of middle stature; his hair was raven, and his eye dark and hollow, but extremely penetrating. The impress of genius was upon his brow. He threw his offering into the vase with an air of indifference. It was a sprig of evergreen. "Thine is a glorious offering!" exclaimed the Goddess. 'Live forever, thou "son of genius." I looked and the scene was changed-the deep "gush of waters" was heard from afar, and a soft and beautiful light played on the objects around me. Another was called to present his gift, he too came with indifference, even reluctance. Before him, went the echo of a thousand hills. Deep waterfalls and cascades, rose into existence, and the same soft and mellow light before displayed, danced upon the ocean's wave. He also went to the vase to throw in his gift, but ere it fell, the Goddess caught it, and changed it for the wreath. I heard murmured by the assembled crowd, the names of Willis, Prentice, and Percival. I awoke, and it was but a dream.

THE NATIVITY.

JUDEA's plains in silence sleep

Beneath the cloudless midnight sky;
And o'er their flocks the shepherds keep
Kind watch, to David's city nigh:

That royal city! nobler Guest

Is she awhile to entertain,
Than proudest monarch, whose behest

It is o'er earthly realms to reign:

By Him, salvation is to mortals given,

On earth is shed the peerless noon of heaven.

For see! along the deep blue arch

A glory breaks, and now a throng,

From where the sparkling planets march,
Come trooping down with shout and song;

AUGUSTINA.

And o'er those pastures bath'd in light,
The heavenly cordon stay their wing,
While softly on the ear of night,

Steals the rich hymn that seraphs sing:

And sweetly thus the murmuring accents ran,

"Glory to God-Good Will and Peace to Man!"

W. B. TAPPAN.

THE MAN WITH A SHADOW.

How soft affection's accents fall

On babe, on friend, on wife, on all:

Like breeze that sweeps the violet's breast,
Or lulls the frighted dove to rest.

My parentage is a matter of no consequence, and my early condition in life equally unimportant to the reader. But at twelve years old, my history might be considered somewhat interesting to mankind and so far as a man's own medley of consciousness, reflection, and vague, or distinct remembrances may be entitled his history, my reminiscences are welcome to the public. Reading was my earliest pleasure, and I met by chance, with a book called "the History of Peter Schenler," the man without a shadowI read it again, and again, but I could never make out clearly the author's meaning. Was Peter Schenler, the man without a shadow, destitute of conscience, that subtle portion of "Divinity within us," which teaches us more strongly than the dogmas in the world, the nature of truth? I never could determine the probability of this, or any other being the right interpretation of the allegory. But my imagination grew restless under the speculation, and I lived away years of apparent boyish idleness, but in reality, they were years spell bound by the history of Peter Schenler, the man without a shadow. My mind lost its balance, and I began to conjecture wildly. Was it possible for a man to live without a shadow, and might not I lose my own? Then

I burthened my fancy, by curious inquiries of what those shadows were which men followed so eagerly. Pleasure, Fame, Avarice,—and I asked myself in my reveries, which shall I pursue, Pleasure? My mind broke through her silken nets as from a dream. It had less identity, than almost any other of my visions, and insensibly, I lost the purpose and the idea: or, it might have been merged into other of the shadows which beckoned me onward. Then I thought of Fame, the glorious banner of the warrior, the philosopher's stone, the judicial pomp of the statesman, the historian with his scroll, the philanthropist-and all the life and renown of these flitted before me in various lineaments, breathing pure and healthful invigoration. Should I try either of these paths to glory, and how should I begin?In my native land I was nothing, but I could make a name in another land, and with my motto at my back, "a prophet hath no honor in his own country," and my scheme in my head, I would travel, and Ireland was the fancy of my heart. I took a fancy to go to Ireland, to see if the wretchedness of the people, could be ameliorated by my philanthropic hand, and to find where was the source of this wretchedness. Was it in the state of the soil and property, or the character of the people, or the nature of the laws, which governed them? I wrought myself up into a most frantic enthusiasm, to redress Irish wrongs, and assist Irish genius, till in a cool moment of my diseased mind, I found myself laughing over my scheme, and felt that it was little better than Daniel O'Rouke's journey to the moon—for as Daniel said, “who ever heard of a man's riding a horseback, on the back of an eagle, before." So I let alone travelling and philanthropy, and began thinking of philosophy. But, sublime and sedate genius of philosophy! thy Newtons, and Bacons, and Franklins, awed from thy shrine the vanity and ignorance of the schoolboy, and I turned with reassured steps, back to my starting point. Avarice, dull god, corrupter of hearts, and despiser of all true faith, thy theme, brightly as it shone, was seated amid troubled waters, casting forth mire and dirt and I sprung from it, loathing and angry, at the horrid pile. My mind, however, kept feverish and excited by its own cogitations. I dosed away years

