chem's breast was influenced by the repose around him; his fierce spirit was calmed, and as he sat on a high rock, overlooking the whole country, he reasoned dispassionately on the probable chance of his succeeding in his bold design of driving the whites from his country. "Then again," said he, "will I be the sole king of this broad and blooming hunting ground: there will be no white men to teach our warriors cowardice, nor to create dissatisfaction among our young men. All will be as it were in the olden times ere the pale faces visited our shores; and when the sachem's runners were not treated with contempt." The sachem's voice sank lower, but he was so absorbed in his ambitious thoughts, as not to observe two individuais who stood upon a rock just above him. They gazed eagerly upon him, and then spoke earnestly, but in a tone sufficiently low as not to reach the ear of the dreaded chief. The smaller warrior, who was the dwarf Pishairo, stealthily disappeared behind the rock; the other, who was the Chippewa sachem Minavana, made a noise which attracted the attention of Pontiac, and then appeared to be looking in another direction, apparently unconscious of his proximity to the Ottawa.

The Chippewa sachem is a panther in the fight," said Pontiac, in a tone of commendation. The Chippewa turned around, and, apparently surprised, saluted the sachem with dignity and marked respect.

"Would the sapient Pontiac practice his spear upon the heart of the bloody panther ere he plants it in the white man's?" said the Chippewa, with a deferential inclination of the head, as he strode to the rock upon which sat the Ottawa. "I have sought thee eagerly; the pale face warriors are upon our grounds, and our young warriors pant for battle-they want Pontiac."

The Ottawa sprang to his feet, and followed Minavana. They wound their way around huge rocks-now upon the edge of a frowning precipice, where one false step would hurl them to atoms, and then at the bottom, where rocks rose above them, like the towers of some tremendous castle; but they trod their way with a precision which could not be learned but by one who had spent years among the mountains. They finally reached a deep ravine, half way to the encampment of the Indian army. The rocks rose high on each side, leaving a space between them of but a few feet. The Ottawa walked some distance before, wholly occupied in anticipating the battle, in which he hoped to be a formidable participator; while walking, he heard a voice, and turning around, the Chippewa chief was no where to be seen; but in the gloom of the evening, he beheld a party of his warriors, armed alone with knives; they slowly advanced, dispersing, apparently with a view of taking him alive. The Ottawa hurled his spear in the breast of one, and, with his war cry, attacked them with a fury which was irresistible; he broke through them, and leaving four of their number dead, bounded down the mountain side; a shrill yell before him, by its peculiar tone, informed him a Chippewa was near; he drew his knife, aud bounded forward-the sachem Minavana stood before him.

"Curse thy false heart, Chippewa, thou art a squaw !" and with one jump, they stood facing each other, their eyes gleaming hate, and their lips curled with the scorn with which they pretended to view each other.

"Thou art but a little girl, Ottawa, when the Chippewa sachem stands before thee," and with these approbious epithets, they fought with fury. Their physical powers were well matched, but the dread in which the Chippewa held Pontiac, might have weakened his energies, and he appeared to quail beneath the glare of the Ottawa's eye; but he fought with the desperation which his situation required. They were now locked in each other's firm embrace, and, after writhing awhile, they fell from the rock upon which they fought, upon a ledge a few feet below. They sprung upon their feet, and stood a moment to regain energy for their last struggle. They viewed each other with gestures of scorn.

"The Ottawa squaw can't fight-his arms are too weak," panted the Chippewa in a contemptuous tone, while he knew he had been worsted in the scuffle.

"The Chippewa is a fox, he is unworthy to live among warriors," cried the other, and with drawn knives they again rushed at each other; and the Chippewa, who was the most excited by the other's taunting language, threw himself off his guard, and received the Ottawa's knife, which penetrated to his heart. Pontiac tore from his head the scalp, and went his way to the camp. The war song rang upon his ear, and the young warriors were dancing around the painted war pole, while the old men had already assembled in the council house, and with impatience awaited the presence of their sachems. Pontiac entered with the reeking scalp of Minavana in his hand; he took his station at the head of the council house, and held up before them the scalp, from which yet dropped the warm blood. The house was now full to overflowing; the young warriors had ceased their dance, and repaired to the council en masse to hear of the next day's operation; every wigwam was deserted, and all the warriors choked up that spacious yet temporary house, till there was not room for one more spectator. With his usual strength of voice, the Ottawa sachem recounted to the listening multitude the manner in which he had procured the scalp he held before them. In the most glowing colors he depicted to them the struggle he had to save his life, which he declared was valueless to himself, but of infinite value to his nation at this critical moment. He shook the scalp in the air, and called upon his people to revenge the attempt upon his life, which he assured them was only the beginning of a long concocted plot to undermine the power of his nation, and build up another on its ruins. His eloquence ran like lightning through the ranks of warriors, and their various

passions were shown conspicuously upon their features. The young shook their tomahawks in the air, and with demoniacal gestures, desired to be led against their enemies.

