VI:

Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo,

If you do, like me,

You will repent, by jingo.

Thomas Hood.

THE INDIAN CHIEFTAIN.

'TWAS late in the autumn of '53

That, making some business-like excuse, I left New York, which is home to me, And went on the cars to Syracuse.

Born and cradled in Maiden Lane,
I went to school in Battery Row,
Till when, my daily bread to obtain,
They made me clerk to Muggins & Co.

But I belonged to a genteel set

Of clerks with souls above their sphere, Who night after night together met,

To feast on intellectual cheer.

We talked of Irving and Bryant and Spratt

Of Willis, and how much they pay him per page—
Of Sontag and Julien and Art, and all that—
And-what d'ye call it ?—the Voice of the Age!

We wrote little pieces on purling brooks

And meadow and zephyr and sea and sky,

Things of which we have seen good descriptions in books, And the last, between houses some sixty feet high!

Somehow in this way my soul got fired;

I wanted to see, and hear, and know

The glorious things that our hearts inspired-
The things that sparkled in poetry so!

And I had heard of the dark-browed braves
Of the famous Onondaga race,

Who once paddled the birch o'er Mohawk's waves,
Or swept his shores in war and the chase.

I'd see that warrior stern and fleet!

I'd

Aye, bowed though he be with oppression's abuse:his hand!- -so in Chambers Street

grasp

I took my passage for Syracuse.

Arrived at last, I gazed upon

The smoke-dried wigwam of the tribe :"The depot, sir," suggested one,—

I smiled to scorn the idle jibe.

Then to the baggage-man I cried,

"Oh! point me an Indian chieftain out! Rudely he grinned as he replied, "You'll see 'em loafin' all about!

Wounded I turn-when lo! e'en now
Before me stands the sight I crave!
I know him by his swarthy brow;
It is an Onondaga brave!

I know him by his falcon eye,

His raven tress and mien of pride ;-
Those dingy draperies, as they fly,
Tell that a great soul throbs inside!

No eagle-feathered crown he wears,
Capping in pride his kingly brow;
But his crownless hat in grief declares,
"I am an unthroned monarch now!"

"O noble son of a royal line,"

I exclaim as I gaze into his face, "How shall I knit my soul to thine;

How right the wrongs of thine injured race?

"What shall I do for thee, glorious one!

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires.

Speak! and say how the Saxon's son

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires!"

He speaks, he speaks !-that noble chief!
From his marble lips deep accents come;
And I catch the sound of his mighty grief:-
"Ple' gi me tree cent for git some rum!"

IV.

DIALOGUES, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED.

BRUTUS.

Adapted from the Tragedy of that name by John Howard Payne. Characters:-BRUTUS, VALERIUS, LUCRETIUS, COLLATINUS, CITIZENS.

SCENE. A street in Rome.

Enter VALERIUS and LUCRETIUS, R.

Val. Words are too feeble to express the horror
With which my soul revolts against this Tarquin.
By poison he obtained his brother's wife,
Then, by a baser murder, grasped the crown!
These eyes beheld that ancient monarch, thrown
Down from the senate-house-his feeble limbs
Bruised by the pavement-his time-honored locks,-
Which from the very robber would have gained
Respect and veneration-bathed in blood!
With difficulty raised, and tottering homeward,
The murderers followed-struck him—and he died!
Luc. Inexpiable crime!

Val. High in her regal chariot, Tullia came-
The corpse lay in the street.

The charioteer

Turned back the reins in horror. "On, slave, on!
Shall dead men stop my passage to a throne?”
Exclaimed the parricide. The gore was dashed
From the hot wheels up to her diadem!

Luc. And Heaven's avenging lightnings were withheld.
Here rules this Tullia, while the king, her husband,
Wastes our best blood, in giddy, guilty war!
Spirit of Marcus Junius!-Would the gods
Deign to diffuse thy daring through the land,

Rome from her trance with giant spirit would start,
Dash off her fetters, and amaze the world!

Val. Junius, didst say? Oh! tyranny long since
Had sunk-chained-buried in its native hell-
But Tarquin, trembling at his virtues, murdered
Him and his elder son. The younger, Lucius,
Then on his travels, 'scaped the tyrant's sword,
But lost his reason at their fearful fall.

Enter BRUTUS, R.

Luc. Ay, the same Lucius, who now dwells with Tarquin, The jest, the fool, the laughing-stock o' th' court, Whom the young princes always carry with 'em

To be the butt of their unfeeling mirth.

Val. Hold! I hear steps. Great things may yet be done, If we are men, and faithful to our country.

[Exeunt, L. Brutus. [Alone.] 'Tis not these things that ruffle me, the gibes

And scornful mockeries of ill-governed youth-
Or flouts of dastard sycophants and jesters-
Reptiles, who lay their bellies on the dust
Before the frown of majesty !-All this
I but expect, nor grudge to bear; the face
I carry, courts it! Son of Marcus Junius!
When will the tedious gods permit thy soul.
To walk abroad in her own majesty,

And throw this vizor of thy madness from thee,
To avenge my father's and my brother's murder?
(And sweet, I must confess, would be the draught!)
Had this been all, a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow-and my own life
I had not valued as a rush.-But still—
There's something nobler to be done!-My soul,
Enjoy the strong conception! Oh! 'tis glorious
To free a groaning country—

To see Revenge

Spring like a lion from the den, and tear

These hunters of mankind! Grant but the time,
Grant but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this idiot-feignéd life

To late old age, and may posterity
Ne'er hear of Junius but as Tarquin's fool!
Ha! yonder goes Valerius !—I will test him!
Valerius,-ho!

Val. Who calls me?

Bru. Brutus.

Val. Go, get thee to bed!
Bru. Valerius!

Valerius is departing.

Val. Peace,

Thou foolish thing! Why dost thou call so loud?
Bru. Because I will be heard. The time may come
When thou mayst want a fool.

Val. Pr'ythee, begone!

I have no time to hear thy prattle now.
Bru. By Hercules, but you must hear,
Val, You'll anger me.

[Seizing his arm.

Bru. Waste not your noble anger on a fool"Twere a brave passion in a better cause. Val. Thy folly's cause enough.

Bru. Rail not at folly

There's but one wise,

And him the gods have killed.

Val. Killed?

Bru. Behold!

Whom?

Where in the storm last night the forkód flash
Struck down the statue of Tarquinius

And shattered it in pieces! Dost thou see!
Oh, sight of pity!-Majesty in ruins!

Down on your knees-down to your kingly idol!
Val. Let slaves and sycophants do that: not I.
Bru. Wilt thou not kneel?

Val. Begone;

Valerius kneels not to the living Tarquin.

Bru. Indeed!-Belike you wish him laid as low?
Val. What if I do?

Bru. Jove tells thee what to do

Strike!-Oh! the difference 'twixt Jove's wrath and thine!

He, at the crownéd tyrant aims his shaft:

Thou, mighty man, would'st frown a fool to silence.
And spurn poor Brutus from thee.

Val. What is this?

Let me look nearer at thee. Is thy mind,

That long-lost jewel, found ?-and Lucius Junius,

Dear to my heart, restored? Or art thou Brutus,
The scoff and jest of Rome, and this a fit

Of intermittent reason?

Bru. I am Brutus!

Folly, be thou my goddess! I am Brutus,

If thou wilt use me so!-If not, farewell.

Why dost thou pause? Look on me! I have limbs,
Parts and proportions, shoulders strong to bear,

And hands not slow to strike! What more than Brutus
Could Lucius Junius do?

Val. A cause like ours