ORIGINAL PAPERS. ART. I. THE OREGON TRAIL. BY FRANCIS PARKMAN, 4. A HEALTH. BY F. W. THOMAS, ALABAMA, III. ANGEL-LOVE. BY J. A. SWAN, ESQ., . IV. JACK HILTON'S NUPTIALS. By P. HAMILTON MYERS, VI. STANZAS: REMINISCENCES OF MY GRANDMOTHER, VII. THE EGYPTIAN LETTERS. NUMBER SIX, VIII. LINES TO THE AURORA BOREALIS, IX. WORDS OF CHEER. BY J. CLEMENT, 389 398 399 401 412 413 414 425 426 X. INGLE-SIDE CHIT-CHAT. By 'THE SQUIRE,' 426 XI. ODE TO JAVA COFFEE, 431 XH. LETTERS FROM THE GULF-STATES. BY A NORTHERN TRAVELLER, 432 . 439 XIV. THE FUTURE LIFE. BY W. THOMPSON BACON, 440 XV. A QUESTION IN SINGLE RULE OF THREE, XVI. LINES IN ANSWER TO DINNA FORGET,' . XVII. THE O. P. RIOTS IN LONDON IN 1809, XVIII. A SONG TO ISABEL. BY C. G. EASTMAN, XIX. A RIDE TO BONAVENTURE, NEAR SAVANNAH, XX. TO MY ABSENT SISTER. BY BENJ. T. CUSHING, . NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW FOR THE APRIL QUARTER, 461 462 5. MESMER AND SWEDENBORG CONSIDERED, 463 EDITOR'S TABLE: 1. ROLLING BACK THE TIDE OF TIME: EASTERN ANTIQUITIES, . 464 2. BILLVANSNORT, OR MAZEPPA TRAVESTIE.' BY THE LATE R. C. SANDS, 470 3. MORE TALK WITH MR. MOTH, 472 4. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS, 474 1. THE ARISTOCRAT, THE RADICAL, AND THE INDEFINITE.' 2. BEAUTIFUL PASSAGE 5. LITERARY RECORD: BRIEF NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS, 482 NOTICE. COUNTRY SUBSCRIBERS who are in arrears should recollect to make returns for what we send them. Remittances to be made to JOHN ALLEN, 139 Nassau-street, New-York. MR. T. P. WILLIAMS is our Agent to receive the names of Subscribers in the West and South. terested in the circulation of this facilitating his designs. Editors and others kindly inMagazine, will oblige us by O. D. DAVIS and JOHN STOUGHTON, Jr., are canvassing for subscribers to this work in the state of New-York. Entered, according to the act of Congress, in the year 1847, In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. 370 'THOUGH sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.' - CHILDE HAROLD. On the next morning we rode to Fort Leavenworth. Colonel, now General Kearney, to whom I had had the honor of an introduction when at St. Louis, was just arrived, and received us at his quarters with the high-bred courtesy habitual to him. Fort Leavenworth is in fact no fort, being without defensive works, except two block-houses. No rumors of war had as yet disturbed its tranquillity. In the square grassy area, surrounded by barracks and the quarters of the officers, the men were passing and repassing, or lounging among the trees; although not many weeks afterward it presented a different scene; for here the very offscourings of the frontier were congregated, to be marshalled for the expedition against Santa Fe. Passing through the garrison, we rode toward the Kickapoo village, five or six miles beyond. The path, a rather dubious and uncertain one, led us along the ridge of the high bluffs that border on the Missouri; and by looking to the right or to the left, we could enjoy a strange contrast of opposite scenery. On the left stretched the prairie, rising into swells and undulations, thickly sprinkled with groves, or gracefully expanding into wide grassy basins, of miles in extent; while its curvatures, swelling against the horizon, were often surmounted by lines of sunny woods; a scene to which the freshness of the season and the peculiar mellowness of the atmosphere gave additional softness. Below us, on the right, was a tract of rag ged and broken woods. We could look down on the summits of the trees, some living and some dead; some erect, others leaning at every angle, and others still piled in masses together by the passage of a hurricane. Beyond their extreme verge, the turbid waters of the Missouri were discernable through the boughs, rolling powerfully along at the foot of the woody declivities on its farther bank. The path soon after led inland; and as we crossed an open meadow, we saw a cluster of buildings on a rising ground before us, with a crowd of people surrounding them. They were the storehouse, cottage, and stables of the Kickapoo trader's establishment. Just at that moment, as it chanced, he was beset with half the Indians of the settlement. They had tied their wretched, neglected little ponies by dozens along the fences and out-houses, and were either lounging about the place, or crowding into the trading-house. Here were faces of various colors; red, green, white, and black, curiously intermingled and disposed over the visage in a variety of patterns. Calico shirts, red and blue blankets, brass ear-rings, wampum