huge trunks of trees might be seen, tossing and writhing about like things of life, tormented by the angry-spirit of the waters; the unknown purpose of the being who had brought me hither, and who stood by my side in sullen silence, prophetic, to my mind, of a thousand horrible imaginings,—formed, altogether, a combination of circumstances that might have summoned fear into a bolder heart than mine, at that instant. 24. At length the Indian spoke: "Into this gulf I plunged the murderer of my father.” As he uttered these words, he seized me firmly with his sinewy arm. We were so near the edge of the precipice, and his manner was so energetic, I might almost say convulsed, from the recollection of his consummating act of revenge, that I felt no small alarm lest an accidental movement might precipitate us both into the frightful chasm, independently of a very uncomfortable misgiving as to what his real intentions might be while holding me so firmly. 25. Then, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon me, he said, -"I tracked you, last night, from the going-down of the sun. Twice my gun was leveled; twice I drew my arrow's head to its point; once my hatchet glittered in the moon. But my arm failed me, and there was a sadness over my spirits. I watched you as you slept. Not even the thought, that so my father slept, could make me strike. I left you, and in the deep forest cast myself to the earth, to ask the Great Spirit what he would have me do, if it was not permitted that I should shed your blood. A voice in the air seemed to say to me, 'Let him return.'" The Indian then released me from his grasp, conducted me back to his cabin, furnished me with food for my journey, and bade me depart. A LESSON LVI. CHOICE EXTRACTS. I. DECAY OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS. CHARLES SPRAGUE. S a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying away to the untrodden West. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the rear of the last wave, which will settle over them forever. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people. II. LAMENT OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. I WILL go to my tent, and lie down in despair; For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay, My wife, and my children, oh, spare me the tale!—• III. EFFECTS OF OUR DEEDS. 1. THE common and popular notion is, that death is the end of man, as far as this world is concerned; that the grave which covers his form, covers and keeps within its chambers all his influence; and that the instant he has ceased to breathe, that instant the man has ceased to act. It is not so; it is a popular mistake. We die, but leave an influence behind us that survives; the echoes of our words are still repeated and reflected along the ages. 2. A man has two immortalities: one he leaves behind him, and it walks the earth, and still represents him; another he carries with him to that lofty sphere, the presence and glory of God. "Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or evil, whether he intends it or not. He may be a blot, radiating his dark influence outward, to the very circumference of society; or he may be a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the world; but a blank he can not be. The seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow." IV. MAN'S MORTALITY. S. WASTELL. 1. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the morning to the day, The gourd consumes; and man he dies. 2 Like to the grass that's newly sprung, V. SAVING FOR OLD AGE. 1. No one denies that it is wise to make a provision for old age; but we are not all agreed as to the kind of provision it is best to lay up. Certainly, we shall want money; for a destitute old man is, indeed, a pitiful sight. Therefore, save money, by all means. But an old man needs just that particular kind of strength which young men are most apt to waste. Many a foolish young man will throw away, on a holiday, a certain amount of nervous energy, which he will never feel the want of till he is seventy; and then, how much he will need it! It is curious, but true, that a bottle of champagne, at twenty, may intensify the rheumatism of threescore. It is a fact, that overtasking the eyes at fourteen may necessitate the aid of spectacles at forty, instead of eighty. 2. We advise our young readers to be saving of health for their old age; for the maxim holds good with regard to health as to money, "Waste not, want not." It is the greatest mistake to suppose that any violation of the laws of health can escape its penalty. Nature forgives no sin, no error. She lets off the offender for fifty years sometimes, but she catches him at last, and inflicts the punishment just when, where, and how he feels it most. Save up for old age; but save knowledge; save the recollection of good deeds and innocent pleasure; save pure thoughts; save friends; save rich stores of that kind of wealth which time can not diminish, nor death take away. VI. BE FIRM. MRS. S. C. MAYO. 1. BE FIRM! whatever tempts thy soul |