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rested her dusky cheek upon her bosom, while her own cheek was laid tenderly against the dark tresses of her burden. She spoke again but faintly: "The child of Wau-sha-ra is on the dark path, but there is light above, and she is going upward." And motioning Wab-sha-ash, she continued, "Hist, hist, for a moment. Go back to the forest, and bury her gently beneath the green tree, beside the bright water she loved in her childhood, where the sachem first taught her to guide the canoe; and when the bright sunlight at morning is dancing across the green sod where she lies in her sleep, and the moonbeams are resting, so sweetly at evening, think Tow-is has gone to the home of the brave." The last word was sighed rather than spoken, and Helen felt the heart beneath her hand grow still. Running Brook slept to wake no more.

A deep silence pervaded the room for a few moments; then with a majestic step, as if his soul had gained strength from witnessing the peaceful exit of his child, Wau-sha-ra left the apartment; and Clarence and Helen were alone with the dead. Neither spoke for some time. At length, laying her charge gently back upon her couch, Helen murmured, 'Thy harp of life was too feebly strung, sweet forest child. The chill blasts of Time thou couldst not endure, and God took thee. It is well."

"Yes," said Nelson, gazing sadly on the inanimate form before him, and I it was, whose crime chilled her warm heart and hushed its music forever; but God knows I meant no wrong to the pure souled creature, nor did I dream such a fount of tenderness flowed beneath that dusky bosom. But for me, she might now be the pride of another, as brave as Wausha-ra; and see how she lies, the victim of my youthful folly."

Uttering these words he darted from the room, leaving Helen alone with the departed.

At her own request, the old chief permitted her to array his daughter for burial. Dressed in her most beautiful attire, and garlanded with a few simple blossoms, which Helen had procured from the neighboring fields, Running Brook was borne to the place designated by herself, and with the bright sunshine of an April morning, illumining the silent depths of the open grave, they laid her to rest where the waters were dashing beneath the drooping willow.

Having fulfilled her duties to the dead, Helen prepared to depart to her home. She perceived that Nelson was restlsss, and watched her every movement, as though he would have some con

versation with her before they parted. They were alone in the apartment where Tow-is had breathed her last; for the aged Sagamore did not share his grief with any one. “Clarence, Clarence Nelson," said Helen, rousing from the pensive attitude in which she had been sitting for some time, "what do you expect me to say at this moment? You heard the last words of her who so lately died, her last request to me. What do you wish me to say in regard to it?” Nelson sighed deeply. "What your own correct feelings may dictate. I have no right to expect or even ask, any thing else. But I know my crime; and though to possess my first, my only love, would be the boon I should most ardently ask of high Heaven, I cannot, do not expect it. Perhaps I ought to anticipate the deepest reproach; but Helen Hyde never reproached any one; and I feel that she will leave me with God and my own conscience. Ah! she could not leave me to surer punishment."

"No, Clarence, I have no reproaches for you. I commiserate your unhappy state, knowing that he that doeth wrong shall receive for the wrong he hath done;' and could I bring peace to your heart, I would quickly do so. The boon you would ask of Heaven is not the highest, far from it. Ask rather that the peace of God may hallow your soul, and lead you to think often of the things that are beyond this vale of tearsthat, with the regrets that must at times arise in your mind, there may come also lofty aspirations for a higher life, above the frailties and errors of poor human nature. I know you are capable of the best and noblest efforts. I know, but for one misdirected ambition, you would have merited your own entire approbation, and what more can I say? Is there not time to retrieve the Past? Not by marrying her from whom you have been estranged more than a score of years, who has long since buried all thought of such an earthly tie, and who has her future course marked out to her by the hand of Providence. I was once a wife,-when I had no earthly friend to guide and protect me, when my guardian slumbered in the grave, and vil lanous hands had robbed me of that which his careful bounty had left for my support, and I was wholly alone in the world, one like yourself, in all that is good and noble, only never tempted as you have been, besought me to fill the place in his heart and home, made vacant by the loss of another. After mature reflection I consented, telling him of the severe discipline I had experienced in my youth; and with him I

looked forward to many peaceful days. Alas! how soon did this light fade also. Twelve hours passed, and he lay shrouded for the tomb, bereft of life while saving another from imminent peril. Two little orphans were left to my care, and to them my future life is dedicated. When they need ne no longer as a protector, which time will soon arrive, I shall still dwell with them as counsellor and adviser. I have a high and holy hope that bears me up; and in that land of love which you yourself so beautifully portrayed to the gentle being who has just left us, I expect to meet a world, all pure and happy, and to know

sorrow no more."

