understood, that Henry and his party should descend | his hand, and the platoon fired into the cold and narrow immediately after they had delivered their fire, but one abodes of the fallen. The sound reverberated along of the men, who was large and heavy, was slow in his the neighboring hills, and at last died away upon the movements; an Indian who was standing some ten or ear. The party returned in profound silence. fifteen paces from the crowd, saw him, raised his rifle, and drew the trigger: the bullet struck him between his eyes, and he fell like a mass of lead perfectly dead at the feet of his wife below, who was watching to ascertain his fate. She sunk down on his lifeless body, and both were quickly removed by the order of Mrs. W. Seeing him fall, she sprang to him, and throwing her keen eye upon him, she cried out in a plaintive tone, "Poor fellow, he is gone!" It appeared afterwards that this last effort of the whites had been so fatal to the enemy that they were disheartened, and had imbibed the opinion that those within the fortress were far more numerous than they really were. Accordingly they withdrew, taking both their dead and wounded with them, as was their established custom. After the day had dawned, the commander ordered that the necessary preparations should be made for the interment of those who had fallen. The young men procured some stakes, which being driven into the ground, rough planks were placed thereon, and the whole of the six corpses were laid out side by side, and dressed in white cotton homespun. The wife of the commander covered each gently with a white sheet. Having done this, she passed out of the station, and in about half an hour returned with both hands full of wild flowers, which she scattered over the dead bodies. Amongst the killed was a stripling, who was uncommonly handsome, and who was just nineteen, the oldest child of his parents, who were also residing within the fortress. Raising the sheet, this woman looked at him long and earnestly, then said, whilst the tears were stealing down her face, "What a pity that he should have been cut off so soon!" The parents of this youth sat down together near his body, and remained by it throughout the day, to all appearance wholly inconsolable. On the other side, was the wife of him who had fallen from the top of the rampart, wrapt in grief. Her two little children were at her feet, unconscious of their irreparable loss. Perceiving that their mother withheld from them her accustomed endearments, they endeavored in vain to arouse her attention by climbing up on her knee, and inquiring of her by their looks, "what was the matter with her?" About eleven o'clock, the whole company was gathered around the dead bodies. The women sung several hymns. After they had ceased, those present dispersed, that they might partake of a slight repast. The order was, that the interment should take place a little before sundown. Just as the procession was formed, the commander said, that no brave soldier who fell in battle under his eye, should ever be buried without military honors; that this act of respect was always due to the memory and deeds of the gallant defenders of their country; that such was the established custom during the revolutionary war. A platoon was detailed for this duty. The company moved slowly on-the women singing as they proceeded. When it had reached the graves, Major G. stepped forward, and read the funeral service. The old veteran then waved But there was one being who had participated in the recent tragedy, and who commanded the sympathy of every heart. This was the wife of the surveyor-general. Her misery seemed to be unsusceptible of any alleviation. Unlike most of those around her, she had left all her relatives behind her, for she had literally torn herself from the embraces of her father and mother, to participate in the fortunes of a husband whom she adored. The road before him was thickly beset with dangers-wealth and honor were within his grasp— but he had fallen, and she was desolate. The wife of the commander used every effort to soothe her wounded spirit, by arousing her to a sense of the dependant condition of her infant. She sometimes dressed it, and laid it by her side; she offered her the consolations of religion; but the stormy scenes of a western frontier were too rough for the gentle nature of this woman. The arrow which had been shot at her had reached her heart. She gradually pined away, and mourned as one without hope. The long hours were passed in listlessness and dejection. She sat and watched day after day the sun descending in cloudless glory into twilight. She cast her longing eyes in the direction where they told her lay the unburied and unhonored corpse of her husband. At last, she sent one of the children one morning to the wife of the commander with a message that she wished to see her. This summons was obeyed instantly. She desired that her child should be brought and laid beside her. Pausing for several minutes, during which the tears ran rapidly down her pale cheeks, she broke silence, and said, "My time has come; my spirit is broken-life is to me a burden. I have struggled a good while between hope and despair. This child will soon be an orphan. Your never-ceasing kindness has enkindled in me towards you an affection almost filial. I have sent for you to bid you farewell, and to commit this infant to your charge. I have to request that you, whenever this horrid war shall be followed by peace, will cause my child to be taken, and placed in the arms of my mother." Then reclining her head, and placing her lips on those of the infant, she gently breathed out her immortal spirit. PRYNNE'S HISTRIOMASTIX. Prynne's 'Histriomastix' is a quarto of more than 1100 