mirth, until at length, finding nothing to cause their sport, we asked them the reason, when they said, we 'steered our horse by the tail, instead of the head.1 Such ludicrous conceits are constantly arising in their minds; and with some of them we soon became so accustomed to jest, that they never met us but with a broad smile upon their countenances. To us the predominant traits of the Indian character appeared to be, a love of sport, or extreme pride. Had they possessed more of the comforts of life, and one suiting our fastidious taste for a help-meet, possibly we should never have sought the white race again, with its frequent meannesses of competition, and often utter heartlessness. But their women are not handsome, nor have they any poetry or literature to raise their thoughts and feelings above the sad realities of life.

We can find but little among white men save great fish striving with might and main to chase down smaller or weaker fry, to devour them. Nothing, scarcely, is presented in its true light. Great things are made to appear small, or left entirely unnoticed, and little things are made to appear great. Even the noble-hearted Indian becomes like a dirty, caged animal of the menagerie, and loses all his native gloss, by mixing with white men. The very life-blood of the heart becomes a matter of calculation. The rich make themselves richer by any system of well-covered fraud they can devise, and render the poor as much poorer as they can; and when at length they force them, through misery, to declare there is no God in Heaven to do justice to the poor laborer on earth, and the oppressed arise in their might, the oppressor cries: 'Behold the fruits of infidelity!' This is white man's justice. We repeat it, this is the white man's justice, for which we profess but small affection — and truth to say, we love not the Indian's very much, either. He maltreats his favorite dog, a cardinal and inexcusable offence; and when one of his own color chances to acquire a greater influence, by reason of superior eloquence or genius, he is calmly sentenced to be shot. This, however, is better than the fate of many eminent geniuses among white men. They are but too often praised only when it cannot be avoided; while their unavoidable struggles not unfrequently take from them all the pleasures of existence; a cold memorial, when the spirit has departed, being their untimely and only reward.

Spring.

Behold, blest change! the buried flowers revive, And all the glad creation seems to live; Refreshing gales their balmy fragrance shed, And waking Nature rises from the dead:The thickening groves their waving green resume —

Fresh-opening blossoms breathe a rich perfume: While kindly showers their vital power diffuse, And teeming earth imbibes the copious dews. r.

THE HEIGHTS OF ABRAHAM.

The moon had drawn her watchful eye

From Montmorency's silver wave, And in their radiant homes on high, Imprisoned by the curtained sky.

The stars, unseen, their splendor gave. And wild St. Lawrence' waters rolled

More proudly 'neath the keels that bore (At head of England's chosen bold,)

One of the laurel-crowned of war.

No martial notes from trump or horn
Were on the midnight breezes borne,
When with his fairy fleet of war
Sought France' dread foe her hostile shore;
No bugle-blast rang through the air,
Wavednot St. George's banner there —
But swift and silent as the gale
That sped them, that flotilla frail

Went down the darkened tide;
While on the leading prow, with eye
That told of hopes and projects high,

Stood Wolfe, in lonely pride.

Onward they sped — no sound was heard

Throughout that brave, devoted band, Save the half-sighed, half-whispered word

That told their daring chief's command. By the dark wave's phosphorent beam,

Who saw them as they onward flew, Had thought he stood by Stygian stream,

And saw grim Charon's shadowy crew.

Not guardless was Quebec's wide coast,
Nor slept they at their fearful post,

On Abraham's dizzy heights:
Yet was that shore by foemen won,
Nor pealed there forth one signal gun,

Nor blazed the beacon lights.

Enveloped in night's rayless pall,
Frowned fearfully the tow'ring wall
Of Nature's fortress on that train;
That wall, that fortress, frowned in vain:
Onward they came, as comes the storm

That gathers o'er the mountain's head,
When cloud by cloud its forces form

In one vast volume, dark and dread.

The sun, when last his evening light
Looked down on Abraham's guarded height,

Saw only an unpeopled plain,
Where by his silent cannon stood
The sentinel in gloomy mood,
And from the cliff's bright summit viewed His glowing splendor wane.

The sun returning found not there

That sent'nel at his guarded post,
But saw beneath the colors fair,
That floated in the mountain air, Old England's bannered host,
In many a frowning squadron set,
Whose glittering steel and bayonet,
And sheathless swords, and armor bright,
Flashed proudly back his beams of light.

