suer about to invade his place of safety, speedily abandoned it; and we could distinctly hear him making his way to the remote extremity of the limb. As soon as he had gained this point, he became visible to us all, clinging like an excrescence that had grown to the slender twigs that sustained him. Ben followed as near as he durst venture with his heavy bulk, and began to whip the bough up and down, with a vehement motion that flung the animal about through the air like a ball on the end of a supple rod. Still, however, the way-laid freebooter kept his hold with a desperate tenacity.

During this operation the dogs, as if engrossed with the contemplation of the suc cess of the experiment, had ceased their din, and, at intervals only, whined with impatience.

"He can never stand that," said Harvey, as if involuntarily speaking his thoughts. "Look out! he is falling. No, he has saved himself again!"

Instead of coming to the ground, the dexterous animal, when forced at last to abandon the limb, only dropped to a lower elevation, where he caught himself again amongst the foliage, in a position apparently more secure than the first. The dogs sprang forward, as if expecting to receive him on the earth; and, with the motion, uttered one loud and simultaneous cry:-Their disappointment was evinced in an eager and impressive silence. The negroes set up a shout of laughter; and one of them ejaculated, with , an uncontrolled merriment,

"Not going to get 'possum from top of tree at one jump, I know. He come down stairs presently. Terrible varmint for grabbing-his tail as good as his hand,—Oh, oh!"

Ben now called out to know how far he had dropped; and, being informed, was immediately busy in the endeavour to reach the quarter indicated.

A repetition of the same stratagem that had been employed above, produced the same result; and the badgered outlaw descended still lower, making good his lodgment with a grasp instinctively unerring, but now rendered more sure by the frightful death that threatened him below. This brought him within fifteen feet of the jaws of his ruthless enemies.

The frantic howl, screech, and halloo that burst from dog, man, and boy, when the object of their pursuit thus became distinctly visible, and their continued reduplications, breaking upon the air with a wild, romantic fury,—were echoed through the lonely forest at this unwonted hour, like some diabolical incantation, or mystic rite of fantastic import, as they have been sometimes fancied in the world of fiction, to picture the orgies of a grotesque superstition. The whole pack of

dogs was concentrated upon one spot, with heads erect and open mouths, awaiting the inevitable descent of their victim into the midst of their array.

Ben, indefatigable in his aim, had already arrived at the junction of the main branch of the tree with the trunk; and there united in the general uproar. Hazard now interposed, and commanded silence; and then directed the people to secure the dogs, as his object was to take the game alive. This order was obeyed, but not without great difficulty; and, after a short delay, every dog was fast in hand. We took time, at this juncture, to pause. At Ned's suggestion, Wilful was lifted up by one of the negroes, with the assistance of Ben, to the first bough, which being stout enough to give the dog, practised in such exploits, a foothold, though not the most secure, he was here encouraged, at this perilous elevation, to renew the assault. Wilful crept warily upon his breast, squatting close to the limb, until he reached that point where it began to arch downward, and from whence it was no longer possible for him to creep farther. During this endeavour he remained mute, as if devoting all his attention to the safe accomplishment of his purpose; but as soon as he gained the point abovementioned, he recommenced barking with unwearied earnestness. The opossum began now to prepare himself for his last desperate effort. An active enemy in his rear had cut off his retreat, and his further advance was impossible, without plunging into the grasp of his assailants. As if unwilling to meet the irrevocable doom, and anxious to linger out the brief remnant of his minutes, even in agony, showing how acceptable is life in its most wretched category,-the devoted quadruped still refused the horrid leap; but, releasing his fore feet, swung downwards from the bough, holding fast by his hind legs and tail, the latter being endued with a strong contractile power and ordinarily used in this action. Here he exhibited the first signs of pugnacity; ard now snapped and snarled towards the crowd below, showing his long array of sharp teeth, with a fierceness that contrasted singularly with the cowering timidity of his previous behaviour. In one instant more, Wilful, as if no longer able to restrain his impatience, or perhaps desirous to signalize himself by a feat of bravery, made one spring forward into the midst of the foliage that hung around his prey, and came to the ground, bringing with him the baffled subject of all this eager pursuit.

