success portended some dreadful reverse. Fool that I was, not to perceive that the terror and anxiety that consumed my hours, was retributive justice! When I pressed her whom I loved best to my bosom, I thought what would become of her if she knew she was the wife of a felon!

"Such was the state of my mind while every body congratulated me on my happiness. I was nominated for an office of trust. A few days after the election had taken place, I received a note, requesting me to come to a particular place if I would avoid public disgrace. I went to the spot with a beating heart, and found, to my horror, a fellow convict! When I quitted the prison, I had left him there. He had staid out his term, and accident brought him to Richmond. His object was to extort money. I gave him what he asked, as the bribe of secrecy. Again and again he came. My anxiety grew insupportable. Horrible thoughts crossed my mind. I sometimes felt that either he or I must be sacrificed. I gave up all but my wife and children, and left Richmond in hopes of concealment from my persecutor. The rest you know. As soon as I began to acquire credit and property, my tormentor appeared, and nearly stripped me. For three years, I lived on this spot unmolested; and I began to think he was dead. You know how, in the midst of apparent

security and happiness, he came upon me.

Twice he

has visited me since. Yesterday he arrived. But Heaven is merciful. The disorder that for months has been undermining my life, is brought to a crisis. With the near prospect of death, I have gained fortitude. I might say something in extenuation of my guilt. But why should I?—There is a Judge, and he is merciful."

'Such was the unhappy man's story. He was mistaken in believing his end so near. He lingered on for months. His confession had rendered the scourge of his persecutor powerless. His decay was gradual, and he lived till June. His wife and myself were his constant attendants. He saw that her affection was undiminished; that it was the labor of love, and not of compassion, that bound her to his side. He died, trusting in divine mercy, and commending to my care his wife and children.'

'And you have performed this dying injunction most faithfully, I doubt not,' said I to the good man.

Again the color rose in his cheek. 'I have,' said he, 'to the best of my power. At the end of two years, Mrs Forester kindly consented to marry me. Her children are as dear to me as if they were my own.' We had now entered the little village of N—. It was still flourishing in its native beauty. The green banks, with their footpaths, still bordered the

carriage road, and clusters of dandelions, purple thistles and mallows were scattered by the way side with their former profusion. The low school-house with its tall chimney stood where I left it. The paths that led through the pastures still remained the same. We were now near the parsonage-house. I asked no questions, for I was willing to wait the developement of circumstances. I was not much surprised when we turned up the avenue that led to the old fashioned house.

'This is my residence,' said the clergyman, and I let out the parsonage.' We stopped. The lady came to the door to meet us. She seemed to have gone along with all things else. Her hair, when I last saw her, was glossy and brown; it was now cov ered with a white muslin cap, and was parted upon her forehead in a matron-like manner.

I passed a few days with them, and took leave with the novel conclusion, that if there was any happiness in this world, it was to be found in a country village, where there were no 'improvements,' and at the house of a country minister.

THE BIRTH OF THUNDER.

A DAHCOTAH LEGEND.

BY J. SNELLING.

Twentyeight miles from the Big Stone Lake, near the sources of the St Peter's River, is a cluster of small lakes, or ponds, lying much below the level of the surrounding prairie, and ornamented with an oak wood. The Dahcotahs call this place THE NEST OF THUNDER, and say that here Thunder was born. As soon as the infant spirit could go alone, he set out to see the world, and at the first step placed his foot upon a hill twentyfive miles distant; a rock on the top of which actually seems to bear the print of a gigantic human foot. The Indians call the hill THUNDER'S TRACKS. The Nest of Thunder is, to this day, visited by the being whose birth it witnessed. He comes clad in a mantle of storms, and lightnings play round his head.

'Look, white man, well on all around,
These hoary oaks, those boundless plains;

Tread lightly; this is holy ground-
Here Thunder, awful spirit! reigns.

Look on those waters far below,

So deep beneath the prairie sleeping,

The summer sun's meridian glow

Scarce warms the sands their waves are heaping;

And scarce the bitter blast can blow

In winter on their icy cover;

The Wind Sprite may not stoop so low,
But bows his head and passes over.
Perched on the top of yonder pine,
The heron's billow-searching eye

Can scarce his finny prey descry,
Glad leaping where their colors shine.
Those lakes, whose shores but now we trod,
Scars deeply on Earth's bosom dinted,

Are the strong impress of a god,

By Thunder's giant foot imprinted. Nay, stranger, as I live 't is truth!

The lips of those who never lied

Repeat it daily to our youth.

Famed heroes, erst my nation's pride,
Beheld the wonder; and our sages
Gave down the tale to after ages.

Dost not believe? though blooming fair
The flowrets court the breezes coy,
Though now the sweet-grass* scents the air,

And sunny nature basks in joy,

It is not ever so.

*Sweet-grass is found in the prairies, and has an exceedingly

fragrant odor.