At this moment, when all was excitement, the dwarf Pishairo stepped before Pontiac, and after eyeing him for a moment, came closer to him, as if to impart an important secret. The sachem stooped down in a listening posture; the dwarf suddenly drew a knife and stuck it to the handle in his breast—the blade pierced the heart of Pontiac! he sank upon the earth and died; the mighty Pontiac, whose name carried terror even among the whites, expired at the feet of his base slave, the dwarf Pishairo. A loud burst of rage rang from the lips of every warrior present, who rushed up, and seizing the murderer, bore him from the council house; they no longer thought of their chief, their whole thoughts were completely absorbed with revenge. They carried the traitor into an open space, and by piece-meal, they cut his flesh from his body. The wretch was one hour expiring. Their revenge satiated, they returned to their fallen sachem, who lay upon the ground dead and stiff. They all silently gathered around, wrapped in profound and solemn thought, for now their rage had passed away. Long did they stand and silently gaze upon the marble features of him, whose frown could have awed so many. At length a chief arose, his hair was as white as the driven snow, and his once powerful frame was bent with years; his voice trembled with age and emotion as he spoke, and he was listened to with reverential attention. He recanted the bold exploits of the fallen lion who was at their feet, and he dwelt long upon his virtues, which were as many and as bright as the dew-drops upon the leaves. The impression could not be resisted even by the stoical warriors; the large teardrops trickled down their cheeks despite their efforts to conceal them, as they looked upon all that remained of Pontiac, the last of the Ottawa sachems. And well might they weep! for the gigantic mind, which kept their tribe to its pinnacle of power, had departed forever!

The daughter of Pontiac wandered about like a restless spirit, till at length she suddenly disappeared from among them; and for many moons did the red man search after her, but she was not to be found, and they finally concluded she had followed her father to the "great hunting grounds far away to the rising sun." At length she was discovered-she was the wife of the young commander of Fort Duquesne, and many of her descendants are living to this day. J. M. S.

REFLECTIONS IN A COUNTRY GRAVE YARD.

COME, let us recline awhile beneath the wide-spreading branches of this ancient pine, and steal from the busy hours a few moments for wholesome meditation. Around us are reposing, in the calm tranquillity of dreamless sleep, the friends of our childhood-the beloved of our liper years. A holy melancholy, a subdued sorrow, rests with brooding wings upon this solemn bourne. These pale violets mark the hallowed spot where slumbers the young mother's darling—the proud father's hope. Tears, pure as parental love, have bedewed their opening buds-tears prompted by affection so deep and true that the pure offering has found acceptance in the sight of Him, and a sweet and tranquil sorrow steals o'er the hearts of the youthful mourners, purifying and preparing them for the solemn change that awaits all mortality. Yon marble column glancing in the sunlight, a sculptured wreath encircling its cleft brow, tells us of the deep-springing affection of years by thy hand severed, oh! death-of kind tones hushed-of the young household desolate―of the prattling cry of laughing infants for their dear mother's voice and smile stilled. The wife, the mother, rests beneath. Mark that venerable monument, by wind-reft pines and time-worn oaks o'ershadowed! Let us, with reverential step, approach and gaze upon its solemn face! No more is heard the voice of admonition, or of calm advice. No more the joyous grand-children climb about grand-pa's knees, and shout with merry hearts at his jokes, or weep with breasts o'ercharged with sympathetic grief, while breathless listening to the old man's legendary tales. No more beside the cheerful hearth is seen that venerable form-that noble brow-those silvered locks. The old man here from his labor rests, and his fond family know him no more. Turn we to this simple slab of modest gray; no name-no date proclaims who rests beneath. These deep-hewn lines will tell, perhaps, the story of his life.

Sleep on, afflicted spirit, sleep! Thy soul was seared by grief, and the pride of thy mortality hath steeled thy heart against its holy influence. Truly, thou hast died as the worm dieth; but thy soul—thy vivifying spirit—hath it gone out with thee? Has the inborn power-the clear comprehending intelligence—the calm, all-grasping reason—the deep, devoted affection-the all-sacrificing love-have these all ceased with the throbbing of thy heart? Has the inner life-the ethereal essence-partaken of the decay and annihilation of thy material frame? The soft breath of the flower-scented morning whispers "No!" The soothing calm of summer's twilight eve murmurs "No!" The sheeted lightning and the crashing tempest thunder "No!" The insect humming through its happy hour-the shy bird sheltered in some quiet nook-pour forth their voice of love and inward sense of happiness. Think you, there mingles no tribute of the heart with their harmonious hymnings? And thou! man! whose mortality rests at my feet-thou, alone, had'st no offering for the great Jehovah. He who was, and is, and is to come. Well hast thou called thyself worm, if thou did'st feel not the immortal spirit within thee, like the imprisoned bird, beat at the material bars that caged it in, and bound it down, and barred it from the sun.

