ble sovereignty and passive obedience. And these two masters very effectually taught her that lesson. She was then prepared to reaffirm, in all its essentials, the judgment of the regicides-to fling from her forever both that incurable breed of despots, and the doctrines of despotism they had taught her. The revolution of 1688 was but that of 1648 repeated, mutatis mutandis, and bating the blood. And henceforth whoso would reign in England must hold by another tenure, and demean himself in another style from that of the Stuarts.

The true honor of the regicides is that they discerned and dared to pronounce the real judgment of England; and their crime was that they pronounced it with such emphasis, and forty years before England knew her own meaning. They stood up before the world and proclaimed the true tenure of kingship, and sternly illustrated the amenability of the monarch to the law. Their act was stern. In any narrow view of the times it was impolitic. To the immediate interests of English freedom it was disastrous. But who is competent to say, that measured broadly by the great movement in which it had its place, and estimated by its whole influence on the subsequent history of England and the world, it was not eminently the deed for the times? But for that deed going down into all English minds, and working in them through the darker ages of suffering and dishonor that were to come, and compelling all men to handle in their thoughts this question of the kingly tenure, who shall say that a wholly different history of England had not been to be written from that day to this? They who did that deed, hid themselves in what ends of the earth they might, or paid the forfeit with their blood. But their deed would not hide, and could not be hanged and quartered. That remained for men to gaze at and think of. A tempest of honor and malediction rose against it, to the heart's content of King and court. The nation vociferously repudiated the deed. Nevertheless it was bread cast upon the waters to be found after many days. The seed dropped through the angry waves down into the soil beneath, and struck root and bore fruit in after times.

And not only was that act an influential element in the subsequent reform of English royalty; it was a deed not done in a corner. It had a significance for all Europe. The sound of it went over the continent, everywhere causing the ears of despots to tingle, and stirring the hearts of oppressed millions with they knew not what of hope. It has been felt as a prescience in all the closets of despotism. The world over the kingly condition has not been what it was, before that beacon glared on them across the channel. The English regicide was one of those signal and striking events which catch the eyes of men and impress their hearts. It contained a doctrine and taught it effectually. It quickened every one of those new ideas already working in European society, which have since then availed at least to put an end forever to peaceful oppression. It had its place among the influences that have everywhere made men restless under tyranny, each generation more resentful of absolute domination, and more ardently panting for a liberty which yet it has lacked the capacity to

realize. It helped to originate those revolutionary currents which have swept and are still sweeping kingdoms and kings, people and potentates, onward through the terrible vortices of revolution, never to be arrested till the nations shall be free. Alas! for the work that is made of it! Alas! for the scenes of frenzy and blood in which freedom is made to blush for its advocates, and the shadow is again and again turned back on the dial of history! But there is hope in it. Fallen Hungary shall yet arise, and her banished heroes will not have suffered in vain. In Italy the breaking night shall yet give place to day. And France, duped, infatuate, recreant France-she that sprang first to the race, and should have been now at the goal, she too shall return and walk once more with dear-bought wisdom, and with success, over the course she has once lost by phrenzy, and once by fraud.

And it was but our right that some of those regicides should lay their bones with us.

We too were preparing in due time to sit in judgment on kings, and thanks in no small measure to their deed, and in some measure to their presence amongst us, our judgment did not differ very greatly from theirs. The day of trial had not yet come, but here, beyond what the whole earth could give them elsewhere, they found a spirit that could sympathize with theirs. It was not safe caverns in our hills alone, and quiet groves in village greens, that they found among us. The spirit was already abroad that developed itself fully a century later. The declaration of Independence was working in men's hearts, and getting itself ready to be uttered. And well might those who like these men, had dared all things for liberty, who felt themselves competent to judge a king, find their last refuge here. And when, two centuries after, the ashes of one of those men are unearthed among us, we may well gaze on them reverently-for this man was one of the prophets of Freedom.