pages-an invective against the stage-the matter chiefly temporary and levelled at fugitive events—the author never ventures upon the most trivial opinion without calling to his aid whatever has been said in all ages and nations-a Helluo librorum in which are quoted more than a thousand authors. Milton says of Prynne, "that hot querist for tythes whom ye may know by his wits lying ever beside him in the margin to be ever beside his wits in the text." THE FATE OF THE GIFTED. "As the body wastes, The spirit gathers greater strength, and sheds It has long been a popular superstition, that superior mental endowment marks its possessor for an early grave. And not only so, but that early doom must result, as a consequence, from a highly gifted mind. That the opinion is erroneous, at least in so far as a false cause is assigned for an effect, need not be denied. If it be true that unusual talent will inevitably invite death, the converse of the proposition ought to be equally true, that the entire void of mental possessions ensures a "green old age." But we do not propose to combat error, neither do we intend to write a philosophical disquisition. That the gifted do find an early tomb, is so frequently true, that we cannot wonder at the prevalence of the superstition, nor deem the sentiment of the ancients singular— "Whom the gods love, die young." In many instances, we may mark the foe that destroys them. In one case, a feeble physical frame seems to wear rapidly out, and consumption "flushes the cheek" "With roses that bloom only o'er the grave; And in that eye that once so mildly beamed, In another case, poverty seems to have presided at the birth, and attends untiring throughout the short term of days, till despair and horror dry up the very fountain of life, and the poor victim sinks into an untimely grave. But we sometimes look in vain, and hence, no doubt, the notion, to which we have alluded, of the peculiar partiality of Heaven. At the risk of the charge of exquisite sentimentality, we hazard the assertion, that men of unusual poetical character seem to possess but little sympathy with the utilitarian world around them. Their soul is cast in a finer mould than that of the crowd with which they are doomed to mingle. The hum and bustle of the machinery of life jars discordantly on their ear. It is true, that the poet sometimes makes a business man: but it is not his peculiar talent that makes him thus. He becomes so in opposition to it. We are indeed at fault if a political economist would not endorse his genius as unproductive capital. "With mind inspired and genius-brightened eye, What joy Amid the forest depths to wander on, O'er flower-impurpled path, and list the tones Of the deep water-fall at silent noon, Drowning the wood-lark's song; and then to view And oh how sweet To them the golden sunset's glowing hour, Of day to rest on; when the flocks and herds What lover of literature has not mourned over the fate of the lamented White? Who can read the story of his toils-his sufferings-his death-without a tear? He was worthy the plaintive lay of the mighty bard who bewailed him. And such is the fate of many. After a few years of sorrow and suffering among those who cannot appreciate them aright-whose heart cannot sympathise with their heart—from poverty, from disease, from overwrought sensibility, or some kindred cause, the frail mortal tenement is dissolved, and the spirit which seemed formed only for heaven, seeks again its native skies! "And then mankind In generous mockery, pay that tribute due We have not chosen our present theme for the purpose of a mere idle waste of sympathy. We have been betrayed into a much longer prelude than we anticipated. We have long wished to publish in a connected form (accompanied with a brief biographical sketch) a few of the fugitive articles of some who have contributed largely to our periodical literature, and who have fallen early in the race, while winning an honorable renown. We would do it both from a sense of justice to departed worth, and also from what we deem the just merit of the articles themselves. Two hold an especial place in our memory, though, as circumstances favor, we may continue our notice. The sketches must of course be brieftoo brief-and the number of articles extremely limited. When we speak of the poet, we by no means use the In the order of the arrangement we design no reference term in a limited sense. We mean the man of genius—to the relative talent of the individuals, but consult only of sensitive spirit—of brilliant imagination and fancy- our own convenience. The remainder of our present of a soul delighting in the bright and beautiful things of number we propose to devote to the memory of the late earth-the child of nature. For such-though they possess many points of difference, and diversity of taste and pursuit-are united by a common bond of sympathy. The god within responds to the god without. The same yearning of soul after spiritual things is theirs. The same turning from the discordant throng away, to commune with the "voices of nature." They behold CHESTER A. GRISWOLD. "The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair, Hath sought the grave, to sleep forever there." Mr. Griswold was a native of Cooperstown, Otsego county, New York, but for the last few years of his life was a resident of Utica, New York, where, we be lieve he commenced his literary writings. He enjoyed early advantages for a good English education, which were well in proved. Further than this his studies did not extend; and at a period of life when those who design pursuing a liberal education enter college, young G. assumed a station in a mercantile house. From hence his course of life was of nearly uniform tenor. He changed his situation once or twice, till he received an appointment to a place in a banking institution, in which he remained till his death. In private life, Griswold was deservedly esteemed. His mind (by his own tuition,) was remarkably well cultivated and from entire amiability of disposition, "none knew him but to love him." In the discharge of his business-duties, he was conscientiously faithful; and literary pursuits, for which he felt a passion, were only allowed to engross his leisure hours. When about eighteen years of age he first became known to the reading public, through the medium of the periodicals, to which he contributed largely, over the various signatures of “Malcom,” “A.”, “Alleyne,” and “C. A. G.” In several instances he proved a successful competitor for literary prizes. Lundy's Lane," a prize tale, written for the "Rochester (N. Y.) Craftsman," a literary periodical of considerable repute, edited by BROOKS, is doubtless fresh in the memory of many of our readers. Our author died soon after completing his twenty-fourth year. His literary career had but just begun: and we deem it but just to state that not only were his articles the fruit of occasional hours of leisure, and hastily written, but were generally sent to the press without revision or correction. Of his style we shall leave the reader to form his own opinion, from the various specimens we shall present. Griswold was a poet, in every sense of the word: but he entirely intermitted poetical writing sometime before his death, and we think many of his prose articles by far the best. It is to be regretted that many of his articles are lost; yet from the few we possess, the reader will be able to form a somewhat just opinion of his merit. From "Lines suggested by Salathiel," we select a few passages: "Tower and turret, citadel and wall, Lay wrapped in falling sunlight! 'twas the hour And o'er the hill, the valley, and the wave, Broad darkness: not a star looked down to earth. The mighty image forth, to earth and heaven, The wailing sound was heard-Let us go hence !'" There is certainly musical versification and fine sentiment in the following tranquil "STANZAS. "Sad and low o'er the dark tomb where sleep the departed, Ah! kneel by the place where are charnelled the lowly, To hail the glad hour when its clay cell shall die!" The following verses from "The Song of the Sea Dæmon," though not perfect, contain many thrilling lines: "I dwell in the ocean wave, Low in the boundless deep: There in the halls of Neptune's cave, Where serpents glide and where monsters creep, When the billows have rocked the god to sleep, I love to waken the whirlwind's rage, And smile when the waters rave! I waken the sleeping gale, And I laugh when the whirlwinds rail, With lightning speed the tattered sail, I fly with the groaning barque, And shriek my dirge in the tingling ear, I flap my wing o'er the quivering ark, I ride on the lightning's flash; I come like the angry cloud; Of the thunder's pealing deep and loud; I bring the sailor his ghastly shroud, I hide with a mist the rock, And cover it with a wave; And scream aloud when I hear the shock, I fly to open the briny grave, And an hundred dæmons around me flock; Our author's imagination seemed at times especially to delight in scenes of wildness and gloom. The following has much of the "German" in its conception and execution: "REVELS OF THE DEAD. "Dark midnight abroad Her robe doth fling, And spirits awake To their revelling; And the groaning yew, and the howling blast, Bring fear to the heart as it wanders past. Pale Luna is hid; She would weep to see The reckless mirth, And the revelry; Wild as the blast and rude as the gale In the darkened sky Is the folded cloud, As a dæmon's shroud; Riven and torn, yet gathering still And unearthly sounds Are echoing near, That chill the heart Of the brave to hear; Wild; ringing like those who the red wine quaff, The fiendish glee and the fiend-like laugh! Still when the sound Of the storm is least, You may hear the mirth Of the goblin feast; And when dim night the faint moon looks thro' You may see the rites of the ghostly crew. On the church-yard green Is the spectre's walk; By the charnel house Cold spectres stalk; And their white bones rattle at every breath; Gaze on if thou wilt: 'tis the dance of death!" We have already remarked that we thought Griswold's prose writings among his happiest efforts. Some of the finest "Tales" and "Sketches" we remember to have read, were from his pen. The length of these, of course, forbids their transfer in an article like the present. A short time before his death, he commenced a series of articles for a literary periodical, of which we were for a time the editor, entitled "Vagaries—by an Idler." It was a rambling, unconnected series-entirely free from restraint—abounding in fine sentiment, in the happiest style of composition. As these were his last articles, we shall venture upon a few extracts at random. From the first number the following seem the best for our purpose: around him, upon which his gentle looks fall like an infant's slumber. How delicious the air is after a pleasant June shower. You can feel it almost by intuition before it has quite reached you, bearing the same pleasant sensation one feels standing beside a cool fountain as the clear jet leaps upward, and falls back into the basin, sparkling in the light of the moon and many lamps, like a host of diamonds and rubies. The wind steals along so silently and so softly, that but for the moving and trembling of the locks upon one's brow and its glad whisper, you would scarce know that it passed at all. And the beautiful flowers that were silent adoration! And there darts off a bright bird, with a clear long whistle, who has sung no song to-day till now; rising higher and higher up into the empyrean; and his song coming fainter down to the world beneath him. so faint and languid, now lift up their dewy heads to the sky in It is a pleasant thing to look out upon the 'living things' of the vegetable world, -to commune with 'Nature in her cultivated trim.' How very soon it is possible to wear out and forever erase all the first loves, the warm and elastic feelings, that the young boy takes with him into the world, and should wear to his grave. One by one, month by month-they wither-fade-expire. And se sacred as they were too!