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portal and avenue of the heart is thrown open, and all choose it enter. Such was the state of Eden, when the se entered its bowers!

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The prisoner, in a more engaging form, winding himse the open and unpractised heart of the unfortunate Blen sett, found but little difficulty in changing the native cl of that heart, and the object of its affection. By deg infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. He breat it the fire of his own courage; a daring, desperate t glory; an ardor, panting for all the storm, and bustle, a cane of life. In a short time, the whole man is char every object of his former delight relinquished. No enjoys the tranquil scene; it has become flat and insi taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and c thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes it upon the air in vain - he likes it not. His ear no lo the rich melody of music; it longs for the trumpet's the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, or no longer affects him; and the angel smile of his hitherto touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeak unfelt and unseen. Greater objects have taken poss soul. His imagination has been dazzled by vision and stars, and garters, and titles of nobility. taught to burn with restless emulation at the na heroes and conquerors, - of Cromwell, and Cæsame, parte. His enchanted island is destined soon to wilderness; and, in a few months, we find the ten tiful partner of his bosom, whom he lately "per winds" of summer "to visit too roughly,". we f ing, at midnight, on the wintry banks of the Ohi her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell

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subject? Who our measures? s idle preaching? I would hope to of duty for the vote ed for unfeeling inbjects? Are repub-、 on which you ground practical influence, no s of idle declamation, newspaper essay, or to e windows of that State imptuous nor too late to of society at risk, with

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cup of oblivion to recollections like these, and then you will cease to complain that the Indian refuses to be civilized.

But, until then, surely it is nothing wonderful that a nation, even yet bleeding afresh from the memory of ancient wrongs, perpetually agonized by new outrages, and goaded into desperation and madness at the prospect of the certain ruin which awaits their descendants, should hate the authors of their miseries, of their desolation, their destruction; should hate their manners, hate their color, hate their language, hate their name, hate everything that belongs to them. No, never, until time shall wear out the history of their sorrows and their sufferings, will the Indian be brought to love the white man, and to imitate his manners. Wm. Wirt.

THE

LIII.

SPEECH ON THE BRITISH TREATY.

HE refusal of the posts (inevitable if we reject the treaty) is a measure too decisive in its nature to be neutral in its

consequences. If any should still maintain, that the peace with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to them I will urge another reply. I will appeal directly to the hearts of those who hear me, and ask whether conviction is not already planted there. I resort especially to the convictions of the Western gentlemen, whether, supposing no posts and no treaty, the settlers will remain in security? Can they take it upon them to say, that an Indian peace, under these circumstances, will prove firm? No, sir, it will not be peace, but a sword; it will be no better than a lure to draw victims within reach of the tomahawk.

On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could find words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remonstrance, it should reach every log house beyond the mountains. I would say to the inhabitants, Wake from your false security! Your cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehensions, are soon to be renewed. The wounds yet unhealed are to be torn open again. In the daytime, your path through the woods will be ambushed. The darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your

dwellings. You are a father your corn-field. You are a mother, — the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle.

the blood of your sons shall fatten

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On this subject you need not suspect any deception on your feelings. It is a spectacle of horror which cannot be overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they will speak a language compared with which all I have said or can say will be ! poor and frigid.

Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject? Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our measures? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle preaching? Would any one deny that we are bound, and I would hope to good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty for the vote we give? Are despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifference to the tears and blood of their subjects? Are republicans irresponsible? Have the principles on which you ground the reproach upon cabinets and kings no practical influence, no binding force? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that State House? I trust it is neither too presumptuous nor too late to ask, Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk, without guilt and without remorse?

measures.

It is in vain to offer as an excuse, that public men are not to be reproached for the evils that may happen to ensue from their This is very true where they are unforeseen or inevitable. Those I have depicted are not unforeseen. They are so far from inevitable, we are going to bring them into being by our vote; we choose the consequences, and become as justly answerable for them, as for the measure that we know will produce them.

By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the victims. This day we undertake to render account to the widows and orphans whom our decision will make, to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake, to our country, - and I do not deem it too serious to say, to conscience and to God. We are answerable; and if duty be anything more than a word of imposture, if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as wretched as our country.

There is no mistake in this case; there can be none.

Expe

The Western inhab

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rience has already been the prophet of events, and the cries of our future victims has already reached us. itants are not a silent and uncomplaining sacrifice. of humanity issues from the shade of the wilderness. It exclaims, that, while one hand is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps the tomahawk. It summons our imagination to the scenes that will open. It is no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events so near are already begun. I can fancy that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture! Already they seem to sigh in the western wind! Already they mingle with every echo from the mountains!

F. Ames.

I

LIV.

SPEECH AGAINST A LIBELLER.

AM one of those who believe that the heart of the wilful and deliberate libeller is blacker than that of the highway robber, or of one who commits the crime of midnight arson. The man who plunders on the highway may have the semblance of an apology for what he does. An affectionate wife may demand subsistence; a circle of helpless children raise to him the supplicating hand for food. He may be driven to the desperate act by the high mandate of imperative necessity. The mild features of the husband and father may intermingle with those of the robber and soften the roughness of the shade. But the robber of character plunders that which "not enricheth him," though it makes his neighbor "poor indeed." The man who at the midnight hour consumes his neighbor's dwelling, does him an injury which perhaps is not irreparable. Industry may rear another habitation. The storm may indeed descend upon him until charity opens a neighboring door; the rude winds of heaven may whistle around his uncovered family. But he looks forward to better days; he has yet a hook left to hang a hope on. No such consolation cheers the heart of him whose character has been torn from him. If innocent he may look, like Anaxagoras, to the heavens; but he must be constrained to feel this world is to him a wilderness. For whither shall he

go? Shall he dedicate himself to the service of his country?

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