Ned seized Wilful in the same moment that he reached the earth; and thus prevented him from inflicting a wound upon his captive. The opossum, instead of essaying a fruitless effort to escape, lay upon the turf, to all appearance, dead. One or two of those

who stood around struck him with their

feet; but, faithful to the wonderful instinet of his nature, he gave no signs of animation; and when Hazard picked him up by the tail, and held him suspended at arm's length, with the dogs baying around him, the counterfeit of death was still preserved.

More with a view to exhibit the peculiarities of the animal than to prolong the sport, Hazard flung him upon the ground, and directed us to observe his motions. For a few moments he lay as quiet as if his last work had been done; and then slowly and warily turning his head round, as if to watch his captors, he began to creep, at a snail's pace, in a direction of safety: but no sooner was pursuit threatened, or a cry raised, than he fell back into the same supine and deceitful resemblance of a lifeless body.

He was at length taken up by Ben, who, causing him to grasp a short stick with the end of his tail, (according to a common instinct of this animal,) threw him over his shoulders, and prepared to return homeward.

It was now near three o'clock; and we speedily betook ourselves to the mansion, fatigued with the exploits of the night.

"After all," said Harvey Riggs, as he lit a candle in the hall, preparatory to a retreat to his chamber, "we have had a great deal of toil to very little purpose. It is a savage pleasure to torture a little animal with such an array of terrors, merely because he makes his livelihood by hunting. God help us, Ned, if we were to be punished for such pranks!"

"To tell the truth," replied Ned, “I had some such misgivings myself to-night, and that's the reason I determined to take our captive alive. To-morrow I shall have him set at liberty again: and I think it probable he will profit by the lesson he has had, to 'avoid molesting the poultry-yard.

WOMEN OF GENIUS.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
"What is genius but deep feeling,
Wakening to glorious revealing!
But what is feeling but to be

Alive to every misery?"-L. E. L.

"I REVERE talent in any form," said a young friend in conversation, the other evening, "but in selecting a wife, I should never think of choosing a woman of genius!"

"And why not?" I inquired, expecting to hear him advance the usual list of objections to literary women-their want of domestic habits-eccentricities, carelessness of fashion, and the thousand unjust charges urged against a class of women as little understood as any upon the face of the earth. My friend was a man of no inconsiderable talent, and from him the sentiment scemed strange and ungenerous. It was probably the first time

that he had ever been called upon to think seriously upon the subject. He seemed puzzled how to make a fitting reply.

66

Why," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "my beau ideal is somewhat like that of Byron's. My wife should have talent enough to be able to understand and value mine, but not sufficient to be able to shine herself. I could never love a woman who was entirely occupied with literature. I want feeling, affection, devotion to my selfa domestic woman who would think my approbation sufficient for her happiness, and would have no desire for greater admiration. I could never be happy with an ambitious

woman."

On my return home, the injustice of my friend's speech haunted me. He wanted feeling, affection, domestic qualities in a wife, and, therefore, would not seek one in a woman of genius. Byron's beau ideal was as purely a creature of the imagination as his Haidee or Zuleika. He seems to have forgotten that to understand and value talent, is one of the highest attributes of genius; that no person ever thoroughly appreciated a feeling or a property of the intellect which she did not possess in a degree, at least. less selfish man, instead of requiring mediocrity and a worshipper in the place of a companion, would only have wished that the beautiful delicacy which nature has implanted in the female mind to chasten and refine her genius, should be preserved, and that in her pursuits and feelings she should be womanly and true to her sex.

A

Pen and paper lay convenient, and, in fancy, I went on discoursing and putting questions, as if the culprit had been present in person.

Have you been thoroughly acquainted with a woman of undoubted genius--one who stands high in any department of our literature? Have you been domesticated with one-seen her at all seasons-entered into the sanctuary of her thoughts? have you been the brother, husband, father, or even friend of one?

