went into the sea to fetch her, jumped overboard, and just as they were beginning to be seriously alarmed at his long disappearance, he rose with his mistress from the water. This story is not deficient in that which all such stories should have, to be perfectly delightful; a fortunate conclusion. The party remained at the Fijis till the oppressor died, and then returned to Hoonga, where they enjoyed a long and happy life.

XII. - THE LONE INDIAN.

MOHAWKS; a tribe of Indians who formerly lived in the state of New York.

1. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed eld and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Powontonamo; he who had once been the eagle of the Mohawks. He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye.

2. Alas! the white man's ax had been there. The tree that he had planted was dead; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only things left in the wide world for him to love, and they were gone.

3. He looked abroad. The hunting-land of his tribe was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The Englishman's road wound like a serpent around the banks of the Mohawk; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the war-path, that a hawk's eye could not discover an Indian track. The last wigwam was destroyed; and the sun looked boldly down

upon spots he had only visited by stealth', during thousands and thousands of moons.

4. The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of autumn'; the long line of heavy clouds melting away before the evening sun ́; and the distant mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing twilight', alone remained as he had seen them in his boyhood. All things spoke a sad language to the heart of the desolate Indian. "Yes," said he, "the young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny-eye. They are cut down`, torn and trampled on. The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering like my people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks."

5. A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the stream. "The white man carries food to his wife and children, and he finds them in his home," said he; "where is

the squaw and pappoose of the red man? They are here!" As he spoke, he fixed his eye thoughtfully on the grave. After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. "The pale face may like it," murmured he; "but an Indian ́can not die here in peace." So saying, he broke his bowstring, snapped his arrows, threw them on the burial-place of his fathers, and departed forever.

REMARK.-The words "down," "torn," and "trampled," in the last paragraph but one, and "string," "arrows," "fathers," and "forever," in the last paragraph, are examples of inflection which may, perhaps, more appropriately come under the head of "series; " but, by examining them, it will be found, that the rule which gives them the falling inflection wherever the sense is complete, and that which requires the last but one to be the rising inflection, are applicable in these cases. Indeed, the rule for series is substantially the combination of these two principles, with that of emphasis, as laid down in Rule II.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD was born in Connecticut, in 1796, and was educated for the bar. In the circumstances of his life and death, he reminds one of Henry Kirke White; but as a poet, he was very much White's superior. He died of consumption, in New York, 1828.

1. How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see

That sickening, sinking look, which we,
Till dead, can ne'er forget.

2. Beyond the blue seas, far away,
Most wretchedly alone,

One died in prison`, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray

In his lone dungeon shone.

3. Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd`;
In a lone hour, his sigh to me

Comes like the hum of some wild bee`,
And then his form and face I see,
As when I saw him last.

4. And one, with a bright lip, and cheek,
And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak:
His heart was dead-for it did not break,
And his eye, for it did not see`.

5. Then for the living be the tomb',
And for the dead", the smile;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom;
Dim is such glare; but bright the bloom
Around the funeral pile.

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS, an American poet, was born in Portland, in 1807, but soon removed to Boston. He is the author of many popular prose and poetical works. He has for a number of years resided in New York, and has been the editor of several periodicals.

1. THERE is a melancholy music in autumn. The leaves float sadly about with a look of peculiar desolation, waving capriciously in the wind, and falling with a just audible sound, that is a very sigh for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is fresher, though the early autumn months are mostly still, they are swept on with a cheerful rustle over the naked harvest fields, and about in the eddies of the blast; and though I have, sometimes, in the glow of exercise, felt my life securer in the triumph of the brave contest, yet, in the chill of the evening, or when any sickness of the mind or body was on me, the moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart like a sorrow, and the cheerful fire, and the voices of my many sisters, might scarce remove it.

2. Then for the music of winter. I love to listen to the falling of snow. It is an unobtrusive and sweet music. You may temper your heart to the serenest mood, by its low murmur. It is that kind of music, that only obtrudes upon your car when your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it, if your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where music is intuitive like a thought', and comes only when it is remembered.

3. And the frost too has a melodious "ministry." You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground`; and you will listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on of one of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crystal. God has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen, in mute wonder, to the noise of its invisible workmanship.

It is too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it, when we know how the morning stars sang together.

4. You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early winter. But, before the keener frosts set in, and while the warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like regrets of the departed summer, there will come a soft rain or a heavy mist, and when the north wind returns, there will be drops suspended like ear-ring jewels, between the filaments of the cedar tassels, and in the feathery edges of the dark green hemlocks, and, if the clearing up is not followed by the heavy wind", they will be all frozen in their places like well set gems. The next morning, the warm sun comes out, and by the middle of the warm dazzling forenoon, they are all loosened from the close touch which sustained them, and they will drop at the lightest motion.

5. If you go upon the south side of the wood at that hour, you will hear music. The dry foilage of the summer's shedding is scattered over the ground, and the round, hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly, as they are shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something like the running of deep and rapid water, only more fitful and merrier; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open', it is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stern character of the season, delightful.

6. Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure to the seeker for hidden sweetness but they are too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under their frozen surface; the ice in the distant river heaves up with the swell of the current, and falls again to the bank with a prolonged echo`; and the woodman's ax rings cheerfully out from the bosom of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, but melancholy sounds, and, like all that meets the eye in that cheerless season, they but drive in the heart upon itself. I believe it is ordered in God's wisdom. We forget ourselves in the enticement of the sweet summer. Its music and its loveliness win away the senses that link up the affections, and we need a hand to turn us back tenderly, and hide from us the outward idols, in whose worship we are forgetting the high and more spiritual altars.