"Has he men enough to fight them?"

They are like the leaves on the trees," said the other.

By degrees Timothy drew from the Utawas chief the number of Frenchmen, Indians and coureurs de bois which composed the army, the time when they were to commence their march, the course they were to take, and the outlines of the plan of attack in case the British either waited for them in the fort or met them in the field. By the time he had finished his examination the whole party, with the exception of Timothy, Sybrandt and the chief, were fast asleep. In a few minutes after, the two former affected to be in the same state and began to snore lustily. The Utawas chief nodded from side to side, then sunk down like a log, and remained insensible to everything around him in the sleep of drunkenness.

Timothy lay without motion for a while, then turned himself over and rolled about from side to side, managing to strike against each of the party in succession. They remained fast asleep. He then cautiously raised himself, and Sybrandt did the same. In a moment Timothy was down again, and Sybrandt followed his example without knowing why, until he heard some one approach, and distinguished, as they came nigh, two officers, apparently of rank. They halted near the waning fire, and one said to the other in French in a low tone,

"The beasts are all asleep; it is time to wake them. Our spies are come back, and we must march."

steps were no longer heard, Timothy again raised himself up, motioning our hero to lie still. After ascertaining by certain tests which experience had taught him that the Indians still continued in a profound sleep, he proceeded with wonderful dexterity and silence to shake the priming from each of the guns in succession. After this he took their powder-horns and emptied them; then, seizing the tomahawk of the Utawas chief, which had dropped from his hand, he stood over him for a moment with an expression of deadly hatred which Sybrandt had never before seen in his or any other countenance. The intense desire of killing one of the kritters," as he called them, struggled a few moments with his obligations to obey the orders of Sir William, but the latter at length triumphed, and, motioning Sybrandt, they crawled away with the silence and celerity with which they came, launched their light canoe and plied their paddles with might and main.

"The morning breeze is springing up," said Timothy, "and it will soon be daylight. We must be tarnil busy."

And busy they were, and swiftly did the light canoe slide over the waves, leaving scarce a wake behind her.

As they turned the angle which hid the encampment from their view Timothy ventured to speak tured to speak a little above his breath:

"It's lucky for us that the boat we passed coming down has returned, for it's growing light apace. I'm only sorry for one thing." What's that?" asked Sybrandt.

"That I let that drunken Utawas alone. If I had only bin out on my own bottom, he'd have bin stud-dead in a twinkling, I

"And you, too, I guess," said Sybrandt, adopting his peculiar phraseology; "you would have been overtaken and killed."

66

Who? I? I must be a poor kritter if I can't dodge half a dozen of these drunken varmints."

A few hours of sturdy exertion brought them at length within sight of Ticonderoga just as the red harbingers of morning striped the pale green of the skies. Star after star disappeared, as Timothy observed, like candles that had been burning all night and gone out of themselves, and as they struck the foot of the high bluff whence they had departed the rays of the sun just tipped the peaks of the high mountains rising toward the west.

Timothy then shook hands with our hero. "You're a hearty kritter," said he, "and I'll tell Sir William how you looked at that tarnil tomahawk as if it had bin an old pipestem."

Without losing a moment they proceeded to the quarters of Sir William, whom they found waiting for them with extreme anxiety. He extended both hands toward our hero and eagerly exclaimed,

"What luck, my lads? I have been up all night waiting your return."

'Then you will be quite likely to sleep sound to-night," quoth Master Timothy, unbending the intense rigidity of his leathern countenance. "I am of opinion, if a man wants to have a real good night's rest, he's only to set up the night before and he may calculate upon it with sartinty."

"Hold your tongue, Timothy," said Sir William, good-humoredly, "or else speak to the purpose. Have you been at the enemy's camp?"

Sir William proceeded to question, and Sybrandt and Timothy to answer, until he drew from them all the important information of which they had possessed themselves. He then dismissed Timothy with cordial thanks and a purse of yellow-boys, which he received with much satisfaction.

