Choctaw Samson. Besides its merits as a specimen of narrative fiction, it deserves the attention of the philosopher for the weighty observations it contains on the general subject of civilizing and reclaiming the savage tribes. The following striking passage describes an interesting trait of the Indian character. It must be premised, that Oakatibbé, having killed another Indian in a drunken fray, was held to the penalty of death, by the unalterable unwritten law of savage jurisprudence. But he had been persuaded by some of his white friends to make his escape, and a horse had been lent him for that purpose. The mighty influence of early habit and customary implicit obedience to the laws of his tribe overcame his love of life and the persuasions of his civilized neighbours, and he returned to submit to the death-doom which had been pronounced upon him. The rest is related as follows:

"While the turmoil was at the highest, and we had despaired of doing any thing to prevent bloodshed, the tramp of a fast galloping horse was heard in the woods, and the next moment the steed of Col. H. made his appearance, covered with foam, Slim Sampson on his back, and still driven by the lash of his rider at the top of his speed. He leaped the inclosure, and was drawn up, still quivering in every limb, in the area between the opposing Indians. The countenance of the noble fellow told his story. His heart had smitten him by continual reproaches, at the adoption of a conduct unknown in his nation, and which all its hereditary opinions had made cowardly and infamous. Besides, he remembered the penalties which, in consequence of his flight, must fall heavily upon his people. Life was sweet to him, very sweet! He had the promise of many bright years before him. His mind was full of honorable and speaking in comparative phrase-lofty purposes for the improvement of himself and nation. We have already sought to show, that, by his conduct, he had taken one large step in resistance to the tyrannous usages of custom, in order to introduce the elements of civilization among his people. But he could not withstand the reproaches of a conscience formed upon principles which his own genius was not equal to overthrow. His thoughts, during his flight, must have been of a very humbling character; but his features now denoted only pride, exultation, and a spirit strengthened by resignation against the worst. By his flight and subsequent return, he had, in fact, exhibited a more lively spectacle of moral firmness than would have been displayed by his simple

submission in remaining. He seemed to feel this. It looked out from his soul in every movement of his body. He leaped from his horse, while he slapped his breast with his own palm :

"Oakatibbé heard the voice of a chief, that said he must die. Let the chief look here,— Oakatibbé is come!'

"A shout went up from both parties. The signs of strife disappeared. The language of the crowd was no longer that of threatening and violence. It was understood that there would be no resistance in behalf of the condemned. Col. H. and my. self were both mortified and disappointed. Though the return of Slim Sampson had obviously prevented a combat à outrance, in which a dozen or more might have been slain, still we could not but regret the event. The life of such a fellow seemed to both of us to be worth the lives of any hundred of his people.

"Never did man carry with himself more simple nobleness. He was at once surrounded by his friends and relatives. The hostile party, from whom the executioners were to be drawn, stood looking on at some little distance, the very pictures of patience. There was no sort of disposition manifested among them to hurry the proceedings. Though exulting in the prospect of soon shedding the blood of one whom they esteemed an enemy, yet all was dignified composure and forbearance. The signs of exultation were nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, a conversation was carried on in low, soft accents, unmarked by physical action of any kind, between the condemned and two other Indians. One of these was the unhappy mother of the criminal, the other was his uncle. They rather listened to his remarks, than made any of their own. The dialogue was conducted in their own language. After a while this ceased, and he made a signal which seemed to be felt, rather than understood, by all the Indians, friends and enemies. All of them started into instant intelligence. It was a sign that he was ready for the final proceedings. He rose to his feet and they surrounded him. The groans of the old woman, his mother, were now distinctly audible, and she was led away by the uncle, who, placing her among the other women, returned to the condemned, beside whom he now took his place. Col. H. and myself also drew nigh. Seeing us, Oakatibbé simply said, with a smile :

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Ah, kurnel, you see, Injun man ain't strong like white man!' "Col. H. answered with emotion:

"I would have saved you, Sampson.'

"Oakatibbé hab for dead!' said the worthy fellow, with another, but a very wretched smile.

"His firmness was unabated. A procession was formed, which was headed by three sturdy fellows, carrying their rifles

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conspicuously upon their shoulders. These were the appointed executioners, and were all near relatives of the man who had been slain. There was no mercy in their looks. Oakatibbé followed immediately after these. He seemed pleased that we should accompany him to the place of execution. Our way lay through a long avenue of stunted pines, which conducted us to a spot where an elevated ridge on either hand produced a broad and very prettily defined valley. My eyes, in all this progress, were scarcely ever drawn off from the person of him who was to be the principal actor in the approaching scene. Never, on any occasion, did I behold a man with a step more firm, head so unbent, a countenance so sweetly calm, though grave, -and of such quiet unconcern, at the obvious fate in view. Yet there was nothing in his deportment of that effort which would be the case with most white men on a similar occasion, who seek to wear the aspect of heroism. He walked as to a victory, but he walked with a staid, even dignity, calmly, and without the flush of any excitement on his cheek. In his eye there was none of that feverish curiosity, which seeks for the presence of his executioner, and cannot be averted from the contemplation of the mournful paraphernalia of death. His look was like that of the strong man, conscious of his inevitable doom, and prepared, as it is inevitable, to meet it with corresponding indifference.

