struck up its thrilling notes, and the house was in a flutter of quadrilles; the girls dancing as if their legs had taken leave of their senses, and the mothers sitting round the margin of the room, like so many flower-pots, and looking silently on.

Roxalana, having fulfilled her duties in the dance, now returned to me, longing.

'I beg pardon for treading on your toe.'

It is the lightest impression you have made that on the toe.' So you have been to France, as any one may see. Then let us talk of French girls.'

There are no French girls. They keep the children nursing, till they are as big as their mammas, then marry them. Till then, the society of men is forbidden altogether; even their doll-babies are little girls. I knew one who screamed out when she first saw a man, at twelve years of age.'

'Yes, I heard of her; she ran away at sixteen with her father's coachman, and stole his horses. They lock up their unmarried women, and give their wives the key of the fields. I presume you think our customs in this a little more sensible.'

Yes; here is Mr. Dalby, not content with monopolizing his pretty wife all the week, has stuck to her the whole night as close as 'As close as U does to Q, if you want a simile.'

'I want it reversed, for Q only deserves the credit of this fidelity; U plays truant occasionally with the other letters.'

Now let us be seated. I begin to feel sick of this nonsense: it disagrees with me. Do n't, if you please, be so familiar!'

What use of chaining those born savage, free among these mountains, to the tyranny of city usages?'

nees.

Savage,' 'free;' you must belong, I should imagine, to the Paw-
I should advise another visit to Paris.'

I had thoughts of going back this winter; but luckily, having heard of Pottsville

'Perhaps you did well; for nothing, they say, polishes brass like coal-dust.'

Roxy, my dear, I hope you are entertaining the gentleman.' 'Yes, ma, he seems a good deal entertained.'

A good deal abused, you mean, and vexed. Play on what key I will, I am sure of being out of tune with Miss Roxalana. However, she has so much open-hearted benevolence mixed up with her malice and contradictory spirit

Now I shall have my brains knocked out with a compliment. Come, I confess I have been naughty, and I am going to agree with you in whatever you may say, however absurd, for the rest of the evening.'

'Don't you think Mr. Squally good-looking?'

'Very good looking! He is not too big for a dwarf, nor too little for a man.

'I mean 'good-looking;' I am glad you did not say very!'

'Your village is indeed delightful!'

'Is n't it!'

'One thing only I regret; it is the confixed, erratic life of its inhabitants. You make an agreeable acquaintance; she steals by de

degrees upon your affections, and when your happiness is involved in the attachment, you are compelled to take leave of her, perhaps for ever!'

'Yes, that is very bad. It is the reason I don't like to ride in an omnibus. Now wrap this shawl about my shoulders. ・ ・ A plague on the stars! - what are they good for? But I won't abuse them, if you like them. This is the door. We shall be very glad to see you to-morrow. Good night!'

BY ALFRED B. STREET, AUTHOR OF THE FOREST WALK,' 'FOWLING,' ETC.

And there was war in heaven.' -REVELATION.

SON of the Morning! brightest mid the throng
Of those that stood before His blazing throne,
Undazzled by its glories; who didst raise
Loudest thy songs of joy, and casting down
Thy diadem, and hiding thy pure brow

Beneath thy gorgeous wings, didst swell the shouts
Of 'holy, holy, holy,' to His praise:

Thou of the loftiest intelligence!

Whose form was moulded in God's brightest beauty!

Majestic in thy deep and black despair,

And the sublimity of thy matchless crime,

Thou towerest mid the fierce, hot, ravenous flames,
Eating thy heart, but not consuming it-

Thy horrid lot, for ever and for ever!

Why didst thou shoot 'so madly from thy sphere,'
Burning with thy ambition; leaving all

That made thee happy, good, and great; thy life
A ray of thy Creator's glorious light?

Paradise was around thee; radiant brows
Bow'd at thy bidding, and thy harp's sweet sounds
Were most acceptable to Him. Yet thou,

Fired by that flame which leads to 'wo and death,'
Didst dare to raise thy arm in wildest hope
Against His majesty, whose breath was thine,
Who fashioned thee as the potter moulds his clay.

The dazzling ranks, long taught to look to thee
As chief among them, rush'd to do thy will,
When thy proud flag defiance waved to heaven;
Oh, what a sight must that pure heaven have seen!
Foreheads that wore immortal crowns, and wings
That waved o'er harps God fashion'd for his praise:
Minds that were brighten'd by the wisdom cast

From Him who made them, and the home they dwelt in,
Rising in bold rebellion to his power,

And standing in proud daring to His might!