Then o'er the morning air there broke

The larum cannon's lengthened roar;
Then spire to answering turret spoke,
And hushed Quebec in terror woke, To gird her for the coming war.

Blazed then her beacon lights on high,

To warn Montcalm his foe was nigh;

Dashed through her streets, with lightning speed,

The herald on his foaming steed;

And 'neath the bugle's echoing blast,

From camp andcourt, from hearth and hall, Came plumed warriors fierce and fast,

Responsive to its rallying call.

Noon came not ere those armies met,

Where armies ne'er before had stood —
On plains which, unensanguined yet.

Should know too soon the hue of blood;
Whose sleeping echoes soon should swell

With sounds unechoed there before,
And bear o'er many a distant dell
The victor's shout, the vanquishcd's knell,
And all the varied tones that tell

The presence of the demon War.

'Nature sleeps quiet on the verge

Of great convulsions' — and't is said
A death-like silence is the dirge

That wails the coming earthquake's dead.
Such was the pause on Abraham's height,
While in their dread array of might,

They wait the signal to advance;
Then rang the clarion wild and high,
And 'Wolfe and England!' rent the sky,

And 'Count Montcalm for France!'

As when by counter-currents driven,

Fierce storm-clouds meet athwart the heaven,

And mingle into one;
While frequent flashes gild the air,
And the loud thunder rolls afar,

So was that fight begun.

Blaze followed blaze, roar answered roar,
And from St. Lawrence' farthest shore

Responsive echoes rung;
Bounded the frighted wild-deer by,
And from his eyry lone and high

The startled eagle sprung.

Nor least amid the varied tones

Of charging shouts and dying groans,

The savage war-whoop rose:
While gliding forms like sprites were seen,
With painted face and earthless mien,

Mingling with England's foes.

And who is he, the youth whose plume

Waves foremost in the ranks of death 1
Whose sword is shunned as surer doom

Than waits upon the Upas' breath 1
From rank to rank, from post to post,

Through England's lines his steed is spurr'd,
And where the battle rages most.

Above its din his voice is heard.

'Tis Wolfe—nor scathless has he passed Amid the death-winged balls that fly
Like hail before the summer blast:Alas! not all could pass him by.

TOL. Til. 59

Wounded and worn, he still commands —
Still urges on his wav'ring bands,
And shouts through their thinn'd ranks the cry,
'Charge now Jot Death, or Victory f

They charged —but though with fearful shock,

Twas firmly met as fiercely given;
So meets the frowning ocean rock

The riving thunderbolt of Heaven.
They charged — but when the wheeling clouds

Reveal that fearful field again,
The eye that seeks amid those crowds

For valiant Wolfe, must seek in vain.

The centre of an anxious group,

Supported by his aids apart,
Now gradually his tired powers droop,

And steals the life-blood from his heart.
Still doth he watch with dauntless eye

The wav'ring fortunes of the field,
Anxious in death to hear the cry

Which tells him that the foemen yield.

That cry was heard— again — again
It thundered o'er the battle-plain:

'For Wolfe and England !' rang the cry,
While faithful echo answered fill,
From rock to rock, from hill to hill;

So wildly rose those shouts and high,
It seemed the very vault of Heaven
Had been by acclaiming voices riven.

New life a moment filled his frame,
And haply o'er his spirit came
Some sunny visions of his fame,

Gilding the clouds of death;
His eye unearthly language spoke,
One smile on his pale Tips awoke,

And with his failing breath,
In whispered accents, he replied
To those victorious shouts — and died! F- H. H.

A DIALOGUE ON SYMPATHIES.

Scepticus. Why so thoughtful, my friend? Are you forming some new theory, or as is too often your wont, endeavoring to explain some of the absurdities of the old schools?

Theoreticus. Neither. I have just laid down Southey's Memoirs of Wesley, and was attempting to fathom his idea of the cause of the strange actions and sensations of the Methodists, when under the 'influence of the Spirit.' You remember he pronounces it to be a physical disease, and imparted involuntarily from one individual to another.

Scept. Yes, I recollect well an instance he gives of this disease in the case of two persons 'who were seized with strong pain, and constrained to roar for the disquietness of their hearts,' but who shortly after burst forth in a song of praise; apparently no difficult matter for those possessed of strong lungs, and capable of deception in so serious a subject

Theo. There is no question but that many affect these extravagancies, for the purpose of attracting attention; but the story of the satirizing

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