dozen; your tailor cheats you in your liveries, no less than in cutting your coat according to any cloth but your own. Your footman writes essays in the "Court Magazine" on your stationery; and treats his fair friends with the gunpowder tea of your own magazine. The butler charges you thirty pounds a-year for blacking, in odd testers, which though something of the smallest, "Master Stephen," in time unite to form an amount. The housemaid lights your fire with wax-candles and mop-sticks, the kitchen-maid melts. away your substance in her private contract with the chandler— 'your bones are marrowless, your sirloin dry!"

You are no longer master of your own house, nor (which is worse for your friends) your own cellar. You are cheated out of your oldest port, and newest champagne-and the Clos de Vougeot you used to drink is now all Beaune! Your preserves are preserved only from your own incursions. Your keepers, like Penelope, undo all by night they pretend to do by day. If your wines. are well drugged, your ponds are well dragged: you may be food for fishes, before your fishes will be food for you. On the strength of the Reform Bill you stand for a borough, and are knocked down on the hustings. Your gratuitous election, at which you are thrown out, throws you over for five thousand pounds; and you discover. that the letters M. P. only designate More Peculation. You grow misanthrophic; but dare not die, because you know the undertaker will cheat your executors of a hundred and fifty pounds for that which costs him forty. You cannot discover, with the distichical Butler, that

The pleasure is as great
In being cheated as to cheat.

You live a martyr rather than die a victim. You come to look upon the West End as a huge Alsatia-a smart of Truanderiea polite Sydney where every man's hand is in every man's pocket. where a bill is anything but a true bill-and where on all accounts every account should be called to account: justice presides over no balance but her own!

But who dares cry out under the lash? It is the fashion of every Montezuma of the beau monde to find roses in the coals that broil him; he dares not embroil himself with the Turpins and Abershaws who have bidden him "stand and deliver." He is forced to smile upon his civil thieves, and laud the lords who cheat him at ecarte. If his youth were fated to fraud, his old age is worse. He was once cheated by his parents, he is now cheated by his son. The apothecary, who visits him daily, cheats him into swallowing powder of post at five guineas a scruple; the doctor, who attends him weekly, cheats him without scruple into swallowing five minutes' worth of humbug at the rate of 50d. per minute! His own man cheats him, his own wife, his own offspring. He slips into "the lean and slippered pantaloon," i. e., into the lean man in pantaloons and slippers; and all he can do in revenge of the frauds practised on him, is to cheat the earth of its due.

SONG.

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow;
But sweeter to hark in the twinkling dark,
To the soothing song of sorrow.
Oh nightingale! What does she ail?
And is she sad or jolly?

For ne'er on earth, was sound of mirth
So like to melancholy.

The merry lark, he soars on high,

No worldly thought o'ertakes him;
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,
The nightingale is trilling;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,
Her little heart is thrilling.

Yet ever and anon, a sigh,

Peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark's bold song is of the sky,
And hers is of the earth.

By night and day, she tunes her lay,
To drive away all sorrow;

For bliss, alas! to night must pass,
And woe may come to-morrow.

THE LONE INDIAN.

Powontonamo was the son of a mighty chief. He looked on his tribe with such a fiery glance, that they called him the Eagle of the Mohawk. His eye never blinked in the sun-beam; and he leaped along the chase like the untiring waves of Niagara. Even when a little boy, his tiny arrow would hit the frisking squirrel in the ear, and bring down the humming-bird on her rapid wing. He was his father's pride and joy. He loved to toss him high in his sinewy arms, and shout, "Look, Eagle-eye, look! and see the big hunting-grounds of the Mohawks! Powontonamo will be their chief. The winds will tell his brave deeds. When men speak of him, they will not speak loud, but as if the Great Spirit had breathed in thunder."

