were particularly exasperated by the unprovoked murder of one of their favourite chiefs, SILVER-HEELS, who had, in the kindest manner, undertaken to escort several white traders across the woods from the Ohio to Albany, a distance of nearly 200 miles.

The civilised party prevailed, as usual. A decisive battle was fought upon the 10th of October, of the year last named, on Point Pleasant, at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, in West Virginia, between the confederates, commanded by Logan, and 1000 Virginian riflemen, constituting the left wing of an army led by Governor Dunmore against the Indians of the north-west. This engagement has by some annalists-who, however, have rarely given the particulars of it-been called the most obstinate ever contested with the natives.

The Virginians lost in this action two of their colonels, four captains, many subordinate officers, and about fifty privates killed, besides a much larger number wounded. The governor himself was not engaged in the battle, being at the head of the right wing of the same army-a force of 1500 men, who were at this time on their expedition against the towns of some of the hostile tribes in the north-west.

It was at the treaty ensuing upon this battle, that the following speech was delivered, sufficient to render the name of Logan famous for many a century. It came by the hand of a messenger, sent (as Mr Jefferson states) that the sincerity of the negotiation might not be distrusted on account of the absence of so distinguished a warrior as himself.

'I appeal to any white man to say, if he ever entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if he ever came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said: "Logan is the friend of white men." I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last

spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it: I have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one!'

Of this powerful address, Mr Jefferson says: 'I may challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has furnished more eminent, to produce a single passage superior to the speech of Logan ;' and an American statesman and scholar, scarcely less illustrious than the author of this noble eulogium, has expressed his readiness to subscribe to it. It is of course unnecessary for any humbler authority to enlarge upon its merits: indeed, they require no exposition-they strike home to the soul.

The melancholy history of Logan must be dismissed with no relief to its gloomy colours. He was himself a victim to the same ferocious cruelty which had already rendered him a desolate man. Not long after the treaty, a party of whites murdered him as he was returning from Detroit to his own country. It grieves us to add, that towards the close of his life, misery had made him intemperate. No security and no solace to Logan was the orator's genius or the warrior's glory. Such was the melancholy fate of Logan. The fire-water' of the white trader claimed him as a victim. He sank into an ignominious grave!

STORY OF A BLIND LADY.

LUCY DE MARNE was born towards the end of 1802, in a country town in the north of England. M. de Marne, her father, was a French gentleman, who, during the peace of Amiens, had gone over to England on business, and had married the only daughter of a widow, in whose house he lodged, in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. His wife, who was of a very delicate constitution, died three months afterwards, bearing him a daughter. The child was attacked by ophthalmia in the first month of her age, and lost her sight. When the war broke out anew, M. de Marne returned to France. Little Lucy was scarcely a year old when she inherited a considerable property in the East Indies, coming from an uncle of her mother, an old officer in the navy, who had made a large fortune in the service of the Mahratta princes, and had left it to his niece. So, by a strange caprice of fate, still in her cradle, and afflicted with a deplorable infirmity, little Lucy happened to become a rich heiress.

Judging that the climate of the south would best suit his daughter, who was very delicate, M. de Marne purchased the Château de Sens, in the south-west of France, and settled there, taking with him only two servants, Beraud, and Martha his wife, on whose faithfulness he could depend. Having thus fixed his residence in a pleasant part of France, the father of Lucy proceeded to rear and educate his unfortunate daughter with the greatest possible tenderness. As she grew in years and strength, the best masters competent to teach the blind were procured for her; and under these auspices, she acquired a surprising degree of knowledge of the external world, while as regards the development of moral sentiments, she left nothing to be wished. Acute, intelligent, and kind-hearted, Lucy was universally esteemed and loved. She learned to read by means of raised letters;

and also by an ingenious device, she acquired the art of writing. In music, she became a proficient; and so delicate were her hearing sensations, that she could tell the name of every person by the sound of their footstep, or even their breathing. Sitting on a terrace which commanded a view of the Pyrenees, she could, by mere contact with the air, describe the approach of storms, and indicate the direction they would take.

We do not purpose to dwell on the early years of this interesting creature. What has to be told refers to

circumstances in her after-lifeour object being to recount certain actual occurrences in French domestic history.

In consequence of failing health, M. de Marne found it desirable to resort to a watering-place, in a mountainous district of country. Here he and his daughter became accidentally acquainted with a young gentleman, Henry Lisson, who was pursuing his studies as an artist. Born of an honourable but not wealthy family, Henry had devoted himself to the arts of painting and statuary. He was just about setting out the very next day to visit the lakes in the duchy of Milan, famous for their romantic beauty.

The

M. de Marne invited the young artist to come and visit him at the Château de Sens when he returned. young man accepted the invitation for the following spring. On taking leave, he pressed affectionately the old man's hand, and begged to be allowed also to shake hands with Lucy. The young girl was moved; something inexplicable seemed to have befallen her. The pressure of that hand, which had met hers for a moment, seemed always to remain there, and to give her an unknown kind of agitation. What I feel!' thought she to herself with terror. Can it be the beginning of that terrible passion, of which I have heard tell, and which for me could only be a source of suffering?'

In the meanwhile, the amelioration which had appeared in the health of M. de Marne proved merely temporary. Soon the symptoms became aggravated to such a degree,

as to give fears of imminent danger. One evening, feeling much worse, he sent for Beraud, and taking the hand of the distressed old servant, he said to him, not without effort: My good old friend, you have given me many a proof of your attachment, and now I ask another after my death. Never separate from my poor Lucy, whom I leave alone, in a state of infirmity which exposes her to many dangers. I have written to my sister, and I suppose that she will soon be here. I could not avoid this: never mind, it is to you, and to your wife, who have taken care of and loved my child from her birth, as if she were your own daughter, that I confide her. Promise me that you will never leave her, and I shall die in peace.' Beraud made the required promise fervently. The next day, M. de Marne was no more.

How paint Lucy's despair?-how express the torn heart of her who had lost the being in whom centered all her affections here below? That her reason did not give way under the trial, was owing partly to the kind care of an excellent English lady, with whom she had become intimate at Pau; to the affection of Marie, a young girl, whom she had partly educated; and, above all, to the consoling influence of enlightened religion.

At last, Lucy's aunt arrived. Her father had rarely spoken to her of this relation, a half-sister, with whom he seldom had any communication. She was a woman between forty and forty-five. Lucy was painfully impressed at the first moment, by finding no likeness at all between the voice of her aunt and that of her father; and the great flow of sensibility with which she embraced her niece, did not appear to the latter to come from the heart, but to be, on the contrary, rather studied. In a word, she felt towards this aunt an instinctive repugnance, which the sequel only too well justified.

Returning to Sens, all soon resumed its wonted order at the château, where, besides her aunt, Lucy had the company of a dear friend, Adrienne, a young lady of her own age, who came on a visit. Beraud and his wife continued to act as stewards, and took the habit of carrying