necklaces, appeared in profusion. The trader was a blueeyed, open-faced man, who neither in his manners nor his appearance betrayed any of the roughness of the frontier; though just at present he was obliged to keep a lynx eye on his suspicious customers, who, men and women, were climbing on his counter, and seating themselves among his boxes and bales. The village itself was not far off, and sufficiently illustrated the condition of its unfortunate and self-abandoned occupants. Fancy to yourself a little swift stream, working its devious way down a woody valley; sometimes wholly hidden under logs and fallen trees, sometimes issuing forth and spreading into a broad, clear pool; and on its banks in little nooks cleared away among the trees, miniature log houses, in utter ruin and neglect. A labyrinth of narrow, obstructed paths connected these habitations one with another. Sometimes we met a stray calf, a pig or a pony, belonging to some of the villagers, who usually lay in the sun in front of their dwellings, and looked on us with cold, suspicious eyes as we approached. Farther on, in place of the log huts of the Kickapoos, we found the pukwi lodges of their neighbors, the Pottawattamies, whose condition seemed no better than theirs. Growing tired at last, and exhausted by the excessive heat and sultriness of the day, we returned to our friend, the trader. By this time the crowd around him had dispersed, and left him at leisure. He invited us to his cottage, a little white-and-green building, in the style of the old French settlements; and ushered us into a neat, well-furnished room. The blinds were closed, and the heat and glare of the sun excluded: the room was as cool as a cavern. It was neatly carpeted too, and furnished in a manner that we hardly expected on the frontier. The sofas, chairs, tables, and a wellfilled book-case, would not have disgraced an eastern city; though there were one or two little tokens that indicated the rather questionable civilization of that region. A pistol, loaded and capped, lay on the mantel-piece; and through the glass of the book-case, peeping above the works of John Milton, glittered the handle of a very mischievous-looking knife. Our host went out, and returned with iced water, glasses, and a bottle of excellent claret; a refreshment most welcome in the extreme heat of the day; and soon after appeared a merry, laughing woman, who must have been, a year or two before, a very rich and luxuriant specimen of creole beauty. She came to say that lunch was ready in the next room. Our hostess evidently lived on the sunny side of life, and troubled herself with none of its cares. sat down and entertained us while we were at table with anecdotes of fishing-parties, frolics, and the officers at the fort. Taking leave at length of the hospitable trader and his friend, we rode back to the garrison. She Shaw passed on to the camp, while I remained to call upon Colonel Kearney. I found him still at table. There sat our friend the Captain, in the same remarkable habiliments in which we saw him at Westport; the black pipe, however, being for the present laid aside. He dangled his little cap in his hand, and talked of steeplechases, touching occasionally upon his anticipated exploits in buffalo hunting. There, too, was R- somewhat more elegantly attired. For the last time, we tasted the luxuries of civilization, and drank adieus to it in wine good enough to make us almost regret the leavetaking. Then, mounting, we rode together to the camp, where every thing was in readiness for departure on the morrow. 'WE forded the river and clomb the high hill, Or the rougher plank of our gliding boat, Or stretched on the sand, or our saddles spread As a pillow beneath the resting head, Fresh we woke upon the morrow; All our thoughts and words had scope, Toil and travel, but no sorrow.'-SIEGE OF CORINTH. THE reader need not be told that John Bull never leaves home without encumbering himself with the greatest possible load of luggage. Our companions were no exception to the rule. They had a wagon drawn by six mules, and crammed with provisions for six months, beside ammunition enough for a regiment; spare rifles and fowling-pieces, ropes and harness; personal baggage, and a miscellaneous assortment of articles, which produced infinite embarrassment on the journey. They had also decorated their persons with telescopes and portable compasses, and carried English double-barrelled rifles of sixteen to the pound calibre, slung to their saddles in dragoon fashion. By sunrise on the twenty-third of May we had breakfasted; the |