You say no, and yet, without knowledge, decide that they are not fit objects of domestic affection; that because certain uncommon powers are granted to them by the Most High for his own good purposes, the common attributes which form the loveliness and beauty of womanhood are withheld. You would hedge them round with respect and reverence, and yet fear to give them the affection which is to none more precious, by none more thirsted for, or more keenly appreciated. You would smother the spark which must kindle all that is worthy of love in the genius of woman. You would build to her an altar of marble, cold as the grave, and bow down your intellect before it in the homage which mind renders to mind, with

out one thought that beneath her mental wealth are affections in proportionate strength, which gush up at the call of sympathy, and tinge the mind with hues of beauty, as the sun forms a rainbow by weaving its light among the water-drops of a summer shower. Deep and sensitive feelings alone give that delicacy and pathos which will ever distinguish the creations of a truly feminine author from those of men. The very word genius comprehende all that makes the loveliness of woman. It signifies but the power to feel, deeply combined with an intellect capable of embodying feelings into language, and of conveying images of truth and beauty from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader.

Why then should you refuse to gather the mantle of domestic love about the woman of genius?

Ambitious, are they? Else, why do they write-why publish?

Why do they write? Why does the bird sing but that is little heart is gushing over with melody? Why does the flower blossom but that it has been drenched with dew, and kindled up by the sunshine, till its perfume bursts the petals and lavishes its sweetness on the air? Why does the artist become restless with a yearning want as the creatures of his fancy spring to life beneath his pencil? When his ideal has taken to itself a form of beauty, does he rest till some kindred eye has gazed with his upon the living canvass? His heart is full of a strange joy, and he would impart something of that joy to another. Is this vanity? No, it is a beautiful desire for sympathy. The feeling inay partake of a love of praise, but it is one which would be degraded by the title of ambition.

Ask any woman of genius why she writes, and she will tell you it is because she can. not help it; that there are times when a power which she can neither comprehend nor resist, impels her to the sweet exercise of her intellect; that at such moments, there is happiness in the very exertion-a thrilling excitement which makes the action of thought "its own exceeding reward;" that her heart is crowded with feelings which pant for language and for sympathy, and that ideas gush up from the mind unsought and uncalled for, as waters leap from their fount when the earth is deluged with moisture. I am almost certain that the most beautiful things that enrich our literature, have sprung to life from the sweet, irresistible impulse for creation, which pervaded the heart of the author without motive and without aim.

The motives which urge literary women to publish, are probably as various as those which lead persons to any other calling. Many may place themselves before the world

from a natural and strictly feminine thirst for sympathy; from the same feeling which prompts a generous boy to call his companions when he has found a robin's nest hid among the blossoming boughs of an old apple-tree, or a bed of ripe strawberries melting in their own ruby light through the grass, on a hill side. The discovery would be almost valueless could he find none to gaze on the blue eggs exposed in the bottom of the nest, or to revel with him in the luscious treasure of the strawberry-bed; so the enjoyment of a mental discovery is enhanced by companionship and appreciation.

That women sometimes publish, from the impulses of vanity, it were useless to deny ; but, in such cases, the effort is usually worthy of the motive: it touches no heart, because it emanates from none; it kindles no pure imagination-it excites no holy impulsesbecause, the impulse from which it originated, is neither lofty nor worthy. It may be safely asserted, that no woman, who has written or published, from the promptings of ambition or vanity, alone, was ever successful, or ever will be. She may gain notoriety, but that is a consequence of authorship, which must ever be painful to a woman of true genius, unless is added to it that public respect and private affection, which can never be secured by one who writes from a wish to shine, and from that wish alone.

Literature is an honourable profession, and, that women devote a portion of their time to it, requires neither excuse nor palliation, so long as they preserve the delicacy and gentleness which are the attributes of their sex. It would be folly to assert that there is any thing in the nature of genius, which incapacitates its possessor for usefulness, or that a literary woman may not be, in the strictest sense of the word, a domestic

ore.