The prophecy was fulfilled. When Powontonamo became a man, the fame of his beauty and courage reached the tribes of Illinois; and even the distant Osage showed his white teeth with delight,

.

ournfully, and said, "The moose and the beaver will 1 sound of the white man's gun. They will go bes, and the Indians must follow their trail." But the aughed them to scorn. He said, "The land is very intain eagle could not fly over it in many days. Surely of the English will never cover it." Yet when he in his arms, as his father had done before him, he r the strokes of the axe levelling the old trees of his times he looked sorrowfully on his baby boy, and d done him much wrong, when he smoked a pipe in f the stranger.

left his home before the grey mist of morning had hills, to seek food for his wife and child. The polar ht in the heavens ere he returned; yet his hands were › white man's gun had scared the beasts of the forest, w of the Indian was sharpened in vain. Powontonamo wigwam with a cloudy brow. He did not look at he did not speak to her boy; but, silent and sullen, ag on the head of his arrow. He wept not, for an Inot weep; but the muscles of his face betrayed the strug. is soul. The Sunny-eye approached fearfully, and laid his brawny shoulder, as she asked, Why is the earth? What has Soonseetah done, that are not look in the face of his father ?" Slowly the hed his gaze upon her. The expression of sadness deepanswered, "The Eagle has taken a snake to his next: > young sleep in it?" The Indian boy, all unconscious bodings which stirred his father's spirit, moved to his eeped up in his face with a mingled expression of love

d upon

eye upon

66

rt of the generous savage was full even to bursting. His bled, as he placed it on the sleek black hair of his only The Great Spirit bless thee! the Great Spirit bless thee, hee back the hunting ground of the Mohawk!" he exThen folding him, for an instant, in almost crushing he gave him to his mother, and darted from the wigwam. urs he remained in the open air: but the clear breath of rought no relief to his noble and suffering soul. Whereooked abroad, the ravages of the civilized destroyer met Where were the trees under which he had frolicked in '. and rested after the fatigues of battle? They formed the boat, or lined the English dwelling. Where were the holy heaps of his people? The stones were taken to fence in the ich the intruder dared to call his own. Were was his faave? The stranger's road passed over it, and his cattle I on the ground where the mighty Mohawk slumbered. were his once powerful tribe? Alas, in the white man's ey had joined with the British, in the vain hope of rcoverir lost privileges. Hundreds had gone to their last home;

when he heard the wild deeds of the Mohawk Eagle. Yet was his
spirit frank, chivalrous, and kind. When the white men came to
buy land, he met them with an open palm, and spread his buffalo
for the traveller. The old chiefs loved the bold youth, and offered
their daughters in marriage. The eyes of the young Indian girls
sparkled when he looked on them. But he treated them all with
the stern indifference of a warrior, until he saw Soonseetah raise her
long dark eyelash. Then his heart melted beneath the beaming
of beauty. Soonseetah was the fairest of the Oneidas. The young
men of her tribe called her the Sunny-eye. She was smaller than
her nation usually are; and her slight, graceful figure was so elas-
tic in its motions, that the tall grass would rise up, and shake off
its dew-drops, after her pretty moccasins had pressed it. Many a
famous chief had sought her love; but when they brought the
choicest furs, she would smile most disdainfully, and say, "Soon-
seetah's foot is warm. Has not her father an arrow?" When they
offered her food, according to the Indian custom, her answer was,
"Soonseetah has not seen all the warriors. She will eat with the

bravest." The hunters told the young Eagle, that Sunny-eye of
Oneida was beautiful as the bright birds in the hunting land be-
yond the sky; but that her heart was proud, and she said the
great chiefs were not good enough to dress venison for her. When
Powontonamo listened to these accounts, his lip would curl slightly,
as he threw back his fur-edged mantle, and placed his firm, springy
foot forward, so that the beads and shells of his rich moccasin
might be seen to vibrate at every sound of his tremendous war song.
If there was vanity in the act, there was likewise becoming pride.
Soonseetah heard of his haughty smile, and resolved in her own
heart that no Oneida should sit beside her, till she had seen the
chieftain of the Mohawks. Before many moons had passed away,
he sought her father's wigwam, to carry delicate furs and shining
shells to the young coquette of the wilderness. She did not raise
her bright melting eye to his, when he came near her; but when
he said, "Will the Sunny-eye look on the gift of a Mohawk? his
barbed arrow is swift; his foot never turned from the foe;" the
colour on her brown cheek was glowing as an autumnal twilight.
Her voice was like the troubled note of the wren, as she answered,
"The furs of Powontonamo are soft and warm to the foot of Soon-
seetah. She will weave the shells in the wampum belt of the Mo-
hawk Eagle." The exulting lover sat by her side, and offered her
venison and parched corn. She raised her timid eye, as she ta
the food; and then the young Eagle knew that Sunny-eye
be his wife.

There was feasting and dancing, and
merrily in Mohawk cabins, when t
Powontonamo loved her as his own
bring her the fattest deer of the fr
bons and beads of the English.
it not that the strangers grew sc

Two hour

ten brou