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looks so like thought, though, in reality, a much wiser and happier thing; listening, half unconsciously, to Emily I.'s sweet snatches of Venetian songs; muttering almost as unconsciously as we met the queen birds, “The swans on still St. Mary's lake float double, swan and shadow;" just roused as we passed Pope's grotto, or the arch over Strawberry Hill; then landing at Hampton Court, the palace of the Cartoons, and coming home with my whole mind full of the divine Raphael, and of that glorious portrait of Titian by himself, which almost divided
admiration. I shall never forget that morning.
How pleasant it is, on the other hand, to go down the river towards Kew, amongst all sorts of royal recollections, from the ruined house of Anne of Cleves, to the lime-trees, fragrant with blossom and “musical with bees,” under which the late King and Queen used to sit on a summer evening, whilst their chil. dren were playing round them on the grass. Kew Palace is in fine harmony with this pretty family-piece. It is quite refreshing to think of royalty so comfortable, and homely, and unconstrained, as it must have been in that small, ugly, old-fashioned house. Princes are the “born thralls” of splendour; and to see them eased of their cumbrous magnificence, gives such a pleasure as one feels in reading “ Ivanhoe," when the collar is taken from the neck of Gurth, and he leaps up a free man. At Kew, too, in those confined and ill-furnished apartments, they were not without better luxuries; books accessible and read. able, and looking as if they had been read, and a fine collection of cabinet pictures; superb Canaletti's; the famous dropsical woman, on which the Queen is said to have fixed her eyes, during her last illness, with such an intense expression of self-pity; and a portrait of Vandyke, which rivals the Titian-the elegant Vandyke, with his head over his shoulder, which has been so often engraved. What an interesting thing is the portrait of a great artist!
Amongst the many superb villas round Richmond, none attracted me so much as Ham House, a stately old place, retired from the river, and concealed and divided from it by rows of large trees. Ham House is quite a model of the mansion of the last century, with its dark shadowy front, its steps and terraces, its marble basins, and its deep, silent court, whose iron gate, as Horace Walpole complains, is never opened. The keeping is perfect. The very flowers are old-fashioned. No American borders! No Kalmias, or Azalias, or Magnolias, or such heathen shrubs! No flimsy China roses! Nothing new-fangled ! none but flowers of the olden time-gay, formal knots of pinks and sweet-peas, and larkspurs, and lilies, and hollyhocks, mixed with solid cabbage roses, and round Dutch honey-suckles. I VOL. II. No. 7.-1821.
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 terrace walk, 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
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.
THOCGHTS AWAKENED BY CONTEMPLATING A PIECE OF THE PALM WHICII GROWS ON THE SUMMIT OF THE ACROPOLIS AT ATHENS.
I GAZE upon thee-yet I will not weep
Though to my lips this heart tumultuous swellMy 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
Upon the desolate winds abruptly sighing
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!
Once it was thine to bid kings bow, worlds crash!
This is the gloomy stillness of the soul! -
Doth no soft voice upon the loud seas roll,
Wild as thy winds, and free from man's control?-
A sad tone issuing from destruction's goal,
Land of the glorious-nation of the free!
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 HEREAnd mingling with a smile the sweetness of a tear! E.B.B.
FRAGMENTS FROM THE WOODS.
“Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
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
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 tremblíng. 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 tomahawk against you; but all in vain. I never could be made to feel that your were my enemy. If this be the conduct of an enemy, I shall never 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