veals himself in the full brightness of his rising. In the summer, the long grass stoops and swells with every breath of the breeze, like the waves of the heaving ocean, and the bright blossoms seem to dance and laugh in the sunshine, as they toss their gaudy heads to the rustling music of the passing wind. The prairies are however most beautiful when the first tints of autumn are upon them; when their lovely flowers, in ten thousand varieties, are decked in their gorgeous foliage; when the gold and puple blossoms are contrasted with the emerald-green surface and silver linings of their rich leaves, and all the hues of the iris, in every modification, show themselves on all sides, to dazzle, bewilder and amaze. Bleak, desolate, and lonely as a Siberian waste, the prairie exhibits itself in winter, pathless and trackless; one vast expanse of snow, seemingly spread out to infinity, like the winding-sheet of a world. The traveller to the Rocky Mountains may rise with the early morning, from the centre of one of the great prairies, and pursue his solitary journey until the setting of the sun, and yet not reach its confines, which recede into the dim, distant horizon, that seems its only boundary. He will hear, however, the busy hum of the bee, and mark the myriads of parti-colored butterflies and other insects, that flit around him; he will behold tens of thousands of buffaloes grazing in the distance, and the savage but now peaceful Indian intent upon the hunt; and he will see troops of wild horses speeding over the plain, shaking the earth with their unshod hoofs, tossing their free manes like streamers in the wind, and snorting fiercely with distended nostrils; the fleet deer will now and then dart by him; the wolf will rouse from his lair, and look askance and growl at him; and the little prairie-dog will run to the top of its tiny mound and bark at him before it retreats to its den within it. No human being may be the companion of the traveller in the immense solitude, yet will he feel that he is not alone; the wide expanse is populous with myriads of creatures; and, in the emphatic language of the red man, 'The GREAT SPIRIT is upon the Prairie !' ART. L. SKETCHES OF THE GREAT WEST. BY LEWIS C. THOMAS, III. JOHN WATERS, HIS SPRINGE. BY JOHN WATERS, IV. THE RANGER'S ADVENTURE. BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR, VI. AN INVITATION. BY ALBERT PIKE, ESQ., X. KNOWING CHARACTERS: GENERAL AND PARTICULAR, XII. REQUIEM FOR THE DEPARTED. BY HIRST GRanville, XIII. BORNHOLM: FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KARAMSIN. BY A. C. BECKER, XVII. DARK ELLSPETH'S LIFE-TALE. BY MRS. J. WEBB. NUMBER Two, XIX. WITHIN THE VEIL. BY REV. EDWArd White, Hereford, England, XXIII. THE LADY ANN: A BALLAD. BY JOHN G. SAXE, ESQ., 1. NOAH'S DISCOURSE ON THE RESTORATION OF THE JEWS, 2. ADDRESS AND DINNER OF THE NEW-YORK HISTORICAL SOCIETY, 3. MAPES' ADDRESS BEFORE THE MECHANICS' INSTITUTE, 4. VESTIGES OF THE NATURAL HISTORY OF CREATION, EDITOR'S TABLE: 1. GENERAL HAMILTON'S SECRET OFFENCE TO COLONEL BURR, 2. THE PAYMENT OF THE PENNSYLVANIA INTEREST, 3. SOCIETY FOR THE PROMOTION OF MUTUAL ADMIRATION, 4. RANK TO THE DESERVING: STEAM-ENGINEERS, 5. BOOK-KEEPING: OR THE RICH MAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF, 1. THE BISHOP' CONTROVERSY. 2. GEORGE JONES AND HIS PROTEGE WILLIAM 265 JOHN WATERS, HYS SPRINGE. THE following lines, found at the bottom of a chest of ancient and long-neglected manuscripts, have been at some cost of time rendered into legible words; the original orthography being partially retained. VOL. XXV. Dropp'd leafe, or wythe, or stalke, or branche, Down ye quicke streame, in instante Launche, As grieffe fly'th hope; nicht, morne; to floate was aye it's wonte. Nought was more pure, agayne Ile synge, Fitte draughte for Fancie's daughterres; The honest manne that ownde yt springe Chaung'd a fayre name, to calle hymselffe, John Waters! How stoode ye cattelle in y1 shayde, Moyst'ning their hoofes in ye coole streame! Car'd they for foode? Their choyce was mayde, Like those who dreame of love, and love agayne to dreame. The traveller bless'd it as hee came; Prays'd ye flatte stones yt rounde it stoode; It's mossy tronke: 'Had it no name?'. Hee quaff'd agayne—'WATERS! the verie name is goode !' And alle was goode; arounde, above; Verdounte ye moysten'd meades; ye trees Alle redolente; ye birdis alle love; And, as it swept yt waye, alle joyous grewe ye breeze! Oft beam'th this vision o'er my harte, For soche is CYRA. As ye leafe, Stalke, wythe, and branche, fro' founte disparte, Soe, fro' her mynde serene, driffte care and selfishe grieffe. As Fountayne to ye parchéd soule Of pilgrim-manne o'er aryde Earth, – Soe dothe her goode my wante make whole, Th' unskill'd, but onely balme; of everie weale, ye onely worthe. 26 The spreadynge streame with verdoure there Blesses ye harte yt makes her helplesse flocke abounde. The old moss'd tronke am I, it seems At tymes; too happie to be thought hers; I starte, and calle, and nowe will wryte myselffe, THE RANGER'S ADVENTURE. BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. JOHN WATERS. EIGHT or ten years ago, when I was a Freshman in college, a classmate took me off one summer to his home in the west of Massachusetts, to help him catch trout and get up pic-nics; both amusements equally novel and agreeable to a raw Boston boy. Though quite inexperienced, I had a relish for oddities, and some quickness of observation, so that I could appreciate that singular collection of characters common in NewEngland country villages. There was the old negro, staunch in his advocacy of temperance, and regarding the rising generation with a universal paternal interest. Though now twisted out of all proportion by a fifty years' rheumatism, he had once been a soldier, alternately shouldering his musket and cooking the officers' dinners; and had endless stories to tell about Gates and Burgoyne; always dwelling with peculiar gusto on details of the hideous wounds he had seen, and whereof he had assisted in the cure, by holding the sufferers during the operations of the camp-surgeon. Then there was. a self-taught geologist, who had filled a back room of his old farm-house with several tons of specimens, gathered from the mountains far and wide; and who, dexterously placing his chair against the door, would entertain his imprisoned guests with geological discussions, and theories of the earth, new alike to the Vulcanians and the Neptunians. Beside these, there was the travelling book pedlar, better acquainted with the world, but not less eccentric and amusing than the others; and more likewise, who need not be dwelt on. One hot Sunday afternoon, excusing ourselves from church, we scandalously solaced our leisure with Marryat's sea novels, then in high vogue at Harvard; heedless of the glances of the spectacled old lady, who was reading her Bible at the next window. When we thought the service must be almost over, we resolved to walk out and meet the girls as they came from church. So we sauntered a long time about the little white meeting-house; now stealing under the windows to catch the deep tones of Parson Smith's voice; now sitting on the fence listening to the locusts, and the refreshing tumble of the river Agawam down in the sultry meadow. The longer we waited the more loud and earnest grew the minister's exhortation. In those days, neither of us had as yet learned patience; we were too true collegians for that; so my friend |