She was silent, and rising, Nelson approached and took her proffered hand. "Helen," said he, "had I in early life taken your advice, I should not have wrecked the happiness of both of us as I did. I bitterly repent it, and by my deeds you shall know that my repentance is genuine. No sinful weakness shall ever come near my heart again, that a firm resolution and humble petitions to God, can avert; and if in youth I was unworthy of one so good and lovely as yourself, my maturer years shall show that I might have made myself deserving of you."

Taking her arm within his own, and bearing in his hand a curious basket filled with ornaments, all the work of Running Brook, and presented to her by Wau-sha-ra, he led her to the boat in which she was to take passage, and with a "God bless you," on the lip of each, they parted.

If the reader is curious to know any thing further of Clarence and Helen, he may sometime see an elderly gentleman, with a grave, even sad aspect, musing alone on the high bluff that overlooks the village of Mackinaw, or standing by a green mound among the willows on shore not far distant. Or he may, in a fine mansion in Central New York, chance upon an old lady, with the most placid countenance, and gentlest manners in the world, surrounded by a happy group, who all love her dearly and learn many a lesson from her lips. That old gentleman is Clarence Nelson,-that venerable lady is the beautiful Helen Hyde. Among the red men he is still known as the Black Otter; and Wausha-ra has never forgotten the Pale woman who came to his dying child; and he ever calls her Loh-e-tah, "Love."

M. J. C. MANLEY.

THE grave of the virtuous dead is like everblooming flowers.

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BUT few instances are recorded of females born in humble life and obscure stations, rising to the possession of a throne. We have one instance in sacred history, of one thus elevated, who afterwards accomplished much good in rescuing her people from destruction. Then we have the instance of Catharine, empress of Russia, Josephine the beautiful, and accomplished wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, and the annals of Rome give us the name of the fair Eudocia, who by her beauty and talents was raised from poverty and humility to govern hearts and sway the sceptre of power.

She was the daughter of a Grecian philosopher who lived in the fifth century of the Christian

Her

era. The lessons of the schools were daily instilled in her willing ear by her parent, and study was regarded as a pleasant pastime. While her mind was rapidly developing in beauty and goodness, her personal beauty attracted the most ardent admiration. To a graceful and slender figure, was added a fair complexion, blue eyes of brilliancy and intelligence, dark brown hair, which lay in many a rich and wavy ringlet over her neck and shoulders. The philosopher cherished for his child the most ardent hopes. own fertile imagination, too, pictured forth the future, redolent with every joy-devoid of care. How wise is that Providence that withholds the trials and vicissitudes of later years from the bright anticipations of joyous youth! Just as she was passing into graceful womanhood, her father died; leaving his little patrimony to be divided between his two sons, and a mere pittance to his child in whose mind was instilled more durable wealth than the dross of earth. He deemed the merit and talents of his daughter a sufficient inheritance. Yet no reproach fell from her lips. Long and sincerely she mourned the loss of her parent: treated unkindly by her brothers who envied and hated her for her superior abilities, she formed the heroic resolution to leave them and seek for herself friends among strangers. She had heard in her quiet home, of the splendors of the Court of Constantinople, and of the piety and virtues of Pulcheria, the sister of the young emperor Theodosius, and she resolved to go thither, seek an interview, and relate her grievances.

The lofty Pulcheria received the fair young scholar with cordiality, gave her her friendship, and in due time loved her as a sister, secretly resolving that she should indeed become one. The emperor of the East was then in his twentieth year; deeply enthusiastic, he was prepared ardently to love the fair original, when he had seen the portrait of the young Greek maiden, his sister's guest. He insisted upon seeing her immediately. A formal presentation took place, he declared his love, was accepted, and the royal nuptials were soon after celebrated with all the pomp and splendor worthy of his lofty rank. Years passed with their changes, yet naught but increasing happiness did they seem to bring to the affectionate inmates of the Byzantine palace. Alas, that the ardent love of dearest friends should ever wax cold! The birth of a daughter gave new joy to the hearts of the royal parents, and the fair empress deemed herself the most fortunate of her sex. Her brothers were raised

by her to stations of dignity and trust in the empire. Much of her time was spent in study; she composed many volumes, some of which have stood the test of the most impartial criticism. Her child, the young Eudosia, was separated from her at the age of fifteen, by her marriage with the emperor of the West.

