lude, and was about to commence, when Mrs. Quaintley arrested her hands, and begged her 'jist to wait a few minutes.' During the pause thus made, the toothless Mr. Scroggins, who was too bashful to come of his own accord, was violently dragged in by his aunt, to get the full benefit of the music. When attention was again restored, and while the whole company were grouped about the instrument, and Diana, and Flummery, and the other domestics peeped in at the door, Miss McTab began. She played the Battle of Prague, exhibiting the effects of that remarkable piece in a manner to elicit universal approbation; for in the midst of the martial music which inspired the soldiery, you could hear the rolling of drums, and the roaring of cannon, and the discharge of musquetry, and the shouts of victory, and the groans of the dying. All present were struck with the similarity of the sounds, and Rainbeau himself greatly moved. Ah!' said he, What a sweet air!'

Nothing would satisfy the company but that Miss McTab should play it over again; and I verily thought, that in the tremendous onset of the second engagement, and during some of the discharges of artillery, the ancient harpsichord would dissolve into its original elements of wood, ivory, and wire, and exist no more. Happily, however, the thunders ceased, and the smoke cleared away, and just at that time the old clock in the corner striking nine, the company put on their hoods and departed.

POLAN, a chief of the Sokokis Indians, the original inhabitants of the country lying between Agamenticus, and Casco Bay, was killed in a skirmish at Windham, on the Sebago lake, in the spring of 1756. He claimed all the lands on both sides of the Presumpscot river to its mouth at Casco, as his own. He was shrewd, subtle, and brave. After the white men had retired, the surviving Indians 'swayed' or bent down a young tree until its roots were turned up, placed the body of their chief beneath them, and then released the tree to spring back to its former position.

I.

AROUND Sebago's lonely lake

There lingers not a breeze to break
The mirror which its waters make.

II.

The solemn pines along its shore,

The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er,
Are painted on its glassy floor.

III.

The sun looks o'er with hazy eye,

The snowy mountain-tops, which lie

Piled coldly up against the sky.

IV.

Dazzling and white! save where the bleak
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak,
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak.

V.

Yet green are Saco's banks below,
And belts of spruce and cedar show,

Dark fringing round those cones of snow.

VI.'

The earth hath felt the breath of Spring,

Though yet upon her tardy wing

The lingering frosts of Winter cling.

VII.

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks,

And mildly from its sunny nooks

The blue eye of the violet looks.

VIII.

And odors from the springing grass,
The sweet birch, and the sassafras,
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass.

IX.

Her tokens of renewing care
Hath Nature scattered every where,
In bud, and flower, and warmer air.

X.

But in their hour of bitterness,

What reck the broken Sokokis,

Beside their slaughtered chief, of this?

* THE Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic faith. Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had

removed to the French settlements on the St. Francois.

*THE brutal and unchristian spirit of the early settlers of New-England toward the red man is strikingly illustrated in the conduct of the man who shot down the Sokokis chief. He used to say he always noticed the anniversary of that exploit, as 'the day on which he sent the devil a present.' VIDE WILLIAMSON'S HISTORY OF MAINE.

ON THE VOICE.

Ir was a beautiful compliment, that paid to an Italian lady by the distinguished cavalier, last lingering specimen as he was of the chivalric fervour, the Lord Herbert of Cherbury: Die whensoever thou wilt,' said he,' thou needest change neither face nor voice to be an angel.'

Faces we have among us here at hand on every side, that may well vie with Italian, or any other beauty but alas, my masters, for the VOICES! Alas, that so many of our belles, who need undergo a change so slight in any one other respect, to fit them for an entrance into paradise, should be stopped at the gates, as they must be, until they can be furnished with an entirely new endowment in this essential requisite ! Alas for the huge pile of cast-off nasal articulations that I behold clustered and heaped together against that outer wall of opal! Alas, for the husky impediments, the ear-piercing squeaks, the pistol-shot abruptnesses, the revolting harshnesses, the cracked-kettle intimations, the agonizing squeals, the slip-shod drawls, and the rumbling distances of sound, that must all be lost, cast away, abandoned, repudiated, and abjured, before those diamond Gates can possibly unfold to admit one of that bright host of beings of celestial origin, formed for man's irradiation and delight!

Now with us of the mere Masculine, words are, generally speaking, to be taken as the lawyers have it, pro tanto for as much as the ideas are worth that these words would in writing convey, without any reference whatever to sound but the dew of God's precious blessing of Woman descends upon the soul in the tones of her Voice; which, when she mars, she destroys one of the gifts that intimate eternity to man;' one of the sweetest compensations of life; and a charm, perhaps the most unfailing, that binds her lover to her image, when time, or distance, or death, shall have changed joy into recollection and regret.

Is it not so? When the wingéd Word comes back to revisit the soul in some moment of deep remembrance, however long the interval, does not the ethereal tone that first gave it life flutter again at the breast, and chime along the nerves, and make it impossible for the heart to change its fealty? Do not the hands and the arms involuntarily extend themselves toward the source of that remembered music, and the visited soul breathe forth the assurance, heard perhaps with joy in Heaven, 'I have been true to thee!'

And even in this our own sex, our own gross sex, man proper, man womanless - how precious is the gift of the pure voice! I would fain hope that some one who listens to me may have once heard old Incledon's Lads of the Village.' I will fancy thee, admired Reader, to be at this moment diving into thy recollection of the deep riches, the grand compass, the ever-new and unexpected openings, the liquid gushes, the flights, the dying falls, the woodland echoes, and all the miracles of sweetness, of that delicious and wonderful voice, which proved, better than any philosophy, that the seat of the soul is somewhere in the region of the heart and lungs. It spoke to us from thence. His throat was full of nightingales, with their Tereu, jug, jug, jug, hark to me now, hark ye!' and the buds opened, and the

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