* * * * * Many years have passed since these trials happened; and as the sweetest perfumes are derived from the bitterest drugs, so these dark clouds have produced many bright and sunny days. True, they are associated with painful reminiscences, but they have been followed with incalculable advantages. Amid their severest strokes I can now recognize the hand of a just but benevolent Father. If in my subsequent career I could bear disappointment without discontent, and misfortune without repining; if I could feel resignation suppressing impatience, and contentment controlling ambition, I owe it to the struggles which I have endeavored to describe. It is in the rugged vale of tribulation that the path to human happiness is found. * * * * * LOGAN’S VOW. BY EDWARD J. PORTER. It was not by the war-fire’s light, With bright flames upward wreathed Into the cloudless sky of night, My battle vow was breathed; It was not while the warriors flew, With scalp-locks flung on air, The mazes of the war-dance through, My spirit poured its prayer. Nor while the battle’s stormy strife Shook the deep forests wide, And tomahawk and scalping-knife Flashed in their gleaming pride. Alone I stood, amidst the dead, When the spirit of repose, That long had clasped my heart, had fled And vengeance waked her throes. The dead were round me; yes, my own, The beautiful, the young; Their calm looks waked the anguished tone From Logan’s spirit wrung. Then, only then, the wild flame woke, And waved its scorching wings, That, curbless in its frenzy, broke My spirit’s slumberings. The silence of the midnight hour, Unbroken by a sound, Hung over all, with spell-fraught power Beneath its stillness bound; I stood, as stands the forest’s pride, When all its leaves are strown, Swept by the whirlwind wild and wide, In desolation lone. Changed in an hour, the white man’s friend Gleamed in his war array; The league forever at an end, And lighted hatred’s ray: Dark records traced by widow’s tears, And wailings sad and low, Have borne wild tales to other years Of Logan’s vengeful vow. * * * * * IMAGINATION AND FACT. BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. Imagination’s world of air, And our own world. Halleck. The world is of such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is bounded by a sleep. Shakspeare.