And thou, the loftiest one, with burning rage
Towering in front, thy brow, late holy, plough'd
By care, sin-born, and thought, that made thy heart
A den of stinging serpents; thy bright harp
Cast from thee, and a gleaming spear instead,
Summoning thy energies for the battle-burst!

As the black cloud roll'd round the Almighty's throne,
Lurid with horrid lightnings, and expanding
With the fierce blasts, that soon would whirl thy hosts

And thee, quick rushing to thy destined hell.
Did not thy conscience smite thee for thy deed,
In wiling those bright spirits from their homes,
Where late they lived in music, light, and peace?
No! for the ravenous vulture was upon thee!
No! for the fire was raging in thy breast,
Which burned thy former purity to ashes.

And when the dread shock came; when that strong arm
Grasping the red-hot thunderbolts of wrath,
Shot their fierce terrors on thy daring host,
And scattered them as the wild Autumn blasts

Do the light trembling leaves; when those bright ranks,
Rallied by the stern trumpet of thy voice,

Still leading them to ruin, shook, as showered
The lightnings of His awful anger on them,
Trying in vain to breast the terrible storm,

And thou, like some bright star 'mid rolling clouds
Blazing an instant, and then lost in gloom;
Who, formed of clay, can fancy the deep shade
That darkened heaven! Oh, who can tell the tears
That fell from soft, pure, gentle spirits, dwelling
In His effulgence, and who wished for nought
But the bright smiles He vouchsafed to 'his own?'

And now, thy punishment has been dealt to thee;
Hurled from thy throne, thy crown cast from thy brow,
Thy wings scorched from thee by His burning wrath,
In the fierce flashing flames thy pride is plunged,
With those thou lured'st to follow thee: brow scathed,
Heart blackened, form made horrible to view,
Thou dwell'st in torture; still unconquerable,
Still gathering greater strength in thy despair,
Thou liftest thy broad front, and scornest all
Of agony and fear His ceaseless wrath
Can yet inflict. Routed, but not subdued,
Still does that arm which grasped rebellious spear
Point in undying hate, and proud defiance,

To Him who swept thee from thy seat in heaven!

Thou hast a glorious empire: gorgeous flames
And sky-wide smoke thy mantle and thy crown,
The damned's wild shrieks thy music, and the toll
Of centuries, thy pride, in that black crime
Which cannot be forgiven.

Still lift up

The terrible glory of thy stricken crest,

For man, the creature of a loving God,

In heart and soul is with thee! Thou canst claim

The lovely and the great, among the race

Which soils, with their vile dust, this little ball,
Whirling amid the myriad throngs that form
A spangled pavement for His glorious feet!

The warrior with his wreath, sword-reaped in fields
Of sick'ning slaughter, the base creeping worm,
Whose soul was bounded by his hoarded gold,
The butterfly beauty, fluttering in the glare
Of fashion and of flattery; these, all these,
Hast thou, to fill thy burning, sulphurous realm.

Ply thy fierce torments, for thy slaves deserve them!
Roll thy bright billows; cast thy piercing bail,
And hurl thy blasts; they're worthy of them all.
That awful judgment-day will not spare thee,
(Amid the blackened sun, and dropping stars,
And shrivelling worlds, thy sentence will go forth,)
Then spare not them; but with avenging hand,
Scourge those who scourged in lie the poor and weak;
Scorch the fierce pride from those who walked the earth
As gods, not feeble worms, and let man feel,
Like thee, the justice of Omnipotence !

MAH-TO-KHAY TO-PAH, THE FOUR-BEARS.'

A TALE OF THE NORTH-WEST.

THE FOUR-BEARS was the second chief of the Mandan tribe in rank; but, from his preeminent bravery, the first in consideration and authority. He derived his somewhat singular name from the fact of having slain, with his own hand, four grizzly bears; no contemptible exploit, for this animal is the sovereign of the great American Desert, to whom the lion and the tiger would be as rats and mice. Mah-to-khay To-pah But stay; before we plunge inter medias res, the reader will not perhaps be displeased to know something of his people,

'To whom nor relative nor blood remains;

No, not a kindred drop that runs in human veins!'