Oh! the dim memories, and twilight remembrances! How like spirits of the air do they flit across our souls, wakening to life strange and mysterious recollections of things that have beenbut when, or where? And the echo of the soul only answers, " When, or where ?" Who has

not thrilled with those entrancing dreams-born of solitude and meditation-as if the soul struggled to o'ermaster its earthly doom, and, like a repentant wanderer, return to its old familiar haunts! Say, skeptic, say!

Whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

It is the echo of a departed existence; it is the far-off voice of the Past hailing the hurrying Present. Its tones are only heard in the calm of the hushed evening, or in the solemn stillness of the midnight hours. Then, when the listening spirit may almost hear the stately music of the revolving spheres, 'tis thus she speaks-“Oh, Present! why, with fleet step and agitated mien, speed'st thou onward to thy bourne? That which I was, thou art-what I am, thou shalt become. The doom is on thee, and thou can'st not wander from the one path. Why, then, oh why, by the silent way-side wilt thou not sit down and listen to my voice? Thou can'st not hear it in the city's busy haunts, or in pleasure's lighted halls. And I will tell thee, oh! Present, that thou art but a shadowthe shadow of the future, as I was of thee. Thou can'st not attain the real or the permanent with all thy strugglings. They appertain unto the Future. Let this solemn truth arrest thy anxious steps! Cease to seek that which thou can'st not find, and suffer thyself silently to be borne on the calm waters of hope to the bosom of thy destiny. With liberal hand and thankful heart, pluck the sweet-scented flowers around thee springing, and let their fragrance sooth thee to rest. A happy and a contented spirit is the noblest and the fittest offering thou can'st place upon the altar of thy worship. Therefore, be wise, be contented, and thou shalt be happy." C. R. T.

A CHAPTER

ON

FIELD SPORTS AND MANLY PASTIMES.

BY AN EXPERIENCED PRACTITIONER.

ARCHERY.

SOME WORDS CONCERNING ITS ANTIQUITY—AN ACCOUNT OF ITS IMPORTANCE, AND HIGH ESTIMATION AMONG OUR BRITISH PROGENITORS-ITS MODERN REGULATIONS AS A PASTIME-ITS VARIOUS IMPLEMENTS AND THEIR USE.

THE use of the bow is of remote antiquity-its obvious simplicity of construction, as well as the purposes to which it is adapted, having rendered its employment almost universal from the very earliest periods of which we have any distinct account. But we do not wish to trouble our readers with a disquistion upon its ancient history. It was originally formed, no doubt, of the rough bough of a tree, but improvements would be almost immediately discovered. The simple branch would speedily be rendered more convenient by a little cutting, so as to make the curve regular on both sides of the centre. Homer tells us how the bow of Pandarus was fashioned

He heard, and madly at the motion pleased,

His polished bow with hasty rashness seized.

'Twas formed of horn, and smooth'd with artful toil;

A mountain goat resigned the shining spoil,

Who, pierced long since, beneath his arrows bled;
The stately quarry on the cliff lay dead,
And sixteen palms his brows' large honors spread;
The workmen joined and shaped the bended horns,
And beaten gold each taper point adorns.

Herodotus says that the bows of the Ethiopians were four cubits, or not less than six feet long. The Grecian bow is said to have been of the figure of their own letter sigma. The Scythian bow was somewhat of the same form. The bows used by the Daci were made in a very beautiful curve. It has been supposed that the Romans introduced the bow into Britain, or at least very much improved those which they found in use among the natives, and in course of time it became the national weapon of the class of inhabitants called yeomen.

But the Anglo-Saxons and the Danes were certainly well acquainted with the use of the bow; a knowledge they derived at an early period from their progenitors. The Scandinavian Scalds, speaking in praise of the heroes of their country, frequently add to the rest of their acquirements a superiority of skill in handling the bow. It does not, however, appear that this skill was extended beyond the purpose of procuring food, or for pastime, either by the Saxons or by the Danes, in times anterior to the conquest.

Representations of the bow occur frequently in the Saxon MSS. The cut annexed, taken from a manuscript of the tenth century found in the Cotton Library, gives the figure of a Saxon bow and arrow. The bow is curiously ornamented, having the head and tail of a serpent carved at the ends; and was probably such an one as was used by the nobility. In all these old Saxon bows we may observe one thing remarkable, that is, the string not being made fast to the extremities, but permitted