It was a hunter's paradise. Deer grazed on its meadows. The elk trooped in herds, like squadrons of cavalry. In the still morning, one might hear the clatter of their antlers for half a mile over the dewy prairie. Countless bison roamed the plains, filing in grave procession to drink at the rivers, plunging and snorting among the rapids and quicksands, rolling their huge bulk on the grass, or rushing upon each other in hot encounter, like champions under shield. The wildcat glared from the thicket; the raccoon thrust his furry countenance from the hollow tree, and the opossum swung, head downwards, from the overhanging bough.

With the opening spring, when the forests are budding into leaf, and the prairies gemmed with flowers; when a warm, faint haze rests upon the landscape-then heart and senses are inthralled with luxurious beauty. The shrubs and wild fruittrees, flushed with pale red blossoms, and the small clustering flowers of grape-vines, which choke the gigantic trees with Laocoon writhings, fill the forest with their rich perfume. A few days later, and a cloud of verdure overshadows the land, while birds innumerable sing beneath its canopy, and brighten its shades with their glancing hues.

Yet this western paradise is not free from the curse of Adam. The beneficent sun, which kindles into life so many forms of loveliness and beauty, fails not to engen ler venom and death from the rank slime of pestilential swamp and marsh. In some stagnant pool, buried in the jungle-like depths of the forest, where the hot and lifeless water reeks with exhalations, the water-snake basks by the margin, or winds his checkered length of loathsome beauty across the sleepy surface. From beneath the rotten carcass of some fallen tree, the moccason thrusts out his broad flat head, ready to dart on the intruder. On the dry, sun-scorched prairie, the rattlesnake, a more generous enemy, reposes in his spiral coil. He scorns to shun the eye of day, as if conscious of the honor accorded to his name by the warlike race, who, jointly with him, claim lordship over the land. But some intrusive footstep awakes him from his slumbers. His neck is arched; the white fangs gleam in his distended jaws; his small eyes dart rays of unutterable fierceness; and his rattles, invisible with their quick vibration, ring the sharp warning which no man will rashly contemn.

The land thus prodigal of good and evil, so remote from the sea, so primitive in its aspect, might well be deemed an undiscovered region, ignorant of European arts; yet it may boast a colonization as old as that of many a spot to which are accorded the scanty honors of an American antiquity. The earliest settlement of Pennsylvania was made in 1681; the first occupation of the Illinois took place in the previous year. La Salle may be called the father of the colony. That remarkable man entered the country with a handful of followers, bent on his grand scheme of Mississippi discovery. A legion of enemies rose in his path; but neither delay, disappointment, sickness, famine, open force, nor secret conspiracy, could bend his soul of iron. Disasters accumulated upon him. He flung them off, and still pressed forward to his object. His victorious energy bore all before it, but the success on which he had staked his life served only to entail fresh calamity, and an untimely death; and his best reward is, that his name stands forth in history an imperishable monument of heroic constancy. When on his way to the Mississippi in the year 1680, La Salle built a fort in the country of the Illinois, and, on his return from the mouth of the great river, some of his followers remained, and established themselves near the spot. Heroes of another stamp took up the work which

the daring Norman had begun. Jesuit missionaries, among the best and purest of their order, burring with zeal for the salvation of souls, and the gaining of an immortal crown, here toiled and suffered, with a self-sacrificing devotion which extorts a tribute of admiration even from sectarian bigotry. While the colder apostles of Protestantism labored upon the outskirts of heathendom, these champions of the cross, the forlorn hope of the army of Rome, pierced to the heart of its dark and dreary domain, confronting death at every step, and well repaid for all, could they but sprinkle a few drops of water on the forehead of a dying child, or hang a gilded cruci round the neck of some warrior, pleased with the glittering trinket. With the beginning of the eighteenth century, the black robe of the Jesuit was known in every village of the Illinois. Defying the wiles of Satan and the malice of his etuissaries, the Indian sorcerers, exposed to the rage of the elements, and every casualty of forest life, they followed their wandering proselytes to war and to the chase; now wading through morasses, now dragging canoes over rapids and sand-bars; now scorched with heat of the sweltering prairie, and now shivering houseless in the blasts of January. At Kaskaskia and Cahokia they established missions, and built frail churches from the bark of trees, fit emblems of their own transient and futile labors. Morning and evening. the savage worshippers sang praises to the Vizia. and knelt in supplication before the shrine of st Joseph.

