into the impatient vehicle. All have in their hurry left their characters, their habits, their principles, behind them. Behold them seated! There is a universal congratulation at their successful settlement. A common journey excites a common interest, and without inquiry into, or minute observation of, the feelings, pursuits, and principles of their fellow travelers, it is hail fellow! well met,' all around. Now is no time for nice distinctions. They are travelling. Shall private feelings and peculiarities be permitted to disturb the common sentiment of good will? Will any one be rude enough to object to the general tone of feeling, or confess any distaste to the common topic of discourse? Is it not the only wisdom to fall in with the spirit of the place? Will one sit like a churl, in the corner of the coach, cloaked in unsociality? Will not silence be taken for stupidity the frown of virtue for the cant of hypocrisy - the dignity of rectitude for the self-complacency of pride? Can the world's passengers, a promiscuous throng, appreciate our motives, our good sense, our force of character? Are they enough self-possessed in the exciting journey, to perceive, regard, and be influenced by a good example? Have not they, too, left their characters at home? Did they not leave in a hurry, unprepared to meet honesty, decorum, or religion on their tour, and so have dressed themselves their worst suit, careless of their appearance before the transient crowd? And is it not esteemed untravelled and in bad taste to expose to the joltings of the way and the crowd, and to the dust of the road, the starch and gloss of one's best attire?

in

the

The passengers of the world' are like a traveler who roams the earth for a resting place. He looks forward to every stage as the end of his journey. He arrives there- looks about for a momentbell rings-stage ready!'- and loath to quit his companions of a day, he orders on his luggage, and is again a rover. So with the stagers of the world; they anticipate the goal and the time, when a home different from the world shall receive them to its quiet bosom; where friends shall surround them—where there will be motive, and reward for acting out the character they would exhibit, without the fear of any misconception where there shall be rest and retirement for forming habits, acting up to principles, for living a conscientious and a Christian life. But as the journey progresses, the goal travels too. 'So goes the world,' rings in the ear of the way-worn traveler forever. There is no place so retired and out of the way that the world does not pass it. It dines, and sups, and rests, at every town in the country. It has its public house in every hamlet. Its bustle, its business, its hurry, its crowd, disturb the quiet of every village. The stage stands before the door of every house. The world, the world,' is heard calling up its passengers in every street and unnamed alley. There is one constant invitation to come, free and for nothing, (thus has the strong opposition of the world to virtue cheapened its fare,) and occupy its seats, and be whirled off upon its unending tour, where dust shall dim the eye, noise dull the ear, crowds deaden the feeling, variety cloy and corrupt the taste, till the senses become the inlets of impure, distorted, unreal, indiscriminate ideas.

In these days of universal travel, not to journey in the world is a narrow-minded, bigotted, or hypocritical prejudice. It is quitting the most wealthy, tonnish, and notorious society. It is confessing a distaste for

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56

the fashions, the diversions, the occupations of the polite, which are the fine arts of the age. It is to be, as it were, the servants of the world's proprietors, who, while they are on their foreign, fashionable, and finishing tour, are left at home to take care of the estate-to watch over and instruct the children to feed and advise the poor, who hang on to the world's establishment; it is to be left at home to see that the fences are not broken down, that the gardens are not robbed, that the walls are not dilapidated; to look after the finances, without which the world's owners could not travel in fine, to keep the world's great edifice from going to utter ruin, and its estate from hopeless bankruptcy, through the neglect and extravagance of its masters to do all the work which enables them to be doing nothing. This it is not to travel in the world. It is to be the veriest drudges and slaves to the severest toil to have one everlasting working-day. It is to be both school-master and guardian, both curate and constable, both steward and clerk — and this too, in an establishment which has fewer servants than masters. Can one hesitate which to choose to travel in the world and fly from toil, or to stop by the way' to perform all the work that the world makes? It is to choose between riding over the road, and working upon it! To live by the way,' is to make this the deliberate choice. It is to withstand the thousand invitations of the day, to occupy a stuffed cushion in the easiest vehicle, with the most sensitive springs, and the gayest company, and to walk off from the even and easy track into the jolting, stony path by the way,' encumbered with all the obstructions which the world has thrown from its route, in its labors to smooth, and level, and speed its course. It is to stand still while all is in motion to seem to the world's untiring, unflagging speed, a fixed, diminishing, evanished point. It is to be a sworn foe to all internal improvements which shorten the arduous routes over which honesty and principle are wont to plod, with their small and patient merchandise. This it is to live by the way.'

