charged rifles of their first victims. The savages yelled also in reply, and two of them bounded forward to dispute the prize. The third, staggered into momentary inaction by the suddenness and amazement of the attack, rushed forward but a step; but a whoop of exultation was on his lips, as he raised the rifle which he had not yet discharged, full against the breast of bloody Nathan. But his triumph was short-lived; so fatal as it must have proved to the life of Nathan, it was averted by an unexpected incident. The prisoner, near whom he stood, putting all his vigor into one tremendous effort, burst his bonds, and, with a yell ten times louder and fiercer than had yet been uttered, added himself to the combatants. With a furious cry of encouragement to his rescuers,-" Hurrah for Kentucky!-give it to 'em good!" he threw himself upon the savage, beat the gun from his hands, and grasping him in his brawny arms, hurled him to the earth, where, rolling over and over in mortal struggle, growling and whooping, and rending one another like wild beasts, the two, still locked in furious embrace, suddenly tumbled down the banks of the brook, there high and steep, and were immediately lost to sight.

Before this catastrophe occurred, the other Indians and the assailants met at the fire; and each singling out his opponent, and thinking no more of the rifles, they met as men whose only business was to kill or to die. With his axe flourished over his head, Nathan rushed against the tallest and foremost enemy, who, as he advanced, swung his tomahawk, in the act of throwing it. Their weapons parted from their hands at the same moment, and with perhaps equal accuracy of aim; but meeting with a crash in the air, they fell together to the earth, doing no harm to either. The Indian stooped to recover his weapon; but it was too late: the hand of Nathan was already upon his shoulder: a single effort of his vast strength sufficed to stretch the savage at his feet, and holding him down with knee and hand, Nathan snatched up the nearest axe. "If the life of thee tribe was in thee bosom," he cried with a look of unrelenting fury, of hatred deep and ineffaceable, "thee should die the dog's death, as thee does!” And with a blow furiously struck, and thrice repeated, he despatched the struggling savage as he lay.

Both

He rose, brandishing the bloody hatchet, and looked for his companion. He found him upon the earth, lying upon the breast of his antagonist, whom it had been his good fortune to overmaster. had thrown their hatchets, and both without effect, Roland because skill was wanting, and the Shawnee because, in the act of throwing, he had stumbled over the body of one of his comrades, so as to disorder his aim, and even to deprive him of his footing. Before he could recover himself, Roland imitated Nathan's example, and threw himself upon the unlucky Indian-a youth, as it appeared, whose strength, perhaps at no moment equal to his own, had been reduced by recent wounds, and found that he had him entirely at his mercy. This circumstance, and the knowledge that the other Indians were now overpowered, softened the soldier's wrath; and when Nathan, rushing to assist him, cried aloud to him to move aside, that he might knock the assas sin knave's brains out,' Roland replied by begging Nathan to spare his life. "I have disarmed him," he cried, "he resists no more-don't kill him."

"To the last man of his tribe!" cried Nathan with unexampled ferocity; and, without another word, drove the hatchet into the wretch's brain.

The victors now leaping to their feet, looked round for the fifth savage and the prisoner; and directed

by a horrible din under the bank of the stream, which was resounding with curses, groans, heavy blows, and the plashing of water, ran to the spot, where the last incident of battle was revealed to them in a spectacle as novel as it was shocking. The Indian lay on his back suffocating in mire and water; while astride his body sat the late prisoner, covered from head to foot with mud and gore, furiously plying his fists, for he had no other weapons, about the head and face of his foe, his blows falling like sledgehammers or battering-rams, with such strength and fury that it seemed impossible any one of them could fail to crush the skull to atoms; and all the while garnishing them with a running accompaniment of oaths and maledictions little less emphatic and overwhelming. You switches gentlemen, do you, you exflunctified, perditioned rascal? Ar'n't you got it, you niggur-in-law to old Sattan? you 'tarnal halfimp, you? H'yar's for you, you dog, and thar's for you, you dog's dog! H'yar's the way I pay you in a small-change of sogdologers!"

An

THE author of several volumes of pleasing occasional poems, was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, October 29, 1794. He published a volume of poems in Philadelphia in 1819, a portion of which he included in a larger collection in 1822. other followed in 1834, and an additional volume, The Poems of William B. Tappan, not contained in a former volume, in 1836. A complete collection was formed in 1848, in four volumes, entitled, Poetry of the Heart; Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems; Poetry of Life; The Sunday School, and other Poems.

These productions are all brief, and on topics suggested in many instances by the clerical profession of their author. One of the longest is on the Sunday School, and amongst the most spirited, A Sapphic for Thanksgiving. We cite the opening stanzas

When the old Fathers of New England sought to Honor the Heavens with substance and with first fruits,

They, with their blessings-all uncounted-summed up

Their undeservings.

