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"My friends," she began, with a sweet, solemn tone, between entreaty and reproof, "since you are disappointed with regard to your minister, perhaps you will be willing to hear a few words from one who, though personally a stranger. feels a true interest in you, and who would fain help you forward, even ever so little, in the religious life. Your desire to have the gospel preached to you, shows that you are, at least in some measure, seeking that life, and my mind has been drawn towards you as I observed the dependence you seemed to feel on the ministrations of the person expected. It has certainly seemed strange to me that so much uneasiness and commotion should have been occasioned by the failure of a particular person to conduct your worship. God is a spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit.' Now you, every one of you, brought with you to this house this morning a spirit, in and by which alone you can worship acceptably. You have here before you the book containing the revealed word, in which you could find wherewithal to direct and govern your thoughts on this occasion; why then should the absence of any mere man in

terfere with your purpose of worship, and leave your minds unquiet and your thoughts wandering?"

Thus the gentle monitor opened her truly extempore sermon, and, passing from one topic to another as she proceeded with her remonstrance, she touched on many points of scripture and of practical religion, until her audience forgot their disappointment, or remembered it only to rejoice at it. The prejudice against a woman's pretending to teach in public, though peculiarly strong among coarse and unlettered people, melted before the feminine grace and modesty with which the speaker was so largely endowed; and when she finished, and resumed her seat and her bonnet, there were few present who would not gladly have agreed to hear her every Sunday. How they would have relished her silence, or whether her arguments had done anything towards convincing them that the heart may worship though no word be spoken, we can only conjecture; for before another Sabbath, the persuasive eye and voice had departed on some mission to the farther West, and we never again enjoyed her ministry of love in THE LOG SCHOolhouse.

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THE DEPARTURE,

OR INCIDENTS IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE DOCTOR'S THIRD PATIENT."

"So, Henry Buel, you have come to be a fool with the rest of us!"

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Why, Kitty! is that you?"

"It's me, or my ghost. But what are you here for?"

"Why, to attend the funeral, to be sure. I have come down out of the woods to bury the dead," and then added in a low voice, “maybe to see a resurrection, too!"

DID my reader ever see an "Indian sum- | portfolio in her arms. He hardly noticed her, mer," as we, in all the northern parts of the till she half paused, and with a comical look United States, witness it every autumn? It said, comes late in autumn, after the rich glories of summer are past-after the trees have yielded their fruits, and their foliage is either gone or touched and painted by the frosts. The sky wears a robe of softest blue, and the most delicious haze rests upon the landscape; the winds sleep, and the clouds float like piles of pearl, crested and fluted and polished; and though the green of nature is faded, yet Nature herself is robed in a loveliness, calm and indescribable. It is Summer, giving us her last smiles, ere she falls into the cold grave which Winter will dig, covering up her children in a winding-sheet of snow, and transfixing her streams with his cold, icy spear. This short period used to be seized upon by the Indian to complete whatever might be necessary about his wigwam or traps, or preparation for winter. Hence it has always been called "the Indian summer." The squirrels come out and do their last foraging; the wild fowls take their last looks upon the northern lakes before leaving, and the timid deer comes out of the forest to graze in the warm sun, ere he exchanges his summer diet for bushes and shoots.

It was early in the morning of the 1st of November, 1765, on one of these lovely days, that a canoe was seen coming down the Piscataqua River, in New Hampshire, and making towards the then little town of Portsmouth. The canoe was made of a single pine tree, and though she moved slowly and heavily, yet she was not ungraceful. In her bow was stuck the waving branch, fresh from a young pine; and in the stern sat a youth alone, about twenty years old. He was dressed in homespun and home-made clothes, with a beaver-skin cap, around which was a black piece of crape, which hung streaming out behind. On his arms, just above each elbow, was another huge strip of old crape. It was evident that he was in deep mourning, or at least affecting to be. He landed just above the village, drew his canoe out of the water, and made his way into the town. Hardly had he entered it, before he met a girl about sixteen years of age, tripping her way hastily along the street, with a large

"What a strange fellow you are! I suppose you would go further to see this mock funeral, than if all the rest of us should die, or even kill ourselves for your sport!"

"Now don't be trying that to see, Kitty. But where are you going so early?"

"Oh! I am going with my father. But you are such a whig that I'm afraid to tell you anything. But my father is going to his 'log cottage,' as he calls it, till these times have gone past, and the people are ready to obey the Bible and honour the King, as you Puritans might read, if you chose!"

"Well, we won't quarrel now, dear Kitty, because I know you think just as I do about these things-and—”

"You don't know any such thing, Mr. Henry Buel," and she tossed her pretty head most scornfully. "Whether I do or not," she added after a pause, "I am glad that my poor father is going where he won't be so vexed, and where none of you naughty whigs can find him."

"He must go a great way off, if he means to get rid of one-at any rate."

