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their trials. He ascended the scaffold, went through the same ceremonies, and was despatched with the same quickness. Fieschi was the hero of the piece. The multitude waited with impatience for his last appearance.' He ascended the fatal steps. His face was pallid as death. When he had reached the platform, he turned toward the people, his head averted from the axe, and prepared to address them a few words. Intense silence instantly prevailed. He spoke in a tremulous voice, scarcely audible even at the short distance at which I was. He said, referring to his testimony before the Peers, 'J'ai dit la verité,' or 'toute la verité,' for we differed among ourselves as to the exact words which he uttered, and even the journals of the next morning gave contradictory accounts. He was lashed to the machine, and his head rolled from his shoulders in an instant. When the last blow of the guillotine had been struck, and the execution was over, I scanned with interest the crowd beneath my feet. They were evidently deeply excited. An indistinct murmur indicated a muttering of words not meant to be heard. I could feel that there was a struggle to suppress their emotions. The cars with the bodies, and the great mass of the military, began to move off; a few remained to guard the workmen who were already busy in taking down the scaffold. The crowd was dispersing. I lingered some fifteen minutes on the ground, and before I left, scarcely a timber of the scaffolding remained, to show where the guillotine had been. From the time that Pepin ascended the steps, until the head of Fieschi was severed from his body, there elapsed less than four minutes! In this time, three men had ascended the scaffold, been executed, and one had made a speech to the people. Here was the perfection of machinery, with a vengeance! I returned to my lodgings, through the gardens of the Tuilleries; and as I passed under the windows of the royal apartments, I reflected that the man who had brought those poor creatures to the scaffold, felt less concern for the sacrifice, than I, who had been but a witness of the butchery.

A TRAVELLER.

SONNET.

THOU art my idol: I will bow to thee!

Sweet flowers I'll bring thee, as the early chime
Of the gray morning. I will pray old Time

To wait beside me, while I fondly free

Each inner thought and feeling of my breast;
These shall I offer thee upon thy shrine,

Most happy, if such idle gift as mine

May win thy favor, and thus make me blest.

What shall I bring thee else? The thought that fain

Would prompt a gift of flowers, or fruits, or aught,

Is the emotion of a true heart, wrought

To sole devotedness! and when I've lain
The heart itself before you, I bestow

Thought, feeling, action-with the flowers, you know.

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THE immense forests which cover the interior of the State of Maine, extend from within a short distance of her seaboard over the vast tract which stretches from the St. Croix to the head waters of the Kennebec and Saco rivers. From these wilds, an almost inexhaustible supply of valuable white pine timber is obtained by the enterprising inhabitants. This timber is manufactured into boards and other available lumber, in mills occupying the rivers and streams, upon whose waters the logs are floated by the spring freshets, from the swamps in which they were cut the preceding winter. The toils, privations and dangers, attendant upon this mode of life, have given a character of hardihood and enterprise to the lumbermen of Maine, which can alone account for the wealth and intelligence so conspicuous in this part of our country. The following poem commences at a time when the lumbermen are supposed to be starting into the wilderness, on a logging expedition, with their ox teams, implements, and provisions, for a winter's campaign. The time chosen for the journey is after a snow or sleet storm, which usually succeeds a hard frost, at the setting in of the winter season. The woods then are hung with icicles, and the snow beneath forms a smooth, hard crust, upon which they travel with ease and safety. Their departure is chosen at night, that they may have sufficient time to perform the journey by sunset on the following day, the greater part of their way being through an untracked wilderness.

HARK! hark! the north winds call 'Away!'
And swiftly falls the crystal spray,

While lake, nor bog, nor hill give back,
One vestige of the hidden track;
Away! away! o'er the frozen tide;
Away! o'er rock and mountain-side;
Above our heads the pine-tree's bough
With pearls of ice is bending now;
While, pinioned fast beneath our feet,
The broom is bound with silvery sleet.

Press on press on! the 'north-light's shroud'
Beams o'er our path like Israel's cloud,

And steadily our patient team

Trace through the gloom its phantom gleam:
Afar the ring of springing feet

Is heard in distant forest-beat,*

While carriboo and dun-deer bound

Across our way, with startling sound.