They made confession of their open errors;
Honestly told God of their secret follies;
Afresh their service as true vassals pledged him,,
And then were merry.
Strong was their purpose; Nature made them
nobles;

Religion made them kings, to reign for ever!
Hymns of Thanksgiving were their happy faces,
Beaming in music.

The author is a resolute advocate of total abstinence, and opponent of slavery. The picturesque incidents of the missionary career, the hazards of a sailor's life ashore as well as afloat, the joys and sorrows of the fireside, and the inspiriting themes of Christian faith, are also frequently and variously dwelt upon. The verses are uniformly smooth, musical, and in excellent taste.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.*

"Takes care of the Children !"-there's many
To sneer at a mission so small;
Thank God, in earth's famine, for any
Cheap crumbs of his mercy that fall!
For the crying-out wide desolations,
In Zion a table is spread ;-
Coming up are the hungry by nations;
But where shall the Children be fed?

"T is noble-sublimity's in it,

When Charity maketh her proof,
And "speech," "resolution," and "minute,"
Stirs arches of Exeter-roof;

By gold, and a word, are at pleasure
The Cross and the Lion unfurled,
To take of Idolatry measure,

And vanquish for Jesus the world.
To contest, so brilliant and pleasant,

Let princes and emperors lead ;-
Be lifeguards of noblemen present,
And prelates and baronets bleed;
We ask not, we wish not to battle

With them; but our disciplined band
Marshal onwards, and where the shots rattle
Behold us the Infantry stand!

In the plebeian suburbs of Glos'ter,
More glory and royalty meet
Round him, who was eager to foster

The children that troubled the street;-
Aye, nobler, sublimer, and better

Her office and honors, we see,

Who, patiently, letter by letter,

Here teaches the child at the knee.

"Takes care of the Children!"-where growing
In August are vintage and corn,
Who gazes and thinks of the sowing
Of sweet little April with scorn?
"Small things" may be jeered by the scoffer,
Yet drops that in buttercups sleep,
Make showers;-and what would he offer
But sand, as a wall for the deep!
"Takes care of the Children ?"-nor wasted
Is care on the weakest of these;
The culturer the product has tasted,
And found it the palate to please.
There are sheaves pushing higher and faster,
And Age has more branches and roots,-

• "A young German philanthropist, in seeking to carry out a favorite plan of benevolence towards the rising race, applied to the American Sunday School Union for help, because it is The Society that takes care of the Children.'"-Twentythird Annual Report.

66

But dearer are none to the Master
Than Childhood, in blossoms and fruits!
Our life is no "dream"-
"--we began it

In tears, and on Time's narrow brink, "Till farewells we wave to this planet,

We must wake up and labor and think,— And effort concentrate, not scatter,

On objects all worthy of us;Where and how, we perceive is no matter, Only blessing fix deep for the curse. Yet, as choice in the vineyard's permitted, Where labor is never in vain, And patience and prayer, unremitted,

At last yield the harvest of grainIn a world where the brambles oft sting us, "T is well to choose pleasantest bowers;Taking care of the Children" will bring us The nearest to Heaven and Flowers!

JOHN K. MITCHELL,

A PHYSICIAN of Philadelphia, and a contributor of professional literature to the American Medical and Physical Journal, is also the author of a volume, Indecision, a Tale of the Far West, and other Poems, published by Carey and Hart in 1839.

Dr. Mitchell was born at Shepardstown, Virginia, in 1798. His family was from Scotland; and on the death of his father, he was sent to be educated in Ayr and at Edinburgh. Returning to America, he studied medicine with Dr. Chapman at Philadelphia. In 1841, he was chosen professor of the Practice of Medicine in the Philadelphia Jefferson Medical College.

In addition to the writings alluded to, Dr. Mitchell published in 1821, a poem entitled St. Helena, by a Yankee.

Indecision, his longest production, is a didactic poem, "intended," says his friend, the late Joseph C. Neal, in a biographical notice in Graham's Magazine,* "to convey a moral of the most useful character, by proving

That Indecision marks its path with tears;
That want of candor darkens future years;
That perfect truth is virtue's safest friend,

And that to shun the wrong is better than to mend. And the poet has carried out the idea in a story of romantic incident, somewhat unequal and hasty at times, in its construction, but, on the whole, marked with power, and calculated deeply to interest the reader."

The following spirited lyric was written in 1820.

THE BRILLIANT NOR' WEST.

Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale,
And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale;
Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm,
Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm;
Give me the cold blast of my country again,
Careering o'er snow-covered mountain and plain,
And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast,
With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor' West.
I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow,
And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow,
Where shrubs, blossom-laden, bright birds and sweet

trees

With odors and music encumber the breeze;

August, 1845, where will be found an enumeration of Dr. Mitchell's medical papers, and several Lectures before the Franklin Institute.

I languish to catch but a breathing of thee,
To hear thy wild winter-notes, brilliant and free,
To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest,
And gather a tone from the bracing Nor' West.

Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath,
The marsh and its vapors are sealed on thy path,
For spotless and pure as the snow-covered North,
Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth.
The blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies,
Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies,
And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest
To shine in thy coronet-brilliant Nor' West.

For ever, for ever, be thine, purest wind,
The lakes and the streams of my country to bind;
And oh! though afar I am fated to roan,
Still kindle the hearths and the hearts of my home!
While blows from the polar skies holy and pure
Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall endure,
As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy crest,
Unsullied and beautiful-glorious Nor' West.

THE NEW AND THE OLD SONG.

A new song should be sweetly sung,
It goes but to the ear;

A new song should be sweetly sung,
For it touches no one near:

But an old song may be roughly sung;
The ear forgets its art,

As comes upon the rudest tongue,
The tribute to the heart.

A new song should be sweetly sung,
For memory gilds it not;

It brings not back the strains that rung
Through childhood's sunny cot.
But an old song may be roughly sung,
It tells of days of glee,
When the boy to his mother clung,
Or danced on his father's knee.

On tented fields 'tis welcome still;
"Tis sweet in the stormy sea,

In forest wild, on rocky hill,

And away on the prairie lea:But deare, far the old song,

When friends we love are nigh,.

And well known voices, clear and strong, Unite in the chorus cry

Of the old song, the old song,

The song of the days of glee, When the boy to his mother clung, Or danced on his father's kneel Oh, the old song-the old song! The song of the days of glee, The new song may be better sung, But the good old song for me!

RICHARD PENN SMITH

WAS born in Philadelphia, and was educated as a lawyer. His father, William Moore Smith, who transmitted a taste for literature to his son, is spoken of as a poetical writer of reputation. The first appearance of Richard Penn Smith as an author was in the contribution of a series of Essays entitled "The Plagiary" to the Union. He was for five years, from 1822, the proprietor and editor of the Aurora, in which he, succeeded Duane. He then returned to his profession of the law, still pursuing his literary tastes. In 1831 he published a novel of the American Revolution, The Forsaken. He is also the author of two volumes of short stories, The Actress of Padua and other Tales. He was a frequent, wri

ter of poetical pieces for the newspapers; but chiefly known as a ready writer of dramatic pieces for the stage. His tragedy of Caius Marius, written for Edwin Forrest, was brought out by the latter on the stage. He wrote numerous other successful plays, some of the titles of which are, Quite Correct, The Eighth of January, The Sentinels, William Penn, the Water Witch, Is she a Brigand? &c. Rees, in his Dramatic Authors, enumerates these, and tells an anecdote illustrating his equanimity while turning off these hasty productions for ready money. Leaving the theatre one night at the close of the performance of a piece of his composing, he net an old schoolfellow who, ignorant of his friend's share in it, saluted him. Well, this is really the most insufferable trash that I have witnessed for some time." True," replied Smith, “but as they give me a benefit to-morrow night as the author, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you here again."

66

He died at his residence on the Schuylkill, August 12, 1854. He had ceased to write for some years before his death, having suffered from a dropsical affection.*

1802.

MRS. LOUISA J. HALL.

LOUISA JANE, the daughter of Dr James Park, of Newburyport, was born in that place, February 7, Her father, in 1811, opened a school for young ladies in Boston, at which the daughter received a thorough education. She commenced writing at an early age, and a few of her poems appeared anonymously in the newspapers when she was about twenty.

In 1825, the first half of her dramatic poem of Miriam was read at a literary party in Boston; the author, unknown as such to the company, was present, and so much encouraged by the commendations the work received, that she completed it soon after. It was not published until 1837.

In 1831, she removed with her father to Worcester, where she was afflicted for four or five years with almost total blindness. Her deprivation was partially relieved by her father's kindness, who read to her for hours daily from his well stocked library, and assisted her in the preparation of two prose compositions, which she afterwards published, Joanna of Naples, a tale, and a life of Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, the learned friend of Dr. Johnson.

In 1840, Miss Park was married to the Rev. Edward B. Hall, a Unitarian clergyman of Providence, Rhode Island.

The scene of Miriam is laid in Rome, in the early ages of the Christian church. The characters of the piece are few, and the action confined entirely to the antagonism between the dominant idolatry and the yet persecuted Faith.

