« AnteriorContinuar »
were killed. Wingenund told him that was because the defenceless men had been removed—that Indian spies had watched all his movements and knew them all. That they were not Moravians but fighting men, and that when Williamson found they were not so he and his cowardly host ran away from the Indian bullets—he finally said:
"Had Williamson been taken with you, I and some friends, by making use of what you have told me, might perhaps have succeeded to save you, but as the matter now stands, no man would dare to interfere in vour behalf. The King of England himself, were he to come to this spot, with all his wealth and treasures, could not effect this purpose. The blood of the innocent Moravians, more than half of them women and children, cruelly and wantonly murdered, calls aloud for revenge. The relatives of the slain, who are among us, cry out and stand ready for revenge. The nation to which they belon" will have revenge. The Shawanese, our grand-children, have asked for your fellow-prisoner; on him they will take revenge.' All the nations connected with us, cry out, revenge ! revenge! The Moravians whom you went to destroy have fled instead of avenging their brethren; the offence is become national, and the nation itself is bound to take revenge!
"Crautf.—'Then it seems my fate is decided and I must prepare to meet death in its worst form?'
"Wineen.—' Yes, Colonel! I am sorry for it; but I cannot do any thing for you. Had you attended to the Indian principle, that as good and evil cannot dwell together in the same heart, so a good man ought not to go into evil company, you would not be in this lamentable situation. You see it now when it is too late, after Williamson has deserted you; what a bad man he must be! Nothing now remains for you but to meet your fate like a brave man. Farewell, Colonel Crawford! they are coming; I will retire.'
'_' I have been assured by respectable Indians that at the close of this conversation, which was related to me by Wingenund himself as well as by others, both he and Crawford burst into a flood of tears; they then took an affectionate leave of each other, and the chief immediately hid himself in the bushes, as the Indians express it, or in his own language, retired to a solitary spot."
That a race which often exhibits traits of character worthy of being imitated in civilized countries, should be suffered to dwindle away, a prey to the vices and rapacity of the dregs of the white people, is deeply to be deplored. It is a good subject for that philanthropy to work upon, which is now extending itself upon nations much more rude and barbarous. We have also to repay these unfortunate Indians for the calamities we have been the means of indicting upon them; and it is to be hoped that the laudable attempts of such men as Mr. Hunter and the missionary Hechewelder, and the less active but not less good-intentioned efforts of Mr. Buchanan, will kindle a feeling of disinterested benevolence towards the aboriginal inhabitants of America, and induce the Canadian and American Governments to punish any oppressions and insults they may receive from the colonists of these nations respectively. A diligent examination into the subject must convince the most prejudiced, that the Indian of North America has fewer vices and more noble points of character, than can be found elsewhere on the globe among an unenlightened people, though none have been more wronged, belied, and persecuted.
EXTRACTS FROM MY AUNT MARTHA's DIARY.
"I some lady trifles have reserved,
Immoment toys, things of such dignity
As we great modern friends withal."—Shaksi'eake.
Dined at Colonel Hackett's—an elegant party, and a very genteel dinner of eleven, and wine with a remove, and an excellent dessert. Miss Lockhart, (some people call her Miss Lack-heart,) thought it was badly dressed and rather shabby, but I can't say it struck me so. To be sure the lemon-pudding was shockingly smoked, the pheasant was roasted to rags, and the anchovy toast as salt as brine; but as to their filling the table with an epergne, serving rabbit-currie instead of chickens, and substituting clouted-cream for a nice trifle in the glass-dish, I think nothing of it, for I never knew it otherwise at Okeover-Hall. At all events, it wasn't for Miss L to make the observation, considering the kindness she has experienced from the Colonel, who is certainly a very worthy man; and indeed it is a mark of a little mind in anybody, to notice such insignificant matters. Considering he has been so long in India, it is very extraordinary that one never gets a good currie at his house. I wonder when Mrs. H— means to leave off her striped-gown: she wore it at the race-ball last year; besides, stripes are out. Sir Hildebrand Harbottle asked me to drink champagne with him. Dr. Hippuff was called out at dinner-time, or rather just as it was over; they say he always contrives it about the time of the dessert. —Mr. Bishop has not been.
Saw Widow Waters's cows feeding in Okeover church-yard—a scandalous proceeding! I wouldn't taste a drop of their milk upon any consideration! Mem. to deal in future with Mrs. Carter. Somebody said yesterday Sir Hildebrand was full of the milk of human kindness. It seems an odd expression applied to a man, and one too, whose face is of a deep claret-colour from the quantity of wine he drinks. Dryden, indeed, has the phrase " milkiness of blood."—When Mr. Fox the apothecary so kindly offered to take me to the Colonel's and bring me back in his one-horse carriage, I little thought he would call to-day to borrow five and thirty pounds. The poor man has a large family and healthy neighbourhood to struggle with, so I let him have the money; but I wonder such people can think of marrying. J never did, though it is well known I had many opportunities. If Mr. Bishop thinks he has any chance, I can assure him he is very much mistaken.