Huzza! Behold the morning break
Around the night, on yonder lake!
Less fearful echoes now our tread,
Less ominous those hemlocks shed
Above our path their curtain'd gloom,
Like Egypt's dark and column'd tomb;
Cheer up! cheer up! the sun's warm ray
Shall pierce our forest-cloud to-day:
All night our cautious course has been
Through springing shafts and arches green,
With more of modesty than Rome
Can boast in her high-altar'd dome,

With more of grace than Greece' fair isles
E'er fashioned in their sculptured piles.
The seasons here conspiring prest,
To form the bower each loved the best;
Pale Spring, upon her mossy bed,
In slumber droops her weary head,
Where soft green cedars o'er her wave,
And murmuring founts her low couch lave.
Then Summer smiles; the budding leaf
Is borne upon her zephyr breath,

* In the northern parts of Maine, the snow falls to such a depth, that it is impossible for the deer to procure their usual food while roaming through the forest; they, therefore, assemble or herd together in the fall, upon some spot where the shrub called ground-hemlock abounds. The deer subsist upon the leaves of this evergreen plant, and are enabled to procure it by treading the snow from around its branches, as often as it falls during the season. This spot is called the deer or moose beat, by the hunters.

And Spring, disturbed by nestling flowers,
Flies off before the joyous hours.

Bright Autumn, then, to grace her bower,
Changes the hue of leaf and flower;
Her soft, rich form would scarce be seen
Clothed with these shades of sullen green;
And gaudily she decks her bed

With crimson leaf, and flowrets red.
Now Winter comes, wild, boisterous sire!
He snatched the curtain'd robes, in ire,
Which Autumn round her bower had hung,
And to the winds their glories flung.
He said, 'Unto this bower of mine,
Give the dark robing of the pine;

I'll wreath their boughs with pearls again,
And bind them with a diamond chain!"

How gloriously these arches pour,
Their wild, rich flood of grandeur o'er
The pure unsullied, snow-white wreath,

Which Winter's hand hath thrown beneath!
And not a whispering murmur calls
In echoes through these gorgeous halls,
To break the soft, low symphony
Of breathing winds in lofty tree.
Onward, still onward, we have pressed,
Mid scenes with solemn beauty dressed;
And hard we'll strive to pitch our camp
This night beneath Ktadin's Lamp.*
The sun's last lingering rays have shed
Their glory round the mountain's head,
And some faint gleams of fleeting day
Above yon column'd arches play;
Where that calm, soft, mysterious light,
Beams pure and still from yonder height.

Hail, mighty shades! again we've prest
Our couch beneath thine awful rest;
But no glad voice to thee we bring,
No welcome greets our wandering;
Thy proudest pines are hurled beneath

The woodman's axe, like falling leaf;
We triumph o'er thy dread array,

And ope thy temples to the day.

Hail to thy power, twice-shadowed Night!
How awfully thy dreamy flight

Recalls the spirits of the past,

With dim forms hov'ring on the blast;

While snow-crowned hemlocks darkly wave,

Like sea-foam o'er the billow's grave:

Secure beneath this solemn shade,
To rest our weary beasts are laid;"
While far above, the tempest-path,
Is swept with wings of chilling wrath.
Stern Winter's hand, with fingers cold,
Hath bound each lake with crystal mould,
While o'er their heads the spirit-dance
Of gleaming north-lights wildly glance.
The moose, swift antlered forest-steed,
Turns back, amid his rushing speed,
And dark his eye and lip of foam
Above our forest watch-fires gloam.

KTADIN is one of the highest mountains in Maine. It is situated on the head waters of the Penobscot river. On the brow of a precipice, rising some thousands of feet above a lake, at the foot of the mountain, there is huge ledge of mica slate, over which runs a small stream of clear water. This reflects the rays of the sun by day, or the light of the moon by night, with remarkable brilliancy. It can be seen eight or ten miles, and is supposed by the hunters to be some precious stone, of great value. It is called 'Ktadin's Carbuncle Lamp.'

J

Now, loud above the night-wind's sigh,
Is heard the fox' wild piercing cry;
Then, echoing to the lonely owl,
The wolf peals forth his mournful howl,
While safely in his moss-lined lair,
The snow-wreaths shroud the torpid bear.

Hail! once again, thy temple proud,
O Nature! formed not for the crowd;
How soft these tuneful arches bind
The solemn voices of the wind;
And here, while their low whisperings tell,
Amid our dreams, their soothing spell,
While low, beneath thy columns stern,
Our calm red tent-fires brightly burn,
We hear, wild-muttering o'er our sleep,
The voice of tempest-watchmen deep!
And start, as every shrill-toned blast
Cries out aloft the hour that's past.
Our mighty harvest shields us now,
Fit cov'ring for a freeman's brow;
Peace, awful shades! we will not reap
This solemn grove; still watchful keep
Aloft amid those mantling forms,
The mighty voices of the storms;
While o'er yon stately pine-trees proud,
With plumed heads, breaking yon dark cloud,
The logger's sweeping axe shall sound,
And ringing 'mid their crashing bound,
Shall gather from the column'd spoil,
Rich trophies for our lonely toil,
Till the soft-breathing voice of Spring
Recalls our weary wandering.

