to their appointed habitation; but that those who had behaved badly, always got into the wrong road, which was very crooked, and in which it was very difficult to travel. That they frequently met with broad rivers, through which they had to swim; and in this manner they were punished until the Great Spirit thought proper to put them into the good road, and then they soon reached their friends, and the country of their future residence, where all kinds of game were plenty, and where they had but little to do, but to dance by night and sleep by day.

"He further observed, that when young children died they did not at first fare so well. That originally there were two Great Spirits who were brothers, and equally good; that one of them died and went to another world, and has ever since been called Mach-i-man-i-to, the evil Spirit. That this Spirit has a son who makes prisoners of all the children who die too young to find the good path, and takes them to his own town, where they were formerly deprived by him of their brains, in order that when they grew up they might not have sense enough to leave him. That the Good Spirit seeing this, sent an eagle to pick a hole in the head of every young child, as soon as it dies, and makes its appearance in the other world, and to deprive it of its brains and conceal the same in the ground. That the child is always immediately after taken prisoner by the evil Spirit, and kept until a suitable age to travel, when the eagle returns its brains, and then, having sense enough, it immediately leaves the bad Spirit, and finds the good road.

"Some of these Indians say, that their deceased friends appear occasionally to them in the shape of birds and different kinds of A Fox Indian observed one morning, that the spirit of a certain Indian who was buried the day before, appeared last night near his grave in the shape of a turkey, and that he heard the noise he made almost all night. I inquired of another Indian, quite an old man, if any of their people had ever returned from the dead. He replied that he had heard of only one or two instances of the kind; but that he believed they knew what we were about in this world."

Original.

THE ADVENT OF TRUTH.

BY JAMES STILLMAN.

ERECT, O truth, thy banner bright,
And lead thy mighty phalanx on;
Pour o'er the earth a flood of light,

More glorious than the summer sun,
Come, break the links of error's chain,
That it no more the world may bind,
Ascend thy lofty throne, and reign

Sole monarch of the human mind.

Wrapt in the shades of mental night
And lulled to sleep inglorious, vile,
Ages have felt the with'ring blight,
That ignorance scatters to defile;
At length has risen the beaming star
Of hope, with clear and cheering ray,
And expectation views from far
The dawn of thy illustrious day.

Daughter of Deity, O haste,

Bare to our sight thy heavenly charms,
And drive from mind's benighted waste,
Falsehood, in all her Protean forms,
Her spurious brood shall own thy power,
And flee before thy radiant face,
And man enfranchised bless the hour
That ends his bondage and disgrace.

Freedom and virtue are thy gifts,

By thee oppression's bonds are riven,
And thine the lofty thought that lifts
The soul to intercourse with Heaven!
Thou bid'st the spirit from the dust,

In all its native grandeur rise,
And claim with high and holy trust
Its glorious kindred with the skies.

Thine is, O Truth, an endless rule;

And thine a vast and boundless sway, A crown which time shall never dull, Or take one sparkling gem away. Knowledge will spread thy matchless fame, And rear the bulwarks of thy throne, And grateful hearts adore thy name, Loved more the longer thou art known.

BEHOLD THE CROSS!

Ar the close of the year 1827, I crossed the Alps, with a small party of friends, from Pignerol, in Piedmont, to Briancon, in France. After proceeding to Finistrelle, we furnished ourselves with mules, men, and the other requisites for the journey. Urged by the apparent necessity of advancing on account of the season, when all preparations were duly made, we set forward amidst descending rain, and a wondering crowd.

We soon began to ascend along the ledge of a mountain which opened immense precipices to our view. The road was wholly unguarded, and we were accompanied by the concerto music of a roaring torrent, that foamed along the valley, and the howling winds. Nothing was more obvious, than that our temerity would be repaid by cold, wet, and possible danger. Without adverting to the little incidents of the way, I may simply state that, after. some hours of painful march, in which we passed through the small villages of Pourriere, La Rua, and Traverse, we began the ascent of the mountain called Chanal du Col. The rain, as we rose, changed to sleet, and then to snow, the previous accumulation of which rendered our progress slow and difficult. The march of pompous diction seemed consonant with the gigantic scale of the scenery, and we thought of Johnson's description of the Hebrides, "above, inaccessible altitude; below, immeasurable profundity."

The snow was now rapidly deepening, the mountains in succession presenting their formidable ridges, and the pathway gradually disappearing from view, till we found ourselves amidst all the charms of solitude and all the sublimities of danger. This was the place, and this the season, for the moral philosopher to portray the higher order of emotions, for the Christian to realize the "terrible majesty" of the infinite and eternal God.

