for a farm, if agriculture is his occupation, or a lot in the capital seaport, if intending to follow some mechanical or other trade; to be aided in the erection of a temporary dwelling, supplied with provisions for one year at least, and with seeds and tools sufficient for commencing his labors. Cattle, horses, sheep, swine, and poultry, to be gradually introduced and distributed; places for public worship and schools founded; a local legislature to be formed, by the convicts, for the enactment of municipal regulations, so far as may be found expedient, and the whole to be managed like a national colony, where all are to be encouraged to participate, in the duties and advantages of citizens of a rising empire, and no farther restrained in their liberties, than is indispensable, for the peace, security, and prosperity of the establish

ment.

The chief town should be located, where the best harbor is to be found, and there a military post must be maintained, and the requisite public buildings erected.

The necessary expenditures, may be either made out of the national treasury, or from the contributions of the several states, in proportion to their representation in Congress.

As it is very important that conviction should follow detection, and deportation conviction, as speedily as possible, ships may be provided by the General Government, to sail from two, three, or more of the principal ports of the Union, every two or three months, or oftener if found expedient, in which the convicts of the states, nearest the several ports of departure, may be shipped.

It was one broad and green domain,
Which white man's foot had never trod;
No pilgrim's blood had flowed to stain

The verdure of the wind-kissed sod.
The giant oaks their branches swung,

To winds that swept through forest-aisles;
The Indian lurked the trees among,

Or crept along the rock-defiles;

And narrow paths wound through the wood,
Where here and there a wigwam stood.
The black duck, on his glossy wing,

Sailed the calm, blue water over,

And o'er the marsh, in airy ring,
Wheeled, at morn and eve, the plover.
Along the green and lovely lawn
Bounded forth, most playfully,
To river's brink, the agile fawn,
To bathe her graceful limbs, as free
As if she feared no arrow true
Would harm her in those waters blue.

The partridge, from her covert green,
Led forth her gay and chirping brood,

* In a beautiful village, about forty miles from Boston, is a pair of antlers, fastened to a post, once a flourishing tree, at the intersection of two roads. They were placed there, many years ago, by an Indian Chief, one of the last of his tribe, who had pursued the deer from sunset till sunrise the next morning, and finally shot her a few yards distant from the tree on the bank of the river. Tradition also says, that his bones were laid beneath the tree upon which he fastened her antlers.

And there the rabbit shy was seen
Upon her form; the solitude
Of verdant plain and woodland hill
Was yet unbroken by the tread
Of busy man; as silent, still,

As some lone city of the dead-
Save when the eagle, from his warm
And beetling eyrie from on high,
Bade proud defiance to the storm,

And screamed his notes in loud reply;
Or when the Indian war-song, heard,
Aroused, from his high perch, the bird,
Or wild-beast, from his noon-day lair,
To cower in fright and terror there.
Young Morning's lids are opening now,
Upon that lawn, with dewdrops wet,
And all the mountain's rocky brow
Sparkles, as if with jewels set.
The sunlight streams along the sky,
And fragrant dell and dancing river;
On dewy lawn and oak-tree high

Its golden light is seen to quiver,
O'er every shrub the radiance stealing;
And as the leaves upon the trees
In the first breath of morning stir,
The landscape far beyond revealing,
The scene is like some paradise,
Than earthly garden lovelier.

Lo panting by that silver stream,
The antlered fawn is standing now;
All night-since his last setting beam
The sun threw on that mountain's brow,
And eve's dim shadows came-no green
Retreat had she to cool her breast;
The Indian on her track hath been,

Giving no peaceful evening rest.

