and the antiquary' will discover features of nature and works of árt which no other country has yet exhibited.

I do not refer to our lavas of grànite, nor to the gems and óres which they embòsom, nor to our buried fòrests, with their decaying roots of the fourth and fifth generátion; nor to our basaltic caves and gigantic sea-cliffs lashed by the òcean. Nor do I refer to our ancient castles, guarding our mountain pásses, or frowning from our heàdlands; nor to the plains and fastnesses! where Róman ambition was checked and `English dominátion repèlled; but I refer to one of the most magnificent formátions of the antediluvian àge-the parallel roads of Glenroy, which baffle the sagacity of the geòlogist; and also to those extraordinary works of mán-the vitrified fórts in the Highlands, above thirty in númber, which equally perplex the antiquary and the architect. In our sober latitude, and in a lánd' neither teeming with wealth nor familiar with lúxury, a stranger will not find any of those exciting amusements which he may have witnessed in rícher countries and among an idler people. We cannot offer him' either the bull-fight or the càrnival, and he must recròss the Tweed to enjoy in perfèction the excitement of the turf, or shúdder at the brutality of the prize-ring; but, what he may value móre, we can show him our heath and our river sports, where the genius of mán! strives with the sagacity of instinct, and where animal life is sacrificed' less for amusement than for use. We can show him' the games and contests of our northern clàns; the schools of héroes, ever ready at the call of their country-lóyal even to wòrthless sovereigns, and faithful even in a dòubtful cause. Το the stranger of gráver mood' Scotland presents objects of contemplation of equal interest and importance. In her institutions for religious and sécular education will be found arrangements to admíre and to ìmitate; and in the reaction of knowledge upon the character and habits of her people, the philosopher may discover new lines of stúdy, and the statesman new principles of government. In our chùrches and schools they will find the machinery! by which a virtuous population has been reared; and in the simplicity of

our worship they may learn the process by which faith appeals to the judgment more than to the imagination, and becomes a continuous principle of dúty, instead of a series of impulses efficácious! only during the high pressure which produces them. Hére, therefore, the stránger! will find no gorgeous temples - none of the pomp and circumstance which decorates the foreign churches, and in the sorcery of which the pénitent leans on the broken reed of the priest, and enhances his formal aspirations' by the supplement of pious frauds and lying miracles; but unpreténding as are our temples and simple our rítes, we are not without associations which influence the imaginátion and reach the heart. Our civil and relígious liberties were won together. With the sword in one hand and the truth in the other our fathers resisted unto death' the énemies of their faith, and the fields on which they triumphed or fèll, and the sea-beach and glèns where they worshipped are still remembered' with réverence and affèction.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I love it-I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm chair!

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize—

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell? a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were grey,
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered-my earth star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
"Twas there she nursed me-'twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide-

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding tears start from my cheek.
But I love it-I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm chair.

ELIZA COOK.

LORD CHATHAM ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

[WILLIAM PITT, Earl of Chatham, one of the most illustrious statesmen that ever graced the British senate, was the son of Robert Pitt, Esq., of Boconock, in Cornwall, where he was born in 1708. Having been returned as a member of parliament, his great talents as an orator were soon displayed in opposition to Sir Robert Walpole. After holding some of the chief offices in the cabinet, and as he was speaking with his accustomed eloquence and energy against the American war, in the House of Lords, April 7, 1778, he fell down in a convulsive fit, and died in a few weeks after.]

I CANNOT, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. Thís, my lords, is a périlous! and tremendous moment. It is not a tíme for adulation: the smoothness of flattery' cannot sáve us in this rúgged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the thronel in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispèl the delusion and darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full dànger and genuine colours, the rúin' which is brought to our doòrs. Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infatuation? Can párliament' be so deàd to

its dignity and dúty, as to give their support to measures! thus obtruded! and forced upon them? Measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire' to scórn and contempt! "But yesterday, and Britain' might have stood against the world; nów none so póor! as to do her rèverence." The people whom we at first despised as rèbels, but whom we now acknowledge as énemies, are abètted against us, supplied' with every military store, have their interest consulted, and their ambassadors entertained, by our inveterate ènemy-and mínisters do not, and dàre not, interpose with dignity or effèct. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man' more highly estéems1 and hònours the British troops' than I' do; I' know their virtues and their válour; I knów they can achieve anything but impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of British Américal is an impossibility. You cànnot, my lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there? We do not know the wórst, but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing, and suffered mùch. You may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every German déspot, your attempts will be for ever váin and impotent-doùbly so, indeed, from this mercenary áid on which you rely; for it írritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to overrun them' with the mercenary sons of rapine and plùnder, devoting thèm and their possessions to the rapácity of hìreling cruelty. If I' were an Amèrican, as I am an E'nglishman, while a foreign tròop' was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms-nèver-néver-nèver!

But, my lords, whò is the man' that, in addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of the wár, has dàred to authorisel and associate to our arms the tòmahawk and scalping-knife of the savage? to call into civilized allíancel the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods? to delegate to the merci less Indian' the defence of disputed ríghts, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous wár against our brethren? My lórds, these enormities' cry aloud for redress and pùnish

ment. Bút, my lords, this barbarous measure has been defénded' not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of morality," for it is perfectly allowable,” says Lord Suffolk, "to use all the means! which God and náture! have put into our hands." I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such prínciples confessed; to hear them avowed in this house, or in this country. My lórds, I did not intend to encroach so much on your attention, but I cànnot repress my indignation-I feel myself' impelled to speak. My lórds, we are called upon' as members of this hòuse, as mén, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity! "That Gòd and naturel have put into our hands!" What ideas of God and nature that noble lord may entertain! I know not, but I know that such detestable prínciples are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and náture! to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, mùrdering, devouring, drinking the blood of his mangled víctims! Súch notions! shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humánity, every sentiment of honour. These abominable principles, and this mòre abominable avówal of them, demánd the most decisive indignation.

I call upon that right rèverend, and this most learned bénch, to vindicate the religion of their Gód, to support the jústice of their country. I call upon the bishops' to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn, upon the júdges to interpose the purity of their èrmine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your lórdships to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit' and humanity of my country to vindicate the national character. I invòke the génius of the constitution. I solemnly call upon your lordships, and upon èvery order of men in the státe, to stàmp upon this infamous procédurcl the indelible stígma of the public abhòrrence. My lórds, I am old and weak, and at présent unable to say mòre, but my feelings and indignation! were too strong to have said lèss. I could not have slept