The beautiful girl blushed, stammered something, shook her little hand and went on her way. Just then the sun began to peep from the east, and the moment his golden form was seen, the bells from the town began to toll slowly and solemnly. Black ribands were hung on the door handles, and muffled drums began to beat. At an early hour the crowds began to assemble near the old court house, and long before noon, it seemed as if "everybody" was there. It was the day appointed by Royal Proclamation, for the first distribution of the stamp paper, forced upon the Colonies by the British Parliament, and so indignantly rejected

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by the Colonies. The countenances of all evinced trouble, fear, and a scowl of daring. About eleven o'clock the marshals had formed the procession. The pall-bearers had gone into the court-house, and all stood silent. All had some grave badge of mourning about their persons. The bells had not stopped tolling since sunrise. Presently there came out, borne upon the shoulders of men, a new bier, on which was placed a superb coffin. It was richly ornamented, with a drooping eagle, spreading his feeble wings over it. On the coffin-lid, in large letters, was printed "LIBERTY, AGED CXLV. YEARS," dating her birth in 1620, at the landing of the Pilgrims on Plymouth Rock. With slow tread, and muffled drum, and tolling bell, the coffin was carried to the grave, and let down gently, amid the firing of minute guns. After resting in the grave, an oration was pronounced over this friend of the people, eloquent and stirring, and terribly severe upon the authors of her death. Scarcely had the oration closed, and they were preparing to fill up the grave, when our young canoe-man leaped up on the dirt which came out of the grave and cried,

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Hold, hold! I see her move! She ain't dead yet! She's only taken too much of their doctor-stuff! She's just awaking! Don't bury her!"

Like wildfire the spark caught and spread. There was a loud shout, and up came the coffin. The drums struck up a lively beat, the procession was re-formed, the badges were torn off the arms and thrown into the grave; the bells rang aloud with a merry peal, and "LIBERTY REVIVED" was hastily scrawled and stuck over the coffin, while the multitudes marched and shouted through the streets. The young man who applied the torch at the right moment, whether by design or accident, was pressed into the selectest of the company, and became at once quite a hero. He bore it all very meekly, and the ladies all declared the young fellow was better educated than he was dressed. The day was closed with a great supper, at which all partook who chose, with patriotic speeches, sentiments, and prophecies as to the future. At a late hour, Henry Buel sought his canoe, and leaving the town far behind, paddled far up the beautiful Piscataqua-now starlit in the centre, and shaded by overhanging trees on either bank.

Several years after this event, a part of the army under General Gates was encamped in the valley of the Hudson, watching the movements of Burgoyne, previous to the battle in which he surrendered. It was a small number of men who were selected especially to take the post of observation. As they were surrounded by hostile Indians, it was also a post of danger. They were encamped on a side

hill, sloping eastward, down to the river. On the north and south the country had been cleared up; but on the west lay a forest, unexplored, and which reached back to the Great Lakes. When the new-made soldier first arrived at the camp, he saw what seemed to be careless gaiety and leisure; but he soon found that behind the most glittering uniforms and parades, there were such things as poor and insufficient food, lodgings on the cold ground, without a covering, wounds that were not dressed, sickness without nursing, and distresses without alleviation, and often without compassion. Every selfish feeling of the heart had full play. There were watchings and marchings amid autumnal storms and winter sleet, and often the officers were unfeeling, and even inhuman. About mid-day, a solitary soldier was seen returning to the camp, without arms of any kind. He had been off to a log house almost four miles distant, but why he had been there no one knew. He was thoughtful, sober, and apparently greatly perplexed. He was a noble fellow, commonly known as "the Puritan," because he read his Bible regularly, never used profane language, never drank, and never quarrelled. Yet all knew that he was no coward. In the daily drill, leaping ditches and fences, carrying burdens, firing at the target, or acting the scout, he had no superior. For the last few days there had been quite a stir in the little encampment, by a danger, new and mysterious. It was found that the sentinel at the stand near the woods, on the west, had been missing every night. No traces of him were to be found. They could not have deserted, because the patrols at the north and south would have intercepted them, and because they would not dare to attempt to penetrate an interminable forest on the west. Some of them, too, were such characters as would never desert. For nearly a dozen nights, the sentinel had thus mysteriously disappeared. The men were not ashamed to refuse to take the post. Some thought the Evil One had too much to do with it.

The humane but perplexed commander next called for volunteers, and none but the bravest offered themselves. But the result was the same. No braver men lived than some who were thus taken away. As the soldier whom I have mentioned, slowly bent his steps towards his tent, with his eyes on the ground, he was met by his Captain, with a face hardly less anxious. He thus addressed him:

"Well, Buel, you have got back quick. Have you made any discovery? Our Colonel is confounded, and relies on you to ferret out the mystery, and intimates that it will be as good as a captain's commission, if you can do it."

"Truce to his intimations, Captain. I have obtained no great light, and yet enough to

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