Her heart was sad, after the departure of her only child, and she asked and obtained leave to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the place endeared to every Christian mind, by the many interesting events connected with scriptural history. Her request was granted by the indulgent emperor. Accompanied by a courtly train, she received the homage of multitudes of her grateful subjects as she passed. The poor were made glad by her alms and kind attentions. At Antioch she gave a public oration from a throne of gold. She tarried awhile at Jerusalem doing much good by her generosity, and visiting the different spots in its vicinity once trodden by holy feet.

But enemies had arisen in her absence,-the mind of the emperor was alienated from her, and at her return, instead of an affectionate greeting, she was spurned with coldness and neglect. Finding it impossible to regain the affections of him whom she still loved with all the ardor of fond woman's nature, she resolved to return again to the distant solitude of Jerusalem, there to pass the remainder of her earthly sojourn. But the malice of her foes again pursued her. Stripped of her honors her memory was unjustly condemned in the eyes of the world. Yet she found solace in the religion of Jesus, which she had long before embraced, and the venom of her foes fell harmless at her feet. Yet trouble seemed to accumulate, and her last days were embittered by the news of the emperor's death, and the exile of her child who was carried a prisoner from Rome to Carthage.

ence.

Hers was no ordinary lot; with a deeply sensitive spirit, she fully realized and most keenly felt the joys and sorrows it was hers to experiShe had known power and felt its emptiness. She had known misfortune and felt its discipline. Yet peacefully the sun of her life went down in her solitude, obscured 'tis true by clouds, yet destined to rise again in increasing splendor. She died at Jerusalem in the fiftyseventh year of her age, protesting with her dying breath her innocence, and freely forgiving her enemies.

Wilmington, Vt.

S. M. PERKINS.

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THE INFLUENCE OF A FLOWER.

THERE are many brief instances and apparently trivial events in our lives, that, at the moment of occurrence, are almost unnoticed; but which, from some association, make an impression on the memory at many periods of after-life, or may be remembered through existence with undiminished freshness; when others, of the most seeming interest at the time, fade from our recollections, or become abraded from our mind by a constant collision with the passing transactions of our days. It is in early life chiefly, perhaps entirely, that deep and indelible sensations of regard are made; and impressions in those days are often recorded upon an unsullied tablet, that admits in after hours of no erasement or superscription. How deep are Our school-boy reminiscences; and the kindnesses received, and the friendships formed at such periods commonly constitute more enduring characters on our minds than all the after-occurrences, halfheartless transactions, perhaps, of later hours; when darker passions arise-ambition, avarice,

self-interest, and cold reality, banish for ever the elysian ideas of youthful romance. There is a flower, the common cowslip of the fields, which, by reason of associations, for thirty years of my life I never saw without emotion; and although I might sanctify this feeling, I confess my belief that it has not contributed to the general happiness of my life; from reverence at first it gradually became a disease, induced a morbid indifference, and undermined and destroyed the healthful sources of enjoyment.

Toward the close of a very lovely spring day --and such a lovely one, to my fancy, has never beamed from the heavens since I carelessly plucked a cowslip from a copse side, and gave it to Constance. 'Twas on that beautiful evening when she told me all her heart; as, seated on a mossy bank, she dissected with downcast eyes, every part of the flower: chives, pointal, petal, all were displayed, though I am sure she never even thought of the class. My destiny through life I considered as fixed from that hour. Shortly afterward I was called by the death of a relative, to a distant part of England; upon my return Constance was no more. The army was my original destination; but my mind began to be enfeebled by hourly musing upon one subject alone, without cessation or available termination; yet reason enough remained to convince me that, without change and excitement, it would degenerate into fatuity.

