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and now that the Indians have left these countries, we find the undergrowth occupying the ground again.

But the general and most popular opinion seems to be that the prairies are caused by the Indian custom of annually burning the leaves and grass in autumn, which prevents the growth of any young trees. Time, it is thought, will thus form prairies; for some of the old trees annually perishing, and there being no undergrowth to supply their places, they become thinner every year; and as they diminish, they shade the grass less, which therefore grows more luxuriantly, and when a strong wind carries a fire through the dry grass and leaves which cover the earth with combustible matter several feet deep, the volume of flame destroys all before it. After a beginning is made, the circle widens every year, until prairies open as boundless as the ocean. Young growth follows the civilized settlements, since the settler keeps off those annual burnings. The proof advanced for this theory is, that prairies are all upon rich, rolling, and comparatively dry soil, where much vegetable matter would accumulate to raise the flame, and but little moisture to counteract it. This opinion, which is the most generally received, is among the least well founded, being based altogether upon what have sometimes been called false facts. Thus there is no proof of fires in the woods having been so extensive or destructive as it supposes; the destruction of live timber being a very uncommon occurrence; and the fact is undeniable that where woodland and prairie are found adjacent, the fire ceases to display the same destructive energy in the former, that it exhibits in the latter. Again: the edges of the prairie do not exhibit appearances of encroachment by fire on the timber; but on the contrary, the woodland seems to be increasing; and it is much more common to see young thickets spreading out from the woods upon the plain, than to behold the stumps and trunks of trees, which had been killed by fire. The conclusive argument, however, in opposition to the opinion above, is, that the destruction of the forest by fire would have taken place on the hills, and on

broken grounds, as well as on the level, while the prairies only occupy the last.

Before proceeding to state what is conceived to be the true theory of the prairies, it may be well to convey an exact impression of their characteristic features. The following graphic description by Judge Hall, will doubtless answer the purpose.

"By those who have never seen this region," says the Judge, "a very tolerable idea may be formed of the manner in which the prairie and forest alternate, and the proportions of each, by drawing a colored line of irregular breadth, along the edges of all the water courses laid down in the map. The border thus shaded, which would represent the woodland would vary in width from one to five or six miles, and would sometimes extend to twelve. As the streams approached each other, these borders would approximate, or come into contact; and all the intermediate spaces not thus colored would be prairie. It is true, therefore, as a general rule, in relation to the states in which the prairies are situated, that whereever there is a considerable tract of surface, not intersected by water courses, it is level, and destitute of timber; but in the vicinity of springs and streams, the country is clothed in forest."

"Taking as an example the country lying between the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, it will be seen that in the point formed by their junction, the forest covers the whole ground, and that as these rivers diverge, the prairies begin to intervene. At first there is only an occasional meadow, small, and not very distinctly defined. Proceeding northward the timber is found to decrease, and the prairies to expand; yet the plains are still comparatively small, wholly unconnected with each other, and their outlines distinctly marked by the woodlands which surround and separate them. They are insulated and distinct tracts of meadow land, embosomed in the forest. Advancing further to the north, the prairie surface begins to predominate; the prairies now be come large, and communicate with each other like a chain of lakes, by means of numerous avenues or vistas; still however, the traveller is surrounded by timber; his

eye never loses sight of the deep green outline, throwing out its capes and headlands; though he sees no more than dense forests and large trees, whose deep shade almost appalled him in the more southern district."

"Travelling onward in the same direction, the prairies continue to expand, until we find ourselves surrounded by one vast plain. In the country over which we have passed, the forest is interspersed with these interesting plains; here the prairie is studded with groves and copses, and the streams fringed with strips of woodland. The eye sometimes roves over an immense expanse clothed with grass, discovering no other object on which to rest, and finding no limit to its vision but the distant horizon; while more frequently it wanders from grove to grove, and from one point of woodland to another, charmed and refreshed by an endless variety of scenic beauty."

