DE-TAY-A-LA'S VISION.

EARLY in the sixteenth century, when the peninsula which now forms the city of Boston was a wilderness, a tribe of Indians dwelt in a little village, consisting of about forty wigwams, on the easterly side, and near the top, of that high mountain afterwards called Beacon Hill.

The whole land was thickly covered with trees of primeval growth; oaks of a thousand summers threw their gigantic shadows over the settlement of the peaceful tribe.

On the rocky summit of the mountain, as if pointing to the sky, was one tall tree, a dark, majestic evergreen, the far-seen guide to the spring of living water at its base. The value of this spring was apparent from the number of foot-paths seen winding from its margin in every direction around the mountain-paths not beaten by the Indian's foot alone; the wild animals of the forest all drank at the same fountain.

In the year 1505, a dreadful pestilence passed

over the land; more than half of the population were swept away by its cruel desolation.

Through the autumn of that eventful year, wherever the mighty river united with the ocean, or the rivulet with the torrent, or the limpid brook flowed noiselessly into the lake, might be seen, on the ground consecrated to the final rest of the weary wanderer, the mourning Indians weeping over the new-made graves.

The council fire was often burning; for it was known to all the Indians along the coast, that strange people, in big canoes, were visiting their shores.

Many of the aged prophets had an awful presentiment that the Great Spirit had determined to remove them from the land of their fathers, to make room for another race. They had frequent and long talks on the necessity of seeking a home nearer the setting sun; but their talks invariably closed with a lamentation for the dead.

Such was the situation of the Abenakis tribe, when, late one afternoon, as the young and beautiful De-tay-a-la, the only surviving child of the aged sachem, was rambling down the mountain, rapt in deep meditation, the extended shadow of the signal-tree pointing to the ocean

arrested her attention. The sun was going down. De-tay-a-la stopped, and, casting a look around, her eyes finally rested on the spot where her mother, and brothers, and sisters, lay buried from her sight.

Suddenly a powerful determination took possession of her mind, and, in a kind of rapture, she exclaimed, "The time has come!"

She sprang swiftly forward, and, bounding along the path, one only feeling filled her soul. The birds were singing their sweetest notes among the thick branches over her head; but she heard them not; the shadows of evening began to fill the dark forest, assuming unearthly yet seemingly real forms, such as had often solaced her lonely hours; but she heeded them not; – her thoughts were on a far-distant spot, and, like the arrow from her bow, onward she sped, nor paused until she reached the shore and leaped into her light canoe.

In a moment she was away, gliding across the water.

The evening was calm and bright. On such a night, the enthusiastic De-tay-a-la would often linger for hours on some promontory, picturing in her imagination fairy forms where the shadows and moonlight met upon the water;

or, wafted about in her canoe, she would muse on the almost equally unreal and shadowy traditions of her fathers.

But, on that memorable night, she sought a haven far away in the deep shades of a lonely recess, where no sound was heard save the monotonous roar of the ever-restless ocean beating upon the strand, and, at intervals, a low moaning of the wind, which at first appeared to her like a voice of sorrow, from the cliffs high above her head; and then it seemed to proceed from beneath the rocks, from the chasm where the waters rolled in darkness; - all else was still. There, amid the awful grandeur of nature's deepest solitude, the high-souled Indian maiden sought the spirit of the wilderness, to commune on the sorrows of her tribe.

Hours had passed, the moon had gone down, when De-tay-a-la, elevated above all thoughts of her own loneliness by the sacred assurance of consolation for her tribe, returned homeward over the bay.

Thick darkness covered the landthat heavy darkness which immediately precedes the dawn of day. The council fire was still burning,

the sages of the tribe had lingered for hours with intense but mournful anxiety for some prophetic ray to guide them in their future course, when De-tay-a-la entered the circle with a countenance irradiated by thoughts of high and sacred import. All eyes were bent upon her, as she solemnly proclaimed, "A mansion is prepared for our dead- a place of rest, where the white man's foot shall never pass !" At that moment her eyes meeting the keen, inquiring glance of the aged chief her father, she continued, "When the rising sun shall have driven the darkness into the caves of the earth, you will see, far out upon the ocean, a lofty arch thrown across the water from land to land there our dear, departed friends shall have a quiet sanctuary; but they alone whose hearts are twined with kindred hearts reposing there, can ever see the beauties of that triumphal arch. Millions shall view it only as a dark storm-cloud, or a vast accumulation of vapor; the mariner shall sail beneath, unconscious of its existence; it will not be always visible, but it will be always there. When the east winds blow, the portals of that mighty fabric shall be thrown open; but the blast shall creep silently through the galleries where