and the young people dance gayly and gracefully to the piano, in all simplicity and good faith. The children of the house are amiable with one another; they are very fond of one another, and dance together as we used to do in the evenings at home. But they are happier than we were. I generally play an hour for them, either waltzes or quadrilles. Strangers, in the mean time, call and take their leave.

Later, people go out on the piazza, where they walk about, or sit and talk; but I prefer rather quietly to enjoy the fragrant night air, and to glance through the open doors into the room where the handsome children are skipping about in the joy of youth, Sarah always ideally lovely and graceful, and-without knowing it.

Mr. M., the brother of Mrs. W. H., and the gentleman who came to fetch me the first morning, is a guest here every evening; he is a man of great conversational powers, and tells a story remarkably well.

But with none of them am I so much at home as with my good sensible hostess. And I can not describe how excellently kind she is to me..

April 13th. We had last evening a great storm of thunder and lightning, such as I have never seen in Europe, although I remember one June night last year, in Denmark, at Sorö, when the whole atmosphere was as it were in bright flame. But here the flashes of lightning were like glowing streams of lava, and the thunder-claps instantly succeeded them. For the first time in my life I felt a little frightened at a thunder-storm. And yet I enjoyed the wild scene.

In a couple of days I shall go hence on a visit to Mr. Poinsett, the late Minister of War for the United States, as well as their embassador to Mexico, and who now lives as a private man on his own plantation. He must be an unusually interesting and amiable man, has seen a great deal of life and of the world, and I am therefore glad to

receive an invitation to his house near Georgetown, a day's journey from this place. I have to thank Mr. Downing for this. I shall spend there a few days, and return hither, whence I shall go to Georgia. I must make good use of the time, because early in May the heat becomes great in the South, and then all the planters remove from their plantations to avoid the dangerous fevers which then prevail. During the summer months, it is said that a night, spent on one of the rice-plantations would be certain death to a white man. The negroes, on the contrary, suffer little or nothing from the climate.

I am now making a sketch, from an oil painting, of the portrait of a great Indian chief, by name Osconehola, who, at the head of the Seminole tribe, fought bravely against the Americans in Florida, who wished to drive the Indians thence and send them westward to Arkansas. The country in the southern parts, which was possessed by the tribes of the Seminole and Creek Indians, and where they were continually an annoyance to white set"tlers, produces as its more general wood a tree which is called light-wood, from the gumminess of its timber, which quickly kindles and burns with a bright flame. It is not of a large size, and is easy to fell. The Arkansas, on the western side of the Mississippi, produces for the most part oak forests, bounded by the wild steppe-land (Nebraska, the principal resort of the Indians at this time in North America), and has a severe climate.

Osconehola, therefore, replied to the message and the threat which was sent by the government of the United States, in these words:

"My people are accustomed to the warm air of Florida, to the rivers and the lakes which abound in fish; to the light-wood, which is easy to fell, and which burns easily. They can not live in that cold country where only the oak-tree grows. The people can not fell the large trees; they will perish there for want of the light-wood!"

And when at last the choice was given him, either open war with the United States, or that he should sign the contract which banished himself and his people from Florida, he struck his spear through it, and said,

"I defy them to conquer us within five years!"

And the war between the Florida Indians and the army of the United States continued five years; much blood was shed on both sides, and still were the Indians in possession of the country, and would perhaps have been so still, had not Osconehola been taken captive through perfidy and deceit. When under the protection of the white flag, he came to have a talk with the Spanish general, Hernandez. The treachery was, indeed, the Spaniards'; but still, it appears that the American officers were neither ignorant of it, nor yet averse to it.

Osconehola was taken as prisoner, first to St. Augustin, then to Charleston, and to Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island. From this moment it appeared as if his spirit was broken. Persons who visited him in his prison-Mr. M. was among these-say that he never saw a glance so melancholy and gloomy. He, however, never uttered any lamentation, but often spoke with bitterness of the manner in which he had been taken prisoner, and of the injustice which had been done to his people, in forcing them from their native soil to remove to a northern land where no light-wood was to be found!

