facet; and felt himself carried away by an irresistible propensity for investigation. Delightful but fleeting was the period of this intercourse. The friend of Piomingo died; and he has endeavored to console himself for his loss by seeking amusement among that people from whom his former associate had retired with disgust. He has travelled for several years through the United States, and at last fixed his residence in Philadelphia.

The good people of this republic have long derived amusement from the journals of polished travellers through barbarous nations: let us for once reverse the picture and see what entertainment can be drawn from the observations of a savage upon the manners and customs, vices and virtues, of those who boast the advantages of refinement and civilization.

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A Headman and Warrior of the Muscogulgee Nation.



THE existence of things is not strange; but the power of perceiving this existence is, beyond comprehension, wonderful. Where shall we look for the origin of mind?

Whence sprang the young idea? Was it produced by the immediate agency of the Almighty One? or is it a necessary emanation from the great fountain of nature, the soul of the universe? Our first thought has perished for ever; no exertion of ours can bring it up from the gulf of oblivion: yet, we may awaken the recollection of times long past; we may bid the scenes of childhood pass again before us; and remember with pleasure the early excursions of the unfledged mind.

When we first become conscious of our own existence, every thing is new-every thing delightful. We inquire not whence we e came; we rejoice because we ARE. The brisk circulation of the blood and the kindly flow of the animal spirits impel us to action. We find it impossible to control the tumultuous emotions of exultation and joy. We have no power to remain in one place or continue silent: we run, we scream, we leap "like roes or young harts on the mountains of spices." But this blissful riod passes away as a dream, and visits us no more. Our propescts become suddenly darkened: some faint idea of evil, of sorrow, and of death, passes through the mind.


The first thought concerning the final period of our joys and of our existence is inexpressibly distressing. "Must I die also?" said I to the sage Oconi-mico"must I die as well as Quibo? "Thou must also die,” answered Oconi-mico. "Shall I no more walk? Shall I no more climb up the mountain of buffaloes? Shall I no more shake the fruit from the beautiful pawpaw tree, or swim in the waters of Tuckabatchee? Shall I no more,


dear Oconi-mico, shall I no more see the sun rise among the trees of the forest?" "My dear child," said Oconimico," behold the stalks of maize, do they flourish longer than one season? Observe the trees of the forest; they grow old and become rotten: must a man live for ever? Thou must become old; thy hands must tremble, thine eyes become dim, and death put a period to thy existence." "What is death?" "Death is the end of life. Death is

-nothing." "I cannot understand that: come, let us look at my brother Quibo. Is he asleep? let us awake him. His face is cold; his eyes are closed; his limbs are stiff: he is dead. If I touch him, he cannot feel me ; If I cry, he cannot hear me; Should I pull open his eyes, he would not see me: he is dead. Why did he lie down on this bed and die? Why did he fall asleep and die? I will run wild on the hills. I will never lie down to sleep, any more. I will not die."

"My dear boy, look at Quibo: he has feet, but he cannot walk; he has hands, but he cannot bend his bow, or take an arrow from his quiver; he has eyes, but he cannot see the sun rise among the trees of the forest: the life-the spirit-the thought of Quibo is gone away to the land of souls." Sudden as a flash of lightning from a summer cloud, sprang up a new and delightful idea: Quibo is not all dead; his thought is gone to another country. "Where is the land of souls?” Oconi-mico took me by the hand and led me to the door of our hut. "Raise your eyes, my son, and observe those red clouds in the heavens." "I observe them." "Do you see those blue mountains, whose towering summits are mixed with the descending clouds?" "I see them."

"Beyond these mountains, there is a wide river; beyond that river, there is a great country; on the other side of that country, there is a world of water; in that water there is a thousand islands: the sun is gone down among them. These islands are full of fruit trees and streams of water. A thousand buffaloes and ten thousand deer graze on the hills or ruminate in the valleys." "When I die, shall I become an inhabitant of those islands?" "Love your friends; become a great warrior; and when you die, the good spirit will convey you to the land of souls, where Quibo is." "Who is the good spi

rit? Where is he?" "He is above the stars; he sends down the rain, the hail, and the snow; and he passes by in the wild tornado." Bad children, like the son of Ottoma, go down into the earth, to a dark place, where dwell the wicked spirits. My child, your mind is fatigued as well as your body. You must go to rest. Tomorrow you shall see Quibo.”

He took me in his arms and bore me to my couch; he wiped away the tears from my cheeks with the back of his hand, adding, "Rest in peace: the good being will send down his angels to watch over your slumbers." I slept; and sweet was my repose. What can soothe and calm the mind like the protection of a great and bencvolent being? The child may repose confidence in the arm of its father: but, to whom shall the father look up for support? He is conscious of his own weakness, and feels his dependence on every thing that surrounds him. He cannot subject nature to his empire, nor drive the planets from their orbits. Must he submit to the operation of causes and effects? Must he die and be forgotten forever? Or is there any truth in the consolatory invita tion: "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavyladen, and I will give you rest." Christians! Your religion sounds sweetly in the ears of a weak and erring creature, like man. It speaks to the heart, affords a refuge to the miserable, and provides a remedy for every evil: but I cannot divest myself of my original opinions. How indelible are the impressions we receive in childhood! Fifty summers have browned my visage, and fifty winters have furrowed my cheek; yet still the maxims of Oconi-mico are deeply engraven on the tablets of my mind. The sun of science has striven in vain to dissipate the darkness of my superstition; still I see my god in the black cloud, and listen to "the voice of his excellency" in the thunder; still he reigns in the tempest, and passes by in the tornado.

Navigators inform me that there is no heaven for Indians in the southern seas; yet my fancy can people still a thousand islands with the brave spirits of my forefathers. Still I see their shadowy forms chase the fleeting deer over visionary hills, and I sigh for their company and their joys. [To be continued


What is truth? This inquiry has been made by thousands in all ages of the world, yet still remains unanswered. We have neither discovered what it is, nor where it may be found. Some of the antients went down to look for this jewel in the bowels of the earth. They said that truth was at the bottom of a well, probably to signify that it was acquired by immense labor and with great difficulty. These philosophers have thought proper to bring up truth from the shades; but a much more numerous class has deduced its origin from above. Was it the angel Gabriel that brought down the leaves' of the koran for the illustrious Mohammed? These were said to contain the very quintessence of truth, and teach every thing that was necessary to be known by the children of men.

How many gods, and how many goddesses, at different times, have left the starry pavement of the celestial regions and come down for our instruction and entertainment? Among the Greeks and among the Romans, how many sages caught inspiration! how many sibyls uttered the oracles of the divinity! Yet, notwithstanding all the benevolent exertions of gods and demigods, heroes and sages, we still remained enveloped in thick darkness until the "dayspring from on high" shed its effulgence on the earth and even yet we grope through a darkness that may be felt; we wander cheerlessly through the "valley of the shadow of death" where no one can afford us assistance.

What is truth? and where can it be found? The chemist expects to find it in his crucible; the mathematician sees it in a triangle, a circle, or a parallelogram; and the metaphysician discovers it in the eternal fitness of things.

Great was the search, some hundred years ago, for the philosopher's stone, for the alkahest, and for the elixir of life; but some sceptics assert that there is no philosopher's stone, no alkahest, no elixir of life.

Some have drawn a comparison between these alchenists and the investigators of truth: they assert there is no truth in a well: they aver that it is not to be found

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