That the distinguished women of America are remarkable for domestic qualities, admits of proof, from many brilliant examples. Most of those who stand foremost in our world of letters, perform the duties of wives, mothers, and housekeepers, in connexion with the pursuits of mind. It is a mistaken idea, that literature must engross the entire time or attention, even of those who make authorship a profession. It is to be doubted if the most industrious female writer among us spends more hours out of the twenty-four, at her desk, than the fashionable belle devotes to the adornment of her person.

There are few American women, except those who labour for their daily bread, who, by a systematic arrangement of time, cannot command three or four hours out of each day, without encroaching on her household duties, the claims of society, or the little season of domestic enjoyment, when her household seeks companionship and relaxation at home.

These hours devoted to authorship, at a moderate computation, would produce four duodecimo volumes a year. Thus, by a judicious management of time, she has produced a property more or less valuable, enriched and strengthened her own mind, carried the sunshine of thought to thousands, and all without necessarily sacrificing one domestic duty-without the least degree of personal publicity, which need shock the most fastidious delicacy.

Cast not a shadow, even, of implied reproach on a class of women, who are quietly and steadily exerting a healthy influence in domestic life; rather let men of power-and, in America, there is no power like that of intellect extend to them such aid and encouragement, as will best preserve the purity of female literature. So long as the dignity and delicacy of sex is preserved, there can be no competition between men and women of genius. In literature, as in every thing else, the true woman will feel how much bet ter it is to owe something to the protection, generosity, and forbearance of the stronger and sterner sex, than to enter into an unnatural strife in the broad arena which men claim for the trial of masculine intellect. Open the fountains of domestic love to her, and there is little danger that her genius will stray from the sunny nooks of literature, or that she will forsake the pure wells of affection, to leap into the high road of politics-to lose her identity in the smoke of a battle-field, or to gather up popular applause and unsatisfactory admiration, in place of tenderness, and all those home comforts which cling so naturally around the feminine heart.

It has been beautifully said, that the heart is woman's dominion. Cast her not forth, then, from the little kingdom which she may do so much to purify and embellish. Her gentle culture has kept many of those rugged passes green, where sterner labourers might have left them sterile and blossomless.

If you would cultivate genius aright, cherish it among the most holy of your household gods. Make it a domestic plant. Let its roots strike deep in your home, nor care that its perfume floats to a thousand casements besides your own, so long as its greenness and its blossoms are for you. Flowers

of the sweetest breath give their perfume most lavishly to the breeze, and yet, without exhausting their own delicate urns.

LYDIA.*

BY THE REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

I SAW her mother's eye of love as gently on her rest, As falls the light of evening's sun upon a lily's breast;

* These lines were suggested by the death of Miss Lydia Biddle Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates of the Army, who died at Fort Co. jumbus, Governor's Island, in March, 1839, aged 19.

And the daughter to her mother raised her calm and loving eye,

As a lake, among its sheltering hills, looks upward to the sky.

I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang upon its parent stem,

Just opening to the light, and graced with many a dewy gem.

And ere that bud had spread its leaves and thrown its fragrance round,

I've seen it perish on its stem, and drop upon the ground.

So, in her yet unfolding bloom, hath Lydia felt the blasts:

A worm unseen hath done its work-to earth the bud is cast:

And on her lowly resting-place, as on the rose.bud's bed,

Drops from the parent tree are showered, her parent's tears are shed.

And other eyes there are that loved upon that bud to rest,

There's one who long had hoped to wear the rose upon his breast;

Who'd watched and waited lovingly till it was fully blown,

And who had e'en put forth his hand to pluck it for his own.

A stronger hand than his that flower hath gathered from its tree!

And borne it hence, in paradise to bloom im mortally!

And all that breathe the fragrance there, that its young leaves exhale,

It shall remind of Sharon's rose-the lily of the vale. The soldier father have I seen suppress a struggling sigh,

And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her, stood trem. bling in his eye:

No other daughter in his bosom ere had slept, a child,

No other daughter on his knee had ever sat and smiled.

And he was far away from her, but for her had his fears,

And anxious thoughts upon his brow had left the stamp of years;

And now the grave hath, from his hand, removed its sacred trust,

And father's, mother's, lover's tears, have mingled with the dust.

