own death, the sound of any approaching footstep. To get there, where he was, the Indian must have come, willing and prepared for, and expecting certain death; of what avail then the whole force of the government household?

There was a sword near the governor; he recollected having unbuckled it, and thrown it aside as he came in from exercising a troop of horse but a few hours before the council had assembled. "It was in a chair behind me," thought he, and "perhaps is there yet "-But how should he discover whether it was or not? He dares not shift his eye for a single instant from the Indian. But might he not amuse him for a moment, and grope for it without being perceived? How bravely the old man's spirit mounted in the endeavor!

He made the search; but his implacable foe, like one that delights in toying and trifling with, and mocking his victim, permitted the eager and trembling hand but to touch the hilt, not to grasp it-that were not so prudent. . . . The moment, therefore, that the searching fingers approached the hilt, the blanket fell from the shoulders of the Indian, and the bloody bayonet gleamed suddenly athwart the ceiling and flashed in the governor's eyes. The hand was withdrawn, as if smitten with electricity, from the distant sword; all defence and hope forgotten, and he locked his thin hands upon his bosom, bowed his head to the expected sacrifice, and fell upon his knees.

The countenance of the Indian could not be seen, but his solid proportions, like a block of shadow, could be distinguished in the uncertain light of the distant and dying lamps suspended from the ceiling-a bold, great outline, and sublime bearing, the more awful for their indistinctness; the more appalling as they resembled those of a colossal shadow only.

At this instant, a red light flashed across the court-yard, and streaming through the open window, touched the countenance of the Indian, and passed off like the reflection of crimson drapery, suddenly illuminated by lightning; voices were heard in a distant building, and iron hoofs rattled over the broad flag-stones of the far gateway. A few brief words were interchanged, and a shot was fired; the Indian's hand was upon the bayonet again, but the sounds passed away; . . . and the prostrate governor, who had kept an anxious eye upon the heavy doors of the hall, expecting, yet scarcely daring to pray for an approaching step, was beginning to yield anew to his terrible fate-when another step was heard, and a hand was laid upon the lock. The rattling of military accoutrements was heard, as the guard stepped aside and gave a countersign to some one approaching; and then a brief and stern echo, in the tone of unqualified authority, rang along the vaulted staircase, and the word pass! was heard.

Yes, yes! a hand was now upon the lock! The light in the apartment streamed fitfully up for a moment, and flared in the breeze from the window, so as to fill the whole room with shifting shadows.

The Indian motioned impatiently with his hand toward the door, and the governor, while his heart sank within him, arose on his feet and prepared to repel the intruder, whoever he might be-but he could not speak his voice had gone

The door was yielding to the hurried attempts of some one fumbling about for the lock;-and voices, in clamorous dispute, were heard approaching.

The governor tried again-"Begone! begone! for God's sake!" he cried, mingling the tone of habitual command with that of entreaty, and then recovering himself, with a feeling of shame added, in his most natural and assured manner, "Begone, whoever you are, begone!"

The noise ceased. The hand was withdrawn; and step by step, with the solid and prompt tread of a strong man, a soldier, in his youth, and accustomed to obedience, the intruder was heard descending.

There was another long silence, which each seemed unwilling to interrupt, while each numbered the departing footfalls. The chamber grew dark. It was impossible longer to distinguish objects. A low conference was held between the two. Tones of angry remonstrance, horror-threats-defiance-suppressed anguish-and then all was silent again as the house of death.

The governor spoke again-in a whisper at first, and then louder-a slight motion was heard near him-and he raised his voice. In vain, and the mysterious and death-like silence he found more insupportable than all that he had yet endured. Where was his foe at that instant?how employed?-ready perhaps to strike the bayonet through and through his heart at the very next breath! He could not endure it— no mortal could-he uttered a loud cry, and fell upon his face in convulsions.

In the morning, just as the dappled east began to redden with the new daylight, after a night of feverish and wild dreaming, the good old governor awoke exceedingly refreshed, and lay with his eyes shut, revolving the mysterious adventure of the preceding night in his mind. It was all in vain. He could remember nothing distinctly. That an apparition had been before him; that, somehow or other he had been engaged in mortal strife, he had a kind of dim and wavering, shadowy and uncertain recollection, but all else, with whom, and where, had been held the battle -all!—was gone, in the terror of the interview, and the long insensibility and agitation that succeeded. What he had dreamed appeared reality; and the real, as he strove in vain to recall the particular features, took the fantastic and shifting proportions of a dream.

