the next day quite herself again; if one word remained inexplicable, he forgot it.

In Florence the nearness of Rome was already magically felt. They shortened their stay, and while yet one beautiful day followed another, they had already reached Rome, and had made themselves at home in one of the most comfortable hotels. Albert's enjoyment commenced literally only here. He knew every house, and almost every stone. Emma's brother, Henry, who joined him, he most cordially showed what was new, and what belonged to the more modern time. Emma awoke in this new world, which spread out before her; she was uneasy, and, without knowing it, soon the centre-point of a most delightful circle of people, all without care, only trying to enjoy the smallest pleasure with full enjoyment; for the most of them came here to rest from the toil of many years, from which they fled away at last.

This the elder did, but the younger of the party collected knowledge eagerly for a long life and happy reminiscence. But all liked Emma; they strove to explain to her this inexhaustible treasure; every lovely picture reflected on herself; her eyes learned gradually to find out the best, and to choose for herself.

This lasted from morning to evening. How delightfully the carriage moved on through the Campagna; what rides on the mountainroads; what delicious walks in the gardens; and in the evenings what life! People talked; music was heard; others danced; or the saloons were visited, where the statues were seen by torchlight; and then the town in moonlight; and in the morning all the fountains were playing in the sunshine, and invited to listen to their murmurs. So passed the winter quickly, which had been unusually mild; they feared its severity would show itself at its height, when already everywhere buds opened, and the warmth increased.

They had been one evening at a soiree given by a French family who kept open house on a certain day, to which all the world crowded. Suddenly Henry saw his sister come up to him through the crowd of people, and sit silently down beside him. He had looked for a quiet room, as he was wont. Emma pressed up to him, and laid her hand in his; it was icy cold. She bent her head on his shoulder, and looked on the ground, but said not a word.

Child," he said, "( are you ill?"

"Yes," she said, "I believe I am not well. Come home with me, but say nothing to the others. Let us so go away."

“I will just tell it to somebody, that they may not be alarmed.”

He left her, but came back immediately, and went soon with her alone through the dark night.

Their residence was on the Capitol. When they mounted the steps, Emma had to rest and sit down on a stone.

"I am as tired," she said, "as if I had lead in my knees."

He took her hand, and felt her pulse.

"It is no fever, Child. Has anything happened to you?"

"Oh! Henry," she said, "I wish we three were still at home, and you had never left us, and nothing had happened. We were so happy!" and she began to weep.

"Are you not happy now, Emma dear? I thought that you were? Come, let us go up."

They ascended the remainder of the steps. It did not last long, Albert came too, with the father and the doctor.

There was an examination, a prescription of something trifling, and all was quiet again. The next morning Emma came down as usual to breakfast. Already some of their acquaintances had called. She sat down quietly; her eyes looked fatigued and somewhat red; her cheeks paler than usual; it seemed as if she had grown taller. But she ate and drank as usual, sat out on the balcony, and looked thoughtfully down on the oranges which grew in their thick foliage. Albert followed her, and leaned on the railing.

"You are not well, Emma ?" said he.

She looked at him strangely and coldly.

"Oh! yes, I am quite well."

"Then something disagreeable has happened to you ?”

"No."

She rose and went back into the room, and up to the window. Again he followed her, and stood at her side. She placed her hand in her pocket and took hold of a folded paper, but did not draw it out; then after a time she went back to the balcony, but Albert remained this time behind, at the window.

"What's the matter with 'The Child,'" asked Henry. His father came up to them, and all three looked from the window to the balcony, and at the golden hair, and the hand which supported the tired headshe sat unmoved.

"Do you go to her," said Albert to Henry.

"Leave her rather," answered he. "I would not have a thing taken by force from me."

Two days passed in this manner; like a relaxing wind had they

passed over Emma, whom now nobody questioned. On the afternoon of the third day Albert entered the saloon; it seemed empty; but he heard breathing she lay on the sofa and slept-he approached her-one hand lay under her cheek, the other was stretched out, and in it she held something white, folded up; he looked, and saw it was a letter. (To be continued.)

AMERICAN INDIAN MYTHOLOGY.

THE first thing a child can understand is a story: the first facts it takes in are those connected with individuals. All teaching, therefore, may be best conveyed to children in the narrative form. But nations, as well as individuals, have their period of childhood; and, at that period, all knowledge is embodied in the form of legends: they are the medium through which facts and opinions are alike handed down. Historical events are transformed into personal narratives, by the substitution of persons for nations, personal conflicts for national wars, and other such changes. Natural objects are personified, and the processes of Nature represented by the adventures of the imaginary beings thus produced. In short, all knowledge and belief in Religion, History, Natural Philosophy, and all other subjects, are cast into the crucible together, and come out as allegories, legends, and myths. In the childhood of nations, the production of myths is necessary and universal, no less so than the development of language.

