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yet tarry an instant, and hear my last charge-remember the fate of our race, and quit not the ancient manners of the children of the Mist.

We are now a straggling handful, driven from every vale by the sword of every clan, who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood, and drew the water to ours. But in the thicket of the wilderness, and in the mist of the mountain, Kenneth, son of Erocht, keep thou unsoiled the freedom which I leave thee as a birthright. Barter it not, neither for the rich garment, nor for the stone roof, nor for the covered board, nor the couch of down on the rock or in the valley, in abundance or in famine-in leafy summer or in the days of the iron winter-Son of the Mist! be as free as thy forefathers.

Own no lord-receive no law-take no hire-give no stipend-build no hut-enclose no pasture-sow no grain; -let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds-if these fail thee, prey upon the goods of our oppressors-of the Saxons and of the Gael who are Saxons in their souls, valuing herds and flocks more than honour and freedom. Well for us that they do so-it affords the broader scope for our revenge. Remember those who have done kindness to our race, and pay their services with thy blood, should the hour require it. If a Mac Ian shall come to thee with the head of the king's son in his hand, shelter him, though the avenging army of the father were behind him; for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan, we have dwelt in peace in the years that have gone by.

The sons of Diarmid-the race of Darnlinvarach-the riders of Menteith-my curse on thy head, Child of the Mist, if thou spare one of those names, when the time shall offer for cutting them off! and it will come anon, for their own swords shall devour each other, and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist, and perish by its children. Once more begone-shake the dust from thy feet against the habitations of men, whether banded together for peace or for war-Farewell, beloved! and mayst thou die like thy forefathers, ere infirmity, disease, or age shall break

DEATH OF KING PHILIP.
Irving.

Ir is said that when the Indian Chieftain, King Philip, had long borne up against a series of miseries and misfortunes, the treachery of his followers reduced him to utter despondency. The spring of hope was broken-the ardour of enterprise was extinguished: he looked around, and all was danger and darkness; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. He wandered, like a spectre among the scenes of former power and prosperity, bereft of home, of family, and friend.

Even at his last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed-crushed to the earth, but not humiliated-he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortunes; but great minds rise above it. The idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death a follower who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim escaped, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation.

Such was the fate of the brave, but unfortunate King Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonoured when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his

memory. We find, that amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his beloved wife and only son is mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery: the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all farther comfort. He was a patriot, attached to his native soil-a prince, true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs-a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untameable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warriour, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark, foundering amid darkness and tempest-without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle.

EXTRACT FROM A SOLILOQUY OF WALLENSTEIN.

Translated from the German of Schiller, by W. H. Simmons.

THERE's no return! My innocence is gone! Myself have reared the wall, by mine own works, That towers behind, inseparably high,

And bars return forever. Had I been

The traitor I am deemed, I should have smothered
My tell-tale features to a lying smile-

I should have stilled the throbs of indignation,
And stifled my complaints; but, in the pride
And fearlessness of firm though tired allegiance—

Each little word or look, each threat by wrong
Provoked, each bold out-break of thought or feeling,
Which very truth, and conscious innocence
Did prompt all, all rise up against me-all
Must seem the links of some dark, grasping scheme
By years of treacherous ambition wrought-
And from the tongues of mine own countrymen,-
Tongues, that were wont to bless and honor me-
Curses, both loud and deep, peal on mine ear;
Before which, I must needs be dumb.

-

Ah! wo to him, that tramples, in his course,
The loved and honoured heirlooms of his fathers!
There is a consecrating power in time;

And what is grey with years, to man is godlike.
With ancient and anointed majesty

I've striven. I've wrenched the bonds strong custom wreathes

About the hearts of men-and in their hearts
I've reared a foe, that ever fights against me.

Thy Country's love is lost-and that the force
Which called thee Lord, enflamed thy pride, seduced
Thy fancy's blinded reason-till, by the aid
Of treacherous confidants, and watchful foes,—
Thou 'rt come to this.-Thine army, Wallenstein !—
Deserted thee, when thou deserted'st duty.

Thy Prince-Prince !—Am I not a rebel, traitor ?—
Thy friend-Gone, gone!-Wretch, died he not for thee?
Dug not thy guilt his early grave?—Alas!
The flower hath faded from my way of life,
And now I tread a cold and hueless track.-
Methinks, I stand alone. Now, soul,
Put forth thy might! As thou wert glorious
In good, be dread in evil! Let the Archangel
Make no ignoble fiend! Still lives, untamed
Within my veins, the spirit of my youth,
Still urging onward o'er the waves of life ;-
Still is my Goddess, Hope. Whate'er henceforth
My hands may master, I may proudly say,
Fortune, I owe thee nought! all she e'er gave,
She hath retaken. What can he owe, or whom,
When all is in himself? O! 't is a grand,
Inspiring thought—all obligations cancelled,
All fetters broke—to feel on equal terms
With fate!—to feel each onward step a triumph.
Unmixed, of will, of mind-the God within!
Yet though no longer debtor-I will not

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Prove an ungrateful favourite-O! no

Fortune, I blame thee not. Thou 'st ta'en thine ownWho calls thee false? To me thou hast been true. High o'er the vulgar paths of men-high up

The steps of life, thy Godlike arm of love

Hath borne me on. And yet again-though sunk
To the dim age of common men, full low-
Yet, yet again, on this my fortune's ebb,

A spring tide flood shall follow!

ADDRESS OF A SWISS DEPUTY TO CHARLES DUKE OF BURGUNDY.-Scott.

MY LORD,-A schedule in your Highness's hands has stated the sense of many injuries received at the hand of your Highness's officers, and those of Romont, Count of Savoy, your strict ally and adviser: we have a right to suppose, he has your Highness's countenance. For Count Romont-he has already felt with whom he has to contend: but we have as yet taken no measures to avenge injuries, affronts, interruptions to our commerce, from those who have availed themselves of your Highness's authority, to intercept our countrymen, spoil our goods, impress their persons, and even in some instances take their lives.

The affray at La Ferette-(I can vouch for what I saw) had no origin or abettance from us: nevertheless, it is impossible an independent nation can suffer the repetition of such injuries; and free and independent we are determined to remain, or to die in defence of our rights.

What then must follow, unless your Highness listens to the terms, which I am commissioned to offer? Wara war to extermination: for, so long as one of our confederacy can wield a halbert, so long, if this fatal strife once commences, there will be war betwixt your powerful realms, and our poor and barren states.

And what can the noble Duke of Burgundy gain by such a strife? Is it wealth and plunder? Alas, my lord, there is more gold and silver on the very bridle-bits of

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