"This description applies chiefly to Illinois, from a careful inspection of which state we have drawn the picture; but its general outlines are true of Indiana and Missouri, and are applicable, to some extent, to Ohio and Michigan. But if our path lie still farther to the west, and conduct us to the wide tracts that extend from the waters of the Arkansas to those of the Missouri and Mississippi, we arrive at a region of boundless plains-boundless to the

eye

of the traveller, which discovers nothing but the verdant carpet and the blue sky, without a grove, a tree, or a bush, to add variety to the landscape, and where the naked meadow often commences at the very margins of the streams."

But there is another point of view from which we are bound to consider the prairies, before we adopt any opinion purely hypothetical in reference to the cause of their present condition; and that is their geological structure. Now, if we examine them in this respect, either in the couliés or chasms, that frequently intersect them, or by attending to the materials, which it is necessary to penetrate through in sinking wells into them-these materials being, where their rocky foundation does not come up to the surface or is immediately beneath

VOL. II.-No. 10.

it, almost invariably a vegetable soil of more or less depth, and a thick deposite of plastic clay overlying a bed of sand or immediately superimposed upon the rockthere is no geologist who will not remain satisfied that they are the ancient floors of the ocean. If so, when the ocean waters first abandoned them they must have been without plants, and the naturalist who does not admit the doctrine of spontaneous growth, will conclude that when these did make their appearance, they germinated from seeds derived from plants, growing on lands left with a higher level than the sea that receded from the prairies. Their borders would be planted first, and by such plants as will grow upon the scantiest soil, and so on, until by natural and well understood causes the soil had acquired depth enough to support a hardier and more luxuriant vegetation.

Taking however a more comprehensive view, there is no reason why we should not suppose that the first covering of the earth was composed of those plants that arrive at maturity in the shortest time. And by whatever method it may be thought that plants begin first to germinate, it is evident that annual plants would ripen and scatter their seeds, many times, before trees and even shrubs could acquire the power of reproducing their own species. In the mean time the propagation of the latter would be retarded by a variety of causesthe frost would nip their tender stems in winter-fire would consume, or the blast would shatter them-and the wild grazing animals would bite them off, or tread them under foot; while many of their seeds, particularly such as assume the form of nuts or fruit, would be devoured by animals. The grasses, that are propagated both by the root and by seed, are exempt from the operation of almost all these casualties. Providence has, with unerring wisdom, fitted every production of nature to sustain itself against the accidents to which it is most exposed, and has given to these plants which constitute the food of animals, a remarkable tenacity of life; so that although bitten off, and trodden down, and even scorched, they still retain the vital

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principle. That trees have likewise a power of self-protection, is evident from their present existence in a state of nature. It is only assumed, therefore, that in the earliest state of being, the grasses would have the advantage, over plants of less hardy, and of slower growth; and that when both are struggling for the possession of the soil, the former would at first gain the ascendancy; although the latter, in consequence of their superior size and strength, would finally, whenever they got possession of any portion of the soil, entirely overshadow and destroy their humble rivals.

We conclude then, that most of the prairies have never, since the ocean left them, been covered by any vegetables of greater importance than herbs and grasses, and that the growth of the timber has been

prevented by the causes above enumerated; the principal of which has been probably the annual fires, but a very efficient one also the devastation caused by the teeth and hoofs of the buffalo.*

"This scarcity of wood in the western regions, so much at variance with what is seen in other parts of North America, proceeds from two principal causes. In the plains on this side of the Platte river, from the custom which the Indians who live here have adopted, to fire their prairies towards the end of autumn, in order to have better pasture at the return of spring; but in the far west, where the Indians do not follow this practice (because they fear to drive away the animals that are necessary for their subsistence, or to expose themselves to be discovered by the strolling parties of their enemies), it proceeds from the nature of the soil, which, being a mixture of sand and light earth, is every where so very barren, that with the exception of the absynth that covers the plains, and the gloomy ver· dure that shades the mountains, vegetation is confined to the vicinity of rivers,-a circumstance which renders a journey through the far west extremely long and tedious."-Indian Sketches.

