around, thirsting for blood, anxiously await the sacrifice of the victim, already too long delayed.  Hope has fled from the captive’s breast, and he is communing in earnest with the Great Spirit into whose presence he is about to be so sadly and speedily ushered.  Suddenly a shriek is heard!  At that well-known voice the savage arm falls helpless at its side, as, stretched upon the neck of the despairing captive, lies the lovely daughter of Powhattan, with tearful eye, and all the wild energy of her race, vowing she will not survive the butchery of her kindest friend.  Ruthless hands would tear her away, and complete the bloody tragedy.  Who dares lay even a finger upon the noble daughter of their adored chief?  They stand abashed, revenge and doubt striving in their hearts; the eloquence of love and mercy pleading irresistibly from the eyes of Pocahontas.  The tomahawk, upraised by man’s revenge for the work of a captive’s death, descends, when moved by woman’s tears, to cut a captive’s bonds.

Callous indeed must that man’s heart be, who can gaze upon the spot where the noble Pocahontas—­reared among savages, ’mid the solemn grandeur of the forest, and beneath, the broad canopy of heaven, with no Gospel light to guide and soften—­received the holy impulses of love and mercy fresh from her Maker’s hand; and how gratifying to remember, that she who had thus early imbibed these sacred feelings, became soon after a convert to Christianity.  Alas! how short her Christian career.  Marrying Mr. J. Rolfe, she died in childbirth ere she had reached her twenty-fifth year, and from her many of the oldest families in Virginia at this day have their origin.  Virginia, as is well known, has always been considered an aristocratic State; and it is a kind of joke—­in allusion to this Indian origin—­for other States to speak disparagingly of the F.F.Vs.—­alias first families of Virginia.  Let those who sneer, seek carefully amid their musty ancestral rolls for a nobler heart than that of Pocahontas, the joy of Powhattan’s house and the pride of all his tribe.  How strange, that a scene so well known as the foregoing, and a life so adventurous as that of Smith, has never yet engaged the pen of a Cooper or a Bulwer!

One of my friends in New York had given me a letter to a gentleman in Richmond, at whose house I called soon after my arrival, as my stay was necessarily short.  He was out in the country, at his plantation.  This disappointment I endeavoured to rectify by enclosing the letter; but when I had done so, Sambo could not tell me how to address it, as he was in ignorance both of the place and its distance.  In this dilemma, and while ransacking my brain-box how to remedy the difficulty, a lady came in, and having passed me, Sambo—­grinning through a chevaux-de-frise of snow-white ivories—­informed me that was “his Missus.”  I instantly sent the letter in to her to receive its direction, and in lieu of my letter received an immediate summons to walk