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I reverence such a garden. Every thing about it belongs to the time of hoops and periwigs. Harlowe Place must have been such another abode of stateliness and seclusion. Those iron gates seem to have been erected for no other purpose

than to divide Lovelace from Clarissa. We almost expect to see her through them, sweeping slowly along the terracewalk, in the pure dignity of her swan-like beauty, with her jealous sister watching her from a window; and we look for him round the corner of the wall, waiting to deposit a letter, and listening, with speaking eagerness, to the rustle of her silk gown. Richardson must certainly have seen Ham House.

Another interesting part of Richmond is the Park, so celebrated in the Scotch novels. But, alas! it has been improved. The walk in which Jeanie Deans met Queen Caroline no longer exists : and so completely do those engrossing and usurping books take possession of every place which they choose to mention, that the alteration is felt as a real disappointment. To make amends for this, on removing some old furniture lately from a house in the vicinity, three portraits were discovered in the wainscot, George the Second, a staring likeness, between Queen Caroline and Lady Suffolk. The paintings are the worst of that bad era; but the recollection of Jeanie Deans is irresistible. I was still more forcibly reminded of another great poet, by a yew-tree near the river, worthy to have been joined with “ those fraternal sons of Borrowdale

“Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

of intertwisted fibres serpentine,

Upcoiling and inveterately convolved." Richmond has been so accustomed to be praised in fine poetry, that to speak of it in humble prose seems like an affront. But the sincerest, and, perhaps, the highest compliment that has been paid to this celebrated spot, is the residence, in its near neighbourhood, of two of our greatest landscape-painters, Mr. Turner and Mr. Hofland. The pervading spirit of this soft and lovely scenery may often be traced in their works; more especially in those of the latter, whose sparkling delicacy and Claude-like sweetness of tone and colour, seem caught from the beauty which breathes like a perfume around him ; whilst Mr. Turner's original and truly English genius is evidently derived from universal nature. A fine picture is the best description of Richmond, though some of its graces are too subtle and evanescent even for the pencil. But the finest charm of this elegant place is the pure and innocent pleasure which it affords to a large and meritorious class of people. They who love to contemplate happy faces, should go there on a fine Sunday afternoon, and regale themselves with a sight of the many family parties drinking tea in the meadows, recalling Madame Roland's


delightful account of her Sunday evenings by the banks of the Seine, and inhaling fragrance and fresh air after a week's smoke and dust in smoky London. To a London citizen, Richmond is, undoubtedly, the country; and if we who come farther a-field, should be disposed to contest the point, we shall, at least, admit that it is something better.




I GAZE upon thee-yet I will not weep

Though to my lips this heart tumultuous swell-
My soul calls Freedom from her silent sleep,

Then wildly breathes that last, lone word -Farewell!
Why doth the music of the sweet-toned shell

Break into sadness ? now those soft notes flying
Light as the musical airs-now Freedom's knell

Upon the desolate winds abruptly sighing

Like Ocean's whisp'ring gale, which seems most sweet when dying !
Oh! lead me to blest Liberty's lone grave!-

There will I stand, and hear the waters lash
Her sacred tomb the wildly-musical wave

May scornfully upon the cold stone dash!

Yes ! let seas rage, and angry lightnings flash!
Land of the Muses, and of liberty!

Once it was thine to bid kings bow, worlds crash!
Oh! once 'twas THINE, immortal Greece, to be
The conqueror of the world--the parent of the free!
And this is desolation !--this is death!--

This is the gloomy stillness of the soul !
Within this chaos doth no spirit breathe ?
Doth no soft voice upon

the loud seas roll,
Wild as thy winds, and free from man's controul ?-
Heard faintly, but mysterious, and unseen-

A sad tone issuing from destruction's goal,
And gently breathing 'neath that blue serene
A sigh for what will be--what is, and what has BEEN ?
Then farewell, Athens ! Oh, farewell, farewell!

Land of the glorious-nation of the free!
Oh! do my senses labour 'neath a spell,

Gazing on this—which breathes of thine, and thee,

City of heroes !-Orphan'd liberty,
Invisible, may even now be near,

And bending from her kindred skies, may be
Gazing, in silent sadness, mutely here-
And mingling with a smile the sweetness of a tear !


Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind :
His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler Heaven-
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be content's his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire,
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company."

Pope. HAPPENING, a few days ago, to take up a volume of Lord Erskine's speeches, I was peculiarly struck with the passage in which he either invents or relates the speech of an American chieftain, justifying his animosity to the invaders of his country, and avowing his determination to defend it. Whether the speech be Lord Erskine's own, or the genuine production which it purports to be, I have no means of ascertaining; but be it which it may, there is a soul-stirring energy about it which few can peruse without excitement-it is a short and splendid specimen of nature's eloquence, which has its fountain in the heart, and irresistibly returns to it. The labours of the lamp have produced nothing which more effectually answers the purpose for which it was intended. It appeals directly to the feelings; the simplicity of its sad complaint is overwhelming, and its wild, determined, but provoked avowal, is not, upon human principles, to be combated. There is something to me extremely interesting in (if I may so term it) the retrogradation of the American Indians upon their woods and wildernesses. Their remonstrances, their treaties, their talks, their conferences, their occasional denunciations, and the thousand plans and stratagems by which they hope to arrest the progress of the “ white man

