Note 19, page 91. Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth. I took the character of Brandt in the poem of Gertrude from the common histories of England, all of which represented him as a bloody and bad man (even among savages.) and chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some years after this poem appeared, the son of Brandt, a most interesting and intelligent youth, came over to England; and I formed an acquaintance with him, on which I still look back with pleasure. He appealed to my sense of honour and justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersion which, unconscious of its unfairness, I had cast on his father's memory. He then referred me to documents which completely satisfied me that the common accounts of Brandt's cruelties at Wyoming, which I had found in books of Travels and in Adolphus's and similar histories of England, were gross errors, and that in point of fact Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. It is unhappily to Britons, and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief blame in this horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the New Monthly Magazine, in the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader-if he has any curiosity on the subjectfor an antidote to my fanciful description of Brandt. Among other expressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following words:"Had I learnt all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he should not have figur. ed in it as the hero of mischief." It was but bare justice to say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke English eloquently, and was thought capable of having written a history of the Six Nations. I ascertained also that he of ten strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. The name of Brandt therefore remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction. Note 20, page 91. To whom nor relative or blood remains, No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins. Every one who recollects the specimen of In. dian eloquence given in the speech of Logan, a Mingo chief, to the governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have attempted to paraphrase its concluding and most striking expression:"There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." The similar salutations of the fictitious personage in my story, and the real Indian orator, makes it surely allowable to borrow such an expression; and if it appears, as it cannot but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words without sacrificing a portion of their effect. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbouring whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a summary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much-injured people, collected a party and proceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance; unfortunately, a canoe with women and children, with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore, unarmed, and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This happened to be the family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance; he accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanaway, in which the col. lected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed, from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he sent by a messenger the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore: "I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and hungry, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of white men. I have even thought to have lived with you but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women and children. "There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature:-this called on me for revenge. I have fought for it.-I have killed many. I have fully glutted my vengeance.-For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace;but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear.-Logan never felt fear.-He will not turn on his heel to save his life.-Who is there to mourn for Logan? not one!"-JEFFERSON'S Notes on Virginia. THEODRIC; A DOMESTIC TALE. 'TWAS sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, (1) And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm, Where, phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, That high in heaven's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd, Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd, From heights browsed by the bounding bou quetin; (2) Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales be tween, And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green. "T was transport to inhale the bright sweet air! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss. (3) Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd, She seem'd one great glad form, with life in stinct, That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near; the spot around Was beautiful; ev'n though sepulchral ground; For there no yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shone- "Yes," said my comrade, "young she died, and fair! Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd |