somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of
a familiar. There is something vulgar and foul in the latter's
closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the
former's distance. In civilization, as in a southern latitude,
man degenerates at length, and yields to the incursion of more
northern tribes,

"Some nation yet shut in
With hills of ice."

There are other, savager, and more primeval aspects of nature
than our poets have sung. It is only white man's poetry. Homer
and Ossian even can never revive in London or Boston. And yet
behold how these cities are refreshed by the mere tradition, or
the imperfectly transmitted fragrance and flavor of these wild
fruits. If we could listen but for an instant to the chant of the
Indian muse, we should understand why he will not exchange his
savageness for civilization. Nations are not whimsical. Steel
and blankets are strong temptations; but the Indian does well to
continue Indian.

After sitting in my chamber many days, reading the poets, I have
been out early on a foggy morning, and heard the cry of an owl in
a neighboring wood as from a nature behind the common, unexplored
by science or by literature. None of the feathered race has yet
realized my youthful conceptions of the woodland depths. I had
seen the red Election-bird brought from their recesses on my
comrades' string, and fancied that their plumage would assume
stranger and more dazzling colors, like the tints of evening, in
proportion as I advanced farther into the darkness and solitude