Miriam, a young Christian maiden, is summoned by her father and brother to attend the burial rites of one of their persecuted sect. Her refusal excites their surprise, but they depart on their errand. Paulus, the son of Piso, "a noble Roman, a persecutor of the Christians," enters. Unable to change his faith, she has remained behind for a farewell interview. While they are together, her brother Euphas returns, reproaches her for what

*Rees's Dramatic Authors of America.

he deems her immorality, and brings intelligence that the assembly had been surprised, and her father, with others, led to prison to be condemned to death. Euphas summons other Christians, who surround Paulus; and departs to propose to Piso, who is devotedly attached to his only son, an exchange of prisoners. The next scene introduces the merciless Roman ruler. Euphas is in despair, when Miriam enters. Her resemblance to her deceased mother powerfully affects Piso, who, years ago, a soldier in Syria, had wooed the latter when a maiden, and now discovers the rival who became her husband within his power. Finding he can save his son's life only by the release of all the captives, he promises that they shall return at the appointed time, the break of the following day. To this, and its first locality, the scene changes. The brother and sister return with the promise, and are soon followed by the mockery of its fulfilment. The Christian captives are introduced, bearing with them the aged Thraseno, stretched dead upon a bier, having been strangled in prison by order of his old rival. Miriam sinks under this accumulated misery. She rallies a moment as her lover proclaims that henceforth his part and lot are with those about him, and craves, as a sincere convert, the rite of baptism; but while the funeral dirge rises around the body of her father, her gentle spirit passes from earth.

We quote the concluding scene of the drama :

Christians enter, and the group opening, displays the body of Thraseno on a bier.

Paulus. (Springing forward.) Oh foul and bloody deed! and wretched son!

That knows too well whose treachery hath done this! An aged Christian. Thus saith the man of blood, My word is kept.

I send you him I promised. Have ye kept
Your faith with me? If so, there is naught more
Between us three. Bury your dead,—and fly!"
First Christian. A ruffian's strangling hand hath
grasped this throat!

And on the purple lip convulsion still
Lingers with awful tale of violence.

Oh, fearful was the strife from which arose
Our brother's spirit to its peaceful home!
Let grief, let wrath, let each unquiet thought
Be still, and round the just man's dust ascend
The voice of pray'r.
Paulus.
Not yet! oh! not quite yet!
Hear me, ye pale and horror-stricken throng!
Hear me, thou sobbing boy! My Miriam, turn-
Turn back thy face from the dim world of death,
And hear thy lover's voice!-What seest thou
In the blue heav'ns with fixed and eager gaze?

Miriam. Angels are gathering in the eastern sky-
The wind is playing 'mid their glittering plumes-
The sunbeams dance upon their golden harps-
Welcome is on their fair and glorious brows!
Hath not a holy spirit passed from earth,
Whom ye come forth to meet, seraphic forms?
Oh, fade not, fade not yet!-or take me too,
For earth grows dark beneath my dazzled eye!
Paulus. Miriam! in mercy spread not yet thy
wings!

Spurn me not from the gate that opes for thee!
Miriam. In which world do I stand!

there was

A voice

Of prayer and woe. That must have rung on earth! Say on.

Paulus. Christians! I must indeed say on
Or my full heart will break!-No heathen is't
On whom ye gaze with low'ring, angry eyes.
My father's blood-his name, his faith, his gods-
I here abjure; and only ask your prayers,
The purifying water on my brow,
And words of hope to soothe my penitence
Ere I atone my father's crimes with blood.
[Silence.

And will none speak? Am I indeed cast of-
Rejected utterly? Will no one teach
The sinner how to frame the Christian's prayer,
Help me to know the Christian's Gol aright,
Wash from my brow the deep-red stains of guilt?
Must I then die in ignorance and sin?

Miriam. O earth! be not so busy with
Paulus! what wouldest thou?

Paulus.

my

The rite that binds New converts to your peaceful faith. Miriam.

soul!

Gool brethren,

Hear ye his prayer! Search ye the penitent,
Bear him forth with you in your pilgrimage,
And when his soul in earuest hath drunk in
The spirit of Christ's law, seal him for Heaven-
And now-would that my chains were broke! Half-
freed

My spirit struggles 'neath the dust that lies
So heavy on her wings!-Paulus, we part.
But oh, how different is the parting hour
From that which crushed my hopeless spirit erst!
Joy-joy and triumph now-

Paulus.