PRASCOVIA, OR FILIAL PIETY.

FROM THE FRENCH OF COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE.

A TRUE STORY.

When they thrust me from my native land,
Didst thou stand forth, my firm and faithful guide.
And now, beloved daughter, to thy sire

What errand dost thou bear? What weighty cause
Moved thee to quit thy home?

Toil is light,

When we but labor in a parent's cause.

HE pious fortitude and courage of a

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poor girl, who, towards the end of the reign of the Emperor Paul, wandered from Siberia to St. Petersburg, to obtain the liberty of her exiled parents, attracted sufficient public attention to induce a celebrated authoress to transform her into the heroine of a novel. But those who knew her personally are apt to regret that adventures and ideas of a romantic nature had been ascribed to a generous but sober-minded girl, who never felt any other passion than the most exalted fondness for her parents, and who derived from that exclusive feeling the first impulse for attempting a most adventurous undertaking, and the strength to carry it into execution.

Edipus at Colonos.

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His

the storming of Ismail and Otchakoff. gallant conduct won him the esteem of his regiment. The cause of his exile to Siberia is not known, his trial, and the re-examination of it in latter times, having remained a secret. Some persons pretended to know that he had been accused of insubordination by his commanding officer, who was unfriendly to him. Whatever may have been the cause of it, he had been in Siberia fourteen years when his daughter undertook her journey to St. Petersburg. The place of his banishment was Ischim, a village on the frontiers of the government of Tobolsk: he lived there with his wife and daughter, upon the small allowance of ten kopecks a day, which is paid to the prisoners who are not condemned to hard labor.

Young Prascovia contributed by her industry to the subsistence of her parents. She lent her services to the laundresses of the village, or made herself useful at harvest time in the fields, and worked as hard as her strength permitted. Rye, eggs, and vegetables, were the reward of her exertions. She was a child when she arrived in Siberia; and having never known a more comfortable life, she gave herself up most cheerfully to continual labor, though it often exceeded her physical strength. Her delicate hands seemed destined for different occupations. Her mother, whose whole time was occupied in the management of her poor household, seemed to bear patiently her deplorable situation; but her father, who had been from his youth accustomed to the active life of a soldier, had never learned to resign himself to his fate, and often yielded to a despondency and despair which no misfortune, however great, can excuse. Although he endeavored to conceal from Prascovia the grief that preyed upon his mind, she had been too often, either by accident or through her attention to all that concerned him, a secret witness of his dejection, not to reflect on the cruel situation of her parents, long before they imagined that she was aware of their sufferings.

The governor of Siberia had never replied to the supplications which Lopouloff had addressed to him from time to time; an

officer, however, having passed with despatches, through Ischim, and having promised him, not only to deliver to the governor his letters, but to second his requests, the unfortunate exile entertained for a while some hopes of liberty or relief. But the few travellers and messengers that arrived from Tobolsk, added only disappointments to actual and increased sufferings.

It was in one of these distressing moments that Prascovia, on her return from her labors in the fields, found her mother bathed in tears, and was alarmed by the mortal paleness and the bewildered looks of her father. "There you see," exclaimed he, when she entered this abode of sorrow, "the object of my greatest grief; this is the child whom Providence has given me in its wrath, to increase my sufferings by hers, to make me witness of her gradual decay, when wasted by incessant toil, so that the name of father, which is a blessing to all others, is to me the strongest proof of heaven's malediction." Poor Prascovia, frightened to death, clung to his knees, and with the assistance of her mother and by their united entreaties, Lopouloff recovered gradually his self-possession: but this scene had made a strong impression upon her mind. Her parents had, for the first time, openly spoken in her presence of their hopeless situation, and for the first time she had been permitted to sympathise in their sorrows. She was then only fifteen years of age, and at that time, the idea of endeavoring to obtain her father's pardon entered her mind; or, according to her own account, one day when she had been praying, "it crossed her like lightning, and caused in her an unspeakable emotion." She was persuaded that it was an inspiration of Providence, and this belief supported her under the most trying circumstances.