Mrs. Joliffe called, and in the course of conversation wondered I didn't keep a carriage of some sort, on purpose to introduce the mention of her own new one, (as she called it) though it has only been fresh painted. She knows very well that I always hire one when I want it, and I should therefore possess no advantage in a carriage of my own, except that of having it when I do not want it. She hoped I wasn't bilious:—what can have put such a fancy in her head? However,! shall take a couple of Lady de Crespigny's dinner-pills to-night. I don't like that Mrs. J.—What's become of Mr. Bishop, I wonder.
Met the Miss Penfolds and Mrs. Saxby in High-street, who thought it an age since they had seen me, but J called upon them last, and they may depend upon it I shall not go again till they return my visit. This morning Sir Simon Sowerby's lady produced her eleventh child; same day our cat kittened :—told Peggy to drown three of the young ones: —wonder Sir Simon doesn't give a similar order. Surely there is something indecorous in all this—no visit or letter from Mr. Bishop!!
Tapped the cask of beer brewed by the gardener, and told Peggy to take a large jug down to poor Mrs. Carter. She is a very deserving woman, though I cannot quite agree in what she said last Wednesday— that I was looking younger than ever. However, I certainly wear better than sister Margaret, though she is three years younger, but then, poor thing! she has had a family, and I have not. Heigho!—Something must have happened to Mr. Bishop!!
An excellent sermon this morning from good Dr. Drawlington.He bitterly inveighed against the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, particularly in the article of dress and personal decoration. I thought Mrs. Picton, who paints white and red, looked a little confused, and several of the congregation turned their eyes on the Miss Penfolds, who are always as fine as horses, and this day wore flaming new pelisses. Mrs. George Gubbins, too, had a new Gros-de-Naples silk bonnet and feathers, much too expensive for one in her circumstances. Thank Heaven! nobody can accuse me upon this point. Luckily I wore my old Leghorn bonnet, though I doubt whether any body would know it for the same, now it is fresh trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons; and it is certainly much more becoming since I have lined it with pink. Saw something like a crow's foot at the corner of each eye while dressing this morning, which must be entirely owing to the dry weather, and my having such a sleepless night;—brought a curl over each, so as to hide it. Mr. and Mrs. Saxby with Miss Pocklington called after church, but fortunately not till I had put on my blonde cap with amber ribbons, and I took care to sit with my back to the windows. None but very young people should ever sit fronting the light. Mrs.
S had a gold watch and chain dangling outside, with amethyst
bracelets over her long gloves, and Miss P a fine pink China-crape
pelisse, trimmed with white satin, and a dozen feathers in her hat. We all admired the sermon very much, and hoped some of our neighbours would be benefited by it.—Mr. Bishop not at church ! 1
What awful times we live in! The papers full of fresh revolutions: Europe and America both in a blaze! What are our little individual vexations, when compared with these portentous troubles of kings and empires, especially as we are such transitory beings, here to-day and gone to-morrow? By the by I shall pass Mrs. Davies's shop to-morrow, and I must not forget to change the silk gimp I bought last Friday, which is dreadfully bad. I do think galloon would do better.
It is really quite melancholy to see poor Mr. Gingham since he retired from the haberdashery business, how much he seems to be at a loss to get through the day, and how dreadfully he wastes his time! I have been watching him the whole morning taking the dimensions of his garden-wall a dozen times over with a yard-measure, sitting in the sun twiddlings his thumbs for an hour at a time, looking vacantly over the gate and yawning, and then going to sit in the sun again. "While I a moment name, a moment's past," says Dr. Young. He should read Dr. Watts on the Abuse of Time. Mrs. Blink^nsop's dawdle of a maid put up the posts for drying linen early this morning, and has been three-quarters of an hour, for I never took ray eyes off, in spreading out and pegging one basket of clothes! A postchaisc has been waiting at the shrubbery-gate from eleven o'clock till five minutes past twelve, and Sir Hilgrove's cart has gone three times up the lane with a tarpaulin over it. What can be the meaning of all this 1 This long absence is excessively rude of Mr. Bishop!
Dr. Drawlington called this morning—heard him puffing as he came up stairs and had just time to pop a novel I was reading under the sofa cushion, and take out his pamphlet upon the Revelations, in which he has clearly proved that the events of last year are prefigured and prophecied. The same thing has been indisputably proved every year within my recollection. I hope he didn't observe that the leaves were uncut. He is certainly a very learned and clever man, and well deserves his various lucrative preferments, but 1 did not glean any thing particularly interesting from his conversation in this visit, except that he wouldn't give a farthing for lobster-sauce without nutmeg in it, that a glass of vinegar should always be thrown into the water when you boil a turbot, and that a sucking-pig should invariably be roasted as soon as it is killed, with the legs skewered back; or the under part will not crisp. I shall take no further notice of Mr. B!