"It's not of any great use to me, to be sure," said he as he departed, "but somehow or other I love to look at the kritters."

"As to you, Sybrandt Westbrook, you have fulfilled the expectations I formed of you on our first acquaintance. You claim a higher reward, for you have acted from higher motives and at least equal courage and resolution. His Majesty shall know of this; and in the mean time call yourself 'Major Westbrook,' for such you are from this moment."

AN

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

ANACREON.

NACREON was born at Teos, a seaport of Ionia, B. c. 532. When Harpagus, the general of Cyrus the Elder, invaded the Ionian cities, Anacreon migrated to Abdera in Thrace, and afterward repaired to the court of Polycrates, monarch of Samos, whence he was invited to Athens by Hipparchus, who sent a galley of fifty oars to convey him across the Egean Sea. When Hipparchus was slain, in the conspiracy of Harmodius, Anacreon returned to Teos, whence he was again driven by the revolt of Histiæus, and removed once more to Abdera, where he died. He is said. by Pliny to have been choked by a grape

stone, which he swallowed in a draught of new wine—a close of poetical justice to a life passed, according to the traditional accounts of him, in one protracted fever of intemperance. His statue in the citadel of Athens represents him in the character of a drunken old man. As a confirmed voluptuary, it was not to be expected that he should escape vices of a deeper dye: his amorous depravities were, indeed, the vices of his age; but Anacreon has not, like Horace, his redeeming excellences, nor do I know that he has left on record one solitary sentiment that

might subserve the interests of virtue.

The drinking-songs of Anacreon have all the gayety of their subject without any of its grossness. His assumed philosophy, however irrational in itself, gives a dignity to his manner, and there is a pathos in the thought of fleeting life which perhaps constitutes the secret charm of many of these effusions of voluptuousness. On this Anacreontic philosophy a practical comment is supplied by a modern sage and poet:

"O'er the dread feast malignant Chemia scowls,
And mingles poison in the nectared bowls;
Fell Gout peeps grinning through the flimsy scene,
And bloated Dropsy pants behind unseen;
Wrapped in his robe, white Lepra hides his stains,
And silent Frenzy, writhing, bites his chains."

Darwin.

His amatory pieces are airy, graceful and delicately fanciful. His style is a model of classic simplicity elegant, not florid, without studied ornaments or ambitious figures, natural in sentiment and pure from witty conceit.

The genuineness of Anacreon's odes has been singularly called in question by two men of learned celebrity-by Petrus Aleyonius, and by Father Hardouin. The former

pretended that these odes had not the Attic propriety. The latter does not seem to have intended any particular slight to the genius of Anacreon, as his slashing system of critical paradox equally proscribed Homer, Plato and Aristotle, the odes of Horace and the Eneid of Virgil as fabrications of the monks of the thirteenth century. Never had the cowled head been so overshadowed with laurels.

CHARLES ABRAHAM ELTON.

JAMES GRAHAME.

JAMES GRAHAME, the author of “The

Sabbath," was the son of a respectable attorney in Glasgow, and was born in that city on the 22d of April, 1765. He was educated at the excellent public schools of that city, and had a very early and strong desire to enter the clerical profession; but it was the long-cherished wish of his father that he should be bred to his own calling. Accordingly, our poet sacrificed his own wishes to those of his parent, and studied the law. Many irksome years--the best years of his life-were wasted in this to him most uncongenial pursuit, and it was finally abandoned. For many years, however, he toiled on in it, and, from a sense of what he owed his family, he gave it all the attention of which a mind devoted to higher purposes was capable. In 1804 he published anonymously his poem "The Sabbath." He had kept from all his friends, and even from his wife, who was possessed of a fine literary taste, all knowledge of what he had been engaged in, and laid a copy of his poem on his parlor-table as soon as it appeared. Mrs. Grahame was led by curiosity to examine it, and while doing so he was walking up and down the room await