The preparation and voyage to India, new companions, and ever-changing scenes, hushed my feelings, and produced a calm that might be called a state of blessedness-a condition in which the ignoble and inferior ingredients of our nature were subdued by the divinity of mind. Years rolled on in almost constant service; nor do I remember many of the events of that time, even with interest or regret. In one advance of the army to which I was attached, we had some skirmishing with the irregulars of our foe; the pursuit was rapid, and I fell behind my detachment, wounded and weary, in ascending a ghaut; resting in the jungle, with languid eyes fixed on the ground, without any particular feeling but that of fatigue and the smarting of my shoulder, a cowslip caught my sight! My blood rushed to my heart-and, shuddering, I started on my feet, felt no fatigue, knew of no wound, and joined my party. I had not seen this flower for ten years! but it probably saved my life-an European officer, wounded and alone, might have tempted the avarice of some of the numerous and savage followers of an Indian army. In the

cooler and calmer hours of reflection since, I have often thought that this appearance was a mere phantom, an illusion-the offspring of weakness: I saw it but for a moment, and too imperfectly to be assured of reality; and whatever I believed at the time seeins now to have been a painting of the mind rather than an object of vision; but how that image started up, I conjecture not -the effect was immediate and preservative. This flower was again seen in Spain; I had the command of an advance party, and in one of the recesses of the Pyrenees, of the romantic, beautiful Pyrenees, upon a secluded bank, surrounded by a shrubbery so lovely as to be noticed by many-was a cowslip. It was now nearly twenty years since I had seen it in Mysore; I did not start, but a cold and melancholy chill came over me; yet I might possibly have gazed long on this humble little flower, and recalled many dormant thoughts, had not a sense of duty (for we momentarily expected an attack) summoned my attention to the realities of life; so, drawing the back of my hand across my eyes, I cheered my party with "Forward, lads!" and pursued my route, and saw it no more, until England and all her flowery meadows met my view; but many days and hard service had wasted life, and worn the fine edge of sensibility away; they were now before me in endless profusion, almost unheeded, and without excitement. I viewed not the cowslip when fifty as I had done with the eyes of nineteen. [Selected.]

A REAL DIALOGUE.

JONES. Good morning, Mr. Smith. SMITH. Welcome, Mr. Jones! take a seat, sir. Quite a pleasant evening out.

JONES. Quite so, but rather chilly.

SMITH. Little nervous perhaps, feel the cold more sensibly.

JONES. May be, may be. I am rather nervous just now. I've heard of your intention to let your children go on the Universalist excursion to-morrow is it so?

SMITH. Why, parson, I have been thinking of it.

JONES. Well, you had better give up such thoughts.

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traded with them, and had many dealings with them, and I have found them as honest and upright as any Christians, to say the least.

JONES. Hem, hem! That may be, for they know their doctrine is so bad that they have to be have well to hide it.

SMITH. But, my dear sir, did not our Savior bid us to judge a tree by its fruits? Don't you preach so? Isn't that the way to judge?

JONES. Why-y-e-s-gen-er-al-ly.

SMITH. Generally! but who shall decide where the exception is to be made? Must the exception be only where good fruit comes from a tree that is not in our orchard?

JONES. It is a difficult matter, I own. But you will allow that there are men who hold terrible errors-some infidels, who are virtuous in their dealings and are good neighbors. Even the Papal Church has good men in the calendar of her saints.

SMITH. Very true, sir, very true; but I do not argue that here and there is one person among the Universalists that is good, I have spoken of them as a class; and I think that we should acknowledge virtue wherever we see it, in all sects and churches.

JONES. Be careful, sir; you are on the road to Universalism!

SMITH. Am I? Then I shall think better of that religion which is arrived at by being candid and just to what is good in all men. When Nathaniel said, “What good thing can come out of Nazareth?" Jesus did not overlook what was good in him because Nathaniel was so prejudiced, but he said, "Behold, an Israelite indeed, | in whom there is no guile."

JONES.

There is no use of arguing with you. I fear the cunning heresy has entrapped you. SMITH. I am sorry, sir, that you should have so poor an opinion of my mind and heart as to think argument of no avail. Our Savior did not think so when he said to the people, "Why even of yourselves judge ye not what is right?" JONES. Those times were different. But I must leave you-I just remember a particular call I have to make. Good evening. (Goes out.) SMITH. Good evening, sir. (Soliloquizing.)

And is it so must we be told to-day
The giant heresy promotes but sin,
And yet when we behold its votaries live
In kindness, honesty, and truth with us,
We must forget the pulpit's cry, and say,
They live aright to cover up their faith!”
Nay! with a broader charity than this,

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