Peace to that dust! for, surely, peace her gentle spirit knows.

Around her narrow house on earth the night wind sadly blows,

But heavenly airs, that through the trees of life for ever play,

Are breathing on her spirit's brow, to dry her tears away.

IMMORTALITY.
BY DANA.

O, listen, man!

A voice within us speaks that startling word, "Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,

By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars

Of morning sang together, sound forth still

The song of our great immortality;

Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn universal song.

O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in
From all the air! "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
"Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories: Night,
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse
As one vast mystic instrument, ere touched
By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

THE LAST MOMENTS OF EMINENT MEN. [CONCLUDED.]

It is a common remark that the ruling passion displays itself in the last hour. The flickering lamp blazes with unusual brightness, just as it expires. "The fit gives vigour, as it destroys." He, who has but a moment remaining, is released from the common motives for dissimulation; and time, that lays his hand on every thing else, destroying beauty, undermining health, and wasting the powers of life, spares the ruling passion, which is connected with the soul itself. That passion sticks to our last sand.

Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest nature ends as she begins. Napoleon expired during the raging of a whirlwind, and his last words showed that his thoughts were in the battle-field. The meritorious author of the Memoir of Cabot, a work which in accuracy and in extensive research is very far superior to most of the late treatises on maritime discovery, tells us, that the discoverer of our continent, in a halluciation before his death, believed himself again on the ocean, and once more steering in quest of adventure over the waves, which knew him as the steed knows its rider. How many a gentle eye has been dimmed with tears, as it read the fabled fate of Fergus MacIvor! Not inferior to the admirable hero of the romance, was the Marquis of Montrose. He had fought for the Stuarts, and he fell into the hands of the Presbyterians. He was condemned to die; his head and his limbs were ordered to be severed from his body, and to be hanged on the Tolbooth in Edinburgh, and in other public towns of the kingdom. He listened to the sentence with the pride of loyalty and the fierce anger of a generous defiance. "I wish," he exclaimed, "I had flesh enough to be sent to every city in Christendom, as a testimony to the cause for which I suffer."

But let us take an example of sublimer

virtue. Let us look for a man, who lived without a stain from youth to age, and displayed an unwavering consistency to the last ; a man who was in some degree our own. The age of unlimited monarchy has passed; and the period of popular sovereignty has begun to dawn. It is one of the worst features of the Tory party, which was so long in the ascendant, that self-defence required it to pursue, with relentless censure, the men who fell as victims to its licentious ambition. Wat Tyler struck down an officer, who attempted an insult on the chastity of his daughter. There is not a father in New England, who who would not have applauded the blow. And when he was invited to a peaceful conference with the king, he was basely assassinated in the royal presence. Yet an English poet was obliged to retract the defence of the reputation of Wat Tyler. A very similar incident in Swiss history has been embalmed in the verse of one of the finest poets, who have ever awakened a nation's syınpathies by the power of genius. It becomes America to rescue from undeserved censure the names and the memory of the men, who have fallen victims to their unconquerable love of republican liberty.

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled
The fierce Epirot, and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states, hard to be spelled,
Then to advise, how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two great nerves, iron and gold,

In all her equipage: besides to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou'st learned, which few have
done.

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe;
Therefore, on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

He, that would discern the difference between a powerful mind and a shallow wit, may compare this splendid eulogy of Milton with the superficial levity in the commentary of Warton. It is a sort of fashion to call Sir Henry Vane a fanatic. And what is fanaticism? True, he was a rigid Calvinist. True, he has written an obscure book on the mystery of godliness, of which all that we understand is excellent, and we may, therefore, infer that the vein of the rest is good. But does this prove him a fanatic? If to be the uncompromising defender of civil and religious liberty be fanaticism; if to forgive injuries be be fanaticism; if to believe that the mercy of God extends to all his creatures, and may reach even the angels of darkness, be fanaticism; if to have earnestly supported in the Long Parliament the freedom of conscience, -if to have repeatedly, boldly, and zealously interposed to check the persecution of Roman Catholics,-if to have laboured that the sect