guished in their hearts. An excessive desire to be rich, if cherished and acted upon as the chief purpose of life, is the most degrading passion indulged by civilized man; it hardens the heart, and deadens or destroys every generous emotion, till the cold, cruel, selfish individual would hardly regret to see his species annihilated, if by that means he might be profited. The cannibal, who feeds on human flesh, is hardly more to be abhorred, than the civilized man who, on human woes, feeds his appetite for riches!

But the Spaniards gained nothing from the Araucanians. After a contest of nearly one hundred and fifty years, and at the cost of more blood and treasure than all their other possessions in South America had demanded, the Spaniards were glad to relinquish all claim to the territory of these freemen, only stipulating that the Indians should not make incursions into that part of Chili which lies between the southern confines of Peru and the river Biobio. The Spanish government was even obliged to allow the Araucanians to keep a minister, or public representative, in the city of St. Jago.

The spirit and character of this brave Indian people made a deep impression upon their invaders. Don Ercilla, a young Spaniard of illustrious family, who accompanied Don Garcia in his Chilian expedition, wrote an epic poem on the events of the war,-the "Araucana,”—which is esteemed one of the best poems in the Spanish language. Ercilla was an eye-witness of many of the scenes he describes, and the following lines show his abhorrence of the mercenary spirit which governed his own countrymen.

"O, thirst of gold! disease without a cure! What toils thy persevering slaves endure ! Thou subtle vice, whose long, tenacious spell

The noblest energies of mind can quell!

Thy deadly charms the human soul unbind From heaven, and let her drive before the wind."

The Araucanians are still a free and independent people; and Christians, whose charitable plans embrace the whole heathen world as their missionground, may probably find in this nation the best opportunity of planting the Protestant faith which South America now offers.

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER IX.

Rejoicings.-Remorse and contrition.-A pirate's story.-Francois restored to his parents.

WE left our colonists of Fredonia at the moment that the struggle was over which resulted in the death of Rogere. The scenes which immediately followed are full of interest, but we can only give them a passing notice.

The defeated party sullenly retired to their quarters at the outcast's cave; and those at the tents were left to rejoice over their deliverance. Their present joy was equal to the anxiety and despair which had brooded over them be fore. The mothers clasped their children again and again to their bosoms, in the fulness of their hearts; and the little creatures, catching the sympathy of the occasion, returned the caresses with laughter and exultation. The men shook hands in congratulation, and the women mingled tears and smiles and thanksgivings, in the outburst of their rejoicing.

During these displays of feeling, Brusque and Emilie had withdrawn from the bustle, and, walking a part, held discourse together. "Forgive me, Emilie," said Brusque, "I pray you forgive me for my foolish jealousy respecting the man you were wont to meet by moonlight, at the foot of the rocks. I

now know that it was your brother, and I also know that we all owe our deliverance and present safety to you and him. I can easily guess his story. When the ship was blown up, he had departed, and thus saved his life."

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Yes," said Emilie ; "but do you know that this weighs upon his spirit like a millstone? He says, that he had voluntarily joined the pirates, and for him to be the instrument of blowing up their ship, and sending them into eternity, while he provided for his own safety, was at once treacherous and dastardly."

"But we must look at the motive," said Brusque. "He found that his father, his mother, his sister, were in the hands of those desperate men: it was to save them from insult and death that he took the fearful step. It was by this means alone that he could provide escape for those to whom he was bound by the closest of human ties."

"I have suggested these thoughts to him," replied Emilie; "and thus far he might be reconciled to himself; but that he saved his own life is what haunts him; he thinks it mean and cowardly. He is so far affected by this consideration, that he has resolved never to indulge in the pleasures of society, but to dwell apart in the cave, where you know I have been accustomed to meet him. Even now he has departed; and I fear that nothing can persuade him to leave his dreary abode, and attach himself to our community."

"This is sheer madness," said Brusque. "Let us go to your father, and get his commands for François to come to the tents. He will not refuse to obey his parent; and when we get him here, we can, perhaps, reason him out of his determination."