Soldiers and fur-traders followed where these pioneers of the church had led the way. Forts were built here and there throughout the country, and the cabins of settlers clustered about the missionhouses. The new colonists, emigrants from Canada or disbanded soldiers of French regiments, bore a close resemblance to the settlers of Detroit, or the primitive people of Acadia, whose simple life poetry has chosen as an appropriate theme. The Crecle of the Illinois, contented, light-hearted, and thriftless, by no means fulfilled the injunction to increase and multiply, and the colony languished in spite of the fertile soil. The people labored long enough to gain a bare subsistence for each passing day, and spent the rest of their time in dancing and merry making, smoking, gossiping, and hunting. Their native gayety was irrepressible, and they four d means to stimulate it with wine made from the fruit of the wild grape-vines. Thus they passed their days, at peace with themselves, hand and glove with their Indian neighbors, and ignorant of all the world beside. Money was scarcely known among them. Skins and furs were the prevailing currency, and in every village a great portion of the land was held in common. The military commandant, whose station was at Fort Chartres, on the Mississippi, ruled the colony with a sway absolute as that of the Pacha of Egypt, and judged civil and criminal cases without right of appeal. Yet his power was exercised in a patriarchal spirit, and he usually commanded the respect and confidence of the people. Many years later, when, after the War of the Revolution, the Illinois came under the jurisdiction of the Unitedl States, the perplexed inhabitants, totally at a loss to understand the complicated machinery of republicanism, begged to be delivered from the intolerable burden of self-government, and to be once more subjected to a military commandant.

ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH Was born November, 1823,in East Windsor, Conn., where he is at present a resident. He was educated at Amherst College, studied law, but was

"They eat their fill, and they are filled with wind.
They do the noble works of noble mind.
Repute, and often bread, the world refuse.
They go unto their place,

The greatest of the race.
What is the use?

"Should some new star, in the fair evening sky
Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye
Gf flamings eminent, athwart the dews,
Our thoughts would say: No doubt
That star will soon burn out.
What is the use?

"Who'll care for me, when I am dead and gone?
Not many now, and surely, soon, not one;
And should I sing like an immortal Muse,
Men, if they read the line,

Read for their good, not mine;
What is the use?

"And song, if passable, is doomed to pass-
Common, though sweet as the new-scythed grass.
Of human deeds and thoughts Time bears no news,
That, flying, he can lack,

Else they would break his back,
What is the use?

"Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden lyres!
Perpetual tremble of immortal wires!
Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse!
Conspicuous wretchedness!
Thou starry, sole success!
What is the use!

"Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow,
That he who makes it is not easy now,
But hopes to be? Vain hope that dost abuse!
Coquetting with thine eyes,

And fooling him who sighs.
What is the use?

"Go pry the lintels of the pyramids;

Lift the old king's mysterious coffin lids

This dust was theirs whose names these stones

confuse,

These mighty monuments Of mighty discontents.

What is the use?

Seeing this man so heathenly inclined-
So wilted in the mood of a good mind,
I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought;
And studying in reply,
Answered him, eye to eye:-

Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mistake
The wandering rivers for the fountain lake.
What is the end of living-happiness?--

An end that none attain,
Argues a purpose vain.

Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss,
But duty. Yet we see not all that is,
Or may be, some day, if we love the light.
What man is, in desires,

Whispers where man aspires.

But what and where are we?-what now-to

day?

Souls on a globe that spin our lives away

A multitudinous world, where Heaven and Hell, Strangely in battle met,

Their gonfalons have set.

Dust though we are, and shall return to dust,
Yet being born to battles, fight we must;
Under which ensign is our only choice.
We know to wage our best,

God only knows the rest.

