“Leave ye your flesh-pots; turn from filthy greed
      Of gain that doth the thirsting spirit mock;
    And heaven shall drop sweet manna for your need,
      And rain clear rivers from the unhewn rock! 
  Thus saith the Lord!” And Moses—­meek, unshod—­
  Within the cloud stands hearkening to his God!

    Show us our Aaron, with his rod in flower! 
      Our Miriam, with her timbrel-soul in tune! 
    And call some Joshua, in the Spirit’s power,
      To poise our sun of strength at point of noon! 
  God of our fathers! over sand and sea,
  Still keep our struggling footsteps close to Thee!

* * * * *

THEN AND NOW IN THE OLD DOMINION.

The history of Virginia opens with a romance.  No one will be surprised at this, for it is a habit histories have.  There is Plymouth Rock, for example; it would be hard to find anything more purely romantic than that.  Well do we remember the sad day when a friend took us to the perfectly flat wharf at Plymouth, and recited Mrs. Hemans’s humorous verse,—­

  “The breaking waves dashed high,
  On a stern and rock-bound coast.”

“Such, then,” we reflected, “is History!  If Plymouth Rock turns out to be a myth, why may not Columbus or Santa Claus or Napoleon, or anything or anybody?” Since then we have been skeptical about history even where it seems most probable; at times doubt whether Rip Van Winkle really slept twenty years without turning over; are annoyed with misgivings as to whether our Western pioneers Boone, Crockett, and others, did keep bears in their stables for saddle-horses, and harness alligators as we do oxen.  So we doubted the story of John Smith and Pocahontas with which Virginia opens.  In one thing we had already caught that State making a mythical statement:  it was named by Queen Elizabeth Virginia in honor of her own virgin state,—­which, if Cobbett is to be believed, was also a romance.  Well, America was named after a pirate, and Sir Walter Raleigh, who suggested the name of the Virgin Queen, was fond of a joke.

But notwithstanding the suspicion with which we entered upon the investigation, we are convinced that the romance of Pocahontas is true.  As only a portion of the story of this Indian maiden, “the colonial angel,” as she was termed by the settlers, is known, and that not generally with exactness, we will reproduce it here.

It will be remembered that Pocahontas, when about thirteen years of age, saved the young English captain, John Smith, from the death which her father, Powhatan, had resolved he should suffer.  As the tomahawk was about to descend on his head, the girl rushed forward and clasped that head in her arms.  The stern heart of Powhatan relented, and he consented that the captive should live to make tomahawks for him and beads and bells for Pocahontas.  Afterward Powhatan agreed that Smith should return to Jamestown, on condition of his sending him two guns and a grindstone.  Soon, after this Jamestown with all its stores was destroyed by fire, and the colonists came near perishing from cold and hunger.  Half of them died; and the rest were saved only by Pocahontas, who appeared in the midst of their distress, bringing bread, raccoons, and venison.