Brusque and Emilie went to the tent of M. Bonfils, and, opening the folds of the canvass, were about to enter, when,

seeing the aged man and his wife on their knees, they paused and listened. They were side by side. The wife was bent over a chest, upon which her face rested, clasped in her hands; the husband, with his hands uplifted, his white and dishevelled hair lying upon his shoulders, his countenance turned to heaven, was pouring out a fervent thanksgiving for the deliverance of themselves and their friends from the awful peril that had threatened them. It was a thanksgiving, not for themselves alone, but for their children, their friends and companions. The voice of the old man trembled, yet its tones were clear, peaceful, confiding. He spoke as if in the very ear of his God, who yet was his benefactor and his friend. As he alluded to François, his voice faltered, the tears gushed down his cheeks, and the sobs of the mother were audible.

He

The suppliant paused for a moment for his voice seemed choked; but soon recovering, he went on. Although François was a man, the aged father seemed to think of him as yet a boy-his wayward, erring boy-his only son. pleaded for him as a parent only could plead for a child. Emilie and Brusque were melted into tears; and sighs, which they could not suppress, broke from their bosoms. At length the prayer was finished, and the young couple, presenting themselves to M. Bonfils, told him their errand. "Go, my children," said he, "go and tell François to come to me. Tell him that I have much to say to him." The mother joined her wishes to this request, and the lovers departed for the cave where François had before made his abode.

As they approached the place, they saw the object of their search, sitting upon a projecting rock that hung over the sea. He did not perceive them at first, and they paused a moment to look at him. He was gazing over the water,

which was lighted by the full moon, and he seemed to catch something of the holy tranquillity which marked the scene. Not a wave, not a ripple, was visible upon the placid face of the deep. There was a slight undulation, and the tide seemed to play with the image of the moon, yet so smooth and mirror-like was its surface as to leave that image unbroken.

After a little time, the two companions approached their moody friend, who instantly rose and began to descend the rocks toward his retreat; but Brusque called to him, and, climbing up the cliff, he soon joined them. They then stated their errand, and begged François to return with them. "Come," said Brusque, "your father wishes, nay, commands you to return!"

"His wish is more than his command," said François. "I know not how it is, but it seems to me that my nature is changed: I fear not, I regard not power-nay, I have a feeling within which spurns it; but my heart is like a woman's if a wish is uttered. I will go with you, though it may be to hear my father's curse. I have briefly told him my story. I have told him that I have been a pirate, and that I have basely betrayed my companions: but I will go with you, as my father wishes it."

"Nay, dear François!" said Emilie, throwing her arms around his neck, "do not feel thus. Could you have heard what we have just heard, you would not speak or feel as you do."

"And what have you heard?" was the reply. Emilie then told him of the scene they had witnessed in the tent, and the fervent prayer which had been uttered in his behalf. "Dear, dear sister!" said François, throwing his powerful arm around her waist, and clasping her light form to his rugged bosom, "you are indeed an angel of light! Did my father pray for me? Will he for

give me? Will he forgive such a wretch as I am? Will my mother forgive me? Shall I, can I, be once more the object of their regard, their affection, their confidence?"

"Oh, my brother!" said Emilie, "doubt it not-doubt it not. They will forgive you indeed; and Heaven will forgive you. We shall all be happy in your restoration to us; and however much you may have erred, we shall feel that your present repentance, and the good deeds you have done this night, in saving this little community, your father, your mother, your sister, from insult and butchery, is at once atonement and compensation."

"Oh, speak not, Emilie, of compensation-speak not of what I have done as atonement. I cannot think of myself but as an object of reproach; I have no account of good deeds to offer as an offset to my crimes. One thing only can I plead as excuse or apology, and that is, that I was misled by evil company, and enlisted in the expedition of that horrid ship while I was in a state of intoxication. This, I know, is a poor plea-to offer one crime as an excuse for another; yet it is all I can give in extenuation of my guilt."

"How was it, brother? Tell us the story," said Emilie.

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Well," said François. "You know that I sailed from Havre, for the West Indies. Our vessel lay for some time at St. Domingo, and I was often ashore. Here I fell in with the captain of the pirate vessel. He was a man of talents, and of various accomplishments. We used often to meet at a tavern, and he took particular pains to insinuate himself into my confidence. We at last became friends, and then he hinted to me his design of fitting out a vessel to cruise for plunder upon the high seas. I rejected the proposal with indignation. My companion sneered at my scruples,

and attempted to reason me into his views. 'Look at the state of the world,' said he, 'and you will remark that all are doing what I propose to do. At Paris they are cutting each other's throats, just to see which shall have the largest share of the spoils of society-wealth, pleasure, and power. England is sending her ships forth on every ocean: and what are they better than pirates? They have, indeed, the commission of the king-but still it is a commission to burn, slay, and plunder all who do not bow to the mistress of the seas. And why shall not we play our part in the great game of life, as well as these potentates and powers? Why should we not be men-instead of women?