Two hours had brought us to the crisis of our circumstances. Imagine us, then, a melancholy train; each on his mule or horse, thickly covered with cloaks or mantles to screen a shivering frame, and enveloped in a snowy fold; imagine us moving like a forlorn hope in rank and file, slowly, silently and apprehensively along the edge of precipices, to which, in making the necessary circuit, the trustworthy animal would often, perhaps unconsciously (not so his rider), approach within a few inches-ah! slippery, and dangerous, and uncertain footstep! Each hapless traveller now cast a wistful eye at the other; for not a sound was to be heard; not a trace to mark the course was to be seen: the winds were hushed, the flakes of snow fell like the feather in an exhausted receiver, and "thich as autumal leaves in Vallambrosa." Two guides accompanied us, but the sphere of their knowledge seemed to be bounded at this

very spot and after giving the word of command to stop, they began to consult together (an ominous sign to bewildered travellers) on the course to be pursued, professing themselves to be altogether uncertain of the way. It was a dead calm, and with more truth than prudence, one of them exclaimed, "If the wind rises, we are lost." In fact, it is impossible for any one who has not traversed Alpine regions to conceive of the violence of those gusts which seem to rush like furies between the mountains, as if commissioned to hurl them from their bases.

A few minutes determined us to advance cautiously and prayerfully; for in danger it is natural to call upon God; and the sanctified mind does not merely utter the cry of distress, and seek an interference, which in the hour of safety and comfort was despised, but lifts up believing and confiding thoughts to him who is recognised as "the hearer of prayer." We may not always experience deliverance from evil; but we may be assured, that through Christ, our advocate and friend, we shall enjoy consolation and reap improvement.

The moment I have described was one of those of intense emotion, which now and then occur in life, whether of joy or sorrow. Silence reigned, nature frowned, danger threatened. I will not say that the incipient feeling did not arise which suggested the self-inquiry, was life hazarded for an adequate cause? for to sacrifice it for a small object is sinful, while to yield it to the claims of duty and of God, is the martyr's heroism. But hark! there is an exclamation of suprise and joy. The foremost guide is in extacies! all is well, and the sleeping echoes are roused by "La croix, la croix! voila la croix !" "See there the cross, the cross!" In these bewildering regions, it is not uncommon, for the two-fold purpose of guiding the stranger, and eliciting a superstitious worship, to fix a large wooden cross on the summit of a hill, or on the edge of a precipice, as well as frequently by the roadside; by which, when the winter snows obliterate the path, some indication of the course may be given. Our guides became instantly aware of our safety, and knew that we should commence the descent.

May not the reader of this narrative compare, without any forced application, or inappropriate analogy, his own situation with that of these travellers? Are we not, in fact, all pursuing the great journey into eternity? Have we not missed our way? have we not departed from God, by wicked works: and are we not universally and individually, in the language of infallible truth, utterly "lost!" The course of transgressors is difficult and dangerous; but the cross, the cross! there, is hope, and peace, and safety! Not the cross of superstition, or the cross of temporal safety; not the wood or the tree upon which a Saviour was transfixed; but Christ crucified; the blood he shed for the remission of sins; the offering which he presented for a guilty, deluded and perishing world.

It is not deliverance from Alpine danger, but from eternal torments; it is not direction to a temporal abode, which may shelter me from inclement skies, or provide the sweets of social intercourse, but elevation to the bliss of Heaven, which I obtain by trusting in those merits, embracing that Saviour, clinging by faith to that redeeming cross!

COME, TELL ME THY SORROW.

BY CHARLES SWAIN,

COME, tell me thy sorrow, and if I can aid thee,
My heart and my purse are both thine to the end;
If not, seek support from the Being that made thee,
But mourn not as if without solace, my friend.
Though thy sky be now dark, there is hope for to-morrow,
A sunlight to come, which the morn may restore;
Then cheer! bid thy soul spring immortal o'er sorrow,
Thou hast one friend at least, if thou canst not find more.

Ne'er fancy thine own disappointments are greater
Than theirs who seem right whatsoever they do;
Misfortune finds all either sooner or later;

Life's mourners are many-the mirthful are few.
Then vex not thy spirit with fears and surmises,
But wrestle with care, and thy firmness restore;
There's a star for thee yet, and, till brightly it rises,

Thou hast one friend at least, if thou canst not find more.

A WORD TO MOTHERS.

In the evening, when your children have prayed for pardon and peace, endeavor to infuse the spirit of that beautiful expression of the Psalmist, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety." At no time is the influence of a mother more valuable than when her children are retiring to rest. It is then, that having ceased from the business and pleasures of the day, their minds are quieted, their feelings more tender, and more fitted for the reception of religious impressions. Happy it is if the spirit of her own heart be such as to enable her to make use of these favored moments; to make use of them as opportunities for withdrawing the hearts of her children, "from things which are temporal," and of fixing deeper and more lively impressions of those which are eternal."