She pants-those nimble limbs, whose spring
Was rapid as the lightning's wing,
No more will bound o'er hill and dale,
When hunter's cry is on the gale.
Full many a mile, o'er wood and plain,
As Morn Night's veil doth lift again,
The foot-prints on the dewy grass

Are seen, where that fleet fawn did pass;
And at the moonlit brook and rill,
The hunter, close upon her still,
Is her light track, ere she did spring,
Then hear far back their waters sing,
As she bounds on through grassy dell,
Whose sweet retreats she knows so well.
She stops not, for the Indian's tread
Nearer is heard, and now hath sped
His bolt from out the leafy trees,
While she, far off, snuffs in the breeze;
O'er hill and plain, with rapid pace.
Bounding, has found no resting-place
Till now, as drinking the cool wave,
She fears the current's might to brave.
And what but weariness could keep

Her limbs chained on that fatal place-
From trusting to the rushing deep

Her form of loveliness and grace?

She dreads into its whirling flood

To plunge once more, to reach the plain,

Lest the winged arrow with her blood
The silver-leaping tide should stain.
Why turns her eye to woodland glen?
Why start at rustling leaves, as when
The wild beast rushes from his lair,
To spring upon his victim there?
Hears she the Indian on his path,

Creeping along with stealthy tread,
The well-known sound, that warning hath,
And draws the arrow to its head?

One plunge

That arrow cuts the air,
And quivers in its victim there,
Drinking the life-blood from her breast ;
And ere the hunter's foot hath pressed
The river's bank, that fawn has died,
Mingling her warm blood with the tide.

But many years have fled since then,
And white men's feet have trod that glen.
Many an autumn, on that plain,
The harvest ripe of golden grain

Has been garnered, and that stream,

From dawn till day's last golden beam,

Has borne upon its silver tide

Many a noble ship in pride,

Where red men, in their light canoe,

Shot swiftly o'er those waters blue.
Now not a relic of that race

Is seen upon that lovely place,

Save when the ploughman, with his spade
Turns up a bone, where they were laid.
Beneath yon tree is mouldering now
His noble frame who drew that bow;
Above his grave, on that sweet lawn,
Hang the broad antlers of the fawn.
But not a deer upon the green
And blooming forest-fields is seen;

They 're gone;-the hunter and his game
From woodland path-their fate the same.

J. H. W.

MAGNANIMITY.

ALL the most important traits of an interesting character may be reduced to one or the other of two classes,-the admirable or the lovely, the great or the good, in the peculiar application of those terms. These different virtues, indeed, are not distinguished by any clear line of discrimination. They not only border on each other; but, like the colors of the rainbow, are more or less intermingled, so as to render it difficult to say where the one begins, or the other ends. Nothing in human character is truly great, which is not good; nor is there any thing amiable, which may not be carried to such an extent, as to become in a sense great and sublime.

Magnanimity is to be regarded as a moral attribute,-as more intimately connected with the affections, than with the understanding. It is not, perhaps, so properly one virtue, as an habitual disposition for the exercise of several kindred virtues, as circumstances may

require. It is such an elevation or enlargement of soul, as renders it capable of every thing noble in sentiment, emotion, or exertion, and takes a variety of names, according to the various objects and occasions; such as courage, fortitude, independence, self-command, and generosity.

There is a courage, that implies no magnanimity, that implies, indeed, no mind at all. It is no manly virtue, to rush blindly on death, or to sacrifice things of inestimable worth to those which are of little or no value. Impetuosity is seldom connected with true greatness of mind. The true hero understands perfectly what he is about. He knows the danger he has to meet; he has compared that danger with the value of the object in view, and he has deliberately resolved to incur the danger for the attainment of the object.

All animals are, in their very nature, more or less subject to the influence of fear. They not only fear those things, which, in their own experience, they have found to be hurtful, but they seem to have many instinctive apprehensions of unknown evils. Almost every species of animal, and, among others, the infant man, discovers symptoms of terror, almost as soon as he is born. In some of the brute creation, this native timidity is soon removed, by an early consciousness of superior powers, or means of defence. In some others, it gradually gives place to the resentful passions, or to the influence of combative habits, while in the weak and defenceless, it continues through life, and is rather increased than diminished, by familiarity with danger.