of vanity and restlessness, till, gentle reader, I fell in love, and was married. On the morning of my wedding day, when the ceremony was over, and I was returning home with my wife, all at once I fell into a rumination on the change in my condition. Had I indeed lost myself, bound me to the side of one person forever; had I not even the shadow of free agency? Shadow! the word rose quick upon me, and all the visions of my youth returned. Peter Schenler, the man without a shadow! A strange, new shape glided before me, wherever I went. It crowned me with flowers when I was gay, and sung to me sweet hymns when I was silent. We went over seas, and into countries with rich sceneries of cottages, farms and tracts of noble wood. We went into mountain lands, amid torrents, lakes, rockswe went where there stood palaces of exquisite beauty and proportions, in which emperors once reigned-amongst people of strange aspect, magnificent barbarians, Muscovites, and Turks. But I heeded little beyond the soil we trod, and the races we saw; one only fear possessed me I had lost my shadow! I was miserable, alarmed, and sick with terrors-save when sometimes a creature of aerial make hovered before and around me. I seemed to love it, but I could never detain it; when it stood by me, its soft voice often stole upon my ear, till I sunk in slumber; and when I awoke, a gentle hand wiped my brows with patient fondness, or presented to my lips the cooling draught. It had no name, and I never could describe it. No image was distinct upon my mind, till at last, one day I remember hearing a clear, low voice, repeating to itself, in tones of supplication, these words

"Silent the voice that once could tell
High thought, and generous feeling well.
Would I could pierce the spirit's throne,
Till it should melt to nature's tone-
Awake the might of one whose name
Might thunder in his country's fame,
Steal those sad mysteries that reign
Within the dark and lonely brain,
And pour new health, and peace, and power,-
Be this my hope, my pride, my dower!"

My soul drank in each word.
looked the world. Without my

How calm, how lovely, window a beneficent sun

562

The Indians Departure.

[Dec.

poured over the brilliant landscape, spotted with flowers, and trees, and waves sparkling and flowing in gold. Over my pillow hung the shadow I had watched so long, a being lovely and beloved. Her fair hair spread over her youthful brow, so pale with melancholy care, and her white lips were stealing forth those words. Gentle reader, the shadow was my wife! She had watched me in my illness, waited upon me, and tended me as if her soul had no other purpose. When I looked upon her, I loved her almost with the confidence of a dying man, who felt as if his life was in her hands. Truly, a man's faithful wife is his faithful shadow.

R. I.

THE INDIAN'S DEPARTURE.

On the commencement of the late war between England and the United States, some of the friendly Indians who lived on the north-eastern boundary of New England, emigrated to the westward.

THE wigwam of Parmie is desolate now,

His hearth-stone is covered with snow

Through his far-shaded casement the bleak wind is howling,
Around his rough corn-field the panther is prowling,

And on his low rush-bed the fierce wolf lies growling—

The sheltering pine is low.

Not as a recreant did Parmie flee,

When the step of the foeman was near

When on came the host with loud drums beating

While the hill and rock the din was repeating,

Away from his path was the Indian retreating
Fleeing, but not in fear.

For the perishing hunter had sought his hut
His generous bounty to share;

The rifle and horn on his bench he laid,

He spake him in kindness, he ate of his bread,
And he flung him down on his rushy bed,
Confiding the red man's care.

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