Then since we see about us sin and dole,

And some things good, why not, with hand and soul
Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sorrow—

Grasping the swords of strife,
Making the most of life?

Yea, all that we can wield is worth the end,
If sought as God's and man's most loyal friend.
Naked we come into the world, and take
Weapons of various skill-

Let us not use them ill.

As for the creeds, Nature is dark at best;
And darker still is the deep human breast.
Therefore consider well of creeds and Books,

Lest thou mayst somewhat fail
Of things beyond the veil.

Nature was dark to the dim starry age
Of wistful Job; and that Athenian sage,
Pensive in piteous thought of Taith's distress;
For still she cried with tears:
"More light, ye crystal spheres!"

Ring it out o'er hill and plain,

Through the garden's lonely bowers, Till the green leaves dance again,

Till the air is sweet with flowers!
Wake the cowslip by the rill,
Wake the yellow daffodil!
Robin's come!

Then as thou wert wont of yore,
Build thy nest and rear thy young,
Close beside our cottage door,

In the woodbine leaves among;
Hurt or harm thou need'st not fear,
Nothing rude shall venture near.
Robin's come!

Swinging still o'er yonder lane,
Robin answers merrily;
Ravished by the sweet refrain,
Alice claps her hands in glee,
Calling from the open door,
With her soft voice, o'er and o'er,
Robin's come!

WHAT SAITH THE FOUNTAIN? What saith the Fountain, Hid in the glade, Where the tall mountain Throweth its shade?

Through the vista of years, stretching dimly away, we but look, and a vision behold

Like some magical picture the sunset reveals with its colors of crimson and gold

All suffused with the glow of the hearth's ruddy blaze, from beneath the gay "mistletoe bough," There are faces that break into smiles as divinely as any that beam on us now.

While the Old Year departing strides ghost-like along o'er the hills that are dark with the

storm,

To the New the brave beaker is filled to the brim, and the play of affection is warm:

Look once more-as the garlanded Spring re-appears, in her footsteps we welcome a train

Of fair women, whose eyes are as bright as the gem that has cut their dear names on the pane.

From the canvas of Vandyke and Kneller that hangs on the old-fashioned wainscoted wall, Stately ladies, the favored of poets, look down on the guests and the revel and all;

But their beauty, though wedded to eloquent verse, and though rendered immortal by Art, Yet outshines not the beauty that breathing below, in a moment takes captive the heart.

Many winters have since frosted over these panes with the tracery-work of the rime, Many Aprils have brought back the birds to the lawn from some far-away tropical climeBut the guests of the season, alas! where are they? some the shores of the stranger have trod, And some names have been long ago carved on the stone, where they sweetly rest under the sod. How uncertain the record! the hand of a child, in its innocent sport, unawares,

May, at any time, lucklessly shatter the pane, and thus cancel the story it bears:

Still a portion, at least, shall uninjured remain— unto trustier tablets consigned

The fond names that survive in the memory of friends who yet linger a season behind.

Recollect, oh young soul, with ambition inspired!— let the moral be read as we passRecollect the illusory tablets of fame have been ever as brittle as glass:

Oh then be not content with the name there inscribed, for as well may you trace it in dust,But resolve to record it where long it shall stand, in the hearts of the good and the just!

A PICTURE.

Across the narrow dusty street

I see at early dawn,

A little girl with glancing feet,
As agile as the fawn.

An hour or so and forth she goes,
The school she brightly seeks,
She carries in her hand a rose
And two upon her cheeks.
The sun mounts up the torrid sky-
The bell for dinner rings-
My little friend, with laughing eye,
Comes gaily back and sings.
The week wears off and Saturday,
A welcome day, I ween,
Gives time for girlish romp and play;
How glad my pet is seen!
But Sunday-in what satins great
Does she not then appear!
King Solomon in all his state
Wore no such profty gear.

LIB

OF TEA

I fling her every day a kiss, And one she flings to me: I know not truly when it is She prettiest may be.

BENEDICITE

I saw her move along the aisle

The chancel lustres burned the while-
With bridal roses in her hair,
Oh! never seemed she half so fair.