His handsome person, his melodious voice, his large dark eyes, full of gloomy fire, his bravery and his fate, awoke a universal interest for him, and the ladies, in particular, felt an enthusiasm for the handsome Seminole chief, visited him and made him presents. But he seemed indifferent to all; grew more and more silent, and from the moment when he was put in prison, his health declined,. although he did not appear to be ill. He ate but very little, and would take no medicine. It was evident that he wished to die. The captive eagle could not live, deprived of the free life and air of his forest.

Two of his wives-one young and handsome, the other old and ugly-accompanied him into captivity. The old one waited on and tended him, and he seemed to love her most. He was always occupied by but one thought-the certain ruin of his people in that cold land where there was no light-wood. Imbittered and silent, he wasted away by degrees, and died one month after his arrival at Fort Moultrie died because he could not live. The lightwood in his life was consumed. A weeping willow droops over the white marble stone which covers his grave outside the wall of the fortress, by the sea-shore.

It is a few years since he died, and his life, combat, and death are an abbreviated history of the fate of his nation in this part of the world. For this reason, and also for the sake of the expression of his handsome countenance, have I wished to make a sketch of his portrait, so that you may see it. I have heard him spoken of here by many persons. Otherwise, I have not just now a weakness for the Indians, notwithstanding their stern virtues and beautiful characters, and the splendor with which novelists have loved to surround them. They are extremely cruel in their wars between the different tribes, and they are usually severe to the women, whom they treat as beasts of burden, and not as equals.

Casa Bianca, April 16th. I now write to you, my sweet child, from a hermitage on the banks of the little River Pedee. It is a solitary, quiet abode; so solitary and quiet, that it almost astonishes me to find such an one in this lively, active part of the world, and among those company-loving people.

A fine old couple, Mr. Poinsett and his lady, who remind me of Philemon and Baucis, live here quite alone, in the midst of negro slaves, rice plantations, and wild, sandy forest land. There is not a single white servant in the house. The overseer of the slaves, who always lives near the slave hamlet, is the only white person I have seen

out of the house. Nevertheless, the old couple seem to me to live as safely as we do at our Aersta, and to be about as little careful of fastening the house-door at night. The house is an old one (N.B., for this young country), with antique furniture, and rooms testifying of good old-fashioned aristocratic taste and comfort.

Round the house is a park or garden, rich in the most beautiful trees, shrubs, and plants of the country, planted by Mr. Poinsett himself, according to Mr. Downing's advice, and, as under the snow-covered roof at Concord, had I the pleasure of hearing the words, "Mr. Downing has done much for this country," so universal is the influence of Mr. Downing here in the improvement of taste, and the awakening a sense of the beautiful, as regards buildings, the cultivation of gardens, and the laying out of public grounds.

North America has also this peculiarity, that all kinds of trees and shrubs from other parts of the world may be removed here, become naturalized and flourish; in the grounds around Casa Bianca are a great number from foreign countries. Of all the trees here, I like best the native large live-oak, with its long, pendant growth of moss (two magnificent specimens of this tree stand opposite the house, on the banks of the Pedee, and form by their branches an immense portico, through which one sees the river and the landscape beyond), and the sober, lofty, dark-green magnolias. Outside my window, which is in the upper story, stands a Cornus Floridæ, a tree whose crown now seems to be a mass of snow-white blossom, and early in the morning I hear and see the thrushes singing their rich morning song on its topmost branches; further off is the deliciously odoriferous Olea fragrans from Peru, and many beautiful rare trees and shrubs. Among these sing the thrushes and the mocking-birds, and swarms of blackbirds twitter and chatter, and build in the great live-oaks. Mrs. Poinsett will not allow them to be disturbed, and