In some nations but little trace remains of the old mythology,— though more, perhaps, than is commonly supposed. Among a people long civilized, and early converted to Christianity, the popular traditions have been degraded from the region of faith to superstition: good and evil deities have degenerated into good and bad fairies; hostile tribes into wicked giants; and national heroes into valorous dwarfs; but the legends are often preserved. There can be little doubt that the fairy tales which amused or frightened us as children, "Jack, the Giant-killer," "Beauty and the Beast," and the rest, were to our forefathers long ages ago exactly what the Classic myths were to the Greeks.

It is the mythology of the American Indians, however, that we propose now to discuss. A series of specimens from it have been lately presented to us in Longfellow's "Song of Hiawatha ;" and we are glad

to have this opportunity of saying a word in favour of a book which has been so unfairly handled, and so much underrated. Most of its critics have treated it as if it were an original production, and estimated it accordingly; and yet, in his introductory verses, Longfellow has distinctly explained what the nature of the book is. He has merely collected a number of old Indian legends, strung them loosely together, and versified them in the simplest manner possible; and he has in general done his work with great taste. Viewed in this light, the book is exceedingly interesting and valuable.

Now, although, as we have pointed out, the source of all mythology may in one sense, be said to be the same, yet the most casual observer cannot but be struck by the marked difference in character between that of different nations. He cannot help seeing, that not only are the adventures of Odin entirely different from those of Hercules, or any other Greek, but that the whole conception of the Scandinavian hero is as unlike the Greek as the Greek again is to the Hindoo. And further, it is evident that their variety is not accidental, but that there is an intimate connexion between the mythology of any people, and their character and circumstances. Who does not recognise in the grim and gloomy mythology of the North, the same spirit which animated a Wolf of the Goths," or a "Viking wild?" In the myths of India, gorgeous, imposing, "rich with barbaric gold," but cold and spiritless, who does not read the history of the race? Or again, when he turns to the legends of Ireland, and hears the shriek of the banshee mingling with the ringing hammer of the leprechaun, who is not reminded of that mixture of mirth and melancholy, that alternation of passionate sorrow and. cheerful humour, that belong to the Irish character. Now, there are many circumstances which must occur to us at once, as likely to leave an impress on the national mythology; as, for instance, the habits of life of a people. We might expect the traditions of a pastoral or a purely warlike race to be of a corresponding type. In the case of the Indians of North America, we should need nothing more than their legendary tales to convince us that they lived by the chase. Placed as they were in a land of forests and lakes, a land abounding in game, but, for the most part, ill-suited for tillage, they became, of necessity, hunters and fishers, and their human passions made them warriors also: and these pursuits have deeply coloured their mythology, although from the same source we know that agriculture was not altogether unknown to them.

Again, it is but natural that the traditions of different races should be affected by the degrees of the imaginative faculty with which they

have been gifted. And the difference in this respect is greater than we might be inclined to suppose. We are apt to assume, that when any people is in that rude and uncultivated state in which its mythology is first developed, all men's faculties are in an equally low condition. This, however, is far from being the case. Take two nations, apparently equally uncivilized, and in the one you may find Oratory cultivated with success, and Poetry attempted-all evidencing strong imaginative powers; in the other there may be no trace of anything of the kind. Now the American Indians are a race very highly endowed in this respect. Every one has seen specimens of their eloquence, rich with striking and fanciful metaphors. A like poetic spirit pervades their legends, and gives them a remarkable beauty and attraction. We shall call attention to this hereafter, from time to time.

But to attempt to give anything like a complete account of the original causes which may combine to stamp the legends of a people with their peculiar characters, or to take a metaphysical view of all distinctions, as the grammarians do, would be an endless task. We shall adopt a different method. Mythological traditions, as we have shown before, are but a particular form, in which are embodied the popular belief, the popular feeling on all important subjects. And therefore the national ideas as to the nature and character of God, the future state, the standard of right and wrong, and many more,-these are the constitutional elements of the national mythology; they are, in a sense, the materials of which it is composed. If, then, we could get a full knowledge of a people's belief on such subjects as these, we should be able to understand their mythology.

We propose now to examine the opinions of the Indians on a few such subjects in connexion with their popular legends. We shall select four points, and examine them somewhat in detail:

I. Their idea of the Deity.

II. Their conceptions of external nature.
III. Their ideal of human perfection.

IV. Their idea of the future state.

I. When we come to examine the Indian conceptions of the Deity, the first fact that meets us is, that they retain some remembrance of the pristine worship of the true God, especially the knowledge of the unity of the Godhead. Many other traditional recollections may be traced among them,-that of the Flood, for instance,-which occurs repeatedly and surely the very legend, of which "Hiawatha" is but one