་

Nevertheless, commend me to a life by the way.' If 'space' is the arena of the world, and 'time' the spirit of the age, I would live neither in space nor time,' but as if by the way.' To all who have taken passage in the world, I give warning that it runs a dusty road. It seeketh the levelest and smoothest, but it is the lowest route. It crosseth sands and deserts, and the Pontine marshes. It never emergeth from the shade, nor ascendeth to the clear sunlight, and the wide and spreading prospect. It speedeth, till one cannot count the dwellings by the way, and observation wearieth of monotony. Danger is the only one of all the shifting company that sitteth constant by thy side throughout the journey.

Docile traveler! be advised. Quit thy resolve. Even at some risk, leap from the world's conveyance, and walk by the way!'-live 'by the way!'

Cambridge, (Mass.,) August, 1836.

H. W. B.

BABE, DYING IN THE MOTHER'S ABSENCE.

He lay 'tween life and death. The priestly hand
Was lifted o'er him, and with tender touch
Laid the baptismal water on his brow
While earnestly a solemn tone bespoke
A place in heaven, for that departing soul,
In Jesus' name.

The half-closed eye was still,
As a dead gem set in a lily's cup,

But the small hand thrill'd like a living bird,
Within the nurse's clasp. She was not there,
Who nurtur'd that fair boy, and day by day
Mark'd his smooth limbs to fuller roundness swell,
And garner'd up each tiny, gleeful shout
As music in her heart. She was not there.
Had she but known his peril, what had chain'd
That rushing traveler? Not the mountain's steep,
Nor the swol'n flood, nor midnight's wildest storm,
Had won a thought from her, whose yearning soul
Was knit to his. Or had one darken'd dream,
'Mid the sweet intercourse of distant friends,
Brought the chang'd image of her cherub babe,
Not as she left him, fresh and full of sports,
But sleepless, starting from his cradle-bed,
His pearly teeth clos'd strongly in his pain,
With a harsh, grating sound, and the poor tongue,
Untrain'd to language, murmuring out his grief,
Or had she seen him from his favorite cup
Still put the spoon away, until his lip,
So like a rose-bud, sallow grew, and thin,
How had she burst away, to see him die,
Or die with him!

But now, 'tis all too late ; One quivering gasp upon a hireling's breast,

And all is o'er. Methought some secret tie

Bound him to earth. What did thy pale hand seek,

With such a groping eagerness, poor babe?

Thine absent mother? Didst thou long to feel

Her kiss upon thine eye-lids, or her breath
Parting thy curls, and passing up to heaven,
A winged prayer?

Would that I could forget
The weeping of that mother, when she takes
That ice-cold baby to her bursting heart,
Or, even for that too late, doth frantic press
The pitying sexton for one last drear sight
Of her fost darling, in his desolate bed,
Most desolate, amid the mouldering throng.

O mother, mother! from thy cradled charge
Part never while the fragrant life he draws
From thine own breast, cling to him, as the soul
Doth wed its clay. Is there a boon on earth
One half so precious as the infant's love
To her who bore him? Can the pageant world,
With its brief fashions, or the fever'd
gaze,
Exploring earth's broad scenery, buy one hour
Like his sweet, breathing slumber in her arms?
O no, no, no!

So, take thy priceless meed,

The first young love of innocence, the smile
Singling thee out from all the world beside,

And if amid this hallow'd ministry

Heaven's messenger should claim the unstain'd soul,
Be thine the hand to give it back to God.

L. H. S.

BATTLE OF BLOODY BROOK.

A PASSAGE IN AMERICAN HISTORY.

'WHAT hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep,
Their turf may bloom.'

CAMPBELL.

EVERY incident connected with the early history of our country, in which the valor of our forefathers was signally displayed, comes down to us with all the interest of self-love, and all the freshness of romance. We love to dwell, for reasons better felt than explained, on the deeds of our sires, and the times that tried their souls. There is something hallowed in the associations which gather around us, while reflecting on those instances of devotedness and chivalrous patriotism which distinguished their acts a feeling almost of devotion. Too many of those deeds have gone down to oblivion unhonored and unsung;' and if perchance a fragment of the past is snatched from the grasp of Time, it excites in us sentiments the more sacred from the lapse of years.