Conoosa.

A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.

T. C. D.

WHO hath not heard with wonder of that vale
Where Mohawk rolls his lazy stream along?-
Where Nature now her fairest scenes unfolds-
Anon displays her wildest, grandest forms?

With seeming fondness hang Italian skies,
And o'er the outspread plains and hills beneath
Pour genial warmth; and wake to gladsome life
All things that sleep, in robes of beauty wrapped;
And clothe with flowers and brightness every spot,
Surpassing far our dreams of loveliness.

VOL.XV.

Long years ago-before the white man came-
Those sunny hills and meadows stretching far,
Had ne'er been taught to yield their fruit to man,
But mighty forests waved their rugged arms
In solemn grandeur; and their leafy tongues
To passing breezes whispered dreamily,
And seemed to speak with dotage of their youth.
"Twas long-oh! long before these noble elms-
The proudly arching glories of our time-
Had fixed their infant roots in forest soil,
And in the dimly-lighted woodland glades
Unfolded first their leaves and grew to strength:
'Twas long before a Pilgrim Father here

Had stayed his wandering feet, and knelt in prayer
And praise, and lifted up his grateful heart to God.

This valley, then, the 'redman' called his home;-
Amid its forests dwelt; and on its hills
Chased with his bow the timid, spotted deer;
And on its waters urged his light canoe,
And when the waning evening's purple light
Glowed in the western sky, and through the leaves
Stole down and bathed his lodge in ruddy light,
He thought that Maneto had blessed the vale-
The loveliest nook of earth, save Wyoming.

"Tis of those times this simple legend speaks-
Its scene this valley. Those of whom it tells
Gave to its stream the name it bears-their own-
And sent their memory down to later days,
Clad in the garb which ancient legends wear.

But ere their simple story utterance find,
Come back, in thought, with me, and in those times
As 'twas, behold it now. For words are weak;
But Fancy's wing, though 't soar among the stars
From loftier flights, may deign perchance to stoop,
And hovering, outspread, o'er the humble theme
A shade of beauty cast; come then with me-
Upborne by a fragile bark of graceful form,
Long since shaped out by rudely skillful hands,
Float slowly down the darkly shaded stream-
Mark countless beauties as we glide along,
And view, at length, our legend's ancient home.

Lo! where, among the rocks, the waters dash,
And gush, and seethe, and fly about in spray,
Now leaping o'er some brink-a foaming mass-
Or rushing down some slope with furious speed,
And spinning round in dizzy vortices
Unceasingly. But ere their flow is swift,
A blooming islet, with its front opposed,
Divides their band; a stream on either side
At once begins the hurrying, swift descent,
And dashing torrents, foaming, meet below.

Take here your stand, and with me view the scene.
Above, the waters come a silent stream,

And forest monarchs line the fertile shores,

And bound the vision with their leafy shade;
On either side are sloping, rock-ribbed banks;
These forests clothe, between whose shaggy trunks,

31

crowned with woods.

And o'er whose waving boughs the eye can catch
The rocky ramparts of th' eternal hills—
Grown gray with age-moss-hung-and
Below, a mingled scene of woods and rocks
And waters wildly dashing, meets the eye,
And, built of during granite, high cliffed isles,
With scattered shrubs and scanty herbage clothed,
Save where from these and from the parent rock
The lapse of countless years, with slow decay,
Hath wrought a soil more genial: there arise
Low, stunted pines and cedars thick with gloom,
While at their feet and 'neath their sombre shade

Bright wild flowers spring and cheer the dreary waste.
Bold beetling cliffs o'erhang the dismal scene,
And on the scattered, shapeless rocks below
Frown proudly: 'tis a place of rocks and shade-
Ostoneoye.

But beauty robes the isle;

Upon its borders arching elms entwine

Their spreading branches,-up whose aged trunks
The woodbine creeps, and hides the shaggy bark
Beneath a robe of green; and willows bend
And trail their flexile branches in the stream.

