I could not utter a word: and methought I detected an ironical smile upon his face. "But even though you despise all other learning," said he, "there is one thing surely of which you cannot dare to be ignorant. Tell me then what methods have been used by your greatest divines in solving the difficulties and expounding the doctrines of your holy religion: or at least, if you please, upon what you rest your own hopes of heaven ?"

ages.

Determined not to be put down here, I boldly told him that I looked upon Christianity as all humbug: a superstition fit only for the dark "So much the better," quietly replied the pertinacious spirit: "since you dare deny what must affect so powerfully your happiness, no doubt you have examined the evidences of its truth to the very bottom, and detected their fallacies; will you then explain these to me?"

I was silent: the ironical smile grew deeper, till his face wore the expression of contempt. "So then," said he, "you, who are yet preparing for the duties of life,-you, who are ignorant of the simplest laws that govern the world you live in,-you, who have not even learned the art of detecting error and discovering truth,-you who are ignorant of the very faith you dare to deny, and that too when you know that a misstep there will plunge you into eternal perdition,you have idle time to read novels!"

I hung my head in confusion: and when I looked up again, the spirit was gone.

THE North American Indians were uncultivated in mind, unpolished in manners: but yet there are traditions and legends connected with their history, which for beauty and grandeur are scarce surpassed by the myths of Grecian lore.

On one of the many bays which indent our coast, is a rock whose sides have been washed by the waves and tides, whose moss covered brow has been beat upon by the storms of sixty centuries. There is an incident connected with this rock which invests it with singular significance. The Indians call it "the chieftain's rock." As they gather around, they look upon it with awe and superstitious reverence; and even the white man deigns to give it a passing notice, as he journeys by. The top of it bears the clear, distinct impress of a man's foot. The

delineation is so complete, that the heel, the hollow, and toes of the foot are in perfect symmetry; and one as he gazes at it, cannot but ask within himself, how came it there, by what mysterious agency the solid rock yielded to the foot of man.

A little stream also, pure and transparent, bubbles up from its side and gently flows into the bay.

He can look

The Indian account of it is as follows: Many centuries ago, on a bright June morning, Wynandance, the chief of the Montauks, left his wigwam for the fishing ground in the bay. As he passed from its straw thatched walls, his daughter, an only one, met him and entreated him not to go. She told him the evil spirit Manitou had appeared to her in her sleep, and his presence was ominous of ill. She embraced him with filial affection, and besought him not to leave her, for the vision of her dream clung to her in its reality, and could not be shaken off. But the old chieftain had often sat in the council of the six nations, where his opinions were listened to in silence, and embraced with eagerness. He had led the brave of his own tribe into the bloody strife, where victory almost always awaited him. He was a stranger to fear, no entreaty or persuasion could change his purpose, and he departed, to fulfil his self appointed task. The will of an Indian is as inflexible as his revenge is relentless. death in the face with sullen indifference, and scorn the hand that would bear him mercy. So it was with the old chieftain; the presages of a spirit foreboding evil, and the passionate supplication of her,in whose veins alone coursed his blood, moved him no more than the tempest in its fiercest outbreaks moves the solid rock. The old Montauk paddled his canoe into the bay some distance from the shore, and having anchored it, commenced fishing. What his success was, we are not told. It matters not. He had not been there long, however, before he was espied by his ancient, uncompromising enemies, the Narragansetts, who by using the artifices an Indian knows so well how to use, contrived to approach near to him before he discovered them. The odds against him were too great to allow his engaging in a combat where he then was. His opponents were five in number, and with no advantages of place or weapons, he could not hope for success. His purpose was soon formed. Casting a look of defiance at his pursuers, he paddled his canoe for the shore as steadily and composedly as he would have done had there been no one to disturb him. As his canoe touched the bank, he sprang with a tiger's leap to the summit of a rock. To flee, would brand him with a disgrace no future act of

bravery could wipe away,—it would be a stain upon the escutcheon of his former valor, and a dishonor to the long race of chieftains, of which he was now the sole representative. No, he scorned to fly. On his own domain he would rather pour out his royal blood, than see it defiled by a Narragansett's foot. Boldly facing his inveterate enemy, he sounded the Indian war-whoop and essayed the fight. Arrow after arrow pierced his heart and sides. The blood flowed from them in streams. But wounds and blood were alike disregarded by him, in executing the purpose of extirpating the invaders of his realm. And as one

after another of them fell beneath his almost giant efforts, so often would the shores of the bay echo to his war-song and yells of defiance. But his quiver was now empty, his step faltered, the brilliancy of his eye was gone, and a single Narragansett was yet alive. Nerving himself to one more effort, he hurled his tomahawk into the breast of his enemy, and with a shout of victory on his lips, sank to the rock. He was buried in pomp by side of the rock where he fell. The five scalps of his enemy, their weapons, all the trophies of his victory, were placed with him in his grave. Every day the Indian girl, his daughter, would sit by its side and chaunt her solemn hymn for her father in the spirit land. Every day the spirit of sadness was more deeply settled on her brow, and the calmness of death more closely enshrouded her form. One morning her voice was not heard. A sad stillness was on the place, broken only by the autumn wind sorrowing for the summer which was passed forever. The Indians drew near with superstitious reverence, and found the maiden, the last of the Wynandanks, cold in death on her father's grave. They buried her there by his side, with all the mysterious rites of an Indian burial, and tell us even now, in all sincerity, though ages have since sped their flight, that the little transparent brook which bubbles up from the side of the rock and falls peacefully into the bay, is composed of the tears of the Indian maiden mourning for her father, and that the foot-track in the rock was made by their greatest of chieftains, Wynandance, as he sprang from the canoe to its summit.

A remnant of this noble and extensive tribe still survive. They assemble annually at the old rock, and clean carefully this foot print of their Leonidas, drink from the limpid water of the brook, and then separate until the year again comes round. They firmly believe in this legend, (for no one is sacrilegious enough to break its spell,) which with so much beauty and pathos pictures the bravery, the affection, and fixedness of purpose, there is in an Indian's nature.

HAMPTON.

VII

And the stars came upward trooping,
Like glad children after rest,

Then the river still and sire-like

Kissed and caught them to his breast.

VIII

And the Fire-flies fitful flashing

As with mockery lit the pile, While I, wandering without purpose, Trod the Chapels' lonely aisle.

IX

Suddenly beside a grave-stone-
(I shall ne'er forget-I know,)
Rose a figure, tall and wavering
In the twilight's dusky glow.

X

And he beckoned coldly, ghost-like,
Ere I turned and fled away,

And I felt, as in some night-dream,
That I could not help but stay.

XI

Soon I saw as he drew nearer,

'Twas a Hermit, poor and old

Then I angered in my spirit,

And I chid him loud and bold

XHI

Oh weak nature !-But I tarry-
With his finger long and chill
Barred he then my burning forehead,—
Thus he bowed me to his will.

XIII

Barred he-for his icy finger

Seemed to bind my burning brain

Like a band of frosted iron,

With an inward numbing pain.

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