The hope of pardon and of liberty had never before cheered her heart. It filled her now with delight. She threw herself anew on her knees and prayed with fervor; but her imagination was so disquieted that she knew not exactly what she should implore from the divine mercy, all the ordinary train of her ideas being lost in the nameless joy she experienced. Soon, however, the re

solution of going to St. Petersburg, with the purpose of throwing herself at the emperor's feet, to obtain her father's liberty, grew more and more distinct in her mind, and became the prevailing subject of her thoughts.

She had long since resorted to a favorite place on the skirts of a neighboring wood, where she loved to pray; but now she visited it oftener than ever. Occupied exclusively with her great project, she implored heaven with all the ardor of her soul, to favor, to protect it, and to give her sufficient fortitude and means to accomplish it. She was, therefore, often somewhat negligent in her usual occupations, and was upbraided by her parents. For a long time she did not dare to disclose to them the enterprise she meditated. Her courage failed her, whenever she attempted an explanation, in which she could discern little probability of success. But when she became convinced that she had sufficiently matured her design, she fixed a day when she should disclose it to her parents, firmly resolved to overcome on that occasion her natural timidity.

On that day, Prascovia went, early in the morning, to the forest, to implore from heaven that courage and eloquence which she deemed necessary to convince her parents.

She returned home afterwards, with no other uncertainty, but to which of her parents she was about to reveal her project. The first she should meet was to be her confidant: she rather hoped to meet her mother, on whose indulgence she trusted the most. But when she approached the house, she saw her father, seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe. She addressed him with great courage, explained, in part, her views, and solicited, with all the eloquence which she could command, permission to depart for the metropolis. When she had concluded, her father, who had not interrupted her speech, took her hand with great gravity, and entering with her into the room, where his wife was preparing dinner, he exclaimed: "My wife, good news! we have a powerful protector! Prascovia is on her way to St. Petersburg, and is good enough to promise to intercede in our be

half with the emperor!" Lopouloff repeated, in a tone of irony, his whole conversation with his daughter. "She would do better," said her mother, "to mind her business, instead of dreaming of such follies." The poor girl had mustered courage against the anger of her parents, but she was unprepared to see her hopes brought to the test of ridicule and irony. She wept bitterly. The gay humor which her father had indulged for a moment, gave way to his usual austerity; but while he reproved her for weeping, her mother caught her to her bosom, smiled, and reaching a towel, said to her, in a coaxing tone: " Come, come, child, clean the table for dinner, and thou canst afterwards think more at leisure of thy journey to St. Petersburg."

Such treatment was more apt to dissuade Prascovia from her projects, than the severest upbraiding, and the worst usage. The humiliation of seeing herself treated like a child, did not, however, long oppress her, or prevail for a moment over her natural consistency. The difficulty of the first step was surmounted: she touched, afterwards, repeatedly, on the subject, and her entreaties were so frequent and urgent, that her father became angry, reproved her most seriously, and commanded her never more to speak of her plans of deliverance. Her mother proceeded with somewhat more gentleness to convince her that she was yet too young to meddle with such serious busi

ness.

This result of her first endeavors prevented Prascovia for three years from renewing her entreaties with her parents. In that interval of time she was obliged to attend her mother in an obstinate illness, which alone would have obliged her to postpone her journey, but never did she permit a day to pass, without including in her ordinary prayers a fervent petition that she might obtain from her father the desired permission; and the more she prayed, the more she became persuaded that God would grant her request.

Such a religious disposition and confi dence in a girl of her age, is so much the more surprising, as they were not the fruit of her education. Though her father was

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