A manly form stood by her side,
We knew him worthy such a bride;
And prayers went up to God above
To bless them with immortal love.
The vow was said. I know not yet
But some were filled with fond regret:
So much a part of us she seemed
To lose her quite we had not dreamed.
Like the "fair Inez," loved, caressed,
She went into the distant west,

And while one heart with joy flowed o'er,
Like her she saddened many more.

Lady, though far from childhood's things Thy gentle spirit folds its wing,

We offer now for him and thee

A tearful Benedicite!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

In 1841

GEORGE HENRY BOKER is a native of Philadelphia, where he was born in the year 1824. he was graduated at Nassau Hall, Princeton, and after a tour in Europe returned to Philadelphia, where he has since resided.

In 1847 he published The Lesson of Life and other Poems; and in 1848, Calaynos, a tragedy. This was received with favor, and in April, of the following year, acted with success at Sadlers' Wells Theatre, London. The scene is laid in Spain, the interest turns upon the hostile feeling between the Spanish and Moorish races.

Geet Broker

Mr. Boker's second tragedy, Anne Boleyn, was soon after published and produced upon the stage.

He has since written The Betrothal, Leonor de

Guzman, and a comedy, All the World a Mask, all of which have been produced with success.

He has also contributed several poetical conpositions of merit to the periodicals of the day.

Mr. Boker has wisely avoided, in his dramatic composition, the stilted periods of the classic, and the vagueness of the "unacted" drama. His plays have the action befitting the stage, and the finish requisite for the closet. His blank verse is smooth, and his dialogue spirited and colloquial.

THE DEATH OF DOÑA ALDA-FROM CALATNOS

Calaynos. What would'st thou, Alda?-Cheer thee, love, bear up!

Doña Alda. Thy face is dim, I cannot see thine

eyes:

Nay, hide them not; they are my guiding stars-
Have sorrow's drops thus blotted out their light?
Thou dost forgive me, love-thou'lt think of me!
Thou'lt not speak harthly, when I'm 'neath the
earth?

Thou'lt love my memory, for what once I was!
Calaynos. Yes, though I live till doom.
Doña Alda.
O happiness!
Come closer-this thy hand? Have mercy, heaven!
Yes, press me closer-close-I do not feel—
Calaynos. O God of mercy, spare!

Doña Alda.

Oh!-(She faints.) Calaynos. ice.

A sunny day

Bear her in-I am as calm as

Come when she wakes-I cannot see her thus.

[Exeunt OLIVER and servants, bearing DoSA ALDA. 'Tis better so;-but then the thoughts come back Of the young bride I welcomed at the gate.I kissed her, yes, I kissed her-was it there? Yes, yes, I kissed her there, and in the chapelThe dimly lighted chapel.--I see it all!

Here was old Hubert, there stood Oliver-
The priest, the bridesmaids, groomsmen-every
face;

All the retainers that around us thronged,
Smiling for joy, with ribands in their caps-
And shall they all, all follow her black pall,
With weeping eyes and doleful, sullen weeds!
For they all love her:--Oh, she was so kind,
So kind and gentle, when they stood in need;
And never checked them, if they murmured at her,
But found excuses for their discontent.-
They'll miss her: for her path was like an angel's,
And every place seemed holier where she came,
Ah me, ah me! I would this life were past!
Stay, love, watch o'er me; I will join thee soon.

[A cry within.

So quickly gone! And ere I said farewell!

(Re-enter OLIVER.) Oliver. My lordCalaynos.

[Rushes to the door.

Yes, yes, she's dead-I will go in.
[Exit.

Oliver. O, dreadful ending to a fearful night! This shock has shattered to the very root

The strength of his great spirit. Mournful night! And what will day bring forth-but wo on wo. Ah, death may rest awhile, and hold his hand, Having destroyed this wondrous paragon,

And sapped a mind, whose lightest thought was

worth

The concentrated being of a herd.

Yet shall the villain live who wrought this wo?

By heaven I swear, if my lord kill him not,

I, though a scholar and unused to arms,

Will hunt him down-ay, should he course the earth,

And slay him like a felon!