But there was a period in our country's story, beyond that in which our forefathers struggled to make us a free and happy people- a time whose history is but faintly chronicled when the sufferings of our pioneer ancestors were unwept and unrequited. That epoch would seem to have been swallowed up in the interest of the events which followed; yet those earlier periods afford us examples of unparalleled sufferance and unmatched heroism.

It was a gloomy era, when the fair face of our country was every where a dark wilderness when our pilgrim fathers were at all times surrounded by the beasts and the savages of the forest and when all was rude and cheerless. In the progress of scenes, from that time forward, many and dangerous were the vicissitudes by which they were marked. The eternal solitude which gave place to the busy hand of the settler, and the umbrageous darkness that disappeared from around his humble domicil, were yet the stilly haunts of the Indian. As the plain, in time, was made to yield support for the new-comer, and the cabins of the white men began to thicken along the valley, the red man reluctantly retired to the mountain. His pleasant places on the uplands, beside the rivers, stocked with the scaly tribes yielding to him sustenance, had become occupied. The level patches where he raised his corn, with the beautiful hills where his tribe loved to congregate, were in the possession of the stranger. His nearer hunting grounds were disturbed, and his game began to disappear. Thus dispossessed of his inheritance, and disquieted in his neighbouring solitudes, the primitive and rightful lord of the soil deeply fostered a secret hate against the cause of his grievances. As he gathered around his council-fire, and reflected on the stranger's encroachments, or listened to the complaints of his brethren, and the exciting eloquence of his chiefs, his soul began to kindle within him, and his bosom to swell with rage. Already had the numbers of the pale faces become alarming, and their bold hardihood inspired a spirit of dread. The fearful missiles which the stranger so

dexterously used, above all, excited his fears, and deterred him from manifesting his resentment. Continued irritation, however, overcomes apparent impossibilities, and gradually wears away the most obstinate objections. The cunning of the savage was deemed a match for his enemy; his fleetness, his distant retreats, and his poisoned arrows, were presented by the orators to force up his courage to the determined point. Nor was it long before the Indian's festering hate broke forth. The war-song now resounded along the mountain-side. The fearful yell is heard in the distance, and each settler prepares himself for the worst. And now it was, that the direful note of death rang along the Connecticut valley, and deeds of blood began to desolate the land.

For many years was this pleasant valley the scene of heroic struggles of suffering, and of death. Long did the hardy white man sustain himself against the superior numbers and the wily arts of the savage; but sadly did he pay the cost of his attachment to the land of his choice, and the endearing associations of home. Frequent and deadly were the conflicts in which he engaged with his implacable enemy. Deep and lasting was the mutual hate of the combatants, and as deep and as artful were their schemes of destruction. Victory often crowned the untiring efforts of the foe, when painful captivity or indiscriminate slaughter ensued. To tell of the many murderous deeds and the deep agonies which marked the triumphs of the embittered savage, would long employ the pen, and harrow up the feelings of the soul. To the cruel perseverance of the Indian, in this war of extermination, were added the secret promptings of base cupidity. The Canadian Frenchmen now urged on the brutal force of the not less barbarous foe, by their liberal rewards and legalized bounties for captives and for scalps. Still more powerful motives actuated the red men, while large numbers of the reckless whites joined them in the execution of their most desperate deeds; and it was said that the cruelty and brutality of the Frenchman far exceeded those of the savage wild man.

It was thus with our forefathers, when an attack was anticipated from combined forces of the Indians on the little nucleus of farm-houses at the present beautiful village of Deerfield, in Massachusetts. A little army had collected at Hadley, composed of the hardy peasantry of the valley, determined on decisive and desperate efforts against the common enemy. The produce which had been gathered and housed at Deerfield, was necessary for the support of this band of determined yeomanry, and for the affirighted families who had there congregated; nor was it desirable that so much valuable substance should fall into the hands of the Indians, the more effectually to enable them to continue their bloody warfare. It was therefore resolved, that one hundred choice young men, justly denominated the flower of the country,' should be selected to go with teams, in the face of danger, and transport the rich products of the soil from Deerfield to Hadley. The expedition was cheerfully undertaken by the requisite number of brave youths. Already were their teams loaded and on their way to the place of destination. watchful enemy had, however, obtained intelligence of the expedition, and, with the greatest secrecy and celerity, collected in fearful numbers on a neighboring hill, shut out from view by the dense forest with which it was crowned.

The

Here their eloquent chiefs encouraged them, by every effort of lan