--So mutable a thing the human mind is: Yesterday, sunshiny, clear: To-day, guilty, fearful: Tomorrow, gloomy, morose: The day after, misery, with a painted smile for the world, and a curse for itself. The mind is a strange compound. There is one I should much like to analyze. It was once, I am sure, full of all manner of kindly feelings: But I would not feel the bitterness of the sneer that is forever gathering on his lips and in his eye, for the wealth of Ind. He rhymes occasionally, and rather well too for one who makes no pretensions to the science. (Science! it's reduced to a science now, they say.) I have several pieces of his; but all of them-light or dark, gay or gloomy--bear the impress of-what shall I call it ?--loneliness! Here is one, (I don't think he'll ever read this; so I may venture :) It is certainly far from being faultless, but it is better than nineteen-twentieths of the periodical trash with which we are absolutely deluged; and that is very far from being a compliment. "They are breaking, one by one, the ties That o'er the bosom's light is thrown, A pall of night around the tomb. Alas! so many strings are broken, So many ties asunder rent That never may be strung again, That discord with its tones are blent, And every tone is one of pain. Stern worldliness creeps round the soul, And cankers every gentle feeling ; Save in some far and secret part Where memory from a cold world stealing, Revives the tones that soothed the heart. So, as a harp that once hath poured Hangs silent on the lonely wall That echoed once its stirring tone, The living harp's-strings, one by one, the harp is not, altogether; though it may be shattered.” "The sun again comes out, bright and shining, just above the We cannot pass by the following, from the second far faint line that bounds our vision; with clouds above and number: "Hallowed, all hallowed, gentle eve, are the blushing glances of thy milky sky; when the glorious sunset, picture of the first golden gush of youthful idolatry, has faded to the mellow sadness of man's maturer years, and save a few exquisite purple tints reflected from the blue ocean below to the delicate ocean above, thou art with all thy fanciful and ethery forms, one languid yet spiritualized whiteness; yielding up thyself as to slum. ber, to purify and hallow man's aching, mammon-bound soul!! 'Oh the full flow of the fetterless spirit! how joys she to speed, as on the snow-white pinions of a dove, and join communion with her kindred among thy unsullied phantasies, by ethery pavilions. How would she rejoice to rest from her world-weariness upon the pale velvet ottoman which thou hast even now spread out for the resting place of thy wandering beautiful ones. And thy quiet stars come forth on the great deep, the crys talbine font of heaven, to hold holy communion with spirits of earth and heaven: and they burn, and burn, and dazzle, as bright as they did when the first smile of their existence lit up the void gloom of an unredeemed chaos; and they sing-all can. not bear them-but they do sing, sweet as the first hymn of the whole creation-and then they melt into a delicate softened splendor, as a snowy haze flows like a gauze veil before them." We cannot pass the third number so hastily. It is in the happiest vein of humor, and only regret that we A wolf came out from his dusky den, And a hungry look had he; Iween he has sought the lonely glen, And stalked to-night to see If a lamb had strayed the fold: He 'grinned a ghastly smile' when he saw And he craunched the bleaching bones, and rolled The shattered skull away: And the crow he shook his jetty wing, And laughed till he made the ruin ring With his hideous laugh, 'haw, haw; haw, haw!? A bat crept out of his daylight hole To breathe the smoky exhalation; Fresh from the villanous congregation Of hairy spider and sightless mole; And be fluttered his wing and snapt his teeth, As he met an owl on the swampy heath; 'Hoot, to-whoo! whither away, Son of the night, whither, whither?' To breathe, to flutter, to play, To see the young roses wither.' 'Gods' growled the star, what a planet! So dark and so gaunt, When to us there is light from the gold-giving sun, And the star was in a wonderful passion We leave the wind jogging, as onward we dash on." " The series only comprised five numbers. The manuscript for the fifth number, "Piast of Kruzwitzer," an historical tale, was received; but before it was in type the writer was called hence by death. The unostentatious piety which had marked his life, shone brightly at his death, and a world of change, of toil, and suffering, was doubtless exchanged for “the better land.” The following article was sent us for publication shortly after his death. It was evidently hastily written and unrevised: "Paleness was on her face; the sickly glow In melancholy posture; and the tear Wrung from the heart, steep'd the long silken lash, And wandering o'er her face, at length reclined In peace upon her bosom: there it slept ! I never gaze upon the languid form Of youthful beauty, when the unwilling hand Of the stern tyrant rests upon her heart, And pales the hue, and drives the brilliant flash |