"Look at the state of this island-St. Domingo. Already is it heaving and swelling with the tempest of coming revolution. I know secrets worth knowing. Ere a month has rolled away, this place will be deluged in blood. The vast wealth of Port au Prince is now secretly being carried on board the ships, to take flight, with its owners, for places of safety from the coming storm. Let us be on the sea, with a light craft, and we will cut and carve, among them, as we please!'

"Such were the inducements held out to me by the arch-pirate: but it was all in vain, while my mind was clear. I shrunk from the proposal with horror. But now a new scheme was played off. I was led, on one occasion, to drink more deeply than my wont; and being already nearly intoxicated, I was plied with more liquor. My reason was soon lost-but my passions were inflamed. It is the nature of drunkenness to kill all that is good in a man, and leave in full force all that is evil. Under this seduction, I yielded my assent, and was hastened on board the pirate ship, which lay at a little distance from the harbor. Care was taken that my intoxication should be

continued; and when I was again sober, our canvass was spread, and our vessel dancing over the waves. There was no retreat; and, finding myself in the gulf, I sought to support my relenting and revolting bosom by drink. At last I partially drowned my remorse; and but for meeting with Brusque on the island, I had been a pirate still."

By the time this story was done, the party had reached the hut. They enter ed, and being kindly received by the aged parents, they sat down. After sitting in silence for a few moments, François arose, went to his father, and kneeling before him, asked for his forgiveness. He was yet a young man—but his stature was almost gigantic. His hair was black as jet, and hung in longneglected ringlets over his shoulders. His countenance was pale as death; but still his thick, black eyebrows, his bushy beard, and his manly features, gave him an aspect at once commanding and striking. When erect and animated, he was an object to arrest the attention and fix the gaze of every beholder. In general, his aspect was stern, but now it was so marked with humiliation and contrition, as to be exceedingly touching. The aged parent laid his hand upon his head, and looking to heaven, said, in a tone of deep pathos, "Father, forgive him!" He could say no more-his heart was too full.

We need not dwell upon the scene. It is sufficient to say, that from that day, François lived with his parents. His character was thoroughly changed: the haughty and passionate bearing, which had characterized him before, had given place to humility and gentleness; and the features that once befitted the pirate, might now have been chosen to set forth the image of a saint. Such is the influence of the soul, in giving character and expression to the features.

(To be continued.)

Of all the nations of antiquity, the Greeks were, in some respects, the most interesting. Though they inhabited one country, they were divided into different states, somewhat as the United States are. Among the principal states, were Athens and Sparta. The people, government, and laws of these were very different. The Athenians cultivated literature, such as poetry and history; but the Spartans despised these things. The Athenians were devoted to science and philosophy; the Spartans had no relish for them. The Athenians encouraged the arts-as music, sculpture, painting, and architecture; the Spartans held such things in contempt. The Athenians were gay, fickle, and fond of pleasure; the Spartans were severe, determined, and devoted to war.

It is not easy to account for such differences of character in the people of two states, living but a few miles apart. Probably it was owing in part to original differences in the people who settled

the two countries, and in part to the difference of the laws.

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Sparta had a famous lawgiver, named Lycurgus. He drew up a system, or code of laws, and then called the people together. He told them he was going away, and asked them if they would keep his laws till he should return. This they solemnly promised to do so Lycurgus went away, and starved himself to death. His object was to make the Spartans keep his laws forever. His body was burned, by his direction, and his ashes thrown into the sea, so that the Spartans could not bring his body back, and thus have an excuse for setting aside his laws. He died about 2700 years ago.

Solon was the greatest lawgiver of Athens. Many of his laws were wise and good, and some of them have even descended to our day, and are incorporated in our own codes. But the people of Athens were changeable; and, soon after Solon's death, the supreme power