upon their territory, are most curious. They exhibit, on the one hand, the matured device, and ingenious frauds of civilized rapacity; and, on the other, the natural alarm of a primitive people, too guileless to negotiate, too feeble to avert, but still too conscious of its injustice to submit, without a struggle, to the deprivation of their beloved inheritance. The perusal of this fragment of Lord Erskine's, set me upon the search after more. Fortunately, through the kindness of an American friend, I have been enabled not only to collect some Indian anecdotes, but also some specimens of their eloquence, which almost deserve, like the speech in question, to be improved by the recitation of the orator of England. The following address was made in the Council Arbour at Portage, by the Chief of an American tribe of Indians, to the first Commissioner of the United States. In order to understand it clearly, it is necessary to explain the circumstances under which it was spoken. A conference of several suspected tribes had been solicited by the American, not in order either to accuse or to negotiate, but as an evidence of their good faith and sincerity. The tribes met, and the ambassador, forgetting the purport and stipulations of their conference, immediately poured out his suspicions, and, in the most violent and indignant terms, denounced as traitors all who could meditate an infraction of the treaties which had been so solemnly ratified with the United States. The first chief who answered, betrayed every consciousness of guilt; he trembled like an aspen leaf, and seemed scarcely able to articulate. Immediately after him, " BLACK THUNDER," the celebrated patriarch of the Fox tribe of Indians, addressed the commissioner. His mind had never meditated the slightest treachery, but he suspected that the accusation was merely a pretence, and a prelude to a further encroachment on his patrimony. He was indignant both at the suspicions which were avowed, and at the timid consciousness with which his predecessor had met them, and with a firm and manly dignity, he replied to the commissioner :-

“My father, restrain your feelings, and hear calmly what I shall say. I shall say it plainly. I shall not speak with fear and trembling. I feel no fear; for I have no cause to fear. I have never injured you; and innocence can feel no fear. I turn to you all, red skins and white skins —where is the man who will appear as my accuser ? Father, I understand not clearly how things are working. I have just been set at liberty; am I again to be plunged into bondage ? Frowns are all around me; but I am incapable of change. You, perhaps, may be ignorant of what I tell you, but it is a truth, which I call Heaven and earth to witness. It is a fact which can easily be proved, that I have been assailed in almost every possible way that pride, fear, feeling, or interest, could touch me—that I have been pushed to the last to raise the tomabawk against you; but all in vain. I never could be made to feel that you were my enemy. If this be the conduct of an enemy, I shall neter be your friend.

"You are acquainted, my father, with my removal above Prairie des Chiens. I went, and formed a settlement, and called my warriors around me. We took counsel, and from that counsel we never have departed. We smoked, and resolved to make common cause with the United States. I sent you the pipe—it resembled this; and I sent it by the Missouri, that the Indians of the Mississippi might not know what we were doing. You received it. I then told you that

your friends should be my friends—that your enemies should be my enemies --and that I only awaited your signal to make war. If this be the conduct of an enemy, I shall never be your friend. Why do I tell you


this? Because it is a truth, and a melancholy truth, that the good things which men do are often buried in the ground, while their evil deeds are stripped naked, and exposed to the world.*

My father, when I came here, I came to you in friendship. I little thought I should have had to defend myself. I have no defence to make. If I was guilty, I should have come prepared ; but I have ever held you by the hand, and I am come without excuses. If I had fought against you, I would have told you so; but I have nothing now to say here in your councils, except to repeat what I said before to my great father, the President of your nation. You heard it, and no doubt remember it. It was simply this : My lands can never be surrendered; I was cheated, and basely cheated, in the contract; I will: not surrender my country but with my life.

Again I call Heaven and earth to witness, and I smoke this pipe in evidence of my sincerity. If you are sincere, you will receive it from me. My only desire is, that we should smoke it together---that I. should grasp your sacred hand, and claim for myself and my tribe the protection of your country. When this pipe touches your lip, may it operate as a blessing upon all my tribe---may the smoke rise like a cloud, and carry away with it all the animosities which have arisen between us."

Considering this speech to have been, what it appears to be, totally unpremeditated, there is a singular strength and simplicity about it. We find that the American Christian missionaries have sometimes succeeded in converting the most celebrated chieftains of the tribes; thus in some degree making a compensation for the less peaceful incursions of their military brethren. Amongst the most remarkable of their converts was the Oneida warrior, Skenaudoh, who died not very long ago at his castle in the United States, at the advanced age of one hundred and ten years. He was the convert of Mr. Kirkland, who had undertaken a mission to his tribe; and, after a youth addicted to war and drunkenness, and all the vices incidental to barbarism, he became thoroughly reformed, and lived and died an honour to the Christian religion. His conversion from the crying sin, not only of savage, but, if we are to credit Mr. Cobbet, of civilized America also, carries about it something of a noble and peculiar character. As the chieftain of his tribe, he was, in the year 1775, present at a treaty made in Albany, and fell at night into one of his usual debauches; next morning, on awaking, he found himself in the street, stripped of all his ornaments, and even the insignia of his chieftainship. From that hour he was never seen intoxicated. Perhaps all the moral eloquence which was ever uttered could not have had such an

* The coincidence between this passage and the celebrated one from Shakspeare, is very remarkable :

“ The evil that men do lives after them,

The good is oft interred with their bones."

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