With vine-clad trees, and thickly scattered flowers,
And softened sunbeams trembling 'mong the leaves

Thus beautiful-it hath a charm of place

Which adds to every beauty sweeter power:

Upon the very verge it rests between

The beautiful, and that which hath no grace

Beyond the light upcurling watercrest,

"Tween smiles and frowns-'tween light and dismal gloom:

Above the waters sleep-below they surge

Above, a thousand warbling throats resound

Below, the hoarsely-roaring waterfall :

And ranged round all, the time gray battlements
Of rock, like guardians, smile upon their ward,
And frown on all beside.

Such was the place,
And Oneontha there had built his lodge,
Upon the island, 'neath its pleasing shades.
'Twas rudely formed-the work of savage skill-
The work of hands that oftener, dyed in gore,
Found warm delight, than using peaceful art.

But woman's hand displayed its gentler skill,
The clambering woodbine, and the tendrilled vine,
By gentle training wooed to change their course,
Obeyed Conoosa's guiding hand, and turned,
Checked in their wanderings, to the humble lodge,
And o'er it poured their wealth of rustling leaves,
And lent their folds of changeful drapery
To hide its rudeness and to give it grace.
There Oneontha dwelt:-far up the stream
Dwelt his war-men, and chosen warriors held
The rocky entrance toward the rising sun,
Where bloody foemen ranged-the Mengwe, fierce
To stain their ruthless hands with Mohawk blood.
And with him there in sweet seclusion dwelt
Conbosa; fond she was-and loved her lord.

While she was yet unused to the changing years, One only sister, younger and more fair

To look upon, beside her, passed in play

The dreamy hours of Summer: Winter came

And passed-and Spring; and the third Summer came,
And with its passing breezes fanned her cheek-
Her fevered cheek-for health was there no more.

The Great Spirit pitied the suffering child,
And when the chilling winds of Autumn blew,
And snowflakes 'gan to hide the dusky earth,
He kindly took her to His loving breast,

And made the happy hunting-grounds her home.
Conoosa grieved that she had lost her mate,
But mourned not long: as the falling pebble breaks
The rest of quiet waters, causing waves

To roll in widening circles to the shore,

So the death of one she loved, wild tumult waked
Within her bosom, and it heaved with grief:

But less and less the wavelets swell in bulk,
And longer, slower, dying surges roll,
Till all is still,-again the waters sleep.
So sorrow's pulses, in the early years

Of childhood, move the placid stream of joy

At first more harshly; then with fainter power;
And more faint-till it flows again in peace.

So passed away Conoosa's earnest grief,

And all, once more, seemed bathed in sunny light.

The noiseless march of years went slowly by,
And brought no change-save that she grew in years,'
And simple grace of savage womanhood-
Till she became a bride-till she, the fair

And frail one, clung to the man of mighty deeds,
And owned him lord-the master of her will.

Then she, with varying solace, whiled away
The hours that passed, in dreamy loneliness,
From early morn, till dewy eve. At times
She plucked the simple flow'rets from the turf-
Fair types of her own pure simplicity-
Or listened to the cheering notes of birds,
And grew as glad, and light in heart, as they ;-
Then turned, and wondered that the sunny light
Not yet was tinged with redness from the West,
To tell the coming of the absent one;
And when she heard his paddle's rapid dip,
Made haste to meet him at the sandy cove,

Where, (ended now the day,) he moored his bark;
Then, fondly clinging to his tawny arm,

With eager tone, besought him to unfold

The various dangers of the long-long day

How he had met them-how o'ercome them all

Then joyed in his success, and told her tale

Of all the wo and gladness she had known

In that long solitude, from morn till night.

Thus time passed on, by gladsome meetings marked, Till on her knee there played an infant boy. Unheeded then, the hours flew swiftly by,

And brought no thought of weariness. She cared