They were swept from the face of the earth, three years ago, by the small-pox. They knew not the disease, nor its remedies; and the terror it created was in proportion to their ignorance. The mother forsook her child, the wife her husband, when smitten, as they conceived, by the hand of the Great Spirit; and the men of the last seven surviving families, after having slain their women and children, stabbed themselves upon their dead bodies, in the frenzy of utter despair. So perished a tribe that could muster four thousand warriors; the most gentle, the most civilized, and the most chivalrous of the North-west. Let us make one faint effort to rescue them from oblivion.

Whether the Mandans were the Welsh Indians of former writers, or the descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel, we are unable to say; certain it is, that they differed in language, in complexion, in the color of the hair and eyes, and in religion, from every other known tribe on the continent. To us, they appeared a mixed people, the offspring of a whiter foreign race, engrafted upon the original aboriginal stock. Their language was not Sioux, although it contained a great many Sioux words. Some of them were perfect Sioux in complexion and feature; others, to whom the blood of their ancestors had descended pure, had handsome Jewish countenances, and were fairer than most of the natives of the south of Europe. Some had gray and blue eyes, and bright, silky, auburn hair; features unknown in any other tribe. Others, though young, had coarse gray hair, and not a few had it of three different colors, gray, black, and red at the ends. Some of the Mandan maidens would have been accounted belles in Broadway or Pennsylvania Avenue. The men were all elegantly formed. They were a mixed people, varying in every shade, from one of the two races from which they sprang, to the other, like our people of color.

The 'poor savages!' The Mandans were not savages, nor poor. Worse savages, and poorer people, may be found by thousands in any of our large cities. No man, not even an enemy, ever appealed to their humanity in vain. They lived in villages of huts, of very large dimensions. Hundreds of smaller, worse-built, and less convenient edifices are taxed in New-York as dwelling-houses. Twenty families

inhabited one hut, but each individual or pair had a separate crib, with its curtains. No drop of rain could penetrate. They were rich in horses and wives for among Indians wives are wealth-and in the inexhaustible, never-failing wealth of the prairies. The soil almost spontaneously produced corn, beans, melons, gourds, etc., sufficient for consumption, and these were raised by the women; for the men considered it derogatory to their dignity to labor, and the women thought it no hardship. But there was no need to cultivate the ground at all. The vast herds of buffaloes were a sure resource; and if they chanced to remove far from his village, the Mandan warrior mounted his whole family on horseback, and followed them.

The Mandans were uniformly well and even gorgeously clad. The fops of our cities would have made a pitiable figure among their flowing robes, and fringed tunics and leggins. The men killed the buffalo, the deer, the elk, and the antelope, and the women converted the skins into garments softer, finer, and much more durable, than cloth. The white clay of the prairies gave them the whiteness of snow. There could not be a nobler or more picturesque figure than a Mandan on horseback, in his gala dress. We have him before our mind's eye now. From the crown of his head to the crupper of his horse, streams a long tissue of swans' feathers. The steed wears a coronal of the same material, and prances proudly beneath his rider. He deserves the distinction, for he is of the best blood of Barbary; in no wise deteriorated by its transmission through Andalusia and Mexico. His saddle is a cushion of the softest doe-skin, his crupper of the same; both, as well as the reins, curiously inwrought with porcupine quills. A hundred hawk-bells jingle from the bridle. From each corner of his mouth depends the scalp of a slain foeman. The rider wears a loose white tunic, which leaves the arms bear, and over it is a robe, which rather graces than hides his person. In his head are the feathers of the war-eagle, denoting the number of the enemies he has slain, otherwise he would not dare to wear them. The women of the village would pluck them from his head. Certain small painted sticks, affixed in like manner to his top-knot, indicate the number and manner of his wounds. A necklace of grizzly bears' claws encircles his neck. His robe is covered with hieroglyphics, and tells the history of his life. His leggins are fringed with scalp-locks, each of which is the price of a horse. On his left arm is his shield, of tough bull-hide, which will stop an arrow, or turn a bullet. At his back hangs his bow, which will bury every one of the sixty shafts in the quiver beside it, to the feather; and his right hand grasps his quivering lance, twenty feet long; its head an entire sword-blade, rusty with blood. Such is the costume of the 'poor Indian.'

The poor Indian!' He eats, the river supplies him with drink, the prairie clothes him, and furnishes him with a bed. His horse and his bow are to him plough and spade. He toils not, neither does he speculate. He is independent of all the world, excepting his wives. He despises the religion of the whites, because he sees how little their practice accords with it; of their learning he knows nothing, and their civilization he contemns. He needs nothing of them; not even a gun; his bow is a better weapon. He has enough, and he is satisfied with it. The exertion by which he sustains his life, is his