THE KUSHOW PROPERTY.

A TALE OF CROW-HILL, LONG-ISLAND: CONCLUDED FROM THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER.

THE reader took leave of the hero of this sketch, in the last number, just as he was about setting forth to attend the sale, at the Merchants' Exchange, of 'that valuable property, known as the estate of Robert Kushow, Esq., of Crow-Hill, Long-Island.' In order to kill two birds with one stone, he resolved to carry with him a load of hay, which could be readily disposed of, without detaining him. So having 'forked it' on the wagon, and harnessed the mules, he went to the house to take a hasty breakfast. Having no appetite, he merely swallowed a cup of coffee, and took his hat and whip to depart, while his wife brought out a great green bag, drawn together with strong strings, and neatly folded, which she had made at his own request, to bring home the ten per cent. As she delivered it into his hands, however, standing on the threshhold, she uttered these mystic words: 'Robin, Robin, don't count your chickens before they're hatched!'

A smile shot over his sharp features, at this token of incredulity. 'Woman,' quoth he, 'I have no patience with you;' and with that, sprang whistling to the side of his mules, which jogged on at a smart pace down the hill. His wife stood leaning over the door, until the descending wagon was out of sight; then drawing in her cap, and breathing a fond wish, she directed her rapid step to the dairy. Many

VOL. XII.

37

and anxious were the thoughts that passed through her mind that day, as she sat at the wheel, or toiled at the needle. What if Robert should succeed in his undertaking!'. And when she came to think of it, why might n't he, as well as other folks? Why there were many little things which it was no harm to wish for. She had the laudable ambition of a woman caring not for herself, but for her husband, her children, her cornelian jewels. She would like to send them to the academy at Jamaica, when they got old enough; and for the eldest boy, she had a suspicion, which she had n't so much as breathed to any one, that he was an uncommon child a genius. With proper culture, he might become a clergyman, a lawyer, or any thing else that he had a mind to turn his hand to. These were pleasant thoughts, springing up spontaneously, and readily finding a place in the mind. But what if Robin should not succeed? Ah! that was an idea she did not trust herself to think of. In the cool of the afternoon, a friendly neighbor stepped in, and they talked the matter over, discussing it in all its bearings. It was set down as at least probable, that the place would be sold. 'To be sure,' said the dame, as she adjusted her cap, and thrust her knitting needles into the ball of yarn, when she arose to depart, 'to be sure, we should be very sorry to lose so good a neighbor, though I say it. But I aint so selfish as to hinder other people's prosperity, if I could, and may be you wont go fur, after all. And,' continued she, still holding the latch, and lingering on the threshhold, while she took reiterated pinches of snuff, 'your good man is n't one that would begrudge to do a kind thing, if he was rich, nor be too proud to speak to a body, as some that I could mention if I choose; but you know who I mean, well enough. Luddi! they don't impose on me with their airs. I know them!' And so saying, with a triumphant toss of the head, and applying her right thumb and forefinger, charged with the best rose-scented Maccaba, to either nostril, and inhaling it violently three times, she departed, swinging her reticule as she went.

As for Robin, when he left home, he wound carefully down the rocky hills, and arrived ere long upon the level turnpike. An incident, however, occurred on the journey, which, if it be considered a small thing, and not worthy of mention, I shall beg pardon for detaining the reader. But it is presumption to call any thing small, which is the result of God and nature. Small causes, it is tritely observed, produce great events, and the most fragile feather will suffice to tickle a corpulent man to death. Small causes have determined a man's whole life and character, whether for good or for evil. They have given rulers, statesmen, and generals to their country, or have inflicted upon it the curse of bad men. They have involved whole nations in protracted wars, or have cemented the most firm alliance. Could grand results be certainly traced to their remoter causes, they would be found to diminish greatly, as a large river dwindles into an insignificant and hardly-to-be-discovered source.

The incident was simply this. In coming down a declivity, the right hand front wheel of the wagon sank to the hubs in a deep 'rut,' occasioned by the late rains. The superincumbent mass of hay leaned, hesitated for a moment in equilibrio, then indicating a preference for the ground, very softly went over. At the same moment,

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