How very cheap jacconet muslins have become!—I don't like Cape Madeira.—Mem. to have no more cabbages for dinner.—I'm sure Peggy must steal my pins, there isn't one left in the pincushion.—This is the second time I have spoken to Hannah about the drawing-room grate. Servants are such a plague!—A handful of wormwood best preservative of furs against the moth. Mrs. Stevens's things hanging out again!—I thought she washed last week. I see Mrs. Umphreville is likely to have an increase: I think she might wear a shawl, but some people have no sense of shame.—No answer yet from Mrs. Fringe.— Pug barked three times last night: surely it wasn't Mr. B?
Went to the circulating library for Scott's last novel (as I thought it), and find there are two new ones since. I 'in sure nobody is more anxious than I am to read them as fast as possible, but he really should have a little consideration for people who must snatch an hour or two, now and then, to eat and drink, and see their friends, and discharge the common duties of society. A letter at last from Mrs. Fringe, but I positively will not wear pea-green, so dreadfully unbecoming to my complexion: dark people should wear nothing but pink or amber. Saw Mrs. Joliffe, who bantered one about Mr. Bishop, and told me she met him this morning in High-street. I find he's a trifling, shuffling character, and I shall treat him with the contempt he deserves. Told Hannah and Peggy to say I am not at home if he calls any more.
What an idiot that Hannah is!—How could she think of letting in Miss Lockhart and the two Miss Penfolds ?—Never was caught in such a pickle in all my life—hair in papers—a morning-wrapper, and pink slippers!—the parlour in a litter—the stair-carpet up, and a mop and pail in the hall!!! It's very vulgar of them to be dressed out and making visits at such an early hour. Now that I have made myself tidy I don't suppose a soul will come near the house: I don't like this cap. I think 1 look better after all in the amber ribbons. Surely I see
some one coming—it can't be Peggy ! Peggy! give me my amber
cap directly—Hannah! run down and open the garden gate—here's Mr. Bishop coming!—I am at home! Do you understand? You may let him in—I am at home!
The world has heard much of Pestalozzi, and he has enjoyed all the honours which fashion usually delights to lavish upon her favourites. He has been praised beyond his merits, and depreciated in an equal degree, while not one of these different opinions was in reality well founded. We meet everywhere with philanthropic enthusiasts, who admire benevolence as a spectacle, and who delight in it, especially as a subject of conversation, and as furnishing them with sentimental small-talk. Exaggeration generally fades into coolness, and not unfrequently terminates in disgust; but its greatest evil consists in shutting up the road to truth. Under its influence we are content to receive impressions, and we search no farther. In order to avoid this danger as it regards Pestalozzi, we must follow him, we must examine what have been his means, the nature of the country in which he lives, and the circumstances which have made him known to the public. Before we judge him, in short, we must become well acquainted with him; he is not one of those whom it is sufficient to glance at, and he will well repay the trouble we shall take in studying him.
Switzerland, that land of enchantment, which might be expected to inspire the poet and the painter, has in general produced none but ordinary characters. It would seem as if the beauties of nature, so picturesque and upon so grand a scale, annihilated the mental faculties; this influence, too, acts equally upon strangers, for there exists not one good poetical description of Switzerland, and yet it has been visited by the most celebrated poets. Whence arises this want of harmony between nature and man? Is it that these sublime beauties approach him too nearly, surround him too closely? Perhaps the imagination requires perspective; distance is perhaps necessary for her imagery. There is something, if we may so express ourselves, mathematical in the beauties of Switzerland, they are almost tangible to the spectator: there is no illusion, all is positive, and the great difficulty in real life, as in poetry, is to elevate oneself to truth. The poet will wander much more at his ease among clouds, than through valleys and over mountains; his difficulty is steadily to maintain his balance; if he lose it on terra firma, he falls, but in the clouds his wings will save him. The sun, tha moon, and the stars, are much more easily sung than Switzerland: their distance is in the poet's favour, for we have no means of judging of the truth of his allusions, or of his descriptions. Mont Blanc and the Riggi, those wonders of Switzerland, are not so susceptible of poetical hyperbole, exaggeration fails in endeavouring to pourtray those grand efforts of nature which stand not in need of the imagination of man to increase their sublimity. Besides, what comparisons could be used? What description would be at once sufficiently lofty and simple to give an idea of these sublime realities? Comparison, that figure in rhetoric so essential in poetry, cannot be employed by him who would describe Switzerland; it would always appear trivial or exaggerated. Nature, in Switzerland, is, one may almost say, the very personification of imagination, and the poet must humble himself before it, for he can go no farther. Coleridge has attempted a description of Mont Blanc; his language is harmonious, but he is below the level of his subject; and though he has avoided exaggeration, he has fallen into mediocrity and
vOL. XI. No. Xlvi. v