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bows and arrows. There was one glen, stretching up between steep cliffs far into the bosom of the mountain. I began to ascend along its bottom, pushing my way onward among the rocks, trees, and bushes that obstructed it. A slender thread of water trickled along its center, which since issuing from the heart of its native rock could scarcely have been warmed or gladdened by a ray of sunshine. After advancing for some time, I conceived myself to be entirely alone; but coming to a part of the glen in a great measure free of trees and undergrowth, I saw at some distance the black head and red shoulders of an Indian among the bushes above. The reader need not prepare himself for a startling adventure, for I have none to relate. The head and shoulders belonged to Mene-Seela, my best friend in the village. As I had approached noiselessly with my moccasined feet, the old man was quite unconscious of my presence; and turning to a point where I could gain an unobstructed view of him, I saw him seated alone, immovable as a statue, among the rocks and trees. His face was turned upward, and his eyes seemed riveted on a pine tree springing from a cleft in the precipice above. The crest of the pine was swaying to and fro in the wind, and its long limbs waved slowly up and down, as if the tree had life. Looking for a while at the old man, I was satisfied that he was engaged in an act of worship o'r prayer, or communion of some kind with a supernatural being. I longed to penetrate his thoughts, but I could do nothing more than conjecture and speculate. I knew that though the intellect of an Indian can embrace the idea of an all-wise, allpowerful Spirit, the supreme Ruler of the universe, yet his mind will not always ascend into communion with a being that seems to him so vast, remote, and incomprehensible; and when danger threatens, when his hopes are broken, when the black wing of sorrow overshadows him, he is prone to turn for relief to some inferior agency, less removed from the ordinary scope of his faculties. He has a guardian spirit, on whom he relies for succor and guidance. To him all nature is instinct with mystic influence. Among those mountains not a wild beast was prowling, a bird singing, or a leaf fluttering, that might not tend to direct his destiny or give warning of what was in store for him; and he watches the world of nature around him as the astrologer watches the stars. So closely is he linked with it that his guardian spirit, no unsubstantial creation of the fancy, is usually embodied in the form of some living thing—a bear, a wolf, an eagle, or a serpent; and Mene-Seela, as he gazed intently on the old pine tree, might believe it to inshrine the fancied guide and protector of his life.

Whatever was passing in the mind of the old man, it was no part of sense or of delicacy to disturb him. Silently retracing my footsteps, I descended the glen until I came to a point where I could climb the steep precipices that shut it in, and gain the side of the mountain. Looking up, I saw a tall peak rising among the woods. Something impelled me to climb; I had not felt for many a day such strength and elasticity of limb. An hour and a half of slow and often intermitted labor brought me to the very summit; and emerging from the dark shadows of the rocks and pines, I stepped forth in the light, and walking along the sunny verge of a precipice, seated myself on its extreme point. Looking between the mountain peaks to the westward, the pale blue prairie was stretching to the farthest horizon like a serene and tranquil ocean. The surrounding mountains were in themselves sufficiently striking and impressive, but this contrast gave redoubled effect to their stern features.

From The Oregon Trail.


Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.



“So soft, so clear, yet in so sweet a note.
It seemed the music melted in her spirit.”

Zealously watching, with a practised professional eye, every opportunity to cater to the ever-varying tastes of a pleasure loving public, Mr. Barnum, the "prince of showmen," conceived the felicitous idea of inviting the renowned Swedish songstress, Jenny Lind, whose praise filled the wide world as that of a very divinity, to enter into an engagement with him to visit the United States, on a prolonged musical tour, under his managing auspices; and for this enterprising design, the accomplished showman in due time brought successfully about,-its consummation forming one of the most brilliant, joyous, and exhilarating episodes, viewed from whatever aspect, in the experience of the American nation,-an outburst of sunny excitement and delight, all over the land, at the presence of that transcendent musical genius, that wonderful vocal prodigy, of modern times.

But before proceeding to the details of this splendid and triumphant tour, some account of the distinguished songstress, in respect to her fascinating personal history and previous public career, will be in place,-derived and condensed from authentic sources, presenting as it does, such peculiar points of interest.

The Swedish nightingale”—the “divine Jenny,”—as she came to be called, as her powers of song were developed, was born at Stockholm, in 1821. Her taste for music was indicated while yet in her third year. At nine or ten, her parents, who were in reduced

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circumstances, suffered her to go upon the stage, where her success in juvenile characters was astonishing. But when she had reached her twelfth year, after receiving instruction from some of the first music masters, she lost her voice. Loving music for its own sake, the "nightingale” was bitterly afflicted at this calamity, the more especially as her voice had become a source of comfortable existence. At sixteen, however, it returned, to her infinite joy, under the following peculiar circumstances.

At a concert, in which the fourth act of Meyerbeer's Robert le Diable had been announced, it was suddenly discovered that a singer to take the part of Alice was wanting. A short solo being all that Alice has to sing in this act, none of the professionals was found desirous of undertaking the part. So trifling a part, her teacher thought, would not be marred, even by Jenny Lind, and accordingly she was intrusted with the execution of the insignificant solo. As, from the most arid spot in the desert, water, sparkling and fresh, will sometimes gush forth, so broke out, on this occasion, the rich fountain of song which had so long been latent in the humble and hitherto silent nightingale. Her voice returned with all its pristine sweetness, and with more than its early power, and the most overwhelming applause followed the unexpected discovery of this mine of melody

All doubt as to her lyrical excellence was now gone, and toward the winter of 1839, she made her first appearance on the stage as a singer in the character of Agatha, in Der Freischütz.

Her exquisite singing, and her acting, abounding in point and originality, created a deep sensation. She won new laurels by her presentation of Alice, in the spring of 1839, and fully established her fame by her subsequent performance of Lucia, in Lucia di Lammermoor. She afterwards visited Paris, to receive lessons from Garcia, the father and instructor of the ill-fated Madame Malibran,a vocalist who, like Jenny Lind, carried with her the hearts of her audience. The reception which that eminent composer gave her was, at first, rather discouraging. After hearing her sing, he said

"My dear young lady, you have no voice; you have had a voice, and will lose it; you have been singing too early or too much, and your voice is worn to ruin. I can not instruct you—I can not give you any hope at present. Sing not a note for three months, and then see me again.”

This counsel she followed, and when she reappeared before Garcia, he thought there was some hope for her, and gave her the instructions which she coveted; but it is remarkable that Garcia should never have had sufficient penetration to discover the innate genius. Soon after this, she made the acquaintance of Meyerbeer, whose discrimination was more searching. A rehearsal was given, with full orchestra, at the grand opera, where the performance of Jenny Lind so gratified the composer, that he at once offered her an engagement at Berlin.

At the close of 1812, she returned to Stockholm, where her popularity continued to increase. Her fame, however, extending beyond the limits of Sweden, she was induced to make a professional visit to Germany, where public opinion confirmed that high estimate of her ability which had been sanctioned at home.

But it was in England, that her success first touched the marvelous and sublime; and there it was that the tribute appropriated by Shakespeare to one of his beautiful creations,—“She sings like one immortal”—became fact, applied to the Swedish nightingale. Her Majesty's theater was the first arena of her triumphs in England, Queen Victoria, by her presence on the opening night, offering her a flattering and graceful tribute. On the evening of May fifth, she made her first essay before an English audience, in the character of Alice. The uproar excited by her appearance on this occasion was tremendous. The whole crowded mass displayed an astounding power of lungs, and hats and handkerchiefs waved from all parts.

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