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

HERE are harps that complain to the presence of night,

THERE

To the presence of night alone

In a near and unchangeable tone—

Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing-and flown!

Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;

Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light,

Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold

On the clouds that unfold,

Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides
On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides,
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides
Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne!

Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,

That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night.
There are hautboys and flutes too, forever at play
When the evening is near, and the sun is away,
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played-
By spirits, unseen and unknown,

But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes, alone,

In one sweet dreamy tone,

Are ever blown,

Forever and forever.

The live-long night ye hear the sound,

Like distant waters flowing round

In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls,

And rival minstrels meet.

Orville Dewey.

BORN in Sheffield, Mass., 1794. DIED there, 1882.

TALKS WITH THACKERAY.

[Autobiography and Letters of Orville Dewey, D.D. 1884.]

THACKERAY came to Washington while I was there. He gave his course of lectures on the "English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century." His style, especially in his earlier writings, had one quality which the critics did not seem to notice; it was not conventional, but spun out of the brain. With the power of thought to take hold of the mind, and a rich, deep, melodious voice, he contrived, without one gesture, or any apparent emotion in his delivery, to charm away an hour as pleasantly as I have ever felt it in a lecture. What he told me of his way of composing confirms me in my criticism on his style. He did not dash his pen on paper, like Walter Scott, and write off twenty pages without stopping, but, dictating to an amanuensis,--a plan which leaves the brain to work undisturbed by the pen-labor,-dictating from his chair, and often from his bed, he gave out sentence by sentence, slowly, as they were moulded in his mind.

Thackeray was sensitive about public opinion; no writer, I imagine, was ever otherwise. I remember, one morning, he was sitting in our parlor, when letters from the mail came in. They were received with some eagerness, of course, and he said, "You seem to be pleased to have letters; I am not."-"No?" we said." No. I have had letters from England this morning, and they tell me that Henry Esmond' is not liked."

This led to some conversation on novels and novel-writing, and I ventured to say: "How is it that not one of the English novelists has ever drawn any high or adequate character of the clergyman? Walter Scott never gave us anything beyond the respectable official. Goldsmith's Dr. Primrose is a good man, the best we have in your English fiction, but odd and amusing rather than otherwise. Then Dickens has given us Chadband and Stiggins, and you Charles Honeyman. Can you not conceive," I went on to say, "that a man, without any chance of worldly profit, for a bare stipend, giving his life to promote what you must know are the highest interests of mankind, is engaged in a noble calling, worthy of being nobly described? Or have you no examples in England to draw from?" This last sentence touched him, and I meant it should.

With considerable excitement he said, "I delivered a lecture the other

evening in your church in New York, for the Employment Society; would you let me read to you a passage from it?" Of course I said I should be very glad to hear it, and added, "I thank you for doing that." -"I don't know why you should thank me," he said; "it cost me but an hour's reading, and I got $1,500 for them. I thought I was the party obliged. But I did tell them they should have a dozen shirts made up for me, and they did it." He then went and brought his lecture, and read the passage, which told of a curate's taking him to visit a poor family in London, where he witnessed a scene of distress and of disinterestedness very striking and beautiful to see. It was a very touching description, and Thackeray nearly broke down in reading it.

I

AN OPTIMIST'S FAITH.

[From the Same.]

SAY, and I maintain, that the constitution of the world is good, and that the constitution of human nature is good; that the laws of nature and the laws of life are ordained for good. I believe that man was made and destined by his Creator ultimately to be an adoring, holy, and happy being; that his spiritual and physical constitution was designed to lead to that end; but that end, it is manifest from the very nature of the case, can be attained only by a free struggle; and this free struggle, with its mingled success and failure, is the very story of the world. A sublime story it is, therefore. The life of men and nations has not been a floundering on through useless disorder and confusion, trial and strife, war and bloodshed; but it has been a struggling onward to an end.

This, I believe, has been the story of the world from the beginning. Before the Christian, before the Hebrew, system appeared, there was religion, worship, faith, morality, in the world, and however erring, yet always improving from age to age. Those systems are great steps in the human progress; but they are not the only steps. Moses is venerable to The name of Jesus is "above every name; but my reverence for him does not require me to lose all interest in Confucius and Zoroaster, in Socrates and Plato.

me.

In short, the world is a school; men are pupils in this school; God is its builder and ordainer. And he has raised up for its instruction sages. and seers, teachers and guides; ay, martyred lives, and sacrificial toils and tears and blood, have been poured out for it. The greatest teaching, the greatest life, the most affecting, heart-regenerating sacrifice, was that