In our own species, in adult men and women, may be found many instances of mere animal timidity or courage, essentially the same with those which are observed with other creatures around us; fears, which a little exercise of mind would dissipate or surmount,—or gratuitous exposures, which are equally unreasonable. To a groundless timidity, we give, by common consent, the name of pusillanimity, or littleness of mind, and perhaps the same term might, with equal propriety, be applied to groundless courage,-to that bravery which is regardless of probable consequences. As already remarked, the courage becoming a human being, is a mental quality. It is not the offspring of brutal. force. It is not inspired by furious passion. It is open-eyed, circumspect, cool, and calculating. It explores the path it is about to tread, and hence it proceeds, with firm and intrepid steps. It is intimately allied with another virtue, of which we must now speak, and without which the courage of the hero would degenerate into rashness, or sink into despondence.

Fortitude is the virtue most inseparably connected with genuine courage, and perhaps equally entitled to the character of magnanimity. As courage inclines us to meet those approaching evils, which might for a time be avoided, fortitude enables us to endure those, which, for the present, can neither be avoided nor resisted, and this may require a force of mind far superior to that which is exerted in some of the most brilliant achievements of courage.

If we instinctively retreat from approaching dangers, it is equally natural for us to shrink from the immediate grasp of pain, which, to mere animal feeling, becomes every moment more intolerable. There is, however, a state of mind, which is superior to bodily suffering,

which endures with composure those things which would be torture to others. In this state, the immortal nature within learns from experiment the extent of its own powers. It feels a kind of pride in its capacity for endurance; and from that pride it may, perhaps, be said to derive new strength. To sustain itself in this posture, however, it must have that hope, which is inseparable from the human mind, so long as it continues what it was intended to be. If the present be painful, it flees from the present, and dwells in the future; and, in the fulness of pleasurable anticipations, becomes, in some measure, insensible to immediate pain. Thus hours, and days, and years of darkness and distress, are cheered by the prospect of a happy result. Courage is held in salutary check, means of relief are provided and arranged in proper order, and opportunities for effectual efforts are waited for with an eye that is equally watchful and patient. Such fortitude has often triumphed over dangers and sufferings, which premature resistance would have multiplied and strengthened.

Another form in which magnanimity presents itself to our contemplation, is that of independence, or the personal prerogative, which belongs to every human being; the right of thinking and acting, within a certain sphere, for himself. This sphere is, in most cases, circumscribed by very narrow limits; but, within these limits, every one may consider himself an absolute sovereign, equal to the greatest potentate on earth, and there is something noble in maintaining this exclusive right.

Though one man may be intimately acquainted with many things, of which another has no conception, and though one may be clothed with an authority, or be called to act in a sphere, from which his neighbor is wholly excluded, there are things, in which the illiterate and the learned, the weak and the mighty, stand on the same ground; in which the peasant has the same assurance with the philosopher, and is called to duties and privileges equally honorable with those of the monarch. There is, indeed, no magnanimity in arrogance, in aspiring above our proper station, in assuming that which belongs to another; but there is something great in the clear discernment and steady pursuit of that course, which has been marked out for us by the finger of Him, in whose presence all mankind are equal. This independent spirit is, indeed, liable to be confounded with obstinacy, as well as with arrogance or self-sufficiency: it is, however, essentially different from all. It is, in its very nature, dignified and ennobling. It is neither contemptuous nor vain. It is respectful, but not fawning. Though not regardless of the approbation or applause of others, it is chiefly concerned to secure that self-approbation, which is a loftier and a firmer ground of satisfaction, than the good opinion of the world. In proportion as real liberty prevails, this magnanimous spirit will become the ornament, the glory, or the happiness of men in every rank and condition.

Again, the magnanimity we are considering, is apparent in that self-command, which is the duty and the privilege of every human being; that control, which reason was intended to exercise over all the animal propensities. The birds and beasts are governed by their appetites and passions. The same is generally true of infants and young children, and the history of the world proves that multitudes of