"The grave was now before us. It must have been prepared at the first dawn of the morning. The executioners paused, when they had reached a spot within thirty steps of it. But the condemned passed on, and stopped only on the edge of its open jaws. The last trial was at hand with all its terrors. The curtain was about to drop, and the scene of life, with all its hopes and promises and golden joys, even to an Indian golden, was to be shut for ever. I felt a painful and numbing chill pass through my frame, but I could behold no sign of change in him. He now beckoned his friends around him. His enemies drew nigh also, but in a remoter circle. He was about to commence his song of death, the narrative of his performances, his purposes, all his living experience. He began a low chant, slow, measured, and composed, the words seeming to consist of monosyllables only. As he proceeded, his eyes kindled, and his arms were extended. His action became impassioned, his utterance more rapid, and the tones were distinguished by increasing warmth. I could not understand a single word which he uttered, but the cadences were true and full of significance. The rise and fall of his voice, truly proportioned to the links of sound by which they were connected, would have yielded a fine lesson to

the European teacher of school eloquence. His action was as graceful as that of a mighty tree yielding to and gradually rising from the pressure of a sudden gust. I felt the eloquence which I could not understand. I fancied, from his tones and gestures, the play of the muscles of his mouth, and the dilation of his eyes, that I could detect the instances of daring valor, or good conduct, which his narrative comprised. One portion of it, as he approached the close, I certainly could not fail to comprehend. He evidently spoke of his last unhappy affray with the man whom he had slain. His head was bowed, the light passed from his eyes, his hands were folded upon his heart, and his voice grew thick and husky. Then came the narrative of his flight. His glance was turned upon Col. H. and myself, and, at the close, he extended his hand to us both. We grasped it earnestly, and with a degree of emotion which I would not now seek to describe. He paused. The catastrophe was at hand. I saw him step back, so as to place himself at the very verge of the grave, he then threw open his breast, a broad, manly, muscular bosom, that would have sufficed for a Hercules; - one hand he struck upon the spot above the heart, where it remained, the other was raised above his head. This was the signal. I turned away with a strange sickness. I could look no longer. In the next instant I heard the simultaneous report, as one, of the three rifles; and when I again looked, they were shovelling in the fresh mould upon the noble form of one who, under other more favoring circumstances, might have been a father to his nation."- 1st Ser., pp. 204 - 208.

The second series of The Wigwam and the Cabin contains six stories. In general merits and particular defects they stand nearly on a level with those which we have already spoken of. The Giant's Coffin is a striking but disagreeable tale, which might have been wrought into a greatly superior delineation of fierce passion, had the author possessed a more delicate artistic sense. Sergeant Barnacle is extravagant; but that, too, embodies the materials of a fine piece of narrative and character-drawing. The Old Lunes is an amusing, but rather commonplace story. The Lazy Crow is a capital picture of negro superstition. In conception and execution it is able, vigorous, and highly interesting.

Caloya, or the Loves of the Driver, is in a more pretending vein. For the coarseness which deforms this story the writer attempts an apology in the preface. Many things

in this piece deserve much praise; the old Indian is vigorously drawn, and his young wife is a character skilfully and delicately touched. But the plot is feeble and foolish, and the negro driver is simply disgusting. The author has not "succeeded in showing how happily virtue can be seen to triumph even in the worst estates, and with what loveliness of aspect purity can make her progress, like the Lady in Milton's Comus, even through the foul rabble of lewd spirits that hang about her path." Can any thing be more absurd than to call the resistance offered by Caloya, the Indian wife, to the sickening advances of the greasy, woolly-headed, blubber-lipped negro driver, a triumph of virtue ? No doubt, an Indian woman, like Caloya, would triumph over the profligate wiles of the libertine who should essay her destruction; but surely the amorous unctuosity of Mingo could not, by any imaginable freak of nature, seduce a Catawba squaw from her duty to her copper-colored lord, old and ugly as he might be. Her refusal to yield to his blandishments would be not so much the triumph of virtue as the triumph of nausea.

Lucas de Ayllon is a story founded on the adventures of one of these early kidnapping expeditions by which so many of the aborigines of North America were in early times carried off by Spanish pirates, and sold into West Indian slavery. The incidents are well told, and the final catastrophe of De Ayllon, which we believe is the invention of the writer, shows his powers of description in a very favorable light. The character of Combahee, the Indian princess, though highly wrought, is impressively drawn and consistently maintained. The pertinacious resolve to avenge the perfidy by which her husband had been entrapped by the man-stealer, and the terrible manner in which she executed it, when a righteous retribution, acting through the agencies of storms and the wind-lashed ocean, placed him in her power, are managed with a strong and bold hand. We are tempted to extract this passage.

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" The historian remarks (see History of South Carolina, p. 11), As if the retributive Providence had been watchful of the place no less than of the hour of justice, it so happened, that, at the mouth of the very river where his crime had been committed, he was destined to meet his doom.' The Indian traditions go farther. They say, that the form of Chiquola was