Oh, name not joy. Miriam. Why not? If but one ray of light from Heaven

Hath reached thy soul, I may indeed rejoice!
Ev'n thus, in coming days, from martyrs' blood
Shall earnest saints arise to do God's work.
And thus with slow, sure, silent step shall Truth
Tread the dark earth, and scatter Light abroad,
Till Peace and Righteousness awake, and lead
Triumphant, in the bright and joyous blaze,
Their happy myriads up to yonder skies!

Euphas. Sister! with such a calm and sunny brow

Stand'st thou beside our murdered father's bier? Miriam. Euphas, thy hand!-Aye, clasp thy bro

ther's han l'

Ye fair and young apostles! go ye forth
Go side by side beneath the sun and storm,
A dying sister's blessing on your toils!
When ye have poured the oil of Christian peaco
On passions rude and wild-when ye have won
Dark, sullen souls from wrath and sin to God-
Whene'er ye kneel to bear upon your prayers
Repentant sinners up to yonder heaven,
Be it in palace-dungeon-open air-
'Mid friends-'mid raging foes-in joy—in grief→→
Deem not ye pray alone,-man never doth!
A sister spirit, ling'ring near, shall fill
The silent air around you with her prayers,
Waiting till ye too lay your fetters down,
And come to your reward!-Go fearless forth;
For glorious truth wars with you, and shall reign.
[Seeing the bier.
My father! sleepest thou?--Aye, a sound sleep.
Dreams have been there-oh, horrid dreams!—but

now,

The silver beard heaves not upon thy breast,
The hand I press is deadly, deadly cold,
And thou wilt dream, wilt never suffer, more.
Why gaze I on this clay! It was not this-
Not this I reverenced and loved!-

My friends, Raise ye the dirge; and though I hide my face In my dead father's robe, think not I weep.

I would not have the sight of those I love
Too well,-ev'n at this solemn hour, too well,-
Disturb my soul's communion with the blest!
My brother, sob not so!

DIRGE.

Shed not the wild and hopeless tear
Upon our parted brother's bier;
With heart subdued and steadfast eye,
Oh, raise each thought to yonder sky!
Aching brow and throbbing breast
In the silent grave shall rest;
But the clinging dust in vain
Weaves around the soul its chain.
Spirit, quit this land of tears,
Hear the song of rolig heres;
'Shall our wild and selfish prayers
Call thee back to mortal cares?
Sainted spirit! fare thee well!
More than mortal tongue can tell
Is the joy that even now
Crowns our blessed martyr's brow!

MISS MCINTOSH, the author of a series of fictions, characterized by their truthfulness and happy style, is the descendant of a Scottish family, which came among the first settlers to Georgia. Her ancestors in Scotland were distinguished by the handling of the sword rather than the pen, though an uncle of her grandfather, BrigadierGeneral William McIntosh, who led the Highland troops in the rising of 1715, during a fifteen years' imprisonment in the Castle of Edinburgh, where he died, wrote a treatise on "Inclosing, Fallowing, and Planting in Scotland." With fortunes greatly diminished by the adherence of his family to the Stuarts, her great-grandfather, Capt. John More McIntosh, with one hundred adherents, sailed from Inverness, in 1735, for the colony of Georgia, and landing on the banks of the Alatamaha, named the place at which they settled New

Of

Inverness, now Darien, in the county which still retains the name of McIntosh. This John More McIntosh was the same who originated and was the first signer of the protest made by the colonists to the Board of Trustees in England, against the introduction of African slaves into Georgia. Of his sons and grandsons, seven bore commissions in the American Army of the Revolution. these, Major Lachlan McIntosh was the father of our author. He combined the dissimilar professions of the law and of arms. His standing as a lawyer was high in his native state, and after the war of the Revolution, political honors were often thrust upon him, and his pen was often employed in defence of the measures of his party. He was admired for his social qualities, and his warm heart and conversational talents are still remembered. He was married to an accomplished lady, wno united great energy of character to purely feminine traits. Major McIntosh resided after the Revolution in the village of Sunbury, forty miles south of Savannah, on the seacoast of Georgia, where our author was born. In a reminiscence of this spot she thus records her impressions of its scenery. "Sunbury was beautifully situated about five miles from the ocean, on a bold frith or arm of the sea, stretching up between St. Catherine's Island on the one side and the main land on the other, forming, apparently, the horns of a cre cent, at the base of which the town stood. It was a beautiful spot, carpeted with the short-leaved Bermuda grass, and shaded with oak, cedar, locust, and a flowering tree, the Pride of India. It was then the summer resort of all the neighboring gentry, who went thither for the sea air. Within the last twenty years it has lost its character for health, and is now a desolate ruin; yet the hearts of those who grew up in its shades still cling to the memory of its loveliness; a recollection which